I’ve never subscribed to the tenet that Big Brother is watching or that restaurant chains are trying to poison us. I think they are businesses trying to make money, albeit mostly without being health-conscious unless you count hearts and smiles next to a few menu items. We’re beings with free will and loose wallets — eat what and where you please folks. There is someone willing to serve you what ever you’re willing to eat!
But what if you’re trying not to eat so much?
My 15-year-old son was at a Midwestern not-extremely-fast-food-chain eating dinner with his buddies. He has lost a lot of weight in the past several months, intentionally. He’s exercising more and eating better foods, not necessarily less of them. When the weight-loss effort began I suggested that when he eats out with his friends that he just make better choices than he had in the past. Fruit instead of fries — no bacon and cheese on the burger. And when he feels like eating fries, he doesn’t eat them all. We strive for normalcy and a happy medium around here.
I ended up at the same restaurant with my daughter and a friend just the other night, when my son walks over with a piece of pie.
“Do you want this?” he asked. “They put bacon on my burger when I asked them not to, so they brought me a piece of pie.”
Who are the casualties of this delicious sabotage? Who made the bacon? Does the waitress get a pie in the face or a big tip? Find out that and more by reading From Froot Loops to Flax Seeds, my weekly column at GNMParents.
I have an article in today’s Chicago Tribune, and much to my surprise I’ve gotten comments on their online site.
And much to my surprise and thanks to the rights afforded us by The Constitution, they weren’t very nice. Newspapers (unlike most mommy blogs) thrive on controversy. And eight comments isn’t such a big deal, except that I’ve basically been accused of lying.
What these venerable readers fail to realize is that like this blog, I publish OPINION pieces in the newspaper. My opinion can’t be wrong, and they are based on my own experiences, and those are personal.
Writers need thick skins, my current writing instructor says it all the time. You can’t please everyone, so don’t try, my best friend said when she read the comments.
But when a commenter says, “I don’t buy it,” it’s saying that I made it up. Luckily, I don’t have to make things up — and frankly the stuff I write about?
I couldn’t make that shit up if I tried.
If you feel like clicking and reading, let me know what YOU think.
I’m an absolute unadulterated lover of television — but if you ask me if I watch Lost (is that still on?), or Grey’s ‘Natomy or Hou.se or any other prime time all-encompassing drama or comedic show, the answer will be a resounding NO.
In the mid-section of the country where I reside, prime time TV starts at 7 and ends at 10. And the news starts at 10, not 11 like on the much more normal East Coast where I am from. And in a home with a teen and a preteen 7 to 10 is prime homework time, prime dance class time, prime basketball time and/or prime dinner time depending how organized I was the rest of the day. I can’t sit down for an hour unless all the aforementioned crap stuff is done, many times, since I am a loather of board games and bored by card games, we’ll sit down together if we’re not just off getting ready for the next day. And when we do plop down on the couch with some popcorn, you can bet it’s not for an episode of Desperate Housewives or Family Guy.
We’ve gotten sucked into reality shows like The Next Food Network Star (Amy Finley’s show starts this week, yippee!) and even something inappropriate great for teaching lessons about what’s inappropriate, like Beauty and the Geek. We’ve watched plenty of sports and plenty of animal shows and lots and lots of Nickelodeon (go Spongebob!) and Disney Channel (love Hannah Montana) in our day.
But the best fun we have together is when my kids indulge me in my secret television passion. They humor me. They adore me. They think I’m nuts. But, they actually, though probably completely for sport, will watch…my beloved ABC soaps with me.
They are well aware that if I have a say (or a drug-induced dream), Jason Morgan from General Hospital will be their stepfather. Rest assured they do know it is the fictional character who interests me, not the actor who plays him. And that when we all go to live Port Charles we will never have to use the toilet again.
“He’s the nice killer,” my daughter cackles, as she reminds her brother.
“You’ll have body guards,” I assure them. “You will be very safe.”
Now before you get all crazy about the inappropriate nature of soap operas, allow me to reassure you that they are as educational as Bert and Ernie (does anybody watch Bert and Ernie anymore?) or Dora or Blue.
The truest test of the educational value of soaps was when, last year, in my daughter’s English class they were learning about characters in essay writing.
The teacher spoke about writing about “man against himself.”
“Like Tess and Jessica!” my daughter shouted out. “From General Hospital!”
Jessica and Tess were dual personalities - you know - same person.
The teacher replied, “Yes! But that’s One Life to Live.”
Then the teacher spoke about “man against society.”
“Like Sonny and Jason!” my daughter suggested.
Mobsters hunkered down in PC.
“Exactly,” the teacher laughed.
Needless to say she got an “A.”
I have watched Soaps for as long as I can remember, but it seems like something an educated suburbanite doesn’t admit in mixed (other mom) company. It’s embarrassing. Frankly, the residents of Pine Valley and Llanview and Port Charles have it both much better and much worse than I ever will. It’s an escape that does not require plane fare or reservations or make-up (for me).
Anyway, any time someone wears a cocktail dress to visit her newborn preemie in the NICU she is just screaming for my undivided attention, don’t you think?
And who am I to argue with the daughter of Erica Kane?
Oh, and I don’t have Tivo or DVR and I don’t tape shows. I watch shows when they are on or catch the reruns (currently obsessed with Sex and the City, a few years late). Unlike many people who hate tv, I find that there is always something to watch. Today I spent an hour watching BBC America followed by an episode of Bridezilla. The latter really helped me get rid of writer’s block.
Since my creative juices are otherwise engaged these past few days, I thought about posting something from my archives. I read old posts when my blogging friends post them. Sometimes it gives me a odd feeling of deja vu when I’ve read them before and don’t know it’s a repost, but that’s OK, its like hearing the same story again from an old friend (and you all know we have).
But I was thinking that if I did it, it would be like offering you leftovers. Which got me thinking about the leftovers in my fridge.
And yours.
So tell me, how long do you leave leftovers — or doggie bags — in your fridge before you either
a) eat them, or
b) throw them out.
For me? I always wrap them up or bring them home…I never eat them…and at the moment we’re working on a three-week average until they hit the trash can…unless it ends up in the back of the fridge and then your guess is as good as mine.
I did write about this obsession of mine phenomenon before.
