Money talks but we don't always listen

Published May 5, 2008

It was late afternoon on the beach, and I was hungry.
"Let's go for a walk and find something to eat," I said to my husband.
He came willingly, so I guess he was hungry, too.
We walked and walked and walked. Lots of condos and hotels but no restaurants.
We finally spotted a place where we could sit out on a deck.
We found an empty table with an umbrella and sat down.
A waitress came over.
"It's two-for-one happy hour," she said.
The sun, the beach and two-for-ones. Life doesn't get much better.
A couple of salads, blackened grouper sandwiches and two-for-ones later, we sat looking out at the water and batting away pesky sand flies.
"I hope we have enough money," my husband said casually. "How much do you think it's going to be?"
Hmmm. Probably something we should have thought about before we upgraded our potato chips to French fries - or maybe even before we ordered our two-for-ones.
"I don't know ... $30 maybe.'
With that, I thrust my hand into my beach bag and he stuck his hand into the pocket of his swimming trunks.
Together we had $36.
"That should be enough," I said.
"I don't know ..." my husband said just before the waitress put the faux-leather folder containing the bill on the table.
He opened it up.
"$41.80."
I stuck my hand back into the beach bag and swirled it around on the bottom.
A camera, a book and some suntan lotion. No more money.
"I'll walk back to our hotel and get my debit card. I'm tired of these flies anyway," I told my husband as I reached down to swat at one biting my leg.
It took me awhile - it was quite a way down the beach - but I brought back the card.
Another problem solved. We paid the bill and left.
Our sons weren't with us that day, but the story would not have surprised them. They grew up with parents who have a clueless disregard for money - and the lack thereof.
My boys know all too well about people who don't have money.
The test will be whether they can deal with people who do.
My younger son's girlfriend comes from a very wealthy family, something that hasn't been a problem - until the other day when he got into an argument with her father.
They were together because her father had come to help her pack her stuff and haul it home from college for the summer.
Things were going well between the three of them for most of the day, my son said. And then it got ugly.
"He treated me like dirt," my son said.
Then he related the profane and condescending things the father had said to him. They had been drinking, so the words were no doubt fueled by alcohol, something I tried to tell my son.
"He's probably just used to getting his way. You're taking it personally, but it's probably the way he treats everyone."
"I tried to apologize, and he wouldn't even shake my hand," my son said.
I didn't know what to say. I guess there's no way to teach our kids about the people they'll encounter when they grow up. Shoot, forget about potty-training, this is the tough parenting stuff.
We'll just have to wait and see if my son and his girlfriend get through this.
I suspect they will, because up until now most of the things my son has told me about her father have been positive.
Or maybe they were just about him being positively rich.

The sexes and the scales of injustice

Published April 21, 2008

"I'm just calling to remind you of your appointment tomorrow."
I regularly get that phone reminder from three places: My hairdresser, my doctor and my dentist.
I don't mind getting those calls from the hairdresser. They just give me a chance to look forward to a couple hours of pampering and girl-talk. The only stressful thing about hair appointments is worrying whether I have enough money in my account to cover the cost of them.
Oh, but that same reminder message from the doctor's or dentist's office ... gulp! Panic and dread.
I guess everyone dreads the dentist, and that's unfortunate because, think about it, when is the last time your dentist hurt you? Actually, if anything, it's the other way around. You hurt, and he makes it stop hurting. But it's just the sound of that drill and all that poking and prodding that goes on. Not quite the same as looking forward to getting your hair shampooed or your toenails painted.
And then there is the appointment reminder from the doctor's office, the call that trumps the others as the King of Dread - and the one I got last week.
Why is it so scary to go to the doctor?
Because the doctor does something that neither the dentist nor the hairdresser does. He weighs me. Well, he doesn't weigh me; his capable assistant does. But those numbers she sees on the scale are recorded in my file and the file is handed over to the doctor.
And then he opens up the file and looks at it - and it's time to face the music.
On the rare occasion those numbers from the scale are smaller than the ones she handed him the last time I was in his office, life is good. He's proud of me and he tells me so. I feel as if I just told my dad I got all A's in school.
But, oh brother, if those numbers got bigger, I feel as a dog must feel when he gets caught ripping up the garbage.
Sometimes when the doctor's receptionist calls to remind me of my appointment, I ask her if I can reschedule it for next week, the thought being that I will eat like a bird and exercise like a horse until then.
Of course, I never do that, but who lets past behavior influence renewed resolve? Not me.
In the midst of all this irrational getting-weighed-at-the-doctor dread, I read about a study that was done by researchers at the University of North Carolina.
It seems that some women are so self-conscious about their weight that they put off really important doctor business like cancer screenings. It seems not all doctors tuck their scales away in a corner as mine does. Some are in high-traffic areas and the women are ashamed.
The study also found that some of these obese women are afraid that the hospital gown they are given to put on will be too small.
Men don't act like that. They weigh what they weigh - good, bad or indifferent.
A co-worker participating in the newspaper's version of "The Biggest Loser" was actually going around the newsroom looking for heavy objects to put in his pockets before the initial weigh-in.
He didn't care what the scale said. He just wanted to weigh-in heavy so that the next time he was asked to step on the scale - pockets empty - it would look as if he lost weight.
And he probably would have gotten away with it, too.
If only he would have filled his pockets with teeny little iron pellets instead of big old office staplers.

Homework not the only thing dogs eat

Published April 14, 2008

"I'll be a little late coming to work," a co-worker told me when she called one recent afternoon.
"My dog ate an ant trap, and I don't want to leave him alone," she explained.
"Your dog ate an ant trap?" I asked, a little alarmed.
"Yeah, he seems to be all right, but you wouldn't believe what I had to go through.
"I wanted to make him eat salt so he would throw up - but I couldn't catch him," she said.
She finally got him, but only after enlisting the aid of her 4-year-old daughter.
Dogs.
It seems some of them will eat anything, no matter how pampered and well-fed they are.
According to what I've read, this eating of non-food items can be either a medical or a behavioral problem. I guess that means you should take your dog to the vet to make sure there isn't a reason he feels the need to eat socks or rocks - or ant traps. If there isn't, you just have yourself a bad dog.
A friend of mine once had to rush her dog to the 24-hour (very expensive) animal emergency room in the middle of the night because her dog was having seizures. Thinking he may have been poisoned, the vet pumped his stomach only to find it full of Styrofoam packing "peanuts."
No, the dog wasn't being mailed anywhere, but I have a feeling my friend fantasized about it once she got over worrying that he was going to die.
The bearded collie we once had ate the light bulbs out of a bunch of those electric candlesticks that we had put in our windows at Christmas time. He must have gone from window to window like Wee Willie Winkie when we weren't looking.
That was the last Christmas we had candles in our windows.
Sophie, our late and beloved Old English sheepdog, had such a sweet tooth that she didn't let things like wrappers or plastic Easter grass stand in the way when she could smell chocolate.
One Halloween, my husband went to grab the bowl of candy bars off the coffee table for the trick-or-treaters at the door but found it was empty. Sophie had eaten them all.
Unfortunately, we forgot that had happened the following Easter when the bunny left a basket full of chocolates on the floor. Sophie licked it clean, Easter grass and all.
So, anyway, back to the ingestion of the ant trap. As my co-worker talked to me, I typed "dog ate ant trap" into the Google search. I read about a lot of dogs that had eaten ant traps and lived to shed another day.
Actually, it looked as if dogs could eat just about anything without it killing them.
I found stories of dogs that had eaten underwear (that seems to be a favorite) and shoes of all kinds, especially flip-flops. They ate stones and loofah sponges, ropes and string, chains and knives. I was surprised to find that my dog wasn't the only one to eat light bulbs. In fact, they seem to be a popular non-food item among dogs.
My co-worker's husband finally got home to spell her on poison watch, and she came to work.
"Well?" I asked her.
"Oh, he's fine. The vet said the trap was so old it probably wasn't even poisonous anymore," she said.
I guess she should be thankful he's not one of the "gourmet" hounds I read about.
Those dogs wouldn't look twice at an ant trap. They only eat expensive things like iPods or Uggs boots, or even whole couches.
Kind of makes me glad I have a cat.
He won't eat anything.

Hey, Silda, stand up -- for YOURSELF

Published March 17, 2008

While Silda Spitzer was standing by that dog of a husband of hers – the New York governor who only likes sex he has to pay a lot of money for – I, too, was standing by my man in New York.
Standing by him in line for an airplane.
Standing by him in line for a train.
Standing by him in line for a shuttle bus.
Standing by him in line for a cab.
Yes, we just happened to be in New York City the week all hell was breaking loose for the state’s governor.
And, to tell you the truth, I could not get enough of the “Luv Guv” story.
It was better than fiction. Who could make this up? Who could be that stupid? Who so deserved to be toppled – by his very own fantasies-come-true, no less?
By all accounts – and I read each and every one of them in all the New York papers – Eliot Spitzer was an insufferable human being -- an arrogant, self-righteous jerk.
And somehow the story became to me more than just one about a governor (that most of us had never even heard of) gone bad.
It was as if Eliot Spitzer came to represent all those arrogant, self-righteous jerks who never will topple no matter how much they deserve it or how hard we wish it to happen.
And that’s what makes the story so intriguing.
Anyway, back to being in New York with my man who, by the way, was not nearly as fascinated by the slimy governor as I was.
It was his birthday last week and I thought it would be fun to take him to dinner and a show in New York to celebrate.
On Skybus, the airline of $10 fares -- $36 round trip with taxes.
Great deal, right?
Absolutely – if you don’t mind a few minor inconveniences -- such as flying into “less congested” (their words) “out in the middle of nowhere” (my words) airports.
In other words, to get to New York City, we had to drive to Columbus, the airline’s only Ohio stop, and fly to Stewart International in New Windsor, N.Y. From there, we took a shuttle bus to the train station and boarded the Metro North for an hour-and-20-minute ride into Grand Central Station. A short cab ride later, we were at our hotel.
We just chilled, had some lunch and got dressed for dinner and the theater -- to which we walked side-by-side, hand-in-hand.
Which brings me back to Silda and her man. Today is the day Spitzer’s resignation takes effect and I can only hope that if he makes a public speech, she is not standing next to him again like some lobotomized lover.
Look, Silda, just because you watched Suzanne Craig and Dina Matos McGreevey stand by their unfaithful husbands does not mean you have to do it, too.
I mean if he was just a regular criminal who killed someone or stole from someone, maybe I can see why your love for him would make you want to show your solidarity with him.
But, for heaven’s sake, girl, he’s a sleazebag and what he did is humiliating to you.
Can’t you see that?
If you are truly looking for a man to stand next to, I suggest you find one who likes the same Broadway shows as you do.
Then you go and park yourself next to him as the two of you wait in line to get into the theater.
And that, poor misguided Silda, is the way a real woman stands by her man.

Snow days: No school, lots of fun

Published March 10, 2008

When it was blowing and blustery last week, I had a fleeting urge to grab a sled and head over to the hill on the golf course.
But the thought passed as quickly as it came and I grabbed an afghan - well, now it's called a "fleece throw" - and snuggled up on the sofa.
As I watched the snow get deeper and deeper against the sliding glass door that leads to the patio, I was thinking about "snow days" and how much kids look forward to them.
I don't remember a lot about the snow days my boys - and my teacher husband - had when they were little. I wasn't there. I didn't get a snow day. Somebody has to put out that paper. No snow days for us journalists.
But I do remember my favorite snow day activity when I was a kid myself.
Ice skating.
We would get all bundled up and my mom would take me and a friend - and sometimes my sister - to the skating pond at Oakwood Park on Grove Avenue in South Lorain.
And drop us off and drive away.
Drive away? Yep, that was something moms could actually do back then - before stranger-danger. Mothers and fathers didn't have to hang around all the time to make sure we didn't get kidnapped or murdered. We got to be on our own sometimes.
As my mother drove away from the park, I would wave, feeling delighted and abandoned at the same time.
Then we would trudge over to the big shanty next to the pond where all the kids went to put on and take off our skates - and, more importantly, to warm up.
We sat down on one of the benches that lined the building's perimeter and pulled off our boots. There was a fire pit in the middle of the building, so I guess there must have been an adult around in some supervisory capacity - or at least to make sure the shanty didn't burn to the ground - although I don't remember ever seeing one.
You had to kind of hold your breath while you were in the shanty - or breathe out of your mouth. The place smelled awful. I always thought it smelled like Limburger cheese even though I had never smelled Limburger cheese. But, if I had, I was sure it would smell like the inside of that shanty.
The room was so warm that you were sweating by the time you got your skates on.
That's what that smell was. It wasn't Limburger cheese at all. It was sweaty, smelly kids bundled up in lots of wet, woolen winter-wear.
When we couldn't stand the smell a second longer, we'd walk across the wooden floor in our skates and go outside and onto the ice.
We'd skate around and around until we got cold, and then we'd go in the shanty to warm up. And that's what we did over and over again all day long.
I never made any new friends at the skating pond for although I wasn't afraid of strange adults, I was plenty afraid of strange kids who might be mean and make fun of us or call us names.
So my friend and my sister and I would just keep to ourselves, skating and thawing and skating again.
And then at some point, we'd spot my mother's car coming to pick us up.
And suddenly, after having been fine all day, we were cold and hungry. Our ankles hurt and our fingers were frozen. She had gotten there just in time.
Isn't that just like a mom?

Have noodle, will travel in swim class

Published March 3, 2008

I wrapped a towel around me and went into the pool area.
It was my first day at "deep water aerobics" class.
I wasn't sure what the class involved, but I do like bobbing around in the deep end of a pool and - in my never-ending quest for a type of exercise I might like - I thought I'd give it a shot.
"Is this the deep water class?" I asked a woman on the edge of the pool who was giving exercise instructions to people standing waist-deep in water.
"It starts in 10 minutes," she said smiling, "down there." She pointed to the other end of the pool, the deep end.
So I walked down to where my class would be. There were two women already in the water.
I hung my towel on a peg along the wall and lowered myself down the ladder into the water.
I floated over to an open spot and watched as the rest of the class - one by one - got in the water.
Most of the people were wearing flotation belts. Hmmm. I don't need one of those belts, I thought. Or do I?
Then I saw a woman with a "noodle," one of those skinny, brightly-colored foam tubes that can miraculously keep any size human being afloat.
The teacher, who had finished with her shallow water class, came to join us. She stood on the edge of the pool, bent over toward me, gave me that big smile, and asked, "Do you need a belt?"
"Maybe I'll just take a noodle," I said to her.
She got me a noodle and class began.
"OK, let's walk," she said as she began power-walking in place, swinging her arms in tune to her steps.
Everyone in the pool started doing this movement - marching in place, staying in their own little spot.
Me? I was off like a shot. I marched to the front of the pool and when I hit the wall, I turned around and marched the other way. No matter how hard I tried to stay still, I couldn't.
I tried not to bump into anyone as I raced from one side of the pool to the other.
"Maybe it would be better if you would straddle the noodle instead of keeping it around your waist," the teacher said to me as I whizzed past her on one of my trips around the pool.
As I repositioned my noodle, the teacher and her assistant began handing out sets of foam barbells to the class for the next set of exercises.
We were told to move these barbells around in a circular, bike-pedaling motion with our arms as we exercised our legs water-walking.
In other words, I had just been handed another means of propulsion.
Now, with my arms helping my legs move, I was flying around that pool. I went from front to back and side to side and corner to corner, all the while smiling and apologizing to each of my classmates as I zipped in front of them.
"That's OK," they would yell as I whooshed by, "you'll get the hang of it."
An hour and about a dozen laps around the pool later, the class was over. We all walked down to the shallow end and climbed out.
"Hope to see you again," the teacher said to me as I was leaving.
"I'll be back," I told her.
The way I had it figured was that I had two days before the next class - two days to practice standing still.
Now, that's an exercise I like.

Patti Ewald is managing editor of The Chronicle. You can reach her at pewald@chroniclet.com

Yeah, the dog's crazy but he's hers

Published Feb. 25, 2008

I'm afraid my friend's dog is going to kill her.
I don't mean bite-and-maul kill her.
I mean drive-her-crazy, deprive-her-of-sleep kill her.
He's a Jack Russell terrier, and although he's 12 years old, he's spry as a pup.
When we go over to visit, the dog greets us as we walk through the back door. He barks, spins around in a circle, barks again and then takes off for the living room, presumably to let my friend know she has company - as if she hasn't figured it out yet.
The drill is always the same. As we walk into the living room, my friend walks toward the door and puts the barking dog on a leash outside.
She shuts the door and invites us to sit down.
But before we hit the sofa cushions, the dog starts barking again. My friend gets up and lets him back inside.
He's almost as excited to see us this time as he was when we first walked through the door. He races around, jumping up on each lap to (try to) lick our faces.
My friend sits down on the floor, picks up a chew toy and calls the dog. He comes running over and she heaves the toy toward the kitchen. The dog chases it.
He brings it back to her.
You would think this would be a distraction, but my friend carries on a conversation as if there wasn't even a dog in the room let alone this one.
"Know how many times this dog got me up last night?" she asks as she heaves the chew toy down the hallway toward the kitchen.
"Four. Four times," she says, not waiting for us to answer.
"He won't let me sleep. He whines until I get up and let him out and then as soon as I get back in bed, he starts barking to come back in," she says as she heaves the toy again.
"Tomorrow he's going out in the back when I go to work. It's not supposed to be so cold," she says as she lets the chew toy fly again.
She sometimes leaves the dog in the fenced backyard, where he has a dog house, hoping he will spend the day running around like a lunatic and tire himself out so he will sleep at night - and then she can, too.
Sometimes it works.
When it does, he only gets her up twice in the night instead of four times.
The University of Minnesota recently did a study and found that a person who owns a cat is 40 percent less likely to die of a stroke or heart attack than a person who owns a dog or has no pet at all.
I consider telling that to my friend whose dog is going to give her a stroke - never mind not prevent one.
But first I have to figure out how to do that. She really does love that dog - despite everything. And I don't want her to think I don't like him. He really is sweet - when he's sleeping.
"Know how long these dogs live?" she asks, breaking my train of thought.
She pulls the toy back and forth to get it out of the dog's mouth.
"Seventeen years," she says as the dog lets go so unexpectedly that she has to catch herself to keep from falling backwards.
"That means I have five more years of this," she says as she whips the toy toward the kitchen like a knife-thrower.
"Then," she says, "I'm going to get a cat."