The American Spoon

For a writing assignment, I had to find a quintessentially American artifact and write about it from an objective, outsider's point of view. I chose the spoon.

The metal spoon is considered a common item in the average American household. Its dipped, round-edged beginning is the part that touches the inside of the mouth, and the long handle is held lightly in the hand. Spoons, as witnessed of the American mealtime experience, are collectors of sorts; they splash into a bowl of morning cereal, or perhaps a plate of mashed potatoes at dinner, and scoop the food into the mouth with a swooping gesture of the hand. There are some Americans, however, that fail to understand the ritual eating technique of the spoon and lack control over moving the spoon into the mouth. Children, for instance, often lack control of the spoon and misplace the food supposedly headed for the mouth. It takes a certain amount of skill, then, to safely navigate the head of the spoon to the entrance of the mouth.

The term "spoon" is used lightly in America. Although the most common usage of the spoon is as a kitchen utensil, that which sits between the forks (pronged, picker-uppers) and the knives (stabbing devices used for slicing and threatening), the American spoon is, in a word, versatile. For instance, at a certain fast food restaurant that serves fried chicken with every dish, the spoon is no longer a spoon; rather, it is a spoon masquerading as a fork, or a fork pretending to be a spoon. Either way, the "spork" is the lovechild of the spoon and the fork. It is not a pretty sight.

Spoons in America, not so much nowadays, but often when grandmothers share the stories of their youth, were often used as devices of punishment. To whip a child's behind with a wooden (as opposed to the ever-popular metal) spoon meant that the child needed correcting. It might be interesting to see if those grandmothers are half-afraid to use wooden spoons in the kitchen nowadays, seeing as how it was once a favored intstrument of torture.

Although the term spoon is a noun, a describer of All-American utensil(ry), the term can also turn into a verb, as needed.To "spoon" is to cuddle. After the average American eats her dinner with a spoon, there is nothing more relaxing than spooning with a loved one, or a loved-one-for-the-night. Spooning often leads to forking, but that's another subject.

The spoon illustrates that Americans would rather dig into their mealtime pleasures with a metal instrument than with their fingers, as some countries prefer. The spoon is a changeable object that sometimes masquerades as other kitchen utensils, and because Americans are Americans, they do not mind the mingling of these items. They accept it and eat. The spoon is also a relic of sorts, a device to be feared and mottled and used on the behind, not simply in the kitchen. Although many Americans would rather leave the the spoon a noun, for those who decide to take the next leap and change it into a verb, it is malleable and willing to be dealt with accordingly.

transformation of the...

When I was twelve, I wrote my first "novel". It was somewhere between 40-50 pages (no joke!) and it followed the lives of four best friends who were also (alas!) twelve years old. It was my masterpiece - and it was so easy to write. I came home from school everyday and sat down at my mom's computer and wrote and wrote and wrote until dinner.

I'm almost positive I didn't have a social life when I was twelve.

Anyway, I began to write numerous novels throughout middle and high school, and all of them except the first one remain unfinished.

What's my point?

I aspired to write novels when I was twelve, and thirteen, and basically up until I finished my senior year in high school. I most likely didn't even know what a short story was - Andre Dubus, who? I read R.L Stein, and Judy Blume, and eventually shifted my taste, as I got older, to Jodi Picoult and Ray Bradbury (Dandelion Wine still makes my childhood come back to life). I read fiction. I read novelists.

So, college rolls around. BAM. I'm introduced to forms of non-fiction and prose writers seem to come out of the woodwork, writers that I'd never heard of, let alone ever picked up off a bookshelf. I'm introduced to short story writers - and short stories that have made an impact, such an impact, that I no longer write novels. I write what I read, what I'm taught, what I'm allowed to turn in for a grade.

My thesis revolves around the short story and my capabilities within the realm of 10-12 page pieces. In a meager four years, I've managed to forget about my aspiration to write novels. I no longer "start novels" - I finish short stories. It's a whole new mindset. Not a bad one, by any means, but a different one.

The thing is, I want to be a novelist, and I have no idea how to go about being one anymore. I read novels and am instantly amazed. How is that plot drawn out for so long? Look at these characters! They're still in the game after more than 15 pages! Look, there's 300 pages and the conflict is still going!

It's weird, how college transforms the mind. It makes me anxious to graduate and see what I write when I'm not in a classroom. Who will I pick up off the bookshelf? What will hold my interest when I don't have to write an essay about it?

A brief and wonderous description of how chocolate cake turned into Mr. Pool boy turned into working out

I'm going to become a body-builder. You know, one of those beefy women who can grow muscle as fast as she grows facial hair?

Gross.

But really. I've been working out every single day for the past two weeks (and no, M, this is not simply a phase). I woke up two Sunday's ago and decided that it's time to get myself in shape, so as not to embarrass myself in front of fit students while trying to crawl up hills and stairs (of which we do not lack on this campus).

Right. So, I start off at home going to the YMCA (where my family has a familyplan something or other membership). I bring Moni with me and pretend I'm not out of breath as I master the treadmill on manual settings. Then I move onto 'hill', and kill some serious calories. Like, a hundred calories. I think it's a good start.

Then, it's off to the bike. At this point (what, day 3 of the YMCA maybe?), Tyler starts meeting me at the gym. I pedal my way to oblivion, up the rockies and down along the ocean floors (because, clearly, my legs feel like jell-o, so the only explanation is that I must be pedaling under water). We pretend to like being at the gym, and we talk about Harry Potter (Book one, I've just started!) and about chocolate cake and basking in the sun and visiting Italy and eating a million and one pizzas from Naples and Venice and meeting beautiful men....or maybe we weren't talking about any of that. Exercising, I've learned, causes tantalizing hallucinations, all of which portray me eating copious amounts of chocolate cake...

So then there are the machines. THE MACHINES. Right. I start out by sitting on them all, feeling them out, getting a sense of where, exactly, I need to put my legs and arms and how in the world do I use this thing? Oh yes. There are instructions. It says that I'm going to be working some muscles in my back, but my legs hurt, and then there's the pain in my abdominals that keeps shooting, or maybe I'm just hungry? I can't tell anymore. Is Tyler still talking about Harry Potter?

Right. So that was last week. This week, I arrive to campus and immediately want to work-out, because, you know, I'm in the mode. Of working out, that is. So Maya and I walk briskly to the gym on Monday. The gym on campus is lacking only room to move. There are girls in tank tops and shorts that look like they may be cutting off their circulation, although, I can't be certain. Maybe all the blood from their legs rushes to their head and they see themselves eating chocolate cake, too?

The guys are beautiful at the gym on campus. Okay. See, you can't tell if they are socially awkward or not because no one talks - they all squint their eyes in UTTER PAIN and beads of sweat form on their foreheads, and everyone looks beautiful when they are hot and sweaty and clearly in pain. So, I try to mimic their excruciating gorgeous looks.

I squint at the guy next to me (who happens to be running hardcore on the treadmill) and I grab my water and plunge the liquid down my throat. I choke, squint involuntarily, and decide that I am not nearly as sexy as all of these people while working out. And then...Mr. Pool Boy comes out in a speedo. Did I mention that all of the treadmills face our swimming pool? I immediately collect myself, stop choking and hacking, and am mesmerized. These people in the gym are not beautiful. But that boy in the speedo down there? Mmmmmm. This is what? Day 8 or 9 of my routine? I am no longer thinking about chocolate cake.

So, I decide the next day that I do not like the gym on campus. It's crowded and crowded and crowded and crowded. And Mr. Pool Boy is probably a freshman.

Maya and I, in turn, discover Planet Fitness two days later. The Judgment-Free Zone, it's called. I. Love. It. Faithfully, I've driven myself to this gym every day now and am an official member of a gym with a thousand and one treadmills (or maybe 30?) and everything is open all of the time and no longer am I fantasizing about chocolate cake or Mr. Pool Boy, but rather...going to the gym. I know, boring, boring, boring, but I had to set my sights somewhere virtuous, and this takes the cake (no pun intended).

Nevermind that my body is battered and sore and I can barely turn to look at someone with wanting a full body massage, but it's going to be worth it. It is worth it. Mmmmmmmm.

Stranger Compliment

Today, I was told by a complete stranger that I have a great phone voice.

I swallowed my laughter until the person hung up, then cackled until my stomach hurt. This is, perhaps, the most unusual, ironic compliment I have ever received.