If Life's A Buffet , I'm Gonna Need More Plates

I like food. I like to think about food. Thinking about food has gotten me into a bit of trouble in my life because thinking about it leads to coveting it and craving it, which leads to an almost ritualistic feeding frenzy where all sense of good judgment is temporarily suspended while I plow through a large plate of spaghetti and meatballs.

My relationship with food is complicated. It is as loaded as a colossal serving of cheese fries. On one side of it there is passion, desire, respect and appreciation. I am a foodie. I love the preparation of food, the careful selection of ingredients, the aroma of a savory saute. My dad was a foodie too. Early childhood memories of him involve his love of eating. He seemed to be at his best when it came time to select and consume good food. This is really saying something because my dad was generally not at his best.

My mom cooked most every weeknight but the weekends belonged to my dad. Mom had an arsenal of tried and true recipes that could quickly be prepared after a long day at work. She was a good cook with four hungry kids to feed. Most of us happily sat down and ate with very little discord, most of us except my brother Mark. Born with a picky palette, Mark was well known for finding interesting ways to hide the food he didn't want to eat. A convenient dog under the table, sneaking food onto other people's plates or ingeniously stuffing food into the cushion of his chair. This wasn't discovered until many months later when the rancid mystery smell was finally traced back to the vinyl chair cushion stuffed with foam rubber and a mountain of peas.

Dad used to complain quite frequently about mom's quick-prep meals. (If we'd only had Rachel Ray back then.) Nothing sat that man off like coming home from work and finding Hamburger Helper on the stove. "Blank-it-e-Blank, Blank, Blank, Blank Joyce, you know how I hate that Blanker Blankin Blankburger Helper". What can I say, dad had a way with words. I suspect that's why the weekend food duties were summarily turned over to him.

One night of the weekend he would cook and the other night he would usually do take-out. He did both with passion and vigor. You couldn't help but get caught up in his excitement. This was the same colorful, grumpy Archie Bunker who sat in that recliner five days a week watching Truth or Consequences; the same man you carefully tip-toed around so as not to get hit with the fallout from his explosive temper. This same man now stood in the kitchen with a smile on his face, zestfully throwing in every kind of spice known to man kind, chopping, frying, stirring and humming as if a tiny cartoon bluebird were resting on his shoulder. Food made the man happy.

On the other hand, mom used food to make the rest of us happy. Cherry cobblers and banana pudding made from scratch were like giant band-aids she placed over our hearts when we were downtrodden. Or if God forbid, she noticed one of us looking a little too thin - she made it her personal quest to pack the pounds on us. This included our poor dogs. In addition to being on the receiving end of all the vegetables that couldn't fit into the vinyl chair cushion, our dogs were subjected to my mother's truest form of love. Here's our portly poodle named Prissy. She looks like a stuffed sausage with curly, white hair. We could decorate her with silly hats and sunglasses because once she was propped up like that, she was like a rolly polly on it's back.

I have continued to use food to self medicate during the low-lows or when life calls for a Sara Lee pound cake and a fork (why bother to cut a slice, just pop off the paper lid and and dig in). I was blessed with a tall frame and for most of my life I have been able to get away with these episodes of stress-induced hedonism. That however, is not the case today as I approach my 46th birthday. If you look closely, you can see the tiny red Sara Lee logo imbeddid in the form of cellulite on my thighs.

I recently realized I have been thinking of food as the enemy, something I need to strategically avoid, something that elicits fear, panic and loathing; both of the food and of myself. Not long ago, my boyfriend and I decided to venture downtown to "split some appetizers". Neither of us were hungry enough for a full dinner so it seemed like a splendid idea. It was late so our options were limited. We ordered what we thought was a serving of 12 small bites of deliciously mouthwatering munchies; however, through a simple math error and a misleading menu, we ended up with a platter containing 36 of my worst nightmares. A strange sort of involuntary nervous laugh was heard at the table and it was me.

Later recounting the experience to a trusted friend, I had one of those ah-ha moments of clarity. She reminded me of my love of food and told me to quite simply relax and enjoy it. Oh yeah, I do love food. The fear and negative energy I was associating with food was the very thing that was causing me to abuse it. I was sneaking around with my overindulgences. Like an alcoholic hiding the empty bottles, I was hiding in my relatively dark living room, dreaming up and then following through with the most outrageously decadent temptations I could possibly imagine.

I don't know if any of this makes sense to anyone other than me but I suspect we do a lot of things we know we shouldn't do under the cover of darkness. Sometimes it's literally dark and sometimes it's figuratively dark. I was in the dark in more ways than one. Until I was willing to recognize the fear and guilt and then let it go, I couldn't get back to thinking of food in a healthy, loving, natural way. Now I can nurture myself with food in the light of day, enjoying all of the subtle, palatable nuances, the edifying memories of childhood and the search for decent Mexican food in Milwaukee.

Another Fine Text You Got Me Into

I thought I might have created a new word yesterday. Textlexia. Twice in one day I had misinterpreted entries  aimed at humor, into hurtful, disappointing revelations about his character and our future together. Did I mention I also had PMS?

I woke up this morning wondering if, in fact, textlexia was already a word so I did what everyone does when they need to find out if something exists. I googled it. I found several entries for the word in a site called the "Urban Dictionary" - who knew there was such a thing? If I'm just now brave enough to be texting, I'm certainly not supposed to be aware of things like an urban dictionary containing an entirely different language than that taught by Mrs. Humpfreys in the 7th grade.

Afterall, I have to rely on my 23 year old son to tell me how to speak and write text or to translate text speak into the Queen's English. He even had to tell me how to talk about texting when he caught me referring to the act of sending or receiving a text as text mailing. "Mom", he says with a slight hint of smarmy exasperation, "it's text messaging".

In my very early, rudimentary texting days, a friend once told me to make sure to type little emoticons to ensure the meaning of my texts. A wink ;-) for example, would indicate you were joking. Since I didn't have the benefit of a wink yesterday, I was left to determine the meaning using the time honored female tradition of deductive reasoning. ;-) ;-) Yeah right. This amounts to immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion and dismissing any other possibilities. All while managing to create a parallel universe where whatever he said must somehow be your fault.

I did find a meaning for Textlexia in the urban dictionary; however, it wasn't related to misinterpreting the meaning of a text. Officially, textlexia is 1.) the accidental use of text language when writing manually, like in composing a business letter or resume or 2.) the inability to spell words when using those frustrating predictive text modes. I tried to find a word to fit my situation but there are approximately 587 words in the urban dictionary using a derivative of the word text. Seriously?

Some of my favorites were Text Massage or getting a text when your phone is on vibrate; Textcrastinate which is to delay your text response or Textually Frustrated which is what happens when you're communicating with a textcrastinator and they are not meeting your textpectations. Since text rhymes with sex - there are tons of sexually suggestive text-slang words but my favorite is the classically simple Textual Intercourse, which when performed means you have consummated your relationship (and you need a cigarette). Can't you just hear it now, "I did not have textual relations with that woman."

After exhausting my research on all forms of the word text, I went on to look up hundreds of other words. With each new word I felt more trendy, increasingly hip and smart, like my 28 year old assistant. It felt like I was an unpopular kid who was finally allowed to hang with the cool kids. Like I was allowed to join a secret club where you have to know what cankles are or that the use of finger guns is strictly limited to creepy people with porn mustaches.

In the end, it looks like it's going to be up to me to coin the phrase to describe the affliction I experienced yesterday. I've decided I had a bad case of Textmorphic Disorder (TMD). Morph from the Greek Morphos meaning form, shape or structure and Disorder from the way I have lived most of my life. It will be defined as the inability to extrapolate tone, inflection or meaning from a text based communication.

There are a few basic guidelines I've come up with to help others who may find themselves impaired with TMD.

1. Do not jump to conclusions.
2. Do not use deductive reasoning.
3. It is best to textcrastinate to a perceived hurtful text - or better yet, do not respond at all.
4. If you have PMS, use the phone!
5. If you did fire back a 'WTF?' or 'SOB!', quickly follow it up with, "sorry, fingers slipped, having issues w/ texterity today.

I wonder if it wouldn't be a lot easier if we could simply all agree to ban the use of sarcasm in text mode. Or, at the very least, it should be mandatory to give a little text wink at the end of a potentially hazaardous message. Or maybe I should just not take things so seriously. Did I mention I have PMS?

Barbie Wasn't Gettin' Any and Ken Got No Head

Last week while cleaning out the basement, I stumbled upon the relics of my childhood. Actually, I didn't stumble at all. I purposely dug through the collection of boxes until I found those containing my childhood memories. While hormones, alcohol and aging have wiped out much, if not most, of my actual memories, I knew these few precious boxes had been carefully packed away to ensure instant memory archive retrieval. I have moved them countless times from place to place, refusing to even consider letting them go. I have a card catalog in my head containing the items residing in those clear plastic bins.

There's china - real china - from my tea set collections, an old basketball uniform with Harlem Globe Trotter-esque red, white and blue striped shorts. There are tattered pom pons, yearbooks, jewelry boxes complete with my chokers, bracelets and rings circa 1976. I have a shoe box full of poetry written throughout my childhood. The poems are numbered and the index is scribbled in pencil on the lid of the shoe box (yes, I was organized even back then). There are photos and scrapbooks - not like the scrapbooks of today - mine are all glue, hodge podged and magic marker-ee.

I saved a few special dolls hoping to pass them down to my girls but upon further inspection I realized they are not up to today's standards. They don't do anything, natta, absolutely nothing at all. My girls looked at them with curiosity, gave them a token bit of affection then promptly tossed them aside. Undaunted, I kept searching. Then I found the most unlikely of treasures, the cream of the crop, the piece de resistance - there it was - the white and blue case with the vintage floral design on the cover - it was the World of Barbie double doll case for Barbie and her friends.

I could hear the angels sing.

I opened the case to find Barbie and her friends a little worse for the wear. Barbie had developed hip problems and lost both her legs, Ken's head pops off and on (mostly off) and poor Skipper had suffered at the hands of a seven year old armed with scissors - that would be me. But the fashions, oh the fashions....they were all there.

Ken had his business suit/tuxedo, his scuba gear, his pajama ensemble complete with slippers and his psychedelic shirt and faux leather fringe vest. I remember thinking Barbie was so lucky to have a hot boyfriend like Ken. He was willing to marry her nearly every single day. For me and my friends, that's what Barbie and Ken did. They got married and they "played house". At the end of a long day filled with horseback riding and getting married or scuba diving and getting married, they would change into their PJ's and slip off to bed together, which usually meant we were ready to play with something else. Barbie and Ken kissed but that was it. Come to think of it, given his love of shopping with Barbie, keeping the house neat and always looking so perfectly groomed - never a hair out of place, I wonder if Ken wasn't gay.

Barbie had her wedding dress and veil, her complete snow skiing ensemble, her fur trimmed business suit with high gold lame' boots; multiple jumpsuits and ball gowns; go-go boots and fish nets in every color; a June Cleaver looking yellow dress (pearls included); and of course, her nighty. My, oh my, that was one sexy piece of lingerie Barbie was sporting. It was a peach colored satin nightgown with a lace bodice that left nothing to the imagination. Ward Cleaver never had it this good and unfortunately, it was most likely wasted on Ken. Wonder what my mom and dad thought of Barbie's super short, tush-baring, Frederick's of Hollywood creation?

Skipper was first introduced in 1964 as a preteen little sister for Barbie. As wholesome as milk and cookies, Skipper had an innocent appeal. Her fashions were spunky and hip; yet, they managed to provide plenty of coverage, if you know what I mean. Like her big sister, Skipper had a thing for gay guys. Both she and her best friend, Skooter, loved hanging out with the boy next door. His name was Ricky. You can judge for yourself but tell me Ricky isn't ten shades of gay.

All of my Barbies are from the "Mod Years" of the Barbie historical collection. The mod years represent one of the most tumultuous times in our country with sexual revolution, the Vietnam war, protests against the government, mainstream drug use and women's liberation. Barbie and Ken's daily wear would hint they were a part of these movements. Barbie wasn't wearing any bras. They both had outfits suggesting they participated in anti-war rallies - seriously, where else was Ken going to wear that psychedelic shirt and fringe vest? Yet, the Barbie and Ken I knew were only interested in adventure sports, travel and of course, getting married.

This is vastly different than the way my beautiful seven-year old twin daughters engage in doll play today. I have bought them Barbie dolls but honestly, I don't think they know what to do with them. Barbie's seem to all come with a theme these days. There is Island Princess Barbie and Fairytopia Barbie, Skating Sensation Barbie and on and on. The dolls are based on a lucrative franchise of Barbie movies. Essentially, girls don't need to create stories anymore - they come to them with their stories all packaged up neatly in a DVD case.

To me, this is an interesting evolution, considering the creator of Barbie, Ruth Handler, observed her daughter playing with paper dolls while imagining them as adults. She sensed a need for girls to have options other than baby dolls. Thus, Barbie was born in 1959. I don't know why my pretend play centered around marriage; afterall, it was 1969 - Barbie should have been happy to remain single. Whatever the reason, it is safe to say Ruth Handler was on to something.

The other options my girls have today is the proliferation of Hannah Montana dolls, High School Musical dolls and of course the you-will-never-own-one-as-long-as-I-am-alive-Bratz dolls. Mattel must be losing market share to those slutty Bratz dolls. Their latest Barbie's are sporting darker makeup, lower back tatoos and even leather chaps for their Harley. Am I the only one who finds the image of this Barbie a little scary? She would have bitch slapped Ken the minute he suggested she wear her pink sleeveless dress to the mall.

They don't really have a normal Ken doll either. Today there is Ken as James Bond, Captain Kirk, Legolas (from the Lord of the Rings), Superman, Prince Charming and even Ken as Shaggy. Barbie is not going to want to marry any of these characters. In 2006, they came up with a "new look" Ken doll. New look, my ass. They took one of those little high school musical teeny-bopper dolls and slapped a Ken head on it. Suddenly, Ken is a teenager. My Ken was muscular - he could fly planes and he owned a tuxedo. In fact, Ken disappeared from the market in 1967 and did not reappear until 1969 with a beefier, more muscular body. Some speculated he went off to war. My Ken was a man and Barbie loved him (gay or not).

I have watched my girls role-play with their doll collection for several years now. One of my favorite things to do is get within earshot of them and listen in without them knowing I'm there. I do this because once I am seen, they want me to join in; thereby spoiling my opportunity to hear them freely, spontaneously and delightfully pretend. It is a marvelous wonder of nature to witness identical twins engaging in pretend play. They are so in tune with each other, they can assume a role and let it flow for hours. They never stop to discuss story lines, assign new roles or argue about who gets to be Sharpay. They just pick up the dolls and let it flow.

So you can imagine how excited I was at the thought of watching these two dialog with my tattered conglomeration from the blue and white box. I sat down with them at the kitchen table, spread everything out and began to sort through the outfits. I had to explain fishnets, go-go boots and bell bottom pants. They actually loved the colorful fashions. I gave them a mini-tutorial on the characters. Barbie, Ken- the boyfriend and Skipper -the little sister. Then I let them have a go at it.

Over the next few days, they played with them on and off. It seemed to take them a little while to warm up to the idea of these ordinary dolls who came to them with no preordained storyline. Then one evening as I was busying myself with various chores, I was stopped dead in my tracks when I overheard them putting on the wedding dress and tuxedo. They were preparing for nuptials. I never once heard them planning a wedding for Troy and Gabriella, certainly Hannah Montana never thought of walking down the isle; yet, here they were snapping Barbie's legs back into place and popping Ken's head back on while dressing them in their wedding ensembles!

I dropped my laundry basket, tripped over the coffee table and literally leaped to the end of the couch where I could be positioned to hear them. The wedding was short and sweet, very little fanfare or ceremony - just a couple of "I do's" and then it was off to change into their nightwear. They were obviously tired. By this time, I am hanging over the arm of the couch, stretching my body outward and twisting it around the corner to the dining room as far as I can without injuring myself. I'm thinking I have just been given a unique opportunity to delve into what, if anything, my precious little girls know about a husband and wife going to bed together, and on their honeymoon no less:

Here's how the dialog ensued:

Barbie - That was a nice wedding.
Ken - Yes it was but I'm tired - are you ready for bed yet?
Barbie - I like your pajamas Ken.
Ken - I like yours too (remember Frederick's). Where's the bed?
Barbie - (Loudly) You were supposed to buy the bed!
Ken - Sorry Barbie, I didn't have any money to buy the bed.
Barbie - Why not, what have you done with all your money?
Ken - I spent it all on beef jerky.

At that moment, I was outed. My laughter caused me to darn near fall off the couch. I ran into the dining room and hugged them both. They had been married for less than ten minutes and they were already arguing. They were arguing over money - perhaps a little too close to home. And what's with the beef jerky? Nobody in our house eats beef jerky - where did that come from? Oh well, at least Barbie seemed to have her act together. It was Ken who was the deadbeat.

What is the lesson we learn from all of this? Is it good for kids today to only have their innocent teenage dolls with ready-made dialog or was it better when I was a little girl pretending to be a grown up with an exaggerated propensity to get married? History now reflects I did, in fact, get married a few times too many. I am glad I kept those old Barbie dolls. Perhaps what we learn is that to keep - means to keep tradition - to throw away would be to forget the experiences that have molded us. I don't know which kind of pretend play is better. I would like to think it's better to nurture imagination that to package the stories for our children. But who knows? After all, imagination sure got Ken into trouble by exposing his beef jerky habit.

Listen to the imaginings of children - you will learn and be inspired either way.

A Time to Dance

I've been dating a wonderful man now for around four months. While four months is certainly not enough time to say "he's the one" or espouse other sappy romantic colloquialisms like "he is as soft and pure as the air I breathe" (don't laugh, I actually used that one, much to the chagrin of my good friends). I am profoundly intrigued by him. I am in fact, intrigued enough to spit it all out here until you, dear reader, beg for mercy and promise me you will endeavor to live a good, honest life hence forth if I will just stop with the endless list of things I really dig about him.

I won't do that to you. At least not yet anyway. What I do want to do is focus on one particular aspect of our relationship. From the moment we met, we had this way of taunting each other with how much we love to dance. Okay so perhaps I did most of the taunting. He is a bit too aloof to throw down the embellished disco gauntlet and give away his moves too early but it was a fun time for us to anticipate the moment when we could finally dance together.

Of course the anticipation also meant we were challenging each other to be, at a minimum, decent dancers - you know, the kind who can follow the rhythm of the music, keep in time with the beat and not consider any type of herky jerky movements our "signature move". Haven't we all sat helplessly and watched the seemingly endless folly of rhythmically-challenged, yet fully impassioned dancers? You see them at every club - every business convention, every family wedding - even occasionally in front of you at a national league baseball game or at your very own backyard BBQ.

What is it about dancing anyway? We now seem to have a national obsession with it. We have Dancing with the Stars, So you Think you Can Dance and even a new show called Dance your Ass Off, which is quite honestly the worst exploitation of overweight people since Krispy Kreme donuts. Remember Dance Fever with Denny Terrio? I dare say, that could have been the catalyst, the show that started it all. Or was it as far back as American Bandstand and Soul Train. I willingly admit, I loved watching Soul Train so much more than American Bandstand. The music, the vibe, the sets, the clothing - it was all done in concert to the rhythm and beat of some amazing soulful music. American Bandstand paled in comparison (no pun intended).

But I digress....

The boyfriend and I had a few opportunities to dance here and there. It was mostly in places where the music was okay - the lighting was, shall we say, well lit - the crowd was self absorbed. Not exactly eager to shake our groove thang but we did shimmy to a few well loved standards. It was enough for me to say with some level of confidence, "this guy will not embarrass me on the dance floor".

And why do we care if someone embarrasses us on the dance floor anyway? Isn't the whole point in life to dance like nobody's watching? I was raised in a traditional Southern Baptist church. Just think of the movie Footloose and you'll know what I mean. How could any religion see dancing as a sin? I have a feeling I know what the Baptists were afraid of. They suspected one could get carried away when they dance. Just as Marijuana is considered a gateway drug - dancing is considered a gateway to kissing, lust and other sexual desires.

The moment did finally come for us to dance in the way we had both desired. We were out of town - exploring the streets of a wonderful city, when we happened upon a salsa club. Given our accents and ethnic appearance (his Armenian and mine Oklahoman) - we felt certain of our ability to blend into the Salsa scene seamlessly. We adopted sexy persona's and transformed ourselves into Carlito and Juanita, hitting the dance floor, succumbing to the beat, moving in tandem - sweating, wildly spinning and freely giving ourselves to the rhythm of the Latin movements and to each other, fully trusting the experience and knowing we would not embarrass each other.

Man, those Baptists were on to something because I've never wanted anyone more in my life. Carlito was sexy personified.

Dancing Queen
Dance, Little Sister, Dance
Shake your Booty
Safety Dance
Last Dance
Just Dance

Dance like there's no tomorrow....or at the very least like you're not afraid to embarrass yourself. I hope you dance.