At the market this afternoon, I ran into yet another child peddler in front of the automatic door.

"Ma'am, do you want to..."

Beyond those five words I heard nothing. I am still in a como-like stupor that I'm being referred to as "ma'am" on a semi-regular basis now.

I don't like it.

It's not like this is the midwest, or the south, where everyone with breasts is called "ma'am", and anyone else is "sir". This is southern California, people. Land of sand and surf. In most cases, I'd rather be called "Dude" in lieu of "ma'am".

Maybe it's just me.

Somehow, I've always equated "ma'am" status with the 30's. Not as in the 1930's, but as in "a woman in her thirties". At least. And I have a good, long time to go before I cross that bridge. A year and two weeks to be exact.

Is it just me?

And tell me this: whose big idea was it that the best new idea for fundraising was to sell candybars? In front of grocery stores, no less. As if I couldn't go into the market and buy the same hunk of chocolate for half as much as this poor kid is selling them for. I always want to ask the peddling children, "where are your parents? Let me talk to them." Because, you'll notice, there is never adult supervision, and that bothers me.