That’s “Miss Debbie” to you

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The South has a custom I wish the rest of our country would adopt.

Little children down south are taught from an early age to call adults “Mr.” or “Miss,” followed by the adult’s first name.

Think of it! Sam Jones becomes “Mr. Sam.” Stephanie Green becomes “Miss Stephanie.”

No more difficulties in knowing what to call your elders. It would even work for people in my generation, who aren’t prepared to call the adults in my parents’ generation by their first names, even when they insist on it!

Look, people marry, get divorced, take back their maiden names, marry again, etc.

That’s confusing enough for adults; why burden our kids with it?

One of my son’s little friends used to call me “Mrs. (my son’s name) Mom.”

A standard naming practice would eliminate that. Rarely do people change their first names, and those are the names the kids hear all the time anyway.

How many adults refer to the grocer on the corner as Mr. Malone or the dental hygienist as Mrs. McCoy?

No, it’s simply “Henry” or “Molly.”

Haven’t you cringed when you overheard the kids blurt out “Henry” or “Molly” while talking to those adults? Wouldn’t it be easier if they grew up referring to the grocer as “Mr. Henry” and the hygienist as “Miss Molly?”

I suspect the kids would adapt easily. After all, most day cares and preschools call their teachers and aides “Miss,” followed by a first name.

It’s only when they get into elementary school that they’re expected to keep up with Teacher’s marital status and last name.

Why should they have to?

And while we’re at it, let’s go whole hog and have our kids call adults “ma’am” and “sir” when speaking with them.

Doesn’t “yes, ma’am” or “no, sir” really sound better than “uh-huh” or “uh-uh?”

When My Favorite Domer was little, I tried to get him to do that. It sounded so charming when my niece and nephew, both native Southerners, did.

MFD picked it up fairly quickly, but dropped it just as fast when he didn’t hear any of his friends speaking like that.

Too bad.

Maybe he’ll pick it back up when he starts interviewing for jobs!

 

Illinois, stop taxing us to the poorhouse

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Political wrangling in Illinois stooped to new lows yesterday, when Democratic lawmakers (by a single vote) approved a 66 percent hike in income tax. The measure now moves to Gov. Pat Quinn for approval (and he’s indicated he will sign it).

I can’t speak for others, but that makes me MAD!

This vote came in the waning hours of a lame duck session; not a single Republican voted for it, and the new, more Republican General Assembly apparently can’t do a thing other than squawk about it.

Sure, we have a budget deficit in the Land of Lincoln. Sure, we haven’t been able to pay our state’s bills in a long time. Sure, our bond credit rating is in the pits.

But come on! Now they’re going to raise personal income tax from 3 percent to 5 percent. Corporate tax will go up nearly 50 percent, from 4.8 percent to 7 percent.

How the heck do they think they’re going to be able to keep residents and businesses here with taxes that high? As one lawmaker quipped, My advice is to invest in moving vans.

No kidding!

A person making $50,000 a year will see his state taxes increase from $1,500 to $2,500.

This, during an already-lean and difficult economy.

No wonder officials in both Indiana and Wisconsin are reportedly salivating about luring some of the Illinois businesses seeking to flee such a tax burden!

The really aggravating thing about this cowardly move is that it’s not going to stop the rampant spending that got us into problems in the first place. Every resident, every small businessperson, knows you can’t dance like there’s no tomorrow — eventually, the piper must be paid.

And you can’t blame one political party any more than the other. Both got us into this mess; both will have to work together to get us out of it.

It’s bad enough having our “dirty laundry” aired for the entire nation (our last two governors — one from each political party — got into high-profile legal troubles for one reason or another). Now we have to be known as a deadbeat state taxing its residents and businesses to the max.

Lawmakers estimate the new taxes will generate $6.8 billion a year, money that will be used to ease the state’s $15 billion deficit. They say they need to fund pensions and make up the federal shortfall, not initiate new programs.

And they say the measure is temporary. After four years, the rate drops to 3.75 percent.

Ya think??

Realistically speaking, which taxing body ever rescinds a tax once it’s in place??

Enough Snow Already!

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Once again, we in the Midwest U.S. are getting inundated by piles of snow.

And while shoveling some of that mess yesterday, I started pitying residents of other parts of the country who aren’t used to snowy winters yet are suffering through some of the same conditions we are.

For you “snow newbies” here are my best tips for dealing with the white stuff:

  • Buy some boots, assuming you can find them. Strappy sandals and stiletto heels are too-cute-for-words, but terribly impractical on snow and ice.
  • Buy an insulated parka, a hat, and mittens. You want a coat material that repels water yet keeps you warm. You need a hat because we lose most of our body heat through our heads. And yes, gloves are more stylish, but mittens are warmer (something to do with having all your fingers together rather than separated, or so I’ve been told!)
  • Try to get your groceries, refill your prescriptions, and do your necessary errands before the snows come. You have to assume it might take days for the snow plows (or Mother Nature) to clear the roads sufficiently for you to travel about.
  • Keep your car’s gas tank full. Who wants to stand outside freezing while pumping gas?
  • Buy a snow shovel. A snow blower looks cool but works best on the light, fluffy kind of snow. What, you didn’t know there are different kinds of snow? The heavy, wet variety is hardest to shovel, whereas the fluffy kind blows and drifts best when the wind kicks up.

Hospital emergency rooms see a lot of winter-related injuries. Don’t be one of them! Don’t stay outside more than is necessary and be sure you cover exposed skin to prevent hypothermia.

Snow and ice are two different things. The former is a nuisance, but the latter can be deadly. Walk gingerly; drive defensively, assuming the other guy can’t/won’t stop before slamming into you.

Don’t risk back injury by shoveling snow the wrong way. You want to push the snow out of the way, not scoop it up, turn, and toss it to one side.

Stand your shovel on the sidewalk or driveway (about a 45-degree angle) and push until the load becomes nearly immovable, then give your shovel a good kick to unload it. If the snow is particularly wet, you’ll need to tap it off between pushes. I don’t know for sure, but I think this is pretty good exercise for legs and derrieres!

If you must pick up a shovel-full of snow, bend your knees, squat, and scoop, rather than keeping your back rigid.

Don’t shovel after eating a big meal. Take frequent breaks and get out of the elements periodically. When you’re done, reward yourself with a cup of hot cocoa beside the fireplace!

“But I’ve Always Worn a Small!”

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Is it my imagination, or are clothing manufacturers doing their darnedest to make things on the cheap these days?

Take sizing, for instance.

While today’s average-sized woman is a 14, thankfully I’m the same size 6 I’ve been for years. I don’t consider that “Large,” but rarely do I find tops that fit nowadays unless I buy a Large.

Or s-q-u-e-e-z-e into something that makes me look like a tramp or a stuffed sausage.

Manufacturers might say they’re cutting clothing more generously, but they lie. Just go into a store, any store; browse through the racks and try a few things on.

Everything is clingier. Flimsier. And adding Spandex so women will assure themselves they’re “still a size 8” or whatever isn’t fooling anybody.

Tight clothing that shows everything isn’t flattering on anybody and doesn’t make you look thinner.

Yesterday I was going through my closet trying to find something appropriate to wear for a special meeting. I stumbled upon a white, crew-neck, long-sleeved T-shirt I’d bought a few years back but never worn.

Finally the occasion I was “saving” it for had arrived!

I tried it on and Wow! It fit perfectly, had just the right amount of breathing room, was of substantial thickness so my undergarments didn’t show through, and felt soft and smooth, just like this style shirt should.

Out of curiosity, I pulled a similar T-shirt off my shelf. One I’d bought this year, earlier in the season; one I hadn’t worn yet, either.

Same manufacturer, same style, same size, same material, different color.

But the new one felt entirely different. Thinner. Clingier. Cheaper.

If I had to choose which one would last longer, guess which I’d pick?

Yep, the one I’d bought first.

Maybe that’s the idea. Make things so cheap they quickly fall apart and force women to buy new things.

Wonder if men have this same problem?

Go Rebels!

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Don’t you just love checking out the new stores you see when you go on vacation??

Over Christmas, I visited family along the Mississippi Gulf Coast and, while far too many things are gone, some interesting shopping experiences remain (yeah, that song was before Katrina, but it’s sadly true today).

One of my more successful shopping experiences took place at Academy Sports. While they have NO stores outside the South (and parts of the Southwest), and their Website lacks online shopping capability, they have the most amazing selection of sports and fitness wear, as well as NCAA and pro fan gear.

I went in looking for a nylon warm-up suit (I found dozens!). What I came out with, though, was this:

Col. Reb will ALWAYS be my mascot!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cool, huh?!

Best of all, they had ONE of these T-shirts left. And it just happened to be in my size!

Woo-Hoo, Happy Dance!

It’s like they knew I was coming or something and saved it just for me!

Now that my alma mater has supposedly switched to a black bear as its mascot, these Col Reb shirts are scarcer than hens’ teeth!

But I got one. And, Rebel that I am, I’m gonna wear it with pride!

Shoot, I wish I could dream up an excuse to go to Oxford and flaunt it in the administration’s face.

I’d love to see their expression!

Nostalgia in a Pickle Jar

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I spent Christmas along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, visiting my sis and her family and soaking up some warmer weather (though they, too, had some nights below freezing!)

When you’re away from home base for several days, you find yourself attending a different church, patronizing different restaurants and stores, and running into different people than usual.

I want to recapture some of those experiences here.

One of the churches I attended has a custom — after the adults’ collection plate has been passed — of inviting the children to come forward and drop their donations into a huge glass pickle jar to be given to charity.

Because of the holidays, the kids were dressed to the nines. Fancy crinoline dresses, little Christmas vests, bows in hair, khaki trousers, patent Mary Janes.

They looked darling.

They also seemed a bit hesitant about dropping their coins and bills into the jar (fortunately, no one reached back in to retrieve their donation!)

Anyway, one little girl with dark curls, a satin-looking red dress, and matching red shoes was the last to give. When she finished, she balked at leaving the altar, holding her arms up until daddy rescued her and carried her back to the pew.

The whole church giggled.

Grandparents and those of us with older kids reminisced over days gone by; parents of younger kids were all-too-familiar with the scene.

It brought to mind something My Favorite Domer said recently about how Christmas “just isn’t as much fun” as it was when he was little.

No toys, not as many presents, nothing from Santa.

Well, duh!

Part of me wanted to argue that his “toys” now are much more expensive than when he was little and to snidely tell him, “Welcome to the adult world,” but I stopped myself.

What if he’s right?

Does growing up have to make us jaded? Can’t we find a way to approach the holidays with childlike wonder, to enjoy and fully live in the present without sacrificing memories of the past?

Ring, ring!

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I have a love-hate relationship with cell phones.

I love them because:

  • They’re convenient. Pop one in your purse or pocket, and you’ll never miss that important call.
  • They’re small. Ditto, above. Remember land-lines? Even the cordless kind was bulky.
  • They’re versatile. Talk, text, take pictures or video, listen to music. Like having an all-purpose fun machine!

I hate them because they make you so available.

They ring; you answer. You stop what you’re doing, and you answer.

Why is that? Most cell phones come equipped with voice messaging. Why won’t we use it?

If it’s an emergency, of course we need to be notified. But chances are, it’s not.

Chances are, it’s just hubby wanting to know which brand of green beans to buy. Or a friend wanting your recipe for coleslaw. Or one of the kids reminding you of soccer practice. Or some such.

Nothing immediate there, right?

Still, we’re expected to be Johnny-on-the-Spot with our “Hello.”

Which wouldn’t be so bad if the call didn’t come in at an inconvenient time. Or place.

Take yesterday morning, for example. I was in WalMart checking out when my cell phone rang. Looking behind me, I saw four angry customers in line and a clerk waiting for my money.

What to do?

Risk angering those strangers further, or hope my caller would understand my brusqueness?

Choices, choices.

And no easy answers.

I’m sure somebody somewhere has come up with a list of do’s and don’t’s regarding cell phone niceties, but nobody seems to be aware of it.

People tell what should be the most private of things into cell phones — at restaurants, shopping malls, airports. They give their entire schedules, bank account numbers,  rendezvous locations. They speak of their kids’ failures, their spouse’s quirks, their own sexual escapades.

All for everyone to overhear.

Inadvertently, or not.

Anyway, I opted for brusqueness. I explained why I couldn’t talk and told my caller I’d return the call shortly.

Simple solution.

Why then did my clerk look so stunned and give me a hearty “Thank you!”?

Wouldn’t anybody in my position do the same?

I guess not. My clerk said most people simply chat away, oblivious to others’ impatience.

I think that’s pretty rude. What do you think?

A quiet New Year’s Eve

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I always feel like an “old soul” on New Year’s Eve.

And it doesn’t have a thing to do with my age!

There’s just too much mischief and noise and forced revelry for me. Too many exploding fireworks, too many drunks on the road, too many expectations of serious fun, too many “Year in Review” lists.

It seems as if everybody is looking back, when I’d much prefer looking ahead!

As a kid, I loved staying up late to watch the New Year’s specials on TV and share a toast with the grown-ups. Maybe it was the chance to postpone bedtime; maybe it was the treat of “toasting” with sparkling grape juice or even a soda; maybe it was the joy of listening to “teenaged music” without parental grumbling for a change!

Fast-forward several years. My ex-husband and his family introduced me to their custom of banging pots to celebrate the new year. They’d all march out to the front porch — pans and pots and kitchen utensils in hand — and beat the living daylights out of them. I never knew if it was to frighten the “bad spirits” or “make a joyful noise to the Lord.”

After My Favorite Domer came along, I found myself working many New Year’s Days so I could spend Christmas with him. Consequently, New Year’s Eve was pretty much a non-event and like as not, found me fast asleep when the ball dropped in New York City!

Probably my favorite New Year’s Eve, though, came when I was in college. I spent the weekend with a girlfriend after a bowl game, and the two of us each had two dates in one night! We got bored with the first pair of guys and ditched them early — pleading headaches, or some such excuse! — then promptly went right back out with two new guys and had a blast. The midnight hour found us chomping French fries and guzzling hot chocolate in a 24-hour diner!

Totally out of character, I know, but fun anyway.

Suffice it to say, my “stick-in-the-mud” ways mean I won’t be nursing a hangover tomorrow. I won’t be moaning my lack of sleep or wondering how I got home or what happened to my car.

I won’t have spent more money than I could afford, won’t have eaten or drunk myself into misery, won’t have lost a finger or an eye to a firecracker.

A quiet New Year’s Eve really isn’t so bad, after all.

 

“Is that all?”

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Okay, show of hands.

How many of you got what you really wanted for Christmas this year?

Be honest, now.

Was the style exactly right, or the color, or the size, or the brand?

What about the price? Was it so extravagant that you knew somebody would be paying for it clear into next summer, or was it so cheap that you immediately thought of shoving it in a closet (or re-gifting next year)?

And what about Christmases past? How many of them truly lived up to your expectations?

We all have a tendency to build the holidays up. Happy television people, happy magazine people become our ideals.

In a frenzy, we decorate, bake, shop, wrap, and hide our presents from peeking eyes; we address Christmas cards; we browse online, salivating over untold goodies that we have to have NOW.

And in all the glitter and tinsel and sugar and trimmings, we lose sight of why we’re celebrating this day.

So it’s no wonder we find ourselves feeling let down when the last package is opened.

We’re not alone. Our kids pick up on this, and it’s not pretty.

Most parents know (and dread) “that look” on their kids’ faces.

The one that appears confused.

The darlings look around expectantly and ask, “Is that all?”

They might be sitting on the floor surrounded by mounds of wrapping paper and new treasures, yet there it is.

“Is that all?”

My Favorite Domer did it. My sister did it before him.

My late father, always the voice of reason, told a true story to put things into perspective.

When Dad was a child, money was very tight. It was the time of the Great Depression. Men were jumping out of windows to their deaths after learning their job was gone and so was their money. Women were taking in laundry. Folks were standing in bread lines. Everybody was hungry and tired and sick and scared.

One Christmas, Dad recalled, he wanted toys like the other kids. Something to play with, to enjoy in those wretched times.

But my grandparents could ill afford fancy toys. They did their best to put food on the table and clothes on the kids’ backs.

Still, it was Christmas, so my practical grandmother put together a special toy just for my Dad.

Imagine his surprise — and disappointment! — Christmas Day when he opened a marshmallow man, complete with candy cane arms and legs and a marshmallow head.

That was all.

No toys. Not even one.

Not even another present.

So while you’re squirreling that hideous sweater into the re-gifting closet, while you’re standing in yet another returns line at Wal-Mart, while you’re consoling (for the fifth time) a weeping child disappointed over not getting the latest-and-greatest, think about that.

And remember — it’s not the present, it’s the love behind the present, that truly matters.

Our Dilemma over The Presents

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What do other people do about The Presents when they’re going “over the river and through the woods” for the Christmas holidays?

Yes, you read that right — The Presents.

You know, the GIFTS.

I’m not talking about the ones you have to take to Uncle Mike, Grandma, or Cousin Harry.

I mean the ones you exchange with your immediate family.

Mom, Dad, Brother, Sister, maybe Fido and Fluffy.

In the overall scheme of things, this might not seem to be much of an issue, but it is (and has been) a controversy in our family for as long as I can remember.

It started after my parents married and moved far away from home. Lonely for their families during the holidays, they decided to make an annual pilgrimage south for Christmas. This “tradition” continued when we kids came along — and that’s where things got sticky.

You see, my parents’ siblings, too, had married and were having children. So the family was growing. Money was tight, and we kids often balked at having to travel several hundred miles to visit kith and kin, when we could be enjoying a break from school with our friends.

And then there was the dilemma over the presents.

Basically, there were two options — neither of which was appealing:

a) Leave the presents at home, or
b) Take the presents with us

Sounds simple, right? Wrong.

Let’s look closer at these choices.

If we left the presents at home, we’d have to celebrate Christmas morning with nothing to unwrap (unless our parents went out and replenished the stash, which, as I said before, was cost-prohibitive).

And just try telling little kids (or teenagers!) that they have to wait until they get back home to open their presents!

Not gonna fly, I’m telling you.

By the time we got back home, school was starting up again, meaning we never really got to enjoy those presents. And it’s anti-climactic to open presents after the holidays!

Option B isn’t ideal either.

Sure, you have something to open on Christmas Day, but at what cost? Packing presents in the trunk of a car means boxes get crushed and bows unraveled. Packing them inside left little wiggle room for us.

And there are some things (bicycles, for instance) that take up too much space to pack. Who wants to leave behind an extra suitcase or two when you really don’t know what the weather might bring or what you’ll need when you arrive?

Many times, we compromised. We’d open the big stuff early and take the smaller presents with us.

I imagine our relatives must have thought we’d been extremely naughty since our “loot” pile looked so small!

So I’m looking for advice. If you’ve been in this kind of situation, how did you handle it? What works?