smile: you're in the sky

The moon tonight was a Cheshire Cat, grinning at me from the heavens with Venus as a bright dimple or a beauty mark on his far left cheek (I think it was Venus. I'll feel like an idiot if it's something else. Jack Horkheimer would know ... I really like Jack Horkheimer - he's super-enthusiastic about stars and planets ... how's this for a meandering thought?).

I didn't know it at the time, but he (the Cheshire Cat Moon, not Jack Horkheimer) was grinning because he knew that Fat Burrito was closed, and that's what I dearly wanted for dinner. I settled for Qdoba, which wasn't really settling, except that I had my heart set on Fat Burrito.

During that tour of Burrito Makers of Laramie, I noticed that there's a Subway across the street from each one. Conspiracy? I think so. That said, there's a Subway every ten feet in Laramie, so maybe it's not so much a conspiracy against burritos as it is a conspiracy to get us all to eat fresh for five bucks per foot of sandwhichy goodness. I also noticed today that we're getting a Quiznos (cue angelic host).

In other news, I need a new brain. If you hear of creative, cheap ways to bribe one's way onto a brain transplant list, let me know. Mine. Is. Failing. Just ask my boss.

In other-other news, I feel this week that I need new furniture.

Let me rephrase that: I WANT new furniture. Pure vanity. Pure financial stupidity. But I want it. Matt assures me that my apartment looks fine, but that if I feel the need to indulge some vanity, why not ... I like my brother's way of thinking. Like we're related or something.

I also felt this week that I might - just maybe - be able to get through The Lord of the Rings this time, and I am currently indulging that whim.

Fourth time's a charm, and I'm in Moria now. I got stuck in Lothlorien last time, so we're approaching a critical point. But it seems to be going well (and faster than I remember). This is good. I feel socially awkward when I admit that I've never read them (or all of them, at least). It's one of the lesser things that make me feel socially awkward, but still ... I'll be one of the cool kids soon.

Selfish

It was, perhaps, a bit selfish, but I spent Valentine's Day appreciating ... myself.

The bitter joke is that February 14 is really Singles Awareness Day.

I, however, am already quite aware that I am single. And for the first time in a long time - perhaps ever - I was appreciative of my unattached status on the Day of Love. I decided to celebrate it.

I changed the meaning of the acronym - SAD became Sarah Appreciation Day. I dressed up. I wore the pearls that Matt and Molly gave me. I went shopping. I bought myself chocolates and two Agatha Christie mysteries. I rented a movie. I fixed a fabulous (and pretty) dinner and had my first-ever steamed artichoke (I liked it, but that's a lot of work for not very much artichoke). I felt vindicated, though, in steaming and then ripping apart the artichoke, as it was the same one that attacked me at Safeway a few days ago. Vengence was dipped in melted butter and tasted pretty good.

I wished almost every person I ran into a Happy Valentine's Day. It felt like Christmas. I was brimming with good cheer and determined to share it. I was contemplating the different kinds of love that we experience in life, and I was thankful for the love I was reminded of yesterday.

My dad sent flowers (tulips!) to my office Friday. I ran into a former professor and mentor (and current friend) in Wal-Mart last night who had been snagged by a desperate-looking man in need of Rose Advice. Among the three of us, I think he walked away secure in a doghouse-free Valentine's Day, and then the professor and I caught up in a whirlwind of chatter next to the gourmet cheese case. I talked to Brooke. I talked to my mom.

I drank too much wine (the story of my Valentine's Day-affiliated life), but it was good wine, so that's (almost) OK. It'll be a lot more OK later today, after I've eaten something ...

I'm OK with selfish on a day like Valentine's Day. I've spent too many of them moping and feeling sorry for myself, wishing that this or that had turned out differently so I could spend that day with Someone Special, neglecting to look in the mirror and realize that I already was, and that in the continued absence of the Best Company (aka Mr. Right), my own company is pretty good to keep.

And, as Holly would remind me, a bigger Someone reminds us every day of His love, and that's worth celebrating, whether it comes cleverly wrapped with heart-spangled ribbon or whispered to a lonely heart on a bitter Valentine's night ...

a very merry un-Christmas

The problem with buying holiday-flavored anything is that one rarely ever consumes all of the special product within a reasonable amount of time surrounding the holiday.

And so it happens that a person (me, in this instance) winds up drinking teas with such names as "Candy Cane Lane," "Nutcracker Sweet" and "Sugar Cookie Sleighride" at the end of January, wondering how 20 bags of tea can seemingly never be completely used; using lotions that have names like "Vanilla Bean Noel" and "The Perfect Pumpkin" around Valentine's Day; finishing up the last of the gingerbread-flavored yogurt; and still tackling the leftover goodies from a Harry and David Christmas care package and from a Chocolate Cellar gift bag.

Christmas is exciting to look forward to; it's fun to extend a week or so into the New Year's festivities.

By the end of January, though ... it's kind of wearisome.

But some innate sense in me won't allow me to just throw away the flavored stuff. I bought it. I'll use it. And I'll get excited to buy it again next fall ... In the meantime, I'm slurping down my fourth mug of Candy Cane Lane green tea in two days.

This posting will not change your life

I was driving down Grand the other day with the little brother, and I passed the sign at Taco Bell for a "volcano taco."

Seriously -- if you're a food chain with a greasy reputation like Taco Bell's, do you really want to have the word "volcano" as a descriptor for any item on your menu?

I didn't think so.

It's almost as bad as Burger King's "Whopper Virgins" ads. For all I know, the woman is pointing at the Whopper and telling the cameraman that it tastes like camel dung ... which is aside from the fact that the concept of a "Whopper Virgin" is a rather tactless idea in the first place.

Happy New Year. May it be free of dumb ad campaigns.

A girl can dream, at least.

And another thing ...

One more thankful:

Phil and Cat Martin (and Marge) here in Laramie, for opening their home to people who, for whatever reason, couldn't be with their families today ... even those of us who had to eat and run.

You guys seriously don't know what a blessing your hospitality was today. And your creamed pearl onions.

*****

And to Amber, who sent a picture message this morning from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. With great friends, you can see the world without getting out of bed (she also sent D.C. fireworks on the Fourth).

Happy Thankfuls

Here it is ...

I'm thankful:

- for my wonderful family, who I'll get to see at Christmas - including MATT and MOLLY!

- for my job (even if it requires me to work holidays), and that I enjoy what I do for a living.

- for the people I love who are still here, and that I can be thankful to have known the people who aren't with us anymore ...

- for friends who will listen to me gripe on the days when I'm not as thankful as I ought to be; who will make me smile, no matter how bad a day I'm having; and who will comisserate when romances big and small come to an end ...

- that clementines were on sale this week at Safeway, that Millstone brought out its peppermint-flavored coffee already and that Celestial Seasonings added new fabulous flavors to its holiday teas ... (hey - even the little, mundane things can necessitate gratitude!)

Frank, I love you ...

I have to thank my brother for introducing me to Frank.

It was this summer, when we were vacationing in Missouri, and Matt brought Frank back to the condo.

We had breakfast together. Dinner a couple days later. I really wished I could have brought him back to Laramie with me ...

I met up with Frank again this month when we all got together in Tennessee. Oddly enough, he was at Wal-Mart in Knoxville. Just hangin' out there in the condiment aisle.

And now, I'm ready to publicly declare my love for Frank. He's in my kitchen now.

Frank, I love you. You add so much spice to my life. I hope we can have many more fiery breakfasts together.

Victorious fans!

Victorious fans!
Originally uploaded by wyosarah203

I think the smiles say it all ....

Southern hospitality

Much more to come, but lemme say:

Where the heck has this UW football team been all year?!? I couldn't have picked a better away game to go to if I'd had a crystal ball for the season. What an amazing day.

The game.
The party bus afterward.
Joe's RV (and Joe's barbecue. And Joe's apple-cinnamon moonshine).
Hot tub, pizza, Amber's swing dance lessons, a great cabin, a fire in the fireplace and too many good times.

What a weekend. Happy birthday, Matt.

Clearly I'm weirder than I thought

Eggplant makes my hands itch when I prepare it.

And I'm apparently the only person in the cyber world who has this reaction. Several Google searches involving variations of "eggplant" and "itch" have confirmed that I am, in fact, much more odd that I imagined ten minutes ago.

Not when I eat it. Not my lips. Not my throat. Not the roof of my mouth. Not my ears. (Seriously? Ears?)

Just my hands. When I prepare it.

Am I odd?

When I was little, our family had one of those old-fashioned popcorn poppers -- you know, the tower-looking thing where you pour the kernels into a top tray while the popper warms up, and when the base was warm enough, you'd dump the load of kernels in, and a few minutes later, like a magical snow machine or something ... fluffy white bits of popcorn would come whooshing out of the "spout" and into the bowl that had better be there to catch it all.

All the while, there was a metal tray on top, filled with butter, which would be melting (the butter, not the tray) from the hot air coming up with the popcorn. You'd pour the melted butter on to the bowl of popcorn ... giddiness with butter on top.

I miss that popper. It was magical to a 7- or 8-year-old kid.

My microwave thingy just doesn't cut it. There's no magic, no trays, no butter melting as the popcorn pops.

In other nostalgia, I really miss the old Disney "Sleepy Hollow" cartoon. I think I'm going to have to order that one this year.

It can always get better

My day yesterday began (well, toward the beginning, at least) with me dropping my hair pick, watching it bounce off the bathroom counter ... and right into the toilet. Nothin' but water. Ick. So now I'm down to one hair pick.

It continued on to work, where I forgot about doing a page until very, very late. And then something was wrong with the way our plates were printing, which meant we had to dig D out of bed to walk us through re-sending some stuff.

"We gotta quit meeting like this, Sarah," she said.

"I know," I said. "I think I talk to you more on the phone than I do in person, and I see you every day."

In the pause of waiting for a page to (slowly) process, we chatted about life, namely her newly 15-year-old daughter. "Am I offering congratulations or sympathy?" I asked.

"We're still debating," she said. She sounded very tired. The 15th birthday came complete with a driver's permit and a new reason to stay up very late at night worrying.

I finally left the office around midnight ...

In unrelated news: September is the month when we celebrate Johnny Appleseed.

My only education of Johnny Appleseed involved a musical cartoon produced by Disney in the late '40s. I dug up my very old dictionary (a big, red, mouse-nibbled, hardbound copy of the American Heritage Dictionary that's too outdated to be allowed as a reference in any place but my home -- it was tucked under my bed, which indicated that the last time I read it was in bed ... some might find this a bit sad). The "Johnny Appleseed" listing instructed me to look up "Champman, John," which I did, only to find two brief lines; basically, when he lived and that he's become a legendary figure in American history. I realize that a dictionary's not an encyclopedia, but I was still expecting a bit more.

Giving up, I hit YouTube and found that old Disney cartoon and got re-acquainted with Johnny Appleseed. When all else fails, YouTube is there to educate.

The night ended with a two-hour chat on the phone with Mom, which is a good way to end any day. Of course, I got the extended story of Mr. Nice-n-Handsome. And a lot more stuff, including the Church Ladies' Guide to Baking Bread and Discussing Fertility (only in my mom's women's group at church could this happen ...).

Exploding apples

I had a craving for apples last night -- baked, spiced apples.

So I cored a couple and filled them with a gloppy mixture of brown sugar and spices. Popped them in the oven.

An hour later, I removed a pan of spiced apple sauce in individual aluminum foil cups and noticed that half of my spiced apples was laying, burnt, on the bottom of my oven, along with a hard-as-rock pool of what had once been spiced sugar. I spent the rest of the night and part of today cleaning my oven. It probably should have been cleaned before I detonated a dessert in there, but ... now it really needs to be done. It's rather unsavory, actually.

SAD Musing

Alas, that time of the year has come upon us again; a time when chocolate abounds in every aisle of every store, wrapped in pink and red cellophane with stuffed bears and frogs and orangutans attached, all holding heart-shaped felt signs that read "B Mine." It's the time of year when artistically challenged elementary school children can really feel ostracized because, no matter how many paper doilies or how much pink glitter they glue to the shoebox, their Valentine's mail box just doesn't look as frilly and pretty as the one belonging to the girl whose mom spent three hours making hers. It's a day to highlight loneliness in all its chocolaty, orangutan-adorned self-pity.

Singles Awareness Day is next Wednesday, and boy, am I aware.

I used to crawl away into my apartment, hoping the day would just pass by, cursing the irritatingly twitterpated, convinced that the idea behind the whole day was a conspiracy to remind the rest of us just how pathetically alone we really can be. (I'm still convinced that it is a conspiracy ...)

But Jessi, God love her, wouldn't have it last year. She broke into my apartment (alright, I gave her the key), and booby-trapped it with all sorts of reminders that even though I'm single and don't have a significant other, I am loved. It was one of the best Valentine's Days of my life. Complete with Harry Connick Jr. playing in my CD player, a bottle of wine in my fridge, and candles and bubble bath in my bathroom, I may have felt sorry for myself, but the self-pity was dulled by white wine and soothed a bit by a relaxing, candlelit bubble bath and the crooning of Mr. Connick.

So here's my challenge, folks: If you traditionally wallow on SAD Day, find someone else who also wallows, and determine to help ease their (and your own) wallowing. Break into their apartment (with their permission!!), buy them flowers, take them out to dinner, gorge on ice cream and shmoopy movies with them ... and remind them that they're loved.

******
Today, I am again listening to Ralph Vaughan Williams. Mostly just the "Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis." And "Fantasia on Greensleeves." Must be a "Fantasia" kind of day ...

I Miss Spinach!!!! Musing

I had just bought a HUGE bag of spinach the day before the story broke about Evil Killer Spinach poisoning Americans by the dozens. As though kamikaze soccer moms weren't enough to keep us out of the grocery store, they have to add spinach -- beautiful, delicious, innocent spinach -- to the list of potential threats. I was crushed. I think I even cried. I miss my spinach. I can't order my favorite salad at Grand Avenue. I can't put fresh spinach in my wraps. I can't cook it up with my pasta. No spinach. Woe is me.