My Political Machine

January 25, 2017.Reading time 5 minutes.

The real political landscape has been such a train wreck of late that it is nearly impossible to turn away. My ideal version of politics doesn’t have staunch opinions, sound platforms, or cohesive arguments as much as it has snark and sarcasm. Over the weekend I made a couple of political observations that received some funny feedback:

I saw a news clip where some demented knucklehead was already talking about assassination and I thought, wow… it took me 49 years to notice that the word assassinate has ass in it twice.

Say what you want about the women’s march, their determination is impressive. If men planned a march we would never choose a cold Saturday in January. We would loosely plan a brief, warm-weather protest that didn’t interfere with football, March Madness, or hunting season. Perhaps something of a global toast during a commercial break.

One of my friends suggested I should run for office. I know it was tongue-in-cheek, but that will never happen because it pseudo-happened once before and the results were disastrous.

Thirty years ago – a young buck, arrived in the big city with pristine ideals and a shimmering view of how things should be. Untainted by the sludgy dregs of political gruel, he set out to make his way in the world. Quickly entrenched in party activism, his work ethic, potential, and shockingly white teeth were spotted and he was raised up as a candidate for the U.S. House of Representatives – or possibly someone with the exact same name as him was, my memory is weak on that point.

And this is just one of a myriad of reasons why I would make a lousy politician – my memory is so bad that I’ve whitewashed it over the years. I am sure I wouldn’t get too far into an election cycle before some dirty little secret from deep in the past would be paraded across the evening news and my handlers would ask, “Is that true?” And there I would be, staring blankly at the screen thinking, “Uh… she looks vaguely familiar.”

But seriously, with everyone holding cameras 24-7, I wonder who will ever be able to run for office again? There is too much film, too many potentially compromising selfies, too many texts for anyone to be clean. Fault and moral weakness can be found in everyone if we dig into their piles of digital information. Then, I remember who just won the highest office in the land…

Strange world we live in.

The truth – a young buck, fresh from college and not concerned about much beyond the weekend in a big city notices that a guy with his exact name was running for congress. He collected his quarters for gas (making sure he didn’t tap into the Friday night fund) and goes down to the party headquarters to volunteer. Signing in as John McClane, he stuffs three envelopes before sneaking out with every yard sign and bumper sticker he can carry, throws them into his jalopy and drives off with the little party manager in his too-short tie chasing after him

I still remember seeing him in the rearview mirror yelling pitifully, “John? Where are you going, John?”

I put those signs and stickers everywhere and told my family that I was running for office. And here is where I learned I had no future in politics. My grandmother immediately said,

“I wouldn’t vote for you. You are way too young and you’ve already made too many dubious choices.”

And there you have it. If you can’t get your grandmother to vote for you, you should never run!

(Bonus points if you recognized my assumed name)

Photo Credit: JD Hancock

Cinnamon Roll Sundays

January 18, 2017.Reading time 5 minutes.

For twenty years at our house, Sunday mornings meant waking up to the sweet, sugary taste of cinnamon rolls. The smell was enough to bring some from their beds and the fear of missing out brought the rest down.

If you’ve ever popped a package of them, you likely have stumbled across Pillsbury’s three design flaws.

First, the little sugar cup in the bottom is sealed loosely with a metal lid. I’m certain I am not the only one who has pulled apart his eight sticky pieces of dough and neglected to notice the little metal lid clinging to the last one. But you find it when the rolls are pulled from the oven because seven are perfect and one is burnt to a crisp. Swine metal lid!

Second, there are never enough. When the girls were young, they plowed through cinnamon rolls like lions at a wildebeest buffet. At some point, eight wasn’t enough so we added a five pack until thirteen wouldn’t hold them. I am sure their tummies had limits, but it seems they would eat them until there were none left. The negotiations over the last cinnamon roll were epic and could be used by the UN as a precedent for global conflict resolution.

The final design flaw is the little cup of sugar icing. No matter how hard you try, it is simply impossible to spread its contents evenly across the warm cinnamon rolls. Two get too much, one gets slighted – equity is impossible to reach. And although white, sticky icing is dripping over the edge of every one, sleepy-eyed children can tell exactly which roll is a milligram short. I spent way too much time stealing from one to give to another like a confectioner Robin Hood and thinking that I had divvied it up perfectly. But the first one down would survey the lot and quickly snatch the two with the most while the straggler would whine about icing insufficiency.

Things are different now. On this holiday weekend, we needed only a five pack to suit them all. The oldest two were home from college and neither eats as much as they used to. The high schooler’s dancing demands a healthier diet. And then there is the one missing. She ate the most cinnamon rolls of all and as our early riser, she always got the pick of the lot.

As I globbed icing on the five lonely cinnamon rolls and desperately tried for icing equality, I stepped back and pondered life’s changes. Time is irreversible despite our best efforts. The things that distract us most: money, career, fame – none of that will stop time. Surgery can only delay its evidence. But time marches on relentlessly. It can’t be stopped. Like the portion of icing at the bottom of the tube, there is never enough. Even though my life is as beautifully imperfect as the cinnamon roll conundrum, I am happy with where I find myself (except the loss, of course.) And yet, making cinnamon rolls takes me back and I find myself wishing for simpler days that have vanished in what seems like a minute.

Sunday morning, cinnamon rolls. The girls devoured all five and the last sleepyhead down complained of her lot – just like old times. Who would have thought they would become a little family tradition? Soon, cinnamon rolls won’t be needed at all because neither my lovely wife nor I eat them. I wonder what lazy Sundays will consist of then.

Are there any flaky little Sunday morning traditions that turn your heart toward home and family?