Kids: You gotta gLove 'em?

Lori Borgman

In our never-ending quest to ensure that our children are safe, protected, risk-free, germ-free and sanitary, we give a nod to gLovies, plastic gloves for children, described as a "simple yet brilliant solution to the 'don't touch that!' problem."

I thought the "don't touch that" problem was solved by giving the child's hand a light rap and saying "No!" but such action is probably considered felonious assault today.

Today, a day in which we find ourselves so enlightened as to border on lunacy, we can purchase plastic gloves for children to protect them from germs on airplanes, public transportation, in grocery stores, public restrooms, playgrounds, theme parks, the zoo and arcades.

Granted, I can see a few practical applications in extreme situations, but plastic gloves as a regular staple, I am having a hard time picturing.

"C'mon kids, put on your flip-flops and grab your gLovies; we're going to the zoo. Yes, Mommy knows it's 90 degrees outside and your hands sweat and feel like they're on fire, but Mommy doesn't want you getting germs."

What do I know? I'm no expert.

No, the experts are the ones giving testimonials for gLovies, experts like the OB/GYN who says, "This is a great product for young children who are meeting a newborn sibling for the first time."

Mom and Dad bring the new baby home from the hospital. Everyone is excited and then Mom says, "Sweetie, you can't touch the new baby until you glove. Suit up!"

Why let the kid touch the baby at all? Why let anybody touch the baby? Studies find that roughly a fifth of the population (and you know who you are) don't wash their hands after using the restroom. In the interest of germ-free living, why not keep a large pair of tongs nearby and let people pick the baby up with those?

Here's an idea, and it may sound totally out there, but why not simply ask people to wash their hands before holding the baby?

I know; it's crazy. Forget I said it.

Let's say you are able to plead, beg and cajole kids into wearing the gloves. Then what do they do?

On the way out the door, they grab the dog's tail, run their hands down the banister, pick up a bug, lift the toilet seat and throw the bug in to watch it swim, grab the door handle that 50 other dirty hands have grabbed, jump into the car, find an old Gummi Bear on the car floor and immediately pop it into their mouths, along with three dirty fingertips from the germ-slick glove.

I pity the kids who are going to be wearing plastic gloves on the tram at Disney or on the playground at the park. Do you know what the other kids are going to say? Well, I don't know either, but I can guarantee you it will be extremely clever, although it won't be kind.

And then the parents of the clever but unkind children will have to tell their children to shush and scold them for staring at gloved children who obviously must contend with some very serious problems. And I don't mean the gLovies.

Mizz B’s car goes chk-chk-chk

Lori Borgman

I believe you should hang onto a decent mechanic for the same reason you should hang onto a decent husband: It’s too much work to break in a new one.

We’ve been going to Don for about eight years now, and I must say his diagnostic skills are progressing nicely.

For instance, I go in with a brake problem and describe the sound to him.

“It makes a chk-chk-chk-chk-chk when you press the brake pedal,” I say. “No, wait, it’s really more of a ka-ka-ka-ka sound; a cross between a machine gun and fire crackers.”

I pause, allowing time for Don to repeat the sound, but he just looks at me. He has always been reluctant to repeat the sounds, but I sense we are close to a breakthrough any day now. The fact that Ed and Phil are standing behind him laughing their heads off is not terribly helpful.

“Oh yes, and it sounds like the tires are wearing cleats.”

Don gives a deadpan look at Ed and Phil, who are now doubled over behind the cash register. They’re nice guys, but I hope Don’s not expecting me to work with them, too.

“And when you turn hard to the right, it makes a sound like a new string on a violin.”

No response.

“Or a guitar.”

“All righty, Mizz B,” he says.

That’s another thing -- he calls the women Mizz, not Ms., but Mizz with a touch of Georgia. It’s a honey of an accent that makes me think I may have a pair of white kid gloves in the purse with the snap klatch hanging at the side of my freshly pressed shirtwaist dress, even though I am schlepping about in jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a credit card in my hand.

“Did I mention there’s also a high pitched eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee?” I say this holding one continuous tone because I know how different tones can indicate different trouble spots under the hood.

“It’s not a Celine Dion eeeeeeeee, but a Pavarotti eeeeeeeeeee. Hear the difference?”

“I think I’ve got it,” Don says, biting his bottom lip. He’s a little shy, but he’s coming along nicely.

He says he’ll put the car on the computer. This is what all the mechanics say these days. If it weren’t that they still have grease on their hands you’d think all they do is sit around hitting “enter” on a keyboard all day.

Another reason that I am loyal to Don’s shop is that he keeps a Diagnostic Magic Eight Ball on the counter.

That is a big convenience for the customer because if the mechanic is on the phone, you can ask your automotive questions of the Eight Ball and pretty much get the same answers you would from the mechanic.

“Is this repair going to cost an arm and a leg?”

“Need new car,” says the Eight Ball.

“Do you think the car might make it to 200,000 miles?”

“Need new car.”

“Will it be ready by 5 tonight?”

“Need new car.”

The Eight Ball is supposed to have dozens of different answers, but I get the same one each time.

The Eight Ball is amazingly accurate. They must hook it up to the computer each night.

Don takes a few notes, and says, “Mizz B, I’ll call you when I know something. For now, why don’t you chug-chug-chug on home?”

He’s catching on faster than I thought.

One death gives hope to all

Lori Borgman

I’m not one who routinely reads the obituaries. I am never the one who startles a group by saying, “Did you hear about –“or “Wasn’t it a shame -“ I am always the one who gasps when someone else breaks the news.

But I was in Missouri recently, paging through the Kansas City Star, when an obituary demanded my attention. It was the story of a husband and wife in their 90s. They had been married 65 years and both died in their sleep. Within four hours of each other. In the bed they shared, in the home where they had lived the past 55 years. Holding hands.

If it is possible that there is any sweetness in death, surely this would be it.

I was a keen admirer of the late Pope John Paul II. He embraced a dignified yet practical approach to death. He frequently admonished audiences to prepare for death -- to think about it, to consider it, and to plan on it.

We plan to get the oil changed in the car, to make the bank deposit, to take a few days off, to stop by the grocery, and to have the furnace serviced, but when do we plan on death?

Rather good advice, since it is completely inevitable. One hundred percent of us will one day die. It is the only statistic without any margin of error.

The Christian mind naturally turns toward the subject of death during Holy Week. Worldwide, Christians pause to rethink and retrace the painful events that culminated in the crucifixion and the resurrection of Christ.

We have grown almost comfortable talking about his death, including the most gory and grisly details. Yet few of us possess a comparable level of comfort in contemplating our own deaths. It is a topic that is still, well, somewhat private.

Yet we are strangely comfortable talking about other private matters - the sex lives of celebrities we don’t know, his drinking problem, her breast implants, colonoscopies, birth control, hemorrhoids and irregularity. But not death.

Woody Allen once said, “I am not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.” Poor Woody, forever trembling and cowering in the corner.

Such a stark contrast to the refrain of a Bill and Gloria Gaither hymn that has become a modern-day classic. “Because He lives, I can face tomorrow. Because He lives, all fear is gone.”

The celebration of Easter is that there is no need to cower, no need to fear death. Christ, the man so often portrayed in today’s media as confused and conflicted, a milquetoast in need of some therapeutic time with Oprah or Dr. Phil, was in fact the great conqueror.

He is the warrior who faced crucifixion, broke the chains of death, blazed a path through the bowels of hell and rose triumphant at the first light of dawn. So much for that softer, gentler business.

The ramifications of this event are entirely worthy of those small niceties such as Spring bursting forth with fragrance and color and the magnificent strains of the Hallelujah Chorus.

There is never any sweetness in death, but Easter is the promise that there is hope and assurance in death. We may not pass from this life to the next holding the hand of a life-long companion, but we can reach for the hand of the risen Christ. And that is a comfort to both live and die by.

Dishing up dinner

Lori Borgman

With everyone watching their calories, cholesterol, fats, carbs and proteins these days, planning a dinner party is no easy task. We have been trying to plan one for several weeks and have come to an impasse. Either we ditch the menu or lose the guests.

It all started when I reminded the husband that we needed to have the Surgoods and the Fossnagels over for dinner.

“Sounds good to me,” he says. “Why don’t you make a batch of lasagna, some garlic bread and that Italian crème cake?”

“Can’t,” I said. “The Fossnagels have both gone low-carb.”

“So cut out the garlic bread,” he says.

“It’s not just the bread,” I say. “I’d also have to cut out the pasta. The cake is history, too.”

We tossed a few options around then finally agreed that we should lose the low-carb Fossbanagels, keep the red-meat Surgoods and invite the Newtons.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “The Surgoods and Newtons don’t mix.”

“Bad blood between them?” the husband asks.

“No, the Surgoods are carnivores and the Newtons have gone vegetarian,” I answer.

“Not a problem,” says the husband, who loves a food challenge almost as much as food itself.

“Make your broccoli quiche. Lose the red-meaters and invite the Hellmans. Aren’t they vegetarian, too?”

“Yes, but they’re lacto-vegetarians. They eat dairy, but not eggs. Quiche is out,” I say, thumbing through my recipe box.

“Do we know anybody who’s not on food restriction? How about the Finkleys?”

“She’s gone South Beach, grilled seafood and salad, and he’s into beans and lentils. I can work with that.”

“Throw in the Dotmires and we’ve got a party of six.”

“Won’t work,” I say. “She just joined Weight Watchers and he’s on the raw foods diet -- won’t eat anything heated past 118 degrees.”

“Well, what about the Malloys? Is he still on that seafood diet, isn’t he? He eats everything he sees!” The husband enjoys a good food joke now and then. Or a bad one, too.

“Oh, stop it,” I snap. “They’re both under doctor’s order to scale back. They’re eating by color. Nothing white. No white flour, white sugar, white rice, white potatoes, salt.”

“Too bad we don’t know someone on an all-chocolate diet,” the husband sighs.

“We do,” I say. “Margaret -- one block over. Her skin isn’t great, but she’s lost seven pounds.”

We consider mixing a couple on the soup diet (clear base only), a Fit for Life couple and two singles who are anti-oxidant (dark leafy greens, blueberries, cantaloupes, nuts, olive oil and salmon), but remember one of the females has severe fish and nut allergies.

Two days later, I strike gold. “I think I have a group of eight that is food compatible,” I announce. “And I came up with a menu that should work beautifully.”

“Great! What are we having?” asks the husband.

“Spinach leaves, carrot sticks and water.”

“And for dessert?”

“Sugarless gum.”

Any color suitcase, as long as it's black

Lori Borgman

For a nation of citizens who pride themselves on individuality, it’s hard to figure out why so many of us own black suitcases.

It doesn’t matter where we’re going or where we’re from, chances are we’re dragging a wheeled black suitcase behind us.

The little black bag is to the airline traveler what the little black dress is to the cocktail hour.

The black suitcase may be the one thing that unites us with near unanimity. Too bad we can’t run one for office.

I recently was on a full flight and had to leave my bag at the end of the jetway. I left it in a heap of – count ‘em – 13 black suitcases.

Naturally, those 13 black suitcases would be among 2,000 black suitcases circling the carousel in the baggage claim area two hours later.

As each black suitcase spilled onto the carousel, a large mob stampeded forward. The mob shifted left, then right.

Eventually, one person grabbed the bag and emerged victorious. The mob took two steps back.

Another black suitcase tumbled onto the carousel and the mob surged forward again. Surge and retreat, surge and retreat, until only four travelers were left with sick looks on their faces. They trotted over to the baggage claim office and filled out a form.

Question: What color is your bag?

Answer: Black.

It’s like all our luggage had a meeting on what to wear and agreed on funeral attire.

There’s something disturbing about such mass conformity. Mao’s people had their Little Red Books, we have our little black bags.

Oh, you have your rebel red or forest green and the maverick floral tapestry now and then, but for the most part they’re black.

Some try to set their black bags apart with a piece of curling ribbon, a strand of yarn or a bumper sticker. Others use duct tape for that personal touch. And now there are bag bands you can buy in neon colors to wrap around your suitcase to distinguish it from the masses.

My favorites are the colorful luggage tags with sayings like, “Keep looking, I think yours may be in Denver,” “Take my luggage, do my laundry,” and “Don’t make me chase you.”

The only other travel accessory that comes close to rivaling the popularity of the black bag would be the cell phone. Nobody is as deeply bonded and strongly attached to the cell phone as the airline traveler. We might as well be sucking on pacifiers.

The plane touches down, the flight attendant gives the OK for electronic devices and 200 people flip open cell phones to say, “We touched down.”

I’ve never understood the necessity of that call. I always assume the plane will touch down and if it doesn’t touch down, it will be on the news.

The touch-down call is followed by the getting-off-the-plane call and the I’m-waiting-for-my-bag call. My black bag.

The black bag is here to stay. It is a popular choice across the board.

Two years ago Mexican soldiers seized more than 5 tons of cocaine worth $100 million from a commercial airliner arriving from Venezuela. And what do you think they used to transport the drugs?

One hundred and twenty-eight black suitcases.