So I cannot, from my head, erase the things I know I need to do. I’ve swept them into a discombobulated pile — tucked somewhere behind the dusty corners of my right temple, I figure, because that’s where I wake up with a headache every morning.
Or maybe it’s because I clench my jaw at night.
Either way, these things won’t move.
And they weigh.
And rather than tackle them head-on and one-at-a-time like any normal, functioning, proactive adult, I sweep. And I stare. And I think. And I watch episodes from Season 1 of Felicity on Netflix and analyze my sister’s love life on the phone and eat artichoke for dinner 2 nights in a row.
Clearly, I have problems.
Unlike the last time Justin was out-of-town when I got all productive and inspired and finishy, this is one of those other times. Those times when I know I can stretch that dirty pair of jeans out one more day — when I think that a disgustingly filthy post-road trip car makes the appropriate statement to the world that I don’t give a sh*t — when I tell myself that watching Felicity is good for my nostalgic mental health.
And all I can think really, intelligibly, is that I hope this isn’t a preview of what will come when he’s gone for much, much longer later this year.
Of everything that happens. Mentally. Emotionally. The stuff that military spouses talk about but never really talk about.
The fact that I relish being alone.
And the fact that I hate being alone.
That I miss being touched.
That sometimes I don’t want anyone to touch me.
The way the leftovers are still in the fridge when I want them.
The way leftovers spoil in the fridge because I never eat them.
That this would be so much easier if I had kids to keep me company.
That ohmygod I could not handle effectively being a single mother for months at a time.
No way.
So I know, when the time comes, I need to gear up for productive mode. That lethargy simply isn’t acceptable. That I need to spend those 4 months painting the front porch. Remodeling my bathroom. Advancing my freelance career. Taking Spanish lessons. Or French lessons. Or both. Growing some arm muscles. Revamping this website. Learning how to make a proper gin martini while wearing vintage polka dot dresses and red high heels.
The biggest challenge, I think, that most people have with traveling, is finding the ability to strike a healthy balance between squeezing in all of the high-energy sightseeing they can possibly manage and actually getting a little R&R.
If they’re not careful, their vacation can turn into work.
Me?
I don’t have that problem.
I know when I’m feeling energized, and I know when it’s time to stop, find a cafe with outdoor seating, and sip a glass of wine.
Striking this balance can be particularly difficult on a road trip when, if you’re spending extended periods of time in the car, it can feel like you’re resting because you’ve been sitting for several hours, but in reality you’ve been a highly concentrated ball of compact energy — shifting music whenever the mood strikes; passing, passing, passing on the left; belting out the lyrics you remember to Billy Joel’s “My Life;” almost peeing your pants when you pass a cop and realize how fast you were going; spending the next half hour daydreaming about living in Europe and doing nothing but driving the Autobahn for days on end; telling yourself you don’t need any more homemade trail mix; and matching your vibrations to those of the vehicle while guzzling your double-shot skinny mocha.
When I left Angie’s place in Virginia, I felt refreshed. Energized. Her perfect energy of physical labor combined with wine-laced porch-sitting was exactly what I needed to rev up for the second leg of my trip.
I knew Erin would still be at work when I arrived in Annapolis, so I took my time getting there, opting for back roads (Hwy 310, anyone? Highly recommended if you’re making a journey up or down the east coast.) over the congested interstates with never-ending repeats of McD’s, T-Bells, and Flying J truck stops.
My method for road trip food selection is simple: If I see a place I like the looks of, I stop. If I see a sign that catches my attention, I stop. If Urban Spoon happens to tell me there’s something along my relative route that’s worth stopping for, I stop.
When I arrived in Annapolis, I decided to stop at a Trader Joe’s for the first time ever to pick up some of their infamous “3-buck Chuck” wine to bring to my compadre’s place. I wandered the aisles, impressed-yet-refusing-to-be-sidetracked by the numerous offered delicacies. I finally asked a sample girl where a sister could find some booze on this lovely afternoon, and she looked at me with what can only be described as an expression of the sincerest empathy. “In Maryland,” she said, because clearly I was a foreigner, “grocery stores can’t sell alcohol.”
Say what?
Having lived in various states and counties south of the Mason-Dixon line for quite some time, I thought I’d already witnessed the gamut of restrictive alcohol sales. In Georgia I performed the grocery store walk of shame on more than one occasion — carrying my case from the registers back to the darkened shelves on a Sunday afternoon.
But this? This required people to make a whole other stop.
“But I just came from Virginia,” I whined.
She looked at me like I probably should’ve stayed there.
No matter. I stopped at an upscale winery and delicatessen where they wearily eyed my selection, poised to judge. “Hey!” The counter lady’s eyes lit-up. “This one’s a very popular choice!”
Apparently my skills are improving. Or rather, my luck was improving, since I randomly selected the bottle based on price and the label. But I smiled anyway, like I hear that all of the time, and went on my merry way.
Now let me just say this. Erin doesn’t actually live in Annapolis. She lives on an island just across the Chesapeake Bay, on the other side of one of the coolest bridges I’ve seen in my life. I’ll have a photo in another post, but hear me: If you have a chance to cross this 4-ish mile bridge in your life, do it.
That is all.
I arrived at her adorable house, ready to curl up on the sofa with a book and a beer I knew she’d left me in the fridge.
But then I saw it.
Her view.
I was shocked.
Not just by the generosity of the Red Stripe, but by the fact that she lives on an inlet that leads out to the Chesapeake Bay.
In fact, if I would’ve stolen her canoe and paddled out just past that last house you see on the left, I would’ve had a spectacular view of the Bay Bridge.
Then I probably would have drifted out to sea, never to be seen or heard from again since I have zero upper body strength, but at least I would’ve died happy.
Instead, I spent the rest of the afternoon curled up in a lawn chair alternating views of my book and the water.
Hey. Don’t judge.
I’d already had a long day driving and shopping for wine.
And that’s the thing — when you find yourself alone in a new place, or especially with people in a new place, it’s easy to run yourself ragged trying to do all there is to do and see all there is to see. At some point, you have to force yourself to accept the fact that you’re never going to do and see everything. That life is an ever-changing kaleidoscope of actions and reactions, mirage-like events that sometimes you see and sometimes you don’t. And sometimes you just have to sit back and enjoy the ride.
So to me, I wasn’t wasting time.
I was enjoying the moment.
As Billy would say,
I don’t need you to worry for me cause I’m alright —
I don’t want you to tell me it’s time to come home.
I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life —
Go ahead with your own life, leave me alone.
Thanks, Mr. Joel. I’m glad someone gets me.
What’s your travel style? Would you have camped out with a beer and a book, taken the canoe, or hopped back in the car to explore the town? How do you strike a balance between work and play when you’re on the road?
So apparently my 2 year blogiversary — that’s the cutsey name blog people came up with for a blog anniversary — like TomCat or BradGelina — get it? — passed nearly a month ago without me even noticing.
And that, my friends, is why I’m a crappy girl.
It’s true.
When we first got together, it was Justin who reminded me about the anniversary of the day we first met. And not just the first year, but most subsequent years.
Combine that with the fact that I would never remember anyone’s birthday if it weren’t for Facebook and that my detachment from having any real “home” has caused me to be about as sentimental as Lord Voldemort on Ritalin, and we have one very crappy girl on our hands.
I mean, aren’t girls supposed to be good at remembering special dates? And aren’t girls supposed to buy special gifts for people “just because” and carry Hallmark discount cards and have wrapping paper stations?
I neither do nor have any of these things.
I still have a birthday card that I bought for my mom over 2 years ago.
I’ve never been good with calendars, or planners, or blackberries, or reminders. I can do lists, but I usually only make it 1/3 of the way through them before I get bored and move on. I have approximately 37 draft blog posts that I’ve started and never finished. The polish on my right big toenail has been chipped for 3 days.
I tell you these things not only so you can understand what we’re working with here, but so you can feel better about yourself if you’re better than me. Or good enough about yourself if you’re as bad as me.
Or something.
Because honestly, this is just me. And the fact that I let the exact date, 2 years later, that I started this blog roll by without even realizing it, only proves it.
And guess what?
The world didn’t end. The blog didn’t end. Wordpress hasn’t started writing me nasty letters because I missed a ubiquitous blogiversary post.
So really, I just forgot it, and I don’t feel bad.
And because I don’t feel bad, I don’t feel like a failure.
And because I don’t feel like a failure, I think that maybe mentally, I’ve made some improvements over the past year.
And if we’re going to bother measuring time, those are the things — self-improvement achievements, relationship communication milestones, number of stamps in my passport this year — that are worth remembering.
A date is just a date. A year is just a year.
It’s what we do with them that counts.
Annapolis, MD. April 4th, 2012. Taken with my iPhone.
The thing I love about road trips is their fluidity.
Remaining untethered to some airline’s asinine rules and sordid idea of an itinerary–
Since passengers who boarded before you carried all of their worldly possessions onto the plane in order to avoid paying our exorbitant checked baggage fees, we’re going to have to place your expensive and beloved DSLR camera in the hold…
We’re experiencing a delay either because of inclement weather in Denver OR because the flight crew is busy getting hammered in the employee lounge…
Flight 136 to Atlanta has been overbooked because we enjoy collecting your money for a service we never intended on providing. Please come to the desk if you are willing to reschedule.
— is a freeing feeling. One that can only be fully understood if you know what it’s like to throw your clothes into a suitcase or bag in your trunk, only to realize you’ve forgotten a great pair of shoes, your leather jacket, your tripod, and a bunch of CD’s you burned in the late 90’s, so you toss those into the backseat along with a cooler full of water, caffeinated beverages, homemade trail mix, and several haphazardly assembled chicken salad sandwiches and finally, unrestrictedly, hit the road.
You can pack what you want, as long as there’s still leg room and the windows can open.
(Okay. So the Tracker has limited leg room by default and only 3 of her electric windows still operate, but she’s in incredible working condition — especially considering we met back in 2002, just 3 years after her birth, and since then we’ve had the longest, closest, mutually caring, non-blood-related relationship of my life — with the exception of Alaina, who may as well be blood — and have traveled well over 150,000 miles together. We’re kind of in love. I’ve known her longer than my husband, and she’s never tried to start a fight with me via text message because she knows I hate that.
It’s almost like we’re soul mates.)
Even so, there are some”rules” for road-tripping that, while are certainly less restrictive than the spoken (no electronic devices during take-offs/landings, buckle your seatbelts while seated, don’t pack more than 50 pounds worth of crap) and unspoken (the passenger in the middle seat gets dibs on both armrests, hold all farts until you’ve exited the plane, feed fussy babies pre-flight cough medicine cocktails) rules of air travel, should be abided — or at least acknowledged — in order to guarantee an enjoyable trip for all involved.
Even if it’s just you.
1) Break it up, man. Sure, I could’ve driven directly to Philadelphia to meet up with Justin and his family in an easy, less-than-9-hour day trip. But really? Where’s the fun in that? I have people, you know. People I like to see whenever the mood strikes or when one of us feels like making the effort. And a couple of these people just happen to be living along the general path I had to take to reach Philly from North Carolina.
So I did what any plan-hating, inconsiderate domestiphobe would do — I messaged them on Facebook and told them to get their guest rooms/futons/air mattresses ready, because I’d likely be needing them either sometime the week before or the week after Easter.
Whichever turned out to be more convenient for me.
Or them.
Or mostly me.
This is not the exact path I ended up taking, because I’ve found over the years that U.S. interstates are grotesquely dangerous freaks of infrastructure overcrowded with semi trailers and minivans and repeating clusters of national and regional fast food chains that only serve to make you feel ghastly and bloated and pimply when you finally reach your destination.
Which brings me to:
2) Take the road less traveled. Cross the bridge uncrossed. For real. You see a fork. The left prong takes you on a whirlwind tour of rest stops, gas stations, and enough deep fry oil to sink the Titanic. The right prong takes you to sleepy towns, privately owned restaurants, and probably still enough deep fry oil to sink the Titanic.
But the food it fries, 9 times out of 10, is much, much better.
Let’s see McDonald’s bring you this.
The streets are emptier.
The roads have less potholes.
And the views are… well… they smell better than the back end of a truck stop.
3) Eat well. Seriously. Feed yourself. Feed yourself things you can’t/don’t/ wouldn’t dare cook at home. Discover new places. New dishes. New tastes.
After all, who says the vacation has to start when you’ve reached your destination?
4) Don’t pack light. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but just in case I do, here goes: You’re in a car. You know, that mobile vehicle with wheels, massive in comparison to a single airline seat and quarter of an overhead compartment, so use it. What are you afraid of? That someone will judge you? Elbow you? Stare at you creepily while you try to absorb yourself in The Hunger Games because you’ve become completely obsessed even though it’s a heinous storyline semi-ripped off from or at least probably partially inspired by Richard Bachman’s (aka. Stephen King’s) little-known gem The Long Walk, and you didn’t even know this latest book craze existed until a few weeks ago when everyone started talking about the movie and murderous children and a Peeta that wasn’t a bread/sandwich (pita) but a character in this book that was supposedly so good or disturbing or mind-numbingly twisted that you wouldn’t be able to put it down so you bought it and didn’t actually put it down for 3 days not including sleep and socialization and pee breaks?
Are you afraid that will happen?
Well, I have news.
That only happens on airplanes.
In the safety of your car, no one judges. No one nudges. And no one stares except for when they pass and catch you singing along to Billy Joel’s greatest hits with more enthusiasm than Peeta would show if he were told he could finally have consensual sex with Katniss and she’d actually like it. (I’m only partway through Book 2, by the way, so if you ruin this for me I might have to hate you forever. Or at least for a couple of hours because I have a short attention span, but even so, spoiling plotlines would truly be an evil undertaking.)
The good news is, if you do forget anything, it’s not a big deal to stop somewhere along the line and buy it. But the more you pack, the more money you save, and the less guilty you feel for buying that completely-awesome-yet-unnecessary dreamcatcher from a Pueblo roadside gift shop in Nevada.
5) Bring good music. This is completely subjective, believe it or not. And while modern music is acceptable, anything that inspires nostalgia is better. Billy Joel? Go for it. Avett Brothers? Have at it. Toadies? Go ahead and send me a copy. Because no one judges. (See #4.) And if anyone who happens to be with you does, you can accidentally-on-purpose forget him at a truck stop off the side of I-95.
Or, if you’re nicer and have been paying attention, at a diner off the side of Highway 301 within walking distance of a riverside park and an all-you-can-eat Maryland crab shack and a sign for RedNex sporting goods.
6) Be flexible. Okay. So you want to avoid the interstates, especially around busy cities, but there’s this truly amazing sandcastle competition they hold every year in Cannon Beach, Oregon, and you know there’s no way you’ll make it in time if you completely avoid I-84. Not to mention the fact that sometimes the interstate is just safer, especially while traveling solo, in the way of providing the occasional modern convenience or (hopefully) friendly passerby in case you run into trouble.
So if the situation calls for it, take the interstate. If you have time to peruse a used book store in a quaint seaside village, do it.
Basically this rule means that there are no rules. Kind of like Fight Club, except we get to feel free without having the crap beat out of us.
Good deal, no?
7) Earn Your Keep. This has more to do with the stops between times on the road. When someone’s putting you up for a night (or two, or three, or however long you plan to leach from their generosity while enjoying their company), they’re doing more than providing a bed. They’re providing water, food, hygienic facilities, and a place far more comfortable than your car for stretching out with a good book.
Usually, they’re sharing their home. Knowledge of the place they live and love. Absorb it all, whatever they want to show you, and pay it forward. For our relatives in Philadelphia, I have a gift planned. To Erin, I brought olives and wine. And for Angie?
Well.
Angie opted for manual labor.
So on a sunny Sunday afternoon, we took her front lawn from this:
To this:
And while I may have taken the occasional break to sip water on her fabulous front porch and point out spots that could use improvement, (I was on vacation, after all), I also managed to help a little, and all-in-all felt pretty great about squeezing in some physical activity between wine and food samplings.
So there you have it. Seven rules for road tripping that are subject to change without notice as I become older, crotchetier, and take in more of what this world has to offer.
I’m back and my eyes are puffy and my hair is fuzzy and matted to the back of my head and I’ve just been woken from the best sleep of my life by the jarring alarm of an iPhone that, when I think about it, I should’ve thrown against the wall. But I didn’t want to scratch the paint. The charcoal paint.
Are you picking up what I’m dropping?
That’s right — last night, my first night home from my whirlwind tour of the east coast, we were able to sleep in our bedroom.
Not the guest room — our room.
Which means that on top of approximately 872 trip photos to sort through and share via witty highlighting commentary, I also need to give you an update on that. Which I will. Very soon.
And I would’ve updated you sooner — say, while enjoying a cup of fresh-ground coffee in my aunt-in-law’s remodeled Philadelphia kitchen, but I left the power cord to my “borrowed” work laptop in its sun dappled perch in Erin’s water view Annapolis kitchen.
Which I wasn’t too bummed about at first, because it allowed the excuse of taking a leisurely meander back down the coast instead of the terrifying I-95 past Washington, D.C. in order to retrieve the cord. But then I was bummed, because I realized we wouldn’t get back in time to retrieve the mutts, which I find considerably more fluffy and huggable than a laptop power cord. So now I have approximately 47 seconds to hop in the shower and erase the grimy road residue from my body before I head out to pick up the mutts, bring the mutts home, and drive all the way back down to work, effectively arriving an hour late on my first day back.
A fact my female boss — the one I directly assist on a daily basis — seemed none too pleased to hear.
And I have to wonder. Why is it, when I’m on the road, that everything seems to work out timing-wise, but when I’m home, everything turns into one screwed up fuster cluck of a rush?
For example, when we realized we didn’t have time to get the mutts, we realized that meant we did have time to stop at an Italian restaurant, maneuver to change into dressier clothes in the car in the restaurant’s parking lot, enjoy one last vacation-prolonging leisurely meal, and pick Justin’s car up from where he’d left it at the Raleigh airport. Good deal. However, I can already see today stretching into a giant stress ball of running all over town, catching up on work, setting appointments, and figuring out how I’m supposed to fit my grandiose plans into a single, short-lived week.
And that, it hits me, is the reason I love to travel. It’s like my soul refuses to accept a sense of urgency, because nothing really is urgent. I’m allowed, finally, to just live in the moment.
I just need to figure out how to do that at home. After I shower, get dressed, pick up the mutts, go to work, cook dinner, do laundry, finish the bedroom, sort photos, and work on other various projects I have going.
Crap.
(P.S. I did post the occasional photo highlight on my Facebook page while I was away. You can see previews at the right, or click here to check ’em out if you’re bored.)
My apologies, but I’ve had no real time to write or edit photos — Headed to Baltimore in a few!
Isn’t this always the conundrum of someone who wants to write about travel?
When you’re traveling, where is the time for writing?
But I can tell you this — I feel great. Alive. Better than alive. The road is better than any rejuvenating facial cleanser sold at the local drug store.
In the meantime, check out this killer crab cake sandwich I stopped and ate on the drive at a place called Java Jack’s Coffee House:
Taken with my iPhone.
In a last-minute decision to take Hwy 301 North from Williamsburg, VA to Annapolis, MD so I could avoid the ever-terrifying experience of I-95 around D.C. (though sadly bypassing the IKEA there as well), I passed through a little town called Tappahannock.
No, I don’t know how to pronounce that.
It’s perched along the southern edge of the Rappahannock River.
No, I’m not making this up.
Anyway. I saw this little white house once I passed the inevitable slew of fast food and American family style restaurants and entered the older part of town. I was greeted with a smile and told to seat my self. I was, by far, the youngest patron there on a Monday morning at 11:15. Sadly, I’d just missed breakfast, which I’m convinced now would have been spectacular. I was just about to ask whether they’d make an exception to their 11:00 lunch rule when the waitress informed me that one of their specials for the day was a crab cake sandwich.
Well.
I hadn’t technically crossed the Maryland border yet, but I figured my 15 minutes late for breakfast was a sign I should partake an hour early in some famous Maryland crab.
For all of my culinary expertise, this may have come from a can.
Taken with my iPhone.
But I can tell you this: It certainly didn’t taste like it had.
With a full belly and more solitary scenic driving ahead, Java Jack’s proved an excellent Virginia sendoff.
So I’ve been pretty negligent in my writing lately.
It’s not my fault, I swear.
First, there’s my job. I don’t really want to talk about it.
Then, there’s this American duty called taxes. Yes, they come every year. No, it’s not a surprise. The problem? Justin and I are both procrastinators. Two procrastinators in one household is worse than 2 Alphas in a single pack. Where 2 Alphas waste time arguing about whose way they’re going to do something, we waste time thinking about how we’re not going to do something. Alphas will eventually finish the job when they determine who can yell the loudest or one knocks the other into a wall. But 2 procrastinators? We never get anything finished.
So last night, after I arrived home from work 3 hours late and was busy not packing for my trip, we realized. Today is March 30th. That means tomorrow is the 31st. Of course, after that comes April, which means taxes are due in like 15 to 18 days. I didn’t care enough to look it up. And I’m going to be gone for like half of those. So, yeah. Maybe we should get on that. Like… now.
Oh, and that trip? That trip starts today. Only I’m sitting here, typing to you, because my darling husband is off getting my oil changed — something I meant to do last week, I swear, but the days just kept happening one after the other and the change never occurred.
So I’ve spent the morning packing, and he’s prepping the Tracker for our imminently late departure.
And I’ll tell you what — packing for a trip up the coast is not an easy task. Since I’m sure to face all types of weather scenarios as I head further north, I figured the best solution was to just throw all of my things into one giant suitcase.
Okay, not all of my things. But quite a few.
I can do that because I’m driving, hence no exorbitant baggage fees.
Then, of course, there’s the travel outfit itself. Since I rarely show you pictures of myself and I’m antsy waiting to go:
Yep, that is one classy lady. Shorts and a baggy sweater. Whythis particular look? Well, I personally think shorts are more comfortable for driving than jeans, and I don’t wear pajama pants in public. The sweater is to keep off the chill since it’s raining right now, but I’m wearing a tank top underneath in case it gets stuffy in the car.
Loose clothes are key when it comes to road trips. That way, when my inevitable fast food pooch spills over my waistline as I sit for an extended period, I won’t have to look at it.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes that’s still our guest room.
Yes, it’s been probably 2 months since we started on the master bedroom.
Yes, it’s still a mess.
And yes, that’s a pile of dirty laundry behind me.
So get off my back, would you?
Yeesh.
Don’t you know that I’m too busy doing important things like throwing clothes into a bag and taking photos of myself in the mirror to do housework? I mean, just look at the title of this blog. If that’s not an excuse, I don’t know what is.
Anyway, I’m officially late for my self-imposed departure time. It’s really not surprising, and fortunately for me, my friends are kind of awesome because they know me. If I were to actually be on time, the world might implode.
So really, I’m doing this for you.
By the way, of course I haven’t looked up things for us to do/see during our one day in NYC. We have reservations to see Ground Zero — can any of you locals or near-NYC-ers tell me what else we should hit that’s nearby? I think I’d probably enjoy some of the more artsy areas. And both of us would enjoy anything involving food. And it should be young-teen friendly because my aunt, uncle, and cousins-in-law will be along for the ride. Actually it’s probably the other way around. But you get the gist. Ideas?
Michael Wurm, who has an inspiring blog and is apparently one of the most followed people on Pinterest, posted something yesterday that made me feel better about myself.
literally, for like an entire second, I felt better about myself.
It’s a quote by someone named Rae Smith that says:
Never be afraid to fall apart, because it is an opportunity to rebuild yourself the way you wish you had been all along.
I feel like that’s me right now.
Or me for the past couple of years.
This thing — this thing that I’m doing/going through/putting the people I love through is a process. First, we had the falling apart. The realization that I wasn’t living my life the way I wanted to live it, and so I started taking the steps necessary to change. I may have stumbled here and there, but for the most part, I feel like the changes were a step in the right direction.
No matter how crazy others thought I was.
No matter how crazy I sometimes think I was. Because I have to remember that sometimes I would leave my cubicle, close myself into a bathroom stall, and sit there for 20 minutes to contemplate the meaning of my job. My life.
Sometimes I would cry. At work. In a bathroom stall.
So when I think about how I miss the paycheck and my way-above-averagely-awesome co-workers, I have to remember the bathroom.
I have to remember the bathroom and the sense that if I stayed in that place (the job, not the bathroom) much longer, I might quite literally lose my mind.
Second, we have the rebuilding. As with any major construction project, the process is a bit slower than I’d like, I’ll admit. And some of the pieces keep falling off, which indicates that it may be time to invest in some better glue.
So when I find myself falling into the rut of my new job (new? I’ve been there since August), I have to remind myself of what it is that I’m really after and how this job can help get me there. It’s home photography practice. It’s writing practice and people skills. It’s a portfolio-builder in many ways, and while there isn’t a lot of extra floating around, it helps pay the bills.
Photo I took for a house flyer.
It’s flexible, and for the most part, allows me time to work on other things.
I just need to force myself to do it.
By the way, I made it to the finals in a writing/photo contest to win a trip to India. I believe that winners will be announced later this week. And while I realistically understand that the guy who’s made it to the finals 4 times as opposed to my 1 time has a better shot, I’d like to keep it positive up in this mind. You know… better glue.
I don’t cook myself an extravagant meal every night to enjoy with a glass of vino on the back deck while Justin’s away. I don’t even always go so far as to construct an elaborate sandwich or a box of Mac ‘n Cheese.
Sometimes, simple really is best.
Whole wheat crackers with sliced, spiced Havarti cheese, an artichoke microwaved (yes, microwaved) and served with basil mayo, and shortbread cookies topped with salted chocolate.
Of course, I ate it on the back deck with a glass of wine.
Some things don’t change.
For Artichoke:
1. Lop off the top with a sharp knife, then cut away the remaining leaf tips with a pair of kitchen shears. Cut off the bottom of the stem, leaving an inch or so — I left a little much. The stem is an extension of the heart, so don’t toss it. Rinse it well, and don’t drain.
2. Place it in a microwave-safe dish with a couple of tablespoons of water. Cover tightly with a glass lid or plastic wrap. Microwave on high for approximately 7 minutes. A knife inserted near the base will slide right in — like buttah — when it’s done.
3. Remove with tongs and let it cool slightly. Peel off a leaf, dip in some mayo mixed with a bit of lemon juice and fresh basil, and scrape the meat from the leaf with your teeth. Discard the leaf.
4. When you get down to the heart, pull away the remaining tiny leaves and cut off the hair. Yes, hair. Slice the heart into bite-sized pieces so you can savor every bit.
What is it about getting older that makes us feel like we need to slap a theme on something in order to make it fun?
Take, for example, renovated house reveal party my bosses are planning. It can’t just be a classy affair with an amuse bouche or two, some tapas, and a cocktail bar — it has to have a theme. “Sangrias at Sunset” sounds simple enough, but in reality it requires coordinating the food, music, and even colors to make everything fit a predetermined Spanish vibe, even though nothing about this home in a historic downtown Fayetteville neighborhood has anything to do with Spain.
It’s undue stress, I tell you, and if they’re not careful, the end result will likely be some mishmashed medley of weak catered sangria with cheap wine, bright garish table cloths, and streaming mariachi music.
The house will be beautiful, but I wonder if anyone will see it.
Themes can be fun when they’re original, like the “Ugly Sweater Parties” from a decade ago. But did anyone notice the mass surge of ugly sweater parties during this past holiday season? It became the it thing to do, and suddenly the act of hunting down an ugly sweater became a chore — it no longer entailed a quick trip to the Goodwill, but an all-out hunt for the best worst sweater in town, sometimes requiring the payment of retail prices in department stores which were stocked with colorful Santa and reindeer knits designed specifically, it seemed, for parties honoring the art of the ugly sweater.
It seems like all adult social parties, once we reach a certain age, have to be designed around a theme. Especially the social parties exclusively for women.
What is it about turning the big THREE-OH that apparently makes us lose our ability to gather with a group of women to enjoy some good drinks, sincere laughs, and stimulating conversation without the crutch of a theme?
Or worse, without guilting each other into buying something?
Every single women-only event I’ve been invited to since turning 29, with the exception of the book club and a much-loved “girls’ night out” or two with former colleagues, has been a ruse to get me to buy something I neither want nor need. From jewelry to bags to kitchen gadgets to chip dips, my social world has turned into a support network for home-based pyramid schemes businesses. I can no longer go to my local wine shop without feeling a twinge of guilt for not purchasing bottles from someone with a home-based wine selling business. I can’t make my own fresh ingredient soup without thinking about the just-add-water bag of powder still sitting in the back of my drawer. I can’t comparison shop for health products. Test my own makeup. Buy my own non-fugly patterned lunch bags. I can’t even purchase inexpensive Wal-Mart brand room fresheners because they might soil the specialized plug-in warmers that cost me a 2-week grocery budget and a contract for my first-born child.
I don’t mind supporting my friends, but when I’m guilted into attending these “parties” where I’m forced to fake enthusiasm for a collapsible polka-dot thermal picnic cooler and spend $50 on powdered drink mixes that will be doomed to take up back-of-pantry real estate until we move, I’m not gonna lie — I find myself wondering how much Im supposed to spend in order to qualify my friendship.
I say this not to insult those who earn a living supporting these companies or those who genuinely enjoy the products and purchase on a regular basis.
I say this because I’m concerned about the fact that these are the only gatherings that seem to exist after a certain age — these, and baby showers. And I’m sorry, but unless they involve Kahlua and stroller races, I’m really not going to get excited about them.
Why can we not get together simply for the sake of getting together? Why can we not gather at a friend’s home and cook a collective meal? Talk about the books we’ve read? Watch the latest Nicholas Sparks film and outwardly ridicule the main characters while secretly wishing we were them?
Why does there always have to be a premise?
The next time you attend one of these themed gatherings, ask yourself if you’re having fun.
And if you think that you are, ask yourself if you really are, or if you’re just faking it.
Because there’s something that happens as we get older and more domestic. Something bad.
Somehow somewhere along the line, we start telling ourselves that it’s okay to fake it.
That fun isn’t fun unless it’s forced.
That we can’t really laugh, because our laugh is too loud.
Our jokes are too crude.
And our meatballs must suck because there are still some left on the tray.
We leave feeling inadequate. Ridiculed. Or the coolest member of a club we never wanted to join.
And when I think about it, I realize that I have no energy for pretense. There are too many fun things to do. Fantastic people to meet. Wonders to experience.
So maybe it’s the domestiphobe in me, but I really don’t think I want to do this anymore. This faking it thing.
So I think that I’ll stop.
Because really, if my laugh is too loud, then I’ll stop getting invited.
And I’ll have more time for the people and things that make me laugh for real.
Everybody wins.
What about you? Think you have a little domestiphobia in you?
