Dear Santa: Pall Malls and a DustBuster, please

Last night I managed to lure my husband to the Mall of America for a little Christmas shopping, about an hour's worth before my neck started to get a little stiff and my eyes began to glaze over -- a tipoff that claustrophobia, loud music and plain old volume overload were taking their toll. So we bought three gifts and left. The rest, we'll make or order online. Yeah, it's a little late in the game for that, but I think I'd rather shop naked at a gas station convenience counter than go to the mall or any mall again this season.

I just hate to shop. No doubt about it. I hate it more fiercely than just about anything other than Republican politics, war and famine. While some women are consummate shoppers and do it almost recreationally, I am (you've heard of the AntiChrist?) the AntiShopper. I go out of my way to avoid shopping whenever I can. My home and my wardrobe are living proof: Both are pretty spartan. It's kind of embarrassing, especially when many of my contemporaries are at the House Beautiful stage of their lives.

Yeah, I admire nice clothes and beautiful homes, but I'd admire them so much more if I didn't have to shop or pay for the myriad items our bodies and abodes display. I find myself overwhelmed by too many choices, colors, styles. I find beauty rather easily, so when someone says, "What's your favorite color?" I can't pick one. Scarlet? Love it. But depending on the day, I might feel maroon or chartreuse. Beige comes on in waves, especially when purple is nearby. And then, when I see the prices, I must make still another, more difficult choice: beauty or, uh, food? Soon, my whole being cries, "Retreat!" I get a much stronger sense of well-being when I open a full fridge than when I dig through a stuffed closet.

There is one type of store, however, that I tolerate quite well. I enjoy old-fashioned hardware stores, the kind with sawdusty boxes of odd-size nuts and bolts in the back, where items have prices scrawled in grease pencil (no UPCs, no scanners in these places) and a guy named Dick or Wally can find anything you need. And not only does he remember what you bought there last. He remembers what your dad bought there too. Hey! Maybe I could do my Christmas shopping at the Hardware Hank. Heck, it worked for my Dad. Then again, he thought a DustBuster, a "bottle" and a carton of Pall Malls to be "just grand" Christmas gifts. He might have been right after all.

Norway's not cold at all

Reading about Walter Mondale’s appointment today as Norway’s new honorary consul, I saw a link to a new Norwegian producer of, you got it, galoshes. I saw some cute yellow shoes on the page and gave it a click. These little numbers are called “Swims.” But you don’t think sex sells everything, take a look at the gallery of these ladies galoshes. Whew!

Funny. My dad used to call these overshoes “rubbers.” I can just hear the howl of 13-year-old boys everywhere.

But I do like the shoes anyway.

Read between the lines

In my world we talk a lot about journalism ethics, and how the craft of journalism is changing; some might argue that good journalism is dying. Why? Well, because many people write well enough to establish some credibility with readers, and these people now generate audiences for themselves even though they know nothing about the tenets of good journalistic practice. Anyone with a computer and Internet service can pretend to tell you what he or she thinks is true. But these new media stars don't think about fairness. They don't care about libel laws. They don't much care for facts, really. And they surely don't tell all sides of stories. They write the sexy parts (which attract the readers) -- or the parts they want us to hear (mainly their own voices). And because most people don't understand the difference between writers who are educated, ethical journalists and pundits with an ax to grind, from Ann Coulter to Coleen Rowley to Jon Stewart, most of us suffer as a result. We just don't learn the truth about issues because we end up listening to the wrong sources. Informing ourselves used to be fairly easy: read a couple or three good newspapers, watch a national newscast, and you could be pretty good to go. Throw in National Public Radio and Bill Moyers, mix well and boom! You could watch an issue and feel fairly confident that you could figure out what was really going on. No more. Now it's really tough to separate the wheat from the chaff. There's just too much out there to choose from, and you really have to read and listen carefully, or you'll fall victim to the stupidity -- yes, stupidity -- that's now passing for journalism in this country.

Let me put it this way: Just because someone has a smart mouth, an applauding audience or a series of clever sentences doesn't make him or her worthy of our respect. Think for yourself, but do your homework.

Old? Who you callin' old?

Yesterday my first child turned 29, which is a little weird for me. Somehow, it's OK to have kids in their 20s but not their 30s. So I'll be trying my damnedest to a.) grow up by next year and b.) not turn into a cranky old woman. Cranky, maybe, but not old.

I pondered this age thing a bit this weekend when my 3-year-old grandsons succeeded in literally knocking me down (thank God the bones aren't brittle yet), and when I made a trip to the doctor's office over the weekend for a flu shot. When I was younger, I threw caution to the wind and took my chances with influenza -- which I don't think I've ever had. What's next? The gout? Shingles? At a bit over the half-century mark, I have already started the head-bobbing that comes from wearing bifocals, grunting when I put on my socks, plucking hairs from places where they just have no business growing, and exhibiting these funny "age spots" (which really don't "fade" no matter what you put on them) on my hands. Gray hair? Plenty of it. Extra weight? Way too much of that, too. Memory loss? Uh-huh. There's no turning back, I guess.

But I can put up with all of that. Here's what I do wish, however: that Gen-Xers and Millennials that I know would stop dismissing me as terminal and unhip and treat me with a little respect, please, because I AM older and I DO have some experience and I AM, for an , um, older person, pretty cool. At least I don't feel like I act crotchety. Much. I just like people who can read, spell properly and listen as much as they talk. So there!

As seen on TV!

OK, so on Sunday I spent a whole silly hour slicing the season's last crop of rhubarb. It was kind of woody, not the best -- that's usually reserved for early June, when it's so succulent and makes your teeth squeak when you chew it. But I know I'll crave rhubarb pie in the dead of winter, and pies are pretty forgiving -- the sugar covers up anything -- as long as the flavor's there.

This time I lugged out the Cuisinart food processor from the dusty confines of the bottom of my pantry. This thing has has jillions of blades, some of which I've never used, that chop vegetables into shapes ranging from julienne strips to something looking strangely like my cat. But it's great for chopping celery and rhubarb into tiny, paper-thin slices. It appeals to my precise (some might say anal retentive) nature when all these little slice are just the same size.

Not wanting my handiwork to go to waste and freezer burn, I also hauled out the FoodSaver^TM, that nifty little machine that vacuum packs food into FoodSaver^TM bags for the freezer. I lined everything up on the counter, even located the instructions because I'd already abused one of these machines to the point of product replacement. It made me a little nervous when I saw a sticker on the bottom of this one that said "reconditioned," but I pressed on. An hour later, I was cursing and still had not sealed a single bag. Reading the instructions again, I was advised to wait 20 minutes before attempting to restart the machine. So I just figured, screw it, and put the damned thing back in the cabinet with the other labor-saving devices designed to keep women tied to the kitchen. It was that or send it to FoodSaver heaven.

But wait! There's more! I came home Monday night and thought, it's been more than 20 minutes. I'll try the friggin' FoodSaver^TM again, just in case I haven't really made the thing crash and burn. And whaddya know: Lo and behold and glory hallelujah, it worked. I now have two, count 'em, two perfect-measured packs of frozen rhubarb, all ready for Grandma Therese's Rhubarb Custard Pie in February. I'm feeling quite smug.

Shhhh. The password is ... "password."

The old game show, "Password," still gives me a tummy ache. Maybe it's because the only time I ever got to see Allen Ludden and his cast of stars was when I was holed up in bed, home sick from school. It came on right after "As the World Turns" every day. (An aside from the "I know way too much useless information about TV stars" files: Allen Ludden was married to actress Betty White, a.k.a. silly Sue Ann from "The Mary Tyler Moore Show" and one of "The Golden Girls.")

Anyway, I learned a lot about the English language from "Password." I even had the home version. What could be more fun for a kid with a pretty good vocabulary? The "Lightning Round" could make me a little queasy -- pressure, you know -- but I discovered there was pretty good money to be made from knowing what words meant: at first, $50 per correctly guessed word, can you believe it?

The reason I started thinking about all of this "Password" business is that the word, "password," morphed from its early military and speakeasy days into game-show usage and now is the second half of the "username and password" combo to enter a secure Web space. Which brings me to a mini rant for the day.

Apparently it's just not enough to have a plain old username and password today. Now you have to be able to answer challenge questions like, "Who was the best man at your wedding?" or "What is your mother-in-law's middle name?" or "What color was your second pet's third toenail?" to enter a supposedly secure Web site. It's becoming a whole new game show in itself. I can't even get the answers right when I have written the questions myself!

Today, case in point, I entered a site to be left unnamed, to pay a bill. "In an effort to serve you better," it said (that's always the reason), I had to list answers to FIVE challenge questions that I could remember answers to later. Heck, I have a hard time remembering what I did yesterday, much less the answers to a bunch of questions that I chose today. The thing is, I can answer questions today that I'm asked today and not necessarily will I answer them the same way tomorrow or six months from now. You see, I'm a "shades of gray" person. Answers aren't necessarily always the same. It depends on when one asks them. So, when you ask me, "What was the name of your first pet?" I'll retort, "My first pet when I was a kid? Or after I was married?" And when someone asks me, "What was your grandmother's middle name," I'll wonder, "Which grandmother?" The frustration is dizzying. Which makes me queasy, in need of a cold washcloth on my head, a hot water bottle on my belly and "Password" on the telly.

Seems like 10 minutes ago

I love lists, I was reminded yesterday when I heard a radio show host musing about his Top 10 movie soundtracks. I got to thinking, do I KNOW 10 movie soundtracks? Oddly enough, all I could think of was Rodgers and Hammerstein's score from the old TV version of "Cinderella." When I was 10, it was a TV special starring Lesley Ann Warren with her charming crooked smile and the handsomest guy I had ever seen playing the prince. He was dreamy, really. I wanted him with all my heart. But back before VCRs, you'd have to wait for "the repeat," when the network would decide to air the show again. Nevertheless, I fell in love not only with the prince but with the music and still can sing just about every song from that show.

Just last year I learned that the 1965 version was a remake. PBS aired the original 1957 version -- starring Julie Andrews, who was absolutely gorgeous then, with a voice as clear as a child's and a waist as big as my wrist. And although early TV productions were pretty crude fare, filmed with only a camera or two and cardboard sets that looked like a high-school play, there was something wonderful and raw about them.

But back to Lesley Ann and the dreamy prince. These songs still make me weep with prefeminist joy: "Do I Love You Because You're Beautiful?" and "Ten Minutes Ago." Now close your eyes, pirouette and pucker up.