Burger Time

        

    It’s been 10 years, since I ate at Burger King. Husband, however, gets a hankering for a Whopper every once in awhile. This comes from a man who eats chicken and fish seven days a week, won’t eat sausage, and has low-fat yogurt every morning for breakfast. The last time he had a craving for Burger King, I passed. Today is a new day.

            We arrived in Minnesota two days ago. My pantry is bare and I really need to go to the grocery store (and state-run liquor barn), but we have one vehicle, a new diesel truck. Hubby isn’t ready to turn the key fob over to wife just yet. I’ve learned a long time ago to not mess with a man’s truck! Around 11:00 a.m. he states that he wants to go to either Burger King or McDonalds for lunch, and he actually asked if I wanted to go along. I considered this my way of entering the vegetable aisle at Central Market, so I agreed, as long as we made a stop at the grocery store. He agreed. He asked me which I preferred, Mickey D’s or Booger Palace. Not wanting a flat, tasteless piece of cardboard, I chose the King.

            He ordered the Whopper meal deal. Since this will probably be my last visit to BK for another decade, I ordered the bacon burger with cheese, meal deal. It was advertised as having A-1 sauce on it, which was the deciding factor. I went to get my drink, squirt ketchup into five of those little tiny cups, and searched for a clean table. I always have a mixed drink when I go to the fountain, half Diet Coke and half Cherry Coke. The Cherry Coke adds a little flavor to the seltzer fizz that usually comes out of the Diet Coke spout.

            I opened the wrapper on my burger and the grease had already saturated the wax paper. It’s a good thing I grabbed a handful of napkins (I usually take some home for the dining room table) because I used every one of them. I found two 6-inch diameter beef-by-product patties squeezed to a height of an eighth of an inch, sliding between two minuscule buns. The bacon was barely warm and the processed cheese square hung out one side. As I ate, I searched for the A-1 sauce, but apparently the cook forgot that part of the deal. I kept eyeing husband’s Whopper, wishing I hadn’t been such a pig and opted for the healthier lettuce, tomato, and special sauce burger.

            As I watched the other patrons entering the restaurant, I could tell they ate at Burger King a lot. At least I can still see my feet. Then I started to feel my own belly expand and my stomach object to all the grease it was forced to digest. My veins began to harden, and my legs buckled from the added dose of cholesterol. Quick, give me a statin! I’ve always been a good girl, however, and eaten everything on my plate, except the French fries. I couldn’t choke down any more of those little twigs.

            After lunch, we drove by Central Market. It was packed! Cars were lined up down the road to turn into the parking lot. The marquee was flashing, “Mega Meat Sale Today Only.” No wonder. We are in carnivore country. Turning right, we headed towards Wal-Mart where we knew we could get bread and milk without having to fight the herds – well, almost. It is Wal-Mart, after all.

            With so many delicious pubs around lake country where we live, we have a huge choice of yummy grass-fed, all-beef hamburgers. And we can always wash them down with an ice-cold beer. I love the hamburgers in these pubs, not the factory-made pressed meat of a chain. No more Burger King for me.

            Disclaimer, just in case Burger King is reading this: Okay, I admit it, I really enjoyed my Burger King hamburgerJ.

Mother's Day

Today is Mother’s Day. I am sitting in a truck with my husband driving through Utah on our way to our summer home in Minnesota. It’s raining, and the Beatle’s song “Just Another Day” is appropriately playing on the radio. You may be asking yourself some questions: “Why are you traveling on Mother’s Day?” and “Why are you driving through Utah to go from Arizona to Minnesota?” These are very good questions, and husband believes he has very logical answers. Walleye season opens on Mother’s Day weekend, and Bass season opens the weekend before Memorial Day. Husband must have time to prepare the boat and get settled in the house before the marathon fishing begins. To answer the next question, we drive west, then north, to avoid tornado alley through Kansas and Nebraska. What do I know, I’m just along for the ride, which pretty much sums up my married life.

            I had a wonderful mother. She was kind, always putting others before herself. She was devout, bringing her children up in the church. She was smart, keeping up with the bookwork and finances for her entrepreneurial husband. After reflecting on the 20 years I spent in my mother’s house, a few stories come to mind.

            Birthdays were always a special occasion. It didn’t matter which family member’s birthday we were celebrating, we would first go to a favorite restaurant and then come back to the house for cake and ice cream using colorful plates and matching napkins purchased from the Hallmark store. If it was a special birthday, like turning 10, 13, or 16, she would host a party for my friends with a theme of my choosing. One year I had all my friends over for a slumber party and we made crazy hats to wear. I still have the goofy pictures of us sitting on the sofa in the living room.

            One afternoon when I was about 10 years old, I found a straight pin and decided to scratch my name on the wooden footboard of my antique bed that my mother just had refinished. I honestly don’t know why. Children don’t usually know the reason why they do something. An idea pops into their heads, and they just do it. That’s the first time I saw my mother really angry with me. She even walloped my behind. Later, she felt bad that she had spanked me and sat down with me to discuss what I had done. She analyzed that I had some special inner need to claim something that truly belonged to me, so that’s why I branded my bed with my name.

            When I was home from college one weekend, I drove 50 miles to visit my boyfriend in another city. I didn’t get home until almost midnight and of course, my mother was still up waiting for me. Instead of getting mad at me, she got mad at my boyfriend for allowing me to drive home so late. She never criticized me or made me feel stupid.

            Sharing special moments with my mother will always be imprinted in my mind. We sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee with Half and Half and eating a warm sweet roll smothered with melting butter. We’d make chocolate-covered marshmallows, and she’d show me how to tell a soft ball from a hard ball by dropping the chocolate on an ice cube. She wanted to try a cigarette one time when I was home from college, so we sat in the family room and smoked one together. We shopped for clothes together. We sat on the porch swing as she told me about her childhood as a preacher’s kid. I could ask her anything and she would answer. She attended all the plays I performed in and told me how much she enjoyed them. She bragged to her friends about my good grades. She told me I was pretty.

            Mother would never ridicule me or make me feel stupid. She would walk beside me and rejoice in my accomplishments. She would listen to me and valued my opinions. She was not judgmental and respected all creeds and races. I treated my own children the same way.

            I miss my mother, and I will remember those special moments when I feel down and I’m just “along for the ride.”

Falling Down

I have a propensity to fall down - a lot! Lucky for me, I haven’t broken anything - yet! I feel very fortunate that I still have all my bones and skull intact because the more severe the injury is in direct proportion to the age of the person. The following four missteps - pun intended - can be viewed as the most humiliating.

            The first falling down was a terribly embarrassing moment. It was a lovely day in Small Town, Minnesota. Husband was playing golf, and I had the entire day to do just as I pleased. I took myself to town, treated myself to lunch, and indulged my womanly urge to go shopping. I left the local department store on Main Street carrying a few packages, and I’m sure I was whistling a tune because all was at peace with the world. Suddenly, the toe of my sandal caught on a crack in the sidewalk, and I went flying, face down, onto the hard surface - shopping bags became airborne. Other than the wind getting knocked out of me, I was fine, except for the red gushing to my cheeks from embarrassment. I noticed out of the corner of my eye, a car slowing down. The woman passenger was staring at me with a surprised expression. I’m sure she was struggling with her inner “Minnesota Nice,” trying to decide whether or not to stop to pick me up. With the look of a dog that had just fallen off the sofa, I pushed myself up, picked up my bags, and continued walking down the street with my head held high – and my eyes on the path in front of me.

            The next falling down was simply due to stupidity. We were in North Carolina for a NASCAR race. I was walking with my husband’s cousins back to a motel after eating at a restaurant, and we decided to take a short cut through a field of dried grass and dirt. I saw the wire fence. I observed that part of the wire was lying on the ground in front of us. I watched as everyone stepped over the wire. And I reminded myself to step over the wire too. My mind, however, did not communicate these observations to my feet. I felt my ankle tangle in the wire, and down I went. “I’m ok,” I confirmed to the cousins’ backs as they continued walking. After freeing the wire from my foot, I stood up, brushed dirt and weeds from my jeans, and hurried to catch up.

            The third falling down involved alcohol. It’s a good thing, really, because there could have been blood and a possible lawsuit. It was Super Bowl Sunday and we had been invited over to a friend’s neighbor’s house. They both live on a hill overlooking a golf course and lovely views of the colorful Arizona sunsets. Their homes are just as lovely and upper class. We walked into a tile entryway, and as with the more elegant homes, the entryway had a step down into the living room. My feet automatically stepped down, one by one, without any effort at all. My mind successfully communicated this endeavor to my lower extremities. After a few glasses of wine, and socializing with the elite, the football game was finally over and friends started to leave the party. When my party of four decided to depart, my feet apparently did not recall the step down because they did not mindfully step up. I stubbed my toe on the step and sprawled spread eagle across the tile entryway. This was not only embarrassing; it was humiliating to act like such a klutz in the company of the upper echelon. I’ve never been back to that house.

            The final falling down occurred a few months ago. My friend and I had just left an event where we had imbibed in a few glasses of wine. I was completely lucid, but very relaxed from drinking nature’s calming elixir.  My friend wanted to stop by her daughter’s house for a few minutes. I had been in this house many times before. There is a large entryway, a step down into an office off to the right, and a step down into the family room just beyond that. We stepped down into the family room, I conveyed my pleasantries to their sweet family, and patted their bouncy little yellow lab puppy. We had a charming little chat; I inquired about the daughter’s health. We turned to leave and my brain must have fallen asleep because I tripped on the step up from the family room, rolled around with my feet flying in the air, and fell down the step into the office. Sympathy from my friend burst forth in a belly laugh, and the lovely family could barely contain their chuckles. Had the dog not been ushered outside earlier, she would have come to my rescue with a big slobbery kiss. It was certainly a good thing I had leggings on under my skirt or my red face would not have been the only thing exposed.

            In the future, in order to protect my osteoporotic bones, I must either succumb to using a walking stick, or give up drinking. I think I’ll check out those new canes at the medical supply store.

Grocery Store Shopping Rant

            I should have known better! It’s my own fault! I went to the grocery store at 4:00 pm on a weekday. I avoid grocery shopping at all costs on the weekends because of the crazies who pretend to
work during the week and need to purchase their food and booze on the weekends; but you NEVER go grocery shopping at 4:00 pm on a Monday. For one thing, school gets out at 3:30. That means all the mothers and their two-year olds have just picked up little Johnny and Jane from school and decided to stop at Safeway to pick up some greasy, chemical-infused food for dinner. Or at the worst, those frozen fish sticks that have more breading than meat. Quick and easy – that’s what we do nowadays.

            Let me describe for you the clientele at the market on a Monday afternoon at 4:00 pm. There is the frazzled mother and her screaming two-year old along with the big brother who just got out of school and wants nothing better to do than harass the younger sibling. None of them wants to be in the store at that moment. The toddler is vocalizing a high pitched alarm sound; the older brother is stashing a variety of chips and candy bars in the mom’s cart because he is starving; and the mother is daydreaming about dumping the kids at grandma’s house and going home to a glass of wine and a hot bubble bath.

            Then there is the after-work crowd. The women are teetering on their 4-inch heels, drinking a latte, tugging at their miniskirts, and staring at their cell phones. What could be so important now – multi-million dollar clients or plans for the next happy hour? They definitely aren’t concentrating on buying the pre-packaged sushi or $4.99 roasted whole chicken they’re standing in front of.

            And what about the over 70 crowd? Where did you come from? Did you nap all day and wake up to discover you are hungry? Or did the bridge game last all afternoon and you forgot you didn’t have any ice cream for dessert in the freezer? Or did you just leave from the 19^th hole and decide you want to continue your beer buzz with a fresh six-pack?

            Every grocery store should be equipped with courtesy signs, because the average grocery shopping Joe or Josephine doesn’t know what the word “courtesy” means. Here are some examples:

1. Stop Signs: Consider the main walkway along the end caps as a main thoroughfare. In other words, it is Main Street; or the drag; or Central. If you are entering from one of the aisles, you yield, or stop, to let the oncoming traffic through because they have the right of way! Common sense, here, people! I was nearly run over, not once, but twice, by some bozo zooming out into the intersection! “Oh, sorry! That’s the second time I’ve almost run somebody over today.” Then pay attention, stop that fricken’ cart, and look both ways!

2. Painted Yellow Lines: Imagine a painted yellow line down the middle of every aisle. DO NOT go to the left of your line! If you need to stop and study the canned vegetables, move your cart over to the shelves. Do not park it in the middle, blocking everyone else from passing by. And pay attention! If someone says, “Excuse me,” move you and your cart over. That is the first in a courteous attempt to get by. If you are deaf or ignorant, the second attempt will be the sound of a large cart collision and the crash of canned peas falling to the floor, along with your fat ass.

3. Free Cookies: Do not go to the grocery store with a hungry or cranky kid. Bribe him with a cookie. It would behoove the store to give out free cookies. They can be day-old cookies, just give them to the screaming kids! Give the kid some Cheerios to munch on while you shop. Tell him if he keeps screaming like he's just been attacked by a zombie, he will not get dessert after dinner, or to play his favorite video game, or, heaven forbid, he will lose his cell phone for a week.

4. Free Beer: You and I both know there isn’t any free beer. But it will distract men shoppers long enough for the women to finish cruising up and down the aisles. Men will be too interested in the latest IPA’s. However, men, I must give you some kudos! You seem to have read the memo on proper grocery store shopping etiquette. In my observation, men are the most considerate shoppers. They pull their carts close to the shelves when perusing the dill pickles. They say ‘excuse me’ when they want to pass. And they usually stay confined to the liquor section of the store. I don’t know if they are threatened by a female-dominated activity; afraid of the PMS hormones emanating around them; or they’re trying to score points with the cute blonde in deli. But I say, “Here’s to men everywhere. I shall raise my glass of Jameson and let you shop amongst all the Type A women wearing ball caps and yoga pants.”

Next week I shall go grocery shopping on Wednesday at 10:00 am. It’s triple Monopoly Day then anyway!

Torture in the Chair

            The sharp, curved tool scraped the very roots of my existence until the tips of my fingernails dug into the palms of my hands, bruising my skin and drawing blood. She adjusted the light. More scraping . . .this time sending electricity down my spine. A tube squirt moisture . . . ice cold water . . . onto the white porcelain. I don’t know which hurt worse, the pointed metal on the roots or the cold water spraying on the thin spires. Once again the light was adjusted to illuminate the dark cavern so the torture could be continued. Squirt . . . suck . . . scrape. Finally, the gritty, minty paste twirled around each element, softly polishing the pearly surfaces. The pain minimized somewhat to a dull ache; the whirring sound replaced the jerky scratching. Peace at last. My fists released their tension, leaving imprints of my nails in the skin. She twisted the light once more and inspected, searching for wayward bits not visible to the eye. More cold water was sprayed, this time everywhere in the dark hole, erasing the calm with a violent jolt. Another tube . . . close, suck . . . the excess moisture was drawn forcefully out and down into the sewers below. The light grew brighter. More inspection. She reached for the pointed metal again . . . my silent voice screamed, “NO! NO MORE!”

            “We must! It’s not all gone! It must be done!” The sharp, curved tool scraped the very roots of my existence; my soul lost the battle and died in the chair.

            Somewhere in my DNA lives a gene that blessed me with receding gums. A birth mother, or donor sperm, passed along a curse known as periodontal disease. I’ve had two gum grafting’s over the last five months, the first one three days before Christmas. The surgeries take two hours to complete, and six weeks each of chewing on one side of my mouth, swishing with a teeth staining medicinal rinse. Having a mind of its own, my tongue searched out the sutures and played tag with them during every waking hour.

            I’ve tried so hard to take care of my teeth. I floss, I brush with an electric Oral B, I have a tiny brush for in between my teeth, I have a smaller brush for the narrower openings, and I use Sensodyne. But there is always that dreaded tarter buildup the hygienist has to scrape, and this means disturbing the roots with that torturous metal pick. And the cold water spray . . . that can be worse than scraping the tarter. I think I am the only person alive who has to zap in the microwave such foods as fruit, pickles, salsa, and anything cold that normal people can pop in their mouths and chew away.

            More grafting is scheduled for October. More nasty staining mouth rinse. More yogurt for breakfast, Ensure for lunch, and soup for dinner. And more teeth cleaning. Just give me some drugs and let me sleep while she tortures me in the chair.