quick! hide!

Today I saw a marquee downtown which said the following:

Salt Lake, hide all your women. Kobe's in town!

GO JAZZ!

Confession

My mother makes a mean Chinese chicken salad. It's so good in fact that "Mom's Chinese chicken salad," has, from time to time, graced surveys under the favorite food question. It's nearly next to ambrosia which, in high school we decided was a Butterfinger. (I'm happy to say my palate is a bit more sophisticated at this point. Although Butterfingers are quite delicious. And whatever Zeus snacks on up there on Mount Olympus, I'm 99.9 percent sure it's some sort of combination of peanut butter and chocolate). Mmmm. I digress.

Chinese chicken salad. I'm happy to report that up to this point in my life I've been fairly successful in my attempts to recreate my Mom's Hall-of-Famer recipes. I haven't tried all of them. She makes the best Swedish almond cake this side of The Fjords. I'm not going to touch that one. Why bother? If it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? Not that her chicken salad is lacking. I just felt up to the task.

In preparation for a small gathering last Saturday, I spent Friday frying won tons and baking chicken in soy sauce. Thinking I was ahead of the game, I settled in to watch the Jazz defeat the Lakers. The air smelled of sesame oil and soy sauce, and Carlos Boozer was on a roll. Three hours (and two packages of won ton skins) later, I was finally finished. And that was just the beginning. Now for the confession: all-in-all, it took me nearly five hours to make that salad. Should I find comfort (or desolation) in the fact that it was devoured in less than 30 minutes? To add insult to serious injury, I don't even know if the Jazz won. I was too busy with my face in a frying pan to find out!

over a week

Anytime anyone says anything about McDonald's, I turn my nose up to them in disgust and snidely retort I never eat at McDonald's. 'Tis mostly true. Ever since I moved a rock-hard grease-infused French fried stone's throw from a Golden Arches location, my roommates and I have taken up some sort of a weekly (sometimes more) ritual. And, truth be told, I gladly participate. For one dollar, I can purchase a low-fat hot fudge sundae. One dollar, folks. Low fat. Hot fudge! Three minutes away! Not since the death of the twist cone has something effected my life in such a way. The beloved twist cone can never be replaced, but I believe this is the next best thing. Add American Idol and I am one happy woman.

Last night, just as she handed over three dollars in change, my roommate stopped and said, "You haven't blogged in over a week!" Kas, does this count? If not, I owe you a sundae. (I'll grab one for myself while I'm at it!)

not a fan

Growing up I had a veritable Zoo in my bedroom. Stuffed animals of every species pow-wowed it in every corner. I received way too many additions to my collection for birthdays and Christmas. Top of the line red-ribbon-around-the-neck-worthy stuffed animals. Cream of the crop. Wait. That's for vegetables. I didn't have any stuffed vegetables. Cream of the...herd? Pack? Pride? Thanks to a tidy and thoughtful mother, they are now stored in a safe, dry place at my parent's (in the food storage room) so I can hand them down to my kiddos. I say hello to them each time I go "shopping" at C & J's General Store. Sometimes, even though the sign says not to, I feed the animals. (Unless Mom's bought animal crackers. That's just plain rude). We catch up over a pack of fruit snacks or mandarin oranges and I leave well-aware of all the good Zoo gossip. (Hippos say the meanest things).

Here at 2186, M has a stuffed pink pig. K has a little stuffed elf. Apparently at age 26, this is still allowed if you don't have a husband and your landlords say no pets. M hugs her piggie, snuggling up to his snout each night. K keeps Hermie under her chin until dawn. All this while I'm in the next room fighting off nightmares of spiders or dealing with the dark...alone. Sure I'm 26. But, there's no written rule that says you can't have a buddy, right? Or if there is, M and K have yet to get the memo.

Last night was one of those instances where a cuddly pal would have come in handy. I woke up in a bit of a sweat and stood up to turn on my ceiling fan. I have never lived in bedroom with a ceiling fan, so as my feet arched to reach the pull-cord, I wasn't quite sure what to expect. Upon initial tug, I was blinded by the lovely fluorescent light which streamed out of the fixture. My eyes winced, and with dilated pupils, I reached up to pull the cord again. Out went the light. On my second attempt, blessed air began to circulate about the room. Slowly, the fan began to warm up, whirring into motion as I tip-toed back into bed. Faster and faster it went, until it hit warp speed. The ceiling began to shake. I retracted my knees into my chest as I simultaneously cinched up my comforter around my neck. I looked up. I looked down. I looked to my left and to my right, in a Did you just see what I just saw? glare of awe. But there was no one there. No Suzie Bear or stuffed Tigger to say, "Hooo Hooo Hooo Hooo! Sure did!"

The fan got faster and faster and the shaking grew louder and louder. I didn't dare budge. Papers on the desk began to flutter, nearly airborne. Quotes on my mirror started pulling at the edges. And, in what I can only describe as a cross between the movie Twister and The Wizard of Oz, my tiny little room became a virtual vortex. Before long, my hair resembled the fan blades, sticking straight out at a 90 degree angle from my head, flailing across my face. Papers in flight, and hair that rivaled Pipi Longstocking's, I needed to take action. This situation called for more than paperweights and a hair elastic.

Taking a deep breath (unnecessary, I realized, after the fan literally knocked the wind into me) I stepped back out of bed. I reached my shaky hand up into the wind, directly below the fan blades, desperately reaching for the cord. (It was very Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory - the classic Gene Wilder movie - where Charlie and Grandpa Joe are stuck in the bubble room). I was in dire need of some fizzy lifting juice. I couldn't reach! Perhaps in my "We're- not-in-2186-anymore, Martha!"stifled-shrieking, I had been shrinking! Up and up I stretched in distress, trying to stop the spinning. Just as a cow twisted by in a funnel cloud, I was granted a miracle. In an air-Jordan moment, I jumped. Miraculously, I grabbed the right cord. The whooshing slowed. The papers stopped fluttering, and my hair returned to it's appropriate and vertical position. The ceiling-shaking ceased and there were few after-shocks. I got into bed, my eyes sinking shut after sheer exhaustion (and relief) set in.

I'm headed to C & J's General Store first thing tomorrow to pick up a few things, namely Tigger and Suzie Bear in her corduroy dress. I'll hug Suzie Bear and warn her about the dangers of the Real World, which lies outside the Yale Avenue Zoo. I'll grab Tig and tell him this ain't no Hundred Acre Wood, yo, then say, "Let's bounce!" We'll leave canned peas and corn for the others and promise to return soon with all the gossip from 2186. I hear M sleeps with a pig!

sometimes II

Sometimes I think being my own boss wasn't the greatest idea. Like when the dining room is being painted the third shade of green and I'm the one who has to break it to the painter that it's still not quite right. Or when they discontinue every usable color in a certain fabric and I'm left with watermelon or lime to use in a neutral living room. Or when I feel like I have a great idea, but there isn't a sounding board, unless the foam core in my office counts.

Then I have days like yesterday. I stopped to pop something in Nat's mailbox on the way to a furniture showroom, and out popped Nat herself. We spent 25 minutes, pants rolled up, arms out, enjoying the sun and chatting in her backyard. Today I dropped off lunch for Anna at Red Butte Gardens. We strolled right past the front desk with our take-out where numerous parent-volunteers were counting curious little toddler heads while they made faces at each other. After exploring arching arbors of wisteria, Anna introduced me to the perfect spot for lunching, a hidden table off the beaten path. Rice and vegetables never tasted so good. Mid-rice bowl, I got a call from Kas who said she was leaving work because it was sunny. Minutes later, we both arrived home from work, the afternoon and early evening ours for the enjoying.

The next time I'm stuck way out by the airport trying to find the perfect slab of granite, or when my fax spits out the fifth no response warning and the Geek Squad is no where to be found, or when I'm on the phone with Scalamandre, forced to decide between lime and watermelon, maybe I'll just take a long lunch and sit in the sun. I don't think my boss will mind.

super sidekick

He sings.
He's pocket-size.
And he's ready for take off.

i was here.

Around this time two weeks ago tonight, I sat in California, my hair pulled up in a loose French twist, soaking in a hot tub. I drank root beer straight from the cooler, and hollered at Mason to bring "more chocolate donut cookies, please!" Just as my mouth spread wide to make the -ease! of please, a plate of chocolate donut cookies appeared out of nowhere, napkins included, as not to cloud the hot tub with powder sugar fingers. No, Mason is not my butler, and no, he is not for hire. He's just a sweet kid who was ordered around all weekend. He loved it. Who wouldn't love to wait on three hot babes, hand and foot? We should have paid him!

The moon was full, the water 98 degrees, and the air smelled of orange juice. Blossoming vines ventured off, creating symmetry in espallier. A fire crackled and whooshed in the outdoor fireplace, drying wet hands and hair as we lounged on the patio after night swimming. As M and I fell asleep in the guest bedroom, hair still damp and legs pleasurably sore from a morning jaunt in the mist of the California hills, I couldn't help but think, To heck with it all! I'm moving next week.

This week popcorn popped on apricot trees as heavy flakes of snow blanketed spring grass. I arrived home that night to find a note scribbled across the chalkboard. California: May 16-18. Mason, fetch me my slippers.

Confession

Each night as I go about getting ready for bed, I go between my bedroom and my bathroom about 57 times. It's become somewhat of a routine, and my roommates, especially the ones who live below me and get to listen to the floorboards squeak, are angels for putting up with my to-and-fro.