Perhaps I should give up reality TV for Lent

Rev. Cliff Wright, as he processed out of the sanctuary after the Ash Wednesday service, finished his prayer this way: "...and the amazing Grace of the Lord as it comes into your life."

Owen: "I thought he said, "And The Amazing Race is coming on tonight."

Belly up to the feeding trough

If you want to know what the end of the world will look like, go to Golden Corral restaurant around lunchtime on a Sunday.
Sunday is when Golden Corral is most frighteningly apocalyptic because that’s when you’ll see the best mix of diners eating like it’s their last meal: from executives whose wives have warned them they’re not in the mood to cook to country folks who’ve roused themselves from the holler for a trip to “town.”
Usually, I have just two strict criteria for dining out. I want food I have to eat with a fork -- nothing wrapped in paper, please. And I want someone else to bring the food to me. That’s all. I don’t ask for much.
Golden Corral, which says it’s the “largest buffet in Middle Tennessee,” doesn’t meet one requirement since I have to get my own food. But it does have a whole lotta food, which works because we have one child who eats everything, one who takes one bite of everything, and another who eats only the bottom layer of the food pyramid.
Variety often trumps service in our family. When we just want everybody to eat something, we go to Golden Corral. Somehow, though, our family transforms into less civilized creatures the minute we hit the door. The change starts in the lobby, which at peak times resembles the waiting area at the Jim Warren Park driver license renewal office.
At Golden Corral, they like to throw you off by doing everything backwards. Right away you are dehumanized just a bit by being required to pay up front for food you haven’t even seen.
Once inside, you understand why it’s called Golden Corral as you get caught up in the stampede toward the buffet. All that matters is you and your plate, and all bets are off if the guy brings out the fresh tray of ribs.
Feeling obliged to keep up our end of the deal with the area’s biggest buffet, we’ll each pile up at least five half-finished plates on the table because we couldn’t decide what to get. That’s how you end up eating bizarre combinations like ham, potatoes and gravy, macaroni, pizza, chips and queso, cooked cabbage and sautéed mushrooms.
And banana pudding.
With half a frosted brownie.
Once I was heading back to the buffet for more fried chicken when I realized I was walking across the room while still chewing. Kids, adults, Harley riders in leather and grandmas with canes all scurry about like ants on a hill, darting in front of each other to grab the last hush puppy. In the face of such bounty, it’s like we never had manners at all.
The baby? Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s in one of those rolling high chairs. The crowd will drag him back around here in a minute.
Did they bring out any more hush puppies yet?

Five-Oh Plus Club

WHY OH WHY OH WHY do I go to Kroger on Senior Day? I mean no disrespect to senior citizens, of course, because on lots of days I feel like I already inhabit that demographic. I am just WAY too impatient to grocery shop with that many people who are not in as big a hurry as I am.
My goal when Krogering is to get in, get stuff, get out. If I forget and go on Wednesday, though, I have to build in an extra 10 or 15 minutes. After dodging the vans from the various assisted-living facilities nearby, I must kindly sidestep the big lady who's test-driving the motorized buggy as well as navigate the multitudes of slow-moving carts like I'm in a life-size version of Frogger.
Everything in Kroger is ten times harder for old folks, and it makes me sad. Some can't reach the stuff on the higher shelves. Many can't read the aisle signs, the price tags or the food labels. They can't get the plastic produce bags open. (Actually, I can't do this either.) If a senior couple goes together, the husband who's relegated to pushing the buggy and watching the purse usually looks pretty miserable. Then the lady stops to talk to a long-lost friend and forgets what she is doing on that aisle.
Once I realize what I've walked into, like today, I get over myself and offer assistance to whoever asks for it. But I also get a glimpse into the lives of some of them who can't do stuff I take for granted, like yell for a husband or an able-bodied child to open a stubborn jar for me.
Today, for instance, while I paused to choose from the perplexing varieties of chicken broth, I heard two ladies who apparently live alone discussing how difficult it is to open a can of soup with a screwdriver.
I wanted to run run RUN home. One lady giggled as if it were just another daily inconvenience, like changing the toilet paper roll, then asked me if I could reach the tomato soup for her. I should have offered to get her a can opener as well.
I'll tell you one thing. I'm well on my way to being one crabby old lady.

Duuuuuhhhhhhhh

I’ve relearned a lot over the years by helping my twins with their homework.
In social studies, I got reacquainted with explorers like Hernando De Soto and Amerigo Vespucci. History is fun; I can handle history.
In science, I learned about electrical circuits as they wired a “house” made of shoeboxes. Very cool.
Then I remembered that I never really mastered the times tables beyond, oh, the sevens. Things get really foggy for me around 7x8. And I don't think anyone calls them "times tables" anymore.
So when they were about three months into the fourth grade and brought home two-digit division problems and pages with fractions on them, I hit a wall and had to say something I never wanted to hear myself saying.
“Uh, you’re just going to have to wait until Dad gets home to find out how to do this.”
See, our house is like one of those “House Divided” license plates, where one half is an orange UT logo and the other half is a crimson Alabama logo. If I were to have a “House Divided” plate, though, it would have a division symbol on one half and a schwa on the other half. Remember phonics?
My husband covers anything that involves numbers, and I am the house expert in the written word. I’m fine with that set-up because I’ve wanted to specialize in the written word since I was my kids’ age. With a journalism degree and a master’s in English education, I just assumed my mad writing skillz would carry me to a place where the hired help would handle the numbers for me.
It’s humbling to find that you’re obsolete by the time your children are in fourth grade.
It’s kind of like that feeling you get when you glance at the nutrition label on a pint of Haagen-Dazs ice cream and realize they intended that pint to contain four servings, not one.
Fortunately, I have a niece and some nephews nearby who are math geniuses, and I can call them for backup the next time Henry has to determine the area of something shaped like Texas.
I should have called the cousin homework hotline the time Mason had to answer this one: “What do we measure when determining weight that we don’t measure when determining mass?” I would have put, “Depends on how many servings of Haagen-Dazs you eat.”
Perhaps our new president will formulate an initiative called “No Parent Left Behind.”

I’ve relearned a lot over the years by helping my boys with their homework.
The teachers brought in more social studies projects than my kids had done in years past, so I got reacquainted with explorers like Hernando De Soto and Amerigo Vespucci. History is fun; I can handle history.
In science, they learned about electrical circuits and wired a “house” made of shoeboxes. Very cool.
I also remembered that I never really mastered the times tables beyond, oh, the sevens. Things get really foggy for me around 7x8.
So about three months into the school year, when they brought home two-digit division problems and pages with fractions on them, I hit a wall and had to say something I never wanted to hear myself saying.
“Uh, you’re just going to have to wait until Dad gets home to find out how to do this.”
See, our house is like one of those “House Divided” license plates, where one half is an orange UT logo and the other half is a crimson Alabama logo. If I were to have a “House Divided” plate, though, it would have a division symbol on one half and a schwa on the other half. Remember phonics?
My husband covers anything that involves numbers, and I am the house expert in the written word. I’m fine with that set-up because I’ve wanted to specialize in the written word since I was my kids’ age. With a journalism degree and a master’s in English education, I just assumed my mad writing skillz would carry me to a place where the hired help would handle the numbers for me.
It’s humbling to find that you’re obsolete by the time your children are in fourth grade.
It’s kind of like that feeling you get when you glance at the nutrition label on a pint of Haagen-Dazs ice cream and realize they intended that pint to contain four servings, not one.
Fortunately, I have a niece and some nephews nearby who are math geniuses, and I can call them for backup the next time Henry has to determine the area of something shaped like Texas.
I should have called the cousin homework hotline last week when Mason had to answer this one: “What do we measure when determining weight that we don’t measure when determining mass?” I would have put, “Depends on how many servings of Haagen-Dazs you eat.”
Perhaps the next president will formulate an initiative called “No Parent Left Behind.”
Jill Burgin lives in Brentwood.