The Best Defense

Like shopping at Home Depot for plumbing fixtures or waiting on line at the post office, there are chunks of time in our lives we fantasize about getting back even though they’re gone forever.  So has it always been for me with the National Safety Council’s 6-hour defensive driving class.  This is a DMV sanctioned course that motorists can take to either reduce points on their license or get a 10% 3-year discount in their auto insurance.  I am no stranger to points on my license (see No Stupid Children and Welcome to Night Court), but in recent years Husband I have been doing it for the insurance perk.

My existing discount expired four months ago, and I got around to attending a new class this past weekend.  I could tell right away that the instructor would be taking us on a wild ride.  She looked and sounded like Roseanne Barr, and her day job was funeral director.  Roe told our class of 30 drivers that after too many years of preparing bodies for burial following traffic accidents, she decided that teaching this class was her way to make a small corner of the world a little safer.  And maybe save a life.

She told a great story about being caught in the HOV lane with no passengers.  It happened years ago when the High Occupancy Vehicle lanes were first introduced and people weren’t quite sure what the rules were.  I remember a friend of mine at that time telling me she got a ticket for driving in the HIV lane.  I could relate to her confusion because I had finally got it fixed in my head that AA was the addict club and AAA the auto club.  NCAA had to do with college basketball and NAACP with equal rights.  When you’re raising kids and doing a hundred things at once, too many initials all strung together are not your friends.

It was a young police officer that pulled Roe over in her work van after she crossed the bridge, and he began to read her the riot act for abusing the HOV lane.  She was overdue at a funeral home where the mourners were waiting to begin a service, and as the officer ranted on about her being alone in her vehicle, she said suddenly, “This is because I’m alone?  I’m not alone.  I have a passenger.”  At which point she pulled the covering off her cargo behind her and pointed to the deceased, nicely dressed and quietly waiting.

The officer became so unhinged, he let her go.  We were all laughing, and so was Roe, but she said it was a wake-up call to her about HOV rules, and that was her hope for us in class that afternoon.  That we would get a wake-up call about driving defensively every time we get behind the wheel, and pass that example on to anyone riding with us.

A young woman in the class said she was there to have points reduced on her license stemming from a similar infraction.  She had been driving alone in the HOV lane, but tried to convince the state trooper that because she was 8 months pregnant at the time, she really did have another passenger.  She went to court but the judge didn’t buy it.  Roe wasn’t surprised.  She said people will try anything to beat a ticket.  For that reason, the latest guidelines issued by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration say that to be considered a passenger, one must be physically present, restrained in their own seat belt, and have a pulse.

Today’s photo exhibit is by Cousin.  As kids, he was just enough older than me to convince me he was a genius.  As adults, I realized it was true.  For more of his brilliant work, click on Cousin’s Photo Site.

soaring eagle

soaring eagle

reflection

reflection

lake louise

lake louise

fireworks

fireworks

helicopter rising

helicopter rising

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Marooned

It’s kind of ironic that I’ve never given my name in this blog, but I’ve talked about personal medical issues ranging from brain meningiomas to transvaginal sonograms.  Interesting what some people decide to be private about, huh?  On that note, consider yourself now informed that I have a hernia.

When I was a kid, I had no idea what a hernia was other than when I heard adults lug around air conditioners grunting, “This f***ing thing is gonna give me a hernia!”  I was in the dark, but as far as good times go, I deduced it was not the equivalent of a lobster dinner at Panama Hatties or even a turkey burger at the diner.  If I had known it was a rupture in the stomach wall where your intestines push through, I wouldn’t have brought food into the equation at all.

My father had to have a hernia operation when I was in junior high, and he told a humorous story about it, as he did about most everything.  He had been referred to a surgeon who came highly recommended, and when they shook hands at the consultation, he noticed that the doctor was missing two fingers on his right hand.  In response to my dad’s concerned expression, the surgeon smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I’m a lefty.”

The surgeon my internist referred me to was also an instant hire.  After examining my abdomen, he pointed to my cell phone and said, “Call your husband and tell him you’re the proud parents of an inguinal hernia.”  To be fair, Husband really doesn’t get any of the credit for this, although he will be in for a treat when he tends to my post-surgical care.  In preparation for my February operation, I’ve taken a leave of absence from school since I won’t be able to carry all the required equipment up and down the stairs.  So I enrolled in an online program to keep up at home while I’m out.  It’s only been a week, but Husband can already tell my only companion during the day is my laptop.

When evening comes and he gets home from work, I lope into the hallway and start asking him about his day:  what did he do, who did he see, what’s it like out there, tell me stuff, tell me tell me tell me.  I feel like that dog in the cartoon whose head whipped from side to side while he panted, “Which way did they go, George, which way did they go?”

So now, aside from home schooling and panting like a puppy, my days tick by filled with fun stuff like a defensive driving class for my insurance discount, and tests for medical clearance from my internist.  I got my first echocardiogram ever, and was told those comforting words we all long to hear:  “Did you know you have mitral valve prolapse?”  Uh, no, I didn’t.  But that’s a whole ‘nother entry.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos are Open to Interpretation

march of the tin men

march of the tin men

catch me if you can

catch me if you can

beauty and the beast or fake nail on a bathroom floor

beauty and the beast or fake nail on a bathroom floor

. . . and a banana

. . . and a banana

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A Breath of Fresh Air

On Friday I rushed through a flurry of errands so I’d be free to leave for Brooklyn at 5:00 for a gathering at my friend betty’s.  I’ve written before about the Brooklyn Girls, a group of women from my old neighborhood and our mini reunions over the years.  For this dinner, my contribution would be rolls, cake and wine.  Since the day was sunny, I decided to get my car cleaned up on my way to the bakery.  I hadn’t been to the car wash in so long my Latino pals there all gave me high fives.

At a traffic light a few blocks from the car wash, I went over the remaining errands in my head until I felt a thump and looked in my rear view mirror.  What I saw was a woman driver right on my spanking clean bumper with her hand clapped over her mouth.  I pointed for her to follow me when the light changed.

We pulled into a gas station and got out to look at my bumper.  The woman was in her thirties, and from the looks of the inside of her car, the mother of more than one child although she had no passengers at the moment.  She was doing the I’m-so-sorry-I-don’t-know-how-this-happened thing until I told her it happened because she didn’t stop in time.  I asked for her license and insurance card while she bent over my bumper, licked her finger, and rubbed the damaged area.

“Oh, look!  It’s dirt!  See?  It’s coming right off.”  I asked her to stand up so I could show her something.  “Look over there,” I said, pointing.  “See that building, dear?  That’s a car wash.  That’s where I just had all the dirt removed from my car.  That on my bumper there is called chipped paint.”

She was walking in circles, all upset, asking if she should call the police or her husband or her insurance company or who should she call?  I told her she could call anybody she wanted, but if she called the police she’d have to say it was her who called them because I would never do that for some scratches on a bumper.  She said, “Let it go through my insurance,” and I asked her if she knew what her deductible was and she said “No” and I said “No kidding.”  In the end I just took down her information and told her I’d call her husband later to see how we could handle this.  I felt like a car salesman talking to a teenage girl.

The dinner at betty’s was outstanding, both the food and the company.  We all always have such a terrific time talking and catching up since the last visit.  This time, a friend who hasn’t shown up at our gatherings for many years was able to make it so it was like royalty walked in the room.  We did lots of hugging, which bit me in the ass later on since she was wearing a heavy dose of perfume I must be allergic to.

I was okay until I got in my car to drive home, and then I realized the scent had permeated my clothes and hair.  By the time I pulled into my driveway 40 minutes later, my throat was closing and my eyes were red.  I ran into the house and started peeling my clothes off, yanking my boot leg jeans right over my boots, and we know the acrobatics involved in that.  I gathered everything in my arms and went down to the basement and threw the whole heap in the washer and shut the lid.  Then I turned off the lights on the main floor and went upstairs to our bedroom.

Husband was brushing his teeth when he heard me behind him in the bathroom doorway.  He glanced sideways at the clock first and said, “Well, it’s past midnight so you must have had a lot of fun this evening.”  Then he turned around and saw me standing there in my boots and underwear.  His eyes popped.

“Not THAT much fun,” I assured him.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos shout FROZEN CITY

cold mass(achusetts)

boston snow

cold mass(achusetts)

cold mass(achusetts)

homeless in new york

homeless in new york

a breath 4 stupid_sofa_sale

back to craigslist

craigslist sofa adventure

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Nobody wears a hat like Aretha

I’m a student, and Inauguration Day was a school day.  For those of us who earn instead of learn, it was a workday.  Both Husband, as executive director of a community center, and Daughter, as head teacher at a school for special needs children, planned to incorporate the inauguration into their day via big screen or live feed or projection TV or the like.  My school had no such plan.

My school also had no heat.  I became aware of this the moment I entered the building and realized that everyone in the lecture hall was wearing a coat.  And gloves.  Also, I could see my breath as I gasped out loud, “GLOVES?”  It was Tuesday, as you know, and the day before had been Martin Luther King Day, meaning that my school had been closed since Friday.  Since the furnace is older than the wrapping on a mummy, it takes a good, oh, 55 hours to warm up.  I knew from experience that that mummy would be singing, “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” long before I’d be taking my coat off.  I turned around and went home.

There would not be many Inauguration Days like this one, this kind of breathtaking, heart-stopping, wondrous moment in history that you would always remember where you were when it happened.  I made a cup of cocoa and parked my thawing body in front of the television to watch history unfold.  In order to minimize the yuks the network anchors exchange, I chose CNN.  I know the BBC covered it as well, but for some things you just have to buy American.

Aretha Franklin blew me away.

nobody 1 aretha_hat_2

This is the woman who taught me R-E-S-P-E-C-T back in my teens.  Her voice belting out Let freedom ring! filled me with a people’s sorrow and hope I had always felt from a distance.  Later, when I heard pundits comment that repeated references to slavery seemed overstated, it reminded me of present-day Jews who speak of the Holocaust being dismissed as rehashing that Jewish thing they didn’t live through but keep talking about.  Every race has a wound.  The first thing you learn in therapy is not to pick at other people’s.

I was still feeling the emotion that evening when Daughter called upset that the experience had been ruined for her students.  The planned in-school broadcast failed, and her class wound up listening to the inauguration alone in their room on the computer with no picture.  They were first-graders, many of them children of color, and Daughter had wanted this to be a memory they would cherish forever.

I recalled that I wasn’t much older than them when Kennedy was assassinated.  What I remember of that day was the announcement over the school PA system that the President had been killed.  My teacher started to cry and hugged each one of us as she led us out to the playground for early dismissal.  She was wearing a pale blue skirt and a white blouse, and she kept telling us through her tears that everything would be okay.  I could tell there was a crisis, but her words made me feel safe.  I said to Daughter that the day was not ruined for her students.  What they would remember was that something wonderful happened, and that they were with her.

With all due respect to kickass headwear, Daughter’s Featured Fotos say Look At The Feet

nobody 2 ed_hardy_heels

ed hardy heels

nobody 3 ed_hardy_soles

bottom of ed hardy heels

nobody 4 silver_snakeskin_blog

silver snakeskin in the house

nobody 5 marc_jacobs_spikes

marc jacobs on high

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One Man’s Junk is Another Man’s Craigslist

One day over my school break, I did a favor for Daughter who had to return to her teaching job a week before I resumed my ongoing education.  As a result of her recent promotion to head teacher, she suddenly had the monetary means to refurnish her studio apartment.  She posted all of her existing furniture on Craigslist, along with many other belongings now deemed undeserving of occupying the 500 square feet she lives in.  Someone needed to be there when the sofa was picked up so I volunteered.

Since Craigslist is Craigslist, and not all the people looking for free sofas necessarily wear a watch, the guy was mega late.  So I turned on the TV in time to see one of the AARP commercials that squeeze you by the varicose veins to sell you their long-term care insurance.  You’ve seen them; you’ve probably just ignored them figuring they’re not aimed at you.  But they want you to know you’re EXACTLY who they’re for when they say, “Not yet an AARP member?  Have we missed you with our relentless bionic mailings?  Are you or a family member older than 50 but younger than dead?  We’re talking to YOU.”

As many mothers of adult children, I’ve assured both my kids I will never be a burden to them.  Husband and I won’t be moving in with either of them and telling them the towels scratch or the den is drafty.  We’ve never been the Waltons, and I’m not getting up at dawn to bake muffins for my grandchildren or turn a deaf ear on an argument that doesn’t concern me when I can totally tell who’s wrong.  In spite of this, Daughter has informed me she will never put me in a home.

I said no, really, put me in a home.  It’ll be a vacation.  I won’t give a shit about my cholesterol anymore so just bring me a KFC Value Meal every now and then.  It can’t matter once my age is higher than my triglycerides.  When my grandmother was 99, she went into assisted living and she’d smuggle a salt shaker into the dining room in the basket of her walker.  Someone at her table would distract the staff while she sprinkled salt on her food.

When I visited her there, the floor nurse scolded her for it in front of me and Grandma screwed up her face and said, “I’m almost a hundred!  What’s the salt gonna do, kill me?  Pretty soon my number’s up so why should I waste my time eating something that tastes like a log?”  The nurse was all officious and annoyed, and all I could say was, “Come on, Grandma, don’t sugar coat it.  Say how you feel.”  We were laughing, but the nurse stalked off in a huff.  Too bad for her.

And too bad for me waiting around for the Craigslist sofa guy who never came.  When he finally did arrive on a day Daughter was there, he and his friend couldn’t get it in the elevator even though Daughter measured first.  Then the building porter showed up all agitated that the doorman saw on the monitor that they were damaging the elevator so the guy got spooked and bolted without even taking the sofa.  But then the porter took it away himself, which he’d said a week earlier was out of the question.  You want another answer, ask another day.

Today we have guest photographer OJB, a longtime friend of my kids who I’ve known since he was a hopper.  For more of his outstanding images, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/corillien/

eaving arches national park

eaving arches national park

swans

swans

fire on high

fire on high

flower at memorial sloan-kettering breast and imaging center

flower at memorial sloan-kettering breast and imaging center

moonshine

moonshine

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Mind the Gap

On a trip to England a few years back, Husband and I made sure to visit the London Underground for a ride on the tubes.  Their security was already ahead of ours, as evidenced by the absence of trash receptacles, and Husband walked a candy wrapper all around the terminal to no avail.  Finally, he approached a shop owner and asked why there were no garbage bins.  “Bombs,” the shopkeeper replied, extending his hand toward Husband like you would for a child’s chewing gum in the back seat of your car.

Shortly after our return to the States, three bombs were detonated in London’s Underground by British Islamic extremists to denounce the country’s involvement in the Iraq war.  Fifty-two commuters were killed along with the four suicide bombers and 700 others were injured.  On my latest pass through Penn Station, I noticed that our trash bins are gone now, too.

It would take a lot to diminish my romance with train travel, although the rustic Chicago to Seattle trek I wrote about in You Can Almost See Russia took a step in that direction.  Even so, Husband and I always try to visit a city’s transit system on our trips, and we’ve covered quite a few from Boston to Rome.  We were ejected in elegant but agitated Italian we couldn’t understand when it was discovered we were on a first class car with second class tickets.  I’ve been bitch-slapped by some uniformed individuals in my time, but never with so much panache as in Rome.

On a recent trip home from the city after visiting Daughter, I boarded what I thought was the right train, but had my doubts once the automated conductor-voice came over the speaker as we were leaving the station.

ROBOCONDUCTOR:  This is the train to East Bumfuck.  The next stop will be Neuterville.

The live-action conductor came on the speaker immediately afterward with this statement:

REALCONDUCTOR:  Ladies and gentlemen, we’re having a problem with the recorded announcements.  This is the train to WEST Bumfuck.  You have my word on it.

A few moments later:

ROBOCONDUCTOR:  This is the train to East Bumfuck.  The next stop is Port Doody.  Please take all of your belongings as you exit the train, and remember to watch the gap between the train and the platform.  The final stop on this train will be East Bumfuck.

And once again, the live voice assured us we were on the right train.

After the fifth time the Roboconductor spoke, a very weary motorman came on the speaker and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.  This is the train to West Bumfuck.”

I had forgotten all about this entertaining commute until Daughter mentioned on the phone last night that in the middle of her subway ride home, a voice came over the speaker and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, please do not throw yourselves at the closing doors.”  Sound advice no matter who delivers it.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos ask if your holiday gifts say you were Naughty Or Nice

hulk special edition dvd box opened

hulk special edition dvd box opened

. . . and closed

. . . and closed

run down

run down

used

used

marc jacobs!

marc jacobs!

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The Sound of Time

I was in my neurologist’s office the other day, a yearly ritual with the doctor who treats my headaches, and the receptionist had me fill out a new medical history for their records.  The other patient in the waiting room was a much older, stern looking woman, also filling out forms.  She had a walker but no aide present, so I brought both of our clipboards to the desk when we were done.  The fact that she didn’t thank me or smile can be forgiven considering our surroundings.

One form had a space for the patient to enter the names of any people the office had permission to speak to regarding the patient’s health, and I wrote in Husband, Son, and Daughter.  The receptionist looked over the forms and addressed the older woman.

RECEPTIONIST:  Ma’am, you left the patient contact page blank.  Do you have any family we have your permission to speak with regarding your health?

PATIENT:  I have seven living children.

RECEPTIONIST:  Would you like the form back to complete?

PATIENT:  No.

I was halfway out of my seat to get the clipboard for her, and when she gave such a quick negative response, the receptionist and I exchanged silent glances like, whoa.  Having had a loving relationship with both my parents and my children, there is nothing sadder to me than a mother on that kind of emotional desert island.  And the fact that she may have rowed there on her own and then thrown away the oars makes it no less sad.

January is the traditional month for examining the previous year and deciding how to do the next one better.  And if the previous year was splendid, vowing to repeat the things we did right.  Just as the summers of childhood seemed endless, the years of midlife seem fleeting.  The 24 hours each day offers us somehow get shorter as we grow older, and I’m amused when my kids make reference to their mounting awareness of this.  At sushi dinner on Christmas Day, Son shook his head and said, “Wow, this year really flew.  Does time seem to be going by faster now, or is it just me?”  It isn’t just him, and he’s not yet 25.

So after much reflection, here are my goals for the coming year that somehow already came:

1.  See my friends more, in person, preferably chewing food or trying on shoes.

2.  Remember all the wonderful reasons I married my husband.

3.  Don’t give advice to my kids unless their sentence begins, “Let me ask you something…”

4. Work harder in school so I can be out earning a paycheck in my field before my first Social Security check arrives.

5. Have no regrets.

A belated Happy New Year to all, and may you never land on an island you can’t get home from.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos say Goodbye ’08, Hello ’09

christmas lights in the city

christmas lights in the city

trapped mannequin

trapped mannequin

mustache gloves

mustache gloves

first snow of 2009

first snow of 2009

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BugNuts

I will eat pretty much anything.  I confessed to this long ago in Goes Down Easy at a Bargain Price, as well as several other entries.  My husband, my children, my friends, and many robotic creations and humanoid clones are more discerning about what they ingest than I am.  And yet this news story disturbed even me, Taco Bell Twinkie Woman.

They’re putting bugs in our food.  They waited until we were jiggy with animal waste and excretions in our vaccines, perfumes, and medical tests, then they started smuggling critter juice into our grapefruit juice.  Who are THEY?  People who aren’t us and get paid well for it.  The creative terms they’ve come up with for a dye derived from boiled, dried, crushed female cochineal insects include ‘natural colouring’, ‘color added’, ‘carmine dye’, ‘natural red 4’, and the ephemeral ‘E-120’.

In defense of consumers, we’re not idiots, so we do know that Revlon’s Cherries in the Snow lipstick was not born that color naturally.  But there’s quite a leap from an ingredient list that includes E-120 to one that admits to pulverized beetles, and I haven’t seen that second label, have you?  The news reports say we won’t see anything close to it for at least two years in FDA time.

Consumer groups, particularly those in support of hyperactive children, have been lobbying the Food and Drug Administration for over a decade to have labels clearly marked to indicate when insect-derived matter is present, or even better, to have it banned completely.  It adds no nutritional value.  It’s just pretty.  But it’s a large world, and we don’t need a consensus on how red our fruit drink has to be to appeal to the masses.  Especially when bug-based dyes pose a health threat to a growing segment of the population.  In particular our children, who depend on us to choose their food.

People read labels now more than ever, and that goes for all people, not just those who are vegan, kosher or have known food allergies.  It’s a different world today than it was when the ancient Mayans began using the cochineal beetle to dye their textiles.  In the 15th century, cities conquered by Montezuma paid yearly tributes in the form of colored cotton blankets and bags of dye.  But they knew better than to eat it.  Had we been a beetle on the wall back in ancient times, we might have overheard the following.

UAXACTUN:  (feeling blanket)  Sweet piece of goods, Kalakmul.  What else can you show me?

KALAKMUL:  How about a nice Hawaiian Punch?

UAXACTUN:  (licking lips)  Beautiful color.  What’s in it?

KALAKMUL:  Same shit as the blanket.

UAXACTUN:  Forget it, we’ll be extinct soon enough.  Where’s the nearest Poland Spring?

From our recent road trip to Virginia, Daughter’s Featured Fotos capture Rest Stop Views

crossroads

crossroads

north is 2 directions?

north is 2 directions?

ewwww

ewwww

"you're not from around here, right?" said the truck driver after I took this picture

“you’re not from around here, right?” said the truck driver after I took this picture

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Steady As She Goes

In recent years, our New Year’s Day has been more eventful than our New Year’s Eve.  This is possibly because Husband and I are both more likely to be awake during the Day than the Eve.  This year, after a quiet dinner at home followed by a few vintage Twilight Zones from the SciFi marathon, Husband hit the hay and I watched Ryan Seacrest and a bunch of other celebrities I don’t know host the Times Square Ball Drop.

In between wondering where the thousands of revelers pee while jumping around in the cold, and why anyone would want to be that cold for that long to begin with, I had the nagging suspicion that were it not for Nivea and Toshiba’s relentless neon advertisements dancing in front of the cameras we might never have found our way out of 2008.

New Year’s Day, Husband and I left our house at 7 a.m. to head upstate for some real, authentic cold.  Excited that the Cracker Barrel we passed was open (yay! grits!) we pulled over to carb up for the frigid day ahead.  Breakfast was perfect, and as we headed to the parking lot, the hostess wished us a Happy New Year and reminded us to watch our step on the icy walkway.

For a person who’s always watching my step, I fall a freaking amount of times.  A few years after Husband and I got married, Daughter was home on a college break and I remembered I had to tell her something as she was walking out the door.  The thing I forgot to do was stop moving at the top step.  As I began to speak, I went headfirst down the flight of about a dozen stairs.  Were it not for the recurring bump-bump-bump as I hit every step on the way down, I could have been body surfing.  But on wood instead of water.

The cool thing was that Husband saw me go right at the top and he dove after me.  About halfway down, he managed to grab one of my ankles and literally pull me to a halt inches from the wall.  We were both all bruised, but he saved me from a guaranteed concussion.  I remember being sprawled out on the bottom landing and looking up to see Daughter’s eyes and mouth frozen open in shock.  At which point I said what I’d started out to say twelve steps ago:  “Take your umbrella.”

Husband is never surprised to turn around and see me lying on the ground where I’d just been standing.  The mystery is why, since it’s not like I have these enormous boobs that throw me off balance.  Last year in Indiana for my stepson’s wedding, a short walk across a shiny wooden floor in our hotel room while getting dressed sent me to the emergency room and a full arm cast for the next six weeks.  And again, Husband saved me.

So we smiled at the Cracker Barrel hostess and thanked her for the warning, and halfway to the car I was down.  I squinted up at the sun from my crumpled heap, and saw Husband shift the apple pecan streusel pie to his other hand so he could help me to my feet.  “Come on,” he said calmly, “let’s go in and fill out an accident report.”  We should probably carry them with us.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos are guaranteed to Get Noticed

tattooed beauties

tattooed beauties

green lady

green lady

blowing up union square

blowing up union square

immaculate kryptonite

immaculate kryptonite

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Auld Lang Syne

I recently heard about the perfect gift for the New Year:  a calendar made of bubble wrap.  Everyone loves popping those little hermetically sealed pods of air, and how cathartic to signify the end of the day with such a satisfying note of finality.  POP, goodbye miserable Monday.  According to the report about this new gift item, the only problem is giving it to obsessives who pop the whole year in the first week.  I guess nothing’s perfect.

With the passing of George Carlin this past year, there will be no New Rules for 2009, which means we’re on our own for the first time in three decades.  To provide a small measure of guidance, I’m rerunning Carlin’s rules from 2008 as posted in my entry from last January.  Old rules beat no rules unless you make your own rules.

May the New Year find you ready and waiting.

auld 1 george_carlin

New Rule #1:  Stop giving me that pop-up ad for classmates.com!  There’s a reason you don’t talk to people for 25 years.  Because you don’t particularly like them?!  Besides, I already know what the captain of the football team is doing these days — mowing my lawn.

New Rule #2:  Don’t eat anything that’s served to you out a window unless you’re a seagull.  People are acting all shocked that a human finger was found in a bowl of Wendy’s chili.  Hey, it cost less than a dollar.  What did you expect it to contain?  Trout?

New Rule #3:  Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone.  Here’s how much men care about your eyebrows:  Do you have two of them?  Okay, we’re done.

New Rule #4:  There’s no such thing as flavored water.  There’s a whole aisle of this crap at the supermarket; water, but without that watery taste.  Sorry, but flavored water is called a soft drink.  You want flavored water?  Pour some scotch over ice and let it melt.  That’s your flavored water.

New Rule #5:  Stop screwing with old people.  Target is introducing a redesigned pill bottle that’s square, with a bigger label.  And the top is now the bottom.  And by the time grandpa figures out how to open it, his ass will be in the morgue.  Congratulations, Target, you just solved the Social Security crisis.

New Rule #6:  The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the asshole.  If you walk into a Starbucks and order a “decaf grande half-soy, half-low fat, iced vanilla, double-shot, gingerbread cappuccino, extra dry, light ice, with one Sweet ‘n Low, and one NutraSweet,” ooh, you’re a huge asshole.

New Rule #7:  I’m not the cashier!  By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN number, pressing “Enter,” verifying the amount, deciding no, I don’t want cash back, and pressing “Enter” again, the kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there eating my Almond Joy.

New Rule #8:  Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it doesn’t make you spiritual.  It’s right above the crack of your ass and it translates to “beef with broccoli.”  The last time you did anything spiritual, you were praying to God you weren’t pregnant.  You’re not spiritual.  You’re just high.

New Rule #9:  Competitive eating isn’t a sport.  It’s one of the seven deadly sins.  ESPN recently televised the U.S. Open of Competitive Eating because watching those athletes at the poker table was just too damned exciting.  What’s next, competitive farting?  Oh wait!  They’re already doing that.  It’s called “The Howard Stern Show.”

New Rule #10:  I don’t need bigger, mega M&Ms.  If I’m extra hungry for M&Ms, I’ll go nuts and eat two.

New Rule #11:  No more gift registries.  You know, it used to be just for weddings.  Now it’s for babies and new homes and graduations from rehab.  Picking out the stuff you want and having other people buy it for you isn’t gift giving, it’s the white people version of looting.

New Rule #12:  When I ask how old your toddler is, I don’t need to know in months ( e.g. 27 months).  “He’s two,” will do just fine.  He’s not a cheese.  And I didn’t really care in the first place.

New Rule #13:  If you ever hope to be a credible adult and want a job that pays better than minimum wage, then for God’s sake don’t pierce or tattoo every available piece of flesh.  If so, then plan your future around saying, “Do you want fries with that?”

Daughter’s Final Featured Foto of 2008 says to STAY WARM

auld 2 braving_the_nyc_cold

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