I have survived the World Series once again, but prudence suggests I mend my ways, before I have to mend my colon.
Longtime readers will recall that I prepare for my favorite sports event by buying bags of salted peanuts. Years ago I’d start with a five-pound bag, but I had youth on my side, including the youthful certainty I would never die. As a young person, all my physical ailments were self-inflicted and I blithely assumed I would survive all of them. I’d go through a pound of peanuts in front of the TV every game with several beers. It was great. In my case, it takes about 36 hours for the reaper to show up at the back door, by which time I’ve gone through another pound, and then it’s all reckoning from there on out.
By my forties, things had changed internally, just enough that I found myself sometimes rooting for a sweep.
In theory, a person could buy peanuts and then eat a reasonable amount of them and close up the bag. That person doesn’t live in my house. If I am to peanut judiciously—and the world of advertising assures me I can verb a peanut—it is a decision that must be made at the grocery store. I can leave a bag unopened forever. In fact I have some heritage potato chips in the cabinet right now. But an opened bag is destined for the gastro-intestinal journey of a lifetime. It will culminate in an event quite similar to a colonoscopy prep, only without the eliminating-nuts part. For days on end, as it were.
My inner eight-year-old is still alive and kicking, and maybe poking around in the dirt looking at bugs, but the shipping container has arrived at age 71 a little scuffed up. Not too bad, all told, but I’m starting to develop a little maturity and discretion, in the form of the suspicion that one of these days I’m not going to survive my own habits. Well, as they say, when God closes a door, he opens a window, but God is old as hell too, and maybe he painted the windows shut a while back and forgot.
But it’s that forgetting that’s going to save me. This year, I forgot to check when the first game of the World Series was, and I hadn’t bought any peanuts.
That got me one game ahead of my self-destructive nature, right there.
I rectified the situation, as it were, by the second game on Saturday, and first thing Monday morning got the update from my intestinal tract in the form of an urgent rectal bulletin. Polished off the third and final bag on Tuesday night, and enjoyed the final game in a peanut-free haze of righteousness. One more year in the books.
To be continued.
1) Prudence is a pill, and any “suggestions” she has can go into my “suggestion box” (aka, the toilet.)
2) You may be able to verb peanut, but can you verb verb?
3) No one gets out alive. Because I am a quote whore, this one from my favorite movie, Fight Club: “On a long enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.” I do not want to live to a “ripe old age.” To what end? To be warehoused in a state-run “home” because I ran out of money? To outlive one’s family (already got THAT one out of the way!) and friends, so no one comes to see you? To lose autonomy to make decisions for myself, like whether to live or die, what to eat or drink, when to sleep and when to wake? No, thanks. I eat well, but I DO drink more than they say a woman “should.” Hell, more than they say a man “should.” Maybe it will kill me. But I guaran-fucking-tee you that something will kill us in the end. You’re a long time dead. Don’t start practicing now.
You’ve shared your philosophy about living too long many times, and it’s perfectly sensible, but what we usually mean is we’d like to get whacked in the back of the head by an unseen assailant at *just* the right time in life. It’s a lot harder for most people to engineer their own gentle demise.
I got the note about the destructive nature of peanuts some time ago. I occasionally have some peanut butter in the hope that things might be different this time. That would be no.
I developed an intolerance for turmeric shortly after I moved into my new house. It’s supposed to be good for a variety of things that ail a person, but if you become intolerant even a tiny amount works better than Miralax. Problem is turmeric is traditionally used as a natural food coloring and will often get added as “spices” in the ingredients.
Earlier this week I tried a bottle of ketchup that had innocuous ingredients. I’d already tested the damned thing and determined it had trace amounts of turmeric, but I was off this week and how bad could it be?
It was bad. But it was so good having ketchup again. My best friend has suggested more than once that I could make my own, but my guess is that homemade ketchup would have a rather brief shelf life.
As far as finding a way to shuffle off when I want to, I can think of a few ways, but none of them are easily obtainable. And chances are under the reign of our soon to be president and his cabinet of idiots, assisted suicide won’t be a priority.
With enough salt an vinegar, that homemade ketchup might keep long enough.
I really like how you replied to a longish comment about death and euthanasia by suggesting how to make a stout ketchup. My people!
When the big things are overwhelming, focus on the teensy-weensy things!
I too am a peanut fan, with a caveat. They have to be salted in the shell. Now I crack them and eat just the nuts. In my youth (read 20’s-40’s) I would eat every 5th or so one whole, shell and all. Washed down of course with a mix of half Guinness and Harp, a nod to my Irish heritage.
I’ve been a Dodger fan, in a minor way, since they were in Brooklyn. I watched three of the games this time.
I don’t remember any problems with plumbing earlier, now it’s the usual ones many geezers have.
I too have given a nod or two to your Irish heritage.
It’s easy enough to overdose accidentally if you’re diabetic. I almost did it once accidentally.
I lost a nephew to a malfunctioning insulin pump. I never heard whether it delivered too much or not enough, but in the end he was still dead.
There must be a million ways to overdose on something. Other than peanuts.
I wish things got less complicated digested wise… the older you get… I could really use some percs as I approach 76….
Wisdom alone really doesn’t cut it, do it?
Looks like Pootie is a fan of peanuts as well. I must admit that I’ve been spoiled by the Costco mixed nuts that don’t have peanuts…or the Tamari almonds. Love peanut butter though. I’ve never had any adverse reaction to nuts, gastro- or otherwise, until the past two weeks watching the clown-car cabinet get filled up with a bunch of nut bags.
As for sports-watching food cravings…I get a hankering for cheese watching Packer games with all those cheese heads. Cheese nachos, cheese and crackers, toasted cheese sandwiches, cheese balls, Cheetos… (think Forest Gump and the shrimp scene).
Nut bags and Cheetos!
There was a point in my life when I ate the peanut shells. I still can’t figure out why. No adverse effects. The unshelled nuts are now on a shelf I can only reach by step stool—wife’s idea to keep them out of my uncontrollable hands!
I think they’re really, really good for you when taken in excess, right up till the last one is swallowed. After that, not so much. I consider it a wonderful thing that peanuts are my favorite “nut,” because they’re awfully cheap.
Oatmeal is my friend.
I eat steel-cut oats with blueberries and almonds every (EVERY) morning, but they can’t take on the peanuts all by themselves.
Note from John McWhorter: “The reason peanuts are called goobers in the South (and in the candy that’s popular at movie theater concession stands) is that they were called nguba in the Kikongo language of Angola and other countries.”
Sounds sound!