2009 -- No Crowing Allowed

Just one day left in 2009. Time to ponder the good, the bad and the ugly of the past 12 months. Time to list the 'you-go-girls' and the 'what-was-I-thinkings'. Some years I can jot these on a post-it; other years it takes a legal pad. Currently, I'm somewhere in between.

First I review my journal to see what I was crowing or moaning about this time last year. If I'm still moaning about the same thing -- put a check in the ugly column. Since the crowing is sparse and usually subsides long before the moaning, here's resolution Number One: more crowing. Sounds easy but....

My strict Catholic Midwestern family were the anti-crowers. Bragging about your "A" in math or your lead in the class play was verboten. Boasting showed a lack of humility and humility gave you backbone.

It's no wonder my 'you-go-girl' list is so short every year. So here's resolution Number Two: sign up for Crowing 101.

All I Want for Christmas....

There's a movement this holiday to give meaningful charitable gifts rather than pajamas, perfume or Pottery Barn. After all, most of us already have too much stuff so why not help someone who doesn't. I can buy a goat for a family in central Africa for the same price as a weeks worth of Starbuck's soy lattes.

Making a donation to a worthy cause in a friend's name makes us feel good, plus there's no mall hassles and no gift wrapping. Of course, you risk the look of utter disappointment when they realize that the "thanks for your donation" card is all they get. Knowing there's a goat in Africa with your name on it doesn't quite have the same impact as unwrapping an actual present.

I'm all for this trend, but I was taken aback by a public service ad suggesting that, this Christmas, men should make an appointment for a Pap smear for the woman in their life. Most men don't even like to buy tampons, so imagine how thrilled they'd be to broach this subject with your gynecologist. Does he even know who your gyno is?

Does Hallmark have a card to accompany this kind of gift? There's the obvious rhyme of dear and smear but after that...? No woman is going to brag to her friends about the gift of a Pap smear.

Men, go with the goat -- and throw in a cashmere sweater as well. It can't hurt.

Sucked into the Walking Shoe Vortex

I've been using "no comfortable walking shoes" as an excuse for not exercising for so long that even I don't buy it anymore. With the barrage of bargains and enticements to stimulate the economy, I caved.

Try on a pair or two of walking shoes, swipe my plastic and be on my way. That was the plan -- before I got sucked into the walking shoe vortex.

"What kind of walking will you be doing?", asked the sales person. I wanted to say the kind where you put one foot in front of the other, but that would get us off on the wrong, well, you know, foot.

The questioning continued: Would I be walking on cement? How far would I be walking? What days? What hours? What kind of weather? Did I still have my wisdom teeth? What's the 14th amendment to the Constitution?

The sales person brought out box after box, pair after pair of walking shoes, each with its own gimmick. Some had odor control, others were balanced to work your butt and legs. Meshing to keep toes dry. And, of course, logos woven into the design making you a corporate billboard.

What did I end up buying? Absolutely nothing. My mental lists of the pros of this one and the cons of that one were on overload. The sales clerk looked so disappointed I almost made a sympathy-purchase.

Choice is good but it can be time consuming and overwhelming. A cup of hot tea -- that's what I want. And I already know what flavor.

Indeed the Soundtrack of our Youth

Last week, as part of its pledge drive, my PBS station aired a concert of artists from the 50's and 60's. Ninety percent of the audience were people my age and that same ninety percent were singing along -- no bouncing ball needed. The lyrics of our youth are fondly held in place by a dollop of musical super glue. Most of us can't remember what we had for dinner last night, but hum a few bars of "It's My Party", we can recall any number of anecdotes connected to that song.

Naturally, the singers are older now, voices a bit raspy, bodies a bit rounder -- some a little too round to be wearing sequined jackets (disco ball comes to mind). But they were rockin' out as though it was just another American Bandstand appearance.

For me, the highlight of the show was the Fleetwoods. For 8th grade graduation, my friends and I were given front row tickets to a live concert -- Fabian, Frankie Avalon and the Fleetwoods. Yes, I know Frankie does arthritis commercials but I'd rather remember him on the beach with Annette Funicello.

But the Fleetwoods? There they were, singing their hits, sparking memories of the afternoon nearly 50 years ago when I was in rock and roll heaven.

TV or Not TV -- That's the, well, you know

Driving an expensive car. Owning a mansion on the beach. Rubbing elbows with celebs at Christmas in Aspen. Flying first class -- or better yet, in your private plane. These have always been symbols of status. You've made it --- if you count money as the marker for success.

There's another group eager to assume a superior than thou stance: those who snootily say they don't watch TV or, worse yet, they don't even own a TV.

Of course, I immediately respond by raving about the benefits of PBS, hoping to neutralize the situation while not admitting that I do indeed care about Meredith Grey's love life.

Does their tube-less life give them a mental edge? Is it supposed to generate an aha moment in which I realize I could be reading the Bible or volunteering in a homeless shelter?

It's TV watchers you want on your Trivial Pursuit team. It's TV watchers you want at your cocktail party when you warn somebody about double-dipping or finish a sentence with ya-da-ya-da-ya-da. They get it!

Sometimes TV is the perfect remedy. Having been active all day, watching TV gives me a chance to be passive. To just sit for a bit and chill.

I hardly see it as the end of civilization -- unless you're watching "Dancing With the Stars".

Use Your "Inside Voices" Please

Parents often discipline their children, forgetting they aren't on the playground, for yelling or talking loudly in a shop or restaurant. Whoever came up with the concept of "inside voices" should be commended, as should the parents who abide by it.

But who monitors adults? In the time it took me to scarf down a Cobb salad I learned way more about the love life of the stranger sitting two tables over than I really needed to. This guy was broadcasting his embarrassing intimacies with such volume I'm sure they heard him in the kitchen. A voice that loud takes all the fun out of eavesdropping.

These are the same people who sit behind you at the movies and, since whispering is foreign to them, give away the plot. They cause the librarian to utter the rarely heard "ssshhhh" and the clergy to do a holy eye roll during a service.

You know how it's a requirement to have smoke detectors just about everywhere. I suggest someone invent a voice detector. The alarm would go off when an "inside voice" turned into an "outside voice".

Move Over James Bond

In the November 9th issue of Newsweek, columnist Ellis Cose wrote about "the idiocy of axing older employees". According to his essay, 6.8% of workers 55+ are unemployed and it takes us roughly 33 weeks to find a new position.

Perhaps we should be looking into new professions where we could shine. My suggestion? Spying. Face it -- as we get older we become more and more invisible anyway so why not make a bit of cash out of being ignored. Who would ever suspect a geezer of espionage?

We're reliable, hardworking and we've been to enough cocktail parties and rubber chicken dinners to know when to blend in and keep our mouth shut. Cover blown? Threatened with torture? Ha! Torture was sharing a room with Dolores from accounting at that weekend retreat.

Plus we make natural masters of disguise. Hair -- grayer week by week. Wrinkles -- deeper week by week. Jowls -- saggier week by week (well, maybe that's just me).

Age -- it's the perfect cover.

Crisper Than What?

Can you answer a question for me? Why is that little drawer at the bottom of the fridge called a crisper? Since I have retrieved many a flaccid vegetable from there, I feel it's truly a misnomer.

It's supposed to keep veggies fresh, but how does that work? It's not sealed, not locked. It's just a drawer -- not unlike the one I keep my socks in, only cooler.

My theory is that some Madison Avenue copywriter was assigned the Frigidaire account and decided "vegetable drawer" simply lacked pizazz. Would you toss fresh produce into a mere drawer? Underwear goes into a drawer. Vegetables go into a crisper. Now that's inspiration!

I think it's a matter of semantics with me. I can't help asking "crisper than what". With that name I fully expect veggies that reside in the crisper be fresher when I take them out than when I put them in -- zapped with electronic anti-stale rays or some other high tech wizardry.

Oh, I know it doesn't work that way, so in lieu of that how about a fridge equipped with a flashing light or robo message that warns me just before the mushrooms, long forgotten in that frigid lower drawer, turn to brown liquid.

Orville and Wilbur, Where Are You?

Death and taxes have long ranked in the top 10 items to worry about since, according to the cliche, they're sure things. In recent years we've added terrorism to the list. Unemployment. Foreclosure. Cholesterol. The safety of the Swine Flu vaccine. The paltry state of my Social Security after working my entire freakin' life. Finding the car keys. Remembering where the car actually is once I find the keys. General physical decrepitude.

While I don't want to speak for all of us, I think it's safe to say that we're an utterly stressed out society. Meditate till you reach Nirvana -- I'm all for that, but when you come back to the real world you're still out of milk with no clean undies.

Now add pilot fatigue to the list. We pay for the ticket, the checked bag, the pillow, the movie and questionable food. In exchange, the airline owes us a well-rested pilot who isn't absorbed by a Sudoku puzzle when he should be lowering the landing gear.

Aviation experts say the cockpit is so highly computerized that there's little for the pilot to do. Maybe so, but what about glitches? Computers are famous for glitches and glitches need to be overridden by a human being. When the voice on the PA says, "welcome aboard, this is your captain speaking" I sincerely want that voice coming from a real live attentive, seasoned professional.

Preferably one who doesn't do Sudoku.

This is National News?

I always wanted to be a journalist when I grew up. I majored in it and worked on a newspaper for a while before I was diverted into radio production and then advertising copy writing. If I had stuck with it perhaps I'd be polishing a Pulitzer. But more than likely, I'd be assigned one of the biggest non-events in recent memory -- the balloon boy.

Even if the kid had been inside, did it warrant hours of coverage, followed by hours, ad nauseum (literally on the Today Show), of interviews with the family? The whole caper is more Letterman than CNN. The reddish tint on your TV is the media's collective embarrassment.

It must have been a really slow news day. John and Kate took a day off from bickering. No kittens were trapped on a ledge anywhere in America.

I heard Brian Williams say on NPR how thankful he was to have been on vacation when this non-story broke. Good timing, Bri.

The Dating Game --- Still

Is dating more difficult when you're older? You'd think it would be easier since we all carry more baggage on the subject than an LAX skycap.

I've given up dating -- and not just for Lent, but my friend is totally focused -- perhaps even borderline rabid -- on having a date for New Year's Eve this year. After trying the clubs where she felt like the Mom, she's taking the more anonymous route and checking the personal sites.

Unfortunately, on the Internet it's easy to stretch the truth -- farther than Pavarotti's leotard in some cases. So, based on my past experience, I compiled a Dating Dictionary to help her decipher the bios and sort out the dreamboats from the dinghies.

The caveat, of course, is that at our age meeting men is a lot like shopping at Safeway after midnight. Everything is either previously squeezed, picked over or out of stock.

Here are some entries:

- Tom Sellick look-alike: an aloha shirt for every occasion
- make a woman feel needed: bring cash
- great sense of humor: you'll love his Curly imitation
- good conversation: serious "I" problems
- spiritually evolved: been in three cults
- infectious smile: that's not all that's contagious
- sensitive: he cried when Brett Favre retired
- well-read: knows the Hardy Boy stories by heart
- sexy foreign accent: needs a Green Card
- Mediterranean style: think Zorba

My fingers are crossed, my friend. If Mr. Right isn't on line, I'm always free for New Year's Eve.

Growling at Mother Theresa

Growling at Mother Theresa -- that's what I've felt like doing for the past few weeks. It's as though PMS had come back to taunt me.

I couldn't figure out why snapping at innocent barristas over a sprinkle of cinnamon had become my habit -- until I read the the information sheet that came with my new medication. Possible side effects: irritability.

Irritability? Irritability I can handle. This was like channeling Leona Helmsley and Dick Cheney simultaneously. Downright mean! Hoping to change my mood, I bought a parakeet -- and named it Attila.

Possible side effect, number two: increased appetite and bloating. You'd be cranky too if you were holding more water than Hoover Dam. The only thing that fit this week were my earrings.

I justified eating an entire baguette at one sitting by telling myself that French people do it all the time -- well, a French family -- of 5.

So for the sake of world peace, I have retired to my apartment with sufficient quantities of highly processed foods and some trashy novels. I promise not to come out until I can say 5 positive things about Mother Theresa.

Hurray for the Pre-Travel Contract

Guidebooks 101 feature useful travel information. Whether you like Frommer, Steves or Lonely Planet, they thoroughly cover where to go, when to be there, what to see, how to get around.

What's missing is WHO to go with.

New editions should include a compatibility test to make sure your travelling companion is indeed companionable. Friends who chat well over coffee or share your book group thoughts on "House of Mirth" might not hold up for an entire week on the road.

Many couples sign pre-nuptial agreements. Why not a pre-travel contract? Here are a few things I would include in mine:

- I understand that I am going to a foreign country (if applicable) and that the customs, food, laws of the road and language will undoubtedly be, well, foreign. This doesn't give me license to criticize it just because it's different "than America".

- I agree to not actively seek out American companions. We are abroad to experience a different culture. If we wanted to spend two weeks with Americans, we would have gone to Philadelphia.

- I am aware that most people in this country are not hearing impaired. If I am not understood, raising my voice to a level only dogs can hear will not improve the conversation.

- I understand that of course I will bring back souvenirs but I will not spend hours shopping for them and if, indeed, I buy these aforementioned souvenirs I and I alone am responsible for schlepping them.

Sign here, please.

I'm Smarter than It

I don't know if it was some sort of punishment for my basic Luddite tendencies or if the planets aligned to suck the life out of my meager electronic possessions. Either way, I experienced my first technological meltdown. Well, perhaps meltdown is too strong a word but it was my version of one.

My cell phone, MP3 player and camera all died at the same time.

Now I know this is piffle to all you techies. For me it means reading manuals, locating charging cords, matching these cords with the correct appliance, inserting such cords into the correct hole in the aforementioned correct appliance, and obsessing over that teensy light to see if it's changed to a more favorable color.

Of course I can do it. I'm not helpless. Besides, I am motivated by my mantra: I am an educated woman with a variety of talents and no inanimate object will get the better of me.

It might be a little long to needlepoint but it's chiseled into one of my brain cells for eternity, easily accessible when needed.

The Boomer Berry and Me

I usually resist Madison Avenue's siren songs about products that promise a younger looking me, a thinner me or a more energized moi. Been there, bought that before I became a more discerning shopper.

So what advertising drivel lured me to the consumer rocks? --- an explosion of spam praising the "boomer berry".

I've done my best to avoid "boomer" anything. I don't like being clumped into that stereotyped demographic....until the Acai Berry. I had no idea what this little plant was or where it came from. I just know that I wanted it enough to fork over $35 for a box of 60 fruit flavored servings.

Thirty-five sounded cheap if it indeed delivered. According to the box it's a natural energy booster loaded with B vitamins, high in antioxidants, green tea, yerba mate, guarana seed extracts (no clue what an actual grown guarana looks like), plus a trademarked ingredient called Chocomine (some sort of dark chocolate). And that's just a partial list. All that's missing is a partridge in a pear tree -- but even that might be in the small print.

I take a slew of vitamins and minerals every morning to achieve the same results and here it all was in powdered form -- just add water. I thought the vitamin goddesses were truly shining down on me -- except for one big thing. The stuff tasted dreadful, like swallowing a packet of grape Kool-Aid.

I'm back to counting out my pills and brewing pots of healthy tea. But if you'd like an acai sample........

And the Winner is......

There's the Nobel, the Pulitzer and the Peabody. We buy tickets for Oscar winning movies and Tony winning plays. Every genre of books from children to self-help seems to have a prize that's proudly featured on the jacket.

Award winning gardening tools. Award winning abs workout. Award winning juicer. Where do all these awards come from and who decides the winners?

Let's say I'm in Williams-Sonoma in a quandary over which cheese grater to buy. Will it actually influence my purchase if one package says "award winning" and the others don't? I don't really care whether I use the same brand as Rachel Ray. I just want to shred my Parmesan.

I'm waiting for the ultimate: an "award winning" award?

Parenting -- Circa 1955

Recently, I found some old black and white photos of the family, including several of me showing off my new blue Schwinn. I can't remember some of the people in the snapshots, but I sure do remember the color of my first two-wheeler.

Some days that bike was my horse, a la Dale Evans; some days it was just my blue Schwinn zipping past the cookie cutter ranch-style houses in suburbia.

We customized the bikes with horns or bells and, most often, a front basket attached to the handlebars. We fell down. We got up. We embellished and tried to impress with stories about how we got the skinned elbows and knees.

Today, our parents would be harshly accused of bad parenting and pilloried by their peers for not outfitting us with helmets and knee pads.

Another old photo showed my aunt resembling a float from the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade -- that's how ready she was to give birth to my cousin. In one hand she had a beer; in the other, a cigarette.

Today, fingers would point, tongues would tsk and she'd probably be accused of child endangerment.

No helmets, no padding, no knowledge of pre-natal care -- but the adults didn't seem to worry. Bad parenting? Hardly. Just different priorities --- like Communists hiding under our beds, air raid drills, and, most importantly at least in my strict Catholic family, how to shield us from Elvis' gyrating pelvis.

Teenage Memoir -- Definitely a Short Story

Miley Cyrus and Sean Johnson writing memoirs? They're teenagers. Can I assume they texted the story to their editors? When did they find the time what with learning Hannah Montana's lines, concert appearances, training for the Olympics, ballroom dancing and -- don't forget -- homework.

An Amazon reader review of a Miley biography complains that it's too short. No big surprise there. How much is there to say about those first 18 years?

I can see how both of these young women could inspire others to pursue their dreams but what will they do for Memoirs - Act II?

A Minor, Yet Annoying, Dilemma

"Thank you," says the cashier in a tone that lets me know that I am now dismissed. Eye contact is broken. My cashier face time is over. The person behind me has moved into the spotlight.

But I'm not finished. The register is closed. The items I bought are in a bag. But I am standing there with an unwieldy pile of bills, coins and a receipt that's shivering in the air conditioned breeze. I can't just walk away. I have to get the coins into the change section of my wallet, the bills in their correct place and stuff the receipt somewhere in case I need to return something.

There is no time to admire the principles of geometry demonstrated in my hand. The dollars are creased into a magical state of stiffness so they actually hold the much heavier coins. No time because the customer behind me is about to be dismissed and will need my space to go through their own process.

Before computerized cash registers the cashier actually counted the change which meant the coins came first, then the bills. The coins were nestled in your palm and you could easily put away the bills and receipt. Now, since they simply read the change amount from left to right, the dollars come first. Dollars are incapable of nestling.

First I thought the problem was me. After all, we lefties face daily challenges. Then I realized it's not a one-handed process -- left or right-handed. It's a test of manual dexterity, a test I regularly fail.

My solution? Stuff the whole blasted pile into my pocket and sort it out later. Plus if you forget, there's always the joy of "finding" money next time you wear the jacket.

Robbing the Dating Cradle

One of the newer words to enter the American English lexicon is "cougar" -- an older woman who dates younger men. Personally, I would rather date a guy who lived through the 60's, not someone born in them, but that's just me. On the plus side, a younger guy has had less time to amass 'issues'. It's not easy having a relationship with a man who carries more baggage than an LAX skycap.

Younger men? Why not! Men have succumbed to the lure of sweet young things for centuries. He's deliriously happy -- or perhaps just delirious. Nothing says 'restored manhood' like a trophy girlfriend.

Now it's our turn to have some fun. But where do you draw the line? How young is too young?

He's too young if:

He thinks Fleetwood Mac is on the menu at McDonald's.

* He takes you dancing -- at his prom

* You wash with Oil of Olay. He uses Clearasil.

* You ask about Woodstock. He tells you how much he loves that little bird.

* He was learning long division while you were getting tear gassed on campus

* He thinks Flower Power is an FTD arrangement.

* He's waaayyyy too young for you if he calls you ma'am.

Wonder Bread Saved My Life -- or at Least My Recess

I'm not terribly fond of grocery shopping, mainly because I have to lug the bags home on the bus. Because of this aversion to schlepping, there are times when my fridge borders on empty. I figure as long as I have cereal, milk and bread in stock I won't starve.

It's still a mystery to me how memories are triggered, but a recent visit to the almost-empty fridge had me recalling an incident from long ago:

Every day at 11:45 our third grade classroom at Holy Redeemer School turned into our third grade lunchroom. Once Sister Mary Agathona led us in a recital of Grace, we sat at our desks eating in silence.

I would open my Dale Evans lunch box to find the usual -- bologna on Wonder Bread (unless it was Friday, of course), sliced carrots and a Twinkie all tightly wrapped in waxed paper. It was a decent lunch. It filled me up. I had no complaints until the day -- and it wasn't a Friday -- the bologna was missing. In its place was brown sugar. Brown sugar and butter on Wonder Bread. Had I been bad? Were we suddenly poor?

My silent refusal to eat a brown sugar sandwich created a problem. You see one of Sister Mary Agathona's duties was to check our lunch boxes before releasing us to the playground and she took her assignment seriously. She looked in every lunch box. She rifled through our lunch box trash to make sure we weren't throwing away food we should be thankful for. If she were alive today she'd have a thriving career with Homeland Security.

"There are children starving in China," she reminded us every day. Maybe that was true but I was sure that even a scawny Asian kid wouldn't eat a brown sugar sandwich.

Precious recess time was ticking away. What was I going to do with an entire brown sugar sandwich? The only pockets I had were in my jacket and Sister Mary Agathona stood guard between me and the cloakroom. If I stuffed it into my desk it would only delay the punishment and she'd call my mother -- the very woman who was responsible for this mess. Besides, it was difficult to keep a secret from a nun. It might even be a mortal sin.

I ate the carrots. I ate the Twinkie. I scanned the room to make sure Jerome the tattletale wasn't watching. I listened for the rustle of Sister Mary Agathona's rosary. Then...I squeezed my brown sugar and butter on Wonder Bread into a golf ball size wad and surrounded it with waxed paper.

I called on every saint I had ever heard of to help me through this crisis while I mustered my most angelic face.

"Did you eat all your lunch, Mary Jan?" asked Sister Mary Agathona.

"Yes, Sister," I lied. I was surely doomed to hell now.

"What's this then?" she questioned, pointing to a protruding crust.

"Just a bit of crust, Sister. See?" Luckily one of those saints must have been listening because only a small piece of crust broke off, leaving the entire brown sugar and butter sandwich behind.

"You may go, Mary Jan," she said.

On the playground I waited for the lightening to strike.

You Ought to be in Pictures

In California, where I live, you can renew your driver license by mail if you have a clean driving record. This is one of those rare, brilliant bureaucratic ideas. The Department of Motor Vehicles sends a reminder which gives you the option of by-mail or in person renewal. Why would anyone want to wait in endless lines at the DMV when sending a check is so much easier?

Now that I've received my new license I have the answer.

I always felt the photo on my license could double as a mug shot should I ever get arrested. You'd never mistake it for an Annie Liebovitz. Oh, it's me alright! But it's the 5-years-ago me.

Since then I've weaned myself off monthly L'Oreal treatments and surrendered to the all powerful law of gravity. The weight, which I fudged even then, has come back to bite me in my ever expanding butt.

So 5 years from now I vow to stand in line at the DMV. I've got to do something about that photo. Question is will I still lie about my weight.

Rub A Dub Dub, One Guy in a Tub

They're unavoidable -- those commercials for erectile dysfunction. One minute you're listening to Katic Couric interviewing some head of state; the next you're watching a couple flirting from separate bathtubs. Separate tubs on the beach. Separate tubs on the deck. Separate tubs at sunset.

If you really want to get turned on, wouldn't it be quicker to be in the same tub? Perhaps that's too risque for TV. It reminds me of early television when Lucy and Ricky and Laura and Rob slept in twin beds -- and yet, voila, there was Little Ricky and Ritchie.

You have to admire the copywriter assigned to this account. Imagine the challenge of conveying that the guy can't get it up without actually saying the guy can't get it up.

Who owns two tubs? If you need two, can you rent them? How do they move these tubs to the beach or the deck?

Maybe that's why the guy is having problems. He's straining himself lugging bathtubs around.

The Next Great Invention?

You've seen the Clapper advertised on TV. It's a gizmo that turns lights on or off by the sound of your hands, well uh, clapping. Pretty descriptive product name, I'd say, and it's useful too.

I'd like to crank it up a notch though and make a clapper for people. It's a gizmo that shuts them up by the sound of your hands, well uh, clapping.

Don't tell me you haven't wished for such a product. Remember the last time you feigned interest while someone prattled on and on about their grandson's IQ or their recent gallstones operation? Human clapper time!

Problem is there are increasingly more and more human clapper moments. I'm thinking we're beyond the gizmo-gadget stage. We're in implanted microchip territory. Nothing painful or evil. Just something benign to cut the noise.

Remember though, that since we all have our "gallstones stories" some days you're the clapper and some days you're the clappee.

Bailouts or Clicking the Ruby Slippers?

The people of Oz never really forgave Auntie Em Productions for filming the documentary. Ever since then, tourism has soared. Yellow Brick Road chachkes are everywhere. Campers book well
in advance to pitch a tent in the poppy fields. Starbucks opened in the Emerald City mall offering munchkin size lattes.

According to his e-mail, Tin Man is on yet another heart healthy diet. Lion's afraid that Oz is turning into a theme park. And Scarecrow, my dear, dear Scarecrow -- sorry to say he's losing his memory.

Me? Well, Ruby Slippers Ltd. isn't in the red -- ha, ha, just a little corporate humor we use around our executive suite. We've actually been inundated with orders. Our market research shows that people are tired of bail outs, TARP and toxic assets. In this tanked economy people are desperate for simple solutions.

Now what's simpler than clicking your heels together, repeating the mantra and hoping for better times. These days, everyone could use a pair of ruby slippers.

Happy B-day, Barbie

To our demographic -- 50 plus
We welcome you so stop the fuss.

Yes, of course your life's half through
But hey, girlfriend, what can you do?

No wrinkles, no grey -- you still look swell.
For that you'll have to thank Mattel.

The waistline that's akin to Scarlett's.
The cleavage matching any harlot's.

Actually you look fantastic
For an ageing doll that's made of plastic.

A bit of advice to accept or refuse --
Buy yourself some sensible shoes!

The Sound of All Hands Clapping

Rachel Ray's audience applauded Parmesan. Not a completed dish containing Parmesan. Just the cheese all by it's little shredded self. Martha Stewart smothered a greeting card in glitter and the crowd roared. A talk show guest revealed they'd been married 20-plus years and the clapping was deafening.


Of course there are applause signs flashing constantly in a TV studio, but I think we've become applause crazy with or without the prompts. At a comedy show recently, there was very little actual laughter -- and the guy was funny. Perhaps a titter here and there, but an abundance of clapping.

We need to differentiate our appreciation for cheese and glitter from that of a great performance. Maybe we should break out in a chorus of "yummy" for cheese and "ooh" and "aah" for glitter. That way we can save the applause for talent.

In San Francisco, where I live, people have graduated from wild applause to automatic standing ovations. I try to save the enthusiastic leaps from my chair for an outstanding performance -- let's say a 10 on the Richter performance scale. If I stand for the 5's and 7's what do I do when a real 10 comes along?

Sticking to my standards ---and my seat--- works well in theory, but there is a point when the embarrassment factor kicks in. Let's say that 80% of the audience has lept to its feet in appreciation. I, however, didn't think the performance was ovation-worthy. So what do I do? Stay seated to show my disagreement or stand up and fake it?

I went to the theater to be entertained. How did an evening out become an etiquette dilemma?