Things to do in a school parking lot when you arrive early for pick-up in order to procure an optimal space

*practice Spanish with Duolingo

*stalk your ex’s current’s instagram, making sure to never double-tap

*shop your ideal size on Anthropologie. Make impulse purchases you can later return and feel like you’ve received free money

*look at old pictures of your child, cry softly

*cry loudly. Roll the windows up, crank the ac. No one will see the tears. Wear sunglasses.

*call your mother and rattle through your grudges. She’s happy to hear them and will offer new ones you hadn’t considered.

*read your book. You’re so far behind your goal.

*knit. But forget to bring your pattern and forge forwards anyways, understanding that you will need to tink back every stitch you make. God, you’re an idiot.

*Take a selfie.

*Delete your selfie. Consider makeup tomorrow.

*smile at your friend mom.

*realize it’s not your friend and maybe make a doctor’s appointment for your facial blindness. It’s time.

*What’s your doctor’s name? How do you make an appointment without talking to anyone?

*Call your mom again.

*Roll your windows up.

*Google window tinting.

*Google your state’s allowances for tinting darkness. 

*apologize to Duo and your duolingo partner. You’ll meet your Spanish practice goal tomorrow.

*arrange your peloton workout you’ll definitely do when you get home, or tomorrow.

*maybe consider cleaning up your car.

*wipe SOMETHING. Anything is a step in the right direction.

*why was that sticky?

*do a quick amazon purchase of that weird, goopy car cleaner you saw on TikTok

*is your ex on tiktok? Maybe see if he’s active

*do a fit check

*delete it! Don’t post that!

*It could be funny if you use the right music.

*answer the phone. You’re late picking up your kid.

Julia and Steak Tips Stir Fry

 

I'm watching Julia on HBO and thinking how much cooking has affected my life in recent years. In my married years - the years that blurred past in a tumultuous, unhappy, upheaval - I never cooked. My then husband proclaimed nightly how he *loves* to cook, and I was more than happy to believe. 

Of course, that wasn't the full truth. A more accurate sentence of marriage has yet to be scribed.

Now, in my own town, in my own house, my own life, I cook most nights. I subscripe to Bon Appetit magezine, print AND online!, I watch Milk House on PBS, and I spend my nights watching Julia. 

I love Julia Child. I love that she seemed awkward, like me. But unlike me, maybe she learned to accept that height and voice and humor at an earlier age than I ever could fathom. I think about how people prior to 1980 all seemed so thin. We joke that it was the cocaine years, the "mother's little helper" years. But maybe? Maybe it was because nobody really recognized the importance of food, sharing a meal, spending time and seasoning, and creating an experience to share with your most dear. People prior to Julia Child were skinny because they were making cookbooks based around a jello mold. Nobody has ever eaten a jello mold. So, they remained skinny. 

The French? I can't account for them. All that butter. Outliers, the lot of them. 

Julia was a pioneer, not just for cooks, but for women. To be oneself, no apologies. To show people you love them by feeding them a shortbread savory pie. 

It makes sense that I'm learning to love cooking. I love all of the expressive arts, so long as I can keep them to myself. I sing in the shower, I play piano when nobody is around to hear, I knit just about every clothing item I can think of, I paint, I arrange flowers, I decorate. And now I cook. A Renaissance Woman, minus the need to please a man. I will take my skills and be a friend to keep, a mom to adore, and a woman who stands tall. I will wear heels and glory in my height. I will serve a galette with no apologies. 

Tonight, I had steak tips and no desire to grill. So, I chopped them into double-bite-size pieces, and seared them in a pan. Set them into a plate to enjoy their juices, and in the same pan, I sauteed an entire cut up onion and some garlic baked potato bites that I didn't feel were cooked through enough for Christmas feasting. I had a couple cups left, so I threw them into the flavored oil along with the onions. On medium to medium high, I stirred those two ingredients about for 7-8 minutes, I added a little sea salt and a healthy dose of black pepper. While they continued to cook, I chopped up three large cloves of garlic, and threw those in. Added some ginger powder. Chopped up some about to go bad grape tomatoes. August wouldn't deign to eat them and all their wrinkles, so I chopped each one in half and threw them into the mix. More salt and pepper. Now we add the steak tips back in and let all the juices mix together. Lastly, a splash of apple cider vinegar to make it all sing in harmony, then off the fire and into a plate. 

It was delicious. Bon Appetit. 

Two Broken Pens

Sometimes I write because I have nothing better to do. Or I'm at work, which is basically the same thing.
Today, it seemed every pen I picked up was broken. So, I wrote first with a blue pen, and second with a black, older pen.


This pen is broken and leaking all over the well-behaved pens and pencils. This pen is anxious to break free and start a new society of wild, free-inking pens, like how it believes all pens behaved in the 1960's. This pen is a radical; you can tell from its leaky spout. This pen creates dream-boards that it stares at every night before bedtime. This pen reads Ferlinghetti and dreams of California. This pen wants to be more than just a pen and it hopes that reincarnation is real and that it will be reborn as an eagle or an owl or a hummingbird. This pen is eager to shed all its ink and let its new life begin!

This pen heard about the leaking ink trend of its younger cohorts while reading its newest copy of The Atlantic. This pen felt trepidation. This pen has a 401k and more to lose, financially speaking. This pen is no spring chicken. After many days of deliberation, this pen decided to go on a paid leave and explore the free-inking communes that are springing up all across the country. This pen's ink is running dry, after all, and this pen has decided that it only lives once.


That's it. Then I had to go back to work. I don't know why I feel the need to apply personalities to absolutely everything. Just yesterday, I thought a used tissue looked British.

A Cautionary Tale of Baubles

When I graduated college it was a real step toward becoming a bona fide adult. The last step, in my youthful mind, was to stock up on Anthropologie home goods. I didn't precisely have a home of my own at the time, and had admittedly taken a step backwards, moving home with my parents, so physical objects of my impending, glorious adulthood felt essential.

Allow me to be clear on this: Anthropologie is not affordable, not for someone with a steady job, and especially not for a recent college grad. So, rather than spend $200 on a polyester tea-length skirt, I was relegated to the housewares sale bins, where I stocked up on such essentials as: crystal doorknobs, hand-painted armoir handles (despite the fact that I have never in my life owned an armoire), and frilly lamp shades. With every purchase I imagined my future rustic cottage - in which I would bake muffins in artfully decorated porcelain pans, bedecked in my organic cotton hand-dyed apron - was one step closer.

Of course, my rustic cottage would be in Italy or France, somewhere romantic. I would have a canopy bed, window shutters swung open to let in the cool evening breeze and bird songs, and creaky furniture surrounded by books. I would spend late mornings drinking caffe americano, so as not to forget my roots, strolling cobbled streets with a camera around my neck, and would retire home in the evenings, to cook my muffins and read great literature.

This is what Anthropologie does to me, ever since I first witnessed their online catalog on my e-machine, as a freshman in college. Essentially, this store succeeds where Disney failed: it turns me into Snow frikkin' White.

A dreamer I have always been. I find freedom in my fantastical thoughts and don't necessarily think there's anything wrong with reveries, but allow me to elucidate why this should be viewed as a cautionary tale. I have not once used those crystal doorknobs and believe they are likely still packed away in my parent's garage, along with the frilly lamp shades. The hand-painted armoire handles have all been lost, but for one, which sits accusingly in my nightstand, still in its original packaging. A reminder that Adulthood does not arrive with an Italian village and rustic furniture, but with a credit card bill. Adulthood alights quietly with age. It's insidious like that.

So buy yourself a bauble and then wait to see if you actually use it. If so, get another, if you're still so inclined. If not, keep the bauble somewhere safe and when you take notice of it - tucked away in your nightstand - in the future, thank Adulthood for granting you a little monetary responsibility. If you'd like, you can also thank me. I accept donations in the form of hand-painted tea towels and bird themed wall paper.

Sweet Nothings

D:  100 kisses to you!

 me:  101 to you!

but...it only works out to, like, 77 kisses.

taxes.

  D:  ah nuts. now i'm running a kiss deficit

oh

well

then i guess i'm ahead in the kiss contest

 me:  how do you figure?

seems you're gonna run into the red as far as kisses go, in very little time.

  D :  well i gave you 100 duty free kisses

you gave me 77 on account of not gettin' at the airport

also, you kissed the GOVERNMENT 24 times

gross

 me:  the GOVERNMENT has bad breath.

  D :  indeed

 me:  and tries to cop a feel, even when it's clear that only kisses are involved.

then GOVERNMENT asks where GOVERNMENT can get the kisses.

  D :  i bet audits are...

invasive

 me:  GOVERNMENT makes me vomit on my shoes and try to find plans to not give GOVERNMENT any kisses and allot you all 101.

we should move.

  D :  lol

 me:  we could go to Oslo, but then GOVERNMENT would take 77 kisses and leave you only 24.

  D :  it's tough all over

 me:  but at least there GOVERNMENT is more upstanding, and even opens doors for me.

  D :  i prefer under the table kisses

and under other furniture

 me:  under sofa kisses

they are dirty, but soft.

  D :  ha!

 me:  under bookshelf kisses are nerdy and nervous.

  D :  and not earthquake safe

 Sent at 2:32 PM on Thursday

 me:  under hope chest kisses are cramped, but optimistic.

under dog bed kisses are...best left alone.

  D :  GOD

The Greatest Time I Signed My Life Over, or Happy Birthday Hetch

"IT'S 2PM. LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!" was my post on D's facebook page. It's his 33rd birthday, and I've got a secret weekend planned for him.

I left work early, biked home, and we got the last of our things packed up and threw it all into my hatchback, ready for the mystery to begin. "I know what we're doing. We're going to San Jose to watch Mike Birbiglia," he said with a knowing smile. I drove past the exit for San Jose and his contemplative look reappeared.

Two hours later, we were in Capitola, CA, and D. had absolutely no idea what was happening. He said there's nothing that could really bother him, unless the surprise is some weird intervention, or I've become enmeshed in some religion and this weekend we'll be praying at the alter of whatever god/alien/mermaid I'd decided was in charge. "Is it some sort of comic book convention? Because I don't have a costume. Are....are we disc golfing? Did you somehow sneak my discs into the car without my noticing? What are we doing??" I laugh it all off, he hasn't come close, and even if he did, there was no way I was admitting to anything. The secret's not till Saturday, though, so we've got all night to wander.

Capitola is beautiful, did you know this? Some rich, sleepy suburb of Santa Cruz and Monterey. It's all perfect weather, sun dresses, and beach cruisers. I thought at any minute the Brady Bunch would go skipping by. When we got to the hotel, the concierge informed us there was a problem with the hotel somehow being overbooked (seems a wedding might have been this weekend) and we were upgraded to the best room in the house, no extra charge. The king suite. Top floor, away from other guests, balcony, fireplace, whirlpool, giant flat screen tvs, you get the picture. This place was amazing. D wasn't hungry yet, so we went to the hotel bar to get some beers, and listen in on a very drunk man's rant about the sun. "You don't get it! It's not just for tanning! This is just some minuscule star and it effects everything! Like, everything! Mars! And...and other dimensions! And you can get tan!!"

Faces on Cap'n Jack's Pirate Ship

D practiced forward rolls on the plush new carpeting on the way back to the room.

We went to dinner, walked the Santa Cruz boardwalk, played skee ball and air hockey (5-4, me, thankyouverymuch), posed for a photo booth and finished the night taking a ride on one of those Pirate Ship rides at the fair. This, alone, could have been enough for any birthday.

Today, though, we woke up, grabbed breakfast, and I continued to torment D about the surprise. "Grab some extra bananas and peanut butter. I have no idea when we'll eat again."
"What are we doing? Is this some survivalist shit you've got me into??"
"I just think rations might be a good idea."

Another beer, celebrated on the balcony, and it's time to leave the life of kings behind and hit the road again. I direct D South, on Highway 1, toward Watsonville, and it isn't until we take exit 427 toward Airport Boulevard that he takes another stab at the secret, "Is it skydiving?"
I choose not to lie so much as omit, "I told you, skydiving scares me."
"Good. 'Cause I don't think I'd be up for something like that today."
I smiled back at him, and tried to hide from him that my stomach had dropped through the bottom of the car.
Another turn onto Aviation Way, and one last one into the parking lot for the SurfCity hangar. "Hetch? It is skydiving. I'm sorry."

He took it like a champ.

We signed our lives over. Like, 10 pages of legal talk, promising that neither we, nor our loved ones left behind are allowed to sue. For anything. I initialed it all and entrusted my well-being to a 23 year old, 90 pound looking goober. A very nice, goober, though, who, through all his jokes somehow made me feel like I'd made the right decision. D seemed pretty confident, as well.

"Show me your best limbo pose, Caitlin! Now just imagine yourself doing it when you're falling at 200 mph, and you are set!" Alex tells me. Apparently, the trick to free fall is trying your best to bend backwards, like a banana. Also, scream if you feel like you can't breath. Scream if you feel like you can. It really doesn't matter. You'll probably scream at least once.

After getting into the harness, Alex and Matt, our instructors take us to the runway and have us pose next to a helicopter, then next to a plane, point at the sky! You get the picture. The plane is tiny. Just enough room for the four of us to squeeze in, very intimate. D is jumping first, so he sits right next to the doorway, in front of Matt. Our instructors spend half the time readjusting our straps and triple checking all the safety measures, and the other half making jokes. Alex notices I'm clearly the more scared one, so he spends his time shaking me, pointing out landmarks on the horizon, and trying to make me scream. I think I may have called him an asshole, in the nicest way possible.

ohhhh jeeeeezus

When I think we're at altitude, and I'm looking at Big Sur out the window, Alex tells us we're halfway to altitude. Oh yeah...we're jumping from 14,000 feet. Almost 3 miles up, ensuring a full minute of free fall. What feels like a second later, it's actually time. Matt raises the door and tells D to stick his feet out and look up. D decides to get serious, grabs my shoulder and states, "Caitlin, I love you." Then he's gone.

I have never seen anything so terrifying in my life. Until you actually witness it for yourself, how do you explain the feeling of seeing a loved one, your love, FALL OUT OF A PLANE?

I decided to have a panic attack. Suddenly, my chest was very very tight, and I was gulping air like there couldn't possibly be enough. We circled around, and I stuck my feet out of the door, like I had watched D do just moments before. I'll admit, I thought about not going through with it. Tucking my tail between my legs and admitting defeat. Then I thought about how awful it would feel, to fly back to the hangar with my instructor and feeling a disappointment that would be tangible. And I realized I'd rather jump out of a plane than deal with that.

So I did.

I could tell you how the wind screamed in my ears. How we flipped and tumbled like gymnasts through the air, because I'd assured Alex I don't get motion sick. How I knew, logically, that we were falling, but I felt remarkably still, a human cloud. And I could tell you I've never felt so alive. And it would all be true.

Alex is trying to make me wave.

A minute feels like 5 seconds and then whoosh! the parachute opens, and it's total silence. D says that was his favorite part. The wind from falling was so loud, and then nothing! Total peace. Alex let me take the controls and had me pull hard on one handle, sending us into some serious loops. I'm told it's another four or five minutes of gliding, but it felt like 10 seconds. I watched D land and jump around on the beach a hundred feet below, and then I was landing next to him, feet deep in the sand. We were hugging, high-fiving, and generally hopping around the beach, words unable to express the utter joy we felt. Take the happiest moments of your childhood, mix them with the most picturesque scenes of nature you've witnessed, and add in your deepest moments of serenity experienced, and maybe that comes close to what we felt today.

Then it was time to wait for Bo and Trish, our friends who joined in D's surprise. 20 minutes of laughter and recounting our personal experiences, and there they were. Red and white dots soaring above us. And then they landed, and we could see in their eyes the same feelings we'd been sharing. Bo hugged. Trish danced. It was a great time.

We'll be going again. Next year. Every year, I hope. 

You should come.

Your Girlfriend: A Manual

So, you've gotten yourself a girlfriend, eh? Pretty good model, too. An '81, exemplary year for girlfriends.
Unfortunately, your specific '81 has a few...shall we say, defects?
Nothing to worry about, I assure you, but allow me to give you this user's guide to reference as you move forward.

1) Don't Feed Your Girlfriend After Midnight.
No particular reason, rather than a slew of small ones. Plus, this is a good rule to follow, regarding anything that came from the 1980's.
     a. Your Girlfriend's blood sugar will spike just as you've fallen asleep, and she is likely to poke at you and ask inane questions.
     b. Depending upon the food, Your Girlfriend will become abhorrently gassy  fragrant.
     c. If said food was at all fattening, no matter how fast Your Girlfriend gobbles it up, she is likely to be mad at you in the morning for having made it available.


2) Under No Circumstances is Your Girlfriend Allowed in a Holiday Inn Express or Affiliates.
Though, in all likely circumstances, you will never get past the lobby with her in tow.

Say your goodbyes

Unfortunately, this particular model has some fire-starting tendencies. While details remain a little murky, suffice to say, there was pancake batter, a camp stove, and some wildly illogical thinking involved somewhere outside of Portland, Oregon; culminating in the loss of some draperies and a comforter, and some scorch marks on furniture.
Your Girlfriend will claim she did said Inn a favor by burning their "ugly furniture," but as of this printing The Holiday has not been swayed.


3)Whenever Possible, Open Doors for Your Girlfriend
Unless, of course, you want to eat your calzone to the tune of "Manners in This Country have Really Gone Down the Shitter."


4) Avoid Leaving Your Girlfriend Alone Near any Cooking Device
This relates back to Rule 2. Sadly, our '81 model has a real affinity for cooking fires.
Learn to love signs. A mere post-it stating something like, "Never try to fry food in our toaster! Never Ever!" will save you a lot of time and anguish...And toasters.


5) Don't Chase Your Girlfriend
She just hates it.


6) Never Speak to Your Girlfriend Before the "Caffeination Process" has Completed
This is really for your own protection.


7) Memorize These Rules and Learn to Love Them
They won't be changing any time soon. Indeed, the '81 model is particularly stubborn and prone to outbursts.


Congratulations, once again! You have really gotten yourself into something here! Remember, like anything else in life, nothing is guaranteed. While Your Girlfriend, '81 is one of our more finicky models, there remain a lot of incentives. This model is not for everyone, but for the right person she will provide love, affection, and even a laugh or two. She might even buy you a shirt and tie on occasion, or convince you to go on weekend trips you may have missed out on otherwise. Just don't take her to a Holiday Inn.