Blame the Beetle

A friend is telling a you story and it goes on and on and on and on and on and on and you kind of lose the thread and then when you come to, you realize that you have no idea what is going on in this conversation, and you suddenly suspect that perhaps your fourth grade teacher’s comments on your report card were right: You really aren’t very good at choosing friends.

Which reminds me of a story:

I’m jogging down the sidewalk (or maybe it is up the sidewalk--I’m not really sure how that is determined) and at the last second I notice a large, fat, very crunchable black beetle in my path, which I deftly side-step. It is laying, squirming really, on its back, and its crawly and hairy little legs are scrabbling madly at the air in an apparent attempt to right itself. Karma. This word unexpectedly hits my brain as I am landing on the other side of this unpleasant little coleoptera. I suppose because I only woke up two hours previously and I’m still not thinking clearly, I stop mid-stride, turn around, and ever so gently nudge the small, shuddersome beast upright with the toe of my sneaker. Stuck somewhere between smiling and cringing, I watch as it takes its first step of freedom...and promptly flips back over onto its creepy back again, spiny legs and claws cycling hysterically in the air once more. But is it truly frenzied and terror-stricken, or are there darker motivations behind its torturous twitching? As I turn and jog away, my hopes for beetle-borne blessings fading away like a wisp of Raid on a morning breeze, I wonder if in reality the little bugger is writhing with laughter, having so easily snatched propitious providence from this giant, pale biped.

Think of all the insects in this world that we deliberately or *accidentally* fold, bend, spindle, and/or mutilate. Whether or not those bugs are willing participants is irrelevant-- that is a heck of a lot of bad karma, and it explains A LOT:

Toasters that toast only on one side (all toasters).

Clogged drains.

Ring around the collar.

Political rants on Facebook.

Brussel sprouts.

Apps that close out with no warning.

Rap music.

Grumpy people.

Plastic wrap that sticks only to itself.

Weeds.

Frozen, muddy, salty, icy, sludge in April--or really any month.

Tootsie Rolls.

Cable network news anchors.

Little pieces of popcorn kernel that get stuck between your molars.

Socks that disappear in the laundry.

The Islamic State.

Yellow-gray pit stains.

Brain freeze.

Violently aggressive small dogs with bulging eyes.

Fourth grade report cards.

_________________________________________________________________________

(Was that really the end? Or did you miss something? Maybe your teacher was right.)

Saving the Earth, One Cricket At A Time

A couple of months ago, I found myself inexplicably curious about food trends. Okay. Truth be told, there was a measure of explicability regarding my curiosity: I had recently discovered the yum factor of a handful foods which previously I had difficulty even pronouncing, such as quinoa, falafel, couscous, and chipotle...or is that chipoltay? (I still have no idea what to do with acai or sriracha, and regularly slaughter bruschetta, but if you so much as think the word sherBERT in my presence, you will be immediately and soundly slapped -- in an obviously passive voice.)

As a side note, cleverly disguised as a paragraph, a couple of years ago, I overheard some friends discussing ways to prepare something called keen-wah. In the following months, I heard about it more often and wondered what it was, and what accounted the sudden celebrity of this funky, unpronounceable little grain? So in a moment of weakness, I looked it up. Wikipedia describes quinoa as “a species of goosefoot...a grain crop grown primarily for its edible seeds. It is a pseudocereal rather than a true cereal.” Ahhhh! A "pseudocereal”! Okay, I totally get that -- like Cap'n Crunch's Sprinkled Donut Crunch or Post’s Poppin’ Pebbles (“Fizzes in your mouth with burstin’ berry flavor!”) Suddenly quinoa's meteoric rise to fame began to make sense.

One evening last January, I spent far too much time sipping a strong mug of milk chocolate Swiss Miss, because sometimes January requires comfort food, and learning about some pretty amazing food trends, as well as some downright batty foodies. I discovered the Good -- the rise of fats, savory waffles, and the “new” burger (I love the kind with a cooked egg, bacon, and maple syrup on it); the Bad -- seaweed, fermented foods, and savory ice creams; and the Unconscionably Weird -- parsnip cakes, cucumber sorbet, and beet flourless chocolate cake. And then I nearly choked on my mini marshmallows: “insect powered food”. Call your broker now and divest yourself of all your stock in Raid because there is a much more eco-friendly way to handle those household pests. And don’t even think about siccing Fluffy or Boots on them anymore; round ‘em all up yourself (the bugs, not the cats) and fire up the grill.

This from a chilling article in Time.com: “Insects are protein powerhouses; grasshoppers, for instance, have about the same protein content as a chicken breast. Full-bodied insects won’t appear in your Safeway this year; get ready for them to arrive in processed form, especially protein-packed power bars... [And expect] insects, processed as flour, to soon become a popular protein sources for bakery and cereal products. Full-bodied insects — tentacles and all? Further off, but coming.”

But in all seriousness, when you think about it, it makes total sense to make a switch: Per pound of usable beef, we use twenty-five pounds of feed and two thousand gallons of water! By contrast, a pound of cricket meat only requires two pounds of feed and a gallon of water. The other obvious solution here is to skip the crickets entirely and just eat the cricket feed instead. If I remember my pioneer history, I kind of think crickets feed on our crops. So to save the earth, we just go ahead and eat the quinoa or Sprinkled Donut Crunch after all. I'm ready to do my part.

Exhaling Pop Rocks

I'm dying. It's that simple. And honestly it is a relief to finally come to terms with my impending and inevitable expiration.

I check my temperature, for the third time in 10 minutes: holding steady at 98.6. To the casual observer, 98.6 may sound "normal"...or "average"...or "ordinary"...or "typical". But I take great pride in being an informed participant in my own physical and mental health, and I happen to know that according to this thermometer, "normal" for my unsick body is actually 96.8! Therefore, at 98.6 I am feverish, febrile, fiery, and flushed, and rambling more or less directly down the slippery slope to death's door.

Because I am generally given neither to hyperbole nor to embellishment -- I'll admit to occasional verbal aggrandizement but that's different-- it must be acknowledged that I am in a very serious situation. It is 2:00 in the morning and I am alone. Ken and Emma are comfortably and healthily wrapped in their cocoons of silent and selfish slumber, while I eke out the last minutes of my short life, alone on the futon, fighting my delirium in order to play my next few turns on Words with Friends.

I cautiously inhale and it feels as though I've just sucked up an entire hill full of ants. I attempt to exhale and I gasp and choke and splutter and..um...well...cough. It is a packet of Pop Rocks powder in my lungs. My eyes bulge from the effort and veins stand out on the side of my head, and yes, I did bring a small pocket size mirror into the den with me, so I know. It is important to chronicle all details for the future use of the Emergency Room staff. When the next round hits, I attempt to hold my breath rather than exhale. I really have no explanation for this tactic. Blame it on the fever. This stratagem ends in the near disastrous result of my head exploding: body fluids bursting out of cranial orifices like too much fizz in a bottle of pop.

Exhausted from the effort of coughing, debilitated from the effort of not coughing, I quickly finish my BuzzFeed quiz (Rapunzel, and I should live in Hawaii) and feebly fold in half over my pillow. I whip out the mirror again and notice that my eyelids are getting heavy. I cough and I wheeze and I splutter and I gasp and I even choke, for good measure, as I gradually drift into syncope, having narrowly avoided The End this once. But who knows if my luck will hold out the next time my allergies flare up. I recommend that you send chocolate, or more chocolate (flowers aren't edible), sooner rather than later -- just in case.

I Recommend the Umber Jodhpurs

After a brief sabbatical of eight months or so (yes, it was a very nice nap) I have decided to take up the pen again, so to speak, in defense of the much maligned fashion trend of Guy Capris, or as my brother descriptively refers to them, “France Pants”. In an article dated April 1, 2015  (yeah-- what about it?) the NBA announced that the Utah Jazz, “once again at the forefront of NBA fashion”, will be wearing Three-Quarter Court Pants. You may have noticed that Three-Quarter Court Pants is a much more macho and manly name than “capris”, which are named for the Italian island of Capri and which is literally translated as “girly girl clothes” (not to be confused with the islands of Bikini, Bermuda, or Gaucho.) Predictably, the ensuing online chaos, clamor, and commotion among fans could be summarized as, "Yikes, what a stupid idea."

The question as to whether or not this article is simply a hoax is in my mind quite irrelevant. What is at stake here is of far greater significance than whether or not this is an April Fools Day joke: This is about accouterment equality. Think about it. For years, Guys have had two (2, II) entire appellations for the length of their britches—Pants or Shorts. In the meantime, Women have had, in no particular order: pants, crops, capris, gauchos, pedal pushers, clam diggers, skimmers, Bermudas, walking shorts, the superfluously and redundantly named short-shorts, the confusingly named hot pants, and Daisy Dukes—named for an icon of American red-necked flooziness. For decades Guys have been stuck with just two boring trouser lengths. I say we let them enjoy their France Pants, and quit giving them such grief about it.

Guys need to be able to have a little fun with life, too.  Think about their occasionally dull and deprived existence: They don’t even have a decent color name vocabulary. Once you get them past the 8-count Crayola pack, they got nothing.  Several years ago my husband and I participated in a game where participants answered questions to show how well they knew their spouse or other family members. I was asked the color of my toothbrush to see whether or not Ken remembered it correctly. I quickly replied, “Coral”.  The ensuing uproar among the male participants and audience members was frantic, frenzied, and furious! Certain that I had chosen a color word which they could no more verify than chartreuse, ecru, or tourmaline, it took several patient, persistent, and very muscular women to point out that “coral” cannot be fairly nor accurately substituted with either red, pink, scarlet, vermillion, strawberry, or salmon.

Perhaps if Guys were able to add a little fashion fun and frippery to their wardrobes, without all the chauvinistic and narrow-minded badinage and persiflage, we would be one happy step closer to understanding this sentence.

Wasted Away Again In Slurpee-ville

In celebration of last Friday's "7-11 Free Slurpee Day", I decided to share an enticing, enthralling, and engrossing article I just read about the reigning Slurpee Capital of the World. It is mind-blowingly hortative. After all, you’ll need something upon which to try to focus, while your brain is defrosting from that semi-frozen, carbonated mixture of high fructose corn syrup, flavoring (someone really needs to define this word for consumers), and water you just guzzled--several days ago.

The Slurpee Capital of the World, as determined by the highest average sales of Slurpees per store, goes not to a hot, sweaty location like Florida, Texas, or Arizona; nor to a place known for startling amounts of sugar consumption like Utah (think jello). No; surprisingly, the champ for the 15TH YEAR IN A ROW is Manitoba, Canada, a province famous for polar bears, frostbite, and being north of North Dakota. My first thought was that this made no sense whatsoever--why on earth would a place that was already so superlatively chilled consume the most Slurpees of any place in the world? 

The reasoning behind the massive and bizarre Slurpee consumption in Manitoba becomes more apparent based on the following interview from the WSJ:

One local stated that, “Nothing makes you thirstier than shoveling a couple of feet of snow.”  Since parts of Manitoba  are, unbelievably, even farther north than Minnesota, and since they receive as much as 87 inches of snowfall annually, it makes sense that these folks get rather thirsty. And when they do, they need something to effectively recharge their depleted energy levels. Perhaps this further explains why some Manitobites like to “boost” their Slurpees with something a little more edgy. Vodka for example. I’m not kidding. As the article states, “To some Manitobans [oh], nothing beats a nippy winter night like a Slurpee with a nip of alcohol.” If there is low participation in the Slurpee Designated Driver Program, blame it on Minute Maid Cherry.

A spokeswoman for 7-11 suggested that Manitobans “have a greater appreciation for everything that’s cold.” NOW I get it. It’s all relative. Slurpees to a Canadian are probably like hot cocoa to you and I. Either that or their Slurpee brain-freeze has reached permafrost levels. This is the only possible explanation for the following true story, also reported in the WSJ. “Last December, during Winnipeg's coldest winter since 1898, [a certain Manitoban mama] took three of her children for Slurpees on a day with a wind chill of 60 degrees below zero. To protect their hands from the cold, she had them wear gloves and wrap cardboard coffee sleeves around the drinks.” Then they all came home and jumped in the pool, but it’s okay because they had t-shirts to toss on over their swimsuits when they got out.

Speaking of brain freeze, did you know that: “An ice-cream headache, also known as brain freeze, cold-rush, cold-stimulus headache, or its given scientific name sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia (meaning "nerve pain of the sphenopalatine ganglion"-and is also considered a misnomer since the pain nerves have nothing to do with the sphenopalatine/pterygopalatine ganglion, but travel along the trigeminal nerves [however, it is far too late to change the scientific name now, because sphenopalatine ganglioneuralgia is so catchy. How dull is it to say trigeminal...something or other...neuralgia”?]),* is a form of brief cranial pain or headache commonly associated with consumption (particularly quick consumption [thank you for clarifying]) of cold beverages or foods such as ice cream and ice pops [and frozen drinks with flavoring].”

Even more surprising than the fact that Manitobans are the Slurpee Consuming Champs of the world is the fact that there is actually a US city which begrudges Manitoba this title--or at the very least one distinctly disgruntled dude does. In 2008, residents of Kennewick, WA believed they had a lock on the championship. Mr. Maraschino (or something like that), who owns a 7-11 franchise in Kennewick, cried foul. He “alleges the rules were changed to count the number of cups of Slurpees sold and not the volume, putting his store at a disadvantage.” One would think that sucking down ounces and ounces of semi-melted, carbonated mixtures of high fructose corn syrup, flavoring, and water would be its own reward. He did, however, graciously concede the fact that “it’s all Slurpee under the bridge.”

If you’re not feeling sufficiently enlightened after this one, blame it on the permafrost. That 2 ounces did me in. 

* Creative and liberal use of punctuation marks brought to you by approximately ⅙ of a rapidly consumed  blue, semi-frozen, carbonated, flavored, beverage mixture. I am way too lame for Manitoba.

Critter Sampling

Back when our boys were very young, I fell victim to an unsubstantiated rumor that pets not only provided kids with companionship but taught them responsibility. Having myself grown up with a variety of critters underfoot, I was totally in favor of this excellent idea. I would teach my future world leaders Conscientiousness by getting them a small beast to care for and have dominion over. We settled on two little gerbils, which looked suspiciously like something you would normally want to trap and toss in a trash can, since we were then living in a pet-free rental and rodents don’t count as actual pets. However, I quickly learned that even a 4-year-old needs constant reminding to feed the little nippers (literally), but is not able to singlehandedly change the litter in a 10-gallon aquarium...without which chore the whole house quickly takes on the smell of a poorly run day care center. As a side note, I also learned that you cannot really save money on gerbil toys by building your own little DUPLO houses, futons, or hot tubs, because no matter how cute, practical, or well-designed they are, the gerbils will simply eat them, bolsters and all.

Over the ensuing years, we sampled a variety of pets: feral cats, random non-edible fish, more rodents (fluffy ones this time, because somehow that makes a difference), a mildly deranged Bichon Frise, and a hand-me-down classroom turtle. I am not including on this list the small army of pill bugs, owned at the time by my 8 year old daughter. Despite the fact that she named them, and that she became inconsolably morose when she lost track of them in her bedroom, they did not count as actual pets because: A- We never fed them nor had them spayed or neutered; and B- Most of them wound up in the dryer lint trap within the first 48-72 hours anyway. Did my children learn responsibility? As I think back and picture various scenes of accidental pet death and dismemberment, I’d say “culpability” is more accurate.

Despite the reality of pet ownership experienced by families such as ours, there are still folks pushing the agenda that pets are good for kids, as part of a complete breakfast. But seriously, here is what I have read about the benefits of pets:
Pets help with learning. True. See the last sentence in the above paragraph; it’s a circle of life kind of thing.
Pets encourage nurturing. We probably didn’t see much pet nurturing until we allowed our young daughter to paint a pet rock for herself.
Pets provide comfort. I struggled a bit with this one. The rodents, who dig their pointy little fangs into your fingertips? The fish, or the feral cats, who don’t seem to enjoy belly rubs? The Bichon Frise, who is almost constantly in a Time Out for having pooped on the sofa AGAIN? Or the hand-me-down turtle, who hangs out in his shell 23.75/7, with a little thought bubble over his head which reads, “Forget lettuce. Bring collard greens.”? Fortunately, after a few minutes, I envisioned the comfort of having a pill bug in your pocket, while you stand at the front of the class, reciting times tables. But please do remember to take it out before you throw those pants in the laundry.
Pets keep kids healthy. Our experience was more in the vein of stitches, rabies shots, life-threatening asthma attacks, and months of therapy (see the last sentence, paragraph two, above). However, some doctors believe that “having multiple pets actually decreases a child's risk of developing certain allergies.” One theory: "When a child plays with a dog or a cat, the animals usually lick him.” [Note: turtles generally do not lick human children because they are still holding out for collard greens. If they do not get them soon, however, your child or her pill bugs may be considered adequate substitutes.] "That lick transfers bacteria that live in animals' mouths, and the exposure to the bacteria may change the way the child's immune system responds to other allergens." If the immune system does not respond properly, and the child still develops allergies, you can now experience the joys of owning bacteria.
Pets build family bonds. Because nothing fosters sibling solidarity like hiding out together in a bedroom closet while mom or dad are looking for someone to scoop the litter box.

Comet, our six-year-old Golden Retriever, is the happy ending to this tale (read: there ain’t no dang WAY we are doing any more pets after this one goes). From this sweet, loyal, and very hairy dog, we have learned:

1. that dogs and little girls can and do swap clothes and bedding, but you should draw the line at toothbrushes;
2. that dogs occasionally need their ear wax dug out, preferably by the resident middle-aged lady who has nothing better to do with her time;
3. that, from a dog’s point of view, pretty much ANYthing is worth licking once, partly because there is always someone to clean up puke for you (see #2 above);
4. that Golden Retriever hair always finds it way from the vacuum bag back into the house, unless you drive the vacuum to a fairly distant landfill and have someone else dispose of it--the entire vacuum--for you;
5. that dogs are more loyal and loving companions than most varieties of rodents--and they don't eat their young.

If only we had gotten this little sweetheart years sooner!  Just think of the money we could have saved on DUPLO.

Where Seals, Seraphic Beings, and Spiro Agnew Meet

Every single day, hundreds of my friends ask me, “Barbara, with all the beautifully gripping, lusciously gritty, and downright electronic TV shows out there, why on earth do you never, EVER watch TV, with the occasional exception of Sesame Street, NBC nightly news, Cardinals baseball games, Sponge Bob Square Pants, Sherlock, Downton Abbey, Storage Wars, and Monster High?” Okay, I’m exaggerating for the sake of effect again--I only have two friends, and Comet doesn’t actually know that much English. Usually, I just quickly and uncomfortably change the subject because I don’t want my friends to feel bad about themselves when they realize that I am far too cerebral, cultured, and au courant for them (said the woman who recently blogged about the toilet tech fair). But the reality is that with all the happily diverting articles in the newspaper keeping me engrossed for half hours on end, who needs TV? And people wonder what I do all day now that I no longer homeschool….

Take the recent article about the secessionist movement in rural northern California to create the 51st state of the United States, the esteemed and beloved state of Bush. Just kidding! But wouldn’t that make a completely awesome name for a state? Instead they want to name it Jefferson. boring. Even some of the completely forgettable presidents, whose names I had to look up because I couldn’t remember them, of this great nation have names with more far interesting imagery associated with them, such as Garfield (fat orange cat), Pierce (loud, funny doctor on MASH), Johnson (No More Tears, No More Tangles), and Cleveland (that hopping place in...um...Dakota Something). Or throw in a few vice-presidents and you get such fan favorites as Agnew, Quayle, and Cheney.  Who needs imagery? (As a side note: I love some of their first names even more. How about Elbridge, Spiro, or--everyone’s favorite--Hannibal?)

But coming up with a name for this new state is inconsequential, insignificant, and irrelevant compared with other truly weighty matters to be considered in pondering secession from their current state, for example, designing The Great Seal of the State of Jefferson. You may ask, and rightly so, “Barbara, what exactly is a state seal? It sounds very official and important, and I hunger for enlightenment.”  From the website, www.greatseal.com: “A seal is a pictorial sign that signifies and identifies an individual or group….

“Seals have been used since the dawn of civilization.... For the past 6,000 years, cultures old and new have used seals to indicate ownership, for security reasons, and to formalize contracts and agreements.”

When one looks through the seals of the various states of the United States of America, one discovers a beautiful world of symbolism and imagery, designed to convey to the observer an inspiring and uplifting sense of the history, the culture, or perhaps the wondrous and unique landscape of an incomparable and peerless territory: a gloriously rising sun, majestic animals, verdant greenery, peaceful bodies of water, stately mountains, seraphic and supernal beings, and bounteous cornucopias lavishly flowing with vibrantly hued harvests. It is positively breath-taking--or at least that last sentence is when read aloud. Now that you are in a sufficiently enraptured state of anticipation, prepare your heart and your soul to behold the Seal of the Great State of Jefferson:

I am fairly confident they didn’t even spring for an upgraded font. But I fear I have done the respected and beloved future state of Jefferson an unforgivable disservice in not displaying adequate reverence for the rich symbolism of this venerable insignia. Therefore, it is with the most sincere contrition which I can possibly fake that I now exhibit a more worthy display of the seal, one which ensures true thoughtful and solemn discovery of the deeper, richer symbolism:

I know if I  were to choose a pictorial sign to signify or identify myself or my group, this would absolutely be in my top 13 or 14. In fact, I’m going to order a commemorative t-shirt right now...or at least once this next episode of Duck Dynasty is over.