Score!

This morning I got a golden parking spot on the ground level of the seven story parking garage. This is like the rarest of the rarest occurrences for someone as tardy as me. Something in the cosmos must have aligned today and dumped all its glory on me. Needless to say, I did an awesome dance of humble success outside my parked car. I really hope the security cameras caught that one because it’s a keeper.

Today is going to be a good day.

Easter Pickles

A few years ago I sat down at the dining room table for Easter dinner with the family. The table was bright and set as usual with a beautiful honey ham, deviled eggs, Steve’s jello salad, potatoes, some greens, some fruit and…pickles. Pickles. Hm. That is an unusual thing to be on our table all by their lonesome in a pretty dish, I thought to myself. So, me being me, proceeded with something like this:

Me: What is with the pickles?
Mom: Uh Stephanie, they are pickles, you eat them.
Me: I know, but like are they special or are we supposed to do anything with them?
Mom: Yeah, you eat them.
Me: I know, but we never just have pickles on the table unless we have like hamburgers or something. (this it totally true by the way)
Mom: Stephanie, they are just pickles, if you don’t want them don’t eat them.
Me: Hm ok, but it’s weird.
Mom: It’s not weird, they are just PICKLES!
Me: Ok, yikes, I’m sorry.

I didn’t eat the Easter pickles that year out of sheer confusion.

That was all it took. Now every year we have pickles on the table for Easter. They are a family tradition. A random placement that turned into a mandatory item we all now love and laugh about.

Thanks to this year’s Easter pickles, I was thinking a lot about traditions this weekend. I went to an egg hunting/coloring party where we had some non-American born guests. They were fascinated by our hunting and coloring of eggs. It had never really occurred to me that this was almost solely an American tradition and how funny that was. I don’t know exactly how the tradition came about, I’ve heard a few theories. My guess, it came about the same way our Easter pickles did. Somebody just decided to try something new and it stuck. What makes some last so long is what they start meaning to us, individually.

Even if created haphazard, traditions are a beautiful thing. They often provide joyous anticipation, bring back wonderful memories and offer something to share and pass on. It would take me forever to write down all the traditions that have become a part of my life. Some have expired, some are brand new and some have been around and will live on forever. I don’t know why I color Easter eggs, but I know it reminds me of spring, being around friends and family and that alone brings a smile to my face. I will never understand why there were pickles in a dish that Easter, but I know now they remind me of my mom and being at home with people I love. That is enough for the Easter pickles to always have a special place in my heart from now on.

Ides of Memories

“Beware of the Ides of March,” Julius Caesar is warned…a tad bit late. Did you know there is a toga run in Rome to celebrate this day? I’m going to start one.

I didn’t know much about this “holiday” until my later college years when theatrical BYU students pranced around quoting Shakespeare all day. Unfortunately, this wasn’t really an odd occurrence so it took me a while to recognize the significance to the date.

When I returned back to Austin, I was surprised to find there was in fact a collection of celebrators who also embraced the holiday in the classiest of ways. They put on a Shakespeare show! Cast members would prepare and present various adaptations of the famed originals. It was brilliant! We sadly skipped this tradition last year and as it occurred to me this morning, it was sadly overlooked again. A true tragedy.

I remember past events: a controversial kiss between two friends in the climatic scenes of Romeo and Juliet that is still talked about. A ghettofied version of the Macbeth’s witches three and the hilariously driest delivery of Julies Cesar I’ve ever witnessed. One year, I was somehow volunteered to be Juliet in a quick and witty opener as co-emcee. I managed to miss the queue and it never started. Mid-festival people began to ask what happened to R&J, which coerced us onto the stage at the end. I hung longingly out of the balcony with a very clever script displayed on a laptop next to me. After my very passionate, “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou, Romeo,” the computer knocked over, the screen went blank and I was left to my own devices. Red-faced and totally clueless, I stumbled through what can only be described as the most technologically awkward Juliet of all time. “O Romeo, the screen has blanketh and my computer has faileth, but alas what is a rose by any other rose, other than rose.” Oh how I wish that were not a direct quote.

Shakespeare must have been rolling…in his grave. Alas, it was an offbeat hit, a very palpable hit. No doubt it will stand as one of my most memorable performances of all time.

Regardless of what lack of thespian talent existed, the Idles of March was always a wonderful experience. Great friends, beautiful art, hearty laughs and endearing memories. For someone like me who often overlooks the finer arts for fast paced modern tales, I will never forget those sweet moments when embracing classic tales of life, loss and love meant more to me than any cheesy romantic comedy.

So, Ides of March, thank you for the memories and little reminders of the beauty in written word, friends and life. After all, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio.

London Bridge

I am a very short woman and I am ok with it. It adds to my cute preciousness and keeps me looking youthful. There are times when this presents interesting challenges like sometimes things are just out of my view or physical range. It can be slightly awkward in a store when I have to call for help reaching something or wait around for someone walking by to take pity on me as I teeter on my tippy toes before resorting to climbing the shelves. Yes, I have done this, and yes I have made a lot of things fall over. Luckily at home I am equipped with a step ladder and a very tall, leggy roommate so, as far as reaching things, I have learned to reasonably adapt with my disability.

Shortness also often seems to equate with immaturity and/or incapability. I am often mistaken for a weak high school girl, which I certainly don't mind in cases of heavy lifting. However, when it comes to buying cough medicine or spray paint my ID is ridiculously scrutinized. One time a guy asked me if it was my older sisters card. Really guy? Just give me the NyQuil! There was even an incident at the airport when I was asked where my mother was and if I was old enough to fly alone. Keep in mind you only have to be 12 to travel alone...I was 25. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind looking younger and I will be most grateful for it in my 50's, but for now I'm really not a huge fan of waitresses, who are most certainly younger than me, calling me kiddo.

Lastly, doors. My disability does not affect my capacity for opening most doors, but I'm a lady so I appreciate the chivalrous gesture of a politely opened door, slight tip of the hat and a good day ma'am on any occasion. However, I'm slightly confused about the kind stranger who asses my height, opens the door and keeps his hand there, above my head, motioning for me to travel under his arm. It's true I don't have to duck and I will graciously accept the offer, but dude, that was a totally awkward game of London Bridge.

Well, it’s colorful.

My mother is a saint. Seriously, if she were Catholic and dead (and I’m grateful she is neither) she would have achieved Sainthood. This is not only because she puts up with all my fiery nonsense but because she is the Queen of the Golden Rule. She never says an unkind thing about anything or anyone except Bill Clinton, she really hated him. She is slow to anger and quick to forgive. She smiles, she laughs, she feeds, she helps, she cares, she dances, she loves and she is way smart. She is the best and I certainly don’t come anywhere near her outstanding character but at least I have an excellent benchmark and I get to claim her.

Anyway, although my mother is very kind she also has very strong opinions and she is not afraid to make them known when need be. Don’t you dare try to sneak any extra charges on her bill. However, with her children, she often chooses the kindly ambiguous approach which I’m certain is intended to avoid bursting our delicate bubbles.

Example: in 3rd grade I picked out my own outfit for class photo day. I proudly selected a white sweatshirt with neon flowers, bright teal sweatpants and 4 assorted neon colored socks that I carefully stacked on top of each other. In my defense I totally matched and it was the 80’s. I came out of my room and my mom smiled, titled her head and said, “Well…it’s certainly colorful”. I will never forget those words and I will never throw out that photo. I wish I still had that sweatshirt.

Over time it has become very easy to tell when mom doesn't totally agree with our choices but nevertheless still stands close by as a great support. Over the Christmas break my brother, as he often does, went through a fierce ‘build things’ spurt. He crafted this beautiful, custom-made entertainment center equipped with under-glow lighting for my mom. It’s absolutely brilliant. In addition, he felt that in order to properly display such a perfect piece of carpentry the accent wall must be repainted. He waited for my mom to head to work and then he and my other brothers ‘garage mixed’ a custom paint color to slap on the wall in record speed. At this point keep in mind that my brothers are all very color blind. One of them still has a purple, and I mean purple comforter on his bed. Hilarious story for another time. Anyway, I stopped by my mom’s house later in the evening and was immediately accosted by a bright peacock blue living room. Now, I love the actual color, in fact I painted my room a very similar color before but, to say the very least, it simple will not do in my mother’s living room with a forest green couch and rich, royal toned curtains.

“Whoa,” I immediately exclaim, “my eyes, my eyes!”

My mother emerges from the back room, “So, you noticed?”

“Uh yeah,” again I exclaim in a very concerned shrill, “did you see it?”

With a sweet smile and a slight head tilt she gently sighs, “Yes and well...it’s colorful.”

She joyfully follows with, “the boys are so proud.”

I could not contain my laughter as all my brothers lined up with very proud grins and blue paint all over the place.

It’s true, the boys were so very proud and they really didn't know that this combination was 6 times worse than my 3rd grade outfit. Even after I have strongly suggested about 10 better shades the boys should paint the wall, it remains a bursting brilliant blue to this day. Turns out, it doesn't matter to my mom, her boys painted that wall and she loves it. It is, after all, colorful.

Labyrinthitis?!

(I can not believe I forgot to post this gem)

No, this is not the David Bowie fever. Turns out, it is a real serious, non-made-up, disease and I’ve got it.

I asked my doctor 3 times to repeat the name, excuse me…like Labyrinth, you say? Hm. Well, that is something.

Not unlike the movie, it starts as a virus that infects the inner ear and before you even realize, you have one giant, blurry mess. It just so happens, the delicate part of the ear horrifically attacked by some random floating micro-terrorist is responsible for the body’s entire vestibular system – the part being solely in charge of balance and orientation. You know what happens when your spatial orientation is messed up? Turns out, you can’t function, at all…and you look really silly. I am not just talking about the kind of superior balance you need to score pro status in the Wii Fit Hula challenge (yeah, I’ve totally done that), I’m talking about normal, every day, plain old standing. A life-size, breathing wobbling Weeble…that falls down.

To cope with my afflication, I laid in bed for a few days remembering how nice it was to not feel like I was in a constant whirlpool of plain air. Remember when I could stand, yeah and it was great. Luckily the episode was relatively short lived and I’m now back to normal balanced life. The icing, Doctor says the virus will now forever live inside of me and will come back to visit every other year or so. Not to worry, he says, it won’t ever be as bad as the first time. Super and uh yeah, I’m going to get a second opinion…

I found some helpful hints so I knew what to avoid:
“You may need help walking when symptoms occur.” Or, in my case, remembering how to crawl worked out best. It’s the basics that save us. Stay low to avoid bullets…and vomiting.
“Avoid hazardous activities such as driving, operating heavy machinery, and climbing until 1 week after symptoms have disappeared.” I don’t know what heavy machinery is but I feel like I would avoid that with or without Labrynthitis. Driving, yeah that does not work and no climbing? Great, just when I had that rock wall installed. Thanks a lot, Bowie.

At any rate, if you see me wobbling about at an awkward 30 degree slant, don’t worry, it’s just the Labyrinthitis, I’ll be fine. Probably.

Still think I’m making this up? Go on, Google it.

Fireball 2.0

There is an episode of Friends when Joey is supposed to be writing a screenplay but instead he and Chandler create "Fireball," a highly dangerous yet ingenious game involving a blow torch and bowling ball. The look on Joey's face when announcing his creation to Ross still gets me rolling. Yesterday, I created my own version only it starts with fish and chips.

All I wanted was to reheat my leftovers. I wasn't asking much. Where the story gets interesting is when my impatience and stupidly jumps in. I wanted the food so hastily that I, all safety regulations aside, stuck the cardboard box in the tiny oven. I just wanted it crispy not like soggy sad fish from the microwave. Well, if you do something this stupid you can count on not being careful enough when pulling it out as to avoid the hot coils of the oven which, by the way, will ignite cardboard. Voilà! A quick recipe for a personal-sized ball of flame.

Now, what do you do with a handful of fire on your counter? Easy, transfer to sink with bare hands, of course. Done...except what happens when the ball of fire bounces out of the sink, across the counter and onto the living room floor? Fireball disaster. With a flying fireball now threatening to take my apartment down I must quickly end this fiasco. I run over and attempt to stomp out the blaze, barefoot. I'm way smart. After the flames were out, and my fish certainly extra crispy, I gave myself a little vocal cheer and fist pump for taking out that fire like a champ with minimal bodily harm. I hope you're both laughing hysterically and shaking your head in judging disbelief. It's ok, go ahead. No one died except my pride and maybe a few pieces of carpet.

Not a minute after stomping the heck out of the mini bonfire, it occurs to me that by jumping on this highly flammable box, I sent smoldering pieces of cardboard across the floor. Sure enough, they were still glowing just begging a second challenge. My much smarter, safer solution: dump excessive amounts of water everywhere. Done. An hour later it is very clear I had a fight with something. You’d never guess it was with a fireball, but it was. I came out victorious. Yes, I did...mostly.