The Vanity Button

Note: I wrote the following post about 3 weeks ago. I didn't publish it then because I have a fear of sounding like I'm bragging about myself. (This habit comes from two of my high school best friends "breaking up" with me because they said I was stuck-up. I stopped saying good things about myself about that time.) So please read this in the vein in which it was written: irony with a touch of chagrin. :-)

I went shopping with my mom today. There is a little shop, Nomads, in downtown Lawrence that I love. It is actually a travel agency that sells travel clothes and accessories. You can get a travel bag ... or you can get unique clothing from one-of-a-kind designers and hand-made jewelry from Turkey, Greece, or ... Lawrence. (The owner supports local artists, too.)

Best of all, the clothes are all T R A V E L - F R I E N D L Y. Do you know what that means? Do you know how exciting this is? They don't have to be ironed! Ever! And they're comfortable and movable-in! And they're not t-shirts. They're cotton and wool and all sorts of different materials that might normally have to be ironed but these clothes don't have to be because they've got seams and folds in strange places and they're all asymmetrical, and, and, and ... I just love them so much. Asymmetrical is me. Comfortable is me. Not ironing is most definitely me.

I knew I would buy something. I have to, if for no other reason than to support this local, woman-owned store that I love so much. I did not know I would walk out of there with a two skirts, two shirts, a necklace, and a shrug. Yes, a shrug. I have never envisioned myself in a shrug. I have enormously broad shoulders and shrugs have either failed to stretch over that great breadth of shoulder or they have made me look like a football player wearing 80s era shoulder pads. But this shrug, while it does emphasize my shoulders, does so in a way that makes my waist look small., which is, most definitely, a good thing.

So I bought a lot of stuff, more than I planned on. I would not have done it, either, except that the saleswoman hit my vanity button so damn well. You see, when I was a teen, into my early 20s, I was a runway model*. Because of my large shoulders, I had what they called the "hanger" body. Put clothes on me and there were no pesky breasts, stomach, hips, or thighs to ruin the line of the clothes. They just hung.

After two kids, a desk job, and no exercise, that hanger body became more of a stuffed pillow body. And then (fast-forward through long not-nearly-so-dramatic-a-story-as-I-like-to-make-it-sound), I lost 40 pounds, so I now have a smoother soft pillow body.

So today, I put on the first skirt, which was fabulously asymmetrical in front but tighter in the butt than I have worn in about 15 years, and the first thing the saleswoman said in her Peruvian accent (which made it sound even better) was, "She has a model's body." To which my mom replied that yes, I used to be a model. And then they continued to flatter me with how well everything looked and so I bought more. And more. And then one more. I knew, the entire time, that I was letting vanity and nostalgia influence me, but I still did it. That damn vanity button.

I hope everything looks as good tomorrow.

* I accidentally wrote "runaway model." Does that tickle you as much as it does me? hee!

Avocado Mango Salad

One of my own concoctions -- very proud of it.

Throw together the following ingredients:

• About 2 handfuls of spinach
• 2 avocados, diced
• 1 mango, diced
• 1 small cucumber, peeled, seeded, and diced
• About 1/3 cup red onion, sliced
• Candied walnuts*
• Red pepper flakes (optional)

For dressing, I used the following recipe; it's the balsamic vinaigrette we always use. However, I think this salad would also be good with a sweeter dressing or a lime-based one.


Shake or blend the following:

• 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
• 3 Tbsp agave syrup (or honey)
• 1 tsp dijon mustard
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1-2 garlic cloves, minced
• 3-1/2 Tbsp peanut oil

* You may have a better way of making candied walnuts, but this is how I did it: throw some walnuts in a small skillet over med-low heat. Pour sugar over them. Stir regularly, especially as the sugar starts to harden.

The man in the cap in the old blue pick-up truck

I noticed the man in the old blue Nissan pick-up truck because of a bumper sticker. I don't remember two of them, but the third said, "Veterans for Kerry." I felt a connection with this man in the old blue pick-up truck because I voted for Kerry, too. I thought about the man being a veteran. I could tell he was older; I'm not sure how exactly. Maybe it was his neck and the way his shoulders sloped. He was wearing a flat cap, the kind that old men wear, and I thought when Aaron is old, he will wear a cap like that.

[Extraneous comment: I did not know the name of the hat the man was wearing, so I tried googling various hat names that I could think of but could not find it. I finally searched for "old man hat." It came up instantly.]

The old blue Nissan pick-up truck was a stick shift. Each time we pulled away from a stop light, it was in harmony with his clutch. I wondered about his life, did he have a wife, kids, grandkids? Was he a widower out enjoying his drive, maybe on his way home from the library? I wondered about him in his old blue Nissan pick-up and flat cap.

We toodled along, me behind him, and I felt whimsically downcast that I soon had to turn off for gas. I wondered where he was going. Was he close to home? Had he lived there long? Had he just moved and why? And then he turned into the same 7-Eleven where I was going to get gas. I felt happy. I got to wonder about him more, maybe see what he was wearing. I also felt a bit chagrined, though -- I did not want him to think I was following him all those miles -- so I was glad when he parked rather than getting gas.

He was wearing khaki pants with cuffs and an old-style windbreaker. I don't remember his shoes. They were not sneakers, perhaps they were loafers. He went inside, and I got gas. I was getting ready to leave, when he came out with a bag. If he was a widower, it might have been dinner. Or maybe he was taking a sweet to his love. Then, he lit a cigarette.

He got back into his old blue pick-up truck, and I wound up directly behind him again, wondering again about this man. I had imagined all sorts of romantic lives for him, but at this point I thought, what if he is a child molester? What if he beat his wife? A flat cap, Kerry bumper sticker, and old blue pick-up truck do not make him a good person. Then I wondered why my thoughts suddenly went that way. Was it the cigarette?

He turned off at that point, and I continued along my way. I stopped wondering about the man, but I kept wondering about wondering, about where those thoughts come from and why. Why was this man in the old blue pickup truck a romantic figure until he put that cigarette in his mouth? Was it simply coincidence, and my thoughts would have gone that direction anyway when I realized how I had romanticized him? I don't know. I wonder.

It's a Small World

I am repeatedly struck by the number of people who move here to Johnson County, KS, from the area in which I spent most of my life: North San Diego county. My stats professor last semester grew up in Escondido, the same city I lived in. He went to Palomar junior college, which is the college I started out at, too. Just tonight, I opened my microbiology lab text -- the author is a professor at Palomar. But even stranger to me, in the acknowledgments he thanks Dorcas Lounsbery, a long-time friend of the family. (To my CA friends and family -- do you know Ron Palcic or Gary Alderson? Would be so weird if you did.)

These are not the only examples. I work with a woman who lived in Escondido for several years. The administrative assistant at our synagogue went to the same high school I went to, and she graduated just two years ahead of me. Aaron works with a woman who graduated the same year Aaron did from the same high school. While they did not know each other then, they know a lot of the same people.

I've seen cars with license plate frames from car dealerships in Torrey Pines and San Marcos. I seem to encounter people on a regular basis who are from North San Diego County. How do so many people from one place end up here? Yes, the areas are similar -- lots of housing developments, community pools, gyms, and chain restaurants -- but there are hundreds -- probably thousands -- of similar places in the US. Yes, Kansas City is a great place to raise a family, but so are a lot of other places. Housing prices are great compared to San Diego, but that's true of many other places, too.

So what is it that brings so many from there to here? It boggles me. I think about it far too much. It's like there's some kind of connection, maybe some worm-holish-type anomaly, that brings people from North San Diego county to JoCo, KS.

What is it?!?!

Vegan Coconut Milk Fruit Smoothie

I have been enamored of coconut milk lately. It tastes far better than soy milk and gives things a very rich, creamy texture. Plus, it helps me avoid eating too much soy, which, depending on who you talk to, can be bad as chemicals in it mimic estrogen, which are theorized to contribute to breast cancer development. I doubt these claims, but just in case they're correct, I'll use coconut milk sometimes instead of soy milk.

I've also read that you can skim off the fatty part of coconut milk, beat it, and it will turn into whipped "cream." I have not tried it yet, but I look forward to that experiment!

Here's my concoction:

About 1 cup coconut milk (full fat) - I recommend Thai Kitchen brand
About 1 cup strawberries
About 1/2 banana
1/2 tsp coconut extract
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
Several drops stevia*

Put in blender and mix. I had refrigerated the coconut overnight. I don't know if that made a difference to its creaminess, but it might have. This smoothie was thick and yummy.

* Stevia is an awesome sweetener. It's an herb that is far sweeter than sugar so you only need a few drops usually (if you're using the liquid version). Plus, it doesn't raise blood sugar. In fact, it seems to increase insulin sensitivity, and some countries in South America even use it as a treatment for Type II diabetes. I credit it with helping to delay my diabetes diagnosis by a year. When my first glucose tolerance test came back over the range for a positive diagnosis (you have to get 2 out of 3 tests high enough to be diagnosed unless it's super high), I started using stevia in my tea every day. My blood sugars came down to normal levels within two weeks. I still use it, but since I also eat the way I'm supposed to now, it's impossible to say whether my continued normal blood sugars are due to diet or stevia or both.

Vegan Pancakes with Coconut Milk

I wanted to veganize pancakes last night (breakfast for dinner - yay!) but was out of soymilk. Here's what I came up with, and they were delicious.

Pancake mix -- I followed the directions on the box with these substitutions:

Sub coconut milk for cow's milk
Sub 1/2 banana for egg
Sub orange extract for vanilla

They tasted mildly tropical without being overtly so. Yum!!!

The Mushroom

I have been feeling nostalgic and weepy today, all because of a carved wooden mushroom. It has made me think about how people imbue objects with meaning. On its own, this mushroom means nothing. It's neat, and I would buy it if I saw it in a store if I had the extra money, but it has no inherent meaning in and of itself. Yet, I have somehow folded this mushroom into my heart, and it has nestled in so snugly that the thought of losing it tugs on that little piece of heart and makes me weep.

What is it about this mushroom? I tell myself that material things don't matter. I try to raise my kids that way, although I think I have failed miserably the way they go on about what I deem very silly things. I suppose my attachment to this mushroom could be a very silly thing, too. But I am undeniably, inextricably attached to this carved wooden mushroom.

When I was a kid, I saw my daddy-Guy (my father's name is Guy) every other weekend. I remember state fairs, the tree house, the horsewhip I carried because I was afraid of the neighbor's evil geese who hissed at and chased me (I never used the whip; it was like Dumbo's feather), the trips cross country and trying to sleep curled up like a cat in the back of Dad's truck, getting thrown by the neighbor's pony, hiking in the hills behind the house, refusing to cross the plank-bridge across the stream because I was sure it was going to break and it did, Tasha, pancakeswithcornmeal-spaghettiwithwheatgerm-carobchipcookies, one of Dad's girlfriend's fetal pigs in a jar, running wild with his hippie friend's kids while questionable herbs might have been smoked . . . Somehow, all of those memories have been locked up inside that mushroom.

I realized that I have always assumed the mushroom would be mine, so when I discovered it might not be, my heart panicked. I felt frantic. I tell myself that, after all, it is just a mushroom. I tell myself that my siblings might have similar strong attachments to it, yet  it is so tied into my self-perception that I have difficulty believing that. It's like when you were a teen and you "loved" a boy who loved someone else, and you just knew that they didn't really love that other person because you were the one for them and they just didn't know it yet. That's how I feel about this carved wooden mushroom. In my heart, it is mine.

It is just a mushroom. A mushroom imbued with meaning, by me, but nonetheless, just a mushroom. I don't know that it won't one day be mine. I tell myself I am crying over a future loss that may never happen, which is just silly. But maybe instead I am crying over a past that is gone yet still present in my heart.

I wonder whether I should post this. I don't want Doug, Cait, and Beth to feel like I am trying to start a contest to see who loves the mushroom more (although I cannot promise my subconscious is not doing just that). I know, Doug, Cait, and Beth, that you may love this mushroom as much as I do, and I would (try very very hard to) be happy for the one who gets it while feeling sad for myself.

No matter what, though, I will have these memories, even if they be wrapped in the shape of a carved wooden mushroom. And that is what matters most.