Chefs in the Raw

One recent morning I was checking my Yahoo e-mail. It was the unholy hour of 5am and I was waiting for my coffee to cool enough to sip. I opened a message from my mother and started reading what appeared to be an invitation to a Pampered Chef party. I scrolled down, already forming my excuse as to why I would be absent.

Then, in the invite a naked man is shown perched on a kitchen counter. He's holding a mixing bowl in front of his package smiling coquetishly in an " Oh no you didn't" fashion as he stirs some white goo in his bowl. He is tan,blond, and muscular in a Richard Simmons video sort of way. Not in a chopping wood or building stuff kind of way. He's prettier than I am. The invite is a "joke" and the "punchline" is that sexy men are to be purchased, I guess, at the party.

I'm repulsed as my first thoughts are of how pissed I would be if I walked into my kitchen to find some strange man's germy and naked little ass fouling up my countertop. The countertop where my babies make their peanut-butter sandwiches. The countertop that cost an arm and a leg and that my husband painstakingly installed. I imagine myself tossing him a towel (the ones I use on the dogs-not the good towels) and shooing him out so I can scrub the countertop with Clorox wipes.

Then as my eyes drop to his little mixing bowl, I think of pubes. Pubes in the cookie-dough. Ugh! He would have to take his little bowl along when I banished him because I wouldn't trust even the dishwasher to scorch out whatever microbes his naked crotch might have left on there! I scroll down and see more of the same; pretty men wearing nothing but aprons putting things in the oven, pretty men doing other cooking activities and wearing nothing at all. It just seems very unsanitary to me. Even Luby's makes people at least wear a hairnet in the kitchen

I wonder if I'm lacking some sort of hormone or chemical that causes me to be the opposite of interested in such sights. I see these sorts of men in MySpace comments and greeting cards all the time and I don't get the appeal. My husband is a bear. A protector. Not a girly man in a frilly apron and with a Hannah Montana smile.

I know my mom forwarded me the pictures of chefs who had peeled down to their birthday suits because it was suppossed to be funny. However, knowing my mom, I'm also sure she thought they were smoking hot. I think most of us would rather view our mothers as nonsexual beings. That said, I think Emily Post would agree with me that moms should share their lite gay porn with friends only-not their daughters.

Gender Identity Disorder,Cheerleading,and Devil Worship

My seven year-old daughter has claimed to be a boy since she was old enough to stake such claims. Since I'm Nazi-like in my policy of letting my children be whoever they are, I just go with it, much to the dismay of some of the people in my daughter's realm,who would rather me force her into pink dresses and a sugar-and- spice mentality. They can give it up,though, it will be a cold day in Fairytopia when I turn my tomboy into a reluctant princess.

Part of my staunch unwillingness to comply comes from my own mother's horror over my very unMalibu Barbie-like persona. I was brooding, anti-social, and wanted to wear all black. In my small Bible-Belt town, this was frightening to my mother,especially since all of those things fell under the broad category of things that she claimed made me seem like a "Devil Worshiper". Being a Devil Worshiper was at the top of my mom's list of things that were socially unacceptable. It just wasn't "done".

Aside from her fear that I would start collecting black cats to sacrifice of a Saturday night, she also wanted to live through me. Her own teen years were interrupted by my rude and untimely choosing of her womb to develop in when she was only 16. Not only did she resent me for such a SNAFU, she wanted to be me, I think. Since she was a baton twirler and pep squad member (don't ask me how she achieved those two activities simultaneously, my only guess is that that's how they rolled in the seventies), she expected me to continue the cheerleading legacy that she and my grandmothers and aunts before her had left. Especially since my parasitic-like newborn neediness didn't allow for such frivolity, she had unfinished pep-squad business, besides it was the least I could do since I had the audacity to be born at such a bad time.

It was pointlessly futile on my mother's part to try to force such an extracurricular activity upon me. Not only did I not have the social standing that effervecently jumping around half-naked and hollering in public required, I was also cripplingly shy. There was no way that I could, stone-cold sober, dry hump and writhe to the tunes of C+C Music Factory, in front of our town's football watching crowd. It would've taken at least a bottle and a half of Boone's Farm, and then I would've been sloppy and likely would've exaggerated all my moves and chants in the name of sarcasm. My mother should realize that my looking like a feared Devil Worshipper was far less embarassing to her than the realization of her cheerleading dreams for me would have been.

My daughter has her grandmother to thank for her freedom to be butch,though. If it weren't for my mom's constant pecking at me to be someone I wasn't, maybe I wouldn't be so laid-back about the situation at hand. And anyway, contrary to what I may have said decades ago, there are worse things than being a man. My daughter is such a sweet,smart, and entertaining little guy,too. You can't not love her gender confusion,and all.

I Will Redeem Myself, Pa-Rum-Pa-Pum-Pum!

As much fun as it is for me to be a sarcastic pain-in-the-ass, I do want to be a positive force in the universe. I feel kind of bad about all the negativity in my last blog. Therefore, I will dig way down into my heart,which feels three sizes too small, and begrudgingly list some things I like about Christmas.

1. I like red. Christmas stuff is red. It makes me happy.

2. Its fun to look at people's yards when they get really obnoxious and tacky with the decorations. Especially when they go nuts with the giant inflatables and the wind knocks them over. It looks like Santa's passed-out with Frosty after having too much eggnog.

3. I love those stiff claymation (isn't that what its called?) cartoons from the past. Like Rudolph.

4. Making the horrid,unsanitary, frosting-smeared-with-a-licked-spoon cookies for Santa is super fun.

5. Its fun to still have one child who believes in Santa.

6. The Black Friday tradition I have with my sisters is great. For some reason the lines and crowd are not annoying when its Black Friday.

7. On the rare occasion that I can find a gift that I know an adult on my list would actually want ,that's very good.

8. Having the kids home for Christmas vacation. No getting up at 5am. No fighting with the homework.

9. Holiday-flavored coffees. Peppermint-Mocha is divine!

10. My dining-room Christmas-tree with all black and silver ornaments is stunning!

And just so you know I'm still in here and haven't gone completely sugarplum fairy, allow me to say I despise that Drummer Boy song! It is an unhappy day indeed when the stores start piping it through the speakers.

The Most Blasphemous Time of the Year...

I can't stand Christmas. As it starts to loom large right after Halloween, I start to feel the stress and anxiety. I usually try to keep my sentiments to myself because the vapid chirping of those who try to convince me to be merry make me want to choke and maim the jolliness right out of them,even though I do admire those who can see something deeper in Christmas than I have been able to find.

The anxiety comes from having to create some semblance of holiday magic for my children. Its a difficult task to try to create holy magic out of resentment and scoffing. The commercialism of the whole season is nauseating, but what's a mom to do? I don't want to send my kids back to school having had stockings stuffed with apples and oranges while all the other kids got a holiday full of technology and reverent Hannah Montana worship. So,like a sheep, I follow the social norm and waste money on a bunch of crap, most of which will be buried and forgotten at the bottom of a toy box by Valentine's Day. The other stressor is trying to assume a demeanor that makes the relatives think I give a rip about any of it.

What's worse than the Santa hat-wearing, Rudolph-singing souls afflicted with the "Christmas Spirit" are those humorless types who want to admonish me for my lack of enthusiasm and call it a sacrelige. I mean no impiety. I decorate my pagan Christmas tree and hang my pagan mistletoe just like they do. I also understand that the "Reason for the Season" is the birth of Jesus (which possibly actually happened in the Spring), a man so radical for his time that if he came down now,with such extreme views and behavior for our era , these same people would probably ahem, crucify him. I just don't see that the obligation to buy for every single person you come into contact with everyday or the even worse obligation to spend time with people just because you happen to be related has anything to do with Jesus's birth. In any case, I doubt if even the pale-skinned,blue-eyed version of Jesus that the locals who are offended by my Grinchness worship would be pleased with the ridiculouness that's been manufactured of his "birthday".

I get the whole peace and goodwill bit,too but its kind of hard to swallow when people trample their fellow man to death in order to snag a bargain priced Wal-Mart Christmas gift. The only way I can stomach the holiday is to just accept it for what it really is, a superficial strain on the wallet created to demonstrate our love and reverence for Disney, Fisher Price,and Mattel. And though I admittedly enjoy watching my children's anticipation to receive their gifts on Christmas morning, gifts I fought crowds and waited in endless lines to acquire, I also know that all the sweet, baby awe and gratitude will go to Santa. If I try to make something more meaningful than a plastic,AA baterry-littered ploy to make money for "The Man" out of Christmas,then it just sets me up to try and meet impossible, Very Brady Christmas expectations. Therefore, I bake the cookies,buy the gadgets,and thank Jesus when its all finally over.

Jehova's Twisted Picture Show

When I was growing up,Jehova's Witnesses came to our house fairly frequently to pass out pamphlets and to gleefully inform my family that we were going to Hell. Much of the literature they gave out was very kid-friendly. It was usually easy to read ,brightly colored, and with interesting pictures. Jehova's Witness's literature,in retrospect, sort of seems like the Joe Camel of the religious world.
Once, when I was in second grade, they left a comic book that was a real page- turner. It featured a respectable looking man in a suit. Presumably,he was a successful businessman based on his attire and the car he drove. We'll call him Joe.
Well, Joe was ill-fated indeed. You see, Judgement Day was drawing near and Joe had been a bad boy, as all were soon to see. What happened was this: Jehova came down from the clouds and was most enraged. He was also ahead of the times technologically, as he had this HUGE, HD movie screen floating in thin air. The feature presentation was Joe's life. Joe soliciting a prostitute. Joe having a temper tantrum. That sort of thing.
Now,as if that weren't disturbing enough,the dead had risen and were part of the viewing audience. That's right. Watching poor Joe's misdeeds were not only hoards of guilty,sobbing, FRESH sinners,but also dead, rotting, putrid corpses! The most deliciously horrifying part of all was everyone knew that they too would soon enough have their turn on the big screen to be judged in front of Jehova and everyone else.
This little scenario penetrated my seven year- old brain and has lasted a lifetime. It affected my behavior as a child. Before committing some childhoood crime, I would stop and imagine myself shown on the big screen misbehaving. Even now, obviously,I still think about it. I imagine every terrible thing I've done shown to the world in Technicolor.
I think this, coupled with my alcoholic father's totally bizarre religious school of thought ( "Your body is a holy temple; never cut you fingernails on the Sabbath!!!") has made me the Kirk Cameron fearing person I am today. The people who have turned religion into a dark art are fascinatingly spooky!

Tripping with Dummies

This morning while trying to down just one cup of coffee before cooking breakfast, I was flipping through the tv channels. I stopped when I saw a pair of spectacularly spooky puppets and their fortyish looking woman ventriloquist who was dressed like a toddler. She had long,straight,red hair with bangs and was wearing a green and navy t-shirt under a matching navy jumper. Her dummies were so realistic looking that at first I thought they were real children painted to look like dolls and dressed very Victorian.
At first I was a little excited because I thought I had stumbled onto an episode of the Twilight Zone. Then I realized it was some kind of religious show. Ah, but of course! Anything religious and related to children has to be creepy!
I don't even know what the ventriloquist,who's name turned out to be Maralee Dawn, was talking about because I was lost in wondering whether she dressed herself or if someone in the wardrobe department went to Babies R Us and patterned Maralee's outfit after the fashions found there.
Suddenly,Maralee and her dolls are standing in front of a screen showing a swimming beluga whale . "Look!" gushed Maralee, while gazing adoringly at her girl doll, "It has five bony fingers just like YOOUUU!" Whatever. All I saw was a regular old fin or flipper or whatever those things have. Maybe it was a skeletal feature of the whale and Maralee has x-ray vision.
Then there's a wholesome looking astronaut couple rumaging through a wooden box. The chemistry between them was absolutely smoldering. The looks they gave each other could bring holy water to a boil and they seemed to have trouble keeping their hands off each other. I never did figure out what the point of those two were because I was imagining them ripping off their NASA-inspired jumpsuits and going at it while a horrified Maralee covered the eyes of her puppets.
Suddenly,there's a cartoon music video based on a verse from Timothy. It was kind of like those old School House Rock songs and showed a group of guys who sort of looked like the Beatles. They were singing a song about not letting people look down on you because you're young. They were underwater,surrounded by schools of fish, and their disembodied hands and feet floated around them while they performed. This show was like tripping on acid during Vacation Bible School!
Then Maralee was back with some woman and a granny puppet. The woman demonstrated how to make "bath fizzies". I was totally sucked in now,thinking that after I made pancakes,I would whip up some bath fizzies for my little daughters. I had everything to make them,too but some powdered citric acid and I don't think they sell that at our local Brookshires.
Maralee and her granny watched the demonstation and I noticed that while Maralee didn't do too bad speaking for her child puppets, the granny was British and Maralee couldn't do the accent with her mouth closed. Heh.
Alas, my eight year- old daughter interrupted my entertainment to remind me about breakfast. I was banished to the kitchen with visions of horny astronauts and hands and feet dancing in my head.

Crouching Tiger, Menacing Panda

I just had to get my first filling ever. I had put it off for a bit because I dreaded having to have the shot in my cheek to numb my mouth. I mean, c'mon! The tooth was giving me no trouble at all, it was just one tiny speck, way in the back where no one could see, and I would have to get a shot. IN MY MOUTH!!! After receiving the first shot to numb me, the dentist waited a few minutes to see if the shot "took". It did not. I got a round of laughing gas (is that what they still call it?) and felt nothing. The dentist had his hygenist crank it up a notch. Even then I felt little difference, but was concerned about taking it too far, so I didn't ask for it to be cranked up yet again,even though I wanted to. Then another mouth-numbing shot for me and more gas, as it turned out.
Perched on a shelf high above me were a stuffed tiger and panda. I never felt happy after all the gas, as the dentist insisted I would. However, the more I breathed in the gas, the more menacing that panda looked. He was sort of leaned over and peering down at me and looking me square in the eye. I didn't care for it in the least. The tiger, at least, had the good manners to keep his eyes averted as I rinsed and spit in a very unladylike fashion. Its hard to be prim while spitting in a tiny sink with a numb and huge- feeling mouth.
The longer I had to inhale gas while waiting for the shots to take effect, the more that idiot panda seemed to loom. I've never even noticed him before when I was at the dentist myself,or with my kids, but suddenly he seemed to assume a life of his own. I wanted to tell the dentist that his panda was freaking me out and to ask him to face it in another direction but I had the presence of mind to know how loony that would make me sound.
My husband, unfortunately has a deer head hanging on the living room wall. My kids despise it and say its eyes follow them around the room. I always thought it was rather silly of them. Now, after getting pumped full of drugs and having to stare at that panda, I sympathize even less. Next time they complain, I'll tell them, "If you think that's bad, let me tell you about this panda I met..." I mean, at least no one puts gas masks over their noses, shoves needles in their cheeks, and THEN forces them to stare into horrifyingly life-like glass eyes. Eyes that long to posses you and steal your soul...