Perceptions of a Child Fascinated by Food

It is one of my earliest memories: I vomited hotdogs, all by myself.

We moved from the scene of this event that marked the beginning of my interest in food and related subjects, such as disgestion and food commentary when I was four, so I know I was no older than that, maybe even three. I have perhaps five memories total of my toddlerhood, so this is a significant memory.

My younger brother and I ate beanie weenies for dinner. That's how my mother stretched the food budget, by serving us cheap 'fun' food and saving the meat for the grown ups. I was much older than four before I learned that hot dogs were the offical name for what Dad called, 'tube steaks'. It is important to teach your children the semi-communication of euphemisms.

We ate the beanie weenies. I don't remember what happened after that. It was still light out. I was not an 'outside kid' so it isn't like I was out climbing trees or spinning in the back yard until I was dizzy. For some reason I got nauseous. I wasn't a sickly kid in that respect, except for asthma, a convenient disability for a lazy kid like me who didn't want to run laps in school anyway. "Sorry, but I have a note in my file. Asthma. If you make me run to that fence, have a paramedic on standby." Not really, I always made a half-hearted attempt, then started wheezing convincingly about halfway to the fence. I got sympathy because at least I tried. Eventually, the PE teacher stopped letting me 'try'. Who knows why I was sick that day.

My mother was a social woman trapped at home in domestic drudgery. She never liked being a housewife, but she had to quit her government job to take out her retirement to pay the hospital bill when I was born. She was standing at the fence talking to Dot, our next door neighbor. I always think of Dot wearing a polka dot dress, although I don't know if she really had one or not. She had black hair like a stereotypical Gypsy and took care of her elderly mother who had wild gray hair. They were standing where a fence would be between the properties if the fence extended to the front yard, just standing there chatting. I proudly announced, "I just threw up all by myself!"

It wasn't like I wanted to be alone at such a time, but I knew it was coming up and Mom didn't anwer when I called for her. Imagine my surprise when the toilet bowl filled with tan bean mush and perfect little circles of hot dogs. I hadn't chewed them at all, just swallowed them right down. I didn't realize that at the time. I don't know what I expected my stomach to do with the beans and hot dogs, but I didn't expect to see them perfectly resurrected. After a thorough visual inspection, I wiped my face with a washcloth, because that's Mom did, and flushed, returning the vomity washcloth to the rack.

Well, I was quite proud of myself. Only four years old, maybe only three, and already worldly wise in the ways of self-care. I could see Mom and Dot from the bathroom window. I knew Mom would experience the full glow of parental pride when I announced my success story. Except...she was humiliated. Was it because throwing up was bad? Was she embarassed because she wasn't there to wipe my face? What exactly had I done wrong?

In search of a more appreciative audience, I told my brother. He remained unmoved. He was only three at most anyway. Thus at four years old, maybe even three, I learned not all of our accomplishments will be lauded by others. It is an important lesson if you write.

The event also gave me a great curiosity about where the food goes and how it get back to the mouth once it goes down. It should disappear forever like the last ball in a putt putt course which just goes down the hole, never to be seen again. This made me reconsider my image of our chest cavity as a rack of dry white rib bones, hanging in darkness like empty coat hangers in a closet. I thought when food was swallowed, it got stuck on the ribs, flapping like streamers on tree limbs, until it disintergrated. How did it get off the ribs and back up my throat and with such force? And how did little circles of hot dogs balance on the tips of rib bones? Obviously, my theory was flawed but none of my Golden Books were of help,

Oh, the glorious day finally came when I learned the disgestive process is a closed system with a point of entry and exit, with filters and pumps and check valves along the way. What a marvelous system, though prone to frequent failure. At four or three, I could not have imagined the ways in which it can fail, but my middle aged self knows, oh yes, she knows. It failed fatally for several people I have loved. And what insight will my elderly self learn in the next few decades about digestion, about the ramifications of binge eating and reckless food choices? I'll post an update in thirty years.

Unforunately, I have had cause to throw up plenty of times in the interrim, mostly due to migraines, but alcohol played a role as well, and the flu. I have even been forced to hose it off the passenger door of a boyfriend's car on Christmas morning. But I can still see in my mind the little hot dog circles on the tips of my ribs, waiting to be blown into the toilet.

True, Perhaps Slightly Embellished Stories

Considering my age and the number of jobs I've worked, I've collected some stories. Some of the events recounted here came about at my expense, some were experienced by others. I have enjoyed telling them over the years, but now I'm tired of them. They sound rehearsed, even to my ears, and who loves to hear about me more than me? So I'm going to post them here for posterity or until Blogspot shuts down. Some events or experiences will be meaningful. Most will be silly and you will wonder why they stayed in my head so long. I hope you enjoy them or at least say to yourself, 'I thought my life was screwy!'

What I learned at Bead Fest 2010

Bead Fest--the name says it all. There are beads. The atmosphere is festive and so is the tacky jewelry revelers made to show off to our fellow lovers of small shiny objects.

Last year, I paid for my Bead Fest admission in advance, and a ticket for my daughter. A co-worker agreed to work for me. A couple of days before the Saturday I planned to travel, bad weather jammed up flights so there was no room for us and the co-worker bailed as well. I vowed to go the next year.

This year I had plenty of time and the weather was perfect, no problem getting there or back, but I went alone. I used to think it would be nice to travel alone. I could see only what I wanted to see, not waste time on things that did not interest me. Now I would rather go with a buddy. Maybe I'll get married again. Bead Fest had a lounge area inhabited by sullen husbands wearing official tags indicating they paid for the privilege of sitting on official Bead Fest sofas, watching middle aged women pour past.

I've been suffering from nightstalker syndrome for months--up all night, sleep all day. The night before I left, I should have been sleeping, but I wasn't so I spent the day like a zombie, only more irritated by the smallest things. Unlike a zombie, I couldn't kill the people who got in my way and there was a lot of that. The people who set the place up made it like a cow pen, a bunch of blind alleys where all of us fatties pushed together at the most popular displays. Also unlike a zombie, I do not have special powers. At this weight, I have no powers at all, except the power to crush the competition as it were, not a power I would use in public. I wouldn't want to knock over a rack of beads. Plus, travel requires walking, a lot of walking yesterday, unless you can afford a driver. On my budget, I couldn't even afford a rental car and spent considerable time waiting for trains and buses. I missed my bus stop on the way to the convention center and ended up at Valley Forge. I should have taken a tour while I was there. Now I have to go back. I have a post-mortem crush on George Washington.

So next year (oh yes, I will go again), I know what to expect. First, I will not be this fat. I will not travel again until I loose fifty pounds. It's not fair to myself to go to the trouble of planning a trip and getting ready only to be miserable and limited because I am so fat. Second, I will sleep the night before. I was no fun to be around, I can tell you that. Next, I will save money. I saw a lot of beautiful beads and cabochons I would love to buy but I am too broke. I thought there would be bargains but everything there cost as much as it does in bead stores or online. The advantage is the sheer volume of selections available. Bead stores around here may carry a few seed beads or even, as in the case of Gu's Haus of Beads, a lot of seed beads, but there were stalls with every seed bead and seed bead paraphernalia known to God and man. Every color, every finish, every size and shape. They had white beads with gold centers. I kid you not. I had never seen them before and they had them in every size! Take a breath, Mary. I will take a shopping list of items to complete projects. I did that this year, but I didn't buy much. I knew I needed heavy gauge wire and a chat with the Softflex people about it, got a tube of crystal clear seed beads I needed for a stained glass inspired project, etc. I wanted Grace Ma beads and Thai beads. Maybe next year. And next year I will rent a car at the airport. The bus/train combo wasn't that much longer, but it would be nice to have a car handy for a trip to Valley Forge and the mega mall in King of Prussia. I will make a vacation of it and stay at the Radisson where the convention center is located. I forgot how much I detest crowds until I was in the middle of one. It would be nice to have a place to hide and suck my thumb when the mobs get to me.

Bead Fest 2011—who’s coming with me?