Past Blogs

Pig

I was following a gigantic, smiling pig down the highway recently. Considering that pigs turn into pork chops and bacon, he was putting a good face on things.

The pig I’m referring to was painted onto the back of a Piggly Wiggly semi truck. He is one of a gaggle of creatures created by marketing geniuses. I sincerely hope I am mature enough to be shopping at Piggly Wiggly (I do) and buying gas at the Pig Stop (I do) for reasons other than my love for a cartoon character.

America is awash in these advertising personalities. My daughter collects them when they achieve the ultimate success… being converted into “rubber men” toys. Her kitchen shelves are filled with them, and I defy anyone to walk into her kitchen and not smile. Click here to view.

She started out with the fat boy with the pompadour and the checkered pants. That, of course, would be the ever smiling Big Boy. Last winter my husband and I discovered an actual, surviving Big Boy restaurant out in a small town in the middle of the California desert. Naturally, we left with the 2007 incarnation of the rubber boy.

Just think of how many of his friends you personally know – The Jolly Green Giant, Snap, Crackle and Pop, The Dough Boy, The Marshmallow Man, The Campbell Kids, Charlie The Tuna, Tony the Tiger and on and on!
I must confess that there is one rubber man I would love to have. Unfortunately, I must have champagne taste when it comes to rubber people. My guy commands big bucks even though he is only 6 inches tall. His name is Bibendum. He’s the roly-poly Michelin Man whose body is all made out of tires. I find his smile and exuberant energy delightful. Rumor has it that he writes a great dining guide, too.
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Clubs

Driving home from work, I recently heard a great piece on National Public Radio. Some comedians were discussing the old fashioned institutions known as supper clubs.

“Those are the places”, they said, “that take 14 heads of iceburg lettuce, cut them in half, toss them in a canoe and fill the canoe with ranch dressing. This is called ‘the salad bar’.”

I nearly drove off the road laughing. Many wonderful memories immediately surfaced. My husband and I were teenagers dating during the height of the supper club craze. The Black Angus was the classiest place in my hometown, The Blackjack in his.

In retrospect I can give a perfect description of that restaurant genre. A supper club was a place where the food was judged not on quality but weight; i.e., the 16 oz. prime rib, the 12 oz. porterhouse, the 14 oz. sirloin and the pound of crab legs. “Filet” always meant meat, and sour cream came in soup bowls. The omnipresent first course was onion soup hermetically sealed with a lid of cheese. Desserts veered toward schaum torte or a quarter of a cheesecake per person. Hot fudge sundaes were also popular endings.

Like many teenagers, we desperately wanted to be adults, so my future husband and I considered the intimate supper club meal to be the ultimate date. And, in a way, it truly was. The two of us were dressed up, dining alone for hours and conversing privately in an ambient setting.

Although surf and turf is no longer part of our lifestyle, the fundamental things still do apply.

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Buddy

I knew something was terribly wrong when I saw the front door.

A small 9x12 sign was posted on the entrance to my aunt’s assisted living home. The sign featured a photo of a happy dog and the message, “Please be careful when coming in and out of our building. We have a new house dog, Buddy. We don’t want him to get out. Thank you.”

I visit my aunt every month so I know that Buddy is Judy’s dog. Meeting Judy in her wheelchair with Buddy trotting along beside on his leash was always a lovely experience.

The lady at the front desk confirmed my fear; Judy had died unexpectedly. Then the receptionist told me to peer over the counter. Buddy was curled up asleep, beside her feet on the office floor.

My aunt filled me in on the rest of the story. Buddy was taken home by a family member, but he wasn’t doing well at all. He refused to eat or play.

Phone calls were made, and Buddy was invited back to his old, familiar home. Except now he doesn’t stay in one apartment; he has the run of the place and sixty-two happy residents who are thrilled to have him back.

I must report that one resident is not at all pleased with Buddy’s new status. Max, the longtime house cat, now has to share, a concept which is alien to felines. However, I did observe Max curled up in front of the fireplace, the choicest location. Apparently, Max will maintain his alpha status.

A slight panic did occur last week when Buddy went AWOL. A massive search was launched until Buddy was found. He had been visiting in one of the apartments, and the resident accidentally locked him in when she went on a casino field trip.

I searched for a year before I found this home for my aunt. She and I agree it is a truly caring place. To paraphrase Gandhi, a society can be judged on how it cares for its animals.

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Romance

Combining romance and reason is an oxymoron, thus making Valentines Day a celebration of irrationality. Bring it on!

Situated in the middle of a freezing, dreary month, Valentines Day is an explosion of warmth and joy. Standing for a half hour or so perusing a rack of Valentine’s cards is a therapeutic experience. Multiple hues of red and pink cheer the eyes, and the verses range from saccharine to risqué. Even the shape of a Valentine heart is plump, sensuous and satisfying.

The ancient Greeks and Romans didn’t use our heart symbol to represent love… they used an apple. When a guy tossed an apple to a girl it meant “Will you marry me?” If the girl fumbled the catch, it was curtains for that romance.

Fortunately, Valentines Day hasn’t been too corrupted by the consumer glut which overwhelms Christmas and Halloween. There is, after all, a limit on how many heart-shaped boxes of candy one can consume, how much perfume one can spray on and how many lacy undies one can wear.

So it’s time to break out the conversation hearts and tell the “apple of your eye” that your love will never die. Bring on the champagne, flowers and candlelight. How can there possibly be anything nicer than love to celebrate? We might even need another Valentines Day in the middle of March.

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Stupid

Stupid is an excellent word – so strong and succinct. Too bad it’s been banned from America’s classrooms.

All I have to do is say the word in the most appropriate context in just about any classroom I visit, and gasps of shock will come from the mouths of the babes. How could Mrs. Tooley be saying that forbidden, horrible word? Some kids even spontaneously shout out, “You can’t say that!”

Well, yes I can, and I will. Of course, I may not be asked back to the school, but I refuse to buckle under to the “use no brain” philosophy of political correctness.

Stupid is the perfect word to use in many situations. In my Arctic program I explain to children how the polar bear’s adaptations make it a sure-footed walker on ice. Then I add, “If we try running on ice, it would be a stupid thing to do.”

Those of you familiar with educational jargon know the P.C. term favored in this and a hundred other situations. You are supposed to say in hushed tones, “Are you sure you’re making a good choice?”

I believe in telling kids directly and bluntly that running on ice is stupid for humans with our feet shaped like small skis. Concise speech may actually have impact in a few of their brains. And I will be the first to admit to any room of young people that I have done a lot of stupid things in my life. The trick is to recognize those idiotic behaviors and stop repeating them.

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