Today was the first Saturday of 2013 and my new life. I was so exhausted last night I fell asleep with my laptop on my lap. When I woke up, I shut it off and went to bed even though I was hungry. I hadn’t slept well the last two nights, so now that I was finally sleeping I didn’t want to interrupt it. I slept for ten hours straight.
Consequently, this morning I was starving and a bit down in spirits. The house was so quiet, which usually I like, but sometimes I don’t. Today I didn’t. I needed to eat. But, eat what? I didn’t want cereal, and if I ate another muffin I was afraid I might turn into one. It was a little early for a turkey sandwich, plus there was the fact that I didn’t have any turkey in the house. I needed protein. Then it dawned on me. EGGS! I’LL MAKE EGGS! My mood instantly improved.
I went out to the kitchen chanting down the hallway, “please let me have eggs that aren’t weeks expired, please let me have eggs that aren’t weeks expired”. I opened the refrigerator door…January 14! Yes! I actually pumped my arms in the air in a victory whoop!
After some debate about whether to change out of my pajamas first or just make the eggs, I decided these were emergency eggs, I didn’t have time to change out of my pjs. I opened all the curtains and blinds to let in the Saturday morning sun and chose my music. This situation definitely called for Chelsea Morning by Joni Mitchell, so in went the cd.
When mom and I would make scrambled eggs, she was always the mixer-upper, because I never get the whites broken up enough. I was always the scrambler, because, well, she didn’t have the patience to stand there watching them.
Yep, mark that as another batch of eggs I didn’t mix long enough. Why do they always look mixed enough in the bowl, then I pour them in the pan and the whites magically reappear?
As per our usual recipe, for two eggs, I added a slice and a half of Kraft Deli Deluxe American Cheese torn into pieces. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. It’s really more a pan full of cheese with some eggs thrown in for good measure than eggs with cheese. I’m perfectly okay with that.
I like my eggs browned. I like everything cooked well-done. Yes, chefs everywhere, you may now commence rolling your eyes. Notice the unmixed whites now actually turning white as they cook. Eh, it adds color.
The well-done rule usually does not apply to my toast.
That’s okay. I just made that the jam half. I can never decide between buttered toast or jam toast, so I usually split the decision. (Debated whether that phrase makes sense in the world of toast, but I’m going with it.)
Then it was time to pour a Cranberry Orange Sunrise. All it is is orange juice mixed with cran-apple juice. We just liked to give everything a fancy name, ’cause we were fancy like that. Mom dubbed this one Cranberry Orange Sunrise, because if you put in the orange juice first then pour in the cran the orange swirls to the top like a sunrise. Very cool. Sorry, I couldn’t capture the magic in a still photo. You can try it at home, kids.
All that was left was to load up my special egg plate, open my book, and enjoy.
Mission Cheesy Egg Mood Lifter was a complete success. I even felt zippy enough to clean up after myself.
Note: Also, pictured is the water bottle I take to work, which I did NOT bother to wash yet. Lest you think me too virtuous for doing the dishes right away.
By the time lunch rolled around today I was sure it was true. My pants were slowly attempting to suffocate me. Actually, I had determined this by 9:00am, but had to wait for lunchtime to rescue myself.
I unintentionally lost a bunch of weight during my mom’s illness. Note, unintentional does not mean unwelcome, I’m not complaining. The only problem is a lot of my clothes no longer fit me right. Normally, having a license to buy a whole new wardrobe would be great, but right now the stores are pretty picked over and there is not a lot of variety available in sizes.
So, you spend a lot of time in fitting rooms doing the Goldilocks and the Three Bears routine. This shirt is too big. These pants are too small. Nothing is ever “just right”. Until, finally, you decide to go with “good enough” just so you have something to wear that doesn’t put you in the mind of clown pants when you look at yourself in the mirror.
Which brings me back to this morning when after a few hours of sitting at my desk I determined my “good enough” pants were indeed too small and slowly trying to suffocate me as I worked. It became abundantly clear that something must done, so I formulated a plan. I would make a break for it at lunch and drive to the closest Kohl’s where a pair of comfortable pants would be sitting there just waiting for me to find them.
For once, one of my plans went as formulated. I did find a pair of pants that looked decent, were on mega clearance, and appeared to have no vendetta against me.
I got back to work, cut off the tags and remembered to remove all the stickers. Once, in college, I left a sticker on the backside of my jeans and proceeded to walk all over campus unknowingly touting my size. I didn’t notice it until I got home. That was a good laugh. No repeat of that performance today, though. I changed in the bathroom, and no one was the wiser. Except for me. I am wiser for having learned the lesson that “good enough” pants are only good enough until you have to sit in them.
Okay, Mom. You were right (again) and I was wrong. The globe we bought for the ceiling light in the hallway does fit. I know I said it didn’t look like it would fit and you said it would. My normally stellar spatial recognition skills could not trump your 38 years of living in this house and looking at that light fixture. When you said, “Will you please just get up on the stepladder and try it? I know it will fit.” I should have done it instead of arguing with you. I know you don’t care at this point, but I just wanted to publicly say I’m sorry…and you were right and I was wrong.