I'm Strong to the Finish 'Cause I Eats Me Spinach
For most of my mealtimes with my sweet little Meema, there was a little mound of green vegetable with a little pat of butter on it. It was what Popeye ate, and his bulging forearms proved it.
I liked my spinach because it looked so pretty on Meema's Franciscan Apple designed plates, with its reds, greens and raw sienna borders. Yum, she'd say. Yum, I answered, hoping that my spinach wouldn't make me look like Olive Oyl.
It didn't, it turns out. Other than big feet, I'm no Olive.
But now, when all the spinach hit the trash - the Popeye brand spinach - I thought, "This is it." Officially, now everything can kill you. Killer cow poop on her spinach took out an old lady in Wisconsin, where people are tough, like their Green Bay Packers. Their football team is named after meat packers, for Christ's sake. Cow poop is an integral part of their lives, and some little microbian particle on her spinach killed this Wisconsin lady.
So, the choice is simple: worry, and let the effects of stress kill you; or don't worry, and let some weirdo random atomic bizarro scratch you from the race.
Not a simple choice, this. I was born to worry, or more acurately born into worry. The women in my family, other that sweet little Meema, worried and lived their lives in fear of an unsuccessful pursuit of a man.
Fun fact! Popeye's 1934 screen debut was with my mother's idol, flirty little Betty Boop. That act didn't play with mom's men, and kept my life lively, and my place, secondary. The goal was clear - get a man. I was as good as my contribution to the goal.
Look good to get a man, act sweet to get a man - but when you get the prize, he'll yell and get mad and leave and go bitch about you to his mother. Those were the problems of my beautiful mom and sister. Being a dorky little kid who got good grades, this all seemed completely unattainable, so I tried my best to stay out of the way.
Now, I'm a girl who eats tons of raw spinach - Popeye brand, baby. A little rinse, and I plop it between my garden burger and whole grain bun. It didn't kill me AND I didn't worry about it.
Plus, I married a nice man who doesn't yell and get mad and leave. So, I invite you to laugh very hard when a bizarre little molecule climbs into my body and stops my heart. I hope it gets in on a tainted multi-vitamin.
I liked my spinach because it looked so pretty on Meema's Franciscan Apple designed plates, with its reds, greens and raw sienna borders. Yum, she'd say. Yum, I answered, hoping that my spinach wouldn't make me look like Olive Oyl.
It didn't, it turns out. Other than big feet, I'm no Olive.
But now, when all the spinach hit the trash - the Popeye brand spinach - I thought, "This is it." Officially, now everything can kill you. Killer cow poop on her spinach took out an old lady in Wisconsin, where people are tough, like their Green Bay Packers. Their football team is named after meat packers, for Christ's sake. Cow poop is an integral part of their lives, and some little microbian particle on her spinach killed this Wisconsin lady.
So, the choice is simple: worry, and let the effects of stress kill you; or don't worry, and let some weirdo random atomic bizarro scratch you from the race.
Not a simple choice, this. I was born to worry, or more acurately born into worry. The women in my family, other that sweet little Meema, worried and lived their lives in fear of an unsuccessful pursuit of a man.
Fun fact! Popeye's 1934 screen debut was with my mother's idol, flirty little Betty Boop. That act didn't play with mom's men, and kept my life lively, and my place, secondary. The goal was clear - get a man. I was as good as my contribution to the goal.
Look good to get a man, act sweet to get a man - but when you get the prize, he'll yell and get mad and leave and go bitch about you to his mother. Those were the problems of my beautiful mom and sister. Being a dorky little kid who got good grades, this all seemed completely unattainable, so I tried my best to stay out of the way.
Now, I'm a girl who eats tons of raw spinach - Popeye brand, baby. A little rinse, and I plop it between my garden burger and whole grain bun. It didn't kill me AND I didn't worry about it.
Plus, I married a nice man who doesn't yell and get mad and leave. So, I invite you to laugh very hard when a bizarre little molecule climbs into my body and stops my heart. I hope it gets in on a tainted multi-vitamin.
posted by Kitty O'Keefe at 7:03 AM
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