The stories we tell ourselves
Hearts. Farts.
I found myself not once but twice at Target this week, which is not a hardship since it's one of my favorite places on Earth.
The first time, on Monday, was to buy the kids Valentine's Day cards that I needed to mail to those who I would not be seeing on V-Day, along with their fancy chocolates. My two daughters worked at a local chocolate shop while they were in high school and college and when I'd sometimes pick them up, the car would fill with the sweet smell of chocolate. I can't tell you how delicious those teenagers smelled, which probably helped me hate them a little less back then. But now, they're forever ruined for cheap chocolates. I wouldn't even consider picking up some lowly Hersey's product from Target to send.
I generally love Target's cards selection and thought it would be worth the 20-minute drive, but its V-Day selection kinda stunk. I thought for sure I'd find some funny ones (like the ones I took pictures of in Martha's Vineyard below) to send but ended up with lame (yet heartfelt) cards. Sorry kids.
It also didn't help that I had to kind of elbow my way into the line of other card shoppers who were pulling and reading cards from the racks with purpose and oblivious to my attempts to butt in. There was a competitiveness to it, which here in New Jersey seemed right.
It reminded me of a frantic trip I took to Target on Feb. 13 about seven years ago, when I'd had the sudden and startling realization after work that my 10yo son had no cards to bring into school the next day for his 4th grade classmates. How I'd arrived in the designated Valentine's section to find, like, two boxes of Barbie cards left on the shelves and joined the other working moms clustered in front of the rack to stare in disbelief while their younger children hung from shopping carts and cried.
The following year, I bought my youngest his box of cards cards in January when I had access to anything his heart could have desired -- superheroes, Transformers -- and when I pulled them out for him to sign a few days before Valentine's Day, he was like, "Um, no." It seemed things had changed in middle school and cards were babyish and my preparedness came a year too late.
Now that punk is a junior in high school and I'm the one giving him the card and candy while he ate his Honey Nut Cheerios this morning. Sometimes, I'd really like to dip him in chocolate.
"Oh wait," he said, "I have something for you," and he ran upstairs and brought down goodies his older sister left for me after her visit last weekend. I think in his mind, it was almost as if he'd given me something himself, which for a boy is fair.
Later, that sister Facetimed me and I opened her card, which had a picture of a raccoon on the front trying to cross a road and we both laughed at how weird and perfect it was. Then I opened a box of the most beautiful assortment of chocolates in all my favorite flavors -- peanut butter, coconut, almond and especially: chocolate covered cherries -- and told her I loved she knew me so well. I leaned my face over the box as she watched from her bed in Arlington and inhaled. "It smells like you when you were a teenager," I told her, and we chatted a bit longer before saying our good byes.
Valentine's Day has changed a lot for me in the last 10 years. Where it used to be some dumb holiday that made me feel like it needed to be CELEBRATED with an overpriced dinner or sexy lingerie, now it's just an opportunity to remind my four most favorite people in the world that I love them with weird cards laden with heart stickers and really good chocolate. And when someone does that in return, I am reminded how much I am loved, too.
What more could we ask for?
Happy Friday!
xoAmy
This Friday's Faves
I can't even tell you how many people reached out to report they were buying a weighted blanket after last week's testimonial to my better living through suffocated sleeping. I'd actually think Target should have, at the very least, given me those lame cards for free after selling all those blanket for them. Would LOVE to hear what you think about being smothered while resting.
In other news:
I've entered a period of sobriety this week (I mean, if we were getting technical, it would not be "sobriety," since that replies recovery, but rather "dryness," which implies something less permanent, like a henna vs tattoo on one's arm). As such, I have acquired an alarming variety of herbal teas and seltzers (thanks, Target). Also, because one does need some joy, I have been enjoying an assortment of nuts covered in something sweet. Love this, this and this (which I must report I ate half the bag on the way home from Target yesterday).
This week I pulled out the sheetpan to make dinner and was reminded just how easy, yummy and versatile Wegman's basting oil was making this recipe. I put some little Yukon Golds in a bowl with 2T water and covered to microwave 8 minutes. After cooling a smashed them into flat disks and put on sheet pan and drizzled with the oil and roasted a bit. Then I added broccoli that I'd mixed up in a bowl with the oil and hot pepper flakes and threw on pan for more roasting at end, through under broiler for a few minutes to make potatoes nice and brown. Threw some fried eggs on top (and some TJoe's crumbled Mediterranean feta for me) and 17yo actually told me he liked it. #highpraise
Okay, I might feel strongly about keeping my political opinions to myself publicly, but I feel VERY strongly on the matter of whether or not one should recline one's chair on an airplane. I say NO YOU DO NOT YOU ANIMAL. I believe it's our last stand against letting civilization go to hell in the proverbial handbasket, although I would not go so far as this rude gentleman did (nor do I think he should have been rewarded with a free drink mid-flight). Where do you stand?
I watched "The Two Popes" not once but twice and actually cried after the first viewing (12 years of Catholic school must have bubbled up). So I was extremely disappointed this week that our current pope squashed a movement to allow ordination of married priests and that the former pope had pointed him in that direction apparently. Frustrating.
Do we already have an official song of the summer, in February?
My 17yo asked to rent Wes Andersen's "Isle of Dogs," and I was pleased because someone with that weird sense of humor is the kind of person I want to hang out with. I can't tell you how much I love all his movies and that some of my kids do, too. So, hurray, this week I learned that Andersen's adding to his oeuvre.
Finally, I would like to encourage you to share this newsletter with any other weirdos you think might enjoy it and, if you haven't already, to right in your inbox.
xoAmy