What Kid Wears a Cloak?

In the 1950's we didn't have lockers in the corridor -- at least not at my elementary school. We kept our things in the cloakroom.

The cloakroom? Sounds positively Dickensian. Besides, what first grader wears a cloak? Granted, parkaroom doesn't have the same pizazz but it's certainly more accurate.

Plus, it wasn't really a room -- at least not in my elementary school. There were hooks for our jackets and eye-level shelves for storing our lunchboxes.

Ah, the lunchbox -- the original status symbol for our generation. That cheap metal sandwich container, complete with thermos, spoke volumes about how cool you were, even at six years old.

Dale Evans, Queen of the Cowboys, smiled back at me from my favorite lunchbox. As I ate my baloney on Wonder Bread sandwich, I'd imagine riding off into the sunset on Buttermilk. That's her horse, for those of you using your brain cells for something more productive like finding a cure for cancer.

Now I tote my lunch in an eco-friendly insulated zip-up bag. No pictures. No fun.

So who would adorn my grown-up lunchbox? Probably Mother Theresa. Having her smile back at me would be a reminder to question what I'm doing with my life.

Bipedal Bumper Cars

Walking in downtown San Francisco is like tackling an obstacle course. There are trucks unloading, delivery people, taxis, construction paraphernalia, trash and various other things to watch out for -- normal fare in any city. Now there's the added obstacle of my fellow walkers.


Thanks to technology we walk with eyes cast downward. We're shuffling our music, tweeting that we literally bumped into someone, checking our e-mail and programming our phones. We bob. We weave. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Oops! Sorry! We're all playing a game of bipedal bumper cars.

I have become a defensive walker. My pivoting techniques put Heidi Klum to shame. I can veer left and right on the proverbial dime.

But sometimes I feel like Clint Eastwood in one of his classic westerns. I see the guy coming towards me completely absorbed by his phone. My course is fixed. Will he look up in time to avoid a collision?

Hey, I walk the same route every day. Ya gotta keep it interesting!

Fiber on the Side, Please

Nutritionally speaking, we tend to go through fads. Low-fat and fat-free were sent from marketing heaven to make us believe we could eat an entire package of Mallomars without gaining an ounce. And so we gorged, wondering why our jeans were getting snug. Realization! Fat is not the enemy but the very giver of flavor to most foods. Take out the fat, you take out the flavor. Cardboard Mallomars just don't satisfy that chocolate craving. Solution? Up the sugar levels. Still no/low-fat but we're zoning in and out of near diabetic comas.

Now the dietary buzz word is "fiber". Indeed, a well functioning intestinal tract is something to strive for. Leafy greens and whole grains should be part of a well-balanced diet. Got it!

But does it have to be in everything? The latest advertising for a popular brand of sugar packets boasted its fiber content. Sugar and fiber in the same little envelope? While it may be some kind of nutritional milestone, it's difficult to wrap my head around the concept.

What do you think of when I say "sugar"? Sweetness, candy, sugar plum fairies, and all that's enjoyable, comforting and tasty. Fiber -- well, there's simply no joy in fiber. It's one of those you-know-you-should-eat-it-so-you-do foods. Mom forced you to eat your vegetables. She probably never made you eat sugar.

Two lumps of sugar, please. I'll take my fiber on the side.

Mother's Day Guilt

Mother's Day is a boom for brunch-serving restaurants, florists that deliver nationwide and, of course, all things Hallmark. It's also a day potentially riddled with guilt -- yours. Just forget to call and you'll experience ice that could sink the Titanic.

She says she understands but she's hurt. After all, she gave birth to you and it was long and painful. My mom couldn't remember the pope's name and number but she told the tale of labor and delivery as though it happened yesterday. She was prone to exaggeration and went for maximum effect in her stories so my newborn head grew bigger with every telling -- kind of like fishermen who talk about the one that got away.

Mother was the Empress of Guilt. When we misbehaved she'd pray for us. I mean down on her knees seriously fingering the rosary beads. The prayers were soft, but the dedication -- please help my disobedient children or something in that vein -- was loud enough for all to hear.

She was the Mistress of the Heavy Sigh. Hers were Tony award winning sighs that oozed serious disappointment. In a contest between Olivier, any of the Redgraves and my mom -- well, it simply wouldn't be a contest.

S P A C E !

Americans have a strong sense of personal space. There's plenty of room for all of us in this vast country so we like to spread out whenever possible. It's part of our history. Those 19th century pioneers settled the west because the prairies gave them the elbow room they craved.

That need for space is part of our cultural DNA. Notice the look on people's faces when they're jammed into a subway car or sitting bumper to bumper on the freeway. Watch a person take a step backward if someone stands too close during a conversation. And then there's that undefined distance we keep while waiting our turn at the ATM. We seem to innately know just how far that gap should be so as not to intrude on the banking privacy of another.

So why doesn't this sense of space carry over to the supermarket? I have shopping cart bruises on my ankles inflicted by people who feel their progress down the cereal aisle is a NASCAR event. Apparently, hunting for bargains on canned tuna can't be done while steering a grocery cart. So much for multi-tasking.

At the check out counter we covet our turn on the conveyor belt. It signals that the burden of grocery shopping is nearly at an end. But, may I remind you -- yes, you, the one bumping my butt with your grocery cart -- that I can only move as fast as the person in front of me. Unfortunately, that person has just realized he forgot an item, misplaced his discount grocery card and abandoned his children in the cookie aisle. So you -- yes, you, the one bumping my butt with your grocery cart -- should probably move to another lane where you can find a new butt to bump in a futile attempt to rush the process.

The guy in front of me is going nowhere soon -- so let me give him some space.