The Springs: Chicken Conundrum

SAM and GIDEON are eating dinner. GIDEON made lightly fried chicken tenders and SAM is ogling one of the chicken pieces lovingly. 

SAM (passionately): You're so amazing.

GIDEON (smiles): Well, you're not so bad yourself.

SAM: What? Oh. Yes. Yes, I was talking to you.

Adulthood: The Drinking Game

I don't think I'll ever consider myself an adult, but I've certainly been taking steps in that direction since graduating from college a year ago. So far, being an adult isn't that bad. Sure, I worry about money at least three times an hour. But I did that before I had a full-time job and I'll probably continue to do it once I retire 60 years from now.

Overall, life is pretty great. I have a live-in boyfriend, an adorable yellow cat, a job I love and the chance to sleep in at least twice a week if not more. 

I've had many of those milestones you expect upon reaching adulthood - renting my first apartment, getting my first job, moving in with a human I'm romantically interested in who returns my affection - but I've noticed that there are lots of small moments that define growing up, too.

How better to commemorate these moments than with booze?* Or, specifically, a drinking game?

*Full Disclosure: I don't actually drink much after a brief affair with wine in college, so I haven't tested this out and probably won't. But you should try it out and tell me how it goes. Also, some of these tasks are kind of on-the-go, so you should keep a flask on your person at all times. And, hopefully, a designated driver.

Adulthood: The Drinking Game

Take one drink if: 

• You pay your rent on the day it's due
• You remember to pick up your prescription from the pharmacy
• You eat a meal with two servings of green things
• You feed the cat before he sits at his food bowl looking all melancholy
• You drink eight glasses of water in one day
• You switch over to whole wheat products
• You avoid sodas for a week

Take two drinks if: 

• You pay your rent the day before it's due
• You stifle your road rage to avoid upsetting passengers
• You don't curse around small children and then curse again because you're upset that you cursed around small children
• You get your car's oil changed on the date/mileage it's due
• You use coupons
• You turn down a social engagement to save money
• Your friends use you as a personal reference

Take three drinks if:

• You say "Let me check my bank account first" before a semi-major purchase
• You don't even sweat it when you have to fork over $260 to fix your car's air and heating system
• You wear matching socks
• You create a bi-weekly budget at the beginning of the year lasting until December
• You start calling your grandparents just to check in
• You eat salad because you actually want to
• You subsist on coffee

Drink it all if:

• You use the phrase, "When I was your age..."
• You begin taking your  mother's advice
• You call teenagers "youths"
• You don't drink in bars because it's cheaper to drink at home
• You start to fantasize about settling down and having a family
• You're more excited about watching your savings account grow than buying a new pair of shoes
• You spend an entire Saturday morning deep-cleaning your apartment

If this gets any of you into trouble with the law, feel free to call me and I'll send you a pack of cigs. After all, they are currency on the inside. 

Haiku Thursday: Friendship

When you ask if your
butt looks big and your friend says
"Yes, it really does."

We eat cupcakes and
we watch bad daytime talk shows
and it is awesome

Let's talk about me
I'm so glad you understand
that I'm a big deal

A good meal is great
A good friend is much better
But nothing beats Lost.

Things that make you think twice about what you post on the internet: part one

As a professional and not-so-professional writer, I've become accustomed to working on an essay or article, submitting it and completely forgetting about it so I can move on to the next project. This is common, I'm sure, among people who write something for public consumption almost daily.

Thus, you can imagine my shock when people comment on this blog or call me at work to compliment my weekly column. Interestingly, people almost never comment on work I expect them to. I wrote a political piece for the paper about Arkansas' shitty pro-discrimination bill (call it what you will, but we all know what it is) and received one positive response and no negative; that sucks, because I was really excited about receiving criticism.

But somehow, I've had five or six readers call in to comment on a column I wrote about a man who harassed me when I was running. Though I thought it was a pretty great column, I certainly didn't expect to strike a chord the way I did. Likewise, some pieces I've blogged about have received way more hits than others. I've mostly realized that you guys love reading about farts.

On that note, I have had several experiences since beginning this blog that cemented how public my writing really is. Specifically, I have discovered that people I write about on this blog read it and that some of my throwaway writing has received confusing accolades. Examples:

• Over Christmas, I was discussing my writing projects with my mom and nana. I jokingly asked my nana if she ever read my blog (because I have written about her here and it's always with love but not always so flattering) and she said, "Every day." 
• Gideon's grandmother enjoyed my blog post about how I farted so loud in my sleep that the cat ran away in fear. She liked it so much she shared it with Gideon's extended family members when they visited. On one hand, I could be embarrassed. On the other hand, I willingly wrote about farting on a public forum. You win this one, Grandma. 
• At my college's senior party this past week, several classmates and friends told me they enjoy reading my blog. I had to pause and think if I'd written anything defamatory about them before deciding that if I had, they probably would have already thrown a drink in my face. 
• My dad's side of the family read my post about being in an abusive relationship. In all honesty, that was hard for me; I still fear being seen as weak and, more importantly, don't want my family to worry about me. 

Please don't misunderstand me; I love writing, and I love that all two or three of you enjoy reading my writing. It's just that I live in a writer's bubble, a place uninterrupted by outside noise where I can share stories about farting and accidentally drinking a glass of milk my cat already tasted without thinking too much about who will read these things. 

To be honest, I'm super flattered that even one person has taken the time to read my work. I personally find it pointless and sometimes - most of the time - meandering, so finding even a small audience is a huge accomplishment for me.

My only fear is that if I'm already sharing stories no sane person would write in a private journal, my oversharing may worsen over time. I'd say my mother might end up disowning me, but let's get real: she has two kids counting the dog, and the dog won't put her up in a fancy retirement home years from now. 

So who knows what I'll write about in coming years? I suspect my writing will focus far more on scatological humor.

I can't help but give the people what they want.

In too deep

- Kelby and I were discussing my relationship with Gideon -

Me: I think things are, like, getting serious.

Kelby: What are you guys going to do next? Go shopping for decorative hand towels together?

Me: (shamefully) We already have.

Mom, thanks for...

• Buying me a pair of cute, strappy sandals to make up for my first boyfriend breaking up with me
• Talking through our problems and figuring out how we can best communicate with each other
• Teaching me the importance of late night ice cream binges 
• Helping me figure out all the things I could probably figure out on my own but don't want to
• Making me call my doctor/order in food/talk to people I didn't want to talk to when I was a teenager
• Accepting (and sharing!) my sense of humor
• Showing me how to manage stress/tough times with your actions and not your words
• Spoiling me when I did not deserve to be spoiled
• Sending me flowers every year on my birthday
• Being the only person in the world I truly want to emulate
• Pretending all those injuries I caused by being a total klutz didn't completely ruin your day
• Having a no-nonsense attitude
• Telling me at a young age the importance of professional presentation, from appearance to speech to nonverbal expression
• Encouraging my dream of being a famous writer even though we both know that will never happen
• Having lots of pets all the time
• Staying strong for everyone in the family through tragedy
• Showing me that you can look put-together on a budget
• Being my mom
  
  

Cooking with Sam: The Waffle Experiment

My friend Nell gave me a waffle maker (she's giving away items because of an upcoming move and she's also generous) and even though I'd never made waffles in my life, I accepted because, like most humans with taste buds, I like waffles. Of course I didn't tell Gideon this before trying to use the waffle maker so that my life could better resemble a sitcom.

I started where everyone starts: by searching "waffle mix for dummies" on Google. I chose this recipe, mostly because we have all the ingredients but also because it's the first recipe that popped up and I am lazy.

The ingredients are:

1. 2 eggs
2. 2 cups of all-purpose flour
3.  1 3/4 cups of milk
4. 1/2 cup vegetable oil
5. 1 tablespoon white sugar
6. 4 teaspoons baking powder
7. 1/4 teaspoon salt
8. 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract

Ed. Note: I tried to write the recipe list in AP style with all numbers below 10 spelled out but then I started writing fractions and realized that my silly journalism training has absolutely not set me up for food blogging. Hang in there with me, guys.

First, I whisked up the eggs in a bowl. This was easy because I have arms and a brain. 

And then I screwed up. The recipe says to mix all the other crap in once you have beaten the eggs, but I thought it meant individually and started with the flour. My god, guys, never do this. Your whisk is not a flour-egg birdcage, and it doesn't appreciate being treated as such.

In an effort to quickly fix my error, I haphazardly mixed in the other wet ingredients until it resembled something slightly fluid. This was good, I thought, since I needed a batter to create these waffles. 

Having strongly overestimated how long it would take me to produce the batter, I refrigerated it and ate one of those Flintstones sherbet push pops while watching Love It or List It. Gideon arrived home an hour or so later, and I looked way more prepared than the housewife I was trying to be.

I momentarily considered adding chocolate chips to the batter but who was I kidding? I'm not Martha Stewart; I can't make a meal as complex as chocolate chip waffles. 

The next part involves the actual waffle iron, which took me 30 minutes to figure out. There's a very dark, very camouflaged switch you have to flip for the thing to start heating up. It took me a while. 

I found the waffle-making process so fascinating that I completely ruined the waffles. Every two minutes, I couldn't help but peek at how the waffles were cooking only to lift one part of the waffle away. My finished plate of waffles looked like the torture room in a waffle serial killer's home. So many broken parts, guys. So many. 

In conclusion, the waffles were delicious. I would have taken a photo of them all dressed up in syrup and peanut butter but didn't want to share how much syrup I actually ate.

Trimming the fat, or how fat shaming isn't cool

The summer before my senior year of college I worked at a radio station in my hometown. I mostly answered phones and interacted with customers at the front desk, though I did get to write some ads for the radio. I enjoyed this part most, because I got to write some truly cringe-worthy sitcom-esque ads. For example:

Male DJ: Man, I need a haircut!
Female DJ: Maybe you should go to Insert Salon Name Here at Insert Address Here.
Male DJ: Do they do good work there?
Female DJ: Yes, they offer haircuts, highlights, lowlights, massages, manicures, pedicures and full body waxes!
Male DJ: (forced laughter) I think I'll just get the haircut.

While I enjoyed the work and got along well with my boss and a few other employees, I felt slightly out of place probably by the second day of work. It was because of a woman who worked sales in the office.

The woman was blonde, tall and thin with curves seemingly in all the right places - I say "seemingly" because I know shapewear exists to create this body type. (For the purposes of this blog, let's call my coworker "Nancy.")

At the time, I was 265 pounds and had so little self-confidence that I didn't even care about dressing up for work anymore. I wore work-appropriate skirts, slacks and tops, usually with a mismatched cardigan thrown on to hide my arms, which I've lovingly nicknamed "Bat Wings."

My mom thought - or at least appeared to think - that I wore the same cardigan almost daily whether it matched or not because of my zany fashion sense. That was fair; I did wear a lot of weird outfits in high school and sometimes still do. But the reason I wore this cardigan, in all honesty, was that I felt too much shame to go shopping for more.

So just by being thin and beautiful, Nancy probably would have intimidated me. Well, I know she did. She made me feel inferior before she even spoke to me. I saw her toned arms and perfect make-up and all I could think was, "A person like that would never consider me her equal." Fortunately, she gave me reason to dislike her once she spoke.

After my first day, I saw her at my gym. She smiled awkwardly at me in that way you do when you know you should acknowledge someone and there's no life-size cardboard cutout to hide behind. (True story: I once duck behind a cardboard cutout of Martha Stewart at Walmart to avoid speaking to a high school acquaintance.) We didn't speak at the gym and I thought she'd have the peace of mind to avoid speaking about it at all.

I was wrong.

My second day of work, she approached me at my desk and flashed an extraordinarily fake smile at me. "Hey," she said in a way that told me how poorly this exchange would end. "I saw you at the gym. If you want, I can help find you a trainer. It's really hard for people like you who are just starting out."

But I wasn't starting out. By all accounts, I had been athletic prior to college. I had never been thin but had always tried to work out at least three times a week. Hell, I was smaller than I've ever been the summer before I started college. I sat there, staring up at this beautiful, thin woman and realized that she, too, thought I was inferior to her.

I told her I'd been going to the gym for a long time and she raised her eyebrows, said "Really?!?" and walked away. It was the most pleasant conversation we had. In the following weeks, she got jabs in at me as often as she could.

"What are you eating that smells so good?" she asked one day when I had a plate full of Chinese food in front of me. I told her and said it cost only five bucks. She responded, "Yeah, but that's like five thousand calories! I'd feel so disgusting if I ate that."

"It's really impressive that you try to pull off stripes," she remarked casually when I dropped off a message for her one morning.

And then there was the classic - the most successful of her attempts to hurt me - that came on my last day there. "Sad to see you go, but it'll be nice to have someone who takes pride in their appearance at the front desk now," she told me.

She was basically throwing a cruel party for me all summer, playing Pin the Insult on the Fatty and somehow continuing to sling abuse at me even though she obviously nailed my fat ass the first time. I left that job feeling way worse about my body image than ever, which says a lot for someone as hypercritical and pessimistic as me.

I have to thank her, though. Because of her insults, I decide to lose some revenge weight. By Christmas break that year, I was down about 20 pounds. I took a break throughout 2014 but maintained my new weight and have continued to lose weight in 2015. I don't know where I am now, but I know that I probably wouldn't be in the shape I am had Nancy treated me with the respect and kindness all humans deserve.

Now, I don't want to spin body discrimination in a positive light; had she been my supervisor, we would have had a legitimate problem. But as it is, she was simply an amalgamation of a society that judges people - mostly women - on appearances. While that still sucks and no one should be made to feel bad about his or her body, it did show me that I need to have more strength in the face of adversity.

During that summer, I didn't fight back or insult her once. I just took it as I was expected to.

I won't do that anymore. Though I'm thinner now, I know my self-worth is not based on my appearance. My only goal, as I told Gideon Sunday evening, is to be healthy enough to stick around for a long time.

So ladies, gentlemen, humans who prefer not to say - don't let others bash you and get away with it. And don't bash yourself either, because then it's not so big of a deal when other people do.

Title?

Gideon and I walked almost five miles yesterday, and it was terrible. Since we live in the Ozarks, the walk was interchangeably uphill and downhill and it was hot and I became really miserable near the end of it.

It didn't help that we stopped for brunch at the halfway point, where I had a hot chocolate, eggs, toast and potatoes. Gideon and I split a sticky bun, which was delicious but not the best choice considering the fact that we would be walking uphill in humid, awful heat soon after.

I almost threw up but didn't, so that's probably my proudest moment this past month. I'm not so proud that I yelled at Gideon not to talk to me while walking up that hill but I didn't puke on him while I said this, so...

I wish I could write more about this. Alas, I am tired and suffering from severe writer's block and trying to ignore everything I have to do tomorrow at work even though I can't because all I think about when I try to go to sleep at night is everything I have to do the next day even if I have the day off.

It's like counting sheep except it makes you more manic depressive.

This took a turn.