The moment no one was really waiting for: answers!

But first, a few words on my latest foray into the world of Quality Journalism: a brief, yet pulse-raising, story on the joys of alternative grains. Oh, the things I now know about alternative grains. I could opine for hours on the wonders of sorghum, the delights of quinoa, the buckwheatiness of buckwheat. The information I have on quinoa would curl your hair. The depth of my knowledge regarding amaranth—if I shared a single tidbit with you, your jackets would grow epaulets. For instance: In the month of Panquetzaliztli*, the Aztecs used a paste made with amaranth seeds and human blood to create dough figures of their gods. There. Now go check your closet. It’s a good thing the military look is back in style.

As for buckwheat, hold on to your shoes: it’s not wheat. Not wheat at all. Call it wheat, and within seconds aging natural-food-store managers will burst out of your closet to flog you with their gray-streaked ponytails. The End.

Answer time!

1.

a) Cookie.

b) Sesame Street.

c) Come with me (“Come on, Mommy” will also be accepted as correct.)

d) This was the toughest one: Swing at the playground. Even I didn’t get this one, for a few harrowing days.

2. The official answer is “D,” but I’m pretty sure he’s said all of these things at one point or another. And as for the comment’s reception: she was quite amused, as she herself taught him the word “booze.” Sigh.

3-7. Well, duh. Obviously C. Although I think C is the answer to everything in life.

I was amazed at the near-accuracy of your answers. (Carole and LOD, especially, as they were the first to identify some of the phrases in question.) You are all very good, and deserve many awards, none of which I have to give. But didn’t I just give you free epaulets?

*Panquetzaliztli is my favorite month. Sure, it's cold, but who doesn't look forward to a few bites out of an amaranth-and-blood Xochipilli during the feast of Huauquiltamalcualitztli?

Get out your pencils--it's quiz time.

1. Given that sometimes (but not always) c/d = t, s = f, g = d, k/c = p, p = b, r = w or h, n = m, and a/e/i/o/u = schwa, and extra syllables will sometimes be added to or removed from words as the mood strikes, translate the following before meltdown occurs:

a) Tuh-tee! TUH-TEE.

b) Femma-may feet! Femma-may FEET.

c) Tummonnameee! TUMMONNAMEEE.

d) Fing-atta-bingbong! I SAID, FING ATTA BINGBONG.

2. Given that clearly worded phrases will be ignored while muttered asides will be repeated with stunning clarity, which of the following is your child likely to announce in the presence of a grandparent?

a) Suck me.

b) That is such bullshit.

c) Fuckity fuckity fuck.

d) I love Grandma. Grandma the booze hound.

The following rules are:

a) Always true

b) Never true

c) Sometimes true, but YOU WON’T KNOW WHEN THEY’RE TRUE AND WHEN THEY’RE NOT TRUE.

3. The more you want your child to do something, the less likely he is to do it, even if it’s something he himself wants. Ha, ha.

4. Any food item that is crunchy, mushy, porous, green, red, hot, cold, or warm will be immediately tossed to the ground. Just be glad it didn’t get thrown in your face.

5. When your child has worked himself into a froth over something until he’s in such a state of disarray that he’s lost track of what he wanted in the first place, what will almost certainly calm him is a rational, coherent explanation of why his temper tantrum was ill-advised. So keep talking, jerk, see where it gets you.

6. Acquaintances want to hear about your child’s charming hijinks only slightly more than they want to hear about the unique challenges of parenthood.

7. You’re in charge. Until the kid wakes up.

Why I am a hypocrite.

Because I obsessively check all my favorite blogs and if they’re not updated every other day, I’m pissed. Meanwhile, here’s my very own blog, which is so less than fresh that it needs some gentle guidance on blog hygiene, perhaps from an understanding counselor it looks up to.

That’s why!

Changing the subject:

My friend F. -- who, despite years of my undoubtedly creepy pleading for him and his wife J. to move to NYC, actually did so, packing up their San Francisco lives and settling down smack dab in Brooklyn, much to my unfettered delight—what was I saying? Wait! Yes! So F., a native Californian, has insisted since he moved here that New Yorkers are rude.

Rude! Us! Have you ever!

Specifically (and I don’t want to put words in his mouth although that’s exactly what I’m doing) he takes issue with the curtness of NYC service people—the cashiers and salespeople and waitstaff whose brusqueness and lack of cheer wear away at one’s soul.

When he first brought this up, my response was one of hysterical denial—“We’re so not rude you just have to get to know the way we are and then you’ll love it here because WE LOVE YOU DON’T LEAVE US”—but then once I calmed down and realized F. and J. were not about to pack up and scamper off in the night because a cashier didn’t say “Good morning,” I gave his complaints some serious thought.

And now, damn him, I keep noticing the horrible service I’m met with at every point of purchase. While occasionally you’ll find a chatty salesperson (like the cashier at the Container Store who was so damn sunny, someone in front of me demanded to know what they were giving her, to which she replied, “A fantastic workplace!” and every one else on line threw up), by and large when you purchase something in New York, you’ll be helped by Muttery McSullenhead or Sneery O’talksonhercellphone. (Yes—the rude salespeople are always Irish. )

I always assumed that salespeople were cruel because the territory on the other side of a cash register is a terrible, terrible place to be. I’ve done it. I was the worst sales associate ever in the history of Saks Fifth Avenue; I was a bank teller who routinely doled out the wrong amount of money to unsuspecting money-takers; as a waitress, I poured scalding-hot coffee on someone’s hand (accidentally) and a mixed drink on someone else’s head (also accidentally).

On the other hand. Wasn’t I always the friendliest incompetent? Wasn’t I grasping for some human connection across the gulf separating customer from employee? You can’t answer this, so I will: yes! I was so damn likeable! My customers seemed to regret it when they asked if I was disabled! My employers always apologized when they fired me!

So the misery is no excuse. Okay. But is it true that New Yorkers are necessarily ruder than people in other parts of the country? I can’t say I’ve noticed any dramatic difference in service in, say, Oklahoma. But I’ve never been to Oklahoma. So I need your help. Are sales staff in Boise kinder? Do tellers in Tallahassee mean it when they order you to have a nice day? Or, if you work with the public in NYC (and if you do, I am so sorry): why you gotta be like that?

Thank you. And have a nice day.

Shirts on, America!

By the imaginary power vested in me by the United States of America, I hereby declare Saturday, July 24th, to be National Put Your Shirt On Day.

This day is directed at men everywhere. Ladies, you can remove your shirts with abandon, although—do I have to say it?—even in states where it’s legal for women to sun our boobs in the park, we tend not to.

Or maybe you do. In which case, huzzah! Send pictures!

Where was I? Ah, yes.

WHEREAS men everywhere--the six-packed and the ones with the bellies hanging to their knees; the ones sunning their pelts of back hair and the others who clearly wax their entire upper body; the bony-shouldered and the fat-necked; the overly tanned and the pasty-white—apparently have no problem exposing their upper bodies to the general public;

WHEREAS they seem to think they look damn sexy, strutting their naked chests about, tucking their damp, sweaty t-shirts into a back pocket;

WHEREAS, and I don’t care how good a body you have, such a sight is desperately unsexy;

WHEREAS they have no ability to discern where it is appropriate to be topless (the beach, the privacy of your own home) and where it’s so, so wrong (the subway, the drugstore, in front of me);

WHEREAS I never, ever again want to accidentally brush up against the sweaty contours of some stranger’s back-fat because he doesn’t have the decency to keep a healthy distance away from other people (much less put his shirt on);

We, the disgusted, shall use July 24th to spread the word: PUT YOUR SHIRT ON.

To celebrate Put Your Shirt On day, any time we see a topless man parading his chest-hairs down the avenue, we shall point to him and shout, “PUT YOUR SHIRT ON!” He might take offense, true—but on the other hand, you might engage him in a fruitful dialogue about the unattractiveness of the unshirted. Maybe he’ll learn a little something. Maybe he’ll grow. Maybe he’ll PUT HIS DAMN SHIRT ON.

This Saturday, across this mighty land, there will be heard triumphant cries of Put Your Shirt On. And the Shirts shall be Put On. And it will be good.

Who’s with me?