My Family Tree Must Have Knotts

This was the year we weren't going to jam.  Last year - we couldn't possibly duplicate that effort.  Over 40 flavors and more than 420 jars ... *whew*.  Sure, we raised something like $2,300 for the Parkinson's Disease and Movement Disorders Center - I'm VERY proud of that - but still, 2013 was gonna be our year off.  We even booked two weeks of travel that involved the weekends we traditionally jam.  2013 - Travel.  NOT Jam.

I blame the visit to the open air market.  And the plums that were there.  They were ... perfect.  Deep color, no soft spots, amazingly fragrant.  I can't speak for the Amazing Husband but that's when I started to crumble.  My own mother was of no help.  "The Blackberry Vanilla.  Definitely my favorite.  Looking forward to more of that next year."  Terrific ... THANKS Mom.

We returned home (after astonishingly good AND not-so-good meals, overwhelming kindnesses by total strangers and a renewed friendship ... I'll write more about those experiences in due time) and unpacked.  The plums weren't foremost on my mind, as there was plenty to be done that DIDN'T involve jamming.  Like - sending jams to old dear friends.  The packing, wrapping, labeling .... all second nature really.  And heck, we HAD jars still from last year.  We had flavorings.  We had everything but fruit.

"Ok well", I started, "we can make Blackberry Vanilla and ... and ... maybe Strawberry something.  Nothing overly detailed or messy.  Strawberry Pomegranate, maybe."

And then there was the purchase of more jars.  "I picked up 7 more packs", said the Awesome Husband.  I was just as bad, managing to buy 6lbs of cherries when I went to the store (forgetting the lemons I had intended to buy in the first place).

Soooooo this last Saturday, in the year we WEREN'T gonna jam at all, we made 5 flavors packed away in 52 jars.  And today?  Today when I was gonna lay low and try to let my body adjust to new medications and crappy sleep cycles and boring days at work?  Today I purchased 12 more packs of jars (plus 2 packs of quart-sized ones ... ya' know, just in case).  And I noticed my local farm has announced the arrival of peaches.

I think I should research my family tree ... see if there are any "Knotts" or "Smuckers" in it.

Bears Do NOT Use Toilets

One semester in college, I took a course in advertising.  I wanted to learn the basics of why we see (and hear) what we hear (and see) on television.  I don't recall why I chose this exact course, perhaps my parents had said something about me watching too much TV.  (If they didn't, they should have.)

All these maaaaany years later, I still notice more about advertising because of that course.  I notice colors, sooundtracks and actions that subtly (and not-so-subtly) drive home the message we're supposed to get.

So when I see ads that show cartoon bears who don't shit in the woods and have problems using toilet paper, I make a note to never, ever buy that product because I find their line of advertising distasteful and stupid.  There were many ways they could've gotten their message across - this wasn't a good choice.

When I hear ads that feature insipidly sweet-voiced singers telling us to drink their magic pink beverage for an energy boost and they'll donate to the Susan G. Komen Foundation, I get irritated at the overall stupidity of the agency who got the account.  Having lots of energy (and being pink, for that matter) has - trust me on this - NOTHING to do with cancer.

And while we're at it, showing your sports car skidding sideways across the TV doesn't show me how cool and sleek your car is.  It shows me you've designed a product that can go fast and lose control at the same time, even with a professional driver behind the wheel.  So thanks, but I'll pass.

Lately there's been advertising for Microsoft Internet Explorer 9.  I know it's for IE9 ONLY because I just looked it up.  It could have been for a laptop or a video game or an animated series.  Anyway, the ad shows all the cool things you can do, create, watch, post, find, and listen to using their product.  My issue is the soundtrack.  Yes, having  thumping, energetic background music was a good call.  But did anyone in the agency listen to the lyrics?

"And it feels like I am just too close to love you", warbles the singer.  Wait so I'm supposed to LOVE IE9?  We're just being introduced.  And yet I'm already too close and I can't love it?

"There's nothing I can really say", continues the song.  Isn't IE9 supposed to help me communicate better?  And now I can't say anything at all because I'm too close?  Or don't love it?  Wait- what?

"I can't lie no more, I can't hide no more, got to be true to myself".  So letsee - pre-IE9, I was lying and hiding and faking myself out with other products?  And now, with IE9 (which, again, I'm too close to and can't love) I can be real and honest.  That's convoluted, at best.

"And it feels like I am just too close to love you, so I'll be on my way" which very much makes it sound like I don't get to use IE9 and I'm walking away without it.  The exact opposite thing the advertiser wants me to do.

While it's not part of the advertising being aired currently, later in the lyrics is "I must leave without you.  You know we're headed separate ways."  Nice going, Microsoft - way to get your customer base locked down.

Now the old Meow-Mix ads ... THERE was some great advertising.  Gosh, those were talented felines ...

A Low "Ha!"

I haven't written much - or, really, at all - about the incredible two week vacation that the Awesome Fiance and I took this summer.  We've been back for over a month now so it's probably time to revisit it.

I could write about the travel experience itself but the airline (I'll call it "Untied") would probably put me on the "no-fly" list after reading my tirade.  I'd have to create new, more descriptive words beyond "dunder-headed ass clown" and "inept corporate maggot" ... and I'm just not feeling all that creative today.

I could write about this being the ONLY time in my life I've actually taken two whole weeks from work for vacation.  Yes, I had a sabbatical, which was 6 weeks, but in all the 29 years I've been employed, I've never taken two solid weeks of vacation.

I could write about the food ... OH.  MY.  LORD.  THE.  FOOD. ... but that'll probably just make me hungry and I probably wouldn't be able to describe some of the dishes to the level of deliciousness they deserve.

I think I'll write about my overall take-away from the first portion of our two weeks.  The "Family" portion.

Ya' know that family you see on occasion when traveling?  Grandparents, grown children, grandkids ... dining together, smiling and laughing, posing for goofy photos, etc?  The clan that piles out from the minivan and walks into the mall, maybe wearing similar teeshirts ... or the multi-generational gathering on the beach - a few are reading, some are splashing about in the water, the youngest members are creating elaborate piles of sand?  Well, I was part of that family as a child.  My best friend really did have the perfect family and I spent countless hours as an extended, adopted family member.  Oh, they were SO much better than my real family.

Dad was a teacher, an avid weekend golfer, and liked to take rides on his motorcycle.  Mom, also a teacher, liked to go on walks, spend time with her family, and be outdoors.  Son - the youngest member of the family - was into all things bicycle.  Daughter - my best friend - was everything I wasn't ... graceful, very pretty, delicate.  They'd include me on short weekend getaways and I'd see a family who REALLY enjoyed being together.  Parents who had conversations about news and politics and things that didn't involve work or animals or relatives.  Children who played nicely together and went to the movies together - not because they were told to but because they wanted to.  For me, it was surreal.

It was also fake.

I know now that my seemingly perfect adopted family ... was not.  Dad, it seemed, waited until the children were grown and on their own, and then got on his motorcycle and rode away.  Mom developed an eating disorder and handled her divorce as 'tho everything was fine when, clearly, it was not.  Little brother got married *WAY* too young but to a wonderful woman who nursed him back to health for a year after a very nearly deadly motocross accident.  And best friend, who had aspirations on being a psychologist, instead became a grumpy, gloomy, unhappy stay-at home mom who shielded her own small children from their "awful" Grandfather ... even as she herself continued the cycle of cheating on - and eventually leaving - her own spouse.  I stopped being a part of her life after her second child.  We just didn't have anything in common anymore and I got tired of trying to set up the lunch date that clearly was never to be.  We had a mutual friend who kept me updated on her activities and, last I heard, her two oldest children asked to move in with their father because they were tired of being told how awful both he AND their own Grandfather was.

*******************
So while, as a child, I had my seemingly perfect family and my real one, as an adult I knew that my real one was so much better than "perfect".  It was flawed, but flawed in a way I understood.  The members (myself most assuredly included) were maddening, but in a comfortable way.  We have family logic for the things we do - twisted as it is but it is, at least, logic of some sort.  And, as the airplane drifted towards our family getaway home for the week, I thought that I was ready for the quirks and actions and whatnot that were likely to come ... flaws and maddening members and twisted logic and all.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh I was mistaken.

It's an exaggeration, to be sure, that I spent the WHOLE week closing screens, sliding glass doors, turning off lights, turning on ceiling fans, drawing drapes, turning on the air conditioner, and locking front doors.  It's an exaggeration, certainly, that the week was spent washing the same dishes, clearing the same table, drying the same glasses, closing the same freezer doors, and wiping the same counter-top surface.  It's an exaggeration, yes, that my island time was filled with folding towels and doing laundry and explaining how air conditioning works and sharing that, while I was sorry the upstairs was 76 degrees (aka "super cold") in the mornings, our bedroom was still at 87 degrees at 11pm the night before because no one could be bothered to close a door or shut a window to keep the air temperature at a reasonable number - say, somewhere slightly lower than 80.

It did FEEL like the whole week was like that, but I know it wasn't.

"But remember", you say calmly.  "Remember that you were sharing the house with young children and you're not used to young children."

"And that's very true", I reply just as calmly.  "But what makes you think I was talking about the young children?"

*******************
Ahhhhhhhhhhh but they are my people.  They are my family.  Are they perfect?  Ha!  No.  Thank heavens no, they are not perfect.

The Cat Burglar

Well it seems we have a cat burglar in our neighborhood.  Not just "in our neighborhood", actually, but in our home.  Right now, in fact.  I can even identify this cat burglar.

We once called him "White Kitty".

Now we call him "Murphy".

Since the great Summer power outage of 2012, Murphy has called our downstairs his home, his bachelor pad, his very own man ... er ... cat cave.  Now that he lives under our roof with us, I've learned a few things about him.

(1)  He's strong.  When I hold Shiloh, I'm aware she weighs more than a cat should, but it's not "solid" weight - it's fluffy and soft.  Holding Murphy feels like you're holding a solid muscle.  He's buffed out.  If he lived on the beach, he'd be working out every day.

(2)  He's inquisitive like cats are, but very timid.  He wants to see what is going on, but it also terrifies him.  He wants to play with his "fish on a line" toy, but the noise it makes freaks him out.  He wants to meet the other kitties in the house, but he doesn't know anything about cats.

(3)  He's VERY nocturnal.  From the time I leave for work to the time I come home, it appears that he sleeps.  He also sleeps from the time I arrive at home until about 9pm.  At 9pm, he's as pleasant, as cuddly, as wonderful as any cat can be.  It kills me that I can't stay up with him until midnight or so just to hang out with him.

************
A weekend or so ago, the Awesome Fiance and I went to our favorite frame shop to drop off some art and then to the store for a few things.  Having just recovered from the power outage, we needed to restock.  Shiloh was, as usual for that time of day, sound asleep in her room.  Tabby had the run of the upstairs and Murphy had the run of the downstairs.  (Caring for three cats that either don't know or don't like or can't be trusted enough to be left together can be a REAL pain.)

We returned a few hours later.  Knowing that Murphy could easily be waiting by the door and could maybe dart outside, I went in first.  After a brief glance at the bottom and top of the stairs to see if it was "Murphy-free", I pushed open the door at the top of the stairs which leads to our kitchen.  I rounded the corner and noticed a bit of Tabby-colored fur.  This time of year, it's not unusual to find a tumbleweed of kitty fur, but as I looked further, I noticed another small fluffy clump ... and then a third and fourth.  "Uh oh" I muttered.  I glanced into the living room, expecting to see Tabby somewhere but, instead was met with a lovely pair of large, bright blue eyes.

Murphy was sitting on the chair, waiting like a character from The Godfather.  He was expecting me.  A glance at his coat seemed to indicate no obvious injuries.  I turned back to the kitchen and was met with a lovely pair of even larger, bright green eyes.

Tabby was sitting under the table.  She seemed to have an expression full of questions on her fuzzy face.  "What IS that?  How did it get in?  What the hell IS that???"  These were good questions.  How DID he get upstairs?  By this time, the Awesome Fiance was in the kitchen, too.  He was ... un-amused.  I escorted Tabby past Murphy (who was still waiting for me while he sat on his chair) and we went to our bedroom.  Tabby was completely pissed off as she stomped by Murphy for a brief exchange of words, but she was, at least, uninjured.  Just upset.  "No seriously - what the hell WAS that thing?" she seemed to continue to ask me as I checked her out and tried to calm her down.

I went back to the living room to Murphy, who had two tiny Tabby-sized claw marks on his nose, and we went downstairs.  I pushed the kitchen door to allow us downstairs and, for a brief second, thought "he opened this??? but ... no ... it's a heavy swinging door.  He'd have to run fast after opening it or it'd start to close on him."  We sat downstairs and, after a moment, Murphy went to a favorite spot to hide away and nap.

************
Since that event, I've envisioned (in almost cartoon fashion) what this must have been like to see:  Murphy cautiously darting up the stairs after he is sure we'd left.  Tabby sniffing under the door and then walking into the living room for a nap.  Murphy hearing Tabby and pushing against the door, not realizing that it'd open and then, when seeing it would, butting his head against it until he flopped through.  The door closing behind him - locking him in and sealing his fate.  Tabby, alarmed by the commotion, re-enters the kitchen and they exchange looks.  Murphy tiptoeing past Tabby, while she yells at him for breaking and entering.  Shiloh waking up and demanding to know what's going on.  Murphy turning his head in Shiloh's direction and then turning to Tabby, who smacks him in the face and squarely on the nose.  Murphy telling Tabby to knock it off, causing Tabby to purposely fluff her fur in an effort to look larger than she is.  Murphy scrambling onto the living room chair, not daring to reenter the kitchen where Tabby is still yelling and not able to hide in the hallway where he's hearing Shiloh.  He sits, trapped in the chair.  Tabby sits in the kitchen, trapped by Murphy's location.  Shiloh, having missed the excitement, is bummed out and goes back to bed.  We return home to witness the aftermath and wonder about the goings-on.

But today, some of it came true in an even funnier fashion.  As I was washing his breakfast bowl out, I noticed a noise behind me.  I glanced to my right and saw the kitchen door swinging closed, and then open again as it was being pushed by a strong, muscular, all-white paw.

Oh he IS a smart ninja kitty, he is.

Un Gatto Racconto

Cast of Characters:

Tabby  (also "Tabitha", "Mathilda ", "Meow")

Murphy (also "Murph", "White Kitty")

The Scene:
It is Summer in a suburb somewhere on the East Coast.  Several States are in the grasp of a heatwave that will crush long-standing records.  To add insult to injury, more than 1,000,000 homes have been without power for several days following a freakishly strong storm and there is no official word when electricity will be restored.  The home where the scene is set is one such residence.  Power was lost on Friday at 11:10pm.  It is now Monday at 4:45am.  With no air conditioning available, Tabby and Murphy were relocated to the relative cool of the basement, which was divided into separate, single feline "rooms" to prevent any arguments.

Action:
Female Human, asleep in bed above the basement, wakens to hear what may be distant sounds of a cat yowling.  She slowly trudges through the home and makes her way down the stairs, expecting to see chaos but, instead, is greeted by calm.

Puzzled, female human slowly reviews the room and locks eyes with an innocent-looking Tabby.  With no obvious signs of trauma, female human then advances to see into the second "room", where she is greeted with an equally innocent-looking Murphy.

Realizing that there is no problem, female human then turns to trudge back upstairs but, before she's left the area, hears Tabby rather emphatically say "meeeeeowww".

A beat goes by.

Murphy then responds with an equally meaningful "meeeeeowww".

Next from Tabby is "merrrowww".

Murphy counters with his own "merrrowww".

Confused but with no action required, female human makes her way back up the stairs, through the home and back into the bedroom.

Male Human stirs as female human crawls back into the bed.  "Everything alright?" he sleepily asks.  "Mmmmhmmm" says female human.  "They weren't fighting then?" male human continues.  "No" she responds.

Silence falls over the room.

Then female human adds "Tabby was just teaching Murphy a bunch of Italian swear words."

Blast From My Past

This is Charlie Horse and Humphrey Hambone.  They were a HUGE part of my childhood television viewing.  This was my second favorite spot ... still trying to find the "honeybees" one.

Anyway, enjoy!

"Keyboard, tree, calendar, exit, theater!" ...or "How I Became A Lab Rat"

This past Tuesday, I had my "baseline 3 1/2 hour doctors appointment to ensure my overall level of health" before I embark on a 44-week double-blind medication study on the side effects of an already-FDA approved medication for one health issue which MAY (or may not) have benefits towards the treatment of Parkinson's Disease.

This is an unpaid, completely voluntary, fairly non-invasive study which is being conducted on about 300 Parkinson's patients nationally - all of whom are at about the same stage of progression as me.  The "fairly non-invasive" part is that you voluntarily give your entire medical history over to a team of doctors, researchers and hospital administrators (whom you may or may not have already met) who study your treatment for nearly a year.  If this were an invasive study, it would include medical procedures like spinal taps and such and, call me a wuss, but I already HAVE fuckin' Parkinson's, thankyouverymuch so keep your damn needles the hell away from my back.

(ASIDE:  God, please bless the people who voluntarily sign up for invasive studies.  Seriously.  I've watched someone getting a spinal tap and ... *shudder* ... I can't imagine being totally healthy and going through that kind of pain all in the name of Science.)

My mostly needle-free test consisted of questions about my health, and quizzes of cognition, short-term memory, balance, and an assessment of my current level of Parkinson's.  Oh, and a 40-page scratch and sniff test.

Yeah, that part was strangely frustrating.  "Here - sniff this."  "Ok, that's BBQ" (which triggered my head to think "wow - BBQ would be good for dinner").  Then it was "Now sniff this."  "THAT'S a dill pickle."  (Great, now I want a dill pickle.)  A few I really couldn't tell what the heck they were and so I'd see the choices of what it COULD be and then go from there.  These scents are all generated in a fake sort of way (meaning a disclaimer below the "banana" scratch area should read something like "no bananas were harmed in the course of creating this smell"), so the chocolate one smelled NOTHING like actual chocolate ... ... ... says the girl that can still taste the difference between Quik, Hershey's, and Guittard.  By the 27th scratch, my fingers smelled like they'd walked through a Las Vegas buffet - and not in a yummy kind of a way.

The researchers took a blood sample (using an extremely thin needle - honestly I didn't feel it at all), a urine sample, and swabbed my mouth - all to get DNA samples to test for any markers of Parkinson's.  If they can get enough samples, I guess, they'll be able to find the specific link in the strand and ... I dunno ... alter or remove it for future generations?  Anyway, they've got all my "stuff" now ... hey - maybe they can use it to make a new and improved version - Me, 2.0!

The pills I'm taking for the next two weeks are either three capsules of nothing at all, or two capsules of nothing and one with 15mg of the medication being tested.  After those two weeks are up, I'll turn in those bottles and get three new bottles - which will either be three capsules of nothing at all or two that each have 15mgs of medication and one that is just a "sugar pill".  After two weeks on that, I'll again turn everything in and get three new bottles, which will be all medication or all nothing.  This is done so that the body can adjust to the (possible) medication - vs. just tossing 45mg at ya' and saying "so, how do you feel?"

When I took my first dose (in front of the researchers, who then kept me under observation for 45 minutes), I felt like one pill MAY have weighed more than the other two ... but that could absolutely be my mind playing tricks with me, which IS part of a double-blind study in the first place.  I was asked how I felt about every five minutes and, after the 3rd time, started coming up with different responses:  "I haven't sprouted a tail yet" to "Don't seem to be frothing at the mouth" to "Well I don't FEEL invisible yet".  While this may read like I was bothered by the near constant checking in, I was honestly glad that my health was in their hands.

Anyway it's day four on the "possible" medication. No vivid dreams (like what I had when I was on Carbidopa-Levodopa - yikes ... really creepy stuff) and my arm tremor seems about the same - maybe it happens a LITTLE less often (but last week was super stressful at work so it could just be that).

I guess we'll see what the next 43 weeks are like. I note in my Parkinson's Daily Diary when I take my pills, when I eat, and I rate my shaking throughout the day, all of which I show to my doctors and keep it current for my own benefit so, over time, maybe I'll notice a change ... HOPEFULLY for the better.

OH - but one kinda funny thing happened during the course of my visit.

For the short-term memory portion of my tests, each doctor/assistant starts by saying 5 random words for me to remember until I'm asked to repeat them back.  So Doctor 1 says "rabbit, scissors, coffee, tulip, crayon" ... and then we talk for about 5-6 minutes and at the end of the conversation, he asks for me to give him three of the words.  Then Doctor 2 comes in and says "cheese, shirt, church, velvet, keys" ... and we talk for 5-6 minutes, and they he asks for all 5 of his words.  Well THEN Doctor 3 comes in and says "store, cough, sweater, bells, baby" ... and at the end of our talk, he doesn't ask for his words at all!  So by the time Doctor 4 comes in, it's all I can do to not shout out "hairdryer, muscle, calm, ocean, paint, army, pencil!" just to get them outta my head.  So Doctor 4 asked for just two of his words, but I said "yanno, I'm gonna give you 7 - because Doctor 3 didn't ask for any of his and now they're just screaming to get out."  Suffice to say, my short-term memory - and, thus far, my sense of humor - is fine.

And I've checked ... I still don't see a tail.

A Totally True Tabby Tale

This

is Tabby.  As you can see she'd like to shake your hand.  (And yes, she has thumbs.)

Anyway, that's Tabby.  Tabby is a gooooooooooood kitty.

It is mouse season here on the East Coast.  As it gets colder and wetter, the outside mice get the brilliant idea to move indoors.  There's not a lot one can do except to accept it and set traps in obvious "mice" areas.  We have VERY cat-safe traps, so that little paws are kept safe.  It wouldn't be a problem for Tabby so much ... she's beyond kitten-hood (about 10ish years old) but Shiloh is estimated to be a curious teen ... about 3 years.  So yeah, we're careful.

We've known we have mice (plural ... because honestly no one has "mouse") for a couple of weeks.  Not because of signs or droppings but because Tabby has been staring at corners and doors and just generally acting weird (even for a cat).

Last week, I moved the kitty toy box from the corner of the living room because Tabby was staring at it ... and she pounced.  (She's about 12 lbs but even so - it was a definite pounce.)  The mouse she caught had a body length that was smaller than a large paperclip ...... this was a smalllllllllllllllllllllllll mouse.  She looked up at me, mouse mouth and all, as if to ask "ok so now what" and I pleaded to her to please please please head into the kitchen (non-carpeted floor and not a lot of super heavy things to run underneath) and she LISTENED to me!!!  SUCH a good kitty.  By the time she dropped the little creature on the kitchen floor to show me, it was very close to dying so I praised her (a LOT) and disposed of said critter.

Fast forward to a few nights ago.  (Well, a few mornings actually ... 3:20am according to the bedroom clock.)  Dead quiet throughout the house.  Not a creature was stirring, not even a ..... well ... actually ...

So Tabby comes padding quickly into our bedroom (her little feet on the carpet make a small "psshh" sound as she walks) and says, in an urgent-type voice, "Meow!  Meow meow meow!  Rrrrow merrow!" which was either "Come quickly, Timmy's fallen into the well again" or "Come see the snack I have to share!"  The Awesome Boyfriend was awake and standing before I was fully awake but we both followed as Tabby proudly marched into the kitchen to show us her latest hunting victim ... another ridiculously tiny mouse that was, again, nearly dead.  "Such a gooooood kitty" we said, while rubbing our eyes and reaching for a paper towel and a plastic zip-top bag.

And of course she is a very good kitty.  But consider this ...

She caught this creature somewhere in the house, likely played with it for awhile, left it in the kitchen, walked into our room (when she could have VERY easily brought the mouse with her), told us to come to the kitchen, and went back to the kitchen for her praises and kudos.  I've had some smart kitties before ... but ... geez, that's impressive as heck to me!  It seems against the nature of a beast to hunt and then LEAVE the hunted to go get the humans to show off the kill.  Seriously I can't believe she didn't bring the mouse into our bedroom.

Needless to say, Tabby's getting extra treats for this.  And I'd be honored to shake her hand.

The Sound Of One Hand Clapping

What is the sound of someone who is NOT asking for help?

No.  Really ... I need to know.  Because I'm apparently doing it wrong.  The "not asking for help" part, I mean.

I recently have been given some drama in my life (manageable drama, but drama just the same) and it seems like each time I update those not-so-near but still-quite-dear on the state of said drama, I get advice of what I should do, not do, read up on, etc.

And I don't get it.  I really don't.

Each time this occurs (and yes, it has happened more than once),  I review what I wrote or said, carefully scanning for the part where I ask for any guidance, opinions or assistance.  And damned if I just can't find it.

Now in the arena of playing fair, I WILL say that out of the immediate family of which I am a part, I have *always* been the one who played her cards close to her vest.  I've never really been the one to share every little detail - good or bad - because I guess I didn't want to be viewed as a whiner or a braggart.  Annnnnnnd, seeing as how I know an awful lot of fairly personal details about my various cousins, I also didn't want my personal business being digested, discussed, debated, and distributed.  So it wasn't always pride which helped me to keep my mouth shut - sometimes it was just my only means of protection of privacy.

So it is no surprise, really, that pretty much ANYtime I disclose something that may be going on with me, it feels like big news.  (And if it feels that way to me, it's probably not too much of a stretch to say that it may feel like that to my family, too.)

But - sharing what is going on versus asking for advice ... those aren't the same, are they?  I mean - it'd be one thing to say "I've decided to join a gym" ... and something different to say "I've decided to join a gym.  Do you have any recommendations?"

My overall REAL problem is that I haven't found a polite way to get the advice to NOT flow freely.  After all, those giving the advice are only doing so as a way of offering support.  There's no nice way ... no non-defensive-sounding way - of saying "I've decided to join a gym.  I'm just telling you.  There is absolutely no action required from you whatsoever.  The best response you could give would be to just say 'neat' and then drop it completely."

I'm grateful that I have people in my life who care about me - it's a wonderful problem to have, I know.  And, like the other issues in my life, it's not a problem I need SOLVED.

Feeling Good In The 'Hood

Life isn't a board game.  Life is a city ... and it has many 'hoods.

Early in childhood, there is no dignity.  The average child thinks very little of begging, pleading, pitching a fit, running about naked, whining, crying, bargaining, or generally doing whatever it takes to get what they want (or to get away from what they don't want).  Childhood also seems to give us VERY short memories, which probably contributes to the equation.  Most adults do not remember each time they begged, pleaded, pitched fits, etc as children ... but it sure seemed important at the time.  With all those tantrums and whatnot, some would say that these actions are lack of self-awareness, lack of modesty, lack of ego - but, when all is said and done, if you plug in an adult in any of those situations, you'd probably think that they had little - or no - dignity ... and maybe short-term memory loss.

Teens also lack dignity.  Yes, the level of fit-pitching, whining, crying, or bargaining may be different ... but it is hard and unusual to find a dignity-filled teen.  (A teen running around naked would present entirely other issues, lack of dignity being the smallest problem.)  They have moments of dignity, where the future adult they'll become shines through and it is WONDERFUL to witness, but then they slip back into teenager-hood.

But, somewhere down the line, human grown-ups (which is to say MOST human grown-ups) find their dignity.  That line in the sand we stand behind and say "Yes, I want this outcome and am willing to do most anything to get there ... but there is a limit."  This is the age of "adulthood".

Just when we get comfortable with our dignity ... just when we feel we have the most control over how we present ourselves and we are good with our self-image ... life, once again, starts to slowly chip away at our dignity.

The paperboy or grocery clerk who calls you "Ma'am".
*clink*
The polite teen who turns down their MP3 device in the elevator and apologizes for it being so loud.
*tap*
The coworker who refers to an event in history (several years before you were born) and turns to you to ask you what your memories were of that time.
*crack*
The movie theater cashier who gives you a senior discount ... for your 45th birthday.
*thwap*
The well-intentioned stranger who compliments your children for good behavior by commenting "My but they're using all their manners for Grandpop today, aren't they?"
*thud*

It is the perfect set up that we, as humans, slowly revert back into childhood the older we get.  First fighting and resisting all offers of help ... but eventually accepting the fact that we cannot bend over to tie our own shoes without getting dizzy, cannot read the small writing at the bottom of the form because our arms aren't long enough, and our modesty, our ego, and yes, our dignity, slowly melt away with each event, no matter how small.

And you realize that you're being moved from your existing "hood" to make room for the newer (and younger) residents.

The trick - if there is one - may be to recognize and appreciate the hood you're in when you're there, fully realizing you'll be transitioning to another hood soon enough.  It's when you're asked to move too early that the transition is difficult - when you're still enjoying your dignity and someone else says "we're looking out for you and helping you to get comfortable when you move to your new hood."  No one wants to be reminded that they are temporary residents in their hood.

Now ... get off my lawn and outta my hood.

Who Do You Trust?

Because of ... let's say "medical reasons", I've been spending quite a bit of time thinking of my health, hospitals, doctors, tests, etc.  I think it's safe to say that folks tend to ignore thinking of these things when all is well.  Very few individuals who are perfectly well and don't work in medicine wake up in a cold sweat thinking "why can't doctors spend more time explaining why they prescribe one medication and not another?".

I find myself defending decisions like that lately.  I don't like it.  And knowing that I'm defending these decisions against information gathered from an internet search?  It makes me so damn angry that people can be that stupid.

(Sidenote:  Did you know that out of 500 internet search phrases, the term "Gandhi walked on the moon" is still ranking higher than "Walt Disney's lifelong friendship with Fidel Castro"?  Wow - you didn't know that?  I found it on the web so it MUST be true.  Except I'm lying - I didn't find it on the web.  But I just wrote it so it's there now.  See how reliable that is?!?)

Meanwhile, I come by my medical ignorance honestly.  Even when faced with terms that apply to me, I choose to know only what is necessary when it is required ... four W's and one H:  What is wrong?, Why is it happening?, What are we gonna do about it?, When does it go away?, and How do I ensure it doesn't happen again?

And I tend to ask professionals these questions (when at all possible).  Let me put it this way ... the internet is, largely, anonymous.  Anyone can write anything.  We'd LIKE to believe that everyone always has the best of intentions ... but we know better than that.  Trusting strangers with important things is dangerous.  That butthead that cut you off in traffic could be the one telling you that bees are repelled by olive oil - do you trust him?  The librarian that extended your book loan may be the one giving step-by-step directions on a do-it-yourself kidney removal ... is she the best person to get this info from?

Sure it's possible that the bad driver is a pest removal expert and the librarian is a retired surgeon ... but what if they aren't?  Do you wanna be that gullible?  Because we all know that it was actually Disney who walked on the moon.  Why else would he name Mickey's dog Pluto?

A Laborious Rambling

I looked it up.
Labor Day was the dream child of one Mr. Peter McGuire from the AFL (American Federation of Labor ... NOT American Football League).  Seems Mr. McGuire got the idea from the Canadians, who had an ALF (Annual Labor Festival ... NOT a brown, furry puppet).  Building from smaller state-wide observances, President Grover Cleveland signed it into Federal Law in 1894.  This was right about the time that the nation also started having white sales, too.  (*sigh* no ... not really.  Sarcasm just doesn't work on the Internet.)

Somewhere along the way, Labor Day also ushered in the new school year, the end of Summer, the last great BBQ and my mother's birthday.  As a kid, Labor Day also signaled the countdown of days until Halloween and then Christmas.

I have had jobs that have allowed me to not work on Labor Day and I've also had jobs that rewarded me/expected me to work on Labor Day.  Those who do not get Labor Day as a paid holiday tend to be quite bitter about it, as though those who don't labor on Labor Day are somehow undeserving of such luxury.  To which I reply "you forgot to ask me if I wanted fries with that order".

(Again ... sarcasm.  Mostly.)

My mother was employed for most of her life, with a few chosen exception periods of time to allow for the proper care and upbringing of her children.  She would have liked to have had more help from my father, I'm sure, but he worked about 10 days a month.

As a firefighter.

He averaged 10 24-hour watches each month ... sometimes less but most of the times more.  When he was home, there was a never-ending list of large tasks to do for the house and surrounding land:  Build a new fence and electrify it for the horses, continue to shore up the retaining wall, repaint the shed, take down the scaffolding on the back, insulate the attic, remodel the bathroom, fix the shingles that were put up wrong, re-tar the side driveway that leads to the back of the house oh, and in your spare time, could you borrow a backhoe and dig out underneath the dining room for that second garage you keep saying you really want.  They weren't exactly things my mom and her two challenging brats could do alone, so we did them as a family.

I don't remember a lot of family vacations but I remember helping my folks celebrate paying the last mortgage payment.  We maybe didn't camp or take ski-weekends, but we would go get Sunday Doughnuts together or one of us kids might be invited for a last-minute run to the hardware store.  We stayed home a lot but ... home was fun and big and there was lots to do and we all kept busy.  Hell, we didn't even have cable TV ... but we had critters and we had imagination.

I don't remember us having a lot of relaxing down-time but we spent years of weekends working on that land, building that fence, slopping that tar, and digging the second garage.  (That's NOT sarcasm.  We really did that.  It's why my parents have an upstairs garage and a downstairs garage.  We worked moving that dust and rock bucket-full by bucket-full so much that my sister and I still know the smell of the land and can both remember finding it in our ears and noses.  We worked so much that we ALL remember the time my mom challenged my uncle to an arm-wrestling match after our Thanksgiving meal to see who would do dishes ... and she unapologetically kicked his ass.)

Back to my dad.  It'd be easy to say that, based on days worked in a month, my father wasn't a "full-time" employee and maybe didn't *deserve* Labor Day off.  (An empty argument ... he didn't get it as a holiday anyway.  If it was on his regular watch schedule, he worked it.)  But there was no "Firefighters Day" to celebrate at the time.  (There is now - May 4th.  I looked that up, too.)

But I put this to you:  When your car is on fire ... when your child has stopped breathing at the mall ... when you're stuck in an elevator ... when the smoke from the kitchen gets to be too thick and you have to call someone for assistance, who shows up?  Look at an average emergency situation sometime and count the responders ... 9 times in 10 you'll see a firefighter.  It makes sense - they're local, they don't usually patrol outside of their district, and they're ALWAYS waiting for your call so the dispatch transfer doesn't eat up valuable time.  Next time you really need help, give your checkout clerk at the market - the one who feels he's EARNED Labor Day off - a call and see what happens.

And it's not just Labor Day, either.  I can count on one hand the number of Christmas Days we celebrated ON December 25th.  Family birthdays, Anniversaries, and pretty much all the other "special" days *still* have a 3-day window of happening within the ACTUAL day.  Old habits die hard.

So maybe Betty Bitter and Paulie Pissedoff should just take a moment from bagging groceries, pumping gas, driving their bus, working the takeout window, answering the help-desk, or whatever their supposedly thank-less job is, and look around.  Unemployment is STILL in the 8% average for the nation and if Betty and Paulie are that bent out of shape about working on a holiday that they feel must take a stand, they should do it somewhere else so the next person in line can take that job and be thankful for the opportunity.

The thing is that this country, like my parents home, was built by all sizes of hands.  If you don't wanna get yours dirty or feel like you deserve a pat on the back for just doing your job ... well I recently learned that Canada has an ALF for you.

Weight A Second

For me, it all started with the microwave.

I remember the box sitting on the counter, the classes my mother took, the "recipes" (and I use that word that very hesitantly) in the instruction manual, the warnings about not standing too close or immediately open the door when the unit shut down ... and I remember the wonder of being able to cook - or, more accurately, heat - items in less than half the the time of traditional methods.

Instant rice.  Instant oatmeal.  Fax machines.  Copier machines.  Instant messaging.  Text messaging.  Flying across the entire country in a matter of hours.  We are a people who enjoy a longer lifespan than our great-great relatives could have ever considered and yet we feel compelled to bitch about how long the red light takes to change or roll our eyes at how much time we waste waiting for our iced, short, triple breve shots, extra whip, half-caf, almond soy mocha ... with sprinkles.  And fudge-drizzle sauce.

And - to me, at least - the second-worst offenders of this "gimme now" demand are the companies who sell instant fixes to non-instant problems ... the diet-pill/diet-shake manufacturers.   The worst offenders?  The ones at the top of that list?  The people who buy their crap.

If you are overweight - and I am, for what I'd PREFER to look like - did your body change in a week?  In three weeks?  In six?  No - of course not.  Barring extreme circumstances and/or pregnancy, you slowly added a few ounces here and a few ounces there until you had to change the size of the pants you were buying.  It took lots of months.  Hell, it probably took years.

So why do people feel that they can buy a pill or a shake or - and this may be my favorite snake-oil ever - a fat-eliminating creme (*snork*) and, in less than a month, ta-dah there's your 24-year old body once again?!

Why?  Because of instant rice, instant oatmeal, fax and copier machines, instant and text messaging, and the microwave.  We want it all and we wanted it 4 minutes ago.  It's what THIS generation has always had.  It's not instant gratification ... it's more like instant expectation.  I mean - who actually waits for the elevator doors to close on their own anymore?  Why would you do that, since there's a button that will close the doors for you faster than the sensor would do so?

Well, to everyone who is starving themselves, putting themselves through surgeries, slurping down nasty-tasting crap and slathering on cellulite-reducing lotions, my advice is to slow down, take a deep breath, throw out your scales and calorie-counters and measuring cups, toss your secret cookie stash (yeah - you thought no one knew about that, didn't ya'?) and just give yourself a break.  Yes, if you've decided to get your weight in check, you should do so but - just like you took the time to add pounds, give yourself permission to take time to loose them.
And whatever else you decide to do - for cryin' out loud - stop trying to find the instant fix to a non-instant problem.  Close your mouth AND your wallet and just open your brain.  Even if all you ever do is develop a morning routine of stretches or leave a table without clearing your plate or stop asking for dessert after every meal or take the stairs instead of the elevator ... it will be a step in the right direction.  And from there, you can add another step and another.  Because that's how it all started.

The solution really does need to come from YOU - not a pill, or creme or any of that oh-so-tempting crap that folks are so eager to have you believe.  If the easy-solution that you may be considering worked forever for everyone who tried it, the entire weight loss market would have just that one option, right?  Clearly there is no "one-size-fits-all" solution to this issue.  This will just be one of those things where you'll need patience and persistence, strength and conviction, determination and forgiveness, and if you set reachable goals for yourself ... well, just weight and see.

Games I Don't Play

This isn't the follow-up post I'd intended to write ... but the title fits and the timing works out.  My blog.  My rules.

Games I Won't Play:
Pretty much anything to do with creating an on-line identify and slaying dragons, or breaking into castles, working with witches or trolls, etc.  Why?  Simply put, I am not a 6 year old boy.

Pictionary:  While I like this game, and I am good at guessing what I'm looking at, I can't draw to save my life.  So you'll want me on your team but don't give me the pen.

Games I Shouldn't Play:
There are two very specific names to include on this list but, before I do, let me say that while I enjoy playing both of these next games, I am not all competitive.  I can walk away from an unfinished board game if I am winning or losing - or anywhere in between - if it's no longer providing me with the primary goals of why they exist - entertainment and enjoyment.  If someone sitting around the board says "this is boring - let's do something else", I will always be ok with that.

Allllllllright here we go:

Backgammon.
My favorite aunt taught me how to play before I was 10 and, while I recognized she was trying to make math fun, it was entertaining enough that I didn't mind.  I don't use the doubling cube but I am pretty ruthless when I play against someone who seems to know the game as I do.  I will do whatever I am able to do (and show very little mercy in the process) in order to either win or learn a new strategy.  If I do lose, I will very likely want you to show me where you took the upper hand so that I can continue to grow my skill set.  After all these years of playing, I'm more used to winning - which is hard because I like to be challenged.  (I know that reads like my being pompous or boasting - and I can't help that.  It's just been my experience in the past decade or so that I tend to win.)

Monopoly.
This is a biggie for me.  In fact, this may be THE biggie for me.  I've mentioned before my parents were/are part of an extended group of married couples referred to as "The Fun Club".  One couple in particular was frequently part of our weekend plans - we'd go to their home or they'd come to ours.  They had three kids and I was the youngest ... so anything we could do as a group was GREAT by me.  (Otherwise, I'd mostly spend my time with various pets or playing piano.  The age difference wasn't much but it was enough that I was frequently left out, and that was alright.  It was sometimes tough but *shrug* I understand it now anyway.)  But on extended weekend visits or occasional trips to the ocean, someone at some point would bring out a Monopoly board.

Monopoly doesn't care about your age or who your closest friends are.  It doesn't care about what you WANT to accomplish or what properties you're trying to collect.  You are at the mercy of the dice - a great equalizer.  Sure, there were times when I'd get clobbered early but I'd still hang out and watch, trying to silently wager with myself as to who would win.  It could be minutes or hours.  There were times we'd walk away at the end of one night and pick it up the next day.

As we all got older, I started to be a little more focused on the numbers part of the game ... certain properties are good to buy because there are more chances that people will land on them.  Some properties are less frequently visited and don't make for a good investment.  And rather than buying everything you land on, it pays to see what others are collecting so that you can arrange for a possible trade at some point.

That's all very well and sound and good.  There are things you can't control but, those you can, you should (which is just like real life).  And, to me, it's all interesting and part of the game.  However (and this is the part where I come off as a arrogant all-knowing wank) I forget that not everyone wants to discuss theory or strategy - win or lose.

So, for those who were wondering (and maybe none of you were so clearly I STILL haven't learned), that is why I shouldn't play Monopoly.

But consider this entry a fair warning to you:  Be prepared because if I do play it with you, I will kick your top-hat wearing ass and then show you went it all went horribly, horribly wrong.

Do not pass "Go".
Do not collect $200.

"Might As Well Be Walking On The Sun"

It's been ... a bit warm ... at home lately.  The kind of heat where you find yourself sweating just from sitting still.  The kind of heat that takes away your appetite and your desire to DO anything.  I've found myself saying "nahhhh ... I don't really want to brush my hair right now.  I'll wait until it cools down a bit."

"Oh come on", you say as you read this.  "You just are not used to the heat is all.  You're soft from all that West Coast living.  You clearly can't just roll with the temperatures like the rest of the country."

Yeah?  Fuck.  You.

It was 92 when I stepped out of the shower last night at 9:30pm.

92 ... at 9:30 at NIGHT.  Which means it had cooled down to 92.

The felines are fine.  They were of primary concern (of course) and honestly they got the best end of this situation.  One has been living downstairs in the coolness of the basement and the other has a whole air-conditioned home to herself.  The Awesome Boyfriend and I tried to make it work on Tuesday night as we settled into our bedroom but sleep wasn't gonna happen.  So we split things up and slept solo, on top of beds, with fans directly on us.  I managed to get about 4 hours of sleep and I could only hope that the Awesome Boyfriend did the same or better.

Last night we were smarter ... we took a note from our happy feline friends and slept in their territories.  While I was a bit slow in stretching and bending this morning (from sleeping so low to the ground), I woke only because I heard the Awesome Boyfriend coming through the door.  And kudos to my feline buddy too - who let me get some much needed sleep (in between licking my elbows and playing with her white mousie a few times during the night).

We'll replay the scene tonight (even 'tho the weather dorks say the heatwave has broken) and sweet relief will arrive tomorrow.  How do I know this?

Because when the repairman arrives to fix our central air, I'm taking the keys to his truck and he's won't be going anywhere until the unit is fixed or completely replaced.  Period.

And THAT'S how "West Coasters" roll.  Word to your mother.  Peace out.

You Can't Go Back Again

There are few (if any) things that we, as a human collective, agree upon.  In most experiences or circumstances, there are too many variables to get even a group of a dozen people to all say "yes" or "no" if asked the same question.

So the question that is in my head currently is this:  If you could relive your high school experience again, would you do so?

Responses to this question tends to let you know what that person's experience was like.  I know people who couldn't wait to get out of high school, and others who enjoyed their years so much that they look forward to reunions and thumb regularly through their yearbooks while wearing their mascot-laden sweatshirt.  I'm somewhere in the middle - I know where my yearbooks are but haven't glanced at them in years and I actively avoid reunions.  (I'm not one for establishing friendships just because time has gone by and you've forgotten what a tool you were back then because now you've found peace or whatever.  If I was close to you way back then, I'm likely still close with you now.)

I started thinking about this today when I read about a Sundance movie that was released last month about five different stories of children going through various organizational issues in their high school.  One of the individuals highlighted is a student at the school I graduated from more than two decades ago, and as I read about her frustrations, I found myself squarely on the side of ... ... ... the school.

After all, that's My high school.

I loved my high school years.  I had a great group of close friends and extended acquaintances.  I had teachers who really cared and gave the extra effort.  I had extra-curricular activities that helped me express myself as a angst-ridden teen.  I also was part of one of the smallest graduating classes that the school had ever had so it's not an exaggeration to say that we all really did know each other - some of us had gone through our entire 12 years of lower education together.

But I don't want to relive that experience again.

You see, I visited My high school the year after I'd graduated to visit a favorite teacher and quickly realized that, in just less than a year, things really HAD changed.  This wasn't the place I'd left behind at all.  Sure, I still knew most the staff and a lot of the student body, but enough had changed that I saw this wasn't the school I remembered so fondly.  Time continued to go by and the school itself grew and changed (new buildings, new teachers, etc), but each time I drove by, I would remember my years there fondly.  The school I'd graduated from had changed, but the one I'd graduated from that still lived, untouched in my head, had not.  Time has a funny way of doing stuff like that.

Strangely enough, I found myself listening to my hometown radio station (online) today and they were talking about their high school reunions.  One speaker was repelled by the whole idea of reunions and how fake they can be and the other, who had gone to the same school but in a more recent decade, was in active (Facebook) communication with all his friends and teachers and was excited to see them again soon.

I'll bet he was a tool.

Pearls of Wisdom

I'll bet that we've all heard a lot of apologies that ... aren't.

Someone saying "I'm sorry you're upset" - for instance - isn't the "offender" apologizing for said "offense".  No no - they're apologizing at the offended's low tolerance level for whatever they found so ... offensive ... in the first place.  Kinda like saying "I'm sorry you're upset that I wrecked your car" isn't the same as saying "I'm sorry I wrecked your car".

And I got to thinking about all this today after I read (and giggled over) the following:



I'm sorry if you found this strip offensive.

Whoops!

So I was gonna write about being accident prone.  How, as a child, I had a habit of getting myself into situations where I was destined to be injured and that now, as an adult, I have a propensity of cutting corners too sharply, scraping my shins while exiting from vehicles, and conking myself on the head when I know damn well to duck in that part of the basement.

Yes, yes I was gonna write about that.

So we'd had dinner and were relaxing in the living room.  We were enjoying a bit of downtime when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the cat had wandered into the space between the sofa and the wall, next to where The Awesome Boyfriend was seated.  She has been known to sit there, under the side-table at times, so this wasn't a new maneuver for her.  After a few minutes, The Awesome Boyfriend turned to me and said "hey - is the cat behind us?"

Thus began a 20-minute stress-filled, furniture moving exercise whereby we needed to figure out how our feline had climbed up into our couch and, far more importantly, how we were going to assist in her removal from it.  It wasn't until we started to urgently call for her, shine flashlights underneath the couch, and move it into the middle of the room that she started to meow rather strongly, probably more reacting to our increasing nervousness than any discomfort she was feeling.

Anyway so yes - I was going to write about my being a klutz but had to set that aside because our couch was trying to eat our cat.

It's nice to know that it runs in the family.
**********
(Follow Up:  The feline in question is perfectly fine and is blissfully slumbering in her bed, having chomped down on the large handful of treats she received after FINALLY emerging from our couch.  We, on the other hand, are still recovering from the stress, worry, and immediate response needed to ensure her safe extraction from what is clearly a cat-eating sofa.)

Gesundheit!

The Awesome Boyfriend and I were getting errands done recently and I felt a sneeze coming on.  Trouble was that it was taking its sweet time - as in minutes ... plural.  It was uncomfortable and odd, waiting for a sneeze that was gonna come, but hadn't yet.

I told the Awesome Boyfriend and he opened up the sunroof, pointing out that sunshine tends to make one sneeze and, sure enough, a few short seconds later, he sneezed.

And the REALLY weird part?  My sneeze went away.

Tradition!

(and now you have "Fiddler On The Roof" playing in your head)

I come from a family of few traditions. Oh sure - there's the traditional Ramos Fizz on Easter Sunday before service, Black Russians on Christmas Eve, Champagne if it is on sale ... hmmm, quite a few alcohol-based traditions there. *shrug* What can I say - my family of few traditions IS, after all, Irish.

There is one tradition that is just for my mother and I. Entertainment Awards Shows. The real ones, 'tho - not the "best same-sex kiss in worst teenage movie" ones. I'm talking Oscar and his gal-pal Emmy.

I used to see a LOT of movies when I was in my teens and twenties. It was good entertainment, it was fairly inexpensive at just $5.50 for the latest blockbuster, and it was something that I really enjoyed doing. I know a lot of folks go to the movies to escape or to avoid doing something else - but I really liked just being entertained for a few hours. NOW when ya' go, it's about a $40 payment, the multiplex has paper-thin walls so you get to hear all the other movies around you, parking is impossible and if you haven't seen the previous four movies that this one follow and haven't bothered to read the book, the interviews, aren't reading the tweets and haven't "friended" the movie crew, screw it - you'd never understand the plot here either.

My movie-going came to a trickle for a lot of years, when there was no one would could go to the movies with me. (This is what happens when everyone you're friends with starts having a family.) So my mother and I started going together. We'd typically see either the latest Harry Potter (which, in fairness, we HAD read) or something fun and weightless - aka "the chick flick". Plus - as a bonus to seeing the current releases, we'd have someone to root for during the Oscar broadcast.

Ahhhh the Oscars. We'd been watching it together for yeaaaars ... long before Joan Rivers' kid was broadcasting. We'd discuss the dresses, the dates, the teases, the bad sketches, the host - oh, and the winners and losers. It was great fun.

When the movie-going slowed down, the show to watch became the Emmys. It was easier to watch the Emmys and to root for people because you didn't have to remember back in March which God-awful movie Ben Affleck had been in. These folks on TV - on the shows we'd watch - came into our homes each week. If the series was REALLY good, I'd even have the DVDs of the seasons - so yeah, watching the Emmys worked really well.

Tonight I was startled to see something about "2010 Emmy Fashion" online. I guess it had escaped my attention that the broadcast was tonight. I've already called my folks once today so I don't want to bother them with a stupid call to say "hey Mom - Emmy's are tonight". But watching them together was what we did. And since last years ceremony was broadcast in mid-September, I guess this is the first year we really won't watch and comment to each other.

It's a tradition I will miss.

(I still can't believe that Johnny Galecki isn't nominated. Jim Parsons had BETTER win.)