The good news: Fewer trees have to die

Man, the news industry has changed.
I think the state of my profession has changed more than almost any other in the past 30 years.
I am not THAT old, but when I was in college studying journalism, the Internet didn't exist. No one had a cell phone. All newspapers were printed on paper. At The Daily Helmsman at Memphis State, we literally cut out the printed articles and glued them on a board to deliver to the printer, where they "made the newspaper" overnight.
I still remember the smell of that hot glue machine. I remember occasionally using an X-acto knife to "edit" stories that already were glued to the board.
I remember the very first time I saw a Macintosh computer and Windows menus dropping down on the tiny black-and-white screen.
But I still had to spend hours in my design class learning about rotogravure printing and ink types and when you would use which method.
I'm too young to have prehistoric memories of my career.
Going back even farther, I remember an elementary school field trip to The Commercial Appeal offices in Memphis. The vast, open newsroom with ringing telephones intimidated me.
But the press room was the coolest, because I'd never seen rolls of paper so big they could only be moved by forklift. I'd never seen a machine that was three stories high. As my class listened to the tour guide explaining press runs, I remember him having to shout over the machinery.
I finally understood the phrase "stop the presses."
I didn't fully appreciate how much my industry has changed until a friend asked me to help her get a news office tour for her son's Cub Scout requirements. Our one major local newspaper, The Tennessean, wouldn't even do it because they fired the people who used to give tours. They're owned by Gannett and they're streamlining, you know.
She e-mailed me the requirement from the Scout manual:

"Visit a newspaper or magazine office. Ask for a tour of the various divisions, (editorial, business, and printing). During your tour, talk to an executive from the business side about management’s relations with reporters, editors, and photographers and what makes a “good” newspaper or magazine."

At first, she thought I could give him a "tour" of Brentwood Home Page, the online newspaper I write for. I tried to explain that it's only online, that there is no press, and it's literally a "home office." It would be like sitting in someone's den and talking to two women with a desktop computer.
They could offer him excellent advice on the news industry, but it wouldn't quite be the memorable Citizen Kane experience.
I contacted other smaller papers that still print on paper, but they declined, saying there "wasn't much to see" and they send out their stuff to be printed anyway.
Can't anybody show a Cub Scout what a newspaper looks like anymore?
Modern news is either corporate, mass-produced aggregates of wire news or localized, personalized news that, frankly, isn't very exciting to watch being made.
There are no "divisions" of a newspaper. Even established "papers" feel like start ups because in an attempt to save money, they have to function with as few people as possible doing everything.
Someone needs to let the BSA know what's been happening to local newspapers so they can update their manual.

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

Top-notch stuff in this week's Brentwood Home Page column:

Why hasn't this house sold?

For fun, I'm going to start an occasional feature in which I ask, "Why hasn't this house sold?"

It gives me a chance to share one of my weird hobbies, obsessing over local real estate.

When the opportunity presents itself, I'll post a little blurb about a house that I, as a more than casual observer but not a professional, think is a diamond in the rough and shouldn't still be on the market.

Of course, I'm not privy to most of the details about these listings, so there may be a real problem such as liens or a stubborn owner. Other than that, I'm just going on the facts presented by the agent.

Case in point: 304 Deerwood Lane in Brentwood.

For a mere $595,000, the buyer would get more than 5,000 square feet and 3 acres on a peaceful, prestigious road hidden away on the west side of Brentwood. Other homes in this area are listed for twice as much.

I will admit that the exterior is not traditional, there is an indoor pool instead of a bonus room, which is weird, and the lot is sloping. Also, the interior fixtures look like something the pope's little brother might have chosen. OTHER THAN THAT, why hasn't this house sold?

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

I had to put on business clothes recently. For real! Read all about it here.

Enough is enough

During the months after the 9/11 attacks, TV "news" shows thankfully took a break from their focus on celebrities. Rather than subjecting us to endless speculation about Britney Spears, they dealt in the currency of the day: good news. I remember it was a welcome respite from the nonstop worthless coverage of famous people being bad. It's the kind of pointless obsession that turned the paparazzi culture into what it is today, something like junk food TV that you might get sucked into watching but regret immediately.

Nearly ten years later, news media outlets are back where they were in 2001, as far as celeb obsession. Maybe it's a bit worse. Need proof? Well, some think the National Enquirer should get a Pulitzer this year.

Apparently that blessed period of media coverage after 9/11 was like Christmas, when we all spread peace and say, "Wouldn't it be great if we could act the way we act on Christmas throughout the year?" Going by that dream, I'd say we're in July right now and that Christmas peace is a distant memory.

For TV networks, though, Christmas Day will come this Friday when Tiger Woods finally shows his face. "His people" announced yesterday that he will hold a press conference Friday. They then allowed a photo agency to take pictures of him jogging on the same day as if to say, "See? Here he is, being normal, taking his first metaphorical steps toward a new life (i.e. image repair)."

Tiger has been like the Loch Ness monster since his bizarre Thanksgiving last year. Well, he's been elusive, but coverage of his apparent escapades has not. In fact, I am tired of jumping on the TV mute button whenever ESPN brings him up in order to shield my sports-fan boys from the icky details.

When I first heard about the press conference, though, naturally I was intrigued.

Then I read about the arrangements being made for his carefully orchestrated piece of drama. Employees at the golf club where he'll finally show up will come into work at 4:30 a.m. to prep the course, not for golf, which is what Tiger should be known for, but for Tiger's privacy. Then they're only inviting six reporters into the room where he'll materialize, though they will not be allowed to ask questions.

All the kowtowing is making me sick. I wouldn't be surprised if workers had been digging an underground tunnel from his home so he won't be subjected to his worst nightmare: someone catching a glimpse of him that he didn't want seen. Oops, too late!

First, he turns police away three times when they try to talk to him at home right after The Incident. I didn't even know you could do that! I bet if I tried to tell the police, "Come back later," I'd get Tased.

Today, they expect Tiger to arrive in a fleet of black SUVs, like he's important. Think about it. They'll drive him in underneath the clubhouse, lest he be seen by commoners with cameras.

I happen to be one of those pain-in-the-butt people who thinks that multimillion-dollar paydays to one person are disgusting. I know sports are a business and that Tiger is a moneymaker beyond compare. But just who does he think he is ... Obama?

I heard everything I needed to know about Tiger Woods when CNN played the voice mail he'd left Jamiee Grubbs after his wife looked in his inbox. In it, he didn't say, "We have to stop seeing each other. I can't do this. It's wrong." He told her to take her name off her phone so it wouldn't show up when she called him again. More secrets, more lies, more attempts to make the public think he's somebody great.

It's no wonder, really, that he thinks "the rules" don't apply to him. He must have read his own press. After all, his father did compare him to Gandhi. His mom proclaimed him a uniter of nations because he has "Thai, African, Chinese, American Indian and European blood" in him. Even other pro golfers who've played against him have speculated that there's something supernatural about Tiger. That's a lot to live up to when you're really just very good at ... golf.

It turns out he's less supernatural and more superfreak.

Personally, I've had it with the fawning and the bowing and the scraping, and I'm not married to the guy. I think I'll give up all these so-called "news" sites for Lent so I don't have to hear about it.

Right after the Friday press conference.

UPDATE! Good news! Some journalists refuse to be told how to cover a story.

Bad ads during the Big Game

If you watched the Super Bowl commercials last night, you may have come away thinking that being an American man is a fate worse than death.

That's the overwhelming impression given by companies like Bud Light, Flo TV (Eh?!!!) and (cough!) Dodge in their ads that portrayed men as spineless idiots required to sign over their testicles when they sign their marriage licenses.

What's even worse is that at first I kept shushing my family when I would see a commercial come on since it is, after all, the Super Bowl and we know the commercials are a big deal. I guess I was too trusting that companies who paid a reported $2 million would do something worthwhile with that time slot they bought. Lesson learned.

At first I didn't catch the misogyny in the Betty White ad for Snickers, although I should have known woman-bashing would be the night's theme when eating a Snickers turned Betty White back into her normal, manly self. I was just laughing too hard at Betty White saying, "That's not what your girlfriend said last night."

Then I noticed that I felt compelled to yell at the TV after nearly every commercial (every commercial that wasn't hawking a CBS show, that is.)

"Wow, being a man really stinks," I'd shout sarcastically from my post in the kitchen, where I'd been making Super Bowl snacks for the four men in my house.

I grew more indignant with nearly every ad, until Tim said, "You know, they're catering to their market right now."

I disagree, though. A normal football game is a man's world, I'm sure. But the Super Bowl is a cross-cultural social event now. I know at least 10 female friends who were going to Super Bowl parties last night. And I'll bet that way more women were watching than during a normal game. We notice this stuff, you know.

My other problem, as it is during every network-televised football game, is that my boys were watching. The 13-year-olds really pay attention, and usually the only thing I have to shield them from during football games is the ads for horrible CBS crime shows like Criminal Minds, which might as well be named How will we torture and kill a young woman this week?

I'd just like my kids to get a chance to enter their first guy-girl relationship without having been indoctrinated by all this crap.

More than that, during the "Big Game," I had to be the lone voice in our house to speak up against the He-Man Woman Haters Club that paid for the ads.

Last year's ads were more serious or thought-provoking, so I can see the desire to use humor this year. Funny is good. But you know what's better than funny? Smart funny. Dockers using men with no pants? Stupid. Tim Tebow tackling his mom? Harsh. Go Daddy? Please. E-trade baby? Jumped the shark. Bridgestone "Your money or your wife"? Confusing. Coke and The Simpsons? Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The worst of all, I thought, was for a Qualcomm product called FloTV, which obviously didn't get all the iPad jokes about feminine products last week. Their waste of ad space was the one with Jim Nantz scolding the "spineless" guy in the mall. "Change out of that skirt, Jason" hit me exactly the wrong way. Ha ha, shopping is stupid and girly and, ... wait. Don't forget, guys, that when we're doing all that girly shopping, we're spending money. That's what you want us to do to boost the economy, right?

The best Super Bowl ads are the ones that don't try too hard but surprise me, in a good way, as they go along. Like the old Michael Jordan-Larry Bird McDonald's showdown (recast less convincingly last night with Lebron and Dwight "Shoulders" Howard). I liked how the Dove for Men soap ad said it's OK to be a grown-up, unlike the Bud Light book club ad, where guys blow off their softball game when they see their girlfriends plan to have a couple of beers during their book club meeting.

My favorite was the Google ad about studying French abroad. I loved it because it stayed true to what Google is. It showed the product exactly the way we want to see it, but also hooked us into a storyline in a creative way without managing to insult anyone.

Getting your name out there is a tenet of the advertising industry. Perhaps agencies should add "first do no harm" to their mission statements now.

And CBS thought Tim Tebow's mom was going to be the night's biggest problem.

Gender confusion

For the first time ever, I walked into a store and mistook men's clothes for women's clothes.

Yes, it's true. I don't shop very often. But I didn't think I was that out of practice!

I had gone to my local Stein Mart to exchange something. As I walked over to the customer service counter, I thought they had rearranged the store and put women's clothes where the men's department used to be.

The corner display featured Lucky jeans and shirts with pretty embroidery on the cuffs and pastel paisley prints. I honestly did not realize they were for men.

I tried really hard to find a photo of the Malibu Cowboy shirts so I could post it here and say, "Am I right?!" "And you'd go, "Yep. I'd pick that for a woman." The best I could find was this Lucky Brand shirt that is quite representative of the shirts in question.

It's really no big deal, I know. Even though I live in a very creative town and see so-called "music-industry types" with chunky, highlighted haircuts and contrast-stitched jeans, I'm married to a man who thinks turquoise blue is a very flamboyant color. So there are men around here who get haircuts that cost more than mine and wear boots with heels higher than mine. I just never actually found myself this ... confused.

I need to get out more often.

Mommy's working

So it is the last day in November, and I have only written 18 posts, counting this one. For those of you paying attention, I was attempting to follow the spirit of NaBloPoMo and write a blog entry per day.

I did not.

The bright side is that, if you scroll through my archives, I have written more posts this month than I have in the history of this blog. I call that a victory.

More to come.

Part of a complete breakfast

I get a big laugh from the fun names grocery stores come up with for their store-brand products.

So-called generic items, especially cereals, have come a long way from the days when stores only sold "corn flakes" or "crisp rice" in black and white boxes. Now stores have figured out how to make a reasonable facsimile of the best-selling cereals, and most generic items are packaged and named similarly to their more expensive competitors. Kind of.

It's not a stretch to see why Kroger calls their version of Cap'n Crunch "Crisp Crunch." Henry's favorite, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, becomes Cinnamon Swirls. Yawn. The funniest names go to the unique cereals. Special K has been around so long that I never stopped to think about what a weird name that is. Kroger's version is called "Active Lifestyle," which doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.

General Mills popular Chex cereals - corn, rice, wheat and the other siblings - are called Bitz at Kroger. Kroger execs must think the letter Z is marketing gold because they've added it to many of their new products, including a Hot Pocket-like item called Stuffz and the charming Ice Cream Sammiez. I'm surprised they don't go ahead and name their frozen corn on the cobs "Corn Totz."

Publix is getting in on the act too, with Fruit Spins for Froot Loops (which part of the food pyramid is "froot"?) and Apple Express, which are second-rate Apple Jacks. Whenever I see Kroger's Apple Dapples, I say it the way Bill Murray sang out "Razzle dazzle!" in Stripes. Please click on that link. It'll make your day. ("Just like last night, only better!")

Where was I? Oh, yes. Does Malt-O-Meal still call their version of Cheerios "Scooters"? hee hee

My award for best generic cereal names goes to the Crispix knock-offs.

I could not believe Crispix has been around since 1983, so I looked it up. It's true! Along with Wheaties, Crispix is one of the most expensive cereals, usually around $4.19 per box. It took a while for the generic versions to come out, but some companies obviously spent more time thinking up the names. Publix took about a minute, I'm thinking, to name their version "Crispy Hexagons." Mmmmm!

At least Kroger tried to be cute with "Hexa Grains." Harris Teeter makes eating cereal fun with "Crisp 6." Get it? 'Cause a hexagon has six sides? And if you say it fast, it sounds like Crispix!

No combination of letters and numbers will convince a kid that "Marshmallow Treasures" is the same as Lucky Charms.

But maybe I'm not the best judge of names. I still think the best cereal of all time was Kaboom.

Deck the halls with pilgrims and turkeys...please!

While driving around Brentwood today I noticed that both Brent Meade and Fountainhead subdivisions have decked out their entrances with Christmas decorations. So I guess it's on, y'all.

Still, I wish somebody would just designate a day already when everyone is supposed to put up their outside decorations at one time so we wouldn't have to endure these awkward few weeks when some people hang tinsel and garland while others, like me, still have pumpkins on their porches.

It's bad for my chi to see competing seasonal gee gaw out there. It absolutely drives my son Henry insane. He gets so put out when he thinks people or stores bypass Thanksgiving and head straight for Christmas. I would not be surprised if he starts a "Give Thanksgiving its Due" Facebook group.

I guess not everyone wants to extend their "harvest" celebration one minute longer than they have to. If you think about it, though, at no other time during the year does this seasonal overlapping take place. You never see valentine hearts competing with Christmas lights or shamrocks getting in the way of the Easter bunny.

Wait, I just noticed that Thanksgiving is at the tail end of November this year, which means there'll be less time between Black Friday and Jesus's birthday to get all my decorations up. Guess I'd better go chuck those punkins!

Iran is for lovers?

One of the top headlines right now is the story of the three American "hikers" detained in Iran for supposedly crossing the border from Iraq illegally.

Hiking in Iraq? People do this? Seriously?!!

I know I have a very small circle of reference since I am not a world traveler. I mean, I'll do stuff, as you can see from that very old photo of us at Rock City. But the stuff I do has to be near an interstate and some kind of truck stop or Wal-Mart. Call me pedestrian, but my knowledge of the Middle East comes from news sources, and those lead me to believe that the only people going to Iraq are military. I am quite happy to stay in familiar areas and leave the roaming to those so inclined. You won't find me signing up for the Peace Corps, and the last flight I was on left me so impatient to get back home that my fidgeting nearly got me tagged as a security concern.

Still, it seems pretty obvious that the Middle East should not be a recreation destination. I haven't seen any brochures luring people to "Cruise the Gaza Strip" or trumpeting that "What Happens in Yemen Stays in Yemen."

An article on cnn.com is not clear about whether the three hikers worked in Iraq and were out for a "relaxing" weekend or went there specifically as tourists. It says they stayed in a hotel and were warned many times by the hotel owner to stay away from their destination town because of its proximity to the unmarked border with Iran. Iranian officials say the three are spies, but I'll bet they say that to all Americans.

Lots of folks revile the suburbs, where I live, as hell on earth. Of course, they aren't that bad, and maybe I'm just unaware of a growing market for vacation packages in war zones.

Just let me know if you see any bumper stickers that say, "Pakistan: Land of Enchantment."

The zen of Mondays

I've grown to enjoy Monday because it's my chance to reclaim the house from the weekend pillaging that inevitably takes place when we're all home.

Putting away crayons, DVDs, newspapers, blankets and whatever else we left in our wake is all part of getting my mind set right for the week. And laundry...so much laundry to wash, dry, fold and put away. Every Monday, the hampers seem to hold enough clothes for a weeklong trip. My kids manage to change clothes at least three times a day on the weekends. Our weather being as schizophrenic as it is now, with cold mornings and warm afternoons, it's common to find sweatshirts mingled with shorts. Somehow, even when I think I've washed every thing in this house, no one can find that perfect hoodie or just the right shorts to wear to school.

Still, I perform this ritual every Monday, and it feels good. Katherine Paterson said, "What a gift of grace it is to be able to take chaos from within and from it create some semblance of order." That's how I like to think of my mundane Mondays, anyway, as I picture myself with a bullwhip and a stool facing down all that crap that didn't get put back last night. Even with our nightly prep-for-school routine, not everything is in its place.

Just cleaning out my e-mail inbox and emptying the refrigerator door of notices about events that have passed helps settle me down mentally. If I can accomplish that, I will have done the world a favor.

NaBloPoMo Day 1

November is National Blog Posting Month. Since it takes longer for the power of the Internet to reach us here in Tennessee, I am just now getting this news.
Inspired by the Fussy one herself, I will try:

Things I like

Hostess Ding Dongs
birds singing
red wine
shopping very early in the morning
flannel sheets
green left-turn arrows

Things I don't like

monkeys
twisted police dramas on TV
kids who sing Broadway style
emptying the dishwasher
already being awake when my alarm goes off

Before you pull out into traffic...

Thrice in the past week (yeah, I said "thrice")I have had close calls with other drivers in MY OWN neighborhood.
I've been driving along after dropping off Owen at school or on my way back from Kroger and I've had to pull WAY over to avoid an oncoming car because the other driver was still going through their cockpit checklist.
They were either turning on their phone, looking for sunglasses, or fixing their hair in the mirror. Two of the times, the driver didn't see me until I was on them and I honked.
I've heard a lot about how hazardous distracted drivers are and saw a statistic that 40% of "accidents" are caused by them. Based on my personal experience, it's getting worse.
It's tempting to think of driving as an automatic body function, but it's not. We all could use a return to awareness, especially those of us who've been driving for a few decades. We think we've got it down. I also think a lot of folks don't consider neighborhood streets to be worth the same level of caution as "city" streets. So they think nothing of hopping in the car and pulling out, using the "slow" drive to save time while they check phone messages, fish out their wallets, or check makeup.
Another danger zone for distracted drivers is near the fast-food drive-thru. I was making my way out of the Kroger parking lot this morning when a woman who had just left the Chik-fil-A in the same shopping center nearly T-boned me while searching the bag for her Chik'n Minis. I'm telling you, she never saw me. She almost had her head down in the bag as she drove past, and then she turned around to hand something to a kid in the back seat. Completely clueless.
All I'm saying is take a second to finish your business before you start driving again, people. It won't make you that much later if you pull over after you leave the drive-thru and use two hands, both eyes and your whole brain to get the food distributed, then you can use them for driving.
We need to be less concerned with saving time and more concerned with saving lives.

My Spell-Check is gonna hate this one

I have this weird fascination with how people choose their children's names. It had been a latent obsession until I saw the show Toddlers and Tiaras on TLC and noticed the high percentage of kid pageant contestants who have "misspelled" names.
How can someone's name be misspelled?, you ask. It's their name; can't it be spelled however their mama chooses? Yes, of course, but most of these names are just otherwise normal names that have been spelled almost phonetically, which, to me, is misspelling.
A pageant mom probably won't name her daughter "Brittany." She'll name her "Bryttanee." A most recent example straight from a T&T episode is Sparkal Queenz. I swear, I did not make that up. And I am not the only one who has noticed this. One person who really dislikes this trend has a blog called "I Hate Your Kid's Name." It is hi-larious, but it does not tippy-toe around the subject.
Another way odd names have popped into my life is on school worksheets. I remember when the twins were still in elementary school, the politically correct compulsion to use as many multicultural names as possible got out of hand. Just trying to fill in the blanks on a vocabulary sheet was like trying to read a chapter in the Old Testament. The boys would get tripped up by these out-of-the-blue names like, "If Akbar has two apples and he gives one to Elodie, how many does he have left?" Dick and Jane must be too old school.
I doubt Japanese students who are kicking our butts in math are reading worksheets that say, “Madisyn has five shelves that can hold eight paint cans each. How many cans do the shelves hold in all?”
In full disclosure, I must admit that in second grade I tried to change the spelling of my name and signed all my school papers, "Jyll."

This week's Brentwood Home Page column

Find out why the best may be too good for me.

More crazies by the hour

I have now reached that magical time in my life when all three boys are in school "full-time." For years I've heard friends gush about how a mom's day goes so much better, compared to a preschool day, with an extra hour tacked on each end.
From what I've experienced, though, the best thing about Owen finally reaching kindergarten, besides no more $350 preschool tuition checks, is that I can get to Wal-Mart before 9 a.m.

Alone time

Rain magnifies things.
On rainy days, when everyone is home and we have nothing to do that night, no prior commitments to force us out of our comfy house, the rain makes us all feel happier to be together and thankful for each other and for time.
Even tasks like homework and dishwashing aren't so offensive because, thank you Jesus, we don't have to rush around town and get wet and frustrated with each other when this one won't hurry up or that one won't stop saying "pineapples."
On rainy days when I'm here working by myself, though, the weather forces me outward, mentally. It makes me think about the ones who aren't here.
I walk from room to room and notice things I don't see when the boys are there. I'd never noticed how Henry rearranged his bulletin board, so I sit on his bed and take note of what's important to him. In Mason's room, I roll my eyes at the perpetually unmade bed and see the collection of Coke cans he's started on the bookshelf. Their desk areas look more lived in as they settle into becoming more serious students.
At the end of the hall, so close to my bedroom it could be called a closet, is Owen's door. Last week he taped a paper medal to it, one his kindergarten teacher gave him that reads "Super Star Student." It's so weird to me because I've never thought of my baby as a student. He's a little old man trapped inside a little kid body, but he's not a student yet.
His room probably looks a lot like whatever's going on inside his brain, a very busy amalgamation of all the themes he has loved in his six years of life: farmers and tractors, fire fighters, Davy Crockett, soldiers, Indiana Jones and Star Wars. There are a lot of weapons in that room and a lot of depictions of battles pinned to the walls, but they're all arranged with a tender love and reverence by a little kid who respects hard work and can't tolerate puppets.
At the other end of the house is the playroom, where the floor is littered with remnants of their favorite thing to play together, "city." On a good day, all three boys get together and build a sprawling pretend world using parts from all our buildings sets, including wood blocks, Legos and old Thomas the Tank Engine tracks. The older boys are lucky they have a baby brother because it lets them remain kids a little while longer. The baby brother is lucky because he has two older playmates who are much more energetic and creative than his mom. They will move a couch out of the way of an oncoming Thomas track or construct a football stadium for the city from a shoebox, almost always happily. At least until he starts yelling out, "Pineapples!" again.

There's no food in your food

I think it was Neil Armstrong who said, “Houston, did y’all pack my Gatorade Xtreme?”
OK, maybe that’s not his most famous quote, but I’m sure Armstrong and his Tang-swilling Apollo crewmates would feel right at home eating out of a typical school lunchbox these days.
It's time for me to get back into the lunchbox mindset, and I'm starting to feel like I’m preparing my brown-baggers for a space voyage every time I pack lunches for school. Nearly everything I put in looks and is named like it’s packaged to endure a three-year journey to Mars.
Take Go-Gurt “portable yogurt,” made by Yoplait. You rip off the end and suck it out of a plastic tube. The Danimals Crush Cup is even worse. No complicated spoon needed, and no crumbs to float away and get stuck in the instrument panel.
The flavor names sound like a nuclear acidophilus reaction is imminent. While mom is content with blueberry or peach yogurt, kids have been hypnotized by commercials to believe they need “watermelon meltdown” and “extreme red rush,” whatever fruit that’s supposed to be.
Fruit Roll-Ups and Fruit-by-the-Foot are favorites with my kids. It’s basically fruit (and sugar) jerky, but the name’s the thing with this product. My picky eater wasn’t interested until he found out I had bought “Tropical Tango Twister,” which may or may not be in the citrus family.
I guess adjectives I grew up with, like “great-tasting grape,” aren’t convincing enough. Food marketed to kids can’t just be food anymore. It has to be extreme and fierce and thermostabilized with lots of other descriptors you’d hear in the halls of the Oak Ridge National Laboratory.
For a few years now we’ve seen snack foods miniaturized even as our butts and guts have maximized, so that lunchboxes are full of Mini Oreos, Baby Goldfish crackers and, occasionally, baby carrots with itty-bitty ranch dippin’ cups.
By the way, you should know that Pepperidge Farm has “flavor blasted” those innocent little Goldfish.
The metamorphosis of beverages is the most hilarious, though. To improve “the science of hydration,” the guys at Gatorade have taken the same four or five fruit flavors we’ve always had and added “fusion” or an X to the name to make it seem different.
Thanks to the science of marketing, I have to search Mapco’s drink cooler for Cascade Crash or X-Factor flavors on the way to my kids' games.
Of course, as a child I was enthralled with the Sprite Lymon ads. Who didn’t beg their mom to glue a half a lemon to half a lime?
In fact, it’s probably good that my TV-loving generation wasn’t the first to land on the moon. It wouldn’t have sounded as cool to hear, “That’s one small step for man, one nice Hawaiian Punch for mankind.”

Agritourism Update

My tomato cages finally succumbed to the Better Boy tomatoes. You'd better not try to cage those Better Boys! What I'd like to know is when are the Better Boys ever going to go ahead and turn red?! We've all grown so tired of waiting that I've just been plucking them and frying the green ones.
Last summer was the first year I ever planted vegetables. I had three squash plants and two tomato plants of some variety that I can't recall. I only know they only produced about 12 maters total. And I got mad when the prickly squash plants poked my kids as they tried to "harvest" them, so I vowed never to plant squash again. Revenge is a dish best served with melted butter and cracker crumbs. The boys don't eat squash anyway!
Hence the two Better Boy tomato plants.
One thing that acted right in my garden this year was the one peony plant. I don't like to get too ambitious, you know. After hanging around three years, deigning to bloom once, this year the peony produced bloom after bloom, all spectacular. I'd love to take credit, but in truth I'd forgotten about it over the winter.
My other foray into botanic futility sits on the sill over my kitchen sink and reminds me of the "wonders" of nature countless times each day. The two flower pots are the size of shot glasses, and the Easter Bunny brought them. Way back in April. They are supposed to be strawberries, but they are the no-growingest plants I have ever encountered. The boys faithfully water them, but I don't see us pulling in a bushel of strawberries this season.
Those pots will make decent votive holders.