Why I Hate Halloween

This is my least favorite holiday of the year. It’s when innocuous places such as your local greeting-card store start hanging cardboard skeletons on their front doors. Not that I mind my children learning anatomy and respecting a skeleton for the incredible feat of God’s design that it is, or knowing that we carry a version (plus or minus a few floating ribs) inside of us all year long. Why should they fear their own bodies?

It’s not the skeletons that disturb me. Nor is it the underlying ancient celebration of evil. It’s just the amount of candy I, as a loving and caring parent, am annually compelled to eat. My kids do not go trick-or-treating. Yet I like to keep at least a 4-lb bag of miniature chocolates for the kids who might knock at my door.

I don’t want to look like a cheapskate and give them a 30-minute lecture on my feelings about Halloween when all they really want is candy. With my upbringing in an Indian family where my mother could keep four burners on to whip up a feast for unexpected visitors, I wouldn’t know what to do if I ran out of candy.

You can’t open a roll of lifesavers and drop them one-at-a-time, can you? You’d be suspected of poisoning or lacing the candy with drugs. (Not that the germs on the fingertips of many meal-preparers are a desirable alternative, but still, you feel some obligation to health standards.) Parents of trick-or-treaters should demand that participating homes turn on porch lights, and display a Department of Health certificate showing that their candy is safe to eat, nutritious, and of course, low in fat.

Remember the lady in your childhood who refused to distribute candy? What a party pooper! Her porch light was on, but when she came out with her “goodies” there was an awful thud as a big red apple crashed into your bag, pulverizing your Smarties to look like old-time medicinal powders. Not only was this accursed apple devoid of added sugar, fat, preservatives, artificial colorings and flavorings, it also occupied half the volume of your bag! Who would dress up and pound the pavement in the dark for a healthy snack? After all, this was back in the 1970’s, when French fries and ketchup counted as two servings of vegetables. That lady was an extremist in her day!

I expect to be stuck with 3 pounds of artificially flavored and colored sugar and fat, neatly wrapped in morsel-sized packaging. And like any other conscientious mother, I’m not going to let my kids eat any of it! Okay, maybe they can have one or two of pieces on the days when they’ve eaten all their dinner (gratefully), done their school work and chores, tidied their rooms, played nicely, not whined, taken naps, and in general, made sycophants of themselves. But that will still leave me with at least 2½ pounds’ worth. I wouldn’t dare stuff that into their growing bodies, and also, out of consideration for all those I have ever seen going hungry, I won’t throw any of it away either.

So, the choice is obvious - I’ll have it in the dark of night as I’m cleaning my kitchen (if I’m cleaning my kitchen) when the entire household is asleep: the epitome of maternal sacrifice for my children’s health.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so selfish. I should care as deeply for the children who come to my door as I do for my own kids. Let’s give them something healthy too. Can you get individually wrapped edible Styrofoam (AKA rice cakes)? How about little bottles of drinking water or boxed raisins?

I’ve got it! Boiled eggs – all natural, biodegradable, tamper-proof packages of protein. And children, you needn’t worry; I’d never be so heartless as to give out apples. That incident alone has scarred me for life, or I’d have trick-or-treated into my teens…you know, like the “big kids” who pop one pillowcase on their heads and carry another as the treat bag.

While I’m in this altruistic mood, what shall I punish myself with? Whoppers are good: they keep well in apron pockets, and, should anyone happen to suddenly intrude, can be discreetly pushed to the side of one’s mouth without serious breath alteration. And as long as I plan to suffer, I wonder if Whoppers come in gallon-sized jugs.

Tackle the Toilet: Take the Plunge! (PG-13)

published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat Weekend, February 20th, 2009

This is it. I’ve had it. I’ve completely had it.

Before I begin my diatribe, I will spend a final sane moment and warn you that today’s column is NOT for the young reader. This column is rated PG-13: Pretty Gross, even for 13-year-olds. (Now that I have perked up the interest of those who are too young to ordinarily be interested in what I have to say, I will begin.)

Someone has habitually been breaking into our home. The doors and windows, as flimsy as they are, show no signs of forced entry. No alarms go off. Our dog never makes a racket. If either dog or alarm were operational, we could catch the villain in the act, but s/he always gets away.

Yet, I am certain that someone has been entering our home.

How do I know this? I have evidence, that’s how. It is a very nasty sort of evidence, but the intruder always leaves something behind. Man or woman, boy or girl, s/he always leaves the same crappy calling card.  It is a clogged toilet.

Why not pin the blame on a member of my own household, you say? I see. You, too, are a simple-minded thinker like me, because I had initially come to the same conclusion. Simple minds are so easily distracted by the obvious.

We are happily and simple-mindedly going about our own business. Sometimes this business involves the lifting of the toilet seat cover, either for personal use, or to facilitate the planting of a young-one, pants down, for a little visit until they call to be wiped when…simulate music from Jaws here…we discover that Something is rotten in the Town of Warrenton. And it’s right there, in the toilet bowl! Paper is puckered into the little hole that apparently just couldn’t chug, chug, chug this stuff away, no matter how much it thought it could or how much we wished it would. There is a disturbing lack of water in the bowl, and an even more disturbing proliferation of solid material.

Back when I thought like a simpleton, I would see this and fume. “All right! Who clogged the toilet this time?”

In a household of this size, it is hard to keep track of who has gone, or when, or in which particular bathroom. So, when I bellow like a beached beluga, I get one of two responses. The most common response is no response. When you sound like an animal in your own home, people refuse to condone that type of behavior and simply ignore you. Sadly, this is a system of which I was a big proponent. It works wonders on shrieking two-year-olds, but is even more maddening when applied on a full-grown adult with a bloated bladder.

The other response I’m used to hearing is a series of sweet and innocent-sounding “Not me’s.” Of course, it couldn’t be you, with your angelic face. I carried you within my own body for nine months, where you proceeding to squash and smash my bladder. I carried you and cared for you from the earliest times of your infancy, when you controlled my every waking moment. You controlled when or whether I was allowed to eat, sleep, or use the bathroom. And, no, it couldn’t be you, who as a toddler followed me everywhere, and made me suffer your constant company even when I needed a few moments of privacy with the toilet.

You have caused me nothing but suffering in the toilet department all your life, so of course, it couldn’t be you. That’s too obvious! It must be Mystery Man on the Go…again…and again who breaks into our house, feels the urge, begins to purge, and either forgets to flush or is unsuccessful in doing so. He has to be the one who ends up clogging the toilet.

I don’t know a lot about toilets, but I have learned how to plunge them. Being the sort of person who is interested in life-long education and an educated youth, I have trained everyone in the double-digit age range in our house in this simple plunging exercise.

Our home was a new construction, so our American Standard toilets are 6.o Lpf or 1.6 gpf. I’m no do-it-yourselfer, and I know very little about toilets, (except that there should be a bowlful of clear water in them before each use and after each flush). Regardless, I will venture to say that 6.0 Lpf means each flush consists of 6.0 liters of water, which is the same as 1.6 gallons being tossed at whatever you can send its way. I don’t know what the “old” flushing standard was in the good old days when we didn’t care about our food, our water, our planet, or whether the pollutants we left behind could make a tear trickle down from the eye of a weathered Native American man on commercial television in the 1970’s.

How much water does the new flushing standard save? I’m not sure. I suspect the data is skewed, because some people in our house routinely flush multiple times after a single visit, desperately hoping that the next 1.6 gallons will do the trick that the earlier, lethargic one could not.

Once upon a time, when I was a kinder, gentler person, I would have sighed after the chorus of “not-me’s.” I would have picked up the trusty implement and taken the plunge. I had resigned myself to the fate of ACP (anonymous clog plunging) forever, and wrote it off as one of those petty or unpleasant tasks that falls upon the sagging shoulders of the happy homemaker.

But then, something snapped. Perhaps it was being forty-two years old, and still having to routinely perform ACP throughout the house. Perhaps I had achieved and exceeded my lifelong ACP quota at a relatively early age. Or, perhaps, like stores who shower the nth customer, I had performed an ACP for the nth and final time, and now it was time to pass along the baton (or plunger) of knowledge.

At any rate, one fine day I decided my plunging services, like me, were exhausted. I allowed a clogged toilet to fester, because no one would ‘fess up. (Naturally not. We all realize it was Mystery Man.) I realize that this has not been a pleasant thought. But I assure you, the sight is far worse than the thought. If you were just enjoying a nice snack or a drink, I apologize.

Day One. I announce that I have retired from ACP. Some other heroic, altruistic soul is going to have to step up to the plate (or bowl) and do the duty, even though it had not been his or her fault. No response.

Day Two. Would the guilty party please just go and plunge the thing, because that bathroom has become entirely unusable. No response.

Day Three. Assemble the children. (It was close to Christmas at the time – perhaps that might have explained the little present?) “Hey, guys, you know how in some families people choose names to give each other presents?” Yes, yes – their eyes light up. To this I actually get a response, and it is in the affirmative. I sense excitement and a keen desire to participate. All people of plunging age have their names written down, and the youngest child in the house drew a name. “Here,” I say, “you get plunging duty on this one.” It was not a pleasant task, but I must say that I admire the fortitude with which the unlucky child approached the task – with plunger in hand, he almost looked like a soldier going off to war.

Yesterday, it happened again. So at night, I allowed each potential plunger to draw lots. It was very Biblical, I thought – just like when Jonah was on the ship and no one knew why they were having horrible weather problems, or when they needed a quick replacement for Judas Iscariot’s twelfth disciple position. Each paper had “Freebird” written on it, save but one. That one had the dreaded “Clogger” written on it. The children hesitatingly drew their lots. A sudden cloud of doubt fell around the child who pulled “Clogger.” The others viewed him with a sense of sympathy and doubt. (His name had been pulled on the Christmas name-drawing as well.)

Experience is a great teacher, and this one thing I have learned: you don’t have to wait three days before drawing names. I just wish I had learned this technique years and years ago.

On snakes and getting organized

My house is a shambles at the moment. And I’m not talking about the fact that I have a small snake in my refrigerator.

Don’t worry; the snake is dead and it’s double bagged. Also, don’t worry about the economy being bad. Snake is not on the menu. It was dead in the Vint Hill area, so I picked it up with my hand inside a gallon-sized Ziploc bag. I know you’re worried about my safety, so let me reassure you that I first took the precaution of making sure the snake was dead by taking my sandal off and very scientifically tossing it in its vicinity. Seeing that the snake had no reaction, I concluded that either the snake was dead or was male, and could not even feign interest in my shoe, however stylish.

I was going to keep little Snakey for the next day’s life science and biology class to view under the stereomicroscope. This is the one good thing about not throwing things away: You never know when you might need a gallon-sized bag in your purse. Finding those items, when you are a hoarder and you actually need them, of course, is another matter.

I suppose I shouldn’t complain about the state of my house, because it could easily get worse. It often does. I’m not the most organized person, and the more that is going on in my life, the more it shows.

For example, I’ve been carrying a birthday card for a niece in my purse. Sorry. I guess that was a dangling modifier. You’re going to think I also keep a niece in my purse. Sometimes it gets so heavy that it feels that way. If she didn’t mind hanging around under my armpit and could help me locate things in that abyss, it might be worth a try. But let me rephrase that: In my purse, I have a card for my niece. It’s already written in and in its own envelope. All I need to do is address it and put a stamp on it to actually get it out. Her birthday was at the beginning of the month. Should I send it now even though it’s late? Should I save it for next year? And who’s to say whether I could find this card eleven months from now. I’m having trouble remembering where I last left the stamps last week.

I need to get organized. I know that people say getting organized is a life-long process. It’s taken my whole life, and I still haven’t gotten there. Maybe it’s not a destination. Maybe it’s not a place you ever get to. Maybe it’s a process or a habit you develop just like what you eat and how (or whether) you exercise. You practice these and are mindful of them, but are never done (until you reach Snakey’s state.)

I've run across some good ideas on staying organized and happy. Obviously, I have yet to employ these tactics. Just ask our local librarians. They’ll tell you about the material I’ve been returning atrociously late. If getting organized is a pathway, I haven’t even made it out of the merge lane. I’m one of those new drivers who is stuck there, waiting for life to slow down enough so I can comfortably merge in. But life and traffic just don’t work that way. I need to pick up my pace and just jump right in.

Once, while trapped in the chair at the dentist’s office, I was flipping through some kind of “Family Fun” magazine and read through an article on getting organized. Yes, it's a little tricky to read while you're propped back, wearing sunglasses and have a light shining in your face. (Are they trying to simulate a beach experience? I’m glad they don’t have the hygienists running about in beachwear, or some people might need bigger bibs.)
But sitting in that chair, I could brave the elements because I was desperate. At this point, I can’t remember any of the techniques I read except to keep all your library material in one designated spot, like in a basket or on a particular shelf. Apparently, that hasn’t worked for me, either. Our designated spot for library books is in front of the engrossed reader. The only problem is that the readers refuse to stay in those darned baskets. Perhaps I should try my purse.

I have some tips of my own on getting organized. I can't guarantee that they will work for you - just because they don't work for me doesn’t guarantee that they won’t work for you. Next week I’ll share these tips with you. I can see that you are fascinated, so I expect you to join me.

See you next week! I’ve got to go and grab that snake before one of the kids takes it to school for lunch.

Exercise - what a pain in the abs

There are people who live, eat, and breathe fitness. (Shocker: I am not one of them.)  They love to workout. They need to workout. They are not trying to be athletic, they are just athletic beings. This would be Kelly Fadel. Kelly is a certified group fitness instructor as well as a certified Pilates instructor who taught fitness classes at Chestnut Forks Athletic Club.

Yet she gave freely of her time twice a week, in spite of having her toddler daughter, Faith, in tow. Kelly brought in all of her exercise gear: balls, bands, bells, mats, and even the little stepping platforms. She set the tone with music: either soothing and relaxing or upbeat and requiring a lot of movement. Her goal was to help women regain strength and get everything realigned, “as God intended our bodies to be,” she would say. It was her ministry to the women of the church and to anyone else who cared to partake.

Many women who came to Kelly's class were young moms with perfect figures. I wondered why they needed to be there. Then it occurred to me: perhaps that is how they “happened” to have perfect figures in the first place. Then there were women like me.

When I first tried doing a few sit-ups at home, the kids were watching. They laughed and suddenly felt better about whatever pathetic number of sit-ups and pushups they could eek out of their own youthful bodies. Each sit-up I attempted was accompanied by sounds reminiscent of child-birthing scenes that seem to be a requirement in many a movie. These were involuntary sounds. Apparently, they came from me. I needed professional help, and a more supportive environment.

The next morning I determined to drop everything and dash off to Kelly's class. The only equipment I had was a water bottle, so I ransacked my eldest daughter's closet for old sweat pants. (She is several inches taller than I am, so I sometimes get hand-me-ups.) Yanking the sweats on, I hoped there were no obvious holes in them. No time to rifle for socks. Sorry to gross you out, but I snatched up a pair that my husband had conveniently discarded right near the entryway. Dark sweats (blue), dark socks (black) – it worked for me. Getting to class was a priority. If people had to be shocked by little flashes of skin through “holy” sweatpants, or offended by “my” stinky socks, then that was a price I was willing for them to pay. Driving into the church parking lot, I suddenly remembered that I should have brought my second daughter's mat. Too late. After all, I was almost on time for the class. I swiped the big, silvery sun-shield from under the Suburban's seat and dropped my youngest off in the playroom where the church provided childcare. Then, heart pumping from all the preparation and the hurried driving (of course, I didn't speed),

I was now ready for the class.

I was surprised by Kelly's calm demeanor and her bubbly personality. She was gracious about people like me who came in late, even welcoming us for coming at all in the flurry of the morning.

I remember the first time I saw Kelly Fadel at church. She is one of those gorgeous women that people can't help but notice when she enters a room, no matter how spiritual they're trying to be. When I see a woman like this, I suspect she might be vain or snooty or loathsome in some other way. This rarely turns out to be the case, but this first, childish, sour-grapes response seems to be an ingrained, primal instinct. It didn't take long to get to know Kelly, though. Her speech is charmingly Southern, and she is every bit human and fallible. At the end of the class, she often shared her foibles for the week or her struggles with her toddler, and left us in laughter mixed with pain. (The abs had already had a workout by then.)

“Abs are engaged...,” she reminded us often during the class. Kelly's Texan accent came through in each reminder. When she said “engaged” it sounded like she was about to say, “and guys...” She cheered us further with, “Abs are absa-LOOT-ly engaged!” I was amazed that this woman could even talk through these tortuous exercises. I could barely breathe, and even that we were reminded to do in the correct way.

Of course, I could not do any of the toning or strengthening exercises I attempted. I wanted to let Kelly know that these abs had not only been engaged, they had also gotten married and then served as a temporary housing facility for six children. Apparently, they were in rebellion, and had no plans of getting engaged again. Ever.

“Now you float one leg up,” she said as her leg rose effortlessly up. My leg was having separation anxiety and didn't want to leave the floor. It felt more like it was of the ship-sinking variety than the type that planned to float.

There was an exercise where we had to hug ourselves into a bundle and attempt to roll up from a supine position. On repeated attempts, I could only rock high enough to glimpse that everyone else in the class had made it into a seated position, just before tugged me back down into insect-on-its-back position. Since our group was entirely female, I let loose one of my childbirthing shrieks, and finally managed to dodder up. My husband's socks were loose and flopped beyond my toes. It was nice to feel “safe” when even if you were at your worst.

“Don't you worry, Vineeta,” Corlee soothed me. “When I first started these exercises, I couldn't do a single one either. I just went home and cried.” Within a few months, Corlee now could not only keep up with all the exercises, she could even breathe well enough afterwards to give advice.

Corlee Brown is a tall, willowy woman with a razor-sharp wit. She has one of those life-of-the-party types of personalities. If you're around her for any length of time, you're going to be laughing. She's a dozen years my senior, but you would never guess it, because she is in better shape than I have ever been, and her eyes are always bright and full of mischief.

One summer, my husband was teaching a Sunday School class on Bible times, with an emphasis on the history and culture of the era. He spent the entire summer making elaborate PowerPoint slides and taught it like a college course. Every once in a while, it's good to remember why I love this man. There was usually a big group of people in attendance, and as always, you could count on my husband to say something controversial.

He was about to talk about Priapus, the Greek god of fertility, and warned that people of a delicate disposition might be embarrassed by the next slides featuring the deity’s image on ancient coins. Without getting into any graphic detail, suffice it to say that Viagra and male enhancement drugs are not at all modern concepts. “Embarrassed?” Corlee's voice cut in. “I'm excited!” Our entire class erupted in laughter.

After one exercise class, Kelly was discussing nutrition with us, and was giving us pointers on what how she ate a tiny handful of almonds every day. Corlee thought of another potential nutritional pitfall. “What color is your pee, Vineeta?” Corlee suddenly asked. Her face was so earnest and concerned, that I realized that she wasn't joking, as I might have initially believed. Answering such a question in public makes you feel as if you have just held up your urine sample for all the world to behold. “Um...” I hesitated.

“Is it yellow? Is there any color to it?” Corlee pressed the point. I was just glad my kids weren't around. “Well...” my hesitation was taken as a confession. “You need to drink more water, Vineeta,” Corlee dished out her verdict like an oral prescription.

Sadly, the exercise class is no longer offered in our church due to issues with the facility, space, and scheduling conflicts, even though Kelly was willing to continue teaching. Everyone seems to have found alternatives, although I doubt that any are free. The best thing about Kelly's exercise class, in hindsight, was not so much that it was free, or even free-free. It was how free we could be while we were there together.

Mirror, mirror...

Last week, I shared the not-so-secret fact that I have added twenty pounds to my frame in the past two years. Thank you for rejoining me for this very important announcement. You could be worrying about world peace, global warming, the floundering economy, the healthcare system, pollution, the state of education, or moral decay in general, but you have chosen instead to drop your worries and your seventy-five cents to follow up how I had to move up a pant size.

Trying on one pair of pants after another, I had time to reflect on more than just my looming figure in the dressing room. I recalled envying people with dimples. Now, I too, had dimples of my very own. These, unfortunately, were around my knees, and those are significantly less charming.

My worries, as usual, are selfish. I like the relative maturity and stability of being a 42-year-old woman, but I would prefer that Mirror Mirror show me my 22-year-old, pre-children self. Perhaps you will be kind and say, “Vineeta, you don't' look so bad.” But then you will hasten to add, “for having had six kids, you don't look too bad at all.” That's like telling the hospitalized man wrapped entirely in bandages, “You look great, considering you were just run over by an 18-wheeler.” I do appreciate the intent of the compliment, (and I will take any compliments gladly!) but then I recall that the last time I bore a child was over four years ago. That's enough time to get a college education. Is it too much to hope to lose a few pounds?

After my Vision of the Dimpled Knees, I had a conversion experience: something had to change. This must be why I was in the changing room. Fortunately for me, our church was offering a free exercise class then.

Free is a word that is tossed around quite, um....freely these days. We have sugar-free, fat-free, lactose-free, pesticide-free, free speech, free elections, and, my favorite, free-free. Free-free is something that truly costs you nothing. This kind of free is on the Endangered Freebies List, except for people who are unable to read fine print. These people keep getting snaggled in all sorts of “free” deals. Free-free is my favorite kind of free. Oh, did I mention that already? I’m sorry; I should have warned you. This column is not repetition-free. My usual audience, consisting of six children, requires that everything be repeated. Everything. Repeated.

Many people are preaching the good news of getting fit to improve cardiovascular health, energy levels, endurance, and quality of life. These are the people who tend to look good in exercise apparel. We all want to be healthier, of course, and if our figures look better, who will object? My motivation is reversed, however. Give me the better figure first, and then, if I can liver longer and stronger to continue my chore-list of domestic duties, so be it.

I wish I had my priorities right. I want the heart and compassion of Mother Teresa, but then, I draw back. Could I adopt her simplicity: the plain and paltry wardrobe that cloaked her tiny stooped figure; the face that, lined by the deepest of wrinkles, radiated love and humility? Yes, I want her heart, but then I pass on the platter for looks. I look longingly at the dishes serving the latest pop divas, the original Pop Tarts. I wonder why I can't have both at the same time, but perhaps they lie on divergent paths. These platters may not even be served in the same banquet hall.

Homemaker Improvement: Time for a Change

I have a little secret to tell you. In the past couple of years, I have packed on almost twenty pounds. What do you mean, it’s no secret? Well, that’s very rude of you to have noticed and been snickering about it all along, because while I happily chunked up a pound a month, I had not. Not until the pounds ganged up and blockaded the free travel of zippers and belts that attempted to navigate the abdominal area and accomplish any border crossings.

One score years and one score pounds ago, I was not the pudgy, puffy-faced woman I have become today. Let me remind you that a score equals twenty, just in case you're rusty on your Gettysburg Address trivia. I needed to clarify that, lest you left this column thinking my decline began fifty years and fifty pounds ago.

I’m not sure what I’m doing differently now than in the past – eating? I'll admit it; I've never had great eating habits, and the spies who love me (my kids) will be the first to spill the beans...the jellybeans, that is, about my frequently poor nutritional choices. It's not like I've stopped exercising, because you can't stop something that you actually haven't started. Athletics always has been a bit of a foreign concept, although I did exhibit great bursts of speed as a high school student whenever I caught sight of the school bus for which I was perpetually late.

Should I blame that middle age “change in metabolism?” Too bad there are plenty of older women who dispel that notion. You know, the ladies with the perfectly sculpted bodies who are ubiquitous at graduations and summer weddings in their nearly backless sundresses, age spots and all. The age spots are not a matter of shame for them, they are, rather, a trophy that says, “Hey, I may be spotty, but I'm chiseled and sporty...what's your excuse, Potato Sack?” I try not to stand near women like this. That circumvents any painful comparisons. Also, it prevents the potentially more painful brushing of these women’s beveled scapulae that protrude from their backs.

If it’s the legendary change in metabolism, I deserve it. When I was younger, and slimmer, and already knew everything, I heard older women complaining about pounds “just sticking” to them. I always nodded sympathetically, but in the back of my mind, I wondered why they couldn't just lay off the Twinkies a bit. As a reward for those cruel thoughts, I must now do penance like the Ancient Mariner. Instead of wearing an albatross around my neck, I just wear an assortment of Twinkies around my midsection.

I can’t blame Twinkies, but discounted holiday candy and cookies are major weaknesses. I always chuckle when I see jellybeans labeled as a “fat-free food.” Free of fat, maybe. Full of sugar, definitely. But food? Doubtful. Doubtful, albeit delicious – just not at all nutritious, and very calorie-dense. Jellybeans are, however, very effective in keeping you awake during the wee hours of the night when the house is quiet and still, and you think you are going to accomplish something by staying up late all by yourself when there are no spies to monitor what you’re eating, and oooh, could they have some? That's when other, sensible women are assisting their metabolism by getting a good night's sleep, in addition to resisting the urge to ingest extra calories merely by the loss of consciousness that accompanies that sleep. I should stop buying discount candy, but some people can't pass up a bargain.

So, age and bargains have formed a coalition against me. The only way for me to do battle is to modify and pay attention to what I eat and when I eat, and then start exercising. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work? My current regimen includes vigorous jaw exercises (eating or yelling at kids) and my weekly finger workout as I type out this column. That is often done late, late at night, and therefore has to be accompanied by the jaw working out on a few late night snacks.

Last year, a neighbor of mine loaned me an exercise video. When your neighbor loans you a tape to encourage you to exercise, either that person is exceptionally caring and observant, or she is getting worried about people who are starting to crowd the neighborhood, all by themselves.

I'm going to say Tanya was of the observant variety. I myself hadn't noticed a problem until I could no longer zip up any of my pants. I had managed by thinking that, as long as I didn't plan to bend or breathe too much, I could still fit. Dollar bills had to be wedged into the pockets, in much the same way as scholars talk about trying to slip a credit card in between the blocks of the ancient pyramids. (Thousands of years of holding their breath, and it still can't be done.)

I was reluctant to get bigger pants, because that is an admission that you need to move up in size, which is not the same feeling as moving up in the world. It means you are not only going to be more comfortable while you are bigger, you are also now comfortable about being bigger.

Join me next week for the conclusion. (Riveting, I know.) Just don't hold your breath, unless it's because of your pants.

A dash for cherry pie goes awry

I told you last week that a late-night cherry-pie run ended with me and two police cruisers in the Giant parking lot. (Don’t worry; the Town of Warrenton isn’t waging war on crimes against nutrition. If it were, I would have been behind bars years ago: peanut granola or Hershey’s, that is.)

My husband had returned from India barely 24 hours ago, and had succumbed to the 10.5 hour jetlag. With Dr. Security asleep, I decided to risk an after-dark dash to the grocery store with my three daughters. My husband frowns upon late-night excursions: after 6 pm in winter, and after 8:30 pm in the summer. I reassured myself: I was a tough, semi-independent, pseudo-American woman, after all. I had managed six kids solo for a fortnight with the single mishap being arriving at a staff picnic in Herndon with my youngest daughter forgetting to wear shoes.

I could justify the urgent need for cherry pie. The next day would be my son’s and my daughter’s last day as Junior Hospital Volunteers. Tevy has worked for three summers with Lisa Spitzer in the Patient Concierge Department. Lisa is dynamic and bubbly, so the two bonded immediately. My son Sergio, on the other hand, has bonded with the free Bistro lunches that are the volunteers’ recompense.

After just two weeks working with Tevy the first summer, Lisa drove four hours to Virginia Tech for Tevy’s Teacher/Mentor Banquet at Summer Governor’s School. Now you understand why, when Tevy wanted to take Lisa’s favorite dessert in for the last day, we didn’t hesitate to make the drive. Making the drive, anyway, is easier than making the pie.

We zoomed through Giant and got a pie for Lisa, one for our family (we would be the sacrificial royal taste-testers), a sugar-free one for my husband, and a hypoallergenic one for my eldest son. Thankfully, we were only shopping for “one thing,” so we checked out at 10 PM.

Using the pedestrian crosswalk, the four of us stopped between the two handicapped parking spots where the crosswalk had deposited us. A massive pickup truck was looming near the aisle we intended to cross. We waited for the truck. The truck waited for us.

Unbeknownst to me, the driver was waiting for the parking spot we had barely stepped clear of. It was late, so naturally, there were only 350 other spaces available. But I was near the ONE he wanted.

I never realized that having a handicapped sticker apparently obliges the driver to park in a handicapped spot. Nor did I know that by standing near such a space, I might be asking to be classified as one who would be entitled to such a sticker. Road rage I’ve heard of, but this was my first experience with parking-spot rage.

Tired of playing the waiting game, the man suddenly gunned his engine and swung in hard into the space near me, leaving my dress swaying and my heart pounding. Had I extended my arm, I could have touched the side of his truck. We heard a few “What-in-the-ha-yell?!”’s from other late-night shoppers.

The infuriated driver spat out, “Keep standin’ there. I don’t care!” Had I been alone, I might have walked away, shaken. But I had my girls, aged 20, 17, and 8, with me. What kind of poor example would I be setting? I was the ADULT here, despite my daughters’ propensity to advise me in matters of dress, response to reader email, and the handling of their siblings as well as their father. I couldn’t allow some hostile and cocky man to endanger us and then walk off with impunity.

I motioned my daughters to proceed to our car, and then accosted the man. “Sir, that was very rude and extremely dangerous!” (I don’t know why I think it will intimidate people if I call them “Sir.” Even I know how lame that sounds.)

He swaggered out of his truck. “Whaddaya gonna do – call the cops?” he jeered. “Here – take my cell phone!” He jabbed the air with his phone before stalking off. I noted his license plate number and returned to the Giant Customer Service desk. I requested that they call the police for me, and within two minutes, two cruisers were in the parking lot.

As the man passed me at the customer service desk with his express-lane shopping, I said, “Sir, you might want to wait a minute. I’ve called the authorities.” Obviously exasperated, the man threw up his arms and said he’d wait by his vehicle.

The man and I independently gave the officer our driver’s licenses and our versions of the story. As a foreign-born woman, I’m glad I can equally depend upon the authorities to help when I call. The officer was calming and professional. I don’t know what happened to the man after I left. All I know is I did my part.

Can I make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy? Not as well as Giant, apparently. But if Billy Boy acts up, I won’t hesitate to call the cops.