Last night, as we walked through Whole Foods to pick up items for dinner, Alan asked, “Did you get new shampoo?”
I responded, “Why? Does my hair smell different? Does it have more body?” I fluffed it for effect.
Alan said, “No. I just see the shampoo here and thought you might still be out.”
Men. Am I right?
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:
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.
Since moving to Richmond last summer I’ve been excited to get into pickleball. Alan and I were first exposed to it a few years ago when we visited my former boss in Tennessee and she and her husband took us to a court. If you’re not familiar, it’s played on a court that looks a lot like a tennis court but is quite a bit smaller; it uses paddles similar to table tennis but a bit larger/heavier; and the ball is approximately the size of a tennis ball but made out of open plastic like a wiffle ball. Think of it as the Frankenstein of racquet sports.
But here’s the thing: it’s fun, easy, and social, which is why I thought it would be a great way to meet people and stay active. The challenge is that the scoring is complicated and the rules are not at all like tennis, so it’s kind of confusing for a newbie.
All of which is to explain why I was standing on a court with eight strangers in oddly hot (90 degree) temperatures the first week of April. Richmond hasn’t provided the overall cost savings you might think – housing is much less expensive here than DC, but most other things are about the same – but the one place where I’ve found a deal: the Parks & Recreation offerings. I signed up for beginner tennis lessons: $25 – for SIX lessons, which is insane by DC standards; and pickleball lessons – FREE for what was originally supposed to be six hours of instruction but actually ended up being eight! I’m something of a bargain hunter, so don’t be surprised if I join a soccer league or some equally random shit in an attempt to make my tax dollars work for me here.
The best part about pickleball lessons? The instructor, Diana, who told us on the first night that she’s 75 years old. Good thing she disclosed her age, because I would’ve guessed her to be much younger. She’s spry, sassy, and delivers a mean serve. She reminds me of my mom: short white hair and a bit of a tough-love/smart-ass vibe to her coaching that has big “gym teacher energy” to it.
On the first night, she asked each of us to share what previous racquet sport experience we had. Some people had none, others had played tennis or pingpong in years past. I was last to go. “I just started taking tennis lessons two weeks ago,” I shared, thinking this might accidentally brand me as an over-achiever.
“Oh Lord,” she responded. “Good luck.”
As it turns out, while both tennis and pickleball use a ball and racquet/paddle, the strategies are very different, the scoring is very different, and the rules are very different. Among other things, I was cautioned that I’d probably miss the ball a lot because the racquet is much smaller. Good news? Not a problem on that front. Turns out, I’m still pretty coordinated. Bad news? The rules and scoring are as tricky as advertised – at least to a new person who has just learned about deuces and add-in/add-out.
Of course, I claim I’m coordinated and a semi-decent athlete, but it’s now been a month since my lessons ended and I might need to walk that back a bit. I’ve been playing regularly with two women from my class and if nothing else, my ego is certainly getting a workout: the last two times I’ve played, my *70 year old* opponent has absolutely mopped the floor with me.
I actually just signed up for the beginner’s tennis league, not because I’m itching to play more tennis (it’s exhausting!), but mainly so I’ll have a viable excuse in case I continue to get trounced on the pickleball court. As I tell my clients: it’s all about controlling the narrative. I mean, maybe the real miss here is that I haven’t yet found a ping pong class to join.
And with that, let me go consult the Parks & Rec catalog…
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.
One thing that attracted me to Richmond: its arts scene. VCU is just down the street from me and it’s ranked among the top 5 fine arts schools in the United States. One way this spills out into the community is through murals. I’m not sure what the official count is, but the downtown development district alone boasts at least 150.
So imagine my excitement when, after only a few weeks in my house, someone slid an envelope through my mail-slot, asking if I’d have any interest in letting an artist put a mural on the side of my row house. (I’m on the end of the block and have a good-sized two-story brick surface.) The artist organizing this project was actually not looking to do the work himself, but is trying to create something of an exchange program with foreign artists – bringing them here to diversify our arts scene, and in turn creating opportunities for Richmond artists to leave their mark abroad. Cool, right?
I was really impressed by the thought the organizer has given the project. In the initial letter he presented three different options for supporting the project: 1) Offering up your wall as a venue; 2) Offering your wall + $2k to cover the cost of materials and a lift; 3) Sponsoring the artist with $10k so they would be compensated for their efforts. I responded by letting him know that I’d be open to having a mural on the side of my house and I’d be willing to cover costs, but I was not at a full sponsorship level of patronage because I’m, uh, a bit broke after buying a house. He was cool with that and excited that I was up for a mural.
I’m a planner, so I asked, “What’s the process for reviewing/approving the design? Would I get to suggest themes or choose from artists, or how does this work?” He explained that you only get those privileges at the $10k sponsorship level (fair enough – he’s found a meaningful incentive for full sponsorship).
I followed up by asking if I would at least get to see/approve the image before it goes on my house. In my mind, I was imagining someone having free rein and painting an enormous penis on my house, but I didn’t tell him that because I didn’t want to seed any ideas. PERHAPS, he offered. It would depend on the artist. The artist might be someone who is inspired by the act of painting itself and changes designs on the fly, so I couldn’t necessarily count on it.
That prompted me to pause and consider: as a big-time control freak, might it be sort of a bucket-list item to cede control over something this big? To just give someone carte blanche to paint on the side of my house – as long as I generally liked their portfolio? When I shared this with Alan, his answer was immediate. “Absolutely not.” He looked at me like I was crazy. “It’s your HOUSE. You’re not going to let someone just paint whatever they want on your HOUSE. You won’t even let someone other than you caulk your bathtub. Are you serious?”
Fair point. But I was enjoying the idea of being Alison 2.0 who supported the arts and let someone indulge their muse… until the organizer emailed me with good news. “I’ve got an artist coming to town and we think your house would be perfect for him. He’s in NYC now, but will be here within a week. Are you still interested?”
Gulp. I was excited and nervous. Who was the artist? What did he want to paint? Any chance it would be something related to a cause I’m passionate about – like reproductive rights, BLM, the environment, banned books? The organizer wasn’t sure, but he provided me with a link to the artist’s previous work in Europe so I could get a sense of his style and prior projects. I checked him out and was intrigued. His style was interesting. The subject matter didn’t necessarily resonate for me (oversized people doing different things) but it was still cool. There were one or two abstract images that could possibly be interpreted as being a wee bit phallic, however, so I decided that I wouldn’t feel comfortable moving forward without seeing a sketch.
“I mean, it’s not as permanent as a tattoo, but it’s also a lot more expensive than a haircut, so if I don’t like it, I won’t have to live with it forever, but it will be up there long enough that my house could become a landmark known as ‘The Big Dick’ or something,” I explained to a friend.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she laughed.
I waited on pins and needles for a few days, hoping the artist would be able to provide a sketch. Finally, Sunday evening, he came through. I’d like to post a copy of the image, but I don’t want to violate his copyright, so I’ll do my best to describe it:
Imagine a cartoon man with his back to you, arms and legs out as if mid-jumping jack. He is up against what appears to be an open window. His face is turned to the side, mouth open as if – just speculating here – orgasmic. Oh, and he is completely naked, with a small but very obvious penis pointing down between his legs right in the middle of the frame. I mean, there was nothing ABSTRACT about it. The penis even had a SHADOW.
TLDR: It would like two-story naked cartoon man humping my house.
I imagined my neighbors’ reactions as they watched it going up. I haven’t even had a chance to meet all of them yet, and I’m pretty sure this would NOT be a friend-maker. More like a slow-motion smile turning to horror as they realized I’ve conscripted our entire block to a terrible nickname. “What’s next?” I imagined them asking, “Is she going to add a ‘Tiny Dick Alley’ street sign to the side of her carport?”
I forwarded the image to Alan, whose response was, “Seriously? Are they roasting you? This can’t be real, right?” (To his credit, he didn’t use this as an “I told you so moment.”)
I responded to the project coordinator and said, “Thanks, but I’m going to pass. Hope you find a home for this guy in the Fan because I think it would be fun to have a ‘humping man’ somewhere in Richmond.”
To which he corrected me. “He’s not humping. More like skydiving on an empty picture frame.”
TomAto, ToMahto. There would still be a very visible, embarrassingly small cartoon penis on my house. I’m excited to be part of this neighborhood, but I don’t need my house to become an unfortunate landmark.
“Well look on the bright side,” my friend offered, still trying to get me to make a very bad decision, “It would be easy to give people directions to your house – they wouldn’t even need to know your house number!”
pithypants 