Zip, snap, click, snap, zip

That’s the sound I heard holding three items in a ten-item checkout line. But what followed was anything but express. 

It was the sound a purse makes in the hands of the woman at the front of my line. I’ve come to recognize it as the well-choreographed mating dance that must be performed before the transaction can be consummated.

There are hours of my life that I will never get back as the result of these one-woman performances.  One time, I was once able to celebrate my birthday, Easter and the anniversary of Elivs’ death before the performance came to a merciful close.

The Greatest Show on Earth

In this particular performance, the curtain opens with the phenom unbuckling the front flap of her purse after first calling attention to the attached photo keychain that featured her three children—ages 5, 8 and 12, which she shared with the clerk.

Watching the two customers in the checkout next to me complete their transactions, the second movement of her dance began. Unzipping one of the compartments inside, she titillated us by revealing the “secret” place where several units of exchange were stored. As an added treat, the hiding place was a combination of zips and snaps—this woman was a professional.

While mentally shuffling back the rest of my day’s schedule, I braced myself to take in this woman’s real artistry—selecting just the right dance partner to pay for the purchase. As a seasoned viewer of shopping theatre-macabre, I knew she had three choices:

• Paper- If purchasing with paper, she’ll reach past the hand sanitizer and undereye cream to pull out a color-coordinated billfold. After undoing its own snap and zipper, she’d dig deep into one of its folds to pull out the needed dollar bill while rearranging the remaining bills into ascending denomination.
• Coin - Luckily most purchases require coinage to complete the transaction. That allows the performer to integrate the spoken word into the ritual. Usually, it’s a variation of, “Wait a minute, I think I have some change.” That allows her to search for the coin purse after having first pulled out discarded gum wrappers. Here’s where the classic metal clasp can punctuate a performance with its distinctive click. First count the correct change mentally and repeat the chorus by then counting it aloud for the clerk, one coin at a time holding us audience members in catatonic suspense.
• Plastic - Paying with plastic offers another choice. Past yet another zipper to the “they’ll never look in here” compartment, she’ll reach for the animal-print credit card folio. For added security, this one requires a full gainer to open the special zipper that spans three of its four sides, as she rotates the folio around to open each side. For dramatic effect, the woman will fan each card out as she selects the right one then put the rest back in their place.

I was in luck. This performer started with paper and then pirouetted into the coin routine—to make it easier for the clerk. She gave her all. Unfortunately for those of us behind her, it was the gift that kept giving and giving and giving. I contemplated breaking out the shaving cream in my basket to address my five o’clock shadow, growing more prominent with each hour that passed.

And For My Final Number

As the clerk from the neighboring checkout line came back from her lunch break, our performer’s finale began—replaying the entire ritual in reverse order. She rezipped the billfold, clicked shut the coin purse and resnapped the card folio. She returned each to its rightful compartment, one at a time like members of a ballet troupe rushing into the wings.

That left her alone on stage illuminated with a single spotlight while she executed a paux-de-deux with the clerk about what else she has planned for the day.

Then spoke her final line as a stage whisper, “Well, I guess I should let you wait on your other customers.” With that, she closed the flap on her purse like a curtain coming down on another tour-de-force. Exit stage right.

I left the theatre, I mean the store, emotionally drained and intellectually bereft. I could always go to the doctor another day. I’m sure my fever will break soon anyway.

Prologue

My advice to my fellow consumers the next time you hear “zip, snap, click, snap, zip” in the express line, turn off all cellular equipment and take note of where the emergency exits are located. The show’s about to begin and you’re going to need to find one, quick.

When "Love" Isn’t Enough

My Mom was the kind of person who never sent a greeting card without first underlining the words in it that she wanted to emphasize.

As far back as I can remember, my birthday cards, graduation cards, Valentine ’s Day cards, May Day cards, Easter cards, first-day-of-school cards (okay, Mom sent a lot of cards), came with these little rhinestoned words that bejeweled her greeting.

It might be words like “special,”  “thank you,” “means so much,” or “favorite” (but so were my seven other siblings).  In one first-day-of-summer card, she underlined the words, “you are my fairy princess.” While it went with the glittery Cinderella on the cover, I wondered if my preppy-pink polo phase had maybe run its course. Turns out she put the wrong card in the envelope. But to this day, I still get a warm feeling whenever I try on a new shoe.

Over the years, I learned that her punctuated words weren’t random but part of an elaborate set of rules. For example, the word, “love” required at least two underlines.  The same applied to the “X” in “XOXO.” As she got older, the convention was updated to triple underlines. 

Not to be confined by just the underline, her stylebook also included other punctuation. The recipient’s name must always appear in quotes at the beginning of the inside copy. The exclamation point is permissible (frankly mandatory) after the last sentence. Emoticons should never appear in the margins—“Why would you ruin such a nice reading,” she’d remark.

It wasn’t as though this was the only way I knew how she felt. I was lucky enough to hear her say it too. Underlines were just her special way of emphasizing what I knew already. Like how after she’d squeeze three times before letting go of your hand after the Sign of Peace at mass. I knew I was special.

These days I feel a little deflated when I get a card without any underlines. So I’m carrying on the tradition. Every time I do, I hear her voice between each quotation mark, feel her three-squeeze handhold in the exclamation mark and see her smile with each underscore.

And I’m happy to announce that the tradition will not die with me either. My son has adopted the wearin’ of the underline in his own cards too. He recognizes particularly heartfelt prepositions like “for,” “with,” or “of.”

He’s so “special.”

Out in the Margins

I'm tired of being marginalized by youth.

The generation that spawned the Movement, the Pill and the Betty Ford Clinic has suddenly been left blown' in the wind. Sure, our Boomer credo was "never trust anyone over 30." But that's been updated to "50 is the new 30." We're still down with it, right?

So when did the Pepsi Generation become the Pepcid Geriatrics? And when did Gen Xers become General A-to-Z, clearing bandwidth for yet another trophy on the Cloud of life?

The Xer point of view has become the gold standard by which all is evaluated. All others are auto-corrected to conform. Everything else is deemed "old school." Need an example?  Check out this car commercial.

Unearned Entitlement
It is this fruit of Boomer loins that makes me feel like I've taken the brown acid. At the heart of this bad trip is some Xers' sense of entitlement. In the workplace, that means revamping the dress code, charting their own work/play schedule and setting corporate strategy, all in the first week with a company.

It's not entitlement that brings on my flashbacks. Each of us has the right to make a mark. It's unearned entitlement that makes me want to stage a sit-in. To be earned, entitlement needs to be informed with life experience.

It's not about creating the next greatest app but about the people who use it and how it connects with the rest of their world (and the rest of the company). Steve Jobs (an old Boomer himself), understood that. It wasn't his litany of i-prefixed inventions that entitled his fame. His life experience taught him about how people connect and from that he created new ways to for people to communicate.

Don't have a body of life experience yet? Tap into those who do. Us older farts are raising our hands. We're out there just beyond the Star Wars action figures on your desk.  All we are saying is, "give experience a chance."

Resetting the Margins
But marginalization takes two parties--someone who marginalizes and someone who accepts that state. Perhaps us Boomers have dropped out when we need to tune-in again.  Challenge this new establishment with an "old" way of thinking.

My Greatest-Generation Mother used to tell me, "Wait until you get my age and you'll find out it's not so funny." Her life experience smacks me up the side of the head now.

As a generation, we've always redefined each age we become. We've changed what it means to be a citizen, a partner, a parent, an environmentalist, and now our role as an elder statesman. Surely we too can groove to this new movement (and not just the bowel kind) .

The Great Gray Way

I'm making a list of leading Broadway roles I intend to play when I'm confined to a nursing home.

It's the perfect set-up. Just clear some space in the dining hall, dim the fluorescent lights and turn down the Musak. Then wheel them all in and line 'em up.

I'm thinking the performance should start about 20 minutes after meds. Nothing like getting them liquored up with a little Prozac & Malox cocktail before showtime.

I'll start with the musical theatre, always a mainstream favorite. Norita, the retired music teacher, can provide piano accompaniment. The piano's likely out of tune so it won't matter if I am too.

Probably launch the season with the role of Harold Hill in the Music Man. The extravaganza would include a rousing finale --
26 Trombones (not sure if I can get them to do the full 76). Imagine a parade of walkers and wheelchairs, right here in Rehab City.

Next, I'll launch my full tour de force as the Emcee in Cabaret (the crotch-grabbing Alan Cummings version, not the Joel Grey one). That would be followed by Che in Evita. Don't cry for me you ungrateful sons and daughters. Momma's on the marquee.

Then, when I have them hooked, I'll branch out into more dramatic roles. I'm thinking of doing a male version of Wit but with prostate cancer instead.

I'd close the season with one of the classics that will showcase my full range, Taming of the Catheter. I don't think the Bard would object to a little adaptation, "Tush! tush! Fear orderlies with unlubricated tips."

Still working on the concept but one thing's for sure -- there won't be a dry seat in the place.

The Divine Calling Plan

I was listening to a FOX reporter interview a man who supported his position by fervently quoting Jesus as his source. This might be okay if the topic was life in the Garden of Gethsemane but this was about the recent Kim Kardashian split up.

It made me wonder how does this guy get such direct access to contemporary divine knowledge. Christ, that must be some kind of mobile calling plan! I suspect it’s the kind of plan whose price varies based on your history of virtuous deeds.

Your Plan Options

• The Mother Theresa Plan - Those with a monastic pedigree could apply for the Mother Theresa plan. There’s no charge for those saved-to-saved calls. You earn bonus minutes for evangelical calls to nonbelievers. And it’s part of the 4G (a.k.a. “4 God”) network.
• The Charlie Sheen Plan - Those with a slightly less sterling record might opt for the Charlie Sheen plan. Sure, it’s little pricier but presumably you’ll get your money’s worth. Go over on your minutes? No problem, all is forgiven. And there’s a special app included for late night bootie call interventions (available soon for android phones).
• Coming Soon! - In development is a personal Wi-Fi feature. It allows up to twelve other people to virtually join hands on screen. Imagine, your very own mobile chapel where you can dish divine insider's tips. It comes with a credit card reader to help you pass the plate. That shining cathedral on the hill ain’t gonna build itself you know.

The Fine Print.  Of course, premium rates would apply for Sunday access. After all, he’s working on that day. Frankly, I’d opt out of that add-on. You can get free service at any retail outlet – just attend a local worship service. (Note, there’s a free-will offering, but it’s not mandatory. Just act like you’re digging for change and shrug your shoulders as the basket goes by as if to say, “I must have left my spare change in my other pants. I’ll getcha next time.”).

Create Your Own Plan

While this aberration might put you on the fast track for sainthood, Sprint just isn’t offering this plan, nor is any other carrier. Although rumor has it that Steve Jobs might be working on an app now. InaneTechieDribble@blogspot.com reports that it provides your very own Cloud to chat on-demand with the heavenly server (and it will link to your Facebook account, duh).

So where does one go to for wireless celestial guidance in today’s world?

For me, it’s a hands-free device that occupies the space between my ears. It’s that divine invention that we’re supposed to use to figure it out -- your mind (as in, make up your own).

If you like, listen to people religious and people agnostic. Make a Gideon feel good and use it for more than fixing a wobbly bed leg. Dig out your scouting uniform and help an old lady across the street. Get the idea? You decide what God wants you to do, not somebody else.

In the end, it all comes down to faith. I just prefer to apply a little reason to mine. They won't fool me again with that potato chip that looks like the Virgin Mary.

My Mother’s Arms

My mother’s arms grabbed her suitcase fresh from the Cedar Rapids class of 1941.

Her cheerleader’s uniform left behind

along with days crooning Glow Worm in the chorus,

she set off to seek her fame and fortune in Columbus, Nebraska.

It is there where my mother’s arms clocked in at J. C. Penny Company

where she worked in ladies’ foundations, as she started building her own.

At one warm Fourth of July social,

my mother’s arms held a young man close, as they danced the night away.

She would continue that dance for the next 67 years.

My mother’s arms held eight babies tight,

and one more that was gone too soon.

Each grandbaby and great-grandbaby that followed were cocooned in her embrace.

As a full-time parent, my mother’s arms also worked the factory line inspecting syringe needles.

Later they gathered up other children as she started her own in-house daycare—one of the first licensed in Platte County.