Charming, but single

“I find it really sad that all people watch on TV is politicians lying to them and shows about people getting murdered,” my Brother said.

“So you’re not going to let your children watch TV?” my Mom asked.

“They will be able to watch 30 minutes a day.”

We all groaned.

“And then they’re going to read and play the violin,” my Brother said.

“Geez, violin lessons? How are you going to afford private violin lessons for your kids on a professor’s salary?” I asked.

“I’m going to be a tenured professor.”

“In fifteen years, maybe, if you’re lucky,” I said. “What’s your plan up until then? Wait to have kids?”

“I’ll figure it out. But they’re not going to watch TV. They’re going to play violin and read and enjoy the arts.”

“Well, I hope you also teach them how to take a punch, because your kids are going to get beat up everyday.”

—

“Your brother seems to really be in to having kids right now,” my Mom said, referring to how he smiled and patted his fiancee’s flat stomach, saying she’d be finished with graduate school in a year and a half and he’d hopefully be starting in January, and soon they could have babies and a golden retriever. She’d just rolled her 25-year-old eyes, like, “Oh, ok, glad you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I’m really into having kids,” I said. “I think having kids would be amazing and children are something I want so much.”

“Yeah,” my Dad said, ignoring me. “Your brother needs to get married first and consult with his fiancée before he plans out the kids.”

“Why does no one take me seriously when I say that I want kids?”

“Because you don’t have a husband, or even a boyfriend, right now,” my Dad said. “You’re lacking a necessary biological component.”

“I’m a modern woman, I could go get that taken care of right now,” I said.

“GOD,” my Sister interrupted, as if she’d had enough of this conversation and had to speak up. “Please please please DON’T start yourself off as a single parent.”

—

“The guy in Trader Joe’s looked at my ID like it was a fake,” I said as we sat waiting for our breakfast to come. We’d stopped to grab snacks for the car on the way out of town and I’d also loaded myself down with two six packs of Fat Tire, my favorite beer that I can’t get at home, and two bottles of Two Buck Chuck, because we were talking about it at dinner with The Producer the other night and I figured why the hell not buy some. (Also grabbed some pumpkin butter, for glorious toast in the mornings.)

“I mean, I appreciate him thinking I was young, but how many 20-year-olds buy beer at Trader Joe’s at 9:30 on a Saturday morning?” I continued.

“Did you say, ‘Hello, I’m 28 years old!’” my Mom asked.

“I’m not 28 yet! Not for another month. I am still in my mid-20s.”

“Oh yeah,” asked my Dad. “So when are you going to admit to being in your late 20s?”

“When I’m 29 and a half.”

At this moment, I am most thankful for my stretchy track pants and my scarf. Also, gravy.

I don’t know how you people up north do it – I am freezing my charming ass off and it’s maybe 30 degrees. But my hair is wonderfully smooth and straight. Something about the water and lack of humidity made it not frizz, which is a rare occurrence. If it weren’t so abysmally frigid, I’d stay here for the hair and the gorgeous leaves, all pumpkin-colored, gold-hued and kissed with tinges of maroon. Where I’m from leaves just turn brown and fall off because it stays hot for too long – the night before we left I was still wearing my flip flops.

This morning was a lot of making it work, cooking wise. A cornbread dressing recipe improvised, mashed potatoes added at the last minute and two different pecan pies – one with the pecans halved and another with the pecans chopped, as the two sides of my family diverge on this detail. To me it’s the sweetness of the syrup, not the size of the nut, that makes the pie.

After dinner we were cleaning and I was tasked with removing the remaining turkey from the bones. I was elbow deep in turkey, pulling large chunks off for sandwiches so the bones could be boiled for stock when my newly vegetarian brother walked into the kitchen.

“Did you ever think that the turkey had a name?” he asked, clearly offended.

“Yeah, it did have a name – Dinner.”

Happy Thanksgiving.

*So I missed a day of NaBloPoMo. I was traveling and they don’t have Internet on the highway. Poor planning on my part.

In what is either a sign of maturity or a sure sign that I am woefully unprepared, I managed to pack for four and a half days out of town without bringing any high heels. At all.

Jeans, black pants, a jogging suit, pajama pants, a few tees and sweaters. Tennis shoes, flip flops and my new favorite black flats – don’t tell anyone they’re by Jessica Simpson. Three pairs of shoes is light for me. I brought four for an overnight party hopping trip last month. (I am serious.)

I was very proud of my light packing. Sure, I dropped a graduated bead necklace, tights and black wrap dress in the suitcase at the last minute, for a family trip that will likely feature rounds of Scrabble, cooking and perhaps one casual dinner out. (And that’s pushing it.)

When I end up needing a black wrap dress, damnit, I will have it.

And by packing it, I guarantee that I won’t need it.

* Yes, NaBloPoMo is wearing me down. Sorry!

I’ve been in maternal, homemaker mode for quite some time. At least, that’s the only explanation for how I’ve been acting. Doting over babies, sighing over little kids, heart leaping over wee Halloween costumes and cooking nonstop – double batches of my favorite spinach side dish are already frozen, waiting for Thanksgiving, right next to three loaves of pumpkin bread dotted with chocolate chips, made with pumpkin puree leftover from a glorious pan of pumpkin bread pudding (inspired by Smitten Kitchen, suggested new tagline: “I read Gourmet so you don’t have to.”).

On Saturday as I was browsing with Southern Belle, I came across a tiny black and pink plaid dress with a sparkly bow, suitable for baby’s first(ish) Christmas. As I ran the material between my fingers, I let out a dejected breath.

“This is the kind of thing I want to just buy and pack away for another day,” I said, placing the hanger back on the rack.

Southern Belle examined a metallic baby sweater dress and nodded, offering that she knew people who did that.

“Do you know someone you could buy it for?” she suggested.

I thought to myself that of course I couldn’t pack away baby clothes for another day – what would people think if they knew I was harboring booties and receiving blankets and rattles?

“No, I don’t know anyone with a little baby girl. Plus, I don’t need to buy a baby dress.”

“No?”

“Because then I’d be That Woman,” I said forcefully. “The one hoard baby clothes and packs them away for a rainy day when she is nowhere near having a baby. Not in a million years do I want to be her.”

And all of that lead me to wonder – is That Woman really that bad? It isn’t wrong to want something with all of your heart as long as you’re realistic about it. I’m always so worried about scaring guys off by saying I see children in my future or being seen as desperate or that one day I’ll die in a tragic high heel-related accident and when they come to clean out my apartment, they’ll say, “Look at this drawer full of baby stuff, right here next to all of this unfolded laundry and this pile of unopened mail in the room next to that messy kitchen with a refrigerator full of half-eaten takeout in boxes and a few stray beers. What a sad, sad lonely woman.”

I’m not sad and I’m not lonely and, well, I do really want kids. I used to declare that I wouldn’t even think about kids until later, when it was practical, when it wouldn’t interfere with my career, after I’d been to Italy and Thailand, when the world was less scary. And I wouldn’t manhunt with kids in mind.

And it isn’t practical now, as I have a few details yet to be filled in. And, yes, the world is still pretty big and far from perfect. But, damn it all, I like children and I’m here to tell you that actually having them is probably much less glamorous than I think it is when I’m making faces at a baby in the grocery store, but I don’t care.

So I’ll be That Woman. That Woman who tears up watching “Martian Child” and gets a lump in her throat over tiny baby shoes. I’ll be that woman who is looking for someone who also loves and wants kids, because, well, I’m never going to be happy with anyone who feels otherwise. And I realize that I have time and that some of this longing is caused by hormones with a splash of nerves about my impending 28th birthday, The Bride’s forthcoming nuptials, College Roommate’s future engagement, my brother’s to-be-set wedding date, next year’s 10 year high school reunion and far too many hours spent browsing wedding photos of casual acquaintances and classmates on Facebook.

But, no, I didn’t buy the dress. I mean, I don’t want to be That Woman today.

Give me at least another year to find the perfect storage system.

My night out in my new boots was fun but uneventful. I did get to wear a cute new dress that has been hanging in my closet begging for a turn out for weeks and weeks. I’ve decided that I’ll wear it again for The Bride’s bachelorette party and also for my birthday. (Whereas my holiday dress (plus camisole) will be suitable for work Christmas party and Christmas Eve Mass and (sans camisole) New Year’s Eve and The Bride’s rehearsal dinner.)

The boots are comfortable, though I think a gel insert would make them perfect. They’re from Bandolino, black with a wedge heel. They’re synthetic material, which isn’t what I wanted, but they fit both of my calves and after trying on at least twenty different kinds of knee boots, I decided that beggars can’t be choosers – especially when the boots are on sale. You can tell from the picture, but these slip on boots work some well because there is a six-inch zipper at the ankle that helps you lead your foot into the shoe.

I also found a new black everyday purse. I’m back to Kathy Van Zeeland. I scored an on-sale black “Royal Treatment” satchel. (Like the one below. Except, you know, only in black, which makes the crown print subtle.) It has plenty of pockets so I won’t keep losing my Blackberry and keys at the bottom of my purse. And I loved my last Kathy Van Zeeland purse so much that I started carrying it again when the straps on one of my newer purses broke.

Also bought Eat Pray Love for a relaxing more than 10-hour car drive with my parents over the river and through the woods to brother’s house. I also plan on loading up my iPod with enough songs to keep me sane – heavy on Dave Matthews, Billy Joel, Pat Green and maybe some light Britney Spears for good measure.