Diabolique Biologique

After a hard year of nothing good, a year that came after another two filled with nothing good (save a few notable exceptions), I saw and said good bye to my Dad today. One year to the day since his calling the police on the love of my life, since telling great ghastly, life-altering lies to "the authorities," to a lawyer, to his wife, to me, to everyone, we met at a cafe, I said my peace (my many pieces, perhaps), and bid him farewell.

His morning message said "Hi, Amber, it's your Bio Dad..." which is a very weird thing to say. He followed this up with the fact that he would be in town for the rest of the day and the following morning (though he had already been here for nearly a week) and did I want to get together for a cup of tea? Which also struck me as a weird thing to say. The entire message = very weird. It's saved on my phone, if you care to listen. I value your opinion.

I'm not really sure why I decided to see him in the end. But I found myself on the phone, returning the stilted message, agreeing to meet if he could make in the next hour. Ten minutes later, Chai in hand, there we are sitting across from each other as if we had anything else in common but the mysterious coding that produced this particular nose, fair skin and graying strawberry hair.

Essentially I told him that I wasn't interested in investing in our relationship any longer, that I regret the amount of time and energy I'd put in over the course of my life (from early childhood on up to a year ago) trying to bridge the giant gaps between the two of us, as well as between me and his wife. I reiterated something I'd said last year, that I was glad to have at least seen behind the curtain and to know who they both were and what they were capable of (not just how they treated me or Joosh, but their employees, other family, friends, John Q. Public of their clientel), though I wish the lesson could have been shorter and less drawn out. I am dense, or naive, too hopeful and benefit-of-the-doubt-y, or probably all of the above. I said that while I wish things would have worked out differently, overall I am exceedingly happy to have stepped off the "Scott and Jeanne Showboat." Life is good on this side of the shitstorm-filled river.

In a nutshell, he disagreed with my perspective, told me that he has "deep and connected relationships with lots of people" and would like to have one with me. However, survey says: not possible. And I told him as such.

One moment that will live forever in my memory of this meeting is when I said that some people - Joosh, for example - only have one parent, and it's up to that one parent to be somewhat selfless in order to provide everything for their children, raise them up as best they can, etc. So here I am, with a whole bevy of parental units, the majority of whom end up being shockingly narcissistic, self-centered, not at all focused on their children, and what are the statistical odds of that happening? His reaction? Nope, not denial. He totally laughed, and then smirked in this strange shoulder-shrugging, "what can you do?" sort of agreement. Christ. Just like the time he offered up "Well she knew who I was when she married me, what did she think was going to change with a ring?" when I asked why he was such a cheater (blatant, blatant, cheater), as if it was matter of poor judgment on his wife's part, rather than a fuckface flaw of his.

So yeah. What can I say? Just what I said to him, which is that he's my father, I'll always love him for that reason, but that I'm removing myself from the dysfunction junction that is the life he leads and leaving the inadequate and unhealthy relationship dynamic until further notice. I know they say that blood is thicker than water, and you can choose your friends, but you can't choose family, and yadda yadda yadda, but with respect to the institution of familyhood, I am opting to disagree. Life is too damn short to spend in on this kind of treadmill.

Welcome Home - Hey, Why So Smug?

I must apologize for the fact that I left you with the erupting ovarian follicle photo for the last two weeks. Dreadful imagery for such an interesting and life-creating thing. Certainly not something one wishes to contemplate on a daily or even weekly basis. It did serve as a good reminder that I am out of Vitamin E and Evening Primrose Oil, however.

I'm back from California. It was a lovely trip. All-consuming, though. Portland and work and the blogosphere (you) and the election and 1000 words a day and everything from the normal (mmmm, "normal") realm of life ceased to exist, sucked up by the mighty Pacific and all the sunshine you could ever want. (More than enough sunshine, actually: hot and sticky, all day every day, soaking in through newly burnt skin, through sweat-stained and inappropriately dark-colored clothing, through steamed-open pores. Beautiful, yes. Omnipresent, of course. Gratuitous, I'm thinking so). Busy as it was, and packed full of visits and events and dinners and lunches and hellos and goodbyes, it was also that dangerous sort of rockabye that cradles and then crushes the fool who slumbers in its embrace. Ah Ventura, how you lull me in to your warm gentle bath, only to slowly boil me in a soft stew of complacency and meh.

On Monday, our last day in town, Joosh and I walked on the beach and strolled the boardwalk for a spell. Feet in the sand, toes in the water, it was perfect. We talked about how easy and kick back Ventura felt this time around. How totally busy and packed the trip was, but also how simple it was to get around (unless you try to leave the city proper, and then all sorts of freeway and timeschedule planning hassles ensue, but of course it was always thus), to see people, to come and go and chat and connect and blah blah blah. For Joosh, I think it was how easy it is to get things done and accomplished - the bike project, the Fiat 1100 project, the Fiat spider project, work projects at his main place of business, etc etc - that appealed to him.

For me, it was how simple and easy it was to see family, friends, to chill and hang out and catch up. Portland is isolating, a bit, because of our age bracket (and the fact that we moved here after our twenties), our inclination to work from home, our lack of children or outdoor pets, our tendency to sneer at and alienate strangers, my propensity for deep and unwavering judgement from a distance... I kid. Mostly. But really, it's true that we are far away from family and all but two of our dearest friends (four, if you consider Seattle to be nearby, which I do and I don't). So it was nice and life-affirming (as in: yes, I am still alive and connected to people on this planet) to be in such close proximity, with so much easy access, to loved ones. I do miss that. (Hey, come visit!).

And then, as we were walking back to the car, shaking the sand from our feet, Joosh pointed out a tree that by all counts should be considered to have green leaves, but appeared to me more like a dusty brown-green. I looked up at a palm tree, searching for a more vibrant green. Nope. How about the hills? No, totally brown, with a few mustardy greenish trees dotting the landscape. Even the grass growing in front of the seaside condos was a kind of dull washed out color, more of an impression of greenness than anything that could be considered truly verdant. Back a the car a receipt from the previous night's meal fell out of my pocket with the keys. $41.25 for two people, consisting of a not-fancy (but delicious, I'll concede) cheese plate, a salad (better than most Ventura attempts at classy fare), and a martini.

And suddenly, I remembered life here. It's all green, all the time. The air is fresh. None of that why-so-dusty?/everything-needs-a-rinse feel to it. There's about a million different activities/events going on each week (just this weekend we've got the Organic Brewers Beer Festival, The Artichoke Folk Festival, The Cowboy Junkies at the lovely theater at the Zoo in the middle of Forest Park, and a million other shows with KCRW featured artists and local heroes alike, as well as a few book readings, several plays, art openings and a gaggle of $3 second-run movies at sweet old theaters serving beer and pizza in addition to the usual popcorn/candy/soda lineup). And, most importantly, $41.25 in Portland means three people, three full meals made from fresh locally grown organic ingredients, three or four beers, and maybe even a dessert.

I truly miss you, one and all. But damn, it's good to be home.

Not Exactly What I Pictured.

Wow. You know, ew, but also wow.

** Updated to make a more obvious link to the BBC article from whence this lovely photo came. Please click here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7447942.stm

Also, if I were going to title this photo, without knowing anything about it, I would call it "Vitamin E gel cap erupting from the backside of an eyeball." I would, of course, be very very wrong.

Fun With Analytics.

Did I mention that I have been writing 1000 words a day for the last month or so? I have. With moderate success (if by moderate you understand that the middle ground between super great and unbelievably horrible is just that).

Actually, I have been tremendously successful at the actual writing of 1000 or more words every day. I've only missed one night since I committed to the daily activity. Ass in chair, blah blah blah. This does not mean that I have been writing 1000 GOOD words or strings of words each day. But whatever, it's a start.

The very first day of writing these grand or so words, I wrote something to read at my writing group, about the process of committing to the page and all the shit that floats up for writers sitting down to write. Well, all the stuff that floats up for ME sitting down to write, anyway. Not surprisingly (because apparently we writers are nothing if not unoriginal in all the shit that floats up around the process, the act, the desire, the actuating, the ass-sitting, etc etc), it was some pretty familiar stuff for my fellow wordsmitheons: I got plenty of positive feedback, and a lot of head-nodding and amens around the table.

Afterward, a gal that I particularly like (the instigator of the nerdy ladies board game fun) grabbed my paper and a red pen and bracketed six or seven sentences or segments that she felt particularly stood out. Right on. When I got home and did the casual math, I was running about 10% good, stand out stuff, to the remaining 90% comme ci comme ca stuff. Honestly, I'm fine with that. And if 10,000 monkeys pounding on 10,000 keyboards will come up with Hamlet in 10,000 years (um, isn't that how that goes?) then surely one girl, at one keyboard, in 10,000 nights can come up with something usable in 10% of all that scattertyped text, right?

So here's the problem: Procastination. It's insane to me how very much I resist the task at hand. I can sit in this fercockt (probably not the correct yiddish spelling of this, my favorite Grandpa word) chair all night long, and read all y'alls blogs like 18 times over, ignoring my real-life to-do-lists and the blank page in front of me, read read read and catch up on CNN and Buzzflash, and write a few words, and head over to Facebook for some Scramble and some spying on my friends and family, and then tap out a few more words, and then go scare the crap out of myself with stuff about the environment and warming and the war and the conspiracies (oy fucking vey, the conspiracies of those that are conspiring and not yet geting caught, holy hell) and the sea of plastic in the Pacific and the damage done and doing and gonna do, and then go write a few more bits (in a decidedly lower tone) and then back all y'alls blogs, and then internet-stalk people like Julia Kernochan from Junior High (she's a Yale-educated lawyer on Senator Schumer's team, if you must know) and back to Buzzflash and on and on and on. (I can imagine one or more of you sitting there with your wee one in your lap as you try to read my overly long post here, in the few spare moments you have to catchup on web bizness, thinking that clearly I need a child in order to stop having infinite time to not focus on the thing that I sat down to accomplish, right? Right. Sorry.)

My ultimate point here, however, is not about my fierce and ridiculous need and ability to procrastinate, but rather to talk about my latest good time in the avoidance realm. Bex treated me to a lovely procrasty show of her own (oh Veronica, oh Logan, how I miss you so) and then I thought about how much I feel that her blog is written just for me (by the way, writers are apparently giant narcissists, so look out) and then I started thinking about what others might think in stopping by her site and then I thought "hey I wish there was a way to find out who was visiting a site, that would be funny" and then I immediately recovered my brain and remembered the miracle thing known as Google Analytics.

I signed up with the old Analytics tool back when I created this little vanity project. And I couldn't figure out if I'd inserted the tracking code correctly (it did not seem as though I had), got super annoyed and then gave up on the effort (shocking, I know). I've not logged in since that day. But hey man, what a perfect procrastination tool!

And indeed it was a sweet little surprise treasure trove of goodness. So much information! More than you could ever need/want/take in/make use of in a million years. But lots of helpful bits and bytes and bites. Here, my friends, is the tastiest morsel:

The top ten (er, eleven) searched keywords/phrases that have led people to This (Amberican) Life this week-

11) anna beth chao.
10) Important stuff to know in life.
9) I'm going to ride my bicycles and roller skates.
8) 3 month old drool.
7) momby porn. (that is not a typo. momBy porn. someone should really spellcheck their blog, am I right?)
6) Sun chips flying pig. (nice)
5) scurvy more tests and diagnosis. (wow, sorry dude, that sucks)
4) Chastity-belt. (hahahahahahaha)
3) sucktastic. (um, ha).
2) 1950's aprons.
1) momboob. *

God I loves me some interwebs, I really do.

And guess what? 947 words, suckers, yeah!

But now I need to wrap it up and go watch last week's BSG cause apparently the 5th Cylon is revealed and it's bugging me that I've gone this long without seeing it but Josh grabbed a crap copy and then he grabbed a super nice, super huge copy that wouldn't play on the computer we've got hooked up to the projector (have you heard the expression "the cobbler's wife wears no shoes?") and then the final copy was just right, but Sunday I babysat* and Monday I procrastinated too long into the evening to allow for viewing and now tonight I'm coming dangerously close to same. So au revoir, mon amies. I hope you enjoyed this last segment of rambling smack wherein I tried to up my word count to make up for all the numericals above, which really shouldn't count toward the sum word total, don't you agree?

1097 give or take.

It counts.

*As it's related to the otherwise baffling search term "momboob" and the aforementioned babysitting, this might be a convenient time to tell you about a mortifying thing that happened while babysitting the wee Watsons on Sunday. Except I just wrote it and it's a million miles long, so I'll make it a separate post, backdated, and thus appearing below. Enjoy.

Are You Stronger Than A Three Year Old?

So about the asterisk, above. I was sitting for the wee Watsons, see. Having never been in charge of both of them at once (how do parents do it one at a time?) I was a little nervous. It worked out for the most part - My big secret to success is jelly belly's and reading stories in extra exciting and ridiculous voices. Both kids were enraptured. And apparently both slept pretty soundly through the night, so yay for Auntie Amby and her crazy Winnie the Pooh readings.

But first, first, in the early nervous moments, when Sarah was hungry and attention-requiring and Jakob was not hungry and attention-starved, I was snuggling Sarah and rocking her and making funny noises at her while Jakob was watching Sesame Street. Sarah was clearly getting hungry and started pawing at me and rooting around in the chestal region. At one point she snagged my top with her wee fingers and pulled with gusto. I laughed and dipped her again, trying to adjust my dress while tickling her tummy. She was positioned horizontally to me and I dipped her and blew a raspberry on her tum. When I came up from the dip, with the bundle of baby pressed in my arms, Jakob was looking at me, with wide horrified eyes. "Why are you doing that?" he asked. "What? Tickling her?" He shook his head and glared. "Why are you feeding her WITH YOUR BOOBS!?!" I looked down. It did indeed look as if I were feeding her, from where he stood especially. Hi. Never a redder shade of blush was I in all my life, I'm sure of it. I died. I stammered, as if caught doing something naughty, feeling horribly guilty, trying desperately to fix my dress and blubbered that I wasn't feeding her, that she was just laying sideways and we were playing, that I wouldn't breastfeed her, that's Mommy's job, etc etc etc. I was MORTIFIED. Jakob looked at me with narrow eyes, clearly not believing a word I was saying. Oh the horror, the shame. Called out by a three year old for something I was not actually guilty of doing. Changing the subject, I sing-songed that it was dinner time and how many Dino Nuggets did he want, tra la la? Later we walked to the store to look for Pez for his free-from-a-nice-but-unclear-on-the-concept-saleslady-in-an-antique-store Pez dispenser, but ended up with the Jellies, which did fit in the dispenser, but kept shooting out onto the sidewalk, and distressing the poor kid along the way. Luckily all that walking, talking, lamenting the lost Jellies (there were more, don't worry, I'm not that mean), and story reading eclipsed the earlier horror (for me, anyway).

Jess told me that the next morning she heard Jakob talking in his sleep: Something about "Amber, Amber" and Jelly Beans. I told her that I was relieved it was the jelly beans that crept into his tiny psyche, and not the misunderstanding about the inappropriate boob feeding. God, I would die.

They Might Not Have Been Whores Back Then, But...

Jesus H. Does this not seem a little whore-y to you?

I suppose it's slightly redeeming that they waited until after Hillary dropped out to start kissing and telling for a small bills on the internets?

Ladies, where is your self-respect? It's going to take a shitload of one-ninety-niners to buy that back, I gotta say.

Yucky.

But... it's BRUCE.

Hey. Hey you. You like Bruce? Bruce Springsteen?

Really? Cause I thought everyone loved The Boss. C'mon, baby: He's. THE. BOSS.

Well, whatever. You should like him. If you don't, for whatever crazy anti-80's, I-hate-people-from-Jersey-and-guys-named-Bruce-and-men-shorter-than-five-feet-nine thing you got goin on, I have to suggest you check out his album called "The Seeger Sessions." It's been on constant rotation - er, stream - over here for a week or two now. (That and Modest Mouse "The Moon and Antarctica" but not in the same breath of time because that would, of course, be weird).

But "The Seeger Sessions" people, it's a gift. It's a little treasure, I'm telling you. Yes, it's the Seeger sessions, as in Pete Seeger, and yes it's a wee bit folksy (um, okay, it's almost all folk songs) but it's all done up Bruce-like and man does it just totally capture something. I don't know if it's his gravel voice, like he's been chewing rocks (but in a good way), or if it's the enthusiasm of the instrumentation, or if it's just the joyous energy of the singing, even in the saddest lyrics... I can't put my finger on it exactly, but if you have any love for Bruce baby, and any tolerance for songs like "Pay Me My Money Down" and "Jesse James" (two of my faves), then check it out.

Be forwarned, however, about the second to last track, which I'm sure you probably heard back in aught Six: "Bring 'Em Home." Yesterday this song prompted a long, drawn out fantasy involving my joining the military, somehow surviving boot camp, then shipping out to go (with a very sketchily detailed plan of action, mind you) and save all our brave but forgotten, unseen and unheard-from soldiers in Iraq. Sure, it's an obvious song for the poor heartstrings, but it's totally not a cheap shot. The way his voice implores the listener to bring em home, man... it makes me burn, trachea to tailbone, all through my core.

I wish all music was like that.

Well Played, Frito-Lay.

A few weeks ago, Joosh flew home from Ventura on the ever-reliable Alaska Airlines/Horizon Airlines Burbank-to-Portland flight. As usual, beer and wine was complimentary (a shocker in this era of spendy spendy but more than bare bones travel - American is now charging $15 for checked luggage, for pity's sake!). Unusually, the choice of snack was interesting.

So interesting in fact, that Joosh grabbed me a sample of the latest "here eat this and don't complain a lot please and thanks" food item being handed out by persons with thin-lipped smiles and extremely well-sprayed hair.

What was so tasty and compelling that he sweetly brought me home a bag? So-called "Veggie Chips" from a brand called Flat Earth, in an unassuming Tomato Herb flavor. They were delicious. And they were fascinating, because they advertise themselves as having a full 1/2 serving of vegetables in every portion. Further investigation into the nutritional contents showed 2 grams of fiber and 2 grams of protein, as well. Hmmmmmm.

I was skeptical, as I often am about non-food food. You know, the food that isn't really food, but rather something processed, stewed up and extruded, then baked or fried or otherwise made to mold permanently into the shape of some kind of food and then heavily marketed as food (Kraft Bagelfuls, anyone?). I'm not big on this sort of thing. But damn if these not-chip chips aren't damn tasty! And I would be totally lying if I said that the whole vegetable/protein/fiber angle didn't hook me, line and sinker. Someone did their focus group research, yo.

So after eating these tasty jibs, I say casually to Joosh that we should get some sometime. Then I promptly forget about them.

Until last week when I: a) find the empty Flat Earth bag in Joosh's shorts pocket and b) see an ad for the little buggers on Television while cradling the sweetest baby on earth (no, the baby has no bearing on the story, I was just holding her slumbering little infant bod while viewing the commercial, hence it was a good memory). The ad was a little confusing for me, something about pigs flying and the impossibility of the product, making me feel like they were offering something too good to be true and therefor must be so - I don't think that's what they were going for, right? I was supposed to feel happy and astonished that the claims were SO true, that pigs were flying. Instead I just felt like I was being made fun of. Still... the veggies, the fiber, the protein, oh my!

So the commercial reinvigorated my interest, and the folded up bag in pants pocket sent me out on the quest. Actually, it sent me talking again about going out on the quest. Which made me mention them to Jess, which then made Joosh make me go out on the quest last Sunday night after we left the Watsons house. (I say quest, by the way, because our regular market was not on the list of stores where these chippies are currently being sold, so we had to go to the big ole chain store we rarely set foot in, except for gum, Glamour magazine, and butter spray for popcorn... truly it is an effort not often made by the likes of me).

And here's what happened on the quest: Enter the store. It's the size of a Super Target and the harsh white lights are eye-ball searingly bright. It's fairly empty, as it's getting on toward closing. (Not entirely empty: there are a bunch of random single people walking in a sort of daze with several items stacked haphazardly in their arms, as if they came in to get two or three necessities for the coming week, didn't grab a basket, then remembered - or were suckered into needing - seven other items along the way to procuring the original two or three items, but refused to grab a basket, instead balancing six to nine items precariously in their folded arms. Three times I hear the thumps and slaps of items dropping out of piles onto the linoleum floor, followed by muttered curses, sighs, and in one case a drop-kick as a woman punted a box of trash bags to the self-check out aisle rather than risk bending over with all the crap clutched to her bosom. Hey, I don't judge - I can totally relate).

Back to the quest: Walk in store. Chuckle silently at, I mean, in solidarity with fellow shoppers. Head to chip aisle. Make first pass, scanning up and down the shelves. Make second pass, scouring each shelf in each section. Retch at a few of the new products that have cropped up since last noticing the cumulative category of non-tortilla chips. Have momentary nostalgia for Funyuns, a staple of swim team days back at the Santa Monica YMCA. Immediately regret nostalgia with memory of oniony chlorine swimwater burps and the associated taste of fear, being yelled at by crazy swim coach who would bellow "LACTIC ACID, YOU NEED LACTIC ACID BURNING THOSE MUSCLES OR YOU'RE SHIT" leaning over pool, two inches from face, mid-backstroke.

After third pass down loooooong chip and snack aisle, remember that this store places all its "healthy" food in the back, so as to not offend mainstream shoppers, or perhaps to singleout and shame all healthfood seekers. Skulk to hidden Where-Non-Preservative-Filled-Food-Goes-To-Die area of store and scour their chip section. Notice that Cheetos has a "Natural White Cheddar Puffs" in a bag that looks suspiciously like Barbara's Natural Cheddar Puffs. Think that makers of non-food food are getting very clever. Feel simultaneously impressed and disgusted. Continue search for magical fiber filled veggie chips, to no avail.

Make Joosh look up product on his Crackberry, except have trouble remembering the brand name. Mention flying pigs, something about earth, and the fact that they are chips with veggies and fiber. Because he is magical (or because their SEO people are fantastic) Joosh finds the Flat Earth web site, and suggests that they should be in the "Healthy snacks" section of your local grocery. A mild annoyance that has been creeping in at the edges of this misadventure rises significantly. Snap at Joosh that there is no "Healthy Snacks" section, except where we are standing. Sniff dismissively when he suggests trying "the granola bars aisle." Whatever, dude. (Ignore sudden craving for Quaker chocolate chip granola bars, a staple of soccer practice back in the 80's. Mmmm, orange wedges and Capri Sun. Feel the need to start humming "Like a Virgin" but resist same).

Upon final perusal of helathy chips and snacks section, become further enraged at the entire quest and prepare to storm out of the store. Until Joosh says "Why don't you ask someone where they are?" Because, hello, that's not how I roll. Ask "Do you not know me at all?" and remind him of my guy-like tendancy to not want to interact with store employees or people on the street in order to ask for things like directions, guidance, or advice. Note the disappointed look on his face (cause he's sure as hell not going to ask someone, sure bet!) and decide to ask employee on her knees in the popcorn and snack crackers area. (Ignore sudden craving for Ritz crackers with peanut butter). The crackers are directly across from the cookies arena. Ignore Joosh when he says he has a sudden craving for Oreos. Don't notice that he disappears as on-knees store employee with coke bottle glasses asks if she can help find anything.

Describe chips, forgetting the name again, but mentioning earth, and servings of vegetables, and fiber. Employee says "Oh, well, I'm not sure if these are the same, but there's something like that on aisle 17, try there. And if not, try the healthy snacks area in the back." Grrrrrr. I smile and thank her and head over to aisle 17.

Have you guessed what aisle 17 is all about? Let me give you a hint: Jolly Green Giant. People, it's the vegetable aisle. Start laughing out loud and look around to see if Joosh has followed to this delightfully ridiculous discovery. He has not. Marvel at the scene. Stacks and stacks of canned veggies, topped by a row of furit and veggie chips, as if they were truly another variety of veg. Consider that the marketing department for the makers of this product are total geniuses, and don't even bother to feel sheepish at being shepharded in such a manner. You are a sucker. So what? These critters are delicious. Opt for three bags: Garlic and something, Cheese, and Apple Cinnamon.

Go look for Joosh, who finally appears with a pack of gum and a magazine. He looks a little bummed, until he sees the triumphant chips on the checkout stand. He's been looking for small snack packs of Oreos but was not succussful. (When it looks like he might go pick up a regular size package of the cracky little circles, remind him that they are made with lard, and that if his brand of vegetarianism isn't going to allow thai dishes with even a drop of oyster or fish sauce, he's sure as hell not going to be purchasing a shit-ton of rendered animal fat sandwiched between two chocolate wafer cookies). Distract him from the oncoming existential -ism crisis by telling him about the awe-inspiring placement of the long-sought after veggie chips. He is not a believer in the tale. Drag him to aisle 17. Watch his eyes widen at the scene. Crack up anew.

The kicker: Joosh picks up a bag and examines the back. Veggies - check. Fiber - 2 grams, check. Protein - 2 grams, check. Vitamins - check. Calories to fat grams - eh, not too cringeworthy, about the same as other chips, except with veggies, so better, right? Check, check, check.

"Oh. Huh," he says.

"What?" says I.

"Flat Earth is Frito-Lay."

"Ha ha, sure." I am sure he's just being funny. I turn over a bag in my hands. Nope. It's funny alright, but not intentionally.

Nicely done, Frito-Lay. Well played. I surrender.

Pass the not-chips, please. Did I mention they have a half serving of vegetables in every portion?