I've never been a good cook. A good cook always seems to A.) have interesting, even edible leftovers in the refrig, and B.) says things like "Cooking relaxes me." Cooking make me nervous, blindingly nervous; I am always out of some herb, which leads to needing a substitute herb, which leads to looking stuff up about herbs online. A tuna casserole could take me an hour and a half to put together. And the only thing semi-interesting I have in my refrig is Portuguese white wine. (Thank God for that.) There's also some 1% milk, and some tired, pathetic asparagus I bought a week ago when I saw a recipe in a magazine, then forgot both the magazine it was in and the asparagus. I also have a couple of Paul Newman's salad dressings from 2010.
Ina Garten: she probably has lots of cool leftovers she can haul out of her refrig, reheat and serve up as a supper for her fabulously wealthy husband, Jeffrey. I'm assuming he's fabulously wealthy because in all of her shows, Jeffrey drives home "from the city" on the weekends, and she has a wonderful roast chicken for him, and a "really fabulous blueberry crumble" for dessert. My husband (also named Jeff, but not Jeffrey; sometimes I call him Just Jeff, to annoy him) would drop dead if he walked in the door and the chicken wasn't a rotisserie chicken from the Shop Rite. And what the heck's a crumble? Of course, maybe I'd be happier about cooking if my husband only drove home only on weekends, and he was driving a BMW. I doubt it: I'd still be a terrible cook. But I'm pretty sure I'd be happier...
Last night I tried to make a recipe called "Crustless Quiche". It called for evaporated milk; I bought condensed milk. I actually bought 4 cans of condensed milk, because at the Shop Rite, I didn't know that I only needed a half a cup for Crustless Quiche. (Who knew?) This mistake led me to the computer, where I spent an hour Googling evaporated vs. condensed milk, and learned a lot about this funny little milk that comes in the cute little cans, but decided in the end, what the hell, just use the 1% milk in the fridge. I also spent a great deal of time wiping off the baby bella mushrooms with a damp paper towel, because apparently mushrooms don't like to get all wet (which I can relate to, so I really didn't mind.) The frozen spinach was supposed to be thawed; I'd forgotten that, so I "quick-thawed" it by holding it under hot water, then squeezing the semi-frozen block of spinach dry (I swear the recipe called for that; why would I make that up?)
Physically, my hands were now freezing, and mentally, I was extremely uncomfortable about the cleanliness of my baby bellas; how many deer feet had meandered over these fungi in the forest? Did raccoons touch them with their dirty, albeit adorable raccoon paws...or a body part much less adorable?
As I was drinking quite a bit of wine by now, I decided to pour a little--oh, fine, a lot of wine, but my hands were basically frozen and the bottle slipped a little-- into the pan with the bellas and the spinach. I figured a little alcohol would take care of any forest contamination, and probably thaw any still-frozen chunks of spinach. Let me just add, it was now about 9 o'clock at night, and my husband, seeing that I was winging it pretty heavily, went out to get the paper, and after driving back home in his Ford Focus, asked:
"Need a hand, Hon?"
Hell no: I need Bobby Flay, more wine, and probably Take Out Chinese.
Relaxed I was not. Pertinent questions raced through my mind:
Why didn't I just buy the damn rotisserie chicken and be done with it?
What the living hell was I going to do with 4 cans of condensed milk?
And wouldn't condensed milk, by definition, be milk that liquid has evaporated from, thereby making them one and the same?
No matter. Wait till Jeff sees the fabulous dessert I've planned: Weight Watchers Mini Fudge Bars, 45 calories each.
Take that, Ina.
Messed up your dessert then called it a "crumble", huh? Can't fool me, sister.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Monday, July 7, 2014
The Fourth
A startling thing happened to me on this past Fourth of July. I became a patriot. I was not snarky for even one single minute: it was miraculous. I had fun, damn it, and lots of it. It was a red, white and blue miracle, and, please, let me explain why this was so unusual for me...
You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town. Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:
YO!! Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"
(Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.
But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High). Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.
The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year? Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.
GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.
You see, past Fourth of Julys have not been as pride producing, as flag waving, or as non-snarky. Long, long ago, I was part owner of a motel in a shore town that shall remain nameless, but it is the actual Webster Definition of the word "tacky": seriously, look up the word tacky, you'll see the name of the town. Our motel was a small but clean motel, but as the economy tanked, the clientele got less and less clean. They started drinking at about noon, after waking up on a pool chair from their previous night's bender, and by 3 o'clock in the afternoon they liked to draw signs in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our motel:
YO!! Go To Room 214 for a grate time!!!"
(Their spelling, not mine. I have spell check.) And that was just the young ladies; the young gentlemen were checking their weapons in case someone undesirable came to Room 214, and by undesirable I mean they didn't have the prerequisite money or drugs. So The Fourth of July, like Labor Day, Memorial Weekend (and I still can't talk about Memorial Weekend without a facial tic) were especially horrific. Heinous Holidays.
But that was then, and this is now. This year on the Fourth of July, for the first time in a really long time, I went to see the fireworks. The whole family went. While we waited for "dusk", I tried to explain what "dusk" meant to the 5 year old, and we sat on the ground on reusable plastic shopping bags because we forgot blankets and they were the only things in the car. The kids danced to the music (positively blaring from the speakers, but that didn't even bother me, which is really unusual...that's when I knew I must be experiencing a Patriotic High). Next to us, to the great embarrassment of his children, one very tall white man tried to moonwalk on the grass, in sneakers.
It. Was. Delightful.
The fireworks started: they were as loud and aah-inspiring as they were supposed to be, and even the musical accompaniment--everything from Kate Smith (God Bless America) to Katy Perry (Baby, You're a Firework)--was great. (I actually teared up a little during God Bless America, until my daughter leaned over and asked me if that was me singing. Smart-Ass Kid.) There was blue cotton candy, the kids got some stuck in their hair, and after the long walk back to the car, they fell asleep on the ride home. Perfect. A Perfect Holiday. We all agreed that we'll have to do it again sometime: how 'bout next year? Maybe next year we'll remember the blankets. Meh... maybe not. As long as you've got Kate Smith, you don't need no stinkin' blankets.
GBA, Kate. We had a grate time.
Thursday, June 19, 2014
Celebrities 'R Us
So I'm now going to break the first two Rules I made about my blog:
Rule #1. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention the Kardashians.
Rule #2. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention Justin Bieber.
It all started yesterday when I was scrolling the channels and landed on the QVC channel, and there he was, no, not The Bieb: Bob Mackie. Yes, Bob Mackie, who at one time, made beautiful (for the 1960's and 70's) gowns for the likes of Carol Burnett, and later, even Cher (when Bob was obviously on something pretty strong, maybe even illegal.)
On QVC, Bob was selling t-shirts. "And Ladies, It's my very own fun design, sizes small to XXXL!" The t-shirts had pictures of cats on the front. Seriously, cats... cats holding flowers and wearing hats, cats cavorting, cats smiling... cats. Bob himself looked like one of those guys you see at the library in the magazine room, reading a magazine about cats. He had on a shlumpy looking t-shirt, possibly a Member's Only Jacket, and too-long khaki pants, with sneaks. And that boy could hawk cat t-shirts like nobody's business: they were flying off the QVC rack.
It made me wonder: why are we so obsessed with celebrities? (O.K., that's not a new thought: it's just my damn thought tonight, and it was Mackie that set me off.) Why would anyone, ever, in their Right Mind, buy a cat t-shirt just because it was made by Bob Mackie? And why do countless people, probably just as normal as you and I (cue the crazed laughter) watch a show about an entire family of loud-mouth whiners, whose only claim to fame is that they all have big asses? I'm sorry, Kardashians, but what have you-all done that has bettered the world? Why are people transfixed with these clowns? Why do people actually buy clothes that will allow them to have that same Packed-In-A-Sausage-Casing-Look? At least Mackie made something, and there are people out there, I'm thinking in Iowa, with an overwhelming desire to have that cat t-shirt, and damn it, they will buy it tonight, in 5 installments of $7.95 each.
And then there's The Bieb. When I see The Bieb on TV, I have an uncontrollable desire to lunge for the screen, and probably do myself and the screen some harm (flat screens do not hold up well to a lunge, trust me.) I want to slap the smug right off his little Bieb face. But he has legions of fans. Why?
Probably, like they say, because It Takes All Kinds. Because I had not one, but two, Trini Lopez records, back in the Day. And I wear t-shirts with dachshunds on them, purchased from a special dachshund website, based in Iowa: those gals could sell me anything.
And I haven't done much to better the world, either. I'm a pretty darn good whiner, and yes, you might say I do have a bit of a big ass. So maybe that's it: maybe we're obsessed with celebrities because they're just like us, but with way, way better cars, houses, and t-shirts.Yeah, that must be it.
But I still want to slap Bieber. Please. Just once.
Rule #1. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention the Kardashians.
Rule #2. Never, ever, under any circumstances, mention Justin Bieber.
It all started yesterday when I was scrolling the channels and landed on the QVC channel, and there he was, no, not The Bieb: Bob Mackie. Yes, Bob Mackie, who at one time, made beautiful (for the 1960's and 70's) gowns for the likes of Carol Burnett, and later, even Cher (when Bob was obviously on something pretty strong, maybe even illegal.)
On QVC, Bob was selling t-shirts. "And Ladies, It's my very own fun design, sizes small to XXXL!" The t-shirts had pictures of cats on the front. Seriously, cats... cats holding flowers and wearing hats, cats cavorting, cats smiling... cats. Bob himself looked like one of those guys you see at the library in the magazine room, reading a magazine about cats. He had on a shlumpy looking t-shirt, possibly a Member's Only Jacket, and too-long khaki pants, with sneaks. And that boy could hawk cat t-shirts like nobody's business: they were flying off the QVC rack.
It made me wonder: why are we so obsessed with celebrities? (O.K., that's not a new thought: it's just my damn thought tonight, and it was Mackie that set me off.) Why would anyone, ever, in their Right Mind, buy a cat t-shirt just because it was made by Bob Mackie? And why do countless people, probably just as normal as you and I (cue the crazed laughter) watch a show about an entire family of loud-mouth whiners, whose only claim to fame is that they all have big asses? I'm sorry, Kardashians, but what have you-all done that has bettered the world? Why are people transfixed with these clowns? Why do people actually buy clothes that will allow them to have that same Packed-In-A-Sausage-Casing-Look? At least Mackie made something, and there are people out there, I'm thinking in Iowa, with an overwhelming desire to have that cat t-shirt, and damn it, they will buy it tonight, in 5 installments of $7.95 each.
And then there's The Bieb. When I see The Bieb on TV, I have an uncontrollable desire to lunge for the screen, and probably do myself and the screen some harm (flat screens do not hold up well to a lunge, trust me.) I want to slap the smug right off his little Bieb face. But he has legions of fans. Why?
Probably, like they say, because It Takes All Kinds. Because I had not one, but two, Trini Lopez records, back in the Day. And I wear t-shirts with dachshunds on them, purchased from a special dachshund website, based in Iowa: those gals could sell me anything.
And I haven't done much to better the world, either. I'm a pretty darn good whiner, and yes, you might say I do have a bit of a big ass. So maybe that's it: maybe we're obsessed with celebrities because they're just like us, but with way, way better cars, houses, and t-shirts.Yeah, that must be it.
But I still want to slap Bieber. Please. Just once.
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
"Open Wide..."
"Open wide!" Yes, that's what my dentist says, but I really wish my gynecologist said it, too: I mean, let's call a spade a spade: that's what I'm here for, isn't it? Let's not beat around the bush (can't believe I just wrote that) about my blood pressure, or his new recipe for cream of cauliflower soup: put the "paper gown" on, put my feet in the stirrups, and let's get it over with, Doc.
I just got back from a visit to my gynecologist: he's a lovely, lovely man, very soft-spoken and compassionate, with a uniquely Jewish sense of life's realities. ("Yes, you could lose 5 pounds, but no more: you don't want to look gaunt.") And when I remind him that I'm only 5 feet, one inch high, he straightens up to his 5 feet, 3 inch height and says "What, that's not tall enough?"
Two of my friends went with me. Nancy and Ali had appointments within 20 minutes of mine, 20 minutes of each other: we've done this for a few years now. We call it our "Gyno Party", and are totally unashamed of this, as corny (and by corny I mean weird and old-personish) as it is. Hey, if some guy, no matter how sweet and soft-spoken, is going to look up my hoo-ha...well, there'd better be shopping and lunch involved afterwards.
So, after stripping naked, donning the paper gown ("paper gown": best oxymoron ever), and putting my feet in the aforementioned stirrups, I always tell the doctor same joke: "If you hear a creak, Doc, it's just the Vault Door opening..." No, it's not particularly funny, but it helps me concentrate on something other than What's Going On Down There and What Will He Find? The Lost Continent of Atlantis, perhaps, or something even more sinister?
My former gynecologist, a tall, icy blond, had a French Poodle who accompanied her into the exam room, and she talked to the poodle more than she talked to me. Now, I was a little skeeved out by this, and there are two reasons why I really had no business being skeeved:
#1. I love dogs, much, much more than I love gynecologists.
#2. I was in the doctor's exam room because I had a pretty embarrassing situation going on: a tick was stuck tight to my, as we say in elementary school, privates.
As you can see, I was in no position to be skeeved out or judgmental towards anyone (or any dog.) But she was not amused by my Vault Door joke, and I changed gynecologists.
The hell with her and her French Poodle. If I really have to chat at the gynecologist's, I'd much rather talk about cream of cauliflower soup recipes, with someone my own height.
I just got back from a visit to my gynecologist: he's a lovely, lovely man, very soft-spoken and compassionate, with a uniquely Jewish sense of life's realities. ("Yes, you could lose 5 pounds, but no more: you don't want to look gaunt.") And when I remind him that I'm only 5 feet, one inch high, he straightens up to his 5 feet, 3 inch height and says "What, that's not tall enough?"
Two of my friends went with me. Nancy and Ali had appointments within 20 minutes of mine, 20 minutes of each other: we've done this for a few years now. We call it our "Gyno Party", and are totally unashamed of this, as corny (and by corny I mean weird and old-personish) as it is. Hey, if some guy, no matter how sweet and soft-spoken, is going to look up my hoo-ha...well, there'd better be shopping and lunch involved afterwards.
So, after stripping naked, donning the paper gown ("paper gown": best oxymoron ever), and putting my feet in the aforementioned stirrups, I always tell the doctor same joke: "If you hear a creak, Doc, it's just the Vault Door opening..." No, it's not particularly funny, but it helps me concentrate on something other than What's Going On Down There and What Will He Find? The Lost Continent of Atlantis, perhaps, or something even more sinister?
My former gynecologist, a tall, icy blond, had a French Poodle who accompanied her into the exam room, and she talked to the poodle more than she talked to me. Now, I was a little skeeved out by this, and there are two reasons why I really had no business being skeeved:
#1. I love dogs, much, much more than I love gynecologists.
#2. I was in the doctor's exam room because I had a pretty embarrassing situation going on: a tick was stuck tight to my, as we say in elementary school, privates.
As you can see, I was in no position to be skeeved out or judgmental towards anyone (or any dog.) But she was not amused by my Vault Door joke, and I changed gynecologists.
The hell with her and her French Poodle. If I really have to chat at the gynecologist's, I'd much rather talk about cream of cauliflower soup recipes, with someone my own height.
Thursday, May 29, 2014
This Is Your Pilot Speaking...
Fear of Flying doesn't even begin to cover it. Nightmare on Elm Street Meets Every Plane Catastrophe Ever is more like it. So when Jeff and I decide to fly from New Jersey to Minnesota for our niece's wedding, obviously I was under the influence of a LOT of wine.
I step into the plane, trying to look cool. I am not cool, I am catatonic. The Fight Attendant smiles at me, but I see nothing but the fear that is shining in her eyes: she knows this plane's going down. Okay, I also see that she is wearing WAY too much eye makeup for 2:00 in the afternoon, and her pants are at least twice as snug as mine. Good. Starting to feel better already.
I avoid eye contact with every one who's boarding the plane, because I know the Crazy Plane Bomber is scoping out all of us, looking for the weakest person that he can use as a hostage. I will NOT be the Weak Link. I button up my Lands' End jacket, turning it into a sort of Comfort Coat, like the ones they put on dogs during a thunderstorm. I'm so hot I could pass out.
The plane takes off, and because my husband sprang for First Class seats (to keep me from peeing my pants in the middle seat, which I swore I would), the Flight Attendant (Ms. Uber Tight Pants) immediately asks me if I want a drink. "Shit, yeah!" I hear myself say, then add to soften that faux pas, "HA! Oh, no, no, not right yet..." Jeff orders a Bloody Mary, which I try not to read too much into. I relax. I take a sip of his drink, and look at Ms. Uber Tight Pants. She looks relaxed. (I like to gauge my panic on how panic-stricken the Flight Attendants look.)
Right about then, Jeff asks me to hold onto his drink: he's going to the bathroom. I balance his glass on my "lap tray", feigning nonchalance: I fly all the time, and I am very, very cosmopolitan, despite the fact that I am wearing a Lands' End Jacket as a strait jacket/ Canine Comfort Coat. The captain's voice comes on the loud speaker. He's got a folksy, "I'm-from-Hotel-6, and-we'll-leave-the-lights-on-for-ya" kind of voice:
"This is your pilot speaking, folks, and we're experiencing a bit of bumpy air, so we're climbing to 35 thousand gazillion feet in order to avoid the turbulence that will make you lunge for your Airsickness Bags. Keep your seat belts on so that we can identify the bodies when we plummet those 35 thousand gazillion feet to Earth. "
I know he didn't say all of that, but he was thinking it. I looked at Ms. U. Tight Pants; she looks okay, but uncomfortable. Could be the pants. And as I stare at her, and listen to the Pilot, the glass-- filled with a very cold, icy Bloody Mary-- slowly slides down the lap tray, and without fanfare, slips off the tray, and lands in my lap. The Fight Attendant blinks at it.
"Oooops," she smiles, "Do you think he might want another Bloody Mary?"
Thoughts run through my head, most of them unprintable... basically what I want to spit out is this: "My crotch is full of ice, tomato juice, and lime: how 'bout a freakin' napkin, rhymes with Witch?"
I (shakily, bravely, amazingly) just ask for some napkins, and she brings me a paper towel. One. I head to the bathroom, which is the size of my microwave. While I try to get more paper towels out of the dispenser on the wall, the entire dispenser falls off the wall and onto the floor. I'm now sweating profusely, I smell like tomato juice, and there are lime fragments all over my crotch. I will NOT pick up that paper towel dispenser from the disgusting floor: I will NOT be the Weak Link. Somehow, I leave the bathroom with my head high, and the paper towel dispenser still on the floor.
Jeff looks at me as I sit down. He's drinking his (fresh) Bloody Mary. "Isn't this fun?" he smiles. "I told you, there's nothing to be afraid of...hey, Hon? Aren't you hot in that jacket?"
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Chee Whiz
So this morning I went to Qi (pronounced "chee") Gong (pronounced "gong") at my local library. I was late (natch), so I drove 70 miles an hour, trying to keep my head from exploding as I pulled into the parking lot on three wheels.
Why was I late? My biggest concern was my outfit: what does Grasshopper wear to Tai Chi/Qigong? I settled on black pull-on pants and what I like to think is my non-old-person t-shirt but translates into something from the 80's. I hoped I looked like Gloria Estefan in her Miami Sound Machine days.
Not to worry: as I walked into the building, I noticed the other gals ahead of me: lots of pull-on pants, lots of sweatshirts with kittens frolicking on the fronts. I was definitely feeling cooler, but my jog/skip to catch up lessened that feeling exponentially.
The room was filled with gray haired women, all of them already sitting on their chairs. I, who had been jog/skipping to get there on time, was breathing so freaking stressfully, I couldn't be calmed down by a Jedi Master, much less Mr. Myagi. ("Use head for something other than target, Daniel.") And because the room was dimly lit (to protect the "chi", I guess, or just to keep the kittens quiet), I was squinting while still of course trying to smile: let's face it, I looked completely crazed.
"Pull yourself together, Grasshopper", I said, hopefully to myself. I took a chair from the back and sat down. The scraping and squeaking of the chair was horrifying.
"It is time to quiet ourselves and become The Turtle" intoned our group leader. "Quietly heal your mind for six minutes."
Now, I don't know if you've ever actually sat. still. for six minutes, but it is a long, long ass amount of time. I peeked at the gal next to me; she looked asleep. I tried to quiet my mind, but it kept talking. I peeked at the gal in front of me: seriously, where did she get a shirt that ugly? There was a man to the left; I believe he had actually passed out. I tried to think kind thoughts. I couldn't do it. I thought about writing this blog; that seemed so shallow, to use this lovely situation to write a snarky, sarcastic blog...
"Open your eyes, and breathe, breathe deeply. Now that we have healed our minds, we are ready to heal our bodies."
I knew I was doomed. We stood up, and proceeded to go through the 5 Qigong something or others that control/make up/bounce off our bodies. What the heck? I couldn't concentrate. I had no concept or left hand over the right, palm up, palm down, turn left, inhale, exhale. Basically I just tried to look very, very serene. I tried to look like a very, very serene turtle.
I tried to remember if I passed a Starbucks on the way here. I knew suddenly that I'd be playing some Miami Sound Machine on the way home, or maybe even going way back to ABBA...Chee whiz! I knew I was more of a Dancing Queen than a Grasshopper!
"You can dance, you can jive, havin' the time of your liiiiiife...
See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queen..."
Why was I late? My biggest concern was my outfit: what does Grasshopper wear to Tai Chi/Qigong? I settled on black pull-on pants and what I like to think is my non-old-person t-shirt but translates into something from the 80's. I hoped I looked like Gloria Estefan in her Miami Sound Machine days.
Not to worry: as I walked into the building, I noticed the other gals ahead of me: lots of pull-on pants, lots of sweatshirts with kittens frolicking on the fronts. I was definitely feeling cooler, but my jog/skip to catch up lessened that feeling exponentially.
The room was filled with gray haired women, all of them already sitting on their chairs. I, who had been jog/skipping to get there on time, was breathing so freaking stressfully, I couldn't be calmed down by a Jedi Master, much less Mr. Myagi. ("Use head for something other than target, Daniel.") And because the room was dimly lit (to protect the "chi", I guess, or just to keep the kittens quiet), I was squinting while still of course trying to smile: let's face it, I looked completely crazed.
"Pull yourself together, Grasshopper", I said, hopefully to myself. I took a chair from the back and sat down. The scraping and squeaking of the chair was horrifying.
"It is time to quiet ourselves and become The Turtle" intoned our group leader. "Quietly heal your mind for six minutes."
Now, I don't know if you've ever actually sat. still. for six minutes, but it is a long, long ass amount of time. I peeked at the gal next to me; she looked asleep. I tried to quiet my mind, but it kept talking. I peeked at the gal in front of me: seriously, where did she get a shirt that ugly? There was a man to the left; I believe he had actually passed out. I tried to think kind thoughts. I couldn't do it. I thought about writing this blog; that seemed so shallow, to use this lovely situation to write a snarky, sarcastic blog...
"Open your eyes, and breathe, breathe deeply. Now that we have healed our minds, we are ready to heal our bodies."
I knew I was doomed. We stood up, and proceeded to go through the 5 Qigong something or others that control/make up/bounce off our bodies. What the heck? I couldn't concentrate. I had no concept or left hand over the right, palm up, palm down, turn left, inhale, exhale. Basically I just tried to look very, very serene. I tried to look like a very, very serene turtle.
I tried to remember if I passed a Starbucks on the way here. I knew suddenly that I'd be playing some Miami Sound Machine on the way home, or maybe even going way back to ABBA...Chee whiz! I knew I was more of a Dancing Queen than a Grasshopper!
"You can dance, you can jive, havin' the time of your liiiiiife...
See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queen..."
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Warren Piece
By the time I was 8 years old, I knew I sucked at Math. It was a fact, a part of me, like being a short, middle child, with a phobic fear of crickets. I abhorred math; to this day, I still have trouble with the 9 times table. I have to start at 9 x 5, and work my way up or down. (God help me if I ever forget what 9 x 5 is...it's 46, right?)
Next to the phrase "nest of crickets", the words "Word Problems", to this day, make me want to run screaming from the room; once, in 4th grade, I did just that, and hid in the coat room for an hour. Being such a stellar student, no one actually missed me; I just got hungry for lunch and came out, nonchalantly wearing my coat.
Remember Nancy Kerrigan after she got whacked in the knee by Tanya Harding, wailing on the floor: "WHHYYY??? WHHHHYYY??". That heart-rendering drama show was actually first enacted by me, during the Math portion of The Iowa Test in 1958, when I read these words:
If a train leaves Paddington Station at 2:25 on Wednesday, going 125 miles per hour through dense fog, what time would it arrive in Petticoat Junction, 58 miles away?
"WHHHYYYY? WHHHYYY?" Followed closely by "WHO CARES???"
Now, my father was a "Math Person", and although I know he thought the sun rose and set with me, I also know that he could never understand why his middle child was so damn stupid in math. I'd stare at a problem he was trying to explain, and see fairies dancing with dachshunds. He looked in my eyes, and could see the fairies dancing. I smiled. The dachshunds were so cute!
Here's the thing, though: I was an excellent reader. Loved to read: reading was my thing, fairly genius ability at reading, I think. My father knew this, and was very proud (probably relieved that his only daughter, with absolutely no skills in long division, wouldn't be left homeless and destitute after all, as it appeared she did know how to read.)
But after the results of the Iowa Test came home, I needed to strengthen my status as Favorite Child, so I asked my father what book was the longest book he ever read; he told me, and I went directly to the library. I looked everywhere for this book, and finally went to the front desk, annoyed now because this search was severely cutting into my Nancy Drew and the Secret at Blackbird Pond reading time:
Me (petulantly, age 8): "I'm looking for a book, I think it's a biography, but I can't find it: can you please help me?" (Although petulant, I was also polite, this being the beginning of the "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers" phase of my life, as popularized by Scarlett O'Hara.)
Librarian (unimpressed, age 100): "What is the name of the book? Who is it about? " (Librarians obviously never used contractions when speaking, back in The Day.)
Me: "Warren Piece".
Librarian: "Never heard of it."
Now I knew this librarian chick had the Dewey Decimal System in her soul; she may even have had it tattooed somewhere on her body, she was Just. That. Good. So if she never heard of it, it just wasn't a freaking book. I told my father that later.
"Dad!" (petulant doesn't even begin to cover it) "Warren Piece isn't the name of a real book, and WHHYYYY, WHHYYYY did you embarrass me like that?"
In response, I believe he sent me to my room to practice the 9 times table.
Next to the phrase "nest of crickets", the words "Word Problems", to this day, make me want to run screaming from the room; once, in 4th grade, I did just that, and hid in the coat room for an hour. Being such a stellar student, no one actually missed me; I just got hungry for lunch and came out, nonchalantly wearing my coat.
Remember Nancy Kerrigan after she got whacked in the knee by Tanya Harding, wailing on the floor: "WHHYYY??? WHHHHYYY??". That heart-rendering drama show was actually first enacted by me, during the Math portion of The Iowa Test in 1958, when I read these words:
If a train leaves Paddington Station at 2:25 on Wednesday, going 125 miles per hour through dense fog, what time would it arrive in Petticoat Junction, 58 miles away?
"WHHHYYYY? WHHHYYY?" Followed closely by "WHO CARES???"
Now, my father was a "Math Person", and although I know he thought the sun rose and set with me, I also know that he could never understand why his middle child was so damn stupid in math. I'd stare at a problem he was trying to explain, and see fairies dancing with dachshunds. He looked in my eyes, and could see the fairies dancing. I smiled. The dachshunds were so cute!
Here's the thing, though: I was an excellent reader. Loved to read: reading was my thing, fairly genius ability at reading, I think. My father knew this, and was very proud (probably relieved that his only daughter, with absolutely no skills in long division, wouldn't be left homeless and destitute after all, as it appeared she did know how to read.)
But after the results of the Iowa Test came home, I needed to strengthen my status as Favorite Child, so I asked my father what book was the longest book he ever read; he told me, and I went directly to the library. I looked everywhere for this book, and finally went to the front desk, annoyed now because this search was severely cutting into my Nancy Drew and the Secret at Blackbird Pond reading time:
Me (petulantly, age 8): "I'm looking for a book, I think it's a biography, but I can't find it: can you please help me?" (Although petulant, I was also polite, this being the beginning of the "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers" phase of my life, as popularized by Scarlett O'Hara.)
Librarian (unimpressed, age 100): "What is the name of the book? Who is it about? " (Librarians obviously never used contractions when speaking, back in The Day.)
Me: "Warren Piece".
Librarian: "Never heard of it."
Now I knew this librarian chick had the Dewey Decimal System in her soul; she may even have had it tattooed somewhere on her body, she was Just. That. Good. So if she never heard of it, it just wasn't a freaking book. I told my father that later.
"Dad!" (petulant doesn't even begin to cover it) "Warren Piece isn't the name of a real book, and WHHYYYY, WHHYYYY did you embarrass me like that?"
In response, I believe he sent me to my room to practice the 9 times table.
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