Community Briefs

Our community newspaper is often an unintentional source of humor. It tries so hard to be folksy with its profiles of local valedictorians and stories about the neighbor's dog who's related to Bo Obama, but it usually devolves into petty little rants about who can park their boat trailer where and the correct protocol for displaying the flag.

I quote this week's Community Briefs, a section that highlights upcoming events of interest, verbatim:

Maplewood Mall is hosting the Bakugan Battle Brawlers Ultimate Battle Tour and a Women's and Children's Expo this weekend.

Let the juxtaposition soak in a moment there.

The Expo is throughout the mall. Exhibitors include home-based businesses, child care, OB/Gyn Services, health, beauty, college and career opportunities and more.

The Battle Tour is in the Sears Court. Challenge other players and get tips from experts.

How often do you see the terms Battle Tour and OB/Gyn Services in the same article?!

Do you think a lot of people will attend both?

Back in the Day

I bought a Beetle back in 2001.

She was galaxy blue, and I adored her.

I named her Rascal, and driving, which for me has always felt like a bit of a chore, suddenly became, yanno, FUN.

My favorite thing about scooting around town in Rascal was that, since the New Beetle had only been out since 1998, she was still a bit of a novelty. When driving a Beetle, you were part of a small (dare I say elite?) social subgroup comprised of people who shared the common traits of being super cool, fun-o-centric, and exceedingly friendly.

Hence, the wave.

You see, back in the day, the code among the Beetle-driving brethren was that, when we encountered a fellow Beetle on the road, we would wave at each other.

"Hello, friend."

There was one guy in a silver Bug who I crossed paths with every morning on the way to work.

Every day, we waved.

Rain or shine.

Sleet or snow.

When I became a mom, Rascal was traded in for a Jetta.

Mommy needs four doors, after all.

The Jetta was a good car.

A solid car.

A practical car.

But it wasn't, yanno, FUN.

Anyhow, my child's big enough to climb in and out of her own car seat, so this summer I traded in the car of exceeding practicality for another Beetle.

She is sunflower yellow, and I adore her.

Driving is, yanno, FUN again.

But here's the problem: the novelty factor has faded.

There are quite a few of us on the road now and, consequently, the wave has disappeared.

I've done it a few times these last few weeks - trying to resurrect the tradition - but to no avail. I'm either completely ignored by the other driver or greeted with a perplexed expression. (No one-fingered salutes, though. These are Beetle drivers, after all.)

Do you suppose the Mini Cooper people wave at each other?

Or the Hummer folks, perhaps?

Eh, probably not...

What My Dog's Body Language Tells Me When I'm Grooming Him

When I'm brushing his back: "Oh, you're petting me with the brush again. I'm going to stand here majestically like a good boy, glancing over my shoulder at you from time to time so you can appreciate my sweet, soulful eyes."

When I'm brushing the top of his head, right between the ears: "I don't like when you tug at those tangles behind my left ear, but as long as you pause now and then to pet me and tell me I'm good, I'll put up with it. I might need to take a shake-my-head break every few minutes, though, okay?"

When I'm brushing his ruff: "Remember that episode of America's Next Top Model when Tyra Banks showed how to hold your head up and look like you're standing in front of a fan when you aren't? Well, I was paying attention to that part, and I'm doing it right now. Cool, huh?"

When I'm brushing his paws: "Don't touch those. No, give that back. Ick. Ick. Ick."

When I'm brushing his legs: "I don't like this, but it's better than the paws, so I'm just going to look peeved at you every thirty seconds or so. Work quickly."

When I'm brushing his butt: "I'm going to give you about ten seconds of awkward gluteal clenching in recognition of the fact that you feed me and stuff. Then I'm out of here, lady."

Does Blogging Count?

I hate when questionnaires ask me to list my "hobbies",

because I've never really had one,

which used to make me worry that I was dull or odd,

but, upon reflection, 

I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing 

if I leave those questions blank.

I Loathe Lanyards

I wear a lanyard at work. 

I hate the damn thing. 

I've received a couple of them at work as gifts/prizes/unsuccessful motivational tools. I dutifully stuffed each of them in my desk drawer to find it months later, wonder aloud "Why did I keep this piece of crap?", and throw it in the trash. Or stick it in some unsuspecting victim's mailbox in the office. 

I've spent my own hard-earned cash to purchase several different ones, hoping the pretty beads would somehow compensate for its lameness, but, alas, I persist in hating the damn thing. 

I hate how my keys and ID go thunk against me with each step I take.

I hate how it makes a really nice outfit look so damed proletarian. 

I hate how it's basically a leash, and I'm required to wear it. 

I even hate the word lanyard. It is impossible to sound sexy and cool while saying that word. Try it. You will fail.

Now, I understand the reasoning for wearing one at work - identification, safety, keeping me from looking TOO stylish, blah-blah-blah ....  I know that no amount of fussing on my part will make the lanyard of wretchedness go away. I accept the futility in trying to throw off these shackles, but that doesn't mean I have get all rah-rah about it and hop on the pro-lanyard bandwagon, which appears, by the way, to be a very crowded bandwagon, indeed.  

"Stupid Stuff I Found on the Internets 

as Evidence of the Crowded Conditions 

on the Pro-Lanyard Bandwagon"

OR

"I Had No Idea It Was This Bad Out There"

The Wrist Lanyard:

When Dangling Crap Around Your Neck Just Isn't Enough

It's dark out! 

Where'd my arm go?! 

Oh, THERE it is. 

Man, that was a close one!

And here I hated the thunk of keys against me.

Imagine the sensation of being whacked with a bottle of 

Lipton Green Tea with every step.

Or if you had to run wearing this.

Even our friends at Coach have stepped into the lanyard arena.

It's extra-pricey and comes with bonus dangly crap!

I also found many sites selling products to make your own lanyards, which reminded me of the only lanyard-related thing I've ever truly loved ...  Billy Collins reading his poem "The Lanyard".

Back in the late-nineteenth century, the lanyard was originally used to carry a jack-knife, so you'd be ready to whip it out if you happened to need to stab someone that day. Interesting to know if you ever end up on Jeopardy! and have Lanyard Lore as a category. Or if you travel back in time and happen to have your lanyard on.

Love for Sale. Cheap.

Y'know how Russian Christmas is after the twenty-fifth and Chinese New Year is in late-January? Well, if there's some nationality out there that celebrates Valentine's in March, they're gettin' one heckuva deal on the sweet treats of love. 

I'm thinking of hatching a early-May Easter scheme this year. 

Discounted chocolate bunnies? 

Jelly eggs at 75% off? 

I am so there.

Innocence Lost

I was working with my students on choral reading and brought out "Old Mother Hubbard" as a practice text; it has lots of rhyme, a sing-song meter, and silly subject matter, so I figured it was an easy one to start out with. 

My last class of the day had finished reading the poem together, and I decided to have one of those cool-enough-to-mock-the-text moments and encourage the kids point out some of the odd, borderline-inappropriate for pre-schoolers things that were mentioned in this dusty, old nursery rhyme. 

They pointed out that Old Mother Hubbard had bought the dog a beer at the alehouse, that she'd come home to find him smoking a pipe, etc. One girl raised her hand and chimed in about the part when OMH "...went to the hosier's to get him some hose". I figured it was just an odd answer, so I replied with something about dogs not really needing socks. 

She'd just gotten out, "Oh, I thought it meant ..." when one of the boys jumped out of his seat and yelled, "NO! Stop!" 

I quickly realized that she had mistaken hose (as in stockings) for ho's (as in, yanno, ho's). I thanked the boy for his quick save and moved on to the next thing.

Later, as I thought about it, I remembered that in several of my other classes, kids had mentioned the hose line too. Only now I understood WHY they'd brought it up.

Wow. 

I don't know what bugs me more: that my students are so worldly beyond their years that they immediately think of whores when they hear that word or that they're such bad readers that they don't recognize the word hose when they see it. 

Now, of course, I have to live with the mental image of Old Mother Hubbard going out to get hookers for her dog.  And wonder whether the hookers were dog hookers or human ones. I'm choosing to believe they're dogs, mostly because it gives me an excuse to say things like, "She didn't have much money to spend, so she just got him a paw job."

No! No! No!

You thought I was judgmental about Bratz dollz and neckties? Well, brace yourself, 'cause I'm about to go on a bit of a Santa rant.

Back Story: Sometimes I click the "next blog" button at the top of the screen just to see the random assortment of things that are out there in the blogosphere. My favorites are the ones in foreign languages, where I have to figure out who it's by and what's going on without benefit of understanding the words. My least favorites are usually the ones by American women, moms specifically, as they tend to get more cutesy than I can handle. (Yes, I do have a blog about my daughter, and, yes, I appreciate the irony of that last statement.) I stumbled on to one of those blogs that makes me cringe today, and since it pushed a holiday hot button for me, I'm gonna tell you all about it.

Let me walk you through it...

The blog was by a mom of two little girls. Most of the blog was about the mom's rabid pursuit of the perfect scrapbook page and included pictures of her pages in progress and links to the sites of her other crafty-type mom friends.  

Today's entry, though, was a picture of her two daughters, who looked like they were about three and five years old, sitting on the lap of a mall Santa. 

They were both screaming. Full-on, eyes wide in terror, get-me-out-of-here screaming. The mom's comment below the picture was How adorable. No winking emoticon to convey sarcasm in her message. No story of how long they'd waited in line, which one started crying first or explanation as to why. In short, no context. Just a picture of two very unhappy-looking girls sitting on a weirdly-calm mall Santa's lap and the words How adorable.

A couple of her crafty-type mom friends had chimed in with comments, all of which included the words cute and hilarious.

Why do people do this?

I don't even know these girls, but my heart went out to them immediately. Going to meet Santa is supposed to be fun. 

Yes, fun. 

For the kids. 

It's for them, not so that Mom and Dad can get a picture to put in the scrapbook. 

So why do people keep their kids in line or go ahead with the picture if the kid's obviously not having any fun?

Last year, my parents took my then one year-old daughter to the mall, and my dad got in line with her to meet Santa. Another child in front of them started crying and saying, "No!" My daughter looked at Grandpa and shook her head to say, "I don't think I like this." Grandpa listened and said they'd try it again another time. Yes, my dad listened to my daughter and respected her wishes. And that's just the sort of thing I love him for. 

Sure, sometimes kids say, "No!" to stuff (like holding your hand when you're crossing the street) that you just have to insist they follow through with for their own safety. Sometimes I go a few rounds with my daughter about her needing to put on her pj's, wear shoes outside, or wash her hands before dinner. I don't back down because those are instances where she's testing the boundaries of her authority to self-govern, as it were. 

Going to visit Santa is a whole 'nother ball game, though.

You can't force a kid to have fun. 

And it's neither cute nor hilarious when people try to.