Tuesday, Jun. 13, 2006

T3, Good Enough, and Egg Hatred


Here's a Tuesday Three for you --

List three things you've drank today:

1)French Roast coffee with milk and a little bit of French Vanilla creamer. Some people use the liquid creamers in lieu of milk, but they're just too sweet for me. So, I treat them more like a sugar substitute and add milk like normal.

2)Diet Caffeine-Free Coke, with lunch

3)Decaf Mint Green Tea, this afternoon


List three things you've eaten today :

1)A really tasty chef's salad that I bought at the store and brought for lunch.

2)9-grain sourdough toast with butter

3)Daddy's yummy beef stew

List three talents you wish you had:

1)I wish I could play the guitar.

2)I wish I could dance well.

3)I wish I could relax.

***

I think I've figure out something.

I spend a lot of time in my head these days. Well, this isn't exactly something new. When you look up "introverted, academically-minded daydreamer" in the dictionary, my picture is there. What? You can't find it in your dictionary? Your dictionary must be broken.

Anyway, the job I do, while requiring a certain amount of mental engagement, can also be repetative in spots. So, while part of my mind is focusing on what I'm doing, the other part is on auto-pilot, and is free to wander about like a toddler in Grandma's attic -- poking its nose into boxes, pulling out dusty old paper sacks and digging at the treasures within with its pudgy little hands.

And, during one of these mental excavations, I realized that many of my problems, and probably many of other people's problems, stem from wanting to be Good Enough.

If you have a child, you want to be a parent that's Good Enough. Parent-y, but not too. Friend-like, but not too. And, of course, everyone I know wants to be Good Enough for their own parents. Even if they don't get along with their mother or father or both, some part of them deep down still seeks that approval for their life choices, somehow. Maybe it's subtle, maybe not so much. But there, anyway.

If you're in a relationship, or a marriage, or a domestic partnership of some sort, being Good Enough is an ongoing quest. As people change over time, their priorities change, their wants and likes change. Communication is key, here, as always, so that you let your other know that they're still Good Enough. Or not. However, this doesn't always happen. Am I too fat? Not fat enough? Do I give you what you need? What you want? What you expect? Am I Good Enough?

Friendships are similar. Some friendships, it's easier to tell if your friend is Good Enough, or if you're Good Enough for them. Those are the ones that last for years, for decades, for life. Other friendships change with the seasons, and they're meant to be that way from the start.

And at work, many businesses have documentation in place, paperwork that keeps track of exactly how Good Enough you are. We call those "Performance Reviews". Every year, you write down a list of things that you think your boss thinks you're Good Enough to learn, and then in a year, you'll sit down with said boss and determine if you were, in fact, Good Enough. For a raise, for a pat on the back, to keep your job.

Expectation. Disappointment. Perception.

Good Enough. It's the answer.

***

And, on a lighter note, I hate eggs.

Actually, *hate* isn't an accurate term. I think, on some atomic level, eggs and I are diametrically opposed. It's not just that I don't like the taste, or that I don't appreciate the cholesterol issues or that I am squicked out by the fact that eggs are essentially unfertilized avian ova. That last one *is* weird, but then people also eat goose liver pate on little toasts, and pour regurgitated bee food into their tea, and rip off crawfish heads to suck out their little brains, so eggs can get a bye on living in the "Holy Shit! That's freaking weird! And also, disgusting!" category.

If I smell an egg cooking, I usually leave the room, or else I sit there and surpress the urge to gag. The various textures involved with eggs are all unsavory and icky and all-over disgusting, to me. Raw eggs, with their mucousy white and their too-bright gelatinous yolk that is part demon eyeball and part alien pus sack.

Fried eggs, with their porous rubbery white and their singed, whited-over yolk that reminds me of the veiled iris of a dirty, blind beggar. When I was a kid, Dad would tear open the runny yolk of his fried eggs with the corner of a diagonally-cut piece of burnt, buttered toast, and the sight, not to mention the philosophical and existential implications, was almost more than my delicate egg-hating sensibilities could stomach. Literally. But I'm tough, thank the gods.

Hard boiled eggs, with their smooth, rubber-ball-like white and their chalky, pasty orb-yolk that is both gray and wan yellow. I just... it's just... I can't...

And that's just it -- words cannot adequately describe how incredibly vile I think eggs are. I wonder if there's a slot in my DNA for this, since my disgust has such a reflexive, deeply-seated feel. If my double helicies were a grocery list of traits, would it read, "... dark blue eyes, unattached earlobes, can roll tongue into fetching 'U' shape, despises eggs..."?

I will pick every bit of egg out of fried rice, and you can bet your bippy that I'll find every molecule, too. I have been known to walk up to an omlette bar in a brunch establishment and ask for a mushroom, pepper and chicken omlette, hold the egg. I get some awesome stares, sometimes. But I still get my plate of stir-fry, and I'm happy.

I think you're getting that eggs and me don't really get along.

However, I do cook eggs on occasion... for my baby. She? Loves eggs. Loves cheese omlettes. I have to run the stove fan on high while I cook them so I don't gag, and I will absolutely not touch them with anything shorter than an adult-sized fork, but for her, I cook eggs.

So, if anyone ever asks you if I love my daughter you can tell them, in hushed, reverent tones, "Dude. She *cooks eggs* for her baby." That says it all.

saturncat at 10:09 p.m.

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