Banana Pancakes

I ate some banana pudding years back, and it inspired me to write. This morning I ate banana pancakes, and it brought on the same effect: acid reflux - and inspiration to write.

Must be something about the bananas.

About the same time years back, my first friend got married. It seemed in many ways to be a big pain in the ass. There are flowers. And family wishes. Times and costs and quotes and plans, lots of plans. But the kind of pain in the ass, I too, would like someday.

Just as I've discovered when these same people have had babies, and realized from the registry, babies need a lot of things, in marriage, via a registry, to be man and wife, you too, need a lot of stuff.

Today I sought out to prove, without the fanciness of a registry, I too could make things in my kitchen.

I thought wrong.

I'd craved, jonesed, for banana pancakes, so it was those I would make. How difficult could it be.

Very difficult when you don't read all the ingredients.

First, I'd bought the wrong oil. Correction, I hadn't bought any oil.

Next, I'd not any of the pans necessary for pancake making. Or pancake mix, mixing. A fancy mixer I wouldn't need, what with some old fashioned hard work and elbow grease.

Wrong.

I then discovered why the Los Angeles Department of Housing has been fining my landlord monthly for refusing to install a smoke detector in the kitchen. And for not fixing kitchen windows. I discovered these things.

But I did come to discover what also I set to prove at the start of my theory: I could produce something moderately edible without the help of fanciness. And I did. Produce. Moderately edible banana pancakes.

My writing style many times sells myself short. They were actually awesome. Sellable. Marketable. Eat all 8 that I made, good. That great.

Jack Johnson eat your heart out.

Die Happy

I love tator tots. And I love Sonic. And I love all those things in a drive up window with food being delivered by a 16 year old in roller skates. So that's essentially the only reason I mention this conversation happened at Sonic, over tator tots, and grilled cheese on texas toast and a cherry coke. Because for all essential literary value, it's of no consequence to this story. Although there's something supremely happy about eating tator tots and drinking cherry coke that makes me think of a day and a place without those things, and I of course, I turn to contemplate my death.

"I'm going to say something probably really unpopular," I said.

"Rebecca, is this about your theory that women shouldn't play sports. Because I can't have that conversation with you one more time."

"No," I said, "I think if I ever found out I had a life threatening illness, one with no chance of survival, death eminent, something like you're hearing that sound when you've used your last life on Mario Bros, well, I wouldn't tell anyone."

"Yeah, that's stupid."

"I just think, I mean being really selfish, it will significantly devalue the quality of my life. My last days. With people being all sad and weird. I'd just rather have a good time and, you know, party my ass off."

"Well how are people supposed to say goodbye, tell you how they feel, that they love you."

"And therein," I said, "lays the problem."

In the most uplifting way I say we're all a moment away from the game over brick breaker mario bros music. So I'd rather air on the side of telling you too many times how much I love you, than never enough. I should say I'd be generally displeased if it did all end tomorrow. What with a full list of things I'd like to do in my blackberry like buy new bras, get a facial, adopt a baby, go to Morocco. But if it did, I'd feel at peace. And last Thursday just helped that along.

The following tale is a classic tale. A classic tale of young love. A relatable classic tale. The kinda love where a 14 year old on roller skates, sits in their bedroom for hours, yelling at their little sister for picking up the phone and listening in on the call. There's nothing extraordinary about this tale. Except that it happened to me.

As a teenager I met a boy. We shared friends and classses, but what we didn't share was feelings. Me for him, but not him for me. Friends, he'd say, we'd always be. That didn't stop my little young heart from pitter pattering and declaring it the worst pain of my life when he asked my best friend to homecoming. "Friends, Rebecca, we're just friends."

Friends. The only time I've called that the f-word.

I never quite got over it. I graduated and went to college. He the same. And in run-ins in college, although I'd moved on to a serious relationship, and in no one could act on my feelings, I'd become that teenage little girl again, and him, dismissive with a new cap of fraternity boy arrogance.

I'd die my hair. I'd lose weight. I'd buy new clothes and hats and scarves. I'd be more hilarious. I'd be less hilarious. Outgoing and shy and more me, less me, whatever I had to be to get this gentlemen to like me, but alas, my efforts left me in the same place they did when I declared my love 8 years before. "Friends."

My ridiculousness was realized, as well as the knowledge I shouldn't ever be less myself in pursuit of affection. In lamemens terms: I grew up. I grew up, and I graduated college, and I became the person that fit me better than an outfit or hair cut or color that would fancy him, and in lamemens terms: I moved on.

Last Thursday I spent the thanksgiving holiday with family, and the night with my favorite kind of family: my sister. We went to a local bar which features an event I've redubbed, "family is stressful, get drunk." I followed my sister around for most of the night, while she bumped in to people she knew, and I sipped on my jack daniels and diet coke. At a visit for a refill, a stranger approached me.

"Rebecca."

(Ok, so this isn't a stranger. They know my name. But I've got nothing).

"Umm"

"Wow, you really don't remember me."

It was him. All grown up, and nearly not the person I remembered longing for as a teenager, or dismissing me in college. And not only did I not recognize him, I didn't recognize the feeling in me. I had moved on. Well this did feel delightful.

As someone I've known for more than half my life, we caught up. His brothers and parents. Where he's living, working. I did the same. Including such details like the happiness that surrounds my life.

"Yes I'm living here, and doing this, and this happened, and my sister this, and friends this, and the guy I'm dating this, and my ballet class that."

But all he seemed to zone in was "...and the guy I'm dating."

He asked me about it.
And he asked me about it again. Questioned it, frowned and sighed.
And again.

Three times he asked me about it.

Could it be possible that half my life later, a lot of moving on, and a lot of happiness, the tables had turned.

All my head spoke was OH MY HOLY HELL. "Yes I'm dating someone and I'm so happy."

As I walked to my sister's car and we spoke nothing, she looked at me and knew, without having to pick up the other end of the phone and secretly listen in on a conversation I was having as a 14 year old...I could die happy.