Baking: The stars are falling

Ok, so baking is not a first-time activity for me. But to be fair, it's been so long since anything I've "cooked" has required more than an index figure (for pushing buttons) and 1.5-2 minutes of staring, that I'm counting this as a new exploration.

Last weekend I went to a double engagement party (that's two couples, not twice engaged) where guests were asked to bring a recipe to give to the couples. We also were encouraged to bring the finished product of said recipe.

Here's the thing. I don't cook. I just don't. I've lived in my apartment for seven months now, and until about an hour ago, I had never even opened the oven door (on a side note, when I finally did, I found a pyrex dish -- that's I'll never use -- but yay!). So I figured I'd make my grandma's suger cookies ... simple and fool-proof. I've made them so many times with my mom that I was able to buy all the ingredients (almost) without looking at the recipe. But when I got home, I hit a snag: no recipe.

No problem. I called my mom to get it. By the time she got back to me, I was short on time and I realized I didn't have cookie sheets or eggs. So I opted out of baking that day. But I still had a bunch of ingredients that I'll never use for anything else taking up valuable kitchen cupboard space that could be used for more useful things like storing shoes or purses I'll never use again. And so, the following weekend, I decided to bake.

I stopped by the grocery store in the morning for cookie sheets (and a bottle of champagne), came home, and got straight to the task at hand.

First: Mix all ingredients. A monkey could do this, so I got through it fairly easily. Although, admittedly, it got ugly for a few minutes when I inadvertently used the wrong size measuring cup and had to add fractions to compensate.

Second: Chill dough. Impossible to screw up.

Next: Preheat oven. Now, my apartment -- and everything in it -- is super old. So the idea of using a super old gas oven that's been sitting unused for many months was a bit unsettling for my dad. But me, well, I welcome adventure. So I turned the knob and hoped for the best. The gas did come on, but when I went to adjust for temperature, I realized my only options were off, low, and high. What the?? Then I saw a neighboring knob that had temperature settings, so I turned that knob to 400 -- and the burner came on. The 30 seconds or so that I spent staring at this unsolvable puzzle qualified as another very ugly moment in time. But once I switched the knobs, I was back on track.

Now, roll out the dough: The only challenge here is not eating the excess dough from between the cutouts. I may or may not have eaten five or so unborn cookies. Just sayin.

Decorate: At this point in the process I was already over it and just sprinkled some sugar on top of the batches. My attention span was quickly waning.

Bake: I threw two full cookie sheets on two stacked oven shelves and stood there waiting (because an oven that old doesn't have a timer). 6.5 minutes later, I was ready to pull them out. But damn, I had no pot holders. Luckily, a dish towel is a sufficient substitute as long as you're ok with throwing the cookie sheets urgently and haphazardly onto the range rather than setting them down lovingly. As I suspected, the top and bottom racks did not cook evenly. So I ended up with some semi-crunchy and some super-doughy Christmas stars (and a few candlesticks that may look a little too phallic to serve to some audiences). Still, all good.

During this process, not counting the raw dough bits, I probably ate five or six cookies that I deemed imperfect and thus not fit for serving. I packed the good ones into a tupperware container ... then promptly dropped it on the floor. It was sealed, but there were many casualties. I ate many of the severed star parts in an attempt to conceal the carnage.

So ... is baking my passion?
Negative. I simply don't have the self restraint to not consume thousands of calories -- either in dough or in alcohol -- during the process. And in the end, my baked goods are just a little sad. But it's ok. I have other good qualities.

Speed dating: 7 minutes can be 6 and a half minutes too long

A friend recently made a comment about dating. She said we can either get ourselves out there, or just sit in barn bitching. Not wanting to go down in history as a barn bitcher, I figured this was a good opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: get the hell out of that barn, and try something new. So I recruited two of my lovely lady friends to join me for an evening of speed dating.

Here's how it works: Each of the women are stationed at a designated spot for the duration of the evening, and the men have to rotate stations every seven minutes. Everyone has a sheet of paper for taking notes to jog the memory in case they can't seem to keep the plethora of potentials straight -- for instance, "Jerry - bushy brows and a chihuahua, may be a serial killer."

There are a few things about speed dating that you know going in. First, you paid $30 to do it, so as you anxiously scout the incoming men, you can't help but wonder if you would have been wiser to spend that cash on a few drinks at your favorite dive -- where you're expectations already are low and the drinks are a hell of a lot cheaper. Second, you know (we all know) whether or not we're attracted to someone in the first 30 seconds. Of course, this isn't to say that attraction can't develop over time. But the reality here is that if you REALLY are not attracted to someone, and you know for certain, say, at first glance, seven minutes can seem like an eternity.

While my friends scanned the room to prepare themselves for the 35 minutes ahead, I opted to look away, sip my wine, and wonder (mostly to keep from getting that look on my face). But as they mumbled commentary like "Oh boy" and "I hope he's not here for this," I settled in for exactly what I had expected.

And so, with the ringing of the bell and all the ladies awkwardly positioned at their posts, some just a few feet apart, the ritual began.

With the stations so close together, and within earshot of each other, I was continually reminded of a somewhat depressing reality of the quest for love: it's a numbers game. Basically, you keep throwing the same schpeel against the wall (the wall being new potentials) until something sticks. To some, your schpeel may be entertaining. To others, it may be arrogant. Some people may find it endearing, while others may wonder who in the hell let you into the speed dating pool.

Quite frankly, I believe the demands of speed dating to be even more harsh than those endured in the greater wonderland that is conventional dating. With seven minutes to hook someone, you need to be really attractive or have a really great personality. Or both. Unfortunately, if you're unattractive or come across as possibly suffering from aspergers, you probably will not enjoy great results in this arena. If you're both, you'll send my friend right up to the event organizer to complain.

Nothing thrown against my wall stuck. But something did stick to one of my friends, which just goes to show that it's all one giant crapshoot.

So ... is speed dating my passion?
Nah. I didn't need to spend $30 and seven minutes with aspergers to know that he wasn't for me. However, those seven minutes were completely bizarre -- something hidden camera shows are made of -- and really oddball moments like that bring me great joy (and lots of fun stories). So I guess that counts as a half win.

Kickball: CRaMit

For the past several years, I've been bugging my friends to start a kickball team with me. My theory was that it's one of those "sports" that anyone can play because everyone looks stupid playing it -- I mean, big, wobbly rubber ball and all. But I've never gotten any serious takers, so I'd given up the dream.

And then I got the email: kickball tourny ... at work (sans alcohol, of course, which absolutely is NOT how kickball is meant to be played). Not exactly what I had in mind, but still on my wish list. So I named our team (Team CRaMit ... made up of the CRM team), whipped us up some shirts, and set out to see if kickball was all I had dreamed it would be.

In theory, kickball is the perfect "sport." Level playing field (because of the crazy rubber ball) and generally silly in nature. However, once I got on the field, I remembered all the really embarrassing things that come with kickball. For instance: when you go to kick the ball and it bounces just so that you kick with all your might but miss the ball entirely. And if you also happen to fall down after that maneuver, well, I'm just sayin. And so, as I rallied with the rest of my professional CRaMit team on the field, the gravity of the situation started to set in, and I got very, very nervous.

As it turns out, I'm a lot more comfortable up "at bat" than in the field. I played soccer as a kid, as a fullback, so even though I hadn't kicked a ball (except maybe figuratively) for about a decade or more, I felt fairly confident that I could make some sort of showing in the scoring capacity -- which I did, barely, and only because the big, wobbly ball exhibited its unpredictable nature in the catching field.

But with every third out, I was overcome with dread.

Here's the truth. My name is Amanda, and I don't like balls flying at my face (I know, there goes my social life). I don't care if they're softballs (which, for the record, are not at all soft) or goofy rubber balls. I don't like it. I blame my dad for this. Not only did he fail to teach me how to aggressively pursue catching high-speed balls, but he also failed to teach me how to NOT throw like a girl. Combine the two inadequacies, and you have a hella crappy field person.

So as I stood in the field, in pseudo "bring it" position, I was hoping to any and all divine powers that the ball didn't come my way. And when we lost our first game at the last minute, and I was completely relieved that we wouldn't have to play another game, I knew that kickball was not my thing.

So ... is kickball my passion?
No. I mean, that's not to say that I wouldn't play again. But it would have to involve friends and alcohol.

Thai foot massage: Don't mind the punching

By chance, just a few days after I decided to begin this quest of mine, a friend texted me asking if I was up for a Sunday afternoon Thai foot massage. The only question I had was "What time?" Here's the message I got back: "I'll pick you up at noon. Wear loose clothes."

Then I had another question: "Do you want to get a drink after?" Her reply: "Yes, but our hair will be messed up, so we'll have to get cleaned up first."

That one got me curious (no, not nervous) enough to call for details. I hung up still not entirely sure what I was in for but still assured that it would be $20 well spent. Fair enough. So I changed into my pajamas and headed out to the Midway Foot/Body Massage parlor, er place ... whatever.

As my friend and I continued our conversation walking through the front door, a sort of distressed looking woman hurried over to greet us. In retrospect, I think she was trying to quiet us down so we wouldn't disturb the mood of the communal massage room we were about to enter.

I guess I had pictured a room lined with chairs similar to those you see at nail salons, with the whirlpool in the foot area and the remote-controlled back rollers that sometimes get stuck in a position that feels more like having a potato shoved between your back ribs. Not the case here.

The room definitely had that "massages happen here" vibe to it. Soft, relaxing music. Muted pastel tones and soul-soothing trinkets all around. And the occasional whispering amongst the staff.

But instead of the salon chairs with people sitting upright and wincing from the occasional potato jab, there were foam recliner thingys (for lack of a better term) spaced three or four feet apart throughout the room -- a few occupied by customers, towels draped over their eyes, their butts getting a good punching ... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I suspect the first Thai foot massage you get will always be the best one, simply because you have no clue what to expect from one moment to the next. Once you’re lying flat on your back with a towel over your face, you have only auditory clues from neighboring massages in progress about what’s ahead.

My hour-long journey began as I expected a foot massage would, with my feet soaking in warm water. What I didn’t expect was the ensuing scalp massage, followed by a firm and systematic rubdown of my arms, hands, fingers (complete with knuckle popping), and calves. Then came the actual foot rubbing, which, ironically, wasn’t particularly noteworthy for me. But, to be fair, I was concentrating intensely on not jerking my feet away in ticklish spasms.

This was around the time I heard my friend’s masseuse start giggling shyly and apologizing profusely. She later confirmed my suspicions of an accidental boob grab (hey, if you’re going to rest your hands on your chest underneath the towel, you have to know the risks).

Then came the slapping sounds. And I couldn’t help but laugh because I was just giddy with anticipation. Shortly thereafter, one leg at a time, my masseuse took me through a series of stretches, not unlike those you might see a trainer administering to an athlete who’s preparing to leap over stuff or put someone in a leggy chokehold.

With my knee bent, she pushed my leg to my opposite side, giving me that deep stretch in the hip flexor area. And then … she punched me in the butt, repeatedly and without hesitation. I was sure I’d be bruised the next day, not because it was unreasonable force but because I bruise easily. But I didn’t mind because once I got over the initial confusion of it all, I actually liked it. In fact, as I was being tenderized, I was wondering who I could get to resume that practice for me at home.

After sufficiently pulverizing the length of my thigh muscle, she gently pulled some of the bend out of my knee—then snapped my leg straight with the quickness and force you would use to hook a nibbling fish. Then again. Gentle bend … snap straight. And again. Truth be told, I still don’t get the point of that maneuver. But it’s all part of the journey.

Upon request, I flipped over onto my stomach for what I could only assume was the finale: a delightful back and shoulder rub. For this, my masseuse hiked up my shirt, just in the back, and unhooked my bra. My friend lost her shirt entirely. Again, all part of the journey.

So ... is Thai foot massage my passion?

All things considered, the experience was, as promised, $20 and one hour well spent. But is it my passion? Probably not. Will I add it to the agenda next time I have family from small-town Ohio in town? Oh, for certain.

What's a girl to DO?

Recently, someone sitting next to me at happy hour asked me what I do. When I fired off my standard, abridged version of how I spend my 9-5 hours, he said, “No, I mean, what do you DO? Like, if you got a day off unexpectedly, what’s the first thing you’d go do?”

I wish I could say I spent the next 30 seconds thoughtfully prioritizing a mental list of numerous activities I find fulfilling. Having no such list, I just stared at him, my glassy gaze enlivened only by seemingly audible blinking. Absolutely nothing sprang to mind.

In an effort to salvage some semblance of character, I eventually managed to rattle off a few things that either I sometimes do, used to do, or have been meaning to do. (In other words, I lied.) But weeks later, the question continues to nag my soul.

What DO I do? What kinds of things do I look forward to? What am I passionate about?

Of course, there are things I like to do. I like to read nonfiction books and I'm always a little giddy to find the latest issue of Us Weekly in the mailbox. I like to listen to music. I like spending time with my friends and watching my dog run at the park. I like meeting new people (yes, sometimes at dive bars). But am I passionate about these things? Are these the things that define me? Are these the things I want to define me?

To find out the answers to these questions, I’ve decided to branch out and try all sorts of new and interesting (hopefully occasionally bizarre) things. After all, how can you possibly know whether or not you’re passionate about, say, cardio pole dancing, if you’ve never tried it?

And that’s what this blog is all about—my quest to find my passion(s). I don’t know if it will turn out to be inspiring or informative, but it promises to be entertaining, at the very least.

An important note: I’m committed to going into this with a completely open mind, which means I’m open to suggestions for new activities. And anyone is welcome to join me on any of my adventures. Even if neither of us finds our passion, we’re almost certain to come back with a good story.

Here we go …