Celebrating the Red, White & Blue...in English

You know what bugs me? Ok, lots of things but I recognize you don't have that much time to read my whining so lets just focus on what's bugging me today.

The past three day weekend was marvelous. We celebrated America's birthday and heritage with good friends, good food, and good times. But as Monday marches on, I'm faced with an irritant that's struck me as particularly...well...irritating just after cheering the Red, White and Blue all weekend. And this is it: I hate when I call up a customer service number (to any company--phone company, satellite, Internet provider, etc) and the first option is "For English, press 1."

Really? Since we are living in America, can't we just assume that English is the language spoken and then give an Option to press 1 for other language choices? Spanish, Hungarian, Russian, Pig Latin...

We all know America is the melting pot of the world, and lots of folks living here came from other lands and speak other languages. I am very proud to be an American and know that living here means that we welcome non-native citizens with open arms (except when they arrive via the sea with 20 of their closest friends clinging to a makeshift raft, or running under the cover of night across someone's pasture in Texas). But whether immigrants stepped ashore legally or they snuck in, newsflash: our native language is English. That should at least be the automatic default for...well...anyone or any company. You shouldn't have to request English be the language you receive service in.

The need to be politically correct these days is taken to ridiculous extremes. American companies (or Americans) should not need to worry about offending someone because we have the audacity (gasp!) to think they should be able to speak English. Welcome to America--enjoy what we have to offer but follow the rules and speak the language. If you don't like it, the makeshift raft goes both ways.

The Longest Night Ever

As a general rule, I do not watch scary movies. I have friends and family who love scary flicks but I cannot stand that "on the edge of your seat" feeling, followed by something that startles five years off your life. But somehow, I began watching the television show "Harper's Island" when it first aired last Spring. Maybe it was the incredible amount of advertising they did for the show beforehand. Huh...power of advertising. Go figure.

Anyway, when the show began, we were in Florida at my cousins' house and the entire clan ended up watching it, including my son. And what I discovered was that my 11 year old hates scary stuff as much as I do. But because his similarly aged cousins were there, unafraid and engrossed, he wasn't about to walk away.

As Spring and the end of the school year consumed our time, the episodes of Harper's Island stacked up on our Tivo. That was ok because the Summer re-run time would give us an opportunity to catch up at our convenience. And last weekend, we decided to tune in to a few of the episodes. I wasn't even going to tell Chase we were watching because I didn't think he really liked the show. But he strolled into the living room about 15 minutes into the first one we watched and sat down with us. "What's the big deal," I thought. "He's old enough to understand it's fake, and a TV show isn't bound to be as intense as a movie."

Turns out, they've done a pretty darn good job with this show and making it pretty realistic and very scary. We watched three episodes back to back (the hook they give you at the end of each really compels you to keep watching if you have the next show lined up). All the while, I was whispering to Chase: It's not real. I mean, look at that blood...fake! No one would walk in the woods alone if a madman was really on the loose. Get out of town! As if a girl that pretty would be with a dufus like that. All clearly pretend.

At 11:30, it was time to hit the hay. I stood up laughing about the fakeness of it all, looked at Chase and knew instantly from the ghost while pallor of his face that he wasn't as convinced. I'd be laying down with him at least until he was firmly in Dreamland. This is a rarity for us because I believed all my friends who told me 11 years prior that it was a colossal error to ever let your child sleep in your bed. They'd never leave. So I didn't go the sleep-with-me route. Once, when he was a year old and pretty sick, I took a chance and laid him down in my bed. Two hours, several elbows to the ribs, kicks to my knees and two full counterclockwise turns in the bed (by him, not me) later and I picked his fanny up and deposited him back in his crib. There was no way I could sleep side by side with the non-stop mover.

But he's older now and was clearly not buying my "The show's not real" proclamations. So we laid down side by side in the double bed, bottom portion of his bunk beds. And here's how the night went:

Me: Remember, the show's a fake, ok? None of that stuff happened, no one can get in our house, just close your eyes and go to sleep.
Chase: Are you sure? I think I see someone in the hallway.
Me: There's no one in the hallway. I'm right here. Close your eyes.

Fast forward one hour and Chase has most decidedly closed the gap between us and was on me like white on rice.

Chase: Mommy, are you sleeping?
Me: What? Oh, um, I was. Are you ok?
Chase: I think I hear something.
Me: You don't. I promise. Remember: fake. All fake. Now please go to sleep.

Fast forward 30 minutes. I'm pretty sure he's drifted off and I'm trying to fit myself comfortably in about 8" of space he's left me on the bed. I gently roll off the bed, check to be sure he's undisturbed and tip-toe to my room and my big Tempur-pedic mattress. Lay down and am out within 5 minutes.

Screaming. Someone is screaming bloody murder. I jump up and stumble back to Chase's room where he is sitting up and howling hysterically.

Me: I'm here. I'm here. It's ok. Lay back down. I told you, nobody is in the house but us. You're fine. I'll stay in here all night.

We lay back down and after awhile, eventually settle back in.

Chase: Mom?
Me: Yes?
Chase: I'm not sure I can sleep. I really don't like that show.
Me: I know it. You won't watch any more of it but still, please remember it's not real. That was fake blood, no such actual place, all a story. Please try and go to sleep.
Chase: I'm hot. Are you hot?
Me: You're bundled up with a shirt on, socks, under a blanket. Take off all that stuff, Parka-boy. No wonder you're hot.
Chase: I gotta leave the blanket on.

Apparently, the blanket was going to keep him safer from the boogey man than I could. I was too tired to be offended. Fast forward an hour.

Chase: Mom? Are you sleeping? I hear something in the hall.
Me: Chase, I told you. There's no one here. That show wasn't real. Those people are all actors and none of them are actually killed, ok? I can find you a magazine tomorrow that will show those people cavorting in Miami at a nightclub, half clothed or walking down Wilshire Blvd drinking a half-caf, soy milk latte or exiting the local gym because working out is what they do.
Chase: What's cavorting?
Me: Go to sleep.
Chase: I'll try.

Another hour.

Chase: What time is it?
Me: Three...forty...five.
Chase: This is the longest night ever.
Me: Yes (sigh). It most certainly is.

I think he might have actually fallen asleep at that point as I also did but not before the last thought went through my head: He'll never, ever (ever) watch Harper's Island again. Ever.