The Blame Game

Now it’s time for my favorite amusement — The Blame Game.

This is how it works: I blame someone, or something, in either my past or present for ruining some aspect of my life.
The game only works if you assume absolutely zero responsibility for your own actions — no problem there — I’ve never claimed to have control of ANY of my actions.

Today’s Blame Game guest is (drumroll please) … My mother.

It could be my mother’s fault that I’m PHAT because:

My mother always has a long purple-lidded Tupperware container filled with two sticks of pure butter somewhere on her kitchen counter with a loaf of fresh bread.

My mother always has cookies, chocolate candy, cake, pie or other pastries on the counter alongside the butter.

My mother loves to fry food.

My mother thinks sharing food is an intimate act of love.

During our annual 4th of July fireworks I argued with my mother for nearly half
an hour over my NOT eating a damn piece of apple pie.

I think her feelings were a little hurt. Looking back, I realized all she really wanted was to see my joy from eating the delicious pie.

I hate my life.

In hindsight, she was clearly upset that I wouldn’t allow myself to be happy by eating the pie.
She kept insisting it was just one piece – it could even be a small piece. I pictured it glued onto my thighs, where it would surely end up.

Everywhere I go people use the “It’s just one bite/piece/whatever” to get me to try something. Why? Because I think some people receive happiness from the joy of others. It’s a problem I’ve never had.

Food does makes me happy. You only need to look at me to know that.

When I was a kid it really made me happy.

I grew up fairly poor and one of the happiest times of the month was when the church or the Good Fellows dropped off boxes of food at our house.

Talk about a kid at Christmas. Food drop off day would send all of us flying into the living room like high school seniors on the last day of classes to see what was in those boxes.

“Look at this! Rice a Roni! Chef Boyardee!”

My ALLTIME favorite, however, was that huge yellow block of government cheese. That block could make more meals, for more people, than any non-poor person would ever suspect.

I love cheese.

If cheese is on a meal, I’m happier. In fact, give me extra cheese. An extra cheesy meal is like reliving the joy of food drop off day and thrilling at the luxury of it.

Ha — most girls thrill at diamonds and gold.

Maybe my mom’s not all to blame. Maybe she just loves me and wants me to be happy. Maybe I’m PHAT because I was (still am) poor.

In my experience, for poor people, food really is love and happiness. Food means we won’t be hungry another day, a week, a month.

Being poor makes us save the best, or last bit of food, for the ones we love. It may sound silly, but it is a gift.

When having something to eat is a measure of success, pastries, meat and real butter are proof that we’re doing really well.

In my family, if we have “non-necessary” tasty food there is no better way to show our love than to share it and enjoy the happiness in each other’s faces as we eat together.

Damn it.

I’ve got go. I have to buy a pie and visit my mom.