confession:

rather than from pulpit, i choose to divulge from the blog:

[deep breath]

my name is meredith, and i have gray hairs.

17 in my last count.

whew, that feels much better.

my hair has been highlighted or dyed back to its natural color for the last year, so they've been nearly impossible to catch, but since i'm miss thrifty buns these days, i had let my roots grow a snitch, just avoiding the purchase of anything.  the roots of all but these 17 little devils are unnoticeable.  17.  gray.  hairs.

i choose to open this up now because last week someone was giving me a back scratch, they on the couch, i on the floor.  suddenly this person was combing through my hair with his fingers.  he said he was "checking for lice," you know, routine thing, but i'm suspicious, most suspicious that he had discovered the 17 gray hair roots, and was getting a kick out of it.

it started with 1 when i was 12.  i thought it was a blonde hair.  i got all excited, thinking maybe puberty, instead of handing me zits and other horrors, was going to just turn my hair from nearly black to a vibrant blonde.  after some careful analysis from female family members and girlfriends (boys still had cooties in them days), it was decidedly gray.  weird,  but whatever.  i didn't pluck it out because it was a good conversation topic in random times when it was noticeable.  

by the time i was 18 the gray hair had immaculately conceived 4 more little ones.  and then, at last count, it's a full blown polygamist family of 17.

this never bothered me, because a) obviously i wasn't old then, i'm not old now, even if my hair color juices have run dry in 17 little deposits, and b) my mom had the same thing happen so it must be something i inherited from her, and as long as i can blame my misfortunes on other people, i'm happy.

and
c) she won an academy award in all her grayness.  so although it's veiled by some feria, it's probably those 17 hairs that are awarding me ridiculous amounts of success.

What it Means to be an Eaton

One of the topics I sit on a lot on this blog is my phamilee.  They are my favorite things, and I'd have to say we have a pretty good thing going. 

In my own branch of Eaton, we're all pretty different.  We don't really believe we look or act alike.  Dad's the high-octane genius, Mom's the voice of self-control and sophistication, Elizabeth's the boss, I'm the ragamuffin, Sarah's the spitfire, Cameron's the saint.  Somehow we all hang out and have a great time.

I can say that being an Eaton means:

• you laugh hard at your own jokes.
• you lace that which you say and write with a ribbon of flair at all times, and in all things, and in all places, or die trying.
• you know almost every Hitchcock movie ever made.  I think Marnie is the only one I haven't seen; it was decidedly waaay too scandalous for those little 10 year old eyes of mine.
• you have eaten more broccoli than any one else.  Ever.
• you have Steve Martin's Father of the Bride memorized.  Once I went running 6 miles with a friend and she didn't believe me so I recited the movie the entire work out.  Yep.
• if you're an Eaton girl you have a thing for stacking rings.  The boys never caught the fever.
• you can eat Indian food until you're blue in the face.
• you have South Coast Plaza's lay-out burned on your brain due to millions of hours of window shopping.
• you have started to read Little Women but dropped out because it is so freaking boring.  Christian Bale is so much better to watch than read.  Maybe that's an Eaton girl thing too.
• you watched ER when George Clooney was a part of the cast.
• you choose Letterman over Leno, dogs over cats, but there can be found both macs and PCs in the house.
• you play the card game "spit" with indecent fervor and skill.
• you're familiar with Muddy Waters, B.B. King (all blues musicians), The Beatles, Simon & Garfunkel, Miles Davis, and Leann Rimes (Cam's first heart throb).

I know it means more than that, but it's time for lunch and I'm done posting for now.  In short, I love being a Fab Eaton.

oprah

this is what i know of oprah:

obviously she has more money than the queen of england, (although i think i remember reading in forbes that she has less money than j.k. rowling, which gave me great satisfaction), obviously she's all about the power to the women, obviously she isn't bothered by the subzero qualities of chicago to such an extent that she'd transplant her thang to a warmer climate, and that's about as far as she and i go.  ah yes, and my mother was once gifted with a year's subscription to her magazine, which basically means lying around my parents' house there were 12 chunks of her adverts for high priced home appliances, working mom/cushy clothing stores, and the final article always entitled something like "one thing of which i know," which was basically a new way to say each time, "be your authentic self, there are no rules, and have joy."  it made me feel very "at-one-ish" with  myself.  did i mention each cover shot was of her in some flowy skirt laughing gayly?  (according to my former roommate whose PR firm does regular work with her empire, there may or may not be a double meaning in the preceding sentence's last word, but that's another story for another time.)  

so even though my relationship with oprah is of rather a surface quality, i will say that i've happened upon a few of her shows that i've actually thought of several times.  

• during the summer of 2005 sarah and i got sucked into the show featuring a self made millionaire with a set of cheap-skate rules that enabled him to afford his wife's 5 karat diamond ring.  i remember he saved every other pay check.  he only bought furniture from foreclosed homes, and only shopped warehouse style (that 5 karat ring was from costco). in time that added up (with some very wise investments, i'm sure) and now he's sittin pretty.  everyone better get a costco card or else no one will ever retire, saith he.
  
• rudy giuliani may have guided NYC through 9/11 with courage and strengf, but he also was a cheating idiot back in the 80s.  his scorned wife lost her heart, but not her self-control, and faded with dignity into the divorce shadows.  shortly thereafter she was reunited with her high school/college love, the OTHER one who'd broken her heart, and with years of wisdom behind them, they joined hands, blended families, and both enjoy saint rudy's alimony.  it was cute.
• and yes.  i did watch the tom cruise couch jumping phenomenon, and am grateful to know for myself that he is a bit loony.  this bit of info has enriched my life greatly.  
• i watched an ex-polygamist compound child bride cry and cry about her decision to escape her texan prison; i did get sucked into that vortex of information.

so oprah, even though i get the sneaking suspicion you think you're the alpha and the omega, although you have seduced millions, and they look at you in your studio audience the way nazi youth looked at hitler, i thank you for your contributions to my little eaton life, and wish you joy in being your authentic self.

the end.

how's this for the best story you've ever heard?

read it here.

to all viewers of 24:

am i the only one who's bothered by the fact that president palmer has been so shamefully reduced to appear in the the occasional AllState Insurance commercial?

he's the former PRESIDENT of the UNITED STATES, close friends with lone wolf JACK BAUER, and now all he can do is awkwardly stand there and pose the not-so-penetrating question, "can you afford not to be in good hands?"

someone, PLEASE get him a nice, cushy role on some law and order-ish tv drama.

so what does meredith do when she's unemployed and of compromised health?

• knit.  scarf coming soon.
• watch newsies and the rainmaker and grey's anatomy
• reading the books that i never finished...of which there is a shamefully high number.  closure is good.
• make cookies and brownies.  don't eat them because i have germs.
• sleep.
• fluids.
• fluids.
• sleep.
• make single words into sentences on lists on a friday blog post.

Espeenach Esmoody

This is the infamous Spinach Smoothie. My darling friend Erin requested the recipe this morning, and I thought while I was writing it up, I might share the green lovin with everyone.

Step A: You must have a blender. This is not an option. If you have a clean blender on hand, you may proceed to Step B. If you have no blender, well then, as Wesley once said, "We are at an impasse."

Step B: Chuck into the clean blender:

• 2 handfuls of spinach (Which is why, for the love of all that is good on this earth, wash your hands before you start this.)


• 1 banana


• 1/2 cup to 1 cup fresh orange juice


• 1/8 cup coconut or soy milk (You get to choose! This smoothie is all about the free agency!)


• 1 handful of ice


• 1 cup water


• 2 tablespoons MILLED/GROUND/GRAINY/SAND-esque flax seed. Works wonders for your cardiovascular health, not to mention your skin will GLOW and SHIMMER upon consumption.


• After this, folks, you get to take creative control. You are the arteests. If you want to throw in some strawberries, room temperature or frozen, be my guest. If you like a good mango now and again, knock your socks off. go wild.

Step C: Guzzle, slurp, and bottoms up.

I promise, while this thing looks irrevocably green, it does not taste at all like spinach. It takes on more the flavor of the fruits and the orange juice. And it is THE BIZZLE, I assure you. This has been an Eaton Family Favorite since Christmas morning 2007 (see proof above), when it was taste tested and emphatically endorsed. I promise there was no double dipping involved.

October 4, 2006

This past weekend not only did I score a 99% on Rock Band vocals, I saw come and go the 2 year anniversary of my MTC REPORT DATE. I remember opening my mission call all alone in our garden, with eyes averted, my shaky hand feeling around inside that infamous white envelope, locating the single sheet of paper, and then locating the booklet which I knew would contain pages and pages of wardrobe ideas (i.e. depressing jumpers and loafers). I thought the neighbors would hear my heart pound while pulling out both so I could cover the letter with the booklet and read line by line. I knew if I didn't, my disobedient eyes would dart straight to the location, and I wanted the proper crescendo of anticipation. As I did this, however, my eyes' willpower faltered and I saw somewhere in the 2nd paragraph, "October 4th". As it was JUNE, I groaned within myself, but then excitedly allowed myself to read about how I was thereby called to serve in Costa Rica.

I thought this occasion warranted a mission story, and not one that will make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. I spent enough time with RMs before becoming one to know that those should only be told upon request, or you start and then you don’t stop, and it’s a great way to ruin a good friendship.

In my last area, I was as far south as they’ll allow the sisters to go. It was rural with so much lush greenery it almost seemed unfair. The attitude is a bit more “que sera sera” in the “campo,” which I loved, and which also made me seem even more high strung than I already did to those chillaxed Ticos.

There is one pista, or highway, that runs through the entire country. We spent a lot of time walking up and down the pista, as all our neighborhoods branched off from it. With the cars whizzing past us, conversation was usually dealt with in yells. If it were raining as well, conversation was futile. We would walk in silence with the rain beating holes in our umbrellas.

We often saw an old, skinny hobo, who would always pass us and yell, “Que Dios les bendiga!” or “God bless you!” We’d always smile and say “Igualmente!”

One afternoon we were walking/swimming down the pista, and I looked off in the distance ahead and saw our old hobo amigo coming toward us at a soggy run. I didn’t think much of it, and made a comment to my companion, who was looking at the ground. I looked up again and old hobo amigo was getting closer. I could see he was barefooted, wearing an open trench coat, and….huh? I felt it was like watching a bad car accident, there wasn’t enough time to react, (and how would I react?) as the otherwise buck naked old hobo amigo ran right in between my companion and I, yelling as usual, and for what would be the last time, “Que Dios les bendiga!”

i stand corrected.

yesterday i was at lunch with a couple of chums, and a young man present named occunningham said who knows what, and i misused the words sympathize and empathize in my reply. occunningham called me out on it. i argued the point for a minute, then retraced my verbal steps, and ceded. i know, riveting. he demanded that i blog about it and expose my folly, because he, the accountant, thinks that i, the former english major, am supposed to have perfect grammar every waking moment. ok, maybe i often do, but as yoda would say, "human i am." or that's what yoda would say a) if he were real, and b) if he were human.

occunningham, here is your big, fat, freaking blog post about my guffaw and your victory.

a smattering of things:

- i moved into my new crib o' crib 2 nights ago, and all's well in my little sphere of zion. parking is a total fiasco, there was the distinct odor of regurgitated food particles in the courtyard last night, but hey! it's home! someone should write a country song about it. my apartment is 1 mile from the beach, which i have yet to exploit, my roommates are terrific, and it must be meant to be, because they shower at night, i shower in the morning. and they have their surfboards hanging in the family room, and there are about 40 of them, so it gives the impression that at least one of them has got to be mine, and i'm totally hard core.

- my little brother turned 20 on tuesday. he's been gone on his mission for over 4 months now, and up until recently i've been very proud of him and kept the separation anxiety to a minimum. i think i was just riding high on the wave of relief that he wanted to go of his own fruition. now i'm taking all that mature selflessness and shoving it out the window into the smelly courtyard. who cares if it's his duty? what about ME?! 20 months? 20 months? he's got 20 months left on his mission. father time will not be rushed, and i really would just love to sit and have a chat with my big little brother. now i'm turning all soft and fragile, but ladies and gents, my brother is one of those things in life that are seemingly too good to be true, but cameron is, in fact, "a truth" (in paula abdul terms). when he was 2 he'd come wake me up onsaturday mornings and would be so squishy and snuggly, and elizabean and i would each hold a hand and walk him downstairs, fill up his bottle with some m-i-l-k and wrap him in a blanket like the burrito he would one day scarf in record time, sarah would trail behind, and we'd sink into saturday morning cartoons. his "good egg" factor has been loud and clear from the very first.

now i've gone all soft. i need to regroup.

- last night i made some prop 8 calls. my two favorites:

me: hi, my name's meredith, and i'm calling tonight in support of proposition 8; are you familiar with this proposition?
him: no, but i just watched sarah palin kick joe biden's a_ _!!

that one ended with a very enthusiastic plan to vote Y on 8.

next one...

me: hi, my name's meredith, and i'm calling tonight in support of proposition 8; are you familiar with this proposition?
him: no. (latino accent)
me: well, prop 8, if passed, will preserve the definition of marriage as being between a man and a woman.
him: yeah, but they're all getting married anyway!
me: well, those marriages won't be legalized unless prop 8 doesn't go through. the supreme court doesn't have the final say on it. are you registered to vote?
him: yeah, but i don't vote for nobody.
me: why not?
him: because they're all LIARS!
me: well i don't know about that, but--
him: and my vote doesn't count anyway, with all that electoral basura
*please note: this is the moment when i'm not confident in my political savvy to object to this, so i say,
me: one second.... [i mute it, and yell into the house where there are scattered 1 lawyer, 2 accountants, and an operational engineer...i was pretty sure one of them would be able to answer my question, "IS THIS ELECTORAL OR MAJORITY?" i hear about 3.4 yells back, "MAJORITY!" yes, now in hindsight i realize that was maybe a dumb question, but as denise kaa used to say in high school, "whatevs with THAT sitch!"

in the end, mr. latino said he would go and vote.

i don't have anything really fun or interesting to say today. if you were bored enough to read this post, you would find out that:

whenever i come around the corner toward the front desk at work, i can see plain as day that the receptionist has been playing solitaire or is on facebook. she quickly minimizes the screen, swings her chair around, and smiles nervously at me. i wonder whether or not i should tell her that i don't care what she does at work all day, if i should tell her about my blogging, blog reading, g-chat, and email addiction. i consider informing her that in the mornings, when my swash-buckling co-worker who sits 5 feet away from me is in the office, i have to be careful to not laugh out loud at my escapist internet dealings so that i don't get caught.

nah, let her sweat it out.

lindsey said it best.

from september: first attempt at surfing since a freckled brace face 12 year old at girl's camp.  click here to share the moment.

inferior particles

i wrote this a few weeks ago for my creative writing grad school app portfolio. i may be applying to a different program now, and in any case, i started this blog to get the stuff i write out there, and i like this one enough to put it out into the open internet. thar she blows:

inferior particles
by meredith eaton

beth's feet barely knew the floor as she entered her pristine kitchen, the garage closing behind her. almost pristine. oops, those shouldn't be there, she thought, as she spotted the trail of crumbs on the chalk white tile floor. proof that danny was still the same danny he'd been since kindergarten, and had chosen the same grilled cheese sandwich to eat while he toiled over his honors studies. in a time not so long before, this imperfection would have meant a spike in her heart rate; any trace of disorder would have been erased completely before greg could have walked from car door to garage door. she only recently had the wherewithal to remember that crumbs are, in fact, not cause for crisis. beth sighed, lifted a blithe eyebrow to the rogue crumbs and said to herself, "not today!"

this foreign concept of not caring was becoming more and more natural and welcome. callie and danny didn't even exchange confused glances anymore; this serene, glowing person was indeed a new version of their old mother. admittedly, at the very first she wrestled with this freedom of feeling, the freedom from the contradictory emotional drag of the man with whom she'd exchanged vows years before.

but now...blithe eyebrow lift, blithe stroll through the crumb violated kitchen, blithe twirl through the back door to smell her azaleas. in the clay pot next to her planted mint leaves they smelled like a kind of toothpaste only a fairy godmother could provide. maybe she'd provide it. why not? beth peterson - toothpaste flavor inventor. her list of talents and range of potential had flourished ever since paul had become her secret -- her paul. he was the only thing she'd ever really had, the only thing that had ever chosen her in the way she wanted to be chosen. now she could see. greg owned her, but just that. paul chose her because he loved her. and after over a decade of feeling wrong for trying to do everything exactly right, she had found love. how could that be wrong? easy answer, paul told her, and she told herself -- it's not wrong.

back in the house she picked up callie's sweater that lay draped over the arm of the bonus room couch. a small stack of flashcards underneath the sweater were knocked to the ground. scooping them up, she sat on the couch to straighten the stack. callie's flashcards for the advanced placement english exam; she wondered how many words she'd still know...

abate...to lessen? the flashcard congratulated her. abate: to reduce in amount, degree, intensity, etc.; lessen; diminish.

abhor...to dislike bitterly. again, she was right: abhor: to regard with extreme repugnance or aversion; detest utterly; loathe; abominate.

wow, she thought, i'm good at this.

adulterous. she looked at the card again. she chuckled, but her eyebrows curled up and her jaw clenched tight. then she read on, adulterous: polluted with inferior particles.

polluted with inferior particles. her body was a ton of bricks, dragging her deep into the cushions of the couch.

she jumped slightly as the garage door opened beneath her, announcing greg's return home from work.