Pondering the Easter menu

“So, what are you doing for Easter?” my mom asked me today as we were catching up over the phone.

“Nothing. We’re going to church, and then after that, nothing,” I said. “And that’s just fine by me.”

“Us, too,” she said of my father and herself. “Maybe we’ll go out to eat.”

“Not me,” I said. “The crowds are more than I can take on Easter.”

“Oh. Well, I like the buffet at the Pine Cove,” she said.

“Yuck, I hate buffets,” I said. To be fair, the Pine Cove supper club is among the best options for dining out in my hometown (the reception for my first wedding was held there, among the deer-in-the-woods murals and gold lantern lighting), but then it’s competing with Hardee’s.

“Good buffet” is an oxymoron in my mind. Buffets are like casinos — the house always wins. So the promise of “all you can eat” is fulfilled with the cheapest volume possible, usually white in hue. Lots of salt, pasta, bread, potatoes, sugar and chicken fill the sloppy trays at a rousing buffet.

When you’re 16 and bottomless, a buffet is appealing. But when every calorie counts in perimenopause, you’re loathe to waste them on glop flavored with low-common-denominator spices.

I wouldn’t eat at an Old Country Buffet anymore if it were the last restaurant on earth. But you can bet there’d be a line!

So I won’t be enjoying a buffet on Easter Sunday, but I won’t be eating ham either (at least ham isn’t white). If my mother likes a good buffet, my mother-in-law could eat ham three times a day (ham-and-cheese omelet for breakfast, ham salad for lunch, ham sandwich or ham and scalloped potatoes for supper), but I don’t need ham for Easter any more than I need an Easter egg hunt.

So what’s it going to be on Easter? No buffet chicken? No ham? No hard-boiled eggs?

Reece’s Peanut Butter Eggs, anyone?

What’s on your Sunday menu this year?

First day of spring, my a-

I want blossoms, not bluster.

The weather here in northern Illinois is, excuse my crass lack of eloquent description, bullshit.

It’s 19 degrees as I write this in the afternoon. According to the talking heads on the morning news, the wind chill this morning made it feel like 4 degrees below — below! — zero (it’s much worse at my parents house in Wadena, Minn. — the air temperature was below zero by itself this morning, forget how much colder the wind made it feel).

My precious little 8-pound schnauzer who lack body fat and wanders around in bare paws is still having to contend with snow in the back yard. Poor thing.

It’s the first day of spring! I just want to grab Mother Nature by her fur-lined lapel and shake some sense into her! Where the heck is that glorious spring weather we experienced last year at this time (my Beloved was mowing the lawn a year ago!)? Is this payback?

The atrocious weather sent me seeking a prayer, and I found this one titled, “Spring” in “Graces: Prayers & Poems for Everyday Meals and Special Occasions” by June Cotner:

We give you everlasting thanks, O God,
For the marvels of your great creation.

As the flowers blossom and bloom around us
We lift our hearts in joy and celebration.
Amen.

Nice prayer? Indeed. Beautiful. But I think we need something more along the lines of a rain dance right now. I am not Native American, but here’s how a Germanic Swede born in Minnesota might perform a “spring dance”:

• Wear orange, the color of the sun. But not so much as to call attention to oneself.  An orange hair thingy is appropriate; an orange coat would be going too far. Face paint might include green eyeshadow or bronzer (again, we Minnesotans think Lady Gaga is a little “out there”).
• Stand, shifting weight from one leg to the other. Weave hands back and forth like a snake charmer as if to impose one’s will on another.
• Hum the tune from Bob Dylan’s “Blowing in the Wind or “The Times They Are a-Changin’” (Dylan was born in Duluth, Minn., dontcha know). Finish dance with a fist pump and bark, “You betcha!”

If that doesn’t scare away winter, I don’t know what will.

A holiday for vacuous hypocrites

Well, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and if you’re observing it properly in Chicagoland, you better be toasting with a foamy green beer and a plate of corned beef.

I myself am observing it by eating pad Thai.

Huh?

As with all secular observances of religious holidays, the celebration has almost no connection to the original purpose.

Beyond his first name, what do most people know of this patron saint?

Well, for one thing, he wasn’t Irish. He was born in England and brought by pirates to Ireland as a slave. He eventually escaped, found God and returned to Ireland as a missionary. We wear green and look up recipes on how to make soda bread on the anniversary of his death on March 17.

Most of us wouldn’t know even his first name without the green beer. Kwanzaa would be a more popular cultural holiday if we dyed the Chicago River the color of African fruit party punch, and we might all observe Chinese New Year if the Chinese Zodiac included corned beef instead of Rat and Monkey. All we Americans need to twist the meaning of a solemn holiday is liquor, a three-day weekend and fireworks (see: Independence Day).

When we should be remembering his courage and benevolence, we’re honoring St. Patrick by wearing dorky four-leaf-clover hats and complaining about how gassy cabbage makes us.

How dare I speak ill of a holiday so important to the Irish? I’m 12.5% Scotch-Irish, which I believe makes me 12.5% Irish and 0% Catholic. If I had that much Native American blood, I’d be living well on casino profits. If you’re observing a holy day of obligation in honor of St. Patrick, please forgive me.

We’re such lemmings. The Big Marketing Machine latches onto anything green (or lucky) to sell stuff in March because they can’t pin down Easter’s moving date. Because newspapers/magazines/bars/TV newscasters need a hook to get our attention, we start celebrating a holiday that means nothing to us because it’s an excuse to get drunk.

If you like corned beef, you can eat it any day of the year. And if you like green beer, you should examine your excuses for imbibing at 10 a.m. You may have a problem that can only be solved with a 12-step program.

As for me, I’m wearing sweatpants (gray), drinking the national beverage of Brazil (coffee) and eating leftovers (rhubarb crisp) today. Happy Irrelevant Secular Holiday to you, too.

[Note to St. Patrick: Thank you for inspiring today's blog post. Rest your eternal soul.]

Take this management book and shove it

Among the books I gave away earlier this week was a whole passel of management and leadership books I collected during the course of my years as a middle manager in Great and Powerful Corporations.

Like Oz, those corporations were full of flash, short on substance. Both went bankrupt in the past decade (both emerged from bankruptcy, too, but that just emphasizes my point of management by smoke and mirrors).

The book I was happiest to dump was “Working with Emotional Intelligence,” which I picked up after a supervisor for whom I no longer have a scintilla of respect told me I lacked emotional intelligence. She probably would not have approved of my choice of “Nice Girls Don’t Get the Corner Office 101,” which I also hoisted into the giveaway pile on the grounds it used “mistakes women make” in the subtitle. I’m sorry, unwitting recipients of bargain books at Savers, but neither one softened my rough edges. Odds of me picking up Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg’s new book? 100 to 1. Lean into that.

When I’m looking for information to support my opinions of Big Business, I turn to Dilbert, which I check out daily over my morning coffee. I love Scott Adams. His is a philosophy I can believe in. I typed “bullshit leadership quotes” into Google and got this delightful result, written by Dilbert’s creator just yesterday. Here’s an excerpt:

“Consider the thousands of different books on management/success/leadership. If any of this were real science, all managers would learn the same half-dozen secrets to success and go on to great things. The reality of the business world is more like infinite monkeys with typewriters. Sooner or later a monkey with an ass pimple will type something that makes sense and every management expert in the world will attribute the success to the ass pimple.”

~ Scott Adams

Say hello to my little friend: My elected official’s answering machine

Don’t piss me off, Inside-The-Beltwayers, when I’m PMSing.

I listened to way too much National Public Radio in the past 48 hours, and I am completely fed up with the hand wringing  about sequestration from the current administration and spokespersons for every federal program this side of Mexico.

You can’t cut 10% from your bloated budget? Really? The American people and every surviving American corporation in the country had to figure it out during the Great Recession, and you can, too.

I don’t care if there are fewer meat inspectors. We all should be eating beans once a week anyway.

I don’t care if there are longer lines at the airport. The TSA is waste of resources that should be financed by airlines and its fliers anyway.

I don’t care of federal unemployment benefits are cut 10%. They don’t pay the mortgage anyway.

I don’t care if the Pentagon has to do more with less. We all have had to do it, and you can figure out how to buy fewer $3,000 solar-powered toilets, too. Word to the wise: You can probably get a good deal on used AK-47s confiscated from the streets on Chicago’s South Side; America’s housewives could teach you a thing or two about couponing.

I don’t care if HIV patients in Washington, D.C., will get 10% fewer free condoms. Have 10% less sex in the name of patriotism.

I don’t care about the so-called multiplier effect — seriously, did the bank bailout in 2008 multiple the good effects of spending? I don’t think so! The bad effects of spending cuts are an illusion, too!

So I called my elected representatives — I’m talking to you Sen. Dick Durbin, Sen. Mark Kirk and Rep. Randy Hultgren – and told them not to make any deals. Seriously, I looked up the phone numbers and called them. “Let sequestration happen!” I shouted into their answering machines (OK, spoke loudly — I don’t need more trouble. Sen. Durbin had a live person answering the phone — I guess that’s one of the perks of 16 years in the Senate, but for the record, we all could have made do with an answering machine!

I’m not only a fan of sequestration (fanatic?!), but I’m a fan of 10% more cuts in six months! Bring it on!

When rifling through kids’ pockets for clues about their high jinks stops working, Facebook might

Ask just about any mom what they value most, and she’ll name her kids first.

Not surprisingly that ardent interest transfers to social media. According to a story I read recently in the Chicago Tribune (“Your biggest Facebook stalker? Mom“), half of all parents on Facebook admit they joined the social network to keep tabs on their children.

My 71-year-old mom is on Facebook, and I know she appreciates seeing my posts on her news feed and sending me personal messages via Facebook. But she’s probably not using Facebook to make sure I’m behaving myself (she knows better by now).

If I were 13, however, there is no way in heck she should let me run wild in the streets of Facebook without her supervision. My 13-year-old nephew recently joined Facebook, and you can bet he has a number of caring relatives paying attention to his posts.

I’m not on Facebook to keep tabs on my Adored stepkids who are now considered adults, but yes, I admit, I do check on some of their shenanigans via Mark Zuckerberg’s juggernaut. (I generally keep my opinions to myself.)

Knowing half of all parents join Facebook to keep tabs on their kids explains why I don’t see status updates from most of my Facebook friends: They’re not there to see my opinion of Anne Hathaway’s dress or my latest couscous recipe.

Aw, darn.

But the stat reminds me of a Facebook pet peeve: Moms whose profile pictures depict their children. It’s called FACEbook, people, not MyIdentityIsMyAbilityToProcreateBook (this, coming from a woman who didn’t procreate — go figure). I want to see YOUR face. Not your kids. Yes, cherub-like faces are cuter than the mugs of 40-year-olds, but it’s disorienting when see pretty little poppets ranting about the Administration on my News Feed or T-ball players climbing up the Zynga rankings. Be you. I’m friends with you. Put your kids’ pictures on your Timeline Cover image. And when your child turns 13, I’ll happily befriend him or her and help you keep an eye on your little hellion.

It takes a village, people.*

*Makes you appreciate the importance of articles and punctuation, doesn’t it? Not “it takes Village People.” Rather, “it takes a village, people.”

The Power(Point) of magical thinking

“I hate the way people use slide presentations instead of thinking. People would confront a problem by creating a presentation. I wanted them to engage, to hash things out at the table, rather than show a bunch of slides. People who know what they’re talking about don’t need PowerPoint.”

~ Steve Jobs

After reading “Steve Jobs” by Walter Isaacson, I learned the founder of Apple who died in 2011 was a foul-mouthed narcissist who routinely dressed down employees, vendors and clients by calling them “shitheads” and much worse in corporate meetings.

I used to admire the man and his innovative thinking. Now, I just admire his innovation and appreciate his aesthetics.

Still, I love the philosophy on PowerPoint from the man who coined “Think Different.”

Slide presentations can be effective and powerful in a lecture setting where a single speaker is talking authoritatively to a large group. The best slide presentations rely heavily on images and short headlines designed to underscore the point being made by the speaker. Even Jobs used PowerPoint in his Apple product launches.

But in a business setting, PowerPoint is often gee-wizardry designed to overpower weak thinkers or mask weak thinking.

It’s not surprising, given Jobs’s contempt for ineptitude, that he would refuse to listen to PowerPoint presentations in his boardroom because he apparently much preferred to get into people’s faces and intimidate them into his way of thinking (different). But even without the rudeness, he had a point.

I can’t tell you how many bad PowerPoint presentations I sat through during my years as a corporate drone. I was mute witness to thousands of slides filled with statistics, complicated diagrams and words, words, words, often created by an MBA who was trying to prove her superior intelligence. Sometimes I even helped create such works of dazzling BS in my role to make a weak-thinking boss look good in front of a board of directors.

Not my best work.

Just for fun (because I’m arrogant and rude like a supercilious CEO sometimes, too), I dug up an example from my past (slightly modified to protect the guilty) of a “shitty” slide (in Steve Jobs’s parlance) that was used as more of a crutch for the speaker than to underscore a point for the audience:

Lots of pretty colors, huh? It’s like an explosion of baffling brilliance. You know you’re in trouble with your deck when you have to say, “You can’t read this one, but … .” For the eagle-eyed, I especially love this particular slide because it mentions “Oprah” as part of the strategy on the same level as “Bus. Cards” (because there wasn’t enough room for “Business Cards”). Thank goodness Oprah has a short name. And she’s so accessible.

Jobs was profane when he encountered such incompetence, and I wish I would have read that he learned a little more compassion before he died of cancer. In my case, I’m just grateful I’m no longer sitting in a boardroom full of shitheads patting each other on the back for crappy PowerPoint presentations.

Tomorrow: My book review of Walter Isaacson’s biography

Let’s put the ‘perspective’ back in Thanksgiving (don’t be so literal — it’s in there)

Some people have an exaggerated sense of holidays.

Christmas, I get. Doing Christmas right, in the over-the-top American tradition, requires decorating, baking, card-writing, buying, wrapping, partying, eating, returning.

There’s a lot to do.

But Thanksgiving? Seriously. It’s a big meal. And if you’re lucky, you get to bring one dish to somebody else’s house. That’s it. Eating. It doesn’t take a week to prepare one meal.

I went to a networking meeting today, and the turnout was horrible. Someone said, “Well, it is Thanksgiving week.”

Thanksgiving is not a week. It’s a day.

We’re entertaining 13 people at our house on Thursday. Yes, I’ve been to the grocery store twice and yes, I mopped the kitchen floor yesterday and vacuumed tonight, but seriously, it doesn’t take a week to prepare for Thanksgiving. I had time to be at the networking meeting.

It’s an excuse.

While we’re on the topic, it’s an excuse to overeat, too. For the record. (My Beloved says I say “for the record” too much, but for the record, my blog is a record.)

Just like some people use a holiday as an excuse for absorbing a week’s worth of time, some people use a holiday as an excuse to overindulge for a week. Let me repeat, Thanksgiving is one meal. You could eat until you’re stuffed like the turkey for that one big meal on Thursday, and the most you could possibly gain would be one pound.

One pound. Not 5. Not 10. To gain 5 or 10 pounds during the holidays, you have to eat too much for five weeks straight.

Perspective is called for.

OK, I’m ranting. (For the record, this is my record.) If you want Thanksgiving to mess up your entire calendar and your waistline, go for it.

But I’m saving that mess for Christmas.

Highlights for a Minnesota Transplant from today’s newspaper

Funniest line from today’s newspaper:

After months of promising a major grass-roots effort to win public support for reforming the state’s government worker pension system, Gov. Pat Quinn on Sunday unveiled a plan that featured an incomplete online strategy, children wearing red plastic megaphones and an animated “Squeezy the Pension Python” mascot.

Yup, front page of the Chicago Tribune. That’s the state I live in. And that’s our governor.

Dear Santa, Have I been good enough to get a stuffed Squeezy the Pension Python for Christmas this year?

The Chicago Tribune now offers the same virtual format by Olive Software for my iPad as the Star Tribune, and I just love it. It looks like the printed paper only a reader can click on a story to enlarge and follow jumps. It’s brilliant. So now I read two virtual newspapers. All the news, none of the newsprint.

I also enjoyed Leonard Pitts column on the editorial pages of the Tribune,  today. Here’s the lead:

America, you are an idiot.

You are a moocher, a zombie, ignorant, greedy, self-indulgent, envious, shallow and lazy.

So far this morning, I was living a state where the governor championed pension reform with a python mascot, and I was living in a country that was a lazy zombie.

Preparing a meal of brains is so much work.

Columnist Barbara Brotman tackled a topic close to my heart in today’s Tribune, too: “Icebox of the Nation offers winter tips to Windy City.”

To help Chicagoans who enjoyed a mild winter last year, she asked the mayor of International Falls, Minn., for tips. “I think we live in nirvana, myself,” he told her.

Real quote. International Falls. Nirvana.

No.

That’s why I’m living in Illinois now. Winter in Minnesota is more like finding a good recipe for simulated quinoa steaks or being a Twins fan the past two years. It’s hard. Very hard.

Enough of the newspaper. Back to work. Or mooching. Or shivering. Or whatever it is I do to contribute to the Great Pension Fund in the Illinois sky.

Pain and puzzlement

Four things I’m tired of and one thing that puzzles me:

1. I’m tired of road construction on Interstate 90. Seems to never end, yet the roadway is never smooth either.
2. I’m tired of paying $4.04 a gallon for gas. Stupid Illinois gas tax.
3. I’m tired of formatting my book!
4. I’m tired of my green toenails. Note to self: OPI’s Mermaid’s Tears might look good on a sea creature, but it just looks monstrous on my feet. Green is not an attractive nail color.

And the one thing that puzzles me? Why is Maroon 5 singing about Mick Jagger and payphones? Aren’t those symbols a little out of time with the Maroon 5 crowd? My stepson says tonight, “What does ‘moves like Jagger’ mean? I mean, I know who Jagger is, but what does he move like? Is it a dance move or does he have an Elvis thing going on?”

I prescribed a few minutes with You Tube.