Speaking of that last post...

It's a sucky position to be in, hoping someone else will be more kind than you have been, throwing your conscience at the mercy of the rest of humanity.

It occurs to me that different people can think very different things of us based on the moment they interface with us. One time I was driving Jared home from a doctor's appointment. Mind you, this particular appointment is every two weeks, we have to drive across town during rush-hour, and I have to drive because he's doped up on all kinds of drugs. The appointment itself is only for a shot, and takes less than five minutes, but it takes an hour and a half of driving to get there and back. In crappy traffic. I hate it. It drives me crazy. I have a sick husband and an impatient baby in the car and I just want everyone to get out of my way so I can get home already!

So this one time I was taking backroads (read: through town, stopping at every traffic light on every block) and this guy started crossing the street when the hand was flashing -- you know: the hand that means "if you're not already walking, don't start now because the light is about to turn." He even had a limp, so he was going slow and was not very far when my light turned, and I had to wait for him. I revved my engine a little in my impatience. Jared had enough wits about him to wave at the guy and tell him, "you're ok!" through the window before he turned and chastised me, "what the heck are you doing?! Why'd you go and do that?" I mean, he was right. I'm revving my engine at some poor guy with a limp because I don't want to wait a few more seconds?! People in cars can be so lazy and inconsiderate (I learned this during my bike-commuter days).

I felt bad about the pedestrian incident, and resolved not to be so lame. So later in that same drive I was at another intersection and I merrily waited for some folks to cross. A couple with a stroller was lagging behind, but I gave them that little "go ahead" wave you give, and they gratefully went ahead.

The limping guy probably thinks I'm a complete b****. The stroller couple think I'm a really nice person. And I'm sure this pattern appears elsewhere in my associations. Some people observe me doing really stupid and inconsiderate things. Others see me doing only really great, nice, kind things. Jared sees it all, like in that drive, and everything probably cancels itself out.

But I wish Jared (and everyone else) could see me as my newly resolved considerate-to-pedestrians driver. It's bites, kinda, that my past has to haunt me like that.

I think this is one of the most important and overlooked purposes of the principle of forgiveness. Yes, you free yourself of a grudge. Yes, you shouldn't judge others. But I think the real reason we need to forgive each other is to give each other the benefit of the doubt when we make positive changes in our lives. It's hard to feel like a truly considerate driver with Jared in the car if I know he's thinking to himself, "she's just doing that because she feels bad about being a jerk earlier." If I could find a way to wipe his memory and/or judgment, I could decide that "from here on out, I'm going to be considerate to pedestrians." And I could really be that, and own it, and be proud of it.

To the Little Old Man in the Shiny Red Car

I'm sorry! I'm sorry I honked at you! It's just... I had to slam on my brakes when you turned into my lane. You were tentative and... well... slow, and you probably weren't sure which lane you were supposed to be in because you were straddling both of them for a bit, weaving back and forth. Maybe it was a borrowed car and you were not really comfortable driving it. Maybe you don't drive very often. But I didn't think of that at the time.

See, we were in Lake Oswego, and the red car... well... it doesn't look like a little-old-man-car. I thought for all the world that you were some high-maintenance, self-centered, Lake-Oswegan, middle-aged woman holding her cell phone in the bejeweled fingers of one hand and the steering wheel in the other, oblivious to the rest of the world, not taking the mental energy to consider the other drivers around her. When I passed you and turned to give you a dirty look, it was only then I realized that you were just a sweet little old guy driving an uncharacteristically showy vehicle, and you were probably intimidated enough by the road and all the whipper-snappers around you before I had to go and do something so rude as to honk at you. You probably could have done without that. But I couldn't say so. There's no opposite of "the finger" really. So I'm sorry. And I can only hope someone else was more kind.

An Open Letter to The Tomato (pronounced "Teh-MAH'-tow" of course)

Dear Tomato,

I'm sorry. I know, I've been distant. It's been a while now. We used to be so close, you and I. I loved the way you were simultaneously tart, sweet, and savory. I loved your lush, red, meaty flesh, jewel-like and glistening. You added moisture and zing to an otherwise unexciting sandwich. You added vibrant color to a drab salad. You added the feeling of freshness to an overcooked taco. There was really nothing I felt couldn't be improved upon by the addition of you.

But then I was pregnant for a while. Your once-luscious flesh felt mealy and tepid. Your skin seemed too thin and sinewy - always rolling up and getting in the way, or preventing my teeth from breaking through and thus causing them to mash you rather than achieve a tidy bite. Your watery insides seemed too leaky, making your neighbors soggy. And then there are those squishy little jelly-covered seeds, squirreling around in my mouth or crawling through my pasta like weevils. Your once-beloved flavor became all wrong, a zest out of place on an otherwise comfortable grilled cheese, a fruit flavor among vegetables (you have masqueraded to many as a vegetable; I knew the truth, but loved you anyway). I began to favor the firmer and more subtle avacado, the zesty red pepper, the crisp romaine.

I thought it didn't mean anything, my cheating, at first, and assumed it wouldn't last long. When no longer pregnant I figured I just needed time alone. It was winter, after all, and you really were mealy and flavorless, a sawdusty February version of your July self. I anticipated summer, planted you in May, waited anxiously for the day when I could harvest you from my own garden, taste the gloriousness that I remembered from two summers previous, and re-ignite our old love and passion, for a second honeymoon together.

It just didn't happen the way I imagined. I tried. I really did. Early Girl, Willamette, Yellow Pear. I made a valiant attempt with my previous favorite, the Cherokee Purple. Beautiful, but the same spark just wasn't there. I had a wild but short fling with the Brandywine. I even entertained the Striped Roman and a yellow heirloom. For a short while I thought it was happening. But really, I was fooling myself. A few of you fell to the ground, uneaten, sometimes. I shamefully secreted you to the compost bin, and felt guilty.

Today I was in the grocery store and there you were looking up at me as you always have. I regarded you for a moment, remembering that I had none of you at home. You have long been a constant staple in my kitchen; I would never be without you or you without me. But... looking at you and considering today, I decided to face the truth: I have no need of you right now. I just... I'm focusing on other things in my palette. I just need some space. I think... I think... I think I've fallen out of love with you. So here's to hoping someday things will turn around for us. But for now...

...Goodbye...