I’m gonna get you, Persephone Jones!

I’m gonna get Persephone Jones.* And if for some reason I don’t, I know about a million kids who will be happy to do it for me.

I should start by saying that Jones is probably a very nice person, though I’ve never met her and really can’t say for sure. So, why am I gonna get her?

Because she wrote a newspaper column a while back titled “Easter Baskets for a Healthy Bunny.”

In the column, Jones notes that kids today eat too much—surprise, surprise—junk food, especially around Easter, when Cadbury eggs dominate every supermarket checkout isle and jelly beans rain down like manna from Heaven.

“What is a health-conscious bunny to do?” asks Jones. According to her, a “typical” Easter basket equates to over 2,000 calories and 100 grams of fat. If you give young Bobby and Peggy Sue baskets of this sort, Jones implies, they’re going look like White Jumpsuit Elvis by the time they hit their teens.

To keep your children fit and trim, with a body fat index lower than your average Olympic gymnast, Jones recommends employing the same method used by runway models and Hollywood superstars: cocaine and bulimia.

No, wait, what I meant to say was “healthy treats.” She advocates healthy treats. The two words go together like “kumquat” and “unicycle.”

Jones concedes that foisting off health foods on kids expecting chocolate bunnies is not an easy task. “The key,” she writes, “is creativity.”

In Ms. Jones’ case, creativity means finding ways to convince your progeny that broccoli tastes every bit as good as Gummi Bears. She suggests filling plastic eggs with a mixture of peanuts, raisins and sunflower seeds, a “treat” known as “GORPS” (Good Old Raisins, Peanuts and Sunflower Seeds). By using an acronym, Jones hopes to fool children into thinking they’re eating something fun.

Now, you can mix liver, garlic and stale macaroni into a frozen paste and call it ice cream, but you’re not going to fool any kid I know. My guess is most kids will see right through that whole GORPS thing, too.

Jones also suggests filling plastic eggs with grapes, popcorn and mini pretzels. Again, stuffing something into a plastic egg does not make it taste like Jelly Bellys. I’m sorry, Ms. Jones, it just doesn’t. That goes for carrots, too, which along with apple and pear slices, is another “egg stuffer” on the Jones list.

Later in her column, Jones suggests giving kids—get this—Kiwi fruit for Easter. Because it’s shaped like an egg. Yes, really.

Now I don’t know about your kids, but my youngest would sooner stick a live hamster in his mouth than an egg-shaped, neon green, furry fruit from New Zealand.

Jones also advocates putting not vegetables, but vegetable seeds in the Easter baskets. That’s right, seeds.

I can just picture that Easter morning: “Mom, what are these?” asks little Peggy Sue, peering forlornly into the bottom of her near-empty Easter basket.

“Why, those are seeds, honey!” mom enthuses.

“Seeds?” asks little Peggy Sue.

“Yes, dear!” mom says. “You can plant them and grow your own carrots! Imagine! Then we’ll put the carrots in little plastic eggs! Won’t that be FUN?”

Peggy Sue goes on to grow up thin and fit, but spends the next 45 years in intensive therapy working hard to overcome her unreasoning hatred of rabbits. And her mother.

Finally, Jones suggests filling the baskets with Easter eggs—the decorated, hard-boiled chicken variety. Now, to me, this actually seems like a good idea.

If stored properly, in a nice, warm, moist location, by next Halloween those eggs will be just about ready for Ms. Jones’s front porch. I’ll bring the TP, kids! Let’s get her!

* Name changed to protect me from evil lawyers.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or offers for free marshmallow Peeps, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

Enjoying the wonders of another Michigan winter—not

If there are t-t-t-typos in this column, it’s only because I’m writing this in my home office and the t-t-t-temperature is hovering somewhere around absolute zero.

Outside my window, the thermometer reads minus-five. From the way the fine-grained snow is pelting the frosted-over pane, I’d put the wind-chill factor at about two degrees colder than a gas company executive’s heart.

I feel like Bob Crachit, scratching away in the frigid offices of Scrooge & Marley. The only difference here is—I’m married to my Ebenezer Scrooge!

The Lovely Mrs. Taylor watches the thermostat like a teenage boy watches late-night commercials for 900 numbers. If the indoor temp reaches a point where I begin to regain feeling my fingers and toes, she turns it down.

In theory, she and I think alike on this topic. We’re both paying the heating bill, after all, and heaven knows there are things I would rather spend my money on than the extravagant depletion of fossil fuels. Keeping that boiler in the basement fed is no different—in my mind—from just burning cash!

But like I said, we only agree on this in theory. In real life, on a day like this, I would merrily toss one-hundred-dollar bills into the fireplace one after the other if that were the only way I had to keep warm.

Mrs. Taylor on the other hand, is stalwart and steadfast. When she makes a vow to keep the thermostat turned down, she follows through. She is WWII England—she will never surrender. I am WWII France—run up the white flag and give me a bottle of Chateau Lafite, already! Preferably in a warm café with a just-baked baguette and some fresh-churned butter.

A big part of the problem is that the indoor temperature of our lovely, 100-year-old home differs only slightly from the outdoor temperature. It was built when heat meant coal, and coal was cheap. The house’s original furnace also burned wood, available everywhere to anyone willing to wield a saw.

Likewise, storm windows were not a priority to the home’s builder. Nor insulation.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this house. But it has more holes in it than Blackburn, Lancashire (according to John Lennon, 4,000). I don’t know if there are enough holes in this place to fill the Albert Hall, but it’s got to be close.

And cold air is, at this moment, blowing in through every single one of them.

When Mrs. T left for the office this morning, I promised her I wouldn’t turn up the heat. I know our last utility bill had more digits than Bobo the Three-Armed Piano Player, but I can see my breath, man!

Call me a quitter, I don’t care. I’m heading downstairs to that thermostat. Vive la F-F-France!

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or offers for ten-day vacation packages to Tahiti, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

Cleaning the office—a lesson in urban archaeology

After holding out for more than 10 years, I finally gave in last weekend and let The Lovely Mrs. Taylor clean my home-office.

Now, before you feminists get all excited, let me explain. I didn’t ask her to clean it. I didn’t want her to clean it. I was perfectly happy with the sty-like conditions of my personal workspace.

But Mrs. T is the Felix to my Oscar, a fussy neatnik forced by cruel fate to share living space with an incontrovertible slob—me. My messy office has been making her koo-koo since about a week after we moved in together.

The rest of the house is Mrs. T’s domain—tidy, uncluttered, nicely decorated, smelling faintly of expensive potpourri and anti-bacterial cleaners. My office, conversely, resembles the deserted den of a grizzly bear.

Mrs. Taylor has suggested on more than one occasion that I send photos of the room to Washington along with an application for federal disaster relief funds. She may be kidding—I can never tell.

At any rate, I’ve always been reluctant to let her in there. I wasn’t hiding any secret papers, girlie magazines or large caches of illicitly gained money, it’s just that the room was full of stuff. Mostly stuff I would never use again, but couldn’t bear to throw out.

My dolls, for instance. Not the frilly antique ceramic dolls gay guys collect (at least they do on TV—none of the gay guys I know collect ‘em), but “action figure” dolls. Somehow, I wound up with 12-inch plastic figures of Dr. Evil, Bob & Doug McKenzie, and the cast of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” I don’t remember buying them, or receiving them as gifts, but they’ve been taking up space in my office for years.

Likewise, I have computer equipment dating back to the Reagan administration. I am virtually sure I will never again power up my Commodore 64 or even my ancient all-in-one black-and-white Mac Plus, but toss out something I paid over a grand for? I don’t think so.

Then there are the boxes filled with cards and letters I’ve received over the past 30 years. I’ll never look at any of them again, but they’re still important to me. Too important to throw out, at least. Plus, you never know, there might be something important in one of those boxes, something I’ll need to reference again … someday.

Finally, there’s my art collection, most of it created by the kids while in elementary school. Paintings created with glue and macaroni, drawings of turkeys made by tracing a six-year-old’s hand on butcher’s paper, “abstract” portraits in primary colors … tossing any of those would break my heart.

Fortunately, Mrs. T doesn’t give a rat’s patootie about my doll collection, antediluvian computer systems or elementary school art galleries. When she cleans, she’s a ruthless, unsentimental disposal and recycling machine. What can’t be used is outta there, period!

So, last weekend, while I was out of town on my weekend job (astronaut), Mrs. Taylor cleaned my office.

Turns out there was a desk in there. And a file cabinet.

Who knew?

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or information about 12-step programs for pack rats, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.

From brown to gray – riding with the kids and its affect on hair

I was in court this morning, lending moral support and questionable legal advice to my youngest son, age 17. James is a good kid, but one with dubious driving skills and a right foot that’s apparently too heavy to maintain the exact posted speed limit.

The infraction that landed him before the prosecutor was exceedingly minor, so much so that the case was dismissed, sans fine, jail time, points, or a speedy execution. James was relieved, as he had been lead to believe (by me) that the judge might hand down any or all of those sentences, depending on his mood.

A good scare goes a long way toward lightening that right foot, I believe.

I’m hoping in the future he’ll be more careful.

But the truth is, of my three kids James is probably the safest driver. My older children, Aubreii and Jordan, both in their mid-twenties, represent the kind of traffic menace rarely seen outside movies starring Sylvester Stallone or Bruce Willis.

I’m thinking about this now because I just returned from a weekend visit to Detroit, where Aubreii and Jordan now both reside. Jordan was working the big auto show there as a GMC rep, so I spent most of the weekend with my daughter.

My pickup seats only two and we had the grandkids with us most of the time, so Aubreii drove … through Detroit traffic … on icy, snowy roads … with screaming toddlers in the backseat … and the radio blasting … and the GPS yakking its digital head off in a futile effort to get Aubreii to turn at the proper intersections.

Tires squealed. I squealed. Cars swerved. Impolite hand gestures were exchanged.

And through it all, my darling daughter barely batted an eyelash. As my grasping fingers disappeared into the dashboard, she chatted unconcernedly about her new clients, the kids’ teachers and the interesting interview she heard recently on This American Life.

From time to time, she would glance at the road, but it was obvious the view didn’t hold much interest for her.

To make matters worse, my daughter drives one of those fuel-efficient, tiny Japanese cars. I’ve picked bigger things off the back of a hound dog. After years of looking down on traffic from the seat of my pickup, I feel incredibly vulnerable riding in any car that offers a clear view of the underside of most semi trailers.

Finally, there’s the fact that everyone in Detroit – every driver, at least – is actively trying to kill me.

Now, I lived in Detroit for years and got used to the traffic there. I’m sure there was a time when I drove like they all do. (Insanely.)

But for the past 15 years or so I’ve made my home in a town that makes Mayberry look like Manhattan. The only traffic problem I’m used to is slow-moving Amish buggies. Seriously, I can walk faster than the speed limit in my tiny burg.

So Detroit, my daughter, her Barbie-mobile … they all took their toll this past weekend.

I wonder if that Grecian Formula stuff really gets rid of grey hair.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or driving tips for teenagers, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.