I have often said there's no end to my umbrage. And as we all know, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And of course, since there's no end to the A-Man's umbrage, the fallen apple is likely to piss off the flap dude. Witness his reaction to his poor apple selection after the school's garden dedication:
Favorite line (from Lucy) "I ate my bruises and they tasted like apple pie."
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Finally Flapping Florida: Part One
I guess it takes two trips to this over-developed hell hole to get my flap up. I was in Tampa last February, and just got back from Orlando last week. I'm gonna have to give Orlando--(new motto I'm offering their tourism bureau:"A place to come and eat trans fats if you do not live that close to Las Vegas!" ) it's own Flap.
But really, I can't blame Florida for all the irritants and umbrage from the first trip. That all came courtesy of the in-laws. The previous post re the wacky pool rules was just the beginning. What kind of people populate a community with such intricate rules and regs? People who have time to wax the chrome on their side-view mirrors. People who smoke stinky brown cigs and shell out wads of cash to keep their foo-foo dogs alive. People who keep decorating with a shell motif until you start wondering if you are really just staying in an under-utilized banquet room in a local seafood chain restaurant.
I've got pictures, Flap Nation so I can prove that it all really exists. So come with me. Come to land where you are actually not supposed to walk on the floor, where chocolate magically appears from the ice cube maker, where food isn't planned and prepared, so much as beaten and pulverized. The flavorless food is augmented with bizarre condiments like mango rhubarb jelly, wasabi mayonnaise and black cherry horseradish sauce. I lost two pounds that week. A latent benefit with a heavy price.
So, not only are there intense rules throughout the gated community about the exteriors and lots, the in-laws, who clearly thrive in this restricted environment, have brought the spirit of this repressive park regime into their own unit.
Flap-in-law rule # 1:
Do not walk on the floor. We, the occupants of this unit have an inordinate fear of foot fudge. If you insist on walking on the floors in this unit, we will be required to take protective measures. Therefore, all surfaces will be covered with sheets and towels. The occupants would appreciate it if you donned the socks that make everyone look like a bloated Dr. Suess character. We noticed the adult visitors tacitly ignore the aforementioned socks, so pointedly laid out on wooden bench near the entry-way with "Shoes Off Here!" painted in what we feel is a jovial script, but really comes off as irritatingly non-confrontational to our daughter-in-law who refuses to wear the socks because of the Tornado Effect--wherein the sight of the D-in-law wearing the fuzzy, brightly colored socks causes the son's genitals to curl back up into his nether cavity a'la the Wicked Witch of The Wests feet when the ruby slippers get transferred to Dorothy's feet. There will be no wearing of the socks by either adult visitor and the tension will build from day one, and grow as the week wears on and the towels and sheets become jumbled up and expose the actual floor surface.
Rule #2. Relax! Take it easy!
There's loads of time to do whatever you want, especially if you like to get up, read every supermarket circular in the St. Petersburg times,(approx. 45-60 mins.) make a shitload of bacon (approx. 25 mins. when you cannot find the pan which was under the goddamn stove the entire time) under the guise that "the kids like it" but really, you just want to eat it all, bumble in to shower and bathe your withered parts and blow dry what's left of your hair (approx. one hour) and then ignore every activity suggested by your daughter in law because they involve museums that might tax the intellect.
Let's take a break from the rules to allow a mild rant about this stupid fucking clock. It kind of sums up everything about the in-laws phony philosphy on "Taking it Easy." I mean, Who Cares, indeed! The owners of this clock are the ones that care! It's still TELLING TIME. If you really didn't care what time it was, a. the clock would not work or b. not exist. All these people do all day is pretend to be laid-back, when what they are really doing 24/7 is obsessing over ironing their slacks and wondering what the assholes in the units on either side of them think about them.
Thus concludeth part one. Part two resumes when I get back from brunch at Hott Mama's.
But really, I can't blame Florida for all the irritants and umbrage from the first trip. That all came courtesy of the in-laws. The previous post re the wacky pool rules was just the beginning. What kind of people populate a community with such intricate rules and regs? People who have time to wax the chrome on their side-view mirrors. People who smoke stinky brown cigs and shell out wads of cash to keep their foo-foo dogs alive. People who keep decorating with a shell motif until you start wondering if you are really just staying in an under-utilized banquet room in a local seafood chain restaurant.
I've got pictures, Flap Nation so I can prove that it all really exists. So come with me. Come to land where you are actually not supposed to walk on the floor, where chocolate magically appears from the ice cube maker, where food isn't planned and prepared, so much as beaten and pulverized. The flavorless food is augmented with bizarre condiments like mango rhubarb jelly, wasabi mayonnaise and black cherry horseradish sauce. I lost two pounds that week. A latent benefit with a heavy price.
So, not only are there intense rules throughout the gated community about the exteriors and lots, the in-laws, who clearly thrive in this restricted environment, have brought the spirit of this repressive park regime into their own unit.
Flap-in-law rule # 1:
Do not walk on the floor. We, the occupants of this unit have an inordinate fear of foot fudge. If you insist on walking on the floors in this unit, we will be required to take protective measures. Therefore, all surfaces will be covered with sheets and towels. The occupants would appreciate it if you donned the socks that make everyone look like a bloated Dr. Suess character. We noticed the adult visitors tacitly ignore the aforementioned socks, so pointedly laid out on wooden bench near the entry-way with "Shoes Off Here!" painted in what we feel is a jovial script, but really comes off as irritatingly non-confrontational to our daughter-in-law who refuses to wear the socks because of the Tornado Effect--wherein the sight of the D-in-law wearing the fuzzy, brightly colored socks causes the son's genitals to curl back up into his nether cavity a'la the Wicked Witch of The Wests feet when the ruby slippers get transferred to Dorothy's feet. There will be no wearing of the socks by either adult visitor and the tension will build from day one, and grow as the week wears on and the towels and sheets become jumbled up and expose the actual floor surface.
Rule #2. Relax! Take it easy!
There's loads of time to do whatever you want, especially if you like to get up, read every supermarket circular in the St. Petersburg times,(approx. 45-60 mins.) make a shitload of bacon (approx. 25 mins. when you cannot find the pan which was under the goddamn stove the entire time) under the guise that "the kids like it" but really, you just want to eat it all, bumble in to shower and bathe your withered parts and blow dry what's left of your hair (approx. one hour) and then ignore every activity suggested by your daughter in law because they involve museums that might tax the intellect.Let's take a break from the rules to allow a mild rant about this stupid fucking clock. It kind of sums up everything about the in-laws phony philosphy on "Taking it Easy." I mean, Who Cares, indeed! The owners of this clock are the ones that care! It's still TELLING TIME. If you really didn't care what time it was, a. the clock would not work or b. not exist. All these people do all day is pretend to be laid-back, when what they are really doing 24/7 is obsessing over ironing their slacks and wondering what the assholes in the units on either side of them think about them.
Thus concludeth part one. Part two resumes when I get back from brunch at Hott Mama's.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Burn While Reading?
The Flap Family turned into Mud Birds and left Vermont for warmer climes last week. We flapped all the way to Florida. It was our annual sojourn to the Flap-in-laws. They are snow birds living in what has to be the fussiest 55-and-and-over retirement community ever. Just how fussy? There are weight limits (22lb. max) on the dogs allowed to live there. And it's enforced. It's really nothing short of one of those country club-style prisons-- it's completely fenced in, there's man in a little hut to wave you in and out, the whole bit. Actually, I'm thinking a minimum security prison has fewer restrictions--have a gander at these pool rules!Their order makes no sense, but it all kind of builds up in the best "do not taunt happy fun ball" tradition.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Valentine's Day Flapaccre
Flapnation, I ask you:
When have you ever been able to cut the sexual tension with a knife in Hannafords?
It happened to me. This is my Flap.
Yes, this a post- Valentines day wrap-up--a general session of mild ill will towards this holiday that seems directed at working class folks who have allowed cable TV to "wither their genitals" (always be prepared for Simpsons refs with me). I got my first whiff of recollection that this clumsy holiday had returned last Saturday in the supermarket. And I do mean a literal whiff. Suddenly, right there in front of the citrus, I get a hit of Chaps, or Polo, or some sort of "Designer" fragrance available only at Walgreens. It shot right up my nose;I glance around and see a gruff--dare I say, chapped? working class dude in his Carharts, his maw wrapped around a bundle of hothouse flowers ensconced in cellophane, devoid of all fragrance. But like I said, he already had the fragrance covered.
Then, after noticing him, I pulled back a bit, let my gaze settle over the whole produce section and damn, if the store wasn't a mini-version of the Depot Scene from Gone With the Wind*--you know the one where the camera keeps pulling back, revealing more and more wounded soldiers? But instead of a forlorn Taps solo playing, I think Hannafords was playing "Evil Woman" by ELO.
All around me were gruff Carhart-clad dudes dutifully buying the ten dollar bouquets, some with a side-kick in the form of a teenage son. I realized that my buddy Rebeca would be so tickled if she were with me then. It's her favorite part of V-Day, going to a supermarket and watching the dudes buy the ugly bouquets. And those dudes really threw me off my stride. I normally charge in there on Saturday mornings during the A-man's karate hour, throwing all my junk in the cart just like the other Saturday marketing regulars. We all move about in an orderly fashion, knowing our purpose, navigating with ease. Not so, this V-Day Saturday. The befuddled male masses threw everyone off their game, clogging the aisles with their confusion over what nice things they should be picking up. To quote that fat asshole who runs the railway on the Isle of Sodor: "You are causing confusion and delay!"
And oh god, we all know what it's like when men shop even under non-holiday duress. I had experienced a classic just a few days ago. Flap-man said he would pick up a few items while the A-man was at karate. Even though we were out of milk, and really just needed a few perishables like lettuce, he returned with six cans of tuna, a half gallon of chocolate soy milk, a box of frozen fish stix for dinner and a mini-party pack of fresh shrimp, all clinging to this black plastic wheel thing, under a big plastic dome lid, with a plastic cup of cocktail sauce in the middle.
"Uh, honey, we won't be hosting Bridge Club for another 25 years, why the shrimp ring?"
"I thought we could just start eating it right away while the fish stix cook!"
"OK! Asked and answered!"
All this took place on Thursday, which was also the night that we needed to get our children's Valentines in order. I was getting nervous about creating approximately 40 valentines with the three pieces of pink construction paper I was able to dig up. Plus this household has never met a glue stick that wasn't shriveled up like Napoleon's dessicated penis. Did I mention is was just past 7:30?? No supplies, no energy, no time...I knew making them was never going to work, but I was really feeling for my kiddies. How stressful is it to realize that it's the night before and YOU DON'T HAVE ANY VALENTINES OR VALENTINES FIXIN'S AND SUPPLIES? I knew we were doomed when I showed the A-man the suggested size heart we needed to work with if all the valentines were going to be made with the three pieces of construction paper. He got so pissed! "Who wants a valentine that size? NOBODY!" he says as he dramatically tossed it on the ground. Because he had the true Valentine spirit, which is, make a nice, giant Valentine for your friend. Singular.
Why do we (the societal We) insist on hedging out any risk of our children experiencing emotional pain? I refer to the classroom rule about each child needing to give a valentine to the entire class if they chose to participate. It's so stupid! Kids aren't friends with every classmate at the Valentine level! And it sucks all your energy to pound out all those damn Valentines, when it's natural to just want to make one for the couple-few FRIENDS that you actually have. But it turns out I was destined to fight this one on my own, for not only was Bob fried from the karate/market combo errand, he was having an allergic reaction to that stupid shrimp ring. Witness:
7:45. Thursday evening. The night before the school Valentines exchange/orgy of red dye #2"
"Oh sweetie, it looks like you got pinkeye!"
"Nah, it's just the shrimp--remember, I'm allergic!"
"Christ. You need to take some Benedryl."
So there we were: 7 somethin' going on late, fish sticks in the oven, shrimp ring gone, my husband passed out upstairs, looped out on benedryl. There was only one thing to do:
"Get in the car, kids, we're goin' to th'Choppa."
Price Chopper that is. The "other" supermarket in town. The one I don't frequent because it totally smells like ass in there. But it's the perfect place to head while under duress, somehow.
We pull up, walk through the haze of cig smoke that's always lingering in the entryway, nod to the toothless greeter with the tight ponytail and mascara that makes her eyes look like two pissholes in the snow, and make our way to the now scantily stocked "Seasonal" aisle. They had condensed all the remaining valentines into one small box. Just let this sink in: these were the Valentines that even Choppa-Shoppas had rejected. But my kids were handling it well. A-man pleaded initially to head back to the school and grab a glue stick and a few more pieces of construction paper, but gave up quickly when he saw I wasn't gonna play. Besides, we needed milk!
Littlest flapper picked a Disney Princess trio-themed box. It was either that or the wretched Bratz dolls. It was called a "kit" because it came with stinky red lollipops I could smell through the box. Archie had more choices, cartoon network characters that none of us recognized, Superman, Spiderman, Cars, and Kung Fu Panda. He chose Kung Fu Panda. We trundled off, after grabbing the milk, and running into a woman in the dairy section I tangentially know who always engages me in useless conversation. But she always manages to bring this one subject up every time, so it's kinda fun to see how she's going to introduce it each time we run into each other. Ask me offline if you want to know what it is.
So we make it home, Flap man snoring softly upstairs, floating gently in his antihistamine-induced haze."hey, I think to myself, at least we didn't end up in the emergency room. "There's always something worse than the Choppa, right?
*I could have also used a "The Birds" analogy here, but it just wasn't that sinister.
When have you ever been able to cut the sexual tension with a knife in Hannafords?
It happened to me. This is my Flap.
Yes, this a post- Valentines day wrap-up--a general session of mild ill will towards this holiday that seems directed at working class folks who have allowed cable TV to "wither their genitals" (always be prepared for Simpsons refs with me). I got my first whiff of recollection that this clumsy holiday had returned last Saturday in the supermarket. And I do mean a literal whiff. Suddenly, right there in front of the citrus, I get a hit of Chaps, or Polo, or some sort of "Designer" fragrance available only at Walgreens. It shot right up my nose;I glance around and see a gruff--dare I say, chapped? working class dude in his Carharts, his maw wrapped around a bundle of hothouse flowers ensconced in cellophane, devoid of all fragrance. But like I said, he already had the fragrance covered.
Then, after noticing him, I pulled back a bit, let my gaze settle over the whole produce section and damn, if the store wasn't a mini-version of the Depot Scene from Gone With the Wind*--you know the one where the camera keeps pulling back, revealing more and more wounded soldiers? But instead of a forlorn Taps solo playing, I think Hannafords was playing "Evil Woman" by ELO.
All around me were gruff Carhart-clad dudes dutifully buying the ten dollar bouquets, some with a side-kick in the form of a teenage son. I realized that my buddy Rebeca would be so tickled if she were with me then. It's her favorite part of V-Day, going to a supermarket and watching the dudes buy the ugly bouquets. And those dudes really threw me off my stride. I normally charge in there on Saturday mornings during the A-man's karate hour, throwing all my junk in the cart just like the other Saturday marketing regulars. We all move about in an orderly fashion, knowing our purpose, navigating with ease. Not so, this V-Day Saturday. The befuddled male masses threw everyone off their game, clogging the aisles with their confusion over what nice things they should be picking up. To quote that fat asshole who runs the railway on the Isle of Sodor: "You are causing confusion and delay!"
And oh god, we all know what it's like when men shop even under non-holiday duress. I had experienced a classic just a few days ago. Flap-man said he would pick up a few items while the A-man was at karate. Even though we were out of milk, and really just needed a few perishables like lettuce, he returned with six cans of tuna, a half gallon of chocolate soy milk, a box of frozen fish stix for dinner and a mini-party pack of fresh shrimp, all clinging to this black plastic wheel thing, under a big plastic dome lid, with a plastic cup of cocktail sauce in the middle.
"Uh, honey, we won't be hosting Bridge Club for another 25 years, why the shrimp ring?"
"I thought we could just start eating it right away while the fish stix cook!"
"OK! Asked and answered!"
All this took place on Thursday, which was also the night that we needed to get our children's Valentines in order. I was getting nervous about creating approximately 40 valentines with the three pieces of pink construction paper I was able to dig up. Plus this household has never met a glue stick that wasn't shriveled up like Napoleon's dessicated penis. Did I mention is was just past 7:30?? No supplies, no energy, no time...I knew making them was never going to work, but I was really feeling for my kiddies. How stressful is it to realize that it's the night before and YOU DON'T HAVE ANY VALENTINES OR VALENTINES FIXIN'S AND SUPPLIES? I knew we were doomed when I showed the A-man the suggested size heart we needed to work with if all the valentines were going to be made with the three pieces of construction paper. He got so pissed! "Who wants a valentine that size? NOBODY!" he says as he dramatically tossed it on the ground. Because he had the true Valentine spirit, which is, make a nice, giant Valentine for your friend. Singular.
Why do we (the societal We) insist on hedging out any risk of our children experiencing emotional pain? I refer to the classroom rule about each child needing to give a valentine to the entire class if they chose to participate. It's so stupid! Kids aren't friends with every classmate at the Valentine level! And it sucks all your energy to pound out all those damn Valentines, when it's natural to just want to make one for the couple-few FRIENDS that you actually have. But it turns out I was destined to fight this one on my own, for not only was Bob fried from the karate/market combo errand, he was having an allergic reaction to that stupid shrimp ring. Witness:
7:45. Thursday evening. The night before the school Valentines exchange/orgy of red dye #2"
"Oh sweetie, it looks like you got pinkeye!"
"Nah, it's just the shrimp--remember, I'm allergic!"
"Christ. You need to take some Benedryl."
So there we were: 7 somethin' going on late, fish sticks in the oven, shrimp ring gone, my husband passed out upstairs, looped out on benedryl. There was only one thing to do:
"Get in the car, kids, we're goin' to th'Choppa."
Price Chopper that is. The "other" supermarket in town. The one I don't frequent because it totally smells like ass in there. But it's the perfect place to head while under duress, somehow.
We pull up, walk through the haze of cig smoke that's always lingering in the entryway, nod to the toothless greeter with the tight ponytail and mascara that makes her eyes look like two pissholes in the snow, and make our way to the now scantily stocked "Seasonal" aisle. They had condensed all the remaining valentines into one small box. Just let this sink in: these were the Valentines that even Choppa-Shoppas had rejected. But my kids were handling it well. A-man pleaded initially to head back to the school and grab a glue stick and a few more pieces of construction paper, but gave up quickly when he saw I wasn't gonna play. Besides, we needed milk!
Littlest flapper picked a Disney Princess trio-themed box. It was either that or the wretched Bratz dolls. It was called a "kit" because it came with stinky red lollipops I could smell through the box. Archie had more choices, cartoon network characters that none of us recognized, Superman, Spiderman, Cars, and Kung Fu Panda. He chose Kung Fu Panda. We trundled off, after grabbing the milk, and running into a woman in the dairy section I tangentially know who always engages me in useless conversation. But she always manages to bring this one subject up every time, so it's kinda fun to see how she's going to introduce it each time we run into each other. Ask me offline if you want to know what it is.
So we make it home, Flap man snoring softly upstairs, floating gently in his antihistamine-induced haze."hey, I think to myself, at least we didn't end up in the emergency room. "There's always something worse than the Choppa, right?
*I could have also used a "The Birds" analogy here, but it just wasn't that sinister.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Flapper-Keeper: The Post Where I Complain About how Unorganized I am
Greetings faithful Flap-Nation!
And I thank you for taking the time to put away your food journals, from sectioning grapefruit, pausing your Learn Spanish/Italian/Japanese language tapes, putting down The Iliad or Dante's Inferno--(or was this Paradise Lost's year?) You know, all the things that keep us middle-class/middle-brow folk occupied in the new year.
I trust your holidays went...?The flap household did the usual: hot chocolate for staying out in the snow for little more than seven minutes, obsessing over candy canes dangling off the tree like the goddamn forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden, and of course, watching classic "Family Holiday" movies together.
This year we curled up around the computer and fired up Meet Me in St. Louis, a movie so plotless and benign it makes any Walt Disney movie look like The Deer Hunter. And still! The littlest Flapper found cause for fear.* I should have known. This is a child who felt frightened at a Pooh-n-pals Halloween video. All Christmas season, she shrieked and left the room every time I sang the stanza from my favorite XMAS radio song, The Most Wonderful Time of the Year: "There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long agooooooo."
So anyway, here's the Flap-Family watching a movie about a family who lives in St. Louis, loves it, never wants to leave St. Louis. Not even when they get the chance to leave and move to New.York.City. God forbid, not with that huge fucking fair that's coming to town. After all, this family reasons, everyone else in the world who comes to the fair has to TRAVEL to St. Louis, and they ALREADY LIVE RIGHT THERE. Works for me, I guess. I hate long trolley rides, ya know?
And even though I've been watching this movie my entire life (I even had the sound track record when I was a kid) this year's viewing really fascinated me with just how over the top its whole Good Ol' Days of America message was. Seriously, if using the porn analogy, with Walt Disney movies being an issue of Playboy circa 1972, "Meet Me..."is a never-ending beaver shot from Hustler--any era. Countless adorable children licking giant lollipops in turn of the century sailor suits, mildly curmudgeonly grandfathers, heart of gold housekeepers, barking fathers who sputter over the top of their newspapers. It's all here, folks. The purest, most distilled example of Americana Pornigraphica. And it works, too. My kids are still singing the Trolley Song.
But wait! I implied, with my entry title, some classic bitching about my messy house! But I don't really feel like it anymore. I'm having one of those Sundays where I swear I'm going to put everything to rights. I'm going to trace my steps back to that pivotal moment when everything started going to shit (it's usually something like the night I didn't unload the dishwasher leaving no where to put the breakfast dishes except the sink and then I had to come home and make dinner with crap all over the counter and then I was too tired after making dinner under those conditions to clean up a double mess so I just started reading a goofy book instead...). Nope, today's not a day for the straight-up where-did-all-this-shit-come-from-and where/how/when-can-I-return it/burn it/abandon it? It's a day for believing in the power of my virtual Flapper-Keeper. That mental state where I persevere among the stacks of old magazines, possibly important papers, random playmobil pieces and finally figure out whether to shit or wind my watch.
In closing, I would like to offer my Erma Bombeck homage joke:
I read somewhere that women with fat asses have smarter kids--something about Omega-3 storage or some such. All I know is, if that's true, it's very possible one of my kids will be able to invert the space/time continuum.
*She got scared when Tootie went trick-or-treating
Friday, December 26, 2008
Flapdoodle Yens for Toggle Poncho
Not really--I was just looking for an opportunity to lay the phrase Toggle Poncho on my beloved Flap nation. It won't be the last time. Stumbled across the item while flipping through through a Land's End sale catalog tucked alongside my L.end bargains I just opened up. A few days earlier Baby sis had thrown a $25 gift card in the Christmas card--I wasted no time in whisking off with it before Bob could get his mind around what $25 bux at Lands End could do for him. Within minutes of receiving it I was trolling for bargains on all the random things I seem to need to make sense of my world.
I scored a pair of badly needed gloves (the only other current options were this skinky, pilled up pair I got at the J.Crew outlet that gave me penguin crotch between my fingers because they were too small, or whatever awful pair of leather, gorilla-black snap-on tool gloves I could find on the mudroom floor. ) These new ones, of course, just barely fit my huge manhands, but at least the penguin crotch-look is gone.
AND I finally scored something from Land's End's On the Counter scheme. I used to think it was all a sham--a sick little game to make you think there were really bargains with your name on them out there in Lands End Land. It's usually just canvas hats in 2T, bed linens with sailboats and forks on them, Men's pants with sailboats and forks on them....but finally, it was endgame for On the Counter. I am proud to report that I procured a bathing suit--of famous Land's End quality, no less, for NINE DOLLARS and FIFTY CENTS. It's one of their tankini models and its color-the only available, of course was the undecipherable "Agave." Sort of had a Mexican print thing going on. It was hard to tell what the print really looked like, but I wouldn't care if it depicted ancient Inca chihuahua sacrifices, it was less than ten dollars and in my size. Sold.
Part Two: Subway also serves Moons over My Hammy
A few weeks ago our family came up against that classic Busy Family of Four time crunch--I had left school late because of Student Council. I had the A-man with me and he was scheduled to try out Karate for the first time that evening. By the time I got home, we needed to jam straight to the Dojo. When was my slender sweet dude gonna eat, I wondered? As we were taking the left by the library and our town's Financial District, I glanced over at the neon glow of Subway. Hey, I said we could eat there after Karate, because I need to head back over to the school to photograph the evening performance of the play. (Sometimes I wonder if it ever ends, I mean, what's next, a goddamn Taffy pull?).
Everyone thought it sounded like a great idea;we don't get out much and this would be a hoot. A kick in the pants. A left to the jaw.
When we stormed in, there wasn't what I would call a crowd there at all. Just a cluster of college-y type dudes and this other guy who sent my former big city dwelling Crazy person alarm on a low buzz. His hair was just a bit too unwashed, he had items in plastic shopping bags that had not been originally purchased in said bags --like softly tattered newspapers and other assorted papers. Possibly a deeply rantful manifesto. Oh sweet smoking jesus, I do not frequent restaurants with those members of our society who have greasy hair and write manifestos.
I did all of this in that Gladwell Blink style, and promptly moved on to other more confusing things, like the backlit menu offering me the titter-worthy choices of six-inch or foot long. I left The Man to order the food so I could corral my overly-excited children who had taken over a booth and were showing it no mercy. Shortly after we entered, time seemed to stand still. At a moment when most Subway patrons would be balling up their sandwich wrappers and putting it in the wispy plastic bag and licking the inside of the chip bag (wait, that's just me) We had still.not.ordered.
Kids kept jumping in the booth.
College-y type dudes were still clustered near the register, having a civil, yet possibly increasingly tense conversation regarding their order.
Crazed loner still looming on the edges, but even he walks out, giving up after Bob gets his order in before he does.
Finally we get our food, and even though it's the ultimate standard order, an Italian and a turkey sub, the counter dude claims he can't find it on the register and requests that we pay after we eat. Okay, fine, we'll just go eat our shitty sandwiches and wonder why we ever came in here.
Meanwhile, the crazed loner has not only come back, he has gotten service. He shuffles over to the seating area and begins fussing with something in his bags with his back to us. I glance over, suddenly my former big city crazy person radar is on def con 4, a-whooo-gaaa a-WHOOOOO GAAAA. Bob hasn't noticed, but I say quietly and firmly, We gotta leave. Now. Leave. Let's leave, now. Finally he sees what I've been seeing, the manifesto-writing nut job has been sending us a little message, a little moon-mail, if you will. His pants were hoisted way down, beyond innocent plumber butt territory. My mom has a phrase she uses when one of us gets mad and throws a fit. She calls it Showing your Ass. Well, I guess some take that as a literal way to express anger.
At the time I just thought it was garden variety nut-job stuff, that his pants were down, his awful hairy ass exposed due to general indifference about his appearance, but by the time we got to the car, laughing and screaming with our kids asking what was going on, we realized he must have been deliberate about his message. Why, we will never know, but as Bob suggested, maybe he's really just from Corporate, paid to make sure Subway patrons get an honest, accurate experience of what it's really like to be in a subway. I'll take that. And from now on, I will not be taking my family to dinner via the Subway or any other way beyond whatever I can throw together in my kitchen.
I scored a pair of badly needed gloves (the only other current options were this skinky, pilled up pair I got at the J.Crew outlet that gave me penguin crotch between my fingers because they were too small, or whatever awful pair of leather, gorilla-black snap-on tool gloves I could find on the mudroom floor. ) These new ones, of course, just barely fit my huge manhands, but at least the penguin crotch-look is gone.
AND I finally scored something from Land's End's On the Counter scheme. I used to think it was all a sham--a sick little game to make you think there were really bargains with your name on them out there in Lands End Land. It's usually just canvas hats in 2T, bed linens with sailboats and forks on them, Men's pants with sailboats and forks on them....but finally, it was endgame for On the Counter. I am proud to report that I procured a bathing suit--of famous Land's End quality, no less, for NINE DOLLARS and FIFTY CENTS. It's one of their tankini models and its color-the only available, of course was the undecipherable "Agave." Sort of had a Mexican print thing going on. It was hard to tell what the print really looked like, but I wouldn't care if it depicted ancient Inca chihuahua sacrifices, it was less than ten dollars and in my size. Sold.
Part Two: Subway also serves Moons over My Hammy
A few weeks ago our family came up against that classic Busy Family of Four time crunch--I had left school late because of Student Council. I had the A-man with me and he was scheduled to try out Karate for the first time that evening. By the time I got home, we needed to jam straight to the Dojo. When was my slender sweet dude gonna eat, I wondered? As we were taking the left by the library and our town's Financial District, I glanced over at the neon glow of Subway. Hey, I said we could eat there after Karate, because I need to head back over to the school to photograph the evening performance of the play. (Sometimes I wonder if it ever ends, I mean, what's next, a goddamn Taffy pull?).
Everyone thought it sounded like a great idea;we don't get out much and this would be a hoot. A kick in the pants. A left to the jaw.
When we stormed in, there wasn't what I would call a crowd there at all. Just a cluster of college-y type dudes and this other guy who sent my former big city dwelling Crazy person alarm on a low buzz. His hair was just a bit too unwashed, he had items in plastic shopping bags that had not been originally purchased in said bags --like softly tattered newspapers and other assorted papers. Possibly a deeply rantful manifesto. Oh sweet smoking jesus, I do not frequent restaurants with those members of our society who have greasy hair and write manifestos.
I did all of this in that Gladwell Blink style, and promptly moved on to other more confusing things, like the backlit menu offering me the titter-worthy choices of six-inch or foot long. I left The Man to order the food so I could corral my overly-excited children who had taken over a booth and were showing it no mercy. Shortly after we entered, time seemed to stand still. At a moment when most Subway patrons would be balling up their sandwich wrappers and putting it in the wispy plastic bag and licking the inside of the chip bag (wait, that's just me) We had still.not.ordered.
Kids kept jumping in the booth.
College-y type dudes were still clustered near the register, having a civil, yet possibly increasingly tense conversation regarding their order.
Crazed loner still looming on the edges, but even he walks out, giving up after Bob gets his order in before he does.
Finally we get our food, and even though it's the ultimate standard order, an Italian and a turkey sub, the counter dude claims he can't find it on the register and requests that we pay after we eat. Okay, fine, we'll just go eat our shitty sandwiches and wonder why we ever came in here.
Meanwhile, the crazed loner has not only come back, he has gotten service. He shuffles over to the seating area and begins fussing with something in his bags with his back to us. I glance over, suddenly my former big city crazy person radar is on def con 4, a-whooo-gaaa a-WHOOOOO GAAAA. Bob hasn't noticed, but I say quietly and firmly, We gotta leave. Now. Leave. Let's leave, now. Finally he sees what I've been seeing, the manifesto-writing nut job has been sending us a little message, a little moon-mail, if you will. His pants were hoisted way down, beyond innocent plumber butt territory. My mom has a phrase she uses when one of us gets mad and throws a fit. She calls it Showing your Ass. Well, I guess some take that as a literal way to express anger.
At the time I just thought it was garden variety nut-job stuff, that his pants were down, his awful hairy ass exposed due to general indifference about his appearance, but by the time we got to the car, laughing and screaming with our kids asking what was going on, we realized he must have been deliberate about his message. Why, we will never know, but as Bob suggested, maybe he's really just from Corporate, paid to make sure Subway patrons get an honest, accurate experience of what it's really like to be in a subway. I'll take that. And from now on, I will not be taking my family to dinner via the Subway or any other way beyond whatever I can throw together in my kitchen.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
There's Only One Answer
My mild irritation with my hokey gym has not abated. It's because I go so damn much. As my ass gets smaller, my negative attitude grows. Plus, I am kind of annoyed with the Great Plan of the Universe in general these days, and since there's nothing I could do about it, ever, I am going to take it out on this bland, corporate entity. Although a few friends have received the verbal rant, allow me to cite the Curves Crimes for posterity:*
1. The culture of relentless greeting and dismissal by name. Quit saying hello to me personally every time I come in. I would much rather get half a glance over a raised newspaper, which is what I get at the Colonial from the sullen desk attendant when I show up to swim and swipe towels. I get the sense that over at Curves Corporate they pride themselves on their training in this. "Make sure every curves member gets greeted by name upon arrival and departure. " It makes the matching gym suit set feel special. I get the feeling the general Curves demographic looks for opportunities to feel special about all kinds of mundane, prosaic functions whenever they feel entitled. I wonder what the overlap is between the gung-ho Curves goer and those who identify with that awful Doves Chocolate ad campaign targeting harried women who are only insured bliss if they eat dove's chocolate pellets every time they manage to rinse out a crock pot or whatever.
All this feeling-good-about-doing-what's-expected-of-you crap leads me to the second Curves Crime...
2. Good-Jobbing the human wrecks who frequent the joint. I get the ol' GJ when I put my RFID tag that tracks my work outs, it's on the door facing me when I leave, and the phrase erupts erratically throughout the duration of my workout as I am exposed to everyone else's inane congratulating of one another over managing to survive half an hour on the curves machine circuit.
3. Infantilizing middle-aged women with goofy games and contests. Since there's no judgement here, I will confess that I actually buy into these. The instructions on the dry-erase board a few days before Halloween instructed us to "wear something orange" to "receive a treat." Since it's a gym, and not a candy store, I participated, thinking maybe I'd score a new hair band or somethin'. But no. It was junky Curves brand snak bars and microwave popcorn. I will conserve the rant about processed diet food for another post.
Now, as we enter the dangerous Holiday Season, with its attendant cookie exchanges and baked bries and ham made with seven-up, the good folks at Curves have initiated the holiday challenge to maintain your weight. It's a sign-up format, they initial your card every time you come in. Every week you are eligible for prizes, prizes, prizes. Stinky candles, ugly hand-knit scarves, it's like a goddamn Methodist Christmas Bazaar in there. Don't get me started on the pot holders. I signed up, sure, but you know, I pray I don't win any of this crazy crappazola. Why do people need prizes to go to the gym? How about avoiding a premature death --when did that stop motivating us?
But I noticed the most galling contest last week. Near this one machine that makes you wave your crotch at all the other gym goers, there's a glossy poster that says Work out Your Brain, too, or somesuch. There are rhyming clues that get revealed over the course of the week. The answers are simple enough for a five year old to figure out: "I hover near flowers and drink nectar, ect. Oh christ, it's a fucking hummingbird, people. There's a cardboard box on a table beneath it, with a pad of answer forms. I have formed a plan, a continuation of my Heh-Heh shoe-switcharoo tactic, only this time I just might cause a stir. Because, you see, flap-readers, I plan to submit one answer, and one answer only for the duration of this imbecilic contest. Sure, the real answer will be random things like Maple Syrup, Hummingbirds or Sewing Machines, but I will only submit one answer each time, because it will always be the correct answer, because this is the answer to all of the ills perpetrated by Curves. The answer, my friend, is Trucknuts.
*Yes, Curves Crimes are so mild, they only deserve to be kicking around void that is my Blogger-brand blog.
1. The culture of relentless greeting and dismissal by name. Quit saying hello to me personally every time I come in. I would much rather get half a glance over a raised newspaper, which is what I get at the Colonial from the sullen desk attendant when I show up to swim and swipe towels. I get the sense that over at Curves Corporate they pride themselves on their training in this. "Make sure every curves member gets greeted by name upon arrival and departure. " It makes the matching gym suit set feel special. I get the feeling the general Curves demographic looks for opportunities to feel special about all kinds of mundane, prosaic functions whenever they feel entitled. I wonder what the overlap is between the gung-ho Curves goer and those who identify with that awful Doves Chocolate ad campaign targeting harried women who are only insured bliss if they eat dove's chocolate pellets every time they manage to rinse out a crock pot or whatever.
All this feeling-good-about-doing-what's-expected-of-you crap leads me to the second Curves Crime...
2. Good-Jobbing the human wrecks who frequent the joint. I get the ol' GJ when I put my RFID tag that tracks my work outs, it's on the door facing me when I leave, and the phrase erupts erratically throughout the duration of my workout as I am exposed to everyone else's inane congratulating of one another over managing to survive half an hour on the curves machine circuit.
3. Infantilizing middle-aged women with goofy games and contests. Since there's no judgement here, I will confess that I actually buy into these. The instructions on the dry-erase board a few days before Halloween instructed us to "wear something orange" to "receive a treat." Since it's a gym, and not a candy store, I participated, thinking maybe I'd score a new hair band or somethin'. But no. It was junky Curves brand snak bars and microwave popcorn. I will conserve the rant about processed diet food for another post.
Now, as we enter the dangerous Holiday Season, with its attendant cookie exchanges and baked bries and ham made with seven-up, the good folks at Curves have initiated the holiday challenge to maintain your weight. It's a sign-up format, they initial your card every time you come in. Every week you are eligible for prizes, prizes, prizes. Stinky candles, ugly hand-knit scarves, it's like a goddamn Methodist Christmas Bazaar in there. Don't get me started on the pot holders. I signed up, sure, but you know, I pray I don't win any of this crazy crappazola. Why do people need prizes to go to the gym? How about avoiding a premature death --when did that stop motivating us?
But I noticed the most galling contest last week. Near this one machine that makes you wave your crotch at all the other gym goers, there's a glossy poster that says Work out Your Brain, too, or somesuch. There are rhyming clues that get revealed over the course of the week. The answers are simple enough for a five year old to figure out: "I hover near flowers and drink nectar, ect. Oh christ, it's a fucking hummingbird, people. There's a cardboard box on a table beneath it, with a pad of answer forms. I have formed a plan, a continuation of my Heh-Heh shoe-switcharoo tactic, only this time I just might cause a stir. Because, you see, flap-readers, I plan to submit one answer, and one answer only for the duration of this imbecilic contest. Sure, the real answer will be random things like Maple Syrup, Hummingbirds or Sewing Machines, but I will only submit one answer each time, because it will always be the correct answer, because this is the answer to all of the ills perpetrated by Curves. The answer, my friend, is Trucknuts.
*Yes, Curves Crimes are so mild, they only deserve to be kicking around void that is my Blogger-brand blog.
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