Love Letter

I miss you readers! I am working on my time management and plan to give you attention soon. In the meantime, here's a quick little piece you might enjoy.
This is in response to a challenge given to our running group. We were supposed to write a love letter to a body part that we simply don't love. I had a few parts in mind, but settled on this one.

I apologize for the things I said today in the dressing room. I realize now, it’s not you, it’s me. Let’s face it, you have been trying to communicate and I have been ignoring you. You let me know your needs with an array of sounds, growls, gurgles, groans even. You tell me when you need something and when you have had your share. Still, I ignore you. I do what I want to do, when I want to do it and then have the audacity to blame you when my jeans don’t fit, or when a dress... looks too snug. You puff out if I’ve had too much salt and you jiggle if I have had too much sugar. And still every morning, you try your best to flatten out and to show me that with a little willpower and exercise what we might look like together, you and me.

You, you carried my two beautiful children. Nestled them snuggly and protected them. You stretched for them, making more room and leaving bright pink streaks, signs of your new residents. I remember the joy of putting my hand on you and feeling little feet and powerful kicks. Strangers and friends alike were once so drawn to you as you proudly sported the new lives forming within. Is there anything more beautiful than a belly full of baby?

But here we are, years later and I have forgotten to appreciate you. You are one of the first to show me when I am not taking care of myself. Stress likes to settle with you. Carbs like it there, too. You have tried to communicate with me, sometimes subtly and sometimes loudly howling in the middle of a morning meeting. I have only resented you, berated you, tried to hide you, smothered you with spanx and cursed you when bathing suit season rolled around.

I’d like to say let’s start again. Clean slate. I’m going to just look at you with admiration. I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. Relationships can be tricky. I’m going to try to listen better and appreciate you more. I’m going to try.

While I have been away

Forgive me. It's been over two months since my last blog....
I'll be back soon though.
If you really miss me, or if you love running, or both, check out my latest project. An 11 post blog dedicated to one race. I feared it, I conquered it. I loved it.

http://aimeerunshermouth.blogspot.com/

And the Survey Says..

When I was young  I thought it would be fun for my family to go onto the Family Feud. I often would sit around at my Nana’s when a group was gathered and strategically plan who should actually go (you could only pick five family members) and where each family member should stand. It was rare, but not out of the question, for a six year old girl to be on a family’s team. The rarity of this didn’t discourage me. I knew my combination of wits, sass and cuteness would win over any skeptical viewers at home.  I mean, my goodness, it’s not like it was Jeopardy or something. Even at the age of six I knew enough to be able to take a good guess at what the 100 people in the studio audience would answer for questions. For instance “We’ve polled 100 people in our studio audience and asked them what is the first thing they do in the morning.” “Eat breakfast.” Hmm, “Eat breakfast. Survey Says?...Eat breakfast, that’s our number one answer. My word! And you’re only six years old? How did you come up with that?”

Of course there were some drawbacks to going on the Family Feud in the late 1970s. First of all, there was Richard Dawson. While I think my Nana and my Auntie Arlene would do some fake swooning over him, I couldn’t really deal with the possibility that he would make me kiss him. Sure, he was a former member of Hogan’s Heroes. And sure, I enjoyed his wit on The Match Game(yes at six years old I did enjoy the Match Game, what’s it to ya?). And sure millions of other ladies kissed him, but yuck. I wasn’t quite up for it. Also, Family Feud was filmed in Burbank California, I lived in Malden, Massachusetts. Even for a great people organizer like young Aimee Decker, getting the whole crew out to Burbank seemed a bit much for a six year old to orchestrate. And for what? Auntie Sue all but admitted that she would ditch Richard Dawson for Bob Barker any day. I couldn’t get all the way to Cali only to find Auntie bidding $1.00 on an orange plaid couch on the Price is Right.

But, how I loved those Family Feud surveys….

Which three hundred words later brings me to the point of this blog. Surveys! About ten years ago Mike and I were convinced by a rather talented salesman that we needed a new freezer. I had immediate buyer’s remorse, but Mike never did. The freezer sat in our tiny Connecticut house taking up about 500 of the 550 square feet of living space. My friend Renate had come for a visit and pointed out the bright side. “You have this giant white magnetic freezer in your house. It’s like a blank palette.” (we were in an artistic phase, Renate and I). That was just the right thing to say to me. What does this have to do with surveys you might wonder?

We’ve had some changes at school and in a lot of ways it’s like the freezer. The changes seemed big and overwhelming at times, but as a staff we decided we could look at it like an empty palette. (Well we never put that into those exact words, because I never shared my freezer analogy. Who has time for pep talks and analogies?! We’ve got a palette to fill).  It was really important that everyone’s voice was heard and so enters our friend Survey Monkey. Survey Monkey is a free tool that allows you to create surveys and email them to the people you need to question.  Here’s a sampling of some of the surveys I have created,   “Shoes or slippers”, “Yea Another Survey”, “HMS Holidaze Fun Party,” etc. And yes, those are clever titles, thanks for noticing.

Over the past five months the survey situation has become a bit of a joke around the water cooler. Well, we don’t have a water cooler as we took a survey about it and agreed that 1. We can’t afford one and 2. We think it’s not the most environmentally conscious thing to do. We drink from the tap. However, we find other areas around school to mock our own survey use. We may be a little excessive with our surveys, but without them we’d have to start making fun of each other and that's not very Montessori of us.

Seriously though, the surveys are as one teacher put it “our little experiment with democracy.”  We want everyone to have a voice and speak their mind, but some people aren’t comfortable just saying what they feel. They are worried it will offend others, or be held against them, or that what they have to say isn’t important. And though we all are very supportive of each other, it’s a process. The surveys seem like a good step in a process with the eventual goal that people will be comfortable speaking their minds.

Right now we have three surveys going, two are about our upcoming holiday party and one is about a calendar date change. As the designer of each survey I try to balance professionalism with having some fun. For instance, the gift exchange question has several options including white elephant, yankee swap, secret santa and no gift exchange. I know that people who don’t like gift exchanges REALLY feel strongly about that, so I went ahead and made that choice say “Please! No gift exchange-ugh!” But when I go back and analyze the survey results I get offended. Like “Wow! They did not have to be that adamant about it. Geez.”

 Similarly, I gave another option in our party survey that I really don’t like and it is the one that will most likely win. I’m all hot and bothered by it, too. Then I remember I put that option there in the first place. I also remember that this party is about us, not about me. Furthermore, I can take the survey from several different devices in my home and get the results I want! Ha! Just kidding. I am only kidding. Now someone will probably put out a survey as to whether or not they believe that I was just kidding here.

Our business manager asked me today if we would be using Elfster if the Secret Santa option wins. (Elfster another website that brings me great joy, is designed especially for the Secret Santa players of the world. It’s so great, it draws names for you, stores wishlists and lets you leave hints.) Anyway she asked if we would draw names via Elfster or if we would just do them manually, like pull them out of a hat. She then, of course, joked that we should take a survey as to whether or not we should use Elfster. Har Har Har.

There’s so much talk about communication nowadays and people’s struggles with face to face conversations, discussions and relationships. I have some really strong feelings about this and am sometimes concerned that I am perpetuating this unhealthy barrier system by not saving things for discussion at a staff meeting. Logistically, however, tools like online surveys are great ways to make sure everyone gets input and the results are all gathered in one place. They are also great when decisions need to be made in a timely matter. I guess like most things (with the exclusion of cookies, Brady Bunch episodes, and Matt Damon), surveys should be used in moderation.  What do you think? Click on the link below and let me know!

Take the survey at ww.iamtotallykiddingdontclickhere.comm

Back on the Chain Gang

“You couldn’t cross the street by yourself until you were twelve,” my aunt likes to remind me each time I see her. “And you couldn’t use a goddamned can opener either.” I’d like to say she is exaggerating even though these seem to be her fondest memories of me. I know for a fact that I was crossing the street before age 12 (maybe even before eleven and a half), but the can opener, well, that might be true. I don’t know how old I was, but I do know that my neighbor Noelle and I got into such an intense fight about the can opener that I left her house. She wanted me to open a can of tuna for lunch and I protested that I couldn’t use a can opener; she thought I was just being lazy (who can’t use a can opener?). I believe we eventually made up, and we are facebook friends now, but my inability to do some of life’s simplest little actions can perplex some people and by some people I mean everyone, including me.

I’d like to blame my parents, as most forty year olds with any kind of issue do, but at some point I guess I have to admit I’ve grown up, so obviously the appropriate person to blame would be my husband. Fine, fine it doesn’t matter who is blamed for my deficiencies, as long as it’s not me. These little deficits of mine aren’t much in the whole scheme of things, but when you are sitting in a pool of your own sweat with a small Allen wrench in one hand and tufts of the hair you've been pulling out of your head  in the other you think “if I was anyone other than Aimee, this wouldn’t be happening.” Well actually you wouldn’t think that, I would think that because I’m me, and you, luckily, are not.

Today, without going into too much detail (frankly, I did go into too much detail about this in my first version of this blog and it didn’t work, so I’m going to take 882 words and put it into three  or four sentences), yes today I found myself at 6:30 in the evening in a struggle with our front door at school. The problem that should have been fixed with an Allen wrench and about two seconds of patience turned into a sweat inducing, hair pulling, tear evoking scene. At some point I called Mike and told him I was just going to sleep at the school because, though I have seen several people do it before, I couldn’t shut the door. Mike laughed, he thought I was kidding. I absolutely wasn’t kidding.

Yesterday, after the untimely death of our dear toaster, I learned from a coworker how to broil my English muffin in the oven. YESTERDAY! If this is not astonishing let me say it again and I will put all important words in caps so you can understand the ridiculousness of this. YESTERDAY I LEARNED THAT YOU CAN BROIL AN ENGLISH MUFFIN IN THE OVEN. YESTERDAY I LEARNED THAT YOU HAVE TO SET YOUR OVEN TO BROIL AND PUT THE PART YOU WANT TOASTED FACING THE HEATING ELEMENT SO THAT IT GETS BROILED. Ah geez.

The other day Mike and I spent a couple of hours planting laurels around one of our playgrounds at school. Mike and I had a 4:1 planting ratio. For every four laurels he planted I’d have one done. Shoveling is not my forte. I’d put one foot on the shovel to help get the job done, then the other foot and sometimes I’d manage to stay upright, but usually I’d teeter off the shovel. The whole time I was shoveling I was thinking “wow I hope I’m never put on a chain gang or something. I’d never make it.” This was truly my thought process, not “hmm I wonder if there’s a different technique,” or “hmm maybe I should ask for help” or even “hmmm I think I better just walk away from this job.” No I was thinking “Better stay out of jail so I don’t end up digging holes for the rest of my life.” Who thinks these things? And why would a chain gang be digging holes? And if they’re not digging holes what are they doing? Gonna have to google that later.

All I know is this. This evening when I was trying to help one of the toddlers with an eight piece puzzle, I put the elephant’s leg in the wrong spot. I then pretended like I did it on purpose. How low can I stoop?

This week has been a rough week as far as coming to terms with my inability to do things that most people can do by let’s say age six, fine five. As a general rule I like to blame what I can on being a lefty and living in a righty’s world. That might explain my trouble with tools and appliances, but can’t really explain away the broiling situation. I may have to go back to blaming my parents after all.

Perhaps I am one of those creative geniuses that can’t be bothered by the little things in life. Sure she doesn’t know how to tie her shoe, but she can stand on her head and recite the 50 states while painting the ceiling of our local church with nothing but pudding-covered feet. Or granted we had to fly her dad in from Boston to cut her steak for her, but man that girl can throw a mean party. Or wow she still can’t open a bottle of wine with a corkscrew, nor can she open my kid’s thermos at lunch (EVER) but hot dang can she ever put together some senseless blogs.

 

Author’s note: I can actually cut steak and tie shoes. Just sayin’

Inside Club Loco-Proceed with Caution

 Everyone who was anyone was there. They nonchalantly cruised down the back alley dressed in long trench coats and sunglasses. They played it cool as they each ducked into the back room at Club Loco. As they took off their fedoras, or shrugged off their fake minks, they scoped out the room. All the usual players were there. Guilt, Ego (and her side kick Smooth talker), Anxiety, Impatience and slumped in a corner- Reason. Reason had been working round the clock on several other projects, and though Anxiety was often on those projects as well, Reason seemed to be the only one with bags under her eyes.  

“Alright,” declared Ego as she folded her long thin legs underneath her. She licked her gleaming white teeth, tossed her long golden locks and using her perfectly manicured fingers started pointing to people in the room. “Impatience, what are your thoughts?”

“I think we should do it. Listen, we have been sitting on the couch for three weeks! Three weeks! Do you know how long that is? We are lucky that Anxiety over there is working overtime lately or we’d be as round as a donut by now. Look we rested, we iced, we even stretched; we feel pretty good let’s do it already!”

“Not to mention,” began Guilt as she twisted one of her tight gray curls around her index finger, “We made a commitment to a friend to run. We can’t just leave our friends on the curb. If we commit to running thirteen miles, we run thirteen miles. That’s what friends do. Who can call themselves a friend if they bail out at the last moment?”

Reason made the mistake of opening her mouth, but before she could say anything Ego cut in. “Look at you, you’re a mess Reason. Your hair’s disheveled, your sweatpants are ratty, your face is blotchy and you have something green stuck between your two front teeth. You’re making us look like we’re sixty!”

Smooth Talker piped in then, “Reason, what Ego means is that you have been so darn busy lately, you deserve a break. Why don’t you go take a nap or something? It would do us all some good if you could just loosen up a bit.”

At that moment there was a bold knock on the door. Anxiety’s cousin Fear came sweeping  into the room.

“Absolutely not! We are absolutely not running a half marathon in our condition. Our ankle is just barely healed and we haven’t been training. We could cause permanent damage!”

“And then we wouldn’t be able to run for months,” Reason took this moment to align herself with Fear. Usually she worked to keep Fear at bay, but this time she saw an advantage in this. Unfortunately, Guilt had the same idea and sidled up to Fear with Smooth Talker fast on her heels.

“What if we didn’t run and our friend got mad at us?” Guilt whispered to Fear. Smooth Talker followed Guilt’s lead. “You don’t want to lose a friend over a silly marathon do you?” She asked as she massaged Fear’s shoulders. We’re better than that. We don’t bail on our friends.”

“And we have been bailing on her a lot lately,” Guilt piped in.

Fear began to waiver. The only thing worse than physical pain was emotional pain. What if their friend really did get upset?

Reason stood up and shouted “This is ridiculous! First of all we know our friend better than that. Yes, she might be disappointed, but she won’t be mad. We are putting ourselves at risk here. We are smarter than this. We know better. I don’t think we should do this.”

Ego looked up from filing her nails and with a disinterested sigh she patted the empty spot next to her and invited Reason over. The plush velvet couch was too much for a tired Reason. Though she was apprehensive, she decided the rational thing would be to listen to Ego’s argument.

“We know that rest and recovery are important in training. So let’s consider this injury of ours the rest and recovery. We feel good now. Our body is conditioned for this. Sure, it’s been a few weeks since we ran, but we spent months and months running before this. Maybe we overdid it, but now we are smarter. Anyway people do this all the time. And they’re fine. So now here we are rested and ready to go.”

“Well, maybe we should run it by our physical therapist or our coach,” Reason countered.

“Look we don’t have time for this, okay? Let’s go run this and if we don’t feel great while we are out there we will just quit,” Impatience was already putting her trench coat back on and headed for the back alley.  “End of conversation,” she noted and she slammed the door behind her.

On the morning of the Half Marathon the usual players met at the start line. On the outside they looked like Reason, but on the inside they were powered by Ego. Another player joined the race. Distraction. She was one of Ego’s favorite companions, especially on race day. When Ego felt down, Distraction would work her magic and before they knew it, the event was over.

After the race Ego was in her glory. Even Reason had to admit that everything went well. They were joined by some others including Joy and Hunger. Fear, Anxiety and Guilt must have had a prior engagement because they were nowhere in sight.  For a few blissful hours, Reason, Ego, Distraction and Joy existed in harmony. As the day went on, however, Guilt, Anxiety and Fear returned. Everyone noticed a heavy presence of Anxiety.

 “Something’s not right.” She noted.

 “We’re fine,” Ego countered, but some of her aura had lost its luster. She went to bed early and without much of her usual fanfare.

The day after the race Fear and Anxiety were on high alert.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Guilt scolded the others.

Reason ran her fingers through her hair and sighed, “We might need an X-ray.”

“You’re being overly dramatic,” Ego mumbled through a mouthful of Advil.

“We don’t have time to get an X-ray.” Impatience noted.

“What are we going to do?” Worried Anxiety.

“What are we going to do,” Echoed Fear.

“Write a consequence essay, put our foot on ice, go to sleep and hope that tomorrow all will be well.”
But who said that? Only tomorrow will tell.

 

 

The Hair of the Dog (or the cat, or both)

At one point in time there was someone who discovered that it was important to clean under the couch cushions. Likely this discovery was made at a very inopportune moment. The Duchess of Such and Such has just paid Mr. and Mrs. Peasant a surprise visit. Somehow the Duchess’s brooch slipped off and slid into the cushion of the couch. Sure, Mr. and Mrs. Peasant they cleaned their tables, washed their floor and probably even ironed their curtains. But they never gave a thought to those couch cushions. They never had a reason to. So, they watch in quiet astonishment as the brooch slides between the cushions. They ask the duchess to stand up while they lift the cushion to retrieve her jewels. The cushion is lifted and that’s when they see a quill pen, a stick of chewing gum, some tobacco from grandpa’s pipe, a small rodent skeleton, three unidentifiable green things and some dirty magazines. (And by dirty I mean they are literally covered in dirt, rot and some tobacco juices). This discovery now burned in the brains of everyone in the room is quickly turned into family lore, passed down from generation to generation. A cautionary tale. It is surely the reason you and I clean underneath the cushions to this day. We must show gratitude to the ones who came before us, who embarrassed themselves so you and I would not have to. My friends, today, I must pass on to you another tale of woe. Heed my story, so this doesn’t happen to you.

I was hoping to see Alexa as I pulled into the parking lot of Route 16, our local running specialty shop. She wasn’t there. Neither was Gwen.  I was hoping to see these ladies because they are my friends and they also happen to be dang smart when it comes to all things running.  I did recognize the salesman who was there. He’s a nice guy, no doubt, and knowledgeable about running for sure. However he’s quiet, reserved and a little hard to read. He’s probably 15 or 16 years my junior (I know what you are thinking, that would make him about nine, and you’re darned right. We’ll have to check on child labor laws in Gig Harbor at another time) .For some reason when I see him, I feel like I need to make up for his lack of overt enthusiasm by being over the top bubbly. It’s really bad, too, because I am guessing over the top bubbly isn’t really his happy place. And having to deal with the smelly feet of someone who won’t stop saying things like “Super” and “Awesome” and “oh that’s so cool!” is probably not his cup of tea either. Yet, I can’t help myself. Quiet people do this to me. Their lack of conversation actually drains me of IQ points, leaving me to fill every silent moment with something ridiculous and inarticulate.

Anyway, I was wearing a cute pair of Toms, but I had my tattered, mildly scented running shoes in hand as I entered the store. I had a pair of still-warm-from-my-3- miler socks, peeking out of one of my shoes. I didn’t think it was strange to be bringing these worn objects into a store, though in retrospect I wouldn’t bring an old fraying pair of underwear into Victoria’s Secret  and dangle them in front of the sales person and say something like “These things have seen better days.” At least I hope I wouldn’t.

I do have my reasons for bringing the shoes. First of all, Alexa had mentioned that she’d love to have a good look at my shoes to see where they are worn most. These things would tell her if I’m a heel striker or if I overpronate etc. etc.  I also wanted to ditch the custom orthotics my podiatrist gave me after a stress fracture last summer. I figured if I showed what my orthotics looked like then we could discuss if I could get away with something less rigid. Anyway, that was my plan if Alexa or Gwen had been there. But they weren’t, and while I can’t blame them for what happened next, I wish I could.

So the salesperson, let’s just call him Joe, says something like “How are those shoes working out for ya?” And I slip into some fantastic reply back like, “Oh my gosh! I totally love them. My Brooks! The Brooks Ghost. They are like the best shoes ever, for sure. But well, you know, they are kind of worn out and well I would just really love to get some new ones. Shoes make me happy.”  He blinks a few times and maybe does an involuntary shudder. I can sense that I’m too much for him, but I’m out of control at this point. Before he gets me started on a shoe, I want to show him the orthotics and have that discussion about why I want to ditch them. The orthotics, are designed to go under the insert in the sole of your shoe.  I’ve had these orthotics for about ten months and, though it’s frowned upon in the running world to keep a shoe for more than six months, I have had these shoes since July.  I also think it is important to note here that I have three cats and a dog. I take my shoes off every day and leave them by the front entrance of our home which happens to be a high traffic zone. Why, is this seemingly unrelated information important to our story you ask? Well friends, read on and take care not to find yourself in the same predicament.

I bring my shoe over to Joe and begin to pull out the insert.  Under the insert is the orthotic. At least I think it’s the orthotic, though it’s hard to tell under the thick covering of fur. And I mean fur. Like I could knit you a cat hair vest and a dog hair scarf with the amount of fur that is now exposed in my shoe. It’s like a double Decker sandwich. A thick layer of fur, a plastic orthotic, a thick layer of fur, a rubber insert.  I tried to quickly shove the insert back into my shoe and cover up the fur, but it was too late. I said something very intelligent like, “Uh, sorry about the cat hair.” He came back with something witty,  “It would be okay if it were dog fur, but cat fur’s unacceptable.” I proudly amend it, “Actually it probably is dog fur. Probably both.”   I can’t quite explain why having six pounds of animal fur wedged unknowingly into your shoe is so mortifying, but it is. It was awkward and it was embarrassing. It was like trailing-toilet-paper-on- your-high-heels awkward. It was like having-your-dress-tucked-into-your-underwear embarrassing. I thought to myself the only thing that makes this bearable is the fact that I am a grown woman and I know life has its little embarrassments. At least I’m not let’s say, twelve, when something like this would make you want to crawl in a hole. And that’s when I remembered Madison.

 Poor, poor, Madison. Age twelve. Watching her mom bumble through a conversation. Watching her mom try to talk her way out of a furry mess. My dear Madison who stood so quietly by my side in all of this. I couldn’t even glance at her. Finally, I had to look over at her and when I did; when I looked at my poor twelve year old I saw she had a pained look on her face. “Mom, mom,” she whispered through gritted teeth. I followed her eyes to an air born ball of fur the size of Texas sailing on the breeze. Joe saw it, too. We all watched it travel slowly and steadily like a feather in the wind. After what seemed  a lifetime, it finally settled on the floor of the store. I picked it up, looked around and not knowing what else to do, I stuffed it back into my shoe.

This is a cautionary tale. You’re welcome.

A Few Food Fiascos

I am a picky eater. Many people are appalled by the finicky eater, but there are a surprising number of people who find the choosiest of us quite fascinating. I have noticed both camps feel it is their mission, their duty, their great quest to get to the bottom of what I like and what I don’t. I have learned as a picky eater that the best thing to do is to speak up. But sometimes that’s just not proper...

England 1998-The English countryside- warm beer and shepherd’s pie; fish and chips; deviled lamb- kidneys on toast, you get the picture. If you are licking your lips right now, you are not reading this with the proper amount of empathy. I certainly didn’t eat any of it. I can’t remember much of what I did eat; I think dry cereal and the occasional Cadbury bar. I know I enjoyed tea and biscuits every day around 4:00 pm. You might say I lived solely for my buttery, jam-filled biscuits and scones, which is true. On day five of our trip we went to London. I was very excited to see Buckingham Palace and ride a Double Decker bus, but I was most excited to be in a bustling metropolis with some international food choices such as pizza or elbow macaroni with butter. Mike and I found a cool cafeteria with a buffet (usually not a buffet girl, but this seemed like a great solution). We got in there only to find the same fare we had seen all week. Finally, out of the corner of my eye I spotted chicken nuggets. Not long breaded breast strips, but little round nuggets, something I ordinarily would pass right by. However, this was Day 5 of my unexpected weight loss plan and those tiny nuggets may as well have been made of pure gold. As Mike scurried around the buffet grabbing every food in sight, I made a beeline for the lady in the stained apron scooping the nuggets.

 “I’ll have the chicken nuggets, please,” I said holding out my empty, brown,  tray.  

“Do you have any children with you?”

I was confused.

“No, I am just here with my husband, honeymoon, you know. Anyway, I’ll take those chicken nuggets now, please.”

“No,” she replied tersely.

“No? I-I-I don’t understand.”

 “The chicken nuggets are only for children under age 12.”

 I started sweating. Could I pass for twelve? Could I borrow someone’s child? Could I leave, come back with sunglasses on and point to some random baby in a buggy and claim her as my own? A thick piece of glass and a brown-toothed woman in a hair net stood between my chicken nuggets and me. I had to do something.

 “I’ll pay double. I’ll pay what you’d charge an adult.”

 “No. They are for the children.” She turned to the next customer. I started crying. Real tears. Saltwater rolled down my face. She showed not the slightest flicker of emotion. I had to compose myself. I grabbed a yogurt parfait (I don’t even like yogurt!) and moseyed over to the table where Mike was hunched over enjoying his six huge helpings of food. All’s well that ends well-later that afternoon we found a Burger King in Piccadilly Square. I splurged on a double hamburger hold the mustard. It was divine.

Late Spring 2002-First, a little background. I love roast beef, but it has to be just so. When I get roast beef from the deli, I like to take a good look at it first. It can’t be too well done, and can’t be too rare, but most importantly it needs to be high quality. The last thing I can stand is when you get deli meat and it has a sort of metallic shine to it. It might look good as a car color, but not as something you put in your body. And the texture of that shiny stuff, well, it’s not good, my friends.  Where was I? Yes, late spring of 2002. I was pregnant with Max and feeling a tad of first trimester nausea, but nothing too dramatic. Mike, Madison, Xaila (one of the foreign exchange students I mentored) and I went to our favorite sub shop-Lee and Eddy’s- for lunch. Now here’s the thing, I don’t know if Lee and Eddy’s is still in business and if they are I mean them no disgrace. Usually we loved them. It just so happens that on this day, unbeknownst to me, they had an iridescent batch of roast beef. I ordered my usual sub of roast beef and pickles, no condiments (of course).  The guy behind the counter was an employee we recognized by face if not by name. He had long hair (which was always pulled back) and wore old school Metallica and Megadeth Tees. He was a really nice guy. He was a walker, we saw him around town all the time. Anyway, he prepared my sub and handed it to me. I was pregnant and starving and well, I was on a mission to take down that sub in record time. I took my first bite and noticed the texture was all wrong. I opened the roll and sure enough, shiny roast beef. I didn’t know what to do. I was so desperately hungry and didn’t want to hurt the friendly employee’s feelings, so I ate it like a champ. It was horrible. I could hardly keep it down. I couldn’t even think about it after I ate it. I tried to complain on the car ride home, but the mere thought of that sub brought on the gag reflex. It gets worse, too. For probably a year after that, whenever I’d see the Lee and Eddy’s guy walking around town, I’d start to involuntarily gag. The poor man made me want to puke anytime I saw him!

Christmas a few years ago (not sure maybe 2007?)-My father-in-law was making several dishes for a Christmas Eve event we would all be attending. I was sitting on one of his kitchen chairs in my signature oxygen-deprived-daze (I tend to regularly suffer a severe mix of fatigue, lack of personality and all over confusion in my first 72 hours in Colorado). Last I knew Bruce was making banana cream pie. I could see the pie shell from my angle and I could see the vanilla pudding box on the counter. Because of all the hubbub happening in the kitchen, I couldn’t see everything that was going on. Delighted with his kitchen skills, Bruce came over to me with a heaping spoonful of pie filling. Well, that’s what I thought it was, anyway. You actually don’t even need to be a picky eater to empathize on this one. Just imagine that you think you are getting a taste of banana cream pie, but instead your mouth is filled with mayonnaise (public enemy number 1 for me) and eggs! My well meaning father in law didn’t know that A. I hadn’t realized he had moved from pie, to deviled egg filling and B. I despise mayo and don’t like eggs much at all. Apparently the look on my face was concerning, priceless, hilarious, frightening, you name it, depending on who you are and how much you enjoy laughing at my expense.

 

August 4 2008-My birthday. Max had the stomach flu. We had to cancel dinner plans with my friend Susan. Our friendship was just a year old and she didn’t realize some of my likes and dislikes. She made her famous chicken pot pie with curry. Surprise, surprise, I’m not much of a chicken pot pie girl.  I had only had curry one other time when my assistant Rajni force fed me a traditional Indian meal, but that’s quite honestly, a blog unto itself.  Susan was so sad for me that I had a sick child to tend to on my birthday that she went ahead and brought me some flowers and the chicken pot pie. Even though she didn’t stay, I felt obligated to give the pie a try. It was just chicken and veggies,  I reasoned. Who knows, maybe I would even like the curry. Well, it doesn’t even matter what I thought of the curry. The stomach flu overtook me that night as well. I won’t go into gory details, but I spent a long time hanging my head over the toilet bowl. A few months later Susan had some of the girls over for dinner.  She made a curry chicken pot pie, which all the ladies loved. Well almost all the ladies. I was beside myself. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings or seem ungrateful. And blast her; she didn’t have a dog-so I did what I had to do.  I don’t know if she noticed I wasn’t loving it, but I do know she’s cooked me many a delicious dinner since, and it was never the chicken pot pie.

 

December 2010-In Colorado again, but this time at Mike’s mom’s house. My mother-in-law was bending over backwards to please my picky palate, which I really appreciated. At the same time, I also felt an immense sense of guilt. She shouldn’t have to do that. Linda knows that I don’t like tuna fish. The unfortunate piece is she thought the part I disliked was only the tuna, and didn’t realize the worst part was-here we go again-the mayo! It was our first evening there and my mother-in-law made a casserole. It was exactly the same as her famous tuna casserole, but she proudly made a substitution in my honor.  “Dinner’s at six,” she sang out, “Hot Chicken Casserole.” Wonh-wah.  It had a lot of mayo, a lot of hot mayo.  A lot of mayo.  And, my mother-in-law didn’t have a dog either. Sigh.

There you have it-another glimpse into what makes me tick (or makes me sick). Still, I don’t want to put any of you off. You can have me over for dinner any time. Let’s keep it simple though, Cadbury bars and elbow macaroni  for everyone!