Lessons from my very own unique, singular school of thought

Before you read any further, let me just say a thing or two or three in my own defense. First, the opinions expressed in this essay are strictly my own, and they are just that: opinions. I get to have them whether anyone agrees with them or not. Second, as a former teacher, I have maybe just a teensy bit of knowledge about this subject, so I'd appreciate it if no one told me I have no idea what I'm talking about. Third, as a parent, see "second." Fourth (okay, four things), I'm pretty sure I'm about to tick some people off, but I don't really care, because I was ticked off first. So there.

Let's begin with a commercial His Nibs and I saw on TV recently. It concerned something like the Outstanding Teacher Award for the state we live in, and in this particular ad was featured a man who had been honored as the "Principle of the Year."

Principle?

I realize I'm a spelling freak, but I can't help it. Torrance County, NM spelling champion in the eighth grade, thank you very much. Misspelled words hurt my eyes. Even worse are homonyms that are spelled correctly but used improperly. Am I really the only one who remembers the adage regarding "principle" and "principal"? A principal I had in grade school suggested that we remember "the principal is your pal." Maybe so, maybe not, but by golly, I remember it!

And it's not even so much the fact that "principle" was misused in this ad. It's the fact that these ads congratulate educators! Call me crazy or maybe fanatical or overly demanding, but I want my kids' teachers to be able to use the English language properly.

I taught history and French, myself. I couldn't have told any of my students one blessed thing about chemistry or Spanish or algebra (and my apologies to my teachers thereof, but we can't all be all things), but in my classes, spelling counted--especially the spelling of things I had written on the blackboard. It irritates me that my kids' teachers can't seem to write sentences that make any sense, and they don't seem to know very much about the nuts and bolts of writing, either: punctuation and spelling, to be more specific. And how about looking up words they don't know?

For instance, Daredevil's science teacher, who made it abundantly clear that he was nothing but a problem for her, once sent me an e-mail accusing Daredevil of making "hand jesters" in her class. Hand jesters. What does that mean? Was he wasting class time creating little clown puppets to share with his friends? Perhaps. Or did she mean hand gestures? That's my guess, although when I asked her about the puppets I never did get an answer. I only hope she knows a lot more about science than she does about English.

My point is that I hear teachers whine and complain about how little money they make and how much work they have to do and all the kids who are disruptive and the unsupportive parents and on and on and on. Hmm. I did a little research recently. Let's take a look at some of the things I learned, shall we? According to the state teachers association, the average teacher salary in my state in 2006 was $44,025 (which is more than I earn doing what I do now); the average salary for new teachers was $23,000. I made half that when I started teaching. I'm not seeing a huge improvement in my children's education as a result of this increase in salary. Which is not to say that I don't think good teachers should be well compensated, but I do think money is far from being the answer. One of my education teachers warned us that if we were going into this for the money, we'd better find another line of work, because teaching isn't lucrative. Well, well.

And another thing. How many days off from school do my kids need? In my teaching days, we had "prep periods," which were to be used to prepare lesson plans, grade papers, calculate grades, etc. If we ran out of time during the "prep periods," we did it on our own time. Our students didn't get innumerable four-day weekends so we could prepare end-of-term stuff. You wouldn't believe the amount of money I lost due to this nonsense when my kids were younger, what with having to take time off work or hire a sitter.

So we threw more money at the problem, and now we have teachers who can't write. We have teachers who do their utmost to expel "problem" students from their classes--probably the very kids who need those teachers most. We have teachers who have no control over their classrooms (which is probably not entirely their fault--we can likely thank the ACLU for that one). We have teachers who have zero interest in academics and who openly admit to their students that the only reason they are teaching is that it gives them the opportunity to coach a sport. (Drama Princess faces such a teacher daily. Guess how interested she is in that class?)

We also have teachers, good and bad, who have far too many kids in a class. How do you address the educational needs of each kid when you have 50 minutes to impart valuable knowledge to 25 or 30 students? I have a kid who doesn't do well in a big class. I'm pretty sure he's not alone in that. We have teachers who are pressed to raise test scores however they can do it, so the districts can get more money. We have teachers who are exhausted and overwhelmed by all the demands on them, and who labor under the delusion that higher salaries will help. It won't. It will only make them higher-paid teachers who are exhausted and overwhelmed.

So what is the solution? I'm not sure I know (HA! And you thought I thought I had all the answers!). I'd start by reminding teachers that they work in a field that is markedly different from any other. They don't have a regular 9-to-5 gig. They have boatloads of days off (yes, they do; I don't want to hear how there are no paid vacations. I don't get to take the whole summer off and still get a paycheck). One simply cannot apply the same principles of work to teaching that one would to, say, practicing law or working in a factory or making sales calls. It's just not the same. Yes, it's a harder job, but they knew that going into it--or they should have. Teaching is in a class all by itself, no pun intended.

And because teachers are in the unique position of sharing their own knowledge and education and experience with children, helping to mold their minds and, one would hope, to teach them how to think, it's incumbent on teachers to be able to communicate effectively with their students and with parents. And when they come off as ignorant (hand jesters, indeed) or unable to express thoughts clearly, they leave the impression that they're not really qualified to teach. Is it any wonder that we are losing ground in global competition?

I'm not perfect; I'm guilty of the occasional typo. Sometimes I question which is correct: "affect" or "effect"? That's what dictionaries are for. And to those people who were singing the praises of the "Principle of the Year," shame on you. Spell check isn't always available, and it isn't always applicable. Do your research. Look things up. It's presumably what you would expect from your students. As a teacher, I expected more than mediocrity from my students. As a parent, I expect excellence from my children's teachers. I don't think it's too much to ask.

I have only myself to blame

Raise your hand if you've finished your Christmas shopping.

Me, neither.

The problem is that I hate to shop. I think I may have mentioned that in passing once or twice. The only stores I really like to spend time in are bookstores. (Man, am I really that boring??? Don't answer that.)

Anyhoo, I hate shopping, so naturally I did it again. I put my Christmas shopping off until the absolute last possible minute. Which is to say, today. December 23rd.

I know when I venture out into the retail wild tonight--alone, because nobody in my family is stupid enough to do this with me--that I'm going to be irritable, annoyed, and snappish. I'm going to shout ugly things at people who get in my way. I'm going to give death glares to half the population of Kansas City. I'm going to growl and cry and complain and probably bang my head against a door.

Then I'll get to Best Buy, and park, and get out of my car, and try to be my usual charming self. It ain't easy.

What is it that makes me put this off year after year? Why do I do this to myself? I have something like four gifts yet to buy. Gifts I could have taken care of months ago, if only I'd made myself do it. It's not like I haven't run errands all year long, for crying out loud. I've been to the various retail establishments in my area bazillions of times, and yet I find myself once again shopping at the last freakin' minute for Christmas gifts. What is my problem???

The truth is, I'm not very good at paying attention. Every year I resolve to listen closely and make mental notes when His Nibs says, "You know, I could really use a subscription to Couch Potato Digest."

Or when Daredevil explains that the reason his pants are full of holes is that the wheels and bearings on his skateboard need constant replacement, which he can't do because he doesn't get to his favorite skate shop often enough, and since the wheels and bearings go bad so quickly, he gets flung to the ground a lot, which causes him to skid, which explains the holes in his pants.

Or when Drama Princess wails again that she has listened to every song on her iPod hundreds of times and she needs an iTunes card so she can get new songs, oh and also she must have that really rad awesome t-shirt from the Mitchell Davis website, you know, the one that features the Post-It Monster.

I hear this stuff all the time. I just don't listen to it. (Convenient Excuse #2,112: I don't understand a lot of it.) So I'm stuck doing last-minute Christmas shopping two days before Christmas. While His Nibs and the kidlets are getting glassy-eyed staring at the television or computer screen (depends on who we're talking about here), I'll be out there with the rest of the idiots who somehow couldn't be bothered to stick to their New Year's resolution to get one or two gifts every month, stash them away, and have it all done before Halloween. Who am I kidding? I make that resolution every single year.

How about you? Are you any good at paying attention? Because if you are, then you've no doubt figured out by now that I'm so disorganized (distracted?), if I did do my shopping throughout the year, I'd hide my gift stash from myself and then have to do the last-minute frenzy anyway.

I'll bet by now, Santa's elves are on vacation with their families. I'll bet that sleigh is already packed and ready to go. I'll bet the North Pole toy factories are shut down for the holidays.

I'll bet I just re-post this blog same time next year.

Merry Christmas, everybody!

The Blessings Definitely Outweigh the Curses

Before I begin my count-your-blessings essay, let me just say that I'm now aware that Denny Crane does not have Alzheimer's. He has mad cow disease. Unless I'm missing something. Did anyone actually see the shark as Boston Legal went soaring over it? Yup, I'm definitely going back to books.

Oh, and I got a haircut. A good one that I really like. Yea, me!

Okay, now for the real reason I'm here.

The day after tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. This is a somewhat complicated holiday, contrived to make you eat until you're sick, watch football until your eyeballs fall out of your head, eat some more, make a mental note to add "lose weight" to your upcoming New Year's resolutions, listen to your kids fight until you find yourself wishing you didn't have the day off, snack, and hate your relatives, all of whom have decided that you are hosting the feast this year, when really you and your spouse had secretly planned to foist the kids off onto the grandparents and enjoy a long weekend in Jamaica. Or possibly Springfield. Maybe the Motel 6 on the other side of town. Anywhere but where you are. Where you would still eat obscene quantities of high-fat foods, but at least you could do it in peace.

Yes, Thanksgiving is the day that ushers in the high-paced, high-stress frenzy known as the Holiday Season.

You know what I'm talking about. The stress starts as soon as you're at the dinner table, surrounded by your loving and devoted family, staring at a feast the likes of which you've never seen before thanks to your sister who insists on bringing authentic chestnut dressing, which she made with her own hands, thereby sparing you the expense of a couple of boxes of Stove Top, and also she makes her own cranberry sauce from the berries she probably grows herself or at least harvests from somewhere, to say nothing of the ginormous bird she prepared in your late grandmother's turkey roaster which somehow Sis now possesses and how did that happen anyway, and did I mention she also makes her own gravy? From scratch? Dinner rolls too. If you didn't feel guilty about shopping on holidays, you would totally have the local supermarket cater your entire Thanksgiving meal, but heck, even you can pop a bird or a ham into the oven and make it palatable. But not this time. This time your sister shows you up. Oh, wait, she did that last year too. And now you're asking yourself why you keep inviting her.

But I digress. There you are at the table, eagerly waiting for the gun to go off so you can grab the biggest sweet potato, the white meat off the bird, a great spoonful of Sis's admittedly scrumptious chestnut dressing, when someone--probably Sis's husband--suggests that before you say grace and dig in, you should go around the table and name something you're Thankful For, he'll go first.

You know this is going to take a while. For one thing, there are 47 people at your table. You don't even know if they're all family because you've never met most of them. You assume that they are cousins of in-laws or something, and you don't want to be rude by asking if they actually belong there, so you just hope they don't eat too much or break anything (because naturally Sis has insisted on using Grandma's china instead of the Chinet you bought a hundred dollars' worth of just for this occasion, and isn't it interesting that she has Grandma's china as well as the turkey roaster? Maybe it's time for another look at the will). For another thing, the Things I'm Thankful For lists are long. Also the kids will probably find a way to gum up the works. They usually do.

But finally, the recitation of blessings has been completed, thanks have been returned to God, and it's time to EAT. Which you do in about fifteen minutes, because the ball games start pretty soon and your male kin are most assuredly not going to wash Grandma's china. So the menfolk congregate in the living room where they loudly complain that you don't have a big-screen hi-def TV and you're tempted to yell that the bar down the street has eight of them showing eight different sporting events, and it's open hint hint, and the womenfolk crowd into the kitchen--your kitchen--to put food away (assuming there's anything left) and wash up. Not surprisingly, Sis is in charge of Grandma's china.

Thus begins another Holiday Season. Then we have the fun of Christmas shopping, Christmas dinner (oh boy! another big meal for Sis to prepare!), and selecting just the right cheap champagne for New Year's Eve. Life is just one big party from November to January, ain't it?

Anyhoo, I've decided that today I will actually count my blessings so I'll be ready on Thursday, even though my sister and brother-in-law will not be at my house. The problem is where to begin.

Let's start with my family. I have a fabulous husband, two reasonably well-behaved children, one dear mother, two sisters whom I love, one brother (also loved), one aunt, one uncle, two cousins, and various and sundry nieces and nephews, to say nothing of my in-laws and my hubby's extended family. Wonderful people, my family, and I pray God's blessings on all of them.

I have more friends than I know what to do with. We think of things, of course. I love each and every one of them, more than they could ever possibly know.

I have a good job and I am blessed with employers for whom I actually like to work. This is something of a rarity any more, and I am truly thankful for it.

I have relatively good health. I'm starting to feel the effects of growing older, but so what? I'm embracing getting older. I've never been that concerned about my age. My husband laughs at me for constantly quoting Bette Davis, but she was right when she said old age is no place for sissies. Besides, I get to be Queen of the World just one day a year, and I'm racking up as many of those as I possibly can.

I have a home and a car. Plenty to eat and plenty to wear. I'm not lacking for much.

I have hobbies that I love. I sing with a choir. We just had a concert last night and are now on hiatus until January, which gives me a chance to rest my voice and spend Thursday nights at home with my hubby and kids, rather than being off at rehearsals. And I'm blessed with a family who understands how much I love to sing, and they're all good with practice nights. I'm a word puzzle freak, too. More with the understanding. And my husband and I like to read together. So I'm not often bored. That's a blessing if ever there was one!

And the greatest blessing of all: I have the love of Christ and His salvation, and a mansion waiting for me in Heaven.

How much more blessed can one person be?

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

If This is the Best Television Has to Offer, I'll Stick to Reading

I'm going to have to find a new favorite TV show.

For years, I glued myself to NYPD Blue every Tuesday night. I required complete silence from my Daredevil and Drama Princess, and His Nibs was the one who had to take the dog out during every episode. I refused to answer the telephone, even if it was my mother or my sister or Publisher's Clearinghouse calling. Tuesday nights became almost sacred.

Drama Princess got us hooked on Project Runway, so our Wednesday evenings have been devoted to dishing on the talents (or lack thereof) of the up-and-coming and wannabe designers. Wednesday evenings are almost sacred as well, and they're even better because the whole family is in on it.

But NYPD Blue was canceled and Project Runway's fifth season ended recently, so I had to find another show. Somehow, His Nibs and I glommed onto Boston Legal. We'd heard often about how entertaining Denny Crane was, and being childhood Star Trek fans, we decided we could do worse than watch a show starring William Shatner. At first I had trouble getting His Nibs interested. He doesn't like cop shows or lawyer shows, having been one and worked with the other, but since Boston Legal does a very respectable job of not worshiping lawyers (or cops), he's okay with it.

But last night's episode completely soured me on the show.

Today is Election Day. We are in the throes of a very heated, controversial, and highly emotional presidential campaign, which will very shortly end in one of two historically significant results: We will have either our first black President, or our first female Vice President. Either way, there will be celebrating and anger and rejoicing and complaining. Much like past elections. So what does this have to do with Boston Legal, you ask?

Simply put, it was a totally shameless plug for Barack Obama. I don't care about that. Really, I don't. I understand that most of Hollywood is in the Democratic camp, and I'm okay with that. Vote your conscience. It annoyed me that the writers of this episode shoved this into my face, but I also understand that I have power over the situation through my remote control. So it wasn't so much the political volatility that irritated me. It was the way the show portrayed supporters of John McCain. Or rather, the supporter. The only character on the show who was planning to vote for McCain was Denny Crane--or at least, he was the only one stupid enough to admit it.

Now, for those of you who don't follow the show, let me fill you in on a couple of things. Denny Crane has Alzheimer's. Another character, Jerry Espenson, has Asperger's Syndrome. Each character struggles with the outward signs and symptoms of his condition. Each has a close friend who sticks with him and helps him get through the tough episodes. The difference is that Jerry's little tics and nervous "pops" and use of "props" are endearing; we find ourselves admiring his perseverance and tenacity in getting through each day; we sympathize with him, we feel compassion for him. And we applaud his friend for seeing what a great guy he is and standing up for him.

Denny Crane's Alzheimer's, on the other hand, makes him ridiculous. He has a reputation as a womanizer; he's always had that. But now it is greatly exaggerated. Now he is a perverted skirt-chaser, a handsy pig with an addled brain, who also carries a gun (last night it was a paint gun, which he used to emphasize his point against Alan in an argument about politics) and who, in response to Alan's demand, gave two reasons why he would be voting for McCain: Salmon and women. Of course, since his brain is slowly wasting away, he gave the most inane explanations for his "reasons." And naturally, in his one moment of clarity (and people in the early stages of Alzheimer's do have those from time to time), he jumped the aisle and voted for the other candidate.

Salmon and women???

It was disgusting. It was blatantly insulting on two fronts: One, it made a mockery of one of the most insidious diseases known to modern man, turning this particular victim into a laughingstock, someone whose mind is so eroded that he is not to be taken seriously--until he casts the vote not for McCain, of course. Two, it implied that those who support John McCain in this election are idiots and fools who are incapable of presenting a cogent argument in their own defense (which begs the question of why these voters are being called upon to defend their choice at all). I noticed that not once did Denny Crane (or anyone else) demand that Alan Shore (or anyone else) give two good reasons for voting for Obama (whose name I don't remember as being actually mentioned in this episode at all, interestingly enough).

I know it's just a television show--one in its final season, from what I hear, so I'd have to find a new favorite anyway. But television is a powerful medium, and in a world where many people have a hard time separating fantasy from reality, last night's Boston Legal episode struck me as not just an irresponsible attack on John McCain and his supporters, but also a frankly inaccurate depiction of Alzheimer's victims. Ask anyone--including members of my family--who have in any way been touched by this nightmare of an illness.

The writers of this episode should be ashamed, but I doubt that they would see it that way. I think I'll just go back to books.

Farewell, old friend

My in-laws had a garage sale the other day. Personally, I'm not big into garage sales, but I'm also not opposed to getting junk out of my house, so the Hub, Daredevil, Drama Princess and I scoured our respective spaces for any trash we thought someone else might consider treasure.

Turns out we didn't have much. Oh, there's no shortage of useless stuff in our house. We just didn't have much that we thought anyone would be interested in.

So we hauled it all over to the folks' house early Saturday morning, and helped them set up card tables and boards atop sawhorses in the driveway. We arranged attractive displays of our merchandise, checked our supply of cash to be used for change, pressed a couple of lawn chairs into service, and sat down to wait for the crowds we just knew would be flocking to our transitory emporium.

It was a long day.

Like I said, I'm not really into garage sales, so I have no idea what I was expecting, but I'm pretty sure I thought we'd have to break up fights over the picture frames and holiday wreaths. I was convinced that at least two bodybuilder types would duke it out over the NordicTrack or the antique weight bench. No doubt one of Martha Stewart's faithful followers would find a use for the framed mirror or the practically-brand-new drapes.

Didn't happen.

I wasn't too worried about it. After all, we didn't want this stuff, so we shouldn't be too upset that no one else wanted it. I was completely okay with sitting on the edge and merely watching the whole thing, until a man put Daredevil's cello into the trunk of his car.

Daredevil had acquired that cello when he was in the fifth grade and decided he wanted to join the school orchestra and play cello, like a certain girl in his class. With a little help from the school district, we unearthed a somewhat battered cello. Not much to look at, but it was in pretty good shape and sounded okay, so Daredevil was all set.

He lasted two years. Maybe three--I really can't remember if he stuck with it in seventh grade. But once he decided he didn't like that girl any more, he also decided he was no longer interested in the cello, so it sat in his room, untouched, for something like four years. I didn't say anything when he decided to put it in the garage sale, but inside I was all mom-sad. I'm a singer and a lover of music, and I was really hoping there was a budding Yo Yo Ma in my boy. Not so much. So, I couldn't really protest when he decided to get rid of it.

But it was like watching a little piece of his childhood disappear when that trunk lid closed. I wasn't surprised to find my vision all blurred at that moment.

Daredevil got the proceeds of this sale, which was the agreement. My little heartbreak wasn't part of that agreement, but I have hope that wherever that cello has gone, there is a young musician filling his parents' hearts with pride in their own Yo Yo Ma. I hope he sticks with it.

Move over, Billy! Here comes Barbara!

I've been thinking a lot about my hair lately.

I know that sounds vain, but really, it's not. I'm just wondering what on earth to do with it. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

For starters, it's semi-long, reaching just below my shoulders. I kind of like the length, but I'm not afraid of cutting it off, either. In fact, I've had just about every kind of haircut known to man, and a few that I swear the hairdressers made up along the way. Just a year before my wedding, one gal cut it so short that if I dyed it white blonde and put a bunch of waxy-looking crud in it, I would have rivaled Billy Idol in the punk-look department. (Thank goodness it grows really fast. Would have given a whole new meaning to White Wedding.)

For another thing, it's changing color. My hair is dark, but I've got this very cool sort of Bride of Frankenstein thing going, with big shocks of white here and there, and then the requisite threads of white throughout the rest. I'm not worrying about that. I could color it, I suppose, and I certainly did that for years, but ever since I was a kid and glued myself to the TV watching The Big Valley, I swore that I would be Barbara Stanwyck when I grew up. That was one seriously magnificent cloud of silver hair! So I finally gave up on Preference by L'Oreal and have been going with Moosebane by Mother Nature ever since. So far, so good.

The problem is that as I get older, my hair gets drier and frizzier, which I hate. I've tried every product out there that boasts the ability to banish frizz. No luck. I drink water by the gallon. I have wonderfully soft, supple skin, but my hair is a wreck. It doesn't help that my white hair is somewhat wiry and difficult to smooth. Also, my hair is neither straight nor curly. It's very, very wavy, and you just try to find a good haircut for uber-wavy hair. Go ahead. Try. I've been searching for years.

I own two straighteners, four or five different sets of curlers, hot rollers, curling irons, crimping irons, you name it. It's all time-consuming and more trouble than it's worth. Fixing my hair takes forever, and I like to sleep too much to get up an extra half-hour early just to fuss with it. So I usually wash it and let it dry, sometimes adding a little mousse or styling lotion or some sort of oily stuff to control the frizz (doesn't work), and I end up looking like I did nothing at all. Sometimes when I'm feeling really ambitious, I wash it the night before, then straighten it in the morning. Again, no real difference.

So, I guess I'll have to go back to the hairdresser, hand her pictures of Billy Idol and Barbara Stanwyck, and tell her to do anything it takes to make me look a whole lot more like her than like him. I may even take a picture of the Bride of Frankenstein. Couldn't hurt!

Not so Famous Last Words

Over the years, I've had a number of memorable conversations about pretty much nothing. A few of them have been floating around in my head lately, so I thought I'd share them; I'm afraid that if I don't, I'll forget them altogether. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did!

Several months ago, I went into the public library near where I work. One of the attorneys from our office happened to be in there, standing at the checkout desk with a pile of materials. So being the smart-a$$ that I am, I rushed to his side and said, "I didn't know you could read." He and the librarian both looked at me and said, "Oh, these are books on tape."

Another attorney in our office--one for whom I actually work--once sent me an e-mail wherein he misspelled my name. In his message he asked me to have his estate planning file sent to him. I made the request for him, and then went into his office and teasingly said, "I hope that when you revise your will, you spell my name correctly." He replied, "Did I spell your name wrong in my will?"

Recently, the son and daughter-in-law of one of our senior partners (why do these stories seem to center on lawyers?) brought their four-month-old daughter into the office to visit Grandpa. Naturally, everyone in the office oohed and aahed and admired this truly beautiful baby. Later, her grandfather stopped by my desk and asked, "Who has the most beautiful granddaughter in the world?" I turned to him, smiled sweetly and said, "My grandparents."

Years ago, a young lady I worked with was planning her wedding. Like most brides, she regaled her co-workers with details of the upcoming event, and like most women, we all loved it. One day she made the comment that she really likes the song "Ave Maria" and wanted to have it sung at her wedding, but her mother flatly refused to let this happen. I said, "Why not? My sister had that sung at her wedding, and she's not Catholic." To which my co-worker responded, "Yeah, but I bet she's not Jewish, either."

When I was a kid, my granddad had a pickup truck with a camper shell on it--not one of those over-the-cab campers, just a shell that covered the bed of the truck. My sisters and I used to ride in there whenever we went anywhere. One time when we went out to dinner or someplace, we stopped and my sister BB went to open the door so we could get out. At the same time, my grandfather opened the door from the outside, and BB nearly fell flat on her face. My granddad said, "Don't hurt yourself, there." BB replied, "NOW you tell me."

I once asked my grandfather how you could tell when your gas tank was getting full as you pumped. He said, "When it starts making a gurgling sound, you know you're almost done." BB stared at him incredulously and added, "Or, when it runs over and spills on your shoes."

No Celebrity Necessary for Unsolicited Publicity

Several years ago, my in-laws were house-hunting. My FIL having been in the military, they had moved a million times and were not unfamiliar with the search for new digs and all its attendant problems and surprises. Nevertheless, I'm pretty sure that this one particular realtor caught them off guard.

The house was nice enough, I guess, but my MIL pointed out to the realtor that the master bathroom lacked a door. His response?

"Oh, you've been married long enough that you don't need a door on the bathroom."

Seriously. Not surprisingly, my in-laws didn't buy that house. In fact, I don't think they continued working with that realtor.

When did privacy become so cheap that a virtual stranger is comfortable telling you that you don't need a bathroom door? And it hasn't gotten any better.

Actually, it's gotten much worse.

I used to cringe watching sports on TV, knowing that the camera was at some point going to pan the crowd and zero in on some poor schmuck picking his nose or something. And I was always mindful of those cameras when I attended sporting events in person (not that that happened often). These days you might as well forget decorum; what fun is that? For every person who values his own little bubble, there's some intrusive idiot with a camera phone and a link to youtube, just waiting to pounce on the guy with the open fly or the lady with the bra strap slipping down her arm or the unfortunate soul tripping over his own feet or the weary mother dealing with a kid's temper tantrum. Is it not hard enough to endure these types of humiliations without having them displayed on the Internet for all the world to see? Beyonce couldn't escape it even after she begged her audience not to post her fall on youtube. (I once read a description of youtube as the evil genie that will never go back in the bottle. Got that right!) These are the same nincompoops who chat on their cell phones in the restroom, blissfully unaware that others in that same room really might not appreciate the sound of their bathroom activities being transmitted to the person on the other end.

And at whom do you aim the blame? There are all sorts of possibilities, but I think much of it should be directed at those who don't attach any importance to their own privacy, much less others'. Pam Anderson, anyone? Paris Hilton? In these days of out-of-control identity theft and predators trolling for victims on myspace, you'd think people would be a little more careful about self-disclosure. (Yeah, you'd think that, wouldn't you?)

And don't get me started on magazines that print pictures of dead people, or those "true crime" TV shows where you get to see the victims' bodies while listening to the detective brag about his prowess in solving the crime. How does this fall under the heading of "entertainment"? (Currently, my only exception to this objection is the pictures of the death camps in Europe following WWII. There are some things one needs to see in order that no one ever experiences it again.) I've never appreciated reporters shoving a microphone into the face of someone who has been on the receiving end of a calamity, either. What is wrong with people?

It goes way beyond not having a bathroom door. Some things just absolutely belong behind barriers! To my way of thinking, it's more than a lack of respect for privacy. It represents an assault on human dignity, and there is little enough of that as it is.

Check your phone at the door, kid!

Is it just me, or are other people's kids taking over the world?

I think they are. They're starting with my house. And they're very slick about it, too. The current nefarious plot involves sleep deprivation. It's better than anything S.P.E.C.T.R.E. used against James Bond.

I cannot tell you how many times in the past month I've been awakened by some friend of Daredevil's, calling at the most ridiculous times ostensibly to talk with him, although he's been asleep for hours. Surely they must realize that some people are actually not up at three o'clock in the morning!

Or perhaps not. Maybe I'm the one who's out of touch. In any event, I really did have the following exchange (or something very close to it; lack of sleep plays tricks with my memory) with Daredevil's girlfriend recently:

Her: Is Daredevil there?

Me: He'd better be. And he'd also better be asleep. Like I was.

Her: Oh, did I wake you?

Me: Of course not, don't be silly. I was getting up to answer the phone, anyway. Do you have any idea what time it is?

Her: No.

Me: It's three-thirty in the morning. It's only three hours since the last time you called and did wake me up. I just haven't been able to get back to sleep, knowing you'd call again. I have to say, you're very accommodating.

Her: Sorry.

Me: I have a rule. No calls to my house after nine p.m., and none before eleven o'clock in the morning on the weekends.

Her: Okay, I get it, I get it!

Me: [not quite sure what I said here, but it ended with a satisfying slam of the receiver into its cradle; I hope I gave the rude little brat a headache.]

My kids don't have cell phones, and all their friends do, which is how they're getting away with disrupting my sleep unbeknownst to their parents. Until now. Because now I, too, have a sinister plan. I'm going to forward all my after-nine-p.m. calls to their land lines. Beware, midnight caller! I've got your parents on speed-dial, and the minute I get rid of your obnoxious butt, I'm going to be just as obnoxious as you. I figure if they get mad, they can take it out on you, since I can't. Just remember, you started it.

Maybe if I make enough grown-ups stagger to the phone at some ungodly hour, they'll stop falling asleep on the parenting job, and we adults can go back to ruling the world.

Shopping: Not for the faint of heart

It's back to school time, and Drama Princess and I will soon be out scouring the countryside for this year's school supplies and new duds.



I'd like to say that I do this earlier and earlier every year, but that would be a lie and you'd all know it. (I say this about Christmas shopping too; every year I promise myself that next year, I'll buy one or two or three gifts every month, and have it all done before Halloween. But that's next year's project.) I take a little comfort in knowing I'm not the only one who puts it off. I've seen some pretty impressive fist-fights in the aisles at Target, but fortunately as kids get bigger, they also get better and better at making their mothers behave. I've been known to drag Drama Princess and her brother, Daredevil, into Wal-Mart at three in the morning, just to avoid the afternoon smackdowns that inevitably take place in the search for the elusive graph paper or dry erase markers.



The problem is that I'm that rarest of females, the woman who hates to shop. It's not that I'm cheap (okay, I am, but that's irrelevant). I just hate crowds, and noise, and narrow aisles, and rude customers, and rude salespeople . . . but most of all, I hate trying things on. And I'm pretty sure Drama Princess was born without the Shopping Gene as well.



Take the quest for the perfect swimsuit.



Now in her early teens, Drama Princess outgrows things faster than I can find them on sale, so before a trip she took back in June, it was necessary to find her a new swimsuit.



Now, Drama Princess is a tiny little petite thing (she got that gene from me, of course, although I hope she also got the gene which will turn her into Jabba the Hutt when she turns 40; it's only fair) and finding a swimsuit in the right size isn't easy. The Women's Department is completely out of the question. The Junior Department is iffy at best. Which leaves the Girls' Department.



Not surprisingly, Drama Princess had a load of trouble here. After all, she's not a little girl any more, and the swimwear for little girls is--well, little girlie. Not her size. Right size but wrong colors. Too many flowers. Stupid little animals all over them. Ten stores and three and a half hours after we began our search, Drama Princess was wailing, "They're all pink or flowered or monkey-infested!" Where were the grown-up looking swimsuits sported by those little pageant hussies you see on TV? Not at Kohl's!



And the prices! How does something the size of a pocket handkerchief with a bra hook cost fifty bucks? And while we're at it, who decided it was a good idea for young girls to dress in something the size of a pocket handkerchief? Don't get me going on bikinis. Drama Princess is mad enough at me as it is.



At long last, we found a place that had swimwear "separates." Mix and match, tanks and shorts and bikini tops and bottoms. No flowers, no pictures of Spongebob and, best of all, no monkeys. Ten minutes after we entered the store (and forty dollars later!), Drama Princess had the perfect swimsuit. She was happy with the way it looked on her, her dad was happy that it was modest, I was happy that the ordeal was over. For now.



But now that school starts soon, looks like I'll have to get back into the swim of things.

A Salute to the Silver Screen

I didn't get much sleep last night. DH and I stayed up and watched Mr. Skeffington, starring the inimitable Bette Davis and the equally inimitable Claude Rains. (The beauty of TCM is that the movies are uncut, the only drawback to that being the long wait for a bathroom break.) It was a very long movie, but so engaging that unless you were half asleep or starving to death before it started, you wouldn't really notice how long you'd been sitting there watching.

Which got me to thinking about movies in general, and classic films in particular. Mr. Skeffington was a black and white picture, which right away means that a lot of people I know are never going to see it, because they refuse to watch a black and white picture. I don't get that. Clearly they have no idea what they're missing. These same people are really big into special effects, too, and computer animation and so forth.

Good stuff, all of that. Star Wars would just not be the same without it. But give me a solid plot, riveting story line, fascinating characters, excellent dialogue . . . .

What better example of all those things is there than Casablanca? Nothing blows up. No 3-D effects. Just a truly moving tale of star-crossed lovers, a war that gets in the way, a husband who's even more in the way, and you have the recipe for the perfect movie. It doesn't hurt to have Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman bringing the story to life, either. And no color, I might add.

How about film noir? I could watch The Maltese Falcon over and over and over again and never tire of it. Nobody could touch Bogart as Sam Spade, and I defy anyone to recast the part of Joel Cairo; there will never be another Peter Lorre. And when Spade kept telling Brigid O'Shaughnessy that he wouldn't play the sap for her . . . well, now, that was manfully done! And it was manfully done in black and white.

For pure dialogue-intense joy, check out The Thin Man. No two leading actors played off each other better than William Powell and Myrna Loy, and there's no wife more devoted than the one who gets mad at her husband not because he hit her and knocked her out cold, but because being unconscious kept her from seeing him kick the bad guy's butt. And guess what? Black and white.

Like having the living daylights scared out of you? Give Bela Lugosi, the quintessential Dracula, a try. No gore, but if you put yourself in 1931, it's pretty freakin' scary! All those old monster films were: Frankenstein (also one of the scariest books I've ever read), The Wolfman, King Kong. The remakes don't even come close. Not even the color ones. If you prefer your chills to be more on the psychological than the physical side, try the following: Gaslight; Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?; Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte; Rebecca. Of course, Alfred Hitchcock provides a wealth of mind-jarring spook stories (and some of those are actually in color!) designed to scare the pants off the unsuspecting.

If you really must have eye candy, then Busby Berkeley is the guy for you. I don't even know where to begin here. The over-the-top stage productions in Dames and Footlight Parade and the various Golddiggers movies have to be seen to be believed. Choreography at its elaborate best. Don't be afraid to watch Million Dollar Mermaid. The early days of synchronized swimming.

I'm not knocking color pictures. Gone With the Wind is my all-time favorite movie and there's certainly no shortage of color there! All I'm saying is that those of you who refuse to watch black and white movies just because they're black and white are losing out on some really fine Hollywood offerings. And don't even get me started on people who won't watch silent films. One word for you: Metropolis. Okay, one more word: Wings. Clara Bow is reason enough to watch that one, boys!

I have a whole big list of great films I've seen, color and B&W, complete with plot summaries. Obviously, I don't get out much, but that's all right. I'm easily entertained. And for those of you who aren't--well, don't miss The Wizard of Oz. It's the best of both worlds.

An Open Letter to the Idiot on the Train

I'm pretty sure you thought you were being funny when you made the comment about "some ladies" who would have trouble getting up the stairs on the train. You know, the ones you referred to as "large and in charge." Very original; what a deep thinker you must be!

The actuality is, you're just rude. I have no doubt that you've been thinking like that since you were a young man. Fine, think what you want. But you really don't have to let everything that crowds your tiny disgusting mind come out of your huge disgusting mouth. Any idea how many MEN might have that same problem you pointed out? Or how about people with bad knees, or hips, or feet? They too might have difficulty with stairs. Oh, wait, you only meant heavy people--or more specifically, heavy women--because the stairway was narrow. Hmm. Well, it looked to me like everyone on that train was having issues with it--including you. But that didn't stop you from running that big mouth of yours!

I wish I'd been faster on my feet that night. I might have told you that I wish I could be more like you, because it must be nice to be so close to perfection that you can say rude, insensitive, unkind things to a perfect stranger about other perfect strangers, and feel no twinge of conscience whatsoever. I wish I'd told you off completely, instead of just saying "That's not nice," for fear of being rude myself. The young lady sitting next to me was very upset by your attitude and your comments. Hope you're pleased with yourself!

I don't suppose you have any idea how many people's feelings you stomped all over being a jackass that night, nor do I suppose you care. But I just thought you should know that not everyone thinks you're funny. Some of us think you're just pathetic.