Think Before You...

You know all those health-freak types? The obnoxious ones, who go around clucking "you are what you eat", and not only you are what you eat, but everyone is what you eat, because of connectedness, and Earth being our Mother, kumbaya, so put down the Twinkies, blah blah blah?

Turns out, they're right.

This is the most convincing article I've ever read on the subject. It's probably not the most comprehensive analysis, or the most researched, but I don't like it for its facts. I like it because it has "sewage plant" and "80,000 cookies" in the same sentence. (Ha ha! The twelve-year-old-boy side of me is compelled and reads on, hoping it will mention shit directly.)

The gist of the article is: hey, it does matter what we put in our bodies! We, the ever-brilliant public, have really hogged it up over the holidays, and nature is paying the price. Disoriented fish are trying to figure out where their dinner has floated off to, now that Puget Sound smells like Christmas cookies instead of kelp.

Isn't that enthralling? I realize the concept of connectedness isn't news to people who pay attention, but many of us just think we do and don't. I admit that it has never hit me this way before: you eat a cookie, it's in your poo. Poo travels. Once it's snorked away, we tend to stop thinking about it, but poo travels. It goes to a treatment plant, where it joins other poo in escaping, apparently, into local bodies of water. This is bad news for many reasons, not the least of which is that I love the beach but hate the smell of cinnamon. Researchers say animal fans shouldn't worry too much, since "[there is] no evidence that snickerdoodles are harming sea creatures."

For sea creatures, great. They don't deserve big trouble, anyway. But what about us?

To My Delight

I've just found an old notebook, tiny in dimension and filled with French vocabulary from my summer in Paris. I remember speaking French only rarely while I was there. But I must have been fascinated with the look and feel of the language, because I wrote those words over and over again, in my best handwriting, with loops and flourishes, like the lettering on a cafe sign. Interspersed with the vocabulary lists were suggestions for my own improvement ("Be classic, like the Place des Vosges") and pearls from my professor ("Karl's life advice is never to pass up food or a chance to go to the restroom. Karl says Robert Venturi doesn't use verbs - how postmodern!")

At the back of the notebook, there was a draft of a letter to my then-obsession, at home and not missing me nearly as much as I was missing him. I never did send that letter - it was dreadful, as all such letters are - and the obsession eventually faded, as I must wisely have known it would. But, to my delight, years later, I realize that I have always remembered to be classic, and to use the bathroom as frequently as is necessary, plus some. Also, as a small but somehow important bonus, I actually remember what le couteau means.

They Said

I was born on a sad day. My family told me yesterday, and they said it just like that. You were born on a sad day. We were talking about years, the ones where we stayed here for Christmas, the ones when we went there, or there. We were talking about 1981, the year I was born on August 6th. My first Christmas, they said, was spent in Bethesda. Bethesda? What was in Bethesda? My uncle, they said. The one who died. My mother's little brother. He was in the Navy and he said his leg hurt. The Navy said walk it off. He couldn't. They sent him to the hospital in Bethesda, but it was bone cancer, advanced. The doctors said things like too late and very soon. And do you want to know what day they said those things to my mother about her little brother? August 6th. Within hours of my birth, they said. When I was pink and crying and my mother was pink and crying - that was when they said those things. You were born on a sad day. I said nobody ever told me that, WHY DIDN'T ANYONE EVER TELL ME THAT? We're sorry, they said. Sorry.

So we went to Bethesda for Christmas that year, to the hospital where my uncle would die a month later. I wonder if they let him hold me, if he could. We were cheated out of an uncle/niece history, out of hide-and-seek and backyard football. But I wonder if he felt a connection. I was my mother's baby and he was her little brother. She doesn't have many pictures of him, but in the ones she does have, he looks just like her. I look just like her, too.

Read Me

Six months ago, when I was unemployed and broken-footed, I discovered a feature of McSweeney's to which I felt the need to contribute immediately. I glanced at the empty carton of Trader Joe's Chocolate Calcium Chews on my desk and said out loud, "That'll work."

I wrote a review of the chews, and sent the review to the Reviews of New Food. I learned that it was accepted on the same day I got a job, so I sent an email out to everyone I know, saying that two monstrously excellent things had just happened, but, really, don't get too excited, I'm no genius, it was luck, quiet down. (Or, PRAISE ME.)

Anyway, in the time between all the news and the posting of my little piece, I managed to forget that nearly one dozen people had ecstatically requested the link. In fact, I only noticed the appearance of my review after two newer ones had been published ahead of it. So, what I worried already had been a very small contribution - a mere musing on nougat - seemed even less of a PR event now. I never sent the link.

Then, recently, I learned that McSweeney's only accepts about 5% of what gets submitted. (Although, I must admit, not only can't I remember which reputable source provided me this detail, I also can't remember if the 5% applies to the entire internet magazine, or just to the big features - of which New Food is not one. We'll just assume it's the whole thing.) Yay!

So that, I suppose, is the point of this post. I rock; read my stuff. You'll have to scroll down. Place your thumb sideways just under the up arrow and move the bar down until the top of it is right below your thumb. Right around there you should find 'Chocolate Calcium Chews.' And my name in lights.

Jubilation

“Oh my God!” came a yelp from just down the hall, the first of the day’s eight or nine similar exclamations. For the first week I worked here, I thought she received an unusual amount of bad news. Then I started listening. She always followed up with peals of laughter and “That UPS man is so handsome, boy, I’d like ta…” or “Somebody’s food smells really good!”

“Oh my God!” she shrieked, to nobody specifically. “Have you tasted these?” We’d just had a cookie exchange at the office, so people’s desks were piled high with the results of each other’s weekend experiments, iced and sprinkled and frosted and filled. From all along the hallway, you could hear plastic wrap being unrolled, untwisted, stretched out, and, finally, carefully, pealed back. We were trying but failing to ignore the beckoning cookies. Why had we done this to ourselves in the morning, on a Monday?

“TASTE THE LITTLE BALL-SHAPED ONES!” She was practically levitating now, having broken into her each of her plastic cookie bags – having never really wrapped them, probably. She started giggling. “It’s like a chocolate....like a pillow or something, oh my God!”

Soon, people were giggling with her. From inside all the cubes and offices, you could hear internal battles being lost. Plastic wrap being ripped away now, balled up, thrown at the trash can. “Dang, I’m not gonna get any work done today!” And neither were we. Crumbs were scattered everywhere and chocolate was smeared on keyboards. All day long, there was laughter coming from some corner of the office, as somebody admitted to devouring something heavenly, to having a little too much fun for a Monday.

“Holy cow!” she’d squeal, like she’d just discovered a secret. “Try the real fancy ones, I feel like I’m havin’ tea with the queen!”

Shopper's Block

Continuing along holiday themed lines, I refer you today to the "Gift Guide Strategic Holiday Command Center", an invaluable resource for procrastinators such as myself. Take a look at Dave Barry's fun and practical catalog, and tell me there's not something for everyone on your list!

Go ahead, read it.

I'm particularly inspired by the motorized ice-cream cone and the electronic message brassiere. The toilet monster may be going a bit too far; I prefer to frighten my bathroom-going guests with a framed picture of Michael Jackson above the towel rack. Similarly shocking, but evokes less screaming.

Either Side of Perfect

I walked into a store intending to buy several sheets of nice paper. I walked out with twelve pounds and forty-seven dollars worth of candy making supplies.

That's crazy, right? I'm asking because I don't know.

The thing is, I lack experience. I'm mostly missing the holiday warm fuzzy gene. You know, the one that makes people buy cookie cutters and wear sweatshirts with puff paint and answer the phone, "Merry Christmas!! You've reached the Snoodmans!!!" It's not that I'm a fun-hater. It's just that I can't get past how crappy this time of year is for anyone without money, heat, food, time, health, happiness, and/or family. That's a lot of people, maybe most people. Merry Christmas, okay, and good luck with that.

Most years, eventually, the holiday spirit nudges me. I send cards. I bake; I'm good at that. I even write a newsletter (although I call it a bluesletter and fill it with sarcastic jokes in lieu of the year's achievements.) But this year, for whatever reason, I was standing in the candy aisle of a craft store and - bam. More than a nudge.

It started with the idea that I would make candy for several of my coworkers. Just the ones I like best, or who are in charge of giving me raises, so that would be about four people. But then there were the ones who'd already given me a gift. I would have to reciprocate, so that was another three people. What about the rest of the people in my department? Three more.

The idea evolved into a truffle extravaganza for my entire thirty-person office. In my head, there would be hundreds of uniquely designed truffles piled high. I'd arrange them on an enormous silver tray, set it in the center of the table in the lunchroom, and sprinkle confetti around it for extra holiday pizazz. I'd write a charming message in gold calligraphy and people would come from all corners of the office to see. There could be ribbons involved. And tiny glass dishes wrapped in colored cellophane, a surprise in everyone's mailbox. I could cut snowflakes out of folded white paper and hang them from the ceiling, down the hallways.

"Your total comes to $47.59."

Stop. What was I doing? Three plastic bags stuffed with meltable candy chips and professional decorating tools? All the way home I thought about what a lunatic thing holiday spirit is. Nobody has it in healthy measure, we're all either Scrooge or Santa. With no viable middle ground, I guess there's nothing for me to do but make the candy. Silver tray and everything, while the spirit lasts.

An Odometer Moment

One. One. One. One. One. One.

I was nearing my exit when I realized it was going to happen. Soon. I'd never clocked the distance between there and my apartment building, but I guessed that it was just about what I needed. I held my breath a little. How cool would that be - all those ones on December 11th, just as I pulled into my parking space? (I know, not as cool as it would have been on November 11th, but still.) I sped up - no, too much - and slowed down - no, too little - and sped up again, as if it were a matter of time and not distance. I turned onto my street, pulled up to the curb, and - flip - there it was. A literal turning point. My poor car won't make it to 222,222 (it might not even make it to 111,112), so this, I knew, was going to be it for us. Our one moment.

In Four Letters

"So, Mom, what did you do today?"

"Oh, sat around. Groceries. Dad and I took some online personality tests. And then I got a phone call from Cindy."

"Wait, what? Personality tests?" The thought of my parents spending an afternoon on some testing website...well, it seemed like an unlikely activity. I wondered if they had also taken the one that tells you what character from Sex and the City you are.

"Yeah, the Myers-Briggs thing. 'ESFJ' and stuff like that. You get four letters."

"Oh, I've seen that! I think I took one once. I can't remember what I was, though. I know it started with 'I'. Introverted. Which makes sense. What were you?"

"'ES...something...J' Was it that? Jim, what am I? Do you have the print-out? Well, anyway, it started with 'E' as in extroverted - can you believe that?"

I could believe that. I told her that I used to think it was impossible for her even to go to the grocery store without revealing a pretty major chunk of her life story to the cashier. Many of my childhood memories involve standing around a parking lot for an hour or two while she chatted with someone we barely knew. At the time, it was annoying. But now I think of it as useful history. I've heard a lot of conversations. And I'm going to use them.

"Trace?" My dad had picked up the phone. "I just wanted to share my results. I came out to be an 'ISTJ'. Introverted, Sensing, Thinking, Judging. The webpage gives a list of famous people and fictional characters who have that same personality, to help you interpret the results. I'll send you a link."

"So who do you match?"

"Fred Mertz and Eeyore."

"Fred Mertz? The sourpuss from 'I Love Lucy?' And Eeyore?"

"Yes, the perpetually gloomy one on 'Winnie the Pooh.'"

"Yikes. That's no good. I wouldn't have said it was as bad as all that." My dad's not a sparkling, effusive kind of person, but I wouldn't have called him sour or gloomy. Interesting. Clearly, this personality testing stuff was going to require more attention from me.*

Ten minutes after we hung up, I had an email from Dad with links to two different tests.

"I neither endorse nor encourage such things," he wrote, "but I was impressed by the similarites. Have fun. Don't be Eeyore."


*I'll post my own captivating results soon.

The Daily Drivel

Things I apparently need to get off my chest but can't seem to weave artfully into a cohesive post:

Does anyone else always think, when they mention the Iraq Study Group on the radio, that they're saying Rock Steady Group?

k.d. lang's version of "Hallelujah" is better than Jeff Buckley's. I know a lot of people say his is definitive, but they're wrong. And anyone who prefers Leonard Cohen's is just talking crazy.

It's cold. Damn cold. Too cold. Ten-extra-minutes-to-scrape-off-your-car cold. Winter comes every year, but somehow every year it shocks me.

I spend Wednesday nights watching America's Next Top Model and Biggest Loser, one right after the other. I'm sure this indicates that there's something fundamentally sad about my life. But I have no idea what that is, because I'm too busy enjoying this QUALITY PROGRAMMING.

I tried on every pair in the place, and it turns out that I just don't look good in thick-rimmed smart-girl glasses. I'm so disappointed.

Okay.

The Rest of Us

After a weekend of trying and failing to get into the holiday spirit (i.e. retail blitz mode), I'm thinking of limiting my Christmas celebration this year to cookie-baking and the occasional shower rendition of "O Holy Night." Nobody will be getting beautiful, elaborately decorated gifts. They might be getting a pen.

Instead, I'm gearing up for a Festivus celebration. One of the things I appreciate about Festivus is how little is involved in this gearing up. Mainly, you go about your daily December business, enjoying the true meaning of the holiday (nothing!) and maybe drinking extra. There aren't many rules to follow. Even if you want to be super strict about it, there are just three must-haves (although I like to add nog and a ceremonial rewatching of the Seinfeld episode that made this great holiday famous):

1. The Festivus Pole
2. The Airing of Grievances
3. The Feats of Strength

All pretty easy. The pole doesn't have to be anything fancy, nor does it have to be trimmed or topped with anything. I'll probably use a curtain rod. The airing of grievances comes quite naturally to most people, so I don't bother planning that - I just do it around the dinner table, like always. The feats of strength can be anything you want them to be, from pillow fighting to appliance tossing. (Seinfeld orthodoxy calls for the head of household to challenge anyone of his or her choice to a wrestling match. But that's very formal.)

My family wasn't planning a big Christmas this year anyway. For various reasons, we're all broke - the worst possible thing to be at the holidays. My sister and I suggested we forgo presents and volunteer at a soup kitchen or something, but our parents seem attached to the tradition of preparing herb-stuffed poultry and grating on each other's nerves. I think they'll be amenable to Festivus - or rather, Festivus will be amenable to them. That's the beauty, like I said. It's the holiday for the rest of us.