After spending nearly 30 years in the restaurant business – where weekend meant busy and long shifts – I’ve spent the last three years working with the regular world.  I like this two days off in a row, weekend thing.  Gives me time ponder frivolously and is there a mo’ fun thing to do?  

Did I mention I love Saturdays?  With pillow hair stiffly saluting the ceiling, I gladly remind all that bacon is tastier, slippers are more comfortable, O.J. is…O-ier.  Soon it will be two in the afternoon and I’m thinking an old movie…a black and white movie…will be the thing.  I’ll actually read something today.  I’ll hum around in my room, shuffle through a small pile of left and right pocket papers on the dresser, and find three useful things.  And, I’ll have time ponder frivolously; is there a mo’ fun thing to do?

(Pondering music plays in the background)

Did you know first century Romans used Saturday as the first day of the week?  This day was called dies Saturni, "Saturn's Day", by the ancient Romans in honor of Saturn, the god of automobile companies who move south because they think it will be cheaper to build, but end up designing vanilla cars that don’t spark the imaginations or wallets. 

Saturn was originally thought to be the son of the most powerful Roman gods, Sell-em-junk and his half-mortal wife, Make-em-pay.  But the evil Iacocca - master of all things plastic that garner 90 day initial quality awards but then crumble to dust in a year - stole him away on a Saturday, thus forcing the quick thinking Roman marketing department to think of…something.  They simply made Saturday ‘da bomb!’ and everyone forgot about Saturn.  Now, no one thinks of him.  Probably pumps gas in some small Alabama town.  Or Tennessee, franklin.  Um…frankly.  That’s what I meant to say.

But we live and learn, I hope.  For instance, I heard recently that if you measured learning and plotted it on a graph of sorts, the learning that took place since the country was founded up until 1845 could be represented by a bar about one inch tall. 

Looking at the pace of learning in the hundred years after that, the bar would be two inches tall; what we knew doubled.  Impressive. 

From 1945 until today, what we know and how quickly we’ve learned, assimilated, and begun to utilize that knowledge would require a bar twice the height of the Washington monument.  All that and we still by Chryslers.  *shakes his head* 

That’s all for this Saturday’s pondering.  I know, it’s pretty deep stuff, but take the day to digest it, okay?

Happy Saturday!

"Men," she told me, "do things.  Women get things done."

I don't know if I quite agree with that statement.  Well, I do know if I agree or not, I'm just trying to maintain some journalistic integrity.  Let's examine the facts.

When it comes time to cut the grass, a man rolls fully prepared.  He sits down and, using finely tuned instincts, decides a course of action.  The ultimate question: cut first or trim first?  Does it look like rain?  Is the neighbor across the fence taking care of his weeds?  Does the man walk forgiven for what he accidentally cut last time?  All important factors. 

His finest grass cutting shorts (the pair someone’s tried to throw away four times) barely move in the breeze; the cotton died long ago.  A fresh jug of ice water, cell phone in right pocket in case a call comes in, and the hat with strange stains completes the uniform.  He walks the property gathering up all the loose action figures, big sticks and other sundry items.  Finally, he must decide which ballpark he wants to use as a model for his cut.

When you watch a baseball game, pay attention to the camera shots that pull back and pan across the outfield.  That criss-cross pattern?  That’s his goal; to get his backyard, or if he dares, front yard, looking like a major league outfield.  Ah, the stuff of dreams.

Then he cuts.  After a break to refill the gas tank he finishes.  Afterwards, he stands with his hands on his hips, much like Moses probably did when he saw the Promised Land.  I hope you can appreciate the love, care, and concern that go into this project.  It's done and it's done right, no matter what.

A woman fills the tank with gas, and cuts the grass.  After that she . . . mmm . . . does more stuff.  Let's move on to another example.

When a man washes clothes - hey, we got a rover on Mars, this could happen - he is the model of efficiency.  Whites go in this pile, colors in that pile, her stuff goes in the other pile.  A man does not wash her stuff; because when a man washes her stuff, invariably it wasn't supposed to be washed in the washer (goofball), or dried in the dryer (chucklehead). 

He then separates the whites into sub piles.  Any undies in the first load, plain and simple whites in the second load, and whites with any hint of color go back in the hamper.  See "does not wash" reason above. 

Colors get separated into four hundred piles, and are washed in the smallest loads possible.  Better to get griped at for doing too small a load then for . . . see above.

Once he's set, he whirls about the laundry room making sure there's a load in the dryer at all times.  All the neighborhood kids fall victim to the Pied Piper gift of ice cream and Kool-Aid made with twice the sugar, and then sent to folding.  Five crooked, gigantic piles of clothes greet the missus when she walks in the door. 

She looks on in amazement, smiles that funny smile, and makes a beeline for the washer to see if the powder blue top got washed.  You notice in the next few days she's washing a bit more frequently.  When she washes, she makes about four motions with her hands, and the clothes stand washed and folded.  Well, what I mean is, she . . . um . . .

Hey, it's time to go get tags for the car.  I'll go on the 30th; no one has money on the 30th and the lines will be shorter.  See, this is how a man thinks.  Always ahead, always trying to maximize his time.  A woman; women are notoriously late, you know, will . . . oh . . . she already got her tags?  Hmmm.

See, a man dives into his tasks with guns blazing, focused on what needs to be done, and puts forth maximum effort.  He sorts, organizes, categorizes, and plans. 

A woman, on the other hand, kind of gets . . .

What I mean is a man works out details and. . . 

What I really mean is a woman sort of. . gets . . .

Just forget it. 

And on the seventh day, He rested.

Do you think that on the evening of the sixth day, very late in the evening, He paused and took a look around? I think he did for one very special reason.

He gazed across high mountain peaks, crusty with snow and ice, their faces sheared at sharp angles from the winds that whipped and carved the stone. He ran his hand down the sides until the jagged and abrupt became smooth and flowing. A gentle wind then blew, bringing a light, steady rain, sprouting trees and brush and flowers on the slopes and in the hollows. I think He ran through a few seasons just to enjoy the bright hues explode each spring, and to see how comfortable the sleep of winter was for all. The valleys gave way to rolling hills, lush with green grass and musical with trickling creeks of clear, crisp water.

The hills melted into long plains of yellow and brown grasses, and He ran His hand across these too. Back and forth, back and forth, he ran his hand. At the end of the fields were the forests. I think He was very particular about what He placed in the forests.

Plants that needed much light, fungus that needed very little. Flowers that needed moisture and hardy things that needed nothing. Along with all this variety, He created specific creatures for the benefit of the forest, and late on the sixth evening, He "flipped the switch."

He watched streams that, with persistence and perseverance, wound their way to the rivers. He followed rivers that majestically and gracefully marched towards the sea. And with a word, He filled it all with "Life."  Then, I think, much as a painter stands back and dabs a little shadow here, a little light there just to add some depth to the painting, he spoke and added some final touches. A desert here, a rainforest there, a few handfuls out of the Light and Fluffy bag of clouds, and then He grabbed the bottom of a special bag. Opening the top, He flung its contents across the heavens, spreading stars out forever. It was perfect. Then He looked well into the future.

He saw a man running around in all this perfection, stumbling over his ambition, howling at the moon when things confused him, and struggling with talents given.  He loved this man, as much as He loved everything He saw on the evening of this sixth day, and He knew the man would need help.

Mickey Sue, that's when He decided I'd need you.

And with as much care and attention as He gave to His world, He handpicked the good from everything, and made you.

From the mountains He made you strong, dependable, and majestic in your determination, and set your jaw in stone. From the slopes He gave you a voice that's given to musical laughter as smooth and gentle as a southerly breeze. He gave you light through a smile as bright as any sun to lift me up in my winters and keep me focused during my wild summers. He gave you a richness of character and a gentle, steady rhythm for me to depend on. He took the harmony from the forest and surrounded you with it, allowing you to become a special mom. He saved a bit of sparkle from that special bag, and dusted it across you as the final ingredient. Finally, He whispered something in your ear.

I don't know what it was, but I'm sure it was an explanation for all my stumbling and howling and struggles. Whatever it was, I'm glad He told you. Heavenly insight has to be the reason you put up with me.

That was the sixth day. Knowing that you were going to be around, I can see why He felt comfortable enough to rest on the seventh day.

Happy Mother's Day to all moms, to all who have been mom's, and to all who fill the role of mom in our lives!

1. Rachel Ray. 

2. Speaking of the Food Network, the other day a woman rolled out the recipe for and deftly showed me how to make a grilled cheese. How does one “carefully” butter bread, anyway?  Might you accidentally jab the butter knife in your eye half a dozen times at the end of a swipe?  Need to rewind so I can go over that ‘flip the bread over’ part again.  If many more than a few of us need this instructional video, I think the end might be even closer.

3. The unholy trio of hail storms, roofers, and insurance adjusters.

4. Ten people sitting in a coffee shop.  They were working on their blogs, answering emails, visiting other bloggers and having deep, philosophical conversations with folks on the other side of the planet…and not saying a word to the person sitting in a chair 18 inches away from them.  It was a bit eerie.  What was I doing there?  Writing about it in my blog.

5. TAKS testing.

6. People YELLING into their cell phones when they talk.  Does it come from what we experienced in the early days of wireless phones – does that pitch “Can you hear me now?” still reflect how bad we think a connection sounds?  If you’re ever next to me somewhere and I start yelling on my cell, pinch my head off, please?  (Can you imagine being somewhere and find you’re next to Rachel Ray as she gets on her cell?  *shiver*)

7. Reality shows.  Even the ones I HAVE to watch.

8. New movies made from old TV shows.

9. Two entrees, two margaritas, tax and tip.  3.7 billion dollars.

10. Finally, this.  Saturday afternoon, about 1 PM.  I’m walking our dogs up at the local park and you know who was there?  Not a soul.  No kids at all.  They’re all at organized sports and they’ll be there all day and probably all weekend. 

How long can a society last if – on a given Saturday – there aren’t ten year old kids sneaking a cigarette behind someone’s garage, trying to jump a creek and busting out a front tooth, or laying on the grass, studying cloud shapes for four hours?  I bet even Rachel Ray was in the park on Saturdays when she was a kid, playing ball, laughing, yelling to the other kids…hey wait!  Rachel, yelling in the park, parks now empty – oh.  No.  No.  It can’t be.