I think it was two summers ago. Maybe not. Who knows. I was at Barton Springs in ATX, watching all the hipsters and reformed hipster families mill around the 71 degree natural fed pool. I watched people lay on the grass in the sun, in love. And watched people in the shade, in love. I watched kids scrape their knees and their dads hold them. I kept count of bad tattoos and good tattoos and jort sightings.
There is a diving board that serves tiny children and grown up children. They all jump off and attempt (or succeed) at tricks. Everyone watches. It's fun and sad. And, since I can't dive, sort of maddening.
After some dude with a dragon tattoo jumped off the board and belly-flopped a little boy with shiny blond-white hair, wearing a life jacket, gingerly walked up the diving board stairs. He slowly, and carefully, walked to the edge of the of the diving board and immediately began to look terrified. He walked back and forth. Starting down the stairs, back to safety and changing his mind, walking to the edge again and becoming terrified all over again. His indecision went on for 3-5 minutes as 400 Barton Springs goers looked on, in suspense. His mom and dad grew more and more uncomfortable.
Someone started clapping. Then someone started yelling "Jump!" and before long, this little boy had 400 Austinites rooting him on. Clapping, whooping, and yelling encouraging things. Everyone knew how to encourage this kid that they didn't know. Everyone wanted him to overcome his terror and claim victory of the diving board. It was one of the only moments that I've felt that people are all the same and mostly good.
After more waffling, this now famous little boy decided he couldn't do it. It was too much. His mom picked him off the stairs and took him back to the safety of their family.
Of those 400 or so people at Barton Springs that day, everyone knew how to encourage and root for someone they don't even know. I wonder when, and how, and why this doesn't happen in real life. Why adults tear down other adults, why adults want other adults to fall and drown, or just have to back off the board. I wonder why you'd never see 400 Austinities cheering on an adult who is afraid to jump. Someone would probably call her/him a loser. Or a pussy. Or yell at them to get the F*** off the board.
Aren't we all just kids who got old?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Frito Pie Retrospective
There is a picture of my dad and me laughing in front of a steep wall of rock. I keep this picture above my sink because it reminds me of Frito Pie, my dad, laughing, and torturing my poor mother.
We were driving somewhere that had mountains. Rocky, steep cliff on one side of the curvy road, long drop off on the other. It was summer and we were on vacation. Claire and I sat in the back of the rental car. Dad drove, mom rode shotgun. Claire and I would sleep, laugh, eat, and fight. Mom would yell and dad would eat Corn Nuts and sneeze really grossly. We'd all get uber dramatic and roll down the windows to let the sneeze out.
This particular ride was memorable not because of the Corn Nuts or the gagging but because we made our mother physically ill by mentioning Frito Pie. You see, the road was curvy and Dad had a lead foot. Mom was bordering vomiting and keeping it together.
Claire and I keep a mental storage bank of things that put mom over the edge. Frito Pie is one of them. Tag teaming mom with mentions of meaty, rich Frito Pie with chili and cheese and tiny onions commenced. I talked about the color of the chili about the crunch of the Frito's. Mom was yelling at us to stop. Dad was doing the wheeze-laugh where you were sure his brain would explode.
Claire brought out a little writing board from our toy bag and I wrote "Frito Pie"and "MMMMM" with a picture of a steaming bowl. Tiny Frito like squares were coming out of the bowl.
We put this masterpiece in front of my mom's face and she started dry heaving. VICTORY!! Dad pulled over. Mom dry heaved over the edge of the mountain. Dad and I got out of the car and walked around. We watched mom wretch on this road and laughed, our arms around each other, watching victoriously.
We were driving somewhere that had mountains. Rocky, steep cliff on one side of the curvy road, long drop off on the other. It was summer and we were on vacation. Claire and I sat in the back of the rental car. Dad drove, mom rode shotgun. Claire and I would sleep, laugh, eat, and fight. Mom would yell and dad would eat Corn Nuts and sneeze really grossly. We'd all get uber dramatic and roll down the windows to let the sneeze out.
This particular ride was memorable not because of the Corn Nuts or the gagging but because we made our mother physically ill by mentioning Frito Pie. You see, the road was curvy and Dad had a lead foot. Mom was bordering vomiting and keeping it together.
Claire and I keep a mental storage bank of things that put mom over the edge. Frito Pie is one of them. Tag teaming mom with mentions of meaty, rich Frito Pie with chili and cheese and tiny onions commenced. I talked about the color of the chili about the crunch of the Frito's. Mom was yelling at us to stop. Dad was doing the wheeze-laugh where you were sure his brain would explode.
Claire brought out a little writing board from our toy bag and I wrote "Frito Pie"and "MMMMM" with a picture of a steaming bowl. Tiny Frito like squares were coming out of the bowl.
We put this masterpiece in front of my mom's face and she started dry heaving. VICTORY!! Dad pulled over. Mom dry heaved over the edge of the mountain. Dad and I got out of the car and walked around. We watched mom wretch on this road and laughed, our arms around each other, watching victoriously.
Monday, January 3, 2011
go ahead. you'll live.
As most new years begin, I'm determined to eat right and work out and lose that part that makes my pants hard to close. I anticipate this determination will last between 2-3 weeks. I suspect, that along with every other American, I will fail to eat what I should, I'll hit snooze too many times and not workout. This year, I know it. Im not pretending. I'm trying.
The marketing engine that is America is well versed in playing on this short lived determination. I read somewhere between 4- 10,000 articles on Eat This! Not That!, how eating more legumes will help me lose belly fat, how to stay on track, and how a handful of almonds and some fucking Crasins should keep me satisfied between lunch and dinner.
The truth is, none of this shit works. Lifestyles work. Not using pasta as a coping mechanism works. Not running for Chipotle every time shit hits the fan works. Not liking Velveeta and fancy brie at the same time works. Crasins are just not the same. I don't care how many you eat.
I'm not sure why everyone needs to be told that the Olive Garden's Tour of Italy is bad for them. We know that. It has creme sauce, fried chicken, and pasta. We get it. We also get that it is ridiculously good. We don't eat out because we want to eat healthy. We eat out because it makes us feel good.
Good, healthy food has its place--in every refrigerator and every table across America. But, so does the Tour of Italy. Things like the Tour of Italy and Outback Steakhouse's Blooming Onion are what make life worth living.
Just make sure you aren't living to eat. But eating to live, really live.
Pass the brie/velveeta.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Don't. I'll vomit.
I have fond memories of Sunday lunches when I was younger, a tween and teen. Dad would cook something either really good or really gross and we'd all eat together. I'd usually be wearing some awkward outfit or oversized pajamas to hide my uneven boobs (don't worry, they are better now, kinda). My hair would be cut into a triangle, frizzy, and I'd have horrific bangs. Claire would be wearing some mismatched outfit. She would have spent the morning playing with an animal or gluing paper together or solving engineering problems in her room.
The kitchen would be warm, the newspaper strewn on one end of the table. Dad would cook with a kitchen towel over one shoulder.
I remember one Sunday well. Dad had made quite a spread. We were eating fried chicken strips and green beans and potatoes and the whole deal. Only, Claire refused to eat the green beans. She insisted over and over that she didn't like them. Dad didn't like definitive statements. Saying you would not do something was pretty much asking to be made to do it. The lunch went on like this. Dad insisting, Claire insisting should would not. Finally, lunch was over and Claire had a mess of green beans on her plate. She was going to have to eat them.
Dad and I began cleaning kitchen while tiny little Claire sat alone at the table struggling to get the green beans down. Dad was washing dishes while I piled dirty ones on the counter, one eye on Claire.
And then, Claire began to quietly and neatly vomit onto her plate. Not explosive, I'm dying of the plague vomit--but quiet, roll out of your mouth, fuck you vomit. Dad looked over just after I did. He began shaking his head. I don't remember what happened next.
What I do remember is that Claire didn't have to eat green beans anymore. To this day, I have never seen a better "told you so". Congrats Claire, you remain the queen--of timely vomiting.
The kitchen would be warm, the newspaper strewn on one end of the table. Dad would cook with a kitchen towel over one shoulder.
I remember one Sunday well. Dad had made quite a spread. We were eating fried chicken strips and green beans and potatoes and the whole deal. Only, Claire refused to eat the green beans. She insisted over and over that she didn't like them. Dad didn't like definitive statements. Saying you would not do something was pretty much asking to be made to do it. The lunch went on like this. Dad insisting, Claire insisting should would not. Finally, lunch was over and Claire had a mess of green beans on her plate. She was going to have to eat them.
Dad and I began cleaning kitchen while tiny little Claire sat alone at the table struggling to get the green beans down. Dad was washing dishes while I piled dirty ones on the counter, one eye on Claire.
And then, Claire began to quietly and neatly vomit onto her plate. Not explosive, I'm dying of the plague vomit--but quiet, roll out of your mouth, fuck you vomit. Dad looked over just after I did. He began shaking his head. I don't remember what happened next.
What I do remember is that Claire didn't have to eat green beans anymore. To this day, I have never seen a better "told you so". Congrats Claire, you remain the queen--of timely vomiting.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Caramel Frappucino Chicken Wings
Social norms are my favorite. They keep me safe from weird things happening, most the time. This was not the case yesterday. I was sitting in the lobby area of Jester waiting for class time. I was listening to some sweet jams, answering emails, and feeling really satisfied with my life.
Let me pause here to tell you folks what Jester is. Jester is the biggest dorm in the country. It's like a mall with rooms on the upper floors. There is a Starbuck's, a Wendy's, a Pizza Hut, you get it. It is CRAWLING with undergraduates in their Nike running shorts, Uggs, and t-shirts. There are tables everywhere of some cultural society trying to sell you cupcakes. I happen to have class in one of the few classrooms in this building.
So there I sit, watching the chaos swirl around me. I'm sitting on gray faux leather loveseat thing. There are approximately 34 other seats around me. Some close, some more than 20 feet away. There are 5 other people sitting all scattered around with a socially normal space in between them. One of them is carefully eating her sandwich and chips, making sure not to make too much noise or be gross. I appreciate her.
This girl walks into the seating area. She is carrying a take out tiny box that says pizza hut. I immediately think breadsticks. She is also carrying a Venti caramel frappucino. Gross. I think about how sad her glucose levels will be in 2 hours.
I've seen this girl before. She always sits here when I do but we've never talked.
And here enters the downward spiral of social norms. She passes the 28 open seats. And sits in the chair right next to me. She is now 7 inches from my ear. Now the spiral reaches the speed of sound. She opens her Pizza Hut box to reveal 8-12 honey BBQ chicken wings. The smell hits my face. And I feel queasy. "Ok, Alix. Take a deep breath. You are ok. They are just chicken wings."
Speed of light--she begins eating these chicken wings. Not politely like the sandwich girl. Her face is covered in sauce. She is eating these chicken wings like she is a fucking T-Rex. Then she morphs into a prehistoric creature and SUCKS ON THE BONE. Sucks on the bone with audible noises. And, so, naturally I dry heave. No one notices.
She takes a huge slurp of caramel frappucino. The cup has translucent bits of honey BBQ sauce mixing with condensation. It's too much. I can't live this way.
I pick up my bag. I move to the other seat. And, T-Rex gives me a dirty look and wipes her talon on the seat.
Really.
Let me pause here to tell you folks what Jester is. Jester is the biggest dorm in the country. It's like a mall with rooms on the upper floors. There is a Starbuck's, a Wendy's, a Pizza Hut, you get it. It is CRAWLING with undergraduates in their Nike running shorts, Uggs, and t-shirts. There are tables everywhere of some cultural society trying to sell you cupcakes. I happen to have class in one of the few classrooms in this building.
So there I sit, watching the chaos swirl around me. I'm sitting on gray faux leather loveseat thing. There are approximately 34 other seats around me. Some close, some more than 20 feet away. There are 5 other people sitting all scattered around with a socially normal space in between them. One of them is carefully eating her sandwich and chips, making sure not to make too much noise or be gross. I appreciate her.
This girl walks into the seating area. She is carrying a take out tiny box that says pizza hut. I immediately think breadsticks. She is also carrying a Venti caramel frappucino. Gross. I think about how sad her glucose levels will be in 2 hours.
I've seen this girl before. She always sits here when I do but we've never talked.
And here enters the downward spiral of social norms. She passes the 28 open seats. And sits in the chair right next to me. She is now 7 inches from my ear. Now the spiral reaches the speed of sound. She opens her Pizza Hut box to reveal 8-12 honey BBQ chicken wings. The smell hits my face. And I feel queasy. "Ok, Alix. Take a deep breath. You are ok. They are just chicken wings."
Speed of light--she begins eating these chicken wings. Not politely like the sandwich girl. Her face is covered in sauce. She is eating these chicken wings like she is a fucking T-Rex. Then she morphs into a prehistoric creature and SUCKS ON THE BONE. Sucks on the bone with audible noises. And, so, naturally I dry heave. No one notices.
She takes a huge slurp of caramel frappucino. The cup has translucent bits of honey BBQ sauce mixing with condensation. It's too much. I can't live this way.
I pick up my bag. I move to the other seat. And, T-Rex gives me a dirty look and wipes her talon on the seat.
Really.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
I have to make a shout out.
My dear friend Rachel introduced me to Hyberbole and a Half, the best blog EVER, written by Allie Brosh.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
a lentil
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