1960s and British

     I have an odd knowledge base about 1960s British pop music. I barely remember what the actual assignment was now, but in 9th grade I did a presentation on the British Invasion. Of course, The Beatles were a part of it, but I delved a little deeper. Everyone knew about The Beatles, so to me, that was less interesting. I was interested in learning more about the rest of it, and the music my parents listened to.
     My parents would have been in high school in 1965, so I was trying to make a connection between my music obsession and what I was hoping was theirs. My dad kept all their old records from that time. He apparently didn't care much for The Beatles--he as used their album covers as a drop-cloth of sorts when painting. I'm guessing my mother bought the albums, and he passive-aggressively drew goatees on them and painted them blue. It's the type of thing they would do.
     I asked my mom, a lot, about going to concerts and whether she understood she was living at a time that would be considered a revolution as far as music was concerned. No, she didn't. She never went to concerts. She had a story about wanting to go see Elvis perform somewhere in Detroit but my dad wouldn't take her because he said Elvis would always be around and it was no different than listening to the record. Sometimes I wonder how I came from these genes. But I digress.
     The odd piece of knowledge that stuck with me throughout this research from this 9th grade project was my mother's favorite band was Herman's Hermits. The fact that she preferred Herman and his hermits to the much more popular Beatles was endearing. She also enjoyed Gary Lewis & The Playboys, but they were not British so it didn't factor into my presentation. However, I often get them mixed up now, and I'm embarrassed by that. All of this brings me to the point that if someone asks me to name a song from the 1960s that's British, I always refer to Herman's Hermits. So, earlier today, a variation of this conversation happened:

Mary: I have a song stuck in my head, but I don't know what it is. I just know it's 1960's and British.
Me: Maybe it's "This Diamond Ring," by Herman's Hermits.
Me: No, wait, that's Gary Lewis & The Playboys
Me: But if it's Herman's Hermits, maybe it's "Mrs. Brown, you've got a lovely daughter."
Mary: JESUS CHRIST, Nancy, it is! 

 The actual conversation was riddled with (my) typos, but that was basically it. Mary was thinking of a 1960s British song, and my mother's love of Herman's Hermits led me to correctly identify the song.
     Also, "This Diamond Ring" and "Mrs. Brown..." are a little similar.





Also, just to tie this up neatly, this was my parents' wedding song:

Trick Questions

     This conversation happened:

Mom:  Do you have your birth certificate?
Me:  No, and actually, I need it.
Mom:  I came across it the other day.
Me:  Then you already knew I didn't have it?!  Was it a trick question?
Mom:  I guess it was.  

There is no reason for this type of trick question.  This wasn't one of those situations where you let someone borrow something under the condition that they protect it dearly, but then they lose it but you find it so you hide it from them and then ask them where it is in order to catch them in a lie.  It wasn't even a little bit like that situation.  I never borrowed my birth certificate.  And I wasn't lying.
     I used italics on that borrowed up there because since it's my birth certificate, it seems like something I should have.  But I suppose it's hard to figure out where the line of demarcation is on stuff like that.  When you turn 18?  Happy Birthday--here's the certificate that proves it!  It was fine by me that my parents held on to it, safely in their safe.  It was always in the safe, and eventually it became a family joke.
     My father thought we needed our birth certificates way too often.  Every time he had to get our birth certificates out of the safe there was a commotion and a variation of the speech "you damn kids and your damn birth certificates," and something about heading down there himself and proving we're legit.  It really drove him crazy when we needed our birth certificates and our driver's licenses.  "You used your birth certificate to get your driver's license," he'd bellow.  He felt the transitive property should apply to legal documents.
     Being virtually transient as I was, it was fine by me that my parents held on to my birth certificate.  It was safe in the safe, and I rarely needed it.  Then one day I needed it and my mother couldn't figure out how to open the safe.  Backups needed to be called in.  The backup was my brother, whom my father had taught to open the safe; clearly it was a very complicated safe.  My mother was so frenzied by the situation, she decided to make a bunch of copies of it.  For future reference, most (all) places that require birth certificates do not accept photocopies.  That's actually part of the point of requiring a birth certificate.
     I need my birth certificate again, so Mom will have to crack the safe open and trust the good ole' USPS to get it to me.  This will cause her a lot of stress.  Except, clearly, she has recently opened the safe since she came across my birth certificate the other day.  But then thought she dreamed it, or that it wasn't the original, or just wanted to prove that if I thought I had it, I was wrong.  Trickery and subterfuge.

The Ever Evolving Mother-Daughter Relationship

     I'm amazed at times how my relationship with my mother can continue to evolve.  It seems strange to realize that it can, because this is the woman who birthed me and wiped my ass for many (probably too many) years.  It seems like cleaning up after someone's bodily fluids would solidify that relationship early on, and not allow for a lot of wiggle room.
     Also, each of us are incredibly obstinate, but we disagree about almost everything.  Sometimes just for spite.  On both our parts.  She's the one who taught me about spite and how to use it to make all my decisions.    My best bitch comes from her.
     I supposed eventually she forgot about all the shit and vomit she used to have to clean up.  Also, I think a lot of the tension dissipated when she just started accepting that I would always try to make a joke.  And now we have almost normal conversations.  I recommended Drive to her.  Then I took it back.  She then told me about a movie she saw.  I told her it sounded awful.  And her reaction was probably racist.  You know, real good mother-daughter conversation stuff.
     Sometimes she tried to pull me into conversations about my sister.  I try to avoid these, as they are a trap.  I'm not interested in complaining about the one person who knows what it's like to have my mom as a mother.  But my mother tries every time.  I like to try to turn it around on her.  My sister's 40th birthday is coming up, and the topic of presents came up.

Mom: She asked me for the attachments to my mixer.  But you know, mine are all chipped, so I got her new ones.  I just hope nobody else got them for her.
Me:  Did you tell her you were going to give them to her?
Mom: NO!
Me: Not the new ones, I mean when she asked for them, did you say you were going to look for them or anything?
Mom:  No, I didn't say anything.
Me:  What do you mean you didn't say anything?
Mom:  I mean I didn't say yes or no or maybe in any way.  I didn't say anything.
Me: So you just ignored her?  The question just hung there?
Mom:  Well, yeah.

And then I pictured it.  I pictured my sister asking a very innocuous question like "can I have your mixer attachments?" and my mother's reaction to be just looking around in circles, pretending nothing was said.  I started laughing at her.
     I could sense that my mom wanted to complain about by sister, but I refuse to play that game.  She said she asked my sister to come over and install a hose-hanger in the garage.  I then asked if Sister just stared at her and refused to answer.  
     I also like to be sure that I'm at least a little intoxicated when I talk to her.  I have found that booze also helps our relationship bloom. 

I Almost Fell Off the Escalator

Allow me to paint a picture:  Friday is Mary's bagel day.  She loves bagel day, and rightfully so- bagels are awesome.  Mary and I chat frequently, and the topic of our respective lunches comes up often.  Friday afternoon, we had this conversation:

Mary: I'm starving.

  Do I bring a bagel home for lunch?

me: sure!

  that sounds great

Mary: Do I put cream cheese on it? Or make a tuna sandwich with it?

me: ooh. tuna!

Mary: K. It shall be done.

me: awesome

Mary: Do you think cream cheese with tuna on it would work at all?

  The way one would put salmon or whitefish on bagels?

me: yeah, that could be good

Mary: Maybe I'll do that... 

To my delight, Mary reads Oliver daily and she was very aware of my email troubles with my mother.  Based on these two things, I received the following email Friday afternoon:

Dear Nancy,

I'm writing to inform you that tuna and cream cheese do not, in fact, go together as was previously suspected. In fact, they make a terrible mix and I highly recommend you avoid eating them in combination.

Hope your family is well.

Sincerely,

Mary H. Alongi

I read it from my phone while traveling on a descending escalator.  I started laughing so hard I nearly tumbled down the escalator.  I would assume fellow Metro passengers thought I was crazy but that feeling is usually mutual anyway.
     There are several points that can be taken from Mary's email.  One of the most obvious may be "Nancy, maybe you're harshing a little too much about your mother's emailing technique."  Sure, maybe.  Because it would have made sense for Mary to write an email in the style of my mother to get the tuna/cream cheese information across.  However, it would not have made me almost fall of an escalator, and where would we be without that gem of a moment.  Also, as follow up, below is the email correspondence between my mother and me from this morning.

From: Nancy Melchert <nancy.melchert@gmail.com>

To: Debra Melchert <debmelchert@yahoo.com>
Sent: Mon, April 18, 2011 9:26:45 AM
Subject: Re:
?? :(     

On Mon, Apr 18, 2011 at 9:04 AM, Debra Melchert <debmelchert@yahoo.com> wrote:

snowing here.  1-3 inches expected.  snow brush in the garage

 I ask again, please, can we teach my mother to use email?

P.S.  I feel it should also be mentioned that if I give her an inch, she'll take a mile.  I was expecting another under 140 character oddly punctuated response, and she did not disappoint.  I think she's not fully aware of the reply button, and I received this new email just moments ago: 

heard if you take a travel mug to Starbucks they will fill it with coffee for free - this week only.  is that by you too ?

 I would like to offer the same response: ?? :(     

Can We Teach My Mother to Use Email

     This is the most recent email I received from my mother:

 Aunt Frieda passed away yesterday 4/10.

That was it.  There was no greeting and no salutation.  There was no other amplifying information.  This is how my mother sends this kind of information.  This is a very typical email for my mother to send.  The structure of it makes me laugh.  Of course this means an email comes in from my mom, I read it, start laughing, and someone nearby says "Nancy, what are you laughing at?" and all I can say is "my mom just sent an email that my Aunt Frieda died."
     It's not funny.  I don't think it's funny that my Aunt Frieda died yesterday.  I do think it's funny that this is how my mother chooses to tell me.  I have to try to be fair to my mother.  She's just not good at emailing.  She doesn't know that that's an odd email.  She thinks it's fine; she finds nothing wrong with it.  Also, I'm not great on the phone; I won't answer during working hours and our lunch hours don't line up well enough to coordinate a phone call. 
     I just wish we could teach my mother how to use email.  One habit I seem to be getting her out of is her inexplicable use of ellipses.  It was an uncomfortable conversation.  Also, full disclosure, she didn't just use ellipses [...], she used as many periods as it took until her brain could start the next sentence, often twelve of them.  I haven't received an ellipses laden email in quite a while, so I claim a small victory.  She's now on to text sized emails.

     There should be a class that teaches her how to send emails.  Somewhere along the way someone has told her brevity is the key.  I don't disagree.  However, they missed that a greeting is also appropriate, and a little bit of lead in can be nice too.  Consider the information you're sending, and consider your audience.  The subject line is a tool, use it.  There is not a character limit in email.  You won't get charged if the email is too long.  You can write more.  That being said, brevity is still nice. 
     I should use this as a teaching moment.  There are two ways to go here.  I can teach by example and reply with a well thought out, composed, and structured response and hope seeing such an email will seep into her subconscious and she'll start to understand email etiquette better.  Or I can teach by responding in a similar manner, hoping that receiving my curt response will cause her to see the errors in her ways.  Something like this perhaps:

Cherry Blossom Follow Up

     When I take pictures of cherry blossoms, they look like this:

The cherry blossom is the part of the photo in the middle that isn't lit at all, so you can barely see it.  I wonder if my mom would like that picture. 

Cherry Blossoms and Me

     I maintain indifference towards cherry blossoms.  Here is a picture:

Also, the definition of indifference:

in·dif·fer·ence

/ɪnˈdɪfərəns, -ˈdɪfrəns/ Show Spelle[in-dif-er-uhns, -dif-ruhns]

–noun

1.lack of interest or concern.

2.unimportance; little or no concern.

3.the quality or condition of being indifferent.

4.mediocre quality; mediocrity.

 

 I don't love cherry blossoms.  I don't hate cherry blossoms.  I have a lack of interest or concern about them- I am indifferent to them.  I won't go out of my way to avoid them, but I also won't go out of my way to see them.  Most people who know me would not think to ask me questions about them; they know they would be met with a blank indifferent stare.

     What I do have a deep hatred of is festivals and parades.  There are few things I would over look my hatred of festivals for; I will not overlook my hatred of festivals for something I am indifferent about, at best.   For example, my love of beer would help me overlook my disdain of festivals and I would attend a Beer or Octoberfest.  However, I will not be going to the National Cherry Blossom Festival.  The festival hatred matched with the cherry blossom indifference would just create a miserable time for me and the poor soul who went with me.  

     In stark contrast, my mother loves both cherry blossoms and festivals.  This would be the perfect event for her.  Since she lives hundred of miles away, however, she has sent me several requests asking every question she can think of about cherry blossoms, the festival, the weather, and requests for photos.  I have no answers to her questions on top of the fact that I has thought my mother was one of those aforementioned people who knew me. 

     She wanted pictures of the cherry blossoms.  She didn't say this part, but I assume she would want a picture with both me and the cherry blossom.  This is just not going to happen.  This would involve me going out of my way to a place I don't want to go with a camera I don't own and with people who also don't want to be there to take out of focus pictures.  Seriously, Mom, there are pictures on the internet and they are much better than anything I could take.  I could take a blurry picture with my phone of me giving a cherry blossom the finger.  

     It is the frustration with these incessant emails that have led others to believe I actually now hate cherry blossoms.  I can understand where they're coming from based on the story but I maintain I am still indifferent; I am not going to the cherry blossom festival to take blurry cell phone photos of trees and flowers. 

The Blow by Blow

     I considered giving the blow-by-blow yesterday, but I wanted to focus on the surprise party, and I didn't want to come off as too gloaty.   Also I can recall in my recent past saying "the quick version, I don't need the blow-by-blow."  If I'm instructing others to edit, perhaps I should take my own advice.  Also, I try to avoid recapping my weekends every Monday.  It would be repetitive and again, gloaty.  I bet people hate me a little bit when they ask "how was your weekend?" just to be polite and I come back with "Fantastic.  It was great.  Sooo good, seriously.  Way better than yours."
     Thursday Afternoon.  The weekend begins.  (I'll give my friends fake names, so they're not dragged into the internet for no reason.)  I left work at lunch time to go meet Blaire at the airport.  I got to the airport at almost the exact same time her plane did.  There were no metro problems, or baggage issues, or security problems.  It was practically tropical when she landed.
     The Grocery Store.  Blaire and I made a quick trip to the grocery store for cake supplies and lunch supplies.  This wouldn't be worth mentioning other than the fact the grocery store is across the street from the birthday girl's (Tootie's) apartment.  It created an extra fun factor; we were extra vigilant while picking out cake mix.
     Spring Breakdown.  I love this movie, and Blaire needed to see it.  True, it was a beautiful day outside, but it was also a beautiful day inside.  I made the cake, put it in the oven, popped some popcorn, we made sandwiches, and settled in for a hilarious 87 minutes.  I almost have the movie memorized, but I didn't ruin it for Blaire. 
     Cake Decorating.  Tootie's favorite kind of cake is white cake with white frosting.  I thought it would be hilarious to then also write on the cake with white frosting, so it was white on white on white- a Wilco cake, if you will.  This was amusing for a minute, but then it was really hard to see the message, so I outlined it.  I thought for sure I would ruin it, but it came out pretty well.

     The Waiting.  This whole time I was fielding text messages from Tootie, and lying in my responses.  Blaire and I walked down to the bar with the cake and a backpack full of T-shirts.  Yes, we had 30 matching T-shirts, because nothing says we're all here to party like matching T-shirts.  People arrived, put their T-shirts on, ordered beer, and waited.  Tootie entered and was blown away.  She had indeed been enjoying St. Patrick's Day, but when she walked in the back room of the bar and her friends were waiting, and we said "Surprise!  Happy Birthday!," well, a lesser person would poo themselves.  Hugs and beers all around.  There was a priceless double take when Tootie saw Blaire and it sunk in that a plane and serious subterfuge had been involved.
     Operation After Shock.  Friday morning was wonderfully slow going.  Blaire and I made breakfast- cinnamon rolls, eggs, bacon, and coffee, and we watched the Thursday night line up from the night before.  To borrow a phrase, it was awesome-sauce.  I mentioned this yesterday, but there were still more surprises lined up.  Tootie loves the zoo and our friend Natalie was due in with her husband, George, and their son, Clooney.  Clooney is the perfect age to enjoy the zoo, so it seemed to line up perfectly to just surprise Tootie at the zoo with Natalie, George, and Clooney.  She expected Blaire and me, but walking up with an extra three people in tow was amazing.
     Lunch on the Circle.  Post zoo, we grabbed sandwiches from a local deli and picniced on the circle. Norman Rockwell couldn't have painted it better.  He probably would have left out some of the riff raff who use the trees as their bathroom.  It's part of the ambiance though.
     Schmorgesborg.  We sat on the circle long enough to each get a little sun-burned.  We packed up and split up a little bit- I went with Natalie and crew to pick up snackies, and Blaire and Tootie went to buy shoes, including a pair of flip-flops for yours truly.  My favorite kind of shoes are the ones that just appear.  We spent the rest of the night at my place eating cheese and crackers and popcorn and cocktail wieners and wine.  Tootie's husband was eventually able to join us; one big happy framily.
     NYC.  Every time I mentioned New York City, we said it in that mooing voice from those old Pace commercials.  Haha, funny commercial, but seriously, New York City would be the least economical place ever to make salsa.  A 5 oz. jar would be $12 because of all their overhead.  Still, Saturday morning was nice.  We had coffee and a simple breakfast.  I got ready for the bus and the rest of the framily had a full day of relaxing planned.  The bus ride was fine, NYC was awesome, per uj, and the Super Moon came out. 
     Just when you think it's over.  Gosh, it seems like the weekend was already jam packed, but there's a entire extra day.  On Sunday, Tootie and I made a Zipcar trip to Trader Joes.  This is a big deal.  Then we strolled through the Farmers' Market, where she picked up a potted rosemary and I picked up some buffalo meat.  There was a lull where she read magazines on my couch while I cooked my lunches for the week.  Then we met her husband for lunch at Panera.  That was an adventure- it shouldn't have been, because it was Panera, but it was.  Then Tootie and I headed back to her place to watch the Michigan-Duke game.
     Couch Shopping.  After suffering a heart break I didn't really understand, we went couch shopping.  I know, how many hours are in the day, right?  Considering buying a giant bright red couch is hilarious.  However, Tootie hit it on the head with "I'm not sure I can afford a $4000 joke."  Good point.
     Sushi Happy Hour.  We slipped in the door of a sushi restaurant about 9 minutes before the end of their happy hour.  They're nice enough to tell us this, and we just put a line down a column on their menu to get the order in in time.  Sushi and Sam Adams for dinner.
     One More Stop.  Poor Tootie's husband, who was stuck at the office all weekend.  We picked him up some 5 Guys and Tootie got in a cab to take it to him.  I skipped home, high on life!  I received report later that he was very pleased.

Phew.  So much goodness in such a short period of time.  Maybe the short version is better.

Happy Paczki Day Indeed, Mary

     It's one of the few Michigan traditions I do miss.  For non-Michiganders, it's Fat Tuesday.  For a long time growing up, I didn't actually know what Fat Tuesday was, but I knew what pacski day was.  (Quick disclosure: a pacski is a Polish pastry, not unlike a doughnut, but more awesome.  It's pronounced like poonchki, kind of.  You can read more about them here.)

     The moment my dad would walk in the front door with the giant pastry box was better than Christmas morning.  He always ordered his way ahead, and would usually get two dozen.  If mom prepared dinner that night, it was going to go completely unnoticed.  We tore open the box and divvied up our pacski.  My favorite were the powdered ones with custard, even though I don't think that's a traditional Polish filling.  It's embarrassing now, but no shit, we would put down three each.  Easy.  He did this for as long as I can remember.  He would actually leave work early on paczki day to make sure he got his.  He would work on Christmas Eve, but damn it, those pacski meant something.    

     Holidays that revolve around food are my favorite.  This is a very regional holiday, and the mania is difficult to describe to outsiders.  It's easy to explain the hullabaloo of Mardi Gras.  But the hullabaloo of the paczki?  Maybe you have to be from Michigan to understand that.  (According to the internet, other places celebrate it  like Buffalo, Toledo, Cleveland, Milwaukee, South Bend, and Windsor.  So I guess they get it too.)  I often had to explain it to me new Michigan transplant friends at college. 

     Yes, we order our paczki weeks in advance.  Yes, there is a parade.  Well, they're like doughnuts, but they're more dense, and more fattening, and just way better.  Yes, I will skip class to go buy paczki.  Yes, I will call my parents so we can compare paczki from Ann Arbor, the paczki my mom got from the hometown bakery at lunch, and the dozen my dad brought home from a bakery in Detroit. Because it's a thing, and it's important, that's why.  Now excuse me while I go gain at least ten pounds in about 45 seconds.  

     Happy Paczki Day! 

The Sound of Silence

     Not the song, but actually the sound of silence, is completely awful.   Maybe it's a small ADD part of me that feels the need for constant stimulation, but frankly, I need constant stimulation.  There is such a thing as too quiet.   The two places I come across this most are at work and in my mother's house.  Also my mother's car.  Well, pretty much anywhere with my mother.
     I find the silence creepy.  And what's worse is that it makes every small sound made within the cone of silence grating.  The sound of the air conditioner/heater blowing through the vents provides just the right amount of white noise to try to lull me to sleep.  I hear every key stroke.  My eye lids make a sound as they scrape across my drying contact lenses.  It's terrifying.  I put my earbuds in sometimes, but then even at their lowest possible volume, they seem deafening.  Oh god, what if someone hears that?
     Mouse-click.  Backspace, backspace.  Mouse-click.  Chair squeak,  the door three offices over opened and closed, sneeze.  I always imagined offices to have more white noise.  On The Office there's lots.  People are talking, making copies, playing jokes.  Not here.  There's something about the silence that apparently promotes productivity.  It's the tension, I'm sure.
     And then there's the tension surrounding my mother.  She doesn't like music.  This can't really be true, but she never listens to it.  She doesn't play music in her house, and she doesn't play it in her car.  And if there were constant chatter or something, I would understand it.  But there isn't.  Instead there is just eerie silence.  So eerie it makes you afraid to say anything.   A simple question can get catapulted into an argument, just for breaking the silence. 
      We sit at the table finishing our lunch.  I start chewing an ice cube; I should know better, clearly.  I've cut the silence and hit her last nerve.  It's hard to relive, but let it suffice it to say, it is not a relaxing place to be.  Someone (me) usually storms out.  Often to be alone, where I can make noise.
     I do appreciate a certain level of silence for certain things, I'm not an animal.  At funerals, for example.  Other times though, the complete tension forming eerie silence drives me mad.  Completely insane.

A Letter to Oliver

Dear Oliver,
     I've missed you.  It's only been a few days, but it feels like so much longer.  They say time flies when you're having fun, and apparently the exact opposite is also true. 
     There have been a few ideas I've been meaning to share, but then my mind gets filled with loud circus music, and the ideas are gone.  A few list ideas came up, like the difference between actual time and my mother's time.  To give you an idea, apparently anything after 7pm is pretty much midnight, and after 10 am is lunch time.  Apparently slow starts to the morning are an egregious offense, even though this is technically a vacation.  I've learned that it doesn't count as a vacation when it's in your house.  That is to say, I am certainly not on vacation.
    Anyway, Oliver, we have some catching up to do, but I need to tend to why email programs don't recognize all the words mom wants to use.  Hope to talk to you soon.
~Nan

Walking Distance

     Of all the things we can't agree on, the term walking distance seems to be of the most consequence. 

Planes, Trains, & Comfortable Boots

     I've started this post several times, and I'm just not sure where to go with it.  My mother is coming in today to spend the holiday with me.  Most people think this is wonderful.  I, however, do not.  I've already accepted the fact that I am a rotten kid.  I get it, she's my mother, she gave me life, blah blah blah.  She's also bat-shit nuts, and the impending anxiety resulting from her visit has already started burrowing an ulcer.   She's nice, and she probably means well, but she's my mother, so to me, these seemingly nice things have a whole other layer of passive aggressive subterfuge to them. 
     I went grocery shopping, specifically to make sure I had food for her visit.  I asked her if there was anything she liked that I could pick up.  She said she would pack her own oatmeal.  (Whaa??!)  She claimed it wouldn't take up any room in her suitcase.  However, there is no part of the scenario I find reasonable.  Why would you pack oatmeal in a suitcase?  It can't possibly take up no room.  It's an object with mass- it has to take up some space.  I understand she believes this space to be negligible, but why not just pack an extra pair of underwear or some warm socks instead of oat-fucking-meal.  The point has been made that she's probably just trying to be nice, not wanting to put me out or inconvenience me.  Sure, I suppose that would be nice.  But it's oatmeal.  It cost at most $3.  And I was at the grocery store.   To pack oatmeal in a suitcase and bring it a thousand miles is just crazy.
     She also asked me if there were any movie theaters around.  And, if there were, would they be showing new releases?   I think the concept of a major city is lost on her.  Of course, this could be my misunderstanding.  Perhaps by "around" she means in my backyard.  In which case, no, there aren't any movie theaters in my backyard.  However, if by around, she simply means within a five mile radius and easily accessible by public transportation, then yes.  The other part about her question is that I have told her many times that I go to the movie theater often.  Nearly every weekend, I go at least once to see a movie.  Where does she think this happens?  Does she think I bus it to New York City to see the "new releases?"  Which, by the way, I think she counts anything released in the last 4 months as a new release.  There are movies I've watched on Netflix she still counts as new releases.  However, if she asks to see Yogi Bear, I will tell her no.  For some reason, the district isn't getting that movie.  It was too controversial, its limited release didn't extend to DC, I'm scared of bears.  Anything to not see that movie.  I won't even see it ironically.
     The title of the post is both an homage to one of my favorite movies, and also a solid description of my mom's modes of transportation.  I don't think she's overly pleased about any of them.  Mostly the boots.  She accepts the plane as the fastest way to get her from Michigan to DC.  She's willing to warm up to the idea of a train- both the Amtrak from Baltimore and the Metro within the city.  Though I do anticipate a certain amount of, well, lets call it consternation, over the whole public transportation system.  And then there's the walking.  I imagine we will be on opposite ends of the argument when being faced with the same piece of information.  The it's only a mile v. it's a whole mile argument.  She's not used to walking and I can imagine the pained look on her face every time walking is required.  Not hiking, just walking.  I think I live really close to the Metro stop- it's just four blocks.  However, she often drives to her mailbox- approximately 50 yards from her front door.  My best piece of advice was "wear comfortable shoes."  I probably said it like this: "wear comfortable shoes?"
     So Merry Christmas Eve Eve.  This is the time of year we get torn down by our families so we can spend the rest of the year building ourselves back up.  This is also why I drink.  
 

The Framily You Choose

     My Thanksgiving is spent with my framily, and we call it Drunkfest.  I'm not making typos here- my framily are the friends who are family.  And Drunkfest is just a more accurate representation of the extravaganza we put on for the holiday.  Ours doesn't just last one day, we put on an entire four day weekend.
     The food is always awesome, and it never stops.  Four days of constant food and drink.  To be respectable, we hold off on drinking until at least 10AM.  Unless it's a breakfast cocktail, like a mimosa, or an Irish coffee, or wine.  That gives us a solid three hours to line our stomachs with enough solids to start absorbing the alcohol.  
     We mix things up a little bit every year, food wise.  There are a few staples: Tom's rolls, Dani's pies, jellied cranberry sauce from a can.  We vary our turkey from year to year.  This year it was deep fried, and it was awesome.  The sides from sidesapalooza were a big hit, further proving the P7 rule.  And the dessert!  Oh, the dessert.
     There are always games, and they usually devolve into ridiculousness where teams don't matter and people just yell out the first word that comes to their minds, regardless of the question or game being played.  It's really hard to sum up the fantasticness that is this past weekend.  Luckily, most of it is on video. 
     There are a few stereotypical Thanksgiving things we don't do: watch the parade, watch football (except maybe one college game on Saturday, but none on Thursday), or play a Turkey bowl game of our own.  I like our traditions so much better though: group sing alongs (often at the table), dance party, and the British Hat Game. 
 

Happy Birthday to My Mother

     I'm writing this post with the tiniest bit of trepidation.  The internet makes the world a smaller place, and in some cases that's good, but in some cases it can be bad.  In this case, I'd like to tell the story of my family's response to my mother's impending 60th birthday.  It is not an overly flattering family portrait.  Were they to stumble upon this, they would be insulted.  I'm taking the chance that they will never ever stumble upon this, for many reasons, not the least of which is just how damn busy they are.

    

     All of my emails and responses have been reasonable, yet I can’t help but think they will find a way to make them unreasonable.  Somehow my two to three line emails are a giant interruption to their lives, not to mention the apparent impending chaos I am proposing. 

-You want US to do something?  For her BIRTHDAY?  Are you the DEVIL?

-Yes, apparently I am.

I simply wanted to know if they were chipping in for some cheesy heart-shaped candy-filled canister with all of our names on it.  And if so, can I get in on that, because I am not about to go to the trouble of doing it myself?  Also, frankly, it gives them the chance to not be upstaged.  Because if I’m left to my own devises, I will pull out the most thoughtful heartwarming gift anyone has ever seen.  Really, I’m trying to save them from embarrassment.  However, I get responses stating that they don’t have time to think of frivolous things like their mother’s birthday because they are too warn down from that little thing called life.  Something they have and have to work hard for, and something that I will never understand.  At least that’s how I infer it.  And usually I’m right about these things, because as I’ve mentioned, I’m a bit smarter than they are, and frankly I think more about it.

     Sister’s email was a two line response about sleep and work, and that’s all she had time for.  Wow.  Amazing.  Brothers-wife’s email was in a similar vain; things are just so busy she hasn’t even stopped for a second to notice that it was October.  Somehow these responses were very condescending.  I beg of them to take a moment or two before hitting reply.  Read the email.  Count to ten.  Construct your response.  Then press reply and write a simple, thought-out, well-meaning response.  Perhaps instead of “I’m so busy all of the time I haven’t even considered starting to think about inane things like your mother’s 60^th birthday,” you could write something more along the lines of “You bring up a good point.  We haven’t put our heads together yet, but we will let you know if we come up with anything.  Do you have any suggestions?”  The other bit of it was she simply repeated information to me that I had already provided.  I said “I talked to mom and she said her plan was to X.”  Brothers-wife responds with “well, she’s doing X.  Other than that, I don’t know.”  Yes, I already know she’s doing X.  However, X has nothing to do with her birthday.  Is it too damn hard to say “Oh, we’ll get her a card.”  “We’ll call her.”  Anything?  Jeez. 

      I shouldn’t be worked up about this, but I can see where it’s going, because the main thing about my family is they never ever change.  Lessons are never learned.  I mean, I can learn them, but that’s mostly why I moved away.  The lesson I learned was “don’t live near these people.”