How Oscar Mayer Changed My Life

This version of the Oscar Mayer Bologna song became famous before I was born. No matter. It was one of those jingles that embedded itself deep in our culture's collective ear. By the time I was old enough to fully appreciate the flavor of the spongy, pink "meat product," I knew how to spell B-O-L-O-G-N-A.

It's amazing what marketing can do.

This version came out later in my childhood, and I remember it clearly.

Really, the power of a good jingle astonishes me. Not only did this company teach two generations of kids to spell correctly a total phonetic anomaly, but it made us all admit out loud that we wished we were Oscar Mayer Wieners---so that everyone would be in love with us!!!!!

It was a more innocent time in our country's history, and the wing-nuts had not yet learned that they could garner a lot of attention for protesting the promotion of open love affairs between children and processed foods. This is why Waffle Guy and I have an open relationship: he is totally supportive of my propensity for an occasional late-night rendezvous with a bag of kettle chips. But I digress.

It's been a long time since I've considered the powerful influence of the company that produced the original "Meats of Good Taste" in my life, but Oscar Mayer has reappeared in my life.

My Eldest Waffler's school participated yesterday morning in a sandwich-making service project extravaganza yesterday for a touching Minneapolis-based charitable project called "363." Founded by a retired Minneapolis school teacher named Allan Law, the organization is a formal recognition of the fact that we're great at feeding the homeless and hungry among us on Thanksgiving and Christmas. They're there to take care of the other 363 days of each year.

Mr. Law talked to the students a day in his life. He personally picks up sandwiches from the storage facility where they're safely stored, and spends his nights making the rounds. He focuses on hungry kids first, and then visits "safe-bay"sleeping shelters where the lucky among the homeless can sleep on a mat on a floor in a warm room. Mr. Law discussed how those in need appreciate his gift--none among the hungry turn away the sandwiches because they're not in the mood for a sandwich.

And then, for 20 wonderful minutes, the kids turned into a fantastically animated assembly line, carefully placing American cheese and slices of Oscar Mayer Turkey Bologna on enriched white bread, bagging them up, and sending them on their way.

Last year, Mr. Law distributed half a million sandwiches to the hungry and homeless in Minneapolis. In a city so clean, pretty and affluent, it can be hard to imagine that there is need so great. There is.

The 363 Web site estimates that it takes 6 people half an hour to assemble 150 sandwiches. There's a link to order supplies directly from Coborn's Delivers  on 363's page.

After talking to my Wafflers, we've decided that we'll take one day per month, and make sandwiches. On that night, we'll have bologna and cheese, to help us remember how lucky we are to have the choices that we have.

I no longer wish I was a wiener, Oscar Mayer or otherwise. Still, despite all my food snobbery, I'm starting to see bologna in a whole new light.

Resolved.

She spent the whole party playing with stacking cups, a gift given her by Waffle Guy's mother. Slowly, she'd build a tower. Then faster. Tall, thin towers, and shorter, broad towers. Towers sorted by color, and multi-hued towers. Always, her towers would fall, but she was undisturbed. Lost in play, she picked up her treasures, and lovingly built the biggest, most colorful creation she could muster. 

We've just changed our calendars, and pop-culture columnists from all media are making their predictions about Who to Watch, Where to Be Seen, What to Wear, and How to Wear It for 2011. Tech experts are doing the requisite four-minute morning-news segments about this year's must-have gadgets. Personal bloggers and self-help gurus are listing resolutions and setting intentions and writing about theme words for the New Year.

There are lots of rules about new years, apparently. Lots of advice.

Set resolutions that are attainable, we're told. Try cutting out soda instead of deciding to lose 50 pounds. That way, they say, you're less likely to get frustrated and give up.

Or don't set resolutions at all. Set intentions. Just deciding to change is the key to changing, they say.

They also say you can pick a theme word. Choose an easy-to-embrace mantra, and repeat it with all your might. This way, they say, you're not focused on the things you're doing wrong in life. You're likely to notice what's right if you can wrap it all up into one simple word.

They say lots of things, and I listen. I'm not sure why. I have yet to see the science that tells me that big goals are worse or less attainable than little ones. And while I've intended to be a chocolate-guzzling comedienne-supermodel with a recording contract and my own Florida Key for some time now, I'm beginning to realize it's just not going to happen for me. And somehow, I can't possibly find just one word that describes the incredible, complex and nuanced thing I wish for my life to become.

It's possible that I'm missing some glorious point. Maybe I'm not emotionally or spiritually evolved enough. Nevertheless, I really don't care what I'm supposed to want or who I'm supposed to watch or how I'm supposed to do things in 2011. In the past, I've paid attention to all those things at one time or another. And do you know what it's done for me?

I don't.

I try to keep it positive here, but I have a bone to pick with American culture as I begin the next year of my life. When, exactly, did we become so bombarded with messages about what we're supposed to do that we forgot who we want to be? 


I mean, try it. Ask yourself who you want to be. Answer. And then ask yourself how your answer would be different if you had never seen a magazine, or a newspaper, or a blog, or a movie. Scratch every answer that can be measured in pounds or inches or dollars or promotions or possessions.

What if your answer wasn't at all influenced by what your mother taught you, or what Oprah said, or whoever wrote whatever in that column you read? What if your answer came from inside you?

My favorite people all seem to be driven by a common force; a beautiful inability to listen to all of the messages that they're given about how they're supposed to live their lives. Instead, they watch. They notice the things that are true. And they choose for themselves how to build the lives they want.

What if you're already doing everything you need to do? What if you already know what you need to know to live your best life? What if no one else needs to tell you?


I'm not actually sure what I want from my life, much less my year, but I know that I don't want to distill my life down to an easy, formulaic strategy that ends with me being a size 2 Stepford. Why do I have to do or have or be anything specific at all this year? What if we all simply lived, really lived, our lives? What if we loved every minute for exactly what it was, and loved our family and friends for exactly who they were? What if we just let life count for what it is?

It's not that goals are bad. It's just that, with the hype of each new year, it seems we forget more and more what constitutes a goal that is important and worthy. When we're 95 years old and breathing our last breaths, will these resolutions and words and intentions and gizmos really have helped to fill our years with life?

Some, maybe. But not most. Trouble is, it's hard to tell the difference.

And that's why I aspire to be more like my Littlest Waffler. Just to notice the perfect, bright building blocks of this life, and to stack them as well as I can.

This year, I'm resolutely refusing to buy in to the ballyhoo. I'd rather just love what I already have.

Celebrity Endorsements, Storm Statistics and Confessions

We reside in a cozy house situated neatly on the eastern shore of a lake in the southernmost reaches of the far-north city of Minneapolis. If you're familiar with Minneapolis, you know that it's a funky, cool, progressive, beautiful city with a funny accent, an abundance of flannel-clad hipsters, and a lot of quirk. If you're not familiar with Minneapolis, I owe it to you to disclose that in our lexicon of local celebrities, you'll find a couple of television meteorologists.

It's really strange, I know. But they're not there because we don't have anyone actually cool to admire. On the contrary, we've spawned a number of rather iconic individuals, like Bob Dylan and Judy Garland and the Coen Brothers. No one's asking Prince to be the keynote speaker at their gala events, though, and it's not just 'cause he's really flippin' strange. We'd just rather spend our time with that guy or gal from [insert your favorite channel here].

I have a theory about this. 

The climate here has the potential to be vicious in its extremes, and we mere mortals are entirely at its mercy. Except that there are these weather dudes and dudettes who somehow just sorta know what's coming next...with a huge emphasis on the "sorta." It's like they have a static-filled line in to whatever higher power decides it's time for baseball-sized hail. And if they really have face-time or whatever with the weather deities, then maybe they have some clout, see? Maybe they could chat us up with Thor, and convince him to, you know, blow the snow into Richfield instead? It's like climatological social networking. Or junior high.

If you don't live here, you might not understand why your Minnesota friends make such a big $%&@ deal about the weather. To us, it's obvious: It snowed yesterday. Like, a lot. Now I have to figure out where to park my car until Monday night. Except that it's buried in a four-foot drift. But plows can't get down the streets because they're not plowed. And they can't tow cars off of the streets so that plows can get through because it's too deep to get the tow trucks in until they plow. 

The net-net is that if you're from Minneapolis, everyone you know just spent seven hours shoveling little Habitrail paths for themselves, just so they could move their cars to the even side of the street. It sucks. And that is why we talk about the weather.

When I was a kid, I aspired to be a local celebrity meteorologist. I envisioned myself pointing effortlessly at a Chroma-key, gesturing naturally as I described this week's incoming low-pressure system in an informative-yet-engaging manner. I imagined our at-home viewers chortling aloud at my playful on-air banter with the anchors, their guffaws causing them to nearly choke on the frozen pizza they were noshing from their perch on the couch. In this fantasy, I singlehandedly forecasted the weather with unparalleled 80% accuracy. I wanted it all.

When I was 12, I was given the opportunity to spend an afternoon "shadowing" the iconic Paul Douglas, the Twin Cities genius who brilliantly pioneered--get this--outdoor weather broadcasts. He was the rock-star of the weather world, with a crisply starched shirt, receding hairline, and buttery-smooth voice. My mom took me shopping for a new pink silk shirt to wear to the KARE-11 studio, and I was sweating so hard from nervousness that I completely pitted out by the time my mother dropped me off. So deep was my awe for Mr. Douglas that I couldn't speak a word the whole time I was there. I just sat in his office, on a stool, staring. I must have seemed terribly creepy to him, dripping with perspiration and mute. 

I don't know if it's nostalgic exaggeration, or if my memory is accurate, but it seems to me that it was much, much snowier here in Minneapolis when I was a kid. Mr. Douglas pointed out in his Friday blog that remembering snow from our childhood is inaccurate, as we were likely much shorter then. And he has a point.

Whether it's "wear layers" or "bring an umbrella",  those damned TV weather people always have a point. Seriously. How do they do it?

This winter, we've been treated to the kind of snow I remember from my childhood. The kind that does things like this:

This weekend, my parents got snowed in at our house, so the extended Waffle-Clan spent the weekend baking Christmas cookies, playing with dogs, and shoveling. But that's not the only gift given me by this blizzard.

Though I never have lived my dream of becoming a charismatic major-market television weather personality, this weekend also gave me an opportunity to report on the storm from my perspective. 

Here are some neighborhood storm statistics:

Neighborhood Snow Total: Around 18 inches, according to Paul Douglas

Number of People Snowed In At Our House: 6

Number of People Snowed Out Of Our House: 1 (Sorry, Waffle Guy. We missed you.)

Total Dogs Snowed In At Our House: 4

Total Hours Spent Snowed In: 39

Cookie Recipes Used: 4

Total Cookies Made: Approximately 17 dozen

Total Cookies Stolen By Dogs: Approximately 1 dozen

Snow Angels Made:12

Snow Angels Visible After All the Snow had Fallen: 0

Hours Spent Shoveling: 7

Metric Tons of Snow Shoveled: Infinity

See? I can do it. No sweat.

Creativity

I've always been labeled "creative."

It's a fascinating label, considering that the analytical, logical parts of my mind are a much more obvious part of my persona. I notice tiny details. I solve problems. I take things apart and put them back together. I look for the source. 

Even so, compliments I receive from family and friends return again and again to creativity. Sometimes I wonder who they're actually talking about, but secretly I love it.

Sometimes I outwardly embrace the label. Having a "creative" personality is an excellent excuse for running a few minutes late, or for accidentally putting on mismatched socks in the morning. "Oh, yeah," I'll say, glancing nonchalantly at the flashback-inducing contrast of one purple plaid ankle, crossed neatly over an orange paisley ankle. "I'm feeling inspired today." I like to think I can work it.

Sometimes, creativity is essential. At more difficult times in my life, I've sometimes had to create something from nothing. I remember one Christmas, a few years ago, when a friend gave me a box of her daughter's old toys. That year, I spent a night in my garage, painstakingly inspecting story books, looking for the ones that were most perfect. Those with the fewest folded corners; those with the fewest fingerprints on the cover; those that could pass for new--those were gifts from Santa that year. I wrapped them in homemade wrapping paper, and tied them in ribbons I'd cut from an old pillowcase.  I cried that year at my fireplace, feeling like I'd failed my girls. But my children were young then, and their delight was palpable. I like to think that if they'd been older, I'd have found a way to rise to the occasion. I learned that year that no matter what, there would be a way to make Christmas for them.

Later, in a more prosperous season, I would find myself making big, puffy bows out of pine-colored dog-poop bags with Waffle Guy's youngest daughter. There wasn't any necessity. We were only doing it to prove that we could create something beautiful from a humble poo bag. But as I watched that Youthful Waffler accent her beautifully wrapped gifts with her fluffy, homemade bows, I recalled harder years, and I was grateful that creativity had become a luxury.

This year, we took a Thanksgiving ski trip with most of the Waffle Clan. The Eldest brought with her the Adopted Waffler, a native Texan who'd never experienced the sting of Lake Superior wind in November. To celebrate, and to keep warm, the girls had packed an arsenal of Heinous Sweaters, and we expanded the collection at the Duluth Ragstock so that every member of our posse could sport one for a day. When my brother, a North Shore resident, met us for lunch, the Young Wafflers even presented him with a Christmas Panda shirt. He wore it like a champ, and we all spent much of the meal giggling at one another affectionately. I found delight in the fact that on a whim, these two young women could so masterfully craft for us all such a beautiful memory from such an ugly source.

Nothing, it would seem, is wasted. 

And isn't that the very definition of creativity? To take something hideous, or to take nothing at all, and to turn it into something beautiful. When I see it in other people, I regard this sort of creativity as genius.

For some reason, I feel almost desperate this year to make the world just a little better. I'm an idealist, and I get this way from time to time. When I was a kid, I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, I could cure AIDS and end war. It was either noble or a delusion of grandeur. I'm not quite so naive, now, but I still believe that one person can make a tiny difference. And I believe a lot of people can make a lot of difference. It just takes some creativity.

When I mentioned in this blog last week that I wanted some help adopting an additional family, I got so much response that we were actually able to provide gifts for several more families. For a day or two, I realized that I couldn't want any more than to call people like you my friends. Maybe it's guilt for a time when secondhand books were the best I could muster that makes me feel so compelled to fix things. Maybe it's some deep-rooted need to prove to myself that I am a good person. But I'd like to think that creativity has something to do with it.

Waffle Guy and I have come up with a creative way to feed a few people who might otherwise do without. In the spirit of creating beauty from ugliness, it involves your most heinous and gaudy holiday attire. It also involves filling our truck with your donated non-perishables, and snacks for you. Email me if you want to know more-- wafflequest2009 (at) gmail (dot) com.

I do always brag about my amazing, creative friends. Let's make something pretty, huh?

Kindred Spirits and Sunday Silliness

I've been secretly stalking Dan, author of the astounding Waffleizer Blog, for some time now, and I thought it was time that I shared his genius with all of you.

Dan is a Web editor at the Chicago Tribune who shares our passion for waffles. His approach is a departure from our unabashed holier-than-thou, Sugar-Waffle-or-Die attitude. Rather, Dan tackles some of the Waffle Universe's heavier questions, such as the all-important "Will it Waffle?"

Armed with a trusty waffle iron and a lot of creativity,  Dan explored the waffling potential of 30 of his favorite foods, ardently journaling his successes and failures along the way.

Alas, Dan opted not to continue blogging after his 30th recipe was finished, which totally breaks my heart. I check the Waffleizer every week or so, just in case Dan happens to change his mind. He never does.

Even so, bear-hugging Dan from the Waffleizer has an important place on my bucket list. Waffle Gods willing, it will happen someday.

Jobs I Want: Cheese Analyst

If you're someone who knows me well, you know that I used to edit some magazines owned by this evil, horrible man named Tom Petters.

If you think you've worked for a worse boss, you're wrong. As proof, I offer you Mr. Petters' mug shot.

Does your  boss have a mug shot? Did your boss at least look at the stupid camera for his or her mug shot? Mine didn't, because he was really ashamed of the massive Ponzi scheme he'd created, and terrified of the fallout of bilking his employees and investors out of billions of dollars. Did your boss do that?

Okay, then. My boss was the Worst Boss Ever.

But that's beside the point. The point is, when a massive FBI raid began the chain of events that led to my layoff, I found myself a bit traumatized, and so I vowed to be my own boss as much as possible for the rest of my life.

It sort of worked. I've done some freelance stuff, and waited tables, and generally avoided additional Scary Bosses. Mostly, this is awesome, but every now and again I find myself pining for the days when I  did lots of really productive stuff, like changing out of pajamas or earning a living wage. 

Sometimes, I discover careers at which I'm entirely certain I'd excel. When this happens it can be very, very tempting to apply for the position, until I remember that I am a writer and therefore entirely unemployable if I want to be paid with, like, a salary. 

But sometimes there's hope. Sometimes, I find a job that seems like it was custom-made, just for me. These jobs meet all of my requirements. They're fun. They require no pointless meetings. I already possess the expertise required. Jobs like these, I'd probably do for free. 

Did you know, for example, that the Tillamook Cheese Factory in Tillamook, Oregon employs people called "Cheese Analysts"? According to Tillamook's Web site, a cheese analyst's duties are as follows:

Cheese analysts take core samples from a random sampling of cheese blocks every day. They taste and smell the cheese, checking flavor and texture to determine which cheeses need to be sent back for further aging into sharp and extra-sharp varieties.

Um, hello? Hire me, Tillamook? I'm smart, and I'm good at random things, and I for realz know when cheese tastes good. I won't ever complain about the job. Instead, I will show up on time, and eat tasty cheese all day long, just minutes from the pristine Oregon coast. When I am done analyzing cheese, I will go home and sleep it off, and then come back and do it again the next day. I'll be like Templeton from Charlotte's Web, and you'll be my veritable smorgasbord. We're a perfect match. It'll be great.

So please, if you're a hiring manager at Tillamook (or any other reasonably decent cheese factory, for that matter), consider that I dream of being paid to eat...or even just eating for free?

It's the holiday season, Tillamook. A time when dreams come true. So cut a girl a break, eh?

Wish List, Item 3: Stuff That Helps Me Cope With Snow

I'm presently hanging out at 36,000 feet or so, Portland bound.

Behind and below me, Minnesota is in the throes of the third Snowmageddon event of the year.

Each one has created a different sort of adventure for me. The first Great Big Snowstorm this year came unseasonably early, prompting a white-knuckled, low-speed trip to Hell Target, where I encountered every other parent who had not yet purchased boots for his or her child. We got the last pair of size 6 boots in any style or color and the last cute yellow hat. My children, who as children occasionally lack things like "common sense" and "nerves," paid me back for my valiant efforts by requesting that I take them sledding four times in two days. I'm working on regenerating the toes I lost that weekend. I'll keep you posted on progress.

The Epic Day-Before-Thanksgiving Travel-Stopping Blizzard-To-End-All-Blizzards of 2010 was a massive disappointment at my home. That's okay, because I wasn't at home. I was settling in for a ski trip with my kids on the North Shore of Lake Superior. We'd heard reports of an impending super-doomy storm, due to arrive at 4 o'clock on Wednesday. At 7 o'clock, nothing was on the radar. We decided to get dinner at the infamous Sven and Ole's, where we sat in a room that's looked exactly the same since 1970 and ate food that was possibly made in 1970. A few flakes were falling when we loaded into the car to drive the 22 miles back to Lutsen.

By the time we got out of the tiny town of Grand Marais and safely onto curvy lake-side cliffs, there was enough snow to make me nervously hum The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I'm quite certain that it was my silent prayers, coupled with the gales-of-November jokes and abundant backseat driving, that kept Gitche Gumee from swallowing us whole that night. I was repaid for my heroics with a long weekend spent skiing with my children, which was difficult, as I'd lost all my toes sledding the weekend before.

Tonight's storm, however, was somewhat kinder. You see, it hit at the precise moment we left for the airport, which might sound like a bummer to you. It's not. We boarded on time, and only took off an hour and 20 minutes late, and in between, I got to watch them de-ice our plane. Dude. That machine is my new favorite thing on Earth. It looks like a robot-alien, all hard at work to make the all the little planes fly safely! So cute...

So, if you happen to be or to know Santa Claus, you might want to pass along that I'd really like a de-icing truck for Christmas*. If I've got to live on the tundra with no toes, it's only natural to want to spray large machines with green goo, isn't it?


*I would be totally content just to ride along in one, if Santa is too busy making Hex Bugs to build me my own de-icing rig in time for Christmas. Riding along in a Sno-Cat on the side of a ski hill would be an acceptable substitute, in a pinch.

**In the event that none of the above fantasies are possible, I would be content to receive a one-way ticket to Maui. Thanks, Santa.