There Was A Young Lady Who Swallowed a Fly

While walking into gym class in the fourth grade I swallowed a fly.  Perhaps the fly was seeking shelter when he flew straight into the moist warmth of my open maw.  Perhaps he was fleeing a predator, seeking a safe haven and a moment’s rest from pursuit.  Or perhaps flying into open mouths was the sort of thrill-seeking dynamic young flies were into back in the 70s.  Whatever the motivation, things took a turn for the worse as my jaws clanged shut from shock and my auto-swallow engaged before my gag reflux could save the day and free the fly.  In the end, for whatever reason, or by whatever design, I swallowed a fly that warm spring day and in so doing tainted my reputation for life.

I went to a number of schools following that fourth grade year, both public and private.  Throughout my subsequent elementary and secondary education, though we continued to live in the same house, I did not attend any school more than two years consecutively.  I used to tell people I had multiple-schoolosis (but it just confused them and they proceeded to look at me with sympathy and ask if I needed to sit down, so I stopped).  As such, those children who were witness to the fly kafuffle were left behind and I began to concentrate on my studies and social life free from the buzzing specter of the rogue fly’s dark digestive demise.

Ours was a two-year high school to which all the town’s teens swarmed.  Kids I hadn’t seen in years were reunited that fall in a maze of lockers, hallways, classrooms, and buildings.  Passing periods were abuzz with long-time-no-see greeting exchanges as old acquaintances were renewed.  My eyes rolled as I swatted away too many unwanted inquiries/accusations, “Hey! Weren’t you the girl who swallowed the fly?”  Admittedly it was demoralizing to no small degree that my close encounter of the fly kind was the lasting impression I had made upon my former classmates.  Even my highly publicized melee with Kelly Blackwell the Human Wall paled by comparison.  Was I doomed to live on in infamy as a wonton swallower of flies?

Following graduation I flew to Los Angeles to attend university.  A few years later I volunteered to serve as a welfare missionary in a small island nation deeply steeped in poverty.  Later, I completed my Bachelors of English, ultimately marrying and starting a family.  The years passed.  I had grown from mere larvae to mature adult, gaining knowledge and perspective in life.  I was becoming a better rounded more complete me.  I was no longer a child, but a woman; self-confident, happy with my life, working on any number of projects and activities.  Fourth grade was eons behind me when, while visiting my mother, I ran to the local grocery store for a few items and bumped into an old fourth grade acquaintance.  The recognition was immediate.  The woman’s words spewed forth before her brain could engage any sort of filter, “Hey, I know you! You’re that girl who swallowed the fly!"

Some people are remembered for their courage, some for their cowardice.  Some are remembered for their virtue, some for their vice.  As for me, I swallowed a fly.  And I don't know why I swallowed that fly, but the memory won't die.

Raccoon Correspondence

About 8 years ago the wooded area near my mother’s home was cleared to build a physicians office.  In so doing a number of woodland creatures were displaced and sought refuge elsewhere.  One fortunate pair of raccoons found their way into my mother’s attic (much to her chagrin).  After some days, my mother utilized a trap from the local shelter to capture the furry visitors and have them released into the wild.  Knowing the grateful nature of raccoons, I took it upon myself to act as scribe and sent my mother the following epistle on their behalf:

Kind Woman,

Thank you for assisting us in our relocation experience.  Your attic was a lovely way station on the long journey to our new home.  We found it warm and cozy and filled with a warm, pink substance that got caught in Wilhelmina’s eye and scratched her cornea.  We will, of course, be sending you the medical bill.  Nevertheless, we both had an enjoyable time in your attic.  Just a thought, you might want to run cable up there--it can get so lonesome on a quiet autumn evening.  Nothing makes a creature feel at home quite like an hour or two of animal planet…unless they’re playing a shark documentary, those are quite alarming.

Our new home in the forest is very quaint, though it lacks certain amenities as well.  I took the liberty of lifting some of the reading material I found in one of your boxes. Wilhelmina and I spend long nights in the branches reading aloud to one another.  I’m almost embarrassed to admit that Wilhelmina also helped herself to a few Barbie dolls to pass the time.  It has been quite amusing this Halloween season to rip their heads off, ferret them away in the squirrels’ stash, and then sit back and listen for those furry little busybodies to discover.  How we chuckle at their startled screams of horror.

I hope you don’t mind, but we have passed your address on to a few of our closest friends and relations.  You seemed so open to lending us shelter, we were certain you would be as hospitable to those who follow.  It should be a simpler matter now that we have established a sewage locale and lovemaking salon.  We figure with the kind of space you’ve got up there, you could host any number of hibernators as well as the passers by.  Someone will, of course, need to widen the sewage area, but it will be a simple enough matter.  Oh, and again, don’t forget the cable.

Well, I must away.  It seems Wilhelmina has a Barbie hand stuck in her throat.  She’s a sweet creature, but not particularly bright.  Thank you again for all your help.  Feel free to post this in the attic so others will know the forest is near.  Oh, and one last thing, we feel the transport cage is a bit primitive.  Perhaps a catamaran, or some sort of silk lined pallet might make a more comfortable mode of transportation...just a thought.

Affectionately,

Bendelbaum G. Coon and

Wilhelmina Vanderbilt Coon

Aging

If you want a perspective shift while in the prime of your life you have two choices.  You can enjoy a situation in which you stare Death in the face, which is something of a gamble since you’re not guaranteed to survive long enough to enjoy your new perspective.  Or, you can watch a slide presentation of the elderly people presently in your life, as they appeared when they were your age. Last night I did the latter.

Watching the pictures of my husband’s side of the family when they were in their 20s, 30s, & 40s was fascinating.  Here are men and women whom I’ve known for 20 years.  They are all a minimum of 20 years my senior, and the majority of them are significantly more so.  They haven’t exactly joined the ranks of Methuselah…okay well yes in all honesty most of them have been targeted by Wilford Brimley and the folks down at the AARP.  Years from when all those pictures were taken, they are now bumping their heads on the age ceiling as they purchase burial plots in advance, program home-health medical supply stores into their speed dial, and place dibbies on their adult care facility of choice.

But back in the day of disco and burgundy leisure suits; back when men and boys paired knee high sports socks and short-shorts with impunity; back when Farrah Fawcett’s famous flip ruled salon chairs the world over…back then our aging parents and grandparents looked uncannily like us.  They were caught in candid shots with young children hanging from their arms, posing on vacation at the Alamo, and snapped eating ice cream on a warmly familiar back porch.  They lacked the tell-tail signs of the age they now wear proudly: no crow’s feet around the eyes from the years of laughter; no worry lines laddering up their brows thanks to raising teenagers, paying mortgages, & making weighty decisions they feared would define them for better or for worse; and no shorter stature born of decades carrying upon their shoulders the weight of their own worlds.

As the slides progressed I looked at my own children: my 8 yr old daughter laying on the floor repeatedly informing us she was bored, my 13 yr old son straining to recognize his late grandmother’s beloved face in the younger, plumper version of herself on the screen.  I knew they would one day sit where I was and feel what I felt.  One day (though certainly not last night) they will sit captivated by pictures of us and their aunts and uncles, and realize we were once young and we had our time as they will have theirs; realize we all share life in common with its joys and sorrows and day-to-day living that seems mundane, stressful, and comfortable all at once; realize this physical life ends for each of us, but family goes on.  And family is the why behind it all.

Athletically Me

Of the many adjectives that describe me, “athletic” is simply not among them.  Perhaps that’s because my career as a figure skater was cut short when we learned, five minutes into my first (and last) ice skating lesson, that some sense of balance was required to stay upright.  Perhaps it’s because my 6-week career as a junior bowler was commemorated by a little wooden bowling pin displaying my overall average of 65.  Or perhaps it’s because my signature basketball move as a teenager was throwing my hands up over my head for protection in any and all potential rebounding situations, because who wants to be hit in the head with a flying basketball?  Whatever the reasons, I have spent a life far from rinks, courts, and fields.  But now that I have children of my own, I have decided that it is high time I become a truly dedicated athletic supporter!

Tonight my daughter runs up and down the community center basketball court, her ponytails askew and flying in the wind.  Every so often during the fast-paced game she struggles with the duality of her girly- and athletic-sides, pausing to tend to her nails halfway to the basket.  During the fourth quarter her eager pace is waylaid by yawning, which she later explains is due to “utter exhaustion.”  I suppose two 6-minute quarters a week will do that to an 8 yr old.  She’s a pretty good dribbler, a skill she gets from her dad.  When I ask her why she doesn’t get under the basket to rebound the ball she responds, “If I’m under the basket, Mom, then the ball might hit me in the head!”  She gets her higher order reasoning skills from me.

Tomorrow night it’s my son’s turn on the court.  At 7:45 we will be sitting in the stands on the opposite end of the court from the team as I desperately signal to him that his jersey is on backwards…again.  Unlike his sister, the boy will wisely pace himself as he embarks on his multiple migrations between baskets.  He is a competent shot when he gets the ball during a practice session.  With an audience, however, his enthusiasm gives way to the ill-conceived showmanship so common among teens.  Last week one kid performed a Cantilever into an Axel Jump finishing with a Camel Spin while shooting the ball.  It was a thing of beauty until the ball came down 6 ft from the basket into the waiting hands of the opposing team…my son was right next to the rebounder with his arms thrown over his head for protection.  Go figure.

Still, we have fun cheering loudly for our kids’ teams and politely for the opposing teams.  We enjoy watching our children participate, hoping for that cinema-worthy play that will excite and encourage them to work harder and practice more and be their best selves.  We teach them to be gracious winners and gracious second-placers.  And as we sit on the bleachers at the end of the court watching the players barreling down toward the basket above us, I keep my hands ready to throw over my head, because, despite my love for and support of my children’s athletic pursuits, I still don’t want to be hit in the head with a flying basketball.

A Cool Fool Totally Rules

As a member of the human race, I am extremely cool.  I would give you a list of references to confirm this, but as my long-standing coolness is self-evident I think we can all agree that won’t be necessary.  Being inherently cool, I don’t mind occasionally making a complete fool of myself when the situation calls for it, because I have been taught by experience that there are certain special times in life when fool is cool.  And I was taught by one of the greats...

In my early-twenties I spent a year and a half in a third world country far away from everything I knew.  When I returned home eager to be reunited with the family I'd missed, my mother master-minded a landing party to greet me at the airport.  They awaited my arrival just outside security.  It was a high traffic, public place; a place in which my socially aware mother would typically be on her most appropriate behavior.  I walked down the terminal craning to catch a glimpse of the long unseen faces of my beloved family.  Rather, I was met by a small group of lunatics wearing gorilla masks.  I was deeply touched.  The security officers were deeply confused and likely debating the need for a body-cavity check while their newest officer was sent for a tranquilizer gun and a bunch of bananas.

Some years later, Christmas evening found me again in Oklahoma.  I was 4 months pregnant and not enjoying much.  Everything smelled funny.  I was constantly tired.  And, as it was the first Christmas following my dad’s passing, the holiday vibe was bittersweet in my childhood home.  Having dined on the obligatory bi-annual turkey, the combination of tryptophan and hormones left me lick-the-road-exhausted.  My husband and I sat lazily in the front room engaged in casual conversation with the siblings.  That’s when it happened.  My mother, having received a skin-tight screaming purple leotard from her deranged little sister as a yuletide gift, entered the room; her comfortably plump form clothed in the polished plumb one-piece.  It was brilliant!

Alas, there exists no photographic evidence of my mother’s Planet of the Apes homecoming, nor of her Purple People Eater impression that surreal Christmas night.  In fact, I’m willing to bet serious cash that the lilac leotard in question, long since off-loaded to an unsuspecting charity drive, has found its way into the hands of some less fortunate would-be modern dancer, beatnik poet, or base-jumper who today enjoys the supple support and amethyst stain of Lycra Gone Wild.  But the memories are still vivid in my mind and now preserved forever in my blog for the benefit of one and all.  And to you, Mom, I say Thank You…and, of course, You’re Welcome.

The Cookie Kunundrum

Achilles had his heel.  The Wicked Witch of the West had her ill-placed bucket of water.  Barney the dinosaur had his in-between meal child actor-snacks.  And I have my Crack-Whore Tollhouse Cookies.  To paraphrase Lucky the charming, cereal leprechaun, "They're free-baseably delicious!"  And never fear (or don't get excited as the case may be), I've added no recreational pharmaceuticals to the original Nestle's Tollhouse Cookie recipe.  I merely follow the instructions on the back of the chocolate chip package.  (I actually have it committed to memory now.)  This simple concoction manages to connect to the heart of the hungry hominid within, shaking her club in approval as she lets fly her primal "Yop" to the world.

Making healthy food choices is a daily battle for some of us.  Some days are more successful…and then there are all the other days.  The catch is not to let too many of those “other” days string together or you wind up in a real bind.  For example, you know you've been to the McDonald's drive-thru too frequently when the teenager who takes your payment says warmly, "Hey! How are you this morning!”  And you know it's not a simple case of an over-achiever jockeying for Employee of the Month when you respond with equal familiarity, swapping recipes and inviting him to your next family gathering.

Today I had consistent success in my food choices.  I reached for foods high in fiber, high in lean protein, low in refined sugars, and high in flavor.  Too often I become afraid of food when I'm trying to overhaul my eating habits.  It's like me against the Big Bad Creme Brulée, or me against the Wicked Weinerschnitzel of the West, or me against the Evil Stepmac&cheese.  (Now I'm getting hungry...dang it.)  When I'm afraid of food, I try to avoid it or eat it in the most stark and unfulfilling way possible so it doesn't get the upper hand.  Of course, then I just get hungry and jittery and paranoid: "Was that the Oreos talking about me behind my back?"  Then comes the avalanche of inhaling anything and everything within reach.  And if it's not within reach?  I will reach out and touch some-Wonderbread!

Tomorrow I have errands to run (definition: “wander through aimlessly taking at least one Diet Coke break”).  I plan to off-load the CWTH Cookies to friends, family, and total strangers holding cardboard signs: "Will Personal-Train for Cookies." This will enable me to avoid any gastronomic detour, which would leave me counting the beads on my candy Rosary (if I had one, which I don’t, since I’m not Catholic...and I'm guessing they don't make Rosaries in candy, which is probably wise).

Morass of the Movie Theater

One of the last great munchy bastions of our modern times is the local movie house.  There in the climate-controlled comfort of the darkened theater, we sit idly by as our world is over-run by giant arachnid robots when international spies come a hair's breadth from the fiery destruction of a mushroom cloud ignited by an evil genius whose illegitimate son has inexplicably traveled through Time and Space to defend the honor of an elfin princess by attacking a troll-infested pub owned by a cartoon rabbit struggling for sobriety after having blown his fortune on prescription drugs and destroyed his relationship with his family who are now living in a Vegas back-alley behind the Hard Rock Cafe waiting for their awkward musical-savant daughter to strike it big with her original life-is-bitter country song which will enable her breath-taking performance on the Great White Way to increase awareness of a third-world nation rife with civil unrest until a mere woman makes an impossible choice which will change the future of mankind!  And through it all I am fortified with buttery popcorn, nachos, Red Vines, and a large Diet Coke (because it's only 50 cents more than the medium so I'd be a sucker NOT to buy the large).  

I have a friend who never purchases refreshments when taking her family to the movies, thus flying in the face of that age-old tune, "Let's All Go to the Lobby."  We have recently completed an underground tunnel to aid her kids when they finally defect to the other side of the concessions fence. 

But tonight’s movie was not particularly good.  The popcorn wasn’t particularly tasty, nor was the Diet Coke…well, the Diet Coke was good, but you kind of have to work to screw that up.  It’s been better than a month since I’ve gone to see a movie at the full-price theater and truthfully tonight just reminded me why I’d waited so long. 

I find there aren’t many movies these days that leave me uplifted and wanting more.  Over and over again I hear directors & actors boast about “pushing the envelope.”  I say to Hollywood leave the envelope alone!  Craft movies that uplift the human spirit rather than strangling it, burying it in refuse, and dancing on its grave in the name of art or honesty or realism or whatever other euphemism they want to use.  Call it what they may, the results are shock and voyeurism and spiritual denigration.  And the result is desensitization and indifference.

Going forward we will pursue more live theater, sporting events, symphony, ballet, game nights, and activity nights.  There will still be concessions in all their variety, but as a family, as a couple, as an individual, for our part we are looking to be uplifted.  Does this eliminate movies?  Nope.  But it does require a discerning heart and mind.  Next Friday?  Family movie night with James Cagney, Jack Lemmon & Henry Fonda in Mr. Roberts.

Some Assembly Required

I’d like to take a moment to thank my punky kid brother for the wisdom he showed in being born fully 5 years after me.  Don’t get me wrong, there were times when his youngerness was a pain in various and sundry parts of my anatomy (like when he would leer at our Barbies or encourage Mom to serve carrots…ick).  However, because he was so very younger than I, I developed a skill set in serving him that I never knew would be so valuable to me as an adult.

The youngest of eight and one of two male bookends to boot, the poor boy had a lot going against him (e.g., girly hand-me-downs, constant mothering, etc.)  Probably his biggest liability now is that we all remember things about him he’d just as soon the world forget.  For instance: as a young boy in a house brimming with girls, he would walk from the shower in my parents’ room to his own bedroom/Fortress of Solitude, one towel wrapped up around his armpits and the other wrapped about his head, turban-style.  This practice continued well into his teen years.  (I provide this example as the most innocuous, hoping he will let it slide.) 

But aside from these amusing memories with which I regale my own children (and now an audience rife with strangers) my brother provided me with assembly abilities I will not soon forget.  The original Star Wars trilogy and its accompanying merchandise boom debuted when the boy was about 6 yrs old.  My Star-Wars-struck brother and his best friend became the recipients of a veritable cornucopia of some-assembly-required playthings.  The Millennium Falcon, X-Wing, Landspeeder, Death Star Space Station complete with working Trash Compactor: all these had to be put together by someone and that someone was me.  I became quite adept at putting tab 3 into slot C, attaching background stickers, and cross checking instructions with available supplies.  So much so that by the time I was in my mid-teens I fully expected Dr. David R. Scott (then Center Director of NASA) to contact me personally requesting my assistance with their tabs, slots, stickers, and instructions. 

Turns out I was mistaken about the whole NASA thing (their loss).  But that was okay.  Not many years later my skills found their true purpose in life the day I entered my first IKEA, Land of Assembly Enchantment.  I can assemble the 3-drawer red IKEA dresser in 90 minutes flat.  The IKEA white vanity table complete with oval mirror gave me a run for my money, sure, but ultimately cried “uncle,” and now reflects my niece’s lovely face each morning.  I once threw down with a particularly tricky IKEA coffee table, emerged victorious, and I don’t even drink coffee.  So I want to say thank you, punky kid brother!  Thank you for being a tiny little guy with a great big love for Star Wars, without which my own son would have no choice but to live in a bedroom with clothing strewn about the floor.  Thanks to you, brother, my boy’s clothing can now gloriously cascade out of his drawers and down the front of his snappy red dresser instead, pooling on the rug and branching out to cover every square inch of space.

Easy-Bake

One of the unrequited loves of my life was the ever longed for, but never attained, Easy-Bake Oven.  Christmas, Birthday, Easter, Arbor Day, any holiday provided the opportunity to hope for my coveted Easy-Bake.  I circled it in every catalog and wrote extensive letters to Santa Clause, grandparents, and Moroccan Prime Minister Ahmed Laraki…anything that would give me an edge and increase my odds of owning that precious baking device.

But despite my duplicitous letters to philanthropic organizations like Make-a-Wish, United Way, and India Foundation for the Arts, my ownership of the illusive Easy-Bake was not to be.  I was doomed to cook in my mother’s double oven utilizing full-size baking pans, and mixing cookies from scratch using the ugly yellow Sunbeam mixer instead of a sweet, pink plastic spoon.  I was truly a figure of deep tragedy.  I mean sure, there was a light bulb in my mom’s oven, but it mocked me.  For in my mother’s second-rate oven the bulb was merely for illumination and did none of the real baking.  Frankly, I found it shameful.

It took me 43 years and two children before my moment finally arrived.  Christmas 2010 was the big year: the year I got my Easy-Bake Oven!  The gift card made the claim it belonged to my daughter, but at long last my home was equipped with an Easy-Bake Oven…our property values soared (and my neighbors are welcome).  My loving fingertips traced around the little pans, fondled the tiny cookie and cake mixes, caressed the long yellow tool used to insert and remove baked goods from the cooking chamber, lingering at long last on the handle of the perfectly pink plastic spoon.  Protected in the gentle grasp of corrugated cardboard was the technologically advanced heating element: the light bulb.  It was with deep reverence that we installed its awesomely powerful yet delicate baking bulb in the tiny oven’s heart.

With eager anticipation my daughter and I embarked on our baking odyssey.  I really tried very hard to let my 7 yr old do most of the mixing on her own, but I had to wield the pink plastic spoon at least once.  It wasn’t exactly ergonomically correct or of a particularly practical design for mixing small amounts of batter, what with its deep bowl and sheer sides, still it was pink.  And to protect my daughter from the fearsome heat of the oven, I took it upon myself to utilize the long yellow tool to push in and pull out the diminutive delicacy.  As the heavenly aroma took over the kitchen my daughter and I giggled with delight and the knowledge that soon we would be dining on manna from heaven.  The moment arrived, we counted to three, and we sank our teeth at long last into the tiny baked sensation together.

My dream realized, I have now come to appreciate my large oven with its adjustable heating element, my white, automatic 4-speed mixer, and my large, shallow-bowled wooden spoon.  Above all I appreciate my ability to bake without a mix thus enabling diners to taste flavors other than hermetically sealed, plastic lined paper envelopes.  Be careful what you ask for ladies and gentlemen…one day it may be yours.

Running Afowl of Fashion

My siblings will tell you I’ve never been one for conventional fashion.  As a child I paired purple with vivid orange, mossy green, royal blue, because, as we all know, purple goes with everything.  I also wore “corresponding” patterns: toile and tartan, herringbone and hounds tooth, paisley and polka dots.  Sure they might only correspond via Transatlantic Cable in some instances, but they spoke to me in any event. 

As I matured I dabbled in new looks involving vests, ties, saddle shoes, scarves, wide brimmed hats, my father’s over-size Hawaiian shirts, a 30 yr old pair of authentic Argentine gaucho pants...not always at the same time.  On the occasion of my Junior Prom, my date was rendered speechless at my entrance.  I wore a simple white gown with a pale pink sash.  Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a bad speechless, it was an I-Can’t-Believe-She-Isn’t-Baggy-and-Technicolor speechless, which, under the circumstances, was a good thing.

In my 20s my hair got into the game courtesy of my mother.  After some 30 years of coloring her own hair with varying degrees of success, she decided I was a blank canvass in need of an artist’s touch.  Never having been content with the natural red highlights in my otherwise brown hair, I was a willing victim as she applied the temporary Henna coloring, which promised to give me the rich auburn mane I’d so long desired.  And it did.  We determined that in light of our success we would apply a longer lasting color product once the Henna faded a week or so later.  It was only after I blew dry my then jet black hair with deep purple ends that Mom shared with me the name of the color she’d chosen: Burgundy.  Not quite the mane I’d hoped for, but as it was purple and would wash out over the ensuing three months, she got off pretty easily with a verdict of “No Harm No Foul.”  (I do, however, go to a licensed professional for my hair coloring now.)

I have over the years learned to tone down my fashion idiosyncrasies.  As a woman in my 40s, I have decided that when it comes to my personal flair, less is more.  And so my wardrobe is fairly functional and conservative as is to be expected.  Gone are my Blossom hats and Boy George vests.  Gone are my 50s saddle shoes and my Hawaii Five-O shirts.  Gone is my purple paisley big shirt paired with the hounds tooth leggings.  When I enter a room I no longer dim the neon, nor am I reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock original.  No, now when I walk into a room full of people, all they think is, “Wow! Where can I get a rubber chicken purse like hers?”

Stadium Clean-up

I did not grow up a sports fan.  I had every opportunity to do so, as my formative years were spent in Norman, Oklahoma.  During the late 70s, Barry Switzer & his OU Sooners charged their way to victory each week, practically in my backyard.  OU paraphernalia decorated houses, cars, pets, Christmas trees, and so much more.  The dulcet tones of “Boomer Sooner” rang out across the land in all its big brass glory.  Campus Corner was a hot spot of shopping, dining, & cruising.  (And features still today the dearly beloved Greek House on the northwest corner of Jenkins and Boyd just at the edge of campus.  Our family makes annual treks home to the Sooner state, ostensibly to visit my mom and siblings, but honestly it’s the gyros that call the loudest.  Wow!  Good thing my mom doesn’t read this blog…oh wait…)

It would be difficult to pinpoint exactly where I got off the train to football fandom…well, difficult for some.  I, on the other hand, know only too well where my love-of-the-game derailed before it ever really got on track to begin with.  The year was 1975.  Our family had moved from the breezy mountains of the Pacific Northwest to a land of red clay, eggs frying on random sidewalks, & more insects per square inch than I’d ever thought possible.  And in the midst of this new world, I was introduced to a little thing our fellow church-goers liked to call “Stadium Clean-up.” 

Every other week that hot, hot fall we got to volunteer with other members of our congregation to clean up the OU stadium following the home game, thus raising money to sustain our church budgetary needs.  Cast off corn chips, half-eaten hot dogs, and a plethora of popcorn strewn about the bleachers and down the never-ending concrete steps awaited us at the Owen Memorial Stadium in the waning light of day.  The fresh baked pavement marinated in soda left my sneakers sticking to anything & everything as I trudged to my cleaning assignment de jour. 

Discarded cigar & cigarette butts floating in the dregs of stale beer and abandoned in the sun, paled by comparison to the innocuous looking Styrofoam Cups of Horror.  Hiding within their non-biodegradable exteriors pooled the tobacco-laced spit of football enthusiasts sufficiently considerate to expectorate their “chaw” somewhere besides the floor, but not so much so as to properly dispose of the receptacle itself.  I often worked a scraper, pulling the litter from under the bleachers for the broom brigade to sweep up.  That’s when they’d get you.  Hit one of those Styro-bombs and walk away bespeckled by the dark umber spittle of local sports fans.  Go Team!

Stadium Clean-up endured through the ensuing 8 years of my life.  As a direct result I do not smoke.  I do not drink.  And I do not chew tobacco.  I make my kids pick up their messes when we are out at public places and events.  The Super Bowl is pending and our annual party will commence.  There will be food, friends, fans, and frenzy in front of the big screen t.v.  And I?  I will watch Anne of Green Gables on the small screen upstairs with a few other conscientious objectors, basting the buffalo wings and re-filling the dip.  A fine time will be had by all.  Once again, at the close of combat, I will step in and clean up after the football game.  But among the paper plates and plastic forks sure to be left lying about in the party's wake, there will be no Styrofoam.

Time to Bite the Banana

I was 10 the day my older sisters came home with a new & sure-fire diet aimed at getting them closer to the then “Charlie’s Angels Ideal” under which all American women sojourned in their efforts to capture the attention of All-American men. 

It was a simple and easily followed plan surely developed by a guru whose years of nutritional education were so vast & extensive as to be intimidating to his peers.  Thus, motivated by his deep & abiding humility, this great scientist chose to put forth his paradigm-altering work anonymously.  And since reputable publishers (the only type with whom such a professional as himself would condescend to work) would require a comprehensive inventory of his inspiring educational & career background, which could so easily (what with corporate espionage at its zenith in the mid 70s) fall into the hands of a less reputable print manager, who might then sell it to some dubious news stand periodical leading to the aforementioned and undesirable peer intimidation, this great man of science chose to share his findings through the distribution model prized by first graders and politicians alike: “The Whisper Campaign.”

But I digress.

Having heard about this miracle diet my sisters came home heralding the good news & inviting all to participate.  It was a 3-day game changer.  Day 1: Eat nine eggs.  Day 2: Eat nine oranges.  Day 3: Eat nine bananas.  That’s it: nine of the appropriate food on the designated day, nothing more, nothing less to emerge victorious.  The promised result was a weight loss of epic proportions: up to 15 lbs in a mere three days!  Clearly I would be a fool NOT to try.  And so, in the shadow of my wizened older siblings of 17 and 19 years, I commenced upon my journey to Dietary Nirvana.  Three days later I stood staring down at a static scale, orange zest wedged beneath my nails, an eggy burp of defeat escaping my lips.  My expulsion of hydrogen sulfide may have caused the needle to tremble some, but to no avail.  I lost nothing.

In defense of my anonymous nutritional-genius benefactor, I could not choke down that ninth banana, which I believed to be my undoing.  The point?  I have gone some 30+ years now not eating bananas.  I continue to eat eggs and oranges, but bananas, which were on some shaky ground prior to the crash diet, lost what was left of their appeal. 

Though I can never forget the Banana Brouhaha of ’77, I have decided it is time to bury the hatchet (or perhaps more aptly, the machete) and embrace the many health benefits of the banana (http://thetaoofgoodhealth.com/6-awesome-health-benefits-of-bananas-9/  …it’s some other guy’s blog who sums them up nicely).  In retrospect, I think where I went wrong 35 years ago was three-fold: a) listening to the sage advice of teenagers, b) dieting as a 10 yr old, and c) eating bananas by the bunch. 

Napkin Notes

It’s fieldtrip day & a sack lunch is the name of the game.  Normally, my daughter is a school lunch kind of gal. But, since our local school district has instituted the genius plan to include only stale, dry, chalky wheat bread in their lunch menu as a shout-out to reducing childhood obesity (it’s served along side Pizza Hut on the middle school level…very effective), my kids will not touch school-made sandwiches (so my son eats a slice of pizza every day for lunch…take THAT childhood obesity).

When I was a child I eagerly opened my Donny & Marie lunchbox to see if my father had left some bastardized nursery rhyme on my napkin for my lunchtime amusement (e.g., "Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey, Along came a spider, who sat down beside her and said, 'Pardon me, is this seat taken?'")  It warmed my heart & warped my brain to find these little gems safely tucked between my thermos of milk & my sandwich made on mom’s amazing whole wheat bread (which was succulent & bore no semblance to the district’s modern monstrosity).

In a misguided effort to replicate that fond memory, my own children get thinly veiled threats from me on their napkins (e.g., “Beware the giant tarantula that crawled into your backpack this morning before you zipped it up! -Love, Mom”).  I like to think it gets their blood pumping.  And let's face it, what child has time to become obese while running in terror from would-be attack spiders?

Napkin notes were a thing of the past by 8^th grade.  And so I was blindsided one noon hour in the cafeteria by the following message, meticulously typed on my mom’s IBM Selectric:

“Sorry this lunch isn’t exactly up to the excellent standards of most of my packed lunches, but you see it all started when Attila and his murderous Huns chased me from the Danube River to the Baltic Sea.  Believing me to be dead, they left my ravaged body on the rocks by the sea and headed onto their savage mission in Italy.  Fortunately, I was nursed back to health by a group of friendly Poles.  It was some time before I was in any condition to set out for England, what with not a penny to my name and only one good leg.  However, through the aid of my new-found companions, I finally made it to England where I secured employment as an assistant to a Friar in Nottingham.  The work was difficult as I was totally unprepared for illegal poaching, and on the King’s land no less, but seeing the happiness we brought to the peasants, all the risks I took were worthwhile.  Eventually, I secured passage on a trading ship heading for America.  Now there you finally understand my reasons for this pitiful little lunch.   Love, The Mom”

I am frequently asked where my twisted sense of humor comes from.  I believe this answers that question quite thoroughly.  And Mom? Having wisely chosen a more stable paper product than Daddy, whose messages cleaned the pb&j off my mouth and got tossed, I still have your note.

Alien Obesity: E.T. Phone Fudruckers

In my time I have seen a lot of science fiction movies from the earliest black and whites to modern, colorful CGI SciFi.  I've read weighty periodicals like National Enquirer and The News.  I've seen grainy pics of flying saucers, floating cigars, mysterious lights in the sky, alien autopsies, and Bat Boy (though Bat Boy does not factor prominently in this post).  Through it all, I must say I find it personally disconcerting that there is an undeniable dearth of fat beings from other worlds.  Some may say these fit and healthier societies are the logical result of an advanced civilization.  I question whether their advancement was fueled by a frothy concoction whipped up from the carcasses of euthanized fatties once among them.  As a member of the Universe, I have a right to know if our motto is: "Keep it Lean or Become Soylent Green!" 

I understand why official visitors from other worlds are trim.  Those individuals destined to travel light years across the known universe do require a sufficient level of health to survive the trip.  Plus, let's get real, if you're meeting a whole new species you want to put your best foot forward.  So, you send your alien equivalent of Salma Hayak rather than Roseanne Barr.  And though it's true, Star Wars had Jabba the Hutt, in all fairness we never saw him on a space ship and he wasn't exactly a galactic ambassador. 

The truth in any civilization is that obesity reduces your options in life.  If you're the Rightly Stuffed you don't go on an airplane with impunity, much less the space shuttle.  Jabba the Hutt's existence was fueled by a steady stream of minions to do his bidding...until one bikini-clad slave girl strangled him with the chains of her own shackles leaving the universe shy one plump bookie whose only known crime was collecting on a debt previously incurred by the neglectful actions of one, swarthy and fit, Han Solo.  And yet, Jabba was the bad guy, Han got the girl, and I still don't truthfully understand what Luke got out of the whole thing.  Perhaps that's because Mark Hamill put on a few pounds before filming the final episode of the trilogy.

Meatless Monday and Other “M” Words

A while back my punky kid sister (actress, uber-mom, and intentional vegetarian) masterminded a Meatless Monday event on the set of her tv show. Seems though she doesn’t care to harm her feathered friends in the front yard, when it comes to her leafy lovers in the backyard, anything goes: slicing, dicing, making julienne fries… When she announced to her fellow co-workers, that they would be checking their chicken and chops at the door, she reported that the initial response, much to her dismay, was a rousing round of crickets. (Crickets are meat too, right?) On the bright side for my bright and well-intended sister, by day’s end there was much positive feed-back and good feelings most the way round.

Now, I am an omnivore who married a carnivore and bore two hybrid children. So Meatless Monday will likely never be a regular part of our lives. However, today I decided (based on the Nutrigrain Eggo Waffles I had for breakfast) to try a meat-free personal day in honor of my veg-head sis. So far the fare has been acceptable and at times tasty. Where do you go for lunch when you want to see how the other half lives (or the other 5% of Americans according to the Vegetarian Resource Group)? Indian cuisine of course; a veritable smorgasbord of masala, naan, korma, and kheer, and today I chose only the vegetarian options. After eating an admittedly large lunch, I was down 37 points on my Weight Watchers daily tracking, but feeling quite sated indeed! I stood on the brink with a mere 10 points left till bedtime, satisfied and planning my evening repast. On the bright side for me, fruits and vegetables add up to about zero points in the Weight Watchers Points Plus plan! Hazzah.

Taco salad was the supper of choice, but that necessitates ground meat for my family. Since I cannot bring myself to foist my temporary veginess upon my t-rex spouse and my piranha children, whose love and adoration I would like to continue to enjoy for some years to come, I will season up some ground turkey for them. But for me, I am going to try rinsing a can of cannellini beans and sautéing them in the taco seasoning concoction. So a turkey may give its life for the nutrition of my family, but it’s the beanstalk that will sacrifice its journey to the kingdom of marauding giants and golden eggs for my own repast. Sad for the beanstalk.

In the end the beans, though not real attractive in the pan, tasted great on my taco salad and spared any wandering fowl from running afoul of my frying pan (not counting the aforementioned famous fall-foul I fried up for the fam). All in all my homage to my little sister was a rousing success: I enjoyed a meat-free day of gastronomic variety and culinary experimentation (that was the bean experiment, not the Eggo waffles in the toaster) and my family dodged the vegetarian bullet. Life is good in my manic microcosm.