Hey, Santa's Elbowing Out the Turkey! Cry Fowl!

First, let me make it perfectly clear that I have, in the past, been a Black Friday shopper.  In fact, I regarded it not so much as a Christmas chore, but as a major annual sporting event.  I have been seen in the pre-dawn police-guarded line waiting to get into Walmart to nab an obscenely cheap TV.  I have experienced total shopping cart gridlock inside a Toys R Us.  I've wandered aimlessly through the mall no longer clear on which relatives I was still shopping for.  I have known the thrill of capturing the parking space right next to the door and I have entertained thoughts of curling up for a nap in a department store fitting room.  Happiness is both starting and finishing your Christmas shopping in one day.  It's very much like running a marathon… a very crowded marathon.  I've done Black Friday and I totally get it.
 Black Friday is the day after Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving is the day we hang back with our families and eat ourselves to the border of sick.  That's just us.  For other folks, Thanksgiving is a day to volunteer at a soup kitchen.  For others it's a football marathon in which no body moves from the sofa.  Some more ambitious sporting types might venture to the yard for an actual game of football.  It's a day for parades, turkey, and endless pile of pots and pans to scrub, and a night of crawling through traffic for those who went over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house.  No matter what a family's situation or choice of activity, or whether they choose None of the Above, Thanksgiving is a day when even Sears employees are entitled to celebrate the national holiday as they feel fit.  
Black Friday may be the Holy Grail of business days and I respect that, but Thanksgiving is still a national holiday.  Santa should not be elbowing out the Turkey.  While it is a shopper's choice to skip the feast, opening the shopping frenzy on Thanksgiving takes the holiday away from the people who work the sales floors of America.  My own teenager works for a major electronics chain, and if she had been assigned to work it would mean the whole family would have to forego the annual trek to the family feast.  When a store opens on Thanksgiving, someone's mother won't be there to cook the turkey.  Someone's father won't be playing touch football.  One extra day will not increase the amount of green headed for our nation's economic coffers this Christmas season, but it will cancel an opportunity for families to be families.  Black Friday is an important event, but so is Thanksgiving.  Let's keep them both, just not at the same time.

Happy Thanksgiving and Thank You For the Tea

Laura won a free Mary Kay makeover and a free product.  The sales agent, Mary Ann, came to our house last night.  Like any other salesperson, she was eager to see not only Laura, but anyone Laura could bring to the table (literally).  Since this was not set up until 9:00 Sunday night, and the appointment was Monday night, there was no opportunity to drag anyone else in.  So Mary Ann presented her wares to Laura and Tara.  And me. 

I did my very best impersonation of a Mary Kay customer.  I was cordially offered assistance in bringing her stuff into the house.  I made tea.  I dutifully flipped through the narrated portion on the sales catalog, only wandering onto the wrong page once. 

Our first application was lip defolient.  I looked at Laura and at Tara.  There lips were white.  According to the mirror, mine were not.  Mary Ann looked at my styrofoam makeup pallet and determined that I started with the wrong product.  She patiently reissued the white stuff.  After that I was good and obediently applied each cream and color, and pretty much did it in the way Mary Ann instructed.  I have to admit that the hand lotion kit was an instant sale for me, but some stuff I had no idea about.  I applied things, looked in the mirror, and found my after reflection to be identical to the before reflection.  But I smiled and agreed with everything.

Tara's make up looked great.  Laura's looked good too, but she wasn't quite satisfied.  She had some complaint about eyeliner, but I didn't really know what she was talking about.  Then she dashed upstairs to get her own eyeliner, and applied it to one eye.  Yup.  Her own stuff looked better.  I have to admit I was impressed with my daughters' taste in colors and skill applying the face goop.  They learned everything they know about makeup from...someone besides me.

My eye makeup was a little more, uh, complicated.  The base coat was fine.  The second color was good, except for where it stepped out of bounds.  I corrected it out.  After a brief consultation, Mary Ann, Laura, and Tara decided on a third color for me.  I applied it and immediately hated the blue smear.  I removed it and after the second caucus, tried plum.  This time Mary Ann put it on.  The jury wasn't convinced.  Then it was decided that I should try eyeliner.  Now I was nervous.  I hate, hate, hate applying eye make up and I never, ever do it well.  Mary Ann came around to my side of the table and got to work.  I tried to sit still and not scrunch up my eyes.  I held the edge of the table.  Then I gripped the chair.  I was almost finished planning my escape when she finished--with the first eye.  No one was impressed with the result.  Someone suggested I try only mascara on the other eye.  I happily complied because mascara is much friendlier than eyeliner.  No one liked that either. 

Laura noted that my eyelashes are straight and short.  I asserted that I like them just fine.  Mary Ann suggested that I tried using an eyelash curler.  The girls just laughed because they know my history with eyelash curlers.  It goes like this.  The curler comes out.  I run away.  End of history.  I have a childhood memory.  My sister used to curl her lashes.  On occasion I'd sneak into her room and practice using her lash curler.  Normal stuff.  Then one day my sister mentioned to my mother that some friend of hers was curling her eyelashes when the friend's mother walked in and startled her.  She jumped and ripped out all her eyelashes.  That story scarred me for life and I have been totally satisfied with my short straight lashes ever since. 

So, the makeover ended.  I went to bed, got up, saw that the makeup had worn off during the night.  I put on my regular makeup and went to work.  Apparently I didn't look too closely in the mirror.  Even more apparently, last night's make up was not that becoming anyway.  As soon as my homeroom came in, a girl in the front row said, "Miss, you're wearing makeup!"

"It's the same stuff I wear everyday."

"No.  You've got purple up here," she said, pointing to the outside of her eyelids.

I guess it didn't wear off.  In another class a girl asked me if I had a black eye.  Later one of the boys asked me if I was tired.  At dinner Laura observed that I had eyeliner on just one eye.  I stood at a mirror at least four times today and didn't notice a thing.  Do people really examine other people like that?  And if so, why?

While I admit to having fun last night, I am just not a makeup person.  The Mary Kay lady, of course, tried recruiting Laura.  She questioned Tara about the Mary Kay party she'd been to a few months ago.  She thanked me for the tea and wished me a Happy Thanksgiving.  I'm pretty sure she's not expecting me to call for another order.  I think she's right.

I Told You So. Now Answer the Phone!

I am not going to rant about BP because neither he onr our children have to do with the story I am about to tell.  I just want to preface with an ongoing argument.  The phone rings.  He looks at it but doesn't answer because he doesn't recognize the number.  I yell to answer the phone.  If our daughters are not in the house we have to answer the phone because they could be in trouble and calling us from someone else's phone.  He hands it to me. It it always a telemarketer, a wrong number, or worse, a political candidate.  He says I told you so.  But now it's my turn.  I am going to rant about a man whom I have never met.

I'm on my way home from work and am winding through the streets of Perth Amboy.  The car in front of me swerves off the road and rams into a parked van.  The man in front of her stops and gets out.  I stop and get out.  The man helps the driver out from behind her deployed airbag.  I call 911.  She is okay.  The man goes on his way.  The driver asks if she can use my phone to call her husband.  She is understandably shaking so I dial for her and hand her the phone.  There is no answer so she thinks I might have dialed wrong.  She tells me the number again and I redial.  Again there is no answer.  We try calling her neighbor but there was no answer there either.  I put the phone back in my pocket and wait just a few minutes until the police come and I leave. 

A couple of blocks later I'm stopped at a red light and get to thinking that her husband might be back or might have missed the call because he was in the bathroom or something.  So I pick up my phone and try calling back.  This time he answers.  I introduce myself and explain that his wife was in a car accident but was not hurt and that the police are with her.

Man:  The phone rang before but I didn't answer because I didn't know who it was.
Me:  Your wife was trying to call because she was in a car accident.
Man:  Where?
Me:  At the corner of Washington St. and East. Ave.
Thinking:  You would know this if you'd answered your phone.

Man:  (aggitated) How am I supposed to get there?  I have the kids here and I don't have car seats.
(They are definitely grandparent age and probably watch their grandkids.)

Me:  I don't know.  I just wanted to let you know what happened. 
Thinking:  I can't help you there.  Work it out.

Man: (yelling) I can't go anywhere!  How is she gonna get home?
Me:  Perhaps the police will take her.
Thinking:  If you answered your phone instead of staring at it you could have all this worked out.

Man:  (a little cooler) What happened?

Me:  She swerved into a parked van.

Man:  (ready to shoot the messenger) Jesus Christ!  How did she do that?

Me:  I couldn't say.  But she is alright.

Man:  Can't she just drive home?

Me:  The car was pretty badly damaged.
Thinking:  Hello, I'm a stranger, not your fairy godmother.

Man:  Jesus Christ!

Me:  I just wanted to let you know what happened.
Thinking:  Maybe she'll ask the police to take her to someone else's house.  Who'd blame her?

Man:  Okay.  Thank you. 
Click.

Lessons learned:  #1  It's bad form to yell at strangers who are trying to help.
                           #2  Answer your phone!  The caller will tell you who it is.
                           #3  BP, I told you so.  Now answer the phone.

I'm Going to Study Art with Leonardo

So far, I'm going to Arcadia.  I can't speak for Tara, but I was sucked right in.

Arcadia University is in Glenside, Pennsylvania, a suburb about twenty minutes north of Philadelphia.  The directions said to turn left into the castle entrance.  I was driving too fast and missed the entrance but knew it immediately because there was definitely a castle on my left. 

The castle was modeled after Alnwick Castle in Scotland.  You might know it better as Hogwarts.  Thirty students are allowed to live in the castle, and I'd like to be one of them.  I walked through the lower level and it was dark, cavernous, and majestic.  Our art program information session was held in the Mirror Room.  The seats were all facing the floor to ceiling windows.  It was lit by ceiling chandelier and wall candelabras.  The back wall sported a large fireplace topped with a mirror.  The doors behind us were mirrored.  These doors were later opened so we could exit into another elegantly esconced room.   If I were filming The Ball sequence in a fairy tale movie, this would be the set.

The presentation was given by a small team of art professors and students.  The emphasis was on travel.  Arcadia has study abroad programs to everywhere in every academic discipline.  In fact, all students are required to either leave the country or find another culture in our own nation.  Just for the record, my passport is up-to-date and I figure I could be packed for anywhere in under an hour. 

Most of the campus is modern.  In fact the new student center will be completed before September.  They have nice dorms, a library, classrooms, green expanses of lawn, besides the medieval castle.  They've got lots of computers, wireless computer service, a pool, a gym, and lots of course choices.

Then there's the art center.  Think Leonardo da Vinci in the 21st century.  The old carriage house and stables form a square to house me in my new career as an artist.  The doors are pointed archways.  The stairs creak and you'd better hold the railings.  One studio flows into the other.  The equipment is the same as we've seen everywhere else, but this building is old in the most charming way possible.  I could imagine the Maestro painting and inventing in a place like this.  At one point in the tour we were following the hall and I looked out the window down onto the little courtyard.  Then I looked into the room on my left to find tables of extra-large Macs for graphic design.  Now meets then.

So Arcadia is my first choice school.  I will get my housing request in immediately.  I know I could test well enough to get through Admissions, but I'd still have to present a portfolio.   Everything can be bought online except artistic talent.  Tara, can I borrow something of yours?

Two blogs in one day?  Was today extraordinarily notable?  No.  But I did set out to write three blogs this week, and I only wrote two.  Also, I am stuck in traffic on the Parkway and am looking for a way to amuse myself.  So I'm writing this rough draft on the back of a Stockon dance flyer, leaning on the Stockton introductory brochure, and writing with a Stockton Police pen.  By the way, we're coming home from the Stockton open house.

The college open house/touring season actually started in the summer.  I know someone who covered three campuses in two days back in July.  I didn't realize it then, but that is impressive.  We didn't see anything during the summer because Tara was ultra-involved in the lifeguarding season.  By the time we were ready to roll, the colleges went on recruitment hiatus to concentrate on freshman orientation and the start of the school year. 

On our first excursion, a day heated by hell, we, along with other families of high school seniors, had spring in our steps.  We were hanging onto the welcoming words of college presidents.  We eagerly inspected dining halls and dorms while we enthusiastically imagined our children soaking up knowledge in the hallowed halls of learning.  A month later, we run into the same folks "on the circuit".  They are looking tired and confused about which dorm they are currently standing in.  I look at them empathetically and know that I am the same as them.

We are over halfway through the applications.  Since Tara is a studio arts major we still have the "portfolio season" which will require more trips, the awful "waiting for decisions" period, the financial aid phase, and the fateful decision finale.  This will bring us to the end of high school rites of passage, the shopping for college, the packing of the car, and finally, the day my youngest will step solo to her hallowed  halls of learning.  In Tara's case, the halls are actually studios with huge tables, state of the art giant screen computers, and dark rooms housing high tech equipment whose function I can only guess at.  This is the gain for which we are willing to go through the pain. 

Then BP and I are going on vacation.

I started off yesterday morning by reviewing my things-to-do list for the past week.  I was on track for completing all major items, except attending the open house at Stockton, which I will be doing in 18 minutes.  I was totally unsurprised to see that the little rip in the bathroom wallpaper is still there after about a year.  My sock drawer is still a minefield and I have not made any headway on obtaining a new copy of my birth certificate, which is a 5-year plus project.  The only alarming item was planning lessons for Monday.  It is now Sunday morning and I will be gone most of the day.  So tonight I will be in my office pondering soil profiles. 

For now I will celebrate the things I did accomplish.  Yesterday I wrote an e-magazine article on Advent calendars which should appear on helium.com.  You can be assured that I will advertise this widely. 

I cleaned the garage.  This was motivated by the change of weather and not wanting to de-ice my windshield every morning.  I am also proud of having sorted and paired all but two gloves, and neatly stored a dozen or so hats, and 20, yes 20 scarves.  I also found a pair of girls size 7 snowpants, obviously out of commission for ten years. 

Then BP and I  winterized the back yard.  We dragged everything out of the shed, including the broken ice chest and the nonoperational snow blower.  We stacked up the umbrella, hammock, and cushions, covered the grills and air conditioner, and securely wound up the garden hose.  The ice chest is parked next to the ripped swing cushion, but we dragged the disfuctional snow blower back in the shed with the other stuff.  If it does not meet a mechanical by the first snowfall, it too will be taking a ride in the big metal truck.
Fifteen minutes later, cozy in the house, BP picked up the yard debris I tracked in.  "What is all this shit?" he muttered.  "Just a leaf," I answered as I picked up the last piece of foliage.  YUCK.  I checked unders my shoe.  I then went out to unwind the hose to I could clean off the dog poop that made the leaves stick so efficiently.

It's a Bad Idea To Hike With a GPS Meant for the Road

I almost jumped out of my skin when the voice of my long dormant GPS announced into the silence, "You have reached your destination."

I had not reached my destination.  I was sure of two things.  One, I had no idea how to use my GPS for geocaching.  Two, I was no longer in the Plainsboro Preserve.  I leaned against a street light pole and futilely poked at the screen.  I had just emerged from the woods and was standing in a clearing between two houses somewhere in Plainsboro.  An SUV passed by, and I wondered if I qualified as a suspicious person just hanging out in a hoodie, checking an electronic device on a remote corner in the middle of the day.  I thought to be possible and returned to the woods. 

From the cover of trees I checked the map and determined that I was lost.  I vetoed the idea of walking on the street towards the possible location of my car.  I briefly, very briefly, toyed with the idea of calling BP or Diane to come get me.  But even dejected novice geocachers have their pride, so I turned the Tomtom off, shoved it in my pocket, and started retracing my steps. 

I walked along the pond's edge until  I came to the little ridge leading back down to the green rocks.  I hadn't see the green rocks until my foot got slimed on the way in.  Twenty minutes ago I had been happy to see what I thought was a putting green ahead.  There's no reason the Preserve couldn't be adjacent to a golf course.  But the smooth green was actually pond scum and my right foot was a little damp. 

Back up the hill to the railroad tracks.  Stop, look, listen, look again, keep listening.  Go.  Step over.  Step. Step. Step over.  Step. Step. Step over.  Don't even think about tripping.  One more step over.  Down the hill.  What was I doing on the tracks anyway?  Oh, yeah... I was convinced I was going to find a cache on the other side.  Right.

Down into the mostly dry river bank.  Foot on the log.  Hand on the tree.  Get some leverage on the branch.  There we go.  To the right is where I had gone wrong.  To the left is where I was okay to start with before I went wrong.  I remember the big rusty canister.  Duck through the thorn bushes and here I am on the trail.  Slush, slush.  It's always soupy here.  And just half a mile to the parking lot.

Back at the car I was consumed by morbid curiosity.  I restarted the GPS and followed it to the point it claimed as my destination.  I followed it blindly for two or three miles, down a beautiful country road so off the beaten path that the campaign signs hadn't been planted.  I turned into a gorgeous neighborhood and arrived on New Turkey Island Road.  "You have reached your destination."  No cache here, just a lesson.  It's a bad idea to hike with a GPS meant for the road.