Jam On It: How to Make Jam

Apple season means jam season in our house. As I share my jamventures with others, I hear over and over how intimidating jamming seems. It's a simple process, really. To demystify it, I offer a primer.

1. Get to work peeling some fruit. Husband walks in the door. Use him to test market your clever "Jam On It" catch phrase.

Crickets.

Keep peeling...

Husband walks past you to the den. Shortly thereafter, you hear the dulcet tones of Bob Marley coming from the other room.

“Very funny!” you yell out. But really, you have jam to make.

2. Good. Peeling's done! Now chop all the fruit.
Now Husband is playing Michael Jackson? You suspect something is amiss. Seriously, though. Keep chopping.

 

3.  Finally! Fruit in a pot! You've been making jam for almost an hour and this is as far as you've gotten? Never mind. Boil that fruit. Boooiiil it...

Husband plays Christina Aguilera. You find yourself singing along, “getcha getcha ya-yas heeeere,” and wonder what the hell that has to do with jam.

4. Meanwhile, the recipe seems to think you should zest a lemon. No problem. Wait. Seriously? The white part too? 

“REAL LADY MARMALAAAAAADE.” Ah.

Now the recipe wants you to chop the fleshy bits of lemon. No parts left behind, I guess. Avoid getting the food processor down at all costs. Maybe your mad knife skills will chop up that lemon pulp nice and fine.

NOPE. Lemon flesh is too fickle. Fine. Use a food processor, but only because you have a baby one.

Use every burner, now.

5. All that boiled fruit is now soft. Your face is shiny and your hair has frizzed beyond all hope, but no matter. Add sugar. More sugar. More…that oughta do it.

6. Go ahead and add the rest of that other stuff and bring the whole thing back to a boil. The recipe says to simmer for half an hour, then it should be ready to set. So, set a timer. Watch an episode of Gilmore Girls (Hurray Netflix!) while you wait. “Where you lead, I will follow…”

Half an hour later. Jam’s not ready yet. Perhaps another ten minutes? (Come on, Rory: Dean or Jess. Just choose one. Sure, we've all seen this before, but enough already.)

Still not set. Maybe another ten minutes?

Twenty minutes now?

It’s been two Gilmore Girls. The recipe is a liar. I declare perjury. Libel? Anyway. LIARS.

7. FINALLY. Jam is ready to can. Pour jam into jars. Use your fancy canning funnel, ‘cause that shit changed your fucking life. 

8. Boil the jars. Remove to counter and savor the satisfying pop-pop-pop-pop-pop of the lids sealing shut. This is the sound of success.

Sure, you line up the jam in parallel lines. How else would you do it?

9. Look around you. You have laid waste to the kitchen. Somehow, you used every fucking dish in the house. Every surface is sticky, including, holy fuck, the floor. What have you done?

All in the name of apples.

Glinda, the Biggest Bitch of Oz

A Conversation Between My Therapist and I

THERAPIST: Are you surprised that when you started feeling better, it was all of a sudden?
ME: Well, yeah.
THERAPIST: You know what that means, don't you?
ME: ...
THERAPIST: That you had it in you all along. Just the act of coming and asking for help holds 90% of the strength you need to feel better.
ME: I can't help thinking of that scene at the end of The Wizard of Oz. You know, the one where Glinda tells Dorothy that she had the power to go home that whole time.
THERAPIST: Exactly.
ME: You know, I always hated Glinda.
THERAPIST: Really?
ME: I mean, what a two-faced bitch!
THERAPIST: Woah. Ouch.
ME: Come on. "You had the power all along." What's up with that? If Glinda knew Dorothy could go home "all along," but didn't tell her, that's withholding information. And why the whole "follow the yellow brick road" quest, if she could go home before she started, huh? Look, lady, don't send me "off to see the wizard," some cockamamied fraud. Don't risk my life with flying monkeys and drugged flowers and wicked witches. Don't turn me into a goddamned murderer because you can't be bothered to tell me to click my heels three times until it suits your purposes.
THERAPIST: Okay, then. Maybe it's not like the Wizard of Oz.

Or, maybe it is.


Let's start at the beginning, when a tornado straight-up ripped Dorothy from home and brought her to a strange and dangerous land, committing manslaughter by house in the process. Is it just me, or is that a bit much to bite off and chew? It just doesn't make sense.

Like it just didn't make sense that losing my job would spin me so far out of control. I was whipped around and around, transported to a strange, awful, dangerous place where my own demons waited to torment me. Unemployment was my tornado. At first, it seemed to take me to a technicolor wonderland where I could be anything, do anything. I had nothing but time to explore.

Not too far along the yellow-brick road, though, I faced the dark and shady corners of job hunting, overexposure and vulnerability, and near-constant rejection. Each job I didn't get chipped away at my sense of self-worth. After a while, it began to feel like I wasn't really as smart or as good as I once thought. Even in the midst of unlimited possibilities, all kinds of dangers lurked in that forest--monsters with familiar faces suddenly turned sinister: self-doubt instead of self-confidence, confusion instead of certainty, low self-esteem instead of trusting myself. Lions and tigers and bears.

There was that field of poppies that just made me want to lie down and sleep. It weighed me down with its negative inertia. YouTube spirals and Netflix binges/comas. Not moving for hours and hours. Knowing in my head and my heart that it wasn't right to spend so much time doing nothing, but then using those distractions to numb me. The poppies almost killed Dorothy. Not because they were hurting her, exactly, but because they kept her from moving on.

Glinda sweeps in at the end of that movie, on a fucking bubble for God's sake, with her bullshit about Dorothy having the power inside her (all along) to get back to a place that was normal and familiar, where she felt safe and loved. You know, not chased by crazy monsters and witches, and certainly not legit murdering a lady because of the color of her skin. Glinda could have saved Dorothy all of that, but you know, manipulating her to be your assassin before casually mentioning the whole click-your-heels thing, I guess that's another way of doing it.

Is it any wonder that when my therapist said, "you had the ability all along," it didn't sit so well with me? If I had the power to free myself all along, why the hell did I let things get so bad? You mean I could have spared myself all that darkness? If it was as simple as asking for help, what was the point of the whole journey?

As if all that weren't bad enough, Glinda had the gall to say to Dorothy's face, "you had to find it out for yourself." Excuse me, bitch? I think I would have listened if you said, "you cooooould walk zillions of miles (on high-heeled shoes, by the way) through a dark forest and almost die and then have to commit murder to exact someone else's vengeance...ooooooor...try clicking your heels and no-place-like-homeing your way out of here." I would have clicked my fucking heels, because even if it looked stupid as shit and didn't work, it was looking stupid for like two seconds that could potentially save me from a whole fucking movie's worth of trouble.

Yet, in the light of my depression, clicking my heels wouldn't have worked at the beginning of my journey. I didn't know what I needed help from yet, much less how to reach out and ask for it. And Therapist was right. Just going to the doctor, asking for help, getting some drugs--it all gave me hope. Hope that I was finally on a new path, not the same worn-out one that had failed me for months and months. Hope that wherever this led, it would be better than the darkness and self-condemnation and anger I inflicted on myself.

Hope wouldn't have shone as brightly at the beginning of that yellow-brick road, where the sun was shining and munchkins were singing. I had to go through that terrible forest, find all those dark corners lurking within me, before I could admit how bad things where, how far I had traveled from home. Only after killing that witch could I truly appreciate the sepia-toned normalcy of everyday life. Battling those monsters, killing that witch, taught me more about who I am than any amount of heel clicking.

Okay, so Glinda's still a bitch. But maybe Therapist isn't.

Dear Diet Coke, How Do I Miss You?

(Let Me Count the Ways)

First thing in the morning,easing into the day,
The snappety pop of your lid, followed by your gentle fizz
still haunts me as I sip my morning tea.
Three in the afternoon,
when visited by doldrums
and lunch coma,
You Were There.

You ran over my lips,
tickled my tongue,
cold and tingly bubbles pushing their way
through my veins.
I felt Awake.
Alive.

With lunch, with dinner,
with pizza,
your bitter sweetness and slightly cloying aftertaste
paired perfectly with any food, unlike sweet-sour lemonade
or the sharp nip of iced tea.

In the car: on my way home, on my way out,
for Saturday errands, before a trip to the burbs,
Your sweet nectar, lovingly crafted by McDonald's--
home of the best damn DC on the planet--
Such the perfect passenger for the journey.
What do I do with my hands now?
How to punctuate the ride?
What do I reach for when traffic stops,
cars honk, pedestrians cross the street,
drivers flip the bird?
When sun fills the car,
leaving me parched and bored?

On a hot day, after a workout,
Your cold bubbles spread quickly through this
vast body of mine.
Faster than ice water,
speedier than electrolytes,
I felt your cooling effect in my fingers,
my toes,
my heart.

Dear one,

They've driven us apart
with their talk of illness and poison.
Tell me They're wrong, DC,
and I'll take their advice, throw it over my shoulder
and never look back.
Tell me that you miss me,
Tell me that things will be better,
that you're good for me.

That someday, you'll see me again,
To grace my lips,
igniting sensations from within.

Diet Coke: A Tragic Love Story

 “I’d like a large Diet Coke, light on the ice, please.”

The words trip off my tongue like the name of my lover. A familiar zing hits my brain. Soon, baby. Soon.

When I take that first sip of precious nectar, I close my eyes. Cold, fizzy aspartame lights up all the cells in my mouth: on the roof, the cheeks, the tongue. Carbonation tickles my nose. I swallow and the soda cuts its path down my throat and through my body. Molecule after molecule makes its way to my extremities--fingertips and toes light up with tingly joy. I can feel it move through my body, dispersing until the aspartame and I are one and the same.

This is bliss. This is love.

Like all tumultuous love affairs, though, outside influences insert themselves into our relationship and begin eating away at the strong bond we share.

Aspartame is bad for you, They say. Weight gain. Depression. Diabetes. Cancer. All horrors my family has experienced firsthand. My family, long-steeped in the culture and obsession with aspartame.

Since they first introduced Diet Coke in 1982, I cannot remember a time without its sweet-with-a-bitter-aftertaste nectar. My parents, firm believers in the axiom that more=better, were devout subscribers of anything low cal, low fat, low guilt. Our freezer was alternately stocked with ice milk and frozen yogurt; our cabinets housed diet cookies; and our counters always boasted two to three varieties of diet soda in two-liter bottles. What better way to curl up on the couch and watch the latest episode of Magnum PI than with a glass full of ice and the great DC?

Diet soda has been the great constant in a life of chaos and uncertainty. It's there to start the day. Need a pick-me-up? It's there. Need a reward for good behavior? It's there. Nothing cools me down, hits the spot, alights my senses like that fizzy aspartame.

After a lifetime together, it's time to say goodbye. I've tried to break it off before, but like a booty call, some catalyst throws me back into Diet Coke's outstretched arms. Once there, it's like I never left. This time, I tell myself, this time will be it. I will stay strong.

I'm breaking it off tonight. It's not me, it's you.

I will feel the pain of loss. I will think of all the good times. I will struggle to imagine a life without it. And, hopefully, I will move on.

YouTube Spirals

I sit down at my desk, wearing my pajamas, blankly contemplating my plans for the day. Eat food. Work out. Take shower. Write. Look for a job. My only accomplishment so far is getting out of bed, and already I’m overwhelmed.

One step at a time. Focus on getting to the gym.

The logistics of the one simple task seem insurmountable. I’m not sure which day I showered last, but I feel and smell gamey. It would be . . . inconsiderate to go to a gym with people and sweat through this funk. But, it seems like a waste of resources to shower before the gym. Do you know how much effort it takes to shower?

Plagued with indecision, I open my Web browser. You know, just to see what’s what.

Look! Dogs who really don’t want to take a bath. Hilarious! Click.

I let the video pour over me, wash away my morning indecision. It doesn’t matter if I shower before the gym. Right now there are only these dogs.

Then it’s over. YouTube has helpfully recommended some other videos I may find interesting. Oh look, a puppy jumping on a trampoline. Click. Is that really the original She-Ra movie special? MY CHILDHOOD IS ON YOUTUBE. Listen to my mighty, enthusiastic CLICK.

Turns out, She-Ra doesn’t hold up as well as I thought she would. That’s okay. We live in a world with Colin Firth jumping into a lake. Click. And doing an interview on Bridget Jones’s Diary. Click. No, YouTube, I do not wish to see clips from What a Girl Wants. But perhaps just one from Bridget Jones. Click. And another. Click.

My eyes glaze over, ever fixedly watching the computer screen. Strange; I feel no enjoyment, no happiness, even though my face is smiling. Then again, I feel no pain. No anxiety about being unemployed, without a purpose for my life, or even a reason to get off this chair. Letting the screen blur in and out of focus, I don’t feel the uncertainty of my future or that crushing sense of self-worthlessness weighing on my shoulders. There is me and YouTube—nothing else.

Until my dog creeps in the room and pokes her cold wet nose under my arm, as though to say, “What? Are you still here?” I give her a perfunctory pat on the head and return to my screen, because James McAvoy, that’s why.

Here’s that scene from the end of Penelope. You know, the one I’ve seen 152 times. I must see it again. Click. I’ll just rewind this a bit, shall I? Click. Again. Again. And again. Click, click, click.

Something deep inside my brain pings. Nobody spends this much time in front of YouTube. Why do I keep at it? Do I really want to see these things, or is compulsion in the driving seat? I click now, because I clicked before. I click again because there is something to click. If I don’t click, there is something I won’t see.

A distinctly cottony feeling takes over my mouth. I must be thirsty, but that could just be because I haven’t had anything to drink yet. It’s only been three hours. Should the back of my throat really feel all scratchy burny? Once I acknowledge my thirst, I must entertain the possibility that the dull, yet sharpening ache in my stomach is hunger. What am I going to do about that? Is there any food in the house? Do I even feel like eating anything? Too much. I can’t deal.

Dear YouTube, More James McAvoy, please.

Why, thank you! An interview! Who’s Graham Norton? Click.

Sweet lord almighty. Graham Norton is genius. Must. Watch. More. Click, click, click.

It’s been four hours, now. I don’t think I’ll make it to the gym. When I don’t have a job to go to, how is there not enough time to work out? I weigh my options and determine that, in order to eat, I must leave the house. Leaving the house means taking a shower, which means getting up off this chair. I mean, I could do all that, or, I could watch this interview with Helen Mirren.

PAUL RUDD JUST KISSED DAME HELEN MIRREN. Nothing I watch after this could be so good. But look…

Click, click, click, click.

Have I really been watching YouTube videos for five hours? Who does that? God, Megan. You are such a lazy bitch. Get up! Get up!

Maybe after this video.

Okay, just one more. No, this will be the last one. No, this one. This one. Click, click, click, click.

For real! It’s been seven hours! Get out of this chair! You stupid YouTube zombie, there is a world out there and a life for you to live and you’re wasting it all! What is wrong with you? You should be ashamed of yourself. Click click. Zap zap.

Is it really 5? Okay, you can’t let Husband come home and find you like this. If he doesn’t see, he won’t know. No one will know.

Only this fear of someone else knowing how I wasted my day, seeing how worthless and pointless my existence has become, motivates me off my chair.

As I shower the stench of who knows how many days off my skin, I feel like I’m coming to from a trance. Did I really forget to eat anything today? Me?! Images from the hours of binge-watching clips swim in my head, none of them offering insight or meaning, only lost time.

Tomorrow, I promise myself. Tomorrow will be better. I will be better.

I didn't know it was so bad...

Depression is some sneaky ass shit. It wears socks and walks on tip toes, creeping up from behind. The weight of it descends gradually, ounce by ounce, so I don’t notice it hitching a ride. I’m trudging along, slowed and stymied by it, but it all happens so gradually that I don’t notice the extra weight. One day to the next, it feels normal. I lose all perspective, lose track of the fact that all I feel like is shit and it never used to be this way. 

It’s all in my head, anyway. Literally. All. In my head. It’s not like when you break your leg and have to walk on crutches. Then everyone can see your handicap, why it’s been several days since you showered, or why you haven’t left your house in over a week. But when that handicap is the fucked up chemicals in your brain, it doesn’t look or feel like anything should keep you from living your life.

Then there’s a day when I screw up every ounce of oomph and caring I have and pour it into the space inside my brain that controls things like hygiene and leaving the house. That’s the day you see me. It’s the best that things are going to get, the best that I am going to get. I wouldn’t make it out of the house if I didn’t find the part of me that cares about something—you. I’m surprised to find I care about much these days.

Yet, as you sit across from me and tell me about your life, I can’t care about it much at all. I’m running low to empty on cares, all used up in the getting here. I’m already looking forward to going home, to sinking into the sofa and not working so hard. When you tell me your tales, I work to put on the right faces, say the right things, sound the right way. I feel like an alien in my own skin, trying to approximate myself. This face means sad. This one, thoughtful. This one, happy. 

You are my friend. I want to please you.

What’s new with me, you ask? That’s the thing. Nothing’s new. Nothing. I spent my week watching episode after episode of a stupid show on Netflix, caring but not caring. Numb to the world around me, to my own feelings threatening to overwhelm me. 

Misdirection is the best tool of a magician. I’ll use it to distract, deflect attention from what’s really going on, a dark secret that I don’t really want to admit or address. If I don’t look at it, maybe it’ll go away, maybe it didn’t happen, maybe it’s not true. I’ll tell you that I feel numb and wonder what the point is in getting out of bed in the morning, but all in a perfunctory sort of way. 

Quick! Look over here, where I’ve prepared a few anecdotes that the real Megan would have found funny. So I, Not-Megan, tell them to you, move the conversation forward and away. 

Blink and you’ll miss it. 

I feel like I’m faking it. I am fake. So I feel shitty. I am shitty. I judge myself. All of it makes me feel worse than I started out this morning. So exhausting.

I think I need some down time to recover. How many seasons are left in that stupid show?

All the pieces, All one piece

Over the years, I've set aside virtual space for each interest, each facet of my personality: roller derby, nutrition and fitness, quilting and artistic endeavors, the humorous ups and downs of married life. I sorted and segregated interests for anyone who may stumble upon them. Each facet of myself that I offered was only as valuable as those who found it interesting. Dividing and distributing myself into these packets only served to diminish the whole. My interests defined me. I was an artist. No, I was one of those weight-loss nuts. No, I was a wife with funny marriage stories. No, I was a roller derby girl.

Stretching back to life before the internet (that's right, kids), I realize I compartmentalized my life as long as I can remember. Is it because I like things to fit into categories? Is it like how I organized our takeout menus into a tabbed binder? Divide the parts and pieces of me and they'll all make sense eventually?

And what of those parts of me that don't fit neatly into a category? Like what it's like to swim through depression, losing yourself and making your way back. How dreams have changed, and what triumphs lie outside well-defined categories. How, through all of these things, I feel the most myself when I'm writing, yet struggle to sit down and do just that. Is any of that less a part of who I am? Where does all of that belong on the Megan binder?

The reality is, I don't belong in a binder. What I do is not who I am. I am all of these things. I am none of them. I am a woman. A lover. A friend. Someone who exhibits passion and intelligence and creativity. The time has come to stop the compartmentalization. Time for these parts of me to mingle. Time to find the spaces in between. Time to let the writing flow as it will, less defined by the space where it appears than the way it is born.