My Green Doughnut

Green DonutAs Sister Margaretta confessed in “The Sound of Music,” Reverend Mother, I have sinned. Except her crime — tampering with a Nazi car to save Julie Andrews, and let’s face it, who wouldn’t do whatever it took to save Julie Andrews — was more forgivable than mine.

I ate a doughnut.

Not only a doughnut, but an especially unnatural one with St. Patrick’s Day green icing! Oh, sweet mercy, I’m going to hell.

I have a house full of healthy food, and instantly, I attempted to cancel out my crime by zapping and eating a “Sweet Earth Natural Foods” Greek Burrito, “a savory blend of organic white beans, fresh baby spinach, feta & oregano. Hemlock-free!”

Now, I don’t know if the part about it being Hemlock free means that hemlock is an issue with organic Greek-themed products, or if it’s a reference to the Greek thinker Socrates, who was tried and found guilty of impious acts and forced to drink a poison containing hemlock.

Speaking of impious acts, in our crazy world we don’t actually talk about moral sin anymore. We don’t want to be judgmental. But boy, howdy, do we have manufactured sin out the kazoo.

Have a carbon footprint — you can buy carbon credits, or virtue points to offset your carbon footprint (selling redemption like the Church used to sell Indulgences in the Middle Ages, not that I’m judging) — or use an environment-destroying plastic grocery bag, or eat at McDonald’s, or drink a Big Gulp-sized soda, or wolf down a green doughnut (and, even more heinous, actually enjoy it), and you are screwed.

Bad, bad person! I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that when I go to meet my Maker, the green doughnut is not going to come up, so to speak.

But I may have to eat my weight in kale and do a whole lot of recycling before they let me back in the Whole Foods again.

 

This post and all blog content Ⓒ Copyright Janet Farrar Worthington.

/4 Comments/by

Mispronounced on purpose

We know the right way to talk, but in our family — in private, not out in public — we often choose not to do it. I can’t explain it, but we think purposefully mispronounced words are funny. I don’t think it’s just a Southern thing; Mark’s grandfather was from Ohio, and he liked to say, “eduma-cated” for educated. It’s not like saying “nuclear” instead of “nuclear,” which we would never do. Duh!

But when we look for paint, we could go to “Sherman Williams,” or the Home “de Pot.” Not to be confused with that high-end kitchen store, “William Somona.” If you’re into architecture, you’ll know that there are three basic types — Ionic, Doric, and Corinthian — of Greek “col-yums.”

We live in Arizona, and love driving about an hour over the mountains to “Sedonia.” If it’s winter, you might want to use a “tarpole-yon” to cover up your outdoor furniture.

Still, it was just a mite embarrassing last week when we were at a furniture store looking at leather chairs, and Mark saw some that were “bonded leather,” which basically is just ground-up cow fibers and vinyl. I said, “They’s vin-yel!” right as the sales guy showed up. I’m pretty sure he heard me, but I don’t think he knew what I was talking about.

Not sophisticated enough.

 

This post and all blog content Ⓒ Copyright Janet Farrar Worthington.

/0 Comments/by

My mailman’s name

Small town problems:  I don’t know my mailman’s name.

He has told me, and I instantly forgot.  It is a terrible flaw I have, and I come by it honestly. My dad, for years, had a default first name of Fred for men whose names he couldn’t remember.

My mailman has gone out of his way to be friendly and helpful, and I wanted to get him a small Christmas gift, like a Starbucks gift card, but I didn’t want to just put an impersonal, “To Our Mailman” on the envelope.

Today, I was on the treadmill at the YMCA, our small town’s major gym, and who showed up on the treadmill next to me but our mailman.  I was oblivious, as usual, until he said, “Do I know you?” with that smile meaning, “Obviously, I know you, because I am sensitive to others’ feelings and I remember everyone’s name and I deliver your mail.”

I was ready for my big chance. I pointed to myself and said, “Janet,” as in, “I’m sure you don’t remember my name.”  He said, “I know,” but didn’t offer up a name of his own.  Darn it!   I said, “And what was your name again?” and instantly cringed.  He was hurt!  He was hurt that I didn’t remember.  He said something and darned if I didn’t catch the first syllable.  —something Val.  I smiled and nodded, and jogged for the next 22 minutes in silence broken only by my out-of-shape breathing.

Deval?  Lavalle?  I have no idea!  I texted my husband, who was working out in the weight room, to come introduce himself and get another shot at the name.  But Mark got all sanctimonious and said, “I don’t want to interrupt his workout.”  I kept running, spending 35 minutes on that darn treadmill in all, and finally —val was on his cool down.  I texted Mark again, but basically, he was hungry and just wanted to go home and eat, so we left, seeing —val on the way out, who wished us a Happy New Year.

”You, too!”  I called.

 

This post and all blog content Ⓒ Copyright Janet Farrar Worthington.

/0 Comments/by

Halos vs. Cuties

In a non-endorsed, side-by-side comparison, our three kids voted Cuties as the overwhelming favorite.

“What are Cuties®?

No….they are not your young child, your relative or your beloved pet…they are a part of the Sun Pacific family!”

We found Halos drier and not as tasty. I don’t know if our experience is unique, but in our house, Cuties rule.

 

This post and all blog content Ⓒ Copyright Janet Farrar Worthington.

/0 Comments/by

Poor Mr. Chilly!

Mr. Chilly looks a lot better nowNew to Arizona, we put him out on the porch last winter and did not realize that even in cold weather, things can fade in the sun. Mr. Chilly was looking washed out and sad…

But no more! All it took was two coats with a Sharpie. Now he’s Mr. Chilly yet Vibrant!

 

This post and all blog content Ⓒ Copyright Janet Farrar Worthington.

/0 Comments/by