Applying eye-liner.

Understanding and responding to written communication, esp. in the form of e-mail.

Addressing Christmas cards.

Walking without stepping on the cats.

(And that’s just today…)

So, if everything goes as planned (ha), I’ll be in Congo again in about five months. Tentative dates are for mid-to-late May…ish? Should know something more concrete soon, I hope. But at any rate, this time last year I had just signed on for the first trip, and I was scared stupid and trying to figure out how to tell my parents without worrying them too much. This time, I’m more excited than nervous, thinking about the people I’ll see again, the food I’ll eat, the air I’ll breathe. As I tried to go to sleep last night, I thought about the breakfasts we ate—the potato omelets, the rolls, the avocadoes, the lemongrass tea. I could practically taste it. I’m not looking forward so much to the preparation, the malaria meds, the hours upon hours in airplanes and airports. But, then there’s this:

And this:

And this:

I believe the holidays are causing a loss of brain cells. By that, I mean mine in particular. And at all those Christmas parties—I haven’t had a single drink! I blame the sleep deprivation and stress. When I showed up at Sharon’s place this Tuesday to watch Story, I just bust into tears for no good reason at all. For some reason, Sharon still felt okay leaving her child under my watch.

As Story and I cuddled on a giant bean bag, reading and re-reading books with happy pictures printed in primary colors onto glossy-finished cardboard, I think I regained a shred of the sanity that had threatened to high-tail it maybe an hour previous. That night, I went to the last party of the week and stayed late to help clean up (we got home sometime before midnight). Little sleep and hours of chocolate fondue probably got rid of my recovered shred.

Wednesday morning was more child-watching, and then the afternoon was nearly blissful as I realized the Thursday block on the calendar was empty. Big, white blankness. Bolstered by the thought of nothing scheduled the very next day, I went into a wave of productiveness, breezing through the grocery store and stopping by the bank. I made the good old beans-and-rice “stoup” for dinner, which we ate after nine because Jesse had to work late. And then, around ten, I suddenly felt the need to bake. I managed to botch chocolate sugar cookies, whose directions consisted of little more than “mix well, shape, bake.” Well, they were still tasty, even if the texture was all wrong.

Then, a Facebook friend posted that she would be attending something called K-K-K-K-K-Karaoke, and I posted the joke—and this is literally what I wrote—“Is that bowling for white people only?” And it took me a full second to realize what I’d written. I scrambled for the “delete” button. I’m still not sure how my brain confused the off-key singing of cheesy songs from the ‘90s with pushing glossy, heavy round things down glossy lanes at a collection of red-ringed pins. But it did.

Today was surprisingly productive. I put away the approximately three loads of clean laundry that had been piling up in our bedroom. And then I washed the three loads of dirty laundry waiting in the hamper. I knocked out the dishes. I wrote like three thousand words. Three freaking thousand words! I rushed to the library before it closed to snag a book on tape about Nixon and Kissinger and a few Vietnam-themed movies. Another trip to the grocery store for cold-related items for poor Jesse, who was working late, again, and whose immune system is in protest.

On the way home, I stopped by the gas station, which apparently is what everyone else in our town was also doing. I waited in line behind a van whose driver was nowhere in sight. I figured the driver was paying and would soon return and drive the vehicle away. Turns out, she was prepaying. So, I waited still longer as she pumped her gas. Finally, she drove away and I pulled my car into her slot. I climbed out, credit card in hand, and looked at the side of my car. The side the gas tank is not on. I’ve driven the same type of car since I was seventeen. The gas tank has, shockingly, never been on that side.

If I continue at this rate, I’m not sure what state I’ll be in by Christmas, but I believe this picture might sum it up:

Dear December,

First, let me begin by saying how much I absolutely adore you. Really, I do. And this year doubly so, because I was so bummed at being all alone for Thanksgiving, and then you came along, December, with all your non-Thanksgiving-themed merchandise, music, and festivities—and, with the hope of seeing family at the end of the month. You showed up just in time.

I love how gaudy you are. None of those muted fall colors of Thanksgiving, the depressing browns and mustard yellows that only reminded me of how wrong it felt to be celebrating without our families. How I welcomed your candy-apple reds and neon greens! How I loved setting out the little dancing mouse Becki gave us one year, how adorable I found him, all red-scarfed and holding a string of flashing lights. I love our mismatched outdoor decorations, the kitschy joke ornaments indoors, the multiple nativity scenes.

And the TV! Movies and shows so bad we’d never dream of watching them at any other time of year. But during you, December, they’re lovely and make us think about being nine again. I even like your music; Jesse and I sing loudly and off-key whenever we’re driving, and it just lifts the mood. (Though I’ll admit to changing the station when anything resembling “The Christmas Shoes” comes on—even I have my limits.) I can’t forget the food, either. I’ve eaten my weight in your goodies, and my blood sugar complains, but do I listen? No, I think not.

But, December, it occurs to me that there is only so much celebrating one month can handle all on its own. And this year, we may have reached that limit.

Take the Christmas parties. For Jesse’s work alone, we will have attended three separate Christmas parties. Three! Now, if he were receiving three salaries, that would be something else entirely. Add the volunteer position he has, and that’s another party. Don’t forget the small group one next week, too.

Don’t get me wrong—I love parties. Especially those that involve overeating cheesy side dishes and visiting houses decorated in bold colors. Plus, I’ve gotten to trot out my leopard-print heels for at least one of the bashes. But…couldn’t we spread them out a bit? You wouldn’t mind too much, would you, December? Sharing some of your parties with, say, March? I know she has St. Patrick’s Day, but so far, North Carolinians don’t seem to be all about the green-without-red holidays. Except the college students, that is. And Easter’s so inconsistent. March one year. April the next. I’ve got my birthday in May, but there’s just this sad little lag between Valentine’s Day and summer. Those months could use some tinsel, wouldn’t you say? And August. Really? What is there to celebrate in August? As someone without school-aged children (or any children, for that matter), and who no longer pays tuition of any kind, August is just a dry, hot month with a whopping electric bill. I sure could use a gift exchange then.

At any rate, December, you’re still my favorite month of the year. And, yes, excess is part of your charm. So, I’ll go straighten my hair tonight and maybe experiment with purple tights and enjoy another evening of merrymaking with friends, all thanks to you. But, next year, let’s think about slowing it down just a bit, shall we? Thanks.

Love,
Erin

I’m not sure that I’ve ever been an assertive person. Oh, my mother, who listened to radio shows devoted to mental-health topics like boundaries, made sure I knew the difference between being assertive and being aggressive.  The best I’ve ever managed is passive-aggressive; I’ve not made it to assertive yet.

I certainly had plenty of examples from my father for how to express one’s self, especially to people to whom one is paying money. If Dad didn’t want the waiter to take his credit card to the machine in the back, where he could all too easily scrawl down its number, expiration date, and security code, all while we unknowingly finished the last of our steak fries, well he had no qualms about telling said waiter as much (leaving out the number-filching details, so as not to give any ideas). If Dad thought a price unreasonable, he would helpfully inform the merchant or service provider of such, and if Dad thought he ought to have a few extra features thrown in for free, he would suggest, firmly, what the seller should have seen as obvious.

So, how I found myself last night eating the absolute worst meal I’ve ever paid for, without saying a word to the waiter or the owner, I do not know. But I cannot blame my parents.

Here’s how it happened. I was going to pop a roast in the slow cooker early Sunday afternoon to have it ready when we got out of church that evening. Jesse suggested we eat out instead, since we’d been very good about eating in (or eating the free food offered at various Christmas parties) lately. I obliged, and we attempted to find some company for dinner. Everyone we tried had something going on, so it was just the two of us. I suggested Double Happiness, a Chinese restaurant I’d been wanting to try for over a year. We had heard good things about it, and I was in the mood for something exotic.

Even though Jesse would have preferred tacos, he agreed, and off we went. It was a chilly night, we were slightly dressed up, and the restaurant had soft lighting and Chinese lanterns everywhere. It seemed the start of a nice little date.

I ordered the Kalapur Chicken, described as “lightly battered chicken, crisply fried, served with a very light tangy-sweet sauce with a hint of ginger blossom.” Sounded good. Plus, it was on the “House Specialties” part of the menu, so that seemed a good bet.

The waiter asked me if I wanted white rice or brown rice.

“White rice,” I said, feeling like I should probably order brown but wanting white.

Our waiter took Jesse’s order, then turned toward the kitchen, stopping mid-pivot to ask, “Brown or white rice, did you say?”

I repeated “White,” and he was off. Jesse and I made small talk, I admired the paper lanterns, and we waited for our food. Eventually, Jesse’s order of dim sum came out. We waited for my order. Looked at the pale little dumplings on his plate. Kept waiting.

Eventually, I told him to go ahead and start his meal, fearing the dumplings would be ice cold before my entrée arrived. About a minute after he tucked into his dim sum, a plate arrived in front of me. With a side of brown rice.

No matter, I thought. Serves me right for going for the less healthy option.

Then, I began inspecting my dish. It appeared to be a clumpy mass of brown strips covered in some type of faded purple vegetable. The edges of the plate were dotted with sad-looking pale green broccoli, and I could see a few slices of what appeared to be uncooked zucchini under it all. But, not wanting to judge the dish based on its sad appearance, I stabbed a piece of chicken with my fork and took a bite.

I’m not sure how exactly to describe it. For the rest of the meal, I attempted to discern what it was I was actually eating, but the light was simply too low. The chicken was not battered all over, and it was fatty and may not have been fully cooked. I never was certain. The broccoli and zucchini were woefully undercooked. And the purple things on top? Cold. Not, this was once hot but sat around too long. Cold. It was some type of pickled vegetable. Everything appeared to have been dumped on the plate like macaroni and cheese served by a cafeteria lady in a hairnet.

I was so confused by my dish that for most of the meal I was just trying to figure out whether it was intentional. After a couple of the undercooked broccoli florets, though, I concluded it could not possibly be intentional.

But still, when the waiter came back to ask how everything was, I just looked at him with obvious pain in my eyes and a forced smile and nodded, my mouth full of food I didn’t want to swallow. I didn’t actually lie and say it was good. I never said it was good. But I neglected to state the most ridiculously obvious—that it was bad. Not just bad, but the chef quit and the busboy’s cooking bad.

The worst part was how expensive our meal ended up being. Jesse’s dim sum platter was mournfully insufficient, and while I had an enormous plate full of food, I couldn’t bear to finish even half of it. I declined the offers for a to-go box. And for all this misery, we paid nearly thirty dollars. I could have cried. Except I was too worried that I might have eaten raw chicken and that my stomach might be preparing to forcefully reject the meal, brown rice included.

If this had happened to Dad, I doubt he would have eaten the food, and I can’t imagine he would actually pay for it. I tried to think about Yana, who I’m sure would have sent the plate back to the kitchen so fast the waiter’s head would have been spinning. I tried to channel my inner Yana, but she simply wasn’t strong enough. Besides, I wouldn’t have eaten anything else from the kitchen after that plate. But, I could have refused to pay for it. Or something.

None of which I did. We paid our bill and left. And as we stopped by Islands to pick up a taco for Jesse, I resolved to never again eat and then pay for such a terrible meal. Next time, I promised myself, I would be assertive. It was my right, after all. I was paying for the meal. I should have been served something edible. Next time.

The fortune cookie, thankfully, was decent. I cracked mine open and just about died laughing.

It read: May you have a good appetite.

April 10, 1984

You somehow opened a bottle of vinegar and poured half of it out on kitchen carpet. Boy, it almost knocked me out. How you opened it, I don’t know.