Posted in September 2012


Five years ago two days from now, I failed miserably at making this recipe in a tiny, hot kitchen above a vintage shop in Brookline, after spending about two hours insistently steaming, cooling and scraping a very annoying pumpkin instead of just using a $1 can.


My muffins came out sad and dense and wet, and on my way to work there was a guy asking for change on the median, so I gave him a sack of about a half dozen. I left a comment on the recipe post, have not made them since, and will never substitute the real deal for canned pumpkin ever again.

Apparently, 45 minutes later, my very good friend (and maid of honor) Heather commented on the same blog post, except I didn’t realize that until just now because it was a month before we met. *dun*dun*DUNNNNN*


Fate is luck, I guess.

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biggest loser

I have never been very good at keeping track of my shit, and as a result, I have become really obsessive with keeping track of my shit. Every time I leave a place I have to make a conscious effort to recall and locate everything I have arrived with, and as a result I cannot even remember the last time in my adult life that I have forgotten something somewhere.


But that is not to say that I have not lost anything in my adult life. No. Far from it, in fact. Instead I have this embarrassing tendency to lose things in my own home. Important things, particularly keys and credit cards and so forth. Now, when most people lose things in their home, they figure it’ll show up sooner or later, and as far as I can tell this is usually the case for Other People. But for me, if I am not able to locate my Something Important within a couple days’ time, it is forever lost.


I like to pretend I am haunted by imps or some other fantastical magpie, because the alternative is that I am really REALLY stupid. So stupid I could lose my own car keys in my house without ever leaving it. So stupid that I lost Dano’s car keys *in a completely empty house*, and did they appear when we unpacked everything we owned? They did not. Nor were they discovered by the landlord, nor were they in the car when we got it detailed several months later. Vanished. Or the $50 bill I lost somewhere between my car and my backyard (specifically, my apartment I walked through to the get to the backyard), where my neighbors and I were hosting a barbecue/jello-shot-a-thon. And actually, that one is yes, the least surprising of circumstances, but does not make me sound any less stupid.


Most recently I have managed to lose my wallet at our house, which is a real shame because I liked that wallet (I got it on my last trip to Chicago and it had Frankenstein on it, teehee), and also because, you know, it contained my license and medical benefits card and credit card and some ca$h. We had our garage sale yesterday, and I remember putting it in my back pocket right next to my phone, and I remember discovering it was gone a couple hours later, but I figured I had simply left it on my bureau or something, perhaps having removed it when I realized it was too bulky in the pocket. And we had shoppers I was distracted and awkward. Later, upon concluding that it was not actually on my bureau nor in my bag, or anywhere else reasonable, I thought perhaps I had left it in the garage. But now our garage is empty, and wallet? No wallet.


After some brainstorming with Dano and Lacey and Jim, the most logical conclusion I can draw is that it must have dropped out of my pocket in the garage, and it either found its way into a box and wasn’t noticed, or more likely, it was pinched by am opportunistic customer when it fell on the floor. As as humanist at heart, I really REALLY do not want to believe this, but so far nobody has swung by to return it.


Worst of all, if I had venture a guess, it would probably be our first customer. She was this older lady who took a bunch of stuff off our hands and sat down for awhile on a for-sale chair to rest before returning to her car, which had a handicapped license plate. I was running the show alone at that point, and it was a bit chaotic with stuff kind of all over the place, and if there was ever a opportunity, that’d be it, particularly since I may have sat in that chair while I still had it. But then she even returned later to catch the dregs, and if she were the culprit, I assume she would not really expect a second windfall wallet that was so easy to snatch and would more wisely opt to stay the fuck away.


My second guess would be this family, presumably an aunt and grandmother with two little boys, one of whom found their way into nooks of our garage, an incident that I can assure required a rather forced smile on my part when they came to extract the little shit. But what makes that such a shitty thought is that one of the little boys (maybe 10?) sat down next to Lacey and told her that his mom had died of a heart attack and was in heaven now.


So basically, the best accusation I can manage is an at-least-half-orphan and his cousin, or a handicapped old woman. With no actual evidence of any kind, and no detailed description, I can’t in good conscience file a police report since they may have been just two of the more memorable crews to swing through. Couple that with my well-documented history of losing things in my home when no strangers are around, or even that it’s possible it may just turn up somewhere bizarre in a few months, like a coat pocket.


Doesn’t really matter though, because no matter how long I wait to replace my ID and credit card, it is certainly impossible that it will turn up in advance of canceling the old numbers. So in a way, having an itchy trigger finger on replacing my identity enhances the likelihood that it will turn up sometime between tomorrow morning when I haul my ass out of bed 2.5 hours early to make it to the DMV before it opens, and the 4-6 annoying-ass weeks it will take for my new license to come in. And all my auto-pays will fail because the account will be closed. Fuckin. Awesome. Great.


Mostly, I’m just really pissed off and annoyed with myself because regardless of whether someone actually did nab it or I threw it away in a box or something, it was my responsibility to keep track of my shit. Had I done so effectively, I would still have my fucking wallet, but more importantly to my vanity, I wouldn’t be reminded of what an unbelievable moron I am when it comes to keeping track of shit.


9/26 – update

Yup, literally ten minutes after calling my credit card company to cancel the card, I found the wallet in our laundry room.  I am a ridiculous person.


I attended the latter half of grammar school at  St. Casimir’s, a not-very-prestigious Catholic school that was so poor that (as far as I can tell) it was run almost entirely on the take of a weekly bingo night at St. Hedwig’s. And as you might have already guessed, the first time I heard about Hedwig and the Angry Inch, I got a good chuckle at the expense of my old alma mater.

Anyhow, one of the ways the school saved money was by having teams of four 6th graders do the dishes at lunch time. We rotated through weekly and were forced to sacrifice our half hour lunchtime recess to scrape plates, soak silverware, fill the dishwasher and put them away, like some kind of fucking orphanage. My mother was not thrilled with this arrangement, and was even decidedly vocal on the subject at home, but she wished us to have a private education and this was the best she and my father could afford. So every few weeks I was on dish detail, but then the health inspector came through on my off week, and the lunch ladies sent up the kids scheduled that week to trade them for the best dishwashers that week so the kitchen would pass inspection.

As it turned out, I was a crack Dish Rinser, so I was sent down with the other future bus boys. And that day I came home beaming and boasting about what a great sink operator I was. My mom listens, has a short quiet think and says to me “Well listen, if you want to go to recess instead of doing dishes, here’s what you do: just don’t do a very good job of the dishes.”

I paused, which did not happen often to Little Aleta. “But . . . I’m really good at doing dishes.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t you rather have recess?”

“I mean, yeah, but otherwise who is going to do a good job of the dishes?”

I (obviously) did not get it and was so good at a shit job that I got to do it all the time. Lucky me.

The school also saved money by having their 8th graders monitor the other grades on both recesses, because you know, teachers need breaks more than 13-year-olds, so two years later I was monitoring the 7th grade. Having 7th grader duty was kind of a treat because they were more or less my age, so I basically got to hang out with them AND be in charge. Rock star for an 8th grader. But after a small, rather bland act of rebellion, my teacher decided that I was not going to be monitoring at all any more because of the discord I had sown with my charges. So instead I had to stay in the empty 8th grade classroom all by myself at recesses as a punishment.

This time I came home, dejected, and explained to my mother what happened, all the while cringing at her inevitable condemnation of my misbehavior.  She blinks and says, “So you don’t have to monitor any more? That’s great, now you don’t have to!”

“But! I’m in trouble!”

“I mean, I guess, except you got what you wanted. Is that the only punishment?”

“Well yeah, but…”


A few weeks later that same teacher, probably just then realizing what an idiotic punishment that is, started having me correct my classmates’ homework. She would correct mine and then I would use it as the key to grade everybody else’s.

This time I came home groaning. “Ugh, now I have to correct papers.”

“You know what you do, if you don’t want to correct papers…?”


I recalled this tale to my mom in a phone call the other night, and she said, laughing, “Well, you’re just such a perfectionist that you couldn’t imagine doing a bad job of anything!”

And that, there, was the moment of realization. Finally. I’m . . . a perfectionist? I mean, I knew I was an overachiever, but perfectionist?? I prefer to look a little messy, my car always needs to be vacuumed, and I don’t even understand why one would bother to make their bed, so this came as quite a surprise. But as it turns out, I am as much a perfectionist as ever, and now that I actually realize that I’ve been seeing my life through a different lens. Instead of feeling guilty for all the things I don’t get to because I have to do everything I actually get to exactly right, maybe I can just send that care package even though the box isn’t quite full, and that way I will have time to pick up some pastries rather than making them, but at least I brought something to the party instead of skipping it because I was out all night filling up a box.

Just gotta remember to slow down a little bit, breathe a little more, not read that email a fourth time before sending it just to make sure I didn’t reference the wrong person. Nothing wrong with doing a job right, but not every job requires the same level of energy.



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mama’s girl

My mom is visiting next week, and I’m super thrilled. It’s a relatively new development, but I have become a giant mama’s girl in the last few years, so when I say that “October will be full of all my favorite ladies,” I don’t have to add “…oh, and my mom,” no, she is in fact one of my very favorite ladies.

Affection aside, my mother share some significant differences (share? Is that the word for that? I don’t know what else to use). Where I revel in being weird, she just wants to be normal. Like normal people or something, I don’t know whatever. I am obnoxious and flamboyant, she is polite and quiet. I have enjoyed a healthy dose of cocktails, and she is a lifelong teetotaler.  She has had the same sparkling grout for almost 20 years now, and I have never quite mastered cleaning grout much at all. She is great with money, and actually so am I . . . except she is great at saving it, whereas I am great at spending it on things like specialty jams just for cheese platters.  And speaking of that, I love to entertain in my home whereas she kind of hates it.

But then other differences are kind of just not differences at all. For example, where I like to cook, she’s more of a baker. I crocheted doilies for her, and she knit me socks. She will strip an old piece of furniture, sand and reassemble it, varnish over the course of several weekends, and use it for the rest of her life. I prefer to buy older furniture that doesn’t require that kind of commitment, and then hold onto it until I find older or better old furniture to replace it.

We work in completely different industries with entirely different titles, but hold remarkably similar jobs in terms of day-to-day mechanics. She taught me how to make a pivot table and was always able to follow my convoluted tales of how I have to bring down all this data from disparate sources, paste them in a spreadsheet that is actually just a tab you hide that is a source for this other spreadsheet, which will dynamically adjust the number of rows on the report, which has a dropdown that contains each project, and when I sent it off to that VP he was like “Wow, this is great,” and I smiled goofily and said “Thanks! I am pretty proud of it.” And then she will tell me a similar story about how she completely reworked this process and now all you have to do is this easy thing, and ta-da! She just saved each manager at least ten hours a month.

So we are somewhat different and somewhat alike and I really enjoy the adult-child relationship I have with my mom. It will no doubt change, but I think our differences and similarities will not. We are accepting of the differences and are both (I hope, at least I am) very grateful for the similarities, and both of those give us continuity. It’s nice to know that I can always go back to teasing her by putting a matchbook with a picture of Barack Obama in the bathroom just because she is visiting, and she can go back to trying to convince me to just let my hair grow out because it is so pretty, and then we can laugh it off and maybe do some holiday crafts.


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