COMEDYSHOW.US

What’s The Cost Of Beauty?

2008-07-15T07:13:00.005-07:00

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is skin deep and is 99% attitude - we hear it, but we don’t believe it. If we did, we wouldn’t spend billions of dollars every year on cosmetics.

But it’s not just women. Ten years ago women spent ten times more than men did on beauty products. Now we spend four times more.

From deodorants to sunscreens, Americans use an average of seven skin care products daily. Supposedly, women in Shanghai, China use twenty. If that’s true, Mary Kay is turning Red China pink.

Lipstick shades go from Playful Pink to Passionate Purple, but none of them last as long on my lips as they do on the rim of my coffee cup. My grandmother didn’t believe in using lipstick. If women wanted their mouths to look better, she thought they should smile.

I smile when I see the promises made by hair care products. There are shampoos to make hair curlier and straighter. There are conditioners to make it less frizzy, fuller and shinier. I buy whatever is on sale. Basically, hair is protection for my body. I’d rather spend my money on my body - and I do.

Laugh lines, scowl lines and character lines are euphemisms for wrinkles; and the price of anti-wrinkle cream is enough to cause me more lines - worry lines. The good news is there’s an impartial website that rates the top ten anti-wrinkle creams. The bad news is mine isn’t one of them.

Fifty years ago Marilyn Monroe would have been rated one of the world’s most beautiful women. By today’s standards she’d be considered short and chubby. She’d be in the "but doesn’t she have a pretty face" category.

Models have to have more than pretty faces. They have to be tall. I’m never going to be 5’10". If I added three inches to my height by wearing heels, I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.

Models also have to be thin. Some resort to cocaine. Others become anorexic or bulimic. Let’s face it. Models don’t model real life.

In China girls’ feet were bound because tiny feet were a sign of beauty. In Africa women made their lips bigger by putting plates in them. They made their necks longer by wearing more neck bands. Thankfully, things have changed. Eventually thin won’t be in - but fat chance that will happen in my lifetime.

Is Self-Therapy Theraputic?

2008-07-15T07:13:00.003-07:00

If you live in Southern California and you’re not in therapy, you just haven’t realized you have problems. I’m in therapy - self-therapy. Appointments always coincide with my schedule, I can afford it and I have a variety of different therapies to offer myself.

There’s the newspaper therapy. I count the number of obituaries and realize being over the hill is a lot better than being under it.

A walk by the ocean is a marvelously restorative therapy. Yes, I track sand into the house; but when life gives you sand, build a sand castle.

Calling a friend is therapeutic. Okay, sometimes I have to call two; but listening to their troubles puts mine in perspective.

Meditation is a popular therapy. For me meditation is a euphemism for a nap, but after a nap life looks better.

Golf is another popular therapy. I don’t play golf. I watch golf on television. The slow, quiet pace of the game slows me down. For three hours someone else is keeping their eye on the ball.

My grandmother had a very therapeutic philosophy, “Don’t borrow trouble” - don’t worry about something that may not happen. If it happens, fix it. If it can’t be fixed, it’s not a problem - it’s reality. Accept it.

An icy, cold martini is therapy in a glass; but it’s more effective it someone else makes it for me. Feeling pampered is more important than the olive.

Not seeing red ink in my checkbook is a natural high. Of course, my mother-in-law winning an around-the-world cruise would work just as well. Seeing Father Time’s picture on a milk carton would work too.

Unfortunately, massages don’t work for me. I can’t relax because I hear the minutes ticking away in my head. I can’t relax soaking in a tub either. I can’t stop thinking about having to clean the tub.

Counting my blessings, however, is usually effective, bedtime therapy. If it takes a long time to fall asleep, I have more time to be grateful; and being grateful is effective therapy.

However, I’m not sure my husband is grateful for my newest form of self-therapy. I told him I wasn’t going to cook anymore. Although I immediately felt a sizable wait off my shoulders, John didn’t say anything. I think he’s trying to figure out if this is covered by the “for better or for worse” clause in our marriage vows.

Wasn't Making Hard Copies Easier?

2008-07-15T07:13:00.001-07:00

According to Webster’s Dictionary, compute - as in computer - means to make sense. Yeah, right. The only thing that makes sense to me is the carrying case. I understand how to use the zippered compartments and the inside pockets. I also managed to figure out how to use the Velcro strap to secure my computer.

Because I’m a writer, I named my computer Steinbeck to inspire me - not to cause the weights of wrath. Because of his predilection to make things I’m writing disappear, I should have named him Houdini.

Even saved things are susceptible to his prestidigitation. He’s performed computer tricks no one has ever seen before. An extra icon suddenly appears out of thin air. Documents pass unseen from one file to another. The cursor is pulled out of a hat like a rabbit and hops all over the screen.

Yes, both Steinbeck and Houdini are male names, but you thought all computers were female. If they were, where would new models come from?

Now you probably want to know how I know my computer’s male. Simple. In spite of all his acting-out, he won’t talk about his feelings.

Thankfully, I bought Steinbeck at Best Buy and have the Geek Squad as mentors. I’m there so often, they’ll be on my Christmas card list. In fact, the squad knows me so well, they want me to have my own computer-handicapped parking space.

Because of make-it-look-so-easy Matthew, the salesman, and my don’t-forget-my-wife’s-a-blond husband, Steinbeck has anti-spam, anti-phishing, anti-virus and various other security programs. As a result, I should have government clearance for sensitive material.

The e-mails I received before Steinbeck was anti-spam’d definitely qualified as insensitive material. Explicit ads for erectile dysfunction, dating services that offered extra services - no, it wasn’t just the repeated ads for the hair-challenged that were ribald.

Although I only use Steinbeck to word process, e-mail, research and post my blogs, I still get in trouble. The Help button is no help. In school I took French as a second language. I should have taken Microsoft.

I live in Southern California, but Steinbeck freezes. My mouse is tethered to Steinbeck, but runs off the screen. Steinbeck’s battery dies when I take him on trips. Although I like to fly non-stop, Steinbeck gets a charge out of stopping.

Frankly, I think computer should be spelled computor. Then I’d feel free to compute OR use pen and paper.

Money Grown on Trees

2008-07-14T06:42:00.005-07:00

We’ve all been told a hundred times or more that money doesn’t grow on trees. However, we probably could have avoided a great deal of bother and stress throughout history if it did.

Robin Hood wouldn’t have had to run the gauntlet of being strung up by the Sheriff of Nottingham if he could have simply harvested riches to give to the poor; Dick Turpin wouldn’t have had to hold up countless people and thus ruin England’s impeccable stagecoach timetable of the age.

Furthermore charities around the world would simply go out into the garden to get their money and not bother us in the street with their clipboard surveys.

So when it was discovered that the ancient Chinese had managed to produce money from trees (known as yaoqianshu - Banhua 1952; also see McCann et al. 1999; Hung 2000) the post-war government instigated secret research trials into the production of money trees.

Success wasn’t easy, but by the late 1960’s trials were progressing well (Farrer & Crocker 1971). Ten years later, unfortunately, the research had been wound down, dismissed as a sort of alchemy but less interesting due to the lack of crazed Victorians with bubbling flasks.

Consequently the research went underground (quite literally); considered by all but the clinically insane to be a dead end project. Here we report on exciting new findings suggesting that money trees are the new growth industry of the 21st century.

Methods

This contentious area of research could have dangerous repercussions for the global economy and as scientists we therefore have a responsibility for discretion. It’s a ‘need to know’ thing. Exact details of the techniques used in the production of our cash crop have therefore been kept to a minimum.

Coins of an undisclosed value were planted in a secret location and maintained at an exact temperature and humidity. Harvesting of the flowers from the terminal bud area was possible nine weeks after germination. From a single plant, between 40 and 60 flowers were collected during the season.

Results

Soil type and texture were highly positively correlated with flower value: Clay soils produced only 5 pound flowers whereas fine, well drained loams could support flowers up to the value of 20 pounds. The quality of the notes produced is generally very high, although a few mutants do occasionally appear.

In an attempt to produce pound notes, which have yet to appear naturally we attempt a cross of different plants. However the trials so far have not been totally successful, the F1 hybrids being inviable.

Discussion

A large investment is required in order to continue trials to assess whether money trees are cost effective in a growing economy. Such an industry could be costly to regulate and the number of trees in any one place would be proportional to the security costs.

The response from other scientists has been mixed. Some believe that the idea has the potential to flourish whereas others have highlighted that an increase in sea level through global warming could lead to a liquidation of the assets.

However, should this idea ever come to fruition, banks may become a thing of the past as people turn their gardens, allotments, orchards and fields into living depositories where they can grow and cultivate currency in large beds. Land agents have already predicted a steep rise in off shore farming as people try to cash in on these tax-free opportunities.

Future work

We do not aim to follow Maugh (1979) who almost single-handedly solved the world’s fuel problems, nor do we aim to try and follow Ernstoff (1980) who ambitiously attempted to grow humans for use in engineering work.

However, we are looking to expand our current project to produce several plant varieties that can be harvested easily; suggestions from the early phases indicate that we should be able to manufacture “Coin-on-the-cob”, a new variety with the conventional cob shape but filled with coins presented in rows along the centre. Also, ‘Moneysuckle’, a traditionally fragrant climber with flowers to suit the currency of your choice. It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘raking it in’!

Are Television Commercials Rude?

2008-07-14T06:42:00.003-07:00

“But first a few words from our sponsors” and those few words are turning into more and more. There are also more and more commercial interruptions and they never say excuse me when they interrupt.

Most people ignore this rudeness and use commercials as snack breaks and toilet trips, but no one gets a beer or flushes one down the toilet during the Super Bowl. They don’t want to miss seeing horses play football or the nerd getting the pretty girl because of the car he drives.

Not all commercials are entertaining. Some are educational and contain fifteen, thirty or sixty seconds of possibly life-changing information.

Last night I watched a police drama. Forty-four minutes of it were drama. The other sixteen minutes were commercials. Because I’m not planning a life of crime - unless sneaking snacks into movie theaters is a crime - I learned more from the commercials than I did from the program.

I learned I use the wrong toothpaste, take the wrong pain reliever and have the wrong mutual fund. Buying these products might not make me a social success, but they’d definitely make me a commercial success.

Health and success are mutually exclusive when it comes to Saturday morning television. Most of what’s advertised is sugar-coated and causes cavities and obesity. Unfortunately, we don’t know what damage is caused by the sugar-coated, cartoon violence these products sponsor.

For adults commercials can cause financial damage. The “reach out and touch someone”, telephone commercials reached out and touched the budget. On one call to my grandmother I sang “Happy Birthday” as soon as she answered. Later when I asked the wrong number why she’d let me sing the whole song, she said she wished her grandchildren called her. That caused more calling - more reaching out.

Fortunately, not all commercials that touch me emotionally touch the budget. I don’t like beer, but I like beer commercials. I laugh at the ones with ex-jocks arguing the merits of a particular beer. I tear when I see Clydesdale horses pulling a sleigh - complete with bells - through a winter scene.

However, the insurance commercial that shows a man taking an unexpected escalator ride up to heaven is not only depressing, it’s also deceiving. Not all departing men take escalator rides up. Because many commercials are unrealistic, they should be taken with a grain of salt - but things go better with Coke.

Who Springs Into Cleaning?

2008-07-14T06:42:00.001-07:00

If I ever run for political office, I’ll pass a law that requires spring cleaning to be postponed until winter. Why waste days of blooming flowers, invigorating air and sweater-wearing temperatures inside the house - especially inside a dirty house. After being elected by a landslide, I’ll spend my spring cleaning up politics.

Each year I know it’s time to do the seasonal scrubbing and shining when there’s no room left under my sons’ beds for them to shove stuff. Another sign it’s time is that a prize-winning, science project has grown on the walls of the boys’ bathroom. Okay, the Tidy Bowl man has jumped ship and the NCAA wants to play a football game in the living room and call it the Dust Bowl.

Although thinking about dust makes my throat dry, the refrigerator isn’t the place to go for a refreshing drink. What’s in the pitcher is either leftover, green beer from St. Patrick’s Day or the New Year’s Day bloody mary mix has gone bad.

If my family would work together we could finish the cleaning before Easter. If we don’t, the Easter Bunny won’t have to hide eggs. We can look for the ones he hid last year.

What can’t be hidden is the fact that the men in my life are pack rats. They never throw anything away. When we moved to Southern California from the East Coast, my husband brought the snow shovel. The books that won’t fit in the bookcases are stacked next to them. Just giving away the self-help books that didn’t help would be a help. My roller blading, skate boarding sons don’t have bicycles anymore; but we have two tire pumps and a bike rack.

It’s hard to believe how much junk can accumulate in a year. Some is stuffed in drawers, more is “stored” under the stairs and there’s still more in the closets. The linen closet is the worst. It’s the one with a borrowed, bright yellow, “Beware of Falling Rocks” sign on it.

Frankly, I don’t think we can polish off this job without reinforcements. Send in the Salvation Army and send it with Good Will.

No, I’ve got a better idea. I’m going to have a bunch of “Vote for Knight” signs made to stick in the front yard. I am going to run for political office - for the House of Representatives. It’s got to be easier to spring clean.

When Is It A Wine's Time?

2008-07-10T10:40:00.005-07:00

Who knew wines in screw-top bottles would become acceptable to knowledgeable wine drinkers? These are the same people who had to adjust to plastic corks. No wonder they drink.

My husband is a knowledgeable wine drinker. He knows what years produced good grapes and what wineries are best for which wines. I don’t. If I like a like a wine, I’ll buy it again. If I can’t remember its name, I look for the same picture on the label.

When John took me to my first wine tasting, I was the “con” in connoisseur. All I knew about a formal tasting was that I had to judge each wine by what I call the “Four S System” - stare, swirl, smell and swallow.

In the stare stage you describe the wine’s color - but you can’t use the word white or red. In the swirl stage a wine has “legs” if it leaves vertical lines on the sides of the glass - as opposed to the spots on our glasses at home.

A wine’s smell is referred to as bouquet because tasters use flowery words like cinnamon, honey and a touch of vanilla to describe it. Trying to add something to the discussion, I commented on the fruitiness of a wine. Unfortunately, I was smelling the waiter’s aftershave.

Wearing any scent at a tasting causes major dissent. The waiter, who was as red in the face as a Zinfandel - or maybe a burgundy, was banished; and we proceeded with the swallow stage - the only stage I’m good at.

Because wine has “body” if it leaves a full feeling in one’s mouth, I commented that a wine would have both legs and body if it had a fly in it. No one laughed, John gave me one of “those” looks and the tasting continued.

Although the tasters used words like earthy and oak to describe the wine’s taste, I use more mundane words, like good or bad; but I didn’t use them that night.

I like white wines better than red wines. They’re … fruitier - plus they remove red wine stains caused by tasters who swirl too enthusiastically.

During the general conversation after the tasting, I mentioned to a fellow taster that I often put an ice cube in my wine to lighten its taste. Immediately there were groans of dismay from the entire table. Poor John, I caused the “grapes of wrath”.

Was The Hula Hoop An Original Idea?

2008-07-10T10:40:00.003-07:00

Aren’t there anymore original ideas? Now “The Simpsons” is a movie. Soon Hollywood will be making “Oceans 21″ and Spiderman will be using a walker. One “CSI” turned into three. One reality show turned into an unreal number of them. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but on television the words are repeated.

“Good Morning America” has become “Good Morning Iowa City”. If a baby girl was named Iowa City that would be unusual. I thought Madison was an unusual name, but now it’s the third most popular name for girls.

I used to think McDonald’s was different from Carl’s Jr. and Carl’s Jr. was different from Wendy’s, but now they all sell salads. What happened to the so-called salad days when burgers joints sold burgers?

Fashion sells, but it’s a revolving door of fads. Mini skirts, bell bottoms and peasant blouses - in and out, in and out; but as long as they’re in my closet, they’re in.

Mini skirts, pet rocks and bottled water - fads take the originality out of an original idea. Tang, Teflon and Velcro aren’t original. They’re worldly versions of spacey ideas.

I remember when I could tell the difference between a Ford and a Buick. Because cars are expensive purchases, buyers don’t shift automatically to something new. I understand that making a new car can be an expensive mistake. I’ve seen an Edsel.

If politicians had new ideas, they’d lose votes. Republicans are spending more money. Democrats are more conservative. The elephant is forgetting and the donkey is waiting for someone to pin on its tail.

Using sexy women with little on to sell products isn’t new. Fig-leaf-wearing Eve sold Adam on the idea of eating an apple. Today’s billboards are yesterday’s cave drawings. Television is a radio with a picture. A radio is a two-way radio that goes only one way. The town crier went one way before radio did. A CD is a digitized record and a record is a flat version of Thomas Edison’s cylinder.

I tried to think of something new. I Googled giraffe plus clothes, then trees plus games, then desk plus moon; but I got multiples entries for all of them. Even Google isn’t an original idea. It took the Ya out of Yahoo. Instead of rehashing old ideas, maybe we should try to perfect some of them. We could try to piece peace back together.

How Many Ways Do You Recycle?

2008-07-10T10:40:00.001-07:00

Think recycling and you think aluminum, glass and paper. That’s just the beginning.

I recycle gifts - quality gifts that I think a relative, friend or child’s teacher would appreciate - something I would have bought for them myself if someone hadn’t given it to me first. Honest!

I also recycle boxes - interesting boxes. Mrs. Field’s cookies come in an array of colorful boxes. Note card boxes are pretty enough to be jewelry boxes and my jeweler’s boxes already look gift wrapped. I may be putting my foot in my mouth, but shoe boxes can be great gift boxes too if you cover the forever-stuck-on, size sticker with wide ribbon.

Because I’m gift wrapping challenged, a pretty piece of real ribbon around a unique box works for me. Besides…it’s the thought that counts; and I am thinking outside the box.

In my family I was the middle girl and wore my share of recycled clothes. By the third grade I was embarrassed because I was taller than all the boys in my class, but the glass was still half full. I was too tall to wear my older sister’s clothes anymore.

Thrift stores are Meccas for recycled clothes and provide opportunities to turn clothes you no longer wear into money for a worthy cause. Before my girlfriend has a chance to donate her clothes, her daughters recycle them into their closets - but worthiness, like charity, begins at home.

Being a parent makes you a human recycler and you hope your genes are put to even better use by your children - especially as you think of them as designer genes.

If your genetic offspring didn’t think much of the Salisbury steak you served last night, add milk, bread and eggs and recycle it as meatballs.

Then there’s your mother-in-law, who doesn’t think much of your housekeeping. Tell her you’re collecting the dust kitties to make hair for her grandchild’s Halloween mask. A use and an excuse - it doesn’t get much better than that.

Reruns are recycled TV and syndicated programs are recycled radio. Unfortunately, recycling can be negative. Gossip is recycled rumors and divorce recycles spouses.

Words spoken without thinking can’t be recycled. Words spoken with thought turn into newspaper editorials, which are recycled opinions. There have been several occasions I’ve wanted to buy a bird. Then I could recycle some opinions about recycled politicians on the bottom of the bird’s cage.

The Difference Between An Optimist And A Pessimist

2008-07-08T13:55:00.005-07:00

Optimist: There is nothing more important than feeling good.

Pessimist: Come again? Didn’t I just tell you how bad everything is

Optimist: When you feel good you raise your vibrations. You get what you prefer. You send out a frequency that brings you what you love.

When you feel miserable, you’re setting yourself up to miscreate your reality. Your pain is a signal for you to change. It’s a warning blip on the radar of your mind.

The easiest thing you can do to change your life is to feel good. Finding ways to feel good opens the pathways to your preference.

It is so much easier to feel good. It is so much easier to get into health, clarity, and love, when you feel good. And it is so much easier to create the life you want that way.

When you feel bad, you’re pointing your car down the wrong side of the freeway. Sooner or later, you’re going to hit an oncoming car.

Pessimist:You just don’t understand, do you?

Optimist:I understand how you can feel bad-nothing is working out for you. Your bills aren’t paid and your rent is due and your car doesn’t work and your kids are out of control and your boss and coworkers hate you, and, and, and…but you just have to do it…you have to train yourself to feel good.

You see, all this is happening because you feel bad about what’s bad.

Pessimist: Yeah, right! So how do you feel good when everything is bad?

Optimist: You fake it-until you make it.

Pessimist:I gotcha! You’re a positive thinking nut!

Optimist: This is not about positive thinking: this is about positive vibrating. Your brain is an electromagnetic generator. It throws out thoughts all the time that affect your body and your world. And it brings to itself thoughts of a similar kind. You get to feel more of what you’re already feeling and observe the circumstances to justify it.

Naturally, when bad things happen you react to them–but, this sets in motion more bad things to come your way. It’s a vicious circle, I know. I understand how unnatural and forced it feels to try and feel good when things are going badly…but, but…it’s the only way to turn things around.

And when you feel good, then good things start happening. Somehow, for some strange reason, you find more people who seem to like you, and you find new ideas and new solutions, and you have happy accidents that spontaneously take care of those horrible disasters. And people for some reason want to pay you more and help you more and just be around you more.

Pessimist: This is way too simple! Do you realize how much time I spend trying to figure things out?

Optimist: I’d try to make this more complex if I knew how.

All I can say is that you always get to choose how you want to feel about anything.

If I were you, I’d start to feel good. Reasons why will soon start showing up.

Don't Babies Make The World Go Around?

2008-07-08T13:55:00.003-07:00

What is it about babies that makes us want to touch a woman’s pregnant belly? What makes us want to nibble babies’ toes?

Babies are human magnets. Their innocence and vulnerability draw us to them. Of course, when they aren’t ours, we feel innocent when they scream and we don’t feel vulnerable when they need a diaper change.

All babies are beautiful. Some are just more beautiful than others. That’s genetics. Teaching the child to be beautiful on the inside - that’s work.

Raising a child is hard work. Many women worry about their lack of experience for what seems like an overwhelming responsibility, but they shouldn’t worry. If a wife has taken care of her husband when he’s been sick, she has experience taking care of a baby.

My first child was the first grandchild on my husband’s side of the family. For two and a half years he was a prince. Then came our second child. Because I’d read books about sibling rivalry and had listened to other mothers tell war stories about it, I worried.

When I brought our new son home, I casually put him on the living room carpet instead of laying him in a manger. My older son took one look at his little brother, asked if that was all he did and then asked his grandmother to take him to the park.

There wouldn’t be second children if Mother Nature didn’t erase some of the delivery memories, but no matter how many children a mother has, the last will always be her baby - even when that baby has babies. A mother won’t outgrow motherhood until Peter Pan grows up.

Then there are the grandparents. They lovingly hold their grandchildren, looking for family resemblances, for inherited traits. Secretly, however, they’re hoping this child gives their child as much trouble as their child gave them.

All too soon the baby is a toddler, then an adolescent, then a teenager. When you look at your teenagers, it’s hard to believe you’d been eager for them to talk - not talk back. You’d looked forward to their taking their first step - not walking into the garage to get into their car. You were excited about their first day of school - not paying for college.

In time children turn their parents into babies. All too soon we’re the ones crying - at their baptisms, at their graduations and at their weddings.

Would You Rather Be In Philadelphia?

2008-07-08T13:55:00.001-07:00

W.C. Fields said, “All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia”. It’s what he sarcastically suggested as his epitaph.

I’d rather be in Philadelphia than have my annual physical. The tests don’t bother me - although being a Type A personality makes me want to study for them. Asking as many questions as I can in the fifteen minutes I’m actually with my doctor is like playing “Beat the Clock”, but that doesn’t bother me. However, the first U.S. Mint is in Philadelphia; and I’d rather be there thinking that I’m in mint condition than waiting for my test results.

When I go to my dentist, having him fill my mouth with cotton before he asks about my family doesn’t bother me. His saying, “This may hurt a little” doesn’t bother me - even though his definition of “little” and mine are a lot different. However, I’d rather be in Philadelphia than in his waiting room. Reading that William Penn wants to design a city to be named Philadelphia and that Benjamin Franklin just proved lightning is static electricity is new news according to the magazines in my dentist’s waiting room.

I’d rather be in Philadelphia looking at the crack in the Liberty Bell than having the cracks in the kitchen ceiling fixed. It’s not the dust or the lack of privacy or the basic chaos that bothers me. What bothers me is that fixing up the house never ends. Fixing up the house somehow makes the furniture look old, the paint look dull or the carpet look worn.

If I had to choose between being in Philadelphia or fundraising for the fifth grade class trip to science camp, I’d be in Independence Hall right now. I’d be independently trying to figure out who put the word “fun” in fundraising.

I’d rather be in Philadelphia than pretend to like a gift. I bet George Washington didn’t have to pretend to like Betsy Ross’ flag. I bet George didn’t feel he had to say, “Isn’t this special” or “I’ve never seen one like this before” or “I can’t believe you made this”.

I pretend to like a plastic, gold fish lamp because I don’t want to hurt Cousin Walter’s feelings. I’m committed to being non-committal. W.C. Field’s gravestone actually turned out to be non-committal. It says only his name and the dates 1880-1946. What it doesn’t say is he was born in Philadelphia.

Do You Remember Your School Daze?

2008-07-06T12:37:00.005-07:00

I still have nightmares about being unprepared for school tests. Would dream analysts interpret that as meaning I don’t feel in control of my life or that I have a fear of failure? Maybe I just need to be better prepared for blood tests and eye tests.

I went to an all girls’ school - white blouses, blue skirts and brown oxfords. The only time I got away with makeup was for missed tests.

I didn’t like math. I didn’t like subjects that had exact answers - subjects with no wiggle room. History didn’t have wiggle room. I didn’t understand the importance of learning specific dates. Who remembers them? When I was studying history, the only important dates were on weekends.

I liked philosophy, psychology and religion because they had wiggle room. I liked literature classes best because they had the most wiggle room. Because we read works by dead authors, who could say my essays about them were wrong?

Then there was physical education. The best thing about phys ed classes was not having tests. In my case, however, some creative writing was necessary - by my doctor. With his help I avoided field hockey like the plague.

Being a compulsive personality, I took copious notes in every class. When studying for tests, I took notes on my notes. The ability to memorize got me through school.

Now the inability to memorize is one reason I don’t take adult education classes. The other reason is I never want to see a report card again. I never understood how I could get a 3 in effort for a subject in which I had gotten an A; but in spite of being a Type A personality, I didn’t have that problem enough.

I never had the problem of being teacher’s pet. Well, maybe I was the drama teacher’s pet and she just acted like I wasn’t.

When I was in school, who knew I’d have as much trouble with my sons’ homework as I’d had with my own? Who knew some countries would change boundaries and some would change names? Who knew there’d be new math?

One time when I was helping my younger son study for an American history test, he explained history had been much easier for me because I’d had much less history to learn. Hmmm … maybe it wasn’t a dog that ate my homework. Maybe it was a dinosaur.

Women, Would You Like To Be A Man For A Day?

2008-07-06T12:37:00.003-07:00

Would I like to be a man for a day? Sure. I’d like to walk a mile in my husband’s Nikes. It would help me understand the male species. However…if I got lost while walking the mile, I’d ask directions.

Men are physically stronger, faster and have less body fat; but what I envy most is their clothes. I would love to be able to wear a different shirt and have the result be considered a different outfit.

Males don’t appreciate the advantages they have. For example, they don’t appreciate shaving - but they should. It removes the top layer of facial skin before it turns to wrinkles. Women pay big bucks for laser treatments or chemicals peels to get the same result.

Men don’t have to fight for equal pay with women. Unfortunately, women in their struggle to get through the glass ceiling (as well as sweep up the broken glass) have managed to gain equal rights to stress-related heart disease.

There’s an equal rights bumper sticker that reads, “A woman’s place in the house..and the senate”. Right on! Life has qualified us for those positions. Everyday we solve problems regarding health, transportation, education and more - and all within budget!

Several years ago the men in my family gave me a license plate frame that read, “The best man for the job is a woman”. I thought it was an amusingly stimulating thought - until one day when I was getting into my car in the library parking lot.

A man passing by read the license plate frame and started yelling obscenities at me. When I drove out of the parking lot, he followed me in his car for several blocks, yelling obscenities out his car window.

Because I had seen this man carrying library books, I assumed he could read; and if he could read, I assumed he was educated. Obviously, not educated enough.

It’s no longer a man’s world. Stewardesses are now flight attendants. Actresses are referred to as actors. Soon a mentor will be called a peopletor.

If a man continues to expect his home to be his castle, he should expect the Tidy Bowl man to be sailing his little boat in the king’s throne. If a man thinks his dog is his best friend, his dog must cook, clean and like to watch football.

Although I like new experiences and challenges, I’m sure one day as a man would be enough for me. After all, it didnt take God that long to decide to improve his work by making woman.

Don’t You Wish Wishes Came True?

2008-07-06T12:37:00.001-07:00

Blowing out birthday candles, seeing a falling star, saying a word at the same time someone else does, blowing away an eyelash - although there are lots of ways to make wishes, my mother-in-law still makes surprise visits. I still wonder if I’m the only one who worries about people spitting on the cake when they blow out the candles - but I digress.

If I had just one wish, I don’t know how I’d use it. I’d like my relatives to live nearby, but I know what you’re going to say. Be careful what you ask for, you might get it. Okay, maybe we’d get on each other’s nerves; but I have that problem with neighbors now and I’m not related to them.

Maybe I should think bigger. When it comes to people in general, I’d like them to do what they say they’re going to do. From plumbers to politicians, they don’t. When these "just talkers" get to the Pearly Gates, I want Saint Peter to tell them he’ll get back to them.

Maybe what I want is for time to slow down - for it to pass as slowly as my hair grows. I’m always five inches from being stylish - which is ten months of hair gels, bobby pins and the awkward stages that make me cut my hair again.

No, what I want is Daylight Saving Time to last all year. I’m more productive when it’s light outside. That’s why I’m a morning person. Recently, because of an eye infection, I’ve had to wear an eye mask to bed. Now I’m in the dark about when it’s morning. I’m still a morning person - just a later morning person.

Maybe what I really want is eight hours of sleep every night. I get caught up in whatever I do after dinner and lose track of time. Of course, if I really wanted eight hours of sleep, I’d look at my watch. I guess what I want is to wake up feeling like I’ve had eight hours of sleep.

No, what I really want is what I wanted as a child - for Santa Claus to be real. Not only would he know what everyone on my list wanted, but I wouldn’t have to shop for it. If Santa was real, my inner child could wake up excited Christmas morning believing she got just what she wanted - wishes that came true.

What's A Sure Cure For Pigging Out?

2008-06-28T10:44:00.005-07:00

Vegetating doesn’t make you a vegetarian. I know. I’ve been a non-flesh eater for over twenty years. I’m not the Noah of nourishment, trying to save the animals. I can’t digest animal protein, so it’s my way to help my leather-wearing self feel better about what I eat.

Being a necessary life change, however, didn’t make it an easy one. I had to bite the bullet with teeth scientists say prove humans are meant to be herbivores and go cold turkey - so to speak.

Although my husband thought it would be a passing phase - like aroma therapy or psychic readings - my sons were supportive. Okay, they were supportive as soon as they realized they wouldn’t have to eat liver again.

When cooking, I no longer throw the bull, get my goose cooked or consider the meat of the matter. Eating out is different. Then the men in my family turn into “wherewolves”, as in where can they get their animal protein fix.

Chinese, Indian, Italian and Thai are all vegetarian-friendly cuisines; and going to a steak house doesn’t have to be a mi-stake. I can make a meal of side dishes or have potato and salad. Worse case scenario, I can ask for extra olives in my martini.

Many people think being a vegetarian requires unappetizing self-discipline. It doesn’t. The versatility of vegetables literally runs the gamut from soup to nuts. It’s parsnips, rutabagas and turnips that give being a vegetarian a bad name.

Of course, the pale, tattooed, body-pierced , multicolored-haired cashiers in health food stores don’t improve the image. The good news is their appearances aren’t caused by a deficiency in animal protein.

Soy beans are the vegetarians’ protein. These beans can be turned into burgers, cheese - even ice cream. They can be turned into tofu for stir fries, curries and kebobs. Happily, they haven’t turned my family into meal-time mutineers.

No carnivore should feel sorry for me. I’m not missing food that tastes good; I’m missing cholesterol-laden food that isn’t good. As for things that really taste good - cakes and cookies are vegetarian.

We recently gave a cocktail party at which all the hors d’oeuvres were meatless - bruschetta, mini wild mushroom pizzas, won tons stuffed with red pepper relish and avocado, pastry shells filled with pear and Gruyere cheese. There was no reason for the hostess to be on the lamb.

All the guests, whom I’m sure were expecting less-than-succulent, stereotypical, raw vegetable trays, were deliciously surprised. Vegetarians have no trouble participating in the world of carnivores. We even meat new friends.

How Do You Define Friend?

2008-06-28T10:44:00.003-07:00

The dictionary defines friend as “a person one knows well and is fond of”. First, this is too vague a definition to describe a female friend.

Second, if I’m not meant to end a sentence with a preposition, I don’t think Webster’s Dictionary, the protector of our language, should end a definition with one.

Of course, a true pal wouldn’t mind. A true pal wouldn’t mind if you ended a sentence with a dangling participle.

People become buddies because they have something in common - work, church, not being able to get out of chaperoning a school trip. A woman, however, makes a better buddy for a woman than a man would.

A woman will talk to you during football season. She’ll even turn off the television to talk to you and she’ll talk about feelings.

A soul sister is a unique being. She tells you the truth, whether you want to hear it or not. In return, you’d do anything for her. Okay - not windows.

A female, constant compannion helps you through the hard times - well, maybe not a bad hair day. When you think your life couldn’t get any worse, she points out your family hasn’t been invited to be on the Jerry Springer Show. When you are feeling blue because of the quality of the men in your life, she reminds you that you never dated Geraldo Rivera.

A female playmate doesn’t tell your age, let you be surprised by surprise parties or talk behind your back - unless she’s watching your back at the same time. If your daughter still has eleven boxes of Girl Scout cookies to sell, she’ll buy them

A female confidant is always there for you, even when she’s miles away. She’ll be on the phone as long as you need her and often longer.

Some say a cherished chum is someone you’d pick to be a relative, but a chum wouldn’t do that to a truly cherished chum, so I have my own definitions.

A friend is born from convenience and proven by inconvenience. When you ask a friend for a favor, she says when - not why. Life is a balancing act; a friend is the safety net. Love may make the world go around, but a friend keeps you from falling off.

Friendship is a gift we can give to ourselves. To have a friend you have to be one - which explains the “i” in friendship.

Build It And They Will Come?

2008-06-28T10:44:00.001-07:00

If you ask architects what’s up, they’ll say the project they just finished. Architects turn dreams into realities, bridge past and present and have high hopes for the future. As of now, the highest is Taipei 101 at 1,671 feet.

Los Angeles’ architecture runs the gamut from a building that looks like a donut to Frank Gheary’s metal extravaganza - also known as Disney Music Hall. Architecturally speaking, that’s more like sprinting the gamut.

In nearby Santa Monica the Rand Corporation’s new building has a conservative exterior, which encompasses a beautiful, interior courtyard - a perfect design to bring out the inner thoughts of a think tank.

From Mount Vernon to MacDonald’s, from the Eiffel Tower to an Esso station, architects combine purpose with personality - most of the time.

Frank Gheary also designed Santa Monica’s enclosed mall. It opened in 1981; but as the fad changed to outside, themed malls, stores moved out. Frank Gheary freely admits Santa Monica Place is his least favorite of his many buildings and that he built it for the money. Now it’s a tribute to humility.

There’s nothing humble about strip malls. They’re environmental eye sores - a combination of architecture and anarchy. If necessity is the mother of invention and strip malls are necessary, why can’t architects ad-dress them?

A Tudor house among stucco boxes, a French chateau surrounded by suburban ranches, a mini Monticello amid clapboard cottages - these are architectural proof the customer isn’t always right and visual proof good taste can’t be bought.

Washington has the White House, New York City has the Empire State Building, St. Louis has the Arch and Las Vegas has…adult Disneyland. Architecture grows through styles - colonial, neo-classical, art-deco.

Modern architecture uses a range of building materials as wide as the architect’s imagination. Some leave structures exposed in bold statements of simplicity. It’s in-your-face architecture and a style much appreciated by electricians and plumbers.

At-this-point-in-time is another type of architecture. My husband and I started in an apartment; when the boys were growing, we lived in houses with grassy yards; now we live in a condo because we got tired of taking care of the grassy yards.

I’d love to live in a house designed by Frank Gheary, but it would be like living in a work of art. I’m concentrating on the art of living. I want our home to reflect us - without the use of mirrors.

Do You Know What's In Store?

2008-06-25T06:42:00.005-07:00

I must have missed the “Mission Impossible ” episode about getting a husband to help shop for family gifts. In desperation I blurted out that gifts can be found in any store. Before I could grab a fork to eat my words, John turned a misguided moment into a challenge.

He’d name a half dozen different kinds of stores. If I couldn’t come up with an acceptable present from each store, his presence wouldn’t be required.

Dry cleaners was his first challenge. Gift certificate was my response. Everyone needs to clean up their act from time to time. No more gift cards was my husband’s reply.

Gas station was his next try, but I was looking right at the inspiration for my answer. Maps - no man on our list would ever have to ask directions again.

Not finding that amusing, John started looking around the room. Florist, he said - no flowers - no FTD. My ability to instantly wilt flowers prompted me reply - packets of the prolong-life powder. Even when family and friends get flowers from someone else, they’ll think of us.

At this point my husband started to nervously fumble with his glasses. This prompted his insightful challenge of optometrist. He thought this was a prescription for success, but I saw through it and answered eyeglass chains - great for those who can’t see to find their glasses.

Feeling the heat of only two stores to go, John thought for a couple of minutes before barking out bank - no money - no savings bonds. With the voice of experience I bragged I could get a free gift from the bank. He then disqualified paper, coin wrappers until I qualified them as a companion gift to the bank I had made out of a plastic jar - also free.

It was down to the last store. John thought and thought. Plumbing supply came out through a smug grin. After several minutes I had to admit - mission impossible. All I could think to get at a plumbing supply was inspiration - inspiration to buy butt-covering underwear.

Yes, I lost the challenge; but to show my husband that I could lose graciously, I went to the cobbler and bought him a gift - a sole for an 11E shoe. I glued the sole to a piece of poster board; and on the poster board I wrote, ” Buying family gifts is now my sole responsibility”.

How I Found Out That God Bowls On Monday Evenings at 7

2008-06-25T06:42:00.003-07:00

I grew up in a little town named Auburn in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. On Sundays we faithfully attended the Pioneer Methodist Church, directly across the street from Harry Sand’s Chapel of the Hills Funeral Home. My folks were married in that church in September of 1929, a fact which had nothing to do with the crash of the stock market the following month. Of course I couldn’t know then that my parents 50th anniversary reception would be held in that church, and five years after that, my Dad’s funeral. All the Shinn tribe had been Methodists from way back, including my grandfather in Missouri who was a circuit-riding preacher, and some great-great-great grandfather who apparently worked along side John Wesley in the English revivals of the 1700’s.

Down the street from our church was another church, which my folks referred to as a “holy roller” kind of church, with a sign outside that read:

Jesus Saves & Heals Every Evening at 7PM Except Mondays

I grew up wondering what Jesus did on Monday evenings. My Uncle Verge (who wasn’t really my uncle; we just called him that; he was a neighbor who lived across the field from us) went bowling on Monday evenings, and although a good Methodist child wouldn’t be caught dead inside a bowling alley back in those days, I sometimes visualized Jesus bowling along side of Uncle Verge, since they both apparently had Monday evenings off.

Our church was the respectable church in town during the mid-40s. It had stained-glass windows, oak pews, and a brass lamp stand with 7 candles. We sang the great old hymns of the faith out of a regular hymnbook, accompanied by a pipe organ and the violet-robed choir, and even though I had no idea what words such as “here I raise my Ebenezer,” or “rend your hearts and not your garments” meant, I figured the adults did. Later I found out that the great majority of them were as clueless as I about their meaning.

Our pipe organ was big and old, capably played by the minister’s wife, and my second favorite place in the entire church was in the pipe room, accessible only through a little door in back of the choir loft. I used to sit in the pipe room while by folks were at choir practice, imagining that I was the conductor of a massive orchestra. Later, when I was 12 or so, a devious friend showed me how to throw the organ temporarily out of pitch through a combination of tape and cotton. Our biggest project was to throw the 16-foot “D” pipe (the organ pipe that makes the low “D” sound) for the Christmas cantata in 1949. Our choir was performing the Hallelujah Chorus, and it is in the key of D, so that low D is the foundation on which the entire composition was based. Timing was critical. We had to rig things up between the organ prelude and the start of the cantata, a period we estimated as being no more than three minutes while Rev. Cheek offered the invocation and welcomed the guests. Meanwhile, we had to crawl out of the fellowship hall, slither up the stairs and behind the back row of the choir without being detected. We pulled it off like clockwork, arriving in the pipe room just in time for the invocation. Rich, my co-worker in crime, manned the tape while I handled the cotton. We had no sooner finished than we were surrounded (and deafened) by the first chord of Handel’s great Oratorio as the concert began. We apparently didn’t do something exactly right, because the pitch was not as far off as we had planned; just barely sharp, enough to annoy the trained ear, but not enough to disturb the general public too much. In retrospect, that was probably for the best, as if the pitch had been too far off, the choir director no doubt would have stopped the concert and investigated. As it was, he carried on, frowning occasionally at the organist, as if she could do anything about it. We later heard comments at the reception following such as “My, that organ is sounding old!”, and “Didn’t Mr. Dithers just work on it last summer?”, and “You know, it was good except for the bass section.”

Our exit went as smooth as our entrance, and by the time the closing prayer was over we were safely in the fellowship hall, tape and cotton disposed of. It was one of the really proud moments of my life, and I seriously thought of taking up burglary as a profession. My only regret was that I couldn’t tell anyone about my triumph without paying a price I wasn’t prepared to pay.

There were other times, many other times, when things didn’t go as smoothly. When I was six I played the part of Tiny Tim in the Christmas play in the fellowship hall, and I fell off the edge of the stage instead of saying “God bless us everyone!” Hysterical laughter is not a fitting end to Dickens Christmas Carol.

My first favorite place in the church was the bell tower, the delight of every kid, and I used to love to climb up the winding stairs and feel the texture of the rope that led to the bell. Occasionally Mr. Ornsby, our Sunday School superintendent, would let one of us kids ring the bell during the break between Sunday School and church, much to our delight. One Halloween years later, a friend (who grew up to become the Sheriff of Placer County) and I broke into the church (we didn’t think of it at the time as “breaking in”, since it was “our church” and we regularly went in and out through a back window we knew about), and rang the bell for about two minutes at midnight. Having grown up in the church and knowing every inch of the surrounding hillside was an advantage when the police came, and we were long gone and headed up Nevada Street for home by the time they got the minister (who had apparently slept through our little concert) out of bed in the parsonage next door and had him unlock the church to see who was ringing the bell.

Who's The Weaker Sex?

2008-06-25T06:42:00.001-07:00

Women live an average of five years longer than men. That shouldn’t be a surprise. That’s life.

It begins with girls playing less violent games. As girls grow up, they play the same sports as boys; but they don’t play them as violently. When girls grow from adolescence to womanhood, they’re not limping.

Women are built to propagate - to carry a growing life from fertilized egg to newborn - from conception to seven or eight pounds. Men are built to carry sperm.

Carrying a baby for nine months changes a woman’s perspective as much as it changes her figure. We see our lives change and learn to adjust. Not fitting into the same size jeans is usually one of the biggest adjustments.

When a man’s jeans don’t fit, he buys a larger size. On men fat is called beer bellies or love handles. On women fat is called fat and all the exercise we get trying to overturn that double standard doesn’t budge it.

Vanity motivates women to take better care of themselves. We go to the doctor more than men do. We don’t see it as a sign of weakness. We see pain as a sign that something is wrong. Of course, if it’s a pain in the neck, it would probably be more helpful for us to go to a marriage counselor.

Today women are on the go as much as men. Being on the go in heels teaches us the importance of balance in our lives - but not in our checkbooks.

Women ask directions - not just about how to get somewhere, but also how to get through life. Friends, religious leaders and psychologists show us the way and make it less bumpy. Men just keep driving and expect shock absorbers to take care of all the bumps.

Maybe a man’s inability to ask directions stems from his inability to share his feelings. When men get together, they share exaggerations.

Married men have more time to exaggerate because they live longer than single men. That shouldn’t be a surprise. That’s marriage.

When a man gets married, he not only gets a wife, he also gets a housekeeper, a cook, a nurse, a social secretary and a lover. If he has children, he gets a nanny too. For men marrying is like one stop shopping.

Women would outlive men by more than five years if they had wives.

Do You Know How Generous You Are?

2008-06-23T23:59:00.005-07:00

Driving the carpool for another parent or loaning a friend money for a taxi - these are acts of kindness, otherwise known as favors. However, there is another kind of favor - the unintentional kind.

While I was driving to work, people who sell gas, tires and cars were on the receiving end of my previously unrecognized kindness. They all profited from my using up the life expectancy of their products. Starbucks profited from my consuming its product while I was driving.

It may be hard to believe, but we do favors for lawyers also. Having a disagreement with a neighbor, backing into a car, divorcing a spouse are examples - but one could think of a divorce as an unintentional favor for oneself too.

Doctors are another group who benefit. My pain is their gain. If I buy shoes that look better than they feel, the podiatrist benefits. If I don’t ask for help carrying the groceries, the chiropractor benefits. Because I had children, both the obstetrician and the makers of headache medicines benefited. In fact, having children exponentially multiplied the kind acts I did for manufacturers of clothes and shoes, pediatricians and orthodontists, General Mills and Johnson & Johnson.

I break a nail, spill coffee on my suit, stuff too many clothes into the washing machine - the number of businesses that profit from me daily is endless.

One day leads to the next and eventually I’ll be unintentionally doing favors for opticians, hearing specialists and plastic surgeons. Because I’ll start forgetting things, I’ll be unintentionally helping my local government via parking tickets.

Even doing something intentionally can have an unintentional benefit. When we decided to add a dog to our family, we adopted a poodle. Zachary is dander-free because he doesn’t shed. Because he doesn’t shed, his fur continually grows, which results in the groomer benefiting from my allergy every six weeks.

The thrift store is on the other end of the spectrum. It benefits from Cousin Walter only twice a year - right after my birthday and Christmas. One year both gifts were non-electric, coffee pots. The doubling was definitely unintentional, but I’m not sure either were favors.

I’d pat myself on the back for being such a generous person, but that could cause me to be too generous to the physical therapist. Because the last unintentional favor I’ll do will be for a mortician, I’m going to intentionally enjoy every day!

Orange You Glad Orange Is Out?

2008-06-23T23:59:00.003-07:00

Where are all the Pet Rocks and the Beanie Babies and the Smurfs? The Hula Hoop got around and around in the fifties. In the sixties tie dyed t-shirts were to die for. By the end of the seventies bell bottom pants bottomed out and in the eighties big hair was literally big.

A fad is something that interests a lot of people for a short time. In other words, you can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of the people all of the time.

Jennifer Aniston’s hair style in “Friends” and Cher’s tattoos - some fashions grow out of fashion and others leave their mark. Multi-colored hair faded in popularity, but the mini skirt still has legs.

Teenagers, who are struggling to define who they are, are the most susceptible to fads. Boys, wearing clothes that are too big, are into the rapper look. Girls, wearing clothes that are too tight, short and revealing, are into the Brittany look. Both looks make me wonder if their parents look.

It can’t be coincidence fad contains the word ad. An ad spreads fads faster than teenage girls on cell phones.

As a teenager I escaped fighting the fad frenzy because my school required uniforms. I complained at the time - a complaining teenager, unfortunately, isn’t a fad; but when I see the competition in today’s schools, I’m uniformly grateful for my white blouse, blue skirt and brown oxfords.

Of course, if a starlet were photographed wearing brown oxfords, they’d be copied and in stores before you could say Paris Hilton. What starts as something unique, turns into part of a teenager’s, voluntary uniform.

Orange was an in color last season. Somehow girls could look in mirrors and say to themselves, “Orange I in”. Unfortunately, if what goes around comes around applies to fashion, poodle skirts and Mohawks will be back.

“Daf” is an English word meaning silly. This one word might explain why the English tend to dress more conservatively. When you look in a mirror, things are backward. Backward, fad becomes daf.

The American language is inundated with fad words - cool, awesome, rad, bad. Language is like fly paper. Some words stick, some don’t and some make enough buzz to get into the dictionary.

However, there’s hope. The older you get, the less affected you are by fads. Older and wiser is always in style.

Does It Have Your Stamp Of Approval?

2008-06-23T23:59:00.001-07:00

Two cents here - three cents there - and up goes the cost of U.S. postage. Some of the increased revenue pays for change of address cards, which are free at the post office.

When we moved, I sent these cards to friends and relatives I couldn’t notify by e-mail. Yes, Virginia, there are people who don’t believe in e-mail. That I’m sure about.

What I’m not sure about is the Postal Service itself. On many occasions I’ve waited so long for an expected letter I’ve been tempted to go to the post office and conduct a funeral service at the dead letter box.

I think mail service would be more efficient if it were run by private enterprise. Both FedEx and UPS deliver packages on time and with a smile.

The only time my mailman smiles is at Christmas. Next Christmas might be different. Instead of leaving his monetary merriness in our mailbox, I’m going to mail it to him.

At Christmas and throughout the year, our mailbox is stuffed with unwanted ads and catalogs. It’s mailbox junk food.

What I want is first-class, fast food. Only bills come faster than expected.

“Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” or so it says on a New York City post office.

The inscription was adopted from Herodotus, a Greek historian who lived from 485 to 425 B.C; but the word “swift” must have lost something in translation.

Lost mail is another problem. How often have you been told the check’s in the mail, but you never get it?

If I were Post Master General, I’d make four, immediate changes in mail delivery. First, customers would no longer pay to mail letters and packages. They’d pay when they received them.

Second, the longer it took for mail to arrive, the less the customer would pay. Under this in”cent”ive plan, customers would be willing to pay up to forty-one cents per letter.

The third change I’d make would affect the mailing of bills. For bills the postage would continue to be paid for by the sender.

The fourth and final change I’d make would be in the delivery of mail. In order to guarantee on-time delivery, I would turn over delivery to private enterprise - to a delivery service that has never made one late delivery. Santa Clause would deliver the mail.

Have You Been To France?

2008-06-22T22:24:00.005-07:00

A friend sent me a postcard from France. The rolling hills of Provence, lush vineyards and charming chateaus - yes, I remember it well.

When my husband and I went to France, I packed so much he accused me of trying to smuggle things into the country for a garage sale. I’m a girl scout at heart. I wanted to be prepared.

To be prepared for the change in time a friend advised me to stay awake on the flight and go to bed at my usual time - local time. Blurry-eyed and exhausted, I collapsed into bed in Paris at 10pm, having lost a day - but not my luggage. By 10am (1am PST) the next day I was tempted to call my friend to thank her for her advice.

The advice on hotels came from a guide book, but hotels in France are like hotels everywhere - overpriced and understaffed. Of course, if I’d had the right adapter to plug in my hair dryer, I wouldn’t have needed one hotel’s electrician to help dry my hair. If I’d restrained myself from buying funky souvenirs, I wouldn’t have needed bellboys to help with my luggage.

Small things, such as the corkscrew shaped like the Eiffel Tower, weren’t problems. However, transporting a pillow that looked like a giant croissant and umbrellas decorated with French fries were problems - for my marriage.

John didn’t think France was the place to Christmas shop. John’s idea of a souvenir was his now-gray underwear, on which a hotel laundry had written his name in large, indelible letters. If John had given me time, I would have introduced the French to laundry whiteners and brightened their lives.

In France our lives were full with quaint buildings, which would be called dilapidated in the States; and there was always one more museum to visit - but not by taxi. French taxi drivers should have to take their foot off the gas pedal as often as they take their eyes off the road.

I should have taken my eyes off the pastries, but I couldn’t. A morning break with coffee and pastry; followed by an afternoon break with wine and pastry; and, of course, pastry for dessert at dinner - I carried memories of those pastries home on my hips.

Yes, I remember France. If we go there again, I’m sending a postcard to myself. It will say, “Wish you were here”.