A few years back Ed and I were stopped right in front of Backwoods Inn by the SCV sheriffs in one of those mandatory drunk-driving checks.  I was scared, not because we hadn’t drunk much, but because police in general make me nervous.  (Another thing to blame on my mom—the very first hippie of her generation.)

It was cold.  Being stopped by the police was not in the plan of a romantic evening.  Was there liquor in my Petit Filet Mignon?  I had a video I wanted to watch and didn’t want to be up past 10 PM.  Eddie, fire captain/cousin to law enforcement personnel, shrugged the whole thing off, thrilled with the pen or pencil or paper clip gift that read, “I passed”.

Knowing where the checkpoints are reminds me to get home before 9 PM to avoid them as well as potential drunk drivers.  But, reader, I’ve strayed far from my original idea for this column.  The only tie in is the alcohol.

I was at Trader Joe’s purchasing necessary Bushman sundries such as shelled “edamame” soybeans, Promax power bars, soymilk, soy protein powder, fruit leather, yogurt cheese, Pirate’s Booty cheese puffs, humus and the enormous shrimp Sam and I had sampled at the end of one of the aisles.  And of course there was the item that I was sent there for by my resident husband/chef (Always referred to in hyphen format to describe his overflowing character traits!): Balvenie, double sherry oak cask, single malt scotch.

When I entered the checkout line the first thing I had to do was trouble the busy checker, for a plastic bag to contain the ripped apart, half-eaten bag of Pirate’s Booty I had bribed my kid with to stay in the seat of the cart.  (Honestly, she asked to sit there.  And I know she’s a little old, she’s six, to fit in there, but I was just keeping our new car seat laws uppermost in my mind.  Right.)

Anyway, our cheery checker not only bagged our booty she also did something really strange that I had never seen anyone, in all my shopping history, do before.  She gently pried the top lid open of the scotch canister to confirm that not only did it enclose the exact scotch we assumed it had but that it was not opened.

I was shocked.  She went on to explain that some people exchange the bottles to pay less, or even drink from the bottle and return to the canister half-empty.  It had also been done using a beer or soda can in exchange too.  She wanted to save me from any embarrassment, she went on to say, if we were not checking it at home and giving the scotch as a gift.

Having survived her goodwill without a sarcastic retort I preceded to run my ATM card through her machine.  She said she was sorry but that it didn’t go through.  I told her I thought it had.  She asked me to please try it again and the transaction appeared successful.  The receipt printed out, both copies.  She asked for my phone number and wrote it on her copy.  Then she promised to call me if the transaction had indeed run twice and required deletion.

Fast forward (Is it too late?) to the next day.  Trader Joe’s called, one of the managers I believe as it was a man, to assure us that the transaction had only appeared once and all was fine.  As I only expected a call if there was an error my mouth had nothing else to do but gape open.  Luckily my hands took over to pen this column.

Now, try as I might to find a tie in to my beginning paragraphs, the best I can come up with, without Tim Whyte’s editing, is that I’ve got to learn to trust the kindness of supermarket checkers and SCV sheriffs alike.  They are just trying to do their job.  But with a difference: They want to do it right!

Remember my old buddy Ellen that deserted me for retirement in Washington?  Before she left she gave me her e-mail address, a few jars of her mothers homemade strawberry jam and something else.  She gave me the Internet site, Classmates.com, to search out other old friends.  And before Eddie had a chance to stop me, possibly from letting in a herd of “viruses”, I listed my e-mail address, what high school I went to and what date I had graduated.

My mom listed her info too and got an e-mail right away from a high school buddy she hadn’t seen in fifty years!  She tried to find old college friends from Barnard but couldn’t find a listing for anyone.  (Although she does remember that Joan Rivers attended Barnard, about as blond as I really am, and beat her out for class clown way back when.)

Bring on the herd I say!  First came Maria Giuilani, my pal from cruising Van Nuys Blvd. in her old orange VW.  Then came my sister’s old boyfriend James Humphries reminiscing about the days when my mom invited our boyfriends to the Hollywood Bowl so that we had to go too.  Jeannie Lopez followed suit reminding me of the countless letters I exchanged with her little sister Alice.  Vicki Garcia has a cousin in Santa Clarita that reads my columns!  And then, just yesterday, Janice Levin or as she tried for years to call herself, “Jan”, checked in!

What fun!  So e-mails turned into long phone calls with Maria and Janice.  Ellen even coordinated a lunch with all of us.  I literally walked into the dark restaurant, staring past the only ladies waiting, in search of my old friends. Twenty-five years had passed!  Who the heck were these broads?

I felt ill prepared though I had an old photo album and copies of their letters along.  The letters were tough to edit.  I had saved every single birthday card and candy gram.  Every post card and slip of notepaper.  It seemed that I had saved was every letter any of my friends ever wrote.  Which would they reading appreciate now?

Like a song I know that says throw out old bills and save every letter, I had done just that.  “Keep on Truckin” and those annoying chubby half-naked toddlers, “Sugar and Spice”, were the stickers that had sealed most.  Intricate folding patterns and colored ink pens.  Typewritten, printed, miss-spelled words.  And the worst of it all: teenage angst.

Friends one day and not the next.  Meeting in the “calf”.  Being mad at Steve or John.  Lisa ditching school.  What time the game started.  Who had money for Shakey’s afterward.  Why was Steve so cruel to Janice?  Why was John ignoring Maria today?  When was Ellen ever coming home from Germany?  What were we going to do when the gang got off work from their jobs at Fisherman’s Wharf?  How could we have a test in Government when it was only the second week of class?  Who felt like a taco on the way home from school?

I have to admit that the balance of our letter writing centered on boys, not on schoolwork.  And when I consider that most of that letter writing was done on school time I’m amazed that any of us did well at all.  At least we are finally remembering our old friendships long after our last attempts at Algebra!

So the lunch turned into a dinner.  It was tough just to stop staring at each other.  Then it was tough to stop hugging.  Giggling.  Kicking under the table even.  Seeing who could remember the best story.  Who could remember what happened to whom since then?  Who had the best looking kids.  Whose voice, mannerisms and personality seemed most like their high school counterpart?  That was the funniest part as each had, in turn, recognized each other’s voice in the span of three seconds over the telephone.  Maria tugged on her nose the same way.  I, of course, interrupted the most.  We even, minus a few tell tale wrinkles, looked and dressed almost the same!

The next plan is to meet in Las Vegas when Ellen can come down as Janice lives just a few minutes from the strip.  It may be a long way from high school but we haven’t changed that much in twenty-five years.  We can still cruise the Boulevard!  Albeit the boys we talk about are our husbands and sons now.  And we are too old to admit too much adult “angst” now; it may come up in the future, if we rekindle this friendship properly!

Anyway I salute Classmates.com!  What a great way to find an old friend and remember how to giggle!

I’m working on my ramblings.  I mean to cut it back a little.  Keeping it brief.  No chance to lose your interest unless short, incoherent sentences are not your thing.  What this is all about is that I have a lot going through my noggin at this very moment.  None of which may take an entire column, and if I attempted to do just that my editor could have a field day with his delete key.

A family counselor once told me to keep my conversations with my six-year-old more brief and to the point.  A writing teacher once told me that my writing was more akin to a train wreck than to the great American novel.  (Although he had the pinache not to tell me that my writing was a lot less interesting than said train wreck.)  This is so that people, all within reading and listening range, would not have to filter through what my boss refers to as my “unfiltered” self, just to get to my meaning.

Whew!  Already I’m having a problem using fewer words to convey my meaning.  But I’m still going to take a stab at it.

Eddie, if you recall, has been waiting out the results of the LA City Battalion Chief’s exam, rather impatiently.  Well, finally the results came in last week.  A few of his peers got their test results in the mail but Eddie still hadn’t.  While he was tearing through our mailbox daily a Teletype came out at every LA City fire station announcing the rankings.  A couple of his Captains held the list at bay from him for a few hours.  When it was finally presented I think he believed they had used that time to make a few “changes”.  How else could my modest husband rank #1?

BUT HE MOST CERTAINLY DID!  We are very proud of our soon-to-be Chief!  In fact this very weekend he has run right off to his first Chief’s training in Las Vegas!  And now, that the newness of his sure promotion is wearing off, and my babysitting the six-year-old for three days without him has worn me out, I made sure to spend a small percentage of his new salary on an order from the new Victoria’s Secret catalog.

Now I guess you could consider my shopping spree story going of on a “tangent”, or a “rambling” effort at entertainment, but I figure that it’s imperative to furthering my plot!  I mean I’m punishing him just a little by marking up his favorite catalog and, now follow me here if you can, while possibly providing him with sexy reward.

Next on the list.  Samantha brought home a bright yellow flier from school on Friday.  Now this I don’t want to abbreviate and feel I don’t have to, as they are not my words anyway.  Thereby, readers please place more importance on the following: On May 2 it was reported that a man in a white pickup truck was stopping to speak with children walking to school.  He was described as being 25-40 years old with a medium build.  There was not sufficient information to conclude that the children were in any danger at any time but the Sheriff’s Department is investigating this as a suspicious incident.

The following list accompanied the notice entitled: Staying Safe While Walking to and From School. (It was suggested that parents review with their children.)

1. Always walk with a group of children.  Do not walk alone.
2. If anyone you don’t know comes near you in a car and wants to talk to you, don’t talk to them.  Keep walking and don’t go near the car.
3. If anyone gets out of a car and comes toward you, run away and shout as loud as you can. Making a lot of noise will get the attention of other people.
4. If anyone you don’t know tries to talk to you, comes toward you or chases you, tell your parents or another adult right away.

As unhappy as I was about getting this notice I felt assured that the school was doing the right thing.  Samantha herself repeated these rules to me that afternoon well aware of the white truck and the stranger driving it.  Hopefully the incident will prove innocent, or at least, unduplicated.  But in the meantime I figure the more people that know about it the better.  Nuff said.

Well, there was that time I was walking from my high school to another school close by to help out.  I, not unlike the speeding teenagers in our neighborhoods today, thought I was invincible too.  A man pulled up alongside me, offering me a ride, while cutting me off from crossing the street.  I smiled and said no thank you, but it took me several seconds to realize that what he was holding in his free hand was below the belt.  As he made another turn towards me again I bolted into the schoolyard.  Too shocked, and stupid, to report it.

And finally the most important thing I’ve been thinking on is of course, like every other SCV resident of late, has been the horrific deaths of our local Sheriffs.  Two in less than a year?  Is that really possible?  When Samantha and I drove past Eternal Valley yesterday and saw the tremendous outpouring I tried to explain what had happened.  I tried to explain how our police put their lives on the line to provide us with a safe place to live.  I tried to explain that the jobs they do require a whole hell of a lot of thanks.

But I tried not to say too much more.  I certainly didn’t want her any more scared of the stranger in the white truck or her dad’s recent promotion sending him back to fire station duty.  I tried to explain it briefly.  I tried to not encompass my feelings into a “train wreck” for her six-year-old mind to have to try and sort through.  I tried.  But I’m not too sure I succeeded.  But, maybe, dwelling on our fears helps us to face them.  And to beat them.  Briefly.

It was an impulse to stop by Carol’s house on our walk back from the Coffee Café Sunday morning.  She had left a message on my voicemail over a month ago to try and coordinate a visit for our children while we could catch up as well.  But our kids were at a different school now so our paths wouldn’t cross on a daily basis as easily as before.  And she had been so nice to me seven months ago when my mother-in-law had unexpectedly died.

Carol had quickly come to my aid and taken care of Samantha when Eddie needed me to get to Henry Mayo.  She was gracious and warm to my sister-in-law the first time they met when we came back much later to pick Samantha up. She seemed to know just what to say; though now, for the life of me I simply cannot remember what those exact words were that we found so comforting.  She offered to help again anytime with Samantha or with anything else.  Her words were the opposite of hollow to me– they were full.  Carol was also, I remember, the first to send flowers.  We were proud to bring them to the gravesite.

So, a little ashamed for not calling sooner, I found myself rapping on their front door a few minutes after 9am.  Her son answered the door; a moment later Carol’s face peeked out over his.  They were a little disheveled, clothing a bit askew and spoke to us in a whisper.

“Not a great time…we just lost my mother-in-law last night…but maybe, oh what the heck, please come on in.”  The door opened wide for us to step inside.  I had that feeling that you get when you simply don’t know what to say.  But it lasted for just a moment.  Soon her husband came downstairs and joined us in the kitchen and we sat around as they told me whatever they were up to telling me.  They made coffee; I tried to say the right things.

A few minutes later I had their son with my daughter heading back to my house for a play date.  Carol and her husband had to get themselves ready to drive into Culver City and meet up with other relatives for the arrangements.  Even though I had gone there with the intention of having a play date somehow this felt different.  It felt better.

Later, on the phone it was Carol, or myself, that remembered.  It was a mirror of what had occurred only a few short months ago.  We were both on autopilot helping our spouses and families and ourselves get through an extremely trying time.  It wasn’t until this happened that I realized that what Carol had done for me was something exceptional and giving.  She helped me when she didn’t have to.  I had to wonder now how many times she had done this for others.  And what I hoped I had learned from knowing her.

I offered to help with the kids after school.  We could meet at the ice cream store like we had last year.  Or play at the park.  Or have a play date any day next week that she may need to get things done.  And, yes, I have to remember to send flowers!

In the book “Blonde” by Joyce Carol Oates the opening scene depicts Death as a teenaged bicycle messenger.  It is not until the end of the book that the character is explained and the story has come full circle.  (The book is well written but otherwise forgettable.)  But now I see that that character knocking on the door can be…a well-intentioned friend.  Or at least someone that is learning how to be one.

The top left corner of my windshield was the only reminder that I didn’t, finally, have all of my  “ducks in a row”.  Anticipating the worse (you know the saying) and expecting the least, PACC Auto once again serviced my overdue car in just thirty minutes.  So now, new clear sticker brightly blinding my vision, I could safely finish with the “ducks”.

Have I written on this subject before?  “Never quite feeling that I’m done with…” fill in the blank.  New shoes wear out. Clothes go out of fashion.  First grade leads to second.  Captain lead to chief.  Part-time work leads to full time mommy.  Manicures and pedicures and facials and the gym lead to dwelling too much on me.  And a baseline mammogram leads to annual mammograms.  So there are some things, like a visit to PACC, and yearly doctor visits that are acceptable and welcoming.

I can’t spend money on my toes unless I’ve had my yearly checkup with my doctor.  A visit to PACC means I can treat myself to a lunch out.  And a mammogram, God help me, allows me a guilt-free visit to Christy at Cosmetic Concepts for a facial.  Facial.  Say it with me.  It’s like a deep tissue massage for the nose.

Anyway, back to the mammogram.  The month of April had come and gone with my 43^rd birthday and the usual annual reminder that my mammo was due.  But that was the month I had to work over time.  And Eddie had to study for the chief’s exam.  And Samantha, well, she wasn’t babysat for any part of it I can say for sure.

So, when I finally got around to it, my newfound motivation was that my favorite neighbor finally had scheduled hers.  (Look under archives for last year’s mammo column.  She was the one that had never had a mammo before.)  We tried to do it together this time, planning a glass of wine before the appointment, but the timing didn’t work out.  Suffice to say both of our appointments have come and gone.  Except that her results are due in the mail tomorrow and mine arrived last week.  (There aren’t many things in this world that compares with the interpreting radiologist statement, “We are pleased to inform you that the results of your recent mammography examination are normal.”).

We both had made our appointments at Henry Mayo ACC Outpatient Radiology.  In fact I’m positive that we both had the same experienced technician that I saw last year.  I quizzed her again this time regarding the front page Signal column on their new Imaging technology.  I was then informed that the new equipment, similar to an MRI or full body scan, will not discontinue the “decompression” of the breast that we have all come to know so intimately.  But I have faith that it will someday.

I’m not going to throw statistics about breast cancer at you again.  (Get that from archives too but I would bet that in the time since I wrote that last column some of those numbers are advancing.)  My sister-in-law is still cancer free but has tested positive for the cancer gene.  She is looking at having her uterus removed this summer as a preventative measure.  And, if you recall, she is a newlywed in her early thirties with no children of her own.

Luckily I still have my dear sister-in-law as a reminder to “keep in touch” with breast cancer.  I also still have my flier hanging from my showerhead reminding and instructing me on how to do my self-exam.  In fact, last years column generated so many responses that I called The Cancer Society to order more laminated fliers for friends and Signal readers at that time.  Do you still have yours?  Do you remember to do your exam every month?

So now, finally, I feel “ducks in a row” good.  But then, I still am anxious to hear my neighbor’s results come in.  Almost as anxious to know if yours, dear Signal readers, have come in too.  At least we only have to do a mammogram once a year.  We have to see those honest mechanics at PACC Auto and Christy at Cosmetic Concepts at least every 2-3 months!

Recently I had the pleasure of meeting Stephanie Weiss when she spoke about her work with the ACTION Parent-Teen Support Group.  I had seen this group’s advertisements in The Signal; and an interview Leon Worden did back in 2003 with its founder, Cary Quashen.  Frankly, I read it in the same way most of us NIMBYs do.  I didn’t see drug use, anger, defiance, depression, or a possible gang issue growing in my own backyard.  Or could I have already missed some clue?

One of the things Stephanie said was that in the SCV we have the specific problem of kids coming home to an empty house or hanging out with friends after school as so many households require both parents to work.  She came home to cookies and milk every day with her mom; I greet Samantha with an apple.  Sounds good?  But only so far.  I do know all of my daughter’s friends; because she’s eleven.  She hasn’t been peer pressured into experimenting with drugs; for all I really know.

In reading some of the ACTION literature I got a real synopsis of the teens, the parents and the trained counselors.  I read verbiage like “…the earlier the intervention the better”, “teenagers often don’t see the link between their actions and the consequences tomorrow”, and the mindset of “indestructibility” that even I can remember as a teen in getting into cars driven by friends that drank too much.  (Frankly, I’m almost afraid to mention that it’s been a couple of weeks since the last auto wreck fatality this newspaper has had to report on their front page.)  Warning signs I thought I knew included things I didn’t like verbal abuse to the point that the parent has to search for the words that won’t illicit a negative response and struggling with basic family rules, chores and homework.

Advice from the teens made me want to cry:  “Don’t give up on us”.  “Don’t make empty threats”.  “Don’t let us wear you down”.  “Don’t fight our battles”.  “Don’t fall for the lie ‘But all the other kid’s parents let them’”.  “Don’t let us have locks on our bedroom doors”.  And the one I can’t believe they could admit, “Don’t be afraid to invade our privacy.  If we are in trouble you SHOULD read our letters, check our closets and check out our friends”.

We Santa Claritans cannot keep our heads in the sand.  Why do you think we have local group’s offerings Safe Rides, Teen Scene Unplugged, Santa Clarita Youth Project, Active Parenting Today and ACTION?  Obviously there is a need.  So can we be a little more proactive about this?  Advice from Stephanie: “We have many parents walk in our doors with 11, 12, 13 year olds and say “this is not for me” and then end up in crisis with their teens now being 15 and 16 and in more trouble than they could ever imagine.”
ACTION meetings are held dually—kids with kids, adults with adults.  Both led by trained counselors.  Teens in need will often attend by themselves with out parents. They are every Tuesday night from 7-9pm at Saugus High School in room ZT next to the student parking lot.  The organization’s phone number is 661-297-4660 and the 24-hour helpline is 1-800-For-Teens.

At the end I’m sure Stephanie Weiss had a prepared speech in mind when she addressed a congregation of Unitarian Universalists in December.  Like she would any other church group in asking for donations.  But instead she said that she was struck by our printed affirmation statement and quoted it in her opening remarks, “…love is the spirit of this church made visible by its service…to help one another with compassion…it’s through these actions we can create deeper and more joyful lives for ourselves and others.”

We were suddenly thunderstruck in the moment of how giving time and/or money in our community can help our own youth.  You know, the same little kids, that we think are playing in our own backyards, that will soon be running the place.  So even if you aren’t blessed at this moment to be raising a teenager and need to attend an ACTION meeting you can still contribute!  Of course we could just all move to a place that doesn’t have these problems…Stepford anyone?

It’s that time of year again where the kindness of strangers and the beauty of children sometimes, if lucky, surpass the stress of the season.  I am happy to report that it worked out that way for me one Saturday, a week or so before Christmas and while I was in the midst of a family crisis.

If that paragraph sparked your interest in the latest Bushman fiasco, sorry to disappoint, but for once I will not be reporting a play-by-play of my families’ personal woes.  It will have to suffice to say, just this one time I promise, that the family emergency caused Eddie to miss out on his daughter’s singing recital that day.

If you’re a stalwart Eve of Destruction reader you may remember last year’s recital notes at the end of a quickly thrown together holiday column.  Something along the lines of me listing all of the young singer’s names and holding the bridge of my nose during their performance.  That part remains the same.  But getting to there was completely different this time.

Arriving early at Vibe Performing Arts Studio I still didn’t remember until a few minutes before the performance that Ed had told me that our video camera would require film.  Considering my state of mind it was amazing that I remembered it at all, my stress level was reaching it’s threshold.  The young, dark-haired, always helpful and clever employee behind the counter called the owner of the studio in search of a replacement film for me.  When that led to a negative answer he probed and prodded every nook and cranny within his reach for an extra one left lying about.  To no avail.

Then one of the other parents came over to investigate.  He pulled out his cellular phone to dial 411 to see if the Texaco station across the parking lot sold VHS tapes.  No go.  He opened my recorder and after a dutiful inspection declared that I had just enough tape to see me through the event.  I thanked them both a little too profusely because both had the intuitiveness to see that I was distressed about more than videotape.  And they had the compassion not to comment on it.

Fast forward to the concert.  Samantha’s natural “head voice” rang through as expected and even though I did my best to capture it for Ed to watch later I’m afraid that my hands were a tad too shaky.  Sorry Captain.

Then I noticed that the youngest singer to perform was having difficulty getting to the stage.  She climbed in and out of Miss Leota’s lap as well as her mother’s, seemingly searching for the comfort and support she needed.  My mother, who had readily accepted Eddie’s unused invitation, commented that she had spoken to the child’s mother before the performance and had been told that the singer was a little nervous to perform in front of her mother.  Since there was no way out of that I wondered how it would all work out.

After some other fine performances, the little girl, Alissa, was finally coaxed up on stage.  Well not quite on the stage.  She and her mother sat on the second step, Alissa comfortably wrapped in her mother’s arms, microphone shared between them.  That’s when I recognized her mom.  I had met her a few weeks prior when our daughter’s shared a lesson and had learnt they were fairly new SCV residents.

All was still save for one video camera.  And who should be holding it?  You guessed it!  None other than the gentlemen that had come to my aid earlier!  The audience joined Alissa in her rendition on Yankee Doodle with some very enthusiastic hand clapping.  We were all so enthralled with her efforts that we persuaded her into doing an encore!

I have to admit holding the bridge of my nose did nothing at this point.  Another mother complemented my daughter’s singing while one beautiful child after another took the stage.  I started to wonder which student received the most applause.  But then the two teachers, Leota Penny and David Jennings, each in turn took the stage to perform themselves.  The students, and the parents, rewarded these two teachers with a well-deserved thunderous applause.

The children that raised their voice in solo and group performances that day all deserve another ovation: Sophie Wessell—“The Christmas Song”, Samantha Bushman—“Wouldn’t It Be Loverly?”, Danielle Bouquet—“Beauty and the Beast”, Alissa Padilla—“Yankee Doodle”, Christina Rogee—“He’s My Guy”, Amanda Marshall—“A Dream is a Wish”, Tiffany Manio—“Do Re Mi”, Aina Abad—“Once Upon a December”, Aimee Newton—“Dreaming of you” and Sara Lamog—Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.

Thanks teachers, staff and parents for giving our children something to sing about!  And thanks again to Alissa’s dad for helping to change a stressful situation into a holiday event to remember.

If I had written the first draft of this column at home (local) and not at work (definitely not local) I would have a better start today.  Suffice to say the copy I brought home (local) was lost in the deluge of papers on the desk that I share with my spouse and child.  Eventually I hope to shop (locally) for three desks instead of the one that holds not only all of our important papers (columns to finesse reports to study and Jump-Start 1^st grade discs.) but three computers as well.  Whew!

Anyhoo the column was a tribute to my gal pal Mandy and shopping local.  It went something like this: I had a free weekend (thanks again to Chief Brett Gold of the YMCA Indian Princesses!) and convinced Mandy’s husband, Jeff, to baby-sit their two kids for just 24 hours.  Mandy and I were breathless with anticipation and hurriedly sent several e-mails back and forth to plan ahead how to make the most of our 24 hours.

First there was to be copious amounts of shopping, just like in our younger days when we were rival assistant managers at Contempo Casuals.  When we coupled our employee discount with the gift certificates we were awarded for high sales we were able to keep a small portion of our paychecks for room and board.  The larger balance went to trendy fashions and “hair prods”.  It was an exciting time to be twenty years old and spend all of our money on clothes, just like the ads in Cosmopolitan told us to!

The other item we did a lot of in our twenties was drinking and dancing.  That had definitely changed in the last twenty years.  Heck if we went out dancing now it would be with forty-year-old men.  And they wouldn’t be our husbands.  Attractive as that might sound (to anyone?) it didn’t sound so good to us.  We decided to shop ‘til we dropped and then head home to have a glass or two or red wine and watch and old movie.

When the eventful day came I spent most of the time driving Mandy to shoe stores on Lyons, the Old Road and the Town Center Mall.  Her feet slipped in the loafers, slid in the boots and she hadn’t worn the right socks to try on shoes anyway.  Anyhoo, I was pretty bored by shoe store #4 and even though we were doing our best by “shopping local” I wanted a break and my first glass of wine at about noon. We had purposely planned a little wine in the middle of our shopping day anyway, once we had reached the mall, so that we would have a few hours before driving again.

That’s when we discovered the wine tasting selection at our own local Sisley’s restaurant.  There were three or four different groupings ranging from light, medium and heavy-bodied red wines.  For about seven or eight dollars we received three half glasses of the best wine I had in my life!  Now maybe it was probably due to the fact that I HADN’T BOUGHT A SINGLE THING YET, or to the fact that the waiter was quite so darn cute.  I didn’t really care which.  All I knew is that I felt the same euphoria when he served our wine, twinkling at us from their customized rot iron holders, as Mandy felt when she finally succumbed to that last pair of black leather boots.  We were sated.  For the moment.

More local shopping was to be had!  Everyone has some kind of a sale or another going on right now.  And even though we don’t have a Contempo store in Santa Clarita we have plenty of other stores to make us feel like we’re still twenty: Forever Twenty-One, Rave and the Disney Store to name a few.  At the end of the day, and yes I did finally spend some money locally, we were both satisfied with our purchases and were ready to drive home.

We stopped at the Video Depot on Lyons and Apple and Mandy found a Dean Martin Debbie Reynolds movie I hadn’t seen yet.  I, finally in the shopping mode, delivered my payback to Mandy by searching through their wide selection of previously viewed movies and DVD’s for stocking stuffers.  I left there with about four films for about twenty bucks!

We toyed with the idea of having a Scorpion for two at the Chinese restaurant adjacent to the video store but decided we didn’t want to drink and drive, even a little.  We applauded our idea later as we had to swerve around another driver that hadn’t thought ahead.  Safely at home, with all of our unpacked goodies around us, we decided that in the morning, after quick Eggs Benedict at The Way Station we had to make a stop at Target.  You know they open at 8AM and that way Mandy would still get home within our twenty-four hour allotment.

So we shopped local, didn’t drink and drive and didn’t kill each other in the process.  And, when I think back on my twenties, I was never good shopping with someone else, slippery feet or not.  That one you’ll have to figure out for yourself.  Grab a friend or go solo.  It’s time to shop.  But don’t call me.  I, the eternally anally retentive, am completely done shopping.  In fact after my spell checker does its job I’m off to sort.  You know, make sure Ed and Sam have exactly the same number of presents, or else I’m back to the stores.  Does anyone know where I can buy two small desks, locally?

A professor friend of mine, from a University in another state, recently lamented to me the undue pressure his graduate students felt in granting favors to their professors.  On the side of the professors, they were warned not to make their students feel obligated to do their bidding and have said that the students offer to baby-sit, house sit and pick up dry cleaning.  Of course this is after said teachers have mentioned that they have an unfulfilled need, just in passing, not as a request of course.  Give me a break.  My friend feels that his fellow professors are abusing their influence over their students.  He felt it just wasn’t right.  I felt like I was gathering information for a future “Character Counts” story.  No, we agreed after more discussion, it was more than that.  More like “Integrity” should have counted when consciously choosing to exert influence.

I did not think much more on this right away.  But a series of events followed that made me re-think the issue.  The first was our own headlines on Condit (53 year old, congressman) and Levy (24 year old, intern).  I never thought that their affair was any more, well, decent than Clinton’s with Lewinsky was.  The common denominator besides the two young female interns?  Both politicians unwittingly, or wittingly as you may see it, used their influence to gain access to these, and other, women.

When you see me around town proudly sporting my crisp navy blue Coffee Kiosk T-shirt you might assume that I used my influence to get it for free.  And you know what?  You’d be 100% correct!  I wrote a column, okay maybe it was about five columns, about my favorite coffee drive through and the owner rewarded me once with a blended mocha and the T-shirt.  Am I guilty of using my influence for a freebie?  You bet I am!  In fact, with my less than shady character, I figure I’m due for another freebie after this!  But in all honesty, no matter how slight the infraction may seem, it ain’t right!

Which finally brings me to this past weekend’s events.  I had to accompany Eddie to a baseball game he was playing out of town because his secretary, The Mighty Herlinda, had planned the event.  (Of course I did wear sandals and a large floppy sun hat so that no one would dare ask me to play too.)  When I saw Herl hand over $60, $30 for each team, to play this one time, I was flabbergasted!

I admit I haven’t researched this but I know that all I have to do is to call our local Parks and Recreation department if I want to reserve a particular park for a party.  I have to go early and stake out my area but I don’t have to PAY for it.  I realize that reserving a baseball diamond is different, especially if you play in a league all season, but did this $30 per team charge also apply to the father playing against his son in the adjacent field?  And the question of a refund if we left the field as clean as we found it was answered with an unequivocal no!  So maybe instilling a fee is up to each city to decide but it sure sounded like the Parks and Recreation department of this particular city was using a little influence of their own in charging for something that was widely available elsewhere.  And elsewhere happened to be, in this case, fifty yards away!

After the game we made reservations at a restaurant a couple of blocks away.  We broke up our large group into three separate tables and our table held seven.  Our waitress was friendly but it became apparent fairly quickly that she may have been a little green on the job.  She neglected to get the meal orders for Herl and her daughter.  She also neglected to come back after fifteen minutes to get their order.  Herl had to seek her out to avoid further delays.  By the time the order was completed we waited another twenty-five minutes for our meals.  Our friends at the other tables had ordered after us with different waitresses and received their meals well ahead of ours.  When our meals finally arrived we had to make additional requests for the items that were neglected, by the waitress, from our original orders.  “Please” for pickles.  “Excuse me” for the side of ranch.  “Miss” for the fruit cup.  And the ever faithful, “We must have forgotten to ask”, for the six ounce soda refills.  We remained polite as to not make things any worse.

When we finally finished our meals, that of which we could get, we asked for our check.  Here was where we got the biggest surprise!  None of us had noticed on the menu a charge for fruit instead of fries, a side of ranch dressing or the one- ounce serving cup of pickle slices for Herl’s burger! Thank God the waitress forgot the second order of ranch dressing for $2!  Then, in teeny tiny writing, was the statement “15% gratuity” added.  Wasn’t the restaurant lacking in integrity and responsibility by not informing us of their policies beforehand?

Whenever I dine out I almost always tip 20%, because, well, I’m a blond and it’s easier to do the math.  But when the service was this bad, and the gratuity was already included, it was more than a little twist of the knife in my gut.  My gal pal, Dr. Kim, recently took her office crew out to one of our local restaurants.  When the 15% gratuity included statement appeared on her check, highlighted, she doubled it because the service was so good.  And I know for a fact she didn’t feel in the least bit taken advantage of.  Completely the opposite.

What to do in all of the aforementioned scenarios in the future?  Meet with your University Department Head and let him or her know what’s going on.  Don’t become a Washington intern if you find influential “power” attractive.  Don’t frequent a park or restaurant that you feel is taking unfair advantage.  Learn from their mistakes.  But don’t expect me to stop drinking coffee!  We have to draw the line somewhere and I can’t help but continue to be ridiculous, especially if it entertains.  I’ll leave it all on the shoulders of my husband and his members in the fire department; because they never use their influence and sound the siren when they have to go to the market to buy their meals!

Of course I realize why there might be a flight delay.  It’s the same reason we don’t have enough energy in California.  And why gasoline is more expensive here.  It’s our politicians!  So short of our council members getting a “sphere of influence” over LAX I’m totally nailed.  Doubly so because I’ll have to entertain my babe and mother-in-law for an unheard of amount of time.  And all of this so that we can spend 100% of our day getting to Minnesota as opposed to 75%.

I figured flying during the week would be better than on a weekend but apparently it doesn’t matter.  I’ve packed toys and treats but what else?  Sedatives?  Medicinal marijuana?  And what’s the big payoff going to be anyway?  A rental car lot that is eight miles away from the terminal in Minneapolis.  St. Peter, a town that is not looking forward to a visit from the big city folks, is another hour away from the airport.

So it’s not just the airport that I’m complaining about.  It’s the whole travel nightmare.  I know I should just be grateful that I’m not camping again.  I still haven’t recovered from the nasal congestion from either the cold I contracted or all the foliage I encountered.  Most of my gal friends agree that camping is more work than it is worth.  To quote one, “Oh yea it’s a blast to pack, unpack, cook and clean, sleep in the cold, cook and clean some more, pack, unpack and then start the wash.”  That’s a relaxing vacation.  I’ll never get camping as a vacation.

Our hotel in St. Peter has a nice indoor pool and coffee in the room.  But will they unpack, pack, unpack and pack for me?  I don’t even know why people take vacations anymore.  It’s more work and much less relaxing than just hiding out at home with a week’s worth of free movies from the local library.

When do you rest?  In a slippery vinyl chair at terminal 2?   Never taking your eyes off your luggage or your little child?  Eying the drinkers in the bar only to realize the headache they’ll have at 40,000 feet isn’t worth it to you?  Taking a shower, a la’ Madonna, in the airport’s cubicled bathroom facilities?  In the backseat of the convertible, in 60 degrees or less, sandwiched between my mother-in-law and her mother, which your husband rented to make your daughter happy?  (My hair whipping across my mother-in-law’s face is not what I would consider retribution enough for being married to her son at times.)

Shopping in the Mall of America?  They only do the heat in the floor trick during winter.  I have to contend with two amusement parks, one aquarium, restaurants and shops all in one little day?  With a mother-in-law that has the energy to shop countless hours, a husband that is right there along with her and a babe that I can only hope to steer towards the aquarium before time’s up?

Years and years ago I enjoyed vacations.  Maybe back then there weren’t the flight delays and cancellations we have to endure today.  Once when I was a teen I remember circling over New York City for eight hours due to bad weather.  And there was that time Ed and I were returning from France and couldn’t get a seat in the non-smoking section.  (In the early eighties it seemed to me that many Parisians loved to chain-smoke but like we Americans, couldn’t tolerate it in claustrophobic situations.)  And in these two examples I don’t remember the issue with packing.  In the former my mom might have dealt with it, the latter, heck I had been in Europe for three weeks and had simply tossed, instead of repacked, all of the clothes I grew out of.)

Maybe I’m just getting older and different types of work don’t appeal any more.  (Well not that any kind of work actually ever appealed.)  And how people travel for a living I’ll never understand.  We should have a holiday to celebrate the travelling salespeople that have to do this every day without even a caramelized “holiday” carrot held over their noses.  We could call it Welcome Home Day, but then with their schedules how could we ever settle on a particular day?

Obviously they have a routine, and a stronger mindset, then I’ve yet discovered.  What they don’t have though is Eddie, Barbara, Grandma Ellen, Samantha or the entire population of St. Peter waiting to watch them completely wig out over traveling.

Where will it happen?  Will I pluck the few remaining hairs from my head once we enter the biggest mall in the world?  Will it be when I open the fridge in the hotel only to be greeted by my favorite snacks priced well over the going rate for five gallons of California gasoline?  Or will it be when I finally return and find our camping dishes still in the dishwasher, sleeping bags still airing out on the living room floor and beach tar still imbedded into my new Payless sandals?  With so many choices, I’m guaranteed more than one little flipping out episode.  Tune in next week and see if I fared well enough to even attempt to write another destructive column.