Holiday Issues

I don't know if it's the abbreviated holiday schedule or what, but I am really off lately. I've been incredibly absent-minded and seem to have almost completely lost my short-term memory - I should probably start smoking a lot of pot because I already have the bad side effects down like a Rastafarian surfer. Just today for example I couldn't remember where I'd left my iPad until I went to mail the water bill, and there it was in the mailbox. Sure. Anyway a lot of it, I think, comes from the fact that I'm just not a very good adult and nothing hammers that point home like the holidays. I LOVE the holidays - make no mistake; normally you won't find me in a better mood than during that Halloween-Christmas window. It's just that I realize now that I'm much better at doing all that stuff as a kid than I am as a parent. I can KILL it at trick-or-treating, for example, but trying to organize a fancy Halloween for my kids makes me feel as if I'm under siege. Fortunately they've made the costume part pretty easy on me which is something I can almost never say about them. AD always wants to be some version of a cat - a cat witch, a cat devil, a cat ghost, etc. - and the Red Menace has wanted to be the same thing for the past two years in a row which works because she's grown not one bit since last year so the costume still fits fine. The costume of choice is a pink octopus which was terribly cute last year but a source of a good bit of stress for me this year as she told everyone "I have eight testicles. EIGHT of them. And I will SPANK you with them all." 95% of the time she said this she was out of costume, so it was more alarming than humorous. We got some seriously panicky looks at the grocery store, especially because she has as of late begun to address me as either "Friend" or "Cedric". Lots of "Cedric! CEDRIC. Buy me those Little Bites there or I will spank you with my testicles! ALL EIGHT TESTICLES WILL BE SPANKING YOU HERE. Little Bites!"

Octopi love pizza. It's very good for their testicles.

 

I've gotten a bit lucky with the candy part too - our house is off the main drag of the neighborhood that's super-popular with trick-or-treaters, so I can usually get away with leaving the porch light on and putting a salad bowl filled with candy on the steps. One of the biggest adjustments about moving here was how this absentee Halloween landlord approach is actually acceptable; try that in DC and someone would take all the candy and drop a deuce in the bowl, at the very least. Of course, we did live in a part of town where 18 year olds would trick-or-treat at 11pm and ask you for cigarettes instead of candy, but still, it's been a big leap of faith.

 

Thanksgiving is usually pretty easy, but that's been tricky of late too; I think that started two years ago when we were at my parents' in Memphis. We were eating breakfast when my dad said "look at me and smile". I did, or tried to, anyway, and he says "kid, you've got Bell's Palsy." Half of my face had become almost entirely paralyzed, literally overnight. It wasn't painful or anything (and it certainly did wonders for my Sylvester Stallone impersonation) but one of the main symptoms is that you lose your sense of taste - something I didn't fully realize until JHP took me out to get sushi. If there's a more unpleasant sensation than eating raw fish without being able to discern any flavor, I don't want to know about it; it verged on the pornographic. Fortunately Bell and her palsy got the hell out of dodge after a few weeks, but Thanksgiving began to look snakebit nonetheless. Mom was on chemo the following year and not able to be around my little germboxes, so we stayed in Atlanta and I had to COOK. Can you believe how selfish that woman is? This year brought more chemo and another depressed immune system...and worst of all, a full week of school vacation. Apparently the trend is for schools to give the kids the whole week instead of just the Wed-Fri deal, which also means the trend is for me to day drink. By Tuesday afternoon I was ready to sell the kids for parts. I got some respite after finding ice skating on tv - both girls were all over it - but that bit me in the ass when the RM started canvassing strangers on their skating abilities. "YOU. Can you ice skate? I'M the best skater. That twisting I can do, in my Cinderella dress." It should be noted she's never, ever been ice skating. She tried to bring me in on it, too: "Friend, you tell that lady I am a great ice skater. Friend! I should be in a CONTEST." Exhausting. As if the endless public humiliation wasn't enough, my cooking didn't turn out that well this year either. I made the mistake of trying to make the potato dish a little healthier, which in retrospect is just flat un-Christian. The girls helped me make all the desserts so they all ended up tasting like hands, which turned out to be fitting since the turkey tasted like feet. I fled to Houston's on Friday and self-medicated with two orders of spinach dip.

 

With this under my belt I'm getting a little nervous about Christmas. Traditionally that's been the easiest holiday, which I guess is ironic considering how much more prep goes into it, but we've had a few hiccups that lead me to believe I've got to shake my recent incompetence (not to mention incontinence...I got sucked into "Damn You Autocorrect" last week and laughed so hard I tinkled a little bit, but that's neither here nor there) and man up. A few years ago, for example, I was home for Christmas in Memphis and found this

You will be forgiven for not immediately being able to wrap your mind around the fact that this is an entire fingernail in a stick of butter. And a disco metallic one, at that; Donna Summer left the cake out in the rain, and someone left a nail in the butter. After a very confusing week we finally figured out that my parents' housekeeper was the culprit, in spite of the smart money being on Dad. That cast a weird pall over the holiday for me. I kind of felt like I was being filmed. Of course, Christmas is more about children - those damned children! - so recent years have been more focused on the girls. Specifically, scaring them as best as I could. AD has never really had a Santa issue, but imagine how thrilled we were to discover the RM certainly did. We got this

 

and the following year brought this bit of holiday joy

This year's photo session began with great promise, too. Here she is catching a glimpse of her tormentor

but out of nowhere, something went terribly, terribly awry because then this happened

which makes me think this might be a really shitty Christmas. In an effort to counterbalance this, I've gone a bit cliché and had AD's Elf on the Shelf do some really awful things. Nothing cute and relatively harmless like spilling food on the counter, I'm aiming for inducing night terrors; so far he's stolen both her bike and her allowance money, and drew a bloody knife and REDRUM on her dresser mirror.

If I'm going to screw up the holiday season for my children I should at least do it with a sense of purpose rather out of plain old stupidity. Now I've got to go fetch my car keys out of the silverware drawer and go pick them up from school.



 

 



Crushed

So I haven't written anything in a while. To be perfectly honest, I'm coming out of a painful breakup and haven't really felt up to it. It was a pretty intense relationship that ended quite abruptly so I've been a little unmoored. It started innocently and unexpectedly - at the gym, of all places. I was on the treadmill, distracting myself from the naked shittiness of running by watching HGTV...and there he was, ripping out drywall with his bare hands. I'd stumbled upon one of those home improvement show marathons and found the man of my dreams. Our connection was immediate, deep and sacred. Granted, the television was on closed captioning mode so we didn't get in to a lot of details - I'm not certain of the name of the show, for one thing - Property Brothers, Cousins Properties, Undercover Cousins, something - or of his name (I know it's not Anthony, that was the other guy, the duskier fellow), but some things just don't need to be said. We didn't need all that noise to know that our love was real. Not Anthony wasn't just good for my exercise regimen and terribly handy around the house (a huge plus considering JHP isn't even capable of looking a hammer in the eye), but sensitive, thoughtful and deliberate. He drove all the way to Newark (I'm pretty sure) to pick up the exact chandelier a client wanted, and who could forget that time he hand-cured that dining room table until 2am? With a hair dryer? At least I think that's what he was doing. Child, please - you couldn't split us up with a crowbar, not Not Anthony and me. Things were going really well...too well. In retrospect I think he got too comfortable, yes, maybe I even let him take my love for granted, because his judgment started slipping. I have to be honest, he started making some choices that I was flat-out not okay with. Pickled cabinetry? You might as well spray-paint "1991" across them and tack up a Nelson poster. I can't work with that. And then came the death knell - the moment I knew we were broken not bent, we couldn't learn to love again, no!

I cannot - WILL not - abide a pre-molded hot pink wall. This is not RuPaul's Airstream trailer fiberglass bathroom, this is a kitchen. A kitchen, Not Anthony.

It was over.

More than anything I feel very disappointed in myself; I usually have better judgment when it comes to my love life. Even at young age I had things pretty well in hand. When Shaun Cassidy and I first got together in 3rd grade, for example, I saved my allowance money for dog years so I could bribe Claire Jones a whole dollar to let me wear her white satin jacket with the giant iron-on of his face on the back. I knew that's what he would want. We had some happy years, too, Shaun and me; sure, there was a little bit of tension with Will Marshall from "Land of the Lost", and okay, maybe a couple of weekend flings with Randolph Mantooth and Lt. Starbuck, but really, that only made us stronger as a couple. While my friends were snowed by Chachi's charm or going the intellectually lazy route with Vinnie Barbarino (one spectacularly misguided friend of Cslos' even had a thing for Geoge Burns, which just feels fetishy), I stuck with Shaun.

I took this picture on our anniversary trip to Catalina. He gave me an Easy Bake Oven...I gave him the best night of his life, and a hickey that made the papers

 

Unfortunately, even true love can be tested when a grueling tour schedule just doesn't work with middle school; inevitably, we parted. It was time and we both knew it. Shaun was too consumed with the rock and roll lifestyle while I craved stability. The uncertain challenges of eyeliner and 7th grade cotillion - not to mention the pounding stress of trying to talk my mother into letting me get a perm - was too much as it was. And, as if on cue, who strolls into my life but my rock, Abe Carver. We met shortly after he investigated Anna Brady's claims of being sold into white slavery and I was immediately taken with his quiet confidence. 

don't EVEN

It was an enriching relationship for both of us; he knew I wasn't going to get caught up in any Aremid wedding drama or steal Bo and Hope's baby like that roundheels wife of his, and I knew with his background he could probably help me with math, and eventually traffic laws. Abe wasn't much for nonsense, and that was just what I needed. He and I ended up staying together for quite some time. To be honest what kept us together wasn't passion as much as it was comfort; I think it's precisely our lack of sexual heat that has enabled us to stay close to this day. JHP isn't at all threatened - to the contrary, I think he's pleased to have someone that will keep me occupied while he watches basketball. That being said, I can only get so much out of an imaginary platonic relationship - I want more. I want imaginary fire; someone to really pine for, with or without the volume on, who may or may not even be heterosexual. I have needs, folks. Real, imaginary needs.

I don't know where that leads me; all I can do is soldier on and keep an open heart. I suppose I'm lucky because I did leave my relationship with Not Anthony knowing one thing for sure, and that thing is never try to do electrical repair work without the help of a professional. And also: fuck running. Two incredibly valuable life lessons! Anyway, keep me in mind if you come across anyone. I have a lot of pretend love to give.

Some ID, Please

Over the course of the last few months my children have developed full-on alternate personalities. AD waffles between being her sweet, innocent eight-year-old self and a teenage stoner who says shit like "chill out, Elise. Man! YOLO, ya know? YOLO." The RM meanwhile looked into my soul to find what would most hurt me and thus decided that she would now like to be addressed as "Surfin' Barbie" ("surFIN! NO ING!"), have pink hair and get rescued by a "prinztle" who will kill aaaaall the bugs. She's informed me that in her secret life she eats her green beans, so she doesn't have to do it for me. I have had some experience with alternate realities so while I don't like it, I get it. For most of my high school career, for example, I was known to attendees at Memphis Pyramid events as "Elsie Higned" thanks to the misspelled commemorative brick in front of the entrance. I decided that Elsie started an underground newspaper in Johannesburg, drove a Karmann Ghia just like the one in "Pretty In Pink" and had a boyfriend named Ned who wasn't afraid to cry and sent her flowers every week. Cslos, for her part, was evidently a black dude as she was at one point recruited by the African-American men's school Benjamin Banneker School of Technology; this is too much to swallow because in no universe is she technologically inclined. Coincidentally I've also been thinking lately about what my true identity must be; going through my old stuff in the attic has made me question a few things.

In an effort to regain some sort of control over life, I've been cleaning out the house. We've gotten to the tipping point - we now have more stuff than places to put it all, so things are going. Initially I was selling some of it on a neighborhood exchange board, but that became so consuming that I had to stop. I was turning into an asshole anti-Oskar Schindler, snatching toys out of my children's hands and wailing "two dollars! I could get TWO DOLLARS for this!" as I staggered to the computer, so I've started donating the good stuff and tossing the not-so-good like a more decent human being. Anyway, during this process I've discovered that we have a clutter problem because - spoiler alert! - none of us seem capable of throwing away a single damn thing. I get that we'd want to hang on to favorite books or old letters, but why have I felt the need to hang on to a Northwest Airlines paper luggage tag listing an address I haven't even visited since 1998? That's not exactly a valuable piece of my personal narrative. And the clothes are just terrible - even if I could ever again fit into my circa 1991 Adrienne Vittadini turquoise dress emblazoned with giant fleur-du-lis, should I? Should anyone? That just seems irresponsible. Unfortunately, my housecleaning efforts have also turned up a lot of old pictures chronicling some of my more unwise choices; apparently, for example, I was someone who wore overalls. With Chuck Taylor low-tops. I guess I felt the need to be ready to go should Dexie's Midnight Runners need an extra for one of their music videos. Even this relatively recent picture is just so terribly damning

I can't believe I have no memory at all of attending nursing school

 

White hose? White fucking hose? Well, they may be awful looking, but at least they're terribly unflattering. Why not just go full frontal ugly and get the Downtown Brown Baloney Legs look? I don't want to be this person. This whole walk down memory lane makes me feel like I need to reach out to everyone I ever met and just apologize. Especially to this bit of canned heat

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Former Secretary of Labor Robert Reich. Rrrrrowwwww!

 He's my absolute favorite cabinet member of all time (and yes, I realize how incredibly dorky that sounds, believe me) and finding this picture in an attic box made me remember that I used to treat this man like shit. Yes, I know I was young and irresponsible, but that doesn't change the fact that hurtful things were said! Yes! I never should have let him take me to Cabo, that didn't help anything! Actually the truth is that I was always seriously enamored with Secretary Reich, but once I met him and realized how terribly serious he is - not to mention the size of a medium cactus - I gave him an alternate reality too. In my world, since he was the size of a child he behaved as such. My friend J and I got endless amounts of amusement out of this; you were late to work? It was probably because you got stuck on Connecticut Ave. behind Itty Bitty Baby Bobby Reich on his Big Wheel. I heard Itty Bitty's coming to the Hill today for the budget hearings - do you think he'll wear his hard-soled shoes with his big boy pants, or will his mom make him wear a John-John? Questioning better be to his liking or he'll throw applesauce at Sen. Exon! And did you see the Sesame Street hand puppet he wore to his swearing-in? Really respectful.

 

The only thing that's made me feel better about how heinous I am is that JHP is evidently almost as unappealing; the attic has yielded an awful cache indeed. He's had his own share of fashion missteps for sure; I've seen physical and photographic evidence of an intense sweater vest phase, for one thing, and found a karate uniform that made me feel as if he and I had never actually been introduced. If JHP actually at some point knew karate then Cslos is getting a freaking full ride to Benjamin Banneker. And don't get me started on the (blessedly small) collection of fraternity mock turtlenecks I stumbled upon. Do you know why they're called mock turtlenecks? Because they mock you for marrying a jackass. You are publicly labeled by three Greek letters your spouse wore that translate roughly to "I'm With Stupid". What has to take the cake though is a power ballad he wrote in high school - I found a sheet of paper with a full set of lyrics and the title "Why Must It Come To This?" Oh to be so cursed to be a child of privilege ensconced in a private school in Houston! On the subject of music I also found a case full of cassette tapes that would stand alone as Exhibit A in any divorce court in the country. Vangelis? "Your honor, we hereby grant full custody of the two minors to their mother. Ahh, ahem, strike that, she wants neither Surfin' Barbie nor Paulie Shore."

 

To be honest all this makes me thankful that JHP and I somehow found each other, overalls, karate, bad taste and worse behavior be damned. And it also makes me weep for the children - our children - of such a sketchy union. They don't have any reasonable hope of being normal human beings, which I guess means they're right where they should be. Surfin' Barbie's going to hop on her Big Wheel, throw applesauce and be on her way while AD finds some kine bud. Why must it come to this? I think we know.

 

 

 

Hilarity Did Not Ensue

As you may have picked up from recent posts, the Red Menace has been a touch of a handful as of late. For the last 3 1/2 years, actually, but she's really doubled down these past few months. Monday was a career highlight for her; we were getting ready to go to school and she somehow managed to take a header out of her car seat into the driveway. I still don't know exactly what happened - I was moving a case of Trader Joe's wine (shut up) out of the back seat to make room for carpool when all of a sudden I hear shrieking. Fortunately she mostly landed in the yard but the poor kid still banged her noggin up pretty good on the concrete and was bleeding like a stuck pig; she and I both looked like something out of "Carrie" by the time I got her inside the house. Because my children tend to handle big stuff well and save the serious dramatics for things that don't at all matter ("that is the WRONG PLATE!", "this shirt has a tag!", that sort of thing) she calmed down pretty quickly, so I checked her out, got the bleeding to stop and cleaned both of us up. This was no mean feat given that the blood had soaked all the way through my bra, but we still made it out the door and to school on time. I get a phone call maybe 15 minutes later - or however long it takes to report someone to DFCS, I'm assuming - from the RM's teacher: "um, no, you need to take this child to the hospital...." so I very shamefacedly headed back to school and picked her up.

oh my heavens, you shouldn't have! No, really...well, alright. Gosh. Thanks!

 

In my defense, I come by this failure to panic honestly - both my parents are known far and wide (or at least to my sister and me) as truly pitiless creatures. Cslos and I learned early on that if we went to my father with a cut or bruise his immediate response would not be to check it out and make sure that we were okay, but to instead feign sympathy until he could get close enough to really mash on it and then run away laughing. And this man is a physician. Mom is even worse. I remember one time when Cslos was two years old and fell off of her bed; Mom gave her a quick once-over, decided she was fine and went about her day. When Dad came home later that evening Mom casually mentioned "oh, the little one cut her head this morning...". Dad took one look at Cslos's scalp and said "you've been letting this child walk around all day with her skull exposed." So yeah, by those standards I'm damn Florence Nightingale.

 

Anyway, off to the Emergency Room we went. The RM was confused and concerned about why she had to leave school but perked right on up when she realized she was going to get to meet a bunch of new people. This wasn't a hospital, it was a fresh crowd - the Catskills to her Shecky Greene. Plus she got to play with my iPad - what's not to love? As soon as the doctor came in to check her out, the RM starts "first of all, I'm a girl, not a boy. I don't really like boys. Although Daddy's a boy, and I like him mostly, and also Papa and there's also a mister man at Publix I like who gives me some balloon." "Aha," says the doctor, "and how do you feel?" "Well, I will tell you I had a tummy ache yesterday but I had a poo-poo and I felt better. A big poo-poo. A POND of poo-poo. Frogs don't live in a pond of poo-poo, that would be gross." And so on. Throughout the course of our significant stay, she also informed the staff that her father has lots of gas (TRUE), I am in a circus (NOT TRUE, technically) and she has a dog named Sweet Cherry Pie (NOT TRUE and KIND OF GROSS).

She was fine. No concussion, no stitches - just a little bit of skin glue and she was good to go.

she went ahead and got a little Botox while she was there. Never too early to start with the fillers if you want to avoid the Like Perry forehead, I say

I was enormously relieved that she was fine and that I wasn't going to have to explain to her teachers why I'd tried to dump a kid with a fractured skull at school - merely a flesh wound. That can't be worthy of criminal charges. She was nonplussed. The only time she got even remotely upset was when her hospital bracelet became a bit unwound. Typical RM. She stopped fussing when I told her we could go to Publix and get some balloon from a mister man. I stopped fussing when I got home and got into that case of TJ's wine. Shut up.

 





Essential

Lately I've been thinking a lot about the mess in D.C. and the looming government shutdown. Not just because the whole situation is ludicrous, but also because I was there the last time it happened. I was working on the House side then, for a wee little wisp of a congressman who tried to make up with his lack of stature by acting as if he were quite the lady killer; a travel-sized Good Time Charlie Wilson. Very handsy, only called me "Valentine" and liked to try to impress us with stories of the time he valiantly and against all odds co-sponsored legislation to establish a National Postal Service Workers Day. In spite of the very satisfying electric letter opener and the nice lady who worked in the Longworth carry-out and tried to find me boyfriends, I wasn't keen on the House side; it was too big, unorganized and uncivil, and there really isn't a lot of payout in sleeping your way to becoming Mrs. Ranking Member of the Subcommittee on Fisheries and Wildlife. I loathed my job. I distinctly remember getting ready for work one morning and hearing that someone had been stabbed in Old Town but that they were in the hospital and expected to recover fully; I was actually jealous - what's a a little hole in the gut, he didn't have to go to work. Imagine how thrilled I was to hear that when the shutdown came, all nonessential personnel would be furloughed. Surely I was nothing if not completely nonessential, yes? My boss didn't even know my real name! My chief responsibilities were operating the aforementioned letter opener and tormenting our press secretary; I was pretty sure someone could come up with a way to open the mail in my absence, and since the press secretary was (and is) one of my closest friends, I could do as I do now and torment her electronically. Sadly, I was proven wrong; I was somehow deemed essential. In the end, the shutdown was a bit of a tempest in a teapot. My workload was actually considerably lightened due to the fact that so many other agencies were closed, so the only serious inconvenience turned out to be that Willie Ann wasn't around to further my romantic efforts.

I am therefore owed a furlough. Sadly, I think these days I am actually considered essential to my current short bosses because lately I am convinced they don't have the sense to come in out of the rain. I am truly amazed at some of the things I have to tell these two; I can't count how many times I've thought to myself "how is it possible I have to be verbalizing this? Surely this is the first time in history this particular combination of words has been strung together." A few things I've had to mandate in the last week or so:

stop putting your tongue on the toilet
you may not sleep in the herbie curbie
you may not sleep in the dryer
stop putting your tongue on the dog
do not try to write with your buttcheeks
I will not sleep in the herbie curbie, or the dryer
you may not put your toenails in the deli slicer at Publix
ice does not count as dinner
stop putting your tongue in the air vent
you may not shave your eyebrows
stop trying to eat through your belly button
stop putting your tongue in the pencil sharpener
we will not change your sister's name to Roy Alabama, Hotdog Hotdog or Crispick
getting really sweaty does not count the same as taking a shower
you may not live in the garden shed at Home Depot (Ed. note: unfortunately)

I have a headache in my eyeball. Then on top of it all, I had to go to Kinko's this afternoon and the RM wouldn't stop manhandling the Hello Kittae

Hello Kitty, honey, please point to the spot on the doll where the bad girl touched you

 

so in accordance with my new parenting policy, I was forced to disciplinarily sing "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" almost in it's entirety, both Babs' and Neil's parts (which I don't mind telling you I NAILED) until she knocked it off. "Nooooow after lovin' me late at niiiiight/when it's GOOD FOR YOU, babe, and you're feelin' alriiiight/weh-heelll you juuuust turn over and turn out the light...." At least I was able to bring a little joy into the world; everybody except my severely put-upon kids clapped, and the guy at the jumbo printer asked if I did weddings. Unfortunately, the dubious behavior picked right on up again once we got home - AD threw the Candyland box top at her sister's head, who retreated to her room in tears. I finally got her calmed down and playing with her bristle blocks, but then she built this

 

and immediately started sobbing, yelling "I DON'T LIKE THIS IT SCARES ME LOOK IT'S RUNNING TO GET ME." Obviously! I don't know what to do with this. I'm done shepherding them through the painfully obvious for today.

It's both good and bad that the girls actually come by this quality honestly - JHP has been known to make some very questionable, hilarious and completely clueless observations that I've greatly enjoyed mocking him for. One of my favorites is in regards to a photograph Cslos gave me of a random guy walking into Sun Studios in Memphis.

it's haunted by the ghost of a stunningly beautiful woman with a cell phone camera

 

I love this picture. I love it even more since JHP recently asked me "so, do you think that was taken the very first time Elvis visited Sun Studios?" I let that hang in the air for a bit and then said "Probably. Good call." Didn't even have the energy for that one. Just don't try to stick your tongue on it.

 

I am at the mercy of the ignorant. Shit, aren't we all.



 



Customer Service

For some weeks there's been an audio clip going around on the internet. I've tried to link to it below but since I am clearly pretty inept when it comes to computers I'm certain it won't work

http://gawker.com/youve-never-heard-a-customer-service-call-meltdown-qui-1299857467

so I'll just tell you that it's a really pissed off guy calling a customer service line. It's been on several different websites and is usually accompanied with a title like "WORST call EVER!" or "You've never heard ANYTHING like this!". I beg to differ. The first job I had out of college was answering phones for one of Tennessee's finest, U.S. Senator Jim Sasser, and I can tell you I've heard this shit plenty. One other girl and I were responsible for greeting visitors in the front office as well as answering six phone lines, which on the surface doesn't exactly sound like challenging stuff but I assure you it was hell on earth. Even all these years later I'm still amazed at the things people would call us about "the trailer can't get a cable connection? This is a job for Jim Sasser!" "I'd like to move my mailbox...better call Congress.", and how vicious they'd be when we couldn't magically solve their issues right there on the spot. Throw in the fact that he was the Chairman of the Budget Committee which was handling Bill Clinton's new (and wildly unpopular in Tennessee) budget, and there were days when I'd be covered in flop sweat by 10:00am. I couldn't expect any collegial support either, as the other receptionist - who insisted on calling herself the Senior Receptionist because she started a full month before I did - was a complete twat. She apparently thought her impressive tenure entitled her to hop up from her desk whenever she wanted and go flirt with the hot guy in Sen. Bryan's office across the hall. I get it, but still, what a bitch. Good thing for her shitinabox.com folded.

The official rule for the phones was that you had to be as cordial and receptive as possible, no matter what the issue; we were to take the caller's name and address, document their issue and assure them that the senator or an appropriate staff member would get back to them right away. However, if the caller either threatened the life of the president (a felony!) or used profanity (an art form!), then we were told to end the call. The beauty of this rule is that we weren't specifically told HOW to end the call. The presidential threat one was easy - we would just tell the caller that we were under a legal obligation to report them to the FBI, which always got a good response. I suppose it was just assumed that we'd just hang up if the profanity thing arose, but I generally chose to take that as an opportunity to work on a few issues on behalf of these folks. "You do realize," I would say, as pitifully as possible, "that you're speaking to someone's daughter. I have absolutely zero influence or power here and yet you treat me so shamefully. I can only assume you'd be horrified for someone to talk to your child in such a manner." That would usually elicit an immediate apology, but the real assholes would double down and throw out a "you listen here, I pay your salary you work for ME." which would get them back an "I make $18,000 a year. If I refund your teeny-tiny cut up piece of a penny, will you promise to NEVER FUCKING CALL BACK AGAIN?" The most satisfying outcome was when it turned out that you actually KNEW the person. I'll never forget sitting through an especially rude tirade about how that perverted hillbilly Clinton and his lesbian wife were going to drive this country straight to hell and how could I look in the mirror knowing my heathen hand was right there on the steering wheel with theirs, I should just be ashamed of myself; when the woman finally finished her spiel, I got her name and realized immediately it was the mother of a friend of mine from high school. "Oh, Mrs. X! It's you! This is Elise! Dennis and Joanna's daughter!" Mortified silence on her end. To this day she can't run into my mother without apologizing. Excellent.

While 99% of the calls were just angry and mean, we did have a couple of people I really looked forward to hearing from. One was an older guy named John Wayne Boyd who lived in (no kidding) Finger, TN and thought that Jim Sasser was the finest person to ever walk the earth. John Wayne never really gave me any specifics, he just wanted us to know that if he had his way then Jim Sasser would be the Vice President of the United States. Our governor, Ned Ray McWherter, would be at the top of the ticket but ONLY because he was older, not because he was in any way superior to Sasser, "I don't have to like it, but it's only fair.". I appreciated John Wayne's enthusiasm but slightly doubted his mental state because he also had a habit of mailing me letters written on paper Burger King tray liners. He was a paragon of the community compared to my other favorite frequent flier, Mr. Ray Martinez of the Atascadero Forensic State Hospital of California. He would call every Monday and Wednesday at 3:00pm, like clockwork (during what I can only assume was the hour or so he was allowed out of his cell) and demand we make public the list of the "TOP TEN MAFIA BANKERS!" Initially I made the mistake of correcting him, no, sir, we actually don't have that list and to be honest I'm not certain one actually exists, but pretty soon I learned it was so much better just to let him go. If you got Ray on a good day and asked the right questions not only would he fill you in on the bankers, but he'd explain exactly how Jay Rockefeller, Anita Bryant and Amtrak were conspiring to control all American firearms production. That one didn't make a lot of sense at first, but I have to hand it to him because he brought it home strong and sold it well. Ray made conspiracy nuts look rational - he once told me that he knew exactly what happened to President Kennedy, because he was the grassy knoll. Not was at the grassy knoll, no, Ray was the actual hill. I told him that must make it difficult to find pants that fit well, or to travel, and after a moment or two of silence he said "why, yes. Yes it does."

looking good, Ray Ray

 



His first love, however, was always the mafia bankers. He called every member of the Budget Committee about them and we'd compare stories. Every now and then, for some reason, Ray would try to call under a fake name, disguise his voice and speak super-rationally, but we always knew it was him and it was so easy to flush him out "....ok, so I'll send you a copy of SR-380. While I have you on the phone, Mr. Smith, do you have any banking questions? Or concerns about the mafia, by chance?" and off he'd go. I miss that man.

As awful as that job was, I've always been glad I did it. For one thing I am exceedingly polite to people who are in customer or public service of any kind; it was a great lesson, and one I hope my children understand as well. It also taught me the deep satisfaction of fucking with my other friends who worked on the Hill or in reception; I can't count how many times I would transfer some pissed-off redneck to the direct line of Phil Gramm's legislative director, or call Don Reigle's press secretary and ask about the rumors concerning the 12 year old in the crawl space. It was the most fun to crank call Cslos, though. While she didn't work on the Hill, she worked in the medical records department of a hospital and had to answer the phone "Discharges". I would call at least once a day and request a quart of lymph, or some semen. I'm certain my efforts at entertainment were not at all appreciated, but I enjoyed it. I hope anyone who's ever suffered the indignity of taking abuse from a faceless stranger gets to turn it around with as much satisfaction as I've had. I'm going to call Saxby Chambliss now and let him know that my tires are low.

Crime and Punishment

One of the best things about having the girls back in school is that I get to offload discipline somewhat. Sure, I have to put up with their shit during civilian hours, but for a solid block of time during the day they are not on my watch; should I wish I can choose to believe that they are all "yes ma'am"s and sunshine at school instead of acting like the surly guerilla pre-teens who live here. JHP and I suspect that they may be violating the laws of both evolution and common sense because they seem impervious to all our efforts towards getting them to behave. AD talks back like she gets paid by the word, and the Red Menace feels that it is her personal responsibility to daily remove every single article of clothing from her person and dresser and throw it around her room. Nothing we've done as of yet has broken either of them of these unsavory habits. The Red M treats any whiff of criticism with the greatest of offense and most dramatic protest - she's not allowed to sleep with a knife and a bar of soap? She'll trot out the nomination footage for "Best Performance By A Homeless Three Year Old Whose Puppy Has Just Been Slaughtered Before Her Very Eyes" for you. It's always Emmy season with that one. AD, on the other hand, quietly seethes. Skulks away to her room and closes the door, no doubt planning my imminent disappearance if not death.

It's not as if I'm not really good at punishment. At the risk of sounding immodest, let me say that I am probably one of the more gifted people you'll ever meet when it comes to that sort of thing. I forget nothing; I don't carry a grudge as much as I nurture, feed and groom it until the time comes to let it unfurl its little black wings and take a giant dump on your head. I do have an exceptionally long fuse when it comes to people I didn't build so rarely do I feel called to action, but things may or may not have been known to happen in the past. On a wildly unrelated note, you should know that many farm supply stores will deliver a bale of hay almost anywhere for $50. And college magazines seem to be notoriously lax when checking the veracity of updates that alums send in; they don't even verify "your" identity before printing the news that "you've" taken the job of Assistant Fluffer on the latest Peter North film. Also, there used to be a fantastically efficient website called shitinabox.com that would generate and handle specific deliveries; sadly that was shut down for reasons that are probably obvious. In its absence, I'm told that there's nothing at all wrong with anonymously mailing someone an actual douchebag

 not this guy. But wouldn't that fuck a brother up having him show up on their doorstep

 

preferably from outside your normal postal code. These are just things I've heard.

I've not - yet - been driven to such drastic measures with my children. So far we've done the traditional non-spanking stuff - timeouts, taking away privileges, etc. We briefly did the no television thing but that really punished us more than them, so we've quietly forgotten that one. The No-No Shelf still works somewhat with AD; just today I had to confiscate her favorite pillow, a horrible hairy turquoise peace sign thing that I think dates from her days as a Vietnam conscientious objector.

 speaking of punishment...that white piece of paper on the refrigerator are - honest to God - directions that JHP wrote out when he was teaching himself the Spiderman gif dance for no reason. We all suffered mightily.

 

The RM gives the No-No Shelf the finger - if I put anything of hers up there she just climbs up and grabs it. We've also tried making AD write sentences a la Bart Simpson when she does something wrong, but I suspect she has Teutonic tendencies because she seems to actually enjoy that.

 

this is a list of lies

 

Lately I've had some success with public humiliation. I discovered quite by accident that the girls absolutely hate it when I draw attention to myself. I realized this when we went to a football game and I started dancing with the marching band at the tailgate beforehand - you would have thought I'd run down the street nude shooting b-b's out of my behind from the way they acted. Since I, obviously, have no sense of pride I have been able to turn this to my advantage. For example, we were in Publix last week and AD started mouthing off to me so I immediately burst into "Mandy" by Barry Manilow; that shut her up, but good. Then yesterday the RM tried to palm a packet of gum at the gas station while I was getting my emissions checked - that called for an operatic reinterpretation of Jane's Addiction's "Been Caught Stealing". I'm thinking of making a list of their offenses and then taking them public through song. So if you're in the grocery store and suddenly hear "noooooow HERE'S a little story I gots to TELL about three bad brothers you know so well..." in a bad soprano, please do not be alarmed - my kid just probably threw a pickle jar or spit on the grapes. I'm molding young minds, people.

 

If that doesn't work they better watch their backs. And mailbox.

Smell My Bottom

School is back in full swing, and I am happily adjusting to having both girls at the same place, every day. It's basically glorious having a small sliver of my pre-motherhood life back, minus a flat stomach. To be honest, I'm still pretty shocked that a certain short houseguest of ours was let in school in the first place; the admissions process was dicey, to say the very least. Since the RM's only 3 (that's dog years. She has actually aged all of us by 21, easily.) there wasn't an interview per se - the school instead has professional evaluators check the itty ones out and see if they'd be a good fit. As a parent, your job is to take the kid to school and hang back. Don't introduce yourself to the evaluator, don't talk to them, don't do anything to acknowledge their existence - the whole point is to see how the kid interacts with them and separates from you. I get this, I've done it before. So I give the RM a good scrubdown, slap some church clothes on her and head over.

 

objects in the mirror are stranger than they appear

 



Things went fine. Initially. She's been there so often with her sister and me she thinks she owns the place, so when we walked in the front office she threw her hands up and yelled "I AM HERE!" as if everyone had been tapping their fingers waiting on her to show up and buy the next round of Jager shots. She immediately showed herself back to the Head of School's office to check on Miss Gennie and swipe a few paper clips, then headed to reception to help Miss Emily buzz people inside and get some scribbling under her belt. We don't worry about her comfort level here. She was playing with blocks in the front lobby when the evaluator came out to introduce herself, "Hi! Would you like to come back to my classroom with me and play some games?" The RM looks at her, smiles ever so sweetly and says "Well hello. My name is Shantay Squanto and I'm funky fresh. I have my own gorilla and hot dog cart!" Zero percent of this is true and I have no idea where she got any of it; I didn't see this coming, not at all. I start to sweat. "Oh." says the evaluator. Unsatisfied with the lack of enthusiasm from the audience, the RM then turns around, pulls her dress up and says "smell my bottom. I don't go potty in my panties." At this point I realize breaking the parent rules are probably pretty far down on my list of concerns so I say "ah. Sorry, no. Um. No. All of it." thereby dazzling her with my own verbal skills. I told the woman that perhaps the RM and I should just go sit in the car and let her find a better way to fill the next half hour because clearly this wasn't going to work. Somehow she took pity on us and led the RM away for the evaluation; I sat in the lobby and began researching boarding elementary school programs.

30 minutes later they're done, with nary a glance my way from the evaluator as she walks the RM out. We get in the car and head home. I asked the RM how it had gone, was it fun, what did they do? She told me they'd played and read stories - all good. I'm starting to feel like perhaps it hadn't been a complete train wreck when she tells me she also sang a song. "Oh, that's nice, what song, sweetheart?" "WeeeeeeEEEEEEE are NEVER EVER EVER getting BACK TOGETHER!" Aces. Because a little "Jesus Loves Me" would have killed her.

So, yes, we were pretty shocked to get her letter of acceptance a couple of months later. The only explanation I can come up with is that the school's running an affirmative action program for budding sociopaths, because it sure wasn't that new library we didn't donate. And by the way, lest you judge us for putting a three-year-old in private school just reread that second paragraph and tell me that kid doesn't need some specialized attention. Someone has to teach her how to run that hot dog cart.






9/11

 

I was not drunk when I took this picture

Twelve years ago I was working for Tom Daschle in the Senate Democratic Leader's Office, room S-221 of the U.S. Capitol. It's a beautiful office suite directly across from the Senate floor with gorgeous hand-painted ceilings and antique Minton tile floors. The best part of the office, though, is easily the view - even though only eight of us worked there (including the senator), we had the entire balcony on the right Mall-side of the building.

do you see me? I'm on the left waving. I'm sorry to tell you this, but those jeans look awful on you.

For years I looked out on some variation of this

and weather permitting, ate lunch or got some work done out here

 

I don't know how to quit you, Taco Salad Tuesday

 

As much as a pain in the ass that job could be, there was never a day that I wasn't truly awestruck by my surroundings; as trite as it is to say, it was simply a privilege to be there. The view on the morning of September 11, 2001 was exceptionally lovely although we were almost too busy to enjoy it. We were getting ready for the weekly Democratic Leadership meeting with our whip and committee chairs and also visiting with one of my all-time favorite people in the Senate, John Glenn. He'd been retired for a few years but stopped by fairly often and was always indulgent when we asked him to tell us stories of his time with NASA. As we were talking, our floor leader, Marty, came in the office to tell us that a pilot had flown into a skyscraper in New York. Marty didn't seem too freaked out, but Senator Glenn (who's rather unimpeachable when it comes to planes) told him, flatly,  "pilots don't fly into skyscrapers". We all huddled around one of our office TV's and tried to figure out what happened. As we were watching footage of the World Trade Center, another plane banked around towards the second tower, and Sen. Glenn said "oh, that's on purpose." The plane hit. We were stunned. Contrary to popular belief, we didn't have any sort of batphone or top-secret source of information so we didn't really know what to do; as stupid as it seems in hindsight, we decided to press on with the meeting. Not too far into it, CNN started reporting news of a fire at the Pentagon, just as Patty Murray pointed out the conference room window and yelled "SMOKE!". There was a huge black finger of smoke and soot rising up to the left of the Capitol; I remember not being alarmed as much as absently thinking "so THAT'S where the Pentagon is. I thought it was a little more west..." Somehow it hadn't really sunk in that perhaps this particular building isn't where you'd want to be if your country is under attack, so we all just kind of milled around, lemming-like, waiting for who knows what. I called my then-fiancée JHP (who was in Memphis for work) to let him know what was going on and he told me to get the hell out of the building. I assured him that wasn't necessary, everything was fine and that I'd call him later; almost immediately after I hung up we started getting phone calls that the White House and Gephardt's office were both evacuating. Just as Tom was telling us it might be a good idea for us to split, too, the Capitol police came busting in, yelling "GET OUT GET OUT A PLANE IS HEADED FOR THE BUILDING". Well, that threw cold water on us pretty quickly and we all ran like hell. I'm sure there probably is some protocol to get the senators out before the expendables, but I didn't care, I was gone. I bolted down the hard marble staircase and was waved down the hall by dozens of screaming cops, some in combat gear. One of my police buddies, Blonde Dave, said "Elise, get the FUCK out of here NOW!" and all I could think about was ooooh all those senators heard Blonde Dave use the F word! And why did I pick today of all days to wear these really uncomfortable high heels?

 

Once we got outside we reconvened on the south lawn, again not really sure what to do, yelling at each other over the din of sirens. We saw our security team hustle Tom away in his bitchin' Navigator, but the rest of us just stood around. My colleague Mark Childress remarked (presciently) that if someone really wanted to get us they'd flush us out of the building and hit us with a bomb, or maybe anthrax; the police must have been thinking something along those same lines because they told us to move to safe quarters. Done. I went to the 7-11, bought a case of beer, 3 pints of ice cream, a pack of Marlboro Lights and went home to make some progress on them. Cslos was out of town for work so I was home alone, completely wigged out and glued to the television. I was stunned when our chief of staff called (from a still undisclosed location) and said we were to head back to work the next day; it was to be business as usual. Driving in the following morning under a sky full of F-15s and helicopters, I thought the low-grade panic that held me would probably never leave, not for the rest of my life. A lot of people have talked about how collegial things were after 9/11 - how people were more kind and less petty, buying coffee for strangers and putting small differences aside - but I just remember being scared, especially once we found out that flight 93 had more than likely been headed our way. I could no longer enjoy our amazing view without imagining a passenger plane hurtling towards us; the Mall had become a potential runway, pointing right towards our office. I was especially heartbroken to discover that a brother of one of Cslos's close friends - the father of a newborn daughter, no less -  had been on the plane and engineered the revolt. It's beyond jarring to imagine what would have happened had service out of Newark not been so shitty, and those passengers less brave. Everyone I know who was in the Capitol that day thinks about that a lot. I think of that now twelve-year-old girl a lot.

 

Things slowly got back to normalish. We started fighting with the Republicans and the White House again, I got less twitchy and (a little) less bitchy. And then we got this

 

so we threw some Cipro in the mix, which we were told can lead to schizophrenia or ruptured hamstrings or a host of other things that suck but not as bad as dying except on top of it all you have to give up caffeine and alcohol and that probably violates the Geneva Conventions. Thanks, you 4th grade Greendale School assholes.

Then we lost the Wellstones, and I no longer had a sense of humor about any of it. It was time to think about moving on.

Damn if I don't still miss those taco salads, though. I miss my colleagues, too. Boatloads. Even, and in some cases, especially, those on the other side of the aisle. To this day I count some of the opposition as my favorite people. In spite of what you may think of politicians and their henchmen, the ones I was fortunate enough to work with were, and are, (for the most part) fine people who are truly doing the Lord's work, or at least trying to. They work crap hours for crap pay and horrid poll ratings and love almost every minute of it. I did, anyway. Thank you to the immeasurably brave folks on that airplane who very well may have saved all our lives that day, and to the first responders and members of the military who put their lives ahead of ours every day. We really won't ever forget.

thanks for letting these two happen



We will now return to our previously scheduled judgementalness, cynicism and general asshattery.

Pro Dragon Con

The girls started school recently, which means I have been sick as a dog; they have proven themselves to be quite proficient when it comes to importing all sorts of new germs, and I don't appreciate it. I have been going stir crazy, so this morning it became imperative that I put on my best tutu and head to the Dragon Con parade. For the uninitiated, Dragon Con is the world's largest fantasy/sci-fi convention and every Labor Day weekend it's responsible for turning Atlanta into the adult version of the Island of Misfit Toys. Anything goes - you're a Furry with a Steampunk/Mad Max fetish? Sit by me! You think a Wonder Woman costume might be improved upon by adding blue face paint and a giant pair of black crow's wings? Come on by! It's fantastic. People come from all over the world, admire one another's Star Trek uniforms and have nasty monkey sex. And top it all off with a fabulous parade. Remember that kid who got stuffed in a locker in 5th grade because he was really into Dungeons and Dragons? He's getting the last laugh, as well as a fierce blowjob from a saucy young thing in a Princess Leia bikini. Mark my words.

you look beautiful, Leia

 

Things did not get off to the best start for the Piper squad; just as we pulled into the valet station, the RM expressed her opinion of our outing by vomiting all over herself. JHP fled the scene, so I said a quick thank-you to the sinus infection that has killed my sense of smell, mopped her off and rallied. Just in time to see this

 

 

Begone! This is no place for you people. If you can't accept the idea of people dressed up as Tetris pieces, or that Batman is actually a middle-aged woman (and one of quite large carriage, at that) then you need to get the hell out of my parade. Perhaps your time would be better spent by assisting this poor zombie family who's gotten lost.

Zombies were big this year. First there was Stan the zombie, who I wouldn't know from Adam the zombie, but who is evidently famous enough to warrant a solo spot

But Stan can't beat this with a truckful of sticks; pack your shit up and move on out because nothing is better than zombie Village People. Disco is dead, indeed.

I don't know the story behind this but it made me feel funny, in a bad way. Like the first time I saw "Reservoir Dogs", or a naked old person.

 

 

Especially because they were immediately followed by this

 

shit



And this made me feel old and out of it, because I don't know who this is

 





but then HE showed up and all was right with the world.

 



 

I was a little insulted on his behalf that someone felt it was necessary to put his name on the side of the car - who doesn't recognize Billy Gee-Dee Williams?!? That is one bad, bold, smooth motherfucker. I love him almost as much as I love Abe Carver on "Days of Our Lives" and that's saying something. Star Wars was, as usual, the most popular theme of the day, so Lando got much love. Star Wars was also open to the most reinterpretation; we had these guys, because, of course.

 

this is a shockingly common cross-fetish, evidently

 

that Jar Jar Binks is such an annoying idiot. It's only August, for Pete's sake and he's all "Merry Christmas!"

 

this kind of pissed me off. The Muppets have no business aligning with the Empire. What gives?

 

The Venn Diagram overlap of Stormtrooper Parrotheads was quite small, which pleased me because I can't help but feel like Jimmy Buffett's career is built upon laughing at our expense. I don't care for him. My favorite ex-boyfriend earned that status by kicking someone out of his fraternity for proudly claiming "I'm the biggest Parrothead you'll ever meet. If you even THINK you know a bigger one, you're wrong." Fortunately, these fine folks showed up

 

 

to let us know that the Death Star shall be breached via Little Rascal. Right about now the RM booted again, this time on my shoulder as well as after my sinus medicine kicked in so I was able to fully appreciate the bouquet. We tied the kids to the car and rolled out.

 

It was all exhausting. We lay as we fell.



 





We Put the Fun in Funeral

August 16th is an important date for our family. For one thing, it's my sister's birthday. It's also the day on which both Elvis Presley and my paternal grandfather died, as well as not my birthday, so it isn't all fun and games. I'd like to say that Elvis and Pappaw (that's what we called my grandfather, because we're sophisticated like that) got tangled up in the rough stuff and went down together but the truth is that they died several years apart and Pappaw's idea of fast living was trying sweet acidophilus milk, so, not so much.

What do you say you let me get friendly with your blood pressure pills, Pap?

 

Growing up I was not pleased that Cslos was all up in my shit having a birthday a mere five weeks after mine. I felt that it was only reasonable to have the whole season to myself and was therefore reluctant to cede the birthday spotlight so soon. For that reason August 16, 1977 began in the Higdon household with my mother giving me a stern talking-to about how I was not to make this all about me, young lady, or I would be very sorry. This was my sister's day, and if there was even one tiny moment where I tried to steal her thunder then I could just go ahead and kiss my new Stretch Armstrong goodbye missy. So I'm glumly watching "The Price Is Right" while Mom gets Cslos ready for the big birthday party that was not mine when we cut to the "Breaking News!" that Elvis Presley has been pronounced dead. We lived in Memphis so this was a big fucking deal indeed. I ran upstairs to tell Mom that ELVIS is DEAD! and she grabs my arm and says "what did I tell you about trying to get all the attention today! Go back downstairs." It wasn't until we were in the car later on that she realized I actually spoke the truth. You'd think this would have bought me some credibility - or attention - but you'd be wrong.

 



Jesus called. Elvis answered.

 

Pappaw followed along a few years later, in a much less dramatic fashion as was his wont. His was the first funeral I remembered attending; according to my parents I'd been to my great-grandmother Sykes' funeral when I was very small, but I had no recollection of this. The only clear memory I had of Sykesie at all was of the time I talked her into playing "bride" with me, a game that involved her walking up and down the driveway holding flowers while I threw gravel at her. Exactly the kind of game fit for a nonagenarian. I was surprised to discover that aside from the sad aspect of it all funerals were actually pretty damn fun. We got to buy new clothes, go to Nashville and see everyone (aside from the star of the show, of course) and play with our cousins? Completely catered and supervised, if at all, by very distracted people? Don't mind if I do! Over the years we had some good times at Hibbett & Hailey, the funeral home of choice, located ironically just down the street from Nodyne Road and Wellman Drive. Lots of bad behavior and goofing off and whatnot. Old H&H must have sensed that my grandmother's funeral in '88 would be our last hurrah there because they sent us out in style; on the afternoon of the visitation my sister and I discovered an artificial leg in a coat closet. Just leaning against the wall, all by its lonesome, waiting for who knows what. Cslos and I to this day can't decide what to make of it - an aggressively practical relative snatched it out of a coffin so as not to be wasteful? Some attendee decided to switch to a mourning wear model? Death, you doth raise eternal questions!

 





A den of inequity! Or parlor of a funeral home.

 

Elvis is probably more popular now than he ever was alive. Dead Elvis week is a big deal in Memphis - maybe the biggest tourist draw of the year. It's difficult to describe how strange and enjoyable it is if you've never been; picture a poor man's Las Vegas with no gambling and lots of Japanese. I like to think about what a Dead Pappaw week would be like. I do know there would be spaghetti, and lots of Lawrence Welk and Liberace, and the look-alike contest would be heavy on severely hiked up pants. It sounds like the kind of thing that would really catch on in Brooklyn. Either way, people gave their lives for your birthday fun, Cslos. Enjoy it.

 

Happiest of birthdays to my beloved sister, Catherine Higdon. I love ya somethin awful.