Have Luggage, Will Pay

Have you been on a plane lately? If not, you may not know that it now costs you a minimum of $15 to take a suitcase with you! I don't know about you, but I find that preposterous. Add it to the ticket price or call it a "service charge" and lop it in there with all those other mysterious charges that add an extra fifty bucks to the bottom line, but do not penalize me for taking clothes along to my destination! For Pete's sake, what's next? Surcharges for bodies over 100 pounds?

People already abuse the carry-on baggage restrictions to an unbelievable degree; I can only imagine the new levels of creativity this will bring. ("Sir, I don't believe that 300 pound garbage bag will fit in the overhead compartment.".... "It will or I'll die tryin,' girlie!") As it stands, virtually all airlines except Southwest (more on that later) are charging $15 for the first suitcase, $25 for the second, and $100 for the third. Wouldn't it make more sense to make the first one free then charge up the yin-yang for subsequent ones? I would think the idea is to reward frugal, organized travelers and sock it to those who pack everything but the kitchen sink.

So I'm already annoyed about this suitcase charge thing when I arrive at the Northwest counter, right? But I'm trying to keep my mouth shut; it's not the ticket clerk's fault. I hand him twenty dollars cash and he says, "We don't take cash. Credit card only," at which point my resolve to keep my mouth shut disintegrates and I offer up a steely smile and say, "I don't have a credit card, I have cash. You're the ones who levied the charge; do you want my money or not?" (I did have a credit card, of course, but that was so totally not the point.) Thus ensued several minutes of inane remarks regarding the lack of cash at the gate, whether anyone had change, how they would write this up, yada yada yada, before one of the baggage handlers finally said, "Gimme that twenty; I got a five dollar bill and I'll get it back from somebody later."

On the next leg of my travels, it was interesting to note that that airline (there've been so many, I don't remember which it was) accepted only cash. Hello??? Does the word "consistency" mean anything to airline industry? Based on my observations of blank, then annoyed, expressions at the check-in counter, most people don't even know there is a charge for baggage, so it's highly unlikely they'll show up with whatever configuration of cash or plastic is needed to meet every airline's specific protocol.

It's traumatic enough to fly these days without adding convoluted baggage fees to the equation. I'm sure it's no picnic for airline employees, either, but airline executives need to get their act together and take a page from the Southwest manual. I rarely get to fly Southwest (more's the pity) since I'm in the Southeast, but they put other airlines to shame in all categories. Maybe it's just because they get to wear shorts, but Southwest employees are always warm and friendly, they're always having a good time, they make check-in easy, they make problems disappear, and they don't charge for a suitcase. Their attendants even--gasp!--crack jokes inflight. Anyone remember the days when flying used to be fun? It still is, on Southwest.

So here's my travel advisory for any of you unlucky enough to be flying soon: pack light, keep cash and credit cards at the ready, fly Southwest if you can, avoid Northwest at all costs, and beware of overhead baggage that may now kill you if it falls on your head because it's carrying two weeks' worth of clothing, accessories, toiletries, grooming appliances, and souvenirs in its overstuffed little pockets.

Oh, Wright brothers, ye hardly knew we.

Diva Update

A few months back, I reviewed a performance by 3 Mo' Divas, an amazing musical tribute show produced by Marion J. Caffey. By pure coincidence, Mr. Caffey happened across my blog and wrote to thank me for my comments and to share my lament that this show is not getting the attention it deserves. So I bring the divas--Laurice Lanier, Nova Payton, and Jamet Pittman--to your attention again: their first CD has just been produced and will be released in March. For those of you who missed my earlier blog (and, of course, you can scroll down and read it still), check out their YouTube footage or visit their website to hear these women sing and see if the show is coming to your area. If it is, buy a ticket! I promise you, you will never hear a more powerful concert.

The CD, by the way, is called "Smashing Musical Barriers" and if you'd like more information, send an e-mail to info@3modivas.com and tell 'em the Comma Goddess sent you! (I'm not on the payroll, by the way; I just think the Divas are that good!)

Have you had the pleasure of seeing 3 Mo' Divas perform? Share your thoughts!

Not-So-Gentle Reminders

I've been brought up short twice this week: first, when I received an e-mail from a friend about suffragettes, and last night, when I got pulled over by one of Greenville's Finest.

The e-mail contained stark photos and details about women at the forefront of the suffragette movement; specifically, about how they were treated at a workhouse in Virginia on November 15, 1917, now known as the 'Night of Terror.' Today, we women stroll into voting booths as nonchalantly as if we were sauntering up the cereal aisle at the grocery store; it's far too easy to forget that a lot of women spent a lot of years--seventy of them, to be exact--to win that opportunity for us. (Wyoming proved itself more progressive, fair, and intelligent than the other states; it granted women the right to vote in 1869. Pause here for a round of applause for the great state of Wyoming!) I'm not here to argue the idiocy of why we had to fight to have that right; I just want to remind my fellow females that we did--and failing to show up at the polls any time we have an opportunity to exercise that right is like slapping those women in the face all over again. I don't care who you vote for--you can write in "Minnie Mouse" for president if you're not happy with the other choices--but don't you DARE fail to vote on November 4th because you're too busy, or too undecided, or too sick, or too anything. That privilege is precious in any election, but we're making history this year, one way or another, and you owe it to your suffragette sisters to be a part of it.

Here's a tidbit for you that I never knew till today: there are suffragettes and suffragists! The former were more militant (read: not afraid to break laws, windows, or anything else that got in their way!); the latter practiced only non-violent methods of persuasion, such as protest marches and handing out pamphlets for the cause. "Suffrage," by the way, means "the right to vote." And here, all these years, I thought we called them "suffragettes" because of all the abuse and resistance they suffered through! Isn't language a wondrous thing?

My other wake-up call this week was getting a ticket for not wearing a seat belt. I can't tell you how humiliated I am to have to admit that. The only thing more hypocritical would be if I got caught driving an SUV, because next to harping on those, the other rant my children hear most from me is "Wear your seat belt!" I wouldn't even let them go for their driving test until I saw that putting on a seat belt was standard, routine procedure when they got in a car. People, I have always, always worn my seat belt when driving. But in recent weeks, I confess that I have gotten lax on quick, short runs, like the mile from my house to my church, or the half mile from my house to the post office. I acknowledge that I should put it on, then think, "Oh, pooh, it's only a couple of blocks."

Yesterday, I was running late, distracted, rummaging in my purse for lip gloss to soothe my chapped lips. I got in my car and took off, aware that I had not fastened my seat belt but reasoning, "I'll put it on at the red light," which was just a couple of blocks away. But as I approached that light and was reaching for said seat belt, blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror. "I noticed you weren't wearing your seat belt, ma'am," the somber young officer said when he approached my open window. His eyes widened as I readily admitted my guilt, professed my acute embarrassment, and thanked him for doing his job. He even apologized as he handed over the ticket, saying "I can't give you a warning, ma'am; I have to give you a ticket because Greenville has a zero tolerance policy." I assured him my contrition was not an effort to get off lightly and thanked him again for a reminder that might very well save my life.

You see, in a scary and ironic coincidence, I just found out my cousin ran off the road and flipped her car three times a couple of weeks ago--as she was trying to put on the seatbelt she suddenly realized she wasn't wearing. She was injured, but she's alive--and vehemently admonishing the rest of us to buckle up before we start driving.

No matter how dedicated or zealous we are (or think we are), we all need to be reminded sometimes of the things that matter. And few things matter more than your life and your democracy. So consider yourself reminded--and don't take either one for granted!

• Info about McCain (this is not preference, it's alphabetization: M comes before O, folks)


• National Highway Traffic Safety Association - interesting statistics,advice on child safety and teen drivers, and sobering facts about cell phones, drowsy driving, and motorcycles
  
• Info about Obama

Anyone out there old enough to have witnessed firsthand some of that suffragette activity or remember stories your mother or grandmother told? I'd love to hear your comments!

Holy cats! It's a girl!

Well, dang! I don't do politics, but I have to say that John McCain's choice of Sarah Palin as his VP is the most brilliant strategic move I've seen in a very long time. I'll concede her lack of experience --not that that's a bad thing, given what "experienced" politicians tend to give us-- but I think it's pretty exciting that a woman who's not afraid to speak her mind, not afraid to stand up for her values, appears to have no hidden agendas, and is willing to go on record as saying polar bears aren't the cute, cuddly things Coca-Cola has led us to believe, may end up as our vice-president. And let's not overlook the fact that she gave all five of her children very cool names--a sure sign of great creativity!

Which brings us to the reason that Gov. Palin is such an intriguing choice: her primary accomplishment thus far is being the mother of five children--one of them with Down's syndrome. Parenting one child is a challenge; parenting five deserves a medal (or maybe a vice-presidency?) and requires a massive amount of brains, energy, discipline, compassion, diplomacy, patience, strategic planning, guts, and humor. How hard could it be to run a country after raising five children to be productive members of society?

Frankly, the American family may be the biggest beneficiary of this year's political pandering. Obama, McCain, and Biden are excellent role models for fatherhood (if not husbandhood); they're loving, devoted parents and their affection for their children is obvious, genuine, and brought some welcome moments of truth in the carefully scripted events of this year's conventions. Gov. Palin's commitment to motherhood is apparent in every interview she does. Now, none of us really believe our taxes or insurance premiums or cost of living are going down come January, do we? Surely, you jest. But if all this rhetoric and grandstanding results in a few more moms or dads deciding time with their children is time well spent, then all parties can claim a victory and the whole world will be a better place. Now that's something worth cheering for!

Isn't 50 the New 30?

Okay, I have really, really depressing news from my literary agent. According to her (and she is definitely a woman in the know), it is now virtually impossible to sell a novel with a protagonist over the age of 40 because all the publishing house editors are under 30 and cannot even begin to relate to--or care about--characters of such an advanced age. Hello? We've been hearing "Fifty is the new Thirty" for quite a while now; did Publishers Weekly not get the memo?

Alarmed--and outraged!--I fired up my trusty search engine, determined to prove my agent wrong. To my utter astonishment and consternation, all the mentions of "hen lit" and "matron lit" (gee, why not "fiction about intelligent, interesting women of a certain age"?) that were there just a few months ago, are indeed now missing. And imprints created expressly for the purpose of publishing novels with more mature heroines have closed up shop. It's like someone flipped a switch and said, "Old girls ba-a-a-a-a-d; young girls goo-oo-oo-d!" (If you've read Animal Farm, that comment will be a lot funnier. And if you haven't, you must. Find it/order it/buy it today!)

Not that it'll do any good, but I must protest! Since when did Youth corner the market on compelling fiction? Who decided tramp stamps and college loans trump carpools and midlife crises? We should have seen this coming when Disney announced their plans to publish Miley Cyrus' memoir. Am I the only one who thinks a 15-year-old writing about her life experience is high comedy? The child's barely been on the planet long enough to make a carbon footprint, much less acquire sufficient material for a memoir! Why don't we just go ahead and lower the age requirement for president while we're at it? Maybe young Chelsea could do what old Hillary couldn't!

We've come to expect short-sightedness from television (witness the current glut of reality shows--a phenomenon that started long before the writers' strike), but to think the literary world would succumb to a lack of vision--not to mention abject discrimination--is truly disturbing. I liked Bridget Jones Diary as much as the next person, but please don't make that the watermark for all my reading yet to come! What loss to have never known Clyde Edgerton's Mattie Rigsbee, Louisa May Alcott's Marmee, Virginia Woolf's Clarissa Dalloway, Muriel Sparks' Jean Brodie, or Janet Evanovich's Grandma Mazur! What deprivation to think that, from this point forward, our fictional viewpoints might be restricted to that of people whose formative years never knew Herman's Hermits, Chatty Kathy, Whip 'n' Chill, cheap gas, or life without cell phones!

Hopefully, my agent is wrong. Hopefully, this post will pull comments from editors claiming "Au contraire! We'd love to see novels featuring 'seasoned' women!" Hopefully, I'll hear from book-buying readers clamoring, "Give us your tried, your true! Your middle-aged mamas living life to the fullest!" Because, frankly, the fifty-year-olds I know are a lot more interesting than the thirty-year-olds I know, the eighty-year-olds are downright darling, and how many times do you really want to read another account of Gen X angst?

Please, somebody send me proof that the stars of my novel-in-progress don't have to give up their senior discount to stay in the literary game!

P.S. Diane Lawrence has a funny blog here that explores this same subject from a slightly different perspective, and Mary Hirsch's assertion that Size 18 is the new Size 6 deserves a whole blog entry to itself!

C'mon, get happy!

Now hear this: the world is a happier place than it used to be, according to a study just completed by the University of Michigan. Yep, over the past fifteen years or so, in spite of droughts and wars and dollar cucumbers and five dollar gas, we humans are happier than we've ever been. Surprised?


Humans who live in Denmark are the happiest; that stands to reason: after all, this is the country that gave us "Babette's Feast," (one of the most glorious movies of all times), Hans Christian Anderson, Tivoli Gardens, and Legos. Obviously, these people understand the meaning of fun! Conversely, the unhappiest people on earth are in Zimbabwe; that stands to reason as well. (Stop right now and put those poor people at the top of your prayer list.)


The U.S. comes in at #16 on the Happiness List--not too shabby, given that most of us in this country go to bed with a full stomach and a roof over our heads every night. But get this: while most Americans are out there feeling pretty good, we Baby Boomers--that would be those of us between the ages of 44 and 62-- are apparently miserable. According to a survey by LiveScience.com, "Boomers are tired, overworked, strapped, bummed out and don't expect to get a break." How can this be? We have the best music of any generation, we practically invented the Internet, and we survived leisure suits; where is your pride, people?! Who needs a full night's sleep and a well-endowed bank account when we have David Letterman and eBay? (The latter not a Boomer invention but, hey, we're fast learners) Yes, we're tired. Yes, we are woefully short on our retirement savings. And, yes, we may all end up in Alzheimer's units together (the communes of the 60s, gone geezer!) But life is still a great ride, and Pollyanna is a much better role model than Eeyore. I say turn off Fox and CNN, quit reading the stock market report, and, as the Partridge Family so harmoniously suggested, c'mon, get happy!

If we tolerated Pam Ewing's dream, we can put up with anything. Live long and prosper!

At War with My Inner GRITS

Here lately, I am feeling overwhelmed. Given that I have worked 12+ hour days for most of the month of June, I suspect what I'm actually feeling is exhaustion, but that's a whole other issue. Granted, I am my own worst enemy: when asked about heading up a school event, writing a play for the children's sermon, or hosting a dinner party for six, I do know the word "no," I just have a hard time using it. I am, after all a Girl Raised in the South--which means I have a permanent responsibility to my mother and all who came before her to serve God, family, friends, and country with a smile on my face and a spatula in my hand.

The Good Southern Girl Code says nothing about a pen, much less a keyboard, so I have no one but myself to blame for overloading the straw on that proverbial camel's back with my literary aspirations. I mean, it's not like someone's holding a gun to my head, saying, "You'd better get that next book finished, girl!" (Well, my sister's pretty insistent, but that's just because she wants to go on tour with me again.) So I am the only person I can blame for those feelings of guilt, inadequacy, incompetence, and failure that attack when I collapse on my pillow at 1 AM and acknowledge that another day has gone by without me even opening the file for my novel, much less contributing to it.

Meanwhile, as I lay there beating myself up for not writing, I'm also apologizing to my Inner GRITS for the hot breakfast I failed to cook (my children are perfectly happy with cold cereal, but The Code demands homemade waffles with fresh fruit compote--or at least eggs and toast), the get well cards I failed to send my ailing friends and relations, the foot massage I failed to give my husband, the load of towels I failed to fold, the dire condition of my cuticles, and the feeble pat I offered my dog while ignoring the ball he held hopefully in his mouth. By the time I fall asleep, I am mired in a pool of shame deep enough to fry magnolia blossoms.

Such is the burden of being a Girl Raised in the South. We are kind to strangers, but we are brutal on ourselves. My generation of women is trying to hold up standards our great-grandmothers set and that's just dandy--except they did it without full-time jobs and with a maid and a gardener! True, they didn't have air conditioning, microwaves, or clothes dryers--things I consider pretty much essential at this point--but I suspect I would give up my microwave for a COOK in a heartbeat. My poor family has eaten so much pizza this month, they should have enough lycopene in their bodies to guarantee immortality.

You can say "So lower your standards!" to an overworked, overwhelmed Southern girl, but we interpret that as, "Sugar, you are obviously nothing but white trash and are not worthy of having inherited your Great-Aunt Fannie's crystal lemonade set," so those standards must remain firmly in place even if our sanity slips while trying to meet them. In my own household of all men--all of whom were born in the South but only one of whom seems to celebrate that fact--absolutely NO ONE but me understands why it is tacky to put the mayonnaise jar on the table. I do it frequently, Lord forgive me, but the scolding voice of my mother in my head is loud enough to make me cower. Condiment containers on the table is right up there with not wearing a slip or having a dirty car: certain proof that you are just this side of common--and to true GRITS, there is nothing worse than being common.

Oh, the shame of being a Common Goddess instead of a Comma Goddess! That's enough to give me the vapors. So I promise I'll do better this week, Mother! I'll get a manicure, make the boys cookies from scratch, and I'll mail every one of those get-well cards--right after I finish this next chapter.