Hyperbole as Feel-Good Food

So I just got back from a meeting in Chicago, a city well known for its regional deep dish pizza and its special St. Patrick's Day green beer. And, if one is willing to be charitable, you could even give them credit for ball-park hotdogs. But, as far as I knew before Wednesday of last week, that was pretty much the extent of Chicagoland’s regional culinary delights.

So, I was looking forward to having some of that deep dish pizza. Or at least a ball park frank. As it was a fancy hotel meeting, I was sure that nothing but the best would be served to us and I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist showcasing the foods that put the city on the map.

But, unbeknownst to me, another regional specialty existed and given the recession and all, our hotel apparently saved the pizza money to present us with it. And, just in case we might miss their efforts and feel slighted, they kindly printed a little sign to let us know that we were being served a “regional selection of breads.” And what a selection it was.

White, wheat and for the more adventurous in our group, rye. Imagine my surprise as I thought I had seen the same white bread in Ohio, Atlanta, and in any gas station I’ve stopped in, grungy or not, while on the road throughout this great country of ours. And in Mexico, China and Peru believe it or not. And, I don’t recall any credit being given to the city of Chicago in any of these places. And the wheat and rye breads. What a joy it was to be able to experience them. It seemed a bit like déjà vu, but perhaps I had only been dreaming when I thought I had seen them before all over the world.

So then I got up a couple of days ago to go to work. Bleary eyed, tired and in need of some mighty fine potassium. Went to get a banana for my breakfast and noticed that my darling husband had labeled it, apparently so I wouldn’t think that that I was going to eat any odd generic banana. Nope, he made sure I knew it was Del Monte quality which I thought was pretty interesting, considering I hadn’t discussed the regional origin of white bread with him and and my opinion that, maybe, just maybe, it was a bit of hyperbole on the hotel's part.

So now I must just assume that everyone but me got a memo on the proper presentation of recession era food. It’s all in the marketing after all, isn’t it?

But, as the week has gone on, I have recognized that I didn’t get the memo because I might have questioned it. Especially the Del Monte quality part. After all, Del Monte is the company that makes those cat treats that are made from animal digest and, as their customer service rep recently pointed out to me, is somehow extracted from the organs of healthy animals and made “palatable”. Sure hope this recession eating ends soon or next time I'm in Chicago they will be serving those cat treats relabled as beef jerky or something. Yum.

Ear Karma

So I went to the hairdresser to get my hair cut for a Valentines ball that we were going to. My express instructions were that after the cut these awesome, cubic zirconium earnings I own would be able to be well displayed. I had just repierced my ears a week earlier to show the kids just how cool it was and how tough Mommy really is. They especially liked the bleeding part where the bleeding wouldn't stop due to my aspirin intake earlier that day and were more than amused by the attempt to bandage one ear. After my son and I crafted the bandaging, I looked like Van Gogh on one of his slightly saner days and now suspect that I may end up with heavily pierced kids given their amazement of the whole process. I did do my share of screaming and moaning to discourage such acts in the future as any good parent would obviously do.

Now, my hair at its longest would be called "really short" so making sure the earnings were in plain view wasn't a stretch. Nonetheless, we cut off about half of my hair. And I went to the ball and hardly any blood came out of my ears and that which did was just a nod to what a woman will do for beauty. And, red was the color de jour.

Now, when I was a child, well before I morphed into the sensitive, caring, thoughtful, well-spoken, nice and unbelievably humble individual that I am today, I made a few life mistakes. Now, I could excuse them as I was probably around 11 at the time, but even if I did, the karma had already been set in motion. Although many will find this almost impossible to believe, I actually teased one of my brothers about his ears sticking out from his head when he was a child, leading him to wear a pageboy haircut for several years which made him look like that kid on some brand of paint while the other kids did not look like paint can models. This caused him great anguish as children do happen to be the meanest creatures on earth and his classmates were, of course, children. Of course, this teasing probably helped turn him into the successful man he is today although it is also possible that his higher education, JD degree and his working his butt off might have also had something to do with it but, hey, at least I planted the seed.

So, back to the hair and its consequences. I went from really short to "what were you thinking" which was, "hey, in this economy, if I cut it this short, I only have to show up three times a year."

And, I now apparently also have a haircut that is "elf like". Or so I thought I was lovingly being informed of by the son last night. He was so excited he was hollering, "MOMMY, FROM THE BACK YOU LOOK LIKE AN ELF!" I knew he was referring to those elves that have their hair painted on versus those that have that yarn stuff but who cares, he likes elves and he was lovingly comparing me to one of those great creatures. I mean, he wasn't telling me I look like a troll although I can do that look effortlessly in the morning. Nope, an elf it was. Of course, using my best Carl Rodgers reflecting skills to make sure he knows he was really, really heard I stated, "I look like an elf" which gave him the lead to add more information and he did. He informed me that " from the back YOUR EARS STICK OUT JUST LIKE AN ELF! I know I shouldn't have gone there, but awesome parent that I am, I know he needs to be really, really listened to so I stated, "from the back, my ears stick out just like an elf and that is good." Apparently, I didn't quite reflect the message accurately as he didn't quite agree with the good part as his assessment was, "Nope, not quite good". So now I'm making sure no one is standing behind me which is causing me to have to rotate in circles quite a bit. What the heck, it will grow back in three month or so. I sure hope I don't have any other karma teed up and heading my way but, even if so, I'm not going with the pageboy.

Zumba - Latin for torture

So, for the last year and a half, I’ve been in extensive physical fitness training. I’ve walked on the treadmill at the YMCA for 30 minutes three times a week darn near every week. Impressive schedule.

First, my goal was to be able to walk around China, breathing the grey air while carrying a baby for a period of 5 minutes. I accomplished that goal successfully. Next, my goal was to walk on the treadmill long enough to watch the “Ellen” show because I like it and if I am on the treadmill at the YMCA no one can interrupt me to ask me what is for dinner, why daddy did this or that or to complain about the color/shape/size or current availability of princess shoes. I have also met this goal although I modified it a bit. I don’t watch the second half of the show because too much TV will just rot your brain. Can’t have that as it would clearly be a health hazard.

So I’m at the gym, training, and I see a sign for Zumba class. Sign says it is a “fun and easy” way to get into shape that is set to Latin and contemporary music and, as it happens, the class is in 20 minutes. I figure, heck, I used to be a salsa dancer and Ellen is a rerun so what the heck why don’t I go check it out? So, after walking arduously for 15 minutes, off I go to Zumba, as it is “fun and easy.”

I get there and folks have big thermoses of water or humongous containers of water. One has a mini keg type. Most of the folks are dressed in these tight dance pants and sleeveless tops while I am in sweatpants a size too big for me and a non-matching baggy T-shirt. And, I don’t have a barrel or bottle or cup of water as my training on the treadmill just doesn’t reach that level of hydration need. But I continue to think, what the heck, I used to dance salsa, just how hard can this be? It’s posted as “fun” and the good folks at the YMCA wouldn’t, couldn’t lie, could they?

Next, in come the instructors wearing some type of hip-hop pants and tank tops and they appear to be in some pretty good shape. Scary good shape actually. And I notice that a handful of the participants appear to be about 18 and have a version of the tight pants that are painted on and mini tank tops which they also look pretty darn good in. This concerns me for a minute but the gal who is next to me tells me she is 50 years old and I notice her makeup is impeccable. Clearly, this class is a “fun and easy” way to get into shape as it wouldn’t make any sense for anyone to come in with great makeup that could be ruined should extraordinary exertion become necessary. I tell her that I’ve come for 30 minutes of the 60 minute class as my family expects me home for dinner, giving me an out should one become necessary.

And the class starts. Within seconds, I’m thanking the lords of the dance that I can get my feet to dance a mean salsa without tripping because, by gosh, if I hadn’t, I would have been toast. Splattered toast, butter down. And this is before I finished the warm up song.

Then it gets interesting. I’m supposed to be dancing like a maniac to cumbia and hip hop music, following the moves of the instructor all the while shaking my booty after the instructor shows the moves for each song to the “new folks” for 30 seconds before each song begins. Now, my booty shakes even when I walk so that doesn’t initially seem like it will present a problem. But no, they start and shake the booty like the women who walk around wearing the big feathers and not much else during Carnival in Rio De Janero after all have imbibed on mucho cervezas. We are talking shaking so fast you feel the breeze which implies that one has some control over the shaking which just isn’t happening for me considering I have the pendulous swing of the buttocks that comes from being 45 and having a shape that can best be described as “backloaded” but, by gosh, I continue to try.

Meanwhile, I’m keep watching the woman next to me. We are 15 minutes in and I suspect I might just fall out. Her makeup is still impeccable. I decide to continue, having no reasonable way to get out of the class now that pagers are obsolete. I pump it, I push it, I cumbia, I salsa, and I attempt to make a grimace appear to be a smile to show how much “fun” I am having. Thirty minutes goes by and I’m painfully getting the need for the water kegs as I run out of the class and into the bathroom to put my head under the sink facet to drink as much and as fast as I can while I “keep moving” as instructed.

And then I have a choice to make – go back in or leave and go home. I consider the fact that I am one shade redder than a tomato and feeling like I might collapse or puke. Logic tells me that perhaps I should call it a Zumba day given the particulars.

But, that would assume that I am willing to admit defeat as I’m falling out at 45 while a 50 year-old woman is still pumping, pushing, and dancing her happy self away in makeup that still hasn’t slipped off her face. I consider that thought untenable. So, I go back for 30 more minutes.

I somehow get home and the family is initially a bit concerned that I either got a sunburn or had red paint thrown at me accidentally. Nope, I tell them, Zumba. It’s “fun and easy”. I painfully change my clothes and somehow make it back down the stairs and decide to lie down on the hardwood floor to converse with my family. Figure it might give us all a new perspective. I quickly realize that I have no ability to rise again which doesn’t concern me as rising would mean I would have to walk somewhere and that isn’t happening. The cats and kids can just come visit me where I am. The daughter confuses my comment of “I think I may just die right here and now” to mean that I want to pay some version of “dead horsey” so I made a decision to self preserve.

I call the kids over and explain to them that their father and I had very carefully considered how big of a family to have and that there was a very strong reason we had decided on two of them. In fact, it was for this situation. I instructed each to take one of my legs and pull my big booty out of the living room and down the hallway so that I could crawl up the stairs into my bed. With effort, they succeeded.

Exorcism with Your Soda?

So, I started my day as usual, stopping at the BP for my fountain Diet Coke. And, today, I got some great advice from a somewhat regular there and someone I know from church and church activities. From what I can tell, she is a tad insane. Not fully yet, but working her way up the ladder. She is a Catholic convert to boot and those of us who are cradle Catholics are generally scared of the converts as they can make the rest of us look bad. Fortunately, they are easy to indentify because they can generally sing and do so in church. Being able to sing in tune or actually with the music seems to be a Catholic deficiency so if the signing sounds good, it is a good warning that a convert is near.

Now, it isn’t that we don’t want and love converts, we do and we evangelize, but they just seem to read all the material, attend all the classes, have a full understanding of all of the theology and catechism and make the rest of us look like idiots, especially at church trivia nights. Question – “who was the third pope?” Ding, ding, ding, “Anacletus”. “Yes, the correct answer from the Methodist convert in the back.” “What happened to the first five popes?” Ding, ding, ding, “martyred”. “Yes, the correct answer from the Espicopalian convert on the right” and so on which is the reason we actually don’t have church trivia nights. Bingo where state laws allow, yes. Trivia, no.

So, anyway, the gal gave me some paperwork for a retreat coming up soon. Told me that she saved the paperwork for me because I specifically needed to go and that the priest putting it on was a wonderful speaker but, more importantly, an exorcist. I asked about the priest – wanted to see if he is a Roman Catholic rogue but, alas, I found out from the registration material that he is legit and well respected. However, my self-appointed exorcism sponsor also told me that the priest has to be very, very careful since the masons are trying to assassinate him. I’m assuming she meant the Masonic Lodge Masons that drive those little red cars in parades versus the guys you see laying brick. Never have seem very dangerous to me and I don’t see them as being very successful in running down a priest with one of those little clown cars but what do I know? Maybe the priest can’t run very fast.

But, I checked the material. You have to pre-register and prepay a nonrefundable fee. Now, why in the heck would I do that? Maybe the Masons will get him by then and I’d be out of the dough. Sheesh.

Animal Digest???

During the Christmas holidays one of my brothers, who shall remain nameless at the present time, observed his nephew feeding the nephew’s kitten cat treats. And, perhaps feeling it was his moral duty to educate and inform or most probably just for the pure fun of it, he begins a conversation with the nephew about the composition of cat treats which, by all of my observations, is completely ignored by the nephew.

His monologue begins by discussing the main ingredient in the treats which is “beef-by-products.” Do you know what “beef-by-products” are he queries? He then helpfully provides the answer – the parts of the cow that we don’t eat, you know, like the udders. Now, it must be pointed out that this brother has not traveled to Guangzhou, China, or he would know that cow udders and many other “by-products” are happily served there with a side of rice and covered in sauce after chicken feet have been served as an appetizer. But, this is the U.S. The nephew continues to ignore him while he asks, “And, what do you think of that, do you think that you should be feeding that cute little kitty cow udders?” Of course, he does not care if the kitty eats cow udders but, after all, he is trying to educate and getting the student to engage is generally part of the educational process. The nephew continues to do whatever the heck he is doing and is apparently unaware that he is even being spoken to, despite the use of his name. Perhaps a defensive move against learning yet another weird but true fact from the visiting uncle.

But, I’m listening. And I start thinking what the heck is in those cat treats that I feed my darling little cat? After all, they have an odd odor about them and a strikingly bad color not found in nature which I suspect is from the use of all the red dye #5 that was banned in the U.S. years ago. Stuff has to be used up somewhere.

Now, although the treats I feed my cat may be full of weird and loathsome ingredients, they are cheap and I have no reason to succumb and buy the cat those highly priced, organic, green treats made from some sort of wheat and alfalfa. Really. Those treats must be on the market for the cat-owning vegetarians out there, although I suspect the vegetarians’ cats have a high mortality rate considering that cats are pure carnivores with the exception of their drug of choice, catnip. They aren’t going to make it long on wheat and alfalfa.

But, as usual, I digress. So, I go home, give the cat some treats and look at the ingredients. Number one is “chicken by-products” which must be what is left of the chicken after we eat the meat and the feet are shipped to China. The second is a puzzler though – animal digest - which just sounds really, really disgusting. I decide it would be a bit of fun to call the company and ask them what it is, figuring that there is just no good answer but it is their job to make it sound good and they would really, really try which would amuse me. I call but the office is closed. The voice mail helpfully gives me the option of being able to email the question and I do – “Hi, just noticed the second ingredient is animal digest. Could you tell me just what that is?”

Two days later, here is what I get:

Dear Joan,
Thanks for visiting our Pounce website and for your email. Animal digest is the organ meat selected from healthy animals and then emptied of its contents. This material is then subjected to a process which breaks the tissue into simple, more easily digestible sugars and proteins. The result is very palatable and rich in amino acids.I hope this information is helpful.
Jackie, Del Monte Foods Consumer Affairs

Huh? What organs? And does the second sentence make no sense on purpose? I also wonder how Jackie knows that the result is very palatable and who in my family can I get to verify this? I consider writing Jackie back and asking her, but figure that she might be a bit slow on the uptake as there is no way one could empty the organs of "healthy animals". Seems to me they would need to be quite dead which most people, Jackie excepted, do not describe as the picture of health.

So, I am now looking for someone to verify the palatableness of the treats. I am not about to do this test myself and, although asked, Aidan wouldn't do it for a buck and although I'm pretty sure Mia would go for it, I'm thinking informed consent should be a part of this experiment considering the ethics and all. Guess I'm just going to have to hope Robert goes out and gets good and drunk sometime in the near future.

A Sampling of Notable 2008 Accomplishments

Well, it is that time of year where the "lists" come out so I thought I'd better contribute one to stay off the "Top 10 Blogs that Suck for a lack of Top 10 Lists" list. So, here goes - some, but not all, notable accomplishments from 2008:

1. Saved myself from being eaten by bears by finding a Park Ranger with the use of sniffling and snuffling noises after I got lost in the woods when it was pitch black and I was without a flashlight or a clue. This occurred when I was staying with my family in the Curry Village Camping area during a great trip outside of the getting lost in the woods episode. This actually provided me with the opportunity to answer the question, “Can I help you” with a statement I don't believe I had made for 25 years at least - “I...can't....find...my....mom....or...my.....dad...”. This was, of course, accompanied with tears and, who knows, probably snot, that was running down my face. I then got to answer the follow up question, “where is the last place you saw them?” with “at the Curry Village pizza deck right before I left to go to the restroom that was alleged to be (and in fact was determined to be), approximately 50 feet away.” I then helpfully added that they were wearing some jeans and hiking boots and tee-shirts which quickly helped him to narrow the search down to all of the people at the pizza deck and in the park. Got a nice ride back on his golf cart from the wrong campground I had made it to and got some pizza as a reward. As evidence, see the path not taken as pictured above. Of course, this is with the benefit of daylight.

2. Summited Stone Mountain. An amazing accomplishment considering its elevation is a full 825 feet from the plateau below and at an altitude of 1686 feet from sea level. Continued to press on despite the misty and cool weather and the many small children who were carelessly running up and down the hill. I also completed the descent without a significant injury and brought my entire party back alive.

3. Finally figured out that Sarah Jessica Parker is not really dying her hair “pomegranate red” to be in the Garnier hair color ads. Wondered for many years how the models didn’t get their hair damaged when they bleached it back out after they did hair dye ads. Was always amazed by that. Then, learned this year about the magic of wigs and why the ads say, “So and so is wearing pomegranate red” versus “so and so has pomegranate red hair.” What a revelation. Who would have thought? Perhaps this solved mystery will now free up a couple of brain cells that will help me to not only stay on the beaten path but also carry a flashlight or, better yet, wear one of those hats with the halogen bulbs on the front of it, should the opportunity ever arise again where I need to traverse 50 feet in the dark. Here's hoping.

They All Come From the Same Place, Don't They?

Now, I normally wouldn't rat out my own mother. In fact, I don't think I ever have except for the one time when she parked our car in a mall parking place by rounding off the corners of the car next to us. After several tries. Now, that was just too darn neat to keep to myself, especially when she coolly picked up the molding that had been on the side of our car prior to parking, stated that clearly there was an obvious manufacturing defect that allowed silly molding to actually stick out from the car and then threw it in the back seat, brushed off her hands and calmly stated, "your Dad will take care of it, let's go get a sweater". Face it, when you're seven that is just too darn cool to keep to yourself.

But, for the sake of preserving any inheritance that might someday come my way, Sunday brunches, and a whole lot of current babysitting, I'm certainly smart enough not to rat her out now. Nope, would’t do that.

However, hypothetically speaking, let's say one's dear mother recently provided an explanation, in the tones appropriate for the Church she was in, as to why one's father was not with her as he is each and every week. And, that explanation came out as, "He's in the hospital". Now, let's add the conjecture that this was the church where one's father had managed to cause a little bit of a commotion at a prior service by having a massive heart attack. Of course, it is important to note that the Irish amongst us do consider the annual St. Patrick's Day dinner, drink and dance a "service" so it qualified. And, then two years later, one’s father again caused a tiny bit of commotion by leaving the weekly services in a shiny ambulance after partaking of a bit too much chemo. So, giving the "he's in the hospital" explanation followed by a chortle when he was indeed just delayed at the airport would, I believe, allow for at least one global karma ratting out exception if not more, again, not that I would do anything like that.

Now, as a matter of necessity and only as a matter of necessity, Magic Elves must enter this discussion. And if you don’t have one they are these little 12” elves that you order on-line and that come packed in a box with magic snow which is remarkably similar to the paper circles left over from a three-hole punch. And each elf costs, with shipping, $40. And I’m guessing that the inventor of these elves is getting some recycling credit for picking up left over paper circles from some big company so her profit margin is probably pretty good. And I didn’t think of it which really just ticks me off.

So, you order one of these cute little elves because you only have one child and don’t want him to miss out on the Elf Magic craze and because you clearly are an idiot. And, when you get the little critter, you also get a cute story which you read to the son which requires you to put out water and crackers for the elf each evening to remind the elf of snow and who knows what. And, you put some of those round "magic snowflakes" on him. And then somehow, he causes mischief during the night while also bringing a little gift to the son in a gift bag that comes with the elf. It’s all so very cute and you're still so deluded that you take 87 pictures of the kid with the elf to preserve the lovely elf experience for posterity.

Then you get the second child and another elf becomes necessary and as luck would have it, you can still get one on-line, with shipping, for $40. A girl elf this time for the daughter. And, now two little presents are needed each evening for the greedy elf-owners which thereby drives up the cost of the Christmas season to “stupid” as soon as the elf-owners catch on that the toothpicks in nifty containers, matchbox cars, melon baller, band aids, birthday candles, plastic silverware and other nifty neato items the elves are bringing are remarkably similar to those that were already in the house.

Then, the mischief ideas begin to pan out considering it’s been three years for the boy elf. That is, of course, with the exception of the one where the elves like to get on the ceiling fan at night and hook their feet on really well so we can turn that sucker on in the morning to see if we can launch them into the fireplace. The fireplace is unlit, of course, as we all know that burning up an elf has some Santa repercussions with associated nightmares and teeth gnashing and has an associated cost of at least $40 including shipping and handling for elf replacement. But, heck, a girl can always dream.

So, the hypothetical mother is in the house, having watched the little ones while us older folks were off doing who knows what and I’m picking up the elves to get them on the ceiling fan while fighting off the cat who has an issue with the elves getting a cup of water that he believes is his when the mother states that another family member got herself an elf this year as well. But, that elf wouldn’t fit on a ceiling fan because she was quite a bit bigger. Which doesn’t make sense to her, because, as she explains, don’t they all come from the same place?

I told her of course they do, it’s a magical place called the North Pole where this guy called Santa lives. Not going to be me that that ruins the magic of Christmas for her. Even if I do hear a comment about how a certain someone is somewhat of a smart ass which certainly is a trait that could only have come from my father. Nope, Virgina, all the elves come from the North Pole. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.