On It Being A Hard Knock Life

For my fourth birthday I received my very own cabbage patch doll. She was no ordinary doll, oh no! She was a one of a kind, hot off the press, premier edition: never been done before, never to be repeated, and made by my own sweet mother.

She was my mother's very first cabbage patch doll and mine. She had tight orange-red yarn curls and big blue eyes painted on her face with fabric paint and even tiny embroidered freckles and puckers in the bottom folds of her cheeks for dimples. I named her Annie.

Annie was just like me-- down to the dimples-- except for one big difference: Annie was fat. Eager in making her very first doll, Mom had stuffed Annie a little past chubby and into the chunky category. Annie's large-sized doll wardrobe barely snapped shut over her thickly padded arms and waist. At four years old, I was not a midget but I certainly wasn't fat and perhaps was the smallest of the four girls in the family. Although Annie was the first, my mother soon made cabbage patch dolls for my three sisters, and she compensated for Annie's fatness by understuffing Alice and Tina and even Sally. And so, ironically, Annie got the flack at doll tea parties for always being so fat while I avoided the same pressure in real life that haunted some of my other siblings.

Yes, Annie was the one with the fattest pinafore and the fattest pantaloons, which bulged out over her chubby knees, bringing extra flounce to her skirts. Annie's XL clothing drowned the other dolls and I always felt jealous when Alice could wear Sally's jackets but poor Annie had only her own clothes to wear.

Today at school we had pre-Halloween and I dressed up as Little Orphan Annie, complete with a red curly wig (which was actually quite redundant since I have red curly hair). The costume was a grand success. Everyone laughed and smiled and clapped their hands. Even my students got into the costume. At the end of the day Father Tito came in and took my picture for the yearbook.

It was quite possibly the most darling picture you have ever seen in your whole life of someone in an Annie costume. Not only am I curtesying, but my face just carries enough of the mix of impish charm and childlike innocence to convince the viewer that I'm precocious and lovable even to a grumpy bald millionaire.

The only difference between me in the picture and the Little Orphan Annie we all know and love from the movies is that.... I'm fat.

Yes.

It's true.

In the picture, I look horribly, hopelessly fat. I'm wearing this white bow right across the middle of my dress and it looks like a whole bedsheet had to be used to girdle my waist. I'm almost spilling into the sides of my curtsy. I realize, to my horror, that in dressing up like Little Orphan Annie I have realized the fate predestined to me from childhood:

I have become my doll Annie.

Oh yes! I still have a mass of red curls, freckles on my face, and funny side dimples. But what I have now that I didn't have at four is about ninety extra pounds that have added padding to my knees and toes and elbows, all the spots where Annie is bulgiest I suddenly feel bulgy now too. If it weren't for the Annie costume, I may never have noticed.

When I finally got home from school, I hurriedly pulled off my wig, red dress, and (poofy) bloomers, slapped on some tennis shoes and went for a run. Maybe when I'm back at school tomorrow dressed just like myself the illusion will go away.

On Lon Chaney

I am reflecting on our cultural debt to Lon Chaney, Sr.

Leonidas Chaney was born on April Fools' Day, 1883, in Colorado Springs, Colorado. His parents were both deaf-mute; his father, a barber, was well-loved for his ability to transcend communication barriers and amuse his patrons with his excellent comedic timing. Lon was a native speaker of pantomime, a natural artist in physical and facial communication. Before immersing himself in Vaudeville at age 19, Lon trained in wallpaper, drapery, and carpet installation and worked as a tour guide at Pikes Peak.

Lon Chaney did not consider himself primarily an actor. Instead, he considered his entertainment art to be disguise through makeup. All his appearances are dual performances-- he designed his own makeup, costumes, and contortion equipment The genius of The Hunchback of Notre Dame and The Phantom of the Opera are his; and, interestingly, so were their pains. The hunchback's hump weighed in excess of fifty pounds, designed by Lon himself to inspire a tortured performance. In The Penalty, he tied his legs behind his back and used prosthetics below the knee. "The Man With a Thousand Faces," though evidently in favor of a broader approach to representation than simple disguise, was widely recognized as a world expert on makeup; the Encyclopaedia Brittanica reportedly invited him to write its (uncredited and since revised) article on the subject. Such was his reputation for disguise that a friend quipped at a dinner party: "don't step on that spider, it may be Lon Chaney."

As Hollywood transitioned to talkies, Lon mused that his voice was ill-suited to the medium. It may have been false modesty or reflective of an insecurity with voice in general, as he is said to have had a delightful rich baritone, and was known as a Vaudevillian for his singing, dancing, and comedic timing. He starred in only one talkie, but it is tantalizing to think that that it is his voice work in that film which is so notable. Later, he signed a statement saying that he did indeed provide the voices of five characters: a ventriloquist and his dummy, an old woman, a girl, and a parrot. The performances were convincing enough, I suppose, to warrant the affidavit.

I find it ironic that he died of a throat hemorrhage just months after the release of that film. His voice was apparently an untapped treasure itself; a voice he did not get to show off in his childhood or in his career.

Lon Chaney, my friends.
Celebrate him this Halloween.
I also suggest naming a son Leonidas.

On Having Acquired a Hopelessly Bourgeoise Aesthetic

I live in Palo Alto, California, home of the hyper-educated, hyper-successful Stanford graduate BMW lover. When I first moved to Palo Alto, I was convinced that I died and been transported to Paradise. Three years later, I still think it's a distinct possibility after moving into a mansion in an older, sophisticated part of town and starting to eat organic produce from Whole Foods. Surely heaven on a glorified, populated Earth will involve sidewalk cafes and Italian hot chocolate.

Today, however, I found myself in a very NON heavenly setting near Palo Alto: Walmart. Walmart is so opposite of everything that Palo Alto holds near and dear that the Palo Alto city line is drawn just north of the Walmart parking lot. Palo Alto may miss out on the Walmart sales tax revenue, but it's a small price to pay for keeping their white-gloved fingers clean from Walmart's coinage of exploitation.

Speaking of white gloves: I was at the Walmart for the purpose of purchasing white knee socks and white underwear. The knee socks are for my Little Orphan Annie costume and the underwear... well. Turns out everyone needs socks and underwear. That's the thing about Walmart, it has things that everyone needs regardless of race or class or origin. It's a great equalizer, although I know for a fact that Stanford sorority girls don't wear Walmart underwear. They wear lacy nothings that they find at Neiman Marcus, and when they are much older they swap the brightly colored underthings for Jennifer Lopez-hued velour suits from Juicy Couture.

I poked around as briefly as possible and finally grabbed a five pack of white Hanes trouser socks. I wanted my sock things to be a little more substantial, but socks are always sold in "fits sizes 4-10" and having size 4 feet this always results in having bulgy heels poking up over the top of my shoes. Trouser socks, without a built-in heel, are a suitable compromise. I snatched a packet of briefs and a yellow box of Milk Duds and then read the tabloid headlines about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie while I waited in another never-ending Walmart line. When I got to the counter, the checker had to stop and change the roll of paper in her receipt machine. She apologized for the wait, but having long ago accepted the burden of patience necessary as a Walmart shopper I shifted my feet and smiled at her to tell her she could take her time. I couldn't wait to leave but I'd broken out in hives in Walmart before and knew they would heal, in time.

On my way home from Walmart I stopped at The Milk Pail located in the opposite corner of the contiguous parking lot. Nothing could be more Palo Alto than The Milk Pail, except that in x-ing out Walmart, The Milk Pail ended up in Mountain View. Stocked full of firm organic fruits and vegetables, cheeses, and fresh baked crusty European style breads, The Milk Pail is a virtual celebration of the value the elite find in the rustic. Although packed and with equally unwieldy lines as its behemoth neighbor, the tiny Milk Pail exudes a charm that brings shoppers flocking back not for low prices but for tangy crumbs of apricot cheese and the crisp snap of gigantic sugar peas. I bought two small loves of herb rosemary bread, dried Turkish apricots, Wisconsin gouda, French Port Salut, and a bundle of asparagus although I've never purchased asparagus before and took them home in a recyclable plastic bag.

Arriving back at the Melville mansh in the Professorville neighborhood of Palo Alto, I was greeted by my roommates bearing cup containers of fresh organic frozen yogurt with strawberries and kiwis. We all bundled together on my queen size bed in The Nook (that's code for my bedroom) and savored the subtle cream sliding down our throats. I pulled my white comforter up over my toes.

It occurs to me that perhaps Walmart might be a staple of someone else's heaven-- a place where warm and adequate clothing and packaged foods may be bought at affordable prices. But even in this relatively open-minded state of consciousness I find myself hoping that heaven then might be tailorable and that I can stay in my little Nook in my Palo Alto paradise. As KT would say, will I someday be able to let go of Jerusalem for the Promised Land? What if I think the Promised Land contains nothing but Walmarts? I think I'm beginning to trade in my soul for a slice of that French Port Salut.

On The Microtragedy of Baked Goods With Insufficient Salt

It is perhaps strange for my inaugural blog post to be about something so drearily commonplace as undersalted baked goods. But I suppose it is as introductory as anything to say what I am thinking about at this the inaugural moment.

It is a small tragedy when otherwise delightful and well-constructed baked goods contain insufficient salt. Some time ago I was eating pumpkin bread of a gorgeous russet color and tender, rich crumb. The bread, while spiced well and baked to perfection, was a total waste. The flavor was bland and indistinct, the sweetness unchecked. The spices I saw suspended in the matrix registered only fleetingly and furtively, incapable of acting to half their potential. The loaf probably had inherent in it a great depth of flavor which I could not access for the lack of salt.

In elementary school, I was assigned to participate in "Junior Great Books," a sort of excuse for a gifted-and-talented program. One selection was a working of a fairy tale. It involved a king who, in a fit of unchecked narcissism, asked his daughters how much they loved him. Each answered in turn: "more than all the jewels in the world," "more than life itself," and the like, until it was the youngest's turn; this wise lass replied: "I love you more than meat loves salt." The fair ingenue is banished to work in a distant kingdom as a scullery maid.* Eventually she is brought to the castle on the night of a feast to help with the cooking, and, no longer 'artless,' ensures that all the food lacks salt. The king, repulsed by the disingenuous blandness of the splendorous feast, realizes his great wickedness and sends for his ever-loving daughter. They are reunited, and l.h.e.a.

The third-grade discussion was respectable, but even then I looked around the group with meta-eyes. Of course the children hated the story. Here they were made to read an over-long recitation of a stuffy, obscure fairy tale which relied on geriatric, questionable-at-best metaphors. My classmates did say appropriately insightful things, like "it's not just the taste thing, yuck, but, like they didn't have fridges, and meat would rot and stuff." But ultimately we were just saying what we knew we had to before we could be dismissed. In my own corner of the third-grade circle, I saw the discussion as another application of the story's metaphor; we knew there must be something to the tale, else why was it a "Great Book"?, but we didn't care, so we were instead cynical of it and banished it from our fondnesses. But what is meat without a little salt, and life without some thoughtful metaphors and far-fetched storytalk?

Our meat no longer rots without salt (props to Alexander Twining), and I don't think our pumpkin bread is endangered by maggots anyway. But it is this sense of half-capacity that I get from the loaf, the squandered opportunity, the ingredients that were used but not quite utilized-- that is the micro-tragedy. It is microtragic, too, that there are bakers out there who otherwise perfect their craft and never venture to give another shake from the shaker. Were I to love somebody "as [meat] loves salt," I would speak of their ability to make me live and feel to capacity, their way of making the flavors sometimes dormant in my character shine. And that would be a true love.


*I've loved the term "scullery maid" ever since, and use it as a mental self-descriptor when doing roommates' dishes sans charitable intent.

Salt shaker painting from jeffhayesfineart.blogspot.com-- the man creates a painting every day. I respect that.