WTF = Way Too Fat

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It has been my observation that 99% of people who say America is the greatest country in the world,EVER! have never lived anywhere else. Before you call me a hater and stab me with your flag pin, I want to make one thing clear: America is a great country and exceptional at many things. But I have spent enough time living in 3 other countries to appreciate other ways of doing things.  There is one thing I am convinced America is exceptional at (and not in a good way)…poisoning ourselves.

We are fat, fat, fat. And pretty soon the sheer weight of this country is going to tilt the earth off of its axis and wreak some serious climate havoc.

When did Krispy Kreme become acceptable apres-game snack at soccer? Last week, my child was offered a 6 pack of Oreos and a Gatorade after a game. That’s 47 grams of sugar–30% more than the recommended daily allowance for a full grown male. After a soccer game. Need I point out the irony?

I bought a dress the other day, size 0. I was a size 2 in high school, and I can tell you with all certainty that things have definitely shifted and settled in the intervening 22 years. In another 20, will I be a -2? If you have any doubt, spend a day at a any given water park in the US. You will conclude that Americans are good at 2 things–feeding themselves and finding new and inventive places to pierce and decorate.

I am far from a paragon of healthy living, I did grow up in the South. But I do try to eat things without labels and bend at the waist, occasionally. American innovation has become new things to fry at state fairs. Pizza Hut has given us the pizza with a hot dog stuffed in the crust. Burger King has unveiled a bacon sundae. Perhaps there is a flaw in our dastardly plan to eliminate other nations via “food” (term used loosely) exports. We won’t be around to enjoy our dominion.

Enjoy your fried Kool-Aid ball!

Brag Tags

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I consider the bumper sticker to be the ultimate in passive-aggressive behavior. It’s a way to argue with someone who can’t possibly refute your point. I get so irritated with assertions that I voted for the wrong candidate or am in some way interested in your firearm. I guess I am only interested if I cut you off in traffic. But, being a purveyor of strong opinions, even if they are stupid ones, I have to respect the intent.

What I can’t abide are the status stickers. I think it all started with the “Baby On Board” signs. You procreated, congratulations. I was going to t-bone you before, but now that I know precious cargo is in contained within, well, never mind.

From there it devolved to “My Child is an Honor Student…”blah blah. I never saw anyone peel one of those off when little Jimmy got sent to juvie. And now each car is like a moving Facebook post. I know where you vacation, what school you claim to have attended, how many kids you have and that they are super-into origami, and how many miles you ran once.

It’s getting out of hand. No one would deign to affix a sticker that said they did a 5k or went to Cleveland for spring break. If you aren’t iron-manning in shark-infested waters, don’t have 10 offspring stick figures, and don’t know the health benefits of the Uruguayan wonder-berry, you have not arrived. Even if you did, you still have arrived in a mini-van. (Incidentally I wonder if those family stickers aren’t really just a cheat sheet to make sure no one is left behind at Chuck E. Cheese.)  I haven’t yet, but fully expect to see stickers for SAT scores and number of kidney stones successfully passed.

What I really want to know is not how far you ran, but how many toenails fell off as a result; not what sports your kids play, but whose dream you crushed when you wouldn’t spring for clogging lessons. Or perhaps some helpful instruction, such as, “please disregard if this vehicle is stopped in the middle of the street and the driver is screaming at the occupants of the backseat that it is not ok to assault your brother with used orthodontic rubber bands.” Just sayin’.

Yellow Fever

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There are many things in this world that we don’t need, but we want. There is one thing that no one wants and no one needs. Please make it stop. Its time has come and gone. There is a reason you have to deliver a new Yellow Pages to my door every other week, and that is the fact that it is out of date the moment you hit “print.” If only there were a way to access information conveniently from anywhere. Oh, wait, there is.

I don’t know of anyone who would trade in the smart phone for a day of hauling around the book (which is usually in a sodden mess on my porch anyway).

A few weeks ago I got a call from a survey group asking about my recent delivery of the phone book. I live for survey calls. I view them as an invitation to launch into an immoderate rant on the topic at hand. This particular one was asking about the delivery of my book, and its usefulness. I asked the representative to be more specific, as I had received several in the past month, all of which made their way directly to the recycle bin after they had dried sufficiently to lift. I asked her to stop sending them. She didn’t have a check box for that on her form, apparently.

I have also been known to get into debates with those “voter issue” calls, which are more about providing me with an opinion than finding out about mine. Have they met me? Opinions come loaded for bear. Caller beware.

Afternoon Delight

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Ah, the sounds of summer–buzzing weed whackers, heaving breaths as we struggle to blow up swim rafts, and the metallic tinklings of the ice cream truck tune. We just missed it the other day as our echolocation on the dulcet tones told us he (It’s always a he, isn’t it? I’m not sure about the legalities of an all male workforce. Is that a bona fide occupational qualification? Oh sorry, I drifted off into the mind numbing intricacies of labor law. Back on track now.) was headed in the other direction.

Since then we have been stalking Mr. Softee. We have $18 in quarters in a Ziploc baggie awaiting his return. I don’t know what Mr. Softee charges these days, but 2 vanilla cones adjusted for inflation is surely under $9. Tuesday, it happened.

I bailed mid-sentence on a conference call, feigning chest pains and sounded the alarm. Man your stations! Ziploc bag in hand, we sent Gus out on reconnoissance. He ran around the corner and back, “He’s close.” But is he coming this direction? Back to check. “Yes, he’s moving this way.” But what if he turns before our street? Back up the hill and around the corner to signal his desire. By this time we could have all leisurely strolled up to meet the truck where it was. That’s not the point. The beauty is frozen fatty goodness on demand, delivered right to you. No exertion needed. Fetch me a soft serve, man-wench (mench?).

The sounds were growing louder. It was like counting the seconds between lightning and the thunder clap–audio confirmation of approach. Then we locked in the visual. The top heavy truck ambled up the street. I stepped up to the curb and signaled the intent with the nod of my head, lest he think I was out there for the mail. This deal was going down. My street, my terms.

I stepped up to the window momentarily dazzled by the selection. Two spiraling towers of ice cream in a wide-load cone? Whoa! And then gathering my maternal wits about me, I stepped like a bulwark between my children and whatever display of ink, piercings, and state of dental hygiene might appear. Let me handle this.

Holy waffle cones! Mr. Softee was hot. I mean not just free-of-a-house-arrest-ankle-monitor-and-ZZ-Top-beard passable. I mean a prep school buck with a tan and a gleaming smile. A sort-of Ryan Gosling slinging frozen dairy goods. He took my quarters with a wink and delivered 2 gravity-defying twists of vanilla heaven. My nanny and I exchanged glances with an implicit, “Did you see that?” We’ve been waiting with our quarters ever since.

Spawn of Shiitake

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I once bought my brother one of those grow-your-own-mushroom log kits for Christmas. Not just any rotten log–the fancy shiitake kind. It’s a hardwood log “injected with shiitake spawn” (aren’t you glad you don’t have that job?) and promises to deliver mushrooms  for 2 years after the initial fruiting and post a relaxation soak every 2 weeks.

Anyway, brother lives in Houston, and what climate is more appropriate for growing fungi than the bayou? Well, the durned thing wouldn’t sprout, so he called customer service. It went something like this…

Brother: “My mushroom log won’t fruit. I soaked it and followed the directions, but it’s been a couple of weeks.”

Mushroom Specialist: “Do you have it indoors or out?”

Brother: “Out.”

MS: “And it’s in the shade?

Brother: “Yes.”

MS: “Did you use non-chlorinated water for the soak?”

Brother: “Yes, just like the directions said.”

MS: “Hmmm. Well did you hit it with a hammer?”

Brother: “Should I hit it with a hammer?”

MS: “That’s what I would do.”

Brother: “To punish it or to spur it into action?”

MS: “Yep, give it a good crack, but no harder than you would your head.”

Needless to say, countless unborn shiitakes were sacrificed to the burn pile that year. Next time I’ll go for the Jumbo Jerky Works.

Play Ball

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I guess it’s opening day for baseball. You’ll recall I don’t love baseball, and I don’t consider it a sport. And it’s not just me. Baseball bills itself as “America’s Pastime”. Your words, Baseball, not mine.

I am a great fan of World Cup and the Olympics, so since I can only muster interest in sports approximately every 2 years, I have to have some way to pass the time while my vuvuzuela is in repose. There is one thing sports-related that I am a connoisseur of, and that is the sports movie. The sports movie is often better than the sport itself. I will even argue that so boring a pastime as baseball has produced the most delicious crop of sports-ish (I’ll go that far) movies.

Best “Sports” Movies from a Pastime

  1. The Natural
  2. The Bad News Bears
  3. A League of their Own
  4. Field of Dreams
  5. A River Runs Through It (if baseball counts, so must fly fishing)
Best Sports Movies
  1. Seabiscuit
  2. Victory
  3. Breaking Away
  4. Remember the Titans and We are Marshall*
  5. Friday Night Lights
  6. Bend it like Beckham (girl power and British!)

*These 2 are conflated in my head. I think they are essentially the same movie.

Best Sports Movies from Sports I don’t care for, but still qualify as Sports
  1. Hoosiers
  2. Rocky
  3. Million Dollar Baby
A Bone for my Husband
  1. Brian’s Song (haven’t seen it)

Decidedly not on the List

  1. The Legend of Bagger Vance**
  2. Caddyshack***
  3. Moneyball (I could tell this was a much better book)
**I don’t have anything against this movie. I remember sort of liking it, but apparently it stirs up great ire from my friend, and fellow blogger John. He went off on a 2 part diatribe about a movie from 12 years ago. Ugly.
*** I was late in seeing this one, and by the time I did, all of the jokes were played. And they still are. Please, in the name of all that’s holy, stop quoting this movie.
Really Can’t Comment on the Following (I either haven’t seen these or they didn’t leave a big impression)
  1. Raging Bull
  2. Chairots of Fire
 No List Would be Complete Without
  1. Blades of Glory
  2. Nacho Libre

Anglo File

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Beyonce has Sasha Fierce; Bruce Banner, The Hulk. I have Ermintrude Devonsby-McKibbinsworth. I have a deep-seated desire to be British, probably stemming from a steady childhood diet of Benny Hill, Monty Python, and Masterpiece Theater that played in heavy rotation in my household.

Everything sounds so much more dignified when you speak the Queen’s. If I’m peckish, I’ll enjoy pint and perhaps a dish with rocket. If I’m knackered, I’ll have a bit of a lie-in. Even near-disaster is adorable, I’m almost chuffed to come a-cropper. Hugh Grant isn’t a pervert, he’s a just a prat.

I’d prefer to go to the loo or sit on my bum; chivvy along eating crisps. If I think an idea is crap, I just say, “Hmmm” or “Interesting.” I can ring your mobile and go for a nosh up at the pub for a few quid.

I can whinge instead of whine, ban the letter zed, consider words like “data” and “team” to be plural nouns, not the collective singular; develop an abiding love of all things clotted, and take my holiday–a fortnight at the sea.

I have a few things going for me already: I love the Beautiful Game, and I find the British version of “The Office” far funnier than the American version.I’ll just revert back to Barbara for a few things: dentistry and the Frito Pie.

 

 

Eject Reject

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Each day with children is an adventure, but when you’ve got one that’s not of your biological issue, then it’s a mini-psychology experiment in nature vs. nurture.

I discovered something today. Emetophobia (that is the fear of or anxiety around vomiting) is inherited. I have a nonchalant barfer. That doesn’t even compute in my mind. How could you not care, or even notice? Apparently it involves sitting up briefly, rolling to the other side of the bed, and going back to sleep. It didn’t even warrant a mention. Luckily it was laundry day. Well, not lucky for me.

I don’t see how it’s even possible. My post-purge involves highly specialized rituals of intermittent sobbing and wailing, bathing, gargling, disinfecting, laying just so with a hot water bottle, propping my head up with extra pillows, and lying ever-so still.

I am a sympathetic vomiter, too. Just writing about it is making me nauseous.

It must be nice not to be impacted by it at all, but I do wonder if lack of trepidation in this area will make shots of Creme de Menthe seem like a good idea?

 

Unnecessary Evils

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You may have noticed I’m prone to strong opinions. There are many things in this world that are unbearable, disgusting, and traumatizing, but many of them are also useful or essential, like colonoscopies. But this is a list I think we can do without, in a segment I like to call JPU, or Just Plain Unnecessary.

1. Watermelons. Stop trying to convince me to like them by saying, “but they are mostly water!” I don’t like nasty flavored water, either.

2. Nasty flavored water. I don’t need my water to come in Black Cherry Dragon Fruit, Peach Mint, or “Skinny” Water varieties. Isn’t water already skinny? Just the H, the 2, and the O please. Crystal Yuck. It was equally as vile when it was Tang.

3. Ikea. It’s like a Chinese finger puzzle. The harder you strain to escape, the tighter it grips you. I imagine it’s a giant arena in which the masters are watching us scurry and try to break free.

4. Styrofoam. I don’t like the way it clings to me. I think it’s trying to colonize. I can’t stand the sound it makes when rubbing against a cardboard box. It freaks me out and is toxic to humans and the environment.

5. Celery. Again, I don’t see the point. This one is just stringy water.

6. Sweatpants. There’s just really no need, especially for the ones that advertise the contents within as “Juicy.”

7. Hummers. Embarrassing! I bet you don’t even own a kayak.

8. Egg Yolks. Especially the runny kind that people like to dip their toast in and ruin a perfectly good piece of toast. Super gross and happy food poisoning. (Note: I’m starting to make a connection to the origin of my oldest’s food issues.)

9. Moist. The word. I don’t like it. I avoid it. I’ll pass up the cake mix that advertises it’s the moistest. In the superlative, it’s even worse.

10. Word Finder Puzzles. I use the word “puzzles” loosely here.

Nut Elegy

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I ask you: Has anyone fallen so far as Mr. Peanut?

Going from foppish man-about-town to Public Enemy #1 faster than you can say “Hold my Monocle”? He’s got about as much public sympathy as a boozed-up Mel Gibson with an opinion. He’s banned from schools and restaurants and has entire websites and blogs dedicated to his eradication. Only Joseph Kony enjoys more notoriety at the moment.

I feel like the lowly peanut deserves a break. His pariah status is cramping my style. It would be so nice to send a peanut butter sandwich to school at least one of the 132 days I have to pack a lunch. Surely the turkeys could use a break too. Couldn’t we establish March 28th as Peanuts In Da House day?

But it isn’t really his fault, after all. He seems to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time when we stripped our immunity systems of any useful job to do. Sort of like the victim of a hate crime. Thuggish antibodies sitting around with time on their hands and nothing to do. Who wouldn’t take a baseball bat to a nut in spats and a top hat? Something satisfying in the crack of the shell and the heaving lump of butter left behind.

In my extensive research (read: cursory Google Search) there is no organization dedicated to saving the peanut. Even the Peanut Board’s sheepish mission is to “provide peanut growers with a receptive and growing market.” Nothing about restoring the peanut to its former grandeur, elevating it to the king of nuts, going X-treme protein.

I guess the peanut never stood a chance, suffering first the indignity of the moniker “the goober pea”, the wholly unnecessary foam rubber confection known as the Circus Peanut and then becoming slang for pocket change. Not even an adorable cartoon, which as far as I can determine had nothing to do with nuts or nut products, could save it. How long before the verse becomes “Buy me an Energy Drink and Cracker Jacks”?

Somewhere George Washington Carver weeps.