The Sarah Show

Wifery*

I’ve been thinking about wives.

In the last two years, more friends than I have fingers and possibly toes have gotten engaged or married. This includes my “oldest” friend, my friend since the age of twelve. We had brunch with her and her brand new husband last Saturday. It’s fun and crazy to think about her as more than my friend or her parents’ daughter or her brothers’ sister, but now she’s also someone’s wife. How cool is that?

Another catalyst for all this wifely cogitation is that we are in a funny place in our lives right now. We sold our house and we’ve been living with our very good friends for the past 2.5 months. Because he works from home most days and she’s a homesteader, that leaves us (read: me) with significantly less cooking and cleaning and puttering to do. This means that my role as household manager—the role that, for better or worse, is somewhat central to my identity as a wife and individual—is on the back burner until we find a place of our own. Running the household is what my mother did. It’s what her mother before her did. (As my father will tell you, I come by my bossiness honestly.) Mostly it’s something I rather enjoy doing and I miss it immensely.

The third reason? It is known in popular parlance as work/life balance, but I prefer to think of it as life/life balance—making sure that all the parts of my life that are important to me get equal attention. It’s important to me to do good work: work that helps or benefits others in some way, work that I enjoy, work that I can take pride in. And I consider myself fortunate that that’s what I get to do. (Again, I ask, how cool is that?) It’s not something that I am particularly concerned about right now, however. Rather, it’s one of those things I regularly need to check the pulse of because I know I have the tendency to get so engrossed that I forget that I also want to be a good wife (and individual/friend/sibling/daughter). I know that all the important parts of my life will feature increasing responsibility as I get older, so achieving this balance will become more challenging, but absolutely worthwhile. Giving each part the focus it is due will benefit the whole. (Right?)

If you’re looking for something more concrete than my little, noncohesive observations (but certainly not complaints) about my life as wife, then check out the following. It seems like the whole universe is thinking about wives and our roles and challenges this week:

Reclaiming Wife, a fantastic blog by Meg Keene & friends

It’s not easy being first lady by Carl Sferrazza Anthony

For Priests’ Wives, A Word of Caution by Sara Ritchey

*I know. It’s not a word. But it should be.

Hi, Tumblr.

barackobama:

It’s nice to meet you.

There are lots of reasons we’re excited to be launching the Obama 2012 campaign’s new Tumblr today. But mostly it’s because we’re looking at this as an opportunity to create something that’s not just ours, but yours, too.

We’d like this Tumblr to be a huge collaborative storytelling effort—a place for people across the country to share what’s going on in our respective corners of it and how we’re getting involved in this campaign to keep making it better.

It’s possible because of Tumblr’s submission feature.

You can send us a few paragraphs about how your latest phonebanking gig went or why you’re in for 2012. Share the latest chart you saw that made you go “woah.” Ask a question. Upload a photo of 2012 t-shirts or signs you see out in the wild. Pass along jokes, particularly if they’re funny. And if you’re among the Tumbl-inclined, send us posts you’ve published on your own Tumblr that we should look at re-blogging.

There will be trolls among you: this we know. We ask only that you remember that we’re people—fairly nice ones—and that your mother would want you to be polite.

Thanks, Tumblr. We’re looking forward to getting to know you.

This House is Neither Young, Nor Old. Discuss!

I had two missions this weekend:

1. Do nothing.

2. Stay in my pajamas for as long as possible.

Done and done.

It has been a crazy two months in the McFranco household. What started out as an innocent kitchen remodel project turned into a decision to sell our house. Because why not?

We knew we’d have to sell eventually. We’ve wanted to move back into town for quite some time now to be closer to restaurants and work and…people. And the whole wood-shop-underneath-the-bedroom thing has become untenable, what with Adam’s increasingly prolific furniture-making. (Apparently, creativity cannot have a reasonable bed time!) 

For a whole set of reasons too complicated to explain here, we decided that putting the house on the market at the end of September was a good idea. That would give us plenty of time to sell the house in time for spring, so we could pounce on the first downtown house we fell in love with. That would give us plenty of time to savor the previous five years of weekends devoted to home improvement.

Darn it if the house didn’t sell in six days.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of negotiations, inspections, tests, sleepless nights, strongly-worded conversations, fixing things, and packing. A colleague said: “I don’t want to make any assumptions, but I understand how much stress selling a house can put on a relationship.” Amen. “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at the situation,” has become a familiar refrain around these parts.

For a whole set of reasons too complicated to explain here, the closing date has been pushed back a week or two. While this means our life is very much up in the air right now, it has also meant a brief respite from the insanity. I had originally planned to use this weekend to pack the rest of our belongings. Instead, I used it for catching up on sleep and enjoying our home one last time because, man, I love this place. In the midst of the aforementioned whirlwind, I have been—and I can’t believe I’m admitting this on the internet because I’m not one for being sentimental—wandering around the house, getting a little verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves! I’ll give you a topic: chick peas are neither chicks nor peas. Discuss!

When we moved in, it was kind of gross. Bizarre wall-to-wall carpeting, even in the kitchen and the bathroom. Crayon- and smoke-stained walls. Horrible, horrible country stenciling on every border and every drape in every room. But between the great room, the cathedral ceilings throughout, and the cedar beams, I could tell it had a lot of potential…

(Click through for a slideshow.)

As we get ready to move into a fabulous, temporary place in Weybridge, I plan to spend the winter thinking about our next home, wherever and whatever it may be. In perusing the internet today, I came across Young House Love, a DIY blog written by two impossibly cute twenty-somethings who have fixed up not one, but two homes (ok, so they’re still working on the second). They have, like, a bajillion great ideas and a whole slew of mood boards, organized by color and room (drool!). They helpfully recommend polyvore (for creating mood boards in lieu of Photoshop skillz) and mydeco (for trying out home designs).

Los Angeles. Again.

When I tell people about our Great California Adventure this summer, they are always surprised/horrified to hear that Los Angeles was my favorite part. BUT WHY? they want to know. Kate Spencer, who just moved from New York to LA, sums it up…

katespencer:

Surprise! We are still living in Los Angeles. It will be three weeks tomorrow. Also tomorrow: our furniture finally arrives from New York. If you’re wondering if we’ve been sitting on the floor for 21 days the answer is: yes, we have.

My butt hurts.

I got a lot of nice messages about my previous LA post (thank you!), and quite a few people referred to it as my “post about New York vs. LA.” This struck me as funny, as it was not intended to be that, at all. I didn’t really think I was even comparing the two. I’ve been pondering the never-ending conversation about which city is better, because it’s continued out here. Interestingly enough: no one from LA gives a crap about New York. No LA natives talk trash about NYC; they don’t ask me which city I prefer. It’s the New Yorkers and New York transplants, always, who want to discuss the merits of each. The feud between the two towns is completely one-sided. You know New Yorkers, we like to fixate on things and talk ‘em to death. LA people seem too mellow and happy to really care.

Or maybe they just know New York is better, and see no reason to fight about it.

What I’ve come to realize is that comparing New York and LA is stupid. It’s like asking someone which is better: Indian food or Mexican food. They both use cilantro and feature beans and rice, but other than that they are completely different and delicious in their own way. So when it comes to the WHICH CITY IS BETTER OMG debate, I’m gonna leave it at that, okay?

Because I like LA. I really do.

I like the pace here. I like the quiet, and the vegetation and the warm weather that cools gently around five o’clock. I like the sunsets.

Here’s a secret: just about everyone I talk to that moved here from New York likes it, too. A lot.

Everyone is so friendly. I’ve had nothing but pleasant interactions with everyone I come across. From all the awesome UCB performers to the lady who waxed my eyebrows today, people are just open and chatty and cool.They make eye contact. They introduce themselves. Every instructor I’ve had at my new ballet barre workout place has gone out of their way to talk to me before class.

There are a lot of ballet barre workout classes everywhere. They’re hard.

I’m surprised so many people talk about how ugly Los Angeles is. I get that 85% of the city is covered in strip malls. But I like the rundown kitschy-ness of the place. It has character, and it’s weird and seedy and vaguely glamorous.

But what no one talks about is that it’s actually kind of beautiful here. There are mountains - big mountains - that border the city and they’re lovely, especially contrasted against the blue sky. We bought a Kelty baby carrier for hiking and hit up Griffith Park at sunset the other night, hiking until the sun went down. There are a ton of these hikes just five minutes from our apartment. This is the kind of stuff that makes LA awesome.

The strip malls and the big box stores are gross, but they make life easy. And right now, in my early 30s with a kid and a body that wants to be asleep by 10PM, I am okay with easy. I’m not sure I would have loved living here at 23. At that age I can’t imagine myself anywhere other than Avenue B, stumbling around at 3AM with a cigarette in my mouth.

I’m glad that was my life then. But I think I am okay with this being my life now.

Lucy, 2009-2011

For the second time this week, I get to write a eulogy for a chicken. And not just any chicken, but my favorite chicken…

Lucy. Just look at those red feathers. She was a beautiful, loyal chicken. I will miss her following me around the yard. I will miss her eagerly hopping from chicken leg to chicken leg, trying to run as fast as she possibly could when I called her name. I will miss her blue eggs. I will miss her scratching. I will miss her scooching down and tucking her wings in so I could pick her up. She was one-in-a-million.

“After Class, Skimpy Equality”… and Baking Pies

First: If you’ve never read it, you should check out Lisa Belkin’s Motherlode, a New York Times blog about life, work, parenting, and families. I, like a fair number of Motherlode readers, am not a parent, but I find the issues she covers so darn intriguing and complex. This is isn’t the sort of blog where you read about the “12 Must-Haves for Pregnancy,” and item number one is Kraft Deluxe Macaroni and Cheese.

This week, Lisa blogs about her Sunday Styles column, “After Class, Skimpy Equality.” Her basic premise is this:

I’ve been puzzling over this since last year, when I returned to Princeton University to teach, more than two decades after I had graduated. The women I met were outspoken, self-confident and unapologetic about running rings around their male cohorts in the classroom. … What stunned me was what was happening outside class, where women seemed not to have budged in decades.  In social settings and in relationships, men set the pace, made the rules and acted as they had in the days when women were still “less than.” It might as well have been the 1950s, but with skimpier clothing, fewer inhibitions and better birth control.

Truth. There are few college campuses lacking parties exhorting women to wear some manner of sexy, naughty, or slutty clothing. It’s not that women can never dress attractively. One of the Motherlode commentators quotes Gloria Steinem:

And my question to the young woman who is dressing as you describe is: Is she doing it because she wants to? Is she body-proud? Is she sexuality-proud? Because then, I say, great. Is she doing it because she feels she has to? That she won’t be popular otherwise? Then, that’s wrong.

Every woman should feel that her clothing is a true expression of her identity. She should dress the way she dresses for herself, and not for the entertainment or pleasure of others. Women should own their clothing (and by own, I don’t just mean pay in cash). 

To this discussion of inequality outside of the classroom, I would like to add there is another ideal our female students are expected (or feel expected) to achieve: that of nurturer. It is perhaps at the other end of the spectrum as “woman as slut,” but it is no less problematic, especially when women feel obligated to meet it. It is harder to pinpoint—after all, there are no campus parties exhorting women to bake pies—but it is there if you look close enough.

Over the last few years, I have had the pleasure of meeting or working with great student leaders; all of them were brilliant, creative, and successful. The women stood out to me because, in addition to being superb leaders and intellectuals, they would run themselves ragged baking for, cleaning up after, and just generally taking care of others in the organization. If they didn’t feel like they were doing a good enough job of this—if the brownies came courtesy of Betty Crocker, for example—they would experience tremendous guilt that would often overpower any feelings of confidence they may have derived from spearheading a project. Why? Shouldn’t it be enough to be a fabulous leader who can juggle many working parts and see a project or event through to its wildly successful end? While these women are taking care of others, I wonder, who is taking care of them?

Eva, 2009-2011

How to begin a eulogy for a chicken?

O Chicken! My Chicken!

Eva. She may have shunned the affection that Lucy and Gloria so eagerly sought. She may have lacked that certain, hard-to-capture-in-words spunky quality of Queenie. But she was a good chicken. And she led a good life. Not overly boisterous. A bit of a wallflower. Her eggs, the color of coffee with too much half-and-half, rocked. May she enjoy that big backyard in the sky with the all-you-can-eat gooey caterpillar and crunchy cicada buffet for $9.99.

Frenetic Thoughts on Our Frenetic Life

For me, one of the most challenging aspects of working in higher education is that I am very close in age to the students. It will not be until February of next year that the last of the students who attended Middlebury while I also attended Middlebury will have graduated (not including the handful of students who are spending more than four years here). When it comes to working with the oldest students, I have to draw on every last drop of my two degrees and three extra years of life experience (bonus points for paying property taxes!) if I want to say anything remotely profound. Thank goodness for the incoming class of 2015: I was already writing expository paragraphs by the time they were born.  

My proximity in age to the students tends to create unrealistic expectations among my senior colleagues. Some often look to me as an interpreter of student behavior and attitudes. They stare at me expectantly, ready to hang on my every word. In reality? I am just as befuddled as they are. I am a stranger here myself.

Almost.

It’s really amusing/helpful/horrifying when colleagues send around articles that seek to explain student or Millenial culture to those less fluent. (There’s no judgment here—I totally do this, too.) Amusing because the observations are usually spot-on; helpful because I can better understand and empathize with the students I try to support; and horrifying because I usually recognize a bit of myself!

Take “Dwelling in Possibilities” by Mark Edmundson (Chronicle of Higher Education, March 14, 2008), for example. That’s the latest one to appear in my inbox. As Edmundson summarized the student mindset—“Be everywhere now — that’s what the current technology invites…”— I couldn’t help but notice that I was flitting between activities. In the course of reading the entire piece, I planned a book talk, wrote 20 (quick) emails, put the finishing touches on text for a new website, researched office furniture, printed seven documents, and ate an apple. Your turn!

Many of Edmundson’s observations ring true for me. Here are a couple:

“They live to multiply possibilities. They’re enemies of closure. For as much as they want to do and actually manage to do, they always strive to keep their options open, never to shut possibilities down before they have to.”

Intellectually speaking, I am afraid of commitment. This is why the liberal arts and I get along so well, and why my current line of work is very becoming on me. There’s so much in this world that I find fascinating that it would be difficult to devote myself to just one thing. Certainly, I can devote myself to higher education, but its main appeal is its variety.

Back in Spring 2010, when I was a carefree, unemployed grad student, one of my friends and I spent an afternoon musing about what comes next. I was reaching the end of my program; he was reaching the end of his employment contract. “Wouldn’t it be great if I could find a job doing stuff?” I wondered aloud. By doing stuff, I imagined a position in which I would not perform one job function, but several. And by several, I meant a lot. The Universe must have heard me because one year later I find myself doing just that. My work encompasses student life, academics, environmental issues, advising, money, technology, problem-solving, facilities, managing (up, down, and across), music, social media, art, communication, diversity, writing, and on and on.

But perhaps there is danger in this, yes? The danger that I will become a jack of all trades and a master of none.

“At a student party, about a fourth of the people have their cellphones locked to their ears. What are they doing? ‘They’re talking to their friends.’ About? ‘About another party they might conceivably go to.’ And naturally the simulation party is better than the one that they’re now at (and not at), though of course there will be people at that party on their cellphones, talking about other simulacrum gatherings, spiraling on into M.C. Escher infinity.”

This? This I try to avoid. I hate it when friends are busily texting when we are, as Edmundson puts it, chillaxing. Scratch that: I don’t have any friends who are busily texting when we’re chillaxing because I have subtly but successfully weeded those people out. In turn, I do my best to ignore my technology and live by the philosophy of The Three Questions, a children’s book based on a story by Leo Tolstoy. Spoiler alert! The answers to the three questions are: “Remember then that there is only one important time, and that time is now. The most important one is always the one you are with. And the most important thing is to do good for the one who is standing at your side.” This probably sounds painfully cheesy, but, when I feel those mental tugs pulling me away from the present, I silently recite these answers to pull myself back.

This post draws long and the hour grows late, so I’ll leave with a final thought: we’re not so different, higher education professionals and students. I’m not saying this because I just was a student. Rather, I look to my colleagues, many of whom are well into their 30s and 40s and 50s, and they are nearly every bit Millenial as they are Generation X or Baby Boomer. They have a “spectacular hunger for life.” They, like Emily Dickinson, “dwell in possibility.” They, too, are delighted by “gazing upon all the pleated skirts the world doth hold.” They are tuned into their smart phones and iPads and iPods. Some even use Twitter and Facebook more than I do. They trade music like baseball cards. They overextend themselves, and they need an authority to tell them, “It’s too much. It’s OK to ease up. It’s OK to rest.” Trouble is, they often are the authority. Edmundson himself is quick to perceive himself as a “five-drafter” fuddy-duddy, but read his wide-ranging article and you will see somebody who is more like his students than he thinks (even if he doesn’t get caught up in the M.C. Escher infinity of simulacrum social engagements, or disengagements, as the case may be).

Perhaps those of us who are most perplexed by student behavior and attitudes—most of it delightful, some of it not so much—need only to look to ourselves for the answer. Age differences aside, we all live in the same world. Through technology, we all create unreasonable expectations for ourselves: what we must see, what we must do, what we must know, what we must own, what we must accomplish. Like Edmundson, I am tempted to say “honor to us” for “convey[ing] hope that the world is still in some measure a splendid place, worth seeing and appreciating.” But, as he recognizes, “To live well, we must sometimes stop and think, and then try to remake the work in progress that we currently are.”

A Feast Fit for a Baby

Middlebury is experiencing a baby boom. And the best part? Some of the coolest, smartest people in our town are reproducing like gangbusters, which leaves me feeling confident about the future of humanity. To support such noble efforts, I hosted a baby shower for my friend, Meg. She had three requests:

1) Get all of her lady friends and family in one room.

2) Eat lots of food.

3) No stupid baby shower games, especially not the one that involves melting candy bars into diapers. (Related: Women are so gross!)

Sure, no sweat!

The Menu…

Lemon-Parsley Gougeres

Savory, puffy, buttery…as much fun to eat as to say!

Mini Frittatas

Bite size cheesy, quichey thingies. You really can’t go wrong. I didn’t need as many vegetables as the recipe calls for; whoever developed it did not anticipate the mini-ness that is my mini muffin tins.

Asparagus Soup

I really liked this soup, but it faced stiff competition on the buffet in the form of…         

Sweet and Spicy Carrot Bisque

This was a HUGE hit at the shower. This recipe, developed by Chef Aylene Lambert of the Natural Gourmet Institute, New York, was named the Best Soup in the 2010 Vegetarian Times Chefs’ Challenge. (See: January/February 2011 issue of Vegetarian Times, pg. 74.)

1 Tbs. canola oil

1 medium yellow onion, diced (1 cup)

1 tsp. plus 1 pinch salt

2 Tbs. minced fresh ginger

1 Tbs. curry powder

1 pinch cayenne pepper

4 large carrots, peeled and cut into 1/4-inch rounds (4 cups)

1 ripe banana, peeled and sliced

1 13.5-oz. can light coconut milk divided

2 1/2 Tbs. lime juice

1. Heat oil in large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion and pinch of salt, and saute 5 minutes, or until onion is soft. Stir in ginger, and cook 1 to 2 minutes, or until fragrant. Add curry powder, cayenne, and 1/4 cup water. Cook 1 to 2 minutes, stirring to coat onion and ginger with curry mixture.

2. Add carrots, banana, 1 tsp. salt, and 4 cups water, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low, and simmer, uncovered, 25 minutes, or until carrots are soft enough to be pierced with fork.

3. Puree soup in batches in blender or food processor. Return soup to pot, and stir in 1 cup coconut milk and lime juice.

4. Simmer remaining 3/4 cup coconut milk in small saucepan over medium-high heat 10 minutes, or until reduced by half.

5. Ladle soup in bowls, and swirl 1 1/2 Tbs. coconut milk reduction into each serving.

Healthy Chicken Salad

Light, but filling. The grapes add a nice, tart touch. I skipped the fennel because the tarragon already adds a somewhat intense flavor. And, oh yeah, I hate fennel.

Raspberry-Lemonade Punch

A recipe from Martha Stewart that calls for powdered lemonade mix? As the  brother of the mother-to-be pointed out, Martha probably got this recipe in prison. (What? Too soon?)

Natural Draft Root Beer

A pregnancy craving-inspired menu choice! A big hit among the guests and my taste buds.

Cake

Grandma made a beautiful and delicious cake with raspberry filling topped with pansies to go with the flower theme.

The Gifts…

Mum received a lot of awesome baby gear from her generous friends and family, but this one topped my list…

Knit veggies with shiny, happy faces? Cute overload! I may or may not be going on a recon mission later this week to steal these. The Baby will never miss them.

The Entertainment…

We played a game in which no one, under any circumstances whatsoever, could say the word ‘baby.’ If you said baby and someone heard you, she could take your clothespins. Whoever had the most clothespins by the end won some pretty awesome prizes…a hanging plant, a gift card, a pair of earrings made by Meg. No biggie! 

                             (Blinged out clothespins courtesy of Maria)

Perhaps the fiercest competitor was my yoga teacher. She was all, I WILL CUT YOU, which is a far, far cry from yoga class where she’s all, the light in me bows to the light in you and usually your light bows back, but now your light is ready to snatch her clothespin. If anyone started to speak a word beginning with a ‘b’ or possibly a ‘v’ sound, her eyes would widen. And then she would casually bait people. “Which do you prefer? Mature greens, or young, youthful greens? Remind me…what are those called?”

Many thanks to my partners-in-crime Maria, Edna, and Robin for helping to make this all come together!

An Auntie Blogger is Born

You’ve heard of Mommy Bloggers, right? Well, I’m an Auntie Blogger now. 

This is Jack (just Jack). He was born on March 31 (his dad’s birthday), weighing 9 pounds, and measuring 21 1/8” in length. My sister Amanda co-produced him with Mark. He has all 10 fingers and all 10 toes. He is adorable. And he smells nice.

I visited him on Day Four of his life. When he came home from the hospital, I gave him a bottle to calm his screams of hunger and he slept in my arms for three hours. When he was awake, I taught him the word “hebdomadal,” which I learned from Katie Couric last week and which is 6 letters longer than the words I had originally promised to teach him. I predict this child will do remarkably well in college and will make the world a better place. No pressure, Jack.

We are pals already.