RAVing about My New Car

If anyone had told me in the past 3 years that I would happily drive a new car off a local Toyota dealership (I-10), I would have flown into a rage! In July 2007, I was at the same dealership to purchase a small Toyota truck -- and ripped up the contract and left. In the process of trying to leave, I was verbally assaulted by an employee, who held onto the car and would not let my friend drive away. Long story short, the owner of the dealership called, offered to honor the deal we had made that was completely changed by the finance manager, and added a bit of incentive. I drove back to the dealership, sat outside to sign the papers, and vowed upon my return NEVER to go back there again. And, I generously gave them all the free publicity they deserved as the WORST dealership ever. Not surprising, many other locals not only agreed, but added their horror stories to mine. If you lie to and try to cheat one customer, it's because you've lied to and cheated many, many more.

That was then; this is now. I hurt my right knee at Thanksgiving and it's causing me issues, continuing to deteriorate in spite of the ortho specialist's pronouncement that the x-rays showed no injury; thus, there is nothing wrong with my knee. Yes, there is, and driving my 5-speed manual transmission has beome a physical issue. Additionally, when the weather turned bad so many times in the last 4 months, I could not get to work! My little 4-banger was too light on the road and didn't have the power to make it up the grades between home and job site. I made the decision to trade in my truck, sell my Camry, and become a one-car family.

I began my research in December and thought that maybe a Toyota RAV4 was the vehicle for me. Bigger than some, smaller than others, but available in a V-6, my preference. I looked on-line for both new and used, comparing outlets all over SoCal. I found a used vehicle at the dreaded dealership, but actively continued looking anywhere else, rather than go back "there." As circumstances have evolved with Toyota, it became a propitious time to push my search into gear, and this time the worst dealership was my best option, so I made the call and set up an appointment. I told the salesman with whom I spoke, "Just don't lie to me," and he promised that he would be straight. And he was, sort of.

I test drove a few used vehicles, including my well-loved 4-Runner and another one that just felt wrong. I cannot explain why, but I refused to test-drive it off the lot because something was way wrong with what I felt behind the wheel. Realizing that I would pay within $5k for a used car, and having been assured over the phone that I could purchase a RAV4-10 V-6 for $25, I directed the salesman to take me to those vehicles.

Of course, the one he had told me was available was not, so I got that hinky feeling up my back of "here we go again." I thanked him for his time and asked him to give me a call when he had on the lot what we had discussed prior to my arrival. He intervened and had me sit in and test drive that model in a different vehicle, and I was sold: it was a perfect fit. And I, still assuming that he meant that he could put me into that vehicle at $25k, went inside to do the paperwork that would culminate in a purchase.

The first figure he wrote on the paper was $5k higher than what we agreed on, so I stopped him. He explained that yes, he could get me what I wanted -- in cloth interior, fewer options, yada yada yada, and I said, "Fine. Call me when that car is on the lot." We all know how negotiations go, starting with a $500 drop in the price -- and that was not going to fly with me. When he got down to, "I can make this happen for $26," I was ecstatic, but not so much when he returned with paperwork that listed the selling price as $26,999. When I challenged him on his honesty, he clarified that when he said $26, everyone knows that he meant "$26,999." I looked him square in the eye and told him I'd been there before and that is why I walked off this lot the last time. "If you meant $27, just say so. If you say $26, then give me $26."

Long story short: I drove it home. That one. The fully-loaded, all leather interior, over-the-top RAV4-10, in white.

My new RAV has heated seats in the front. A back-up camera. A rearview mirror that automatically adjusts at night. Rear seats that flip totally down with a pull of a lever. A full-sized console between the 2 plush back seats that recline. A storage compartment under the back deck. One of those fancy hardshell covers for the spare tire. A sun roof. A 6-CD player, an incredible radio, and 6 speakers. An I-POD dock. A computer outlet. Of course, all the standard goodies, like cruise control, as well as 4-wheel drive and 2-wheel drive for inclement weather, and a towing package.

Did I mention it's a V-6 and totally hauls ass on the open road?

The dealership redeemed itself with an entirely new management structure that responded to "numerous past complaints," according to the new manager, who talked with me personally. He was impressed that I did return to this dealership, and I would go back if I ever decide to buy another car. Hopefully, this will be my last car as it blends the best of both worlds: I have my luxurious passenger compartment, my spacious truck, and the power to go where I want to go regardless of the weather.

STALKED!

The comp students are writing a group essay designed to have them experience a PROCESS essay. Sometimes just talking about it does not clarify how important it is to see an essay as an on-going process that involves many divergent tasks that cohese into a completed product. They chose their own groups, their own topic, assigned the tasks as appropriate to complete the task, and will present a finished product at tonight's class. One group decided to write about a "retired college professor," but I guess I didn't realize I am that subject until the group leader sent out an all-call to the writing team re: a meeting today.

I read the background he dug up in amazement: I didn't recall some of the specific dates and items he found!! Of course, there's always so much more, some of which, thankfully, he didn't find.
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True story. I left the desert in 1997, relocating to live in PA as my daughter was giving birth to her first (and only, it seems) child. I had a job lined up in corporate America, but found out when I arrived and moved into the home I had leased for a year that the corporation's plans had changed and I was, as Shakespeare wrote, "hoist in my own petard." With no income, I signed up with a temp agency and woke up every day to a new job. Of course I applied at local school districts, but could not be hired as (1) I have a CA credential and (2) it was mid-year. I loved temping, but knew it would not keep the rent paid for the rest of my life, so kept looking.

Meanwhile, a former student with whom I continue contact called me one day and asked if I'd like to move to Texas: he had a job for me in the corporation's education center. The corp flew me to Dallas, where I spent 3 days visiting the primary sites and being interviewed, one of which was conducted during an incredible Dallas dining experience. Yes, I was offered the job, accepted, and moved to TX.

Eighteen months later, the job suddenly took a left turn (long story) and I had to go to Plan B. After spending about 3 hours with my pastor in frank discussion and deep prayer, I picked up the phone and called the district office for PSUSD. I was offered a job on the spot, repacked everything, and drove myself back to the desert, where I moved into the home I still owned there (it took about 6 months to sell that home and relocate down the hill). When a friend heard I was back in the area, he shared that with the college administration, and I received a phone call asking me if I'd like to be back on staff.

The circle continues as the student who hired me to work for him (and is now himself a professional actor) also connected me with an older actor-turned-author-lecturer-teacher, who is writing a book on acting for which I am the editor. What makes the story bring a smile to my face is that this student and I had a hellacious dust-up when he was a high school student acting in a play I was directing, Arsenic and Old Lace, his first acting job. He wanted to tell me how he was going to present his character to the audience and when I disagreed, he yelled that he was going to have me fired from my job. I offered to walk him to the office and be available for the immediate termination; on the way between the multi-purpose room and the office, he calmed down, we began to talk, and that, my friends, was 30 years ago.

We're still talking.

No Papa's Pizza

When I want pizza, about once a month, there are 3 major suppliers within a mile of my home. In order, I prefer Papa John's, then Pizza Hut, and third Domino's. Although I've had many, many excellent pizzas from Domino's in the past, the local one sucks. I've never tasted pizza as bad as the ones from the local Domino's, although I have not ordered one in at least a year. If they are better now, I won't know it.

Papa Johns makes great pizza; my favorite is sausage and black olive. Today, for the second time in two weeks, I spent 45 minutes dialing in to order a pizza, my coupon on my computer screen, and got a busy signal every single redial. Last month, I finally gave up and dined in at Pizza Hut, which takes forever and provides the worst service of any restaurant in the entire community. I only go there when I'm content to sit and wait and wait and wait. The food is excellent, but when there is NO service, I don't need the aggravation.

Back to Papa Johns.

We have a poor economic landscape, especially in a small desert community with a largely minimum wage financial base. There are not a lot of restaurants, and those that remain open are struggling to stay afloat. Therefore, it would seem that any food business would do whatever it takes to keep the customers flowing in -- and Papa Johns doesn't answer the phone!

I wonder how many other potential customers were calling today between 4:25 and 5:15 pm and getting the same busy signal. I even checked the phone number on the website to make sure I was dialing correctly. At one point, I considered driving to the store and asking them why the phone has been busy for a solid 1/2 hour, but am spending an at-home day today and don't feel like going out.

My bottom line is this: it doesn't matter how good the location, how big the customer base, how delicious the product, if no one can call in an order. Papa John, you've lost my business. Even though it wasn't often or that much I ordered, I'm off the call list -- perhaps along with all the other frustrated customers calling and calling and calling today.

Quickies

Gotta love the student who wants to know why I write "HO" on the top of his quiz. Uh, that would be a plus sign and a 10!!

Or the guy who answered the attendance check today with (I heard) "sweet," which brought a smile to my face ... until he clarified that he clearly said, "Si," meaning yes, I am present. I like "sweet" better: it's such a positive response to one's name.

Sneakin' in a bit of doggie doings, Daisy picks up a tennis ball and Mia takes it away from her, mouth to mouth -- or Mia picks up the ball and Daisy snatches it back and runs to the tiled hallway, where she drops it then chases after it. Mia hides behind the couch and Daisy tries to find her. Mia chews the bone, Daisy distracts her by squeeking the toy, Mia races to see what Daisy is up to, Daisy dashes to Mia's palette, picks up the bone, and chews to her heart's content. Mia stands there looking flummoxed. Daisy is Quick!!

LMAO at the request to redesign hotdogs because they pose a choking hazard. Hmmm. Parents, cut them into small pieces (also packaged as a product called "cocktail weiners") or teach your children to CHEW their food, rather than swallowing it whole. Ditto with both the baby carrots and the whole grapes that also made the hazardous to small children list. (Point of information: the baby carrots are so named because the carrots are small, not because they are grown to feed raw to babies.) Come on, people: you REALLY want to redesign the hot dog???

Talk about high class: I invited 2 of my best friends to join me for lunch tomorrow ... da da ... in the school lunchroom! Yippee!

Gloria All Right Already needs to get over herself: she thinks that ALL women who have been treated badly by Tiger -- and all the other women in the world who have had sex with a married man who did not leave his wife -- deserve an apology. I'm thinking an apology would be a whole lot cheaper than a payoff, but I doubt that Ms. All Right Already really believes that's all the women need to restore their dignity. After all, she's expecting to be paid, right, and probably would not accept a sexual encounter with the bad boy as payment in kind. And a porn star's adult entertainment royalties probably don't pay as much as a Nike endorsement. Bodacious ta-ta's v. customized golf club? Blow jobs v. hole in one?

Hey, great new meaning for the Nike slogan "Just Do It!" No wonder they don't want to lose Tiger's endorsement presence. Hee-hee-hee.

About the Dogs

When I groan myself out of bed every morning about 5 am, Daisy bounds her way off the bed, out the doggie door, and into the world of "Wake Up, People! Daisy is on duty!" She does not step through the doggie door, she hurtles through it, resembling the old Superman movies, the ones where the actor actually bounced on a small trampoline before jumping through the open window. There are so many dogs, so many people to wake up, so much barking to do. Mia, on the other hand, simply relocates from her sleeping palette in the bedroom to one of the other choices throughout the house. Too early; too much noise.

I like dogs; however, while I was a child, the family dog was never allowed inside the home. Dogs were part of the perimeter of the property, their duty to bark away strangers and eat the table scraps. Once the dogs in my adult life were allowed into the house, there was no turning back. It's easier to say "no" a thousand times than to say "yes" once and have to live with it for a lifetime.

Two doggie doings I don't condone are (1) sleeping on the couch--Daisy believes differently (2) sleeping on my bed--she sneaks up after I'm asleep. Daisy has mastered the art of walking along the very narrow window frame of the front window, the window that faces the street. She has found that is the perfect place for her to bark and bark and bark as the mommies walk the children to and from school each day. The good news, however, is that when I tell her to shush, she actually stops barking for a second! If I whistle to her to come inside, she does so, a trait Mia never quite mastered.

Yes, there is jealousy this time, perhaps because Mia is older, more set in her ways, and spoiled rotten. If I rub Mia's head, Daisy wants a rub; if I call Mia for a quick hug, Daisy wants a long hug. They are working it out, so there hasn't been the growling or the biting thing going on, but Mia is not as joyful with this stranger's arrival as she has been in the past when we've cared for other dogs while their owners were out of town.

What set them off yesterday was my return from the weekly big box store shopping, where I buy dog food and, yesterday, some new dog toys and a bed for Daisy. Mia loves the "weiner dog" toy, the long columnar body with a squeeker in one end and a growler in the other. She chews the toy, tosses it about, and brings it to me when she wants to play. Knowing that Mia guards that toy with her best growl and scowl, I bought a hot pink one for Daisy .. and inadvertently started the war. Mia heard that squeeker, raised her head in the direction of the sound, trotted over and stared Daisy down until she dropped it and ran out the doggie door. The pink toy is now on Mia's palette, along with a clear message: those toys, in whatever shape or color, are MINE, especially the favorite green toy, the one wrapped in duct tape.

Yes, I'm adjusting to two dogs, but today will be the first double-duty poop patrol, perhaps my least favorite thing in the whole wide world. Were I rich, instead of so darned good looking, I'd hire the man who literally has a mobile business dedicated to picking up poop! But, I'd also hire the guy to wash the car, the crew to clean the house, and a cook to make the decisions and put the meals in front of me a couple of times a day, none of which is going to happen!

This is the last doggie update as the third thing I find annoying is elderly people who substitute their dogs for human interaction and/or conversation. It's a dog, and we're done writing about the dogs.

And a Follow-Up

What??? The porn star's heart is broken because Tiger made promises to her that he did not keep??? SHE wants a personal apology from Tiger for treating her badly??? Honey, YOU ARE A PORN STAR WHO WAS PAID TO HAVE SEX WITH A MARRIED MAN. There is NOTHING else to say.

Tiger's Tail

Ya know, folks, Tiger paid hookers for sex. Of course, some of the women took the money and went back to work -- until they could make more money by sharing their experience with the media. Doesn't change the fact that they were paid very, very well to have sex with Tiger: it was, and, perhaps, still is their job. They ALL knew he was married; they ALL accepted the cash; and they ALL can say whatever they want to excuse their part in the scandal, but they ALL own what they did for money, as well as what they are now doing for more money.

What Tiger did to his wife, to his mother, to his extended family and friends to whom he was obviously addressing his televised remarks, is what Tiger has to reconcile. Should his wife forgive, forget, and move back in? No: take the money and move on. Engaging in an extra-marital affair is not fatal to a marriage, but paying for literally dozens of women to have sex, especially while your wife is pregnant, is probably a deal-breaker.

NO ONE in the public and/or the media has the "right" to know what happened, with whom, or how often. That's a conversation Tiger has to have with himself, with his therapist, with his family/friends who matter to him. The rest of the world may ask when he's going to return to golf, but what happened behind closed doors needs to stay there. There is absolutely nothing to gain by exposing the salacious details to the press!!

Two endings thoughts: there, but for the Grace of God, go ... pretty much all of us, so Let he who is without sin be the first to cast the stone.

Picking Daisy

Daisy's mom got a new puppy and no longer wanted Daisy, so my friend adopted her about 4 days ago. The problem is that Daisy runs like the wind as soon as she spies an open door, and my friend lives on a busy street with an unfenced front yard. When he left the house, Daisy scooted out with him and took off running -- into the street.

Yesterday, when B came to change out two more light fixtures, he asked me if I was still looking for a playmate for Mia, something we had talked about often over the course of several months. I said yes, but not seriously and/or actively, and B said he had a dog, a 16-month-old Jack Russell terrier, that he took in and could not keep. Did Mia and I want to meet Daisy and become her adoptive family?

Daisy came over today to meet us, spent a full hour exploring every inch of the house and yards, figured out how to use the doggy run for potty purposes, and even met the chi-wah-wah next door who bellies under his wooden fence to talk to Mia. The pack of really big dogs behind us are not taking Daisy's presence too well, but they growl and bark at everything, scratching at their wooden fence and banging into it repeatedly. Daisy isn't very big, but she has a big dog mentality: she stood her ground inside "her" new fence and barked right back at the pack.

We're going to see how this goes, but I expect that by the weekend, Mia and Daisy will have figured out how to make this work. They have growled at each other, but also nuzzled, played, and shared Mia's best toy, Boy. Daisy knows the doggie door and we'll see how she does during the night.

The best part so far is that Daisy likes all the pieces of dog food Mia won't eat, which means maybe I won't have to sweep up the discarded food and replace it with Mia's preferred pieces. It gets expensive, buying bags of food so Mia can pick and choose the specific pieces she'll eat, while tossing the rest of it onto the kitchen floor. And ... Daisy already knows how to sit pretty before she gets a treat.

Yeah, this can work
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Whistlin' Dixie

I have always believed that God puts people on our paths when He needs them to be there and for His reason. I've met some remarkable people during my life, about some of whom I wondered what God was thinking, and others about whom I thanked God for thinking about me.

One of those people is Dixie, one of the most warm, welcoming, supportive, and loving people ever to be on my path. Last night, Dixie popped into my classroom, carrying a coffee shop bag from which emanated the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. You know how there are times when your brain says, "Man, wish I had a cup of coffee," but there is no way to step out and get one? That's when Dixie popped her head into the room.

Dixie celebrated both her 65th birthday and her 50th wedding anniversary last semester, accomplishments for which we all strive. Yes, she married her sweetheart when she was 15 years of age, has raised 5 children, and enjoys the high and lows of life by standing strongly in her faith. She radiates love and joy, but her life has not been easy: she simply chooses to put her time, effort, and energy into the joys life has to share with her, rather than worrying about what isn't there. Her peaches and cream complexion is creased with life lines, but her sparkly blue eyes shine with joy. I'm jealous of her glorious crown of grey-going-pure white hair, a feature that cinches her uncanny resemblance to the queen of the kitchen, Paula Deen.

When I met Dixie, I pointed out that absolutely no-duh resemblance to one of my favorite TV cooking hosts, and Dixie assured me that I could call her Paula and she'd answer, taking it as a compliment that I linked her to one of my favorite TV cooking shows. Dixie loved that we shared the cooking bond that not so many women share in these days of fast-food drive-through windows and dashboard dining. In our off-hours, we reminisced about cooking and family, recalling not just special meals, but the sights, the sounds, and the smells of holiday celebrations that centered in the kitchen. When I told her about my g'ma's Christmas fruitcake that my mom made every year, Paula said, "Send me the recipe and I'll make it for you!" We also both knew about "war cake," the eggless, milkless, butterless cakey bread that women made during the rationing program vital to conserving food resources during WW II. Yep, Dixie made the rich, dark, raisin and nut laden bread, too, not because we were fighting a war, but because she knew how to get a lot of mileage out of a restricted food budget.

Dixie brought the class treats at Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas--wonderful, steaming hot baked treats. Her recipe for a Thanksgiving pumpkin dish was so delicious that I shared it with all of my Friday Friends, who not just loved the dish, but shared it with their other friends. Dixie is like that: infectious and wonderful to share. As I've been wondering if it's time to step to the side so the younger generation can stand behind my podium, Dixie praises my joy in doing my job, assuring me that I'm not too old to relate to the students filling the seats this semester -- or next. It's challenging to know when it is time to walk away, but I don't feel finished with my career inside, especially when Dixie tells me that I can still teach and make a difference. I've signed on for another year.

I'm glad that God, by whatever name, is still putting people in my path, especially all the wonderful people like Dixie. Being Dixie, when I thanked her for bringing me coffee last night, she laughed that rich, robust laugh of hers. She reminded me that we all met after class last semester for coffee and an extra-large French fries, our class "office hours," and she misses that time together.

That's so Dixie, and so God putting another special person on my path.

It’s Just About Life, Darlin’

Last year, Mickey Rourke should have won the Oscar for his incredible performance in The Wrestler; this year, it should go to Jeff Bridges for his role in Crazy Heart. Mickey didn’t get it last year, and Jeff probably won’t get it this year, but if the Oscar means what the Oscar should mean, that will be a shame.

It’s easy to make big movies about little things, to fill the screen with computer-generated animation that adds a wow factor to a trite storyline, but it’s challenging to make a good little movie about big things, especially important things, such as the failure to live one’s life in a meaningful, productive manner.

Jeff Bridges is Bad Blake, a very old 57-year old country/western singer and songwriter whose life is nothing to talk about. He drinks too much, he smokes too much, and he’s turned to shit everything he’s ever touched in life, especially relationships. He doesn’t have friends; he has frustrated co-habitants of his failed life. He’s talented, no one will say otherwise, but what good is talent when it’s wasted, when it’s only used to buy the next bottle of booze or pack of smokes? When he says to Jane that with her in the room, he realizes how crummy a hotel room can be, he speaks volumes to all of us who find it difficult to accept the best in ourselves and do something important with the gifts that God has given us. Life is so much easier when we don’t demand much of ourselves or from others we run into during the course of a day.

In one of the run-down bars in a deteriorating small western town, Bad meets his second chance, a now-single woman struggling to turn her own life around and provide not just for herself, but for her 4-year-old son. Bad has women, God only knows how or why as he’s dirty, stinks, sweats profusely, and is always drunk, but this woman comes to interview him for an article for the local weekly. Bad tries to duck her questions the way he ducks his life, but she affects Bad in a way that he hasn’t been touched in far too long. This is not just a second chance, but, perhaps, his last chance.

Jeff Bridges could have played it safe, but he lets life hang out over his belt and etch his face. He’s tired, he’s sick, and he’s drinking himself to death, but he assures the string of pick-up bands that join him on all the anonymous stages in the west that he’s never missed a show. He may not make it from beginning to end, but he’s there – and Bridges gets all of it onto film. The secret to performance is to be real, not to act real, and Bridges is real. Some of the scenes are hard to watch, while other scenes are painful, but the performances throughout are authentic, not something that can be recreated with CGA technology.

Colin Farrell has an important role in the film, but you have to look to find his name in the credits. Both Farrell and Bridges actually sing the songs required for their roles, and they both sing well. Knowing that it’s not lip-synced adds to the depth of the performances of both actors. Maggie Gylennhaal sells herself as a world-weary single mother doing whatever it takes to make it through today, afraid to open her life to another man who will, in the end, disappoint her. She knows who Bad Blake is, but she accepts him into her life more because she worries that her son needs a man in his life than because she wants to risk having another man in her own life.

The story is sound, the casting is excellent, and the performances are why I go to the movies. When I think how the media raves about George Clooney being George Clooney while Up in the Air, I cringe to acknowledge that he will receive the acclaim for yet another predictable movie well-suited to his personality, while Jeff Bridges does the acting and deserves the award, but will probably applaud politely while another actor holds Oscar aloft. Sometimes, it’s like being back in high school, watching the popular people get the recognition for the hard work of the people they step on as they climb to the top of the social ladder.

Crazy Heart is not a Valentine’s Day feel-good movie, but it is an important film. The acting is excellent, the story engaging, and the ending appropriate, rather than affirming. It may not be in local theaters, but it will be on the video store shelves and Net Flix future lists soon. See it.

The Players

It was like watching an episode of Survivor: The Bachelor! Talk about manufacturing a strategy to either pry info out of the bachelor or worm your way into contention for the top prize. The phony tears, the phony forced choice, the phony "I am falling in love with four women" excuse to keep his options open. Ali is one of the lucky ones if (1) the crisis is real (2) she's not the phony she seems to be (3) Jake actually gives a shit one way or the other and (4) those tears were not brought on by onion juice or a light layer of menthol under her eyes. She left the set in a limo to return to real reality, not a TV game show, and that's a real win!

Yes, it's true: when Ali had to leave the show or lose her job, she tried every feminine wile she possesses to get a commitment from Jake that made it worth chucking the job for the chance to wear the rock. Jake could not come out and say yes, I'm going to ask YOU to marry me, but he did admit that he would be "devastated" if she left the show, thus taking herself out of the running. Well, let's be honest, she's gone for now: she may simply be setting herself up for the big ah-ha moment when she quits her job and comes running back to Jake's waiting crotch, uh, arms. These shows are dying on the vine (rightly so) and have to generate drama to get through the whole "I'm looking for the woman of my dreams, the one woman who is right for me and with whom I will live happily ever after ... the cameras are off, the free dates are history, and the reality sets in that I WENT ON A FRIGGIN' TV REALITY SHOW TO PICK A WIFE!"

Reality shows are the phoniest TV of the decade. How boring in reality it would be to see "plain Janes" show up to win the hand of what is a total "catch" in today's marriage market. Instead, they are all pencil thin with HUGE BOOBS that are, if nothing else, certainly eye-catching for cameras that follow them into the hot tubs and revealing close-ups. I doubt that there is a natural hair color in the 2 dozen women who began the show! What makes one girl stand out from the others? Of course it's her inner beauty, her inner qualities, her personality: after all, Jake had all of a week to winnow the pack from 2 dozen to the top ten, so he really got to "know" the contestants, the real women inside the plastic bodies, right? We all know that Jake would have known all of them better if he had met the girls in a bar and spent 5 hours doing shots with them. That's when the barriers fall; that's when the booze loosens the tongue and reveals the "real woman" wearing the hootchy mama mini-dress and the "do me" spiked heels.

The couples, if that's what it's called when one guy takes four different women home to four different families to meet the mom, had the ultimate test: can Jake pass the probing into his motives by the parents and siblings and best friends? Well, yeah, that's a no-brainer: your daughter auditioned for the reality show and you know that if you don't like Jake, it's your loss because she's in it to win it and you best be doing YOUR part to see that happens. Even Tenley, who all too recently broke off an engagement, gets the parental thumbs-up, accompanied with the caveat to Jake: don't you hurt her, adding that she's already been hurt enough. She's getting over her heartbreak on a TV reality show???

The saddest part of the whole "meet the 'rents" episode (yes, I watched some of it) is that Jake read each family the same script: I am falling in love with your daughter. His delivery was sincere, but his motives? I'm thinking sex: he swapped enough oral fluids just in this one episode to think about preventive penicillin. The real test of falling in love is doing so without sex: that's when the inner person is revealed, the person with whom the spouse can make it through a hectic morning, or a death in the family, or the sudden loss of a job, or a devastating illness, or the birth of a disabled child. Sex is all too often right for right now, but a marriage needs the forever kind of sex, which is "love."

So, Jake needs help finding a potential wife ... why? Does he have a social disease from not practicing safe sex? Is he a closet sex addict? alcoholic? gambler? druggie? Has he repeatedly filed for bankruptcy because he has no clue how to handle finances? Is he unfaithful to the people with whom he enters into relationships? Have anger management issues? Judging the book by the cover, it appears that Jake would have an easy time of picking up any woman he wants, sharing sex with her, and walking away a very happy man. If he wanted a wife, chances are he'd already have one, so I'm thinking there is another agenda at work here, one that will not culminate in the happily-ever-after hyped by the show.

Maybe it's that he really doesn't want a wife because he's having too much fun picking daisies out of the vast field filled with flowers. On another reality show, Rock of Love, Bret Michaels went looking for a wife four, yes, four seasons ago -- and he's still looking! This is only Jake's second time looking for love in all the wrong places, so maybe he'll be back next season, still waiting for Ali to come to her senses and return to the set so he can ... . Wow, people really watch this crap.

PS: I filled in the backstory at cbs.com as watching part of this episode was just too much reality show for this pragmatist! However, I did decide that of the 4 potential mates still on the set, I'd pick Tenley because, in our short reality acquaintance, she seems the most "real" of the make-believe reality show contestants. For whatever it's worth.

Can They Repeat?

Honest to Pete, what's with media people that the first question they ask in the after-game analysis is can New Orleans do it again next year? Perhaps the majority of the viewers are still basking in the glory of THIS win, hardly thinking ahead to making it to work tomorrow, but the prognosticators want to know about next year. I doubt I can handle an entire year of sports analysts asking that question, much less listening to the inane "answers" to it!!

The first half was, as so many first halves are, so-so, but the second half was energizing, perhaps as an antidote to The Who. Sure, it's better to be out there, to be willing to give it one last big public hoo-rah, but The Who? Yeah, I recognized the CSI theme, probably more for the pre-recorded sound track than the old-timers gyrating and windmilling on the stage while holding instruments. Whatever happened to the marching bands, the drumlines, the intricately choreographed performances? To the pep squad and song routines that are historically a part of the football experience? Hyping these big band gigs earns megabucks for the performers, but as an annual viewer, I'm so not impressed.

And, yes, before you ask, there was no "wardrobe malfunction": that was a planned sneak peek at Janet's expensive cosmetic enhancements. Too much time, effort and money go into costume construction for there ever to be a "wardrobe malfunction." That was a planned tear-off that generated just a little too much negative publicity and had to be explained away. Else why did JT even reach for that part of the costume? Hmmmm?

I'm sorry that the game had to end with a Brett Favre moment: the intercepted pass turning the game into the home stretch. I was torn between Brees and Favre in the semi-finals, knowing that it is Brees' time, but wanting Favre to have this one last moment of glory. Manning sat on the bench for most of this Super Bowl moment, generating frustration, rather than momentum, so it's not totally accurate to say that he lost the game; it's just that Brees went onto the field and won it several times over. Even the Saint's kicker made 3 field goals that put his name into the record books. It was just that kind of a day for the team, as well as the coach, who went for the win in unexpected ways, which added a layer of intensity and excitement that is far too often missing in the Big Show.

As for the commercials, I loved the young neighbors, a Clydesdale and a bull, running with the fence between them: it was cute, it made a subtext point about differences not determining relationships, and the final shot of the grown-ups running together pulled the message together. I hated the building of a human bridge to get the beer delivered. The subliminal message here is that beer is more important than people, an iffy choice for a media message. Additionally, there are far too many young people who will see that animation and think it is real -- and then try it for themselves. When we plant seeds in the minds of impressionable individuals, we should not be shocked when we see the fruits they bear.

As was said in the media all week, the Saints were the sentimental favorites, but everyone knew that the Colts would win. Or not.

TP Turner

A dear friend who stops by once in a while prefers to pull the tp from the over position, rather than the under style I favor. After she leaves, I go to the guest bathroom and return the roll to the under style as she changes the roll every time she visits, whether it's for a one-stop potty visit or an overnight.

Yes, I know that Martha says the paper should flow from the top, but I also pull the paper towels from under for the same reason: it's the way I want it to be in my home. In my decades-long experience, I have determined that less paper is used when it is pulled from under, both in the bathroom and the kitchen. Older tp users naturally seem to be less enthusiastic in pulling paper to finish their business in the bathroom, while younger toiletiers enjoy the unfettered ribbon flow of paper that results from the over position, often leaving a floor-length stream of paper behind for the next toiletier to deal with: do I tear it off and use fresh paper, or do I just use the streamer so it doesn't go to waste?

We all know that there actually is no correct way to position the tp roll: it's a matter of personal preference regardless of Martha's mandate. It's sort of like believing in God: if you are a person of faith and you've made a personal commitment to believe in God, then there is a God. However, if you don't believe there is a God, there is absolutely no way anyone can ever convince you to the contrary because it's not their decision whether you believe in God or not -- just like it's your decision which way the tp comes off the roll in your bathroom!

On the other hand, in those odds moments that seep into a leisurely rainy day, long-repressed thoughts seem to pop into the present, such as the tp paper over/under issue. It matters not one whit to me what anyone does with the paper in the privacy of one's own home, but it amuses me that a guest in my home changes the roll from under to over. I'll hazard the guess that a person who switches the tp in another person's bathroom also goes through their medicine cabinet and the vanity, two areas that are, in my world view, off limits. I also don't meander through the guest room closet, bureau, or other pieces of furniture that may be included in the decor because ... it's not my bedroom, not my furniture, not my place to paw through another person's belongings. As a matter of fact, I think it's extremely presumptuous of anyone to check out the medicine cabinet, the vanity, and/or the contents of a guest room. I'll save my comments about checking out the kitchen cabinets and 'fridge for another rainy day.

I could just ask her why she changes the roll, but it's much more fun not to acknowledge her actions; instead, I write my own script about her motivations, her apparent glee at fooling me by changing the tp roll, and the satisfaction she must feel in thinking that she's been getting away with this outrageous behavior for the past decade. Or not: perhaps she spends a rainy day wondering why I've never asked her why she always switches the tp in the guest bathroom!

Movin' On

What a hoot: the Dems have characterized the Republicans as the "party of no," without realizing how an oft-repeated phrase is shaping their image. I don't watch TV as much as listen to it, the same way that I listen to the radio as I'm driving, so words pop and catch my ear, especially when they become the only answer to a touchy situation.

Lately, I've noticed that the Democrats are the party of "let's just move on." The President makes a joke about bowling like a special needs child; he apologizes; "let's just move on." The President slams people who spend money in Las Vegas--twice; he apologizes; "let's just move on." Rob Emmannuel calls people who don't go along to get along retards; he apologizes; "let's just move on."

If I have to be labeled,I'd rather be a person who consistently says "no" rather than an individual who makes offensive comments, says "sorry," and just moves on.

Grace

The stiffly-starched whiteness of the collar ringed the neck of the black nylon polka dot dress, securely fastened from white collar to hemline with brilliant white buttons diligently kept spotless. Along the edge of the unnaturally white collar, a small edging of tatted lace softened the starkness of the silently still woman sitting on the bus bench, her knees held tightly together, her ankles touching. Old-fashioned highly polished black shoes were tied to her feet, the black laces forming a measured bow across her instep, a proper chunky two-inch heel adding a Sunday touch to her appearance. Age was indiscriminate, hidden in the creases and folds that belied the victim of servitude and sunshine. Squarely across her lap, wrinkled hands blended into the handle of the firmly clutched black bag that looked as if it had spent the weekdays on a closet shelf for many years.

This was not a woman of means, but a proud woman waiting for the city bus to take her to church services. She looked straight ahead, not wanting to attract attention to herself, sitting alone on the far end of the bench as if waiting for other travelers to join her. Cars passed, which she neither saw nor acknowledged, filling the early morning air with noise and dust. No one thought to stop and offer her a ride, perhaps a familiar Sunday sight that formed part of the ordinary routine of the small rural community who had asked before and been politely declined. “I'll wait for the bus. Thank you for your kindness,” a proud woman used to doing for others, not being done for in even the simplest ways.

A slight shifting of her hands indicated that she heard the bus down the road a ways and she began the process of standing to signal to the driver to pick her up. Her head never moved, eyes neither right nor left, but her feet edged slightly apart to provide balance as her body leaned slowly toward the street, momentum providing the assist necessary to become erect. Once standing, her feet again tucked tightly together, her head facing the street, she waited, knowing that she’d take her customary seat at the back of the bus and sing silent hymns as she journeyed to her destination.

Snippets

The worker finishing up the guest room remodel had to work on the weekend because the construction boss, who told me twice last week that HE would be by to finish what has been waiting for 6 full weeks and countless other promises to be kept, was funny. First, he hollared for me to come help him because Mia was biting him, which she does not do. I locked her inside the rest of the house, but she stayed on the floor right outside the room the entire time he was here. He also told me (and seemed sincere) that I should "find someone" to be with me because I'm a nice lady and I have a nice house. I paid him because the boss sent a worker to do the job he told me HE was going to do -- and he knew that I would not pay him another dime as I already paid in full for the job before it was finished.

Yeah, I know, so we don't need to have that discussion again.

It's challenging to choose between the two most disgusting commercials on TV: the dust mites partying in my mattress or the yucky mucus guys whooping it up in my chest. These are both commercials that I'd rather never see again.

Let's say that I'm a really famous entertainer who has been nominated to receive honors and awards in my field. The presentations will be made on TV and beamed to every corner of the world. Would I really show up unprepared to accept these awards? Would I really not write an acceptance speech that was well-organized, appropriate, and sincere? Would I really just get up and gush whatever into the microphone?

3-D has been around for many decades, so why are the 3-D glasses still those cheap pieces of paper crap that look like a prize from a box of Cracker Jacks? Even Beyonce couldn't pull off that look!

Why is there a Pro Bowl? Why is it played the weekend before the Super Bowl? Why, if unemployment is soaring and finances plummeting, are there so many fans in the stands?

Did anyone hear the President actually admit publicly that the Republicans are NOT "the party of no"? Obama admitted that Republicans have come to him, have offered both legislation and compromise, have voted in favor of many, many bills -- but if you weren't tuned in to the Republican retreat this past weekend, to which the President was invited, you may not have heard that message during the past year. It's so much more expedient to polarize than it is to compromise.

It's a new month already and time is flying. January is always the longest month of any year, so I'm glad that we're now heading into the shortest month, especially with a 4-day weekend right smack dab in the middle of it. Yeah February!