by Katie McCollow
In the morning when you rise, aren’t you glad to be alive?”
That’s Jimmy Buffett again, friends, and if you think it’s too soon for me to be going back to the well, it’s not. And I can prove it: the more bad news there is, the more we need Buffett lyrics.
The wisest man I’ve ever known
Katie, that’s not proof, that’s just a thing you said.
And against that statement, I launch my impenetrable “It Is To Me” defense.
Let me explain.
When I was in first grade, yes, the very same year the movie The Exorcist ruined my life, I learned that peanuts were a source of protein, just like beef. I extrapolated that to mean that peanut butter was made of meat, a theorem I excitedly shared with my family at the dinner table that night.
Shockingly, instead of being lauded by my loved ones as the next great thinker and given a paper crown to wear, I was declared a dingbat.
Me, at six. To me I was.
You might take that to mean I backed down from my position—Um, NO. Do not send me to Catholic school, tell me stories about Joan of Arc and expect me to fold because you fear the awesome weight of my intellect.
And had I not just learned that Christopher Columbus proved the world was round, after being laughed out of many a royal court? What of Sir Isaac Newton, who shot an apple off his son’s head as proof of…wait, who was that again? I spent most of my time in school doodling…whatever, you know what I meant. My point is, label my young self a lunatic if you must–I knew I was keeping company with history’s radicals.
He proved that he really hated apples or something
The fire in my belly I had, oh, yes sir, indeed I did—I did not, however, have the oratory skills to effectively articulate my position. You guys, I was six, give me a break.
The best I could do against those nine doubting Richard Thomas’s*, as they (at first) patiently explained to me that no, peanut butter was not meat, then applied a more aggressive approach against my insistence that yes it was, was to finally bellow, red-faced and through a veil of frustrated tears,
“IT IS TO ME.”
Why can’t I make them understand??
I may have failed in convincing the world of my peanut butter conspiracy, but many years ago in a mid-western kitchen, I gave it that four-word fortress against all logic. Try it. You will never lose an argument again. You are welcome.
Anyway, all that to say—this country is looking like a shit-show at the moment, so instead of going off on a rant that would add nothing, I felt that the nothingness I add should at least be positive.
I bring you a very special episode of Medium Happy, the name of which is particularly apropos this week; if you’re even Medium Happy, well that’s something to celebrate, isn’t it?
After all, “the only healthy way to live life is to learn to like all the little everyday things, like a sip of good whiskey in the evening, a soft bed, a glass of buttermilk, or a feisty gentleman like myself.” – Lonesome Dove
That’s two sappy, walkin’-on-the-sunny-side quotes for the price of one, kids. It’s that kind of day.
A glass of buttermilk actually sounds pretty gross
Five Small Things I’m Grateful For, Despite The Headlines
This Filthy Starbucks
I’m down the road from the theater at which my own little drama queen is participating in musical theater camp, and her end-of-camp show starts shortly. The theater is rather far from my house and John can be a bit of a tyrant when my pieces are late, so thank God for this Starbucks where I can park my butt and waste all day if I want to, and not get hassled or feel guilted into buying an extra scone because it’s an independent coffee shop and they’ll go broke if I don’t.
Wait, what’s that you say? Tell us more about how John is a tyrant!
Gladly, m’friends…case in point—last week I skipped writing altogether and he didn’t even say anything. Passive-aggressive, much? Then today I texted him, “what day do you want me to do this week?” and he was like “No specific day!” OMG. You know who else thought I was a mind reader? Caligula.
Obviously I’m joking. John is the furthest thing from a tyrant, though according to the powers-that-be at Instagram, he is a pervert. Who are they to judge?
I can’t believe this great cast made this hunk of crap!
Speaking of filth, the gal behind the counter is finally out here wiping down the tables–it’s like she read my mind. The Secret works!
This Particular Sliced Meat from Costco
It’s made from real food!
I’m not normally a Costco shopper—I have a pretty strict grocery budget and I can’t be blowing the whole week on two giant tubs of mayonnaise and a barrel of Good n’Plenty. But sometimes I go with my mom, who still cooks like she’s feeding an army even though most of the time these days, it’s just a battalion.
Anyoots, she showed me this big package of beef that’s already sliced up but still rare and juicy and seems like actual food, not like lunchmeat. The only ingredients are beef, salt and pepper.
It’s great, and since my husband is now on the no-grain, no-sugar diet, he needs to have stuff like that around and he can’t be cookin’ meat all the live long day (though he does cook it, a lot; I’ve basically given up ever having a clean kitchen again). I’m pretty sure there’s no peanut butter in it.
The Smell of Outside Right Now
Dirt, grass, rain, and a chicken on someone’s grill somewhere close enough that I can smell it. Also my cat, who obviously ate something that disagreed with her (probably the above-mentioned meat, though earlier I did notice the butter looked a bit chewed on). It doesn’t smell good, but it’s a reminder that she’s here, and that is good.
Mmmm…smells like cat
The Oven is Fixed
Which means I can make bars in time for my parents’ 60th wedding anniversary party, something about which I am extremely happy.
The Fellows at the Next Table Saying a Bunch of Funny Stuff
Three businessmen, meeting at Starbucks in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday, saying things like ‘circle back’, ‘core competency’ and ‘we need to hit a three-pointer’. Maybe they’re talking about happy hour later.
Let’s put a pin in our suicide pact
I wonder if I could get my gentle reminder of life’s little joys to become a meme on Pinterest?
“The only healthy way to live life is to learn to like all the little everyday things, like a dirty Starbucks with free wi-fi, some delicious pre-cooked meat packaged up for your convenience and sold at a reasonable price, the smell of your cat’s flatulence, an oven with a working thermostat or a group of middle managers controlling the urge to drink themselves to sleep for at least at least two more hours.”
Wouldn’t that be a lovely touchstone, scrawled on a distressed piece of reclaimed barn-wood hanging in your kitchen? And every time you looked at it you’d be like, “Ahhhh…so true.”
Anyway. I hope you have things to be happy about right now, and if you don’t, I hope that changes very soon. My coffee tastes burnt.
*I asked my sisters and sister-in-law how to spell ‘doubting Richard Thomas’s”; as I was unsure if that was correct or if it should be ‘doubting Richard Thomases’. My sister-in-law, who went to Yale and majored in Victorian Literature, opined that it should read, ‘doubtings Richard Thomas’. That’s just fancy sounding enough that I believed her, but then she said she got two D’s and an F.