I once singlehandedly saved a chocolate cheesecake from near certain annihilation and senseless waste.
One summer morning I awoke to find the blasted fridge had given out at last, and in so doing it pushed some of my biggest OCD buttons - wasted food, wasted money, bacteria. The milk was warm, the cheese greasy, the eggs near hatching. I wrenched open the freezer to find all our frozen meat bleeding next to a very rich, very expensive Godiva Cheesecake.
I began to pull out tufts of hair. What to do? How could I salvage any of it? Beg the neighbors to babysit our perishables for a few days? Start cooking the meat on sticks over a bonfire in the backyard and invite the community for a caveman-like meet and greet? Hand out eggs and chicken breasts to passing motorists with a friendly admonishment, "You cook that real soon, you hear?"
No, none of that was practical. I was going to have to make some hard decisions. Very little could be salvaged, but it would have to happen quickly. A braver, better woman would have started cooking up meat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, throwing in the wilting veggies from the crisper, but it's been established already that I have no love of cooking. I especially detest doing it under abnormal pressure. And I FEAR germs. No, some of the meat would have to go - preferably to the curb where I couldn't smell it. The eggs were also a tragic loss; they had had enough time to incubate some righteous salmonella, I was sure. The milk we'd try to choke back, perhaps. And the veggies would be alright.
But there was something else, the most expensive thing residing in that fridge and the one that least deserved such a tragedy. I had to save it from the garbage, a fate worse than consumption, by consuming it - with relish.
The Godiva Cheesecake.
I had my doubts about whether one woman could do it alone. The most I had ever eaten at one sitting was two-thirds of a slice, but this was a moment to separate the sweet-lover from the die-hard chocolate addict. It wasn't a whole cheesecake, a few slices had been shared with my sister Vinca and my brother-in-law, but there was enough of it to make me simultaneously salivate and sweat at the prospect. I dug in, stressed out and frustrated....which is exactly as it should be when you reach for that chocolate fix.
Forkful after forkful - delicious! Yet I was grimly spooning it down the hatch as if someone had bet a thousand bucks I couldn't put 10 pounds on my hips in one day. I had never in my life encountered such an excellent excuse for indulging my chocolate demon.
Though I tried valiantly, alas! I couldn't finish the cheesecake. I threw out the remainder with the rest of the bad food. That night my husband brought home fresh milk and ice for the cooler.
But when I opened the fridge the next morning, something was fishy. The temperature dials were both turned to off. Could it be? Was it all for naught? I called my (then) preschooler.
"Berto! Come here now. Did you play with these dials a couple days ago? Before the fridge gave out?"
I pointed them out to my little guy, the little guy who loved to get in the fridge and leave the door ajar. Sheepishly he answered, "Yeesss..."
My now broader thighs seemed to be jiggling with laughter, mocking me. I could have salvaged the food simply by investigating the most obvious. The cheesecake would have survived to see another day...or four or five, savored properly with coffee and my Man for company. With a mix of relief and perturbation, I turned the dials back and soon the refrigerator was humming as I made an extensive grocery list. We didn't need a new fridge, after all. But we would need more chocolate. We were fresh out.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Matthew, not Gerald (how I traded a dream for my dreamboat)
I went to my ninth-grade prom for the food. Yes, I did. No surprise that I went stag, though it is a bit ironic considering I'm a girl.
Anyway, I got there expecting fancy fixings and was hugely disappointed with the trays of store-bought sandwich cookies, crackers and cheese. Pathetic. I was so discouraged by the offerings that when a boy actually asked me to dance, I replied grumpily, "Isn't that your girlfriend over there? Why don't you dance with her?"
My parents later asked how I enjoyed the dance. I responded with a tirade about the poor buffet. They laughed. So many times in my childhood they laughed...with me, of course; I was a merry child.
You see, as a teenager when I got only measly professions of so-so admiration while boys groveled at my sisters' feet, I was fine with it, because I was sure I would someday marry my perfect man. I wasn't thinking so much about good looks, adventure or stability. I was thinking about food and the avoidance of a certain kind of labor. For the perfect man for me, I was certain, was a French Chef named Gerald, or Gerard.
Why a French Chef named Gerald? Well...
Chef - because I needed to eat decently, something which I've always loved to do
French - well, aren't they the best? Why eat simply decent when you can eat extravagantly? Cheers!
Gerald - there's no good reason
As a child I was never at my mother's elbow learning how to cook. I was, however, at her elbow to ask when food would be ready, to snag a pinch of pastry dough, swipe some noodles, or to purloin a spoonful of pancake batter.
My sisters told me that I had the appetite of a horse, and I don't think they meant it as a compliment. It would have been practical, burdened with such a love of food, to want to learn the art of cooking. And I should have. My only excuse is that our kitchen was always so hot, and it seemed to be a place where by-standers were expected to work at preparing food or cleaning dishes.
I did eventually discover that I could make chocolate chip cookies - my one culinary skill. If push came to shove, I could subsist on cookies, canned Bean w/ Bacon soup and green beans, and bananas until I met Chef Gerald.
Then when I was twenty, I bungled the dream. I fell in love with a handsome business professional named Matthew, and he firmly believed in the adage Give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, he'll eat for a lifetime. So he prepared his mom's spaghetti for me one evening; then he gave me the recipe. We got married and lived happily ever after a few months later.
Except....
six days a week for that first year of marital bliss we dined on microwaved potatoes, Tuna Helper and frozen pizza. On the seventh day we ate spaghetti and chocolate chip cookies.
Now almost thirteen years on in our union, things aren't that bad in the sustenance department. We eat plenty of fruits and vegetables, raw fruits and vegetables. When we feel creative we steam them (not the fruit). I have learned I can work a bit of magic with most things that require batter. Life would be easy if supper could be whipped up every night and poured into a mold, or if it could be breakfast fare - pancakes, biscuits, waffles, eggs. I can happily make breakfast for dinner every day, but I have to exercise caution in my zeal. Every once in a while, I see the look in my Man's eyes, hear the panicked cry of, "Hold the breakfast! Please!"
It's just too bad that I was never at my mother's elbow, that I never learned to be a martyr of meal-planning. I preferred to be out running in nature, writing mysteries with a eye-patch-wearing-girl-detective, or even cleaning dishes to the tiresome business of putting two savory ingredients together. That's why this past Valentine's Day, the options for dinner were waffles, spaghetti or pizza. We ate pizza (for the memories, of course).
Yes, cooking should be a labor of love, and how I love my Man and my kids!
But every now and then - once or twice a day - I do wish I had a very altruistic cooking friend, Chef Gerald, in my life.
Anyway, I got there expecting fancy fixings and was hugely disappointed with the trays of store-bought sandwich cookies, crackers and cheese. Pathetic. I was so discouraged by the offerings that when a boy actually asked me to dance, I replied grumpily, "Isn't that your girlfriend over there? Why don't you dance with her?"
My parents later asked how I enjoyed the dance. I responded with a tirade about the poor buffet. They laughed. So many times in my childhood they laughed...with me, of course; I was a merry child.
You see, as a teenager when I got only measly professions of so-so admiration while boys groveled at my sisters' feet, I was fine with it, because I was sure I would someday marry my perfect man. I wasn't thinking so much about good looks, adventure or stability. I was thinking about food and the avoidance of a certain kind of labor. For the perfect man for me, I was certain, was a French Chef named Gerald, or Gerard.
Why a French Chef named Gerald? Well...
Chef - because I needed to eat decently, something which I've always loved to do
French - well, aren't they the best? Why eat simply decent when you can eat extravagantly? Cheers!
Gerald - there's no good reason
As a child I was never at my mother's elbow learning how to cook. I was, however, at her elbow to ask when food would be ready, to snag a pinch of pastry dough, swipe some noodles, or to purloin a spoonful of pancake batter.
My sisters told me that I had the appetite of a horse, and I don't think they meant it as a compliment. It would have been practical, burdened with such a love of food, to want to learn the art of cooking. And I should have. My only excuse is that our kitchen was always so hot, and it seemed to be a place where by-standers were expected to work at preparing food or cleaning dishes.
I did eventually discover that I could make chocolate chip cookies - my one culinary skill. If push came to shove, I could subsist on cookies, canned Bean w/ Bacon soup and green beans, and bananas until I met Chef Gerald.
Then when I was twenty, I bungled the dream. I fell in love with a handsome business professional named Matthew, and he firmly believed in the adage Give a man a fish, he'll eat for a day; teach a man to fish, he'll eat for a lifetime. So he prepared his mom's spaghetti for me one evening; then he gave me the recipe. We got married and lived happily ever after a few months later.
Except....
six days a week for that first year of marital bliss we dined on microwaved potatoes, Tuna Helper and frozen pizza. On the seventh day we ate spaghetti and chocolate chip cookies.
Now almost thirteen years on in our union, things aren't that bad in the sustenance department. We eat plenty of fruits and vegetables, raw fruits and vegetables. When we feel creative we steam them (not the fruit). I have learned I can work a bit of magic with most things that require batter. Life would be easy if supper could be whipped up every night and poured into a mold, or if it could be breakfast fare - pancakes, biscuits, waffles, eggs. I can happily make breakfast for dinner every day, but I have to exercise caution in my zeal. Every once in a while, I see the look in my Man's eyes, hear the panicked cry of, "Hold the breakfast! Please!"
It's just too bad that I was never at my mother's elbow, that I never learned to be a martyr of meal-planning. I preferred to be out running in nature, writing mysteries with a eye-patch-wearing-girl-detective, or even cleaning dishes to the tiresome business of putting two savory ingredients together. That's why this past Valentine's Day, the options for dinner were waffles, spaghetti or pizza. We ate pizza (for the memories, of course).
Yes, cooking should be a labor of love, and how I love my Man and my kids!
But every now and then - once or twice a day - I do wish I had a very altruistic cooking friend, Chef Gerald, in my life.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Hobo Potatoes
I remember the potatoes and the woods and the time with my family. The smaller details? I get creative, though I do in fact recall some of the words we spoke.
One evening of my childhood, my family headed across the cornfield to the woods behind our home carrying a sack of potatoes and a large tin coffee can. Dad had matches in his pocket and old paper in hand. Reuben and Mandy, our dogs, trotted by his side.
We entered the woods by a worn path, rustling through the underbrush and crisp leaves in single file, As we journeyed to a small clearing, the sun’s fingertips still brushed the western horizon with a golden-red, fiery hue. We gathered some logs to use as benches around a stone fire pit, built a year or two before. Then Dad started a blaze. Small twigs were added as the flames grew.
The large coffee tin was placed in the middle of our fire. On this went the potatoes for our supper, wrapped in foil and one for each of us.
The last light vanished from the woods, and the glow from the fire spread as twilight descended, enveloping the little clearing. I trembled slightly, but not just from the sudden chill. The woods were eerie in the dark and every little bit there was a rustling of leaves by some living thing on the forest floor. For many minutes our family was silent. Then, as was common with us, we began conversing about our dreams for the future as the fire writhed around the coffee can and cooked our hobo potatoes.
“If I ever make it in this music business…” said Dad, but he was interrupted by some thought of his own and digested it for a bit before continuing, “If I ever make it, what would you guys want from our life here?”
Unanimously, we agreed we would buy that land from Mr. Warf with its fields and woods and lovely cold creek; Dad wanted to build a house on the big hill in the field someday. We talked of helping other people, too - especially at Christmas, but I don’t remember anything else my family said except for my brother’s wish. At the time he was eight, I believe.
“I want a car bed,” he said. “Like a race car bed. Billy had one.”
That may seem funny, but I suppose we all know what it is to be a child and think, I wish I could have that kitchen set Mary has or that big boy bike my friend John just got. The desire does not go away after we’ve outgrown the object we so long for, because we don’t get the chance to outgrow the desire, and we would outgrow it, of course, if our wish were granted.
But my parents listened like friends do and asked what color it would be. Red was the answer. After this there was a small silence that thrilled my little person as I sat facing the fire with my back to the dark forest, turning my head to each side every so often to check for spooks. Then our conversation began to wander like the breeze in the faded leaves of the trees, and Dad told us stories, making them up as he spoke.
When our hobo potatoes were finally cooked, Mom pulled out margarine, salt, pepper, paper plates and a can of pork n’ beans. We sat in the glow of the dying embers, the breeze cooling our potatoes for us, and ate our supper. Our dogs lay by, head on paws or lifted, ears moving in response to the occasional noise among the trees.
When Dad finally extinguished the fire completely and led the way from the woods, it seemed like ages past dark. We crossed the field for home and for bedtime, summer’s cornstalks crunching beneath our feet.
That sylvan autumn supper is something I’ve never forgotten. Maybe we did it once, or maybe it was tradition. Either way, it was my dad’s idea. He often came up with such things. Hobo potatoes and a warm fire in the woods are his inspiration, always having been a man of nature - a woodsman - at heart.
One evening of my childhood, my family headed across the cornfield to the woods behind our home carrying a sack of potatoes and a large tin coffee can. Dad had matches in his pocket and old paper in hand. Reuben and Mandy, our dogs, trotted by his side.
We entered the woods by a worn path, rustling through the underbrush and crisp leaves in single file, As we journeyed to a small clearing, the sun’s fingertips still brushed the western horizon with a golden-red, fiery hue. We gathered some logs to use as benches around a stone fire pit, built a year or two before. Then Dad started a blaze. Small twigs were added as the flames grew.
The large coffee tin was placed in the middle of our fire. On this went the potatoes for our supper, wrapped in foil and one for each of us.
The last light vanished from the woods, and the glow from the fire spread as twilight descended, enveloping the little clearing. I trembled slightly, but not just from the sudden chill. The woods were eerie in the dark and every little bit there was a rustling of leaves by some living thing on the forest floor. For many minutes our family was silent. Then, as was common with us, we began conversing about our dreams for the future as the fire writhed around the coffee can and cooked our hobo potatoes.
“If I ever make it in this music business…” said Dad, but he was interrupted by some thought of his own and digested it for a bit before continuing, “If I ever make it, what would you guys want from our life here?”
Unanimously, we agreed we would buy that land from Mr. Warf with its fields and woods and lovely cold creek; Dad wanted to build a house on the big hill in the field someday. We talked of helping other people, too - especially at Christmas, but I don’t remember anything else my family said except for my brother’s wish. At the time he was eight, I believe.
“I want a car bed,” he said. “Like a race car bed. Billy had one.”
That may seem funny, but I suppose we all know what it is to be a child and think, I wish I could have that kitchen set Mary has or that big boy bike my friend John just got. The desire does not go away after we’ve outgrown the object we so long for, because we don’t get the chance to outgrow the desire, and we would outgrow it, of course, if our wish were granted.
But my parents listened like friends do and asked what color it would be. Red was the answer. After this there was a small silence that thrilled my little person as I sat facing the fire with my back to the dark forest, turning my head to each side every so often to check for spooks. Then our conversation began to wander like the breeze in the faded leaves of the trees, and Dad told us stories, making them up as he spoke.
When our hobo potatoes were finally cooked, Mom pulled out margarine, salt, pepper, paper plates and a can of pork n’ beans. We sat in the glow of the dying embers, the breeze cooling our potatoes for us, and ate our supper. Our dogs lay by, head on paws or lifted, ears moving in response to the occasional noise among the trees.
When Dad finally extinguished the fire completely and led the way from the woods, it seemed like ages past dark. We crossed the field for home and for bedtime, summer’s cornstalks crunching beneath our feet.
That sylvan autumn supper is something I’ve never forgotten. Maybe we did it once, or maybe it was tradition. Either way, it was my dad’s idea. He often came up with such things. Hobo potatoes and a warm fire in the woods are his inspiration, always having been a man of nature - a woodsman - at heart.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Short, mostly unedited: Morbid Thoughts
I used my horn this morning. I had to blast it, palm flattened in panic. It was the only way to prevent a large blue truck from impelling me off the road like a scene from some spy movie.
My husband has no problem laying on the horn. I wish I were more like him. I wish I didn't hesitate in so many things.
Because I see a dozen wrecks every day. I gasp. I take deep shuddering breaths that rake my ribs, reminding me of the injuries from my own accident.
The accidents happen only in my mind's eye; by some miracle they don't transpire in reality. This doesn't change the fact that drivers routinely take ridiculous chances.
I know I'm more skittish since our accident. Driving at night I am tense the whole way to my destination. During the day I am distrustful of other drivers, my eyes darting back and forth. I speed up; I go too slow - always in an attempt to avoid a collision. My husband has warned me I'm going to cause one by being overly defensive.
I've had two close ones since that bad day in September. Once a driver whipped out of nowhere in front of me in a parking lot, inches were all that left before the grind of auto on auto. I pulled into a parking space; my legs trembled.
"What happened? What happened?" I asked my son. "Did you see where he came from?"
I had looked, honestly. Really.
And then this morning on the way to school as I cried out to that big intimidating truck that tried to zip across two lanes from the merge lane, "Dear God, don't hit me! Don't hit me..." and the blare of horn. He was crossing my line, and I was going into the shoulder when he righted himself. The trembling didn't subside until I'd sat a while in the parking lot of my daughter's preschool.
It's a strange side effect of the car wreck that I'm now terrified of large trucks. I can picture one t-boning us, the grill impacting my window at eye level, looking annihilation in the face. Monstrous trucks with high cabs and enormous wheels are popular in this country; they're everywhere, and I don't see one without contemplating the damage they could do to smaller, lower vehicles. It terrifies me.
Someone could ask me why I'm not scared of motorcycles? I'm not. I confess the noise of them does bring flashbacks sometimes, but usually when I see motorcycles I just feel very sad. I mourn the death of the man who hit me in late September, still troubled by the circumstances. And when I see a rider that has no helmet, I steam over the foolishness. I read a November interview with a police officer in which he stated that when head meets pavement, pavement wins - every single time. Please wear helmets, for the love of yourself. Increase your odds.
Yes, I'm a big baby, but I suppose it's natural to contemplate your mortality after a close call. And shall I share one of my biggest new worries? I worry that if something suddenly happens to me, my kids will read this blog as a way to remain connected to their mother and that they will think I had favorites, speculate that I did not love them equally. That thought is truly terrifying, the idea that my kids would be saddled forever with an impression of my love based on the whim of my words, the chance of my topic choices, the coincidence that I mentioned one of my children by name more than another.
So I'll say it, punching out the words in desperate sincerity: I love my children equally. I adore them. I have no favorites.
My husband has no problem laying on the horn. I wish I were more like him. I wish I didn't hesitate in so many things.
Because I see a dozen wrecks every day. I gasp. I take deep shuddering breaths that rake my ribs, reminding me of the injuries from my own accident.
The accidents happen only in my mind's eye; by some miracle they don't transpire in reality. This doesn't change the fact that drivers routinely take ridiculous chances.
I know I'm more skittish since our accident. Driving at night I am tense the whole way to my destination. During the day I am distrustful of other drivers, my eyes darting back and forth. I speed up; I go too slow - always in an attempt to avoid a collision. My husband has warned me I'm going to cause one by being overly defensive.
I've had two close ones since that bad day in September. Once a driver whipped out of nowhere in front of me in a parking lot, inches were all that left before the grind of auto on auto. I pulled into a parking space; my legs trembled.
"What happened? What happened?" I asked my son. "Did you see where he came from?"
I had looked, honestly. Really.
And then this morning on the way to school as I cried out to that big intimidating truck that tried to zip across two lanes from the merge lane, "Dear God, don't hit me! Don't hit me..." and the blare of horn. He was crossing my line, and I was going into the shoulder when he righted himself. The trembling didn't subside until I'd sat a while in the parking lot of my daughter's preschool.
It's a strange side effect of the car wreck that I'm now terrified of large trucks. I can picture one t-boning us, the grill impacting my window at eye level, looking annihilation in the face. Monstrous trucks with high cabs and enormous wheels are popular in this country; they're everywhere, and I don't see one without contemplating the damage they could do to smaller, lower vehicles. It terrifies me.
Someone could ask me why I'm not scared of motorcycles? I'm not. I confess the noise of them does bring flashbacks sometimes, but usually when I see motorcycles I just feel very sad. I mourn the death of the man who hit me in late September, still troubled by the circumstances. And when I see a rider that has no helmet, I steam over the foolishness. I read a November interview with a police officer in which he stated that when head meets pavement, pavement wins - every single time. Please wear helmets, for the love of yourself. Increase your odds.
Yes, I'm a big baby, but I suppose it's natural to contemplate your mortality after a close call. And shall I share one of my biggest new worries? I worry that if something suddenly happens to me, my kids will read this blog as a way to remain connected to their mother and that they will think I had favorites, speculate that I did not love them equally. That thought is truly terrifying, the idea that my kids would be saddled forever with an impression of my love based on the whim of my words, the chance of my topic choices, the coincidence that I mentioned one of my children by name more than another.
So I'll say it, punching out the words in desperate sincerity: I love my children equally. I adore them. I have no favorites.
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Revenge and Beckham
This was published last year. I took it down a few days after, but now I'm picking it up and shoving it out my door into the cold world again. I'm too lazy to write today. Plus, honestly, I want to watch the big game, crow over this year's commercials (just a little), and then settle down to Downton Abbey. Please note that my husband didn't not deserve my childish gloating a year ago; he doesn't deserve it today (so I pray I can restrain myself), and that I have much room for improvement if I wish to achieve saintly silence, forbearance and contemplation by ninety.
This post is not in the interest of Christian charity. One should strive for that, but I'm afraid I have been very tempted to take a nasty little Rumpelstiltskinesque turn in the road in order to prance around a fire in supercilious joy. Of course you always gets burned that way, find yourself rolling back and forth frantically in the grass to put out the flames, and in the end someone always gets your card, your number...your name.
Believe it or not, this post is about Super Bowl commercials - what I knew they would be like, what they turned out to be, and one which I gloated over like some stringy-haired witch brewing a virulent concoction for a dear friend/enemy.
I was home alone with my youngest for the Super Bowl. The rest of our family was over at a friend's house enjoying the Big Game. I had a fever, and I wanted my littlest one to go to bed at a decent time, so we kept the Sunday routine until I finally turned on the television - not to watch the game really, but to hear the pleasant noise of it droning in the background. I'm not passionate about football, but I do love the backdrop of it to any given Sunday.
And then there were the commercials, too. I had forgotten about them, and I sat up and paid attention at every intermission. There was everything I expected - humor, bimbos, cute animals (loved the VW one where the dog loses weight), celebrities, beer and babies. I could have done without the bimbos in bikinis jumping in bleachers and the bimbos body painting other bimbos. Second to those, I would be fine never seeing another Coca-Cola polar bear again.
But there was one that grabbed my attention. I stood up; I stared in amazement; I threw back my head and laughed (and laughed and laughed). I noted its long length merrily, thinking to myself, Our time has come at last, and when it ended, I said aloud and merrily, "Revenge!" with fists in the air.
When my husband came home from work the next day, I asked casually, "Do you want me to buy you some H&M underwear?"
He chuckled and replied, "No."
So then I asked what the men at our friends' party had said when the H&M commercial came on. To which Matthew replied that one of the guys had said, "I gotta get me a pair of those!"
Then I said (and no doubt there was an evil glint in my eye as I spoke), "You know what I thought? Revenge! Sweet, sweet revenge!"
Matthew laughed, but I don't think he was really pleased. Still, in my defense, indeed it was pay back. For every giggling, half-clad dopey female who acted as male consumer bait; for every tacky commercial where pretty women behaved like fools (and reflected badly on the more intelligent and ethical of our sex) to entice men; for every time women across America stared at a TV trying not to contemplate what their husbands or significant others were thinking about the sexually-suggestive posing and prancing about of supermodels on screen, the David Beckham commercial was indeed revenge.
Just a man in his underwear. Posturing, posing, preening. Prostituting himself to the public eye.
Do I think men were made uncomfortable by it - wondering what their wife was thinking while they tried not to look down at their own out-of-shape abs? No. Honestly, men are a different breed, and I have yet to figure them out. Maybe they know that looks are not equally important to us.
And, of course, in pointing that out is where I finally offended my husband when trying to explain intelligently why the Beckham commercial was such a Super Bowl breakthrough (whereupon he pointed out it was not very intelligent or mature to cry, "Revenge! Sweet Revenge!").
"Nice to know," he said icily. "That you're not with us for our looks or our bodies."
Have you ever seen a woman try to dig herself out of a metaphorical hole with her metaphorical pitchfork and witches' broom still in hand? It's tough going. I tried valiantly while laughing nervously and straining my eyes to keep them from blinking as I looked at My Man's face. I love my husband's body and handsome face. But I'm still not sure he doesn't think I have ulterior motives for praising the Beckham commercial, which is unfortunate, because I could care less about Mr. Fancy Underpants Beckham.
But here's hope for all of us and likely the point I should have made early on: the most popular Super Bowl commercials were the more innocent and humorous ones like the Doritos baby in the sling. Cheap sex sells, but perhaps it doesn't sell well. That's good news for our kids if it means there'll be less of it. Sorry, Beckham.
And now I vow that if I can't be quiet, I'll shut up.
This post is not in the interest of Christian charity. One should strive for that, but I'm afraid I have been very tempted to take a nasty little Rumpelstiltskinesque turn in the road in order to prance around a fire in supercilious joy. Of course you always gets burned that way, find yourself rolling back and forth frantically in the grass to put out the flames, and in the end someone always gets your card, your number...your name.
Believe it or not, this post is about Super Bowl commercials - what I knew they would be like, what they turned out to be, and one which I gloated over like some stringy-haired witch brewing a virulent concoction for a dear friend/enemy.
I was home alone with my youngest for the Super Bowl. The rest of our family was over at a friend's house enjoying the Big Game. I had a fever, and I wanted my littlest one to go to bed at a decent time, so we kept the Sunday routine until I finally turned on the television - not to watch the game really, but to hear the pleasant noise of it droning in the background. I'm not passionate about football, but I do love the backdrop of it to any given Sunday.
And then there were the commercials, too. I had forgotten about them, and I sat up and paid attention at every intermission. There was everything I expected - humor, bimbos, cute animals (loved the VW one where the dog loses weight), celebrities, beer and babies. I could have done without the bimbos in bikinis jumping in bleachers and the bimbos body painting other bimbos. Second to those, I would be fine never seeing another Coca-Cola polar bear again.
But there was one that grabbed my attention. I stood up; I stared in amazement; I threw back my head and laughed (and laughed and laughed). I noted its long length merrily, thinking to myself, Our time has come at last, and when it ended, I said aloud and merrily, "Revenge!" with fists in the air.
When my husband came home from work the next day, I asked casually, "Do you want me to buy you some H&M underwear?"
He chuckled and replied, "No."
So then I asked what the men at our friends' party had said when the H&M commercial came on. To which Matthew replied that one of the guys had said, "I gotta get me a pair of those!"
Then I said (and no doubt there was an evil glint in my eye as I spoke), "You know what I thought? Revenge! Sweet, sweet revenge!"
Matthew laughed, but I don't think he was really pleased. Still, in my defense, indeed it was pay back. For every giggling, half-clad dopey female who acted as male consumer bait; for every tacky commercial where pretty women behaved like fools (and reflected badly on the more intelligent and ethical of our sex) to entice men; for every time women across America stared at a TV trying not to contemplate what their husbands or significant others were thinking about the sexually-suggestive posing and prancing about of supermodels on screen, the David Beckham commercial was indeed revenge.
Just a man in his underwear. Posturing, posing, preening. Prostituting himself to the public eye.
Do I think men were made uncomfortable by it - wondering what their wife was thinking while they tried not to look down at their own out-of-shape abs? No. Honestly, men are a different breed, and I have yet to figure them out. Maybe they know that looks are not equally important to us.
And, of course, in pointing that out is where I finally offended my husband when trying to explain intelligently why the Beckham commercial was such a Super Bowl breakthrough (whereupon he pointed out it was not very intelligent or mature to cry, "Revenge! Sweet Revenge!").
"Nice to know," he said icily. "That you're not with us for our looks or our bodies."
Have you ever seen a woman try to dig herself out of a metaphorical hole with her metaphorical pitchfork and witches' broom still in hand? It's tough going. I tried valiantly while laughing nervously and straining my eyes to keep them from blinking as I looked at My Man's face. I love my husband's body and handsome face. But I'm still not sure he doesn't think I have ulterior motives for praising the Beckham commercial, which is unfortunate, because I could care less about Mr. Fancy Underpants Beckham.
But here's hope for all of us and likely the point I should have made early on: the most popular Super Bowl commercials were the more innocent and humorous ones like the Doritos baby in the sling. Cheap sex sells, but perhaps it doesn't sell well. That's good news for our kids if it means there'll be less of it. Sorry, Beckham.
And now I vow that if I can't be quiet, I'll shut up.
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