Archive: June 2007

Today, something I held to be true suddenly was not. I was struck anew with the realization that one can’t make assumptions, that nothing can be taken for granted. See, today, I managed to create a stain that my Mr. Clean Magic Eraser could not remove. 

The horrors!

I know, I’m being a slightly dramatic. But I thought that the Eraser could take care of anything and up until today, it did! Scuff marks on the floor, juice stains on the countertop, and what-the-heck-is-that on the bathroom door were no match for it. When JG informed me this afternoon that a plate I’d used had left a tomato saucy ring on top of our white, two-week-old microwave, I confidently strode to the bin of cleaning supplies. I grabbed the Eraser, ran it under water, and rubbed at the orange circle, waiting for the magic to happen. But it didn’t! Unnerved, I rubbed harder. The tremors I created made the glass plate in the microwave clamor and the box of plastic storage bags on top jump. Still, the stain persisted.

I had no Plan B because the Eraser had never failed me, so I jumped over the line into illogical action and grabbed a bottle of Windex. I was hoping to spring out into the living room and proclaim, like the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding might, “I found a new use for Windex! It gets tomato sauce stains out of microwaves!” Spray, wait, rub. No luck. I wasn’t totally surprised, since I blindly chose the thinnest, bluest cleaner in the closet.

It was time for the Big Guns, e.g. the spray bottle of bleach water and the green scratchie thing. You know what I mean. It’s that layer of abrasive padding on those fancy curved sponges. And the bleach – well, doesn’t bleach make everything white? Even microwave walls?

After I sprayed the bleach water on the ring and let it sit for a bit, I went at the stubborn offender with a vengeance, wielding my green scratchie and feeling rather like Lady MacBeth. Praying I didn’t take any paint off, I built up some arm muscle in that fight against the stain. C’mon, I grunted through gritted teeth, this has to work. It didn’t have to, but thankfully, it did. Just a few minutes later, I couldn’t tell where to scrub and the microwave passed JG’s inspection.

I’m in some kind of mourning over the passing of my dependence on the Eraser. I guess occasions pop up when it doesn’t cut it compared good, old-fashioned elbow grease. I just wish my nose weren’t wrinkling up because my hands smell like bleach. Ick.

I like to joke with JG that we became this brand-new, infant person when we got married. When we struggled with learning to live with each other, I reminded myself that we were only six months old, after all. I should have been satisfied that we could see objects 10 inches away and locate the source of sounds, much less figuring out what aspects we wanted in our first home purchase. That’s a lot to expect of a six-month-old.

Currently, I think we’re at the metaphorical stage of standing with two feet together and following simple directions, because JG and I celebrated our anniversary today. We’re two years old!

Today was JG’s last session of his graduate class (woo!), but it met from 6-10pm (boo!). Needless to say, a lovely romantic dinner was not in the cards this year, at least on the exact anniversary date. Instead, I took the day off from work and we went to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, home of the Pennsylvania Dutch and some fantastic outlet shopping. I believe the traditional second anniversary gift is cotton; we definitely came through with that one in the form of polo shirts, khaki shorts, and summer-weight sweaters. There’s something heartwarming about exchanging high fives to celebrate great bargains with your husband before he grabs your hand to stake out the next store.

After a lunch of giant burgers, JG and I faced off at a nearby mini golf course and I felt like we were back on vacation again, except that I had transformed into a mini-golf master! After the fourth hole, I was I was two strokes ahead of JG; by the tenth hole, we were tied.  I was thoroughly unsuccessful in hiding my delight and my celebratory shimmies were not exactly sportsmanlike. But, as it usually does, karma came back to bite me and I ended up losing by ten strokes. Have no fear: JG is still the household mini-golf champion and the universe is at peace.

As a mutual anniversary present to each other, JG and I bought an ice cream maker and Perfect Scoop, a book of ice cream recipes for which I have only heard enthusiastic recommendations. We inaugurated the machine with a mint chocolate chip number from the included recipe booklet, but tonight, when JG came home, we had homemade tiramisú ice cream, courtesy of our new book. Mm.

Even though I would have enjoyed a nice dinner out, I smile when I think back to how we talked smack at the golf course, pointed out funny signs (“Water for Horses HERE”; “Buy – Repair – Sell: Phonographs and Music Boxes”; “Amish Stuff, Etc.”), cringed at the “sale prices” at J. Crew, and dipped potato wedges into honey mustard. If anything makes me happy about this anniversary, it’s the confirmation that I love spending time with JG. I never have more fun than when I am with him, so I think it’s fitting that we’ll have spent this day laughing and eating ice cream together.

We’ll fall down occasionally – being a toddler, it’s only natural – but figuring things out together makes things less scary. Terrible twos? Nah.

(Love you, kiddo.)

My older sister and I are four years apart, but we’ve been mistaken for twins. I don’t think our faces are all that similar, but I can see how two Asian girls who happen to have the exact same height and build, tend to wear similar color schemes, and talk at the same rapid-fire clip with incomprehensible inside jokes might come across as twins. I’m making plans to visit her in D.C. for a long weekend and the basic plan is to eat our way through the city, so we’re scoping out key restaurants to hit in the most strategic order. I can’t wait.

I’m also tossing around the idea of meeting up with a few online friends from the D.C. area, which would be my first blogger meet-up. Unfortunately, I can’t figure out how I can explain to my sister how I know these people. Not college friends. Not former co-workers. Not even friends of friends. What do I say? I met them on the internet, but they’re not creepy men, I promise. Not that I’ve met them before in person. Because that’s not sketchy or anything.

The underlying issue is, of course, that my sister doesn’t know about this here blog. I do my best not to post something that might be hurtful if she (or the rest of my family) were to stumble upon the site somehow, so I’m not opposed to her knowing, but I’m not exactly volunteering the information. If she doesn’t ask, I don’t answer, and she hasn’t. That is, conveniently enough, she has not asked, “Hey, do you have a blog?”

I suppose that I can simply pretend that the people I’m meeting are college friends and be done with it. That option makes me feel squeamish because my sister and I are so close, so the thought of passing off the meet-up as something that it’s not is really uncomfortable. I have visions of having to make up back stories for these people: what they majored in, how we met, that funny time we had a Silly String fight on the quad. Ugh. I have a terrible poker face. It would never work.

On the other hand, I could tell her about the whole thing. My best guess for a reaction is that she’ll be surprised at first, but then she’ll want to whip out her laptop to see just what that sister of hers has been saying on the internet. Then I’ll have to swear her to secrecy, at least with our parents. That scenario isn’t too painful, I guess.

I don’t know if it’s self-protection or what, but I like having this corner of the universe for my own. I know that it doesn’t really make sense because a handful of other folks tune in semi-regularly. I get nervous when I think about telling people in my actual life that I have an online writing venue.

Hm. “Online writing venue.” Now, that has a ring.

Sunday Scribblings #65: I Have a Secret

I love finding money in a forgotten pocket. Maybe it’ll show its face when I’m going through my jeans before doing laundry or when I grasping for a movie ticket stub after a trip to the concession stand. Regardless, I find such pleasure in the unexpected discovery, small though it might be. Well, JG and I found something that brought the joy of a surprise $20 bill, except that it came in the form of a gorgeous local park.

When we first moved here, we stopped by the used-book store down the street and JG found a copy of A Walk in the Woods, by Bill Bryson. Harry, the outgoing store manager, enthusiastically told us about the nearby Anson B. Nixon Park, full of hiking and other fun things to do. We nodded politely and went on our way, storing the information but not really acting on it. Today, though, caught in an after-lunch cycle of “I don’t care what we do, but what do you want to do?”, one of us suggested checking out this mythical park. JG went online and discovered all sorts of cool features: Free concerts on Wednesday! A disc golf course! Walking trails! So we pulled on sneakers, threw water and sunscreen in a backpack, and set off.

Five minutes later – hello, spontaneity! – we were tramping through a well-marked trail shaded by towering trees. The weather was perfect for being outside: clear skies, warm air, and zero humidity. Birdsong flitted through the air and we passed through little pockets of gnats in the path. I paused occasionally to take pictures, stalking the small, white butterflies who refused to be still and pose. We lingered on the small, wood-slat bridges and reminded each other of stories from when we counseled summer camp and escaped for some alone time on the hiking trails. We held hands, walked, and remembered.

We emerged from the trails to the main section of the park with all sorts of playground equipment. A small pavilion sheltered a birthday party with chattering children and they had spilled out into the carousel, monkey bars, and swings. Swings! I hadn’t gone on swings in forever! Much to JG’s chagrin, I walked over to the set, slipping the camera off my shoulder. “Can you hold this?” I asked.

JG took the camera from me, begrudgingly. “Uh, I’ll go check out the volleyball and bocce ball courts.”

“Could you take a picture of me first?”

“Fine.” The shutter opened and closed. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The swing hung a little low, even for my short legs, but I managed to push off and let gravity do the rest. Next to me, a dad gave his little girl “underdog” pushes, pushing her so high that he could run underneath her. She shrieked with delight and demanded, “Again, again!” And he did it again, and once for his wife, too. The squeaky chains brought me back to my own playground antics – standing up, sometimes on one leg, and a backward somersault dismount. JG strolled back to find me smiling, realizing anew that I was lucky to have escaped my childhood without a broken neck. I hopped off the swing to join him under a shady tree to read for a while. I’ll save the back flip for next time.