Glitter

I’ve been thinking about it for a few minutes here and the best I can come up with is G-L-T-R, glitter. That’s how it should be spelled because then it would be alphabetically what it is phonetically and what it is in real life: a four letter word.

I have been reluctant to put away the big wreath we had on the front door last month. It’s pretty good sized, has lights, and, for some reason, is sprayed with glitter. With that I knew that even attempting to pick the thing up off the table, where it had been sitting for a week or so, would result in glitter fingers and glitter clothes. I knew it would result in glitter on that dining  table in July. I knew it would result in glitter on my socks…in August.

Why anyone thinks glitter is a good idea I don’t know. I would rate sending someone a glitter decorated card right up there with greasing their doorknobs or short-sheeting their bed. I would, except glitter is worse: Glitter never goes away.

Maybe, instead of registering sex offenders they should just have them dip their hands in glitter every 3 months. You’d always know who they are.

At any rate, the wreath is wrapped up and on its way to the attic. Question is, what about next year? Perhaps next year we’ll decide to hang it on our dumpster.

Saturday Treats

Sometimes I feel I suffer the consequences of an early childhood spent in Russia. Even though it was Portland, Oregon-Russia, I suffered just the same when it came to food rationing. In a time and place of abundance it seemed everything was, "Stay out of that, that's for Sunday." Or the holiday, or company, or "don't eat too much of that it'll make you sick."  This is a home where my Mother would bake fresh bread almost every week. And cinnamon rolls and coffee cake, at least once a month. And donuts-- dark brown deep fried lumps of sweet dough slathered with maple frosting, or rings tossed in powdered sugar-- donuts maybe once every quarter like completing self-employment tax work. All that goodness accompanied by the oversight and (proper and well-intended) enforcement of a Cossack.  It's no wonder that, to this day, a cinnamon roll or doughnut is almost too much to resist.

Saturday was baking day and, after finishing all the chores both inside and out, you would usually find a table set with cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee for us and our Dad. God help us if it didn't happen because the house smelled good beyond description. Today, it's my turn.

Being older, fatter, and wiser than I was in 1965, I've invented a recipe that is essentially dairy free and very low fat. I know, I know: Where's the fun in that!? Nonetheless, these little babies look and smell the part and, as for flavor? Well, about 30 minutes after starting the project, let me just say this: Not bad. Not bad at all for a snowy Saturday morning with a hot cup of coffee.

Cinnamick Buns

1C Bisquick

1C flour

½ t baking powder

1T sugar

¾ C Soy milk

1t vanilla

mix all ingredients to make a dough

turn out on floured surface and kneed

roll out to about ¼ to ½ inch thickness

spread with melted fake butter (Earth Balance natural buttery spread [soy])

sprinkle with cinnamon, sugar—don’t be stingy with cinnamon—and raisins

roll and cut into 2-3” pieces

stand up on baking sheet and drizzle with more melted fake butter

bake @ 425 for 9-10 minutes

frost and eat

Frosting:

Blend 1C powdered sugar with about 1/3  to ½ C fake butter, add soymilk and ¼ t vanilla. Mix to desired consistency.

When To Call It Quits

Everyday I see people in various stages of aging. The weirdest part is seeing people who remind me of other people—people who are healthy but remind me of others who used to be like them, namely, healthy. Like the woman seated just ahead of me on a flight to Arizona. She’s a spunky thing in her 60’s, I’ll guess. She’s got on her hiking shirt, cargo pants, walking shoes. She’s bright, alert, and snappy with her friends. But she reminds me of another woman.

The other woman was bright, alert and snappy well into her late 70’s. She preferred comfortable slacks, camp shirts and walking shoes. She had a blueberry farm and loved her blueberries. She and her husband had been in the business for more than fifty years. Her husband was bright, alert, smiling, and accommodating of his wife’s loquaciousness and her enthusiasm for blueberries. Then, all of a sudden, in just a couple of years, she’s old: physically limited and confused. He’s confused, recently broke his hip, frail as a twig, and being consumed by prostrate cancer.  She’s aware and frustrated with her state as well as his. He’s happily demented and still smiling. She’s not.

Then there's Tony. He's 92. In the past three years he's tumbled from a spry octogenarian to a demented nonagenarian. Broken hip, broken back, now a hand infection. Each assault claiming it's pound of flesh. His wife still clings to him and holds out hope for him but she is definitely starting to recognize he's slipping away. He seems to be trying to make his exit it's just his damn heart won't cooperate.

I seriously don’t know how we approach it but there has got to be a better way.  But even if a “convenient exit” were available, how would one recognize when it’s time? How does a person know when it's not going to be fun anymore? 

What a luxury to age gracefully. What a blessing to exit quickly. I don’t mean to obsess but it's a compelling issue from my perch. I fear a future where unwanted elders outnumber unwanted children, where nursing homes vastly outnumber pre-schools, and where all there is to do is lay there and wait.

Please Kill Nicely

The post on NPR news this morning leaves me scratching my head. The story reports the boiling outrage over a group of Marines desecrating dead Taliban insurgents by peeing on the bodies. It seems to me it's a classic case of misplaced ire.

To my way of thinking the time when people, nations, and religious groups ought to raise their voices in outrage over the mistreatment of a body is when that body is still alive. File me under "callous bastard" but, to me it seems a case of rather badly missing the point when people feel outrage over the mistreatment of a hundred and fifty pounds of dead flesh that has been shot or blown to bits in an act of intentional, government authorized, use of deadly force.

When you think about the unbearable inhumanity to man-- bodies with 6 inch pieces of head missing, limbs mangled or absent, bodies crushed or badly burned-- in such circumstances I am always dumbfounded at the effort that goes into humanizing the carnage. Like the reports that tally the number of civilian dead or reports stating a child was among the dead when bombs are dropped to wipe out a group of "enemy targets."

Here in Michigan it fully grosses me out the number of smashed, dead and mangled animal carcasses we have littering our roads. When not covered with snow, half the paved surface of Michigan is red. I realize it's only squirrels, raccoons and deer (and pheasant, turkey, fox...) but, seeing all these smashed remains, I think about the dead and wounded humans in similar states that lay on roadsides each day; not random accidents but intentional targets of human action.

The long and the short of it is this: as the saying goes, war is hell. I can't get far enough beyond all the killing and injury to let me get upset about what happens after they're dead. If you want to convince a group of young people that it is their job and duty to seek out and kill people then you should also be prepared to accept that they really aren't going to have a great deal of respect for the remains of their handiwork. And if you really, really can't tolerate how the bodies of the dead are treated after we've intentionally snuffed out their life, then maybe, just maybe, we need to think about resolving issues without killing people in the first place.

Watch Your Mouth

Sunday we had a girl over to hang out with Ev for a bit. She was like 15 and all sophisticated but somewhat shy in a new circumstance. At one point during the afternoon, as I was trying to untangle the wiring of Evan's train set from around the piano, I saw the opportunity to start a conversation and asked if she played the piano. "No." I think Evan then asked if she played guitar or something. "No. I don't play any instrument." she said with a laugh. Seeing the opportunity to make one of my quick witted cracks, I shot back: "Just the stereo, Ev." I don't know if it was the dead silence or the empty look on both their faces that made me shrink. "iPod." I quickly recovered. But it was too late. Like a racial slip by a campaigning politician the comment was heard and the damage done.

I must be at a sensitive age because when speaking to younger people and I make a comment that garners looks of utter mystery I feel, well, awkward. Not especially embarrassed. Not even old. Dated. I just feel dated. The verbal equivalent of a bad hair day or a faded pink robe with applique flowers. I mean, when it comes to music, I refuse to give up talking about albums, the term still has some cache. But "stereo" is kinda like "icebox" for refrigerator or "cream rinse" for conditioner. Say it and you're out. You're a square; your credibility in the crapper; the arrow of your coolness indicator parked at zero. That, and you risk the probability that the person you're talking with will have no idea what you're talking about.

I guess my paying attention to such things is a sign of a healthy, youthful, emotional immaturity. When I get old I'll probably be mature enough that I won't really give a damn what anyone else thinks about my speech, right along with my clothing, grooming or general appearance. Then, too, I'll probably be the one needing a sitter. And I'm pretty sure it won't be a 15 year old girl.

The Apple of Their Eye

Years ago, my friend Greg's father established himself as an advertising genius. He is, to this day, considered the father of children's television advertising. It was his innovation that rocketed Barbie and Mattel Toys to superstardom. I was impressed as hell at the time with his celebrity: After all, he knew Barbie on a first name basis and, even at the tender age of nine, I knew a good lookin' self-absorbed, augmented, anorexic when I saw one.

All these years later I'm not so crazy about direct advertising to kids. Fast food, toys, clothes, television, movies, music-- no need to enlist the parents. Go for the gusto; set your hook in the kid. We limit Ev to PBS and dvd's in an effort to dodge all the b.s.

Tonight I realized Apple is not to be left behind or outdone. With all the iPads floating around these days it didn't take long before Evan came to realize games, pictures, videos are all better experienced on the iPad. And, thanks to the Native User Interface (NUI), it's super easy to use. Even for a 4 year old.

How well does this work in marketing the iPad? Well, tonight when Ev's Grampa and Gramma told him they had a surprise for him next time he came to visit he guessed, "Is it candy?" "No." "A toy?" "No." "Is it an iPad???!!" The answer was "no" but kudos to the late Steve Jobs and company. Well done you bastards.

Now, how young is too young for an iPad? On second thought, just forget I asked.

Snoozer

Don't do it. Not even on a Monday

One of the great disservices to modern mankind is the snooze button on the alarm clock. I can only imagine what the likes of a Ben Franklin would have had to say about the device. I can remember what my Mother had to say.

Not that I don’t have one and use it. I do. But only with a modicum of guilt. Perhaps it’s yet another sign of ag, er, maturity but, when I set my alarm to get up at a certain time, I expect to get up when the alarm goes off. For me, the worst of it is when I really want to stay in bed awhile it’s almost never an option. Like most workdays. It’s not unusual that I have to be somewhere in the morning and there are usually people waiting for me to arrive. Heavens! Some have even paid for me to arrive. None the less, there are days when I forego my morning play time- no reading, no writing, no exercise- in order to stay in bed and hit the snooze button a time or two. Or three. Invariably, when I finally get up, I wish I hadn't been lying there slamming that snooze button

The problem with the snooze button is this: It’s bad karma; bad juju.  It’s starting your day—starting your day—procrastinating. It’s ignoring your agenda before you even get to the list. It is a deception in which you are both the deceiver and the deceived. It's starting your day feeling guilty.

Hitting the snooze button is not a crime. It certainly doesn’t need to be placed on any agenda at the National Institutes for Health or on the docket for the California legislature. I just think a person might be better off going to bed with the intention of getting up as planned. Make it your last executive decision of the evening and the first of the new day-- if for no other reason than waking to hit the snooze button a half dozen times is freakin' exhausting.