Debbie Does Drivel

WHERE OH WHERE HAS MY LITTLE MIND GONE?

I hope I get my sense of humor back.

I've grown concerned that I wasted too much cumulative time in front of the microwave last week (damn those Tabatchnick Soups...damn them! damn them to an organic and smoky hell) and that the high-frequency waves zapped important laugh receptors.

Or maybe I'm drinking too much. Muddling the mind.

I spent Saturday on a friend's boat, an occasion for which I brought a spinach salad in my prized Salad Spinner. Many white zinfandel sorbets (slurpily sucked out of a wine glass) later, we were looped. We motley crewed off the docks around 7PM and re-grouped for a Game Night at a friend's place (that was a meeting of sharp minds).

The next day, I panicked: my Salad Spinner bowl was gone! Hadn't I brought it home with me? Was it still on the boat? Did it twirl off in a cyclonic frenzy? Gasp! Did I do something nautical with it? Like throw it in the bay? Or, even worse, did I let friends use it as a makeshift Port-A-Potty because we were grumbling about walking so far to the bathroom? (I said I spent the day on a boat. I didn't say it was mobile in any way.)

Upset, I called my friends and left messages. I also threw in that I hadn't seen my digital camera either. Or my suede coat, six CDs and straw hat.

No one called me back and I licked my wounds all day Sunday and into Monday.

Later Monday evening, I climbed into my car after work and smelled something foul.
You know where I'm going with this.
You probably guessed right from "...smelled..."
I'm proud of you.
Really, because it took me one trip to Ross, the grocery store and gas station before the question "are the Salad Spinner and resulting salad detritus somewhere in this Honda?"

An hour and a half later, upon opening my trunk, I found my long-lost love.
Also, a pair of pants not my own.

This makes me wonder which I want back badly enough: sense of humor? or functioning brain? Truly a conundrum.

MAYBE I REALLY AM A DRINKER

Why does news of my favorite campus bar closing bring tears to my eyes?

Even though the bouncer (we called him Bulldog, his real name was Dan and he was a nursing student) hated my guts and had me thrown out of the place every weekend until I turned 21, I still have fond memories of my days there. It's where I learned to drink. With other people.

Maybe it's that the college I remember has changed irrevocably. Marquette used to have an urban seediness I found real. It's all so campussy now.

Ginzu's Law

I can regularly cut vegetables in the palm of my hand; precariously finger strawberries as I chop them into a bowl; dice nuts free-style; yet when I slice open the plastic from the tub of Whip Cream, I cut my finger to shreds.

A Culinary Curiousity

I cook all the time.
I am not a good -- or even adequate -- cook much of the time.
I can never get the spices right and my dishes are not flavorful.
Given that I mainly prepare vegetarian dishes, you can see where this would be a problem. Not much built-in salt or fat to provide the extra tasty zing.

(Sometimes I make stuff up and when Kev asks what I'm cooking, I'll either sigh resignedly "I don't know..." or concoct imaginary names. Creative stuff like "smyrnana" (which was inspired by Julia Roberts' hometown).)

However, tonight I surprised myself. Tonight I celebrate my one culinary success.

These are the details:

I quickly sauteed some garlic and tofu (extra firm) in a skillet. I added chili garlic paste.

Then, I dipped spring roll wrappers in hot water to make them pliable and hard to handle. I laid these wrappers flat. Most of them split and ripped.

At this point, I chopped cucumber, carrots and green onions and let them sit in lime juice for several minutes. I took big clumps of cilantro and added them to the lime juice mixture. Then, I added a few dollops of Hoison sauce. I mixed well.

At this point, the tofu was burning, nice and crispy. Much of it stuck to the pan. Feel free to not mimic that part of the recipe.

I gently spooned the steaming and smoking tofu onto the ripped rice paper wraps and added the vegetables that had been soaking in lime. Bean sprouts followed.

I rolled the spring roll wrappers over the mixture and proudly served it all to Kev, with a fork and knife so he could handle the culinary chiaroscuro. This time I got the spices right, so the presentation had to suffer. Of course.

Unborn

So it was hard for me to hear yesterday that one of my brother's guiding life principles is not to turn out like me.
He's vowed to do something creative with his life instead of squalor in corporate hell like I do; spending his days unhappy and soulless.

I often wonder why I don't just follow through on my creative urges, and find it's no mystery: fear rules me. Fear. Feelings of inadequacy, lack of confidence and focus; plus general balls-lessness.

Back in 2000, I went to a hypnotherapist to deal with my fear of flying (FAT lot of good that did me) and before we started treatments she had me take a test. She plotted my results on a grid and stared at me wordlessly for a long time. "Your unfulfilled creativity is off the charts," she'd said. "The frustrated creative in you is dying to get out. This could kill you." She probably didn't say "this could kill you," but her tone conveyed as much. When she showed me the grid, I saw that my desire to engender creativity was a spike and my creative outlets were a flatline.

I've long felt the beast within me calmed when I put pencil to paper, brush to canvas, feet to tapping. The thing is: I'm no good at painting, dancing or my favorite fantasy -- singing. It's true I've always wanted to be a writer, but I'm really really afraid I'm not much good at that either. It's like my final creative refuge would be my writing and if I discover once and for all I suck at it, I'll be lost forever and I'm too scared to take that chance.

So I flirt with writing. I take jobs where I write press releases, magazine articles, data sheets, etc. This way I keep in touch with writing, but we're never the close friends I hope to be.

I've started several "books," but lose confidence when the plot gets muddled or my characterizations meander. Then I say to myself: "See? You really are no good," and I stop.

I wonder if I will ever get to that point where I'm more afraid to not finish the book than I am to try.

I look back and my jobs and think of all the time wasted. Last job had me for four years and nearly made me a drone. This current job really may kill me. I'm so very unhappy there and my skin is red a lot due to internal frustration. Please forgive my melodrama: but I'm currently hanging by a string in Company XX's marketing department. Really, I think it is going to kill me. Maybe metaphorically...but that's sometimes worse than literal death.

The worst thing is hearing from your baby brother that he doesn't want to be like you.

I often thought the same about my mom (so much frustrated creativity, dreams of writing unfulfilled, broken promises to herself), but I had the good sense and class not to say so out loud.
(Feeble attempt to lift the "woe is me" cloud.)

SMELLY BUTTS

There is something so satisfyingly juvenile about giggling at the word "butt," or "smelly" or "poo." (I love the word "poo!" It's so pooey! It makes me laugh! I hope I don't laugh so hard that I accidentally poo in my pants!).

Anyway, point is: I had that childish reaction when I heard a co-worker say yesterday:

"That was a tasty sandwich.
Good meat.
Soft bread."

It's not like it was a pooey butt sandwich. Not a spit and booger sandwich, either.

It reminds me of the time when I terrorized my brother by putting a poo-shaped roll of refried beans topped with bits of toilet paper into his lunchbox.
Now that was a juvenile sandwich.

This entry has no direction or dénouement.

MAKESHIFT ELECTRIC BLANKET

My absentee and flaky boss had a visitor today and since he's late (as usual), I volunteered to get the visitor coffee.

So I went upstairs to the coffee room, filled up the cup, and then realized that I was very very cold. I did not want to profer this man coffee with big huge pointy nipples, so I tried to warm myself up before I went back downstairs with his cup.

There were no blankets around, no coats. No heaters and no extra pieces of clothing laying about.

So I hugged the coffee machine. I put my boobs right on it, so my nipples would deflate and not cause a commotion.

Of course, this would be the time that the Director of Sales and the Controller walk by.

I hoped and prayed that they would chalk this up to another "Debbie" thing and not ask questions.

But no. Being men and aroused by anything booby and involving electrical appliances, they found my boob warm-up fascinating.

I still hope that they don't get EXACTLY what I was doing...as I didn't explain. But a picture is worth a thousand words, no?

NOTHING ENTERTAINING HERE

Well, my best friend is moving back to Chicago in one week.
I took the day off so we could hang out.
We'll probably have breakfast, move her BBQ to my house, pack her kitchen, eat lunch, eat dinner. Somewhere in between I should tell her a secret I've been keeping. I'm not sure how she'll react. Since it's a secret, I cannot elaborate. I wish I could. But you probably wouldn't care anyway. I mean this in a nice way.

Tomorrow, I have an all-day seminar of "Managing Priorities." I do manage my priorities just fine, just not the ones that work wants me to care about. Maybe I'll return freshly brainwashed.

This weekend, I head to Anaheim for a "Children's Book Author's Boot Camp." I am most swelling with enthusiasm for this. We had to do homework and everything! I had to read "Amelia Bedelia," "Amber Brown is not a Crayon," "All the Way Home," and "Whale Talk." I'm going to bring my fledgling manuscript, "Amanda B., Future Cheerleader." Don't steal my idea!"

Last weekend, I went to the American Cancer Society Relay for Life. I was there all day Sat. and early morning Sunday. My dad drove into town unexpectedly, just in time (though he was unaware of this) the luminaria ceremony. The whole track and bleachers (this was at a high school) was lined with luminarias, each one representing a person who'd died of cancer (we bought these in memory of our loved ones). The lights were turned off, illuminating the whole field, and a lone bagpiper played "Amazing Grace" and walked the track. It was completely silent except for the music.

I felt a little bad imposing this emotionality on my father, especially when he wasn't expecting it, and he had also borrowed my sweatshirt, which carried a large pin with my mom's face on it. I felt a little weird about my stepmom being there, too.

But maybe it's OK. They were drunk. Earlier that night during the concert preceding the lumanria ceremony, my dad had been unruly. Alcohol was banned at the event (though everyone ignored this just like in high school). One of the singers had brought a guest on stage for a duet, and as she exited the stage the singer sighs wistfully and says "She has such a beautiful voice. I want her back..."
And my dad shouts "I want her front!"
Good times at the American Cancer Society fundraiser.

The weekend before last, Lisa and I went out "for a drink." A lot of ballyhoo commenced, with Ner Jersey-ites names Mickey/Nicky following us outside and insisting we visit his "shop," which was located around the corner. Also, one boy told me how his dad had quit his CPA job in Latin America when this guy was just a kid. His dad then took the family to Europe, where they made their money singing on the streets. This man had tears in his eyes when he explained his life story.

He could have been yanking my chain, though. Earlier, I had been telling everyone that I was a second-rate actress, always cast in the "comic best friend" role for productions around San Diego, and haven't they seen "Street Rider?" Yep, that was me. Lisa, of course, arranged the musical scores for movies and was also a classical bassoon player.

So not too much exciting happening with me, although the above impacts my secret a little. A secret which is exciting. To me. But probably not to you.

I am very sick.
I have been drinking 7-Up and eating saltines for three straight days. But still, I cannot turn down an offer for Soup Plantation.
Though I can't eat it, I like to be surrounded by all that food.

I am very sick.

Oh wow! Guess what I did this weekend?

I don't know whether to start with the Big Mac, the "Loser" movie marathon on TV, or the laundry-doing.

Maybe I should just lead with the butt dent in my couch.
Oh lo, it was a crater; about this-big-around, real concave and canyon-like!
Just big enough to contain my phantom puke!

Dry heaves are fun! It's like a big build-up, great soundtrack and you get to look forward to many sequels!

My weekend rocked! Big parties! In my tummy!