What was I thinking? Never again will I...
...buy the dollar sandwich bags from the grocery stores. When it comes to dried beans, hand soap, and tortilla chips, the generic brand is my friend. Not so with plastic bags. I struggle to peel the two plastic layers apart only hours later to find my sandwiches and packed snacks spilling out of the bag into the bottom of the lunch sack, now a soggy, crumbly mess. Oh Ziploc, how I miss you.
...complain about Nashville recycling's refusal to take glass, or Charlottesville recycling's inability to take certain types of cardboard, or any other city's recycling restrictions. At least these places have recycling programs and residents who take advantage of them. Dan and I currently live in an area where no one recycles and no one cares. A tiny part inside of me dies whenever I see someone toss an aluminum can in the garbage can, or worse yet, on the side of the road. When I complained about the lack of recycling upon the first week of arriving, a Texan scoffed in replay, "I don't care about recycling. It's not like we'll be around when it matters anyway. And really, pollution is all China's fault." I wish I had had my friend Sarah Kate's response to my complaint to offer back as a retort: "Guns can be recycled, too, you know."
...convince myself that simply adding Worcestershire sauce to the pan will convince Dan to eat sauteed swiss chard. Apparently, adding a meat-enhancing seasoning to braised leafy greens does not change the fact that they are indeed braised leafy greens.
...wish that the school semester would hurry up and begin so I could get the hell out of the Southwest and return to a land of fellow pretentious foodies, liberals, and environmentalists--and I mean that in the best and nicest way. Because I realized that in leaving this place in twenty-six days also means leaving my husband for I don't know how long.
...fault Alabamanians so severely for their arrogance. Or at least not as often. The proud residents voices singing "Sweet Home Alabama" have nothing on the members of the republic of Texas.
...remain satisfied with the silent voices of scripture or history. Our inability to know the lives of Hagar or Michal or lower class colonial Americans need not prevent me from seeking, imagining, and painting their stories. My inquiries may not change the past but they change me; they honor and remind us of history's forgotten members.
...fold my socks or underwear. Honestly, who cares if my undergarments are wrinkled? And if my socks match? Considering that it used to take me a minimum of three minutes to match my socks every time I did laundry, I have gained two and a half hours of each year back, and if I live to the age of seventy-five, five extra days. My attitude on laundry surprises even me; ordinarily I am insanely anal, neat, and orderly. But when it comes to folding underwear--how does one properly fold a thong, anyway?--life is just too short.