Say what? Not cheese!

It's kind of fun to read about frivolous lawsuits and feel morally superior to people who file them and the lawyers who take their money. And feel outraged when some idiot judge rules in their favor.

I always thought it was a black/white issue until I read about one who brought shades of gray to my way of thinking.

It seems a man in West Virginia sued McDonald's for $10 million because he got cheese on his Quarter Pounder. He's allergic to cheese and had asked that no cheese be put on the burger. In justifying his suit he said he "took multiple preventive steps to assure his food did not contain cheese."

James Taranto of the Wall Street Journal said, according to the Lawsuit Abuse Fortnightly from the Heartland Institute, "So apparently the 'multiple preventive steps' he took 'to assure his food did not contain cheese' did not include looking at the damn sandwich before eating it."

So here's the deal. I hate cheese. I'm not allergic to it, I just don't like the stuff. If I had to depend on government commodities for sustenance and had to take the cheese they give out, I'd starve. I can sympathize with the guy.

It's not as easy as just "looking at the damn sandwich." What's so difficult about honoring a request to leave off a slice of cheese. Quarter Pounders are listed on the menu as Quarter Pounders and Quarter Pounders with cheese. He ordered a Quarter Pounder. He didn't mention cheese; he should not have gotten any.

For some reason there's a move afoot to force cheese on people. Many times I have gone through a drive-through and asked for a hamburger. From the squawker: "You want cheese on that?"

Had I wanted cheese I would have said "with cheese." I didn't. I say no. Sometimes I get cheese. Then I get cheesed off.

I used to say, no, thank you, but they never heard the no, heard only the thank you and slapped cheese on my burger. I wouldn't know that until I got it home and then it became a choice: do I drive back, go through the line and ask for an exchange, or do I just scape off the cheese? You never get all of it off and there's always that residual taste of cheese lingering on the burger.

So I got to the point where I wouldn't move the car until I opened the bag, took out the burger and did a cheese check. Didn't endear me to the kid at the window, but what do I care? They don't work for tips; he can wait until the customer is satisfied.

It happens in classier restaurants too. Especially those steak houses that offer a "loaded" baked potato. One waitress took my order for a steak and baked potato with butter. No sour cream. Don't like that stuff either. No cheese. She came back with a loaded baked potato. I sent it back. She brought me a second one. I sent it back. She asked "don't you want cheese on your potato?" I said "I don't want cheese anywhere near my plate." How much more simple can a request be? I hope she wasn't surprised when I left no tip.

It's safe to say that I dislike cheese about as much as I dislike sleazy lawyers. But I can understand the West Virginia guy's frustration. One should reasonably expect to order a burger without cheese and not have to think about whether or not some kid on a burger assembly line didn't go the extra mile. It's his right to be able to bite into a burger when he's hungry and not be surprised and then suffer the consequences of his allergies.

This is a case I may follow to see if the shades of gray turn black or white. If he wins the $10 million in damages, that sets legal precedent. It's been a while since I ordered anything at a fast food restaurant. Maybe we can get a class action case going.

Tips for women of a certain age

It's hard to be an aging sex symbol, but somebody's gotta do it.

Looking, feeling and being your very best takes more effort than it used to. And that comes at a time when making an effort wears you out, not lifts you up.

But it can be done.

Heads up! Literally. Never look down into a mirror. It'll ruin your day.

A girdle is no longer the enemy. Go ahead, buy one and gather unto you all that is thine own. Pack it in there. Affirm yourself.

However, don't be fooled into thinking you can carry off Spandex pants. Even with a girdle, unless you have the figure of a broomstick, Spandex is not your friend.

Resist the urge to say "when I was your age" to younger people. It dates you. They don't believe you ever were their age and would never believe the differences between then and now anyway. Besides, things were so much better then; they don't deserve to know what they're missing.

Remember the pencil test from the 1960s? Even if you passed it then, chances are good a roll of toilet paper wouldn't budge now. Sag is a drag; think underwire.

Bright blue eyeshadow was never a good idea. It has not gotten any better.

Blue and green nail polish look like bruises on older women. They look ridiculous on younger women too, but younger women can carry off ridiculous better than we can. We just shake our heads and say, "they just don't know any better."

Here's one my mother used to say, back in HER day: "Well reared girls shouldn't wear pants." Same goes for shorts. Cellulite has been known to frighten animals. Do you want that on your conscience? If you want comfort and style, try a loose summer dress. A flowing caftan adds drama.

An exercise tip: Say you got down on your knees to check for dust bunnies under the bed. OK. Just say it and humor me. So you're on the floor and can't get up. Turn it into an exercise opportunity. Turn over and sit on your backside; then scoot across the floor one cheek at a time until you get to the nearest piece of sturdy furniture to support you as you pull yourself up. You'll get a little exercise and either polish your hardwood floor or fluff up the nap on your carpet. That's multitasking.

Invest in a strong light in a private area of your house. Hide in there alone, switch on the light and grab some sharp nail scissors. Nose hairs: they're not just for guys.

If you're thinking about recapturing your youth with a tattoo, remember that rosebuds can turn into long-stemmed roses. See above remark about underwires.

Gray hair is beautiful. White hair can be dramatic and strikingly beautiful. Gray or white roots are just plain tacky.

Kathy Bates in a movie once said something to the effect of being older makes women invisible and easier for them to shoplift. They don't get caught because no one notices them. I'm not advocating petty theft; I'm saying tart up and be noticed! The world needs more aging sex symbols.

If they can send a man to the moon...

If they can put a man on the moon, why can't they:

* Invent a device to be installed on the dashboard of all cars that lets you zap the headlights of any oncoming car with its high beams that are blinding you.

* Program that same device to lower the volume of any blasting radio or CD player for a minimum of six hours.

* Oh heck, might as well make it able to disconnect the cell phone connection of any idiot driver who nearly smashes into your car because s/he wasn't paying attention.

* Make rear window wipers standard equipment on all vehicles. They look so practical. Why are they an option?

* Create a fat-free, calorie-free, healthful, good-tasting jelly doughnut.

* Ditto black forest torte. Pizza. Any flavor of pie. Cookies.

* Create a computer program that can figure out what you're trying to get across when you're composing on it, and automatically correct your grammar and spelling. And punctuation.

* Invent a clothes dryer that has a setting to take the wrinkles out of cotton clothing and leave them looking starched and pressed.

* Send Lindsey Lohan there until she dries out.

* Send Brittney Spears there until she learns parenting skills and a profession.

* Send Paris Hilton there just because.

* Send Osama bin Laden halfway there and leave him.

* Send Congress there and not let them come back until gas prices are less than $1 a gallon. Until health care costs don't mean choosing between going to the doctor/pharmacy/hospital or going to the grocery store.

* Leave them there until our borders are secure from terrorists and English is not only spoken here, but mandatory.

* Leave them there until they stop wasting our money. And then make them pay to come back.

The machines will take over

I have an inherent distrust of anything automated. Once I got used to automated banking, I didn't mind driving by the ATM now and again because I would get money. I don't mind interacting with machinery if I'm going to end up with a fistfull of cash, even if it is my cash.

But when I'm confronted with automated answering services I cringe. I cower. Then I cuss.

I'm convinced that the answering service for the flexible pay account I'm a member of for medical expenses is programmed to be as uncooperative and as useless as a screen door in a submarine.

The flex pay people send me notices by e-mail now and then if they want to advise me that they suspect one of my purchases. It's as if they think that the money I just spent on diabetic test strips actually went toward eye shadow and firming cream, and they want proof that I really bought something medical. They suggest if I have questions or if I want to know the balance of my account that I call their toll free number.

So happens that I did want to know my balance, so I called the number. It wasn't one of those answering services that ask you to punch 1 for one service, and 2 for another and 5 if you want a foreign language. This one wanted to chat. It wanted me to say my social security number so it could identify me as a member and "best serve my needs."

I felt like a real idiot sitting there repeating the same 9 numbers over and over and over, while the gizmo repeated back to me for verification numbers that sounded not even remotely like the ones I just said.

I muttered, "I want to talk to a real person."

The machine responded, "I don't understand. What did you say?"

I responded with an expletive suggesting sexual congress that's anatomically impossible. It played dumb.

Finally I got the number through; then it wanted to know my account number.

Uh oh. It's not on the debit card the company supplied me. It wasn't on the e-mail they sent me. Where in blazes is my account number? Since the gizmo wasn't patient enough to wait for me to look, nor did it understand when I asked where is the number, I responded to the e-mail, rather curtly, asking where the hell do I find the account number. I guess they don't know either; I never heard back.

All this is leading up to my latest encounter with automated answering. A scary scenario.

Flipped on the remote and got a snowy reception on the TV. Cable must be out. So I get the cable bill and look up the number it provides because of course the cable company isn't listed in the phone book. I get another automated answering service that wanted to chat. This cannot be good.

"Tell me in a short sentence what is your problem."

Snowy reception.

"I think you said you're getting a reception with snow. Hmmm let me see."

Oh my. A machine that ponders; makes small talk.

It directed me to check high and low number channels. Do they all work equally? Yes? Then it asked if I had a cable box. No. Then it said, "Maybe your connection is loose. Please check your connection. If that isn't the problem, you can always call back."

Then it hung up. I checked. Danged if it wasn't right. Now that's just creepy. It solved my problem, it was somewhat articulate, didn't have an accent, and it made sense. I didn't have to schedule an appointment with a cable guy who would make me feel like an idiot when he found the loose connection in the wall and then charged me for the call.

I feel useless enough trying to cope at work with a computer that younger employees seem to be born knowing how to work with. Then I get an answering machine that appears to be smarter than I am. I'm taking the cable company gizmo to be a warning of things to come. Be afraid. Be very afraid.