Dear Diary,

Every time I peruse the seductive aisles of Barnes & Noble, I am particularly tempted by the journal wall. They are quite attractive, albeit overpriced, with each releasing a different aura and purpose. Journals for travelers, for writers, for Jesus-lovers, for angry teenagers, for grandmas, for hipsters—you get the point. My personal favorites are the very old looking ones. I have made quite a few impulse purchases of these leather bound, hand- crafted, $30 and up blank books in an effort to feel inspired, appear like a real writer. I have always thought great writers must have diaries. Pages and pages of stories, memories, snapshots of their lives to reflect on, turn into best selling novellas, have placed on eBay by their greedy grandchildren after they are dead.

Unfortunately, I have never kept a diary; instead I house a library of very attractive, very neglected blank books. Journaling has always seemed like such a waste of time. I know what I did today, why do I have to write it down?

The closest I ever came to journaling was in second grade. I was given a small, hardbound diary with purple flowers and an orange cat on the cover. Inside I wrote stories about that cat and his many fantastic adventures. His name was Alex and twice he got hit by a car and survived because the angel Gabriel breathed life into his little cat mouth and saved him. He went to lots of tea parties with his beautiful best friend and hero, Katie (I am an oldest child).

In Middle School there was the occasional late night scribble about how terribly unhappy I was and about all the boys who didn’t like me, but they always ended up being burned or shredded and wrapped up in paper towels and buried at the bottom of the trashcan because of its top secret content. High School followed a similar course, though at that time I was actually busy and usually took out my teen angst by oversleeping.

Growing up a GeNET doesn’t help either; writing on an actual piece of paper is outdated, gives me hand cramps, and does not auto correct the word “definitely.”  It seems like a chore. I know this is all very tragic and sad, but it’s the truth. Last year I had the brilliant idea to buy a compact voice recorder to record my thoughts so that I wouldn’t have to scratch them down, but after about 30 seconds of awkwardly reviewing my day, I laughed and gave up

In truth, I think people who journal are probably the same people who scrapbook, and I fit into that crowd  like an Obama sticker on a Ford F-150. It’s just not me, and I should stop making it a New Year’s resolution. My greedy grandchildren will just have to make due with a pile of blank books and a few short stories about the adventures of Alex the Cat.

Side Effects

I have been getting headaches every mid afternoon for the past few weeks. At first I thought I was just dehydrated, as a result I drank so much water I thought I was getting a UTI with all those trips to the lav. Self medication followed; IBUProfen, Advil, Tylenol, Motrin, some oddly shaped green pills I found in the bottom of my purse that turned out to be stool softeners (an unpleasant surprise). Yet the headaches persisted.

After consulting the ever unreliable WebMD, I had myself convinced these headaches were a telltale sign that I was, indeed, with child. Oh the panic. Never have I been so happy for Mother Nature to visit–a long 48 hours later.

The next logical theory was to assume I was allergic to my job. Since graduating college and experiencing the 9-5 pace, I have repeatedly mentioned that desk jobs are bad for one’s mental health. It would make perfect sense for that to spill over to the physical well-being. Unfortunately, the only remedy for sitting at my job is not having a job, which is quite unrealistic considering that a) I’m an English major with loans and b) the job market is not exactly overflowing with opportunity.

Apparently higher education is the answer to this conundrum. Not only are employers now demanding Master’s Degrees, but post college students are becoming increasingly disappointed and bored with post college life, resorting to graduate school to further postpone sitting at a desk job. As my friend Galen puts it, “It’s what all the cool kids are doing.”

I admit the idea of grad school is very glamorous. I could quit my job, write, stay up late, and say impressive things like, “Why yes, my thesis on Hamlet’s internal conflict because he is in love with his mother is going quite well, thank you.”

Yesterday I received an acceptance letter to a decently celebrated graduate school in Pittsburgh to pursue a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Non-Fiction. While it was all very exciting to read an admission letter boosting my ego, it was also fairly alarming to have an actual choice. Suddenly not having a mindless desk job was just as frightening as having one. I suppose this is what corporate America does to you. The risk of losing a steady paycheck and healthcare can be paralyzing. A real dream killer.

This year after Christmas, Austin and I will pack up our things (again) and migrate south to Harrisonburg so that he can finish up some prerequisites for medical school. This means my current job is coming to a definite end and the next move is wide open. I should be ecstatic; yet now that I have this big, fat opportunity for change, I am plagued with indecision and concern. What if I am in grad school and get a toothache? No dental insurance. What if I hate my classes and want to drop out? Massive waste of money. What if I actually do become…with child? Little Timmy lives in daycare and probably becomes a crack addict.

Perhaps all these little insignificant worries are accumulating into one massive headache leaking out like a tooth abscess every mid-afternoon to remind me that I am a bit lost. I’m not sure. What I do know deep down is that everything will be just fine. I have many options, some left unlisted, and support network that will smile and nod along with most any choice. It’s just a matter of choosing. Such is life.

The thoughts that come often unsought.

I believe there are two types of people in this world: forward thinkers and backward thinkers. My father-in-law is a prime example of a forward thinker. He does not dwell on the past because he knows he cannot change it. Instead he focuses on what he can change, taking life as it comes despite its hiccups and because of its joys. As a result, he is regarded as quite amiable and light hearted. Everyone he knows would most definitely say, “Jim is a very merry fellow.” I believe this is a direct product of forward thinking.

One of my great friends Carrie is another perfect example of a forward thinker. She literally lives life in the exact moment it’s happening, very rarely pausing to consider past regrets. In fact, she hardly thinks about the past at all. Most of her time is spent considering the possibilities of the minutes, hours, and days ahead of her. She dreams big and often, which makes her very exciting and excitable. But it has its downfalls, she’ll admit to that. Her childhood is a vast blur and most memories before yesterday are very, very faded. I will say, “Wasn’t it fun when we saw that movie a few weeks ago at the park?” And she will inevitably reply, “Remind me.”

I am the opposite. Anytime I let my mind relax, it automatically wanders to past moments, whether it’s the lunch conversation from yesterday’s workday or my first day of 3rd grade. My childhood is very vivid, my memories sharp and detailed. Positive side effects include sentimentality and attention to detail. I can recall feelings, smells, sights, and sounds from decades ago. But this, too, can backfire. Painful experiences heal at a snail’s pace when they are constantly on replay and I’ve always struggled with big changes. This doesn’t mean I am unable to move on from the past, consider the potentials in life, or dream about the future, just as I’m sure Father Baer and Carrie pause to reflect once in a while. What it means is that depending on our personalities, our minds wander in one of two directions, affecting how we live our day-to-day lives.

There is a distinct need for both types of thinkers to exist. It keeps us all balanced, people to help us reflect and those to help us look forward. That is a fact. What is not known is how to exactly channel those thoughts, backwards or forwards, positive or negative, into what we want them to be. We can only pick through what surfaces and try to understand why we think what we think without our brains exploding and try to rely on our opposing thinker friends and family to keep us in check.

Stereotypically men are not backward thinkers, forgetting things such as what she wore on the first date, when they said “I love you” for the first time, or what she asked for at the grocery store a few hours ago. Conversely, women are often branded as the scrapbook packrat type, rereading journals and remembering every last mistake. This is probably because men tend to be fixers and women tend to be reflectors, but like all stereotypes there is much room for disparity. My grandfather recalls the most obscure particulars from his childhood as if it was yesterday and I know many women who live life without looking back. It all depends where our passive thinking leads us and how it affects and trains us.

I notice it the most when I’m in the car and my mind is not being occupied by anything but default driving maneuvers and the occasional switch of the radio dial. As my mind relaxes instinctively, all of a sudden I’m back in high school singing Fiddler on the Roof or falling into my first kiss. I assure you it is completely reflexive, and I frequently jerk myself out of those memories and try to replace the space with where I want to be in five years instead of where I was. But it’s no use. We can try to fight our natural progression of thought as much as we like, but no amount of struggle can keep you from yourself. I’m hoping that will turn out to be a good thing.

The thoughts that come often unsought, and, as it were, drop into the mind, are commonly the most valuable of any we have. -John Locke, 1699

love and peace and rainbows

I’ve screamed like a little girl ever since I’ve been a little girl at anything and everything that happens to startle me. This trait has been passed down to me through generations of jumpy women and I must admit—it’s not flattering on me. This is no “oh dear me” scream, but more a “there is a giant man in a clown suit holding me at gunpoint” scream. I noticed it again last night when Baer said “It’s behind you! It’s going to bite your foot!” He was referring to a rabbit. I screamed. Ran. There was no rabbit. The morale of the story is that I’m too quick to fear and too jumpy to monitor exactly what noise is expelled from my mouth, thus being one of my least attractive qualities.

Before I became an old married lady a few weeks ago, I lived alone for a few glorious months in my very own apartment with all my very own space without having to share with a boy (not that I’m complaining). The only downside to this luxury were the minutes (or hours) before I fell asleep. It’s not like I’m afraid of the dark (lie), but I live in a very old house with many other tenants and you can’t help but notice all sorts of noises at night. I tried earplugs, I tried fans, I tried Sleepy Time Tea, but ended up lying awake just the same, imagining a large, lumbering predator creeping around my bedroom door at any second. Even after I fell asleep, I’d wake up eventually due to a very small bladder and a very large thirst. It was not uncommon for me shout into the darkness “You don’t scare me!” on the way to the lav. It was also not uncommon for me to shriek at the shadows cast by trees, birthday balloons, or my own dense self.

I don’t know where this alarm comes from. I was breastfed, nurtured, never allowed to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and forced to go to Vacation Bible School. I never watch horror movies and I always make sure to close my eyes during any sort of other movie scene that might haunt me later. I realize there are some advantages to this sensitivity; however, most of the time I feel quite childish after screaming over my shadow or a harmless little rabbit. The problem is not paranoia; even after my car was broken into yesterday in broad daylight, I still do not fear walking around city. I am not one of those girls who carries pepper spray or rape whistles (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and I’m not worried about the Swine Flu. I suppose it’s the suddenness that bothers me, the unexpected.

Though I sleep well now, I am still tormented by the jitters every now and again which is not only an inconvenience but puts a strain on my ego. Weakness is not attractive, and while I’m not in the market to impress too many people, I feel I’m letting myself down by screaming like five-year old when someone unexpectedly comes around a corner. The feeling of fear and associated anxiety is included with our birth; it guides us to safety and is our survival mechanism, even our friend. But we were not made to live in that state continuously.

There are hundreds of pills that are available to quiet our inner voices, though most of us could be calmed by simply changing the channel. We are obsessed with death in this country, the fear of our own demise and the fascination of other people’s suffering consumes television and movies. I don’t own a TV, but I have seen enough movies and watched enough TV to have those images imprinted on my brain. Yet even without fictionalized horror, there is enough real life violence happening every second to make anyone paranoid. The news reeks of it, the world aches because of it. Americans like to ignore it, and I understand why. But like I’ve said before, ignorance is bliss but also socially irresponsible. Ignoring injustice creates the very wars that caused it in the first place. I am great at ignoring things, but I try not to ignore the fact that there is unjust suffering all around us. I just don’t know what to do about it or how to stop it from keeping me up at night.

It is believed by many that our thoughts create our reality; if we focus on disease and fear of disease, we are creating disease, if we focus on arguing, we create more arguing, if we focus war and crime, we create more war and crime. Of course it works in both directions, if we focus on peace, we create peace, if we focus on compassion and love, we create more compassion and love and if we focus on health and healing, we bring health into reality. I don’t know if this is true but I doubt that if I buy a yoga mat and sit and think about love and peace and rainbows I will be any less jumpy or satisfy any starving babies. But I’m a skeptic.

I suppose some positive thinking could do everyone some good, and I know that many would suggest a healthy dose of Jesus. I am also aware that fear is notably tied to our personalities, and my often inopportune vivid imagination combined with a certain sensitivity plays a large role in how I perceive the world. It is changing those perceptions that becomes the question; how? I don’t know the answer. I do know that it helps to shut your eyes and plug your ears and think about Christmas morning and waffles, but that is just a temporary solution to a much deeper problem. One that I’m assuming only divine intervention can ever really solve. Until then, stop jumping out from behind corners (it is not as funny as you think it is) and I will try to stop screaming in your face.

11:11

I am not a superstitious person; being raised Mennonite made it easy to avoid astrology signs and 1-800 psychic hotlines and those foul rabbit’s feet people attach to their key chains. God is a much cheaper (and hygienic) genie, and growing up I used him at every crossroad to plead for his divine intervention. Please don’t let my parents die. Please make my hair grow faster. Please don’t let my car break down. Please help me find my phone. In some of my more desperate moments I tried to bargain and work deals with the Almighty, but to no avail. God is sort of stubborn. Yet somehow I have arrived at a point in my life where I’ve stopped asking for big things.

This realization is recent. Last night at 11:11 when Baer said, “Make a wish,” I thought, “I have none.” My job is secure, my family is in good health, I just married a SFH at a perfect wedding, and I own a Dyson. What more could I want? I hesitate to write this not only because I sound incredibly conceited, but for those of you who are superstitious—I am jinxing myself to bad luck.

In third grade our teacher told us we should say “blessed” and not “lucky” because nothing in life happens by chance. I think about this every now and then when I’m forced to concede to the fact that I am fine and having nothing to complain about. I always use “lucky” though because “I am blessed” sounds old-fashioned and churchy. While I’m not superstitious, I did panic last night trying to come up with something wish-worthy. I did not think I was lucky or blessed to not have any requests, instead I worried I had forgotten something I desperately need.

I know this feeling of having everything I want is very temporary. My personality tends to dream big and let’s face it—I just got back from my honeymoon and we all know that euphoria has an expiration date. But before I return to a life of want and worry, I should pause in this brief peace of mind and enjoy the calm. I think this means living in the present, but I refuse to get any more cliché and start “carpe-dieming” everyone into a bad mood.  It’s just so odd to be content and I keep wondering if other people also feel this way on a regular basis. I certainly hope not. Ignorance is bliss but it can become so very tasteless. I will try to keep my joy to myself.

In other news, it’s summer and I haven’t written in quite a long time. Actually, I haven’t done a lot of things in a long time. I haven’t read books, drank uncaffeinated beverages, eaten meaty meals, or slept well in months. Those days are over, however, which most likely contributes to this newfound gratification with life. Today I was walking through the city on an errand for work when I came upon a pack of wild kindergarteners on a field trip. They were laughing and shouting and holding hands while their two tired looking teachers tried to usher them into a straight line. When I passed them, they all screamed “HI, HI, HI” and waved at me hysterically. Normally I would smile and roll my eyes at such a display, but today I found them so terribly beautiful and funny that tears came up behind my eyes. Perhaps I need to get a grip. Remind me when I return to my regularly scheduled self of this wonderful time when hamburgers taste like heaven and screaming children make me cry.

PS: I ended up wishing for Rita’s lemon water ice. I couldn’t think of anything else. Life is good.  (Knock on wood)

Wanted: Clumsy Baker Who Types. Apply within.

I smell like a bread maker with a drinking problem, which isn’t great considering I’m supposed to be looking, acting, and certainly smelling like a professional employee. Before I go any further, I want to mention that I wish I could write about all the various unprofessional activities I do at my desk to pass the time at work or simply describe my daily frustrations with using an expensive college degree to make copies for 12 dollars an hour, but I need to be careful. Thus, I will only tell you of today’s antics.

It’s very simple: beer, self-rising flour, sugar. Mix. Bake. It’s not the healthiest bread, but if you’re going to try to pull off a covert baking operation, you need something quick and easy. Plus, it’s delicious. I timed the preparation and I can do it in four minutes or less, just enough time to leave my desk unnoticed.

To those of you who are veteran bread makers, this “secret” operation probably sounds ridiculous. Little did I know, baking bread makes an enormous smell. Within minutes of sticking the gooey concoction in the oven, my co-workers were wandering about the hallway asking, “Is that yeast?” “What smells like a bakery?” I shrugged my shoulders and quietly made my way to the kitchen to move my beer behind the trashcan.

When the first loaf came out, I hid it in a basket under some towels before taking it to Carrie at lunch. I was caught red handed putting in the second loaf, and by the third, I sent out an email telling everyone they should feel free to sample some in the kitchen. Within ten minutes of sending said email, an entire loaf was gone and I was being thanked and celebrated for my great masterpiece. I forgot that when you give out free food in an office, especially homemade food, you become a hero. I tried to explain how low maintenance the bread is, but it doesn’t matter. Desk jobs make people hungry. Hungry for a change of setting, a change of pace, even a change of taste or smell. I can only imagine how thrilled they were the day a 60-pound sign fell on my foot and I had to go home crying.

There I was, all alone in my office on the third floor, innocently walking to the bathroom to blow my nose when I bumped the counter and subsequently a large metal sign that was resting beside it. Luckily the sign fell on the top right part of my clumsy foot, preventing me from breaking any bones. Unfortunately it did not prevent any pain, swelling, bruising, or humiliation. The gash that tore into my leg made me feel so faint I had to sit in the bathroom on my office chair while Austin squatted beside me, patting me on the head. Yet the tragedy of the whole situation did not come until later when I had to be wheeled down the hallway in the same office chair, looking ever so pathetic, out to the parking lot in front of my peers and superiors. I think my ego was more bruised than my foot, but at least they had something to talk about.

If there weren’t so many spoofs on office life already, I’d be tempted to write one. The oddities and awkwardness and often straight humor are about the only things that pepper an otherwise mind numbing occupation. Baking bread was the highlight of my day, probably my week. Out of the 420 hours I spend at work Monday through Friday, I bet I spend over half of them trying to think up ways to amuse myself, and I suspect I’m not alone.

If anyone is hungry on Monday, I’ll be rolling sushi under my desk. Stop by.

To Whom It May Concern

To Whom It May Concern,

I got your letter yesterday and I must say I’m impressed. Anyone who takes the time to mail a real live letter is a pioneer in this day and age, and I appreciate the anonymous encouragement and suggestion to keep posting. I admit, my serious writing endeavor has not developed as quickly as I’d hoped, but I remain hopeful. You asked for an update, so here it is.

Since the last time I wrote, I’ve gotten engaged, joined the gym, discovered grapefruit, baked bread, and tried to sew. Though most of these things are still unfinished or in mid-process, I feel pretty good about finding ways to avoid the winter blues. I suppose the most monumental news is the surprise ring that appeared at Christmas, though the discovery of grapefruit has also been rather thrilling. I love the texture and the color. It makes me feel exotic and sexy.

My fiancé provokes similar emotion, with the added bonuses of security, comfort, and happiness. Fantastic! Planning the resulting wedding has been less than exciting, but I have found slivers of fun hidden under all the expenses. I guess I’m just not one of those brides who loves to pick out china sets or make personalized wedding favors. I do love long dresses though, and my favorite color to wear is white. Thus the concept of a wedding dress excites me beyond all reason. So far I have purchased three dresses, all second hand, all entirely gorgeous. I was going to have my expert mother in-law to-be make the dress, but I kept accidently stumbling upon used dresses in my size. What was I supposed to do? The worst part is waiting. If I didn’t so easily spill food all over myself, I’d probably be wearing it right now. In fact, if there was a job where I could walk around in a long white dress all day, I’d be the perfect candidate. Just don’t make me wear heels.

Beyond the dress and my fondness for fajitas, our reception meal, I’m probably not the ideal bride. I don’t gush over centerpieces or dream about flower arrangements. I just want to get married and have a good time doing it, which is why we hired a band instead of putting personalized M&Ms on your dinner plate. I’m sorry if this offends you.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t believe in romance or that I am an overly practical or sturdy person. I simply don’t enjoy cheese ball antics or want the typical American wedding. There will be no bland wedding cake, pricey caterer, or overpaid DJ. And I can guarantee Austin will not take off any of my undergarments with his teeth, at least publically. The average wedding in 2008 cost $28,800, we hope to spend around $5,000. At first this task seemed daunting, but I’ve come to realize that it is not only possible but more responsible. I trust that with this economic crisis, 2009 brides will cut back on the extra layers and invest more of their time, money, and (most importantly) energy into their post wedding lives.

So there’s that speech.

I said I would stop blogging, as I have always had an aversion to such things, but maybe I am famously over thinking it and would benefit from a continuing monologue. To quote mothers everywhere, “we’ll see.”

Thanks again for the letter,

KB

Little Timmy

I am going to give birth on foreign soil, in the middle of the wilderness, surrounded by a beautiful and peaceful landscape. Waterfalls, mountains, and a stunning sunset will circle my heaving body. There will also be two of the world’s finest doctors, a midwife, a sterile tent, air conditioning, and preferably that long needle they jab in your back to numb the pain. Enya can be there too, her voice is soothing.

After the blood and gore is over and there is a real live human being attached to me, I will remain in this paradise to raise little Timmy to be an intelligent and responsible young man, away from provocative Internet spam, R-rated horror flicks, suggestive beer commercials, crack, and Jay-Z.

Today my boss asked me if I’m ready to have children. I said, “Not right now, but maybe after lunch I would have some time.” She found this amusing, but not enough to laugh out loud. Later she made the comment that I would make a good, sturdy mother, sturdy enough to have six or seven children, at least. Though I was flattered by this blind confidence in my durability, the word sturdy made me uneasy. I pictured a thick housewife wearing faded high cut jeans and a pastel kitten sweatshirt over a flannel button down. I didn’t say this, however, and accepted the compliment graciously, happy she had overlooked the unnecessary comment earlier. I admit I have hips to do the job, but I’m not sure I have any of the other qualities needed to bear six or seven offspring. I always assumed I was a 2-3 kind of girl. A boy, a girl, maybe a puppy. Seven sounds a little excessive.

At the moment I am quite content to be responsible for myself and my fish, Tomais, though I would like to have a brood someday, despite the immense responsibility. Strangely, it’s not the potty training, temper tantrums, or teen angst I worry about. I worry about the fragile complexities of emotional and mental health. Though we are all rightfully caught up in global warming, I’m less concerned about the physical danger than the mental danger of my future cherubs. If video games are violent now, who knows what kind of 6-D slaughter fest paraphernalia will be out for the Nintendo Wii of my kid’s generation. Even though I may not allow it in my home, what if little Timmy becomes hopelessly addicted to violence at little Bobby’s house and becomes a bloodthirsty mass murderer or worse, a Republican?

I suppose this fear has been alive since Elvis or even Eve, but I’m still concerned about little Timmy’s emotional health.

(FYI, I would never name my child Timmy. Jackson maybe, a good strong name. My sister and I fight over baby names much like we argue over anything that involves “calling it.” I think this originates back to the well-known era of the front seat. One of our favorite things to call are my parents various valuables, family heirlooms, and assets. We will be leisurely sitting at dinner and she will say, “I call the big green vase.” And then it begins, everything from our cabin in West Virginia to Mom’s paintings to the miniature change bowl must be assigned in order to be prepared to divvy up things after our parents impending death. Even though I swear I called the name Lily a few decades ago, she insists she came up with this name first. Benjamin is also a name I know I called before she could even speak and yet she has the whole thing all planned out. Regardless, when I am in the wilderness, it will not matter what the name is. Maybe I’ll let them name themselves.)

As my friends slowly get married off to one another, I can’t help but wonder what sort of parents they will be or what sort of children they will produce. Will I let my children play with their children? Maybe after they take a drug test. One of my most favorite friends, who I will call Beatrice, is one of the messiest and most disorganized human beings on this planet. I can’t imagine how her kids will survive being lost and wandering about the streets when she forgets they exist. I suppose they will be fine, probably better than my little Timmy, who has never heard the word kidnapper before in his life.

How do you raise peaceful, responsible, and healthy children who are still street smart? Obviously I don’t want to be that parent who has those children who walk around in a sheltered daze, afraid of anything that moves. But I’m not sure how to make that happen naturally. I want them to be brave think for themselfers who would rather play cello, conserve energy, and organize sports leagues than date the next Britney Spears, slew foreigners with accents, or try LSD.

I’m glad Tomais does not need this sort of supervision.

So no, I’m not ready now (or after lunch) to bear the fruit of my loins into this daunting world. I may have sturdy hips but I do not have the energy to be worrying about Timmy’s mental health or which of his friends are sneaking him cheese curls and tequila.

PS: I call Timmy, just in case.

Welcome to the Church of the Holy Cabbage. Lettuce pray.

[Feminism is] a socialist, anti-family, political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians. ~Pat Robertson

It begins when the doctor says, “It’s a girl.” I always wonder if fathers are disappointed by this news. Suddenly little league baseball and fly fishing and father/son camping trips disappear when a daughter is born. Instead, this tiny human being is furnished with a host of other expectations. It is a strange thing, for sure. Though the ideas of feminism and gender roles and sexism have been discussed, debated, and dissected plenty over the past decade, the thought of ones identity based on genitalia is still fascinating.

In any case, one of those expectations includes the ability to and love for cooking, at least in my Pennsylvanian suburbia. My mother tried her best to instill this interest into me, but I stubbornly resisted, hoping that if I ever did need to cook, the ability would appear naturally. 23 years later, this is not the case.

It wasn’t that I thought cooking and baking were unappealing; I simply would rather play. Cooking was not mandatory in our household, but cleaning, laundry, and gardening were, so in my spare time taking directions and learning were not as attractive as swimming, playing, and friends. I certainly never minded helping bake cookies, but the thought of making a whole meal sounded messy. I didn’t want to have to clean it up.

When college and adulthood arrived, I admit I was less than prepared to handle even simple cooking tasks, calling my mother weekly to find out how to fry an egg or keep the rice from exploding all over the stove. Even now I struggle with basic things, especially when there is no recipe. I find myself staring at ingredients, trying to somehow unearth my womanly instinct amidst the butter, flour, and eggs. However, in my quest to discover Kate 2008 I have tried to stretch myself, trying to do and say and be things I previously resisted. That, coupled with my infamous tendency to get overexcited about new hobbies, has brought me into a cooking frenzy.

I am hoping this interest in cooking and baking lasts longer than my brief passion for rollerblading, or the time I thought I should major in Psychology. My boyfriend would probably like this spell to last as well, though I fear he has had to endure plenty of first time blunders, such as the undercooked egg I tried to give him for breakfast or the pork chops I drained of any moisture, taste, or enjoyment. Somehow it has always been exceptionally easy for disaster to strike when I am in the kitchen. Flames are common, and somehow I always measure out the wrong amount of salt.

But seriously, cooking is fun. Baking too. The whole mixing, pouring, and seasoning thing amuses me. And it’s always lovely to be appreciated after you feed someone. It satisfies a very primal urge, one I’d always dismissed as nonsense. Naturally, I am inclined to cook healthier foods, using natural products and low fat accessories. This has proven to be quite expensive, but I think a worthy endeavor. Yesterday I made fruit smoothies for the first time and the result rocked my world. I was in heaven, spiraling into a hodgepodge of lemon, vanilla, and strawberry flavor. No sugar added!

So, if you’re every hungry and in town, feel free to give me a call. I will make you a fruit smoothie, full course dinner and a delicious dessert, as long as you eat everything with a grain of salt (or a few grains, in my case). It will be my way of thanking you for indulging in my non-feminist and domestic ventures, preventing me from leaving my future husband, killing my future children, practicing witchcraft, destroying capitalism, and becoming a raging lesbian.

Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter almond; cauliflower is nothing but cabbage with a college education. ~Mark Twain

a pair of pants or a wig with curls

I made a list of things to do before I die. No, this wasn’t inspired by the new movie, The Bucket List. I started this list a long time ago, and now I’m adding to it and crossing things off in an attempt at having a revelation, revolution, or maybe a combination of the two. This list has been sitting on my desk at work for the past week, staring up at me as I make phone calls and take messages, mocking my inability to do anything while sitting in an office chair.

Truthfully, I love my job and so this is not another rant against the 9-5 routine. But it is somewhat disheartening to be reminded of how much traveling, ballroom dancing, and surfing I’m not doing. Today, it was confirmed that it is in everyone’s best interest to remove the list and file it away for safe keeping.

“What is that?”Scott is staring at my list. I should be thankful he’s not staring down my blouse, but I am immediately aggravated. Nosy people distrust other nosy people.

“Nothing,” I shrug, quickly moving my tape dispenser over the heading. I try to change the subject, initiating a barrage of questions regarding my computer’s health. Why is it freezing? How do you change the screen contrast in Vista? How do I set up wireless? Where can I find PowerPoint?

Scott’s eyes narrow and I wonder if he knows that I know all the answers to these questions. Scott is our IT guy, or at least he pretends to be. Though he has no formal training in computer technology, he has been elected the maintenance man for all computer needs. I think it is because he is tall, male, and awkward. This does not please me, mostly because on my first day of work he thought it necessary to give me a lengthy crash course on the vast complexities that is Microsoft Office. He has also informed me since then that Macs are “stupid” and Gmail is “a waste of time.” Consequently, we do not get along.

“No seriously, what is that?” Scott moves my tape dispenser. The audacity of this man is amazing.

“It’s a list, I don’t know. No big deal.”

“Throw a colossal party?” Scott reads, smirking. “That is on your list of things to do before you die?”

At this point, I see three choices. One, get defensive and explain that yes, I will be throwing a mammoth party and no, you are not invited. Two, ignore his inquiry and ask more asinine computer questions. Or three, smile and nod. I choose option three.

“U2 and Bon Jovi are on the guest list,” I inform him. “Not to play, just to relax. Have a few hor devours, skinny dip in the chocolate fountain.” I’m making things up.

“I hope I’m invited.”

The familiar childhood song from Sunday school suddenly pops into my head. Hold your tongue from evil, hold your tongue.

I hold my tongue.

“I think making a list of things to do before you die is kind of morbid, but whatever,” Scott concludes, still skimming down my inventory.

“To each his own,” I mumble.

To each his own. Scott is not the first one to criticize my list of lofty goals, and perhaps some of them are a bit pretentious. I can barely keep a bonsai alive, how will I ever learn how to grow grapes, item number six?

A few weeks ago I received a free box of Dr. Seuss books and a Cat in the Hat t-shirt in the mail in order to entice me to buy more children’s literature through a catalog. Later, after I left work and had gone home, I leafed through one of my favorite stories and came across this fitting passage:

Waiting for the fish to bite or waiting for wind to fly a kite. Or waiting around for Friday night or waiting   perhaps for their Uncle Jake or a pot to boil or a better break or a string of pearls or a pair of pants or a wig with   curls or another chance. Everyone is just waiting.

I am just waiting. Most of us are just waiting. And while I am a great supporter of the Carpe Diem movement, waiting isn’t necessarily a bad thing. If I did everything at once, what would I have to look forward to? To work towards? To make lists of?

I will drive across the US, learn how to surf, and see the Brazilian Beaches. I will also throw a colossal party, so be prepared. It’s going to blow your mind. And no Scott, you are not invited.