Once upon a time, my daughter and I were shopping at the mall. We'd stopped in one of the many trendy women's clothes shops to look around. One of the mannequins was wearing very tight, shiny silver booty shorts - the kind worn mostly by prostitutes and strippers. My young daughter, who was maybe 15 at the time, told me they were Jentina pants. (Cue my motherly, out-of-touch confusion.) I replied, "no, dear - those are sucky sucky five dollar pants." Suddenly, I felt this warmth at the back of my neck and turned to see this middle-aged Oriental lady glaring right at me. The look of withering contempt on her face told me that she somehow knew I was thinking of that scene from Full Metal Jacket. I had spoken in my own voice, with my own Texas accent, and I certainly didn't mean for the remark to sound as racist and insensitive as it did. I opened my mouth to apologize, but one of the more sensible voices in my head told me to shut up and run away, which is just what I did.