Colon Blow: Day 5

Welcome to my nightmare.

Beans, beans, the magical fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot… for most people, this is just a little ditty that school kids sing.  For me, it’s daily life.

The hubby and I and a group of friends threw a party last weekend.  It was a mid-winter beach party with a band and everything.  Each of us was supposed to bring an appetizer and a dessert and were assigned a main dish.

I got beans.

My MO for baked beans is to start with canned and doctor them up.  I know there are those who swear by hamburger in these, but I use bacon – that’s just how I roll.  When I got ready to cook on Saturday afternoon I was worried that we wouldn’t have enough.  I phoned Bill and said, “Could you stop on the way home and pick up 2 more big cans?”

I fried up bacon, sautéed onions, added dried mustard and got the concoction simmering.  When Bill came home he found me slaving over a huge pot of simmering beans amidst a mountain of empty cans. 

“Why did you want me to get more?” He asked incredulously, and plunked two, cafeteria-sized cans on the counter.  When I said “big” cans, I had in mind 24 oz as opposed to 12 oz (and as opposed to the 128 oz ones I got), but the more the merrier.

“I figure we’ve got about 75 people coming, and according to the info on the cans, I only have servings for 60.”  I said worriedly  “I would hate to run out.”

Bill gave me “that” look.  He doesn’t even think he HAS “that” look, but he does, and he employs it far too often.   “Not everybody is going to eat beans.  And even if they do, as I remember, this is not going to be the only item on the buffet.”

I hate it when gets all “voice of reason”. 

“Some might want seconds.  Better safe than sorry.” I said loftily, brushing a sweat-soaked hank of hair out of my eyes.  I commenced welcoming the beany newcomers to our legume hot tub party.

I was glad to have Bill to carry the 50-pound pot of beans upstairs to where the party was happening. I brought a crock-pot full to get things started, and a huge stockpot full with which to refill the crock-pot. 

The party was great!  Some of those who were supposed to attend couldn’t make it, but everybody there had fun.   I danced my fool head off, making sure to check the bean situation periodically.  They didn’t seem to be disappearing quite as quickly as I had hoped.  I didn’t discover the full extent of the calamity until the end of the evening when we were cleaning up and the wine started to wear off.

Looked like maybe only 1 cup of beans (2, tops) had been eaten.

If we’d thought this out better ahead of time, we ladies would have come prepared to split up the leftovers.  But we didn’t.  Each of us took home whatever she brought. The only bright spot is that it’s a lot easier to carry a 50-pound pot of beans down the stairs than up.

I guess I should save some pity for the woman who left with 30 pounds of barbecue, or the one who had 10 packages of hamburger buns.  Someone else ended up with enough lettuce to feed a herd of bunnies for a month, and yet another had tray upon tray of brownies, cutout cookies and lemon squares.  OK, forget about that last woman – pitying her would just be crazy.  When I think of the ½ pan of brownies I had left over… and did I bring them home with me?  No, I did not.  I offloaded them onto the dessert lady in some wine-induced determination to keep eating healthy.  Instead of brownies…

I got beans.  BOY do I got beans.

I’m not going to sugarcoat it; the last 5 days have been rough. 

At first it was like living the cowboy life, with Cookie rustling up a mess ‘o beans over a campfire out on the trail.  Git along, little doggie!  As time goes by, though, I feel more like one of the pioneers in the Donner party, looking assessingly at the horses pulling the covered wagon as a possible entrée item.

It’s gotten to the point where I’m actually considering eating the Silken Tofu that sits on the back of the shelf in my refrigerator.  (I purchased it in a moment of healthy fervor and fully intended to use it…at the time).  Note to self: never go grocery shopping right after working out; you make bad choices.

I KNOW that beans are an excellent source of fiber.  But lets not forget the impact a steady diet of beans has on the digestive system.  I don’t wish to be indelicate, but if you were considering stopping by our house and you have any sort of respiratory issues, I suggest you postpone your visit.  The air quality around here may not meet EPA standards.

There are only so many ways to eat beans.  I oughta know.  I’ve been wracking my brains to figure out how to work them into meals in new and exciting ways.  The good news is that we’re down to the last, big container.   The end is finally in sight for From Here To Bean-ternity.

Time to wrap up this post.  I can’t hear myself think over the gurgling sounds emanating from my lower bowel.  Besides, I need to get supper started.  If you’re in the neighborhood you’re welcome to join us.  We’re having Crepes Beanette.

Sinners & Tiaras: The Ash Wednesday Episode

Some of you know my guilty secret of eternal shame; I love the show Toddlers & Tiaras.  That should clue you that I like me a little bling now and again.  Sometimes I have trouble balancing my love for the sparkly stuff with wanting to do the right thing. 

Here’s what I’m talking about.

Non-Christians could be excused for thinking that Christmas is the most important day on the Christian calendar, what with all the hoopla and merchandising that surround it.  Au contraire.  Christmas is big, but Easter is the really big kahuna event as it commemorates Christ’s resurrection.  Just like you wouldn’t go out and run the Boston Marathon without a little training, Christians get ready for the big day with a prep period called Lent. 

The kick-off for Lent is Ash Wednesday, and that just so happens to be this week. 

If you go to church on Ash Wednesday, you may get the sign of the cross smeared on your forehead with ashes.  Hence the name.   Get it?  This is basically a reminder that we come from dirt and that’s where we’re all going to end up.

How big a deal this is depends on the aim and fervor of the person wielding the ashes.   Sometimes you can’t even see the mark.  If the person with the ashes has a big thumb, however, or is especially zealous or nearsighted, you can end up looking like one of the chimney sweeps high-kicking up on the rooftop in Mary Poppins.  Everybody hustles right out of church to check in their rearview mirror to see how badly they got nailed. 

Now that we’ve got the mini-catechism out of the way, you’re probably scratching your head and saying “OK, but what does any of this have to do with Toddlers & Tiaras?” 

I’ll tell you.

When I was a kid, whenever we would have to do something we didn’t want to do (like baby-sit our snotty-nosed siblings (no offense)), or couldn’t do something we DID want to do (like watch Dark Shadows, a soap opera about vampires that was WAY ahead of the Twilight Saga, and which we weren’t allowed to watch because it would corrupt our morals or something), there was bound to be some complaining.  These complaints usually ended with a plaintive, “that’s not F-A-I-R!”

My Mom’s favorite response to any and all such whining?  “Don’t complain; offer it up.  You’re storing up jewels for your heavenly crown.”

I always liked the mental picture of a crown, because, you know, I like the bling.  But I get the impression that if I’m prancing around in a big, honkin’, good-deeds tiara here on earth, I don’t get the heavenly crown.  It’s a now or later proposition.

Where do outward displays of generosity, piety or what-have-you, fit in? 

The bible is pretty clear that I’m not supposed to stand in the break room at work and moan, “I’m so weak I can barely stand up because I’m fasting.  Did I mention I’m not eating any of Joe’s retirement cake, even though it’s my favorite carrot cake with real cream cheese frosting?  Because, you know, it’s Lent and I’m fasting?  Because I’m holy – at least holier than thou-all?” 

This is where we swing back around to the topic of Ash Wednesday.  Thanks for sticking with me.

The dilemma, since I’ve been old enough to think about such things, is what to do with the ashes.  I’m not talking about the fallout that you sometimes get all over the rest of your face and down your front – that can be whisked away with impunity.  But what about the cross? Do I wear it all day to help remind other Christians that this is an important day of reflection and repentance?  Or is that boasting?

If I swipe the ashes off as soon as I get out of church am I hiding my light under a bushel basket?  If I don’t wipe them off, am I bragging, thereby getting my reward of warm and fuzzy feelings here on earth and, therefore (this is the important part) FORFEITING JEWELS IN MY HEAVENLY CROWN?

Where’s the proper balance here?

Years ago, Ash Wednesday rolled around soon after I landed my first job in a big corporation.   I ducked out at lunch and went to mass.  I was talking to a co-worker later that afternoon when he gestured to my face, said, “You’ve got some dirt there.” and reached up to swipe it away.   I jerked back like he had boogers on his fingers.

“Oh, yeah.  Um, well…it’s Ash Wednesday and all…” I trailed off.

“Oh, yeah!  That’s right.  I forgot!”  We both turned beet red.  I don’t know who was more embarrassed.  Probably him, because he felt compelled to launch into a big explanation of why he didn’t go to church anymore because (insert excuse here) – blah, blah, blah. 

I nodded and smiled, but what I wanted to do was throw my hands up in a blocking gesture and say, “Hey, save that talk for your therapist or pastor.  I’m nobody’s spiritual guide.  I’m just a girl trying to get through it right.”

I guess that, right there, is the answer to my question.

All any of us can do is just try to get through it right.  Life, I mean.  After all, who needs a rhinestone tiara now when they’re putting a big, blingy diamond crown on layaway?

 

Move Over Bauhaus; Make Room For Bozo

 

Louis 13^th, Art Deco, Bauhaus, Mid-Century Modern…

It is past time the firmament of classic design welcomes a long-neglected aesthetic.  I’m referring, of course, to The Creepy Sad Clown motif.

On a recent anthropological expedition (also known as my weekly shopping trip to the Goodwill Thrift Store), I was captivated by the pictured artwork.  This painting (well, actually a print executed on realistic looking CanvasEtte) brought me back to the days when such decorative touches were commonplace.  I couldn’t help but wonder why the style fell from grace.

Some of you are too young to remember when The Creepy Sad Clown aesthetic was at its peak in the 1950s through early 70s.  Famous Ringling Brothers clown Emmett Kelly can be credited for wiping away the funny man’s greasepaint mask to reveal the tortured pratfall artiste beneath.  The rest, as they say, is history.  All other sad clown portrayals grew out of his genius, and as homage (always pronounce this word with the Frenchie-Pierre silent “h” and accent on the second syllable) to his groundbreaking work.

Although clowns had always been considered somewhat scary, the realization that the guy with the squirting flower and size 25 shoes was a soul in torment served to tip the scales even more firmly toward the creepy.  A design movement was born.

During its heyday, clown paintings rendered on canvas (as well as the more elegant black velvet) were to be found gracing rumpus rooms across the depth and breadth of America.  For those who could not afford an original work of art, artistic prints were available in many fine design emporiums like Kresge’s, Ben Franklin, and the Woolworth’s.

This design was not limited to pictures – oh no.  The Creepy Sad Clown theme was executed in commemorative plates as well as limited edition, genuine porcelain figurines.  These were offered by studios such as The Bradford Exchange for 6 easy payments of only $29.99 each.  One could fill an entire curio cabinet!

The next, big thing.

What did this decorating style say about those who embraced it?  Perhaps that they, too, used smiling faces to hide the misery and angst of the human condition?  Or maybe they just liked how the bright colors went with their sofas.

Alas, The Creepy Sad Clown motif fell out of favor.  Instead of enjoying pride of place in fine homes, antique stores and art museums across America, these works of art are now chiefly found in thrift stores and church rummage sales.  They have been kicked to the curb for trash pickup day, much like their former owners are moldering in tombs and nursing homes.

Groundbreaking design like this, however, will never die.  Old becomes new again.  The time is ripe for renewed appreciation for The Creepy Sad Clown aesthetic.  All the signs indicate a resurgence for this classic design has already begun. *

Somewhere, Emmett Kelly is smiling.

(But you probably wouldn’t be able to tell that, because he has a sad expression painted on his face.)

*The discerning collector may soon find him or herself priced right out of the burgeoning market. I may be persuaded (for a modest fee) to part with this icon of vintage design as a service to one of my readers who is interested in starting his or her own collection.   How does $79.99 sound? (plus shipping and handling.)

From Sea To Shining River

 

What a difference a day makes.

I had been “in country” for 5 days and the Sunshine State had yet to live up to its name.    The weather ran the gamut from cloudy to drizzly to pouring down cats and dogs.  There was no time left to hope Mother Nature would come through for me – it was Saturday morning and I would be wheels-up in four, short hours.  I grabbed my dad’s car keys, left my parents sleeping and headed for the Atlantic Ocean, 10 minutes away.

The resentment I felt towards the fickle sunshine gods melted away as soon as my bare feet hit the sand.  So what if I had to wear a sweatshirt with my shorts?  At least I was wearing shorts, a fashion decision that would have resulted in frostbite from the thighs down in my home state of Illinois.  The temperature was only in the 60s, the salt water soaked my shorts and the sand scrubbed the fake tan right off my legs.  I was as happy as a clam.

A hot cup of good coffee warmed me from the inside out as I walked in the surf.  When empty, that same cup became a carrying case for the shells and pieces of coral I plucked from the surging tide.  I gazed out at the limitless horizon and for one, brief moment; the sun peaked through the clouds.  It shone down on me like a benediction.  I only had an hour on the beach before I had to head back to pack, but it was enough to put a shining cap on my trip.

Fast-forward 24 hours.

Even though I looked like a Nordic mummy in the scarf I had wrapped around my face and neck, the bitter wind found its way through the folds of cloth to slap my cheeks red.  The harsh sound of my own breathing reverberated through the echo chamber that was the deep hood of my ski jacket.

Our dog, Ace, didn’t notice the cold as he raced ahead, occasionally coming back to crash into me, full-tilt in his utter, muddy joy to be running free.

I trudged down the dirt road from our house the ¼ of a mile it took to reach a favorite and well-known destination, the banks of the Illinois River.  I stifled my own, loud breathing, as I looked over the water and for a moment the entire world was enveloped in silence.  I was reminded of a favorite quote that hangs in my mother-in-law’s home:
 

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

I’d gone from the banks of the Atlantic Ocean to the banks of the Illinois River in one, short day.  It was a bit of a shock to the system, but the joy of walking and the beauty of the water soothed and exhilarated me in both places.

That’s not to say I wouldn’t rather have the 70 degrees, however.

She picks seashells by the seashore.

Use An Interpreter When Speaking The Language of Love

 

Looking for a Valentine’s Day gift for that special someone?

Cupid meets Fear Factor

The Bronx Zoo is once again raising funds for the Wildlife Conservation Society, and you can help.  For only $10 you get to name one of the zoo’s 58,000 giant Madagascar hissing cockroaches after your own true love.

As I reported last year, I encourage you to support this worthwhile charity, but consider carefully. 

According to the zoo, nothing says “forever” like a cockroach.  According to Peg-o-leg, nothing says “The End Is Near” for your relationship like comparing your sweetie to a gigantic cockroach.

To make sure you don’t crash and burn on this, the high-holy day of love, I’ve compiled a list of common Valentine gifts and the messages they send:

Single, red rose: I stopped looking when I met you.
Single, red foil-wrapped chocolate rose: I stopped at the gas station mini-mart on the way over.

Tattoo of your name across his chest:  I’ll love you forever
Tattoo of World of Warcraft avatar babe across his chest: I’ll live in my parents’ basement forever.

Big box of chocolates: I adore you.
Big box of chocolate flavored Slim-Fast: I’d adore less of you.

Valentines Day card with mushy poem addressed to you: You’ll never know what you mean to me.
Valentines Day card with mushy poem addressed to someone else:  You’ll never know about my wife and kids in Scranton.

Scanty, satin panties:  You drive me wild, woman!
Big, cotton bloomers: You drive me to band practice, Mom.

Gift certificate for some pampering: Let’s get together and let nature take its course.
Gift certificate for some Pampers: Nature already took its course.

Diamond ring: We will spend the rest of our lives watching sunsets together.
Diamond walnuts:  We will spend the rest of the night on your couch watching “Lizard Lick Towing” together.

It’s not easy to communicate what’s in your heart.  When speaking the language of love, sometimes it’s best to bring an interpreter.

Thursday Thoughts

Just a few meanderings and housekeeping matters.

I first started writing this post last Sunday, so it was originally titled Monday Moanings.  Then I decided to go with a finished piece for Monday, and pushed this back a day.  Had I got it done in time you would have been subjected to Tuesday’s Tortured Turnings.  I finished up my glasses rant so you narrowly avoided Wednesday Whining.  Thank your lucky blog stars that I didn’t wait until tomorrow to post Friday’s Frenetic Feelings.

Some may recall I blogged about my struggles to find a decent dress for the ball last weekend (Every time I say that my brain cues the music from Cinderella, “The prince is giving a ball, the prince is giving a ball!”) and somehow managed to promise I would post a picture of moi in my sartorial splendor.  So here it is.

For some reason my hubby, Bill, had his I-phone camera set to Squatty Fuzzy Mode, but I hope you can get a feel for the sparkliness of the dress.   I was feeling bad about the tiny Asian woman who got paid $10 for 3 years’ work, hand-sewing all those beads on my (Peg) Oleg Cassini dress, but it seems she got her revenge.  She somehow sewed an invisible hump into the dress.   The fat-cat, American she-devil who bought it would think she looked swell in it, never knowing that, from the back, she looked like Quasimodo in drag.  “How do you like that, you hunchback, capitalist swine?” I could almost hear her cackling when I saw this picture.

The really important thing is to notice the miles and miles of shiny, metallic heels on those shoes.  And I wore them all night.  I did NOT kick them off, and I was standing around most of the time.  Only once did I have to knock some grandmother to the floor so I could steal her chair for a little rest for my bleeding toesies.

I think I may have had just a teeny bit too much wine at the ball, which, for all intents and purposes was a business event for me.  I’m hoping none of my major clients remember me forcing them to admire my shoes, or how I draped myself all over one CEO and said “I LOVE you, man, and I’m not just saying that!  Jeez, this dress weighs a ton.  Can I have some of your wine?”

All in all, we had a good time.

 

 

I saw my blog on the Recommended list of humor blogs for WordPress on Wednesday – can’t believe it!   I then went back to the page 2 hours later and was still there, but moving down with a bullet.  It seems to be a revolving list.  Now watch -  I’m directing everyone over there for a look-see and I will be off by now, and you’ll think I’m a liar, or delusional, or still drunk from Saturday.  Wish I could’ve figured out how to take a screenshot for my scrapbook.  This might explain my recent influx of new subscribers.  If you found me through that site, welcome!  I’m glad to have you.  Pull up a tuffet, read, comment and have fun.  

Anyhoo, I didn’t even know that the editors had recommended sites.  I’m thrilled and humbled to be/have been in such august company.  I already read some of the others on this list, and add my recommendation to the editors.   I’m not familiar with some of these blogs, but I’m going to check them out.   You should, too.

Which brings me to the point of how the interwebz can be so VAST and at the same time it is such a small world.  The longer I’m on WordPress the more I bump into some of the same folks over and over again.  The sense of “community” just keeps growing.  And that’s pretty cool.  And also pretty hokey, right there.  Sorry.

I’m going to be out of town for the next week and a half.  I’m going down to Charleston, SC to see my brother Jim and his family.  You may remember that Jim offered to wine and dine the winner of the Family Weight Loss Challenge, so I’m going down to collect.  It will be great to spend some time with Jim, my sister-in-law, Lisa (whose decision to diet right before Christmas last year inspired one of my most popular posts, My Sister-In-Law is Ruining the U.S. Economy), and my cutie-patootie nieces.

I’m also getting my teeth Zoom whitened.  I was thinking that was a good thing but thanks to the (no doubt) well-meaning advice of some who have gone through this (you know who you are.  Jane. ), it seems this may be akin to volunteering as a rack-tester for the Spanish Inquisition.  The more I think about it, the more I think grey teeth work for me.

After a few days there, I’ll rent a car and head down to the West Palm Beach, FL area to spend the rest of the week with my dear parents.  I’m really looking forward to some R&R with them.  When you come from a family of 9 kids, one-on-one time with the ‘rents is rare.

I can’t figure out how to get the interwebz anywhere but here at work, so there won’t be much Rambling going on here at my blog.  Nor reading or commenting at other blogs.  So y’all have a good time, and I’ll chat witcha later!

 

 

 

Ride My See-Saw

It occurs to me that I might need glasses.

Tonight at the Y I passed some loon on a treadmill who was making faces and flinging her arms around.  It wasn’t until I was well past her that it occurred to me that I might have known her.  By the time I got to my treadmill I realized that instead of averting my eyes from a whack-job doing an interpretive dance, I might have just snubbed my biggest client, who was smiling and waving at me. 

On the way out of the place I ran into Dan, the 25-year-old son of some of our friends.   I gave a big smile as I approached him, and called out, “Hey there, how’s it going?”  Only it wasn’t Dan.  As I got closer I could see it was just some random 25-year-old.  From the look on his face, he was not one of those guys whose fantasy is to have an older woman come on to him.  Leastwise not the red-faced specimen in the baggy sweats who was standing before him.

So I may “need” glasses.  And by “need,” I mean, “need to wear”.  I’ve had a prescription for glasses since I was 5 years old. 

There used to be a public service spot featuring Charlie Brown on TV when I was a kid.  He wore a Sherlock Holmes cap and looked through a magnifying glass while a voice-over announcer dramatically intoned, “Amblyopia: the case of the lazy eye.”  That’s what I had.

All it really meant was that I would close one eye when I was trying to look at something.  I was supposed to do eye-strengthening exercises and wear an eye-patch around the house.  Cool, right?  Wouldn’t you think I would embrace my inner pirate and walk around saying “arrr, matey”?  Nope.  Hated it!   Didn’t wear the patch and didn’t do the exercises.   Hated the glasses and lost pair after pair.

Fast-forward 40 years.  I’m nearsighted.  Because I didn’t follow the doctor’s orders when I was a kid, I now have to “wear” glasses.   And by “wear” I mean, “keep nearby in case putting them on my face is absolutely necessary”.

Between the ages of 5 and 15, “nearby” meant “probably somewhere in the house”.  What some people might refer to as “lost”.

Between the ages of 25 and 52, “nearby” meant “in the glove compartment of my car”.

The alert reader may ask “What about between the ages of 15 and 25?”  Those were the years when “needing” glasses meant just that.  I didn’t have any.  I lost so many pairs that my parents finally refused to buy any more.  It wasn’t until I was 25 and driving down a 2-lane country road in the dark in the rain that it occurred to me that I might “need” glasses in a way that meant, “cannot see little details like oncoming cars without them.”  I went to the optometrist the very next day and have been wearing glasses for night driving ever since.

I got a new pair with snazzy, blue plastic frames last year.  I keep them in my car.  I also need glasses to see the TV, so I keep my second-to-last pair, when I was rocking the frameless look, next to my chair in the living room.  Without them, the onscreen TV guide is a big blur at a whopping 5 feet away. 

Except for driving and TV, I’ve been doing OK without glasses up to now.  Little incidents like the ones at the Y, however, have been getting more frequent.  The last straw may be my recent sudoku troubles. 

I do sudoku puzzles every night before bed.  What can I say – they relax me.  I plop the World’s Most Ginormous Book O Sudokus down on my pillow, prop up on my elbows and commence with the number-fying.  Lately, however, I’ve been having trouble reading the numbers.

It looks like the moment I’ve been avoiding for 47 years has arrived at last.  I may have to break down and get the dreaded bi or even trifocals.  Not only that, I may have to actually wear them.  Damn!

Wait a minute, I just thought of something.  I think I still have the pair BEFORE the pair before the last one.  They’re not as strong as the current prescription, but if I can dig them up, I’ll just keep them on the bedside table.  Then I’ll have all my glasses-needing situations covered, without having to resort to actually “wearing” glasses all the time. 

Problem solved!

Besides, I always liked those old glasses.  There was something about them – I thought they made me look like a movie star.