Preggo Politics

If it were any other physical ailment, impairment or struggle, people would never be so forthcoming.

"Oh, my, that rash sure looks terrible.  Hope you get that herpes treated soon," or, "My, my, getting rather large, aren't we? Maybe we should cut back on those tasty cakes."

Not only would such comments be in bad taste and socially unacceptable, they're down right mean. But it doesn't stop there.  Not only would we never dream of saying such pejorative statements to someone who obviously is either praying his/her condition goes undetected or is hoping that people will be kind and compassionate, but we wouldn't kick them while they were down by rubbing in how great our lives are in comparison- would we?

"Awh, man.  Stomach flu? That's the worst.  I don't ever get sick.  Wanna finish my hot dog?", or,
"Lost your job? That sucks.  I love mine.  And I just got a raise!"

I'm not really sure how the human instinct of societal compassion goes out the window when it comes to pregnant women.  Now, surely, there are some pregnant women who exist (see previous posts) who revel in their roundness, glow in their new skin and lustrous locks and adore all the new attention- albeit from strangers who seem to follow a strange strain of Buddhism as foretold by all their belly-touching rituals.   But for some of us, this road's been hard enough to travel without being given sly winks when we reach for a second piece of pie, tales of numerous women's pregnancies that seem to be untainted by the morning sickness that has colored my last six months- "You're STILL sick? Wow, I was NEVER sick for that long!" Gee, thanks.  You're so helpful.  Pass that paper bag, please?- coos over how excited I must be to pick out a new stroller, the echos of, " Wait! Did this and that happen to you YET? Oh, God, just wait...."

I can't tell you how many times I've been asked if I was carrying twins.  After I have politely laughed in response and delivered my well rehearsed, " My husband's 6'4, she was bound to be big!" Insert tight smile here, someone had the audacity to ask me if I was sure.   Strange old ladies at Shoprite seem to think it's their grandmotherly duty to give me homemade remedies for swollen feet- I didn't even think my feet were swollen.  Never in my life has the word "vaginal" gotten more mileage.  How did that become common place vernacular?  I do not need to be told that I look tired- I'm incubating a human life form and feeding her all of my nutrients.  Of course I look tired.   Sigh.  Is it too much to ask to be treated with the same consideration as a non-fetus carrying person?  Chances are, if a non-pregnant woman would be slightly affronted or hurt by a comment, she's not any different than a pregnant one.

People take for granted that the joy of carrying a child will override the fact that all of these strange things are happening to one's body and mind during the process.  And yes, it does- most of the time.  But for the times it doesn't, just do every preggo a favor- tell them they're beautiful and move on to the weather, not the three boxes of oreos in her cart.

Lists

I am a list maker.  I've tried to avoid it, I even made it a resolution one year to eradicate all forms of lists from my life, thinking they were the source of my stressful and anxious desire to be "accomplished".  Sometimes, that is still true.  Though, I was reading through some of my old journal entries and quickly discovered that not all lists are bad.  Like the one that listed all the best pubs in Temple Bar, Dublin.  Or the one that began with, "Vegetables I would like to buy more of".  I still have yet to purchase an endive or celery root, but I still, months later, think it sounds like a good idea.  There are others like, "Things I will do before I turn 30," and "Top Ten Jobs that would be cooler than mine", but there is one list that struck me as perhaps one of the most important lists I may ever write. Though I'm quite positive it's not done, and may never be, that's the one I'll share with you today.

Things I Want my Daughter to both Know and Experience

I want my daughter to grow up in a home where God's presence is an active reality that makes up the center, loving core of her life ; not a distant, peripheral idea

I want her to be totally and completely appalled at how much her gross, old parents still love each other and kiss in the kitchen

I want her to be sensitive and aware of herself as a social, communal being; one who needs others and who is needed by others, as part of God's design.  I truly want her to love people- all kinds.

I want her to be fearless in her pursuits, knowing in whom her confidence and assurance comes from.  I would rather be up all night worrying about whether she'll get Malaria in Uganda than watch her suffer silently at home, too afraid to take chances.

I want her to live in a constant state of "awakeness", knowing that every decision she makes matters from where she purchases her food to who she defends on the lunch line or in court and that she could have a great influence on other's decisions as well.

I want her to see her flaws as beauty because they make her who she is; but know and understand fully that she is not perfect nor is she expected to be, and will make mistakes and even fail.  Often.

I want her to be conscious of the earth we were given and how we are to care for it.  I want her to appreciate it's beauty and be awed by creation; know that the land was given as a gift to build on, to cultivate and appreciate.

I want her to enjoy her life and live it abundantly- and love whatever she does with all she has and never hold back.

I want her to remember that her parents were young and dumb when they had her and did the best they could.  I want her to sift through all of the ways she will believe we have been unfair or unforgiving and know that it was all, truly and indefinitely because we love her.

Dick

What? Has someone hijacked my blog that is usually about useless musings, chronic complaints and family stories uninteresting to anyone other than myself( and maybe my mother, if she even reads it)? What is this profanity strewn carelessly in modern text across the title? The answer is much simpler and innocent than it appears.  In one word, it's my grandfather. Or, that's what people called him.  Behind his back.  No, just kidding. Maybe.

To clarify: my Pop-pop's name was Richard, and was called Dick for short- though I'm sure due to his knack for sarcasm and down-right rudeness on occasion, he may have earned his knick-name for entirely different reasons.  No matter how many character flaws he may have had ( and we all have them), as this is the first Christmas we'll be spending without his belly laugh, dirty jokes or the wiggle of his eyebrows I thought it only appropriate to remember him with words.

This Christmas I will miss his fart jokes, remember his love of peanut cookies, and how he'd razz my grandmother about inviting his girlfriend from the "home" to Christmas dinner.  I'll remember how he gave me my first beer- a Heineken around the campfire in New Hampshire when I was nine, how his shirt pockets always had root beer barrels and smelled faintly of the cigars he only smoked when my Nana wasn't around and how he taught me to run my hand down and not up the spine of a sunfish so that I didn't get stuck with the prickly fins when taking it off the hook.

We'll talk and laugh about how he fell in the lake and scared the fourteen year old dock boy enough to try and jump in save him- he, being 5'3 and 95 lbs soaking wet, my Pop-pop well over 6'1 and pushing a cool 300 lbs without the water.  Someone will tell stories of he and my Uncle Gir's escapades that we were never supposed to hear.  My sister and I will recall the sleep-overs when Pop-pop (who worked nights at A&P) would trample through the side door at 7 a.m. and eat two whole bowls of Honeycombs with a banana as a snack while Nana sizzled three eggs in bacon fat on the stovetop for his real breakfast before he went to bed. How he was the only man I ever met who kept the fridge in the basement well stocked with RC cola.

It was Pop-pop who taught me how to order a steak in fancy restaurant ( should be medium-rare, but I couldn't handle it until after he had passed.  He'd be proud of me now), how to gut a fish for dinner and how to mix a proper Bloody Mary.  It wasn't until after I was old enough to drink that I learned that only he could possibly drink his version of a "proper" Bloody Mary.  I learned how to crack open a lobster by his looming, crackling fingers and once spent 12 hours in the car with him on what should have been a 6 hour drive.  Life with Pop-pop was very experiential. He wasn't a "thing" guy, he was a "do" guy.  If nothing else,  I'd like to remember him for that.

Donny

It's Friday.  Which means I treat myself to our local cafe's egg sandwich on the way to work.  I ran in quickly ( I never put money in the meter) and my favorite waitress already had my tea ready as I waited at the counter.  And then, a familiar brown tweed at the counter began to speak.

"Are you a christian? I think you are.  I knew you were when I met you last. I knew you were a sister."

Remember a few posts ago when I outlined how my getting to work on time was deterred by a talkative alcoholic in need of a best friend?  Looks like he found one.  It appears as if I'll be meeting the elderly gentleman on Friday mornings for breakfast (me an egg and cheese sandwich and a black tea with milk, his preference whole wheat, buttered toast and a green tea) in which he will explain his undying affection for the Red Cross woman with the blue hair and I will get to marvel at how quickly he can speak and eat at the same time.

We may over look people and things God puts in our way the first time, but never- never the second.  There's no way around it. Donny and I are fated to be life-long friends.  And, I will never be on time for work ever again.  Especially if he doesn't get up the guts to ask blue-haired lady out this week.  Geesh.

Wanted: My Creativity

I've lost it.  It has officially been consumed by demanding A.P. students needing college recommendations. Squashed by the pile of dishes in the sink that have begun to waft unnatural odors through my living room doors.  Stifled by this growing child within me that seems to need every ounce of nutrition, energy, patience and sleep I come across on a daily basis.

I have no creativity.

I have not written anything that could even resemble a song, a poem, a chapter in one of the two novels that been in progress for two years now- even a haiku.  Nada.

I have alternated chicken and pasta for weeknight meals.  No Indian Biryani that once graced our table.  No homemade bread or almond torte or even hot chocolate from scratch.  Thank you, Swiss Miss.

I have not rearranged furniture.  Redecorated my bedroom.  Thought about patterns for the nursery.

In fact, it took me a disconcerting 20 minutes to write this minuscule, scattered post which is just another dismal reflection of my lack of creative juices.

Someone help me find it.  

Plight of the Pregnant

You know what I'm talking about.  I'm thinking about those beautiful pregnant woman you see in the windows of little yoga studios, barely sweating.  Barely showing.  The ones who have stock piled onesies in every color as soon as two little pink lines showed up on the strip.  The ones who eat fruit and yogurt for breakfast, take a nap and then meander over to the tea shop for a cup of decaffeinated green-jasmine, looking all pink and glowing and stunningly gorgeous and happy.

I hate them.

I hate them as I'm sitting at my desk in my empty classroom trying to cover my green pallor with blush.  I hate them as the cafeteria wafts distinctive smells that signify that it is somehow, yet again, chili-cheese dog day and praying that I will make it to the toilet at the end of the third wing in time to vomit for the umpteenth time in the last few days.  I hate them as my waistline expands into a strange, foreign blob that looks less like its harboring a child than a food baby.  I hate them because no one told me it could be miserable enough to count down the days until delivery...at just 16 weeks.

Well, I'm telling you now.  I hate being pregnant.  I love the idea of raising a family with my husband- the beautiful way God enabled me to provide for my child what I didn't have: a two parent household that is unified.  I love that our kid will be read to and sung to and cooked for and played with. I love that s/he'll have a home to come to, that God's promises are written all over our family.  But I hate this process.  I hate the hormones, I hate the crying, I hate the illness, I hate the weight gain, I hate the fatigue, I hate the pressure.  I also hate that I have the inability to utilize my once coveted tact- and be honest about everything.

So, dear, glowing, beautiful, tea-drinking, yoga participating mama-to-be, please don't take it personally. I just hate you right now.

I'm an Alcoholic

It was Friday morning at 7:04. I just dropped Rich off at the train station and was trying to calculate if I had enough time to run to CVS to get some Halloween candy to appease my students anger at having to write a book report on a Friday and make it to Rays (our favorite little cafe-hole-in-the-wall) for an egg sandwich to make up for my lack of breakfast.  I, bravely deciding that since I now have pregnancy superpowers, should certainly able to do both and still get to work on time.

If I were any other person, this would certainly be the case.  Alas, I am not any other person, thus, the following occurred.

I quickly ran inside, plunked my large bag down on the counter, ordered a small tea and an egg and cheese sandwich to go from my favorite waitress and proceeded to try and wrangle a bobby-pin into my bed-head when I heard a throat clearing right beside me.  I hadn't noticed that I had sat down right next to an older gentleman at the counter, staring at me over his plate of scrambled eggs.  Oh, no.  I thought.  This always happens to me.

For some reason, I am a lonely stranger magnet.  They seek me out wherever I am like infrared detectors. I hoped this morning would be different.  I don't have time this morning.  Please God, I don't have time this morning.

"I'm an alcoholic."

Here we go.

He smoothed his graying hair and fidgeted with his paper napkin.  Maybe he wasn't talking to me?

"I don't want to be one, you know."

Nope. He's looking right at me.  Of course he's looking right at me.

"I don't think anyone really wants to be one." I said gently and smiled.  Green light means go, to lonely strangers.  Hook. Line. Sinker.  I put my bag on the floor and took off my sweater.

I made it to work on time, in case you were wondering, just barely.  But not before I learned all about this man's life, his career, his poor choices, his failed marriage, his new interest in a woman who works at the red cross that he deemed "too wonderful for him" to be with.  Not before he told me all about how he went to church with her once and it made him feel so human he could hardly stand it and how she touched his shoulder with her hair accidently when they were holding the hymnal.  I told him before I left that I hoped it all worked for him, and he called after me that it probably won't.  But, then he smiled a little for the first time in the half hour we sat chatting together and I couldn't help but feel like this meeting was planned just so I could offer a bit of encouragement to a man in a dark place.

Who are you supposed to meet today?

Baby, Baby

I have not left my couch since Thursday evening.  You could make a mold of my butt from the deep indentation.  You'd also probably be able to tell what I've eaten over the last few days by the conspicuous cracker crumbs, tea stains, melted chocolate pieces and flecks of spinach littering the throw pillow.  This is so very unlike me and normally, this confession would make my cheeks burn with embarrassment over the state of my crumbling household.  However, when I was warned that pregnancy changes a person I didn't quite grasp the enormity of the situation.  Not until now.

I am, officially, 14 weeks pregnant.  The last time we spoke, I believe I was outlining parts of the grieving process that follow a miscarriage. I was amazed by God's goodness and that of his people during that time. Rich and I were able to recover so well from that experience, and then were even more surprised to discover that we were pregnant yet again directly after the loss of our first.   It was truly a  reminder that He brings beauty from ashes, joy from mourning.  However, through all of that, each pregnancy is different and thus began our journey with this little sprinkle... (the nickname given after discovering it was roughly the size of an ice cream jimmy when we realized we were pregnant once again).

Let me begin by saying that yes, we are excited but it took quite some time for the shock to wear off.  And then, the sickness came.  And left for a week.  And then came back worse than before.  Have you ever taught a room full of teenagers while trying to suppress the urge to vomit in the nearest garbage can? Every day?  Or having to deal with the feelings of worthlessness when I can't do all of the things I used to enjoy, like make a simple meal for my husband.  Go see a friend.  Read.  (Fine print makes me nauseous.  Awesome.)  It's been more than just a little adjusting on both of our parts.

I'm hoping during this next phase of pregnancy I'll get to experience the beauty, the joy and the energy that's supposed to decorate the second trimester.  Until then, I'll continue my toast and ramen noodle routine (with the occasional steak, cocktail shrimp, mashed potatoes and sauteed spinach I seem to crave when my face isn't in the toilet) and wait patiently for a better tomorrow.

How can I live here?

How can I live here?, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

I know. I've been away for a while. Truth be told, it was a justifiable neglect. However, neglect is still neglect and for that, I apologize. And will have to do so again because, going back to work after having several months off is a pain that my body is just not used to yet and my eyes are starting to blur at quarter after 8. Frightening.

Buuuuut, here is a tidbit of our vacation in Bar Harbor, MN, where my husband and I each took turns longingly staring into the misty ocean spray asking God why he sent us to West Orange, NJ and not to live peacefully in the mountains where we seem to belong. Alright, so I complained, limped and even (cried) a little climbing up said mountain, but the view was sure worth it when I got there. Kinda.

Sigh. For now, I am sitting on my couch planning my lessons for the barrage of teenage-dom about to enter into my life for the next ten months. The good news is, you get lots of funny classroom stories once again.

Bahhhh Hahhhhhbahhhh

Fine, I'll admit it.  I"m a sucker for a New England accent.  I secretly practice it under my breath. I love how New Englanders are so in charge, so secure in who they are, they feel no shame in changing the pronunciation of our language.  They drop "R"'s like a bad habit.  They find "O"'s to be dull, so they add an "AU" instead.  I love the harsh, slightly snooty Bostonian, the gentle rounding of New Hampshire's vowels, Vermont's coaxing of consonants and Maine's sharp stops and starts.  Each true to their state, but with a undercurrent of unity only found in those regions far reaching into our country's northeast.

New England accents made me do crazy things.  Like day-dream of blueberry cobbler for breakfast- with the berries picked along the shoreline during an early morning walk.  Buy only pine-scented candles in a vain attempt to capture the green mountains' scent and infuse it into my New Jersey house- resulting in a sickening smell of a dying Christmas tree sprayed with Pinesol.  Try to imagine how we can add an addition onto the back of the house that looks like a log cabin. Oh, and of course, eat "laubsta" for "dinna" every night.

Perhaps it's because every New Englander I've ever met laughs and talks a lot.  And drinks a lot. And eats a lot.  With a lot of friends and family. A lot. And repeats the process each and every day and I can't really imagine how life could get any "betta" than that.

Bah Hahbah, here I come.

Stop What You're Doing

You're tired.  I know.  That last cup of coffee at 10:30 before your morning meeting brought back disturbing memories of when that kid in the third grade dared you to lick his bicycle tires for a dollar.  It's so unfair that unruly kids are playing loudly in the streets, teachers are basking in the summer sun and you're stuck in a sub-zero office.  In a suit.  In August.  I'm telling you right now that it's not too late to reclaim a bit of teenage spunk, to tell your secretary something came up and to field all of your afternoon calls, get on your vespa and drive directly to the nearest farmer's market to make yourself some of this summer sunshine on a plate.  Doesn't that sound better than drooling on your keyboard?

Those of you who know me are aware that though I love to read recipes, I can't write them.  I never remember what I added or took away, how long things take, etc. It's always a mystery! Sounds much more romantic that way when I think about it.  Needless to say, this is the best I could do but feel free to rearrange some things to suit your taste.



Roasted Tomato and Pepper Pesto
10 San Marzano Tomatoes, 2 Red Peppers- slow roast on a cookie sheet for 2-3 hours at 200'
Handful of Fresh Basil
Smaller Handful of fresh Parsley
2 Springs fresh Oregano
4 Cloves of Roasted Garlic
Grated Pecorino- as much as your heart desires
1 TBS freshly squeezed lemon juice
1/4 cup toasted pine nuts

5-6 HUGE glugs of EVOO

Salt and Pepper

Stick it all in a food processor, whirl it away, and put it on EVERYTHING.  ( i.e. for those of you less creative-you are in a suit, after all- it's great over pasta, on pizza, on a toasted baguette with melty mozz, or if your home is just as frigid as your office, process it until smooth, still it in a pot with some chicken broth and a drop or two of heavy cream and celebrate your winter in August with some Roasted Tomato Soup.)

Moving

It’s me

In the same jeans

Walking the same street

Dragging my feet

Humming a tune

Making eyes at the moon

Soon

I’ll walk a different street

One that smells less like Ramen and mussel shells

And more like coffee

Finely ground

Pressed- French

Upper-class stench, comparatively

But I’ll miss

The hip-hop in the street

Dancing to the beat slowly in circles in my minuscule kitchen

The hum of a drum from the neighbor boy’s band

Hand in hand walking, talking with dogs on leashes made of electrical tape

The Great Escape

Made by Buster daily as he chases the men in black suits walking home from the train

In the rain when the walls cry because they cannot hold the weight of water

Coming at it from both sides

Wailing

A wife

A daughter

In torrents

In streams

In dreams laced with broken fingers, I linger

In summer beneath Gertie’s window

Where gospel music stirs the pot of curried goat

In winter where the burning sage will cling to coats

And the patio that’s always good for a smoke-

A joke between friends and bagels on Saturday mornings

The drop-by’s without warning

When everyone is hungry and shows up just in time for dinner.

The five minute walk to

Italy

Ethiopia

India

Thailand

China

Mexico

Cuba

France

Banking on the chance that perhaps you need no reservation on a Tuesday

Bringing bottles of cheap red wine

Foot tapping, keeping time with the older gentleman on the clarinet

The Girl From Ipanema

On the Street Where You Live

What I would give to play a song or two on a Tuesday night with nothing but a tip jar

And a light

On the night stand

Shining clearly on the music I hadn’t needed to read for decades

Before arcades

And parades

And other sorts of escapades took precedence

Over the decadence

The reverence

The plain, good sense of rhythm and meter

It’s me

In the same jeans

Walking the same street

Dragging my feet

Humming a tune

Making eyes at the moon

Soon

I’ll walk

a different

street.

Where I am...

DSC_0111, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

See this? This is where I am pretending I live right now. That this is the view from my kitchen window as I'm stirring something yummy on the stove that works because appliances would never break here. I would never have a crummy day where I cry for no reason. I would run around like a maniac in a twirl-y skirt and sing songs very loudly because I would have no neighbors to hear me. Or me, them. At one in the morning. Telling each other how many years (yea-ahs in northern jersey speak) they've wasted on each other. Blah. Blah.

So, I'm taking a little mental vacation from my broken oven and my unhappy neighbors. I'm pretending I live here. Just for a few hours. Sorry, you can't come.

Linda and Esther

I was seven going on forty when I was contemplating the apparent societal paradox of being both a, "Godly woman and a strong woman".  I know.  My poor mother.  In desperation, I called my Aunt Linda in Austin,Texas and begged an answer.  (Being a Presbyterian Minister and the smartest woman I knew, I figured if anyone could figure this one out, it'd be her.) She told me that I had only to look in the Old Testament to find strong, female examples after whom to model myself.  Unfortunately, being the smartest woman I knew had some disadvantages: she wasn't keen to the fact that to a seven year old, the idea of having to search through all the "thee's" and "thou's" of the King James so beloved by my Baptist family was more daunting than being last picked for kickball in gym class.  After I voiced those concerns, she assured me that she had an idea.

For Christmas that year, I received the first package ever addressed solely to me.  With my name on the front! Only mine! It was a chapter book with pictures.  Inscribed in the front cover was a note.  It read:

"Dear Jenny,
This a lovely story I have always been fond of.  The next time I visit, maybe we can read it together.  Some of the words may be a little difficult, but Mommy or Daddy can help- and they can help you find the story in the Bible, too!
Love,
Aunt Linda"

Needless to say, being the child I was, I was a little offended that she thought I would need help with the words.  I was in the highest level reading skills group at school, after all.  They didn't call us the "Jets" for nothing.  But, I was astounded that the story of Esther, so beautifully played out in words and pictures in the book she sent me, was actually a story from the Bible.  A courageous woman who broke rules? Who defied laws? Who was as smart as she was beautiful? Get out. She must be the only one.

Turns out, she wasn't.  Not even close.

So began the barrage of mail (addressed only to me) of stories that clearly defined the type of woman I wasn't sure existed.  Deborah, Ruth, Lydia, Mary, Sarah, etc.   All women who loved the Lord- who had stations, and titles, jobs, and callings. Some, who commanded men, some who began churches, some who were faithful and loving wives and servants who had hiccups of faith but always came back to the saving knowledge of where and in whom they found their identity. I have poured over each story, each life, for twenty years since I first received those books.  But Esther, was and still is, forever my favorite. I believed she was the first one sent to me for a reason- that we shared a special connection, somehow, and my Aunt just knew we would be life-long friends.

We celebrated the passing of my Aunt Linda this past weekend- she suffered greatly in her life and we rejoiced that she is finally able to rest, and am quite sure she is not through with asking God her list of questions she must have brought with her.  ( More on that, later.) Though it was lovely listening to all of her friends and family share about her life, I spent the majority of the time marveling at the gift she left behind for me.

The illustrated Esther, now worn, replete with orange juice stains, maple syrup and further on, coffee stains marking the progression of my transformation from childhood to adulthood, has never left my bookshelf.  I have moved four times, have had five different jobs and got married.  Esther has come with me through them all, reminding me how to be both strong and Godly.  Without always realizing it, Aunt Linda has done the same.

Joy Comes in the Morning

DSC_0362, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

"Let me hear of your unfailing love EACH morning, for I am trusting in you. Show me where to walk, I give myself to you." Psalm 143:8

I have been praying this every morning for two weeks. It has dramatically transformed my mind. I urge you to do the same.

Decisions....

DSC_0252, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

It's decided. Nags Head Beach, NC, Bar Harbor, MN, and Melvin Village, NH are all in the vacation line-up for August. Then, I look back through pictures of Jamaica from spring break and wonder if it would be so bad to trade it all in for another day of this view......ugh. I hate making decisions.

The Simple Things

Life has been fairly complicated for the last few days and what has resulted out of that remarkable complication, is the realization that it is the simple things that are the good things.  So, I've been hanging out with friends at their pools, laughing and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream.  I've stayed in my p.j.s until at least- well, I'm still in them, so you get the idea.  I've been re-reading Harry Potter, sitting in Starbucks, playing silly songs on the piano, puttering around in my garden and thoroughly enjoying the way God's love is lavished upon those who let Him.  And one of the ways I let him love me this week is through scrambled eggs.  Nope. Not lying.  The simplest things are the best things, and all good things come from Him, right? Since I just can't keep his goodness to myself, I thought I'd share it with you.

Take two eggs whisked with a tablespoon of half and half-yes, you heard me. Do it.  You'll never turn back. Then throw in some herbs from your garden- or the farmer's market or super market if you're not lucky enough to pick your own in your p.j.'s.

Put the egg mixture in a hot skillet, smeared with a pat of silky butter and throw in some crumbles of your favorite cheese- I used the last of the feta that was clinging to the deli drawer.










Then, stick it on your favorite plate, use your favorite coffee mug and proceed to make this your simplest, most favorite day ever.

Just to share....

DSC_0227, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

This is my husband. This is my husband smoking a pipe. This is my husband smoking a pipe in the Green Mountains of Vermont, trying to figure out how we could live there forever. I'm pretty sure that's what he's thinking even now. Perhaps a vacation back will do.

Bleeding Heart

DSC_0655, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

This is a Bleeding Heart plant. I always thought that was so morbid. It's a beautiful, flowering plant- why give it a name Twilight-vampire worthy?
I didn't understand until this week.

I was seven weeks pregnant when I miscarried this past Saturday. Putting it into an actual font, on a page makes it a real, actual occurrence. I've been with friends who have lost babies before me, have heard flippant Doctor's explanations of causes and have had the fear/awareness/dread of one since the moment we conceived. That being said, just to be clear: I stay far away from over-sharing anything that could be interpreted even remotely personal due to the fact that :

A. I don't want you to know everything in my life
and
B. I'm sure you don't care all that much anyway and would much rather read my witty film reviews, lack of housekeeping abilities and funny school anecdotes about students.

But in talking with my best friend and sister-in-law (who drove up from Philly on Tuesday after just moving down there just to sit and grieve with me) she encouraged me to share with you certain information people may not be so forth-coming with, concerning this deeply emotional and physically taxing circumstance. So, with deep breaths and all the uncertainty that comes with the future these are the things I know- but please bear in mind that EVERY pregnancy is different. Every, unique pregnancy is normal. If you have morning sickness, sore breasts, a pee-problem or not any symptoms at all- it's all normal, because you are the only you that has ever been pregnant before.

No matter how early on you are in your pregnancy, you are allowed to either feel the loss deeply, or move on quickly. Both are acceptable- even if you feel them both at the same time, or in the same day.

You are not guilty. Miscarriages, for whatever reason, are decided upon conception. DO NOT over-analyze your last run, your last glass of wine, your last cup of coffee. None of those things had anything to do with it. I was so blessed that I was surrounded by reassuring friends (who are doctors!) to remind me of this fact.

Talk to people about it. This is touchy for some. People are so frightened to tell others about an early pregnancy until they know "for sure" their pregnancy has a good chance of survival. To speak the truth in love, you will never know. Let me say it again: you will never know. It's part of humanity. Part of motherhood. You cannot predict or control the future- why start now? I am so blessed that our family and friends knew we were pregnant- they surrounded us with love, and food and flowers when we lost the baby. I needed them so very much. What if they had never known?

You will bleed. And feel crampy. Some, for only a few days. Some, for weeks. For me, this is the worst part. I avoid going to the bathroom at all costs. It's not the physical aspect ( though I feel drained, unable to process thought, exhausted and in pain) but the emotional, visual reminder of what I have lost is too much for me right now.

There is beauty in loss. This is not trite, nor is it denial. I am so sad. My heart bleeds. But just as this plant, there is a beauty to the bleeding. I have truly felt God's presence, strong and sure this week. I have been raised and lifted up by women who have suffered the same loss before me and have gone on to rear beautiful children. I have been able to lift my hands in surrender, understanding in a new way what it means to feel the freedom of knowing that there is nothing that is in my hands. The cords have tightened around my husband and I, drawing us together. I have seen the good the Lord has done in the land of the living (Psalm 27) and I cannot deny that, though I question the purpose of this hurdle in my life, I still believe He loves me, grieves with me, and will turn all things for good. Because He sees the beauty in my bleeding heart.

Reposting of Father's Day

DSC_0378, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

In light of Father's Day, I thought I would honor my Dad by making him the topic of my latest blog. Before I receive any phone calls from concerned readers who think I have finally let high school students get to me and have gone off the deep end, I don't think my Dad is really Jesus. Not technically, anyway.


My Dad is a truck driver. Last time I checked Jesus was a carpenter, but it's close enough to the burly-blue collar male persona every man wants to emulate. Except, honestly, there really isn't anything burly or even blue collar about him. He's very tall and very skinny, for one thing. Just by looking at him, you couldn't tell he could lift very much. He doesn't have any tattoos. (oops-now he does!) He doesn't smoke. He HATES beer. To the chagrin of his four daughters, he uses the phrase," you, dog" in place of obscenities. My Dad may possibly be the most alien truck driver you have ever met. I went to work with him several months ago, actually, and got to witness first-hand how weird my Dad actually is.
My Dad takes monthly drives to Boston where his company is based and is forever looking for a passenger to accompany him to make the all-inclusive 8-12 hour ride with the bribe of the open road and a Friendly's sundae. I'm usually the sucker who says yes. Granted, my other sisters generally fall asleep in the first hour and don't make very good company. I, on the other hand, cannot sleep in the car let alone the rig of a tractor trailer and tend to chat incessantly the whole way until my throat hurts and we have to stop to get some coffee. Which, truthfully, serves the both of us- I get to talk uninterrupted all about my grand ideas for my next novel or my philosophies on life or about the genre my album would be placed under, if I, in fact, ever record one and he gets to pay attention to something other than road kill and not fall asleep at the wheel.

It's in the rig where my Dad seems most normal to me. Shifting the ten-speed, complaining about the traffic that was inevitable on Rt. 84 by Hartford, drinking old coffee out of a styrofoam cup, dreaming about plots of land in Florida and pointing out motorcycles. In the rig, being a truck driver fits my Dad who hasn't purchased a tie since bolos were cool, gets uncomfortable when he sits in one room for too long and whose hands look like they could palm hot coals and not feel a thing. It's when we get to Boston when I realize what an anomaly my Father truly is.

Surrounded by men less than half his size (but double in girth) donning filthy Red Sox caps and greasy tee shirts, my Dad sticks out like a sore thumb. They all smile congenially when we show up, gap-toothed and broken bridges stained with years of strongly brewed coffee during the day, strongly brewed something else after hours, I'm sure. They all seem to have ruddy cheeks like they've been standing firm in a wind storm at the Patriot's game just before we got there. They have hearty belly laughs coming from hearty bellies that make me wonder how they get in and out of their trucks and if they rest their coffee cups on them while shifting gears. They call my Dad all kinds of names that make my cheeks burn- apparently they haven't picked up on the "you,dog" quite yet-but he just laughs it off and playfully punches one of them in the arm. The whole warehouse smells like days old coffee, Brut aftershave, the chemicals they were loading into my Dad's truck, and, well, man dirt. Yes, man dirt is what I said. You know what I mean. Running to the bathroom, I nearly knocked off a sign hanging on the door made out of a flap of an old cardboard box declaring," If you just have to piss, please use the urinal" and I wonder as I contemplated whether I should attempt the urinal or not (just for kicks) how my Dad who counts "piss" as a vial four-letter word works here with these people and seems to whole-heartedly enjoy it.

And then, I get it. I'm working on this concept on how everybody has a little bit of Jesus in them. I'm not talking about how "Jesus lives in your heart," and all that sunday school stuff, but how we as Christ-followers exhibit certain qualities that Jesus walked around with. All of us. So, my Dad's kinda like Jesus.

He loves to be surrounded by people that other's have deemed "a little rough around the edges." The jokes we would have gotten a serious lecture for if he heard any one of us kids tell them, he uses as an in to ask his co-workers other personal questions about their lives. You know that my Dad knows each and everyone of those truck driver's wives names? And their kids? And if they had mistresses, I bet he knows them too. He knows where they live. He knows where they went to college, or if they never did he knows the reason why. He knows whose going through a divorce, who just lost a child, who's struggling financially, who's kid just got accepted into Boston University and who got season tickets to the Sox-then teases them about it.

My Dad never judges them. The way they dress, the way they talk, the way they live. He just happens to met them where they are and really love them. The dirt, the warehouse chemicals and all. That's Jesus. That's the kind of Jesus I'd like to be.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

“I think what we have here, is a failure to communicate…

Bzzzzzzzz.   Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz.  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

My students think their texting is less conspicuous if they keep their cell-phones on vibrate.  Unfortunately, due to the size of our desks that seem to be leftovers of the finger-painting first grade variety, my high school students pockets are shoved flush up against the wooden desk top, further incriminating their outlawed behavior by their self-centered, vocal devices who will not be ignored.

Bzzzzzzzzzz.

I can’t blame them, really.  I’m just as bad.  There’s an iphone shaped pillow in the front drawer of my desk just in case of “ an emergency”.  I have checked and re-checked my e-mail more often than my more narcissistic students check their pocket mirrors.  Facebook updates of people whose lives honestly haven’t affected mine in decades-or ever- occasionally take precedence over a phone call to a friend I actually care about- and know first hand the happenings of their day to day life because I see them in person; not just in doctored pictures of their latest trip to some tropical locale where they look strikingly thinner and tanner than I remember.  With all of the modes of communication that have cropped up in the last few years, you would think our communication as a people would be greatly improved.  Instead, I’ve found myself more jittery, more exposed and less understood than ever before.

What’s the problem?

I don’t like when people speak on other’s behalf, so I’m not going to be so presumptuous as to pontificate on the root of the problem in society as a whole, just for me.  And me, myself, am on communication overload which disables my ability to communicate effectively at all.  In any medium.  Written, verbal, in person or otherwise. 

What must be done?

As someone who insists that the word “detox” must be loosely translated in other, ancient, more credible languages as “torturous withholding”, I’m forced to take a second look at what that might mean. 

In the last week, my husband and I have stopped using all electronic devices upon arriving home from work. It wasn’t a discussion we had, or something we felt particularly convicted about.  I think, both of us just knew instinctively that it was time to distance ourselves a bit from things that hold little importance. No carrying cell-phones waiting for an “important” call, no humming, buzzing background ESPN noise emitting from the television, no gentle glow of the laptop highlighting my favorite food blogs or summer concert series.  And, you know something? We had dinner together.  At the table.  With dinnerware.  And wine.  And laughed about real life things- not our favorite clips on youtube.  We sat on our front porch and read books and watched our neighbor pick up litter from the sidewalk and practiced a song on the guitar.  Then, later on, we purposefully chose a movie to watch together.  Because we wanted to see it, not just to have it on.  And you know what? Nobody called me.   When I checked Facebook the following morning, the same people I don’t really know were complaining about the same things that are completely and utterly irrelevant to my life, mainly with irritating spelling errors and abbreviations I still don’t know the meanings of.  I had no e-mails save ones that remind me to use my frequent flier miles. And thus I have come to the following conclusion:

Communication can only be considered as such if it is meaningful and executed with purpose on both ends.  

Promises, Promises

DSC_0042, originally uploaded by jshannon331.

2 Peter 1:3: “As we know Jesus better, His divine power gives us everything we need for living a godly life. He has called us to receive His own glory and goodness. And by that same mighty power He has given us all of His rich and wonderful promises… So make every effort to apply the benefits of these promises to your life…”

I used to memorize scripture verses as a kid for the promise of a cookie, a "badge" declaring how holy I was distributed in Sunday school, or the praise of my father. I had slowly, over my adult life left the task to "better" Christians and began being hip and relevant instead- memorizing verses only if they were sandwiched between Don Miller's witty banter, embraced by Tim Keller's sound theological descriptions, cushioned by Ed Welch's heart-warming stories. These men are all men of God and have taught me much....including how much better it is to go right to the source. Men of God are not a replacement for God himself. This verse reminds me of that today.

Though I could say I want to commit this verse to memory, I know better than to proclaim that I will. The point is, that I want to. In this stage of my life, I want to memorize that God loves me, likes me and is actively pursuing me. That the promises he made to me, he intends to keep. That HIS divine power gives me everything I need- which means if he doesn't give it to me, I do not need it. That he has called US to RECEIVE his glory and goodness, treasures obedience over sacrifice, has given me rich and wonderful promises-ME!-and intends to keep each and every one of them. That my ambitions, my desires, my longings are from HIM. That He is a good and gracious God.

I want to memorize that so deeply in order to never question it again. I want to make every effort to apply these promises to my life. Even if I can't commit the words verbatim to my memory, I am going to try and memorize His goodness.

Busy Bee

"How about Tuesday?"
"Yeah- no. Can't."

"How about Wednesday?"
"Well-"

"Ok, Thursday? Next Thursday? Sunday before church? Saturday night????"
"Ummmm...."

"Fine.  How about you call me when you ever have time for me, ok?"

I wish this was an example of only one conversation I've have over the last year.  Unfortunately, it seems to be the only conversation I've had with my friends and family members since- well, I don't know when.  My life has taken over leaving me with little room to breathe, clean the floor of my bathroom or meet up for a cup of fro yo with my little sister, who may not be so little by the time I ever actually get to hang out with her.

I'm not sure when my quiet life became an insurmountable rolling ball of business, but I do know that it must stop.  And it must stop now.  Before I lose my mind.  Or worse.  My friends.

Fourth Period

My work day is broken up into 8 different parts. The first part I use to run "errands", such as  calling parents, yelling or being yelled at in the guidance office, grabbing a terrible cup of coffee from the cafeteria.  Another part is used to scarf down lunch while trying to catch 10 minutes of a Glee episode I missed on hulu; when the network isn't down, that is. The other parts are consumed with a live organism made up of 25-32 living, breathing specimens of teenagedom. They call these things "classes".

Every class period has a different pulse.  A different rhythm.  A different personality, all it's own.  Classes are akin to wild animals. You must respect the personality of the class or it will eat you.  And possibly, your young.  Which you do not have, of course.  Because these "classes" consume all of your time, energy and sometimes, sanity that would be dedicated to said young. However, just like those human interest stories on 20/20 where a bear and a dog become best friends, every year there is a class that I take a liking to, even though it seems terribly unnatural.  Sometimes, it's in an "oh-look-at-that-dog-in-a-doggie-wheelchair-isn't-he-cute?" kinda way.  Sometimes it's in an "I-can-save-that-duck-covered-in-slimy-oil" kinda way.  Other times it's more of a "you-drive-me-crazy-but-I-cant-get-rid-of-you" way. It changes from year to year.  Last year, it my second period full of arrogant, pranking but good-hearted, predominantly male class that captured my attention and made going to work slightly more interesting than my college biology professor's choice of dockers with embroidered lobsters. This year, it's my fourth period.

My fourth period kids give me a "pound" upon entering.  They think I'm funny, which automatically makes them my favorite.  Which means, they actually understand what I'm saying-most of the time. Every teacher knows how priceless it is to be understood.  They scream my name in the hallway followed by, " that's my favorite teacher!" They cut other classes to ask me boyfriend advice.  They come through my door, holding a bloody nose or a chin or an eye and ask me to look "real quick" to make sure nothing's broken.  They need me to tell them to ice 15 minutes on, 15 off.  Basketball players cry about friends they've lost in the front row of my classroom.  They flood my doorway as soon as school is over, sometimes with dejected shoulders, sometimes grinning, waving acceptance letters to show off or hang on my paper "refrigerator". They ask for letters of recommendation.  They ask if I like their new ballet flats.  They confess to me their crushes, their learning disabilities, their desires to be rock stars and nurses and stay-at-home moms. They seek words of affirmation.  They look for me at their games.  They make tasteful, decent jokes that I can't help but laugh at.  They ask me where I went to college.  Why I got married so young.  If I ever felt all alone.  And I answer them.  I answer them all.  

Before this year, what I loved most about teaching high school was how independent the students are.  I didn't want to be any kid's "mom", care-taker or confidant.  That's the funny thing about classes.  Animals tend to change people.

Woe to the One Piece

      After a long and dreary winter full of snow plows and an equally long and dreary start to spring with massive flood waters interfering with my already draining commute, AND, with our first-time home buyers tax credit coming our way, AND me, being so tired that I no longer care about run-on sentences, grammatical errors or syntax...my husband and I thought it best we go away this spring break.  Now, for those that know us, when Rich and I get away, it is seldom a vacation.  We like to pick strange, remote, culturally rich locations that require maps, backpacks, safe drinking-water pellets, solid walking shoes,etc.  Not this time.  On a Saturday afternoon, still both in our pajamas, only getting up to make YET another pot of coffee, we realized that this year we didn't want to compete with bugs, touchy intestinal tracts, rain coats or frustrated non-bilingual cab drivers.

      We wanted white sand.  We wanted warm water.  We wanted a pink drink with an umbrella; to eat all day uninterrupted and to wake up with an ocean view.  We didn't want to be tempted to leave the property of the hotel by the lure of lush rain forests, the smell of exotic local food or the call of ancient ruins.  We wanted to sleep, swim, read, eat, repeat.  Thus, two tickets were booked for 5 days, 4 nights to Montego Bay, Jamaica.  All details have been taken care of and I've had everything that will be packed delicately laid out for days; however, there was one thing haunting me that I could not escape.  The bathing suit sized hole must be filled before getting on the plane.

      I have successfully (or unsuccessfully, if you ask my terribly fashionable sister who is often horrified at my clothing purchases) avoided purchasing a bathing suit for going on 5 years.  Said bathing suit is rather saggy in the bottom, has a bit of wear and tear across the top, but was, I thought, otherwise still in decent condition.  Until, it spontaneously combusted in my washing machine.

      This left me in quite a predicament.  I've held onto my bathing suit for so long for several reasons.

1.  I purchased it at j.crew when I was much younger, thinner and had less restraint on my budget.

2. My now frugal self would argue that it would silly to purchase another since this one was still functional, leaving me free not to face the fact that I have steadily gained a few lbs a year since the date of purchase

3. I HATE the one piece vs. two piece show down.

      Everything in my already advanced beyond my years aged-self tells me that it is time to face the music.  I am 27.  I weigh 135 lbs at 5'5.  I am a teacher, a wife, a home-owner.  Sigh.

      I am prime one-piece material.

      So, I lingered in the one piece aisle.  Even tried a few on for the first time since Saved by the Bell was on Saturday mornings, right before California Dreams.  And have come to the following conclusion:

      One pieces are both unflattering and uncomfortable and I will obstinately refuse to wear them.  There.  I said it.  Here's why:

1.  If you have any other shape aside from pre-pubescent teenage boy, those straps just ain't gonna stay up unless you tie the suckers together. Unless, of course, you go for the size smaller and are willing to put up with the uneasy feeling that a midget is clinging desperately to your shoulders, trying to drown you.
2.  If you have chosen the latter, then I don't have to tell you about the painful condition that is common among one-piece wearers- the hot dog bun.  These are not love handles.  They are not muffin tops.  These are the hot dog bun-sized rolls that sneak out of the bottom of your one-piece due to how small it is, with a delicate red, ketchup line cutting off all circulation to your lower appendages.
3.  Who would purchase an article of clothing that straps down your greatest asset in favor of highlighting the bulk of you????
4.  I do not buy the "pull over" method.  I am tired of emerging from the bathroom stall feeling as if I wrestled an anaconda trying to pull my wet, one piece back on.

      There you have it.  I hung up my sneaky suspicions of being too old, too fat, too this, too that and marched forward to the check-out line brandishing my new, two piece swim suit with the confidence only a non-hot dog bunning, anti-midget carrying, retired anaconda wrestling woman could possess.

      I strongly encourage you to do the same.

    

I-Talian

The clock ticked ever so slowly during eighth period. So slowly, in fact, when I looked up from my desk I counted two student sleepers, four doodlers, one drooler and five day-dreamers. I hadn't even noticed I had lost their attention. The fortunate (or unfortunate, depending upon how you look at it) reason for that is that I was less engaged in Macbeth's dreary plight of murder and pillage than I was with two, beautifully green, edible bouquets in my veggie drawer beckoning me home. I bought artichokes at the first sight of spring-much like normal women purchase flip-flops- and my mind continuously wandered like an unfaithful lover to the scent of imported Brenta cheese and freshly chopped garlic.

This may or may not surprise you, considering only a few, short years ago, I was neither Italian, nor a cook. I have since claimed both, which, according to me, is completely within my rights after struggling long and hard as the only Vanderberg growing up on a block full of Tony DiVencenzos.

I've wanted to be an Italian my whole life. Please, do not take this to mean that I am not aware or proud of my own heritage- Florence Nightingale and I are distant cousins, didja know?-but it doesn't change the fact that my classmates in the little town in which I was raised couldn't point out a potato unless you artfully described the wort-like spud used to delicately craft their beloved gnocci. To make matters worse, I wasn't even Catholic. No pasta bolognese OR first holy communion? What was this, a conspiracy? Who hates the Dutch kid? Hands up!

I walked through life an outcast- made to lurk surreptitiously in doorways to catch the scent of stewed tomatoes wafting on the breeze. Destined to forever order pizza from one of the Tony's who would not be coerced to give out his great-great-great grandmother's secret spice to cooking time ratio.

Until.

Until I married.

Richard Shannon.

Don't let the name fool you.

Do you know what his mother's maiden name is?

D'addio.

Yup.

That's right.

It took more than several attempts, frantic late night phone calls to my ever-so-patient new mother-in-law and hundreds of tablespoons of sugar to balance the salt from my tears in my inedible tomato gravy to finally find my sweet spot in the kitchen.

Now, with the increasingly warm smell of bubbling artichoke gurgling happily on the stove, I can put my feet up, say a Hail Mary and scribble out a list of different yeasts to try out for some decent Paesano bread (you just can't find a good one in the store anymore these days) and what heirloom tomato seeds to purchase for the spring garden.

Just like any decent I-Talian would do.

Yo' Mama

Mothers are strange creatures. Mine is no exception. My Mom wears pink more often than Lady Gaga changes her eyeshadow. She loves buying stuffed animals for our cousins that talk when you squeeze their bellies-though they are old enough to ride their bikes to school. And read chapter books on their own. She coos over every and all things monogrammed.

Though the list of strange-Mom-behavior could go on, I would simply be backing myself directly into the corner in which we'd inhabit together. Because, for all of the weird things my Mother does, the weirdest of it all is that I happen to be right there in the life boat with her, rowing the same damn way.

With that said, the fastidious writer that I am could not let this post go without a comprehensive list of the weird things my Mom and I share.

1. We both laugh until our faces turn an unattractive plum and tears hold our mascara hostage all the the way down our(long)noses at America's Funniest Home Videos (the Danny Tanner version, not the new Dancing with the Stars guy), the story about the babysitter who got attacked by a squirrel and mom forced to go home early due to the fact that she thought rabies was an airborne disease, and fart jokes. Fart jokes, are, alas, always funny. Especially when my sister tells them.

2. We love to eat. We love to eat like Tom Cruise loves weird religions with aliens. Not only are we master consumers, but we are fearless and voracious in our eating. Tripe? Send it our way. Kim-Chi? More, please. Escargot? Why not? We may send it back if we hate it, or make funny faces and lie poorly about how "interesting" it is, but that will never stop us from shelling out some cash to try something new. There is never too great a price for a decent meal. Or, a good story. If you don't get the one, you end up with the other.

3. We get bored. Easily. We have 800 hobbies between us-some, I bet we don't know the other has. We like to learn new things, do new things, play new things. I bought her a red bass for christmas. She got me a kitchenaid. We're strange, strange productive people.

4. We're both maniacs on the road. We've never taken a running tally of how many times we've both been pulled over, with good reason. We tell cop stories like vets tell war stories. Mainly, to each other. It makes everyone else a little nervous.

5. We make shit up. Words. Ideologies. Pants sizes. :) It's the creative spirit in us.

It's an amazing thing why it's so surprising that we would be similar to the one that carried us for nine months.

But if I start buying pink sweaters, someone remind me that it's in our differences where we find ourselves. :)

Love you, Mom.

Muchness

Have you ever wondered what Tim Burton and Helena Bonham Carter discuss over dinner? I have. In fact, that's fairly all I wondered about as I sat through Alice in Wonderland
on opening night. Visually stimulating with all of the darkly, quirky details that is quintessential of the eccentric director, I left the theater feeling as though I paid orchestra prices to watch amusing spectators fight in the balcony. Perhaps, it was the gaggle of hipster, teenage girls with black nail polish and lip-rings whining aloud about the lack of testosterone in the audience throughout the duration of the movie that tainted my viewing experience. Perhaps, expectations were too high, even for Johnny Depp (who stretched his long-running pirate accent thin in his crazy rantings as the Mad Hatter). Whatever the case may be, for a film based upon "muchness", there was much to be desired.

(This does not mean that I will not continue to be the first in line for the next Burton production. I'm loyal. What can I say?)

Tomato, Tomahhhhhhhto

I am a food blog skeptic. Not because I haven't found some tummy-rumbling, drool-inducing recipes that have become staples in our weekly menu, but because of the ingredients. Well, it's not even that. It's the brand of the ingredients that drives my frugal self into a budgeting tizzy. There is no need to spend 40 dollars on a jar of grey sea salt when the stuff in my shaker does the same job. Suffice it to say, I have believed- please do not mentally berate me until I am finished- that all canned tomatoes are the same. (I cried just a little-even now- after living in darkness for so long.) So, when I was reading one of my favorite foodie fanatic's recipe for a simple tomato sauce (www.smittenkitchen.com), I didn't just scoff at her artsy pictures of strikingly bourgeois San Marzano tomatoes. I guffawed. Spend 6 dollars on a can of tomatoes when I can 20 for the same price at Shoprite? You must be off your rocker.

Until...

I was shopping at Whole Foods and stumbled across the-you guessed it- the cans of San Marzano tomatoes, regal and stacked with purpose at the end of the aisle. Shock of all shocks, this was the day fate decided I was much too thick-headed for my own good and cleverly displayed a neat little sign handwritten on organic recycled paper: On sale, 2 for $6. Reluctantly, I placed two cans in my basket and my life will never be the same.

Dearest friends. Stop kidding yourselves. Put the shoprite brand of whole, peeled, tasteless tomatoes aside- or serve it the neighbors that let their dog pee in your front yard. Only use these tomatoes. You will thank me, as I, now, owe an entire internal apology to the food blog gods. You were right. You were right all along.

Money, Money

I just checked my bank accounts on-line for the first time in two weeks. For some, this might sound incredibly irresponsible. For me, I'm throwing a quiet party decorated in wine and those lovely little green olives from Whole Foods- you know, the ones that aren't too lemony or too garlicky? Why, might you ask? Because, it seems, that I am on the way to recovery at last.

Control freaks manifest their diseases in different ways. Some must have access to the remote at all times. Others hyper-ventilate at the thought of a surprise party in which they were unable to dictate the flatware or which non-traditional Italian restaurant should cater the gloppy eggplant parm. I, eh hem, am guilty of all of these things and more- including checking my bank accounts at least 3 times a day. Yes. Three. Understand my jubilation now?

God has slowly been teaching me that I-gulp-have-ugh-no-ew-control. Over anything. Not my job, not my weight, not my happiness, not my money. I didn't believe him, naturally. I never have. Until, a few weeks ago when my sister-in-law reminded me of what happens when I let go. So, I thought I'd give it a try. And you know, I still have money right there in that account after not checking it obsessively every 5 minutes. The bills have been paid, we have been fed, we've even done some fun things that I would have deemed "out of the budget" because not only am I a control nazi, I am also a tightwad which translates into no fun. Maybe God does love me enough to care about me after all. Huh.