Kindred Spirits

I suspect a whole lot of people out there find Deb, goddess of the Smitten Kitchen, to be their kindred spirit. I don't begrudge them - 'cause heck, I join them - but in one way, Deb speaks to me with the pure clear voice of a prophet. I've known the truth all along, but her persistence in spreading the gospel of both word and action is an inspiration. And that way she speaks about a birthday cake.

Like her, I am shocked and genuinely, deeply upset by the thought of a store-bought birthday cake. A special dessert from your favorite bakery for a holiday, for an anniversary, for a graduation, for a reunion? Go for it! Dream of it for weeks. Spend $38 on a pie from Random Order (or something like that) because they are really, really, really good.

But on your birthday?

Even if you are drafted happily onto Team Pie over Team Cake in debates and at parties, it is your birthday, gosh darn it, and you should have a towering layer cake, made by someone who knows you, likes you (loves you, even) and bakes well. This is a commandment in the House of Emmy, and I've been known to bake cakes for the birthdays of friends of friends - even coworkers of friends that I barely know.

But.

This month.

My month.

I get to make a birthday cake for myself! You might think this is a disappointment, and that I want a cake baked for me (which, OK, in the interest of blog-world full disclosure, yes, I admit, I would not turn my nose up at Deb's Pistachio Petit-Four Cake made by some other hardy soul since I fear the complexity) but the opportunity to make EXACTLY what I want, on EXACLY the timeline I want to make it, and share it with EXACTLY who I want - divine! Just like Deb, I'm on the hunt for the right recipe. I'm thinking about almond, I'm thinking about raspberries, I'm thinking about seven-minute frosting with some other flavor to dress it up.

And candles!! 31 of them...

It's Bleak Out There

So I was out this past weekend and I was the wingman. Being happily married means you can't give one speck of advice about how to approach a cute guy at the bar - heck, you can't even give advice about how to tell if he is cute enough to approach, but not so cute he's going to be a douche. This wingman business, clearly, is not my area of expertise. In fact, I prefer the "be dead honest" approach, be it with a lot of charm and humor and snappy, broad jokes... but I now am seeing that's not exactly how this flirt-at-a-bar thing goes, at least not typically. Being married means you get to be fearless... and I don't think that's the hallmark of a successful interaction at 12:30 AM for the wingee (or whatever you call the woman on the prowl who has a wingman in tow).

And after talking to exactly three guys - only three! - I came home exhausted. This is a lot of work.

So three things kept running through my head as I made my way home.

First, the guy who said he works in financial services and only when pressed with numerous questions finally told me he manages an emerging markets mutual fund, requiring odd hours to do business in different time zones... hey plaid shirt dude, why say financial services? Why make me dig? Why not just say what you do instead of talking down to a dumb girl? And what's with the resume keywords?

Second, when your name is typical, easy to pronounce and probably familiar to people, as mine is, you never, ever, ever, not one time, think about awkward it can be to start an interaction (not to mention all three) like this:

"Hi, I'm Josh, what's your name?"

"Jenae."

"Renee?"

"No, Jenae."

"Like Renee?"

"Sure. With a J though."

"OH! JUH-nay?"

Sigh. The name is accented on the second syllable, so actually, it is more like Juh-NAY... but the point is that it shone a light on how when it is loud, and dark, and late, if your name isn't Megan or Jennifer or Elizabeth, it can be tough to start the witty, funny, flirty fun part of the night, full of the banter you're seeking, when instead it skids and stutters over name pronunciation at the start.

And finally - third - perhaps answering Point #1, is when Mr. Financial Services, with too-close a shave and too-popped a collar, walked away and said, "I'm a registered Republican," I laughed and said, "I know, I could tell." But I SHOULD have said, "I'll forgive you."

If I'm gonna be a wingman, I have sharpen my claws wit.

Common

The common denominator among all the jobs I've had and enjoyed is that they put me on the inside. Inside someone else's family as a nanny - inside the life of a new mom, mess and joy at the same time. Inside the restaurant, where I see how the menu is prepped, how the food is cooked, how the decisions are made about what you're going to eat tonight and how I'm going to talk you into it. Inside the show and how it is put on from script to production - and all the near-miss arguments that also meant you got a refunded ticket and no performance tonight. Inside the headline, knowing the real story, and behind the law that fails to pass - or the one that does, barely.

Last night, at the Florence + The Machine concert, John and I got rail... meaning, we were leaning against the front metal rail that keeps the audience separated from the performers... and at one point during the opening band, we looked back to see how the crowd was expanding. In a curtain gap far off stage right was Florence herself, with a white scarf over her head and blue jeans on, sweetly and lonesomely dancing to the music of The Walkmen. I was reminded, with a pang, that no matter how close you are to the concert, unless you're Tony Hawk (who was seated on stage), you're never on the inside - not really. She came out later barefoot with her hair in a polished-but-sloppy bun and an amazing navy blue chiffon dress, ready to perform and connect. But I liked seeing her without her makeup, spinning around and looking down at the ground, bopping around to the new music.


(P.S. It was a great show, start to finish - from the parking to the lines, from the crowd to the staff to the opening band, from the weather to the setlist, and most especially, from Florence's engagement with us viewers and the backup singers that brought the house down. Plus everyone jumping up and down at the band's request, screaming, "Shake it off, shake it off! Shake it off, shake it off! It's hard to dance with the devil on your back, so shake him off!")

The Case of the Very Intense Friend

Me: Am I too hard on Person X? (Name has been removed to protect the innocent.)

John: What do you mean, too hard?

Me: I don't know... you know... too hard on them, with my opinions and ideas and stuff... you know, too hard on X so that they won't want tell me about their life, like, fully.

John: Well, no.

Me: (sigh) (of relief)

John: I mean, you're not any harder on X than you are on everyone else.

Me: (sigh) (of resignation)

John: And yet, they all do still tell you everything. It is a mystery.

Keep it on topic.

Did your teachers ever remind you to keep the discussion on the topic at hand? Well, at times on Jezebel, there is a zinger that I can't let go by without publicizing it - and today is one of those times.

They wrote about the blog and soon-to-be-iPhone app for Hollaback, a place where you can snap a photo of someone who harasses you on the street/subway/bar/etc and upload it with a brief description. Anyone who has ever been given a vulgar catcall (my first one was at age 14 in NYC with my dad; lovely) or been leered at on the sidewalk (why just last week, a drunk sketchy guy kept saying "uhhh...nice pants...." to me (three times) in a crosswalk outside work!) might find Hollaback a safe outlet for their discomfort, anger, shame, fill-in-the-blank emotion.

So in the age of the internet, no sooner does Jezebel say that it's pretty crazy to live in a world where this is so ubiquitous as to deserve an iPhone app, and if it helps, then yeah, go for it... no sooner... does a commenter then point out how it could be used wrongly, for some poor innocent nice guy who might want to tell a woman she is wearing a lovely dress.

So leave it to SarahMC (commenter extraordinaire and NO, not me) to say: Yes, the real victims here are the men who can't tell ladies they like their dresses.

God I love when someone reminds us to stay on topic. And when they remind us, too, that adults of both genders - it turns out! - can usually tell the difference between a lovely compliment and a flipping creepy invasion of personal space. Who knew?!

Other People's Problems

You know how it's really easy to identify someone else's problem, right along with the solutions for it? But your own are terribly confusing and mazelike; impossible to solve in a single conversation or new year.

So I had a chat recently with someone who has made almost no changes in their life in the last few years, and they recommended gargantuan changes for a mutual friend. I don't want to "out" a private conversation, but the advice was something extreme... something like "he should quit his job without a new one on the horizon" or "she should start her own business without any start up money" or "they really need to break up and one can move to Hawaii to work in a surf shop, and the other can get partying out of their system". It was a thing like that.

And while the advice was bold, exciting, take-charge action... it was also terrifying and I couldn't help but consider the source. Those folks taking big, bold action? I tend to trust their recommendations to do the same. But those folks who haven't changed "so much as a pair of socks since I've known" them? You can guess my gut reaction.

But in the grand life effort to stretch, to grow, to get more in touch with my life's purpose and live authentically... I'm taking one small baby step away from such judgment. Instead of waving off their advice (or, maybe, along with waving off their advice, ha!) to our mutual friend... I am going to spend this week thinking, "What do my friends advise me to do? What action in life would they like to see me take? Why? And what if I did it? What might happen?"

Sure, not everyone has my best interests at heart, and some people might give advice to manipulate me to their advantage, but a whole lot of friends DO have my best interests at heart. My urban tribe, my family-by-choice is filled with big hearts. So I ponder - and I welcome in the comments - what should I be doing more of, less of, adding to my daily life? What should you be doing more of, less of, adding to your daily life?

Why ask why?

Occasionally, I get asked why a straitlaced white girl who grew up in Montana likes to sing, dance and listen to hip-hop. Why? The lyrics, my friends! Driving home Saturday night, I heard the following couplet (pardon any errors in exact quoting):

I'mma brother - but not a Lehman
I'll be a bank - givin' out semen

C'MON! This is genius! Don't tell me that doesn't crack you up! If music should bring us joy, I have no shame about chuckling at creative hip hop lyrics. Plus, later in the song, he said, "Put this on your blog 'cause singing like this is my job." Request granted.

Born for it.

My web pal Jen wrote about her nearly-4-year-old daughter proclaiming she was going to be a doctor when she grows up.... and then maybe a butterfly, or perhaps Santa. You can read it here and it got me thinking about what it is we're born to be.

When our mutual friend Meg headed off to vet school - which I remember reading once is harder than medical school since your patients can't TELL you what's wrong - everyone who knows her said, "Well, duh!!" She was born for it. Not just because of her love for animals. But because of her love of trivia and vocabulary and obscure facts, because of her ability to study and learn, and because of her incredible determination.

So let's take it down a notch. Down from veterinary medicine. What is it that makes me happy? What is it that everyone has always turned to me to ask for? What is it that I like the most? Geeky it may be, but it is organization. Planning. Predicting the timing of a thing (any thing). Confidently answering a question that starts with, "When am I..." or "Who will be at the..." or "How long does it take to..." or "What are the details again?" So it isn't surgery, but golly gee, when I pat my neat pile of folders and give them to my coworkers, complete with the staff, timing, drivers, directions, handoffs, timetables, dockets, guests, talking points and background info for a busy day ahead, I am about the happiest little soul in the world. It is a pure form of satisfaction, geekiness be damned.

Fake it 'til you make it?

Since you don't have to answer this to my face, be honest... what's your worst personality trait? (You don't have to tell me here.) But what I would like to know is how you work on it... how you remain true to yourself and who you are, while attempting to smooth out the rough edges of this unsavory trait which you possess?

Do you read helpful books, go to church, solicit feedback from colleagues or friends? Do you journal, do you avoid certain situations? Do you have no bad trait? Do you ignore it or just think of it as an aberrance that doesn't capture the real you?

This is on my mind a lot this week, and I also wonder if we even can know our bad trait/traits. It may be something we're not aware of - for if we are aware of it, we try to fix it. It's those pesky quirks, those little tics that we don't even see - those top the list of "bad" traits.

I, for one, can be mean. I can be mean without thinking, in the name of honesty. Sometimes, I am busting through denial, and I don't consider that mean. It isn't "I'm just sayin'!" but it is that I won't sit quietly by a person I care for, as they hurt themselves or others with unneeded mental gymnastics. When my honesty is done right, it sees right to the heart of a thing -- which is vulnerable and scary, and which can look like mean to the ego, but isn't.

On the other hand, at times it IS mean. And while I've sometimes been bewildered about when, it also can fly right out and I want to push it all back in; too late. So in an effort to go beyond apologizing for meanness (with sincerity, and that itself is an ongoing lesson/struggle), I am thinking of ending every other evening with a series of questions, where "it" stands for a thing I expressed an opinion about, a thing I spent time thinking of, a thing I let affect my actions that day:

• Does it affect my life?
• Does it affect someone I love?
• Was my opinion solicited about it?
• Was I trying to influence change?
• Was I deeply in the moment when listening/discussing it?
• Can I be honest about my biases in regards to it? Once I can, is it emotionally safe for me to share those first and THEN get to the heart of it?
• Why do I care about it? (Because maybe I shouldn't.)

The last one, of course, should be asked first.

And a cursory examination of these questions and some lingering "it" items of the past week reveals that 7 out of 10 are things I have no dern good reason for carin' about. So that shortens the list - yay! But the other 3 linger.

I forgot.

The promo tagline on NYTimes.com for an article called "It's All A Blur To Them" is "Crossing between men's and women's fashion aisles feels right to young customers today."

Pfft. Yeah, right, I think. No it doesn't.

But, oh yeah. Oops. I'm not a "young customer" anymore.

Doctor Day.

I like going to the doctor and/or dentist. I like the "clean bill of heath" feeling. I think hospitals and offices feel safe - I've always thought, heck, if something goes wrong here, this is a good place to be, a good place to get it fixed!

Yesterday: Dentist first. I was told I am a very good brusher. And my gums are looking good. Ahhh. (Did you know floss only gets to 3mm under your gums? That's why once you get 4mm deep parts around your teeth, you have to floss like crazy. And that's why once they're at 5mm, there is no turning back. You've got periodontal disease at that point.)

I really think that if I could pull it together and floss everyday, suddenly I'd finish writing a novel, my house would always be clean, the car would never break down, I'd sleep like a baby every night and lose twenty pounds. It is the key to life that I can't manage to do EVERY single night. And speaking of...

Visit number two yesterday: clean bill of health at the doctor. (Ask me about ZoomCare if you're interested; it's an incredible model for health care and really, really awesome for those with or without insurance.)

Except for one thing.

I was told to lose 15 to 20 pounds.

By a doctor who was approximately 13 years old, 5'2'' and 100 pounds. But she gave me a few suggestions to make weight loss easy - things I had never heard of before! If I only I'd known this the last five years! It was great! Thanks, Doc! You're a genius!

She suggested eating more fruits and vegetables and getting 30 minutes of exercise 5 times a week.

What does it say about a person...

... when they're listening to perfectly good, perfectly enjoyable music in the car - on the radio - on the way to the post office...

and then...

the same station is playing inside the post office?

Good Thing Friday: The waiting is the hardest part.

OK, this is an excuse of a title. BUT. I have been contemplating it since Friday, and I put it into action today. Hence, it was Good Thing Friday to follow the advice and it just took 'til Sunday to put into action.

The advice? From Michael Pollan's readers on the New York Times... he asked what food rules to live by, and published twenty of them. Two are really, really good ones that are burned into my brain:

1. If you aren't hungry enough to eat an apple, you're not really hungry.

2. If you want to eat it, make it yourself. (See: fried chicken, grind your own beef and make hamburgers, gravy, mashed potatoes, french fries or potato chips, white bread, cookies, ice cream... heck... we could throw mayo, butter and wine on that list too.)

So in the spirit of rule #2, I made egg rolls! Exhibit A:



John ground the pork for me, and diced the bell peppers and carrots. I sauteed it all with cabbage, ginger, soy sauce, garlic (yes, John pressed it and Dancing Roots Farm grew it out in Troutdale), and something called "fire oil". I did not make the wrappers but I stuffed them, fried 'em in olive oil and holy moley! Success! Delicious success! I would even call it major success but then we have Exhibit B:



Smeared with Neosporin - or the generic equivalent - we have the marks of an over-zealous fry cook. Hey! I was listening to my Sunday-blues-beating radio show "The Splendid Table"! The inimitable Lynn Rosetto-Casper was interviewing PDX's own Andy Ricker! The owner of Pok Pok! I couldn't help it. Splashes occurred.

The egg rolls were good medicine, though. Maybe good enough for Chef Bill?! We'll see. Incidentally, Chef Bill is whose ice pack gel thingy I still have... and am putting to good use.

The Race That Knows Joseph.

That is a phrase from the Anne of Green Gables series, and it means the same thing as Anne's phrase "kindred spirits". Either someone knows Joseph, or they don't. And when you meet 'em, it usually takes no more than five minutes to tell if they know Joseph, too.

This past weekend, I had dinner with a new person who does not know Joseph. And I met one new person who definitely does. Welcome, Marc!

The thing I like about the race that knows Joseph is that sometimes family members belong - and sometimes they don't. It's not their fault, it's just is how it is. But how fun is it when someone in your family IS a kindred spirit?

Even if there is a dearth of kindred spirits in the family, that makes the others all the more precious. I always wanted a sister. And one has made her way to me. She definitely is of the race that knows Joseph and just like getting to know any sibling worth their salt, it's a slow and patient process that'll bloom in its own time.

The Upside of Jealousy.

I was mulling over jealousy today... or envy... or whatever you want to call it. Basically, I was thinkin' 'bout when someone's got what I want! (Yet/ever/right now/ya know.)

But then (to be terribly vague and un-bloggerly and detail-free) I thought even more about people who have recently told me I have things they want. Hmm.

So the upside of the jealousy is that I stopped and remembered that some folks wish they had things I have -- perhaps tangible things and perhaps emotional things, maybe some current things or some past things -- and perhaps I can be more like the lovely Ms. Pema Chodron:

I can try to say, "Ah yes. I feel that I Want what she/he has very much. OK, Want. I see you. I acknowledge you. And bye-bye now."

And if I sort of let the Wanting float on by, it may reach someone else, who has Want as well, and maybe they'll say, "Ooh, I Want that thing there!" but then if they let go of the Wanting too, it won't burden them either. And sure, it'll float around forever, but it won't stick to anyone too tightly. And when we - I - Want something dearly, we can feel it, let it go, and remember that we have eminently Wantable things right here at home.

Anyhow. Here's to trying!

A Guarantee.

Painting your fingernails taxi cab yellow will absolutely make you feel better.

Too Hot to Think, but not Too Hot for a Soapbox Moment.

The cultural zeitgeist, the rise and fall of ideas in the collective unconscious, the spreading Portland ennui about a given topic... you can find all this, and much more, on Facebook! Yes, you can!

But this week, if one more person writes a status update about how they are from the Northeast, or Midwest, or South, or Southwest, and that anyone bitching about the heat is just a whiner, I might sign up their email address for every e-newsletter I can find. (And as you may know, I can find quite a few.)

The perfect candidate for this is a person who has been complaining about the complainers for three or four days on Facebook now, in complete honesty... who then added this morning that s/he lives with AC at work as well as at home.

Was it tongue-in-cheek? I am too cranky from the heat to discern. And s/he can go right back to the Midwest/Southwest/South/Northeast, places that I guess it is OK to complain about the heat. I meanwhile am from Montana, and can complain as much, as much, as much as I want.* And I will gladly listen to your tale of overheated woe.



*But, oh, yes, right. I won't. Because our R2-D2 portable air-co machine saves lives. For real. B & B, gifters of the world's most magical gift, need to know that without it, I might be here; John might be here; but we wouldn't be here alive together.

We all think we're so sharp.

We do. We all think we're highly attuned to the world around us, and Not Much Gets Past Me.

Well, my neighbor - in an apartment complex - has been dead for 48 to 72 hours. With the kitchen sink running.

So this sort of evidence reminds me that apartment living has many, many frustrations when you feel like you're sharing the most mundane, intimate, uninteresting, gossipy - and more - parts of your life with virtual strangers. But while that may be so, there is also a lot that can go unnoticed, things you don't even know that you don't even know. As it were.

This Eastern European immigrant gentleman worked nights, so on weeknights, I always knew when it was 9:50 PM, because he left for work, resting his bicycle against my front door, locking his place, and pedaling away. On weekends, I heard very little from next door, and during the day, he slept. Every couple days he had a jam session to Journey or Stevie Wonder or Donna Summer around 4 PM for about an hour... I assume, when he woke up for the day.

He was polite and an almost complete loner. Whether he didn't want to engage with his neighbors or whether the language barrier required it, we had mostly conversations about the weather and polite exchanges in the laundry room. (He did his laundry shirtless and while smoking a cigarette. Yup.)

I am not afraid of death, and instead find it an important occurrence with its attendant rituals, emotions and meanings that we pretty much ignore, shame and/or avoid. But death is there, and it's really there today. It is strange to see the windows that were never open be now stripped of the curtains, allowing fresh air in and cigarette smoke out. It is strange to think of the cleaning crew that I'm told will be coming by tomorrow, and it is strange (or morbid or totally natural) to want to see all the possessions from life carried out, sans ceremony, into dumpsters or off to donations.

How To Be a Bad Waiter.

Great French cafe in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, yesterday.

10 AM, about half-full cafe, the sun has risen above the brick building next door and is shining down on us, on the lovely outdoor patio, where I looked up to see a neighbor in his jammies checking out how busy the cafe was from his 4th floor deck next door. (Great classic blue jammies a la Josh in Season 1 WW.)

"Excuse me, Painfully Hip Waiter Who Has Not Checked on Us in Forty Minutes, would you mind raising the umbrella at the table next to us, as it will cast a shadow that will partially protect our umbrella-free table, and then can we order mimosas for dessert, giving you a bigger tip?"

(Well, that's basically what I said.) He replied:

"I'll get you the mimosas, and YOU can feel free to ask that other table."

Holy cannoli.

It's very, very tough to get me to tip less than 15% - EVER. But sorry, Brooklyn hipster. And sheesh, lots of people out there are looking for table-waiting gigs, and they have to be nicer than that!!

Cheating.

Ok, so I'm skipping town for a camping trip.

But when I return, a post on the End of an Era; or, An Ode To The Honda, She of 230,000 Miles.

In the meantime, thanks to Mikey P for the laugh above, kicking off a long weekend!