I sing it my way

So word has it that country music star Trace Adkins wants to stomp my hind end.
I didn’t say it – he did.
Although his choice of wording wasn’t quite as family newspaper friendly.
He told the thousands of folks out at Bethel Woods Friday night that he wants to stomp the, ahem, butt of any critic who criticizes his country.
He got a lot of cheers – after he’d set up the moment with his red-, white- and blue-blooded “Arlington.”
Don’t get me wrong.
I gave in to the lure of country music years ago. I even admitted my falling right here in this column.
And patriotic anthems hit me right there in the esophagus, where a lump grows so big I can hardly swallow.
I’m a big ol’ sap when the TV plays Lee Greenwood’s “Proud to Be An American” along with the colorful bursts of fireworks.
I get those hot little pricks of tears in the corners of my eyes.
If I’m fast on my feet, I can pretend someone kicked up some sand.
Usually I’m not that good.
So I just squeeze my eyes real tight and hold on until it’s over.
I love being an American too.
And a song about one of our soldiers dying with honor, his (or her) body coming home to rest in the national cemetery is both sad and stirring.
That’s exactly why I’m going to risk incurring the wrath of a 6-foot-6 country singer whose theme song promises “gun rack, ball cap, don’t take no crap.”
Guess what, Trace. I think they should bring the troops home and focus on the problems here in our own little corner of the world.
Oops.
Now I did it.
Let me explain.
When I go to cover a concert, I usually know what to expect.
I knew the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young “Freedom of Speech” tour was going to be a liberal slam-the-president fest last year.
The people who told me they thought they wasted their money on their tickets because “I wanted to hear music, not their political opinions” obviously didn’t do much research on the show beforehand.
I knew what I was in for with Trace Adkins too.
A big fan of his “One Hot Mama” – after all, us mommies like to hear someone still thinks we’ve got it even with the stretch marks and saggy tummies – I was planning to enjoy what I could and chalk the rest of it up to facts of the job.
His comments just allowed me to do double duty – cover a concert as a reporter, respond as a columnist.
The funny thing is, I couldn’t do that just anywhere.
It’s only here, in America, where I can write a newspaper story about what I saw and heard without toeing some party line.
I can do it in the same country that allowed two Americans, a Brit and a Canadian to bash the president in Bethel last year and Adkins to threaten life and limb of us cranky critics on Friday.
Ain’t America grand?

Imagine that

Think you have an active imagination?
Try parenting a toddler.
They have the corner on the market.
There’s no filter on a toddler’s mouth, and no concept yet of the line between the truth and a lie.
When Jillian slept at my parents’ house Saturday night so Jonathan and I could head to Jersey for David Beckham’s debut at the Meadowlands, she informed my mother matter-of-factly that “Mommy is sleeping in the car.”
Yes, parenting a toddler can get expensive, but it hasn’t come to that quite yet!
She’s also taken seriously her role as “parent” to the four-legged underlings of the household.
While Olivia lies snoring on the rug, Jillian comes barreling into the living room to inform the dog she’s been terribly naughty.
Opening one eye, Olivia assesses the miniature tyrant in front of her, then considers the plate of food Jillian’s left on the table behind her.
Before Olivia has the chance to act, Jillian rushes back to the kitchen to inform her parent.
“Livvy ate my food! Livvy’s naughty!!!!”
The wild stories aren’t the only things I’m getting used to now that Jillian has crashed the gates of babyhood and come barreling through talking a mile a minute.
She’s taken to dressing up in my shoes – one each on the wrong foot but tied anyway at her request – and slinging her Elmo lunch bag over her shoulder.
Clomping to the door, she informs us, “I’m leaving!”
As cute as it can be, the act has shades of that Dixie Chicks song “Wide Open Spaces” that make her mommy a little weepy.
It isn’t until she tells me, “I’m goin’ ’side for a pool party,” that I can flip the situation back my way.
A pool party, huh? Fortunately she has yet to figure out how to turn on the hose and fill that pool.
My shoes aren’t the only household objects that have been adopted as Jillian’s playthings.
Her own pair of rain boots have a funny way of ending up in her toddler bed.
Pulling the Pooh bear quilt from her curled up form in the morning, I discover books, stuffed toys and… a boot with buggy eyes and antennae?
At the very least she’ll never be lonely.
But here’s the kicker.
When I’m intent on getting out of the car, into the house and off my feet, Jillian has other ideas.
“I wanna drive,” she tells me.
If I give in, she climbs in the front seat and begins playing… with the radio.
Apparently from the rear seat she sees Mommy hitting those buttons an awful lot.
Eventually she turns her attention to the steering wheel, the wipers and the blinkers.
She could spend hours in the front seat of my car if I didn’t have to use the bathroom so badly after a long drive home from Middletown.
Don’t worry, she’s not missing out on anything.
When we get inside, she’ll carry the cordless into the bathroom.
“Wanna talk phone Mommy!”

As American as taxes

You’ve got to feel sorry for Matt Murphy.
The college student had a layover in San Francisco, so he bought tickets to a Giants game.
He hustled his way back from the food stands just in time to see Barry Bonds break the all-time home run record… and catch the ball that Bonds launched into the seats to the right of center field.
Sounds like he fell right into guy heaven.
He should be laying back in a recliner somewhere eating pork rinds and flipping through the sports channels just reveling in how great it is to be a sports fan in this day and age.
But get this.
Even if he doesn’t put the ball up for sale, the Internal Revenue Service has put out the word that he’s going to have to pay for his lucky catch.
They’ll base it on the best estimation of the bucks Bond’s blast would bring at auction.
If the estimates rise through the years (which, let’s face it, induction into the Hall of Fame is really inevitable), he faces capital gains taxes as well.
Talk about your tough luck.
Let’s just say this kid grew up on the old American ideals of baseball and apple pie, playing sandlot and dreaming of the big leagues.
Say he wants to put a piece of history on his mantle and just stare at it for years to come.
He wants to pass it down to his kids and their kids and so on and so on.
Can’t do it.
They’re talking a half a million for that thing right now; more if Bonds makes it through the Hall of Fame vote without the steroids biting him in the butt.
OK, so I’m all for everyone paying their fair share.
If he sells the thing, and the government gets a cut, all the better for the rest of us, right?
But an income tax bill that haunts you for the rest of your life all because you wanted to keep a souvenir?
What’s next?
Should I tell the IRS about the “Catch Me If You Can” DVD I scored at a Mets’ game four years ago?
It was probably worth a good $17 the day it came out, might be down to the $5.50 bin at Wal-Mart these days though.
The security sticker’s been sliced open. It’s even been watched a few times.
You think I’m kidding, don’t you?
I just don’t get it.
They’ll charge a college kid enough to clean out his dorm room, but they’re handing out deductions like Skittles to the fat cats on Wall Street (taste the rainbow).
And don’t get me started on the tax exempts here in Sullivan County… I’ll start sounding like County Treasurer Ira Cohen.
You don’t want to get him started either.
There’s enough fodder to fill the pages of this paper for the rest of the summer.
Give us a break, Uncle Sam.
It’s well deserved by the church and the synagogue, the pastor’s house and the mosque parking lot, the homeless shelter and the folks at the American Cancer Society.
So spread a little love to the nation’s favorite pastime, and get back to work on those tax-exempts.

How to make friends and influence your contractor

Everybody’s got a home renovation story from you know where.
So I wasn’t surprised when I heard the beginnings of a good one the other day.
I could commiserate.
You call the roofer and call the roofer and call the roofer, and every time it rains you run for towels and curse the sky.
I am a pro at the one-up-manship game of “well, you don’t know what I had to go through.”
You went without water for a week? Well, I did it for two.
You brushed your teeth in the tub? I had to do it in the kitchen.
I got a good one from my around-the-corner neighbor from New York City at last week’s Callicoon Center Band Concert.
Bill called Doug and Joan at Trees of the Woods up the road.
Seems they can’t grow money trees here in Callicoon Center soil.
It’s the story of my life.
OK, so you get my point – been there, done that, have the paint-spattered shirt to prove it.
But you can go one step too far with me.
You tell a contractor’s kid that every single working man in Sullivan County is a no-good, lying snake, and I get my German up.
You want to one-up me here? Go ahead and try.
So, the plumber didn’t want to meet with you during the four-hour window on a Sunday when you’d be available.
When, pray tell, do you think he gets to see his family?
So the air-conditioner guy hasn’t gotten back to you, even though you’ve been calling six ways from Sunday since July 1.
Guess what. So is everyone else.
It got hot; he got busy.
Keep his number. Call in February when it’s too cold for air-conditioners to be breaking down; you’ll get the best service you could ever ask for – with time to spare.
Or, oh, did I hear the carpenter wants to get up on your roof this Saturday, but you wanted to go swimming?
It’s supposed to rain this week, and he’s got a siding job scheduled the week after.
So, he should just come back in a month, maybe two?
When we make the decision it’s time to remodel, we want it done – now.
And anyone who has driven the roads during a Sullivan County summer knows that’s the same thing on everyone’s mind.
Lawns are littered with “Another Quality Job By Mr. Bill Ding” or “Call 1-800-WE’LL-FIX.”
With a little bit of planning, it can be done.
Make your calls before the weather induces the 24-hour-gotta-get-this-done fever that keeps contractors running from mid-May to late October.
Keep the cold water coming on a hot day and make yourself as scarce as possible. They’ll be happy to come back to finish the job.
Want to one up all your neighbors and get your job done first?
Be as flexible with your contractor as you want them to be with you.
You give an inch, and maybe you’ll get a mile.