Thoughts of the garden variety

I do not possess a green thumb.

Gardening is one of those things that I've always wanted to be good at. There is something beautiful and poetic about putting something in the earth and watching it grow.

Last summer, like every summer since I've lived in this house, went something like this:

April: Oooh, I should plant a garden this year.

May: Yay, it's nice out! I'm going to plant petunias and rose bushes and strawberries and chili peppers and string beans and basil and cilantro. I will eat fresh fruits and vegetables from my garden, I will lose weight, and I will be blissfully happy. [dig, dig, dig, plant, plant, plant, water]

The Indignity of Downsizing: Monica's Trip to the Mall

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon shopping with my friend Heather at the long-awaited and much hyped new mall in south Reno.

For years, Reno only had one mall worth speaking of. I was excited to see some competition in the market, hoping that maybe - just maybe - I could find some attractive clothing and the temporary self-esteem boost that comes from wearing something flattering and fashionable.

You'd think that, by now, I'd have learned my lesson.

The new mall has plenty of clothing stores: Abercrombie & Fitch, Guess, Gap, Hot Topic, Ann Taylor, and many more places where women of my size receive no acknowledgement.

Usually, I ignore the other stores, just like they ignore me. My trips to the mall involve a quick foray into Lane Bryant, then back out to the parking lot.

However, Heather wears a size 4, so she has many more options available to her. I joined her in perusing some of the many stores that I usually avoid.

It can be kind of disheartening to look at tank tops that resemble the "onesies" my year-old niece wears, to stand next to mannequins with torsos the size of my thigh, and to get disapproving looks from salespeople who haven't realized that I'm not being unrealistic, I'm just here with my friend.

If I didn't like Heather so much, I may have felt Schadenfreude as she found that Abercrombie only makes tank tops for a prepubescent figure, completely ignoring slender women who wear anything larger than an A-cup. But I do like her, and I empathize, so we directed our collective indignation at clothing manufacturers instead.

How dare they make us feel like there is only one acceptable shape for a woman? How dare they produce a range of sizes that only straddles the smaller half of the spectrum? Who are they to tell us that Heather shouldn't be entitled to breasts, or that I'm such a freak of nature that I might as well not even exist?

Before the afternoon was done, we ventured to Lane Bryant. It's the one store where I feel comfortable, knowing that my size lies well within their range of offerings, usually toward the smaller end.

A friendly salesman directed me to the Seven jeans, arguably the most high-end denim product available for a woman of my stature.

"I've got to warn you," he said, "They run small. You might need a size or two bigger than you usually wear."

Why do clothing designers do this? Why do they think it's a good idea?

Size is everything, and I'll take a compact

I love small cars.

I drive a Toyota Prius, and its four doors and moderately useful back seat just might qualify it as the largest car I've ever owned.

I live in the part of the country where truck and SUV names come from (Sierra, Tahoe), so it can be kind of lonely at the bottom, looking up at people in their giant pickups and contemplating the irony of naming gas guzzling vehicles after natural features.

This is not a family blog: Moral and semantic questions posed by a pizza box

"Do you want another slice of pizza?"

"Sure."

"Uh oh."

"What's wrong?"

"It says on the box... Little Caesars, a Family Company."

"Does that mean what I think it means?"

Good lord, woman! What are you carrying in that thing?

The days are longer, things are growing in my yard, and I'm starting to get weird back and shoulder pains.

It's time to switch to a warm-weather purse.

I've heard that a woman's purse is a window into her identity. If that's true, I'm thickly built, overweight, and a magnet for things of little consequence. So let's see what's inside, shall we?

Inventory, April 2, 2006, or... Why Monica's Purse Weighs More than a Small Child

Prelude to a mother-in-law's visit

In a few short hours, my mother-in-law will be arriving for a weekend visit.

This will be her first time in our house since 2002. We're hardly estranged from the in-laws - we talk on the phone regularly, and Sam and I have made a handful of trips to Minnesota in the meantime. But this weekend is Sam's mother's first visit to Reno since our wedding three and a half years ago.

I'm terrified.

I've talked to a lot of people who seem puzzled by my demeanor. She's not, in her own right, scary in any way. My mother-in-law is a very nice woman, "terrific" if we're speaking Minnesotan. She's a grade school teacher, a liberal intellectual, and a fantastic cook. And I'm fairly certain that her opinion of me is pretty positive and well-formed.

The Grilled Cheese Chronicles

At 11:00 on Monday, it hit me. Hard. It was overwhelming.

I needed a grilled cheese sandwich.

I was at work, and I couldn't think of a place to procure said sandwich. I instant-messaged my husband, bemoaning the fact that even going home for lunch wouldn't fulfill my needs, since our house lacked bread of the non-doorstop variety.

Resourceful guy that he is, Sam immediately responded with an idea.

"Go across the street to Target... Buy some bread, some cheese, and a sandwich maker. Make yourself a grilled cheese at work."

It was brilliant.

For some reason I felt embarrassed about undertaking such a complex lunch mission on my own, so I turned to Heather, my coworker, friend, and partner in cheese. She didn't let me down.

Another teammate learned of our mission and asked to join. The three of us set forth in search of ingredients and equipment.

Sure enough, we found everything we needed at Target, including a handsome little $10 grilling apparatus that boldly called itself the Snackmaster. We returned to the office, set up a sandwich assembly line, and prepared a hearty, office-made lunch while intriguing passersby.

When all was said and done, it was a tasty lunch and a fun diversion from the tax research procedures I was supposed to be working on.

This morning, one of my coworkers stopped me to voice a concern.

"You left your sandwich maker in the break room," she said.

"I know," I responded. "I figured we could make sandwiches again sometime, or maybe someone else can use it."

"Are you crazy? Someone's going to steal that thing if you don't take it home."

A few others piped in, backing her up.

"It'll be gone by the end of the week," another teammate said.

"You should at least keep it at your desk."

"No, people will take it off your desk. You should put it in your desk."