What We Really Want

I have already said that I'm a southern girl. I grew up in towns that ranged from a few hundred people when I was young to now living in a city of millions. I've eaten at diners where everyone there really did know our names, shopped in grocery stores where I could say "Put this on my account", and lived down roads where I really did have to walk miles to the bus stop. Now, I live in a city where I can get food delivered at midnight, can't see a star to save my life, and see high school graduating classes that are bigger than some of the schools I attended. And what I've noticed in both places is this: we love convenience.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan of small town life and the "little man" (thanks, Mr. Jackson). I would live in the middle of thousands of acres with the nearest town being twenty miles away with just a few dozen folk I know, and be ecstatic. But I've noticed that we worship convenience above all else - yes, even money.

Think about it. What is being wealthy but another check on our list of conveniences? With lots of money, shopping, bills, even college for our kids and retirement for ourselves become much more convenient.

In some of the small towns I grew up in folks shopped at the local grocer because he was their only choice for miles around. As I got older, and Kroger and Wal-Mart loomed ever nearer, I watched several local grocers hang their "Closed" signs permanently. In other words, even in small towns, where we went to church with the small business owner, we only offered our loyalty as long as it was convenient. We would throw him under a bus for a supercenter around the corner. And we did essentially that.

It's very obvious in large cities that laziness rules us all, but most Americans tend to think that the small, rural communities are less driven by such evil concepts as convenience and greed. I am here to say that isn't true. It may seem that way, but only because geographically we aren't capable of having the same conveniences as the larger cities. The fact that we still support the local grocer to avoid driving thirty or forty miles into town is, in itself, an act of convenience. Not some noble desire to stave off the evil corporations and preserve our way of life.

I ramble about all of this because the other evening my husband and I went to dinner at some little diner in our neighborhood. This place is pretty prominent in its location (right across from a very busy intersection), and has stood there for over a decade. We'd seen it since we moved here almost six years ago. But we'd always opted for more well-known places to eat instead.

On this ridiculously hot (it is August in Texas after all) night, I had found a coupon for the diner so we decided to try it out. (We'll eat almost anything for a "buy one/get one" combo!)

Practically deserted, the owner himself took our order while asking about our lives and offering bits of advice, too. We ordered our food, sat in a booth, and studied the pictures of Elvis, Marilyn (Munroe, not Manson), and Mr. Sinatra himself on the walls. I noticed large donation checks to various local children's programs on the wall from years past. My husband got a kick out of the annual car show displays hanging around. The atmosphere was fun and relaxing, and the owner was obviously active in his community.

Our food arrived looking as beautiful as if we had been in some five star steakhouse. It looked as if they had taken the time to pick out all the pale lettuce from my husband's salad, his tomatoes were so fresh I could literally smell them from across the table, and my grilled zucchini was so good I was doing my version of Meg Ryan's scene with Billy Crystal. Needless to say, our food was incredibly delicious. I mean, no-words-to-describe-it good.

And they probably won't be open by Christmas.

It saddens me to know that someone who is an avid supporter of kids' programs, and who offers such superb service and product in this age of "quantity over quality" will not survive the year. But if I were truly honest with myself, I have to admit that come Sunday, when we pick a restaurant after church, I probably won't think of this cute little diner. Instead, the same old litany of "Chili's, Olive Garden, mexican food or burgers?" will probably run through our car with the kids wanting some place where they can play while we eat some bland version of what is supposed to be fajitas at the table in peace.

And months from now I'll remember fondly one little Greek man with incredible food and a cute diner. While on my way to Wal-Mart.

Helping our fellow (wo)man..

Okay, if anyone out there knows me, they know I'm not vain. I don't want to look filthy, but beyond clean and normal, I'm not looking to wow anyone. Mostly because all the makeup in the world can't make you Angeline Jolie. I'm not hideous, just average. I don't get my nails done. I've never had a manicure, and my first pedicure was right after my second child was born. On the weekends you'll find me without makeup, hair in a ponytail in one of my husband's tshirts and some shorts - no shoes. So I've never considered myself "high maintenance". But now I have to admit to myself I may not be as uncaring of my looks as I thought. Let me explain.

At work I have to dress nicely - heels, skirts, dress slacks, etc. So I go to the restroom, come out to wash my hands, and literally almost scare myself when I look in the mirror. Yes, I have makeup on, my hair is decently fixed, and I have on a cute swirly skirt, if I do say so myself. No, what scares me is this pale, half dead zombie staring back at me. It's the middle of summer, and I have a decent tan going so I know it's not my actual skin color. I'm also not one of those woman who don't seem to realize that my makeup is about twenty shades lighter than my actual skin color so no go there either.

Why am I so pale? I wonder while staring into the mirror at my face. And I have to say, after five minutes of staring, I still don't know. It could be those horrid lights they have in all public restrooms or the freakishly early hour wreaking havoc on my still abed brain. But that's not why I've posed this question to you. Nope. I want to know why no one has mentioned to me that I look as if I've just climbed out of the grave!!

In today's society, it's perfectly acceptable to discreetly whisper about spinach in the teeth of a coworker, point out that telling red stain on the back of some poor lady's skirt, or even tell a perfect stranger that she's trailing an entire roll of toilet paper on her heel. But no one, not even my so called "friends" here at my office mentioned my deathly pallor to me.

Now, to be fair, even if they had, could I just run out for some better skin? Use a toothpick to fix the problem as if it were some pesky black pepper in my molars? No. But I can at least make up some pitiful excuse to let them know that I don't always look this badly. Give a girl a chance to lie!!

I've added some pretty lip gloss which has helped some, but apparantly I have an allergic reaction to my office that causes me to pale considerably upon contact.

I guess the point of this mindless, self serving ramble is to let women out there know that we prefer honesty among each other. I mean, if we can't count on our fellow womankind to help us maintain a strong showing among males of this species, who can we count on? I say it's time we stop looking at each other as the enemy and whispering about all the pretty girls behind their backs. If one of us looks bad, we all look bad. Or something like that.

It's time to stand up and support each other. So along with that coworker who is wreaking havoc on your environment with their toxic breath, the older woman with lipstick on her teeth, and the intern with salsa on his tie, put half-dead vampire zombies who are too pale in the dead of summer on your list of victims in need of some politely whispered suggestions.

This is one blond zombie that would be grateful for your tips and expertise!!