Family. Dinner. Rules.

“Children today,” she began as her hands kneaded the knot out of my right quadriceps. “They don't understand the rules.”

Physical Therapist Alison is old-fashioned: family dinner at seven and don’t call at the last minute to say you won’t make it. Her eldest is studying to be a missionary. The middle one goes to community college and the girl is a high school senior.

“When my kids go to their father’s, they eat whenever they want, they come and go. Curfew? Forget about it.”

“Ouch,” I holler
.
“Oh, did that hurt?” she says without pausing. The room of pt patients looks up and goes back to swiveling legs in the air.

“My daughter’s only one I have any trouble with. That’s normal,” Alison hastens to add. “But she has to learn the rules.”

“How do you enforce the rules?” I ask, rolling over so she can get that tight spot on my back. “I mean, what would you do if she didn’t come for dinner?”

Alison stops to think. Valuable seconds pass—my massage, don’t stop my massage! then her hands get back to work.

“I don’t know how. Well I guess she just has to. I know they don’t have to do anything when they go to their father’s. They come in whenever, take their food to their rooms so they can eat in front of their pcs and hang out on their cellphones. I suppose I could take away her cell phone.” She sounds uncertain.

Pretty drastic, like taking away the car keys back in the day. Even worse: how would Alison keep track of her kid without a cell phone? I wonder how certain Alison is that she’s in charge. She pushes with both thumbs and moves off this uncomfortable topic to a more general rant.

“Nobody reads any more. My daughter does her Hamlet homework with an outline of the story on the computer screen. She doesn’t think she should have to wade through the language when she can just learn what the play’s about. But I tell her, the language is important. It’s important to know how people spoke long ago.”

She shakes her head impatiently because that does sound pretty feeble. I don’t suggest anybody read Sanskrit just because once upon a time it may have been spoken. It bugs Alison that she can’t remember exactly why it’s important to read Shakespeare's words because her own English class was a long time ago. I am so lucky that my physical therapist appreciates these refinements.

And hates to let the rule of homework go.

“You read Shakespeare in the original language also because it’s the assignment.
Like learning the multiplication table. And it’s also quite poetic, once you get into it.”

I agree completely. “See ya,”does not so melodiously sound upon mine ear as "Good night, sweet prince." And boy, doth it warmeth my heart to hear a New Old Fart complain about the Awfull State of Children Today.

I ask myself, would I have gone to libraries.com for the trot and the translation into modern English? Alas, I am not completely pure, myself but I am glad to report that libraries.com would not let me copy and paste their text into my text.

And, as an Older Generation who complained about hers, I am delighted that Alison's public school education has educated hers. Their ways were not so hopeless after all.

Alison gets both hands into my back. She rolling now.

“You can’t live with your parents forever. Rules are important if you want to have a job and pay your bills. If you don’t understand how to get up and go to work, you’re screwed. These are the rules.

“Kids today can’t make change for a quarter. Work, ha! My middle kid gets an intern job and he doesn’t have to show up until noon. The supervisor, or whatever you’d call him, says just put in the hours somehow. That’s not a job. Somebody’s got to open the store. You know I don’t think kids have any idea of what a family is, either. Scary, isn’t it?”

Ouch again!

But it’s not all bad. Alison’s Number One Son doesn’t own a cell Phone because he’s studying to be a missionary. When he graduates he’ll dedicate his life to service in underdeveloped countries. Right now he’s learning jungle survival. Missionary colleges teach counseling, ethnomusicology and developing worship communities—which is evangelizing, true. But if they dig wells and vaccinate against smallpox, I will suspend my skepticism. Centuries of history tell the awful story: for many, many years pious Christians missionaries have, in the name of Jesus, enslaved indigenous people, broken their spirits and taken their lands.

“Is your son a Mormon?”

Alison shakes her head as she lowers the table and I sit up. “Baptist?”

“No, something like ‘Twelve Tribes’. I’m not really sure.” Not a lot of religious dogma going on there. It seems that now Number One Son doesn’t have to show up for dinner, she's busy showing up for her daughter. Enforcing the rule of family supper at seven.

Where will you two be in ten years?" I ask.

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll be all right. By then she’ll thank me for drilling all the rules into her,” Alison says. “I see us getting along really well.”

We'll see how the rules look in ten years. I’m thinking, maybe we'll be geo-tracked and ready for family dinner at seven. Family. Dinner. Rules

The Lion Tamers

Two people answer the circus ad for a lion tamer, a beautiful young woman and a mature gentleman.

"Here's the chair, the whip and the gun," the circus owner says. "Who wants to go first?"

"I will," the young woman says. Ignoring the liontamer tools, she strides into the lion's cage and drops her coat, revealing her fabulous body. The lion stops his charge in midstride, falls to the ground at her feet and licks her all over, purring like a kitten.

"Well," says the circus owner, turning to the gentleman. "Can you top that?"

"No problem," the man says. "Just get the lion out of the way."

Thanks to Suddenly Senior.com

Important Cooking Tip!

Gracie Allen's recipe for Roast Beef:

Put a big rib roast and a small rib roast in two separate pans into the oven at 450 degrees.

When the little one burns, the big one is done.

Your Life at Home Depot

Thanks for another beauty, Maureen.


You are in the middle of some project around the house - - mowing the lawn, putting in a new fence, painting the living room, whatever.

You are hot and sweaty, covered in dirt or paint. You're wearing your old work clothes You know the outfit - - shorts with the hole in the crotch, old T-shirt stained from who knows what, old tennis shoes.

You realize you need to run to Home Depot to get something to complete the job.

In your 20s:
Stop what you're doing. Shave, shower, blow dry your hair, brush your teeth, floss, put on clean clothes. Check yourself in the mirror and flex. Add a dab of your favorite cologne because you just might meet some hot chick in the checkout lane. And you went to school with the pretty girl running the register.

In your 30s:
Stop what you're doing, put on clean shorts and shirt. Change shoes. You married the hot chick, so no need for much else. Wash your hands and comb your hair. Check yourself in the mirror. Still got it. Add a shot of your favorite cologne to cover the smell. The cute girl running the register is the kid sister of someone you went to school with.

In your 40's:
Stop what you're doing. Put on a sweatshirt long enough to cover the hole in your shorts. Put on different shoes and a hat. Wash your hands. Your bottle of Brute Cologne is almost empty, so you don't want to waste any of it on a trip to Home Depot. Check yourself in the mirror and do more sucking in than flexing. The spicy young thing running the register is your daughter's age, and you feel weird thinking she's spicy.

In your 50s:
Stop what you're doing. Put a hat on; wipe your hands on your shirt. Change shoes because you don't want to get dog doo-doo in your new sports car. Check yourself in the mirror and swear not to wear that shirt any more because it makes you look fat. The cutie running the register smiles when she sees you coming. You think you've still got it. Then you remember the hat you're wearing is from Buddy's Bait & Beer Bar and says, 'I Got Worms.'

In your 60s:
Stop what you're doing. No need for a hat any more. Hose the dog doo-doo off your shoes. The mirror was shattered when you were in your 50s. You hope you're wearing underwear so nothing hangs out the hole in your shorts. The girl running the register may be cute. But you don't have your glasses on, so you're not sure.

In your 70s:
Stop what you're doing. Wait to go to Home Depot until the drug store has your prescriptions ready. Don't even notice the dog doo-doo on your shoes. The young thing at the register smiles because you remind her of her grandfather.

In your 80s:
Stop what you're doing. Start again. Then stop again. Now you remember you needed to go to Home Depot. Go to Wal-Mart instead. Wander around trying to remember what you are looking for. You went to school with the old lady who greeted you at the front door.

In your 90's & beyond:
What's a home deep hoe? Something for my garden? Where am I? Who am I? Why am I reading this? Did I send it? Did you?

Showing Up

If you're trying to scare a president by throwing a book at him, you're one president too late.

Isn't this great? It's from my old friend, Maureen, who hates to be an "old" friend, as if that describes her age and not the age of our friendship. I can write all about her because she adamantly refuses to read blogs. Any blog, not just my blog. She don't say why.

Somehow this reminds me of the time last June when my grandson, visiting from the east coast, came in for supper. it's lovely to have a grandling in the house.

"Chicken and rice for dinner," I announced happily.

"I don't eat rice," he said in a sullen, twelve-year old tone.

"Then you won't get anything to eat," I snapped in a crabby sixty-nine year old tone.

He's not so picky these days.

Sigh. That was months ago and now I'd gladly take a little remorse on my rice. Gimme another chance. Maybe spaghetti?

I'd sure love Maureen to read this before I get too old to show up here.

Oh, Sad and Sorry Tale

Please join me in remembering a great icon of the entertainment community. The Pillsbury Doughboy died yesterday of a yeast infection and trauma complications from repeated pokes in the belly. He was 71.

Doughboy was buried in a lightly greased coffin. Dozens of celebrities turned out to pay their respects, including Mrs. Butterworth, Hungry Jack, the California Raisins, Betty Crocker, the Hostess Twinkies and Captain Crunch. The grave site was piled high with flours.

Aunt Jemima delivered the eulogy and lovingly described Doughboy as a man who never knew how much he was kneaded. Doughboy rose quickly in show business, but his later life was filled with turnovers. He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting much of his dough on half-baked schemes. Despite being a little flaky at times, he still was a crusty old man and was considered a positive roll model for millions.

Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough, three children, John Dough, Jane Dough and Dosey Dough, plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his elderly father, Pop Tart. The funeral was held at 3:50 for about 20 minutes.


If this made you smile for even a brief second, please rise to the occasion and take time to pass it on and share that smile with someone else who may be having a crumby day and kneads a lift.

Thanks to my friend Jaya Salsman.

Motherhood

Dogs, all dogs and nothing but dogs today. Liz dropped her pug pup, Miss Pia, off at eight and I've been keeping my Mopsy from eating her all day.

Watching for inside piddles. Sharing the bones, the teeny treats, unwrapping Pia's leash from my knees as we walked down the sidewalk, she plunging after the dignified Mop who trots off-leash staight ahead, not a paw on anyone's grass. Exactly two piddles and home directly. Pia clueless but extremely sweet. And smart. Sorry to say this three-month-old pug makes our little shihtzu look like an ox.

I've been saying for months that we really MUST have a companion for Mopsy but now, I wonder what I was thinking. I'm exhausted. What would I do at night? Pia is now yipping pathetically from our crate on the porch.

Must get Jim to take our picture. Must mix martini.