The Beauty of it All

Coming and Going

Gross alert. While eating cereal this a.m., I suddenly had to pee in a coffee-is-a-diuretic-way. Time was running out for me to get my ass out the door and to work, so I took the bowl into the bathroom with me and kept eating while I was peeing. I was thinking that there must be a word for eating and peeing simultaneously or, better yet, drinking and peeing. Drincretion.

9/11

Walking the dogs in the last of the dusk light -- the time the French call "entre chien et loup," the time when you can't tell a dog from a wolf -- it's quiet and warm. The road winds around the hills and there are few street lights and no cars. The houses are dark except in the Boo Radley house. The big one on the corner with the roof always full of leaves and the curtains old fashioned and lacy. I hear nothing from the house except angry screams every once in a while. There are children in the yard sometimes on hot summer days, but they never seem to grow.
The stillness makes me nervous because it's September 11th. I rush to get the dogs inside and the door closed as the light disappears completely.

Waiting

Holding my breath...
getting blue in the face..
losing oxygen.
dead

Sunday Football

Chicken Charlie

Last night as my head was in the toilet and my guts were in the bowl, I thought maybe it was a sign that I shouldn't be in the kitchen preparing meals but should limit my visits to getting a cold Coke out of the fridge. It was the first time that I'd cooked for friends in a long time (and that was an accident involving a surprise visit). I hate cooking b/c I'm not good at it. There are lots of skills that I master, but cooking has never been one of them. Chef's are considered artists, but we're supposed to pick up a sauce pan and, with no training or calling, make meals.

The recipe is from "Summer Express: 101 Simple Meals Ready in 10 Minutes or Less," that was in the The New York Times. It's fried chicken strip sandwiches. Easy peasy. But cooking makes me nervous. I don't trust food and am terrified of raw chicken and I'm sure that everything is spoiled. How many fights have I had shoving a milk carton under my partner's nose saying, "Smell that. It's bad."

I had even practiced the meal on my parents over labor day. I called the dish "Chicken Charlie" b/c, while we prepared the sandwiches, my mom was telling a story of when she and my dad were looking for the Mickey Mantle sports bar in Boston. They came to the address on the Google map and my mother read the signature on the bar's sign as "Chicken Charlie" and asked my dad, "Why would they put another sports bar right here next to Mickey Mantle's?" She bought commemorative cups with Mickey's signature on them and asks everyone, "What does that say?"

"Mickey Mantle."

Chicken Charlie went fine at my folks', but that was with my mom handling the chicken, cutting out a nasty looking tendon from the strips that she says makes them tough. I just dredged the strips in flour and plopped them in hot oil. Even with a splash guard, I got smacked a lot. Between the sputtering oil and my "Ouching" and "Damning," it was loud food prep much like in a professional kitchen. I've seen cooking shows. So, I made the chicken sandwiches for friends last night. I tried to take the tendons out but, between touching the chicken and the dull knife I was using, I pocked my finger. It didn't break the skin and no blood was drawn but I was so freaked out about what COULD have happened that I fried them tendons and all.

Everything went well. Chicken Charlie was a hit.

Then, I woke in the night feeling queasy. I tried to open a box of Alka-Seltzer but it was too late. Hello toilet bowl. I was sure I'd killed our house guests that, hours earlier, were laughing and enjoying what little time they had left in life at my kitchen table.

My partner found me passed out this morning under the toilet bowl covered with bath towels, hand towels, small rugs and wash clothes. (I was cold. They were near by.) My partner called our dinner guests and they're fine. It turns out that I was right. Cooking makes me violently ill. Told you.

Flat as a Board

There's a shift that took place without any of us noticing. Every tv starlet and movie actress is with boobage (with the exception of Debra Messing who had a bigger ass than she did breasts so was considered flat chested, that is until she had a baby and she's probably full figured by now).

Watch the '80s nighttime soap opera Falcon Crest and every woman on the show is flat as a board. I mean no curves of any kind. That's what skinny girls look like. Stick with me, the Bio channel (we know it's Biography, and changing the moniker to Bio isn't going to attract the 18-35 year olds who, according to the suits, see the word "biography" and their minds turn off) is showing episodes of the mid-1980s sitcom Kate & Allie. Jane Curtin and Susan Saint James have nothin'. There as flat as their teenage daughters. My friend, B, says it's the hormones in the chicken, milk and cows we grew up eating. Are vegetarians the only women left with pale complexions and tiny tits? What happened in the last 20 years? Discuss.