Passion in the Land of Blahs

Gusts kicked up and pelted the windshield with early-autumn rain drops. Our headlights swept across the shiny black asphalt illuminating swirls of fallen brown leaves and discarded plastic bags.

Up ahead, rows of neo-boom time houses, all faux stucco and desperate archways, appeared. Forgotten jack-o-lanterns slumped on porches, their triangle eyes guarding their owner's leased luxury vehicles.

We’d arrived. We’d entered the suburban Land of Blahs. This is a place where newly-built homes yearn to be grand, want to burst with Z Gallery furnishings and stylish up-n-comers. Maybe it was the rain or the empty lots where promised homes never materialized or maybe it was my own version of Aesop’s sour grapes, but it just felt like a let-down.

What? Me Worry?
The two of us, my beau and I, snug inside the car, peered through the darkened windows in search of the correct address. We were headed for a party, and not just any party. I was going to meet his ex at this particular gathering.

The two had parted amicably, which can be a land mine for reunions. There’s no hatred urging them to Go to your corners, combatants! or to seek solace among friendly supporters. No, these two had catching up to do, and I would play witness to their cheery reporting out.

You have nothing to be concerned about, I told myself. We’re solid. We’d been through years of light fun and dark tragedy, and we’d come out the other side not only intact, but also desiring each other’s company.

My emotions stood in contrast to this Land of Blahs, an internal ball of nerves set against a dull canvas.

What’s Not to Like?
We met, the ex and I: pleasant smiles. We shook hands: appropriate firmness. We chatted: party banter. I drank: hearty Zinfandel.

She was fine, just fine. No gaudy frumpiness, no obnoxious non-stop talking or infuriating single syllabic grunts. No freakish tics, snorts or inappropriate ass-scratching. No screwball references to UFOs or the Bermuda triangle.

There’s nothing here for me to dislike, I surmised. In some weird way, I was disappointed. Too much over-thinking, too much build-up in my head. Where’s the passion I’d expected?

Our Story Takes a Turn
But hold your horses, dear readers. The story doesn’t end here. It was getting late. Leaned up against the forest green kitchen counter was my man, holding a drink, with a look that said, I’m ready to go. You ready to go?

Just as I sidled up next to him, so did his ex. He was now flanked by two women: one who once held an important place in his life, and one who currently holds a similar place. Poor guy was unwittingly out-maneuvered in a battle of strained civility.

And she started in with a round of interrogation: Have you been riding? How’s your house? And moved into more familiar territory: How’s your mother? Have you been back to any of the restaurants you enjoy? And into the personal: Remember that fun place we stayed in Hawaii? How about that time in Sonoma?

Each comment was punctuated with a hand on his arm and a lean into his personal space. A friendly gesture? Glurg. What’s going on in my gut?

Physiological Response to Stress
More flustered than flattered, he was pushed back against the granite counter top. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. His eyes darted around like a proverbial cornered animal. His cheeks were red, his breathing labored. One more step, and his foot would be on the dog food bowl. I swear this is all true!

I set my face with a most serene Buddha smile. Is this was the passion I’d counted on?

Fingers hooked in his collar, and he pulled it loose as he grimly implored, Is it me!? Or is it really hot in here!? Sweat dripped from his neck, a hard swallow.

In unison, she and I demurred, No. I feel perfectly fine.

Escape at Any Cost
Out on the street, he praised the cool night air and thanked the gods for blessed freedom. And then ran a red light at the first intersection.

Ahh! Finally, some passion in the Land of Blahs.

That Jerk Will Get His Some Day: A Wish Called Karma

There’s no call for gunplay just because fate holds you in contempt.
--Chief Featherstone, Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier

You’re one of the good ones, right? You call your mother every Sunday. You pay your bills on time. You cheerfully put change in the coffee shop tip jar. You’re thoughtful, kind, courteous. A regular boy scout.

Unless you’re Hannibal Lecter, you probably consider yourself to be on the side of the angels. It’s all those other people who screw up.

· When a spider bite puts the evil pet abuser next door into anaphylactic shock, you figure he had it coming.
· When the kiss-ass in your office is reprimanded by the big boss, you rejoice that sycophants don’t prosper.
· When some maniac nearly drives you off the road, and then is pulled over by a cop, you figure A-holes never win.

That’s Karma, baby.

Pay Back From Way Back
Hindus and Buddhists created and spread the belief that one’s actions bring inevitable results. Western philosophers picked up on it to the point where mothers all over the world issue the same warning: “If you continue to make that horrid face, it’ll freeze that way.”

That’d be Karma, baby.

Bad people do bad things, and the universe eventually smacks them down. You’ve probably even said, “That jerk will get his one day.”

What Did I Do to Deserve This?
But wait a minute! I feel smacked down by the universe at times. I unwittingly bought a home at the height of the housing bubble, and now it’s not worth the price of a used Kleenex. I blew out my knees as a runner, and now I can hardly finish a Walking to the Oldies CD.

Evil dictators seem to live forever, and I wonder, “Why doesn’t that bastard just get hit by a bus or a stray bullet?”

It’s funny how we always think something awful will happen to someone else. What about when bad things happen to us?

Is Karma real? Does fate sometimes hold us in contempt?

Today I mocked a colleague’s writing style, and now I can’t think of a conclusion for this blog post.

That’s got to be Karma, baby.

The Incredible Invisible Woman

• She walks into a room, and no one sees her.
• She sidles up to the bar, and all heads turn away.
• She references Seinfeld, and no one smiles.

She cannot be seen nor heard. Her jokes no longer charm or amuse.
She’s the Incredible Invisible Woman!

No Comic Book Heroine
No, she’s not a new comic book-turned-movie-script character. She’s every woman who’s of that age, somewhere in no man’s, er, woman’s land. It’s a time of life for women between cute (newborn to 18), desirable (19-40) and adorable (75-90).

Society as a whole finds those of us in this tween time (40-75) to be irrelevant, tiresome, sexless and useless.

From newborn to 18, girls are dancing princesses or rascally tom boys. Anything is possible. Sex dominates between the ages of 19 and 40. A young woman need only exist to be alluring and worthy of attention. After a long, Rip Van Winkle-like spell of 35 years, we hit the adorable years. You can say and do just about anything when you’re old enough, and it’s received with smiles and admiration. Betty White, anyone?

But, But, I’m Still Cute, Ain’t I?
Wait a minute! If you currently reside in the dead zone between 40-75, you’re thinking I already say and do stuff Betty White does. Why am I ignored?

That, my friend, is a question with no definitive answer. Anthropologists have studied the phenomenon, and therapists have listened to their female patients describe it. But the Incredible Invisible Woman syndrome seems to be a suicidally accepted fact. Sorry, ladies. I’m right there with you holding on until I hit the 75-year mark.

Reality Baked in a Muffin
It really hit home a few weekends ago when I went into an upscale bakery to purchase muffins. I strolled up to the counter where two employees stood mesmerized by a young, blond female customer. While this youthful aerobics instructor laughed and flipped her hair, the employees completely ignored me.

There I was holding a wad of cash, ready to buy, buy, buy, a look on my face that said What? Am I that hideous? Finally, one deigned to glance my way. The young man managed to place my muffins in a box without taking his eyes off of blondie. Quite a feat of eye-hand coordination, I must say.

Money Talks and Talks and Talks
We Incredible Invisible Women have two choices:
1. Wait it out for 35 years, like some hibernating desert horned toad.
2. Hold your dyed, plucked, night-creamed head high and remember we have much to offer the world namely humor, perspective, kindness, and money! We’ve earned it, and we spend it!

Go out there, flash around your stuffed wallet, and bask in some much-deserved attention.

Survey Says! Shoes Are a Girl's Best Friend

A recent short-cut through Macy’s brought me face to face with my first crush—shoes. This love of mine extends to shoes of any kind. They can be for walking, cocktailing, working, running, posing, cruising. They can be black, brown, paisley, high, low, leather, or cloth. They can have bows, peep toes, polka dots, or buckles. Doesn’t matter.

I don’t consider myself girlie, but from a seminal moment in 1968, when I put on my first pair of strappy sandals, I was smitten, enfeebled by their hypnotic pull. To my naïve 14-year-old mind, they made me look so je ne sais quoi incredibly sexy. I took to them immediately, and I haven’t looked back.

Over the years, I’ve gained a mortgage, a car payment and two hungry college-aged sons, so I can’t afford a closetful of shoes, but I adore them all the same. The right pair will transport me to a beach in Saint Tropez or a board room on Wall Street.

University level research, industry studies, books, movies and television episodes have been dedicated to women’s shoes. I know. I found them while conducting some important Internet research shod in a pair of bright yellow and black flip-flops, which, by the way, are very cute.

The Sight of You
Back to Macy's. With no ability to purchase so much as a deep discount, my only option was to coo over every Roman sandal, bedazzled slipper and business chic pump. My boyfriend laughed but asked a provocative question:
"Why are you so attracted to shoes?"

I’d never really thought about it, and in a rare moment, I was at a loss for words.

At some point after the first cave dweller recognized that a piece of leather protects the feet, something happened to turn shoes from practical to fashionable, from simple foot covering to an empowerment tool.

What Attracts You?
I asked my Facebook friends the question and got these answers:
#1 Answer: They make my feet look good.
#2 Answer: They don’t hurt.
Men answered on either end of the spectrum -- practical or rapacious, such as Arch Support or When You’re in Them.

The most amusing award goes to a high school friend:
They make my butt look good.

Does This Mean Anything?
We expect a lot from our shoes, beginning with arch support and ending with derriere reduction. But what does it mean? Something as relatively inexpensive and simple as footwear can make us anything we want to be at least for a while.

5 Pet Peeves That Contribute to the Demise of My World

The world’s a messy place. Entire countries have gone into default, and our own is headed in that direction. Unemployment runs rampant while greedy Wall Street types just take more for themselves. Grrr.

Such woes are heavy indeed, but they pale in comparison to the things that vex me and affect my world:

1. Clerks who jam a printed receipt, cash and change into my hand all at once. I’ve got a bag, a purse, a food tray and maybe a small dog in one hand, and now I’m grasping a giant wad of paper in the other. What am I supposed to do? Pull out my mutant third arm?

2. People who make hackneyed statements such as:
“Well, at least it’s a dry heat.” or
“I never watch television.”
If you must make weather observations or discuss your ridiculous lack of entertainment good sense, then at least come up with something original:
“This must be a preview to the crematorium.” or
“I prefer nightly performances of mime Shakespeare in the round.”

3. Louts who don’t take care of their pets, who leave them alone penned in the yard with no food or shade. If you don’t have the time or inclination to care for an animal, don’t get one. At all. Ever. I mean it.

4. Celebrities who want attention on their terms. You got into show biz to be seen and heard. Right? Sorry, it doesn’t go both ways. When the chips are down, we, your public, don’t turn off our interest. We ramp it up.

5. Drivers who take forever to exit a parking spot. C’mon. Are you leaving or are you living there? Why do you get in, turn on the engine, and wait. It’s not a space shuttle launch. Move it!

Bonus Peeve. Grouchy folks who complain about everything—drivers, neighbors, politics, etiquette, and cable companies.

Golly, I believe I’m now peeved at myself.

How Oprah's Life and Mine Are the Same

I always thought it uncanny how similar Oprah’s life and mine are. Although she recently retired, Oprah Winfrey’s as busy as ever in the role of Mother Confessor to the likes of O.J. and Fergie. No, not that Fergie, the less fortunate sister-in-law to Princess Di Fergie.

In fact, we're so alike, you just may find yourself telling me things no one should know.

Look Under Your Seats!
Oprah: When she’d shout this mania-inducing phrase, her studio audience went nuts. They’ll reach down and find a fab gift -- could be a first edition novel or a brand new smart phone.
Me: When I shout, “Look under your seat!” there’s either a mouse or a big, hairy spider about to crawl up your leg.

The Book Club
Oprah: She made reading fashionable when she chatted up the wonders of the written word. Book clubs formed around the world based on her book recommendations.
Me: My girlfriends and I finally gave up the quaint notion of reading books en masse. Our merry group meets to sip wine, gossip and eat. Is there really anything else?

My Favorite Things
Oprah: Oprah indulges herself and her friends in once-in-a-lifetime vacations, lavish spa treatments, and expensive cars.
Me: My favorite things include the ability to pay my monthly bills, the discovery of clean towels when I step from the shower, and the joy of a full tank of gas.

Weighty Issues
Oprah: She’s famously battled weight, and we’ve watched every pound lost and then regained, all with assistance from celebrity chefs and trainers. It looks like Oprah’s finally settled into a comfortably “healthy” look.
Me: I’m famous for consistently maintaining the same dumpy shape through the decades -- without help from anyone. I've settled for the body of Susan Boyle.

Meteoric Rise to Fame and Power
Oprah: She went from hometown TV gal to the most influential woman in show biz. She’s got wealth, power, fame and the ability to connect with just about anyone.
Me: I’m the hometown gal who’s the most influential woman in --. Okay, maybe this is where Oprah and I part ways.

Good luck to Oprah in her retirement. I only hope she can now relax and find her own way without looking to me for inspiration!

5 Places You Don't Want to See Your Ex

Unless you’re the Dalai Lama or devoid of all ego, after a break-up, you want your ex to believe you’ve moved on. In fact, your life couldn’t be better. Yes, much better, thank you.

You've struggled to appear put-together or simply unaffected, and there are places that could shatter the façade you’ve so carefully cultivated. These are places you don’t want to see your ex.

 Dance Studios. You don’t want to see your ex and new fiancée enter the dance studio you attend. How lovely. They’ve signed up for the Our First Waltz as Husband and Wife special. Break a leg.

 Personal “Oils” Section of Rite Aid. The sight of your ex checking out Intimate Moments by Axe in the pharmacy will make you either laugh or cry out in horror. Nuf said.

 Bankruptcy Attorney Waiting Room. Your ex always accused you of poor money management. Well, well, well. Look whose checkbook is unbalanced now. Oh, wait. I'm here. Never mind.

 Human Resources Department. The candidate interviewing to become your new manager is your ex. Can’t HR see through the manipulative dream-crushing personality? In 7 years, they’ll beg for a separation. Can’t breathe.

 In a Photograph Holding a Winning $1 Million Super Lotto Ticket. Repeat this mantra: Every dog deserves its day. Woof.

Can You Guess the True Scenario?
One of the above actually happened to me. Can you guess? Do you have a similar scenario to share? Come on, give it up.

TV is too easy: a social experiment

My two sports-addicted sons and the Househunters International-addicted I went without television for—GASP!—one entire week. I’d hoped that with all of that non-boob tube time, we’d:

• Invent a real time machine once and for all. I’d ask my great grandmother Iva what happened back there in Lovelock, Nevada. Ahem, see previous blog.
• Find a cure for obesity. I’d resume my love affair with apple fritters and Merlot. Ahem, see many previous blogs.
• Rid the land of the Kardashians. I’d single-handedly drive them into lives of quiet desperation. Ahem, I pray I never resort to a blog about them.

I had to broker a deal with the boys so as this social experiment would take place between Super Bowl and March Madness. Luckily for me, it was a week when Flip This House was on hiatus.

Days one and two were a breeze. We read, did homework, and I listened to a 12-step inspired CD. You’re good enough. You’re smart enough. And gosh darn it people like you!

Days three and four became the age of avoidance. I went to a movie, and my eldest son, the one most willing to embrace gray areas, watched The Office on his laptop. I didn’t consider a movie theater a violation. I had to get dressed, drive, walk and communicate with humans. Things not necessary while TV watching. My son argued that if it’s not a television screen, it’s within the spirit of the experiment.

Days five and six found me absently reaching for the remote. I itched to sink into my chair and press the “All On” button. I itched to go into a Househunters coma. I itched to mindlessly allow the sweet narcotic of cable programming rock me into an altered state.

Day seven, I awoke. My fever broken, I was relieved to be temporarily free of the heebie-jeebies.

Day eight was a return to our version of normalcy: Sports Center and HGTV in moderation.

What did we learn from this social experiment? They’ll get our television when they pry it from our gnarled, remote-clutching hands.

Iva Was a Bad Girl

Below is the beginning of a fictionalized account of my great-grandmother, Iva. Please humor me while I share some family history.

If you ask Amelia, it started with Silas. He was a little older by about six years. On an upward march toward becoming a U.S. Army officer, Silas was hard-working and focused. More importantly, he was a well-kept and well-groomed sober young man who recognized that a wife and family provided the kind of stability the Army favored.

If you ask Silas, it started with Amelia. Compared to most demure ladies of the Victorian Era, she was outspoken and held a desire to learn. Amelia completed the sixth grade, a fact she liked to pull out and wave around like a kid with a toffee apple when it suited her. At 18, she’d just reached the age when Father worried she’d become one of those much-to-be pitied Spinsters of her day.

Silas was stationed at Fort Brady near Sault Sainte Marie, Michigan. He’d served with honor in the Civil War, and reenlisted with the idea of making the military his career. The discipline suited him just fine. “Better than farming,” he liked to repeat.

Amelia waited for a fitting husband, and Silas fit her just fine. Like her father, Silas had served in the Civil War, a connection she appreciated.

At any rate, the two married in 1867. She was 18, and he was 24. If it wasn’t the ideal marriage, it certainly wasn’t the first time a bride or groom wed out of practicality and under a cloud of lowered expectations.

The facts of what transpired will never be known now, even if they were in 1870. There are no diaries, no biographies, no Facebook accounts or YouTube video postings. Left behind are only the sketchiest of family trees, verbal suppositions and imagination.

Here’s what we do know. Silas Webster McNeil, a U.S. Army officer married Zephra Amelia Coleman, and they had at least one child.

This child, my great-grandmother Iva Elizabeth, is the subject of our story today.

To be continued . . .

An Open Letter to the 17 Followers of Lynette’s Whimsy

My legion of followers--okay, two of you--have asked me, “Where’s the whimsy? Why no silly musings? How about a good rant?”

It’s been nearly a month since my last post.
I share with you a few of my lame excuses:

1. It’s not you. It’s me. And basically I’m a little lazy.

2. It’s rainy. And basically I shut down and curl up during monsoon season.

3. I’ve found someone else. And basically her name is Iva. She’s my great grandmother, and I’m delving into her scandalous life.

4. I’ve got a Kindle. And basically reading in bed is so much more convenient with 15,000 book titles, not to mention free online games, at my finger tips.

5. I’ve resumed my embarrassing TV habit. And basically watching 25 hours of “Sex and the City” reruns takes up a lot of my time. 25 hours to be exact.

6. I think I’m the next Aaron Sorkin. And basically I’m reading how to write a movie pitch and have begun said pitch.

7. I’m positioning myself to be named Huffington Post’s Greatest Person of the Day. And basically I’ve volunteered for two archaeology projects, signed up with the American Red Cross and continue with the American River Parkway.

Don’t give up on Lynette’s Whimsy. She’s alive and starting to kick once again.

Yours Truly,
Lynette

P.S. – I have no idea what an “open letter” is, but I’ve always wanted to use that phrase.

Comcast Is My Pusher. Their Internet Is My Drug.

Vile Comcast is my pusher. Their Internet and television service is my nicotine-laced crack. I have to have it, whenever I need it, which is every day and sometimes in the middle of the night.

Comcast knows I’m jonesin’ bad for it.

They Call the Shots
Because Comcast has the upper hand, they capriciously and maliciously provide service when it’s convenient for them, not when I’m pleading, wild-eyed and in a cold sweat.

What I’d Love to Tell Comcast
I pay vile Comcast for 24-hour service. These are the responses I’d love to give them when I report that they’ve, once again, broken their end of the bargain.

Comcast: We’re experiencing a higher than normal call volume. Please be patient while our next rep becomes available.
My Response: I’m experiencing a higher than normal debt volume. Please be patient while I scrape together your payment.

Comcast: Is your cable box plugged in?
My Response: You people came out here and installed the equipment. It’s your cable box. YOU tell me!

Comcast: We value you as a customer. Please hold the line.
My Response (decades later): Since my initial contact, Bill Gates’ great-grandson has perfected telepathic communication. I know what you’re thinking. Stop it!

Comcast: Get a bobby pin, find the reset button located at the back of the cable box, and push until the lights blink. It should come right back on.
My Response: **CENSORED ** NOT FIT FOR A FAMILY BLOG. ** CENSORED**

Comcast: A storm has caused an outage in your area. We are aware of the problem. There is no need for you to report it at this time.
My Response: What storm? We just got .025 inches of rain. This gives me little confidence your equipment will withstand the rigors of a notorious Central Valley pollen alert.

Calling Dr. Rehab. Oh, Yeah, I Can’t. I Don’t Have Phone Service.
I need help to kick this cable habit. My next call should be to Dr. Drew, Rehab Doctor to the Stars, but my phone service is out. Vile Comcast.

The Irony of My Plea. Stop Talking About Sarah!

The irony isn’t lost on me here. All I ask is that we stop, please stop, talking about Sarah Palin. What the?!? I’ve already used her name twice in the first paragraph, but I don’t know how else to make my point.

It’s like a parent who screams, “You kids, stop yelling!”

And the kids, of course, kick up the volume.

It’s a vicious cycle, doncha know.

And This Isn’t About How Much I Dislike the Woman
This isn’t some kind of political diatribe about the dems, the reeps or the detestable tea-baggers. It’s about the way we as a society just LOVE to HATE her.

It’s crazy that those who claim to dislike Sarah so much continue to give her credence when they comment on her dim-witted statements, lampoon her homespun banalities and publish cartoon likenesses of her.

Et Tu, Jon Stewart?
Jon Stewart, of all people, invited Sarah to be a guest on his show. He slammed her for whining while on her own reality show about media intrusions into her personal life. And then he offered to give her more air time!

Just last week Doonesbury featured her as a goofy, who-me? children’s story teller.

Her publicity seems to have no end.

After today, I’ll never say or write the name Sarah Palin again.

If we ignore her, don’t make eye contact and slowly back away, she may just go away.

A Glass (or Two) of Wine Does Not a Criminal Make

In my Weight Watchers meeting (See, I am occasionally virtuous.), the leader asked how we fatties reward ourselves.

“Drink a glass of wine with dinner!” I shouted without hesitation.

Everyone held their collective breaths; eyes widened.

“At least you’re honest,” another member replied, pityingly.

“An occasional glass is fine,” the leader countered in attempt to emolliate the mob.

“That’s right,” I smiled. “A few sips and, ahhh, everything’s better.”

Horror from the crowd.

My So-Called Obsession with Strangling Mother Teresa

What? Did I just confess to strangling Mother Teresa or that I have an obsession with fossilized kitty litter?

No, I said I enjoy a glass (or two) of wine with dinner.

“Well, golly,” I tried to recover. “It’s not like I drink my glass of wine at work or while I’m at the drive-through window.”

Embarrassed titters.

I decided to just be quiet after that.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury

In defense of a glass (or two) of wine, I present my case.

First off, let me state I’m adamantly opposed to drunkenness, alcoholism, drunk driving, boxed wines or ostentatious wines. That said, here we go:

A Long and Ignoble History

Fermented beverages have been enjoyed since Neanderthal man grunted, “Ugh. Over-ripe loganberry make everything lot better.” Oh, wait a minute. Didn’t I just say that?

Au Naturale
Even birds have been known to imbibe in fermented pyracantha berries. It’s a winter time kick to watch tipsy black birds try to walk a straight line.
Heart Healthy
Erudite studies report that a glass of red wine, full antioxidants and resveratrol promote a healthy heart. I don’t know what antioxidants or resveratrol are, but my heart will be pumping like a 16-year-old Olympiad when my teetotaling friends are in the cardiopulmonary ward.

God’s Will

Every religion from Animism to Zeus worship, embrace a glass of wine as part of their worship. Where do you think debauchery comes from? Okay, maybe not the best example.

Everyone Has a Weakness

No one bats an eye at the coffee addicted or a sweet tooth. I can pass up a lot of things, I’m not sure when it became shameful to drink a glass of wine with dinner, but that’s one reward I’m not passing up.

FOOD FIGHT!

Celebrations should be about the special day, the guest of honor, the accomplishment. Right?

So why have they turned into food and entertainment competitions?
It begins with Thanksgiving, moves into Christmas and finishes up on Independence Day. Thanksgiving’s opening salvo goes something like this:

Question: “So how many are you having over for dinner?” Challenging grin.

Answer: “Somewhere around 12 to 14. I bought a 16-lb. turkey!” Victorious smirk.

Response: “A small group, then.” Pitying kill shot.

12 Is Never Enough
What?!? Since when is 12 people for a sit-down dinner in your home, that you shop for and prepare yourself considered small? Any other time of year, and I’d be hailed as a brilliant hostess, bordering on Martha Stewart-like greatness.

Why must I apologize if I don’t take a week off to hunt and field dress my bird? Hello, Sarah Palin. If I fail to prepare six varieties of pie, two kinds of yams, which no one likes, and grandma’s home-grown, organic, free-range pumpkin and hand-ground cinnamon soup (recipe translated from the original German, no less), I’m a loser.

December 26 or Bust
Christmas brings the same kind of in-your-face competitive attitude -- with the addition of gift buying and wrapping. You’ve won the game of mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the weariest of us all if you’re a complete wreck come December 26.

At Least Men Embrace Paper Plates
And let’s not forget the men. On the 4th of July, guys-who-love-to-grill fall prey to the same unrealistic expectations as women: the special cuts of beef, the elaborate marinades, the exotic seasonings and barbequing techniques. At least they’re perfectly happy with paper plates and plastic forks.

Don’t get me wrong. I agree. Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the oven. I also agree to value the effort that goes into a multi-course meal for more than four. It’s hard work. Right?