Geometric Food

Dave says I'm a picky eater.  That is simply not true.

I just have a difficult time eating anything that looks like what it originated from.  

I can eat fish if it's shaped like a rectangle.  Or a rhombus.

No problem.

But fished shaped like a fish?  Impossible.  I just can't do it.  That fish was somebody’s MOTHER!   

Which reminds me of one of my more tragic job interviews.  My potential boss had taken me out to dinner after a long day of interviewing.  In a fancy restaurant.  That did not serve food shaped like Leggos.  

I had just finished answering a question about my seven figure salary requirements when I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye.  I turned and let out a scream.

For there was a lobster slowly crawling toward me on a tray held by a waiter.  The poor guy was trying to make a run for it.  They had shackled his legs.  He looked at me with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen.  Begging me to help him.

“Catch of the day.”

“Huh?”

The waiter repeated himself.  “Catch of the day.  Would you like to order our Lobster?” 

He looked like Sebastian.

“No!” I said, too loudly.  People were starting to stare.  “No, thank you.” I said.  

I smiled at my potential future boss who was having second thoughts about me. 

I think of that poor lobster every time I dine at a restaurant without a drive through.  

As I did last night.  

I looked over the menu.  I wanted something shaped like a Three Musketeer’s bar.  Something that would not remind me that it used to be alive.

There!  I found something!  Airline Chicken.  

I’ve had chicken on an airplane before and it definitely did not look like a chicken.  It was shaped like an eraser.

Yes.  Airline Chicken.  Perfectly safe. Perfectly rectangular.

So I ordered it.   

And when the waiter delivered my meal I was appalled.

Please believe me when I tell you that the poor chicken’s leg bone was sticking right out of his breast.

I mean who does that that?

I should have ordered the lasagna.

And Then I Heard This

In Motherhood Out Loud I played the part of a mom whose only child left for college.  

I’d start the vignette by shouting over my son’s music playing loudly in the background.  The music continued playing as I described myself as an overly-protective parent whose life revolved around my son. 

I described the process of moving him into his dorm room and crying all the way home.

The most powerful part of the vignette is the description of returning home alone.  "And then we got home.  And then we heard this: the quiet."  

The music abruptly stops and there is a long, uncomfortable silence on stage as I comprehend the absence of my son and his music.

We closed Motherhood Out Loud last night.

Finally.

For the past 6 weeks a typical day would be like this: leave for work at 6:30 AM.  Work until 5-ish.  Fight traffic to get home. Say hi to Dave.  Take Kevin for a walk.  Grab something to eat.  Say bye to Dave.  Go to rehearsal. Come home at 10:30. Go to bed.  Wake up at 6 AM and start over.

I could barely keep my eyes open at work some days.   I was really looking forward to May 24th, when I could finally get my life back. 

Today is May 24. I woke up this morning with nothing to do.  No lines to learn. No rehearsals. No costume to find.  No bio to write.  No shows.  

And guess what?  I feel a lot like the Mom I played just last night.  

And then I heard this: the quiet.

My life is quiet again.  

But, unlike the Mom I played last night, I am going to do something about it.

You got it:  

Time to audition for another show!

Dr. Bukk's Teef

Being beautiful can be a royal pain in the neck.  Men hit on me ALL THE TIME.

I've tried wearing loose fitting clothes to hide my perfect body, but it really doesn’t deter them.   My Hair Stockings are effective, as are my fake armpit toupees. But what if it’s too cold out for a skirt or sleeveless top?

Thankfully, I have discovered another option for averting advances.  I'm pleased to report that I have sought and received medical advice.  As a result, I should never again have to worry about unwanted advances.

Dr. Bukk's website contains a wide array of fake teeth which promise to drop me from a ten to a two. 

(I know what you're thinking.  Why not to a one?  You can't expect miracles.)

There are 5 categories of teeth: Protruding, Mildly Annoying, Barf Alert, More Revolting, Halloween, and Cosmetic.  

The hard part was choosing just one.  I narrowed it down to four:

Summer Teef (Summer here and summer not.)

I also like The Final Four a lot.  (We all have our priorities. What good are they iffen y'all can't see 'em?)

I believe the Smoker Teeth would be effective as well.

I really like the convenient built-in cigarette holder.
 
When I saw the Incest Teeth I knew my search was over.  It even comes with a free gum sore.

Incest Teeth are guaranteed to "clear out a crowd."  Perfect!

The teeth come in two shades: normal and light.  I picked the normal shade, as it is the color of pond scum.

I sure hope this works.

Some of these men are quite persistent.
 

Squeeze Hold Release

It was an emotional few days.  My sweet sister-in-law Evie had taken a turn for the worse and was on life support.  My sisters and I got to Buffalo as quickly as we could.  

We stayed at my double-cousin Di’s house.  (Double in that our mothers were sisters and our fathers were brothers.  Same gene pool.)

Now, one of my many disabilities is that when I get emotional, my crying can turn into giggling at the snap of a finger.  And it doesn't take much.


Like when my sister and I were holding vigil at Evie’s bed side and the man in the blazer walked into the room and introduced himself as Sister Judith.  And started to say a prayer.

I peed a little.

And when we were supposed to meet Di for dinner and were running late and my sister Jean Anne called the restaurant to let them know we would be late.  And proceeded to order her salad in “Sally” fashion over the phone.  Again, at Evie's bed side.

“I’ll take the Cobb salad, no bacon, extra tomatoes, hold the onions, substitute olives for croutons.  And dressing on the side.”

I peed a little.

And when I escorted a sweet old lady who walked like ET to the ICU. The doors opened toward us and as she took a step into the room the doors began to close and catapulted her into the ICU not unlike a football through the goal posts at a Buffalo Bills Game.

Yep.  I peed a little.

I had only one pair of jeans with me and I was beginning to smell like a day care center.

When I asked Di if I could wash my jeans at her house she laughed.  Apparently, building a nuclear plant is less complicated than doing laundry there.  Remember the game Mousetrap?   You got the picture.

   
At the rinse cycle, Di has to command the water flow, adeptly turning the spigot off and on, off and on, off and on, to prevent the water from back-flowing into the shower or toilet.  

When I offered to do it, Di quickly refused.  Apparently, an individual requires a minimum of 120 hours of experience before he or she can safely operate the appliance without supervision.

So I tossed my jeans into the washer, and, just for grins, added my panties.  

The next morning I found my clean jeans folded neatly over the dryer door. The dryer itself was filled to the brim with the rest of the clean laundry.  I decided to remove and fold the contents of said dryer in search of my panties.

Hours later I finished folding the laundry.  My panties were missing.

Uh-oh.  Where could they have gone?  Were they in a toilet somewhere?  Or in the shower?  Or somewhere between?

It took hours, but I finally found them in the most unlikely of places.
 

Just kidding.  That would have made a great ending to this story.  Lest you lose sleep, I will let you know that the panties did show up.  I don't know the details, but it has something to do with a neighbor's dishwasher.

The Hanging Nail

I woke up yesterday with a hang nail.  Or “hanging nail” as Kimmy used to call them.
 
You probably will think it wrong that I never corrected her.  But she sounded so cute!  

"Mommy, do you have any nail clippers?  I have a hanging nail."  

Adorable.

Kind of like how she called toe nails “tony nails.”  So sweet.

I got double pleasure when she had a hanging nail on her tony nail.

(Don't worry.  I told her the correct pronunciation when she got to middle school.) 

Back to my hang nail: I attempted to bite it off but it was quite elusive.  It was so short it kept slipping from my teeth.

I persevered and was finally able to grab hold of a teeny piece of nail with my teeth.   I tugged.

YOWZA DID THAT HURT!  I could feel it all the way to my tony nail.

And then I lost hold of it.  Damn.  It was still hanging.

I had no choice but to cover it with a band-aid.

Now back in the day, when my girls were little, band-aids were a hot commodity.  Kimmy would put band-aids on any and all injuries.  Kind of like a badge of honor.  

But to Linda, band-aids were part of her wardrobe.   While Kimmy was begging for sour gummi worms at Publix, Linda was pleading for Mickey Mouse band-aids.  And we had an endless variety in the medicine cabinet: Sponge Bob, Little Mermaid, Flintstones.  You name it.

Back to my hang nail: I went in search of a band aid for my finger.  I looked in bathroom but could only find my Mustache band-aids and Bacon band-aids.  Neither matched the green shirt I was wearing.  

Where the heck were my Pickle band-aids?  I made a mental note to buy some Jane Austin band-aids next time I was on Amazon. 

OMG.

The realization set in.

My band-aid collection was remarkably similar to Linda's 2002 assortment.  I was regressing into my six-year old daughter who is now 20.

NOOOOOOOOOO!

Wait a minute.  No, I'm not.

I have much better taste in band-aids than Linda ever had.  

I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing an Ariel band-aid over my hanging nail.

Finding the Flawless Flask

Every now and then I would like to be able to drink wine from a straw originating from a concealed flask.  

Just for special occasions.  (Like art gallery openings, lectures, hikes, etc.)  

I could always wear my Wine Rack Sports Bra.  But unfortunately, it has a major flaw.  

It is really cold.  

And who wants cold wine pressing against her rack?  

Not me.  

I could, of course, purchase a Beerbelly, the sister (or should I say brother) product of the Wine Rack.  But it's so unattractive.

And at the risk of appearing vain, I don't want anyone thinking I could not step away from the Easter candy.

My friend Jennifer recommended the Baby Flask.  Which I loved!

But then I thought people might start gossiping.  Whose baby is that?  Did Linda have a baby?   

Or Lou?  I KNEW she was putting on weight.  I thought it was from Easter Candy.

I decided to do more research.  

I discovered the Tampon Flask, which had very positive reviews on Amazon.com: 

I love a good bloody Mary on Sunday, but sometimes the sermon in church just drags on and on and cuts into my cocktail time. That's when these little beauties come in handy. I can have my bloody and still wear my white choir robes with confidence!

But there's no straw.  And I want my flask to have a straw.

I kept looking.

The Freedom Flask showed great potential.  Until I saw how you fill your glass.

 EUUUUUU.  

I decided to go back to the Beerbelly.   So what if someone thinks I've put on a few pounds.

Unless.  

I just had the most scathingly brilliant idea.

Who needs a Beerbelly, when you can have:

The Pregbelly.

He Who Schmeldt it Dealt It

I thought smelt was a verb.

But apparently it’s also a fish.  And a festival.  In Lewiston, NY.

I was sitting at my cousin Di’s kitchen table last weekend while she and her husband Lou discussed the Smelt Festival.  

Except Di called it “Schmelt”.  

“What is Schmelt?” I asked. 

“Are you kidding?” Lou said, looking at me like I’d grown a second head.  “You don’t know what Smelt are?  Didn’t you ever go Smelt fishing when you were a kid?”

“Smelt?  I thought you said schmeldt.”
 
“Yeah,” Di said.  “Schmeldt”  
 
And she wasn’t drinking.

Lou didn’t even notice Di’s Yiddish pronunciation of this small fish that is one of Western New York's most famous natural resources (not counting the Bills).

Instead he proceeded to tell me in way too much detail about how one goes about cooking Smelt “Just cut the head off, clean’m, put’m in a bag with flour and fry’m up."

Apparently they are quite the delicacy.

And you hold them by their tail.  Kind of like a handle.

What Lou and Di didn’t know is that I have a psychological aversion to eating anything that looks like what it came from.  And I can only eat fish if it’s shaped like a rectangle.  Or a rhombus.  

But if it’s shaped like a fish, with a handle resembling a fish tail?  No thank you.

I didn’t want to rain on their Smelt parade, so I just nodded and said, “Wow.  Sounds great,”

“Who’s the Schmelt King this year?” Di asked Lou.  

“I think it’s Ken Bruschetta.”  
 
“He’s always the Schmeldt King,” said Di, disappointed.

I guess he runs unopposed.  
 
I asked Di if there was a Smelt Queen and there isn’t.  I was about to get on my high horse and say something about how this is 2015 and women’s rights and affirmative action etc.!  

But then I took another look at that Smelt King. 

Yeah.  I get it.