My Funny Valentine

 Our wedding day.

For Valentine’s Day this year, Seth and I decided that, as our gift to one another, we would refrain from trying to kill each other for a 24 hour period.

Don’t be shocked.This is a generous and affectionate gift after 29 years of togetherness.

Lately, we’ve become like the Pink Panther and Cato—never sure when the other will leap from behind a pile of laundry to engage in mortal combat, spiraling like aging pinwheels through the house until, exhausted, one of us gives up—until next time.

      

Being married for a long time is both a blessing and well, another kind of blessing. I can read Seth’s mind. Literally. I’ve proven it many times. It’s as if his thoughts travel across his rapidly enlarging forehead in the same digitalized font as news travels around the tickers in Times Square.

I can also tell you exactly what he is going to say before he says it. Depending upon location, specific landmarks provoke pre-recorded comments like “Who the hell would paint their house that color”? Or, upon passing a tag sale, “Why would I want to buy someone else’s crap-- I have my own damn crap!”

 I realize that I have pre-recorded comments of my own that he anticipates but he will never read my mind.

I remain an enigma whose thought process is encased in a lead shield of mystery. This is also known as being a woman. We may be predictable on certain levels but, even after years of trying to crack the code, our thoughts remain our own. 

It occurred to me, with a enormous degree of shock, that I might annoy him as much as he annoys me. It’s true that he’s the one who falls asleep in front of the TV with his mouth open wide enough to swallow our bedroom set. But am I not the one who staggers to the kitchen in the morning to greet him with a post-sleep hairdo (a vortex whose varying shape, he claims, I use to communicate with my home planet) so frightening that any sane man would gag and hurry towards an exit? Yet he does not…he kisses me hello and says something pleasant. The bastard.

Previous Valentine’s Days would find us scrambling to get a table at a cozy restaurant or acting surprised when a dozen roses appeared.

As the years progressed, I’d had enough with the roses as well as being rushed through a meal. I think being together a long time makes you a realist—about your partner as well as yourself.

In a long-term marriage, realism is usually tempered by enough compassion and friendship to soften the edges of that hard-won realism. For example, I should probably have removed the previous comment about Seth’s forehead….

      

One of my favorite Valentines was received as a little girl from my mother. It may have been my first conscious Valentine, because I remember expressing surprise when I was presented with a lovely bouquet of Charms lollipops for no apparent reason.

My mother explained that, one day, there might be a special someone who would be my Valentine but until then I was hers and she was mine. I remember saying the same to my sons when they were little.

I still tell them that, not just on Valentine’s Day but until Seth is able to get the net over my head and my world, temporarily, goes black. Back then little boy kisses were offered with home made cards. Nothing could have made me happier. 

 

Sometimes I wonder about future generations of Valentine givers.

Kids have come to expect instantaneous gratification at the click of a mouse or the flourish of a Wii wand. Will they expect that same immediacy from their relationships with humans?

Marriage is about compromise and patience, things not widely taught in tech class. The divorce rate was already high before all this began so who knows. What I do know is that it’s definitely worth the pay-off if you can hang in there.

    

So, what do you do with a man who is so good and kind that he robs you daily of your normal vitriol, tries diligently to diffuse your natural negativity and does not leave you because of your morning hairdo? You marry him.

Happy Valentine's Day to all with love.

An Open Letter to Chris Lee, Yet Another Idiot Congressman

Nope. Not sexy.

Dear Congressman Lee,

Sometimes I feel as if things happen just for me.

Earlier this week, I thought it was the news that Charles Manson had managed to procure yet another cell phone to use in prison. I was planning to go to town with this but then you, sir--the latest stupidest congressman ever, fulfilled a nasty blogger's dream. Thank you, Congressman, you unbelievable idiot, you.

For those who may not have all the facts, I hope you won't mind if I fill them in. It seems that you, a married man of 47, conducted a cringe-worthy online flirtation with a 34 year old woman (no genius, herself, I venture) seeking an eligible man through Craigslist.

During the course of this exchange, you sent her a picture of yourself, bare chested and flexing, with a really, really dopey look on your face.

You told her you were 39 instead of your true age, and that you're divorced with one child. I bet this came as a surprise to your wife and son.

And thanks, Congressman Lee, for using your real name. This makes me think that your former constituents in western NY are doubting their own intelligence for electing you. It also makes me wonder how someone like you was able to operate a computer....or a can opener, for that matter.

I am also kind of moved, in some grotesque way, that you decided the silly picture you took was good enough to send her. I assume you thought it was "sexy" and that she would, too. It's not sexy at all, you poor bastard. But in addition to further confirming your stupidity (and making me a tiny bit sad), it makes you very human, doesn't it?

Don't get me wrong, Congressman Lee, you still make me sick.

And thanks for reminding us how desensitized we have all become to the smarmy behavior of public figures. In one account I read of your antics, they were referred to as "comparatively innocent."

No doubt, had she agreed to more, you would have quickly ramped up from "mild flirtation" to intensely gross but, as it stands, America seems relieved that you consider yourself a "fit, fun, classy guy" as opposed to some freak who immediately announced your plans to put your penis in her ear.

It reminds me of what we used to say when three of our cars were stolen, one by one, or I was mugged in the subway: "At least no one got killed, thank God."

We would justify miserable events with the comfort that they could have been a lot worse. In your case, it's, "Well, at least he didn't send sexually explicit emails to teenage boys like Florida Congressman, Mark Foley...or, play naughty feet in a bathroom stall like Senator Larry Craig from Idaho.

See, Congressman Lee, you're a veritable prince among perverts. There's something to put on your resume!

According to the brilliant political pundit, Sharon Osbourne on "The Talk" yesterday (I swear on Buzzy that I was clicking around for cable coverage of what was happening in Egypt), you were "begging to get caught." I disagree. You were part of the club of men who still believe they are above common rules of propriety--despite the fact that many of your colleagues are already disgraced jackasses who didn't think they'd get caught either.

It was also suggested that your behavior indicates a problem within your marriage. Well, yes, it does---you're an idiot. That's the problem.Your wife can do a lot better.

Congressman Lee, is it at all possible that if we check your phone, we might find that you have been calling Charles Manson? That would really make my day.

Love, Me

And the Award for the Worst Plastic Surgery Goes To....

The only faces that haven't had work done...

 I am starting to prepare for the Academy Awards. 

Traditionally televised toward the end of February, the Oscars are the most prestigious acting award passed around by the self-aggrandizing/congratulatory entertainment industry which, apparently, loves little more than appearing in public wearing designer dresses and borrowed diamonds.

They exchange air kisses on the red carpet and eat sushi at after-parties while the rest of us keep Tide-to-Go instant stain removal pens in our pocketbooks and wait for their movies to come to DVD because we can't afford gas for the car much less a ten dollar movie ticket.

My mother and I used to enjoy award shows together. She'd pop on a new snap coat for the occasion and we'd snuggle on the couch with a blankie across our knees.

We used to gleefully sharpen our claws long before Joan Rivers became a style guru with a mean post-game show. Our evening included a critique of the clothing (since we, of course, were such fashion icons), bad-mouth the winners (since we, of course, were such talented actresses) and make sure we had our sunglasses at the ready so to shield our retinas from the glow of Susan Sarandon's annual display of snowy white busom.

We gasped together when both Cher and Barbara Streisand showed their asses in revealing outfits as well as when a "streaker" ran naked across the stage in the seventies. If my mother were here, we'd be watching it together still--only our focus would now be the wave of plastic surgery that has swept over the face of the industry.

Plastic surgery has been around for ages. It's documented that even the face of Greta Garbo saw a surgeon's knife and Clark Gable's ears were pinned back--paid for by Loretta Young, after years of the studios using surgical tape to keep them from flapping-- in the 1940's. Facelifts have been around forever, too.

But these days, there doesn't seem to be a pair of lips that hasn't been pumped full of something. Faces are either unnaturally smooth or stiff thanks to a variety of injectables. Chins can be been lengthened, jaw lines widened or narrowed. Cheekbones are created with implants and surprised looks are permanently bestowed with a surgical hike of the brows. While noses used to have bumps smoothed now they can be thinned and reshaped. It's a whole new world.

It's not just facial work. It's teeth. The academies love to honor life-time achievers which means rousing decrepit Hollywood royalty who totter out for perfunctory standing ovations. Wrinkled and deflated beyond the help of any surgical filler or lift, withered lips are parted to reveal sets of perfect, dazzlingly white choppers that would appear unnatural in the mouth of a teenager.

I am all for making yourself look good. Who among us wouldn't profit from a little tweak or trim? I will soon, no doubt, be able to hide spare change or smuggle documents in the folds of my neck and dare not put my shoes on in the dark, lest something other than my feet end up in my sneakers, but I am far too scared to take action. Not to mention, your average--insert your line of work, here--cannot afford such medical frivolities.

What the women (men, too) don't seem to realize is twofold. First, they are all starting to look the same....eyes, foreheads, teeth, lips. The look is becoming uniform. 

Plus, they still look old. But instead of looking like an older version of themselves, they become unrecognizable...or just look weird.

Did anyone see Katey Sagal at the Golden Globes? She was there but unless you caught her name during the intros, you might have wondered who the woman who sounded just like Peg Bundy was. Even the gorgeous Michele Pfeiffer (whose distinctive features were a gift from her surgeon way back when) had major changes made recently. Remember when Courtney Cox still looked like herself? I do.

I recently saw Suzanne Somers on television defending her credo that women can remain sexy at any age. I've had trouble sleeping ever since. 

Suzanne Somers. Really.

I wonder to whom she is referring. Now in her mid sixties, she has become a desperate vestige of her former self. With new cheeks and chin, her mouth barely moved as she talked about her regimen of eating freeze-dried transgender dolphin embryos for breakfast followed by a chaser of the urine of the last undiscovered tribe living in the rain forests of Beverly Hills.

It's easy for me to say as I dig for bus fare in my neck folds, but ladies, you're not looking so good. Growing older is terrifying. It's the last frontier as we baby boomers stumble towards our aging selves. But it's inevitable.

Let's hold our heads up, buy really good support bras (men, too) and watch the Academy Awards together. Don't forget your sunglasses, I think Susan Sarandon is planning on being there again this year.

Oh God, my retinas....

Riding in Cars With (Baby) Boys

Hat by Grandma.

Twenty six years ago tonight, I was standing on the frozen steps of a small apartment building in Brooklyn. The snow-covered streets were empty and my mother stood beside me. Her cotton candy hair blew about in the wind, as we waited for the car service to take us to the hospital.

The evening that preceded the night included a massive bread baking session in my tiny kitchen as a result of the hormonal madness inspired by the fact that the baby I was waiting for was nine days late.

So, I baked.

Kneading bread with my hands, proofing dough and shoveling the loaves into my ancient oven kept me busy. But, in my craziness, I had forgotten to grease the pans and none of the perfectly domed, yeastily aromatic loaves could be freed from their pans. 

I tried running a knife around their golden edges and rapping strategically with a knuckle on the bottom of the pans. Nothing worked. So, totally in character, I flung them, one by one, against the kitchen wall. This did not loosen the bread from the loaf pans but it did cause my water to break. So, off we went.

Seth--a merchant marine at the time--was in Florida, waiting to head out on a cable layer for AT&T. Dispatched just days before and, in a world before cell phones, he had to be tracked down by a marine operator. Due to a miraculously timed postponement of the ship's departure, he was able to fly home and attend the birth of his first son.

Labor was painful. And long. And it worked it's way, fruitlessly, through several shifts of nurses. My doctor, a fabulous Russian, with a mane of hair more magnificent than that of the MGM lion's, stayed through it all, waiting with me...soothing me with corny jokes told in a deep, rumbly, heavily accented voice.

Ultimately a C-section became necessary and I was trundled, delirious, into an antiseptically austere surgical delivery room. Back then husbands were not invited in for anything other than natural births, so Seth and I parted at the door. He was able to see Tommy as he was lifted onto the table and examined. I caught a glimpse of him, too. His mouth was huge and open. I fell in love at first sight.

There were some benefits to the old days. One of them was that, if you had a C-section, you stayed in the hospital for no less than five days. Can you imagine? Tommy and I lived the good life....he was whisked away at night while I slept, visitors brought balloons and stuffed animals....but I did have to say goodbye to Seth whose ship was ready to sail for Okinawa.

My little mother and I were on our own with "the baby." On the day we were to leave, we had to call another car to bring us home. As those familiar with the questionable fleets of privately owned car services in 1980's New York know, some of the cars were pretty icky.

The one that arrived for us was a battered two-door but having just had a section, I was limited physically. The driver stuffed my mother into the back and settled me in the front, holding the baby as I backed my tuchas into the passenger seat. To my surprise, the seat had no springs and I sank down so low that my knees almost touched my chin. Did I mention there were no seat belts?

The driver then handed me the baby and off we went....me holding a baby in my arms, unbelted. And no one thought a thing of it. There were fewer laws, restrictions, penalties....today, I would be arrested for child endangerment.

When we arrived at the house, the super happened to be outside having a cigarette on the front steps. He held the baby while my mother and the driver, each holding one of my hands, pulled me out of the car and set me on my feet.

Then, the driver refused to take a penny. He told us, in beautiful broken English, that it had been his honor to drive us home. I will never forget him. Or anything about that day.

So, twenty-six years have sped by. Raising Tom meant screaming and laughing and shrieking and singing and crying and laughing and ranting and roaring and laughing some more. It meant running through the house to close the windows before a fight so the neighbors wouldn't hear and it meant laughing so hard or singing so loud that the neighbors must have wondered if we were all certifiably insane. Or been damn jealous.

So, Tom, both our lives began on the day you were born. Yours in the literal sense. Mine, in the sense that you fulfilled my destiny. I am so very glad that you are exactly who you are. Happy birthday. Many more. Love, Mom

The Tale of the Unintentionally Stolen Hair Dryer

This started it all.

 Yesterday, as I was unpacking my overstuffed suitcase after our weekend in Washington, I discovered, amidst the extra underwear and socks, an unfamiliar item...one which I had not packed. An item that did not belong in my house.

As I realized exactly what it was, my beady eyes lit up. Closing my fingers over its smooth handle, pausing to savor the moment, I pulled out the hotel's hair dryer that I never use, preferring instead to bring my own. But here, discovered on an otherwise uneventful evening, was something I could use against Seth....a glorious and unexpected manifestation of a spouse's stupidity. More precious than gold, here was something I could use as fodder against him forever. FOREVER.

Who could have dreamed the evening would turn out so well?

He was sitting innocently in his recliner, dressed in his innocent robe and wearing his innocent face as I approached....a fake smile, constructed to deceive, upon my lips....

Evil: "Wow, where did this come from?" My voice gave away nothing.

Innocence: (happily) "Well, it's your hair dryer. I packed it for you when I saw you'd forgotten it."

Evil: This isn't my hair dryer. My hairdryer is already unpacked. It's upstairs. I would never forget to pack my hair dryer. Never. Ever. Not ever."

Innocence freezes. His smile fades as I morph from the sneering Scar of the Lion King into the deranged Ursula from the Little Mermaid, growing larger and larger until I explode: "You took the hotel's hairdryer!!!!  What were you thinking? Why would you ever think I would forget mine? Oh, noooooooooooooo!"

Honesty Beacon Under Wraps.

To appreciate the horror of this, you must understand that my husband is the most honest, clear-headed do-er of good on earth. He actually has a bright beacon of honesty light that shines out of the top of his head which, on cloudy days or at night, must be covered by a hat so it won't attract attention. Taking anything that isn't his, even unintentionally, is a terrible thing. For people such as yours truly, not so much.

How the issue was resolved was no surprise. He made me call the front desk and explain what had happened lest one of of the hotel maids be accused of trafficking in black market hair blowers and be fired. Told to simply bring it back with us next time we visit, I began phase two....the use of this to make the other spouse look and feel stupid.

Unfortunately, Mr. Innocence had some surprises up his sleeve. Like bringing up the time I gave a ten dollar bill to the well-dressed pan handler who convinced me that he really had locked his keys in his car and had to get on a train because his wife was dying...or the time I put the EZ Pass into a "safe spot" and we couldn't find it for weeks or the time I video-taped my own eye ball instead of Tom's school play.

I fought back with a variety of his most frequent catalogued mispronunciations, his inability to find his way around town even though we've lived here for seventeen years and his refusal to learn how to properly operate the DVR.

This went on far a while and I realized I was on the ropes. How had this happened? This had been my fight to win. 

Then, I heard his breathing change. He was coming in for the kill.  I could only brace for what I knew was next...something he only brings out every several years, something he saves for when he really needs it....something about the time I let parking tickets build up while we still lived in New York City but, since I had out-of-state plates, decided would never catch up with me....something about my car being impounded and having to go to court.

It was over. I had lost.

That one act of arrogant stupidity trumped all others. I hadn't thought he'd use it. Apparently Mr. Innocence has learned to defend himself.

As we settled down, he handed me the clicker with a smile. I meekly programmed the DVR but my thoughts were not dwelling on this unexpected defeat. Somewhere, sometime in the future, he will committ an act so unbelievably stupid that I will surely win the next round. He better.

Buzzy's Bad Weekend.

Forced to drink from toilet to survive

The observant Buzzy watchers among you may have noticed that, for the first time, the picture of Buzzy did not change this past Friday.

The reason for this is that Seth and I were engaged in our usual tornado of pre-departure insanity before we left for a brief two day visit to see our boys.

Leaving the house, for us, is extremely complicated.

I've always envied friends who nonchalantly toss an item or two into a bag, announcing that "if we forget something, we can always buy it when we get there!" I don't understand this concept at all even though there's a CVS right down the street from where we stay in Washington, DC. But why would I buy it when I have it here? I will pack it, by God. I WILL PACK IT!

So, we stuff just about everything we own into our rolling Costco suitcases. Plenty of socks and underwear is a must, isn't it?  An extra top or two in case I dribble--which is a given. Jeans, dressier pants, pajamas,vitamins, giant vats of Advil and Alleve, bandaids, my own hair blower because the one in the hotel has no oomph, my own alarm clock because I trust it, jackets of varying weights in case the weather shifts, a variety of shoes. We don't want our feet to touch the carpet in the hotel so slippers must be crammed in as well as several novels, a notebook, pens, extra eyeglasses and the pillow from my bed at home.

I bring lotions and deodorant, balms and emollients, unguents and salves. I bring the sunscreen I've taken to wearing all year as well as a tweezer in case of splinters and even a tiny scissor for Seth's eyebrows which have been known to grow several feet in one night.

In the years before the internet, I remember once packing a dictionary and thesaurus because you never know when you'll need reference material in order to make someone feel stupid and inadequate.

Once we've packed, we put lots of food and water out for the cats in case we die in an accident and no one gets in for a few days during the confusion. We also provide extra litter boxes for their pooping comfort and prop doors open so they can't get closed in anywhere.

At this point, we are rapidly becoming exhausted because we've been at this since before dawn. A trip to Starbucks is made for reinforcements since we have already checked and rechecked that every appliance in the house, including the televisions, are unplugged.

All this action is punctuated by several small episodes of battle. Someone pisses someone off and yelling will ensue followed by mandatory periods of huffing, puffing and glaring...then silence until the next conflagration. Somewhere during all of this mayhem, I forgot to change the Buzzy photo.

The additional irony of all this is that, somehow, Buzzy managed to get locked into my mother's old room whose door we keep shut because in it exists evidence that we are budding hoarders. He spent two days with no food, no litter box and only toilet bowl water to ease his pussycat thirst. By the time we arrived home, Buzz Buzz was hoarse from crying. 

We are usually very careful about determining that all  cats are accounted for and neither Seth nor I can figure out how this happened. Once liberated, Buzzy required affection and soothing before he ran off to crunch furiously at his bowl. This further elevated his status in my mind. Would Tom or Charlie, after having been trapped in a room for two days, require hugs from their mother before tearing open the refrigerator door and inhaling everything on the shelves? I think not.

So, Buzzy had a tough weekend. The other cats must also have been agitated due to his apparent incarceration ("What could he have done? Are we next?") and Seth and I will have to rethink our pre-departure routines. Maybe we'll bring the cats with us next time.

The Origins of Football: It Started, Like Most Things, With Testosterone and Fur Bikinis...



Early football players, consulting with a Cheerleader.



Let's begin at the beginning.

Back in prehistoric times, tribes of warring savages used to get bored and hungry and had even more testosterone than warring tribes do now.

They'd all dress in the same fur uniforms and attack each other, pillage a bit and go home to celebrate their victory or bitch about their loss. These macho, rowdy groups (who, based on hours of tireless googling, appear to have not yet invented the high five or the end zone dance) were trailed faithfully by groups of energetic, perky women (mostly blonde) wearing fur bikinis exactly like the one worn by Raquel Welch in One Million Years BC. Exactly. Their hair and make-up was like hers, too. These women would jump around and climb on each others shoulders and chant.

This is the very beginning of football. Obviously.

I did a little bit of research on the origins of the game which harkens back as far as ancient Rome and Greece. The Chinese and Japanese played forms of what we now call football, as well and it has progressed right up to today and the addition of specialty-themed ice cream cakes and six foot sandwiches ("Hey, could you please leave out the mortadella...") with dressing on the side.

It remains clear, however, that it has always been an excuse for men to wear very tight pants and touch each other's tushies in public without any negative repercussions. 

I really wish I liked football…I wish I liked it in the same way that I sometimes wish I were part of a large group with a shared interest in order to enjoy fellowship and comraderie. Kind of like Scientology but that would mean I'm totally crazy.

If I were a football fan, maybe I, too, might shave my chest hair, paint myself black and gold and stand in the bitter cold for hours, bonding with other lunatics (I wonder if scientologists even like football...) in the process… sharing symptoms of hypothermia in the local ER later.

If I were a fan, my life might be more like a commercial on TV which is, obviously, what we all strive for. I’d be sitting around with a bunch of jolly people wearing jerseys, squeezing cheese from a can onto everything in sight, tossing popcorn into the air and hugging when a run scores (just kidding, even I know that scoring in football is based on goals, silly!). Everyone looks so happy as they take an annual break from scouring the want ads for jobs or trawling porn sites on the internet.   

Despite my lack of enthusiasm for the actual action on the field, I do sincerely hope that all who follow the game enjoy the big event this Sunday. May your get-togethers be festive, your guacamole fresh and may the team of your choosing win big!

Have a great weekend, everyone---thanks for reading and signing up to follow the blog this week. I look forward to seeing all of you on Monday!

I told you to save me some guacamole, you bitch!!!

Warning: This post is very anti-Justin Bieber and contains far too many testicle references.

I am resting comfortably after stumbling across the disturbing news. It was touch and go for a while but after lying down and watching a few episodes of Lockup Raw on MSNBC, I'm feeling better, thank you.

Here it is, read it quickly and then try to forget it: Last year, Justin Bieber sold out Madison Square Garden .......in 20 minutes. 

The world is ending. We don't need the Mayans to warn us. In fact, I'm certain some great Mayan oracle foresaw the arrival of Bieber on the music (and I use that word loosely) scene and put a stop to calendar production to scare us.

There are 22,000 seats in Madison Square Garden and to sell it out is not unusual. Great acts (The Stones, Stevie Wonder, Springsteen) do it all the time. But to do so in less than a half hour when you look like a Cabbage Patch Doll and your testicles have not yet descended, is unheard of. Or should be.

Bobby Sherman

Little girls of America, explain yourselves! Were there too many hormones in the pureed chicken you were spoon-fed as babies? Or is there simply such a complete lack of available entertainment for the tween girl that you have to settle for Justin Bieber? I will make excuses for you, Young American Girl, for I was once in your shoes...except instead of the internet and MTV, I had American Bandstand and Tiger Beat Magazine.

Does anyone remember Bobby Sherman, the Davids Soul and Cassidy or the late, great Ricky Nelson? These were teen idols---voices already changed, more than three feet tall, testicles securely nestled in scrotal sacs and a boy/man charm that Justin Bieber can only imagine as he thumbs listlessly through Highlights Magazine in his pediatrician's office ("Doctor, Doctor, where are my testicles???")

In the name of research I watched a video of the highly repetitive, appropriately titled Bieber hit, "Baby" on youtube. Not even the unexpected appearance of the ever-so-cool-but now sadly compromised Ludacris could spice up the total nothingness that has sold millions, seduced billions and gave me no choice but to listen to Pearl Jam for an hour with an ice pick jammed into one eye, to counter the effects of the Bieber experience.

After perusing a few articles about the Beib-ster, it made perfect sense to read that my arch enemy, Kim Kardashian loves him but far less sense to learn that he is considered a "budding hip hop artist." Oh really? In what world? Ask Uncle Murda or T-Pain what they have to say about that. I'll tell you what they'd say, "Stop the madness, people!  Un-Bieberize while you still can!"

This has been very hard on me and I must lie down again but I have one last thing to say to to America and the 22,000 fans who giggled and shrieked their way into the Garden last September, "Baby, baby, baby...noooooooooo."

Yep, he grew up to be "Hutch" from "Starsky and..."

I Can See the Meteor Coming......

Me.

 Recently overhearing--oh, okay, eavesdropping on-- a conversation between my son, Charlie and one of his friends, I heard him solemnly refer to something as "sick."

Oh, no. One of his friends is sick or has done something sick or there is some plague at school or he is referring to the recent news story that 15,000 prostitutes are traveling to Dallas in case their services are required during Super Bowl....what could it be? It must be bad! 

Well, it appears that "sick" is now some sort of a compliment.

There's more. "That shortstop is nasty," means not that he is a fresh little bastard who is rude to his fans. It means that he is very skilled on the baseball diamond.

I had only recently (last Thursday) come to accept that "bad" is really "good." That took years and I still resent it.  But, now, it appears that another very basic word, a virtual building block of our vocabulary, has been turned on its ear. Brace yourselves, people over forty:  down is now up.

If Seth asks if I want to grab breakfast out on a Saturday morning and it strikes me as a good idea, my response might be "Sure, I'm up for that!" If the same question is asked of Charlie, his response is, "Yeah, I'm down."

Huh? That makes absolutely no sense. If I protest, trying to maintain my idiomatic equilibrium, my sons look at me pityingly, happy to discuss between themselves what a poor dope mom has become. Maybe they're right. Or, maybe I will spit into their sandwiches...right under the tomato.

Change applies to a lot more than language: The daughter of a friend, who has a lovely but large tattoo of a tiger on her neck, recently went on a job interview. Her mother had worried that the tattoo was in a place that couldn't be covered, fearing it might affect her chances of getting hired. It turns out that the interviewer had more tattoos than the interviewee...and she got the job. It's a whole new world, her mother and I agreed...pleased, because this is a good change but also aware that the winds of change are ruffling our Dorothy Hamill "wedge" haircuts.

I think I now understand how a dinosaur must have felt when she looked up and saw the meteor about to land on her head.

I am also beginning to understand why my mother must have politely retched when dorms went co-ed, men started growing their hair and Mick Jagger pranced across the stage of the Ed Sullivan show with a filled Christmas stocking stuffed into his pants: slightly lost and a little betrayed. And, I am neither down, nor up, for any of this.

"Get with it, Mom" I'd sneer through a curtain of hair as I twirled my pseudo love beads in her direction. She'd flip up the collar of her floral snap coat to ward off my generational scorn. Who would ever have thought that the now, ironically, passe term of "generation gap" could ever apply to people as cool as my generation? Well, it does, and that, my friends, is sick. The real kind.

The wedge.

Dunk, Dunk, Dunk.....

The familiar blue box.

Life is a challenge, no doubt about it. But, often, it's the steady stream of petty frustrations that takes us down, chipping away at our composure until we snap and end up in the fetal position in a corner of the house, cats circling anxiously....or, maybe that's just me.

Fortunately, I have a solution--a universal perscription for this type of low-level but debilitating annoyance.

It falls into the "don't feel your feelings, eat them away" school of thought but doesn't advocate any sort of destructive or suicidal binge involving addictive substances. It does involve a tried and true medicinal solution,one of great historical significance for many. One that evokes those warm and fuzzy feelings that can blur our irritations, enabling us to unfurl from the fetal and reclaim our day.....Healing, they name is "graham cracker."

Yep, that golden perforated cracker for which we pitched in a weekly nickel in Mrs. Price's kindergarten class for our morning snack. The cracker whose appearance, in a blue tin, meant that we could take a break from the stresses of who was going to be the mommy, or forced to be the daddy, in the dress-up corner. We could throw down our blocks or crayons and chill out with a sip of milk and the familiar sweetness and, very importantly, the dunking features of the beloved cracker of our youth.

One little waxy package of graham crackers,administered not more than twice but not less than once a day, can do the trick. One little package. Dunk, dunk, dunk.

When you can't find a single one of any of your portable phones, or any of the dozen reading glasses you've strewn about the house--dunk, dunk, dunk.

When your smoke detector goes off, again, in the kitchen and you have to pry it off the wall with the broom handle--dunk, dunk, dunk. When you can't avert your eyes quickly enough from that tiresome chatterbox you bump into in the small electric appliance aisle of Target (not you, I love running into you) and are forced to converse, missing Cash Cab as a result--dunk, dunk, dunk.

When you forget to DVR Southland--dunk, dunk, dunk. When your 91 year old aunt fights you tooth and nail about getting some help at home but prefers to call you forty times a day, dunk, dunk, dunk....



Configuration for moderate stress...

Cookie dunking has long been therapeutic. Many people prefer the Oreo but Oreos have a much higher fat and calorie content than the graham, rendering them unacceptable as regular therapy.

Some people (amateurs) dunk Social T's or 'Nilla Wafers....again, not effective. It's the combination of packaging, shape and perforations---which allow you to adjust the dunking configurations to your personal needs--as well as the taste and texture, of course.

 

When moderately stressed, I break mine into quarters, dunking each individually. If higher stress occurs, I will dunk the whole cracker but it's crucial that the width of the cup be adequate for the width of the cracker before you sit down or stress is increased.

Try it. Just handling the familiar blue box will unleash some of the soothing qualities of the graham....an unassuming cookie that, while often crumbled for crusts or overwhelmed in S'mores, is most effective when you dunk, dunk, dunk....

Avoid this by dunking.