Booting up....

Into each life some snow [so I'm paraphrasing, give me a break,] must fall. And if it does, you should be wearing boots, I think. So, with that in mind, last week I went to buy myself some new boots.

I am, if you didn't realize, a very delicate hot-house flower of a girl. I need tender loving care, and I wilt easily. Well, my feet do, anyway. In short, I have the world's most sensitive feet. The Princess who got black and blue from the pea? She has nothing on me. If I have a speck of lint under my foot, I will be sore for weeks. Thus, the proper fit is paramount in my shoe shopping expeditions.

I bought myself a pair of Bear Paw boots some years back. They are amazing boots - lined in sheepskin, warm and cozy suede exterior, just the right amount of chic, but still practical. Unfortunately, they are so comfort filled and attractive that my even more attractive adolescent swiped them out from under me, and now I no longer have the booted options available to me that I once did.

Thus, I headed off to procure another pair for myself, in a size that would make it uncomfortable for any other resident of my household to permanently borrow them.

I spied the coveted item at the store called Wild Pair, a trendy little boutique in my local mall. They are not inexpensive boots, but I will spare no expense to be certain that my tender feet walk unmolested by faulty footwear.

I should just say that I have never been to Wild Pair before. That is not a name that really shouts out to me that I belong there, seeing as how I could never be confused for something that belongs in a zoo. However, they had, in a bold display, the very boots I desired right in front of the door, and they drew me in like a rebel Starship caught in a tractor beam.

I tried on the perfect pair, excited to contemplate my newly booted appendages, and with great haste wrote my check and high tailed it out of there. I sped home to waterproof the sueded surfaces, so that I would be able to don them in the snow soon to arrive. The spray requires a substantial dry time, so I was going to be prepared for the upcoming onslaught.

I awaited the dawn with the kind of anticipation usually reserved for Santa related holidays. [I am trying to be seasonal here, otherwise I would obviously have mentioned my birthday.] I rushed to the kitchen to slide my feet into the cushy cloud that I knew would envelope my feet, and sat back to admire.

But no. It can't be. A flaw in the ointment. Or the boot top, really. I looked closer, well, really my neck briefly resembled a trombone slide as I maneuvered my eyes into the perfect range to take in the outrage now presenting itself to me, and saw that indeed, the eyes were not deceiving me. There was a slice, as from an errant knife, right across the top of the new boot.

I was desolate.

I attempted to rally from the blow, arguing with myself that I could live with it, it wasn't really a big deal, it wouldn't be a problem, REALLY. Then I took a step. The whole thing suddenly separated, like an earthquake in miniature, and there was a now a gaping gash across the top of my new boot.

I immediately called the store, girded for battle, anticipating an argument, expecting to have to defend myself from accusations of inappropriate knife usage at the very least. But no. The manager kindly said, "Bring them right in, and we'll get you a new pair immediately." Well, that certainly did take the edge off the anger, I must say.

I headed on up to the mall again, not a small trek, but since gas is back down out of the stratosphere, I can just barely afford to drive around again. I parked, I walked in with my box, I entered the door of the store, and they were... gone. I stood there looking at the display boot, thinking that it was a size smaller, but that's my small foot, and maybe I could make it work - when suddenly, here was the clerk. She apologized for taking so much time. Her boss was on the phone, and in this economy, if I had to choose between my boss and my customer, I'd pick the boss, too. So I told her no problem, showed her the boot, and she was rather surprised.

But she said, let me get you a new pair. So we got the new pair out of the box, checked them over carefully, you can be sure, and I even got a 25% discount. Which I promptly spent on a new waterproofing spray which is so high tech it only needs 30 minutes to dry.

I raced home, sprayed and sprayed again, and I was all excited to pull on my new boots and break them in. Snow was still on the ground, it was still icy cold outside, I had not missed prime boot wearing weather after all, and all was well in my world.

Except, of course, it's me. So naturally, there was a problem. When I pulled on my new boots the next morning, and I stood admiring their pristine loveliness, I suddenly realized that my foot hurt. It was a soft hurt, sort of an annoyance more than actual pain, and I told myself that I was dreaming. I was just having sympathy pains for the poor boot that would now never have a foot to hold. It couldn't possibly be that I would get another defective boot.

I barrelled forth into my day, wearing my boots, but becoming increasingly tense with each step, as I gradually lost all ability to deny, even to myself, that there was a problem with my new boot. Finally, I broke down and pulled off the boot, to find a toe so raw it was aching, and the nerves were jangling all the way up my leg. I knew it was not going to be a joyful moment, but shoved my hand down to the bottom, where the toe meets the top, and sure enough, there was the problem.

The lining of the brand new boot was bunched up and folded over, creating a riffle in the bottom of my shoe that was roughly equivalent to the Great Wall of China. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

I sighed. I said rats. I said uff da, the strongest epithet I can muster under stress. I got out the receipt and called the store, again, certain that this time they would have no more to do with me. I was going to be labeled a chronic whiner, and they would shut the gate and refuse me entrance.

But no. They said, bring it back in. Well, first the manager said, "Are you sure it isn't the toe box?" Well, ya, I'm pretty sure, since the lining is bunched up and folded over in one boot, creating a wall the size of the Great Wall.

So off I head to the mall once again, miserable that I will now have to emerge from the warm cocoon of my home into the cold, shod only in boots with holes in them. This is what I get for trying to be prepared, I was whining miserably to myself, as I drove my truck up to the mall once again, resentment etching a furrow into my brow. (Well, not really. I just wanted to use the word etch, and this seemed like a good time.) Mostly, I was just bummed to be making the drive for the third time in three days, which is more than I have been to the mall in the past three months. Or year. Or two.

I arrive at Wild Pair, expecting to at least have to explain myself, or to face a gauntlet of tough questions about what I did to their boot to make it defective, but no. Once again, they could not have been nicer to me. Honestly, its rather hard to be a curmudgeon when people are nice to you.

She felt the ridge, gave her opinion that it was certainly not going to be acceptable to have a boot with that kind of flaw, and went and got me a new box, apologizing for my inconvenience. In gratitude, I bought another item, this time boot cleaner for the long lost pair that seem to have shown up rather surprisingly often on the feet of one of my nearest and dearest, but a little worse for the wear.

Rest assured, I looked these boots over outside and IN, and just to be sure, I also wore them for about ten minutes in the store. When I had declared myself fully satisfied, I happily left with new boots in hand, a fully satisfied customer.

I recommend Wild Pair highly to anyone who wants to shop in a store that stands behind what they sell. I am impressed, to say the least, that they accepted my complaints without an excuse, simply exchanged them as requested, and even gave me a discount for my troubles. There are not many places where you can get that kind of customer service any more, and if it's important to you, then Wild Pair is your kind of place.

I brought my new boots home, sprayed them, waited overnight, and with slightly deflated expectations, pulled them onto my waiting extremities the following morning, wondering what might go wrong next. But no. I was once again surprised, this time to find that nothing at all was wrong. All is well in my booted world, and I am fully satisfied and walking on a cloud even now.

Leave it to me to find the two pair of defective boots that Bear Paw has ever made. Wild Pair has never had a pair returned before, they told me in amusement. I guess they just haven't dealt with a princess quite like me.

Decorating madness....

There is a time honored tradition amongst those who celebrate the holiday of Christmas, [as opposed to the "Winter Holiday" observed by popular culture these days.] The house is torn apart, and every single item on display is replaced with something red, green and festive, exhausting the women of the family before the holiday itself even arrives. This is an undertaking of hours and days and weeks duration, involving billions of dollars collectively, requiring ridiculous amounts of hard work, only to take it all apart again in just a few short weeks, reversing the work so recently accomplished.

I wonder if men have even a small idea of the exhaustion experienced by the women of the household as they prepare for the greatest show on earth. Apologies to Barnum and Bailey, but the circus has nothing on the three ring spectacular known as the Christmas holiday season, written and directed by women of the family, and merchants, everywhere.

From Thanksgiving to Christmas, it's a non-stop whirlwind of decorating, shopping, baking and twinkling lights, and the entire production is generally written, directed, produced and acted out by the legions of women running the family show the world over, with dads playing a minor supporting role. (Ah, those twinkling lights. Which, I am happy to report, are, in fact, still twinkling, at least in my case. I wish you luck with yours.)

I suppose that could be construed as a sexist remark, but in all honesty, who does the Christmas preparation in your household? When you think of your growing up years, who do you associate with all the sights and sounds of Christmas in your house? That's what I thought.

In my household, there is no "Father" figure any more. Actually, if you asked any of us, we would have to acknowledge that there never was, but that's another story. I do all the preparation work by default, just as I always have. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, it has always been my arena, and now that I am broke and have no time, it is more challenging than ever. Santa Claus, where are you? I don't want my two front teeth for Christmas, I want more hours in the day. Or perhaps two extra hands. And if you wanted to pad my bank account, I wouldn't object to that, either.

Not to digress, but my lovely teen aged daughter has a fetish for outside lights on houses. And I do mean ON the houses. It is not enough for her to throw some strings of lights on the bushes and call it a [cold] day. She would prefer to have the Griswald's come to life in our own household, and to light up the neighborhood with the results of our hard effort. To make a long story short, that isn't going to happen. Ever.

I have patiently explained to her many times that while women can, indeed, do anything they set their minds to, putting up lights on the house is a "dad" job. I don't want to discourage her from thinking that she can do anything interesting that she wants to do in her own life, I just want her to understand that if you want lights on your house, you need to marry wisely. A lesson I really wish I had learned earlier rather than later, so hopefully she will benefit by my abysmal example.

I am not sexist, you understand, I am parentist. I believe there are certain roles for which one parent or the other is simply better suited by nature. Lights on a house falls under the father category, as does trimming the tree trunk before sticking it into the stand. (Since we are short one father, we simply use the circular saw, which is cheaper and more efficient than my ex, Mr. Handy, and the crow bar and hand saw routine he used to employ.)

One of the sweetest things my daughter has ever said to me is that she wishes for me that someday I would have a man in my life that would put lights on my house. It was a wistful statement, and held a lot more than the simple words on their surface, of course. I knew exactly what she meant, and it makes me melt even now, just to think about it.

You may well be wondering what falls under the mother category. In the case of Christmas, the answer would be pretty much everything else. Which brings me to yesterday.

I spent all day, when I would rather have been writing on my blog, [obviously, keeping in touch with the many fans family wide who read my meanderings assiduously,] redecorating my living room to bring the festive nature of the season to the heart of our little abode. I worked my fingers to the bone, went up and down the ladder, and up and down the stairs, approximately 5,000 times, in order to make the house seasonal and celebratory.

I decorated the family room first to make it fun for the onslaught of teens rapidly heading in my direction. I strung the garland, hung the paper snowflakes, cleared and dusted and redecorated the entire room, making it a veritable festivity central. Which must have been appreciated, since they were here until the wee hours, long after Santa would have gotten bored and gone home, leaving stockings unfilled, if it were Christmas Eve.

Then I moved on the living room. More hauling, more climbing, more decorating. You never really know how much stuff you have until you start pulling it all out to decorate for Christmas. I recall when I was little looking into the boxes that came down from the cold upstairs, filled with the treasures of Christmas. It was always so exciting to see them appear, you knew good things were in store sooner rather than later. But there would still be things in the bottom of the box, and I couldn't understand why my mother didn't put up every last thing she owned.

Now that I have grown up, I find that I, too, leave things in the bottom of the box. There are simply too many things to put them all out. I have lighting and other things that there is just no place for any more, but I can't bear to discard it, either. So instead, I hang on to it, just in case the day arrives when it will once again be appropriate in my home. I am learning from my mother, it seems, to the detriment of my basement space.

Thus I find myself this morning, sitting in my newly redecorated space, happily enjoying the beauty of the surroundings, and feeling more festive just to look around. I put another number on my advent calendar, bringing me one day closer to the magical day of Christmas. I am reminded, through the nativity sets that I have set up in the middle of my room, what the real reason for the season is, whose advent we are celebrating. I see a few small gifts under the tree, offerings of love to my family to let them know that I care about them, and cherish their joy more than anything.

And I realize, once again, that I am lucky to be the mom, the purveyor of the family dreams and traditions, the one around whom the outward, secular celebration of Christmas, at least in my household, swirls. My family's joy and fun and happiness in this season are augmented by the hours of work and effort that I put into it, and that is my reward. Parentist though it may be, my children will never be without the memories of my hard work and extra efforts, even when I am long gone. Sometimes it is good to be the mom.

Most times, really. Except at 2:30 in the morning when some goofy boy shows up unannounced to throw wood chips at the window of your teenaged daughter, like some love struck Cyrano de Bergerac on a hormone high. That is a dad thing to handle, and since we are one short, I have to fill in, and it's not my deal AT ALL. But anyway....

Like most women, when I sit back on Christmas Day and think about how everything went for us this year, I can feel the satisfaction of a holiday season well done. The cards got written and mailed, the baking will get done [thanks, Mom,] the decorations were put up, the tree was acquired, the stockings were filled, the gifts which betoken our love for one another were duly appreciated, pictures will have been snapped, and at the bottom of it all, the hard work will have been worth it, because the people I love most will have had one more Christmas to add to their storehouse of memories.

Ho! Ho! Cold!

Yesterday, when I left home at 8 a.m., the sky was overcast, but it wasn't that cold out, and I didn't give a second thought to what the day might bring. I worked inside all morning, and by the time I emerged from my igloo of jello boxes and Ramen noodles, my particular area that I was managing during my duties as a volunteer for the Johnson County Christmas Bureau, the snow had fallen, the ice had formed an unseen layer on the roadways, and I was at serious risk driving around the rest of the day.

Although this wasn't the first snow of the season, it was the first real snowfall of this winter. The first time it snowed was on a weekend, and no one was out, nor was it more than a thin layer atop the grass. There was no need to emerge from the safety of our warm and cozy homes, so the damage was limited and short term, since it melted almost immediately.

This time, the snow fell harder, longer, and colder, and it has not only stayed, it has accumulated, the real measure of whether it is officially winter, a least in my mind. I woke up this morning to blue sky, the sun is now shining, and the snow is glistening and shimmering like crystals tossed carelessly on a jeweler's countertop.

Having grown up in Minnesota, I lived there for the first 27 years of my life, I am very familiar with the white gift from the sky. I am aware that some people really love the snow, and consider it to be a real thrill to see it drifting to earth from on high. I have never been a fan. If I could, I would return it for sand and beach.

So it was a disconcerting moment for me to emerge from the cool safety of the Christmas distribution into the cold, snowy reality. First things first, cleaning off the truck. Problem there. No coat. No gloves. No brush. Ugh.

I swept aside my aggravation along with the snow, and opened my door. Naturally, the seat was inundated with a shower of snow, which stuck in the fibers of the seat, with the inevitable outcome that entails. [Meaning, if I had a tail, it would have been wet by the time I next emerged from the truck.]

But eventually, I was situated and on my way. Next problem. My rear wheel drive truck sliding into the street unbidden and undriven. Or at least not intentionally driven that way. That was how I learned about the ice under the snowy crust on the surface of the road.

Fortunately, no accident for me, no cars were coming at that moment, which is far more luck than skill, I can assure you. Eventually, I arrived back at my home, and I remained snuggled inside my warm and cozy abode for the remainder of the bleak and snowy day.

I was reminded, watching the flakes meandering lazily from the sky, that there was a time when snow signified a magical opportunity to run outside and mess up the pristine surface, to shuffle and run and make the snow fly up like my own personal blizzard.

There was a time when the falling flakes triggered a desire to pull out the sled or the cross country skis [stop snickering, I used to be pretty fair at it,] and shoosh and slide my way through the crisp winter wonderland that suddenly transformed the familiar boring landscape into something new and almost mysterious.

There is little of the mystery and thrill remaining for me any more. I am a sun worshipper, someone who sees the snow as the enemy to be defeated and overcome. Snow, these days, is an obstacle for the most part, to be hurdled and then disregarded.

But for a brief moment last night, as I glanced out the window while closing the blinds, and saw my twinkling lights shimmering and sparkling under the new white coats on each little bulb, [remarkably, they are still working, for now,] I felt that unbidden thrill of possibility that the first real snow of the year always incites in the child hidden within. For that second in time, I felt the cold on my nose, recalled the crisp air and the wet mittens and the snow pants and boots and the feel of the sled underneath me flying down the little hill behind my house, and tasted the tantalizing possiblities once again that makes childhood so magical.

I am suddenly inspired to finish my work day early, and get the house prepared for Santa to come calling. Ho, ho, ho! Some hot chocolate is in order, I think. Marshmallows, anyone?

No parties in prison

I simply could not be more gobsmacked tonight, considering the case of Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich. In case you have been under a rock today, Blagojevich is the currently under indictment nitwit who was apparently caught on tape, no less, selling a senate seat to the highest bidder, which in the end, threatened to be himself.

I am not usually one to be surprised by anything a politician does. I have been known to opine that they are all corrupt, that they are all in it for themselves, and that I don't trust any of them. So you would think I would take this in stride as a matter of course, a confirmation that, in fact, my cynicsm is justified.

However, I have surprised myself this time. Apparently, hidden somewhere deep inside, I harbor some latent hope that the people who want to lead this country are better than I think they are. Who knew? But it must be so, because tonight I find myself struggling to wrap my mind around this episode and, quite simply, failing. Utterly.

One can only shake the head and ask, WHAT on EARTH could he have been thinking? The nature of the indictment against him is so sweeping, so devastating, one is left to wonder if the man was delusional, or just simply that arrogant? Quite possibly both.

The level of stupidity involved in this situation is simply dumbfounding. There is no way to make sense of someone who had such blatant disrespect for the law, who was so lacking in understanding of the rules of public and private conduct, and who so clearly believed, deep down inside himself, that the law did not apply to him, that he was willing to openly do something that was self-evidently, and explicitly illegal, and he thought it wouldn't matter a bit. He IS, after all, the governor. Surely the rules are different for him.

We have seen plenty of famous people tripped up by stupidity - actors (Ryan O'Neal,) politicians (Eliot Spitzer,) athletes, (OJ Simpson.) There are legions of stupid people out there doing stupid things, and getting caught. What IS it with powerful people that seems to make them think they are immune from the rules of civilized conduct that the rest of us must observe?

However, the stupidity of this particular situation is beyond my ability to make sense of it. It is so idiotic, it makes you think there has to be more to the story than meets the eye, just because it is so totally absurd, it couldn't possibly be what it seems. And yet, no other explanation for what I heard he said on tape comes to mind.

In our local daily paper, which allows online comments, the trolls are out in full force, commenting and painting all Liberals, their code word for enemy, as the scourge of the earth. It's not unexpected, but disheartening, none the less.

Because this is not a party crime. This was not something sanctioned by anyone, except the Governor himself, and it certainly isn't any more reflective of the party voters than any other criminal that was elected to any higher office is reflective of their party. There are enough examples on both sides of the aisle to fill the plate without expending energy on throwing poisoned arrows at your imaginary foes. Frankly, who needs enemies, when our own elected officials, the very people leading us, are so blatantly and brazenly against us.

I do not agree with George Bush often, as my nearest and dearest will certainly be happy to confirm. But his old line, "Either you are with us, or you are against us," could not be more true than in this case. If you are betraying the trust of your elected office by putting up for sale to the most advantageous bidder an elected office in our federal government, or any government, for that matter, in my opinion, that is treason, and should be treated accordingly.

In the case of corrupt politicians, they are stealing democracy from us all. I am an equal opportunity disdainer. Oh for dumb. That's all I have to say.

Disposable society

We live in what most people will acknowledge is a disposable society these days. We think nothing of throwing anything away, no matter what it is. A two year old computer is now obsolete, so out it goes to the landfill. Batteries don't work? Into the trash. All of our televisions will soon be unable to cope with HDTV signals coming in without help, and I am certain we will see an onslaught of them trucked into landfills across the country.

At this rate, we will soon have added another layer to the earth's crust. Geologists will call it Plasticus Fillitup, and future generations will no doubt marvel at how a layer of plastic could have formed just under the surface of the earth. It will probably be a whole new discipline of study.

Our culture has engaged in this disposable embrace for some time, of course. Ask about having any electronic item you own repaired, and you will find out pretty quickly just how little opportunity there is to reuse nowadays. Even pets are considered just a temporary commitment by too many people - here today, inconvenient tomorrow, so out they go to fend for themselves, or off to a shelter and good luck and goodbye.

We have now seen extremes of this throwaway attitude with the recent dropping off of teenagers in Nebraska, where parents at wit's end came from all over the country to dump their children on the state to deal with, because they simply don't know what else to do, as if the kid is an unwanted pet or an old refrigerator. What does that say about us as a society, if we place so little value on anything, that everything is on the throwaway list, including our children?

You are no doubt wondering what got me started on this jag. Well, it is the annual ritual of putting up the Christmas lighting display outdoors, which sets me off every year. This year was no different. What IS it with twinkle light manufacturers that makes them think you should be willing to buy 15 sets of new lights every single year? Because that is the quality with which they appear to be made.

It is infuriating to spend money every single year replacing light strings that you bought just 12 short months ago, and which do not make it through even one season, it seems, without half or more of the strand simply dying on the vine, literally. I realize they have a fiduciary duty to their stockholders to make money, but isn't there at least some responsibility to their customers, too, to produce a product that lives longer than an average house fly?

I was armed for battle this year, ready to revolt the poor quality lighting situation by boycotting the entire exercise, when I was stopped in my tracks by a daughter bent on having cheerful lights to greet her at the door when she arrives home from work. There is only so much pressure a person can take, and that just wasn't worth it.

So off I went to the nether regions of my house to find the recalcitrant lights, and see what could be done. Which was, in brief, not much. Shortly thereafter, my annual pilgrimage to Walmart commenced, following the star, or at least the twinkle lights, to once again festivize the exterior of my home for other people to enjoy.

Thus it was that AS I was putting up yet another new string of lights, pulled from the packaging moments beforehand, the blues and greens went out on me. I was not a happy consumer, standing out there in the cold, throwing the string around like a lariat come to life, trying to show that recalcitrant strand who was boss. I eventually got them going again, [for now, anyway,] but I have no illusions about their longevity, after the initial outage incident.

There is a larger issue here for me. I believe that we are stewards of the earth, and that God has left us to our own devices with rather strict instructions that we were to have dominion over the whole of the globe. [Although I notice there is no mention of dominating the universe, something which gives me pause.] With dominion comes responsibility, and I think we have fallen down on the job rather spectacularly.

I recently viewed a program about archaeologists excitedly excavating an ancient site. My own personal reservations about disrupting the eternal resting places of the dearly departed aside, it is pretty interesting stuff, because you can find out a lot about people from excavating their living spaces a few centuries into the future. Not surprisingly, the thing they were most excited about was the finding of the ancient equivalent of a landfill, because it held a mine of information about the culture that threw those objects away.

I wonder what a 31 century archaeologist would think about our culture, based on what is in our landfills. They will give a wealth of information, I have no doubt, because they are full of the plastic and metal articles that will be the gifts that keep on giving for hundreds or even thousands of years. But what will that information say about us as people? As stewards of the earth? Or even of our own civilization?

I shudder to imagine their reaction on finding what we have casually thrown away, still there a thousand years from now. I wonder how many CD's there will be, how many CRT monitors, stoves, refrigerators, televisions.... The list is long, and growing daily.

And while we think that we have fully documented our lives and our civilization, and everything will always be known about us and our culture, it is illusion. The reality is that it can all be wiped out in one catastrophic incident, and the archaeologists of the future may know only what they find. I don't know about you, but I don't think some broken appliances and millions of strings of twinkle lights are going to say much that is worth knowing about us.

The whole throwaway attitude rather ironically reminds me of my mom, who, having been raised as a depression child, has the motto, "Never throw anything away. You just never know when you will need it." She saves everything, and her house is a treasure trove of stuff that you might need some day. My mother was a green thinker long before it was the trendy thing to do. She has reused, and reworked, and redone things as a way of life, her entire life, and she knows how to make things last.

She has fixed things that other people wouldn't even think about saving, like her bread maker, which has gone on years longer than it's expected, or projected, life span. She doesn't believe in buying something new when you can make do with the old. She puts function ahead of form on a regular basis. [Except for me. I am totally form, completely dysfunctional most of the time, and she puts up with me anyway.]

I am genuinely wondering if the current recession will change the long held habits of the buying public, which has never seen a sale it can't exploit. The roots of this recession run deep through the fabric of our society, I believe, and go to the heart of how American companies have done business over the last 25 years or so.

The short term benefits have consistently trumped the long term viability of almost every company in business today. That is a way of thinking that consumers seem to have embraced with enthusiasm, since there is no demand for products that last, but rather, a rush to the stores to buy new with such zeal that we will literally trample the person in front of us to get the latest gadget or trinket. Even if it costs someone else their life for us to do so.

This is a method of doing business that cannot, in the long haul, be sustained. Companies today are bought and sold on the basis of what you did for me today, rather than what the long term prospects may be. Even profitable is not good enough any more for the rampant investment from overseas, and American companies are consistently dismantled for under-performing, even as they post positive profits.

So, in getting back to the tale of the twinkle lights that set off this little rant, I had two strings of lights on which I simply refused to give up, mom-style. [She probably has strings of lights she is using that are older than I am, and if she can persevere, so can I. She is my role model, after all. I would say she is my idol, but she is a Minnesota Lutheran, and wouldn't be comfortable with that kind of fuss.] Both strings were new last year, and are the expensive kind with the controls that will allow you to have them do a variety different lighting schemes. In my view, there is no excuse for strings of lights that won't work for two consecutive years, and I was going to make them work, whatever it took. Thus, I spent all day Sunday pulling the little lights out, replacing, testing, until in the end, partial success.

One string of those lights is currently on my bushes outside, twinkling merrily on high, at least for today. The other string has been relocated to an undisclosed location, the details of which are a deeply guarded secret. We won't talk about those right now. Suffice it to say, they have not seen the last of me. I have my moral victory, and justice will be served.