You Call It Corn

Have you ever been to a corn maze, that quintessential autumn experience? Up until a few weeks ago, neither had I. I had always seen the signs pop up around our area at the end of summer, but never really thought it was something I wanted to cross off the bucket list. Mazes in general are not my thing.  As a child, my experience with mazes, on paper at least, involved starting at the finish and working my way backward until I found the start. Yes, I cheat at mazes.

But real life mazes seem to be the kind of thing where evil lurks. Mazes are just easy to spell labyrinths, and labyrinths are the domain of Minotaurs, deranged caretaker/writers, or lesser known Muppets and David Bowie in a bad wig. Add corn to it and well, after Stephen King’s “Children of the Corn,” is there any doubt I would hesitate to wander inside?  A red-headed kid named Malachi is probably lurking inside every corn maze to make sure no one ever leaves. Plus, there seems to be confusion in general over the spelling of maze. If the maze is made out of corn, is it spelled maize? The local establishments sure seem to think so. Are they being clever or ignorant? I just don’t know.

The main reason I had always hesitated in going to a corn maze is the same reason I don’t like to drive someplace new; I am what I like to call directionally challenged. I don’t know north from up, but I am pretty sure they are the same direction. I don’t like to get lost, as chances are pretty good I will never find the right way. I like to look at a map, then print directions, then enter my location on GPS, and finally compile all the information into my own version of Point A to Point B, and somewhere along the way I still manage to get lost. Seriously, I am impressed I know my way around my house.

As soon as I thought “corn maze” and “good idea,” my brain just wouldn’t let go of it until it happened.  I conned my younger daughter into it, selling her on the idea of fun and adventure. She should have known better; I blame her.  We decided to make a day of it, going first on a hayride and then a quick trip to the pumpkin patch. We decided to save the corn maze for last, anticipation and all.

We bought our tickets and approached the start of the maze, where an older man went over the rules before you were allowed to enter. Apparently even corn mazes have rules, including no running and no veering off the marked paths. The last thing those corn farmers need are a bunch of wild people hiding in amidst the corn stalks. After the man gave his little rules speech, I told him I wasn’t very good with directions and asked him about how long it would take to go through the maze.

“As long as it takes you to get from the start to the finish,” he told me. Great, one of those. Just answer the damn question.

“Could you be a bit more specific?” I asked him.

“Bout an hour to do both sides,” he said.

My daughter and I had a quick little chat. We hadn’t had lunch but had enjoyed some fine tater tots at the concession stand. Our water bottles were empty. The only bathroom was a port-a-potty, which I eschew on principle, but if we were only going to be wandering for thirty minutes, we could handle it. We grabbed a map from the man and into the maze we went.

Do you know how tall corn grows? Pretty fucking tall. This corn was a good seven to nine feet, which meant we were no match for it, vertically speaking.

We really should have had a plan. Follow the people in front of us. Only make right turns. Pay attention to the perimeters. Look for landmarks before you enter. Anything. Instead, we just went with our map and my lack of a sense of direction. And it turned out our map wasn’t even a map; it was a list of ten clues. When you approached a number plaque, you were to answer the question, and your answer determined whether you went left or right. I didn’t even notice the answer key on the back, which would have been helpful, considering the clues were all useless corn trivia. We found number one, and then we wandered around aimlessly until we stumbled upon number three. We had no idea where number two went.  We also saw the family that entered before us, but they didn’t look like they knew what we were doing any more than we did.

Not only was the corn really tall, but someone, or SOMETHING, had been eating it. Underneath the stalks were piles of crap. Lots of piles of crap. Most of it was in pellet formation, but I couldn’t rule out human.  After about the first half hour, those piles of feces became our only landmarks.

“Didn’t we just pass that pile of crap?” I said to my daughter.

“How am I supposed to know? I didn’t memorize poop,” she answered me.

“If you had, we wouldn’t be in this mess, now, would we?”

Yes, in the course of thirty minutes, we were turning against each other, just like lab rats, the kind that have to run through mazes and hate on each other. During that time, the sun burned hotter, and we were hungry and thirsty.

“I really need to go to the bathroom,” my daughter said.

“Go under the corn like the rest of the animals,” I said. “I’ll stand in front of you and create a diversion.”

“Are you serious?” she asked me.

“Do you think we can eat this corn, or is it feed corn for livestock?” I asked her.

“I am not eating raw corn,” she said.  “And I am definitely not going to the bathroom in this maze.”

“Suit yourself,” I said.

A family passed by us, looking confused. It was a different family. They still seemed enthusiastic and gleeful.

We trudged on. At one point, we heard goats bleating, which meant we were on the outer edge of the maze. We were also on the outer edge of the farm, which meant we were no closer to the exit than we were the entrance.

“This isn’t fun anymore,” my daughter said.

“Was it ever?” I snapped.

“Can’t you look on your phone to see where we are on your phone?”

We stopped and I attempted to verify our location, even though I should have known that a corn maze would not be on the satellite map.  I looked at my watch. We had been in the maze for over an hour. We had sweated enough to reduce the need for a bathroom.  It was now after two pm, and we still had an hour drive home and lunch and afternoon dance practice to get on with. We had no more time to waste, lost in the produce aisle.

So I did it. I called for help. I called the number on our corn maze tickets. And it went straight to voice mail.

“Oh Jesus,” said my daughter. “How can they not answer the phone? How are we going to get out of here?”

“Calm down!” I yelled. “They slap hysterical people, just so you know. I ‘ll try again.”

I tried three more times. Voice mail. Each message I left conveyed more of the panic we felt. My phone battery was at 20%. We moved on, hoping this time to at least make it to number five of the clue list.

We continued to walk in circles, to pass more corn stalks with piles of crap on the ground and the same clue number four and people who were as lost as we but not yet on the verge of tears. I called again, and this time a real person answered the phone. She asked the number we saw last and told us to stop moving. We stood still, defeated. My daughter’s eyes were watering.

A few minutes later, the man who gave us the clue sheet wandered in and gave us a look.

“I told you I had a poor sense of direction,” I said to him.

“You weren’t kidding,” he said, and started walking. We followed him. On the other side of corn we could hear other people laughing and rushing. “No running. Rule number two!” he shouted at them.

In less than five minutes, we emerged from the corn maze, our heads hanging low. Other people watched us following the man out. It was the corn maze walk of shame.

We hustled over to the car, not stopping for a bottle of water or a quick stop at the port-a-potty.

“And now we know why we’ve never gone to a corn maze before,” I told my daughter.

“I hope we won’t ever do it again,” she added.

“Can you imagine if it were at night? I mean, that maze is open until ten,” I said. “Can you imagine getting that lost in the dark?”

“If you hadn’t called, we would still be there til ten,” she said.

“You’re right, Malachi,” I said.

“Stop calling me that,” said my daughter.

What's Cookin'?

If you don’t know what to make for dinner tonight, you could making what I’m making, grilled Greek chicken pitas with homemade tzatziki sauce. It used to be one of everyone’s favorite meals, until my tween, S, was sick one night and the smell of the grilled chicken made her want to throw up. It doesn’t smell bad, really, unless you are sick or something. Plus, it’s so easy to make, it practically makes itself.

I always start by marinating my chicken. I buy boneless chicken breasts and then cut them in half horizontally so that they are “cutlets.” The thinner chicken pieces will cook faster and more evenly. Plus, have you looked at the size of the chicken breasts you can buy at the grocery store these days? These chickens shouldn’t be endorsed by Paula Deen; they should have Dolly Parton on the packages. Seriously, I don’t know how chickens strut around and peck with those giant titties throwing them off balance. They must look even more awkward in heels. You don’t need that much breast meat. Seriously, more than a handful is too much. A serving size should be roughly the size of your palm.

Anyway, I slice them and then shove them in a Ziploc bag with some vinaigrette salad dressing, chopped garlic, and a hefty squirt of Dijon mustard.  It doesn’t matter what kind of dressing, but they do sell Greek dressing, for those of you who are really concerned about getting the right flavor profile. I don’t know what the garlic and mustard does that the salad dressing doesn’t do, except make it sound like I thought up something special. I didn’t. It’s just salad dressing and mustard and garlic. Bam!

Next, I make my own tzatziki sauce. This is where you get to impress the whole table. Sure, you can buy a pretty tasty version at Trader Joe’s, except they put too much dill in theirs, and dill is the devil of the herb world. Plus, it’s super easy to make.

You need a good sized cucumber and some Greek style yogurt to make the sauce. I like to buy giant hothouse cucumbers, the ones that come shrink wrapped for your protection. They are all stacked up neatly in their prophylactic wrappers at the store, ready and waiting for you. The one I bought today was about the size of a double headed dildo that I, um, once saw on the internet. Seriously, even I got penis envy from that thing.

I like to hand grate my cucumber. First, I start by holding up the cucumber near the vicinity of my crotch and dancing around a little. My husband made the mistake of walking through the kitchen while I did my seductive cuke dance. I violated him by ramming my cucumber in the middle of his belly, repeatedly, until he left the room. Feel free to dance with your hard cuke as long as you like, or until you lose interest.

After that, I pretend I am a mohel and cut off the end of the cucumber, just the tip, in a covenant with dinner.  Then I take the cucumber firmly in my fist and roll down the plastic wrap and snicker. Finally, I get out the grater, and gripping the cucumber shaft in my hand, I drag the end over and over across it, making a nice pile of shredded cuke. I like to start slowly and then build up speed and then slow down again and then go fast and hard, until you have about a cup or so.  It ain’t rocket science; it’s just a shredded cucumber. No one is going to care if you have a quarter cup too much.

Be sure to squeeze out the extra juice from the shredded cuke before you add it to the Greek yogurt.  Add some minced garlic, a little salt and pepper, and some dried oregano and parsley. Those would be better fresh but I ain’t cooking for the queen. One of my kids won’t even try the shit even though she loves everything in it. Is my family worth the fresh herbs? Not on a school night.  Cover all that mess and stick it back in the refrigerator.  

After all that dancing and shredding and marinating, it’s time for a nap.

When you are ready to eat, have someone else grill the chicken and put out some pita bread along with the sauce. Make one of your kids set the table. Get the other kid to put out the sauce. There bitches, dinner’s ready.

Another easy way to make this meal is to go to any Greek restaurant and pick it up. There is a Greek restaurant on every corner, probably across from the Starbucks.  It’ll probably come with some salad too, or maybe a pickle slice and an olive. Opa!

I am so tired of cooking dinner.

Less Talking, More Rubbing

My massage therapist quit. It’s almost as tough as a break-up. I know it was him, not me, but still, I must move past him and find another one to take his place. If you think about it, finding a new masseuse is about as difficult as finding a new boyfriend. You have to trust this new person enough to get naked and let him or her touch your body, to help you relax, or to work out your most hidden pockets of pain. It is not a relationship to take lightly.

The best way to find that someone new is Groupon. At least if it doesn’t work out, I didn’t pay full price. This applies only to the massage therapist. You’re on your own for the new boyfriend part. I don’t even know how to find an old boyfriend.

Last week, I went for a massage to the salon where this Groupon massage therapist works. I should have known something was a little off about the place for a couple of reasons. First, I have never noticed  the salon before even though I drive by it at least three times a week. Second, the entire parking lot was filled with Buicks and Toyota Avalons and even a Lincoln or two. I went inside and knew from the smell that something was up.

Do you remember way back when you would go to a salon and the entire place reeked of that pissy permanent solution? Well, that’s what this place smelled like, a combination of formaldehyde and urine. Yes, I had stumbled into some sort of underground blue hair salon. Every chair was taken with elderly women getting their weekly shampoo and set.  Old ladies were under heated dome dryers or had heads full of plastic curlers. The cackling and coughing were as overpowering at the stench.
You know how at Disney World, they have a little parking area for strollers? Well, this place had the same thing, only for walkers and wheelchairs. There was a line for the restroom. I could feel my ovaries drying up as I sat in the waiting area.

How did they all know about this place? I kind of got why I might not have heard of it, but is there some sort of secret senior network that distributes this kind of information? It sure as hell wasn’t on my Groupon voucher; “consider this your senior discount” wasn’t anywhere in the small print.

My massage therapist came out to greet me, and I was pleased to see she looked so spry. She escorted me to the room and went over my paperwork before getting down to business. The room looked like a Hobby Lobby vomited all over it. Ornate crosses, reproduction prints of the Sistine Chapel, more crosses, inspirational quotes. At least none of the crosses were burning. Even the background music sounded sort of hymn-like. I didn’t know if she was a very devout Christian or thought the majority of her clients were, but all that crossy cross made me more than a little uncomfortable.

She asked about my health history and then excused herself while I disrobed and got on the table. She came back in and began my massage, making small talk in a way I prefer my massage therapists not do. First, she started talking about getting a higher degree. I asked in what field, and she told me she was working towards a doctorate in metaphysical science.

What does one say to that? Wow, you are getting a higher degree in the science of everything not science? Is that online or is there an actual institute of higher learning where one can earn such a degree? If it is online, is there a graduation ceremony?  Instead, I mumbled something about not knowing much about metaphysics, which is true, I don’t. I’m not up on all my New Age quackery.

But no matter, she seemed pretty well versed in it, which I discovered when the small talk veered off to a discussion about our children. We were comparing stories about our kids, in a getting to know you, not my kids are better than your kids sort of way. I was talking about how artistic my daughters are, with one of them studying guitar and piano while the other likes piano and ballet. We talked about their personalities, and how school is for our kids, and then she said to me, “I bet your girls are indigo children.”

Not knowing what that meant, I chose to stay silent. After all, she was working on her doctorate in metaphysical science. She probably had coursework in it.

“Do you know about the indigo children?” she asked me.

“I do not,” I said.

“Well, Google it when you get a chance. I bet your children are indigos.”

When I got home, I got right on my desktop and looked up indigochildren.  Guess what? It is a New Age thing, but mainstream enough that CNN covered it in the past few years. Basically, it can be used to describe a whole gaggle of kids, ranging from the artistic and sensitive types to the kids who talk to dead people and bend spoons with their brains.

 When my daughters got home from school, I asked them if they ever saw dead people. They indicated they had not, although my older daughter said she did see a dead deer on the side of the road on the drive home. She didn’t sound all that sensitive when she said it.

I'm sure Groupon will have another massage deal tomorrow.