Author: the outside lane

Happy. That about covers it.
Family

Mom! Mom! Mom!

the outside lane

At 6:45 this morning, I called my mother for advice.  Luxury.  What a luxury.

I was waffling over whether or not to send Thor to daycamp, to go on a field trip to a water park on a heat advisory day.  Since this is my first rodeo, I called on my mother.  While I may have thought she was extremely overprotective in my youth, I am alive today, with no major scars, no diseases, and all my limbs, so she must know a thing or two about child rearing.

“It’s supposed to be 112 today, and Thor has his field trip to the water park.  If it were me, would you have let me gone?”

“No,” she said, without hesitation.

“Okay, because I was worried about him being out in the heat.”

“I wouldn’t have sent you.  Too hot.”

“Good enough.”

“Want me to come get him?”

“Please?”

45 minutes later, she was there.  Luxury.

I’m a daughter, and all daughters and mothers have their moments, but I want you to know that I am well aware of my fortune in having a mother who is there.  Who shows up.  Whose support I can count on.  Whom I can trust.  Whose main concern in life is that her child is safe, happy, and sound. 

It is a luxury, and I am grateful.

Howling Sea Lane, Style, Women

Underneath it All

the outside lane

I have a friend close to my age, whose guyfriend complained that her underwear aren’t sexy enough.  *sigh*  Really, Guyfriend?  Really?  Life is neither a porno, nor a Victoria’s Secret catalog.  I didn’t like sexy underwear when I was arguably sexy.  I certainly don’t like them now.  Now, I like underwear that give my butt a little life, my tummy a little support, and hit me at the waist so I don’t have to deal with my belly fat escaping from under the top of the bikini style panties that I trade off and on with my ladypants.  Ladypants.  Not Granny Panties.  Ladypants.

But, yes, sometimes I wear Granny Panties.  You don’t like that?  Suck it.  Sometimes, I wear great, big, cotton drawers that are cool, comfortable, and breathe in the crotch-sweltering heat of Texas summertime.  In fact, I am wearing such drawers right now.  No heat rash for me!

Listen, I always want to look my best–even when I am scruffing around the house, I am (at the very least) aware of how I look (though I might not do anything about it–I do think about it.)  But I quit buying in to the media fantasty that underwear are about anything other than keeping my bits away from the inner lining of my clothing and furniture, and smoothing out lines under fashion many years ago.  Well before I got married, in case you worry that once he put a ring on it I went out and bought the tallest pair of underwear I could find. 

I have owned a g-string or two in my time.  I even owned them back when it was visually appropriate for me to wear them.  I did not like them.  I did not like that I had a permanent wedgie–ditto and worse with thongs.  I wore them because I thought it was the expectation, and because the supermodels I idolized were always talking about how a g-string was a girl’s best friend.

I also owned tanga bikinis, Brazilian cut panties, scoops, string bikinis, side-ties, and any other filmy under-confection you can imagine.  Hated them all.

My cousin, M, will tell you about the underwear envy we had when we were little.  I always had white nylon and lace panties from Her Majesty.  She had colorful cotton panties with days of the week printed on them.  It was hilarious as adults to realize how jealous we had been of each other’s underwear.  I’d have given her the lot of my lacy undies for just her Saturday and Sunday. 

Nylon is hot.  Cotton is comfy.

When it comes to adult times, certainly my wardrobe changes.  You don’t wear your Fruit of the Looms to seduce.  I’m not worried about comfort then, but I’m still aiming for flattering.  And where a thong might have been flattering 15 years, 40lbs, and one large baby ago, now it is a sight gag in a Ben Stiller movie.  I refuse to set myself up as a punchline just because Big Media has convinced us that the Very Visual Creatures we call men cannot have happy endings unless we are wearing 3″ of elastic and polyester that cost $25 a pop, and another half pound of padding under cheap satin that costs upwards of $50 per.  Maybe if I could talk my husband into wearing one of the old flamingo g-strings for men that Frederick’s of Hollywood (whose sexy underwear is among the most comfortable, and longest lasting–I highly recommend them for your flirtier frills.) used to sell?  Then we could be sight gags together.

Flattering for sexy times.  Comfortable and supportive for the 16 hours a day that I am up and running.  I do have a motto:  You are only as well dressed as your worst pair of panties.  Keep ’em clean.  Keep ’em in shape.  Keep ’em flattering.

You have to wear what works for you.  So, to my friend whose guyfriend made her feel small because her panties were big:  Buy a pair of his and hers fishnet thongs.  If he’s willing to wear it, then go for it!  If he isn’t?  You know what you’re dealing with and where to drop him off.

Uncategorized

Something With Bite

the outside lane

I hate the dentist’s office.  I mean I hate it.  I don’t dislike the dentist, I am fascinated by all the gizmos, and I’m not really afraid of the pain–after years of orthodontia, leaning back in an office full of suction sounds is actually a little relaxing–but I have such shame associated with my teeth that going into the dentist’s office and opening my mouth for people to stare into is like asking someone to judge my greatest character flaws before a live audience.  Isn’t that crazy?

I had to go to the dentist this morning.  I’ve cracked a tooth and had to get that looked at.  I was talking to the dental assistant, going over my litany of, “This is not abnormal in my mouth, this is just what my mouth looks like,” and hearing myself try to make it funny, seeking her approval, and thought, “It’s just your teeth, Lane.  It’s not your soul.  Get over it.”

I’m not sure why I feel the way I do.  I brush and I floss, and my teeth are nice and even (Thanks, Mom and Dad! And Dr. Spencer!)  Part of my insecurity comes from the staining and malformations that I have from having taken tetracycline as a child–something only veneers would fix.  Part of my insecurity comes from the hereditary shape of my gumline.  Somehow I have it in my head that the imperfections of my teeth are indicative of me as a person, and somehow I have it in my head that dentists and their assistants are judging my life based on the amount of tartar buildup I have.  Nothing good about me matters because I have plaque (don’t google plaque. the images that come up are horrifying.)  I am more ashamed of having stained teeth than I am of having had a bankruptcy–and that was pretty miserable.  Note to self: Blog about the bankruptcy.

Objectively, I have pretty nice teeth. I have no idea why I have such a fixation on them. Decently sized, well spaced, even, and the staining isn’t so horrible you would run screaming from it. I’ve been told I have nice breath. What is my problem?!

I’ve written about this before.  It’s probably one of my weirdest character traits, and weirder still because I don’t make judgments on other people based on teeth.  Just my own.

Anyway, I have to have a crown.  Those things are ridiculously expensive!  I guess if you figure in the amount of wear and tear, and the number of years you can expect to have it, the cost isn’t that high, but I can’t help feeling that it shouldn’t cost as much as a month’s rent to fix one tooth.  That’s a racket.  (Of course I realize that the dentist has overhead, and that the camera he used to take an instant picture of my tooth, which was then prominently displayed on the large, flat screen television above my chair didn’t come free.  But, I really didn’t want to see my molar blown up to the size of my whole face.  The good news is, no decay!  The bad news is, molars are ugly when they look good, and mine didn’t look good.)

Chef Lane

Two-Bite Meatballs and Veggie Pasta Sauce

the outside lane

I am working hard at cooking what is available to me in my kitchen, without buying excess at the store.  It forces some creativity, but I don’t feel wasteful.  Last night I threw together a dish with meatballs and a saucy sauce.  I call it Two-Bite Meatballs because it takes two bites to eat them politely.  You could just pop a whole one into your mouth, but that would be rude.

First, you make your meatballs.  I make my meatballs differently every time, just depending on the taste I want, but in this case:

  • 1lb ground lamb
  • 1 Tbs garlic paste
  • 2 Tbs diced onions
  • 1 tsp Allspice
  • 1/4 cup parmesan cheese

Mix all that together, then use a spoon to measure out equal amounts of meat, per the size of the meatball you want.  A melon baller will also give you tidy sizes.  Stick those in the broiler for 10 minutes, then flip them and broil to your preferred level of doneness.  (I used a regular spoon for these and netted myself 16 two-bite meatballs.)

While that’s working, make your sauce.

  • 1 can of unsalted diced tomatoes with basil
  • 1 zucchini chopped into teeny, tiny cubes–think The Borrower’s sized
  • 1/2 onion finely chopped
  • Salt to taste
  • Pepper to taste
  • Dash or more of cinnamon

Let those ingredients simmer until your onions are tender.  By that time, your meatballs should be out of the oven, and you should have some nice fatty juices sloshing around.  Pour your sauce into the pan with your meatballs and fatty broth, stir and let sit for about five minutes.  This will make you a really delicious, fairly healthy sauce that compliments the meat well. 

Serve over rice, pasta, zucchini pasta, orzo…whatever.  Pretty simple.  Very tasty.

It played well to the family.  All the meatballs were eaten, and a good bit of the sauce.

Chef Lane, Food

In a Jam

the outside lane

On the advice of my friend, Laura, I bought an Oster bread maker about a year ago.  I’ve made exactly one loaf of bread, and it was lovely.  Unfortunately, it did not come with a bread slicing fairy, so I lost interest quickly.  Laura had told me she used her bread maker to make jellies and jams, though, so when I started eyeing with distress my 8lbs of plums from Bountiful Baskets, I decided it was time to haul it out from under the sink and get down to business.

Oster bread maker.

 

Basically, you throw a cup of sugar, a tablespoon of powdered pectin, two teaspoons of lemon juice, and a cup and a half of the fruit of your choice into the bread maker pan.  You let it mix for 5 minutes, then you set it to bake for an  hour.  Et voila, jam!

You pour that into heated jars, pop on the lids, then process them in hot water until the jar lids sea.  Then let the jars cool before putting them in the fridge to set the jam.

I made both plum and strawberry jam last night.  Thor and I ate the plum jam for breakfast, on toasted sourdough bread from Bountiful Baskets, with my favorite butter, Kerrygold–an Irish butter.  Thor ate both his pieces without a word, but tells me now that it would have been perfect, had I not let the butter and jam mix together.

Plum jam on toasted sourdough. Mmmm.

I’m pretty pleased with the result.