STEAK THAT MOOS

I'm never going to be vegan nor vegetarian.

To pervert the Most Interesting Man's words: "I don't eat steak all of the time, but, when I do, I like it to 'mooooo' back at me when I stick a fork into it."

 The store doesn't carry the steak marinade I have used for decades. Either the company went out of business, or it has been rebranded. After trying other marinades and trying to create my own versions, I finally give up. There's simply no point in eating steak without a decent marinade.

I'm in the grocery store the other day when I spot a display of packaged marinade mixes along the meat counter. "Whatever," I think to myself. "They don't carry what I want, anyway." 

For some reason, though, the rack of colorful little envelopes calls to me, and, much to my delight, I spot an almost identical cousin to the steak marinade I've been missing. I pick up a packet, throw it in my carriage, and head off toward the produce section. I mean, who doesn't love a good salad all smothered in feta cheese and croutons?

As I roll my cart away, I glance into the meat display. Oh, look! There's a sale on London Broil steak! I study all the packages, moving them around carefully. I don't need a huge steak, but I can certainly cut one in half and freeze it for next time, right?

That's when I see it.

Hiding under the bigger steaks is a smaller cut, or so it appears. However, this slab of steak is fatter than the rest. This hunk of meat says "London Broil" but mimics a piece of filet mignon. Better yet, since it's just under a pound and on sale, I'm paying well under $5 for it.

I marinate the steak for an hour, then broil that sucker up in about twenty minutes. I cook it medium rare so the center isn't still chilling on the animal's hide, just in case. (Insert lip-smacking sounds here.) Man, oh, man, that steak is delicious. Fabulous. So darn tasty is that London Broil that I eat the whole entire steak, completely dismissing the intention to save some steak for my salad the following day. 

Yup, tomorrow I'll be vegan, when I have to eat the salad without any meat in it. I'm simply doing my part to support my fellow plant-eaters.

POLLEN POOP EVERYWHERE

Welcome to New England Pollen Season, where everything inside of the house and outside of the house is coated with a thick layer of yellow-green dust, and massive sneezes are the norm.

My car finally gets to the point of zero pollen visibility, so I wait in a long car wash line with other similarly pollen-coated vehicles. It is a long line because, dumb us, we all decide to go on the weekend. So, on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, rather than being outside doing normal people stuff, we are wreaking havoc with street traffic in order to give ourselves a moment of pollen reprieve.

The staff is on pointe. There is a zipper system through two turnstiles feeding us into the one drive-through car wash. Oh, sure, I could go to the do-it-myself bay, but, at this point, I just want the damn stuff off my car, and I'm not willing to run the risk of missing any of it. So, through the car wash I go.

Car washes of old were simple affairs. You drove in, managed to get right into the tire tract (I'm remarkably accurate at this), and you could see the spray hoses, the dryer vents, and, sometimes, the workers strolling along the cat walk beside all the machinery.

Not now!

Now, going through the car wash is a disco experience. Lights flash, colors change, and the spray wash mimics a bad acid trip kaleidoscope of melted water weirdness. It's almost like falling down Alice's rabbit hole. Coming out the other end, where the world is normal again and the sun is its regular color, is a disorienting experience after thirty seconds of psychedelic auto bathing. 

I am so proud of my car! It's black again, just like in the old days when I first bought it. It's no longer a dusty neon greenish.

However, this glee is short-lived. Pulling back into the parking lot of my complex with my vehicle, I drive through what appears to be a thick fog of yellow pollen. As I lock the car doors and head to the building entrance, I cough with each inhalation of pollen as it beelines for my nostrils. I know where this is going. Dear gawd, I do know exactly what will happen.

Fifteen hours later, as I prep to leave for work, I head toward my car. It is no longer black. No, not a single car wears any color except the freakish lime green of nature. While I am quite glad that I managed to get the first coating of the crap off of my vehicle, it doesn't help much since I will have to bring it back to the car wash. 

The worst of it is that the new greenish marks looks more like the trees just decided to crap pollen on my car. But, this time I'm not giving in. I ignore the fact that all of the recent rain on the radar map has dissipated before it got to my area. The Spring joke may be on me, but I can wait it out. 

Score!

It has been a very long week.

First, the steering in my car let go. I had an inkling that something was slightly amiss, but it went full-on crap-to-the-max over the long weekend. That meant that I had to still get to work on Tuesday or be docked pay, wait at least a week for an appointment, and rent a subcompact car that turned into a giant, hearse-like SUV.

I ended the work week with a meeting so blatantly strange that I verbally questioned my own sanity in front of my coworkers and administrators. Afterward, two other people in the meeting immediately told me that they agreed with me, then two more came to me with the same concerns that I raised. Apparently, we all questioned our sanity at that point, I was simply the first to admit that my brain wasn't following the so-called logic.

All that coupled with the school book fair . . . Yes, so very many things went horribly wrong. 

However, The car rental place was a three-hundred-yard walk to the repair shop. Score! I left my car six days early since I couldn't drive it anyway and needed a loaner. My car was not only checked out but completely repaired two days later. I saved five days on the rental, and the service was nearly 30% cheaper than the quote. Score! I didn't even have to put gas in the rental. Score! I had my car back in time to visit my friend's new grandbaby. Score!

It's the weekend and, unlike last year when it rained for eighteen straight weekends (no lie), it's actually beautiful weather. Score more! I even had a chance to read a book this weekend. Score to the max!

Of course, I still have papers and slideshows to grade, so there is that. Plus, I was cleaning out my old car today, getting it ready for kayaking season, so I missed the wine tasting. But, I did spend some time sipping way too much Pecorino wine, eating way too much food (the salad is deceiving - makes it look like I was being healthy), and spending way too much time on Kindle and Nook with my tablet.

Eleven and a half more days and four more meetings. That's all I have to do to get to summer. It may have been a long week, but I can taste that summer sun in the Pecorino. Score - and then some.

THE WORLS STILL EXISTS

I grew up in with music.

Not just store-bought nor stereo,

But immersed in the world of

Classical choral training.

I used to be able to pick

Middle C

Out of thin air.

(I might still be close.)

Though exhausted 

(understatement)

After another endless day of school, 

A coworker and I

Attend a concert.

The venue - 

Wood, glass, and stone -

Engages the senses of 

Touch, sight, and sound.

The performer -

World-renowned,

Ridiculously talented,

Energizing and mesmerizing -

Earns two robust 

Standing 

Ovations.

Exiting the building, the

Audience remains electrified.

People who don't know people

Connect and speak like

Neurons sparking new paths.

Even the barely lit parking lot

Seems aglow with creative current.

Perhaps, though, 

It is the Flower Moon of May -

Full and luminescent -

Spotlight from the Sky -

Shining its approval on an

Evening worth attending -

A reminder that, 

Despite the urge to curl up and hide,

The world still exists beyond the job.

BATTLING KITCHEN CABINETS

I moved in December. Not far. As a matter of fact, if I were to poke a hole through the corner of my kitchen, I'd be in my old apartment (the one the flying squirrel drove me from just days before Christmas). When I moved, several aspects of my life moved seamlessly: bathroom essentials (same drawers, same vanity, same medicine cabinet), and, for the most part, my kitchen (same cabinets and drawers).

As a creature of habit, this changeover was comforting. I moved the bathroom first and camped in the new place for a few days, knowing that getting ready for work via suitcase would be easy because I had make-up, shampoo, and a hair dryer. I also moved the mud room so I could do laundry without running back and forth during those "squirrely" days.

The kitchen set-up, though, hit a slight snag. One of the cabinets that I use all of the time refused to stay open. At first I thought, "Well, isn't this quirky? Hahaha, so funny." Right? 

Except that anyone who knows me at all would be quick to say, "This is not going to end well." And those people are correct.

It starts innocuously. Emptying the dishwasher should not trigger compulsive tendencies. However, I find that I have reached the breaking point of trying to jimmy open the cabinet simply so I can put away glass bowls when, for the umpteenth time, I nearly drop and break the entire stack trying to beat the cabinet from shutting on me.

This is when a brainstorm five months in the making hits me: Switch out the matching cabinet on one side of the stove with the one on the opposite side. After all, that cabinet is full of baking supplies. I don't use it as often as I do the cabinet with bowls and colanders, and I rarely need both hands to grab bread crumbs or cooking spray.

This is also when I have a brainstorm to try jury-rigging the cabinet door with a plastic knife. (It works!) But, by this time, I am all-in. I start with the flour and sugar, switching it from top shelf to top shelf. Then, I move to baking staples, like powdered cocoa, baking soda, and corn starch from the middle shelf, and replace those with the metal and plastic mixing bowls. Lastly, the glass bowls move to the left, and the more-often-used baking items (oil, vanilla, and vinegar) to the right. 

I should probably start a betting pool as to how many times I will open the wrong cabinet over the next few months since I lived with this set up for years in my old apartment. So far, though, I am already feeling better knowing that the next time I grab a Pyrex bowl to make pizza dough, I won't bruise a knuckle trying to beat the aggressive cabinet door.

DEVELOPING A COMPLEX

I'm starting to get a complex.

Not true. I mean, I started getting this complex when I realized that gray hair is easier to maintain than dyed hair, and anti-aging facial cream only reverses a few bad days and not years of life damage. But, I digress.

Recently, on a trip to Seattle, I rip my underwear. Yes, I do. To be fair, it isn't new underwear; I've had it for a year or so. Also, it isn't exactly top-shelf quality. It's cheapo, multi-pack, microfiber with rolled edges. 

As my sister and I are getting ready to run for the bus (we have a last-minute change of plans, and our bus arrival time moves up about thirty minutes), I am fully dressed and ready when my underwear waistband springs a hole. I debate getting through the day with it, but, because the material is poorly made stretch knit, the hole keeps growing, and growing, and growing ... pretty much until the waistband and underwear were no longer attached. 

Thank goodness we are still in the hotel room. I madly untie my sneakers, undress my bottom half, quickly shimmy into unripped underwear, re-dress myself, and retie my shoes so fast that I don't even recognize what kind of knots I now sport. (Who knows what the cleaning staff will think when they empty that trash bin.)

Hahahahaha Makes a funny story. Right?

Until . . . it happens again, but not underwear. This time, I've moved on to heavier, sturdier fabric. I am minding my own business when the waistline of my yoga pants decides to let loose. Seriously. I am merely adjusting the top of the pants around my flabby midsection, when, all of a sudden, my hand goes right through the fabric.

To be fair, yet again. these are very old, very well-loved yoga pants. They are so worn that I have relegated them to pajama bottoms rather than allow them to be seen in public. But, still. They are decently high-end yoga pants, just the same.

So, this leaves me with two thoughts about my life, and you can help me decide which one may be truer because I really need to get this under control before the complex I am developing morphs into full-on anxiety:

1.  I don't know my own strength.

2.  I need to go shopping.

TULIPS FOR SPRING AND SUMMER

Family members come by to visit and to bring me flowers. Tulips! For those who don't live in the Northeast, particularly in New England, let me explain to you what Spring flowers mean to us: Hope.

We HOPE we don't accidentally kill the flowers.

We HOPE the sudden temperature changes don't cause the blooms to freeze into petal-ice-cubes.

We HOPE the weather really has turned for the warmer.

We HOPE that putting our snow shovels away and putting out tulips does not bring on a late-spring blizzard.

We HOPE our allergies don't kick into high gear as soon as the tulips open.

We HOPE the tulips bring summer before we all freeze.

Happy Spring, and happy almost-summer!