If you want to live a long, healthy life, you can do no better than follow my father's lifelong diet. He is as fit as any 86-year-old has a right to be, and it can mostly be attributed to these few sensible tips for eating:
1. For lunch, eat a salami or bologna sandwich every day. Better yet, have both. Never, ever eat wheat bread or anything with the words "whole grain."
2. Also have a bowl of canned, high-sodium soup for lunch every day, even when it is 103 degrees outside.
3. Each evening, heap yourself a bowl full of full-fat ice cream. Then go to bed with this sitting in your stomach.
4. When your spouse is not looking, hide the low-fat turkey lunchmeat she bought, along with anything else that would threaten the delicate balance of high-fat foods you prefer.
In an effort to raise the nutritional value of his food at least a little while my mom was gone, I bought him some of that turkey lunchmeat mentioned in #4. At lunchtime I unveiled it with a dramatic gesture, talking it up as you would when trying to get a toddler to eat his carrots.
But toddlers are not easily fooled, and neither was my father. He poked at the turkey as if it were some laboratory specimen and shrugged. "I could try it, I suppose," he said without much enthusiasm. "Is it any good?"
That would be #5 on Dad's list: If it doesn't taste good, forget it.
His cereal cupboard contains sensible, age-appropriate offerings like Cheerios, Lucky Charms, and Trix. I was quite young when my parents cut me off from eating Trix. Now my cereals are more old-people than my father's.
Dad has far outlived his family members, most of whom probably ate their Wheaties and oatmeal faithfully. Not that he is without his health problems. His little pill container is just as full as other people's his age. But as Dad could tell you, those pills go down much more easily with ice cream than with a bran muffin.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The little horn that couldn't
I love my Honda. I loved the Honda I had before this one. But no matter how much I appreciate the fact that the odometer can run to numbers not typically seen on an American car, there is no denying that all Hondas come with one very embarrassing feature.
The horn.
A Honda horn is the chihuahua of car horns. The horns on other cars, even small cars, they're Great Danes, or German shepherds, or even pit bulls. They mean business. If you do not move out of their way now, they say, you are roadkill.
The Honda horn is not scaring anybody. It can best be described as apologetic. "I don't wish to bother you," it says timidly to another car, "but if it wouldn't be too much trouble -- I'm so sorry to be asking this -- could you possibly move to the next lane, at your earliest convenience, of course?" Even if you lay on a Honda horn, it is only annoying, not intimidating.
The Honda horn is very distinctive. You look in the direction the honk came from, and you are surprised to see a car, because you thought the honk was a bike horn. And you just keep driving, because you are not moving out of the way for a bike horn.
I am always hesitant to use my horn. This is not because I am afraid of being rude. I am afraid of getting laughed at. "Can't you at least try to sound more intimidating?" I beg my horn. "You're embarrassing me here."
It is not surprising that the horn on a Japanese car is polite. The Japanese are probably incapable of making a car with a loud, rude horn. I imagine that when they first started sending cars to America, the timid horn was part of an effort to make us a kinder, gentler nation. But our streets are mean. So as I contemplate buying a new car sometime in the future, I beg the Japanese automakers: Please, please, don't send us chihuahuas to fight with the pit bulls.
The horn.
A Honda horn is the chihuahua of car horns. The horns on other cars, even small cars, they're Great Danes, or German shepherds, or even pit bulls. They mean business. If you do not move out of their way now, they say, you are roadkill.
The Honda horn is not scaring anybody. It can best be described as apologetic. "I don't wish to bother you," it says timidly to another car, "but if it wouldn't be too much trouble -- I'm so sorry to be asking this -- could you possibly move to the next lane, at your earliest convenience, of course?" Even if you lay on a Honda horn, it is only annoying, not intimidating.
The Honda horn is very distinctive. You look in the direction the honk came from, and you are surprised to see a car, because you thought the honk was a bike horn. And you just keep driving, because you are not moving out of the way for a bike horn.
I am always hesitant to use my horn. This is not because I am afraid of being rude. I am afraid of getting laughed at. "Can't you at least try to sound more intimidating?" I beg my horn. "You're embarrassing me here."
It is not surprising that the horn on a Japanese car is polite. The Japanese are probably incapable of making a car with a loud, rude horn. I imagine that when they first started sending cars to America, the timid horn was part of an effort to make us a kinder, gentler nation. But our streets are mean. So as I contemplate buying a new car sometime in the future, I beg the Japanese automakers: Please, please, don't send us chihuahuas to fight with the pit bulls.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
The elusive patio
Today is finally supposed to be the day. Of course, every day for the past two weeks was supposed to be the day, too.
Every day we have driven home from work excitedly, wondering: Will today be the day they finally begin building our patio?
But seeing no progress day after day, we begin to lower our expectations. If we could just see some evidence that they are working on it. The foundation. A few bricks, maybe. Okay, one brick. We'd be happy to just see one brick.
After two weeks, we are left to ponder another question: Is today the day the patio guys abscond to Bermuda with our money?
Given that the business card given to us said "Donell's Pool Service," this does not seem an unlikely scenario. Possibly our money is being used to finance someone's lovely backyard pool, with fountains and little statues and boulders around the edge. Boulders that were supposed to be in our new garden.
We think of excuses for why they have not started. "Well," we say, "maybe it's the weather." Except that the weather last week was perfect.
Then we reason, "Maybe they have a big job somewhere else." Like Bermuda, perhaps.
Joe remembers that Bob, the head pool/patio guy, was scheduled to have knee surgery last week. "Maybe there were complications," he suggests. Like maybe the money we have paid him so far wasn't enough to cover the surgery.
Joe makes a casual call to the company, just to inquire if, possibly, we might expect a patio before winter sets in. Predictably, no one answers the phone. We are encouraged, however, that at least the phone is still in service. Surely this must be a good sign.
To bolster my belief that they will indeed come through, I buy some flower bulbs. Bulbs I cannot plant until they finish the patio and the garden. Surely Bob won't let us down. He seemed so fatherly. Besides, could a man who speaks of pansies with such affection be a crook?
Finally, the company's secretary calls. The bricks we chose, she explains, just arrived. We wonder if Bob had to make a trip to Bermuda personally to pick them up, but we are polite and do not say anything. She further tells us that they will start on the patio this week. "Oh, that's fine," we say, as if we believe her. We want to.
But here it is this week, and of course it is raining. And we are beginning to wonder: Maybe we should take our money back and use it to go to Bermuda.
Every day we have driven home from work excitedly, wondering: Will today be the day they finally begin building our patio?
But seeing no progress day after day, we begin to lower our expectations. If we could just see some evidence that they are working on it. The foundation. A few bricks, maybe. Okay, one brick. We'd be happy to just see one brick.
After two weeks, we are left to ponder another question: Is today the day the patio guys abscond to Bermuda with our money?
Given that the business card given to us said "Donell's Pool Service," this does not seem an unlikely scenario. Possibly our money is being used to finance someone's lovely backyard pool, with fountains and little statues and boulders around the edge. Boulders that were supposed to be in our new garden.
We think of excuses for why they have not started. "Well," we say, "maybe it's the weather." Except that the weather last week was perfect.
Then we reason, "Maybe they have a big job somewhere else." Like Bermuda, perhaps.
Joe remembers that Bob, the head pool/patio guy, was scheduled to have knee surgery last week. "Maybe there were complications," he suggests. Like maybe the money we have paid him so far wasn't enough to cover the surgery.
Joe makes a casual call to the company, just to inquire if, possibly, we might expect a patio before winter sets in. Predictably, no one answers the phone. We are encouraged, however, that at least the phone is still in service. Surely this must be a good sign.
To bolster my belief that they will indeed come through, I buy some flower bulbs. Bulbs I cannot plant until they finish the patio and the garden. Surely Bob won't let us down. He seemed so fatherly. Besides, could a man who speaks of pansies with such affection be a crook?
Finally, the company's secretary calls. The bricks we chose, she explains, just arrived. We wonder if Bob had to make a trip to Bermuda personally to pick them up, but we are polite and do not say anything. She further tells us that they will start on the patio this week. "Oh, that's fine," we say, as if we believe her. We want to.
But here it is this week, and of course it is raining. And we are beginning to wonder: Maybe we should take our money back and use it to go to Bermuda.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The Great Freezer Clean-out
Another task on my visit to my parents' was cleaning out their freezers. For as long as I've been around, my parents have had two freezers -- one in the kitchen, and another, Sam's Club-size one in the basement. In this one, they store food that they can use in the event of a catastrophic occurrence, like a giant meteorite destroying all forms of life except my parents.
There is just one problem with this. My parents do not necessarily use the first in, first out method with the food they put in the freezer, and therefore some of it has been around probably since meteorites were invented.
I have never seen some of the life forms that exist in this freezer. As I bagged them for disposal, it briefly crossed my mind that perhaps I should send them to a scientist who works with rare organisms. Maybe the scientist could even find a cure for some disease with what resides in my parents' freezer. Or create a new disease.
After I had filled two garbage bags with items from the freezer, I went to see my mom. She talked about everything she would have to do when she came home.
"Well, at least I won't have to cook for a while," she said. "Thank goodness there are a lot of meals in the freezer."
"Uh, maybe not as many as there used to be," I said.
She looked at me. I explained about my detoxification efforts and how almost the entire contents of the freezer were now awaiting disposal.
"Bah," she said dismissively. "I use food from that freezer all the time, and it's just fine."
I tried to remember the last time I ate at my parents' house and whether I had noticed anything different afterward, like growing another nose, or almost dying.
It's a good thing my mother is not in charge of making those charts that tell you how long food can stay in the freezer. Hers would look something like this:
Whole chicken: 5 decades, or the homeowner's death, whichever comes last
Pork chops: 6 presidential administrations (more if none of them are re-elected)
Cheese: perhaps not as long as chicken, but certainly longer than pork chops
Meatloaf: can never be destroyed, therefore ideal in event of meteorites hitting
Bread: until the Lord's return, and possibly into eternity
I can imagine receiving a letter from an eminent researcher for my donations to science from the freezer:
Dear Mrs. B.,
Thank you for your recent donation of Unidentified Freezer Life Forms to our laboratory. We regret that we are unable to use them for research. We are curious about one thing, however. How long ago, exactly, did your parents' cat expire?
There is just one problem with this. My parents do not necessarily use the first in, first out method with the food they put in the freezer, and therefore some of it has been around probably since meteorites were invented.
I have never seen some of the life forms that exist in this freezer. As I bagged them for disposal, it briefly crossed my mind that perhaps I should send them to a scientist who works with rare organisms. Maybe the scientist could even find a cure for some disease with what resides in my parents' freezer. Or create a new disease.
After I had filled two garbage bags with items from the freezer, I went to see my mom. She talked about everything she would have to do when she came home.
"Well, at least I won't have to cook for a while," she said. "Thank goodness there are a lot of meals in the freezer."
"Uh, maybe not as many as there used to be," I said.
She looked at me. I explained about my detoxification efforts and how almost the entire contents of the freezer were now awaiting disposal.
"Bah," she said dismissively. "I use food from that freezer all the time, and it's just fine."
I tried to remember the last time I ate at my parents' house and whether I had noticed anything different afterward, like growing another nose, or almost dying.
It's a good thing my mother is not in charge of making those charts that tell you how long food can stay in the freezer. Hers would look something like this:
Whole chicken: 5 decades, or the homeowner's death, whichever comes last
Pork chops: 6 presidential administrations (more if none of them are re-elected)
Cheese: perhaps not as long as chicken, but certainly longer than pork chops
Meatloaf: can never be destroyed, therefore ideal in event of meteorites hitting
Bread: until the Lord's return, and possibly into eternity
I can imagine receiving a letter from an eminent researcher for my donations to science from the freezer:
Dear Mrs. B.,
Thank you for your recent donation of Unidentified Freezer Life Forms to our laboratory. We regret that we are unable to use them for research. We are curious about one thing, however. How long ago, exactly, did your parents' cat expire?
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Dad learns about the dishwasher
My 86-year-old father, who is not what you would call a do-it-yourselfer, is nevertheless not a stranger to machines. Over a 50-some year career, he designed and oversaw the installation of conveyor systems in a number of businesses. Yet he is completely mystified by the machines in his own house.
With my mother in rehabilitation after a mild stroke, my dad has been thrust into the decoding of household tasks that have been hers for the past 64 years. One of my tasks on my recent visit to help him out -- other than making sure he is eating more than just salami and ice cream, which, along with bread, compose his three basic food groups -- was to teach him how to use the dishwasher. His previous method of washing dishes involved waiting until an unsuspecting visiting neighbor or relative, wishing to be of assistance, asked what he needed done.
"Well, I'm running out of dishes...." he would say, and in short order he would have clean dishes.
"Dad," I said over the phone one night before my visit, "you can't wash the dishes yourself?"
"Well, people like to help, you know."
During my visit my brother announced to my father that it was time for him to learn how to operate the dishwasher. My father reacted to this predictably: We might as well have suggested that he sell all his possessions and move to a commune somewhere on the other side of the world.
"Your mother never uses it," he protested.
This was true, but it was because she believed it used too much water, not because she didn't know HOW to use it.
I informed him that training would commence Sunday morning. He reported dutifully after eating breakfast. "Okay, I'm ready," he said confidently.
I looked from him to the dirty dishes he had just put in the sink. I looked back at him.
"What?" he said. "I said I'm ready."
"Dad, first the dishes have to go inside the dishwasher."
He nodded but made no move to put them there.
I sighed and handed the dishes to him one by one, and he put them in. Having only a few dishes and a lot of room in the empty dishwasher, he spaced them out as far as he could. He repeated each direction as I gave it, asking occasional questions to clarify the process, including "Can't I just wait until someone comes over and does them for me?"
When we were done I wrote out step-by-step directions on a large sticky note and stuck it on the dishwasher for future reference. He paled when he saw that the directions continued on the back of the note.
Although he was willing to at least attend the dishwasher training, he firmly believes that doing the laundry is too complicated for him to learn. He expressed some doubt that even I could tackle it.
With my mother in rehabilitation after a mild stroke, my dad has been thrust into the decoding of household tasks that have been hers for the past 64 years. One of my tasks on my recent visit to help him out -- other than making sure he is eating more than just salami and ice cream, which, along with bread, compose his three basic food groups -- was to teach him how to use the dishwasher. His previous method of washing dishes involved waiting until an unsuspecting visiting neighbor or relative, wishing to be of assistance, asked what he needed done.
"Well, I'm running out of dishes...." he would say, and in short order he would have clean dishes.
"Dad," I said over the phone one night before my visit, "you can't wash the dishes yourself?"
"Well, people like to help, you know."
During my visit my brother announced to my father that it was time for him to learn how to operate the dishwasher. My father reacted to this predictably: We might as well have suggested that he sell all his possessions and move to a commune somewhere on the other side of the world.
"Your mother never uses it," he protested.
This was true, but it was because she believed it used too much water, not because she didn't know HOW to use it.
I informed him that training would commence Sunday morning. He reported dutifully after eating breakfast. "Okay, I'm ready," he said confidently.
I looked from him to the dirty dishes he had just put in the sink. I looked back at him.
"What?" he said. "I said I'm ready."
"Dad, first the dishes have to go inside the dishwasher."
He nodded but made no move to put them there.
I sighed and handed the dishes to him one by one, and he put them in. Having only a few dishes and a lot of room in the empty dishwasher, he spaced them out as far as he could. He repeated each direction as I gave it, asking occasional questions to clarify the process, including "Can't I just wait until someone comes over and does them for me?"
When we were done I wrote out step-by-step directions on a large sticky note and stuck it on the dishwasher for future reference. He paled when he saw that the directions continued on the back of the note.
Although he was willing to at least attend the dishwasher training, he firmly believes that doing the laundry is too complicated for him to learn. He expressed some doubt that even I could tackle it.
"Have you ever used this washer and dryer before?" he asked, as if only certified experts should be allowed near them.
I informed him that washers and dryers were pretty much all the same. "Really?" he said in surprise. He thought about this. "But your brother's, now HIS look like some space-age thingies."
I acknowledged that his were probably a little more difficult to operate than the average washer and dryer. My father seemed to feel affirmed that there did exist some household machines that were a little more complicated. And glad that he wouldn't be asked to tackle them.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Off to the North Country
The Prissy Princess is off to the North, where she will visit the King and Queen to make sure they are behaving themselves. In her absence she hopes the Gallant Hero will behave HIMSELF. (She also hopes she will not freeze her royal heinie in the cold North Country.) In the meantime, we wish you all a Happy, um, October 17th. We are sure that it is a holiday SOMEWHERE.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
No pansies in MY yard!
I am very in tune with anything out of place around our house. For instance, coming home from work one day, it does not take me long to notice that three-quarters of our garden is missing.
The plants and flowers are not just trampled. They are no longer there. Being an observant sort of person, I am pretty sure they were there this morning. Then I notice that an enormous boulder, which I'm pretty sure was not there this morning, has been plopped down in the middle of my missing plants. I look around to make sure this is my house. Yes, there's our patio set, and the decorative ladder that we thought was quaint but didn't know what to do with, which we finally propped against the fence as if we are planning a nighttime raid into our neighbor's yard.
But most of the yard looks like hippos have performed a cha-cha through it, and locusts have followed up behind them. The rest of it is untouched.
Upon further reflection, I realize that this is all courtesy of Bob (please see previous blog for an introduction to Bob), who will install our new patio in a few weeks despite having a business card that says "pool service." Apparently he has cleared the way for the patio and thoughtfully provided us -- and all our neighbors -- with a sneak preview of the boulders that will be the centerpiece of the new garden. He has done this without letting us know he was going to do this. He has done this three days before we are expecting guests from out of town. Guests who not only will not see our new patio, but who will now see something akin to a landscape ravaged by war.
Bob later explains that he has saved all my plants and will put them back for me after the patio is done, which of course will not happen before our company comes. But Bob actually has bigger plans than just putting back my measly plants.
"I'll plant some winter pansies for you around the new boulders," he says. "They'll stay through January and really give you a lot of color through the winter."
Whoa, I say. I don't want color through the winter.
Bob is taken aback at this. Everyone likes color. He decides that I just have a thing against pansies, so he offers me other options for plants, grasses, moss -- yes, moss -- that will make the yard look nice until spring, when I can plant whatever else I want.
I shake my head. "Those don't really go with my vision for the garden," I say. Not that I have a vision for the garden, exactly, but whatever it is, it does not include things I have to take care of through the winter.
"It will make your garden stand out from all the others," Bob urges. It sure will. Ours will be the only one with an idiot -- me -- standing in the yard in January, shivering, tending to my plants while all our neighbors are relaxing in front of their fireplace.
Bob is stymied. Apparently he has never had a customer who didn't want him to do at least some landscaping after he has installed a patio/pool/fountain with statues wearing invisible clothing.
"It's going to look really dead all winter," he finally says, shaking his head as if I am making a terrible mistake.
That is the point of winter, I think to myself. Things die in the fall, they rest, and they come back in the spring. It's unnatural for flowers to be alive in the winter. Plus, I am lazy. I want to rest in the winter, too.
Bob gives up trying to sell me on the pansies, but he urges me to think about it. He then proceeds to tell me, step by step, how I can grow moss on my boulders. "It looks very nice," he assures me. This is a revelation, that people would actually create moss on purpose. Moss, to me, is one of those unfortunate life forms that should be referred to the Department of Homeland Security for disposal. I nod politely and deliberately misfile, in my brain, the information on growing moss so that I can never retrieve it.
In the end, with both Joe and Bob lobbying for the pansies, I give in. Of course, they aren't the ones who are going to have to take care of these flowers that go against the natural order of things. But, I figure pansies are better than moss.
The plants and flowers are not just trampled. They are no longer there. Being an observant sort of person, I am pretty sure they were there this morning. Then I notice that an enormous boulder, which I'm pretty sure was not there this morning, has been plopped down in the middle of my missing plants. I look around to make sure this is my house. Yes, there's our patio set, and the decorative ladder that we thought was quaint but didn't know what to do with, which we finally propped against the fence as if we are planning a nighttime raid into our neighbor's yard.
But most of the yard looks like hippos have performed a cha-cha through it, and locusts have followed up behind them. The rest of it is untouched.
Upon further reflection, I realize that this is all courtesy of Bob (please see previous blog for an introduction to Bob), who will install our new patio in a few weeks despite having a business card that says "pool service." Apparently he has cleared the way for the patio and thoughtfully provided us -- and all our neighbors -- with a sneak preview of the boulders that will be the centerpiece of the new garden. He has done this without letting us know he was going to do this. He has done this three days before we are expecting guests from out of town. Guests who not only will not see our new patio, but who will now see something akin to a landscape ravaged by war.
Bob later explains that he has saved all my plants and will put them back for me after the patio is done, which of course will not happen before our company comes. But Bob actually has bigger plans than just putting back my measly plants.
"I'll plant some winter pansies for you around the new boulders," he says. "They'll stay through January and really give you a lot of color through the winter."
Whoa, I say. I don't want color through the winter.
Bob is taken aback at this. Everyone likes color. He decides that I just have a thing against pansies, so he offers me other options for plants, grasses, moss -- yes, moss -- that will make the yard look nice until spring, when I can plant whatever else I want.
I shake my head. "Those don't really go with my vision for the garden," I say. Not that I have a vision for the garden, exactly, but whatever it is, it does not include things I have to take care of through the winter.
"It will make your garden stand out from all the others," Bob urges. It sure will. Ours will be the only one with an idiot -- me -- standing in the yard in January, shivering, tending to my plants while all our neighbors are relaxing in front of their fireplace.
Bob is stymied. Apparently he has never had a customer who didn't want him to do at least some landscaping after he has installed a patio/pool/fountain with statues wearing invisible clothing.
"It's going to look really dead all winter," he finally says, shaking his head as if I am making a terrible mistake.
That is the point of winter, I think to myself. Things die in the fall, they rest, and they come back in the spring. It's unnatural for flowers to be alive in the winter. Plus, I am lazy. I want to rest in the winter, too.
Bob gives up trying to sell me on the pansies, but he urges me to think about it. He then proceeds to tell me, step by step, how I can grow moss on my boulders. "It looks very nice," he assures me. This is a revelation, that people would actually create moss on purpose. Moss, to me, is one of those unfortunate life forms that should be referred to the Department of Homeland Security for disposal. I nod politely and deliberately misfile, in my brain, the information on growing moss so that I can never retrieve it.
In the end, with both Joe and Bob lobbying for the pansies, I give in. Of course, they aren't the ones who are going to have to take care of these flowers that go against the natural order of things. But, I figure pansies are better than moss.
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