According to ABC News, states from Connecticut to Arkansas have been "eyeing higher taxes on cigarettes and booze" to make up for budget shortfalls caused by the recession.

Now, I’m not against paying taxes to fund government programs.

I like driving around on the wide-open highways that my tax contributions helped build.

I’m grateful for the government-backed loans that got me through my beer-slugging days at Penn State (to paraphrase comedian Frank Nicotero, I graduated with a 1.2 … blood-alcohol level).

I’m happy for the government agencies that protect our country, track down criminals across state lines and make sure our food and water are safe.

But higher taxes on beer?

Why not increase taxes on hot dogs and apple pie while we’re at it?

Congress cracked open this Pandora’s can in 1991 — when it doubled the federal beer tax to $18 a barrel.

Many states have long been on the beer wagon.

In 1936, Pennsylvania levied a "temporary" 10-percent alcohol tax to relieve victims of that year’s Johnstown flood.

Flood victims still aren’t relieved: Not only is the tax still in effect, it has been increased to 18 percent.

At the local level, many cities and counties are looking to raise beer taxes, too.

I take such taxes personally.

My great-grandmother took the edge off Prohibition by installing a distillery in her basement and making beer in her bath tub.

My grandfather helped his community survive the Depression by investing generously in local watering holes.

My father survived the Carter administration by drinking ice-cold Pabst Blue Ribbon on the back porch with our neighbor, Mr. Bennett.

It is simply un-American to tax beer. And it won’t do much good in any event.

According to records from the U.S. Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau, says ABC, the 1991 federal beer tax "created a slight bump in revenues in 1992, followed by four years of decline, from nearly $3.9 billion to $3.6 billion."

What’s that, you say? Higher taxes lead to lower revenues?

In my opinion, beer does our society good — particularly in the midst of a nasty global downturn.

By looking forward to a happy-hour respite each Friday, aren’t workers are more productive during the week? Isn’t their productivity a needed boost to our ailing economy?

Moderate beer consumption can reduce one’s chances of heart and vascular disease — is not beer essential to reducing our health care costs?

I’m counting on beer consumption to solve America’s long-term liabilities.

Consider: Beer causes people to think others are more attractive than they are and to marry and procreate – I need people marrying and producing kids so they can fund my Social Security payments 20 years down the road.

It isn’t the fault of beer drinkers that government bodies across America spent like drunken sailors when the economy was booming — it’s not our fault they didn’t plan ahead.

It will do nobody any good to make up their shortfall by taxing beer.

If governments really want to raise funds, why not tax the avarice and stupidity that caused our markets to expand and crash?

Why not tax government expansion?

Such taxes would produce a windfall — at the same time they would curb truly "sinful" behavior.

I’ll raise my mug to that.

This was only Kate’s second gardening attempt of her adult life. Still very naïve about this whole gardening thing, she figured it would provide her with the quiet, meditative time glaringly missing from her daily routine.  That, and put a few fresh vegetables on the dinner table for her kids to whine about.

She envisioned gardening being an almost spiritual experience—silently praying for friends and reflecting on the miracles in nature as she thinned seedlings, picked peppers and poisoned insects.

Except now her children, who typically became invisible or comatose whenever the words, “I need your help.” were spoken; wanted to be super duper hands on helpers. Kate’s garden became, instead of a haven, a hotbed of activity.

The kids gave tours to their friends, the mailman and the meter reader.   They developed a new and intense interest in soil content, the gestation period of eggplant and city watering restrictions. Without being asked, they picked ripe produce. They put out buckets when it rained and used them to water the garden.  Without being asked.  For the love of God, on their own accord, they even pulled weeds.

One day, Kate’s little suburban farmers schlepped into the freshly mopped kitchen with a colander full of lettuce and shoes full of mud.  “Mom, the garden’s watered, fertilized and treated with Sevin dust.   We tied up the tomato plants since they’re growing faster now and according to the Extension Agency, it’s time to plant pumpkin seeds.  Where are they?”

So much for my peaceful garden paradise, Kate lamented, but ended her pity party early when she realized this was finally something she and the kids enjoyed doing together.  Realizing how rare it was to have the three of them agree on a single activity, Kate went out and spent $100 on kids garden gloves, scaled down garden tools, hats, kid safe bug repellent, sunscreen and plant markers.   She came home excited to bond with her children in the sacred soil of the earth.

But then it was too hot to garden.  “The trick is to get out early in the morning when the air is still and the sun is low in the sky.”  They said summer was for sleeping in.

And the bugs were really getting bad.   “I bought you repellent.  Use it.”  They said it smelled funny and made them itch.

Plus it’s hard to get the dirt out from under their fingernails.   “Use the gloves I got you.”  They interfered with their grip.  Besides, all their friends were going to the pool…couldn’t they join them?  Kate conceded and sent them off with the hats and sunscreen….left once again in the solitude of her garden.

Best $100 she ever spent.

Dear Big Louie: I’m so glad you wrote—especially taking the time to log on to our paper’s fantastic website and place your comment there.

To answer your question: Yes. I have written “interesting stories about the Males of the world”.  Ironically, I happen to be married to a male about whom I write frequently. Also consisently featured is the male to whom I gave birth.  (They both request you not believe everything I say about them.) I have one biological father and three older brothers. I’ve written about my dad, but my brothers threaten to beat me up if I spill any beans on them.

Though both my grandfathers passed away years ago, I was fortunate to live close to my father in law, a very interesting male indeed. (You missed the piece I wrote about ordering his meals at Mayo Clinic?) I’ve had two male dogs—Oatmeal the Wonderdog is dead but Hank the Hounddog is still very much alive and a frequent column star. I have nephews but frankly they’re just not that entertaining at this point in their lives. I’m confident that will change next June when Josh gets married.

Over the past 8 years, actual, live, breathing men have bought my books, attended my speaking engagements, invited me to speak at professional events, review their books,  contribute to their books, radio shows, newspapers and websites. Ironically, the first editor who hired me and my current editor are males. I like my job too much to write about them.

After years of writing about The Bus Stop Mommies, I caved to my male neighbor’s nagging and featured The Bus Stop Daddies in a column. These guys are everywhere! One reader wrote, “LOL! Bus Stop Daddies! Great description. I love the bus stop in the morning and we have one Bus Stop Daddy that usually walks away when we start dishing on the husbands… he wants no part of it!” Perhaps you, Big Louie, were or are a Bus Stop Daddy? If so, I’m sure you have some interesting tales to tell!

Thanks again for writing!

Sincerely, Karen Rinehart, Creator: The Bus Stop Mommies

No no no. It’s not the Christmas season until Santa rides down the snow covered hill on the Norelco razor. That’s how it was when she was growing up. Now Kate fears her kids think it’s Christmas in August, which is when stores start hawking tinsel and cashmere.

Just that June Kate couldn’t find a swimsuit because space was needed for the leather coats. She feared soon she’d be buying Easter candy at Halloween and Halloween candy in March. The Easter Bunny will need therapy. The leprechauns will have to trade in their little green spring jackets for winter parkas.

Kate wondered what life would be like if she and other Bus Stop Mommies ran households on a retailer’s schedule.

“Hey Mom, I need a poster board tonight for my school project assigned six weeks ago and due tomorrow morning.”

“I’m sorry dear; the Mother’s Union Bylaws won’t allow me to purchase poster board after the official start of the school year. You’ll have to wait until next summer. Or go ask Alexandria’s mommy. She’s a line crosser.”

“Hello Madam, would you buy popcorn to support my Cub Scout Troop?”

“Sorry little boy, my microwave only accepts popcorn packets April, May and June.”

“Hi honey, I’m home. What a rough day at the office. What’s for dinner?”

“Sorry sweetie; dinner was at 2:30. The kids missed it too. We’ll just have to order Chinese delivery.”

“But Mommy, it’s July. Nobody else will be out trick or treating tonight!”

“Well sweetie, the specially marked packages of Halloween candy were on the shelves so it must be time to trick or treat! Come on now, put on your furry mask. A little sweating can be good for you.”

“But Mommy, it’s not Valentine’s Day. The teacher said we had to pass out valentines at our class party. We haven’t even decorated our shoeboxes yet!”

“Well sweetie, the valentines and Sweetheart candies were on sale at Walgreens so now’s as good as time as any. Besides, February’s household budget is limited to buying Easter candy and décor then we’ll of course celebrate the 4^th of July in April and oh! That reminds me—did you write your letter to Santa yet?”

Yeah, I just love finding notes stuck under my windshield wiper—especially after an extra long, extra stressful doctor’s appointment. I mean, at least she said please, right? But that’s how my day started, followed by picking up my laptop from repair AGAIN, getting all of my neighbor’s mail AGAIN, feeling majorly perimenopausal and in a venting mood. So:

Dear lady with the cane in Fairview Road parking lot (because I caught your dirty look and know it was you):

I do not, never have, nor will I ever knowingly park in a handicap space. That’s just wrong. Do I perhaps have other parking lot issues? Why, yes, now that you ask. Like, after three years with my “new” sedan, I still can’t figure out how to pull forward just the right amount to not double park over the front line or leave my rear bumper out in the flow of traffic. That however, can be remedied on the spot. But I do not park in a handicap space.

Actually, I practice “Harry Rinehart” parking. Lovingly named after my father-in-law (God rest his soul.) who parked his prized Cadillacs in the farthest conceivable spot in order to avoid dings. Even when he was ill enough to be issued a Handicap tag, he stuffed it in his glove box and continued to park as far away as his breathing, on any given day, would allow.

In addition to non-handicap people parking in handicap spots, it also is, to me, totally wrong, irritating and dangerous to be one of those folks who stops in the middle of an aisle, blocking traffic, to get a close up spot, when 42 perfectly good spots are right around the corner or further up in the aisle. And we wonder why obesity is rampant in America? Been in a mall parking lot lately?

Then there are those folks who think it’s funsies to drive ten miles under the posted speed limit. In the left lane. During rush hour. On the highway. When you’re late for work. And you really have to pee. The way that gets worse is when the slowpokes are driving a high-powered sports car. I mean, what a waste of a BMW!

And you, that older couple next to me in the parking lot this morning? Yes you, in the cool Audi. Seriously? 4 full minutes to pull out of the parking space? Leaving me trapped in my car (in the non-handicap spot). Honestly folks—get a Buick if you’re gonna drive like that! Or a 1978 Ford LTD station wagon with the wood paneling on the sides. But a brand new Audi? That’s just wrong…as is parking in a handicap space when you don’t have certification to do so.

Which I didn’t do.

According to The Washington Times, Robert Davi, a tough-guy Hollywood actor, and Rep. Thaddeus McCotter, R-Mich., an alleged conservative, did something tough guys and conservatives don’t often do.

They collaborated to get a bill onto the floor of the U.S. House seeking a $3,500 annual tax deduction for pet expenses.

I love animals. I still mist up when I think of the time my dog Jingles ran off in the ’70s. But Americans have lost their bearings where their pets are concerned.

According to the American Pet Products Association, we spend $45 billion a year on our pets — that’s up 5 percent over last year, despite a nasty recession.

Nearly $20 billion alone is spent on dog grub — including the expensive "gourmet" stuff. That’s up 5 percent too.

And since the pet food recalls of 2007, says ABC News, here’s another trend: More pets are enjoying home cooking.

If Rover overeats, no problem. There are doggie personal trainers now. There are doggie gyms, doggie aerobics classes and doggie weight-loss programs. (Biscuit Watchers?)

If Rover is having behavioral problems — or perhaps he is depressed — the dog psychiatrist will tend to his woes. ("What’s that, boy? You see a cat in the inkblot?")

Here’s something Americans are doing for their pets that some won’t do for themselves: buying health insurance.

Of course, despite all the pampering and care, our pets will eventually succumb to old age. When they pass, a whole industry is ready to assist.

There are doggie funeral ceremonies and eulogies now. ("Rover was a good shepherd, he shall not want, as he lies down in green pastures …")

Pet deaths are announced in pet obituaries. ("Buster is survived by his emotionally distraught owner and his favorite toy, Squeaky.")

And let us not forget another growth industry: pet cemeteries, complete with pet headstones. ("Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if only Rover had seen that bus.”)

And now tax deductions for pet owners?

Davi argues that pets are good for us. They bring down our blood pressure and lift our spirits. A tax deduction would encourage pet ownership.

He says the deduction would be good for the economy. People would spend more on their pets — a needed boost to retail spending.

It is true, too, that the recession is causing animal shelters to see decreases in budgets at the same time they see a surge in surrendered pets — a deduction might cause more people to adopt.

These are all fair considerations, but they miss the larger point: We have to stop letting our emotions rule our heads where public policy is concerned.

Look, our tax code is an incredible mess precisely because well-intentioned people got their special breaks added in.

Now it takes a case of bourbon and a busload of CPAs to file our taxes every year.

Our emotions, skillfully exploited, have brought us all kinds of government programs that have bloated the budget and exploded the deficit.

If we have any hope of staving off a fiscal nightmare, we’ve got to keep our wits about us — we’ve got to put logic and reason back in charge.

Speaking of nightmares, when your dog’s paws twitch as he sleeps, he isn’t having one.

What is a dog nightmare anyway, asks comedian Gary Shandling.

Your dog dreams he’s drinking out of a toilet bowl and the lid falls on his head?

You must understand that my mother is not one of those meddling mothers. No, my ma is hands-off with her adult kids. She leaves us be until she sees one headed for a cliff.

Thus, her first call about three months back.

“You have six months to marry!” she said.

I can’t fault her for her concern. She knows single men can be knuckleheads - that we don’t take care of ourselves as we should.

The statistics bear it out. Married men are physically and emotionally healthier. They avoid risky behavior. They live longer. They earn more.

Married men are much less likely to wake up in a pile of dirty laundry still clutching the tequila bottle they began drinking from just before the party broke up.

Mark Twain found tremendous happiness in his marriage. He wrote that there is no greater beauty and sweetness than the closeness of a husband and wife who adore each other, and that is what I long for.

The fact is, marriage is good for everyone. Married people produce happier, healthier children. Marriage produces stable, thriving communities. Marriage has way more upsides than downsides.

Thus, my mother has been phoning me regularly.

“You have five months, one week, four days, two hours and 12 minutes to get married!”

“But, Ma,” I try to explain, “the world is so complex these days. It’s not like the old days when you got a job, worked 35 years, then retired. The world is moving at light speed. It’s much harder to find a woman you can stay with forever.”

“You have four months, two weeks, six days, 12 hours and three minutes!”

“But, Ma,” I say, “what’s the hurry. Being a fellow in his 40s isn’t like it was with your generation. Fortyish is the new thirtyish! More and more people are marrying and starting families in their 40s and 50s.”

“You have three months, three weeks, five days, 18 hours and 12 minutes!”

“But, Ma,” I say, “fewer people marry these days. In 1970, close to 80 percent of adults between the ages of 20 and 54 were married. Today only 57 percent are.”

“You have two months, two weeks, six days, seven hours and 18 minutes!”

“But, Ma,” I tell her, “younger generations are much more likely to get divorced than your generation did - some 45 percent of marriages end in divorce. Brad Wilcox, director of the National Marriage Project, told the AP why. He said people have a high degree of ‘expressive individualism’ these days - people are demanding an unrealistic level of fulfillment in marriage. When their sense of fulfillment wanes, many don’t feel like being married anymore.”

“You have one month, three weeks, three days, four hours and 27 minutes!”

“But, Ma,” I continue, “Wilcox is on to something. Everyone these days is looking for a soul mate - that perfect person who will make him or her feel warm and fuzzy all the time. Our expectations are impossibly high. We’re all thinking too much. No one person can ever live up to our ideals and so we stay single.”

“You have two weeks, four days, twelve hours and 18 minutes!”

“But, Ma,” I finally say, “part of my problem is finding a lady just like you. You are the most honest, caring, compassionate woman I have ever known. You taught me what really matters in life: family, laughter, honesty, beauty. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a woman who holds all the qualities you hold. Ma, you have set the bar so high that….”

“Put a sock in it. You have one day, two hours and 24 minutes to get married!”

“How could the car in front of you hit you?”

“The idiot stopped to let a dog cross the street — and dented my front bumper with his rear bumper. Yet the cops wrote me up for texting while driving!”

“You speak of a spate of new distracted-driver laws that are emerging across America. The problem has become so pervasive, the federal government conducted a National Distracted Drivers Summit a few weeks ago.”

“A summit for distracted driving?”

“Yes, and with good reason. Last year, some 6,000 people were killed — and 515,000 injured — because of accidents caused by distracted drivers.”

“Really?”

“The fact is people are not good at multitasking while driving. Carnegie Mellon University found that talking on a cell phone reduces activity in the brain’s parietal lobe by 37 percent — which means you’re less able to focus on driving.”

“You want to reduce activity in the parietal lobe, try driving while the wife keeps telling you which way to turn.”

“According to The New York Times, a Michigan professor found that when someone tries to multitask, important neural regions in the brain must switch back and forth. This opens up opportunities for serious mistakes behind the wheel.”

“Look, I’m in sales and on the road a lot. I’ve gotten pretty good at talking, eating, texting and driving. It wasn’t my fault some idiot front-ended me.”

“You’d think it would be simple common sense — that people would know better than to try to text and drive or take cell phone calls while they’re roaring down a highway at a high rate of speed — but that isn’t the case.”

“But it’s not my fault the wife wants immediate answers when she texts me — as if the world is going to end if I don’t text her right away that I didn’t forget the milk (even though I always forget it).”

“You’d think there would be no need for laws and penalties to prevent distracted driving, but, unfortunately, there is.”

“How so?”

“Look, our roadways have changed significantly over the years. For starters, many of our cars are so comfortable and quiet, people forget they’re operating a two-ton hunk of steel. They’re able to zone out to music or yap on the phone, oblivious to the millions of things that could go wrong.”

“But I invested a lot of dough in my sound system. It would be a waste not to blast the speakers!”

“To make matters more challenging, there are lots more cars on the road. Americans own 2.3 cars per household. Thirty-five percent of American households own three or more cars.”

“So we’re a rich country. What’s wrong with that?”

“It only means that there are lots more drivers on the road — drivers of every age and experience level. We know, for instance, that teen drivers are distracted more easily than older drivers — especially when their peers are in the car with them.”

“The wife and I solved that problem. We got our daughter a ‘76 Pacer. She never leaves the house.”

“The point is, the more distracted drivers there are on the road, the greater the opportunity for accidents. And add to that challenge a mix of new technologies — cell phones, iPods, laptops, GPS devices — and you have a recipe for disaster.”

“If you say so.”

“Look, many people are wary of the government intervening in our lives, but there is wide agreement that this is one area where the government needs to intervene. Many states have implemented distracted driving laws and with good reason.”

“I don’t think such laws should pertain to me. As I said, I’m very good at multitasking behind the wheel. Sure, I cut off other drivers now and then but even they praise me for my skills.”

“They do?”

“Why else would they give me the ‘You’re No. 1’ sign?”

It happened in 1966. My older sister Krissy, eager to get me out of her hair, gave me a coin she’d made from a piece of cardboard.

“You can buy candy with it,” she said.

Candy was a rarity in our home, but I knew where to buy some.

I slipped out the back door and made my way through the woods and onto Diane Drive. It was another 200 yards to the “little store,” the mom-and-pop shop at the bottom of the hill.

I entered the store and reached my grubby hand above my head and set my fake coin on the counter. Beneath the counter, through the glass, was a spectacular display of penny candy. I stood there mesmerized by the incredible potpourri of sweets.

Unbeknownst to me a great hullabaloo was taking place at my house. Krissy and Kathy, 7 and 9 respectively, had been instructed to keep an eye on me while my mother went downstairs with a load of laundry.

When my mother returned a few minutes later, I was nowhere to be found. Kathy, apparently, had gone upstairs to her bedroom. Krissy and I were left together for only a few minutes — just enough time for her to cut out the coin and give it to me (though I don’t think she expected her runt brother to walk all the way to the little store).

Panic overcame my mother as she searched the house — though she’d soon have the situation under control.

This story came to mind as I read a recent article in The New York Times on kids and walking. Today’s parents are in such a state of worry, most won’t let their children walk anywhere alone.

It’s routine for parents to drive their kids to and from school — even if they are 10, 11 or 12 and even if the school is only a few blocks away.

At some schools, there is a rigorous process for picking children up. Parents display their kids’ names on their dashboards. A school official radios to the building and the kids are escorted, one at a time, to the cars.

Parents who attempt to buck our worry-prone culture — one lady allowed her 10-year-old son to walk a mile to soccer practice — face the wrath of family, neighbors and local authorities.

When a police officer saw the boy walking alone, he stopped him and drove him to practice. The officer reprimanded his mom and told her she would have faced child endangerment had anything happened to her son.

To be sure, we’re an uptight, control-freak culture these days. Our paranoia is stoked by sensationalistic news stories and 24/7 coverage about children who have been abducted, but our fears are not entirely warranted.

The Times offers an interesting statistic: There are roughly 40 million elementary school-age children in America. Each year, 115 children are abducted — but more than 250,000 are in car wrecks.

Which shows how times have changed – and not necessarily for the better.

When I was 10 in 1972, I was permitted to roam all over the place, so long as my mother knew where I was going.

I am certainly sympathetic to the challenge parents face today. A friend of mine is determined that both her children experience some of the freedom she knew as a child.

She allows her kids to go into the woods to play – but she is filled with terror as she attempts to monitor them, unnoticed, from the window.

In any event, on the day I disappeared in 1966, my mother finally got my sister Krissy to fess up. Shortly after I arrived at the store, my mother pulled our station wagon into the store’s parking lot and rushed inside to hug me.

Lucky for her this happened in 1966.

Had it happened now, she’d have to deal with the police and child welfare officials and maybe even an embarrassing report on the evening news.

If only I hadn’t trained them to sort their laundry and empty their pockets—now I’ll never get change back from their trips to the store or know what’s going on in their lives. When he was in middle school, everything I ever knew about my son I learned from emptying his pockets. Now I have to interrogate his little sister for the latest scoop.

If only I hadn’t drilled into them that corner brownies were poisonous to all species except mothers, therefore guaranteeing I’ll never be left without a brownie, let alone my favorite piece ever again.

If only I hadn’t given them free rein of the kitchen. Now they keep making brownies during Lent and bathing suit weather and cutting real huge corner pieces. I shouldn’t have taught them that caring, sharing, generosity thing either.

If only I hadn’t taught them to use a paper dictionary, the importance of proper grammar, spelling and use of consistent verb forms…they wouldn’t beg to attack my column rough drafts with a sharpie marker and zest. (Okay, one particular English teacher gets her fair share of credit for this one.)

If only I hadn’t insisted they floss and kept rolls of it handy throughout the house so they wouldn’t have an excuse not to…I wouldn’t find strings of used floss under the couch cushions, in the dog’s bed, refrigerator crisper drawers, car door pockets, over the rear view mirror and computer monitor.

If only I hadn’t taught them to park two normal sedans in a garage designed for two Smart Cars, I’d never drive 5 miles before realizing the side view mirror was still folded in. Although I blame their father for diligently teaching them to fold the mirrors in instead of ripping them off on the garage doorframe. I usually leave them be and take 3 tries to back out of the garage.

If only I hadn’t taught them to drive, knowing they’d have to share my car, I’d still have my hearing because I wouldn’t have repeatedly started the car to the sounds of The Fray on full volume. I’d also have most of my stomach lining in tact from not worrying every time they pull out of the driveway.

If only I hadn’t taught them to think for themselves. Form unique opinions instead of following the "in" crowd of the moment. I wouldn’t have to fight for the A Section of the paper or listen to intelligent, thoughtful rebuttals to the follies of the Op-Ed pages.

If only, at ages 20 and 17, my days of teaching them things were over. Then I’d have less to regret later.