Salad Days

Sometimes, I feel like I can never do anything right.

I walk into the pantry and wonder why. Why I am standing here in the dark? Did I need a box of gluten-free spaghetti, maybe a 40 watt light bulb, was it the last Little Debbie or just a little quiet with a whole lot of peace?

Beats me.

And what are the names of my children, pets, street address and spouse? Like the location of my car keys, I seem to forget them all the time.

“Whoever that is standing by the fridge, I need a cube of Velveeta and that  last bottle of Ramona Singer Pinot Grigio.”

I sleep on top of a sheet, do household chores in my swimsuit and sweat while I cook, pretend to iron and watch TV and STILL have a power bill that reads $673.

It’s seems the one thing I thought I was doing right, I am now doing wrong.

Yep, as Susan Rinkinus informs us in New York Magazine, salad is a total lie.

Not only is salad now considered a luxury item like a BMW, Roberto Coin and a single vanilla bean, it appears that all those healthy, leafy things that occupy all the real estate in your crisper in order to make you healthier and supposedly leaner are not what they’re cracked up to be.

Now, I know what you are thinking and I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m perfectly aware that these green, crunchy leaves are simply a watery delivery system with the word marketing written all over them, while being topped with all sorts of stuff that can eventually clog your arteries and kill you anyways. But I am still going to order my $9.95 Oriental Chicken Salad from Applebee’s. Why? Because it’s good.

1,400 empty calories?

Bring it ON.

With a side of extra dressing.

Only, caloric camouflaging aside,  salad isn’t as “green” as it used to be. It is now public enemy number one. Yes, these demure little, limp, tasteless vessels wreck all sorts of havoc on our shared fruits and plains. They cause 1 billion dollars in waste while wasting tons of energy just to refrigerate the little pieces of water that put out all sorts off unneeded gases because we have to grow so much of it to meet the demand.

And we haven’t even talked about all the gross stuff that grows on them because apparently, just being American makes us lazy, and we don’t like to cook anything because it takes time and all that other pesky stuff. Yes, it seems we would much rather just ingest raw lettuce with e coli laced all over it.

Me, I don’t like to think of these things while I am waiting in the drive-thru at Chick- Filet for my Market Salad with 4 extra packages of Ranch that costs as much as half a pair of Sperry’s. Nor do I want to reflect upon my own selfish part I’m now knowingly taking in creating the  gigantic carbon footprint that my single lunch stomped while it was carted, chilled, contained and plastic wrapped just to be handed to me through a window with cold air escaping out it.

That’s a real bummer.

I guess I will just have to stay at home at my desk and eat a # 2 pencil or a maybe a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. I think there is still some Chubby Hubby left. If I can remember the person’s name that I’m related to that’s standing in the kitchen, I might even ask them to get it for me.

There is no denying quit a few fossil fuels were burned to bring that baby home to my freezer, but at least they give back to environmentally friendly causes and are fighting the good fight against GMOs and are really nice to all of their cows, am I right?

If only it wasn’t 400 calories a spoon.

See, you really never can win.

Maybe I’ll just see y’all around the salad bar. If I can ever find my keys.

A Fisherman...Of Sorts

I’m not a fisherman, nor do I wish to be one. That doesn’t mean I have not tried, y’all. I really have.

Case in point: Key West, circa 1985, on an eight-hour deep-sea fishing charter with eight extended family members.

First off, never stop at Denny’s for a full-on pancake and sausage breakfast with a side of biscuits, coffee, O.J. and half a quart of grape jelly before stepping onto a 35-foot piece of floating fiberglass about to hit 5-foot cascading waves.

Speaking of cascades, there is a psychological phenomenon known as the cascade effect. As in, when one person tosses their cookies in a cramped space, well…it’s like dominoes…or in this case, eight pale-looking members of the walking dead knocking into each other over the sides of the boat.

Seriously. Don’t do it. At least not the Denny’s part.

My husband is not much of a fisherman, either. He has to load up on Dramamine, so his friends usually roll down the window and leave him asleep in the car because they don’t have the stamina to unload him and the 1-ton cooler filled with Bud Light onto the boat. You know, tough choices.

I do have friends who love fishing, though. This eternally amazes me. My last big vacation to Costa Rica is a good example. The four fishing friends on the trip headed out to sea one day at 5 a.m. full of energy, courage, optimism and hope. They came back at 9 p.m., crimson, crispy, cranky and gnawing at anything that didn’t move. Apparently two hours out, the engine blew, and they spent the next 15 hours floating back in. It’s remarkable how 24, 12-ounce beers don’t last very long, but the remaining 1 1/2 bottles of water and two sticks of jerky get measured out and distributed with military precision. I guess no one wants a mutiny, after all. Even a mile off the coast of a Marriott marina surrounded by palm trees and tiki bars.

Another friend of mine, Dave Snyder, rises early and enthusiastically hits the high seas before the sun is even up, “to shop for groceries,” as he puts it. With great strength but gentle fortitude, he lovingly brings them back and puts them on a plate by sundown.

Y’all, where does he find the time? When I go grocery shopping, I come back hot, tired and fit-to-be tied because someone added five Snickers, two different shades of pink lip gloss, a wand of Maybelline Great Lash and a bottle of some fruity smelling shower gel to my cart. These items all cost more than the two bottles of K.J. Chardonnay I forgot on the conveyor belt thingy that were really the only reason I went grocery shopping in the first place. Now, don’t blame me, but when I finally get home, I am in no mood to lovingly cook dinner. And don’t even get me started on my friends, the “Fishin’ Chicks.”

They make all of these deep-sea fishing ventures look posh, vogue and simply fab while placing in the top of their tarpon tourneys without breaking a sweat. Captain Mark Nobel takes the gals out — Susan, Georgia, Dana and Beth — along with coolers of Veuve and Barefoot Contessa worthy snacks. Then, they haul in fish as big as they are while the sun twinkles off their bright eyes and their sun-kissed hair. When I get off the boat, my sea legs crumble, my tresses resemble a dozen double fisherman’s knots and my complexion can only be described as chartreuse with a hint of sea foam green.

Oh, well. I guess it’s not my thing, and I am okay with that. A Santiago, I am not meant to be. But that doesn’t mean I don’t fish.

I just asked one of my teenage daughters how school was today. She just glared at me like I asked for the precise coordinates the Hindenburg went down. Then stared down at her phone.

I guess I was destined to be a fisherman, after all.

Dog Park Rules

What happens in the dog park stays in the dog park. So the saying goes.

Not so much in my neighborhood. Here, dogs are akin to the precious cows that roam the streets of India. Only, ours are on retractable leashes wearing trendy T-shirts and bright fall-colored Ralph Lauren rain coats as soon as it starts to drizzle.

Here, dogs are adored, adorned, elevated and celebrated. We may not know each other’s names, occupations or hobbies, but we can be identified by the fur, approximate age, likes, dislikes, disabilities and abilities of our fine, furry family members.

“Daisy’s dad is at the door.” Daisy is a 9-month-old black Lab who eats wasps, slurps out of the community water spout, and loves golf cart rides and deer dung.

“I just ran into Winston’s mom at the post office. She says, ‘Hi.’” Winston is a 23-pound Norfolk terrier who wears a diaper and is on a strict daily diet of half a carrot, a third cup of kibble and a shot of insulin. He absolutely loves Dateline, his monthly dental chew and scary movies — but is terriffied of thunderstorms. Go figure.

Beau’s mom wants you to call her.” Beau, short for General Beauregard Lee, is an 11-year-old, 40-pound Bichon Frise. He is large for the breed, but the vet says his BMI is a-okay. Though Beau has a tough time walking up stairs, it doesn’t stop him from stealing newspapers, flip flops, car keys and cat poo.

I can only imagine what they say about us.

There goes Atlas and Jules’ mom. I think she may be a writer. Why else would she wander around outside in her bathrobe?”

Atlas is known around the ‘hood as the Rat terrier who pees on other dogs’ heads. He struts his stuff but cowers at falling leaves. He barks at crickets, pine straw, unoccupied vehicles and sudden gusts of wind. Jules is the Jack Russell with poor social skills. She is a grass eater, a flowerbed poo-er and squirrel chaser. Chef, the Chiweenie, is one of those “designer breeds” who never wears the same thing twice in one week and has a licking problem. You can spot us strolling down the street a mile away; a cacophony of howls and growls amongst tangled leashes, swinging mutt mitts and chaos.

Back to dog parks — we actually have one. It is THE place to see, be seen, meet, greet, run, tumble, cocktail and generally hang out. So you can only imagine when a gigantic hole the size of a small meteor crater appeared under the oak tree, everyone was up in arms — as in throwing up their arms and saying it sure wasn’t their dogs because rule No. 6 clearly states no digging allowed — holes cause canine in juries; No. 12 outlines dogs with poor behavior can be banned indefinitely; and No. 44 spells out that the owner is legally and financially responsible for damages.

My friend Alicia’s Rottweiler has a bionic knee, so I know how much they cost. I don’t want to pay to replace one for a neighborhood dog who fell in a hole. I want to send my kids to college instead.

It’s been a month and no one has fessed up, though it is still a topic of discussion around the dog park at Pinot time. I don’t worry about anyone thinking one of mine could be the culprit because all three of them can fit inside of the darn hole and still have room to catch a Frisbee. We stay clear anyway because Rat terriers are bred to dig. We certainly don’t want to encourage any whispers.

There is another old saying out there that good fences make good neighbors. This may be true, but there is one thing no one can deny

Dogs make good neighbors, too.