Culture No. 3

When you first get engaged, people ask you five questions:

How did he propose?

Were you surprised?

What does the ring look like?

When is the wedding?

Are you changing your name?

I found the last question fascinating because some people were so sensitive to its inherent stench/aroma of feminism that they hesitated to even ask it. (Note to World: I am not that sensitive. If you offend me, I’ll get over it. Eventually.)

Granted, I’ll be the first to admit I tormented Bert with statements like, “I think I’ll keep my maiden name. Or maybe hyphenate it.” I even jokingly suggested he change his name or that we combine the letters of both our last names to create a new (crazy long) one. (Poor guy. I like to stir the pot.)

But I always knew I would change it. It wasn’t really a question. When I was little, I even wondered what my married initials would be. (SAM was my favorite, but SAC got points for bumping me up alphabetically. Chronic lastness gets old.) I do love my maiden name of course, but, to paraphrase someone famous, a rose smells nice no matter what you call it. And I think that is an appropriate floral analogy in my case.

I bring this up because yesterday I finally and officially changed my name. (And Bert breathed a five-year pent-up sigh of relief.) Expecting something akin to the DMV, I’d been holding off until I had all the necessary documents (our wedding license, my passport, a doctor's referral, my kindergarten report card, etc., etc., et. al.) , but the whole process was entirely anticlimactic and took all of five minutes. It took me longer to figure out how to turn into the parking lot. Let the national institution take note: the Wilkes-Barre Social Security Field Office has got things down.

So as of yesterday, I am officially a Carlton. I won’t lie though: I couldn’t bear to let the maiden name go and officially squished it into my middle name. It’s such a great name, I’d hate to waste it. (Anne, you have some company now!)

(And on a tangential note-a bit of NEPA culture for you-the Wilkes-Barre Social Security office is located in the old Stegmaier Brewery building: a great example of historic, adaptive reuse. I might have to run over and take photos some weekend when the feds aren’t around to look at me funny!)

Culture No. 2

Last week a friend asked me, “Do you ever get strange looks when you tell people you live in Scranton?” Apparently, she’d had a run-in with an old acquaintance of mine who, when told where I was presently residing, gave her a look that clearly said, “Oh, how the mighty New England snob has fallen. That is a fate worse than Detroit.”

My answer to her was, of course, yes. How could it not be when I live in a town that barely registered on a regional – never mind national – scale until Michael Scott put it there? But the funny thing is, I actually get stranger looks from the locals when I tell them I moved here from Connecticut, a state that enjoys an absurdly contorted reputation abroad. (No offense to the Valley. We all know I’m down with the snobbery. I even have a shirt that says so.)

Here are some direct quotes:

“You moved here from Connecticut? WHY?!?!“ (Or I’m sorry, Poor you, etc.)

“This would be the last place on earth I would move to.”

“You must be having some culture shock, huh? How different is it here?”

My stock answer to the last question is, “It’s sunnier than New England,” which is not a lie because it has been. Granted, I’ve only been here since February and the New E was pretty much wrapped in a snowstorm for the two months preceding that, but seriously. Everywhere I go, people are convinced they live in the worst place on earth: Pennsylvania, Virginia, Colorado, Nova Scotia, the Yorkshire Dales, wherev. They’re all convinced the next town/county/state/country over is better/greener/friendlier/etc. etc. ad naseum. They’re all wrong, of course, because personally I’m still sure Upstate New York is the most normal place on earth, but I’m still unable to explain any of those towns on the Taconic State Parkway, so perhaps there are cracks in my theory.

That said, Scranton is actually not that bad. (Although technically, we live closer to Wilkes-Barre. As in, I could swim to it if I didn’t mind a good dose of dirty water. The Charles she ain’t, but some days the Susque sure tries.) There’s four seasons, minimal traffic, and good hiking. Yes, the nearest Anthropologie may be in Philly, but I can’t afford to shop there right now anyway, so perhaps that’s a blessing.

But most importantly (and what I think people tend to forget), is that Bert’s here. And I would go pretty much anywhere he would go. (We’d have to have a long talk about anywhere hot and humid and South, but I’m sure he could talk me into it. He’s kind of cute that way.)

I must be in love.

Top 100 Signs I Married the Right Man No. 98

98. When you are consciously driving slow to not miss a certain address, he leans over, looks at the speedometer, and says, "This is a little slow for you, isn't it? For a moment there, it felt like I was driving."

Cooking No. 3

I have a confession.

Actually, it’s not just my confession. I am confessing for every married, 20-something woman in America. Here goes:

Sorry, boys. We didn’t get married for you. We got married for this.

Yes, you saw that right. I do have one: the official proof of matrimonial registering: my 4.5 quart, 275 watt, Classic Plus Kitchen Aid Mixer (courtesy of an unstoppable sister/aunt duo). In white. (Unfortunately, Target does not sell it in “ice blue” aka close-enough-to-turquoise-to-make-me-happy. Otherwise, you know I would’ve been all over that.) And yes, my ultimate symbol of happy homemakerdom is still in its box. Buried under another box. (Bert’s monstrous Keurig – the masculine version of the Kitchen Aid?) And another box. Really, a whole closet full of boxes when you get down to it. Which we obviously haven’t.

It’s one of those things that “will get unpacked when we move.” Sigh. So why do I bring it up now, two weeks before we move to that TBD destination?

Because I decided I wanted to make bread. And I hate getting flour (and chalk dust, for that matter) on my hands. These two things are problematic, especially when your dirty-working machine is holding up the leaning tower of shower presents. (It was also problematic in second grade when every trip to the blackboard was followed by an OCD-induced trip to the bathroom to wash my hands, but I digress…)

So, I found a recipe that split the difference and satisfied all parties (my sidelined mixer and my neurosis): no-knead bread. Perfect! Who knew they even invented these things? (Bert didn’t either. “Don’t you need a bread machine to make bread?" <3)>

Result? The bread is definitely denser and more cake-like than a ‘kneaded’ bread, but to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not super picky about the consistency of my carbs. Just the quantity. And the taste, of course. This one's not too bad. Definitely worth a second bake!

Cancer No. 2

I got my latest blood test back today. My T₃ and T₄ levels are (still) as normal as ever, but my TBG levels are elevated. (That was a new one for me. “My what?” I swear they invent this stuff just to test for it.) So what does that mean?

Well, nothing really. “We see elevated levels when the nodule’s benign, but also when it’s not.” For reals?! Endocrinologists should moonlight as politicians. They’ve got these lines down.

But for real reals, it is good that everything else is still maintaining. Ned is most likely short-circuiting anything my left thyroid would usually do, so it means my right one can most likely keep everything going on it’s own once it is on its own. I'm terrible at taking a daily vitamin, never mind a daily synthroid.

Culture No. 1

Today, I’m going to talk about the Mississippi. Of Pennsylvania. By which, of course, I mean the Susquehanna. I felt it prudent to introduce it as “The Mississippi of Pennsylvania” because, unless you live in Pennsylvania where every third street and/or bank is named after the thing, you most likely have never heard of it. (Imagine my shock when I found out it actually begins as an outlet of Otsego Lake in Cooperstown, New York. Yes, the Coop is the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame AND the Coopers of James Fenimore fame but, more importantly, it is also the town I got engaged in. :) Like it’s larger, better-advertised cousin, the Susqui cuts through the heartland (of Pennsyltucky), stifles creative spellers everywhere (perhaps even more so because it lacks a clever song), and, periodically, floods.

Bert and I currently live about 200 yards from the riverbank. Granted, there is an enormous levee in between us and it, but until last week, I thought it was planted there solely to ruin my view of the awesomeness that is the W-B. I was wrong.

Apparently, there is a levee because when the Susque decides to flood, it doesn’t really stop to form a committee about it. It just does it. (I like her style.) I went up on the levee last Friday to take a look around and was utterly shocked. The riverbank where Bert and I went snowshoeing a few weeks before was completely submerged and the water came all the way to the foot of the levee.

The river wasn’t supposed to crest until Sunday, but it gave everyone a pleasant shock and crested half a day early and three feet lower than expected. (Some of the towns around here prefer the view and don’t have levees, so I guess that three feet is important.) I went up to take more pictures on Sunday and the Susque was in full retreat. Today, it’s pretty much all tucked in, although the water’s still pretty high in some areas.

Sadly, all I can think about is how much I miss the snow. Sigh. It was nice while it lasted. Nine more months to go…

Top 100 Signs You Married the Right Man No. 99

99. You've both memorized all seven resin identification codes and can identify them on sight.

Cancer No.1

Let me explain that title better. I don’t have cancer. I may have cancer. They’re not sure and apparently that is an acceptable diagnosis. Yes, we landed on the moon over forty years ago, but we cannot give an accurate description of a lump that lies directly beneath my skin. Oy vey.

For those behind/not in the loop, let me sum up. I have a nodule of sorts on my left thyroid. I’ve named him Ned. (Because really, who could be afraid of something named Ned?) My doctor found him in the Fall of 2009. (I thought he was being a hypochondriac. Sadly, he wasn’t.) I had a biopsy right around Christmas of that same year that came back inconclusive. They didn’t find any ‘typical’ cancer cells, but they did find Hurthle cells, which may or may not be malignant. (They didn’t want to try a second biopsy for fear of “mixing things around.” Apparently, like my mother’s piecrust, I too can be overworked.) Due to poor insurance, bad doctors, and wedding planning, nothing happened after that for an entire year. Until now.

My surgeon told me I could wait until this summer to get Ned checked again, but when I visited my doctor right before the wedding, he was very concerned that she told me to wait that long. After I told him a few doctor disaster stories, he offered me new referrals, but I declined, telling him I’d rather wait until I moved to PA. So now that I am here, the fun can start all over again.

Friday was my first appointment with my new endocrinologist. In CT, all specialists work in large office buildings that host entire legions of unpronounceable fields and are an average of 90 minutes late. (Unfortunately, I kid you not.) In PA, they all work in buildings that look like converted Italian restaurants and have you in and out the door before you’re done filling out your HIPPA forms. I love it. Bring on the Tastykakes and the grating Pittsburgh accents. I'm ready to go local.

I explained Ned’s whole story to the endo, who took an ultrasound to see if he’s grown any. It was, of course, inconclusive. Ultrasounds have a 15-20% margin of error, and he measured present-day Ned as 15-20% larger than last-year Ned. Which left me with two options: one, have another biopsy (which this endo didn’t seem concerned about) and continue to keep an eye on it, or two, just take the whole thing out. As much as I love my thyroid, I’m less of a fan of cancer time bombs and opted for Door #2. Ned, your days are numbered.

Cooking No. 2

This post is dedicated to my sister, Erin, who, continuing her innumerable year streak of giving awesome presents, gave Drew and I these Crate & Barrel plates for Christmas.

We had tacos for dinner last night, which were remarkable only in my substitution of much cheaper ground chicken in place of the usual turkey. I didn’t even know they had invented ground chicken until a week ago and was a little concerned about the outcome, but they tasted, well, like chicken. Bert didn’t notice. (Or at least didn’t say anything.) I love taco seasoning. You can hide anything in that stuff.

Top 100 Signs You Married the Right Man

100. When he sees your new bedtime story (which you choose completely independent of his knowledge), he says, "When did you get Guns, Germs, and Steel? I've been meaning to read that since college. How is it?"

Of course, this may also just be a sign that you and your husband are complete nerds, but I think our ability to work Star Wars/BSG/Calvin & Hobbes quotes into everyday conversation probably gave that away a long time ago.

Cat No. 1

One week ago today, Nora turned four. (It's been almost four years since her namesake. Too weird.) Last night was the first time she'd slept through the night since moving to Pennsyltucky. I know: you think we would've locked this down awhile ago, but you know things are bad when you wake up thinking, "That can't be the alarm. Nora hasn't used the bed as a racetrack yet."

She still refuses to go outside and spends her days sleeping, scratching furniture, and eating rubber bands. Bert says she's getting fat. I'd like to think it's still just her winter fuzz. Hopefully, she'll have some space to roam once we move to our new digs.

Cooking No. 1

It is a well-known fact–somewhere up there with “The Earth is round” and “Massachusetts will always vote blue”–that my mother makes amazing pies. Incomparable pies. Epic pies. (She also makes soup of neighborhood-wide fame, but that is for another post.)

Her secret is the crust. She makes this perfect crust that’s earned her the honor of “making Thanksgiving Day dessert” for ten years running now. Everyone loves it and no one can duplicate it, so–of course–I decided to try.

Not purposefully, of course. I’ve tried to make piecrusts before. I know better than trying again. (In this case, perseverance would not be considered a virtue.) But sometime last week I decided I wanted to make a quiche. I found an old, college recipe–that I got from someone else and have never actually made before–skimmed it for the ingredients, and started off, willy nilly, without ever realizing the culinary trap that waited for me come Step 4.

“Pour in a cooled crust?” What?! The recipe didn’t say anything about making said crust. Obviously, it forgot my Home Ec teacher hated foreigners and consciously sabotaged my cooking education. (Or maybe that was because I refused to stop cutting things in her Teflon pans. Whatev.) Cue a frantic call to Mama V., who emailed me her top-secret recipe stat.

Said recipe contains a grand total of three ingredients carefully chosen to torture you in every physical, emotional, and spiritual way possible. “Don't overwork it,” she said. “Just until it holds nicely together.”

Uh huh. Okay. This advice created a floury ball of quasi-dough, flakier than, well, a Flake that smelled somewhat like the homemade play dough little Sarah use to make in her craftier moments, i.e. it was going nowhere fast.

Following Mama V.’s supplemental advice, I added more water. It started gellin’ and made it to the pie plate in mostly one–albeit too small–piece. (Why yes, that is a turquoise Fiestaware pie plate! Hello fellow dish snobs!)

Baking the thing was a whole ‘nother issue. Do you grease the pie plate? Do you not? The particulars of crust baking are not covered in architecture school. (I went out on a limb and didn’t. It was fine.) Mama V. said to bake it for 8-10 minutes. I ended up leaving it in there for a solid 15 and still wasn’t sure if that was enough. (It wasn’t quite the called for “golden brown”–more like a “pasty beige.”) But whatev. I figured the second round in the oven with the quiche would kill any remaining germies.

By the time the second oven round rolled around, I was very much looking forward to the simpler meals I’ve planned for the rest of the week. The quiche took about twenty minutes longer than it should have to cook and all my attempts to convince Bert that it DID contain microscopic bits of bacon failed. (But he still gave it the thumbs up. What a dear. :)

The quiche was alright. You could barely taste the crust under the combined clout of four eggs and multiple ounces of cheese. (But I imagine it was delicious!) Will I make it again? Eh, maybe. If I have time. And the bacon. And my mother. :)

Welcome!

Welcome to Trophy Wife 101!

This blog will chronicle the times, trials, and triumphs of a trophy wife-in-training living in the highlands of Northeastern Pennsyltucky. We will cover important trophy wife topics like Cooking and Commerce, as well as exploring the Cultural delights that arise from living in the rural Commonwealth.

Stick with me, Folks. This is going to be an epic ride.