Once at Costco, I started in electronics. Then I went to the wine of course, 7 Deadly Zins was on sale. Then I got toiletries, pantry items, and by the time I hit paper goods, the cart was full.  FULL. But I managed to get frozen pizzas, chicken dinos, fresh fruit, veggies, steaks, chicken breasts and pork loins in the cart, space maximation genius that I am.

When I got to the checkout line, I heard the bagger say, “Wow, you fit a lot in there!” Yeah, no kidding. I’m reeeaaal good at that.

glutton greed guilt … what the bagger meant to say was there are kids starving all over the world and i have the nerve to buy 100 Calorie Snacks.

 ”I hope that’s no indication of what my total cost will be,” I said, in my haste to get the transaction overwith quickly as possible. 

fivehundred dollars.  fivehundred dollars.  fivehundred dollars.

I’m way into my head remembering what my husband said. I mocked him, thinking I wouldn’t be spending that much. He knew me better.

Mulling over my lack of grocery store control once again, I watched my foodie/feeding people “issue” trail by me on the checkout conveyor belt like a preview for a television show, item by item. Appropriately, I devised some logical and sunny reasons for why I needed to buy so much, which would later be recited to my husband.

1) We’re going on vacation. (swim diapers, sunscreen, is that all I bought for vacation?)
2) Had to get some DVD recording discs for my Dad ($29.49 + tax)
3) The staples - especially meat - are cheaper and better here.
4) I was all by myself, undistracted by any children and I was having so much *** **** fun.

Why is it that at Macy’s I can walk right by a beautiful dress (that was totally made for me) and easily deny myself the indulgent expense but when it comes to food I MUST have the expensive coffee, oils, produce, meats and dairy?

“You did get a lot of stuff,” said the woman behind me.

What, are you conspiring with the bagger to make me feel bad or maybe just a spy sent by my husband?

“Well, it’s for a 4th of July party,” I insist. (Techically true, we are going to a 4th of July get together but the real party is in the spending area of my brain, where the neurotransmitters who love to shop have just uncorked the first bottle of Zin).

“How much?” asked my husband when I got home. (I gave off an unusually tentative vibe). “Under $500,” I replied. Technically true, I was under the mark, but not by much.

“You’re not going to Costco alone again,” he said, calmly (that made it worse) as he helped me unload box after box of food that we actually do need, and will use every bit of. 

“Okay, honey,” said I, thinking sometimes I can (should) be quiet instead of witty, and that serves me well too.

HUMMUS
1 can garbanzo beans, drained
1/4 cup sesame tahini
zest of 1 lemon
juice of 1 lemon
1 tsp. smoked paprika
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
Coarse grain salt and pepper to taste

I’ve gone into nesting mode again - over vacation.

I remember when I waddled around with “What To Expect…” in my hands, checking off lists, making sure the bag was packed for the hospital. Onesies? Check. Relaxing cd’s? Check. A&D? Check. Comfortable clothes? Check.

I remember waiting with such anticipation, getting the baby’s room ready. Buying drawer liners that smelled like a baby. Making sure brand new AA batteries were in the mobile/swing/chairs. Making sure the cameras were charged.

I remember watching the Food Network to get my mind off the waiting. (I’m ready, now what? I’m packed, let’s go! oh, gotta go into labor first…) Always living in another moment, me, but most pregnant women are when they are ready to pop.

I have no excuse this time - nesting for our upcoming vacation - other than my need to be hyper-prepared for all of life’s unexpecteds and big moments. (Everything is accounted for, I’m clear to have fun now! oh, I’m already supposed to be having fun?) 

I am wandering around the house with my “Guide to Cruising” in my hand, making sure the kid’s new clothes are not gathering in corners or under beds instead of in suitcases. I am indifferent to excessive plastic and paper garment tags on the carpet. I have resolved to wash every item in the hampers to ensure the minimal - but favorite - clothes are packed, smartly. I have the Disney cd’s ready for the drive, an equal amount of bathing suits and cover-ups for each child, and passports/cruise documents/luggage tags in their own blue, velcro-close folder near the door.

I nest, I prepare, I try very hard not to forget things. I am gearing up for the future while trying to enjoy every second of this day. Why didn’t someone tell me it would be so tricky? What guidebook had the tidbit of information - that I conveniently missed - that balancing now and readying for later requires more focus than being fully dilated with no pain killers?

How did I cope back then? Oh, I was told to breathe. That’s right, I thought about food.

(I’m breathing, in, out, in, out, okay…I’m engaging all of my senses like a good girl…)

Aaahh, I just took in the scent of lavender through the kitchen window (this may have been the fabric softener from the dryer vent, but who cares). Next, I am brining chicken breasts for later consumption. After being brined - a preporatory trick that pays tasty dividends - the chicken is moist as possible, tender, even sweet.  

And I am wiggling my toes because I am so happy. Happy that right now I have what I need, and I don’t ever expect not to. In two short weeks on vacation, I will have more than I need, but I will be sharing it with others.

And I am happy also that I can distinguish anticipation from anxiety, now from then, salt from sugar. What do I have to look forward to next? Whatever comes next, of course.

I can’t wait!

BRINED CHICKEN (Grill it!)
1/4 cup kosher salt
1/2 cup sugar
1 gallon water
boneless, skinless chicken breasts

In addition to the method of running cool water over and placing chicken in empty pie tins, this is the best way to defrost frozen chicken.

Get a big Ziploc bag or large Tupperare container, and place all ingredients in refrigerator (for overnight or a few hours of brining), or on the countertop/in the sink for a quick defrost and brine. Make sure there are no opportunities for leakage. Brine your bird for as long as overnight, minimum of one hour.

In this summer heat, I don’t do chicken on the stovetop or oven. I grill the brined breasts after I have poured over olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper to the meat. I also squeeze more lemon juice over the chicken when taken off the grill.

With the grill marks and the aroma of lemon juice, the moist chicken needs nothing more than a flavorful salsa or yummy side dish to accompany it.

Zoe, my six year old daughter, laid inside the MRI apparatus, I don’t even know what it is called, for 30 minutes or so last week. The walls were painted with aquatic scene murals; clownfish, Shamu, kelly-green seaweed and orange coral. That was the back scene, the real players were the doctors and nurses made of stone and compassion, and the angels made of invisible energy and spirit strong enough to penetrate the fear-filled hearts of humans.

As I watched Zoe’s dark brown hair fall over the white sheet beneath her, her fingers fidgeting a bit, I was handling the MRI okay. I was listening to a headset on the same channel as my daughter, and I heard the nurses tell her every few minutes, “You’re doing great, Zoe, remember to keep still. There will be some loud noises coming up in a few minutes, they won’t last long.” The staff at the Children’s MRI Center treated her with respect, never dumbing terminology down. They own a sophisticated brand of respect for children built from years of experience and hope, this was clear. I was grateful. I felt a calming presence with me too, I can’t deny.

It was before the MRI and after that I was a mess. I honestly used every tool in my emotional, physical, metaphysical, spiritual, familial and mental shed to cope with the not-knowing of Zoe’s condition. Osteochondral defect was the diagnosis, and a small one at that, but I wasn’t going to be completely at ease, relieved, or even get REM sleep until I had the MRI result and had talked to the pediatric osteopath.

Finally, the call came in. I missed it by half a second. I called immediately back, spent five minutes in a phone tree, and was told by the Dr.’s nurse that I wouldn’t get a call back until the next morning. “But the doctor just called me, and I need to know that everthing is okay with my daughter…” desperate, pleading, irrational - all three I was, but I didn’t care.

Hearing I would have to wait for the official word until the next day, I felt like the front bow of the Titanic sinking rapidly into the cold abyss.  And when I go into an abyss, I spend a lot of time there before the tools work or the spirit pulls me back.

That night, hands shaking as I seasoned shrimp, the Dr. called back.

“It’s so small, we don’t even need to cast her unless it really hurts, we’ll do a follow up x-ray at the end of summer.” Her words were secondary to her tone of voice. Her tone of voice was assured in her treatment plan, encouraged and encouraging regarding the MRI results, and non-judgemental of me in my o.c.d. over my daughter’s ocd.

I got off the phone, ran over to my daughter planted on the couch watching the Disney channel and chugging orange juice (with calcium), and cupped her round little face in my hands.

“You’re okay, baby,” I said, my hands shaking still.  ”You’re going to be fine! We may not even need to put a cast on it! Baby [she peeked around me to look at Hannah Montana], BABY! You’re okay!” she so didn’t get where I had been, and how I hope she never does. 

It is a strange thing, paralyzed with fear one minute then laughing/crying simultaneously the next. That place where you can’t breathe, but you’re taking in more oxygen than your body can handle.

I told my friend Jane, I know the fragility of my children exists. But when that fragility is exposed - the pit in my stomach, wheels turning in my mind, darkness of the abyss - not half as strong as what moves me to cry and brings me to my knees (where I immediately fell at my makeshift kitchen altar).

Today, my back is turned away from the abyss. I know it’s there. I’m offering myself to help pull back as many from there as I can.

Figuring out why isn’t so easy. I feel like I should be jumping for joy when receiving the “It’s Been 20 Years!” flyers in the mail, shouting, “High school was a GREAT experience for me! I was friends with everyone, never insecure, and got very respectable grades!” Alas, that just wasn’t my reaction at all. 

I found high school an awkward, uncomfortable stepping stone on the way to somewhere else (college) where I would once again be pit against other people my age. (UCSD Orientation Speaker: “Take a look at the person sitting next to you, they will flunk out the first quarter.” That was their idea of encouragement.) I know that’s quite possibly the real world, I figured that out in the bad-tasting orientations I attended, so tell me - why voluntarily go back to reunite with such icky feelings again? 

Because part of me thinks that we, the graduating class of 1988, isn’t really going to sit in the ballroom of some resort/hotel and share pictures of our kids, catch up with old friends, maybe see our high school sweethearts, and talk (nicely) about our fellow alums. Part of me thinks our mouths going to be having one conversation about what we’re doing now, who we married, and where we live while our minds crank out comparisons of ourselves to the person we pretend to care enough about to talk to after all these years.

That is so cynical of me, but I can’t help it.  I hated high school. Not because I wasn’t prom queen. I think it was because I had to develop into who I was rather than who I wanted to be in such a public forum. I don’t mind having my feet held to the fire, I just prefer it on my own terms.

About the only things I can stand to think about from high school is meeting Amy and Kim, my best friends to this day, but they live in Iowa and Texas respectively. “Wanna get away” fares weren’t tempting enough to get them back here 20 years later. My high school sweetheart, the varsity pitcher whose letterman jacket I wore - even though I hated high school - isn’t going to the reunion because he doesn’t want to end up like the Springsteen song (though he could throw that speedball by you). And my husband, who graduated the same high school two years before me, didn’t go to his reunion. So similar to high school, I am particular about which trends I follow, and the not going to the reunion trend feels right to me, even if part of me does feel a little chicken ****. 

Which brings me full circle. If I went, it would only be because I was afraid of being afraid. I’d be forcing myself to be around people, trying to find common ground with them, to prove that I could handle it and wasn’t ashamed of who I was, am, or am not yet. Just like high school. Isn’t that a silly cycle to never escape from?

The positive thinker in me weighs the possibility of my classmates feeling the same reluctance I do. The positive thinker says how interesting it may be to re-connect with my classmates. But the deepest truth I can get to right now is this: I don’t feel compelled enough to find out just how interesting. The deepest truth is that my heart is here at home, in my kitchen making an Italian Saturday night dinner, then retreating to my computer and writing about what pulls me. That is what gets me jumping up and down with joy…that and seeing my kids swim on their own this summer. 

Still the writer in me begs the question; why not go to the reunion and write about it later? I could theoretically write an essay, short story, or article on the reunion if I attended. Being about high school, it would probably end up being a kitschy and forced piece that drives me crazy rather than giving me a sense of accomplishment. Or I could save us the $200 I would have spent on the reunion and write an article about my neuroses regarding attending/not attending and connect to people that way, possibly earning $200. That is more my style.

That is more me. Isn’t that who I should be by now, 20 years later? Why do I need to justify that at all? One more blog later and I realize (again), I don’t.

And I certainly don’t begrudge my classmates their reunion. From what I remember, they all know how to have a really good time. I’m sure there will be beer bongs and tequila shots synchronized - possibly choreographed - to OMD, New Order or Bon Jovi from a seen-it-all Mr. D.J. And if I ever do feel like I missed out, I can simply ask all my former classmates whom I see at the store, at the recreation center, play date, or birthday party almost every day, “So how was the reunion?”.

The reunion will be a party that I was happy enough to get invited to, deliberated non-judgementally about going to, and decided to decline in the end, but with no regrets.

But seriously, tomorrow is the solstice, and I was thinking about spirit anyway. I was also -while doing the dishes yesterday- thinking about Holly Hunter’s fiery demeanor in the movie Always, so of course, it was on today. And Audrey really got to me the other night while I was watching My Fair Lady, and coincidentally (but not) she is in Always, too.

In Always - which is Spielberg’s remake of A Guy Named Joe - Audrey Hepburn is sort of a guide to Richard Dreyfuss’ character, Pete. Pete, a passed-on pilot, speaks of how the first time he flew a plane when he was alive how easy it seemed, what a hot shot he felt like, and then Audrey’s character brings him back down to the meta-Earthly plane on which they are/aren’t, and says “You think you were alone?”

Then she speaks of spiritus which, she says, means “the divine breath,” or, inspiration. She was talking about the muse. She was talking about spirit guides. She was talking about the Divine. Everything I believe in.

I remember seeing Always in the movie theater a long time ago. I was with Kim, one of my best friends from high school, her old boyfriend and my old boyfriend. I remember that only Always and Ghost made me cry during some pretty frozen times in my life; they both talk about taking it with you.

It.  What is “it”?

“I know now that the love we hold back is the only pain that follows us here.” - Pete in Always.

Here.  Where is “here”?

For now, I am making a guess infused with all faiths. “It” is some thing I know I feel, “here” is someplace I definitely believe in. So tomorrow, the longest day of the year, I’ll be reaching higher than normal and flooding the inbox of the Divine more than usual. I have a lot to be thankful for, but I still so humanly have a lot to ask. It’s not that I think Spiritus ever leaves me, it’s just that I think shadows, sunlight, and moonlight work together a few days a year to show us the magick “here” - we do tend to miss “it” sometimes.

So, my friends, I hope you see. Blessed be.

But deciding what to do with my kid’s art projects beginning from September of the previous year until June of the ending school year - I am at a complete and total loss.

Scenario #1: “We’re sitting here in therapy, Mom because you discarded my schoolwork, things I worked hard on, they meant nothing to you! You don’t love me!”

Scenario #2: “Now laid to rest is Samantha Gianulis, such a dedicated mother she is being buried with her children’s elementary school projects, as well as handprints made to look like turkeys from pre-school.”

Scenario #3: “Mr. Office Depot Man, I need some big time help. I need the biggest, not-to-exceed-attic-space plastic container that you have so that I can save every piece of paper my child has ever drawn on, so when I am called upon by them as melancholy teenagers to prove how much they mean to me, all I need to do is open my Clark Griswold descending door attic to reveal their contruction paper creations and reports about owl dung.” (Note: that report contained actual owl fecal discards, if I don’t get some kind of award for saving that, it is truly parenthood injustice).

Scenario #4: “Look how beautiful that is! That really shows how far you’ve cme in one year. Let’s put it up on the fridge, right here next to the July 4th cookout invite, ‘kay?” TWO DAYS LATER, unbeknownst to said child: what is this I am not looking at as I toss into the recycle bin and feel somewhat guilty about….

If anyone has a better idea as to what to do with school projects, please, let me know. I have thus far saved the particularly precocious items, and tossing the rest. They are in a big makeshift envelope (the one my kindergartner made in class and brought home) waiting to be scrapbooked. This is why I had the ‘buried with’ scenario such a stark possibility.

After all of my mental deliberation over art projects - I do this with just about everything - we celebrated the beginning of summer/end of school with filet mignon, tomato and cucumber salad, hot buttered noodles with grated Italian cheeses, and creamed spinach.

I didn’t make the creamed spinach the usual way. Because I was watching Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins fall in love while making dinner (I’m a good cook, I am), I got pulled in and didin’t have time to make a Bechamel, so I decided to wing it.

It turned out so well, and it wasn’t even done traditionally, or even, with a plan. Imagine that and put it on a piece of construction paper.

CREAMED SPINACH SUMMERTIME ELIZA
2-3 cloves crushed garlic
1-2 tbsp. extra virgin olive oil
1/4 cup heavy cream
1 bag frozen spinach, thawed, rinsed, drained and squeezed of excess water
1 cup grated Italian cheese blend or just Parmesan
Salt and pepper to taste

Sautee garlic in pan with evoo over medium high heat.  Add spinach and after about 2 minutes, add cream. Let cream incorprate well, about one minute, then add cheese, salt and pepper.

Never happens to me when I read Mother’s Day cards. But Father’s Day cards, when I find the right one, I’m like, ten years old.

There are three kinds of cards, in my opinion. Sentimental, clever, and simple. As I read each and every card last Wednesday while shopping for the fathers in our lives, many thoughts occurred to me…

Bought that one two years ago I think.
I could’ve written that better.
I like the picture on the front.
Why do they make cards knowing they’ll require over $4.00 in ‘extra postage’ to send them?
Hand made cards by the kids are better.
How hard is it to find a card that says “Granddad” anyway?
Point me in the direction of the baseball cards.

I settled on an ESPN card. Whoever came up with the idea of ESPN making Father’s Day cards, thank you, thank you, thank you. The ESPN cards reign in the clever category and save us from overly sentimental, also qualifying for the simple category, but in an uncomplicated, witty way.

Because I can do without the ’humorous’ cards about tools or laying on the couch or fishing, and the drawn out you’ve-always-been-there-for-me cards, I prefer sports metaphors. From what I have seen, it’s risky business giving a man - even your father - a card that spells too much out. Better to get the message across with a little bit of imagination, good old-fashioned thinking creativity, in a non-threatening way…

My middle child Zoe is just wrapping up her first year of elementary school, which the educators call kindergarten but I refer to as ”Immunity Building 101.” She has had strep throat more times than I can count, viral infections, bacterial and viral conjunctivitis, two second-degree burns from helping me cook, her first wart (which had to be burned off twice), dandruff, and most recently, an osteochondral defect that has placed her on the DL.  

I have picked her up from school early so often the school nurse apologizes to me, called her in sick so many times the administrators know my voice - and also how to spell our difficult last name - and asked for favors from friends and relatives which necessitates many baked goods being delivered to their homes. Last time Zoe came home early, I baked oatmeal/brown sugar/butter shortbread. Today, her latest sick day from school, I think I’ll bake banana bread.

None of these things are so difficult to deal with, the real problems are the ones I create.

Googling her symptoms and typing maladies into the search box on WebMD. That’s trouble, for me.

I love living in the information age. The internet helped me figure out at 1:00 a.m. that I had pre-eclampsia during my third pregnancy (how else would I have known that itching wasn’t just dry, stretching skin?). The internet has enabled me to understand the difference between bacterial and viral issues without bothering the pediatrician after hours (I like to stay on her good side). But it has also been a tool that aids my worrying nature in becoming obsessive, irrational behavior. Like thinking fatigue + an osteochondral defect = cancer. Like thinking a pesky rash signifies meningitis. There is no fear like that for your children’s welfare, and I’m telling you with 100% certainty I will never be normal again. I’m hoping, though, that the more experience I gain the more composure I will notice in myself. I aspire to not defeat the variables but do the dance with them.

Evidently, I am growing through a growth spurt just like my kids, but my maturing process is ongoing and invisible. 

So, here is what I am going to do. I’m going to write, bake, get some beef in the slow cooker for Stroganoff later, and fold laundry. I’ll have some daydreams and sublimate something that will work it’s way into my fiction. I am going to stay off WebMD and hope the pediatrician, when she calls me back today, takes mercy on me. I am going to tell myself that these unknowns in life keep me on my toes and that is where I get some good works done.

Without these growth opportunites, I’d stay right where I am and while that is fine, it can always be better. And even when the better is achieved, it still will not be infallible. Nothing is, no one is invulnerable.
 
I’m going on faith here. It sounds so beautiful but it is unbelievably difficult, and arguably insane.