The Empress of Ice Cream

When my brothers and I were young, I was the homework maven and enthusiast. I would do theirs, or help them with it, and then start my own batch of dittos. This was always enjoyable to me because I got to practice teaching, to remind myself of the basic stuff that seemed, at that point, "intrinsically known" and not teachable. When I was in the seventh grade, my assignments drifted out of the fun category and into business. There was no time for craftiness and creativity; I had some serious material to know (this attitude was, in all likelihood, self-inflicted). At this time, my brothers would have been in the fifth and third grade. The thrid-grader, Chris, brought home an assignment to make ice cream. He had no interest in such an activity, so I willingly and excitedly said I would make it for him and then help him write up the report. In one bag, I put the ice cream stuff (milk, sugar, vanilla) and in a larger one, salt. Little bag in big bag and shake, shake, shake. And then, ice cream. The resulting lump of vanilla ice cream was impressive to Chris and my mother, but I loved the act of making it. It was a very egotheistical moment: "I am god. I made ice cream." Granted, I had done crafts before. So many stuffed, felt teddy bears with crooked stitching had sprung from my fingertips, not to mention the God's eyes, friendship bracelets, beaded picture frames, and collages (so, so many collages). But this was different: I made food.

I thought of this yesterday as I was watching television with a dear friend. Yes, we were watching sitcoms, which just so happens to be the foundation of both our youths. We decided that the beauty of sitcom characters lie in their nearly adderall-laden brains that, this week, they're totally into _________. The intensity with which they throw themselves into a certain mindset, activity, paranoia, philosophy is nothing short of inspiring. Britta was on a mission to stop being such a buzzkill. Abed (a novice director) spent a day chasing a potential movie plot he detected in his friends' relationships. Liz Lemon wanted to get back at her only good boyfriend who was getting married on the Today show, right outside of her window, by accidentally feeding the recovering alcoholic a fish meal with a sauce made of Jack (She just thought the salmon would give him food poisoning!). Hilarity, my friends, ensued.

So, why this homage of sorts to sitcoms? Why, now, of a lifetime of half-an-hours do I feel the need to express my fascination with the determination of fictional characters who are characters? Because, dear friends, yesterday I cancelled the cable, frustrated with my frustration that is evident in the rotations in channels I enact over and over again. I hate to admit this, because, would you ask me on the street, I would say, "No, I don't watch t.v." Ah, but I do. I live alone, and put the set on when I eat. Even this small timeframe of 15 minutes has become way too much (the Thursday night ritual with above-referenced friend shall not stop, though: too much fun). I think I finally figured out what it is that I like about the sitcoms anyway. It was what I liked about myself when I did my brother's science experiment. That day, I was totally into making ice cream. The next day-ish, I was totally into making music with water glasses. I taught myself the usual songs, "Mary Had a Little Lamb," "The Birthday Song," etc. But now I am an adult, and my days have themes and goals before the day even starts. I usually figure out the next day the night before. "Run to the office, print that stuff, teach, office hours, drive home, walk dog, write response, class, go to that reading, pick up dinner, read, crash." What a limiting theme: busy. I think today I'm going to have to teach myself to do something I don't know how to do and be totally into it.