To bear arms

"Did you ever wish you had a Shut the Eff Up gun?"

Keith asked me this question today, today of all days, today when my stress level can be measured using the Richter Scale, when my inevitable climactic reaction to it is likely to rival Vesuvius. Yes. I replied without a thought. Yes I have.

At times, I've also wished I had a Common Sense ray, or a You Are the Last Person I Want to Deal With Right Now zapper.

Wouldn't it be nice to have an arsenal for defense against those every day oblivious, inept and just generally ineffective people, to protect us from those things they do that contribute so generously to the piggy bank of double compound stress?

I mean, today -- right now -- I could use a Don't Blame Me For Your Incompetance laser.

What would you keep in your arsenal?

Six Random Things About Myself: Part Three

This one sort of speaks for itself, so I'll get straight to it. Random thing number three: I have a healthy obsession with pineapples.


It all started with this:

And it grew from there, subtly infiltrating my house. Let's take a walking tour, shall we?

Well here we are just outside my house-- Regardez! Un anana!

Incredible. Well, turning out attention to my home's facade, you will see that there are no pineapples. But you see that space in the center of the top frieze thing -- the actual name of which is disturbingly absent from my mind right now -- where there should be some sort of neo-classical ornament?

I think a pineapple would fit in nicely. That was originally my father-in-law's suggestion, by the way. But I like it.

So let's step inside, which brings us immediately into the living room, in which you will find a number of masterfully subliminal and diverse representations of the pineapple.

And, if it were not for the fact that I am pointing out as many as I can remember, you would discover them one by one, to your delight and amusement.

Which will eventually give way to the determination of the hunt, as you begin to wander through the rest of the house.

You will say something like, "how many pineapples do you HAVE?!" as you scour in and around everything, intent on finding (and counting) them all.

But chances are good you will not find them all. *I* could not even find them all on my first round around the house. Or the second. You won't see them all here, I promise you that.

Perhaps now you are beginning to think that this girl is a bit quirky.

Or maybe you're wondering what her husband thinks of all the pineapples.

What if I told you that most of my pineapple paraphernalia was gifted? Like this, which was given to her by his grandmother.

Or maybe you're wondering why she is suddenly using the third person. And that was just in the kitchen.

Did you know that the pineapple has been a symbol of hospitality since the colonial days? Can't you just feel the hospitality oozing out all over the place?

I wouldn't necessarily say that my proclivity for pineapples is a full-on obsession. It's not like I think about pineapples day and night.

It's more like a trademark.

And a convenient motif for Christmas shopping. I don't mind it.

In fact -- as we enter my office/studio/guest room -- there's something enjoyable about hearing about a pineapple trinket or shirt or objet that someone saw while on vacation and immediately laughed and thought of me.

I've been hearing that story for almost ten years now and it never gets old. If I make no other impression on the people of this earth, as least I will be fondly remembered as the crazy pineapple girl. That's good enough for me.

A VERY IMPORTANT milestone

It took only a few weeks of diligence, patience and unbridled determination.

I FINISHED CROCHETING MY FIRST HUMAN ADULT-SIZED BLANKET.

Do you fully understand the magnitude of this achievement?!

(And is it not beautiful!?)

(However it's not really my personal taste, what with the lacy border, although I do like the textured herringbone pattern. It *is* my mother-in-law's taste, though, because it's a gift for her birthday, which has since passed, but that's okay because I think she will be elated.)

I have grown as a person because of it.

Perhaps now I will have the fortitude to eventually finish these other projects.

Six Random Things About Myself: Part Deux

I think I'm a pretty patient person ("pretty" as in "generally," although I won't mind if you also think I'm pretty) with a mild temperament. I don't think I rant often (right? Jen? Keith?), and I'm usually not quick to anger; do you know that saying, Beware the fury of a patient man? When I *do* get angry, and I rant and rave and shout and yell and cry and shake and my stomach turns to knots, there's been a LOT going into it.

Yet it's been a common theme in my life lately, wacknoodleness. And at the risk of posting two rants in a row, here's another random thing about myself:

I'm all out out of patience for people who assume too much and listen too little.

It's a newish peeve of mine, really. Or maybe it isn't new, but one that I'm vividly aware of lately. It's all coming from a particularly bad experience I had a few weeks ago with a particular wacknoodle, followed by another less intense but equally bad experience not long after that.

These people, you see, are typically overbearing in one way or another because they assume something about you to be true, despite the fact that you have perhaps made direct statements to the contrary. Maybe they think they know what's best for you, and make decisions that affect you without your consultation; or they presume that you think the same as they do, and make decisions that affect you without your consultation. Both overreact angrily when you suggest they are in the wrong to have done so, and you refuse to just shut your mouth and go along with it. They're passive-aggressive -- cold-shouldering, excluding, guilt-inducing -- and make no effort to understand the heart of what's really bothering you, because (a) they don't listen, (b) they think they have your best interests in mind, and (c) they think you're being unreasonable.

And I'm not putting up with it anymore.

Now, it has occured to me that these recurring bad experiences could be resulting from what might be my own skewed perspective on interpersonal communication, and so I've taken to reflecting very carefully on how the other party might perceive the situation. Because I am not perfect (although I *am* a neurotic perfectionist) and sometimes, I find that I'm the one who needs to chill out (usually because I am a neurotic perfectionist). I like to be as scientific, as logical, as objective as possible -- taking time to consider why I am reacting in a particular way, and why the other person may be reacting in a particular way -- before I actually react, like an internal system of checks and balances: my own legislative, executive and judicial branches, all right here in my head! It gives me a fuller understanding of the situation and keeps me from reacting over-emotionally. I mean, sure I get emotional -- I'm a girl after all -- but at least I usually know why, and I can keep my emotions in check. I can be the voice of reason and logic when everyone else is acting like wacknoodles. And then I suppose I come off as cold and insensitive. (It's a cruel, cruel world.)

Which is probably why I don't have much patience for people who don't do the same thing, who don't think. And who don't confront, who'd rather ignore you and/or ignore the issue at hand. Who'd rather sweep the dust under the rug. Who give you a band-aid to heal a bruise. It probably also explains why it's easier to be friends with boys.

And I really, honestly don't think I'm wrong to want to be treated with respect: meaning that what I have to say matters, whatever you think, and that I deserve to be understood whether or not you share my perspective. I don't think I'm wrong to expect that those who don't know enough about me shouldn't assume anything about me. So here's a hint: those who think they know enough never do. Because if you know enough about me, you'll know better than to assume. Which means you're also probably a very good listener. And I love you for it.

Biznitches

Since when is it so wrong to refuse to go to the trouble of making a dish (a pie, no less) to a meal being hosted by someone else, (a) when your weekend is so full that you won't have time, and (b) WHEN THEY DON'T CALL YOU UNTIL 4:00 THE NIGHT BEFORE?

Also, since when did it become okay to get angry with a guest who says No, I don't have time to make a pie--because in all the history of hosting I thought it was perfectly acceptable for a guest to decline to bend over backwards to make the host's life easier whether it was convenient for the guest or not, *particularly* when said host has gone to no great lengths to make your life easier in attending said function, and has, in fact, made it about as difficult as it could possibly be. And beside that they DIDN'T BOTHER ASKING UNTIL 4:00 THE NIGHT BEFORE. Is it that some people feel okay about taking advantage of their family members? Or are they simply *that* clueless?

Or maybe they're just indifferent to the fact that by the end of this weekend, we'll have had to drive to and from Baltimore--at 2 hours each way--twice, because they've planned this function on Father's Day, and call me silly, but I, personally, like to spend Father's Day with my dad. Instead, I'm celebrating Father's Day with my dad tonight. But shame on me for MAKING PLANS, when I should have instead been sitting around waiting to receive my orders to MAKE A PIE. Because I should have known we'd be asked to do something.

What WAS I thinking?

*HUFF*

I Spy

[with heavy German accent]

My name? My name is Greta Schmidt. I am a 33-year-old Astronomer from Germany. I am traveling to London, England on business for four days. Of course I am not Sarah! Codename "Pineapple"? What are you talking about? I do not know any such person.

I certainly was not at the International Spy Museum in Washington, D.C. this past weekend. In fact I've never even heard of the International Spy Museum, nor have I heard of or ever participated in the hour-long interactive experience, Operation Spy, which was not totally fun except for an under-enthusiastic group, and I absolutely do not think it would be fun to go back -- because, of course, I have never been -- with a group of 8-10 friends who would be enthusiastic about playing along, hypothetically speaking.

No, I have never seen this woman before in my life. Jen B you say is her name? Codename "Pancake"? This is silly. Not only have I never seen nor heard of her, I was definitely not with her while I was not at the Spy Museum this past weekend. She looks suspicious though. Perhaps you should use the time you are wasting with me to find and interrogate her.

We didn't walk down to see the White House either, after not going to the Spy Museum without having ever met.

And then we didn't go to Georgetown for an afternoon of lunch and shopping. Oh? I'm really not excited to hear that a Paper Source is opening in Annapolis later this year. Eh. So what?

We did not go to this restaurant -- Café Bonaparte, you call it? -- and we didn't eat delicious crépes for dessert. No, the Crépe Josephine was not dark and luxurious with bananas and Nutella, not topped with vanilla ice cream, and the Crépe Suzette was not warm and citrusy -- absolutely not the thing for a long afternoon in late spring -- also not topped with vanilla ice cream. I don't even like ice cream. (Alright! Maybe a little.)

Okay, this is getting a little old. No! There is no such place as Georgetown Cupcake, that is not a line of people not standing outside of the shop that is not Georgetown Cupcake, and I most certainly did not purchase Coconut, Red Velvet, Lemon Berry and Chocolate Hazelnut cupcakes that were not fantastically delicious to give away and/or eat for breakfast Sunday morning. In fact I am not even really interested in food.

Six Random Things About Myself: Introduction and Part One

A short while ago, Jen tagged me with another blog tag game thing. I'm going to be a bit of a Scrooge again and not tag anyone else, but I will play the game because it's good creative writing exercise. Although I'll do it in installments. What's the game? To write six random things about myself. It is from this that I cleverly derived the title of this post. According la belle Jennifer's post on the matter,

Here’s what you do: Post the rules, write the post and don’t forget to tag six more people in your post, publish the post, and let those you’ve tagged know you’ve tagged them. And no. You won’t win the lottery, lose 10 pounds or stumble upon the secret to a great pie if you participate.

Oh, but LITTLE DID SHE KNOW that, in tagging me, SHE would stumble upon the secret to a great pie -- which brings me to numero uno:

It's all in the crust. I secretly (until now) pride myself on my natural ability to make good pie pastry. If I wasn't a little superstitious, I'd say that it almost always comes out perfect -- tender, flaky, and just sweet or salty or zesty enough to complement whatever's inside. It always bakes up golden brown and tempting, without the need for silly tricks like an egg wash, which my husband is allergic to anyway. Just *LOOK* at this Brown Sugar Peach Pie I baked last night:

TELL me you don't want some of that?! And I'll tell you it's probably some of the best damn pie pastry you've ever had. That's right. I am THAT confident.

Others have come seeking my pie-making wisdom, asking me to teach them how to make good pie pastry. And I've honestly tried to teach them, because I'm all for sharing when it comes to making good food. I've shared my favorite recipes, I've taught the cutting-in techniques, use cold butter, use ice water, humidity changes the amount of water you'll need, DON'T OVERWORK THE DOUGH -- that makes it tough. In fact, don't think of working it at all, just let it start to come together and then gently help it along. Let it chill in the refrigerator for at least a half-hour. And you only have one shot to roll it out (because re-rolling is overworking and thus makes it tough).

Still, I don't think anyone has quite caught on. It's really as if my fingers just know what to do, they've always known, they will always know without really letting my concious, analytical brain in on the process. It's meditative, almost spiritual, requiring a small leap of faith, believing that this will turn out right.

And here's the thing: I can't always roll out the pastry without it cracking, I can't always peel it up without it sticking and tearing -- the making doesn't always go perfectly. Yet anyone who wasn't there when I made it wouldn't know. Because I'm always ready with my little cookie cutters, or lattice-weaving and fluting techniques -- and even the perfect crumb topping recipe if it goes *really* wrong: a veritable repository of backup pie finishing techniques (the bottom doesn't matter as much). I can take a pie that's not going exactly the way I'd planned and turn it into something that looks as beautiful as anything in Martha Stewart Living and tastes as spectacular. So I guess my secret, THE secret, the honest-to-God pastry-making, cooking and baking secret to LIFE ITSELF is this:

Don't panic.

Oh, if only

Somewhere, in a parallel universe, where my life is closer to ideal, my day went something like this:

7:00 a.m. - I wake up to the sound of the birds and the gentle rustle of leaves in a spring breeze, as the sun pours its golden rays through the bedroom window, filtered by a lush canopy of green. Ever reluctant to leave the comfort of my bamboo sheets and cashmere coverlet, I stretch and push back the blankets, glad to find that the air temperature is steady at a perfect 76 degrees Fahrenheit.

7:20 a.m. - Downstairs in the kitchen, the scent of maple begins to fill the house when I throw the maple sausage links into a hot pan.

7:30 a.m. - After saying goodbye to Keith as he heads off to work, I sit down to breakfast. I start leafing through the current issue of Elle Decor and indulge in a bit of global design inspiration while I savor sausage links, locally grown strawberries (freshly picked!), a buttery, flaky croissant, and a cup of coffee with milk and sugar.

8:15 a.m. - I put the magazine down for now, clean up the breakfast dishes, and head upstairs for a quick -- but hot! -- shower.

9:00 a.m. - Showered, dressed and now fully awake, I'm ready to get to work in my studio. It's a sunny day, so I pull the curtains back wide and open up the window to let in the fresh air. I sit down at my iMac (Maxwell) and spend a few minutes checking and answering e-mail, and going over my to-do list.

9:20 a.m. - Today is a scheduled printing day, so I pull up Pandora Internet Radio -- it knows exactly what I like! -- and log into my station for some music to work by. With Jack Johnson grooving in the background, I set up my work table with inking plate, brayers, blocks, proofs, ink and paper, flip on my work light, and get a-printing.

12:00 p.m. - Having finished a very successful run of prints, it's time to break for lunch. I clean the ink off my hands, hang up my apron and head back downstairs to the kitchen. I think I'll have some of that leftover pasta dish from last night's dinner: Penne with zucchini, broccoli, red bell peppers and crumbled applewood-smoked bacon, tossed in a basil pesto. I scoop some into a bowl and grate some Parmigianno-Reggiano over it.

12:05 p.m. - Lunch in hand, I am now faced with a decision: Do I want to read some more, or do I want to check out what's on TV? I bring my book into the living room and set it next to me on the couch; if nothing's on, then I'll read. I turn on the television, flipping between HGTV, Food Network, PBS and the History Channel until I find an episode of A Cook's Tour exploring the Basque cuisine of Spain. It's mostly seafood, which I really don't like, but there are some interesting characters to watch, and I *never* mind learning about food.

1:32 p.m. - The doorbell rings -- a welcome distraction to finally pull me away from another episode of The States on History (even in Ideal Universe, I'm still a nerd). It's the handsome Scottish UPS man delivering a box chock-full of wedding invitation supplies from Paper Source. Mmmm, j'adore papier.

1:40 p.m. - A bowl of Ben & Jerry's "Sweet Cream and Cookies" is just the thing I need to get psyched up for another half-day of work.

2:00 p.m. - After unpacking my Paper Source delivery, sorting the items and checking them against the packing slip, checking the packing slip against my receipt, and updating my books, I call Jen to see if she wants to come over in a few hours for one of our fun, delicious and highly productive invitation assembly/dinner parties.

2:45 p.m. - Jen and I hang up. She'll be over around 5, once she finishes up a few things at the barn she manages and hands over the evening chores to her cowboy boyfriend -- a dead ringer for Clive Owen -- who's only too happy to take over so she can go off for an evening of repetitive, tedious fun with me. This means I'd better get busy printing out the pieces!

3:00 p.m. - My Xerox Phaser 8860 solid ink printer is humming merrily as it prints out the wedding invitations with no trouble at all. Meanwhile, I decide to sit down and write a blog post about what a lousy day my doppleganger in a parallel universe must be having because everything here is going just so darn good.

3:30 p.m. - I quickly get back on the phone to try and catch Keith at work and let him know Jen is coming over at 5. He suggests that he could make us homemade pizza for dinner (he's a pizza crust-making whiz!) -- great idea.

4:00 p.m. - The printer is still working happily, while I'm trimming the pieces that are done and starting to set up our assembly line.

4:15 p.m. - Keith arrives back home, loaded with mozzarella, mushrooms and some delicious-looking onions and bell peppers from the local farm stand. After a quick hug and kiss hello, I dash out back for some oregano, rosemary and basil. Keith comes out for a jalapeño or two and some tomatoes. I help him get everything washed up and start prepping vegetables while he gets started on the crust.

5:10 p.m. - There's a quick knock on the door, it squeaks open and a "Hellooooo!" announces that Jen's here! She walks into the kitchen and comments on the scent of bacon, Italian sausage, peppers and onions that's now wafting through the house.

5:30 p.m. - Dinner's at least an hour away, so Keith sends us giggling upstairs to get started on what we're here for in the first place. All the invitation pieces are printed by now; I finish some trimming while Jen cuts lengths of ribbon.

6:00 p.m. - Keith peeks in the studio to see what all the laughing is about, and to make sure we're really getting some work done. Despite the lively and imaginative conversation, the dynamic duo of Jen and Sarah has quickly settled into our typical, efficient work-rhythm and we've got at least a quarter of the invites fully assembled. (The bride will be so pleased.)

7:00 p.m. - All 75 invitations are assembled and ready to go, just waiting to be boxed up (in style, of course). Keith comes up to announce dinner, only to find us huddled around Maxwell fully involved in Garage Band. He smiles and shakes his head, because he knows that we are fully determined to write a hit Wizard Rock song.

7:15 p.m. - We all sit down around the table with fantastic homemade pizza a la Keith. *This* is how every day should end: delectable food shared with incredible people. A perfect life indeed.

Tout de meme

I got tagged a few weeks ago by Jen A to do a meme. The rules, which I may or may not follow one hundred percent, are as follows:

1. Write your own six-word memoir.
   
2. Post it on your blog. Include a visual illustration if you’re so inclined.
   
3. Link to the person that tagged you, and to the original post if possible so the meme-gods can track it.
   
4. Tag at least five more blogs with links.
   
5. Don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!
   

Before now, "meme" was nothing more to me than a funny-sounding word to giggle at and pronounce in a dozen different ways (it's really pronounced "mem"). As it turns out (thanks to Merriam-Webster) the word meme stems from the same root as mimesis, which is a term I totally understand, thanks to study in Aesthetics and art criticism! But the blogger-appropriated term, meme, should not be confused with the original term used to describe the human behavior of passing on cultural activity; nor should it be confused with the French word for "same," which is a keystone element of the expression, plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose -- one which I will now aim to drop into casual conversation as often as possible to sound, you know, Frenchier.

In fact, I'm not exactly sure how "meme" actually applies to this activity, because it's not so much a cultural behavior or act of voluntary imitation, as it is a sort of interactive chain blog post, like those "send this to everyone you know including the person who sent it to you" e-mails. If you think can provide a clear, *concise* explanation as to why and how "meme" is an accurate term to describe the above challenge, please do.

(And I'm still wondering who the meme-gods are.)

Now the assignment is a six-word "memoir," but I'm only 25.5 -- am I *really* old enough to start thinking about a memoir? I don't think so.

{Neurotic perfectionist to a pathological degree}

So because I'm an artist who's not afraid to take advantage of my creative birthright on my own blog, and because I don't believe these so-called "meme-gods" are going to strike me down with a bolt of lightning or 10 plagues or a great flood, and MOST OF ALL because meme is an appropriated term anyway, I'm going to appropriate "memoir" and create my own context. Thus, my response is something more akin to a mission statement or slogan (which is probably not far off from the goal of the challenge anyway -- I'm sure it's all just semantics -- but it feels good to think I'm breaking the mold), presented in business card format. But it fits, tout de même.

America's finest news source

I've made a habit of reading The Onion daily because darnit it's just my style. And while all of the articles make me laugh, or at least crack a smile, occasionally I'll come across one that's just *SPECIAL* -- that I connect with on a deeply personal level, and I laugh until I can't breathe or fall out of my chair, whichever comes first.

This is one of THOSE. (And if you're with me on my burgeoning crusade to prevent semi-colon abuse, you'll get it. Totally.)

Commas, Turning Up, Everywhere

Gift wrap

There comes a time in every woman's life when she is faced with a seemingly insurmountable challenge, a problem with no clear solution, and she must look into the farthest reaches of her soul, take a deep breath, and ask herself one question.

What would Martha do?

Jen B's bridal shower was yesterday. Since lemonade is her *favorite* beverage, and she is a soon-to-be Southern hostess, I thought that I'd give her a lemonade set. In fact, I *created* a lemonade set, searching high and low, online and off to find just the right serving tray, glasses and pitcher. And I threw in some super cool screen-printed lettuce and tomato dishtowels from Crate and Barrel (because you can never have too many dishtowels).

The problem was this: how do you gift-wrap a pitcher, four glasses, dishtowels and a serving tray in a way that is neither cumbersome nor ugly (hello), that won't keep the recipient occupied for a decade unwrapping stuff in order to figure out just what in the hell you're giving her?

And so I sought intervention from Michael's. I found an oval box in the boxes-to-decoupage section, and with a little kraft brown wrapping paper, scissors and PVA, I lifted that box from a humble ready-to-decoupage box, to THIS:

A decoupaged box.

The four glasses fit inside *perfectly* (woohoo!), and after stuffing it with yellow tissue paper, I put the lid on and was ready to add some pizazz with ribbon and raffia.

Eh. It needs some OOMPH, I thought. A lemon perhaps (real, of course)? With a bit of mint? Attached with floral wire to the raffia?

Mmmm. Delectable.

Tout de même, there was still the stupid pitcher, towels and tray. Or at least the pitcher and towels, because I figured the tray could just function as a tray and be used as a device to both contain and carry whatever clever solution I came up with.

I tried stuffing the pitcher with yellow tissue paper and draping the towel over the edge of the tray, in a casual sort of way.

No, no, no. Martha would definitely NOT do THAT.

And then I remembered the Blue Wind Gourmet, a local restaurant that serves the most delicious chicken tortilla soup -- AND sends your carry-out with you in plain brown, but sturdy, paper bags, which I save because they make perfect gift bags. So smart. So, so smart. :)

The pitcher fit in the bag perfectly. Regrettably, I did not take a picture of the pitcher before I wrapped it all up, but here's what I did: I placed two lemons inside the pitcher, along with a sprig or two of mint, then placed the lemon-filled pitcher in the yellow-tissue-lined bag. I added some extra yellow tissue on top and VOILA! A gift-wrapping job to arouse ample curiosity, speculation and admiration.

I think Martha would be pleased.