Pass the Kung Pao Kugel

I'm in the midst of a potato brain famine. When Edy's Grand triple cookie fudge sundae ice cream is the only exciting development in my life worth writing about, I know I've hit some lean times. Luckily, my friends have recognized the warning signs of drought, and have been kind enough (or bored enough with my entries) to send me real life ideas from the news, hoping to give me some inspiration.

According to a Gallup poll, the happiest man in America is a Chinese-American Jew from Hawaii. Interesting. I of course wondered immediately whether Mr. Wong (doesn't sound Jewish!), who is sixty-five and appears to lead a rather unremarkable life, has more exciting things going on than the discovery of an orgasmic new ice cream variety. So I pored through the article, looking for hints as to what makes this man so extraordinarily content. I refuse to believe his happiness stems from his very ordinariness, his ability to live his days as your average "everyman" and still smile.

The happiness factors were subtle but compelling. First, the man lives in Hawaii. Duh. Nothing bad ever happens in Hawaii, except for the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and that mess was cleaned up long before Mr. Wong had his bris. As I sit in my kitchen watching the cold rain that just won't quit and fretting about the muddy dog prints on my floor, I long for a trip to Hawaii. I can recall marveling at the nice arrangement the island of Maui seemed to have with the weather gods. Sure, it rained constantly, but in the mountains, not where all the people lay soaking up the sunshine on the sparkling beaches. Who wouldn't be happy to spend his days in soothing dry and cloudless warmth while still being able to gaze at a full rainbow in the distance?

Then, there's Mr. Wong's impressive stature. He's Chinese and Jewish, yet he measures a full five foot ten, well above average height for his somewhat unusual dual heritage. Though my experience is purely anecdotal, I'm willing to bet he could eat peanuts off the heads of a good number of Jewish and Chinese men. To be sure, many men rely on penis length as the primary measure of their worth, but height is certainly up there in the top five (along with number of emails missed while taking a bathroom break and number of conference calls scheduled).

Let's face it, though. The root of Mr. Wong's happiness must indeed lie in his roots. The whole is generally greater than the sum of its parts, and how awesome must it be to be both Jewish and Chinese? Reportedly, he keeps kosher, but I think that just means he eats his stir fried chicken with a rabbinically blessed bird and without MSG. To be sure, there are no pork or seafood dishes for Mr. Wong, and his eggrolls are probably vegetarian, but that's a small price to pay for a culinary existence filled with matzoh balls and moo shu. This is a Jew for whom every day is Christmas; he can eat Chinese food any time, even when all the other restaurants are closed.

I'm going to try to take a page from Mr. Wong's book. My guess is he doesn't enjoy manic highs or suffer manic lows, and he probably doesn't sweat the small stuff. So, even though I feel duped, I will not file a complaint with the FDA regarding the misleading label on Edy's triple cookie fudge sundae ice cream, which claims the container I purchased held twelve servings. I counted only four.

Triple Cookie Fudge Sunday

I cancelled a date last night; I told the guy a friend's mom had died (true), and I had to pay a condolence call (sort of true). By the time I should have been sharing a cocktail with this poor unsuspecting soul who was certain he could make me laugh, I had already paid my condolence call and was contentedly in my sweats watching television and eating a fabulous new flavor of ice cream.

My rule of thumb is one polite excuse; when the guy keeps trying to get me to reschedule for every night this week, I lose interest in being nice. I'm too superstitious to claim things like friends' dying relatives unless there's some truth, and I figure even the most persistent guy will eventually get the hint. But Mr. "I can make you laugh" is relentless in trying to pen in a rain date. Shit.

Maybe I'm setting myself up for failure, but I've decided to set the bar pretty high for anyone seeking to drag me away from my ice cream and my couch for a date. I either have to roll on the floor laughing at something he says, or get one of those inexplicable little head to toe tingles when I look at his picture. The young studs tend to make me cringe rather than tingle, and the ones my age, well, let's just say I have yet to feel so much as a slight itch. Let's face it, if the picture -- presumably of the best face the guy can put forward -- makes my shoulders sag, the in person rendezvous is bound to be a crushing disappointment.

So back to the laughing angle. The self proclaimed comedian I cancelled on last night had offered only a murky picture of himself surrounded by several smiling women. I asked him what he had done to make them all look so happy. So many opportunities for a witty response, but he didn't take the bait. How can I help but be skeptical about his claim that he will make me laugh?

So ice cream and the couch it was, with a little laundry thrown in just so I could feel useful. And ice cream and the couch it will continue to be. A few more months of this and I'll be rolling on the floor, all right, but I doubt it'll be with laughter.

Why the Long Face?

Every once in a while I get a hit on the computer dating site I can't seem to quit no matter how hard I try. Ironic, I suppose. One site won't let me on, and one just won't let me off. Maybe it's meant to be, although I have yet to see any evidence that anyone close to "the one" exists in this particular cyber universe.

To protect my very fragile ego, I try to interpret all comments from potential suitors as complimentary, no matter how odd or ambiguous. Yesterday, some guy sent me an email saying "hmm, you look taller than five foot three." Hmm, I'm not sure what it was about my head shot that clued him in to my modest untruth about my height (on a good day, I'm five foot three and a half). But I decided he must have detected something sexy and lithe about my look, and it wasn't that I have a long, drawn, tired looking face which might suggest a long body to go with it. Self esteem is my middle name.

The good news about this winter is that it's helped my usually long face to puff out a bit. Every day, my cheek bones become more deeply immersed in cheeks made fleshy from cookies and kettle cooked chips. Honestly, I don't know how the Potato Heads managed to stick to their diets this season. The cold and dreariness has dragged on for what seems like forever, and I find myself munching on comfort snacks for hours every day just to pass the time. Even my sweats are starting to feel a bit snug. The good news is I'm not heading for a beach vacation this spring break, so I don't need to face the horrifying prospect of a bathing suit.

But it's March, and just as the temperatures will inevitably rise, my husband's anorexic botox queen attorney will inevitably not cancel a meeting one day, and lord knows when I meet her for the first time I don't want to look like a frump. I've gotten over the narcissist thing, but if she starts calling me a chubby narcissist, I might lose it. I'm going to start adding some physical activity to my daily routine, like dating. Get your minds out of the gutter folks; I am not talking about sex. I am talking about the great amounts of energy I will have to expend just showering, putting on make up, and squeezing my potato ass into jeans. My version of running a marathon.

I think I'll start with the guy who expects that my long face comes with a long body. Might as well push myself with an insurmountable challenge right off the bat. I'm not all that concerned with his reaction, having checked out his picture. Closer to court jester than prince of my dreams.

As the pounds melt away, I'll be able to add other, more rigorous, and far more satisfying forms of exercise, like shopping. Sure beats the crap out of dating.

Do These Pants Make Me Look Fat?

The strangest part of the article about the new 2011 Potato Heads was not that they have become slimmer, although to tell you the truth, I'm not sure the weight loss is all that noticeable. The most puzzling part was the report that child psychology experts are concerned that the new potato physique will put undue pressure on kids to be unrealistically thin.

Are ya kiddin me? The potatoes may have lost a centimeter or two around the belt line, but they've got a long way to go before they start to look more like string beans than spuds. Even so, Hasbro has tried to capitalize on the surprising weight loss by fitting Mr. P with his first pair of pants. Well it's about time; why is everyone all up in arms about a slightly healthier spud when nobody ever said a word about the fact that he's been an exhibitionist all these years. Nobody ever thought to fit him with a much needed trench coat. Where was Mrs. P every morning when the guy got half-dressed? (Not that she's any more modest.)

But back to the weight loss issue, and the potential negative effects it will have on our children, who will no doubt begin cutting down on oreos and television watching just to emulate the Potato Heads. If Barbie and G.I. Joe never had that effect, why would a slightly julienned potato lead to an anorexia epidemic? And what's so bad about cutting back on oreos and television watching.

Frankly, the psychologists should turn their attention to the frighteningly skinny mannequins that grown women are confronted with every day when they shop. In my yoga store, the fact that the legs and torsos of the mannequins are an inhuman looking white and have painful looking screws protruding from them does nothing to stop me from gazing at them with unadulterated envy. They slip into extra smalls in any style of form fitting pant, and somehow there's no redistribution of the pudgy parts. No muffin tops, and not a camel toe among them. Even without undergarments. So unfair.

There are mirrors all over the store, constant reminders of my imperfections as I gaze past my own reflection to the flab free mannequins striking impossible poses behind me. If they had faces, I'd punch them right between the eyes. And of course the bitches wouldn't even bruise.

But hurray for the more realistically slimmed down Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. They are by no means skinny, just a little bit healthier. Okay, the term "couch potato" might lose some of its punch, but kudos to the spudly couple for debunking the myth that carbs make you fat. Maybe people will even rediscover the joys of bread!

Personality Test Disorders

After spending an hour on line answering hundreds of questions about what makes me tick just so I could get a free peak at the eligible charmers awaiting me on a new dating site, all I got was a ten page personality profile. I've hit a new low; I wasn't just rejected by a date, I was rejected by the whole friggin site.

"We're very sorry, but we cannot provide our matching service to you at this time. Our matching service is intended for single people only." Mere seconds after I filled in the final circle of the seemingly endless battery of questions about my personality, that's the message that popped up on the screen of my laptop. In huge, bold letters. Instinctively, I jumped out of my seat (narrowly avoiding sending my panini flying across the room) and draped my body over the screen, lest one of the other ladies lunching at the Nordstrom Cafe see what a total loser was in their midst (as if that wasn't obvious -- I was the only lady lunching alone).

I'm such an idiot. I had considered the possibility that my answers in the Emotional Stability section would do me in, but it never occurred to me to lie about my marital status. Damn them for the trick question. Damn them for not telling me right away that "separated" was an incorrect response. I could have spent that hour doing something more constructive. Like playing solitaire.

Anyway, I was offered the ten page free personality profile, so I thought I'd check it out. Even an acutely self-aware person like me can benefit from a little scientific insight. My evaluation was broken down into five categories: Agreeableness, Openness, Emotional Stability, Conscientiousness, and Extroversion. The first thing I did was gather overwhelming evidence to forward to my husband's botox queen attorney that her sight unseen diagnosis of me as a narcissist was completely without merit. Right there, in the Agreeableness section, it said I am "empathetic and compassionate," even though I truly believe people should solve their own problems if they are able. Not a narcissistic bone in my body. Ha!

I skipped over the Openness section; for pete's sake, I write a daily blog and strip myself bare for all the world (the world being my universe of fifteen official followers and a few other anonymous fans) to see. It's a reality show without the live video, and trust me, nobody wants to see that! I'm willing to bet I scored pretty high on openness, although I did notice as I flipped past the section that, for people who like things to remain safe and familiar, my odd and wide open rants might cause some discomfort. Fuck 'em, I say. Let 'em squirm.

Much to my surprise and delight, despite what I thought were honest and therefore incriminating answers in the third section, I am, apparently, a paragon of emotional stability. I have "a rich emotional life;" okay, that's one way to look at it. I deal with whatever comes up in a manner which is "perceptive and flexible." I "seldom get in over my head" -- LOL -- and nowhere do the words "roller coaster" appear in my description. Here's my favorite: my outstanding coping mechanisms have turned me into "something of an emotional mentor!" Man, I'm good. I think I'm gonna have cards printed up.

I kind of liked the Conscientiousness section, because it put a nice spin on my inability to focus on anything for more than three seconds, and credited me with an admirable dose of spontaneity. Sure, I can buckle down if necessary (I think I may have stretched the truth a bit on those questions) but it's great that I can "let the spirit move me" off task on occasion. If, by "on occasion," they mean constantly, then I am the goddess of conscientiousness. What I have come to think of as a complete absence of focus is actually a delightful outlook on life to which others can aspire. Again, I am something of a mentor. I was beginning to see why the site rejected me -- too much competition for all the other gals to handle.

Finally, my extroversion. I am, according to my very sound, scientific personality profile, lots of fun to be around. I guess that means being a manic depressive, whining, crying bitch is more of a good thing than I had realized. I'm inspired by all the positive feedback, so I'm going to redo the questionnaire -- with a new email address so they don't recognize me -- and fill in the "divorced" circle so I can gain admission to the new dating site. I am apparently quite the catch, and what's wrong with a little white lie if I can make so many men so happy.

Going Green

Today, my daughter is taking off for a week long vacation in Paris and Rome, and I'm turning all shades of green with envy. Sure I want her to have a good time, but damn it, I want to go too.

I've been to both cities, and would jump at the chance to revisit either one. Right now, I'd jump at the chance to go anywhere. (And making the trek to Evanston tomorrow to see my therapist does not count.) Although Rome is the one city out of all the places I've been to that I love the most, my fondest memories are of my week last year in Florence. It's the people, not the places, that make for the best experiences, and last year I took my two younger children with me to visit their sister, who was "studying" abroad. No spouse to put a damper on my adventure; just a rare and cherished week of unencumbered and unplanned time with my three offspring.

Sometimes I think it didn't matter that we were in a place far, far away, that the trip would have been equally special had we gone to, say, Des Moines. Sightseeing was only a part of our agenda, although we certainly did a lot of wandering. I suppose window shopping in the malls of Iowa and biking through the flat cornfields probably wouldn't hold a candle to browsing on the Ponte Vecchio and cycling through Tuscany with a few breaks for pasta, wine, and gelato, but the conversations we had and the time we spent together would have been priceless anywhere.

This year, for the first time since I became a mother, I am scheduled to be alone for our school's spring break. As much as it kills me, I have to let my younger daughter's father take a turn with her, and they are off to London for a week. I am a big baby, though, when it comes to spending spring break with my children, so I will be heading to New York and D.C. to pester my older two. They act like they don't mind (a visit from mom is probably not high on their bucket lists) and I am just going to accept their welcoming words at face value.

I'm working hard on the envy issue; green isn't really my color. My kids are being good sports about my neediness, and I'm going to pay it forward and give my own mom some good quality attention when I head out east. Who knows? Maybe I'll even get some TLC in return!

Time Travels

As I waited in the high school parking lot yesterday to retrieve my daughter and her friends from badminton tryouts, I was certain, several times, that my son was approaching my car. He happened to call me as I sat enjoying the tricks my mind was playing on me; the traffic noise in the background confirmed that he was still in New York, and not one of the hunched, hooded, faceless teenage boys shuffling out of the high school gym from tennis tryouts.

I shared my bit of time travel with my son, and he got it. He said he could imagine that sitting in that same spot in the high school lot where I used to wait for him would conjure up all sorts of vivid memories. I was quick to assure him they were good ones, and he understood that too, despite the difficulties he faced during those high school years. Back then he would have grunted impatiently at my sentimentality; these days, he's not afraid to admit he takes his own sentimental journeys from time to tome.

Some days seems interminable, but time is passing way too quickly. With my older daughter graduating from college this year and my son, as always, following closely on her heels (at least in terms of timing), it seems that my youngest daughter will zip through four years of high school in less than a blink of an eye. Seventeen years ago this month we moved with our two young children to our brand new house in deep dark suburbia; I can still remember placing their matching Aladdin bathmats on the floor in their new bathroom, helping them stake their claim to their new home. My own personal version of landing on the moon.

Those bathmats are long gone, and those two children are now occasional visitors in the not so new house. That bathroom now services just one teenager, who has claimed it as her own with an array of lotions and potions that spreads across both sinks. She no longer has to avoid the toilet she shared for years with her brother by trekking down the hall for less distasteful bits of porcelain seating. Toilet issues notwithstanding, she misses her siblings even more than I do. Maybe not so much more as differently.

I love the people her siblings have become, though they seem a bit out of place when they return to the house they grew up in. Yesterday, in the parking lot, I wanted to approach the mothers of the boys and tell them to savor the impatient grunting, because soon those slouching, hooded, faceless (and somewhat unpleasant) creatures would be gone, at least physically. One day, they will not look like gang bangers, and they will morph into young men who will suddenly realize their parents are people in their own right. They will still grunt but less often, and they will be the source of some of the most surprising and wonderful conversations.

All three of my children are works in progress, and though I always miss where they've been, I love watching where they go. I suppose I'm a work in progress, too; maybe I should remind myself to enjoy the ride.