The (White) Elephant Under the Christmas Tree

“There is only one fruitcake in the world and people keep

sending it to each other.”    --Johnny Carson

Everybody loves the spirit of giving during the holidays . . .  don’t they?

I’ve been particularly interested in corporate America’s approach this year.  We all know the economy is challenging, but, sheesh.  A friend of mine was delighted to hear her name announced among the many employees whose names were drawn at random to receive a gift from the “Elves in Human Resources.” When she happily trotted to the next floor to claim her gift, they handed her an obviously recycled desk calendar, complete with a cable company’s logo (she does not work for a cable company) and some kind of deteriorating packing material stuck around the edges.  It made her wonder, is business really that bad?  She spent the weekend sharpening her resume.

It is perhaps because of these kinds of corporate gifts to employees, customers, and vendors that we now have National Regifting Day.  It is officially designated as the “Thursday before Christmas” and is promoted as being both economically and ecologically sound.  I’m sure it’s true.  I read it on Wikipedia.

I know people mean well.  I’m sure they do.  But have you ever wondered where some of this stuff comes from?  In the spirit of the season – and because I like to make lists – I’ve made a list of things I would prefer not to receive this year – or any year.  If your favorite thing is on this list, I do apologize.  If I happen to wind up with such an item, I’ll gladly regift it in your direction.

Martha Jean’s Please-Don’t-Give-Me-For-Christmas List

A Salad Shooter^®

I know, I know, it’s a wonder.  It slices.  It dices.  And I am assured by its maker that it works even better if you accessorize it.  But I promise you, on the most innovative cooking day I ever had, I’ve never had the need, nor even the urge, to shoot vegetables across the room.  If you have one and love it, please let me know.  If you have one and don’t know what to do with it, please don’t regift it to me.

A Snuggie^®

People who love these things, love them without reservation.  Members of my own family belong to that group, but I do not.  It is, in fact, one of my recurring nightmares – I’m zipped up in a blanket that has holes for my head and arms, sitting comfortably on the sofa in my 25^th floor living room, when the fire alarm sounds.  I wake up shuddering from the vision of my rear end in high def on CNN, slung over a fireman’s shoulder, swathed in my leopard print Snuggie^®.  (It has just been pointed out to me that the reality could be far worse – it is possible taht Snuggies^® do not close in the back, like hospital gowns.  I’ve never gotten close enough to one to find out.  And hope not to.)

Any item that combines an 800-number running across the bottom of your TV screen with your credit card expiration date

All that stuff is sooooo tempting, especially when it’s 3 a.m. and there’s no chance you’re going back to sleep.  You just know, you’re sure of it, that kick boxing training is just what you need to turn your life around.  Of course, you’ll devote at least an hour each day to it and follow the program diligently, all 26 DVDs.  And how have you ever lived this long without the full collection of hit songs from your high school years – I mean you can’t buy those individual songs anywhere, just like that gray-haired singer is saying (and you know you remember him, it’s right on the tip of your tongue).  If you feel yourself reaching for the phone and your credit card simultaneously, especially if you’re trying to stretch across the couch without disturbing your Snuggie^®, don’t.  Just don’t.  If you have to call somebody at 3 a.m. – call me and I’ll talk you down.

Shoes

Women love shoes and I’m no exception.  But, really, we each need to buy our own shoes.  You have to walk across the floor of the shoe department while the guy sits patiently on that little stool and twist around in front of one of those little floor mirrors.  You have to be sure you can a) stand upright without throwing your back out, and b) take several successive steps without twisting an ankle (or breaking a hip – some of those stilettos are high).  Socks are great gifts – but shoes, not so much.  (Besides, every woman hedges her weight and her shoe size, so they’re guaranteed not to fit.)

Any item or product that promises to make me look 10 years younger and/or 20 pounds thinner

First, there’s a good chance I’ve already tried it.  You can tell by looking at me that it didn’t work.  Second, it’s probably going to violate the 800-number-credit-card-expiration-date maxim I declared earlier.  And finally, although I’ve got pretty thick skin, I don’t particularly relish the message that comes with receiving a miracle undergarment or magic wrinkle cream.  Whether you meant it as an insult or not, there it is.

Anything that comes with directions on how to keep it alive

I have enough guilt in my life without adding the moral failure of killing off a perfectly healthy sour dough starter – or ending the 50-year life cycle of a single Friendship Cake – or being the final, fatal  stop in the life of a jar of fermented fruit.  They’re all lovely in the prime of their lives.  Please let me enjoy them at your house and move on.  For the record, I feel the same way about poinsettias, amaryllis bulbs, and hamsters.

Any item designed solely to make my life easier

That’s because it will absolutely be something involving work.  Vacuum cleaners fall into this category, as do magic mops and dust cloths, clever kitchen gadgets, laundry aids, ergonomic pruning shears, and car polishing sets.  Things designed to make my life more pleasant . . . or luxurious . . . or decadent . . . or safer . . . those things make great gifts.  But if the claim to fame is that my life will be easier, it can only mean that I must use it when I’m doing something hard.

And, finally, one last thing I hope not to find under my tree . . .

Anything that’s there because somebody felt obligated to give me a gift

We talk a lot about “taking the commercialism out of Christmas,” but when push comes to shove, most of us play right into making sure the Christmas bells everyone talks about are really the electronic dings of  credit cards swiping.  I’ve only known one person in my life who actually walks the talk.  She and her partner make their gifts each year on their ranch.  Then they traipse out through the snow and hand deliver them to people who make their lives brighter by being around.  I loved them already, but I really love them for doing that. 

My Christmas wish for you this year is to be all the way in every moment you live.  Take nothing for granted.  And make sure you have one good belly laugh each day – it’s better for your health than any diet or gym can ever be.

God bless us, every one.

The Unsung Hero of Holidays

“America did not invent human rights.

In a very real sense human rights invented America.”

                                                                                                Jimmy Carter

      We’re in that time of year we call “The Holidays.”  Think of it and you’ll probably see images of crushing mall mobs, complete with parking lot door dings . . . lights – tiny and white if you live in one of the classier areas; big and multi-colored if you live in one of the trendier areas; pointedly blue if you live in one of the politically correct areas . . . looming credit card statements.  “The Holidays” brings any number of things to mind.

      But I’ll bet you didn’t think about the Bill of Rights, now did you?

      You should have.  December 15th is national Bill of Rights Day. 

      2010 marks the 219^th anniversary of the ratification of that noble document, the first ten Amendments to the U. S. Constitution.  Our Bill of Rights sets us apart from most other nations on earth because it specifically designates and protects the individual rights of U.S. citizens.  We have always been a strong-minded, ruggedly stalwart (dare I say argumentative?) lot in this country.  So much so in fact, that these amendments almost didn’t get approved, nor did the Constitution they support.  It was not by any means a slam dunk.

      While the day of their final ratification is a national holiday (proclaimed by Franklin Roosevelt in 1941, just days after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor), there’s no official record of when we started taking them for granted.

      Just in case you can’t immediately bring all ten to mind, I looked them up.  Here’s the list . . .

1^st Amendment:  Freedom of speech, press, and religion

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

We’re still debating that one, just ask the Wikileaks guy.  Or the folks who want to build that mosque near Ground Zero.  Or the aging neo-Nazis who marched through the streets of downtown Skokie, Illinois in 1978.  Debating the 1^st Amendment it is not a bad thing.  It’s when we stop questioning it, pushing it, stretching its limits that we need to worry.

2^nd Amendment:  The right to bear arms

            A well regulated Militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.

Buckle your seat belt.   This issue is so volatile that I even type gingerly when I record it.  You would think that after 219 years we’d have figured out what we mean by this one, but we truly don’t appear to know.  I will touch it and move on, noting briefly that five of the 11 states who ratified the original Bill of Rights, rejected this one.  If we had to vote on it again today we might be looking at Civil War II.

3^rd Amendment:  Protection of homeowners from quartering troops, except during war

No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

I honestly haven’t given this much thought.  It never crossed my mind that I needed Constitutional protection to keep some sailor on liberty from commandeering my spare bedroom.  In the context of today’s society, I find this one a little bit ironic, especially since one of my dearest friends spends much of her time and considerable talent supporting a wonderful charity whose purpose is to provide housing for military personnel.   Go figure.

4^th Amendment:  Rights and protections against unreasonable search and seizure

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

I sadly fear that most Americans’ knowledge of the 4^th Amendment comes from Law & Order reruns.  Who among us doesn’t remember a scene in which an outraged defense attorney slaps a paper down on Jack McCoy’s desks and explodes, “Ever heard of the 4^th Amendment, counselor!”  I know I’m not the first citizen to ask, “How do you reckon the Patriot Act of 2001 figures in here?”

5^th Amendment:  Rights of due process of law, protection against double jeopardy, self-incrimination

No person shall be held to answer for any capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

Boy, this one covers a lot of territory.  I most often associate the Fifth Amendment with old news reels of mobsters conferring with their lawyers during the legendary Kefauver hearings on organized crime.  In high school I remember reading it and wondering why that last phrase didn’t apply to the Federal government when they took our entire front yard to widen their highway.  I still haven’t forgiven them for cutting down our oak tree.  In today’s pop culture, ‘taking the Fifth’ has become synonymous with an admission of guilt – at least that’s how it sounds on Law & Order.

6^th Amendment:  Rights of a speedy trial by jury of peers and rights of accused

In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district where in the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defense.

My father, always the curmudgeon, insisted that our system ignores the “jury of peers” part of this language.  According to him, an accused ecological terrorist would have a jury comprised only of committed environmentalists, a 19-year-old male charged with drunk driving would face 19-year-old male members of AA.  He could go on for hours – and did.  And while I haven’t looked at a court calendar recently, I think “speedy” could be safely called a stretch.   All I know for sure is that, on advice from my only friend who is also a police officer, the first thing any of us should do if taken into custody is ask for a lawyer. 

7^th Amendment:  Rights to trial by jury in civil cases

In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law.

How would the legal profession support itself without this one?  And, just for fun, does anyone know what $20 from 1789 would be worth today?  When it costs $25 to check a bag on an airplane, would we really convene a jury over a $20 dispute?  Apparently, it’s our Constitutional right. 

8^th Amendment:  Protection from cruel and unusual punishment, excessive bail

Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

What’s excessive for Martha Wharton might be very different from what’s excessive for Martha Stewart.  Or Oprah Winfrey.  And when it comes to what constitutes “cruel and unusual", may the conversation about the Patriot Act continue, please. 

9^th Amendment:  Protection of rights not specified in the Bill of Rights

The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.

This wording was apparently not clear enough to avoid the need to protect some of those “other” rights with specific Amendments of their own.  Like the 14^th.  And the 19^th.

10^th Amendment:  States rights, power of the states

The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.

Some folks take this one hard.  The cemeteries at Gettysburg and Chickamauga attest to that.  In my home town the patriarch of one prominent family was named States Rights Johnson.  Really.  That was his name.  Nobody thought it was odd, or even humorous.  And nobody called him S.R. 

      There you have it.  Since December 15, 1789, we’ve added another 17 Amendments, one which (the 18^th) prohibited alcohol, and another (the 21^st) which repealed it.  So, not accounting for the thirst of the nation, an additional 15 Amendments in 219 years is not too bad.

      After we repealed the 18^th Amendment in 1933, we pretty much left the Constitution alone until 1947, when, shortly following the death of FDR, we passed an Amendment limiting the President of the United States to two terms.  Point taken. 

      There was another quiet spell until 1961, when we entered sort of an amending frenzy in Constitutional terms (Constitutional Amendment time being a little faster, but not much, than geologic time).  In quick succession we admitted the District of Columbia to the electoral college (1960 – but they still don’t have Congressional representation, read their license plates); revoked poll taxes (1962 – that took awhile, didn’t it); codified the terms of Presidential succession (1965); and made 18 the legal voting age (1971 – but we still don’t have very good luck at getting voters of any age to cast a ballot). 

      After that, we grew quiet for another 21 years, until 1992 when we finally passed the 27^th, preventing laws affecting Congressional salaries from taking effect until the beginning of the next session of Congress.  For the record, that one took just over two centuries to hit the books.  It was included in the original Bill of Rights, but never managed to pass go.  Proposed September 25, 1789 – passed May 7, 1992.  Let it never be said we’re quitters.

      With that in mind, here’s a little holiday entertainment for you, something to do when you can’t bear another sappy Christmas movie on the Hallmark channel.  Go back and read the original Bill of Rights, then go online (or, if you’re a troglodyte like me, open the newspaper) and read up on today’s news from Congress.  And then, I dare you, try to imagine what it would take to get those same ten Amendments ratified in today’s political environment. 

     If we depended on our current system to protect our Constitutional rights, we’d probably still be shooing sailors off the front steps with a broom.  Oh, wait . . . we do . . .

Don't Worry, Be Happy . . . or What 2010 Has Taught Me

“I drive way too fast to worry about cholesterol.”

                                                                                                         

If you know me at all, you also know that procrastination is one of my greatest weaknesses.  (I almost said “my single greatest weakness,” but I don’t want to be unfair to sloth, avarice, and greed.)  For the past year, I’ve successfully put off writing this blog, only to reinstate it finally this week.  Why, you ask?  Oh, lots of reasons, but here’s the short list.  Since last we met in cyberspace I have:

a)  Learned that the Boy Scouts are right, you do need to be prepared  

(because I was prepared with full-strength aspirin at hand, I could shove one down  my husband’s throat on Christmas Day when he casually mentioned, “I think I may be having a heart attack”– he’s fine, all is well, and I know where the aspirin is)

                                                

b)  Gotten good, I mean really good, at packing

(because in July 2009 we moved part of our stuff into a new place in Seattle and part of our stuff into our old house on the southwest Washington coast; six months after that, we moved all of our stuff down to the house; five months after that, we moved some of our stuff back to another place in Seattle – a short story I promise to make long in another blog)

c)  Recognized that being good, really good, at packing is not a skill that transfers to unpacking  

(because, well, just because)

d)  Realized that the grass actually is greener on the other side of whatever fence you’re straddling

(because I tried to retire and avidly disliked it, then went back to work and wished I’d stayed retired – there you go)

While I’ve been on this voyage of self-revelation, I also discovered something else:  Worrying is a waste of time.  I’ve mentioned this before, but this time I mean it.  Really, truly.  So, to mark my return to the blogosphere, I’m publishing a list of things I pledge never to worry about again.  Seriously.

From here on in I do solemnly swear I will not worry about . . .

What’s for Dinner

Frankly, I don’t care.  I’m just as happy with a bowl of cereal as with a hand-crafted, organically fed pot roast.  If others are not, they should worry about that.  I’m not going to.

The State of the Economy

Look, I’ve worried about it for years and where has it gotten us?  Greater minds than mine are obsessed with economic theory.  If they can’t figure out how to fix it, fat chance I can.  So I’m giving that one up. 

The Weather

I mean, really, what’s the point?  In my neck of the woods, it rains a lot.  And sometimes it snows.  The ones who need to worry about the weather are the guys whose job it is to keep the streets cleared, not me.  (Word to the wise:  the mayor of Seattle might need to worry.)  If my state of happiness is dependent upon good weather, I should live somewhere else – and I’m not moving (see item b, above).

Whether Things Match

I used to care, I mean CARE, whether the napkins matched the place mats (and that there were napkins and place mats) . . . whether my shoes matched my hemline . . . that the ribbon matched the wrapping paper . . . that my coat matched the rest of my outfit.  I am now resolved simply to be happy that I have time to sit down at the table and eat . . . that my shoes don’t give me blisters and do keep my feet dry (see, The Weather, above) . . . that I actually got around to wrapping the gift instead of just leaving it in the bag, not to mention managing to get it in the first place . . . and that I remembered to grab a coat, any coat, before I dashed out the door.  Now wasn’t that easy?  (To be fair, I probably will pay some mind to how closely my roots match the rest of my hair, but I won’t worry about it – worrying is how those roots came to need attention in the first place.)

Work

This is a big one for me.  For years, make that decades, I’ve worried about what I needed to get done at the office.  I’ve worried about doing the right thing, doing it really well, and making sure we all succeeded.  Doing those things made a difference – all that time I spent worrying about them never did.  So while I’ll continue to do them, I’m not going to worry about them anymore.  It’s my job; it’s not my life. 

                                      

The People I Love

Okay, now I’m going heavy duty.  Not worry about the people I love most in the world?  That’s heresy, isn’t it?  I don’t think so.  Do I care what happens to them?  Absolutely!  Do I want only the best and most wonderful things for them?  Fervently!   Is their welfare the most important thing in my life?  Definitely!  But will my worrying about them make a difference in the outcome of their lives?  No, it won’t.  Praying for them will.  Being available to them will.  Loving them unconditionally will.  But worrying about them won’t change a thing – and I have the wrinkles to prove it.  Here’s what I believe – God loves them more than I will ever be capable of and cares about their welfare more than I ever can.  Therefore, while I care immensely, I don’t need to worry (it does not, however, mean that I don’t need to pray).  Will I abandon them?  Never!  But will I wring my hands and fret when I think about what “could” happen to them?  I promise not to.  What a relief.  For me – and, I’m guessing, for them.

That’s my list.  What’s on yours?

     

You Can Get There from Here -- But It Ain't Easy

It’s been awhile. For the past several years of my life, I seem constantly to have been in transit. Airport security lines, last minute gate changes, blisters on my knees from spending five hours with them pressed against the seat in front of me. These are things I took for granted, along with lots of miles in my frequent flyer account and an occasional and much welcomed upgrade to first class.

But it’s been awhile.

When I simply couldn’t stand not seeing my sister for another minute, I found the best fare possible and booked the flight from Seattle to Atlanta. So, after a nine-month hiatus, I’m back in the air. Not much has changed, except my tolerance. I’ve become accustomed to moving my arms now and then, to getting a drink of water when I feel thirsty, to turning the heat up if it gets too cold or down if it gets too hot. I’ve been living the good life.

As I write this I’m suspended at 34,000 feet somewhere over a landscape sprinkled with snow. And, let me tell you, it ain’t pretty up here.

Obviously, by the time you read this, I may be back on the ground – or, if you’re quick on the draw, you may be reading this while I’m still in flight thanks to a free trial of Delta’s snazzy new airborn wifi. Either way, here are a few tips you might want to keep in mind if air travel figures in your holiday plans.

Tip #1: You can’t always believe the signs at the airport:
Some of the directional signs don’t mean what they say. In Seattle, for example, that sign by the Delta check-in desks telling you to turn right to reach the S Gates? It’s wrong. You can get to the S Gates all right, but only after you’ve gone all the way to the other end of the airport, through the security line that doesn’t have a separate line for MVP/Medallion folks, and dealt with some pretty attitudinal TSA guys over whether the eye shadow in your carry-on counts as a liquid (it’s a powder, ok?).

Tip #2: To travelers who think they scored by booking an Exit Row seat:
On Delta’s 757, row 19 left is immediately at the door through which they load the plane. Nothing in front of it, no bulkhead, no nothing. No place to shove your purse or briefcase under the seat in front of you. There isn’t one. Sitting in seat 19C is like riding in the front car on a roller coaster. Be warned.

Tip #3: To travelers boarding a Delta 757:
You know that row of seats on your right as you walk through the door? That’s row 19 and the people sitting in it have feet. And that 49 pound roll-aboard you’re dragging behind you? It hurts when it rolls over feet.

Tip #4: To travelers who carry backpacks:
If the combined linear depth of your belly and your backpack exceed the width of the aisle, please don’t turn sideways. I think the guy behind me just lost an eye.

Tip #5: To folks who really have to use the lavatory during flight:
If there are already five people in line, you’re probably just as well off waiting until three of them have finished before you queue up. There’s not room for all those people to stand in that space. Or you could just sit in somebody’s lap in row 19.

Tip #6: To the guy who walked his wife to the lavatory and handed her a plastic cup before she went in:
I really don’t want to know.

Tip #7: To men who use the lavatories on airplanes:
Please take care of all your clothing adjustments before you exit the privacy of the loo. You probably don’t realize that your, um, clothing adjustments are at eye level of people in the aisle seats as you return to your row. Please. Check it out before you return to public view.

Tip #8: To the guy up in first class who keeps standing up every 15 minutes to stretch:
Dude, there’s a pillow case stuck to the seat of your pants. I’d get up and discreetly knock it off for you, but the seat belt light is still on.

Tip #9: To everyone on board when the plane gets to the gate:
Just so you know, you can't get off the airplane until somebody opens the door.  Sorry.

Tip #10: To everyone who’s ever boarded an airplane, or intends to:
A) Please don’t carry more than you can pick up and lift over your head. Please, just don’t. B) Please step into your row and let some people pass before you spend five minutes arranging your worldly goods in the overhead bin. C) All that time you spend blocking the aisles slows down the boarding process (but you knew that). What you may not know is that the flight crew and ground crew get nailed for a “late” if they can’t get you in your seat on time. If they get crabby, they’re due. You may be screwing up their performance reviews.

Tip #11: To the lady who spent a minute and a half trying to get the lavatory door open and finally gave up and went back to her seat:
You have to “Push.” There’s a sign on the door, right above that handle you kept pulling on. I tried to get your attention, but I wasn’t able to make you hear me over the roar of the engines. Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t go in. You might not have gotten out.

And finally . . .

BONUS TIP: To the guy reading this over my shoulder while he waits in line for the lavatory:
Look for it online at www.thatsmystory-martha/blogspot.com. Enjoy!

It slices! It dices! But wait! There's more!

Up until a few minutes ago, I was having a great day. Really great.

A walk downtown to enjoy the city’s lively energy. Great lunch with my favorite companion at an Irish pub. Terrific pre-Christmas sale. A lovely solo walk home, lost in my own thoughts while the city swirled about me. A patch of blue sky, a November rarity in Seattle.

All in all a wonderful day.

Until I made a strategic error. I picked up the mail. Four catalogs (it’s that season). A great big post card giving me 20% off on things I don’t need and hadn’t thought about wanting. A lovely, very touching fundraising letter (I should know, I wrote it – if you get it, you should definitely send a check). And . . . a letter offering me a “Free Pre-Paid Cremation!” (Their exclamation point.)

Oh, good grief.

I know, I know, we need to plan for things. The only certainty in our lives is that they’re going to end. But for goodness’ sake, I just had one of those birthdays. You know, the ones that put you in a different census track? The birthdays that make you check a different box on surveys and forms. The ones that qualify you for, um, discounts at lots of places. The kind of birthday that leaves you fearing that some waitress at a Denny’s or an IHOP is going to call you “Dahrlin’.”

When you’ve just had one of those birthdays, a cremation invitation is not the first thing you want to find in your mail box.

I admit it. I’ve written my share of letters offering people things – the “do this, get that” stuff that clutters up recycle bins all over America. I’ve done it. I’m darned good at it. And I made a pretty good living with it. But even I, who’ve sold everything from season’s tickets for the Toledo Mud Hens to around-the-world trips that started at $65,000 per person . . . even I have never tried to sell somebody a “Free Pre-Paid Cremation!”

As a professional hack (and, mind you, I mean that in the most respectful way imaginable) I’ve got a huge problem with this offer. Let’s assume for the moment that I really was looking forward to getting a piece of mail offering me a great deal on my own cremation. It’s a stretch, but let’s make that assumption for the sake of argument. Let’s also assume – very safely, I might add – that I am highly suspicious of the funeral industry in America and consider most of them to be just shy of charlatans, making me somewhat susceptible to a sales pitch for an honest alternative. And let’s further assume – this one calls for a momentary suspension of disbelief – that I’m someone who’d actually make a decision for the final handling of my earthly remains based on a direct mail sales pitch.

Even if all those assumptions were true (and only one of them is), even then, I don’t think I’d enter a sweepstakes to win a “Free Pre-Paid Cremation!” That’s the deal: I just send in the little card with all my personal information (they’ve thoughtfully already filled in my name and address, but, darn it, they truly need my email and phone number in order to help figure out which plan is best for me – let me guess, it’s not the basic one) . . . and, presto, once a month they’re going to pull somebody’s name out of a hat and give the lucky winner a “Free Pre-Paid Cremation!” Such a deal.

I can’t quite get my head around the concept of “Free Pre-Paid,” but we’ll leave that for another conversation. I mean, how can something be “Free” if it’s also been “Pre-Paid”? (OK, now we’ll leave that for another time.)

These folks make several arguments that are probably sound – but, again, when you’ve just had one of those birthdays, they’re a little bit jarring.

First, they assure me, their pre-paid cremation service is a good thing for my family – it will let them give me a simple, personal service at their own convenience. I do understand that. But does anybody else pick up an undertone of “that way you can die without causing anybody to miss an appointment with their personal trainer” – or am I just being super sensitive?

Then they close in for the kill (if you’ll pardon the expression). They remind me that we live in a mobile society (no kidding – my sister just had to replace the “W” page in her address book – I’ve moved so many times she’s rubbed a hole in it). And then . . . I try to imagine a writer locked away in a cubicle somewhere trying to bang out this letter on a fast-turnaround deadline . . . they point out that because we’re all moving around, “placing a loved one in a ‘local’ cemetery may not be as functional as it used to be.”

Functional?

OK. I get it. I’m going to stay where you bury me, but you may not be there to check up on me. You know, I don’t think either of us should worry too much about it. Really. My feelings won’t be hurt if you don’t drop by. And, let’s be frank, nobody’s going to come visit after this group drops my ashes at sea either.

These people probably mean well. I'm sure they do.  The P.S. reminds me that in case I die before I have time to plan for it, they’d be happy to cremate me then, too. See?  They're good people.  And right after the P.S. there’s a small italic sentence begging my forgiveness in case the letter reached me “at a time of serious illness or death in your family.”

I appreciate their thoughtfulness. Really, I do. But I honestly think this letter hits a new low in American consumerism. It certainly hit a new low for me when it comes to picking up the mail. Yep, it’s a free market. And, yep, everybody has the right to make an honest buck. But for propriety’s sake, can’t we save this kind of pitch for the kinds of products that keep America strong . . . the ShamWow, the Salad Shooter, the Bump It, and the Aqua Globe?

So I’m going to close now and try to resuscitate what remains of a perfectly good day. And hope that tomorrow’s mail contains something more pleasant, like a letter from the IRS.

What’s showed up lately in your mail box? To leave a comment, just click “ Post a Comment” below. I’d love to hear from you.

Blessings of the Heart

Urban Dictionary (the web site where you look up all those text message acronyms you can’t figure out) defines bless your heart as “a phrase used by Southern women to excuse themselves for speaking ill of someone else.”

I first heard a commentator address it several years ago on NPR. As he extolled the virtues of a Southern heart blessing in a soothing Mississippi drawl, I had to pull over and listen because I was laughing too hard to drive.

While the subject has been milked by writers more gifted than me, I do feel called to pay proper tribute to two queens of the genre – my mother and my Aunt Evelyn. Both lovely women, perfectly lovely.

My mother was a gentlewoman. Beautifully mannered. Perfectly coifed. Wonderfully compassionate. Infinitely wise. But heaven help you if she blessed your heart.

Whenever an amply endowed female crossed our path, especially one who had crammed too many layers of adipose tissue into too little spandex, my mother would lower her eyelids ever so slightly, soften her voice to a reverent tone, and murmur, “Bless her heart.” Only a whisper of a smile crossed her face – you had to be quick to catch it.

Heaven help you if she turned it in your direction.

I am forever marked by one “blessing.” I was married, a professional editor, mother of two wonderful children, and pretty successful by all the usual standards. I had filed my last story and rushed to catch the plane for our annual pilgrimage to the family Thanksgiving, my children and husband having arrived before me (deadlines yield to no woman). I was tired, a little bit jet lagged, and very ready to relax. As I sat at my mother’s feet (there being not enough chairs in the room), she stroked my hair and in that sweet murmur said . . . wait for it . . . “Bless your heart. You used to have such pretty hair.”

There’s no place you can go with that.

Yet there were times when her heart blessings could break your own. Standing by my father’s casket, having lost the love of her life, she reached out and touched his face. “Bless your heart,” she said. She spoke a lifetime of love in those words.

Let’s face it. We’re all our mothers’ daughters. (Apologies to my own daughter – sorry, honey, but it’s going to happen.) And, well, yes, I'm just Southern enough to go to that place.

I recently finished a frustrating encounter with a Washington state bureaucrat. Walking away from the counter, shaking my head, under my breath, I blessed his flinty little heart.

Another time I sat at my desk following a particularly unpleasant call from a particularly unpleasant client. I had been staring at the phone for a while before I realized I had muttered, “Bless his heart,” as I hung up.

I’ve said it – and meant it – as I swooped up a toddler with a wicked case of playground road rash. I’ve thought it – with clinched teeth – as I watched my husband rearrange the dishes in the dishwasher I’ve just loaded. I’ve whispered it – resigned to the inevitable – as I’ve watched a friend plunge headlong into a disastrous relationship, after all of us who love her had tried to warn her off. And I’ve resisted putting it in writing – hitting the delete key a couple of times – as I responded to a request from corporate wonks who clearly thought they knew what they were doing.

I said it again recently – the first time I held my friend’s newborn son and thought about what a wonderful mother she’s going to be. And I was thinking it about an hour ago – as I read an email from a long-time friend who never fails to make me laugh out loud.

All cultures have their heart blessings. My Venezuelan son-of-the-heart taught me the all-encompassing, and often scathing, “Pobrecito.” (Look it up in Urban Dictionary: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=pobrecito.) And my colleague, who is probably the most un-Southern woman I know, has her own special version of, “Aw, honey,” that absolutely does the job.

But for the real thing, you need a Southern woman of a certain age.

And so we come to my gracious Aunt Evelyn. It is she who gets credit for the all-time best heart blessing I’ve ever heard.

We were at a family funeral and a particularly irksome bunch of cousins had fallen upon the ham and coconut cake like lions on a fresh kill. My sister was irate, ready to throw them out. My aunt reached out, patted her hand – and delivered the coup de grâce. “You can’t hold it against them, honey,” she said in her sweet, soothing voice . . . here it comes . . . “Bless their hearts. They wasn’t raised. They was drug up.”

Truer words was never spoke.

When the Thin Blue Line is Breached

Normally, I don’t comment on public events. I started this blog simply to indulge my own interests in the hope of giving you a momentary smile.

Today, however, is different.

Today, just a few blocks from where I sit, the community of those whose lives are sworn to serve and protect us gathered to pay a final tribute to one of their own. While I write this, I can hear helicopters swarming overhead as the memorial service for Seattle Police Officer Timothy Brenton comes to an end.

The haunting echoes of the bagpipes, the polished boots of the honor guards from across the country, the crack of the rifles firing in salute . . . all these will soon fade.

But the reality remains. On Halloween night, as two Seattle police officers sat in their squad car discussing a traffic stop they had just completed, an old Datsun 210 pulled close to their car and fired shots. One officer was killed instantly. The other was wounded.

This was brutal, intentional slaughter. And it happened here, in a city that takes almost smug pride in our tolerance and civility.

I’m not here to write a treatise on societal violence – others can do that more thoughtfully and from broader points of view than I can. Nor am I here to comment on whether a city should have committed so many resources to honor a single man when so many others have died in so many ways (as a few malcontent bloggers have pointed out).

Timothy Brenton’s funeral today humbled me. Yes, he was one man. But from all reports, he was a good one. And whether or not he had shortcomings, he represented a lot of people I take for granted. People who make my daily life congenial. People who make it possible for me to fuss and worry about a lot of inconsequential things – because I am safe. I wish I didn’t think of these people only when something like this happens, but the fact is, it is because of who they are and what they do that I’m able to ignore their importance in my life.

I realized it in January, 1995 when four Seattle firefighters died in a warehouse arson fire. I was stricken by it, along with the rest of the country, on September 11, 2001. There have been other times when the sudden news of an outrageous tragedy shocks me into realization – and, unfortunately, there will be more.

It will happen again, because the people who have made it their business to keep me safe will keep putting themselves out there on my behalf. They’ll leave for their shifts everyday, never sure of whether they’ll reach the end of those shifts alive. That sounds dramatic, I know. But, in fact, it is true. And I don’t think about it until days like today.

I’ve only known one police officer in my life, my Uncle Wallace, and he wasn’t exactly the stuff of prime time TV drama. He was overweight, full of malapropisms, sometimes crochety, sometimes soft-hearted, and, always, a genuinely good man. I was his youngest niece and he took special pleasure in stopping by to see me at school when my class was out for recess. His leather belt full of eqipment squeaked when he walked, and he didn’t mind letting the boys in my class play with the lights on his police car (the siren was off limits). My connection to Uncle Wallace definitely enhanced my standing with my third grade peers (although not quite as much as that of my other uncle who owned the ferris wheel and gave free rides to anyone who showed up with me).

But that’s as far as my connection to what is essentially a closed community goes. I don’t know what it’s like to dread a knock on the door, or a late night phone call when my husband is supposed to be at work. I don’t normally flinch at the sound of a siren, thinking it might be about someone I love. I’m not a cop’s or a firefighter’s wife, or daughter, or mom.

I’m just an everyday, preoccupied, often ungrateful, citizen. When I get a ticket, I fume. When I dial 9-1-1, I expect somebody to show up and help me out. I’m not usually mindful that they’ve spent years of their lives training to be able to be there for me when I need them – that they answer my call not knowing whether they’re walking into a dangerous situation or not – that they have skills and knowledge I couldn’t even imagine needing – and that their whole purpose is to keep the rest of us safe.

Today, as Seattle fell momentarily silent, I remembered that they’re there. And that they’re there even when I don’t remember.

And that’s why today, I’m going to use this space to say thank you . . . to the firefighters who are willing to risk their lives to save mine . . . to the EMTs who know what to do when I need them to do it and who would rather come when I don’t really need them than have me not call when I do . . . to the Washington State Patrol, because even though I dread the sight of them and their radar guns along the highway to the beach, I know their real goal is to keep me from killing myself or someone else . . . and especially to the Seattle Police Department.  You are good people.

Thank you.

Friday afternoon, as I sat down to write and as the memorial service was ending, Seattle Police officers shot and arrested a man whom they believe to be Officer Brenton’s murderer when he pulled a weapon on them as they approached him.