I pride myself on being efficient. Sometimes to a fault.
I once tried to insert the metallic sun-screen in the windshield of my car before I had finished parking.
You would think I would learn, but that desire for efficiency is a MONSTER, I tell you.
And so it was that – at 6am – I decided to combine two “not so fun” tasks in an attempt to create efficiency and get a jump on my day.
Dressing to exercise, I went into the bathroom and started coloring my hair. One of the reasons I do it at home is (in addition to being cheap) that I can’t stand the idea of sitting in a salon for an extra hour while waiting for it to process. At home, I can generally knock it out in 40 minutes, including the 30 minutes the color actually needs to sit on my hair. But those 30 minutes when it’s sitting? Feels like such a waste of time.
So this morning, in my stroke of brilliance, after applying the color and setting the timer for 30 minutes, I got on my bike and dialed up a 25 minute Peloton ride. I mean, if I have to sit around for 30 minutes anyway, I might as well knock out a workout, right?
I was feeling pleased with myself until around the 8 minutes into the ride, when “my collarbones started to glisten” (which is the Peloton instructor’s delicate euphamism for “started sweating like a pig”). I wracked my brain: does my HEAD sweat? I honestly couldn’t remember. I knew my FACE got sweaty, but I wasn’t sure about my head.
Compulsive as I am, I decided to finish the workout, come what may.
I soon had confirmation that my head does, in fact, sweat, and without a mirror, I found myself hoping that what was trickling ever so gently down my forehead was simply sweat, and nothing more.
Workout complete, I went to shower and rinse the color out of my hair. I stopped to look in the mirror. Looking back at me was Rudi Giuliani.
I shuddered, feeling something akin to empathy for the man. I might not like him or respect him. In fact, I might think he deserves to do long, hard time in prison. But for once, I teetered on the brink of understanding some tiny sliver of his brain. Because in those dark veins of dye running down his forehead on that press conference, I finally understood that I had caught a glimpse of a fellow Efficiency Queen.
And now I’m thinking back to every time I’ve told a client that “a strength over-done becomes a weakness.” As it turns out, efficiency isn’t always a desirable thing.
Back in 2020, the year that will live in infamy for all it unleashed on us, my cat Miss Moneypenny died unexpectedly. At the height of the pandemic, Alan and I were living like hermits and not seeing anyone, so she was my primary source of companionship most days. Combined with the fact that she was an awesome cat – friendly, chatting, easy going, snuggly – losing her left a big hole in my world.
So I did what pretty much every expert will tell you NOT to do: I rushed out and adopted myself another cat, precisely 30 days later. Based on only two data points, I believed that torties were the sweetest breed of cat, so I went on Petfinder and found one that had just been rescued from a kill shelter in North Carolina and was being fostered in Arlington. She looked very similar to Miss Moneypenny, but – at only 7 lbs – about 3/4 MMP’s size.
Because this was peak-pandemic, there was no opportunity to meet the cat before adopting. Instead, I got to “zoom” with her one time, then I showed up with a carrier and the next thing I knew, this little terrified cat was mine. She spent most of the first week flattened between the wall and my desk, only sneaking out to eat and use her litterbox at night when I was asleep.
This was the opposite of how Miss Moneypenny arrived on the scene – she had jumped out of her carrier and straight onto my bed, purring and friendly. This new cat quickly let me know that there is no such thing as a “replacement” pet.
The good news: by the end of her first week, the new cat had warmed up to me and was – while still very skittish and prone to wedging herself behind my desk when I wasn’t around – very snuggly. The bad news? We hadn’t yet landed on a name for her. Alan and I had very different thoughts. Artemis. Diana. Pancake. Nancy Drew. Ramona Quimby. Nipsey Hussle. I’ll let you guess which selections were mine.
In the end we – I – went with Ramona Quimby because, like her namesake, the cat was pesky and a bit prone to trouble. If a rose by any other name wouldn’t smell as sweet, then I now worry that I may have hexed myself when naming her, because Ramona is quite a little handful.
For starters, she’s a one-person cat. While Miss Moneypenny was a friend to anyone she met, Ramona Quimby only has eyes for me. She follows me around and sleeps under my chin, but if another human – except Alan – enters my house, she quickly retreats to hide in the closet. She might warm up (barely) over time, but at best she tolerates other people, and more often hides from them. She’s made an exception for Alan, but we think that’s only because he feeds her when I travel. She might grudgingly allow him a few pets, but it’s equally possible that she will pee on his pillow to let him know she is not thrilled by his presence.
I KNOW!
Anyone who has visited my house knows I pride myself on keeping things tidy and having floors clean enough to eat off. So how do I reconcile that with having CAT PEE ON MY BED?! Well, I’ll be honest. Initially I established a three-strike rule and threatened to return her to the rescue agency where I’d gotten her. But that felt like conscripting her to eventual euthanasia and she really was a sweet cat. So instead, I bought a waterproof mattress cover + pillowcases and rationalized that most people have to deal with children peeing the bed (often frequently and in the middle of the night!) so what is an occasional accident by an otherwise very sweet (and mildly neurotic) cat?
I KNOW. My friend Susie tried to convince me to rename her Lady Dum-Dum, but I honestly wasn’t sure whether she was talking about Ramona or ME.
So here we are, almost three years later. Ramona Quimby is a very sweet companion who only rarely pees on the bed. (Honestly, that’s probably how I’ll describe Alan one day, assuming our relationship lasts another couple decades!)
I share all of this as context for my next post, which – by way of foreshadowing – I’m considering titling:
A No-Good, Terrible, Very Bad Idea
Dogs Are a Bridge Too Far
Whelp. That Didn’t Go So Well.
Or, if I want to eliminate any suspense, may just be titled:
Cat Meets Dog, Cat Shits Herself and Hangs from the Newly-Replaced and Now-Damaged Window Treatment
On second thought, maybe I don’t even need to write that post. If you’ve seen one cat evacuating its anal glands while launching itself vertically, you probably can finish that story.
I’m not an egg eater. I usually keep a dozen in my fridge as a pantry item, the same way I stock flour, sugar, olive oil and rice.
But do I eat eggs? RARELY. And usually only as a “binder” in a recipe where I wouldn’t overtly realize there were eggs at play. This often confuses people, so a few examples:
Baked goods like cake/pies/biscuits where they are mixed in and unrecognizable (YES)
Spaghetti carbonara (NO)
Breakfast scramble with potatoes, bacon, onions and cheese as the stars? (MAYBE – depends how many eggs you use and how long you cook them)
Scrambled eggs (NO)
Quiche (MAYBE – but only if I make it, can confirm the eggs are very firm and see that the ratio of other ingredients will vastly overpower the eggs)
Fresh Aioli (MAYBE – depends how good a chef you are, what herbs are involved and how fresh the eggs are)
Egg Salad (HELL NO)
Huevos Rancheros (NOPE)
Deviled Eggs (Not happening)
French Toast (Possibly – but only if it’s as hard as a brick because the eggs basically evaporated out of it)
Are we clear on where my line is? Good.
I clarify all of this because my one WEIRD exception is that I make a wilted spinach salad (my southern mom’s recipe) and uncharacteristically slice a hard boiled egg into it. (To be fair, I only use the white and toss the yolk.)
AN ODD ASIDE: I insist on pronouncing the “L” in “yolk.” It drives Alan bananas. “YOLLLLK?” he asks. “It’s YOKE.”
“No,” I tell him, “That’s how you hitch a donkey to a cart – you YOKE it.”
“OK,” he counters, “But square this with the fact that you go to a ‘FOKE’ Festival and wear ‘POKE-a’ dots.”
I look at him cooly. “I don’t. I go to a folllllllk festival and wear pollllllka dots and my parents (whom I call my follllks) are there witih me to dance the pollllllka while we conscientiously avoid eating any egg yolllllks.”
He always loses his shit right around here, and I’m not even trying to get a rise out of him. This is how I actually pronounce these words. I think it might just be a midwestern thing?
Anyway, the point of this post was to tell you about a far more interesting (in my opinion) exchange with my parents, in which I asked them for advice on how to make it easier to peel a boiled egg. (Because yes, I was making my mom’s wilted salad.)
“Well,” they told me, with confidence, “The fresher the egg, the harder it is to peel.”
“Disagree,” I rebutted with confidence. “Because the eggs I just boiled have been in my fridge since February and it is now July. And they are IMPOSSIBLE to peel.”
Long pause.
“What? February? No way. Really?” their voices overlapped in incredulity.
“Sure,” I explained. “During the pandemic when I wasn’t entertaining, I realized I had eggs a lot longer, so I got in the habit of cracking one before cooking them to make sure they were still fine, and they basically last forever in the fridge.”
I could tell my parents still had their doubts. “I mean, I’m pretty comfortable stretching out expiration dates,” my mom said, “But five months on eggs? No way.”
This prompted me to find a real rule (rather than just my Sniff Test) and I came up with this, from Southern Living:
“If the eggs sink to the bottom and lay flat on their side, they’re still fresh. However, if they sink, but stand on one end at the bottom of the glass or bowl, they’re not as fresh but still edible. Of course, if any eggs float to the top, they shouldn’t be eaten.”
I’m here to tell you that when I placed these eggs in the pot to boil them, they stood up but didn’t float. I feel vindicated.
I feel it’s important to note: I’d never attempt this if I were making the food for another person. I might be a bit cavalier about expiration dates when it comes to my own health, but I pride myself on being a good host, so the last thing I’d want to do is give someone food poisoning. (This reminds me of the time my friend Betsy and I made mussels for our birthday celebration – I probably spent an hour checking out each individual mussel to make sure it was still alive before she came over.)
Here we are on the Fourth of July. Before you get judgmental about my egg-boiling habit, I’d like you to take a long hard look at that egg you’re holding at your backyard picnic and ask yourself: how long has this been out of the refrigerator? Do I really know? Because that, my friend, is why those eggs are considered deviled.
Last Friday I received a package* that wasn’t intended for me. (*Given the subject of my last post, I feel I need to clarify: this is NOT a euphemism for “penis.” I’m talking about a box from FedEx.)
I assumed it was something I had ordered for my house, so I didn’t even check the label before tearing into it. Once it was open, I found myself looking at a very pretty”Happy Birthday” box, which clearly wasn’t for me. I looked at the label and realized that while the address was correct, the name was not. I thought it was the name of the previous owner, whose contact information the listing agent went to great lengths to conceal. (Serves them right for wanting to be un-contactable, I thought, perhaps a bit spitefully.)
But then I felt guilty and decided I should at least TRY to find her. After all, it was a nice gift box with two deluxe caramel apples, fancy toffee and a bag of caramels from her boss. (Oh yeah – once I opened that box and realized my mistake, I committed to it, figuring, “In for a buck, in for a quarter! Might as well see what it is and who it’s from!”)
I searched NextDoor to see if someone with her name had an account here in the area: No luck.
I did a WhitePages search and again, couldn’t find a listing for this name.
I then went on LinkedIn and searched for her name + her company + Richmond – and I found her! Yay? (I really wanted to eat those apples, but I also wanted to do the right thing.) I attempted a connection request with a note explaining who I was, that I had her package, and that I didn’t know how else to reach her. When I clicked send, I got an error message that I’ve never seen on LinkedIn before: ERROR: This request cannot be processed at this time. Reason unknown.
Well, well, well. It seems the Universe was rooting for me to eat those apples! And not just the Universe, but also the Twitterverse – in tandem with searching for her, I ran a poll asking people on Twitter what I should do with these treats and the response was overwhelming: EAT THEM.
Alas, still semi-plagued with guilt (or lacking deniability), I decided that the responsible thing to do was refrigerate the apples (per the instructions in the box) so they wouldn’t spoil, and at least give it the weekend to see if I heard from the woman. (Maybe her employer would tell her they shipped a box to this address? I didn’t know!)
All weekend, those apples taunted me. Did I touch them? NO.
Until Monday, when I decided the appropriate waiting period had passed and it was like claiming something from a Lost & Found box. I ate that apple and it was delicious. I rearranged the box, thinking, “If she randomly reaches out, I can always put the remaining apple back in here and she’ll be none the wiser.”
But when Wednesday rolled around and I still hadn’t heard from her, I decided to hell with it and ate the second apple, which was also delicious. I was starting to decide when I might allow myself to open the bag of fancy toffee when all of a sudden I received a text. “Alison? It’s X. I used to live in your house. Any chance you’ve received a package for me?”
SHIT. How do I respond? Wish her a happy birthday and tell her I ate her gift? Pretend I have no idea what package she’s talking about? I was on the phone with Alan when the text came through so we brainstormed together. “Tell her you opened it and there were maggots all over the apples!” he riffed. “Or – tell her I ate them and got really sick so I probably did her a favor!”
If I’ve learned anything in my almost-50 years of life, it’s that honesty is the best policy, so I texted her back right away: “So glad to hear from you! I wasn’t sure how to reach you! We DO have your package and I accidentally opened it. 1) Bad news: There were two caramel apples in there. I put them in the fridge because they were perishable, and my partner – not realizing they were part of a gift – ate them. 2) Good news: the rest of the gift – toffee + caramels – is still intact and unopened. 3) You also received a card today – happy birthday!”
Yes, Dear Reader, I did that. I completely threw Alan under the bus, and I lied. I guess if I ever have to take a polygraph and they ask if I’ve stolen something and lied about it, I’m going to have to say YES now. But how could I cop to eating her birthday present? Seriously.
Fortunately, she was gracious. She quickly responded, “GOOD! I’m so glad someone enjoyed them! The last thing I need is more sweets!”
Whew. But also? That provoked two simultaneous responses. 1) Her use of “someone” suggested that she saw right through my ruse and knew that it was, in fact, I who had eaten her apples. 2) Was this permission to go ahead and tear into the toffee? Or –
“Can I come by tonight to pick it up?” Well, that answered the second question. Dammit.
So yeah. I met the woman whose birthday present I ate and lied about. Did I feel good about myself? No. But I also didn’t feel terrible – because those apples were actually pretty delicious.
—
UPDATE: When I told Alan how I’d handled it, he laughed. “It’s not like I’m ever going to meet her, so that sounds like the perfect explanation.”
“Well,” I said, hesitantly, “You MIGHT meet her.”
“Why’s that?” he asked.
“Because we kind of hit it off and I invited her and her husband over for a barbecue.”
“But you didn’t tell her YOU ate her apples?” He was incredulous.
“No – if we end up becoming friends, I figure I’ll confess in a year and it will become our friendship origin story.”
I’m not sure Alan’s on board with this turn of events based on his heavy sigh.
pithypants 