Thanksgiving Grace

For some reason, people like to give me stuff.

It happens so often, nothing is really sticking out in my mind as a classic example. Oh wait! Just thought of one...

On Sunday, I went to the grocery store for ingredients to make soup. At the checkout counter, the cashier rotely asked "Did you find everything okay?" Well, since she asked, I told her, "Actually, you're out of the cream that's on sale. In fact, there are about five different kinds of cream that are all completely sold out. The cream section is totally empty except for this one half-pint I found." I wasn't giving her a hard time about it - I was just trying to be helpful by filling her in on the deficiency in the dairy section so she could alert a stockboy. She was very sweet, and offered to check in the back for more, but I didn't care that much about saving 40 cents for the stuff on sale. Besides, my belly was getting impatient for the broccoli-cheddar soup for which the cream was destined. "Don't worry about it, this kind is fine," I told the nice girl. "Well," she smiled, "I'm just going to give this to you for free since we didn't have the kind that's on sale," and she put the cream in my grocery bag. I gushed out my gratitude, she smiled bigger, and we wished each other a great day.

Stuff like that happens to me all the time.

So this afternoon, I loaded up the car to head to my parents' house for Thanksgiving dinner: fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie, bottle of wine, laptop, purse, and jacket in the front seat; dogs in the back (they love to run around my parents' huge back yard, and then I don't have to exercise them later). I stopped at Blockbuster to drop off a video, and decided to run into the Starbucks next door for a coffee-flavored drink, which I rarely do, but for some reason, today I wanted one.

I got in line behind three women who spent an inordinately long time deciding what to order. I inadvertently caught the eye of the guy waiting on them, and we exchanged a brief look of good-natured exasperation. When it was my turn, he smiled again and asked for my order as I stepped up to the counter and reached into my purse for my wallet. I started to order, but then I looked down and said "Oh, no... I think I left my debit card in the pocket of my jeans last night!" Without missing a beat, he replied, "That's okay. What do you want?" and I said, "I have my checkbook - do you take checks?" and he said, "Don't worry about it. What can I get you?" and I said, "A small vanilla latte, please?" (I really, really dislike saying "tall") and he asked for my name, wrote it on the cup, and said it would be right up. I smiled a bit incredulously but very gratefully, and wished him a Happy Thanksgiving.

I was still smiling a few minutes later as I took my drink from the counter and walked out of the store and across the parking lot, where I could see the wagging tail and hindquarters of my lab mix sticking up in the passenger seat of my car. I started running then, yelling "NO, GRACIE, NO!!!" only to open the door and see her nose happily buried in the pie plate on the floor of the car.

It turned out okay in the end... I got to my parents' house with just enough time to bake a replacement pie.

And really, have you ever seen a happier-looking dog?

True Love (lesbian stalker style)

When we were in college, email was a novelty... we didn't get our own accounts until senior year... so exciting! Sarah and I would sit in the computer lab and email each other back and forth across the room, just because we could. For example:

(the "sincerely" gets me every time)

... and we wondered why people thought we were more than just friends.

---

Five Minutes In My Head

This truly just happened:

Phew! Finally. The floors are all swept and ready to mop. Just spent 20 minutes scouring the surprise treasure-trove of fuzzy gray debris and black goo under the refrigerator. Unbelievable how much damage three 20-something guys living together in one house can do in two years. So. Where to mop first? How about the small tile section by the front door? Okay. Close the front door to clean behind it. Oh, yuck, more black goo! Better clean that up by hand, then come back with the mop. Head to the kitchen for paper towels. Oh wait, there's a roll of paper towels in the bathroom, which is closer. Huh? What is this little pile of dirt doing in the bathroom? Pause. Stand for a few seconds and stare inquisitively. Why is there dirt here? Oh! That's right. I swept in here an hour ago. Got distracted by the refrigerator project. Forgot to come back with the dustpan. Well, it's not very much. I'll just take this wet rag and wipe it up. Rinse it down the sink. Oh, right. This sink is stopped up. Gotta remember to put Dran-o on my shopping list. In fact, I gotta remember to START the shopping list. Maybe I should do that now. But no writing paper in the house. Maybe I'll just text the list to myself. Go for the phone sitting on the desk in the room down the hall. Hey, the music stopped. Get the ipod shuffling. That's better. Notice the phone blinking at me. A missed call and a message! An invitation for beer. Mmmm... beer. But no... I really should finish the mopping. It's the only thing left to do before the house will be ready for me to move in. Oh, as long as I'm holding the phone... I meant to check on my kid. Wander into my room, stretch out across the bed, call the parents... Hi, Dad, how's Kate? Fine? Swimming? Great. I'll see you guys in a bit. Gotta mop first. Bye. God, it's muggy in here. Stare up at the whirring ceiling fan. Mmm... maybe I DO want a beer. Should I go? No... I should mop. Okay, go get the mop. Get up and head towards the front of the house. Wait. What was I doing? Oh right... the black goo behind the door. Oh right... the paper towels. Oh right... they're in the bathroom. Good god, wasn't I just in here to get the paper towels?

AWESOME.

You know how in movies, people spit out their drink when they hear something really funny? I’ve never seen that happen in real life, and thought it was more of a myth--an overdramatization--until today. I not only witnessed it... I CAUSED it!

I met some friends for brunch. Three of us ordered mimosas, but Krista, who’s pregnant, stuck with herbal tea. She and her husband, John, were sitting across the table from Lindsey and me. Lindsey, 26, has a naive fascination with pregnancy. Meanwhile, it’s been ten years since I gave birth, so a lot of memories were resurfacing as we chit-chatted about all Krista has to look forward to.

Krista took a wistful sip of John’s mimosa, prompting Lindsey to ask about the general consensus among the medical community regarding the danger of alcohol consumption while pregnant.

Well, it depends... but really, a half-glass of wine never hurt anybody. Any Frenchman (or woman) will tell you that.

Of course, every woman is different. Melany is due with Child No. 2 next month, and has to use quite a bit of self-restraint not to glug down a pint of beer whenever she feels the urge, whereas I myself remember having a natural disinclination for alcohol while pregnant.

After giving birth, however, my affinity for wine returned without delay. My infant child wasn’t so keen on alcoholic breastmilk, though. I’ve heard that a little wine-laced breastmilk helps some babies fall asleep, but it only agitated mine. So whenever I knew I was going to have a drink, I’d pump some milk beforehand, feed my baby the good stuff out of a bottle at bedtime, then pump out the wine-tainted milk to dump down the sink.

Except that on an emotional level, it’s very, very hard to see your own milk poured down the drain. I mean, I MADE that. And it’s a damn shame to see all my body’s hard work going to waste. Surely it can be put to some good use.

I don’t remember where I first heard about it, but somebody somewhere mentioned using leftover breastmilk for basic cooking recipes; it’s a little bit sweeter, and has kind of a funny aftertaste, but there’s not technically anything wrong with it. If you think about it, it makes more sense than consuming something meant for a baby cow.

So one Saturday morning, rather than dumping out my winey breastmilk, I used it to make pancakes. I was going to tell my husband before I fed them to him, but just before breakfast, he’d said something that pissed me off....

Pbbbttthhhtttt!!!!!

....sputtered Krista, spewing her tea ALL OVER THE TABLE.

It was one of the most hysterical things I’ve ever seen. She was beside herself, choking and laughing at my story, while I had tears rolling down my face at the splatters of her tea all over my quiche.

That right there was some funny shit.

Don't hire me as a babysitter.

One of my favorite things in the world to do is go to a nice restaurant with outdoor seating on a pretty day and enjoy a good meal. Alone or with someone, it doesn't matter; I just like being outside and eating good food.

Early last summer, on a beautiful Saturday morning, I was babysitting my brother's two-and-a-half year old daughter, Ashlyn. I adore this child... absolutely love her... but I am so glad she isn't mine. I can't keep up with her. She never stops. She's an adorable, insatiable, mischievous, bullheaded little minx of a girl. As much as I relish our time together, one hour with Ashlyn makes me thoroughly appreciate all over again just how easy my own child was at that age. My daughter has always enjoyed freedom and independence, while I have enjoyed knowing with maternal certainty that she possesses an instinctive understanding of and adherence to the boundaries of safety and reason. I never, ever worried about her getting into danger, or even trouble. She could entertain herself for hours, if I let her; she spoiled me as a mother way more than I ever spoiled her as a child.

I made the unfortunate mistake of assuming the same was true of my niece.

My god, even setting the scene for this story is a glaringly obvious recipe for disaster:

• 1 beautiful summer day
• 1 me, wanting to make the most of the beautiful day
• 1 Ashlyn to babysit for a few hours
• 1 Gracie (an adolescent lab mix)
• 1 George (an adolescent Great Dane)
• 1 purse
• 1 book
• 1 whimsical idea to take the whole lot for lunch to The Wild Fork, a lovely restaurant with patio seating in the courtyard of a posh outdoor shopping center with all kinds of rich snobby people out for the pleasure of being seen (me... I just liked the food & sunshine)

It all started off just swell. We sat at a table right on the edge of the grassy courtyard, and I tethered the dogs to the leg of my chair. I nodded a friendly greeting at one of the servers, Dale, with whom I'd waited tables about ten years ago when I moved back to Tulsa after college. When our own server approached a few minutes later, I ordered a spinach salad and a glass of wine for myself, a small three-cheese pizza for my niece, and a bowl of water for my dogs. The dogs settled in on the sunny grass while I sat back with my book and sipped my pinot gris, keeping one eye on Ashlyn as she explored the courtyard. It didn't take her long to discover the small fountain, about fifteen feet away, with a gentle spray of water surrounding a statue of a girl in the center of the shallow pool. I watched as Ashlyn promptly lay down on the border of the fountain and dipped her little fingers into the cool water. Perhaps a more diligent caregiver would have jumped up to go over and tell her "no-no" and warn her of the germy dangers of public fountains... or at the very least, sit close by to make sure she didn't fall in. But I figured, even if she did take a tumble, the water was only a few inches deep, and I could certainly get over there and pull her out before she drowned. The worst that could happen was she'd end up wet. I took another sip of my wine.

The puppies (all 170 pounds of them) perked up when the food came out, but I got them to back off, then called Ashlyn over for a few bites of her pizza. Her interest in eating lasted all of five minutes before she was off to the fountain again. This time, she slipped off her shoes, sat her cute little bottom down, and dipped her toes in the water. Splish-splish. Then her feet. Splash-splash-splash. Big smile. Happy girl. Another curious toddler wandered to the edge of the fountain, her attentive mother close behind. Ashlyn began to show off - kersploosh-kersploosh - as her legs churned the water all the way up to her knees. The other little girl looked pleadingly at her mother, then took off her sandals and joined my niece in the fun. By the time her new playmate left, Ashlyn was soaked up to her denim shorts.

In the meantime, I had finished my salad and was nibbling at the mostly untouched pizza. The wine glass was nearly empty. Normally, I'd have loved to stay longer to read and have another glass of wine. Instead, I signaled the server and asked for the check and a to-go box. Then I turned and saw Ashlyn staggering towards me, her wet shorts caught around her knees as she tried to get them off. Oh, what the heck. She's just a little kid in a t-shirt and diaper. Who cares? I helped her out of the wet pants and set them on the chair beside me as she zipped back to the pool and resumed full splash mode.

When the server returned to the table, I handed her my debit card, then slid the uneaten pizza into the styrofoam container. By now the dogs were restless, and Ashlyn was getting wetter by the minute. It was definitely time to go. I stood up and began to collect my things: purse over the shoulder, to-go box in one hand, damp shorts on the to-go box, book on top of the shorts... now for the dogs. I slipped the loops of the leashes off the chair leg and the dogs jumped up, waggy-tailed and ready to play. We walked (okay, they dragged me) over to the fountain, and I announced to Ashlyn as engagingly as possible, "It's time to go!" as I bent down to pick up her shoes, then set them on the book on the shorts on the to-go box. Ashlyn watched with mild interest, then went back to her splashing fun.

"Come on, Ashlyn!" I cajoled as I pulled the increasingly excited dogs back over to the table so I could sign the receipt for my lunch. My niece paid no attention.

I decided to play the abandonment card: "Bye-bye, Ashlyn! We're leaving!" And to show her I wasn't kidding, I took several steps towards the other end of the courtyard, where my car was parked. This time, Ashlyn stood up.

"Aha! It worked!" thought I. But Ashlyn made no move to join me. Instead, with those gorgeous brown, bigger-than-her-head doe eyes staring calmly at me, she reached down and grasped the hem of her sopping t-shirt, and in one deft motion pulled it up and over her head. Still looking straight at me, she held out her arm let the shirt drop to the ground beside her. Then, like a cowboy reaching for his holstered pistols, she grasped the velcro tabs of her waterlogged Huggies, and with two simultaneous tugs, the diaper fell with a splat onto the brick. With complete nonchalance, my very naked niece turned, plopped down on her now-bare butt, and dunked her splish-splashing legs back into the fountain.

I didn't have to look to know that several dozen pairs of eyes were now focused intently on me and my disrobed charge. I stood there, frozen, taking in the scene myself, running through my options as I assessed the situation. Arms full. Agitated dogs tugging in two different directions. A bare-assed child thirty steps away. A crowd of spectators just dying to know what would happen next.

"Here, give me the dogs," came a kind voice from stage left, and I looked over to see Dale approaching. I smiled with relieved gratitude as I handed over the leashes, then set my stack of crap down on a nearby bench. Striding over to the fountain, I tried to come up with an efficient plan for making the most graceful exit possible. I swooped Ashlyn up into my arms, then grabbed the diaper and (thank GOD for velcro) re-fastened it around her little butt. I figured a wet diaper was better than a bare ass. Perching her on my left hip, I picked up soaked shirt and rushed back to my patiently waiting hero and new favorite person in the world, Dale. I uttered a thousand thanks as I arranged the purse, leashes, shoes, clothes, book, and to-go box in my free hand.

I made my way to the parking lot, trying to appear to my audience as if nothing at all were out of the ordinary - as if young women in sundresses lug large dogs, naked girls, and to-go boxes around like that all the time.

I think they bought it.