Repackaging

At my age, reading the fine print is more than difficult—it’s sometimes impossible, particularly poring over the ingredients of skin care products. You know the kind: antiaging, antiwrinkle, antibagging, antifart-producing, anticlogging (noncomedogenic), anti-belly-fat-producing creamy stuff, the kind of stuff most guys don’t give a crap about. I want to look as young as my mind says I am, and at the rate I’m going—forgetting simple math and acting childish—my mind figures I’ll be entering junior high pretty soon.

One day I set out for King Soopers, my favorite grocery store, with the goal of reading and comparing antiwrinkle cream and lotion ingredients. Once I identified the best product for the money, I planned to purchase two so I wouldn’t have to subject myself to this embarrassing ordeal more than once a year, like sex. I thought of carrying a magnifying glass, portable potty, and a bottle of wine with me, knowing this project would consume some time, which would give me time to consume some wine, but instead I grabbed my best seeing-up-close glasses, ones I likely scored for an entire dollar plus tax.

Into the store I skipped, demonstrating I was younger than I looked. After picking myself up off the floor, I headed toward skin care. Comparing these age-defying skin formulae felt much like choosing feminine hygiene products when I was a teenager or like evaluating condoms to keep on hand just in case. Really now, what size package was I buying for anyway? Forward-thinking packagers and marketeers should offer a condom variety pack, a just-in-case-the-first-one-doesn’t-fit kind of thing. (Maybe they do already.) And for the small guy, shouldn’t condom manufacturers offer padded sheaths just as bra manufacturers do for the less endowed?

I’d already been buying Olay Complete for a couple years, and Olay was promoting their new Regenerist product line like a guy promotes his best friend, so I gave it some attention. And here is where this whole exercise was worth its weight in coinage: Olay Complete with SPF 15 and Regenerist Age-Defying Anti-Wrinkle Daily 15 SPF had the same ingredients, but the cost was very different:
4.0 ounces of Olay Complete with SPF 15 cost $7.35 that day ($1.84/oz),
3.4 ounces of Regenerist Age-Defying Anti-Wrinkle Daily 15 SPF cost $14.50 ($4.26/oz), and further research showed that
2.7 ounces of Regenerist UV Defense cost $22 ($8.15/oz).

It’s all about the packaging! So I bought two more Completes and smiled as if I’d just been laid in a field of soft, green grass with no bugs.

As an addendum, my generous, beautiful daughter (see her on previous post) bought me a perfect present last year. No, it wasn’t a year’s subscription to Match.com or AARP, not even a body pillow with appendage or a one-way flight to Bermuda. She sent me Neutrogena Rapid Wrinkle Repair moisturizer (1.0 oz for $20). Had this thoughtful gift come from a member of the opposite sex, the giver might well have found mini-sized, padded condoms in his stocking at Christmastime, but my daughter received a big thank you from her old mom.

Now that my second one-ounce bottle is low, I decided to conduct research on its ingredients compared to my previously purchased Neutrogena Healthy Skin Anti-Wrinkle cream (1.4 oz for $13.50). Both products contain retinol; however, the less expensive cream lists retinol as ingredient number 10. If my aging eyes are seeing correctly, and if my mind is calculating accurately, the more expensive one lists retinol as number 26.

So again, I’ll likely skip, carefully, into my favorite grocery and purchase Olay Complete and Neutrogena Healthy Skin Anti-Wrinkle, knowing deep inside my skin-covered soul that I’m still going to get older and wrinkle. What I’m really in a quandary about is how to repackage myself so I can charge a higher rate. What would I sell, though?

But the bigger question is, if a guy repackaged, would he have two?

One Precious Strand

Recently as I did the laundry I found something that brought back a sweet memory. In a whoosh moment, it transported me back to early December 2012 after the deep, navy-blue clouds of November had parted. Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, had passed, thank god, because for three years I’d spent it alone, and the one in 2010 devastated me to such a point, I almost died. But I tripped and stumbled my way through the final remnants of November and greeted December with as much hope as a wounded heart could muster.

It’s funny how my mind can linger on depressing events and make them as bad as the day they happened. Some are life altering. Some have changed a tradition that began after my daughter’s birth—our own traditions, like our annual Thanksgiving dinner shared with friends around our big marble table. She’d ensure the placemats were lint free and the napkins’ open edges faced left. It drives her crazy when I don’t fold them properly after washing them, but I’ve learned, as all obedient moms do, that daughters know everything and to heed their advice. When our friends would arrive, the feasting and storytelling would begin. I missed that for three years.

And then I got the text. “I’ll be in Colorado Dec 18,” my baby girl wrote. Even without toothpicks, I was able to open my squinty, depressed eyes a bit further. and I felt a warm well of hope bubble up from inside. My daughter, my raison d'être, was coming home for Christmas.

Now, my funny mind also romanticizes good memories and sometimes makes them better. In my daughter’s younger years, she slept in my bed with me, not all the time, but particularly after her nightmares—and she had a lot. I’d hear her get up, use the toilet, then walk back into her room and turn on her light. I sleep through nothing.

“Did you have a nightmare?” I’d ask.

“Yeah (pause). Can I sleep with you?”

“As long as you don’t kick.” That’s another funny thing, how a little girl can start on one side of a king-size bed and end up kicking me in the gut on the opposite side. Even with my body pillow in between us, her little foot somehow packed a powerful under-the-pillow punch, so I learned to sleep on a one-foot width of space. Eventually, her subconscious took over and she quit kicking, and I had fewer bruises. So I hoped when she came home, we could fall asleep talking as we sometimes did, like college roommates or good girlfriends.

Another tradition we started years ago was our annual Christmas Eve soirée. We invite about forty friends to pop in for a bite to eat and have a cup of holiday cheer or stay the night if they’d like. The event always fills our home with loving energy for weeks afterward. Memories of guests’ mini gatherings warm the house and replenish the spirit. I wondered if my 19-year-old boss would like to continue that event.

“We have to,” she texted. “It’s tradition. And we have to make our chocolate-chip chili, ’cause people expect it.”

A month’s worth of despondency lifted like removing an x-ray-proof lead apron. I felt as if I’d taken a ten-pound dump and could breathe again. During the following week, I pulled Christmas décor from its box and, with the help of a few notes on where the decorations were to be placed, the house soon started looking bright and festive. Even the gal in the mirror donned an occasional grin and brighter-colored clothes.

December 18 finally arrived, and due to nature’s way, my daughter’s flight was late, but safe. During her time here we played a lot of Ping-Pong, chess, and Pick Two. She even bought me four new pairs of pants, the first new clothes I’ve had in seven years. and I had a treasure hunt for her on Christmas morning. Then on her last night here, I heard her get up at 4:00 a.m., use the toilet, then walk back into her room and turn on her light.

“Did you have a nightmare?” I asked.

“Yeah (pause).”

“Do you want to sleep with me?”

Click. Off went her light. I heard her walk into my room and get into the other side of the bed.

“Good night.” I said, smiling. “No kicking.”

“Night,” she groaned.

* * *

A week after my daughter had flown back to college and I was cleaning my bedding, I saw a long strand of thick auburn hair that somehow made it through the washer. I slowly pulled it from the twisted, brick-red, grizzly-bear flannel sheet and held it up to the light. It shimmered and changed tones as the wavy strand caught light. Butterflies danced in my tummy.

So simple. So sweet. So miraculous. A precious memory of a beautiful daughter captured in one precious strand.

Communion

Soon after Anita and I sat down at church, I said, “I’m hungry.”

She looked toward the front of the church where the large table sits, nodded, and whispered, “Don’t worry. Communion.”

Travel, Holidays, and Other Thoughts

“It’s a small world until an airline loses you luggage.” LAWestin, Jan. 3, 2013

“You don’t realize how much you need something until TSA ruins it.” LAWestin, Jan. 3, 2013

“There’s a correlation between shampooing the carpet one day and either the dog vomiting, the cat emptying his bowels, or a friend spilling a glass of red wine on it the next.” LAWestin, Dec. 15, 2012

If there isn’t one already, there should be a law I will dub Auntie’s Law whose definition is “as soon as you make a commitment to accomplish a goal, complications will erupt like a volcano and flow searing lava over your life, halting all action toward accomplishing your goal.” Auntie Eartha, July 16, 2012

Negative emotions and closed-mindedness stunt spiritual, emotional, and psychological growth.

Is our country and those things for which our country stands important enough to die for? Even if United States citizens don’t stand behind or vote for a particular president and his policies, ideas, and beliefs, our nation still has a better chance of thriving if we work together toward common goals, such as peace, sharing meals, and exhibiting positive actions to indicate our connectedness to each other. A president needs receptivity to absorb others’ input sans judgment, while actually trusting and believing himself. Do we currently have that?

Give a Kidney for the Holidays

Glenn, a dear friend of 30 years, has a daughter, Sandra, who needs a new kidney.

Another friend of 30 years, married Glenn's son, and they now have three daughters, all beautiful in spirit and intention.

Please take a minute and a half to view the gift they gave their Aunt Sandra for the holidays, then please forward this request to everyone you know.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OWVvCniWF4k&feature=youtu.be

Let's make this wish happen! Anyone interested in donating should contact the University of Washington Medical Center at 206-598-3627. The identity of the inquiring person is never revealed to Sandra or her family.

Here is some background information Glenn posted in April.

Filling My Cracks

At fifty-something, manless, and poorer than a millionaire next door pretends to be, I tighten my muscles and tackle most big jobs myself. In the two years past, I’ve had to buy new batteries for my drill, a pump for my hot tub, a new bathtub and surround, roof, windows, manpower, and crack fillers of many kinds—evidence of a writer with too much time on her hands.

My neighbor loaned me Home Improvement 1-2-3: Expert Advice from the Home Depot (1995) that teaches in blonde terms and illustrations how to build and repair things around the house. They usually feature male illustrations, further convincing me I’m attempting gender-inappropriate work and should really return to carrying a briefcase filled with sales material and gender-inappropriate items.

Due to my 1954-vintage house founded on shrinking-when-dry then swelling-when-wet bentonite clay soil coupled with a 10-year dry spell, Mississippi River–size cracks creep up walls and across ceilings making thick moaning and breaking sounds like a lake freezing in wintertime. It’s ominous, though my nightmarish thoughts are prime fodder for a horror flick. Imagine drowning in a king-size waterbed after it fell through the floor. It’s happened to me twice.

In DIY mode, I researched and learned that each of my cracks might need a different filler, sort of like being on the air again (DJs and radio/TV types unite!). Depending on size and location, each substance has its own problem if not inserted into the appropriate crack. Believe me, I’ve had my share of experimentation, not always choosing correctly, and it has led to time-consuming extraction complications. There’s joint compound, Spackle, expandable foam, vinyl concrete patch, concrete latex crack filler, epoxy, and a dizzying variety of caulks. Some materials, once inserted and allowed to age, tend to be rather difficult to remove. I chipped away two-year-old silicone caulking from the upper periphery of my lower brick fireplace with putty knife and hammer. It was no easy job to pull off. Now I understand how hard it must be to remove those big, expensive boobs girls have installed after their spines atrophy.

Last Saturday I used expandable foam to fill a two-inch crack between drywall and the entire chimney masonry unit, an 8’ x 4.5’ x 30’ structure containing two fireplaces and four chimney pots that is literally heading south. It is separating from the rest of the house, headed for warmer climes. By next year, I’ll be able to add a large gun closet where the fireplace used to be, and I’ll build a house around the chimney’s new location. That two-inch crack allowed me to see the garage from inside my home. It also created quite the draft, so I foamed it.

Since the entire can of expandable foam had to be used or it would self-seal, I decided to use the remainder and fill the open-air space between my large, wood garage door and its frame. I don’t waste stuff, including Great Stuff, but I’m blonde and tend to use materials in unconventional ways. A 70-year-old cashmere sweater has been transformed into door insulation, for example.

The day after I foamed the garage door, I got a call from an old friend, “Hey, you want to be spontaneous and enjoy fermented grapes with me?” I said sure, I’d be over in a bit.

But my garage door wouldn’t open. It was expandable-foam shut. Being a bit later than expected, I called my friend and asked, “Have you ever done anything stupid?” then realized he’s a politician and didn’t force a response. So I powered off the phone and chipped the hard, foam-looking material from my garage door, then drove up the cañon for a grape tasting.

That said, a result to seriously consider is that crack fillers are not eternally pliable as girls are with wine. Spackling dries and separates. Some caulk has elasticity, though it’s unsuitable to span large crevices between parting walls. And not all foamy liquids make you burp and pass wind.

When in Doubt, Vote It Out

The following arrived Sunday, October 14, from a friend whose dedication to changing the world continues for the better, at least most of the time:

[edited version] "I just read [El Paso County, Colorado, Sheriff] Terry Maketa’s essay on “Why I need a tax hike for the Sheriff’s Department” and looked at his current budget: $47.8 million. Taking the land area of El Paso County, I subtracted the City of Colorado Springs, which has its own police department, subtracted Fort Carson (military police), the Air Force Academy (more military police), took out Peterson Field [Peterson Air Force Base] (ditto), took out Space Command/NORAD, and did not include Woodland Park, which is in Teller County.

 "So on Maketa's current budget, it is costing us brave souls a million dollars per square mile per year for law enforcement. Just for law enforcement, not roads, bridges, whatever. And he can’t make ends meet at that level. Something is seriously wrong in this country.…
 
"It just struck me that the government is sucking up all of the money 'per square foot,' or 'per capita,' or whatever—one of the reasons the private sector is dead.

"We have to do 'Stormwater' at half a billion dollars, because of lawsuits from Pueblo about the water coming down Fountain Creek. Well, for that money, actually about half that, we could buy the whole town of Pueblo and move it somewhere south of Albuquerque. Things are just getting all out of proportion."

The above-mentioned friend is a successful entrepreneur who established a few national corporations and continues to travel internationally, helping less fortunate countries become self-sustaining. So, with permission, I forwarded my friend's email to other friends, saying, "I'd welcome your comments and received the following."

A. "I think you should become a columnist, in the great style of Andy Rooney. You hit the nail on the head…government is sucking all of our money; either directly, or indirectly."

This friend obviously credited me for the entrepreneur's research, but I need to give him a break—he also resigned from his job the same day he wrote and plans to leave this cowtown. Next…

B. This from an unlikely Harvard Business School grad and current adjunct professor: "I'm against the logic being used and prefer the concept of 'zero-based budgeting' where we don't assume that the infrastructure needed to support the troops on the ground has been well-invested and justified ... the other aspect to consider is that population density varies (open land versus single-family homes versus mega-apartment complexes) ... the purported arguments and logic appear flimsy and we need to review how much of the budget is currently for hands-on protection versus equipment and paper pushers amd middle management ... at least that's my quick overview."

C. "Good to hear from you. Give me a call," from a politician friend.

D. From a former DoD-contractor employee and educator: "If he would deport every illegal alien and make Colorado Springs a very distasteful place for illegals, it would save the county one whale of a lot of money. If the jail were a little more unpleasant, maybe the illegals would leave. They could hassle all of the medical marijuana places. His law enforcement budget covers jails, etc.

"Maybe he needs to copy Joe Arpaio in Arizona. Check this out: www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxNgJk0WSqs
peace."

The next astute response comes from the most credible friend I know, whose intelligence, drive, talent, and sense of humor still blow me away after 27 years. Cream of the crop, this guy. He actually gave me a tour of NORAD in 1985 when he was first manufacturing satellite equipment.

E. "You activist, you! I am in agreement with the writer. I present a few reasons I believe the Sheriff's budget is sufficiently funded at this point. Is there really a need for an El Paso County Explosives Response vehicle complete with robot, or is this an asset that could be shared between city and county? The El Paso County Tactical Rescue Unit? Really? Two HazMat vehicles?

"If the Sheriff's requested sales tax passed, then we, as citizens of Colorado Springs, who comprise over two-thirds of the county population AND provide our own police protection, would be responsible for the majority of the revenue generated. Citizens of Colorado Springs currently pay 0.4 percent Public Safety Sales Tax, a tax approved by the voters in 2001 to assist our city's police and fire departments.

"I am chairman of the PSSTOC, the citizens' committee that oversees spending of these funds. So, if we not only fund our own protection through the general fund but also pay an extra 0.4 percent specifically for our own protection, why in the world should we, as residents of COS, be expected to pay an additional 0.23 percent for protection outside our city limits?

"It should be remembered that the Sheriff's Department does maintain much of the jail facilities. However, we currently pay a 1 percent county sales tax that should generate about $62 million a year from city residents. We also pay miscellaneous fees for roads and bridges through our property taxes and register our vehicles through the county DMV. How much do we need to carry those who live outside our city limits? How much do we and should we rely on county services?

"The statement has been made about the explosive population growth in El Paso County. The majority of this population growth is in the many housing developments in the Falcon, Widefield, Security, and Cimarron Hills areas. Otherwise, I believe it is safe to say that El Paso County has a fairly low population density, consisting of ranches and horse property. Looking at crime statistics for the county, the vast majority of incident reports come from these four areas. Why don't these population centers, especially Falcon, either pay more for their services or create their own police forces?

"I believe Falcon should incorporate, pass their own city sales tax, and create their own police force. Obviously, the residents do not agree. However, we are once again being asked to take responsibility for them. Let them take responsibility for themselves. This, to me, is the crux of the argument. Why are we, as city residents, being asked to fund our public safety and their public safety?

"Luv Ya…"

You heard him: Vote No. Vote No on all judge-retention petitions too—they are not God.

Waldo Canyon Fire

Climbing out of a big, black hole this morning, I could finally see the light of day. As I opened my bedroom blinds and cautiously opened the window, a wonderful, clean, sweet, moist waft of air freshened my lungs and filled the room with much-needed relief. The six o’clock sun’s warmth on my face complemented the cool air emanating from our rain-drenched earth. Praise god. All but two of us made it through hell.

During record-high heat for days in a row, fires devastated a large section of our half-million-peopled city. Those on the west side of I-25 that bisects Colorado Springs found it hard to breathe for a week—not just because of the thick, particulate-filled smoke, but because of fear—fear of being forced from their homes with possibly no home to return to. This happened to 347 families. One couple was unable to escape and succumbed to fire in their destroyed home.

Throughout the week beginning Saturday, June 23, 2012, plumes of residue from burning foliage hung in the air like a thick, dry fog. Many trees had lain on their sides for years, victims of a years-long drought and beetles that preyed upon their weakened bark and flesh. Those living in their midst probably felt the darkness surrounding them, though the Colorado sun burned brightly. Lack of rain drained plants’ resistance to predatory insects and disease making them vulnerable to volatile situations. It would have taken numerous invigorating showers for our trees, shrubs, and other plants to replenish their vitality. As they stood, frail with roots shriveling in dry, crushed granite, they were star-crossed awaiting an executioner’s line.

Like water, wind, and the earth’s bowels, fire has a life of its own. It moves and breathes like a wild animal, but can grow exponentially at lightning speed. Given austere conditions and abundant fuel, all it needs is a spark or dull smolder to bring heat to life. Further encouraged by even a small breeze, fire converts all that is beautiful and ugly into ash. The wild creature, tense from being caged for years, breaks free and grows larger with each discovery. Dried pine needles crackle and spit. Its flames loop around tall cylinders of wood, dancing from limb to twig, changing colors as they interact with sap, moisture, and air. Fire transforms, licking and lapping like a wave at land, sucking life from its victims left dying in its wake. Insatiably, fire consumes the desiccated and affects the green in parched, lively gulps until it is depleted of fuel or man tames it.

Waldo Canyon, whose trail I used to hike at least monthly, held ripe components for a dramatic firestorm for years. How the most destructive fire in Colorado history got its start, we have yet to learn. What we do know, though, is how better to mitigate fire’s reach, how to build more fire-resistant homes, how to more intelligently landscape in an arid clime, and how much we care about each other.

[written Tuesday, July 10, 2012]

Giving Up Prejudice: Loving Dandelions

I’ve held prejudice against dandelions. Shocking, because in October 2010, I blogged about feeling rejected like one—if our feelings were real and acknowledged.

In my yard, alone, dandelions took the brunt of victimization by pluck, hours of it. Now I’m free, and so are they! I love ’em.

Colorado Springs Recommendations: Electric, Garage Doors and Door Openers

Electric. As a person known to repair almost anything, I avoid electrical repairs after having received a strong shock while fixing my hot tub. And though I’ll never need another perm or a pacemaker, the risks, in my opinion, outweigh the benefits of playing home electrician.

One afternoon I decided to enjoy a riveting game of Miller Moth Tag. Currently there are more millers than in a Wisconsin phone book. The goal of the game is to suck the three billion creepy, dusty fellas entering my garage and home each night into the great abyss of my 10-gallon Shop-Vac. If you haven’t tried it, I strongly recommend it, particularly if your hand-eye coordination is suffering and you don’t have a date.

Amidst my joy and determination, I must have touched a lightning bug instead of a miller, because, suddenly, my freezer, alarm system, and garage door opener ceased operation. Panicked and wondering how to rectify this major disaster (that I was certain would cost more than a week’s pay, which would be easy since my weekly income equals zero), I leashed Shiloh and headed out for a hike. These almost-daily jaunts double as thought and prayer time while observing God’s creatures and creation.

Within five minutes, I saw a well-dressed young man step out of a Rocky Mountain Electric van. I got a tingle.

"Gee, I could really use your help," I said to him, then explained my great moth adventure.

Jason Kelly, master electrician, handed me a card and said he’d call after his appointment. Rather than walk-jogging the three-mile trail, I ran so I wouldn’t miss him. As I was leaving the park, he rang. We met at my house, where he quickly assessed and repaired my electrical problem. Jason was my answer to prayer, something I term a miracle.

I recommend Jason (719-229-6633) and believe him to be honest, hard working, kind, and able to handle most electrical challenge.

Garage Doors, Door Openers, and Repair. Practically everything I have is old and falling apart (she said as she looked in the mirror), so when I find a trustworthy, reasonably priced company that handles repairs and replacements, I like to share these treasures with others.

Having had much experience with the folks at American Overhead Door (719-538-9900) to balance my two-ton Crawford oak door on the continually shifting old brick house, I’ve found all technicians skilled, courteous, and timely. They’ve also replaced parts in my early ’90s Sears Craftsman opener. Sure, they offered replacements but appreciated the quality of my Crawford, as well as my desire to use old parts till they’re no longer reparable.

As for plumbing, I’ve been fortunate to have my ol’ pal Norman rescue me from repair to repair.

Kidney Donor Appeal [a guest editorial]

My daughter Sandra is in need of a living kidney donor.

Twenty years ago, Sandra’s diabetes led to her need for a new kidney and pancreas. Through the generosity of a donor family, she received those organs. She worked hard to care for her new organs that have lasted several years longer than expected, however both of the transplant organs have failed.

Currently she is being kept alive by dialysis. Though a person can live several years on dialysis, the procedure requires a person to be attached to a machine for roughly four hours, three sessions per week. Because of the unpleasant side effects, such as nausea, exhaustion, and headaches, coupled with weakening of the body and reduced quality of life, dialysis is a life-sustaining measure, not a solution.

Sandra is on the list for a deceased donor kidney, but for a person like Sandra with blood type O, the wait is more than four years. There are 80,000 to 90,000 people in the United States awaiting a donor kidney. A person with type O blood can volunteer to donate a kidney directly to Sandra. A person with another blood type can donate to the Living Donor Exchange Program, which in turn would donate a kidney to her.

Once a donor steps forward, the procedure can be expedited to within two to three months. About 30 percent of living kidney donors do not know the recipient. Donors can live anywhere in the United States. Surgery for the donor is laparoscopic, and the recovery time is 2 to 3 weeks. Sandra’s insurance pays for donor tests and all other medical costs including surgery and post surgery.

Anyone interested in donating should contact the University of Washington Medical Center at 206-598-3627. The identity of the inquiring person is never revealed to Sandra or her family.

I know this is a lot to ask, but we lost her mother to diabetes and my hope is to have Sandra with us for many more years. I am asking you to talk about the Living Donor Program to many people. I am willing to talk with anyone, including groups, about this need. Please contact me at 719-635-0798. Also, I would ask that you consider becoming an organ donor by checking the donor box on your driver’s license.

 Thank you for your time and your thoughtfulness.

 Glenn Driscoll

Lent ’n’ Easter

For the past few weeks, Pastor keeps talking about Lent. As much church as I’ve attended in my half century of earthen wear, I’m still unclear as to what it really is.

Raised by an old banker dad who headed a loan department, I saw Lent as meaning “loaned yesterday,” as in, “I lent those poor borrowers my daughter each summer so I didn’t have to deal with her.” So to me, Lent is more like Passover, as in, “During my childhood, my dad opted to pass over raising me to poor borrowers each summer.” No kidding.

In the old Wisconsin days, my high school buds and I would joke that we were giving up something for Lent. “Yeah, for Lent I’m giving up smoking and liver.” I didn’t smoke, only morons eat liver, and God already knew I wasn’t about to give up the sinful things I enjoyed.

Research break: I just looked up Lent and learned that it consists of the 40 weekdays from Ash Wednesday to Easter and is devoted to fasting, penitence, and abstinence. I’ve fasted most Fridays for years, but if I had to fast for eight weeks I’d look like Gandhi did, all nose. Abstinence—well, if it’s from sex, my Lent began years ago. If it pertains to beer, forget it.

Easter reminds me of my daughter, Ivy. Late on the Saturday night before Easter when she had just turned four, I hopped ’round the house hiding plastic eggs filled with unhealthy stuff like beef, pork, and onions.

To top off this gourmet with creative juices, I took a piece of printer paper, drew two bunny tracks on it, and cut them out. Then I grabbed the baking soda and headed for the stairway.

Laughing to myself at how clever I was, I sprinkled baking soda through the track holes, two paw prints per step. I’ll admit, I was pretty proud of myself. Here was Miss High-tech Businesswoman stooping over stairs at 10:45 p.m., pretending to be a cute little bunny, all for the joy of her little angel.

Easter morning, the celebration of Jesus’ resurrection, little Ivy rose and began searching for her rotten meat ’n’ onions. (Okay, I hid candy, but that makes me sound like a bad mom.) When she tootled toward the stairway, I was psyched, anxiously awaiting her surprised reaction at seeing bunny tracks. I could almost hear her jubilantly say, “Look, Mommy! The Easter bunny hopped from downstairs!” and be all happy.

Instead, this precocious four-year-old ambled down a few steps, bent down, and closely observed the tracks. She wiped her little hand over the white powder, then rubbed her thumb against her fingers. “Baking soda,” she said. “Why would the Easter bunny walk through baking soda?”

“How do you know that’s baking soda?!” I demanded.

“MOMmy,” she replied, as if to say, “Are you really that dumb?”

Sometimes. I suddenly understood penitence. I should have dropped chocolate-covered rabbit turds instead.