Name Tag Trickery

            Last week, my son graduated from Middle School.  To celebrate we told him we could go to any restaurant of his choosing.  Hmmm, where would he pick if he could pick anywhere?  After a few moments thought, he declared “Five Guys”.  Oh.  Ok.  We like Five Guys and we’d certainly get off cheap with this choice but it seemed a bit anticlimactic.  Graduation ceremony followed by counter service at a strip mall?  It seemed like it would make his graduation a non-event.  (Not to mention, as time passed, I’m sure he’d forget it was his choosing and then would bring it up years from now.  He’d tell his wife and kids how cruel we’d been; degrading his important celebration.)  I kept suggesting other options and suddenly one stuck -Benihana. 

            So after a hot but lovely graduation, we went to Benihana for our hibatchi experience.  Until we were seated, I had forgotten that they seat you with other people to fill the grill table.  Sometimes that can be fun if you get a good group.  We were seated between two dud families.  (Although, we could’ve been the duds.  We’re not so outgoing ourselves…  Sigh.)  We had our drinks and salads and waited for our table chef to arrive.  The kids were anxiously awaiting the onion volcano…

            Finally our chef arrived and he didn’t really look Japanese.  He looked Hispanic.  Which is fine because it’s all about how they cook, not who they are.  But his nametag said, “Chow”.  Really?  “Chow”?   And he said, “Mira, mira” to the server over something on the order sheet.  And Chow isn’t even a Japanese name is it?  Perhaps a more ambiguous name would’ve been a better choice?  Mineo, Elgo, Ren?  (Yes, I did just look up names.) Something vaguely Spanish/Italian/Japanese/Filipino?  Something ending in a vowel.  I don’t know… Chow just seemed like an odd choice.  But maybe the name Chow just means we are going to chow down on his watch…

            Anyway, we had our food “show cooked”.  We saw the rice heart and the onion volcano.  The kids had Japanese soda whose glass-marble-stoppered bottles were very exciting to them.  The kids had a good time and we loved watching them.  My daughter and I giggled over our chopstick follies and my son didn’t even bother.  He likes to just shovel his food in and the chopsticks aren’t easy for him.  Suddenly I had an epiphany… Ready for my new business plan?

            I am now promoting my New Celebrity Diet!  (I will have to become a celebrity first but I’ll worry about that later.)  I am going to write a book and sell videos and go on the Today Show to promote it!  Here’s the premise:  Can’t wait to start dropping pounds?  It’s  (drumroll) The Chopstick Diet!  Let me explain… I am okay with chopsticks but, since I don’t use them regularly, I am awkward and inefficient with them.  Towards the end of the meal my hand is even tired from straining those muscles.  And I keep dropping my food.  I realized that I should eat ALL my food with chopsticks!  There is no overeating if it takes me forever to eat and if I have to pick up each morsel 2-3 times.  I was thinking that if I eat everything with chopsticks- cereal, chips, pudding- I will be able to shed those last 10 lbs of baby weight in no time! You can even eat ice cream on my diet!  But it has to be Dipping Dots.  And you have to use the chopsticks.  One little Dot at a time.  No slurping or lapping it up out of the bowl- that would be cheating.  Maybe I’ll even design my own chopstick line.  If I make them really slippery, saggy and skinny the diet plan will work even better! (I’ll just have to lock up all my silverware to make sure I stick to it.  We all know I’m not so disciplined…)  Keep an eye out for my new late night infomercial!

Speed What?!

Really right now?!  Right here?!

This could make things awkward if you are going out to lunch with a coworker. But what if I am in the car with my parents? Or my brother?  And what if your windows aren't tinted?  

But it would work if you were taking your six dogs for a ride...  

(This is the only place I've seen Speed Humps instead of Speed Bumps.  I'm thinking a boy ordered the signs.  Maybe a boy born in England?)

Treadmill Torture

            When I joined the gym, I got a “free” hour with a trainer to set me up with a routine and teach me how to use the machines.  I had a very nice woman trainer with a killer body.  Just another athletic person who loves to exercise. [Read in exasperated voice.]  I wish there was a pill I could take that made me like that…

            Optimistically, she set me up with a nice circuit of exercises on the dummy weight machines.  I say dummy because pulleys control the range of motion and I think most people would have to try hard to hurt themselves on these.  (Notice I said most, I’m sure this one person could do it no problem!)  Unlike free weights, I would be unable to drop these on any of my straggling body parts.  Ok, I thought, I can manage this.

            But, apparently, I also need to do something called “cardio”.  I have to exert myself and raise my heart rate.  If I wanted to exert myself, I would’ve joined a…wait.  Fine.  I’ll exert myself.  Gently.  I carefully considered all the different torture devices they offered.  I decided that, since I do have a habit of walking around on my legs, the treadmill was the best way to go.  Seemed like it wouldn’t be that hard to figure out.  I was right, the treadmill wasn’t hard to figure out but I was.

            It was like HS gym all over again with my body not cooperating!  I wasn’t even running- I was just trying to walk quickly! The people around me were loping gracefully along like gazelle.  I lurched like Frankenstein (or Lurch).  As I convulsed along, I tried to figure out what was wrong with me.  I couldn’t stay in the center of the damn tread. I was veering to one side and then trying to make up for it and lurching in the other direction.  Is one of my legs shorter than the other?!  If left alone in a big open space, would I wind up walking in a circle?  Are my hips crooked? Does one of my knees bend backwards like a flamingo’s? I just can’t understand it.  I walk around all day long.  Do I walk like this all day?  (No wonder my kids find me embarrassing!)

            Still stumbling along, I began to wonder if I am actually exerting myself more than a normal person would at the same speed.  I have to be taking twice as many steps just trying to stay on the damn tread. And what do I do with my arms?!  When I am managing to walk straight, they are down at my sides like a marionette with a few strings cut or Molly Shannon on Seinfeld.  But, more often, they are randomly jerking around to counterbalance me.  Think of a baby learning to walk.  Humiliating…

            I start to think that maybe, because my legs are long, that I can’t find a smooth gait while walking.  Should I try running?  I imagine myself loping along like one of the people-gazelles around me.   Nope. Totally wrong.  My stride is no smoother.  It’s probably worse because I am so distracted by the way my flesh is jiggling.  Could the jiggling be what is making me so out of balance? Could one of my cheeks weigh much more than the other?  I feel like George Jetson,  yelling to his wife.  I have to get off this thing.  I try to stop carefully.  I am terrified of tripping myself up and pin wheeling off the back like a ninja’s throwing star.  Taking out the endorphin freaks on the machines behind me before I splat against the back wall is not the way I want to start my new exercise “lifestyle”.

            After a few more unsuccessful tries on the treadmill, I give up.  I’ve had a little more success with the elliptical-thingy.   I recommend it to anyone as supremely movement challenged as I am.  It has foot shaped places to put your feet on and handles so your hands know what to do and don’t just swirl around in midair embarrassingly.  Here’s the best part: it moves you in a smooth stride!!  I mean you have to make the effort to move it but the motion is totally scripted!  No improvising!  It is so much better than the treadmill that I am a little excited about it.  I am sure that I don’t look as normal as everyone on the machines next to me but maybe normal enough to the unobservant eye.  Except for when a really good song comes on my iPod and I am lurching my head and torso all around to the beat.  But at least my hands and feet are still in the right places!  If I could somehow loco mote with this thing, I would use it around the house.  Then maybe I wouldn’t be lurching  into the doorjambs all the time…

Happy Father’s Day

            Today I was heading to the register in a local TJMaxx and found myself in what seemed to be the “dad” section.  (I was clued in by the “Happy Father’s Day” signs and by the trimmings of manliness:  wallets, grooming kits, golf balls and various sports themed items.)  I decided to look through the displays with my husband in mind.  Nothing appropriate for him but I did see something that gave me pause: a Brookstone Alcohol Detector.  Hmm, I’m thinking that if you decide to get the dad in your life an alcohol detector, maybe he doesn’t deserve a present this year.  It reminded me of something that happened years ago…

            Back when I only had one child, the days could be long.  Especially when my husband travelled for business.  On one of his trips, I took my daughter to the library to pass a few hours.  We filled up the stroller with our choices and I was particularly pleased with an illustrated book of daddy poems.  I figured it would be nice to read while daddy was away.

            That night, at bedtime, I started reading the picture book.  The first couple of poems were nice and about loving daddy.  Halfway through the next poem I read a line that said something like, “But Daddy when you drink too much…” Wait a minute…  Check the cover.  I took out a book about talking to your young child about their alcoholic father?!  Yes, I did.  Brilliant.  I wanted to go back and explain to the lovely librarian who checked me out, “No, I didn’t realize what it was about.  My husband is fine!!”  And,  “I guess I need a reading comprehension refresher, huh?” And “No, please don’t stare at him the next time he brings our daughter here…” 

            Hmm, I wonder if I should get him a bottle of wine for Father’s Day?


Happy Father's Day!!

           

             

           

            

Burning Dinner

         In “Hating Cooking”, I told you about my cooking problems and how I get distracted while cooking dinner.   It is a long-standing joke in my house that I am not a great cook and often burn or ruin things.  However, until I wrote that I never realized (or actually absorbed) the fact that it is the stove that seems to be the source of all my troubles!  (See, I am clueless.) So, the obvious answer is to break the stove and not tell the hubby!  No, can’t do that.  I need the stove for making oatmeal and hot chocolate.  Hot chocolate makes my culinary shortcomings excusable to my kids.  Add marshmallows and they will even forgive my grilled cheese deceit.  (We’ll get to that another time.)

         I realized that my first entry about cooking makes it seem as if trying to read magazines while cooking is my problem- not my poor cooking skills.  That is not the case.  Only rarely is it quiet enough around here to pick up a magazine or the paper while cooking,  (And, there is one recipe that lends itself to reading:  risotto!  You have to stand there and stir for a long time.  That is the perfect reading recipe.)  My biggest problem lies with the people I have to cook for!

         Most times, while I am making dinner, I need to step away from the stove on urgent business.  Sometimes, I must try to prevent one of my children from maiming another or stop one from goading another one into a blinding rage. Sometimes I have to mop up tears because the fighting upset the youngest.  Or I have to help with homework.  Or I am trying to stay on top of the big pile of dishes caused by cooking.  (This is where that TV crew would come in handy!) 

         So really, I must blame the very children that I am cooking for in the first place.  They are setting me up to fail.  They need to be fed, yet again, and then they are hell-bent on distracting me.  I know this is so because when I cook on the weekend, there is another grownup to distract them!  If they stay away from me and don’t ask me any questions, I can cook.  But the truth is:  I really do my best work for guests.  I want them to be satisfied and not to go home talking about the terrible dinner they were served so I try extra hard.  And even if I screw something up, they will be kind.  Not so with kids. 

         It seems terrible.  That I can’t try as hard for my kids as I can for guests.  Let’s look at this from another angle:  I only have to feed guests occasionally.  But, I have to feed the kids a meal 21 times per week.  (They usually bring lunch from home.)  That’s 21 times a week I have to do something that I don’t really care for.  (And, their lives depend on it!) So, lets figure 5 bad weekday dinners per week.  Oh crap- the direction I’m going requires math…  I’m out of practice with numbers because, on an average day, I usually only have to count to 3 to make sure I have all the kids I’m supposed to have.  [Focus!] So, 76% of the week, their food doesn’t suck.  Wait a minute…  that’s not bad at all!  And if we are running around and pick up dinner on a school night that’s only 4 crappy meals; bringing my decency rate up to… almost 81%!!

         What the heck are they complaining about??

Olympic Commercial

            P & G is running an Olympics-themed commercial that is beautiful.  It’s a “Thanks Mom” thing paying tribute to all the things that moms do for their kids.  I guess things that can help them make it to the Olympics.  (Click HERE to see it if you haven’t.)   It’s a great spot that could really choke me up… if it didn’t make me feel so negligent.

            I remember, when my kids were very little, talking to a neighbor whose son played hockey.  They had to wake up before dawn to drive to practice before school and they drove all over the country for games.  Their vacations centered on his hockey.  I remember walking away from that conversation thinking, “Yikes-  I hope my kids  are mediocre athletes.  I don’t think I am up for that.”  (I’m so sorry, J.  I didn’t know I was dooming them by thinking that innocent, lazy, little thought.)

            I would like to think that if they were really passionate about something I would be dragging them all over the place without complaint.  But would I?  When my daughter was little she was interested in being a Girl Scout.  My friend’s daughter was interested as well.  It just so happened that there were no troops or spaces in either of our schools.  (We lived in different towns.)  I told my daughter, “I’m sorry, honey, maybe next year.”  My friend started a troop. (It never even occurred to me to start a troop.  My mind went directly to, "Oh well, you're out of luck this year, honey.") But I had excuses! Two smaller children and a declining parent to take care of-  it’s not just that I was lame!   Plus my daughter wasn't passionate about it!  She didn't seem to care about not being a Girl Scout that year.  Yeah, that’s it…

            But this commercial is making me feel guilty.  After all of the wonderful, heartwarming scenes, it says “Thank you, Mom”.  Some versions say “Great job, Mom.” None of them say, “You suck, Heather.”  But that’s what I’ve been seeing!  Did I just get lucky that my kids don’t have a passion that has me driving all over the free world?  Or do I subconsciously SQUASH any leanings? I do have some things that I am great at as a parent.  But they will never become Olympians because I keep sno-cone syrup in the house for snow days or make homemade play-dough…

            It’s funny how when you are a young adult you fret about all your physical shortcomings.  Then, as a parent, you transfer all that angst into how you are failing your kids.  You could do 99% of it “right” but still lose sleep over that 1%- like the gorgeous supermodel who hates her toes…  I’m sure I’m not even close to doing it 99% right but I like to pretend and these commercials are ruining my delusions of grandeur.  And, yes, I know that being an Olympian doesn’t equal perfect parenting/mothering but, since sports are our current household shortcomings, it’s feeding my angst… 

            Could I get P & G to do a spot about moms who let their kids sleep late on the weekends, who feed them breakfast for dinner, who make a solar oven to cook smores in the driveway and perpetrate sunblock ambushes?  That would make me feel much better...

Juicy Couture?

            I saw someone walk by me at the gym with a word on her butt and realized that I haven’t seen “Juicy” around much lately.  And I was much relieved!  I have daughters and don’t want to see either of them sporting look-at-me words on their asses.  Of course, they agree now that the fashion is ridiculous but if it’s always around the idea might grown on them.  They might begin to think it looks good.  Even worse, they might want to accessorize it with an orange spray tan! Nooooooooo!

            As my large keister was lumbering along on the elliptical, I saw “word-butt” go by again.  I started thinking –why would anyone want to draw eyes TO their butt?  Don’t we all spend years asking, “Does this make my butt look big?”  Wouldn’t printing little words on your butt make it look bigger?  I mean isn’t that the reason we wear shirts with words across the breasts?  To draw the eye and give the illusion that they are bigger?  And to draw attention away from your behind?!  Because, while there are bad butts, most men will say there are no bad boobies.  And no, I am not a harlot.  I am just realizing that as I get older drawing more attention to the girls (while they are still north of the equator) is a smoke screen for the “continental drift” that happens in your 40s…

            And, if your butt is fabulous, isn’t there a better, more tasteful way to showcase all your hard work or good genetics?  (Me and my flat, expansive butt-DNA hate your great butt-DNA.)  Why not wear a great pair of jeans?  Or a cropped coat? And, for those of you who really need the attention, you could drop your pen repeatedly or carry something in your back pocket.   (Or convince Juicy to make braille pants!)

            I’m not crazy about words on butts but I have a particular aversion to the word “Juicy”  I guess the word is supposed to bring to mind… what?  Something succulent? A peach?  Some sort of fruit? Does it do that for guys?  ‘Cause when I think of a juicy ass, I think of ass juice.  Moisture.  Then, I think “Grooosss”.  I would not like to walk around giving people the impression that my butt was runny and damp.  Am I the only person that thinks this when I see “Juicy” on a butt?  Wouldn’t the whole “truth in advertising” thing imply this:  Juicy=Swamp Ass?

            If I were ever to wear words on my butt, they would be “Goodyear” or “Stay Puft”.  Not really.  But it certainly wouldn’t be “Juicy”.  I think an appealing message to wear across my ass would be “Dry, Tidy, Perfumed, Comfy, Quiet, Operative”.  I know it seems kind of long but wouldn’t my butt look tiny in the midst of all that writing?  Should I use large print?  What font would make my butt look smaller? 

Spell Check?

How long did it take you to notice the spelling error?

 No one that worked here seemed to notice it.  Why is that?  Was it a teenager so used to his phone spell checking for him that he never bothered to learn to spell?  Or just being a smart ass? Does the poor guy that changed the sign have dyslexia? Or is English his second language? (Dyslexia or ESL gives you a free pass but I would've thought the manager would've peeked out the window.) Or could it be that am I being all smarmy and superior when they are just advertising that Sam Piling is appearing today...