We had salmon for dinner. I couldn't decipher salmon from fish-sticks, and I hated fish-sticks. But when he asked, I told him of course I liked salmon. Of course. He popped out of the kitchen, frozen fish in hand, searched my face and said, "Don't worry, you'll like it." If he was the chuckling type, he would have chuckled. Instead he just smiled and disappeared back into the kitchen. I followed.
He pan-seared it and tossed on spices I would never associate with fish. Things other than tarter sauce. He stated with glowing pride that he had cut butter out of his diet. And sugar. It wasn't healthy. I didn't believe him at first. One of the last meals I ate with him was pizza doused in blue cheese dressing. He swung open the fridge door - no butter, no sugar, no salt. Momentarily, I saw a glimpse of us as adults, rather than as nineteen and twenty-one year olds playing house over summer vacation.
It was his early attempt at a healthy summer. An investment in healthy habits perhaps sparked by days and nights with the emergency room sick. But already in those nights of the third week he would pull me closer in his sleep when LifeStar roared above us on its way to a call. He was already telling stories of baseball bats disfiguring faces as my fingers traced his jaw line and came to rest between his chin and his bottom lip. Later there would be snicker bars from the vending machine for an 11:30pm dinner and swigs of Nyquil to fall asleep on the nights he could turn his pager off. Black coffee for the nights he could not. Later we would talk about death more than usual. Several states north of that tiny apartment next the the large hospital, I would concede to missing him but never worrying about him, purposefully replacing concern with pride.
But that July night I stood over the crackling salmon thinking of fish-sticks and butter and “OhDearLord how am I going to choke down this meal?” I offer to help... um, sear? the salmon. He smirks, tells me he wants to eat sometime before breakfast, and lifts me from the front of the stove to middle of the tiny kitchen in a single, effortless, one-armed swoop. I protest his insult to my cooking skills and the swift removal with a scrunched face, until I can't hold it any longer and give in to a smile. He is right. A friend and I had a chicken 'mishap' that past semester. A 'mishap' as in we had no idea how to cook the thing, spent more time discussing what to do with it rather than actually cooking it, and nearly gave us all salmonella poisoning. He was the one to step in and...well...fix it. So instead I mill about the kitchen, opening and closing drawers as if to memorize where the utensils are kept for the week I would spend with him.
We ate next to his desktop mac with the picture I gave him taped to the side. I took the futon and he sat at the desk chair, and I forgot to expect fish-sticks when I took a bite of the salmon. I devour the salmon and the broccoli without butter and then stand up for seconds. He smiles slightly before offering to get it for me. I had long dismissed his offer and was halfway through my second serving before I realized the source of his smile: I loved the salmon. Years later I would order it at his college graduation dinner and note his almost-smirk, and then again at my own college graduation but this time with a heavier, almost dull, notation. That night I just took seconds and silently surrendered to his superior cooking skills.
I put myself on clean-up duty, if not to claim a stake in domesticity then at least to assert some form of independence. A cultivated assertion I lean on when I can’t hold on to titles. I can’t hold on to the soapy forks either, and I’m splashing water across the counter, out of dish washing practice. He changes the itunes mix and joins me in the kitchen. Stands behind me and rolls up my wet sleeves, and I’m trying to find my independent assertions but it takes too long, and I’m leaning on him instead. We stand quietly like that for a few moments, while Bob Dylan floats in and out.
I’m running the sponge across the second-hand dishes, admiring the chipped edges and the strength of the plate to shine in the soapy water despite imperfections, wondering if my fifty-year old hands will look like my already water-pruned hands and will we still stand like this, forgetting to worry about titles and self-protection and mismatched future visions. His hands interrupt my vagabond thoughts by plunging into the water.
I’m startled and automatically protesting, standing upright on my own two feet now, and hanging on too tightly to the dish I was just admiring. He asks me if I want to finish before breakfast tomorrow (twice in one night!). I’m horrified that he is suggesting that I cannot. do. this. by. myself. And I’m slightly insulted that he doesn’t think I can appropriately wash dishes. “Come on, I’ll help you, it’ll go a little faster,” he reasons and kisses me on the cheek.
He scoops up two forks, two butter knives, and the serving knife, and washes them all together in one seamless motion. His itunes changes to the third song on the playlist. I glance at the two plates I have washed. He’s already on to the cutting board and my shirt is literally soaking wet. I’d like to say that I burst into laughter, admitted defeat, and helped him finish the dishes. But instead I only protest that I would get faster in time, and he looks at me with that smile and says “I know.” I decide that doing dishes well is not directly proportional to being independent and that I would make sure I had a dishwasher when I “grow up.” We finish the dishes together.
The apartment had too many walls to call it a studio but not enough rooms to call it anything else. The futon transformed from dinner table to couch to bed depending on the time of day and the level of the air conditioner hum. Highest when sleeping, my nose always felt like ice. We pop a movie into the TV/VHS combo, keep the futon upright, and assume our then May-mid-day-TV-watching positions that would roll into early January days for too many years to come. That night I laid somewhere between comfortably worn and shiny new, between his leg and the futon, between titles, semesters, and the scared beats in my chest. That night I laid right in the middle of a strong safety and a quiet love. When he told me my hair smelled like salmon, I asked if he minded. He said not at all, it reminded him of our dinner. And I knew exactly what he meant.
We fell asleep that night to the scent of my salmon hair, the buzz of the air conditioner, and my cold feet pressed up against his warm calf. We fell asleep somewhere in the middle.
Showing posts with label the 1950s would hate me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the 1950s would hate me. Show all posts
September 17, 2010
November 4, 2009
These April Days
[originally written 4/09]
Powerpoprock in a hip, bright, warm venue. Ginger ale in hand, surrounded by twentysomethings on the crowded dance floor. "Have you met..." and "Who are you here with?" Sans ring on the left hand, increasingly friendly, small talk over loud music, "Are you from here?" until he abruptly walks away. Apparently, an hour drive from one small city to another overwhelms any possible interest. Merely amused, I laugh out loud, a chuckle carried away on guitar strings and belting lyrics. Friends on stage and another in the audience, I'm not here to meet my mr. right. Or my mr. right now.
*****
Crisp, cool, night air with a promise of spring, and the sound of the crashing waves up against the city walls, even if only in my head, prompt an involuntary smile. I return a phone call as I walk through the well-lit parking garage, and the smile disappears. Break-up despair, I can hear it in his voice immediately. I can only respond with that sinking feeling of knowing any words I utter can never make it better. I listen. I can only listen.
******
A wall of white dresses, dressing rooms built for two, and seating to accommodate an entourage of familial females bound by bloodlines and heart-lines. A bride with a flush and a smile, expectantly overwhelmed, she twirls and scowls. Perhaps finding her perfect dress will not come as easily as finding her perfect man.
******
Mincing garlic without the warning that my fingers would radiate the smell of garlic for days to come, despite numerous washings. I can offer no authority on the progress of the cooking chicken, but I can stir the two cans of diced tomatoes and chop the basil. We are feeding four a balanced meal, a delicious meal, a meal from scratch. A meal without the fear of salmonella.
********
With perfectly pressed seams, this suit makes its first re-appearance since last summer. Tailored to fit my petite portions, it adds years to my youthful appearance. The click-clack of my heels echoes louder than I remember, and a momentary inspection reveals metal poking through the heels. I wore through my heels last summer. This jeans, sweatshirt, sneaker lover wore through her high heels last summer, most likely walking through the halls of Rayburn. Now, walking through the halls of the district court house, clickclack, early for a meeting, clickclack, I run into a classmate. Court administrative week, we are both surprised to see each other. I am swept in and out of a chaotic meeting-type, waiting in the hall for the next time slot, hoping for less chaos, when a friend clickclacks down the hall towards me. Surprised and relieved to see her, she offers a stress alleviating hug, chats for a bit, calls me a champ, and resumes her meeting. Hours later, with unintentional creases now apparent in my suit pants, as I clickclack out of the courthouse, I run into another classmate I have not seen since last semester. Court administrative week - what are we all doing at the court house? Dressed in suits, on official business, I see as many classmates in the courthouse as I do in the round hallways of our school building. A transition out, certainly.
******
Still overwhelmed with assignments, due dates, rainbow highlighters and a pile of books. Early evening turns into late night, early morning comes too soon. A swat at an alarm clock, a sleepy 5:30am phone call to the broken-hearted, and a fast shower pries my exhausted body from sleep into the land of the awake. Or semi-awake. An 8:45am Conflicts of Law class means semi-awake at best. Another day of clickclacking through the courthouse in a suit, means an honest attempt at fully-awake. Fully awake and exhausted.
*****
"This must be for you." He hands me my banana-chocolate milkshake with a smile. I nearly melt with gratitude. Clickclacking out of the colorfully decorated whimsical haven, I know how out of place I look in my conservative navy suit, but I could care less. I am too busy inhaling my perfect chocolate banana milkshake.
****
A 1:30am phone call from the new mother, because she is breast feeding and thought I might be up. I don't have the heart to tell her that I collapsed into bed hours ago, immediately following the chocolate banana milkshake. I mostly listen, incapable of forming a coherent thought, and try to picture my friend from high school now at home with her three week old daughter.
***
Twenty-something: a time period of change and transition. If I had to pick a specific cluster of days to represent my twentysomething life, it would be these April days.
Powerpoprock in a hip, bright, warm venue. Ginger ale in hand, surrounded by twentysomethings on the crowded dance floor. "Have you met..." and "Who are you here with?" Sans ring on the left hand, increasingly friendly, small talk over loud music, "Are you from here?" until he abruptly walks away. Apparently, an hour drive from one small city to another overwhelms any possible interest. Merely amused, I laugh out loud, a chuckle carried away on guitar strings and belting lyrics. Friends on stage and another in the audience, I'm not here to meet my mr. right. Or my mr. right now.
*****
Crisp, cool, night air with a promise of spring, and the sound of the crashing waves up against the city walls, even if only in my head, prompt an involuntary smile. I return a phone call as I walk through the well-lit parking garage, and the smile disappears. Break-up despair, I can hear it in his voice immediately. I can only respond with that sinking feeling of knowing any words I utter can never make it better. I listen. I can only listen.
******
A wall of white dresses, dressing rooms built for two, and seating to accommodate an entourage of familial females bound by bloodlines and heart-lines. A bride with a flush and a smile, expectantly overwhelmed, she twirls and scowls. Perhaps finding her perfect dress will not come as easily as finding her perfect man.
******
Mincing garlic without the warning that my fingers would radiate the smell of garlic for days to come, despite numerous washings. I can offer no authority on the progress of the cooking chicken, but I can stir the two cans of diced tomatoes and chop the basil. We are feeding four a balanced meal, a delicious meal, a meal from scratch. A meal without the fear of salmonella.
********
With perfectly pressed seams, this suit makes its first re-appearance since last summer. Tailored to fit my petite portions, it adds years to my youthful appearance. The click-clack of my heels echoes louder than I remember, and a momentary inspection reveals metal poking through the heels. I wore through my heels last summer. This jeans, sweatshirt, sneaker lover wore through her high heels last summer, most likely walking through the halls of Rayburn. Now, walking through the halls of the district court house, clickclack, early for a meeting, clickclack, I run into a classmate. Court administrative week, we are both surprised to see each other. I am swept in and out of a chaotic meeting-type, waiting in the hall for the next time slot, hoping for less chaos, when a friend clickclacks down the hall towards me. Surprised and relieved to see her, she offers a stress alleviating hug, chats for a bit, calls me a champ, and resumes her meeting. Hours later, with unintentional creases now apparent in my suit pants, as I clickclack out of the courthouse, I run into another classmate I have not seen since last semester. Court administrative week - what are we all doing at the court house? Dressed in suits, on official business, I see as many classmates in the courthouse as I do in the round hallways of our school building. A transition out, certainly.
******
Still overwhelmed with assignments, due dates, rainbow highlighters and a pile of books. Early evening turns into late night, early morning comes too soon. A swat at an alarm clock, a sleepy 5:30am phone call to the broken-hearted, and a fast shower pries my exhausted body from sleep into the land of the awake. Or semi-awake. An 8:45am Conflicts of Law class means semi-awake at best. Another day of clickclacking through the courthouse in a suit, means an honest attempt at fully-awake. Fully awake and exhausted.
*****
"This must be for you." He hands me my banana-chocolate milkshake with a smile. I nearly melt with gratitude. Clickclacking out of the colorfully decorated whimsical haven, I know how out of place I look in my conservative navy suit, but I could care less. I am too busy inhaling my perfect chocolate banana milkshake.
****
A 1:30am phone call from the new mother, because she is breast feeding and thought I might be up. I don't have the heart to tell her that I collapsed into bed hours ago, immediately following the chocolate banana milkshake. I mostly listen, incapable of forming a coherent thought, and try to picture my friend from high school now at home with her three week old daughter.
***
Twenty-something: a time period of change and transition. If I had to pick a specific cluster of days to represent my twentysomething life, it would be these April days.
August 2, 2009
New Beginnings
I have freshly painted peach walls with white trim. I have translucent white curtains swaying, slow dancing with the wind. Smooth wooden floors bounce the sunlight onto the peach walls. New, warm, inviting. A new room to match my new beginnings. New space to breath, to dream... to list, to plan. The romantic notions of beginnings and endings always seem to wrap themselves up with the unromantic practicalities. Arranging the to-do list of items that never change - grocery shopping, laundry, cleaning, oil changes. New beginnings always come with organizational hazards, planning dates, re-configuring communications... I just want to dream. I just want to lay back on my bed, stare at my peach walls, and watch my dreams paint themselves across the ceiling.
March 24, 2009
Employment Opportunity
For Hire: Grocery Store Runner
Qualifications - Must be able to: find a parking space that doesn't have an unreturned shopping cart already occupying the space; remember to grab everything on the shopping list - or, you know, just remember the shopping list; push the squeaky-wheeled-mind-of-its-
Monthly bonus for anybody who can put the groceries away and figure out what to do with all those plastic bags week after week after week after week after week after week.
Qualifications - Must be able to: find a parking space that doesn't have an unreturned shopping cart already occupying the space; remember to grab everything on the shopping list - or, you know, just remember the shopping list; push the squeaky-wheeled-mind-of-its-
Monthly bonus for anybody who can put the groceries away and figure out what to do with all those plastic bags week after week after week after week after week after week.
February 22, 2009
Confession
I've developed a slight obsession with The Pioneer Woman. I, the d.c-bound-can't-wait-to-put-
She doesn't think she has all the answers. She laughs at herself. She loves her life. --It could be that simple.
Yes, I'm drawn to the fact that she is madly in love with her husband, Marlboro Man. In fact, she would probably wouldn't mind being referred to as Mrs. MM rather than Ms. PW. I'm going to stick with Ms. PW, however, because I'm an incredibly single twenty-something independent, and I appreciate Ms. PW for personality and not her marriage to Mr. MM. That being said, she radiates the joy that comes from a partnership grounded in love, butterflies, sparks and fireworks; how could anybody not be drawn to that? Yes, I'm drawn to the gorgeous views on her cattle ranch. I can almost inhale the fresh air and watch my perspectives change. The reviving powers of rural life - I thrive in it. I love her trampoline. I love the pictures she takes of people on the trampoline. I love the pictures she takes. I love all of these things, but I don't think these are what keep me coming back to her blog.
I keep coming back, because of the simple. She finds the worth, the humor, the love, the joy in the everyday.
Do I want a life on a cattle ranch with four children, a cowboy husband, fields of wild horses, and a barrel full of calf nuts? Probably not. Although, I have spent a considerable amount of of time wondering if my slight obsession with her means I should re-think a city life and a suit-required career. Probably not. Do I want a life with an appreciation for the simple, a lot of humor, more questions than answers, love, joy, and a trampoline? Absolutely. I'm not ready to trade in black heels for tractor wheels. At least not yet...
[links to The Pioneer Woman blog under "For The Love of Blogs"]
Update: Apparently, I am not the only one slightly obsessed with Pioneer Woman - Time named her one of the Top 25 Blogs 2009.
2/16/09 12:55pm
goals
Snow Day Lost
Snow falling behind her so quickly that it comes across the television screen as thin white lines. Car headlights few and far between, slowly move down the one lane highway, the other lanes covered in snow. Despite the camera worthy smile, it is clear her teeth chatter, and she can't wait to get back into the van.
We're please with our snow day plan and the decision to implement it. Cars safely parked off-street in snow ban compliance (another indication of a certain snow day), text books left unopened, homework assignments incomplete, sweatpants packed in preparation for a day of sorting through principles, definitions, black letter law. We will drink pots of coffee to compensate for our disregard of an appropriate bedtime. We are in no hurry to sleep - grogginess is acceptable during study days in ways that the socratic method does not permit. We check the "stormline" before finally heading to bed - the scratchy voices offers no new information, we'll have to wait for morning confirmation.
Only, we never get it. I wake up to the sound the rain hitting the windows and the news that "all classes, events and activities will be held as scheduled." ugh. Tired eyes, quick shower, hooded sweatshirt, drained body, unprepared mess, I drag myself to school. Grateful for delicious travel mug coffee, a bulky warm hooded sweatshirt, and a friend who also grumbles but goes. Three degrees colder, and we would have had our snow day.
2/20/09 1:36pm
coffee addict, exhaustion, plans, wherever you are it is your friends who make your world
Domestically Challenged
Pop it, drop it, slam it. Pop it, drop it, slam it if you want the washing machine to start. I can never, ever get the washing machine to start. Standing in the basement raising and closing the lid, raising and closing the lid, slamming the lid, apologizing to the washing machine, raising and closing the lid... completely domestically challenged, I can almost hear the washing machine chuckle. oh, but won't you please just start! I have to seek out a roommate, pick one any one, to pop it, drop it, or slam it and the washing machine starts - first try. Oh yes, the machine is chuckling, I can just about hear it.
She doesn't think she has all the answers. She laughs at herself. She loves her life. --It could be that simple.
Yes, I'm drawn to the fact that she is madly in love with her husband, Marlboro Man. In fact, she would probably wouldn't mind being referred to as Mrs. MM rather than Ms. PW. I'm going to stick with Ms. PW, however, because I'm an incredibly single twenty-something independent, and I appreciate Ms. PW for personality and not her marriage to Mr. MM. That being said, she radiates the joy that comes from a partnership grounded in love, butterflies, sparks and fireworks; how could anybody not be drawn to that? Yes, I'm drawn to the gorgeous views on her cattle ranch. I can almost inhale the fresh air and watch my perspectives change. The reviving powers of rural life - I thrive in it. I love her trampoline. I love the pictures she takes of people on the trampoline. I love the pictures she takes. I love all of these things, but I don't think these are what keep me coming back to her blog.
I keep coming back, because of the simple. She finds the worth, the humor, the love, the joy in the everyday.
Do I want a life on a cattle ranch with four children, a cowboy husband, fields of wild horses, and a barrel full of calf nuts? Probably not. Although, I have spent a considerable amount of of time wondering if my slight obsession with her means I should re-think a city life and a suit-required career. Probably not. Do I want a life with an appreciation for the simple, a lot of humor, more questions than answers, love, joy, and a trampoline? Absolutely. I'm not ready to trade in black heels for tractor wheels. At least not yet...
[links to The Pioneer Woman blog under "For The Love of Blogs"]
Update: Apparently, I am not the only one slightly obsessed with Pioneer Woman - Time named her one of the Top 25 Blogs 2009.
2/16/09 12:55pm
goals
Snow Day Lost
Snow falling behind her so quickly that it comes across the television screen as thin white lines. Car headlights few and far between, slowly move down the one lane highway, the other lanes covered in snow. Despite the camera worthy smile, it is clear her teeth chatter, and she can't wait to get back into the van.
We're please with our snow day plan and the decision to implement it. Cars safely parked off-street in snow ban compliance (another indication of a certain snow day), text books left unopened, homework assignments incomplete, sweatpants packed in preparation for a day of sorting through principles, definitions, black letter law. We will drink pots of coffee to compensate for our disregard of an appropriate bedtime. We are in no hurry to sleep - grogginess is acceptable during study days in ways that the socratic method does not permit. We check the "stormline" before finally heading to bed - the scratchy voices offers no new information, we'll have to wait for morning confirmation.
Only, we never get it. I wake up to the sound the rain hitting the windows and the news that "all classes, events and activities will be held as scheduled." ugh. Tired eyes, quick shower, hooded sweatshirt, drained body, unprepared mess, I drag myself to school. Grateful for delicious travel mug coffee, a bulky warm hooded sweatshirt, and a friend who also grumbles but goes. Three degrees colder, and we would have had our snow day.
2/20/09 1:36pm
coffee addict, exhaustion, plans, wherever you are it is your friends who make your world
Domestically Challenged
Pop it, drop it, slam it. Pop it, drop it, slam it if you want the washing machine to start. I can never, ever get the washing machine to start. Standing in the basement raising and closing the lid, raising and closing the lid, slamming the lid, apologizing to the washing machine, raising and closing the lid... completely domestically challenged, I can almost hear the washing machine chuckle. oh, but won't you please just start! I have to seek out a roommate, pick one any one, to pop it, drop it, or slam it and the washing machine starts - first try. Oh yes, the machine is chuckling, I can just about hear it.
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