The Spirit of the Season ...?

So I walked in to the school office to sign in for volunteering this morning, and noticed one of those photo Christmas cards taped up on the cabinet for the faculty. Under the photograph of the happy couple, the card had printed:

Wishing you keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Merry Christmas.

I was inspired, touched, by this sentiment of good will offered by my kids' school principal and her husband during this season commemorating of the birth of our Savior, bless their hearts. I realized that my typical Holiday greetings are severely lacking in warmth and meaning. Things like, "may you and your family find peace and happiness," or, "wishing you all the joy of the season," just sound trite and old fashioned.

I have a lot to do today to help my mother and get ready for my brother-in-law to arrive, but I'm setting those things aside for the moment to brain storm for a better tag line for our annual family Christmas letter. How about:

Let us all remember that the secret of success is sincerity.
Once you can fake that you’ve got it made.
Happy Holidays!

OR:

If this special time of year gives you lemons,
but does not also give you water and sugar,
you're going to have some crappy Christmas lemonade.
Ho Ho Ho!

OR:

If at first you don’t succeed, destroy all evidence that you even tried.
Mele Kilikimaka!

But I think I may go with:

Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes. After that, who cares?
He'll be a mile away and shoeless.
Joyeux Noel!

I don't know. Do any of you have any ideas? Maybe I need to go find my good old book of Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey. Nothing says Feliz Navidad like SNL snark.

Political Blatherings

So for all of my political junkie friends, check out my other gig (which we really haven't done so well at keeping up with) for some of what has been bouncing around in my brain this week. I didn't post it here, because the last time I went all political few folks seemed to care. Of course, I had a more regular audience due to regular posting back then ...

Anyway, click and enjoy. Or not.

Can you say "midlife crisis"?

An Open Letter to the Baby-Boom-Age Man I Encountered Whist Grocery Shopping Today:

Dear Mr. Walmart Shopper,

Some may call you snobby, others, ridiculous. But me, I call you an inspiration.

Your spiked hair-do lifted my spirits as I remembered back to my college days in the very early 90s when my boyfriend sported the same style. Of course, he was blond, and you are heavily salt-and-pepper, but it still took me right back. Who doesn't love to feel like a college kid again?

And nothing takes one's mind off of being in Idaho in November like spying a good, dark, fake tan peeking out from behind Ray-Bans worn indoors. No need to be pining away for the summer past or lusting after Christmas Caribbean cruises when the tropics come strolling down the deli aisle in the form of your pre-skin cancerous self!

A cream colored turtleneck sweater, a fine Italian leather blazer, and black dress slacks. It worked for wealthy sea men in the 1930s, afro-picking swingers in the 1970s, and remains a classic today. Well played, my friend.

Lastly, though perhaps I should have mentioned it first as it was what originally caught my eye, I thank you for your air of superior derision as you graced the rest of us lowly Walmart shoppers with your very presence. It sent a signal of solidarity--a reminder that although some of us would rather be at Neiman Marcus, these hard financial times have reached all walks of life.

Thank you, Mr. Walmart Shopper. Thank you for your style and class. Thank you for a fine example of holding your nose, er, I mean your head high in the midst of the undeserving. Thank you for reminding us all to leave our holey sweats at home. Thank you for the opportunity to practice stifling a laugh.

Most sincerely yours,

The Mousey Mom in the Cape Cod Hoodie in Aisle 9

Too Cool for School

This week we had rain.  So, being the good mom that I am, I made sure that everyone had an umbrella in their backpack.  (I will pause here for nods of approval.  Thank you.)  #3 informed me that she needed a new one.  "Is yours broken?" I asked.  "No.  ...  But Mo-om!  It's Hello Kitty."

#3 is in the fourth grade this year.  She'll be 10 in January.  And I guess this is the age when little girls start to want to grow up, disassociate themselves from their baby-ish interests of the past.  It's interesting to watch.  Because it's not as if the girls suddenly find little-kid things unappealing.  It's just that they believe they will not be cool if such a penchant is made public.  So every girl in 4th and 5th grade puts on the too-cool show for all the rest.  My theory is that if they all knew that every one else still liked Barbies and baby dolls and Polly Pockets and My Little Pony, they'd all be a lot happier.  But no one wants to be the first to admit it.

... until about eighth grade or so.  Then all things "little-kid" are suddenly not only cool, but verging on retro-chic.  The girls have established their maturity by this point, and now are willing to indulge in reliving the good old days of their youth, way back four or five years ago.  To this level of self-confidence #2 has finally arrived.  Of course, she and #1 had an advantage over #3 even during their too-cool phase.  They had a younger sister they could "have" to play with.  Even #2s friends would be so kind as to humor #3 with little-kid play when at our house.  Poor #3 only has a little brother, and as her interest in Star Wars and Legos is severely limited, she's just forced to play it cool for a while.  

Now a very generic, very mature striped umbrella sits in #3s backpack.  And on #2s cut shin is slapped a Hello Kitty Band-Aid.

Me, I'm digging Star Wars chat with #4.

PHOTOS--   top left:  #3 at age 3 with Strawberry Shortcake

bottom right: #3 at age 9 with the big girls

Strutting

Today on the way home from church we saw a tom turkey who appeared to be posing for a Thanks-giving Day portrait.  My son was impressed.  We see the turkey all the time, but never with his tail feathers fanned out in display.  He wanted to know why Tom was strutting his stuff.  I told him that the turkey was trying to impress the girls.

Speaking of which ...

Just this past week as I was driving home from the grocery store I spotted 4 turkeys walking along the side of the road.  These turkeys were human males, appearing to be in their late teens or early twenties at most.  They were fully clothed with the notable exception of their rear-ends, which were exposed.  I was not impressed, and surprisingly not even very disgusted.  I was simply confused.  Questions to pose the quartet flooded my mind as I passed them.  "What are you all thinking?  Are you serious?  What is the goal here?  Trying to be funny?  Racy?  Tough?  Imposing?  Want another beer?"  Some level of intoxication seemed to me the most rational explanation.

The last day of school was a Wednesday, my regular day in #3's classroom, and I went in.  The first hour of the day was taken up with a fifth grade "graduation" assembly.  At the end of the assembly we all rose and waited for the new grads to file out.  Most of the kids proceeded down to aisle toward the back door.  A handful of turkeys raced up to the stage and began, er, dancing, I suppose.  They were gyrating in awkward, preteen craziness, looking ludicrous.  I noted to #3s teacher that only boys were goofing-off on the stage, my assumption being that the girls were more mature and taking the event more seriously.  His response was not what I'd been thinking.  He said, "Well, we don't have colorful feathers or big manes, and we've got to show the girls what we have to offer somehow."  Hm.  I don't know about their female classmates, but I failed to see the charm.

It starts young.  Years ago when #2 was five, we were at a rehearsal for a Primary Christmas program.  The children were singing "Away in a Manger."  #2 was seated next to a little boy who was a year ahead of her in Primary but sat next to her in kindergarten.  A friend of mine got my attention and motioned to the kids.  I looked over to see the boy flexing his muscles for my girl.  My high school psych teacher would have added to this picture the caption: "It's THAT way to the beach."  #2 in turn was looking very impressed, batting her lashes, and giggling with one little hand demurely covering her mouth.  Seven plus years later, I'm not sure what kind of turkey is now earning her admiration.

So many strutting rituals seem very silly to me.  And yet, there are indeed feathers that will catch my attention.  Some are physical--nice shoulders, nice back and chest.  More important ones are intellectual.  I know that an intelligent sense of humor will make a regular-looking guy seem quite enticing in my view.  And of course, a sexy, raspy tenor or baritone singing voice makes me weak in the knees.  We all have our turn-ons.  I'm not sure that most of the turkeys out there are thinking about these sorts of subtleties in their efforts to show off.  Maybe I'm an odd bird.  But my guess would be that I'm not so very unique.

So to all you Toms out there, I'd suggest that simply being yourself will attract the girl that is right for you.  And for heaven's sake, cover your bum.

Friday Flashback: "The Good Wife"

Thursday, August 24, 2006

I received an email from a good friend. It was supposedly an article from Good Housekeeping Magazine from 1955 entitled "The Good Wife's Guide." While of questionable origin, it is interesting to reflect on. It was comprised of 18 bullet points, the main gist of each one being how to treat your man to keep him happy. We've come a long way since 1955. Some of those changes have been good, but in my opinion, not all.

GOOD CHANGES I almost have to laugh reading bullet #18, "A good wife always knows her place." Are we pack animals? I come in right after Larry? I could make some semi-nasty comments on "position," but I'll refrain here. My grandma used to say that the man is the head of the household, but his wife is the neck, and the neck turns the head. It's by no means an original, but leads me to believe that even in 1955, women had different ideas about their place.

Bullet #17: "Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him." Hello? I guess I'd be raving mad at this one also were I not busting a seam from laughter. When Larry was going back and forth with the grad school question, he always wanted my opinion. I never felt it was my place to give one because I was not the one having to attend school and do the work, and it was determining his profession, not mine. From Larry's point of view, although he is the one working, he's doing it on behalf of us as a couple and a family, and therefore didn't feel right about making that major a decision with out my input and mutual agreement. We have indeed come a long way.

UNFORTUNATE CHANGES If this were slightly altered, the same article could be called "The Good Spouse," and the information would be invaluable. I suppose it could be argued that it is precisely because if the one-sidedness of the suggestions that the article is shameful. I could see that point. I think as a society however, many of us try to drop the expectation on wives rather than extend it to husbands. 

The end of bullet #6 reads, "After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction." Someone (not, I believe, my friend) had incredulously underlined this statement. But it is true. And unless you have married a total jerk, catering to his needs with be rewarded by his catering to yours. That, my friends, is the basis of a good marriage. If I do all I can to take good care of Larry and he does all he can to take good care of me, both of our needs are then met in a very unselfish, giving way.

Bullet #3 reads, "Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him, His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it." Guess what, my day needs a lift, too. If I am fun and interesting, Larry will be, too. I've heard it said that people who are bored are people who are boring. There is a lot of truth to that. I married my best friend for, among other reasons, companionship. If I am a lousy companion, what was the point?

Bullet #12: "Your goal: try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit." Wow. That should be the goal for the benefit of us all! Easy to manage? Uh--no. But a good goal none the less. 

Bullet #8: "Be happy to see him." Do I even need to say "duh?" 

I am sad that our world becomes increasingly unconcerned with manners and respect, with kindness and selflessness. I think of an extreme case of a miserable person I know who feels that he is never shown enough love. But it's because he doesn't know how to show love himself. He only looks at what he thinks he's not getting, never at what he's not giving. It's a pitiful situation. Many of us, I'm sure all of us at times, could do wonders to increase our happiness by looking outside of ourselves and giving more. The Savior said that those who lose themselves for his sake would find themselves. I think that general sentiment applies to Christians and non-Christians alike. There is great satisfaction to be had in being a good wife, husband, mother, father, friend, child, citizen of the world.

Friday Flashback: "Cookies, Conversation, and a Little Celebrity"

Welcome to my first Friday Flashback.  When I wrote Monday's post, I had an older post from the first year of my blog already in mind.  When I went to look it up today, I found this one and changed my mind.  I worry that this may not be my most impressive piece, and I really wanted to start off with a bang.  So why this one?  Well, I think it comes down to the fact that I'm really missing my husband while he's in CA this week.  I know I'm blessed because he is returning, and also because we have a relationship that makes him so miss-able.  But for tonight, I'm still kinda lonely, and reading this cheers me up.  Enjoy ...

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Trying to get back into more regular date nights, Larry took me out for Chinese last Friday night. I love Chinese food. And I have to say, it's not just the food, it's the whole experience. Our little Chinese restaurant up here is no exception, although in a quirky sort of way. 

There are several celebrity photographs gracing the wall, taken at the restaurant with the owner. The one that stands out, for various reasons, is of Dolly Parton. Over the PA system croons a recording of a female vocalist doing Beatles covers who sounds a bit like Vikki Carr which seems like it would play more easily in a bakery in Little Italy. The waitress/maitre'd tends to seat folks just a little too close together for the number of parties in the place. There is an art to spacing. I tend to require as much of a buffer as possible.

Dishes are plastic versions of the Asian-inspired china one might find elsewhere. This bothers me, I have to admit. Good plates are a one-time investment, unless you have a careless dish-washer. Perhaps that's their problem. The glasses are also plastic. Water, even with ice, seems warmer if you drink it out of plastic. Larry ordered a 7up and was served a can along with a plastic glass of ice. I noticed the trio seated next to us ordered beers and received glass glasses. They couldn't put a name with Dolly's face, and got a couple of photos of themselves seated around the table.

We ordered a family dinner with sweet and sour shrimp and beef with black mushrooms, then chatted over some great fried won tons, egg rolls and duck sauce served with our soups. We talked about important things, and things with almost no significance at all. We had to chat quietly to compensate for a small buffer space. Our food came a little slowly, but we weren't in any big rush. This restaurant is odd to me in that they seem to skimp a little on the rice. Most Chinese places serve enough rice with your meal for a small army. That said, we always have left-overs to bring home.

And, of course, who doesn't like fortune cookies? My brother used to recite a funny SNL bit about the people who make up the lucky numbers for the fortunes. "4? What the hell kind of lucky number is 4?" That's all I can ever remember of it. When I was a teenager the cool thing for me and my geeky friends to do was to add "in bed" to the end of our fortunes. It can get pretty darn funny. But being grown up now and married . . . it's even funnier. It may even pan out. But not this time. I got, "You love playing to a crowd."

Larry opened my truck door as we left. I was thankful that chivalry is not entirely dead, and Larry was thankful that I appreciate such a gesture. Maybe the greatness of the night wasn't the restaurant at all. Maybe it was being with my sweetheart, with no one needing a drink filled or more ketchup squirted on their plate, or beans picked out or chicken cut up. Yeah, I think that was it.

Reason #43 why I am glad we moved to Idaho

In Southern California:

Sudden bladder infection hits.  Pain, blood, need medical attention.  

Larry drives me to the ER (Urgent Care closes early), where I pee in a cup and wait 5 to 8 hours for a doctor to confirm what I already knew and get me a prescription.

Why the long wait?  Because the ER is full of a) folks who are trying to get out of work the next day, and b) folks who use the ER as their regular doctor because they have no insurance, generally for a reason which I will not state because I will sound like an insensitive bigot.

Wait 45 minutes at the over-crowded pharmacy for my anti-biotics and pain meds.

Sleep all of the next day to make up for the whole ordeal.

In Idaho:

Sudden bladder infection hits.  Pain, blood, need medical attention.

Larry is in California on business (bummer!), but helps me think while I find the number and address of an open Urgent Care Clinic open until 10 pm.  I drive there, get registered there since I'm new, pee in a cup and wait 5 minutes for the test strip to develop.  

No wait?  What?  I'm seriously the ONLY patient?  Alrighty then!

Wait 15 minutes for a my prescriptions.  Head home. 

 Total time gone: 1 hr. 20 min.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Last summer I was talking to a sales woman at Joann about moving up to Idaho.  She said, "Well, I hope you like it, because you probably won't be able to move back if you don't."

Good.

Safety First

I will never cease to be amazed at the influence of trial attorneys and class action lawsuits on product packaging.  "Oh, you mean that hot coffee might burn me?"  And so it began.  And so it continues ...

Larry recently purchased a set of little letter openers from Staples.  Nothing fancy.  Just those little plastic things with a blade embedded to slice envelopes.  Fortunately, it came with some safety advice for our benefit.  "They," the elusive, omnipresent "they" who seem to know what is good and healthy for us better than we ourselves, have decided that goggles aren't just for use with power tools anymore:

 

The bad news is that we cannot find our safety goggles at the moment.  So though I hate to admit it, we've been flirting with danger, opening letters without goggles.  Irresponsible, I know.  And a bad example to the kids as well.  It will give them permission some day, I am sure, to use unsafe letter-opening practices.  And how will I feel when a flyaway envelope shred, or worse yet an opener slipped out of an over-exuberant hand, hits them in their unprotected eye?  I will feel like the horrible mother that I am.  And worst of all, because of the warning, I will have no legal case against Staples.

Please.  What's next?  A welding mask for nail clippers?  Maybe steel-toed boots for a vacuum.  Latex gloves with white-out.  Just so long as they don't get sued.

Express Yourself

In an effort to maintain a fair and balanced blog, I am following my modesty post with a post about the boobie shirt.

Last week Larry and I were eating lunch at Taco Bell.  (Now before you all accuse me of having poor taste in Mexican food, I need to inform you that I in fact have excellent taste in Mexican food.  I also like Taco Bell.  I just don't categorize Taco Bell as Mexican food.)  We were sitting in a booth by the soda fountain, as this was the table with the most sun, and I was cold.  This was also a desirable location for engaging in one of my favorite pastimes, people watching.  I watched as folks waited for their orders, emptied their trays, and filled and refilled their drinks.

One guy passed back and forth several times.  He did not particularly catch my attention other than to note that he was not very attractive, and by that I mean that he was quite unattractive.  It wasn't until his last refill before leaving the restaurant that I happened to read his T-shirt.  "Boobies Make Me Smile."  Something about a thirty-something ugly guy wearing an article of clothing with the word "boobies" screen printed on it made me burst into hysterical laughter.  It was absurd.  They seemed words more fitting for a shirt on a lewd teen-aged boy or a tongue-in-cheek onsie for a breast-fed baby.

I began to imagine circumstances he'd find himself in during a day, and wondered how his, er, statement would be received.  I thought of him making a deposit at the bank, likely because Larry and I went to Taco Bell after making a deposit.  What if he was helped by a well endowed teller?  What if he smiled at her as he said hello?  Could she help but wonder if he was only smiling at her boobies?  

What if he encountered a large chested pharmacist?  A grocery checker wearing a 38DD?  A buxom state trouper with the power to ticket him for smiling at her boobies while going 50 in a 35?  That facial expression on him was now entirely tainted by his wardrobe choice.

The  social scientist in me wished I had seen the shirt in enough time to take off my pea coat to see if he'd smile at my boobies.  Expressing this regret to Larry, he kindly offered smile at them for me himself instead.  

Maybe I have it backwards.  Maybe instead of inappropriate and offensive, this is a shirt that should be standard issue for the XY chromosome set.

An Open Letter to Ringo Starr

Peace and Love, Peace and Love.  

Ringo, I am writing to you today to inform you in peace and love that after the 20th of November, I will no longer be accepting signed memorabilia from you.  Please do not send me anything you have signed;  concert t-shirts, LP or CD covers, key chains or tote bags.   I simply DO NOT HAVE TIME to accept anything of this nature and it will be returned if it is dated after November 20th.

I was raised as a Beatles fan.  Though my favorite was John, (you may imagine my devastation at his death when I was but 6 years old) I've always liked you, thought you were funny and cute and phenomenal on the drums.  I could listen to Yellow Submarine, Act Naturally, and Octopus's Garden all day long.  But the fact remains that I NO LONGER HAVE TIME for you to be my idol.  Fortunately, I will continue to have time for Paul, who I am sure will never himself be too busy for the gratification of gushing fan mail.  

Paul, please feel free to continue to send me signed Beatles, Wings, or solo memorabilia, which I will accept and gratefully acknowledge receipt of.  A signed copy of Flaming Pie would be nice.

Peace and Love, Peace and Love, 

Mina,

Paul fanatic

addendum: 

**Please, dear readers, if this doesn't make much sense to you, be sure to follow the link in the text above to Ringo's announcement on You Tube.**

Have you ever seen this?

I was leaving the Albertson's parking lot yesterday after picking up instant tapioca, cooking wine, and ground turkey, when I was stopped by a strange sight.  It was a very pale yellowish, octagonal metal shape fixed to a post.  It reminded me of other similar shapes that frequently catch my attention, except that they are generally red and read "STOP" in white capitals.  

Okay, it was in fact a stop sign.  But I've never seen such a faded one.  I could hardly make out the ghost of the word.  This is a relatively new complex.  I mean, it's not like that sign has been in the sun for 50 years or even 15.  So what gives?  Cheap paint?  I know the government is frugal here.  And that's great.  I try to watch my expenditures too.  But when we go to paint the exterior of our house, I'm not going to use Deltacolor acrylics.

Already Idaho is switching to what Larry is calling "gift shop" license plates, where the numbers are not raised.  A few surrounding states are doing the same thing.  I feel like I'm driving a Barbie car.  I assume this is a money saver.  My brother-in-law has offered other possible motives for the switch such as ease in traffic photoraphy.  I guess.  But it also seems like they would be easier to falsely modify with some navy blue model enamel.  Twenty dollar bills have gone hi-tech while license plates and stop signs are going down the toilet.

What is the world coming to?

Speaking of which, did anyone else notice Bob Barker up there on the stage of the Price is ... er ... the RNC, kissing all of the Palin girls last night?  Or was that just me?  

Please spay and neuter your cats and dogs.  Good night, folks.

Stress Management

Living at the end of a windy mile and a half long mountain road, I frequently encounter various fauna as the pavement interrupts their trail.  I have become convinced that were I so inclined I could generate a quiz entitled "Which Road-kill are You?"  Maybe I'd name it something less gruesome, but I think an edgy title would get more hits.

Responses to questions regarding stress management would place participants in categories of "Squirrel," "Deer," "Rabbit," "Dog," and "Quail."

A squirrel  is interesting.  We all have vast experience with them up here.  Most of us have hit at least one.  Sensing threat a squirrel darts back and forth, unable to decide which way to go to get out of the way.  Some people recommend honking at them.  I have found this to only agrivate the squirrel's stress and prolong the confusion.  I've also been given the advice to keep driving a straight and consistent course.  This has worked really well.  Since employing that strategy, I haven't hit one.  So amazingly, squirrels can avoid doom by acting like chickens with their heads cut off, assuming those actions aren't over analyzed.

Deer.  I usually encounter these in the early morning.  I've not seen one at night and have no idea whether one would really just stare into my headlights.  In daylight they just majestically stride along.  The driver will have to wait.  Deer are luckily large enough to damage a vehicle, thereby discouraging poor behavior from even the most self centered careless driver.

Rabbits dart out into the road BECAUSE a car is coming.  Maybe this isn't true, but it seems to be the case.  I had a cat that did that.  It was well after she was killed on the highway that my parents broke it to me that they believed her to be mentally retarded.  The good thing about rabbits, though, is that they stick to their path and get off of the street relatively quickly.

Dogs on my street seem to think there is no danger at all.  Ever.  I had one lay in the middle of the road, sunning himself and starring at me.  "What?  Why are you honking?  Can't you see I'm resting?"  

Quail crack me up.  The run as fast as they can, faster and faster until they decide they have no choice but to take off.  It is their last resort.  It must be exceedingly difficult for them, because they sure seem to exert a lot of energy avoiding flight.

How do you handle pressure or stress?  Do you act like it's not there?  Do you run  in emotional or intellectual circles, never quite knowing the path to take?  Are you just big enough to handle it?  Maybe you're like me and the quail and wait until the last minute to haul it outta there.  

Just so long as you don't eat my pansies ...

Tipping

On Friday, #4 and I ate lunch at a local café. We sat at the counter, which gave us a unique view of half of the restaurant as well as of the servers as they worked. They were in the middle of a large rush, and it looked as though they were at least one waitress short-handed. The two that were there hardly had time to check customers out, let alone bus the emptying tables. It was easy to sense their stress amid the busyness. A family with two boys was done with their lunch and ordered some pie and a chocolate shake for dessert. I felt for the waitress who now had to make that hand scooped shake, though she did it with a smile. Then before it was even set down on the table, the mother sheepishly made a request. I couldn't hear it, but the waitress smiled, turned abruptly around and threw the shake, whipped topping and all, back into the blender to add malt powder. I hope they gave her a big tip. I know I did, and our order was straightforward.

It was as I was preparing to go off to college that my dad started giving me tipping lessons. I don't recall that any were restaurant-oriented. I guess he figured I knew about that. He started pointing out to me service people who should be tipped, and about how much I should tip them. This mostly concerned tipping skycap workers at the airport.

I was instructed on the proper amount of tip per piece of luggage, but more importantly, I was shown how to tip discreetly. "People around you shouldn't be able to tell that you've given a tip." This involved having the tip money ready beforehand, bills folded together into fourths. A close-up "thank you" with what could be interpreted as a handshake, and there you have it. Tip given.

After having watched my dad do this a time or two, the tip money was handed to me ahead of time so that I could show I'd understood the method. As I recall, I was very smooth at this even that first time. I was a little nervous, but it was fun--almost like a game. My dad was impressed. I could now go off on my own, tipping away, without bringing him embarrassment. Game won. A good life lesson learned.

A couple of years ago, I came across a gentleman who could have used that lesson. Larry and I were staying at a hotel in Seattle with valet parking. It could become pricey. Getting your car in or out was $3 a pop. We started to run out of ones. At any rate, the morning that we checked out, we were waiting for service behind a couple who was, let's say, a bit on the boisterous side. Or maybe it's just that things echo a lot in a below ground parking garage. Though if that were the only problem, I'd have thought they'd have taken notice. The valet pulled up with the car, walked to greet the couple, at which point this gentleman handed unfolded bills at an arm's length and said loudly, "Here you are, sir." I cringed. I could feel my father cringe from 3,000 miles away. I somehow sensed that even the valet was cringing inside.

I had wished we'd been first in line. I'd have set a good example. Or maybe he wouldn't have noticed, and would have thought I was rude for not tipping.

Well Groomed

I tend to procrastinate sometimes.

But we are going to be in Idaho for a week during our Christmas break, and I needed to make sure Lucy had somewhere to go. I was assuming that Christmas time would fill up at the pet boarder quite quickly. It's a one-man show up here with the dog groomer who will actually take them to his home if they play nicely with others. Lu made that cut last August when we went to the river.

So I figured I best get in before Thanksgiving to secure our spot or find out I was already too late and have time to rethink my plan.

The cashier in the shop is #3's soccer coach, so we briefly discussed tomorrow's game, and then I told her the purpose for my visit. She peeked in the grooming room, where a dog was being washed, to ask the owner about taking Lucy. He very kindly asked that I call back after Thanksgiving because he is so booked grooming dogs for the Holiday. He added that he was sure that would be fine, and had me leave the info, so he'd remember when I called.

Hm. Too booked. That surprised me. Here's why:

I went in yesterday to my hair dresser to see if I could get in next week to have my highlights touched up. I haven't been in since May or June. I wanted to go next week because the kids are out of school, so I won't have to be racing to get #4 picked up from kindergarten. I thought that I might have trouble, though, with women wanting to get in before Thanksgiving, and so was willing to take a later appointment if she would open up a few minutes early so I'd be done before noon.

"No problem. Plenty of times still open. What day did you want to come in? Wednesday? Great. We'll see you at 10."

So dog groomer; booked. People groomer; nah. Well, call me crazy, but I think that's . . . well, crazy. I love my dog. And I have to say she is a mess right now--full of dust and pine sap. However my vanity takes my eyes to my own head first.

At least I know now not to procrastinate booking a pre-Christmas grooming.

Connected

Tonight my kids got themselves scolded by their dad (it's usually me!) for singing a middle school teacher's ring tone at the dinner table for the second night in a row.

It took a few minutes for the implication of their knowledge to dawn on me. I asked, "Do your teachers have their phones on in class?" Apparently they do. Some of them ALWAYS have their phones on, while others seem to have it on only when there is some issue of concern going on in their private lives. The kids offered examples of teachers who answered their phones frequently, and even of a music teacher who would give #2 a piece to practice during her tutorial and then would make calls. This same teacher is reportedly often on the phone as students are filing in for music classes.

I must admit that this surprises me. Most of these offending teachers are my parents' age, so it's not as if they've never been without this modern convenience. It's not like they are fresh out of college telling parents, "The kids were all crazy so I was like, 'Um, should you be doing that?,' and they were like, 'Um, no."" **

I need to acknowledge my bias. Very few people have my cell number. My family, the school (for emergencies) and two good friends (also largely for emergencies since we watch eachother's kids). I've given it to teaching artists for use on Art Fridays at school. If I want to be sure a doctor can reach me, I use that number. I will hand it out to contractors doing work on my house. That's about it. And I rarely get calls. Good thing, really, because after a call I have "The Tikki Room" going through my head all day. Unless Larry calls me, then it's the theme song to "Get Smart."

But I digress. I don't think teachers should have phones on during classroom hours. Period. It's not professional. They have a job that is all about ongoing interpersonal communication. They have precious few hours to teach an increasingly ridiculously large amount of material. To set themselves up for more interruption than is bound to happen naturally in a classroom is just plain silly.

Maybe I'm just a fuddy duddy on this one. Maybe it won't be long before going to school will be nothing more than logging on to gotomymeeting.com: "Now class, are we all connected?"


**On an unrelated note, Larry and I heard this actual account given by our son's teacher during Back-to-School Night. She is great, and I adore her, as does my boy. She just makes me feel old when I hear things like that coming out of her mouth!

Cookies, Conversation, and a Little Celebrity

Trying to get back into more regular date nights, Larry took me out for Chinese last Friday night. I love Chinese food. And I have to say, it's not just the food, it's the whole experience. Our little Chinese restaurant up here is no exception, although in a quirky sort of way.

There are several celebrity photographs gracing the wall, taken at the restaurant (I assume) with the owner. The one that stands out, for various reasons, is of Dolly Parton. Over the PA system croons a recording of a female vocalist who sounds a bit like Vikki Carr doing Beatles covers which seems like it would make more sense playing in a bakery in Little Italy. The waitress/maitre'd tends to seat folks just a little too close together for the number of parties in the place. There is an art to spacing. I tend to require as much of a buffer as possible.

Dishes are plastic versions of Asian-inspired china one might find elsewhere. This bothers me, I have to admit. Good plates are a one-time investment, unless you have a careless dish-washer. Perhaps that's their problem. The glasses are also plastic. Water, even with ice, seems warmer if you drink it out of plastic. Larry ordered a 7up and was served a can along with a plastic glass of ice. I noticed the trio seated next to us ordered beers and received glass glasses. They couldn't put a name with Dolly's face, and got a couple of photos of themselves seated around the table.

We ordered a family dinner with sweet and sour shrimp and beef with black mushrooms, then chatted over some great fried won tons, egg rolls and duck sauce served with our soups. We talked about important things, and things with almost no significance at all. We had to chat quietly to compensate for a small buffer space. Our food came a little slowly, but we weren't in any big rush. This restaurant is odd to me in that they seem to skimp a little on the rice. Most Chinese places serve enough rice with your meal for a small army. That said, we still always have left-overs to bring home.

And, of course, who doesn't like fortune cookies? My brother used to recite a funny SNL bit about the people who make up the lucky numbers for the fortunes. "4? What the hell kind of lucky number is 4?" That's all I can ever remember of it. When I was a teenager the cool thing for me and my geeky friends to do was to add "in bed" to the end of our fortunes. It can get pretty darn funny. But being grown up now and married . . . it's even funnier. It may even pan out. But not this time. I got, "You love playing to a crowd."

Larry opened my truck door as we left. I was thankful that chivalry is not entirely dead, and Larry was thankful that I appreciate such a gesture. Maybe the greatness of the night wasn't the restaurant at all. Maybe it was being with my sweetheart with no one needing a drink filled or more ketchup squirted on their plate, or beans picked out or chicken cut up. Yeah, I think that was it.

A rose by any other name . . .

My mother just cringed every time my WWII era grandmother talked about the "Japs." She did it frequently, one of her biggest fears being that the Japs still intended to take over America, at least financially. Similarly, I cringed when not long ago my mother used the term "Oriental" to refer to people from the far east. Larry having taught at UCR, which has a rather large Asian population, I am aware that Oriental seemingly refers to rugs, and is degrading to people.

African-Americans have gone through similar evolutions over the years, deciding that prior labels of choice have now taken on negative connotations. I don't point this out to criticize. I fully understand. My people have been through the same transitions and it is often emotional and even dividing within the group. Yes, I am not a housewife, I am not a homemaker, I am a stay-at-home-mom.

The housewives dominated the 50s and 60s, and even the 70s and were immortalized by TV characters from June Cleaver to Laura Petrie to Carol Brady. Somewhere in the late 70s and early 80s women remaining at home and outside of the compensated workforce decided that the term "housewife" was at the very least inaccurate, if not slightly offensive. "I am not married to my house," they cried. Homemakers emerged--women who chose to create a comfortable and loving home for their families and took pride in their role.

In the 80s Roseanne Barr coined the phrase "domestic goddess" in her stand-up routine and made it popular on her TV show. Funny, yes, but much like IHOPs "rooty-tooty-fresh-and fruity platter," I think it was a little embarrassing to verbally identify with. And with no menu to just point out the choice, the term never caught on as a serious label.

It's my generation of mothers who have decided that while we are choosing to stay home, that choice is inspired not by homemaking but child-rearing. Hence the new term: "Stay-at-home-mom." While I know some who shorten this to its acronym "SAHM," I'm personally not big on acronyms. Those who listen to Dr Laura's radio program will often use her verbiage of being "my kids' mom," meaning that one doesn't farm out the job of mothering one's own kids to someone (or some institution) else. I'm sure some working moms take offense to that as it is rather harshly blunt. We all have to make our own choices.

I frequently think to myself, that though I am not unhappy or offended by the S-A-H-M label, it is not true. I seem to be rarely home at all. I am at the school, or in the car, or at a practice or game. I am at the store, or at church, or at a meeting. I am at the doctor, dentist, or orthodontist. I am just not sure how to describe that job of mine accurately and succinctly. There are those in my acquaintance who seem to think that because I am not "gainfully employed" that I must be available to help out whenever. Sometimes I can, but often not. And even when I can, there is generally something for my family that is being put off again.

Why do we find the need to keep re-naming ourselves? Are we too sensitive and self-absorbed? Or was William wrong? If you called a rose a stink-plant would anyone bother to sniff it? If a flower gives off odor in the garden and no one is there to inhale, does it really smell?

At the Movies

A couple of my favorite comedies are "What About Bob?" and "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles." There is something about watching a character get annoyed to near insanity that amuses me highly. I am reminded of watching my dad as a kid, but having some control and perspective as an adult, it's entertaining rather than a little scary. It makes me hope that I am not quite as bad as he, when in reality at this stage in my life I may well be worse.

Nothing is better than witnessing life imitate art.

Yesterday we went to see a movie in a desert town that we are not overly familiar with. Our first impressions were not great--folks seemed to be dressed a little too country club-ish and act a little too entitled for our taste. Nevertheless, we purchased our tickets and had just cued-up in the concession line when a casually well-dressed fellow in his late 60s turned around with an open box, displaying a thin-crusted, slightly over-cooked cheese pizza. With surprising emotion and volume he announced to all in line, "You'd better watch out--they burn the pizzas here very easily!" It seemed like a level of indignation unequal to the small amout of brown cheese. I had to turn into Larry's arm to muffle my laugh as the gentleman turned back to the counter where he spent another 4 to 5 minutes concluding his business. As he walked past us he muttered loudly to his wife, "Well, THAT was torture!" I giggled again, imagining those same words running through the mind of the poor soul who'd waited on him. In another minute we were up.

A young man behind the counter retrieved each package of candy as I ordered it. I got to "M&Ms, " and he told me that there were big bags at the bottom. When I quickly replied that we didn't need a big bag, he brusquely grabbed a small bag of peanut M&Ms. "Um, I just needed the plain ones." (Don't peanut M&Ms require specification?) At that he threw the peanut bag back, where it landed quite out of place, and snatched a plain bag, tossing it in our pile. Trying not to laugh, we paid the bill.

It was truly bizarre. Was he annoyed to be getting 5 separate candies for us? Was he paid on commission and feeling gypped out of a bigger sale? It was not the kid who had helped Mr. Burned-Pizza, so that couldn't have been the problem. Maybe he was unhappy that we didn't order popcorn or soda. All I know is that this was so ridiculous, that not even I could get annoyed.

I, in fact, was so far from annoyed after having been treated to these two vignettes, that I laughed my way into the theatre, much more ready than usual to enjoy the main attraction.

LEARN ENGLISH, PEOPLE!!

Not to worry, this is not a gripe session about illegal immigrants. (I could very well do that, but at this point I feel that the language issue is one of lesser importance in that debate.) This is about good ol' American nationals who have been here for generations but have somewhere, I assume, skipped way too many English classes--for generations.

I realize that I live in the land of milk and honey and misused adverbs, but even I was stunned the other day by a customer service phone call I participated in. I'd come home to a message on my machine about furniture that was ready for pick-up. We'd purchased furniture from this store, but there was nothing remaining that had not been picked up or delivered long ago. So already, someone had screwed up. And I was bracing myself for having to tell the situation over several times, as businesses never seem to hire the brightest bulbs for their customer service.

Well, having called the number that was left for me, and being redirected (not through a transfer--I had to REDIAL and pick a different option) I was on the line with a young lady for whom I again explained that I expected no furniture. She then queried, "You got no service call scheduled or nothing?"

Silence.

She asked if I was still there. Yes, I was there. In a slight state of shock. I strained to answer her, fighting the urge to correct her. Didn't she stand in need of correction? But was it my place? If not mine, whose? Thankfully, the conversation ended relatively quickly after that. It was truly difficult for me to converse with an adult who would unabashedly use such grammar at all, let alone during the business day. As a professional. If I ran across a professional Rocky Balboa impersonator, that would be a different story. That would be fun.

#3 comes home with all sorts of 1st grade "language." And right or wrong, it takes me 10 or more repetitions of "butt" in her giggly little potty voice for me to register that I need to take action. "Ain't got no . . .," only one.

I'm no grammar snob. I'll let my participles dangle. I'll end a thought with a preposition. I use the American "you" in place of the more proper "one." I even find incomplete sentences can add interest and emphasis. My spoken "been" rhymes with "zen," not "seen."

But please, if you're working with the public, at least be able to PRETEND you made it past 1st grade. Or you may hear some potty language comin' from me.