Good morning, lovers.
Produce
10 JanPast the citrus
Among the bananas
He trailed behind
My thoughts turned to oatmeal,
Our Sunday grocery trips,
The secrets that we share.
I turned around,
And just had to
Had to
Had to
Say “I love you.”
Take Flight
4 Jan“Everyone has Oceans to fly…
if they have the Heart to do it.
Is it reckless? Maybe.
But what do dreams know of boundaries?”
- Amelia Earhart
Dang.it
3 JanMy cooking has improved SO much since the creation of this blog. I can decide to try a new dish and only have to make it once or twice (never thrice, like in the good ‘ol days…) to get it right. My kitchen meltdowns are fewer and further between, most especially now that the man in my life is a cooking whiz— a whiz, I tell you!
And all I wanted to do was slow cook some oatmeal in my brand new slow cooker (compliments of the whiz kid himself).
But, no. To slow cook yourself some oatmeal, you need steel cut oats. Not the rolled oats. Steel cut. How many web sites did I look at over the past few days that repeatedly stated this fact!?!? Well, I won’t tell you because it’s embarrassing. What I will tell you is that I picked up steel cut oats, put them down, and bought the wrong dang kind. I shall not be waking up tomorrow morning to oatmeal in my pretty new slow cooker.
Baby steps…
It Is Beginning to Taste A Lot Like Christmas
21 DecThe holiday season is ripe with emotions: happiness, sadness, disappointment, joy, loneliness, togetherness, and more. And, if you look at the cause and effect of each emotion, they are all embedded in expectation — whether your expectations are met, exceeded, or left flapping in the cold wind. For me, every year is a battle of expectation management, and the result is always exhaustion; I welcome and dread this season in equal measures.
And while there are many blessings and many silver linings in this hectic, stressful, wonderful time of year, there is one standout, one little treat that is only available at Christmastime, one little indulgence that never fails to make my spirits bright, and that is… the mint M&M.
To my knowledge, this chocolaty-minty sweet can only be found once Christmas decor decks the halls of your local Walgreens (which, okay, is in October, but I always wait until December to pick up a bag!), and thus it is something I look forward to each year, something I allow my heart and mind to build up and up and up until you’d think this candy could never meet my expectations, but, then it does, and it is so good.
Merry Christmas.
Eat your mint M&Ms.
Mint M&Ms. Tastes like Christmas spirit.
If You Like Piña Coladas
14 DecThen you might just like this!
I really enjoy wandering around grocery stores like Sprouts and Central Market, looking at new and different healthy-yet-tasty options. I stopped by Sprouts this past weekend, and as I was lurking around I saw the above creamer. I typically drink my coffee straight up, but I’ve been reading about coconut milk, so I figured I’d give this a go (soy- and milk-based drinks are a no-go for Lola).
It’s really, really good. Definitely recommend you try this if you’re looking for a little something special in your morning cuppa.
Yum!
That Time I Left the Windows Open
11 OctDespite any allergy unpleasantness, I have bid a forceful adieu to the veritable hell that was this summer and greeted the fall’s cooler weather with open arms and open windows. I slept soundly Sunday night, enjoying the evening’s sub-70-degree temperature and looking forward to the month’s electricity bill if I could keep my A/C shut off for the month. And so Monday morning, I closed all my apartment’s windows and went to work with a fair amount of pep in my step, well-rested and looking forward to pants, sweaters and boots.
After an excellent day, I returned home, chattering away on the phone with my beloved, sharing this and that as I put away my shoes in my bedroom. From the corner of my eye, I spied something moving in the air, and thought to myself, “well, bugger, I let in a moth last night.” I turned around to check out my intruder in flight, only to realize it was much, much bigger than a moth. I shrieked into my phone “OMIGATHERE’SABIRDINMYROOM!”, quickly threw open one of my bedroom windows, and scurried out, slamming the door behind me, leaving my boyfriend to wonder from across town if I had just been massacred.
I perched on my couch, heart pounding in my chest, giggles erupting like ill-timed belches. I figured, well, we’re both a little freaked out here, so I decided to give the bird a moment to itself to figure out that it was time to leave my high-rise apartment and find a tree somewhere. After what I felt was a fair time-out, I cracked open my door, and there it was, zooming around my ceiling fan like a horrific, high-speed carousel. Thinking that perhaps it was freaking out with the fan and the light and probably couldn’t see the window at all, I slapped off the light and fan and closed the door.
So anyway, once again, my new winged roomie is left to his devices in my bedroom, and I’m hoping he’ll finally settle down and get the heck out of Dodge. I’m already thinking through cleaning up after he leaves because, I mean, he’s been in my house ALL DAY. UGH. And, once again, I crack open my door, turn on the lights, and, for a very brief moment, I think he’s gone.
But then… I look up.
And there he is.
Hanging from my ceiling.
Sure, it looks small here... it was probably 3" long, with a 10" wing span
It’s a g*d d*mn bat.
Look, I’ll stop right here and fess up: I am a total wuss. I’m not proud of my shrieks or sheer panic, but I guess you don’t really know what you’re made of until you’re faced with fear head on, furry wings and all.
At this point, I really start to decompensate. Every time I visualize trying to shoo the flying rat out of my home, my next prediction is that it will turn around and clamp onto my face, screeching like the Dickens (oh, wait, that’s probably just me…). No… no… I just can’t. I call my parents, and they ask where my boyfriend is. I call my boyfriend, and he asks what I plan to do: “well… I suppose I could move….” Finally, when he realizes this problem is NOT going to solve itself, and nor can I speak coherently, he asks if I would like him to come over and help.
YES!
At last my knight in shining armor arrives, and he gets straight to the task at hand (no chatting here; this boy is up past his bedtime). “Let’s get this done!” He bravely marches into my room with my wimpy broom as his fearless lance, and I slinked behind him, peeking around door frames and emitting little squeaks as he approached my foe.
C. quickly pins the bat to the ceiling with the brushy part of the broom while we (and by that I mean “he”) think through our next moves. First—the hunter that he is—he inquires as to whether I’d be okay with him hitting it with a hammer and just killing it. “Please no!” I cried. “It’s all my fault he’s in here; please please don’t kill him.” C. sighs, and we move to strategy #2 (bat is still pinned to the ceiling, by the way, to which I groaned “ahhh, is he dead?!?!”).
C: “Okay, do you have a large cup?”
And off I scampered to my kitchen, wrenching open cabinets to find a suitable implement in which to capture my trespasser. I return with a to-go cup from Gloria’s, plus a large, handled pot. C. finds my cup too small and my pot too big, but we go for the too big pot, and up he climbs onto a dining room chair, hoisting the soup pot to the ceiling, trapping the little bat inside. We slowly pull away the broom, ensuring the bat stays with the pot, and once more, C. finds himself standing with arms overhead while we (he) plot(s) our course. Ultimately, he slides a folder between the ceiling and the top of the pot, we tie a cord to one of the handles, edge the pot out my window as we close the window as much as possible, and then we let go, ending Operation: Bat-Be-Gone. My knight bids me farewell, and I’m left alone in my spooky apartment to search for evidence of the bat (none found thus far, thank goodness; guess he was snoozin’ all day long), and to clean up in the aftermath. And, finally, after about two hours of trying to calm my jangled nerves and skittering heart, I enjoyed a deep sleep in my air conditioned home.
In the aftermath, a jumble of bat-catching accouterments. Yes, we considered shoe boxes.
Postscript
I looked for the bat on the ground outside my window this morning, thinking perhaps he didn’t survive his plummet, but he was nowhere to be found. I hope he’s licking his wounds in a cozy cave somewhere, NOT plotting revenge…
The Grief
19 SepWritten September 11, 2011 and shared in RMT’s memory
It is our nature to love. And when you love, you eventually endure loss.
Prior to this time last year, my only dear ones to depart their mortal coil were my grandparents, and while they remain with me in my heart and my memories, their passing was a natural part of my life. But then in September 2010, a close family friend slipped away in the night, stolen by cancer. For her, my sadness still gurgles close to the surface, arising every so often to claw at my throat and erupt in sobs. She visited me in a dream a few weeks ago, young, beautiful and vibrant, her presence so potent that it was a few hours after I awoke before I realized it was only a dream, and there I was, shattered once again.
I finally understood this morning that forever more will I live with grief. That to fight it, ignore it, or dismiss it is foolish. The grief is here, and it is a part of me.
Though no one I knew or loved perished September 11, ten years ago, my heart crumples on this day each year. Every American has their 9/11 story, and while mine isn’t typical, nor is it extraordinary. I grieve for what I lost that day, but comparatively, I survived unscathed, so I will save that story for another time.
On this anniversary, I found myself drawn to a church I haven’t attended on a regular basis in many years. I learned that the church of my youth was offering an orchestral service this morning, and a sermon of remembrance and hope, accompanied by seven violins, two violas, two cellos, two bass, and a piano. And if you know me, you know I am a serious sucker for strings.
My sweetie and I have been discussing returning to church, and so today we headed downtown for worship. I had already spilled a few tears over breakfast watching the ceremony inNew York, so I came prepared with a purse stocked with tissues, and for the first 15 minutes of service, I wept wave after wave of silent tears. Finally, I caught my breath and backed away from what seemed like eminent hysterics just in time for the fourth movement, which I share with you here:
Lacrymosa: Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow; I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain. I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush. I am in the graceful rush of far-off birds in circling flight
I am the starshine of the night.Lacrymosa dies illa. (O how tearful that day.)
I am in every flower that blooms. I am in still and empty rooms
I am the child that yearns to sing: I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there, I did not die.
I listened to this piece, and I thought about this grief that is now a part of me, like tiny little scars lining my body underneath my skin. I thought about my grandparents, and especially my dear friend, and I realized I will always miss them—I will always cry on September the eleventh—and this is okay.
It is said that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I think the exquisite pain of grief is a fair trade for loving fully, deeply.
Rest in peace.
———————
More information about the 9/11 church service music, Howard Goodall's Eternal Light, A Requiem http://www.eternallightrequiem.com/tracklist.htm (see #5)
Dr. Lola
23 AugIf you spend any extended amount of time with me, you’ll quickly realize that strangers love to talk to me, especially if there’s a counter separating us (like store clerks or, for instance, when I’ve tended bar for charity events). Perhaps it’s that I make direct eye contact, or maybe there’s just something in my face that calls out to the lost and lonely: “talk to Lola, honey.” Which is funny considering this is generally the exact opposite of what I would prefer with respect to my relationship with those scanning my groceries. Nonetheless, for as long as I can remember, these seemingly friendless souls have reached out to me during our few moments together, telling me strange, intimate details about their lives.
Today I ran up to the grocery during my lunch break to pick up some food for the week as well as a few items for the office. This is not the world’s nicest grocery store, but the people are friendly and the goods are cheap; just what I needed for today’s excursion. I separated my items from that of the office’s, and the nice clerk picks up my large bag of peanut M&Ms (for the office, of course…) and begins to tell me that she eats a normal-sized bag every single day and did I think that’s why she’s grown three pant sizes in three weeks? Normally I would consider this to be a rhetorical question, because I’m sure she didn’t want to hear my actual opinion about her health and diet plan (step 1, kick the 12 pack-a-day ciggie habit, babe). But, no, she held my M&Ms hostage while waiting for a response. “Um, well… I mean… I’m sure they’re not HELPING you lose weight…” ”Yeah,” she agrees, “or maybe it’s my new medication?” Again, she looks to me for an answer. “Ah, yes, well, I suppose it really could be either of those causing an issue…” And we went on like that before I finally snatched away all my groceries, mumbled a good-luck/good-bye over my shoulder and scurried out of the store.
Does this happen to everyone, or am I just the lucky one?
Mum Mum Mum Mah
8 AugI often listen to music at work, particularly instrumental or piano pieces as they’re the most soothing and least distracting. But, other days I need to spice things up, so I asked Pandora to do a quick mix of all my stations, which I knew would make quite the playlist since my stations range from the Vitamin String Quartet, to Glee, to country, to rap, to folk and alternative. And so this morning, Pandora went from country to Glee to pop, and as I moved my mouse over to confirm that, yes, I do like Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” I noticed that Pandora had kindly provided the initial lyrics to this infamous ditty. I’d say this clears things up nicely.
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