Eggconomy 101

An Easter egg hunt my kids went to the other day turned into a lesson in capitalism vs. communism.

My daughter arrived at the appointed hour (my son waited for me, so we were a couple minutes after nine), and the hunters had already scoured the field clean. Baskets overflowing. My daughter found 2 eggs. My son: zero.

Okay, you might say it’s survival of the fittest, this game, this race–more skill than chance. Snoozers are losers. But this elbows-out aggression over cheap plastic eggs filled with even cheaper chocolate has always seemed to me a strange way to mark the resurrection of Christ or the spring equinox, depending on your religious point of view.

And the trouble here is: The rules of this children’s game, in our neighborhood at least, is just 12 eggs per child–an attempt to ensure a fair distribution of goods among the members of our community. After all, we were supposed to contribute 12 such eggs per child to ensure the supply was sufficient.

But, alas, the Achilles heel of communist idealism: if there’s no dictator to enforce the rules, people don’t exactly “commune” on their own.

“Come on, kids,” I said. “Let’s go. This is a bust.”

As we walked away, a few older kids came up and redistributed their wealth, handing a few eggs to our children, a gesture urged by parents nearby who heard my griping or saw our 7-year-old’s pinched face.

The Haves reaching out to the Have Nots: More an issue of guilt over their own avarice than altruism, maybe, but a kindness nonetheless.

Censor Me Happy

I’m a big fan of classic film, mostly pre-1970s flicks, before the shift to super-realist violence and pedestrian/obvious sex.

Most of the movies from the Twenties through the early 1960s, oddly enough thanks to the censoring limits of the Hayes Code, are also pretty good fare for family filmfests at our house.

The ‘ick factor’ at least is pretty low. No ‘F’ or even ‘S words.’ No semen jokes. No gory, blood-splattered gunplay. Consider the likes of Abbot & Costello’s Rio Rita, with it slapstick scenarios and wacky wordplay. Then there’s the all-time great adventure movie The Adventures of Robin Hood, starring Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland: great raucous fun, with more than a dash of chivalry and on-screen chemistry. Or the iconic musical, Singing in the Rain, which is funnier than one might think.

The only ‘ick’ factor for these films and others, according to my son is: “Why does there have to be romance?“

But I’ll take a soft kiss and embrace from our pop culture any day.

Twinkie-gate

As you might imagine, I got a lot of flack over my ode to Hostess snacks.

I admitted * gasp * my affection for the Ho Ho, even though I am as organic/farm-to-table/no-transfat as the next girl. Since way back.

I just hate propaganda–and self-rightousness.

Funny thing is: some of the same people who eschew the Twinkie, or McDonald’s, are happy to down a 400-calorie Starbucks mocha latte or a 2,000-calorie Chipotle burrito.

Glass houses have glass kitchens too.

So Much for Grass Seed

It’s a resigned, anxious feeling getting ready for a disaster for days at a time. Batteries, check. Gas, check. Halloween decorations in, check. Small gestures, really, when  Frankenstorm comes knocking. Sort of all pitchforks and flickering fire sticks.

A Couple of Hayseeds

Well, we carefully watched over our grass seedlings. And, in just a few days, green shoots starting sprouting. I called my husband at work: “The grass is coming up!” (The seeding of lawns always seems to spawn waiting-for-offspring anxieties).

Then I noticed our seedlings seemed a bit wider than usual. The back of my brain told the front of my brain that maybe this was not grass. But the front of my brain refused to listen.

Turns out, that straw we bought at the last minute at Michael’s Craft Store, that cost just $7.99 for a small bale, was not such a good idea.

It was chock full of hay seeds. So our trusty straw scarecrows have been guarding their own hayfield squarely in our back yard.

Alliterative Landscaping

My husband, Brian, planted some grass seed in the back yard and found three small scarecrows in the shed. They now stand, in a relative phalanx.

“Sentinels of the Seed!” he paid tribute, “Guardians of the Grass! Friends of the Fescue!”

I knew that master’s degree in poetry would come in handy someday.

Serial Killer TV

I’m one of those people who likes to watch TV to wind down before bedtime, you know, to flip through the disengage-from-the-day style of programming. I’ve long been a fan of all of the “info’ channels: The Science Channel, History Channel, Discovery, the Military Channel, The Learning Channel, The Smithsonian Channel, History Channel 2, etc. etc. Used to be, I could count on these niche cable networks for a good dose of documentary lite—-that perfect blend of Sir David Attenborough voiceovers and long shots of antelopes on the savannah, or the grainy WWII footage of fighter pilots soaring high above the earth.

Lately, however, at the all-important 9 or 10 o’clock hour, I’m more likely to get a good case of PTSD than the sleepies. Consider the programming mix one recent night: ‘Man Eating Supercroc,’ ‘Death Beach’ (killer sharks), ‘Night Stalkers’ (more crocs), ‘Serial Killer Earth,’ ‘Top Secret Weapons Revealed,’ and ‘Very Bad Men’ (which featured a LA serial rapist and gang violence).

Not to mention The Learning Channel (TLC), which could be renamed TFC: The Freak Channel. The show ‘Taboo’ that same night featured an overweight man who wore diapers and slept in an oversized crib (clutching a teddy bear), as well as women who carry around “reborn” dolls that have been repainted to look like creepy almost-babies.

My last hope was ‘How Do They Do It,’ in which “hosts and correspondents showcase the world’s favorite ice cream flavor.” I took a deep breath during the commercial break, then fell asleep before I could find out which one it was.

Channeling ‘The Office” Part II

So, on my son’s next day in First Grade, crisis struck: he was left out on the playground when his class went inside. (He said he’d been playing Wall Ball with his shoe with a boy from another class). After the Panic Surge (the teacher also quickly burst out the door after finding a gap in her head count), he regrouped.

At home, after telling us that he’d been scared yet avoided any tears, he sighed: “What a thing to happen on your second day.”

Channeling ‘The Office’

My son is just entering First Grade and I think he already has an inkling about work-life realities.

“How was your first day?” I asked.

“It was okay,” he said, and then paused. “But stress, stress, stress.“

PTSD: Post-Traumatic Storm Disorder

So I was out at Fresh Market today and one of the employees looked a bit rattled.

“It looks pretty cloudy out. I haven’t checked the weather today . . . “

Turns out that he had lost power after the derecho for more than a week, and the gloomy sky was giving him flashbacks. I told him the forecast just called for a light drizzle, but that I too still had my freezer half full of ice– just in case.

And I know we’re among thousands of regional residents suffering from a sort of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder after the latest rounds of power outages. We did not lose electricity this time, but were without power for seven days after Hurricane Irene, and in lock-down mode during the twin storms of Snowmageddon. A tree in our front yard dropped a megabranch on our new car after an overnight thunderstorm. Any new round of storms often brings on anxiety, jitteriness, trouble sleeping, and/or incessant Weather Channel checks. Essentially, as PTSD often goes, it’s hard to get out of survival mode.

And the way things are going lately climate-wise, maybe survival mode is the new normal.