What I Forgot to Tell My Son

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What I Forgot to Tell My Son

Whilst checking out at Target, I inexplicably shared with the woman ringing me up, that my son was moving out that very day. She peered at me like a small hen who had just rang up all of the ingredients for my world famous fried chicken minus the chicken and then asked if I left my son with anything.

I thought she might have meant torn towels and cracked dishes,license-plate

but she soon clarified she meant advice on how I expect him to behave.

What I should have said was I expect him to behave like he always behaves,

like an enormous galoot that trails coins, socks and guitar picks wherever he goes, but instead I told her, my son is 25 and if he hasn’t figured out what my life lessons were, it’s a little late to start now, although I still call him baby and occasionally try to pick him up, which is beside the point, but absolutely relevant when I visit the chiropractor.

She went on to discuss why teenagers can be assholes, advancing a theory which was neither relevant to our conversation or more than 10% true, but I thanked her because that’s how you get people to stop telling you things, and rolled my cart out of hearing. For all I know, she is still discussing the topic with confused replacements of me, but who can replace me, so never mind.

While driving home, I wondered what he’d say if asked about what I taught him over the time it was my chance to espouse philosophies and demand compliance. One thing’s for sure, it would be quite different than what I think I told him, so I thought I’d try to advise him one last time (kidding! I’ll never let up on him. Poor kid is an only child).

After a great deal of deep thought, here’s what I came up with.

There are seven deadly sins; sloth, envy, gluttony, anger, Curly, Larry and Doc. Try them out, pick which one you like and stick with it. My favorite is sloth, but you’ll need to figure this out for yourself.

Try not to be swarmy or smarmy.

Don’t wear white after Labor Day…or ever. I’m the one who did your laundry so, trust me on this.

Do not befriend or fall in love with anyone who can’t name The Beatles by their first and last names. Only marry someone who can tell you Paul’s first name and Ringo’s given name. The Ringo point is less important, naturally.

Try to be kind. Yes, even to the guy who argues that Yeti’s are eating his potato chips while he sleeps. There’s no need to jeer him unless your friends do and then, of course, join in.

Watch out for women who ask; Notice anything different?

Do your damn homework. Even if it’s irrelevant, like Algebra or Physics.

Even though you will always love me best, you probably shouldn’t tell women this on the first date…or the thirtieth. Maybe just keep that our little secret.

No one is better than you and you are not better than anyone else. Except for people who leave clothes on the floor is store dressing rooms and people who leave their shopping carts in handicapped parking spaces. These people are stupid and evil. Avoid them.

This is not 100% true, but people who use mustache wax are clinically insane 90% of the time. Approach them with caution.

When deciding whether or not to participate in an activity; ask yourself, will this make a hilarious story to tell my mother? If the answer is yes, do it and try to take videos. If the answer is no, move on to the next ridiculous activity you are inclined to participate in.

Never end a sentence with a preposition. (Do as I say, not as I do. Doobie doobbie doo.) Make of that what you will.

If anyone wants to fight you, seem to happy about it and they’ll wander off.

Finally, become a rock star so I can meet Paul McCartney and Chris Martin. I’m sorry but you just don’t meet enough people I want to meet as a Forensic Psychologist. (I know. I just can’t remember the title you’re aiming for.)

Wait. Don’t forget to tell me you miss me with a fiery passion, even if you haven’t given me a second thought in days.

Oh, one more. Lie.

Why You Should Shut Up and Why I Already Have

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Why You Should Shut Up and Why I Already Have

The act of being alive affords many questions which will, if history is any indicator, never be adequately answered. Questions like: Why are we here? (on earth, not the Internet. We’re on the Internet because there’s nothing on TV. The End.) What is the meaning of life? (and I’m not talking about the Monty Python movie) and why do so many people fail to understand that Cilantro tastes like feet?

shut-up

All of the preceding questions will, no doubt, plague the thoughtful denizens of humanity until Kansas is the last ocean front property or until we run out of Oreo’s, whichever comes first, but as far as I’m concerned, there is one question that supersedes the others, one question that is so deeply mysterious that no amount or quality of think tanks will ever be able to even crack the surface of this mystery inside an enigma. And that question is: What the hell is Gwyneth Paltrow thinking?

I kid, of course. The real mystery of the ages is why do people go to musical performances to have conversations? Have they not heard of restaurants or even living rooms or cars?

Since every written question is rhetorical, by virtue of the lack of human give and take, known as conversations, I will answer for all of you who do not talk at performances. No, they have not heard of these places, nor have they heard of grassy hillsides, sidewalks or the library, where apparently talking is now considered in vogue and-spoiler alert!-the topic of future rant.

Maybe talkers, (who will be heretofore referred to as Yapsters) think people wander off of the street, decide to become musicians and begin to make a pleasing sound (unless they’re Yoko Ono) with no forethought or sense of accomplishment, when, in fact, they start picking out tunes on the piano as toddlers, tenderly banging their fists against the ivories looking for that next new sound, which will most likely be, “Go to bed, I’m tired”, which will not make sense to them until they’re old.

For the next ten years, aspiring musicians will be forced to attend lessons, ignoring the pleading teachers and parents who warn said children, if they don’t become rock stars they will have no way of earning a living. (At least that’s what I told my kid.)

Finally, after many student musicians who aren’t meant for the stage have drifted off to concentrate on their acne, those who remain will realize that musical instruments attract members of the opposite sex (or same, not that there’s anything wrong with that Trademark: Jerry Seinfeld,) and will pour their hearts and souls into learning to play, sing and move around the stage without tripping or looking like Joe Cocker (unless you’re Joe Cocker, in which case, have you taken your medicine?), finally rising from their basements and garages to take the stage in some dingy bar or coffee-house, throw back their heads and let their dreams spew out (this is only for metal heads and those band members who accept every drink bought for them,) only to find that the majority of patrons have attended, not to hear the artfulness of the performers musical expression, but because they’ve left their home in order to start a thousand sentences with the word, “Dude.”

This isn’t only the case with rockers or folk singers, but Barbershop quartets and opera singers, although those at the opera start conversations not with “Dude”, but “My Good Man”. In any and all cases, Yapsters not only feel free to gab, chat and generally exhort one another, much to the dismay and/or indignant fury of those who did or did not buy tickets (me), but did leave the house in order to hear the wonder of a human being with the ability to use the same 8 notes (except, once again for Yoko, who has apparently discovered her own musical tools, hitherto unheard by man nor beast) to make a myriad of melodies with instruments and vocal performances, that are so pleasing to the ear as to soothe the savage breast. (Yes, its breast. You have the quote wrong and, once again, the soothing part doesn’t apply to Ms. Ono, bless her heart.)

These talents, and I’ll give you that the word “talent” can be used very loosely in some cases, are every day occurrences to Yapsters. After all, music plays while they ride in elevators, shop in malls and watch Honey Boo Boo, so what’s the big deal, seems to be the “thinking”. The world owes them a soundtrack and they have no sense of reciprocity. So I will explain this in a patient and respectful way, so that, once and all Yapsters will understand. (They won’t, but since I’m here…)

Here’s the deal: Shut the hell up. When you’re in the elevator, shut the hell up. When you’re watching TV, even if it’s something so f!@#cked up that somewhere Shakespeare is weeping into his hands, shut up! Give yourself the chance to intake rather than output from time to time, or at least at the local bandshell when groups of bent old men, who look as if they’re concealing backpacks by wearing them under the fronts of their shirts, have been practicing for a year for this night where they can achieve warm applause for singing “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” mostly on key in three and 3/4 part harmony.

Shut up at orchestra presentations and piano recitals. Shut up for the ballet and they young man who only knows three chords but is trying his best on open mic night. Shut up for Yoko. You heard me. You knew what you were getting into when you came so shut up and take it.

And while I’m at it, and this is for your own good, shut up for Stand Up Comics because they make a living with their mind and they will not fail to use it against you in the most tortuous way. Think Braveheart but painful.

Make your kids shut up at the movies. When they ask why they have to be quiet when all the other kids are yapping, explaining that the parents of the other kids are Yapsters and Yapsters are the only group it’s ok to throw things at, then proceed to demonstrate this.

Shut Up! Be Quiet! Pipe Down! Zip your Lip! Shut you Pie Hole! Or Your Cake Hole (Your preference) Dummy up, Dummy!

Pretend you don’t have anything earth-shattering to share (and you don’t. Let’s just face facts), until the lights go up and the applause goes down and then you can alienate your friends and family with your constant chatter on a one-on-one basis which is how nature intended, where face to face, we can all contemplate the age-old questions, such as Why Are We Here?

Answer: Because no one publishes my blog posts so you have to be here in order read them. Next question? Ask me when the show’s over.

Why I’m Sharp as a Tack

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As we age, we’re told that stimulation of the mind is a necessity if we want to keep up with the likes of Pat Sajak, which doesn’t seem  to be setting the bar very high, but one can only hope.

Now, where did I leave that British pop star?

Now, where did I leave that British pop star?

With that in mind, I’ve developed a few hobbies to keep my brain power in tip top shape, or at least hovering above the where-are-we-going-to-put-mom level.

A few years ago, my personal mother demonstrated this level while visiting my home. While sitting on my deck deciding which plant she would trim into oblivion as soon as my attention was diverted, she reported back to me that she was worried about a particular bird which hadn’t moved for hours. I explained that the bird was painted on the side of a bird feeder and thus far had never moved and proceeded to mock her for the rest of her visit.

Because I am weird enough without the benefit of older age, I’ve decided to take up some hobbies which will keep my brain running on as many cylinders as it takes to at least recognize painted birds from the able-to-fly-away kind.

One of my favorites is throwing out the caps to bottle and jars which are still in use. The idea is to toss the lids to say, olive oil into the trash while cleaning up the kitchen and then, when you get to the putting stuff away portion of the evening, wondering where the hell the lid to the olive oil is.

This exercise necessitates two things: the decision to search through the leavings of a family meal in order to retrieve the cap or to create a substitute from items you have around the house. For extra points, don’t use bad language.

Another brain power enhancing activity requires that you never return anything to where you initially found it. This exercise is particularly helpful if you have a spouse who returns things to their proper place, thus alleviating the participant of the arduous job of finding the keys, purse, glasses, remote control or life saving medicine in order to begin the brain stimulating activity of finding necessary objects. Once again, extra points for not swearing or accusing your family of moving the objects in order to make you feel like you’re losing your mind, (which you are).

The next example requires family members to talk in a normal tone of voice. You are only permitted to ask for a repeat one time, after that you will need to guess what the family member is trying to convey. The bonus is that, often what the family member is saying is hilarious and nonsensical, although these same people are required to pretend that what you heard was not even close to what was actually said. For instance, your husband can turn to you while watching television and say: I saw Bob today, to which you would correctly reply, “This show isn’t even about pandas!” Once again, bonus points are available for not accusing said loved ones of speaking softly.

Try getting a crush on a 36-year-old rock star. Although these activities are more geared to keeping the mind youthful and not revisiting immaturity, done right, this activity can stimulate the brain, etc. Here’s what you do; attempt having a sexual fantasy about say, Chris Martin. Now try to imagine an outcome in the real world that wouldn’t include the words, “I’m very flattered…really…but…” This takes some serious brain power.

Nearly everyone I know over 40 plays this next brain buzzing game, but if you don’t remember when MTV had videos 24/7, here’s how it’s played. You wake up injured and your job is to guess exactly what happened while you were asleep which would result in a sprained head. Or, you reach for your babushka, (Old lady for scarf,) and you suffer an attack on your shoulder which can only be described as !@#$! !@#$%^&! Your job is to come up with a more fascinating, yet still believable story which precludes old age as a factor in your injury. For instance, despite her claim of “conscious uncoupling” Gwyneth didn’t take well to my greeting her husband by winking and saying, “Hey Good Lookin’! What’s Cookin?” So she twisted my arm.

There are those who prefer crossword puzzles or trivia, but these activities necessitate items which, as a person of years, will always be missing when the mood to poke at the recesses of your brain arises. Yet, at any given moment you can strain a muscle while fantasizing about Chris Martin as you throw important items in the trash, in the midst of finding you…your…what was I looking for?

Why May and I are BFFs

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Why May and I are BFFs

I don’t know about you, but I don’t think of winter as an old man. First of all, old men seem to focus on their lawns and that’s seems

Springless than possible when any semblance of green grass is destroyed in November and only begins to moan about being in a coma in March.

Winter, to me, is an old woman who will not turn the thermostat up, despite the blue hue of her fellow dwellers, which is a good name for a folk band.

She gives the cold shoulder to those of us who like to know our fingers and toes are stil attached without visual assurance. “When I was a girl,” she’ll screech, “There was constant snow! We didn’t have any mamby pamby sleds, either! If I wanted to slide, I’d let my ass freeze over in the outhouse and trip on my way back to the unheated hut that I called home. You didn’t hear me complain! I loved it! Why, when April came around, I’d chase her away with a shovel!” (April being the delicate flower of a girl who had the nerve to want to wear her Easter Sunday dress without a woolen overcoat.)

I spend most of my time in the winter, cursing this evil doer, but usually the cold sucks the breath from my mouth, freezing the words, and letting them drop into the snow, never to be heard again until I slam my finger in a window come screen cleaning time.

Spring in Chicago, on the other hand, is very hard to differentiate from winter. Same snow, same cold, same growling, teeth chattering from me, but the blue in my fingers begins to turn toward mauve and when I see April skip around the corner for the first time, I secretly hate her, because, let’s face it, she’s a bit of a tease.

40 degrees is all we ask and she gives it to us, before smacking us in the face with plastic flowers and running inside to bake cookies with Winter for another several weeks.

By the way, cookies are part of the distinct misery that is winter, although they are not thrust upon me, I feel compelled to overindulge. There is a scientific reason for this, but I don’t care because my pants don’t fit. However, for those of you who like the intricacies of science, here it is: Before Marshalls and TJ Maxx, humans needed protection from the cold and fig leaves weren’t cutting it. So, because they weren’t thinking of how this would affect me, they ate enough to fill a black hole, if a black hole get’s hungry and let’s hope they don’t.

Back then there was little need to get in shape for bikini weather because razors and waxing weren’t invented yet and also because laying on the beach with your friends constituted a buffet for those higher up on the food chain. Also there were no fashion magazines, so women didn’t know that they should be ready, at ever given time, to model for osteology classes.

So, they ate. A lot. And I kind of envy them, because there was no downside. No one sobbed over last year’s wardrobe because only a tube top and you husband’s gym shorts still fit. No one worried about muffin tops, double chins and thunder thighs as that meant less time poking a fire in the cave.

I suppose the fact that they ran from whatever meat-eater found them attractive, thus getting their cardio in every day, kept them in shape, but unless a bear chases me up the block on a daily basis or I chased something desirable, like cheesecake or Chris Martin (for those who have written demanding more Chris Martin blogs, this will have to do for now and you’re welcome,) there will be no running for me. It’s been written into law by my knees.

Anyway, with no thought for the future, Evolution and Calvin Klein did away with the need to eat cupcake and cookies and donuts to keep warm, so why, once September turns a cold shoulder to me, do I feel the need to bulk up from Halloween through Easter and why do these holidays focus on candy? And why aren’t philosophy majors working on this? After all, it’s not like they have jobs.

Despite my less than ideal appearance once Sprinter (Some Spring but mostly Winter) rolls around, May is my favorite month, like a friend who lives far away and I only get to see once a year. You don’t have to dress up for her, she brings fruit, she smells nice, she likes to sit on the porch and watch it rain and she never mentions the fact that you’re wearing a tube top and men’s gym shorts.

Even when May slips up and snows, (yes, it freakin’ snowed in May this year) you have to forgive her because you know you’ll miss her when she’s gone.

Some people don’t appreciate May like I do, however, hence the following conversation I overheard in TJ Maxx recently:

“Wasn’t last weekend hot?”

“Yes, it was. I told my daughter, that’s enough summer for me!”

“I know and it’s going to get cold again this weekend.”

“Awful.”

These women should be deposited in a the bleakest of Canadian back yards where, every year, fossils are discovered one the snow melts in August. (These fossils are called friends and family).

May has come and gone now and I miss her already, although I also enjoy her slightly hotter sister June. I try not to be a glass half frozen girl, but I start dreading December in July to beat the rush, so I’m going to make June count. After all, as the the song from Carousel goes, June is Bustin’ Out All Over, so she has no room to talk.

Why My Son Uses Frowned Upon Language

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Why My Son Uses Frowned Upon Language

 

When my son was about two, he sat in my Pastor’s house, happily building with blocks in the middle of the living room floor. My husband and I were friends with the pastor and his wife Lori, because she said we had to be.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like them, it was just, growing up Catholic, it never occurred to me that you could be friends with your minister, let alone his wife, which would be a whole other kettle of fish. Turned out, the Pastor’s wife was, and is my kind of gal, but that’s not why you called.

Anyway, there was my cherubic son, wearing his OshKosh B’Gosh overalls and looking for all the world like the sweetest human being God ever put on the planet. OK, that’s probably just me, but I’m right.

As he built whatever he thought he was building, (he was darling but architecture wasn’t his strong point,” it all tumbled to the floor.

That's right, baby, D is for @#$%^!

That’s right, baby, D is for @#$%^!

He let loose with a dammit preceded by the name of the deity who should do so and then went back to his work. Silence ensued.

 

When I managed to raise my eyes to the pastor, he cocked an eyebrow. “Cable TV?” I offered feebly, knowing full well who was responsible; my husband and his potty mouth.

OK. That’s not quite true. Actually, of we’re going to be technical, it’s an out right lie. It was Lori.

Actually, as I’m sure anyone who knows me or any idiot off of the street, (I’m choosing not make a joke at the expense of those who know me and, those of you who do, know what a strain that is for me,) will assume without making an ass of either one of us, that my son’s unfortunate slip was simply an echo of what he’d heard while, as is the case with most mothers and children,
we were making cookies together using cookie cutters which would not release the dough.

I instantly regretted my words and vowed to watch my language. I didn’t, but I made that vow so that should count for something.

After another out-of-character tirade (for a two-year-old and not so much for a seasoned sailor,) spewed from the back seat of my car, aimed at a slow driving person in front of us, I realized I had to clean up my language and this time it stuck, unless I became unglued. (See what I did there?)

One exception is notable however and this isn’t really my fault. When my son was about seven, I was trying, unsuccessfully to change to bulbs in our ceiling fan/light fixture. Time after time, I attempted to screw the bulb in, which was nearly out of my reach, but not so much so that I easily gave up.

Finally, I thought I’d done it and, as I was crawling off of the official tool for screwing in light bulbs, my kitchen chair, the bulb and the surrounding fixture fell to the floor with an impressive crash.

I said something along the order of @#$%^&&^%$#$%^&*(*&^%$#$%^&*! And your mother too! You *&^%$%^&!

Almost immediately I remembered my son, quietly watching shows with little, to no profanity, in the next room and I went in to apologize. He was sitting on the edge of the recliner, his large eyes nearly double in size, causing him look a bit like animé and not in a particularly bad way, depending on your level of dorkiness.

I profusely apologized and explained it was very wrong for me to wish the maker of my ceiling fan a painful experience in his private regions.

“That’s ok, Mommy,” he said. “I didn’t even know those words could go together.”

So we both learned a valuable lesson that day.

Some time later, I was rewarded with a feeling of maternal progress when my son approached me and announced, “I know what the F word is!”

I sighed and explained that knowing it is ok, but saying it was not nice. He nodded and promised not to say it, but I could tell he was desperate to say it and who wouldn’t be? So, I gave him permission to tell me, just this once.

He could hardly contain his pride as he announced the word. “Shut up,” he said.

“That’s right!” I said, relief and amusement washing over me.

Later that week, while on the phone with a casual friend I recounted the story and, because amusement goeth before a fall, I gave the phone to my son and told him to tell my friend what the F word is.

He took the phone in his hands and said, “Fuck.”

My friend was very angry and didn’t see what was so funny about encouraging my young son to use filthy language. She is no longer my friend, not precisely because of that, but because when I told my real friends, including the soon to be ex-wife of my former pastor they belly laughed and that’s what you want in a friend.

Eventually, I reverted to my less than pristine language mostly because I believe words are words and some of them shouldn’t be set aside because someone (probably someone’s mother whilst burning her hand as she lit the castle’s candles) said they were bad.

My son is now 25 and I’d like to say he has learned to control his use of the F word, (which by the way, in case anyone is  still wondering, does not mean shut up), but this is not the case. In fact he sometimes uses that very phrase I used while destroying my ceiling fan and, rather unkindly points out that I have no one to blame but myself, which is true , but still not the kind of thing a mother wants to see written across her Mother’s Day cake.

Because I’m a time-and-place kind of potty mouth there are times I regret my behavior and, as an old person, I feel compelled to give advice to the young, not so much so they won’t traverse the same rocky road as I, but because, after I give them this unwanted advice and they head off into the sunset using the very road I warned them against, I can say, I told you so.

So, always remember, (here’s where young people hear the sound of the adults in the Peanuts cartoons so I could say just about anything, but still…) Do not watch cable TV (this was a type of entertainment which existed before satellites and the Internet) with your impressionable children and, what ever you do, don’t change light bulbs until they’re asleep.

Oh, and take your pastor’s wife out to lunch and ask her if she knows what the F word is.

Why The Olympics Are Less Than Enjoyable to Me.

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Despite practicing with garbage can lids.

Well, another Olympics have come and gone and I, like most of you, can’t help thinking about the young people who came from all over the globe, proudly wearing their country’s colors in order to vie for the opportunity to interrupt each and every one of my favorite programs.

I left Parenthood in the middle of a potential divorce, Bones over some revolting guts, calmly presided over by the enigmatic Dr. Brennan and Scandal in the middle of a, well, you can probably guess, so that athletes can replicate what I can only imagine originally took place in the backyards of male teenagers between, “Hey! Watch this!” and traction.

I picture these anonymous (and probably currently arthritic) young men attempting to defy gravity, (which was put there for a reason), by flipping their feet with their heads (which were put on in the original way for a reason), while hurdling toward the frozen pool with garbage can lids strapped to their feet, while practicing gymnastics. Which begs a question; how many catastrophic injuries have been preceded by the phrase: Hey! Watch this!

Although, I don’t enjoy the games, I can see why orthopedic surgeons might, in fact there is probably a unmentionable reaction in the crisply pleated trousers of the these specialists when a human being straps on long slippery footwear, points his or herself down a mountain treated with extra coatings of Crisco and hurls themselves toward the bottom.

Many of my friends watch these activities and urge me to likewise tune in, and sometimes I do because NCIS and Psych aren’t on, but I find myself unsuccessfully trying to talk people out of piling into a (Crisco-coated?) sphere in costumes which may or may not consist of latex paint and —this just in, outside of the theatre, costumes are referred to as uniforms. Who knew?

Figure skating is often pointed to as the one activity that I might enjoy, and sometimes I do, especially when I gasp for oxygen after holding my breath for the entirety of the routine, imagining the death and destruction which seems all but certain to take place when people take to the ice with sharp blades on their feet and proceed to toss each other around like a Sicilian pizza chef preparing a crust.

As I watch these exercises of impending doom, I wonder things like; who would I trust enough to allow him to throw me up into the air with the promise to catch me.

The answer is no one. When I venture from my home in the winter, my beloved husband and darling son fear for my life and often take me by the scruff of my coat with the intention of keeping me upright on icy sidewalks. I trust both of these people with my life, but I know, if I fall, they’re going with me, most likely on top of me, which would make matters worse, especially when we went to the creepy orthopedic surgeon.

Now picture my husband telling me, “Wife, hold onto my arm and just before we get to the ice coated gate, leap into my arms and I will toss you into the air where I hope you’ll prettily point your toes before gravity works its magic and I will catch you with one hand and flip you over my shoulder before settling you back down. Then we’ll go get milk.”

He might add, “Don’t worry, I’ve practiced this with a shovel and garbage cans strapped to my feet when I was a teenaged boy, so no harm will come to you.”

I might respond in a way which resembles the time I was trying to change lightbulbs in my ceiling fan and the complexity overcame me. I ended spouting a stream of vulgar words before realizing my small son was in the next room. I called out an apology to which he replied, “That’s ok. I didn’t even know those words could go together.” This is how I Iost “Mother of the Year” in 1993, the one and only year I was in the competition.

I always wonder about the parents of these athletes and how they watch these activities with no sign of being physically held back by security. Have they no instinct to tackle their child and return them to the safety of the nest or basement or wherever they’d have to lock up their kid in order to keep them from interrupting my programs?

My grown son fell outside of his apartment last weekend (which I like to refer to as his temporary living space before returning home for good), and when he called to describe his injuries my first reaction was to call out the National Guard to protect this disastrous event from recurring when my son leaves his “apartment” to come home for good. The National Guard, however stopped taking my calls when my son was injured during a rehearsal of the musical, Hair. Seems it’s not in their job description to prevent American citizens from being injured during dance numbers. I have received similar messages from The FBI and The CIA

Luckily his injury was not considered local news and my programs were not interrupted and now that The Olympics are in the rear view mirror, I can get back to what’s important; evaluating Adam Levine’s attractiveness on The Voice. I give him an 8 and he doesn’t even have to strap garbage cans to his feet.