Snicker

When I was a child, my parents told me I didn't like Snickers. At Halloween, after going to all the houses, diligently saying hello to all the neighbors, even the creepy ones, I would take my stash of candy home. I was ready to gloat over piles of crinkley-wrapped sugar like a pirate gloating over treasure.

"You don't like those," my father would say, grabbing a snack-sized Snickers. He had it in his mouth a moment later.

"Okay." I was happy with piles of Smarties and Tootsie Rolls. And the occasional Reeses Peanut Butter Cup, which I never would have given up in a million years.

Then I got older.

At some point, I realized I really did like Snickers. And, more importantly, I realized I'd been snowed by my father.

Even still, every Halloween, he'd still grab a couple of Snickers. "You don't like these," he'd remind me.

I just gave him the stink eye.

To Delete or Not to Delete

Crap day. I forgot a birthday and feel way guilty. Realized that, in rehashing old crap from years ago, I might make someone feel bad right now, today, when my only impulse was to provide an entertaining story for the three people I know who used to read this.

I'm not going to delete things anymore and pretend I didn't say things. That's a crappy and cowardly way to live life.

Going for the Gold

I'm dressing as Sarah Palin for Halloween.

I've had some good costumes in my day, but I'm hoping to win an award with this one. I know most of the big sites are mocking the selection as hopelessly overdone, but I have some touches that I think make this costume special:

I have buttons. GOP buttons. A pink elephant with "Sarah!" underneath. Another with her name, a set of lips and a high heeled shoe. And one with her and McCain with "Brothers in Heaven Forever." Okay, maybe it doesn't say that.

I've got snow boots. I was going to wear a puffy coat but thought it would be too hot.

I've got a suit. It isn't from Neiman Marcus. Nor is it from a consignment shop in Anchorage. Nor does it include a red leather jacket. But it'll do.

I have a brown beehive wig.

I have glasses.

I may have a weapon.

I may also have pelts. I thought about a fur coat but thought it would be too hot.

I have a plethora of pithy statements. "You betcha!" "Kin I call you Joe?" "You know what the difference..." You get the picture.

But the party I'm going to has a theme. Astronauts and Aliens. So I have some antennae I'll be wearing.

Or else I'll wander around all night, mocking the idea of astronauts as a liberal media fallacy constructed to leech money from people's paychecks. SOCIALISM!!!

It might not beat the roller derby costume, but it will come close.

A Magical Mystery Tour

I was just chatting with a five-year old about birthday parties and where to have them. His verdict was inevitable: Chuck E. Cheese. Unfortunately, they no longer serve beer there since an unfortunate incident between an intoxicated man and the animatronic band so yours truly will not be trekking there anytime soon. Or, honestly, any time.

Then I got to thinking about the places I used to have parties, or go to parties. There was the year my parents took me and my friends to see "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" and then went home to eat cake. Red velvet cake. Which I loved. But my friends thought it was an attempt to bring the gore home from the movies. I wish I could plan ahead that well.

I remember going to Showbiz Pizza in Georgia growing up. They had an animatronic band, too. Instead of a mouse, I think they had a gorilla leading the band. Why pizza places were so into animatronics, I don't know. All they really needed to be popular was a Frogger! machine in the back and a soda machine that you could use yourself in order to make "suicide drinks"--a sample of every soda on the gun.

Further back, I remember a place called Pipe Organ Pizza. This was less animatronic and more...vaudeville. They had a lot of the old penny machines that told fortunes. And there was a monkey on a unicycle pedaling back and forth above the dining room on a tightrope.

There was Pennywhistle Park. I have no idea what it was or what we did there. I think there was a carosel. Other than that, I have no idea what that joint was about, other than remembering the name of it, sitting here, today. From a quick Google search, it was a big indoor carnival that has since shut down.

And Farrell's, an old style, black-and-white tiled floor ice cream parlor with bins of candy in the lobby. Lots of old-timey lettering on glass and big fancy glass dishes filled with ice cream.

Most odd? The Magic Time Machine. A restaurant with themed servers and themed booths. For a long time I thought this place was a figment of my imagination. I'm sure my parents only took me there once. But I was entranced by the idea of each booth having a different theme. I particularly remember the "valentine" themed booth, covered with lace and hearts and nonsense. It was ridiculous, but as a five year old girl, it was incredible and fantastic. We were served by the likes of Pippi Longstocking and Sandi from Grease. I LOVED it.

Most of those places are gone now, although there are still two Magic Time Machine restaurants still open. It is too bad that today's youth only has a plastic mouse to hang with during their birthday. I hope they can look back with wonder on the places of their youth. But I doubt that living rooms filled with video games will be as memorable as the roller rinks and themed restaurants of our youth.

Sign 'O the Times

My grandmother says racist things.

I say this without irony. Without shame. Without much thought at all. However, I hope that, in my grandmother's case, saying racist things does not make one racist.

I don't mean to be an apologist. I don't want to let her off the hook. On the contrary, I would be more likely to tell my grandmother that she is being offensive than I would a guy sitting behind me at a football game talking about black quarterbacks or the couple at the booth next to me at the neighborhood restaurant laughing about Hispanic bus boys.

But maybe that's what I am.

My grandmother has always used racist language to describe people. I remember hearing my first racist joke at my grandparents' house. In fact, I think I may have told a racist joke to my grandfather when I was young, in an effort to curry favor with the grouchy old coot. I remember the joke, even. It was about the rapid transit authority in Atlanta. And, no, I'm not repeating it here.

My grandparents used the "n" word to describe people. Not only people, but inanimate objects. When I was young, it didn't even register...the type of language that they used. It was just part of the background, the wallpaper. It matched the Big Ten glasswear and the cane furniture and the lava lamp in the basement of their house. However, once I went to high school in Atlanta and learned about the impact of such a word, I began to cringe every time I heard them use it. It was the equivilent of dropping an f-bomb. Worse, even.

My grandfather died and my grandmother moved to a small town to live near my uncle. He's not known for watching his tongue, either. In fact, to be fair, no one in my family is what would be described as a shrinking violet. And we don't always think before we speak. However...

Grandma proceeded to get blackballed from the local drycleaner after making a derogatory remark about the hispanic folks working there. She now has to send her clothes with my uncle to the next town over.

I'm sorry, there are some things that age does not allow you to do. You can yell at kids to get off your lawn. You may even be able to steal a kid's football and refuse to give it back. But you cannot call someone a racial ephithet and get away with it. Young or old.

When I was just visiting last week, my elderly, frail grandmother used the "n" word to describe tennis shoes. This makes no sense to me. She was telling a story about cheap shoes tied together by their laces, held in bins. I imagine she thought she was describing the shoes as low-class. Or cheap. I don't know, honestly. When the word came out of her mouth, I covered my eyes and shook my head. I almost got up and left. But she's 82 and the only grandparent I have left. What does one do?

I would like to think that, in her heart, my grandmother doesn't actually believe that all black people are bad, just like all white people aren't good. I'm reasonably certain she doesn't believe that a secret roundtable of Jews rules the financial market. I hope she doesn't think that the Mexican kid at the laundry didn't maliciously steal a button from her coat and make a new stain on her silk shirt. I hope, instead, that accusing someone of doing something like that was simply the meanest thing she could think of to say to someone, in order to get their attention and have them look at her. Really look at her like she matters. Because, in the end, I think that is what makes her tick....the need for attention.

Honestly, the apples don't fall far from the tree in this family.

But what really bothers me is that my fourteen and twelve year old cousins were there when she talked about the shoes and they didn't bat an eye. Because they aren't doing things like going to school with black kids in suburban Atlanta. Nor are they speding time in any kind of urban environment whatsoever outside of what they see on television. I fervently hope they don't get the idea that people talk that way in the big wide world.

I hope for better for them.

Curb Your Enthusiasm

So I'm at this event this weekend. It is kind of a reunion. Of sorts. The lamer sort. With student government people. From college. So, yeah, lame. All from a very large, incredibly midwestern and really white university.

After the main (and incredibly boring) events, a bunch of us go out to dinner. Me and my roommate, who ran campaigns. Three student body presidents. One of their wives. Another two Vice Presidents.

And, begin student goverment geeks, almost everyone went into some kind of legal work.

So I'm sitting next to this guy. African-American. He was student body president in the late, late 90's maybe. Maybe even 2000s.

I ask, "So, what do you do?"

"I work in IT," he tells me, and goes on to describe his job, which sounds interesting and challenging and fun.

"Oh, so you aren't a lawyer like everyone else here, " I laugh. Then, "You realize you're in the minority."

I look around the table and realize we've got three white men, three white women, one latina and him.

He looks at me. "You're not kidding," he says.

Friends

On my way into work, I take the same route pretty much every day. A couple of turns, then a long drive into the office on a winding straightaway with a few lights sprinkled here and there, twisting through residential areas sprinkled with houses and apartment complexes housing good Christian students for the nearby private school. Not a lot of beer cans littering the parking lots around there, like the apartment complexes where I went to school.

There's a man who walks his dog the same route every day. And I see him every day. I have no idea what the man looks like, except that he is likely somewhere in his 40's or 50's. I think he's tall. But he has the best dog.

It is a golden retriever. And he's beautiful. I call it a he, but I don't really know if it is a he or a she. He's a big dog, one of the really tall retrievers. His head doesn't look very broad, but I see him from the distance of three car lanes, so it is hard to be sure. He's getting white around the muzzle and I know he's had a long, good, healthy life. His fur is long and lovely and he wags his tail constantly, letting the world know he's just enjoying his time here, on this walk.

His owner never uses a leash. This made me nervous, when I used to first see them, when I began using this route to work. Now, it just makes me smile. The dog is never more than a leash length away. I think the owner has the dog fooled into thinking there's a leash on him, that he can't get any further than that. The dog never makes a sudden move, never chases squirrels, never darts around. He's constant, steady and calm.

Today, I was running a little late. When I saw them, they were at the crosswalk, waiting for the light. The owner was back where the sidewalks actually crossed, a few steps behind the curb. The dog? Was standing on the curb, waiting expectantly. Either for the light to change or for his owner to tell him it was time to go. In his mouth? A plastic bag, undoubtedly filled with doggy poo that his master cleaned up and, in order to give the retriever something to do that felt like a job, let the dog carry.

That dog makes me smile. When I stop seeing him on his morning walks, I hope his owner knows that he won't be the only one to have lost his friend.

I Saw Summer Go

It was Saturday. It was beautiful. The sun was shining. The wind was still. The water was like glass. The leaves were just starting to yellow, just at the edges. There were a few splashes of red, now and then, as I drove along the highway toward the beach. Not many. Just enough to know that the nights were becoming cooler, the days shorter.

We sat outside all day. Bathing suits and beer. Watching the water and listening to the waves. A succession of football games played inside. Big Ten games. Some exciting. Some not. Then music. More drinks. Snacks. A light breeze.

In the evening, we boiled shrimp outside. The clouds rolled up a bit from the horizon, heading towards us slowly.

The breeze, that was so slight only moments before, strengthened and became a wind. Spatters of raindrops hit the ground. The blanket of clouds scuttled toward us.

The temperature dropped. The wind began whipping at the trees. The fire underneath the pot of shrimp blew out.

We went back outside after dinner. But we needed jackets and blankets and shoes and socks. The next morning was grey and the clouds haven't lifted since.

Summer was here for a while. Then, whoosh, shiver...there it goes.