for Midgie

Dear Mary,

My earliest memories are of your home. It was a retreat, a playground, replete with treats and marvels. I spent hours of my childhood sifting through boxes of costume jewelry (which I never saw you wear) or scheming to get into the cookie jar (shaped like a cow) where I knew I'd find Milanos or Fudge Stripes. Yours was a home filled with comfort and mystery: apothecary jars, glass figurines, towers of books, bottles of rose-scented lotion, and your father's desk, crammed with secret cubbyholes and coin collections. I was certain that your backyard, with a swing on the cherry tree and a pool we weren't *supposed* to jump into, was my happiest place on the planet.

After we moved to Tennessee, I mythologized you. We were removed by distance from the daily annoyances of generation gaps, necessary discipline, family conflict. I wrote you hyperbolic letters and believed that perhaps you would intervene and force my parents to grant my dearest wish (which was to have my ears pierced). I read you the lyrics to Missing You by John Waite over the telephone. You sent the most fabulous and thoughtful birthday boxes, which were always late but legendary.

It is from you that I am sure I inherited my tendency to lavish affection on animals, having conversations with them, sneaking them treats. I developed a love of word puzzles and classic novels from years of sharing them with you. When I was young my mom told me about many Christmas eves when she would hear you up late, crying, overwhelmed because you had so many presents to wrap and had waited until the last minute. Even as a little girl, I recognized my own tendencies in this story, the likelihood that I would procrastinate and then be angry with myself, the self-pity, the desire to do everything for everyone and make everything the most special, the most perfect.

When I was younger, I was sure I had been granted two of the most opposite grandmothers possible. In comparison to my father's brash mother, who brooked no bullshit and used that word often, yours seemed a mild-mannered, profanity-free life. Hazel had been married often, lost husbands in wars, kept a lot of convenience foods in her vast freezer, and governed her entire family (almost none of whom were related by blood) with guilt and sass. In contrast, you were soft-spoken, a little bit silly, devoted to your church, reserved in dress and a total pushover. Even when you were angry, which wasn't nearly as often as it should have been, there was an optimism to it, a disappointment in the offending party because you expected more of everyone else around you.

I can see it clearly now: you and Hazel were united by a single driving force that provided you with a life's purpose and also something to talk about with each other, despite being on opposite sides of an historical divide. You both loved and protected your family with a fierceness that can't be captured in words, and by which I find myself shaped every day of my life. It moves me the way other people are moved by ambition or desire.

As your memories and realities faded, you kept your sweet demeanor and curious nature. Your face, as it grew more and more blank, was still always smiling. I haven't had a conversation with you that related to our real lives in years. It's like you've been gone the whole time. And now you really are, you were gifted your wish of a peaceful passing, and somehow it's made you more real in my mind than you have been in a long time. My sisters and I are flying to San Jose today for your memorial, and I'm planning the menu for the April birthday party at Bill's house after a service at the church. Wednesday night I dreamed that the food wasn't ready and there were hungry boys everywhere (and a lion) and I was deciding to cook churrasco even though we didn't have a grill or any meat marinating. And then you were there, and you gave me this long, strong hug, and I was filled with a rush of power and gratitude and light that I carried with me long after I woke up, got dressed, moved on with my day.

There is no less trite way to say it: our family was blessed to have you at the start of it. You brought countless discoveries and beauties into our lives, and I don't think any of us are going to ever stop missing you. Thank you for always bringing and keeping us together, and for giving us all the strength and intelligence to also go our own ways, wherever that has been. I'm hoping for another visit with you in my dreams soon. There is still so much I can't wait to tell you.

Several Updates Necessary

1. Happy March (or as Shalene would say, Birth Month). Tuesday I happened to glance at the tiny blue text on my desk calendar to discover that SUNDAY IS DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME! Oh man this makes me so happy. Proof! Spring! Baseball! Sunlight! all of it.

2. I'm counting down til my last day at work. I took two days (today and yesterday) to tie down the balance sheet and backup our Quickbooks. Then I'm taking Monday through Thursday of next week to train my replacement. Then I'm taking Friday off to put together my birthday party. Saturday is party, Sunday I'll be getting my head in the game and Monday the 17th, walking in the door at Emma.

3. As I mentioned, I'm training my replacement at work, which means I've been handling advertising for the position, fielding resumes, interviewing candidates, and now making the final decision with my coworkers. Let me tell you, this has been an adventure. At Hatch, we used to make a game out of handling all the intern applications, which were often funny or creative, or at least occasionally so dumb it was entertainment-worthy.

This time around, I am alternately saddened and appalled by the things that the general public might think is appropriate for a resume. Here's a hint: no floral or smiley icons. Also, please don't center-justify your cover letter. Additionally, I don't think it's proper to tell me you're charismatic. Isn't that for me to decide? And the most important detail of all: SPELL CHECK YOUR RESUME! PERIOD! This is not negotiable! These are WORD documents that weren't spell checked! Word does it FOR YOU! Oh man. One applicant misspelled the word "government" when she was telling me she used to work there. For the goverment. And another applicant, happily, joyously, delivered to me the Elusive True Definition of Irony: misspelling "detail-oriented" on your resume. Thank you, Ignorant Job Applicant!

I know this is all incredibly mean-spirited. I should tell you that out of the 50-or-so resumes I received, we had at least 15 strong candidates, and out of those, seven interviewees who all seemed bright and sharp and at least partially qualified. And I think we've made the right decision with the final candidate. I really don't want to leave any big vacancy here. I'm trying to make the transition as smooth as possible.

4. In one week I've had two cooking disasters. One burned skillet lasagna and one totally foul one-pot kielbasa mess that I don't even want to detail. What is WRONG with me? I can't take it too hard, though, and I should cheer up my bruised chef-ego with thoughts of the delicious Italian sausage, mushroom and onion penne with a white wine cream sauce from Wednesday. That was tasty.

5. What, you wanted bigger updates than those ones? Something that makes a better story than Random Annual Time Changes, The Idiotic General Public or Ruined Dinners? Oh, okay.

Last Thursday morning I headed to the bank on my way to work. I was sitting at the light at 5th Avenue North and Jefferson Street and realized that traffic was stopped despite the light being green. Being an unnecessarily aggressive driver, I said, out loud, in my car, to no one, "WHY are we not going forward?" Then I saw some white and black movement between the cars in front of me and realized that there was a dog in the road, and people were (politely, safely) stopped to avoid hitting it. I watched the dog wander around in the road, on the median, in front of other moving vehicles, and then it finally ran right up to my car. I opened my car door. The dog jumped in my backseat and laid down.

Oops.

I drove around Germantown and asked people in the street if they'd ever seen him before. He was wearing a chain collar, with no tags. Then I just let him out of the car when we were far enough away from 8th or Jefferson that I felt like he could find his way home without being on any major thoroughfares. He ran in circles in the street for a minute, then ran straight back over and put his paws on my driver's side window.

Oops.

SO I put him back in the car, drove straight to Eckerd, bought a leash and a rawhide bone and a small bag of food, and brought him to work with me. I posted his picture on Craigslist and two petfinder websites. He spent the day sleeping on my feet under my desk.

Oops.

After work, I drove around with him to give Austin time to get home and wrangle Mischa and Bridgette so we could at least partially control their introduction. Which didn't end up being entirely necessary: Bridgey was a little iffy at first but Mischa was overjoyed at another friend to follow around and play mouthbiting games with. Within an hour, all three were crashed on the living room floor and we were suddenly seeming like a bigger, happier family.

Oops.

When I first brought him into the office, I was calling him Buddy. "Hey buddy, come sit in here with me." By the time I took him home that day, he had a new name: Digby. He stayed with us over the weekend, got along famously with the girls, basically ignored the cats (which is quite a feat when Mackenzie is launching herself at him, spitting and hissing like a banshee), slept on one of the dog beds in the dressing room. The only behavioral problem we're having with him is a territorial issue with the couch. As in, we are territorial about our couch, and he feels he could share it with us.

So I took him to the vet on Tuesday, got him his shots and all checked out. He's a 70 pound Dalmatian/black lab mix (at best), 2 years old with no health problems other than some issues with his Man Part that they are going to fix surgically when he gets neutered on Monday. I won't go into more details than that unless you want me to. I think most of you do not want me to.

Originally we were intending to find his family. But after thinking about it, maybe that wasn't the best place for him in the first place. As Casey put it: (found him in) North Nashville + (he still has his) balls = ghetto. And that's assuming that they even still wanted him; my theory is that he was dumped in that neighborhood after he wasn't aggressive enough to be a fighting dog. He has scars on his ears and mouth, and it's also possible that his ween problem was from scarring. So then we said we'd try to find him a good home. And now, I think, obviously, we have.

Oops.

Meet Digby.

my head is getting so big it's not going to fit in the blog...

What? You don't all get shoutouts on the Nashville Scene Food Blog? Oh. Sorry. I won't rub it in then.

I guess I owe you all some fudge...

...call me if you want to collect. I could make some fudge if you need me to.

This is apparently the time of my month when I want to cry every time I see the videophone commercial with the sincere-looking curly-haired Army guy talking to his family from a tent in War-ville. Also the time when I want to just lie on the floor and have the dogs be really still and let me hug them like stuffed animals. But most especially the time when I embrace my capacity for Overwhelming Worry about Many Things Over Which I Have No Control.

For example: the dogs. Are out in the rain and cold. And I want to rush home and towel them off and let them in but they'll just get muddy again. And I think about installing a dog door in the garage, so they'd at least have some shelter in bad weather. But would they even be smart enough to go inside if we're not there to encourage them (which of course doesn't work because if we were there they'd be inside with us)? Can I even convince my high-strung dogs who won't go up stairs or through gates to squeeze through a hole in a door? Would they destroy the (mostly unimportant) contents of our garage? Or would putting in a dog door open the garage up to looters?

Another example: work. I got a new job! I only have less-than-three weeks here! I should be emotionally extricating myself with every passing moment! Instead, I'm laying in bed this morning obsessing about taxes and printers and hiring new bookkeepers and...well...taxes. I'm really concerned about taxes.

And the new job! Could the people who work there possibly be as cool and friendly and welcoming as they appear? What if it's a cult of terminally clever and hip prototypes who say all the right things until you're suddenly sucked into a white slave workshop and they've replaced you with a robot and no one notices? When they say they dress casually for work, does that mean "rock star" casual or "ratty sweatshirt" casual? Would they be horrified if they saw me in my current ensemble of Extreme Slack? HOW am I going to adjust to getting to work at 8:30 in the morning?

Then there are the random creepers of worry that populate the rest of my life when I'm not busy obsessing about many aspects of one thing. Like windshield wipers. And my herb garden. And the light bulbs in our ceiling fans, which are not only hard to find and frequent to burn out, but aren't the environmentally friendly ones! And then I start doing the thing where I'm listing all the people I miss. Mom. Aunt Paula. Mike McIntyre. My grandmas. Kate. Ingrid.

What this means to me is that by this time next week, I'll find myself picking unnecessarily cruel arguments with people I love while denying that I am the one who started it. And then by the week after that, I'll just be thinking about Sex and Salty Foods, all the time.

This makes me sound like a crazy person. Or perfectly normal, depending on how you look at it. And really, I need to just force myself to examine the Utter Joy that is my life right now (outside of work, at least). We have got it going on pretty damn good right now. Lots of free time with which to sloth around the house with my Boo, snuggle our animals, play lots of Tetris, cook lots of good food, plan lots of fun things for the spring, which is starting to feel like it might come after all. Multiple times, every day, I sigh and say, "How lucky are we?" Who gets to say that and mean it? Looking at it all from over here, I think I can pack up my worry pants for another three weeks. At least.

had enough hinting and foreshadowing?

Oh, okay. I'll break it. I got a new job. One that I've been angling for for a very long time, and at a place that I'm so excited about that I can hardly sit still. I've given three weeks notice at my current job, and my boss was both gracious and helpful when I told him, so I'm really relieved about that.

I mean, really. I don't think this has even sunk in yet. And I don't know if it will until March 17th, when I drive south instead of north in the morning.

I suppose you want to hear details about the new job. I have this weird superstitious instinct kicking in here as I type. I have to keep telling myself that the hard part is over, my coworkers all know, I don't have to keep any secrets anymore. It's a billing associate position with Emma, an email marketing company that is one of the coolest places to work in Nashville. This is just one of those things where I can see myself there. I can't wait to get started.

But right now, I have a lot of work to do, to make an easy transition for my replacement at my current position. I've been working towards this for a while, and really getting caught up on all my pending long-term projects, and I feel good about my ability to finish everything. I was dreading coming in today and telling everyone that I was leaving. I had to psyche myself up and tell myself that the last two times I gave notice at a job, the first time I was leaving my family of seven years, and the second time they FIRED me for giving notice, so this couldn't possibly be as bad as either of those, right? And of course it wasn't.

AND much more importantly I've got to plan my celebratory dinner at Red Lobster tonight. Nothing says Congratulations Delaney like dipping it in butter.

to eliminate confusion

Just so you know, the undiscussable Thing for which I asked for good luck jujus last summer and again this week? It is not a baby. Good lord. It is a coincidence that I posted a video of a hilarious baby and then asked for karmic help on another Issue in my Life entirely. No babies. I do not need a Good Luck Baby right now. Sorry Mom.

But oh boy, I can't wait until I can tell you all the rest.

In all honesty, both of you who read this blog already know what I'm talking about. I don't know why I pretend that discretion is necessary. I'm not in the military. Mostly I'm just trying not to jinx it, while still naturally squealing with excitement to every person that crosses my path.

Discretion = not my strong suit. Geez, shut your mouth, Delaney.

it's been a long time since my ovaries have twinged with this kind of regularity...

Please. Please. Just watch the whole thing.



Oh, and remember last summer, when I asked you for some good karmic juju, and you did your best but the thing I was wishing for didn't pan out? Well, this time, multiply that times ten thousand, and please throw me some mental good-luck love this week. I'll make every one of you some fudge if this comes through. A Delaney's-Good-Luck-Fudge-of-the-Month subscription, how does that sound?