R*E*S*P*E*C*T

A few days ago, Bill and I had lunch at BJs. This is the home of Bakersfield's best (in my opinion) fish tacos. It's a nice place. The food is always good. The service is frequently adequate. The servers at BJs come in two varieties; male and female. Beyond that, they are virtually indistinguishable one from another. They are all attractive twenty-somethings and professionally friendly. Our server on Tuesday (I believe her name was Jessica) set herself apart by violating one of my personal server rules; she gave me a pet name on our first date.

Throughout the meal, she called me "Hon" or "Honey." My husband of thirty-six years doesn't even call me by a pet name. As I move through my world, I answer to only five things--Mrs. ____, Sister ____, Linda, Mom and Grandma. I don't answer to "Hon." Jessica never caught on. She probably thought I was being surly for the fun of it.

As with all rules, I have exceptions to mine. I will allow a waitress (note that I didn't say "server") to call me "Hon," "Sweetie," or "Dear," if we are in a place that is open 24 hours, if her name tag says Flo, Ruby or maybe Wanda, if she has a smoker voice and if she could out-serve Jessica with one hand tied behind her back. See, I know that Flo has a pet name for everybody, including male customers who are called "Handsome," "Sport," or "Buddy." With Flo, there's no hidden agenda. It's just something to call you.

With the Jessicas, I always feel like there's something else going on. Is it an awkward attempt at being friendly? Is it thinly veiled condescension? Is it passive-aggressive hostility? And who makes up the rules? Is there a server handbook somewhere that says it's okay to call children and women over the age of fifty by quasi-romantic pet names? And where are the lines drawn? "Honey" is okay, but not "Darling?" "Sweetie" but not "My Precious?"

This is happening more often than I would like. If it continues, I'm going to start insisting on roses and a Whitman sampler with my meal.

The second best Freecycle ever!

Of course, the best freecycle was my tree giveaway last year. We had a tree blow down in our back yard during a windstorm. It was a cedar of Lebanon--about eight foot tall. It didn't snap when it tipped over, it just upended the root ball. I could not convince either Bill or Carl that the tree was worth trying to re-plant. I think in their minds, if it was going to be such a tipsy wuss, it didn't deserve to live. That left us (me) with the problem of getting rid of it...

So I posted the tree on Freecycle, offering it to anyone who would finish digging it out and haul it away. I had seven requests for the tree and it was gone within two hours. No one believed I could do it! For sheer audaciousness, I still believe the tree clean-up takes the cake, but a post I read on Freecycle today comes in a VERY close second! This is it, word for word--

"I need someone to shave my poor kitty. He is a long haired gray cat that is getting matted and he is very unhappy. I can't afford 70 dollars to have it done. If you could help us out we would greatly appreciate it."

This just begs several questions, but the foremost has to be, "Will anyone respond? And what kind of nut job might they be?"

You can't see him, but right now Bill is pointing at me. I have actually shaved a cat and, yes, you have to be insane to try it.


When we lived in Oxnard, we had a cat named Fred. Fred was a broad-shouldered, tough-minded tom cat. Our current cat, Oso, is also a male cat, but not from the same mold as was Fred. Oso is Ashley Wilkes. Fred was Rhett Butler.





Fred came home one day from a particularly exciting field trip, one ear torn, several bite wounds and a deep gash in his side. This was in the days when we were still putting food in the mouths of children and couldn't afford to buy groceries for veterinarians, too. So I called my dad for his advice. Having grown up with farm cats, I knew that he would have some practical advice. He claimed that on the farm when a cat was injured they would shave the cat's fur and pour kerosene on the wounds to cauterize them and kill any infection. It made perfect sense to me...

While Bill shielded the eyes of the children, I donned a pair of leather gloves, grabbed the hair clippers and wedged a very angry Fred between my knees. Shaving a cat is harder than bathing a cat which is neither fun nor easy. When I was done, I held him while Bill poured on the kerosene. Fred shot straight up in the air. He landed several feet away and never stopped running. Days later, he came home with his wounds nearly healed. Fred went on to live a long and exciting life. And I eventually recovered from my injuries, as well.

I just live to please

If pets had their own high school clique, mine would be the cheerleaders and football players while I would be the secretary of the mythology club. (Don't laugh...I was.) Newton and Oso (the popular kids) are definitely calling the shots around here.

Case in point...with my birthday gift cards, I purchased all new bedding for the "master" bedroom. I must shamefacedly admit that I deliberately chose a comforter that matches Newton. Why, you ask? Am I one of those crazy middle-aged women who dyes their dogs to match their drapes? No...if I was, Newton would be a lovely shade of moss green.

It's more basic than that. We are on the brink of summer which, in pet-owner lingo, is also known as "the shedding season." Newton and I have had a lot of debates over whether or not he is welcome on our bed. Obviously, he is the superior debater. The best I can do is to buy a comforter that matches his fur and make frequent use of the lint roller. (Right now all you dog haters are going, "Ewwwwww." I can hear you.)


Meanwhile, Oso and I have been engaged in a four-day-long battle of wits. Tonight, he won. On
Thursday I went to Costco and bought a forty pound bag of Kirkland "Super Premium" chicken and rice cat food. Note the "super premium" designation. This isn't the cheap stuff. But to see Oso's reaction, you'd think it was a bag of month old mouse carcasses. Since Thursday he has eaten just barely enough to sustain life and maintain a steely glare.

I had Newton in to the vet today for his annual shots. I mentioned to the vet that Oso was on a hunger strike, but that I was sure he would eat when he got hungry enough. She explained that cats are very "size and shape oriented." A change in either the size or shape of their little food pellets can throw some cats into a sulking fit that would make a fifteen year old girl envious. "You won't win this one," she warned.

So I waved the white flag and posted on Freecycle tonight that I have a 40 lb. bag of premium cat food with about 12 pellets missing. Someone has already arranged to pick it up in the morning. I'll leave it on the porch for them because I have to be at Target first thing to pick up a bag of cat food.

My name is Linda and I'm an addict

I am addicted to craigslist. Yes, I know...their reputation has grown a bit tarnished of late. But let me say this about that (a nod to Forrest Gump). If you happen to shop at the same grocery store where a serial killer shops should you feel guilty? If you patronize a video rental store with an adults only room should you stop renting videos?

I don't go into the adults only rooms on craigslist. My obsession is entirely focused on the furniture listings. Browsing through the furniture on craigslist combines two of my favorite activities; yard sale shopping and not getting up before the sun.

I LOVE yard sale-ing. I hardly ever buy anything. The attraction, for me, is looking at what other people own. It's a socially sanctioned form of snooping. The problem with yard sales is that around here they start as early as 6:00 am and all the good stuff is gone before it's even daylight. That's the main reason I don't go more often.

But now I have craigslist...

I can go virtual yard sale-ing in the middle of the night, at midday, in my pajamas, or when I take a quick break from sewing. I can look at what people own, read their stories about downsizing or divorce and criticize their spelling. You'd be amazed at how many "dinning" room sets there are for sale. And today I spotted a child's "play pin." Sounds dangerous.

I like to browse with a purpose. I started checking craigslist a few months ago when I decided I needed a comfy reading chair for our bedroom. I found one--I paid $100 for it which included 10 yards of matching fabric in case I decide to make drapes. Which I'm not going to do. When Carl saw my chair he said it was one of the ugliest chairs he'd ever seen. That's because he still values style above comfort. As we age (and get our priorities straight) we come to realize that whether it's chairs or shoes, comfort is the only thing that really matters. Here is my chair which I love:


Having fulfilled that mission, I moved on to checking the St. George craigslist where I located a bunk bed set for Sarah and Sean's boys. Currently, Clare has me looking for book shelves for their office. Yesterday I thought I was on to something, but I haven't yet figured out how to talk her into it:


They are asking $100, but their listing says that they are "motivated," which is code for "I'll take whatever I can get." I have spent two days wandering around my house, trying to figure out where I could use a boat shelf.

It is hard to talk myself out of some of the real bargains. Tonight, for example, I came across this gem. A mid-century retro table and all they want for it is $12!!!

The nice thing about being obsessive-compulsive is that I can turn almost anything into a time-consuming hobby...temporarily, at least.

Warning...humorless rant ahead

I went to Wal Mart today. At the risk of sounding like a horrible snob, I will confess that I try to avoid Wal Mart. Our local store doesn't have the advantage of being a supercenter...no groceries to speak of...so there really is no draw. It smells weird, it is grossly overcrowded and it employs morons. But I needed thread and I didn't want to drive all the way to JoAnn Fabrics.

I stood in line behind an older lady, probably in her late seventies--about my mother's age. She had one of those hair styles that she probably gets "done" once a week. The curls in the back of her hair were flattened and I knew it would bother her if she could see it. She was of the generation that has separate wardrobes--house dresses for at home and nicer clothes for going out. She had obviously made an effort to look nice for her trip to Wal Mart. She wore black pull-on pants with a cream colored blouse and a purple floral jacket that probably had originally come with a dress. She just missed looking pulled together, but I applauded her effort. Her flattened hair and the individual-sized items in her basket made me think that she is probably alone at this point in her life. I wanted to hug her and thank her for getting dressed up and going out to buy two rolls of toilet paper, a roll of peppermint lifesavers, a bar of Dove soap and a packet of Austin peanut butter crackers.

She paid with a check. The clerk, a young woman with attitude to spare, began her eye-rolling marathon as the older lady searched deliberately through her purse for a pen. I finally handed her one. She bent low over the counter as she started to fill in her check. The clerk barked at her, "You don't hafta fill everything in. Just sign it!" The woman was so intently focused on writing legibly with shaking hands that she didn't hear the girl. At that point, the clerk actually grabbed the check away from her and barked again, "I said you don't hafta fill it in. Just sign it!" The poor woman was thoroughly confused. The clerk shoved the check under her nose and stabbed the signature line repeatedly with her finger while barking, "Hurry up and sign it! There's people waiting!" The woman dutifully signed the check and handed it to the clerk who scanned it and gave it back. More confused, the woman asked in a plaintive, defeated voice, "What do you want me to do with it?" The clerk replied, without explaining, but with excessive eye-rolling, "Do whatever you want with it--it's yours!"

I tried to explain to the woman that the clerk had taken a picture of her check and had all the information she needed. I tried to tell her that it would be best to tear the check up and to be sure to record it in her check register. I'm not sure she heard me. She looked so frightened and embarrassed, as if all she could think about was getting out of the store and back into her comfort zone.

An outing to Wal Mart shouldn't cost you a big chunk of your dignity and self-confidence. And people who bully the weak and make them feel like unwelcome strangers in this fancy high-tech world should be strung up by their thumbs.

I hope she doesn't give up. I hope she doesn't start letting her neighbor or niece or someone else start "picking things up for her." I hope she can dress up tomorrow and brave another venture out into a world that often doesn't have much patience or kindness. And I hope that I will do whatever I can to ease the way for my older sisters when they cross my path. Until I am in their shoes...