Jumping Off The Ozempic Bandwagon

No No No Ozempic!

A cautionary tale.

I'm old and I make no bones about it.

One of the many downsides of aging is the concomitant decrease in metabolism. Whereas ten or fifteen years ago I could drop thirty pounds by simply drinking one less Pepsi per day, I now find myself in a constant grudge match with my waistline, a match wherein the waistline usually prevails. I've always said. “A waist is a terrible thing to mind,” a pun that is sadly all too true these days.

Tall, dark, and handsome? Well, two out of three ain't bad. My older sister, who also fights the battle of the bulge, is fond of likening our genetic forebears to “bricks with legs.” Dark-haired and olive complected, most of our maternal family has always been what used to be called “stocky.”

So, as I recently watched the readout on the scale inch inexorably upward despite my best efforts, I decided to try a shortcut. I decided to try Ozempic.

Unless you've been living in a retreat with some Tibetan monks or something, you've heard of the latest celebrity weight loss fad. Everybody and their third cousins twice removed have been losing massive amounts of weight by injecting themselves weekly with the Type 2 diabetes drug semaglutide, aka Ozempic.

Ozempic is a glucagon-like peptide-1 (GLP-1) agonist medication that aids in lowering blood sugar by helping the pancreas make more insulin. It mimics a naturally occurring hormone, and as those hormone levels rise, they go to your brain, tricking it into thinking you're full. Ozempic also slows digestion by increasing the time it takes for food to leave the body. It's kind of the chemical equivalent of bariatric surgery.

The light and fluffy commercial that co-opts Pilot's 1970s hit “Magic” has firmly planted the refrain “Oh oh oh Ozempic” in consumer's minds like an annoying earworm. It shows happy, smiling people going about their happy daily activities, all while the happily upbeat narrator warns of pancreatitis, vision problems, severe stomach pain, low blood sugar risks, or myriad allergic reactions such as swelling of your face, lips, tongue, or throat, or problems breathing or swallowing. Severe rash or itching, fainting or feeling dizzy, or having a very rapid heartbeat are also mentioned, although obviously not manifested by any of the chipper actors cavorting around the screen. In a supreme example of “duh”-ness, the announcer advises you not to take the crap if you're allergic to it. And as a happy little girl bikes down a suburban street on her newspaper route, a brief disclaimer flashes: “Common side effects are nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, stomach pain, and constipation. Drinking plenty of fluids may reduce your chances of dehydration.” “Which,” the announcer intones, “may worsen kidney problems.”

Hey! Sounds like a no-brainer to me. Where can I get some?

Well, Ozempic is not actually approved for weight loss, so your doctor has to prescribe it “off label,” meaning you'll have to mortgage your house in order to obtain a couple of months' worth. Unless, of course, you are “lucky” enough to actually have Type 2 diabetes, in which case most insurances cover it to the tune of $25 to $50 per month.

While I am not a raging, insulin-dependent diabetic, I have in recent years – as my gross tonnage has increased – become prediabetic.

A normal A1C level is below 5.7. Levels of 5.7 to 6.4 indicate prediabetes, and anything over 6.4 is full-blown diabetes. I consistently bounce around between 5.6 and 6.2, maybe spiking a 7.0 if I've been particularly neglectful. When that happens, I drop that extra Pepsi I referred to earlier and, while I no longer lose thirty pounds, I do usually manage to drop a couple of A1C points.

That said, my primary doc agreed to put me on Ozempic, not so much for diabetic control but to see if I could lose a few pounds. Which, in and of itself, would likely keep my blood sugar levels level. Win-win, right?

Now, one of my nieces got herself on the stuff and had remarkable success. Dropped something like forty pounds in just a couple of months. Even got herself a case of “Ozempic butt,” a frequent complaint caused by the sagging that results from losing too much too fast. But she had gotten some sort of promotional deal from Novo Nordisk. When it ran out and she was faced with $1,300 a month to continue, well......

Another niece, however, had an entirely different experience. She lasted three weeks before the bloating, gassy, nauseous, stomach-lurching effects she was living with three-and-a-half days out of seven finally got to her and she said, “basta!” Well, since she doesn't actually speak Italian, she just said, “enough.” She quit and never looked back.

I figured I'd chance it because I'm one of those odd ducks that never seems to really get side effects from medications and such. Just lucky, I guess. But, boy, did my luck run out.

I got my little blue pen and was ready for the long haul. I even went out and bought a sharps disposal container for the used needles. It's a tiny little needle for a subcutaneous injection. Since the five thumbs I have on each hand sometimes limit my manual dexterity, I got my wife to handle the first injection into my upper outer thigh.

The starting dose is 0.25 mg, which you maintain for four weeks before doubling to 0.5 mg. The starting dose doesn't really affect your blood sugar; it's just supposed to help your body adjust to the oncoming digestive-related issues.

Well, I got shot in the leg on a Sunday afternoon. I knew the stuff was low-dose and slow acting, so I wasn't really expecting anything to happen immediately or even for the next day or two. And I was right. Nothing happened for a couple of days. Then, along about bedtime on Tuesday, I started feeling “off,” for lack of a better term. Not sick, per se, but feeling like it wouldn't take much to tip the balance. I woke up Wednesday morning full-on nauseated. An actual breakfast was out of the question, but I risked a couple of slices of toast. Bad move. Within an hour, the trips to the bathroom began. And they didn't stop for the next eight hours. This morning's toast, last night's dinner, yesterday's lunch – it all came out one end or the other. There might even have been some toenails in there towards the last.

Then came the diaphoresis. Also known in medical parlance as secondary hyperhidrosis, in everyday language it means the cold sweats. Followed by the dizziness and light-headedness, dry mouth, and a degree of disorientation. Having had medical training in a previous existence, I knew I was dehydrated. And I also knew there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it, because ginger ale, Gatorade, water – whatever I tried to use to hydrate – came barreling right back out. So when the wife got home from work, I said, “Honey, we're going for a ride.” And off to the ER I went.

Phenergan is wonderful stuff and once I got some – and a couple of bags of I.V. fluids – I was right as rain within a couple of hours. Well....sort of. I managed to move out of the bathroom Wednesday night but I remained in residence in the bedroom for most of Thursday. I was absolutely wiped out.

Friday was better and Saturday was okay and thus ended Ozempic week one.

Week two started again on Sunday. And it was Wednesday afternoon before the gassy, bloated, slightly nauseous feeling started to gain traction. This time I headed it of with Pepto-Bismol. I was still sick for two days, living on mashed potatoes, pudding, and crackers, but at least I stayed out of the hospital.

I thought week three was going to be the beginning of my success story. I was still sick by midweek, but not as bad as the previous week and nowhere near the way I had been the week before that. Of course, my toothbrush had to vie for space on the bathroom vanity with the Pepto and the GasX and all the other OTC concoctions I was using to stave off the symptoms.

Oh, and I had lost ten pounds. Being nauseated by the thought of food will do that to you.

Another Sunday rolled around and, with high hopes for the coming week, my wife gave me another jab. This time, it didn't wait until Wednesday. I was back in the ER by late Tuesday night. More fluids, more phenergan......and no more Ozempic. I went from “oh oh oh Ozempic” to “no no no Ozempic” in four weeks. I informed my doctor and told him we were going to go back to the old way of doing things. No more shortcuts.

When I mentioned this to my pharmacist – while filling a prescription to help me deal with the after effects of this crap – she said, “Oh, yeah. There are lawsuits being filed as we speak.”

Seems that in addition to the delightful gastro side effects I experienced, there's one more little disclaimer they need to add to their toxically upbeat and positive ad campaign: gastroparesis. Basically, it's a matter of Ozempic doing its job a little too well. Food moves so slowly through the stomach to the small intestine that it may stop moving altogether, resulting in a paralyzed stomach. Resulting in more nausea, vomiting, abdominal bloating, abdominal pain, severe dehydration, acid reflux, and malnutrition. Undigested food may remain in the stomach and harden. Doesn't that sound like fun? They ought to make a commercial about that. On the upside, you'll lose lots of weight.

Look, your mileage may vary. The niece who had a modicum of success with Ozempic admitted to having “some discomfort at first.” One of my numerous attendants in the ER said she had had no trouble with it at all. (Even in my weakened and semi-delirious state, I managed to give her a raspberry.) I'm just saying, don't jump in with both feet. Stock up on clear liquids, OTC medications, and toilet paper and hope for the best. Everything may be just peachy for you.

I wish it had been for me.

Don't Waste Money On Precooked Bacon!

 

Money Can't Buy Happiness. But It Can Buy Bacon, And That's Close Enough

I've decided to stop turning around in the grocery store because it seems like every time I turn around, the prices have doubled. This is especially true for my favorite porky ambrosia and yours...say it with me now... “mmmm...bacon!”

I'm old enough to remember when bacon sold for sixty-five cents a pound. The good stuff is going for upwards of $7 a pound now. You can still get cheap store brands for less, but you usually get what you pay for, you know? I can buy restaurant quality bacon through a restaurant supplier and it costs me a lot less; in fact, I just brought home the bacon – five pounds of it – for about $16. You can, too. There are a lot of restaurant supply outlets across the country that are open to the public. They may not be as convenient as your neighborhood grocery store, but......

And, speaking of convenience, let's talk about precooked bacon. I love the stuff. It's like instant bacon when you want to throw a couple of slices on a sandwich or a burger or crumble it over a baked potato or in a salad. But who wants to spend the time and clean up the mess involved in cooking up two slices of bacon for something like that? Enter the modern marketing marvel that is precooked bacon.

As the package says, it's real bacon, fully cooked and ready to use. Just pop it in the microwave for a few seconds and it's good to go. Because the high salt content and cooking method preserve the meat from bacteria, precooked bacon is shelf-stable in the store and you just toss it in the fridge after you open it. It'll be good for at least a couple of weeks.

That said, if I balk at paying seven bucks for a pound of uncooked bacon, there's no way I'm going to fork over five or six dollars for a measly two or three ounce package of the precooked stuff. There are usually sixteen to eighteen slices of uncooked bacon in a one-pound package. The precooked stuff averages about ten slices per package. No way.

So here's what I do: when I bring home my five-pound pack of bacon, I prep it for freezing via the method I discuss elsewhere on this site. (See “Bacon Is A Terrible Thing To Waste”) But I separate out about a pound that doesn't go right into the freezer.

First, I start my oven preheating to 400° F. Then I grab a rimmed baking sheet (½ sheet pan) and a cooling rack to fit inside. I line the bottom of the tray with foil before setting in the rack just to make for easier cleanup later. Next, I lay out as much bacon as I can fit on the rack, usually about ten or eleven slices. It's okay if it overlaps a little because it will shrink up some as it cooks. Into the preheated oven it goes for fifteen to twenty minutes. The time depends on how you like your bacon. I know people who want it to “oink” when they pick it up and I know people who want it so crisp it shatters into bacon bits when they pick it up. I'm pretty much in the middle of the two extremes, so I start peeking into the oven after about fifteen minutes. No flipping necessary, I just put it in there and keep an eye on it. When it's done to my preference, I drain it on paper towels.

Now, what you have here is – are you ready for this? – precooked bacon! The same stuff they're going to charge you an arm and a leg for in the grocery store. All you need to do now is wait until it cools completely, then lay it out on the same sheet pan (assuming you've cooled and cleaned it) and stick it in the freezer for an hour or two to flash freeze it. Portion it out in single slices or in twos or threes or whatever and wrap the portions in wax paper or parchment paper. Stick the wrapped bacon in a zip lock bag and put it back in the freezer. It'll stay nice and tasty for two or three months.

When you want a quick bacon fix, take a portion out of the bag and microwave it for a few seconds. Or, if you're really super-prepared and all, you can put it in the fridge a couple of hours ahead of time to thaw. Now it's ready for your sandwich, your burger, your salad, your baked potato, your pizza, or you can scarf it down next to a couple of eggs or all by itself. Heat it up or not, depending on what you're going to do with it.

And all the while you're devouring your precooked portion of porcine pleasure, you can smile because you didn't fall prey to the latest time-saving-but-money-wasting marketing gimmick. Win-win!

You know, money can't buy happiness. But it can buy bacon, and that's close enough.

Praise For Plain Pasta

 

Don't Overlook the Simple Pleasures

Mmmm, pasta. You ought to see my pantry. You'd swear I had stock in DeCecco and Barilla. I love pasta. And that love affair goes way back.

The very first pasta I remember eating was “wagon wheel” pasta made by La Rosa. I was four or five years old and my mother cooked it up and sauced it with nothing but butter and I was the happiest kid in the world. Fast forward several – ahem – decades, and if you still want to make me the happiest kid in the world, put a plate of plain buttered pasta in front of me. Works every time.

That's because plain pasta with butter and maybe a little Parmesan cheese is the most basic Italian comfort food. In Italy, it's called pasta al burro or sometimes pasta bianca. One of the most popular forms of the dish, pastina, has been in the news a lot lately because Ronzoni, one of the biggest manufacturers of pastina pasta in the US, stopped making the classic little star-shaped noodles back in February, causing widespread panic buying and hoarding. Sure, other companies produce it; Barilla markets it as both Pastina and Stelline. But Ronzoni had by far the biggest grocery store shelf presence for its pastina product and long-time customers were understandably miffed by its sudden absence. I mean, pastina is like the next step up from mother's milk for most Italian children. A little plain pasta, some butter, some cheese, and usually an egg. Okay, so my mom was weird starting me off on buttered rotelle. Must come from the French part of the family, I don't know.

I do know that when my own youngest son reached that pasta devouring age, it had to be plain pasta with butter. Never mind that most kiddie menus served up some form of spaghetti in tomato sauce. No, no! None of that for il mio bambino. If the pasta had even a trace of anything but plain butter on it, all bets were off. I recall a certain Old Spaghetti Factory in Atlanta that once dared to put brown butter on my kid's pasta. Wow! The way the acoustics in that place echoed, it was not a pleasant experience for anybody. Later on, six years of living in Italy expanded his palate quite a bit. But, like me, he still appreciates a good dish of plain pasta with butter and cheese.

Did you know that pasta al burro is the basis for fettuccine Alfredo? When you go to Italy, unless you're going to one of the tourist traps in Rome, don't bother ordering fettuccine Alfredo. They'll look at you like you've got a third eye. Instead, ask for pasta al burro or pasta bianca. They may still give you funny looks because that's a dish commonly served to children and folks with tummy troubles, but at least they'll know what you're talking about.

See, about a hundred years ago, a Roman restaurateur named Alfredo di Lelio had a very pregnant, very sick wife who could keep very little on her stomach. About all she could tolerate was Alfredo's pasta al burro, which he made with egregious amounts of butter and cheese for extra flavor. A couple of Hollywood luminaries, Douglas Fairbanks, Jr and Mary Pickford, were honeymooning in Rome and wandered into Alfredo's eatery. They inquired about the dish his wife was enjoying. Alfredo probably thought, “Boh. Americani pazzi.” But he dutifully served them some plain pasta with butter and cheese. And they LOVED it! They loved it so much that they went back to Hollywood and told everybody they knew – and they knew a lot of people – about the wonderful Italian dish they had in Rome. Fettuccine Alfredo, they called it, and thus was a culinary legend born.

Of course, American chefs didn't have access to the same quality ingredients Alfredo used in his restaurant, so they wound up bastardizing his simple creation, adulterating it with milk and cream and all kinds of extraneous additives to achieve what they thought was a close approximation. Sorry. No. Not even close. Nothing beats the silky, buttery unctuousness of the sauce that naturally forms when you briskly stir together plain hot pasta, high-fat butter, real Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, and just a tiny bit of the water in which the pasta was cooked. Buonissimo! And far superior to anything you'll find in a jar.

There are another couple of variations on plain pasta. Pasta cacio e pepe is one. Plain pasta, some butter, some Parmigiano and pecorino cheeses, and a good dose of some freshly-ground black pepper. That's all you need in life, you know?

Unless you want to use olive oil instead of butter and throw in some garlic. Then you've got pasta aglio e olio. Another mouth watering dish that's just super simple.

If you want a different flavor profile, you might try pasta al limone. Same basic ingredients – pasta and butter with some lemon juice and lemon zest.

I suppose carbonara could be a “plain” pasta dish. I mean, it's pasta, butter and cheese with bacon and eggs mixed in, but with all the egg tempering and such, it's just too fussy when you're craving something quick and simple.

When I'm just too tired or too uninspired to prepare something complicated, I boil some water, SALT IT, add some pasta, cook until al dente, then ladle it into a pasta bowl, mix in some good quality butter – something like Kerrygold – and season it to taste. Then I kick back and enjoy it while watching TV or reading a book.

As to what kind of pasta? It doesn't really matter. Smaller shapes work best. Something rigate with a little texture to it is even better. Plain old spaghetti or linguine are fine, too. Tube-shaped pastas don't hold light sauces real well. Except ditalini. That one's small and it works okay in this application. Broad noodles like tagliatelle or pappardelle aren't really agreeable with buttery sauces, either. Doesn't mean you can't use them. Just keep extra napkins on hand if you do. I like farfalle or farfalline (aka “bowtie” pasta.) And, of course. I never turn down a bowlful of good ol' buttered wheels.

Rich, exotic, fragrant sauces are beautiful. I swoon over a good marinara or a flavorful amatriciana. A spicy arrabiata is a wonderful thing. And, of course, Bolognese is the gold standard of pasta sauces. But in the rush toward those long-cooking, preparation-heavy concoctions, don't overlook the simple pleasures to be found in a little plain pasta, some butter and some cheese.

At Last! It May Soon Be Illegal To Massacre Italian Words!

There's No “American Way.” Wrong Is Wrong.

As regular readers know, I have long been on a quixotic quest to stamp out the egregious mispronunciation of Italian words. Italian is such a beautiful, flowing, melodious, language that it makes my ears bleed to hear some flat-accented English-speaker ask for “broo-SHET-uh” in an Italian restaurant. Brits and some Canadians with their bowls of “PAST-uh” (rhymes with LAST-uh) and Americans who put “mare-uh-NARE-uh” sauce on it make me want to run screaming into the night.

“Oh, well, that's just the American way of saying it.” Yeah. And it's also the WRONG way of saying it. I am fond of quoting French author and critic Anatole France who once said, “If fifty million people say a foolish thing, it is still a foolish thing.” There's no “American way” or “British way” or whatever. There's simply a right way and a wrong way.

And maybe soon the Italian government will back me up. Under new legislation being introduced by Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni, the Italian Culture Ministry would set up a committee to monitor the “correct use of the Italian language and its pronunciation” in schools, media, commerce, and advertising. This means that “mare-uh-NARE-uh” miscreants could be fined somewhere between $5,000 and $100,000 for mutilating the most lyrical language on Earth.

Unfortunately, the penalties would only apply in Italy.

The fantasy that such a law could be enforced in the US is drool-inducing. For one thing, it would enrich the coffers of Italy beyond the dreams of avarice. And it would end the endless aural assault on my nerves. Just think! I could finally enter an Italian eatery without cringing every time somebody ordered a plate of “spug-ETTY mare-uh-NARE-uh” with a side of “broo-SHET-uh.” It would be wonderful! Meraviglioso!

But, alas......it's only a dream.

I get little support among my native Italian friends in America because Italians are inherently too polite to correct anybody. Fortunately, my Italian heritage is tempered by a strong dose of French and everybody knows that the French will slap you silly over the slightest mispronunciation of a syllable.

And fuhgeddabout any sympathy from Italian-Americans. They are among the worst offenders what with their “gabagool” and “moozarell” and “rigott.” Interesting fact: most Italian-Americans don't actually speak a word of standard Italian, relying instead on the garbled dialect words and phrases passed down by their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents. I saw this in action myself recently when a New Yorker opened a little Italian-American cafe nearby. He tossed one of those dialect words at me in describing a dish on offer. When I responded by asking, “è fatta in casa?” (is it homemade?), he looked at me like I'd grown a third eye. My “non parli italiano?” was met with, “I don't speak Italian. We just always call it 'gabaladina'.” No wonder I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Everybody else calls it “caponata.”

See why Italy would make a mint if it was able to enforce proper pronunciation worldwide?

And I really don't understand why the Italian language gets the old “it's the American pronunciation” treatment when other languages are strictly adhered to in the US. For instance, even the most linguistically limited American can go into Taco Bell and perfectly pronounce “quesadilla.” I have yet to hear the guy who says “mare-uh-NARE-uh” down at the Italian joint say “kwes-uh-DILL-uh” over at the Mexican place. (Okay. My wife's grandfather used to say “TACK-oh,” but he was the exception,) Nobody orders “FILL-it MIG-non” anywhere, do they? Most people take the time to learn that when ordering soup in a Vietnamese restaurant, it's pronounced “fuh” and not “foe”. Spanish, French, Vietnamese, Japanese, Chinese, German.......all get their due respect in terms of proper pronunciation. But Italian? Nah. Say it any old way you want and just fall back on “that's the American pronunciation.” I don't get it.

So, back to that proposed legislation in Italy, the bill would also try to combat the use of English and other foreign words in official communications. Apparently “Anglomania” is becoming a problem, with random English words, phrases, acronyms, and names creeping into the official Italian lexicon, something that the bill's sponsors say “demeans and mortifies” the Italian language. Wow! If they want to be mortified, let them come to the States and sit in an Italian restaurant for an hour or so. They'll go back to il bel paese and wash out their ears.

“I'd like a KAL-zone with some ex-PRESS-oh, please. And maybe a bowl of min-uh-STRONE, too. GRAT-zee.” Uffa! It just made my fingers hurt to type that.

Buona fortuna, Italia. You're going to hear a lot of gobbledygook about how languages are “living things” that “evolve” and that pronunciations change through “common usage.” Yeah. Well stick evolution in your ear, Darwin, and stop leaning on “common usage” as an excuse for intellectual laziness. Mispronunciations of “marinara,” “bruschetta,” “calzone,” et.al are not high-flown “evolution through common usage.” They are just plain wrong. Foolish, even. And you know what Anatole France and I have to say about foolish things, right?

Another Restaurant Bans Kids, Another Whiner Whines

We Are the Many, You Are the One

Okay, so an Italian place in New Jersey, a place called Nettie's House of Spaghetti, has joined a growing list of eateries making the decision to limit or outright ban children from the premises. In this case, beginning in March, no kiddies under ten years of age will be allowed. Here's the statement they issued:

“We love kids. We really, truly, do. But lately, it’s been extremely challenging to accommodate children at Nettie’s. Between noise levels, lack of space for high chairs, cleaning up crazy messes, and the liability of kids running around the restaurant, we have decided that it’s time to take control of the situation. This wasn’t a decision that was made lightly, but some recent events have pushed us to implement this new policy. As of March 8, the day we return from our winter break, we will no longer allow children under 10 to dine in the restaurant.

We know that this is going to make some of you very upset, especially those of you with very well-behaved kids, but we believe this is the right decision for our business moving forward.

Thank you for understanding.”

Ah, but not everybody understands and the whiners have begun whining. Some are complaining on the restaurant's social media – “That is really sad to hear .. I was looking forward to trying out your place but with a well behaved 9 year old I’m not welcome .. sad ..” And that's to be expected. It's happening everywhere and I probably would have just let this story pass as a non-story had it not been for a lengthy screed I saw in Bon Appetit in which the writer not only decries the ban but posits that restaurants that ban kids are “missing the point of restaurants.”

In this writer's view, restaurants are apparently supposed to be training grounds in a child's social development. By banishing them to fast food joints and places like Chuck E. Cheese, it seems we are all somehow responsible for stunting their social growth.

The writer exhorts that a restaurant is “a perfect place for parents to teach their kids how to be people around other people, and the perfect place to teach parents how to shepherd their kids through the world. It’s the ideal environment, too, for non-parents to remember that they are part of a community, and that by tolerating kids in their space, and doing so with patience and kindness, they are upholding their own stake in the future of the greater community.”

Wow! And I thought I was just going in for a nice plate of spaghetti that I could consume in relative peace and quiet. I had no idea that “the future of the greater community” hung in the balance.

Look, there are a couple of key issues that are being overlooked here, both by the savior of the “greater community” and by the parent of the well-behaved nine-year-old child, chief of which can be summed up by another commenter on Nettie's Facebook page: “… having worked in the industry since I was 14, I’ve never seen anything like I have in the recent past. Kids are out of control and most parents are oblivious. The disregard for manners and common decency is unreal.”

Bingo! THAT'S why restaurants are banning kids. Because too many undisciplined kids are brats and too many oblivious parents are imbeciles. And it is, as the commenter commented, a fairly recent phenomenon.

I grew up in the late fifties and early sixties. My kids grew up in the eighties and early nineties. When my mom took me to a restaurant and when I took my kids to a restaurant, the expectations were the same as they were at home: come to the table, sit down, shut up and eat. You don't scream, you don't play, you don't run around like a rat on acid. You sit down, you shut up, and you eat. After which you can be excused and you can go to your room or you can go outside and scream and play and run around all you want. But you're not gonna do it at the table, whether that table be in the dining room at home or in the dining room of a restaurant. Them's the rules.

And I never had the least bit of trouble enforcing those rules. Neither did my mom. Something inherent, maybe? I don't know. I just know that there were many occasions on which I was complimented for my kids' behavior in restaurants. I didn't beat them, I didn't threaten them, I didn't scream at them. I didn't have to. Neither did Mom have to do those things to me. My kids and I were, as the Nettie's commenter described, “well-behaved.”

Let's be honest: in most households today, the inmates run the asylum. The kids make the rules and mom and dad just go along with them because it's easier and less threatening than dealing firmly with the misbehavior. You want to talk about sad.....that's the definition of sad. But it's true.

And now you want to bring your misbehaving brat into my restaurant so he can run around and be a general nuisance to all my other customers while you sit obliviously by? And more than a nuisance, a liability? Here's something from Nettie's management: “It’s become a liability to us - kids running around the restaurant in circles when we’re trying to carry trays of food and drinks has made doing our jobs extremely difficult.” Not to mention dangerous.

So your little angel darts out in front of my server carrying a tray of hot soup or coffee or something. And your sweet, darling, inoffensive baby, who was, after all, just being a child, winds up with second and third degree burns. Who are you gonna sue? Certainly not yourself for being a rotten, overindulgent parent. Am I right?

The savior of the future of the greater community further claims that “we have to more critically think about what role restaurants play in our communities, and who gets to be included. If you’re looking to feel like god for the price of an entree, and you feel like the presence of kids disrupts that experience, and that is the reason why you don’t want kids in restaurants, then your relationship to restaurants is broken.”

Excuse my Italian, but vaffanculo! Considering the price of an entree these days, you're DAMN RIGHT I expect to “feel like god.” Or, at the very least, I expect to have my dining experience respected. Which, sadly, segues into this loony's next paragraph: “If we exclude children from that experience, we’re only further entrenching the worst parts of modern society: everybody believing they’re solo entities, obligated only to their own self-interest, with no idea what it means to bend a little to give way to others, to automatically scoot your chair in so someone can pass behind you. A society full of people who are acting only in their own self interest is a society where everyone—even those who don't particularly like eating dinner next to kids—is doomed.”

DOOMED!! OMG, I don't even know where to begin to unpack this baggage.

Believe me, I'm the first person to scoot my chair in so somebody can pass behind me. But not if that somebody is somebody's screaming, out of control, misbehaving brat, who should be sitting down, shutting up and eating like the rest of civilized society. And don't tell me that the restaurant is the place to learn that civilized behavior. NO! You LEARN it at home and then you PRACTICE it in the restaurant. That's the way preceding generations have done it and if you are truly concerned about the “future of the greater community,” that's the way you should be advocating for it to be done now. Or would you decry that I'm obligated to my own self-interest if I objected to your disrespectful, undisciplined offspring running and screaming up and down the aisles of a movie theater or a church?

I'm sorry. I've got sixty people sitting at tables in my restaurant, acting in their own self-interest and paying a good deal of money for the privilege of doing so. In you walk with your kid-who's-just-being-a-kid and your laissez-faire attitude toward manners and discipline and sixty other folks suddenly have to “bend a little” to give way to you so as to preserve the future of the community? I don't think so. Remember what Mr. Spock said about the needs of the many outweighing the needs of the few. Or the one? Sorry, cupcake. We are the many, you are the one. How godlike of us!

And Nettie's alluded to “crazy messes.” I've seen what you and the future of the community have left behind. And I've seen beleaguered servers trying to scrape and clean the results of your lack of discipline off the tables, floors, chairs, and walls. But, hey! You don't have to clean it up so why should you care? Talk about acting in one's own self-interest. If you're so almighty enlightened, why don't you stick around and clean up the mess your brats made?

Okay, I'm ranting now, so I'm gonna quit. Bottom line, after March 8^th, go to Nettie's. Or to anyplace like it that caters to “the worst parts of modern society.” Chances are you'll find me there in my god-like glory acting in my own self-interest and risking the future of the community. Make sure you say “hi.”