be afraid (especially during PMS)

Many thanks to Trish for helping me feel even more assertive and menacing. Here is my official hitman (or is it "hitperson?") name:

"Butter Fingers" People Iced: Four Car Bombs Planted: Fourteen Favorite Weapon Switch-Blade Arms Broken: Thirty Three Eyes Gouged: Five Tongues Cut Off: One Biggest Enemy: Big Johnny Johnston Get Your HITMAN Name

almost there...

In honor of my official transition to old broad status as of my birthday this Friday and after contemplation and very careful consideration, I have chosen a mission statment for my 45th year.

On behalf of all the sadder but wiser girls, the sassy, bitchy, cranky and otherwise put-out self-actualized wenches who damn well earned it by virtue of child-birthing, child-rearing and in general putting up with the narcissists (men) in our lives, everywhere, thank you, Joan. You are a goddess.

Drumroll:

"Don't fuck with me fellas! This ain't my first time at the rodeo."

I wanna be sedated

I have a lovely ice pick that I took from the basement bar of my grandfather's house after he died. I also took a nudie ashtray, a black ceramic panther and some old photos, but I love the ice pick the most of all of my Grampy mementos. It has a warn, 4-sided wooden handle and on two sides it reads: "Tebbit's, Inc. 102 N. Medina St. Medina, Ohio 44256." On one other side it reads: "ICE. Bags or Block." And the other reads: "Wine, Beer, Pop." We call it "soda" in the South. The word "pop" in reference to a carbonated drink always brings back memories of my sunburned cousins and I sipping fizzy grape drinks that were probably made purple by carcinogenic dyes. But no matter, we were happy.

Anyway, I lovingly think of Grampy's ice pick a lot now that my daughter has discovered the joys of the randomness (or not, actually) of music on the radio. At least once a day I contemplate grabbing Grampy's ice pick out of the ceramic pot on my kitchen counter and jamming it into my temple. Yes. Sweet relief from Kelly Clarkson. Sweet jeebus, whatever did we as a species do to deserve this? First, she should be beaten by an angry mob of drunk drag queens (because they can REALLY bitch slap) for that abomination of a "movie"-- "From Justin to Kelly"-- just for good measure. But her songs played over and over and over and over (all of which sound alike)on the radio are wearing me out. The fact that my daughter is bopping around the house and SINGING ALONG only adds to the hideous psychic and auditory torture.

I am sorry, I cannot artistically relate to anyone who was not even ALIVE when the Ramones released Rocket to Russia and the Sex Pistols were neverminding the Bollocks. No, wait, wait, on second thought, fuck it, I'm SO not sorry.

I told the GITB that we need to lock the kid in her room for some pop-music-poison detox, deprogramming and intensive cultural re-training which includes listening to nothing but the following: Velvet Underground, The Kinks, New York Dolls, The Clash, Iggy Pop, Black Flag, The Ramones, Dead Kennedys, The Plasmatics, Agent Orange, Dead Boys, Butthole Surfers, Bad Religion and Angry Samoans. Oh, and Circle Jerks and Gang Green. He thinks I am over-reacting but I am her mother, after all, and I owe this to her. It's my duty.

Dear Kelly--bite me.

the Estonians make great cocktails

So Randy and I went to see a new play last night, which was pretty good. After the show we headed over to Georgie's, a nice gay bar that is a bit off the beaten path and wow--was it hopping for a Tuesday night. The place was absolutely packed with men, men, men. Randy and I have the same taste in men so we huddled close on our bar stools and giggled and he leaned over and asked: "What about that one--would you?" "Oh, yes, honey, he is gorgeous," I would whisper back. We sat next to a striking blond in spike rhinestone heels, lovely cocktail dress and Barbra Streisand wig. No one was talking to her or even paying attention to her. I could not take my eyes off her shoes, so finally, I had to ask her and so I said: "I just love your shoes, where did you get them?" and she lit up like a Christmas tree and went on a long babbling explanation of where she buys her shoes and bags (Ross and T.J. Maxx) and sighed about how expensive it is to try and keep yourself up. It ain't easy or cheap trying to be a pretty girl. Then she told me that she is a straight man, married with two grown children. She/he just enjoys dressing as a woman and going out once in a while. She looked great. When she finally tottered out around midnight Randy said that I had probably made her day by girl-talking with her and telling her she looked pretty. Well, she did.

After "Barbra" left another cutie showed up at the end of the bar and as Indrik, the adorable Estonian bartender mixed the newcomer's drink, I nudged Randy and pointed Cutie out. "Oh, no," Randy said, "He knows he's cute. Forget it." But Cutie made his way through the sea of dancing queens and sat on the barstool next to me. He finally leaned over and asked me if I had had a chemical peel. That's the most original opener I have ever heard so I bit and told him no. Then he wanted to know if he could touch my face because he thought my skin was lovely. Okay, no problem, touch me. He asked me what I use on my face and I told him (Never, ever, ever leave the house without sunscreen on your face--that is the extent of my secret). I noticed that Randy was leaning in closely trying to hear (breathing down my neck) and so I introduced them and excused myself to go to the ladies room. When I returned, the two were sitting side by side and having an animated conversation about monogamy and how men are wired genetically to want to have sex with anything and everything 24-7 and how Randy cannot except that he cannot find a partner who will be faithful. He is holding out for a one-man man. He and Cutie debated the whole "gay men are whores" issue for about an hour while I watched the '80s disco videos that were projected on a a huge paneled screen that covered the entire wall of the dance floor. Favorite blast from the past videos: Kim Carnes singing: "Betty Davis Eyes" and of course, Gloria Gaynor and Donna Summer and a mix of numbers from Rocky Horror: "come up to the lab and see what's on the slab."

A crushingly handsome guy named Jeremy sat down next to me and told me his name and kissed my hand then launched into an explanation about why he was there, that he is straight, just moved here from Atlanta and knows no one and he was only there because he came along with his boss who is gay and who just got picked up and left with a man. Jeremy was the gayest man I talked to last night. But anyway, I felt no need to challenge him on it. Who cares? Do your thing, honey. Jeremy's rambling about how straight he is was getting old fast and I started subtly kicking the back of Randy's bar stool--our signal that it is time to go, please, God.

The boys exchanged phone numbers and we finally left at 1:00 AM and on the way home Randy said: "That guy is so NOT gonna call me because he wants to screw everything that walks." I patted his hand and dropped Miss Otis off and decided to take the beach-route home. I rolled down all the windows and let my hair blow in my face and listened to Dave Matthews sing wistfully about getting laid. I smiled and sang along. It was a good night.

dinner

Shrimp and beer and watching the sunset with the lovely and randy Randy at my favorite dockside greasy spoon: priceless.

I hear something smelling

When my brother was little, he used to run into the kitchen whenever my mom was baking and yell: "I hear something smelling!" We still use that phrase at Mom's house which always smells like food and flowers and books and soap and furniture polish. It smells like Mom.

I am a visual girl but I am also a big-time smell girl. I huff everything. I guess it’s my way of experiencing as much as I can of whatever I really enjoy, so I often make a point to inhale deeply whatever it is I love. I can remember how all of the most important people in my life have smelled, especially the men. Those smells are usually mixtures of things, all unique, all different, all burned in my memory. My usual deep inhaling includes my favorite places, the kids in my life, my disgusting dog, the roses in my yard, the latte at Starbucks, the newspaper, a new pair of all-leather shoes, my kid’s brand new textbooks—whatever. Certain smells transport and intoxicate me. Sniff something today. I know I will.

Just before my daughter was born, I discovered that Johnson & Johnson had changed the formula of their baby shampoo. It did not smell the same as it had for as far back as I can remember—and that’s a long time. As a very busy babysitter all through high school, I used a lot of the stuff and I remember what it smelled like: sweet and baby powdery. All of J&J’s baby products had the same smell. So, hugely pregnant, I stood in the baby aisle at Albertson’s and popped open the lid of the shampoo and inhaled, expecting to be delighted by the nostalgia of the sweet familiar scent. But alas, I was let down. My olfactory memory knew something was amiss. The scent of J&J’s “No More Tears” had been altered to a sort of fruity scent. Their baby powder still smells the same, but I was told it wasn’t good for a baby’s lungs, so I never used it. I was robbed of my sweet J&J baby shampoo experience with my own baby. Bastards. Why do companies do that? Why mess with a sure thing? Boredom? Job security? Desperately seeking relevance in the marketing department? Whatever the reason, it just doesn’t seem to be a good idea, as those of us who remember the “New Coke” debacle can attest.

But anyway, I have been mentally listing the items that evoke the most vivid memories of my childhood via smell. Here is my list so far of the products that still smell exactly the same to me:

Noxzema skin cream: I used this all through high school because I really believed one morning I would wake up and look just like Christie Brinkley. It never happened (if it had I sure as hell would not be sitting in my pajamas with a flatulent mutt sleeping on my feet while the GITB screams “honey—have you seen my ‘Cat in the Hat‘ boxers?” from the other side of the house. I would be in Manhattan having lunch at the Russian Tea Room with Vera Wang).

Revlon’s Flex shampoo and conditioner: I was a competitive swimmer from the age of 8 until my senior year of high school which meant I lived in the pool. And I used gallons of this stuff. I was thrilled to see it reappear on store shelves a few years ago and I did the store aisle sniff-test. Yes—it smells exactly the same.

Ivory soap. I would never use the stuff now because it strips every bit of natural oil and then some leaving the skin on my arms and legs looking like they were made of raffia. But I loved carving Ivory soap and making all kinds of utterly useless crafty doo-dads out of the thick white bars in girl scouts. Sometimes I pick it up and sniff it when I am in the store. It really irritates my daughter when I do this, by the way.

Vicks VapoRub. Whenever my brother or I came down with a cold, my mom used to rub this on our chests then wrap a towel around our necks and secure it with a safety pin so that the oily menthol greasiness wouldn’t get all over our pajamas. And she is an educated woman. Go figure.

Pepto-Bismol. Yes, it has a smell. It smells like pink. Also, I noticed when I ate a few of Schmoopie’s conversation hearts this past Valentine’s Day that the pink ones taste sort of like Pepto. So do the pink Necco wafers.

Folgers coffee from the can. It must be from the can. Nothing smells like a freshly opened can. The plastic bag stuff just does not smell the same.

Budweiser. When you say Budweiser, you have said it all, honey. And it smells the same. It smells like summers fishing in my grandpa’s boat.

I AM Mrs. Robinson

The mid-life crisis has been temporarily averted. The kid (I mean guy) at my daughter’s school who runs the after-school sports program asked me out on Friday. Yeah. No shit.

“Mr. Jeff” is a grad student from a nearby college so he has to be around 24—young enough to be my son (I mean nephew).

So I am standing in the hallway while Schmoopie crams books into her locker and gathers her PE gear and Mr. Jeff says:

“So, what are you doing for St. Paddy’s Day?”

Me: “Probably heating up a can of Spagettios and hassling Schmoopie for wanting to watch “Deal or No Deal” I mean—what up with that? It’s the stupidest show I’ve ever seen...”

Mr. Jeff: “I’m thinking about hitting ____ (Irish pub here in town). You wanna come?”

Me: “What?”

Mr. Jeff: “I mean---does Schmoopie need a sitter? She really doesn’t, does she?”

Me: “Are you serious?” (Laughing nervously and glancing over his shoulder down the hall. Schmoopie is heading our way and her eyes have narrowed as she strains to hear the conversation).

Mr. Jeff: “Yeah. Can you?”

Me: “Um, Mr. Jeff, Schmoopie’s Dad might have a problem with that.” (More nervous half-assed laugh).

Mr. Jeff: “Oh, man. I thought you were single...you don’t wear a ring…”

Me: “Yeah, I don’t wear my jewelry all the time—I work at home and write all day and my hands always feel dry and so I sort of use hand lotion constantly so I’m always taking my rings off…” (aware that I am babbling incoherently but unable to stop myself)

Mr. Jeff: “Hey--I’m really sorry... I just thought...“

Me: “Oh, sweetie, no problem. You made my day.”

Schmoopie has arrived and she stands looking suspiciously at both of us. Then she says: "What?"

Me: "Okay, thanks, Mr. Jeff, have a great weekend..."

She looks at me funny all the way through the parking lot. When we get in the car, Schmoopie asks me what "that" was all about. I say "Oh, nothing." She demands to know what Mr. Jeff was telling me about her. Kids. They always think it's about them.

But I did tell the GITB about it when we got home. He laughed his ass off but when he realized I wasn’t kidding he was very impressed and high-fived me. He made a good point: I am afternoon pick-up parent. The GITB is morning drop-off parent. Because I do not wake-up for real until at least 10:00 a.m. So “Mr. Jeff” has never seen the GITB. So I can see how he thought I was a single mom. But why an adorable 24-year-old would want to go out with a woman old enough to be his--okay--I can handle it--MOM is beyond me. Maybe it's a school project or something...

Anyway, Schmoopie seems suspicious. Especially since the GITB keeps singing “Stacy’s Mom Has Got it Going On” loudly and quite badly, I might add.

Oh, Canada (bite me)

Dear Satan's Spawn of the Great White North (AKA: Insaitable Horde of Greedy, Selfish Old Locusts): GO. HOME.

Especially those of you from Quebec, Ontario, Toronto, Montreal, New Brunswick and Saskatoon.

Yes, on behalf of all native Floridians and even those of us who are transplants or first generationers who passionately love our state: we are sick to death of your bad driving, shitty tipping, and lousy treatment of our service workers. We are tired of standing in line behind you at Walgreens while you hold it up for 20 minutes arguing with the cashier and trying to make her take your expired coupons, you cheap, chiseling, bastard tight-wads.

We are further disgusted with the fact that you insist on packing all the roadways in your gas-hogging vehicles during rush hour and school opening and closing times. We are appalled that no disabled Floridians can get a disabled parking space anywhere because they are all packed with your Canadian-plated RVs and pimped-out camper-vans. We are weary of not being able to go to a Spring Training game, the beach, doctors offices, restaurants or even the grocery store because there is no place to park and we do not want to hear the gutteral: "Ay?" one more time. You have successfully sucked us dry. We hate you.

The Spring thaw must be in full swing by now, so go, go, please, God, I am begging you, go.

And for the record: I have never for one moment entertained ideas of living half the year in Canada upon my retirement. So I will make you a deal: you stay there and I will stay here and we can all be happy. Now fly, little starlings, fly, fly, fly.

I am turning 45 this month. Fuck.

Mid-Life Crisis Checklist:

Subject matter of chats with girlfriends goes from things like freaking out because the period is late and getting felt up to discussions about menopause and mammograms. Check.

And, further, the "girl’s night out" girl-talk goes from complaints about not being able to go anywhere near the boyfriend without him getting a major boner to your girlfriends mentioning that they are going on anti-depressants because he cannot get it up. Check.

Question every decision you have made since the age of 20. Decide that you may have fucked up some stuff. Check.

Wistfully daydream about the boyfriend--circa 1980s--who ripped your heart out of your body and threw it against a brick wall before stomping it into a lifeless, bloody, pulpy puddle of agony and despair. God, he was SO hot. Check.

Realize that if you have grey hairs on your head you probably have them other places too but decide to remain in denial and do not look. Check.

Notice that your parents look OLD. Notice that your child/children look OLD. Check.

Realize that your kid(s) could survive just fine if you dropped dead tomorrow. Because you could. But you have brought them this far, they will be okay. Check.

Go to the store dressed like a chronically mentally ill homeless woman and don’t give a shit in spite of the horror you inflict on your child/children/spouse. Check.

Vehemently remind your child/children that you WERE VERY COOL once upon a time, dammit. Check.

Have too much to drink at your sister-in-law’s 40th birthday party and shamelessly flirt with your older brother’s best friend, Scott, whom you had a huge crush on in 1977. Make sure you do this in front of Scott's wife, by the way, who REALLY looks old. Feel no remorse about this because he acted like you didn't even exist in high school and now he is panting like a moose in heat and checking you out in your tight jeans. When he responds enthusiastically, suddenly realize that you are tired and no longer give a shit even though he looked really hot in a Speedo 29 years ago. Go pass out in your six-year-old niece’s four-poster pink & white princess bed and wake up the next day with a gauzy canopy panel stuck to your face from all the drooling. Check.

Realize that your parents have way-fewer years ahead of them than they do behind them. Feel very sad about this. Then realize that they have 10-times more crap and tchotchkes crammed into their house than you do in yours and have a panic attack thinking about what to do with all that stuff. Look in the Yellow Pages for estate sale brokers. Check.

Steal your kid’s Clearasil because on top of everything else, you are getting fucking zits again. Check.

While in the car-pool line at your child’s school, fantasize about burning the house down and running away to live in a big sunny apartment in New York City with the insurance money. By yourself. Okay, maybe with the 1980s boyfriend. If he grovels enough and agrees to give you backrubs on demand for life. Check.

Compulsively surf the Internet looking at “Before” and “After” boob-lift pictures on plastic surgery Web sites. Give your husband a dirty look when porn site pop-ups geared toward breast-fetishists keep shooting all over the screen whenever the kid is playing mine-sweeper. Check.

Become weepy when having x-rays done because the x-ray tech did not give you a lead apron to protect your reproductive organs nor did he even ask if there is a possibility that you may be pregnant because you realize that he has noticed that you look old and hag-like and obviously barren and are probably not getting laid. Give him a hateful glare when he tells you to “hold your breath, Ma’am.” Check.

While folding laundry, calculate the number of years until: (1) the kid(s) leave for college (2) the spouse is likely to drop dead from a massive coronary on the ninth hole, (3) the dog dies. Realize that freedom is much closer than you thought. You can almost taste it. Think that you are a horrible person who will burn in hell for all eternity for entertaining such thoughts. Check the plastic surgery Web site again. Boob lifts are expensive. Decide to purchase more life insurance for the spouse. Check.

It is impossible for me to be in love with a guy who:

Probably eats twice his weight in beef and pork in a year

Prefers Wal-Mart over Target (the horror)

Asks: “Wanna watch Sponge Bob?” When I want him to rip my clothes off

Thinks 99.9% of the media are the scum of the earth

Despises coffee and only drinks hot tea with a pound of sugar in it

Cannot spell to save his ever-loving ass

Is of the opinion that Coke is a perfectly acceptable breakfast beverage

Would rather get dressed and go grab a pizza than order room service and fool around some more while kicking it with his girl in a swanky hotel

Leaves his socks on

Insists on silence for at least five minutes after--you know--and actually shushes me when I try to be chatty post--you know. The nerve.

Does not drink liquor. Ever.

Supports the (homophobic Nazis) Boy Scouts

Does not read the New York Times

Eats "grouper bites"

Cannot resist the urge to use the same lame (and by the way, so not funny--okay--sometimes funny, but still...) puns and not-so-snappy retorts to just about anything anyone may utter in his presence. Over and over and over.

Has some of the most hideous tattoos ever inked in the history of humanity but refuses to add just the tiniest little letter of my first name to the unholy mess. Like it would even show or make a difference at this point.

Is a haiku savant who puts me to shame with his skill

Actually enjoys airline peanuts

Insists that Dave Matthews only does songs about wanting to get laid, actually getting laid, or fondly remembering getting laid.

white trash picnic

Sometimes when the girls get together, we like to let it all hang out and celebrate our southern-ness. Honey, we get down on the ground and roll around in it. Every once in a while we throw coronary health and all common damn sense to the wind and have what we fondly refer to as a "White Trash Ho-Down." No mens allowed. Yes, I meant to say "mens." These usually come on the heels of a loss or a triumph or some other life-changing event in one of our lives that requires--no--demands, observation and embracing and thereby, healing, by the girls. Here is part of the spread from the most recent bacchanal which was a celebration of my mid-life crisis.

The menu, left to right, then 'round the clock: what is left of a plate of Laura's deep-fried Twinkies. Of course, we ate those first (note the pretty table decor: a mousetrap), mashed potatoes made with plenty of buttermilk, lime Jell-O mold made with 7-Up and little tiny marshmallows, corn bread made with creamed corn and bacon, loaf of Wonder Bread, macaroni and cheese with hot dogs all cut up in it, collard greens, fried chicken, my famous sheet cake that I make entirely out of Moon Pies, (in the center) pimento cheese spread, bologna, olive loaf, Velveeta (all goes on the Wonder Bread, of course, honey!). And there is plenty of whipped cream, because, you know, you can never have too much of that and it goes with everything.

Beverages: RC Cola, Miller and Schlitz Malt Liquor--all bottles, no cans. Oh, Lord. Wish you could have been there.

my neighbor's latest get $ quick scheme

Did I ever mention that my neighbor is a bit of a nut-job? Well, he is. And not exactly a candidate for gifted classes, were he in middle school, if you know what I mean, and that's all I have to say about that. Except that his idea last year of making millions by breeding Siamese cats (he had never owned a cat before in his life, by the way) was a complete bust. And that wasn't the first great idea gone wrong. The man is just not right in the head. But, is any, really?

So it's no wonder I started getting suspicious when the weird fence showed up last week and now this week: surprise! So I called my brother and said "Dude, you gotta come check out Jim's latest project," and Bro pops by in short order, takes one look and says "Hey!!--is that like half of one of those 'Push-me-Pull-me' things from the Dr. Doolittle movie?!?!" (He refers to the 1960s-Rex Harrison-version of the movie). I slap my head and say "Oh, Jeebus, somebody, please, fix me a drink." But do they listen? No. So I fixed my own damn drink. They sure are cute, though, aren't they? They remind me of this group of coke-head chicks who used to hang out at a nightclub where my friend, Jeff, was a bouncer in the 1980s. I think their names were Kelly, Lisa and Cindy. Same tragic hair.

the three graces

they are sighing sweetness and screaming terror, innocence and sugary, diabolical whirlwinds. We all have the same DNA. How exquisitely righteous that my brother is the father of two future WOMEN and I am the mother of a formidable brainiac who is also a cutie. It indeed is payback time. But I mean that in a good way. Girls rock. Especially mine. By the way, the awesome cheeks are all me. Those who know me can attest.

mom

I am named after her. My daughter looks exactly like her.

If you give her a piece of jewelry or an item of clothing, she will always wear it when she knows she is going to see you.

She has a stuffed “Ziggy” collection, one for every holiday and for some insane reason she displays them on the huge sweeping mantle of the fireplace in her formal dining room, right next to her Royal Daulton porcelain collection. She has a vampire Ziggy, a cupid Ziggy, a leprechaun Ziggy, a Santa Ziggy, an Easter Bunny Ziggy and on and on.

She corrects all the grammatical and spelling errors in her sorority and college alumni newsletters with a red pen and mails them back. I don’t think they’ve ever responded and I’ve often wondered if they keep these corrected newsletters in a file marked “nuts." I have one of these files, by the way.

She allows others to take credit for her work, ideas, thoughtfulness, etc. Like when she and Dad give someone a really perfect gift, she won’t correct the recipient if they assume the gift came from my Dad, (like the skil saw she bought for my brother after an exhaustive research and studying of the Consumer Report magazine), and she always beams when Dad gets the accolades.

She sends Hallmark cards to her kids and grandkids for every single occasion large or small, holiday mainstream or obscure: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Sweetest Day, National Grandchildren’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day (we are not Irish), Earth Day, etc.

She has a terrific capacity for remembering obscure anniversaries and special things like my favorite flavor of tea, the date of my first date with my husband, our favorite authors, scented candles, flowers, and musicians.

She knows how to mother my husband without reminding him that his own mother is gone now. She accepts new arrivals into the family with unquestioning friendship and later, love.

When someone tells her “I love you” she smiles and says, “Thank you" (unless it’s one of her grandchildren, then she says it back with abandon).

She is the best secret-keeper in the world.

She never reminds you that you owe her money, but when you remember and pay her back, she smiles at you like she did when you were a kid and got a poor report card. Shame on you, you should know better.

She avoids confronting those she cares about directly when at all possible. Instead, she cuts an article out of a newspaper or magazine and hands it to us with a raised eyebrow. There is never a mention about it afterward. I have perfected the eyebrow move in adulthood. It's really effective.

She reads the obituary section of the paper daily and reads the ones that are under 50 aloud to my father, which drives him nuts.

She has not gotten over the death of her mother, which happened in 1979. She cries at every holiday when there is a mention of the “good old days.”

She speaks French, Italian and a little Vietnamese.

She had polio when she was 15 and spent her sophomore year of high school in the Rainbow Children’s Hospital in Cleveland, Ohio, learning how to walk again.

Her mother was an industrial nurse who worked in the medical clinic of a large steel plant taking care of sick and injured steelworkers who adored her.

Her father worked as a “union-buster” for the corporate heads of a large steel plant and was hated by the steelworkers.

She types a little over one hundred words a minute but prefers to write all of her personal correspondence by hand on beautiful paper.

She keeps in touch with three of her friends from childhood. She is 69 years old, so that’s a lot of handwritten correspondence!

She could have married a rich guy, but she fell in love with a poor boy from the wrong side of the tracks and married him instead. My Dad is a lucky man. It's good that he knows this.

She laughs at dirty jokes but would never tell one.

She knows how to twirl a baton.

She plays cards every other week with the same group of women she has been meeting with for over thirty years.

She never tells her daughter or daughter-in-law how to raise their kids. She always bites her tongue.

She is far smarter than her husband but never reminds him of this fact.

She is never fooled but often pretends to be in order to not hurt someone's feelings.

She is fiercely defensive of the ones she loves and holds grudges against those she believes have hurt her loved ones in any way.

She keeps a stuffed animal her high school sweetheart gave to her. He is not my father, by the way.

She used to tell me that if I could count my real true friends on one hand I should consider myself to be very, very lucky. I used to think this was such a stupid idea and that it was sad that she didn’t have as many friends as I did. Now I know what she was talking about.

She loves brussel sprouts and stays away from sweets but keeps a bag of Hershey bars stashed in her lingerie drawer.

She is the first person who told ever told me I am beautiful. This was important when I was a clutzy 13 year-old and had braces and zits and felt like the most hideous creature on the planet. And I believed her.

RIP

Love ya, Kolchak.

I really liked Darren McGavin in the 1970s series Kolchak: The Night Stalker. All of his obits this week spend a lot of time on the Christmas movie he did and that was fine, but he had a long, rambling career in TV playing rumpled, world-wise blue-collar men (my favorites) and the hard-boiled and salty Carl Kolchak was what got my teenage heart beating. I love the anti-metrosexual. Give me a meaty, sweat-stained guy with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and an empty pint bottle or two in his backseat any day of the week over a manicured and perfumed dandy boy ala: CSI, etc.

Plus those Night Stalker episodes usually scared the shit out of me. Great fun.

And this concludes the three-in-a row celebrity deathwatch.