Nouvelle cuisine

I wasn't going to write anything this week, because I don't have time (I should have a macro that will type that phrase), but here I am.

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I love when I have a plan for dinner. Even if I have to cook, I don't mind, as long as I know what I'm going to cook. If I had someone to tell me what to make every day, and to write down exactly the ingredients that I need, then I'd be perfectly happy to cook.  And if they delivered the ingredients, too, that would be even better. And then after they delivered the ingredients, if they also did the washing, peeling, chopping, and general prep work, that would be even better.  And then, after I cooked the perfectly seasoned, neatly prepped dinner, they also cleaned up...well, never mind.

But anyway, I love when I have a plan; for anything, really, but especially dinner. And I love when the plan, as it were, comes together. On the other hand, I hate when I take the chicken, which is part of the plan, out of the oven, and turn it over to season it, and dump cinnamon rather than garlic powder all over it, and then have to wash it (wash it!) before returning it to the oven.  Cinnamon and chicken-washing: NOT part of any plan, ever.

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And so that's what's happening right now. Things that are not part of any plan, like leaving my phone at the store and then having to go back to get it,  and near misses on the road, and losing things and forgetting things, and cinnamon-seasoned chicken--and massive panic attacks,  of course--keep happening, and throwing the plans into a tailspin. 

So what am I doing about this? Nothing, of course, except writing barely coherent nonsense on this blog. I'm thinking that I'll ignore it,  and it will all fix itself. This approach always works so well that I'll just stay with it. What could go wrong?

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I really did wash the chicken; and then re-seasoned it with olive oil,  kosher salt,  pepper,  garlic powder,  basil,  and oregano. Ten minutes later,  we sat down to eat. "This chicken is really good," my son said, looking thoughtful. "It has kind of a sweet taste. I can't tell what it is."  I feigned ignorance. The chicken was delicious. 

I used to live in Africa, with all the little birdies and the monkeys

Monday: Last November, the Washington Capitals had a fun promotion for Election Day. Fans in attendance at the November 8 game against San Jose could vote for their favorite bobblehead candidate: The choices were Braden Holtby, Justin Williams, and Tom Wilson. Holtby, of course, won in a landslide. And then the Capitals lost to San Jose, and we listened to the election returns in the car on the way home, knowing that we'd be waking up on Wednesday morning to the grim reality of President-Elect Trump.

And now, for the second year in a row, I wake up on a beautiful June morning to the grim reality of the Pittsburgh Penguins as Stanley Cup Champions. I know that one of these scenarios is far worse than the other; it's just hard to decide which one.

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Tuesday: After weeks of ridiculous cold, it's finally hot, and I got to swim after work.
There's nothing better than swimming outdoors, on a beautiful warm evening, when the water is not cold, but not yet warm. There's a moment of shock when your body hits the slightly-too-cool water, and then you're just free and happy for 15 minutes, or however long you're in the water. I swim in the winter, too, which is nice in its own way, but I love to swim outside, and see the water sparkling in the sun.  

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Thursday: I'm finished with everything that I need to do today, at only 8:30 PM. So unusual. I think I'll watch Rachel at 9. I'm almost finished with the Zelmanyaners, and it's time to figure out what to read next.

I have lots of friends who are stay-at-home mothers, or teachers, or who work odd, part-time hours. I think they feel sorry for me because I work so much. But I don't feel sorry for me. Summer is so brief and hard to pin down, but a few minutes of summer perfection every day can be almost as good as hours of languor. It's more precious for being rare. Or something like that. I'm no good at poetry.

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I have kind of a regimented approach to daily life, and I used to feel bad about that; like maybe I should try to relax a bit, and just allow things to happen without trying to control everything. That sounds like advice to me, from someone who has never met me. I'm no more capable of going with the proverbial flow than ceasing to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide. (Wait, that's what we do, right? We breathe in the oxygen, and then breathe out the CO2? Science is another thing that I'm not very good at.)

For example, I get up much earlier in the morning than I really need to, because I cannot function in a messy or dirty house, and so I clean in the morning, because I never know if I'll have time at night. I make rules and lists for myself, and I stick to them, sometimes to a ridiculous extreme. Control helps me to manage the panic and anxiety a little bit. This morning, for example, I woke up at 4:05, in all-out panic mode. And then I remembered that my list was under control, and that I hadn't forgotten to do anything, and I fell back asleep for more than an hour.

I don't even know what the point of all that was. But I don't pretend to be coherent 100% of the time.

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Sunday: I try to be kind to people, but sometimes I am not a very nice person. That's all I have to say about that. Except that I spent lots of time and mental energy today trying to justify and excuse and minimize something that I said yesterday, and even though lots of people wouldn't think that what I said was so terrible in the first place, I know better.

And now, I'm an even worse person, because apparently, I'm morally superior to other people because I know that I said something mean, and yet I said it anyway, so really, who are these "lots of people?" They're me, and I'm the worst of them.

Again, not coherent, but I don't have time to copy edit myself today. Next week, I'm going to write "shut up" on my to-do list. If it's on the list, then I have to do it, as you know, and so maybe a to-do list entry will remind me that not all of my jokes are funny, and not all of my stories are pithy and hilarious, and not every thought that pops into my head is worthy of verbal expression.  I'm an idiot. But I guess we all are, and this is strangely reassuring. 

Six days

Monday: I just met the last of a series of deadlines (including a deadline for a newsletter article for my neighborhood newsletter, which if I'm being honest, doesn't really count because I sent my article in several days late, but I think that the newsletter editor has a special deadline just for me, because in 10 years, I've never once been on time) and it's nice to have a figurative minute to breathe. I left work at 5:30 tonight. It won't last, and honestly, that's OK with me. I like to be busy, and I work better under pressure. Or rather, I produce better work--I'm not sure if that's the same as working better.

My son, who is almost 16 now, got his hair cut today. It's very short on the sides and in the back, and kind of poufy on the top. He has the kind of hair that grows up and out, not down. I'd rather a less extreme cut, but it does look cool, and he's happy with it. So that's fine. What's not fine is that his brother, who is not yet 13, now wants the same haircut. My younger son still looks like a little boy, and I would like for him to continue looking like a little boy. He, of course, would like to stop looking like a little boy, and as quickly as possible. It's his hair, I guess.

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Tuesday:  Disregard the first paragraph of Monday's entry.

Meanwhile, since we are (or were) on the subject of hair, you should know that I am one of those women who has no idea what to do with her hair. You've seen us, I'm sure. There's always a headband, or a ponytail holder, or a clip somewhere, and our hair grows out for months, while we postpone hair appointments, or avoid making them altogether, because refer to the first sentence of this paragraph--we have no idea what do do with our hair.

I'm dispensing with the royal "we" now. It's not we, but rather me, or rather I. I have no idea what to do with my hair. It has already become a problem, and it'll soon be an altogether unmanageable problem. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Or rather, I will.

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Wednesday: What is worse than making a deadline, and then waking up the next morning to find that major revisions are requested, and that your new deadline is tomorrow? Plenty of things, of course, when you consider life and the world as a whole; but within the more narrow realm of technical writing for a Federal government contractor, this would have to rank among the worst things ever. Super fun day.

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Thursday: I suppose this isn't true 100% of the time; but generally, if someone asks you if you can "see your way clear" to doing or not doing something, you can probably assume that the act or omission is illegal or immoral or unethical or all three.

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Saturday: There's a silver lining for almost everything. Panic-induced insomnia, for example, though no fun at all, does tend to keep a person on her toes. Just today, I officiated at a swim meet, started and finished a particularly odious work task, started (but didn't quite finish) a weekly team newsletter, grocery shopped, did laundry, cooked dinner, and went swimming. I'm very productive.

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Sunday: My husband asked me to pick up his prescription, and I'm sad to say that I'm now the person who sees an old lady shuffling toward the pharmacy desk at Rite-Aid, and practically breaks into a run to beat her there.  Because there are three places where you don't want to be behind the old lady in line:
1. The deli counter at Giant (OMG)
2. Any pharmacy, anywhere in the world
3. The confession line at St. Patrick's RC Church, on any Saturday afternoon

I speak from bitter experience. Sorrynotsorry as they say on the Internet.

Meanwhile, the productivity streak continues, and I even finished the swim team newsletter. I'm an unstoppable force. If I figure out what to do with my hair, I'll probably run for Congress.

The Ryan Lochte rule

I had something that I wanted to say about The Zelmenyaners, but I can't remember what it was. I can confirm, however, that it's the funniest Yiddish novel about Soviet central planning that I have ever read. I'm reading it in English, of course, so maybe it's even funnier in the original. Anyway, I'm halfway through it.  I used to read books at a much faster rate, but a person can only read so many pages in 10 to 15 minutes a day.

The Zelmenyaners is nothing like The Cazalet Chronicles, and of course, I didn't expect it to be. I don't feel like I know the Zelmenyaners like I knew the Cazalets. Elizabeth Jane Howard was writing about her own family, so there's an intimate, knowing quality that makes the reader feel very well acquainted with the characters. After a few days with the Zelmenyaners, I still don't know one Zelmenyaner from the other. But The Zelmenyaners has a poetic and whimsical quality that's rather lovely, even in translation. There's a character who is described as refusing to come out of the house, having been insulted as a child (this is a paraphrase, because Kindle won't let me search the passage). I find this charming, and very truthful.  Most days, of course, I'm not inclined to refuse to leave the house because of remembered childhood insults. But I do remember.

I probably won't re-read The Zelmenyaners. But I'm glad that I read it once.

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It's 7:30 PM on Saturday. I went to the pool today, and chatted with friends, and read for a bit, and then I tried to swim. I really love to swim, and I don't mind chilly water. I do, however, object to iceberg-plowing-into-the-Titanic freezing cold, and I didn't get any farther in than my ankles. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not.

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Summer swim season just started. This is our 11th year of summer swim team, so we are seasoned swim team parents. I just renewed my refereeing certification. Apparently, there's a relatively new thing called the Ryan Lochte Rule, which I learned about on Thursday night.

And now begins weeks of Friday night pasta parties, and Saturday morning meets, and writing weekly email updates, and standing on the deck with a clipboard and then being amazed at the end of July when it's all over again. I love summer.

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That was going to be all, because I just didn't know what else to write about, even though I've been writing in my head all day. I'm extremely prolific, in my imagination. It's about 10:45 now. I picked up my son from work at 8 and heard about the London attack on the radio, and I've been avoiding the TV until now.

I'm so tired of these cowardly barbarians, trying to drag the rest of us back into the stone age by brute force. Social media will probably be awash in the Union Jack by tomorrow, and my Trump supporter friends and family will say "See? Now do you understand?" as if my failure to vote for a corrupt and ignorant vulgarian is somehow to blame for this most recent of many outrages. And Trump was super-tough on terrorism when he visited Saudi Arabia, right? King Salman is probably still trying to wash the lip prints off his rear end.

And when it happens here again, which it will, we won't really know if it's real or staged. And it won't matter, for our purposes, because either way, the boom will be lowered. Martial law will be declared, and habeas corpus will be suspended, and the press will be restricted or silenced altogether, and lots of people will thank the administration for keeping us all safe.

OK, that took a turn. It's probably time to turn off MSNBC.

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It's Sunday morning now. It's beautiful and sunny and warm, and this little boy and his baby sister are coming over to go swimming later. The barbarians might be at the gate, but they're not coming in, at least not today. I have a swim team newsletter to write.

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I did finally go swimming today. It was freezing when I got in, but then I got used to it, and it was still unbearable.