didaink

Chicken or Beef?

 

 

 “Are you sure? They’re yellow… some people call them banana peppers... Can you just check in the back again, please?!?”

There I stood in front of the glass case that April afternoon tired, edgy and hungry, looking longingly at the roast beef behind the glass – it was that time of the month. I held strong, though, my eyes imagining the prize. If only they had the right peppers, it would all come true. I was just moments away from receiving the best roast beef sandwich a girl with raging hormones could ask for when an older gentleman saddled up next to me at the Kroger deli counter wearing a straw hat and suspenders. My mind drifted away for a bit from my roast beef sandwich and my puffy, yet growling, stomach. This gentleman was not eyeing the rare roast beef inside the case like I was… no, his eyes were fixed on a pair of golden wings.

Him: tall, dark and handsome. Me: short, white and hormonal.

But there was no denying it… I had to ask him. Maybe it was because I always wanted a father like Jim in Huckleberry Finn who might tell me stories about himself as a boy and a father or maybe it’s because I fell deeply in love with Sidney Poitier when I was nine, the first time I saw him in To Sir, With Love. So, maybe this was my chance, right here at Krogers, in front of all the Hillshire Farm cold cuts. Maybe he’d even tell me a story or two if I asked him to share half of my dream sandwich: rare roast beef stacked high atop mayo and cream cheese, slices of pepperoncini strewn everywhere, finished off with thinly shaved red onion on a crunchy French roll. But, alas… he seemed to be already smitten with a spring chicken.

“How much you want for your wings today?” he asked the woman behind the counter.

“99 cents a wing,” she replied, her face blank.

“What in Darnation?! A dollar a wing?” his forehead rumpling from years of hard work.

I couldn’t believe my ears either. My stacked roast beef sandwich was estimated to come in at around $3.99 when they finally finished assembling it with pepperoncini, but there was hardly any meat on those little wings he wanted.

“I agree!” I said. “That doesn’t seem right at all. But, um… well… did… uh… you see the roast beef?”

“Well, now, I try and eat healthy, I do.” taking off his hat, “But, now and again, I like them wings they roast… and the gravy and such,“ standing with his hat over his heart, his blue work shirt buttoned all the way up to his chin.

“Oh, okay then, sorry,“ I said, feeling like a lonely, middle-aged glutton. “I must say, though, Sir… you are in terrific shape. You must eat very healthy.”

“Well, now, that I do… but, you... you still holding yourself up pretty good. That young man a-yours sure did buy you some nice engagement ring.”

I wanted to scoop him up right there on the spot and have lunch with him forever and ever, roasting him chicken and beef on an open spit. There we’d sit, rocking back and forth on our big wide front porch, while my husband and children jumped up and down, trying to get our attention from inside the house.  But, we… well, we were busy… we had cream cheese to carefully spread across long crunchy rolls… we had purple onions to shave down real thin, using that old tortoise shell knife of his, and pepperoncini to lovingly toss to our sandwiches… all the while, me listening to his stories about growing up along the Mississippi.

“Ma’am!” the woman snapped from behind the counter. “Your sandwich is ready,” attempting to lift a brown package the size of a toddler.

“Well, your fiancé, he sure is a lucky man, you bringing him his lunch at work,” he said before he shuffled away with two chicken wings and a little container of mash potatoes and gravy.

“Oh, he’s one lucky man, all right…” the woman behind the counter muttered to her co-worker who had just spent 10 minutes looking for some damn thing called, “pepper-RON-cheeky” for some PMSing, middle-aged nutcake.

As I headed to my car I couldn’t help but wonder where he was going to eat his lunch and with whom. Then I strapped my roast beef sandwich and myself into our seatbelts and drove away, holding myself up pretty good, bloated but renewed and feeling like a spring chicken.

Post Valentine's Day Evil Mother Syndrome

It’s Saturday morning, 8:57am. My husband and daughter are still sound asleep, sleeping off their “Sweetheart Ball” hangovers on my scheduled sleep-in day. My son and I have been watching cartoons since 6:35. I thought it was a school day, his explanation at 6:30, fully dressed. 

“You told me I should always get dressed as soon as I wake-up then come tell you.”

Good times, good times. 

It’s not that I’m begrudging last night’s, father-daughter Valentine’s Day dance extravaganza and subsequent sleep-in way past the reasonable sleep-in hour.  No, no.  It’s that I might be suffering from Post Valentine’s Day Evil Mother Syndrome, PVDEMS.  It can last anywhere from 2-14 days, and it’s going on Day 4 for me I think. I probably should be seen. Too bad it’s Saturday morning and I can’t get an appointment down at Urgent Care because they’re only taking “emergency” patients, blah, blah, blah. If this isn’t a valid emergency I don’t know what is, I just raided each of my children’s Valentine’s candy for the third day in a row while trying to walk past it on my way to the coffee pot.

“Is your father up yet?  Is your sister up yet??”

“Um, Mama… I think you’re screaming a little.”

Oh, no, I am not. I am NOT a begrudgeoner. It’s the Hershey Kisses screaming, the Sweethearts, the Rolos, the homemade hearts on a stick smothered in rainbow sprinkles, the Dum Dums, the special edition pink and purple M & M’s, the strawberry marshmallow hearts, the Blow-Pops. It’s the ’frickin Fun Dip, I tell you!

PVDEMS ain’t pretty, people -- especially on a Saturday morning when your head should still be near a pillow instead of the interior of a pink and red crepe-papered box.

 

 

Size 47

It’s official, my old number has gone belly-up... Here, now, sits its replacement:  47.

47 – 47 – 47

There, I said it. Then, upon saying it, wrote it down on this blank white page, by last count... 4 times, like it's no big woop. Maybe it's not. 

Now that I see it there in print it doesn’t look so bad; the 4 sitting almost elegantly next to the seven, crossing its long leg the way a flamingo might just before taking a relaxing nap… and the 7, well, it’s not as curvy as the 6 that used to sit there, nudging the four with its wide derrierre, but it too looks somewhat chic… its flat head wearing a sleek sou'wester that curves ever-so slightly, providing some shade and shelter from the sunny and rainy days up ahead.

Does anyone really care how old I am? Probably not. Can’t imagine why they would. I’m not even sure that I care that much about what number I have become overnight. Maybe that’s why I find it actually liberating to reveal my new number to the world. I’m somehow coping better this year than I was last year, my brand new 47 shoes ready for me to break them in during the next school year of life that awaits me, hopefully without too many blisters.

Maybe they’ll be like a pair of funky boots that help me to stand taller, sturdier, with a new perspective on the “forty-something” number that most women hope and pray no one will ever attempt to guess. But, I’m so much better this year about aging than I was a short year ago on my birthday, and ~ if I do say-so myself ~ my skin is looking a whole lot better than it did seven years ago.

I was, at 40, hitting puberty all over again with a terrific crop of junior-high acne that showed up when my hormones went berserk after the birth of my daughter. Then, at 42, these same 8th grade pranksters vandalized my pores once more when my son arrived on the scene, my graffitied forehead and cheeks spray-painted with a new patch of red bumps that would require heavy coats of zinc oxide diaper rash cream. Luckily, I had a vat of it from Costco for my baby boy's matching buttocks.

Atleast motherhood sits more comfortably on my shoulders now then it did when I had a drooling six-month old perched there, who then morphed into a territorial, screaming toddler demanding to climb back up, my pregnant belly about to burst with screaming baby number two.  At 47, I am still coping with two demanding children under the age of nine, but I don’t feel like a teenage-buzzing alarm clock anymore handling it.  I'd rather think of myself today as a regal grandfather clock, my big hand pointing towards the half-century mark with pride, my little hand reaching for another glass of wine.

It feels good to reveal the truth about my new number. I think I'll stand upon it proudly now, taller from the thought, enjoying the view from here. There will come a day when I cannot stand for long periods of time because my knees don’t work so good, and I will think back and remember the color of those funkadelic boots. Lucky girl. Size 47.

The April Fool who picked herself

Yesterday I thought it would be fun to find out (if only on Facebook) what it would feel like to read this headline about myself, "MOTHER of 2 AWARDED BOOK DEAL."

What better time to fool around writing it, and publishing it, than on April Fools Day? What a kick in the pants! $$ Contingent upon experience... Ha! The irony.

Now that it’s April 2 and the fooling has finished (although my husband continues to watch his back), I have begun to rethink the April Fools “newsfeed” joke I made up. All because I can’t stop thinking about Seth Godin and his article, "Reject the tyranny of being picked: pick yourself."

As Seth points out, if twenty six year old, Amanda Hocking, can earn a good living as an “e-author” without a publisher, why should anyone wait for a “gatekeeper” like HarperCollins to tell the public if a story is valuable? Thanks to Kindle and the world of book blogging, it is now up to none of us or all of us to decide if a story is worth the paper it isn’t printed on.

So, move over HarperCollins... The April Fool Press is in Cybertown.

 

Dear Oak,

 

I hope this letter finds you and your family full and peaceful after a relaxing Thanksgiving holiday, maybe still basking in the warm hum of a do-nothing weekend without homework assignments or college applications.

I hope this letter finds you having weathered the Black Friday storm and the thundering aftermath of ads and commercials reminding you that there is still plenty of valuable “stuff” you cannot live without, all available at half-off for a limited time only.

I hope this letter finds you comforted and decompressed from eating leftover turkey and stuffing and pie too many consecutive days in a row.  Fingers crossed, your feet are up on the couch now and you’re reading your favorite book because you want to and not because you have to…  and the only pressing thing you must find closure on is the movie you and your friends are going to order On Demand just as soon as you finish making the world’s greatest sandwich.

And as you look inside your fridge and find the last leftover fixings needed to construct the greatest “leftovers” sandwich known to mankind, I hope you will find what every teenager should have - health and happiness - and, of course, a turkey-mashed-potato sandwich that includes a colorful swirl of fresh tomatoes and cranberry sauce topped with mayonnaise.   

Once you’re sitting down enjoying that noble yet simple masterpiece, a giant glass of cold milk standing nearby, I hope you get to see the leaves and the wind dance the tango in red, yellow and orange from your kitchen window, as Fall turns into Winter, as we all shift and move, reach and stand up for diversity, equality and kindness… amazing how a leftover turkey sandwich on a Sunday afternoon can bring that kind of clarity. 

It really does hit the spot, though, especially before Monday strikes and the world revs its rhetoric machine up all over again in a noisy cafeteria filled with ignorant jargon and Salisbury steak.

Oak, finally, I hope this letter finds you illuminated by the light you shined on the world because you went to Mona Shores High School.  You are a courageous leader in a time when there are few, but first, and more importantly, you are a still just a kid trying to enjoy his youth when and while he can.  So go fix yourself another sandwich and enjoy every bite…. And for goodness sake, use real mayonnaise not that Miracle Whip nonsense.

Bon Appetit!

Love,

dida

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick...

As I open my eyes to the early morning light, I look over at my new running shoes sitting next to the door and remember Jack.  I can still hear his voice on the phone, even though it's been over thirty years.

“Hello there, Sweet Candy!  Laura-Laura… Candy-Dandy’s callin’ 4-ya.”

He was so different from my dad.  He wore jeans.  He wore running shoes.  He liked shorts and shirts that matched.

His daughter, Laura, like every twelve year-old girl, would roll her eyes when he’d tell one of her friends a goofy joke, but I lapped it up.  To me, he was hip and cool and fun.  He had great big dimples next to his bright, boyish smile, and he was an athlete – something that wasn’t exactly promoted by my father.  And there were days when I wished that I was Jack’s daughter and not Frank’s…

Why didn’t my dad take me running down to the beach?  Why didn’t I own a pair of Nikes?  Why couldn’t I join the Tigres Youth Track Team with Laura, instead of taking violin lessons with boring old Miss Tisher?  Laura knew what it was like to run beside her father, and I didn’t.

When I learned that Jack had died suddenly, I went out and finally bought myself a good pair of name brand running shoes.  I started exercising again.  I watched my leg muscles begin to take shape.  I began to picture myself running alongside him and Laura and all the girls that he coached over the years.  There we were, nearing the beach, his big enthusiastic voice encouraging us to keep going, the cool shore now only a few blocks away. I pictured my own dad, Frank, there too, waiting for us in the sand… holding up his shoes, finally ready to trade his wingtips in for a pair of Nikes.

Jack Morgan did more for girls like me than he could have ever imagined.  Thirty-three years later, I am still trying to become the athlete I've always wanted to be... and for this, I must thank Laura’s dad.  His energetic voice on the other side of the phone is still lifting me up when I'm too tired to put on my running shoes. Thank you, Mr. Morgan... Candy-Dandy is calling 4-ya.

 

Oak is my King (and my Toot)

 

For too long I have seen my gay friends discriminated against for being who they are, for embracing the truth.  And as I became a mother, I’ve seen them continue to be pushed out and feared where kids are concerned.  I’ve seen gay couples not invited to birthday parties or play-dates because parents might have to explain what “gay” is to their children.  It’s a peculiar little secret that we nervy straight couples don’t talk about – kind of our own special brand of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.  Although, lesbian couples, and particularly ones with children, seem to be less feared,

“Yes, Virginia, Johnny has two mommies…” but two daddies, and no mommy?  What will Virginia think? "Shhh… don’t say anything!  Let’s just hope and pray she doesn’t ask.”

When I heard about Oak Reed from an old friend, a Mona Shores High School graduate who took a girl not a boy to Homecoming twenty seven years ago because he was afraid to say the truth too loud in Muskegon, Michigan in 1983, my first reaction was, the parents… it was probably a panicked parent or group of parents who marched down to the principal’s office to “straighten this Homecoming King matter out!”

“What will we tell the younger kids, the incoming freshman that dream of being Homecoming King someday?  We can’t have a (Shhh!) transgender winning this popularity contest!”

Of course, it’s only speculation, but all it takes is one panicky parent to set fear-a-fire in a principal’s office, to hint a lawsuit if a “wannabe male” takes this iconic title away from some “wholesome” high school quarterback.

Now for my second reaction… Toot and Puddle.

When my daughter was four years old she had a close friend who had a twin brother.  I’m calling these twins “Toot and Puddle” to protect their privacy, but also because I love this children’s story about two little pigs who are very different.

Both of these twin brothers loved to play dress up with my daughter and her friends at preschool.  Both brothers loved to fantasize about what they would be when they grew up.  Puddle wanted to be either a fireman or a policeman.  Toot only wanted to be Snow White.  And any grown-up suggesting Toot should change out of his Snow White, off the shoulder, gown and into some pants would clearly and loudly hear from his biggest supporter, my daughter,

“He told you he wants to be Snow White!!  Just Snow White!  Now give him back his heels!”

Kids know the truth and recognize its strength long before their parents open their mouths to suggest otherwise. 

If a parent did try to undue Oak Reed’s truth by putting pressure on Mona Shores’ principal and the school district, I sincerely hope that he or she will graciously step up, apologize, then step out of the way.  The students and their votes can speak for themselves at Mona Shores High.  It's time.  It's long overdue.  Now, it's the grown-ups turn to take notes, listen and learn.