Today was a should have day.  A would have day.  When I drifted off to sleep last night there were two sets of plans in my head.  My mind turned them each over and over reviewing and revising what needed to occur for both Plan A and Plan B until the possibilities for both had been exhausted.

I’m like that.  I like to have a plan.  It gives me a road map for my day.  Isn’t it funny though that I can’t really read a map to save my life?

Anyway, the should have.  The would have.

It should have been a snow day.  In Portland the lightest dusting of snow tends to shut down the entire city.  You’d think we’d never seen the fluffy frozen wet stuff in our life the way the news channels and the social networks get all a buzz with talk of snowpocalypse and snowmageddon.  The city shuts down.  The buses and trains get fucked up.  School is cancelled.

So when my alarm went off this morning and I learned that school had, in fact, not been cancelled or even delayed, that the city was proceeding as normal (Keep Portland Weird!  It’s as normal as we get), and that the buses were running on normal routes I scratched my head.  I crawled out of bed and made breakfast and lunch while glancing out the window at the clear brightening sky.  And that, my gentle readers, is when the snow began to fall.  I felt grownup and slightly mid-western as I walked my kid to school in the gently falling snow.  My Favorite Things played over and over in my head and as I started back home I was quietly singing along when a snowflake landed on my lashes.  And I smiled.  Nothing was sticking on the ground but there on my lashes a snowflake stayed.  Snow should have meant Plan B.  It should have thrown my day into utter chaos, instead, the snow rested gently on my lashes and clung to my hat and coat while slush sloughed around my boots and I went about Plan A… just a little more slowly.

I had the day I should have had, not the day I would have.  And it was happy.  And, you know, stuff.

Today, as I sat in the waiting room waiting for my girl’s class to finish, there was a problem. A disturbance. In the force, if you will. As if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.  They were totally in my head though…

But still, they needed silencing.

You see, someone stuck 3 stickers to the otherwise perfect, unadorned, totally clean half-wall.  Stickers. On the wall.

Now I don’t know about you, but there are some places I can’t stand to see stickers. Mirrors, windows, furniture, and of course walls all fit neatly on that list.

But these walls are not mine. I’m a guest here. A guest, sitting and patiently waiting for my kids class to finish…  Her 90 minutes class. And there were those stickers. 3 of them. 3 stickers from Trader Joe’s… You know the ones, they give them to your kid while you stand in the checkout line. 3 perfectly round colorful stickers some cashier at Trader Joe’s gave to some kid.  A kid who likely has a sibling going to class here.  Some kid that had to sit and wait for its older sibling for what must have seemed like hours upon hours. Potentially some kid whose parent was sitting right there not paying attention as the child stuck those 3 perfectly round stickers to the clean, unadorned, pale green half-wall.

I fucking hate that parent.

It took precisely 22 minutes for all my irritation and irrationality to come to head before I took two steps (one forward and one to the side) and removed those 3 perfectly round stickers, strode across the room, and threw them in the trash.

Somehow I’m sure this makes me the crazy one.

When I was younger I thought I’d be living the life of the Jetson family by now.  I pictured living in my high (high high high) rise condo with flying cars and a robot maid to do my dishes, laundry and clean the floors.  Yeah, even then I knew I’d hate cleaning floors.  As a child growing up in a time when books, movies and even cartoons had a heavy sci-fi leaning I thought I was prepared for the future culture, but that wasn’t so.

My contemporaries and I were prepared for flying cars, teleportation, instant meals, robots, replicants, virtual reality and snazzy jumpsuits.  And while Star Trek may have touched on the moral gray area of the holodeck I don’t seem to recall my sci-fi upbringing touching on the etiquette and moral implications of instant mass communication.  There was no “How to behave on social networks” manual being passed around.  It seemed to sneak into our culture and then explode. Like any community, sites have laws, rules or codes of conduct.  But those are legal issues.  Technical issues.  There are trolls and hostile users and spammers.  But those are not the etiquette issues of which I’m writing.

I’m thinking of people finding out a loved one is dead because someone posted it on facebook.  Mothers learning they’ll become grandmothers because someone blogged about it.  Kids finding out their parent is in the hospital because a family member tweeted it in passing.  In this age of instant communication do we need a manners lesson?  How would I feel if I learned something life altering about my daughter, father, mother, sibling or loved one because of a status update?

Like shit.

Yet I see it over and over again.  My family is just as guilty as any other and I’ve seen hurt feelings running rampant.  And with good reason, people behave thoughtlessly and someone is bound to be wounded.

Is this an issue of navigating the future world we live in or just a matter of common decency?  While having a thick skin isn’t such a bad idea, I think it’s important that we find a way to navigate the world keeping others in mind and find a way to teach future generations to do the same.

Or we can all become part machine.   You know, whichever.

It seems a little odd since I haven’t even found the muse to write here regularly but I’ve decided to participate in NaNoWriMo again this year.  Call me crazy (Really.  It’s okay.  You can.) but I think at the moment it’s a good thing for me.

Do I expect anything grand to come of it?  Nope.  But it’s a nice reminder that I write.  It’s a nice way to push myself in the direction of something I’ve loved as long as I can remember.  Telling a story.  Narrating a tale.  Getting a point across in words.  I remember how proud I was as a kid when I wrote the story of Pepper the cat.  After that it was words words words.  Long stories.  Short.  Tales of fiction.  Stories about my life.  Poetry.  Prose.  I even wrote song lyrics a time or two.

And this time I’m diving into a genre I’m not really to familiar with.  I usually write for myself or for an adult audience, but this time I’m trying something new.  Writing with my kid and her age group in mind.

It’ll be an experiment.  It’ll be an adventure. It’ll be something.  And by something I mean I won’t be using any profanities… so there’s that.

I bought a mop.  I needed a mop.  I went to the store for a mop and I bought one.  And some hair dye, it was on the list too.  A mop and hair dye because a girl has to have her priorities.

I’ve been hiding in a little box for over a year, tucked away from the outside world focusing on doing very few things, but doing them well.  Getting my head together.  Deciding what to do.  Figuring shit out.

Do you know what I learned during all that quiet box dwelling figuring time?  I mean aside from that I needed a mop and some hair dye (and peanut butter, duh).  That I need to climb out of my quiet little hidey-hole and get with the program.  I need to do some doing while I’m figuring out what to do.  Big life changes, even when you are the one who instigated them, touch your entire life.

No shit, Sherlock.  I know.

So what do I do?  What am I doing?  What the hell is going on with me?  How am I going to pull this shit off?  When is it all getting underway?  Why am I asking these questions so loudly?

…did you read those loudly?  because they are so loud in my head.  echoing…

Because I’m trying to figure out who I want to be when I grow up.  I’m looking for work after 10 years of being a stay at home parent and I don’t know what it is that I do.  I know what I used to do.  I know who I was then.

10 years ago.  Then it was black and white. But then it was just me.

I’d like to make it as simple as that list I made for the store yesterday.

mop
hair dye
peanut butter
cottage cheese
bagels
tomato juice

To be able to walk out into the world knowing what I need and how to get it.  It isn’t.  It won’t be.  I’m doing it anyway.

Any advice?

Over the weekend we headed to the beach for one last fling before the school year begins.  A chance to celebrate and say goodbye to summer.  Just another day at the beach.  Until.  I found myself buried in the sand.  First to my chest.  Then over my arms.  Over my shoulders.  Sand packed around my neck.  Into my ears.  Around my entire head.

I’d never been buried in the sand.

There are always firsts.  For each day that we wake and draw breath we have a chance to do something new.  With kids it’s an easy thing to accomplish.  There are so many things children haven’t done we can easily fill their days with new things to learn and experience.  And while there are so many things that I’ve never experienced and so much in this world that I’ve yet to learn, I’m 34 years old.  I live in my box.  I follow a routine.  Even the exciting things I do are often tried and true.

It might be time to let that go and learn again.

There are a few things that, without fail, pull me back to the sweet moments of my childhood summers.  Fairies, action figures burnt and twisted, reading in the sun and lemonade pie.  In the big cookbook binder my mom gave me about 14 years ago the pie of which I speak is called “Aunt Linda’s Lemonade Pie”.  I don’t ever recall my Aunt Linda making this pie so I’m forced to assume she gave my mom the recipe.  As with any recipe I’ve been handed I assume before it was passed from one family member to the next it had to start somewhere.  My best guess is this one came either from a Cool Whip container or from an Eagle sweetened condensed milk can as those brands are both specifically mentioned in the recipe.  Originally the recipe called for a pre-baked pie crust but either my aunt or mom noted that it’s better to use a graham cracker crust.

I’d like to go on record here and say there is absolutely no reason in heaven or on earth to buy a pre-made graham cracker crust.  Pre-made graham cracker crusts are wrong.  They take something that is simple to make and beautiful with a sweet and savory flavor and an amazing texture and turn it into… blah.

Crust preaching has now ended.  Recipe time begins. Please note… this is the most processed food that goes into any recipe I make… ever.  It is so not good for you.  At all.  Okay.

Lemonade Fluff Pie

The Crust

1 1/2 cups crushed graham crackers (about 20 squares finely crushed)
1/4 cup sugar
6 Tablespoons butter, melted

Stir the crumbs and sugar lightly.  Pour the melted butter over the mixture.  Stick your clean hands in that bowl and mix and scrunch until well combined.  Then press it into your pie pan.  See how hard that was?  Difficult right?  Oh.. we’re not done.  Now for the hard part. Bake for 9 minutes in an oven pre-heated to 350.  Remove (please use oven mitts, dumbass) and let cool.

The Filling

6oz frozen Lemonade Concentrate, thawed*
1 can sweetened condensed milk**
12oz Cool Whip, thawed***
1 dash red food coloring****

In a small bowl stir the lemonade concentrate, sweetened condensed milk and food coloring (should you chose to use it) until well combined.  In a large bowl combine the sticky pink stuff with the Cool Whip.  Stir or fold gently until the color is consistent throughout.  Heap into cooled pie crust.  Smooth the top.  Cover.  Stick it in the fridge for at least an hour.  It’s super rich so small pieces are usually completely adequate, but go ahead and eat the hell out of it.

If you’re going to a summer pot luck that I’m attending, DO NOT BRING THIS PIE because I will.  Seriously.  I’m looking at you.

* The recipe called for a 6 oz can of lemonade, but I don’t recall seeing one.  Ever.  I just use 3/4 of a cup from a 12oz can and make lemonade with the rest.
** I’ve no idea how big that can is.  It’s “Eagle” sweetened condensed milk and it only comes in one size.
*** Again, recipe called for a “large container” 12oz of Cool Whip.  I never see 12oz containers.  So I get the 16oz and guess.  A lot of guess work goes into my kitchen.  Don’t worry.  Don’t panic.  You can do it.
**** I use pink frozen lemonade concentrate.  As did my mom.  Maybe my Aunt Linda did as well.  It just looks so much prettier when it’s pink than the whitish color you get without it.  And as I’m already cooking with completely processed foods I just get over myself and throw a few drops in there.  It’s not good for you.  This pie is BAD FOR YOU.  Eat it anyway.

On a last note, this is a perfect recipe to make with kids.  Depending on their age they could do it entirely on their own or, for littler hands, with just a bit of guidance.

Riding on the bus this morning, minding my own business, reading from my phone, I heard a thud.  A rolling sound.  And I looked down to see a sippy cup was rolling toward me.  Just as it was about to strike my boot I plucked it up, and smiling, reached  back and across the isle to hand it to the father of the little little boy who’d dropped it.  The father smiled and nodded a silent thank you.  The little little boy stared at me.  Wide eyed.  He was on the bus already when I boarded and paid me no mind, but from the moment I returned his sippy cup his little little bus world changed.  Expanded ever so slightly to include the woman who held his cup in her hand ever so briefly.  He let his eyes settle upon me in the unabashed way that children may do and I smiled and turned away.

But the eyes didn’t seem to shift from me.  I glanced over my shoulder.  There were those brown eyes open impossibly wide.  He sat on his father’s lap, body facing his dad with his head turned almost too far to be comfortable.  Staring.  I turned around again feeling the little little boy’s eyes on the back of my head.  And so it went as the bus headed over the river and into downtown.  After a while I forgot about the wide little eyes that had rested upon me so intently and absorbed myself in reading until he and his father walked past me to leave the bus.  I watched them go, the boy hiding his face as they passed. And I found myself looking around at the hustle and bustle of downtown, getting my bearings, guessing how much longer until my stop and I was just about to look back down into my lap to be absorbed in words when a motion caught my eye.

It was the little little boy.  Still in his father’s arms.  Smiling.  Waving.  Looking right at me and saying Bye bye! Bye bye!

It’s strange sometimes how we touch the world of others.  And how they touch ours.

Twenty or so years ago my parents went on a trip to New Orleans.  I think my dad was working.  He traveled a lot back then so we all learned to make the best of it.  Every once in a while the “best of it” meant a little vacation tacked onto his business travels.

It was on this trip that my mom went to a cooking school and learned to prepare gumbo.  My family has been enjoying it ever since, it’s even become our traditional Christmas dinner.  And it’s all I wanted to eat for Mothers’ Day, so my dad packed up some andouille ordered from a little shop in New Orleans and sent it overnight so I could have the dinner I wanted.

(thanks daddy)

As I write this post at my dining table I can glance in the kitchen and see the silver pot on the stove.  Under the lid dinner bubbles away.  It will cook most of the day and the smell will drive me nuts.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve hovered as mom stood over the stove stirring the roux.  Cut up the sausage.  Chopped the trinity.  Stirred in the broth.  I never watched the whole “chicken process” because that’s just fucking gross.  As we all got more comfortable with the meal I started helping.  Mostly chopping up all the vegetables.

Over the last 20 years I’ve helped make gumbo many times.  I’ve made batches myself, but always with help (see fucking gross “chicken process”).  This is the first batch I’ve made all on my own.  Entirely by myself.  I didn’t even make someone come over at an indecent hour to skin the chicken for me.  Yes, I even dealt with the chicken with a little help from some vodka.

Every other time I’ve worked on it I’ve carefully checked the recipe.  Once. Twice.  Twenty times.  Unsure.  Unwilling to make a mistake.  But I’m not a recipe checker.  I read and get the gist of it and then go on my way making the dish my own.  It’s how I cook.  Except with gumbo.

That changed today.  I got up.  Headed into the kitchen and started cooking.  With everything chopped and in the pot I started the roux.  That’s where I made the change.  I never feel like there’s quite enough roux flavor so I made more.  I wanted to do it my way.  I needed to make it my own.

I may be changing the recipe my mom taught me from, but making a change… that’s something I learned from her too.

I love you, mom.

After several false starts we’ve got a snow day.  A fucking snow day.  For those of you that live somewhere that actually gets snow let me explain a Portland snow day to you.

You only know it’s a snow day because the school district calls to wake you up to tell you it’s a snow day.  While this should be an occasion to sleep in all snug in our beds before waking well rested and snug to rub the sleep from our eyes, it isn’t.  Instead we must pop out of bed and throw on snow gear RIGHT AWAY so that we don’t miss any of the snow.  Because it will be gone or worthless by 10:30 AM.

No, we don’t really need the snow gear, but we have it so we need to make good use of it.

If you’re lucky you manage a walk, a snow ball fight and a very thin snow angel while you gross someone out by eating fluffy white flakes right off a tiny tree branch.

Happy snow day Portland!  May your socks be warm, your cocoa be hot and your snow be fluffy.