Truss Me, It's Your Turn

In 2005, on Christmas Day, I was picking up a dozen croissants to contribute to the holiday feast. It was exhausting. I sighed heavily as I waited in line behind a thrifty rotund woman who for some reason needed to cash in every coupon she had saved since Groundhog Day. She then insisted on scraping the bottom of her purse for the exact change that had escaped her coin compartment. I shrugged and resisted irritation; I would not allow this to spoil my mood. 

As my eyes scanned the checkout crowd, I noticed they all seemed to be content, almost euphoric. I nodded knowingly... they are the detailers. Their job is to purchase sparkling cider, lovely floral candelabras, dinner rolls or perhaps a fireplace log. It showed in their eyes, they were enjoying the holiday because someone else was cooking.

I smirked as a distracted driver swerved in front of me, I recognized him, my neighbor frantic to get home to deliver the forgotten sticks of butter to the hysterical cook. A woman who vaguely resembled his wife who’s job it was to produce a six course meal for thirty-five, serve it by three p.m. and arrange it attractively on china plates donated by Grandma Tucker, a true veteran of holiday cookery. Grandma Tucker doesn’t cook anymore; she just plants herself in a strategic location and watches the kitchen activity with the corners of her lips tipped up and a double shot of bourbon in her glass. An honor truly earned.

My eyes misted at the memory of being the crazed one in the kitchen. Over the years I have stuffed my birds, casseroled my beans and crusted my pies.  I have paid for my retirement with frazzled nerves and kitchen disasters such as undercooked birds, lumpy gravy, stopped up garbage disposals and the roasted marshmallow that mysteriously flicked into my sister’s eye upon offering yet another helpful hint from the comfort of the family room. 

Then there was Aunt Dorty who would pass through the kitchen to leisurely drag her index and middle fingers over the surface of the gravy to sample for consistency and seasoning. She developed calluses over the years from this practice; at least I hope it was from gravy tasting. Each year, I would complain that I couldn’t remember the exact measurements of flour, rosemary salt and pepper. Her croaky voice would ring out, “Just forget about what you don’t remember…cook dammit.” And cook I did, for the next twenty years. 

Yes, the baton has been passed to new stuffers, new casserollers and new crusters equipped with younger hands and virgin nerves just begging to be frazzled. Their young faces still lack character, but in time definition will be added with deep forehead furrows and sturdy anxiety lines.

My niece was cooking, her wide-eyed innocence was refreshing and her anxious desire to produce the perfect banquet quite heartwarming. The new generation stepped forth to select a healthier genre of turkey, drug free… the free-range type. 

I can almost imagine this lovely creature standing on a grassy knoll, its wattle gently swaying in a soft country breeze. No access to steroids or antibiotics, a noble beast bravely awaiting humane euthanasia. Alas, its flavor is also lacking in definition, I think it’s the absence of preservatives or perhaps it was just devoid of personality.

My niece began to hyperventilate; a blue line is formed around her lips yet she refused help. She dashed about the kitchen arranging platters and spooning gravy into a boat big enough to seat six. With deft fingers she spells the words Happy Thanksgiving atop the green bean casserole in dried onions then paws the stuffing from the free-range cavity into the family crock.  All would have gone without a hitch if she hadn’t slipped on the bit of stuffing that had dropped in the middle of the floor.  It was unfortunate that Animal World wasn’t there to film the turkeys’ last greasy flight beneath the recessed florescent lighting.

My sister and I sat in our strategic location sipping sparkling cider from Waterford glasses. Our eyes met in a rare moment of understanding; there was no need for words.  

A few Christmases have passed since then. I have remarried into a family with different traditions. My husband and his brother cook the holiday meals now, no more turkey, no more stuffing, no more casseroles. They have been replaced with the most delicious spinach dip scooped up on fresh bread rounds and a divine pan of flavorful lasagna. Am I lucky or what?

Two Left Feet

My Christmas shopping was unexpectedly interrupted today as I walked past the window of a popular dance studio. Couples gracefully dancing the Tango caught my eye. I stood on the sidewalk for quite some time just watching them. 

Their bodies were plastered against one another as they performed elegant dips, walks and quick turns. Where did the idea that two people clasping hands, arms slung around shoulders and waist; gyrating to some kind of rhythm come from? And why? It was fascinating but confusing.

My father always told me I had two left feet. His words rang true which always made it difficult for me to feel comfortable on a dance floor to wait for the inevitable, repeatedly stepping on the toes of my partner.

I walked through the door, watching the dancers a while longer, and then slowly wandered down a hallway gazing at photos of dancers arranged side by side. There were couples of all ages and sizes, beaming with pride at having won trophies or ribbons. The Las Vegas, World-O-Rama, The Miami Superama. 

Couple number 146 was having a blast on the dance floor, at least that is what the caption said. The position their bodies were in would suggest otherwise. The champs, another first place finish for East Coast Swing. Awards, awards, and more awards. 

The photos, like arrows, drew me down the hall until I found myself in what seemed to be a salesroom. I gazed around, blinking dumbly. I suddenly realized that had been lured into the marketer’s lair.

One by one, like mushrooms under a shady tree, svelte dance instructor salesmen appeared, smiling brightly and smelling of aftershave. I was cornered. Questions were aimed at me from every direction. Did I want to have more self-confidence? Did I want to meet people and make new friends? Did I want better health and social ease? Did I want to stand out on the dance floor? Not really. 

I felt like I had developed mental paralysis. After forty-five minutes of high density charming, and persuasion, I understood, there was only one way to get out of that office. I would have to dance my way out.

“Slow…quick, quick…slow,” my dance instructor chanted. Thank God my Peripheral Neuropathy wasn’t acting up.

“Don’t look at your feet,” he ordered. His breath mint made my eyes water. “Make a frame with your arms and let me drive.” Now I was confused. I looked around at the other dancers for help. My movements seemed unnatural and my breath came out in short huffs.  It felt like my pantyhose were on backwards. Was the Foxtrot really the missing ingredient in my life? 

“Dancing gives you a sense of well-being, doesn’t it?” he asked.

I smiled stiffly, wondering if I was the only one in the room who was worried about the perspiration circles growing under my armpits. I glanced into the wall-sized mirror; my efforts were looking less and less like the Foxtrot and more and more like a backward death march.

“Isn’t this normally performed to music?” I asked. He didn’t respond.

I looked up in time to see him exchange a goofy expression with a fellow instructor. What did that mean? I knew it. I was one of those hopeless beginners, doomed to roam the earth without rhythm, without dance shoes.

After twenty minutes of me framing and him driving, he stopped. I watched him walk over to select some music and suddenly the whole studio was full of Moonglow.

“Shall we?” he asked with an extended hand.

I took a deep breath and placed my hand in his. He swung me around; forcing me to cling to his shoulder then he began to chant again.

“Slow…quick, quick…slow.”

I had to check the mirror again to make sure, but it was true. I was smiling. Now I get it.

The Evil Eye

I have a Facebook friend who suggested that I try an exercise used as a technique in actor training. It’s called, Synergenis. 

He explained the idea is to get your body sense memory, imagination and emotions to work together more effectively. For instance, when you’re happy, you smile. If you smile, you will automatically feel happy inside. Make sense? He instructed me to sit in front of a mirror and smile at myself for ten minutes and then post my results.

It took me well over two weeks to get up the courage to stare at myself that long…let alone smile. Ten minutes is a lot longer than you think when you’re staring at yourself and smiling, or even trying to. What finally compelled me to try the exercise was my online horoscope. It said, ‘be seductive when it comes to expressing your passion for others today, dear Leo. There is more to your glance than meets the eye. The untrained prey has no chance against your hypnotic stare’. How could I go wrong with a forecast like that? I gave it a try.

Since that fateful day, I have begun experiencing things, little things that most people wouldn’t give a second thought to. They were just things that might be attributed to changes in the weather or an unexpected adjustment of plans, such as a bad sinus headache or finding that the Dill Weed in my cupboard which I intended to use in a new recipe had the expiration date of 1982.

Last week, I left a message on a friend’s cell phone. After I finished recording, I was curious about the direction given by the perfunctory voice that I have heard hundreds of times. “For more options, press one.” I pressed one, but there were no more options. It was ominous. I felt an evil presence that seemed to cast an eerie shadow as from a dark cloud. It drifted above causing a chill to run through me.

I began to notice other things too. My online grocery purchases were delivered straight to my neighbor’s door. I certainly hope it was a mistake but after several calls to the grocery store and to my neighbor, my articles were returned with several slices of the Orowheat cracked wheat bread missing from the loaf, two sleeves of crackers were absent from my Fresh Stacks Ritz crackers and what remained of an Otis Reddenbacker microwave sack with a few kernels of unpopped corn.  What was causing me to experience such a sudden patch of bad luck?

I stumbled across an article on the Internet that may have solved the mystery of why things aren’t going so well. The evil eye is to blame. Yes, it’s true. According to this article, it is quite possible to inadvertently bring the evil eye, hairy eye, stink eye, whatever you want to call it, on yourself.  I knew I was vulnerable to negative energies but I never dreamed that I could sabotage my circumstances with my own powerful hypnotic stare.

Unfortunately, the spell won’t just go away, it must be removed by burning rare seeds or hanging a plant called, Camel’s Needle, at the front door. I could gather uzarlik to burn but I have no idea of how to get to the Khizi mountains, but I do know it is north of Baku on the road to Guba.

I started to panic. How could I remove my evil eye spell and what if I couldn’t get my hands on the proper remedy? My neighbor observed my agitation and after pouring out the frightening details of my dilemma to her, she said I could call her grandmother who lives in Mexico. 

I called her at exactly 6:48 pm as I was instructed. A feeble voice answered and with a thick accent she said, “Take the right eye of a hyena and put it in very strong vinegar for seven days. Then boil it. Take it to a remote place, where a rooster’s crow cannot be heard and bury it next to a cactus plant. Your spell will be broken.”

I think it might be easier to avoid mirrors.

The Full Monty

I went to the mall yesterday, to get a jump-start on my Christmas shopping. As I pulled into the driveway to get to my favorite parking structure, I found the cars were being detoured to other parking areas. There was a long line of people standing behind velvet ropes, waiting for something to happen or someone to arrive. 

I drove past fire trucks, police cars and a bus, big enough to transport the entire Ducks hockey team. Ah-hah, that must be what it was, they were going to sign autographs. Security guards motioned the cars entering the driveway to park several miles from where I happened to be going, but I wasn’t about to let this get me into a holiday funk, so I smiled, grateful for the unforeseen exercise.

My purse, overstuffed with non-essentials, bounced heavily against my ribs as I power-walked around the corner to the front of the mall. My Rebok Lifestyles skidded to a halt against the sidewalk. I was greeted by a group of long faces. It was the mounted police! Okay, so the horses were the ones with the long faces. 

The officers were just sitting there, smiling; all decked out in their uniforms, positioned on gleaming, official, government-issued saddles. I didn’t know they still had mounted police. As I walked past the herd, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. What was I afraid of? They all seemed to have control of their mounts. I passed them as quickly as I could and crossed the street.

As I stood on the corner, the deep roar of Harley-Davidson’s came from behind. I turned to look. Now, I don’t know motorcycles, but these bikes were beauties. There were four of them. They had custom yellow pearl paint, really king of the road looking, with tinsel-decorations and lights around the gas tanks. The riders were wearing Santa hats and waving to the spectators. They were leading the way for a white, 2012, Lexus Luxury Coup convertible. The driver was wearing antler ears and a big red nose. Cute. Who was sitting up high on the back of the car?  It was, none other than, Santa Claus! 

My heart began to race as he waved to the crowd, with that parade-like hand motion. Something about this was really bothering me. It could have been the fact that Santa was arriving in a Lexus, and being escorted by burly bikers, or it could have been that I can’t remember the last time Santa arrived before December, or in a luxury Lexus for that matter. Why, dammit, why? Times must be good for the North Pole.

Suddenly, in a Mel Brooks, high-anxiety, sort of way, childhood memories began flooding back. It was a parade, and I hate parades. No wait, I fear parades. I’m sure there is a phobic term for it, like Promenadephobia. The irrational fear of cavalcades of oddly clad marchers, clanging cymbals and blowing whistles, followed by horses. Yes, horses. 

All my parade fears date back to when I was three years old. The one and only time my parents took us to the Rose Parade. We were positioned well, right at curbside. The morning was crisp and cold; we could see our breath. High school bands began marching by, while playing their brassy toned renditions, and beating on bass drums. I was so excited. Rickety floats made entirely of flowers I couldn’t pronounce passed, playing shaky music while threatening to implode. I couldn’t have been happier.

The morning was warming up, so I asked my mother to hold my coat. I remember I was wearing my little pink chiffon dress with the short puffy sleeves. My socks matched my dress. But, it was the shoes I loved the most. Black, patent leather, and shining like mirrors. 

It was meant to be an exhilarating thing for me, but the next parade participant was the one who scarred me for life. His name was, Monty Montana, and he was riding a beautiful pinto horse. My father leaned down to tell me the horse’s name was, Rex. Monty was swinging a lariat around his head. I was hypnotized by the look of intention he had on his face. Suddenly, the rope left his hand. I stood in frozen anticipation as I watched the rope heading my way. It was the knot in the rope that I felt first. It hit me on top of the head, hard, like when those mean kids thump you while you’re standing in line at the movies. The rough, hemp encircled me, and then drew tight around my tender skin. The crowd cheered as I struggled, like a calf in a rodeo event. The more I tried to escape, the worse the rope grated against my skin. 

I heard my parents laugh behind me, as Monty rode forward to claim his prize. Why didn’t they try to rescue me? Too bad, that I was too young to realize how fortunate I was to be singled out, mindfully selected to be given a fabulous memory of my first Rose Parade. He dismounted to retrieve his rope. I didn’t care that he was wearing a fringed outfit louder than the screams in my head, or that he was a cowboy actor, or even if he was a champion yodeler. The damage was done.

I have steered clear of parades ever since. I shy away from the color pink as well. Of course, avoiding parades and shades of pink hasn’t really interfered with my life in radical ways. Tragically, I still get that same sick, empty feeling when confronted by a parade, like the one at the mall. 

Perhaps one day, I will seek therapy to reverse the parade paranoia. Or, maybe I’ll just give my fear an acquiescent nod and save my money. Either way, I don’t care if it rains on my parade.

As We Celebrate Thanksgiving...

I’m no historian and this is not intended to be humorous but I do cheer for underdogs and I respect the will to survive, but most of all, I admire those who are willing to forgive the wrongdoings of others and share their precious experience, strength and hope.

Tisquantum was born a Patuxet Indian in the late 1500’s and known as Squanto. When he was a young man, he was kidnapped by Thomas Hunt, one of John Smith’s lieutenants, and sold to Spain along with other slaves (20 pounds a piece) along with fish and corn.

Local friars discovered them and took the natives in order to teach them the Christian faith. Squanto studied hard and then convinced the friars to let him try to get home. He did reach London but his plans fell through and he was made part of an Indian Exhibit on a London stage. He worked as a servant and then for a shipbuilder and learned the English language along the way.

By the time he located a ship captain who would agree to take him home, twelve years had passed. The captain was John Smith. When he returned home, there was no trace of his family or friends. They had all been struck with a great sickness, most likely smallpox or leptospirosis. Native Americans had no natural immunity to European infectious diseases.  Everyone he knew and loved had died. He was the last one remaining of his tribe.

Squanto finally settled with Pilgrims at the site of his former village, which the English named Plymouth. He showed the Pilgrims how to build warm houses. Then, taught them when and where to plant. He showed them how to plant and use fish for fertilizer to grow corn faster. He taught the women how to cook the corn. He acted as an interpreter, guide, and gave advice on bargaining with the natives. Without him, the pilgrims would never have survived another season. In fact, half of them had already died in the harsh winter weather.

Squanto was captured by Wampanoag natives and it was feared he had been killed. Myles Standish led a ten-man team of settlers to avenge him. Squanto was found alive and well. Welcomed back by the Pilgrims at Plymouth, he continued his vital role as assistant to the colony.

Although he worked at alliances, Squanto ended up being distrusted by both the English and the Wampanoag. The Wampanoag’s assigned, Hobamok (his name meant mischievous) to watch over Squanto and act as a second representative.

On his way back from a meeting to repair damaged relations between Wampanoag and Pilgrims, Squanto fell sick. Fever ravaged him and he began bleeding from the nose. Some historians have speculated that he had been poisoned. Squanto was buried in an unmarked grave.

On a lighter note, peace between the two groups lasted for another fifty years.

So as we sit today, over filling our bellies with food that doesn’t even resemble a feast nibbled on by the settlers, we give thanks to those who persevered, withstood unending hardships and endured to give us what we have today. Thank you, Squanto. Amen.

Everything I needed to Know I learned in Farmville

Dr. Weakly, my psychologist, has been studying my mind diligently for several years, and has decided that it may be interesting enough to write about. He says if I am willing to participate there is a good possibility that he will be nominated for the Distinguished Scientist award. The annual conference will be held at Minneapolis City Center Marriott. I agreed to participate immediately, if only to visit an exotic location like, Minneapolis, and I hear the Marriott’s are fantastic.

This week, our study was narrowed down to researching insight as the product of internal processes. Doctor Weakly is determined to find out if some of my bright ideas are inspired by cultural artifacts, external objects or perhaps secretly implanted by aliens while I am sleeping.  

 I told him that the alien theory is not possible since, for the last ten years, I have been sleeping with a thought screening helmet that I fashioned from a 1920’s flapper hat and lined it with Velostat. I found instructions on an Internet website that provided potential abductees sorely needed defense against telepathic wars being waged by evil doing aliens. I agreed to bring my helmet to our next session so he could examine it.

Dr Weakly also asked me to sit in a darkened room, actually I think it was his broom closet, for an hour, which was the length of an entire session. I sat in the straight-back wooden chair and stared into a 60 watt light bulb hanging  at eye level. Dr. Weakly explained that the light bulb is an external object that is imbued with meaning. He gave me a pad of paper and asked me to attempt to answer an unsolved mathematical question, do odd perfect numbers exist?

I stared into the light bulb for a full fifty-eight minutes before writing this sentence; Since it is people who have determined that numbers are even or odd, all numbers are perfect. We must not allow other people’s opinions to color our self image. Numbers needn’t feel as if they are odd just because they have been labeled as such. They are not odd. They are just numbers.

My confident smile disappeared when Dr. Weakly’s eyebrows flew up after reading my answer.  He glared at me and explained that the mathematical  question he gave me involved positive integers, restricted divisor function and proper divisors. 

“The first few perfect numbers are, six, twenty-eight, four hundred ninety-six and eight thousand one hundred twenty-eight,” he said. “Anyone with half a brain knows that.”   

I willed myself to stop crying once he had finished his twenty minute lecture on comprehending the English language.  At least he was kind enough to drive me home. It took a full three days for my retinas to recover from the experience. Thankfully, the blob I was seeing has gone from forest green to cyan and I have assurance from my Ophthalmologist that my color blindness will correct itself in time.

I woke up early this morning and was excited about an insight I had received during my REM cycle. It wasn’t alien in nature, and it seemed to agree with Dr. Weakly’s theory about cultural artifacts acting as a catalyst for insight. I realized that everything of value that I have learned is due to playing FarmVille!

FarmVille has taught me that you can’t put two bulls in one dairy farm. Helping your neighbor often brings gifts.  Never plow and plant at the same time, it takes too long. With experience come large tanks of gas. Just because I never heard of Patty pan Squash doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.  Manuel harvesting can lead to index finger cramping from clicking the mouse.  If you don’t set your livestock to ‘stay’, they will run away. Too bad there isn’t a real setting for children and husbands. You can mute the farm noises if they make you crazy. Again, wouldn’t this be a nice feature to use on the neighbor’s barking dogs and annoying people? Make the most use of the size farm that you have, parcel constraints must be considered.  It doesn’t matter how many houses you own, you will still be standing in the middle of your crops when you return to the game.  It’s much easier to plow, plant and harvest if you use the proper equipment. Putting all your chickens in one coop will save you loads of time when collecting eggs. Stabilizing your horses is a good idea. Dairy farms bring in big ‘Moola’. Pea crops are the most lucrative. Peas on earth is the lesson here. Holidays in FarmVille last much longer than one day. Something we should all practice. Always honor a neighbor’s request. You can find just as much fertilizer on your Facebook home page as you will find in FarmVille.

And last, but not least, I have found a wonderful secret for leveling up faster. Sorry, I will keep that one to myself. 

The Art of Animal Twaining

Recently, The Associated Press, reported a donkey who was jailed for acting like an ass. It seems that, Blacky, was incarcerated for three days for biting and kicking two men near a ranch in Mexico. There was no mention of how far he had kicked them. The men said all of a sudden, the donkey was on top of them like it was rabid. What the story neglected to say was what the men did to provoke the poor Equus Asinus. Really, what would anger a donkey to the point of needing a half-dozen men to control him? Maybe Blacky is just in need of some training. Obviously, the men were ignorant of the importance of treats in training.

I grew up in a farm atmosphere, not in the mid-west, but  in the San Fernando Valley. When people ask me if I was raised in a barn, I can proudly say…yes. We had a goat that would dash into the house when  someone opened the back door. He would race to the living room and jump on the couch. My mother would scream,“get that goat off my couch!” I don't know why she got so upset.

I had a pet chicken named, Pee Wee. She snuck in the house whenever she had the chance too. Although they were not house-trained, heh, they were like family and I took pride in my training techniques. I was quite proficient in the reward technique and was an expert in handling excitable livestock.

Not once, were any of our animals jailed although we did have a dog who loved to kill chickens. My father had a fail-proof training technique for AJ (short for alligator jaws), even though some people might think it inhumane. He tied one of the dead chickens to the AJ’s neck and left it to rot for a few days. Sad to say, AJ just ended up being a stinky chicken killer. Then came that sad day when AJ was taken to live at a chicken-free residence a few blocks away.

I used to walk the long way to school just to visit him. I would pet his short black fur through a chain link fence and he always seemed so happy to see me. For months I would take him a few doggy biscuits and tell him how sorry I was that he couldn’t live with us anymore. That is, until the day I was horrified to see the dead mailman tied to his neck.