The Fug Girls, who have a pretty suh-weet gig commenting on all things fashion related for New York Magazine have some valid things to say about Vogue's "Shape" Issue. If you're unfamiliar with the "Shape" issue, this is when "my hair is bigger than my body" editor Anna Wintour decides that it's time to put out an issue to appease The Big Girls, and by "big" I mean the girls who wear a size six, not a fourteen.

Cut to the Fug Girls:

Every year, as a nod to the abnormality of its bony universe, Vogue publishes a shape issue purporting to spotlight non-model bodies for a change. It often feels as perfunctory as it sounds — like alpha-twigs know anything about cellulite? — but this year we dove in with extra curiosity thanks to Anna Wintour’s recent criticism of runway models’ diminishing frames. Would that sentiment bloom into an issue that actually honored real clothing sizes and three-dimensional shapes?

Not so much, apparently.

{...}Yet, short of featuring a bacon-cheeseburger on the cover, this is sadly probably the best we can expect from Vogue. It just isn’t in the habit of realism. Because it peddles fashion and fantasy better than anyone, these clumsy attempts to soften up just feel as patronizing and ham-handed as a Very Special Episode of Blossom, but without the hats. So while we’d love to see women of various sizes in the magazine — wearing bizarre $20,000 goat coats like any other model — if it keeps feeling like an act of bored, forced obligation, we’d rather Vogue climbed back on its pedestal and left us to get our feel-good fix from Glamour. And a pizza.

The Girls have a point. Vogue is, well, Vogue. It's meant to be the fashion bible, and, yes, while it's frustrating to look at the photo spreads in that magazine and be disheartened that a. the models keep getting younger and younger (and, no, I don't mean that in the context of my getting older; they're honestly no more than fourteen or fifteen years old at most, and hence have the body types associated with that age (no hips, no boobs, they've lost their baby fat, but haven't gained any Reese's peanut butter cup-associated fat, either.)) and, b. that the clothes are extremely impractical and just are not meant for anyone. At some point you just have to realize that they're peddling this magazine not to budding fashionistas, and people who love clothes, but to photographers, and the art world. The clothes are the art, and as such, you want the art to look good, so you hang it on a nice wall, aka a size zero model.

I know I'm rare in that I've actually modeled a bit---and when I mean "a bit", I mean I had a total of three jobs when I was in high school, and I did it a. as a favor to a lady I knew who worked in the advertising world, who needed models who weren't from the local Barbizon school and b. for the cash, because I got paid $50 a pop. While it was actually the most boring job I've ever held down (and that's saying a bit), tottering around in high heels on a four-foot platform the size of a child's shoebox, it was, nonetheless, educational. If I had to go on tee vee, even now, almost twenty years later, I could do my own makeup. I know what clothes are most flattering and work with the limitations of the cameras (no red, no checks, or optical illusion-type patterns). But mostly what I learned is that, if you're smart, you realize that they don't really want you because you have a charming personality, charisma, or a vivacious smile, although that's part of what you bring to the table, it's that whatever they're peddling will look good on your body. You are just a hanger for their clothes. That's it. Therefore to sit there, and flip through Vogue, and base your entire self-image on what the hangers look like is a bit ridiculous. If you're looking through Vogue to find women who "look like you" and you aren't an androgynous, prepubescent, bony young girl, you're going to be a bit disappointed, aren't you?

I'm just tired of playing this game. The fashion magazines are in existence to sell clothes. They make a lot of money on this, hence, they know how to do it, which means they're going to use skinny, young models, with dewy skin and the bodies of a twelve-year-old boy to sell the wares. Women read fashion magazines to keep up with the latest trends, to see who's doing what in fashion, to see what they want to buy. But there is a disconnect---the clothes that are advertised, generally speaking, aren't made for the women who buy the magazines. This is just what the deal is. I'm weary of reading article after article about how the average American woman is a size fourteen and how disheartened they feel after watching tee vee or reading a fashion magazine, how angry they are that none of this is meant for them; how these magazines and designers are holding them up to a standard they'll never meet. I'm tired of the argument of how the fashion magazines, the entertainment industry, et. al, are encouraging eating disorders in young girls because of the images they put out. I'm sick of Kate Winslet and other actresses holding themselves up for the admiration of all because they claim they choose not to starve themselves, when it's patently obvious that they're nowhere near "average size" and that they simply cannot be because of the demands of their jobs, in front of cameras, which really do add ten pounds. I'm sick to death of all of it, even though, from time to time, I'm just as guilty of perpetrating these issues on this here blog as anyone else who's bitched about size-two models. I've had a change of heart, however. As Joshua once said in War Games, the only way to win the game is not to play. While I will grant you, he was a computer and was chatting about Global Thermonuclear War, the machine's got a point.

It's time for an attitude shift.

If women are really sick of what Vogue and all the other magazines are peddling, STOP BUYING THEM. Stop buying the products they advertise. That will send them a message as clear as anything else. If, however, you want to buy the magazines and wear the clothes advertise, start working out so you can fit into them. It's your choice. You won't be happy, probably, because no one wants to be hungry all the time, but if that's what you really want, go for it. You have my blessing, because at least you'll be doing something about it, instead of wishing for the impossible to happen. If young girls are starving themselves to fit some preconceived notion of what beauty is, my question usually is, where are the damn parents? How can they not see that their daughter is excusing herself to go and throw-up after every meal? I once read a story somewhere about a girl who had hundreds of empty paint cans shoved under her oversized princess bed, and instead of being full of paint, they were full of vomit. This was how she chose to hide her problem. She knew that the toilet in her bathroom would eventually plug up, so, living in a new development, where there were plenty of empty paint cans available in dumpsters nearby, she started appropriating them and used them as her own personal vomitorium. How did her parents not realize this? This whole thing is a sick, co-dependent cycle. There is choice involved. Women choose to participate in this game and on either side of it, each needs the other's dysfunction to keep going, otherwise they themselves will disappear.

Is this a reality-based solution? Probably not. But, I have a bit of a different perspective on all of this since I went through chemo. I hit absolute rock bottom in terms of vanity toward the end of my treatments. There's no getting around it:I looked like a spud. A bald spud whose face had been rounded off with steroids. In fact, you could pick out all of Dr. Academic's patients in the waiting room because we all looked alike. I had no eyebrows or eyelashes, which you need for facial definition. I had no hair, through which to express my personality or my sense of style, despite what I was wearing. Because my skin was gray, with nary a shade of pink to be found in my cheeks when I went severely anemic, and the deep, dark circles of exhaustion under my eyes that never went away no matter how much sleep I got, I looked ill. There was absolutely nothing I could do in terms of clothing or makeup that would make me look like anybody other than what I was at that point: a sick person. While I wasn't happy about it, there wasn't much I could do about it, either, and that, in itself, was, surprisingly, liberating. I could go out of the house and know that this was as good as it got, and while it wasn't very good, at least I wasn't "looking good and feeling better" in a room on the oncology floor of the hospital. I could leave my house, do what I could manage to do, and while I didn't look great, and, most of the time didn't feel great, this was, in and of itself, a big deal. I was alive and moving, and that wasn't too shabby. I knew that, someday soon, the rest would come back once the treatments were done. And it did come back, even if I was impatient for it to do so. When my eyelashes, eyebrows and---Mother of God!---hair came back, it was cause for much rejoicing. The first time I could put on mascara in a few months, I was happy as a clam, and I'm still get a small, cheap thrill every time I put the stuff on. I'm sure I'll get back to bitching about the crap soon enough, but all of this provides an important lesson, to be sure: none of this stuff is necessary. Sure, putting on make-up and dressing in stylish clothes can make you feel nice and normal, but, on the whole, this is stuff you can live without. You can live without reading Vogue as well, or buying new clothes, or trying to live up to someone else's standards about your appearance. You don't have to play the game. In fact, the only way to win the game is not to play.

Perhaps this is all overly optimistic of me, because I'm obviously not coming from a place where too many people have been, but that's just the way I see it. You have a choice: you can either buy into this scenario, choosing one side or the other, or you can choose not to. It's up to you.

Posted by: Kathy at 12:13 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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It may be really wrong of me to say so, what with the exploitation of a three year old to describe the downfall of Eliot Spitzer and all, but, screw it, it's still funny.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:09 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Good grief, but does that stupid gray pillbox hat bother me. Taaaaaaa-cky. The whole outfit is hideous!

If one is unaccustomed to the duties and responsibilities attached to first lady-ship, like Carla Bruni-Sarkozy obviously is, it seems reasonable that one would look to see how others had done it, for inspiration. The only problem with looking to Jackie O for fashion inspiration is that, ahem, she was first lady almost fifty years ago. Anything you come up with that Jackie would have worn, way back in the day, is bound to be a bit dated, n'est ce pas? You live in Paris, with some of the world's best designers in your mobile phone, and this is what you come up with for your first state visit?

That the hat is, apparently, shrouded in the wool from a WWII era blanket, is beyond the pale. I wonder if it reeks of mothballs, because it looks like it should. Don't even get me started on the shoes.

It's not every day when you can say Queen Elizabeth II is more fashion forward than an ex-model.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:03 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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The Terminator shitcanned Dirty Harry.

...and lived to tell the tale.

Must have something to do with the fact he's actually a robot and those .357 .44mag* bullets just pinged right off.

Don't know what I was thinking. My apologies. Thanks to Bike Bubba for the correction

Posted by: Kathy at 10:46 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Courtesy of TechCrunch, we have for you this morning, the digitized version of the Vietnam War Memorial.

Here's the story:

Footnote has taken the initiative to digitize all 58,000 names inscribed into the Vietnam War Memorial. It has also correlated them with military personnel records from the National Archives and made this information searchable from within an interactive Flash application.

The project started by hiring a National Geographic photographer to take over 2,000 high quality photos of the wall. The company then stitched them together, indexed the names, and pulled out information about each person from two major national databases: one for casualties and one for personnel. The whole process took about four months to complete and the end result is being provided for free.

If you want to find a particular name, you can run a simple keyword search. YouÂ’ll be shown key facts such as the personÂ’s rank, grade, specialty, and casualty date. You can also search for names that conform to certain criteria such as enlistment type, race, hometown, casualty date, squadron, and much more.{...}

And it works well. For instance, meet the man for whom the husband is a namesake.

Pfc. Michael Laverne Pheiffer is the husband's first cousin, and, unfortunately, he was killed of "multiple fragmentation wounds" in Binh Duong province a little over a month after his first tour of duty started. This is information the husband never had. If his family knew this information at all once upon a time, it's information that was lost over the years. All the husband knew was that he was named after his cousin who died in Vietnam; he didn't know any of the particulars. But now he does. The husband has always felt a little awkward about the fact that he knew relatively little about the relative he was named after. He once told me it felt a little disrepectful to carry this man's name, but to know so little about him. This will never tell him what sort of a person Michael Pheiffer was, or what he was like to know, but it does provide something that his family had never provided: bare facts about what he was doing there (he was drafted) and how successful he was in his mission (sadly, not very). From that you can deduce a few things, none of which make Michael Pfeiffer less of a person or a soldier, but, nonetheless, fill out the story a bit more.

There are an awful lot of people who can't make it to the Memorial in D.C., for one reason or another, but due to the wonders of the internet, they can at least take a peek at the names on the Wall, and find out some very valuable and relevant information that's not necessarily available to those who visit in the flesh.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:16 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Last night, Mr. H. and I ventured down to the Minnesota Zoo's IMAX theater to take a peek at U23D.

Now, I'd never seen a movie filmed in the IMAX format before, let alone a 3D movie (yes, kids, somehow I missed Jaws 3D), so I wasn't really familiar with the format, let alone if a 3D experience was really, well, three dimensional. I figured, if nothing else, it would be an opportunity to see the Vertigo tour show, because Mr. H. and I had been cruelly shut out of ticket purchasing opportunities when they hit town two years ago. While I am a U2 fan, and have been listening to their music ever since I was fourteen (which is, precisely, the same time my well-documented crush on The Edge developed) my fandom is nowhere near the level Mr. H. has attained. He's a U2 fanatic. He has every album they've ever released, including the rare imports. He has books and DVDs. And, after one memorable front row experience on the Zoo TV tour, he has, in a Ziploc baggie, carefully preserved a tee shirt he was wearing that Bono's sweat dripped on. So, as you might have gathered, after the cruel ticket mix-up, Mr. H. was really looking forward to seeing this film. I, too, was looking forward to it, because, honestly, it never sucks seeing U2 perform.

We were, however, not expecting what we got, which was, well, everything even the most lackadaisical U2 fan could have ever wanted, let alone someone as dedicated in their fandom to U2 as Mr. H. It went ABOVE AND BEYOND anything we could have expected. It was amazing.

Imagine, if you will, a sixty-five foot white wall, and steep, expansive, theater seating opposite it. We positioned ourselves in near to the middle of the seating, placed our overlarge 3D glasses on our heads and strapped in for the ride. The opening of the film, when they were rolling the credits, was, I believe a way to orient the viewers to the 3D experience. You followed a young woman, running, and it became obvious, only after a few moments that you were following the first person through the gates, and she was doing the mad rush authorities no longer allow you to do when you go to a concert---rush for the general attendance spots near the stage. The shot then went to a darkened arena, where the fans were anxiously awaiting the band's appearance on stage. Confetti was thrown, and it seemed you could reach out and touch it as it fell. The Argentine flag was being waved, and it felt as if you could have been whipped by it. People in the audience were positioned directly in front of you, and, again, it felt as if you could reach out and touch them.

Then the band came out.

They started off with Vertigo, and when they screamed, "HOLA!" and the South American crowd went wild, the illusion was complete: it was real, you could reach out and touch them if you wanted to. By the time they played my personal favorite song of all time, Where the Streets Have No Name, I actually had to remind myself that I was not at a U2 concert, and jumping up, dancing, singing along, and in general just going wild, would not be welcomed by my fellow movie viewers. It's hard to describe the experience. The people at the IMAX had put up, before the film started running, tidbits of several positive reviews of the film, and one of them said something to the effect of, "It's better than being front row at a U2 concert." And it was---but in a very specific way. If you've ever been to an event you've only previously watched on tee vee, and then gone to the same event as it was staged live, you know that cameras can provide something you, the average spectator in a huge arena, cannot view: your eyes simply aren't good enough, your brain cannot process all that several camera operators and a crew in a control room can. But you'll never, when watching a concert on film, have the experience of being jostled by the crowd as you gaze up to see your favorite band playing; you'll never feel the heat of all the people crowding you; or the absolute communal exhilaration when the band rocks the house down to its foundation. The twain, in other words, do not generally meet. Here, however, they do. You get the experience of seeing it all, being able to catch things only cameras can see, whilst simultaneously feeling as if you're there. It's amazing. I don't know how they did it, but the filmmakers managed to accomplish the rare feat of making a concert film that actually makes you feel like a participant, not just a spectator.

The sound was fantastic, but wasn't overpoweringly loud. The play list was exceptional, and included many favorites like Bullet the Blue Sky from The Joshua Tree, but also New Year's Day, Pride (In the Name of Love), Sunday Bloody Sunday, that are U2 staples, and fan favorites, but that they don't play live all that frequently because they prefer to focus on the newer stuff. The play list was obviously tailored to appeal to all, but in this instance, it wasn't shooting for the lowest common denominator audience---this is STILL quality music, that is still worth listening to, almost twenty, and in some instances, almost thirty years later. It wasn't at all like when The Stones roll out Brown Sugar for the umpteenth time, and you can see that while they're bored with it, that this, nonetheless, is what pays the bills, so give the audience what it paid $120+ (per person!) to see, lest they not want to show up again and feed our largesse. This is music U2 still cares about, and that's enough for them to play it properly and with verve.

About the only downside of this film is that Adam Clayton, the bassist, was obviously having fun with the 3D aspects and he kept hamming it up in front of that particular camera. Many times it felt like you were going to get smacked in the face with the end of his bass, but, honestly, that was the only downside of the film. It's an AMAZING experience, and if you like U2 even a little bit, or even have a grudging appreciation for the band, let alone are U2 Fan #1, YOU NEED TO GO AND SEE THIS FILM. It's incredible. If you can see it in IMAX, I highly recommend doing so. Mr. H. tells me it's going to general release soon enough, but the IMAX experience is well worth the extra high admission price.

Trust me on this one. You won't be sorry.

Posted by: Kathy at 12:02 PM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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I was chatting with my niece, Maggie, on the phone last night. They were waiting for their easter eggs to get up/down (?) to room temperature before they could dye them. After discussing how chocolate easter bunnies are lovely things, and how solid ones are better than hollow, I asked Maggie a simple question:

Me: Are you going to be a good girl for Easter?

Maggie: Are you going to be a good girl?

She didn't even pause whilst coming up with an expert deflection. She just zinged it right back to me.

By the way, she's seven.

Way to go, Maggie! {insert sniffles of pride here} I suspect you have a long future ahead of you in the legal field.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:45 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Seems as if the Easter Bunny has been doing some of his runs early.

I can practically feel Moses' temper being tested, can't you?

Posted by: Kathy at 09:17 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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It's interesting the people you meet on the web.

A few years back, I had the pleasure of meeting a lovely lady, Pat, on some boards I used to frequent. She's a professional translator, who used to live with her husband, Pascal, and their three kids outside of Toulouse, in a little town called Auterive. A little over a year ago, the family uprooted and moved to Dakar, for Pascal's work, which has something to do with water treatment plants. They still, however, have their lovely farmhouse in the French countryside, which was built on the ruins of a monastery, and now you, if you can afford to travel to France despite the atrocious exchange rate, can rent their guest house!

Go here, if you're interested.

There's decent skiing nearby, and the joys of the Pyrenees abound. It's a short hop to Lourdes, and if you're looking simply for a base in the region and have a car rental, it would make a good location.

Posted by: Kathy at 08:38 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Stealing is wrong.

But when someone actually manages to be clever about it, instead of the number of thieves in this city who simply attach a chain to a truck and pull out window frames or walls to steal cigarettes from a neighborhood convenience store (What? A black market in smokes in Minnesota? Couldn't possibly be! Nice job, Pawlenty!), well, my feelings become somewhat conflicted about casting them in a civic morality play. Yeah, they did wrong, to a great number of people, but you can still be impressed with their cunning ways, and think, perhaps, they should get some points off for being clever, quick and non-violent about it.

Take this guy, for instance:

If the accusations against Chad M. Storey are true, give the North Oaks man a big fat A for effort, along with some jail time.

Storey, 34, is accused of concocting an elaborate system of hoses and switches that allowed him to siphon gasoline from another vehicle into his own, all from the comfort of the driver's seat of his shiny red Dodge Ram 1500 4x4.

Storey was charged Tuesday in Ramsey County District Court with one count of possession of burglary tools. The sophistication of the device automatically elevates the charge to a felony, according to sheriff's investigator Tom Rudenick.

All Storey had to do, authorities said, was pull alongside a vehicle, stick a hose in its gas tank, flip a switch under his dashboard to activate an auxiliary fuel pump, then sit back and wait.

Authorities said they could only speculate about whether Storey was reselling gas after they found a valve on his gas tank -- clearly not installed at the factory -- that could be used to empty his tank.

{...}It took slightly less than 2 1/2 minutes to siphon 5 gallons from a gas can into the pickup truck. Authorities said it would take 6 to 8 minutes for Storey to steal the 20 gallons needed to fill his tank.{...}

I don't know much about siphoning gas, but what I do know is that it's messy, dangerous and takes a while, which, ultimately, creates more time to get caught. This guy, apparently, looked at the downsides of siphoning, found a way around said dangers and engineered a different option. Yeah, it's still stealing, but at least, he MacGyver'ed it. Which shows he's got some potential in the engineering realm, if he ever wants to turn away from a life of crime.

{ht: buzz}

Posted by: Kathy at 08:34 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Are you perhaps, my devoted Cake Eater readers, having a wee bit of trouble understanding just how the hell JP Morgan was able to pick up Bear Stearns for the bargain basement price of $230 million (when the Bear Stearns building in Manhattan is worth about a billion itself) or thereabouts?

Go here.

Instead of "RSG Investments" insert "Bear Stearns" and you'll be good to go.

You can thank me later.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:00 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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...It's one thing that I can't catch myself from falling on the ice (and ripping out the knee of a brand spankin' new pair of jeans in the process. Grrrr.). It's entirely another when a robot can.

That there is a 21st Century pack mule.

Thank God, we still need humans around to tell the robots what to do, otherwise, I can't see that there'd be much of a need for us to be here.

You can find more about Big Dog here.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:21 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Apparently, St. Patrick's Day is the day for making debuts.

Only this time, my niece, Maggie, is making her Omaha World Herald Debut. Really, go and clicky on the link. She's well worth it.

According to her mother, the Cake Eater sister Christi, she really had a great time hamming it up at the photo shoot. That photo is quite representative of her personality.

I wonder, however, if I shouldn't bust them for a wee bit of dishonesty, though. The red hair does NOT come from the Irish side of their family; it comes from OUR side, the half Polish, half German side.

I do have one question, though. Do Leprechauns have pointy ears?

Posted by: Kathy at 08:35 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Making his internet debut this fine St. Patrick's Day, we have young Moses Glenn from Winterset. He's the product of regular commenters Russ from Winterset, and The Lovely Janis.

Ain't he a cutie?

Here's Moses and his Dad

And here we have Moses with his mom, who's been through rather a lot over the past week and, she tells me, has gained an appreciation for the wonder drug that is percocet.

Moses, fully realizing his internet debut is an auspicious occasion, forwarded this short note along with the pictures.

Welcome to the world Moses Glenn. I was born March 11th - 6 weeks early - because Mommy's pre-eclampsia had gotten worse and she was only going to get better if I came into the world. I weighed 3 pounds and 5 ounces and 16 1/2 inches long.

Mommy is doing much better. She got really sick and the doctors and nurses are taking really good care of her and keep telling her that it just takes time to get better. Once her blood pressure gets better she will be released from the hospital.

I am in the NICU (Neonatal- Intensive Care Unit) and I am lucky that my lungs are well developed and have not had to have helped to breathe. The doctor says I am small for my age and need to gain weight!!! I am eating through a tube right now and learning how to nurse from Mommy too. I am gaining slowly.

I am told I am feisty despite my small stature -- I like to fling my arms and legs around and actually scoot around my incubator.

I will have to gain weight, eat regularly and get control of my body temperature by myself before I can go home. My doctor says I am doing very well. Mommy and Daddy are really proud of my progress.

Thank you Kathy for posting this for us. Enjoy the pics!!!

Love --

Moses and Mommy & Daddy too!!!

Say it with me: "Awwwwwww."

Posted by: Kathy at 08:24 AM | Comments (13) | Add Comment
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The husband forwarded this along to me today. For Russ from Winterset, of course.

Posted by: Kathy at 11:54 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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So, the little troll won Project Runway.

Sigh.

The master of the super fantastic, The Manolo, has the wrap-up that you should go read.

Honestly, I was surprised when he won. I thought Christian had shot himself in the foot when I saw his line. Just about everything was black, and was entirely derivative of other projects he'd done throughout the season---particularly the last challenge. If this had been a different season of Project Runway, and if Christian hadn't been so impressive throughout, he would have been reamed by La Nina and the Kors, from here to Poughkeepsie and back again, for not showing them anything new. I'm not denying that the troll has talent; its overflowing from five gallon buckets that he, undoubtedly, could not pick up and carry to save his life---but undoubtedly $100,000 will pay for a sherpa to do so. I simply think that, when it comes right down to it, the competition was his to lose, and the judges obviously didn't want him to lose. His talent is exceptional. Yes, it's very obvious that he's worked for Alexander McQueen and Vivienne Westwood. Yes, the clothes were exceptional. But were they wearable? No. In fact, I'm having a hard time seeing how they could be watered down into Ready to Wear at all, which is the only reason Couture still exists in any sense whatsoever. It's like the judges couldn't get over how fantastic it was to discover a Picasso, never to realize that most people would never hang his work on their wall in the first place. It would have been obvious to a blind man on a galloping horse that Rami and Jillian had to step up, and do so in a miraculous way. In a sense they were destined to lose, which is a shame, because after all of Kors' and La Nina's bleating about making clothes that keeps in mind the shape of a woman's body, they completely chose to ignore the lines that did just that.

Posted by: Kathy at 01:24 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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There's this elderly gentleman who works the same volunteer shift at the hospital that I do. He's a nice enough guy, probably in his early-eighties, is a WWII vet, and is a retired mortician. He loves being assigned to work with teenagers, because they invariably ask him questions about what happens to the bodies of the dearly departed, and he has a good time scaring the hell out of them when he answers them, because he's got some good stories to share. I've got nothing against the guy. He works at the hospital three days a week, to keep himself active, and has been volunteering there for years. Everyone loves him, and more importantly, knows him. Most of the hospital staff like all of us volunteers enough, because we save them a lot of time and hassle, but they take their time warming up, because they just assume you'll be gone soon enough, so why bother? But the staff all love this guy, and go out of their way to help him achieve his tasks. It takes me a half-hour to flag someone down when I need them. But him? Five seconds flat. So, we've established that he's a good guy, with good intentions at heart. But there is one thing he does that drives me nuts: he steals cookies from the hospital's oncology clinic.

The clinic is in another building (the same one Dr. Academic's office is in) and we gophers have to run over there a couple of times a day to pick up specimens for delivery to the lab. I feel sorry for those patients, because they have to wait for us to come over, pick up the samples from two different offices, and schlep them back to the hospital's lab---which takes about fifteen minutes to a half-hour, all told, and that's before the lab does its deal. At Dr. Academic's office, the lab was in the office, so you didn't have to wait, but because the hospital has a perfectly good lab in the hospital, the samples have to be schlepped over and these people do have to wait. These runs always have priority over others, but no one understood why until I told them that the patients had to wait for those results to see if they were going to have chemo or not that day. Now everyone puts on winged shoes for these runs. All except for this one gentleman: he's in a hurry all right, but he's in one because he raids the cookie tray they keep in the lobby. Now, to be fair, he never snakes the cookies to eat himself: he takes them and offers them to everyone else, as a treat. He can't eat them because he's a diabetic. He offered me one, one day, and I refused. Now he thinks I'm kind of snotty.

Undoubtedly you're thinking I should just take the cookie, right? That the kind thing to do would be to accept this man's hospitality. The thing is, they have those cookies there for a reason. People go through icky treatments, which a goodly part of the time causes stomach upset, and perhaps, a cookie would help settle their tummies. Also, people on chemo need to snack, because that's the easiest way to eat when you're on these treatments. Anything that can boost the calorie count of a person who's going through a treatment that makes them lose weight is a good thing. There's always a full complement of snacks available in the waiting room at Dr. Academic's office, and people do take advantage of it (and I was one of them. For some strange reason, those Keebler fudge cookies taste good after enduring a carboplatin drip.), but they never take advantage, and always leave something for someone else in case they need it. Despite the number of elderly people at Dr. Academic's clinic, and knowing the propensity of some of their number (Ahem. I think we're all familiar with the ways of some of the "Geritol Express.") to fill up their handbags at all-you-can-eat buffets, I've never seen anyone take more than one cookie or a piece of candy. They, too, know that the food is there for a reason. But this guy, God bless him, doesn't get it. The people at the oncology clinic know full well what he's up to when he raids the tray, but because he's older, they don't say anything. I tried to explain to him, very kindly and very patiently, that the cookies were meant for the chemo patients, to get them to eat, but he just shrugged it off, saying there was plenty to go around, because the tray was always full.

Sigh.

What would you do if you were me? Would you lighten up, and just take the cookie, to smooth things over with someone as universally loved as this gentleman appears to be? Or would you again try to get him to understand that he shouldn't be taking them in the first place? Or would you just leave it be?

Posted by: Kathy at 11:41 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
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I told you I didn't think all that bacon was a good idea.

Seriously, though. Prayers and happy thoughts to Russ and Janis---as they're going to be making more life adjustments than just the one they were counting on.

I can only imagine how badly it's going to suck for Russ to have to be careful about his diet. Sigh. He's an Iowa boy. Iowa boys don't like being told what to eat. Let me tell you. I'm married to one and I had to wage a seven year battle just to get him to eat something as measly as a salad. Janis, my dear, my prayers are with you.

Yet, in good news, that means more venison for us! {insert evil chuckle here}

Posted by: Kathy at 10:34 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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So, the thing I hear a lot from my sister and other parents I know is how picky their kids are when it comes to food. Sometimes, even, their eyes become all misty and they wish aloud for a kid who would eat what's put in front of them, let alone for one who's adventurous in the food department, and doesn't solely rely upon nourishment gained from mac and cheese and hot dogs.

This is that kid. Can you imagine how green this kid's grass is to other parents?

On a visit to Boston last summer, just before our sonÂ’s birthday, my wife and I gave him the gift he most desired: we allowed James to eat his first raw clam, thus ending three years of simmering frustration for him.

True, he was only turning six, but that meant he had spent half his life pining for a taste of uncooked bivalves. His reaction, when the moment finally arrived, was unsurprising: he loved the clam, so much so that he proceeded to help himself to the five others on my plate and declared that henceforth I would need to order double the number so that he and I could each get our fair share. Between slurps, he reiterated his determination to eat that other long-forbidden fruit of the sea, raw oysters.

We had held him off raw shellfish out of health concerns, which in retrospect was probably silly. We were certainly guilty of inconsistency. When James was three, we let him try sushi, and ever since he has been ordering his own sashimi (early on, he decided he had no use for the rice and wanted the fish straight up) whenever we went out for Japanese. Were raw clams and oysters really any riskier than raw tuna? We had also given in to his pleadings and allowed him to eat unpasteurised cheese, and it was not as if raw-milk Camembert – his favourite, although he is also fond of Époisses, Comté, and Langres – was without potential hazards. And if we were worried about polluting his young body, we certainly would not have permitted James to get in the habit of taking a sip from my wine glass every night.

On the other hand, all that sniffing and swilling has served him rather well. He has become a very able blind taster, with a particular knack for identifying Burgundies and Beaujolais. He has a good nose for herbs and spices, too, and can often pinpoint specific seasonings in dishes. It probably helps that he now keeps his own herb garden during the summer, which he very much enjoys. He would doubtless be even happier if we bought him a lobster trap, built a pond and stocked it with sturgeon, and filled the yard with ducks and geese; James has a prodigious appetite for lobster, caviar, and foie gras.

{...}there were indications that he was to the table born. At 10 months old, he sat through a long lunch at a three-star restaurant in Paris without so much as a moment’s fuss, astonishing us and the wary waiters, too. Barely out of the womb, Tiger Woods was mimicking his father’s golf swing; James was jealously eyeing my mille-feuille. The greatest athletes come by their talent naturally, and it seems reasonable to assume that the greatest eaters do, as well. Great eaters, like great athletes, possess a certain ruthlessness. James loves his pet goldfish and hopes to have a dog. But for him, animals exist mainly to be consumed. On a visit to an aquarium when he was two, he startled me and the people nearby by pointing to one tank and asking: “Can we eat them?” A few months ago, watching a documentary about giant squid, James turned to me and said: “I’m getting kind of hungry. You, too?” (He was disappointed to learn that giant squid is not very tasty; he adores squid and octopus and orders them whenever possible.) Last year, his kindergarten class read Charlotte’s Web. One evening, when we were two-thirds through the book, I asked James if he was worried about what might happen to Wilbur the pig. He shot me an incredulous look. “Of course not; if Wilbur dies, that means we get hot, juicy bacon,” he said, elongating the last three words to underscore his delight at the thought.{...}

Too bad he's only six, because a kid who can read Charlotte's Web and instantly think "hot juicy bacon" would undoubtedly grow up into a man I could love.

Posted by: Kathy at 10:27 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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