Most likely you followed the link from my first page of Random Thoughts stories. Here are some more, and I hope these are just as amusing and thought provoking. And, as always, your comments are appreciated.
If they had buffets, all you can eat places, when I was growing up in Chicago, I don't remember them. I remember lots of hot dog stands and the rib place, whose name escapes me and will drive me nuts until I can think of it. I remember cafeterias where you picked out what you wanted and just paid for that. I don't even remember buffets from when I was older. They probably were around, but I first noticed them when we lived most recently in Minnesota and the Old Country Buffet started popping up all over the twin cities.
There's something sad about going to a buffet. For one thing, most people are overweight. Very overweight. And most of them are not good looking, except for my family, of course. There is a mentality one gets when they are allowed all they can have and they want it all and then some. Why take a little when you can take a lot? How much you eat depends too, on who you're with. You'd never make a complete pig out of yourself in front of someone you were trying to impress. With family and friends, you go for broke.
The first few times we went to the OCB, I think we all ate too much and got sick. The food was good, but not great so why did we keep eating just because there's still more out there? Eventually, we learned to take smaller portions and only take what we liked. There was always a plate contest, who could amass the most dirty plates, which also lent itself to smaller portions. Did a plate with one chicken leg count the same as a full plate? It got so I could eat at a buffet and not want to die when I left. And where you still felt you got your money's worth.
There was also a place in Edina that we used to go to a lot, called Q-cumbers. It prided itself on healthier fare, mostly salads, soups and some meats to keep the non vegetarians happy. They had great mini muffins, too. That was the place where I first noticed Greg's shoulder, bumped up about his normal line because of the tumor. We sat at a round table near the fruit station and on the times since that day when I've been there, I call it the death table. I always look to see who's sitting there. I can still see Greg there, clear as day and recall the terror I felt.
One Thanksgiving, we went to the country club for dinner. I cooked the whole traditional thanksgiving meal only once in all my married years. Everyone liked something different, And I'd have had to prepare about as much food as a restaurant to make everyone happy, so this seemed the ideal compromise to me. My ex decided we should sit there for two hours. We did, but we continued to eat, although the trips back to the food tables got farther and farther between. My kids decided to have a dessert contest, to see who could eat the most. I can't remember who won. All I do remember is how sick we all were after it. So now when I go to a buffet, I can't help but think about the two hour rule and how stupid it was.
I do like the buffets in Las Vegas, where the quality does match the quantity. They have crab legs and shrimp and millions of desserts. One time, Lowell and I went to the buffet at the Rio, because he saw on television that it had the largest buffet in the world. They weren't kidding. They had more food stations that you could imagine. We kept walking and kept finding more different kinds of food to eat. If you had one bite of everything, you'd be so sick you'd want to die. At a buffet in Vegas, it doesn't matter if you are dining alone either.
Down in North Carolina, they had a chain of buffet restaurants called Ryan's. Evelyn especially liked it because they had fried okra. I thought the quality wasn't much better than OCB. Here we have Golden Corral, which I think has so-so food. I go there more than I'd like, because my dear friend Michael loves that place, though I have yet to figure out why. Last time we were there, we saw a lady have a stroke. The fire department came and is was the best part of eating there. At least the most interesting. Then there was Uncle Willy's in Winnipeg. It was the most horrible food ever, and I don't believe anyone overate that time. Have you ever seen brown spaghetti sauce? Trust me, you don't want to see it, much less taste it.
Now Chinese buffets are really big. I've been to the one here many times even though they don't serve my favorite dishes. They do have a Mongolian section which I tried recently and that's almost better than most of the other main dishes. What I really love there are the fried donut things. More like just fried bread, but they come out hot and coated in sugar. I can't make it through the serving line without having at least one. I can't make it out the door either without one in my hand.
I've finally learned while there is lots and lots of food at a buffet, I don't like it all and certainly can't eat it all. I take what I like in small portions and come back for more if I like, or try different things on my second go round. I skip the things I know aren't good or have normally at home. A buffet is kind of like life in that respect. Try a lot of things but keep doing what you love best. Don't fill your plate too full and don't worry about what the people at the next table are eating.
©21 June 2004I recently read this book. It is written by Garrison Keillor, who I am not overly fond of, in general. This book was recommended to me by a guy that I respect, so I decided to read it when I found it in the library.
To my surprise, I like this book. It's well written, funny and very satirical. It surprised me that any guy would truly understand this book. It's kind of a put down of men. There are parts that are absolutely brilliant. It describes the stories of several different guys. It's kind of a men is from Mars book without the pop psychology. It made me think of men and women and relationships. And men definitely are a separate species from women.
Men like to think they are strong, independent and smarter than women. Maybe physically stronger. But I would dare any man to go through 26 hours of labor, and then have another child. Can a man match his socks? Only if they are all the same brand, size and color. It's debatable that they are better chefs, better businesspeople and better drivers. I might concede they are more decisive than women. Men have limited usefulness in society. Some people advocate separating the races, but the more logical thing to do would be to separate the sexes.
Imagine a town divided by sex, rather than money or class. On the north, men. They live in their small yet high tech apartments. No more yard work. Lots of restaurants for them to take out food. Small closets yet big tv rooms. Lots of fancy gadgets.
On the south, community houses for women. Women by nature are more social, and like being with other women.
© 29 December, 1997I was never good at making decisions. And even today, I find it a difficult task. Most of the easy decisions are hard for me. Should I have chicken or beef? Soup or salad? I guess I really want it both ways.
Sometimes I use a pro vs con list. Where you write down all your reasons to help you decide. It's all to easy to weight the side you are really leaning towards. Because on the big decisions, you really know what you want to do. I at least, need to rationalize my decisions. Justify them, if only to myself.
When it was time for me to apply to college, I only applied to one school. I knew they had to take me, because my grades and scores were good enough. Barely. So I didn't face a decision there. I figured if they didn't accept me, the deadline for the state college near me was after the date they let everyone know, so I would still have time to apply there. I suppose one might say I took the easy way out.
Some decisions are easy to make. It's more of a choice, or a personal preference. Or the outcome doesn't really matter. I know when it comes to answering emails, I answer my daughter's first. I would chose to wear jeans rather than a skirt. I get my hair cut short so there is only one way to fix it, and it is easy to fix. I also cut it short when my hair started thinning, which was extremely distressing. Now that it's getting chillier, it doesn't really matter which jacket I put on, as long as it's warm enough.
I've had a lot of decisions to make lately. I would like to think I have made them rationally, logically and confidently. That is far from the truth. But that's what's good about some decisions; they are reversible. One can always change their mind. That's what I did today about something I had to decide. First I decided not to, then I decided why not. I weighed the pros and cons, flipped a coin, but in the end listened to my heart.
©1997I opened a bag of M&M's today. I poured them all into a glass bowl. I love the clinking sound they made, the same sound coins make, as the first of them hit the glass. The hard candy shell bouncing on the glass. It was a duller thud as the bowl filled up. And then I saw them. Change is good, and necessary sometimes. But not always. Getting rid of the light brown M&M's and replacing them with that bright blue was a bad change.
Red M&M's are my favorite, with yellow second. I know they all taste the same. Even when I close my eyes and concentrate, I can't tell them apart. I have tried on several occasions. Green, red and brown taste just like orange, dark brown and even the blue. It's the principle of the thing. There was no need to change the standard bag. I can accept the pastel colors for Easter, the patriotic red, white and blue for the 4th of July, and the green and red only for Christmas. I don't believe I have ever said no to any color M&M.
Chocolate is one food I can't give up. It comforts me when I am sad. It gives me energy when I am tired. My favorite are dark chocolate Dove candies, which melt in my mouth. For some reason, they are not sold here in Maine. And believe me, I have looked. Might have to request a care package from Evelyn before long. Whenever I have received a box of chocolates, I always bite off the bottom to see what kind they are. Most of them I don't like, so they get thrown away. Unless someone else wants to eat a candy with no bottom and the filling leaking out.
M&M's are the perfect for traveling. They are easy to eat. You can play games with them, guessing what color you will get before you pick them out of the bag. Or seeing if you get two of the same color. Helps you pass the time on long boring interstates. If you drop one, at least it won't make a mess on the floor, until it gets stepped on. They fly well too. I took a bag with me to Australia, where I was told they didn't sell them. They did, but they were 5 times as expensive.
I don't like looking at the blue ones mixed in with the familiar colors. It doesn't seem right, and it is one thing in my life I have control over. So here is what I am doing. I am separating them out, and eating them all first. I could just take them all out, exile them and eat them last. I won't give those bright blue upstarts the satisfaction. NO! I'll eat them first, and be rid of them. Then I can pretend nothing has changed, even though so much has. This is the only change I have control over, even in this small way. It's nice to have some control in your life, no matter how small or insignificant. And with the end of this story, the last blue M&M has been eaten.
© 12 October, 1997We use words every day. There is no way getting around them. Even to people like me, who don't consider themselves writers. They are used in speaking and writing, trying to get a message to another person. How large your vocabulary is often impresses people, because it makes you appear more intelligent. Words can encourage, comfort, uplift, depress, inspire or even insult people. Once a word is said, there is no way of taking it back. That's why I prefer to write because it gives me the time to express my thoughts the way I intend, and there is usually no misinterpretation.
The other night, on IRC, I typed something that hurt someone. I didn't intend for what I wrote to be mean, but she took it that way. Once it was there, there was no way to make it go away, to try and rectify the situation. It made me realize again how powerful words are, and how important the way they are used is in communicating. I tried apologizing, but she refused to accept it, and because of a few careless words typed on a screen, a relationship was destroyed. She couldn't have been a friend, because then she would have known me better, known that I would never intentionally hurt someone I cared about. A friend would have known that I was disrespectful, irreverent and a total smart ass. And to ignore me.
The only time I can remember words hurting me so much I wanted to die, were from my husband. I had talked him into going to a marriage counselor, as a last ditch effort. I wanted to make sure I had tried everything possible to save our marriage. I don't remember what the marriage counselor asked him, but he said, he no longer cared about making me happy. Those few words cut through my hear like a knife. It became so quiet in the room, even the counselor commented on it. That was the exact moment I knew there was nothing left to save.
Words are so important, yet we take them for granted. How many times have we said, gee, why didn't I think to say that? And now that I am getting older, I find it harder sometimes to come up with the exact word I want. I sent an email to a friend, and couldn't think of the word diffuse. That was what I wanted to say, but I instead used a word that didn't quite convey the same meaning as diffuse. It won't be as effective in conveying my message but I was getting so frustrated trying to think of that word. I wasn't able to say exactly what I wanted to, because I didn't have the right word. Sometimes you can think of the perfect thing to say. That's pretty rare, if you ask most people. Then you can watch someone's whole spirit become lighter with a word of praise. Or the opposite, by insulting a person.
We all know what the hardest words are to say. I'm sorry. And I love you. I don't seem to have a problem with either of those phrases. Seems there is alwasys something I am apologizing about, and trying to make amends for. Besides, to me it is no big thing to take the blame. I'm used to it. I have a harder time saying I love you. Not to my kids. I say it all the time. Today I said it to someone for the first time, and as soon as I said it, I had a sense of fear. I was afraid of this person's reaction. While I didn't get the response I wanted, I was glad I said it. I sometimes wish I was a poet, so I could have found a better way to express my feelings, but sometimes, the simple words are the best.
© 15 December, 1997It was June 24, 1963. I only remember the date, because that was my mother's birthday. It was symbolic of her being reborn, and starting a new life. We were heading out west, to California. We were leaving behind my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. It was going to be just the three of us, setting out on this grand adventure. We waved good-bye to our house, got into the brand new Chevy Bel Air and headed west.
My mother had been planning this trip for some time. It was a dream of my father's to move to California, most likely to get away from his parents. That they were overbearing is an understatement. He, however, remained behind in a Chicago cemetery. I have only been back to the cemetery three times, two of them when my grandparents were buried.
It was my brother's health that made this move necessary. It was getting increasingly harder for him to get around, especially in the winter. He still walked with crutches then, and leg braces, remnants of his bout with polio. My mother felt the California climate would be more beneficial for him. I wasn't too upset about leaving Chicago. I had not been happy at the school I attended, and didn't have any friends. Things had to be better in California.
Our first stop was Rock Island. We had relatives there and stayed the night. Well, actually, we had relatives almost everywhere. I was the navigator and controlled the AAA Trip-tik. Maybe that is where my love of maps started. I remember we crossed over into Iowa, cheered at being on our way, and suddenly we were back in Illinois. My brother and I thought that was a sign we should go back to Chicago, but my mother didn't and we were on our way to Hannibal, Missouri. Home of Mark Twain and Tom Sawyer.
This was a leisurely trip across the country. It took three weeks, as I recall. We did all the touristy things. My mother stopped at probably every gift shop along the way. My brother and I never got tired of looking at all the junk. I don't remember my mother buying us very much, though. She didn't have any extra money.
The next stop I remember is Oklahoma City. We drove past the state capitol building, and laughed at the oil wells on the grounds. Since we weren't in a hurry to get to Los Angeles, my mother wanted to stop and visit some cousins in Dallas.
We spent a week in Dallas. These people were well off compared to us. The dad ran an optical factory. My other cousin there was an ophthalmologist. I had always wanted glasses. My brother wore glasses, so I wanted some. My mother arranged to have my eyes checked by the one cousin. I fudged on the eye exam, so that I would need glasses. I needed them all right. I picked out some frames I liked. They were brown, to compliment my eyes, and went out to a point at the end of my face. There were little rhinestones on them. They were just the thing for starting my new school in Los Angeles. Only problem was, I did such a good job of faking the eye exam, they were bifocals!!! With lines. And even if they hadn't, I still wouldn't have been able to see with them. I had perfect vision back then. I was more than a little disappointed.
To make the trip more of a learning experience, our next stop was El Paso. We were going to Mexico. Juarez wasn't much and we stayed for just a few hours. I remember my mother worrying about the car with many of our possessions inside. We all felt great relief to cross back into the States.
To pass the time on the long drives, we sang. Sometimes to the radio, but mostly, we made up songs. We made up a million verses to the I Wish I was an Oscar Meyer wiener song. We laughed a lot, and it made the time pass quickly. We stopped most every day by 3, so we could go swimming. I think now, it was more because my mother was tired. She was so courageous to do what she did, although I didn't realize it at the time.
Next was Phoenix where we again stayed with cousins. It was to these cousins my mother had decided I should give my Barbie stuff to, being that I was 12, and all grown up and the youngest girl in their family was 6. I had already given some of my favorite books to my cousins back in Chicago , as well as my prized Elsie the Cow. I did as I was told though, and said good-bye to several Barbies, Midge, Ken, my dream house and dozens of outfits. Later, when I would get angry with my mother, I would always bring up the fact she made me give all that away.
We left from there very early in the morning, since the drive was across the desert. Finally, we arrived in California. They stopped you at the border back then to make sure you weren't bringing in any plants, fruits or vegetables. Most likely we sang, California, Here we come. We stayed at a motel in Hollywood the first night. My mother asked us, which we would rather do the next day, look for an apartment, or go to Disneyland. I don't need to tell you what we shouted. We switched motels to a more modest one in the Valley, and soon found an apartment.
Our new life had started. While we didn't go directly on Route 66, we did follow the basic route and ended up in California. I started junior high school and made a lot of new friends. My brother had to go to the hospital for something, and his hip was broken, and he never walked again. Maybe my mother should have heeded our warning to go back to Chicago.
© 19 April, 1997Now that school is out, I am trying to keep my kids more active. Lowell would be totally content to sit in front of the tv set all day. He is limited to two hours a day. And Evelyn would lie on her bed, and talk on the phone. Greg would go off with his friends and do who knows what.
There is a park near our house that has a walking path, just over 2 miles long. Much to everyone's surprise, including mine, bright and early the first Monday of vacation, I woke the kids up. Get dressed, I told them. Where are we going?? To Bredesen Park, to walk, I answered, getting the groans I expected.
It was early that morning. Maybe 9 am. I even let Greg drive there. We started off at a brisk clip. I had a song in my head, and kept singing it to myself as I walked. The trees are all green and leafy now. You could hear the birds singing, and the insects buzzing. For a while, my kids stopped fighting. I would point out things of interest to them. The woodpecker holes in the birch trees. I still want to know how a wood duck can fit into one of those little houses.
The path turned so we were walking along Vernon Avenue. We drive this street several times daily and would see the people walking and biking. Now we were those people. There is a certain etiquette one must follow while walking. Everyone nods in greeting to everyone else. It is as though we are all members of the same club. There were old ladies, walking at a leisurely pace. Women my age in pairs, chattering away in their fancy exercise clothes. A lone old man who passed us by, waving his arms in the air. People walking their dogs. The bicyclists are on a separate path.
Soon we were walking east, and Highway 62 is to our right. You have to shut those noises out. Focus on the way the shade falls on the path, through the leaves. Watch a cardinal fly from branch to branch. There is a creek that runs through the park, and you can hear the frogs croaking. Forty five minutes later, and a much slower pace, we reached the car. The day was still ahead of us, but we had done something that was both good for us and fun, in a way.
Wednesday we walked again. Tuesday Greg had an early orthodontist appointment, and Evelyn went off with her friends. When Greg went to work that night, Lowell and I went swimming. I didn't want to tell them my legs were a bit sore. We started later on Wednesday. It had to be 10:30. This time I took a bottle of water, and just my driver's license. We started a bit slower, but the walk was the same. Fighting, nodding to the other walkers and the sense of accomplishment.
Today, I walked it alone. I left at 11 am. It was cooler today, so I didn't mind leaving later. I took along my walkman. The walk seemed much different today. While the Barenaked Ladies were singing in my head, I found I was better able to concentrate on the beauty of the park. I walked at a much brisker pace, singing the songs to myself. Maybe I am getting used to the walk, or maybe it was not having the kids with me. Or maybe it was walking to the tempo of the music. I watched the sky and the small wisps of clouds overhead as they changed shapes. Since it was quiet, I saw a chipmunk run across the path. I danced-walked to the different songs. I didn't hear the traffic, but I didn't hear the birds singing either. I still nodded to the walkers.
When I got back to the car, I took off the walkman. Immediately, the other song popped back into my head. The one I usually think of when I walk. The one I play over and over again in the car. I was able to lose myself in my private thoughts. I think I prefer walking without the walkman, so my thoughts are freer to wander where I want them.
©14 June, 1997Even here in Minnesota, spring finally comes and then summer. It is mid April now, and the grass is still brown, there are no leaves on the trees, and not a spot of color from a single flower. Yet, soon it will be Memorial Day, and then the pool will open for the season.
I stand in line with the other kids, waiting to dive off the diving board. I am not embarrassed, even though I am far from a size four. I am usually the only adult in the pool. Unless there is an occasional dad. At the Country Club, mothers do not go swimming. They sit by the pool and talk. Something I find totally ridiculous. I love to swim, but I hate the Country Club. So I tolerate it, tolerate the people and bring my children to swim each summer day.
We have found the best time to go to the pool is late afternoon. Most of the mothers have left with their whiny children,. The sun is not as damaging to your skin. There are only a handful of people in the pool, so we are able to play and swim without having a kid kick us or a ball hit one of us on the head. My youngest has finally gotten over his fear of the deep end, so all he does is jump off the diving board. I suppose we put on quite a show for the members eating on the Veranda, which is screened and overlooks the pool.
One of my least favorite women is the chinless woman as we call her. I do not know her, but for some reason, she seems to embody all I find repulsive in such clubs. She struts around like she owns the place. Her children run wild and unsupervised. She parades around in her swimsuit, which never gets wet. She has no figure.... she is flatchested and has no hips. She seems to know everyone. She fits in and I don't. Then again, I don't want to. Not anymore.
Last summer we didn't spend that much time at the pool. Greg was uncomfortable. Everyone stared at his back, with the giant red scar running down it. He was never a good swimmer, and having only one arm to use didn't make it any easier. He preferred to go and hit some golf balls. Evelyn is the only one who loves the water as much as me. We swim together, laugh, and make fun of everyone else.
It's now my turn to dive. I go the edge, and into the water I plunge, swimming the length of the pool underwater. The water feels wonderfully refreshing on a hot summer's day. I ignore my surroundings and enjoy being with my children and the time we have together.
©16 April, 1997There are more stories I have written to read. Please remember these are my original stories and thoughts, and to copy or otherwise use them without my permission is a copyright violation. I would love to hear your random thoughts on any of these stories.