The Good Wife

I bought a mixer with some of the money we received from our wedding. A pretty, pink, Kitchenaid Mixer (the good one). I had never baked a cake in my life, not even one from a box, but I always wanted to. I promised myself when I bought that mixer I was going to bake a cake from scratch. I know it sounds crazy, but that's just me. That's how I do things, authentic and all the way, or I don't do it all. I woke up one Saturday morning and decided this was the day. I got dressed, and updated my facebook status (I had to tell somebody, this was major).

I'm going to bake a cake today for the first time from scratch. I will post pictures later, regardless of the outcome.

I got all kinds of comments

OMG!

This should be interesting, seeing as how you can't cook.

Wow! Good luck!

I can't wait to see this!

The recipe was for a basic, two layer, yellow cake with chocolate icing. I jotted down the ingredients I would need for the cake and the icing, and left for the store. I bought the finest ingredients at my local Whole Foods, stopped by Williams Sonoma to buy a sifter, and Bed Bath and Beyond to buy parchment paper. By the time I got back home I was exhausted, but I was on a mission. Mission: Bake a Damn Cake from Scratch. So without further adieu, I pulled my hair back in a ponytail, went into the kitchen armed with my perfect, all organic, most-expensive-brand-you-can-buy ingredients, and I was gonna bake me a cake. I schlepped my heavy, pretty, pink, mixer over from the shelf in my tiny New York apartment kitchen and slammed it on the countertop. The only sliver of a piece of a countertop I had was now occupied. How the hell did I think I was going to do this again? Anyway, I was determined, so I preheated the oven, pulled out the recipe and began mixing, and measuring; dry with dry, wet with wet. I turned on my mixer and alternated mixing the wet ingredients with the dry ingredients, just like the instructions read. After about five minutes of alternating and mixing, I'd made cake batter. I evenly poured the batter into my two cake pans and popped them into the oven. I now had to melt chocolate to make the frosting (I was doing too much). Needless to say I'd never done this before either, but I'd seen Ina Garten do it on the FoodNetwork, so I knew to be careful of scorching the chocolate. I did it! My chocolate was perfectly melted and my cakes were in the oven. I was feeling very good about myself. I whipped up the melted chocolate and at least a million sticks of butter, and wah, lah, I'd made buttercream icing. I cleaned up a little bit while I waited for my oven timer to go off. There was chocolate smeared all over everything, bowls were on the floor, on top of the microwave, on top of the refridgerator, and I was beyond stressed out. But it would all be worth it in the end after I put the icing on my cake; a cake that I baked with my own hands, from scratch. I am so proud of myself! I didn't think I could do it! I'm such a good wife! I thought to myself smiling. DING!

It was time to pull my cakes out of the oven. I opened the oven and pulled out the rack. I felt myself begin to sweat. This was the moment of truth. I set the cakes on the coffee table to cool, and before my very eyes, the middle of both of them started to sink. Oh my gosh, they're not done. I carefully, placed them back in the oven, and tried not to panic, but it was too late. Where is my husband? I can't believe these cakes aren't done. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I kept opening the oven to make sure they didn't burn. After about ten minutes, I checked them with a toothpick. They were both still undone in the middle, so I left them in the oven for a few minutes longer. It still didn't work. The outside of the cakes were now dry and hard, while the inside was half baked at best. I was so disappointed and frustrated. Where is my husband?! I had to finish, so I took the cakes out of the oven, let them cool, and frosted it anyway. I was extra careful to fill in the big, sunken, hole in the middle with a lot of frosting. When it was all done, I was relieved but it didn't make me feel any better. By the time my husband got home I was beyond distraught. Where is the camera? I asked him with a nervous smile. He found it and I took a picture of my chocolate frosted, half-baked cake, and posted it to my facebook page. It didn't look too bad at all. Looks can be deceiving.

Read Between the Lines

It's amazing how similar my feelings about my world then, and my world now are. I've always had friends who were older than me, even as a child. When I was in the first grade Colinda was my oldest friend. She was a fourth grader who lived around the corner from my house. She had three brothers, and I always felt like she was stronger and knew more because of them. I learned how to play video games at Colinda's house, her brothers taught me how to throw a decent punch, if I needed to defend myself, and Colinda was the first person to teach me how to ride on the handle bars of a bike. In the life and times of a kid, these are all extremely important life lessons. Of course I haven't ridden a bike in at least thirteen years, I don't play video games anymore, and I can count on one hand how many times I've ever thrown a punch. Colinda did teach me an invaluable lesson, however, that I still use to this day. She taught me how to teach myself how to do things. You could call it responsibility, accountability, courage, initiative, or independence, whatever it is, it's the the thing that makes or breaks us in life. It's the difference between living and existing.

We were sitting in her garage, and she was reading a book. I always loved reading. I had a ton of Little Golden Books at home that I'd memorized from cover to cover, but I'd never seen a book like the one she was reading before. The words were very small and tightly spaced on the page. There were no pictures, so one page contained like a million words. Words I'd never seen before, some of them I'd heard in conversation, but I had no idea what they looked like on paper. I was fascinated. The most amazing thing to me however, was how fast she was reading silently I was floored! I thought she had to be the smartest person in the world. I sat there for at least an hour watching her turn page after page. She didn't even need to use her finger to follow along. When I finally left her house that night I felt something I'd never felt before: determination. I went home and took out my first grade English book. It was the most beautiful of all my school books. There was a huge frog or some green animal on the cover, and there were big, bold, streaks of blue and purple that looked sparkly and reflected the light, so it looked different depending on what angle it was in. I did my homework for the night, and then flipped back a few pages past the information that the teacher had already covered in class. I read about three extra stories and answered the reading comprehension questions that followed them, but that wasn't enough. It was too easy, and the words were still very big, not small and tightly spaced like the ones in Colinda's books. I went over to my bookshelf and pulled down all of my Little Golden Books. I began to read, but I started to get upset because these weren't good enough either. I already knew the stories by heart. I needed to learn something new.

Every evening that week I went to Colinda's house. I had expressed to her how much I loved her books and how fast she could read. So she began to read to me out loud, as I followed along, but I couldn't keep up. By the end of the week I was frustrated to tears. I'll never forget sitting on the steps to our house crying one evening when my mother came home from work. "What's the matter?" she asked me. "Did you fall down?" "Did you break something?" I shook my head no to both questions. "I can't read" I stammered to her through a flood of tears and a snotty nose. "You can read" she said, you get good grades in English class." "I've bought you plenty of books." "But I already know how to read those." I said. Unbeknownst to me, at the tender age of six, I understood the concept of learning; going beyond what you already know, challenging oneself to do something, or think of something you've never thought about before. It seems so simple, but so many times in life I have to remind myself of what I'm learning, and who the teacher is. Needless to say I taught myself how to read that summer. The following year I was a second grader taking fourth grade reading classes. I always finished first or second when we had to read silently, I was always called on the read out loud, and of course my grades were stellar.

I'm not sure exactly what brought about this memory, but it was the first thing on my mind this morning. Perhaps its my divorce, or the transitional state my life is in right now, mixed with the fact that frustration and tears are at an all time high. Maybe it's because I am thirsty for something new. Maybe its because its been awhile since I've read a really good book. It could be all of these reasons. I'm not sure of too much at this point in my life, but I know that regardless of my situation, at my core, I am that same little girl who taught herself how to read beyond a first grade level. I'm very proud of myself for that.

First Time "I Love You's"

Since it's Valentine's Day I've been thinking about how many guys in my lifetime have said those special three words. There really haven't been that many. I've had about five serious boyfriends, out of which, only two have said the words "I love you." This makes me feel really, really good about my choices of men. This is probably the only solid evidence that would support the notion that most of my ex-boyfriends are great guys. Shout out to all of my exes, (if you know I blog, more than likely you'll be reading this). The first time I felt what I understood to be love as a teenager, I was fifteen. This was my first real relationship. He was my bestfriend's older brother, and I had a huge crush on him when I was in seventh grade. I worked very hard to get him to notice me, wore my hair just the right way, wore all the right outfits, made sure I stood where he stood in the hallway every morning, and it worked. Eventually he was my boyfriend. We were together for one blissful year, and three months. We went everywhere together, did everything together, and people loved us together. We were the "It" couple in high school. Although we never actually said "I love you" he did write it in a card he gave me eleven years ago today (and yes I still have it).

It was about six years later before I actually heard a guy tell me he loved me. This was my ex-husband. Our relationship started with a crush as well, but not on the level of my very first crush. I don't even think that is possible. The point is, I was over it by the time we actually met. But it didn't take long for those butterflies to re-surface. He said "I love you" after only a week of talking on the phone. I don't even think we'd gone on an official first date yet. It scared the shit out of me. That should have been the first red flag. I didn't say it back because it wasn't true for me. I don't believe in love at first sight. If I did, I would imagine that both people would have to feel it at the same time in order for it to be real. I can't remember the first time I said "I love you" to him, but I'm certain it was months into the relationship (red flag number 3, number 2 is a whole nother post).

As sad as it may be, I've only ever truly been in love once. Here's an interesting tid-bit about this: It's not my ex-husband (as if that wasn't obvious by now), and this "one instance" that I am speaking of is right now, also, this person has never been my boyfriend. We've never even exclusively dated. No he is not a figment of my imagination (I'm aware of how ridiculous this may seem). He is the person I am thinking of in my last four posts. He is my best friend. The first time he told me he loved me was in a facebook chat (I know, that doesn't count). However, he did tell me again in person. He didn't say it during sex, or after sex, or with the anticipation of sex. We were fully dressed, and sober. We'd just had one of the most memorable nights in with his favorite cousin and her husband (who are now two of my most favorite people in the world). There was nothing glamorous, or perfect, or pre-planned about that night. It just was. Just two couples in love, sharing wine, laughs, and betting on horses. That night defines pure enjoyment for me, but I digress. It was all over us. We had to acknowledge it. As we lay in bed, my head resting on his chest, he nuzzled my forehead, and kissed the top of my head. I tilted my head up towards his face. We kissed. "I love you" he said, with a content sigh. "I love you too," I replied, as if I'd said it that way to him every night before we went to bed for thirty years. We fell asleep. I realize now I've never said "I love you" and felt it at the same time. I usually say it as an automatic response, I never really thought about whether or not it was true. Kind of like the way I always say "I'm fine" when someone asks "How are you?," regardless of how I'm really feeling. It felt wonderful to hear someone say those three words to me and know that he meant it. It was even more wonderful to know that I meant it too. A lot has happened between us since then, but I still feel the same way. I believe I always will.

Love Squared Part Quatre- Elation's Equivalent

It felt like Christmas. I woke up early, earlier than I usually do, to make sure it wasn't all a dream. "Babe, relax" you sleepily say to me, playfully pulling me back down under the sheets with you. You pull me closer to you. I surrender. A streak of sunshine warms my face. A soft giggle escapes my lips as you kiss the back of my neck. Your fingers interlock with mine. I smile and sigh. Relaxation slips in between my thoughts of us the night before. I anticipate what will happen later.
This.
is.
true.
happiness.
defined.

Love Squared Part Trois- Daydreaming

I never stopped thinking about you. I just didn't want to get in the way. I kept you and our relationship under a glass box. Both are so precious and fragile to me. I never wanted to do anything to ruin it. I lived my life. You lived yours. Occasionally, they would meet, and dance together. It was always appropriate for the time, and meaningful. That's the way I always liked it. You were never too far out of mind, though usually out of sight. I got married in the spring. I thought about you every day. As my wedding day crept closer, so did my thoughts of you. You were in my dreams. You were in my heart. On our anniversary, we went to a beautiful restuarant in the city. It was so classic, very old world New York. There were floor- to- ceiling, watercolor murals in pastel shades of blue, lavender, and gray, of different places in the city covering each of the four walls. The lake by the Boathouse at Central Park. Rockefellar Center. Times Square. Music by Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole was playing. I felt like I was in a dream. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, and looked across the table, I saw you. I wished for you. I wanted you to be there in that moment with me. Autumn came and you were everywhere with me. At the coffee shop, where I often sat alone with my thoughts, you were there. I would go to the park and daydream. I took a picture and sent it to you. You said you never received it. I wondered why.

Love Squared Part Deux- Timing

I had one of the worst colds in the history of my life. I had a fever, a terrible cough, and snot to spare. I'd been in bed for about three days, shut off from the rest of the world. I didn't want to see or talk to anyone. It was a Friday or Saturday night, and a Meg Ryan movie was coming on, "You've Got Mail." I was doped up on Nyquil, and planning to watch it and peacefully go to sleep. About an hour into the movie, I hear my mom calling me.
Why is she doing that
she knows I'm sick,
what good could I possibly be to anyone right now?
Leave me alone.
As my thoughts of complaining continue, she pops her head into my room. "The phone is for you." I was about seventeen at the time, and I really didn't use profanity, but if I did, a good, frustrated, DAMN IT! would have definitely been in order. "Who is it?" I asked. My mom shrugged her shoulders, handed me the phone, and closed my bedroom door. I rolled my eyes, and screeched "Hello" into the receiver. "Hey you" I heard on the other end.
Oh no,
why is he calling me right now?
I sound like I've been asleep for a thousand years.
Immediately I tried to clear my throat, which hurt like hell, but it was no use, my nose was too stuffy. At best I sounded like one of the Rugrats, the one with the red hair whose voice sounded as if he had a perpetual cold every episode, and I looked like him too. This was one of my best friends calling, and usually I was always excited to talk to him. We could talk about anything, and we always had the best conversations, but this time, I had to get him off of the phone. "I'm sick" I told him. I explained my plans for the evening and waited for him to politely say "I'm sorry, I'll call back another time." "What are you watching?" was his reply. (Insert expletive here, which ever one you like).
"You've Got Mail" I mumbled, trying to sound terribly annoyed and bothered.
There was silence.
"I'm coming over," he said.
"What?!"
"NO!" I wailed.
"I'm very, very, sick."
"You need some company, it'll make you feel better" he said.
He was not taking no for an answer. The conversation ended, he was coming over, and I looked like shit warmed over. I told myself it didn't matter, we were good friends. I was not interested in him at all. Who cares? I sat down on my bed to continue watching the movie, which, I was in love with by the way. It was at the part where Meg Ryan's character, Kathleen Kelly, is also sick with a cold, and Tom Hank's character, something Fox, unexpectedly shows up at her door with a bouquet of Daisies. Immediately I began to tidy up, comb my hair,and make sure there were no nose crustys hanging around. I did the best I could, but when you have a bad cold, no matter what, you're going to look it.
He gets on my nerves, I thought, but I didn't even have the energy to get upset. By the time the movie went off, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. I knew it was "my company." He opened my bedroom door. What I saw makes my heart flutter even right now, at this very moment. My good friend was wearing a huge smile, and carrying a big bouquet of Daisies. How did he know? I was baffled. I don't even remember how I reacted; I just remember a feeling. This was the first time a man had ever brought me flowers for no reason. It was also the first time that anyone managed to surprise me with anything. I didn't realize it then, but I believe I was beginning to fall in love with my good friend in that moment. I was just too teenagery to understand it. So I tucked all of my feelings way down deep inside for a very long time. Timing is everything.

Love Squared Part Un- Love Life

From the moment you touched me I knew I could never go back. I got goosebumps all over. I didn't want to let go. Your embrace felt like home to me; no other hug that I've shared with anyone else since then matters. It had been five years. Where does the time go? Why did it stop the moment our worlds collided again? I wore no makeup, although I really needed to; but you've seen me at my worst. We've been very good friends since high school, almost ten years. I wore my Uggs and a fuchsia cashmere sweater. No stilettos, no blousy top; and you still greeted me, "Hey beautiful." Your smile was warm and unforgettable. I knew from the moment you spoke to me I could never go back. On the ride back I suddenly felt self-conscious. "Have you been crying?" you asked me. "No" I replied, decoding what I thought that meant, "I just don't have any makeup on." I began fishing around in my bag for my lip gloss and my compact. You told me I didn't have to put on makeup. From the moment we got in the car, I knew I could never go back.

The ride home was the best ride of my life. It felt good to be alive. It felt good to be me with you. Even with no makeup, and my Ugg-ly boots I felt beautiful. It was a windy day, sunshine galore. It was made for us; but it couldn't be. We had brunch at a little place you frequent. "Only special, select people get to come here," you told me as we pulled into the parking space of the store front. We both ordered the same thing, the belgian waffle, except you ordered sausage and scrambled eggs with yours. Regretfully so, I can't remember how you liked them. For a brief moment, my mind was somewhere else. What should I do with this ring? It was just sitting there. That day, my one carat diamond solataire, stood up on my finger like a three carat diamond. I couldn't ignore it. It was there. Our conversation was made of the stuff only old friends can share. From the moment we both laughed together, I knew that I could never go back. Something happened inside. When we left the restuarant, it was all different, but the same. We were reaquainted, I could recognize myself again. From the moment I walked through your door, I knew I could never go back. Your place felt like our place. It felt as if we'd only left there moments ago to make a quick stop at the store. It didn't feel like the first time. I didn't feel like a guest. It was more comfortable, more familiar, more permanent than that. I could hear music. Music was all around me. There was a delicate, sweet, scent in the air. You'd taken care to make your home pleasant for me, but nothing about it seemed forced or unnatural. I belonged here. Where had I been all this time?

We both changed into something more comfortable. You snuck a peek at me in my pink bra and black leggings, even though I asked you not to look. I quickly pulled my tee shirt over my head. We were supposed to be napping. I didn't want to miss anything, neither did you. We listened to music, and I heard songs, beautiful songs that I'd never heard before. At some point in my life I stopped listening to music. I didn't realize it until I was there with you. But you knew it. What was old became new again, and what was new felt so fresh and familiar all at the same time. "Who is this?" I asked you, and you always knew. From the moment we listened to music together, I knew I could never go back. Somewhere in a song you pulled me beneath you. I lay there suspended in your bed in a small space between magic and misery. I've never felt my heart beat so fast. I could hear it. I know you could too. Your body provided just the right amount of pressure. I didn't feel smothered or crushed. You supported your own body weight enough that it was comfortable for me to move or readjust if the need arose. But why would I want to do that? Our bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces. I didn't know which parts belonged to whom. I could have stayed there forever with you. It was better than sex; it was the anticipation of the possibilities. Before we knew it, it was time to leave. Where did the time go? I knew from the moment we left your place together, I could never go back.

Breathless

"I can't breathe" I mouthed to him.
He didn't hear me. He didn't see me.
The white of his eyes were bright as white light.
He was looking past me.
I didn't recognize him. He had become something else.
I closed my eyes and began to pray. God make him stop, God make him stop.
I could feel myself giving up, but still believing.
I can't recall how it started, or what it was about.
Shoes, I think it was about shoes. But it was bigger than that, he needed to have control.
His hands gripped my neck so tight, he squeezed tighter as he shook me.
Only the tips of my toes grazed the ground.
"You're choking me," I mouthed to him.
I closed my eyes. Let it be over. My voice was inaudible.
Like a child releasing a spinning top, he released me.
My body hit the wall and bounced back.
My balance was off.
I couldn't stand up straight. My view of the room was sideways.
I was gasping for air.
Gasping. for. air.
Gasping. . . for. air.
My whole body heaving back and forth.
One foot in front of the other, hands outstretched to help hold my world in place, I managed to stumble out of the bedroom.
"I HATE MYSELF,"
"I HATE MY MOTHER,"
"I HATE MY FATHER," he was screaming through clenched teeth, clutching his head. The pain was paralyzing.
In my brain there was no sound.
I felt like crying. My spirit couldn't comprehend, it was shattered.
A belly deep, eternal, aching in my soul.
God knows it hurt.
This isn't me.
This isn't my life.
I didn't grab anything, I didn't look back.
When I got to the door, I stopped.
If I leave the whole world will know.
I have nowhere to go.

Lavender Memories

Like most people getting a divorce some of my days are clouded with painful memories. I am starting to see the light however, and I'm beginning to realize that it wasn't all bad. My soon-to-be ex and I shared a million, little, lovely, experiences together that I could never have shared with anyone else but him. Some experiences are nothing if not poetic, this was certainly one of them.

The evening was beautiful and unassuming, it was a random Wednesday night at the movies.
Cupcakes from Magnolia Bakery, you wanted to eat them there, I decided we should sneak them into the theater.
You were so afraid of getting caught; you devoured yours right away, I saved mine for later.
But somewhere we both got lost in the movie, and time got away from us.
As soon as the lights came up that pretty little cupcake frosted with lavender colored icing was on my mind.
I clutched the white tiny box housing the confection of deliciousness until we were just outside of the theater.
There was a misty rain falling, the light from the movie theater marquee above our heads, a mass of people in my periphery, and the blare of the city traffic at my back.
I was oblivious to it all.
I ripped open the box to discover that my pretty little cupcake was smashed to one side, and all of the icing was smeared across the inside of the box top.
Without a second thought I began to use my fingers to get it all off, it tasted so sugary sweet, and I was so sorry that it was ruined.
I looked up at you, and saw a tear roll down your cheek. You looked as if you'd seen something that you'd never noticed before.
I blinked, "what's wrong" I asked you, as we began to cross the street together, the memory of sugar still lingering on my tongue. "Nothing" you replied smiling, tears still streaming down your beautiful face.
And you were right.