Literacy in Labels?

The back of the Kashi cereal box and I have become very intimate. I will give you calories per serving, the top five ingredients, and their peppy slogan, "7 Whole Grains on a Mission!" If I am spending the weekend at your house, be aware that I am picking up your shampoo bottles in the shower and comparing the chemicals in each to one another. Yes, I do read the entire menu even if I already know what I want, and I turn closed captioning on the TV even though I have no trouble hearing. During church, I can't help but notice if there is a misplaced apostrophe on one of the powerpoint slides. I love reading things forwards and backwards--especially backwards because once in a while I get a funny word, like "agabatur" from "rutabaga," or "noelopan" from "napoleon."

I like reading nametags because then I can picture a tiny drawing made from the letters to help me remember the name. For example, the Sue I met this summer at the church picnic had those two really annoying kids who kept pushing each other down the slide, and I imagine them, just so, riding down Sue's little curved S.

On road trips, I get car sick if I read novels. So, I read highway mile signs, billboards, "For weather information, tune your radio to ------" signs, "You have just entered ------" signs, construction signs, warnings, and car makes and models.

Beware if you grocery shop with me because I will read every brand and sometimes just pick a product based on how poetically or cleverly the words mesh. I hate sitting in college classrooms because there are no sappy inspirational posters for my eyes to revert to when the lecture gets boring. So instead, I read the backs of people's shirts and I try to spell every person in the class's name backwards in my head, starting in one corner and ending in the other.

But I hate reading long and boring textbooks. I don't like strings of unnecessary words in a paragraph and I don't love every novel I read. Gasp. And it's not like I find great insight in reading Drivers' Ed manuals, but I didn't really realize what a fancy I had for reading things in everyday life until I was prompted to write this blog. So this makes me wonder--are people who only read labels, signs, and the backs of movie boxes considered "uneducated" because they haven't read the entire Paradise Lost? Maybe, by some people. But they probably have a lot more common sense than people who can only define what a heroic couplet is and can't operate a toaster. Just saying.

A Farewell to Modesty

            Along with summer comes the insatiable hunger to have the “bronze glow,” to show off just how much more tan you can get than your friend without turning into a fire-roasted crustacean.

            So comes the day when I decide to conform to what everyone else’s pastime has become this season. Out of respect for the neighbors and for any passersby, I take the time to set up the tanning booth my father had attempted and failed to patent many years before. It works, for about a day, before tumbling to the earth in the middle of the windy night. Hoping not to repeat the incident, I set up a barricade of lawn furniture, mostly chairs, grills, trashcans, and a large sheet, for some privacy. Not so long after, a variety of garden insects begin to flock to the shaded region, from which I have no escape and eventually have to vault myself over our R2D2-shaped grill to flee a demon-possessed fire ant.

            At this point, my neighbor Cindy decides to come home for lunch from her job at Radio Shack. She lumbers out of her Buick and begins watering the roses that line the fence separating our yards. Seriously, Cindy? Watering plants at one o’clock in the afternoon? She takes her time making sure that every stem is fully hydrated and finally makes the long trek back up her steps.

            Ah sweet privacy! But not for long. Just as I am breathing a sigh of relief, there is simultaneous commotion coming from both the alleyway and the neighbors across the street. My head snaps both directions and I gather that, one, a band of hooligans is about to parade past the back of my house and two, my other neighbors have just come home and their children think it necessary to screech like wild banshees while chasing each other with giant sticks outside my driveway. I dive back into my batcave of gardening machinery and lawn tables.

            Then comes the third attempt. I hang a sheet from the clothesline and pin it to chairs on the ground, using the fence as the other wall. I finally feel assured that this method will be fail-proof. I enjoy myself, basking in the warm sunlight for those enjoyable 30 seconds before a small family of wasps decides to buzz around the foliage surrounding the fence, about 2 feet away from me. At first they don’t bother me too badly, but soon I find myself suspiciously opening one eye to watch them as they fly overhead. Visions of “My Girl” and Macaulay Culkin dying a horrible death near the wasps’ nest races through my mind.

            Persuaded that yes, I will be a shade darker by the end of the day, I scoot my chair away from the clothesline, away from the wasps, and a few feet further from the fence. I then clothespin a sheet to a trashcan and two lawn chairs, a variation of my earlier barricade. They only cover one side, but it is an improvement. A wasp buzzes over my face about 4 minutes in. By now, I wouldn’t have cared if a cheeseburger-sized grasshopper were tap dancing on my leg. I just don’t want to get stung. I glance at my tan line, hoping that I will be dark enough to go in now, but no! “Curse this worthless Mexican blood!” I think, “What’s the point if I can’t even tan like we’re supposed to?”

Still, I will not be dissuaded. I think back to my church camp speakers and Shannon Etheridge-reading years regarding modesty and whatnot and a small twinge of guilt stirs my soul…and lasts for about two seconds. I am fuming and this is the last straw.

            I grab my clothes, throw them on the ground in a rebellious fit, then pick them back up again almost immediately as I recalled the tiny spiders that will jump on anything sitting on the grass. I resume my defiant attitude and grab my chair, thrust it in the middle of the lawn, and lie down, no barricades, no sheets, and definitely no grills. And I stay that way for a good 20 minutes before I have to go inside due to heart palpitations and overheating. So there. I have done it. Forget modesty. Forget respect. It’s too much work! I am victorious. I waltz inside, my ego soaring that I have done such a daring feat. I look in the mirror and look for my tan line, expecting a complete transformation.

            I have darkened about ¼ of a shade. 

What Stopped Me in My Tracks (Literally)

There was a chilly autumn stillness in the air the day I found my beloved childhood cat Michi—dead—on the front lawn. Michi, the one I’d stuffed into baby strollers when he was just a tyke. Michi, whom I’d spanked multiple times for scratching the wood siding in the house. Michi, the little kitten I’d owned and loved for eleven years. 

I recall that I was home alone, and walking from the kitchen to the dining room to put something away when, outside the window, I beheld a gray lumpy heap on the grass and froze. I dropped what I was doing and ran barefoot outside through the crunchy dead leaves and stopped abruptly when I reached the lifeless body of my cat. Is he dead? I thought. Sick? Afraid that I might contract some sort of contagious disease, or that he might spring up from his rest and bite me in a rabid frenzy, I gingerly poked him with a stick I found on the ground. No response…and he was unusually stiff. Still unsatisfied with what might be a potential autopsy, I slowly kneeled down, eyeing the unnatural way in which he was positioned. Somewhat assured that I would not be infected by a virus, I bent over and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. It was then that I noticed just how sunken in his eyes were, and this confirmed the worst. So there, in front of Main Street as cars and semis zoomed past, I sat in my ragged sweats and t-shirt and petted Michi’s soft and shiny fur.

When my dad finally got home, I met him outside with a shaky voice to tell him the bad news. He simply walked inside, grabbed a trash bag and shovel, and started for the front yard as I followed. Dad wrapped the black trash bag around Michi’s body and lifted it up. We both paused to observe the curious pose he was in—the spitting image of Wile E. Coyote right before he falls off a cliff. Even the expression was similar. Strange.

Reverently (and by reverently I mean me carrying Michi with arms outstretched as far away from my body as possible while the garbage bag flapped in the breeze), we transported him to the backyard and stopped underneath our Blue Spruce. Dad began to dig away at the ground, but about six inches deep, we realized that the roots from the tree were growing too close to the surface and too clustered to make much progress. My dad stood back and leaned against the shovel, thinking. “Well,” he said finally, “This is the only spot I can think to bury him. I don’t want to dig another hole in the grass.” I looked down at the hole skeptically.

“We can try,” I said and shrugged. We then proceeded to lower Michi into his miniature grave, but his tail proved to be a real troublemaker. The problem was that his body was so stiff from the rigor mortis that the tail wouldn’t bend or budge from its pin-straight position. We twisted and pulled as much as we dared, but the tail was not going in. Dad finally let out a huff and picked the shovel up again. Soon, a little mountain of dirt sat atop Michi and the troublesome tail, concealing it from daylight forevermore. I lugged a big rock and dropped it on the pile of dirt, only to have the impact expose the tip of the tail again. It took us a few tries, but at last Michi, all of Michi, was buried under a substantial amount of dirt and soil.

“Do you want to say a few words?” Dad asked solemnly. I opened my mouth to begin a speech about Michi’s friendship, loyalty, etc. But as I did, I looked over at my dad and something happened when our eyes met that made me…giggle. Then dad started to chuckle, too. Pretty soon, we were in tears, happy tears, over the absurdity of the situation. Morbid as it was, it was too ridiculous to not laugh. When our dog Britan began sniffing and pawing at the grave, it made us laugh even harder to the point that our stomachs hurt.

             I would love to think that Michi would have wanted it that way, but in reality, he was just a cat and to say that he had dying wishes would be silly and somewhat idiotic. Of course, I loved my cat, but I am glad his death was something I can look back at and think about sadly, and maybe laugh a little bit about too.

So You Think You Can Survive My Biggest Loser's Apprentice?

            I just love reality TV. Maybe it’s the way Tyra reinforces a person’s vain self-image and bulimic tendencies that warms my heart. Or perhaps it is the anticipation of the deceit and inevitable drama of the upcoming Bachelor that brings me to tears.

            And the real question is: What will the Sea Shepherds' elaborate/useless vandalism project be this year? I have to admit, the acid and overturned rafts of season two was awe-inspiring, but the paintballs of season three were the real icing on the cake.

            Maybe I should start my own reality TV show. All it basically needs is a mildly annoying host, a weekly challenge, and a tearful occurrence every seven minutes. Oh, and ten randomly selected contestants who just happen to have polar opposite personalities and slightly neurotic dispositions.

            Then there are the extra tidbits that make the show all the more appealing. An evil eye here, a sabotaged plan there. I think my show will be called Project: So You Think You Can Survive my Biggest Loser’s Apprentice? Yeah, still working on a title.

            The plot is sketchy, but the setting is a deserted island. Here, ten up-and-coming fashion designers will be contending to lose the most weight. At the end of each week, the ones who have lost 5% body fat and can demonstrate the best dance moves will be given a red rose. As for the rest? You’re fired.

            The season finale is going to be a real shocker, so the details will be kept to the producers. I will say, however, that it involves a match of wits between Howie Mandel and a really smart fifth grader.

            I think this series has a lot of potential to instill positive family values in today’s TV-watchers. What reality show doesn’t? Gossip, betrayal, and discord are only scarcely prevalent.

            There has been much controversy over this matter. Many argue that it is teaching our young people to have lower morals and distorted worldviews. My rebuttal to this statement is that learning how to hunt ghosts or decorate cakes is obviously the more important issue.

            Reality TV can teach a person so much. In the very probable event that I am forced to lie in a bathtub of scorpions or make a dress out of newspaper, I am in luck. Fear Factor and Project Runway have taught me well.
            Someday, I hope everyone can take as much joy and knowledge from these shows as I have. Who wouldn't enjoy watching a loveable yet scantily clad 3-year-old prima donna parade on a pageant stage for parents living vicariously through her? What insight couldn't you get from people with strange addictions to eating household cleaners, toilet paper, and furniture stuffing? How could you not feel the love of a deluded polygamist family surround you as you grimace? For those who have not yet experienced this innovation of the 21st century, I guarantee wisdom to be gained in every episode. What more could a person want? All I can say is...the tribe has spoken.