Culture shock around the clock

Even in a house where no one removes their shoes, or vacuums regularly, or mops ... ever, we have lived quite happily and, surprisingly, stomach-ailment free following the erroneous food safety guideline set forth by the five-second rule.

Specifically: If the snack item of one's desire accidentally drops to the floor, one has fewer than five seconds to retrieve it before having to point out the whereabouts of the toppled tasty tidbit to the resident retriever.

Of course, the rule only applies in practice to foodstuffs that are bite-sized and crunchy, be they salty or sweet, or things that are more sturdy, and can be rinsed under a tap. Anything saucy or creamy that winds up peanut-butter-side-down may be left for the canine-vac, no questions asked.

My brittle memory pins this sketchy science on an Oreo commercial from the early 90s, wherein some harried but well-coiffed dad/actor drops the last available sandwich cookie on a filthy floor, picks it up, shrugs and pops it into his mouth anyway.

"Five-second rule, right?"

Since then, the rule has evolved into a kind of common law, challenged only during slow news days by scientific journals and Matt Lauer, who seems to have a thing for "culture" shock.

Lately, however, we've endured a different kind of culture shock.

Or, our kids have.

One in which basic civility has died an unnatural death and the only response we seem to be able to muster collectively are shrugged shoulders.

Even in our household filled with dust rabbits and tumble clumps of pet hair we can't help but argue politics and predict our society's proverbial end.

Of course, we're all on the same side; no one even claims the role of devil's paralegal let alone his advocate.

The "I-can't-believes" and the "This-is-totally-insanes" have been stifled briefly by an expression that more closely resembles the silent struggle of a fish out of water for oxygen.

And so it came to pass one day, after much flapping of gums, and gnashing of teeth, and hyperventilated retellings of the day's surreal headlines, that the eldest child, in a fit of exasperation, declared a new rule would take hold and become law in our house.

"You have Two-Minutes," she said as she flopped down in the car next to me and secured her seat belt.

Two minutes?

"Two minutes to talk politics. Whatever happened in Washington, whatever mealy-mouthed, boneheaded thing the guy down the street said in the name of the district, you have 120 seconds to tell me how you feel about it, and then we're done for the rest of the ride home. The clock will reset after I have lunch and watch an episode of Glee."

I want to argue.

I want to tell her that my gall is necessary. My refusal to "quietly let things go" is what keeps me from despairing. And that I want her and her brother to know how I feel about policy beyond politics is just one of the maddening things she will one day have to tell her therapist … if health care still exists when she comes of age.

"You can still do all that,” she assures me. “But you better get to it. Your time started five seconds ago."