Priority Use

I'm so used to being busy that I sometimes don't know how to relax. This afternoon, I had an uncommonly long chunk of time with no meetings, appointments, classes, work or office hours. I'm home now. Don't know what to do. It's funny how I've become so accustomed to running around all day that when I don't have to, it just feels odd.

So, I made myself a nice hearty lunch (grilled cheese, greenbeans, vegetable soup and the last sliver of pumpkin pie from Thanksgiving), searched the coupon section, made a few phone calls and now I'm making cookies.

Speaking of which, it's amazing how just an extra 6 tbsp of flour changes an entire batch of cookies like night and day.

Today someone told me that I seemed more Chinese than American. Then, he said, "no offense." What the heck is that supposed to mean??

I don't think he meant it in the sense that being Chinese is a bad thing--heck, he's Chinese. But, rather, that I would take it that way. I don't know which part was more strange--him thinking I'm Chinese-y or him thinking that I'm anti Chinese-y.

So, this, naturally, got me thinking. What does it mean to be Chinese? What does it mean to be American? I don't really know much about either, but it seems to me that I'm not very "Chinese." (Not that being so would necessarily be a bad thing). I think the way I took it is that this kid was commenting on my "hard work and dedication." [This is pure speculation on my part.] Which brings me to an interesting point....people think I work a lot harder than I do. This isn't to say that I don't work hard, but it's definitely not "all work, no play." Sometimes, even, it feels like quite the opposite. Work, to me, is greuling and stressful. Strain and pain. But, I hardly ever feel that way. Maybe when I go to the gym. But even that gives me a strange sense of blissful satisfaction.

So, I don't know. I told him that we should discuss the matter more. Over a pot of dumplings perhaps. I'll volunteer to pick them up in Chinatown.

Well, depends on what message I'm trying to send. A big juicy hamburger might be better.

This may come to a shock to some of you--but probably not to all.

Sex is completely safe during all trimesters of pregnancy.

When I pull up the internet at work, I am confronted by the MSN home page. It hardly ever fails that I am quickly hooked by some silly headlin: "Find the Best Buffets in your City!" "Tips from the Rich!" "Rock Hard Abs in 5 Minutes Flat!" Or, in the case of today: "Boy or Girl: 38 Ways to Predict your Baby's Sex."

Well, I'm not pregnant, nor do I expect to be any time soon. Nonetheless, I was hooked.

I read the 38 little factoids. Some were really interesting--having morning sickness early in the gestation period (if that's what it's called for humans...) signals a girl, as does moodiness, cravings for sweets, and breakouts. Sounds like a girl to me.

At the top of the article there was another bit of bait. And, I just couldn't resist:

"10 Facts About Sex During Pregnancy."

So, I've been periodically reading a fact here and there when no one is looking. You know how rumors spread. My pregnancy would be on the front cover of the paper in time for next week's readership.

A little something tasty that we made last night (a recipe that we'd like to take full credit for, thankyouverymuch):

3 1/2 pounds of pumpkin (~2 cups or 1 1/2 pie pumpkins)
1 med yellow onion, diced
2 tbsp olive oil
3 celery stalks, diced
3 carrots, diced
5 garlic cloves, diced
1 tsp spicy curry powder
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp salt
2 tbsp butter
4 cups vegetable broth
1/2 cup milk

Cut pumpkins in half and scoop out seeds.

Bake pumpkins, cut side down, for approximately 1 hour at 350 degrees.

Heat olive in saute pan and add onions, carrots, celery and garlic.

Cook on low heat, stirring occasionally, until soft—about 20 minutes. Add salt and curry powder. Add 1/2 tbsp butter.

When pumpkin is soft, scoop out the meat and add it to stew pot with 1/2 tbsp of butter. Add vegetables and broth. Mash together, but keep in lumps. Bring to a simmer and cook for 10 minutes.

Turn off heat. Stir in milk.

Serve and enjoy.

I don't totally know what eggs are--chicken eggs that is. I mean, I know what the egg is, but I don't really get why they are the way they are. Does that make sense? I think they're tasty, but I prefer not to think about what they actually are. I guess I'm not that easily grossed out. I can handle most things that make people cringe. But, animals. Well, I just don't like eating them all that much.

I'd gotten those little blood specks in my eggs before. I never really considered it all that much. I figured it was something to do with the baby chick to be--had the egg been fertilized, but, eh, just shrugged it off.

I always called it the embryo, though. For no reason. I didn't really think it was an embryo. Just called it one.

So, the other night when we were making cupcakes, there was a little blood speck in one of the eggs. And, as usual, I called it an embryo.

That elicited much uproar from my baking buddy who, upon closure examination, confirmed that it was, indeed, an embryo. And that she even saw a little eye in the tiny speck (about the size of half a grain of rice). I laughed (uncomfortably) and peeked into the bowl myself. There was definitely something in the speck. But, an eye? After much negotiation, we extracted the "soon-to-be" baby chick from the cupcake. She offered to explore it under a microscope. But she was just kidding--unfortunately. I would have been delighted to actually see the little bugger in high definition.

Instead, he (she? It's probably too early to tell) went in the trash can. I have yet to take out the trash. Weird as it is, the remains of the past potential for a little baby chicken now RIP in the blue spinny top canister in the corner of the kitchen. I might have to get that out tonight. I can't bear to sleep with the dearly departed just a few rooms away.

I just made chocolate pumpkin bread. And it's really, really good.

Fresh from the oven. Hot.

I love it when the butter melts into all the little pores.

Mmmmm....

I hate high heels.

But, they make me look good, I think.

I know why people wear them.

I love wearing my long wool jacket and heels. I feel sophisticated and even (I can't believe I'm saying this in public), sexy.

But, they just hurt too damn much.

And, sexy might not be worth all that pain.

But, more than the pain, high heels symbolize something. Something more than me. Accessories have meaning, more than just being. And, that, more than anything, is why I don't think I can really wear heels. They're just not me. I don't embody the high heel image. Though I try to pull it off every once in a while.

I have sort of always wondered why we're all so negative here. Part of it, I think, is we're all self-selectively self-destructive in a very productive, smart, progressive sort of way.

Today, I was at a meeting and we were discussing whether or not people liked the health center. Everyone was saying that they'd had only good experiences there. That really surprised me. Not that I have much first-hand knowledge, but I'd really only heard people complaining about the place. Someone mentioned that we're trained to find problems. That's the fundamentals of our education.

I totally agree.

Sure, maybe we have negative tendencies to begin with (I refuse to go as far as to say we're all pessimists, because I, for one, certainly am not). But, I think also, this girl had a point. We've been trained to question what is. We've been trained to see what's wrong.

Hopefully, to make it all better.

Today I really wanted to check facebook at the library. And, I was too embarrased to be caught looking at the screen. I'm sitting in one of those computer clusters, though. I'm facing the front, but I don't know who is behind me. Facebook is one of those things that I only admit to using when in good company--when I'm with people I know. I like to pretend that I don't succumb to things like reading people's profiles who I briefly meet, or getting really excited when someone changes my wall. Last week I met someone as I was walking down the stairs. We talked for a few minutes and he introduced himself. But, I can't remember his first name. Only his last. But, I do know his major. So, I wanted to look him up, to see if he's there. But, the internet is down in our apartment and I've been too embarrased to check in public. Ridiculous.

Even the fact that I am writing in my blog in public is minorly sketchy. I wouldn't want to be revealed. Since no one really knows the real Lisa Lovely. Right? Right? You all just wish....

Anyway, I guess I'll have to wait to check facebook until Thursday. That's when we get internet again. Until then, I hope nothing majorly important gets said.

Today I bought a $4 and 4 cents lunch at the GSB. It wasn't even that much food (a little salad and a piece of bread). I wasn't even hungry. I went because someone wanted me to go. But, I had just eaten breakfast--a bowl of cereal and half a banana. Then, after my midterm, I still wasn't hungry. But, I wanted a scone (I'm still on the "I'm-in-Europe-eat-whatever-I-want-whenever-I-want-it" Mindset). So, I bought one for $1.69 at Plum Cafe--which really isn't called Plum Cafe, but that's what I call it. Then, I wanted something else so I bought a chocolate muffin for $1.63--it was really gross by the way. I had a few bites, took a few hour hiatus from eating to do some homework, and finished it later. Although, I almost returned it. But I ate it instead. Then, I still wasn't hungry but I wanted something else. I've really been wanting pizza. So, I bought some Bosco sticks (my first-ever) for $2.71.

Do a quick little calculation....doodeedoo...

I spent $10.07 on food today. And I wasn't ever hungry.

When I was little, my mom would tell me I was her best daughter. "I'm your only daughter, mooooom." So tonight she tells me that she has trained her kids (she's a second grade teacher--wow that sounds so good!) accordingly. "You're my best kids," she tells them. "Except for Lisa Lovely," they finish. How special.