Verbal Assault

Our family was invited to the wedding of Husband’s sister, who was set to remarry a lovely guy in another state.  Son was unavailable for the festivities, but Daughter pounced on the idea of a family gathering on her holiday break from teaching.  My avoidance of air travel at all costs had me scrutinizing the map in the weeks before, campaigning to drive to Virginia instead of fly.  Husband acquiesced after insisting I agree to a very early departure.  Which is how I found myself on a road trip at 5 a.m. on the morning after Christmas.

I am RARELY dressed and moving purposefully at that hour in any direction that doesn’t involve a bathroom, and I certainly do not slug down caffeine and put on earrings before sunrise.  Daughter had slept over so we could all rise in unison at 4:30 and load the car in our own zombie version of Little House on the Prairie.

Well before we reached the Verrazano Bridge, the caffeine I’d ingested kicked in, and I transferred the endless narrative that always rattles around inside my head into words that filled the car.

OSV:  You know what was on the other day?  My favorite West Wing.  The one where Josh Lyman has post traumatic stress from taking a bullet for the President only he doesn’t know he’s having a breakdown, and it’s the one where Adam Arkin plays the psychiatrist and I totally think the Arkins are the unsung heroes of acting, like his father Alan who was so amazing in Catch-22 and Little Miss Sunshine, do you remember how hard we laughed at that movie?  Little Miss Sunshine, not Catch-22.  And Yo-Yo Ma is due to play at the White House for Christmas and Donna REALLY wants to go and I always thought Josh should have ended up with Donna instead of that snotty lobbyist, that Amy Somebody, and wasn’t it you who told me in real life Donna’s an identical twin?

I turned around to the back seat for Daughter’s response and found her sitting bolt upright with her eyes wide open like Petey, the perpetually surprised dog on the Little Rascals.

DAUGHTER:  Wow.  Mom.  That’s a lot of words you just threw out there.

HUSBAND:  (patting my hand)  It’s dark out, babe.  No one can really listen to that much in the dark.

There was a soft poofy noise from the back seat as Daughter fell over sideways onto the jackets piled next to her and passed out.  I lifted the thermos and sucked down the rest of my coffee and turned eagerly to Husband, who braced himself by gripping the steering wheel.

OSV:  You’re always after me to get up early and go for drives with you and watch the sun come up and I never feel like that could be any fun at all and here I am doing just what you always wanted and having a great time and you’re absolutely right that we should do way more things like this together.

HUSBAND:  Proving once again that we should be careful what we wish for.

OSV:  Do you want to play a word game?

Daughter’s Featured Fotos practice using Few Words

expression

expression

art

art

spare

spare

strike

strike

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Behaving Like Tourists

I’ve been having finals again right before the holidays, and it’s stressful to the max because I’m so desperately trying to advance to the next level at school.  We also have a family wedding coming up in another state right after Christmas so the need to remember to buy pantyhose and then wear them has all but pushed me over the edge.  Having just gotten over a stomach flu following on the heels of an upper respiratory infection, I’m ever more conscious of all the snorking, sneezing, loogey-hocking citizens around me.  I’m so tense I’ve given myself a headache.

This past weekend, being the last one before Hanukkah and Christmas, I did what I had to do to relax:  I took the train into the city and stood in Herald Square gawking at the Macy’s windows.  The intricate, motorized displays that tell an unfolding multi-window story always fascinate me and make me feel like an awestruck kid.  I love wearing scarves of all kinds, and this year the fashion displays showed every gorgeously dressed mannequin wearing one, too.  Apparently, I’m in style and didn’t even know it.

From Macy’s I took a city bus down to Daughter’s, and it always astonishes me how many elderly people are on public transportation with their canes and walkers in 23 degree weather.  The pioneers of the Oregon Trail had nothing on Manhattan’s osteo ice gliders this past freezing Saturday.  Every stop had the driver putting the bus into kneeling mode to afford easier access for an aging passenger.  Then began the eye-contact hockey among those sitting up front to see who was giving up their seat.  The day was bleak and cold, but the mood on the bus was holiday pleasant.  My MetroCard came up short on the fare, and while I searched for coins, the driver looked up at me with a smile and said quietly, “Why don’t you just take a seat.”

Daughter and I had lunch at a hotel café near Grand Central Station – juicy burgers with sweet potato fries – and then we cruised the Grand Central Holiday Craft Fair.  Usually, we do the one at Union Square, but we both agreed it was just too damn cold to do an outdoor fair.  So we lingered over the warm, indoor booths and bought small, last minute holiday gifts.  For ourselves.

Then we sat on the cascading steps of the Grand Atrium and watched the exceptionally cheesy laser light show that is a holiday staple of the landmark station.  This year’s theme was – God, I don’t even remember the theme – but it included the usual snowflakes and ersatz fireworks streaming across the walls and domed ceiling.  After we made sufficient fun of it, Daughter took me down the ramp to the arch outside the Oyster Bar.

She told me to stand inside the corner at one end of the arch and face the wall.  Then she went to the opposite corner and did the same.  Suddenly, her voice was crystal clear in my ear saying, “You can hear me, can’t you, Mom?”  I spun around expecting to see her right behind me, but there she was, waving from the other corner at least fifty feet away.  She had taken me to the Whispering Gallery, where the acoustics allow your voices to travel along the domed ceiling to the diagonal corners of the arch as if you’re standing right next to each other.  The magic of it made me smile with wonder, and we both turned back to our walls and giggled in each other’s ear.  That girl always knows how to chase away my blues.

You can read more about the Whispering Gallery at this New Yorkology site.

Images that Conjure Other Thoughts describe Daughter’s Featured Fotos

magnetic

magnetic

vigilant

vigilant

fierce

fierce

win

win

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Center Stage

Boy, do I love Meryl Streep.  If I could come back in life as anybody, it just might be her.  Who else could star in two current movies as diverse as Mama Mia and Doubt?  In one, she plays the free-spirited mother of an illegitimate daughter with three possible fathers, and in the other, a rigid nun obsessed with unmasking a possible pedophile priest.  You’d have to bring back Ingrid Bergman for a feat like that if Streep had decided to go into sales instead of show biz.  Before that, maybe Bette Davis could have worked it, but you’d be up to your knees in chewed scenery.  Not that anyone would object.

For a while after the kids were born, I celebrated Barbara Stanwyck.  Prior to that, I only knew Ms. Stanwyck as the matriarch on The Big Valley, and the fact that she was a huge studio star back in the day was a subject I’d never explored.  But sitting in a rocker with a nursing baby and a Heineken dark (my OB said it aided the milk flow, I SWEAR TO GOD) I single-handedly wore out copies of Sorry, Wrong Number and Double Indemnity.  That lady was the definition of melodrama.  Burt Lancaster and Fred MacMurray paid for hooking up with her with their lives.  I could watch either one of them right now.

Right now what’s going on here in New York is a massive scandal featuring the devastation of hundreds of investors who trusted financier Bernard Madoff with their money.  Since nobody says it better than Mr. Internet, here are two consecutive entries I just found in a Google search:

Madoff’s personal website:
Clients know that Bernard Madoff has a personal interest in maintaining the unblemished record of value, fair-dealing, and high ethical standards that has …

Yahoo news:
Bernard Madoff, a quiet force on Wall Street for decades, was arrested and charged on Thursday with allegedly running a $50 billion “Ponzi scheme” in what …

Philanthropic charities, such as the JEHT Foundation, have been literally wiped out overnight.  JEHT stands for Justice, Equality, Human dignity, and Tolerance and has funded the Innocence Project, a criminal justice program which helps to free wrongly convicted prisoners.  Yeshiva University lost millions.  Austria’s Bank Medici lost billions.

All this while Madoff sips Chivas out on bail in his $7 million dollar Upper East Side apartment wearing an electronic ankle bracelet.  The city would love him to go for a walk.  There are some hedge fund managers out there with hedge clippers just waiting to feed the little pieces of him into a wood chipper.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos hold No Secret Message

perspective

perspective

sidewalk rhino

sidewalk rhino

upstate ny beer

upstate ny beer

have yourself a healthy little christmas

have yourself a healthy little christmas

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Training Days

Last week, I was unloading groceries in my driveway and a car passed by with a woman and a teenage girl inside.  Even with the windows closed, I could tell the woman was saying, “Brakes!  Brakes!” as the teenage girl winced and shrugged.  Since I have lived through this both as the girl and the woman, I’ve decided to run an article I wrote over a decade ago.  Happy motoring.

The following was written as a newspaper column in 1997

Years and years ago, before the advent of airbags, mandatory seat belt laws, and ecology groups banning exhaust emissions, I completed high school driver education.  Back then, we were automatically assigned to a class in our sophomore year as part of the curriculum.  The instructor was a guy named Rick, who also taught wood shop and coached the varsity baseball team.  Looking back, I realize that Rick was in his early twenties and wasn’t even called Mister.  He was just Rick.

The half of the year that we weren’t taking Driver Ed, we were assigned to Health, better known as Sex Education, which was taught by another 20-something known as Miss D.  In retrospect, I find it both amusing and alarming that we were being instructed in two of the most dynamic skills we would ever possess by individuals barely older than we were.

Rick, in fact, seemed to have combined the two courses in his own mind.  I recall feverishly attempting to parallel park while Rick was observing young female pedestrians crossing in front of our vehicle in skirts the size of postcards.  At the time, I thought he was craning his neck to see if I cleared the bumper ahead of me.  In reality, he was praying for one of them to drop something and bend over to retrieve it.

The years have passed, and now my Daughter has turned sixteen and received her learner’s permit.  The demand for Driver Ed at her school far outweighs the available spots so it is left to the families to locate and secure a place in an independent driving program.  The cost for this comes to exactly the amount I paid for my first car, a seven-year-old 1963 Chevy Nova.  Money well spent on both counts.

As we wait for her class to begin, Daughter is receiving professional one-on-one instruction from one of Rick’s stellar graduates.  Recalling that Rick always stressed location, I chose a nearby upscale neighborhood a short distance from our community’s narrow streets and familiar joggers.  Not driving by people you know eliminates the temptation to wave, an urge that can be overwhelming and hard to accomplish with both hands on the wheel.  Also removed is the possibility of taking a chunk of lawn from the front yard of someone we might actually know.

Choosing a tony neighborhood to cruise around means wide streets with uninterrupted curb appeal.  The late-model luxury cars are all safely parked in the garage, eliminating them as potential targets.  And the chance of hitting a pedestrian is nil since no one ever comes out of their house.  You never pass a jogger or see anyone shooting hoops.  Apparently, they’re in a tax bracket that prohibits sweating.  If not, then their absence from the streets may be more out of self-preservation than privilege.  Perhaps they’ve spotted all the student drivers.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos prove it’s Happening All Around Us

underground jazz

underground jazz

reindeer revolution

reindeer revolution

cat fight

cat fight

midway there

midway there

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Pulp Friction

With age comes wisdom, and with that wisdom comes the knowledge that not everybody shares the same frame of reference I have.  My kids, for instance, along with most of my young classmates, don’t know what ‘orange juice from concentrate’ means.  What they do know is the disclaimer on all the oj containers they grew up with that says ‘Fresh! Not from Concentrate!’  This is advertised with such emphasis you’d think it says ‘Now Booger Free!’

The orange juice of my childhood came in a small can my mother kept in the freezer until she defrosted it and dumped it in a pitcher with enough water to make a quart.  When she forgot to defrost it, the orange ice could be scooped out of the little can with a spoon and added to a glass of water.  For a kid, it took a good eye to carve out just the right size chunk so the glass tasted like Mom made it, but going to more effort than that when the can was frozen was beyond consideration.  Our small Brooklyn apartment on a hectic school morning was a busy town.

By the time my own children were having their childhood, oj had morphed into a multiple choice:  Do you want it with calcium, less sugar, added vitamins, no pulp, some pulp, lots of pulp, most pulp?  How about mixed with tangerine, banana, strawberry?  Perhaps sir or madam is looking for something more exotic, say from Valencia?  That’s somewhere in Europia.

Over the weekend I had a stomach bug that had me in bed way longer than I wanted to be on a Sunday, and the company I kept for several hours included Tony Soprano and his family.  Both of them.  In one episode, Tony ambled down the driveway in his bathrobe to where Carmela had escaped him to smoke a secret cigarette and sulk about her marriage.  Cradled in his arm was a half-gallon of Tropicana Lots of Pulp Orange Juice.  He stood before his miserably unhappy wife and said, “You got the wrong one.”

She said, “What are you talking about?  It’s the one you like.”  Handing the container to her, Tony said, “I like the SOME pulp; not the MOST pulp.”  I missed what her response was because I was holding my stomach while laughing, but I did catch the part where she threw the half-gallon at him.  I probably didn’t miss much.  I’m sure A&E blocked out her answer.

So it all comes down to the pulp, doesn’t it?  Having so many choices is bound to create devoted followers.  When my kids were in grade school, they were pulp-free with the commitment of kosher vegans.  One day, I brought home oj with pulp in an attempt to broaden their horizons.  They each took a swig and looked at me in disgust.  They were horrified.  The pulp brushed against their throats going down.  They called it guppy juice.

The Sopranos tickled me because when I married Husband, it turned out his preference was the Tropicana with the pulp.  At my urging, he tried to describe the container, but couldn’t recall the exact wording.  Finally, he lit up and said, “Not the Grovestand; the Homestyle.  Is that what you mean?”  He was so cute and earnest, I had to give him a kiss and tell him that was exactly what I meant.  And in my head, I was thinking, “the one with SOME guppies.”

Daughter’s Featured Fotos say PLANTED

atomic berry

atomic berry

one stump said to another. . .

one stump said to another. . .

feed me!

feed me!

and sat down beside her

and sat down beside her

dreams of summer

dreams of summer

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Holla at your Mom

The following cell phone conversation took place on a weekday between me and one of my children whose identity will not be given to conceal his gender.

OSV:  Hey, what’s up?  I’m on my way to class.

OFFSPRING:  (croaky voice)  Hi, Mom.  Sorry to interrupt your day at school.  I’m really sick.

OSV:  Oh, no!  You sound awful.  Where are you?

OFFSPRING:  Work.  I wanted to know what I should take.

OSV:  How about you take your car over to the doctor?

OFFSPRING:  Right.  How about you give me Howie’s phone number?

OSV:  Howie?  You mean Dr. Howard Rubenberg?  Okay, here it is, and see how fast you get an appointment calling him Howie.

OFFSPRING:  Give me some credit.  I know it’s Dr. Howie.  Do you think he takes my insurance?

OSV:  Well, I can call the psychic hotline or you can ask when you make the appointment.

OFFSPRING:  Did I mention I’m really sick?

OSV:  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to be sarcastic.  I’m going in to take a test and I’m anxious.  On your way home from the doctor, stop at CVS and get something soothing for your throat.

OFFSPRING:  Like Nyquil?  Nyquil always makes me feel better.  I’ll get a big one.  Maybe the half gallon.

OSV:  It’s not orange juice, sweetie.  How about I drive over and bring you some chicken soup this evening?

OFFSPRING:  You’ve started making chicken soup?  When did this happen?

OSV:  I said I would BRING you some chicken soup; not MAKE it.

OFFSPRING:  Whew.  For a minute I thought I was delirious.

OSV:  You will be when I get there.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos offer something of a Fantasy

the seuss-mobile

the seuss-mobile

wallpaper at white castle

wallpaper at white castle

like that kansas tornado

like that kansas tornado

dorothy really lost

dorothy really lost

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The Meek Are Getting Ready

Husband and I went upstate the weekend after Thanksgiving, a three-hour drive we love to take.  On the way, we always pass a lot of churches and church signs, and one of them proclaimed the title message above.  I doubt the clergy was referring to the Black Friday shoppers this year, at least not the ones at a certain Walmart on Long Island who trampled a worker to death as he attempted to open the doors to let them in.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been caught in a human stampede, but it’s truly frightening.  Up until a recent vacation, I thought this kind of thing only happened at crazy South American soccer games where the crowd went berserk after a big win.  But a couple of months ago, we were in Chicago and decided to take the train into the city from the airport after being told it was an easy ride.  It turned out the line was under repair, however, and halfway there we all had to get off and go up to the street for a bus.

As Husband and I reached the top of the escalator, dragging our suitcases behind us, we saw that the landing was jammed with passengers with only one door to exit.  There was literally no room for the riders coming off the escalator, forget the luggage.  We started yelling for the crowd to move — somewhere, anywhere — and when no one did, we just plowed into them.  The people behind us plowed into us, and still the escalator kept coming with people and suitcases shooting off.  I remember seeing a woman with a stroller in my way and I put my arms straight out in front of me to push her aside so I didn’t land on her baby.  Fortunately, no one was injured, but it was bizarre.

This year, we spent Thanksgiving Day with Son and Daughter at the same lovely restaurant I wrote about in Like the Pilgrims Before Us, where we could each order lamb chops or filet mignon or whatever we wanted and Husband could still have his turkey and yams.  It was a very terrific dinner during which we also celebrated Daughter’s new position as Head Teacher, and Son’s promotion at work.  As almost-vice president Palin would say, there was maybe lots of thanking to be done, you betcha.

Daughter told us a story about an incident on the train coming out to see us that strangely foreshadowed the Walmart disaster.  She said the platform was very crowded and there was a woman standing nearby who had rudely pushed her way to the front.  When the doors opened, she thrust her body into the passengers attempting to disembark.  They were not happy and demonstrated as much.  The platform crowd was already disgusted with her for pushing through them, and they joined in the general verbal displeasure.  The woman grabbed a seat, ignoring everyone.

As her fellow passengers glowered at the woman, Daughter put on her most warm and professional head-teacher-at-a-school-for-special-needs-children demeanor, and sat down right next to her.  “Excuse me,” she said, patiently, “perhaps you’re from out of town so you may not be aware that the practice here is to let the passengers off before boarding the train.”

The woman stuck her face right in Daughter’s and said, “I’M FROM NEW YORK,” which Daughter had already surmised, but was trying to give her a graceful way out.  As she continued to mutter non-holiday greetings under her breath, Daughter just smiled blissfully, lost in the refuge of her iPod earbuds.  Eventually, the grumbling ceased and the fuming went silent as Daughter rode along contentedly, satisfied that her work there was done.  If only the poor Walmart employee had been as lucky.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos offer us a Maybe Kind Of Ladies Theme, don’tcha know

ladies in gas masks

ladies in gas masks

fishing

fishing

whaling

whaling

getting ready

getting ready

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Days of Whine and Coffee

Back in 2006, when I was researching ways to begin writing this blog, I came across several sites I still visit to this day.  One of them is called STARBUCKSGOSSIP.COM, and it’s a website hosted by a former barista who posts relevant news flashes along with the comments of Starbucks partners and customers.  With the subheading ‘Monitoring America’s Favorite Drug Dealer’, it’s not sanctioned or controlled by the corporation, and is essentially a sounding board for those who work for or patronize the coffee giant, and walk away with either a paycheck or a venti latte and something to say.

The substance of the readers’ comments has changed over the past two years in accordance with the company’s much-publicized decline in sales and brand loyalty.  Where partners’ remarks (the company tags its employees partners) posted in earlier days had a general upbeat, appreciative, support-the-team ring to them, this last year’s comments have hovered somewhere between disillusion and outright vitriol.  As the wind blows, so do the trees.

There is never a single reason formerly darling companies fall out of favor, but common causes are missteps in management, changes in the economy, new competition, and that ever-fickle entity known as the public.  In my work history, I have witnessed both sides of this scenario.

My father was an entrepreneur who founded a company in the 1970’s that succeeded in beginning an industry where none had existed before.  But 25 years later, advances in technology outdated his product.  He considered his employees family and he struggled to find new avenues for his company to survive without layoffs of longtime staff.  He managed to keep his company afloat, but his search for a new vision was not fulfilled before his death.

I also worked several years for a niche company that should have gone on forever had the owners not ignored market demands while bleeding its resources dry.  I remember the sick feeling in my stomach as I peeled a fax off the main office fax machine pertaining to the owner’s renovation of his multi-million dollar mansion.  It was a bill for master bathroom Italian marble that exceeded my yearly salary.  This while the company missed shipping windows resulting in enormous vendor fines.  I jumped ship before the death knell sounded.

Companies fall on hard times and so do their workers.  That’s the tarnish on the brass ring of capitalism.  Some failing businesses have owners who work late into the night at great personal sacrifice, and some have bosses who leave early to play golf.  So I continue to read the Starbucks Gossip comments with interest in both management and staff; the upstairs and downstairs.

Recently, the site has exploded with news of a stolen corporate laptop containing the personal data for 97,000 partners.  The company is taking measures to help those affected guard against identity theft.  But the rumblings of disgruntled partners who are watching the empire around them flounder are even louder for having bubbled beneath the surface for so long.

Amid all the lashing out, a customer posted a comment saying that if things are so miserable, maybe the baristas should find another position requiring minimal training for maximum hourly wage and benefits somewhere else, suggesting that in a country where a working-class kid from the Brooklyn projects can become a billionaire selling coffee, there must be a better future for them than whining on a website.

When morale sinks, though, every landscape looks bleak.  In a comment further along was a one-line statement from a partner responding to the corporate clumsiness that could result in the possibe theft of his identity.  He sounded distinctly doubtful.  “Who would want to be me?” he asked.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos depict The Outer Edge

foggy in the penthouse

foggy in the penthouse

unlikely

unlikely

a little privacy, please

a little privacy, please

after the show

after the show

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The Secret Weapon

I recently read the hot literary smash known as The Secret, which I’m aware has also been made into a film.  The message this book has to impart is three-fold and goes as follows:

1. Think positive thoughts and good things will happen to you.
2. Think negative thoughts and bad things will happen to you.
3. You are what you think.

If this sounds like a worthy but repetitive message, I believe you’re right.  I also believe I’ve saved you 190 pages reiterating the above, although you should read the book anyway because you may not be convinced by me just saying so that The Secret works.

As it always has.  James Allen put this philosophy into words in the masterful As A Man Thinketh, published in 1902.  Dale Carnegie developed an entire course of seminars based on the same principle.  Dr. Norman Vincent Peale shouted it in The Power of Positive Thinking.  And before all of them, Plato and Socrates may have been the first ones in the house.  Sadly, The Secret’s now best-selling author paid only marginal tribute to these predecessors whose works were far more eloquent.  But you can’t say she didn’t make her point.

I felt that point when I read her book and realized with horror that I was personally responsible for the destruction of Secret Weapon.  Don’t roll your eyes, but Secret Weapon is a hair finishing crème by John Frieda that I’ve used every day for the past eight years.  In case you didn’t know, women who wear their hair curly often use finishing crèmes so they don’t look like Little Orphan Annie.  Even the most killer black dress loses its power if you have Bozo hair.  So every morning, EVERY MORNING, as I scrunch my curls with Secret Weapon, I say a mantra in my head to the John Frieda company, “Please don’t ever stop making Secret Weapon.”

Of course, it turns out that this was a negative thought because it has the word ‘don’t’ in it.  The word ‘don’t’, according to The Secret, invites failure because the Universe only hears that word so it doesn’t give you what you’re asking for.  Apparently the Universe has attention deficit and can’t sit still long enough to hear the rest of your message.  As a result of this ignorance on my part, the John Frieda company got a message from the Universe to put a pineapple fragrance into their Secret Weapon along with some other mystery ingredient which must be known by the chemists who created it as ‘fatal goo’.

So now the Universe, in conjunction with John Frieda, has turned me into that person in the drugstore you see secretly smelling beauty products.  The one who turns away from the security camera as she flips the top on a tube and furtively takes a whiff.  I know you always thought she was just off her meds as you steered your cart to a different aisle, one without her in it.  I’m here to tell you she’s not a mental case.  In fact, she’s very well read.  She’s just looking for the pre-pineapple finishing cremes.  And now you too know The Secret.

Daughter’s Fotos were taken at the annual New York Chocolate Show at Pier 94, and spotlight two of her favorite things:  Superheroes and Chocolate.

the dark chocolate knight

the dark chocolate knight

sweet

sweet

superchocolatehero

superchocolatehero

web of cocoa

web of cocoa

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Only the Turkey Gets Basted

In school yesterday, a bunch of us were talking about our plans for Thanksgiving, and when I got home I saw my friend Blondie had sent me an e-mail with a holiday gobble-giggle:

A man in Jacksonville calls his son in San Diego the day before Thanksgiving and says, “I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing; forty-five years of misery is enough.
“Pop, what are you talking about?” the son screams.
“We can’t stand the sight of each other any longer,” the father says. “We’re sick of each other, and I’m sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Denver and tell her.”
Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone. “Like heck they’re getting divorced,” she shouts, “I’ll take care of this.”
She calls Jacksonville immediately, and screams at her father, “You are NOT getting divorced.  Don’t do a single thing until I get there.  I’m calling my brother back, and we’ll both be there tomorrow.  Until then, don’t do a thing, DO YOU HEAR ME?” and hangs up.
The man hangs up his phone and turns to his wife.  “Okay,” he says, “they’re coming for Thanksgiving and paying their own way.”

This holiday has crept up on me like a stalker in sneakers, and I’m wondering if it’s because now I’m the one who’s in school while my kids are graduated and working.  Husband lost his Mom recently so our focus has been on that while the calendar pages flipped and the leaves hit the ground.  Suddenly, Thanksgiving is around the corner.

Some of my friends are getting the ultimate taste of what life with grown children is really like as their kids break the news that they’ll be spending this holiday with the other family, aka the in-laws.  Even if Thanksgiving has always been your holiday and you receive this news with a smile so plastic you could store cold cuts in it, graceful acceptance goes a long way toward family harmony and the creation of new traditions.  To say nothing of providing a golden bargaining chip for the next one.

Your grown children need not be married, though, to test your flexibility.  One woman in my class, who has children ranging in age from grade school up through the 20’s, was upset because her 22-year-old son who is living at home just got a large tattoo.  And that’s the thing with working young adults living in the house where they used to be kids.  Once they reach a certain age, your rules are really just suggestions.  They’re in charge of themselves and their choices.

That’s what I said to her because I remember the delicate balance of that situation, and also, why should I be the only one with pierced, tattooed kids?  You can face it down or turn your head away, but every parent has to walk into the wind every now and then.  And when it does blow toward you, and the only thing left is deciding how to react, you could do worse than to remember that attitude is everything so pick a good one.  Looking on the bright side of that big tattoo, nothing says Merry Christmas like a giant tube of Bacitracin.

Daughter’s Featured Fotos provide Unorthodox Symmetry

painted crabs

painted crabs

crawling out....it's the hulk!

crawling out….it’s the hulk!

early bird crew

early bird crew

line up the usual suspects

line up the usual suspects

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