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Flipping the Bird

A friend sent me an e-mail forward about golf today. In the spirit of trying to at least think about seven impossible things before breakfast, croquet as played in Wonderland crossed my mind. This, as most people know, is played with a hedgehog for a ball and a flamingo, turned upside-down so its beak is the mallet-head, for the... well, mallet. Thus the title "Flipping the Bird."

It occurred to me that someone my height could never handle a bird as tall as a flamingo as a croquet mallet. Fretting over other possible avian mallet choices, I finally decided that toucan play at that.

A Proper BLT

A proper BLT was high on my list of “Ten Foods I Refuse to Give Up” when I was diagnosed diabetic. To me, it’s the sandwich made in heaven. Every part of it is necessary, blends and harmonizes with the rest, like the instruments in a chamber quartet, to form artistic perfection. There is no such thing as a bad BLT, but there IS such a thing as a proper one.

It starts with the toast, well-done toast firm enough to stand up to fatty, juicy goodness and not get soggy. My preference is a light wheat, but I’ll accept white or whole grain. My homemade bread makes a fine BLT, except of course for fruit bread.

Then the mayo… or, as I prefer, the light, sweetish taste of Miracle Whip. Mayo’s fattiness competes with the fattiness of the bacon, and let’s admit it, bacon is THE food. Any dish it’s in, it steals the show. If I must use real mayo, only a light smear, please. Miracle Whip I slather on with a trowel.

Next in construction, the lettuce. As with most sandwiches, I go for the All-American standard of iceberg. I like the crisp, light texture, subtle flavour, and non-chewiness of it. The leafy lettuce currently in vogue for sandwiches I find too assertive in taste, and somehow it is limp and tough simultaneously.

I only make BLT’s in the summer. Why? Because they lack that taste-explosion-in-the-mouth unless made with fresh garden tomatoes. It borders on heresy, but to me, a good tomato is the co-star of the BLT production along with the bacon. The tasteless hothouse or imported types available in winter may add colour to a salad, but never flavour; and give nothing at all to a sandwich. Best of all for a BLT is a nice, juicy, homegrown Super Steak or Big Boy, the kind you can carve a single thick slice from and have it protrude beyond the edge of the bread. But I’ll take two slices, please, dripping with juicy, home-grown, grab the tongue and assault the taste buds flavour. 

Now, pile on the bacon! Real pork bacon, definitely NOT turkey, cooked crisp, never hard (which eliminates thick-cut bacon as an ingredient), well-drained, nice and hot. Although Weight Watchers and my doctor do not approve, bacon is the star of this show. Pile it high. Add the top slice of bread, cut if you wish (on the diagonal is the classic method), and dig in. Be sure to have more than one napkin on hand. This is meant to be a messy sandwich, enjoyed as much tactilely as by taste. And abandon table manners during the BLT experience. Dab up dropped bacon crumbs with a finger, lick tomato juices off your hands… heck, lick the plate if you want to!

I’ll be the first to admit that the above instructions reflect my personal opinions. After all comfort food is a very, very personal thing. I revealed none of this to my psychologist, during the time I was using one’s services. I could talk about my job, my ex, my health problems, my fears, but not comfort food. The stomach is too close to the heart.

A Tale from the Booby Hatch

Over the course of losing over fifty pounds, I expected to lose at proportionally the same rate over my entire body.  Or, perhaps, that the places with the largest fat deposits would lose the most.  But, to my dismay, it seems to me that at least half the departing adipose tissue disappeared from my breasts.

      How was it I didn’t notice my tatas vanishing?  Firstly, I was distracted by the elation of seeing less desirable portions of my anatomy shrinking.  And it happened slowly, insidiously, exactly like two bean bags, each with a few stitches torn from the seam, that gradually deflated over the course of a year;  becoming a pair of limp, drooping, pathetic, almost-empty sacks attached to my chest.  At my age I wasn’t expecting to end up with the figure of a nude model, but this is downright distressing.

       Yes, I went from a size 44 brassiere to a 38, but what was once a comfortable C-cup is now…  Well, I can only say that I have not been this embarrassed of my bosom since I was twelve years old, when all the other girls in the gym class locker room were starting to wear bras and I was still wearing Carters undershirts.  If it had just been a matter of my young self looking busty while wearing clothes, a bra stuffed with two pairs of rolled socks would have given the right impression, but not in the total-honesty environment of the locker room.  Lack of hooters at the age of twelve is normal, though, and what I have dangling from my upper torso now is not.  I could be very happy with my prepubescent figure now, rather than a pair of skin flaps.

By fastening my old bras on the inmost set of hooks I can still wear them, diameter-wise, but have to almost accordion-pleat my teats to get them aligned to push the cups out to where they should be.  Then I put on a shirt, and mooosh!  Baggy bra cups.  Horrors!  Worse yet, the largest of my old bras have room for my poor withered boobies to ooze out the bottom, as if they were semi-liquid, over the course of an hour or so.  Since this makes me somewhat anxious about catching them in my waistband, I bought a couple of ‘sports bras,’ which my friends nickname ‘uniboob bras.’  The source of this moniker is still not that obvious to me, as my pendulous skin sacks just flatten against my chest entirely and vanish.  My problem with sports bras is the constant fear that people are going to address me as ‘sir.’

I try to look on the bright side.  Next time I go for a mammogram, there will be no pinching.  I doubt the plates of the ‘ice vise’ adjust close enough together to pinch two layers of skin with no stuffing between them.  Come to think of it, I’ll just suggest I pull them outwards with a strong light under them and the doctor will be able to see everything she needs to.

As for my feminine curves… Can anyone loan me a pair of rolled socks?

Valentine's Day Love Triangle

       Shortly after I started filling my bird feeders in early winter, I was delighted to see a female cardinal eating.  They are favorites of mine, with a subtle beauty that pleases my artistic senses better than the gaudy males’ plumage.  This one hung around all winter, and I gave her the not-very-original name Mrs. Cardinal.  As time passed, I began to feel sorry for her, as it seemed “Mrs.” was not the correct honorific for her.  Where was her mate?  Had she ever had one?  Poor thing, all alone in the world!

Around the middle of December I finally glimpsed a male cardinal in the yard.  At last, a suitor for Mrs. Cardinal!  The problem was, they totally ignored each other.  Among the flocks of juncos, woodpeckers, and chickadees feeding all around them, they were the only birds of their kind using my feeding area, but seemed unaware of that fact.  Now the question was, were they waiting for spring and the urgings of their hormones, or was she just playing hard-to-get?

It was on Valentine’s Day I finally saw them interacting.  They were within a foot of each other, alone on my ground-feeding spot.  She was watching him as he pecked at a sunflower seed, cocked his head at her, and began to hunker down, almost assuming the baby-bird-begging-for-food position that is a large part of the courtship ritual for many birds.

“Aww!”  I thought.  “Mrs. Cardinal is finally going to get her Mister, and on Valentine’s Day, too!  Love is in the air.”

That’s when things got complicated.  A fluttering in a nearby sapling drew my eye.  To my surprise, there was a second female cardinal there.  Was it my imagination, or was she looking daggers at the tableau on the ground?  I distinctly heard the “dramatic discovery” organ music of an old soap opera.  Then she launched into flight and dive-bombed Mrs. Cardinal.  Or should I now call her, Miss Cardinal, the interloper in what was obviously a long-established marriage?  The “other woman!”  Miss Cardinal flew away, and the Missus rounded on her mate with battering wings.

“You cad!  Two-timing me, are you?  Take this, and this!”  She goaded the poor hen-pecked (are female cardinals called “hens,” I wonder?) male into flight, buzzing and berating him as they left.

The tragedy-laden closing music of the soap opera swells, as I wonder what lies in store for Mr. Cardinal after his momentary surrender to temptation;  And, did Miss Cardinal know she was luring a married man into infidelity?  Will she ever find love?  I may never know the answer, for even if their soap opera continues, it’s not likely to be where I can watch.

I was left with a smile on my face, though, for the privilege of enjoying a Valentine’s Day Special, Potter County style.

Associative Memory

Somewhere there exists a recording of me spieling out nearly an hour of poetry from memory, word- and diction-perfect.  Long passages of Shakespeare, parts of “Evangeline,” even the Moody Blues.  It was a long-ago New Year’s Eve, I had been drinking champagne, and something set off my associative memory.  Probably someone dared me, which is not a safe thing for anyone under those circumstances. I don’t know why I can only do this when I’ve had a glass or two.  Today I tried to recite a simple, standard poem from memory without the aid of alcohol, and this is what came out.  The faint of heart may wish to stop reading now.

Once upon a midnight dreary,
As I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a volume of long-forgotten lore;
From above there came a rapping,
Then I heard a gentle tapping,
And I knew my bird was crapping,
Crapping on my chamber floor.
I hurled an oath, a book flew after,
Knocked the raven from its rafter;
Then I wrung its scrawny neck and flung it to the floor.
Loud I cried out, “I don’t wan’ no
“Filthy birds and stinking guano
“In my room, now or manano.
“Never!” quoth I. “Nevermore!”

Arguing With The Weather

Yes, it’s cold.  It’s winter.  This is northern Pennsylvania.  Stop whining and layer up!  The weather is not listening to you and could care less about your opinion of it.

Personally, I wouldn’t want to live in a place that has ‘climate’ but no seasons.  I find the cycle of the year invigorating, and greet each new season with puppy-like enthusiasm.  In winter, I enjoy the feeling of just being alive and thriving, despite the conditions, defying the ‘little death.’

The Polar Vortex is nothing new.  It’s an atmospheric condition that’s always been there, like the Jet Stream, but now the media has gotten hold of it.  We’ve had weather this cold before.  As long as the pipes don’t freeze and the power stays on, why complain?  This is temporary.  This is not the world of “Game of Thrones,” our winter is only going to last another month-and-a-half.

Half the politicians are saying this is evidence that Global Warming is a hoax, the other half saying this is proof it is real.  Lesser ones are griping about school closings and expenditure for snow removal on roads, and using all this as a reason to increase taxes, as if they needed an actual reason.  In short, the cold weather is the topic of every news article, interview, internet post, and conversation.

It could be worse.  They could be doing their usual rants about celebrities I’ve never heard of doing things I don’t care about.

That’s MY rant for today.