From the time we are able to eat solid food, Italian girls are expected to help in the kitchen. We start with simple things: folding paper napkins and tucking them under the plates at dinnertime, ripping lettuce and tossing the salad, scattering colorful sprinkles onto Christmas cookies and placing them gingerly into the tins. Years pass and we advance to mixing, rolling and frying meatballs for Sunday sauce, flicking gnocchi off of the dough rope with our thumbs to toss into scalding water, pushing pizza dough to the far corners of the pan without making it tear all while pretending that there is no place we’d rather be than in the kitchen (forget hangin’ with friends at the mall, we’d rather be cooking!). Complaints were scolded and then dismissed by knowing words from our mothers, aunts and grandmothers, “You need to learn to cook. One day you’ll have a family of your own.”
Good Italian girls cooked. Judged by the number of hours we spent in “learning” from our matriarchs and, eventually, by the quality of the food we produced ourselves, my sister, my cousins and I entered the culinary competition early and without our conscent. To my own mother’s embarrassment and chagrin, I was never interested in learning to cook. The kitchen was prison and I longed for parole without caring about the deficit I’d face when I was a married adult. The best thing to make, as far as I was concerned, was reservations!
I’m not sure when my attitude towards all things culinary shifted. The change was subtle, like shrimp transitioning from Dove white to Flamingo pink when being sautéed for scampi. Cooking ignited my competitive spirit. Suddenly, I must barbeque the ribs that always fall off the bones (a secret I’m unwilling to reveal), roast the most succulent Thanksgiving turkey (brined, massaged, rubbed, buttered and basted strategically each year), to win the egg roll contest at work (I beat a guy born in Shanghai!), to concoct the most delectable garlic dill sauce for the grilled halibut (which is, in a word, AMAZING), to bake the most enviable Christmas cookies (and package them in the most darling treat boxes I can find each year). I am a cook. I am a baker. And I now feel an inherent need to be identified by both labels.
Those who know me best know all about my glorious metamorphosis. Most grateful is Brian, who loves to eat whatever I cook, and my mother who is thrilled about passing the holiday dinner torch to me—a daughter who was, for a time, an incredibly lost cause in the kitchen. Third on this list is Linda, the recipient of the sometimes luxurious leftovers I save for our office luncheons each week. It was Linda who recommended How to Bake a Perfect Life.
Besides baking, I have almost nothing in common with this book’s protagonist. Other than the kitchen, the setting (Colorado) is no place I’d choose to be. But this book reminds me that food provides sustenance, creates comfort, builds community, promotes joy, and symbolizes love.
Mangia!
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Poser: My Life in Twenty-three Yoga Poses (Claire Dederer)
My favorite yoga studio is Carmel Valley's Sculpt Fusion. I can say this today after practicing there for over a year. I could not say it after taking my first Vinyasa class taught by my now favorite yogini, Anna. Allow me to describe the experience.
Brian was hard at work--as usual--and I was left to my own SoCal devices (as usual). Earlier that week, Brian and I noticed Sculpt Fusion in the same plaza as the incredible and delectable Taste of Italy restaurant where we spend every San Diego Friday night together and which (this is fascinating) serves the BEST grilled fish tacos I've/we've ever eaten. No lie. I digress.
Anyway, Sculpt Fusion looks pretty much like every other yoga studio I've experienced. How many would that be, you wonder? Here is the short list: At One (Scottsdale, Arizona), Harmony Yoga (Redondo Beach, California), Bikram Tempe (Arizona), Summits Chandler (Arizona). And, like all other studios, it offers a free unlimited week to locals. I signed up and chose Anna's class as my first.
Anna teaches her Level I (which would really be a level III anyplace else) Vinyasa Flow class on Friday afternoons. And because there isn't a class scheduled after hers, she usually runs longer than the advertised 60 minutes. This I learned from a fellow yogi. No problem, I thought. If I could once handle "Chappy's" scream of "Asses to PCH (Pacific Coast Highway)!" during downward facing dog at Harmony, I could handle this Anna's disregard for the Sculpt Fusion schedule. In a word: wrong.
The SF yoga studio is heated to a balmy 98 degrees. Sometime in the middle of each class, about 40% humidity is added to the air. I was completely unprepared for the climate in there, much less the rigor.
Anna, welcomed all of us and directed us to begin our Ujjayi breathing. Shortly after, she strolled about the sultry studio giving gentle commands in Sanskrit for poses that, when strung together in a seemingly endless sequence, are anything but gentle: Tadasana (Mountain Pose), Uttanasana (Forward Bend), Chaturanga Dandasana (Push Up), Parivrtta Ardha Chandrasana (Revolved Half Moon), and more, more, more. Click here for a complete list of poses and descriptions: http://yoga.about.com/od/yogaposenamesinsanskrit/Yoga_Poses_Alphabetically_by_Sanskrit_Names.htm
I left class exhausted and drenched to my core with sweat. I actually felt physically sick for many hours afterward.
Brian eventually arrived home that evening and asked me what I thought of class. I emphatically announced that I would never return. I couldn't endure another moment of Anna's torture.
Eighteen months later, I cannot get enough of Sculpt Fusion. I'm addicted. In fact, I was there three days in a row this past weekend and loved every excruciating pose and every sweaty moment. My body craves these poses, the sweat, the heat in ways I never thought possible. I am a yogini traversing a yoga journey.
It should now come as no surprise as to why, despite the fact that it is most definitely NOT a Debbie Downer book, I chose to read Poser. I loved, loved, LOVED the title! And I loved that the author uses yoga and the poses as a metaphor for her own life. I applaud the cleverness of this idea (as well as the darling stick figures in each chapter that illustrate the poses) and wish I'd thought of it myself. Cha-ching! Unfortunately, the book drags--just as my ass did after my first class with Anna--and that is rather disappointing.
Similar to yoga, books provide an escape from reality and an introspective personal journey. Like the poses, books offer a myriad of possibilities from which to choose. When one doesn't work, we can try others. And that is exactly what I plan to do.
Namaste.
Brian was hard at work--as usual--and I was left to my own SoCal devices (as usual). Earlier that week, Brian and I noticed Sculpt Fusion in the same plaza as the incredible and delectable Taste of Italy restaurant where we spend every San Diego Friday night together and which (this is fascinating) serves the BEST grilled fish tacos I've/we've ever eaten. No lie. I digress.
Anyway, Sculpt Fusion looks pretty much like every other yoga studio I've experienced. How many would that be, you wonder? Here is the short list: At One (Scottsdale, Arizona), Harmony Yoga (Redondo Beach, California), Bikram Tempe (Arizona), Summits Chandler (Arizona). And, like all other studios, it offers a free unlimited week to locals. I signed up and chose Anna's class as my first.
Anna teaches her Level I (which would really be a level III anyplace else) Vinyasa Flow class on Friday afternoons. And because there isn't a class scheduled after hers, she usually runs longer than the advertised 60 minutes. This I learned from a fellow yogi. No problem, I thought. If I could once handle "Chappy's" scream of "Asses to PCH (Pacific Coast Highway)!" during downward facing dog at Harmony, I could handle this Anna's disregard for the Sculpt Fusion schedule. In a word: wrong.
The SF yoga studio is heated to a balmy 98 degrees. Sometime in the middle of each class, about 40% humidity is added to the air. I was completely unprepared for the climate in there, much less the rigor.
Anna, welcomed all of us and directed us to begin our Ujjayi breathing. Shortly after, she strolled about the sultry studio giving gentle commands in Sanskrit for poses that, when strung together in a seemingly endless sequence, are anything but gentle: Tadasana (Mountain Pose), Uttanasana (Forward Bend), Chaturanga Dandasana (Push Up), Parivrtta Ardha Chandrasana (Revolved Half Moon), and more, more, more. Click here for a complete list of poses and descriptions: http://yoga.about.com/od/yogaposenamesinsanskrit/Yoga_Poses_Alphabetically_by_Sanskrit_Names.htm
I left class exhausted and drenched to my core with sweat. I actually felt physically sick for many hours afterward.
Brian eventually arrived home that evening and asked me what I thought of class. I emphatically announced that I would never return. I couldn't endure another moment of Anna's torture.
Eighteen months later, I cannot get enough of Sculpt Fusion. I'm addicted. In fact, I was there three days in a row this past weekend and loved every excruciating pose and every sweaty moment. My body craves these poses, the sweat, the heat in ways I never thought possible. I am a yogini traversing a yoga journey.
It should now come as no surprise as to why, despite the fact that it is most definitely NOT a Debbie Downer book, I chose to read Poser. I loved, loved, LOVED the title! And I loved that the author uses yoga and the poses as a metaphor for her own life. I applaud the cleverness of this idea (as well as the darling stick figures in each chapter that illustrate the poses) and wish I'd thought of it myself. Cha-ching! Unfortunately, the book drags--just as my ass did after my first class with Anna--and that is rather disappointing.
Similar to yoga, books provide an escape from reality and an introspective personal journey. Like the poses, books offer a myriad of possibilities from which to choose. When one doesn't work, we can try others. And that is exactly what I plan to do.
Namaste.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Room (Emma Donoghue)
Typically, when I think of anything related to 12 x 12, the following comes to mind:
• A scrapbook page
• An album to hold a collection of scrapbook pages
• A Suduko puzzle (though I’ve never solved one because these things frustrate the hell out of me)
• Multiplication tables through “the twelves”
• The cover of a vintage 33rpm vinyl album
A dwelling does not come to mind—even though I’ve purchased overpriced real estate in Southern California.
In Room, 12 x 12 is a shed inhabited by five year-old Jack and his “ma”. Through Jack’s voice, we learn that he was born in Room, plays on Rug, sleeps in Wardrobe, eats at Table and has never been outside beyond the locked Door. We also learn that a mysterious “Old Nick” visits Jack and his ma almost nightly; mostly to repeatedly rape Ma while Jack hides in Wardrobe, but also to remove trash and bring sparse supplies of food and clothing. At a certain point, Jack’s young Ma determines that she’s had enough and is ready to risk everything in an attempt to escape and it is only then that she reveals how she and Jack arrived in Room in the first place and why they’ve lived there for so many horrific years.
Life outside Room is fascinating, terrifying, stimulating and ultimately exhausting for both Jack and his ma. The overwhelming adjustments they must make to survive result in their longing for change and the unique execution of their desires in ways that are both predictable and heartbreaking.
I’ll stop here. The less I share, the more the book retains its incredible power. Read it. Definitely.
• A scrapbook page
• An album to hold a collection of scrapbook pages
• A Suduko puzzle (though I’ve never solved one because these things frustrate the hell out of me)
• Multiplication tables through “the twelves”
• The cover of a vintage 33rpm vinyl album
A dwelling does not come to mind—even though I’ve purchased overpriced real estate in Southern California.
In Room, 12 x 12 is a shed inhabited by five year-old Jack and his “ma”. Through Jack’s voice, we learn that he was born in Room, plays on Rug, sleeps in Wardrobe, eats at Table and has never been outside beyond the locked Door. We also learn that a mysterious “Old Nick” visits Jack and his ma almost nightly; mostly to repeatedly rape Ma while Jack hides in Wardrobe, but also to remove trash and bring sparse supplies of food and clothing. At a certain point, Jack’s young Ma determines that she’s had enough and is ready to risk everything in an attempt to escape and it is only then that she reveals how she and Jack arrived in Room in the first place and why they’ve lived there for so many horrific years.
Life outside Room is fascinating, terrifying, stimulating and ultimately exhausting for both Jack and his ma. The overwhelming adjustments they must make to survive result in their longing for change and the unique execution of their desires in ways that are both predictable and heartbreaking.
I’ll stop here. The less I share, the more the book retains its incredible power. Read it. Definitely.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
If I am Missing or Dead (Janine Latus)
I spent part of this morning shopping at Cost Plus World Market for an assembly-required bookshelf to aid in my office renovation and reorganization project. I was just about to check out when perky clerk, Shannon, asked me if I needed any of the “amazing” products from the Eat, Pray, Love (the book written by Elizabeth Gilbert) part of the store. I must have unconsciously expressed irritation or disgust at that point because Shannon then asked if I had read the book. I said that I had not. She was soon deflated and sighed, “Oh my God. You have to read it! It’s amazing!” I explained that I tried to read the book but could not get past the author’s whining and self-pity in the beginning so I put it down. I further explained that I could not respect a person who, admittedly and for a lifetime, failed to see the beauty within and around her and found it necessary to travel the world to do so. An aside: Apparently I am one of few people who feel that way as this book has been on the New York Times Best Seller list for over 155 weeks (according to the author’s website).
Shannon, ever the customer service professional, then asked if I planned to see the film. I said no so, of course, she wanted to know why. Aside from the fact that the film is based on a book with a premise I found completely annoying (didn’t she get that from the first part of the conversation?), I shared my recent disenchantment with Julia Roberts who, in a recent interview on the Oprah Winfrey Show, claimed that she was resigned to sewing her children’s clothing by hand because of the recession. REALLY JULIA??? As if we all believe that YOU are suffering financially. For those who are somehow unaware, Julia Roberts will play the lead role in the Eat, Pray, Love film (apparently because she’d prefer to buy clothes at Baby Gap than continue to sew them and royalties from this project will enable her to do so). And because I have now relegated Julia to the status of the couch-jumping, Scientologist, Tom Cruise, I have no immediate plans to see that movie. Or read the rest of the book. My conversation with Cost Plus World Market Shannon underscored those facts.
Throughout at least several of the past 155 weeks, I’ve reflected upon the fact that I am not nor ever will be part of the EPL phenomena. I’m sure it’s a fine book for some. But really, the book’s content is too introspective and ultimately uplifting for my taste considering my penchant for "Debbie Downer" books. None of which should come as a surprise if you’ve been following this blog or have known me personally for longer than three hours. And that, finally, brings me to If I am Missing or Dead.
What a brilliant title for such a devastating novel. The author writes about her own bleak childhood, the abuse her mother endured from her father, and how both resulted in a second generation of victimization as both Latus and her favorite sister, Amy, married abusers. Latus ultimately escapes the horror of her own relationship. Amy does not.
This memoir, in many ways, reminded me of Jeannette Walls’, The Glass Castle. It shares themes of spousal abuse, women with escape strategies, and tragedy mixed with successes. It’s another book that women everywhere should read either to reaffirm their own healthy relationships or to see themselves within the Latus family dynamic and take action.
This book will live on my new Cost Plus shelf—as soon as I finish assembling it.
Shannon, ever the customer service professional, then asked if I planned to see the film. I said no so, of course, she wanted to know why. Aside from the fact that the film is based on a book with a premise I found completely annoying (didn’t she get that from the first part of the conversation?), I shared my recent disenchantment with Julia Roberts who, in a recent interview on the Oprah Winfrey Show, claimed that she was resigned to sewing her children’s clothing by hand because of the recession. REALLY JULIA??? As if we all believe that YOU are suffering financially. For those who are somehow unaware, Julia Roberts will play the lead role in the Eat, Pray, Love film (apparently because she’d prefer to buy clothes at Baby Gap than continue to sew them and royalties from this project will enable her to do so). And because I have now relegated Julia to the status of the couch-jumping, Scientologist, Tom Cruise, I have no immediate plans to see that movie. Or read the rest of the book. My conversation with Cost Plus World Market Shannon underscored those facts.
Throughout at least several of the past 155 weeks, I’ve reflected upon the fact that I am not nor ever will be part of the EPL phenomena. I’m sure it’s a fine book for some. But really, the book’s content is too introspective and ultimately uplifting for my taste considering my penchant for "Debbie Downer" books. None of which should come as a surprise if you’ve been following this blog or have known me personally for longer than three hours. And that, finally, brings me to If I am Missing or Dead.
What a brilliant title for such a devastating novel. The author writes about her own bleak childhood, the abuse her mother endured from her father, and how both resulted in a second generation of victimization as both Latus and her favorite sister, Amy, married abusers. Latus ultimately escapes the horror of her own relationship. Amy does not.
This memoir, in many ways, reminded me of Jeannette Walls’, The Glass Castle. It shares themes of spousal abuse, women with escape strategies, and tragedy mixed with successes. It’s another book that women everywhere should read either to reaffirm their own healthy relationships or to see themselves within the Latus family dynamic and take action.
This book will live on my new Cost Plus shelf—as soon as I finish assembling it.
Friday, July 9, 2010
We Need to Talk About Kevin (Lionel Shriver)
Some people just shouldn’t have children.
I say this after spending many years teaching kids who were, mostly, delightful. But of the two-hundred or so students I taught each year, every once in a while, a not-so-delightful kid appeared in my class. I’m not talking about the kid who brought a rat to my class in an attempt to derail my lesson plan. And I’m not talking about the kid who ate, with his hands, the cake I bought so my honors class could celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday. These boys (yep, both boys) were amateurs and acted out as a function of their immaturity. The not-so-delightful students I’m thinking of were ones I was certain, at the time, were future felons. Even at the tender age of fourteen, they exuded pure evil. Several names and associated offenses come to mind when I reminisce about that reality but I won’t list them here. And I hope their parents, the same people I pleaded with to pay careful attention to the behaviors I observed in class yet didn’t, appreciate that.
Kevin, the protagonist named in this book’s title, could have easily been one of the students I’m thinking about with one notable exception: his mother, Eva, was never in denial about the very different child he was nor the monster he was destined to become. She knew, as perhaps only a mother could, Kevin’s malicious, immoral and sociopathic psyche better than anyone. Even Eva’s beloved husband, Franklin,—seemingly estranged from her throughout the novel—rejected the idea that Kevin was socially unacceptable and exhibited gruesome behaviors despite the obvious.
Eva’s inherent ill feelings towards Kevin cause her to question, throughout the book, her decision to have children until Celia, her savior child and Kevin’s younger sister, is born; thus vindicating her role as a mother. Unfortunately, Kevin is a force greater than what Eva initially understands. His remorseless path of destruction is infinite and ultimately resonates in Eva’s relentless introspection about her decision to become a parent and how that decision resulted in the raising of an adolescent murderer.
Presented creatively in a series of letters to her husband, Eva tells a haunting story. In the end, those who have children will be left wondering if such horror could occur in their own families. Those who don’t (due to personal choice) may realize an affirmation regarding that decision.
I say this after spending many years teaching kids who were, mostly, delightful. But of the two-hundred or so students I taught each year, every once in a while, a not-so-delightful kid appeared in my class. I’m not talking about the kid who brought a rat to my class in an attempt to derail my lesson plan. And I’m not talking about the kid who ate, with his hands, the cake I bought so my honors class could celebrate Shakespeare’s birthday. These boys (yep, both boys) were amateurs and acted out as a function of their immaturity. The not-so-delightful students I’m thinking of were ones I was certain, at the time, were future felons. Even at the tender age of fourteen, they exuded pure evil. Several names and associated offenses come to mind when I reminisce about that reality but I won’t list them here. And I hope their parents, the same people I pleaded with to pay careful attention to the behaviors I observed in class yet didn’t, appreciate that.
Kevin, the protagonist named in this book’s title, could have easily been one of the students I’m thinking about with one notable exception: his mother, Eva, was never in denial about the very different child he was nor the monster he was destined to become. She knew, as perhaps only a mother could, Kevin’s malicious, immoral and sociopathic psyche better than anyone. Even Eva’s beloved husband, Franklin,—seemingly estranged from her throughout the novel—rejected the idea that Kevin was socially unacceptable and exhibited gruesome behaviors despite the obvious.
Eva’s inherent ill feelings towards Kevin cause her to question, throughout the book, her decision to have children until Celia, her savior child and Kevin’s younger sister, is born; thus vindicating her role as a mother. Unfortunately, Kevin is a force greater than what Eva initially understands. His remorseless path of destruction is infinite and ultimately resonates in Eva’s relentless introspection about her decision to become a parent and how that decision resulted in the raising of an adolescent murderer.
Presented creatively in a series of letters to her husband, Eva tells a haunting story. In the end, those who have children will be left wondering if such horror could occur in their own families. Those who don’t (due to personal choice) may realize an affirmation regarding that decision.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Sh*t My Dad Says (Justin Halpern)
Darling Brian (husband extraordinaire) finished physical therapy the other day and suggested that I return to school to become a licensed therapist. After wondering what the hell he was thinking, I reminded him, in the midst of my I-just-finished-a-doctorate-and-never-want-to-take-a-class-for-credit-again rant, that I have well over 200 credit hours on my transcripts. Then I actually counted my credit hours (a little OCD, I know) and figured out that I have 216 credits to my name; a fact which confirmed that I don’t intend to accrue more. But counting those 216 credits led to my contemplating the professors who taught them. And thinking about those professors (most of whom were/are employed at a PAC-10 university and made/make a living projecting perfectly politically correct personae) made me wonder how many of them walk the talk or, instead, are really just like Justin Halpern’s dad in Sh*t My Dad Says.
When we, the general public, meet Halpern’s dad, he is an already retired University of California, San Diego (UCSD) medical school professor; a well-published and highly respected academic. But he doesn’t fit the stereotype. Here are just a few of Dr. Halpern’s personal pearls of wisdom:
• “You thought it was hard? If kindergarten is busting your ass, I got some bad news for you about the rest of your life.”
• “Listen up, if someone is being nice to you, and you don’t know them, run away. No one is nice to you just to be nice to you, and if they are, well, they can go take their pleasant ass somewhere else.”
• “Cheating’s not easy. You probably think it is, but it ain’t. I bet you’d suck more at cheating than whatever it was you were trying to do legitimately.”
Basically, what Justin Halpern has done here is to track and Twitter and brilliantly wrap his dad’s utterances into a book of incredibly crass yet hilarious life lessons. Reading it made me wonder why I didn't think of doing something like this with my own family's adages? I digress.
Anyway, since Dr. Halpern and I made similar career choices, I wondered what he’d say to Darling Brian after hearing his suggestion that I return to school. I bet it would be something like this:
“You’re like a tornado of bullshit right now. We’ll talk again when your bullshit dies out over someone else’s house.”
And to me about starting my tenth year in higher education this fall:
“It’s just, I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it. I mean, they gave you money to do this. YOU. Amazing.”
Thanks, Dr. Halpern. :)
When we, the general public, meet Halpern’s dad, he is an already retired University of California, San Diego (UCSD) medical school professor; a well-published and highly respected academic. But he doesn’t fit the stereotype. Here are just a few of Dr. Halpern’s personal pearls of wisdom:
• “You thought it was hard? If kindergarten is busting your ass, I got some bad news for you about the rest of your life.”
• “Listen up, if someone is being nice to you, and you don’t know them, run away. No one is nice to you just to be nice to you, and if they are, well, they can go take their pleasant ass somewhere else.”
• “Cheating’s not easy. You probably think it is, but it ain’t. I bet you’d suck more at cheating than whatever it was you were trying to do legitimately.”
Basically, what Justin Halpern has done here is to track and Twitter and brilliantly wrap his dad’s utterances into a book of incredibly crass yet hilarious life lessons. Reading it made me wonder why I didn't think of doing something like this with my own family's adages? I digress.
Anyway, since Dr. Halpern and I made similar career choices, I wondered what he’d say to Darling Brian after hearing his suggestion that I return to school. I bet it would be something like this:
“You’re like a tornado of bullshit right now. We’ll talk again when your bullshit dies out over someone else’s house.”
And to me about starting my tenth year in higher education this fall:
“It’s just, I’m having trouble wrapping my head around it. I mean, they gave you money to do this. YOU. Amazing.”
Thanks, Dr. Halpern. :)
Monday, June 7, 2010
My Fair Lazy (Jen Lancaster)
The more I read Jen Lancaster, the more I realize that she and I are really the same person occupying two different bodies, married to two different husbands, living in two different states. Impossible, you say? Just read a few of our similarities below:
1. We are writers. Well, Jen is the real writer. I am a former English teacher who occasionally teaches writing and I’m a blogger and that’s close enough.
2. Both of us reinvented ourselves after unfortunate ends to our respective stints in corporate America. Jen: see #1. Di: university professor.
3. Both of us prefer our new lives over our former corporate ones and our pets to most people.
4. Neither of us can decide which Chicago-area lifestyle is more fabulous: city or north shore suburbia and can make a case for each.
5. We can quote 25 year-old Tom Cruise movies, yet cannot articulate our reasons for liking or disliking fine art without being prompted. "Looks like it's University of Illinois!"
6. We worship Candace Bushnell.
7. Both of us appreciate the bizarre combination of dessert and bacon (Jen: doughnut, Di: chocolate bar).
8. Both of us are at our creative best while irritated.
9. We don’t suffer fools and may owe some apologies as a result.
10. We often engage in too-candid verbal expression which exacerbates #9.
11. We spend far too much energy on choosing the ensemble and not nearly enough on the event we attend while wearing the ensemble.
12. We are prudishly troubled by (our own and others’) nudity.
13. We find it nearly impossible to relax during a massage (see #12).
14. We hate traveling alone.
15. We are obsessed with the Twilight saga.
16. We are conservatives whose friends are, mostly, liberal (and how the hell did that happen?).
17. We buy shoes, photograph them, and post the photos on our websites (Jen: http://www.jennsylvania.com/ , Di: my Facebook page—Sorry, if you aren’t already my “friend”, you don’t get to see the shoes).
18. We both wear Crocs (Jen: all colors, Di: ASU Maroon and Gold with Sparky on the side) despite our inherent taste for couture.
19. We both rely on “asides” to convey even more personal commentary than is possible in one side of a normal person’s conversation.*
20. Both of us are married to saints (Jen: Fletch, Di: Brian) whose military training and service adequately prepared them for the patience required to endure our neuroses and adore us despite all of them.
*Fabulous!
Convinced yet? I report. You decide.
1. We are writers. Well, Jen is the real writer. I am a former English teacher who occasionally teaches writing and I’m a blogger and that’s close enough.
2. Both of us reinvented ourselves after unfortunate ends to our respective stints in corporate America. Jen: see #1. Di: university professor.
3. Both of us prefer our new lives over our former corporate ones and our pets to most people.
4. Neither of us can decide which Chicago-area lifestyle is more fabulous: city or north shore suburbia and can make a case for each.
5. We can quote 25 year-old Tom Cruise movies, yet cannot articulate our reasons for liking or disliking fine art without being prompted. "Looks like it's University of Illinois!"
6. We worship Candace Bushnell.
7. Both of us appreciate the bizarre combination of dessert and bacon (Jen: doughnut, Di: chocolate bar).
8. Both of us are at our creative best while irritated.
9. We don’t suffer fools and may owe some apologies as a result.
10. We often engage in too-candid verbal expression which exacerbates #9.
11. We spend far too much energy on choosing the ensemble and not nearly enough on the event we attend while wearing the ensemble.
12. We are prudishly troubled by (our own and others’) nudity.
13. We find it nearly impossible to relax during a massage (see #12).
14. We hate traveling alone.
15. We are obsessed with the Twilight saga.
16. We are conservatives whose friends are, mostly, liberal (and how the hell did that happen?).
17. We buy shoes, photograph them, and post the photos on our websites (Jen: http://www.jennsylvania.com/ , Di: my Facebook page—Sorry, if you aren’t already my “friend”, you don’t get to see the shoes).
18. We both wear Crocs (Jen: all colors, Di: ASU Maroon and Gold with Sparky on the side) despite our inherent taste for couture.
19. We both rely on “asides” to convey even more personal commentary than is possible in one side of a normal person’s conversation.*
20. Both of us are married to saints (Jen: Fletch, Di: Brian) whose military training and service adequately prepared them for the patience required to endure our neuroses and adore us despite all of them.
*Fabulous!
Convinced yet? I report. You decide.
