| What Happens at Kellogg Stays at Kellogg |
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| Evanston, IL: Crossing the threshold of my front door after a recent class weekend, I greeted my sweet wife with a look she recognized immediately. “You poor thing,” she said, “That school beat the hell out of you again this weekend, didn’t it?” I replied, “Well, honey, my company isn’t paying them to make life easy for me.” “But do they have to force you to skip already meager meals, give you no free time, and lock study groups in their rooms until 11:00 at night only to impose an 11:10 curfew? Just seems a little draconian,” she sympathized. Not quite a fortnight later, pushing through my e-mail, I read a message from Kellogg; something about “. . . an aromatic nose with lots of fresh, fruity tropical aromas, pineapple and peach predominating.” Schnookums, having tiptoed her way behind me said, “Is that from school? |
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| What’s it about?” Damn EMP Newsletter. I said, “I think it’s about a classmate of mine named Luis Alvarez.” “Is he fruity?” Going for the save, I replied, “Er, no he just has an aromatic nose.” Of course, the passage referred to the EMP Program’s wine of the month. I read with interest since all of my favorite wines taste like Jolly Ranchers. I thought to myself, “Oh boy! No wine out of a box this weekend. And I’ll get a steak on Friday night that doesn’t taste like a flattened football. And I’ll get to sleep through the whole night without being poked by a snot-nosed kid who’s having a bad dream about losing his woobie to a monster. And I’ll drink that wine that tastes like Carmen Miranda’s headgear. And I’ll take a bottle all for myself. I’ll drink it all. Every drop. This is going to be great!” Lovey-dovey must have heard me giggle. “What’s so funny, dear heart?” she asked. “Nothing dearest, I’m just giddy when I’m with you” I replied sheepishly. Smelling a proverbial skunk, she bopped over to my computer to revisit the message on the screen. I quickly alt-tabbed to Excel. “No you don’t, mister. Show me that message again!” Her countenance changed with every line she completed. Fine foods, wines, evening bars, and off-site activities to Whirlyball. She saw the cookie jar and my entire arm was inside. After digesting the message, she fired, “What the hell is going on at that school every other weekend? You told me that it’s torture.” She alighted to the kitchen and returned with a frying pan. Taking her first whack, she yelled, “You rotten bloke.” A few more hits and “You peddle tales about your grueling school weekends. And I stay home with our eleven children all under the age of twelve.” She continued, “School sounds like Club Med; but before the night’s over you’re going to need a trip to Insta-Med.” Fleeing the house, I heard a voice; it was loud, powerful, and quite annoying. Was it God? Was it the Devil? Was it Brian Gillam? The voice said, “Mike, thou fool. Why didst thou open the newsletter with thy wife in the room? Knowest not that thou must learn the lessons of the EMP’ers who have passed before you—what must needs happen at Kellogg must needs stay at Kellogg.” It was an important revelation . . . what goes on at Kellogg, stays at Kellogg. At first I considered starting my own religion. But after some reflection, I determined just to keep cuddle-kitten in the dark about school. After all, I had to protect her. I couldn’t lie, but I could certainly pull a Nixon-like cover-up by avoiding disclosures of any kind. And perhaps by flashing lovebird a victory sign a few times a week, reminding her that I’m not a crook. I’m quiet
as the grave about Sluggers, where we played games until midnight
and drank martinis even later. And Whirlyball, of course, is just
a team building exercise. I now sleep better at night. My bruises
are healing and I haven’t uttered a word about the late bar.
If you value your life, I suggest you too consider this approach. |
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