Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Ah, The Clash. Yet another group I can credit my husband for introducing me to. That was a poorly written sentence. Am I going to fix it? No! The Clash wouldn't, and neither will I! I did not grow up knowing The Clash. My parents were listening to Pink Floyd in a big way in the 70's and 80's, not Brit punk. And, as the story goes, The Clash got together because Mick Jones was working in a London record shop wearing an "I hate Pink Floyd" t-shirt when Joe Strummer came walking in. Apparently they bonded over the mutual dislike of the Pink Floyd sound (nerd alert!), and The Clash was born therefrom. Clearly, they were in a different vein from what my parents were a part of--and subsequently, what I was introduced to as a child.

But this post actually has little to do with The Clash or my appreciation of them. The topical question has to do with (dum, dum, DUM!!!) my high school reunion. Should I stay or should I go?

Stay, I think. Definitely stay. Most of the time I have made my peace with this particularly turbulent period of my history. But every now and then some un-dead demon arises to remind me of just how difficult this time was for me. Certainly the most difficult period of my life to date. Let's put it this way:

One summer I drove to Montana to visit my best friend, Whitney. On my way home, I got in a terrible accident--rolled my car a few times. I walked out with a single teeny tiny scratch on my shoulder, but even now I am a cautious and frightened driver. Even now, the memory of the crash comes back and paralyzes me. Many, many years later, you probably could not pay me enough to get me to revisit that stretch of road. It's the same with high school. Just because it's behind me doesn't mean I take any pleasure in revisiting it. As a matter of fact, the fact that it's all dealt with and put away in my memory is a good reason to not go--no use stirring the pot, digging it up, whatever.

I'm happy as a grown-up. Grown-up stuff is a cakewalk in comparison.

There IS a part of me that still wants to go. Just sheer curiosity. I want to see some people and find out what they've been up to, how life has treated them, etc. But I have not actually kept in touch with a single person. At least, not beyond a Facebook sort of connection. It will probably come as a surprise to her, but this girl is the only person out of the 500 or so I graduated with that I actually feel connected to. I keep tabs on other friends' blogs and stuff, but when I stumbled on hers, I thought, "Ah. Kindred spirit. Too bad we didn't know each other better in high school. Maybe we could have helped each other survive." Although, truly, we didn't know each other that well in high school--maybe her experience was just fine.

What was so very awful, you ask? Oh, I'm not even sure I could pinpoint it anymore, to tell the truth.

Academically, high school was great. Socially, it was a nightmare. Not just because of the cliques, but because I am not a socially savvy person. I'm still not. I lack the ability to process social cues quickly--in a crowd, I am totally overwhelmed. I get quiet and contemplative trying to keep up with all the dynamics--it takes so much brain power to analyze what's happening that I don't have any left over to actually jump in and participate. By the end of my junior year, things were getting better--I met some friends in my history class, and hung out with them, but even then I felt that half the group was clearly communicating to me that I wasn't good enough to be one of them.

I suppose, in the end, that's really where most of the bad associations come from--ever since I moved into that school system in the 5th grade, it seemed there were more of my peers communicating a "you're not good enough for us" vibe than a tone of acceptance and friendliness. For a long time, I felt pretty picked on and sorry for myself. This turned into bitterness and hostility by the time college came around. These days, for all I know, everyone else felt the same way I did. Maybe no one feels secure. I have a feeling that while maybe some people enjoy adolescence, not a single person comes out of the experience without some scars that stick around for a long, long time. And that makes me feel better.

Something happened after high school--I found out that a girl I spent the greater part of my life hating was going through some pretty awful family troubles that were threatening to tear her family apart. I remember thinking how awful it was--and really learning that my hatred of her stemmed from jealousy based on a faulty assumption that this girl had it all. Clearly, she didn't. Her parents, frankly, are moral disappointments and social climbers--and these were the people teaching her how to navigate the world. No wonder she treated people the way she did. And what was more, she was not immune from deep heartache. Ugliness just begets more ugliness, and I think it's a tall order to ask a teenager to figure out how to break that cycle. I didn't figure it out until well into college--and I KNOW my feeling soul-sick in high school caused me to do and say some things I wish I never had.

I guess what I'm saying is... it's all water under the bridge. But that doesn't mean I feel like going swimming.

It also helps that the date of the reunion is very close to my due date. I do not want to remember myself 37 weeks pregnant for the next ten years--I do not want these people remembering me that way, either. And I definitely, DEFINITELY do not want them remembering me going into labor at the reunion. Unlikely, sure, but still possible and the thought is a little more than I can handle. Never mind that I might also just be a little more cranky and unsociable than usual these days. God bless my husband for his forbearance.

There is just one friend I've lost touch with completely, who I'd like to catch up with. But since I am fairly certain he is actually a spy in the middle east right now, I'm guessing his presence at the reunion is questionable anyway. The last I heard from him over a year ago was that he was off to Afghanistan for either the state or defense department. He has since disappeared from social media sites, so who knows what has happened to him. If he is a spy, I probably shouldn't be publishing this, but I'm guessing both al-Qaeda and the US govt have bigger problems right now, what with Osama dead and Obama still in office.

Should I stay or should I go? Stay, definitely stay. But I will say that anyone out there from high school who might be reading this and who wants to get together is more than welcome to get in touch with me and we can make that happen some other time.

Ungrateful

That's the word for today, folks, maybe for the past few days. Allow me to complain for a few minutes in the most bitter of spirits over things that--in the long run--maybe don't matter.

List of grievances:

*Baby in ribs, all the time, sometimes all through the night making sleep if not impossible, at least not actually restful.

*Nasty cold. I ask you, medical community: How is it possible that my body can find the energy to produce unladylike amounts of nasal fluids, but can not find a way to cook this baby any faster? If you can find a way to speed up this process, I may actually consider doing this again. Also, how difficult could it be to produce a pregnancy-safe cold medicine that is actually effective? Let's work on that. Thanks.

*Toddler with nasty cold. You've heard it before, you'll hear it again, I'm sure. I hate snot. It's the most vile of bodily fluids, and its persistence is maddening.

*Stuff. I hate stuff. I think my nesting manifests itself in two major ways: an overwhelming need to bake things (even if I don't actually want to eat them) and a deep desire to throw away everything I own that is not positively essential to living life. Cell phones, computers, DVDs, CDs, kitchen appliances, and basically everything we keep in our storage locker. I am sick of looking at stuff, especially knickknacks. I can't even think of a dirtier concept right now than things that exist merely to cause me the stress of figuring out where to place it in my home--and then once in its space, is forever forgotten and unappreciated. I wonder how Chris would respond if he came home from school one day to find our home essentially gutted of most of our personal effects. He's a holder-on-er. With each passing year, my urge to de-clutter grows ever stronger. I'm already getting excited at the prospect of being able to throw away toys as Ada grows out of them.

*Anticipation of newborn stage. I'm afraid of the lack of sleep and energy. There, I said it. Fear, plain and simple.

*Body image. Listen, I know I'm roughly the size of one of those inflatable animals from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. I know that on days when I forget to put on my wedding ring after knitting--and then go out in public--people look at me like I'm an irresponsible teen mom. You should see the looks I get when I have W in tow on these outings. Truly, folks. People look at me like I owe them an apology for the scourge I am on society. That's why I like Costco. Costco people are nicer than non-Costco people.

And this list isn't even the whole or the worst of what I feel like I could complain about right now. The point is, I know all of my complaints stem from the fact that I am not taking the time to feel grateful for all of my blessings, blessings that actually DO matter in the long run. Like the fact that that this pregnancy has been easier than the last, that this baby is healthy and so am I. That when my husband sees me standing over a pile of laundry, he picks it up and deals with it, so I don't have to spend another 5 minutes trying to figure out how I'm going to get the energy to deal with all the other piles of laundry.

My list of blessings is extensive and meaningful, but today, this week, I have been unable to connect with that feeling of gratitude. Today, I just don't care. Isn't that awful? I want to crawl under a blanket and pretend the world and my responsibility to it doesn't exist. I want the sun to shine and my cold to go away so I can go enjoy it. I want to make and eat cookies and not worry about how everything I eat now is going to have to come off postpartum, by our December Higgs vacation to Hawaii. I want to roll over in bed in less than five minutes, not surrounded by my carefully laid labyrinth of pillows. In short, I want what I simply cannot have, so I should stop dwelling on it and move on. Instead, on the inside, I am throwing tantrums that are way worse than my toddler's. Worse, because I know better, because I have the skills to actually control myself and I'm deliberately not using them.

Worse, because, in the end, I really ought to just be grateful.

Adventures in Arugula

It all started a couple weeks ago, when Chris alerted me that a certain author (who for the time being must not be named) was going to be signing books at the King's English book shop. Oh, that I could say more! But one of the main purposes in going to said signing was to get a copy of this author's book signed for my sister Katy, whose birthday will be shortly upon us. So as not to ruin the element of "OH MY GOSH!!!!" that will inevitably ensue when this shows up at her apartment, I will say no more. In any case, while waiting for the signing to begin, we decided to head across the street and grab a sandwich at Tony Caputo's. Since my OB restricts me from eating deli meat, I ordered a veggie sandwich that was stacked with arugula.

Imagine, if you will, a 7-month-pregnant woman, sitting on an outdoor patio with her husband, son, and brother, enjoying a very fine evening (a tragic rarity this spring) and a roasted red pepper sandwich piled high with arugula. It had been a while since arugula and I had crossed paths. Maybe it's a pregnant thing. All I know was it hit the spot in a way that maybe only pregnant women can appreciate, and cultivated within me a deep desire to know this green better.

So. Yesterday, as I was making up my weekly menu, I decided arugula had to be part of it. We've had it two nights in a row. And both meals were so very satisfying, I felt selfish and sick at the thought of keeping them to myself. The first recipe, I'm proud to say, I thought up out of my own noggin (sorry I have no pictures):

Open-Faced, Fried Egg Sandwich

1 loaf sourdough bread

1 bag arugula

1 brick parmesan

eggs

salt

pepper

butter

*Fry eggs to your preferred doneness, seasoning with salt and pepper. Slice your bread, toast it, and butter it if you like (I did). Slice thin slices of parm and place them on the sourdough toast. Top with desired amount of arugula. Top that with the fried egg, which, I suppose, serves as a proxy top to this sandwich. It is simple; it is quick. And if you serve it along with some fresh salted slices of avocado and some strawberries, you may just want to kiss yourself for preparing something so entirely satisfying.

The second recipe, courtesy of Martha Stewart, you can find here or here:

(love this book)

*I used arugula instead of mesclun, obviously, and roasted my red potatoes with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic powder rather than boiled them. Between the salad dressing, the greens, and the goat cheese, this proved to have a fairly intense tart-bitter flavor profile, which suited me just fine. So very fine.

Mama-san, #1

This last week was both Mother's Day and my mother's birthday. I WAS going to write a Top 5 Things I Learned from My Mom post, but every time I tried to narrow it down to 5 clearly definable points, my mind swirled and threatened to shut down on me. What my mother taught me was more than a string of lessons, an entire world philosophy. So I'm not going to write that post. At least, not the whole thing. And I'm not going to limit myself to 5 things. As the woman who carried me for 9 months and then brought me into this world, she deserves more than 5 tongue-in-cheek summaries of what her life's work means to me, the recipient of that work. Instead, any time I feel like it, I'm just going to pick something out of the pensieve (nerd alert!) and tell you all what a rockin' mama I got.

What My Momma Taught Me:

#1. How to Read a Recipe: Perhaps there are more important life skills. Perhaps not. There was a process to following a recipe, I found out around the age of 11 or 12.

First, you read over the entire recipe before getting started. Make sure you know what you're getting into. Turns out, there are some cooking skills that are pretty advanced, which I have learned over the years mostly translates into paying a great deal of attention to what you are doing; anyone can do it, if they're disciplined enough to be precise. I have saved myself from many a cooking faux pas from simply reading through what I ought to do beforehand. I believe this simple skill is what gave me the ability to manage my time effectively in all aspects of my life. There are a LOT of recipes out there, where, if you were to follow them as written, it'd take you all day because you didn't realize that you could move on to step B while step A was taking care of itself. And furthermore, you can prep for steps C, D, and E well in advance so that when you get there, you're ready to go. You don't accidentally burn your risotto waiting for your chicken stock to simmer. During college, this skill may have been the most important in contributing to my success. You put first what comes first, organize your time, and get to work. Consider the profundity of these lessons for just a moment, please. They are more than just words on this digital page.

Second, check your cupboards. Maybe you want chocolate chip cookies in the worst way. But if you're out of sugar or flour or baking soda, it's not going to happen--at least not without a trip to the store first. And if you DON'T read through the recipe first, you could waste a LOT resources (time and otherwise) when you finish the dough and reach for those chocolate chips, which (gasp!) are not there. Crushing disappointment, which might all have been avoided by a little prep work.

Third--and this is pretty crucial, however obvious it might seem--do what the recipe tells you to. A few months ago, I was hooked on Food Network's Worst Cooks in America show. Invariably, the problem with each of the contestants was that they simply didn't actually follow a recipe. The recipe would tell them to bake their chicken for 45 minutes--they'd leave it in the oven for 30. Raw poultry. Or it would tell them to grate an ingredient, which they would choose to coarsely chop instead. Nasty texture. I was horrified watching this show, the ticker tape in my head perpetually reading, "Are there REALLY people out there who don't do what they're told?" This skill taught me that many (most?) rules are more than arbitrary. There are laws that keep the universe intact. There are commandments that keep our lives sanctified and directional. There is a reason the recipe asks you to grate instead of chop. Sometimes you don't know why until the finished product is rolling around in your mouth. Any time I make a recipe for the first time, I follow it precisely. I need to know first if the recipe is good as-is, and once I've tasted the product I was actually supposed to make, I can make adjustments accordingly for future cooking/baking experiences. Translation: I love rules. I do, I love them. Call me a suck-up or a goody two-shoes, I don't care. Rules have served me well my whole life. I feel very comfortable relying on them, because they have never steered me wrong or made me unhappy. Furthermore, they are what they are, independent of the people who preach them or violate them.

And this all brings me around to the one unifying lesson about reading a recipe: you only ever get what you give. I don't mean this in the self-serving way. This is not a creed for a selfish person. Rather, the basic knowledge that nothing comes from nothing. If I do not add chocolate chips, I will not get chocolate chip cookies. When you create anything from scratch, you need the necessary raw materials, and you've got to add them up in the proper amounts, in harmony with the laws that exist. This lesson hit home big time when I was pregnant with W, and I realized how crucial certain nutrients were to a developing human--and that if I didn't provide them, they wouldn't just magically appear and create a healthy baby. I had to actively take them in. You can't have a happy marriage without living by the rules of a happy marriage. You can't know the Gospel unless you study it and live it. You can't drive your car if it has no gas or electricity.

And all of this learned because one Sunday afternoon my mom took some time to show me how to properly use a measuring cup. Thanks, Mom.

Falling into Pop Culture Death Trap, a.k.a. The Royal Blunder, a.k.a. Back to the Drawing Board

So... yes, to all who wonder if I've been oblivious, I was aware that a certain Prince William was marrying a girl named Kate. And yes, I was aware that these were the names of my children. However, I figured we'd get flack for a little while and no one would make the association after a while. I still think this is true. Last week, Chris and I were out for the anniversary, talking about middle names for Kate. We decided we really liked Kate Elizabeth: it was sweet and traditional and similar in style and feeling to William Douglas.

Fast forward to last night when I finally got around to watching the royal wedding with my mom. We're watching the ceremony, laughing at William's very long name, when I think I hear the most awful words come out of the priest's mouth as he turns to Kate. Not wanting to know, but needing to know, I say to my mom, "Wait. WHAT is her name?????" Catherine Elizabeth, folks. It was the proverbial nail in my name coffin. I didn't know I could be to agile at 7 months pregnant, but my response was so violent I sort of flailed my whole body and slammed my legs down into the couch. This chick has effectively ruined my favorite baby name for this little girl. I suppose we could choose a different middle name, but after conferring with the husband, who says every time he ears about "Will & Kate" on the news it bothers him more, we decided to scrap it entirely. Kate Middleton (Windsor!) is a very lovely girl, but I'll forever resent her name being Kate and her middle name being Elizabeth. Boo. Double boo.

Here I was thinking I'd chosen a name that was fresh and original to this generation--traditional, but clearly feminine and not too popular. In short, the perfect name. Instead I feel like the biggest sucker on the planet. There are probably more devastating things in this world than being a predictable, mindless drone, a product of my generation (you know, worse things like tornadoes and hurricanes and earthquakes and tsunamis). But at the moment, my tiny little baby-name world has plummeted into despair. Back to square one.