Decal or Not Decal? How Much Info is Too Much?

    I saw a lady on the Channel 9 News toward the end of last week. She was being interviewed by one of the very sweet yet serious young female reporters of which the channel seems to have an unlimited supply. The contention of the lady that was being interviewed is that it is dangerous to have those little rows of stick figure family decals on the windows of your car. She said they give strangers too much information. She also warned against the posting of decals of soccer balls or football helmets or ballet shoes. Again, contending that this gave strangers too much info. about a family. So, I thought about it and thought about it some more. Probably for about 20 seconds. And decided that as well-meaning as I'm sure that woman is, her contention is ludicrous.
      
     There are so many things to be frightened of in this world. So many ways to reveal more about ourselves than we might want to, ie. FACEBOOK. I don't think there is any danger in telling the world you have three kids and a dog. There is no danger in revealing that Billy likes football and Susie loves ballet. . . or vice versa. This is good stuff. This is stuff we want to share with the world. Advertising these facts on car windows doesn't make the world anymore dangerous for our kids than it already is. If we stop sharing this information with decals is our next step to never take all our kids out to dinner at the same time for fear a stranger will see that we actually have 2 boys and 2 girls. Shall we refuse to allow our kids to wear shirts that advertise the things they "heart" to do for fear of revealing their love of bowling or madrigal singing.
    
     Maybe we should require anyone posting family decals to also have a bumper sticker that declares, "I Love Dogs and I have a snarling, drooling, possibly rabid Rottweiler/Pit Bull Mix at home just waiting to rip off your arm if you mess with any of my family symbolized by the stick figures above." The gun lobby might suggest a bumper sticker that reads, "Come Around My House and Mess With My Soccer Player or Middle School Honor Student and You'll Get a Load of Buck Shot in Your Scrawny Butt!" I hope we don't have to do that, though.
     
     Be proud of your kids. Be happy with your family. Tell the world about it if you wish through decals and bumper stickers and such. But remember. If you have a lease car and you turn it in without scraping the decal off your window, the dealership will send you a bill for $20. Those stickers are more information than they want.

When An Apology is Just Too Much!!

  Warning:  This post contains the word "urinal."  If you are troubled by this word, do not continue reading!  Those who watch NCIS with some regularity will know that one of Jethro Gibbs' rules is, "Never say you are sorry.  It shows weakness."  I never really bought into that rule.  It seems to me if you run over your neighbor's cat or mailbox, you ought to apologize.  I do worry about over apologizing, though.  More than once, I've caught myself apologizing for just standing someplace.  A person walks up and says "excuse me," and as I step aside I say, "I'm sorry."  This is an apology for being there first.  I really shouldn't apologize for that.  
     There are other situations where one can apologize when one doesn't need to. I encountered one this morning at Panera in Fayetteville.  The Panera mens' room features the height of modesty.  The single urinal is in its own stall.  This morning I went to the restroom and found that the door to the urinal was closed.  I leaned against the wall and waited.  A moment later a man walked out, saw me, and said, "I'm sorry."  He took a step past me, nodding his head, and then said, "I'm sorry," again.  I was moderately alarmed.  What was this man sorry about?  Did something horrible await me at the urinal?
     Let me conclude by saying that nothing horrible awaited.  The man, who I'm sure is a great guy, has just taken to apologizing too much.  He was apologizing for existing at that point at that time.  He is a victim of over apologetic syndrome--OAS.  Hypothetical commercial:  "Hi!  I'm Steve, S-T-E-V-E, and I have O-A-S!"  Sorry, by the way, to anyone actually named Steve.  Not!

Chapter One in The Ellstrom Files: Stranger than Fiction?

     I need to precede this tale with an explanation.  I possess an extreme honesty gene.  I feel that, if undercharged at a checkout, I must point out the error to the cashier. Even if it's only a dime.  I consciously do this.  And other things like it.  My conscience requires it.  But what happened last week would suggest that somehow that gene has taken residence in my subconscious, and makes sure that I remain honest, even if I unaware of my crime.  We went to Lowe's in Oneida and purchased several things.  One was a piece of plastic lattice.  The sign next to it read "$3.97," and I said to myself, "good deal," and grabbed one.  We picked up a couple other small items and the last thing I took from the shelf was a plastic container of grass seed priced at $15.47, I think. We went to the counter, talked with the genial young man who checked us out, and paid $27 and some cents on my credit card.  This seemed logical as I had a purchased the lattice, the seed and a couple other little items.  Linda and I went to the parking lot and struggled a bit with loading the lattice.  In doing so, I left the grass seed sitting in the parking lot as we drove away.  Once home, I realized it and called Lowe's.  The young woman who answered, who I later discovered was a past student from Chittenango, said they had it and would hold it for us.

      Two days later I went to pick it up, and here is where the story becomes bizarre.  As I walked in the door, I was greeted by the 'nango grad, who smiled and said, "You know you didn't pay for that grass seed."  I said, "yes I did.  On my credit card."  "You only thought you did," she assured me and showed me a copy of my credit card slip.  No mention of grass seed.  But there was a piece of lattice priced at $15.97.  Damn, I thought that price had been awful good.

     Then she explained how she came to know about this strange happening.  When they first found the seed in the parking lot, they scanned it to see if they could find out who left it behind.  The scan revealed that it had never been purchased.  Weird!  Had someone stole it only to leave it in the parking lot?  Then my call came, and she, knowing my name, decided to figure out this mystery.  They videotape all the sales at the register.  She checked the tape, and sure enough, the genial clerk who scanned our purchases, somehow managed to totally miss the seed.
     So, I laughed, shook my head, and paid for the seed.  Now, if I hadn't left it sitting there, I would have taken it home and used it and never imagined that it was pilfered loot.  Coincidence? Or some subconscious pilfer-preventing-power I have developed over years of not stealing stuff?  You decide for yourself in this case of life being stranger than fiction!  Da-da-da-DA!!

Why I Couldn't Work at a Holiday Inn

Crouse, Lumpjaw, Moose, and Gruffy Guard the Pillows!

I just changed the bed.  Changed the sheets, redid the blanket and spread, put on the fresh pillow cases, and such rot.  I despise this job, and usually Linda and I do it together.  But today, she was off walking the treadmill at the physical therapy center, so I decided I would do the deed alone.  I make the bed virtually everyday.  We have a longtime rule in our house.  Whoever gets out of bed last, makes the bed, and seeing that on most days, Linda gets up first, and I follow a few minutes later, I usually make the bed.  Actually, it's fair to say it is always my task, because when Linda does get up after I do, she has a tendency to forget her duty.  (Purposely, I don't know?)  She just leaves the bed unmade and heads downstair, there to forget it forever!  Because, over the years I have become rather OCD about having the made bed in our bedroom, I end up making it even if I got up first.  Now don't think that my compulsion to make our bed means I like doing it.  I can think of few jobs I despise more than making a bed.  I hate how you have to walk from one side of the bed to the other, then back again, straightening and tightening and fluffing.  I cheat a lot.  Sometimes I leave the sheet 18 inches down one bed side and 2 inches down the other so it can't even be tucked in, rather than running and pulling and tucking.  If I were forced to work in housekeeping at a major motel chain, I would run screaming from the place by my third room.  I find the thought of such employment frightening.  Truly!