Second Half

You know you’re in Chez Fancy Pants when you ask your server for a glass of water and he asks if “still” is OK. I figured he meant “tap water.” I’ve been drinking Hetch Hetchy water for 10 years and am none the worse for wear, so I nodded my consent.

Besides, I was afraid to ask for “moving” water. It would just betray my ignorance of fizzy, sparkling, fruity water, which is just Hetch Hetchy dressed up to go out.

We were at Foreign Cinema, that cool place in the Mission that shows artsy-fartsy films against the back wall to distract the diners form the fact that every oyster they swallow is another $2 on their MasterCard. 

The occasion was a celebration of the fact that my son Jason just became a grown-up: he signed a 30-year mortgage on a new condo a few blocks from Foreign Cinema and light years away from Plainfield, Indiana, where he grew up.

In Plainfield, when you order an appetizer, you are brought a plate of cheese and crackers by a young Caucasian person who is saving up for a new pickup truck.

At Foreign Cinema, all the servers appear to be either art students, actors, or philosophy students. They do not suffer fools gladly.

So, when I found unfamiliar items on the menu, I knew better than to ask. For your enlightenment, I offer the following definitions. (If you did not have to spend your formative years in the Midwest, it’s possible you know all the terms listed herein. If so, go ahead and feel superior. Fix yourself a little snack of heirloom crudites while the rest of us learn something.)

Fancy Foods Defined

Haricot vert: green beans

mache: corn salad

gremolata: condiment made of parsley, garlic and lemon peel

Manchego: Spanish cheese made of sheep’s milk

Gypsy Peppers & Crazy Carrots: vegetables that have hung out too long in the Haight

Opal Basil: I’m stumped on this one. Anyone? Anyone?

I ordered something with a French name that I was pretty sure was a ham and cheese sandwich. Keeper ordered a Dungeness Crab frittata, which we knew was an egg dish. 

When our orders arrived with another artfully chilled liter of still water, we were relieved to see we had guessed right and this time Chez Frou Frou had failed to stump the diners.

Then, in his own inimitable way, Keeper turned the tables and baffled the waiter.

Cutting into his scrambled eggs, he looked up at the hovering server and said, “I’ll have some wheat toast, please. Thanks.” 

The art student looked like he had been slapped with a filet of Northern halibut garnished with chanterelles.

“We don’t usually do that,” he stuttered, as if Keeper had asked him to dance naked on the table while juggling knives.

“I’ll see what we can do,” he added, scurrying off to consult with the chef.

Keeper was undaunted. “If you serve scrambled eggs, you’ve got to serve toast,” he said, not without a certain logic.

Eventually the server reappeared, proudly brandishing a slice of Italian bread that bore the distinctive stripes of a panini iron. 

Apparently, the kitchen at Foreign Cinema, while well-equipped with lemon zesters, shrimp deveiners, and mango pitters, does not have a toaster.

Lets face it. Just like children, pets can be the joy of our lives and the bane of our existence at the same time. To put it nicely, they don’t always act appropriately.

To Corky the French Bulldog, a human is somebody to jump on and lick, regardless of whether he’s sporting a tool belt, carrying a pizza box, or wearing a ski mask. Anyone who comes to the door is fair game. 

During our home renovations, it’s been a challenge to keep Corky safe, happy, and out of the contractors’ way.

When the construction crew arrives in the morning, Corky thinks, “Party time!” For me, the start of the work day means it’s time to secure the animals.

Mr. Bobo the Wonder Cat is not a problem. For weeks now, he has been confined during the day to our bedroom, where his food, water, and litter box keep him happy. After all, when you sleep all day, almost any warm place will do. If he gets restless, I open the door and toss in a dryer softener sheet, and he rolls all over it in ecstasy until it’s time for another nap.

Corky is something else again. She’s a bottomless pit of need. I’ve tried keeping her in my home office while I work, but she scratches at the door. We play tug-of-war, find-the-bone, and scratch-my-belly all day long, but she still cries about missing the good time that’s going on just outside the door. 

Finally, I had to get some work done. I put her in her crate, where I thought she could safely enjoy the action. The theory was that, like my son Jason who could amuse himself in the playpen while I cooked dinner or cleaned the house, Corky would contentedly chew on her bone and enjoy the hubbub going on around her.

She just barked louder.

Then I had a brainstorm. 

When Jason was four and his brother Tom was a baby, I decided to put him in pre-school (or “nursery school” as we called it then) so I could get something done. I dropped him off every morning, took Tom home, put him down for a nap and did the first of my three daily loads of laundry. If I was lucky, I had time to throw something in the crockpot before it was time to pick Jason up at noon.

A good solution for a harried Mom, you might say. But it took me months to get over my guilt. I thought I was a bad mother for wanting to get rid of my child for a few hours a day. As it turned out, Jason loved school. His teacher told me he was polite, played well with others, and was showing a talent for music.

I suddenly remembered this when I was at my wit’s end with Corky, and I promptly enrolled her in Doggie Day Care. I took her in at 8 a.m., where she greeted the staff with licks. I signed her up for group play and a snack and promised to be back at 6 p.m.

I walked out feeling slightly guilty but euphoric. I was free! Free to do my work uninterrupted! Free to come and go as I pleased! Free to spend quality time with Mr. Bobo!

When we picked her up that evening, Corky was glad to see us (but as we know, she’s rather indiscriminate with her affection). Her caregivers handed us a report card. It said she made lots of friends, took care of business, and napped like a champ. Under notes, they had written, “I just couldn’t get enough attention!”

No kidding.

The economic news is so bad that we might as well wallow in it.  The latest report from the Department of Commerce is as compelling a read as the Tax Code.  It uses expressions like “coefficients of variation” that make me have flashbacks to the algebra class I took in college because a cute guy in the registration line was signing up for it.  It was the beginning of my lifelong fear of numbers and cute guys.

Fortunately, the cleverly titled “Advance Monthly Sales for Retail Trade and Food and Food Services” has pictures that even those of us with Fear of Finance can understand.  

Take the bar chart of the decline in economic indicators, for example.  All the bars are below the line, making the chart look like a cross-section of the coal mines in West Virginia.  Like the miners, the economy may not see daylight for months, or even years.

Get this:  October auto sales were down 23.4 percent from the same period last year.  Clearly, when people are afraid of losing their jobs, they do not buy a new car.  On the other hand, it’s a great time to do some maintenance on your old one, and I’m not just saying that because my son is an auto mechanic.  Seriously, go get your brakes adjusted or something.  The boy needs to eat.

Americans are also not buying furniture.  Sales are down 13.5 percent and it is not a happy time at Furniture World.  I’m doing my part.  Thanks to my purchase of a new dining room table and chairs so that I can host Thanksgiving dinner, the numbers should spike in November.  

There is one bright spot.  It seems that Americans are actually spending MORE at one place: the grocery store.  Sales at food stores were up 4.8 percent in October, compared to this time last year.   

Analysts have done an exhaustive study of the causes of this phenomenon and have issued the following statement:  “Hey, people still gotta eat.”

Yes, Americans are finally using those fancy kitchen appliances they bought in better days.  They’re discovering that their restaurant-quality stoves and sub-zero refrigerators are good for more than impressing the neighbors.  They actually are handy in the preparation of meals, which heretofore were obtained by sitting at a table and having someone take their order, cook it, and bring it to them.  And yes, dishwashing is possible at home as well.

During our own kitchen renovation, we were forced to eat out for every meal, which soon prompted stupid arguments about whose turn it was to pick the restaurant.  

“It’s YOUR turn.”

“No, you have to pick tonight!”

It became such a burden that we cut back to one meal a day.

Now that I have access to my spiffy new galley kitchen, I’m a cooking fool.  So, I’m not surprised that more people are opting for preparing their meals at home.  Not only is it more economical, the choices are simpler:  Hungry Man or Lean Cuisine?

There’s a new man in my life. Juan is handy around the house, he cleans up after himself, and if he inconveniences me, he apologizes. He has spent the last three weeks with me and that is just fine with Keeper. In fact, when he comes home from work, Keeper asks, “What’s new with Juan?”

I met Juan through friends. My friend Zelda heard about him through our former co-worker Chris. Chris is a former police officer, former government administrator, and current real estate expert, and if he passed Chris’ muster, Zelda knew Juan was someone she needed to know. Juan spent a month with Zelda, and then she passed him along to me.

Every morning I leap out of bed, hit the shower, and get dressed before 8:30, the hour when Juan is to arrive. I am breathless with anticipation. What will Juan do today to make my life better?

Two weeks ago, Juan remodeled my kitchen. This week, he’s putting down hardwood floors and installing a granite countertop in the bathroom. 

Juan treats my house as if it’s his own. His brothers join him here and they play a Spanish radio station quietly in the background while they do my bidding. They are here for one reason: to make my house beautiful and to make me happy.

Yes, Juan is my contractor, although he is now more like one of the family. Juan and I share a love of beautiful materials, a need for tidiness, and a streak of perfectionism.

As I write this, Juan is ripping out a floorboard because he accidentally dented it while moving the refrigerator. The damage is not major, but it no longer looks perfect and that’s not good enough for Juan. He is meticulous and takes a truly justified pride in his work.

If you have never hired a contractor, you might be saying to yourself, “So, the guy does good work and shows up on time. What’s the big deal?”

Here’s the big deal: he works in a business that has a bad reputation. Nearly everyone who has had remodeling work done has a nightmare story to tell, of crews not showing up, shoddy workmanship, and trash left behind at the end of the job. Endless delays and cost overruns seem to be common themes.

I won’t say that my home improvements haven’t taken longer and cost more than I anticipated. The reason is because once I saw what Juan could do, I found more and more things that needed to be done. I haven’t found any project that he can’t do, and do perfectly. Oh, did I mention that his prices are reasonable?

Eventually, I will run out of money and will have to let him go, to make another homeowner happy. I will miss him.

After last week’s bad customer service story about the refrigerator that was “installed” without being actually hooked up, I felt compelled to tell you a story with a happy ending. 

And here it is. For once, I am a completely satisfied customer.

Sometimes I think if another stranger says to me, “Have a nice day!” I’ll have a meltdown. The expression of this wish is so automatic as to be meaningless. And so is the required response: “You, too!” This exchange marks the end of every casual conversation, every retail transaction, virtually every encounter with another human being. Here’s an example:

“Ma’am, I clocked you going 17 miles over the speed limit.”

“Aren’t there some drug dealers you should be arresting, officer?”

“Here’s your ticket, Ma’am. Have a nice day.”

“You, too.”

Just because the phrase is ubiquitous and rolls off the tongue without thinking doesn’t mean that people DON’T want me to have a good day. It’s just that a “one size fits all” phrase is so impersonal.

Maybe being impersonal is the point. After all, it is almost impossible to have a meaningful conversation with the cashier at the drugstore. Saying something pleasant and benign keeps the line moving.

It also avoids the danger of overstepping boundaries. At my last job, the cashier in the basement cafeteria was a native of a country where personal information is freely shared. She asked me where I bought my purse and how much I paid for it. She asked me where my children live and if I have grandchildren. One day, she looked me over and frowned. “I no like that blouse. The color make you look ill.” At that point, I would have welcomed a “Have a nice day!” and so would the customers waiting in line behind me while I endured an unwanted fashion critique.

I’ve always thought of manners as the grease on the wheels of society–they keep things running smoothly. 

If you prefer, manners are the stitches in the fabric of society–they keep it from falling apart. 

Whatever the metaphor, manners are important, and the “have a nice day” people should be applauded for their efforts to keep our society greased and/or stitched. I just wish they’d mix it up once in awhile.

Being a word person, I’ve always searched for alternatives to the standard phrasing. For instance, I never said goodbye to my kids at the door with a “Be careful.” It was always “Don’t be careless.” In other words - don’t do anything stupid. This flipped-over version always made more sense to me as a warning to teenage boys. I like to think that it prevented at least one daredevil act or negligent mishap.

Similarly, there are alternatives to the “nice day” phrase. There’s nothing wrong with wishing someone an above-average day. Two of my personal favorites are “Have a perfectly adequate day” and “I hope you have a decent day.”

Try one of these alternatives and notice the looks you get. People are so used to the “nice day” slogan that they don’t even hear it anymore. Or, like me, they are secretly irritated by it and will be delighted by the change.

If you are not only irritated but incensed by being wished a nice day, you might want to mark Wednesday, Nov. 19 on your calendar. It’s “Have a Bad Day” Day. Feel free to use this phrase judiciously. Just don’t be careless.

OK, people. We did it. We elected a president with a first-class intellect, a record of working for the little guy, and the temperament to face crises with the mature judgement that has been sadly lacking in Washington in recent years. As a bonus, he happens to be African-American, and it’s about time that barrier fell.

As we watched Wolf Blitzer declare Barack Obama the President-Elect, Keeper and I sat in silence, as did the CNN panelists who just moments before had been conducting a giddy gabfest.

It was only a few seconds before Keeper began to crow, “I told you so!” and the pundits began speculating about what the Obama presidency will look like.

But in that few moments of stunned silence, I began to cry. I cried for my country, for the mess it has become. I cried for my fellow Americans, people of color, who never thought they’d see this day. I cried for sheer joy that the long national nightmare was over.

Much has been made of the fact that for the last however many years, Americans have voted for the guy they’d like to have as a drinking buddy. Sure, George W. has that frat-boy kind of bonhomie, but I think we’ve learned that you don’t give the guy with the lampshade on his head the keys to the country and let him drive off.

Now, I certainly wouldn’t kick Obama off my barstool. In the widely distributed footage of him speaking at a charity function two weeks before the election, he revealed a sense of humor that would enliven any Happy Hour.

But the truth is, I don’t need a President to pal around with. I need a President who is applying himself to the problems we face as a country. Somebody who paid attention in college. Somebody’s who’s smarter than I am. Someone who won’t embarrass us.

I think we’ve got our man.

However, as Obama himself joked at that charity roast, he is not the Messiah. Read carefully what he said that night: “Contrary to the rumors that you’ve heard, I was not born in a manger. I was actually born on Krypton and sent here by my father, Jor-El, to save the planet Earth.”

Did you get that? He’s not the Messiah, he’s just Superman.

There is no shortage of challenges ahead for our next President. His first one will be to manage the expectations people have that he can snap his fingers and reverse our situation. After all, our entanglement in the Middle East is as old as our thirst for oil. Our financial crisis has been years in the making. And even Superman can’t stop global warming in four years.

When my tears dried on election night, I said a quick prayer for President-Elect Obama. 

May he truly be the leader we need–not Superman, but someone who can inspire us to work together to re-build our country; may he find the strength to resist the special interests that have seduced many a leader before him; may he somehow find family time to just be “Daddy.”

And please, God, don’t let the kids in the schoolyard, er, the press corps, make fun of his ears and call him “B.O.” It’s time to bring a little dignity back to the White House.