Month: March 2010 Page 3 of 4

Slaves for Fashion

On March 12, 2010

Today I got a couple of sale flyers from department stores. I like to thumb through these to keep up on the latest trends, and I was surprised to see that fashion is dictating that women should go from being sluts to being slaves.

The cleavage and belly buttons have been replaced by short dresses and sandals that look like they were snatched off a Roman, except the heels are 4 inches high.

Seriously, I glanced through the Macy’s catalogue and couldn’t believe how many of the models could have been cast in “Gladiator.” All they needed were some chains around their wrists.

I guess this is a sexy look for men. I remember seeing those Fredericks of Hollywood catalogues and there was a lot of this kind of stuff in there. They were famous for crotchless underwear. When I was a kid I thought that was hilarious. Why even wear them? I’m still not sure I know the answer.

I don’t think men care anything about the way women look. My husband never notices anything I wear, but maybe it’s because I’m not doing the bondage thing. If I got some of the clothes in these flyers, maybe he’d take notice.

“Where are you going? To a toga party?” he’d probably say.

I’m not knocking all the fashions. The Penney’s flyer had some nice, decent looking wholesome women wearing pretty, classic style clothes. Even though that was just the first couple of pages, still it’s a step in the right direction. Moms are sick of seeing their daughters in revealing clothes, and we’re sicker of having to talk to other women who flash us with their cleavage, especially since we don’t know where to look to try and avoid it.

I don’t know who on earth has come up with these shoes, though. That strappy stuff all the way over the ankle looks uncomfortable. Plus there are an awful lot of buckles that have to be contended with. One pair of flip-flops had buckles all around the ankle. Aren’t flip flops for jumping into? Who wants to bend over and wrangle with buckles? And what about those spiky heels that leave divets all over linoleum and hardwood floors? I won’t even talk about what it feels like after a few hours of walking on stilts.

Luckily I’m tall so I don’t have to force my feet into those dual torture chambers. When I wear boots with heels I tower over a lot of people. I like wearing flats, though I was just informed by the TV that I should wear flats with pointed toes so I’ll look taller and slimmer. I’m not sure how a person looking at my feet is going to think butt looks smaller, but I guess it’s wroth a try.

All in all, some of the new spring styles look very fun, and I’m glad that long tops and skinny legged jeans are back in style – there’s a fashion that actually does make you look slimmer – if you can get into them. The long tops hide a pretty good sized spare tire, too. With all the coupons that came in the mail today, I’ll be certain to head right to the mall and, knowing me, get the same bland stuff I always buy because I tell myself not to get trendy clothes because it’s not practical. Sigh. I guess the slave craze will just have to pass me by.

If You Don’t Relish It, Embellish It

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 10, 2010

In Home Life, Relationships

I think grownups live pretty dull lives. I’ve deduced this from my own experience, but also from talking to a lot of other people who pretty much have one common experience in their lives – complaining.

If grownups work, they complain about their bosses or co-workers. If they love everyone at work, they complain about the hours or the working conditions.

If grownups don’t work, they complain about their families, what’s on TV, being bored, or not having enough time.

Spouse bashing is a great way to complain. The husband/wife never seems to do things the way we’d want them to, so there is plenty of material.

I was in a great mood Tuesday morning and met my friend to walk. She started in about her daughter not calling home from college, then moved to complaining about her husband, and then to griping about work. I’ve got to give her credit, she covered all the main areas of discontent in a short amount of time.

I pointed this out to her, and we decided that our lives are so dull there’s really nothing but complaints to talk about. We’re not riding around in limos meeting famous people, going to swank parties, or jetting off to tropical places very often. Our lives are full of house cleaning, working, taking care of our families, and trying to attend to assorted volunteer and parental duties that suck time like a Hoover. When we share these experiences with others, it usually sounds like we’re complaining.

Last night at the open mike show I went to, the comediennes were moms talking about their lives with kids. It was hilarious stuff. One woman said she got a spa vacation recently. She had to get her gall bladder taken out, which was the only down side, but she got to stay in bed two days, watch TV and read while other people brought her food and cleared away the dishes. I kindof envied her.

Another said that when kids get lost in department stores there’s no need to worry. All the mom has to do is go into a bathroom and the kid will be there in five seconds pounding on the door.

Their stories were based on the most mundane, dull lives. Picking up clothes off the floor, replacing toilet paper on holders that disappears in less than 24 hours – who uses that much toilet paper? Losing one sock in the wash, finding things growing in refrigerators, breaking up fights among kids, scrubbing rings out of bathtubs and collars – this is the world of grownups.

Teens and 20 something’s have such exciting lives to talk about. Someone is always breaking up or getting together. There are meetings in bars, and what crazy things people did when they drank too much. Grownups just get stupid when they’re drunk – slurring and slouching and staggering. They don’t dance on tables or whoop and holler. Teens sleep at each other’s houses and talk about all their mutual friends who are also doing very fun things – this is why teenage girls never shut up, and why they’re texting every second of the day. They have news to tell and gossip to keep up on.

I think I’m going to have to start making stuff up if I want to reduce my complaining. Problem is, I’ve gotten so used to griping that I don’t know where I’d begin to get the material. I mean, what am I going to say, that my husband suddenly has turned into Brad Pitt, and my children have decided I am an interesting and smart person they’d like to spend time with? That I’ve hired a maid and cook so I now spend all my time shopping with my Hollywood friends who fly up to Portland every weekend just to be with me?

Actually, I’m liking the sound of this. I’ll make up an interesting life full of interesting activites and people to talk about. It will be good practice for when I become rich and famous, which is any day now….

Beans and Laughs

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 9, 2010

In Food

I’ve had beans all three meals today. There were some leftover baked beans that were so good I had them for breakfast. I finished them off at lunch. Then tonight I went to an open mike comedy session and they had pinto beans on the menu so I ordered them. Needless to say, I’m a walking time bomb. I wonder how long I’ll be in bed tonight before my husband kicks me out.

The comediennes were very funny tonight. They bill themselves as the “Mother of All Comedies” because they are all moms telling about their lives with children. It was some pretty funny stuff. One woman got up to the mike and instead of holding it in her hand, she attached it to the mike stand, saying. “I don’t want to hold anything in my hand, especially something that looks like a penis. I might get pregnant again.” She said she didn’t know how she got pregnant. “I just tripped on a penis and it got in there and all of a sudden I’ve got three kids.”

Penis is a funny word spoken out loud in a room full of women. We all laughed every time she said it. She described her vagina after pregnancy as looking like “a dog got in my uterus and ate its way out of there.”

Another older mom with four kids said she gets mistaken for her 3 year old’s grandma at the playground, so she milks it. If her son misbehaves, she tells the young moms, “They just spoil that child, it’s really a shame, but what can a grandmother do?”

All the while I’m laughing, I’m shoveling in beans because I love them so. Refried, in soups, boiled, salted, stir-fried, baked – I’ve never met a bean I didn’t like. The feeling isn’t mutual, though. They go down the hatch and all hell breaks loose. They gurgle a warning like a rattlesnake signaling that an eruption will soon take place and everyone better run for cover. I know this is going to happen as sure as the 2010 census will arrive in my mail any day now, but I can’t help myself. My family gets upset. They buy me Beano. They threaten to move out. They make fun. It does no good. I’m addicted.

This was a fun evening tonight, laughing with friends about experiences close to home and heart, and eating beans that they say are good for my heart, at least that’s what the rhyme says. I’m as happy as a mule eating briars.

Food for Thought

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 9, 2010

In Food

I’m in the mood to talk about food. I made a batch of chili mac the other night that was so good. The half that didn’t have the burger in it was, anyway, since I’m vegetarian. I knew it was good, though, because my son ate it.

He’s been finicky about food ever since he was about one and a half. Before that I used to grind up squash in a blender and feed it to him and he gobbled it up. Disgusting looking stuff that I wouldn’t even test – just plain yellow squash that managed to take on a brownish tinge from the grinding process.

There really wasn’t anything the child wouldn’t eat – if I could turn it into a watery mush, he’d scarf it down. I don’t know what happened to him that made him into a discriminating eater, but over time he gradually started cutting out all foods that were (1) healthy (2) possibly healthy or (3) not part of the hamburger and French fries food group.

He also had this thing about food touching when he was little, which is why I could never get him to eat combined foods like spaghetti or pot pies. He wanted a separate pile of peas, another pile of potatoes, and his meat in it’s own area. He took pains to catch peas that rolled away from the pile, chasing them with a fork and turning it sideways to form a fence. This is why it was remarkable that he ate the chili mac.

My daughter and I will eat just about anything, but she can’t stand the feel of squash in her mouth. We goaded her as a child to “just try it one time.” She finally did to make us hush and within seconds of putting a bite in her mouth she jumped up from the table and ran to the bathroom where she Ralphed it and everything else she’d eaten into the toilet. If she ever wanted to be bulimic, all she’d have to do is put a piece of squash in her mouth.

I guess everyone has one thing they can’t or won’t eat. I absolutely despise brie. This comes as a shock to everyone who knows me because I have a mammoth appetite and will literally eat anything, especially if it has Heinz 57 Sauce or blue cheese dressing on it. Everything about brie disgusts me. I can’t stand the taste, smell, or texture of it. I’m apparently the only human who feels this way because every gathering I go to always has a plug of brie with some jelly and crackers. Ewe!

There are foods I’d never want to try. Like those things that short stocky guy goes around eating on one of the cooking shows my husband insists on watching. He goes to Amazon jungles and the southern United States to sample odd foods. Possum, cockroaches, and still squirming worm-like creatures are some of the fair he eats – not to mention eyeballs and gonads. I can’t be in the room when that show is on.

My palette is simple – I like food that tastes good. I’m not into novelty dishes or ones that make some kind of statement. I don’t have to show off that I’m eating truffles because they’re expensive, or snails because they’re gross, or alligator because it’s unique. I ate a piece of alligator once. It was coated in a fiery sauce so I couldn’t taste anything because of the burn. I could have been eating the sole of a tennis shoe for all I knew. I ate gold leaf one time on the first date with my husband. It had no flavor at all, and who ever came up with the idea of shaving thin slices of gold and serving it with dinner? How can that be good for you? I thought they should jut shave off part of the price and skip the gold.

Perhaps you’d like to comment on foods you like or don’t like. Perhaps you’d like to comment on the eating habits of people you know. Food for thought – or thoughtful food. Either way, I’d eat it up!

Meteorite Men vs. the Oscars

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 7, 2010

In Television

The Oscars were on tonight, and I missed them. My husband was watching a yawner on another station, and I dozed off in the La-Z-Boy and slept right through. He had “Meteorite Men” on and I asked him to change the station, and he said in a minute, because it was getting interesting.

This is one of an assortment of shows that appeal to my husband for reasons I can’t fathom. “Ice Road Truckers,” “Survivor Man,” “Ax Men,” “World’s Dirtiest Jobs,” and “Greatest Catch,” are some of the others. These are shows about people doing their jobs – jobs that my husband would never want to do in a million years – yet he finds their experiences fascinating. I can’t imagine how these shows got started. Can you picture someone pitching this concept to network executives? “Okay, you’re going to love this show!!! It’s about some guys on a crab boat CATCHING CRABS!!!!.”

Or this one, “I’ve got this fantastic idea for a show. We’ll take two guys and have them walk around in the middle of nowhere LOOKING FOR PIECES OF METEORS!!!!!”

Tonight the engaging stars of “Meteorite Men” were walking through the snow in Wyoming with metal detectors that sound like a cow wailing after she stepped on her own udder. They walk along, commenting on the weather, and then the metal detector wails, and they get all excited and bend down and start digging in the dirt with magnetic pick axes. Soon a chunk of meteor the size of a grape attaches to the pick axe and they whoop and holler about their great good fortune. They manage to get 4 or 5 meteor chunks then go to a buyer who examines the pieces thoroughly like a jeweler looking at the Hope Diamond, and then pays the guys a couple of thousand bucks.

When I saw this monetary transaction, I thought, “Who buys this stuff?” Sure, a little piece of outer space must be worth something, but if the guy is paying the Meteorite Men $600 bucks for one of these, how much is the average Joe going to have to pay to get it from him? Would you pay $1,000 or $2,000 or more?

Frankly, I haven’t given it much thought. On my list of “must haves,” I’ve got vacations and handbags and a new house, but I’ve overlooked space debris.

This is why I fell asleep and slept right through the Oscars. Luckily Baba Wawa was having her interviews. I really like her and was sad that this is her last Oscar show. Comedians have had fun with her over the years, but she’s been a gracious professional all things considered. I like the way she asks people if they’re gay or if they pass gas in the bathtub, and if so, does it wake up the neighbors. We’ll miss you, Babs.

Right now as I’m typing I’ve got one eye on the TV – it’s stuck on there and I’m not sure how I’m going to get it loose. They are showing the actresses and their gowns, which is what I watch the Oscars for anyway. I love Kate Winslet’s dress. And Sandra Bullock’s. They’re probably not going to show the ugly dresses – and that’s half the fun. I’ll have to wait for People Magazine to see them. Doggone Meteorite Men!

Things Aren’t Always What They Seem

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 6, 2010

In Uncategorized

Tonight at my daughter’s gymnastics competition they handed out coupons to get $15 off of T-shirts or sweatshirts. What a great deal! I stood in the line that snaked through the gym for the better part of my life to take advantage of this great opportunity. When I finally arrived at the order area, I leaned that I would still pay $24 for the long-sleeve t-shirt with the logo and a star by my daughter’s name on the back.

Funny thing was, that’s the same price I paid at the last competition at a different gym, WITHOUT the $15 discount. Could it be that this vendor simply handed out coupons to make us think we were getting a good deal?

Of course that’s what the little weasel did. And we all fell for it because we can’t resist trying to get a good deal. It’s the same reason we hold out when buying a new sofa until the guy sweetens the pot with a couple of cheap throw pillows. Then we’re scrambling to say, “We’ll take it!”

One of the most frustrating things about this is finding out that someone you know also got the same throw pillows. Then it seems like you didn’t really get a good deal after all. You merely got the standard deal. Worse than that is finding out you got the standard deal, and the other guy paid less for the couch than you did.

It’s actually a competition – you try to win with the salesperson, then you try to one-up everyone else. After all, you can’t get a good deal without having something to compare it to.

Another way people try to get you is packaging. Often there will be a really nicely boxed item with cellophane enclosing it like a chastity belt so the would-be purchaser can’t see what’s in there. The label makes the contents seem irresistible. The customer buys it because it’s on the clearance table by the check stand, marked down from $49 to 9.95. I’ve bought this item many a time. When I get home and tear into it, it’s always a tiny, flimsy object that breaks in seconds.

When I was a small child, I got a giant chocolate bunny in my Easter basket. You know where this is going, don’t you? I bit into that bunny’s foot and discovered that it was simply a thin layer of chocolate wrapped around nothing but air. In fact, the whole thing broke up into bits and fell to the floor. There wasn’t much more chocolate in that thing than in a Hershey’s kiss. I was heartbroken. Who would do such a thing to a small child? How could the Easter Bunny be so cruel?

Once I bought a beautifully packaged box that touted itself as the best spice cookie mix the civilized world has ever known. When I opened it, there was a ziplock bag full of flour mix that looked like some kid had put together. I followed the directions and made the worst cookies I’ve ever attempted to eat. They scrimped on the sugar and spices and spent the flavor budget on the fancy box.

This has happened to me more times than I care to divulge. For this reason, I’ve been leery of everything in a nice box for a long time. Last Christmas I refused to open a beautifully wrapped present with a pale green ribbon because I knew I’d be disappointed. When I get up my nerve, I’ll let you know what it was. I’m sure my husband got a great deal on it!

Insane Rock-O-Plane

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 5, 2010

In Uncategorized

There’s something on TV right now about Ferris Wheels. Have you ever ridden one of those things? I’m terrified of them. I don’t like being so high in the air, and I sure don’t like the way they make you go backwards. But the thing I hate most is those seats rocking back and forth, especially when it’s stopped and you’re at the very top, which seems to be the entire time you’re on the ride.

I’ve never liked carnival rides, and I’ve got good reason. When I was a kid, my mom took me to the carnival that came to town for two weeks every summer. I can see her watching me as I went slowly in a circle on a little motorcycle with a horn that I pressed constantly in different patterns, like beeeeep beep beep beep beep beeeeeeep. Then there were little airplanes that went up in the air about four feet with little guns so we could pretend to shoot at the kid directly in front of you. Each time I went by my mom, I waved frantically at her with one hand, keeping my other hand securely on the trigger of the gun, which fired non-stop.

These were fun rides, and I loved the carnival. Then my brother asked me to go with him and I was thrilled. I must have been about 8 and he was 12. I jumped at the chance.

When we passed the kiddy rides, he turned his nose up at them and wouldn’t even wait for me to ride. “Come on, there’s some really cool big kids’ rides over here you’ll love.”

Ooooo! Big kids rides! I skipped along after him, bubbling with anticipation. First we came to the Tilt A Whirl, which I thought was the funnest ride I’d ever been on. Then the Twister, which I also loved because it made me slam into my brother while he pretended he was being squished to death.

Then he took me on the Ferris Wheel, and that thing swooped me up into space like a rocket launch. I was terrified. When we got to the top and stopped, he swung the seat and I knew it was going to tip over and we’d drop forty stories to our deaths. I hit him on the arms and begged him to stop, which he finally did after I started crying like a baby.

He gave me some pink and blue cotton candy to settle my nerves, then took me to where the Rock-O-Plane was. It was very tall just like the Ferris Wheel. “I AIN’T getting on that thing,” I said.

“It’s really fun,” he said. “Look, you’re in a cage so you can’t fall out and you just go round and round a circle. It’s not scary at all.”

“Is too!”

“Is not!”

“Is too!”

“IS NOT”

“IS TOO!”

After much arguing, coaxing, shaming, and bribing, I agreed to get on the ride as long as he PROMISED that it would not spin like some of the ones we’d seen. “There’s a bar in there, and you can control the spinning by pressing down, so you don’t have to worry.” Next thing I knew, I was in a cage. When the ride started, he pressed down on the bar and the cage started to slowly rock as we soared into the sky like we were on the way back up from a bungee jump.

“Let me out of here,” I screamed. He kept pressing until the cage turned completely upside down. Assorted change in our pockets sprayed out and pelted us like a hailstorm. The faster the giant wheel went, the more our gage turned.

I started screaming every obscenity I’d ever heard in my life, which surprisingly was an entire dictionary of cuss words. “Let me out of this effing thing! You son of a __! Let me out of this mother ____!” I was like a wild animal with Tourettes – foaming at the mouth, crying, screaming, cussing, flailing limbs against the cage as coins smacked my arms and legs and face. “I HATE YOU!” I screamed. My brother, dredging up some mercy from his black heart, took his hands off the bar, but the cage didn’t stop spinning. It had too much momentum.

The carnies must have thought my screeching was amusing, because the ride should have been over but it didn’t stop. Round and round we went. I tumbled out of the seat and was rolling around like a towel in a dryer. My brother was even starting to panic. “I can’t get it to stop!” he shouted. “Just hold on!” What was I supposed to hold on to? The bar? So it would spin faster?

Finally, a line must have formed so the carnie had to stop the ride. I flung that cage door open and huffed out of there, bruised from head to toe and fit to be tied. I folded my arms across my chest and took giant strides across the carnival grounds, refusing to look back at my pleading brother who was fervently begging me not to tell our mom.

I’ve haven’t been a rides person since. I still look up to my brother, but I will never forgive him for the Rock-O-Plane. Not in a million years.

Creating the Aha Moment

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 5, 2010

In Uncategorized

Creativity is an odd thing. A lot of people think you have to wait around until that Aha moment strikes and then you paint your masterpiece or write your opus. I have news for you. I’m not even sure what the word opus means, and it’s too late to look it up. Oh, all right if you insist. Be right back.

According to my dear friend Google who knows these things, an opus is a miniature octopus – so small, in fact that the cto had to be left out. A million of these creatures together can fit in a teaspoon and be fed to unsuspecting children with a smile and assurance that, “It’s good for you and will build strong bones and teeth.”

Okay, Google didn’t say this after all. Like I said, I don’t have time to go on a wild goose chase hunting down opuses at this time of night, but I’m pretty sure that an opus is some huge literary endeavor like the Bible that has many, many chapters full of adventures.

You think we’ve got a world full of sin and vice now, and you’re right, but it wasn’t much better back in Biblical times. People were “laying with” (wink wink) their daughters, lusting after a married women and killing the husband to get to her, killing their brothers, almost killing their only sons, worshipping golden calves when they weren’t busy entertaining themselves with drunkenness and women of loosely defined morals. The Bible is pretty good reading, especially the Old Testament, and especially if you get one of those versions without the thees and thous.

My favorite story is about these two women fighting over a baby (I told you this stuff was good). They went before Solomon who was the wisest man in all of history. Each woman called the other one a bee-och. Not really, I just think that word’s funny. But there was a verbal cat fight going on that even Solomon could no longer stand to listen to, so he said, “For crying out loud, just cut the baby in half and each take an equal share and be done with it, then everybody’s happy, especially me.” Well, one woman said, “Okay, sounds good to me.” The other one said, “No way. I’d rather let that bee-och have the baby rather than have it cut in half.” So Solomon says, “Aha! The one who wants the baby to live is the true mother, and you – bee-och – you are a conniving imposter.”

And now I’m happy to say I have just proved my point about creativity. Oh, wait, I forgot to make the point. Here it is, and it is certainly worth the wait. Creativity doesn’t come from an Aha moment. You create the Aha moment by parking yourself in front of whatever medium you use to create something and then just start doing it. If it’s paint or a computer or a kitchen counter where you want to whip up a culinary delight but don’t know what to make – a cake, cookies, or a pie, and what kind of pie – fruit or chiffon. I like chocolate pie myself – chocolate pecan is even better. If I waited for inspiration I’d never write this blog. I sit here and start typing because I’ve thought all day long about a topic and none has popped in my head (as usual) and it’s late (like I said before), and if I want to go to bed I’ve got to write something. With any luck, my fingers will start pecking out some senseless foolishness that I can drag out to about 600 words and call it good. Aha! I think I’ve done it yet again. Goodnight. And apologies for my loose Bible translations – I was just trying to be creative.

Money Madness

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 3, 2010

In Home Life

It’s been raining money around here lately, or so it appears because there are coins on the floor in every room I of my house. A lot of pennies, but a surprising number of quarters are sprinkled over the carpets like confetti. Where the heck are they coming from?

I know the men in the house keep coins in their pockets, and when the pants come off, the coins come out, so I understand the coins in the bedrooms. But they are everywhere – living room, dining room. No one is taking their pants off in these rooms for the most part, that I know of.

My husband has a coin basket that he puts all his change into. When we were just starting out and money was tight, I’d fish in there for quarters to do just about everything – pay for movie tickets or buy ice cream cones. I even paid for lunches with my friends with quarters. I got a reputation – I wasn’t the bag lady, I was the quarter queen. At restaurants I’d dig out a fistful of quarters and start making little one-dollar stacks on the table to pay my part of the bill.

My son used to dig out quarters out to pay for gas or Subway sandwiches. I’ve given both kids lunch money out of that basket. Quarters have always been a big thing around here – semi-precious almost. So now I can’t understand why I walk through my house barefoot and end up with a buck fifty in change stuck to my feet.

I can’t just leave it on the floor. It’s unsightly, plus it makes so much noise when sucked up in the vacuum cleaner. And, I’m embarrassed to admit, I compulsively pick up coins because it’s supposed to bring good luck. Popeye the Sailor said, Finds a coin and picks it up and all the day you’ll have good luck.” If this is indeed true, and I have no doubt that it is, then failing to pick up a coin could only mean one thing – all the day you’ll have bad luck.

Because of Popeye, I’ve picked up dirty money since I was a child. It pains me not to pick up a coin. Seriously, I get stomach cramps, and warts start popping up on my body in odd places overnight. This is not true, but I’m positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would be true if I didn’t pick up every coin I pass. I’ve been in evening gowns in swank lobbies and bent down to snatch a fusty penny off the plush carpet.

I walk through my house and feel like I’m at the gym bending down, standing up, bending down, standing up as I try to get the fresh coins off the floor each day. They’re like rabbits; they’re multiplying faster than I can get to them. I’ll pick the whole house up and turn my back for a minute, and when I look around, there they are again, millions of them. It’s like something out of the Twilight Zone.

The thing I can’t figure out is why no one else wants all this money? I tell you, the whole world has just turned upside down around here. And apparently its pockets are full of change.

College Barage

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 3, 2010

In School

My daughter got a decent score on a practice SAT test, and now we’re being bombarded by colleges wanting her to attend.

I always thought it was so competitive to get into a college. Everyone says to fill out the applications early and write an excellent essay. Yet the Ivy League schools and some of the most prestigious universities in the country are sending very colorful spreads trying to lure her to come to their college.

One private Catholic school in California that I’ve never even heard of offered her $20,000 to sign up at their school.

I’m quite proud of her good test score, of course, but I think this is ridiculous. If they are sending these things to her, they’re sending them to thousands of other kids in the country – kids who take the tests when they’re sophomores and the only thing they’re thinking about is being a junior next year and getting to park their beater in the school’s parking lot instead of miles away on the street.

One college called me a couple of days ago. A bright young student tried to tell me what a great place it would be for my daughter to attend. I said, “She hasn’t given any thought at all to college.”

“Well, when she does, would you please tell her that we have a great school?”

All I keep thinking is no wonder college tuition is so high all over the country. Those brochures they’re sending us cost a fortune to design, another fortune to mail, and still another fortune to keep revising each year. They also send us emails that have to be designed. I used to forward them on, but now I just hit the delete button. They sound so desperate: “We’ve sent you three emails already. We’re beginning to wonder if we have the correct address. Please let us know at your earliest convenience. And by the way, we are a great school.” And now there are people calling. I’m certain as taxes that these students aren’t volunteering to call high school kids.

My daughter hasn’t responded to any of these lavish attempts to get her attention. She likes opening the envelopes and looking at the pretty pictures, then she tosses them into a grocery sack. Sometimes her friends go through them, so they’re all tossed together like a jigsaw puzzle.

If any of you colleges are listening right now, I’ve got some words of advice to you: SHOW ME THE MONEY! You could send checks and money orders in those envelopes and it will make a much better impression on me personally. If you decide you don’t want to do that, then please quit sending us these expensive fold-out brochures the size of posters and glossy flyers that cost as much as a textbook. Because I know that they’re driving up your tuition, and trust me, sophomores aren’t going to make up their minds about college yet. Not in this house, anyway.