The Chicken or the Leg

I'm a little disturbed. I see you shaking your head and mouthing, Duh! But I'm not that kind of disturbed (Stop it!). See, I just found out something incredible, and it has me questioning just what kind of a mother I've been. A warning to you young parents. You only find out this stuff after they're grown. Then, when you least expect it, the most astonishing secrets reveal exactly where you screwed up. I share one such pivotal incident with you now . . .

George, my daughter TG's husband, brings home a KFC family bucket of thighs, legs, wings, and breasts—the usual suspects. Their kids are then served up the standard kid fare of chicken legs. TG rummages through the bucket for her pieces and comes out empty handed and royally pissed!

"There aren't any legs left!" TG squawks.

George: "You said you wanted white meat, so I got you white meat."

TG: "I wanted legs!"

George: "You always ask for white meat, and since you're the only one who likes white meat, I always get three pieces just for you."

Heated conversation about TG's taste in chicken anatomy ensues.

George: "You know legs aren't white meat, right?"

TG eyes him blankly while focusing on the appearance of a chicken bone after the meat is gnawed off. "That leg bone is white!"

A discussion of breasts and menu options leads to an abrupt moment of silence that stretches into 30 years of misspent chicken choices and the sudden realization that George just may be right about something.

George: "So that's why there's always three pieces of white meat left over that nobody ever eats?"

(crickets)

I blame myself. Somehow I gave TG the impression that white or dark meat was a result of the way chicken was cooked—as in till white hot, apparently. Or perhaps a matter of breeding. Feed kids too many carrots and they turn orange. Feed chickens too many white seeds and . . .

I know. It's a very dark secret, but at least it didn't come out during some tearful therapy session. Thankfully, no one outside the family knows. Now tell the truth, you have a little anecdote about yourself like this, don't you?
___________________________________________________________________
Major props to TG for being such a good sport and allowing me to post this story. After all these years, she still trusts me. I have her so fooled!

Tweet

Oh, Wii Is Me

If you haven't been so fortunate as to experience the frenzy over the new Wii game systems, let me give you the skinny. In a big household like ours, the adults line up right along with the kids to get their chance at Guitar Hero, and they don't play nice.

Kids are fascinated by the hands-on relationship between the pretend guitar strapped around their necks and the virtual world on their TV screen. Their little minds grasp the distinction between reality and imagination. "It's only a movie," loops through their brains. See angelic children below, exhibiting delightful engagement in a fun, new activity.

Adults, on the other hand, are ecstatic and overwhelmed by the pure awesomeness of projecting themselves onto the TV screen as kings (or queens) of rock and roll. An abrupt seachange washes over them and lights up their cerebral cortex, causing erratic hip movement, ravenous eyes, and bad manners. They become sudden musical afficionados -- wild creatures, undaunted in the all-encompassing hero worship of SELF.

Who's next?
Me, Me, Me! they shout, each would-be rock star clamoring to cut in line.

Even waiting behind other players (see adults at left) is cause for hysteria.

For those shouting "Woot-woot!" in the audience, uninhibited physical gyrations and silliness are not unheard of. ------>

I have only one complaint. If my own mother (Great Grandma Mama Salla, our septagenarian matriarch) wanted to play with the Wii, the whole damn family would shuffle her into position and strap a would-be-Stratocaster around her. Everyone would huddle side-by-side to witness the precise moment when Grandma shredded her first solo. So why then shouldn't I, "Nana," enjoy the same respect too? No one should ever jab his thumb over his shoulder and growl to me, "Back of the line!" Right? That's just rudey-toodey. I deserve the same respect and adoration, maybe a little awe. I mean, I'm almost the family matriarch (don't tell anyone). I should never hear, Back of the line, lady. Should I?

Oh, Wii is me.

Tweet