What Is Wrong With You People?!

I read an article in the Washington Post yesterday that made me blind with fury about what it supposedly means to be a parent in this day and age.

For your consideration, I offer you Angst 101: Packing Lunch.

Go ahead and give it a read. I'll wait.

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What did you think? Is your head reeling too? Do you want to punch someone, you're so fed up with parenting one-upmanship nowadays?

When I went to school, I ate cafeteria food every day. And much like camp food, despite how much I complained about it, it tasted good enough. Furthermore the nitrates and artifical coloring and high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated vegetable oils that terrify the child-worshipping parents today managed to neither kill me, turn me into a diabetic, sap my attention span, nor drive me to homicidal mania. And when I went to day camp during the summer, my parents sent me with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece of fruit, a small baggie of chips, and a juice box pretty much every day until I decided that cold cut turkey and ham were acceptable. I know. They're bad parents and CPS should have stepped in and saved me.

Now apparently cold cuts and Capri Sun aren't good enough for today's children. Today's children must be sent with horizon-expanding (and tastebud constricting) things like (did you read the article?) grilled skate wing with chili sambal sauce, and quail eggs, and muffins fortified with flaxseed and brewer's yeast.

Are you out of your goddamned minds?

Ms. Becker. I could have told you from the beginning that your toddler would reject your flaxseed and brewer's yeast muffins. It doesn't matter that she's never had a muffin before. Bad tastes Bad. Simple as that. Toddler's and children-in-general's tastebuds are attuned to sweet and salty; sour appeals as they grow older, and bitter becomes acceptable when they are 18. Bland is never okay unless they are sick. But you don't realize that because you're willing to merely react to every potential threat out there instead of actually mulling it over for a second or two (these are the people who buy books called Super Baby Foods. Newsflash: making your own baby foods will not make your child better, faster, smarter, stronger. If you want to do it just 'cuz, that fine; but don't kid yourself.)

Of course, the marketers are only too happy to feed the fears that You, yes YOU!, are the source of all the world's ills. Exhibit A is a quote from Thermos Canada, as found in the aforelinked article: "Today, how you pack your children's lunch is just as important as what you put in it. Did you know that Canada is the second highest per capita producer of municipal solid waste in the world? And school lunches are a major source of waste."

Disgusting. In this day and age, when we acknowledge that the pressure to be The Perfect Everything is too high, we're only raising the bar for ourselves. Now you're a bad parent if you send your kid to public school, if you don't pack their lunch for them, if you don't take care to make sure that everything in there is organic and low carb and no fat and high fiber, and god help you if you decide that working is more important to the well-being of your family than being ready with a plate of uberhealthy flaxseed fortified muffins when they come home from school. (Note: That was not a dig at stay-at-home parents, especially those who have made that choice consciously and deliberately. But even you know the kind of people I'm talking about there.)

Let's address some of the points and questions from the article:

• How to package the lunch: PVC-free or PEVA vinyl? Or Neoprene? or Taste-Neutral Aluminum? Who cares? Everything gives you cancer now, so the lunch box will too. At least brown paper bags break down in the dirt.
• ""I remember growing up having the same peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich every day, and that's not okay with me," said Lindsey Paige Savoie of the District, who makes sure to pack a variety of foods each day for her son Caleb." What on earth was not all right about that? Now you're killing yourself to "make things better" for your son, when really it's all about your hangups? Grab the Jif and call a therapist.
• "The crumbs in the Tupperware container say it all. You know instantly whether meatloaf dumplings were a success or a bust." Easy answer. BUST.

The real kicker was when Ms. Debbie Hamilton of San Francisco, a promoter of using the Japanese bento box style of lunch packaging, enlightened us with the things she has foisted upon her kid: quail eggs, Tuscan squid, and (as I mentioned above) grilled skate wing with chili sambal sauce. Also discussed are her "leftover makeovers" such as turning curried vegetables from last night's dinner (I kid you not) into dumplings for the kid's lunch.

How much did that crap cost?! I guarantee you, Ms. Hamilton, your son does not know what skate is aside from the thing that goes on your foot (and in case you don't either, I direct you here). And I, in my nearly 30 years on this planet, have never heard of chili sambal sauce, cannot place its ethnicity, and cannot imagine why you would put anything with a sauce in a kid's lunch. Where does one even buy skate wing?? And those dumplings were dumped as soon as he got to school.

"But the beauty of bento, as she sees it, is its ability to accommodate all sorts of foods and palates and present it in a way that entices kids." What, you're an advertising rep for your kid's lunch now? And how many palates are you expecting your kid to have? You're not expanding his horizons, you're creating a picky eater. And now that we've discussed how her son eats fancier food for lunch than I have even seen on a restaurant menu, allow me to drive the nail into the coffin:

"But she draws the line at trying to turn her son's lunch into food art. "I am wary of setting the bar too high," she said. "I don't want my kid to expect a fabulous creation every day."" Yes, Debbie, we can see that.

I have to say, though I've never met her, I hate this person. Or at least the person she represents.

She's the one at every PTA meeting with the sweater tied around her shoulders, the one measuring the grass in my lawn to make sure it's no more than the allotted 2.5", and the one sending nastygrams when a shingle is dislodged from my roof during a thunderstorm. The one who sneers when she learns I send my kid to public school. Who's appalled that I order a pizza when I'm too tired to cook. That I don't take joy in packing every single minute of my child's day with activities so that I can nurture their creativity... by smothering their creativity.

To all you parents out there: If you pack quail guts garnished with pigs' feet decorated in a red bow in your kid's $100 lunch box, chances are, he is going to open it, look at it, gag, throw it away, bum $5 off his BFF and go purchase a salted pretzel with a side of cheese fries for lunch.*

(*Thanks to Friend Michelle for the quote!)

Two Hours for a TV

I mentioned that the August Birthday Bash of 2008 had come and gone in the last post, and I'll admit that a recap was notably absent. That's because there was nothing to note at this year's minigala except that AuntZ managed to convince Grandad to wear a SpongeBob party hat, which was out of character in a good way.

The Bash was held this year at my father's house, about a 50-minute one-way drive from our place. We got there on time, which is to say, about a hour before AuntZ, CousinZ, and Grandad arrived. In between fretting over where they could be (he's old, he's stubborn, he moves slowly, and he's not allowed to make that drive himself anymore - they're going to be late, it's okay), Dad took us on a tour of the house and regaled us with all of his planned renovations. Apparently he's having painters come this week, so he asked Husband if Husband would help him move the ginormous TV in the basement so that the entertainment center could be pulled away from the wall in preparation for the painters.

Sure, no problem, Husband is helpful like that. But before they got to it, Dad had another martini and got chatting, and it escaped his mind entirely. Then Aunt/Cousin/Grand showed up and we were doing the family thing, and the evening progressed as normal.

Last week I received an email from Dad. Had a great time, thanks for coming, oh and could you and Husband come back out here this weekend to help move the TV?

...Sure.

So last Saturday morning, instead of revelling in our original absence of plans, Husband and I embarked on another 50-minute drive to Dad's house to move a TV. In my family, a TV is rarely just a TV, so we anticipated a few other heavy-lifting activities on the schedule.

We arrived a little after 11, the appointed time. Dad's outside chatting with the pest control guy on his quarterly visit. And chatting. Husband and I wait on the steps. He's still chatting. We take a pass around the house, and when we've made the full circuit, He's Still Chatting. They must have been talking for the better part of 15 minutes while Husband and I stood around. Whatever. So Pest Man leaves and we go inside. I put down my purse and head to the bathroom, saying I'll join them downstairs in just a minute.

By the time I get downstairs, ready to help, the TV has been moved. And that's all we're doing. Husband and I kind of stare at each other. Seriously? We're not moving the rest of the bookshelf? No, he hasn't boxed up his movies yet. We're not moving the credenza? No, he hasn't moved the stuff out of it yet, and he can take care of that. So really, with today's gas prices, you asked us to make a 50-minute drive... to literally just move a TV? To move a TV five feet from its original location? Something you could have slipped the painters $10 to do themselves? It's not an unreasonably heavy piece - I've helped him move it before.

He asked if we wanted to stay for lunch but, um, no. In hindsight, we should have had him take us out to Fireworks - at least we would have been compensated with a free meal.

Wet Floor

It is a little-known, but well-evidenced, fact that I live next to the crappiest Giant in the county. The produce is always mostly rotted or not even remotely ripe, the shelves are rarely stocked, the deli workers are surly, and the fish section is completely gone. However, the geniuses reached a new low last weekend.

I was making a mad dash last Saturday to get the makings of the cake I had to bake for this year's Annual August Birthday Bash (you'll remember last year's, I'm sure). I hadn't showered, but had merely thrown on enough clothing so as to not terrify small children and/or lose time by being thrown in the clink for indecent exposure. In short, a ratty tee, handy jeans, and my cheapo flip-flops. I'm not looking my best, but I'm going to dash in and out and attract no attention.

I'm burning through the produce section when I see a Wet Floor sign in my path. Well I'm not going to go halfway across the store to avoid a patch that may or may not actually be wet (those signs tend to stay out long after the floor is dry, or maybe that was just a convenient place to stash the sign so they didn't have to walk all the way back to the storage room), but I do take care to tread a little more carefully.

All for naught, as it seems. The next thing I know, I'm skating across linoleum, sliding down the sign, and landing heavily on my hip. (My self-defense teacher would have been proud of the landing at least.) Fear not, Rosie Fans, I received only scratches and a couple of ugly bruises, nothing serious. Shaken but not stirred, I get up, dust myself off, collect the scattered shards of my dignity, and continue on, brushing off the entourage of stockers who are now asking me in every breath, "Are you OK? Are you sure?," though until this point, they were passively stocking squashed tomatoes or rock-hard peaches or whatever.

First, my little stocker people, get the manager and have them have me sign a waiver so I won't sue your asses.

Next, this could all have been avoided. I recall clearly from my food service days that the Wet Floor sign is not an idle warning. It does not absolve the sign placer of liability when a person breaks into impromptu Ice Capades. Rather than a mere CYA or Caveat Emptor notification, its purpose is to alert passersby to the presence of a slippery substance in their path WHILE YOU ARE IN THE BACK, GETTING THE MOP OR PAPER TOWELS TO REMOVE THE LIQUID ON SAID FLOOR. Instead of getting such a drying material, you just put out the sign and proceeded to go about your business. Responsible of you.

I will say, however, that it was with amusement as I walked away that I noted the stockers now scurrying to find some rags to put down.

Heartbreak

BERNIE MAC DIED! OF PNEUMONIA! AT AGE 50! WHO DIES OF PNEUMONIA THESE DAYS!?

Actually a fair number of people, it seems, because just over a month ago, my great uncle Marty (Mom's father's brother) passed away from pneumonia. Marty was like a second (third?) grandfather to me. I didn't write a tribute to him in here, like I did for my grandmother in February, largely because so much was going on in my life at the time. Also, whereas I saw Grandma's deterioration for a long time and was more prepared for it, Marty's death was out of the blue - he fell, and while the fall didn't hurt him physically, surprise!, he was given maybe a week to live because the undiagnosed pneumonia had progressed so far.

Marty was in his 80s, and a lifelong smoker, which is a normal demographic for pneumonia to be a real concern. It was sudden, and painful, but at least it was... I don't know... not unusual. But seriously, how does a 50-year old man die of pneumonia in this day and age? I had pneumonia when I was 3, and while all I remember of it was a whirl of people and lights in the emergency room, I understand that it's not comfortable. So how did it go undiagnosed in an otherwise healthy 50-year old?!

(Rosie's Update 08/11: Apparently Bernie Mac had been suffering from a tissue inflammation disease called sarcoidosis since 1983, and that it manifested primarily in his lungs. His publicist said the pneumonia was unrelated to the sarcoidosis, but when you've had problems with your lungs for 25 years, you probably tend to assume that whatever doesn't feel right with them is related to that, and that you know how to deal with it. Until it's too late. Sigh.)

I adored Bernie Mac. He was half the reason I kept watching the Ocean's # series, despite the waste of pixels that was the second one. The world seems a little less funny without him in it.