Christmas is a time of family tradition, and my family Christmas is not short of them. On my mom's side, we have the tradition of eating ham and deviled eggs while we all open our gifts at the same time in a frenzy. There was one year that my mom tried to establish some order to the holiday by having each person open one gift at a time, but this quickly degenerated into the usual haphazard shredding of holiday paper while thank-yous were shouted across the room. I guess you can't change tradition.
The tradition on my dad's side is completely different and very one-dimensional. Christmases with Oma completely revolve around the fact that we are German. My dad is only half German, which leaves my brother and I at a quarter German, but this doesn't hinder our feast of spaetzel and saurkraut. Every year, my mom hides a picle ornament in the tree, promising a special present for the first child who finds it. After much pushing and shoving between my brother and I, someone finds the pickle and Mom backs out of the present reward because she never had one in the first place.
When I was very little, my Christmas outfit was not the traditional red satin and white lace dress that most little girls wore. I wore a durndel, and Oma had a matching one. Somehow, my brother escaped wearing leiderhosen, but that might be because by the time he was born, Oma could no longer fit into her durndel, so traditional German garb was no longer required. Once I got older and learned to play the piano, the most dreaded German tradition was started--as I fumbled around Oma's untuned piano, searching for a key that wouldn't cause everyone's voices to crack, the rest of my family stood around the piano to sing Silent Night in German. Well, really, Oma would sing, Dad would mumble, Mom would turn the pages of the sheet music for me, and Alex would giggle. I'm sure our rendition of Still Nacht leaves the neighborhood dogs howling, but we can't hear them over Oma's strained soprano and Dad's attempt at remembering his high school German.
Though our Christmas seems as German-filled as the Haufbrauhaus, it has toned down since my dad's childhood, when every pastry and every toy ended in an unpronounceable suffix. My father does not miss most of the old tradition, but one thing that he has mentioned every Christmas is Baumkuchen--tree cake. For years, my mother has searched every bakery and website for Baumkuchen in order to reignite my father's childhood memories. No one except Dad and Oma knew what a Baumkuchen was, so the search was especially difficult. This year, however, my mom was finally successful in her German pastry quest. She called me and said, "You'll never believe what I found for dad!" I knew right away that it was baumkuchen, not because I'm really good at guessing, but because she told me she had found it at the German market in downtown Akron. Unless she was planning on getting my dad another pickle ornament, it had to be a baumkuchen. However, as fate would have it, this was also the year that my dad would occasionally spend half his work days surfing the internet. And of course, he stumbled upon a bakery in Toronto that sold baumkuchen. He brought one home to surprise my mom, who put on an award-winning performance, acting shocked that he had found this endangered German cake. It was a like the Gift of the Maji story, except with cake and less irony.
When Oma came over a couple days before Christmas, Dad said he had a surprise for her, "Something that will bring back some memories." "Is it a baumkuchen?" Oma said, hopefully. She guessed what it was so quickly, I began to think that maybe this cake was more central to their holidays of past than I had previously thought. I imagined everyone in leidherhosen and durndels, dancing around the baumkuchen to tuba and accordion music. This probably didn't happen, but I'll keep it in mind for a potential new tradition.
Dad took the cake out of a gold box. It was not shaped like a Christmas tree, like I had expected, and it was not very colorful or particularly tasty looking either. "I wonder if it will have that almond flavor that I remember," Oma said, a twinkling Star of David in her eye. "Well let's have some and find out!" Dad said, cutting a ring off this magical German tree cake. We each took a small piece--it was very thick and pretty good, but not legendary. After a few moments of silence while we all tasted the baumkuchen, Oma said, "Well, it's more about the tradition and the memories than it is the taste." Dad agreed, saying, "Yeah, this is a good memory."
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 01, 2008
The Thanksgiving Pimp
Thanksgiving at my house is always a great day of family togetherness. My brother and I are the only kids, as we have no first cousins, so everyone else aside from my parents is kind of old. The ages range from 17 to 93, and the food shows it. Each year, the food gets a little mushier, the dinner starts a little earlier, and it's only a matter of time before half of the dinner guests are enjoying their Thanksgiving feast intravenously. I'm thankful to be able to celebrate Thanksgiving with all my family members, but just like any family, they are a bit quirky.
My only job on Thanksgiving is to make the cranberry sauce. It takes about 5 minutes and the directions are right on the bag, so it's the only job at my level of cooking. I thought everyone enjoyed having real cranberry sauce, but I found out this year that I have basically been the only one eating it and that all the other family members prefer the canned crap. This just means more cranberry sauce for me, which I don't mind.
The Thanksgiving hijinks started before the grandparents even got there, when my brother came downstairs dressed as the Thanksgiving Pimp. The Thanksgiving Pimp is a character beloved by all. His job is to usher in the "ho ho hos" for the Christmas season. It entails my brother wearing an undershirt, his suit jacket, and a black fedora until my dad and I make fun of him enough that he changes into normal clothes. This is a new tradition starting this year. I don't know if it will make it to 2009, since Oma didn't really appreciate me calling my brother a "suburban pimp".
The day's festivities continued when all the old folks started showing up. As soon as Oma walked in the door, she approached my diabetic grandfather with a brand new blood sugar meter. She wanted to know how to use it (and was shocked that she would actually have to draw blood) and the two of them sat in the living room trying to figure the piece of equipment out for 2 hours before even glancing at the instructions.
The food was delicious as usual. At the end of the meal, Oma wanted a family photo. She spent about 15 minutes trying to chase down the dog to get him in the picture, but since he is also old and basically deaf, he refused to participate in the photo session. Instead, unbeknownst to anyone, the dog ate an entire plate of chocolate truffles. This is how we found out a great way to get rid of relatives on a holiday--have your dog puke all over the house. Once people had to watch their step for fear of treading in something unpleasant, it was time for everyone to go and the holiday was over. Another way to get rid of relatives (well, really just Oma) is to put in a movie. She hates the talkies.
My favorite part of Thanksgiving this year was the stuffing and the Thanksgiving Pimp. I hope both make a reappearance for Christmas
My only job on Thanksgiving is to make the cranberry sauce. It takes about 5 minutes and the directions are right on the bag, so it's the only job at my level of cooking. I thought everyone enjoyed having real cranberry sauce, but I found out this year that I have basically been the only one eating it and that all the other family members prefer the canned crap. This just means more cranberry sauce for me, which I don't mind.
The Thanksgiving hijinks started before the grandparents even got there, when my brother came downstairs dressed as the Thanksgiving Pimp. The Thanksgiving Pimp is a character beloved by all. His job is to usher in the "ho ho hos" for the Christmas season. It entails my brother wearing an undershirt, his suit jacket, and a black fedora until my dad and I make fun of him enough that he changes into normal clothes. This is a new tradition starting this year. I don't know if it will make it to 2009, since Oma didn't really appreciate me calling my brother a "suburban pimp".
The day's festivities continued when all the old folks started showing up. As soon as Oma walked in the door, she approached my diabetic grandfather with a brand new blood sugar meter. She wanted to know how to use it (and was shocked that she would actually have to draw blood) and the two of them sat in the living room trying to figure the piece of equipment out for 2 hours before even glancing at the instructions.
The food was delicious as usual. At the end of the meal, Oma wanted a family photo. She spent about 15 minutes trying to chase down the dog to get him in the picture, but since he is also old and basically deaf, he refused to participate in the photo session. Instead, unbeknownst to anyone, the dog ate an entire plate of chocolate truffles. This is how we found out a great way to get rid of relatives on a holiday--have your dog puke all over the house. Once people had to watch their step for fear of treading in something unpleasant, it was time for everyone to go and the holiday was over. Another way to get rid of relatives (well, really just Oma) is to put in a movie. She hates the talkies.
My favorite part of Thanksgiving this year was the stuffing and the Thanksgiving Pimp. I hope both make a reappearance for Christmas
Classroom Rules
With the hectic class schedule that some Notre Dame students undertake, I can understand not having time to have a meal in between classes. While snacking is perfectly acceptable, there are certain foods that people should refrain from eating in a classroom setting.
Here is an incomplete list of acceptable classroom foods:
Bagel
Coffee
Any drink from a vending machine
Gummy candy
Crackers
Most baked goods*
Small sandwiches
*coffee cake or any other particularly messy and crumbly baked good is not acceptable
This list may not provide the healthiest food options, but it's not all that good for you to be eating on the run, either, and eating the above listed foods is a lot better than eating the follow:
Unacceptable classroom foods, most of which I have actually seen people eating in class:
Banana
Baked potato
2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew
Popsicle
Salisbury steak
Pop Rocks
Celery, apples, or any other very crunchy food
Pizza
Maybe I'm being picky, but loud foods or food items that require multiple utensils are really distracting and kind of disgusting to sit next to.
While we're on the subject of classroom pet peeves...
To those who bring computers to class--please be mindful of your desktop image. If you have a laptop, I will definitely look at it because your game of solitaire and/or your AIM conversation is much more interesting than the lecture going on. However, it's a little strange to gaze upon an image of a half-naked lady or an official Hanson brothers fan club photo sitting right there on your computer for all to see. Obviously, you have chosen this photo because you like to look at it a lot. You see your desktop several times a day, so it only follows that you really like to look at pictures of the Olsen twins as often as possible. But to those sitting around you, your desktop is an unsolicited peek into your personal life. I didn't really care to know that you were into busty blondes or that you have a special affinity for babies dressed as vegetables. So to all the laptop carriers out there, please be kind to your classmates and maybe choose one of the default desktops, or at least something we can all enjoy, like a picture of George Clooney or some puppies in a basket.
Here is an incomplete list of acceptable classroom foods:
Bagel
Coffee
Any drink from a vending machine
Gummy candy
Crackers
Most baked goods*
Small sandwiches
*coffee cake or any other particularly messy and crumbly baked good is not acceptable
This list may not provide the healthiest food options, but it's not all that good for you to be eating on the run, either, and eating the above listed foods is a lot better than eating the follow:
Unacceptable classroom foods, most of which I have actually seen people eating in class:
Banana
Baked potato
2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew
Popsicle
Salisbury steak
Pop Rocks
Celery, apples, or any other very crunchy food
Pizza
Maybe I'm being picky, but loud foods or food items that require multiple utensils are really distracting and kind of disgusting to sit next to.
While we're on the subject of classroom pet peeves...
To those who bring computers to class--please be mindful of your desktop image. If you have a laptop, I will definitely look at it because your game of solitaire and/or your AIM conversation is much more interesting than the lecture going on. However, it's a little strange to gaze upon an image of a half-naked lady or an official Hanson brothers fan club photo sitting right there on your computer for all to see. Obviously, you have chosen this photo because you like to look at it a lot. You see your desktop several times a day, so it only follows that you really like to look at pictures of the Olsen twins as often as possible. But to those sitting around you, your desktop is an unsolicited peek into your personal life. I didn't really care to know that you were into busty blondes or that you have a special affinity for babies dressed as vegetables. So to all the laptop carriers out there, please be kind to your classmates and maybe choose one of the default desktops, or at least something we can all enjoy, like a picture of George Clooney or some puppies in a basket.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Do Helicopters Eat Their Young?
This year, I returned to the world of boxing. I have fought my final boxing match (after fighting with recsports...a story too long and frustrating for this blog) and am now a retired boxer. This is probably a good thing considering I couldn't handle simple EMT checks after sparring rounds.
Before we fight in an actual match, we have to spar, which is like a match, but not scored and more controlled. The EMT's are present for all sparring matches to attend to each bloody nose and black eye. Their main job is to check each fighter for brain damage immediately after sparring. Even though I've done this plenty of times before, I forgot the standard procedure.
After my first sparring match, I was brought over to a young EMT guy. As he sprayed my gloves with disinfectant and I wiped sweat off my forehead with my ponytail, he asked, "Do you know what today is?" Anyone else would automatically realize that this question was aimed at gauging my brain capacity. I, however, took it as Mr. EMT trying to be coy. I never pass up the opportunity for coyness, so I replied "I dunno, Canadian Thanksgiving?" Mr. EMT was not charmed. "No, I mean today's date." Immediately, I realize my mistake. I could have easily overcome this by giving the man the date, but I was flustered and could not for the life of me even recall the season. "Just the day of the week will do," he said, checking to see if my pupils were dialated. "Tuesday! It's Tuesday!" I finally managed to spit out. "Ok, I'm going to have to ask you another question." I could tell Mr. EMT was a bit concerned. I was pretty sure I didn't have brain damage, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask another question. He went with this one: "Do helicopters eat their young?" Well this was easy! I knew the answer to this one! "No! Hamsters do!" Turns out you don't get bonus points in the concussion check for giving out fun facts. Mr. EMT chuckled, handed me my gear, and sent me on my way. I like to think that I managed to insert my coy charm in the end of that exchange. Mr. EMT probably likes to think that its ok sending a potentially concussed young woman back into the boxing training room. It's a win-win situation.
There is one more anecdote that is completely unrelated to the above, but I feel needs to be told. I risk telling a "you just needed to be there" story, but I think I'll take that chance.
At dinner with some friends tonight, I told Emma that I had been to my latest boy's house and met his two Siamese cats. Emma immediately responded with "Oh my God, they're attached!?" immediately after which, her face dropped as she realized what she had just said. It was a great moment in cat breed/human condition confusion history.
Before we fight in an actual match, we have to spar, which is like a match, but not scored and more controlled. The EMT's are present for all sparring matches to attend to each bloody nose and black eye. Their main job is to check each fighter for brain damage immediately after sparring. Even though I've done this plenty of times before, I forgot the standard procedure.
After my first sparring match, I was brought over to a young EMT guy. As he sprayed my gloves with disinfectant and I wiped sweat off my forehead with my ponytail, he asked, "Do you know what today is?" Anyone else would automatically realize that this question was aimed at gauging my brain capacity. I, however, took it as Mr. EMT trying to be coy. I never pass up the opportunity for coyness, so I replied "I dunno, Canadian Thanksgiving?" Mr. EMT was not charmed. "No, I mean today's date." Immediately, I realize my mistake. I could have easily overcome this by giving the man the date, but I was flustered and could not for the life of me even recall the season. "Just the day of the week will do," he said, checking to see if my pupils were dialated. "Tuesday! It's Tuesday!" I finally managed to spit out. "Ok, I'm going to have to ask you another question." I could tell Mr. EMT was a bit concerned. I was pretty sure I didn't have brain damage, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to ask another question. He went with this one: "Do helicopters eat their young?" Well this was easy! I knew the answer to this one! "No! Hamsters do!" Turns out you don't get bonus points in the concussion check for giving out fun facts. Mr. EMT chuckled, handed me my gear, and sent me on my way. I like to think that I managed to insert my coy charm in the end of that exchange. Mr. EMT probably likes to think that its ok sending a potentially concussed young woman back into the boxing training room. It's a win-win situation.
There is one more anecdote that is completely unrelated to the above, but I feel needs to be told. I risk telling a "you just needed to be there" story, but I think I'll take that chance.
At dinner with some friends tonight, I told Emma that I had been to my latest boy's house and met his two Siamese cats. Emma immediately responded with "Oh my God, they're attached!?" immediately after which, her face dropped as she realized what she had just said. It was a great moment in cat breed/human condition confusion history.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Text From: Dad Cell
I'm always impressed when someone's parents know how to text. I've tried to teach mine, but have only been successful with my dad. My mom decided she needed to learn to text after hearing a news story where a girl who had been kidnapped or something let her parents know where she was via text message. After unsuccessfully sending some blank texts, my mom decided that I was too old to get kidnapped anyway and gave up on the whole text message thing. My dad, on the other hand, has joined modern times and, with lots of practiced, has mastered texting. At first, his messages were a little jumbled since he couldn't find any punctuation or backspace keys. This caused me to get messages like:
"Mom and Janet are at Beechywood mall oh no shopping loveljoo"
My dad's text messaging skills have much improved since then, but the content of the messages is still kind of strange. To fully understand this, you must first know a couple things about my father:
1) He loves trashy reality TV Nevermind that networks such as E! and VH1 target audiences of women and gay men, my dad can't get enough of Rock of Love or Dr. 90210. After watching the season finale of Tila Tequila by myself, I needed to talk to someone about how crazy it was. Naturally, I called my dad, who answered the phone with "Did you just WATCH that??? How GREAT was that?! Tila is SUCH wreck!" Comparing notes on The Girls Next Door may seem like a strange father-daughter activity, but we are really just arguing about who really loves Heff and who is just in it for the money (we have come to the agreement that Holly really does care about Heff and Kendra is just a tramp). At family dinners, it is pretty nice to have someone with whom to discuss the girls of Flavor of Love. There are some shows that I don't even watch that my dad enthusiastically fills me in on, like Gene Simmon's Family Jewels. Now that you understand (or at least are aware of) my dad's love of trash TV, you might expect that I get some trash TV themed text messages. The other day, while doing homework, I received this one from him:
"Did you see the season premiere of Dr. 90210?"
I had not seen it, but after calling him, he recounted the tales of Dr. Rey and his wife to me, insisting that I watch the episode sometime. You would think that would be the end of the Dr. 90210 texts for a bit, but the texts seemed to take on a plastic surgery theme.
Dad: "am playing golf and almost just got hit"
Me: "be careful!"
Dad: "No kidding. If I am disfigured I will have to call Dr. Rey"
Fortunately, no reality TV show doctors needed to be called, though I'm sure my dad would have been thrilled to meet the real Dr. Rey
2) My dad tells really corny jokes. Everyone's dad tell really corny jokes. When these "dad jokes" are condensed into text messages, they become that much more ridiculous. Here is the most recent text conversation between my dad and me:
Me: I got my first boxing bloody nose of the season
Dad: Great. What did the other girl look like?
Me: Bloody mouth
Dad: Awesome. I will have a piece of apple pie in your honor
Me: You were going to have pie anyway
Dad: You are right but now I will have two pieces.
I don't really know what eating apple pie has to do with a family member's athleticism, but I think my dad really needed an excuse to eat pie.
3) My dad is sometimes really inappropriate, hence this text:
"I am eating pizza at stumpys with the geezers and stumpy is our waiter"
Stumpys is a pizza joint in Port Clinton and that's not actually its name. Stumpy is the owner of the pizza place, and that is not actually the man's name. My dad refers to him as Stumpy because he has one arm. He is surprisingly agile with his incomplete arm when it comes to carrying pizzas. "Geezers" is what my dad affectionately calls his friends.
Texting is a wonderful thing, especially when it comes to communicating with my dad. It condenses all his strange characteristics into compact little messages. At least I know that if I get kidnapped, I'll have a text message from my dad to make me smile.
*Note: After my dad read this, he sent me this text:
"I hope you know second semester isn't paid yet"
I didn't have to take this post down because the next text he sent was:
"I liked it. you are still in my will. love, dad"
"Mom and Janet are at Beechywood mall oh no shopping loveljoo"
My dad's text messaging skills have much improved since then, but the content of the messages is still kind of strange. To fully understand this, you must first know a couple things about my father:
1) He loves trashy reality TV Nevermind that networks such as E! and VH1 target audiences of women and gay men, my dad can't get enough of Rock of Love or Dr. 90210. After watching the season finale of Tila Tequila by myself, I needed to talk to someone about how crazy it was. Naturally, I called my dad, who answered the phone with "Did you just WATCH that??? How GREAT was that?! Tila is SUCH wreck!" Comparing notes on The Girls Next Door may seem like a strange father-daughter activity, but we are really just arguing about who really loves Heff and who is just in it for the money (we have come to the agreement that Holly really does care about Heff and Kendra is just a tramp). At family dinners, it is pretty nice to have someone with whom to discuss the girls of Flavor of Love. There are some shows that I don't even watch that my dad enthusiastically fills me in on, like Gene Simmon's Family Jewels. Now that you understand (or at least are aware of) my dad's love of trash TV, you might expect that I get some trash TV themed text messages. The other day, while doing homework, I received this one from him:
"Did you see the season premiere of Dr. 90210?"
I had not seen it, but after calling him, he recounted the tales of Dr. Rey and his wife to me, insisting that I watch the episode sometime. You would think that would be the end of the Dr. 90210 texts for a bit, but the texts seemed to take on a plastic surgery theme.
Dad: "am playing golf and almost just got hit"
Me: "be careful!"
Dad: "No kidding. If I am disfigured I will have to call Dr. Rey"
Fortunately, no reality TV show doctors needed to be called, though I'm sure my dad would have been thrilled to meet the real Dr. Rey
2) My dad tells really corny jokes. Everyone's dad tell really corny jokes. When these "dad jokes" are condensed into text messages, they become that much more ridiculous. Here is the most recent text conversation between my dad and me:
Me: I got my first boxing bloody nose of the season
Dad: Great. What did the other girl look like?
Me: Bloody mouth
Dad: Awesome. I will have a piece of apple pie in your honor
Me: You were going to have pie anyway
Dad: You are right but now I will have two pieces.
I don't really know what eating apple pie has to do with a family member's athleticism, but I think my dad really needed an excuse to eat pie.
3) My dad is sometimes really inappropriate, hence this text:
"I am eating pizza at stumpys with the geezers and stumpy is our waiter"
Stumpys is a pizza joint in Port Clinton and that's not actually its name. Stumpy is the owner of the pizza place, and that is not actually the man's name. My dad refers to him as Stumpy because he has one arm. He is surprisingly agile with his incomplete arm when it comes to carrying pizzas. "Geezers" is what my dad affectionately calls his friends.
Texting is a wonderful thing, especially when it comes to communicating with my dad. It condenses all his strange characteristics into compact little messages. At least I know that if I get kidnapped, I'll have a text message from my dad to make me smile.
*Note: After my dad read this, he sent me this text:
"I hope you know second semester isn't paid yet"
I didn't have to take this post down because the next text he sent was:
"I liked it. you are still in my will. love, dad"
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
America's Favorite Cookie
Many would say that the Oreo is the most American cookie. The blue packaging boasts in big white bubble letters that the Oreo is “America’s Favorite Cookie.” The commercials for the cream and chocolate sandwiches show families delighting in dunking the cookies in a tall glass of milk. Older ad-campaigns gave the cookies magical qualities, spreading the mystique that those who got the half of the Oreo with the most cream could get a wish granted. The treat has even garnered its own song, “The White Stuff”, in the form of a parody of a New Kids on the Block song. Nothing could be more wholesome, more white, more American, than an Oreo cookie.
My family is big into Oreos. They are always in the car on road trips, are a staple of summer picnics, have a place on the table for holiday parties, and can be found stashed away in the most unusual corners of the house. Oreos are always on hand, so I suppose it was always assumed that everyone in my family enjoyed the treat. I don’t know why my mother never noticed that I hadn’t been eating the Oreos from the kitchen cupboard. My brother was two young to be eating solids and I had no other siblings or cousins. I guess having kids comes with the same excuse perks as having a dog. You can blame bad smells on dogs, and you can blame the disappearance of sweets on children.
I don’t know what it is about the Oreo, but other cookies have always been much higher on my list. The fake, flakey cream with the processed chocolate wafer doesn’t satisfy my craving for baked goods (probably because the Oreo is neither baked nor good). I’d much prefer an old-fashion chocolate chip cookie, but perhaps my love of the French Nestle is what made my mother call me unpatriotic.
One day, when having a picnic with my mother in the backyard, she offered me an Oreo. My 3-year-old self decided this was the as good an opportunity as any to tell my mom that the Oreo-loving gene had not been passed on to me. I refused the Oreo and said “I don’t like Oreos.” There, it was out. Now she could stop shoving that chocolate-flavored cardboard down my throat and buy me some Chips Ahoy. However, my declaration of Oreo-independence did not go over as smoothly as I had hoped.
“You know,” she said calmly, separating the cookie halves of her Oreo and inspecting which side had more cream, “Oreos are American. If they find out that you don’t like Oreos, they can kick you out of America.”
Much like an Oreo disintegrating in milk, my world crumbled around me. Kicked out of America? Where would I go? What would I do without my family? I don’t know anyone who’s not in America! I believe this whole experience was my first memory. Ironically, it was also my first time feeling impending abandonment.
Of course, my mom was just being sarcastic. However, my 3-year-old brain could not really process the subtleties of sarcasm yet, so imbedded in my subconscious to this day is a strong link between patriotism and Oreos. I’ve always recognized my dislike for Oreos, but it took until I was in college to recognize that I still eat them whenever they are offered. I guess I still have this fear of someone finding out that I do not like “America’s Favorite Cookie” and subsequently being deported. Looking back, at every road trip, picnic, school function, sleepover, First Communion, and school lunch, Oreos have been present and I have disdainfully, but patriotically, eaten them.
My neurotic eating of Oreos has subsided partly because I now realize that I will not lose citizenship because of my cookie preference, but mostly because the slogan for Oreo has changed to “World’s Favorite Cookie.” They can’t very well kick me out of the world. However, if they ever get that community on the moon up and running, I will be back to publicly eating Oreos and secretly despising them. But knowing my family, when we travel in our spaceship to the moon, Oreos will be in the cargo space right along with the moon-shoes and spacesuits.
My family is big into Oreos. They are always in the car on road trips, are a staple of summer picnics, have a place on the table for holiday parties, and can be found stashed away in the most unusual corners of the house. Oreos are always on hand, so I suppose it was always assumed that everyone in my family enjoyed the treat. I don’t know why my mother never noticed that I hadn’t been eating the Oreos from the kitchen cupboard. My brother was two young to be eating solids and I had no other siblings or cousins. I guess having kids comes with the same excuse perks as having a dog. You can blame bad smells on dogs, and you can blame the disappearance of sweets on children.
I don’t know what it is about the Oreo, but other cookies have always been much higher on my list. The fake, flakey cream with the processed chocolate wafer doesn’t satisfy my craving for baked goods (probably because the Oreo is neither baked nor good). I’d much prefer an old-fashion chocolate chip cookie, but perhaps my love of the French Nestle is what made my mother call me unpatriotic.
One day, when having a picnic with my mother in the backyard, she offered me an Oreo. My 3-year-old self decided this was the as good an opportunity as any to tell my mom that the Oreo-loving gene had not been passed on to me. I refused the Oreo and said “I don’t like Oreos.” There, it was out. Now she could stop shoving that chocolate-flavored cardboard down my throat and buy me some Chips Ahoy. However, my declaration of Oreo-independence did not go over as smoothly as I had hoped.
“You know,” she said calmly, separating the cookie halves of her Oreo and inspecting which side had more cream, “Oreos are American. If they find out that you don’t like Oreos, they can kick you out of America.”
Much like an Oreo disintegrating in milk, my world crumbled around me. Kicked out of America? Where would I go? What would I do without my family? I don’t know anyone who’s not in America! I believe this whole experience was my first memory. Ironically, it was also my first time feeling impending abandonment.
Of course, my mom was just being sarcastic. However, my 3-year-old brain could not really process the subtleties of sarcasm yet, so imbedded in my subconscious to this day is a strong link between patriotism and Oreos. I’ve always recognized my dislike for Oreos, but it took until I was in college to recognize that I still eat them whenever they are offered. I guess I still have this fear of someone finding out that I do not like “America’s Favorite Cookie” and subsequently being deported. Looking back, at every road trip, picnic, school function, sleepover, First Communion, and school lunch, Oreos have been present and I have disdainfully, but patriotically, eaten them.
My neurotic eating of Oreos has subsided partly because I now realize that I will not lose citizenship because of my cookie preference, but mostly because the slogan for Oreo has changed to “World’s Favorite Cookie.” They can’t very well kick me out of the world. However, if they ever get that community on the moon up and running, I will be back to publicly eating Oreos and secretly despising them. But knowing my family, when we travel in our spaceship to the moon, Oreos will be in the cargo space right along with the moon-shoes and spacesuits.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Sucky Charms
The day I moved out of Vail to head back to
There are a few things about Vail that I get a bit nostalgic about, because I know I will not experience them anywhere else. The intern house, for instance, is probably/hopefully the closest I will come to living as an actual peasant. I suppose the problems with the house were part of its charm. It was kind of fun, grabbing a piece of foil from the kitchen to stick in the door of the dryer so it would work and then crossing your fingers that your clothes would actually come out dry. Since the dishwasher flooded the kitchen with soapy water every time it ran, it also served as a convenient floor cleaner. This feature especially came in handy during parties. During the last intern house party, someone spilled a beer on the kitchen floor. Instead of grabbing some paper towels, my roommate Chris pointed at the dishwasher and shouted “Run that thang!” I wasn’t really in the mood for a foam party, so I opted for the paper towels, but the running the dishwasher to clean up a spill was definitely a viable option. The only problem is that the water made the floor expand, causing the tiles to crack and pop out of the floor. Instead of picking them up and throwing them away, we all found it better to play a never-ending game of soccer with these tile pieces. The bugs in the house also gave it some character. It made the house feel like a cabin or a garbage can. Tiny flies gathered all over the kitchen and then would stick to the wall to die. There was a whole tiny fly graveyard on the wall above the sink. I’m sure they chose that spot as their final resting place because of the beautiful views of piles of unwashed dishes coated in various Mexican dishes from weeks before.
The house could have been a lot worse, and I guess it was. Soon after I arrived there, the oven door, which had been shattered, was replaced. The heat, which never shut off, was also fixed during my stay. And right before I got there, the crazy neighbors were evicted for stabbing each other with a lamp. I really should be thankful for the pit I lived in. Considering the location, its probably the world’s most expensive junk heap.
Another thing that Vail has that is really lacking in the rest of the country is hitchhikers. I didn’t realize that people still did this, especially with all the urban legends you hear warning you against it. But Vail is a town stuck in the past—they love the old West, Native Americans, and hitchhikers. I saw about 2-3 hitchhikers a week. Vail has a pretty good free public transportation system, so I really don’t know why hitching is so popular, but I guess it is a bit more intimately social than taking the bus. I really only became aware of the popularity of hitchhiking when a coworker, Drew, brought it to my attention. One of the many perks of living in the intern house not knowing who will be sleeping on your couch that morning. As I groggily trudged downstairs to grab a breakfast shake before heading to work at 7 am, I noticed that Drew was just waking up from his night on the thrift-store couch. I offered him a ride to his house, but he refused, saying he would just hitchhike back. I thought he was kidding, but he assured me that it was a reasonable transportation option and that people around Vail were nice enough to pick people up. Sure enough, he got a ride back, and I started noticing hitchhikers everywhere. There was a teenager with a skateboard begging a ride at the front of my neighborhood. A businessman in a suit stood at the entrance of the highway with his thumb out. I never picked up one of these strangers. Vail residents might be nice enough to give these people a ride to the next town, but I’m from
Vail is a great place to go if you aspire to be an alcoholic or if you are looking to live in a community for alcoholism is accepted. As you drive into Vail on the highway, you start to notice bright orange signs advising against drinking and driving. When you are officially in Vail, these signs occur about every mile. I don’t doubt that Vail residents play a drinking game while driving on the highway where each person in the car takes a shot upon spotting one of these anti-drinking signs. Though there is a lot to do in Vail during the day if you’re into extreme physical exertion, there’s not much to do at night. There is one movie theater about 15 miles away and no bowling alley, but there are plenty of bars. Each night has a different “it bar” to go to. For example, Sunday and Monday are devoted to open-mic nights, White Trash Wednesday is a local fave at Sandbar, and on Fridays, you can go to the top of the mountain, where all there is a trampoline and drink specials. Vail obviously has a drinking problem. The rest of
Despite all the “charms” of Vail and the my bleak outlook at the beginning of the summer, my internship experience turned out to be pretty good. I absolutely loved the work and know now more than ever that television production is my career of choice. I also know more than ever that I never want to live in a mountain town. It’s very pretty and a great place to vacation, but I think the lack of oxygen makes people a little crazy. Plus, I’m not really outdoorsy beyond eating al fresco. I did learn a lot, met some great people, and came away with some good stories. So goodbye, Vail! Consider this my second attempt at a dramatic speeding off.
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