The Pink Punch Strikes Again

I don't really have a point with the rambling I'm about to sprawl across this web page. It's more of an observation, but I am interested in hearing what you have to say. The whole thing has me standing around with my panties in a wad, which is a terribly uncomfortable way to exist. There's a part of me that thinks I should just chill, but there's also that part that has Opinions and Stuff and those Opinions and Stuff include already being on the record about pinkwashing.

I hate it.

With every fiber of my being.

I hate the way companies throw hundreds of thousands of dollars at marketing "Breast Cancer Awareness" products and then turn around and maybe donate a couple of dollars to some organization that claims to exist in the interest of making everyone more "aware" of the terrible, terrible disease.

Some of us are very much so aware of it already, thank you very much.

I think my opinions on the whole thing are very well represented with this (thanks Allison!). Why are we spending millions on "awareness" when we could be spending millions on prevention? There is a lot of science behind prevention and there could be so much more if we focused on that avenue instead of trying to figure out ways to squeeze pink ribbons on our packages of yogurt.

Don't get me wrong -- if you have been touched by breast cancer and the pink ribbons bring you solace, or help you feel less alone, or whatever, that's fantastic. That's not the part that bothers me. It's the part where we throw a pink pair of shoes on an athlete and sell a pink jersey with his number on it that bothers me.

I'm looking at you, NFL.

The most recent statistic that I could find about the NFL's alleged "good intentions" found that for every $100 in pink merchandise the NFL sells, $3.54 goes towards breast cancer research. The NFL keeps $45. They say that money goes back to paying for the marketing efforts, but that gets us right back where we started -- for every $100 you give the NFL for pink stuff, they pass on $3.54 to breast cancer research. Maybe it would be more efficient if you bought that black and gold jersey and just gave $5 to a cancer research organization? You'd save a few bucks in the deal and more would go to research.

I've stopped watching NFL games in October because of it all. The pink shoes and towels and flags and ALL OF IT ... it just makes me crazy.

But lots of people haven't stopped watching.

Including little kids.

The little kids who dream of growing up to be football players or cheerleaders or whatever see the pink and they want to be just like those people they look up to. They want to follow along.

So there is pink stuff everywhere, even at football games played by first and second graders. The cheerleaders are in on the action, with pink bows in their hair and sometimes pink pompoms swishing around.

Alexis is one of those cheerleaders. She's standing there with her pink bow, not really knowing much of anything about what it means. She just knows "it's cute," so I suppose we need to have some conversations about prevention and the grandmother she never knew and how she is at risk because genetics are a bitch.

Which just means maybe the pink bows aren't such a terrible thing after all if they spark a conversation or two.

On Horseshoes

"Cornhole is like horseshoes for white people," I overheard. Whether the words are valid or not, they were enough to shove me across 30 years and straight into a puddle of memories.

Grandpa Lew. He loved to play horseshoes.

The thing about having grandparents who never really approved of their daughter's choice in spouses is that the relationship tends to disintegrate completely when the glue passes away. The glue was my grandma, she who refused to let her pure hatred for anyone get in the way family gatherings for holidays and such. Once she was gone, that was it. No more trips to the farm. No more trips to see Grandpa Lew. No more anything.

But before that, most Sundays and all holidays were spent at his side. If the weather was nice, I followed him around like a puppy. I did so in no small part because he let me ride the three-wheeler (for those of you too young to remember, they preceded quads -- and disappeared because they were easy to flip). I would ride the three-wheeler all over the gravel pits, to the old farmhouse, and all along the tree row.

The tree row right behind the storage house is where Grandpa Lew spent most of his days.

In North Dakota, the trees always seem to appear in a perfectly straight line. That's because there is someone who remembers planting them. That someone was him. He planted them some 30 years previous. Whether he did it purposely so he would have a shady place for horseshoes when he hit retirement or not, I don't know. I just know that it all seemed to work out perfectly.

Every summer day, right up until the sun set, he would stand out at his horseshoe pits with a cigar in one hand and a horseshoe in the other. I don't know if he was any good or not, but he played in tournaments and sometimes came out the victor.

And sometimes he taught me how to play.

I was only 7 or so, so I wasn't very good, but I got the idea.

I'm pretty sure that's why I didn't totally suck at cornhole the very first time I played it. It's horseshoes for white people, after all.

Gypsum Roses

Alexis is a total and complete sucker for all things library, so she is one of those kids who rushes over to the "New Arrivals" shelf and ransacks it. A recent acquisition, "The Girl's Book of Adventure: The Little Guidebook for Smart and Resourceful Girls" admittedly makes my feminist cankles get all RAWR and GRRR because half of it is recipes, but whatever. I'll just teach my kid that "adventure" means "stay in the kitchen" and shut up.

If there is one thing I have learned while parenting the Alexis, it's that she's far better at being a feminist than I am. Ask her how she feels about Robin Thicke, for example, and you'll get an earful about how he's not very nice. I get that same earful every time one of his songs is on the radio because TURN IT OFF, MOM. If something bothers her, it probably is sexist. If it doesn't, I should probably stand down.

So, I stood down. And helped Alexis make one of those recipes from the book.

And then I helped Alexis eat all of the results because DANG. THAT'S A TASTY ADVENTURE.

It was simple, too.

It was so simple that Alexis can mostly make them herself. I'm in charge of the melting of the chocolate, but the rest is all her. I guess that means her adventure in the kitchen was a success, even if it did make my eyebrow twitch.

Gypsum Roses (adapted from The Girl's Book of Adventure)

1 bag (12 oz) semi-sweet or dark chocolate chips
3 tablespoons honey
1 1/2 cups cornflakes
1 tablespoon peanut butter
Mini cupcake liners

1. Melt the chocolate in a nonstick saucepan over medium to low heat. Add the honey and stir with a wooden spoon.

2. Put half of the cornflakes in a shallow pan. Pour half of the chocolate over them.

3. Stir gently. Add the rest of the cornflakes and stir. Add the rest of the chocolate and continue stirring until the cornflakes are well coated.

4. When the cornflakes are thoroughly covered, use a teaspoon to drop small portions into the cupcake liners.

5. Place the peanut butter in a small sandwich bag. Microwave for 10-15 seconds, or until the peanut butter is melted. Cut the corner off of the bag and drizzle the peanut butter over top of the chocolate-covered cornflakes.

6. Refrigerate until fully set, about one hour.