The ‘new black’.



It’s comparable to fashion, huh? Mexicans are this year’s black. Just like grey is sometimes the ‘new black’ in fall. Where does this position black people on the skin-color hierarchy? And why is it so important to place a group at the bottom of the pole?

All of this led me to think about some of the asinine comments I have heard in the few years that I have lived in... let’s just call it Frogtown.

One evening, as I was leaving my Spanish language class, a student (also enrolled in this course) made comments to a group of us. She talked about how she couldn’t stand how ‘those Mexicans’ would leer at her as she entered the local super center.
She was not unattractive. I would say, however, that she would find easy work in the line of a Reba McIntire look-alike.
Apparently she was only taking the course because the school required it of her. Why she felt that those Mexicans were always leering at her... I do not claim to know. Maybe those Mexicans mistook her for Reba?

In yet another class, I learned from several students that the birth place of man was Greece. Wow. I was under the impression that the birth place of man was the Fertile Crescent in Africa. How shocked I was to find that we, being white folk, were from Greece and Greece alone! Oh blasted history books; how they have deceived!

You see, one gentleman was kind enough to point out, in the safety of the predominately white classroom, that his skin "ain’t that dark"... which led him to the conclusion that he could not possibly have any connections, whatever, to Africa.

You can imagine his confusion when the class instructor corrected his misconception. Who's cursing the history books now?

In the end I say, with little authority, but much heart, that before you part your stupid little teeth to say something about a group of people, of which you obviously know nothing, that you pause for a moment. Pause and wonder, not briefly, as to the birth place of your assumptions.
I imagine you will not find those roots in Greece, either.

And Sometimes the Boogie Man Wears Red

As we stood, rather patiently, in a long line that wound gingerly about giant candy canes and festive gargantuan presents I had a single thought. "Jonathan". Perhaps not so much a thought as a forced mantra. I don't know anyone named Jonathan. You see Jonathan was a four-and-a-half year old boy and the mantra was being chanted by his mother. "Jonathan. Jonathan. Jonathan! Jonathan!!". You get the idea.

You see, the hubby and I decided the night before to brave the mall for the all important Santa Photo Opp. We were pleased upon arriving at Santa's Winter Wonderland (located conveniently in front of J.C. Penny) that the line was only 50 deep. With the frantic cry, "Let's go girls!" we rushed to meet the end of the line lest we find ourselves in position number 52!

We made it!

Glancing around I noticed that Santa would be taking a break at 3 o'clock to 'feed the reindeer'. It was only around 10:30 am... so we felt confident. It was then that I saw Santa open the aspirin container.

Within 10 minutes a rather large elf, with commanding presence, came to the front of the line (I had binoculars). She informed us, via megaphone, that Santa was taking a breaky-poo; not to return for 20 minutes. I don't think I need to tell you that there was an instantaneous and tangible chill in the air at that moment. It was as if every mother ,in the now very long line, turned into an icy harpy (and a few Dads as well). Before the last crackle of the megaphone ceased, the muttering had grown to outright bitching.

The bitching, however, served as a delightful and colorful icebreaker and within moments we were chatting it up with other 'old-timers' (as the line was now so long, the first 60-70 were now feeling superior to the newcomers).

Our conversations turned from, "Santa's probably getting a snoot full" and "Bet he's having a cigarette..." to "Your son is soooooooooooooooooo cute!", "Breast or bottle?" etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. It was as if Santa's break, now approaching 30 minutes, had never occurred. We were all a bunch of merry makers! Christmas cheer abounded!

Within a few hours we were within eyesight of that red-suited bastard! And I must say, he was magnificent. I found myself envying anyone around me that was under 4' tall. Why, I wanted to sit on Santa's lap.

It was time. We ushered the girls (we have two of them) up to Santa. And that, my dearest reader, is when all hell broke loose.

Our 18 month-old had already sized Santa up as a threat. Within three feet of the throne she began what can only be described as banshee-like screaming. I hesitated to put her on St. Nick's lap. Our older daughter, nearly four, sat gingerly upon Santa's knee and, screaming sister be damned, went on to tell Santa that she desired all things dinosaur related.
I sat the screaming meme onto his lap and I hesitated... then Santa said, in his great wisdom, " Step away Mom".

Here it is:

Merry Christmas! Yeah, that’s right, I said it!
I love Christmas time. I do. I enjoy everything about it. Eating. Decorating. Eating. Driving about and looking at lights. Eating. You get the idea. It seems, though, that people have, in some degrees, lost a little of the Christmas spirit over the years. It certainly doesn’t help that Christmas time is knee-capped by people, organizations, and companies who would prefer you keep your seasonal wishes, if expressing them at all, to "Happy Holidays". But that is another blog altogether!
I say we work a little harder at being kind this year; especially during the most difficult and stressing times. When you are stuck in traffic, let some cars out! Maybe they will do the same for another poor shopper who was desperate enough to venture into the fray. Bake some cookies and give them to your neighbors (okay, just to the neighbors you like). Rekindle some of your old Christmas pastimes - like sprinkling reindeer food on the front lawn this Christmas Eve. I am sure that you can think of a hundred other niceties in which to engage and recapture the Spirit of the Season.
Merry Christmas to each and every one.

The Hostess With The Mostess

I was reading another blog recently and was so relieved to see that I am not the only person on the planet who has been subjected to the anti-guest treatment. Now I am not talking about being treated poorly when you crash a party. Or about that time you got blathered and pulled your blouse up at the baby shower. These both being fine examples of times when a host/hostess has every right to be annoyed with a guest.

The type of treatment of which I speak is the snubbing by the host or hostess at a get-together. This can take two forms: subtle or frontal assault.

Subtle is the usual. This tends to be the most popular technique as it is least likely to provoke a confrontation. This is where said host/hostess (from here out I will simply use hostess) ignores you, and only you, at the function to which you were invited. A function that she invited you to attend.

The frontal assault is the most cruel as it leaves no doubt in the receiver’s mind as to their place in the hostess’ caste system. A clever anti-hostess will even recruit a fiend or two into her evil machinations. This way they can slither, as a repugnant duo/trio, into one of several predesignated gossip spots, clearly within your eyesight, and cast menacing ‘get-the-f*#@-out’ looks in your direction. This is, dear readers, quite effective.

The party pariah (this is you) can do one of three things:
1) cling to the hors d'oeuvres table in the hopes of at least getting a meal out of it
2) become surly and poisonous - turning the evening into a primer for a really nasty blow- out
3) ‘get-the-f*#@- out’

Of course, the more skilled party pariah will do a combo: eat until you are ill, accost as many of the party-goers as possible, and then ‘get-the-f*#@-out’. This is not, however, for the passive-aggressive among you. You may want to stick with numbers 1 and/or 2.
So, combos aside, what can be done to eradicate this most egregious display of etiquette? Perhaps the hostess didn't realize that being an evil whore is a party faux pas. My suggestion is to mail the hostess a book on party etiquette with a little note saying, ‘you are obviously deficient in the hostessing department and are, at this time, unfit to host anything larger than the opening of an envelope, hope this helps’.

Please, dearest readers, supply some much needed commentary as to how you would handle such a situation.