Keep Your Tundra!

by Thomas M. Pender

Being raised in Michigan, and having lived in the Chicago suburbs for a few years before dropping down to the Deep South, I remember winter.  Real winter!  I’m now in the midst of my 13th “Southern winter,” and I have to admit, I still love being out of the snow.  I’m surrounded by folks who, born and raised in the South, covet snow.  They get all giddy when there is a 0.3% chance of snow, and they salivate whenever they see snowmen in TV commercials.  But I have been there, and I don’t wish to return.

Not only is it tougher to drive in the North in the winter, but you have to deal with shoveling pathways and driveways, re-shoveling driveways when the snowplows come through ten minutes after you’ve gotten out of your driveway-shoveling gear, and my old arch-nemesis: static electricity.

This isn’t the cute static electricity, where you rub a balloon against your hair and it sticks to the wall.  Oh, no!  This is the nerve-wracking static electricity, where each and every time you reach for a light switch, you receive a tiny preview of the electric chair.  At some point every late fall-into-early winter, Yankees are reminded of this winter hazard when the simple act of turning on or off a light jolts the tender pads of their fingertips, and gets them hopping and cursing.  For the remainder of the winter, our Northern friends either accept and make peace with the shocks, or they must go to extremes to avoid them.  Some may carry novels throughout the house, and touch their light switches with only the books’ spines.  Personally, I would turn lights on and off with the back of my hand, or the knuckles, where the shock is much lighter.  On occasion, I would simply swat the switch with my fingertips to eject the electricity, then flick it up or down normally.  In any case, it’s a headache which requires forethought and tactics to avoid.

Then there is the dryness.  When the outside world is white and snowy, and your house is heated to your comfort level, everything and everyone inside it gets dry.  Your skin cracks (and if not moisturized, bleeds), your nostrils become barren wastelands where the simplest blowing into Kleenex is a tiny blood-letting, and your lips join in the crack-and-bleed parade unless another moisturizer is purchased.

Wearers of eyeglasses know what happens whenever you step from the cold to the warm, too.  You fog up.  As a member of this club for over twenty years, here was an additional mini-migraine to the day.

Roads ice over.  Power goes out.  Slip-and-fall hazards become a daily occurrence.  And what happens when the spring is rumored to be around the corner?  Slush.  My birthday is in mid-March, but while the lion is morphing into the lamb, it is not a pretty sight.  Ice-edged snow patches join slush, slop and mud on the roads and driveways.  Every car is a moving mess of road salt, mud and ice, unless the driver chooses to expend even more winter cash on car washes.  Not until the birds are heard and the grass is at least a hint of green does the world become attractive or pleasant again.

What gets me wondering are the people who live in such places by choice.  I still have many friends up in that climate, dressing in layers and getting into intersection bumper-thumpers.  I don’t get it.  What I really don’t get is the ultimate insanity: ice fishing.  Imagine putting on numerous layers of clothing, plodding out into the wind chill and snow to walk out on a frozen lake, sit in an uninsulated tin shack, drink cold beer for the love of God, and stare at a hole in the ice waiting for nibbles.  These must be some severely unhappy husbands to go to such extremes to escape warm houses and experience such ridiculous conditions!

I stick with my annual mantra, repeated whenever I hear a Southerner moan for flurries:  “Yes.  Snow is beautiful.  That’s why God made postcards.  You can look at it, you can marvel at it, but you don’t have to shovel it and you don’t have to drive in it.”  In fact, the great thing about living on the Dixon side of the line is that you can visit snow!  If you really and truly hanker to make a snow angel, you can pack up the kids, drive straight north until you see snow banks, stop the car, get out, roll around in it, throw it, take pictures of your snowy happiness, get back in the car, and drive home.  This is the ultimate winter in my book.  “Woohoo, snowball!” . . . click . . . “Okay, kids, let’s go home. “  All the joy, none of the hassle.

I love you, Northern friends.  I just don’t understand you.

Ten Rules For Making A Good First Impression

by Thomas M. Pender

10)          One should always speak clearly and never mumble . . . unless you’re in the South, where mumbling is practically a requirement

9)            One should always place a napkin in one’s lap before dining.  This rule, however, may be waived if there is a giant talking rodent, dozens of jangling games that spit out tickets, and a hundred screaming kids about the establishment.

8)            One should never vomit on anyone with the potential to become one’s boss or spouse

7)            One should always say “Please pass the condom” as the situation (ahem) “arises”

6)            One should never attempt to spit one’s watermelon seeds or olive pits into one’s date’s cleavage for two points

5)            One should never address a police officer who has pulled one over as “Sir Sphincter, Duke of All Doughnuts”

4)            One should always be on time to pick up a date.  It may also behoove one to bring along a novel, as one on time will most likely be waiting an average of 45 minutes for one’s date to be ready.

3)            One should never scratch one’s personal areas during job interviews

2)            One should always politely ask a new neighbor to keep his pet out of one’s yard at least three times before making said pet “disappear”

and

1)            One should never attempt the “popcorn box trick” on a first date to the cinema without first . . . oh, hell, there are no polite rules to attempting the popcorn box trick.  Just go for it!

Civil Rights And Apron Strings

by Thomas M. Pender

I saw The Help, due mainly to the cast.  Emma (Easy “A”) Stone and Viola (Eat Pray Love) Davis are two actresses that I find very entertaining, for different reasons.  Stone is delightful and likable, and has had quite a few comedies under her young belt.  Davis is a dramatic tower of strength.  Since I knew The Help was about race relations in the South during the Kennedy era, I knew there would be plenty of room for Davis to further impress me with her acting, and there would be plenty of opportunities for Stone to show me if she could really act.

Neither disappointed me.

As I’ve found so many times over that it’s practically a rule, comedians and comic actors really shine when given straight dramatic roles to play.  Stone was serious and thoughtful.  There are light moments in the film, but no outright comedy as far as the acting is concerned, so it’s a nice piece for Stone to try out her dramatic wings.

Viola Davis is sort of the other end of the spectrum.  She’s shown in just about everything she’s done that she can do drama proud.  In fact, knowing her acting choices and the basic storyline of The Help before I went in, I knew there would be one scene in which she cries.  I bet myself that there would be two.  I won the bet.  It occurred to me that whenever I picture Davis in my head, her eyes are welling up with tears.  Crying is just what she does in movies.  She’s fantastic at it, but in contrast to Stone, I’d really like to see her in an outright comedy, just to see how she does.

These two ladies got me into the show, but the plot hooked me right away.  There have been many stories of the Civil Rights Movement, but few are mainly from the point of view of African-Americans.  This one goes a few steps further by focusing on Jackson, Mississippi housekeepers, who worked day after day among white families while the civil rights struggle was going on.  This era and its tensions are very poetically illustrated in contrasting two scenes: the television announcement of the slaying of Civil Rights leader Medgar Evers and the television broadcast of President Kennedy’s funeral.

I also came to know a few actresses I’d seen in smaller roles, as The Help brought them out to the forefront.  Bryce Dallas (Spider-Man 3) Howard and Octavia (Ugly Betty) Spencer bring real shine to this film.  Howard plays an empty-headed wife of an upper-class white, and Spencer gives real gumption to an overly-expressive maid.  In fact, Spencer is given probably the best role in the most memorable scene in the film . . . but I can’t tell you what it’s about.  Just trust me, you’ll know it when you see it!

Seeing a movie about the Old South in a theatre located in Macon, Georgia, I was not surprised but quite delighted at the audience.  Half white patrons, half black, just about all female, and just about all over the age of 60.  It seemed to me that those who lived through the era were coming to relive it up on the screen.  It made the laughter seem more genuine and the somberness much deeper.  Regardless of where you see The Help, however, I recommend that you do see it.

Ten Suggestions To Improve Life In The Deep South

by Thomas M. Pender

10)          To improve the environment, the invention of vehicles that run on sweet tea

9)            To ease digestion, the implementation of “tobacky-chawin” and “non-tobacky-chawin” sections in restaurants

8)            To facilitate communication, the conformation to a common twang

7)            To improve parenting, the establishment of a reasonable Wal-Mart curfew, past which half-naked drowsy toddlers are not allowed inside to be dragged through the stores by their parents

6)            To boost the economy, the creation of Southern cooking vending machines, with buttons for “Collareds,” “Homemade macaroni and cheese” and “Sweet potato pie”

5)            To make sense of the government, the appointment of Jeff Foxworthy as Chancellor of the South

4)            To make the South safer (and more attractive!), the banishment of pit bulls

3)            To make the South neater (and more attractive!), the banishment of collapsed yard vehicles

2)            To improve education, the creation of two separate language classes: Southern English and Actual English, so the kids can communicate with their friends and potential employers

and

1)            To maintain goodness, the establishment of a church on every corner . . . oh, wait, we have that!

All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Back Teeth

by Thomas M. Pender

I’ve lived in Macon, Georgia for 12 years.  In that time, I have had two rear molars yanked out of my head.  I see a cause-and-effect issue here.  With the rampant toothlessness in the South, I believe I’ve stumbled upon a geographic germ.  Aside from my wisdom teeth, I had every tooth given to me by God when I entered Georgia.  Now, I am two short of a full set.

However, it’s not Georgia that I find rantworthy.  It’s the medieval elements of “modern” dentistry.

I’ve never been afraid to go to the dentist.  This probably has to do with being blessed with trouble-free adult teeth.  I go, I get x-rayed, cleaned, and then I leave.  Dentistry is my friend.

Then, a few years ago, I dozed off on my couch.  In a few unconscious minutes, I was awakened by searing pain in my jaw.  I narrowed the daggers down to one tooth, and made an appointment to see a dentist.  At the office, I was asked if my tooth was sensitive to cold.  When I informed the dentist that cold water actually dulled the pain, he winced and told me that was bad news.  It wasn’t a simple toothache, it was a problem down in the nerves.  Long tooth story short, I had to get it pulled.

This is the 21st Century.  We have moved beyond hammers and chisels in doctors’ offices.  Techniques and instrumentation now make it relatively comfortable for patients during complicated procedures.  Unfortunately, the century has apparently left dentistry in the dust of the 1800s.

After I got two shots of Novocaine, the dentist turned around for the next implement and brought out . . . a pair of pliers!  Oh, sure, it was a nice, new, shiny pair of pliers.  It was a sleek design, curved at the end with a tooth-shaped compartment at the tip, but it was a pair of pliers, nonetheless.  She positioned the neuvo-pliers over my tooth, and as she braced to yank, I started waving my arms all about.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I can feel everything you’re doing,” I responded, thinking the Novocaine allotment had been a bit sparse.  She gave me a third shot and waited a few minutes for it to kick in.  Then she re-assumed the yanking position.  I again waved my arms.

“I can feel everything you’re doing!” I injected (pun intended), my vocal words in italics.

“Oh, well, you’re going to feel some pressure.”

As most dental patients know, “pressure” is dentist code for “searing, excruciating pain.”  I felt the tooth slide out of its socket, and by the end of that day, my pain was gone.

Years later, without the nap inducer, I began to feel a toothache on the opposite molar of my lower jaw.  It intensified, and I made an appointment at the local dental college.  (Side note: Dental colleges are great for procedures, as they are highly skilled and very inexpensive.)  This set of pliers weren’t even disguised as a sleek Porsche of the dental world.  This was a straight Chevy Nova of the dental world.  I swear I saw the Craftsman logo on the side!  The pain, this time due to an infection, left with the tooth, and I was grateful even for the toolbox implement at that point.

Still, I call upon the dental engineers of the world (if, indeed, dental engineers exist) to come up with something a bit – or a ton – more concentrated on the comfort of patients.  I don’t care if it’s based on hydraulics or digital photography or astrology, but for the love of all that is good and merciful in the world, please, dentistry, invent something that replaces the pliers!

I mean now!  Go.  Research.  Design.  Get it done.

Now!!!!!!