A Week of Affirmation

6 Aug

One of the reasons I moved to Richmond was for a greater sense of community. I loved living in DC and had a strong sense of pride for the city, but at its heart, DC is transient. Most of my friends slowly migrated out of the city – first to nearby suburbs when they had children, then more farther afield as jobs carried them and their spouses to other cities and states. For those who stayed in DC, the addition of vacation homes meant they weren’t around as often.

In any case, as I started to see retirement creeping up in my (verrrrry) peripheral vision, I realized that I wanted to be somewhere that had a hopping cultural scene AND a rich, stable friend group. I also realized that making friends later in life wouldn’t be as easy as it was in my 20s, so if I wanted to be surrounded by good friends before I’m using a walker, I’d need to start actively working to meet people NOW.

I say all of this explain why, Wednesday night, as I sat in a lawn chair listening to a porch concert, I had an overwhelming sense of satisfaction with my move. Let me tell serve up a summary of this past week so you can see why I’m so happy here…

Sunday, 4pm: I met up with my dear friend Kelly (whom I originally met through the Georgetown coaching program back in 2014) for what we thought was going to be a Jazz Concert in Byrd Park… but it turns out I had the date wrong (by a week!) so we just ended up tossing a blanket and catching up for an hour.

Sunday, 8pm: I ran over to Dogwood Dell, where – as part of the annual Arts in the Park program – “Something Rotten” (a Broadway musical that I first saw at The National in DC a few years back) was playing. I didn’t know how long I would stay (since 8pm is often my bedtime!) so I didn’t bother inviting anyone to join me. Not to worry – I was seated next to a nice couple who chatted with me until the curtain lifted. It was a quality production that rivaled the touring company I saw in DC!

Monday, 9am: I met up with friends at Bryan Park to play pickleball for an hour before work.

Tuesday, 6pm: I stepped out onto my front porch and saw my neighbor, Paige, out rocking her four month old baby. I went over to visit with her. Within minutes, we were sitting there with her husband and neighbors from two other houses, sharing a bottle of wine.

Wednesday, 7am: As I finished watering the flowers on my front porch, my next door neighbor returned from walking her dog. We had a quick visit and I offered to babysit her son next week so she and her husband could go to a concert. As we were talking, another neighbor walked up in his pajamas with a mug of tea for a morning porch visit.

Wednesday, 8am: I went to Bryan Park again to play pickleball with two new people I met a few weeks back. At 9am, my other pickleball friends, Paula and Roxanne, showed up to join us.

Wednesday, 6pm: I walked to Byrd Park for my tennis clinic with Coach Victor and two other women who were new to me. We all traded numbers so we could meet up to play some other time together. (I started lessons back in March and have met a dozen women who I see off-and-on twice a week for Doubles and Clinic. A few of us have met up for concerts and pool time outside of tennis.)

Wednesday, 7:30pm: I went to Michelle and Roxane’s house for a porch concert. I originally met them a couple months back at a Coming Together Virginia meeting and invited them over one night. They repaid the favor by inviting me to their porch concert – a really talented musician (Gabriel Wheaton) who is touring the US giving concerts. Check out this video:

Thursday, 7am: I walked over to Byrd Park with my neighbor, David, to play tennis with his friend Rob, and him. While we were playing, completely uncoordinated, Coach Victor showed up to offer some encouragement.

Friday, 6pm: I walked over to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts for “Rhythm on the River” – a weekend-long festival celebrating music in Richmond. This event was held in their outdoor Sculpture Garden, and I joined my friends Roxane and Michelle and their friends who were down from Fairfax. While there I also got to visit with two neighbors from my block who stopped by with their dogs.

Saturday, 9am: Tennis at Byrd Park with Coach Victor and three women I’ve played with before.

Saturday, 5pm: Alan arrived for our regular Saturday night date!

OK. I realize this is NOT a pithy post and is more like an accounting ledger, but I’ve had a lot of friends ask me what Richmond’s like and if I’m meeting anyone. Here’s hoping I’ve answered THAT question!

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Women are from Jupiter.

30 Jul

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?

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I mean, they call them DEVILED eggs?

4 Jul

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.

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Pickle– WHAT?

21 May
Photo by Joan Azeka on Unsplash

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…

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Sorry – I ate your gift.

21 Mar

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.

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