The eyes have it. And want to give it back.

As an editor of a trade newsletter I have to review legal and compliance articles for our monthly publication. These articles are seldom fun to read. And since I don’t write these articles, it is a chore to slog through words that are only found in legal dictionaries and decipher enough acronyms to fill an entire gallon of alphabet soup.

Lawyers and those who dwell in regulatory purgatory seem to relish the use of words and phrases known only to those of the same breed. It’s like a secret language they share and are fiercely protective of their right to confuse common folk like me with their $64 mil words.

In recent months, my right eye has been wholly uncooperative in the proof reading process. Blurry vision in that eye forces me to cock my head at odd angles in order to focus. Two ophthalmologists are stumped by the fact that a cataract has formed in my right eye. Usually affecting those who qualify for senior citizen discounts, cataracts are not very common in people my age. It’s nice to be acknowledged as “too young” though it would have been better if the reasons were flawless skin or tight abs, not an untimely eye affliction. (For the record, I have neither flawless skin nor tight abs.)

This leads me back to proofreading legal and compliance articles. I have to conclude that this arduous task is what ultimately caused my right eye to cloud up. From a medical standpoint, I am too young to have a cataract. I have not suffered trauma to my eye recently. (Getting bashed in the face with a door 20 years ago by an angry ex-husband does not count.) I am very good about wearing sunglasses and my regular glasses are UV protected. So it stands to reason that compliance and legal articles cause cataracts in unsuspecting editors. All the run-on sentences, multi-syllable words, and cryptic abbreviations are hazardous to your optical well-being. And let’s not forget those annoying symbols. Is § really a necessary part of our language? Yes, it is which makes it even more irritating.

My cataract surgery takes place in early March. Though I have to check into a hospital, they will let me go home after the procedure and I am deemed lucid enough to walk out the door. I’m sure I’ll be forced to wear one those tacky hospital gowns that never quite cover your behind. Local anesthesia is all I’ll need says my doctor, though I tried my best to negotiate for general anesthesia, which is denied. I may get some back up drugs, but I must be awake for the procedure.

“Don’t worry,” my doctor reassures me. “It’s a fun surgery!” Maybe for him, but invasive medical procedures are not high on my list of fun things to do. But I give my doctor credit for enjoying his work.

Secrets behind the fast food counter

For months, my teen son has talked about a secret menu at Jamba Juice. The inner cynic in me dismissed my son's talk as urban legend. Frustrated, teen son directed me to a Google search that uncovered secret menus, not only at Jamba Juice, but Starbucks and MacDonalds. Suddenly, I was thrust into a gustatory Da Vinci Code mystery that needed investigating.

Not wanting to appear foolish at the counter, I made sure I read up on these secret menus. Sour Patch Kids, Apple Pie, White Gummy Bears, and some chocolate concoction that came with a disclaimer were at one point regular Jamba Juice items. But decision makers at the health-conscious smoothie business decided to pull the high calorie items off the menu. The recipes were kept "under the table" for those willing to risk a diabetic coma.

Starbucks' secret menu was less about the product type and more about how much more money the coffee behemoth can French press out of customers. One "secret" at Starbucks is the "short" size cup. The regular menu items are served up in sizes "Tall", "Grande", and "Venti". However, those who know about the secret menu can order their coffee "short" and save. Of course, Starbucks doesn't want everyone short-ordering their over-priced coffee drinks, so mums the word.

MacDonald's secret menu seems to be the fast food giant's way of serving high fat fare without attracting the attention of the Food Police. Did you know you can order biscuits and gravy during the breakfast hours? Or how about substituting the regular hamburger patties in the Big Mac with quarter pound patties? And would you like fries with that coronary?

Curiosity got the best of me, so the Hubs and I took the rugrats to Jamba Juice today to test the validity of the secret menu. I wasn't sure what level of security clearance was needed to access the secret menu, but I was not going to stand for a wand search and my belt and shoes were going to stay on, thank you very much. The first order attempt was met with confusion at the counter. Sour Patch Kids and Apple Pie apparently were not made at this location. White Gummy Bear and Chocolate Covered Strawberry, however, made the cut. The young man at the counter chuckled when we told him about the secret menu items we found on the Internet. He even offered to make whatever secret menu items came with recipes next time we visited.

I wonder what other secret menus lurk behind fast food counters. It is a mystery worth unwrapping.

Clueless people debunk theory of evolution

I try not to let my inner cynic rear its ugly head too often. As a God fearing woman, I have to remind myself that we are all God's creation - some more refined than others - but the Lord loves us all.

In the past week, I've come across people who have truly tested my "What-Would-Jesus-Do?" resolve to be patient, loving, and understanding. These encounters convinced me that clueless people - especially those who get mad when they realize how clueless they are - totally debunk the theory of evolution. Clearly, if the theory was true, these sorry souls would have died off millenniums ago.

My first encounter was more sad and funny in an ironic sort of way. A sweaty young man wandered into my office, sporting dreadlocks, smudgy clothes, and a scent that was less than fresh. Confused, he indicated he wanted a job with the Census office, couldn't locate the building, but came in because my office address was close.

"What's the address?" I ask. "Let me Google Map it"

"It's 1650 S. King Street," he replies.

I Google Map the address. It points to the cross walk in front of our building. Thinking I'm not seeing a clear enough view, I switch to satellite and sure enough, the end point of 1650 S. King Street lands right on that cross walk.

The confused young man with questionable hygiene exits even more befuddled than before. My curiosity piqued, I call the local Census office only to discover the actual address is 1560 S. Beretania Street. I also learn census takers are paid $17 per hour, which probably piqued the young man's interest. Unfortunately, if this young man is dyslexic and illiterate, he may not be the best candidate for the job.

My next encounter was a bit more irritating as it happens more times than necessary. As a trade association representing credit unions, many people mistakenly call our office thinking we are their credit union. Granted many credit union names begin with "Hawaii" but our organization's moniker includes the word "League" which, to me, differentiates us enough. Unless, you are terminally clueless.

This time, a woman calls and says, "I want you to check my account balance!" Sensing an attitude issue, I muster up my polite voice so I can sweetly reply, "Excuse me?"

"Check the balance in my account!"

Now my inner bitch is awakened. It takes all my strength not to snap back. Instead, I remain polite. "Oh, I'm sorry, we are not a credit union. Which credit union are you looking for?"

Here's where the realization that something clueless has occurred causes the clueless one to get a bit testy.

"I'm calling Hawaii Central. That's my credit union," she retorts.

"Let me give you the number," I offer.

"Never mind, I have it!" Click!

I swear, calls like this happens at least a couple of times a day. It amazes me that some people have no idea where their money is deposited. Sometimes, people are embarrassed and apologetic and I have no problem helping them located their credit union. But people like Ms. Testy make me want to play along and say, "Oh, I'm sorry. All the funds were withdrawn and that account has been closed."

Definitely NOT what Jesus would do.

The Teen Years - Part 1: The Girlfriend

I had my suspicions for weeks. The whispered phone calls. The endless g-chats and Facebook posts. All the signs were there, but wasn't sure I was ready to face the inevitable. But it's now official. My son has a girlfriend.

Last night I was playing The Game of Life with my 10 year old daughter and her dad. Well, I was actually losing The Game of Life with over $200,000 in debt, but that's a whole other issue. Suddenly, my 13 year old son enters the room full of nervous energy.

"Mom, come..."
"Why, what's wrong?"

"Just come, I wanna show you...something."

I followed my son to the TV room where he plants himself in front of the computer for more hours than I'd like.

"Here," he says quickly. "She wants to chat with you." My son quickly types in "Here's my mommy!" and dashes off to take a shower.

The Girl! I knew it! Now I can find out what's really going on! Never one to mince words, I type, "Are you guys BF and GF?"

"Yes. I wanted him to tell you, but he was scared, I guess."

That surprised me since my son always told me what was on his mind. In fact, I used to tease him about never having an unspoken thought. Now he was afraid to tell me about a girlfriend? Teenage boys should come with an owner's manual.

A few months ago I asked my son if he would tell me when he had a girlfriend. His quick affirmation was comforting. My boy would not withhold information, I thought. So when I found out - through the girlfriend no less - that there was love in the air, it was a bit disheartening.

To his credit, my son indicated this BF/GF status was established less than a week prior, so it wasn't like he was actually withholding information. And he did let me chat with the girl and was willing to let her break the news to me.

"As a parent, I think you should know." said this obviously intelligent girl. She's smart enough to know the importance of being nice to your boyfriend's mom.

I breathe a sigh of relief. This girl doesn't appear to be one of those giggly, socially incapacitated teens that infest the malls. I find myself chatting online with a most delightful girl. Bright, polite, sweet, and apparently enamored with my son.

That night, I had a hard time falling asleep. I keep remembering my son as a baby - cute, chubby, happy, and mommy's little guy. Then it hit me. I was no longer Alpha Female in my son's life. I felt sad.

"They always come back to Mama," my friend reassures me today. She has two teens of her own, so I assume she knows from experience.

It's time to shift the Mom Gears again. No longer holding his hand, I know I have to let my son find his way through this adventure called adolescence. But I know I will always be here whenever he needs some mom time. And I look forward to that.