Can’t get your kid off their phone? It’s your fault

Tired of only seeing the top of your kid’s head every time you’re at the dinner table or in the car? Wondering what text conversation could possibly be more important than a family dinner or some one-on-time with Mom or Dad?

Conservatively speaking, we’ve now had about a decade of societal saturation with cell phones and computers. Ten years ago, some parents were still debating if they needed the internet in their homes, and whether schools should be integrating computers into their curriculum. How quaint.

When my kids were small, it was Super Mario luring them away from riding their bikes and wrestling. I fretted over studies that said if I didn’t limit their screen time my sons would grow up stunted and fat, emotional cripples who would live out their lives in a dark room staring at a glowing screen, and that room would probably be in my basement.

Fast forward ten years, and the reach our children has is extraordinary. The world is literally in their hands, and that world, in turn, can send grappling hooks right into their developing brains. But I’ve noticed a subtle change in the response of parents. Back then, stymied parents admitted their children knew far more about computers than they did, that they were at a severe disadvantage because they were struggling to learn something their children had always known. They wanted to curb their kids’ enthusiasm because they didn’t share it.

Now, you’re upset that your kids are addicted to their electronics, but they’ve probably learned from the best: you. If you take calls outside of work during time you’re spending with your children, you’re still at work. You are not with your children. If you’re chasing your timeline on Facebook or Tweeting while you’re kids are in the room, they know exactly what matters most to you.

Don’t think that if you’re all watching a show you’re exempt, or if you’re walking along a street. Your primary focus is elsewhere, and they know it. We interact with our kids on many different levels and taking in the world as they process it requires you to be there with them, not randomly engaging between calls.

Sound harsh? It’s meant to. I’m indicting myself as well. I flinch when I see another person wheeling a stroller down the sidewalk, yakking away on a cell phone. It’s great that you take your kids to the park, but if you’re sitting on the sidelines with your nose buried in your phone, who are they going to be yelling, “hey, look at me!” to? And they do yell that and you yelled that and kids are supposed to yell that. And you’re supposed to be looking.

Car speakerphones are awesome, but the only thing that comes across to those with you is there are other people who are getting your attention. Once in a while? Sure. Every time? It’s up to you. Don’t think I’m only talking about toddlers and primary schoolers. Your teen might need those unoccupied gaps in a conversation, those lulls in the car, to finally bring up a difficult subject. If you’re always busy or distracted, there is never a good time. They will find someone to listen; you might not like who that ends up being.

I don’t know many people who haven’t been sucked into a vortex of wasted time on the internet, either on occasion or regularly. Our kids are no different, except they are even more suggestible than we are. You can lay down all the rules you like, but they will learn by watching you.

You.

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I’m not moody, I’m just thinking

I am mulling.

It’s become a lost art. If you publish something about anything, you have to do it immediately, before someone beats you to it. People who write about TV or film have to write before they’ve even watched the final credits. Because someone else started writing during the opening credits. So, get it out there, forget the polish, forget the time to let the echoes catch up to you – forget the mulling. Some sites that used to provide great reading now don’t. I’m sure some writers push out entire columns in less time than it takes Jamie Lee Curtis to have a probiotic poop. Jamie’s results may be worth a commercial, but those dashed out articles aren’t.

Journalism has always been about the first and the best. Always. Good reporters are supposed to be right there in the middle of the night in the middle of the rain following the proverbial bloody footprints right after (and sometimes ahead of) the authorities. They gather and report facts. The great ones investigate. That’s good journalism – now also taking a huge hit in our Everything Should Be Free culture. But commentary is not that; commentary should involve reflection and opinion and mulling. Much mulling. Instead, all writing is becoming about following the bloody footprints, especially if those footprints were made by a pair of Louboutins worn by a girl who once had her own show on Disney.

My inbox is inundated with surveys and studies about every subject under the sun. This is the problem when, early in your writing career, you fill out a form so advertisers can target you with press releases. If you’re an idiot, you check everything from cars to children to insurance to women to relationships to parenting to nutrition to healthcare to teens to seasonal because hey, it all looks interesting. It’s not, and you can’t reverse that river. So, random stuff lands in my mail and sometimes I’ll find a good piece, and I’ll commence mulling. Within a few hours, someone who resisted mulling will be trotting out those ‘facts’. If I’ve mulled for a few days and I file for the following week, it’s like getting to a party and all the crab dip is gone.

If all you wanted were numbers, you could find them easily enough. We don’t need conduits who add nothing. Even if you don’t agree with my mullings, they broaden the conversation. I need broader conversation; the only people I know who believe they don’t are the people who need it the most.

I like to give things a think. Often I’ll start out with an opinion, full of piss and vinegar. As I mull and write and mull, I find things I hadn’t thought of or judgments I made that were off base. For too many of us, we rocket along with long-held convictions that are either wrong, or no longer right, or need an upgrade. Mulling lets me rethink and reframe not only my beliefs, but my assumptions. Mulling takes the wheel so I can put down the window and finally see and feel all the things I’d been missing.

I have a great friend who doesn’t understand my compulsion to re-read great books. Once she’s done, she’s done. No, I tell her. The book may be the same, but I am different. My world at 25 is not my world now, so it’s going through a whole new filter.

I have to give myself the gift of not getting swept up in someone else’s undertow. Life’s not always about the crab dip.

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Handywoman’s ego: Some assembly required

I have been in urgent need of a free-standing linen cabinet for my bathroom. I’ve urgently needed one for the two years that have passed since the bathroom was renovated.

A year ago I handed the task to my sister, Roz. She is like a slot machine for these kinds of problems: I just put all the factors in an email to her, pull on the arm and wait to see what pops out. She’s a detective solving a not very important crime.

For months, she sent me links. No, nearly, yes but too expensive, too short, too tall, wrong colour, too wide, wrong shelf, too cheesy … the list went on. Last week she hit pay dirt and found exactly what I wanted. After a year.

“It’s on sale. Hurry up, go get it,” she told me.

“OK. I’ll head over later today.”

“I know you. You won’t. I checked — the store near you has eight in stock, but they’re going to go fast. Call and reserve one.” I did in fact forget to go that night, but the next day Ari, 20, wanted the car and I told him he had to pick up the cabinet. I offered to write it down. He said he’d remember. The phone rang 30 minutes later.

“I’m in the store. What’s it called again? I don’t see it.” This is the way men shop. They stand in a store staring sadly at shelves, then call home to ask under their breath what it was they refused to write down in the first place.

He brought it home and plunked the heavy box in the living room. Ari is the one who builds things. I am the one who stands above him asking if he’s doing it right. Christopher, 22, is good with sledgehammers. With success sitting so tantalizing close, I couldn’t believe Ari wasn’t assembling it immediately. He muttered something about how a day or two hardly mattered after all this time.

I carefully opened the box and took out each piece. One by one, I checked off each component against the master list. Each panel, each dowel, each hinge. This took me about an hour. Ari wandered by as I squinted at tiny screws I imagined gnomes might use.”You think if I see all this stuff I’ll do it for you, don’t you? You’ll think I think you’re pathetic; I see what you’re doing here,” he said. I shook my head. “Actually, I’m having fun. Look, I made sure I had all the pieces first.” I waved my arm like Vanna White revealing a letter.

Ari remained in the room as I began assembly. He glanced over as I triumphantly fastened-and-doweled a front arch together. He frowned.

“It’s not lined up. I think you did that wrong.” I explained that you couldn’t expect perfect machining on heirloom furniture that came unassembled in a box. It was close enough. Half an hour later, I was frantically trying to wriggle the pieces apart — I’d glued the dowels — because one was indeed upside down.

It slowly took shape, my sense of accomplishment going up as the unit did. A glass door, burnished handles and small drawer finished it off. I had no pieces left over, a sure sign of triumph.

The drawer wouldn’t go in. Ari peeked inside and told me the roller things were upside down. He grabbed the screwdriver to remove them.

“You don’t even have to say lefty-loosey in your head, do you?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, smiling.

“I do.”

“I know you do.”

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While Mom’s away, the cat gets lost

I was away recently for work, and the trip took a Gilligan turn: I was away longer than anticipated. I decided to check in with the kids, which I rarely do. I usually ignore them if it’s only a few days, because initiating contact only results in questions about whose turn it is to take out the blue bins and which Visa card will work. I flipped Christopher, 22, a note on Skype to let them know I’d be a few days late.

We have a house rule when I travel, which is I’m not to be contacted about something I can’t do anything about. It sounds harsh, but they’re grown- ups (sort of) and whether I’m across the country or across the world, the logistics of getting back from sometimes remote places to oversee stitches or a leaky roof becomes a moot point; it’s already been taken care of by people more qualified than I.

“Doesn’t anyone love me or miss me?” I typed to Ari, 20.

“I do. I might sign up for a flag football league.” If this was all I was missing, I should be grateful, I told myself. A message from Christer chimed in.

“Maggie ran away for, like, 12 hours last week,” he typed.

Maggie is 13 years old. She is a 5 pound indoor cat. Maggie does not run away. My heart clenched, admittedly more than it would have if he’d said his brother had run away.

“What happened? Is she okay?” I felt faint.

“Ari was barbecuing and left the screen door open. She got out. We couldn’t find her inside later.” I pictured my wee calico girl lost in the wilderness, and then I read his words again.

“TWELVE hours?”

“I heard her crying in the rain on the deck 11 hours later. She’d been hiding in the shed.”

Now we’d added rain. And a shed full of spiders and sharp tools. Maggie gets upset if one of the other cats takes her special spot on my bed. I may have sent Christopher another note, and it may have said things like, “she’s my baby, OMG, OMG, OMG” and “is she okay? My poor baby.” Maybe. I’m also aware I said up there my kids could sew their own ears back on and yet I was searching airline schedules because my cat had been hiding in the shed and had been found safe.

It now dawned on me that the guilty party had been more interested in flag football.

“I JUST HEARD ABOUT MAGGIE!” I loudly typed at Ari.

“She just wanted to be an outdoor cat,” he replied. If there was a font for shrugging, he would have used it.

“She is not an outdoor cat. You are mean.”

“It’s not like I said, ‘hey Maggie, go sit in the shed and I’ll come get you in 7 hours,” he replied. I told him I loved him and I’d be home in a few days. He told me the cats should be fine until I got back. I was not reassured. I considered asking Pammy, Christopher’s girlfriend, to take a picture of Maggie beside a newspaper with the current date. I then decided they laugh at me enough behind my back. I sent Christopher a note saying good night and take care of each other.

“I’m fine. We’re fine. Go away. Love you. Etc, etc, etc.”

It’s those “etc”s that worry me.

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What lies beneath the iceberg of social media

How much could someone find out about you, even if you’ve never met? Should you care? I don’t mean the famous or infamous. I mean private people, everyday people.

When meeting someone new, small talk isn’t really small at all. Without fail, one of the first questions is usually, “What do you do?” An article recently made the rounds, the author stating he holds off that question as long as possible. When it’s finally asked – and answered – he replies with, “that sounds hard.” His thinking is we all believe our work is hard, and thus will be wildly flattered that somebody else appreciates it.

I don’t like stuffing someone into a pigeon hole to define them before I even know them, and it’s not difficult to ask what they write, research, treat, cure, teach, dig, draw, build, design, repair, service, save, destroy, lead, run or miss. You can express interest without pandering. I say this mostly because if someone told me my job sounded hard, I’d laugh at them. My job may require a lot of time, a skill set that differs from theirs and opportunity, but I can think of many things harder than what I do, like mining coal, battling forest fires and teaching Grade 8.

It’s actually kind of quaint to believe there is much mystery left. You can meet someone, excuse yourself and go Google them on your phone, if you are so inclined. Most people have something out there, and some people have an awful lot of somethings. Many put much personal information across social media and forget it’s there, hanging in the ether should anyone care to look. If you toss it up, I presume you meant to.

The problem sets in after the small talk, after the mutual niceties have sent us on our separate ways. If we meet up again, am I obligated to pretend I haven’t discovered you’re a rambling nut job, or do I have to go by what you have carefully meted out to me in person? At what point do we get to admit what we know, especially if information was placed in the public sphere by that individual?

We tend to herd ourselves in like groups, so I’m sure if you put Bible quotes up on Facebook you’re preaching to the choir, so to speak. If you like to babble on about the fabulous success of trickle-down economics, I’m quite sure your audience is also made up of fans of Ronald Reagan and whoever else is currently lining the pockets of the rich with the hides of the poor. Everyone can find a station playing their song.

A friend had to purge her Facebook feed of nearly all her family members. They not only do not share political views, she was tired of being assaulted with strident, one-note rantings about many things she holds dear. The problem is she can’t actually ditch them; she can “hide” them so she doesn’t see, but she’s well aware that the trees are still falling all over the forest.

If you stand before me and say something I consider racist or bigoted or sexist or simply way out of line, I’d just say so. Few of us rage face to face, but on the Internet, the hits just keep on coming. The integrity of social interaction still exists if we shake hands, and differing opinions are handled or skirted.

You might want to do a check on yourself (and your settings) to see what the world can see, and see what’s representing you. Employers check, neighbours check, people you don’t know check.

You should check.

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Your secrets are safe from your kids, until they compare notes

I nearly flipped right past the perfume ad in the magazine. I don’t wear perfume, and when those little samples explode I get a headache. If the Internet has been good for nothing else, it has saved migraine sufferers a lot of grief when they just want to read a feature about lifestyles of the rich and famous, or rich and saintly, or rich and hostile. But I stopped on this ad because of the list of ingredients.

Jasmine, rose and gillyflower. There really is such thing as a gillyflower.

My mom used to sing all the time. Whether she was dusting, cooking, baking or gardening — all the time. They were always songs from her childhood, which became the music of mine along with a little sprinkling of Dean Martin and Mario Lanza. She loved me a bushel and a peck; I was her sunshine; I was the apple of her eye. We had a piano, and my mom could play anything by ear using two hands. Her hands were light and graceful, her bracelet clinking against her watch like an added musical instrument. After a year of lessons I could manage a song about swans that I plodded through with movements that can only be described as goats wearing galoshes. In mud. The rest of us were not very musically inclined but her gentle singing was the backdrop of my youth.

I didn’t think about it much until the boys were born, and I found myself singing the same songs to them, minus Dean Martin and Mario Lanza. My less-than-dulcet tones were met with mixed reviews: I remember Christopher, at about age four, asking if I could not sing anymore. He said it gently, as if I was the toddler, but I got the message. Ari on the other hand, used to ask me to sing him “his” songs when he was tiny, but not too loud so nobody would know. I loved him a bushel and a peck; he was my sunshine; he was the apple of my eye. Christopher would have been but he turned out to be a music critic.

My mom played fast and loose with lyrics, improvising on the spot to personalize any song, sort of like a rapper in a tweed skirt with a roller set. My own special song was called You’re My Raineyflower. I have no idea how it went, only that it was my theme song. Then I overheard her singing You’re My Rozzyflower to my other sister, and in due time, You’re My Gillyflower. My sisters, Roz and Gilly, were listening to bastardized lyrics. I wasn’t sure how to let them know.

As a middle child and therefore the peacekeeper in the family, I used to just smile and nod when I heard my Mom singing the wrong lyrics. The world is a tough enough place without realizing that your mother might be lying to you about some things. I let it go, just another secret between her and her Raineyflower.

Until yesterday, when I saw the perfume ad. Gillyflower. I ran to the computer. There is no Raineyflower. There is no Rozzyflower. My mother’s name was Iris, so she could afford to be handing out flower names with little regard for veracity. I still have the gorgeous irises growing in my yard that Dad grew for her, and every spring I’m reminded of her gentle presence, her beauty that lasted a lifetime and her wanton disregard for the truth. I’m sure it could have been worse. For all I know she might have considered giving my Dad a personal song.

Alfredflower.

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The Brownie Pledge never included peeing on someone’s front step

I was a Brownie for one year. I was 7. I tell you this because the only time I remember is when I see a woman wearing a scarf that’s tied at the neck and I saw one last night. I recall two lasting memories of being a Brownie: how to tie that little knot on the scarf, and to remember not to pee on somebody’s front step.

I just looked up what Brownie’s get to wear today. T-shirt, cargo pants, a sash and a scarf. I had to wear a brown skirt, brown shirt, brown knee socks, a weird little brown elastic belt and that scarf, all topped by a little brown beret that made me look like an acorn. Today’s uniforms look darling; mine looked like tired dirt. But I will forever remember right over left and under, left over right and under. If you ever need someone to tie your scarf, call me. Perfect little square, every time.

I liked being a Brownie, though I would have preferred being a Boy Scout. I didn’t know why we had to wear skirts, and I was more into burning things than cleaning things. To this day my sister will tell you Mom lied to get me that housekeeping badge. She is mistaken. I did try to rack up the badges in record time, but housekeeping took me the longest. This is called “foreshadowing”.

I was already wearing clunky brown orthopedic shoes which matched the uniform perfectly, about the only thing in my life they did match. They were supposed to straighten out crooked feet that would ultimately require surgery the coming year, but they never did. Those shoes were ugly and they were expensive and I was bitter about them.

For the colder months, we could switch to brown leotards. I was now head to toe dirt brown, the only break that little knotted scarf. Like all good Brownies, we sold Girl Guide cookies door-to-door, Girl Guides who got to wear stylish blue uniforms I was too impatient to ever get to. I had never done a cookie campaign, but the fifteen cents we paid in dues each week was a drop in the bucket and the cookies were where the real dough was, so to speak.

An Owl (Brown, Snowy, or Tawny) would drive us around, her trunk full of cookies. We’d go in pairs, our tiny brown selves nervous but eager to do a good job. Everybody said weren’t we sweet and we’d smile shyly and they’d buy cookies. It was the easiest sales job I ever had, and years later I would wish I could use Brownies to sell everything.

An older lady answered the door at our final house of the day. As she went off to find her purse, we stood on her front step. I had to go to the bathroom, but thought I could make it until I got home, only two blocks away. We waited. And waited. And waited some more. By the time she got back, I’d piddled myself. I thought I was being quite stoic, smiling grimly as my brown leotards and orthopedic shoes took the brunt of the assault. “Oh my dear, you could have asked to use the bathroom,” she said, alarmed. So much for a graceful exit. I ran home. I still pass that house most days, and I’m sure it’s current owners have no knowledge of its dark past.

The lesson was never about tying the scarf. It was in knowing if I needed help, I could always just ask.

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Sometimes, you can go home again

Thomas Wolfe told me I can’t go home again, but I’m still where I started 50 years ago. I know what he meant; I’m not the same even if the house is, and too many of the people who formed the memories are now ghosts I catch in my peripheral vision if the light is just right.

I got an invitation the other night. Margot and I had been friends as children, and she was in town visiting her parents. Come for dinner, she said. Another friend, Jill, would also be there as her own family here pulled her from her Dutch home. I smiled, thinking of our eight-year-old selves, three little blond girls who could never have conceived of being 50 and yet now, still remembered being eight.

I’d last knocked on this door 40 years before. Lois Finstad welcomed me, then touched my arm and told me she loved reading my columns. I was caught off guard; what if my own Mom could be saying that? I brushed it off as selfish longing at the time, but after an evening with Lois and John Finstad and their extended family, I knew it wasn’t. It was simply a wish for something I couldn’t have yet felt intense gratitude that they could.

Grandkids bustled around setting the table as sons-in-law reached high shelves for Lois navigating her kitchen with the practice of thousands of family dinners. A call for more chairs sent John to the basement; I was concerned until I saw his snow white hair as he shoved a chair through the door, and asked how many more we needed. This was my Dad once, and this is Margot’s dad now, and I’m equally happy and envious.

Those three little blond girls sat together and laughed and remembered. The rest of the table smiled indulgently as we recalled detentions for passing notes, mean bus drivers, famous classmates, the dating, the marrying, the kids and our lives now. We’d been enrichment kids – the Nerd Herd according to my son. Fated to find each other based on IQ tests, but bonded over the things that really mattered.

“Hey, I was a cheerleader in high school,” said Jill. This surprised me, and my expression revealed that. “My sister was one, so I wanted to be one. It was terrible,” she finished, laughing. Her own kids are exceptional athletes; Margot’s family has followed a similar track, with John’s Norwegian homeland figuring prominently in the discussion.

“I was a cheerleader,” said Lois. We all turned to this beautiful lady, as calm in her manner as her husband was animated. She’s also an award-winning synchronized swimmer. I looked at my hands, knowing the sportiest thing I do is brush my teeth.

“Well, I watch a lot of Netflix,” I said, adding nothing to the conversation.

“Oh! Netflix!” exclaimed John. “We found the funniest thing ever on there! Lois, what was it called? The ski jumper one?” I watched as John proceeded to act out the show, laughing so hard he could barely get the words out. My own father used to do this, and we’d laugh at him laughing. You couldn’t not; how do you not find joy in someone willing to go to such lengths to share something they love?

The conversation moved on, three little blond girls giggling still, grandchildren slipping away to their own pursuits. I left in a whirl of hugs and thanks for a jewel of an evening.

Two days later, I got an email from the Finstads with the name of the show.

Thank you, Lois and John.

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Nobody wants to end their life: they want to end the pain

Since telling you 5 years ago that I live with bipolar disorder, I’ve said little else about it. I’m noisy and public, but Motherlode is about my life and being bipolar is merely one facet of it.

In the days following the suicide of Robin Williams, I started receiving notes. People were asking me if I was okay, if I was I going to write about it, would I please write about it.

“But he had everything to live for,” some say. No, he had everything we’re told you should live for, if fame and family and fortune were truly everybody’s goal. He was reportedly facing other major health issues, but by 63, most of us are. I made the mistake of believing he had outrun something I know in my heart can’t be outrun; it merely sits in the shadows waiting to re-emerge.

Robin Williams was open about his struggles with depression and addiction. His stand-up comedy used his damage as material and laughing at him – and with him – made it possible to laugh at my own demons. His loss has not just saddened me, it’s scared me. There was vindication in hearing your thoughts and fears coming from another.

Loving someone whose broken mind leads them down dark paths wears you the hell out. You can exhaust yourself looking for reasons, answers and ways to help. The sad truth is you can’t prevent someone from taking their own life using guilt, fear, anger, or love. Knowing those things becomes not a reason to stay alive, but yet another burden. It’s a desperate, reflexive answer – if you kill yourself, you will break my heart – yet when you can’t bear your own despair, being responsible for someone else’s is crushing, and ultimately impossible.

Robin Williams’ death has rocked a lot of people already perched on an emotional ledge. It felt personal because he seemed like such a decent human being, as a friend of mine put it. His dark side was his literal dark side, which he shared in his humour as well as his more reflective roles. He exposed his own melancholy, a word both beautiful and barren. He gave us pieces of himself we used to light our own way while he disappeared into the dark.

I rage against the language that swirls around mental health, around suicide. It is not weakness, nor cowardice, nor selfishness. It is a desperate bid to not be those very things. It is being a foot soldier in a war so overwhelming those trained to fight it can barely define it.

With the tragic passing of Robin Williams we’ll say, again, that now is the time to talk about it. And we’ll let it slide back to the shadows, because we’ll go on pretending we don‘t need to find answers if we can keep believing those we lose are weak, are cowards. I’ll never be cured of my disorder; I manage it with good days and bad, but I will challenge anyone who says I don’t live it with all the strength and dignity I possibly can.

So, here is my proposal to you. Look inside your own heart and your own family. Recognize that depression and other mental health issues thread their tendrils deep into family trees. Shake out the family secrets; shed the cloak of things we just don’t talk about. Grandparents, turn a light backwards through the decades, and reveal histories that could help your children and grandchildren be safe. Imagine the power of a teenager being told a grandparent understands. Have mental health discussions openly and often; make avenues of help available even if they preclude confiding in you; prioritize reaching out for help over keeping secrets.

We need early, correct diagnosis. We need a medical community dedicated to working in tandem to supply treatment, and we need patients and families who commit to working that treatment. We need workplaces openly supporting their employees. Don’t let this conversation slip away, and let the loss of my favourite sad clown remind us to be vigilant, to be kind and to be open.

Ultimately, I can’t stop anyone from killing themselves. But I can let them know that many of us are often holding on for morning. You aren’t alone.

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What have you done with my Special K?

They changed my Special K.

When I’m not at home, I have what I consider to be an adventurous enough palate. When I travel, I look for local specialties, even when it’s a raw scallop, cooked reindeer or something called Aquavit, a traditional drink in Sweden that tastes like paint thinner. I know how to live on the epicurean edge.

At home, my culinary wanderlust stays in my carry on. Food is fuel and if it weren’t for the kids, I’d probably never cook again. I’ve been known to eat cereal around the clock, which is how I made this most recent discovery.

Let me back up a little. When we were kids, we weren’t allowed to have the sugar laden cereals that made childhood worthwhile. We could have shredded wheat, Rice Krispies or Corn Flakes. Once a year, Mom would spring for Winnie the Pooh cereal (yes, that was a thing) or Cocoa Puffs. We would spoon the sugar into our mouths and imagine this was how some children lived every day because their parents loved them.

Now I am in charge, I buy Shreddies, Rice Krispies and Special K. Our cereal tastes like sad feels. We mix things up sometimes with granola, and Pammy has been known to toss in some Raisin Bran when she does the shopping. Raisins are the devil’s minions, and she’s the only one who considers that a treat.

So, late one night, I was scrounging for something to eat. I pulled a box of Special K down, and opened it. It wasn’t until they landed in the bowl that I realized something was amiss. These were not my tiny flakes of blah. These flakes were big, and frilly, and…different. I looked at the box. It said they were a new recipe. I didn’t want a new recipe. If I wanted a new recipe, I would have jumped into a volcano and bought Frosted Flakes.

Sighing, I hit them with some milk and went along with the unwanted, unexpected experiment. They felt wrong. My palate has been trained to appreciate small soggy bits, and these new ones were endeavouring to stay crispier, longer. I could tell their goal without even reading about it. And every time a cereal proclaims that it will stay crunchy, even in milk, I can only think of the movie Christmas Vacation when Clark Griswold creates something called cereal varnish. The manufacturers would never call it that, but that is precisely what they wish they could do.

I don’t expect my Special K to stay crispy. If you want cereal that does that, you buy granola that tastes like small pebbles and twigs. You could leave that stuff overnight and it wouldn’t soften up. Things like Corn Flakes drown in a few seconds, and offer up their limp cardboard bodies to taste buds that have trained for decades to expect little from cereal, and therefore can never be disappointed. Like mine.

When the new recipe was released last year in the U.K., hundreds of people headed to Facebook to sound off about their breakfast being destroyed and others started hoarding the “old” recipe. I must have been distracted by headlines about Syria, the Ukraine, Russia and the Middle East, because I missed the outcry against such an appalling development.

The new version tastes sweeter and looks like a Corn Flake wearing frilly underpants. Our world is lousy enough without me having to look for reasons to be upset, though I would ask Kellogg’s one thing: don’t you remember New Coke?

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