Reflections On A Middle-Aged Fat Woman (5 page)

I was flipping channels the other day and happened to land on the Food Network again. The host was preparing some kind of egg dish. I'm not sure what it was, because I was transfixed on one activity: egg cracking. Oh my goodness! The recipe called for ten eggs and the host was breaking them with one hand and carrying on some sort of inane chatter about pickling pimentos for the upcoming winter.

Crack! Split and separate! Drop into the bowl.

Crack! Split and separate! Drop into the bowl.

Crack! Split and separate! Drop into the bowl.

I was mesmerized. This was something I could do. I went to the refrigerator to see how many eggs I had. I only had three, but I could start with that. I got down a bowl and reached for the first egg. I was nervous; in fact, the egg slipped right through my hand and went Crack!

My cat, which is always around when I am in the kitchen, gave the broken egg a sniff, gave me a look, then turned around and walked away. I cleaned it up and carefully reached for the second egg. Crack! Dang it! Before I knew it, I had cracked the egg with both hands, just as I normally do.

This was it; I was down to my last egg. With egg in hand, I went Crack! I split and separated! I dropped into the bowl! Success! I ran to the telephone and called my friend explaining what had just happened. Silence! One handed egg cracking, she said, I've been doing that for years and I can't cook. (Harrumph!)

Paying With Change — July 28, 2008

My sister and I decided to go see an afternoon movie at the bargain movie theatre. It costs $1.75 to see the early show and is usually quite crowded. We were running a few minutes behind schedule. Not to the point of missing the beginning, but to the point of having to skip getting popcorn or we would miss the start of the picture. So, we decided to split up. I would buy the tickets and she would get in line to buy the popcorn.

As I approached the ticket counter, I noticed that two lines were open and they seemed to have the same amount of people. I jumped in line number one and was the sixth person in line.

The first two customers purchased their tickets and were on their way. I wasn't really paying attention to anything, just standing in line. All of a sudden, an older lady behind me jabbed me in the back and said, "Can you believe those people up there? They are paying with coins."

I didn't say anything; I just gave a slight nod acknowledging that I had heard what she said. The lady selling tickets gave a slightly bemused look as the small child proceeded to put $1.75 in pennies, nickels and dimes on the counter.

The child received her ticket and a companion stepped up to the counter with the same amount of coins that began to slide and roll all over the counter. JAB! The old lady hit me again and I turned around and looked at her, "That is so rude," she said. "I don't have time to wait on this foolishness."

"Maybe, it’s their allowance they’re spending or change they have collected over time," I said.

"I don't care where they got them coins, I'm gonna talk to the manager about this—making me have to wait this long."

The third child in the group proceeded to drop her coins on the counter. My sister was looking at me telling me to hurry up. The lady behind the counter whose cash drawer was now overflowing looked up at the next customer, shrugged and kept on counting. I knew the jab was coming before I actually felt it. I dodged it. Oh my goodness! I thought that lady was gonna have a conniption fit or something.

I finally received my tickets and was about to walk away when I overheard something that nearly stopped me in my tracks. I heard the impatient lady talking quietly to the children that were with her, "Put your change away. I'm paying with my debit card."

Shakespeare…A Midsummer’s Night Mare — July 14, 2008

"What's that smell," my niece asked?

"That's nature’s goodness," my mom replied.

My friend and I looked at each other with eyes watering and noses tingling from the aromatic smells that had drifted over from the horse barn as we waited for the play to begin.

It was my idea to go see Shakespeare's,
A Midsummer Night's Dream
presented by the local theatre troupe at a new outdoor location. After all, no one in the family had ever seen anything by Shakespeare, and since it was my niece's birthday, we thought it would be both cultural and entertaining at the same time.

That's when the trouble started.

The evening started out innocently enough, albeit a little warm. The location was a beautiful farm nestled in a valley about fifteen miles from town. The ranch specialized in outdoor religion, retreats, receptions, and the rehabilitation of abused farm animals, namely horses. They had a large pond that was really low due to the severe drought over the last few years. And they had a large covered open-aired structure that contained the stage and seating area. Located outside the structure were several tables, hay bales, and log stumps that the audience (mainly smokers) could utilize if they so desired.

We began the walk down the hill from the parking area, stopping occasionally to admire the view of fenced pastures and horses and cows grazing peacefully together. We walked over to the table to pick up our playbills and funeral fans, and the lady at the table said, "Watch that spot over there, a couple of horses got out a while go and left their marks."

Too late, mom had just set her foot down. As we began to giggle and laugh in unison, mom threw us a look of indifference, shrugged her shoulders, and trudged ahead. That's what moms do. They don’t get upset about stepping in horse manure because @#X* happens.

I was checking out the seating arrangements and was not happy with what I found. I had hoped for bench seating or folding chairs but ended up with plastic patio chairs, the small ones. I glanced around the barn and other largely built folks were having the same problem: figuring which chair to sit in. My niece, who is extremely small, sat down and squirmed around in one of those plastic contraptions and commented that they were extremely uncomfortable and a bit flimsy. I finally settled on a seat near the back row and adjusted my backside to fit in the chair. It was a tight squeeze, thanks goodness I had remembered the duct tape, so I could tape myself in.

I sat patiently with my friend, enjoying the smells from the barn. I watched the horses play a game of tag in the pasture. I watched my niece check out the boys, and my mom glance repeatedly at the bottom of her shoe, and waited for the play to begin.

The comedy was somewhere between Lysander and Demetrius pining over Hermia and Bottom wearing something on his head when I heard a
craaaaack
and felt something give. It was my chair. I tried to glance behind me to see what it was when I looked at my friend who mouthed the words, “Don’t move.” She looked closer and said that the leg looked cracked and was bent backwards. “Lean up and to the left,” she said.

For the next hour I perched precariously on three legs, I didn’t move. I couldn’t swat at the flies and mosquitoes that were buzzing the toes in my sandaled feet. I had to stifle a gag and a cough when the wind changed directions and brought all of the bovine, equine, and natural goodness smells from the barn straight into Act II, Scene I.

Bullfrogs were croaking in the pond. My back was beginning to ache from sitting so uncomfortably. I glanced over at my friend and my mom, and they were both laughing hysterically at me. Tears were streaming down their faces, but they couldn’t make a sound, or they would interrupt the play. As the dusk turned to darkness, the house lights came on, and it was finally intermission. I was helped out of the chair and began to investigate what had happened. The back leg had slipped off an edge of a small imperfection in the floor and had buckled under me.

I began to walk away from everyone who was now laughing loudly at me. I didn’t care, I was just glad that the chair hadn’t broken during the play. I was heading over to the refreshment area when I heard a lady shout, “Watch it.” Too late, my foot hit the pile of manure and down I went.

My choices were few. There were no restrooms, only port-a-pots. Several nice ladies brought me some paper towels and I cleaned up as best I could. It was time for the last part of the play to begin, and my niece asked, “Do we have to leave? I’d like to see the rest.”

“I’ll just sit back here for the rest of the night,” I said.

My mom just looked at me and gave me a nod. She understood. You can’t get upset about it. It happens.

I’m Not Laughing — July 11, 2008

My niece that has been visiting for the summer approached me the other day and asked, "Is the stuff you write supposed to be funny? I've read some of it and I'm not laughing."

"Well, which story did you read?"

"I really can't remember because they were all soooooo boring." And having said this, my niece turned and walked away.

My niece, who just turned 14, (which probably explains a lot) is of this new generation that needs to be constantly in touch with something. It doesn't matter if it is the TV, the Internet, her cell phone, MySpace, Facebook, or Hannah Montana, all of these added up, and playing at the same time cannot erase the age-old adage of "I'm bored." So, what's Aunt MA Fat Woman supposed to do?

A few days later we were taking a drive in the Mustang and I headed over to one of our local state parks. My niece had brought her cell phone, iPod, and portable DVD player with her, looked around at the new surroundings and said, "I hate going outside."

"Too bad," I said. "We're going to have some fun, and you can leave all of that junk in the car."

"I'm bringing my cell phone."

"No, you're not!"

She rolled her eyes at me, stormed out of the car and threw herself onto a picnic table that was nearby. She crossed her legs and wanted to know what she was supposed to do. My response was nothing. I didn't want her to do anything, but sit there and enjoy the scenery. After a few tense moments of sighing, crossing and uncrossing of the legs, and the incessant tapping of fingers on the table, I could see and feel the tension being released from her body.

While I was waiting for just the perfect moment to make my move she threw out her arms and stretched languorously.
Smack
! I slapped the picnic table which caught her attention, and I pounced. I grabbed my niece and began to tickle her silly. I tickled her in the belly, grabbed some sugar from the knee, and somehow managed to wrestle her flip flops from her so I could get to her feet. I tickled her everywhere.

"Stop it, Stop it!" she exclaimed. "You're killing me. I can't take it anymore."

With tears of laughter streaming down both of our faces, I looked at her and asked, "Who's laughing now?

"Oh, Aunt Fat Woman, you always make me laugh, you're so funny and cool. I just can't let you know it. I have a reputation to uphold, you know?"

Everyone wants to be a comedian.

Tater Salad — July 6, 2008

It took me a few years to learn to appreciate this delicacy served at picnics, potlucks and funerals. Church socials, family reunions and basically any other gathering that served food always seemed to have several different kinds of potato salad. Potato salad or tater salad as we call it in my family is a gathering requirement. Someone usually asks who's bringing the tater salad and the resulting answer is met with extreme caution. You see in the middle-aged fat woman's family there are four (4) different recipes for tater salad. And none of us really like the others' recipes.

Mom's recipe is a classic tater salad laced with eggs, onions, (I'm allergic) pickles, (I don't like) relish, (yuck) and celery seed.

Brother's recipe is stocked with onions, (I'm allergic) paprika, and every dressing and sauce in the fridge which total (at last count) 43.

Sister's recipe is spiked with onions, Ohio style chili, and caffeine-free Diet Pepsi. (No comment for that one.)

Middle-Aged Fat Woman's recipe is a meat-and-potatoes kind of dish. It only has a few ingredients, none of which are listed above, except eggs.

I subscribe to several upscale magazines and had seen a new recipe for Summer Potato Salad. Well, I thought, la-dee-da, I'll just have to give this new tater salad a shot. The new recipe called for fancy bleu cheese crumbles, three tablespoons of coarse salt, red wine vinegar and freshly chopped chives.

What a disaster.

Of course, all of the stores were closed for the holiday, so, I had to stop at a convenience store to pick up those unusual ingredients, none of which they had.

I got to Mom's house and began to assemble the Summer Potato Salad. (She had already cooked the potatoes.) We poured three tablespoons of Morton salt into the bowl. We added wild onion stems pulled directly from the front yard. Lastly, we poured blue cheese salad dressing into some cottage cheese to get the crumble effect. We had all of the other ingredients so we added them in as well.

Mom looked at me and I looked at her, "You ready to taste it?"

In went the spoons; out came a gag and a
Bleccckk
! She spit hers out and my eyes teared up. It was awful. Positively awful.

Brother came in and gave it a taste, "That tastes like @%X*," he said, then threw down his spoon in disgust and stomped out of the kitchen.

Sister wasn't in town for this holiday, but her daughter was. I looked over at her with spoon in hand and she said, "I'm allergic to tater salad."

Smart kid.

Happy Fourth Of July — July 4, 2008

The scene: Any small town in a state that doesn't allow fireworks, namely Georgia.

A guy walks into his local courthouse and asks where he can get a permit. The guard sends him down to the permit office. There is a really long line and only one window open. He admits to himself that this permit thing must be a pretty good idea, 'cause everyone here seems to be getting one. After all, on July 4th, he always hears fireworks going off all over town; so, they must have a permit, right?