I promised myself that I wouldn't relentlessly report on the agonizing day by day process of Nutri System. And if I ever decide to go pro with the blogging thing, Nutri System will not be signing up to be my first sponsor, but I can say this: if you like food, you'll lose weight on Nutri System.
This morning's packet o' breakfast was a "chocolate chip scone." And the person who created it has never had tea in England. Not that I have, but I am sure that even the British (not the world's most discerning palate) would not make such a big deal over tea if scones were like the lump in this morning's packet. First of all, the thing was so dense, you could execute some one by stoning with this bad boy. Second, the consistency was some where between cookie dough and slimy brownie. Third, the taste was an unholy melange of protein bar, chewed multivitamin, and artificial flavor. I choked it down with as much coffee as I could drink.
The thing is, I like food. Which is what got me into this weight dilemma in the first place. I didn't gain weight eating McDonald's (another sponsor I will no longer presumably get) or junk food or candy, or cheap frozen dinners. I gained weight eating home made food that is yummy: smashed parmesean potatoes, schnitzel, pasta, blue cheese dressing, pork chops. I'm not trying to be a food snob. I love the Golden Arches' french fries with the best of them. But that's not how I gained weight. I just eat too much of relatively healthy foods. It's one of life's cosmic unfairnesses.
For lunch, I had reconstituted "homestyle cheesy potatoes." Actual potatoes would not have recognized these potatoes. Fortunately, I got to add a salad (no dressing allowed, so I used vinegar straight) and a vegetable (broccoli, my old standby) and a tablespoon of fat free cottage cheese. Which somehow made everything a little more palatable. But those potatoes are a crime against nature.
And of course, I ate it all so fast (hard to eat while holding your nose)that now I have to burp, which just brings that hideousness right back to me. I would rather have eaten the paper cup the potatoes came in. For real.
All I have to say is this: if I haven't amputated my taste buds by the end of 56 days, it will be a miracle.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tender Thoughts
Living with kids is much like reading a stream of consciousness novel, and I try to stimulate my brain by seeking meaning in the flow of verbal diarrhea. He likes to play with rhyming words, alliteration ("that frickin' frog is freakin' me out"), multiple meanings. It's a Jeopardy Potpourri category, Alex. And it's a humorous hiatus from the heinous havoc for now.
Right now, S is obsessed with his genitalia. His tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. Freud would have a freaking field day with this kid. He is convinced some one is going to shoot off, laser off, sword off, pull off, or in some other way, remove his tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. When he gets in the tub, he says I'm boiling his tenders. When I dry him off, he says I'm fluffing his tenders (for people in the porn industry, that has a completely different meaning). When he and his brother wrestle and fight, there are no-tenders pulling rules. When we were in Arizona, every other word out of the kid's mouth was tenders. And worst of all, he violated the no-tenders rule while horsing around with his uncle, and delivered a swift blow to HIS tenders.
Then, I start thinking about the word association with tenders. Chicken tenders. Tenders on cruises that shuttle people to shore and back. Tendering money. Meat tenderizer. Legal tender. The next time I see "tender, juicy steak" on a menu, I'll probably barf.
But, this has only been one aspect of his verbal concentration. Yesterday, S was playing with his Star Wars figures. He had them hurrying to escape an exploding ship: "run to the escape pod" he says in action figure voice. "The ipod?" action figure two queries. "No, the pea pod!" says another. "NOOO! The escape pod! The shuttle!" screams the first figurine. "OH! Shut the door. I got it" says the second. "No. Don't shut it...the shuttle, the space shuttle" says the third.
He's like a living dictionary, blurting out all the multiple definitions of a word his little brain can conjure. It's fun, because of course, I am the queen of puns and wordplay and LOVE that sort of humor. But, as always, it's a noisy monologue that streams from his mouth constantly. It's a littany of language to make James Joyce proud. On the other hand, living with it is somewhat like reading Finnegan's Wake: an impossibility best aspired to, and never undertaken.
This phase will undoubtedly end shortly, and we will be on to some other form of Guantanamo-esque torture, but in the mean time, you might want to cover your ears. Nears. Fears. Gears. Tears.
Right now, S is obsessed with his genitalia. His tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. Freud would have a freaking field day with this kid. He is convinced some one is going to shoot off, laser off, sword off, pull off, or in some other way, remove his tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. When he gets in the tub, he says I'm boiling his tenders. When I dry him off, he says I'm fluffing his tenders (for people in the porn industry, that has a completely different meaning). When he and his brother wrestle and fight, there are no-tenders pulling rules. When we were in Arizona, every other word out of the kid's mouth was tenders. And worst of all, he violated the no-tenders rule while horsing around with his uncle, and delivered a swift blow to HIS tenders.
Then, I start thinking about the word association with tenders. Chicken tenders. Tenders on cruises that shuttle people to shore and back. Tendering money. Meat tenderizer. Legal tender. The next time I see "tender, juicy steak" on a menu, I'll probably barf.
But, this has only been one aspect of his verbal concentration. Yesterday, S was playing with his Star Wars figures. He had them hurrying to escape an exploding ship: "run to the escape pod" he says in action figure voice. "The ipod?" action figure two queries. "No, the pea pod!" says another. "NOOO! The escape pod! The shuttle!" screams the first figurine. "OH! Shut the door. I got it" says the second. "No. Don't shut it...the shuttle, the space shuttle" says the third.
He's like a living dictionary, blurting out all the multiple definitions of a word his little brain can conjure. It's fun, because of course, I am the queen of puns and wordplay and LOVE that sort of humor. But, as always, it's a noisy monologue that streams from his mouth constantly. It's a littany of language to make James Joyce proud. On the other hand, living with it is somewhat like reading Finnegan's Wake: an impossibility best aspired to, and never undertaken.
This phase will undoubtedly end shortly, and we will be on to some other form of Guantanamo-esque torture, but in the mean time, you might want to cover your ears. Nears. Fears. Gears. Tears.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Diet Plan #459
So, I finally broke down. I got so taken with Marie Osmond's skinny new self, I decided I, too needed a big ol' chunk of that Mormon happiness and started the Nutri System diet. Actually, I didn't do it. I asked M to do it, as if the act of ordering on line was like viewing porn. It's like buying an As Seen On TV product. I just couldn't press the Purchase button in case the Dick Cheney of skinny people was watching me, and would swoop in and chastise me for buying into a diet gimmick such as Nutri System.
Nonetheless, M pressed the Purchase Now button, and on my doorstep several days later arrived a giant box. A box big enough to hold S. Inside were a jillion packages, color coded by meal, and boasting photographs of relatively yummy looking food inside. This, of course, is when the first realization hits me. I hold up a microwavable "bowl" of chicken pasta and think, this can't POSSIBLY be one serving! Clearly, my biggest issue with weight loss is portion control, because if that scrawny bowl is one serving, I've been eating for me and the rest of my family. Then, the second realization hits me. This assortment of green, red, and blue packaged food spread across my dining room table is what I am going to be eating for the next 28, possibly 56, days of my life. To paraphrase Brent Musberger, there isn't a lot of food there, folks. And NONE of it looks like a giant batch of fresh-baked cookies.
This morning, I ate Nutri System's cinnamon cereal for breakfast with the designated 4 oz. of milk. For those of you who eat Seinfeld-sized bowls of cereal for breakfast, or dinner, or dessert, that apparently is 27 servings of cereal. I ate my out of a coffee mug this morning, so it looked less pathetic. That fiber stuck with me, though. For lunch, I had chicken in a cacciatore sauce that was edible, though puny. And I was reminded of a one liner my father in law often mentions, "this food is awful, and the portions are so small." So, I would say that I wolfed that portion down, except that I ate it all with one scoop of a tablespoon.
Could that possibly have been lunch?
Finally, I am sorting through the boxes that represent my dinner options. There is something that resembles pizza on a cracker, something involving black beans and ham (it won't come to that), and another pasta-ish looking concoction. I review the "results kit" that came with my order, and notice the asterisk that says "For best results, do not consume alcohol on this program." I pull out a Sharpie and draw a line right through "not" and "best". I replace with "reasonable." There is no way that I am putting freeze dried lima beans in this mouth without a gin and (diet) tonic to wash them down.
During carpool today, another realization: something in the Nutri System food makes me mean. Or impatient. Or just the idea of it makes me cranky. But something was leaving me ornery. Perhaps it is the stuff that is NOT in Nutri System that makes me irritable: cookies, cupcakes, potato chips, heaping mounds of schnitzel and spaetzle.
I can forecast this for you, gentle reader--that while my fantasies this month may still include George Clooney (who has a movie coming out soon), he will be covered in whipped potatoes, chocolate covered strawberries, and other delicious morsels creeping into my subconscious. Regardless, I will be updating the diet module on notcinnamon regularly again.
If you see me cheating on my diet and eating real-life food, smack me. But do so gently, and with pity, for I will be desperate.
Nonetheless, M pressed the Purchase Now button, and on my doorstep several days later arrived a giant box. A box big enough to hold S. Inside were a jillion packages, color coded by meal, and boasting photographs of relatively yummy looking food inside. This, of course, is when the first realization hits me. I hold up a microwavable "bowl" of chicken pasta and think, this can't POSSIBLY be one serving! Clearly, my biggest issue with weight loss is portion control, because if that scrawny bowl is one serving, I've been eating for me and the rest of my family. Then, the second realization hits me. This assortment of green, red, and blue packaged food spread across my dining room table is what I am going to be eating for the next 28, possibly 56, days of my life. To paraphrase Brent Musberger, there isn't a lot of food there, folks. And NONE of it looks like a giant batch of fresh-baked cookies.
This morning, I ate Nutri System's cinnamon cereal for breakfast with the designated 4 oz. of milk. For those of you who eat Seinfeld-sized bowls of cereal for breakfast, or dinner, or dessert, that apparently is 27 servings of cereal. I ate my out of a coffee mug this morning, so it looked less pathetic. That fiber stuck with me, though. For lunch, I had chicken in a cacciatore sauce that was edible, though puny. And I was reminded of a one liner my father in law often mentions, "this food is awful, and the portions are so small." So, I would say that I wolfed that portion down, except that I ate it all with one scoop of a tablespoon.
Could that possibly have been lunch?
Finally, I am sorting through the boxes that represent my dinner options. There is something that resembles pizza on a cracker, something involving black beans and ham (it won't come to that), and another pasta-ish looking concoction. I review the "results kit" that came with my order, and notice the asterisk that says "For best results, do not consume alcohol on this program." I pull out a Sharpie and draw a line right through "not" and "best". I replace with "reasonable." There is no way that I am putting freeze dried lima beans in this mouth without a gin and (diet) tonic to wash them down.
During carpool today, another realization: something in the Nutri System food makes me mean. Or impatient. Or just the idea of it makes me cranky. But something was leaving me ornery. Perhaps it is the stuff that is NOT in Nutri System that makes me irritable: cookies, cupcakes, potato chips, heaping mounds of schnitzel and spaetzle.
I can forecast this for you, gentle reader--that while my fantasies this month may still include George Clooney (who has a movie coming out soon), he will be covered in whipped potatoes, chocolate covered strawberries, and other delicious morsels creeping into my subconscious. Regardless, I will be updating the diet module on notcinnamon regularly again.
If you see me cheating on my diet and eating real-life food, smack me. But do so gently, and with pity, for I will be desperate.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Learning Opportunities
How mortifying would it be to be the mother of Falcon, the balloon boy? That right there is MY worst nightmare. A kid's prank gone horribly public on a slow news day?
Falcon absolutely should have gone MIA when Ms. Snowe decided to take her day in the spotlight last week. But, no, the only thing that happened yesterday was a presidential visit to New Orleans, which the whole country has forgotten about anyway, and so was riveted to CNN footage of a giant mylar balloon drifting across the countryside with a kid or not in it.
We happened to be at a layover in Dallas when we first espied the Identified Flying Object on CNN. The kids heard the story, and of course, I told them that the young boy had failed to follow his parents' instructions about NOT TOUCHING THE BALLOON, and had touched it anyway, and now had the police, the Air Force, and every other government agency in the country looking for him and how he was going to be in big, Big, BIG trouble when they found him.
Thankfully, God decided not to call my bluff, and the kid was found alive in a box in his garage. Otherwise of course, I would have had to say the kid was following directions and that some one bad had taken him out of the front yard, which would undo the months of coaching my kids to the out of doors to play.
Of course, I put myself in these parents' positions. But only relatively, because this family is freakish from the get-go. Who keeps a mini UFO in the backyard and goes on Wife Swap anyway? Which of those is stranger? But, I can imagine freaking out over my missing kid, imagining the silver poof whisking him into the lower atmosphere, calling everyone short of the Marines, and demanding his return. S would do this to me. And laugh his ass off, too.
As I was trapped in my own silver aircraft yesterday, after hour long delays, and cramped conditions and a total S meltdown over the inflight beverage service, I was kind of thinking about sneaking off into a refrigerator box for a day or two. Happily, no one would call in the Feds or the Marines. They'd turn on the TV and wait for me to come on in. Unless some one needed a snack or clean underwear, or their homework, or a shoe tied, or ....
In any event, it was gratifying to hear S and E keep asking me questions about the "boy who didn't follow instructions." This woman next to me was laughing when I said that President Obama would be very unhappy that his advisers had to interrupt his trip to tell him there was an interstate incident going on because of this one naughty little boy. I said that the President knows when something like this goes on live TV, and that he would be very very angry. Both boys got very serious. Obama would know? Yes, he would. And don't ever forget it.
Falcon absolutely should have gone MIA when Ms. Snowe decided to take her day in the spotlight last week. But, no, the only thing that happened yesterday was a presidential visit to New Orleans, which the whole country has forgotten about anyway, and so was riveted to CNN footage of a giant mylar balloon drifting across the countryside with a kid or not in it.
We happened to be at a layover in Dallas when we first espied the Identified Flying Object on CNN. The kids heard the story, and of course, I told them that the young boy had failed to follow his parents' instructions about NOT TOUCHING THE BALLOON, and had touched it anyway, and now had the police, the Air Force, and every other government agency in the country looking for him and how he was going to be in big, Big, BIG trouble when they found him.
Thankfully, God decided not to call my bluff, and the kid was found alive in a box in his garage. Otherwise of course, I would have had to say the kid was following directions and that some one bad had taken him out of the front yard, which would undo the months of coaching my kids to the out of doors to play.
Of course, I put myself in these parents' positions. But only relatively, because this family is freakish from the get-go. Who keeps a mini UFO in the backyard and goes on Wife Swap anyway? Which of those is stranger? But, I can imagine freaking out over my missing kid, imagining the silver poof whisking him into the lower atmosphere, calling everyone short of the Marines, and demanding his return. S would do this to me. And laugh his ass off, too.
As I was trapped in my own silver aircraft yesterday, after hour long delays, and cramped conditions and a total S meltdown over the inflight beverage service, I was kind of thinking about sneaking off into a refrigerator box for a day or two. Happily, no one would call in the Feds or the Marines. They'd turn on the TV and wait for me to come on in. Unless some one needed a snack or clean underwear, or their homework, or a shoe tied, or ....
In any event, it was gratifying to hear S and E keep asking me questions about the "boy who didn't follow instructions." This woman next to me was laughing when I said that President Obama would be very unhappy that his advisers had to interrupt his trip to tell him there was an interstate incident going on because of this one naughty little boy. I said that the President knows when something like this goes on live TV, and that he would be very very angry. Both boys got very serious. Obama would know? Yes, he would. And don't ever forget it.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Green, Green Grass
On my vacation at my sister and brother in law's house, I've been thinking a lot about life without children. My sister and BIL always have some degree of shock when hanging out with kids. This time, in their house, on their fall break, kids seem especially alien to them. Though I have to say...
...their house is spotless. Everything is tidy, and there are no scuffs on the paint, piles of crap on the desks, toys jammed in closets, or massive piles of laundry.
...their garage is spotless. There are no flat soccer balls, outgrown motorized ride-ons, soccer goals, bicycles, or a decade of marriage's worth of old junk.
...there would never be anything to argue about. I forget about life BC, that it is possible to have individual identities that come together to form your marriage. Life doesn't have to be kid-centric.
...they have a whole hell of a lot of free time. Damn, I'm jealous.
...did I mention the free time? Working out, small gardening projects, reading books, cooking huge meals, watching Dancing With the Stars (fine, I would never do that last one, but still), puttering around.
...they live in near silence. I can't believe, when my kids are at the park here, or out with grandma, how quiet a house is. No dog, no responsibilities at all, and the house is totally still. I can hear the keys on the keyboard instead of straining to hear myself think.
...everything is where they put it. Keys? Have a home. Refrigerator? Nobody rifles through it looking for one last Capri Sun. Closets? Drawers? All the clothes still inside. Where they're supposed to be.
...when you turn on the TV, it is not this morning's episode of Oswald screaming at you. I really like that.
And while everything in their house is not new or perfect or exactly how I am sure they want it, it is clean, and tidy, and belongs only to them. It is not shared with fingerprints on all the windows, greasy smudges on all the faucet handles, cookie crumbs under the table.
It's certainly a different life. Would I trade back to life BC? Probably for a month. Just to remember what it's like to wake up when I want to.
...their house is spotless. Everything is tidy, and there are no scuffs on the paint, piles of crap on the desks, toys jammed in closets, or massive piles of laundry.
...their garage is spotless. There are no flat soccer balls, outgrown motorized ride-ons, soccer goals, bicycles, or a decade of marriage's worth of old junk.
...there would never be anything to argue about. I forget about life BC, that it is possible to have individual identities that come together to form your marriage. Life doesn't have to be kid-centric.
...they have a whole hell of a lot of free time. Damn, I'm jealous.
...did I mention the free time? Working out, small gardening projects, reading books, cooking huge meals, watching Dancing With the Stars (fine, I would never do that last one, but still), puttering around.
...they live in near silence. I can't believe, when my kids are at the park here, or out with grandma, how quiet a house is. No dog, no responsibilities at all, and the house is totally still. I can hear the keys on the keyboard instead of straining to hear myself think.
...everything is where they put it. Keys? Have a home. Refrigerator? Nobody rifles through it looking for one last Capri Sun. Closets? Drawers? All the clothes still inside. Where they're supposed to be.
...when you turn on the TV, it is not this morning's episode of Oswald screaming at you. I really like that.
And while everything in their house is not new or perfect or exactly how I am sure they want it, it is clean, and tidy, and belongs only to them. It is not shared with fingerprints on all the windows, greasy smudges on all the faucet handles, cookie crumbs under the table.
It's certainly a different life. Would I trade back to life BC? Probably for a month. Just to remember what it's like to wake up when I want to.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Industry Leaders
So, in the world of American business, there are certainly companies I don't like. There are also companies I don't understand. And there are companies that I can't believe actually exist.
So, as I see it here is the history of the airline industry: Wright Brothers (no passengers, very short routes), Hindenburg (luxury liner, wrong gas), The Titanic (prompted people to really consider other means of transport across the Atlantic), Continental Airlines (classy style, cute flight attendant outfits, rich people traveling in their Sunday best), Spruce Goose (potentially many passengers, crazy pilot) TWA, Eastern, United (multiple carriers bring air travel to the masses, suddenly a family vacation is within reach for millions), all those airlines go broke. Southwest Airlines (happy consumers, reasonable prices, limited market), American, United, Continental, all come back in various reincarnations and mergers, (crowded planes, crappy routes, pissed off consumers, sky high prices.)
So, here we arrive at the current state of pleasure travel in the US. This industry represents one of the few in which a company may extract heaps of money from the consumer, may or may not deliver the service for which the consumer paid, blame weather, mechanics, tardy pilots, or any other reason for their failure, refuse to offer compensation for any deficiency on their part. THEN, if they actually do manage to put you on the plane (you lucky duck), offer you 16 1/2" seats behind morbidly obese women with a sweat gland issue, use a crow bar to wedge your children in seats next to you, offer you 4 1/2 ounces of carbonated sugar water, no food, pillows or other comfort amenities. Then they employ a 54 year old woman whose face is as pinched as can be, whose attitude's enormous bitterness is rivaled only by the giant shoulder pads she sports and who is supposed to make your flight more comfortable. Under no emergency circumstance is Cruella d'stewardess there going to help anyone out of the fuselage of death nor is she going to bring me a free packet of 12 pretzels in a foil baggie to help me out with a kid with an ear infection. She even has a put-out expression while going through the cabin to check that seat belts are fastened--as if she secretly hopes she misses a few and she can cull the herd out in the event of turbulence.
Then, if you are lucky enough to make it on the plane, survive Cruella d'stewardess, and arrive at your destination within 3 hours of the promised landing time, you then have a layover long enough to read War and Peace. But, don't worry, because you can purchase horrifically disgusting fast food for a mere twice the price of what you'd pay for it in the real world. Or, you could go to a bare-bones version of your favorite chain restaurant and sit down for an expensive order of chicken fingers that you can eat with a plastic spork doled out to diners who might later have an urge to hijack a plane with their stolen cutlery. But of course, no one could ever hijack a plane with the sporks they give you at the behind-security restaurants because those sporks collapse and bend the moment you stick them in applesauce. Really makes you feel like your getting a high end meal, that.
So, after a layover that is without exaggeration, longer than the two legs of flights you've purchased, you can board another jammed airplane that is running late. For whatever reason, this plane is late and the flight attendant starts berating the poor souls boarding the plane. "Please move it along. Stow your bags quickly, as you can see our departure time has come and gone, and we would like to get going."
REALLY, bitch? Really? Your botoxed lips have finally connected to a brain cell, and this is the news you deliver? We, on the other hand, lowly travellers, were cooling our jets watching (what I eventually figured out to be a rerun) of the baseball playoffs in super cozy metal chairs, sharing an armrest with some H1N1 infected stranger who thinks it's appropriate to bring her own Finding Nemo pillow with her on the airplane like a giant security blankie (I hope she collects some bed bugs) and standing around talking about how much we would like to continue to wait in the beautiful environs of Gate A21 and keep you, our beautiful flight attendant waiting a little longer. Some kind of nerve. Also, as soon as my children fall asleep, I'd really appreciate it if you could run over one's legs, and scream into the PA system about the cocktails that EVERYONE knows are for sale, and the WiFi which I am sure is not free that people can log on to. I love it when you do that because what 4 year old could really use sleep at midnight on a godforsaken tin can at 35,000 feet?
And thanks, I'll have a rum and diet since you're asking. Where the hell did I put that spork?
So, as I see it here is the history of the airline industry: Wright Brothers (no passengers, very short routes), Hindenburg (luxury liner, wrong gas), The Titanic (prompted people to really consider other means of transport across the Atlantic), Continental Airlines (classy style, cute flight attendant outfits, rich people traveling in their Sunday best), Spruce Goose (potentially many passengers, crazy pilot) TWA, Eastern, United (multiple carriers bring air travel to the masses, suddenly a family vacation is within reach for millions), all those airlines go broke. Southwest Airlines (happy consumers, reasonable prices, limited market), American, United, Continental, all come back in various reincarnations and mergers, (crowded planes, crappy routes, pissed off consumers, sky high prices.)
So, here we arrive at the current state of pleasure travel in the US. This industry represents one of the few in which a company may extract heaps of money from the consumer, may or may not deliver the service for which the consumer paid, blame weather, mechanics, tardy pilots, or any other reason for their failure, refuse to offer compensation for any deficiency on their part. THEN, if they actually do manage to put you on the plane (you lucky duck), offer you 16 1/2" seats behind morbidly obese women with a sweat gland issue, use a crow bar to wedge your children in seats next to you, offer you 4 1/2 ounces of carbonated sugar water, no food, pillows or other comfort amenities. Then they employ a 54 year old woman whose face is as pinched as can be, whose attitude's enormous bitterness is rivaled only by the giant shoulder pads she sports and who is supposed to make your flight more comfortable. Under no emergency circumstance is Cruella d'stewardess there going to help anyone out of the fuselage of death nor is she going to bring me a free packet of 12 pretzels in a foil baggie to help me out with a kid with an ear infection. She even has a put-out expression while going through the cabin to check that seat belts are fastened--as if she secretly hopes she misses a few and she can cull the herd out in the event of turbulence.
Then, if you are lucky enough to make it on the plane, survive Cruella d'stewardess, and arrive at your destination within 3 hours of the promised landing time, you then have a layover long enough to read War and Peace. But, don't worry, because you can purchase horrifically disgusting fast food for a mere twice the price of what you'd pay for it in the real world. Or, you could go to a bare-bones version of your favorite chain restaurant and sit down for an expensive order of chicken fingers that you can eat with a plastic spork doled out to diners who might later have an urge to hijack a plane with their stolen cutlery. But of course, no one could ever hijack a plane with the sporks they give you at the behind-security restaurants because those sporks collapse and bend the moment you stick them in applesauce. Really makes you feel like your getting a high end meal, that.
So, after a layover that is without exaggeration, longer than the two legs of flights you've purchased, you can board another jammed airplane that is running late. For whatever reason, this plane is late and the flight attendant starts berating the poor souls boarding the plane. "Please move it along. Stow your bags quickly, as you can see our departure time has come and gone, and we would like to get going."
REALLY, bitch? Really? Your botoxed lips have finally connected to a brain cell, and this is the news you deliver? We, on the other hand, lowly travellers, were cooling our jets watching (what I eventually figured out to be a rerun) of the baseball playoffs in super cozy metal chairs, sharing an armrest with some H1N1 infected stranger who thinks it's appropriate to bring her own Finding Nemo pillow with her on the airplane like a giant security blankie (I hope she collects some bed bugs) and standing around talking about how much we would like to continue to wait in the beautiful environs of Gate A21 and keep you, our beautiful flight attendant waiting a little longer. Some kind of nerve. Also, as soon as my children fall asleep, I'd really appreciate it if you could run over one's legs, and scream into the PA system about the cocktails that EVERYONE knows are for sale, and the WiFi which I am sure is not free that people can log on to. I love it when you do that because what 4 year old could really use sleep at midnight on a godforsaken tin can at 35,000 feet?
And thanks, I'll have a rum and diet since you're asking. Where the hell did I put that spork?
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Stress Test--Failed
When I was in high school,my parents always planned family trips for the breaks immediately following the end of terms. Later, in college, I would travel cross country to come home for Thanksgiving or winter break, or spring break--right after midterms or finals.
And invariably, after late night studying, snacking, and post-exam celebrating I would be exhausted, and ultimately, sick.
My freshman year at Northwestern, especially, I remember coming home at Thanksgiving. (as the years went on, I decided that chaotic weekend was probably not worth the stress of an 1800 mile journey). I clearly remember laying on the floor, feverish, achy, and convinced of imminent death. My body never has coped well with stress, whether emotional, physical, or mental. I also have a tendency to push through events with unreasonable zeal only to literally collapse when events wind down.
Last week, there was not a single night where all four of us were home for dinner. I spent Tuesday in the car (from 7:20 AM to 6:15 PM), I wanted very much for E's birthday party to be perfect, S's school open house to be memorable, I had somehow tweaked my back and was unable to sleep at night and, and and...Until Tuesday morning, I woke up miserable. Well, waking up would probably be an exaggeration. My throat hurt, my head hurt, my body ached, and my eyelids insisted on drooping. Yesterday, I slept away S's entire school day. And went to bed at 9. Loser? Yes.
But what really strikes me is how much LESS stress I am able to cope with now than I was eight, ten or (gulp) fifteen years ago. In high school, I was taking 7 classes, running the school newspaper, working on college applications, and NEVER sleeping at night. In college, I was taking 3 or 4 courses, writing lengthy papers, and (ahem) socializing heavily. When I was married and kid less, I was working as much as seventy hours a week, running a franchise virtually alone, and traveling on the weekends.
And now? Now, I'm planning how many cookies to deliver to a 7 year old's party and I am beat, fried, frizzled.
What happened? Is it practice? Is the background stress of being a grown-up so intense that it goes on all the time and I don't even recognize it anymore? If that's true, can I stop being a grown up? NOW? Is it nap time yet?
And invariably, after late night studying, snacking, and post-exam celebrating I would be exhausted, and ultimately, sick.
My freshman year at Northwestern, especially, I remember coming home at Thanksgiving. (as the years went on, I decided that chaotic weekend was probably not worth the stress of an 1800 mile journey). I clearly remember laying on the floor, feverish, achy, and convinced of imminent death. My body never has coped well with stress, whether emotional, physical, or mental. I also have a tendency to push through events with unreasonable zeal only to literally collapse when events wind down.
Last week, there was not a single night where all four of us were home for dinner. I spent Tuesday in the car (from 7:20 AM to 6:15 PM), I wanted very much for E's birthday party to be perfect, S's school open house to be memorable, I had somehow tweaked my back and was unable to sleep at night and, and and...Until Tuesday morning, I woke up miserable. Well, waking up would probably be an exaggeration. My throat hurt, my head hurt, my body ached, and my eyelids insisted on drooping. Yesterday, I slept away S's entire school day. And went to bed at 9. Loser? Yes.
But what really strikes me is how much LESS stress I am able to cope with now than I was eight, ten or (gulp) fifteen years ago. In high school, I was taking 7 classes, running the school newspaper, working on college applications, and NEVER sleeping at night. In college, I was taking 3 or 4 courses, writing lengthy papers, and (ahem) socializing heavily. When I was married and kid less, I was working as much as seventy hours a week, running a franchise virtually alone, and traveling on the weekends.
And now? Now, I'm planning how many cookies to deliver to a 7 year old's party and I am beat, fried, frizzled.
What happened? Is it practice? Is the background stress of being a grown-up so intense that it goes on all the time and I don't even recognize it anymore? If that's true, can I stop being a grown up? NOW? Is it nap time yet?
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