Saradactyl.com

Thursday Thinkerly Thought Thump

• Pickles are an extremely polarizing entity. Whether on your burger, or your overpriced Chick-Fil-A sandwich... to eat the pickle, discard the pickle, or shun the pickle? THAT is the question. Personally - I like the pickle. But I'm very persnickety about the types of pickles I fellowship with in my belly. I enjoy a cold, crisp pickle - fresh out of the refrigerated jar. Sour... sweet... dill? I love me some cold crispy pickle. Warm chip-sliced pickle? Gross. They taste like garbage. Literally, like there was a cucumber that fell into the bottom of the dumpster, and it laid there for so long that it pickled, and then someone from a restaurant was all "Hey, let's use this!" and then they were all "I'm slicing a pickle and I'm going to put it on some sandwiches!" and then they were all "I'm so smart, look at me, I'm using rotten fermented vegetable matter that grew out of the ground and then got all hot and mushy laying in the bottom of the dumpster." And then they were all, "Yay, me." And then I was all "I'll take no part in your over-priced pickle ruse. Garbage, I say. GARBAGE!!!"

• How does a car get dusty? There are large vents circulating the air at all times, and a window open for those other times. I don't understand how dust even has a chance to SETTLE! I have a thick coating of dust that has settled on the dash of my Beetle bug. I don't understand this. I know that I have skin, and that there is dust that is probably stirred whenever I sit in the cloth covered seats... but the entire vehicle is in a CONSTANT state of motion. How? Why? When? What?

• Scrubs confuse me. They're like regular clothes. But.... snazzy. They're reserved specifically for those who work in the medical industry. As if the fibers are somehow more sanitary and clean than those of other types of clothing. But they're not. They're just clothes. And you wash them. And you put them on one crazy patterned pant leg at a time. Scrubs look comfy. I think I'll switch to a wardrobe made up completely of scrubs. Heart scrubs. Polka dotted scrubs. Squiggly lined scrubs. Black scrubs. Rainbow scattered scrubs. Woodstock scrubs. Scrubs: both confusing, and jolly fun.

• Signature stamps are neat. It's like your signature - in a stamp. I have been playing with Cliff's signature stamp, and now several spots on my body are emblazoned with a flashy "Cliffffff-squiggleline-Mmmmuncyyyy". Neat.

• This chair smells like a fart.

Turkey, and Muncy, and Foliage. OH MY!

Welcome Home

The mayhem and preparations and general runningaroundfreakingout has subsided. Everyone is sleeping, coffee is brewing, and my mind is RACING but I keep having to convince myself that it's over and I don't have anything to DO. The leftovers are neatly organized into their disposable containers and the kitchen is sparkly clean. There is no turkey to brine, no pies to prepare, no mantels to dust, no freaking out left to do over who will sit where, no showers to scrub. Just a refrigerator filled with leftovers and a heart filled with lots of warm, happy memories.

Ah, the joys of a wife's first Thanksgiving hosted at her house.

We bequeathed unto Saturday the noble distinction of Muncy Thanksgiving Feast Day, and it had been determined that everyone should converge on the tiny home of Cliff and Sara. And I seriously could not have been more thrilled or honored!!! But as the guest list grew, so did my stress level. I've moved into Cliff's house, which is less than 1000 square feet, built some time around the turn of the 20th century, and cozy enough for two. The Old Girl starts to feel her age and smallness when we have lots of guests over. But as invitations morphed into including my sister, brother-in-law, and my dad and his wife - the concept of 'I'm sorry, we don't have enough room!' never entered my mind. Not once.

It's the way I was raised. My mom is the Grand Poobah of hospitality, parties, and making folks feel like they're... home. During my formative years, we had a constant flow of people in and out of our house. And not just on the holidays! My sisters and I were homeschooled, as were several other families within our social circle, and sometimes the come-over-for-coffee-and-a-teacher's-conference invitation that had been extended to one neighbor and her children would grow into dozens adult and child bodies converging at our little home. It always seemed like our lives were bursting at the seams with activity, coffee, and laughter.

So, when a house perfect for two became party central for a guest list of sixteen - it really didn't phase me. Sure there was a moment of panic when I couldn't track down an extra card table, and I was sure that I had botched the turkey - but everything fell into place. My mother-in-law's fiance let us borrow his card table, and the turkey was delightfully moist. More importantly, at the end of the day, I hope (and think) that everyone felt... at home.

 

Small Space - Small Budget

Nostalgia, warm fuzzies, and moist turkey aside - how did we pull it off? With such a small space, and a teeny tiny budget, you really have to get creative. Here are a few tips from the wiry efforts of your local Saradactyl:

• Preparation is KING. Whether you're having a couple of folks over for dinner, or you're hosting a full blown holiday gathering for 72 of your close-to-distant relatives - I can't say 
  

  

  enough about the value preparation. I am the WORST procrastinator in the world, so don't think that there haven't been times when I pulled a tablescape out of my ass. As a matter of fact, more times than not - that's the way I usually roll. But there is SO MUCH to be said for doing whatever you can the day before. Side-dishes prepped and chilled, glasses washed, serving dishes set out, coffee ground, etc... etc..  The very small task of cleaning and chopping the veggies the day before saved me a tremendous amount of stress! That was one less mess, one less knife, one less cutting board that I had to clean up on the day OF. Consequently, it afforded me the opportunity to stand on the counter and take this photo. If I had been scrambling at the last minute there is no way I would have even considered stopping to take a picture.
  

• Make the most of your space. We have a tiny eat-in-kitchen, that spills over into the living room. Which posed three problems: 1.) There was no way in hell everyone could eat in the kitchen at the same table. 2.) We didn't have enough serving bowls to distribute between three tables. 3.) With limited counter space, it made setting up a buffet line near-to-impossible. SOLUTION:
• • Divide and conquer. By setting up two additional card tables (one in the living room and one off to the side of the kitchen) it gave ample space for folks to spread out.

  • Beautify. Because we couldn't put the serving bowls ON the tables, it gave me space to create three unique 'tablescapes' that were warm and inviting.
    

    

     
    

  • Get creative. With limited counter space, you realize just how much room your kitchen sink takes up. So Molly, my baby sister, had a stroke of genius: use that space. We took a small TV tray (the size that fits in your lap), and covered it with a blanket which disguised the sink and spread to both sides of the counter. This allowed for one continuous buffet line and gave us a TON of extra space!

• Use what you have on hand. I didn't have money to go out and buy candles, or table cloths, or greenery for decor. I barely had enough money to buy the bird! These are
  

  

   moments when your creativity is really put to the test. The tablecloth I had intended to use for the main table wound up being too short, and I had NOTHING to cover the card tables with. So, in the true spirit of my mother, I went outside the box. Literally. In the backyard I found fall leaves, and remnants of the spruce trees that had been pruned earlier last week. I arranged everything on the long table, and used it as inspiration for the other tables. I had a "special helper" who made good use of two of our pillow shams (which happened to coordinate with the color scheme) as the coverings for the other tables. Tree parts and colorful leaves were dispersed throughout!!! Small oil lanterns that we already had on hand, and candles gathered from around the house were strategically nestled into the bosom of the tablescapes, which had a dual purpose: it helped thangs look real purdy like, and also gave folks some extra light to help distinguish between their corn pudding and the sweet potato casserole.
  

Were there mishaps? Yes. 

Was it perfect? No. 

Do I have a lot to be thankful for? Words can't even express.

Hey good lookin'. Whatcha got cookin'?

Social networking has led to the ultimate demise of blogging regularity. Why carve out 30-45 minutes in my day to share some interesting tid bit with the masses, when I can compose a text in approximately 30 seconds and publish it to 190 of my 'closest' friends? My Tweets automatically interface directly with my Facebook, and my Qik instantly synchs with both my Twitter and my Facebook. And once I publish this blog? It will be spoon-fed to the masses via Twitter update... which will update my Facebook as well.

The tight connectivity of it all frightens me a little bit, and oddly compels me to buck the neat compartments wherein everything snuggles-in all neat and tidy-like. Like an old man who refuses to acquiesce to the convenience of a bank safe made of steel, and instead prefers to spread his treasure in the backyard - meticulously mapping the coordinates for the holes in which he's buried it.

But for all of its frightening potential, I am the first to admit that I enjoy a good banter over the instantaneous stream of information available via these social networking sites, and spent nearly my entire Saturday this past weekend catching up with everyone... commenting... posting... etc..

However, for all the writing and sharing that I spend my time doing - it's only in these little sound byte clips that shoot like sparks from the flint of my brain. Even though the world awaits these with breathless anticipation (*plants tongue firmly in cheek*), it's made me a bit lazy. Mediocre. Lethargic. Microwave Meals for the brain - because you still get the nutrition (such as it is), but without all the messy clean-up and prep time.

Cliff likes to proudly announce from time to time that I PUNISH the kitchen. Admittedly, cooking is something that I'm pretty good at, and something that I LOVE to do. I am always anxious to get in there and get my hands (and everything else) dirty - experiment with new recipes and ingredients... filling the house with aromas of warm spices and cold butter hitting a hot pan. 

Last night, the kitchen punished me. 

I had grandiose ideas of succulent pork chops with creamy mushroom gravy, and tart apples sauteed in butter and combined with freshly shredded cabbage and red onion, sprinkled ever so lightly with sugar and light and love. 

*laughs*

EVERY. SINGLE. SURFACE. of the kitchen was marked with some kind of food-like disaster. Flour spilled over there, milk dripping from the edge of the counter, cutting boards, and knives, and somehow the garlic powder container wound up in the sink buddying it up with the dirty dishes? I would not have been surprised had, at one point, the discarded apple peels been carried off by wild rabbits. It was all so surreal. 

Which unfortunately, did NOT contribute to the delectable nature of our fantastic feast. The oral processing of the pork chops had to be carefully navigated through seas of fat and grizzle and shards of bone. My apple cabbage concoction had too much onion, and turned out a soggy, sloppy mess. When all was said and done, my kitchen looked like a battlefield riddled with the bodies of culinary tragedy, and shrouded by thin blankets of my pride. And we were still hungry.

This is a good picture of what I fear the most in nearly every area of my life: that the time, effort, and energy poured into any one task or goal will not be worth the sullen failure that may ultimately result. 

Love.

Career.

Relationships.

Pork roast.

Knitting.

Writing.

Photographing.

Bathing. 

(heh - kidding)

(kinda)

But the fact is that out of every 2 or 3 colossal failures, I have another 5 to 6 really cool successes. I'm starting to learn that the mere act of trying should never be hindered by one's fears of what the result may or may not be. So, sure. I could settle for writing little sound byte micro blogs to amuse my friends and myself. But I could also step outside of what's comfortable and explore a new recipe. If I wrote a book - would it flop? Probably. If I took up photography full time - would I totally screw up a gig? Inevitably. If I take a risk on a volatile friendship - would I get burned? *shrugs* Could be. Should that stop me from trying? Nope.

So, if you'll excuse me... I have to go make dinner now.

Fat Scars

I went bathing suit shopping. Seeing as how the last time I wore a bathing suit, I got stuck on my back and needed the help of a couple of friends to get up out of the sand (picture a beached whale, and you'll be on the right track) - I was slightly intimidated by the whole process. Now, even though this summer I'm a great deal smaller than I was last year - my body is not nearly the shape or consistency that I desire it to be in. I'm soft and saggy with loose skin that is no longer perky or plumped by the fat that had once grown to enormous proportions underneath. Areas between my legs and under my arms are discolored and... well, droopy.

Sexy.

Beyond that? I have fat scars - i.e. stretch marks. These marks on my skin resemble scars of one who has been in some kind of horrific accident - or mauled by a large carnivorous animal. Fleshy, metallic-looking, and oh-so-unattractive these marks cover my underarms, stomach, legs, and - other unmentionable locations. Even when the surrounding areas are tanned to a golden bronze, these marks remain a shiny-pinkish hue.  They are my fat scars.

For every external scar, I have a dozen emotional ones. Fear based on the reality of past experience often completely paralyzes me. This past weekend, I had opportunity to go to the beach (thus, the bathing suit shopping). Even though it was hot and I was ROASTING on the sand, it took seeeeeeeeveral minutes before I worked up the courage to strip off my jeans - exposing my short-clad-white-as-the-winter-snow legs. And sometimes if there is a group of people congregating (store, parking lot, mall, etc...) I will take the long way around so as to avoid (what I predict would be) stares and jeers. LOGICALLY, I know that these fears are irrational, and that I should not allow them to dictate what I wear in the ocean or the path that I trot down to get to the sliding doors at the Wal-Mart. And yet sometimes, I do. The emotional wreckage that I contend with on a daily basis provides interesting fodder for my psyche, and allows the little fish and sponges of my past a place to dwell and grow.

And so... much more damaging than the physical scars are the emotional scars. By not cleaning out the wreckage and facing the demons head on, I've done my spirit and my body a disservice. I know this may sound a little extreme coming from someone who has lost 50+ pounds, but I see myself slipping back into old patterns and habits. When my feelings are hurt, or I'm bored, or angry, or excited, or happy, or sleepy, or stressed out to the MAX - I have found myself turning to food again. Crappy food. It gives me a temporary high in a place of solace and peace - that doesn't last much past the fork tickling my tongue. This has been going on for a few weeks now - and it's time to stop.

I refuse to have these victories stolen from me.
I refuse to rely on my own power to conquer this beast.
I refuse to get lazy and complacent.
I refuse to let food be my friend.
I refuse to allow this sin to be entertained for even one more SECOND.
I refuse - very simply - to go back to the way I was before.

So, even though the emotional scars may not be smoothed over and buffed away in the course of a year... 5 years.... 10 years.... 100 years - the physical scars of the sadness and sickness that had once completely engulfed my existence will always be a helpful, albeit ugly, reminder of what I have the potential of being. I'll never try to eradicate them with lasers or expensive lotions - because they will forever spur me toward better choices, better thinking, better living.

"16 I ask him to strengthen you by his Spirit - not a brute strength but a glorious inner strength - 17 that Christ will live in you as you open the door and invite him in. And I ask him that with both feet planted firmly on love, 18 you'll be able to take in with all Christians the extravagant dimensions of Christ's love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! 19 Live full lives, full in the fullness of God. 20 God can do anything, you know - far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us." -Ephesians 3:16-20

P.S.

I'm engaged.

My boyfriend

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Originally uploaded by Sara (SAY-ruh)

Funny that I haven't really talked much about my Cliff and the special relationship that we have. Especially considering he is SO much a part of my life now. And admittedly - one of the main reasons that my blog has become so sorely neglected. LOL - eh, I guess that explains a lot, huh?

Who woulda thunk that chubby pink haired geeky Sara would have fallen in love so hard... and so quickly? Cliff is my counterpart in every way. We're practically the same person in some areas, and perfectly different in others. Our similarities and life paths run so close and so deep that... well... quite frankly: it's a little freaky.

It occurred to me the other day, that even when we're old and gray - married for 52 years - watching old Star Trek re-runs, and changing one another's diapers: he'll still be my boyfriend.

When we first started dating, I hesitated using that word. Having been raised with a different ideology about dating and boyfriend/girlfriend relationships in general - I spent the first several weeks suffering with a bit of an identity crisis over a simple matter of what to call him. But Cliff, as he so often does, infused a little common sense into my overthinkerlyness. If I call him baby, sweetie, boyfriend, The Cute Boy, or My Little Pooshnowb (which, in fact, I often do) - at the end of the day, who gives a flying flip? Truly.

Also - with everyone in my life GETTING MARRIED (my sister, my other sister, my dad, Cliff's mom, Cliff's brother, etc... etc..) it made me want to kind of speed things up a little bit. Move this right along!!!! We're aiming toward marriage - so, let's get there already!!! Heck. Everybody else is. Sheesh. Not only that, but I came to a point where calling him "my boyfriend" seemed petty and small in comparison to how I felt about him. But Cliff has taught me to cherish this time. It's a special season in our lives together, and it should be savored and appreciated for what it is. Let it grow and blossom in its own time.... let's not try to pry the bloom open with our clumsy, overzealous fingers. It's the process that the flower goes through to open that makes its fruit that much more sweet.

I do have a point here. Somewhere. Ah, yes - the bottom line is that I'm in love with my best friend. He'll always be a boy-that's-also-a-friend. So, in that - yes, he will always be my boyfriend.

And as I sit here watching said boyfriend construct a water fountain in the middle of a giant Apple logo that he fashioned out of stone and rocks - I realize how blessed I truly am. We have some amazing years ahead, and I'm so very grateful that we get to experience them together.

Follicle Follies

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