love burgers

We were only halfway down the street before I started professing my love for red meat. "All things in moderation," I heard myself stating matter-of-factly in my head, and yet, I didn't stop. He's the one who asked, but I bet he wished he hadn't. I bet he wished he had picked up a vegetarian.

At the restaurant, a customize-your-own burger joint, I resisted checking the 1/3 lb. patty and put a dark lead pencil check mark next to the box that said 1/2. "Wheat," I thought. "And sprouts," to balance out my carnivorous burst from the blind date starting gate. After quite the sweet potato fry sales pitch from our waitress, we ordered a side of those and some onion rings. My date ordered his burger on an English muffin which should have been my first clue that we weren't a match. Not that I don't enjoy an English muffin, but to me, it goes better with, say, a glass of prune juice and low-cal imitation butter spread. We handed our order sheets to the waitress and I settled in for what I knew would be the awkward first date (blind, no less) what's-your-favorite-color and tell-me-about-your-family question and answer period. Lucky for him, he could cross off what's your favorite food from the get go, what with my whole self-proclaimed red meat love fest.

Our burgers arrived in record time, a blessing from the burger gods, who either a) knew they had a serious meat-lover on their hands or b) knew the conversation had run as dry as an English muffin sans I Can't Believe it's Not Butter. I took one long inhale, and sunk my teeth into the patty. Perfection. I continued this inhale-bite-inhale-bite routine for the next few minutes, stopping to wipe the mustard from my mouth and to ask all the obligatory first date questions. It was when he told me he doesn't "like to do much" for fun that I decided to drown myself in the sweet potato fries. I dug in deeper and even added the horse-radish dip, well aware there wouldn't be any post-date shenannigans after such bon tete-a-tete convo avec du boeuf.

I looked across the table with four bites of my Martha-made burger left, feeling like a lady for not snarffing the whole thing in a minute flat. I glanced down at Mr. Muffin's plate and lo and behold, he'd taken four bites total. Clearly, he was disgusted by my manners. Or he regretted the whole muffin-bun switcheroo. Maybe he was so ready to leave it was worth the waste of meat. (Gasp! Waste red meat?! NEVER.) Or, perhaps he was being kind, and after I told him how much I love cow, he decided to join in the feasting, when really, he prefers white meat to red. I'm not sure which.

I saved face and decided to not pat my very satisfied belly. Rather, in the most ladylike of tones I said, "Thank you. That was delicious." Which, in burger speak means, "Dude! Best. Red. Meat. Ever. I could totally pound another like right now, bro!" He left a generous tip, as well as the trough of onion rings (which, for some reason, I've always felt were too greasy -- explain that one) and we were off to our post-dinner activity.

In college, my roommate's older and wiser sister counseled that to every good blind date, there are 20 bad ones. I don't know what number this one was, nor would I say this necessarily qualifies as bad. On the contrary. The night continued pleasantly. It wasn't the first time I told a boy I heart red meat. But perhaps I've never been in such refined company when I've made such an utterance. His khakis and tucked-in button-up shirt should have been the ultimate give away. Next time that will be my first clue: no meat talk unless he's in jeans and a t-shirt, something he could drip barbecue sauce on and not have to make a trip to the cleaners. As for the whole blind date thing, this much I know: one more down.

thursday edition

I'm sitting at a partially-cleared kitchen table, but for a plate of fresh apples slices and half-full glasses of water. It's 15 minutes post-dinner and my 17 year-old brother is sprawled out on the family room floor, his hands behind his head. He's leisurely taking in the evening while I edit his seven page research paper on global warming. His shoes (which we've all managed to trip over our way to the table) are directly in the path of traffic leading to the deck doors, which he's left wide open. Just as I start in on the importance of knowing who your writing audience is, he asks me for the 150th time to call out the the door for the dog. (After nine years, she (the dog) has developed quite the selective hearing.)

Five minutes later, minutes more leisurely for some than others, my brother looks up at me. "Did you know Chewy's (the dog) theme song for life is that song by Michael Jackson, that goes...He starts singing the lyrics to "Bad." "Because she's a bad dog (she's not) and because she's both black and white." I lift the pencil from the page and stick it behind my ear. "Huh? And more importantly, that's not how it goes," I inform him. I sing the correct lyrics, as he ignores me and skips up the stairs, still singing the wrong words. (I hate it when people sing the wrong words.) I focus my attention back on the paper, circle a sentence where there's a dangling participle, and have a flashback to the day when Mrs. Lake used her red pen to write "d-e-f-i-n-i-t-e-l-y" around the entire page of my essay, her teacher tongue-in-cheek way of making sure I never forget that an "i" follows the "n." Not an "e." Worked like a charm. Haven't spelled it wrong since.

Rich bounds down the stairs, ipod in hand and buds in his ears. He's snapping his fingers and singing the lyrics, word for word, or so he says. I told him I needed proof; he needed to share his earphones so I could confirm that I was indeed right. I reach out my hand for an ear bud. Ignoring me, he heads for the cupboard and comes back with the karaoke microphone. "I know this isn't the most convenient way, but it will work," nodding reassuringly. He grabs the mic, sets one ear bud on the table, and leaves the other in his ear. He puts the mic up to the bud on the table and before I knew it it was like the King of Pop himself was moon walkin' right there in our family room. As for the lyrics, turns out we're both right. And to think I thought I had him.

I step down as the Bad Lyric Expert, and resign to the task at hand: global warming, leaving my leisurely brother break dancing. Siting the paper I tell him that I don't know what it means that congress wants to put caps on companies regarding global warming; that he needs to explain what caps are. "Why?" (This is his brilliant retort to any critique I suggest.) Because I'm only a partially informed audience, I tell him. I know that global warming is an issue, but I am not informed as to what is happening to stop the progression. "So I should say that caps are..." "Yes," I tell him, after he's given me a brief oral explanation. "Write that." A few pages later, I read him a sentence about the involvement of China's global warming efforts with the U.N. I tell him to write out the words United Nations, to which he replies, (are you ready?) "Why?" Then he says, in his signature I'm-17-and-trying-to-be-annoyingly-cute-and-sarcastic voice, "So do I have to explain China, too? Do I have to say 'China is a country with this really long wall...'" he trails off. (I was going to tell him he had to start with Pangaea, but...) The ear buds go back in his ears.

Out of my periphery, I see Rich shaking his hips, ever so slightly, elbows bent, hands in the air, fists bopping with the music. I know he won't stop until I acknowledge his Elvis-like swinging, so my head turns in his direction and I pretend I'm amused. "Go sharpen this, " I say, handing him my pencil. And, as he marches off to the study towards the pencil sharpener, I look out past the deck onto the lawn where the dog has settled on the green grass (which we should be grateful for because, you know...global warming and all.) I replay the events of my day, enjoying the brief moment to myself as the (correct) lyrics of "Bad" run in a loop through my head.

What's Up, Doc?

It's Sunday. Which means tomorrow is Monday and the next day is Tuesday. You follow? If not, I suggest you see a doctor. Tuesday was the day I was to leave the 4th floor of a building on 25th Street in Manhattan after spending five glorious days with K, all about the town.

Instead, I'll be here, where Spring can't make up its mind, no matter the day.

Speaking of doctors, let me tell you about one I met recently, and why. For about six months now I've had a pain in my hip. It comes and goes with various levels of activity, which I will outline as follows: Sitting typing on my laptop, activity Level 1. Walking to the Park with Steph and Mare, Level 2. Snow shoeing, Level 3. And so on and so forth. (For some reason the pain seems to be worse when I wake up in the morning, so I guess in a backwards way, sleep is Level 4. Unless I dream I'm an acrobat, you've got me on this one.) My roommates have probably heard me complain about this the most. Side note: I don't recommend spending countless evening hour(s) looking up various ailments on WebMD when you and your roommates slash significant others slash peeps are in want of an activity. While highly entertaining, it leads to some scary self-diagnoses and some creepy, creepy videos on YouTube. (The good news: they have found a cure for the Tree Man.)

Two weeks ago, the pain was quite bad. I grabbed my laptop and consulted the MD on the Web. By process of elimination (and a few silent prayers they won't make my life into a YouTube video) I had a verdict. Just to be safe, I decided to get a second opinion. Instead of waiting to get into my normal MD (as in an actual doctor, not the cyber kind) which could have taken days, I decided to take a faster route. I had deduced (having just graduated with a bona fide certificate of completion from the Cyber School of Medicine) that a simple x ray would confirm my hip hunches one way or another. Nothing too serious. Six months is indeed a long time to suffer. And a long time to come up with possibilities. In the (way) back of my mind I thought maybe, just maybe it was something serious. But, most likely I figured I no longer have my 16 year-old Sarah Jessica Parker "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" win-the-dance-competition-and-the-boy's-heart body no mo'.

In walks the doc, white coat, chart in hand, totally 2-legit, right? Her wavy red hair was parted down the middle and held in a low ponytail with a scrunchie (still holding onto the SJP Glory Days herself, perhaps.) She had on socks with birks, very Woodstock-meets-the-early 90's. "So, you've got a pain in your hip, huh? Why do you think that is?" This should have been my first clue. While I believe a good doctor asks lots of questions, I also believe a good doctor has the answers, or at least takes a stab at them. She didn't. "Well, that's why I'm here," I said, resisting the urge to add a "Doi!" onto the end of that sentence.

Moments later, I limped down the hall with the x ray technician. She looked all but thrilled she's decided to look at pictures of bones every day for the rest of her life. It also (lucky me) happened to be the last day Noah Wyle would ever be on Primetime TV, so she was bound to be blue times two. "Ok," she said from outside the room, adding up the cost of all 12 seasons of ER on amazon.com in her head. "Hold your breath. 1, 2, 3. And...breathe." She led me back to the room to wait for Doc Birkenstock.

In all my waiting, I wasn't quite prepared for what followed. In walks the doc-in-socks. She sits down on the stool and tells me that I'm flat out wrong on my self-diagnosis. This I could take. The next part, not so much. "Well, we didn't find bursitis." Then, with a bedside manner as if I was in line at Subway and she had the unfortunate task of telling me they're out of yellow peppers she adds, "We found a tumor." She might as well have shouted, "Next," and scooted me out the door. If the roles had been reversed, if I had to equate things in her terms and on her sensitivity level, I could have told her she was at a Joan Baez concert and she left the beer in her VW bus. It seemed about that important. "So," I said, begging for more information, "How big's this thing...the size of a golf ball, or what?" "Yup." She nodded in a "Yeah. Sure. Golf ball. Sounds good." way. "Takes up about half your hip bone." So not only have they run out of yellow peppers, but they have run out of them at Subways across the Wasatch Front. I wanted to shout back, "Oh, yeah? Well, the beer's gone, too and there won't be any for the rest of Woodstock. What's up now, Doc?!" Not winning any awards for her bedside manner, she said, "Tumors aren't really our specialty, so I'll set up an appointment for a CT scan tomorrow. That way you can get a better look at this thing." She called it a "thing," as in "it-ain't-no." Never mind the large mass taking over your hip. She stood up off the stool and strode out.

* * *

Long story short, or long story long*, and to avoid a barrage of questions, I'll add that this Doc wasn't exactly right. We're not sure who to blame. Perhaps the x ray tech started her Series Finale ER Mourning Party a little too early that day and had drowned herself in her own tears, making the x ray unclear. There was a total misdiagnosis. I can obviously (and, more importantly, gratefully) laugh about this now, but it was a stressful week as I thought I had a golf ball-size tumor on my hip for eight days. I'll finish the rest of the story and bring everyone up to speed soon. As for now, know that it's not a tumor, and I wasn't that far off the mark on my self-diagnosis.

*Shout out to one of my fave John Krasinski You Tube videos. Search "John Krasinski car breaks down," if you're interested. (Well worth the 6 minutes and 56 seconds, especially to when he does his Boston car mechanic accent). While you're at it, look up "Thing" on Web MD and see what pops up.

stripes, herringbone, and side tables

Rather refreshing not to check email for two days straight. No, I'm not out of town, just in town and about town. Bustling about my own business, getting down to the to do's and crossing things of my list, spending time with dear friends in between. We took a long walk yesterday, the babes wrapped up tight for the toting. Unaware of time and distance it was nearly noon when we finished, and we'd traced five miles along Wasatch and down again to Bryan. I spent part of yesterday doing design research with N, and, following form and function, we went out on the town today to see what we could find. We sat at the big round table at Howells with A, sorting out the stripes and honing in on the herringbone. Oh how we wish the budget allowed for real RL 100 percent wool plaid. (If there's a will, there's a way, though, right?) We played musical chairs at PB, trying to pick what's best, bouncing ideas off one another. In somewhat of an unplanned expedition, we found ourselves on the hunt in our home town to find a certain paint color. I was happy to leave with more samples than I need and a new deck in-hand to add to my collection. Tonight, I met the girls at the Dodo for sandwiches. All RS things were off the table, all real Life things, on. I ended the night at the B's. We ate cinnamon bears on the couch as baby E fell fast asleep on her mama's lap. Now it's bed for me, too. Tomorrow brings more time with N, who makes work more like play.

walkabout

Our feet traced familiar pavement, yet we stepped to a new tune. I divvied up the peanut M&Ms. Between red, orange, brown, yellow, and green, we chatted with wintry-pink cheeks and all the hopes of Spring. I was brought up to speed (amidst much oohing and ahhing and whispers of destino!) I love that place. I love that girl.

The Nook

The other night at the new house we sat aside the big long table. That's where we congregate now, the big long table in the room which functions as three: the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Oh, and the baking nook; every one's favorite. The nook alone is the size of our tiny kitchen at the Yellow Brick House. Natural light spills through two windows in the nook alone instead of the one in our whole kitchen at the YBH. We've deemed it Mare's Baking Nook. A spot for her Kitchen-Aid and all things sweet. That turquoise mixer makes the space happy (as if the thought of a baking nook alone wouldn't do the trick).

There's a clock on the wall that chimes on the hour. It's soft enough that unless you stop to take note, you won't hear the chime. There's comfort in the tick-tocking; like he's watching over us, taking note of our comings and goings as the minutes and hours go by.

We're getting used to slipping off our shoes as we step in the entry; used to turning the key extra hard on the old wood door; used to wide-plank wood floors to dance about on. I'm not sure we'll ever get used to being so warm, after a year in a house where we slept with beanies, double-down comforters and the thermostat up up up.

I'm trying desperately to get used to driving up the hill at the end of the night. It's just for now, but even so, it's a feeling I'm not too fond of. I'd much rather cozy up by the fire and fall asleep on my ticking-stripe couch beneath the tick-tock of the clock. While change sometimes isn't so sweet, it just takes time. For now, I've got a key to the front door. I plan to be around for a lot of clock chiming and I'll be happy to taste-test anything baked in the nook.

Les Invalides

Thanks to all who have come to visit The Invalid. Thanks to my little bro for braving episodes of GG and for forgiving me my outburst when I realized the latest House Beautiful issue had been ripped to shreds. To E & O for tea and entertainment (and for providing GG in the first place). To K for the popsicles. To my dearest roommies for the timely visit, the soup, the books, and the cookies. (One is never too sick for cookies.) To Em for making the trek in the snow. And to my dear mother for granting my every wish. I love you all. Oh, also, I think we better take pictures before the swelling goes away completely. We promised N pictures and I'm a girl of my word. Meeks, remember when you stuck that peanut up my nose while we were playing Brain Quest at the family reunion? This is kind of like that, only so much worse!

the pie toll

Breakfast at OTC this morning with an old friend. So fun to look across the table at someone who is so dear and laugh and joke and know that all is right in the world. Next up, lunch at Thanksgiving Point and a stroll around the gardens which, SG and I decided are just as charming in November as they are in the Spring/Summer months. We wandered around arbors, sat under pergolas, and found the path across all the bridges in sight. The sunset was breathtaking over the Ocres as snow began to fall on the mountains to the east. On our way out, we caught a movie and topped the night off with Toll House pie at the Dodo. We spoke of ambitions, passions, favorite things: colors, places, baseball, and music. When all is said and done, when all favorite things are tallied, Toll House Pie = The Key to my Heart. It's as simple as that. All-in-all, another great November Day to add to the books. The night continued on an upswing as I walked in the door to find my YBH girls in the basement with Notting Hill on repeat on Channel 54. What more could three girls want. They're on round two as I'm about to hit the hay. Can't wait for Spiritual Enlightenment tomorrow and time with the fam.

chris martin for president

I think I love him a little bit.

Mr. Ed's color theory class

Amidst the saw dusty mess of an old wood floor (soon-to-be gorgeous), I tried to describe the stain I wish to be the end result. I fanned out the options and showed the floor-finisher-stainer dude (that's his real title). Truth be told, I wasn't thrilled with any of the choices. "It's between this and this," I said, pointing to two samples. He didn't follow. Picking several others, I said, "Like if you took this, and mixed it with this, you'd get something right about here." A blank stare. Hmm. I was at a loss and he was just plain lost. We dialed N in CA. We went back and forth saying, "It's like this. It's like that. It's like this and that." We were getting nowhere and I had just gotten a sliver from fanning out all the different options. After a brief period of well-now-what's? and why-did-the-airport-steal-my-Leatherman-with-the-tweezers-in-it? moments, N said, "OK, so I'm looking at a horse right now that is just the most perfect color." I wish we could have borrowed him and had the dude/guy take him to the paint store to do a color match. Alas, we're back to combining several different shades to hopefully get something "right about (t)here." I'll be interested to see what he comes up with. If all else fails, we'll buy a trailer and start pony rides in the neighborhood to cover our costs. All in favor say ,"I." Any opposed, say "Neigh."

Sunday Shakeup

Tonight, we had the place to ourselves. We shaked our own shakes, (K's recipe proved to be the biggest hit: chocolate, peanut butter, marshmallow, banana) mixed our own limeades, and took lots of pictures. We moon walked on the kitchen floor, helped ourselves to free refills and pulled the tables together. BH gave advice on Life and Love and Lessons to be learned, now and in the future, whenever that may be. We laughed about quirks and red crayola crayons. E raised a glass and toasted to togetherness. Tonight, over Big H's and fries a la the B, we all shouted, "Hear! Hear!" Here's to more nights out, more nights in, more of the same...more good things on the horizon. I feel lucky to get to hang out with such an outstanding crowd of women. Hats off and three cheers to the H Family for the best "home cooked" Sunday dinner in a long time.

you'd eat pie, too if it happend to you

Hung twinkle lights in windows.
Trimmed trees and decked halls at the store.
Ate pizza with fresh tomatoes in good company.
Looked at some spiffy-looking ties.
Saw movie.
Came home.
Spilled the beans.
Met K.
Went to party and ate pie in good company.
Talked.
Laughed.
Cleaned up at M&D's with K.
Home again.
Laughed some more.
Am sleepy.

*Mare, turns out, I fixed it. So there!

a wee bit foggy

Today's just another one to add to the books: The Adventures of K and M. There's no one I'd rather...
- End up in Queens with.
- Crash a golf cart with.
- Get stuck in a true Chicago blizzard (sans coats) with.
- Eat an entire box of Frangos with.
- Spend my last pennies on gumballs with.
- Fetch firewood in the middle of the night with. Say cheese!
- Look for Pattie's Pizzeria with.
- Be stranded in the parking lot of Hires with.
- Scream in the back of an airplane with.
- "Break" into the Delta parking lot with.

Until tomorrow, my dear...Don't forget the baking soda and a toothbrush. Wha?!
"Take me to the fog! Don't you love it?!"

Searching

Tonight L and I joined the rest of the 33rd crowd to do some indexing at the stake center. The two of us pulled up a batch of names from a California census; names from Italy. Switzerland. Portugal. We filled in father, mother, daughter, son, widow, widower. Birth and immigration dates. We deciphered "D's." Freed tangled "T's." Unraveled "R's." Dotted neglected "I's" and rounded out the empty "O's," all in attempt to decode names of people and places. How removed I felt looking at such old documents with actual handwriting scrawled across one line to the next. Yet, I felt such a kinship with those strangers; those I won't have the opportunity to greet until I've passed on. But I believe they will be waiting with open arms. Makes heaven seem all the more heavenly. In the meantime, there is so much work to be done!

cha cha cha

Leaves crunching underfoot and chilly fall air all about us, last night we took a post-dinner stroll. Picking the streets we strolled along, he pointed out favorite houses and aspects of them each. I wasn't shy - I chimed in with any and all critical or complimentary commentary. We ended up in uncharted country, a street I'd passed but never explored. I'm no conquistador, nor was this New World anything worthy of a conquest, but we did find the World's Shortest Fence, standing a mere 12" above the ground. Territory, is territory, I suppose. All in all, the night was victorious if you ask me. And I've got some sweet tastin' fresh basil noodles left-over to prove it. Planting a proverbial flag in that pasta, I'm staking my claim on what's left. It's mine, all mine.

votes for women

Kas is glued to the TV switching between CNN and ABC. Steph is buying boots online, she can't decide which. Mern just brushed her teeth and is now safely in her red chair. Steph and Mern laugh every time someone says "caucus." I've got my laptop and Grandma's blanket and am blogging as we watch the states change colors. No surprises here.

p.s. Did they really just make Will i am a hologram on CNN? Seriously.

announcing...

Please see here.

Sunday Synopsis

• Started the morning at the kitchen table with Steph, writing and studying. And scheming. (We're always scheming. A bit.)

• Listened to Kelly's wonderful words of wisdom at one. Took notes.
  
• Skipped out on the next meeting with S&L to have a meeting of our own (productive, of course).
• Spent the last half of the hour chatting with Bishop and Brother O. Helped ourselves to treats on Bishop's desk as we talked. Snacked on mint chocolate in the hall with L on our way to the next meeting.
  
• Spent the third hour being enriched by words and music. Enjoyed I's especially.
• Met with the girls in the RS room, following. Short and sweet. Love them.
• Pow-wow in the kitchen at the YBH after church, all roomies present. Glad we have each other to lean on. (Can't wait for the Liberty Park House and the big green kitchen to spread out in.)
  
• Dinner with the family at 1928. Joy's chicken, our fave. And my favorite time of the year on Yale: the ivy painted glorious shades of red, orange and golden yellow. Heard about Dad's adventures in Boston: the leaves in Harvard Yard (maples a-blazing). Fun with Paul and Karl in Belmont quoting The Greats while K knitted at the dining table. Interesting intellectuals at the conference from all over the world; thoughts and views as various as their countries of origin. Advice from Clayton about Life. A ride to the airport from R & L, the baby twins smiling in the back seat.
• A post-dinner chorale concert with The Ladies. M's solo was lovely. Ricky's my new favorite gospel singer/soloist. Amen!
  

Ended the evening with Steph and Mern. At the table. Heard about adventures with The Sub. And soccer games. And new FB friends. Now, with the porch light streaming through the window, it's just me at the table writing, studying.

*Carved pumpkins last night and ate soup and bread sticks with the masses. Lined our jack-o-lanterns up along the walkway. Watched as the candles flickered yellow-orange from within. Pirate. Scarecrow. Skeleton. Owl. Comrades du Pumpkin, four in a row. Had a garden tour in the dark. Danced about among arbors and pebbles and the sunflowers, now bowing their heads towards the ground, ready to slumber for a season. Can't get enough of Fall!

Saturday 411

After finishing things up at the store today, I met S & M at the market for lunch. We ate on the patio and discussed the finer things in life, as we always do. Before heading home, M decided to grab a few groceries. We wandered the aisles, talking each other into certain purchases, deeming them absolutely necessary for survival. We came home with the following:
- 3 pints of ice cream (jamocha, bailey's chip, and chocolate marshmallow to be exact)
- 1 loaf of bread
- 1 container of cookie dough
- 1 giant rice crispy treat
- 1 package of chocolate marshmallow bears.

Guess what we had for dinner tonight at our house...

can't get enough

We're a little obsessed at our house.
Go USA!