The Best-est

I love coaching. But sometimes, I have to keep grounded in what's really important. It can't be about winning; it has to be about playing well, improving, working hard, and developing some character along the way. I believe I was called to be a coach this season, and that my purpose is not to rack up wins, but to build relationships around a medium I love.

But don't get me wrong, I love to win.

Next week is our first tournament. It's exciting and nerve-wracking, all at the same time. Today at volleyball practice, I wanted to communicate that our success next week is not measured by our wins, but by how well we play, how hard we play, and that we don't give up.

In an ironic twist, I asked them all, "So, how many of you are really competitive and like to win?"

Everyone raises their hand.

"Well, I'm the most competitive of anyone, and I --"

Suddenly an assistant coach (let's name her Prodigy. Not only is she multi-talented, but I also think of her as my coaching mentee) giggled. Everyone turned to look, and she said with a smile, "I just thought that was funny, because you were talking about being competitive, and then you said you were the MOST competitive..."

We all shared a laugh. It's true. Who am I kidding? I love winning. I love being the Best-est, including (apparently) being the most competitive. Luckily, I can admit it, and can laugh at myself for it.

Today's church sermon reminded me that my worth is not based on my performance... but rather, my worth is based in Christ. The analogy between my pep-talk to the girls, and life, is pretty amazing: The scoreboard doesn't measure who worked the most, or the hardest, or improved. The scoreboard is an unfair measurement of success. And as the coach, I don't care (for the most part) whether we win; what I care about is never giving up, working hard, and developing character.

Similarly, Christ doesn't care if I win at anything here on earth, but whether I never give up, whether I work hard, and develop character. Unfortunately, my character (like most people's) is formed more by losing than winning. And, as Prodigy and I joke, we feel we've had ENOUGH character development for a while. It's bed nice to let someone ELSE grow for a while...

Anywho, I hope we win next week. But it's kind of a win-win. Either we bring home the hardware, or we bring home some valuable life-lessons. I'm hoping for both.


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You CAN have your cake and eat it too!

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The posting has been a bit sporadic, I admit. As I explained to ChoirFriend yesterday, some days all I have is randomness... who wants to read that? She assured me that she did, so today's random post is dedicated to ChoirFriend...

For two reasons! The second being that yesterday was the last day of chemo, and we celebrated with CAKE. ChoirFriend, you are amazing - the worst leg of the journey is over. Keep her in your thoughts and prayers; the lumpectomy is scheduled for February, with radiation treatment afterwards.

Wednesday night husband made spaghetti. Spaghetti is my most favorite meal. I could eat a pound. I could win contests. I tried really hard not to totally binge eat. Espcially considering...

I had spaghetti Tuesday night as well, at SuperDuper's home. SD's oldest daughter, Evita (not her real name... or is it?) put on a fashion show of Disney-princess dresses, and I was a guest bed-time reader of Dr. Suess's Fox in Socks. It was a wonderful, wholesome evening.

My Monday story is that I learned the importance of comfortable footwear in the skyways. The walk from the parking ramp to the city attorney's office is about a mile one way. Apparently my wussy feet can't handle that, and by the end of my shift at the courthouse I was limping back to the office. How on earth was I going to traverse the remaining mile back to the ramp?

I texted LawLady "HELP ME" and she responded with a panicked phone call - "WHAT'S WRONG?" Oops. Perhaps I should reserve all caps for life or death situations... She was unable to give me a ride back to the ramp, but assured me that she has also walked through the skyways without shoes on, and any woman who saw me was sure to be sympathetic.

So the walk of shame began. I tried to imagine people were not noticing my feet, but then I would try and imagine someone walking towards me without shoes, and I was pretty sure they were noticing. But when I walked by my salon, I had a sudden burst if inspiration! I walked in, explained I was a loyal customer, and that I could really use some pedicure flip-flops.

And wouldn't you know, I walked perhaps two more blocks and ran into a classmate, who asked me if I had just gotten a pedicure. Looking at my broken, blistered feet I had to laugh - yeah, the pedicure of Pus.

But back to cake. This morning was "weigh-in" Friday, and I am proud to report that I lost 2.2 pounds that, combined with my previous weigh loss, equals a loss of over 10% of my original body weight! Weightwatchers goal #1 - done! I was prepared to be disappointed this morning in light of my spaghetti-and-cake-fest, but I'm realizing that a few key changes are making a big difference. I don't drink pop with calories, I eat a salad once a day, and I force myself to walk to work in the skyways. Loving that I can have my cake, eat it too, and still lose 2.2 pounds!


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Manicures

First, I had nothing worry about. I lost 2 pounds in spite of myself!

Second, I have developed a new obsession. My nails. A few weeks ago, teenager went to get his haircut so I went nextdoor and got a French manicure. No acrylics, just a fresh manicure on my natural nails. Of course, within days I chipped a nail, but I had some old white polish from a home French manicure set lying around, and I repaired it myself. It wasn't perfect, but it sufficed.

For a week, I repaired my nails and top-coated them. But tonight, the damage was too much, and I had to take the polish off. But as I stared at my naked, natural nails, I became determined. As I looked at my home French manicure set, I realized now was the time. So this evening, I invested an hour into giving myself a home manicure.

The problem is that I'm an OCD freak. For being Asian, I have surprisingly little natural talent at painting within my nail bed. And despite using the cheating stickers, my French tip is not nearly as crisp as the professional's.

Oh well. I figure channeling my OCD energy into my nails benefits Daughter and Husband, my usual OCD victims.

Scary Scale

I am afraid.

In one week, I have dined out at Caribou, Noodles & Company, and Burger Joes; I have ordered in Dominoes Pizza; and have attended two events with plated hors d'oeuvres. How can the scale possibly be my friend this morning?

Cousin MusicMom invited me to a reception and show at Orchestra Hall last night. I hesitated on the concert itself. To me, instrumental music is background music - appropriate when driving, or getting a massage, etc. The idea is that you are doing something else while the music plays. Whenever I am supposed to simply listen to music, my mind wanders and suddenly I have a "to-do" list as long as my arm yet I am trapped in the social-prison of an auditorium. It is torture.

However, I learned during the reception that the production was the opera, The Magic Flute. AND that there would be large puppets. I was sold.

I enjoyed the show beyond my expectations. There is a mini-screen that translates the German, the costumes (and puppets) are pretty amazing, the singing was fabulous... and the orchestra was lovely (I venture to say, because it was in the background).

Enough procrastinating. Time to hop on the scale.


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The Beginning of the End

On Monday night, Teenager and I packed the car up and prepared to drive away. Husband looked at Teenager first.

"Work hard this semester," he said to Teenager solemnly. "Don't procrastinate."

Then he turned to me.

"You just need to pass," he said with equal weight. "Don't freak out."

And with that, a procrastinator and a perfectionist drove to the cities - he to his second semester of Freshman year, I to my last semester of law school.

And so it began. Tuesday morning, despite being a mere five miles away, I was somehow STILL late to journal meeting! Plan A was to leave at 7 a.m. for my 8 a.m. meeting, just to be extra on-time. But after three snooze bars, 7:30 seemed safe. So at 7:45 when I finally actually drove out of the driveway, I consoled myself that 15 minutes was more than enough time to cover five miles.

Unless you're behind a school bus. And an accident on the freeway. Etc. Etc. Ironically, when I reported late, I was asked if it was because of the intense traffic in the northern suburbs... evil me wanted to lie so badly, but good me overcame and told the truth: I was a mere five miles away and was still fifteen minutes late. It seems distance isn't entirely to blame for my habitual lateness... it may be that I am the common denominator here... that the problem lies within ME...

Although I was late for my first day of school, the day was still salvageable. A high point was having a fantabulous dinner with Classy. Classy is a law school classmate who, despite being almost half a decade younger, intimidates me a little. She carries herself with a poise that I aspire to achieve, and despite being pretty liberal on my political spectrum, we (somehow!) get along :-) It was a great way to end the first day of the last semester of law school - having a dinner that I've been meaning to schedule since the very first semester of law school.


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Wringing Out Every Last Bit of Vacation

The posts have been sparse because the activity has been busy. Choirfriend and I made a trip to the cities Friday for her surgery consult (the end is in sight - only one more chemo left, then surgery in February); Saturday was SuperSaver's baby shower (insert high-pitched "oooh" and "ahhh" here!) and Saturday evening was the work Holiday Party (conveniently held a mere six blocks from the Spare Room). The kids visited their sister Ebunny Saturday night, and we all returned home today.

Tomorrow night the Teenager and I return to school. Alas, vacation is almost over.


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How many sit-ups can YOU do in a minute?

One of daughter's goals at school, related to her physical fitness, is to be able to complete 28 sit-ups in one minute. A few years ago, daughter and her afterschool caretaker, Aleeeesah (Alee for short), were sit-up fiends. Alee went drill-sergeant on the girl, worthy of her own abs of steel workout video.

The combination of Alee leaving for college (tear!) and daughter developing a more womanly body caused a noticeable decline in her sit-up abilities. In an attempt to get her numbers back up, daughter is on a new sit-up plan with SpahrMom. I was a bit skeptical when SpahrMom reported daughter can only do six sit-ups in a row.

In an evil mom-move, Husband, Teenager and I entrapped her. As sweet as honey, I asked daughter to show Teenager and Husband and I how well she could do sit-ups! I told her we were going to time her, and even video-tape her with her phone (as proof for SpahrMom :-). In an amazing feat of strength, Daughter did 20 sit-ups in a minute.

We all congratulated her (just before we gave her the stern speech of working hard ALL the time). Then, without thinking, I said to Daughter, "Keep working hard. Maybe you can get to 30 sit-ups in a minute. I don't think anyone in this room can do 30 sit-ups in a minute."

As soon as Daughter left, Husband and Teenager howled with indignation. I tried to correct myself, that I meant it would be hard, but they wouldn't let it go. Apparently there is a big discrepancy between something being a challenge and something being impossible. So we had our own mini sit-up competition.

I was amazed at the pain that set in at about 12. I now entirely empathize with Daughter, who pushed through to her 20. Despite Husband's encouragement, I just couldn't make myself finish. I laid there on the ground, laughing and crying intermittently, for the longest and shortest minute of my life.

Teenager finished with 36, Husband did 30 in 53 seconds (he quit after he hit the goal), and I did a whopping 26. Apparently I need some Alee just as much as Daughter!


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A Tribute to Gus, by FamousDiva

On January 5, 2011, Mannigus Prime passed away from natural causes. Purchased on July 4, 2009, for the purpose of being set loose in a fraternity house, Mannigus was rescued by FamousDiva and lived the remainder of his life in her home. He knew she had saved him, and they had a connection ever since. Whenever FamousDiva walked into the room, Gus squeaked with joy. He enjoyed playing in his hut, chewing on his edible log, and running around the apartment. His favorite pastimes included eating carrots and spinach, watching movies while cuddling with FamousDiva, and long walks on the beach. He is survived by his stepmother, FamousDiva. He was preceded in death by his stepsister, Harley. A funeral service will be conducted after the spring thaw.

On January 5, 2011, the Diva Residence suffered a horrific event. Gus, my beloved guinea pig, passed on to eat the Big Carrot in the Sky.

Though his death was hard, it was not shocking. A few days earlier, I noticed Gussy was not making his normal squeaking noises as I entered the room. Instead, he was making a whimpering sound. His food and water were untouched. He was not running around like his typical guinea-pig self in anticipation of carrots and spinach. He wouldn’t eat any food out of my hand and he turned his head away whenever I tried to give him water.

Google and guinea-pig-owning-friends all told me the same thing: Gus was dying. I didn’t know what to do, so I simply held my Gus and watched tv while he laid in my lap. I enjoyed every last minute I could with him. Before going to bed I returned Gus to his cage, all the while feeling guilty for having to leave him alone. As I laid him down, he slowly went into his green hut. I turned off the lights and said, “Goodnight Gussy! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I had to work in the morning, and what do you know, I overslept. I was in a rush. I quickly put fresh food in the cage, saw Gus sleeping in his hut, went to the door, and said, “I’ll see you when I get back, Gussy!” I braced myself throughout the day for whatever condition Gus might be in when I returned home.

Sure enough, when I arrived home, he had passed. His lifeless body lay in his hut. Although I was sad, I was now preoccupied with a new problem: What the heck am I supposed to do with a dead guinea pig?

I called my friend, Big Papa, and told him the news. Since BP is my best guy-friend, I expected he would be there to sensitively comfort and assist me in the removal of his body.

BP-“Hey, what’s up?"
Me-“Um…..Gus is dead.”
BP-“……I’m sorry to hear that FamousDiva.”
Me-“Yeah…I don’t know what to do with him.”
BP-“Fry him up for supper.”
Me-“NO! I am not about to fry up my dead pet!”
BP-“Well, have you ever had guinea pig?”
Me-“No.”
Bp-“It might be pretty tasty.”
Me-“No. Will you come over here and put him in a shoe box for me?”
BP-“No! Gross.”
Me-“You are no help.”

Now what? I couldn’t exactly flush him down the toilet, and I wasn’t about to throw him in the dumpster. So I did what any grown woman would do in this situation. I called my mom.

She suggested I ask my Aunt and Uncle, who live nearby, to come over and help. How ridiculous, I thought. I can take care of this myself.

I hung up the phone and scoured my house for anything I could find that would be helpful in the removal of my pet rodent. I came up with the following: Pink rubber gloves, 2 different sized shoe boxes, plastic bags, and an odor-absorbing garbage bag.

I took a deep breath, removed the top of the cage, and sat down next to it. I reached in and removed the green hut with Gus inside. He looked like he was sleeping. Yes, I thought, he is just sleeping. I kept repeating to myself, he is just sleeping, he is just sleeping. Just pick him up like he’s sleeping and set him in the box and it will be done.

The moment of truth. He’s just sleeping…he’s just NOPE not going to do it.

He is solid. And stiff. I put the pig down, threw off my gloves, and called my mom.

While waiting for Aunt and Uncle to arrive (I guess it wasn't so ridiculous), I answered several phone calls from concerned friends responding to my Facebook status of “RIP Gus You were a great guinea pig.” When Aunt and Uncle arrived, I was in tears. They hugged me, and then shared a laugh with me as they admired my makeshift funeral home complete with bags, shoe boxes, and pink gloves (I'm FamousDiva, of course I have pink cleaning gloves).

Uncle walked over to the cage.

U-“You sure he’s dead?”
Me-“Um..yeah pretty sure.”

I looked away, and heard rustling noises.

U-“Yep he’s dead. Pretty stiff.”

And with that, the deed was done. Thank you, Uncle, for taking care of the lifeless body of my rodent, and thank you, Aunt, for being there for support.

After a movie and dinner with BestFriend, I returned home to a different apartment. It’s crazy the effect that little guinea pig had on me and the aura of my apartment. Before I went to bed, I shut off the light in the living room and said, “Goodnight Gussy!”

Then it hit me. I’m no longer going to wake up to him and his little squeaks. I’m no longer able to hold him and have him lay on my lap while I’m relaxing and watching tv. I’m no longer able to hear his cute little sounds while he eats a carrot. My Gussy is gone.


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Bunny Food Haiku

Green, leafy veggies.
Lately, I consume many
As I shed the pounds.

Before, good salads
Meant lots of blue cheese dressing -
Alas, no longer.

Fat-free Italian
And other healthy items
Make up my dinner.

However, I find
Bunny food has benefits:
Regularity.

The End.


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Seventeen

Daughter is seventeen. Strawberry Shortcake has been replaced by Justin Bieber and the blond twins from Suite Life on Deck. Slowly, the rest of the family is adjusting to the young woman in our midst.

Today at church, we were ready to leave and looking for Daughter. I spotted her and walked towards her. She smiled at me as I approached, and said Hi, but kept trying to look at something behind me. I thought we were walking together, but I turned around a moment later and she was gone. Turns out she was getting up the courage to go say Hi to a boy. With all the awkwardness of teenage-girl-hormones, she walked up, said "HI!" and before he could even really respond, she ran away.

Like good brothers, as soon as Husband or Teenager find out Daughter has a crush, they inform Daughter they are going to beat him up. Oftentimes, punching one's hand is involved for dramatic effect. Like a modern-day Juliet, Daughter squeals "NO!" in horror, and declares they are only friends in a lovely attempt to save her crush from uncertain torture.

As for me, I'm getting more comfortable with the idea that daughter is a boy-crazy girl. It's been a journey, one that began in utter and total denial. I was afraid she wouldn't be able to control herself, and would do weird things like stare at the object of her affection, or attempt to hug/touch him at inappropriate times, or do other acts of love that might embarrass him.

You know, things that I did when I was a teenager.

Watching Daughter today made me laugh. Who can't relate to that moment of gathering up the courage to exchange a general greeting with that special someone? And then running away as soon as the deed is done? As time goes on, I'm learning Daughter is more like you and me than we ever realized!


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I've Lost 10% of My Total Weight Loss Goal...

Ha! It sounds much more impressive then it actually is. (Statistic manipulation is a great weapon of lawyers.) My goal is to lose 30 pounds for my 30th Birthday. Today, after one week of Weightwatchers, I climbed onto our bathroom scale... and I lost 3.2 pounds!

In celebration of that, and Daughter's 17th Birthday, I had a piece of a double-layer, chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and raspberry buttercream filling (I'm so happy the Teenager is so bored!). While Daughter's birthday was technically today, we are celebrating tomorrow, so you will have to wait a day for the typical birthday-gush post.

Losing My Feminism

I try to live my life in a way that disregards traditional gender roles. In our house, Husband cooks and I pursue a career outside the home. We have different last names. I admit, some might say I'm a bit of a feminist. Until they read this blog entry.

I was late. I was supposed to be at SuperSaver's at 4:30 p.m. It was now 4:40 p.m. I was driving the "back way" to her house, through quiet neighborhood streets. I was approaching a stop sign. But it was kind of a random stop sign. You stopped, but the only option at this point was to turn right. One might see this as an ideal opportunity for the famous "rolling stop."

I was going too fast. Under normal circumstances, I would have had time to decrease my speed to an acceptable level before making the turn. I did not anticipate the 30' of black ice. The brakes locked up, and I slid past the stop sign and directly into the snowbank beyond. Rough estimation of speed at the time of impact? Twenty miles per hour?

I slammed into the snowbank. But I wasn't afraid. I drive a big SUV. I can get myself out. I put 4-wheel drive on and put 'er in reverse. But... all I hear is skidding tires. Uh oh.

I noticed several cars poke by. At first, I thought they were stopping to help me. But I soon realized they were simply drivers familiar with the speed limit and the road conditions who were successfully avoiding my fate. I began to feel the seeds of guilt. I was clearly at fault, and I deserved to be left on the side of the road. In a pathetic attempt to change my circumstances, I used an empty mini-Pringles can to try and "shovel" some snow behind my back tires. You know, to create traction. I deposited about two little cans worth behind each tire.

It probably goes without saying, but my efforts were unsuccessful.

A moment later, NiceGuy #1 drives up. Maybe he saw my pathetic Pringles act, maybe he was just a Good Samaritan, but he is willing to give me a push. NiceGuy #1 tries to push while I'm tapping the gas in reverse. Skidding tires. NiceGuy#1 takes a closer look at the left front tire, looks at me, and says, "Wow. You're in there deep." NiceGuy #1 says he is going to drive home, get a shovel (he lives on the corner) and walk back. My seed of guilt grows.

While NiceGuy#1 is gone, NiceGuy#2 drives up. NiceGuy#1 returns, and NiceGuy#1 and #2 both try pushing the car, but to no avail. Niceguy#1 points out the left front tire to #2, and #2 agrees that yes, I am in there quite deep. My cheeks begin to burn as I sit in my comfortable, heated car, tapping the gas, while NiceGuys are working hard outside. I realize that I am pushing the women's movement back a decade as I watch the men shovel.

LadyWalkingHerDog arrives on the scene. She asks if I have a rubber mat in my car to create traction behind the back tires. Apparently, her driving knowledge is from the same camp as mine. She also helpfully points out that I am in there really deep.

LadyWalkingHerDog, apparently not a feminist, continues walking. I throw out my passenger-side floor mat (desperate times), NiceGuy#1 and #2 shovel then push, but still nothing. NiceGuy#3 drives up. He knows NiceGuy#1, and yells something about NiceGuy#1 shoveling me out. NiceGuy#1 responds he doesn't want to, but someone has to. I am now ethically torn. The feminist in me says get out of your car and start shoveling. The wus in me stays put.

The two of them discuss strategy. Maybe I should take the car out of 4-wheel-drive. NiceGuy#1 and #3 try pushing while I'm in 2-wheel drive, and when it doesn't work, they try more shoveling.

NiceGuy#3, after observing I was in the snowbank quite deeply, announced he had a tow strap. NiceGuy#1 and #3 leave to get it, and NiceGuy#2 is excused from the scene.

Alone again, two other guys stopped to see if I needed help. NiceGuy#4 parked, got out, looked at my left front tire, and exclaimed, "Wow, you are in there deep!"

NiceGuy#1 and #3 returned with a truck and a tow strap. At first, the truck pulling me out skidded as well, and I began to worry I was never getting out. But, with NiceGuy#3 pushing, NiceGuy#1 (in the truck) pulling, and I in reverse tapping carefully, the SUV slowly began to move.

I was out! I tried to offer compensation (a.k.a. Guilt Money), but of course, the chivalrous gentlemen refused. Although the car suffered only minimal damage to the lowest plastic part of the front bumper, my feminist identity took a significant hit. Alas, tonight I was the stereotypical (Asian!) woman driver, rescued by the superior strategy and strength of men.


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Sabotage: Teenager

Tonight, the teenager made a recipe from the WeightWatchers cookbook. The Turkey Cordon Bleu Roll-ups looked amazing. A little too amazing.

The teenager confessed that he didn't follow the recipe exactly. I knew enough to take only half a roll up after I heard he used two slices of cheese per roll-up, instead of using 2 slices of cheese for the entire recipe. After calculating all the Teenager modifications, the 5-point roll-up grew to 16 points.

Having learned from last night, I did not go back and take the other half of my roll-up.

Bloated Sheep Fail

Apparently, Teenager is NOT committed to cooking everything out of the Weightwatchers cookbook. Tonight he made Tator-tot Hotdish. He made no accommodations. He used whole milk. He didn't use fat free soups. He spared cheese, but I added that on my own (who can eat tator-tot hotdish without cheese?).

So there I was. I had four points left. I had just consumed my 8-point serving of tator-tot hotdish, as well as my salad and green beans. All I had to do was cut myself half a serving, and I would finish the day at maximum point value.

As I stood over the pan, spatula in hand, Fat Pam began whispering.

"You know, these pieces are getting pretty small. This pan was supposed to be divided 12 ways... Pretty sure that this little end piece here is nowhere near a serving size..."

I scooped a half-section onto my plate. But I noticed that there was another small pile of tator-tots protruding like a lonely peninsula into the pan.

"Look at that little bit. If you ate that little pile, then there would be a nice, neat and organized row left. I'm positive these piles don't equate to 1/12 of the pan."

I scooped up the other half. Instantly, I felt regret. I thought about putting it back into the pan.

"You're sick! You don't want people getting your germs!"

I thought about giving the pile to the dog, or throwing it away.

"THINK OF THE POOR CHILDREN IN ETHIOPIA!"

I thought about not adding the rest of the cheese I had set aside.

"Who can eat tator-tot hotdish without cheese?"

Convinced there was nothing I could do, I sat down and ate the hotdish. The entire, cheesy pile. And now I'm bloated sheep full. Its preposterous that Fat Pam is so dang persuasive! I'm pretty sure I sat down with a "half-serving" that was larger than my initial serving. I must enjoy torturing myself. Only a sick, sadistic person voluntarily puts oneself on a diet, dutifully records and researches point values, allows oneself to KNOWINGLY DELUDE herself regarding portion size, turns around and enters the excessive point value into the log, and then blogs about it on the interweb.

In short, I went over my point limit today.

Quest #9: WeightWatchers 2011

I've joined WeightWatchers Online. Today, for the first time this year, I ate within my point allotment. I am quite proud of myself. Day 1 was Portzilki. Day 2 was movie theater popcorn and family dinner out (scallops and a loaded baked potato... mmmmmm... and chocolate lava cake...).

But today was different. After growing mold on the couch for the past week, I rejoined the world of the working. Routines make healthy life choices (as opposed to the four-letter-D-word) a little easier. Also, Teenager is making healthy life choices as well, and has committed himself to cooking this week's dinners from the WeightWatchers Cookbook. Tonight was Tortellini and Prosciutto in a (fake) cream sauce. Yum.

I enjoyed Dan's take on New Year's Resolutions: "Goals with Guidelines." Going one step further, I have reduced resolutions to "expectations" (things that I will have to try really hard to prevent from happening) and "goals" (things that may not happen, but I'll try). Expectation: I will celebrate my 30th birthday this year. Goal: I will be 30 pounds lighter at that time. Expectation: I will graduate law school this year. Goal: I will run a 5K. (OK honestly that's not even really a goal yet, just something I thought of as I was driving to work this morning).


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Me To.

The Teenager has this wonderful habit of being grammatically incorrect in his online communications. AKA Facebook. Every time I see him write "me to" I cringe, and a tiny part of me dies. Tonight was the intervention.

The family saw Voyage of the Dawn Treader (Excellent Movie!) and then went to dinner. As we waited for our dessert, I quizzed him on how to spell the homonyms to, too, and two in context. I would give him a sentence (I and these two are coming along. I'm coming too. Where to next?) and asked him the correct spelling. He passed with flying colors. But when I broached the subject of stating "me to" on Facebook, he countered by saying that nobody notices or cares.

"Why is it such a big deal to you?" He asked. "People don't read that and automatically think I'm an idiot."

"I'm sure it crosses their minds." I replied. "Let's take a poll."

So we are in the process of a Facebook poll. Over the past three hours, 25 people have "voted" for me, that replacing "too" with "to" bugs them a little. The Teenager has garnered one vote, that it does not annoy them or they don't notice. (To add insult to injury, when I made a friendly jab on his facebook page, his response was "Quite" instead of "Quiet." Poor Teenager)

This was one of those moment when I thought I would feel really good after I won the argument. I had solid proof that I was right. The Teenager functionally conceded when he said he should probably start being more careful with his online grammar. And yet, I don't feel so great. I shouldn't be surprised; interventions have a traumatic effect on everyone involved.

I expressed to the Teenager that I didn't actually feel so great about winning the argument. "Really!" He said with surprise. "I would have."

Humph. Well, I guess I don't feel so bad after all!


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Portzilki Day

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Growing up, the morning of New Year's Day was spent at Grandma's eating New Year's Cookies. The Mennonite doughnut officially titled "Portzilki" involves making a bread dough with raisins and then dropping spoonfuls into hot oil. Care is taken to make sure the cookie is cooked on all sides for the perfect amount of time, then allowed to drain and cool for an unspecified amount of time, depending on the durability of one's tongue to hot oil. The browned piece of happiness is best when dipped in sugar and accompanied by a SunDrop, but this morning coffee had to suffice.

I hadn't been on the farm for New Year's in quite a while, but knowing people wouldn't be gathering at Grandma's this morning was sad. So it was extra appropriate that Husband decided that this was the year he would make his debut as chef of New Year's Cookies.

The process was comical, with Husband often coming to ask me "What does this mean?" "Does this look right?" etc. I tried a few times to bluff my way through, but he quickly saw through my act and retreated to the kitchen, muttering something about people who don't know shouldn't guess. It's true, I don't cook often or well. But, several years ago, I did take time to talk with Grandma about making New Year's Cookies and Zwieback. Looking back at the recipe I wrote, I had to laugh. For example, I wrote down the following instruction:

"Mix yeast and sugar, add warm water (1 c.) it will raise (Grandma has a bowl holds up to 1 pt; rise 1 in. (ex. 1 pt) 15 min?"

I was brought back to the day. I was in my early twenties, and despite a total lack of interest in cooking generally, I wanted to learn how to make the Mennonite treat. Grandma was explaining how to mix the yeast and sugar and warm water when I asked, "How much water?" She looked at me, apparently confused because 1) I didn't know how much water, and 2) years of habit prevented her from remembering exactly how much water. She thought a minute, then said, "Well, maybe about a cup."

She then proceeded to say the dough would take time to rise, and I asked how much it would rise. Again The Look, and then the response: "Well, it will raise to the top of my bowl."

At this point, I had the confused look and said, "Grandma, how will I know how much to let it rise? I don't have a special bowl like you." After a few moments of silence as she thought how to explain simple cooking to a total amateur and I tried to figure out how to translate decades of New Year's Cooking knowledge into an understandable language, I decided to measure how big the bowl was, hence the 1 pt./1 in. My recipe includes notes like "If they bake too soon w/out raising, will be tough" and "Use large bowl" (whatever that means!) and "butter, smaller size of egg."

I admit, today was the first day my recipe translation has been tested. Husband and I found only one glitch - we think the 1 cup of water should have been 1/2 cup of water, because the dough didn't want to rise and all other internet sites used 1/2 cup of water. Husband added a bit more flour and we were good to go. Honestly, it is a bit of a Mennonite Miracle that the water was the only bump in the road to New Year's bliss. Think about it: If Grandma is using egg-sizes for measurement, and likely her special flour scoop, then the whole recipe is based on general estimations! Defying all odds, Grandma's disdain for measuring cups and my total lack of cooking experience produced a recipe that was 99% accurate! Happy New Year!


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