“Okay . . . ma’am. Well, you have a nice day.”
Sorry I’m Thin and Irksome
“You’re so thin. I hate you.” That’s a tad harsh, isn’t it?
I mean, I would never consider saying to someone, “Your boobs are so big, I hate you,” or “You’re so tall, I hate you.” Yet throughout my life, people have angrily commented on my size, as if I’ve done something to offend them, and have some explaining to do.
After demanding to know how I’ve stayed thin, they almost always follow it with, “Well, you better enjoy it now because once you go to college/get married/have kids/turn forty, you’ll wish you had.”
Well, I’ve passed those markers and still remain thin, much to the annoyance of pretty much everyone. Because I know that whenever someone asks how I stay so thin, what they really mean is, “Why the hell do you get to stay a skinny bitch when the rest of us have to count every calorie?”
To be honest, I’ve wondered the same thing.
My only answer is that I’m thin because my family is thin. I don’t mean genetically thin; I mean we think and eat like thin people. Whereas some people live to eat, we are the freaks who merely eat to live.
My family is made up of overly anxious “everything needs to be in its place” types, and, for us, meals are yet another mess- creating chore. As my eldest sister once said, “If I could take a pill instead of eating, I would.”
The fact that my mom was a horrible cook didn’t help
either. There were literally no spices in her kitchen. Even the use of salt was frowned upon. Meat was served so well done you could practically hear it screaming for mercy.
As an adult, and out on my own, my feelings remained the same. Food satisfied a basic need. But then I met the man who would become my husband. A man who loves to eat. A man who lives to eat.
Every one of his memories involves a meal. He recalls events by their menu. “Remember, it was the time we met Dan and Brian at that place where we had the caramelized honey short ribs?” Or, “Let’s stay at that hotel, you know, the one with the bar that served the seared ahi and avocado tartare.”
Um, no, I don’t remember the short ribs or the tartare.
Perhaps actual names or dates would be of help?
Also, his grandparents owned a bakery, so his family life revolved around cooking, baking and food. I knew our families were different, but never was this more apparent than when it came to the holidays.
“What happened to my beer?” I remember my husband asking at our first Christmas with my family.
“Oh, were you still drinking that?” one of my sisters responded.
I should have warned him. Though my family hosted a traditional Christmas with the appropriate menu, the emphasis was on maintaining order.
If someone made the mistake of leaving a glass unattended on a coffee table, it was quickly bussed to the dishwasher before the owner had a chance to return. Half- eaten snacks were disposed of while their owners looked away, and within seconds of a present being opened, another family member would swoop in to grab the discarded paper, and rush it outside to the garbage can.
The real shock however, came when my husband tasted the food. My family served what looked like a delicious holiday meal, but it wasn’t really. Peppered with disdain yet void of actual seasoning, our bland overcooked turkey and boxed mix stuffing deeply upset him. The previously frozen limp green beans, the canned yams, and the jarred cranberries almost drove him to tears.
But the ultimate insult, to this man of purebred baker stock, was the taste-free bone dry crusted store-bought dessert that tried to pass itself off as pie. He was duly horrified, but finally understood why there wasn’t an overweight one of us in the bunch.
Over the years he’s tried to introduce change to our holiday meals, but with little result. So finally he took matters into his own hands, and hosted Christmas at our home.
Our guests were greeted with bacon wrapped dates, grilled vegetables, and assorted cheeses. Dinner arrived complete with chorizo cornbread stuffing, French green beans with almond and garlic slivers, and his special recipe macaroni and cheese. Then, my husband topped it off by serving his homemade pies. Five kinds of pies.
For food lovers it would have been truly glorious, and though my family was politely appreciative, my mother had difficulty accepting the change. She questioned the omission of canned yams and noted, “Macaroni and cheese on Christmas? That’s so unusual, but I’m sure some people might like it.”
Even when the food is good, we don’t enjoy it like other people do. Like this year when my sister and I agreed to host Thanksgiving together at my mother’s house. My husband wisely stood back and silently watched as my sister and I planned a menu. Neither of us was willing to actually cook, so I ordered stuffing, potatoes and turkey from a local gourmet grocery store and she dealt with the rest.
It wasn’t until the morning of Thanksgiving that I realized we forgot to buy any sort of appetizer. My sister, who never snacks, was unconcerned and didn’t see the need, but at this moment my husband could keep quiet no longer. “Are you people mad? There has to be something to eat while we wait to eat!” Neither my sister nor I understood that logic.
While serving pre-cooked foods probably sounds easy, reheating that turkey and all those sides in my mom’s tiny microwave oven was truly exhausting. Then finally, after hours and endless rounds of zapping, we got the meal on the table. It tasted, well, like Thanksgiving dinner. Whatever. Then, thirty seconds after the last bite, we spent another two hours cleaning up.
Driving home that night, I finally figured out the answer to that frequent question, “How do you stay so thin.” A good meal, according to my husband, involves a food-splattered kitchen, sauce drippings on a nice shirt, crumbs on the tablecloth, spilled wine on linen napkins, and laughter about who made the biggest mess. That mess is the mark of a thoroughly enjoyed meal.
But for people like me that trade off isn’t worth it. Why am I so thin? Because, I’d rather take a pill.
Middle of Week Nine
One hundred percent of the parents I’ve run into in the last two weeks have complained to me about our school’s early start date. Even though two years ago, when the change to the school calendar was first announced, I could only find five people willing to join me in the fight against it. I was confident that people would rue the day that the school calendar was changed, and indeed there is a lot of ruing going on in town right now. I try not to say, “I told you so,” but since it’s the only pleasure I get from the situation, it tends to slip out.
Probably because I’m so opposed to this mid-August school start nonsense, I’ve been in total denial about it. Yesterday, when I realized there was only one week left of “summer,” I took the younger girls to the aquarium. It’s the closest thing we’ve had to a vacation. We didn’t get to take a real vacation this year because Chloe is going to an expensive college we can’t afford and “we will never take another vacation again,” according to my husband.
Chloe moves into that expensive college’s dorm in only two weeks and I haven’t bought towels or bedding or lamps or any of the crap that’s likely on the list that I haven’t bothered to download. She’s not the least bit ready.
There’s so much I haven’t prepared her for, so much I’ve left out. She’s never even done laundry! She never hangs up her clothes. She doesn’t even know how to make a proper bed. Good Lord how will she change her sheets? I can’t go to the dorms each week to change them for her. Can I? Certainly that’s frowned upon.
Did I ever teach her common sense things like don’t get in an elevator with a strange man, or leave your drink unattended at a party, or cross the street while texting so you don’t get hit by a bus? Did I tell her to always have her keys ready when she walks to her car so she could gouge an attacker’s eyeballs out?
My God, I’ve done an awful job.
But if I try to tell her these things now, will she even listen?
“Hey!
I’m on the A-List!” Peyton shouts. “No way, how?” Chloe and Samantha ask.
They’re playing that Kardashian app about social climbing in Hollywood, and are completely oblivious to my mounting panic.
I want to stop them, partly because this app will surely make them morally bankrupt, but also because I need help getting the school prep done.
But then I see them laughing and having fun and I realize that this almost never happens, the three of them enjoying something together. Chloe and Samantha, sure. Samantha and Peyton, maybe. But all three? Never.
This stuff can wait.
Laundry and College in 7 Easy Steps
Dear Chloe,
Your dad said that you said I forgot to teach you how to do laundry. Perhaps you think it was some sort of parental failing on my part, but actually it was intentional. I washed your clothes for the past 18 years so you could spend your time on more important things like studying, resume building, and improving your score on the Candy Crush app.
But since you are leaving for college, it’s time to learn: HOW TO DO LAUNDRY:
1. First, check the label of anything expensive or fancy to see if it needs to be dry-cleaned. Set garment aside. On second thought, forget that. You can’t afford dry-cleaning. Why did you buy something that’s dry-clean only? Donate it and take the tax write off. We need the money to pay for your expensive college!
2. Next, separate DARKS from WHITES. Okay, go ahead and say it, I’ll wait. “That’s so racist!” Hah! That never gets old. You kids are so clever. Now back to it. Blues, greys, blacks, purples go in one dark pile. Reds, oranges, and pinks go in another. That’s your RED pile. Whites go in a separate pile - a separate but unequal pile. Why are they unequal? Because they need bleach. But we’ll get to that later.
3. Now you’re ready to wash. Can you feel the excitement? Start by taking the darks and throwing them in the machine. Set dial to cold water. Set other dial to permanent press or 8 or 10 or 12 minutes. Whatever. It doesn’t really matter. Pour in a cap full of soap (or less, because detergent is really expensive and you rarely exercise so your clothes don’t get that stinky). Turn machine on by pulling knob or pushing something or by inserting some sort of monetary offering.
4. When it’s done (the machine stops shaking and making noise), it’s time to separate them again. All those shorty short shorts you have - good Lord, we don’t want them to get any shorter so set them aside. Same goes for all those cheaply-made blouses, skirts, and shirts. Hang dry these items in your room using anything: hooks, closet doors, chairs, or bunk beds, but be sure not to encroach too much on your two roommates. Hah, two roommates. I still can’t believe there’s going to be three of you in that tiny little room. What a nightmare! But you’ll be fine, really. I’m sure. Please always be considerate of your roommates. Don’t be messy and don’t leave food bits in the room because that will attract ants or worse. And you don’t want worse. Then again, don’t be a pushover either. If they do something annoying, you gotta say something. Like if they’re bringing dudes home every night, don’t put a pillow over your head and pretend not to notice. Tell them to knock that S%&t off!
5. Okay, for the RED load repeat steps 3 & 4. Now if (and only if) your reds are really old and there aren’t enough machines available, then throw them in with the dark load. But frankly, with the money we’re paying for that place, there damn well better be enough machines available. Speaking of which, don’t forget you are a paying customer at that school. If you’re not getting the classes you need, you have to raise a stink. Don’t get enrolled in “Finnish Folk Art and Technology” or “The Films of Jean-Claude Van Damme” cause then you’ll end up taking five years to graduate and we can’t afford that. Also, you need to suck up to your professors (figuratively of course) and don’t worry about being labeled a teacher’s pet. This isn’t high school. You need professors to be on your side to get the most out of this place. Did I mention the price tag?
6. Now let’s do WHITES. Simply turn the water temperature to hot. Repeat step 3 & 4, but add a little bit of bleach, like a half a cup or so in that little doohickey near the top. Speaking of hot water, your first job there is to get an education. Remember that. Study first, and then have fun. School. Work. Fun. That is the order of priorities. Remember, moderation is key. If you are going to ignore our advice and the laws of the land, at least don’t be the drunkest, druggiest girl at the party. Watch your glass and please, please, please, avoid designer drugs with cutesy names like Smiles or Spice or Special K. That stuff will kill you. Seriously, stick with good old-fashioned weed, and only a hit or two is all you need. It’s stronger than it used to be. Or so I’ve heard.
7. It’s time to DRY! Those few remaining items that don’t need to hang-dry can be combined into one economical dryer load. Set the dial to medium or low (never dry things hot or you’ll think the Freshman 15 has already happened), and then push the button. Easy, huh?
Let’s see, did I forget anything . . . oh, wash your towels every few days, sheets once every week or two, but don’t let it go three or that’s just gross. Maybe buy some dryer sheets, always use protection, and as any working adult will tell you, enjoy yourself because for the rest of your life you’ll wish you could go back.
Love, Mom.
End of Week Nine
“I feel so much better now that my anal gland has been emptied,” Buddy said as we left the vet’s building.
Okay, I know. I promised to stop talking about Buddy’s “problem,” but the “problem” hasn’t gone away. In fact, it’s gotten worse. So how can I ignore it? There is no ignoring that problem. There is not a smell on this earth that is more putrid.
I also can’t stop talking for Buddy in his dimwit doggie voice, and I think even he has gotten sick of it. Whenever one of us does it now, Buddy lets out this exasperated moan, “Enough already people, this has gotten so old. Don’t you have something better to do?”
The other night, our friend Ted was over, and I could sense that my husband spoke in Buddy’s voice one too many times too. Ted appeared noticeably uncomfortable, and seemed almost relieved when he announced that his new job would be taking him three states away before the month’s end.
While it might make our visitors eager to flee, it still makes me laugh when my husband talks for Buddy. Who knows, maybe my husband has gone a little bit crazy over the years. Maybe we both have. But the fact that we can still make each other laugh is what’s probably kept us married for almost 25 years. God, that sounds like a long time – 25 years. Holy shit, that’s because it is a really, really long time.
Our silver anniversary is in November and I’ve been trying to figure out how we should celebrate. My husband doesn’t want to have a party. I want to do something special, but I’m not sure what. I thought about surprising him with a photo montage set to that sentimental music from the “Twilight Saga” finale - you know, a real weepy sort of thing with photos from when we got married to having babies, and through the years till now.
But then I thought, it would seem so completely out of character that my husband would think I was having an affair or dying or something. So it would be way more trouble than it was worth. I don’t know. Maybe we’ll go wine tasting for a couple days. We like wine, and frankly, we’re both more attractive after a glass or two.
“No-oh. Please don’t leave me,” Buddy moans.
Ah. Don’t worry, sweet Buddy. We won’t go for too long. I would never leave my Buddy-boy.
Oh, or the kids.
Chopper, Part Three:
In Which His Reign Of Terror Finally Ends
Almost two years had passed since I’d begrudgingly welcomed the dragon-breath, mangy-furred, one-eyed shaky little mutt into our home. Chopper, the 500-year-old dog we inherited from my in-laws in lieu of a palatial estate, needed a place to live and given his age and poor health, I honestly figured it would only be for a few months.
But my diet and exercise plan breathed new life into the little guy, and as the
vet said, likely gave him quite a few extra months of life. Great news indeed!
I really hoped that since I’m a dog person at heart, I would eventually warm up to Chopper, but sadly, that was not the case. Months after he joined our family, I was no fonder of him than I was at the start.
That he looked like a cross between a rodent and a footstool wasn’t the problem. What bothered me was that Chopper didn’t give me any normal, dog-like affection, and there was a blankness behind his eyes . . . oops, I mean, eye.
My husband shared my disdain, but my kids and their friends did not. They loved Chopper. To them, that stinky little beast was the most wonderful dog on the planet. “Chopper is so cute!” they would often say.
My youngest especially adored him, so she was the most irritated when I routinely offered Chopper to anyone who came to visit. “He’s on sale today! I’ll throw in a six-month supply of food!”
She got really upset when I joked about wrapping him in bacon so the hawks might find him more appealing. I guess I did cross the line with that one. My daughter couldn’t understand why I didn’t love Chopper so I tried to explain, “He’s just not warm or friendly, and besides, I already have a dog.”
“Well, you have more than one kid and you claim to love all of us the same – or is that something you parents have to say?”
She had a point, so I promised to reform my ways, and reminded her that even though I joked about Chopper, I was the one who had actually been taking care of him. I was the one who fed him, bathed him, and spent what seemed like an eternity each night putting him to bed.
For her sake, in the year that followed, I made a real effort to say nice things about Chopper and I even gave him a cute nickname “Chop Chop” hoping that would help change how I felt about him.
But then Chopper made my mission more difficult when he started losing control of his bowels and began having repeated accidents in our house.
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