Yesterday, my mother walked into the living room, where I sat.
"If you're afraid to eat the eggs, that's ok," she announced. "But I just cracked two into the brownie batter and I'm eating brownies."
As she walked out, I thought very briefly about my options.
This doesn't surprise me at all. A few months ago, Tennessee was warned against eating Romaine lettuce due to E Coli. When I was 8, the news was lit up with the outbreak of Hepatitis A found in strawberries. And let's not forget Mad Cow disease. Not one of these things actually changed my mother's diet whatsoever. Be it ignorance or a joie de vivre I do not know.
In the end, true as my mother's child, I ate the brownies.
This morning I woke up early, having promised my loving boyfriend french toast. It wasn't until midway through that I remembered the salmonella outbreak. Fuck, I thought. I reasoned with myself. If I threw away the french toast, I would talk Boy into going to fast food breakfast. And since I'm never awake early anough for fast food breakfast, I can never resist one of my favorite fast food specialties, the Burger King Ham Egg and Cheese Crosson'wich. And if I'm going to get salmonella from eggs, I might as well eat 'em at home instead of hauling my lazy ass to Burger King to pay for them.
And maybe one day, I will be one of those women who throws out the three dollars of eggs at first notice.
But the fact of the matter is, 30 people die of salmonella every year in the United States. And this outbreak simply means that the number has doubled.
60 out of the 390 million people. I have a better odd of winning the lottery!
And who knows? I'm not invincible. Maybe one day I will contract some food outbroken disease. But I'll deal with it til it comes.
But until then, the odds of me enjoying my french toast are 100%.
And I like those odds.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
One Man's Trash
One man's trash is my boyfriend's treasure.
Seriously. No matter where we are, he picks up random stuff of the side of the road, in the parking lot, from the top of someone's trash. A long rod, some electronic device, a shoe...
"What are you going to do with that?" I demand.
He always shrugs. He'll fix it, he'll use it for something, he always insists. Especially if it's electronic. It baffles me that he honestly thinks he can fix anything. And maybe he can. But really, is it worth buying the wires and reconnecting and conjoining a personal CD player and spending weeks tinkering with it when one can just go to Target and spend the 20 bucks on it?
As I watch the walls of his room get cluttered with stuff, I am reminded of my friend's referral of the basement as her husband's "man cave". I think to myself, horrified, that maybe if my boy and I get married, we'll have to set up a basement, attic, and spare bedroom for him to tinker in.
Now, I'm not 100% immune. I had a phase, when I was 10 or 12 years old, where I kind of did the same. But I wanted to cut up everything, glue it to a posterboard, and call it "abstract art". It only took me a year to realize it was just crap.
Also, since I began designing jewelry, I keep coming up with outlandish ideas. My best friend has Bonnaroo bracelets from the last five years and I keep taking about cutting them up, and sewing them together with beads and hemp to make a kickass neckace. I want my nephew to write his name on a scrap of paper, so that I can roll the paper up and glue it to an acryic charm for a pendant. But the problem is, none of these ideas actually come to fruition. Either I get lazy or my visual images get fuzzy and it actually never really works out or I just don't get to it.
So maybe, just maybe, when my beloved starts enthusiastically rambling about how easy it is to refurbish that old electronic I would rather just throw away, maybe I should just smile instead of staring at him as if he's just grown another head. We have different ways of seeing things, and maybe if I encourage him, he'll encourage me to actually work with my hands a little more too.
Seriously. No matter where we are, he picks up random stuff of the side of the road, in the parking lot, from the top of someone's trash. A long rod, some electronic device, a shoe...
"What are you going to do with that?" I demand.
He always shrugs. He'll fix it, he'll use it for something, he always insists. Especially if it's electronic. It baffles me that he honestly thinks he can fix anything. And maybe he can. But really, is it worth buying the wires and reconnecting and conjoining a personal CD player and spending weeks tinkering with it when one can just go to Target and spend the 20 bucks on it?
As I watch the walls of his room get cluttered with stuff, I am reminded of my friend's referral of the basement as her husband's "man cave". I think to myself, horrified, that maybe if my boy and I get married, we'll have to set up a basement, attic, and spare bedroom for him to tinker in.
Now, I'm not 100% immune. I had a phase, when I was 10 or 12 years old, where I kind of did the same. But I wanted to cut up everything, glue it to a posterboard, and call it "abstract art". It only took me a year to realize it was just crap.
Also, since I began designing jewelry, I keep coming up with outlandish ideas. My best friend has Bonnaroo bracelets from the last five years and I keep taking about cutting them up, and sewing them together with beads and hemp to make a kickass neckace. I want my nephew to write his name on a scrap of paper, so that I can roll the paper up and glue it to an acryic charm for a pendant. But the problem is, none of these ideas actually come to fruition. Either I get lazy or my visual images get fuzzy and it actually never really works out or I just don't get to it.
So maybe, just maybe, when my beloved starts enthusiastically rambling about how easy it is to refurbish that old electronic I would rather just throw away, maybe I should just smile instead of staring at him as if he's just grown another head. We have different ways of seeing things, and maybe if I encourage him, he'll encourage me to actually work with my hands a little more too.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
The Frog Prince and Other Fairy Tales
For the upteenth time, my three year old nephew brought me the book The Cat in the Hat and began to crawl in my lap.
"Really?" I asked. "This again?"
"Read," he commanded.
I sighed, and as I turned the pages, I told my own story. "So, these little white kids basically ostracize the black cat because of his unwillingness to participate in their prim and proper society. But you know what? It's the creative juices that the cat demonstrated that sparked many literary and creative movements, so in the end the little kids suck."
"BRANDI!" shrieked my mother, who had just walked in the room. "Read it right!"
"Fight the oppression, gramma," chimed in my nephew (except in his cute little voice, it sounded like "Ight the Pression").
My mother rolled her eyes and let out a heavy angry sigh.
Who knows? One day, if I have children of my own, I may stick to my guns and fill my child's bookshelves with Heather Has Two Mommies, Why Mommy Votes Democrat, and The Different Dragon (if you haven't heard of that last one, it's about a dragon who isn't mean, scary, and manly enough, and wants to play with princesses instead). Maybe I will throw all out books that I feel carry a racist, sexist, or oppressive undertone.
Or, maybe, instead, I'll say forget it. And I'll want my child to be innocent and free and grow up with the stuff I grew up with.
I shut the book, and the child scampered off with it. He came back with another. Cinderella.
"Really? Really?" I said exasperated. "Because a woman's only goal in life is to wait for a man to rescue her."
He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Read it, Brandi."
I opened the book. Before I opened my mouth, he interrupted.
"Read it right!"
Sometimes you can't win for nothing.
"Really?" I asked. "This again?"
"Read," he commanded.
I sighed, and as I turned the pages, I told my own story. "So, these little white kids basically ostracize the black cat because of his unwillingness to participate in their prim and proper society. But you know what? It's the creative juices that the cat demonstrated that sparked many literary and creative movements, so in the end the little kids suck."
"BRANDI!" shrieked my mother, who had just walked in the room. "Read it right!"
"Fight the oppression, gramma," chimed in my nephew (except in his cute little voice, it sounded like "Ight the Pression").
My mother rolled her eyes and let out a heavy angry sigh.
Who knows? One day, if I have children of my own, I may stick to my guns and fill my child's bookshelves with Heather Has Two Mommies, Why Mommy Votes Democrat, and The Different Dragon (if you haven't heard of that last one, it's about a dragon who isn't mean, scary, and manly enough, and wants to play with princesses instead). Maybe I will throw all out books that I feel carry a racist, sexist, or oppressive undertone.
Or, maybe, instead, I'll say forget it. And I'll want my child to be innocent and free and grow up with the stuff I grew up with.
I shut the book, and the child scampered off with it. He came back with another. Cinderella.
"Really? Really?" I said exasperated. "Because a woman's only goal in life is to wait for a man to rescue her."
He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
"Read it, Brandi."
I opened the book. Before I opened my mouth, he interrupted.
"Read it right!"
Sometimes you can't win for nothing.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
True Love Waits
Once upon a time, a girl and a boy went ring shopping in the bridal department of WalMart.
Now, this story doesn't go the way some may think. The girl was in a commited relationship with another boy, and although no one fully knew it yet, the boy was ogling boys himself.
And although this ring was not a sign of commitment in the martimonial fashion, it was a sign of commitment, love, and truth.
The girl placed her plastic card on the glass counter and slipped the titanium wedding band on the boy's thumb ring, and they commited themselves as non-sexual life partners.
It has been a while since that boy and girl traveled to WalMart. And they did stick together through thick and thin, including (the total hypothetical situations of) raod trips, mental breakdowns, many many car problems, and dramatic fights and arguments.
Through the last six months, however, things have changed. The once a day hangouts became once a month hangouts. The girl got into a very serious relationship. The boy became more comfortable with himself and others and blossomed into a social butterfly. Both of their priorities changed, despite the fact that they still cared about each other very much.
And now, I realize that my Corey is going to University of Tennessee in Chattanooga in a few weeks. I regret our drifting apart more than ever as I realize we won't be as readily available to each other as we are used to. I have ignored it for most of the summer. However, the last week has been what we consider our last hurrah and it makes me more and more sad.
That being said, this girl is going to miss that boy. She realizes they are going to only grow more and more apart as they grow up without each other. And yet, she knows that they will remain best friends despite what the future brings. Because, like what that ring meant years ago, she still puts her faith in the love and friendship they have always had for each other, and the fact that it will always prevail.
Now, this story doesn't go the way some may think. The girl was in a commited relationship with another boy, and although no one fully knew it yet, the boy was ogling boys himself.
And although this ring was not a sign of commitment in the martimonial fashion, it was a sign of commitment, love, and truth.
The girl placed her plastic card on the glass counter and slipped the titanium wedding band on the boy's thumb ring, and they commited themselves as non-sexual life partners.
It has been a while since that boy and girl traveled to WalMart. And they did stick together through thick and thin, including (the total hypothetical situations of) raod trips, mental breakdowns, many many car problems, and dramatic fights and arguments.
Through the last six months, however, things have changed. The once a day hangouts became once a month hangouts. The girl got into a very serious relationship. The boy became more comfortable with himself and others and blossomed into a social butterfly. Both of their priorities changed, despite the fact that they still cared about each other very much.
And now, I realize that my Corey is going to University of Tennessee in Chattanooga in a few weeks. I regret our drifting apart more than ever as I realize we won't be as readily available to each other as we are used to. I have ignored it for most of the summer. However, the last week has been what we consider our last hurrah and it makes me more and more sad.
That being said, this girl is going to miss that boy. She realizes they are going to only grow more and more apart as they grow up without each other. And yet, she knows that they will remain best friends despite what the future brings. Because, like what that ring meant years ago, she still puts her faith in the love and friendship they have always had for each other, and the fact that it will always prevail.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Plastic Surgery: Before and After
I turned 13 in 2002. Where teenagers in the past could ignore their imperfections or develop an eating disorder, my generation came to age in an era where plastic surgery was a very real, obtainable possibility. A friend of mine's mother, who would never admit it, has a nose significantly smaller than in her wedding pictures. Our favorite starlets were getting breat augmentations constantly. And the internet filled in any gaps we wanted to know about.
"You know, I read on the internet that liposuction is 7000 bucks," one chubby little girl would tell another behind the gym bleachers skipping gym (in no way are these two chubby little girls supposed to represent me and Cherish).
"You know, I read on the internet a nose job usually averages about 5000 bucks," I said to my boyfriend, the other night in his car, as I examined my nose in his rearview mirror. "I just want it thinned out a little bit; it's so big. It's huge. And fat and squishy. I want a pointy thin ski jump nose. And I can come up with that in about a year. Which means I can get it done by the time I'm 23 if I really try to save."
My boyfriend rolled his eyes.
"And my lips are so ficken thin!" I complained. "Lip injections are around 500 dollars, which would be one pay check. But I don't know if I want collagen or restylane. Just to make them fuller and more attractive."
"Shouldn't you be happy with your body?" he asked wryly.
"Exactly," I said, confused. "People should be free to do whatever they have to in order to be happy with their bodies."
"No," he said. "You don't get it. I love your body."
"So? I'm not doing this for you. I want to do this for me!"
After a look of frustration and disgust, he finally looked at me and deadpanned, "Do you know what we could spend 5500 dollars on instead? That could be a deposit on a brand new car, or that condo you want for us so bad."
I must admit, he has a damn good point.
Unfortunately, my nose may not.
"You know, I read on the internet that liposuction is 7000 bucks," one chubby little girl would tell another behind the gym bleachers skipping gym (in no way are these two chubby little girls supposed to represent me and Cherish).
"You know, I read on the internet a nose job usually averages about 5000 bucks," I said to my boyfriend, the other night in his car, as I examined my nose in his rearview mirror. "I just want it thinned out a little bit; it's so big. It's huge. And fat and squishy. I want a pointy thin ski jump nose. And I can come up with that in about a year. Which means I can get it done by the time I'm 23 if I really try to save."
My boyfriend rolled his eyes.
"And my lips are so ficken thin!" I complained. "Lip injections are around 500 dollars, which would be one pay check. But I don't know if I want collagen or restylane. Just to make them fuller and more attractive."
"Shouldn't you be happy with your body?" he asked wryly.
"Exactly," I said, confused. "People should be free to do whatever they have to in order to be happy with their bodies."
"No," he said. "You don't get it. I love your body."
"So? I'm not doing this for you. I want to do this for me!"
After a look of frustration and disgust, he finally looked at me and deadpanned, "Do you know what we could spend 5500 dollars on instead? That could be a deposit on a brand new car, or that condo you want for us so bad."
I must admit, he has a damn good point.
Unfortunately, my nose may not.
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