Enigmatic Female

J is for Judgmental

A friend of ours, here in Dallas, recently met a girl (she's 30 and an attorney for a state agency) in Austin. Having heard several lovely things about her and their flirtship/courtship, we've been eager to meet her. Friday night we got our chance at a Lower Greenville bar. Dallas and I sat far away from, but in clear view of, the door, so that we might be able to observe her a bit before we met her. Our friends walked in, the girl among them, and we watched. She is quite petite, as is our friend, and thus suitable visually for him. She had a mousy hair color and a mousy hair style with too little makeup to make any of her pallid features stand out. She was dressed fashionably in a filmy halter top, long jeans and high-heeled sandals. Her purse, quilted of black and white fabric, did not go with her ensemble. After a few moments, we made our way across the bar for introductions. She seemed sweet, but not terribly interesting. I sat on a high bar stool next to another girl in our group. She and I were chatting and she pulled me close to whisper that she didn't think the girl was particularly bright, as the girl had made a comment about a legal policy of the State of Texas in the car on the way to the bar that didn't seem accurate, and had no rebuttal when challenged on that point, even to discuss it and clarify it for the other girl, who is not a lawyer and was curious. I soon got further support for my supposition that she wasn't very interesting, and my friend's statement that she wasn't very bright. As I sat sipping a Grey Goose and tonic (a fairly common drink in NY, and it has seemed, in TX as well), she asked what I was drinking. I said it was a vodka tonic. She beamed at me, "THAT is what I'M drinking TOO!" As if this uncanny coincidence alone could lay the foundation for a friendship. A few minutes before this comment, Dallas had gone to procure another round, and as the bartender put the drinks on the bar, she told him, pointing at the two drinks he'd ordered, "this one is the vodka drink, and this one is the Jack and Coke." I, of course, started making fun of the bartender with Dallas, for feeling it necessary to show us which drink was which, as if we were trying to find a red five in a sea of green dots and just weren't quite able to tell the apparent difference between the brown coke and the clear tonic. When Dallas handed me my drink, the girl told him that she and I were drinking the same thing, again, as if it were newsworthy. He just smiled. She then asked what he was drinking. He responded that it was a Jack and Coke. She looked puzzled for a moment and said, "Jack Daniels?" "Mmhmm," Dallas nodded. [You were expecting Jack Frost, maybe, or Jack Kerouac, to commonly mix with Coke at a bar?] "That's whiskey, right?" "Right," I said. "Well, [boyfriend] was drinking a Crown and Coke before. That's whiskey too, right?" "Right," we both said, wondering where the punchline was. "So what's the difference between them?" Dallas just stood there. I helped her out and explained that one was sweeter than the other (just making up any old thing to let her know that the TASTE is what is different). Instead of being helpful, though, I wanted to made a snide comment about how many things are in the same category, Coca Cola and Pepsi for example, are both colas, but have variations in how they taste. We don't go around wondering at the various varieties in colas, or tampons, or pens, for while they all have the same function as the other brands in their category, there are differences between them, certainly. I felt that this may have been lost on this girl, though, who, while older than we are by some three years, seemed as inexperienced as a seventeen year old at her first frat party. Of course, this is nothing compared with my ire when, later on that evening, I explained that I've never been at a bar with shuffleboard before, as they just don't have that much in the North, and she challenged me by saying, snottily, "Where in the North?" As if I haven't been to many bars and couldn't be trusted for my limited experience. Pu-lease! Unable to contain the snide side, this time, I replied, "Oh, let's see, New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, D.C.... Nowhere have I ever been, in any state, have I seen shuffleboard as a bar activity. Perhaps on a cruiseship parked somewhere in the Caribbean, populated by wrinkled white men, but not at a bar." Being as I was a bit tipsy by then, I didn't listen for a response, but turned to flirt with Dallas, instead. We relived all the comments the next morning, Dallas, grudgingly agreeing that she didn't seem too bright.

What I've Been Trying To Be Lately

A few weeks after we returned from our honeymoon, Dallas and I had a heart to heart talk about what I want to be when I grow up. For years and years, and years and years, I wanted to be a lawyer, and I still do, but it has not been easy to relocate professionally due to my lack of Texas law license (Novemeber 3rd, I'm told, will bring the results of the July Bar Exam). During our heart to heart, though, I began to see my break from work as more of an opportunity than a setback. As, it would seem, with most bloggers out there, I have aspirations of writing more than a website, and have been working diligently to that end for some time now. According to our calculations, we can make it without me working until Bar results come out and I get a permanent job (I previously thought I might temp or take something part time and low key in the meantime), so I've been working on writing full-time. As I didn't want to invest in the 2-3 creative writing classes the local colleges offer (I already have a BA in English with some writing thrown in), I've been pursuing my own curriculum that I've cobbled together from course listings, novels that have formed parts of my literary identity, books on writing written by successful authors, and the list goes on. I've been covering at least two books a day, as well as working through various writing exercises and working on my own writing projects. I am coming to the end of my compulsive reading and researching phase, though, as one of my projects is about to take off full steam.

I have been working on three different projects over the past month or so. The first is a children's mystery novel involving a precocious and unpopular 12 year old boy who is captivated by word games and physics. The second is a romance novel centered around a character who has old-fashioned sensibilities but modern ambitions (guess which career she leaves during the course of the novel to pursue a different life) that is evolving into a more literary novel as I work with it more and more. The third, and most unexpected, involves notebooks found by Dallas' father in the house of one of his cousins whose wife recently died. The notebooks were written in the 1950s by a woman who was born only 2 years after Laura Ingalls Wilder. She lived on the Texas frontier and has captured over a hundred pages of anecdotes from her childhood, as well as her married life. She was an early animal rights activists, as well as a quiet feminist. This project is the furthest behind, as I've not yet determined the best use for the notebooks. I've written an introductory chapter to a novel and a few short stories from the material she provided, but it needs to stew on the back burner until I get a better feel for it. All in all, it's quite an interesting time I've been having, and I'm looking forward to seeing how the various projects come out.

It's My (Husband's) Party and I'll Cry If I Want To...

Tonight (it's early Sunday morning, but I'm talking about Saturday night; you get it) we had a birthday party for Dallas. We invited several people, about 15 or so were expected, perhaps as many as 19 or 20. With expectations very high, I got to work planning an extensive Spanish and Mexican menu with accompanying theme beverages (I'm a huge fan of a party having a signature drink; this party had margaritas, sangria, Spanish wine, and Mexican beer). We scrubbed, we shopped, we planned, we executed, we considered opening our own catering service. Well, maybe it was only me who considered, and only briefly, but confidence was quite high on the likelihood of party success front. To boast a bit, I make excellent, excellent drinks and pretty good food, and when I lived/hostessed in New York, my guests would almost always drink me out of whatever I was serving and sing my praises loudly. Not so tonight (they did say how much they enjoyed the food and such, what I mean is that they didn't eat much of the food, nor drink much of the drinks). Dallas asked me after the guests left whether I thought they might have been bored. I replied that I think they had a nice time, but that I thought he and I were bored. And we were. Are we getting friends that are too mature? Were we too tired to have fun? Was there an awkward melange of people that made it difficult to get conversations going? We did combine several odd groups: people Dallas knows from his former job, people he knows from his current job, his childhood friends, his brother and wife, friends we went to law school with. It really boggles the mind how much factions were present. All I know is, I can't sleep for thinking about the inordinate cost of this party (somewhere between $400-$500 with all the groceries, liquor, music, cookie cake) and that it might not have been worth it. I'm not convinced that anyone had a good time. I enjoyed seeing our friends, and meeting a few people I hadn't met before. The conversation just seemed to take a while to get going, and I was so busy during the early part of the night getting dinner ready, that I didn't really spend much time chatting with people I wanted to. And, I think some of the guests might be planning an intervention due to Dallas' and my seeming alcoholism. In all fairness, we drink fewer than 1 drink per week at this point. There was a time, before we lived together, that we would drink far more, but ever since we've lived together, we hardly touch the stuff (my theory -- we don't have the right drinking companions here and I am not a fan of drinking with each other alone at home -- it's almost like drinking alone). That doesn't mean I don't want to tie one on from time to time as mood or circumstance warrants. I might have overdone it this time, though. Our guests' eyes widened as they looked at the conspicuous display of beverages available for their enjoyment and seemed quite overwhelmed at having to make a choice.

The New York City social scene is remarkable in that no one has to drive home from anywhere, and most gatherings happen at bars or restaurants. Therefore, most parties involve drinking to the point of at least a good buzz. My friends in New York, admittedly all of them lawyers (lawyers drink more, as a group, than any other profession), keep a few bottles of nice liquor and a couple of wines on hand for company, and would never hesitate to offer it to a guest, or imbibe as a guest of another. Here it seems that this is not the done thing, likely in large part because people must drive home at the end of the evening. This means that I've been buying alcohol with New York expectations but for Dallas consumption. In real terms, it means that I have remaining every single one of the 18 Mexican beers I purchased, we didn't open the Spanish wine, we didn't drink an entire pitcher of margaritas, and we didn't finish either pitcher of the white or red sangria I made. This amounts to fewer than 4 bottles of wine, 1 cup of tequila, 2 cups of triple sec, one dirty vodka martini, a Manhattan, and a leftover Texas beer for a 3 hour party of 15 people. That is roughly 27 drinks for 15 people over 3 hours and Dallas and I had 8 of the drinks between us. This is about half of what I would expected. So, 19 drinks over 3 hours for 13 people, one of whom is pregnant, so 19 for 12 people. Less than 2 drinks per person over the course of the evening, and it's bound to be far less than that, as one pitcher of Sangria was still half full, as was the margarita pitcher, and some of the glasses were still half full. In addition to all the leftover booze, we threw away enough food to feed a Somali village through a long drought.

The moral of this story is that I've learned a hard lesson tonight -- being overprepared for a party doesn't equal success. It would have been fine without the $21.99 per pound Serrano ham we had (that no one, including us, ate), and the three varieties of olives, and the cheeses. We didn't need so much food. Plastic plates would have been far easier (I've already done 2 loads of dishes, with 3 or more to go -- we have used almost every item we received from our wedding registry for this party). The bigger bottle of tequila was quite unnecessary, as were the additional bottles of wine. And the beer. Next time simpler is better. I will serve chips and queso, have a taco bar like we had tonight (killer pork tacos), some ice cream, and some sangria and we'll call it a night.

The Plumber Cometh

Our kitchen drain has been a little slow lately.  More to the point, it doesn't so much drain for hours after we get even an inch of water in the sink. I've tried no fewer than six liquid plumbing products, including the promising "Foaming Pipe Snake." Could I recommend a single one of them? Hell no. Yesterday, fearing that it wouldn't be fixed by Dallas' birthday party this weekend, I called a plumbing serving. I would list the name, but the story that the plumber told me about five minutes ago in the kitchen makes we want to protect as much of his, and my, anonymity as possible.

I offered the plumber, a short, round-bellied man with strawberry blonde hair and red skin, a cup of coffee, as I was having one and thought he might like to share. He politely declined, saying he'd been up since 3:30 that morning (all the more reason for coffee, no?). I said, "Wow, sometimes I don't even go to bed til that late. I guess people don't choose what time their house floods, though." He replied, "Well, let's say that I've got some, Extra-Curricular activities going on at home lately. Me and my wife was recently married..." I interrupted, "We were recently married too! When did ya'll get married." "The Fourth of July." "Oh, that's nice! We got married July 29th." Then the story took a turn I would have never seen coming, unless it was captured in a Lifetime: Television for Women movie. This is what he said as I stood by with wide eyes, sipping my coffee. I am not making this up.

"My wife was kidnapped for about two years by a man who stalked her for about seven years before he even introduced himself to her. They were both in my house, but I didn't know he was a stalker. I met her when he came to my house and she was with him. He was posing as a man of the Lord Jesus Christ and a counselor, and saying how he was ministering to a few different women, including my wife. Only, he never let her talk to me by herself, and she always had to be with somebody else. She ran away to a woman's shelter in Florida. He had put tracking devices on her and was using my internet to try to find her and get her back. The woman's shelter in Florida had to deprogram her. He had programmed her using about five different trigger words. Once he got her back and found out they weren't working anymore, he got upset and really laid into her. She went to the police with bruises all over her, but they said she couldn't prove that he did it, so they couldn't do anything about it. We got her back in June, and we got married in July. I'm real nervous for her to be alone, or go out alone in case anything might happen to her."

IS THIS GUY FOR REAL?? I saw something like this on Oprah about a minister who would bring girls from Asia and molest and abuse them in the minister's home that he kept with his wife and children, but that's Oprah and this guy is working on my kitchen sink. If it is true, it's horrifying. If it's not true, this guy should be a writer. Tracking devices? Trigger words? What?

Wish List

Maggie Mason makes me want things. Often, I want them so badly, that soon they arrive, neatly wrapped in brown boxes, bringing me every ounce of delicious joy I knew they would when I first saw them on her excellent site. A $75 handcrafted Rolodex? Yes, please! Organic chocolate with the essence of lavender and tiny blueberries? I'll take two! Lip gloss that will irritate my lips into a lovely pink pucker? I NEED that. Perfume so good that I want to eat it? Yes, and throw in the matching candle -- everything should smell so good! This time, though, it's different. This time she has me pining for things I'm not prepared to spend a lot of money on, but after extensive research (multiple store visits, hours of online searching -- even eBay doesn't have them), I'm afraid they aren't available in any reasonable price range. You see, I saw the ones she found from Russel + Hazel, and I LOVE them. But, at $18 each, my husband has already ruled them out of the question (I would want at least 2 -- for a total of $36), and since we're on a bit of a budget at the moment, I won't buy them. What I want is simple: classic canvas looseleaf binders, and I'm not all that particular about the color, although a nice old skool camouflage green or khaki would be fantastic. Coincidently, I recently received a binder from 1953 full of the memoirs of a woman born in 1869 (one of the projects I'm working on; I will elaborate more on this later). This binder is beyond perfect, but clearly isn't available now, nor is any facsimile thereof. Sigh. I guess the plastic/vinyl view binders I bought at OfficeMax will have to do for now. Damn you, Maggie Mason, for showing a girl what she's been missing!

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world...

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from a law school professor of mine regarding proposed changes to the curriculum of the seminar I took with him in the fall of 2003. He sent the email to a fair number of his former students, and along with the request for feedback on the curriculum, he wanted us to update him on our lives. I emailed him back about the curriculum, and told him that I left my firm in New York in the spring, and that I was recently married and now reside in Dallas. He responded that one of his good friends is running for Congress from Dallas and that I should look the guy up, as he is extremely well-connected and could be helpful in getting a job with a prosecutor's office. I checked out the candidate's campaign website and determined that I would get in touch with him soon, but hadn't made contact yet.

Saturday morning began as all Saturday mornings do for Dallas and me. I woke up, fed the dogs, and parked my ass in an enormous reading chair with outlines and sketches for a novel I've been working on while Dallas slept. Then someone knocked on the door. Annoyed, because I hate solicitors who come door to door, especially on a Saturday morning, I gave him a blank, slightly irritated stare through the glass of the door. I opened the door in my pajamas, and our house alarm started shrieking loudly and the dogs started barking at the top of their voices. I shut off the alarm and saw the flyer he carried with his name prominently displayed at the top. Stunned, I said, "Do you know Professor T?" He was taken aback for a moment, from all the noise and confusion, then said, "Of all the hundreds of doors I've knocked on, you're the only one who has asked me that. You mean, do I know 'The Man'? Of course I know 'The Man'! He's a dear friend of mine." I told him to come in for a minute, and explained that I had taken a course with Professor T in law school, that I had recently moved to Dallas, recently taken the Texas Bar Exam, and that Professor T suggested I contact him, and that I was so happy to meet him. He asked my name, said he would be happy to sit down with me and let me pick his brain about where to apply for jobs, as he and his wife (a professor at a local law school) know almost every lawyer in town. He reminded me to vote for him, and he was on his way. I, of course, immediately emailed Professor T telling him of the crazy coincidence. He seemed like a great guy, and I guess the ball is in my court. I haven't yet decided whether I would want to help him with his campaign, or just sit down with him for a bit, but either way, the hard part is over, as we've now met and he knows my name.

Patriot Day

Five years ago, at almost exactly this time, I was dismissed early from my 9am torts class. A few miles south of the law school, the second tower of the World Trade Center had just fallen and no one knew what it meant. My strongest memory of September 11, 2001 and the days following it, aside from the fear that would not permit me to travel far beyond the law school campus, and certainly not by subway, was of not being able to watch one more newscast about the towers, and instead finding solace in HBO. When I read Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, I felt a connection with the characters, as I was close to their tragedy, but since it wasn't my tragedy, I was able to let it go after a few tears. A few days ago, while looking for some books in the attic, I came across a box of Dallas' law school books, and on top of the books was the New York Times from September 12, 2001 with the picture of the explosions on the cover. Despite newscasts and casual mentions of that day, it was the newspaper photograph that triggered all my personal memories, and reminded me that September means more now than apple season, Labor Day, and a return to school. I suspect that I have started to separate the personal experience from the historical event, for which I am grateful, as it takes far more than casual mention of the event to trigger an emotional response in me. This day snuck up on me this year and I didn't feel the nearness of it as closely as I have in past years, perhaps because this is the first September 11th since 2001 that I haven't been in New York. While it may sound callous or dismissive of me to admit this, I am glad that that day isn't as present with me now as it has been in the past. I will take a moment, or many moments, to remember it, but then I will set it aside again, happy to live without it pressing on me for as long as possible.

Lola's Sausage and Spinach Black Bean Soup

Last Thanksgiving, knowing how important my family is to me, and to demonstrate his commitment to me, Dallas volunteered to meet me in Maryland to spend the holiday at my parents' house. I took the train from New York on Tuesday night, and he flew in on Wednesday evening, in time for supper. As my parents were working on Wednesday and busy putting things together for our Thanksgiving meal, I decided I would cook dinner for everyone, especially for Dallas, who loves my cooking. One of the meals we enjoyed together several times in law school was my homemade chili, so I decided to make that. My parents were a few ingredients short, so I went to the store for some beans and other assorted goods. While I was browsing through the varieties of black beans, a tall, think black lady with short curly hair told me how much she loved black beans, and that if I loved them too, that I should try her recipe for black bean soup. She was making it to take to her Thanskgiving celebration, because people always requested it. I, not intending to be diverted from my chili, listened politely, but wasn't really interested until she told me the ingredients. The soup called for black beans, lentils, Italian style tomatos, sausage, and fresh spinach. It sounded good to me, so I thanked her and she left the aisle. A few seconds later, she popped back up, as I was looking for the lentils and Italian style tomatos. She was so excited that I was going to make her soup (I still purchased all the chili ingredients, in case it was a bust), that she led me around the store picking out the rest of the things I would need. I decided to add three different colors of green peppers to the mix for some color, and to use real Italian pork sausage instead of turkey kielbasa, as she recommended. I thanked her for the tip, and asked her for her name. She said it was Leola, I thanked her again, and went home.

When I arrived home, I cleaned up the kitchen and immediately started making the soup, just in case it sucked and I needed to quickly throw together the chili. It didn't suck. I could tell almost immediately that it was going to be excellent and very very easy, probably becoming a particular favorite of mine, as I adore black beans. My mom tasted it when she arrived home, and thought it was as good as I did. I left it on the stove while I went to collect Dallas from the airport. By the time we arrived home, everyone was there, including my Aunt P**. We all sat down to eat and everyone was raving about the soup, so I told the story of meeting Leola at the grocery store, and how she had led me around picking out various items and instructing me how to make the soup just so. My Aunt asked whether I was sure her name was Leola and what she looked like. She said that the woman sounded exactly like her friend Lola, whom my sisters, mother, and brother had all met. My aunt reminded me that I had even given the woman, along with another friend and my Aunt a ride home a few summers ago when my Aunt's car had broken down. I told her to call Lola right away and find out whether it was her. My Aunt started laughing hard on the phone, and told Lola the story. It was her at the store! She asked to speak with me and I told her how much everyone was enjoying the soup, and how happy I was that we met at the store. She said that she thought there was something about me that looked friendly or familiar and now she knew why. I told her that I was going to name the soup after her and tell the story each time I serve it. As the air here in Texas has turned slightly chilly (highs only in the upper 80s, low 90s!), I've been thinking of autumn and all the delicious autumn foods that I'm looking forward to. Lola's Sausage and Spinach Black Bean Soup is at the top of the list.

Ingredients:
one can lentil soup (Progresso works well)
two cans black beans
two cans Italian style tomatos
green, red, yellow peppers to taste
one pound of good italian sausage, removed from casings and crumbled (remove from casing and crumble before cooking the sauage -- you want something about the consistency of ground beef)
one bag of fresh spinach leaves (use 1/2 bag of frozen, if necessary)

Procedure:
Sautee the sausage and the peppers together in the bottom of a Dutch oven. When the sausage is completely cooked, dump all the ingredients into the pan and stir, except the spinach. Simmer together for an hour or so until the peppers are tender. Just before serving, wilt the spinach leaves into the soup and let cook about 2-3 minutes. Serve hot with a salad and warm corn bread.

Dain-ja, Dain-ja, Dain-ja

That's what my talking Crocodile Hunter doll says the first time you press its tummy. My sisters got me that doll for Christmas a few years ago, because I was obsessed with Steve Irwin. I would watch Croc Files regularly and was sad to learn he was married, and then had children. See, I nursed this secret hope that one day he and I would meet and he'd know, as I'd known the first time I heard him say "Whadda little beauty!" that he was the one for me. Nevermind that the closest I'm willing to get to camping is a Holiday Inn. Nevermind that I refuse to urinate in the woods. Nevermind that I am irrationally afraid of snakes and large insects. He could teach me -- showing me that nature is beautiful and that snakes are special and wonderful in their own way. I'm no homewrecker though, so when Terri came on the scene, I moved on to other, more obtainable dreams. She was perfect for him, traipsing along after him on all his adventures, giving an easier-to-understand American narrative to his shows. Then he had the kids and the world was outraged when he held a tiny son near a crocodile he was feeding -- whatever, said I, this is a man who knows what he's doing, and he wouldn't jeopardize his tiny son. I still say I'm right about that. Unfortunately, he wasn't so cautious of himself. I've seen him bitten by crocs, pulling out inch long teeth embedded in his knuckle. I've seen him withstand snake bites. He's gotten close to any number of insanely dangerous creature, and always made it out alive. How is it that one simple stingray could kill him? At first when I read the article, I thought it was a joke, kind of like the Cambodian Midget Fighting League brawl with an African Lion. But sadly, I was wrong. Steve Irwin was killed by a stingray. How sad for his family and for the millions of people who loved his shows. So many people have a greater appreciation for dangerous wildlife and the need for preservation through his efforts, especially me. He showed me that even kimodo dragons are wonderful and that is something truly special, because I generally hate lizard-life.

Deliciously Damp and Comparatively Chilly

I have never looked forward to fall the way I am looking forward to it this year. Then again, I've never lived through more than thirty consecutive days of over one hundred degree temperatures as I have this summer. The rain we've had for the past two Mondays has been a welcome relief for the cracked, brown ground, as much as for my dried out skin. These pictures were taken last Monday, when the rain came like an unexpected gift, providing me with an unseasonably cozy morning in which to drink tea, eat a few cookies, and write while looking out onto a beautiful gray sky that would have made me cringe in New York City, but which delighted me in Dallas.