Raising Raisins Right and Proper

Wouldn't it follow the best wine makers in the world would also have the best raisins?  Having the same common denominator, those two should go hand in hand.  

Yet, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture, the top raisin producers are the United States, Turkey, China, and Iran, while the top wine countries in the world are France, Italy, and Spain, according to the Food and Agriculture Organization.

If they’re all coming from grapes, then something here does not measure up…

And where is Japan in all this??  Wouldn't it also follow Japan would be more prevalent on the raisin frontier given their love/need to save space?  Like sweaters in a vacuum bag, raisins are the airless space-savers of food storage.  Surely, they must have a following in Japan.  Plus, raisins are a key ingredient in rice pudding.  Again, I'm just putting two and two together here. 

On a side note, raisins are just grapes dried of moisture.  Nothing else changes.  Chemically, the compounds are still exactly the same.  And yet, these dried grapes take on an entirely new name.  A name that doesn't even hint at their original past.  Dried grapes could be called gripes, changing the letter “a” to a letter “i” to indicate past tense.  They once were grapes, but now they're gripes.  Instead, they're given a completely new identity: raisin.

If that's the case, why don't other things get a completely new identity when they dry up?  Like leaves.  When leaves fall from trees they don't suddenly become feuilles.  Leaves on the ground are still referred to as leaves.  And, what about clouds?  Or pens that run out of ink?  Or nursing breasts that have run their course?  Where is their dried out identity?  Shouldn't they deserve a new defining name?   

One other thing…  A Raisin in the Sun?  What the heck is that raisin doing in the sun?  He's already a raisin.  He ain't gonna become any more raisinly than he already is by staying in the sun!  That's like giving a wave a drink of water: needless and unnecessary.

And that’s all I have to say about raisins.

Recall on Reality: Reign It In

Bodyguarding Barbie

I think it's time we stop scapegoating Barbie just because she is an inanimate object, safely mute to feeling depression or guilt.  Her plastic legs--however unnaturally shapely they be--are not Roman arches made to withstand the envy with which we dislike ourselves.  She is not some architectural design meant to hold the weight of ubiquitous physical insecurities.   

I grow weary of people talking about how Barbie's proportions are inaccurate.  Where proportion is out of whack is in how much blame we attribute a toy. 

Newsflash: NO DOLL'S PROPORTIONS HAVE EVER BEEN ACCURATE.  And that's fine.  You know why?  From an early age humans have an uncanny ability to separate fiction from reality.  Children only have a few precious years before Christmas and Easter take on a different meaning--perceptive buggers.  Even newborn babies feel safe enough to nap under a mobile because they understand the plastic butterflies are not actually attacking them.

Despite her best efforts to derail us, for half a century we've all still managed to grow up to become reasoning, rational, functioning adults.

Let's stop pretending.  (That statement is going to become ironic three sentences down.)  No one (except Valeria Lukyanova, who is quite happy in her quest) is forcing his/herself into Barbie's reality.  So, let's stop forcing our reality on her.

She is fantasy, imagination, a plaything.  How dismal is the time spent trying to extract fantasy from imaginary.  If all leisure were required to mimic reality there would be no play, no fun, no escape.  Let fantasy be, and instead, improve reality.

*He steps aside and lets Chris Crocker have his soapbox back*

The Skeletons in My Closet Better Shop at Bergdorf and in a Size 38

"It's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice."  

When I was in third grade my teacher gave us a task.  The starter "In my 8 years of life I have learned..." was given to us and we were to fill in the rest of the statement.  

"In my 8 years of life I have learned that it's nice to be important, but it's more important to be nice."  While my peers wrote "Purple gum tastes best," and "Basketball rocks," I wrote that truism.  I'd heard my father say it several times.

Our responses were sent to the local newspaper.  Select answers were being published in an exposé insighting the daily reader into the life of today's third grader.  My answer was chosen to be published.

At 8-years-old, a published credit in the newspaper was a sizable, uncommon ordeal.  Neighbors approached to tell me they read my quote in the newspaper.  In some small way, I felt a little bit of celebrity distinction.  Ironically, the answer that got me published in the first place triggered the very situation it addresses.  

At the time, it was nice to be important.  These days, however, I contemplate the being nice.          

In the ultimate truth box of their mind, heart, or soul, do you think anyone believes they themselves are not a nice person?

Of course there is room for error: regrets, shame, life lessons learned over poor choices.  Even so... 

Through all the mistakes, I’ve never come across anyone who considers himself not to be a nice person.  We all see ourselves as nice people who have made bad decisions, some more than others.  Why, then, do we not see each other that way?  

It’s fascinating to me how liberally people perceive and refer to others as not nice, all the while considering ourselves--of course--to be nice.  The polarity is intriguing to me, not the hypocrisy (well, the hypocrisy too, but in this case I’m discussing the polarity).  Is private opinion or public opinion correct?  

At one point or other, every person has been perceived to not be nice*.  Yet, every person considers himself to be nice.  Therefore, either we have a society that is completely 100% nice or completely 100% not nice.  And, it’s all a matter of perspective.

Personally, I shy away from the generalization of ‘nice’ and, more so, appreciate capabilities.  Capabilities accurately tune to a person’s character while reserving the judgement associated with being ‘nice.’  It allows you to appreciate the person for what they have to offer without additional expectations.

Is this person capable of picking me up from the airport?  Can I rely on this person for a good laugh?  I know who to call if I’m feeling vindictive.  I also know who I can count on for a smile.  Life is a window shopping spree, friendship is a fitting room, and society is a gigantic closet through which you sift and piece together an outfit to surround yourself for the day.  

Somedays you need the structure of a suit.  Somedays you need the comfort of a sweater.  I would hate to go even a single day without shoes, but they do not give the same support as undergarments.  Likewise, briefs do not provide the same style as a sleek, button-down shirt.

Capabilities is about understanding what each garment was made for.  Some people are suits; they will council and motivate.  Some people are shoes; they will comfort and protect.  Others offer lift and support.  I have no use for a strand of pearls in my closet, but pearls are lovely people anyway.  Nor do I have what it takes to pull off skinny jeans, but I love when other people rock them.  And, some people you simply keep around because they make you look good.

When my mom needed a writer, she came to me.  She relied on my brother to sand and revarnish the dining room table.  When she needs a lunch partner, she calls my sister.  When my uncle came to visit and she needed someone to greet him, she did it herself.  

Even though I was home and available at the time, she took a lunch break from work to come welcome him.  She’s knows she plays hostess better than any of us.  She opened the door with a smile and a hug.  She excitedly engaged him in conversation.  She took him around and showed him where everything was.  

Does this mean my mother views me as not nice?  I hope not!  In this instance (an uncle with whom I’m not close), fawning host just wasn’t my forte.  Had she left it to me, I would have opened the door to let him in, showed him how to use the TV remote, and then sequestered myself in my room.  

I would have made him lunch had she asked.  That’s something I can handle.  But, that’s not what she needed.  She needed an engaging host and she knew she was more capable than any of us at providing it.  

Identify the positives in each person and discard the negatives.  Don’t be surprised when you go to put them on and a pair of shorts is still a pair of shorts.  They will never grow to become pants, no matter how much you wish they would.  If you expect a pair of slippers to keep your head warm in winter then you are responsible for your own headache.  Appreciate shorts for their short-ness, appreciate footwear in the way it is intended, and find a woolen hat to fit your cold head.

Everyday is an opportunity to combine, utilize, enjoy, and appreciate society’s style, functionality, color, size, texture, etc.  What’s important to remember is not all of us will have the same aesthetic:  one woman’s trashy is another woman’s treasure.  

To reign in the subjective freedom of my fashionable example, I will provide an analogy for the left brain as well by using word construction.      

People are an alphabet.  P cannot sound like H, and it would be unfair to expect it to.  I may not use Q often, but--when I do--no other letter does the job quite the same.  

Each letter offers a specific sound.  I associate with each individual letter because I recognize I need their sound to create all the words I wish to say.  I pick and choose which letters to use, and when to use them, based on what sound they are capable of producing.  

I use some more often than others because some sounds are more commonly useful.  It is natural some letters will be closer to us than others.  But, all are perfectly good letters with contributive qualities.  Therefore, they are all worthy of love.

*When I was teaching in high schools a student once cursed my testicles would shrivel up and fall off.  I doubt she saw as me as nice.

Cracking Up: A True Breakdown Story

Sometimes the scariest part of my day is when I try to flip a cracker over with my tongue (usually because I didn't put the salty side face down) and the cracker gets stuck perpendicular to my mouth like a tent pole. 

I try to break it with brute clamping force, but the baked snack has suddenly turned from woven wheat into a marble column.  It's like cupping an egg in your palm and trying to crack it; the pressure distribution is too calculated to submit to human tampering.  

I try the castle door approach and use my tongue as a massive tree trunk to ram the beast, hoping the cracker will snap in half like a chopped karate board.  No luck. 

My aching jaw is stretched to capacity and feels as though it’s solidifying there like quick-drying cement.  My mouth starts to freak out because it can't close.  For some reason my throat is now convinced it won’t be able to breath unless I can get this mouth closed again, which actually seems counterintuitive.  That's where the finger steps in!!  Pulverizing the wall left by evil Captain Carbohydrate like a Super Man!

With the blockade down, finger crawls down the mouth of the volcano to free the 3,500 calories trapped inside before calling it a day.  And, all are happy. 

My hero.

Municipal Misgivings: The Flip Off of the Tip-Off

Every summer my family and I went to watch the hometown parade: Shriners circling on mini motorcycles, marching bands, horses with braided tails, always a cartwheel or two from local cheerleaders, the neighbor in a clown costume they only wore once a year.  But, inevitably, the parade ALWAYS began with the cavalcade of emergency vehicles.

Every firetruck, ambulance, and even a few County Sheriff rovers would make their way down the street, wailing their sirens and honking their horns.  Come to think of it, it's rather advantageous no one ever had an emergency occur during parade hours.  ‘Twould be an awful pity to know your house burned down because the firetruck was double parked between the sequined swan, the foam cowboy, and the Man-of-the-Year convertible.  Chalk up the charms of simple suburbia!

Anyway, I always found this great civic fun and not the least bit problematic until I heard a chorus of sirens outside my window and got EXCITED.  "The parade's about to start!!!  I've got to get down there and secure a front row seat!!"  That was my first thought.  Not "oh, no!  Someone's in serious trouble!!  Make sure the pathway is clear!!"  The sound was stirring and enticing!  Not repellent, like it should be!

I have been conditioned since childhood to associate the sound of multiple sirens with cheering and festive parading rather than with their intended use: EMERGENCY NOTIFICATION. 

"Come closer, little one," the sirens sing to me, "and taste of my salt-water taffy."  For years they've lured me in--inching ever closer to their tear-proof tires--when they should have been teaching me to steer clear.  Thank heavens I wasn't driving in front of them; I probably would have rolled down my window and waved rather than pulling off to the side and letting them pass.

Perhaps it's spite at having been mislead, but I just imagined how ironic it would be for a firetruck to catch on fire.

Magical Fruit: The Fiscal Swell on a Hill of Beans

Lately I've been contemplating over the propriety of asking people how much money they make.  

I'm not a fan of the question being taboo.  I'm really not a fan of ANY question being silenced.  How else are we to learn and make informed decisions? 

But, the thing I find interesting about this subject is I've never met a blue-collar, entry-level,  or minimum wage worker who didn't mind discussing how underpaid they are.  Those who mind/avoid/fear the subject are those who know they're getting paid more than they're worth.  Those paid disproportionately well to their peers.  Those who face Madame Guillotine! 

Methinks, perchance the aristocracy be the driving force behind  mums-ing the whole topic in the first place.  Curtailing talk about money altogether eludes harsh feelings of fairness and jealousy that can accompany.  Therefore, *poof* pay no attention to the [money] behind the curtain.

Now, some may say you shouldn't need to know how much others make because money shouldn't influence your professional decisions anyway.  Careers should be based on passions; find out what makes you happy, pursue it, and the fulfillment will make up for the difference in cash flow.

But, who is feeding us this idea?  Where does it originate?  

It is an idea specially formulated in closed-door offices on top levels of really tall buildings that is filtered down through the system until we shop it out of some bargain bin at the crossroads of Want and Necessity.  

That's, right!  The people admonishing us to pursue passion rather than money are those who HAVE money.  Think I'm kidding?  

How much money is floating around Hollywood?  Yet, how many Hollywood films feature money as the villain?  How many hold money, those who have it, and those chasing it as soulless?  How many theme integrity with staying true to one's dreams?  

When a protagonist is just about to get everything they ever wanted--the big job, the hidden treasure, the record deal--they will forsake extravagance and choose love, family, or the simple life every time.

"Titanic," for instance, was less about a ship sinking and more about status, riches, and jewels (all of which were hated and ended up at the bottom of an ocean).  One of the highest grossing films of all time certainly did not portray money in a very positive light.  Interesting, wouldn't you say?  

It's profiteering propaganda!  They're throwing us off the scent!  It's a red herring so they can keep all the money for themselves!  Hollywood has turned passion pursuing into global currency so marketable they might as well be selling beans.

Baker: This is the sum total.

Wife: Beans??  (She catches an idea) BEANS!!  OH, we MUSTN'T give up our beans!  ...Well...if you feel we must.  Beans will bring you food, son.  And, these are no ordinary beans!  These beans carry magic.

Jack: What kind of magic?

Baker: Magic that defies description.

Wife: I'd say they're worth a pound each at the very least.

Jack sells his cow for beans.  And, that's how easily retirement funds are dealt away.  That's how easily money is made, not earned; based on pure precious belief, we gladly exchange passion for beans.    

You don't even have to ask; I'll tell you how much I make.  

For a post like this one, I usually bill at the rate of $0 per hour.  I charge much less for friends and family though.

That means today alone I've made tens of nothings of dollars.  According to Quicken, I thereby will be retreating myself (an optimist would see this as a form of repetative treating!) to lunching with the imaginative and frugal Lost Boys of Never Land.

Nutty Knobs

In my anthropologically-infused, Freudian dream last night I may have imagined honey-roasted peanuts were breasts lopped off of African fertility figurines which had been whittled from the peanut plant and discovered in the sugary sands of the coast.

This made them more rare, exotic, and expensive.  

...yet, surprisingly still affordable.