Commitment Issues

My parents started dating during their middle school years and have been happily side-by-side ever since. My evidence for the “happily” modifier is stated in the next few sentences. They groped each other nightly while doing the dinner dishes during my high school years. He’s done the vacuuming for the last 20 years because it hurt her back. She retrieves voicemail messages from his phone since he never learned how. They play card games after dinner. They’re silly. They watch and cheer as the other plays nickel slots in AC (now if THAT doesn’t scream love…) Once when I was in college, my father told me that if he had it to do over again, he still would have picked her, he’s been a pretty lucky guy. Aww. You’d think that these two would have the commitment thing down, right?

Enter the EZ Pass…

Rog (my dad) was kind enough to hand over his truck for the season so that I might make it safely through an Ithaca winter (if only all my problems could be so easily solved by 4-wheel drive!). As I was driving his truck back to Ithaca the day before 2nd semester, I checked to make sure his EZ Pass was inside. One would expect to find said device attached to the windshield, a little to the right of the rearview mirror. Oh, no, not in Rog’s truck. Committing to industrial strength Velcro is not a place he wants to go. I believe past excuses include: it will block my view and this way we can easily transfer it from car to car.

His EZ Pass sits perched on the dash. The observant reader might be questioning how the device stays in place on the dashboard. Let me explain… My father obtained some sort of non-slip, spongy material that he cut (yes, he got a tool involved) to create a 4”x8” home for his EZ Pass. I’m not sure what the material is called, nor where one would find it in a Target. My point here is that this process took effort, way more than peeling the back off Velcro strips, but I won’t judge.

Please understand that the current situation is an improvement from the one that reigned several years ago. My father would see a sign that he was approaching a toll booth. He would yell to my mom, “get the EZ Pass, get the EZ Pass.” She would fumble inside the glove compartment before victoriously emerging with the shiny protective-foil-wrapped (who keeps those things?) transponder. A brief argument would ensue about which person would hold (uh-huh, I said “hold”) the EZ Pass while driving through the detector. Even then their love shone through, as usually each would have a hand on it, pressed against the windshield where they imagined the Velcro strips might be located. Ah, the good old days.

I kid, of course, as these are two of the coolest, most generous people I will ever know. Their quirks only add to their appeal. In a week, I will get my own car back--the EZ Pass fastened securely via hooks and loops to the windshield. Unlike my father, I can commit!

…we’ll leave the discussion of my empty passenger’s seat for another blog post ;)

PEPPER RED SWEET

Some days it just works out…

Upon driving to the supermarket this afternoon, I realized I forgot my wallet. boo. Then I remembered feeling a single bill in my coat pocket earlier in the morning. Please be a twenty, please be a twenty… It was! yay. I buzzed around the market in a way I typically don’t, paying attention to the price of citrus fruit and doing mental math. Then old habits kicked in and I chose a red pepper based solely on the variety of color it would add to my dish, though the cheaper green bell pepper would have sufficed. Two aisles later, I second-guessed my indulgent selection and impetuously plopped said pepper onto the fancy olive bar scale. Shoppers were definitely judging this action, the equivalent of putting Miller Lite in a champagne flute, but they didn’t realize the stress I was under—when is the last time they paid cash!? It was just over half a pound. At $3.99/lb, I was going to be cutting it close. I decided to take a chance, be spontaneous, throw caution to the perpetual Ithaca wind and head to the check-out line with an awareness that I may just have to be that shopper who needs her zucchini voided so she can foot the bill.

A perk of shopping at a high-end grocer with only 20 bucks in your pocket is that you are undoubtedly eligible for the 10-items-or-less line. There was no one else at that particular checkout as I embarrassingly spilled the beans to the cashier. She seemed pretty cool with my old-school dilemma and the game began. I handed her each item one by one. Once we got past 10 dollars, she graciously verbalized each subtotal. BABY BELLA MUSH puts you at $15.23, ONION RED—16.74, SQUASH GREEN—17.61. I tentatively handed over my last item, that prodigal red pepper. She set it on the scale, punched in the 4 digit code, and then said nothing… I peeked at her screen: BALANCE—20.00. Now THAT’S a sweet pepper!

I entered the store hoping that 20 bucks would cover the cost of ingredients for my hummus veggie pizza dinner. Somehow it also managed to buy a restoration of faith in the “life is good” notion that has eluded me for the past eight months. Definition of money well-spent :)

Cheers,
Heather

Home Is Where the Blank Is

A few weekends ago back in Philly, I had just gotten in from a super-fun night out with Kitty, et al. and she asked if I was spending the night at her place. My response was, "No, I'm going home. I'm gonna get up and drive home for lunch tomorrow, but have to leave right after so that I get home in time for yoga." WHAT!? Let's deconstruct...

"No, I'm going home" = Kitty, I won't be staying on your couch tonight, but that of Kel, another of my amazing friends who takes me in, rubs my metaphorical belly, and feeds me treats like the lost little puppy I am.

"I'm going home for lunch tomorrow" = I'm driving to Allentown, my parents' house, the one I inhabited for 23 years, where I will toss my coat on the living room floor and devour the delicious vegan food my mother spent 2 hours preparing for my hour-long visit.

"...so that I get home in time for yoga" = so that I allow myself ample time to navigate the 190 mile stretch of road that separates Allentown from Ithaca while alternating between zoning out to and rewinding self-help books on CD --all so that I miss not a single moment of the cat/cow warm-up at the local Y. Namaste.

I used the word "home" to refer to a friend's, my parents', and my college apartment. Oddly, the one place I didn't refer to as "home" is my Philly house that I own! (Okay, Wells Fargo and I went halfsies on it, but I'm making a point. And by "halfsies" I mean 80:20, WF:HE) Moving on...

Atop the French doors in my parents' family room resides a burgundy, scripted plaque that reads, "Home is where the Heart is." I'll admit, it rolls nicely off the tongue, but so does bullsh*t and, personally, I prefer the latter. Isn't your heart with you no matter your location? Does that make everywhere your home? Snails aside, I don't buy it. And what if you're having one of those days where your "heart's just not in it"--does that mean you're homeless? Plus, if home is truly where the heart is, shouldn't homeowner's insurance cover a broken heart? All-State never sent me those checks... There are just too many loopholes, so I started thinking about how I would fill in the blank.

Home is where the *family* is? Nope, doesn't apply to us single girls. Home is where your *mortgage* is? Except mine's not. Home is where your *bills* are sent? Obsolete with the emergence of on-line banking. Home is where you get your *slumber* on? Getting closer, but it only applies if you're not slutty and I don't want to discriminate. The only phrase I could come up with that made sense to me is this: Home is where the unlit walk to the bathroom at 3 a.m. is a non-injurious one. Presently, by this definition, I am able to proudly call five residences "home."

In fact, if I ever live in a place with French doors, I will have the following, less succinct, yet no less felicitous verbiage scripted on a plaque to place atop:

Shiver, hallway, left, shhhh, don't wake the babies; 8 tip-toe steps, right, close door, then hit light, wonder why they sleep with the door open; leap--curling iron cord, pause--scrape gritty particles from bare foot, no need to shut door, ahhhhh relief

The plaque, of course, will be purple. My heart, I hope, will be happy. My un-stubbed toes and I will be home.

Cheers,
Heather

How Ithaca Equates to Skinny Jeans

Back in August, I stepped into Ithaca and immediately felt that it was the wrong fit. For months I’ve been cranky and snarky and puffy-eyed from all the crying. I marinated in my dislike, soaking in the negative feelings with each passing grey, rainy day until even I got tired of my complaints.

These are not unlike my initial feelings toward John Mayer and skinny jeans. Years ago, I decided that, regardless (or because?) of their commercial success, neither was cute. I didn’t need a hand behind my head before it hit the bed. And I certainly didn’t need my thighs accentuated via severely tapered denim (sporting that look back in 6th grade was enough!). But with time, something changed. I don’t remember which came first: the jeans sale at Banana Republic—“I’ll just try a pair on”-- or Mayer’s tattooed sleeve—HOT! Let’s just say my up-turned nose took a downward dive and, at this point, I’d happily shell out a couple hundred bucks to have either one on me. (Sorry, had to.) The one-eighty shift doesn’t end there. This Ithaca place is growing on me…

Highlights include my cute apartment, awesome classes, and interesting colleagues, but also that it’s really easy to eat here. That’s not something an East Coast vegan gets to say very often! Each week I survey the multitude of tofu brands (I go with local, of course) available in the supermarkets, share animal-free treats with my vegan friends, and choose among several vegan options offered on restaurant dinner menus (as opposed to one cheese-laden vegetarian option on most Philly menus). But there’s something I’ve eaten lately that is proving to be way healthier than tempeh bake-un or spaghetti and beanballs: my words. During winter break, I realized that maybe Ithaca (or John Mayer, skinny jeans, my mother during my middle school years…) was never the problem; perhaps it was my sucky attitude. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not perfectly happy, but at this point I’m at least honest with myself, humbled, and fairly content—all while wearing my skinny jeans, listening to John Mayer, and chillin’ in Ithaca.

“Fear is a friend who’s misunderstood. I know the heart of life is good.” ~John Mayer

Cheers,
Heather