The Because I Said So Generation

There are differences between generations. I think it is important to pass down important information about those differences. I thought I would take some time to explain my generation to those who want to know what makes us tick. I know there are names for each generation. The Baby Boomers, Generation X, and the Millennial generation are just a few. While technically I am a member of the Baby Boom generation, I like to refer to my generation as the “Because I said So Generation”.

Until I was five years old I thought that my parents could say only three things. “No”, “Because I said so”, and “It’s fair because I said it’s fair”. When I was six “The teacher is always right” and “Did I ask if you if you started it? And “Who said life was fair?” made their appearance in my life.

We drank wine before we drank soda. In all fairness, the drinking of wine was an Italian thing more than a generational thing. We drank it only at Sunday dinner, only at my Grandmother's house and only one glass. We did not drink out of wine glasses. They were glasses that my Grandmother got at the Acme. She got the glasses with her S & H Green stamps. The green stamps were a generational thing. Green stamps were actual stamps that were green that you got for buying things at the store, which you would collect, put in a book and redeem for stuff at Acme.

We had the bug man. In my childhood, we had a guy who drove around a jeep and sprayed fog from the the back of his truck. This was done to kill the mosquitoes. Every kid in the neighborhood, including yours truly, chased the bug truck We literally ran in the fog. Our parents didn't stop us. The assumed that the government knew that whatever they were spraying out of the back of the truck was not going to kill us. Turns out the fog was DDT which was banned for public use in 1972. How's that working out for you?

We drank Tang. For those not familiar with Tang it was an orange powder that you mix with water and drank. It was “what the astronauts drank” and if it was good enough for the astronauts it is good enough for you. We had nothing but milk, tang, water and ice tea in our house right up until the day the plumber came to fix our dishwasher. When he opened it, he noticed the discoloration on the inside. He informed my Mom that she could remove that by running one cycle of the dishwasher but instead of detergent she should use Tang and it would shine it right up. That was the end of our Tang. We went from Tang to Tab. Tab was a diet soda. Another good choice. It was better for us than regular soda which were no longer allowed to drink. Apparently my Mother was told by the plumber that he used coke to remove rust as well, so soda was off the list. I'm not sure how she got to the conclusion that sugar was the culprit. I think she should have stopped talking to the plumber.

We had a party line. That was a shared phone line. When the phone rang, we answered it. Sometimes it was for us and sometimes it was for the other family who shared our number. Yes, you could listen to another persons phone call and they could listen to yours. You had to dial the phone. You had to actually put your finger in a hole and circle the dial. If you called someone and they were on the phone you got a busy signal. Phone books were books with phone numbers in them.

In every movie that you watch from the sixties and seventies there are brightly colored rooms. Pink and olive green were big. Every house in my neighborhood had a least one room with a pink and olive green color scheme. We had two. Our bathroom was one. The wallpaper was pink with flowers and we had the green love beads hanging down in front of the shower curtain. My bedroom was the other. It was hot pink everywhere you looked. It had pink shag carpeting which got raked. The plates on my bureau and desk that were behind the knobs were pink, I had a canopy bed for about twenty minutes. It had a pink canopy and bedspread. I was a gymnast as a young child. I saw the canopy and the wooden frame that held it up. It bore a striking resemblance to the uneven bars. Like I said, twenty minutes. I had a large double window in my room. When my parents added an addition on to our house my window became a bookshelf covered with pink contact paper. I have no pink in my house. Anywhere. Or green.

We had no seat belts in our car. As children we use to climb over the front seat to the back and back again. When we were confined to the back seat we spent our time in the car asking “Are we there yet?” My parents spent my childhood responding “If you don't stop, I am going to turn this car around right now.”
That was a big deal. We used to go for rides on Sunday afternoon. Our television only got three channels and there was no internet. In 1969 we got channel our fourth channel, public television.

The television went off the air at two am. Literally. The goodnight message came up then the screen went to snow.

I rode my bike without a helmet. So did every kid in my neighborhood. We also rode our bikes all over town and knew to come home at dinner or when the sun went down. My parents, and every other parent on our block, rang bells at dinner. When the bells started ringing it was time to go home.

Our televisions had no remote. You had to get up to change the channel. I was the original channel surfer. My Dad would tell whichever one of us was in the room to stand next to the television and change the channel. If he liked what was on we could sit down. If not we kept changing. This didn't take very long because there were only three channels.

I grew up with the “Cone of Silence”, This came from a television show called Get Smart. This was a show about a spy named Maxwell Smart. When Max was talking to his boss, whose name was “Chief” they talked under the cone of silence. It was a big plastic half bubble that came down over their heads. It wasn't a cone. The entire bottom was open. This was supposed to stop others from listening to their conversations. Brought to you by the folks who are now expected to understand the internet.

We watched such classic TV shows as Green Acres about folks from New York who buy a farm, Mister Ed about a talking horse, the Munsters about a family of folks who looked like Frankenstein and Dracula and had their outcast niece living with them who happened to be a beautiful blonde. They lived at 1313 Mockingbird Lane.

We had Batman first. He did not look like George Clooney or Ben Affleck. The Batman I grew up with was Adam West in a brightly colored stretch costume and his sidekick, Robin also in a brightly colored stretch costume. Both wore masks that only covered their eyes. They also used phrases like “Golly Gee Batman, and “Holy Houses Robin.” When they threw a punch the words “POW” or “BAM” would appear on the screen. I tried to explain this to my children when they were entering their teenage years. I thought it would help them if they understood the level of cinematic sophistication that their Father and I grew up with. I made them watch the episode where Batman is captured and the villain puts him in a snake charmer basket. To counteract this evil villain Batman does his multiplication tables backward. HA! That will teach them. They were laughing so hard they had tears running down their faces.

There were very few sports for girls. Title 9 passed the year I went to high school which was also the year DDT was banned. 1972 was a very busy year.

We had a typewriter. It used carbon paper to make copies.

We had a Polaroid Instamatic camera. You took a picture and it came out of the camera. In 60 seconds it developed while you waited.

We had Super eight home movies. We showed them with a projector. You would wind the film around the spool. The most fun part was listening to the folks while Dad was trying to wind the film on the spool and Mom was waiting to see the moving pictures and smoking. Everyone in my family smoked. They smoked in the house. As kids we got bubblegum cigarettes with pink ends. As a young adult, I got a pink and green ashtray from my parents in case I was going to smoke in the house. It was important that the ashtray match the room.

There were charm schools. They were not actual schools. They evolved into modeling schools. They were the place Mothers sent their daughters to learn how to walk in high heels with a book on your head. I did and I can. I forgot to list it on my college application. Miss America was a big deal then. I tried to explain that there had never been a Miss America who was 4'8'. Mom was having none of it. I can do an appropriate Miss America Wave. Another unbelievably useful skill. It is all in the wrist.

My first protest was in 1972. I organized the protest. We were protesting because girls were not allowed to wear pants to my grade school. I wore pink bell bottoms to the protest. My Mother told me there was no need to look bad just because you are going to a protest. She bought me the pink bell bottoms. This was the same woman who sent me to charm school. She also bought me my first set of cleats. I wore them with my pink bell bottoms to the protest.

There were computers when I went to college. The computer that I studied on in my college classes took up one wall of an entire room and used punch cards. I still have my cards. They are in my attic. I am keeping them for my children or grandchildren. One day they may be in a museum and the kids can sell them, along with my books on eBay.

I was the first woman in my family to graduate from college.

My first car was a 1967 Chevrolet. It had an AM radio. My boyfriend installed a cassette deck in it.

We had records. They were small (a single song) or large (an entire album). We played those records on our stereos. The stereos had an arm with a needle that would eventually scratch the album and force you to buy another copy. My generation invented economic obsolescence.

We bought our first house while Reagan was president. The interest rates were 15-16 %. We camped overnight, in a tent, in line at the local bank, which has since gone out of business, to get a low interest loan called first time homebuyers funding. The interest rate was 10.5%. We thought it was a bargain.

I can answer the question…. Where were you when Kennedy was shot? I was in kindergarten. The school was closed, we were sent home and all the adults were crying.

I was in grade school during the cold war. We had nuclear bomb drills. The bell went off and the announcement was made that we were having a drill. We all got under our desks. This was going to save us from nuclear fallout. Brought to you by the same folks driving the DDT jeep.

SCREAMING At the TV Day

Sunday is a day for many things. Some folks go to the beach, some go to church and some families, like my family, spend time screaming at the TV. Every Sunday from August until January the men in my life spend time used to spend time screaming at the TV. When my children were little, I didn't participate in the ritual. As they grew older I decided it was time to embrace it. I have gotten very good at the ritual. I have gotten so good in fact, that my children have asked me to sshhhh. After they sshhhed me, as it that wasn't bad enough, they asked me to just watch the game.

They are claiming now that they just enjoy watching the game. Really? I am convinced they are just jealous of my ability to scream. They are perplexed by my grace under pressure. I can go from zero to screaming in a heartbeat. They have gone as far as to ask me who I am and what have I done with their mother. HA.

Perhaps there is a potential screamer who just needs a little help getting their scream on. In light of that, I have put together a list of helpful hints for others who wish to surpass their partner as a better screamer. Don't hold back. Go all in! Here are my helpful hints:

The basic structure is that there are eleven very large men chasing a very small ball while eleven other very large men chase the first eleven very large men and the same small ball.

There are men on the field who will help keep the twenty two very large men from killing each other. They are known as REFS. They get to carry a whistle and a little yellow flag that can bring twenty two very large men to an immediate stop. Apparently they are all blind.

The men who are in charge of the large men on the field, and yes they are all men, all get to pace, frantically up and down the sidelines wearing headsets. I suspect that they don’t actually talk to anyone but the headsets make them feel important. They are the only men allowed to scream, and point without a penalty.

The only women allowed to witness the ritual are in the stands as spectators, on the sidelines as sportscasters trying to interview the large men about what they did that made their side win or loose even though we just spent three hours watching, or scantily clad women wearing bathing suits and calling themselves cheerleaders. It is crucial to cheer for the team while showing half of your breasts and all of your belly. It is also crucial to flip your head and fling your hair back. It somehow makes the cheering better. Sometimes the twenty two large men are watching the cheerleaders and loose their focus so the large man in charge gets to scream at the large men on the field. It’s a cycle.

Each team has a man called a kicker. None of the other large men are allowed to touch him or tackle him. This is very confusing to them since the rest of the time the large men are supposed to chase and tackle anyone on the opposing team. When they get confused they run around the field like little ants. It’s funny to watch but not if you’re screaming at the TV.

The screamers get hostile when you laugh.

When your team is loosing a screamer must scream louder.

The screamers get more hostile when you laugh if their team is loosing.

The greater the loss gets the louder the screamer must scream.

Each screamer must have one team and only one team that they like. Liking more than one team is punishable by having to watch another game on Monday night.

Screamers do not like to be told that is just a game.

I think that understanding the ritual is a learning process. Getting your scream on is also a process. I started small. I started listening to sports radio. It is supposed to be some sort of serious discussion about the local sports teams as if the results where socially impactful. It makes me laugh. It also helps me to focus my screaming by teaching me about the parts of the game that are discouraging and when is appropriate to scream. You can also tell by when the anchors voice goes up.

Screaming at the TV has another benefit. It is better than watching NASCAR racing. That is the sport dedicated to making left hand turns. All day.

I Never Knew Squirrel Removal Was A Thing

I live in the woods. I have woods on two sides of my house. Those woods are protected wetlands. We used to call it a swamp but now we are fancy. Either way, no one can build in those woods. There are foxes and deer in those woods. I have a family of rabbits that live under the deck, snakes that live under the other deck, and a whole assortment of birds that fly in an out regularly and love our bird feeders.

I grew up in a small town. There were less that 3,000 people in our town and our street was a dirt road. It was a huge deal when the street was paved. There was absolute jubilation when we got gas service and my parents were able to have the gas company run a line to our barbecue. I had an idyllic childhood. My summers were spent climbing trees, riding my bike, swimming and running around barefoot with my cousins. We had squirrels in our yard back then. We had a bunny that weighed 23 lbs. that turned out to be an exotic hare. My father kept adding additions to the rabbit house because the hare kept growing. My Italian grandmother, who lived with us, used to walk around our yard, wearing black, holding her rosary and placing curses on the rabbit/hare. We thought she was trying to kill the hare. The hare lived a long time. I'm pretty sure she was putting a curse on my Mom for marrying her baby. We also had squirrels. We had a garden with tomatoes and peppers as well as beautiful flower gardens. I do not recall any squirrel issues then but maybe I was just too young to remember although I'm quite sure I would have remembered my father hunting squirrels in our backyard.

When my father moved in with us he informed me that he had previously had a squirrel problem. My mother had never mentioned the squirrels or their problems. They lived in a condo. When Dad moved in with us one of the things he brought with him was a bird feeder that belonged to my Mom. We picked out a beautiful spot in the yard. It was a spot that he could look at from the kitchen through the kitchen door which is a large french door. It was beautiful. It lasted about twenty minutes. The first squirrel he saw led him to inform me that the squirrels had followed him from the condo. He was convinced. Apparently he and the squirrels had a long history that I hadn't known about.

My parents had put up the feeder and the squirrels started to enjoy it along with the birds. My father was having none of that and he put Vaseline on the pole holding up the feeder. The squirrels would slide down the pole. He thought he won. Then the squirrels took to running up the side of the deck and jumping on the top of the feeder. Once they got their food, they slid down the pole with the Vaseline using his own cleverness against him. Think furry firemen.

Apparently this made my Mother laugh like hell. I am sorry to have missed this. Then my Father decided what was good for the pole was even better for the top of the feeder. Again, he went to his go to fixer. He got out the Vaseline and covered the top of the feeder with it. The squirrels would run up the side of the deck and jump onto the top of the feeder but instead of landing on the feeder they would slide right off the top and go thump on the ground when they crash landed. My dad thought the squirrels would stop. I'm not sure how he reached that conclusion. I do know why my mother never mentioned this. My mother was a proud woman. How do you explain to your children that their father is trying to cause bodily injury to the squirrels? The squirrels came back as they do and started shaking , and sort of throwing themselves against the pole holding the feeder shaking the food onto the ground. There was nothing my Dad could do. He didn't have a BB gun at the condo. I'm pretty sure he spent years thinking about a BB gun just like the kid in the Christmas Story. He wanted a BB gun under his Christmas tree.

That was then and this was now. I was not going to be a part of the war of the squirrels and told him and my husband right after he casually asked my husband if he had a BB gun. I went out, took out some bird food and put it under the feeder so the squirrels wouldn't have to resort to finding food themselves. All seemed peaceful until this year. The squirrels have returned with a vengeance. They have decided to target our tomato plants. Several tomatoes have been eaten. The hubster had mentioned the squirrels and he had some thoughts as to how he would rid us of those pesky rodents. A BB gun was mentioned. Really. Your go to fixer for the squirrels is to shoot them? I felt the need at this point to explain the obvious. We live in the woods. We moved into their home, not the other way around. We were the invaders even though we have been here for over thirty years. He was having none of it. I have been down this road before. I have reasoned with a man who thinks he should put Vaseline on the pole of a bird feeder instead of putting bird seed on the ground for the squirrels to enjoy. I tried the distraction method. I told him that maybe the moles had eaten the plant. He dislikes the moles in our yard as much as he dislikes the squirrels. I think the aerate the lawn saving him from having to do it. He was having none of it. Apparently the squirrels in the city where he grew up were really nasty squirrels and he was traumatized by the squirrels. Oddly, my Dad grew up in the same neighborhood in the same city as my husband. I never got the details as to how their squirrels were different than the country squirrels that I grew up with.

I knew what had to be done. I had to come up with a solution to clearing out the squirrels without injury so I did what I do, I googled it. What came up was a hundred or so video demonstrations of how to rid your yard of squirrels using Vaseline. It's a thing. I never knew that squirrel elimination with Vaseline was a thing. It's important to learn something new each day. I learned. I also learned that there is a series of videos available on removing moles from your yard using cages. Why can't we all just live together. I want the sixties back. Peace and Love.

I said nothing. I am a woman on a mission. The next day I told him in my most serious voice “I swear I have no idea where the BB's are.” Then I went out and put bird seed on the ground.

The Plant Goddess

I am many things I am a loyal friend and co-worker. I’m a good Mom and a funny writer. I am not a gardener. In some circles, I am not even considered a plant person. Somewhere in the plant kingdom my picture is on a poster with the words “Shoot on Sight”. I have killed more plants than most people own in a lifetime. And sadly is it not always from neglect. I have even managed to kill them with too much care. For those of you who don’t know, you can over water a plant and kill it. It’s called drowning, and I have done that too.

I started my new job with the best of intentions. Work hard, be diligent, and put your best foot forward. These have always been my goals. I thought it was going splendidly. My new co-workers and I hit it off well. We were developing relationships, and moving toward friendships. It was a really pleasant working situation. Then it happened. My co-worker was going away for a few days and left me a note asking me to please remember to water her plant. I almost choked when I read the note. I angered the plant Goddess. I must have done something awful to anger her. I strained my brain thinking what I could have done that would have provoked such a response. I bought some flowers this year. I didn’t mean to upset the Goddess. I don’t usually buy any flowers. Usually hubby buys them and plants them. My job has been to go “oooh” after all the actual planting is done. It isn’t a complicated system but it has worked for us. I don’t touch the plants and in return the plants get to live. This year was different. I was out and saw some flowers on sale and bought a two flats. I only touched them long enough to put them in the car and take them out and hand them to hubby. I promise.

It was too late. The Goddess had made her presence known. I couldn’t in good conscience let my co-worker down either. She was depending on me. I thought about her request for the next few days and decided that maybe it was time for a change. Maybe it is time to show the Goddess who’s boss. This is going to be my shining moment in the plant kingdom. I will dispel all of the rumors about my inadequacies as a plant person. I may even buy a real plant instead of a silk one, but first I have to start by taking my baby steps. I will tend to the plant of a coworker. I am ready. I have visualized the plant growing healthy in my care. It will be a Zen like experience.

The day arrives. It is a rainy, murky day and I am running late. The street where I usually turn is blocked by construction work and detoured around the block. My windshield wipers stop working halfway to work. If I was the kind of person who believed in signs I would turn right around and go home, crawl back into bed, and pull the covers over my head. If I was that kind of person. But I am not. Besides I can’t come with an excuse this close to starting time. “ I won’t be in today because it’s raining, my wipers died, I have to water a plant and I’m superstitious.” It works for me but I don’t think it will work for my boss.

I arrive. My determination to succeed at my plant job is taking over. The adrenaline is starting to flow. I pull myself back and remember that I have an actual job to do. Plant tending is only a bonus. It’s time to get to work. I sense the bad karma of the beginning of the day changing. Things are working. The day passes by quickly. Too quickly. I look up and it’s 2:00. 3:00 arrives just as fast. Then the awful thought that something is wrong. But everything is going so peacefully. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks. I forgot the plant. Thankfully it is not too late. Plants, I’ve been told, are not like kids. They don’t have to be watered at a particular time. It’s time to pay the piper.

I saunter over to her desk. It’s part of my plan. If I look like I’m a plant person people will assume I am. Sauntering is part of my plant person persona. I ever so confidently pick up the watering can which is full and water the plant, making sure to move some of the leaves out of the way so the water gets to the roots. The soil is sucking up the water. I am almost alarmed by the amount of water it’s taking. Then I notice it. The water is coming out the bottom of the pot and up the sides of the container it’s sitting in. I immediately remove the water can and watch the water rising in the container. And pray. Please plant Goddess let the water stop. PLEASE. The water keeps going. It finally stops 1/4 of an inch from the top of the container. The plant Goddess has heard me and answered. Now I have to live up to her faith in me. I have to empty the water out of the container or the plant will get too much water and die. And I have to do this without looking like an idiot.

There was no graceful way out. There is no way to carry a plant in a large container filled with water past a large group of people and down a hallway while looking graceful. Been there, done that, got the tee-shirt. It wasn’t pretty this time either. At all costs the plant must be saved. I did what I had to do to save the plant. My boss must have wondered why I was carrying a co workers plant down the hallway as he glanced up when I walked past his office. He never asked. I can respect a man in denial. My coworker returned safely from her vacation. The plant survived. I have fulfilled my promise to the plant Goddess. In my moment of weakness when I was praying to her I promised her if she let the plant live I wouldn’t go near a plant again. She did and I won’t. The plant universe is back on track.

Toxic Bread

There are people in this world that like to bake bread. They are good and kind people. There are people in the world who get paid to bake bread. They are called bakers. Use these people wisely. I am not a baker. I like to go to a store, and buy my bread already made. They are so nice at the store, they even wrap the bread for me.

It is all Martha Stewart’s fault. I need to blame someone, so I might as well blame Martha. She started this whole movement. It has invaded my house. It has trampled on my domain. It started out with the best of intentions but then it went horribly wrong. Hubby thought he was doing something kind when he got me a bread making machine.

I put the bread maker, still in its’ box, underneath a chair in the kitchen. I dusted the box lovingly every day. A few days later I opened the box and took out the directions. They were written by people who know how to bake. I thought I should take my time and read them over and over again. I was trying to pace myself. I estimated that it would take me at least two weeks to really understand them. It took me three.

I knew the day would come when I would have to use the machine. I would have to make the attempt. There are only so many times a grown woman can dust a box off without feeling really guilty. Well, today the jig was up. Today was my day of reckoning.

I opened the box and removed the machine. Then I dusted off the machine. It was easier than the dusting off the box. I carefully followed the directions for cleaning it before using it. I measured out all of the ingredients and placed them in the machine, in the exact order specified in the recipe. The yeast is not allowed to touch the liquid ingredients or something horrible will happen. I don’t know what the horrible thing is, but I figure that the people that know how to bake know what the horrible thing is, and that is good enough for me.

Then comes the test. You are supposed to close the lid and plug it in. Then press the MENU and punch in all the right numbers telling the machine what size loaf to make, what kind of bread it is, and how long you want to bake it. Then you push start, it goes beep and starts.

My machine did not read the instructions. The second the plug hit the socket it started to beep. The little digital area was flashing. I couldn’t get it to stop. I pressed the stop button. I pushed the MENU button. I pushed every button. It wouldn’t stop beeping. It wouldn’t take my instructions and it was making a noise. It sounded like thumpwak, thumpwak, thumpwak. I don’t know much about mechanical things but I know it’s not supposed to sound like that. This machine has a mind of it’s own. In desperation, I finally grabbed a chair, and a flashlight. I stood over the machine with the mind of it’s own, pressing on the MENU button with the force of a weight lifter. It finally responded with the correct screen. Success at last! I punched in the selected items and the machine with a mind of it’s own started doing something that resembled what the instructions said it would do. I set it for an ultra fast cycle. In 58 minutes I would have fresh baked bread. Maybe I should not be mad at Martha.

About half way through the baking process a smell started wafting through the house. It was not the smell of bread baking. It was the smell of burning rubber. The children kept popping into the house. One whiff of the burning rubber brought “What’s that SMELL?” and grasping their noses as they ran back outside.

The buzzer went off exactly 58 minutes later. I lifted the lid and stared into my bread machine. The pan that holds the freshly baked bread was half empty. It was supposed to hold a pound and a half loaf of freshly baked bread. I lifted it gingerly out of the machine hoping against all odds that the rest of my one and a half pound loaf was hanging out the other end of the pan. It wasn’t. I am the proud baker of a 3 inch cube of bread. The bread is still sitting on the counter. I am not sure what I am supposed to do with a 3 inch cube of bread. I’m afraid to let the children eat it. There is obviously something genetically wrong with my bread cube. This 3 inch cube has enough yeast and ingredients for a pound and a half loaf. It is one large chemical imbalance. I have visions of trying to explain to the doctor in the emergency room why I let my children eat a super concentrated, chemically imbalanced, 3 inch cube of bread, as the child protection people come and haul me away.

The machine with a mind of it’s own is back in it’s box. Out of respect to Martha, I have given the box a new place. It is not under the chair. The box is now covered with cute shelf paper. It is my own personal step stool. This is the true calling of the machine with a mind of it’s own. It looks cute, helps me when I need it and no longer beckons me to bake toxic 3inch cubes of bread. I sent a letter of thanks to my bakery.

A Very Bumpy Weekend

I was a very active child. In those days, the word tomboy was used to describe girls like me. I could run faster, swim faster, out jump and out flip my brother and his friends who were a few years older. I played on competitive teams. In those days, a child tried out for a team. There were cuts and you had to make the team. I always made the teams. I was a child in constant motion. My mother used to call my constant movement “flipping and dipping.”

They found a place that could teach me that skill. It also came with the added skill of learning to glide gracefully in three inch heels while having a book on your head. I was never able to get an answer as to why I needed to be able to do anything with a book on my head from my parents. In fact, they pretty much refused to participate in the discussion. I pointed out, multiple times, that for all of the gliding that Miss America did, I had never seen her do her gliding with a book on her head. I also never saw the book on the head part of the talent competition. I lost both the battle and the war so off I went to charm school. It was one of the highlights of my young life. I learned to walk with a book on my head in three inch heels. I also got thrown out of charm school for refusing to remove my cleats but that story is for another column.These same folks also decided that my brother and I needed to learn how to ballroom dance.

With all of my ability to glide into a room, wearing heels, with a book on my head, I was still clumsy. My parents took me to multiple doctors to find out what was wrong. They explained that I could do a back handspring from a standing position and walk with a book on my head in high heels, but was clumsy the rest of the time.

I loved the look on the face of the my parents when the first neurologist after running multiple tests and had to give my parents the news. There is nothing wrong with your daughter. She thinks fast and in every day life her brain is moving faster than the rest of her. Some day they may catch up. Or they may not. She has a great brain. I wouldn't worry about her. End of the story.

The next doctor told them that I was clumsy because I have flat feet and no arch to speak of. He suggested my parents should buy me good supportive shoes. I spent my childhood in ugly red orthopedic shoes. I did however negotiate a new pair of cleats for every pair of the ugly orthopedic red shoes.

Today as an adult, I am in motion a lot. I get up early. I am working out within thirty minutes. My brain is still busy. In fact, I am brain busy all day long. I spend way too much time sitting. To counteract, I get up and walk around just to move. The funny thing is that apparently my feet, and other parts of my body still haven't caught up to my brain. I am much more aware that I am not focusing on the rest of me so I try to pay attention. Sometimes I win and sometimes I fail. I failed this weekend. It was an epic fail.

I was changing the sheets on one of the beds. Next to the bed is a crate of stuff. I know the crate is there because I put it there. I know it is loaded with stuff because I loaded it. There is no one to blame but me. I moved my foot to the left as I was adjusting the sheet and whacked it pretty good into the crate. Ouch. I got one nice black and blue mark in a very conspicuous place on my foot.

The next day I am vacuuming. I dislike vacuuming naturally. I dislike it even more know because the hubster bought a canister vacuum. It takes two hands to operate. Really? Why do I need to focus while vacuuming? I had a vacuum for many years. I plugged it in, turned it on and proceeded to vacuum. No thinking, no focusing, just doing. It should be simple. Instead I have a multi-hand and arm requiring vacuum. Alrighty then.

I carted the multi-hand and arm requiring vacuum into the living room and set it down. I bent down as I pulled out the plug to plug it in, and the long arm of the vacuum that has the handle, flew back and whacked me right on the forehead. I was not polite. From all of my years of sports, I know the first thing that I should do is get some ice. Particularly since the mark is right in the middle of my forehead and is in the triangular shape of the handle. I am picturing myself with a nice, two inch, triangle shaped black and blue mark in the middle of my forehead. Within a few minutes, I can feel the bump. My youngest tells me that he can see the start of a bump. He also tells me twenty minutes on, and twenty minutes off for the ice pack.

I do not believe the twenty minutes on-twenty minutes off theory. Why would you stop at twenty minutes? Then the swelling would start again. What is the point of that? I am going with the put on ice and leave it until you can't take it. Take it off and put it back as soon as possible. I sat for five hours with ice on my head. I wrapped in a sleeve. I looked like I was wearing a puffy headband. After all of my ice sitting I got a very small bump. It was a not too bad. I covered it with makeup. I was a little nervous about bumping my head. I've heard about people dying as a result of small accidents to their head. So naturally, I googled it. I'm sure that is what the medical professionals do.

There is such a thing as too much information. From everything I read, I should stay awake for about a week, ice it and speak constantly to keep my brain sharp. I am not a medical professional but I am pretty sure that not sleeping for a week and constant talking would not be a good thing. I think I will just stick with ice and some good cover stick. Perhaps I will put a book on my head and walk across the room.

Arguing with my Fitness Tracker App

I am one of those women who struggles with her weight. My weight is actually terrific for a woman of five feet seven inches. Trouble is, I am barely five feet tall. It also doesn't help that I am over fifty, and my metabolism is well aware of it.

I will admit that I may not have been as attentive to my caloric intake over the last few years as I should have been. And I may I also have neglected to keep in touch with my doctor as often as I should have. After a while my doctor sent a few of those reminder cards: “We haven't seen you in a while!” “We miss you!” “Just call us and make an appointment.” “OK seriously, where are you? This isn't funny anymore.”

I felt so bad that I broke down and did the unthinkable. Yes, I finally decided to go to the doctor. The doctor let me know that I was doing everything just fine. I just need to fix my weight, lower my carb intake, raise my protein intake and monitor my exercise. Oh, and being over fifty means that I also have to monitor vitamin and mineral intake as well as all of my hormones.

Or I could take a few pills.

I am not take the easy-way-out kind of gal. I have no objection to taking pills, but I will do everything humanly possible to avoid it. Throw in a dash of type-A personality and you get the picture. There goes all my free time. It is now dedicated to not taking pills. Some call it an obsession, but I think that's ridiculous. This is a competition. It's me against the pills, and I will win. More importantly, the pills will lose.

I have been exercising for years. That part of the equation was fine. But I realized that I might need a little help with the rest, so I bought a fitness tracker. It would be my conscience, a personal trainer without a voice. It has all the bells and whistles. I can even wear it swimming. I put in all of my information and started proudly wearing it. I loaded the app on my phone. The tracker syncs to the app and inputs my exercise automatically. I input my food every meal. At the end of each day you press the button and let the app know that your finished your diary for the day. Then a message pops up that states if every day were like today you would weigh X lbs in X number of days. Positive reinforcement. I am in.

Then I got my first message. The app told me I was under my caloric goals it set for me, and I was OK with that. I have always thought that in the case of calories, less is more. Apparently my fitness tracker disagrees.

The next day, the warning popped up again. Only this time the warning was a little more stern. Actually, it was the same warning. I just hadn't taken the time to read the entire warning. When I read the entire warning, it told me that it would refuse to generate a news feed or give a weight projection because I hadn't met my caloric goals. News flash, Fitness Tracker: I have been tracking my information longer than you think and I still don't weigh what I should according to you. I have a feeling you are using New Math.

For those of you who are unfamiliar, New Math was a system taught in the late sixties and early seventies designed to make everyone using it feel good about math. And it did. It also made everyone get the wrong answers. Today, we call New Math “estimation.”

There is no place in the fitness tracker app to explain my disagreement with their method of calculation.

The warning also told me that I might be causing bodily damage because I am not getting enough nutrients. The NIH was also mentioned. Bringing in the National Institutes of Health to give me a warning is a low blow. I hate to argue with the fitness tracker app or the NIH, but trust when I say I have enough nutrients stored in my body to live for a number of days as long as I drink water.

Now my fitness tracker has moved on from warning to straight-up shaming. Yesterday, I apparently didn't walk the number of steps in the morning that I had on previous Saturdays, and it let me know. Loudly. Really, fitness tracker app? I didn't worry about my steps because I knew that I was going shopping in the afternoon and would be walking all afternoon. There is no part of the app that lets me explain my plans for the day.

I noticed that a colleague of mine has the very same app on her phone. We start talking about nutrition, losing weight and eventually the dreaded app. In a low voice, as if she is afraid the app will hear, she asks if I too was shamed for eating under it's recommended calorie intake. I acknowledge that yes, I have gotten shamed by my fitness tracker app. She asked if I was increasing my calories. I laughed out loud.

We decided to have lunch and discuss the tracker. I believe we would technically qualify as the first support group for under-calorie-shaming by a fitness tracker app. We had a healthy salad for lunch, and we laughed. And laughed some more. I'm hoping the tracker app folks aren't too upset that there we are laughing at their messages. They really should raise the bar on their standard for motivation.

Maybe the tracker app should take a page from my book. It should have some jokes instead of reminders. I am thinking that there should be a separate tracker app for women over the age of fifty. The categories could include calories burned during menopausal moments. Sweating while not exercising. Exercising and not burning any calories because you forgot to press the go button. Calories burned while being weepy in your car. Calories burned while wishing you hit the lottery. Calories burned while singing loudly, driving your car and not caring if the windows are open. Calories burned in a night sweat episode. Calories burned while changing the sheets after waking up from a sound sleep after a night sweat episode. Calories burned while not cooking dinner. Calories burned while being in a fog. Calories burned trying to remember things you forgot. And my personal favorite: calories burned while being everything to everyone.

Mouse Rat

I am not an enthusiastic shopper by nature. I am a list shopper. My process is simple. I make a list, go directly to the areas on my list and hone in on exactly what is on my list. I do not look at anything else. I do not pass go. I consider mail order catalogs to be a gift from God. My mother was a shopper. She enjoyed this activity. She raised it to an art form. I was in awe of her dedication to shopping. I did not inherit that gene. In fact I am quite sure it skipped me entirely.

I have made many life changes since turning fifty. Shopping is one of those changes. More precisely my view of shopping was evolving. I have tried to look at the big picture of shopping. I have tried to banish all negative thoughts about shopping from my mind. With my new attitude in hand, I decided it was time to actually go shopping. I decided to not only give shopping a second look but to live on the edge and go without a list.

I got to the store early. This was part of my new attitude. Go early and avoid crowds. It was working brilliantly. The store was practically empty. I started actually shopping. There is a definite process to this shopping thing. Maybe I had just been too busy to stop and smell the shopping flowers. I was staking out the racks. Looking at each and every rack without focusing in on what any one item. This was cool. I can do this. I actually heard the music playing in the store. I was getting to it. A little rhythm to help you relax while you shop. Maybe this was what I had been missing all those years.

Yes, I was enjoying myself. Right up until the moment I looked over and saw him. It was a furry, little moving thing with a tail. No one else was around. It was just the mouse and I. Or maybe it was a rat. He was awfully large for a mouse. I froze. A mouse- rat was not in my shopping plan. It was not part of my new shopping attitude. I looked around for some help but in my zeal to get shopping early I neglected to consider the possibility that along with very few customers there would also be very few salespeople. There were less than that. There were none. I would actually have to move to find a salesperson. Did mouse-rat know this? Would mouse-rat follow my lead? I turned and headed out to the aisle. I did not look back to see if mouse-rat was following.

I came upon a group of salespeople. Four salespeople to be precise. They were engrossed in their conversation. I waited for them to acknowledge my presence. They kept talking. I waited some more. Then the old shopping me took over. I could feel my new shopping attitude crumbling right before my eyes. I interrupted their conversation. Even after all those years of telling my children not to interrupt, I did. And didn’t care. I had visions of mouse-rat coming up behind me and chewing on my feet. Those four salespeople looked at me as if I was speaking gibberish. I slowed down and explained, again, in my most Mom-like tone that they really did have a mouse-rat running around the men’s department. They split up immediately. One went to get a maintenance person. The others went to find mouse-rat. I couldn’t help wondering if they had trained for this situation. Do stores now provide mouse-rat crisis training? Mouse-rat CPR? Mouse-rat first aid?

Maintenance man showed up followed by a very squeamish salesperson. I was watching him and wondering how he was going to catch mouse-rat. He had no equipment. I would have expected him to have a net, or a trap, or at the very least a baseball bat to club mouse-rat with thereby knocking him unconscious, and giving maintenance man the chance to set mouse-rat free. This man had nothing. His strategy was to chase mouse-rat. I was amazed. He was chasing mouse-rat. Mouse-rat was running. This was a Marx brothers movie waiting to be made. Maintenance man was winning. He had mouse-rat on the run. Mouse-rat was scared and scurrying for his very life. He ran right into the fast food restaurant that is in this store. If there is one thing I never want to see it would be a mouse-rat in a restaurant. Neither did the people in the restaurant. Loud screams were followed by mouse-rat escaping, followed by maintenance man, followed by salespeople, followed by the irate store manager questioning loudly why the maintenance man had no equipment to catch mouse-rat. I couldn’t watch anymore. I was laughing too hard. People had started to come into the store and were staring at me. I had to admit I was enjoying myself. I felt bad. I had started this whole mess. What if they actually caught mouse-rat? What would they do with him? Would they hurt him? It was beyond my control. I did the only thing I could do. I gave moral support to mouse-rat.

“Go Mouse-Rat Go!!” I yelled, raising my fist in the air. I like to think mouse-rat heard me. He went for the doors and was last seen heading out into the parking lot. Shopping really isn’t so bad after all. I may try it again soon.

The Boys of Summer

These two columns are being posted for my friend Josie and all the other young Moms who are having these moments now. My boy of summer is now 23. Like Bon Jovi said "The more things change the more they stay the same."

THE BOYS OF SUMMER


It’s that time of year again. Daylight saving time is in full bloom. The boys are counting down until the last day of school. So are the teachers. I am counting the days until the pool is open. Then it strikes.
“Hi. I’m the baseball coach. Practice is at …..”
The rest of the sentence is insignificant. The quest has started. He must have a new pair of cleats because his feet have grown three sizes. And a new pair of baseball pants because he has grown three sizes. And a new bat because it’s a new season. And a registration fee. And a new pair of batting gloves because the old ones are well… old. I liked the whole thing better when he was in t-ball.

I love t-ball. I think that all baseball should be t-ball until they reach the major leagues. The t-ball philosophy is much like my own. It’s fun. It’s fair. It’s not real life but then it’s not supposed to be. The kids all play. They play different positions. No one counts the runs. No one wins and no one looses. They pick dandelions in the outfield. And twirl around. The infielders pick up sand in their gloves. Every kid bats every inning. They bat off of a T. Until they get a hit. Games take time. They get so excited when the coach calls for practice they don’t sleep the night before. They can’t wait to get their baseball pants stained with the red clay of the baseball diamond. They practice sliding in the living room. Just to get it right. It is pure joy. “I’ve got baseball tomorrow.” It is a sacred rite of passage.

The joy of t-ball however doesn’t last long. I suppose that it isn’t meant to. The realization that in real life someone must win and someone must loose sets in fast. They start counting the runs themselves. The coaches start moving the kids around to different positions less and less eventually focusing on a few kids that become the core of the team. Batting off of a T is replaced by an actual pitcher. Batting averages are calculated. Batting cages become essential to give them “an edge.” Parents who are normally the nicest people in the world start screaming at their kids from the bleachers. Loudly. Coaches whose philosophy in the beginning of the season was to have fun and learn to play as a team have suddenly changed to Win, Win, and Win!! Baseball for the pure joy of the game has become major league baseball on a minor level.

I am lucky. I have one in t-ball and one in Babe Ruth. I still have a little boy to watch who is playing for the pure joy of the game. He is not worried about his batting average, his playing time. He is not focused. His eyes light up when he says the words. Playing Baseball.
I respond to T-ball. I clap for everyone. Both sides. Any kid. Every kid. Each boy that has the courage to stand in front of his peers and try deserves someone to cheer for him. It may be his parents. It will definitely be me. This has not gone unnoticed. I have had other T-ball Moms explain to me that the child I was clapping for was not on “our team.” My response is simply “I know but he tried his best.” This is usually met with a perplexed look.

My T-ball guy came out of his dugout because he noticed that I was clapping for the other team. He gently pulled me aside. “Why are you clapping for that boy? He’s not on our team.”
“He made a great catch.”

It was a line drive right to the pitcher. He caught it. The look on that little boy’s face when he opened his glove to discover that the ball was still in there, was one that every kid should have at least once in their life.
“He’s not on our team.”
“Does that mean it wasn’t a good catch?”
“No. It was a great catch.”
“Well?”
“Can’t his Mom clap for him?”
“She sure can. And so should I. Just like she should clap for you.”
“But she won’t.”
“No, she probably won’t. She should. It was a great catch.”
“Yeah it was.”
He learned a lesson that day. At the end of the game both teams lineup to give each other high five’s. He stopped at the kid who caught that ball. “Nice catch.”
He said smiling remembering a sweet catch by a kid whose name he doesn’t know. I love T-ball.





I’LL TAKE ONE JOCK PLEASE
HOLD THE ITCH


I am a Mom of two sons. The father of these two wonderful walking Y chromosomes assured me before our children were born, when discussing sports in a philosophical way. "I would like my kids to play sports." I was raised with sports. I am a sports gal. I played more sports than either my brother or my sister. I played more sports than both of them combined. I wanted my kids to play sports.

I had only one condition regarding sports. I made my prospective husband state out loud "Michelle absolutely, positively, never, ever has to buy a jock strap." It did not seem like a lot to ask at the time. Friends of mine were discussing such mundane items as religious preferences, money matters, sex, natural childbirth and having careers, but all that I asked was to not ever have to buy a jock strap. It was his one unconditional promise to me. He promised to love, honor, and buy all jock straps. It seemed like a bargain at the time.

I had gone through the sporting lives of my children unscathed until now. It started in a seemingly innocent manner. The coach was trying all the boys at the position of catcher. My seven year old was thrilled. Mike Piazza is a like an old family friend except for the fact that we’ve never met. The youngest knows how he positions himself behind the plate, where his hands are when he is catching and even how Mike wears his hat. I knew as soon as the coach asked him to get behind the plate that he had visions of Mike. He put on the equipment, set his hat the right way and jumped in there ready to rock and roll. He was good at it. Very good at it. Not many pitches got past him. The one’s that did he hustled to get. He knew right where each play was.

I am not an objective observer of my children, so I chose to keep my mouth shut to see what the coaches thought.
They thought the same thing. The phrase "He’s a natural “ kept being repeated. I listened in silence. Then they had the courage to tell me the good news. It went downhill from there.

“Do you have a cup?” the coach asked.
“A cup?” I responded wondering why on earth the coach wanted to know if I had a cup. Perhaps he wanted me to be the official coffee Mom. Then it dawned on me. Actually it didn’t dawn on me until he pulled an actual athletic supporter out of the equipment bag.
“Oh, A cup. No, I don’t have a cup. Does he need one?”
“League rules.”
“I take it he will be the actual catcher tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. He’s it. And he’ll need a cup. And a strap for the cup of course.”
“Of course.” I replied trying to be nonchalant while laughing on the inside just knowing that honey was going to have to fulfill the one unconditional promise he made before we were wed.
“If you can’t get him one before the game tomorrow, he can use this.” the coach replied handing me an actual cup held quaintly in it’s own plastic resealable bag along with the accompanying jock strap.
“Thanks.” I said completely at a loss for words. How do you respond when a man, to whom you are not married, or having a relationship with hands you a jock strap and cup? Thanks was the best that I could do. And it took me two minutes to think that up.

I analyzed the situation. This was not going to be as bad as I thought. First off, I didn’t have to buy one. I would only have to clean it. I must confess that I had no idea how to clean a cup. Is it dishwasher safe? Microwavable? The actual jock strap would not be a problem to clean. It goes in the washer along with a gallon of bleach.
Catcher boy was barely in the door and he had to try this thing on. I tried to explain the virtues of waiting until it had been sanitized, or at least bleached to death until actually putting it on his body but he would have none of it. I lost that battle. Then I lost the war. The jock strap was too small. A new one would have to be bought in the early morning. Guess who would be unavailable to do the actual purchasing in the morning? Guess who that would leave to actually go and walk into a store full of athletic men and ask one of them” Excuse me sir could you tell me where the jock straps are?” The excitement on catcher boys face would make it all worth while. I am a liberated feminist trying to raise non-sexist sons and I can handle it.

Catcher boy was up with the sun. “Come on Mom, it’s time to get up. We need to go buy a jock strap!”
Oh goodie. Jock straps and cups. And before breakfast. We set out for the store just him and I. He, full of questions about jock straps, and me, full of angst about him growing up too fast. Do I even want him in a sport that requires him to wear one of these things. The coward lives! It was more fun than even I could anticipate. The man, and I am using the term generously, that asked if he could help me, barely had facial hair, was no more than twenty, and was more embarrassed than I was at the prospect of having to discuss the intricacies of jock straps and the differences between the various brands. I knew this from the pretty shade of red on his face when catcher boy blurted out “I need a Jock strap!”
I decided that it was okay to be a coward so I let catcher boy ask all of the questions. He instinctively knew the questions to ask, and the jock strap salesman was very happy to ignore me. It was the last time it felt so good to be ignored. I was happy to pay the bill. I didn't even have to carry the bag.

A Box of Driving Wisdom

Sometimes I wonder if the universe just sits around thinking stuff up to send me into a tizzy. My youngest son was due to take his driving test. Okay. Now I start to wonder what exactly qualifies the state to give my son a license, or any teenager for that matter. I mean seriously, they don’t even know the boy. Do they think that driving wisdom shows up in a box on my doorstep on his seventeenth birthday like Hagrid and Harry Potter? I am thinking probably not based on the insurance rates for teenagers. I believe that the state is going about the whole drivers license wrong. There it is out in the open. They need to think outside of the box. If I were in charge of giving teenagers licenses I would ask different questions.

Let’s start with the obvious. Make the bed. I don’t care if you can parallel park. I haven’t parallel parked in thirty-four years. Can you make a bed? How often do you make the bed? Bed making skills should have to be demonstrated. Something like a sixty second bed making drill. It is my personal opinion that people who make their bed promptly are not going to be talking on the cell phone while driving. There have been no studies on this, however people who talk on the phone are generally inconsiderate while folks who make the bed neatly are generally considerate of others. Making a bed takes manual dexterity. If you can’t make a bed you shouldn’t be driving a car because you probably wouldn’t have the dexterity to switch lanes. You would be the type of driver who drives in the left hand lane instead of just passing and moving back into the right lane. We all know the type.

Another question that would be on my test is “when was the last time you hung up your coat? Set the table for dinner? Did your chores without being asked? These are all indicators of considerate behavior. People who set the table without being asked are probably not members of the road rage group.

If you can’t hang your coat up when you pass a closet you are probably the kind of driver who drives with the radio up and the windows down.
The state however doesn’t see things my way so he is going to take the test the old fashioned way. He is going to be taking the test in the family minivan. It’s big. It shakes if you go over sixty. It is also fifteen years old with almost two hundred thousand miles on it. It is a workhorse. Several weeks before, youngest son informs us that he doesn’t think he will be able to take the test in the van because according to the book, he doesn’t know if it will pass muster. No problem. Dad drives the van over to the MVC and has an inspector look at it. The nice inspector says it is fine. All’s well that ends well.

Hubby and the van return home the victors. I, being the dutiful spouse, ask the name of the inspector, just because I am going to be taking youngest for his test. Just in case there is a problem I should probably know his name. Hubby doesn’t know his name but he is sure there won’t be a problem. Oh, Universe, are you listening?

The big day arrives and youngest is raring to go. This kid has been practicing for six months. We arrive at the MVC and wait our turn. The inspector walks over, asks for youngest credentials, gets in the van, and then gets out of the van. This is never a good sign. Then he informs me that the van does not meet his criteria and youngest will have to reschedule. I very calmly explain that hubby had been here earlier in the week and gotten the van approved. He is not impressed. You see, he has been in several accidents and he does not feel comfortable in the van. He tells me that if I wish to speak to a supervisor I can drive around to the little building. I thank him for his time. I want to ask him how many accidents he has been in with students since they only drive around the block, and don’t drive in traffic or is it him that was driving when he got in the accidents and so maybe he shouldn’t be inspecting anyone’s skills. I want to, but I don’t. I am being the bigger person. I also don’t want to piss off the guy who at some point in time may be giving my son his driving test.

We drive around to the building. There is an inspector there who opens the door before we get there and asks if he can help us. I explain the situation. He walks out to the van and gets in it, gets out and practically word for word repeats inspector number one statement. Youngest and I get in the van and leave. Now we have to reschedule and of course in order to do that you have to go to another building which is conveniently several miles away. Of course, when we get to the office, which is several miles away, it becomes instantly apparent why the office is not located near the inspection station. There are a thousand people in various lines. This would make life unbelievably difficult for the inspectors. We go to make another appointment and surprise! There are no appointments available for at least three weeks. Unless of course we want one for tomorrow, and are willing to drive forty miles to get there. I, being the optimist that I am, take the appointment and immediately start thinking about where I am going to get a car small enough to pass the requirements. Big brother has one but he is away at school and does me no good. My sis in law has one but she is in Florida and the car is in another part of New Jersey at her daughter’s house. I call my BFF who has a small car. I am sure she will let him use it but she works inside a building where there is no cell phone reception so I won’t be able to get hold of her for a few hours.

When we get home I wake hubby with tales of the MVC. He very calmly gets dressed, takes a few sips from a cup of coffee, gets youngest and heads out the door heading back to the MVC. An hour later the phone rings. It’s youngest and he passed the test, and got his license. I am thrilled for the boy. “Were there any arrests involved?” He laughs. “No. Dad just spoke quietly and logically to the man and explained why the van meets the specs. They agreed and I got to take the test.”

I repeat “And there were no arrests? No police called?” Driver Boy laughs. It is now official. He is a driver. His box of driving wisdom should be arriving any day now.

If you can't beat em, join em

Puffer jackets. These jackets are apparently a thing. They are not just a thing but they are a big fashion thing. I get that. I needed a lightweight spring/fall jacket. I had an old ski jacket that years ago was thick and appropriate for very cold weather. Over the years it had become thin and not appropriate for cold weather. I wanted to replace the ski jacket and get another spring fall jacket for the days in between that was not a dress coat. I have four or five wool coats and capes that are business appropriate. I started looking for both coats. I found several really nice ski coats but they were all filled with down. I am allergic to down. That was another coat surprise. Moving on because that was then and this is now. Having gone to four or five stores, I had pretty much given up on the whole ski jacket and another spring coat. I never tried on the puffer coats.

I never tried them on because I looked at them and concluded that I am not the body type for that type of coat. I am short, curvy and have a bust that might be labeled as large busted. I will never be a size 2. I eat right. I exercise appropriately. I get enough sleep. I am a size 10 pants and size 12 tops. Period. For the better part of my 57 years. I come from a family of women who could have been Renaissance super models and not just Renaissance super models but tall super models as well. Most are 5'7” or taller. I am the shrimp of the bunch. I finally decided after much frustration, to try on the puffer jacket. Sadly, I was correct. I am not the body type to wear a coat that looks like a sheet of ravioli. I looked like the Pillsbury dough boy with a sheet of ravioli wrapped around me. I like to think it was because I was short. Then my sister in law showed up with a puffer coat. She looked adorable. She is short but that is where our body type similarities end. UGH. Clearly the height is not the issue.

I kept looking and found one ski coat that was not filled with down. I bought it immediately. The extra bonus is that it is two jackets in one. It has a liner that zips in making it appropriate for very cold weather or you can unzip the liner and where it for weather that is a tad warmer. Okay, it's not a puffer jacket and I certainly will not be making any fashion statements in this coat. I am okay with that. I have long been a fan of comfort first. If you can get fashion along with comfort all the better but if not I am going comfort. I decided to wear my new coat out to the store. It was windy and cold and I was freezing. The coat was awesome. I am laughing on the inside at all of the fashionista's who were wearing their puffer coats. Ha! I will out warm you any day. Of course, I know this has no basis in reality but it makes me feel not quite so badly that I look ridiculous in the newest fashion item. Then I get to the store. The wind has stopped and the sun was out. I felt like a boy scout. I was prepared. I unzipped the liner of my un-puffer coat and put it on, leaving the coat behind. Well, here is a shocker. The inside liner is not as warm as the tag indicated. In fact, it would be appropriate for a summer day early in the morning. My plan of coping was to simply ignore that fact. If I don't ignore that fact, it means that I still need the lightweight coat. I haven't seen a non-puffer lightweight coat that wasn't a sweatshirt, in the three months that I have been looking.

I am disgusted and head home. Fortunately the heat in my car works really well. Sometimes the universe aligns and sends you a sign. Sometimes you just look at things as if they are an actual sign. I am good with either of those explanations. I get home, stop at the mailbox and head indoors. When I look at the mail there is my LL Bean catalog. I love LL Bean. It is comfort. It is practical. It is slightly pricey but it lasts forever. It is not high fashion. I am paging through it and see a puffer coat. Oh no, Not my LL Bean. They have gone fashionable. While it is a puffer coat but is the least puffy of the puffer coats that I have seen. It is almost a flat puffer coat. I am absolutely certain that I may or may not look ridiculous in this coat but I am going to take a chance. If LL Bean believes I can look good in their puffer coat, I may as well give it a shot. If you can't beat them it may be time to join them. Besides, they take returns.

Stealth Fred

Having had an aging parent living with me for the last nine years I have made some observations. My Dad and I have reversed roles. I am told this is common. I'm not sure how this happened but it did. Fred is my Dad. He is 88 years old and has a whole slew of health issues. You name the disease and Fred has it. All this wrapped up means that Fred does not see well. He does not hear well. He is now dependent on others for help him do many of the things he used to be able to do himself. I understand the role reversal issue. It is not fun to wake up one day and realize that you can no longer do the things you used to do. Fred has decided to fight the whole aging thing. He is working his way around the whole issue. He is a man with a plan. He also has decided to take control of things that are out of his control. He has turned into Stealth Fred.

He used to deny everything when asked. Just outright denial. Nope. Didn't do it. Don't care if you found the item. Don't know how it got there. Now Stealth Fred is a Renaissance man. He is evolving. He has a new go to move. First he denies, and then he turns into the non-talking, staring, mouth open Stealth Fred. It is very difficult to have a conversation with a person who is staring blankly, not talking and purposefully opens their mouth. If he did this to his doctor he would probably end up in the hospital or a mental ward. When he does it to me, I laugh. I know this is not the response he was looking for but I can't help myself. He turns into Stealth Fred on a dime.

Stealth Fred has arrived and he likes to fix things. This is part of taking control back. The things don't need to be broken. They only need to not be working quite the way Fred wants them to work. He attempts to fix the item by banging the item against a large hard object. I have the item replaced. It seems simple and yet it is a surprise every time.

Fred was getting in my brother's truck to go out to dinner and his electric razor fell out of his pocket and landed on the concrete driveway. To me that would seem an odd item to have in your coat pocket inspiring questions. Lots and lots of questions. Instead Fred got in the truck, asked my brother to collect it and throw it away, as if having an electric razor fall out of your pocket was an everyday occurrence. My brother asked Fred why an electric razor had fallen out of his pocket. Fred told him it was broken and he was going to ask my brother to throw it away. My brother didn't ask him why he didn't just throw it out in the house before he got in the truck. He didn't explain that we have trash cans in the house. In fact Stealth Fred has one in his room. He didn't ask how it broke or any other questions that immediately spring to mind. He took the razor put it back in the truck and threw it away later. Really?

Clearly the razor was now broken and needed to be replaced. It was broken before it met the concrete. Fred had tried to fix the razor which is why he had the razor in his pocket. It wasn't actually broken but it wasn't working the way Fred wanted it. I suspect it needed to be cleaned out. I would have cleaned it out with the little brush. Over a sink. Fred banged it repeatedly against his bureau leaving large scrapes on the bureau and the razor broken. While he was banging it the stubble did actually come out of the razor. Unfortunately the stubble came out because Stealth Fred loosened the stubble by banging the razor and then rode over the stubble with his scooter hoping to grind it into the carpet. That was part of the plan of Stealthy Fred. Hide the evidence. It that doesn't work then stop talking, stare blankly and open your mouth. It's the new go to.

Eventually Fred told me that the razor had been running slower than normal because it needed to be cleaned out. It is supposed to be cleaned out with the little brush tool that you are given. According to Fred, the little brush doesn't get out all of the clippings, Banging however does. The razor met its demise. Apparently razors are not designed to be banged against large wooden chests. Who knew?

He figured that if he asked my brother to throw out the razor it would be a win win for him. My brother would throw out the razor and offer to take him to get a replacement and I would never know that he had tried to fix it. I wouldn't know about the clippings all over the floor in his room that were partially ground into the rug. Unfortunately Fred has vision issues so he doesn't see all that well, making it very difficult to see little tine specs of razor stubble on the floor. Fred the Stealthy strikes again.

His best laid plans went awry. I saw the clippings, I saw the new large gash in the bureau, the razor fell out of his pocket, and my brother never offered to get him a new one. I got him the new one and asked to please not clean it using the bureau but to follow the manufacturers instructions when cleaning it. I also told him that I would clean it if he wanted me to.

Part of Fred's new resistance to aging is he does not follow directions. He has a set of headphones that he wears to listen to the television. He has profound hearing loss so in order for him to hear the television he would have to turn it up so loud that you can hear it at the other end of house. I know because the headphones were born of need. He is supposed to adjust the level of sound on the headphones while leaving his hearing aids set to the level that was set by his audiologist. Nope. Not Stealth Fred. He knows better. He is always fiddling with the volume control. He turns them down by accident. Instead of turning them back up so he can hear he has determined that the headphones are not working. He has to fix them. The first thought that comes to mind is that in order to fix the headphones, he should bang them violently against his large bureau.

How do I know that he tried to fix them you might ask? I know this because I heard him. Fred does nothing quietly. Quietly is not in his vocabulary. Neither is stealth. I was watching television in the living room and heard a loud Fred noise. This is not a normal Fred noise so I go in his room and he is banging the headphones against his wooden bureau. Again and again. I asked him what he was doing. He explained his logic. “They aren't working so I thought I would jiggle the wires.”

I put the headphones on and adjust the volume. They are working fine, I hand them back to Fred with the comment “I don't believe that banging a device on a large wooden chest is the best way to fix it. Next time it stops working please just let me know.” I try to be mindful of his age. I am certain that I will be as stubborn as he when I am his age. I smiled. He agreed but I know better.

A few days later I heard the Fred fixing noise again. And again. I went in to see what Fred was fixing. He was in the bathroom so I waited for him to come out. He emerged holding his new razor in his hand. I told him that I heard a loud banging noise. He told me that his new razor was broken and he was fixing it. I have seen this movie before and it does not end well. He also told me that he didn't use the chest of drawers as I had asked. He used the sink. Naturally I had to ask if the razor was fixed. He explained that it was now working. He had gotten all of the shavings out and washed them down the drain and done it all without damaging the chest of drawers or spreading hair all over the floor. Of course the sink top now has a huge chip missing. Fred couldn't see it. The chest of drawers did not have any new gashes and the new razor was still working. I'm thinking two things. The first is crazy glue and the second is that I am sure the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. I am on my way to becoming Stealth Michelle. Watch out kids, you have been warned!

The Train, Train, Cab Method

When you get to be of a certain age, you realize what is important. I am of that age. A woman of your age...” UGH. As a woman of my age, access to a bathroom is high on the list of things that are important. My expectations are not that high where the bathroom experience is concerned. Sometimes we just don't get what we want. I have known this since I was quite young. My parents, like the parents of many of my friends, made a point to tell all of us “You don't always get what you want!” I don't like it, but I do acknowledge that it is true. I honestly never thought it would be relevant to bathrooms. I figured they were talking about the big things in life. I actually thought they were trying to tell me that Prince Charming had failed to stop and ask directions to our house and so he would not be arriving any time soon. The inability to find a proper bathroom in a city of several million was not on the list.

I had to go to the Big City for an appointment. By the Big City I mean New York. Philadelphia is a big city, but if you come from South Jersey, New York is THE Big city. I was going to take a local train to the Amtrak station, then take an Amtrak train to New York, and take a cab to my destination. The train, train, cab method is not the most efficient method but it alleviated the whole issue of driving, parking, tolls, New York drivers and being completely stressed while on your way to the appointment. The one drawback to this method is that it does not meet the standard of having accessibility to a bathroom. Again I know that sometimes we just don't get what we want.

Then hubby offers to drive me. I jump at the chance. I can always explain to hubby the urgency of having to go pee. He may grumble but he will stop. The train conductor does not understand the urgency. As a woman who has ridden trains on a regular basis, the idea of going pee in a moving train while squatting and dressed in a business suit is beyond comprehension. I am not sure who designed the bathrooms in trains, but I can guarantee you that it wasn't a woman. If it was the toilet would be lower to enable a proper squat. They would also have handles to grab onto again to facilitate the proper squat. Yes, I have spent hours thinking about bathrooms on trains but that is another column. The idea of going to the bathroom in Penn station is also a little overwhelming, as I am picturing all of the other ladies who can't squat in a moving train heading toward the bathroom in the station at the same time. This could get ugly fast.

No need to stress about it. Hubby driving takes care of all of the potential bathroom issues. Hubby and I are on the road and all is good. Three hours later we are in New York. We had no trouble getting in the city, no trouble locating the building, and we were an hour and half early so we could go for a cup of coffee somewhere and hang out until thirty minutes before appointment time. This was South Jersey thinking. Apparently in the BIG CITY there are limited parking spaces. That explains why the traffic is so heavy and moves so slow. Everyone who has the nerve to drive into the city is looking for a parking space, pulling into a parking space or beeping their horn. That's it. If you have the unmitigated nerve to slow down because you want to do something as reckless as read a street sign, or look for a parking space, three drivers are leaning on their horns.

We spent thirty minutes driving in circles looking for a place to park. We both have to pee and we can't seem to locate a parking space that is near an actual building with an actual bathroom. At this point, having coffee is just a pipe dream. We pull over and hubby lets me know there is a lovely, large hydrangea bush that is almost the size of a tree. It is definitely large enough for him to go pee in the bush/tree. He's an outdoorsy kind of guy. Me, not so much. The tree/bush is situated right next to open metal gates. I explain to him that the open gates are the entrance to a park and if he pees in the tree/ bush and is spotted he will likely be reported to the police, he will likely be arrested and locked up. I also state my person policy about bailing out people who manage to get themselves locked up in strange cities for peeing in public. He decides to keep looking so we drive around a few more times. As we are passing a big, government looking building with steps and pillars there is a spot right in front. I think the secret is to look quickly. Turn the head fast and then back. If you see the spot, immediately pull in and don't look back. This is our plan. Hubby backs in expertly so we are facing the road. There are no parking meters and no signs stating that this is a no parking area. We have hit the parking mother lode.

When we get to the top of the four flights of steps we realize that this is a courthouse. Mostly because of the sign in the front that reads COURTHOUSE. Hey, it could have been a museum. Rocky could have been running up the steps, except that he wasn't. We ask a nice man in a suit and tie who is headed in the same direction as we are about the parking in front. He gets a look of absolute horror and informs us that we are parked in an immediate tow spot. He would not leave the car unattended. Sufficiently concerned, we decided to take turns going in to pee. If the police show up we will feign stupidity which shouldn't be difficult as it should take a police officer less than ten seconds to figure out that we were just looking for a place to pee. And that we are from Jersey. I went in first. It was special kind of experience to show my identification and walk through the metal detectors to pee. I placed my pocketbook in the bin and walked through. The I managed to walk quickly to the ladies room. It was as large and elegant as the building itself. I finished and headed out so hubby got his turn. He had the benefit of my experience. Leave your wallet, coat and keys. It makes the metal detector experience just fly by.

Soon enough he is back and we are sitting waiting for the police to show up. It is after all a courthouse loaded with police. They drive by but none stop. They walk past but none come over. I want coffee but I can't handle the parking spot stress for round two so we will sit and wait until appointment time. Hubby dropped me off for my appointment. He was not so lucky in the great parking spot search as the first time, but eventually he found one. He drove over when I was done and we headed for the GW Bridge. We stopped on the way back at a coffee place that also happens to have a bathroom. What a concept. The BIG CITY is wonderful place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there. They have a bathroom shortage.

The Cool Aunt and Her Very Hard Hair

One of my favorite nieces is getting married soon. She is a wonderful young woman and I am looking forward to dancing at her wedding. I stopped by her office today and she introduced me to one of her co-workers. She started to reminisce about a favorite memory of ours. She had been studying hair styling and was getting ready to take her hair licensing exam. She had to bring a person with her to the licensing exam because apparently the powers that be in the hair universe want to see the prospective licensees actually style a real person's hair. No Barbie heads for these folks. She asked me if I would be willing to be her hair model. I was so excited. When she was little I would sit on the floor and she would style my hair for long periods of time. I had barrettes and pony tails and bobby pins. That was many years ago. In my mind, I would get the chance to be the Cool Aunt again so I jumped at the chance. The fact that I had long hair was not the relevant issue. It was definitely the Cool Aunt thing and I am so on board.

A few days before the exam she calls me. Apparently, everyone from the class had to take the school bus together to the examination site. No problem. I am flexible. It has been a while since I rode on a school bus but I am willing to do whatever it takes to be the Cool Aunt. There is a lot of status in being the Cool Aunt. Chances like this don't come along every day. I am good with the school bus experience.
“Oh by the way, Aunt Michelle, we have to be at the bus at 7 am.” followed by a silence.
“No problem. I love early. I will be there.”
Followed by a deep breath sigh of relief on her part.

The next day she calls me back. I am guessing this conversation was prompted by her mom.
“Aunt Michelle I just wanted to tell you that there is no water at the test site. We use hair gel.”
“No problem. I love hair gel. I will be there.”
Followed by another deep breath sigh of relief on her part.
The exam is the next day. I arrived as requested. We boarded the bus and headed for Trenton. I was clearly the oldest hair volunteer on the bus but I was also the only Aunt.

Again, the whole Cool Aunt thing. We are bouncing up and down in the school bus and in one moment I see a can of soda flying toward my niece and her nice white uniform top is not so nice and white anymore. The look on her face can best be described as absolute horror. Fortunately the horror didn't last long. Someone had seltzer water and the soda stain came out. It was wet but air dried after some serious shaking.

We get to the exam sight and she signs in. I am a follower at this point. I sit in the chair and spend the next few hours in a chair having various sections of my hair done. There is a five gallon jug of gel on the counter next to the mirror. Picture a gallon jug. Now picture five gallon jugs. Now picture those five gallon jugs filled with hair gel. Now picture that five gallons of hair gel in your hair all at once. My long hair was literally concrete on my head. It had different styles in each section which is an interesting look in and of itself. Add to that the fact that it was solid like a rock glued to my head. Oh the sacrifices we make to be the Cool Aunt. Five hours later, I have hair plaster and I am informed that the hair powers that be will not even tell my niece if she passed. How dare they! If she didn't pass it would always be an awful Aunt memory. She would have to wait in the mail for her results just like everyone else. UGH. We rode home on the bus with the rest of the potential hair stylists and volunteers while my head was hardening by the second.

I walked in the door. Hubby couldn't stop laughing at my very hard hair. I realized that this was going to need a plan. I washed my hair in the sink. Three times. Before I could actually get my hands through it. Then I got in the shower and washed it three more times. Then I conditioned it. Twice. I did this for the next two days until it was back to normal. It was like the gel kept reappearing even after it was washed. My hair was rebelling. Or the gel was just evil.

A few weeks later my niece called. She passed but had decided not to be a hair stylist. She felt bad because she was not going to be a hair stylist and I had been her volunteer. I didn't care. I wanted for her then exactly what I want for her now, for her to be happy. She had given me a great gift. I got to be the Cool Aunt for a day. We created a memory. A memory that we are still laughing at today. Today she shared our memory. I was thrilled that she remembered the experience fondly and that she shared it with her friend. And I got to be the Cool Aunt again.

The Mail Perspective

Sometimes I am amazed. That is not always a good thing. My son had moved and filled out a mail forwarding request so that his mail would follow him. This seemed like a prudent thing to do. He filled out change of address forms with all of his current service providers as well. He thought the added precaution of the forwarding card would assure that his mail arrived.

A month later his mail is arriving at his new apartment. So is his Dad's mail. All of Dad's mail has a yellow mail forwarding stamp on the envelope. They have the same first and last name but different middle initials. This also seemed like a prudent, almost brilliant thing to do, although it was twenty eight years ago. It was a simpler time. There was no internet and having a different middle initial assured you of proper identification. Today, not so much. Within two weeks the only mail that Dad and I were getting was mine. My son of course was getting all of his mail.

I did what anybody would do. I went to see our local postmaster. Hubby and I waited in line. Ten minutes later we were explaining our dilemma to the nice postal person. He listened, and what followed is best just stated and without interpretation so here goes.

“You can cancel your son's mail forwarding.” and he handed me a form. I explained that I would not cancel someone else's mail. “Have your son cancel his mail forwarding. Wait two weeks and have him fill out another mail forwarding request, and we will see if it works.” Hubby and I looked at each other, thanked the nice postal person and left. There are so many things wrong with those instructions that I just couldn't wrap my head around it. The idea that I could walk into a post office and cancel someone else's mail is mind boggling. We came home and I decided to take the next step. I called the postal service 800 number. I got a nice postal worker who after I relayed the conversation with the postal person apologized profusely. He promised to have someone in a position of authority call me within 48 hours to review the appropriate procedure. In the meantime he suggested that I talk to our carrier and explain it to her so she can keep an eye out.

I spoke to our carrier. She gave me the phone number for her supervisor and said she would keep an eye out. She also explained that all mail that is forwarded goes to a special mailing center in a different area. It gets sorted and stamped with the little yellow labels and then sent on to the local post office for delivery. I called the supervisor at least a dozen times and there was no answer. The next day our carrier flags me down and tells me that she had talked to her supervisor and that we should stop my sons mail forwarding, wait two weeks and try again. I thanked her and told her I would talk it over with my son but the reality is that I find it unbelievable that the US Postal service can't forward mail correctly. She explained very simply that the forwarded mail goes to the special center. At the special center the machine reads the first and last name only and it doesn't recognize middle initials. I thanked her for looking into it but would be taking my time to figure out what to do. I am beginning to think that the special center is not really all that special.

I decide to wait until the person with the authority from the 800 number calls. I am looking for reasonable. That's all. I do not have high expectations. I just need someone to tell me that my son and husband can each get their mail at the places where they currently reside. This doesn't seem to be a lot to ask. From the US Postal service. In the United States of America in 2014. I went out to the grocery store and when I got home the mystery person with authority had called and left a message. I was hopeful, right up until he started to speak. His instructions were very simple. The middle initial is irrelevant. The machine at the special center only reads the first and last name. Have your son cancel his mail forwarding order. In the meantime, he should contact all of his service providers and put in a change of address form. Anything that is addressed with his current address will not be sent to the special center and will go directly to him. Yippee. If the problem persists, my son should fill out another mail forwarding card and try again. I am certainly glad that I waited for the voice of authority. He has cleared up all the issues. The problem is clearly the special center. The special center should call Santa. His special center runs efficiently. Perhaps he could give some special center training. Maybe he would give them a few pointers about reindeer.

My mail carrier stopped me the other day just to let me know that she had gotten the stop forwarding card that my son filed. She said that his mail would now come to my house for a few weeks until the address changes take place. I commented that I was concerned about having to drive over to drop off his mail. She looked at me and said “No you can just mail it to him.”
I am thinking reindeer.

Young, Cool Foodies

I have never been a particularly adventurous foodie. I like what I like. I am, however, open to expanding my universe. I went to work in a large city with a group of city folks who have a much larger food universe than I. These are young, cool , foodies who take advantage of the thousands of food options that are available in the city. They invited me to share their foodie experience and I jumped at the chance.

While I may not be particularly adventurous I have definite likes and dislikes. I like spicy food. Let me clarify that, I like food that I make that is spiced the way I spice it. I generally don’t eat spicy foods that cause my throat to clench and my eyes to water. It’s just a personal rule that I have. It has worked well for me so far. This past summer we did, at the request of my son, plant pepper plants which had the word “dragon” in the name. This is not a good sign for someone like me but I went along anyway with the agreement that I would not have to touch said peppers. He and his father took care of said pepper plants, including picking them, and drying them. They had to wear surgical gloves when doing those activities, which was a sign to me that I had made the right decision. My part of the whole experience was to buy the surgical gloves.

The young, cool, foodies were going to a Chinese restaurant that has a reputation for having really hot food. I was very excited to be going. This restaurant rates the dishes from a 3 to a 10 with 10 being the burn your hair off. I chose what I thought would be a safe dish. It was rated a 3. The young, cool foodies assured me that it wasn’t too spicy. Here is a observation that I should have picked up on. Never, and I mean never, take spicy food advice from people who order 6 to 10 levels. These nice people have had the sensory nerves on their tongues melted. They can’t feel anything. I did not pick up on this. My dish came and it was spicy. It would have been a 6 or 7 on my scale. It was definitely not a 3 in my universe. I also wondered if the chef had made my 3 hotter than the normal 3 because I asked for silverware. Apparently that is a no-no. The waiter looked at me like I had just asked for his social security number. It was a big “how dare you” face. They didn’t have a knife but were kind enough to furnish me with a fork.

 My throat was clenching a little. I was managing the heat by alternating between drinking huge amounts of water and eating white rice, which in my heat impaired mind, was serving the same duty as bread if you are eating really spicy Italian food. It calms the heat effect down. I was hiding the whole burning my mouth rather well I thought. I was starting to feel pretty comfortable with my level of spice endurance. Then one of the young, cool, foodies suggested that I try a dish that she had. She assured me that it wasn’t too hot. This is the part where picking up on the never take spice advice from people who order the 6-10 level comes in. I jabbed my fork into the dish, picked up three or four of the little goodies, and plopped them in my mouth. That was the second mistake. I should have gotten one, not four. My eyes got the better of me. They just looked so good. My throat started to clench and burn. My eyes started to water. I couldn’t get to the water and rice fast enough. I also couldn’t talk. Not one word was able to leave my lips. My co-workers were asking me if I was all right. I nodded and that required effort. It took a few minutes of inhaling rice and water to calm down my throat. The young, cool foodies were all concerned. Eventually I was able to speak, and my eyes started to focus again. Then it was over. I actually enjoyed the experience. I could have lived without loosing the ability to talk, but the food was good and the company was better.

Two weeks later they were headed back to the burn your throat restaurant. I jumped at the chance to go back. I was not going to be caught off guard this time. I ordered the same number 3 with a large bowl of rice. Preparation is the key. I also ordered spring rolls, which are also not spicy at all. I was doing well. One bite of spicy, one bite of a roll or rice followed by water if needed. It was a one for me and one for them methodology. Then the young, cool, foodie asked if I wanted to share. It was the same dish as before. I said yes. This time, I had one, cut it in tiny pieces and ate it with a fork full of rice. I may have looked ridiculous cutting and eating tiny pieces and rice but hey, I never lost the ability to speak so it was worth it. I win! Next up…restaurant week!