Dreams

I slept too late this morning.  I could hear my alarm going off, but I did my usual relay of snooze hits for a long while.  This is my favorite time of my sleep cycle; I swear I can “plant” my dreams in the borderlands of waking and sleeping.

The dream I was having this morning was probably more of a scary movie than a romance.  I think I was in what could most closely be compared to the house in “The Haunting,” with Liam Neeson, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Owen Wilson, and Lili Taylor.  Well, that was the most prominent home in the dream.  It was set in a park-like area with rolling hills, atop of each was a striking, stately house of grandeur.

I know that the tail end of the dream, before I finally succumbed to my waking impulse, was the scary part.  There was running.  There were dead people.  There was screaming.

Right before the horror was the dream sequence.  Can a dream have a dream sequence?  Mine did.

I had a boyfriend.

I don’t know what he looked like or whether or not he had a pleasant voice; I just remember him.  He was leading me through the opulent home…showing me his handiwork.  He was a wood carver.  There were indoor conservatories made of ornamental iron, glass, and carved wood…he proudly danced me to each of them so I could run my hands over his work; feel the intricacies with my fingertips.  Though we were merely touching each other, the contact was sensual.  We were feeling the other person, knowing the touch was real…knowing the contact was deliberate.

It was so simple.  So, almost…nothing.  It was something that could go completely unnoticed by another person; part of the story that leads from Scene 4 to Scene 5 in Act II.  To me, it was utterly romantic.

I know that it’s easy to think that the grass is greener in the land of relationships versus being single.  I wasn’t dreaming of some idyllic scene with a knight on white horse.  Heck, it ended with screams and death.  But, what I had for those short moments could be worth it.

This span between Thanksgiving and the New Year is difficult for me.  Every year, it seems like not being with someone echoes louder and louder in my empty apartment.  In my heart.  I logically know that I have a fine life as a single person.  But, when I let myself think about it, the loneliness is palpable.

Even when I don’t let myself think about it.

Like in my dreams.

I hope I can sleep late again tomorrow.

A List of Thanks

It’s 10:05PM on Thanksgiving Day–I’ve got less than two hours to write my List of Thanks for the year.  Without further ado…

I’m thankful that I am so tired.  I’m tired because I helped my 88-year old Gramma Ruby throw a Thanksgiving Day to beat all Thanksgiving Days…fifteen years after her husband died, on Thanksgiving Day.  I am thankful to spend time with her and listen to her stories…and soak up her recipes and techniques.  That generation still has so much to teach us before they pass, we need to keep up with them.

I’m thankful that I had two grandmothers for as long as I did.  Grandma Marcy was buried on Tuesday.  I was able to see her the weekend prior to her passing and say goodbye.  I inherited her glowing skin for which I am grateful.  I think I also inherited some of her steely edge.  I’m not sure if I’m thankful for that.

I’m thankful for Grendel.  He’s my dog.  He’s furry and funny.  He loves me.  He’s my soft and sassy sidekick.  More than that, he is my constant companion and my dependent.  I need him more than he needs me.  Much, much more.  Plus, he doesn’t snore.

I’m thankful for my family…every single member of it.  I’ve received so much support and love from them in what has been a tough year; probably my toughest.  I know I can count on them for anything. 

I’m thankful for my friends.  Weddings, babies, reunions, online interactions, coffees, walks, dinner parties, trips to Costco, CSA Tuesdays, late night showings of “New Moon,” rock picking, road trips, birthday surprises, freelancing gigs, and so much more in this past year…including forcing my hand to start blogging.  I thrive because of you.  You are the village that raises me.

I’m thankful for our current political administration and that I am not destitute since losing my job.  I can defer my student loans.  I can continue my medical insurance coverage at a reduced rate.  I am able to search for a job while being able to pay (most) of my bills.  I am once again proud of our country and look forward to seeing us be able to continue to take care of our own…as well as bring home our own.

I’m thankful for the breadth and depth of my abilities.  I am lovable and capable.  I do not doubt that I will continue to succeed, regardless of employment status.  May I never lose that faith.

Let me rephrase that: May I never lose faith.

I’m thankful for faith.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Wordless Wednesday: Packrat Love

Grendel always helps me pack. There are my toiletries, some clothes, a pair of black heels...

...and, of course, a black corduroy jacket. Yes, the one the sassy blonde dog is lounging on. The one that he apparently doesn't want me to take with me. That one. Sigh.

Where The Day Takes You

Being unemployed, my days can be less-than-predictable.  People are astonished when I can show up to something scheduled before 10am and say something that skirts around the notion that people without places to be don’t end up being anywhere.  I admit that it was fun at the beginning of my unemployment to loll around in my pajamas with a cup of coffee watching old movies…but, yes.  Lolling around gets old.  Also, having a dog means that I have no choice but to wear real clothes and parade around outdoors at least four times a day.  I can’t just fall off the face of the earth.  Not really.

So, I started making myself some rules. I had to be up, dressed, caffeinated, and at the computer with an emptied-and-fed dog at my feet by 9am; the same time I used to have to be at the office.  What a welcome bit of structure.  I like structure.  I kind of crave it.  But, when push comes to shove, this structure was still on my own terms.  Whether or not I stay at the computer all day is still up to me.  If I’d rather go walk the dog around Lake of the Isles in the gorgeous autumn weather, that’s up to me.  At its loosest definition, I’ll say that I have to be a participating member of society.  The rest of it is up to where the day takes me.

Tuesday, I had a mission for the morning.  After attending “Theology on Tap” at Skinner’s Pub in St. Paul the night before, I had stopped at my favorite Kowalski’s grocery store on Grand Avenue for some supplies…the crown jewel of which was a beef chuck roast.  Yes, I’d had enough requests; it was time to make and document my “Make Men Cry Braised Beef” for the Food & Recipes portion of AndyLien.com.  People near and far (I catered a wedding cocktail reception in the Bay Area with this baby) have been asking for the recipe.  I hadn’t wanted to give it out without photodocumentation.  Tuesday was going to be the day.

After checking in on all of my usual internet haunts, I shuffled to the kitchen and pulled out the ingredients.  Beef, onions, Balsamic vinegar, honey, salt, pepper, and a secret ingredient.  You’ll have to read the recipe to find out what the secret ingredient is–believe me, it won’t live up to the build-up.  I snagged my tripod, tripped over it only once as arranging the ingredients to photograph, and took the photos by hand, anyhow.  Grabbing my big pot, I put it on the burner…my apartment stove only has one big burner, so I’d best not be trying to accomplish too much at once that would require a large surface area for heat.  Scratch that–I shouldn’t try to accomplish much of anything that would require heat on that stove.

I’d turned on the burner to heat the pot up to a searing, scorching “HI” while I was taking pictures of the items.  By the time I was finally done, it should be more than ready to brown the heck out of the beef.  I salted and peppered the raw meat before lifting it up with a fork.  I glanced at my dog.  Grendel usually hides at the sound of searing meat but slowly comes out of his shell when he smells the aroma…kind of like a cobra out of a snake charmer’s basket.  I raised my eyebrow and smiled at him as I threw the meat down onto the hot surface, braced for the HISSSSSS.

Nothing.

No HISSSSS.  No popping.  No crackling.  No nothing.

Ah, my dumb stove.  This happens…and it’s not usually at the most opportune times.  At least I caught it…there are times when the watched pot really never boils and I don’t notice for an hour or so that I’m waiting for tepid water.   I pulled out the meat, picked up the pot, and held my hand over the electric coil to find it cool.  Sigh.  I jostled the coils.  Nothing.  I “unplugged the coils” and pushed them back in.  Nothing.  I banged my hand on the coils.

My dog went into hiding.

I heard a little whirring.  A few click, click, clicks.  A little heat.  Suddenly, red-hot coils.

I put the pot back on the burner and waited again for it to get to the searing-point.  Searing is very important in braising.  It seals in flavors…and there’s a technique to it.  The meat has to be dry.  There can be no lubricant or oil in the pot.  The meat must be allowed to sit on the hot surface until it basically seals up and releases…how you know it has seared is that is is movable.  Flippable.  A little burnt.

So, I waited again and finished the rest of the braising preparation.  Easy-peasy.  People love this dish.  They will fall IN LOVE with it once they see how easy it is.  From searing to braising, the preparation took five minutes, maximum.  Now, it was time to let it hang out with its bad self for a couple of hours.

I had to figure out what to do with the rest of my day.  The passivity of braising is very liberating, but it’s not quite like the passivity of laundry.  When doing laundry, I can leave and do some errands.  I could probably walk Grendel in the parking lot a couple of times in the next couple of hours, but I couldn’t leave the stove unattended much longer than that in good conscience.

Anyhow, my plans were to use the morning to catch up on some blog writing and recipe reading.  I’d gotten Ree Drummond’s new cookbook and couldn’t wait to consume her witty writing and artful photography.  I’d probably hop in the shower after the beef masterpiece had been plated as it tends to be an aromatic process, to say the least.  S0, I microwaved a cup of coffee from yesterday’s afternoon pot and settled onto the couch with The Pioneer Woman Cooks.  What a treat.  Running my hands over the cover, I noticed how the differences in colors were paired with differences in texture–her art direction had resulted in a cover that was matte with glossy accents.  Lovely.  I cracked it open and felt the spine give.  I took a sip of coffee.  I glanced at my neurotic dog sleeping on the floor.  I read the inside of the dust cover.

I heard my phone ring.

Plugged into the wall that was nowhere near my couch, I unfolded myself and went to answer it.  It was my sister-in-law.   As we started talking it turned out that she could use my help.  Apparently, Bjorn had fallen ill at his school in St. Paul and was in the office on the trajectory toward home.  My brother is out of the state on business and my sister-in-law had practically been out of the office for the past couple weeks due to various bouts of illness.  Could I help out?

I thought about my beef.  The recipe people had been waiting for.  The photodocumentation that would win awards.  The meals that would bring world peace.

I thought about my nephew.

No contest.  I was on my way to St. Paul before I hung up the phone.

When I went to turn off the burner and put the pot in the refrigerator, I laughed.

The burner had shorted out again and it was completely cool to the touch.

Sometimes, the day knows where I’m going better than I do…and it takes me there whether by tugging my heartstrings or by turning off my stove.

The smile and kiss I got from Bjorn as he ran into my arms beat Braised Beef any day.

It’s enough to make you wanna cry.

I Scored a Spare

The Birthday Boy with his balloons...each of the sunshine ones played "You Are My Sunshine." Extra special noise for the occasion.

Saturday was Halloween.  I had a packed schedule; nothing really having anything to do with Halloween.  My morning activity was a birthday party for Henry who is now two years old.  He was my date for a matinee screening of “Where the Wild Things Are” the other day on his actual birth date and I’ll tell you now that he had the best “Rawr!” in the theatre.

There were 46 people at Henry’s birthday party.  I swear, 40 of them were children…39 of which were under the age of 4.  That isn’t the truth, but it’s close.  Proving how bad my math is, I noticed that pretty much each adult had a kid.  I came empty-handed.  I didn’t get the memo.  I stowed my peshmina and purse, grappled for a cup of coffee as someone started parading around with a drum, and tried to figure out what the heck I was supposed to do with myself.  My father has told me about how he’d look to my brother and me as his sassy saviors when he would attend functions as we’d give him something to do…whether it was chasing, feeding, rescuing, or rocking.  I could relate.  Without my own little bundle of distraction, I was at the mercy of boredom not because the event was boring, but because everyone else was busy with their own.

Two of my favorite distractions, Oscar and Henry.

You see, when you bring your own distraction, you are wrapped up in it.  It needs food.  It needs to go potty.  It needs a “time out.”  It wants that other kid’s toy.  It’s making a break for the door.  It’s driving that poor single spinster crazy by banging a drum at her before she’s gotten a cup of coffee.  Every once in a while, you get to insert a relevant comment into an adult conversation while you’re watching your distraction spin in circles until it falls over.

I should’ve brought  a magazine.

With a magazine, I could dedicate snippets of my attention to it for an article or a spread on dresses but glance up between snippets and be social.

That is the singleton equivalent to bringing a child to an event.

That is what I forgot.

Without one, I had three options.  I could stand there and try to catch the parents for some conversation when they surfaced, I could busy myself with serving or cleaning, or I could play with the kids.  I chatted when I could, I helped when I could, and I know that the kids had a better time playing with each other.  I can’t begrudge them that.

So, I did what I always do when I feel awkward.  I felt sorry for myself.  Oh, what comfort can be found in self-pity.  I just settle on into it like it’s a big, warm bean bag.  Aching ovaries in tow, I was ramping up to go on my internal tirade over being single and without children of my own when I saw him.

Those cheeks. Oh, those cheeks.

My crutch.

My savior.

My distraction.

Look at that guy.  Aidan.  He was a spare. Honestly.  A friend brought him along to the party with her own kids as a favor to Aidan’s parents.  He was just as unhitched as me.  He was sent to give me something to do.  He and I were meant for each other, even if just for a short block of time on a Saturday in October.

He was the perfect child. I held him on my lap and found him food to eat.  I let him play with the kids and was even chastised at one point for losing track of my spare…who was just in a hogpile by the balloons.  (I couldn’t see him because his outfit was made entirely of camouflage.  Naturally.)  I followed him around and wiped his nose when the snot became hazardous.

I had a purpose.

When it came time for Aidan to go, I waved goodbye…and got to give him back.  See?  I’ll repeat:  The perfect child.

Then, I went looking for a magazine.

Happy Birthday, Dear Henry.

Rawr.

Make Me Over, Hollywood Style

I’m a junkie for InStyle magazine.   It seems like a frivolous expense during this time of unemployment, but I found a $10 bill in the gutter the other day and promptly picked up a pristine copy of the periodical at my local candy store.  It was a clandestine purchase which yielded hours of enjoyment; many more than a quick sugar fix could.

I don’t know if InStyle’s editorial calendar timed this for Halloween or not, but I’d been in the makeover frame of mind lately.  Other folks are posting their costumes as well as those of their children and pets…and the mere suggestion of trying a Hollywood Makeover online a la InStyle.com had me practically running to my computer.  I typed in the URL address given in the magazine (www.instyle.com/makeover) and started my adventure.  My, was it a feast for the senses.

At first glance, I admit that I groaned.  Edward and Alice Cullen are the splash page models for the “Hollywood Makeover.”

Yes, I read the Twilight Series…and yes, there’s a little girl in me who fantasizes about being a Cullen…but no, I don’t want to makeover my nonexistent boyfriend to look like an eighteen year-old vampire or werewolf.  Shudder.  I can’t say I was expecting an option for male makeovers but, dear Y-chromosome bearing readers, you can get your butts off the bench and participate in this exercise, too.  In fact, you get 10 hairstyle templates to choose from, compared to the 285 hairstyles offered the women.  Oh, wait.  I shouldn’t have misled you.  Back to the bench.  Lest you think you’re being included, the site actually directs the audience to “Makeover Your Man!”  So, I guess you can take your chromosome and go home.  We’ll let you know what you’re going to look like in a couple of hours, after we post the new you on our Facebook page, your Facebook page, Twitter, MySpace, and our blog…as the Makeover Module will allow us to do with each of the options we explore.

Don’t worry–you won’t be embarrased, there are only so many looks for you.  You’ll either look like George Clooney or Robert Pattinson or Joe Jonas or President Obama or Will Smith or Zac Efron or McDreamy or Brad Pitt or Taylor Lautner or some kid named “Chace.”  See?  Nothing embarassing at all…except maybe the point to which we might manscape your brows (and the option only goes from original size to thin, thinner, and thinnest).  That there are eyeshadow colors and other makeup options for you male readers is something we don’t have to talk about here…you can just save your experimenting to the hard drive and we’ll never speak of it again.  If that’s what you want.  If you want to discuss the brows, though, the topic is always open.

Almonzo, now that I've made you over to look like a jailbait drag queen, I would like to call you "Manly."

Enough about you, back to me.  My turn.  InStyle.com gives a bunch of options for using models for the makeovers, but I didn’t find that any of them adequately represent me, Andy.  Happily, I chose the option to upload a picture of myself…once I had one to upload.  There are certain preparations I made for this project.  The specifications for providing my own photo included that it be a picture of me looking straight ahead with my hair back.  A light background was also a good idea; if I were to do it again, I would make sure I had more white space above my head for updos and spikes (see the cut-off InStyle cover…sorry Kate, don’t hit me).  As it was, I didn’t get to try out any Lady Gaga hairdos which, I’m sure, is what I would’ve chosen if I had my druthers.

After I’d showered, I refrained from putting on any makeup…not that I slather it on for my daily at-home audience of one (the canine better known as “Grendel”).  I picked a neutral shirt without much action around the neck to run interference.  Come to think of it, though, it was hardly a neutral shirt…it was by Ralph Lauren and I apologize for not boycotting his products in this time of controversy.  Kind of like vintage fur, I don’t like the fact that it exists in my closet…but since it does, I’ll use it.  And, I like the irony that he’s under fire for gross misuse of digital alterations in his product photography…and I’m wearing one of his pieces for an online makeover session (aka digital alterations).  Heh.  How do you like that, Ralph?  I’m a plus-size model, wearing your clothing, and not altering one inch of my body…only the width of my eyebrows.  Eat your heart out.

How I look in the morning...with the exception of the lack of bedhead.

Upon taking twenty five photos, I went with the first one in the photo shoot.  Of course.  Meanwhile, anyone passing by my apartment might think the tripod and camera flashes late on a Friday night might be indications of something more fun than a writing project.  Alas, no.  But, that’s not to say there wasn’t still plenty of fun to be had.

I’ll start with Alice.  I had to.  The Cullens on the splash page had me itching to aim further than the softcore fantasy of looking like Cameron Diaz…I was going for hardcore “undead.”  (As it turns out, I’m practically as pale as a vampire.  Sigh.  Ho-hum.) The program ran me through some rather extensive exercises in order to best make over my image.  I had to trace my eyes, my irises, my lips, my teeth…this wasn’t going to be some chintzy Yearbook Me application that would leave a line of demarcation between my face and the surrounding stock hairstyle of my choice.  If I were still doing the online dating thing, this makeover could potentially spit out a new free version of Glamour Shots for my online abuse.  Oh, the possibilities could be endless…all is fair in online love and war.

Believe me, looking like Bella, Rosalie, or Esme were not options.

As seen above, this is what I’d look like if I were Alice Cullen.  You would love me for my eyes, keen sense of style, and ability to see the future.  Yes, I’m cringing, too.  I don’t think I’ll use an undead photo of me for anything but this demonstration.  Wow.  As you see here, the makeover gives a few different tabs and I’m on the “Twilight Saga Movie Looks” one.  Lucky us…as we go, the site tells us how to get the look and what the products are that we used to achieve the look.  And the product prices.  And how to order them.  How handy.  Too bad the uploaded photos have sketchy color calibration and we don’t know if we’re matching the makeup to our own skin tones or to that of the cheap monitor we bought at Costco during the Black Friday sale last year.  I’m not saying, I’m just saying.  Looking at how I had to choose make up according to the colors in my uploaded photo, I won’t be investing in a whole new makeup wardrobe based on this application…tread lightly, InStyle, tread lightly.  Truth in advertising gets a little compromised when the makeup counter is DIY.

Sorry, I’m a stickler for aesthetics (pay no attention to the bad lighting in my last post that I didn’t bother to adjust in Photoshop before posting the photos).  I digress.

As you can see, in one click, I became Alice Cullen.  The next tab to the left of the Twilight tab had other one-click options but, let me tell you, nobody needs to see me turned into Alicia Keys in one fell swoop.  Eesh.  That one should’ve been about a four-click transformation to leave room for a few more options.  So, go with me all the way to the Hair tab, and that is where the makeover has us start from scratch.  It is at this point, that we pick a hairstyle from approximately 280 star styles.  Once the style is chosen, there are many alterations that can be made to make the style work for your particular head and face.  The hair colors, length, width, and placement are all adjustable…though it becomes quite clear quite quickly if “The Jennifer Aniston” was never supposed to be shared with this Andy Lien.  Believe me.

According to InStyle, once the hairstyle is determined, the eyes, lips, and skin are to follow.  I think that the order is off–it should’ve been Skin before Hair.  Because of the issue of coloring and monitor calibration, I’d rather have my complexion off on the right foot for the purpose of the makeover as my own hair color might not look right on me once I get my foundation to match my neck and erase the dark circles under my eyes via modern technology.  So, after a few false, really unattractive starts, I chose to go with one skin/eyes/lips look and only change the hairstyles for the remainder of the makeover.  I gave myself a light dusting of foundation and took away most of the undereye age evidence, applied a little pink to the cheeks, and went for a neutral eye treatment.  I wanted to look convincing, not theatrical.  And, though it gave the options of different eye colors via colored contacts, I found that I preferred my own eye color.  So there, online makeover self esteem.  Take that.

And off I went.

And here you go.

(I’ll admit that the eyebrows are a little thinner and the teeth are a little whiter, but other than that it’s all just face paint and wigs.)

After seeing the Many Faces of Andy, I hope you get a little work done yourself.  Not that I think you need it.  No, really.  You look great.  Oh, help.

One thing I can say for my tongue-tied defense is that I came away from the experience really kind of liking how I already look.  Sure, I might tweeze a little and pull the half-used box of White Strips out of the cupboard, but I’ll leave the everyday glamour makeovers to the real stars:

I probably have the attitude, I just need the offspring. Heck, neither of us have a husband.

A Random Act of Kindness

My cell phone rang as I was about to leave for Minneapolis this morning.  I looked at the screen “Apt Front Door.”  Hmm.  Usually, the front door calling me is a mistake:  Someone else ordered pizza and the delivery person dialed my number; some kid needs to be let into the building because “latchkey kid” takes on a different meaning when your parents don’t leave one; or someone just wants to mess with whomever answers for Apartment #311.  I usually still answer on the off-chance that the love of my life is waiting in the vestibule.

You never know.

Today, my “Hello?” was answered by, “I’ve got a UPS delivery for an ‘Andrea.’”  Um…okay.  I’m never around for these things as I’m accustomed to being employed.  “Do I come to you or do you come to me?” I’m all about etiquette.  He let me know that it’d be best that I play fetch so I slid on my faux crocs and headed out my door with Grendel on his leash.  It was an adventure for both of us.  Simple pleasures.

As I rode the elevator to the first floor, I wondered why UPS would be delivering something to me.  I hadn’t ordered anything. I couldn’t think of anything that was being sent to me.  I hadn’t forgotten to respond to my latest “Disney Movie Club” selection.  Stymied, I signed for the Amazon.com box.  Once it was in my grubby hands, I shook it.  Nothing.  It was so terrifically light, I couldn’t imagine what was inside.  I reeled in my dog who was trying to run away for his new life as a Brown Ride-Along and started peeling the tape off the box.  Nothing indicated what it was or who it was from…I was clueless…until I cracked open the box in the elevator.  About when I reached in is about when I realized what it had to be:

It was a microplane.

I howled.  I hooted.  I slapped my knee.  I startled my dog.  I made a whole lotta noise in that elevator.  I was tickled pink.

The quick backstory is that I tend to update my Facebook page with whatever is crossing my mind.  It’s what it asks of us Facebook participants when it says, “What’s on your mind?”  So, I answer.  My updates are anything from what I’m doing to what I’m thinking to what I’m eating to what I’m wanting.

At 5:47pm on October 15th, my Facebook status said, “Andy Lien needs a microplane.  My mailing address is on my Info page.  Thanks.  Mwah.”

And here it was.  I could say “Ask and ye shall receive,” but that would be borderline ridiculous.  We can’t just order up what we want and it’ll just arrive by way of UPS.  But, I can surmise that there are random acts of kindness out there and they will never cease to delight me, whether I’m on the giving or receiving end.

In this case, I read the slip of paper that came with my new microplane and gasped when I saw that it was from my college friend, Amanda.  The first surprise was the gift.  The second surprise was who was behind the giving of the gift.

How lovely.  She and I had reconnected over Facebook. We kept up with each other and when she learned I was an unemployed event planner, she asked me to help coordinate her wedding day.  She’s a smart, crafty gal who’s got an eye for organization and aesthetics that I appreciate.  Since the wedding, we’ve also found that we share the same Community Supported Agriculture program at Featherstone Farms.  I daresay we’ve run into similar cooking challenges this past season; a season during which I have needed a microplane many a time.

The note she included with the microplane expressed gratitude for the help I lent on her special day.  I’m smiling and shaking my head as I re-read the note.  The kitchen tool was more than that to me.  What could be seen as a simple thank you or a fulfillment of an online request was truly a random act of kindness…and one I can’t let go without paying forward.

Amanda, your cup of good karma runneth over.

Now, it is my duty to continue the trend.

Oh, the places we'll go.

My, what sharp teeth you have.

All the better to eat...pardon me, I've got to go clean up a photo shoot.

I Told You So…

Here is newly unearthed proof that I am not a liar.  This time.  In my parents’ basement bookcase of years and years worth of incriminating evidence against me, I found photos of my first and only official Circus performance.  The 24 years since have just been three rings of amateur acts, but just as entertaining and clownish nonetheless.

I hate clowns.

Enjoy.

Christmas, 1984. It was an adult size, smallest available. That's the last time I've worn that size, I think. My mother said laughingly something about how I didn't quite fill out the bodice. Um, no.

Spring, 1985. Sasquatch. How wide is a balance beam? If you double that, you get my shoe size.

I wasn't too far off with the 300% guesstimate. I hate numbers.

Yo Mama.

For the original story behind what I’m not lying about, click here.

Snips and Snails and Puppy Dogs' Tails…

That’s what little girls are made of.

Or so I always thought.

Sugar and spice can kiss my butt.  Just because the nursery rhyme was written in the early 19th Century doesn’t mean I can’t completely dismiss it from the Western Canon with my Feminist Wand.

Okay.  I’m being sensitive.  I would’ve killed to be  a girl who could pull off “sugar and spice and all things nice.”  To be truthful, I pulled it off with aplomb for a while.  Between my sassy flaxen locks, my mother’s fabulous taste in pre-K wardrobe, and my “steal the show” attitude, I was an American Girl in the making.

Then, I grew.  In kindergarten, I was still a socially acceptable size for my age…but I didn’t stop growing.  My growth spurts were measured in exponents compared to those of my peers.

Being 300% the size of my wee little classmates, I knew even as a lass that I was too sturdy for the sweet stuff.  I’m not being crass or rude with the 300% figure, either.  It wasn’t a matter of being an overweight kid (yet)…it was that even my bones were larger than anyone my age.   By 300%.  Okay, that’s a guesstimate.  Looking back at photos, I was the Herman Munster amongst Lilliputians.  A Viking.  And, it was just plain easier to embrace snips, snails, puppy dogs’ tails, and brute force with the boys.

I couldn’t identify with all-things-girl.  Whether it was nature or nurture, I couldn’t say.

Sure, I had things like Cabbage Patch Dolls and Barbies.*  My mother recalls walking in on one of my play sessions and I’d stripped, scalped, and lynched my Barbie.  I couldn’t hack the monotony of the genteel pleasantries exchanged between Malibu and Twirly Curls Barbie as they rode their horses, Dallas and Midnight, home to the Barbie Townhouse. I put my toad, Jerome, in the Barbie Hot Tub and let him feel the “jets” that I pumped by hand, but Jerome just couldn’t appreciate the finer things in life.  I was a fish out of water whenever I’d “play Barbies” with Stacie and Leah during which they’d divvy up furniture and inevitably get in a fight which always ended in one of them huffing home across backyards in Dassel.

I even had a Playskool Kitchen Set but preferred to use it to hide contraband.  I was such a smart cookie in kindergarten that I masterminded a theft at Gary’s Red Owl in Dassel.  What I did was ferret myself away behind a display case and stealthily grabbed a bag of Hersheys’ Kisses while hidden, stowing them in my school bag.  My mother shopped and was none the wiser.  Upon arriving home, I hid them in my kitchen’s microwave.  Unfortunately, my ego got the better of me and I got sloppy.  Rather than come full circle and hide my crime to the bitter end, I lazily disposed of my silver Kisses wrappers in the plastic oven…to be found by my mother when she came looking for something of hers that I routinely stole.  Stupid kitchen.

A vivid memory of First Grade was the Circus.  It was a yearly ritual performed by the classes of Mrs. Christensen and Mrs. Haapala.  Clown and animal costumes were used year after year from some magic stash…as were tutus.  Of course, every little girl wanted to wear a tutu with tulle, sequins, tights, and slippers…even this girl who wouldn’t fit into one. I don’t know which came first, the knowledge that I would have nothing to wear as I paraded across the balance beam in the performance or my mother taking it upon herself to construct a ballerina costume for her daughter.  All I know is that I was the best dressed kid in the Circus.

It’s only in hindsight that I appreciate what was given to me.  That Christmas, I opened my presents to find the complete outfit.  A pair of real leather ballet slippers, possibly adult-sized.  A pack of white tights.  An exquisite costume the likes of which Odette of Swan Lake would dance in…but for me.  The bodice was pink satin and my mother used pieces of a plastic ice cream bucket to make the stand-in whalebone stays.  The white skirt wasn’t one of the shallow, garish tutus that looked like a frilly inner-tubes stuck at the hips…it was comprised longer, more classic layers of tulle that hinted at historical significance.  The same white tulle was attached at the shoulder straps to be a wisp of wings.  It was elegance in fabric and elastic.

I proudly wore my ballerina costume in the Circus and can’t recall ever feeling that feminine in my formative years ever again. Second Grade brought with it even more of a distance from the norm.  Being so much bigger than the other girls left me looking like the Elementary School’s drag queen if I went too effeminate in my attire.  Even now, shopping for sassy heels has me sharing shoe horns with Sasquatch men sporting better-tweezed eyebrows than yours truly.

Just this past Friday, I vividly remembered that ballerina costume.  I was in a resort town in Northern Minnesota, window shopping.  My friend Aisha was trying on a pair of gorgeous flapperesque heels and I walked away muttering something about drag as I started searching for a birthday present for my niece Kjersti.  Kjersti turned four last week.  She is a girl.  A bona fide girl.  She loves dresses and princesses.  Her blonde hair is transparent and I’ve heard one of the mothers at her inner city daycare lovingly call her “Cotton.”  Kjersti sqinches up her face and says, “Auntie, stop being so PICKY” when I ask her to mend her sassy ways.  She is a kid after my own heart.

I want Kjersti to be a strong woman.  I don’t want her to take any crap from anyone because she’s female.  I want her to continue playing soccer and eating the competition for breakfast.

I hadn’t come to embrace the pink side of Kjersti.  Can a “sugar and spice” girl trounce?  Should I encourage the trappings of femininity?  Do we want to be princesses when we could be president?  Will a frilly wand hold up when whacked over a noggin?  Would she be taken seriously in an interview wearing a set of Pixie wings?

Stop.  She’s four years old.

I turned the corner at the shop on Friday and gasped as I glimpsed my past and her future:  A pink tulle skirt with a flower and flowing ribbons.  I wanted it as much for myself as for Kjersti.  I picked it up, straightened out the fabric, and waxed poetic over the First Grade Circus.

I want Kjersti to be pink.  I want her to say “Ew!” when she sees me put a worm on a hook for her.  I want her to be who she is, and if she’s a ballerina…even better.

And, I will be the Picky Auntie who indulges her every whim while occasionally hitting her upside the head to keep her humble.

She will be amazing.  It’s up to her how she wants to do it.

Happy Birthday, Darling Girl.  I love you so.

Sparkles, satin, and sass.

With the matching leotard, tights, and ballet slippers, she's set to be a Pixie, Princess, President...her choice.

*I will never say I wasn’t a privileged child.

Shifting Tasks

If I had time, I would write about the following:

Staycation Tips for the Homeward Traveler

How to Shift 4.5 Years of Hard Work from Hard Drive to Hard Drive

Exhuming a Marketing Person’s Desk

Breaking Up with My CrackBerry

How to Make the Next Move when the Sky is the Limit

Paring Down the Resume of the Wordiest Person Ever…and other Impossible Dreams

But, I don’t.  So, I can’t.  Not now, at any rate.  Thank you for your continued support.