‘Tis no secret that I am of The Ginger Race.  And in my gingerhoodedness, my lone detriment is the disavowing any knowledge of the ability to tan.

In my youth, my brilliant plan was for my freckles to eventually merge, and I’d possess The Uber Super Human Tan.  Plan faltered, failed, and buried.

[ Youth: When Looking Good Means Looking Like Everyone Else. ]

I tried the Crisco-to-skin route in the sun-basking days of junior high when the Cool Place to Hang was Bee Creek Pool and sunscreen was laughable.  Because all of my blonde and brunette friends were disgustly perfect and brown, soaking themselves in baby oil, and I, The Redhead, pun intended: paled in comparison.

From there, I coasted on into high school and straight into the tanning beds to toast my milky white skin for Important Life Altering Everything Depends On This Night Events like “Homecoming” and “Prom”.  Everyone else was tanning, so why not me?  (score one for play-on-words 90′s reference to Cranberries record)

And after a about five really good burny burn burns equatable to Wince When You See Me proportions? I actually managed to gain more freckles color.

Never underestimate the power of Denial.

[ This is Where Reality and Acceptance Set In. ]

But then I took a chemistry course at A&M. My professor scolded me that tanning beds were A Touch of Satan. That hour-long pep talk gingerly (yes, again!) sealed my fate as a Pale. I was banished to shade and SPF for eternity.

Tan goddesses like Jennifer Aniston are just FREAKS OF NATURE. (Actually, I hear she goes to those spray tan places and spends like $98 mil on the upkeep, but whatevs.)

[ This is Where Reason Flies Out The Window And Looking Good Wins. ]

I never considered tanning until quite recently when the sudden realization that if I don’t rip the veritable sunburn band-aid off a wee teensy bit by doing something… the first day we arrive in St. John, I will immediately baste and cook like a Thanksgiving turkey, rendering myself unrecognizable two days later when we get married.

[ Here Is The Point. ]

Should I take today, this beautiful Saturday, and take advantage of the tanning bed coupons bestowed upon me in the bridal gifty package thing I got when purchasing my wedding dress?

Because I certainly don’t want my wedding pictures to look like the menu cover at Red Lobster.

Upon returning home from The First Day training at the new job, I opened the door to a smiling and giddy husband-to-be.

Holding this:

Flowers = Excellence

Awwwww!!

The day went so ridiculously perfect that my tum-tum fills with dread having to finish my two weeks at old job.

One of my favorite hobbies on the weekends is to go bargain shopping slash rummaging through aisles of clothes at Goodwill. I will spend hours just walking and leafing – in search of those perfect, classic pieces that look brand new.

Agenda:
Find basic, classy Professional Career Business Womany type pieces (the glee in which I typed that phrase was incendiary).

Shopping List:
* Pencil skirts (basic colors)
* Solid blouses (I feel so matronly saying ‘blouse’, yet ‘tops’ just sounds silly, ‘camisoles’ makes me think of underoos… so will someone please educate me on the proper term for a ‘shell’ type top?)
* Classic heels that cover the tattoo ON THE TOP OF MY FOOT idiotically obtained during Drunk Phase.

After all, I have an obligation to dress the part of Professional Career Business Woman. Because from now on it’s deadlines, coffee, briefcases, and business suits.

But as I was thumbing through the many hideous clothes you will inevitably stumble upon like the floral printy 90′s stretch pants when Goodwill Hunting, I froze dead in my tracks when I laid eyes on this little mod number.

Goodwill Hunting

“That is adorable,” The Cashier wrinkled her nose angrily at me.

“I kind of want to change into it when I get into my car,” I grinned like an idiot. “Even though the next place I’m going is home.”

If you think it’s ugly? TOTALLY don’t tell me because I have already drawn up the papers to adopt it as a new member of our family:

1. The Mister
2. Me
3. Ginobili, our wee bebeh hedgehog
4. 42″ HDTV
5. Mod Dress

The Mister: I decided I’m going to get a tattoo.
Me: Oh yeah?
The Mister: On my shoulder.
Me: Hmm. Okay. What is it going to be?
The Mister: A potato chip.
Me: (blank stare, eventual light bulb)
In Unison: Chip on your shoulder.

Ba dum ching!

[ Five Years Ago I Was Embarrassing. ]

When I first moved to Austin, I was a fresh-faced and eager young lassy, ready to embrace all that the city had to offer. A veritable beret-flinging Mary Tyler Moore. After living in corporate trafficy suity-suit Houston for four years, Austin enticed me as the artsy, younger, hipper sibling.

I will frequent random coffee shops and record stores!
I will burn incense and absorb culture!
I will Live Strong! and Keep Austin Weird!

But I could never quite pull the whole scarfy exotic Vegan Bohemian Existentialist thing off. I totally wore Gap jeans and ate Whataburger.

[ Five Years Down The Road I Got Bitter. ]

“I know it’s a big ol’ crazy shot in the dark, but… do you have anything in the klezmer genre?”

I’m wearing my best shade of Denial in hopes I won’t have to shlep all the way downtown with the traffic and the parking to Waterloo Records* where I know I’ll find exactly what I’m looking for.

“Huh?” The Best Buy girl in blue automatically looks at me disgusted.

I retreated to my car to mentally prepare to head downtown with the gamillions of people. Getting anywhere in this city takes 72 hours and a ravaging dose of Tylenol Extra Strength.

*Referential Explanationcakes:
Waterloo, a place I once practically lived in and loved, is a wildy popular record store in the epicenter of Austin known for safehousing people with hair I no longer understand and obscure music. It has a parking lot that consists of five spaces.

“My dad is worth it. My dad is worth it.” I chanted as I entered the parking lot. My panther-like eyes spy a coveted spot about to open. Sweet pickles that heavenly spot will be mine!

Two Dreadlockians standing on both sides of the car.
And yet they aren’t getting in?
They are casually discussing where to go next.

GETINTHECARANDGO!!

The good news? My trek was not made in vain. Waterloo, of course, delivered with an entire row of Israel-shaped music to choose from.

[ This Is My Last Straw. ]

Ready to purchase and getout, I took stance behind an iPod Backpack in Pigtails.
For 2 minutes.

One would assume she was standing in line to purchase the albums in her hand.
But that assumption would be wrong.

She was just standing there.
Existing.

“Scuse me,” I muttered. She didn’t budge.
“Scuse me,” I cleared my throat.

“SCUSE ME-e-E!” My voice cracked from the uncomfortable volume. “I’d like to get by now!”

I am Garth Algar.
And Waterloo is my discontent.

Dear Populii,
It would behoove you greatly to waddle a wee teensy bit faster when crossing a parking lot and or crosswalk.

I see that both of your legs are functioning quite well.  And yet you do not use them to their fullest potential. The tortoise-like speed in which I must witness the excruciating de-tail of every. single. step. you. take. confuses me greatly.

This goes especially to those Diagonal Parking Lot Strollers with 847 children in tow, scattering about the lot as though it were the devil’s playground.

Molasses wins,
The LindeBlog.

P.S.
This message excludes olds and handies.

The Mister? A lyrics connoisseur. He is infamous in 3 counties for his ridiculously impressive talent of reciting a song, word for word, after hearing it only once.

Me: What’s that Metallica song called?
The Mister: (heavy sigh – he despises Metallica) Aww, Baby…
Me: I feel like I should bust out my ol’ combat boots and flannel with a fist pump. It’s the one with the dramatic pause. The chorus goes, ‘You know it’s sad patrooooool‘.
The Mister: What?
Me: Sad patro-hooool-uh!
The Mister: Wait. (pause) Did you just say…
Me: What?
The Mister: It’s “Sad But True”.
Me: No, no, no. ‘You know it’s sad patroooooool!’
The Mister: Nope.
Me: What? (pause) Oh.
The Mister: (silence)
Me: Wow. That makes so much more sense.
The Mister: Yep.
Me: So I can no longer taunt you for ‘Jeremy’s Broken Glass Today’?
The Mister: Nope.
Me: I need at least 5 to 10 minutes to process this.

It seemed like a full five minutes post-failure, that the camera was dead set on capturing the precise moment when Alicia Sacramone’s heart broke as she processed the utter magnitude of her gymnastic foibles, losing the gold medal for her entire team. Her face like stone as she stared in the distance – probably retreating to her happy place to fetal a big fluffy pillow.

And just to drive it home, an instant replay of her each of her failures was broadcast.
In every angle possible.
In slow motion.

[ This is Where I Lose It. ]

“TAKE THE CAMERA OFF OF HER!! TAKE THE CAMERA OFF OF HEEEER!!” I found myself Shirley MacLaining through tearful ducts. I took on the demeanor of Batty Protective Stage Mom, kneeling before the television, arms wide open as if to embrace her in television pixel box form. “Shhhh it’ll be oh-kay. That’s right. Shhhhhhhhhh.”

Ten minutes prior in stupid, somewhat odd jealous fit, I had been rolling my eyes and snarking, “Look at her. You can tell she thinks she’s SO great.”

Had it been me? I would have jet fighter piloted to the locker room winning my own gold medal for terrific speed and spontaneously combusted into a giant weeping ball of tears.

"No one else made mistakes, so it's kind of my fault" - Alicia Sacramone

Dear Alicia,
You win a gold medal for maintaining your composure in front of the entire world. Hats off to you, my dear. Hats. off.

Your Batty Protective Stage Faux Mom,
The LindeBlog.

When you’re about to get married and honeymoon on a tropical island… you want to make sure you have the right equipment to play with.  Eh?  Eh?

This gentleman is staring at me as I’m handing him his business cards. Every move I make he shifts to turn to watch me. The creepy factor is null and void as he’s seen two World Wars and has the face of a teddy bear. I, myself, feel like one of those presh sleepy moles with the eyes because it’s 8:30 in the am, but I do my best to greet him.

As I hand him his credit card and finally make eye contact, I notice his noggin tipped to one side. “Have you ever listened to Porgie and Bess?”

Word Association: Porgie, though not technically Porky, automatically makes me think of fat. A big ol’ tub o’ lard festering in a metal tub in the dead and dry grass in a barren lawn behind a house built in 1917 on a deserted lot in Snook, TX.

[ This A Random Drawn Out Explanation for My Train of Thought. ]

Disclaimer: I am your perpetual dieter. Since I was a fetus, I’ve been rail thin, portly, and just right. But my weight has always been a fight for me. Blah blah nothing new she’s SOOOO uniquecakes.

As of two months ago, when I saw the countdown was nearing that I’d be on a beach in paradise to wed my Precious Slice o’ Pumpkin Bundt Cake, the last thing I wanted to see was my paley pasty rolly mcdough-dough skin wabbling to and fro in the sand. Funny, I can almost see you shudder.

So we began a rigorous (because my computer can’t italicize that enough) nightly exercise routine and a restrictive diet.

The Good News: I have somehow magically managed to reduce myself back to the size I was pre-Quitting The Cigarettes (yes, our lungs are pleased and yes, I smoked. Like a chimney. In Antarctica.) which makes me do an offensive amount of cartwheels because I’m finally happy with my weight enough that I bought a wedding dress. (Can I just add that the dress is perfect? I mean, I literally squealed, in typical girly form, at the moment of purchase.)

But! Every once in awhile I’m horrified that losing the chub chub is all a dream and that I’ve stopped, dropped, and rolled right back into Heftytown overnight. Because I am always the fat girl in my head. In case I didn’t drive that nail in enough.

[ Back to The Point SorryAboutTheInterruption. ]

“No? No. Can’t say that I have?”

“It’s an opera by George Gershwin,” he continued.

I suddenly feel ridiculously uncultured and may as well be simultaneously smacking gum and chewing on a toothpick. Gershwin! Of course! “It goes a little something like, ‘A REDHEADED WOMAN MAKE A CHOO CHOO JUMP ITS TRACKS!!”

It’s a bit endearing as I, being of the Ginger race, realize he’s complimenting me in a Gary Cooper sort of way. I half expect him to call me Toots, invite me to the picture show, and then down the lane to the local The Soda Shoppe for a banana split.

“You know, my grandson married one. I gave that as a toast at his wedding. Your fella sure is lucky.”

Awwwwww.
Little old people? ADORABLE.

This morning, I adapted the graceful stance of an upside down J, shuffling on a hunch and a prayer to and fro ’bout the office. See, my back and I have been disagreeing about everything lately. And I just have to sit there. And take it.

“Are you okay?” The woman who just walked into the office is clearly alarmed. She witnesses my sad attempt to pick up the fallen stapler. I look like an umbrella handle, lady. What do you think?

Me: Oh yeah. Yeah. Just can’t really move.
Lady: Do you do yoga?
Me: Oh yeah. Yeah. No.
Lady: Ooooh you should do yoga.

[ This Is The Flashback Scene. ]

My mind wanders to the phase about a decade ago when I got all gung-ho about yoga. Completely determined, I bought the workout tape, a mat for which to celebrate my oneness with the universe, and a new pair of comfy pj pants – the works. My water bottle rested peacefully at my side. Serenity serenity serenity.

I am totally Gwyneth Paltrow.
I’ll move to England.
And eat macrobiotic foods.

Because that’s what happens when you do yoga.

I giddily popped cassette into player anxious for my new lifestyle to begin. Ten minutes into the workout, the breathy instructor’s buttermilky coos of praise, “Yes. You’re doing gooooooooooooood” began to sound more like nails on a chalkboard than motivation.
Am I? Am I doing good? Because I’m pretty sure the civil war my legs are about to engage in would state otherwise. Needless to say, the yoga phase was immediately squandered and inevitable pique of interest in Tai Bo was born. I turned the tape off and opted for a rerun of Seinfeld instead.

[ Flashback Over Now. ]

“You should google some office chair exercises.” She offers as she exits. “Those things will murder you if you don’t.” Oooh. Death By Furnishing. Cool.

So I did.
Right after she left.
Aaaaaand came across this:

Office Exercises
My only option? Really?

Maybe it’s pride.
I dunno.
Maybe it’s the fact that I am a clumsy ol’ broad and my boss would walk in just as that chair beneath my hands would remember it had wheels and shimmy it’s way to Dixieland before catering to my well being.

Since birth, I have straightened, ironed, and flattened quite rigorously, every single strand of hair on the top of my head right down to the tippy tip tip of sadly inevitable split ends.

Why?
All in the name o’ beauty, Toots. Wink!

Preceeding my very first straightening iron purchase circa 1992, I was privy to laying head to ironing board like an L-shaped nitwit, hoping and praying not to drop the 783 lb. iron on my head. Or worse:

Sear scalp.
Check into burn ward of ICU.
Spontaneously combust.

So I slowly made the transition to curly because straightening is time consuming I gained the humbling perspective that This is the lady The Man Upstairs made, and who am I to try to change it? *hands on hips*

(If you don’t like it, then for the love of pickles don’t tell me because I would be totally offended.)

[ Excuse Me While I Tap Dance To The Point. ]

I’ve worn it straight maybe fo’ times this last year.
Today being the fifth.

So I’m a bit of a petunia in an onion patch at this point because what I’ve gotten in my straightened state, is a blistering typhoon of “Your hair looks so good straight!”

And I smile, process, then manage to kind of stutter an awkward “thanks!!” with a thumbs up and a blink intermittently like I just got jalapeno juice in my left eye. Because when faced with a compliment from a stranger? I morph into the uncomfortable Quasimodo. If he were an Aggie. And female.

But each time, I die a little inside. Because now I have this sandpaperish pressure from society (so dramatic, I ams *chews gum*) to straighten it again.

And The Mister, bless him, is of little to no help with the Inquisition of Curlitude because he loves me either way.

So back to square one.
Which really didn’t have a point in the first place.
Totally inserting head in sand.

*Crickets*

I don’t know if you remember the ghost of posts past (see: Chipotle Get Your Gun), but I had severe trepidations with the Raspberry-Chipotle HEB Marinade that sat for decades two weeks on my pantry shelf as it ran its spicy little condescending claws down my culinary self-esteem chalkboard.

After scouring the internet for a suitable recipe, I approached the marinade, ripped the protective covering from its neck, and went to town. Garlic to the left of me! Shallots to the right of me! I laugh in the face of chipotle!

The verdict?
Touchdown.
Slam dunk.
Goooooooooooaaaaal!!!

Fiance even phoned home about it.

So I thought I would share my triumphs with you in a little creation of mine, dear Reader. You know, just in case you might want Heaven on your dining room table.

You can thank me (and Canada) later.

When loving yourself for the way you were intended to be just isn’t enough:

Lady: So I was wondering, for tax purposes… can I get all the receipts for the last year of business I’ve done here?
Counter Man: No, I’m sorry.
Lady: Why not?
Counter Man: I can give you a receipt every time you leave.
Lady: (scoffs) But then I would have to keep up with them.

Exactly.

The Mister and I were unloading our groceries when I squealed with delight as I pulled the box of newly purchased via eBay kitchen magnets from their package.   “Those look like M&M’s,” he observes.

And so they shall.

And
so
they
shall.

Do you see that thar yonder?  The Raspberry Chipotle Sauce seated directly to your left.  Look at it.  In all of its Chipotle Glory. Titillating your retinas with its billowing presence.

Aaaaand now you know my pain.

I bought this salivating beast of a concoction at H-E-B to coddle my ever increasing desire to become a better cook. To add some pizazz to my journey on the road to Chefdom. 

You would think once it settled on the bleachers of our pantry, that I would be overjoyed to welcome this heavenly glaze into my home with open arms.  I made a special place for it and everything.  And then I stared at it.

It totally intimidates me. 
Mocks me from the shelf.
Rears hideous feelings of cooking inadequacies.
It’s been there for three days.

Yesterday, in my desperate attempt to get it out of my dreams and into my car, I began obsessively searching for different diet recipes to use.  Therein sparking a mental debate of grilled chicken vs. turkey meatballs.  As a marinade or as a sauce?  So much so that my head detached itself of all reason and priority, and fixated on the neverending nagging battle conceived by the purchase of this pinche sauce. So many combinations!  So! Intimidating!

Dear Raspberry Chipotle,
The longer you rest your cylindrical hiney in my pantry, the more inadequate I feel as a cook.  This week you will be mine.  Oh yes.  You will be mine.

Sincerely,
M

Hello, Logo.
You are here for amusement and decorative purposes only.
Commence.

So I got a wild hair to make some coffee this morning.

I have these coffee grounds from Starboo that an old roommate gave me for Christmas, like, five years ago when I went through my Coffee Every Hour phase. Needless to say, that era consisted of a whole lotta shakin’ (hey-o!) and some super energy.

Why I didn’t throw them away when we moved in is purely superficial: the package looked really good on the shelf in it’s cute little bag implying Some Days I Drink Coffee and When That Day Comes I Am Completely Prepared Because That’s Just What I Do.

But on said package of these Starbucks grounds, it says to:
1. Store in an air tight container.
2. Use one week after opening.

Now call me conservative, but I feel like that’s asking a lot of the casual consumer – to use the entirety of its contents in one week. It’s kind of like the committment of buying a jug of milk. The expiration factor. The mere fact that it’s there with its lingering time frame and its over the top guilt trip because of the starving children – coerces, forces, and legally binds me to use recipes that contain milk just to get it out of the fridge.

Obvs at the time of the gifting, I didn’t look into that.

So I kind of opened them, like, 98 years ago when they were first bestowed upon me, slapped a twisty on ‘em, and let them marinate on the shelf.

And let me just end this by reiterating, those directions for storage and shelf life? They weren’t just whistlen’ Dixie. Because I wound up dry heaving, then proceeding to run my fingernails down my cheeks in disgust post first sippage.

You know you’ve converted to Domesticism when the brand new spice rack equipped with a bevy of spices brings you more joy than that album used to by The Band You Loved So Much.

In my venture of cookery, I have come to discover the delight of Central Market – the oh so very organic, oh so very granola haven under the umbrella of all that is HEB. AKA My New Favorite Dive To Spend Saturday Morning Errands.

I frolic through the glass entrance like an eager child in F.A.O. Schwartz ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the marvelous Barbie stiletto water-filled pillar (shoutout: Westheimer). But replace the millions o’ mini-heels with serrano peppers. Or, you know, your food of choice. Whichevs.

Tinkering curiously down each aisle, I take a sweet moment to breathe in the pungent aroma of the patchouli bath salts. Pass the various assortments of hummus and pesto, and it is then, when I saunter down the mile-long International Cheese Department leering inquisitively at the stinky cheese, that I wonder how I could have not gotten into this ‘cooking thing’ sooner.

It is here, at Central Market, that my senses are sparked, heightened, and dare I say emancipated.

And I did something I never pictured myself doing: I purchased feta cheese. And balsamic vinegar. And the new staple in our kitchen, an adorable find, the Kishu Mandarin (pictured left, compared to an orange).

I find this an amazing breakthrough considering last year our food consumption consisted of microwavables, Papa John’s, and Whataburger.

Winter winds a-blowin’ on the outsides it was, and my determination for entertainment well outweighed the pressures of Mother Nature. Nary did I heed the weather man’s warning, but rather challenged it as I skipped to the closest Blockbuster. And by skipped I mean totally drove.

While standing in line, I noticed your typical teen walk by.

She must have been no more than 14.

How could one not notice her in a ripped tank top, shorts (winter winds, I tells ya!), and boots to the knees. Proudly carrying in her arms a framed Abbey Road poster making sure everyone would see, she spun in place, and cooed “My babieeeeees,” all the while staring at it adoringly.

Oh God.
I feel my face flush and turn away out of embarrassment.

Her mom looks tired. Desperately trying to relate to her daughter, she points to the poster. “Now I seem to remember… when this album came out. I think there was something about (pause) him? Being dead or something?”

Biting tongue.
Sweet Mary and Joseph she’s pointing at Ringo.

“And!” Daughter chimed in to sales lady, “Do you guys have Across the Universe… TO BUY?! Please please please say you do! I looooove The Beatles!” In case we, the entire postal district, didn’t happen to pick up on her gratuitous display.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” She bites an eager black fingernail. “Do you guys have Requiem for a Dream?”

Hot Topic called.
They want their Dead Kennedy’s patch back.

One last glimpse as Mother and Daughter exit Blockbuster is of her flapping her arms with glee. Her mom looks drained, yet relieved, that for the next few hours her daughter will be content. Which melted my heart, and initiated a phone call to my own mom to tell her what an angel she is for weathering the storms of my sister and me.

I got in my car, sighed, and immediately ejected Abbey Road.