Politically Correct, Shmolitically Correct

The wedding I attended on Saturday was lovely. Unfortunately, I didn't come up with all the blog-fodder I had hoped for. Lucky for me, Mothers Day was on Sunday. This year I joined my parents, grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins for a delicious Mothers Day lunch in Atlanta. Like most families, when mine gets together, some sort of good story is sure to follow. Mothers Day was no exception.

As we sat on the patio enjoying our appetizers, and after my grandmother updated us on the most recent Bridge league drama, my two year-old twin cousins provided us with some entertainment. Their older brother received a trampoline for his birthday a couple of months ago, and since that time, the twins have made it their personal "jumping bean" haven. 

For those of you who know me, you are well aware of my nostalgia for all things 90s. The 90s not only held all of my best childhood memories, but they were also the final years before the dawn of political correctness. (Actually, I think PC became a household acronym in the mid-late 90s, but I was a kid. PC meant nothing to me). I mention this because I owned a trampoline in the 90s, and it is a far cry from the one my cousins own today.

My superior trampoline did not have six foot-tall nets around its perimeter or pads that covered the springs. There were no "safety features". There was no "one-person-at-a-time" rule. On cool summer evenings, the neighborhood kids would play all the classic trampoline games. You know the ones. We'd have contests to see who could do the coolest flip without breaking a limb, and who could launch themselves the farthest onto the ground without falling. Not a day went by when someone's leg didn't get caught between a spring or someone lost a little blood from bonking heads with their neighbor. 

When I alerted my family to my childhood trampoline antics, they shuddered at the idea of all the carnage. My only response was that the 90s were "a happier time". Little did I know that a few minutes later, they would prove my point for me.

After my cousins had finished jumping on the trampoline, they joined the rest of us on the patio. My aunt instructed them to sit "criss-cross applesauce" on the ground. Excuse me? "Criss-cross applesauce"? The following dialogue ensued:

Me: Criss-cross applesauce? Don't you remember what we called it pre-new millenium?

Auntie Lynda: No.

Me: Indian Style.

Auntie Lynda: (chuckle) I do remember that. But they don't teach it that way in school anymore.

Ok, America. I realize that we have edited our vernacular by removing gender and race specific terminology. But we can't even say "indian style" anymore? Couldn't we have at least replaced it with a term we're all more familiar with, like "native american style"? No. Now we are teaching our kids how to sit properly with catchy rhymes about food. No wonder childhood obesity rates are so high these days.

The "criss-cross applesauce" incident got me thinking. If schools are creating cheesy rhymes to increase political correctness, does the same go for the workplace? If so, someone should really hire me to write some slogans to hang up around the office. I really think I could bring awareness to cubicles everywhere. For example:

• Sleeping on the job: Don't want to get laid-off? Sleep on your day off.
• Too Much Facebooking: When in doubt, log out.
• Booty Grabbing: Don't touch her caboose. That's sexual abuse!
  
• Name Calling: Black, white, purple, or green--racial slurs are mean.

Ok, so maybe PC slogan writing isn't my thing. If all else fails, maybe I can get hired inventing new safety features for classic toys. Someone has to prevent all those Slinky injuries...