Language Mangling (Would These Be Cases of "Mangluage?")

We live in a world where, instead of reading a finely-crafted story, people see movies to experience literature. Cliff Notes are considered too long a read. E-mailing replaces letter-writing. Texting rules; and it comes with its own dialect. We have lost most all appreciation for grammar, oratory and the written word – and it shows.

I have a list of pet peeves as they relate to grammar and pronunciation. Despite the fact I own a library of dictionaries, Roget’s Thesaurus and several editions of the AP Stylebook, I’m still reasonably hip for a word geek. I can live with (and use) things like “LOL,” “BTW” and “ASAP.” I understand a few lines of “text-ese.” I catch myself using bad grammar more often than I want to admit, but hopefully not in my professional life.

But things happen everyday which make me cringe, and everyday the public is more accepting of it. The “dumbing down of America,” I’ve heard it labeled. As I remember back to my college journalism classes, where a misspelled proper name or incorrect fact resulted in an automatic failing grade, here are the things that drive me nuts:

Mangle #1: “Less” versus “Fewer”
Less refers to quantity or bulk; fewer refers to individual quantity. “I had less than $10 in my pocket” versus “I had fewer than 10 one-dollar bills.” This is abused ALL THE TIME. When I called out its incorrectness to a radio producer, the reply was, well that’s how my listeners talk, so it makes them more comfortable to hear it that way.

Mangle #2: “You and me” versus “You and I” versus “ANYONE and me or I”
I can’t even write these without my computer’s Spelling/Grammar Check kicking in. Say the sentence in your head without the other person in the equation: “Sally and me want to go to the store.” Did Me want to go to the store or did I want to? Go with what makes sense. Wait – that implies that one has sense.

Mangle #3: Know Your City
I can only speak for my hometown, but if you’re going to be a broadcaster somewhere, for goodness sake, learn to pronounce things properly. The names of streets; politician names; area cities and towns. In Houston, on every TV station, there’s at least one anchor who can’t get it right. “Hiram Clark Blvd.” is not “Here-am” and our Texas senator is Hutchison – not Hutch-in-son.

Mangle #4: “Electorial” College
It’s Elec-tor-al. There’s no “I” in it. Enough said.

Mangle #5: “Good” versus “Well”
This is my pet peeve because it totally confuses me. From the AP Stylebook: Good should not be used as an adverb. “Good” is an adjective that means “as it should be or above average.” As an adjective, “well” means “suitable, proper or healthy.” As an adverb, “well” means “in a satisfactory way or skillfully.” I feel good = I am in good health. But if I feel well, I don’t know if my sense of touch is working properly or my skin is soft and supple. Hmmm. When your head stops spinning, please proceed to #6.

Mangle #6: “My Bad”
On the heels of good, well or indifferent, I can’t stop this one. It’s too ingrained into everyday life. Technically, it’s not incorrect. It’s just me. I hate the fact apologizing for a slight error (and sometimes large errors) is replaced with this flippant “I could not care less” response. The lack of sincerity is just one more pebble in the rockslide that is good manners.

Oh well, I guess one can chalk it all up to laziness – not looking something up; not checking facts; a lack of doing one’s research. But hey – we’ve elected politicians who can’t spell “potato” and can’t pronounce “nuclear,” so I think I’m ranting for nothing! But if you have Mangluage Pet Peeves of your own, please feel free to comment!

It’s the holiday season, and we are increasingly reminded to share goodwill to all men (and women, of course). We are encouraged to remember those who aren’t lucky enough to have the blessings that most of us have. Each day on my commute to or from work, it’s VERY easy for me to remember these holiday sentiments and send comforting thoughts to these less-fortunate drivers:

-- The person who’s gold-packaged, silver-rimmed Escalade is stylish, but sadly didn’t come with a working blinker.
-- The middle-aged businessman whose heinous disfigurement of a Bluetooth ear and a GPS keypad attached to his right hand rend him powerless to understand the concept of “Exit Left.”
-- The dyslexic Mercedes driver who can’t seem to distinguish one lane from another.
-- The schizophrenic teen girl whose selves don’t know whether to listen to ColdPlay, Lil Wayne or Katy Perry – or text her friend to help her decide.
-- The learning-disabled driver of a BMW 7 Series who isn't aware that his performance auto will easily achieve the speed limit.
-- The mom in the fully-loaded Navigator, whose dangerous stress level is accelerated by apparent multi-tasking: opening/closing the sun roof while talking on her cell phone as she sips her Diet Coke® and changes her precious baby’s DVD from Elmo to Dora.

At this charitable time of year, let’s all try to embrace the spirit of the holidays and help these people. And while you’re at it, please say a prayer that this Escape Hybrid-driving, hair-pulling, patience-challenged, stifled-screaming blonde woman gets to work (or back home) in one piece!

Would Someone PLEASE Explain Kelly Ripa?

I've been home this week for Thanksgiving. Normally, I don't get to watch morning television. But this week I've been catching "Live with Regis and Kelly." And I'm puzzled. What is with Kelly Ripa?

I read in the media trades that the show is very popular, especially with women who are able to stay home in the mornings. Kelly fawns all over sweet, aging Regis like a granddaughter. Kelly is cute. Kelly is very fit. Kelly apparently is supermom and superwife. I think Kelly must appeal to a group of ladies who aspire to be like her -- and it must be a bigger group of women than the ones who think she is full of it. Obviously, I fall into the latter group.

I think Kelly is Regis's arm candy; a step up from Vanna White, except Vanna can spell. Kelly doesn't say anything compelling. She doesn't pose any thoughtful issues. I kid you not - the topic of conversation one morning this week was how Kelly and Reg decided to match their clothing colors. Did they steal that from Sesame Street? At least Kelly's husband Mark Consuelos is featured in a recurring bit on Oprah - Oprah's ranked a little higher in the Nielsen ratings.

I've seen the ads for various products that highlight Kelly as a overachieving robo-mom. I had seen Amy Pohler's portrayal of her on SNL and at the time I didn't get that Kelly's really like that. I laughed at the SNL "fake ad" that shows Kelly as a spokesmodel for haircolor laced with crack cocaine - implying that's how she makes it through each grueling day of TV fame, kids and family.

I will bet cold, hard cash that in reality, behind that perfect spouse and parent persona, there is a stable of employees who make sure her life runs smoothly. Or at least that's what I have to believe to not feel less accomplished, achieving and/or successful. Eeeek.

I guess I see now why my husband prefers talk radio...

The Mascara Conspiracy

Ads these days have so many disclaimers. “Do not expect these same results.” “Paid endorser.” “Professional driver on a closed course.” “Don’t try this at home.” Everything is designed and executed to protect the poor, unsuspecting consumer from either expecting to lose 50 pounds in 1 week if a certain tablet is ingested to believing they’ll learn Portugese after listening to a 3 CD-set.

Let’s talk cosmetics. If I’m not supposed to believe I can drive a new sports car on the ledge of a skyscraper 40 stories high, then WHY should I believe my skimpy little eyelashes will grow exponentially if I use mascara A versus B? Sure – it helps to wear it and my eyelashes actually show up.

But if I believe Cover Girl and use one of their latest mascara products, then the wooly bear caterpillars that crawled on Drew Barrymore’s eyelids should appear on mine. On TV, she bats those black, feathery-eyelashed lids in the ad and mysteriously, magically, my dining room set is dusted! In the magazine, they look like a fine grade of corduroy. They’re long enough and defined enough to rake leaves in my backyard with them.

For the record, I’m in advertising. I know she has a make-up artist who painstakingly painted each eyelash individually. I know about photo retouching. But it’s ridiculous and quite frankly, a lie. There are never any disclaimers on mascara ads and the photos, film footage and claims are as false as the lashes the models are wearing. If ever there were an appropriate time and place for the “Results not typical” line, it’s here.

Giving Tendonitis “The Boot”

I have been so very blessed with good health in my life. No broken bones, no sprains and very few stitches. Even the taking out of my teen-aged wisdom teeth took about 30 minutes from anesthesiology to a gauze-packed, incomprehensible speaking voice. When I think of all the bike spills, horse throws and tree falls I endured as a kid, I remind myself how lucky I am. At what point did my bones, joints and muscles start to bark back at me?

So last year, when the outside of my foot had a subtle, nagging pain, I went to a podiatrist. He informed me I had tendonitis. Tendonitis? What? Isn’t that an athletic disease? (All you people who know me can stop snickering now.) With all his years of medical study, years of residency and private practice -- and how does he figure this out? By looking at the bottom of my shoe heels. Thank you, Dr. Scholl.

Apparently, I pronate. Before you think I’m supporting some segment of the porn industry, it just means I roll out on the right side of my foot when I walk, thus putting pressure on the point where tendon meets bone. In defense of Dr. Happy Feet, he did also take x-rays and ordered an MRI on my ankle and foot area to confirm what my shoe heels told him. Not only did it confirm his initial diagnosis, but he believes I had a major – like “oh my gawd my foot” – foot injury in my life that might have weakened it. I know I’m a blonde, but that’s news to me.

He’s not quick to go to surgery, for which I’m very thankful. He exhausts – and below, you’ll see why I use “exhaust” – all options first. The tendonitis diagnosis led to three months of fun-filled foot frolicking:

Month 1. Wrap the foot/ankle and wear a Not-Ferragamo Walking Boot. But it might as well have had a Ferragamo logo on it to go with its $400 price tag. Zero to deductible met in .7 seconds. And on top of that, I found the exact boot on Walgreen’s website later for $70. Nah – there’s no price-gouging that would yield a healthcare crisis.

Month 1 – Part 2. Prescribes a TENS unit. There’s another $200 toward the deductible. TENS stands for Transcutaneous Electrical Nerve Stimulator – an electrode that attaches to my foot to shock the blood into flowing through my foot. Great…he’s giving this to a blonde who enjoys drinking wine in the evenings.

Month 2. Just walking on the boot is not making it any better. Let’s keep the boot and raise her a pair of crutches. Remember me? The one who’s never had a broken bone? I would have had more coordination in a hip-hop dance class.

Month 2 - Part 2. Prescribes shoe inserts supposedly designed to keep me from rolling out when I walk. Here’s another $300, complements of my healthcare provider. And they don’t work…to this DAY I’m still shaving off the outsides of my heels.

Month 3. Orders for physical therapy. Ten sessions of using my foot to “write” an imaginary alphabet in the air. Ten sessions of doing things with weights and rubber bands on my foot. Ten sessions designed to either (1) make it better or (2) make it worse – either way, it’s supposed to predict the next course of action.

After Month 3, I knew that if none of this worked, my next step would involve surgery. I didn’t need Dr. Metatarcel to tell me that. And quite honestly, my foot’s not in that much pain. So I just abandoned the whole production and decided to play my own doctor. Lose weight; watch how I walk; wear well-made shoes. So far so good.

Oh well, at least my foot does tell me when rain is coming, so that’s a bonus!

MAMMOGRAMS (Or How to Go From Cantaloupe to Crepe in 15 Seconds)

Because of my Mom’s history surviving breast cancer, I’ve had to get annual mammograms since the age of 30. I’m not complaining; it’s uncomfortable and a bit unnerving, but it’s just a fact of life.

But this last time, the lab technician was particularly rough. I think in a former life she packed sausage or stripped industrial wallpaper by hand. Mammogram techs are all women, so they’re usually sensitive to the uncomfortable situation in which they’re placing you. And certainly, they aren’t doctors, but this one had ZERO patient relations skills. And at about 4’11” tall (as well as wide) she made me look like an NBA center.

You’re already feeling vulnerable as you walk in to a very cold, clinical, dark space with a very large machine in it. You’re feeling exposed in your not-anywhere-close-to-designer hospital “grobe” – that’s a combination gown and robe. You’re nervous anyway, and you’ve been asked to remove your deodorant for the procedure. Add smelly underarms to your current list of assets. NOW you’re the picture of confidence and calm.

Then, you are asked to offer up your bare breast so she can lift it and place it on a piece of plexi-glass. Oh yes – there are also spot lights on it/around it/under it, so it looks even paler than it is. Most of the techs I’ve had over the years are gentle and very descriptive as they guide you and your breast to the point where they can get a useable x-ray of it.

Not Yoda the Jedi Boob Smasher. She grabs my breast and pulls one way, while telling me “turn.” Now I’m college-educated, but at least tell me which WAY to turn. Instead I turn toward her and my retreating boob – but no. “Other way” is all she could manage to blurt out as she started bringing the top piece of plexi-glass down for the top-to-bottom clamp.

“Grab this handle.” “Hold your chin up.” “Feet straight ahead.” “No, turn back – hips facing the other way.” At least she got a little more descriptive as I became a Cirque de Soleil contortionist. And now for the smashing. I have never seen my breast look more like a wheel of gouda than right now. I really thought it might explode. Snap – the picture is taken. Five minutes of maneuvering and mangling for 10 seconds of x-ray.

Now she moves the plexi-glass torture device to the side-to-side clamp. Same contortional activity, just a different breast shot. In this pose, my boob looks more like a Frisbee than a wheel of gouda. More maneuvering, more smashing and snap – the picture is taken. Luckily, the pictures are good and I don’t have to do any of this again.

Except for the other breast. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Contort, mangle, smash, snap. Yea! We’re done. My breast and chest area are a lovely shade of crimson and there’s heat emitting from it as the blood slowly begins to flow again. And by the time I get home, bruises have appeared on my upper rib area as well as near my underarms. I think this technician must have earned her world heavyweight title belt after my appointment.

See ya next year, Rocky.

When Did I Reach the Geritol Demographic?

So I’m watching TV. Who are all these new friends I have? Sam Waterston, Wilfred Brimley, Robert Wagner and Sally Field. And why is that aging garage band annoying me with “Viva Viagra?” I’m already feeling my age, due to the genre of advertisements popping up in my current choice of programming: retirement funds, osteoporosis meds, medic alert bracelets, hover-round chairs. Oh yes – and I can also install an easy-bathe tub and shower combo that will accommodate my wheelchair.

Then I hear, “Carol is a formidable woman. But she was no match for something smaller than the tip of a pen…” I look and there are arteries and blood and little scary clotting globules! And they are talking to ME. My name. Never mind that the woman on-screen is an African-American. It’s ME.

So thanks to a Plavix anti-cholesterol ad, I’ve been to a cardiologist. I’m healthy and my heart rate is normal. But I do have elevated cholesterol, so the doctor recommended the usual: modified diet, daily exercise, getting rid of stress. The exercise is pretty easy…my dogs help with that. Anti-stress? Well – I can’t quit my job. So it’s mostly up the diet modification. Now I know how my Dad felt when Mom fed him that first meal that wasn’t fried and didn’t have any salt on it. Fat-free cheese is still artery-plugging cheese. And even worse, it’s like eating Play-Doh.

And my husband – who’s a fabulous cook – is no help: “Yuk. Fat free sour cream is awful.” “I hate fake butter, it doesn’t melt.” “I think I’ll grill us a steak tonight.” “Here, I baked banana nut muffins.” On top of that, my Benecol Smart Chews look like caramel candies; so he ate a handful. I guess his cholesterol is taken care of for at least a year.

Ike-isms (or “Terms That Blew Out of the Hurricane”)

After living through Category 2 Hurricane Ike, seven days without power (we were lucky – some are still without at 14 and counting), mosquitoes as big as hummingbirds and consuming more meat than Dr. Atkins, I thought this glossary of terms was applicable….

Power Envy – The completely draining, pit-of-the-stomach feeling one gets at the realization that the across-the-street neighbors have power, but you don’t. Side effects sweating and the urge to break something.

Power Guilt – The guilty feeling one gets upon finally having power reinstated before your friends and neighbors.

Hurricane Hair – Complete lack of styling of one’s hair due to lack of power and/or water; serves as a quick visual ID of who has power and who doesn’t.

“PC” Legs – Having nothing to do with political correctness, this affliction happens when one’s legs become pin cushions for mosquitoes.

Worker Worship – The uncontrollable urge to bow in honor (or get down on one’s knees and beg) at the utilities professionals working in the neighborhood.

Line Fatigue – The exhaustion a body experiences after being in a seemingly unending line for ice, gasoline and 4-way stops.

Shingle Shock – Unexpected and very quick anxiety one experiences at the sight of partially-left roofs OR the cost to replace them.

Floodge – The sludge that is left behind in a house after it had flooded.

Tree-ning – A phenomena where groups of trees are all leaning the same direction from the triple-digit MPH winds.

Storm Stench – The aromatic scent that comes from lack of showering, due to no water after the storm.

Withdrawl-Mart – The intense need for Wal-Mart to open again.

More Haiku (I know, I know)

Blowing wind, wet heat;
Waiting for Ike, please be kind;
Anticipating...

McCain picks woman;
Sarah Palin intrigues us.
Just win in the Fall.

Can I Save Face With a Facebook Addiction?!?

A friend of mine invited me to join "Facebook." It sounds harmless enough and let's face it (really, no pun intended), I'm over 40 and happy to stay on the fringe of all these new social networking and texting technologies. So how bad could it be?

OH PLEASE. Now I post photos, give and accept "Flair" buttons, chat online, look for song quotes, eat online cupcakes, poke (and SuperPoke) people and might hyperventilate if I don't reach the acceptable "Lost" trivia level! (See my blog from April). And did I ever know that so many people cared about "My Lil Green Patch?!?" Well, they do!

The good news? It's great to catch up with old friends. It's neat to see a personal side of some of my favorite co-workers. I enjoy keeping in better touch with people than if I had to rely on old-fashioned letter-writing. I have fun with it and hopefully don't look like the techno-challenged geek that I really am! So if you've never tried Facebook, try it. I never thought I'd recommend anything like it. And if you're on Facebook, be sure to look me up and add me as a friend!

And BTW - the friend who invited me to Facebook, she never gets on it. It's like she gave me the drugs and then left me to deal with the addiction! Her loss, but I'll still get her for this!

Cukoo for Haiku!

This weekend, we stayed at a Hotel Indigo in Chicago. All of the hotel marketing materials - from the front desk to the restaurant to our room - were written as haikus. So I was inspired to create a few of my own. If you have any YOU'D like to share, please reply to this post.

Edouard, he blew in
Like a scared little sissy
Today we were spared.

Southwest Airlines Trip,
The fat lady’s to my right.
Hide your peanuts folks.

Red wine or white wine?
What is my preference tonight?
That the glass is full!

Brake lights in the front,
Merging vehicles threaten;
Commuting is Hell.

Big brown eyes longing,
Slobber slowly drips to floor.
Zach awaits dinner.

Pretty fertile soil,
Violated and pillaged;
Weeds take over beds.

Animals in Their Places – And NOT Nail Places

(WARNING: SOAP BOX ALERT. SOAP BOX ALERT.) I know it’s very chic and trendy to bring your pocket-sized pooch wherever you go. Purses are getting larger and dogs are getting smaller. Some purses are even being redesigned to accommodate a mobile mini-mutt. I don’t think that’s what Dylan meant when he said, “The times, they are a-changin’.”

But it’s just not my style. My dogs are large. The only purse in which they would fit would have a system of pulleys and hydraulics attached. Oh yes, and a pair of drip attachments for the slobber. And while they’re friendly, let’s face it: they really don’t want to shop unless it involves possums in the backyard. But I digress from my original rant.

I went to my nail salon for my regular mani/pedi appointment. Mary, my nail artiste, is finishing up the client before me as my feet are happily soaking in the sudsy warm water. I’m checking out that client’s nails, when all of a sudden I notice movement in her lap. A DOG. A cutie to be sure – a tee-ninesy little schnauzer. But he’s was not looking at all happy. And I see why:

1. Would you be happy if the person whose lap you were clinging to was really not a lap? It’s more like a slope. This lady was not missing many meals if you get my drift…and the poor little guy kept sliding under the manicure station.

2. Would you be happy if as you slid, you were scooped back up and smushed back into a belly covered in a terrycloth shirt? I guess it’s better than corduroy.

3. Would you be happy if you were wrapped in a “potty pad?” The plastic and cotton pads on which puppies are trained? Imagine yourself wrapped in a very large Kotex pad (with or without wings) before you answer that.

4. Would you be happy to breathe in acrylic nail dust in your very sensitive little canine nose? Try sniffing some talcum powder and it will feel similar.

5. Would you be happy as the metallic whirring of the nail dremel file was picked up by your heightened sense of canine hearing?

Would I? I’m going out on a limb here to speak for Little Schnauzy – not no, but HELL NO.

Aside from what I’m sure are plain old sanitation reasons why an animal shouldn’t be in a salon, that poor sweet little thing did not want to be there. He was NOT having a good time. But it was important for us all to see her with her precious pet. I hate it when people dress their dogs and I hate it when they’re used as accessories. A pet’s supposed to be your pal – and I would never treat MY pals that way!

Fins to the Left, Fins to the Right….

I have a friend at work who believes that a woman is at greater risk for becoming (cue the theme music from “Jaws”) shark bait if (1) it’s that time of the month and (2) she wears bright toenail polish. The first theory relates obviously to a shark’s natural feeding attraction (I don’t think I have to elaborate here…). The second likens the poshly pedicured tootsies to a shiny, wiggling fishing lure. Last time I was in Academy Sports and Outdoors, I didn’t see any shark lures shaped like a ladies’ size 7½ with “I’m Really not a Waitress” red toes. Hey! Maybe there’s a marketing idea in there somewhere.

I can see the points to her theories, but I am still skeptical. If anyone has scientific data or reports of shark attacks on females that can be attributed to these factors, I’d LOVE to see them. However, just to be safe, maybe I’ll leave the O-P-I off the next time I’m in the ocean…

Possum Holler – Part 2: What Part of “Stealth” Don’t You Two Get?

Our dogs are so sweet and so cute, but not blessed with a lot of smarts. If you read my earlier blog, you know the story of the squatting family of possums that took residence in our fence. They are long gone, but every now and then, an errant possum, rat or cat with an attitude likes to use our fence as an interstate.

It seems that our pups, “Chip the Terrible” & “Zach the Inhaler” can be inside, with appliances in operation, the TV going - and still hear a rodent or feline intruder that’s outside. At least WE think its hearing. Shades are drawn – so it’s not like they see it. Windows are closed to keep all the A/C inside for the long, hot summer – so it’s not like the smell it. It must be the sound of their tiny, pest-like claws slinking along the fence’s 2x4’s.

The goal of our Canine Caped Crusaders is, of course, to expunge the intruder and thus protect the yard. Not really – they just want to catch it and play with it. So they are at the back door like a couple of bulls - hopping front feet to back feet, salivating, tails whipping - ready to be unleashed on a tiny matador.

But one problem, Boys: BOWWOWBOWWOWBOWWOWBOWWOW. Y’all start barking loudly and uncontrollably BEFORE we let you out. The pests are pretty well clued-in by now that you’re coming. Remind me not to hire you out as robbers…you’ll call the bank first to ask them to open the vault.

A Sign I've Been In Marketing Too Long....

This morning, our staff was in a training session to become more knowledgeable about one of our web resources. The site contains great information and meeting was valuable, but the presenter was energized on something more than standard-issue caffeine. Here are a few excerpts from her presentation(home-shopping pitch):

“If you click here, we’ll provide you backgrounds from over 200 advertisers – and if you call now, we’ll send you another 200 advertisers at absolutely no charge to you!”

“The study from our partnership with Big-Time Major Research Company is located in the Market Studies channel on the site. Download one in the next 10 minutes and we’ll send you the Magic Bullet Smoothie Maker for FREE! ($29.95 shipping and handling applies)”

“You like all this information, but you don’t have the time to create a presentation? We do it for you! Just click here and you can customize your sales sheet right from your CrackBerry. If you log in now, we’ll send you the entire CD set, How to Make Gazillions on e-Bay - completely free. AND if you type in keyword, ‘Please Pass the Valium,’ we’ll include a copy of the first season of WKRP in Cincinnati on VHS.”

Gotta run – if I log in now, there’s a Bedazzler with my name on it! Yee Haw!

Bubba Day At the Beach

Blue-collar comedian Bill Engvall is best-known for his schtick, “Here’s your sign” – telling a funny story about the stupidity of a person or persons in certain situations that warrant them being labeled with a “stupid” sign. This weekend, Galveston Island offered up its latest candidate with an event worthy of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour:

A beautiful Saturday afternoon. Blue breezy skies. Almost-sandy beaches (somewhere between the clumps of seaweed) with waves persistently flogging the shore. A family paradise.

Picture a brand-new Ford F-150 pick-up truck. Definitely a boy’s toy. Shiny red – almost as red as its un-sunscreened owners are at this point. Our vantage point for this little drama is the balcony of my friend’s rented beach house.

This truck has brought the family – or at least the male contingent – to the beach for a little fun in the sun. Dad, buddy and son, frolicking in the ocean. Attached to the back of the truck, in addition to the obligatory cooler now half-full of Miller Lite, is a trailer. In the shallow breaking waves is a Sea-Doo watercraft – with the son hovering to ride it onto the trailer, thus allowing our heroes to head home.

This all seems normal, right? WRONG.

Bubba backs the truck up to the shore’s waveline where the trailer awaits partially submerged. Like a ranch-hand breaking a new colt, Baby Bubba revs the Sea-Doo and positions it in place on the trailer. Cheering ensues and there’s lots of high-fiving and back-slapping. Bubba and Buddy Bubba celebrate Baby Bubba’s rite of passage with a cold beer from the cooler. Let’s call Mama right now….

But wait – cue the theme music from “Jaws.” The truck and trailer are not moving, but the tide is. Closer and higher. Oh yeah – and the tires are going deeper into the sandy shore. Boys, you’re about to go Captain Nemo on us. Apparently, our Bubba Trio notices this as well but they are somewhat flustered as to what they do next. What are their options?
1) There are other large vehicles around them, but (a) no one is offering help and (b) they aren’t asking.
2) Tow rope? What tow rope? What’s a tow rope?
3) Call someone? Not yet – the water’s not near close enough.
4) Crack open another couple of cold ones? Apparently this makes sense to them because they do.

As the corrosive salt water laps the undercarriage of the F-150, Bubba grabs the cell phone and finally makes a call. As the water finds its way into the bottoms of the truck cab doors, an enormous wrecker shows up, driven by an enormous man with an enormous “open your checkbook, suckah” smile on his face. They attach the hydraulic wench to the potential U-Boat and gradually pull it out to safety – with an array of beach goers and house-renters all applauding, thumb-upping and whistling. Our Bubba Trio acknowledges and apparently basks in the adulation, sad only because no one got it on tape for “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

In the words of Bill Engvall, “Here’s your Sign…”

The Trouble With Elevators

Elevator usage is a simple process. You do it. Your parents do it. Even a child can do it. An elevator comes, you hop on, you ride for a few floors and you shuffle out. In and out, anti-social and methodically identical each time - a process built for efficiency and speed. There are no known reasons to improve the ride or prolong the elevator experience any longer than necessary. However, some people - for a variety of reasons - do. On most elevators (except for hospitals, where we expect that doctors are smart enough to figure it out), there's only one way in and one way out, so I speculate that elevator designers figured that people would get the concept. Unfortunately, THAT is a misconception....

The Door Holders. They hear footsteps a mile away...a car door slam in the next county...voices of people approaching from nowhere. Upon hearing these sounds, real or imagined, the Door Holders feel compelled to earn their title: they hold the door. They hold the door until one of two things happens. Either (1) "the door has been open too damn long" siren blares for the city to hear or (2) the elevator aborts and changes direction on you. It's usually after those incidents that the Door Holders look at their watch, laugh sheepishly in mock embarrassment, "Gee, I hope you weren't catching a train."

The Door Talkers. Door talkers are usually found going floor to floor. It's a species found primarily in large companies on multiple floors. The Door Talker will break off from a group of "talk-ees" to enter the elevator (or to get out of the elevator). However, using a technique very similar to the Door Holder, they will stand half in the compartment and half out while continuing a conversation with a "talk-ee" which detains everyone else in the elevator. (There’s a way to stop Door Talkers: get behind them and swat anything they might be holding out of their arms and into the elevator lobby. When they jump out to catch it, the doors close. Folders and books work great, small children and open containers do not.)

The Door Closers. They are the Don Rickles of elevator riders. They are the exact opposite of the Door Holders. They are the irritants that allow the door to slide shut right in your face when you are no more than two feet outside the elevator. Instant nose job! Added irritation is your arms full of paperwork and/or several varieties of briefcases and portfolios. This action is usually accompanied by a snide smile and a "gee that's too bad" cocking of the head.

The Contortionists. This is the only characteristic which is exclusive to very chivalrous males. Contortionists earned their name because they were trained as little boys to always let women exit any room, compartment or area ahead of them. With this traditional belief firmly planted in their brains, you will witness the Contortionists bend their bodies in ways only Gumby could. A Contortionist can be in the rear of an elevator filled with women and he will lunge for the button panel - one finger stretched to the "Door Open" button and the opposite arm blocking the door. This is an admirable gesture to be sure, but one that usually requires the exiting woman to crawl under arms and over legs...a very tough task in a straight-skirted business suit.

The Hummers and Whistlers. Hummers and Whistlers are happy and they want you to be happy. We should be happy for them, but they make you pray for that sleepy elevator Muzack. They're usually tinny, off-key, very loud and almost always deface music that means something sentimental to you. I doubt The Beatles meant for "Back In The U.S.S.R." to be hummed or whistled. The same goes for "Jail House Rock."

The Genteel Chatterers. Hello! How are you? What a lovely coat... Do you work at the bank? Is that a perm or are you naturally curly? I have had the worst day. Nice purse. The carpet in this elevator needs to be replaced. Don't you hate this music? I'm taking tap dancing lessons. Are you related to Joe Shmoe? You look like him. Did you hear about the company president? I'm a Pisces so I love the water. Governor – oh sorry – President Bush was spotted near the city park I heard. Beautiful earrings, are they new? What's the matter, cat got your tongue?

The Redneck Chatterers. Hey! How you been? You get that coat at Wal-mart? It’s real nice. You still workin’ at the plant? What did you do to your hair? My day sucked. The carpet in this elevator looks like what’s in my dog pen. Where the Hell did this music come from? I'm taking welding lessons. You related to Jeb Schmoe? You look like him. Did you hear about the manager of the Handi-Mart? I'm a Capricorn so that means I wear a cap and I love corn. Elvis was spotted near the city park I heard. Why do you wear three earrings? What's the matter, you deaf or somethin’?

The Statues. They’re self-explanatory. They don't move - especially not for you. You get in and they refuse to move from their self-appointed spot. People are forced to move around them to find a place to stand...as if they were expressionless maypoles. These are the strong, silent types that you can't quite get to...and certainly can't get to move without the aid of a bouncer.

The Button Pushers. Impatience happens in everyone, but apparently these people can't get where they're going fast enough. Button Pushers have not figured out that once the up, down or floor number button has been illuminated, that's all it takes. Punching it several thousand times more does not make the doors open any faster increase the speed of the elevator's arrival. It only makes your finger sore.

The “Foreigners.” This term does not define race or personal origin or mean from "somewhere." They are foreigners in a building and/or preoccupied with other thoughts. They do not know where they are going. They are not aware of what is happening around them. Foreigners can be identified by several behavioral actions. They:
- punch several buttons because they don't know exactly which floor is their destination.
- punch the wrong button above or below the actual button they need.
- get on the up elevator when they want the down one.
- stand twiddling their thumbs when the door finally opens to the floor they desire.

The Fragrants. Stronger than an industrial plant, more powerful than a loaded skunk, and unfortunately aren't limited to one species. The Fragrants either carry odors on themselves or carry things with odors. Bags of fast food, newly manicured nails, wet leather binders, Indian food on the breath, baths in cheap cologne, chain smokers who've been locked in a car, skin damp with perspiration, Final Net hair spray, commuters fresh from gassing up the car...might be bearable individually, but combined, contribute to the diverse yet nauseating aroma found in most elevators. These far-from-understated smells linger and there's no place to sprinkle Carpet Fresh.

Well, that’s it! Now I realize that these scenarios are grossly exaggerated, and there have been many times where I’ve been a less than gracious, if not obnoxious, elevator patron. But next time you're in an elevator, whether it's Sears Tower or Sears Roebuck, remember these people - and you might be taking the stairs. Twenty-five flights looks shorter every day.

Welcome to Possum Holler, Pearland

As if my dogs were not obnoxious enough, we have a possum hiding out in our fence. Not just any possum, but a MAMA possum. With babies. Before you get all "awww how cute and sweet," on me, just stop. It's a huge rat. Yes, a marsupial one, but a rat nonetheless. And I know it eats wood roaches but for them, I have Raid (I know - not very much in line with my environmental blog).

Our dogs, who between them have less than half a brain, think that Godzilla has invaded our backyard. To hear them bark, they've found Osama Bin Laden. And while he's always had the size and strength to jump our six-foot fence, our Irish Setter Zach never realized his super-canine abilities. Until Mama Possum came to town. Now, not only can our neighbors see his huge red head atop the fence line, but they can hear him in Dallas. Or at least Conroe.

We have a battery-operated "Rat Zapper" (isn't suburban life fun?) designed to let rats and field mice know that we have no intention of sharing our deck or hot tub with them. So far, it's nabbed two of the baby possums. Sad I know, but as Darwin outlined in his vast chronicles, it's survival of those with the ability to landscape. In my efforts to be an Earth-friendly species neighbor, we bought some non-toxic "Critter Repellent" that, using the distilled scent of possum predators, hopefully drives our little furry squatters to the yard of another family.

Unless they all learn how to pull weeds - then they can stay.

Totally Lost in "Lost"

I am a woman obsessed. With the TV show, "Lost." Sure, sure - when I was in college, I was into "All My Children" and "General Hospital" as much as the next co-ed. But I never taped them. I never went to websites about the show or the characters. I didn't make sure I was home from a fun evening out to see the show first-hand.

But I do with "Lost." I need spoiler alerts. I need to know why Ben and Charles Widmore are at odds. I need to know Desmond and Penny will be together always. I need to know why Hurley doesn't lose any weight. I need to know the cute labrador retriever won't be killed by the smoke monster. It's frightening. Not the show - ME!?!

I've instructed my husband to alert my friends if I ever try to post a theory on a "Lost" fan website. It's for my own good. Help me before I get lost again...

Is He "Green" With Envy or Am I Making Him Ill?

Ever since I purchased a hybrid vehicle, my husband says I'm turning into an "environmental wacko." I've never considered myself green...except for my eyes, which according to my grandmother will forever exempt me from having to wear green on St. Pat's Day. I'm not vegetarian; I don't wear hemp clothing. And let's face it - I really didn't buy the vehicle with some higher purpose of Earth-saving in mind. I bought it because gas prices are abominable. But it's nice to think I'm contributing in some small fashion.

With Earth Day occuring this past week, we've been bombarded with "how to be green" messages in the media. Many of these tips and tidbits are pretty easy to implement, so I decided we should: unplugging small appliances and chargers when not in use; using fewer lights; turning up the thermostat as much as we can stand it; shorter showers and "every-other" flushes. We recycle via our subdivision-provided green plastic bin, which I think may someday end up in a landfill itself. I have a cloth grocery bag; yes, just one usually handy for short trips. Until my cats stop using the litter box, I still have a lot of use for those nasty plastic bags. So I'll see if I'm still hugging the earth in six months, when Al Gore's "We Can Do It" marketing campaign runs out of budget.

All I can do is try every day. So I'm doing my part and nagging (excuse me, "encouraging") my husband to do his part as well. As for the "environmental wacko" comment, I'd like to state for the record that I had never HEARD of a compact fluorescent light bulb until we shared the same home. He brought that bit of environmentalism into our marriage as well as a dimmer switch on every compatible outlet. Like Kermit said, "It Ain't Easy Being Green."