The Almond Milk

I am one of those unfortunate people with a nut allergy. That means every time someone offers me a cookie I have to ask, "does this have nuts in it?" The number of times the cookie has had nuts in it will break even the strongest of hearts.

Once I was at a restaurant celebrating my birthday and the waiter, to my surprise, brought me a free birthday dessert. Again with the false happiness. I was practically drooling it looked so good. But, I had to ask if it had nuts in it and long story short, my mom ended up eating that desert.

I have come to accept the reality that I simply cannot be a "dessert person" because all the fancy-schmancy desserts have nuts in them. I also cannot take part in blind taste tests or eating games, I cannot be spontaneous and decide to close my eyes and point at anything on a menu, and I will never ever be able to enjoy Nutella. Which basically means, according to almost everyone I have ever talked to, I will never have "lived."

This is a part of my identity and something I simply have to quit whining about and accept.

Or, at least, that is what I thought.

I was sitting at home one day eating cereal, chomping away, contemplating life, looking dramatically out my window, you know, the usual, when I realized something was off.  I was looking at the cereal box and observed a word I had, for a number of years, seemed to casually ignore. The box said, "Honey Nut Cheerios." Nuts were in the name of the cereal I was eating.

What.

Why I had been eating "Honey Nut Cheerios" all my life and had never once asked myself how that made any sense at all, I'll never know, but it finally hit me. I was eating a nut and was not dying. I was no longer allergic to something.

So, I looked at the back of the cereal box to find out which nut it was. Almonds. This was very exciting for me because one of my friends used to say, "Lily, it's truly too bad you can't eat almonds. Because, if you could, you would love them." With that in mind, and with my Epipen not too far away, I walked into my kitchen and tried to find some almonds to eat to test my new eating ability.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find any almonds. However, I did find some almond milk.

I automatically poured myself a glass of the lumpy, thick, gooey almond drink, and drank some. What happened next I am not too proud of, I spit it out on to the floor. I cannot explain to you how repulsed I was. It just, it tasted like garbage. But, being stubborn, I tried again, and forced myself to adjust to the taste.

I walked away from the kitchen both cringing and smiling, and resumed whatever it was I was doing before.

But, to my surprise, a few minutes later, I heard a scream.

I ran to the kitchen to find my sister jumping up and down similar to how I would image a monkey might if it accidentally sat on its banana or stubbed its toe. She was  rinsing her mouth with water and calling for my mom to bring her mouth wash. I asked her what was wrong. She told me the almond milk was expired.

Because I had never had almond milk before, I did not know what it tasted like when it was not expired, and forced a full cup of expired almond milk down my esophagus. Feel free to feel sorry for me as I puke.

Nick Offerman. Sorry- I mean, Bacon.

If you watch Parks and Recreation you know there is a character named Ron Swanson who likes to eat bacon and has a mustache. Enough said. His ridiculous ability to consume pig meat inspires my friends and I to no longer refer to him by a human name but simply by Bacon. (By the way, the fact that I am still able to worship someone that I call Bacon, despite my vegetarianism, says something.)

Once in school a girl introduced herself and I picked up on the fact that her last name was Swanson. Forgetting that I was living in real life, I started hyperventilating. Then I realized Ron Swanson was not his real name (happens all the time) and this Swanson was not related to Nick Offerman.

Many mornings ago I was sitting in my dads room on his magnificent computer writing an essay. It was 6:00 AM and I had just started the first page. Distracted by the sunrise, I turned my head to look out the window.

On a balcony directly across from my window stood a man with a mustache and I swear he was eating bacon.

This was over a year ago. Since then I have come to several revelations about Nick Offerman.

One, he is buds with my grandparents.

My grandpa is a successful playwright, and basically knows everyone. No big deal. Once I was casually talking about my obsession with Nick Offerman while at a Steakhouse (where he is very relevant) when my grandparents told me they knew him. They casually would have dinner with him and his wife, Megan Mullally, years ago when they lived in New York.

I, obviously, practically fainted when I heard that. I remember reaching into my pocket for my phone to show them that his face was my screen saver.

And second, I almost met him.

A few days ago my grandma texted me, "Nick Offerman at Barnes & Noble Weds 7pm Union Square." Apparently he wrote a book about canoeing and was having a book signing.

WHAT.

It was all I talked about that day. But though I told practically everyone I knew and begged them to come with me, everyone had "too much work." Honestly, I didn't even care. I went by myself.

Stupidly, I decided to arrive on-time instead of hours early. Obviously, I have been deprived of sleep recently, because in order to see someone like Nick Offerman you need to wait on line for a long time. So, when I entered the bookstore, crazy-eyed with a huge grin, trying to find the space where he was, I was stopped by a security guard.

“Fourth floor is closed ma'am.” She said.

“Can you repeat that please?”

“Fourth floor is full.”

“Is that where Nick Offerman is?”

“Yes.”

“So, I can not see Nick Offerman.”

“Correct.”

“So, I will not be seeing him.”

“That is correct.”

“So, he will not be seen by me today.”

“If you would like to wait in line you can get a book signed by him, the line starts on the first floor.”

I was so disappointed. So disappointed that I began negotiating with the officer. I was wearing at the time a necklace my friend Nina gave me. The necklace had a miniature harmonica on it that usually has people in awe. (Though that might be due to the fact that I will periodically make music with it and then pretend as though I did not, causing people to look around suspiciously trying to understand where the music is coming from.)

I jokingly told her that if she let me up to the fourth floor, I would give her this famous harmonica necklace.

She looked me dead in the eye and repeated, “If you would like to wait in line you can get a book signed by him, the line starts on the first floor.”

“How long do you think I will have to wait?”

“Two or so hours.”

But as much as I wanted to, I had to be at least somewhat responsible. High school seniors have a lot of work to do. So, I left. And did not meet him.

I swear to god Barnes and Noble, you will regret not letting me see Nick Offerman.

I may use bacon as a bookmark or something.

Bangs

Who would have thought? One moment a confident young girl with hair below her shoulders, the next a hillbilly with a mullet.
Yes, sadly, the mullet girl is me. Though due (thank god) to the invention of bobby pins no one really knows. And I guess technically I do not have a mullet, but I might as well. I have a sorry case of terrible-bangs.
I should have known the moment the hairdresser started snipping, the magazines on her wall with her face on it were all handmade and her hair looked like a goat thought it was a couch. But something happens when you sit in the chair of a hairdresser. All of a sudden you forget how to have opinions and doubts or rather, a voice to voice them. She washed my hair, she grabbed (yes, grabbed) her scissors and destroyed any chances for me to have bangs like Zooey Deschannel. The first thing my mom said was, "Oh! Lily, you look like a toddler!" To that I just had to close my eyes for a moment and think, "not again." And sure enough when I willed myself to open my eyes, I was looking into a photo album from back in the day.
Bangs. I'm here to convince you they are the ultimate poison of my generation. The pictures of celebrities with successful bangs, laying softly on the top of their eyebrows, seemingly benign. Society is trying to tell us to get bangs. And sometimes people fall in that trap.
Months ago, when I went up to my friends and asked them if I should get bangs, I had already made up my mind. After the symphonies of "No,""Please, no," or "Lily you are going to regret this," I smiled at them and said, "I know right! I should definitely get bangs. Thanks for the advice," as though I was a tape recorder without a brain, a zombie student treating research as busy work. So I guess this is a warning for everyone out there like me. Change is good but bangs- Bangs are simply destructive.

The Barbie Phone

I'm not actually too fond of the color pink. My sister was always the pinky piglet, and I, the blue bugger. But when I lost my last phone and saw the pink phone on the screen I was immediately attached to it. I imagined how funny it would be to pull out a phone, a completely covered in pink fake blackberry, and act like it was perfectly normal. To me the phone was a barbie phone, that worked. It would be like owning a barbie computer that worked. Or a barbie home telephone that worked.


Whether I wanted to amaze babies when they put the "barbie phone" to their ears and hear a real person's voice on the other side, or I just wanted to have something to laugh at multiple times during the day, I can't say... But I bought it.

Mouse On Slope

Vermont and mice, is there a distinction? Well, yes. But for some reason, unknown to me, my experiences with Vermont tend to be summed up through one word: mice. Last year I found a dead mouse in my ski boot, which scared the crap out of me and arguably inspired my fear of going on black diamond runs, (though, thinking back there really is no connection what so ever).

And then there was this year.

I was skiing this time, with a boot on both my feet, when I suddenly stopped. I could have sworn I saw something descending down the mountain alongside my friend. It was a small oval-shaped object, but didn't seem to be rolling down the mountain as an inanimate object might...

As I slowed down, I discovered what it was.

A mouse running to safety (really slowly but surely....)

I'm just happy this one was cute and alive.

Click Here for Other Mouse Story