Park on the Top Deck

While I'm a person of many words, I don't have many that even approach wisdom to share except these:

"Park on the top deck."

I'm writing about a multi-tiered parking garage, and I urge you to park on the top deck. This definitely goes against common practice. Whether due to laziness, impatience, habit, or convenience, we routinely scout for the closest parking spot on the lowest level.

How many people realize how much is missed in doing so?

I've never much liked the saying, "If you're not the lead dog, the view never changes," but I think it's appropriate here. Park on the lower level and you always see the same thing. Your car is, and, by extension, you are, just one more hunk of mobile metal among dozens of others. You leave your car to walk over a pre-determined path to a stairwell or elevator which takes you to a pre-determined sidewalk that will almost invariably take you in a predictably boring straight line to your destination. If you work in Cubeville, like I, you'll then likely spend your day walking along other pre-determined aisles of cubes and hallways that are fabric and metal on one side and drywall with boring art on the other. You'll probably spend 7-10 hours of your day in a pre-determined space of 6x6 or 8x8 or 10x1o. Am I the only one who finds it ironic that almost everything about the typical carpet dweller's workspace is pre-determined, bland, and in straight lines, yet employees are expected to think creatively? Trite though the saying now is, all managers want employees who can "think outside the box." Maybe if we were elevated six feet above our cubes, we'd be more successful at achieving that.

Most religions/mythologies claim that the greatest gift granted to humankind was free will. I find that ironic, too, since although we can exercise our free will by choosing to walk zig-zags over sidewalks and jaywalk over roads, we'll likely be ticketed or killed if we do.

So, the safest advice I can give you is to park on the top deck, where you can walk relatively safely in a crooked line or swirls or ellipticals around the floor before you go to your pre-determined path down the elevator shaft and onto the sidewalks. While you meander, you have the opportunity to see your environment in the way all those other lower-level cars do not: the sky, the top 15 levels of buildings, and even the un-curtained bedroom window of a condo where an impressively overweight and balding-yet-hairy man was dancing wildly...and naked.

How often do you see that when you're parked on one of the lower floors?

On the "I Wish I'd..." List

Like any fledgling creative, there's a long list of "I wish I'd..." Everyone has a wish list like this in some form or other - perhaps the "I wish I'd said..." or the "I wish I'd done..." list. Some lists may read more like the "I could've done that!" (as in "What a stupid idea! I could've thought of a protective banana case, too!") Mine consists of things I wish I'd created, that I feel I should've created because they completely capture my humor or philosophy. This ever-growing list doesn't normally include novels, art, or musical compositions. Because I'm only a fledgling creative and not being particularly well-endowed with patience, I recognize my lack of staying power to follow through on creating a work that substantial. For those who can set their brush to canvas, their pencil to the staff, or their fingers to typing long enough to finish a true opus, I hold only admiration, never envy.

This list normally consists of the blog post or article and the occasional turn-of-phrase. It's the pith, the thought that can be communicated in approximately 140 characters (give or take 500). It's the book title or the haiku.

Behold, a few items from my "I wish I'd..." list:

* The Solitude of Prime Numbers. A beautiful title for a book I've yet to read (it's in the stack) - but the title alone is what grabs. A prime number can only be divided by itself and one. There must be loneliness in this story, and I'm hoping for a sense of positive closure at the end. I don't demand happily-ever-after endings but it's sure nice to find a well-written one.

* "Me, on Shuffle" by Chuck Klosterman. I wish I'd written this entire article which is a genius post about one's relationship with fractions and phrases of music (an emotional connection doesn't take an entire song).

* The Book of Lost Things. This could be the title of my daily diary with my list of things to do and those left undone. Admittedly, I'm biased because I've read the book (a fairy tale intended for young adult readers) and adored it, but the adoration began with the title.

* Limbo: And Other Places I Have Lived. Another one in the stacks with a beautiful title.

* Ceci n'est pas un pipe. Although I said I don't tend to envy art, this is an exception. It's simple, it's droll, it's witty and it was conceived about 50 years before I even manifested as my dad's ocular twinkle.

* "You can lead a horticulture but you can't make her think," by Dorothy Parker. Just one of many Dorothy Parker witticisms to which I wish I could lay my own claim. Change "Dorothy Parker" to "Ogden Nash" and there's another sub-list in its own right.

* "On Turning Eighty" by Henry Miller. I had thought to begin by saying "I wrote similar thoughts in a blog post about turning 30," but quickly realized that's akin to claiming the ant colony had the Burj Khalifa in mind when building its nest. Miller revels in the youth of his age and unashamedly eschews certain conventions. I wish I could be Miller's 80 in my 30s but perhaps that kind of appreciation takes another half century to cultivate.

Beauty, simplicity, and monumental value packed into every word -- so representative of an aspect of "me" that it leaves me feeling that these individuals somehow delved into my brain and picked them out before they entered my consciousness. Of course, to think that I could come up with such morsels of delight is a manifestation of my ego-based envy. But it's also encouraging because to make it onto the "I wish I'd..." list requires a certain similarity of thinking, a certain oneness. It's like finding friends, even if the friendship is based on only a single shared moment.

An Etiquette Lesson [Writing Exercise]

Prompt: Describe a recently renewed friendship.

She could see him in the periphery. They had been circling the room all evening, delighting the guests at the cocktail party in their subtle but distinct ways yet never in the same place at the same time. First with one person, then another, she added sparkle with her pale presence. He made the rounds as well, sometimes preceding her, generally following while adding his own slightly sharper perspective. He was not appreciated by some whereas she was liked by almost all.

It was understood that they were a package deal, although there was always the occasional thoughtless person who forgot to keep them together in spite of all good manners to the contrary. They made a wonderful couple - everyone said so - albeit an unequal one. She was more popular, passing from person to person lightly, casually, freely. Often he was left behind, stoic in a corner, perhaps resting nearby a pile of dirty dishes or smudged wine glasses while she continued to make the rounds. It was just such an experience that had divided them this last time.

Yet in spite of their many separations, they always gravitated toward each other. They had too much in common, too many shared experiences. Both were global travelers with expensive tastes. They were of a similar age, amazingly ageless yet with old souls that made it seem like they had existed for hundreds, if not thousands of years. They were occasionally misunderstood, villianized. Most amazingly, they had been blamed for causing ill-health by some and yet bringing good health to others. They had both been used, in their own ways. Occasionally they were threatened by outsiders who attempted to capture their popularity by traveling in the same circles, hopping on their coattails. Those outsiders never lasted though. He and she were a forever couple, at times near lookalikes, her stark paleness complemented by his subtle grey and black.

She rested on the edge of a buffet, surveying the room with detachment. A brush of warmth from someone's hand grazed her sculpted shoulder. It was just as quickly gone - yet she knew he was now there.

She sighed, softly glittering in the room's muted light.

He shuddered slightly, struggling to be level at seeing her once more.

She felt transparent, like he could see her half-emptiness - the feeling she always had near the end of an event like this. Yet with him nearby she knew she could be more than she'd been before. He was her complement, her perfect help-mate. She sidled closer, her smooth sides barely touching his sharp angles.

Warily, he looked at her from under his low-placed silver-tinted cap. Would she be taken away by yet another guest, abandoning him to his solitude again?

Her lip curled slightly in a semi-smile as she tilted closer to him, bobbing encouragingly, trying to show with her smooth chill body how she liked his black and grey prickliness.

A guest grabbed them both around their necks, using a single hand to do so. Both she and he felt the slight rise of panic as their insides shifted with fear they would be separated again, quite against their will. They were lifted, their bases leaving the ground, higher, higher, thrust into a shallow space together, the door closed behind them. A thin sliver of light remaining, no more.

They shook themselves slightly, becoming calm, then content, now happy. At peace. Salt and Pepper kept together.

What I Like about Running [Random Nothing]

This has the potential to be a very brief post. I don't love running. I've been known to mutter expletives under my breath at passing mile markers. I enjoy running about as much as I enjoy boiled Brussels sprouts and medical examinations: I tolerate it because I don't know of any other way to achieve the same healthy result.

But this isn't about the many reasons I don't care for running (however therapeutic such a post may be). This is my attempt to leverage cognitive dissonance: if I tell myself often enough that there are things I like about running, perhaps I will indeed like it. So what do I like about running?

1. Health: The obvious reason is still the best reason. Every time my sneakers come in contact with the ground and my body is jarred, I'm reminded that every run will hopefully stave off the onset of osteoporosis or some other condition. This doesn't make me like running really, but it does make me feel pretty virtuous for doing it.

2. You See Cool Things on the Ground. During one run (okay, it was today), there was a tube of uncapped lip gloss on the ground. In a last-minute change in navigation fitting of Magellan, I steered myself over such that my foot would come down on the bottom part of the tube, making hot pink glittery lip gloss squirt out on the springtime weeds poking through the concrete. The 5-yr-old in me that still finds gross things cool thought this whole episode was pretty darn awesome.

3. Old-Fashioned Pleasures. My current running route takes me by a chain-link and several wood slatted fences over creeks and wetlands. With a stick or key fob in hand, I enjoy striking it against the fences and hearing the rhythmic "slap slap slap" syncopated against my breathing and the pulse of my feet against the ground. What's good enough for Tom Sawyer is good enough for me, too.

4. You Never Know Who You'll Meet. Recently, a stray cat crossed my path (it wasn't black so it was okay) and ran next to me for most of a block, stretching its furry haunches and going at a good clip. Now, I don't enjoy much running with others but having that grey-and-cream tabby keep me company was good for a mile's worth of spiritual buoyancy. (Given my running pace, a mile's worth of smiles is a goodly amount of time.)

5. Imagined Endings. I don't often run when it's dark out but when I do, I like peering into the homes of others (from a safe distance on the sidewalk, running with a very non-stalker-like pace) and seeing what other families are doing. Most of the time, they're watching TV which makes me feel smug and self-righteous. Occasionally they're doing something interesting and I can make a story around it. The people who are painting, the woman who was throwing laundry on the floor, the child wielding a guitar like a light-saber, the man doing woodworking in his garage building a cradle or crib. They all have stories. I don't know what they are but I enjoy making up my own sub-titles.

6. School Zones. School zones are a drag. Being a "pedal to the metal" kind of person, I resent having my Adretti-like automotive groove interrupted by school zones. The great thing about running is that I run by the "you are going this speed" signs in school zones, in quasi Michael Scott fashion, never worrying that I'm exceeding the legal speed limit. That's partially because I tend to run on Saturdays when the speed limit doesn't apply. Perhaps on a weekday I'd be more concerned. (Likely not.)

7. Mind Games. I get bored when running - so very bored. Some have told me they run listening to audio-books (irritating), radio (super irritating), or their favorite tunes (fine until you hit a song with a beat that doesn't match the stride). I listen to bland synthpop (normally by FitPod) that at least gets me through but it doesn't quite cut it. So I create games to entertain my wandering mind: I repeat the alphabet or count to a hundred in German, French, or Spanish (about as much of those languages as I remember). I say my times-tables (normally in 4s, 6s, or 7s, my weakest numbers). Most recently, I've started trying to create anagrams from the letters in street signs (good practice for Scrabble). Never underestimate the bored mind's ability to find ridiculous ways to entertain itself.

8. Dryer Sheets. Well, not dryer sheets per se. But about one house per mile will be running its dryer when I jog by and the dryer vent will be facing the street. That puff of dryer sheet fragrance and brief burst of heat is an unexpected delight on a cold wet day with only dog excrement and grass clippings to smell for the rest of the run.

Eight things I like about running. That's more I thought I'd have when I started this, and we still haven't gotten to my favorite reason which is...

9. The Past Participle. My favorite thing about running? Being able to say "I already ran today."

Storytelling [Thoughts]

I see my parents today for the first time in a couple months. My family and I are visiting for Christmas, a surprise visit. After the initial small-talk is over (How were the mountain passes? Oh, let’s not talk about my health. We’re so happy you’re here – how long are you staying?), Dad will inevitably launch into a story. This is normal fare. He is one of many in my family who collects stories, creates stories, shares stories. It can be small – his experience with the local utility company. It can be nostalgic – that favorite Christmas of his 25 years ago when almost the entire family came over for the last Christmas his mother was alive. It can be lengthy – a complete recollection of his time as an on-air radio announcer and deejay in the 50s and 60s. Many of them I have heard so often that I joke that they are numbered. “Oh, you’re going to tell me about that time you and your first wife drove Route 66? Isn’t that story #22?” Like family stories, even this tired joke gets a chuckle acknowledging its truth.

In his story-telling, Dad is not unique. Mother has her stories (her exchange with a taxi driver in France when she meant to tell him she was hot but instead told him she was aroused, the wonderful parties her father would have when he was flush with cash and power, and occasionally stories about her time as an orphan). I only tease her about numbering the happy stories – numbering the sad ones would depress her.

All of my many siblings have great stories: the time they dropped rocks down the drain at a then-new hotel in Arizona; when, as children, the family was so broke that they all shared a container of frozen strawberries for our dad’s birthday; or their memories of their home in Cave Creek where I lived until I was barely a month old but they lived their entire childhood. Before she passed some 25 years ago, my 98-year-old grandmother recorded on audio-cassette many of her stories of living through the Great Depression, her immigration to the United States, and the sights of terrible wars before mankind knew to number them.

I don’t really have any stories.

Oh, sure, I have vague memories but I’m not entirely sure they’re mine or if I borrowed them from an episode of a night-time serial my mother used to watch or perhaps a preteen magazine. There’s that time I was almost swept away at a San Diego beach…or was that my little sister? What about that time I was taken to the hospital to have something inappropriately swallowed removed from my stomach? No, that was Curious George. Well, how about when I was locked in the closet for hours by my brother? Er, but wasn’t that actually Edmund and Lucy in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe? Fine, then! Remember when I had that horrible fever and I had delusional dreams about flowers burning and time travel? Oh. No. That was Mrs. O’Keefe in A Swiftly Tilting Planet.

I try to remember experiences, try to shape them into some kind of framework that consists of a beginning, middle, and end. But they’re not there. I have impressions, snapshots of raw emotion that I know occurred tied to an event – some good, some sad, some hurtful, some life-changing. But no memories, no context, no stories.

Occasionally, I’ll ask my parents during a story re-telling: When was this? Was I born yet? What did you do with me at this time? From their answers, I can imagine a road-trip to Mississippi as a toddler when my sister ran away with a boy, an exciting trip to Mexico, or a visit to my grandfather’s prison cell near the end of his life. But most of their best stories occurred pre-me. I’m not even a starlet cameo in the movie of their lives.

None of this leaves me feeling unimportant or unloved. It does leave me feeling boring, though, without any tragedies or triumphs of note. I feel groundless, without ties, like dandelion spore released from its head after my sons have loosened it with their breath. (They believe each floating seed becomes a faerie.)

I also feel pressured into a decision, either to acquire more stories from others to pass onto my children or to set about creating our own. And maybe that is what gets to the heart of it: to share others’ stories is risk-free entertainment but to create one’s own involves effort and choices, perhaps even sacrifice. I’m not sure that’s me.

But that’s not a decision that needs to be made this week. We’re home for Christmas and it’s time to listen to my parents’ stories.

Communication Techniques [Random Thoughts]

Among the little ironies of life for which I'm thankful is that I have two children. This is really quite a fortunate happenstance since I hadn't planned on having any. After my first son was born, my father insisted we needed to have a second child. He claimed that, as an only child himself, being an only child was extremely lonely and kept one from building good social skills. "Okay, Dad, thanks for the input," thought I, "but your input isn't really enough for me to go through pregnancy, labor, and recuperation just on your say-so."

But, son of a gun if the old man isn't right. I had siblings, but the age difference was so great that the older ones were never really around much and I couldn't be troubled with the little ones. That's not to say I didn't pick up certain skills. According to my sibs, I dead-floated in the pool scaring them off swimming (true), negotiated the younger children out of their money (true), and punched one in the stomach (totally untrue). These are methods of managing conflict that still serve me today (avoidance, persuasion, and a different kind of persuasion).

When watching my two boys communicate, I realize they're benefiting in much the same way in learning boundaries and appropriateness, as well as how to work with each other.

When to Stop:Recently, Castor learned a lesson that you can only boss someone around so much before they fight back. He walked up to Pollux and, out of the blue and without any good reason, pushed Pollux's shoulder. Pollux, two years younger but considerably stockier, looked up from his cars, got a little glint in his eye, and pushed Castor back in the same manner. Back and forth they shoved until finally Castor said, "I'm older than you, Pollux!" [shove] Pollux's response? [super hard shove, Castor falls backwards, turns teary, and Pollux giggles]

Applying Logic:One of the unanticipated results of enrolling the children in private school is hearing certain fables quoted in daily conversation. Most recently they have used the golden rule and Jesus's claim in Matthew's Gospel that "the last shall be first and the first shall be last." Like fledgling philosophers, the children interpret (and re-interpret) these lessons for their own nefarious purposes. A typical exchange goes like this:

Pollux: [plays with a beloved toy of Castor's]
Castor: [walks behind Castor, shoves him, makes a grab for toy]
Pollux: [pushes Castor, protects toy]
Castor: [hits Pollux, takes toy back]
Me: "Boys! Do not hit each other!"
Castor: "But Mom! Pollux hit me first! And you're supposed to treat people the way they want to be treated so he must have wanted me to hit him!"
Me: "It doesn't matter. We don't hit. Also, Pollux give Castor back his toy - you know to not play with that one."
Pollux: "Fine! The last shall be first and the first shall be last so if I'm last to play with the toy that means I'll be first next time!"

Teamwork:My husband has an iTouch which is apparently the boys' white whale. The boys aren't technically allowed to play with it, although they've managed to spend enough time with it to navigate with acuity. Every night it is put away in a different location in a place difficult to find and reach. And every weekend morning, while we sleep in late, it manages to...disappear.

We always find it, located behind some large piece of furniture coddled protectively by four little hands, a cool screen glow making the boys' eyes shiny. Given the effort we spend in hiding it, we're always surprised they manage to find it - so one morning, we roused ourselves to awareness to figure it out.

It generally works like this: First, Pollux, the younger, cuddlier one runs into our room, crawls in between us and says, "cuddle me, Mommy and Daddy." Naturally we oblige. Within moments, Castor stealthily tip-toes in with a small step stool and some kind of long stick-like toy (lightsaber, hanger, paper towel roll, etc.). He sets up shop in the vicinity of the closet and goes hunting for the iTouch. Occasionally, he peeks out to make sure we're still slumbering and then he goes back to work iTouch foraging.

Once Castor finds the elusive electronic treasure, he normally mutters a breathy "Yes!", puts the iTouch in his pajamas pocket, and takes his tools of the trade out of the room with him. He then runs back, lightly climbs on the bed, taps on Pollux's shoulder who clambers out of the covers after Castor. They close the bedroom door and then count on us sleeping while they amuse themselves with their ill-gotten gains.

What have I learned from this? Yes, my dad was right. Also, they'll learn much from each other and sibling relationships are great preparation for interacting with others, with a few years of refinement, of course.

Seeking the Short Answer [Thoughts]

A friend and I chatted it up recently about answering questions: do people normally want the short answer or the long answer to any given question? We agreed that most (all?) want the short answer. Sometimes I do too. (Mentally, I ruthlessly redline my co-workers' e-mails to remove unnecessary verbiage or break down concepts into bullets.) Yet I am often incapable of forming a short answer myself.

For some, the short answer is no problem to give or accept. A question like, "why is the sky blue?" elicits an answer of "because it's a reflection of the ocean" and most are satisfied. But I'm not. This answer would lead me to other questions followed by a few online keyword searches and maybe a book purchase or two. Within a few weeks, I'll have amassed enough layman's trivia about the atmosphere, planetary physics, and light scattering to bore even the least socially inclined person at that next cocktail party. If you're lucky, I may even throw in a little analysis of the philosophical question, "what is 'sky'?" (And if you were wondering, I don't get invited to a lot of cocktail parties...at least not a second time.)

The fact is, I never grew out of my toddler stage. You know, the one every parent dreads: the stage of the endless "but why?" questions. It didn't help that my parents were often able to answer all of them, or at least try. Their careers include landlord, chicken farm owner, real estate sales, bartender, accounting, restaurateur, deejay, media sales, photographer, chemistry/forestry professor, parent, and more. Add to that life experience and the hobbies of home schooling, animal husbandry, gardening, meteorology, sewing, target shooting, military history, singing, and affiliations, by turns, with the Catholic, Mormon, Christian Science, Jewish faiths and you have parents who can pretty much answer any question a child can ask.

I'm doomed to not only normally wanting the long answer but expecting to receive it.

Some people make a living out of the long answer: Michael Pollan, Simon Winchester, Bill Bryson, Mary Roach, C.S. Lewis, Henry Petroski. These are people who probably got the short answer many times but kept on asking...and then wrote a book about it. They have written on the coevolution of humans and corn, the history of the OED, the evolution of the entryway and its etymology, the scientific dissection of the sensation of orgasm, the differences between the human and canine soul, and the design of the paperclip (respectively). If these authors are present in my library, do I even have a prayer of ever composing the short answer?

The short answer cheats us. Whatever gains in time we receive by accepting the short answer, we lose in richness of understanding. You mean you don't want to fully understand the differences between the frequently confused concepts of the virgin birth and immaculate conception as it relates to Jesus and Mary? Gah! Listening to the long answer would result in probably most Catholics realizing they're actually Protestants (if a Christian at all). You don't want to know why cheese or sugar often isn't vegetarian or how a specific virus both fueled and destroyed tulip mania and the Dutch economy in the 1600s and is occasionally considered the first speculative bubble by economists? Tsk tsk. However will you win at Trivial Pursuit?

This extends to a personal level, too. So often I have learned more about others because I just kept asking, "why?" or "tell me more." I cherish those experiences because they are the closest I've ever felt like I achieved a true human connection with another. It's exciting, it's intimate, and it's lasting.

So what's wrong with the short answer? Nothing. But let's say Don Williams is correct in saying that life is about the journey, not the destination. The short answer is a shortcut to easy fulfillment - it takes you immediately to your destination. But within the long answer is the journey of understanding and that's where one fineds all the true rewards.

No, It's Not Just Me...

There are people out there who find my sense of humor to be, well...quirky. I admit, there are times when I manage to egotistically delight myself with my own wit and the humor of my surroundings and observations. Occasionally I dispair that no one "gets" me, but then I'm consoled with (again, egotistical) belief that if others don't get me, it's because their sense of humor isn't as "developed" as mine.

Fortunately, I'm lucky in that there are a smattering of people who, on any number of levels, can find humor in the same things I do. Examples: A former colleague has as his e-mail footer, "There are only 10 types of people in the world: One who gets digital and one who does not." A friend of mine from a once-attended parish knows saying "Father Hormone" cracks me up, and my sister and husband know why I find, "You're treading on thin ice" to be so chuckle-worthy. Another former (Jewish) colleague shares my laughter about when I gave her a Jesus action figure for Christmas. My brother and I snicker whenever we see the Disneyland Parade of Stars with the mushrooms dancing; we also bond over the not-as-frequently visited sections of Craigslist and find the "a-frayed knot!" joke pretty funny. Finally, my best friend knows why "rum raisin" and "you two must be twins!" induces such hilarity.

Then, there's my dear ol' pa and a recent e-mail he sent me. To help prepare you, Dad is also the one who introduces me as "my daughter, named after her dad, George." The brief story behind this is that dear ol' ma found an antique teak (say that 10 times fast, "antique teak antique teak", and you may sound like a woodpecker) elephant children's rocking toy that she wanted to send my way. Before going through the effort to do so, I asked that they take a picture of it. Dad, ever gracious and willing to oblige, did so. The picture is below with his e-mail. I find this pretty darn funny. At first, I wasn't going to share this but I'm pretty sure at least 6 other people (all of whom related to me) will find it equally giggle-worthy.

---BEGIN E-MAIL FROM DAD---
The Lincoln Division of the Ford Motor Company triumphs again with this newest innovation in custom, unique styling. Under design for a number of years, Lincoln today unveiled, accompanied by the oo's and ah's of a select previewing public, what will become the symbol of American automotive ingenuity. Toyota...BEWARE!

Resistance Is Not Futile

Although October 1 isn't an official holiday (that I know), for me it marks the unofficial start of what I call 'the baking season.' It's when even the most pedestrian of cooks grabs their boxes of Betty Crocker or buy-in-the-dairy-section cookie dough and the more daring light a candle to their favorite celebrity patron baking saint on Food Network and begin combing obscure baking blogs for recipes they can "whip up" and share.

The season continues at least through the end of the year, although has been known to persist through February with its flourless chocolate dome cakes and caramel ganache. The flow of carbohydrates and calories is never-ending, merely shape-shifting -- whether that shape-shifting be from Halloween caramel-covered apples to Thanksgiving Dutch apple pies or the less-desirable shape-sifting from a size 6 to a size 10.

As a mildly capable cook and baker myself, I understand the desire to bake, as well as the need to share the wealth (one four-person home can only consume so much sugary goodness). But I also realize that stretchy pants should only be worn a certain number of times in a week. Once that threshold is exceeded, it's time to stop eating.

But how to stop eating when you are beseiged on every front with temptations? Perhaps this is what it feels like to be Tiger Woods at a Barbie-lookalike convention. (Ooh, was that too soon?) No doubt about it, whether going to the local shipping depot, the family holiday party, or the workplace, the calories flow abundantly. It requires one to be on their most vigilant guard.

When I try to resist treats, I find it helpful to understand the (sometimes underhanded or subconscious) motivation of the person who brought them in. This helps me identify the appropriate avoidance technique.

Baker's Motivation: “I really enjoy baking but my family can’t possibly eat everything I make so I’m sharing some of the bounty with you. Please enjoy.”

Avoidance Technique: Righteous indignation. (Think: "I AM NOT A GARBAGE DISPOSAL!")

Baker's Motivation: “My weight loss efforts have been unsuccessful so by making you gain weight through the treats I bring in, I feel less bad and more successful/validated.”

Avoidance Technique: Competitive zeal! (Think: “You’re not going to use me! And I’m going to feel so good being thinner than you!”)

Baker's Motivation: “I received these treats from a good-intentioned parent/sibling/distant relative and I can’t deal with the guilt of throwing them away myself. Please enjoy them so I don’t feel guilty.”

Avoidance Technique: Compassion. (Think: “Here, let me help you put them in the garbage.”)

Baker's Motivation: “I rely on your public pronouncement that you enjoy these homemade treats for my own self-worth. If you don’t try them, I’ll feel like I’m not a good enough cook and possibly be deeply insulted. Please enjoy.”

Avoidance Technique: Craftiness. (Think: “These look to. Die. For. Delicious! But I’m allergic to gluten/dairy/air and am on a strict medically-enforced abstinence diet from my doctor.”)

Don't get me wrong - I am not above any of these motivations myself. It is through using them, though, that I am able to better understand it in others and navigate the battlefield of balance versus indulgence.

Voyages with the Hyper-Sensitive

My son, Castor, and I share many bonds. Our eyes are the same color and shape. He also has my nose (although it looks better on him). We both adore reading and music. Although my tastes are a bit more mature, we both enjoy a good literary romp with Dr. Seuss or a tune with Julie Andrews. As early as nine months old, Castor was plotting to steal my beloved iced tea and he’s recently taken to absconding with my chai tea lattes. We both are in a quest for fairness, although my hope is more for global compassion for one’s fellow human and animal whereas Castor’s is seeking train-sharing equity. Castor would like to marry a good bowl of Aunt Scully’s popcorn and have its babies, if he could. Hopefully, popcorn is into non-exclusive relationships because I have designs on it as well. He is my first-born - coincidentally, I’m also his first mother. Castor is one of his dad’s biggest fans, but at this point in his life, he’s still my Mini Me.

We also share allergies, although he’s worse off. Whereas I exist with the knowledge that the pollen Mafia has a seasonal hit out on me, Castor’s little body is in perpetual war with almost all nuts and sesame seed. If I drug myself heavily and live like a Morlock for four or five months, I might survive the year in minimal agony. But Castor (and us as his parents) have a year-round struggle against nuts and seeds of all kinds.

To be honest, we have it pretty easy relative to other families whose children have dietary allergies. Whereas some children would disintegrate into a non-breathing, swollen pile of goo at the merest inhalation of peanut dust, Castor needs to actually ingest it. In our home, we have a bottle of sesame oil and peanut butter on our highest kitchen shelf. I’ve been known to have a little sesame vinaigrette dressing on my cucumbers with Castor sitting next to me, and nothing terrible has occurred. In fact, we do some of this intentionally. Based on what we’ve read, it doesn’t seem like putting a child in a hypo-allergenic bubble reduces his or her sensitivity, but there is some evidence that extremely limited exposure (generally under medical supervision) can at least ensure a child will build up a modest immunity to small amounts of their respective Kryptonite. While we’re not participating in any of those clinical trials underway, we practice this a little at home – not by allowing Castor to eat any of the foods, but by allowing the occasional chocolate covered pistachio in the house or letting him eat Honey Nut Cheerios (made with almond meal, and almond being the only nut to which he is not allergic).


This is actually how we learned of his allergy. One night, I was tossing back a few chocolate-covered pistachios for dessert when I gave Castor one to see if he’d like it. Within minutes, he was vomiting and a half hour later, his stomach resembled the scaly underbelly of a Gila monster. Even after a dose of children’s Benadryl, Castor resembled a victim of the mumps. A later allergy test confirmed what we’d observed: anaphylaxis to nuts. When six months later, he had a bite of his dad’s noodle dish and grew lips that would make Angelina Jolie envious, we had him retested and added another item to the list: sesame seed and its oil.

Fast forward to today: We have four Epipens available at all times (1 for home/backup, 1 for car/travel, 1 at school, 1 at after-care). We’ve yet to use one and every year we need a fresh set of four. Health care system abuse watchdogs? Meet the Willowbottom family, wasters of four Epipens a year. But, what is the alternative? Based on everything we’ve read and learned from the experiences of others, there will someday come a time when Benadryl won’t cover it and that adrenaline shot will be what makes the difference.

There’s a lot to be said for preventative care. Ideally, neither Epipen nor Benadryl will never be used because a child’s exposure will be eliminated. That’s a happy thought, but impossible in reality unless you live in the bubble that (in my opinion) parents ought to strive to avoid. So we do the best we can: we keep those verboten products on the top shelf, we let Castor go to school with other children realizing there is risk, and we go out to eat occasionally.

It’s actually that last activity that prompted this post. During a recent road trip, we stopped at a restaurant for a quick bite on the long trip home. I ordered the easy dishes first (husband’s and mine, no alterations needed). Then, I ordered both kids’ dishes. Even though Pollux doesn’t have any identified food allergies, we realize the boys often share cutlery and food so we try to keep them both allergen-free.

Me to cashier: “Is there any nut or seed product in any component of the kids’
rice/noodle bowls?”

Cashier: “No, just noodles, rice, tofu, and vegetables.”

Me: “What about the oil used to cook it? Any seed or nut oils?”

Cashier: “No, we normally use a spicy oil with a bit of pepper in it but no nuts or seeds.”

Me: “Is the oil derived from nuts/seeds or is it like a soy or canola oil?”

Cashier: “It doesn’t come from nuts or seeds.”

Alrighty then. So I complete our order, the meals, kids, and husband come to the table and we dive in. About 10 minutes into it, Castor complains of his throat being “spicy” (translation: tingly and itchy). A tummy inspection shows clean skin but his eyes are a little bloodshot. Fatigue or exposure? Tough to tell. We wait a couple minutes until it’s clear that it’s definitely exposure. An Epipen is always our last resort and only if there’s clear evidence of breathing difficulties. Swollen eyes and lips, splotchy skin, whining not related to brotherly torment, and that’s cause for Benadryl.

Within moments, it’s obvious that Castor has ingested something to which he’s allergic. Husband goes to the car to hunt for the Benadryl and I go up to cross-examine the cashier. She had previously assured me no nuts, seeds, or their byproducts were in their food so this episode could be evidence of a previously unknown food allergy.

Me to cashier: “Hi, remember when I asked you about the nuts and seeds and
nut/seed oils? Can you tell me what else is in those dishes?”

Cashier: “I can’t tell you everything that’s in them because it’s our proprietary
recipe.”

Me: “Well, I don’t plan on selling your recipe or making this dish at home. My son has had an allergic reaction to something and I need to figure out what was in that dish.”

Cashier: “I really can’t tell you because that is our company’s recipe.”

Me: “If I need to take my son to the hospital, I need to know what he ate. Who can tell me what was in that dish?”

Cashier: “Cooper,” gesturing to the line cook, “come here.”

Cooper: “What d’ya want?”

Cashier: “Just come here.”

Cooper: “Are you going to sexually harass me again?”

Cashier: “You know you like it. Just come here.”

Cooper: “Okay, I’m coming over but only because I like it.”

[Author’s comment: While it was delightful to watch their 20-something pubescent flirting, I had a son being carried to the car who more closely resembled a blow fish than a child.]

Cashier to Cooper: “Can you tell this lady what is in the kids’ noodle and rice
bowls?”

Cooper: “Uh, no. That’s our proprietary recipe and we can’t tell people what’s in it.”

Me: “Look, my son is having an allergic reaction to something that was in that dish. I’m clearly not looking to replicate it. What are the ingredients?”

Cooper: “Well, there’s soy sauce, walnut oil, sesame seed…”

Me to Cashier: “I asked you specifically if there was either nuts or seeds or their oils in their dish and you said no.”

Cashier (smiling): “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”

Me: “I’m sure you are sorry but I asked you an important question and my son is allergic to both nuts and seeds.”

Cashier: “Well you didn’t tell me he had an allergy. If you had, I would’ve asked.”

With crystal clarity of thought cradled in a red sea of rage, I clean off the table, collect my other son and things, and go to the car where husband awaits with my puffy-faced son. We stuff him with a double-dose of Benadryl, flip a U-turn, and head back to the highway home to see how far we can get before he begins vomiting (answer: 89.1 miles).

The final rub? When we did the U-turn, we saw the back side of the restaurant’s marquee which proclaimed in bold black letters: “We don’t use nuts or seeds in any of our dishes!”