The Experiment

The recent loss of a baby molar in our household inspired some lively discussion about the Tooth Fairy.

“I don’t think the Tooth Fairy is real,” the toothless child remarked, to which I responded “Well I guess you won’t get any money then.” (This was in line with the stock answers my own parents gave in regard to my various inquiries about the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, and Santa.)

The smaller child, still the holder of all his baby teeth, said “I don’t think it could be Mommy or Daddy, they never have any money.” The fact that we are typically bereft of any cash has apparently not been lost on him.

The next morning, the skeptical one awoke to find $5 stuffed into the container where once her baby molar had been. Money safe in hand, she now devised a sinister “experiment” in which they would discover the truth once and for all.

Knowing that her brother had a loose tooth, she advised him “When your tooth comes out, we won’t tell Mommy or Daddy. Just put it under your pillow because the Tooth Fairy should automatically know anyway. If you get money the next morning, then the Tooth Fairy is real.”

The wheels turned in his head for a minute while he processed the unspoken alternative result---“You won’t get any money and the Tooth Fairy isn’t real.” He looked pretty nervous about this; I wasn’t at all concerned, since I figured there was zero chance of either of them keeping a tooth-loss secret for even a brief period of time.

“YOU can do that experiment,” he told her flatly. Some truths are better left unknown, particularly in regard to cash prizes, candy, and presents.

Future Evidence, Part 2

It was a relatively uneventful Sunday, capped off by some mindless TV watching in the evening. My husband and I had tuned in to “Mad Men,” a new series about advertising executives in the 1960s.

On this particular episode, the leading man was surprisingly confronted by his now-grown-up Little Brother, who apparently to that point thought Big Brother was dead. All details are never revealed at once, of course (otherwise we wouldn't tune in next week!), so I can’t say WHY the leading man faked his own death to his family. All we know is, he didn’t want to be found and needs Little Brother to forget about seeing him now.

Little Brother sent a note to Big Brother like “If you change your mind and want to get to know me, I’m at this hotel.” Music turned ominous at this point as Big Brother in his corner office lit up a smoke, poured a drink, and retrieved something from a locked desk drawer. A quick phone call to Little Brother and he was on his way for a sibling rendezvous.

At this juncture, my husband remarked “Well, he’s got to kill him now.” He took a sip of his Diet Coke, but offered nothing else.

“What?!” I said, shocked.

“Sure, he’s got to kill him. It’s the only way.” Another sip.

The show came back from the commercial and I watched both Big Brother and my sinister husband. The siblings talked but clearly there would be no family reunion (in this episode at least). Big Brother reached into his briefcase and pulled out…$5000 dollars for the “payoff” for Little Brother to leave town and never look for him again.

“Well?” I asked my husband.

“Oh, I guess that’s another way of handling it,” he answered drily. Another sip, and that was it.

Legos in Heaven

Transcript of a spontaneous spiritual discussion between a parent and two small children:

HE: Are there Legos in heaven?

ME: Sure, I guess so.

HE: Do they have the sets that Lego doesn’t make anymore?

ME: Probably.

HE: And all the weird parts?

ME: Yep.

SHE: Do you have all the money you want?

ME: There’s no money in heaven, you don’t need it.

HE: The Legos are free.

ME: Okay.

HE: So I could have those Lego troopers I want.

ME: Sure.

SHE: You’re not sick in heaven either.

ME: Right.

SHE: And you can see all your family.

ME: And your pets too I think.

HE: Are you a kid or are you old?

ME: I guess there are some of every kind.

HE: I want to be a kid in heaven.

ME: Sounds good, I want to be a kid too.

HE: You can’t, you’re a Mom.

SHE: Do you have wings in heaven?

ME: I’m not sure.

SHE: Are you a skeleton?

HE: No, you’re an angel.

SHE: Can you eat whatever you want?

ME: There’s no food in heaven. You don’t need to eat.

HE: I want food in heaven!

ME: Well, maybe there is then.

HE: Do you have a house in heaven?

ME: I guess so.

HE: I want heaven to be just like my life here.

SHE: Why are you talking about this? You’re a long way from heaven anyway, probably a thousand years.

ME: You should start worrying about being good down here so you can get to heaven at all.

HE: Does everyone go to heaven?

ME: Nope. Only good people.

HE: Where do the bad ones go?

ME: Underground with the devil, like you told me last week.

HE: I never said that.

Just POP Me

When I was growing up, popcorn was a pretty special treat. The main reason for this status was that popcorn was generally gotten only within the confines of the local movie theatre, which in its own right was an ‘event’ for the family. Popcorn at home---at my home, anyway---was in the form of Jiffy-Pop only, since my mother was not keen to the idea of manually heating oil and kernels in some loose pot on top of the stove. (NOTE: Jiffy-Pop is a ‘fun’ food but certainly not a ‘delicious’ one, since 99% of the time we scorched it beyond the point of edibility.)


Popcorn is still a favorite treat of mine, yet I am no closer to having delicious, on-demand, home-environment popcorn now than I was as a child. How can this be, you may ask, since microwaveable popcorn has been available for years now?


Microwave Popcorn. Seems like this solves my problem---but NO. First, there is the issue of “pop time.” The package itself reflects that no specific pop time is guaranteed, it is dependent on the microwave being used; therefore, you have to stand in front of the microwave listening intently for the popping to slow down (this as well is pretty subjective, since the instructions say “more than 5 seconds between pops” or something as ambiguous). My husband refuses to be this involved in the process: he presses the “popcorn” button on the machine and has no shame in presenting me with a bowl half-full of unpopped kernels. “Not my problem” I believe was his response when I complained. Granted, maybe I shouldn’t be complaining since he generously agreed to go pop it in the first place. Next, we have the issue of burnt popcorn smell, which is related to the pop-time problem: trying to get most of the kernels popped inevitably leads to cooking the bag too long and then the potent smell of burnt popcorn permeates the whole house (even when you leave the bag CLOSED and take it to the outside garbage immediately).


Air-popped Popcorn. In college, one of my friends had an air popper and we all thought it was great. Easy to use, no cleaning, and popcorn that flew out as if by magic! I can remember fighting over each kernel as it exited the machine, we didn’t even need to have a bowl to catch the popcorn in. I recently purchased an air-popper and the kids were similarly amazed to see the popcorn flying out---and I was amazed at how awful it tasted (hey, even the kids wouldn’t eat it, they just liked to POP it). Air-popped popcorn tastes like styrofoam, cardboard, blecchh. And yes, we attempted to butter it and salt it and flavor it and whatever it. NOTE: One barely-used air popper for my upcoming garage sale.

Stovetop Popcorn. Not in a pot like my mother refused to do, but in a special device that either sits on the stove or just plugs in. The one I bought looked sort of like an electric wok, with the additional of a ‘paddle’ on the surface that kept the kernels moving around. Initially I thought this one might be a winner, but even with my careful attention I ended up with burnt, bland popcorn. I tried using specially-flavored popcorn oils as well, also a bust. NOTE: One more barely used electric popper for my upcoming garage sale.

The-Actual-Theatre Popcorn. Yes, I admit it: I have gone to the movies simply to get some decent popcorn. Sometimes both the film and the popcorn were great; other times not so much. I’ve come to the realization that I’m not even assured any more of good popcorn at the theater---some chains have stooped so low as to have ‘pre-popped’ corn in the warmers, never so much as refreshing the pile with a newly-popped batch. What’s worse than bad popcorn at home? Bad popcorn at the movies.

Jiffy-Pop. I grabbed one of these from a ‘nostalgia’ section in the local grocery store. Even worse than I remembered.

So now I’m back full-circle, to the microwave popcorn [sigh]. I’ve started my elaborate research on BRANDS now, from Orville Reddenbacher to the generics, full-size to ‘mini’ bags, butter to plain. I’m too defeated to do all this scientifically, of course, so if I come across something good I won’t even know which one to buy again.

And I’m still too lazy to pop my own so I am resigned to getting the spouse-provided, half-popped serving. Thanks, sweetheart.