In Defense of the Dinky Pinky

So, my friends and I are having a philosophical debate about pinky length. One of us brought up the fact that the normal length of a human pinky finger is such that the tip of that digit falls at the line of the first knuckle of the ring finger, and that pinkies that are shorter or longer are considered by the medical profession to be a deformity.

We have all examined our pinky fingers and found that they all terminate approximately halfway between the first and second knuckles of our ring fingers. Intrigued by this discovery, I even went so far as to examine my mother's hands, only to find that her pinkies are also short. At least I have concluded that my digits and phalanges are genetically influenced.

We now think that this may be our lowest common denominator, and might be a contributing factor to our having been brought together in friendship, in the fashion of a cosmic, karmic clique, if you will.

Interestingly, according to the ancient art of palmistry, people who have this deformity supposedly have an inability to influence others, and are typically unable to communicate well through writing. Supposedly, short pinkies identify the frustrated, and those who are unable to express their talents and skills. In the sexual arena, we are supposedly more inhibited.

Sheah, right. I pppppffffftt at these labels. These profilers have obviously never met me or my friends.

On the plus side, during my research I learned that a person who sticks their pinky out when drinking tea (as I do) is an independent thinker, and a straight pinky finger (which I have) means a person is honest.

Diminutive pinkies of the world, unite!

The Thanksgiving Epiphany

There is something special, empowering even, about a woman's first solo Thanksgiving dinner preparation. I wrote the following two years ago, when I still believed (i.e., when I didn't know the truth). Wait . . . who am I kidding; I already knew the truth, I just chose to have faith. And though I paid the price, I gained some hidden blessings in the process.

For example, I've been very blessed to spend this year's Thanksgiving with people who genuinely care about me, instead of merely acting. But, the nostalgia of the following Thanksgiving will never be lost, despite the fact that the effort was for a lost cause.

Best wishes for a safe and happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

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The Thanksgiving Epiphany

It's one week before Thanksgiving. I sit on the sofa, looking anxiously at my mother, who sits in her chair across the living room. I'm scribbling furiously in a small, blue, spiral bound pad the family recipes she is firing at me, one after another. I review my notes, four pages of cooking instructions and one page long grocery list, and I must look perplexed because mother sighs and asks, "What's wrong?"

"The turkey cooks at 350º, too? Or should it be 375º?" I'm overwhelmed by the amount of ingredients on each page, the number of steps involved, and the cooking temperatures.

"Yes, 350º. Almost everything you'll cook will be in a 350º oven," she replies, only just showing her exasperation at my ineptness in kitchen-related matters.

She continues her dictation; I continue my shorthand. She repeats, and I erase and rewrite. She reminds me that since I'm going out of town for Thanksgiving, we need to make the cornbread for the dressing the night before I leave. I add self-rising yellow corn meal to the shopping list as my mother explains the difference between yellow and white. All the while, she reassures me that I can call her on the phone and she will offer guidance should I need it. We agree that my first call will be at 5:00 a.m., Thanksgiving morning, when it's time to begin cooking the turkey.

At the grocery store, I mistakenly pick up sweet yellow corn meal instead of plain, what our recipe calls for. It was the only yellow meal the store stocked, so I thought it was correct by default. When we make the cornbread that night, my mother is discouraged by the possibility that the recipe will fail, and gives me yet another page of notes on recipe repair.

The next day, with my faulty cornbread carefully wrapped and tucked next to my priceless notepad in a box of borrowed kitchen supplies, I journey from Georgia to Fort Campbell, Kentucky to begin my first "solo" Thanksgiving dinner.

"My mom's turkey is darker."

During the drive, I call and ask my husband to put the pumpkin pie in the oven. When I arrive late that evening, I lay out the cornbread and various other bread slices for drying. I notice that the turkey isn't quite thawed in the refrigerator, so I remove it and place it in the sink. It's too late to begin any other preparation for the next day, so I set the alarm for 5:00 a.m. and go to sleep. I fail to notice that the pumpkin pie was cooked and wrapped in foil, just as I had asked, and sitting on the counter, instead of in the refrigerator as the box suggests.

The alarm wakes me after what seems like only a few minutes. I stumble to the kitchen to check on the turkey, and make my first call to my mother. "Okay, you have to wash the turkey, inside and out. Take out the giblets and the neck." She waits as I juggle the phone to my ear and unwrap the turkey.

"Isn't he already clean?" I ask, swiftly losing the battle with the twelve-pound turkey. I find a large plastic bag of something in the bird's cavity and struggle to remove it. Then I find another large plastic bag of some other part lodged in the other end of the bird. "I can't get this bag out."

My mother, hearing the valiant thumping of the bird in the steel sink, tells me to unhook the legs so the bag will come out, and that the turkey is most likely a "her." I solve the leg puzzle only to find that the bag inside is still partly frozen, and it clearly doesn't want to fit through the hole in the cavity. "Wash the bird, and don't overanalyze." I realize I can't wash the bird and talk on the phone, so I call mother back in 30 minutes once the deed is done, and the bird is ready to be bagged. She walks me through buttering the turkey with strategically placed pats, but not before I try to cover the entire bird by rubbing it with the stick of butter. I cut the celery to place inside the bird without incident. Then I wrestle the turkey into a plastic bag that my husband suggested I use, since that's how his mother cooks hers.

The buttery bird awaits her fate as the oven finishes pre-heating. However, the directions for the cooking bag differ from my notes, and I am immediately confused. After a lengthy debate, my mother concedes that I should follow the bag's instructions. With the bird now in the oven, mother and I agree that we should get a couple of hours of sleep, since it's going to be a very long day.

At 9:00, I phone mom again. It's time to prepare the sweet potato soufflé, and to our surprise, the turkey is already done. After putting the giblets and the neck on to boil, I begin the task of assembling the dressing, with my mother's hands crumbling and mixing the bread vicariously through mine as her voice guides me over the phone. A quick taste test discloses that my faulty cornbread won't ruin the dressing after all. I chop onions and celery, with too much of the former, and arrange them neatly on a plate. Once again, my mother tells me to stop overanalyzing, and to call her when the soufflé and the dressing are done.

I use this downtime to set the table with coordinating linens and dinnerware. I'm secretly excited about this dinner, because it will be the first time every serving piece in my china service has been in use at one time. To celebrate my successful table setting, I pour a half-glass of cabernet, taking two sips before I remember that it's almost 2:00 and I've yet to eat anything. The wine goes straight to my head, and I feel a bit woozy. I put the wine aside, and slice the canned cranberry sauce to celebrate, instead.

As the dressing and sweet potatoes finish their stint in the oven, our guest Tristan volunteers to peel and boil several white potatoes for mashed potatoes. My husband A.J. begins to carve the turkey, a little nervous at his debut with the carving knife. He doesn't think the bird is done. "It's done," I say.

"My mom's turkey is darker. And this meat looks pink," he says as he hesitantly lifts one of the first slices.

"Your mom probably puts something on it, like paprika. And the meat is white," I reply, lifting up the kitchen blind to let in more light. Seeing that he's still hedging on his carving duties, I pull off a small piece of turkey and tear it in two, stuffing one bite in his mouth before he can mention his mother's turkey again. "Hey, that's really good," he responds. The second bite goes to our guest, who defends my claim that the turkey is indeed done.

"What's wrong with regular gravy?"

With the men occupied in the kitchen, I have a 30-minute window in which to shower and get ready for dinner. I return to the kitchen, fresh-faced and damp-haired, to mash the potatoes and put the marshmallow layer on the sweet potatoes. I put the courses in their serving dishes and place them on the table. I put the rolls in the oven. The moment of truth has finally arrived – it's gravy time. I call mother.

She patiently instructs me in the art of making giblet gravy. I boil two eggs. A.J. wanders into the kitchen to see what I'm working on, as I'm slicing the turkey giblets and stripping the neck. After I give him a tour of my neatly arranged giblet cubes (stop overanalyzing), he wrinkles his nose and asks, "What's wrong with regular gravy?"

I stare at him incredulously. On the phone, my mother tells me to tell him that giblet gravy is just better, that we've always made giblet gravy for Thanksgiving dinner, and that if he hadn't walked in while I was fixing the gravy, he'd love it and be none the wiser. He retreats to the living room, and I begin to prepare the flour slurry for the gravy. I am truly in unfamiliar territory now, and rely on my mother's wisdom to get me through this test.

Before I know it, the gravy is done, and it looks just like mom's gravy. A quick taste confirms the similarity. Standing still and alone in the kitchen for what seems like the first time that day, I feel as if that the temperature of the kitchen has nearly reached the internal temperature of the oven. I wonder, does it always get this hot? I pour the gravy into my never-before-used gravy boat, and whisk it and the rolls away to the table as my mother bids goodbye and her wishes for my success on the phone. Before I hang up, I ask, "Mom? Are you always this tired after cooking Thanksgiving dinner?"

She laughed and said, "Yes, as a matter of fact. And so is your grandmother."

I call the men to the table, with the lighthearted suggestion, "Just remember, any item that you complain about won't be on the table next year." A.J. considers my warning and then grins as he pulls out my chair for me. The men have two full plates of food each, much to my delight. A.J. even tries the giblet gravy. Their simple pleasure at a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal while away from their families makes all of my effort worth it.

There isn't much talking between the men as they eat, and I am afforded a few moments to reflect on the day, and to revel in my newfound respect for my mother and grandmother. I did it, but I couldn't have done it without my mother and Ma Bell. Our torch has been passed, and I have the confidence now to prepare Thanksgiving dinner on my own. At least as long as I have my spiral-bound pad of notes, and my mother has a telephone.

I find that I am too tired to lift my arms to the table, much less eat. But I think I've never seen a prettier Thanksgiving dinner.

My Favorite Comic

This is my favorite comic strip of all time. I thought I would share it with you. (I know I'm probably breaking a million copyright laws by doing this, but I hope I'll be forgiven.)

My Dream Job

As a follow up to Today's Theme Song, I thought I might share with you my career aspirations.

My Logical Job: Executive Assistant or Senior Administrator

This is the type of job is that I've held for the past fifteen or more years. Since I'm highly skilled, highly organized, and I am able to function in any environment from old-school, starched-shirt to business casual every single day of the week, I have never had a problem obtaining this kind of position. I thrive on making my boss(es) look great, and I enjoy being part of any corporate machine that generates a great product or service.

My Target Job: Writer

This is the job that I am aspiring to. I love language, and have a profound respect for the written word. I want to do this for a living, if for no other reason than to get these damned ideas for stories out of my head to make room for other things. This is the job I would hold if I could do it for myself and no one else, and if money was no object. I'll admit, however, that if someone enjoys reading what I've written, I'd consider it a bonus.

Now, I will take you on a sharp detour. Be prepared, and promise not to laugh.

My Dream Job: Radio Tower Light Bulb Changer

You probably weren't expecting that. Honestly, I have fantasized about this job for over a decade. Have you ever met someone who does this for a living? I haven't. But I know they are out there; someone is doing it. This job would be the epitome of being "highly specialized."

I wonder what the job description for this position would be?

"Individual needed to change light bulbs on radio towers. Candidate must not have a fear of heights. High physical stamina essential. Familiarity with electricity and electrical wiring is required. Candidate must be able to function for long periods of time in solitude, with minimal or no supervision. Must be willing to travel. Patience and high stress tolerance a plus.

Benefits include health insurance, life insurance, 401K, clothing and travel allowances, and paid vacations."

Wow, I am so there.

No Paraskevidekatriaphobia Here

I would like to thank my dear friend T for her post on the recent familial losses suffered by a friend of hers. It prompted me to realize (with that universal "Oopshit" gasp that accompanies, for example, accidentally deleting a document you've worked on for days, with no chance of recovering it) that I unwittingly overlooked a date that is quite personal and very important to me.

I forgot my father's birthday. It was October 13th, a day gleefully prone to fall on that superstitious standard, Friday the 13th. All the moreso reprehensible that I forgot it this year, since it actually did fall on the Witches' Sabbath.

I should mention that my father passed away in 1993, at the tender age of 50. My mother and I were devastated, and we found that the dynamics of our relationship changed drastically, but to our benefit. My mother became the friend and mentor to me that she'd always tried to be when I was young. My father's passing made me grow up enough to recognize her for the incredible woman that she had always been, and will always be. And for that, I am a better person.

My father's birthday instilled a certain comfort within me concerning the number 13, and all things associated with it. I was comfortable enough with Friday the 13th, in fact, that I was married on that special day in the summer of 2003. In the rain. To a man I am now divorcing. Perhaps I should have been a little more respectful of this particular superstition.

Yet, my father still manages to comfort me and guide me, even though he isn't physically here. In a way, it's a good thing that I forgot his birthday this year. My forgetfulness tells me that I am maturing, and that my father trusts me to make the right decisions without deferring to his opinion first.

I miss you, Dad. Happy Birthday.

Through the Looking Glass

We are reflected in our friends and loved ones. These priceless human mirrors are one of life's greatest gifts, allowing us to see ourselves through their eyes as they reveal our strengths and flaws with equal rectitude.

When those we hold dear suffer, we realize that our own trials and tribulations may not be as significant as they first appeared; certainly, our own situations seem lessened by the magnitude of what our loved ones are experiencing. "There but for the grace of God go I" does a fine job of helping us keep things in perspective. In exchange, our own situations help maintain the perspectives of those we love.

Perspective - in optics or life, it doesn't matter - is critical to the achievement of a clear view. We may discover the finest looking glass in the world, but what good does it do us when our vision is clouded, or obscured? When our perspective is skewed, from interference or positioning, we can't appreciate the full, unadulterated reflection of ourselves that our friends and loved ones provide.

Recently, I learned that my oldest mirror has fallen in love with someone that he expects to lose due to a terminal illness. I learned that my most precious mirror is transitioning to a new phase in her life, one in which she embraces change and the potential for personal growth. I learned that my most reliable mirror is awaiting the return of her own mirror, not with trepidation, but with quiet enthusiasm and hope. I learned that my most cherished mirror is beginning her delayed recovery from open-heart surgery after many months of struggling. I learned that my most beloved mirror offers a somewhat distorted reflection due to internal flaws. And I am reminded by these lessons that I am not, and will never be, the center of any universe.

I will be the first to say that these mirrors do not create identity, nor do they lend themselves to vanity. Rather, when we are encircled by them, forcing us to maintain an unobstructed perspective, we see our real selves - not the people we purport to be, or want to be, but simply the people we are.

Ode to the Hermit Crab

There have been many times that I sat down to write since my last entry, but I decided that my content was getting to be depressing. Therefore, I promised myself that I would wait until I could be more positive in my writing to post again. And after seeing the number of views in the last few weeks, I thought I owed it to you to at least say hello, and to thank you for checking out my blog.

As some of you know, I recently completed yet another move. This one was the best yet, into a very special home that I supervised being built from the ground up. The inside of the house has become comfortably and efficiently appointed, but the garage is packed to the ceiling with stuff. I don't know what else to call it. If it's not useful enough or necessary for daily activity, it's not inside the house; it's in the garage, and immediately relegated to the status of stuff. Consequently, it is impossible to park a vehicle in there. And there's room for two. There's merely a two-foot-wide swath from the garage door to the interior door that I know so intimately I can navigate it in the dark.

On a whim, I counted up the number of times I have moved possessions, whether my own or on behalf of someone else, and I came up with a minimum of 14 moves, between four states, since 1993. Folks, that is a lot of stuff shuffling.

Most people hate to move. They become accustomed to having things a certain way, and become uncomfortable or resentful when their routine is disrupted, or when circumstances force them to locate new digs. I, on the other hand, find moving to be cathartic. Twisted, I know.

I try to look at moving from the hermit crab's perspective - as it grows, it casts off its old home once it has found a suitable replacement (condo to house); when times are good, and all his brethren are growing, too, he may have many different homes to choose from. Sometimes, however, its current shelter becomes damaged and the crab may be forced to move into a less accomodating shelter (house to studio apartment), if that's the only thing available to him at the time. The only thing missing from his moves is stuff.

Yet every time a move takes place, I find myself rediscovering the hidden pleasure of taking inventory of my stuff. Books I'd forgotten that I owned. Letters I'd forgotten I received. Gifts from loved ones that I was saving for a rainy day. Very few things of value, but countless things that hold within them a tiny joy simply by being possessed, rediscovered, and appreciated anew every time they are moved to a new location.

Perhaps that's the difference between a house and a home. Stuff.

Good Man, Good Woman . . .

Every now and then I will post some reference to a piece of literature that I really like (or don't, for that matter).

Being a southern girl, I have a keen appreciation for regional authors like Eudora Welty and Flannery O'Connor. In "A Good Man is Hard to Find", FO writes, I believe, one of the best summations of human nature ever written:

"She would of been a good woman . . . if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life."

In other words, we shouldn't wait until the last possible minute to be, well, good. By then, it's usually too late.