Warning: If you suffer from conditions relating to a weak stomach, easily grossed out syndrome, restless leg syndrome, or a strong dislike of people who are irrationally boastful and full of themselves, you may want to pass up this entry and read something less controversial. Anything by Victoria Osteen or Newt Gingrich’s daughter Jackie should do quite nicely and cause your overall IQ to drop three to five points…during the first chapter.
This needs to be addressed.
Sometimes a topic speaks to me, begging to be written about. It camps out until I sit down at the keyboard and exhorcize it from my brain.
Occasionally these topics are so controversial that even Geraldo Rivera and Anderson Cooper wouldn’t dare to approach them. However, I’m willing to take a tough and straight forward look at the human injustices that surround us, the ones that we don’t dare speak of at the dinner table for fear of offending someone less attractive. After all, God made them that way and they can’t help it.
Oh yes they CAN. And if they choose not to, then they shouldn’t work in the food service industry. Forgive me. I know that's harsh. There are plenty of occupations practically begging for ugly people to apply—such as security guards, corrections officers and mad scientists’ laboratory assistants.
Some of you are saying “Hold on, I’m not following you.” Have you ever driven up to an Arby’s menu, completely starving, ordered your food and then in anticipation waited for your turn at the window?
Yes, I think we all have.
Have you ever gotten to the window and beheld a person (and I use that term lightly) so physically unattractive holding your food that you suddenly lose your entire appetite as well as your oatmeal from breakfast?
Yes, yes I think we all have.
I’m not talking about the occasional fast food counter person with an unfortunate hair color job, a face like an Easter Island statue, or an untimely hormonal zit. Those are forgivable, yet pitiable maladies. What I’m referring to is worse. See, example below.
I’m not sure why Mr. Arby’s thought it was smart to hire an ex-convict with a collar of naked woman tattoos around his neck, nasal blackheads the size of toilet spores, a crop of facial psoriasis that would ruin even a stoned person’s appetite for pizza. This topped with hair that has a little too much in common with a Christmas snow globe. Doesn’t that just make you want to shout “Make Mine a Biggie Size!”
I think not.
I can’t help but shudder, wondering what this man has done with my Beef n Cheddar and curly fries before placing it in the bag. Had he washed his hands like the bathroom sign suggested? Judging from the condition of his yellowing claws, I would assume that Reagan was in office that last time his hands experienced the feel of soap and water simultaneously. If this is what the customer service person looks like, what kind of physical, not-of-this-world, horrific deformities must the back-room employees possess?
Sometimes it’s the owners, rather than the employees.
I attended college in _________ville, GA, home of a notable asylum and a Dairy Queen restaurant that boasted an absurdly high number of customers saying “oh never mind” upon reaching the counter.
As I write this, I feel a tinge of guilt equal in offense to laughing, pointing, and telling a new mother that her baby is a freak, or purposefully tripping a special ed student with leg braces. I take no pleasure in what I’m about to describe, but it must be done for the good of humankind, especially those unsuspecting travelers who enjoy DQ Blizzards and may find themselves driving into the city limits of a college town that ends in “ville” one day.
Growing up in a small town with only a Dairy Queen to serve the hungry masses (well, one mass and it was sparse) I became all too well acquainted with everything on their menu. After a few weeks away at college, the pangs of homesickness sank in along with intense cravings for a DQ chili cheese dog. My friend Mike, who was always in the mood for a double cheese burger, onion rings and a large orange drink, offered to drive me off campus, down Wayne Street to ________ville’s DQ.
I was excited. I was hungry. And Mike was reeeealllly good looking. My only concern, other than eating a long awaited chili dog, was trying not to smear cheese on my face or scarf my food down like a hyena, as I tend to do even today.
My earlier concerns instantly became irrelevant once I approached the counter. The cashier was obviously wearing a Halloween mask. Upon getting closer I realized it wasn’t a mask, but it should’ve been. I can’t quite describe what the guy looked like because I’ve pretty much blocked it out. I think he was purple with lumpy masses all over his head, one of which contained an eyeball, but was not where a normal eye should be. That’s all I remember.
When I began to stammer about suddenly craving a Big Mack or a Whopper and could we go elsewhere NOW!!!. Mike realized my dilemma. In an attempt to make everything okay, he explained, “that’s just Mr.________. He was shot in the face a while back.” I felt really, really bad. Mr. _________ was probably a nice guy, a pillar of the community, one who gave thousands of toys and cheeseburgers to needy kids each Christmas, and dutifully visited the elderly and shut-ins. And there I was judging him by his appearance. I felt lowly. I wish he’d have slapped me with his normal appearing right hand. No matter how much I chided myself, I just couldn’t muster up the acceptance to eat anything at the _________ville DQ the entire time I lived there.
A full 15 years later, I’m still wondering how a gun shot could turn one’s skin purple. It’s beyond me. And not something I’d ever feel comfortable asking Mr. ________.
More than the “how” of his appearance, I still wonder why Mr. _______ decided to purchase a Dairy Queen franchise and become the front counter manager. Hasn’t he noticed a high number of patrons suddenly remembering that they’re on diets?
I’ll never know, because I’ll never ask.
Didn’t he ever think “Maybe I should be an accountant?” Or “I wonder if that ‘Igor’ position is still available down at the lab.”
There is an upside.
Okay, here's the one silver lining to this foodservice cloud. Beastly customer service people offer a valuable, yet oft overlooked service to dieters looking to crash their calorie intake. Why just the other day, I received a letter from “Jane” a reader in Plum Chew, Mississippi. Here’s what she had to say.
Dear Brilliant Blogger,
After having a successful day of counting calories, I drove past an ice cream place that will remain nameless. I thought “You’ve done so well today, Janie. Go ahead and have a treat to celebrate.” Now any dieter knows that this is slippery slope thinking at its best, but already, I was beyond the point of reason.
I wheeled my pink Caddie around, hung a u-turn and before I could say double scoop of caramel brownie in a waffle cone, I was ordering a TRIPLE scoop of caramel brownie in a waffle cone. LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!! Well, there were three cars in front of me, so I had to wait my turn. While I was sitting in line, I got that feeling of “self sabotage” as my Weight Watchers buddies call it. I didn’t really NEED that ice cream. If I got it, I’d eat every bit. If I ate every bit, I’d hate myself at Weigh-Ins tomorrow morning, especially when Rhonda Wilhite would be there bragging that she finally fits into her wedding dress from her third marriage and will be able to wear it to her sixth marriage.
Well, not to worry, the Lord works in mysterious ways, even when we’re trying to wreck our waistlines. I’ll have you know I pulled up to that window and the person waiting to hand me my ice cream looked like an ugly stick beaten donkey dipped in too-strong moonshine. Need I say more? Honey, the growling that my belly had been doing turned into scared whimpers. I floored that Caddie and drove directly home. I did not pass "Go." I did not collect $200.
I am grateful because it’s now 9 PM and I’m STILL not hungry. I might never be hungry again.
Sincerely,
Jane *&^%$^
Monday, November 9, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
While we're on the Subject of Nudity
It’s not like I’m obsessed with people being naked. Please don’t think I am. Because I’m not. Okay!!! Friends from my Bible study read my blog and I certainly don’t want them praying for me because they assume I have some unhealthy addiction, other than watching reruns of Wife Swap on Lifetime. It’s just that I’ve had lots of response to the last posting about locker room nudity. People keep coming up and sharing their stories about getting embarrassed while they happened to be bare-assed (Sorry to be crude, but I couldn’t resist.) Some stories I would’ve probably kept to myself.
A friend of mine, I’ll call her Lynda, because I like making up fake names for people, was telling me how she used to walk around naked in front of her roommates in college all the time, completely rattling their confidence about bringing home dates. Actually, Lynda didn’t tell me her story in person. She accidentally posted it, in vivid detail, as her Facebook status update. I’m still laughing.
I once had a college roommate like Lynda. Her name was, uhhhh (thinking)….Samantha. Yeah, that was it. Samantha wasn’t normally a nudist. 95% of the time she was the perfect roommate. It was only when guys would come over that her clothes disappeared. They just seemed to vaporize. Like one minute she’d be sitting there in jeans and a sweater, working on a bulletin board for her education class. The doorbell would ring. It was Ryan from downstairs. Next thing I knew, she was completely in the buff, still cutting out felt hearts and flowers. Two seconds had passed. Samantha hadn’t even had time to throw her hair into a ponytail, much less strip down naked. Her discarded clothes weren’t crumpled up in a ball on the floor either. They were completely gone. I swear. It was like an episode of Star Trek. Samantha could nonchalantly “beam” herself naked. It was disconcerting to say the least, not a trait I look for in a roommate.
I once met a nice guy named Brian, or Bob or Ben. (It’s been a long time). But I remember he was in my Math for Liberal Arts Majors class. We’d planned to go out on a Thursday night. He’d pick me up at my apartment.
Digression
Math For Liberal Arts Majors was an unoffensive title for a class that should’ve been called Math for Numerical Retards. Or Math for People who Should Marry Someone Who will Take Care of Them Financially or Math for People Who Can Write a Beautiful Essay, but Wouldn’t Know a Fraction if it Came up and Cut them in Half. But, the most applicable name of all would’ve been “Math for People who HAVE to Major in Liberal Arts because They Don’t Have a Prayer of Passing College Algebra, which is Required for All Other Majors.” Of course, most of these alternate names were too long to list in the school catalog.
In this class, we strung beads onto pipe cleaners and counted the dots on dice and dominoes. On Fridays, we played “store.” Our instructor would bring out the brightly colored pretend cash register and divvy out a stack of Monopoly money. He would place stuffed animals and plastic food items around the room for students to “purchase.” Every week, I bought the pink poodle and even made correct change a few times. During exams, the teacher highly encouraged use of our fingers and toes to solve problems. Calculators were for upper level classes. I think I pulled a “C” overall.
End of Digression
Okay, back to Brian or Bernie. Thursday rolled around. I was excited. He was nice, witty, charming, had good hair and wore Obsession for Men, the intoxicating venom d’amour that caused me to pant openly.
I cleaned the apartment, rearranged furniture, stressed about what to wear, showered using my “only for special occasions” Venezuelan vanilla bean body scrub. On the living room book shelves, I replaced my Sandra Brown trash novels with Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac and Dorothy Parker titles, none of which I’d read, but would perhaps make me seem intelligent, philosophical and a tad wicked. Samantha was doing homework in her room.
At 7:29, I took a last look in the mirror. Understated angora sweater with just a slight hint of cleavage paired with not too short mini-skirt. My Jennifer Anniston “Rachel from Friends” hairdo was perfect. I was HOT in a somewhat modest feminine ‘90’s sort of way.
The doorbell rang. I strolled to the door to let in my mathematically challenged Romeo. After a practiced greeting that was neither overzealous nor nonchalant, I left him waiting on the living room couch so I could make five minutes worth of finishing touches.
I’ll never know exactly what transpired in the living room while I stood staring in the floor length mirror next to my bed. All I know is that when I walked back out to say “okay, I’m ready,” shock and horror filled my being as I saw a completely nude Samantha. Well, not completely, she was wearing a Walkman, or rather just the headphones, since there was nothing to hook the rest of it to. I could hear that 90’s song we’d all like to forget “Macarena” vibrating through the speakers. Utter disbelief flooded over me when I realized that Samantha was also doing a personal Macarena dance routine to my stunned date, who sat plastered against the couch. His eyes were a mix of panic and adventure. If you’ve never seen the Macarena, click the video below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NZjHKfbbiQ
Without the benefit of a full sound system, Samantha looked like a naked hyperactive mime bobbing and gyrating to her own internal soundtrack. Like a startled cook running for the extinguisher after setting a pot holder on fire, I grabbed my grandmother’s quilt, shook it open and hurled it at her. Then I sort of herded her back into her bedroom, pulling the door shut with an exaggerated slam.
“Party Pooper!” she shouted through the wall.
In spite of eventually having fun that night, hearing a killer band and shooting darts at a bar downtown, I never went out with Bob again. Didn’t return his phone calls. It was just too weird.
Samantha later apologized and blamed her behavior on a new allergy medication she was taking. “Wow,” I thought. “Can you imagine the warning label on that drug?” May cause spontaneous, involuntary strip teasing to trendy, yet tasteless ‘90’s pop music.
I spent less and less time at our apartment, opting for safer places to bring dates, like the library, church and small claims court. When our lease was up, Samantha and I went our separate ways. Someone told me a while back that she was a pole dancer at a club in Atlanta. I guess it’s good that she stayed true to her talents.
A friend of mine, I’ll call her Lynda, because I like making up fake names for people, was telling me how she used to walk around naked in front of her roommates in college all the time, completely rattling their confidence about bringing home dates. Actually, Lynda didn’t tell me her story in person. She accidentally posted it, in vivid detail, as her Facebook status update. I’m still laughing.
I once had a college roommate like Lynda. Her name was, uhhhh (thinking)….Samantha. Yeah, that was it. Samantha wasn’t normally a nudist. 95% of the time she was the perfect roommate. It was only when guys would come over that her clothes disappeared. They just seemed to vaporize. Like one minute she’d be sitting there in jeans and a sweater, working on a bulletin board for her education class. The doorbell would ring. It was Ryan from downstairs. Next thing I knew, she was completely in the buff, still cutting out felt hearts and flowers. Two seconds had passed. Samantha hadn’t even had time to throw her hair into a ponytail, much less strip down naked. Her discarded clothes weren’t crumpled up in a ball on the floor either. They were completely gone. I swear. It was like an episode of Star Trek. Samantha could nonchalantly “beam” herself naked. It was disconcerting to say the least, not a trait I look for in a roommate.
I once met a nice guy named Brian, or Bob or Ben. (It’s been a long time). But I remember he was in my Math for Liberal Arts Majors class. We’d planned to go out on a Thursday night. He’d pick me up at my apartment.
Digression
Math For Liberal Arts Majors was an unoffensive title for a class that should’ve been called Math for Numerical Retards. Or Math for People who Should Marry Someone Who will Take Care of Them Financially or Math for People Who Can Write a Beautiful Essay, but Wouldn’t Know a Fraction if it Came up and Cut them in Half. But, the most applicable name of all would’ve been “Math for People who HAVE to Major in Liberal Arts because They Don’t Have a Prayer of Passing College Algebra, which is Required for All Other Majors.” Of course, most of these alternate names were too long to list in the school catalog.
In this class, we strung beads onto pipe cleaners and counted the dots on dice and dominoes. On Fridays, we played “store.” Our instructor would bring out the brightly colored pretend cash register and divvy out a stack of Monopoly money. He would place stuffed animals and plastic food items around the room for students to “purchase.” Every week, I bought the pink poodle and even made correct change a few times. During exams, the teacher highly encouraged use of our fingers and toes to solve problems. Calculators were for upper level classes. I think I pulled a “C” overall.
End of Digression
Okay, back to Brian or Bernie. Thursday rolled around. I was excited. He was nice, witty, charming, had good hair and wore Obsession for Men, the intoxicating venom d’amour that caused me to pant openly.
I cleaned the apartment, rearranged furniture, stressed about what to wear, showered using my “only for special occasions” Venezuelan vanilla bean body scrub. On the living room book shelves, I replaced my Sandra Brown trash novels with Henry Miller, Jack Kerouac and Dorothy Parker titles, none of which I’d read, but would perhaps make me seem intelligent, philosophical and a tad wicked. Samantha was doing homework in her room.
At 7:29, I took a last look in the mirror. Understated angora sweater with just a slight hint of cleavage paired with not too short mini-skirt. My Jennifer Anniston “Rachel from Friends” hairdo was perfect. I was HOT in a somewhat modest feminine ‘90’s sort of way.
The doorbell rang. I strolled to the door to let in my mathematically challenged Romeo. After a practiced greeting that was neither overzealous nor nonchalant, I left him waiting on the living room couch so I could make five minutes worth of finishing touches.
I’ll never know exactly what transpired in the living room while I stood staring in the floor length mirror next to my bed. All I know is that when I walked back out to say “okay, I’m ready,” shock and horror filled my being as I saw a completely nude Samantha. Well, not completely, she was wearing a Walkman, or rather just the headphones, since there was nothing to hook the rest of it to. I could hear that 90’s song we’d all like to forget “Macarena” vibrating through the speakers. Utter disbelief flooded over me when I realized that Samantha was also doing a personal Macarena dance routine to my stunned date, who sat plastered against the couch. His eyes were a mix of panic and adventure. If you’ve never seen the Macarena, click the video below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NZjHKfbbiQ
Without the benefit of a full sound system, Samantha looked like a naked hyperactive mime bobbing and gyrating to her own internal soundtrack. Like a startled cook running for the extinguisher after setting a pot holder on fire, I grabbed my grandmother’s quilt, shook it open and hurled it at her. Then I sort of herded her back into her bedroom, pulling the door shut with an exaggerated slam.
“Party Pooper!” she shouted through the wall.
In spite of eventually having fun that night, hearing a killer band and shooting darts at a bar downtown, I never went out with Bob again. Didn’t return his phone calls. It was just too weird.
Samantha later apologized and blamed her behavior on a new allergy medication she was taking. “Wow,” I thought. “Can you imagine the warning label on that drug?” May cause spontaneous, involuntary strip teasing to trendy, yet tasteless ‘90’s pop music.
I spent less and less time at our apartment, opting for safer places to bring dates, like the library, church and small claims court. When our lease was up, Samantha and I went our separate ways. Someone told me a while back that she was a pole dancer at a club in Atlanta. I guess it’s good that she stayed true to her talents.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Women's Locker Room Decorum
All names in this blog entry have been changed to protect the unclothed… and their inadvertent victims.
My friend Jessica just called, jarring me out of my writer’s block, to tell me that she’d once again been optically assaulted in the gym locker room by Carlie Crenshaw’s naked breasts. I knew exactly what Jessica had experienced because it happened to me last week… and the week before. Carlie is one of those “overly proud of her body” age 40-something gym goers who would much rather spend an hour prancing around the locker room stark naked, than actually doing any kind of exercise. It’s as if she’s trying out for the part of a middle-aged Crystal on Girls Next Door and we, her not so body-confident audience members, should be honored to admire her firm, cellulite free, silicone free body. I wouldn’t be surprised if she soon has a dancing pole installed next to the towel racks. It’s pretty unnerving trying to lace my tennis shoes, and have Carlie asking me questions like a reporter for Nude TV News (it actually exists). “Angela, are you playing Mah Jong at the Heart Association benefit this coming Tuesday? Angela, whose football team did Andrew get on? Angela, have you tried the new Zumba class yet?” “Carlie, I’ll answer you when you get dressed. I just can’t carry on everyday conversations with naked people. Call it a character flaw of mine.” It’s like I can’t hear what she’s saying because her nudity shouts louder than any words coming from her mouth. “I’m naked! I’m naked! Look at me! NAKED!”
“For God sake, woman, haven’t you ever heard of a bathrobe?”
I’m sure a nudist or someone less puritanical would get a kick out of mine and Jessica’s horror of casual public nakedness. It’s not just us, though. Most of the women at our gym are very modest, taking advantage of private changing stalls, or trying to hold up a towel with one hand while negotiating undergarments with the other. During this awkward procedure, the rest of us are doing our own modesty dances, trying to act as natural as possible. Conversation is kept to a minimum. The only time I’d purposely speak is to alert someone that she has just caught fire or about to be bitten by a venomous snake (neither of which has ever happened, but I wouldn’t hesitate to speak up if it did) Normally, I just stare at the floor or count electrical outlets. There are nine, by the way. I think that’s probably how it is in most Middle Georgia women’s locker rooms, not that I’m doing research or installing hidden cameras. Women around here tend to be more modest than those in say….California.
California…Another Locker Room Altogether
I spent ten years living in the San Francisco Bay Area, where women’s locker rooms are live dioramas of National Geographic tribal photo shoots and new age nudity rallies. The Pleasant Hill YMCA, where I worked out, was the chosen fitness facility of an entire population of retired porn stars who still enjoyed letting it all hang out, or down, or both. There were rules (probably buried in the yearly contract) stipulating that every person, upon entering the locker room, must shed every article of clothing and spend the next two hours leisurely visiting with every other naked person in there. Everyone sat around in their birthday suits trading work-out tips, sipping wheat grass smoothies, applying make-up, sometimes even playing an impromptu game of charades.
The upside to it all was that I never had to wait for a changing stall, since they weren’t used, except by me and Anna Leigh, the Y’s other token Southerner. Too bad she was eventually frightened away by a 400 pound, nearsighted swimmer named Janice, who one day entered the locker room, peeled off her Coleman tent swimsuit and accidentally sat down right on top of Anna Leigh, leaving a titanic set of posterior prints across the front of her Junior League t-shirt. The dripping and somewhat flatter Anna Leigh fled from the Y screaming, never to be seen (clothed or naked) again.
While 99% of the time, I averted my eyes from anyone wearing less than a choir robe at the Y, nonetheless I was fascinated with a seven-inch tattoo of a buffalo (a self-portrait of sorts) that Janice had across her colossal midsection. Whenever Janice walked around, the buffalo, jarred by jiggling fat, seemed to spring into action, as if doing a slow motion gallop across the rolling terrain of Janice-land (which is probably a lot like Montana). It was like one of those moving cartoon drawings, where a figure is sketched slightly differently on each page of a 100 sheet notebook. If you flip through the pages really fast, it looks like the figure is running. That’s what Janice’s buffalo looked like. It fascinated me! But I digress.
As a child, I was taught that physical modesty is a virtue up there with making good cornbread and writing thank you notes. My mother and sister even showered fully dressed. Until age six, I’d never seen a grown woman naked and assumed that they looked like my Barbie dolls… all hard and plastic with golden skin color. Come to think of it, that’s pretty appropriate considering today’s woman’s penchant for plastic surgery, hair removal and tanning products.
It wasn’t until I ran across my dad’s Playboy collection that I learned the truth. Just as I was pulling out the centerfold, with jaw agape at Miss August’s breasts which were the size of beauty salon hair dryer hoods, my mom stormed in. I nearly ripped the magazine apart trying to hide the model’s bodily wares from her prudish eyes.
From the look on her face, I could tell she was shocked that I’d discovered these publications of skin sin in the master bedroom closet, nestled next to my dad’s shoe shining kit. “Put that trash down, young lady! “Sorry, Mom,” I said, a precocious smart aleck, even then. “I was just looking for a copy of Highlights. But unless they have a radically new format and target audience, this probably isn’t it.”
My first experience in a real gym locker room came in fifth grade, the beginning of a pathetic P.E. career for this uncoordinated, underdeveloped, asthmatic middle schooler. On the first day of school, our gym teacher, an eight foot tall, paddle wielding, silver-haired drill sergeant pointed to the girls’ locker room with a two foot index finger and a shrill coach’s whistle blow that accompanied his every gesture.
Each morning when second period rolled around, my classmates and I headed down narrow concrete steps into a long, dank, freezing dungeon with one light bulb dangling over a crude bench built in the 1400’s. Since the 15 watt bulb didn’t put out much in the way of illumination, the far end of the room was pitch black. A perpetual dripping and a noise like a rhinoceros having digestive problems came from the dark end. I wondered if some bestial, horned creature was chained up just beyond our visibility, like the three-headed dog in Harry Potter.
We all learned to dress out silently, in under four seconds in the dim cave that more closely resembled a Medieval holding cell than Bally Total Fitness.
As high school rolled around, I tried to avoid the locker room as much as possible. Cruel, big bosomed girls enjoyed taunting their less developed, lower pecking order classmates by forcing them outside just as they were in mid-clothes change, often wearing only their undies. This was especially humiliating since the outside door locked automatically and was right next to the weight room. It never happened to me because I had the foresight to ask for an internship with the lunchroom ladies during P.E. time. While other sad “A-minus” cupped girls were being brutalized, I was learning the delicate culinary arts of tater-tottery and chicken strip battering. It’s a decision that has served me well in so many areas of life.
Perhaps next time Carlie begins her post workout strip tease, Jessica and I should shove her out into the weight area. Dang it! Wouldn’t work! Men would be dropping their bars and bells all over the place and she’d just get more motivation for becoming a burlesque dancer. I think for now, I’ll just continue to count electrical outlets. Maybe I’ve missed one somewhere.
My friend Jessica just called, jarring me out of my writer’s block, to tell me that she’d once again been optically assaulted in the gym locker room by Carlie Crenshaw’s naked breasts. I knew exactly what Jessica had experienced because it happened to me last week… and the week before. Carlie is one of those “overly proud of her body” age 40-something gym goers who would much rather spend an hour prancing around the locker room stark naked, than actually doing any kind of exercise. It’s as if she’s trying out for the part of a middle-aged Crystal on Girls Next Door and we, her not so body-confident audience members, should be honored to admire her firm, cellulite free, silicone free body. I wouldn’t be surprised if she soon has a dancing pole installed next to the towel racks. It’s pretty unnerving trying to lace my tennis shoes, and have Carlie asking me questions like a reporter for Nude TV News (it actually exists). “Angela, are you playing Mah Jong at the Heart Association benefit this coming Tuesday? Angela, whose football team did Andrew get on? Angela, have you tried the new Zumba class yet?” “Carlie, I’ll answer you when you get dressed. I just can’t carry on everyday conversations with naked people. Call it a character flaw of mine.” It’s like I can’t hear what she’s saying because her nudity shouts louder than any words coming from her mouth. “I’m naked! I’m naked! Look at me! NAKED!”
“For God sake, woman, haven’t you ever heard of a bathrobe?”
I’m sure a nudist or someone less puritanical would get a kick out of mine and Jessica’s horror of casual public nakedness. It’s not just us, though. Most of the women at our gym are very modest, taking advantage of private changing stalls, or trying to hold up a towel with one hand while negotiating undergarments with the other. During this awkward procedure, the rest of us are doing our own modesty dances, trying to act as natural as possible. Conversation is kept to a minimum. The only time I’d purposely speak is to alert someone that she has just caught fire or about to be bitten by a venomous snake (neither of which has ever happened, but I wouldn’t hesitate to speak up if it did) Normally, I just stare at the floor or count electrical outlets. There are nine, by the way. I think that’s probably how it is in most Middle Georgia women’s locker rooms, not that I’m doing research or installing hidden cameras. Women around here tend to be more modest than those in say….California.
California…Another Locker Room Altogether
I spent ten years living in the San Francisco Bay Area, where women’s locker rooms are live dioramas of National Geographic tribal photo shoots and new age nudity rallies. The Pleasant Hill YMCA, where I worked out, was the chosen fitness facility of an entire population of retired porn stars who still enjoyed letting it all hang out, or down, or both. There were rules (probably buried in the yearly contract) stipulating that every person, upon entering the locker room, must shed every article of clothing and spend the next two hours leisurely visiting with every other naked person in there. Everyone sat around in their birthday suits trading work-out tips, sipping wheat grass smoothies, applying make-up, sometimes even playing an impromptu game of charades.
The upside to it all was that I never had to wait for a changing stall, since they weren’t used, except by me and Anna Leigh, the Y’s other token Southerner. Too bad she was eventually frightened away by a 400 pound, nearsighted swimmer named Janice, who one day entered the locker room, peeled off her Coleman tent swimsuit and accidentally sat down right on top of Anna Leigh, leaving a titanic set of posterior prints across the front of her Junior League t-shirt. The dripping and somewhat flatter Anna Leigh fled from the Y screaming, never to be seen (clothed or naked) again.
While 99% of the time, I averted my eyes from anyone wearing less than a choir robe at the Y, nonetheless I was fascinated with a seven-inch tattoo of a buffalo (a self-portrait of sorts) that Janice had across her colossal midsection. Whenever Janice walked around, the buffalo, jarred by jiggling fat, seemed to spring into action, as if doing a slow motion gallop across the rolling terrain of Janice-land (which is probably a lot like Montana). It was like one of those moving cartoon drawings, where a figure is sketched slightly differently on each page of a 100 sheet notebook. If you flip through the pages really fast, it looks like the figure is running. That’s what Janice’s buffalo looked like. It fascinated me! But I digress.
As a child, I was taught that physical modesty is a virtue up there with making good cornbread and writing thank you notes. My mother and sister even showered fully dressed. Until age six, I’d never seen a grown woman naked and assumed that they looked like my Barbie dolls… all hard and plastic with golden skin color. Come to think of it, that’s pretty appropriate considering today’s woman’s penchant for plastic surgery, hair removal and tanning products.
It wasn’t until I ran across my dad’s Playboy collection that I learned the truth. Just as I was pulling out the centerfold, with jaw agape at Miss August’s breasts which were the size of beauty salon hair dryer hoods, my mom stormed in. I nearly ripped the magazine apart trying to hide the model’s bodily wares from her prudish eyes.
From the look on her face, I could tell she was shocked that I’d discovered these publications of skin sin in the master bedroom closet, nestled next to my dad’s shoe shining kit. “Put that trash down, young lady! “Sorry, Mom,” I said, a precocious smart aleck, even then. “I was just looking for a copy of Highlights. But unless they have a radically new format and target audience, this probably isn’t it.”
My first experience in a real gym locker room came in fifth grade, the beginning of a pathetic P.E. career for this uncoordinated, underdeveloped, asthmatic middle schooler. On the first day of school, our gym teacher, an eight foot tall, paddle wielding, silver-haired drill sergeant pointed to the girls’ locker room with a two foot index finger and a shrill coach’s whistle blow that accompanied his every gesture.
Each morning when second period rolled around, my classmates and I headed down narrow concrete steps into a long, dank, freezing dungeon with one light bulb dangling over a crude bench built in the 1400’s. Since the 15 watt bulb didn’t put out much in the way of illumination, the far end of the room was pitch black. A perpetual dripping and a noise like a rhinoceros having digestive problems came from the dark end. I wondered if some bestial, horned creature was chained up just beyond our visibility, like the three-headed dog in Harry Potter.
We all learned to dress out silently, in under four seconds in the dim cave that more closely resembled a Medieval holding cell than Bally Total Fitness.
As high school rolled around, I tried to avoid the locker room as much as possible. Cruel, big bosomed girls enjoyed taunting their less developed, lower pecking order classmates by forcing them outside just as they were in mid-clothes change, often wearing only their undies. This was especially humiliating since the outside door locked automatically and was right next to the weight room. It never happened to me because I had the foresight to ask for an internship with the lunchroom ladies during P.E. time. While other sad “A-minus” cupped girls were being brutalized, I was learning the delicate culinary arts of tater-tottery and chicken strip battering. It’s a decision that has served me well in so many areas of life.
Perhaps next time Carlie begins her post workout strip tease, Jessica and I should shove her out into the weight area. Dang it! Wouldn’t work! Men would be dropping their bars and bells all over the place and she’d just get more motivation for becoming a burlesque dancer. I think for now, I’ll just continue to count electrical outlets. Maybe I’ve missed one somewhere.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Ironies and Exercise
Ironic: I live in a house with two 18-step staircases that I avoid at all costs, only to spend thirty minutes on the Stairmaster at the gym four times a week. I wonder if Alanis Morissette would agree. At the Fairview Park Fitness Center, where dozens of workout machines are lined up like minutemen waiting to spring into action, I choose the Stairmaster. Like a veteran cowboy swaggering up to his trusted steed, I mount the machine, give her a greeting, and crank her up to level seven. It’s the highest I can go without my heart punching its way out of my chest cavity and bouncing across the floor. Yet it feels good to sweat. Feels even better to see the increasing numbers flying across the calorie counter screen, like mile marker signs flying past me on the Autobahn (like I’ve ever been on the Autobahn, and I’m pretty sure they don’t have mile markers, maybe kilometers).
For that half-hour, I am power. I am Lance Armstrong winning the Tour de France, Lindsay Davenport grunting out an ace, Jerry Rice running a touchdown. As the final second passes on the machine’s timer and the steps fall back into their down position, I throw my fists into the air, victoriously posing for an imaginary Sports Illustrated photographer. I am Angela Weight, Stair Stepper Conqueror. If stair-stepping were an Olympic event, I’d be a gold medalist. Come to think of it, why isn’t it? I think I’ll write a letter to whoever’s in charge, or better yet, call Tell It.
At home, my staircases are plushly carpeted and have no resistance settings to challenge my muscles. They offer the accommodations of support railings and smiling family photos on the walls. Yet the simple task of taking a basket of laundry upstairs, something that takes all of four seconds, equals, in my mind, an expedition to the summit of Mount Everest. All throughout the day, I set items that need put away on steps three, four and five, like a gondola slowly loading enough passengers to warrant the treacherous climb up to Andrew and Jack’s bedrooms. I could go weeks without seeing the second floor. The steps are just too steep, my muscles just too weak, unless it’s a stair master.
Lots of my friends forego the gym's indoor machines altogether and do something that I find vastly curious. They run. They run and run and run, making even Jesse Owens and Forrest Gump seem like slaggards. Now I know there’s not a lot to do here in Dublin, GA and sometimes it’s good to get back to basic rudimentary activities like starting fires with sticks and hunting buffalo with homemade spears, but I’ve never understood the draw to running. My friends run marathons. I get tired just driving 26.2 miles. Going that distance on foot would be an extra special kind of Hell. In fact, the only way I could ever endure it is to be chased by a large, hungry animal, such as a lioness hunting for her cubs’ next meal. There’s something about not wanting to be served as dinner that motivates us all to do things we wouldn’t normally.
I’m sure there are others who feel the same way, who need the added incentive of an angry carnivore chomping at their heels, to have a successful run. Gyms across the country should consider stocking wild predators for runners to rent as needed. Those looking to for a good not-too-taxing jog could rent out an elderly nearsighted rhinoceros, while marathoners seeking to carve minutes off their overall time might be brave enough to don a gazelle costume and rent the teenage male cheetah for an hour.
Another reason I don’t run - running off. It's a well-known phenomenon (to everyone except me, until recently) that long-distance runners can experience unavoidable, uncontrollable bowel movements at the most unfortunate times, like between the start and finish lines. I tend to shy away from any form of exercise that could lead to the public display of bodily functions better performed in a toilet stall with a copy of The New Yorker.
A few months ago, my mom volunteered to work the finish line at the Wrightsville annual 5K. She was shocked to notice a woman in white spandex leggings, the first to cross the finish. Just below the number posted on her back was what appeared to be a melted, smeared king-sized Hershey bar on her backside. (This could’ve led to the woman's impressive speed.) At some point during the race, that bran muffin she had eaten for breakfast began to work its magic and she didn’t have the foresight to wear a Depends or bring along a roll of Charmin. When you get that urge to go big potty, the last place you want to be is in the middle of a human stampede with nary a porta-potty in sight. I (and my colon) cringe at the thought. And the last thing you want to be wearing is tight white spandex running shorts. Perhaps God chose that day to punish the woman for some dastardly deed from her distant past.
I recounted the story to my husband James, a former marathon runner and current couch potato. His response startled me. “Honey, that happens a lot in races. You’ll see runners squatting by the road, in the bushes, next to vehicles. It’s pretty common. People don’t think much of it.” According to James, all the pavement pounding that a runner does shakes things up internally and can set the digestive system into full sprint. Call me shallow and introverted, but since being potty trained at age two, I’ve always kept bathroom activities to myself and plan to keep it that way.
I was still skeptical and incredulous at James’ explanation, so I did a Google search of running while running. For those of you checking out this phenomenon for yourself, the actual name is “Runner’s Trots.” Sounds almost novel, definitely better than “Marathon Shits” or “Sprinter’s Splatters.” The first photo result was of a former Boston Marathon winner crossing the finish line. Apparently she'd left a brown trail from about mile 17. And from the photo, I could tell that she'd eaten corn for dinner the previous night. I imagine the announcer saying “Congratulations, Ms. Uta Pippig. You’ve just won the Boston Marathon! Here’s your trophy and a box of wet wipes. Now tell me…. was winning the BM worth having a public BM?”
Life's biggest moment... and you spend it covered in feces for all the world to see. Now THAT’s ironic. Even Alanis Morrisette would agree.
For now, I'll stick to the stairmaster with a restroom close by.
For that half-hour, I am power. I am Lance Armstrong winning the Tour de France, Lindsay Davenport grunting out an ace, Jerry Rice running a touchdown. As the final second passes on the machine’s timer and the steps fall back into their down position, I throw my fists into the air, victoriously posing for an imaginary Sports Illustrated photographer. I am Angela Weight, Stair Stepper Conqueror. If stair-stepping were an Olympic event, I’d be a gold medalist. Come to think of it, why isn’t it? I think I’ll write a letter to whoever’s in charge, or better yet, call Tell It.
At home, my staircases are plushly carpeted and have no resistance settings to challenge my muscles. They offer the accommodations of support railings and smiling family photos on the walls. Yet the simple task of taking a basket of laundry upstairs, something that takes all of four seconds, equals, in my mind, an expedition to the summit of Mount Everest. All throughout the day, I set items that need put away on steps three, four and five, like a gondola slowly loading enough passengers to warrant the treacherous climb up to Andrew and Jack’s bedrooms. I could go weeks without seeing the second floor. The steps are just too steep, my muscles just too weak, unless it’s a stair master.
Lots of my friends forego the gym's indoor machines altogether and do something that I find vastly curious. They run. They run and run and run, making even Jesse Owens and Forrest Gump seem like slaggards. Now I know there’s not a lot to do here in Dublin, GA and sometimes it’s good to get back to basic rudimentary activities like starting fires with sticks and hunting buffalo with homemade spears, but I’ve never understood the draw to running. My friends run marathons. I get tired just driving 26.2 miles. Going that distance on foot would be an extra special kind of Hell. In fact, the only way I could ever endure it is to be chased by a large, hungry animal, such as a lioness hunting for her cubs’ next meal. There’s something about not wanting to be served as dinner that motivates us all to do things we wouldn’t normally.
I’m sure there are others who feel the same way, who need the added incentive of an angry carnivore chomping at their heels, to have a successful run. Gyms across the country should consider stocking wild predators for runners to rent as needed. Those looking to for a good not-too-taxing jog could rent out an elderly nearsighted rhinoceros, while marathoners seeking to carve minutes off their overall time might be brave enough to don a gazelle costume and rent the teenage male cheetah for an hour.
Another reason I don’t run - running off. It's a well-known phenomenon (to everyone except me, until recently) that long-distance runners can experience unavoidable, uncontrollable bowel movements at the most unfortunate times, like between the start and finish lines. I tend to shy away from any form of exercise that could lead to the public display of bodily functions better performed in a toilet stall with a copy of The New Yorker.
A few months ago, my mom volunteered to work the finish line at the Wrightsville annual 5K. She was shocked to notice a woman in white spandex leggings, the first to cross the finish. Just below the number posted on her back was what appeared to be a melted, smeared king-sized Hershey bar on her backside. (This could’ve led to the woman's impressive speed.) At some point during the race, that bran muffin she had eaten for breakfast began to work its magic and she didn’t have the foresight to wear a Depends or bring along a roll of Charmin. When you get that urge to go big potty, the last place you want to be is in the middle of a human stampede with nary a porta-potty in sight. I (and my colon) cringe at the thought. And the last thing you want to be wearing is tight white spandex running shorts. Perhaps God chose that day to punish the woman for some dastardly deed from her distant past.
I recounted the story to my husband James, a former marathon runner and current couch potato. His response startled me. “Honey, that happens a lot in races. You’ll see runners squatting by the road, in the bushes, next to vehicles. It’s pretty common. People don’t think much of it.” According to James, all the pavement pounding that a runner does shakes things up internally and can set the digestive system into full sprint. Call me shallow and introverted, but since being potty trained at age two, I’ve always kept bathroom activities to myself and plan to keep it that way.
I was still skeptical and incredulous at James’ explanation, so I did a Google search of running while running. For those of you checking out this phenomenon for yourself, the actual name is “Runner’s Trots.” Sounds almost novel, definitely better than “Marathon Shits” or “Sprinter’s Splatters.” The first photo result was of a former Boston Marathon winner crossing the finish line. Apparently she'd left a brown trail from about mile 17. And from the photo, I could tell that she'd eaten corn for dinner the previous night. I imagine the announcer saying “Congratulations, Ms. Uta Pippig. You’ve just won the Boston Marathon! Here’s your trophy and a box of wet wipes. Now tell me…. was winning the BM worth having a public BM?”
Life's biggest moment... and you spend it covered in feces for all the world to see. Now THAT’s ironic. Even Alanis Morrisette would agree.
For now, I'll stick to the stairmaster with a restroom close by.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Woodpeckers...the Original Head Bangers
I’m sitting here watching a woodpecker hard at work on a pine tree in the front yard. I can actually see him now because I cleaned the windows this morning. Before the Windex job, my windows were sort of like looking through a Jackson Pollack painting without my contacts in or watching HDTV channel 191…all static all the time. I have to admit, though, that high definition static is more impressive than regular static. Unless it’s the kind of static that causes balloons to stick to your hair without using mousse or rubber cement. Now THAT’S impressive…and amusing for hours on end.
After taking two whole hours off my life with newspaper and a Windex bottle, I now understand why housekeeping services draw the line at cleaning windows. It’s hard work. However, someone please tell me what they have against dusting ceiling fan blades, a chore that takes all of 90 seconds, and a stepladder unless you have Wilt Chamberlain cleaning your house, which would be highly improbable since he died about eight years ago and before death was way too busy creating a generation of towering offspring numerous enough to populate Uzbekistan. That fact according to my husband, a repository of information on sports legend obituaries and offspring and countries that need more people.
I’ve never thought much about woodpeckers before. They’ve always just sort of been there, like dirt and trees and eye boogers and Dick Clark. But if you take the time to ponder, the woodpecker is quite a fascinating specimen of the bird kingdom…and quite possibly the dumbest and hard headedest too. They spend their entire days peck peck pecking at trees, except for two 15 minute breaks and an hour for lunch, as mandated by avian labor unions. Why exactly do they do this? What’s the point? Is there a treat at the core of the tree trunk? A nice juicy worm waiting to be digested, sort of like the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop? If that’s the case, they could save a lot of time and beak wear and tear by just pulling worms up out of the ground like the rest of the bird population that was endowed with considerably more common sense than the woodpecker, who must be more bird brained than our average feathered friends.
When thinking about woodpeckers, a flood of questions come up; do they suffer more brain injuries than the average bird? After a long workday, do they sit in their nests in LaZ Bird recliners with ice packs on their beaks? Are their health insurance rates higher than those of birds with less strenuous jobs? If so, hopefully Obamacare will straighten that out when our fearless leader begins to tax things like sunshine and proper kidney function so everyone will have cheap healthcare and free Spongebob tattoo bandaids.
I wonder if woodpeckers have wood preferences. Do some opt for oak, while others are strictly elm birds? Do they have conversations that go something like this?
“Hey Charlie, I see you’re still pecking away at that old fir tree. Why don’t ya try some maple? You’ll never waste time on that soft wood again.
“Thanks Fred, but the doctor’s got me on a straight pine diet. After the hickory incident of ‘06, I was out on disability for three months. Plus, I read in last month’s issue of Bird’s Health that there’s a link between maple wood and beak rot. At my age, I’m not takin’ any chances.
Do woodpeckers communicate messages through their constant pecking like an avian form of Morse code? I picture two teenage girl birds admiring a strapping young lad hard at work jackhammering an oak tree, his neck muscles rippling in the sunshine. Peck…..Peck Peck Peck…….Peck….Peck Peck. “OMG, Kaitlyn, he says ‘meet me tonight at the bird bath.”
“Geez, look at the sun. It’s almost 5:30 and I still have to shower and curl my feathers.”
With Andrew and Jack both in school now, I have four whole hours to myself in the mornings, which translates to about seven minutes of productivity because I spend too much time reading ads on Craigslist (the clean ones) and observing bird behavior. Last Wednesday when I returned home after dropping Jack off at preschool, I noticed an owl just hooting away from my neighbor’s willow tree. (Now, I know you’re starting to think that I’m one of those weird bird watching types with binoculars and a little birding notebook in my fanny pack. Let’s clear that up right now. I HATE fanny packs and would never consider owning one, unless it was a gift from my sister, which I would re-gift to my stepdaughter, who would immediately burn it.)
I found the owl incident strange because it was 9:15 in the morning, well past the bedtime of a normal nocturnal predator. “Does he have insomnia?” I wondered. “Do birds get insomnia? Did his wife eventually come out of their tree trunk house and say ‘Harold, do you see what time it is? Come to bed this INSTANT!’ Maybe Harold was pulling an extra shift for his hawk friend who took a vacation day. Maybe Harold was simply squawking at a woodpecker to shut the Hell up so he could get some shuteye before sundown. Maybe Harold was too upset to sleep after reading another spotted owl obituary. (this suggestion from my husband, who is also a repository on spotted owl obituaries. I really love using the word repository. It sounds like suppository, but is rarely shoved with force up one’s anal repository. If ya know what I mean.)
I’ll write more later. For now, I’m too enthralled in watching my new woodpecker friend. And then onto Craigslist. Then it’ll be time to pick up Jack from preschool. Whew, what a day. I’m gonna need a nap soon.
After taking two whole hours off my life with newspaper and a Windex bottle, I now understand why housekeeping services draw the line at cleaning windows. It’s hard work. However, someone please tell me what they have against dusting ceiling fan blades, a chore that takes all of 90 seconds, and a stepladder unless you have Wilt Chamberlain cleaning your house, which would be highly improbable since he died about eight years ago and before death was way too busy creating a generation of towering offspring numerous enough to populate Uzbekistan. That fact according to my husband, a repository of information on sports legend obituaries and offspring and countries that need more people.
I’ve never thought much about woodpeckers before. They’ve always just sort of been there, like dirt and trees and eye boogers and Dick Clark. But if you take the time to ponder, the woodpecker is quite a fascinating specimen of the bird kingdom…and quite possibly the dumbest and hard headedest too. They spend their entire days peck peck pecking at trees, except for two 15 minute breaks and an hour for lunch, as mandated by avian labor unions. Why exactly do they do this? What’s the point? Is there a treat at the core of the tree trunk? A nice juicy worm waiting to be digested, sort of like the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop? If that’s the case, they could save a lot of time and beak wear and tear by just pulling worms up out of the ground like the rest of the bird population that was endowed with considerably more common sense than the woodpecker, who must be more bird brained than our average feathered friends.
When thinking about woodpeckers, a flood of questions come up; do they suffer more brain injuries than the average bird? After a long workday, do they sit in their nests in LaZ Bird recliners with ice packs on their beaks? Are their health insurance rates higher than those of birds with less strenuous jobs? If so, hopefully Obamacare will straighten that out when our fearless leader begins to tax things like sunshine and proper kidney function so everyone will have cheap healthcare and free Spongebob tattoo bandaids.
I wonder if woodpeckers have wood preferences. Do some opt for oak, while others are strictly elm birds? Do they have conversations that go something like this?
“Hey Charlie, I see you’re still pecking away at that old fir tree. Why don’t ya try some maple? You’ll never waste time on that soft wood again.
“Thanks Fred, but the doctor’s got me on a straight pine diet. After the hickory incident of ‘06, I was out on disability for three months. Plus, I read in last month’s issue of Bird’s Health that there’s a link between maple wood and beak rot. At my age, I’m not takin’ any chances.
Do woodpeckers communicate messages through their constant pecking like an avian form of Morse code? I picture two teenage girl birds admiring a strapping young lad hard at work jackhammering an oak tree, his neck muscles rippling in the sunshine. Peck…..Peck Peck Peck…….Peck….Peck Peck. “OMG, Kaitlyn, he says ‘meet me tonight at the bird bath.”
“Geez, look at the sun. It’s almost 5:30 and I still have to shower and curl my feathers.”
With Andrew and Jack both in school now, I have four whole hours to myself in the mornings, which translates to about seven minutes of productivity because I spend too much time reading ads on Craigslist (the clean ones) and observing bird behavior. Last Wednesday when I returned home after dropping Jack off at preschool, I noticed an owl just hooting away from my neighbor’s willow tree. (Now, I know you’re starting to think that I’m one of those weird bird watching types with binoculars and a little birding notebook in my fanny pack. Let’s clear that up right now. I HATE fanny packs and would never consider owning one, unless it was a gift from my sister, which I would re-gift to my stepdaughter, who would immediately burn it.)
I found the owl incident strange because it was 9:15 in the morning, well past the bedtime of a normal nocturnal predator. “Does he have insomnia?” I wondered. “Do birds get insomnia? Did his wife eventually come out of their tree trunk house and say ‘Harold, do you see what time it is? Come to bed this INSTANT!’ Maybe Harold was pulling an extra shift for his hawk friend who took a vacation day. Maybe Harold was simply squawking at a woodpecker to shut the Hell up so he could get some shuteye before sundown. Maybe Harold was too upset to sleep after reading another spotted owl obituary. (this suggestion from my husband, who is also a repository on spotted owl obituaries. I really love using the word repository. It sounds like suppository, but is rarely shoved with force up one’s anal repository. If ya know what I mean.)
I’ll write more later. For now, I’m too enthralled in watching my new woodpecker friend. And then onto Craigslist. Then it’ll be time to pick up Jack from preschool. Whew, what a day. I’m gonna need a nap soon.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
95 Year Old Man in Hooters Shorts.....The question is WHY???
The other day, as I walked into the local CVS Pharmacy, I was floored by a 95-ish year old man dressed in size small, orange satin/spandex, booty shorts emblazoned with a shiny University of Illinois logo across the derriere. I stared; I gawked; I choked on my gum in utter amazement at this cheerleader attire clad relic as he trudged toward the counter, hopefully in search of skin firming cream, if he was going to wear those shorts very often.
“What,” I wondered, “would possess this respectable senior to choose such revealing britches” (as Southerners call them). His accompanying t-shirt and jacket were perfectly acceptable. I say “acceptable” as if I, myself, have written the clothing etiquette guide for the entire population of U.S. senior citizens, sponsored by AARP, of course. Okay, there probably isn’t such a guide, but if there were, I don’t think ultra-low rise, cheeky spandex shorts would be on the list for menswear.
As I write this I think, “Maybe I’m too conservative; he has a right to wear whatever he pleases and not be judged for it. He probably fought for that right in both world wars and is now exercising it…albeit badly. Maybe I’ve lived in rural Georgia just a tad too long now and it’s starting to show in my prudishness. If this had taken place in San Francisco’s Castro District, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. I’d probably have wondered why the shorts weren’t shorter, and still had a crotch in them. I’ve never actually hung out in the Castro, but I’m told that there, lots of things do hang out. And hang low, and wobble to and fro. And maybe are tied in knots and bows too… those who have the dexterity. But I digress.
As I continued to observe the gentleman who seemed oblivious to anything out of the ordinary, I was careful not to stare too closely for fear of seeing details I’d regret for the rest of my life. My mind began running through different scenarios of why Mr. U of Illinois chose to wear that selected garment, on that selected day, which wasn’t near Halloween or any recognized Gay Pride Festival (not that we have those in Dublin, GA, but I hear they throw one humdinger in the Castro.) I also gained the valuable insight that women aren’t the only ones who have to deal with cellulite.
Below are three completely fictitious, yet potential reasons that Mr. Honeycutt (as I named him) was wearing spandex cheek holders, rather than trousers.
To impress a woman (very bad idea, he’s obviously been out of the market too long) I can picture him shimmying into those Hooter girl shorts, glancing backward in his floor length mirror, doing just enough of a pelvic shake to rattle his artificial hip and proudly declaring, “Damn, Burton Chester Honeycutt, you still have it. Just wait’ll Florence and Ethel down at the Bingo parlor get a gander of this mature stallion.” Maybe he was trying to get Florence to notice him. After all, she was the one sending off powerful flirtations by allowing just enough cleavage to peak out between the bottom of her blouse and the elastic waist of her pedal pushers. She, with her Richard Simmons obsession, was the one who gave Chester the idea for purchasing the shorts. He was disappointed not to be able to find a candy striped pair like the workout queen sported in his Sweatin’ to the Oldies video series, but the orange pair was striking enough to grab Florence’s attention.
The blind laundress: Or maybe there’s no Florence or floor length mirror or anything like that. Maybe Chester lives with his daughter Linda and her family. Linda is blind and for all practical purposes shouldn’t be doing the laundry. She’s always putting the wrong clothing items in the wrong places, like the freezer and the china cabinet. Linda accidentally put her daughter Sheila’s shorts in Grandpa’s drawer. Rather than chalking it up to her blindness, Chester thought that Linda was sending him a covert compliment that she thought he had the legs and backside of a cheerleader. After all, he had been a runner years earlier and the muscle tone was still there if you looked closely, past the spider web of veins.
(Note: for this scenario to be halfway plausible, as if that’s possible, Linda would have nerve damage in her hands preventing her from feeling items of clothing in addition to her way around the house. Oh well, stranger things have happened.)
The fire that destroyed everything (long version):
Chester Honeycutt was once a dashing, cavalier man of refinement who wore Brooks Brothers and Neiman Marcus every day of the week. However, he had one peculiarity that would eventually be his downfall. He didn’t trust banks as far as he could throw them. And, with his tendonitis, Chester couldn’t even throw a baseball, much less a large building with a vault inside. Therefore, he kept his amassed fortune in a king-sized Sealy Posturepedic pillow-top mattress rather than a sensible checking account. Bad idea, Chester. Everyone knows that that particular mattress, the 1989 model, had spontaneous flammability issues.
And sure enough, late one Sunday night, as Chester was finishing up a Matlock/Murder She Wrote marathon, the unthinkable happened. With the entire top floor engulfed in flames, he had no choice but to run out the front door abandoning his fortune and wardrobe. The fire was a total loss. Neither a single dollar bill, nor stitch of clothing, except the wool bathrobe Chester wore, had survived the tragedy.
Three days later with no insurance settlement in sight, (Farm Bureau, no doubt), Chester, still in his increasingly itchy bathrobe, stood at the counter of the town’s only thrift shop in disbelief at the complete absence of men’s clothing. “We’ve sold every jacket, trouser and men’s shirt we had,” mused the toothless volunteer. “We did, however, just receive a huge shipment of used cheerleading and team dance attire. Say, you look like a size small through the hips. I think I’ve got a little something for you. Are you, by chance a Fighting Illini fan?”
“What the Hell is an Illini?” thought Chester as the clerk held up the shiny bright orange U. of Illinois pantlets. “That’s lamer than the UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug. Not in the mood to be wearing wool or discuss college team name follies anymore Chester grabbed the shorts, along with a unisex t-shirt and jacket and headed for the dressing room. At this point, he simply didn’t care. It was time to re-invent himself. Now he would meet the world wearing flame colored spandex. First stop, CVS Pharmacy. Go Fighting Illini!!!
So there you have it, three halfway plausible explanations. The world may never know why the man whose name I’m certain isn’t Chester ventured out in shorts that would make Paris Hilton blush. The world may also never know what an Illini is. I’m not sure I care anymore.
“What,” I wondered, “would possess this respectable senior to choose such revealing britches” (as Southerners call them). His accompanying t-shirt and jacket were perfectly acceptable. I say “acceptable” as if I, myself, have written the clothing etiquette guide for the entire population of U.S. senior citizens, sponsored by AARP, of course. Okay, there probably isn’t such a guide, but if there were, I don’t think ultra-low rise, cheeky spandex shorts would be on the list for menswear.
As I write this I think, “Maybe I’m too conservative; he has a right to wear whatever he pleases and not be judged for it. He probably fought for that right in both world wars and is now exercising it…albeit badly. Maybe I’ve lived in rural Georgia just a tad too long now and it’s starting to show in my prudishness. If this had taken place in San Francisco’s Castro District, I wouldn’t have batted an eye. I’d probably have wondered why the shorts weren’t shorter, and still had a crotch in them. I’ve never actually hung out in the Castro, but I’m told that there, lots of things do hang out. And hang low, and wobble to and fro. And maybe are tied in knots and bows too… those who have the dexterity. But I digress.
As I continued to observe the gentleman who seemed oblivious to anything out of the ordinary, I was careful not to stare too closely for fear of seeing details I’d regret for the rest of my life. My mind began running through different scenarios of why Mr. U of Illinois chose to wear that selected garment, on that selected day, which wasn’t near Halloween or any recognized Gay Pride Festival (not that we have those in Dublin, GA, but I hear they throw one humdinger in the Castro.) I also gained the valuable insight that women aren’t the only ones who have to deal with cellulite.
Below are three completely fictitious, yet potential reasons that Mr. Honeycutt (as I named him) was wearing spandex cheek holders, rather than trousers.
To impress a woman (very bad idea, he’s obviously been out of the market too long) I can picture him shimmying into those Hooter girl shorts, glancing backward in his floor length mirror, doing just enough of a pelvic shake to rattle his artificial hip and proudly declaring, “Damn, Burton Chester Honeycutt, you still have it. Just wait’ll Florence and Ethel down at the Bingo parlor get a gander of this mature stallion.” Maybe he was trying to get Florence to notice him. After all, she was the one sending off powerful flirtations by allowing just enough cleavage to peak out between the bottom of her blouse and the elastic waist of her pedal pushers. She, with her Richard Simmons obsession, was the one who gave Chester the idea for purchasing the shorts. He was disappointed not to be able to find a candy striped pair like the workout queen sported in his Sweatin’ to the Oldies video series, but the orange pair was striking enough to grab Florence’s attention.
The blind laundress: Or maybe there’s no Florence or floor length mirror or anything like that. Maybe Chester lives with his daughter Linda and her family. Linda is blind and for all practical purposes shouldn’t be doing the laundry. She’s always putting the wrong clothing items in the wrong places, like the freezer and the china cabinet. Linda accidentally put her daughter Sheila’s shorts in Grandpa’s drawer. Rather than chalking it up to her blindness, Chester thought that Linda was sending him a covert compliment that she thought he had the legs and backside of a cheerleader. After all, he had been a runner years earlier and the muscle tone was still there if you looked closely, past the spider web of veins.
(Note: for this scenario to be halfway plausible, as if that’s possible, Linda would have nerve damage in her hands preventing her from feeling items of clothing in addition to her way around the house. Oh well, stranger things have happened.)
The fire that destroyed everything (long version):
Chester Honeycutt was once a dashing, cavalier man of refinement who wore Brooks Brothers and Neiman Marcus every day of the week. However, he had one peculiarity that would eventually be his downfall. He didn’t trust banks as far as he could throw them. And, with his tendonitis, Chester couldn’t even throw a baseball, much less a large building with a vault inside. Therefore, he kept his amassed fortune in a king-sized Sealy Posturepedic pillow-top mattress rather than a sensible checking account. Bad idea, Chester. Everyone knows that that particular mattress, the 1989 model, had spontaneous flammability issues.
And sure enough, late one Sunday night, as Chester was finishing up a Matlock/Murder She Wrote marathon, the unthinkable happened. With the entire top floor engulfed in flames, he had no choice but to run out the front door abandoning his fortune and wardrobe. The fire was a total loss. Neither a single dollar bill, nor stitch of clothing, except the wool bathrobe Chester wore, had survived the tragedy.
Three days later with no insurance settlement in sight, (Farm Bureau, no doubt), Chester, still in his increasingly itchy bathrobe, stood at the counter of the town’s only thrift shop in disbelief at the complete absence of men’s clothing. “We’ve sold every jacket, trouser and men’s shirt we had,” mused the toothless volunteer. “We did, however, just receive a huge shipment of used cheerleading and team dance attire. Say, you look like a size small through the hips. I think I’ve got a little something for you. Are you, by chance a Fighting Illini fan?”
“What the Hell is an Illini?” thought Chester as the clerk held up the shiny bright orange U. of Illinois pantlets. “That’s lamer than the UC Santa Cruz Banana Slug. Not in the mood to be wearing wool or discuss college team name follies anymore Chester grabbed the shorts, along with a unisex t-shirt and jacket and headed for the dressing room. At this point, he simply didn’t care. It was time to re-invent himself. Now he would meet the world wearing flame colored spandex. First stop, CVS Pharmacy. Go Fighting Illini!!!
So there you have it, three halfway plausible explanations. The world may never know why the man whose name I’m certain isn’t Chester ventured out in shorts that would make Paris Hilton blush. The world may also never know what an Illini is. I’m not sure I care anymore.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
"Culinary Dementia - It happened to me" A true story of one mother's struggle (On Lifetime, the Network for Women)
I used to be a wonderful cook, a culinary savant, I’d call myself. Back during my teens, when other kids were stirring powdered cheese into macaroni noodles, I was throwing together a flowerless cocoa torte with Irish cream sauce, as a snack between homework assignments. While my friends were growing pot, I had a bona fide herb garden of mini-clay pots full of oregano and sage sitting on the kitchen window sill.
Once a season, I’d organize a five course themed dinner with wine parings and flower garnishes for neighbors and extended family just to show off my culinary talents. I’d study cookbooks and magazines like Bon Appetit for weeks leading to the big event, sometimes even incorporating the wild game from my dad and brother’s hunting trips into my repertoire. “You haven’t LIVED until you’ve savored my filet of owl, braised in homemade plum wine with fresh haricot verts,” I’d say in a practiced Nath
alie Dupree whipped cream drawl.
New Southern Cooking came on PBS every Saturday at 4 p.m. and Nathalie, a sophisticated, yet down to earth, 40-something blond was its host. She was a master of the kitchen obstacle course. While her hands beat, sautéed, chopped and basted her audience into a vicarious sweat, her mouth made sweet down home conversation about a Social Circle Historical Society restoration project. I could tell Nathalie had good breeding. While still in diapers (cloth, of course) she probably learned how to properly set a formal table for 12 and arrange hydrangeas, honeysuckles and fresh mint from her backyard into a royal presentation. By never missing her show, I covertly hoped some of her refinement would rub off on me, an awkward preteen who had little in common with her peers. Long after Paula Deen takes off her wig and retires to her single wide trailer in Albany, barefoot with long toenails, chin hair and a plug of snuff in her cheek, Nathalie, in her starched apron, will forever remain the icon of Southern class and savior faire.
But, I digress…
Whereas with practice, people normally improve their arts, for the past few years my culinary skills seem to have spiraled in the opposite direction. Where I once could’ve starred in an Iron Chef competition, I now have trouble with Chef Boyardee tab tops. I routinely have to apologize to my family for ruining the Hamburger Helper or scorching the chicken-n-stars soup. I can’t even open a can of Vienna Sausage without cutting my index finger and bleeding into the casings. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times, “Ewwww! Mom, you bled in these!”
“No, Honey, it’s mild Tabasco sauce,” I reassure. I’ve even had to buy new potholders because I keep setting them on fire.
Every time I enter my kitchen, I’m struck with a sort of dementia that mocks Alzheimer’s and has a few Parkinson’s symptoms thrown in for fun. (Who were Alzheimer and Parkinson, anyway? I hope I never have a disease named after me). The other day, I stood with a package of uncooked link sausage in my hand pondering whether to bake or microwave them, when James, my husband read my confusion and handed me the frying pan. Upon reconsidering, he mumbled something about a fire hazard, took it back and cooked the sausage himself.
An upside to my cooking handicap is that we save lots of money on groceries. I no longer spend hours creating dinner menus of dishes that call for 117 ingredients. I’ve discovered that hot dogs can be prepared numerous ways and Lucky Charms are a perfect side dish for most any entrée. Peanut butter and jelly can be spread not just onto sliced bread, but tortillas, hamburger buns, bananas, graham crackers, saltines and even playing cards, if you cover them up completely.
As with any weak link, others have picked up my cooking slack. Andrew, now does dinner preparation on Tuesdays and even made Darth Maults out of his Star Wars cookbook the other night. James often fires up the grill when he catches me heading to the kitchen to see about dinner. “No, Honey, I’ve got it covered. Now go back in the living room where it’s safe, NOW!” he warns with a look of fear in his eyes, as if I’ve unknowingly wandered out onto the ledge of a 12 story building or into the sites of a mother crocodile. We also eat out a lot. The kids and I both enjoy this. James regularly carries coupons in his wallet for Sonny’s, KFC, Pizza Hut and Applebee’s.
My mom also brings dinner quite often. She’s an exceptional cook, but has never learned to take a compliment. Growing up, our dinner table conversations would go like this.
Dad – “Great dinner, Susie. This is delicious!”
Mom – “You really think? I was disappointed in the way the roast turned out and the carrots are a soggy mess. Also, these biscuits are flat as pancakes. I could just cry.”
Dad – “You’re right. You should be ashamed passing this feces off for nourishment. Someone smack your mother…hard.”
I think my mom is a little disappointed that neither of her daughters carried on her cooking genes. I’ve become culinarily challenged and my sister Pamela doesn’t cook because she’s a vegetarian. Pamela and her two sons regularly graze on Bermuda grass in her front yard. It’s a big day when they mow the lawn. Will and Tom gather ‘round the dining table banging their forks and chanting “DINNER!!! DINNER!!!; as my sister ceremoniously empties the clippings bag onto a platter with all the pomp and circumstances of carving a turkey.
My brother-in-law Glenn is quite a carnivore, but is afraid to disobey Pamela and bring “murdered animal” as she calls it, into the house. As time goes by, he becomes more desperate for meat. I can see it in his eyes. When he looks at other people, he licks his lips, as if picturing them on a platter surrounded by parsley and cherry tomatoes. It’s kind of creepy. One day, I’m afraid he’ll snap and pull a Hannibal Lecter. And all the townspeople will feel guilty because they knew in the backs of their minds that it might happen, but no one uttered a word of warning. Newspaper reporters will ponder what could’ve been done to prevent the carnage. Local politicians will set up counseling centers and runaway shelters for family members of maniacal vegetarians.
But I digress…again. James is gone to Orlando for a business trip and I’m now left to feed the boys dinner. Should I chance trying to cook a frozen pizza? Will I remember to take it out of the box? Nah, too much to risk. How about Dairy Queen tonight? Look! I’ve even got a free blizzard coupon.
Once a season, I’d organize a five course themed dinner with wine parings and flower garnishes for neighbors and extended family just to show off my culinary talents. I’d study cookbooks and magazines like Bon Appetit for weeks leading to the big event, sometimes even incorporating the wild game from my dad and brother’s hunting trips into my repertoire. “You haven’t LIVED until you’ve savored my filet of owl, braised in homemade plum wine with fresh haricot verts,” I’d say in a practiced Nath
alie Dupree whipped cream drawl.New Southern Cooking came on PBS every Saturday at 4 p.m. and Nathalie, a sophisticated, yet down to earth, 40-something blond was its host. She was a master of the kitchen obstacle course. While her hands beat, sautéed, chopped and basted her audience into a vicarious sweat, her mouth made sweet down home conversation about a Social Circle Historical Society restoration project. I could tell Nathalie had good breeding. While still in diapers (cloth, of course) she probably learned how to properly set a formal table for 12 and arrange hydrangeas, honeysuckles and fresh mint from her backyard into a royal presentation. By never missing her show, I covertly hoped some of her refinement would rub off on me, an awkward preteen who had little in common with her peers. Long after Paula Deen takes off her wig and retires to her single wide trailer in Albany, barefoot with long toenails, chin hair and a plug of snuff in her cheek, Nathalie, in her starched apron, will forever remain the icon of Southern class and savior faire.
But, I digress…
Whereas with practice, people normally improve their arts, for the past few years my culinary skills seem to have spiraled in the opposite direction. Where I once could’ve starred in an Iron Chef competition, I now have trouble with Chef Boyardee tab tops. I routinely have to apologize to my family for ruining the Hamburger Helper or scorching the chicken-n-stars soup. I can’t even open a can of Vienna Sausage without cutting my index finger and bleeding into the casings. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times, “Ewwww! Mom, you bled in these!”
“No, Honey, it’s mild Tabasco sauce,” I reassure. I’ve even had to buy new potholders because I keep setting them on fire.
Every time I enter my kitchen, I’m struck with a sort of dementia that mocks Alzheimer’s and has a few Parkinson’s symptoms thrown in for fun. (Who were Alzheimer and Parkinson, anyway? I hope I never have a disease named after me). The other day, I stood with a package of uncooked link sausage in my hand pondering whether to bake or microwave them, when James, my husband read my confusion and handed me the frying pan. Upon reconsidering, he mumbled something about a fire hazard, took it back and cooked the sausage himself.
An upside to my cooking handicap is that we save lots of money on groceries. I no longer spend hours creating dinner menus of dishes that call for 117 ingredients. I’ve discovered that hot dogs can be prepared numerous ways and Lucky Charms are a perfect side dish for most any entrée. Peanut butter and jelly can be spread not just onto sliced bread, but tortillas, hamburger buns, bananas, graham crackers, saltines and even playing cards, if you cover them up completely.
As with any weak link, others have picked up my cooking slack. Andrew, now does dinner preparation on Tuesdays and even made Darth Maults out of his Star Wars cookbook the other night. James often fires up the grill when he catches me heading to the kitchen to see about dinner. “No, Honey, I’ve got it covered. Now go back in the living room where it’s safe, NOW!” he warns with a look of fear in his eyes, as if I’ve unknowingly wandered out onto the ledge of a 12 story building or into the sites of a mother crocodile. We also eat out a lot. The kids and I both enjoy this. James regularly carries coupons in his wallet for Sonny’s, KFC, Pizza Hut and Applebee’s.
My mom also brings dinner quite often. She’s an exceptional cook, but has never learned to take a compliment. Growing up, our dinner table conversations would go like this.
Dad – “Great dinner, Susie. This is delicious!”
Mom – “You really think? I was disappointed in the way the roast turned out and the carrots are a soggy mess. Also, these biscuits are flat as pancakes. I could just cry.”
Dad – “You’re right. You should be ashamed passing this feces off for nourishment. Someone smack your mother…hard.”
I think my mom is a little disappointed that neither of her daughters carried on her cooking genes. I’ve become culinarily challenged and my sister Pamela doesn’t cook because she’s a vegetarian. Pamela and her two sons regularly graze on Bermuda grass in her front yard. It’s a big day when they mow the lawn. Will and Tom gather ‘round the dining table banging their forks and chanting “DINNER!!! DINNER!!!; as my sister ceremoniously empties the clippings bag onto a platter with all the pomp and circumstances of carving a turkey.
My brother-in-law Glenn is quite a carnivore, but is afraid to disobey Pamela and bring “murdered animal” as she calls it, into the house. As time goes by, he becomes more desperate for meat. I can see it in his eyes. When he looks at other people, he licks his lips, as if picturing them on a platter surrounded by parsley and cherry tomatoes. It’s kind of creepy. One day, I’m afraid he’ll snap and pull a Hannibal Lecter. And all the townspeople will feel guilty because they knew in the backs of their minds that it might happen, but no one uttered a word of warning. Newspaper reporters will ponder what could’ve been done to prevent the carnage. Local politicians will set up counseling centers and runaway shelters for family members of maniacal vegetarians.
But I digress…again. James is gone to Orlando for a business trip and I’m now left to feed the boys dinner. Should I chance trying to cook a frozen pizza? Will I remember to take it out of the box? Nah, too much to risk. How about Dairy Queen tonight? Look! I’ve even got a free blizzard coupon.
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