Column: We just won't abide a rude attitude!

We just won't abide a rude attitude

Jan 6, 2010
By Gale Hammond




It was a very rude year. In fact, 2009 was so discourteous that a grassroots effort is under way to help us clean up our act.

It's called the Civility Project - an endeavor put together by two gentlemen with dissimilar backgrounds who came together and yelled, "We're as mad as hell and we're not going to take this anymore." Well, no, I don't think they actually did that since doing so would be, well ... rude.

These gentlemen, Mark DeMoss and Lanny Davis are friends who, with others, founded the Civility Project. DeMoss describes himself as a conservative, evangelical Southern Baptist while Davis is of the Jewish faith. Politically and religiously they are poles apart; DeMoss supported Mitt Romney (who is Mormon) for president and Davis has been affiliated with Bill and Hillary Clinton. Other project originators are more aligned with Barack Obama and still others worked to elect a fellow Republican to follow George Bush.

You would think folks with such diverse points of view would get along about as well as a barn full of feral cats, right? Well, you would think. But get along they do - so much so that they launched an effort to return civility not only to politics but also to everyday life and discourse.

And why not? I mean, in a year when we saw so many impolite acts in one little 12-month span, I think these fellows might be on to something. For example:

The political arena was rudeness run amok in 2009. The ink on the Obamas' change-of-address form was hardly dry before Republicans and Democrats were again going at it full tilt. So much for change. The stinky stuff really hit the fan last fall when South Carolina Representative Joe Wilson hollered, "You lie!" during the commander-in-chief's health care address to Congress. Rude? Hmm ... do ya think?

Such a mess! Town hall meetings where elected representatives faced rude and angry mobs over health care reform. Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich removed from office for audaciously peddling President Obama's vacated Senate seat. Brazen gatecrashers breaking into a White House state dinner. Gov. Sarah Palin brashly bailing on Alaska.

And how bad-mannered was it that Palin's new grandson's father, what's-his-name, dropped his drawers for Playgirl magazine? C'mon, dude. We prefer those denims remain firmly buttoned about your backside.

But my personal Rudeness-Loser-of-the-Year award goes to "religion and family values" endorser, Gov. Mark "I'm hiking the Appalachian Trail" Sanford who not only wasn't trekking the trail to clear his head after a "tough economic session," but was tumbling in the hay with his paramour in Argentina - disappearing from even his staff's radar for a very inappropriate - and rudely - long time. I don't know about you, but I hope Mrs. S. dumped that snake's belongings on the front lawn and started one heck of a bonfire. At least she didn't show up for his pathetically self-serving press conferences with the infamous stand-by-your-man attitude.

Uncouth behavior wasn't limited to political figures. A few Hollywood celebs simply soared on the rudeness meter. Remember when Taylor Swift won her Video Music Award and Kanye West went all Joe Wilson on her by jumping on stage and launching off on his tangent? Or when Carrie Prejean, the dumped Miss USA beauty queen, appeared on CNN's Larry King show to hawk her new book and called HIM inappropriate? Hey, honey, unless Larry made one more sex tape than you reportedly did, I'd be careful about who I called inappropriate.

And wasn't the Christmas Day arrest of Charlie Sheen a festive addition to the holiday season? Call me old fashioned but a little domestic violence on Christmas isn't my first choice of family holiday traditions. The good news about Charlie's arrest was that it - temporarily - removed the media circus from the front doorstep of Tiger Woods, who so impolitely forgot his marriage vows like, maybe ... a few hundred times.

So what do you say, friends? Are you up for the Civility Pledge? With all of this rude and unbecoming behavior, perhaps it's time to come together, agreeing to disagree, but hopefully without the boorishness. We can all do with less screaming and cheating and throwing stuff at one another, right?

Here, then, is the oath: "I will be civil in my public discourse and behavior. I will be respectful of others whether or not I agree with them. I will stand against incivility when I see it."

Now I could get all hardnosed and say if you know what's good for you, you'll take this oath. Right now. Because I'm as mad as hell about incivility and I'm not going to take this anymore. But I hate to go all Joe Wilson on you. It just wouldn't be right. And I wouldn't want you to see me as being, well ... rude.

Column: Driven to Distraction on "the" L.A. freeways

September 18, 2009, by Gale HammondPeople in Southern California love their freeways. Ask them how they get to work and they'll say, "Well, I hop onto the 405 but it'll likely be bogged down so I'll take the 5 'til I can grab the 101, then jump down, turn around and …" If you're confused, join the club. I mean, what's up with with our neighbors down south and all the "thes" in L.A.?

Speaking of "the" freeways, have you experienced rush hour in L.A.? And by rush hour I mean anywhere between 12:01 a.m. and 11:59 p.m. - and that's just on weekends. Yep, rush hour in SoCal is approximately 27 hours long. Per day. And the abnormal occurrence when you actually find a freeway not strangled with vehicles? That's right. Traffic immediately clogs up because just ahead three lanes are now closed due to Caltrans sand-blasting graffiti from a freeway overpass at a cost of approximately $90 jillion, which has nothing to do with traffic, but still. I'm just saying.

And the term "rush hour?" What sicko thought that one up? When is the last time you "rushed" anywhere in L.A.'s rush hour traffic unless it's to a hospital to treat the lethal blood pressure you acquire as you sit trapped in a steel hotbox while a huge diesel big rig blows smoke up your tailpipe.

Something you should know about driving in L.A. is that you never arrive anywhere on the same day you left. I don't care if your destination is two exits down the road. You will encounter traffic jams the likes of which have never before occurred on Planet Earth. And carpool lanes? Forget about it. L.A. carpool lanes are scientifically designed to keep you from entering them. Ever. Unless possibly you are the driver of a hearse transporting a dead person because carpool lane signs don't technically state that all of a vehicle's occupants have to be alive.

But suppose you stumble upon one of those rare times when the planets all align in perfect order and you're maintaining the L.A. freeway required minimum speed limit of 97 miles per hour. Suddenly the road is teeming with drivers careening violently past you. This is the beloved L.A. phenomenon known as the "I'll-Drive-Like-A-Bat-Out-Of-Hell-Regardless-of-Where-I'm-Going-Just-Because-I-Can" state-of-mind. And that's just the CHP officers. Hahahaha - no, I just made that up. L.A. freeways are the last place you'll find a CHP officer. I mean, they'd be crazy to drive on those roads.

What you WILL find sharing the road with you in L.A. are fast, expensive cars. Ferraris. Lamborghinis. And at the other end of the spectrum? Ancient, custom-by-crash "muscle cars" that blow past you like you're standing still. But for heavens sake, DO NOT HONK at the other drivers. In L.A. honking or other signs of annoyance will get you shot. Seriously.

Occasionally you'll encounter drivers courteously using their turn signal indicating their intent to move to another lane. This is a major alert that you are following a car from another part of the country driven by an old person. That's right. It is against the law to use turn signals or to be old in L.A. Besides, L.A. drivers like to surprise you with their quick impulsive moves on the highway. Angelenos are just fun like that. So if you're following a vehicle with its turn signal engaged, it's safe to assume that said turn signal was activated by a geriatric driver somewhere around Bakersfield.



And I hate to complain but could those freeways get any more confusing with their myriad of names? Interstate 5 is called the Golden State Freeway or simply "the 5." If you're south of downtown, I-5 is the Santa Ana Freeway. Even further south, I-5 is the San Diego Freeway. As is the Big Daddy of all SoCal freeways, "the 405" - legendary as one of the country's most congested highways. But hey! It's the only place in L.A. where you can park for free!

You could call Interstate 10 plain old "Interstate 10," but where's the fun in that? It's referred to as the Santa Monica Freeway or the San Bernardino Freeway - depending on which direction you're traveling. Unfortunately I'm not making this up.

And the highway we know here simply as "101" or the Bayshore Freeway? Yep, those full-of-fun folks in L.A. have a whole bevy of names for that one. In some areas it's the Hollywood Freeway. Driving toward the southern coast? It's the Ventura Freeway. Or the Ventura Freeway could be SR-134 if you're in Burbank. Got all that? Nope, me neither.

So what do you do if you're going to L.A. and find yourself stuck on one of "the" freeways? You pray. You pray REALLY HARD that gas climbs to $20 a gallon. Now THAT would clear away some serious traffic!

Column: Don't mess with me: I can't find my can opener!

September 4, 2009, by Gale HammondToday, an important announcement: I have undertaken a risky project at Casa Hammond. Things could get ugly here, friends. I am re-organizing my kitchen cupboards. And as my friend Linda recently reminded me, "re-organizing" falsely implies that once they were organized.

This nonsense all started a few days ago when I couldn't find the orange that I swear I bought. I checked the fruit bin in the fridge. The kitchen countertops. Behind the coffee-maker. I even looked in the bowl containing the artificial fruit in case it had slipped in there unnoticed, attempting to make its getaway.

When my diligent search failed to produce the darned thing, I proceeded with Plan B. Since the orange was to be part of the evening's dinner salad, I'd go with the next best thing: canned mandarin orange sections. Yes, Julia Child would have been wringing her hands at my use of a "canned good," but hey! Somebody has to keep those packing plants in business!

Oh-oh, this wasn't good. My canned oranges were also MIA. Searching the pantry fruitlessly - and yes, that was a pretty awful pun but just roll with me here - I suddenly remembered that the canned oranges were wedged in next to the popcorn - and no, don't ask.

Canned oranges in hand, I paused to think: Where was the can opener? Now I know there are at LEAST three can openers in the utensil drawer (or rather "drawers" since every drawer in the place seems to contain multitudes of utensils of one kind or another. Where was the old, hard to hold and harder to crank "Early Marital" can opener? Or the more hand-friendly can-opening device I purchased when it appeared the marriage was going to last? I'd even settle for the ultra-technical can opener contraption that senior NASA scientists would have difficulty operating.


The last apparatus is an offering Mr. H. tried to anonymously dump under the Christmas tree a couple of years ago. I say "anonymously" because we'd had that "No Home Appliances for Christmas" talk before. You know; that's the talk on Christmas morning that follows your opening of a beautifully wrapped … toaster (or drill press or what have you). Mind you, I haven't eaten toast since approximately Woodstock. My spouse on the other hand? That's right; it's on his menu every morning, and that fancy new appliance certainly delivers a kick-start to his day. But I'm not bitter. Nope. Not me.

So the handwriting was on the kitchen wall. It was time to gut the cupboards and drawers because heaven only knows the last time this took place but I'd hazard a guess that my youngest was still in diapers.

And isn't going through the kitchen cupboards similar to an archeological dig? For example: There's the powdered milk I purchased during my Earth-Mother-Yogurt-Making era. Hopefully all the live cultures and freeze-dried bacteria made a respectable exit and aren't feeding a family of mice somewhere under the floor. And here are the Wonder Breakfast Cookies that were supposed to save me so much time when I was rushing off to work. The only "Wonder" was in how awful they tasted. Those hockey pucks were so nasty I wanted to stay in bed until lunch just to forego breakfast.

And wait! Hold on a second! What's this? Waaaaaay back in a hard-to-reach cupboard lay my old plastic-ware Jell-O mold. Back in the day we used to burp those plastic-ware bowls more than the baby. All that harmful air trapped inside until - whoosh! Your food could stay fresh for thousands of years! It was practically a religious experience, I'm telling you. And my right-of-passage into adulthood would have been complete with my plastic-ware Jell-o mold except for one tiny hitch. I never made Jell-o. Making Jell-o reminded me of … well, chemistry. Not that I'd ever taken chemistry, mind you, but if I had, it would have been hard.

Although organizing my kitchen was the order of the day, the real predicament came in figuring out what to do when I realized I had somewhere in the neighborhood of eight spatulas and half a dozen sets of measuring spoons. And what of those more obscure kitchen gadgets? I couldn't just go disposing of them all willy-nilly, could I? Good heavens! There may be Martha-Stewart-worthy dinner parties on the horizon that could never come off without my Indian wok or my clever little Spudnik potato masher.

Meanwhile, I must stay focused on getting organized so I can find my kitchen tools in a timely manner. Maybe I'll just take a couple of these spatulas and drop them off at the donation location downtown. But which ones? Wow. This is irritating. In the meantime, can I interest you in a nearly new, 30-year-old Jell-o mold?

Aug. 21, 2009: Up a Stream-of-Consciousness without a paddle

Years ago when I was in college, the professor assigned a writing exercise using the literary technique known as "stream-of-consciousness." Seemingly perfect for my loose-knit brain, this is a free-flowing stream of thoughts written down as they occur. You know - letting loose, going with the flow. Don't worry about grammar, punctuation, complete sentences or even making sense. Just tap into that "stream." It is liberating. It is thought provoking. It is crazier than bat poop.

Yes, I know, great writers like Faulkner practically created entire novels in this manner, crafting stunningly brilliant prose. Personally, my stream-of-consciousness writings would make psychologists sit up and take note. They would draw little arrows to one side of my rambling hen-scratches stating, "Watch this person: may have Manson-family-type tendencies."

Although my stream-of-consciousness musings weren't a raging success, something must have taken hold because here I am, years later, accepting the startling realization that I have taken stream-of-consciousness to a whole new level. I've turned it into a way of life. Yes, friends, I am living an unstructured, hanging loose, go-with-the-flow, crazy as bat poop lifestyle.

This is not how I intended it to be, mind you. I am in total awe of folks who begin their days with a neatly compiled list of activities and end those same days with a bunch of neat little check marks noting the successful completion of said activities.

Granted, I can compose a killer to-do list. I can make it purposeful and complete. I can even fool myself into thinking I will actually follow said to-do list. But then … you know. Even the most well thought out plans are victims of happenstance. Because stuff happens, people! For example:

Wednesday: To-do list

1. Water and prune container plants.
2. Take chicken out of freezer for dinner.
3. Go to gym; come home; shower; get dressed.
4. Meet Sally for lunch.
5. Go to bank, grocery store, cleaners.
6. Make appointment for vehicle servicing.
7. Bake brownies for book club meeting.
8. Make dinner; clean kitchen.
9. Bed.

Wednesday: Stream-of-consciousness edition

1. Begin watering plants; notice that deer are eating flowers on new plant. Go find big fat plant book to check if plant is deer resistant. OK; where is that book? Thought I put it here on the laundry room shelf next to the … oh-oh. Still haven't removed the wine stain on the ottoman because here's the stuff I bought to clean it with and … oh, never mind; I should definitely just recover the thing; never did care for that fabric anyway ...Let's see, where is the measuring tape, I'll get the ottoman's dimensions … since I'll be downtown I'll purchase new fabric and recover it tomorrow. Now. If the upholstery fabric is 54 inches wide I could … oops, forgot to take out the chicken. Walking to the fridge and - what on earth is that dog doing? Great, he's rolling in turkey do-do again. Grab the dog, fill the laundry sink, wash this mess out of his coat - what is the matter with him for the love of - yikes! Look at the time! Now there's no time for the gym; oh, well. I'll go tomorrow FOR SURE.

Showered and running out the door. Dang! Broke my sunglasses. Well, I can't be running around in this bright summer sun without them. Make a quick stop to buy sunglasses before meeting Sally, the store is practically next door to the restaurant, and I would've been right on time for lunch except the machine to charge the sunglasses to my credit card wasn't working so here I am almost 10 minutes late, and I'll just give Sally a quick call to let her know I'm almost there and - WHAT?? My cell phone isn't working? OH!!!!!

Have a fun (albeit late) lunch with Sally, we laugh and laugh and then I'd better see what's wrong with this dang phone and the salesman says it's going to take awhile to program my new phone, not to mention download all those precious pictures, because wouldn't you know the old phone is toast so I have time to run an errand, which is fortunate because we need dog food and the dog food purchase takes longer than I thought so finally back to the phone store and now what?! They lost all the pictures stored on my old cell phone! Well, great. Salesman is calling the technician for advice. Might as well get an ice cream cone while I'm waiting. There goes the diet.Two hours later and I have to leave behind a part on my old phone that may or may not retrieve my lost pictures so back home I go and oh, swell, it's time to make dinner. Chicken is still in the freezer. Better order a pizza, already blew the diet anyway, but first I'll just finish watering the plants …

Warning! Warning! Grandparents on duty

Apr 14, 2009 By Gale Hammond

There is something I've been meaning to tell you. We're having a baby. Well, not "we" exactly, as in Mr. H. and I. Rather, we are getting a brand new granddaughter. Not that there was anything wrong with the old one, mind you, but a new baby sister was about to arrive. This meant while Daughter No. 1 and her hubby were at the hospital "picking out" new baby Emily, someone needed to watch "old" baby Gracie, age 21 months. So Mr. H. and I headed for Southern California. Yep: It was going to be Grandparents on duty.

Now this assignment should have been a snap because Gracie and I are pretty tight. We go back a long way. I spent the better part of Gracie's first year taking care of her in Long Beach while her parents worked full time. I learned about all the latest baby accessories while discovering modern baby gear involves massive numbers of batteries, music and moving parts. It made me wonder how my parents managed to bring up my brother and me without anything fancier than an old pot and a wooden spoon to bang it with. That was big-time fun back in the day.

But I digress. Nearly two years ago, when Gracie was born, I diligently re-learned all there was to know about new babies. I recognized when a cry meant "I'm hungry/wet/cold/hot" or simply "I'm a baby and I insist on being treated like a princess." I rediscovered the joyful feeling in your heart when a 6-month-old reaches out her chubby little arms for a hug. And I understood there wasn't too much on earth that I enjoyed as much as watching little Gracie grow.

So there we were, back again after all these months, waiting for the arrival of a second little miracle. When Emily's arrival was imminent, we set up shop again, Gracie, her grampy and I. With Mommy and Daddy entrenched in the hospital, we were on our own. But you would think by now I'd have had the whole thing down cold. Well. You would have thought.

And things did start off just fine. At naptime we read a book, enjoyed some milk and negotiated a diaper change. Being a warm spring day in Southern California, I left Gracie in her diaper and a light shirt; I deposited her in her crib with a few of her books and gave her a hug. This was so easy. "Night-night," Gracie called as I exited her room. "Love you …" she called. "How cute is that?" I asked the universe in general, closing her door softly.

So I was taken off guard when I peeked at the baby monitor shortly thereafter and saw my granddaughter perusing her books beside a puffy white object in her crib. Well. That certainly hadn't been there when I left her room. I grew more puzzled as I peered at the small screen because now Gracie was putting the mystery object on her head. Hmmm … Gracie was looking at books with … oh, dear Lord … she was looking at books with her diaper on her head. Yes, the diaper was definitely missing from, well … where a diaper normally belongs. Whew. Disaster was averted with a swift trip to securely reapply the diaper to the proper location.

Finally word came from the hospital that Emily had arrived and was ready for a visit from her big sister. Since meeting a brand-new baby sister is a momentous occasion, I was on a mission to dress Gracie perfectly including combing her hair into a new big-sister "do." I wanted this vision of Gracie loveliness to assure her parents that Gracie was in competent hands during their stay at the hospital. I mean, nobody needed to know about the unfortunate diaper-on-the-head incident, right? Right!

Scurrying out the door, I glanced down at Gracie's previously perfect wispy blonde curls. Oh-oh. Clutching the hairbrush in her chubby little fist, she now bore a regrettable resemblance to Donald Trump. Doing my best to smooth out her fresh "comb-over" we hustled on out to the car.

Arriving at the hospital we exited the car excitedly. Gracie reached back to grab a red object from the floor of the vehicle and we were off. Rounding the corner to the elevator I glanced down at my granddaughter for a last inspection before she met her new baby sister. And OK, it might be April, but Gracie had concluded the proper head attire for this important occasion was, well … her Santa Claus hat.

So on that lovely spring afternoon Gracie arrived at the hospital to meet her new sister Emily while wearing a perky red Santa hat. And, in the end, it was just fine. Because everybody knows that baby sisters, like Christmas, don't come everyday.