If I ever needed proof I’m no athlete, I think I’ve found it. My shoulders ache, my neck feels like it’s wrapped in cement, and there’s a tingling burn stretching from my elbow to the tips of my fingers. My ailments come not from half-nelsons, dodgeball or co-ed karate – they come from a video game. I’ve discovered Wii Tennis, and I don’t care how sore it makes me.
You can stick with your weekly racquetball dates, your psychotic gym workouts and your kickboxing escapades. Leave me to my darkened bedroom, my flatscreen TV and that imaginary grass centre court stadium filled with armless, legless fans, and I’ll have all the athletic competition I’ll ever need.
It’s a struggle to brush my teeth. My shoulders and back are stiff and knotted, and my forearm’s soreness makes it tough to sleep. But when I do sleep, I dream of Sarah and Elisa, Tatsuaki and Victor, even that jerk Saburo, and his wily partner Theo. Wii Tennis is a doubles game. You swing your controller like a tennis racquet, and although a simple flick of the wrist is all you need, I swing like Jimmy Connors in a butterfly zoo, a full sweep of the arm forward and back, up and down, all in a quest to beat my opponents and earn points. Each match pits you against others with the same or higher rankings, amassing points based on the ruthlessness of your victory. Earn 1000 points and you attain “pro” status.
My Wii character, known as a “Mii,” is named Tim. He has a boyish look, freckles, thick brown hair and is right-handed. He’s a pretty good bowler and may soon turn pro in golf, but it’s tennis he loves most.
After turning pro a while back, I’ve realized those hapless cupcakes I dispatched with ease in my amateur days are gone, replaced by veterans like Takumi and his pallid partner Victor, who looks comatose but who plays like a jackrabbit on Skittles.
Soon after reaching the pro level, I had an epiphany. I’d just crushed Takumi and Victor, both of whom had much higher rankings, and saw my point total surge ahead. At this moment, as Victor hung his head in defeat, I glimpsed my future. “I can reach 2000 points. With commitment and focus, I can be the best Wii tennis player ever.” I thought back to my years of shame – the lopsided losses in Pong, the inability to grasp the logic of Missile Command, the tone-deaf struggles with Guitar Hero and the absolute ineptitude at Call of Duty. I can right those wrongs and become a champion – and Wii Tennis will take me there.
This is not welcome news in my family. My wife fears she’s married an adult gamer, a guy who devotes most non-sleeping hours to the playing of multi-player video games, eschewing personal grooming and lawn care for the sake of the game. But comparing a Wii Tennis aficionado to an adult gamer is like comparing a 10-year old with a Fruit Stripe gum wrapper tattoo on her arm to a prison lifer with a spider web tattoo across her face. I’m no adult gamer.
I play any chance I get, winning match after match, watching my rankings rise. I leap 200 points in a day, beating the likes of Kiko and Yuki (hard faces but soft volleys), and Michael and Helen, (lousy service returners). “You’re not as good as you think,” my daughter reminds me from the doorway.
Night after night I play against opponents like Hayley and Steph, who I crush without mercy, or Tatsuaki and Marla, breaking their serve to sweep to a 3-0 win. My quest to the elusive 2000 remains slow and steady. I’m having quite a run until Theo and Saburo arrive, both ranked at 1700. I’m perched on the cusp of victory, serving for the win, when Saburo goes into berserker mode, smashing everything he sees, and I lose.
The next day I unleash a string of victories that would make Bud Collins weep with joy, defeating Theo and Daisuke in three straight, and I’m close to 1500. Just before dinner I win an epic five-game feud, fending off three match points while down 2-0 in games. Just one more game – one more victory and I’m done. My kids yell to me that the Chinese food’s arrived, but stopping now would be crazy. My opponents are the highest ranking players yet – Elisa and Sarah, both with 2000 points! I must continue, even as the smell of sesame chicken clouds my mind.
I struggle, Sarah’s net game a combination of poise, grace and lethal accuracy. I swing my arm as hard as I can, whipping the controller back and forth, determined to show these women I belong among their ranks. I hang on to win a tough match and earn enough points to push me above 1600.
I run downstairs to tell everyone the good news, bragging about my speed serves and awesome overheads. “These fried dumplings are delicious,” is the only response I get. My ascent to the upper echelon of the pro ranks is taking a toll on my family. “You’ve got a problem,” my daughter reminds me, my wife’s made it clear she won’t listen to my vivid verbal replays of my on-court success, and my son shakes his head in dismay. It’s just me and Wii, unfortunately.
I don’t care. I’ve given myself the weekend to reach 2000. With only 400 to go, I know I can do it. I begin with a massive victory over Elisa and Sarah for another 67points. With a sweatband on my wrist and the shades drawn, I lose a few but win more, putting Sarah on notice that I won’t fall for her chicanery any longer. I’m now at 1714, taking stabbing, angry swings inches from the TV screen.
Then things go wrong. I lose game after game as Sarah and her partner run me ragged. My arm starts to throb, and I’m winded. I continue losing, my ranking falling enough that I’m reintroduced to chumps like Helen and Michael. I barely win on a net cord shot, earning a lousy three points.
It’s been over two hours, and my rankings have plummeted. The names of my opponents don’t matter, and I’m lost in the haze of competition, my arm and fingers numb with every wild swing of the controller. Theo’s back with Saburo, and I win to climb back above 1700. Then, in horror, I lose three games in a flurry of frustration, my ranking dropping below 1600. I’m too sore to continue. My shoulders kill and my forearm stings. I’ve given my all but failed. The dream is over. I’m just a washed up former superstar with strained relationships and nagging injuries.
But later on that night, as everyone else settles down, I’m alone again with my Wii. I tell myself I’ll play for just one more hour. I mute the TV’s volume and find redemption, chasing Sarah and Elisa across the court, enough to get back above 1700 where I stop. I’ve spent over four hours today playing this game, raising my rankings by only 75 points, a sad showing for what was to be my victory parade. “You’re gonna be really sore tomorrow,” my daughter says to me.
Yes, my child, I’ll be sore tomorrow, and the day after that, but I’ll keep playing. True champions play through the pain, knowing greatness, like tempered steel, is forged in the heat of battle. Besides, Sarah and I have some unfinished business to tend to, and I’m taking a sick day.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tolling for Dollars
Among the handful of constants in this life – death, taxes, overcooked asparagus – one such constant bears investigating. I speak of tolls, that unavoidable fact drivers in America face day after day after day. But what’s inside that booth? Who’s collecting our money, and why do we thank them for taking our cash? These and many more questions await me as I spend a day in Hooksett as a toll operator.
I ring the buzzer on the little brick building, and Beth Walker, my boss for the day, meets me at the door. Beth’s worked for the New Hampshire tolls for 25 years, and this is her tenth year as the Hooksett site supervisor. “I’m treating you like I’d treat any new person on his first day. You’ll be in South 2,” Beth says as she hands me an orange and yellow reflective vest.
I’ll work a full shift - 2 PM to 10 PM – with two half-hour breaks. Beth goes on, “You’ll get about 400 cars per hour. The customer’s always right so don’t pick any fights out there. All mistakes are your fault.” She ends with, “Just keep in mind that you’re an ambassador for the state. If you smile, they smile. Remember that.”
Beth pairs me with Lorry Petit, a 21-year veteran of the toll system. “Lorry will be with you the entire time – she won’t leave your side.” Lorry’s instantly likeable – a warm smile, short white hair and lots of experience. Lorry grabs her things and leads me out to South 2, my home for the day.
From the moment we set foot in the booth, Lorry’s a bundle of 5’2” energy. She logs into the computer touch screen, organizes her cash and begins. Lorry’s movements are concise, her effort efficient. She leans out the window and smiles as drivers approach, hitting the buttons on the screen with one hand and collecting money with the other. As they pull away, Lorry adds the dollar to the stack, massaging the bills, sorting them with the care of a pearl diver examining her haul of oysters.
Lorry takes the condition of her money seriously. “I put the really dirty ones, the slippery and thin bills here – I give them away first. If it’s new, I put it over here.” She constantly scans her stack - $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s, looking for crisp bills. She has a system to her stacks, but I can’t figure it out.
Lorry explains the vehicle classification process - the basis for the entire toll system. “It’s all about axles,” she says. The touch screen in front of us has a set of digits from 1 to 12. Lorry hits the “1” as a car approaches. “You start with two – every vehicle has at least two axles – so a ‘1’ means two axles – and cars, depending on what they’re towing, can have up to five axles.” I fail to mention I’m not sure what she means by “axle,” not being what one would call “a good driver,” a “fan of NASCAR,” or even, “someone who knows how to use a stick shift.”
I think axles translate into sets of wheels, so when the pickup truck towing a trailer with landscaping equipment arrives, I count four sets of wheels, which means four axles, which translates into hitting “3” on the screen. Lorry reinforces this, saying, “Because you start at ‘1’ with two. So that was a ‘3.’ Get it?” Not really.
There’s more to this job than sticking a hand out to collect change. I’d imagined today’s toll takers as loners, wistfully watching those EZ Pass drivers with their sunglasses, earnest bumper stickers and pricey coffee drinks rocket through the tolls while a few ragtag Chevy Nova-driving chumps try passing off their Skeeball tokens as Millard Fillmore dollar coins, the booth dwellers yearning for eye contact to stave off the crushing loneliness. This is not the case. I’m too busy to be lonely.
“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Lorry tells me, not hassling me about the dollar I let slip away in the breeze or the fifty five cents I fumbled. There’s a lull, and Lorry yells over to South 1. Her sister Doris is working there today, and Lorry introduces me. “You’re keeping up, Skip!” Doris says. I’ve always thought of myself as a “Chico” or “Kevin,” but never a Skip. There’s no time to correct her – the cars and trucks pick up again.
Whenever there’s a break in the line, Lorry explains coding exempt vehicles (ambulances, school buses), No Funds and Canadian money. By the time she explains traveler’s checks, I can’t concentrate. I’m one 8-axle Class 11 truck paying in Canadian traveler’s checks away from an anxiety attack.
Every new driver is a potential adventure. Four motorcycle riders pull up and the leader of the pack, his white beard stretching to his belt buckle, announces, “I’m paying for all four of us.” Cycle Santa continues, “One time, a lady in this booth braided my beard for me!” I explain that I’d love to but it’s my first day. They laugh as they roar off into the late afternoon sunshine.
A man with a blonde Mohawk in a white pickup truck (dual wheel truck towing a trailer – Class 6!) hands me his money. I’ve misread what he owes me and try to hand him some back. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he says, refusing the money. No one said anything about horses.
A woman pulls up and says, “Pay for the gorgeous hunk of a man behind me.” I tell the next driver. “I better catch up!” he shouts and does just that.
One concerned driver pulls up, hands me her dollar and tells me, “I think the guy behind me’s drinking a beer.” As the next vehicle arrives, the man in question raises an empty beer bottle and slurs something cheery. His designated driver pays me in nickels and dimes, shaking his head.
My confidence grows, and a young woman rolls down her window and says, “How much?”
“One dollar,” I respond. She fishes around in her flowered hemp shoulder bag for change. “Oh, OK, here’s seventy cents,” she says, handing it to me. “Sorry! I know I can find the rest somewhere.” Too bad she can’t pay in apologies because she’s flush with those. But the cars are lining up behind her, and she’s not having any luck. I remember we have an extra thirty cents from earlier so I use it. “Don’t worry about it –you’re all set,” I say as she thanks me and drives off.
“She manipulated you,” Lorry says immediately. “You should have told her to pull over and keep looking or give her a No Fund slip and tell her to mail it back. She probably does it all the time and knew you’d let her go.” But she was so pretty. Lorry’s unimpressed.
This moment of weakness is interrupted by the next car, driven by a dead ringer for Weird Al Yankovic. He hands me a damp dollar bill. There are few things creepier than slightly moist money.
One woman gives me a card announcing her new massage therapy business. “I’d like to offer you a free half-hour massage,” she says, giving me an oversized business card with the handwritten message, “Come on in and get a taste of my hands.”
This job makes me wonder about the lives others lead. In the time it takes to accept the money and say goodbye, I catch a quick glimpse, like the mom and toddler daughter with a backseat full of prom dresses and hairspray, the frowning priest in a Crown Victoria, or the happy soldier in his fatigues. Who made the college girl cry into her cell phone, and why didn’t the preppy mom with a car full of well-dressed kids have any money for the toll? Where’s the couple dressed to the nines going, and that confused driver sticking out a palmful of quarters, motioning for me to take what he owes – what’s his story? And what about the woman who confesses that she’s been through this toll three times in the past hour? “I’m kind of lost,” she shares.
Our shift ends just before 10 PM. Lorry’s been counting down the minutes, and we’re ready to call it a night. At 9:45, Lorry tells me to go on Standby, turning our lane light red. We walk out and place two cones in the lane, heading back to the brick building.
One shift an expert does not make, but I’ve learned a few things, like truck drivers like receipts, Vermonters love pennies, and the first person to invent a doggie seat belt will be rich. And I’ve also learned that it’s worth skipping the EZ Pass lane once in a while. You may get to meet Lorry or her sister Doris or one of the many toll booth operators, like Skip, Chico and Kevin. They’ll take your dollar and give you a nice smile in return. Now that’s a bargain.
I ring the buzzer on the little brick building, and Beth Walker, my boss for the day, meets me at the door. Beth’s worked for the New Hampshire tolls for 25 years, and this is her tenth year as the Hooksett site supervisor. “I’m treating you like I’d treat any new person on his first day. You’ll be in South 2,” Beth says as she hands me an orange and yellow reflective vest.
I’ll work a full shift - 2 PM to 10 PM – with two half-hour breaks. Beth goes on, “You’ll get about 400 cars per hour. The customer’s always right so don’t pick any fights out there. All mistakes are your fault.” She ends with, “Just keep in mind that you’re an ambassador for the state. If you smile, they smile. Remember that.”
Beth pairs me with Lorry Petit, a 21-year veteran of the toll system. “Lorry will be with you the entire time – she won’t leave your side.” Lorry’s instantly likeable – a warm smile, short white hair and lots of experience. Lorry grabs her things and leads me out to South 2, my home for the day.
From the moment we set foot in the booth, Lorry’s a bundle of 5’2” energy. She logs into the computer touch screen, organizes her cash and begins. Lorry’s movements are concise, her effort efficient. She leans out the window and smiles as drivers approach, hitting the buttons on the screen with one hand and collecting money with the other. As they pull away, Lorry adds the dollar to the stack, massaging the bills, sorting them with the care of a pearl diver examining her haul of oysters.
Lorry takes the condition of her money seriously. “I put the really dirty ones, the slippery and thin bills here – I give them away first. If it’s new, I put it over here.” She constantly scans her stack - $1s, $5s, $10s and $20s, looking for crisp bills. She has a system to her stacks, but I can’t figure it out.
Lorry explains the vehicle classification process - the basis for the entire toll system. “It’s all about axles,” she says. The touch screen in front of us has a set of digits from 1 to 12. Lorry hits the “1” as a car approaches. “You start with two – every vehicle has at least two axles – so a ‘1’ means two axles – and cars, depending on what they’re towing, can have up to five axles.” I fail to mention I’m not sure what she means by “axle,” not being what one would call “a good driver,” a “fan of NASCAR,” or even, “someone who knows how to use a stick shift.”
I think axles translate into sets of wheels, so when the pickup truck towing a trailer with landscaping equipment arrives, I count four sets of wheels, which means four axles, which translates into hitting “3” on the screen. Lorry reinforces this, saying, “Because you start at ‘1’ with two. So that was a ‘3.’ Get it?” Not really.
There’s more to this job than sticking a hand out to collect change. I’d imagined today’s toll takers as loners, wistfully watching those EZ Pass drivers with their sunglasses, earnest bumper stickers and pricey coffee drinks rocket through the tolls while a few ragtag Chevy Nova-driving chumps try passing off their Skeeball tokens as Millard Fillmore dollar coins, the booth dwellers yearning for eye contact to stave off the crushing loneliness. This is not the case. I’m too busy to be lonely.
“You’re doing exceptionally well,” Lorry tells me, not hassling me about the dollar I let slip away in the breeze or the fifty five cents I fumbled. There’s a lull, and Lorry yells over to South 1. Her sister Doris is working there today, and Lorry introduces me. “You’re keeping up, Skip!” Doris says. I’ve always thought of myself as a “Chico” or “Kevin,” but never a Skip. There’s no time to correct her – the cars and trucks pick up again.
Whenever there’s a break in the line, Lorry explains coding exempt vehicles (ambulances, school buses), No Funds and Canadian money. By the time she explains traveler’s checks, I can’t concentrate. I’m one 8-axle Class 11 truck paying in Canadian traveler’s checks away from an anxiety attack.
Every new driver is a potential adventure. Four motorcycle riders pull up and the leader of the pack, his white beard stretching to his belt buckle, announces, “I’m paying for all four of us.” Cycle Santa continues, “One time, a lady in this booth braided my beard for me!” I explain that I’d love to but it’s my first day. They laugh as they roar off into the late afternoon sunshine.
A man with a blonde Mohawk in a white pickup truck (dual wheel truck towing a trailer – Class 6!) hands me his money. I’ve misread what he owes me and try to hand him some back. “This ain’t my first rodeo,” he says, refusing the money. No one said anything about horses.
A woman pulls up and says, “Pay for the gorgeous hunk of a man behind me.” I tell the next driver. “I better catch up!” he shouts and does just that.
One concerned driver pulls up, hands me her dollar and tells me, “I think the guy behind me’s drinking a beer.” As the next vehicle arrives, the man in question raises an empty beer bottle and slurs something cheery. His designated driver pays me in nickels and dimes, shaking his head.
My confidence grows, and a young woman rolls down her window and says, “How much?”
“One dollar,” I respond. She fishes around in her flowered hemp shoulder bag for change. “Oh, OK, here’s seventy cents,” she says, handing it to me. “Sorry! I know I can find the rest somewhere.” Too bad she can’t pay in apologies because she’s flush with those. But the cars are lining up behind her, and she’s not having any luck. I remember we have an extra thirty cents from earlier so I use it. “Don’t worry about it –you’re all set,” I say as she thanks me and drives off.
“She manipulated you,” Lorry says immediately. “You should have told her to pull over and keep looking or give her a No Fund slip and tell her to mail it back. She probably does it all the time and knew you’d let her go.” But she was so pretty. Lorry’s unimpressed.
This moment of weakness is interrupted by the next car, driven by a dead ringer for Weird Al Yankovic. He hands me a damp dollar bill. There are few things creepier than slightly moist money.
One woman gives me a card announcing her new massage therapy business. “I’d like to offer you a free half-hour massage,” she says, giving me an oversized business card with the handwritten message, “Come on in and get a taste of my hands.”
This job makes me wonder about the lives others lead. In the time it takes to accept the money and say goodbye, I catch a quick glimpse, like the mom and toddler daughter with a backseat full of prom dresses and hairspray, the frowning priest in a Crown Victoria, or the happy soldier in his fatigues. Who made the college girl cry into her cell phone, and why didn’t the preppy mom with a car full of well-dressed kids have any money for the toll? Where’s the couple dressed to the nines going, and that confused driver sticking out a palmful of quarters, motioning for me to take what he owes – what’s his story? And what about the woman who confesses that she’s been through this toll three times in the past hour? “I’m kind of lost,” she shares.
Our shift ends just before 10 PM. Lorry’s been counting down the minutes, and we’re ready to call it a night. At 9:45, Lorry tells me to go on Standby, turning our lane light red. We walk out and place two cones in the lane, heading back to the brick building.
One shift an expert does not make, but I’ve learned a few things, like truck drivers like receipts, Vermonters love pennies, and the first person to invent a doggie seat belt will be rich. And I’ve also learned that it’s worth skipping the EZ Pass lane once in a while. You may get to meet Lorry or her sister Doris or one of the many toll booth operators, like Skip, Chico and Kevin. They’ll take your dollar and give you a nice smile in return. Now that’s a bargain.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Hot Mess
I’ve always tried to ignore certain friendly notions, like, “Let’s go winter camping” and “You should wax your chest,” and until I tried it, I’d have added, “Hot yoga is something you must do!” to that set of suggestions. But after last week’s experience, I’m rethinking everything. Hot yoga, or “Bikram” yoga, is different than your standard yoga. It’s essentially volunteering to exercise inside a large terrarium, akin to spending ninety minutes doing slow-motion jumping jacks in Nana’s attic apartment in early August, except Nana’s wearing next to nothing and sweat’s flying off her like loose change off a Tilt-a-Whirl rider. I guess we’ve run out of fitness ideas because exercising like you’re doing yard work in the Gobi Desert seems crazy.
My journey starts at Bikram Yoga Concord, a studio just off of North Main Street, near the big brick smokestack. Heather DeAngelis, the studio’s owner and lead instructor, coaxes me in with the promise of, “It’ll be fun!” I sign up as an introductory student, entitled to unlimited classes over a ten-day period. I commit to three classes over five days.
I ask around and learn things like, “Bring lots of water, a huge towel and your own mat,” and “Stand in the back, watch and listen.” I also learn that Bikram yoga is not universally adored in the yoga community, and that there’s something of an anti-Bikram mood among yoga purists, some complaining Bikram’s too focused on competition. It’s sort of like the East Coast – West Coast rap wars from the ‘90s, except with more stretching and less ammo.
I arrive for my first class, finding a spot in the back. The heat’s oppressive - the temperature gauge shows 95 degrees. The class is filled to capacity. No one speaks. One guy stands on his head while others stretch or lie motionless. Another claims a spot up front, very proud he’s shirtless, which, from my vantage point, is a poor fashion choice. “Jog bra” is the phrase that comes to mind. My daughter had asked me days before, “So is the point of yoga to be more self-centered?” Based on the subtle preening I witness, I think she’s got that part right.
Heather enters, and we begin. We start with breathing – and as the group exhales, our hands clasped under our chins as we push our heads backward, the room lets out a collective sound – a cross between a moan and a shriek. We do this for five minutes, and my fingers are slippery with sweat. Wow it’s hot in here. Good thing it’s a dry heat – I may burst into flames instead of merely suffocating.
It’s minutes into the class, and I’m struggling. Between trying to stretch my torso to the floor, bend down on one leg and wrap the other leg around my calf while folding my hands in front of me as sweat pools at my feet, I may be in too deep. Heather paces near the front, her gentle voice directing us to, “Keep stretching, pull, pull, pull until it hurts and relax.”
Halfway through, we lie down. Heather calls it, “Savasana,” the first of many words I hear but don’t understand. We’re still for a few minutes, and after each set of exercises on the floor, we return to Savasana for a quick rest. I crave this, pushing myself through every pose so I can nap like a pre-schooler. My chest heaves up and down while I breathe through my nose. The rest of the session is a hazy blur, but I survive and feel good – in a, “I just hiked Mount Major with Gary Coleman in my rucksack” kind of way.
I return two days later, taking my same spot against the back wall. Allie, the instructor, barks out commands with words that sound foreign yet familiar. Did she say, “Jana Novatna,” as we lie on our bellies, grab hold of our ankles and pull upwards? Tennis player Jana Novatna is famous for choking during the finals at Wimbledon, crying during the awards ceremony when the Duchess of Kent gave her a hug. This makes sense - I’m choking, crying and need a hug while Allie counts down with precision, my body straining to pull skyward.
Allie moves from pose to pose with the detached command of a Sea World tour guide. “Turn around on your knees, kneel down and grab your ankles.” She talks at a rapid clip, her casual command of the routine comforting, but if my hamstring pops or a Nurse Shark chews my foot off, I’m not sure Allie will notice. Did she just say, “Prana Savannah,” or was that “Hannah Montana?” It’s really hot in here and everything seems harder today - nothing’s coming easy.
“These postures are not a destination but a tool,” she says. I’m struggling not to be a tool myself, but I get what she means. Allie ends with, “The twenty six postures never change – the same every time – like a prescription. Namaste.” And everyone but me responds, “Namaste.” I’m too tired to speak.
It’s day three, and I take a spot up front. Our instructor Mike enters. He’s fit – not an ounce of body fat – even the soul patch under his lip looks like it belongs there. We begin with breathing, and I instantly regret eating that bacon-cheeseburger and mound of fries a few hours ago.
Mike says things like, “It’s simple, not easy,” and “No one can tell you how you feel.” We’re on our feet, pulling one leg behind and up to the ceiling, and Mike commends someone for her “teardrop” shape, pointing out another who, “looks like a jackknife.” At this point, I resemble a butterscotch morsel, and I can taste the French fries percolating in my gullet as we move from position to position.
My legs are folded below me as I hold my ankles from the outside, in either the Camel or the Wounded Squirrel position. It’s been over an hour, and I’m verging on miserable. Mike tells us to bend over and touch our foreheads to our knees. As I pull up on my ankles and push my head down, my body shrinking like a Cold War duck and cover exercise, I can’t breathe, the taste of deep-fried potato strong in my throat. My shirt, soaked beyond explanation, covers my mouth and nose. It’s like I’ve got cling wrap stuck to my face. Now I know why guys go shirtless. But I keep going, doing everything I can to keep my lunch a private matter. A few more poses and we’re done.
My Bikram experience ends with Mike singing an a cappella stanza of John Lennon’s “Imagine” as I lie there breathing. I can’t say I’ll rush back here next week, but knowing what Bikram yoga has to offer, I may surprise myself. But I’m wearing a shirt – at least until I get my chest waxed.
My journey starts at Bikram Yoga Concord, a studio just off of North Main Street, near the big brick smokestack. Heather DeAngelis, the studio’s owner and lead instructor, coaxes me in with the promise of, “It’ll be fun!” I sign up as an introductory student, entitled to unlimited classes over a ten-day period. I commit to three classes over five days.
I ask around and learn things like, “Bring lots of water, a huge towel and your own mat,” and “Stand in the back, watch and listen.” I also learn that Bikram yoga is not universally adored in the yoga community, and that there’s something of an anti-Bikram mood among yoga purists, some complaining Bikram’s too focused on competition. It’s sort of like the East Coast – West Coast rap wars from the ‘90s, except with more stretching and less ammo.
I arrive for my first class, finding a spot in the back. The heat’s oppressive - the temperature gauge shows 95 degrees. The class is filled to capacity. No one speaks. One guy stands on his head while others stretch or lie motionless. Another claims a spot up front, very proud he’s shirtless, which, from my vantage point, is a poor fashion choice. “Jog bra” is the phrase that comes to mind. My daughter had asked me days before, “So is the point of yoga to be more self-centered?” Based on the subtle preening I witness, I think she’s got that part right.
Heather enters, and we begin. We start with breathing – and as the group exhales, our hands clasped under our chins as we push our heads backward, the room lets out a collective sound – a cross between a moan and a shriek. We do this for five minutes, and my fingers are slippery with sweat. Wow it’s hot in here. Good thing it’s a dry heat – I may burst into flames instead of merely suffocating.
It’s minutes into the class, and I’m struggling. Between trying to stretch my torso to the floor, bend down on one leg and wrap the other leg around my calf while folding my hands in front of me as sweat pools at my feet, I may be in too deep. Heather paces near the front, her gentle voice directing us to, “Keep stretching, pull, pull, pull until it hurts and relax.”
Halfway through, we lie down. Heather calls it, “Savasana,” the first of many words I hear but don’t understand. We’re still for a few minutes, and after each set of exercises on the floor, we return to Savasana for a quick rest. I crave this, pushing myself through every pose so I can nap like a pre-schooler. My chest heaves up and down while I breathe through my nose. The rest of the session is a hazy blur, but I survive and feel good – in a, “I just hiked Mount Major with Gary Coleman in my rucksack” kind of way.
I return two days later, taking my same spot against the back wall. Allie, the instructor, barks out commands with words that sound foreign yet familiar. Did she say, “Jana Novatna,” as we lie on our bellies, grab hold of our ankles and pull upwards? Tennis player Jana Novatna is famous for choking during the finals at Wimbledon, crying during the awards ceremony when the Duchess of Kent gave her a hug. This makes sense - I’m choking, crying and need a hug while Allie counts down with precision, my body straining to pull skyward.
Allie moves from pose to pose with the detached command of a Sea World tour guide. “Turn around on your knees, kneel down and grab your ankles.” She talks at a rapid clip, her casual command of the routine comforting, but if my hamstring pops or a Nurse Shark chews my foot off, I’m not sure Allie will notice. Did she just say, “Prana Savannah,” or was that “Hannah Montana?” It’s really hot in here and everything seems harder today - nothing’s coming easy.
“These postures are not a destination but a tool,” she says. I’m struggling not to be a tool myself, but I get what she means. Allie ends with, “The twenty six postures never change – the same every time – like a prescription. Namaste.” And everyone but me responds, “Namaste.” I’m too tired to speak.
It’s day three, and I take a spot up front. Our instructor Mike enters. He’s fit – not an ounce of body fat – even the soul patch under his lip looks like it belongs there. We begin with breathing, and I instantly regret eating that bacon-cheeseburger and mound of fries a few hours ago.
Mike says things like, “It’s simple, not easy,” and “No one can tell you how you feel.” We’re on our feet, pulling one leg behind and up to the ceiling, and Mike commends someone for her “teardrop” shape, pointing out another who, “looks like a jackknife.” At this point, I resemble a butterscotch morsel, and I can taste the French fries percolating in my gullet as we move from position to position.
My legs are folded below me as I hold my ankles from the outside, in either the Camel or the Wounded Squirrel position. It’s been over an hour, and I’m verging on miserable. Mike tells us to bend over and touch our foreheads to our knees. As I pull up on my ankles and push my head down, my body shrinking like a Cold War duck and cover exercise, I can’t breathe, the taste of deep-fried potato strong in my throat. My shirt, soaked beyond explanation, covers my mouth and nose. It’s like I’ve got cling wrap stuck to my face. Now I know why guys go shirtless. But I keep going, doing everything I can to keep my lunch a private matter. A few more poses and we’re done.
My Bikram experience ends with Mike singing an a cappella stanza of John Lennon’s “Imagine” as I lie there breathing. I can’t say I’ll rush back here next week, but knowing what Bikram yoga has to offer, I may surprise myself. But I’m wearing a shirt – at least until I get my chest waxed.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
I How I Learned to Survive the Apocalypse
The end is near. Okay, maybe not next week but it’s coming at some point. And we all have a theory how it’ll go down. Adherents to the world’s faiths - from Catholics to Druids, from Zoroastrians to Methodists, from Jews to Muslims - everyone has a theory, and none paints a rosy picture. If it isn’t fire, then it’s brimstone. If it isn’t forty days of rain then it’s a plague of frogs. And if it isn’t Elvis on Ed Sullivan, it’s definitely Snookie on the Jersey Shore. Between bangs and whimpers, it’s tough to know what to expect. But I’m less interested in how it’ll happen – I need to know how to survive once the dust settles.
If it’s true what Steve Martin once said, that “All of life’s questions are answered in the movies,” then it’s time to turn there for some answers.
I’ve spent the last week immersed in a series of post-apocalyptic movies, learning what to expect once the end arrives, and what to eat, wear and avoid if I make it through. And based on what I’ve seen, the future’s a bummer. Expect it to be filled with desperation, danger and death as well as violence, hunger and Kevin Costner, in either a mailman outfit or with gills behind his ears.
The catalyst for this assignment was last week’s premier of the latest post-apocalypse movie – The Book of Eli. In it, Denzel Washington stares down the forces of evil and illiteracy as he does his part to save civilization.
So as you prep for surviving the end of the world and get ready to embrace whatever the future may hold, give the following some thought. And just remember no matter how bad the future may be, it’ll be lots better than Waterworld.
Revenge of the Bookworms
Film: The Book of Eli (2010)
The Gist: It’s been 30 years since nuclear war destroyed most of civilization; in the war’s aftermath, all books were burned, blamed as the source of discord; no Bibles remain except the one in Eli’s backpack, and he’s walking to the West Coast with it, on instruction from a voice from above. Eli runs into trouble along the way. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Eli, aka, “The Walker,” (Denzel Washington) interrupts his daily Bible reading to dish out doses of righteous justice against those who block his way; handy with a machete, a scatter gun and his fists.
Who to Avoid: Carnegie, a small-town boss with big dreams; he’s one of the few who can read, wants that Bible and will do whatever it takes to get it; sounds like Regis Philbin when agitated.
What We’ll Eat: Cat meat and roasted vulture
What We’ll Wear: Sunglasses and comfortable shoes
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Say goodbye to library late fees and summer reading assignments.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Gun-toting elderly cannibals can be quite hospitable.
Quote to Memorize: “You will be held to account for the things you’ve done.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tips: Bring plenty of cat oil lip balm, sunscreen and a bicycle, because it’s a long way to San Francisco Bay on foot.
Last Gas for a Thousand Miles
Film: The Road Warrior (1981)
The Gist: The world runs out of oil, leading to nuclear war. Bands of roving thugs rule the roads, looking for gasoline. One community with its own refinery is besieged by the bad guys and plans an escape to “paradise” on the coast; all they need is a big truck and a savvy driver with nothing to live for. Max, the Road Warrior, arrives to lend a hand. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Max (Mel Gibson), a former cop, drives a V8 Interceptor, carries an unloaded shotgun, loves his dog and doesn’t want any trouble unless it comes looking for him; when trouble does arrive, Max handles it with stoic aplomb and defensive driving.
Who to Avoid: The Lord Humungous, aka, “The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla,” a muscled Austrian goon who wears an iron mask and studded leather suspenders; gives lengthy speeches over a makeshift sound system while his minions pop wheelies, fornicate, pillage and destroy. Any reference to current governors of western states is purely coincidental.
What We’ll Eat: Canned dog food and snake meat
What We’ll Wear: Street hockey equipment, leather chaps and knitted scarves
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Zero peer pressure to brush our teeth
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Children will have limited verbal skills, hair like the bassist from Motley Crue and can throw boomerangs with amazing accuracy.
Quote to Memorize: “You want to get out of here, you talk to me.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Tuck your hybrid car away until the nuclear fallout subsides; you’ll be the envy of all marauding gangs of murderers until they catch up to you and kill you.
Water, Water Everywhere . . .
Film: Waterworld (1995)
The Gist: Global warming melts the polar ice caps, covering civilization in water. Hundreds of years later, a hearty band of civilized folk is attacked by the Smokers, a rampaging pack of morons who seek the secret map tattooed on a girl’s back that leads to dry land. A mysterious loner, the “Mariner,” wants to be left alone but is forced to save the child and her guardian from certain death. Chaos, bad dialogue and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: The Mariner (Kevin Costner) sails the oceans alone on a super-cool catamaran, minding his own business, until he agrees to help save the girl and her map. He can hold his breath underwater for hours on account of his gilled ears and webbed feet.
Who to Avoid: The Smokers, led by Dennis Hopper in one of the worst displays of over-acting ever captured on film. They row across the ocean in the Exxon Valdez, smoke cigarettes and look for people to kill while firing guns from their jet skis.
What We’ll Eat: Barbequed sea beast blubber, Spam and Jack Daniels
What We’ll Wear: Garbage-accented smocks and form-fitting swim trousers
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Recycling urine into drinking water
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Jet skis are finally cool.
Quote to Memorize: “I’ve sailed farther than most have dreamed.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: First learn how to swim; the gills and webbed feet come later.
Not Without That Baby!
Film: Children of Men (2008)
The Gist: It’s 2027, and not a single child’s been born for almost two decades. Between pandemics, terrorists, concentration camps and the slow but unavoidable demise of the human race, the near future is a miserable place. Theo, the protagonist, gets dragged into the middle of a plan to help the only pregnant woman in the world deliver her baby while avoiding both opportunistic and murderous home-grown terrorists and the anti-immigrant British police state. Chaos, mayhem and anxiety ensue.
The Hero: Theo (Clive Owen) works in the Ministry of Energy, living a dead-end existence, avoiding terrorist bombs and rock-throwing gangs of kids (and that’s just in the first five minutes) until he agrees to help a pregnant girl and her unborn baby escape to safety. His plan to do it for the money falls apart, and Theo finds himself in a world of trouble, armed only with flip flops and a trench coat.
Who to Avoid: You can’t trust anyone in the near future, except for Michael Caine and his catatonic wife. The government offers out at-home suicide kits (“Quietus - You’ll know when the moment is right”) while terrorists fight pitch battles in the streets. But you can still listen to rock and roll and drink wine, so it isn’t all bad.
What We’ll Eat: No one has any time to eat – too busy escaping, fighting or hiding.
What We’ll Wear: Same as today except a lot more wrinkled.
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: With no kids around, we can use foul language all the time.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: The “Pull my finger” trick still gets a laugh.
Quote to Memorize: “The last one to die, please turn out the lights.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Maintain friendship with eccentric older pal who helps you escape once the double-crossing terrorists come for you – and they will come for you.
It’s Mail Time!
Film: The Postman (1997)
The Gist: It’s 2013, about 20 years since nuclear war ravaged America. A loner with a working knowledge of Shakespeare escapes the clutches of a ruthless army and is saved by the skeleton of a postal carrier and his mail truck. The loner becomes the Postman, redeeming American society from the brink of collapse through the regular delivery of the US Mail until the menacing army arrives to exact rough justice. Chaos, mayhem and tearful goodbyes ensue.
The Hero: The Postman (Kevin Costner) has no intention of helping anyone but himself as he tries to survive in the wilderness. But he becomes the center of a popular movement to throw off the yoke of tyranny. Somehow he gets all the credit when his second-in-command does all the work.
Who to Avoid: The Holnist Army with its Law of Eight, led by General Bethlehem, a former copy machine salesman turned megalomaniac, who leads his horse-riding soldiers through the northwest, taking conscripts, housewares and women while hunting down the Postman for stirring up trouble and making fun of his artistic ability.
What We’ll Eat: Vegetables, horse meat and mule stew
What We’ll Wear: What can only be described as “Distressed Comfort Chic”
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Line dancing, bodyfathers and Tom Petty
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Despite the lack of shampoo and conditioner, everyone will have great hair.
Quote to Memorize: “How much mail can a dead postman deliver?” (asked in a rhetorical manner)
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Decline any civil service job offer unless it comes with a life insurance policy and a really fast horse.
If it’s true what Steve Martin once said, that “All of life’s questions are answered in the movies,” then it’s time to turn there for some answers.
I’ve spent the last week immersed in a series of post-apocalyptic movies, learning what to expect once the end arrives, and what to eat, wear and avoid if I make it through. And based on what I’ve seen, the future’s a bummer. Expect it to be filled with desperation, danger and death as well as violence, hunger and Kevin Costner, in either a mailman outfit or with gills behind his ears.
The catalyst for this assignment was last week’s premier of the latest post-apocalypse movie – The Book of Eli. In it, Denzel Washington stares down the forces of evil and illiteracy as he does his part to save civilization.
So as you prep for surviving the end of the world and get ready to embrace whatever the future may hold, give the following some thought. And just remember no matter how bad the future may be, it’ll be lots better than Waterworld.
Revenge of the Bookworms
Film: The Book of Eli (2010)
The Gist: It’s been 30 years since nuclear war destroyed most of civilization; in the war’s aftermath, all books were burned, blamed as the source of discord; no Bibles remain except the one in Eli’s backpack, and he’s walking to the West Coast with it, on instruction from a voice from above. Eli runs into trouble along the way. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Eli, aka, “The Walker,” (Denzel Washington) interrupts his daily Bible reading to dish out doses of righteous justice against those who block his way; handy with a machete, a scatter gun and his fists.
Who to Avoid: Carnegie, a small-town boss with big dreams; he’s one of the few who can read, wants that Bible and will do whatever it takes to get it; sounds like Regis Philbin when agitated.
What We’ll Eat: Cat meat and roasted vulture
What We’ll Wear: Sunglasses and comfortable shoes
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Say goodbye to library late fees and summer reading assignments.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Gun-toting elderly cannibals can be quite hospitable.
Quote to Memorize: “You will be held to account for the things you’ve done.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tips: Bring plenty of cat oil lip balm, sunscreen and a bicycle, because it’s a long way to San Francisco Bay on foot.
Last Gas for a Thousand Miles
Film: The Road Warrior (1981)
The Gist: The world runs out of oil, leading to nuclear war. Bands of roving thugs rule the roads, looking for gasoline. One community with its own refinery is besieged by the bad guys and plans an escape to “paradise” on the coast; all they need is a big truck and a savvy driver with nothing to live for. Max, the Road Warrior, arrives to lend a hand. Chaos and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: Max (Mel Gibson), a former cop, drives a V8 Interceptor, carries an unloaded shotgun, loves his dog and doesn’t want any trouble unless it comes looking for him; when trouble does arrive, Max handles it with stoic aplomb and defensive driving.
Who to Avoid: The Lord Humungous, aka, “The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla,” a muscled Austrian goon who wears an iron mask and studded leather suspenders; gives lengthy speeches over a makeshift sound system while his minions pop wheelies, fornicate, pillage and destroy. Any reference to current governors of western states is purely coincidental.
What We’ll Eat: Canned dog food and snake meat
What We’ll Wear: Street hockey equipment, leather chaps and knitted scarves
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Zero peer pressure to brush our teeth
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Children will have limited verbal skills, hair like the bassist from Motley Crue and can throw boomerangs with amazing accuracy.
Quote to Memorize: “You want to get out of here, you talk to me.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Tuck your hybrid car away until the nuclear fallout subsides; you’ll be the envy of all marauding gangs of murderers until they catch up to you and kill you.
Water, Water Everywhere . . .
Film: Waterworld (1995)
The Gist: Global warming melts the polar ice caps, covering civilization in water. Hundreds of years later, a hearty band of civilized folk is attacked by the Smokers, a rampaging pack of morons who seek the secret map tattooed on a girl’s back that leads to dry land. A mysterious loner, the “Mariner,” wants to be left alone but is forced to save the child and her guardian from certain death. Chaos, bad dialogue and mayhem ensue.
The Hero: The Mariner (Kevin Costner) sails the oceans alone on a super-cool catamaran, minding his own business, until he agrees to help save the girl and her map. He can hold his breath underwater for hours on account of his gilled ears and webbed feet.
Who to Avoid: The Smokers, led by Dennis Hopper in one of the worst displays of over-acting ever captured on film. They row across the ocean in the Exxon Valdez, smoke cigarettes and look for people to kill while firing guns from their jet skis.
What We’ll Eat: Barbequed sea beast blubber, Spam and Jack Daniels
What We’ll Wear: Garbage-accented smocks and form-fitting swim trousers
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Recycling urine into drinking water
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Jet skis are finally cool.
Quote to Memorize: “I’ve sailed farther than most have dreamed.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: First learn how to swim; the gills and webbed feet come later.
Not Without That Baby!
Film: Children of Men (2008)
The Gist: It’s 2027, and not a single child’s been born for almost two decades. Between pandemics, terrorists, concentration camps and the slow but unavoidable demise of the human race, the near future is a miserable place. Theo, the protagonist, gets dragged into the middle of a plan to help the only pregnant woman in the world deliver her baby while avoiding both opportunistic and murderous home-grown terrorists and the anti-immigrant British police state. Chaos, mayhem and anxiety ensue.
The Hero: Theo (Clive Owen) works in the Ministry of Energy, living a dead-end existence, avoiding terrorist bombs and rock-throwing gangs of kids (and that’s just in the first five minutes) until he agrees to help a pregnant girl and her unborn baby escape to safety. His plan to do it for the money falls apart, and Theo finds himself in a world of trouble, armed only with flip flops and a trench coat.
Who to Avoid: You can’t trust anyone in the near future, except for Michael Caine and his catatonic wife. The government offers out at-home suicide kits (“Quietus - You’ll know when the moment is right”) while terrorists fight pitch battles in the streets. But you can still listen to rock and roll and drink wine, so it isn’t all bad.
What We’ll Eat: No one has any time to eat – too busy escaping, fighting or hiding.
What We’ll Wear: Same as today except a lot more wrinkled.
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: With no kids around, we can use foul language all the time.
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: The “Pull my finger” trick still gets a laugh.
Quote to Memorize: “The last one to die, please turn out the lights.”
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Maintain friendship with eccentric older pal who helps you escape once the double-crossing terrorists come for you – and they will come for you.
It’s Mail Time!
Film: The Postman (1997)
The Gist: It’s 2013, about 20 years since nuclear war ravaged America. A loner with a working knowledge of Shakespeare escapes the clutches of a ruthless army and is saved by the skeleton of a postal carrier and his mail truck. The loner becomes the Postman, redeeming American society from the brink of collapse through the regular delivery of the US Mail until the menacing army arrives to exact rough justice. Chaos, mayhem and tearful goodbyes ensue.
The Hero: The Postman (Kevin Costner) has no intention of helping anyone but himself as he tries to survive in the wilderness. But he becomes the center of a popular movement to throw off the yoke of tyranny. Somehow he gets all the credit when his second-in-command does all the work.
Who to Avoid: The Holnist Army with its Law of Eight, led by General Bethlehem, a former copy machine salesman turned megalomaniac, who leads his horse-riding soldiers through the northwest, taking conscripts, housewares and women while hunting down the Postman for stirring up trouble and making fun of his artistic ability.
What We’ll Eat: Vegetables, horse meat and mule stew
What We’ll Wear: What can only be described as “Distressed Comfort Chic”
What We Can Look Forward to in the Future: Line dancing, bodyfathers and Tom Petty
What Will Surprise Us in the Future: Despite the lack of shampoo and conditioner, everyone will have great hair.
Quote to Memorize: “How much mail can a dead postman deliver?” (asked in a rhetorical manner)
Après-Apocalypse Survival Tip: Decline any civil service job offer unless it comes with a life insurance policy and a really fast horse.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Gingerbread Dreams
It Begins
“This is the opposite of a merry Christmas,” my wife says to me as I eat another spoonful of green frosting in anger. I’m trying to build a gingerbread house, and it’s not going well.
“Yeah, dad. You’re like the Grinch,” Maisie, my 10-year old daughter adds from across the kitchen. Me? Anti-Christmas? Grinch-like? Wait a second - I’m the one who decided to make this gingerbread house from scratch in the first place – the guy who found the recipe, bought the ingredients, baked the gingerbread, made the icing, designed the scene and even agreed to listen to Christmas carols while I worked. I should get a congratulatory phone call from Pater Noel himself for this effort, but the two women in my life make it clear I’m no St. Nick. My whiny petulance isn’t helping.
“This whole this is stupid,” I mutter as I eat more frosting, my teeth now an unnatural shade of green.
It began so innocently. I accepted the challenge to build an elaborate gingerbread house as a way to embrace the holiday season- to breathe in the coconut dust, cream of tartar and ground ginger like they were gentle whispers from the North Pole, but instead I’ve got Canada mints in my teeth, red licorice in my hair and a structure in front of me that looks like it’s been sitting on the San Andreas Fault. To top it off, I’ll be judged on this effort by non-family members.
I may have made a mistake a week or so back, taking my wife’s suggestion to ask the Fru-Gals, those witty, talented recipe mavens from the Monitor’s Wednesday pages, to join forces with me in a gingerbread house building circle of columnists holiday celebration. But it quickly became a winner-take-all contest to see who could build the better gingerbread house. What started out as a “Laverne and Shirley drink milk and Pepsi with Fonzie” kind of thing devolved into a Battle of the Network Stars showdown, and I’m Gabe Kaplan running for my life from Robert Conrad because I made fun of the battery on his shoulder.
A nice, heartwarming tale of friendship and learning morphed into a ruthless competition of May the Best House Win, and I fear things won’t end well for me. But I refuse to quit. I can do this. I can build a winning gingerbread house.
The Design
For starters, I head online to find that one perfect design, perusing plans for everything from wee cottages to entire villages, from luxury homes with names like “The Winchester” and “Kensington Manor,” to rustic bird houses of more humble origins. I first settle on “Barn with Silo Gingerbread House” – an understated yet traditional plan. But I dig a little deeper and search for “gingerbread outhouse,” just for kicks. And there it is - detailed instruction for an outhouse, or what’s officially known as a “1939 US Forest Service One Hole Leaching Pit Privy.” And any set of instructions that includes the phrase, “Warm and soften one stick of gum by carrying it your pocket, or if you’re female, by placing it in your brassier” is a keeper. I’m making an outhouse.
Man vs. Mixer
My friend Kim loans me her industrial-sized mixer, and after the first of three trips to the market, I get to work on making the gingerbread dough. I choose a recipe for “construction-grade” building materials and refer often to a list of tips a local gingerbread guru shares with me (name to be revealed when I win). Sure, it’ll be edible once I’m done, but road kill is edible too, but I’m not sure I’d take a bite.
I’m learning that industrial mixers don’t care if your hand’s in the bowl – they will continue to rotate regardless. The dough isn’t cooperating, and the more I try to time the rotations and jab in a spatula to coax the dough into behaving, the more I wish I’d chosen poinsettia farming for this month’s column, my knuckles rapped in regular intervals and my blood pressure rising.
“Are you sweating?” my wife asks as she walks into the kitchen. She doesn’t wait for an answer as I mop my flour-covered brow. I finish the dough, two huge bricks of it, and put it in the fridge for a few days as I work out my design. By this point, the smell of gingerbread is vaguely nauseating, like the morning after an elfin frat house bender.
Measure Once, Cut Twice
I’ve decided to make matching his and hers outhouses, in homage to a simpler time when men were men and industrial mixers were something you wore your dancing shoes to. I’m reminded of what I’ve gotten myself into when I see my friend Steve at the gas station. He’s dressed in full camouflage, filling red gas cans for his four-wheeler. He’s spending the day in the woods building tree stands for deer hunting. “So what are you up to today?” Steve asks me.
“Um, uh, building a gingerbread house,” I respond. Steve doesn’t guffaw or slap me in the head with a deer hoof, but as he drives away, I’m sure he’s thinking, “That guy’s got rocks in his head.”
Maybe a few rocks, but definitely not much patience. Back at home I cut out patterns and bake them for my matching privy huts, learning that uneven dough, dull knives and hyperventilation are a recipe for misshapen results.
Decoration Day
It’s Decoration Day, and I’m up early, determined to start and finish planning, constructing and decorating my design. My daughter’s agreed to help. The two of us are two peas in an impatient pod, so this should be entertaining for anyone within earshot. “Maisie, wait – we’ll do the icing in a second.” “Stop – put that knife down – wait for me.” “If you keep eating the licorice, you’ll feel sick.” This one-way discussion lasts for a good hour before Maisie announces she needs a break. I’ve been getting everything ready all morning, and between making the royal icing to rolling out the fondant to debating whether marshmallows or coconut makes better snow, I haven’t figured out how to make the most of Maisie’s talents. We settle on Christmas trees – upside-down ice cream cones covered with green icing flowers. After fifteen minutes of wrestling with the decorating tip and a bag filled with half a pound of green frosting, I can feel the frustration rising. “Dad, are you done yet? I want to get started,” Maisie asks. I hand her the sugar-filled plastic bag, and she gets to work. My wife just shakes her head.
Meanwhile, the royal icing’s leaking all over the floor behind me as the walls of the first outhouse dry, cans of Spam and kidney beans holding them in place. But slowly, as Maisie makes her forest, the outhouses take shape, complete with white toilet seats and rolls of cottony-looking toilet paper. Maisie adds mini stars to the trees and a snowman, and our scene comes together. As the doors go up (star for the man’s outhouse and half-moon for the woman’s), I’m starting to think I’m getting the hang of this. I add a fondant pond dyed a swirling shade of blue with a “Thin Ice” sign for good measure, surrounded by shoveled coconut snow. The ventilation pipes on the outhouse roofs add a nice touch, and Maisie’s snowman wears a Smarties fez atop his fondant head.
Drafty Dreams
But there’s still so much to do. Maisie’s wandered off, the icing continues to drip and stick to everything, and my second outhouse looks like it’s one snowman stink eye away from crashing down into a barely edible heap. And if I hear George Michael sing one more verse of “Last Christmas,” I may escape by downing the remaining pint of royal icing and lapsing into a sugar coma.
As the afternoon lingers, I try an ambitious design approach. I’ve covered one of the outhouses entirely in white fondant, that smooth, elastic coating you see on fancy cakes. I wanted to glue red licorice in a candy cane pattern to the fondant, but gravity works against me. So I use red frosting, but that looks even worse. I then paint red lines with concentrated red food dye, but my lines are less than parallel. I finally just coat the entire outhouse blood red, like something out of The Shining. I cover the rest of the scene in coconut and icing, adding a sprinkle of glittery dust for that just snowed-upon look.
It’s close to 9 PM, and I’m out of supplies, time and interest. I’ve spent more than twelve hours on this project and plan on never eating gingerbread again. My back’s killing me, and my fingers are stained blue, red and green and covered in glitter. It’s time put the icing down and go to bed where visions of drafty outhouses will dance in my head. Next year, I’m going deer hunting with Steve.
“This is the opposite of a merry Christmas,” my wife says to me as I eat another spoonful of green frosting in anger. I’m trying to build a gingerbread house, and it’s not going well.
“Yeah, dad. You’re like the Grinch,” Maisie, my 10-year old daughter adds from across the kitchen. Me? Anti-Christmas? Grinch-like? Wait a second - I’m the one who decided to make this gingerbread house from scratch in the first place – the guy who found the recipe, bought the ingredients, baked the gingerbread, made the icing, designed the scene and even agreed to listen to Christmas carols while I worked. I should get a congratulatory phone call from Pater Noel himself for this effort, but the two women in my life make it clear I’m no St. Nick. My whiny petulance isn’t helping.
“This whole this is stupid,” I mutter as I eat more frosting, my teeth now an unnatural shade of green.
It began so innocently. I accepted the challenge to build an elaborate gingerbread house as a way to embrace the holiday season- to breathe in the coconut dust, cream of tartar and ground ginger like they were gentle whispers from the North Pole, but instead I’ve got Canada mints in my teeth, red licorice in my hair and a structure in front of me that looks like it’s been sitting on the San Andreas Fault. To top it off, I’ll be judged on this effort by non-family members.
I may have made a mistake a week or so back, taking my wife’s suggestion to ask the Fru-Gals, those witty, talented recipe mavens from the Monitor’s Wednesday pages, to join forces with me in a gingerbread house building circle of columnists holiday celebration. But it quickly became a winner-take-all contest to see who could build the better gingerbread house. What started out as a “Laverne and Shirley drink milk and Pepsi with Fonzie” kind of thing devolved into a Battle of the Network Stars showdown, and I’m Gabe Kaplan running for my life from Robert Conrad because I made fun of the battery on his shoulder.
A nice, heartwarming tale of friendship and learning morphed into a ruthless competition of May the Best House Win, and I fear things won’t end well for me. But I refuse to quit. I can do this. I can build a winning gingerbread house.
The Design
For starters, I head online to find that one perfect design, perusing plans for everything from wee cottages to entire villages, from luxury homes with names like “The Winchester” and “Kensington Manor,” to rustic bird houses of more humble origins. I first settle on “Barn with Silo Gingerbread House” – an understated yet traditional plan. But I dig a little deeper and search for “gingerbread outhouse,” just for kicks. And there it is - detailed instruction for an outhouse, or what’s officially known as a “1939 US Forest Service One Hole Leaching Pit Privy.” And any set of instructions that includes the phrase, “Warm and soften one stick of gum by carrying it your pocket, or if you’re female, by placing it in your brassier” is a keeper. I’m making an outhouse.
Man vs. Mixer
My friend Kim loans me her industrial-sized mixer, and after the first of three trips to the market, I get to work on making the gingerbread dough. I choose a recipe for “construction-grade” building materials and refer often to a list of tips a local gingerbread guru shares with me (name to be revealed when I win). Sure, it’ll be edible once I’m done, but road kill is edible too, but I’m not sure I’d take a bite.
I’m learning that industrial mixers don’t care if your hand’s in the bowl – they will continue to rotate regardless. The dough isn’t cooperating, and the more I try to time the rotations and jab in a spatula to coax the dough into behaving, the more I wish I’d chosen poinsettia farming for this month’s column, my knuckles rapped in regular intervals and my blood pressure rising.
“Are you sweating?” my wife asks as she walks into the kitchen. She doesn’t wait for an answer as I mop my flour-covered brow. I finish the dough, two huge bricks of it, and put it in the fridge for a few days as I work out my design. By this point, the smell of gingerbread is vaguely nauseating, like the morning after an elfin frat house bender.
Measure Once, Cut Twice
I’ve decided to make matching his and hers outhouses, in homage to a simpler time when men were men and industrial mixers were something you wore your dancing shoes to. I’m reminded of what I’ve gotten myself into when I see my friend Steve at the gas station. He’s dressed in full camouflage, filling red gas cans for his four-wheeler. He’s spending the day in the woods building tree stands for deer hunting. “So what are you up to today?” Steve asks me.
“Um, uh, building a gingerbread house,” I respond. Steve doesn’t guffaw or slap me in the head with a deer hoof, but as he drives away, I’m sure he’s thinking, “That guy’s got rocks in his head.”
Maybe a few rocks, but definitely not much patience. Back at home I cut out patterns and bake them for my matching privy huts, learning that uneven dough, dull knives and hyperventilation are a recipe for misshapen results.
Decoration Day
It’s Decoration Day, and I’m up early, determined to start and finish planning, constructing and decorating my design. My daughter’s agreed to help. The two of us are two peas in an impatient pod, so this should be entertaining for anyone within earshot. “Maisie, wait – we’ll do the icing in a second.” “Stop – put that knife down – wait for me.” “If you keep eating the licorice, you’ll feel sick.” This one-way discussion lasts for a good hour before Maisie announces she needs a break. I’ve been getting everything ready all morning, and between making the royal icing to rolling out the fondant to debating whether marshmallows or coconut makes better snow, I haven’t figured out how to make the most of Maisie’s talents. We settle on Christmas trees – upside-down ice cream cones covered with green icing flowers. After fifteen minutes of wrestling with the decorating tip and a bag filled with half a pound of green frosting, I can feel the frustration rising. “Dad, are you done yet? I want to get started,” Maisie asks. I hand her the sugar-filled plastic bag, and she gets to work. My wife just shakes her head.
Meanwhile, the royal icing’s leaking all over the floor behind me as the walls of the first outhouse dry, cans of Spam and kidney beans holding them in place. But slowly, as Maisie makes her forest, the outhouses take shape, complete with white toilet seats and rolls of cottony-looking toilet paper. Maisie adds mini stars to the trees and a snowman, and our scene comes together. As the doors go up (star for the man’s outhouse and half-moon for the woman’s), I’m starting to think I’m getting the hang of this. I add a fondant pond dyed a swirling shade of blue with a “Thin Ice” sign for good measure, surrounded by shoveled coconut snow. The ventilation pipes on the outhouse roofs add a nice touch, and Maisie’s snowman wears a Smarties fez atop his fondant head.
Drafty Dreams
But there’s still so much to do. Maisie’s wandered off, the icing continues to drip and stick to everything, and my second outhouse looks like it’s one snowman stink eye away from crashing down into a barely edible heap. And if I hear George Michael sing one more verse of “Last Christmas,” I may escape by downing the remaining pint of royal icing and lapsing into a sugar coma.
As the afternoon lingers, I try an ambitious design approach. I’ve covered one of the outhouses entirely in white fondant, that smooth, elastic coating you see on fancy cakes. I wanted to glue red licorice in a candy cane pattern to the fondant, but gravity works against me. So I use red frosting, but that looks even worse. I then paint red lines with concentrated red food dye, but my lines are less than parallel. I finally just coat the entire outhouse blood red, like something out of The Shining. I cover the rest of the scene in coconut and icing, adding a sprinkle of glittery dust for that just snowed-upon look.
It’s close to 9 PM, and I’m out of supplies, time and interest. I’ve spent more than twelve hours on this project and plan on never eating gingerbread again. My back’s killing me, and my fingers are stained blue, red and green and covered in glitter. It’s time put the icing down and go to bed where visions of drafty outhouses will dance in my head. Next year, I’m going deer hunting with Steve.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
