When I was very little, my mother instilled in me many things, but among them was a key element, a mini-lesson on the workings of the world. It's simple, whole, complete. It fits every situation, and any age group. It conveys a thousand years' of wisdom in a few tiny words, yet, you don't need to be a genius to figure it out:

You don't order steak in Denny's.

Now, why am I the only person in the world that seems understand and acknowledge this?

My neighbours are morons. They're the sort of people that buy a computer at Circuit City, and ring up the support line to ask, "Uh, where's the 'Any' key?" They drive Chevy trucks, Ford Broncos, and Jeep Grand Cherokees, and they wonder what that strange noise is and why the dash lights are shorted out. They send their kids to the same local public schools they went to, and can't figure out why no-one in the family seems to understand what the hell Dennis Miller just said.

They order steak in Denny's.

I took Wee Babe out yesterday. I wanted her to play with the kids from our block -- my first mistake -- while I stood around and made friendly with the other Mommies (and Daddies) -- my second fatal error. After just an hour, I was exhausted! No, not from chasing a headstrong 2 year-old, but from concentrating on not laughing at my neighbours' ignorant, bumpkin ways. The whole experience merely reaffirmed my opinion that I have nothing in common with these people and am not missing anything by not hanging out with them.

I'm sorry! I just can't relate to Tupperware parties and carpool schedules. I can't get excited about July 4th block BBQs and Back-to-School sales at Mervyn's. I don't rush home to fix supper for "My Man." I have better things to worry about than the Johnson's multi-pierced, green-haired teenager. I am not so content with my middle-income, picket-fenced, single-family-dwelling, 1/4 acre of suburban existence that I'm about to slip into a toothy grinned coma.

And I just can't order steak in Denny's.

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