Sunday, June 10, 2007

Zoot Suit Debacles: Step Away from the Thesaurus

The following post is brought to you by the Society of English Majors Against Wanton Thesaurus Use (SEMAWTU).

debacle n 1: a tumultuous breakup of ice in a river; 2: a violent disruption; 3a: a great disaster, or b: a complete failure.

I love the word debacle as well as the next person. It's fun to say—somewhat goofy sounding, yet descriptive. I have, in fact, used it in the past to describe most of the antics of my first roommante after college, the Mistress of Calamity, who was known to set our kitchen on fire by placing bags of potato chips on lit stovetop burners and who was also known to make up Imaginary Boyfriends with Imaginary Dogs who need to be taken to Imaginary Vet Appointments simply to get out of an afternoon of work so she could come home and either (A) ride her bike or (B) take a nap. In these instances, the events that followed the placing-of-chips-on-stove or the lying-to-boss-about-pretend-boyfriend's-dog are, I think, aptly described by the word debacle.

I do not think that, regardless of the multiple definitions Webster's affords us, I would have chosen to use debacle in the following context:

In 1943, Mexican gang members, known for wearing so-called zoot suits, clashed with white soldiers for eight nights in what is now called the zoot suit riots. Police arrested more than 600 Mexican American boys and men, most of whom were victims in the debacle.

I ask you, dear reader: whatever happened to connotation and denotation? While the denotation of debacle could certainly be applied to the 1943 riots, something about the connotation might prompt me to go with a more weighty or grave word, like mayhem or rout or even something as simple as conflict. Or perhaps just come out and say that the boys and men were "victims of harsh police action," since that's what you're going on to imply. But debacle? Does the author even know, truly, what debacle means?

Frankly, the whole incident smacks of Wanton Thesaurus Use, offering Attentive Citizens of the World yet another reason to avoid placing a thesaurus in the hands of a Would-Be Author hell-bent on using it. It's dangerous. It may be habit forming. It could, in fact, result in an excess of debacles. Or beatings. Or breakdowns, collapses, crack-ups, defeasances, defeats, devastations, disasters, dissolution, downfalls, failures, fiascos, overthrows, ruinations, shellackings, smashups, trouncings, vanquishments, or washouts.

Or "zoot suit debacles."

Remember, friends don't let friends engage in Wanton Thesaurus Use.

Saturday, June 02, 2007

Confession is Good for the Abs

Since the coming home of Expat and the visitation of the GAFIL, I have to confess, I have not been sticking to the nutrition plan that Virtual oh-so-carefully composed for me.

Now, before all 1.5 of you who bother reading my sporadic missives begin to chide, let me preemptively say that I have not completely thrown in the towel on the nutrition plan. I'm still (usually) eating Virtual Approved breakfasts, lunches, and snacks. I am still (usually) drinking sugar-free Foofy Coffees instead of truly Foofy Coffees. And I'm (usually) making Good Choices at dinner: I get the fish tacos and veggies instead of the bacon, cheddar, triple beef burger with fries. I eat smaller portions. I (usually) skip dessert.

And even though it's Killing Me Softly with Free Weights, I am still dutifully going to the gym and sticking to my lifting/cardio routine (even though I had to repeat week 2 of my lifting routine because I was frantically cleaning the house and packing and, oh yeah, driving the 15 hours to Pennsylvania to fetch said Expat), which involves lots of me standing on one leg and either bending over in some capacity without losing my balance or lifting various amounts of weights while balancing on top of a box and trying to maintain Good Form. If nothing else, by the end of my first month's program, Ralph Macchio will have nothing on me.

No, I have not thrown everything away. In fact, since the Two Weeks of Eating Out with the GAFIL at Restaurants that Expat and I Could Never Afford Ourselves began, I have not regained any of the five (yes, five!) pounds I lost in the first week and a half of my plan. I have Maintained and the Maintaining itself is, for me, a huge victory.

But oh, dear reader, I have sinned.

I have eaten fried fish. Fried cheese curds. Fried frites.

I have eaten bread
white breadat dinner. With butter.

I have consumed non-sugar free Foofy Coffees. Non-diet soda. Very non-diet beer.

I have eaten occasional bites of chocolate. Of tiramisu. And of ice cream.

See here's the kicker. Here's the absolute truth: I just take joy in food. Not even in the eating of it, more in the spirit of it. Of what it stands for and who it brings together. You can invite a good friend over to just hang out, or you could say "Hey, let's go to Nattspil and get mussels and pizza and a few glasses of Prairie Moon." And you know, if you say that to one good friend, they'll suggest that you invite a few more, and before long, you'll be a laughing, talking, big group of friends out for a Good Time. People bond over food. Few things make us feel more cozy, more comfortable in our own skin, than a Good Meal because Good Meals are had with company we like to keep close.

And I don't think that Good Times and Good Meals should count against me. Not in the long run. I don't think they should somehow sneakily convert themselves into unsightly bumps and lumps on my body, since every calorie has been consumed in some act of love or bonding. Perhaps that's why they refer to things as Love Handles—they are not so much handles for loved ones to grab, but evidence to the rest of the world that you clearly have a handle on love. That you're not afraid to take your GAFIL out for Wisconsin beer and brats and cheese. That you're not going to miss out on Important Rites of Passage. Like the doctoral graduation dinner. Like the 21st birthday celebrations. Like the first time that the Fair Eyed Daughter of your good friends, the Fashionable New Yorkers
, tries ice cream at the only farm in town where you can actually see the cows that your ice cream comes from.

You can't sit these things out. You can't stand in the wings, clutching your nutrition plan to your chest and muttering countercurses to the calories. You have to plunge in and order the single scoop of Oreo with peanut butter sauce and whipped cream and a cherry on top so that when you laugh as Miss Fair Eyes winces at the cold of her First Bite, then instantly and insistantly reaches for more, you can know that you're laughing with a shared delight. That this shared moment is Important. That Good Times and First Bites are fleeting.

And later, you can do 45 single-legged bicep curls to make up for it.



Parting pictures


Miss Fair Eyes and the Better Half of the Fashionable New Yorkers.

And, just for kicks, my Newly Doctored Expat. Heaven help us all.