chlorine's hot flashes

Bankruptcy takes the cake

2012-01-11T12:29:00.000-08:00

OK, America, time to step up to the plate. And put a Twinkie on it.

Wonder Bread, the owners of Hostess Bakery, has filed for bankruptcy protection. Unless we do something now, it may be too late for this spongy, cream-filled piece of Americana.

If everyone in the country were to eat a Twinkie a day, we can save the company and ensure that junk food junkies won't have to switch allegiance to Little Debbie (although there's a lot to be said for Zebra Cakes).

I can't imagine a world without Twinkies. One of my earliest memories of first grade is taking my lunch to school. In my red plaid lunch box, thee would be a bologna sandwich, an apple or a banana, a red-plaid Thermos of milk which I managed to spill most days, and a twin package of Twinkies. Sometimes I'd share and swap a Twinkie for one of my friend's Hostess Cupcakes, chocolate cake and frosting with the white squiggle on top.

My education began with Hostess cakes. Twinkies, cupcakes. They were part of that healthy lunch that got me through the afternoon. Some of my classmates brought Hostess Snowballs, chocolate cakes mounds covered in white marshmallow frosting and drenched with coconut. Sometimes the frosting was pink. With Snowballs, one could "skin the cat." If one were especially skilled, one could rip the entire coconut/marshmallow coating off in one solid piece. Whether you ate it before or after you ate the cream-filled cake was a matter of personal preference.

Later on came Ding Dongs, Ho Hos, and I remember a small two-layer yellow cake with cream filling between the layers and raspberry jam and coconut on top. I forgot what they were called, but they were good.

But Twinkies are somehow special, little boats of sponge cake with that creamy center. To lose this tasty little icon would be like losing dime stores, Little LuLu comic books, Saturday morning Looney Tunes that went on for hours, and other stuff that made life fun.

Those other things are gone now, but we have a chance to do our part and save the Twinkie. C'mon America. A Twinkie a day isn't a big sacrifice. Think of it as a Twinkie a day keeps the lawyers away.

The way Christmas should be; used to be

2011-12-15T13:50:00.000-08:00

Let's trip down memory lane for a minute.

Back in the day before Big Box stores took over Christmas. Before crowds camped out in the cold parking lot so they could stampede the place at the crack of dawn and run each other over in search of the latest techno-toy.

Back in the day when people wished each other a Merry Christmas and meant it. Before political correctness made people began couching their greetings with "If you celebrate Christmas, may I wish you a merry one?"

Was it all that long ago that we looked forward to Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, when there was no Black Friday, Black Monday, or day after Christmas sales -- even stores that were closed Christmas Eve and Christmas Day?

When did The Retailer edge out the baby in the manger and Santa Claus? How do we get them back?

Something is missing in the Christmas season. Maybe it's a day or several spent baking special cookies, making divinity, the smell of good things from the oven. Or could it be the scent of a cedar tree that was dragged in from outside, its trunk chopped a bit more so the top didn't brush the ceiling? When did trees become designer accessories with a color scheme — a theme for Pete's sake? What happened to the colorful lights and strands of tinsel and ornaments festooned with glitter?

I miss the Christmases when I would count up my babysitting money and head to Woolworths. Woolworths was there year round, but at Christmas it became magical. A trip to Woolworths meant lunch at the counter — a burger and fries, their light and airy cheesecake, exquisite egg salad sandwiches. Then a trip through the store to buy Evening in Paris or Desert Flower gift sets, the latest trend in costume jewelry, a record or two after you asked the clerk to play it first to make sure it didn't skip. There were Old Spice gift sets, a wonderland of toys, necklaces and earrings to match, coffee mugs, chip and dip servers — you could buy something for everyone on your gift list and have some left over to get yourself the latest Cutex nail polish color. With a matching lipstick sometimes.

No one pushed, no one shoved. You savored the bright lights, smells from the lunch counter, music in the air, and when you were ready to check out you stopped by the candy counter for a bag of bridge mix to take home.

Forget crowded parking lots, overheated big mart stores, space aliens and big mean transformers, pink plastic trees, and keeping the receipts in case you need to take something back, or dolls so far beyond puberty they would disdain the little girls who treasure them if those little girls didn't look like they can't wait for their boobs to develop.

Bring back department store Santas, who could easily pass for the real guy. Bring back the cold nights with dress up clothes to wear to the school Christmas plays. Bring back getting warm PJs for Christmas, and snuggly slippers. Hot chocolate and sugar cookies. Hard candy and nuts you have to crack. Oranges and tangerines dropped in stockings along with candy canes.

Heck, bring back Woolworths! Christmas hasn't been right since it closed!

Things I can do without

2011-11-03T12:41:00.000-07:00

Ladies magazines lately have been printing lists of things various people, mostly celebrities, can't live without. Some of these pampered people would just expire if they didn't have a certain kind of mascara, or some herbal tea that tastes awful, or some such thing.

There's really nothing other than oxygen, chocolate and cats that I can't live without, but there are some things I wouldn't miss if I didn't have to be aware of them. Here's a few:

> Knowing anything at all about the Lohans, pere et fille.
> Food-flavored bath products. I'd rather smell like flowers than food. And there's something very distasteful about the latest product I noticed: chocolate cherry foot cream.
> Blue and green nail polish. One looks like a bruise; the other a fungus.
> What passes for Saturday morning cartoons on TV. Where oh where are Bugs Bunny, Mighty Mouse, Sylvester and Tweety Bird? And what in the world are Transformers doing to the minds of innocent little children?
> Vegetable pizza. If a pizza doesn't have greasy, spicy meat offset by anchovies, then don't even bother wasting dough.
> Kim Kardashian's back to back wedding and divorce, Paris Hilton's anything, and Jessica Simpson's pregnancy.
> Non-stop political debates among a dozen so-called candidate wanna-bees that turn into bitch-fests. Very little solid information ever escapes from them.
> Presidential prime-time speeches peppered with surly innuendo. Leak it to the press like everyone else and quit interrupting NCIS!
> Christmas store promotions in September.
> Sports games on TV that leak over into subsequent programing time. Whose brilliant idea was it to stop the clock so players can wander around, scratch their backsides, and split hairs over nothing of any importance in the greater scheme of things?
> Daylight Savings Time. Sanity returns this weekend!
> Laws that prevent normal people from delivering a pie in the face to anyone seen driving and talking on a cell phone.
> By the same token, laws that prevent anyone from kneecapping anyone who blows a red light because they were distracted while driving. It should be open season on anyone seen behind the wheel with a bent elbow and a hand against the ear.
> Green bean casserole.
> Brussels sprouts.
> Sphynx cats. I love cats, but fur-less felines are a cruel trick on nature.
> Inappropriate apostrophe's.
> Unnecessary "quote" marks.

Watch out world! Women in their M&M years (between menopause and Medicare) are going to take over the world. We're getting our lists in order!

Fear and loathing in the supermarket

2011-08-25T11:54:00.000-07:00

A trip to the supermarket is not for the faint of heart, and lately it has gotten worse.

Shoppers push those metal carts up and down aisles like they're trying to win NASCAR points. When you reach the end of an aisle, you need a traffic signal light to proceed into the crossing aisle to go around the end displays and into the next aisle. Those not so lucky may need a paramedic. It's like a demolition derby in there sometimes.

If that weren't bad enough, some yahoo invented the miniature shopping carts for children to push along while Mom ignores them in favor of checking labels on cans of dog food. Get two or more of those cart-pushing brats in one aisle and the next thing you know they're having a contest to see who can bruise the most ankles of other shoppers who had sense enough to leave their kids at home.

And then there are the shoppers who have to march two abreast down the aisles in unison, chatting all the while, oblivious to anyone who wants to get around them. And we all know about the people who slip in 26 items in the 20-items-or-less aisle claiming that six cans of cat food should count as one item because it's all the same product.

Now we have the extreme couponers. These people are lethal! At the checkout counter, they're worse than people who buy in bulk through WIC. Look for determined-looking women (men wouldn't bother with extreme couponing) with loose-leaf note books full of coupons separated by category.

In the aisles, you can see them balancing their binders on the shopping cart handles while they clear the shelves of every jar of peanut butter, every box of cornflakes, leaving none for anyone else.

They lie in wait at newspaper vending racks, put in enough money for a paper, then clear out the rack of papers to get the coupons. They rifle through stacks of papers on a store counter to get the pages of coupons.

A leisurely stroll among the rutabagas and bottles of ginger ale is a thing of the past. You take your life in your hands just running in for a quick loaf of bread, assuming there's any left after the couponers get there.

Parade was wrong

2011-08-02T07:27:00.000-07:00

Last week's Parade magazine published an article comparing cats to dogs as perfect pets. Dogs won.

Well, of course the research was flawed! Obviously the research panel was stacked in favor of dogs. The criteria that determined which pet is better favored the canine bunch.

No one judged either animal on sarcasm. Cats would win paws down. When I give my cat Arthur food he doesn't like, he draws his paw over it like it's something nasty in his litter box. Show me a dog with an opinion!

Generosity. Dogs will bring you anything you throw away, and call it a game of fetch. A cat will bring you something she actually went out and chose: a not-quite-dead mouse.

Parade gave dogs points for herding. Said it was part of the canine work ethic. Cats can herd just as well as dogs can, but they don't limit themselves to sheep or cattle. Cats herd humans -- from the living room to the kitchen to where the cat food and kitty treats are kept. Talk about leadership skills!

Dogs may be loyal and all that, but what dog will risk his life to make sure the food you're eating won't poison you. Both my cats are right there on the spot at every meal, making sure that my meat isn't tainted. If that isn't love I don't know know what is.

Cat people are a different breed of ... well ... cat. We can see the hidden talents of our feline-Americans and should have been better represented on Parade's panel of judges.

Besides, there's nothing more comforting than snuggling up with a sleepy cat and listening to it purr. Show me a dog that can do that!

Random thoughts from a wandering mind

2011-06-14T08:27:00.000-07:00

Much talk has been going around lately about how we're living in the last few gasps of civilization's breath. Some quote Nostradamus; others Revelations. All I know is that the weather has been goofy lately, it snowed in Hawaii in June, and last week my doctor was early for my appointment with him. Early! A doctor! Three exam rooms, no waiting! That's scary.

Ladies, a tip that will save your sanity as well as your appearance. Ever get in the car and realize you're not wearing lipstick? Dive into your purse, fish out your lipstick — before you start the car, of course — and use the rear view mirror to apply it. Whatever you do, don't use the mirror on the back of the sun visor, Trust me on this one; you don't want to see that closely. Besides if you use the rear view mirror you have to tilt your head back a little, and that's good exercise for the sagging neck.

It's amazing how your attitude changes about some things. Ten years ago when I was earlier into my M&M years (between menopause and Medicare) but not quite senior status, I was checking out groceries and a snarky little child just barely out of Pampers who was working the cash register asked me if I wanted the senior discount. I informed her that I did not qualify, and she said "I'll give it to you anyway." Little twit!

Now fast forward 10 years. I'm shopping with a friend in an apparel store I'd been to the day before; she wanted to go after I told her about what I'd bought. The saleswoman offered my friend (only two years older than I) a senior discount. I was really ticked! Not for my friend, she can be ticked for her own reasons, but she wasn't. No one offered me a discount the day before! Never mind that I should be flattered that the saleslady didn't think I was a senior -- I WANTED that discount!

One last thought. It's summer and baseball is being played at all levels. There's something traditional about baseball reports on the news, hearing the play by play on radio, the warmth of the sun at the ball field, the taste of hotdogs — the crack of the bat on the ball. There's just something wrong about the clink of the ball on an aluminum bat. Whose idea was that anyway?

Just thinking....

Confessions of a word nerd

2011-05-18T13:30:00.000-07:00

There are few things that annoy me more than bad grammar.

Now that I've said that, picky people in Blogland will be looking for mistakes in this post, but that's OK. Leave your name and contact. I want to connect with kindred spirits. I just want to know you're really out there.

I grit my teeth whenever I hear "between you and I." My eyes roll involuntarily when I hear something like, "Mother left a bundle to my sister and I." If your grammar is that bad, you can't be trusted with an inheritance.

And I really lose it when I read about someone who wants to loose a bad habit.

Unneeded "quote" marks drive me batty; and if you want to make me suffer, tell me about someone who has went on to become an English teacher. And if you use the word "irregardless" I swear I'll think long and hard about kneecapping you.

I nearly freeze with anger when I hear someone say he took a chicken out of the freezer to unthaw. If you want to unthaw the damn bird, leave it in the freezer!

Whenever I hear news broadcasters make grammar errors, I wonder what the world is coming to. These are supposedly educated people. They speak for a living. They should know their verb tenses and how to make pronouns agree with nouns. And by now everyone should know the difference between to, two, and too, their, they're and there, its and it's and your and you're. It ain't rocket surgery!

Life as a word nerd is challenging. My tongue is constantly sore from my biting it to keep from making an ass of myself correcting someone's grammar. I may be anal retentive, but I do try to be polite. Besides, I can imagine that constant correction would be very annoying. I have other ways to be annoying that are much more fun.

So if anyone is reading this and thinking "Yeah! I agree!" or "Right on!," then do let me know you're out there so I'll know I am not alone in this world.

And if all of this has whizzed right over your head, and you're wondering what all the fuss is about — Yeah! I'm talking about you!

The bird is on the wing -- thump!

2011-04-14T13:30:00.000-07:00

Maybe it has something to do with spring.

A couple of weeks ago, when I got to work one morning I kept hearing a thumping sound coming from the back room. It wasn't the Fax machine malfunctioning, nor was it someone trying to break in (or out; I got there before my staff did).

It was a bird hitting the window. I saw the wings flutter and saw the impact and heard the thump. The stupid bird kept flying into the window. It was almost as if he believed that if he kept hitting the glass often enough, he'd move the building out of his way and fly across the street.

Then I remembered, a year ago about this time, a bird — maybe the same one — repeatedly flew into the window. Thump!

For the last couple of weeks, that bird-brained bird keeps hitting the window. What's up with that?

Could it be that it's last year's bird, and it just keeps trying to move the building hoping this year he'll be successful?

Could it be he's the offspring of last year's bird and flying into windows is genetic?

Maybe he's suicidal. And determined. Albeit extremely unsuccessful which ought to make him even more suicidal.

It certainly isn't because the window glass is so clear that the bird can't tell it's a window.

That's it! Maybe he thinks the window is a big flat tree and he wants to land on it.

Is there such a thing as a neurotic, self-destructive bird?

Or do I have too much time on my hands?

Why people don't read instruction manuals

2011-03-16T10:19:00.000-07:00

In every large purchase, there's always a pamphlet telling you how to put it together and how to fix it when it breaks.

These manuals are basically worthless.

If you've bought something not made in this country (which is practically everything), you get a manual written in a foreigner's version of English. It has entertainment value, but not much information.

After I assembled the last vacuum cleaner I bought, I looked at the instruction manual — yes in that order — for some of the finer points of using the sweeper. It turn out that the manual drawings don't look anything like the vacuum I bought. This is the case in most items -- the drawing always has a few extra knobs and buttons than the product you bought.

Or you might read something like "this feature not available on Model Number 823B" and you have Model Number 823B. Where are the instructions for 823B — in the box with Model 823A?

So you just put the thing together, hook it up the best way you can. In the case of computer equipment or a DVD player, you call in a 12-year-old who will get it up and running in 30 seconds flat.

But I have the owner's manual problem that beats them all. Recently I bought a new car. The salesman went over all the features of the vehicle with me, but really, how different are cars anyway? I could figure out the lights, wipers, cruise control and all that stuff, but one button on the CD player left me baffled. It left the salesman baffled too.

My car has a cat folder. It's a button that has arrows on it indicating forward and backward.

Chances are that I'll need one are pretty slim. My cats are more than capable of folding themselves. Actually they'd rather stretch. But they're seldom in the car. When they have to go to the vet, they're in carriers and they're crouched and complaining anyway, so why fold them. They're already ticked off.

I pushed the button and nothing happened. And when I went to look for the cats, I found them unfolded.

So I checked the owner's manual. It was predictable. The drawing of the dashboard doesn't look a thing like my dashboard. Actually, there were three drawings, one for however many CDs your player is capable of holding. None of them looked like mine.

But one did have a button marked "folder." It's for storing songs from an iPod. But there was nothing about cats.

So if anyone needs a cat folded, I have a cat folder. I just don't know how to use it.

Reality weather

2011-02-23T12:01:00.000-08:00

A winter storm is brewing, again, and we all know what that means. Weather forecasters will prove that they don't have enough sense to come in out of it.

That probably isn't fair. They may very well know, but they probably have bosses who think it lends a touch of reality to send their weather reporters out in freezing rain, knee-deep snow, torrential rain, and blowing winds to tell TV viewers to stay inside because it's really bad out there.

We've all seen them, on the cable Weather Channel and on local news. Before dawn even cracks, they're out there in an empty parking lot scruffing their feet around chortling, "Look at how deep this ice is! It's really slippery."

Or they're leaning into the wind, holding on for dear life, describing how Hurricane Gidget is really tearing roofs off houses, and for Pete's sake, get out of town!

My personal favorite is the film crew that drives around while snow and ice are building up and the road crews aren't even out yet, the camera guy is filming the windshield wipers going back and forth and the reporter narrating "It's gosh-awful out here; better stay off the roads."

Some weather forecast events I'd like to see —

An 80-degree day, blue skies, balmy breezes, weather guy slugging down a glass of iced tea, saying, "It's a gorgeous day out here. Too bad you're stuck at work and my job is to be out here rubbing it in your face."

Early spring. Weather crew is standing in a freshly-mowed field; pollen flying; bees buzzing. Weather guy swatting at bees with one hand, holding the mic and an injection pen with the other, wiping his nose on his sleeve and sneezing. "It's allergy season, folks," he croaks. "Crank up the air conditioners."

Wintry mix falling, accumulating. Weather guy on a parking lot. "It's really coming down, freezing rain mixed with sleet. Let me show you what the parking lot looks like here.' Takes a step, and THUD! Followed by "(Expletive), let me inside, dammit! It's not fit out here for man, beast or studio executive."

Now that would be reality TV at its best.

Winter fantasies

2011-02-10T13:13:00.000-08:00

Snow is piled up almost to the top of my foot, and it's colder than a well-digger's back pocket. On days like this, rather than slip my way to work I'd rather stay home and — focus on food.

I imagine hot pots of homemade soup simmering on the stove. I fantasize about warm cornbread out of the oven. I dream of chili, hot and spicy. Warm cookies. Steaming pans of brownies. ....Ooooh!

Ahem. Excuse me. Got a little carried a way there.

The actual work that goes into preparing all those things doesn't occur to me. Cleanup gets pushed out of my mind. Slogging my way through snow and cold to take bags of trash to the Dumpster doesn't even enter the picture.

I dream of snuggling down with warm comfort food, and all my cares melt like the accumulated frozen sludge on the bottom of my car.

Maybe if one day I actually did make hot soup, and warm cornbread, and brownies on a cold snowy day I would either 1) be satisfied to have carried out a longing desire or 2) realized that my cold-day fantasy is a lot like Christmas memories -- all the reality and disappointment are edited out.

My money's on number 2. I've experienced too many times of finding out Prince Charming is really a toad.

Maybe it's the fantasy that keeps me warm on cold days, because in my dream world, I don't see myself chopping vegetable and scrubbing dirty utensils. Just inhaling the aroma and enjoying the flavors and warmth. In my fantasy I scarf down the entire pan of brownies and don't gain weight. And my cornbread never crumbles either.

Maybe the snow will melt soon and it'll warm up and I can go back to fantasizing about Harrison Ford ditching that scrawny Callista Flockhart and coming over to revel in making me some hot soup and cornbread.

My magic wand

2011-01-28T13:44:00.000-08:00

If I had a magic wand, I'd wave it and turn myself into a lawyer.

Don't want to sue anyone. Don't want to lower myself. I want to be a lawyer because lawyers become judges, and that's what I really want.

I want to be the judge that hears Ohio Congressman Dennis Kucinich's suit against the lunchroom where he bit down on an olive pit. In 2008.

This is so stupid on so many levels. The guy is a congressman. He has better health insurance than anyone else, and it includes dental coverage. So it's not like the dental bills set him back financially. He waited nearly three years to sue. Did that tooth just now start throbbing, or was this just too far down on his to-do list?

Kucinich is seeking damages of $150,000 — because of a broken tooth. No, he says it was because the sandwich was inedible and contained a pit in an olive that was supposed to be pitted.

News flash for you, Kucinich: Pit happens. It says so on the jars they're packed in.

Yes, if I were a judge, I'd throw the book at him for wasting the court's time. If he'd taken daintier bites of his sandwich, he might have noticed the pit before chomping on it. Regular fluoride treatments and flossing might have made for strong healthy teeth that can withstand the occasional olive pit.

I'd find him guilty of gross stupidity, and bar him from eating popcorn that might have unpopped kernels in it, salt-water taffy, peanut brittle, and caramels. The guy has to be stopped!

As a judge I'd also sentence him to weeks of public service — stuffing pimientos into olives.

Then I'd impose an additional fine for gross stupidity, arrogance, and for making me waste a good wave of my magic wand, making me turn into a lawyer instead of making me rich and thin.

The solution for all that's wrong

2011-01-17T13:01:00.000-08:00

I think I know the answer to most of the world's problems.

Bubble wrap.

Has anyone ever popped bubble wrap without a smile? Or a giggle? Or a devious grin that precedes more, maniacal, popping of bubble wrap?

Can't you just see a courtroom situation with one lawyer cross-examining a witness, the other lawyer plotting his response, the judge listening ominously on the bench, when POP! POPPOPPOP!

They'd probably dive under their chairs thinking someone opened fire on them, but imagine how the atmosphere in the room would lighten once the court reporter holds up a flattened sheet of bubble wrap and says, "Hey! No worries! It's just bubble wrap!"

Then they'd all share a good chuckle and the wheels of justice would spin a little faster.

Or imagine what a round of bubble wrap would do at a filibuster in the somber halls of the Senate. Both sides of the aisle would find reason to grin, elbow each other, and look around for a little wrap to roll between bipartisan fingers. It's what this country needs more than half a dozen bridges leading to the side of a cliff to keep the pork flowing back home.

Who knew bubble wrap started out as someone's idea of home decor? In the 1950s someone invented it as a new kind of wallpaper, when texture was a key word in wall covering and not in food preparation. For some reason, the notion just didn't take off. Flocked wallpaper did, but not puffy, popping wallpaper. Who'da thunk it?

It would certainly be a way of making sure you didn't get fingerprints on the walls. One touch in a dark room as you're trying to feel your way in after a late night and POP! Well, maybe that's why it didn't take off.....

If everyone had a shot at bubble wrap on a daily basis, the entire society's sense of humor would improve. At a UPS store not long ago, I saw a huge roll of it, about 5 feet high and several feet across. I asked the clerk if she ever felt, as I did at that moment, the temptation to spread some of on the floor and roll on it.

She definitely needed a sense of humor.

National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day is coming, Jan. 31. I'm saving up!

Just say it!

2011-01-05T11:58:00.000-08:00

OK. It's a new year and some people make resolutions. I find resolutions to be a huge waste of time, but there is one thing I want to do now that a fresh new year awaits us like pizza dough awaiting pepperoni.

I'm officially declaring war on political correctness. What has PC gotten us except for a way to dance around subjects and pussyfoot around the truth?

The last straw was when it was suggested that 'illegal aliens' was hurtful and instead should be called 'undocumented foreigners.' Male bovine byproduct! They weren't born here; they're aliens. They sneaked in across the border and are dodging INS agents; they're illegal. Hurtful? Unless you say it in Spanish, it's doubtful they know the difference.

But I digress.....

One of the things I looked forward to when I was young was that when I grew old (see how easy it is?) I could say what was on my mind and people would think it's cute because I'm an old lady. I will not be denied that!

No more will I bite my tongue when some punk calls me "young lady." I know some women of a certain age (oops! Missed one - old ladies) find it flattering, but I find it patronizing and insulting. So next time I hear "How are you young lady," the response will be "Just fine, little man, how are you?"

A few weeks ago I watched with a great deal of pride as a woman older than I responded to a waiter who asked "Can I get you guys anything else?" She replied, "Do we look like guys?"

I dipped my foot in the water recently at a doctor's office. When the nurse asked, "Did we have lab work today," I responded "I had lab work; I don't know about you."

Damn that felt good! Earlier when I stepped on the scale I asked "Now you do allow 20 pounds for clothes, don't you?" She looked at me in all seriousness and said, "Not 20."

The world also needs to develop a sense of humor, but I can tackle only one resolution at a time. After all, I'm old and I can't tackle stuff like I used to."

Baggin’ the bag — or not

2009-04-21T06:58:00.000-07:00

Now that it’s spring, it’s time to change my purse. I usually do that around Easter, but it’s been such a cool spring that I haven’t really thought about putting away the basic black bag and bringing out something lighter and springier.

I was never one to coordinate my purse with my shoes. It takes too much effort to haul all that stuff out of one bag and transfer it to another. Which is partly why I am still carrying around my winter purse.

So unless I’m going somewhere special and a huge stuffed bag would make a rude fashion comment, I just stick with two purses a year. Large, roomy compartmentalized bags that hold everything but the kitchen sink, but could accommodate the sink if I wanted it.

Since I’ve been contemplating changing my purse one of these days soon, I’ve wondered about purses as both a fashion and a social statement. I’ve noticed that the First Lady Michelle Obama is never seen carrying a purse. Queen Elizabeth of England lugs around a handbag that makes people wonder what a queen keeps in her purse.

I’ve heard that the queen uses her purse to signal the attendants who travel with her. If her purse is dangling from her wrist, it supposedly means “this person is a bore, get me out of here.” It could be empty for all we know, but she uses it to talk to her staff. You don’t see the queen with a cell phone up to her ear; just her purse at either her wrist or her elbow.

Mrs. Obama seems to be capable of ditching a bore without shifting her purse. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t carry one. Since fashion seems to follow first ladies, I hope this doesn’t signal the end of purses. And I also wonder what she does instead of carrying a purse.

When she gets up from a chair how does she stop herself from reaching down and slinging her purse over her shoulder? Where does she stash her lipstick and tissues? Is there a female Secret Service agent assigned to her to carry around her credit cards, cash and keys? If she loses an earring, where does she tuck the remaining one? And where is her cell phone?

What does she do with her hands when she’s bored and has nothing to shift from one arm to another? If she finds a dime on the sidewalk, where does she drop it? Surely she doesn’t just leave it there.

Recently Mrs. Obama met Queen Elizabeth and made the news when the first lady hugged the queen against royal protocol. I wonder what the queen did with her purse then.

Diet What?

2009-03-16T13:11:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in the mornings I stop and get a cup of coffee before heading off to work; it holds me over until I can get a pot started once I get there.

Other days I get my caffeine from a diet cola; depends on my mood and the weather. At the vending machine where I get the soda there’s a button customers can push to add a blast of vanilla or cherry flavoring. It’s a nice touch, and now and then it brings back memories of my misspent youth.

Wa-a-a-ay back in the day, before e-mail, microwaves and cell phones — even back before diet soda was marketed as much as it is today — it was an after-school treat to walk up to a local hangout and get a Coke to drink before catching the school bus home. Sometimes we’d get a cherry Coke. But my favorite was a chocolate Coke. A chocolate Coke is pretty much a Coke with a squirt or two of Hershey’s syrup in it. It tastes better than it sounds. I think they’re pretty darned good.

I suppose in some places it’s possible still to get a chocolate Coke, but I don’t know because I’ve been drinking diet sodas for so long now that regular sodas taste too sweet so I don’t drink Cokes. I know it’s been possible to buy bottled and canned cherry Cokes, lime and vanilla Cokes, even cherry and vanilla Dr Peppers, which also offered a chocolate-cherry Dr Pepper for a limited time a few years back. But Coke and Pepsi have apparently never considered adding chocolate to their offerings. They really should.

If they did I wonder if they’d consider adding chocolate to their diet colas. I’ve seen lime, cherry and lemon in diet sodas, so why not chocolate?

Apparently, some folks can’t comprehend that. There’s a certain national hamburger chain that indicates on its drive-through menu board, that customers can add cherry, lemon, vanilla or chocolate flavorings to their drinks. I won’t give the chain any free advertising, but it uses a black and white checkerboard as part of its décor. So one day while I was ordering lunch at the drive through the thought occurred to me: “chocolate diet Coke. Gotta have one.”

So I ordered one. Silence. Then “Uh, we can’t do that.”

Me: Why not?

Clueless kid at the mic: “We don’t do those.”

Me: Yes you do. It says so right here on the menu board.

Believe it or not, this kid had to ask his manager if he could make a chocolate diet Coke. Apparently the manager reminded him that as a customer, I am right and I got my chocolate diet Coke.

Maybe it was the notion of diet and chocolate that threw the kid off his bearings. Some folks think the two don’t belong together. They’re wrong. Maybe he thought it was against corporate policy to do something original. Or maybe he was just too young to appreciate the adventure of adding chocolate to any kind of Coke. Doesn’t matter. I had totally flummoxed the poor thing.

And it was so much fun I came back a few weeks later and did it again!

TV Without Pity – or Guilt?

2009-03-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

My television died over the weekend.

I knew it was going to happen sometime. It’s an old set and had served me well, but the picture was getting wavy and I knew that was probably a sign that I’ll be shopping for a new one.

Saturday I fell asleep in front of it, and when I woke up the screen was blank, which sometimes happens with a satellite dish. But this time it didn’t respond to the usual resuscitation the remote control brings.

I thought maybe it’s that stupid time change, and all the stations go blank to account for the so-called extra hour. Nope. It was DOEC (Dead On Entertainment Center).

What amazed me was how much I miss it. Although I’m hooked on Desperate Housewives and I keep up with local news, there isn’t much commercial television I like. I love PBS and I do like the cable stations. But I’m not one of those people who are hooked on TV. Not me!

I was not prepared for the feeling I had of being totally disoriented without the boob tube blaring. When I’m getting ready for work in the morning I can tell time without looking at the clock because I know what time it is by what’s emanating from the idiot box. I eat lunch with the local news, and by the time I’m ready for dinner, I’m flipping channels because, contrary to the title of the program, everybody does not love Raymond.

I say that I keep it on for “white noise,” but Sunday I got my white noise from the radio and it didn’t quite seem right. Am I hooked on TV? Oh surely not!

So I went on line looking for signs of TV addiction and to see if I need a 12-step program. What I found instead was a site called (with apologies to the late Gene Pitney), TV Without Pity. It’s a web/blog site that gives synopses of the goings on of recently-aired programs. I could feel my shoulders relaxing and my breathing slow down as I clicked on Desperate Housewives. Once I was caught up with the goings on at Wisteria Lane, I looked at other offerings. Dirty Sexy Money? That show was cancelled, but I liked it and missed the last few episodes. I can find out how that ended!

As I perused the site I could see that I’d be back to visit it. There’s a page on it that gives rundowns of shows long gone; I can revisit some old memories.

Oh, no. I’m not hooked on TV. Or the Internet. Or any other way to waste time. Is it TV Without Pity; or TV Without Guilt? I’ll figure that out once I get a new TV and things get back to normal.

Just another dumb government thing

2009-03-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

Just a few more days left, and then we trade sensible standard time for daylight saving time. What a dumb thing to do.

Only Congress could show that it has a firm grasp of the obvious and mandate that clocks move forward an hour at a time when days are getting longer anyway.

Daylight saving time did indeed come from the government but it started during World War I supposedly to save energy costs. After the war was over the country went back to normal time and stayed there until World War II, for the same reason.

Did someone start World War III and forget to mention it? Why are we springing forward again? The time ain’t broke; don’t fix it. But we are talking about Congress here.....

DST is being pushed on the country because someone believes it saves energy. Studies have shown that having Indiana switch to DST would cost households in that state about $8.6 million in electricity bills each year. The reduced cost of lighting in afternoons during DST was offset by higher air-conditioning costs on hot afternoons and increased heating costs on cool mornings. Just where is that savings, again?

It used to be that daylight saving time ended before Halloween, so it was moved up to accommodate candy-begging children who should be at home doing their homework, not out looking for a sugar high and contemplating vandalism if they don’t get the candy they want.

Some contend that auto accidents are reduced when DST is in effect. Maybe that means it’s lighter out and drivers can more easily see their cell phones to send text messages and aren’t so inclined to cause an accident.

Not that I’m condoning this, just throwing it out for consideration — patrons of bars that stay open past 2 a.m. lose an hour of drinking time and get really cranky. You know how mean some drunks can get.

Passenger trains have to stand still on the tracks for an hour to adjust their schedules for the time change.

Time change makes no difference for farmers; cows need to be milked at the same time each day, and chickens need to be fed. Chickens, cows and other livestock don’t care about saving daylight; they have their own schedules. And they make more sense.

This is just a little something to think about when you’re resetting all your clocks, the VCR, telephones, cell phones, automatic sprinkler timers, computer monitors, and the automatic coffee maker. And when the alarm goes off and you sleepily — and grumpily — realize that although the clock says it’s 7 a.m., it’s really 6 a.m., and you’d rather be sleeping that extra hour. You can, and you probably will, go to sleep an hour earlier at night, but then what would be the point of messing around with the time in the first place?

Brought to you by the same government that brought you those interesting bailout situations we’re all paying for.

Duck liver and what?

2009-02-23T13:07:00.000-08:00

While sitting in the dentist’s waiting room recently, I picked up a food magazine. One of those gourmet publications where the food is unpronounceable, unrecognizable, and most likely inedible — but expensive.

I glanced at one article about a noted chef — famous in New York anyway, I never heard of him. The writer described some dishes the chef was known for. If I had to live on stuff that he served in his oh, so expensive eatery I’d probably starve. There was one that was made up of duck liver, kidney and tripe, or some such thing.

It sounded like cat food to me. I’m not sure my feline-Americans would eat it. They like fried chicken; I got smart cats.

Such pretentious offerings, and prices, make me think how funny it would be to find out that this glamorous chef, when his shift ended and he hung up his tocque, would slip home and make sure no one was following him. He’d ease inside his own kitchen, hungry from a hard day’s labor of serving people with too much money and too little sense inedible food, and make himself a fried bologna sandwich.

I think all snooty chefs and other foodies should develop a taste for a fried bologna sandwich. It’s so simple in its elegance. Or so elegant in its simplicity. It would keep them humble and grounded.

A slice or two of bologna — you can use the turkey bologna or low fat bologna if you want to, but why? — laid in a skillet and heated until it chars just a little on one side. Then flip it over and repeat the process. A swipe of mustard on a slice of white bread, the hot fried bologna another slice of bread — it doesn’t get much better than that.

Except for maybe a tomato sandwich: sliced fresh tomato from the garden (forget the hothouse plastic tomatoes with no taste; wait for the real thing), and a glob of mayo on white bread sturdy enough to handle the tomato juice and the mayo without falling apart in your hand. Sheer bliss.

Two simple sandwiches, two large slices of heaven. Pity no one offers them up in upscale restaurants or writes about them in food magazines.

Maybe if they were called “Bolognese fricassee en croute” or “tomato en pane” no one would figure out that they’re eating real food for a change.

Gotta be better than the cat food that chef makes with duck liver and kidney.

It's a key point

2009-01-21T07:19:00.000-08:00

Who would have thought that moving could make one philosophical? That it could cause one to ponder human nature?

I can tell you first hand moving makes one sore as well as philosophical. My mind keeps telling me I’m 30 and invincible; my body tells me the truth.

I moved Saturday. Sunday I started the process of unpacking. Being fairly organized I knew where to find the important things: my meds, deodorant, cat food (heaven forbid I can’t find THAT), makeup (ditto), and all things that make me presentable to the world.

Then I started in on the first box I came across and began putting things away. I found a few things that caused me to stop and think. Then I put them away.

They were the first items to go into the junk drawer in the kitchen of my new home.

I’m convinced everyone has a junk drawer — that important area in the kitchen where you throw old keys, matchbooks, odds and ends that may come in handy someday and will become essential only if you ever throw them away. I’ve had as many as three junk drawers going at a time.

Of course, when I was packing to move I cleaned out the former junk drawer. I’m waiting for the precise moment — and I know it will come — when I will need something that I tossed rather than moved and will wish I had it back.

Except for two keys on a ring. I’ve had them forever. I forgot what they unlock. But I keep them because, who knows? I might need them someday.

What is it about keys that we can’t just throw them out? Really all they’re good for is cluttering up junk drawers. Along with the instruction manual to my Swiffer Wet-Jet, which I already know how to use. It’s not rocket science; it mops floors. But I may need that manual someday. You just never know. I’ll keep it right there with those keys.......

I’ll bet anything Martha Stewart has a junk drawer. I’ll bet there are keys in it too.

After all is said and done, then what?

2009-01-12T12:24:00.000-08:00

It’s common speculation; at the end of the world all that will be left alive are roaches.

Not a pleasant thought, but it does describe well how resilient the little critters are. They’ve been around since prehistoric times, they defy annihilation attempts on our part, and after civilization ends, they’ll probably still be around.

From a philosophical standpoint, it also illustrates that the more annoying and the least desirable something is, the more likely it is to outlive everything around it.

A conservation agent recently speculated that coyotes will be living among the roaches at the end of the world. No one especially likes them, they’re annoying and unpleasant, so they’ll thrive. Bunnies and fawns should be so lucky.

Let’s take this a step or two further. Houseflies are a given. They’re right up there with the roaches. Any critter that can hold still until just inches away from a fast-approaching telephone book and then fly away unscathed will be around long after humans are gone. A small percentage of flies may end up as a frog’s lunch, but the majority have nothing to worry about.

There’s little in life that’s less irritating than a pre-programmed recorded sales call. I predict that they too will survive the end of time as we know it. An earthquake tremor will activate the device that dials numbers at random; connection will be made. At that fateful instant, a rock will fall on an abandoned cell phone hitting the “answer” button, and then will be heard, “You have been chosen.....”

Or, if a telephone connection is made and there’s no one to hear it, does it make a sound?

After all of humanity is but a memory, my guess is that on every empty road there will be at least one abandoned shoe. I’ve always wondered where all those abandoned shoes come from. You never see designer pumps on the road; just sneakers and flip-flops, and only one, never a pair. Who rides in a car with their feet hanging out the window? What happened to the other shoe; should we wait for it to drop too? Once I was waiting for a light to change, I heard a noise, and there in front of me on the street was a flip-flop that hadn’t been there before. Did it fall from the sky? I didn’t see it fall. How did it get there?

Perhaps we should find comfort that when we’ve all gone on to a better place, life’s irritants — large and small — will remain here. Bugs, flies, coyotes, telemarketers, old shoes, loud TV commercials — for them, this is as good as it gets.

Dear Santa: I want

2008-12-22T08:59:00.000-08:00

By now most everyone has their shopping done and gifts wrapped, or at least stuffed into a gift bag with sparkly paper surrounding it. And little ones have written letters to Santa.

In case Santa needs some help with a few of the more difficult cases, the not so little ones, we thought we’d give him a suggestion or two.

For Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich: A thesaurus. From what we’ve been able to tell, he’s stuck on one particular adjective and it isn’t a very nice one.

For O.J. Simpson: Lots of reading material. He’s going to have plenty of time on his hands, so he could use some books on anger management, humility, and finding inner peace.

For Britney Spears: A gift certificate to a job training center so she can find something she really can do. Second choice: voice lessons.

For former President Bill Clinton: Violin lessons. He doesn’t seem to be the type who’d be satisfied playing second fiddle.

For President George W. Bush: Some nice argyle socks. He seems to attract shoes.

For Paris Hilton: Who, you say? You forgot her already? That’s what she needs most. That’s what we all need.

For Harrison Ford: My phone number!

Merry Christmas to everyone!

Who cares about a white Christmas?

2008-12-18T13:25:00.001-08:00

With all due respect to Irving Berlin and Bing Crosby, what’s the big deal about a white Christmas? It’s over-rated.

As the song goes, “May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be white.”

I have no quarrel with merry and bright days. We all need those year around.

Somehow I gotta believe that neither Irving Berlin nor Bing Crosby ever drove in snow or ice. If they had, they’d never wish any kind of white weather event on anyone.

I don’t think the first Christmas was a white one, at least not if shepherds were outdoors at night watching sheep graze. There had to be some grass growing somewhere, and I don’t think the camels that the Wise Men rode in on were accustomed to snow.

So much for originality.

The Santa Claus legend places him in the North Pole, but he’s not inconvenienced by snow the way those of us who aren’t legends are. He has flying reindeer; who wouldn’t get out more if those were available to the average consumer?

No doubt Irving Berlin was going for a mood when he wrote “White Christmas” for the 1942 movie “Holiday Inn.”

But put me in snow, and I get a mood too. It isn’t a romantic mood of fluffy mounds of snow, sleigh bells, and hot chocolate by an open fire.

It’s more of a mood involving staying upright while navigating ice patches and snowdrifts, checking for broken bones and bruised ego when unsuccessful at navigating ice patches and snowdrifts.

There’s the need to shovel the stuff off the driveway and sidewalk risking cardiac arrest and the wrath of the Postal Service.

And shall we also mention people who think they can drive in snow? But these folks drive like idiots when the weather is good, so what do you expect? And those overconfident people with four-wheel drives don’t seem to realize that 4WD is useless on ice. Those SUVs slide just like someone on skates for the first time.

I can remember when snow was something to look forward to. Back then — WAY back then — snow meant staying home from school, snowball fights, building snowmen and coming inside for hot chocolate.

So if you’re dreaming of a white Christmas, wake up! I’d rather wish you a safe and happy Christmas on dry ground and safe streets and roads. And hot chocolate.

Christmas cards we'll never see

2008-12-08T15:18:00.000-08:00

Unless you’re like a really organized friend of mine and sent out your Christmas cards Thanksgiving weekend, you’re probably addressing those cards now. Wouldn’t it be interesting to see some of the cards people in the news send and receive?

Here, with apologies to Hallmark and American Greetings, are Christmas cards we’re not likely to see.

For you, a merry Christmas
Is bound to be a given.
You worked so hard and all could see
Your campaign was so driven.

For me, I fear, this holiday
Is apt to be a bummer,
So here’s a card for you, Barack
From your friend, Joe the Plumber.

To the lower 49:
The time we shared was short and sweet
To leave you causes pain.
We likely would not have met at all
If not for John McCain.

We’ll have to wait till 2012
‘Fore I’ll be back to getcha.
So until then, so long my friend,
Happy holidays, you betcha!
Sarah Palin

Bill
If I had sat on Santa’s lap
And for him a list recited,
I would not be as I am now
So tickled and delighted.

We didn’t get the house of white
That we once did inhabit.
But fate gave me another prize
And you know full well I’ll grab it.

And so my dear for all your work
I really want to thank you.
‘Cause I’m still in retribution mode
And, my love, I still outrank you.
Hillary

To the Big Three
In years gone by I read your lists
Your wants were rather bold,
With seven-figure salaries and
Parachutes of gold.

I filled your stockings full of perks
Like limousines and jets.
Now Congress tells me you’re all jerks.
They’re hedging all their bets.

You guys are on my naughty list
Your heads are going to roll.
You guys may want a bailout;
From me you’re getting coal.
Santa

The day Bambi shot back

2008-11-18T06:55:00.000-08:00

It's deer season.

I’m conflicted about that. I have no quarrel with anyone who wants to get up before breakfast and go tromping in the woods when it makes much more sense to stay inside where it’s warm. That’s what you like to do, go for it.

And I try to understand that some people hunt deer because they enjoy eating venison and it stretches their food budget. I prefer my meat cut up and packaged at the grocery store.

I am not a vegetarian; I do eat meat and I know that cows, chickens, pigs and turkeys all meet the same fate so they can end up on my plate. It’s just that those deer are so beautiful. I love to see them. Yes I’ve seen some pretty cows, and lambs are as cute as they are delicious, but there’s the fact that we raise them to be consumed. Deer are just minding their own business, living in the woods, doing their deer thing. It somehow doesn’t seem right to shoot them.

On the other hand, I’m not fond of venison. And as handsome as I think elk are, I really like the taste of elk and don’t feel as sorry for them.

Like I said, it’s confusing.

I’ve heard the argument that deer destroy gardens. So do some vandalizing children, but we don’t shoot them.

I’ve also heard the theory that if we don’t thin out the deer population they’ll get sick and will all starve to death. I used that theory once on a cat-hating bird-loving acquaintance. If we don’t let the cats catch the occasional bird, then all the birds will starve to death and then where would we be? It flew over his head like a cat was after it.

It’s a puzzling situation. But there’s one aspect of the whole thing that gives me a little comfort. I recall writing once about a deer who shot back at the hunter. I’m a sucker for poetic justice.

As I remember it, a deer hunter did not set out that morning specifically to get a deer, but was out early for another reason and found he had a little extra time, his license was with him and so was his gun. So he decided to seize the moment. He saw a deer, aimed and shot.

For some reason he was in his car, not his pickup truck, so he tossed the gun in the trunk, picked up the deer by his feet and tossed it in after the gun.

But the deer wasn’t dead. After being thrown into the trunk, it revived, began kicking, and kicked the gun, which discharged and hit the hunter in the thigh.

Somehow knowing that just adds a little fairness to the whole notion of deer hunting.

Truckin' down Memory Lane

2008-11-11T08:07:00.000-08:00

I don’t know if there’s a Memory Lane in many towns. I’ve seen Shady Lanes in a couple of towns, and if that causes the Ames Brothers’ song, “The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane” to go coursing through your mind, then I’ve done my civic duty as a pest.

Memory Lane seems to be a popular place, but it’s full of potholes. I find myself stumbling down that well-traveled lane lately, and it really ticks me off that I recognize the landmarks on Memory Lane but I can’t remember squat about what I need to buy from the grocery store.

My cousin sent me an e-mail not long ago about some of the landmarks along Memory Lane.

Do you remember when —

All the girls had ugly gym uniforms? I do; I also remember that the day after I graduated from high school I burned mine. It felt good.

It took five minutes for the TV to warm up? Not only that, but the picture would occasionally flip upward rapidly and you had to turn a knob to make it hold still. And when you turned it off, there’d be a little round light in the center of the screen.

You'd reach into a muddy gutter for a penny? Ha! I still do! Those things add up.

You got your windshield cleaned, oil checked, and gas pumped, without asking — all for free, every time? And you didn't pay for air? And, you got trading stamps to boot? Yeah, and I remember when gas was 30 cents a gallon, but let’s don’t go there.

They threatened to keep kids back a grade if they failed. . . and they did? It didn’t seem to bother anyone’s self-esteem either. We were too busy learning grammar and spelling and punctuation, along with math and history and science.

Stuff from the store came without safety caps and hermetic seals because no one had yet tried to poison a perfect stranger? No one then had to suffer from lacerations caused by trying to open a blister pack to open a DVD or a CD, never mind they hadn’t been invented then. It almost takes a blowtorch to get past the cardboard, the plastic blister and then the cellophane wrapping.

Can you remember, candy cigarettes, wax Coke-shaped bottles with colored sugar water inside, big red wax lips, soda pop machines that dispensed glass bottles? I remember that the bottles cost a dime and you brought them back to collect a deposit.

Remember coffee shops with tableside jukeboxes? The coffee didn’t taste like a liquid candy bar and usually cost a nickel or a dime.

Blackjack, Clove and Teaberry chewing gum? None of it was sugarless.

P.F. Fliers? Or Keds. They didn’t cost three figures and were appropriate for all sports, or just running and jumping.

Captain Kangaroo and Howdy Dowdy? Did you know Captain Kangaroo (Bob Keeshan) was Howdy’s friend Clarabelle the Clown? Today much would be made about a male clown named Clarabelle.

45 RPM records? I still have some.

78 RPM records? Them too. They were my parents’.

Saturday morning cartoons weren't 30-minute commercials for action figures? Saturday morning cartoons were actually funny, not violent — Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Sylvester the Cat.

I must have ventured too far down Memory Lane. I was going to do something important, but now I can’t remember what.

:Trick or what?

2008-10-24T12:32:00.000-07:00

The pumpkins, corn stalks and other decorations seen all over the place make it clear that although it’s still fairly warm, Halloween is fast approaching.

Halloween also means tricks or treat. Some tricks can be funny; others really annoying. But they change as the generations change.

No one tips over outhouses any more. It’s hard to find someone who remembers having outhouses. My grandfather had one on his property in a small Illinois town, like a lot of his neighbors. This was before cities had plumbing and sewers. Pranksters around Halloween would tip them over but they never got my grandpa’s. He was no fool. A few weeks before Halloween pranks started he pushed his about three feet further so anyone trying to get close enough to get a good push got a rather unpleasant surprise instead.

Young people used to call folks on the phone around Halloween and ask if the caller’s refrigerator was running. Or they’d call stores and ask if they had Prince Albert in the can. Caller ID has rendered that little trick obsolete. Does anyone even carry Prince Albert tobacco any more?

When I was a teenager my cousins and I gathered some old purses, filled them with all kinds of disgusting material (including manure from the garden), and after dark we’d put one on the side of the road and hide. Most people would grab the purse, take off down the road, then brake to a sudden stop and toss the purse out so we would grab it and reuse it. We were aware of recycling even then.

But one night a girl in a very fancy dress grabbed the purse, opened it, and dumped the contents on her lap. I can’t say for sure that she learned a lesson about greed, but we learned one about vocabulary. And by the time the contents of that purse hit the fan, blame for the incident went to “a bunch of boys hiding along the road.” So we learned that being female has its advantages.

Oh for an Apple Z function in life

2008-10-07T08:07:00.000-07:00

I don’t know about the rest of you, but computers baffle me. And I use one daily. Computers can be a lot like contrary husbands: they’re fine when they work but when they don’t.....

One aspect of the computer that I do like is its ability to undo a mistake. Whenever I’ve accidentally wiped out a line of copy, I can simply hit the Apple button and the letter Z and there it is like it was before I accidentally sent it to cyber limbo.

What would life be, I wonder, if we all had the Apple Z ability? A “do over” if you will. Back your car into the mailbox post and dent the bumper? An Apple Z button would straighten out the bumper and bring the mailbox back into its upright position.

Make a mistake balancing your checkbook? Apple Z will automatically restore your balance and keep your checks from turning from paper to rubber.

I have an email account with one of the large networks that offer free email. A few months ago it worked just fine, but then a group of computer geeks looked up from their cyber games, noticed the email chugging along like a fine watch, and said, “ Hey, that works great! Let’s fix it.” I’d like to take an Apple Z to their new improved email account and restore it to where I can actually use it.

But it’s probably best that if there were such a thing, Apple Z would be something that would control only ourselves, and not anyone else. If someone sitting behind you in the movies talks nonstop and keeps you from enjoying the show, it would be tempting to Apple Z that person’s mouth so full of popcorn he couldn’t speak for the rest of the picture, but probably in the long run not a good idea. Eventually he’ll swallow all the popcorn, gulp down his soda, and hit his own Apple Z button in your direction.

Unrestrained use of Apple Z could create pandemonium at a level never before seen in an election year. If you thought the Bush-Gore race of 2000 was chaotic, imagine a county full of people hitting their Apple Z buttons all the way up to the Supreme Court.

Probably best just to mind your own Apple Z buttons in your own life, right? But wouldn’t it be nice to have one?

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

2008-08-26T13:51:00.000-07:00

You want proof why you should vote for me for president, and ultimately ruler of the world? I offer you Jeff Deck and Benjamin Herson, and the warning that no good deed goes unpunished.

Their plight is proof that the country needs a DIMWIT for president (Do It My Way, It's Time). Because you just gotta wonder what kind of BB-stackers are in charge.

Deck and Herson, both 28, toured the United States this spring, wiping out errors on government and private signs. According to the Associated Press, they were interviewed by National Public Radio and the Chicago Tribune, which called them "a pair of Kerouacs armed with Sharpies and erasers and righteous indignation."

It seems they got caught correcting grammar on a sign at Grand Canyon National Park, and now they're banned from all national parks for a year and have been ordered to pay more than $3,000 to fix the sign. Why? They already fixed it for free. What are they supposed to do now — bring it back to its original incorrect form?

They removed an unneeded apostrophe and added a comma. The two men said they wanted to correct a really immense spelling mistake (they wanted to correct the spelling of immense from emense, but reluctantly decided not to take that chance). So for doing a good thing, they were arrested and eventually pleaded guilty to vandalizing government property.

Oh please! I'm so impressed that someone so young actually knows about — and CARES about — correct grammar and punctuation that I almost don't have the energy to work up a good righteous snit about their guilty plea. Vandalism? Give me a break.

If I were president and eventually ruler of the world, I'd commute the sentence and give those young men a medal. At least. In fact, I'd pay them to go across country and continue their efforts. It would take them the rest of their lives. Talk about job security!

I'd even encourage them correct blatant spelling errors meant to be clever or cute: Kut 'n Kurl for a styling salon. Kuntry Kitchen Restaurant featuring good old-fashioned home kuntry kooking. Kut's Plus (what is it about some hair stylists that they can't spell? Do we really want to trust them with scissors so close to our heads?).

Then I'd recruit others to do other jobs (and I know there are others because I've seen their blogs: apostrophe abuse and the blog of unnecessary quotations). I'd recruit people who could teach newscasters, some editors, and writers for TV programs and commercials the difference between lie and lay, between and among, when to use 'I' and when to use 'me.' Don't even get me started on split infinitives.

Why are Americans so worried about immigrants not wanting to learn English? Some native born Americans don't speak it either. They certainly don't write it correctly. Those who do care about grammar and punctuation, and want to preserve the language in its correct form are punished for it. That's just un-American and no DIMWIT should allow it to continue.

I can only hope that once their probation is over Deck and Herson come back with a vengeance — and more Sharpies.

The DIMWIT party doesn't need Paris

2008-08-08T13:11:00.000-07:00

Just when you thought the world was safe again, Paris Hilton shows up like a zit on prom night. By now everyone has seen her video clip on You Tube where she refers to Sen. John McCain as "a wrinkly old white haired dude," and suggests that people vote for her for president because, as she says "I'm hot."

Paris, Paris, Paris. You blonde bimbo. If I didn't know any better I'd think you were cutting in on my campaign for president first, then ruler of the world.

I have formed my own political party and want to run for president, as a start, not because I'm hot because hot will get you nowhere but sweaty. My party, Do It My Way, It's Time (DIMWIT) might appeal to Paris because she is a bit of a — well, never mind, now isn't the time to sling anything. People should vote for me because I know best. Hot is fleeting; right stays around forever, and I am always right. It's time to do things the DIMWIT way.

It might improve my campaign chances if I included Paris in the DIMWIT campaign as my running mate. She certainly has the cash to wage a good campaign, and she has name recognition. I've even heard people say she is a bit of a — well, you know.

But I'm not sure the world is ready for a political team made up of a blonde bimbo and a gracefully aging political diva who has avoided wrinkles, white hair and reality, and really doesn't need any help. As I've said before, being president is only a stepping stone to where I rightfully belong, ruler of the world. Whoever heard of a vice ruler? No, Paris. I work alone. And I'm always right.

Paris may think she's hot, but she won't know hot at all until it comes at her in flashes. I've survived PMS, menopause, sexism, chauvinism, wedgie-inducing pantyhose, static cling, ugly shoes and more bad hair days than I care to think about. That's the kind of grace under pressure that can get anyone through summit talks on any continent.

All Paris knows how to do is lean backward and smile with her mouth open like she's read for someone to throw in a beanbag and win a prize. Is that the person you want to be only a heartbeat away from the presidency and rulercy of the world?

My campaign so far has been low key because, well, it needed to be. The others have been making so much noise we're all sick of them and we still have months to go before we vote. Paris may say she's hot, but hot fizzles and burns out. I'm subtle, refreshing. I don't flip-flop on issues because, right or wrong, I am always right.

I'm too old to scandalize the populace with any hanky-panky behind the scenes (mostly for lack of opportunity) and I don't suffer fools gladly. That's my first goal as potential ruler of the world: get rid of all the fools in government. They're just taking up space, causing trouble and don't need to be replaced. That ought to be a huge improvement until I come up with my next project.

So when you go to the polls in November, and you don't want to vote for the "old wrinkly white-haired dude," don't think of the hot one, think instead of the DIMWIT. And if you have trouble telling them apart, well, you're just not paying attention.

Hey Oprah! Here's an idea for your program

2008-07-11T13:15:00.000-07:00

With this one great idea, I plan to solve social problems that plague both sexes and even save a business some money.

Got your attention? Good.

Last week I was watching Oprah. A matchmaker was a guest on her program, and the matchmaker was dispensing advice about why it's so difficult for single women in their 30s, 40s and up to find men to date.

Never mind supply and demand issues, this woman said that one problem women have is that men have a problem with independent, competent women. Men like to feel needed, she said, so she advises women — her words here — "Let him open the pickle jar."

Now that got me to thinking. I can handle a pickle jar, but what I really want from a man is for him to pump gas into my car. I miss full service gas stations. I've heard other women say the same thing. They can pump their own gas; they'd just rather not.

Then it hit me like a falling pyramid of oil cans: why don't older single men who are interested in meeting a nice single woman hang around gas stations, convenience stores, anywhere gas is sold, and offer to pump gas whenever they see a woman they'd like to meet.

There is no down side to this. If a woman wants her gas pumped all she has to do is accept the offer. But if she isn't interested in the gentleman she is under no obligation.

The guy can check out the woman, chat with her, and if he's interested he can ask for her phone number, and if he isn't — well, then he's done something nice for a stranger and the woman has her car filled. At least pumping gas and getting turned down is a lot easier than walking across a room to ask for a dance and getting turned down.

If she's interested and he isn't, all she has to do is drive away and no one will see her disappointment. But she can comfort herself knowing that the jerk who can't notice a prize when he sees her at least filled her gas tank.

For women who like pumping their own gas, all it takes is a polite, no thanks. The guy moves on to the next woman he might want to meet, or he can chat up the first one while she's pumping gas into her car, if that doesn't threaten his ego.

Ideally, the two chat a bit while he's holding onto the pump handle, and if they click, well great. They might not otherwise have met. He feels needed and she doesn't smell like gasoline for the rest of the day instead of like Chanel. If they're really clicking, he can prolong the visit by checking her oil and tires and wiping down the windshield.

It's a win/win situation.

The money savings? While the guys are hanging around the gas pumps looking to meet women, they would also deter those who pump and leave without paying. Business owners ought to take this idea and run with it, provide incentives for lonely guys to hang around and bring in lonely women customers.

OK Oprah, whattya think?

Independence Day and buffalo toenails

2008-07-03T12:49:00.000-07:00

Every now and then something comes at you sideways. You're just bebopping along, and then WHAM! Where did that come from?

It never really occurred to me until just recently that a whole generation of people, maybe even two, weren't here to celebrate the bicentennial. I remember the bicentennial. I even remember a joke about the bicentennial: What do you get when you trim the hooves of 444 buffalo? 1776 bison toenails.

I never really thought about it, but it's been 30 years since the bicentennial. That makes me feel old. However, on the eve of Independence Day, I am staging my own revolution. And I can be pretty revolting.

I declare independence from any young twit who thinks the bicentennial is ancient history. It seems to me like just yesterday.

I declare independence from any notion that someone who's been around as many blocks as I have should sit down and tend to her knitting. I never did learn how to knit. I ain't gonna learn it now. And you know I'm not talking about long needles and yarn.

I demand the independence to say what I think. Really, that isn't necessary. When a woman of a certain age says what she thinks, three things can happen: 1) someone says, oh, she's just old. 2) Someone else says, oh isn't that cute/shocking/scandalous what that old lady said? 3) Nothing because no one pays attention to anyone older than 30.

I declare independence from having to trust anyone under 30. It used to be never trust anyone over 30, but like my bustline, that's shifted.

I declare independence from being called "young lady." I'm NOT a young lady, dammit, I am old enough to command respect. And why do you think it's necessary for me to think I'm young, or for you to think I'm not old, so you patronize me by calling me young lady?

If you can't remember my name, call me ma'am. And I'll kneecap any little twerp that calls me old lady.

So there!

I long for independence from invisibility. To certain older gentlemen who I've on occasion noticed checking me out, thanks! I needed that. And if you were looking because I had a hanging booger, then thank you for letting me think it was for that other reason.

There are no doubt other reasons to declare independence from or to, but right now I'm declaring independence from having to think about this. I need a nap.

Remembering, and maybe missing, Florence

2008-06-20T13:52:00.001-07:00

Something in the news has really disturbed me — more so than the onslaught of primary election campaign coverage.

In Massachusetts, 17 teenage girls deliberately got pregnant. Some girls were reportedly upset to find out they weren't pregnant. It seems they'd made a pact, and apparently they wanted — well, who knows what they wanted.

I know times are changing and things aren't like they used to be. Sometimes that's good. Not this time.

In a way, it's good that the stigma of unwed motherhood has lessened. When I was a teenager, it would have been the end of the world to be knocked up.

Back in that day, you could say the name Florence Crittenden and people would know what you were talking about. No one wanted to know Florence Crittenden all that well. A passing knowledge was enough; it was more of a threat.

For the uninitiated Florence Crittenden was the name of a home for unwed mothers. There were such things back then. Girls went there to have their babies and give them up for adoption, then come back home and pretend they'd been on an extended visit to a relative out of state.

A girl in a class behind mine got pregnant her senior year. She was told she couldn't wear maternity clothes to school. It might influence the other girls.

Influence them to do what? Be comfortable?

Another girl my sophomore year led her phys ed class in the number of situps and pushups she did during a test. The next day she delivered a son. No one, not even her parents, knew she was pregnant. People talked about that for years afterward.

Some girls hid their pregnancies then let it all hang out under their graduation gowns when it no longer mattered.

Yet, these girls were the exception. Most girls hung onto their virginity for dear life. Not being one was a scandal. Birth control was a lot iffier then, but not for long when the pill became popular. Getting pregnant was even worse than being found out you weren't a virgin.

And now we've come to the point where a group of girls deliberately got pregnant, one or more of them by a homeless man in his 20s. Makes one wonder what kind of thought went into who would be a good partner, father, provider. Sperm donor - is that all the father is regarded as? There's talk of bringing charges against some of the males involved since the girls are under age.

Have they thought beyond their bulging abdomens? What about the babies? What about their own future? What will marriage and sexual relationships be like for them when they're older? Will they be capable of having a mature, satisfying sexual relationship with a husband or boyfriend? What about their own sense of self worth? Don't they realize it doesn't come from a man or a baby but from within?

Maybe times are changing and it's no longer scandalous to be an unwed teenage mother. But it's still not a good idea. I don't know if the answer is abstinence or knowledge. We seem to be failing in our attempts to teach young women to value themselves. I hope their pact continues beyond their delivery date and they continue to support each other when they're overwhelmed by motherhood.

They're going to need all the help they can get.

Karma and cats

2008-06-06T12:09:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while life has a way of knocking you upside the head as if to say, "Don't get too uppity."

Kind of like what my grandma used to warn about wishing bad things on someone: whatever you wish for that person will instead happen to you.

Call it karma. Call it whatever you want to call it. I've been upbraided.

A while ago I was regaling anyone who'd listen with stories of my tomcat, Arthur, who lives with me and his sister Cleopatra. Cleo is clearly the smarter of the two, but then again, she's female. Of course she's smarter.

Both cats like it sit by the screen door in the living room that leads to a balcony and watch the birds that visit the feeder I put there. Some may say it's sadistic to put a bird feeder so close to where cats live, but a screen door separates them. The cats can't hurt the birds, and the birds get to chow down on seed, suet and peanut butter. Arthur and Cleopatra enjoy the entertainment. The birds ignore the cats. What you'd call a win/win situation.

Occasionally, though, some of the birds that like to pick up the seed that falls on the floor of the balcony get a little too close to the door, and Arthur lunges thinking he's going to get a little in-between meal with feathers. He always hits the screen door head-on.

It was funny the first time it happened. He lunged. Hit the door. Swore in feline, and backed up and resumed the crouching position. It became funnier when he did it again. You'd think he'd learn. Cause and effect. Lunge for the bird you're gonna hit the screen door. Nope. Arthur, ever hopeful, keeps hitting the door. You gotta admire his perserverence, but then again you'd think he'd figure it out and give up. After all, Cleo doesn't do that. She's smarter.

Females of all species are smarter.

So here's where I get upbraided. A few months ago I ordered some nail polish from the Avon representative. One of the shades I ordered was too dark. It didn't look dark on the catalog page, but when I got it home and applied it, I didn't like it.

So some time later I saw some nail polish on special, saw a shade that looked pretty and ordered it.

You guessed it. Same shade.

And as much as I hate to admit it, I did that three times!

And you know, I really don't think Arthur would laugh at me the way I laughed at his hitting the screen door continuously.

His karma no doubt is better than mine will ever be.

Ever wonder why.....

2008-05-22T14:11:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder why:

Eight ounces of coffee at a convenience store costs more than 32 ounces of soda?

The day before vacation drags by, but the day before you go back to work whizzes past like a tiger was chasing it?

No one makes T-strap flats any more. Or am I the only one who remembers the girl dancers on American Bandstand wearing them, and how cool those shoes were?

Whenever there's a product that's just about perfect the way it is, someone has to go and improve it. But then it isn't really improved. My favorite grocery store has discontinued 10 pound bags of cheap store-brand cat litter, saying it will be back after the manufacturer makes some "packaging changes." I'm taking bets that it'll either cost more, the cats will hate it, or it won't be in convenient 10-pound, easy-to-carry bags, but will be super-sized to the point it can't be carried or lifted into and out of a car trunk.

You take a chance and run into a store for a quick purchase. You're in baggy sweats, no makeup, your hair's a mess and you see everyone you know. Including an old boyfriend who dumped you years ago and you still want him to regret it. But when you're dressed to the nines and lookin' good, you don't see a soul you know.

What does dressed to nines mean?

Correlative: You take that chance running into the store looking like death on a stick and they're out of what you went in for.

You find a flavor of catfood your feline-American will eat willingly and with gusto, and the store doesn't have that flavor in stock. You ask when it will be restocked, and keep coming back asking about that flavor until they're sick of seeing you. They get the stuff in, you load up on it and then the cat won't eat it.

This also applies to children and certain types of breakfast cereal, husbands and brands of beer, teenage girls and yogurt, the list goes on.

Your car develops a symptom that goes away whenever it's within 500 feet of a mechanic.

Your boss is never around when you're busy churning out enough work for three people, but when you have a little down time, he's flitting around like a hungry mosquito.

The more you need to hurry home the greater the likelihood you'll hit every red light on the way.

The possibility that a group of children will sit behind you in a public place is in direct proportion to the possibility they'll kick the row of seats you're in throughout the entire time you're sitting there.

The later you are for work, the greater the likelihood you can't find your car keys.
Correlative: the greater the likelihood also the keys are in an obvious place that you've searched several times already.

Advice for graduates

2008-05-08T14:07:00.000-07:00

Sure signs of spring: flowers, birds, allergy sufferers sneezing into their elbows, and graduations.

No one remembers graduation speeches. I don't remember my high school graduation speech although I remember who gave it. I didn't go to my college commencement. Why sit in the sun in a hot gown and goofy hat for hours on end when I can get the diploma through the mail? I didn't go to college without learning at least one practical thing.

No one remembers the speeches probably because no one really listens. They're all waiting to grab that diploma, go to a graduation party, sleep off the hangover and then begin the business of LIVING! Freedom! Emancipation! Great hopes and achievements!

Yeah right.

No one ever asked me to give a graduation speech, but since no one really listens to them, I'm going to give one anyway.

Forget all that stuff people tell you at this time of your life about going forth and being the hope of the future. That's just what people say to motivate young people to get up, get out and get a job. Hope of the future? That's a hell of a load to put on the shoulders of someone who still needs Mom to wash his underwear. Every four years or so we hear about people who claim to be the country's hope for the future if we'll just let them be president, and they still get trapped in bureaucratic mire. Hope is just the carrot on the end of the stick.

You'll hear people who tell you that now's the time to soar. To fly. To be like the eagles. You'll find out soon enough that you'll do well to get a good running start on life. If you try to soar before you learn how to get off the ground, someone's going to grab you by the knees and pull you back to earth. Take it slow and steady. And learn how to kick. Hard.

The future isn't this bright, shining misty moment out there somewhere that you're going to conquer. It's just inevitable. It's day to day. Ups and downs. Laughter and tears. Triumphs and losses. It's life.

Just give it your best shot. Have faith in someone or something bigger than yourself. Be honest, work hard, keep your cell phone in your pocket while you're driving, and don't address older women as "young lady." Don't wear white shoes and belts with polyester pants and matching shirts, and avoid home permanents.

Stop and smell the roses. Be loved by a pet. Avoid Spandex if you're chunky. Don't spend more than you earn. And don't gripe about the government if you didn't vote.

Actually, all anyone really expects from you graduates has nothing to do with soaring with eagles, roaring like lions, or boring like commencement speakers.

Just pay your taxes and keep your nose clean.

That about says it.

A talent for -- well, what?

2008-05-02T12:58:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid growing up, back in the stone age when the price of gasoline was in double digits and both were to the right of the decimal point, my friends and I would imagine what we'd be when we grew up. (I still want to know but that's another blog.)

We were going to be either teachers or secretaries or perhaps housewives, but it never, ever occurred to us to be anything — well, creative.

Like a professional train wreck.

Every now and then I hear something on the news about country music singer Mindy McCready. Who, you say? Yeah, that's right. She hasn't had a song out in about four years, longer than that for a song anyone remembers.

But she gets news time for either being drunk, or being beat up by a boyfriend, or the latest is having messed around as a juvenile with a much-older married sports figure.

Mindy, dear, have you learned nothing from Britney Spears? If you have no particular talent, then go quietly away and find something else to do.

Actually I thought some of her songs were kind of cute, but she doesn't seem to be focusing on her singing as much as she is on the notion that bad publicity is better than none at all.

So maybe she wanted to be a singer, and that hasn't quite worked out. She needs to learn what the next step is. It's a step out.

There are singers and then there are singers like Patsy Cline, who had an "interesting" personal life herself, but the woman could flat out sing the phone book. When we think of Patsy Cline today, we remember her rich voice singing "She's Got You," and it doesn't matter that the song is older than radial tires. It's a great song. All her songs are great because she had a great talent.

Mindy on the other hand gave it a shot. Some of her songs were good, most are forgettable. Sometimes our dreams just don't work out. Time for Plan B.

So Mindy, listen up. No one cares that your life is like the lyrics of a country western song. You don't have the talent to sing it. Go to beauty school. Learn to be a dental technician. Find another way to make a living. Then go quietly into the night.

And stay there.

Why I love Macy's

2008-04-18T14:23:00.001-07:00

I just found a new reason to love Macy's.

This is not an unpaid, unsolicited ad for the store. Has nothing to do with their merchandise, sales people, or advertisements.

It also has nothing to do with the fact that a while back I got such a cute sweater there for about 80 percent off.

Nor does it have anything to do with the fact that I have a gift card for Macy's that I haven't used yet but will.

None of that is important.

What Macy's has done is something every business should do.

I had to call there one day this past week. Like every other store, Macy's has automated answering: press 1 for women's fashions, press 2 for someone to explain your credit card bill; etc. ad nauseum. Then, it has an option for you to hang on to be connected to a real person who will actually talk to you.

Now while having a real person to talk to is a wonderful thing itself, and certainly something AT&T needs to look into, that's not why I love Macy's.

I love Macy's because before the automated answering machine put me on hold while I waited for a real person who talked to me, this is what it said: "Please wait during the silence while we connect your call."

Yep. Silence. No tinkling chimes playing "You Light Up My Life." No connection to a radio station. No commercial for what's on sale in Housewares. No elevator music of any genre.

Just pure, golden, blissful silence.

I love Macy's.

The real qualifications for a president

2008-04-11T11:29:00.000-07:00

Much has been made lately of Hillary Clinton's income tax forms. Will she release them to the public or not? Her primary opponent has made much of that and we all know how that kind of political sniping works.

But really, why should we care about her IRS forms? Or anyone else's IRS forms, for that matter. We'd look for ways she's apparently declaring her income and expenses to minimize how much goes to the IRS, but wouldn't we all try to keep as much of our money as possible? And maybe for the sake of snoopiness we'd like to know how much any candidate earns, but really is that any of our business? Any candidate's taxable income or list of deductions is not going to make me vote one way or another.

So if I am to consider whether or not I'll vote for Hillary Clinton, here's what I think is important:

Where does she get those pant suits and how much does she pay for them? If she's buying designer duds and paying full price for them, then that makes a difference. I can't afford designer pantsuits, so why should I vote for someone who can? Would she have my best interests in mind? If she gets her clothes on sale at least 40 percent off, or off a clearance rack marked down 60 percent or more, then I know this is a serious shopper who can squeeze a nickel until the buffalo belches.

Another thing, is she one of those people who cuts off the size tags once she gets her clothes home from the store? Makes you wonder what she has to hide.

Hillary has had the same hairstyle since she got elected to the senate, instead of changing almost weekly like she did when she was First Lady. What I want to know is does she wash it and blow it dry herself every morning? What does her haircut cost? Does she go to a salon and gossip with the stylist and the other customers? Is she just one of us or does she have a stylist on retainer kind of like an attorney?

Fragrance. I've never met the woman, so I don't know if she uses a fragrance, but if she does how much does she pay for it? Would she ever consider buying a knockoff version of her favorite designer perfume and save a few dollars? Has she ever ripped out a perfume ad from a magazine and run the sample scent over her pulse points?

Does she get her makeup from Walgreen's? From the Avon Lady? Has she ever been to a Mary Kay party? Or does she go to those high end department stores and buy her makeup? Can we trust a president who pays more than six bucks for mascara?

Does she ask for a "go" box when she eats out, or does she let food go to waste if she can't finish her lunch? Surely she, of all people, should know where people in the world are starving.

Is she a coupon clipper? I mean, coupons other than on stock certificates. I recently got two packages of toilet paper for a dollar with a coupon; can she relate to that kind of bargain and the smug satisfaction that goes with it?

Has she ever experienced the joy of finding a buy one, get one free shoe sale, and actually found two pairs of shoes that she likes, that fit, and don't rub blisters?

I wonder if she's ever pushed a cart through a Target store. Browsed through a half-off rack at a sidewalk sale. Found treasures at a flea market. Can any candidate lead the country if they don't know how ordinary taxpayers cope because they don't have the option of increasing their budgets without regard for how it'll be paid back. Well, maybe some people do, but that's why we have credit counseling services now. Has she ever been to one of those — or sent a congressional delegation to learn from such a service? Bottom line: Is she, or any other candidate, just one of us? Can any candidate really relate to the average wage-earner who casts a ballot?

One more thing: Think twice about voting for any candidate who can walk by a cat or a dog and not pet it.

Economic stimulus

2008-03-27T14:23:00.000-07:00

I got a notice from the IRS recently about the economic stimulus check they're going to send me. That got me to thinking. How much stimulus does the economy need? Will a lousy "up to 600 dollars" be enough for me to do my part for my country, and why can't they be more specific than "up to $600"? Are they going to run out of money before they get to me, and have to cut back so I won't be overstimulated?

There's an Internet joke going around saying that these checks aren't going to help the economy because the only thing left made in America are beer and hookers. Given that women do the bulk of the spending, it looks pretty grim for an economy based on that joke.

Paul McCartney has a lot of money, and his ex-wife Heather Mills is trying her best to get her hands on it to spread some around. I'd hate to think that the fate of the American economy depends on whether or not a gold-digging bimbo gets her hands on money that rightfully belongs to the Cute Beatle. Yeah, he's British, but she's no doubt a global spender. But do we need the cash that badly? Leave Sir Paul alone; preferably with me. He needs consoling.

There seems to be plenty of money being spent already. There's those two young women who just recently netted $1,350 on an e-Bay auction for a cornflake that looks like Illinois. That transaction just goes to show that some people have too much money. But if someone wants to spend it on state-shaped breakfast cereal, then that's his privilege. If that person would just get in touch with me, I've got some cold oatmeal that looks like the profile of Alfred Hitchcock. Or I will fairly soon.

And what about former New York Governor Eliot Spitzer? If he's got $1,000 for one hour with a tough-looking hooker — and we all know he sprang for more than an hour — he's got money to throw around and kick up the economy a bit. No doubt his wife will make the most of his excess cash when she takes him for all he has and then some. You go Silda! Spend your way out of your public embarrassment! Start with Tiffany's.

And if the hooker is making a grand an hour, assuming she's working a 40-hour week like the rest of us, she's probably socking some back for when her looks and youth head south and she has to rely on her — what? Wits? Job skills? Yeah right. She surely has a little money she can spread around like a social disease.

But if the government wants to give me up to $600 to stimulate the economy, I"ll do my best to help. I can buy gasoline with it, maybe a couple of trips to the supermarket to buy some cornflakes that might look like Rhode Island. But I buy gas and groceries anyway. If I'm going to be a good American and do my part to help the economy and spread some bucks around, then let's do it right, and add another zero on the right-hand end of that amount.

Hey, why settle for being a good American when I can be a great American?

It's in the cards

2008-03-14T12:31:00.000-07:00

I think I've made a huge mistake, and I don't know what to do about it. In fact, I've made this mistake many times. I simply had no idea.

Last week I bought some items at a health food store, and the checkout guy stuck a health-related magazine in my bag of stuff. I flipped through it and saw one of those subscription cards in it. You know the cards; all magazines have at least a dozen of them. Normally I just mindlessly rip them out and throw them away, but for some reason, I read this one. It had a checkoff list of health concerns I might want information about in future issues, and a box to check indicating that I wanted a free subscription to the magazine. Next to that was a little box to mark if I didn't want a free subscription.

Huh?

I'm supposed to fill these things out if I DON'T want a subscription too? Think of how many of those cards I failed to fill out and mail thinking that if they didn't get a card from me, then they must know that I decline their invitation to subscribe.

I wonder how many people are searching for all those people who, like myself, failed to turn in a card saying "No thanks. I don't want one."

I am so, so sorry. I didn't know.

All those little cards are postage pre-paid, so you don't have to use your own stamp. I wonder what kind of tizzy the people at the magazine office get into when they get cards back saying, no thanks, but no one bothered to fill out the rest of the card. They'd have a rejection, but wouldn't know who it came from. And they'd have to pay for it too.

Some years ago I saw author Calvin Trillin on a TV program talking about those little prepaid cards. He said he would politely write something cheery on the face of them and send them back so as not to waste the prepaid postage. Something like "no, I don't want the free offer, but thank you for asking anyway."

Web sites exist that are devoted to suggestions for doing the same thing with those prepaid envelopes that come with offers for credit cards, with a cautionary note to be sure to remove anything that can be traced back to you. Some even suggest even shredding the offer, stuffing it in the prepaid envelope and mailing it back. What a clever thought: it frees up landfill space and makes good use of the postage paid envelope.

Some subscription offers come on post cards where you can indicate that you do want the subscription and want to be billed, or you can check a little box that says "check enclosed." On a post card. Where do they think you're going to put the check? If you fill out the card, write a check and put it in an envelope, you've wasted the money they spent on prepaid postage, not to mention your own stamp. So it takes twice as much postage than it should to get the card to its destination. Considering this, why does the price of postage go up every year? The Postal Service should be rolling in money.

So now I wonder what to do with that card from the health magazine. Should I fill it out and check the box that says no, and send it back? If I do, will they send me a letter asking why I turned down something free? If I don't fill out my name and address, but send back the check-marked card, will someone track me down? I also wonder how much they spend on postage to get a pile of blank cards back? Who's writing the copy on those cards, anyway? What were they thinking? Or did some higher-paid higher-up look over a submitted prototype and say, "you know, this is good, but I think we need a box for people to say they don't want it."

And as soon as I figure out all that, I'm going to work on why voice mail messages say, "If you have a touch tone phone, and you know your party's extension, you may DIAL it at any time.

A little Boomer whining

2008-03-06T10:57:00.000-08:00

Three ice storms in three weeks' time is getting a little redundant. Not to mention depressing.

And now a snow storm is on the way.

DId I mention this was getting redundant and depressing?

The Groundhog is no fool. He came out, predicted more winter, and hotfooted it back into his burrow where no weather-crazed people can get to him. If he'd predicted early spring, it would be open season on groundhogs by now.

I'm going to indulge in a little Boomer whining. Boomers are good at that; we've had at most 60 years of learning how, and even the youngest Boomers have had a while to perfect their skills. Winter is whining weather.

I'm cordially sick of boots right now. They're no longer a fashion statement; they're an instrument of pain. My feet hurt when I try to balance myself on ice-covered sidewalks and yards while encased in all that leather. Since I can't kick them off under my desk like I do my shoes, my feet feel trapped. Boots remind me of bad weather. I wanna wear my flip flops again. Better yet, I am counting the days until I can go barefooting through the clover.

Whine, whine, gripe.

I long for the bright yellow happy face of dandelions. And I ache to see tulips and crocus poking up through the ground. Dandelions, tulips and daffodils are sure signs of spring. So are robins, but they've been at my bird feeder lately, and they've been launching attacks on the chickadees and cardinals who also visit. The robins are no doubt as depressed by all the ice and gloom as I am, and are taking it out on the other birds. Bird rage, as it were. If it weren't for watching the enjoyment my cats get out of sitting in front of the door that separates them from the bird feeder, the bird battles would put me in a real funk.

Whi-i-i-i-nnne!

Now here's the real problem. Some yahoos in Washington, D. C., took an already bad idea and made it worse. They made daylight saving time start earlier this year. This weekend. After three weeks of sleet and freezing rain and another week of snow, it's going to be daylight saving time. What daylight? Storm clouds keep hiding the daylight. Daylight saving time has always been a stupid idea. The days get longer anyway. So what's another hour? It doesn't save any utilities - it just shifts the hours we use the same amount of energy. What's the point of that?

But when one thinks of DST, one thinks of summer coming. Spring warmth; sunshine. An end to winter blahs, ice and snow and scraping windshields and knocking the blocks of cruddy snow off the bottom of the car. Now we have DST AND all the blahs associated with winter. It stinks!

So this weekend I'm really going to go deep into my suffering. A heavy accumulation of snow is predicted. It'll be dark. Gloomy. Cold. Slippery. Confining.

And with the early advent of daylight saving time I'll lose a valuable hour. The sun, such as it is, will be out longer, but I'll lose an hour. Of pouting time.

Might as well get a start on it now.

Opposable thumbs and 'pooshy cats'

2008-02-15T12:20:00.000-08:00

You may not realize the seriousness of the occasion, but National What if Cats and Dogs Had Opposable Thumbs Day is approaching. It's March 3.

I don’t know who comes up with these dubious holidays, but this one is definitely food for thought. As a cat person, I shudder to think what would happen if my two feline-Americans had opposable thumbs. I’ve always said if they could pop open their own catfood cans and get a government check, I would become superfluous.

But maybe the little beasties are more noble than that.

Some years ago I had a remarkable tuxedo-marked black and white cat who taught me, among many other things, not to judge a book by its cover. That not everyone is as he seems.

His name was Catsanova, and he liked people. Well, maybe that’s a stretch. He could be rude sometimes if he encountered a person he didn’t think measured up to his standards, but what he really liked was the attention people gave him.

Like the notorious lover for whom he was named — with a variation in spelling — Catsanova liked to be adored. Adore him and he’s yours forever, or at least until he remembers who feeds him.

He also liked to ride in the car. He learned early on that when we were moving slowly or stopped, there was a likelihood that if he sat upright on my lap and looked out the window, someone would see him, point and exclaim, “Oh, look at the kitty.” He loved that.

So here’s the situation. Catsanova and I are in the car, at a filling station, waiting for the gas tank to fill. This was back in the day when you could still get full service at a gas station. The full service pumps were usually farthest away from the station, reserving the closer pumps for people who pumped their own.

It’s a beautiful fall day, and the window is partially open. The cat is wearing a harness and leash to protect him from impulse. He’s curled up on my lap.

At the next set of pumps is a guy on a Harley. A typical-looking guy on a Harley. Big, burly, bearded. Dressed in black leather. Kind of tough looking. Typical biker kind of guy.

He’s sitting on his hog just looking around. As he glances in the direction of my car, Catsanova took that moment to sit up and look out the window. From outside, I heard kind of a bellow: “Aaaawwwwww!”

I look around, and the biker is getting off his bike, lumbering toward my car, exclaiming: “Aaaaw. Look at the pooshy cat. Hello pooshy cat. Can I pet your pooshy cat ma’am?”

He reached in the window, stroked the cat and said, “Hello, pooshy cat. What’s your name?”

He sees his wife coming out of the ladies room, and hollers at her: “Hey Dorothy. Come here and look at the pooshy cat.”

Catsanova was eating it up like caviar catfood. He had met a kindred spirit.

After a few minutes conversation, I realized I’d met a fellow cat person. Nice guy. A bit rough around the edges, maybe, but hey, if the pooshy cat liked him, he must be all right.

That day I learned people aren’t always the way they seem. You can’t judge a book by its cover. Even biker dudes have a soft spot.

So as I contemplate National What if Cats and Dogs Had Opposable Thumbs Day, I come to the conclusion that it’s a good thing they don’t. If Catsanova had had opposable thumbs, he’d probably have thumbed down the Harley, booted Dorothy off the back of it, and ridden off into the sunset with the biker where together they would find America.

Valentines We'd Like to See

2008-02-07T14:26:00.000-08:00

Hillary,
You wowed them in New Hampshire.
In Iowa, not so much.
When you let a few tears fall
You showed a human touch.

While you’re out trail-blazing
Campaigning in a whirl,
Remember now, if you don’t win
You’re still my little girl.
Love ya, Bill

Hillary,
My fine, worthy opponent
You’ve really shown your stuff.
While you don’t have my charisma
You’re still no bit of fluff.

The issues notwithstanding,
This race is getting tough.
So I say with sheer sarcasm,
That you’re likeable enough.
Your buddy, Barack

Barack, John, Mitt, Rudy, et al.:
You’re such a bunch of good ol’ boys
Won’t give a girl a break.
So let me tell you here and now,
And please make no mistake.

I won’t take discrimination
That you all use to fight me.
As far as this woman’s concerned,
You boys can all just bite me.
Love and kisses, Hillary

TV Writers
While you’re out walking picket lines
We’ve occupied our days
With reading, games and exercise
And many other ways
Of finding entertainment.
So it’s good luck that we wish you.
Don’t worry ‘bout returning
‘Cause quite frankly, we don’t miss you.
(Former) TV watching public

To American voting public:
We’re going to back off a while
And give you all a break.
You’ve heard about us far too long,
We know, for pity’s sake.

So in the coming months ahead
A gift to you we’re bringing:
An end to nuance, slams, insults,
Trash talk and all mud-slinging.

No longer will your mind be filled
With rumor and distortion
And comments we direct to blow
All things out of proportion.

Did you really think we would?
Or are we being cruel
And mixing up St. Valentine’s
With an early April Fool?
Gotcha, The Candidates

Happy Fat Tuesday

2008-02-01T13:49:00.000-08:00

Hallmark is missing out in a great opportunity. Fat Tuesday is coming up.

Now there's a day that we've not capitalized on. We party hard for Mardi Gras, but it's all in the revelry and the parades and throwing beads and getting plastered.

Isn't Super Bowl enough? C'mon! Listen to the name. Fat Tuesday. Fat.

Traditionally, the day has been observed as a way of using up items in the pantry before fasting at Lent, so as not to waste any food. Cooks would use up fat and eggs by making pancakes.

Fat Tuesday. Not wasting ingredients. Oh, the potential.

Here's a day to pig out. Like eating as much of your favorite foods as you can before the day you plan to go on a diet. I did that once. I'd decided to join Weight Watchers, so before the day I was going to sign up, I chowed down. And I enjoyed every bite of it. Right up to the time when I weighed in for the first meeting and realized that I could have gotten a jump start by actually doing nothing at all and not gaining the weight I did during the preceding days.

I digress here, but you get the concept.

You're gonna be giving up something for Lent. Might as well take Fat Tuesday for one last blowout.

Picture it. A Hallmark card to send to your Best Friend Forever (or Best Fat Friend, whichever): "Roses are red; Willows are bent; Stuff your face today; For tomorrow starts Lent."

Before the Valentine hearts go on half price sale (actually this year, before they even go on sale at all), stock the store shelves with Fat Tuesday boxes of chocolate. Wrap little chocolate balls in green, purple and gold foil, string them into necklaces, and you've got Mardi Gras beads worth collecting.

Start with a hearty Fat Tuesday breakfast of pancakes, followed by a midmorning snack of jelly doughnuts. Hit the KFC for lunch, then so you shouldn't grow weak from hunger midafternoon, indulge in a little pizza. Call your friends, invite them over after work, and serve up pasta Alfredo and cannoli for dessert.

Best of all, you don't have to feel guilty. It's Fat Tuesday. You're supposed to celebrate it; it's like you're expected to drink New Year's Eve. It's a holiday, for heaven's sake.

Newspapers will report on how grocery stores and delis raked in big bucks over the holiday, giving the name Fat Tuesday another meaning. It'll take on such gigantic proportions that, like Christmas, it'll lose its orignal sacred meaning.

Another American tradition whose time has come.

Let's get started on it!

If I Ruled the World

2008-01-25T13:41:00.000-08:00

If I ruled the world — that's more than just a song by Tony Bennett. It's a lament for some order in this chaotic place. The world is going nuts.

I'm not talking about the obvious war and pestilence. I'm talking about the little things that can make someone snap like a dry twig under an Ugg boot.

Take apostrophes for instance. Please. Take them out of words they don't need to be in. Such as beauty shops with big honking signs that say "Kut's and More."

Kut's what? What belongs to Kut?

And while we're on the subject, for heaven's sake what's wrong with "Cuts"? Are you reaching out for illiterate clientele who think cuts is spelled with a K? They probably cut their own hair. Spell it right! Same with restaurants. I would be afraid to eat in a place called Kuntry Kitchen. If they can't spell, I certainly don't feel safe eating their food.

The world would be a better place if people would just treat vegetables with respect. That means cooking them properly so one can actually taste the vegetable. The Campbell's Soup Company had the nerve recently to celebrate the anniversary of the horrible thing it did to green beans when it dumped mushroom soup concentrate on them and came up with that goshawful green bean casserole. And who decreed that broccoli is improved by soaking it with melted cheese? Both dishes ruined the veggies by adding fat, cholestrol, and a load of salt, causing arteries over the world to back up like a failing septic tank.

Some poor creatures out there are lamenting their bad health. "I don't know why my cholesterol is so high and I can't lose weight. I eat my five vegetables a day." Yeah. Green bean casserole, broccoli and cheese, fried zucchini, squash and rice casserole, and fried okra. They're the same people who eat "nothing but salad" made up of a little lettuce, cheese, eggs, salami, and a cup and a half of mayonnaise.

If I ruled the world, children would not be allowed to record the message on telephone answering machines. Hell, they wouldn't be allowed to answer the phone until they were old enough to pay the bill.

And while we're on that subject, answering machines would have to give you enough time to record your message before clicking off. If you don't want to listen to the message, then don't get a machine. By the time a person says his name and please call me at 555- the thing clicks off. I once called back one company with that kind of answering machine right after being disconnected and left the message: "Your tape is too short." And then I hung up.

And the world is a better place since I did that. At least I feel better about it.

I have other things I would like to change about the world. But it's a big world and change comes slowly. Might as well start small.

Besides, I may need to use them in another blog someday.

15 minutes of fame

2008-01-18T14:05:00.000-08:00

Andy Warhol once said everyone gets 15 minutes of fame. Everyone?

I'm waiting.

Where's my 15 minutes? Did Andy use up some of my time? He certainly had more than 15 minutes. Maybe Britney, Paris, Lindsay, ad nauseum crowded in on my 15 minutes. They've had way too much fame-time, and if you ask me they squandered it. I'd make much better use of it.

Maybe I missed out on my 15 minutes because I wasn't at the right place at the right time. Story of my life. When they were passing out fame magnets, I was in another line getting extra fat molecules. Who knew?

I must have been struggling to get my voluptuous body into skinny jeans when my 15 minutes came due. It takes time to get jeans over lush curves. Then again, that ought to qualify for some kind of fame, zipping up jeans once you get them on.

Perhaps I slept through it. Must have been waiting for my vitamins to kick in and dozed off.

Or rather I was caught in traffic. Yeah, that's it. I was stuck in traffic when my fame time came. Instead of looking out for signs of 15 minutes of fame, I was focusing on cars coming out from the McDonald's drive-through. Some of the drivers were on cell phones, some were chowing down on Big Macs, some were doing both. None of them saw the other cars on the street they were pulling into. They caused me to miss my fame. Almost caused me to set off my airbags.

And if I missed my 15 minutes of fame because I was being force-fed political propaganda that comes at me from all sides, I'm really going to be ticked. Ninety percent of those people running for office could have used their own 15 minutes for better reasons than running for office, and now they're cutting in on mine. Probably tax me for it too.

I've missed out on so many opportunities for my 15 minutes of fame that if I ever stumbled onto them, I'd probably never recognize them. And if I did, I wouldn't know what to do with them.

I want my 15 minutes of fame, but I want them on my terms. In my own good time. My way.

That's not asking much.

Is it?

Do You Know What Day It Is?

2008-01-11T13:22:00.000-08:00

Isn't January a tedious month? The weather's lousy for the most part; couple that with post-Christmas letdown, and you have a month worth forgetting. Valentine's Day is coming with its attendant chocolate fest, but what do you do in the meantime?

Well, January ain't International Creativity Month for nothing. Let's get creative about what to do for fun in such a bleak, cold, joy-sucking month.

Let's forget that it's California Dried Plum Digestive Month. That's just another way of saying eat prunes to make you regular, and who wants to celebrate that?

It's also Oatmeal Month and Resolve to Eat Breakfast Month: overkill I'd say.

Not only is January National Lose Weight, Feel Great month, but the first week of the month is National Lose Weight, Feel Great week. Maybe January should be National Overkill month; we've just seen two instances of it.

Jan. 11-17 is National Cuckoo Dancing Week. I didn't know cuckoos could dance. Or maybe that one was prompted by watching "Dancing with the Stars."

National Chocolate Covered Cherry day was Jan. 3. Now there's a celebration that should last a month.

Someone must have gotten turned around when Jan. 7 was proclaimed Thank God It's Monday day. Who the hell is grateful for Monday? Someone who didn't expect to make it until then? That person has other reasons to celebrate. Monday stinks!

National Clean Of Your Desk Day is Jan. 14. Rename that one "That'll be the day."

Jan. 12 and Jan. 21 have something in common other than reversed digits: the first celebrates awareness of penguins, the second appreciates squirrels. The following day is Answer Your Cats Questions Day." My cats ask me "when are you going to feed me?" That's easy to answer. On demand. There is no other way with cats. That same day is National Speak up and Succeed Day; the cats are not stupid.

Jan. 24 is both Women in Blue Jeans Day and Women's Healthy Weight Day. It's also Belly Laugh Day. Draw your own conclusions.

Know who Thomas Crapper is? He invented the flush toilet. He just happened to have an unfortunate surname. Jan. 27 is his day. For whateaver reason.

Bubble Wrap day falls on Jan. 28. I visited the UPS store not long ago and stood in awe of a huge roll of bubble wrap there. I wanted to roll around on it. When I asked the clerk there if she were ever tempted to dive into that enormous roll of bubble wrap, she didn't share my enthusiasm for it. In fact, she looked like she thought I was crazy.

We'll wish her a happy Someday We'll Laugh About This week (Jan. 2-5) or a Hunt for Happiness Week (Jan. 20-26). Without popping bubble wrap and a little whimsy, all that's left is Nothing Day (Jan. 16).

Whatever the occasion, have a good one.

Ways to keep warm

2008-01-04T13:15:00.000-08:00

It's cold enough to make Al Gore re-think global warming.

Remember back a few months ago when we were all griping about how hot it was? Try to remember how hot it really was, and maybe that will warm you up a little now.

Not working? Here are a few suggestions to get warm on a frosty day.

Think about really thin people, and how much colder it must be for them. They have no reserves. There's no extra padding to warm them up. That ought to make you feel warmer.

No? Let's get specific. Think about that poor scrawny Callista Flockhart. If she turned sideways and stuck out her tongue she'd look like a zipper. Now think abour that poor bony thing snuggling up to Harrison Ford. That makes me all warm and envious. Shoot, skip Callista and think about Harrison. He lights my fire.

Conjure up someone who lights your fire, and let it simmer.

Whip up some hot cocoa.

Or a frenzy.

If you don't have to go anywhere, make a pot of coffee (or tea or cocoa), and find a favorite book. Cuddle up in an overstuffed chair with a blanket and the coffee, in front of a sunny window and enjoy the book. A cat on your lap is optional, but warm.

Chicken noodle soup.

A big bowl of steaming oatmeal with raisins.

Thick cozy socks.

Bulky sweater over jeans. Or a new sweatsuit. New ones always seem warmer.

Get into a political discussion. They're usually heated.

Get busy and chase those dust buffalo out from under your bed. That'll work up a little heat. Forget dust bunnies; it's better to go after the big dust buffalo. You'll feel all warm and fuzzy because you finally cleaned under the bed and because you worked up a sweat doing it.

Consider that those obnoxious kids you see everywhere on skateboards — with baggy clothes and baseball caps worn backwards — will someday lead the county. Or maybe they'll vote. If that doesn't chill you, it'll make you warm with fear.

Homemade bread. You'll heat up the kitchen with the oven and work up some heat kneading it. Sorry, the bread machine doesn't cut it. Gotta do it the hard way. Then enjoy the warm results with some hot tea.

Hot Dr. Pepper with a lemon slice floating in it. Really. It's good; try it.

Bake some cookies.

Cook some chili.

A chenille robe with warm socks.

Snuggle with the dog. Or a cat. Or your sweetie. Or all of the above.

Think about the price of gasoline. If that doesn't make you hot under the collar, then nothing will.

Searching for my inner badass

2007-12-28T08:44:00.000-08:00

I now have a new goal in life.

Notice please that I didn't say resolution. It's that time of year, I know, but by now I have established that I don't make resolutions. Some might say it would be a waste of effort; I say I don't need to make any.

But I can have a new goal, so I do.

I saw a photo of a cat recently with a caption under it that says "Tap into your inner badass."

That's my goal. I will tap into my inner badass.

Cats come by that naturally. The one in the photo reeked of inner badass-ness, and he was gorgeous. Tapping into mine may take a little work.

Sometimes my inner badass comes out when I'm driving, and I encounter an idiot on a cell phone who hasn't yet mastered doing two things at once. I don't know if the cell phone conversation is lacking, but the driving usually is, and I'm compelled to point that out using my middle finger.

Maybe tapping into my inner badass means saying what I think, but that gets complicated. I thought being able to do that came with age. As I get older I say what I think but it doesn't seem to have much effect. Either people expect that from older women or they're not listening. Either way, I don't seem to be badassing.

So I Googled inner badass just to keep all my bases covered. Others apparently have the same idea I do; there're 248,000 results for "inner badass" on Google. Most of them have to do with dating and fashion. Maybe if I bought leather pants I'd look like a fashion badass. But I keep wondering how much it costs to clean leather pants, so there goes my badass image, right into a puddle of practicality. Gotta work on that.

Maybe if I got some piercings. I got my ears pierced when I was 19 and I fainted. I've had brain surgery, but would I take the time and effort to get more piercings now that I have a basis for comparison? Probably not.

Maybe it's an attitude that shows through. Like Paul Newman in his younger days, you looked at him and knew he was a badass. He still has that look about him, come to think of it. Bette Davis had a certain badass quality about her. Ditto Debra Winger, Shirley McLaine. Jane Fonda tried to, but I don't think it worked for her, really. I try repeating to myself, "yeah, what's it to you?" And "You and what army?" Then I think back to how many times lately I've needed to use those phrases.

Sigh.

There's a fine line between being a badass and being rude. I don't want to be rude. No one likes rude, but people do appreciate a good badass. But a badass doesn't care what people think. Thus, the dilemma.

I still want to tap into my inner badass. I just have to find it first.

Resolutions for those who really need them - not me

2007-12-14T13:56:00.000-08:00

So we’re getting close to the new year, and you can almost hear the sound of shattering New Year’s resolutions from afar.
Not that I ever make any. To make a resolution at any time of the year would be like admitting imperfection. I like me the way I am.
Besides, it’s easier to make New Year’s resolutions for someone else. It takes an impartial observer to size up where someone is lacking and then make constructive suggestions for improvement.
So in the interest of helping others in need, I offer some New Year’s resolutions to those who seem to be in need.

Heather Mills McCartney (concerning her rather vituperative remarks about her divorce from her ex-husband): Take the advice from a venerable old song and “Let It Be.” I wonder who wrote that?

Sen. Larry Craig: Keep your closets clean and tidy. Are you loitering in them? Maybe you shouldn’t.

The members of the food police who tell us what’s bad for us: Have a doughnut. Go on. Enjoy!

The ditzy drivers who have nearly T-boned me on the roads (I would say you know who you are, but chances are you don’t, but neither do I): Leave your cell phone in your purse or pocket, whichever is applicable. Try to make 2008 the year you focus on one task at a time, first get there; then make your calls.

Britney Spears: Get in control — start with birth control (“Oops I Did It Again” never was all that clever), then work your way up to control of your habits and your life.

Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton, John Edward, Mitt Romney, ad nauseam: Be nice. Play fair. Go away.

O.J. Simpson: Take up a hobby. I don’t advise collecting sports memorabilia or writing your memoirs. Maybe something in the way of helping the community.

Producers of TV “reality” shows: Get real. Really.

U.S. Congress: Oh, my. Where to begin? A pork-free existence? Live within our means (no, that’s not a typo; they are OUR means you’re living within)? But just for starters, give us the kind of health care benefits you have. We’ll go from there next year.

Barry Bonds, Mark Maguire, etc.: Say it ain’t so.

The Hershey Company: Create a chocolate bar that has zero carbs, no sugar, no fat, and tastes like a Hershey bar.

Nestle, Ghirardeli, and Godiva: Beat Hershey to the punch.

Sarah Lee: Do the same with jelly doughnuts and cheesecake.

Welcome to my gratitude journal

2007-12-07T13:13:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking ahead lately to New Year's — partly because it's a way of getting past this stressful Christmas season and partly because time flies so fast it'll be here before you know it. I don't make resolutions any more. I kind of like me the way I am.

But I think I might try a gratitude journal. I've heard it's a good idea. You write down things you're grateful for or about, and if you try hard enough eventually you really do feel some kind of gratitude and it becomes ingrained in you. Who knows. It might work.

So I'm going to give it a try, starting now. Might as well get a jump on New Year's.

First off, I'm truly grateful that I have all the fingers on both my hands. That's pretty basic, but if you've bought movies or CDs lately you might recognize how fleeting those digits might be. You almost need a blow torch to get into the plastic prison those discs are encased in. Once you do, you need an ice pick, or an illegal knife, to get the cellophane wrapper off. By the time I actually open the case and slip out the disc, I've burned at least 500 calories from the aerobic activity of trying to get to a CD of relaxing music. So I'm really grateful that after all that, I still have all my fingers.

This gratitude stuff isn't too hard. I'll try another one.

I'm so glad I was gifted with what used to be called horse sense. Common sense. It's pretty uncommon any more. Take for instance those hermetically sealed DVDs and CDs. Manufacturers and stores seal them in plastic to keep them from being stolen, but you know, if someone wants them bad enough they'll find a way. They'll just take the whole shebang and probably have to back the car over them to get them out of the plastic. If thieves can spirit away entire jugs of liquor and conceal entire hams in their baggy clothing, those things pose no problems. Stores and manufacturers haven't figured that out yet, and so they make it difficult for cash-paying customers to enjoy their purchases. I figured that one out. Sure glad I have that much sense.

This is getting easier. If I try real hard, maybe as I get into this gratitude stuff and eventually I'll find a reason to be grateful for those little oval stickers people put on fresh vegetables and fruit. There's gotta be a nutritious benefit to the glue that binds them to produce skin since sometimes there are as many as six of those little sticker thingies on one tomato. I'll bet if I think about it long enough, while I'm picking little oval stickers out of the dishwasher and off the counter top where they seem to take root once I get them off my apples and pears, I'll find a reason to be thankful. Maybe I'll be grateful that they're so small that if I do accidentally ingest one, I won't choke on it.

WIth my luck, I probably will. Looks like this gratitude thing is going to need a little work.

A Teddy bear named WHAT?

2007-11-30T12:22:00.001-08:00

OK. Now I'm mad.

Someone, somewhere, please — smuggle or otherwise spirit Gillian Gibbons out of Sudan.

It's ridiculous that this British teacher was accused of blasphemy over her second grade students' naming a Teddy bear Mohammad. It's even more ridiculous that she was sentenced to 15 days in jail for such a thing. It's crazy she could have been lashed 40 times, but it's downright ASININE that some militant Islam extremists are calling for her execution.

Give. Me. A. Break.

I'm sick to death of hearing about people who force us to tread lightly because we celebrate Christmas. Not a winter holiday. But Christmas. I'm saying it again because I can — Merry Christmas.

I'm sick to death of people squawking because there's no religous diversity in the — here it comes — Christmas season. Helllooo. It's a Christian holiday. Let's not make it something it isn't. Don't like it? Celebrate something else, but shut up about it. We don't go messing with Kwanzaa, Hanukkah or Ramadan; we respect your right to celebrate them. Accord us the same courtesy. It's bad enough we Christians are ruining it with all the commrecialism attached to it.

Now we have these miitant camel jockeys saying that Gillian Gibbons should be executed because she took Mohammad's name in vain. She didn't mean any disrespect. Her class named the Teddy bear after a boy in the class; just about every little towel head is named Mohammad. What's the difference?

So the gloves are coming off. Until the Islamic extremists shut up and crawl back under the rock they came out from, I have no regard for them. Until they back off Gillian Gibbons and apologize for being idiots, I am launching a full frontal attack on them.

Know how many Islamic extremists it takes to screw in a light bulb? None. They're perpetually in the dark because they have their heads up their backsides.

Know the difference between an Islamic extremist and a sack of manure? The sack.

What's the difference between an Islamic extremist and a Teddy bear, whatever its name may be? The bear has a higher IQ.

Here's a message to all you Islamic extermists out there. You know those 72 virgins you're expecting to get when you reach Paradise? They're GUYS!

Alternative response: They all have PMS!

Here's another message for all you towel-heads: Lighten up. Your Allah or whatever you call your God is the same as our God. And our God is merciful and forgiving. You could learn from that.

Oh yeah, and Merry Christmas, towel-heads!

Disappointed about Paris

2007-11-16T13:29:00.000-08:00

I'm really disappointed.

Although I've said that I prefer not to acknowledge the vacuous Paris Hilton, a week or so ago I'd read where she finally found a cause that she could support.

It seemed so perfect. Just tailor made for someone who until now had no real purpose except maybe to serve as a good bad example, and that wasn't necessarily by design.

Paris Hilton was said to have taken up the cause of helping drunken elephants in northeastern India.

Now there's a match made in — well maybe not heaven, but it just seemed so right.

If there's anything Paris Hilton knows about it's being drunk. And needing a little guidance and support.

The last we heard about her is that she'd seen the error of her ways and was now going to devote herself to doing good things. She scheduled a do-good trip to Africa, but later it was cancelled. That was probably a good thing too. Africa has enough problems, they don't need her added to them.

For a long time the tabloids focused on Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears, for lack of something better to do, and we had no news of Paris until the Associated Press reported that she had heard about some elephants who habitually eat fermented fruit and go around drunker'n a sailor on shore leave, only bigger. She wanted to help.

It was a cause all her own. No one else was doing anything about it, and it was a chance for her to redeem herself.

Trouble is, it wasn't true. According to a news release from the venerable AP, "Lori Berk, a publicist for Hilton, said she never made any comments about helping drunken elephants in India."

I feel like I've just scored the six winning Powerball numbers, only to find out I had an outdated ticket. Paris still doesn't have a cause. Or a clue.

I'm just bummed about that.

Tracking a rambling mind

2007-11-09T12:46:00.000-08:00

Today I'm going to let me mind ramble and see where it goes.

Do you ever wonder what children in China play with? Where do their parents get their toys?

First it was lead in the paint in an increasing number of toys maufactured in China, and now it's a substance on another toy that, when ingested, mimics a toxic drug. We're worried about finding Saddam Hussein's weapons of mass destruction, and right under our noses toys are capable of harming children.

Maybe that was Saddam's plan after all. Hide those WMDs really, really well.

And on another subject, my mind rambles to Thanksgiving. Whatever happened to it?

As soon as Halloween was over, grocery stores had replaced all the candy corn, buttercream pumpkins, and dinky little Milky Way bars with candy canes and marshmallow and chocolate Santas. We went straight from Halloween to Christmas, and we're ignoring Thanksgiving.

Well, not completely. There's still some mention out there about turkeys and cornbread vs. bread dressing, and overindulgence. But what happened to why we celebrate Thanksgiving and some reverence for the occasion? It's become a four-day holiday and an excuse to sit in front of the TV, pig out on leftovers and watch football games.

Maybe if there were an association with chocolate or some reason to shop other than for a turkey and cranberries, Thanksgiving wouldn't be left out.

If holidays were personified and had emotions, I bet Thanksgiving would be really ticked off. Like the middle child it would act out to get attention away from the firstborn, Halloween, and the youngest, Christmas. If Thanksgiving wanted to do something really, really mean to get some attention, it would retaliate somehow — like inventing green bean casserole.

That stuff has to be the ultimate in rude food. People take a perfectly good vegetable, dump some salty, cholesterol and fat laden cream of mushroom soup over it, then add some chemically based substance being passed off as fried onions on top of that, bake it and offer it up as a contribution to Thanksgiving dinner. That's got to be one of the nastiest things anyone could do. I once attended a potluck lunch where three different women brought green bean casserole and each one insisted hers was different and hers was better. Only a rebellious soul would pit three otherwise nice ladies against each other in such a vile fashion. Green bean casserole is capable of ruining friendships, dividing families and causing strokes if you eat enough of it, and who wants to?

We'd better be nicer to Thanksgiving and give it the credit it's due. Who knows what else will follow? Something vile perpetrated on broccoli? It's bad enough people dump cheese on it.

And while we're on the subject of unhappy holidays, a minister recently suggested that Halloween, once the evening prior to All Saints Day and a particularly religious holiday in its origins, has lost its original significance. It's about as religious as Christmas is getting to be, he said. Sometimes it's surprising to hear someone comment that government and civic organizations shouldn't concern themselves with Christmas and other religious observations. It's almost automatic to respond, "what's religion got to do with Christmas?" It's become a reason to buy stuff, to sell stuff, and for retail businesses to plan their revenue for the year around. It has more to do with talking snowmen and flying reindeer than with shepherds and wise men. Put up a decorated tree or a nativity scene in a public place and watch all the government-types clamor for separation of church and state.

But they all take the day off work that day. After all, it's a holiday. And they want to be home to see their kids unwrap all their toys. Made in China. Because they work cheap over there and keep the price of toys down.

And now I've rambled into a circle.

An extra hour

2007-11-02T13:05:00.001-07:00

At long last, Daylight Saving Time ends. It keeps getting dragged out every year, and no one has been able to convince me that it has done anything more than make people reset their clocks and deprive us all of an hour's sleep in the summer.

The days get longer on their own. They don't really need any help from the government, which is where Daylight Saving Time originated. The same bunch that thought up the tax code. And $900 toilet seats.

This weekend the time will be back to normal. Employees who start work at 8 a.m. will actually start at that time and not what's really 7 a.m., but says on the clock that it's 8 a.m. because we're fiddling around with the natural order of things.

Can you tell I don't like Daylight Saving Time?

So now we have that hour back that we lost in the spring when we kicked up the clock. Think about what you can do with that extra hour.

Read a book. Or a magazine. A newspaper.

Write a blog. Gripe about a lack of time to do anything.

Stop and smell the roses. If they're no longer in bloom, stop and smell something. May I suggest the inside of a bakery.

Contemplate philosophical questions. Such as, if big box stores and large supermarkets have an in-store bakery, why can't we smell it? Isn't it a shame that there are children growing up out there who have never smelled a bakery?

Cuddle a cat. Better yet, adopt one or two and increase the cuddle opportunity beyond a lousy hour.

OK. Get a dog. What do I care? Find a pet something or other and snuggle with it. Good for the soul.

Make homemade soup. So much better-tasting than canned stuff.

Reset all the clocks you had to bump up last spring. I won't have to do that in my car. My car is my corner of the world, and in my world there's no Daylight Saving Time. Feels good to rebel sometimes, if only in small ways.

Find something else to rebel about. What's so great about the status quo anyway?

Who says you have to do anything with that hour? Aren't we over-structured enough as it is? Waste it. Fritter it away. Sleep late.

Savor it. For before you know it, it'll be time to go back to that ridiculous Daylight Saving Time and it'll be taken away from you. Then you won't have the time to gripe about it.

Boo!

2007-10-26T13:43:00.000-07:00

Halloween is coming, and along with the "ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night," are some pretty scary things out there.

Witches don't scare me. The older I get, the meaner I get and they're probably afraid of me now. At least I hope so. I find that being curmudgeonly and outspoken is kinda fun.

It's scary how fast time flies. It seems that once you get over the hill you start picking up speed. At my age, moving fast isn't an option; time oughta slow down too.

I've noticed that when I'm applying makeup, I tend to look upward, and I don't look too bad then, between that and fresh makeup. But if I reapply lipstick in the car and my head ducks a little, I'm scared half to death by that old crone with the beginning of a turkey wattle staring back at me. Who is that old broad anyway?

Losing my mind scares me. Not that there's much of it there. I have trouble remembering simple things, but no problem at all recalling song lyrics from 50 years ago. But isn't it funny how when you bump into an old classmate you haven't seen in years how old they look compared to you? Scary isn't it?

I have never seen a ghost, but I know people who say they have and I find it intriguing. I wanna be a ghost someday and play the kind of tricks they must be playing on me. Like hiding my car keys right in plain sight, moving my car from one end of the parking lot to another when I'm not looking, and sneaking into my closet and altering my clothes so that they no longer fit. The really evil ones move the darts on my blouses and make the bustline impossibly high.

I find it scary that all cars look pretty much alike to me, but I can tell a 1952 Ford from a 1954 Ford. I remember Studebakers and Hudsons. But I have trouble remembering — well, you know — I can't recall, oh, hell! Where was I going with this?

It's frightening to realize that people forever young in my memory are now eligible for Social Security — Annette Funicello is 65. She has Mickey Mouse ears older than my boss! Bill Wyman of the Rolling Stones is 71, for heaven's sake.

So while kids are creeping each other out with fake teeth, I need a map to remember where I put my partials. While they dress up with fright wigs, I resign myself to the fact that long hair draws attention to wrinkles and lines and a short do brings the eye upward and away from the lines but toward the crow's feet. And forget about the scary blackbirds and crows: I'm dodging vultures!

Time has nothing on Halloween. Time is all trick and no treat. Well, except for black cats. And chocolate.

Blatant self-promotion

2007-10-19T14:31:00.001-07:00

This blog has been nominated for a Blogger's Choice award. There's SO--O-O-O many of those nominated that it'll be tough to win in 2007, but all blogs are automatically entered for 2008.

If you like this stuff, then please vote for it. Log onto www.bloggerschoiceawards.com. You'll have to do a little searching, but hey -- what else do you have to do to kill time, right?

This week I'm all ranted out, but I'll be back next week with more stuff.

Celebrate freedom from hair

2007-10-12T12:23:00.000-07:00

Jay Leno mentioned on a recent program that someone in medical research had come up with a scalp transplant that would grow hair from a deceased donor on the bald head of a recipient.

It probably is just a joke, but I would imagine bald men the world over and thinking, "Dang! Where can I get one?"

My guess would be these are men, who like women, are in their M&M years. For women it's between Menopause and Medicare; for men, make that between Menoxidil and Medicare. Young men seem to embrace baldness.

And well they should. I've always thought bald was sexy. Think Sean Connery. Yul Brynner. Rob Keefe (he's the guy on the Real Simple program on PBS. I think he's hot.)

Young men who notice they're getting a little thin on top just take it to the next step and shave their head. Some of them shave their heads anyway because it's a good look.

Guys in the M&M age bracket have long been in denial about their hair. These are the guys who first gave up flattops and crew cuts in the 1960s in favor of the hippie look. It was a protest back then. Back then the musical "Hair" was making a statement. Barbers were becoming an endangered species. Hair was important.

As men have evolved, so has their outlook about hair and politics. The young men of the 60s who protested the Vietnam war and social inequities by looking anti-establishment have spawned sons and grandsons who embraced the look of firefighters who have always been heroes and who keep their hair short for practical reasons. After 9/11 it became cool to look like a firefighter or a military recruit out to kick al-Qaeda backside, so they shave or buzz cut the hair.

It's a good look.

What's not a good look are some of the traditions M&M men hold on to like a rubber band on Willie Nelson's braids. Also not a good look. Comb-overs are fooling no one. Especially in a high wind.

Toupees are fairly obvious. Some are more obvious than others. I recently saw a man of M&M age who should have known better: his toupee was several shades darker than the fringe that actually grew on his head. The line of demarction that circled his head could not have been more obvious if he had put a piece of red linoleum on his head.

Now Leno comes up with the joke about the scalp transplant.

Here's the deal, gentlemen: Embrace your chrome dome. Younger guys are doing it successfully; you don't have to use the razors and shaving cream they're consuming. Think of the savings. The comfort. The ease. The extra area where your significant other can kiss you.

There's even two days set aside to acknowledge that bald is beautiful: Oct. 7 and 14 are both recognized as "Be Bald and Free Day."

Go for it! Be free! Be bald!

Things I'm cordially sick of

2007-10-05T12:51:00.000-07:00

Today I'm feeling curmudgeonly. There's a lot of stuff I just wanna gripe about.

I am cordially sick of

*Britney Spears and her children. Not every woman is good motherhood material. Britney's behaving like a child and having a meltdown she should have had years ago when she was having success for being untalented and blonde. Ignore her and maybe she'll go away. Help her quietly and maybe she'll be a good mom.

*The election. I've heard all I want to hear about Rudy, and Mitt, and Barack and Hillary and John. We can't vote for any of them for more than a year yet, so they should just shut up for now and get down to real issues when we're getting ready to decide which one of them is going to do the least possible damage to the country.

* Petty election stuff. Who cares if Hillary laughs out loud? Who cares if Barack wears a flag pin on his clothes? Who gives a rat's patootie if Hillary shows cleavage; if she has some at her age, she should consider herself fortunate. Most 60-ish women not only could fail the aforementioned pencil test, they could hide a spare roll of toilet paper.

* And yes, I've been waiting for just the right time to use that one.

* George Bush's approval rating. He's got a tough job. Anyone might do better, but who can predict the conditions we'd be asked to do them under? This ain't high school; it's not a popularity contest. He's our president and deserves our support.

* Anyone who takes seriously Angelina Jolie, Madonna and Paris Hilton.

* Sen. Larry Craig. Larry make up your mind if you're guilty or not guilty, in the closet or out, if you're going to resign or not, and then shut up. If this is the best you can do with your 15 minutes of fame, then you need to get off the clock.

* The Diana inquest. For Pete's sake, let the woman rest in peace. Nothing anyone can find will make any difference; she'll still be dead.

* People who don't learn. Like the papparazzi who recently chased after Diana's son William in a car with his girlfriend, while the inquest about his mother's death was going on. How often must history repeat itself?

* Pink ribbons and pink everything this month. What makes breast cancer so much more important than any other awful disease so much so that we're shamed by marketing ploys into supporting research for it? There's enough guilt in the world to go around, don't go around manufacturing a need for more.

* Most network TV. Except for Desperate Housewives, Dirty Sexy Money, and Mad Men. Why can't all programming be as entertaining and intelligent as these? Cavemen? Feh!

There. I feel better now.

Remembering the pencil test

2007-09-27T14:44:00.000-07:00

Funny how some things trigger long ago memories.

I noticed a college girl running up the street the other day. College girls, and guys, do that a lot, but this one stood out because her bosom was bouncing so hard it made me cross my arms in front of me and cringe with pain. I thought, get a good support bra, dear, before you bruise your knees.

That brought to mind the pencil test. Remember the pencil test? Back in the day, my day anyway, it was a test that determined whether or not you could safely go braless. Slip a pencil underneath your breast. If it fell to the floor you could; if it stayed put, you and Maidenform forged an alliance.

That in turn made me remember the last time I heard about the pencil test. I was new to a job, recently moved to a new area, and walked into a dispute between a few county commisioners and my boss, which for reasons I don't need to go into made it necessary for me to tape record county commission meetings in addition to my note-taking.

On a slow morning, the commission had little business to do, but was waiting for an appointment to show up when they decided to use the time to open the mail. One commissioner found a flyer advertising a seminar regarding a feminist topic and shot it over to the county attorney, a rather buxom woman, who said something about needing to attend that particular seminar. From the commissioner: "Ah Sarah (not her real name) go burn your bra."

From Sara: "James (not his real name) I've told you before. It's bad enough when you fail the pencil test, but when your hairbrush stays up here (pause) omigod, I'm on tape!"

Two things became apparent that day.

One, barriers between people come down when you share a good, long belly laugh.

The other: my hairbrush didn't budge either.

Time for a little religion

2007-09-21T11:54:00.000-07:00

OK. We've discussed sex and politics here. Time to talk about religion.

It seems that public schools and universities across the country are considering Muslim students' requests for religious accommodation during Ramadan, the holy month of prayer and fasting, which continues through Oct. 12. Accommodations can include separate rooms where fasting students can go during lunch; places for students to perform daily prayers; the consideration of requests to make Eid al-Fitr, the holiday that ends Ramadan, a school holiday; and the installation of footbaths in restrooms to make it easier for students to follow prayer rituals.

What's wrong with this picture? Let's not even get into the touchy subject about associating Muslims and terrorists. Most Muslims are peace-loving, upstanding people. This is America. We are proud of our religious tolerance and our all-inclusiveness.

However, I'll take more kindly to footbaths in restrooms in public schools to accommodate Muslim religious traditions when school districts get over that ridiculous notion of "winter holidays" and bring back Christmas holidays and celebrations in the classrooms, anad when Halloween returns to the classrooms and scares the wits out of "harvest holidays" and chases them completely out of existence. When children in school can wish each other a Merry Christmas or Happy Hannukah without worrying they might offend someone, then talk to me about Ramadan.

Then there's the Nebraska lawmaker who has filed a lawsuit against God.

State Senator Ernie Chambers accuses God of causing untold death and horror and threatening to cause more. Chambers says God can be sued in Douglas County, Nebraska, because He's everywhere.

The Omaha senator, who skips morning prayers during the legislative session and often criticizes Christians, blames God for natural disasters and is seeking a permanent injunction against Him.

Angered by another lawsuit he considers frivolous, Chambers says he's trying to make the point that anybody can file a lawsuit against anybody.

Two points here: Never tick off someone who can smite you a good one.

God lives in Heaven. Where's He going to find a lawyer to defend Him?

Some random thoughts, part 2

2007-09-14T12:06:00.000-07:00

Just some random thoughts today:

It seems that OJ Simpson has been questioned, this time for allegedly breaking and entering and stealing some sports memorabilia. Apparently he needs to pawn it. He owes the Goldman family some money. He says the memorabilia belongs to him. Why didn't he just ask for its return? The news report said he's not been arrested; he's believed to be still in the Las Vegas area where the theft occurred. Of course he is, he's looking for the real thief. Good luck with that, OJ.

The biggest baddie of them all, Osama bin Laden, wants America to embrace Islam. I think it's safe to say America wants Osama bin Laden to embrace a cactus.

America observed another 9/11 anniversary this week. It is nice to remember those who were so wrongly killed but something's missing. Where's the moral outrage that united us? Six years ago, we were united in wanting to kick terrorist butt. We flew flags on our cars, put them on our porches. We organized parades and got impromptu parades together, in case any terrorists were watching. We wanted them to know you don't mess with the United States, or we'll mess with you right back. Now we're sounding like we did when we were fighting in Vietnam. Let's bring the soldiers home. Yes. Let's. But let's do what we went to do: find Osama, make him pay, and let those people know that they'd better mind their own business and leave us alone. What have we done? We created snafus in airports. We have lists of passengers who shouldn't be let on airplanes and we detain children with the same names of some of them.

OK, we have done some good. Saddam is gone and so are his carbon copy sons. If they got their promised 70 virgins in the hearafter, I sincerely hope the women all have PMS, and the ones who don't are menopausal with severe hot flashes. That's my idea of what their Hell should be. Seventy crabby, mood-swinging, sweating women ready to kill at a glance.

Our CIA/FBI/other agencies involved have thwarted attacks and saved our freedom. That's good. But we no longer feel as safe and secure as we once did. Maybe that keeps us from becoming complacent.

And bin Laden is out there somewhere thumbing his nose at us and rattling his saber. Still. I don't want to feel the fear and the pain I felt six years ago but I do miss the unity we had in wanting to defend America.

On a lighter note, I bought a sweater set today that bears the label Sag Harbor. I'm wearing a shirt with the same label. Why do I feel like I should buy a brassiere from the same company?

Brittney Spears made the news again. (Sigh) OK. Once and for all. Brittney, put some clothes on. No one's impressed by the sequined bikini. You can't sing. You're paying someone big bucks to advise you on your career, and that person is failing badly. Your kids need you to grow up and raise them to be good citizens. Go back to school, get a real job, and fade into the sunset. You owe yourself and your kids more than just being a good bad example. Maybe try something with computers so you can telecommute.

It's all about marketing, Part 2

2007-09-07T12:08:00.000-07:00

It's amazing what consumers will consume. Creating a demand for a product isn't so much about finding a need and meeting it. It's all about marketing. Creating a desire whether you need it or not.

That's how so much useless stuff gets sold. If it weren't for useless stuff, there'd be no yard sales, thrift stores, and the uniquely American concept of re-gifting.

Remember the pet rock? Someone stuck some googly eyes on a rock, pasted on some fabric scraps, stuck it in a cardboard box printed to look like a pet carrier, and voila - the pet rock was born. It sold like Bic Macs. Who buys hotcakes anymore?

Much of modern art is more about marketing than it is about art. Take this guy Christophe. He wraps fabric around large objects — really large objects like bridges and buildings — or he puts up a series of poles with fabric on them, and calls it art. Before he calls it anything other than what it really is — gigantic sheets flapping in the wind — he does a media blitz. The great artist Christophe has struck again. Can it be compared to a Rembrandt? Not even close.

Marketing.

There's a big hulking piece of metal sitting in downtown St. Louis. It looks like a metal wall. A metal wall waiting for vandals to come with a blow torch and a pickup truck and haul it away to scrap metal dealers and make a fortune. Actually they'd do the city a favor if they did. It's rusting and ugly. But those who claim to be art experts call it the Serra Sculpture.

Marketing.

Want to do something nice for a person who has everything? Buy them a star. There's a place one can go to and for a fee you can have a star named after a friend or relative. Someone looks on a solar map, picks out a star, and then fills out a form that says OK, from now on that star will be called the John Smith star, assuming your friend's name is John Smith. But what really went on here? You gave someone some money and they gave you a piece of paper with your friend's name on it.

Marketing.

It takes a certain amount of verve to pull something like this off. It isn't illegal or immoral. In some instances it can be fun. How people spend their money is their business, and all it takes for some creative thinker to get rich is making people want to cut loose of some money for basically nothing in return.

What brings this on is the most recent marketing ploy. The Nicole Richie Cookbook. Author Robert Smith says it's aimed toward dieters who would be interested in knowing what scrawy Nicole Richie likes to eat. It's a book of empty pages. Sells for $11.99. Probably the easiest writing gig he ever got paid for.

Marketing.

What's next? A Paris Hilton Guide to Sobriety?

Check it out: http://www.nicolerichie.citymax.com.

Say what? Not cheese!

2007-08-31T13:33:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-24T12:43:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-08-17T13:31:00.000-07:00

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

2007-08-10T12:25:00.000-07:00

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.

My theory on global warming

2007-07-31T13:59:00.000-07:00

Being a citizen of the world — and especially one who would like to rule the place — it's time to tackle this global warming thing.

Now if memory serves me correctly, this isn't the first time in the Earth's long history that things have heated up a bit. And, what heats up usually cools down. That's how archaeologists have found evidence of tropical forests and sea life in areas now not tropical and all that wet. And remember, there was an ice age that formed all those glaciers we're now worried about melting away.

Point being: the earth changes. We're not all that significant in the higher order of things to affect change that much one way or another. For the creationists out there: it's all in God's hand.

However I do have some opinions about how we are contributing to global warming that Al Gore may have missed.

(As an aside to Al, your son running a Prius as 100 mph while high on weed ain't helping.)

Here's what I think is heating up the Earth:

Daylight Savings Time. That extra hour of daylight we are stuck with six months out of the year that get naturally lighter anyway is causing polar ice caps to melt. Stop messing with the clock, leave time the way it's supposed to be, and we'll never have to fear that polar bears will be homeless.

Physical fitness. All those joggers, runners, bicyclists that create traffic hazards at rush hour are working up a sweat and raising the heat index. Same with people who do high impact aerobics. When they get that burn going, that burn is creating heat and melting the ice caps and the ozone layer. Chill, people. Literally.

Methane gas. Some scientists somewhere claim that eructating cattle — how's that for a two-dollar word — are belching and farting our environment into a danger zone. I think they have help: spectators at minor league baseball games and guys at family reunion picnics, sports bars, frat houses; anyone who says "pull my finger."

All those people who gather together throughout the day outside businesses and smoke. That much smoke from cigarettes and all those matches and lighter going off at one time have some responsibiity in this supposed crisis. And with many more cities and states banning smoking indoors, it's not going to get any better. Quit smoking people. The penguins' lives are at stake.

For my part I'll give up thinking about Harrison Ford and getting all hot and bothered.

Do It My Way

2007-07-13T14:09:00.000-07:00

Are you as sick of Barak Obama, Hillary Clinton, Mitt Romney, and all the other presidential wannabes as I am?

Ever wish there was a space on the November ballot that read "None of the above"?

Ever get the feeling that choosing a president is kind of like voting for a prom queen?

You think I have a solution for all of the above? Of course not. But there's a way of making one small statement about the whole mess. You know you're spitting into the wind, but you do it anyway.

The solution is to run for president.

A list published by Project Vote Smart includes about 100 Americans who have declared their intentions to seek the most thankless job in the world. Some of them are Republican, some Democrat, some Independent, Green, Humanistic, and some of them we've actually heard of.

For the rest of them, there is a greater likelihood of running into Queen Elizabeth at Wal-Mart than there is getting on a ballot. But why not be that one voice in the wilderness saying "Forget these clowns and vote for me."

Couldn't hurt. Who knows. One of them might be an improvement over the better known candidates — one whose first name sounds like a belch, a woman with a no-good cheating husband, and a guy whose name reminds you of a barbecue tool or a baseball catcher. This is what we have to choose from?

So I'm going to join them. Haven't filled out my PVS questionnaire yet, but I already know the party I am forming will stand out among the Republicans, Libertarians, Democrats, ad nauseum. I'm the founder and so far sole member of the DIMWIT party - Do It My Way, It's Time.

On the PVS-sanctioned issues, or some of them anyway, I stand firm in my belief that we've got the immigration issue backwards. Instead of trying to stem the flow of people coming here looking for jobs, we should be bringing back American jobs that went to Mexico (and why are they coming here if our jobs are going there? Go figure.) Global warming? Quit sending up that space shuttle. The thing goes right through the ozone layer. Terrorists? Remember Hiroshima? That worked.

Wanna know what else PVS wants to know about presidential candidates? Really important stuff that voters really are concerned about:

Pets (include names); Hobbies/Special Talents (does finding an 80 percent off sale count as a special talent?); First Job;
First Car; Current Car; Favorite Food; Favorite Movie; Favorite TV Shows; Favorite Actor/Actress; Favorite Book; Favorite Websites; Favorite Author; Favorite Color; Favorite Type of Music, Favorite Musician, Favorite Sport; Favorite Athlete; Favorite Vacation Spot; Favorite Quote; Personal Hero and Why; Favorite President and Why; Name one thing you would most like to do before you die (besides being President); and Person you would most like to meet (dead or alive) and why.

If this is what voters base their decision on, then maybe one of us has a shot at it. But I'll tell you why I stand out. I'm the only one who won't be insulted if you call me a DIMWIT.

Oooh! I'm such a rebel

2007-06-28T14:23:00.000-07:00

It has been said that older people take more risks because they no longer care about impressing anyone. Or maybe it's because we no longer fear the consequences.

Whatever.

Today on my way to a doctor's appointment, I dutifully turned off my cell phone because a sign on the lab wall said to. I could have been rebellious and left it on. It's not like it rings all that much anyway; I just use it for business calls - usually when I'm lost and need directions.

But I turned it off because what if it had rung while I was sitting there? It might have made a difference in my lab results.

If I were really rebellious I'd have left it off and taken the consequences.

I'm working on it. When I pay my bills and the instructions ask that I write on the return slip how much I'm sending them I leave it blank. I don't know if it's being contrary or because I figure whoever is opening the envelope can look on the check and figure it out.

Same with those instructions "please write your check number on the slip." What for? They got a pencil same as I do.

Here lately I've had this nagging desire to be obnoxious just for the heck of it. I leave my shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot where I unloaded bags of groceries into my trunk instead of pushing it over to the designated gathering place at the end of the aisle for carts to wait for their return to the store. Sometimes I'll push it away and if it blocks the adjacent car, so what? I get a certain thrill out of knowing I have inconvenienced some stranger.

I noticed a couple of weeks ago that the store installed some more of those shopping cart pens in the middle of the aisle to accompany the ones at the end. Did I cause them to go to all that trouble and waste a perfectly good parking space so more shoppers would push their carts into the pen? Don't know. But I like to think so. Do I push my cart to those more conveniently-placed pens? Get real! After so many years of being told to be considerate of others, I'm enjoying being a pain in the tush.

One of these days I'm really going to go for big time obnoxious. It's been on my mind for some time to do it, and soon I'm gonna cut loose and be a real pain. After all these years of being deliberately nice and thinking of others, I'm building up to obnoxious-hood, albeit slowly. But I have a plan.

You know those drive-through stations at the bank with the hydraulic tubes? You put your transaction into the plastic container and shoot it over to the banker at the window? One of these days, when I take my deposit slip out of the plastic container and put the container back into its place at the station — ooh, I just tingle at the thought of all this rebellion — I'm gonna hit the green button and send that empty container through the tube, then take off!

I'm walking on the wild side here. What a trip!

Be cool; chill out

2007-06-21T14:48:00.000-07:00

It's the summer solstice. The longest day of the year. The beginning of hot, sultry summer — unless you live in Southeast Missouri and have already had a taste of that since about April.

In the interest of public safety and comfort, here are some tips for staying cool during the upcoming summer months.

+ Smoothies. All you need is some fruit, yogurt and a blender. Oh yeah. And a glass.

+ Co-exist with dust bunnies. Cleaning works up a sweat. They'll be there when the fall comes and you can deal with them then.

+ Rent movies with a winter theme: White Christmas, Dr. Zhivago, Ice Age, documentaries on penguins or polar exploration.

+ Check out You Tube videos of the baby polar bear Knute. He's not only in icy surroundings, he's also so darned cute you'll forget how hot it is.

+ Frozen grapes. Eat them or stuff them in your bra.

+ Find someone heavier than you and sit in their shadow.

+ Check into a luxury hotel for a day or a weekend, one with an indoor pool in a climate-controlled area.

+ Root beer floats.

+ Popsicles. Red ones.

+ Jell-O pie. Red Jell-O with fruit cocktail in it, poured into a graham cracker crust and topped with graham cracker crumbs.

+ OK. Orange Jell-O. What do I care? Whatever cools you down.

+ Cucumber soup for lunch. Or Gaspacho.

+ Take a walk in the cool of the evening. Through the lawn sprinkler.

+ Lemonade. Sipped while lounging under a shade tree.

+ Tomato sandwiches.

+ Iced coffee. With lemon.

+ Wear loose clothing. Tuck ice packs in the folds.

+ Remember last winter and how you griped about how cold it was.

Feeling cooler yet? Chill out.

I gotta remember - what? I forget

2007-06-14T13:13:00.000-07:00

So there I was one day last week. I'd just put a load of groceries in the trunk of my car and was headed home. I cranked the ignition, set the air conditioner at "meat locker blast" and as I was buckling up, the Righteous Brothers started crooning through the radio:

"You never close your eyes any more when I kiss your lips...."

That song could always send me into ecstasy. It's a short trip from the supermarket parking lot to home by way of ecstasy, and en route I sang along with those groovy Righteous Brothers. I know all the words. Can't carry a tune in a bucket, but I know the words. All of them.

So I leave the 60s and memories of a smaller waist, and unload the trunk. Dang! I forgot to buy paper towels. And that was one of the reasons I went to the store. I need paper towels. Can't microwave dinner without them.

So what's the deal here? Why is it I can remember the entire score of "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" but can't remember to buy paper towels?

Like most M&M-age women (between Menopause and Medicare) I worry about getting Alzheimer's disease. If I don't have all my marbles, I don't care to stay in the game. Just how many marbles are left, and is my shooter rolling straight? I worry about that.

No Alzheimer's in my family, but my mother could never remember my name. And I was her only daughter. But she could rattle off the date and time down to the second of every stupid thing I ever did or thought of doing. I guess as we age there's only so much room in one's memory bank, and my name got edged out.

I seem to have the same problem. I go from the living room to the kitchen to — what? It's not that long a walk. What did I come in here for? So back to the living room; I trip over the cat. Oh yeah! Feed the cat.

Yet I can tell after hearing three seconds of violins that what follows will be the Drifters crooning "This Magic Moment." And yes, I know the words to that song too.

Why is it I can remember my parents' first telephone number, but every now and again I wonder if I remembered to take my meds? The ones I have to take every morning.

A poem I had to commit to memory in the 6th grade is still there. Every time I vote — and I vote every time — I have to look up the precinct location.

This wouldn't be so frustrating if there were really a need for me to remember that Question Mark and the Mysterions recorded the song "96 Tears." There's other stuff I NEED to remember, but useless stuff clogs up my memory like chicken fat in the kitchen sink drain.

You know, I've got half a mind to — um — well — oh heck. I forgot where I was going with this.

In the name of what — justice?

2007-06-07T13:51:00.000-07:00

In case lawyers even wonder why they're so universally disliked:

According to the Heartand Institute a woman sued Stabucks for damages she supposedly suffered when she was sold "scalding" hot coffee. McDonald's was also sued in Texas by a different woman who said the server failed to warn her the coffeee was hot. This same thing happened in 1994 when a woman successfully sued McDonald's when she got hot coffee at the drive through, put the cup in her lap for a moment, and — duh! — was burned when it spilled after the car moved.

OK. Once and for all, Listen up people. Coffee is HOT. It will HURT! If it does it's YOUR OWN DAMNED FAULT! If you can't keep from burning yourself, you don't need a lawyer. You need a sippy cup.

There. I feel better now.

And then there's the Ohio high school student who was disciplined and criminally charged for hacking into his teacher's computer to look at a biology test he had to take. He — and his parents— sued the school after he was suspended for five days and given an F for the test. The suit alleges that the student was denied special counseling and treated more harshly than other students because he was in the country on a student visa. He claims his rights were violated.

OK Kid. Here's how it works. Cheating is wrong. You cheated. You are responsible. You take the punishment. It work that way in all countries.

And here's one for his parents: You're supposed to teach him that. Someone should sue you for malreproduction.

And while we're at it, here's another one - same source as the other two. A disability rights group in California sued a school district - and won in federal court - saying that the school's playground discriminated against wheelchair-bound disabled students because there are wood chips on the ground and their wheelchairs get stuck and prevent the children from wheeling themselves to swings and slides. The federal judge concurred with the plaintiffs that the children don't have the strength to move the chairs through the wood chips and can't be mainstreamed with other children. So the district is considering installing rubber mats on the playgrounds that will cost $2.7 million.

It should be obvious. Apparently it isn't. Why would those kids be allowed to go on swings and slides if they're disabled and can't maneuver their chairs?

Sounds to me like another lawsuit just waiting to happen.

Has common sense been outlawed or is it just hiding until all the lawyers go away?

If Betty could see this now

2007-05-31T13:56:00.000-07:00

Does anyone besides me remember reading Betty Friedan's "The Feminine Mystique"? In the book, she describes women in the 1950s who had this feeling of restlessness, wanting something more but not knowing what it was. Some of them, established in a marriage and family, didn't know what to do so they had another baby. It wasn't quite what they were looking for, Friedan concluded, but it was what they knew.

I thought we'd come a longer way than that. But recently in New Jersey, a 60-year-old woman, Frieda Birnbaum, had twins.

What was she thinking?

I'm sorry, but I just don't get it. It's not like she had to answer a problem with no name. She's a psychologist. And she's not one of those women who longed to have a child but never did. She's got three. A son, 33, a daughter 29, and another son, 6.

To be honest, I wonder why she had the 6-year-old at an age when most women become grandmothers.

Birnbaum told Fox News she wanted her younger son to have siblings closer to his age and wanted to remove some of the stigma attached to older women giving birth. Stigma? I speak for the women who welcomed menopause; stigma my Aunt Fanny! It's time to find other things to do in the so-called golden years.

What about her older two kids? Do they want siblings so far from their own age?

And I can just hear the 6-year-old now. "Twins? Ah, gee Mom. I wanted a puppy. What am going to do with twins?"

What is SHE going to do with twins? Babies are hard work. When they start school, she'll be 66, if she survives their terrible twos. She and her husband of 38 years won't be around for their high school graduations most likely. Who's going to put those kids through college?

Who's going to teach them to drive when they're 16? Who's going to wait up all night for them to come home from their first date? At 60, she needs more naps than they do. When they need to be driven from school to activity to sport to the mall to heaven knows where else, will she still have an unrestricted driver's license? How will she remember when to pick them up from soccer practice, or where the soccer field is? We get forgetful as the years pile on.

She's 60 years old and facing years of changing diapers, cleaning up baby barf, getting up in the middle of the night with ear infections, tantrums, ad nauseum — times two.

Betty Friedan is spinning in her grave.

A new use for the internet

2007-05-16T12:35:00.000-07:00

Many of us who are in our M&M years (between menopause and Medicare) tend to resist innovations. More likely we're baffled by them. That's why we have to find children to program our VCRs and unscramble our computer.

I recently stumbled across a technological advancement that is worth embracing — lovingly, with passion, remember passion?

Think fantasy sports teams. Sports enthusiasts put together teams they'd like to see playing, and go so far as to make up games and outcomes.

Makes sense. You've got the best of all teams, you control the plays, and it's all done in the air-conditioned comfort of your own home, most likely in your underwear.

Now mix in a little phone sex. From what I remember of the Clinton administration, he and Monica Lewinsky talked dirty to each other over the phone. It's not quite sinful, although it can get you into trouble. It depends on what the meaning of is is. Whatever.

So here's the deal. I stumbled across this when I was visiting a blog I occasionally log onto, and I think this is something M&M women will latch onto like fuzz on a cheap sweater.

Cyber food sex.

One blogger begins by inviting another to a virtual meal. "Come to my dining room for breakfast. We'll have rich, freshly ground, just-brewed, steaming Costa Rican coffee. Crisp, hot Belgian waffles, with juicy strawberry sauce laced with cinnamon and vanilla. Savor the maple-y goodness of crisp gourmet bacon."

Salivating yet? Breathing a little heavy maybe?

It gets better. Here's lunch: "Stop by chez moi, and I'll make you an omelet to die for — fresh, brown eggs whisked with a little cream, a little cracked black pepper, some chopped prociutto, succulent chopped green and red bell peppers, whipped into a soft frenzy and gently cooked until tender and lucious. Then some juicy, ripe, sweet melon slices, crusty, lusty Italian bread with sweet butter oozing as it melts..."

You get the picture.

Cyber food sex has definite advantages. There's no limit. You can indulge in an entire afternoon, or evening, in deep, rich, dark chocolate; light, lucious freshly-whipped cream; creamy, rich, decadent caramel — somebody stop me!

The only danger is sensory overload. There's no gristle in your steak because you have only the best cuts. The rice is never gluey and the lettuce never wilts. The tomatoes never have bad spots and they always taste like tomatoes should.

The oven always works, the microwave never explodes, and — best of all — there's never any cleanup, dirty dishes, or scorched pots.

You come away from the experience satisfied, looking forward to more, and you don't have to worry about your hips expanding.

So next time you see a woman of M&M age glued to her computer, a faraway look in her eye and a wistful smile on her face, you know what she's cooking up. And it's delicious!

Paris in the rain

2007-05-07T12:44:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, when you feel that life is simply unjust and there is no fairness in this world, something happens that actually makes sense. It gives one hope - or at least makes one feel a little smug and self-righteous.

Paris Hilton is going to have to do some jail time.

I can't begin to describe how funny I find that. Everybody with a pulse knows that when your driver's license is suspended for DWI you can't drive and you certainly ought to be watching your intake of the sauce. You don't just go around boozing it up and driving like an idiot and getting busted again without some consequences. But Paris believes she's above all that. She says she didn't read the judgment leveled aginst her. She says she has "people who do that for her."

And now she's saying that 45 days in the slammer is "unjust." Can't you just imagine a petulent little girl, sticking out her lower lip in a pout and stamping her foot and whining: "It's not fair!"

Sorry, Paris. Life ain't fair. It rains on the just and the unjust, and you just got rained on. Sometimes the system works.

(Pardon me while I dissolve into fits of giggles.)

And don't you just love the judge? Not only did he say that the girl who is a living definition of vacuous has to do the time, if she doesn't, or if she follows through with an appeal, he's going to double the sentence.

Consider the possibilties here. Poor little rich girl goes to the slammer. She'll have to clean her own toilet. Wait'll she tastes jail food! Imagine if she has to share living quarters with street-wise ladies who behave pretty much like she does but without her money that has so far helped her get away with it. Someone who shops at thrift stores. Someone whose drugs of choice are of the street variety. A big broad who could body slam her just for funsies.

Don't you get the feeling that if you shined a flashlight in one of Paris Hilton's ears, the beam would come out the other ear?

The sad thing is that if she really does go to jail, it's not going to teach her what it should. Chances are it'll make her more famous for — what? Having no purpose in life other than to have a good time? Be a spoiled little rich girl who thinks she doesn't have to play by everyone else's rules? She'll come out unscathed and just go back to doing what she does best — whatever that is. Being a good bad example?

Now that's not fair!

(But let's hear it for the judge anyway!)

What money can buy

2007-04-27T07:35:00.000-07:00

Someone once said that the rich are different from you and me. Well, duh. Of course they are, they have more money.

Money seems to make a difference in more than just the ability to buy stuff. Only the very rich seem to be able to take up causes. The rest of us are too busy trying to keep up with gas prices. It seems that Sheryl Crow has taken up saving the earth and her suggestion for conservation is that people should use only one square of toilet paper per visit to the restroom.

Now I don't know where she's buying her Charmin, but the stuff I buy won't cut it. One square? Maybe you can blot your lipstick on one square, but you can't blot much of anything else.

Decency prevents me from exploring this subject further. We could, you know, consider the possibility of recycling as in taking it a step beyond cloth diapers vs. disposable ones and make reusable bathroom cleansing devices. Or bring back corn cobs. Better Ms. Crow should consider, as has been suggested elsewhere, curtailing the use of her private aircraft if she wants to help save the earth.

Or she could take up another cause. I once lived in the same town she comes from. I know some of her family. They're nice people. In that town is a courthouse that, at one time and maybe it still does, had signs posted admonishing "no spitting on walls or floors."

Seriously.

In this day and age that sign is still needed? So imagine my glee when I learned that the city council of Fairview Heights, Ill., is considering an anti-spitting ordinance. They say it's to protect their police officers from people who spit on them.

Rough crowd there.

I've been to Fairview Heights. Maybe they need that. But men in other communities seem to regard spitting as a right of passage into manhood. But it seems that men who have money and a certain amount of class don't spit. At least not in public.

You don't see men in chauffer driven limos roll down their tinted windows and hork one on the street.

You don't see bankers driving their own Lexuses or lawyers in Mercedes lean out and spit. You do see bubbas in pickup trucks lean out and aim for the asphalt.

It doesn't always have anything to do with tobacco use. Some men expectorate because it seems to be expected. But it seems that the higher one goes on the social strata, the less inclined they are to spit in public.

Maybe they can afford to hire someone to do that for them. Whatever. It can't be doing the earth any good. It's unsanitary, unhealthy and it's disgusting.

Good luck to Fairview Heights. You can't legislate good sense. Otherwise, there wouldn't be people who demand the right to ride motorcycles without a helmet and cars without seat belts. And spit on the streets. Or in courthouses.

Maybe money does buy class. The rest of us can afford the toilet paper.

What are the odds?

2007-04-12T14:01:00.000-07:00

This week has a Friday the 13th, an unlucky day.

Some people would have no luck at all if it weren't for bad luck. Others just seem to land on their feet no matter what happens to them. Some of them deserve that; others I work with and wonder about.

A wagering web-site BetUS.com predicts some of the odds of having a truly awful Friday the 13th:

The World to End: 1,000,000/1
You lose your job: 100/1 (been there)
Your spouse leaves you: 500/1
You throw out your back: 250/1
You go bankrupt: 500/1
You get a flat tire: 50/1 (been there several times)
You break your leg: 100/1
A bird will poop on you: 100/1 (been there, blasted pigeon)
You will get sick: 50/1 (oh give me a break, been there, done that, got the T-shirt)
You will get locked out of your house/apt: 50/1 (hate to admit it, but been there)
Your car will get towed: 100/1 (ditto)
You will get a ticket (speeding, parking, etc.): 50/1 (oy vey!)
You will lose all your hair: 250/1
Your car will get stolen: 100/1 (twice in one weekend)
You will find money: 50/1 (found a penny this morning)
You will slip on banana peel: 100/1
You will win the lottery: 500/1 (seriously overestimating my luck)

For women of my generation, the M&M years (between menopause and Medicare) it was a matter of great luck that our birth control worked. For Anna Nicole Smith it didn't seem to matter. Three men fought for the privilege of admitting paternity to her child and now Larry Birkhead is jubilant about his fatherhood. And our mothers always said no man would respect us, and would deny paternity, if we gave in to temptation and then got pregnant. It worked for her. What are the odds?

Maybe the same odds as a ditzy former stripper has of marrying a rich old man about to buy the farm.

About the same as Don Imus getting invited to speak at an NAACP Convention.

What if....?

2007-04-05T12:54:00.000-07:00

You know, I'm not sure this world is in good hands.

In a reflective moment, I was wondering what I'd do if I had only 24 hours left on earth and knew it. I wasn't being deep. A much younger co-worker in a job it usually takes years to work up to, but got it because he's young and works cheap, had asked me a really dumb question. And I was feeling frustrated by my limited diabetic diet. I pretty much know what I would do, but it made me curious. What would other people do if they had only 24 hours left?

So, I googled the question and read several sites. Then I was goggled, if that's a word, by what I found.

Granted, most people who post blogs and respond to stuff like this are young people who are more computer savvy and have more time on their hands. Maybe it's because they haven't lived long enough to achieve any measurable depth, or maybe they were just being smart-asses as young people can be, but I found their responses dismaying.

Many responded they'd go sky diving without a parachute. Or they'd steal a car and go out in a flaming crash. You got 24 hours; you're going to die at the end of it, why hasten it so painfully?

Predictably some said they'd party hard, get drunk or stoned, and be wild and crazy.

Many said they'd go on stealing and killing rampages; some said they'd rape every woman they could. Where is all this anger coming from? I found that chilling.

One was honest: "I'd wallow in self pity." What a waste of a day.

Another said he/she would "say all the things I wanted to say, good or bad." Silly kid. When you get to be older, you do that anyway. Besides, 24 hours to say a lifetime of what you've always wanted to say isn't enough.

Some said they'd travel as far as they could. Obviously they have no experience with waiting in an airport or rush hour traffic; they wouldn't get far in 24 hours. Can we say anticlimactic?

Maybe they're just too young to realize how important it is to make the most of a day. In other words, why wait until it's your last day on earth to tell people you love them, make your peace with your enemies, and try to earn brownie points into heaven?

What would I do if I had only a day left? I know what I wouldn't do: unlike the people I found on the web, I wouldn't steal money to give it away, or max out my credit cards for useless items to give to friends. Let them get their own stuff.

Nor would I be as altruistic, and as poetic, as the late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King who said, "Even if I knew that tomorrow would go to pieces, I'd still plant an apple tree today."

I got one day left on this earth, I'm gonna put on some baggy sweats and eat my way out of a bakery; jelly doughnuts, look out!

Just a few questions

2007-03-29T11:59:00.000-07:00

As we contemplate the meaning behind Easter - and I'm not talking chocolate rabbits and psychedelic eggs here - some questions come to mind. Not that they have any relevance to Easter - or anything else for that matter - but I do have some questions that I'd like to ask God.

1) When You created the duckbilled platypus, did You glom together some spare parts or do You just have a whimsical sense of humor?

2) Do you look at human accomplishments over the millenia - social improvements, medical advancements, space travel, and (You forbid) computers and cell phones, and consider that we've done well?

3) Ever wish You had reconsidered the free will thing?

4) Cats. Chocolate. Lilacs. Elephants. Fresh corn. Tulips. Sunsets. Wow! Thanks!

5) Brussels sprouts. Mosquitos. Wolverines. Tornados. Earthquakes. I suppose You had Your reasons?

6) Whatever happened to Amelia Earhardt? Just curious.

7) Of what possible value to You are dust mites?

8) How come birds get to fly and we don't?

9) I have a list of people who need a good smite. Can I fax it to You? I suppose You have Your own list.

10) Spiders and insects who devour their mate after mating? What's up with that?

11) People who gripe about separating church and state, keeping Christmas observances out of the public, yet insist on not working Christmas Day. You must find that ironic?

12) What goes through Your mind when You look down at inflatable snowmen and plastic eggs hanging from a tree?

13) What do You do for fun? Or do we want to know that?

Not Just Another Dumb Award

2007-03-22T12:57:00.000-07:00

Finally. An award I can hang my hat on. I don't want this particular award, but I know a lot of people who should have it.

It's the International Twit Award. I haven't found much about where it is held, how to nominate someone, what the prize money amounts to or if it's for international twits or it's an international award. Has to be the latter because there's just so darned many of them.

I also couldn't find any notice of who previous winners have been.

I only know that there is such an award and it's awarded in April. And I know that twits are silly and annoying people.

I might have found some of this stuff out if I 'd looked harder, but I was so taken by the notion of the award, and its possibilities, that I just didn't care much to do the research.

I'm too busy now thinking of people who deserve the award.

There's the guy in Michigan I read about who sued his sister's insurance company because her cat bit him. She told him not to mess with the cat; it tends to bite. But no-o-o-o-o. He teases the cat and the cat, rightfully, chomped him. What a twit.

A jury awarded him $122,400 in damages. Twits by the dozen.

It's a little harder to pinpoint the next nominee, but I'm sure you've met people like this. They have adopted a cat, and they like the cat, and the cats apparently like the respective adoptive people. Then they go and say something like, "he's more like a dog than a cat." Like that's a compliment? If a cat shows affection and follows someone around, it's because it's a nice cat who likes the person - and probably thinks it will get some food if it follows far enough. Dogs don't have a corner on that market. Twit!

Or how about the guy I saw yesterday walking down the street. It was a warm, spring day. His shirt was off, showing the tattoo on his scrawny, pasty white back, and his pants were about six inches from where they were supposed to be, showing off the top of his green underwear. He thought he looked hot. Or looked tough. He looked like a twit.

And don't you just love to see men roll down the window of their pickups and hear the melodic sound of their throat clearing and see the accuracy with which they can expectorate? Listen to the song of the birdie: twit, twit, twit!

The possibilities are endless: smokers, mothers who let their children run wild, people who want to rewrite history by banning the Confederate flag, those who claim it's their God given right to individual freedom not to wear seat belts or motorcycle helmets. Congress. I could go on and on.

I can't imagine what the prize is for being a twit award winner. Nor can I imagine who is qualified to judge and have the final say in selecting the grand champion, big-time, grand hoo-ha international twit.

But I'll volunteer anyway. I know one when I see one.

It's Your Day - Maybe

2007-03-15T13:58:00.001-07:00

I've always said that there's an Internet site for just about everything — photos of cats with markings that make the poor critters look like Hitler, for instance.

Before that, I said there's a magazine for just about everything. Ever heard of Coon Dog Monthly?

Seems there's a holiday for just about everything too. Not those legitimate proclamation-type holidays like Cancer Awareness Month or American Chocolate Week (next week!), but stuff that makes you wonder if people aren't stretching things a bit - National Spandex Month, if there is one and there probably is, notwithstanding.

This month, in fact we missed it, some folks acknowledged "What if Dogs and Cats Had Opposable Thumbs Day." It was March 3, too late to do much about it now, but I can tell you what would happen if my two cats had opposable thumbs. They'd figure out how to work the can opener, write checks on my bank account, and kick me out of my own home, that's what they'd do. Don't even think about that. They're wily enough as it is.

This month we celebrate spring fever week. Just a week? I've had it all month.

March 27 is Quirky Country Music Song Titles Day. Do we really need to encourage that?

We missed National Name Tag Day, March 9. Well, I didn't miss it; I would have ignored it if I had known about it. I hate those things. Everybody in a room walks around looking at everyone else's chests. You wanna know my name? Ask me! Who else among us has forgotten they had a name tag stuck on their blouse, and ran through a checkout line wearing it, like you want the world to know your name. And then, if you're as forgetful as I am, you throw the blouse with the tag on it in the washer, and the dryer, and you have a permanent tag on that blouse.

That leads to March 18 - National Awkward Moments Day. Oopsie!

March 23 is pretty much like any other day when I don't embarrass myself, and shouldn't be limited to just one day: OK Day. Most of my days are just that, OK.

In the event there isn't a day commemorating crabby Baby Boomer women looking for chocolate and a day when I'm not wondering how long it's going to take the 20-somethings to totally mess up our world, it's pretty much covered by March 31: "She's Funny That Way Day."

Here's to ya.'

Yes! Chemise please!

2007-03-08T14:17:00.000-08:00

It was like a bad dream. There I was in a clothing store, and there were racks and racks of items all marked down 60 percent. That's a good markdown, not like some places that think they're giving you a bargain with a 20 percent off sale. This was 60 percent. There was even a rack of stuff all marked $12.95.

I had money. They had my size. Alas, they didn't have anything my age.

When did that happen? I seem to be caught in the crossfire between "I want something that's pretty" and "I don't want to look like an old woman." Trouble is, I'm about to hit a birthday that ends in "0" and I'm not ready to go matronly.

But there seems to be a choice only between "old lady" and "really, really young." Lots of baby-doll blouses with high waistlines that, if you're 20, accentuate the bustline. If you're ?0*, your boobs are so far below that empire waistline nothing can save them. It's the same with dresses. All you find anymore are dresses with a high waist and a skirt that goes to the ankle. Boring. Not flattering, especially if you have hips.

Spring fashion predictions extol the clothing line called "Baby Phat." Cute. But show me something to cover up "Old Broad Fat."

Hot for this spring are skinny leg jeans. Ain't no way I can get my substantial thighs into skinny leg jeans. At my age, if I get winded just zipping up my pants, then they ain't worth wearing, as the song goes, "skinny legs and all."

So what's in style this spring and summer? Baby Phat is also pushing high neck halter dresses with bubble-hem skirts. Just the thing to wear with an industrial strength bra and support hose.

Marie Claire magazine touts wedges and platform shoes. I couldn't walk on them in the 70s without breaking an ankle. Thank heavens I can still find flats.

According to Harper's Bazaar (or is that Bizarre?), those blasted empire line dresses are still with us, but wait! I can't believe my eyes! Sack dresses are coming back!

Oh, joy! I loved sack dresses. They're comfortable, they're slimming, and they flatter every figure. Not only that, they're pretty.

In the 1970s they were called shifts. But in the 1950s they were called chemises. Remember Gerry Ganahan's 1958 song "No Chemise Please?" "You can take back the sack, leave it hanging on the rack, and bring the sweater back."

These days I wear sweaters for warmth, not for any fashion statement (see above reference to sagging boobs). But I would wear a chemise. Or a sack. Whateaver you want to call it. A shift? Why not; it describes what's happened to my body. Everything has shifted.

(And no, I didn't automatically know who sang the song. I remembered the words, and I knew it was the '50s, but I had to Google it. Amazing what one can find on the Internet.)

*Here's a hint: the last line James Garner says in the movie "Murphy's Romance."

Pssssst. How 'bout a little weed.

2007-03-01T14:14:00.000-08:00

So here we are again — hail the size of apricots, winds that make you glad wraparound skirts are out of fashion, enough rain to gladden the gills of any tadpole. Ah, spring is coming! Such a warm, gentle season has such a violent beginning.

It's safe to say that March came in today like a lion. Which leads me to anticipate a lion of my favorite variety: dandelions.

Say what you want about having a lush, green pristine lawn. It's too much like work, and we have enough demands on our time as it is. Who inscribed it in stone that lawns must be without blemish in the adolescence of summer? I love those little yellow eruptions on the complexion of the lawn.

But I wax poetic here. Or something. The fact is, I like dandelions. I always pick the first one I see and inhale its scent. I'm transported back to being 5 years old in the warm spring sun, picking a bouquet of dandelions to give to my mother who would put them in a juice glass of water and brightened up the kitchen table with them.

Say what you want about a velvety green lawn that needs to be fed, aerated, pampered and coddled like a blonde starlet. On those lawns you'll never find a stem with a sphere of dandelion seeds waiting for someone to pick it, make a wish, and blow the seeds across the world. If you blow all the seeds off in one whoosh, your wish will come true.

I'm not the only one who loves dandelions. Ladybugs like to eat the pest aphids on them, and ladybugs are good for the garden. And ladybugs are cute.

Some people eat the dandelion greens raw in salad or cook the greens in a soup. The leaves are high in Vitamin A, Vitamin C and iron. Dandelion root makes a good coffee substitute which is believed to aid digestion. And it won't keep you up at night. Dandelions contain Luteolin, an antioxident.

The yellow dandelion flowers make a really good wine, an unpretentious little wine with a unique sweet bouquet and an unassuming attitude that, if made correctly, will knock you right on your keister.

An ode: Roses are red. Shoes are for buyin.' Nothing says spring, Like a dandelion.

I like clover flowers too. But that's another blog.

Yawn. I'm So Bored

2007-02-22T12:26:00.000-08:00

Paris Hilton's photo was plastered all over the papers and internet sites recently. It seems that she went to the Viennese Ball, and was bored. There she was, checking her cell phone, looking for all the world like she was bored out of her empty little blonde head.

Why is that news? It's bad manners, but rudeness is so universal it's hardly worth reporting. The least she could have done was look interested, maybe talk to some of her fellow ball-goers.

Well, guess what? Somebody call the Associated Press, because I'm bored. And here's what has me zoned out of my skull:

Paris. Not the city; the bimbo. I'm bored with the likes of her and Jessica Simpson, and other marginally talented people whose only contribution is to serve as a good bad example. Excuse me for a moment while I yawn deeply.

Britney Spears is boring as cat litter. No one's heard her sing for a while, or whatever it is she does. All we know is that she can't stay married, loses her undies, and likes to go out and get wasted. Boo-o-o-o-rring! Since no one apparently is paying attention, she bounces in and out of rehab like a rubber check, and now she's gone and shaved her head. And gotten a tattoo. Whatever it is you're trying to say, Britney, I'm not listening. La la la la la la la --I can't hear you.

Barak Obama and Hillary Clinton. The nominating convention is so far off in the political distance that you can't even see it, yet these two are already sniping at each other like a wife at her philandering husband (about which Hillary has some knowledge). It's even too early to speculate if one will be the other's running mate, and they'll HAVE to make nice with each other. I'm tired of these two already. If this keeps up by the time 2008 rolls around, the country will know more than we ever will need to know about how these two feel about each other. And, all of it is totally booo-o-o-o-ring.

Global warming is deadly boring. Al Gore is back in the fray warning everyone like Chicken Little that the ice caps are melting, the ice caps are melting! We have to find cleaner burning fuels, drive less, fly less, it's too late we're doomed. But we still send that Space Shuttle up through the ozone layer and call that progress. Sigh.

A Viennese ball sounds exciting to me.

Life as a warning to others

2007-02-15T13:52:00.000-08:00

There's a quote from somewhere to the effect that "may your life serve as a warning to others." That quote kept coming back to me after Anna Nichole Smith died.

After a flurry of publicity surrounding the birth of her daughter, followed immediately by the suspicious death of her son, Anna Nicole pulled off the biggest publicity stunt she ever could by her own death. She couldn't have planned it better.

Anna Nicole will forever be remembered as a ditzy blonde who was an exotic dancer and posed nude for Playboy. She wanted to be like Marilyn Monroe and developed her "look" to emulate the late actress. She was like her in death too, dying suddenly, at a young age, the cause of death a mystery. Reportedly her nurse, shades of Marilyn's housekeeper, didn't call 911 right away when she found Anna Nicole unconscious and unresponsive, and didn't do any CPR - waiting instead for the paramedics to do it. Can't help but wonder if a Kennedy is going to surface somewhere amidst all the hoopla.

Having no discernible, marketable skills, Anna Nicole parlayed her sexiness into marriage with a rich old man. You do what you can.

She starred a TV program that focused on Anna Nicole being Anna Nicole. Nice work if you can get it.

Then, having exhausted all her resources, she dropped dead. It may be the end of Anna Nicole Smith, but it isn't the end of the saga. In death, as in life, Anna Nicole is serving as a warning to others.

Three men claim to be the father of her infant daughter. All three are willing to submit DNA to prove it. How could a ditzy bimbo like Anna Nicole find three men who are so devoted to fatherhood? A lot of unmarried mothers no doubt are wondering that after hearing "are you sure it's mine?" and chasing after child support money. It's tempting to wonder if -after what you know will be years of litigation and lawyer fees, it is determined that young Dannielynn is as penniless as a high school dropout who has to get work as a stripper - how long it will take paternal concern to fly out the window.

A warning to others. Zsa Zsa Gabor's husband, who claims to be the baby's father, told a news source that he had an affair with Anna Nicole because she was a very sexy woman and sex with her was at the top of - what? All possibilities? Not because he loved her, not because she cared for him - and from all indications, she cared for and trusted very few - but because having her was something to brag about.

Not that he's any great prize. He is willing to dump his wife to bring in a baby who apparently has more money. Doesn't say much for marriage, but then again Zsa Zsa - an Anna Nicole precursor - always took it rather lightly herself. It's just that now that she's 90, who's going to take care of her in her senior years?

What a mark Anna Nicole has left for posterity. Pretty impressive for a ditzy blonde. Here's hoping that she's resting in the peace that she could never have in this life.

Valentines we'll never see

2007-02-08T15:13:00.000-08:00

To Tara Conner:

You guzzled booze; you snorted coke
You partied like a slut.
The embodiment of class and poise
You were anything but.

But now you have a second chance
To make my heart beat gladder.
Which shows I really can forgive,
Except for Miss Nevada.

The Donald

Barak:

You want to be the president
But just what does that mean
When Biden says you're handsome
Articulate and clean?

It means that someone's looking hard
At pieces of your past
And dragging up all kinds of stuff
To see how long you'll last.

Rest assured, I know the score
You don't deserve that strife.
So back away, no need to play,
Let's just elect my wife.

Bill

Bill

Do you recall the time we had?
We thought the world was ours.
But then you had to mess things up
With Lewinsky, Jones and Flowers.

I'll be the brand new comeback kid
I'm here to tell you, son,
I'm sure to win, there's be no spin
I'll show you how it's done.

Hillary

Astronaut Lisa Nowak:

Roses are red
Pigs live in pens
For Valentine's Day
A box of Depends.

Violets are blue
Whaddya say?
To blasting a rival
With some pepper spray.

Your three-sided romance
We won't forget soon.
You just gave new meaning
To over the moon.

Some random thoughts

2007-02-02T11:32:00.000-08:00

I really don't know what to think about that incident in Boston where two guys put up lighted cartoon characters, and shut the city down because someone saw one and thought it was a bomb.

On the one hand, I want to laugh because it's funny. It's whimsical and silly and apparently those little critters went up in several cities and no one really noticed. It's also sophomoric, and the two guys at their arraignment didn't help much with their attitude. Or their appearance.

On the other hand, what if somene had put up an explosive device, and it detonated? It could happen. Then we'd be lamenting how unprotected we are and how careless we've been.

Either way, there's no right answer. I like to think as a nation we still have a sense of humor. If not, then the terrorists are winning. They said they'd destroy us from within. They don't even have to try; we're doing it to ourselves. Maybe that's their plan.

It seems that Punxutawny Phil failed to see his shadow, and we'll have an early spring. You gotta wonder about any rodent, or any other critter, so afraid of his shadow that he burrows back inside if he sees it. Can you put much faith in someone with that kind of lack of self-confidence?

So if Phil had seen his shadow, we'd have six more weeks of winter putting spring at — oh, say — mid-March. Right where it usually is. Spring will get here when it gets here. The groundhog simply has a good PR agent.

Maybe I should say something about Super Bowl Sunday. Everyone else has. It's second only to Thanksgiving in conspicuous food consumption. Probably more boozing goes on than during New Year's Eve. Some churches have cancelled Sunday afternoon activities; they know no one will show up anyway. Advertisers love it; they trot out commercials that will be aired only during the game, confirming that sometimes the commercials are better than the programming. And the network makes big bucks on the ads, so they have something to tide them over until Christmas when they rake it more profits.

Oh yeah. Two teams will play football. Seems like a whole lot of hype over a silly game. I wonder if the groundhog has a TV, beer and chicken wings in his burrow for Sunday. Depending on who wins, he may be too hung over to come out until spring.

It's all about marketing

2007-01-25T12:43:00.000-08:00

When I said I was going to market ice cubes as frozen hot water, just pop one in to the microwave and enjoy a cup of hot tea instantly, my tongue was firmly in cheek.

Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut. Someone is going to read that and steal my idea. That person will get rich.

It's all in the marketing. Ice cubes are already sold in bags, crystal clear with holes in the middle like a doughnut. But they're marketed toward people who want cold drinks. No one has thought of suggesting that a handful of those cubes in the microwave will result in the basis for instant soup. No messy splashing of water from the faucet. No faucet chemicals or crud. Just nice clean, frozen hot water.

Think that's far fetched? Think pet rock. The guy who put facial features on a rock and sold it as a pet made a fortune. Marketing.

Most modern art is marketing. Make up a grandiose story about how an artist thinks out of the box and is a bona fide eccentric, and snooty art patrons fall over themselves to buy their paintings or sculptures. Put a paint brush on a dog's tail and let him wag it over a canvas, and the results will sell like hotcakes and art experts will gush over depth, contrast and raw talent. Marketing.

Frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? Takes longer to nuke one in the microwave than it would to actually make a fresh one, but hey. It's new and different. The inventor no doubt has made enough dough to hire someone to cut the crusts off his sandwich. Marketing.

That's why I'm not rich. I come up with these ideas and don't act on them. Maybe I should. But for the gullibility of the consuming public and some questionable karma, I am stuck thinking up ideas, not acting on them, and living on a much lower scale than I should be.

Think I'm being far fetched? I give you Big Ox.

It's a can of oxygen. People inhale it. Some cans are mint flavored. Someone is selling a CAN OF AIR! That beats frozen hot water hands down.

Not only that, it's selling for $12 a can. Breathtaking!

Scientists tested Big Ox to see if it measured up to the oxygen in tanks that is available to people who can't breathe. It contains pure oxygen, but not enough to warrant coughing up $12 for a can of it.

So tell me. Is there an oxygen shortage? Do we have to start canning the stuff? Can't you just go outside and take a deep breath? Sure you get some bonus grass pollens, but at least the oxygen is free.

A pulmonologist remarked that any perceived benefits of Big Ox is a placebo effect. Nope. Marketing.

Microwavable hot water

2007-01-17T14:20:00.000-08:00

Now I appreciate convenience as much as the next person. But I wonder if we're not becoming a society of people too lazy to live.

No one can argue, at least not effectively, that vacuum cleaners have it all over brooms when it comes to sucking up dust. And bless the person who invented the dishwasher. And self-cleaning ovens? Whoever came up wth those — and you know it was a woman — is a candidate for sainthood.

I can remember when my mother washed clothes, she hung them out to dry on a clothesline, secured them with clothespins kept in a clothespin sack that hung on the line and slid along as she worked. And when she washed sheer curtains, she set up a wooden contraption called a curtain stretcher where she tacked on the wet curtains and they dried in the sun, no shrinking and no ironing.

Clothes dried in the sun smell wonderful. But when it rains and you had to hang stuff up in the house, the smell became dank and the clothes didn't dry. So dryers are a wonderful convenience, and I don't even mind cleaning out the lint trap.

But I have to question some conveniences. Take for instance instant tea. What's so difficult about putting a tea bag or two in a teapot, pouring hot water over them and letting them steep? Takes how long? Two or three minutes. With instant tea you still have to heat the water so where's the savings? If you're making iced tea, you're pouring brewed tea over ice cubes to cool down. Where's the time savings there? But mostly, have you tasted instant tea?

So if you're really lazy you can buy iced tea in a bottle in the refrigerator section of your supermarket. That's convenient. Let somene else do the work, brew the tea, cool it down, bottle it. Takes a second or two to grab one from the fridge, pop open the top and drink it. Convenient? Sure. But it's instant tea. It tastes awful. What are we doing with the time we saved by not brewing our own tea?

Probably making microwave popcorn. The microwave is a wondrful gadget, but it doesn't take that much time to drag out a beatup saucepan, heat up some oil, throw in some kernels and then shake the pot until the popped corn overflows. Otherwise, we sit there watching a flat bag spin around on the turntable, puff up, and then when we open it, we find that - like the instant tea - it tastes funny.

What really inspired this rant is a commercial I heard on the radio recently for the convenience food to end all convenience foods. Frozen, pre-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, made with Jiff peanut butter and Smuckers preserves. Now what's so difficult and time consuming about slapping some peanut butter on a slice of bread, spreading on some jelly, and topping it with another slice of bread? The frozen delights come crustless. Well, if you don't want to take the time to cut off the crusts, just cut the sandwich in half and eat down to the crust.

Don't ask me if they taste the same as a homemade PB&J. I refuse to try them. Instead, I'm going to join the marketing bandwagon and make my fortune selling a convenience. All it takes is a little plastic tray divided into sections. Fill it with water, freeze it, and voila — frozen hot water. Pop one in a cup, heat in the microwave, and the possibilities are endless.

Vote for the DIMWIT

2007-01-10T13:36:00.000-08:00

Who would have believed that in my lifetime a woman would be Speaker of the House, proving that a woman's place is in the House - and the Senate.

And it looks like Hillary Rodham Clinton is looking to move back into the White House, this time as head of the White Household.

I think I'll give her some competition. She may have a lot of party backing, but I don't owe anyone any political favors. I have my own party - the DIMWIT party (Do It My Way, It's Time). A vote for me is a vote for what's really important in this country. Those folks in the Beltway have lost track of what Americans really think is important. When I'm Queen of the United States, which is what I really deserve to be but I'll settle for president, things will be different.

There will be no professional athletes. Guys like to play football, baseball, soccer? Fine. But they need to have real jobs so they can afford to play. They need to be on the same playing field, as it were, with those who watch the games, who look up to them, who buy the beer and hotdogs and pay the taxes that build the stadiums. A baseball player who can slug a homer after listening to his boss set sales quotas for the next quarter will let of steam in a positive manner and be less likely to have an overinflated ego that leads people to do stupid things.

People who take themselves seriously — are you listening Donald Trump and Rosie O'Donnell? — will be required to clean out dog cages and cat boxes at animal shelters. The material they'll be working with will give them perspective, and the effort will give them humility. And the dogs and cats will appreciate it.

NASA will be given extra funding, not for Mars exploration or to go back to the moon, but for a halfway project. People who make no discernible social contributions will be sent halfway to the moon and left there for a while. The rest of us will benefit from not hearing about Britney Spears and her Fed-Ex husband, Kevin Federline; and Paris Hilton, whose only contribution so far is to be a living definition of the word vacuous. And Congress - be afraid. Be very afraid.

Research money will be lavished on projects that really benefit the public. We don't need any more gadgets like VCR and 8 track tape players that are obsolete as soon as they become affordable. We don't need a new generation of cell phones that make it possible to be a new generation of annoying. We need technology that will develop wrinkle free cotton and linen that will render irons obsolete. Bring on vacuum cleaners that sense when the floors need a going over and do it while we sit with our feet up and out of their way. How about a dishwasher that unloads itself and stacks the clean dishes in the appropriate cabinets? A car that runs on used cat litter?

These are just a start. There are other issues that need to be addressed, but I'm right now just testing the political waters. I'm listening to potential constituents who have their own issues. I feel your pain. I support your gain. Now, consider voting for me to be the first DIMWIT in the White House.

Or maybe not.

An Iconic WHAT?

2007-01-03T14:43:00.000-08:00

So there I was in a doctor's office this morning, which is where I usually get to read Time magazine because he can afford a subscription and I'm too cheap to buy one.

Amazing stuff you can read in Time. This was the Christmas edition when "everyone" was named person of the year. Hold your applause, please; I share this award with so many....

Anyway, how can I accept applause when I've been overshadowed by an "iconic blonde?" There featured among quotes from notable people was one that went something like "every era has an iconic blonde like Marilyn Monroe or Princess Diana. This is my time." Paris Hilton said it.

So that's what she does! Who among us has ever said "When I grow up I want to be an iconic blonde?" Who among us would imagine that Paris Hilton would know what 'iconic' means? You think of blonde you usually affix the prefix "dumb." Hence the jokes. Think Anna Nicole Smith. Think Dolly Parton who says blonde jokes don't offend her because "I'm not blonde." Being an iconic one paid off in her case, but Paris Hilton?

Sigh.

You know what this society needs? No, iconic brunette is too obvious, and then the iconic redheads will want equal time, and all the fun will get sucked out of being iconic.

It's time for an iconic "whatever you call someone who's got gray streaks growing in and gray hairs scattered throughout." Someone who, when you take a first look at her, you think, this woman has wisdom. This woman is distinguished. This woman is weary of trying to cover it all up and trying to look younger. She's graying and she's not afraid to let it show!

Alas, most people look right through those women, like we don't exist. No one designs clothes for us, unless you want to spend your life in painted sweat shirts with puppies in baskets or ones that say "Senior Citizen: Give me my damned discount." No one markets to us, except maybe laxative companies. No men pursue us unless they're trying to squeeze money out of us for a life insurance policy we've never too old for. The only jewelry we're offered has an alarm on it in case we fall down and can't get up. We've gone from sports car to minivan to one of those scooters to get around the house in.

It's hard to be an icon when no one sees you.

So, let's jump up and say hey! Look at me! I'm graying. I'm proud. I"m sick to death of sensible shoes and polyester pantsuits and frizzy perms! I'm smart. I have experience and wisdom to offer the world. I'm capable. And if it takes being useless and dumb like Paris Hilton to make our mark in the world, then we challenge that! Will Paris Hilton find her groove when she hits menopause hard enough to rattle her little brain? It takes guts, not beauty, to age. Ironic isn't it?

We're the iconic ironics!

New Year's Resolutions

2006-12-26T15:21:00.001-08:00

It's almost that time, when people start looking ahead to the new year and thinking about how things could be improved.

Not me. I like me the way I am. It's not that I'm too old to change, but I just can't seem to improve on what I've become over the years.

Besides, I can't seem to keep a resolution. Once, to shut up a co-worker who insisted everyone make a resolution, I resolved to smoke a pack and a half of cigarettes a day. Figured I could keep that one. I'd been doing it.

Four months later I quit smoking, and that was 21 years ago.

Quitting smoking is always a good idea at any time. Making resolutions for other people is also fun and it's easier to see where other people need to improve.

So here's a few resolutions for some people who seem to need some:

Saddam Hussein: Live each day as if it were your last. Because guess what, camel breath? Your last day is just 'round the bend!

Tara Conner, Miss USA: Learn a trade. You can't get by on tears and second chances, and there's not much call for empty-headed blondes. Maybe you could do typing from home.

Nicole Richie: Eat something!

Fidel Castro: Make your final preparations. The borrowed-tomb for three days thing has already been done, and it didn't work for Francisco Franco either.

Rosie O'Donnell: Take a vow of silence.

Donald Trump: With your money, you can afford a decent barber. Find one!

Have a happy 2007!

Those Glorious M&M Years

2006-12-19T09:14:00.000-08:00

Ever notice in women's magazines how all the beauty and grooming tips are for young women?

There's tips for teens, suggestions for women in their 20s, helpful hints for beauties in their 30s. By the time you hit 40, beauty suggestions start hinting about lasers and liposuction. But once you hit the M&M years — between Menopause and Medicare — grooming tips dry up like dishwater hands.

Well the M&M crowd still likes to make an effort. We want to look good, not for our age, but at our age. We don't want to look younger; what's the point of that? We know too much to carry that look off. What we want is for someone to look at us and say, "damn, she looks good," not "she looks good for her age."

It's all in the attitude. If you think you look good, then you look good. If you keep a running tally of your imperfections then you'll live up to your list. And for some reason, our memory is never better when keeping track of our deficits over our sagging assets.

So here are a few beauty tips I've stumbled on over the years.

Do you miss the feeling of soft, smooth, silky skin? Here's a way of getting it back. Let your leg hair grow for about a week, more if you can stand it and don't have to wear a skirt. Then fill a tub full of warm, scented water with your choice of bubble bath. Get out a new disposable razor, and shave it off. Delight in the contrast between stubble and shaved. It will feel so silky smooth you won't believe it.

One other thing. Consider wearing your glasses when you're luxuriating in the tub and removing the stubble. You'll be surprised how much you can miss if you don't. Glasses aren't necessary for the shower; they'll just steam up and you'll never find the soap.

Also, the Vermont Country Store catalog sells products called Tired Old Ass and Aging Hippie. They're bath salts. I used to keep them around because I thought the labels were funny and added a bit of whimsy to my bathroom decor. Then I actually tried the stuff and found that it does feel good on my tired old ass. As for the aging hippie, you'll have to ask one.

Everyone loves smooth, sexy bare feet. Show them off by wearing sandals and by applying liberal, copious amounts of foot cream - or Vaseline. Also apply liberal amounts of bright polish on the toenails. It's not only flirty, fun and kicky but it masks the fact that your toenails are so thick it takes a blowtorch to keep them trimmed.

Keep a pair of nail scissors in your purse, or if you're afraid of stabbing yourself while looking for your AARP identification so you can get a discount, keep a pair in the glove box of your car. I've found that the best time for discovering that your nose hair needs trimming is when you notice it in your rearview mirror in the bright, unforgiving daylight. A few discreet snips and you're good to go. Don't do this while driving. You might run into some little blonde in a red compact car yakking on her cell phone and not paying attention to where she's going.

Keep your chin up. Not for any reasons of optimism, but because if you look downward while looking in a mirror, it's a scary sight to behold.

Remember that knit pants follow the path of a sagging backside. Think denim. Gabardine is good. Wool is wonderful. Cotton is cool.

Remember when the braless look became a fad? Of course you do if you're an M&M girl, don't deny it. Those days are gone. L-O-N-G gone. Get an industrial strength bra and hoist 'em up. It's bad enough that your ass is dragging.

Follow these simple guidelines and enjoy your M&M status!

Clueless in Seattle

2006-12-11T12:25:00.000-08:00

To quote good ole Charlie Brown of the Peanuts cartoons: "Oh good grief."

In the spirit of - certainly not the holidays - being politically correct, the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport took down its nine Christmas trees. It seems that a rabbi, Elazar Bogomilsky, had requested a menorah be put up alongside the trees to equalize things.

Now that seems like a reasonable request. Hanaukah begins Friday and although some unenlightened people refer to it as Jewish Christmas, it is a totally different kind of holiday. It simply falls the same time of year and involves gift exchanging, but to a lesser degree than Christmas.

But it seems the good rabbi put a typically American spin on the situation. If the airport didn't put up a menorah, he'd get a lawyer and sue. Lawyers, grinches, all part of the holiday tradition, right?

So the airport threw up its hands and said, take down the trees.

And the rabbi seems baffled by this.

"Evryone should have their spirit of the holiday," he said. "For many people the trees are the spirit of the holidays, and adding a menorah adds light to the season."

Hiring a lawyer adds what?

Here's what his lawyer has to say: "They've darkend the halls instead of turning the lights up," said Harvey Grad. "There is a concern here that the Jewish community will be portrayed as the Grinch."

They were expecting, maybe, the three wise men?

An airport spokesman said the trees came down because the airport staff is busy and doesn't have time "to play cultural anthropologists."

Here's a flash for the rabbi and his lawyer. A Christmas tree has as much to do with the religoius connection to Christmas as a glass of eggnog. It's not a religious symbol; it's a tradition. Kind of like Santa and his reindeer, snowmen and cookies. Get over yourselves.

You may not realize this but some Gentiles are envious that Hanukah hasn't taken on the gigantic greed proportions Christmas has, but has remained largely a religious observance. If you want to get your panties in a wad over something, how about the larceny that little children show with their lists of "I wants" for Santa. Bemoan the retail industry's reliance on Christmas gift sales to keep them afloat the rest of the year. Join us in our headshaking as we watch shoppers take on a mob mentality in an effort to get the latest gadget - purposely limited in number to create a feeding frenzy - so they can sell the item on eBay for twice what they paid for it in the name of "making someone's Christmas a little brighter" - namely their own for scoring a huge profit.

So now, at least in Seattle at the airport, there are no Christmas trees, no menorahs, no festivity of any kind to enlighten travelers.

Instead of dragging a lawyer into this, Rabbi Bogomilsky should have instead empoyed a little creativity. Don't think of them as Christmas trees. There were no cedar trees in Bethlehem - certainly no artificial trees with red bows and ribbons. Think of them as Hanukah bushes.

Makes about as much sense, and certainly doesn't have to involve a lawyer.

Christmas shopping list

2006-12-04T11:29:00.000-08:00

So, you're all about Christmas shopping and you think your Christmas list is too short. (Notice, I didn't say 'holiday' shopping; how in-your-face politically incorrect do I want to get?) Here's a few ideas for anyone who wants someone to shop for and some helpful gift suggestions.

Michael Richards. Michael's been a bad boy, but he's been contrite. Let's give him a tuition-paid scholarship to the Mel Gibson School of Charm and Diplomacy.

The Two Young Men Michael Richards (allegedly) Insulted. Sandpaper. They should apply it liberally over their skin to make it thicker and tougher. Isn't enough that Michael said he's sorry; did you really have to go to a lawyer and say you want money for being insulted after you were rude first?

O.J. Simpson: Let's give OJ what he would have had coming to him had he REALLY killed his ex-wife and her friend.

Anna Nichole Smith, Paris Hilton, Brittney Spears, Jessica Simpson, Pamela Anderson, and any other clueless bimbo I may have forgotten. Vanishing cream.

John Bolton and Donald Rumsfeld. These two guys need jobs. Any Wal-Marts out there need greeters?

Osama bin Laden. He's been a very bad boy. Give Osama some coal. Right up the chute.

Dolly Parton. Unfettered support. After all she wrote the book on being classy, down to earth, successful and looking really good at 60 (and I couldn't resist the boob pun).

Homeless cats everywhere: A warm, comfy lap to sit on, and a secure home with unlimited tummy snorgles.

Harrison Ford: My phone number.

Merry Christmas!

Gas pains

2006-11-30T14:27:00.000-08:00

Think about it:

During the election season, gas prices were under$2 a gallon. On election day, the gas stations didn't have the courtesy to wait until the votes were counted; the price geysered up over $2 a gallon again. Then when I figured I might as well fill up because the prices aren't going to go down again, the next day they were under $2 again.

So, yesterday the weather forecast calls for freezing rain and snow. That means two things: 1) clean all the grocery stores out of bread and milk and 2) fill your gas tank. Gas prices go up in inverse proportion to the outdoor temperature.

Am I the only one to be suspicious of the way gas prices yo yo in response to demand, never mind supply. There's gas to be had; for the right people, there's also money to be had.

Speaking of gas, whatever happened to gas stations? When did convenience stores take over? Used to be your car did something funny and you could pull into a service station and ask a mechanic to look at it and fix it. Where did all those gas stations mechanics go? Remember full service gas pump islands? I'd rather have a mechanic who can check my tires and clean off my windshield than some kid behind a counter who knows only how to pump cappucino that costs as much as a gallon of gas into a paper cup.