Happy holidays, everyone!

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I've been noticing a disquieting tendency among waitresses that I otherwise really like. It's happened to me twice in the last month, so I wonder if it's being taught in waitressing school, these days.

The waitresses in question are otherwise above reproach--outgoing, friendly, personable. They laugh at all your stupid jokes and put up with all your unreasonable demands. But if you order an adult beverage, and then they come around later on and ask you if you want another one...

Well, it happened last night. We were at dinner with Corb's mother and her boyfriend Jim. Jim tends to be an irritable sort, inclined to want everything on time and predictable. And we were under time constraints, because we were going to see the Holiday Pops concert in Boston at eight. So when she came over, the first thing he did was to bark out, sounding like the Crypt Keeper, "Now, we're under a very tight schedule tonight! So there'll be no lolly-gagging about, young lady, okay?"

I personally would have strangled him. Who ever lolly gags as a waitress? You're busy the whole time! And besides that, what the hell is lolly gagging, anyways? But she just smiled nicely and nodded her head.

I had ordered my traditional Appletini before Jim and Corb's mom had arrived, so by the time dinner was halfway through, my drink was finished. But even so, I was feeling a little buzzy, and had to drive into Boston on a busy night. Plus, I was following Jim into the city, who tends to drive really fast, and only sees things like red lights and lane markers as mere suggestions. No, really. He spends a little time in the left lane lane, then moves to the right lane, then back to the left lane. Most of the time is spent in between the two. It makes for an exciting ride. You never know where he's going to be!

I knew I only wanted water, even though what I really wanted was another drink, to be able to endure the ride into Boston.

So when the waitress came over and asked if I wanted another drink, I shook my head. "No, thank you," I said.

And she gave me this look.

As if she were shocked and hurt. As if I had just run over her kitten. It was one of those looks you see in the an old fashioned movie, where the villain has stormed into the house, grabbed the heroine, and tied her up to the railroad tracks. Like I'm Snidely Whiplash, or something.

"How could you not order another drink? How could do such a dastardly deed? How will I ever get over this? Sob!"

And then, she turned and walked away.

Honestly, I would have thought it was a personal tic or something, if the same exact thing hadn't happened to me about a month ago. The same exact reaction. From a waitress who had been just as personable and funny, otherwise.

So I have to think that some waitresses have decided to do deliberately, or have been encouraged to do by management, as a way to encourage people to drink more, because restaurants make so much money on drinks. And personally, I find that kind of irritating.

At least, really make it entertaining, if you're going to play that game.

Like, she could have yelled something out. "Murder! Murder!" or "This man's a basterd!"

Or, she could have burst into actual tears, and lifting a hand to her forehead, struggled to walk away.

Or, she could have spun around, grabbing her chest, pretending that someone had just hit her in the heart with an arrow. Shot to the heart...and you're to blame!

Or, she could have made a loud farting noise and screamed out "You big poop!" Or, "Looks like there'll be one less drunk on the road tonight. Freak!"

Anything, to make it entertaining. I may actually order another drink, after seeing a performance like that.

But no. You just get a little frown sad unhappy face. Irritating, I tell you. Makes me want to grow a wiry moustache and take up tying people to railroad tracks.

Well, the blessed birthday week-end went off without a hitch, thank you very much. Corb managed to surprise me on Friday night with a surprise party at my favorite Mexican restaurant. I walked into the room to find about a dozen friends and a martini waiting for me...that's a the kind of entrance I like!

My friend Traveling Sue the Celebrity Spotter was there. She handed me a book on "Cooking for Dummies," inspired by my last post. Then she said, "Oh my God, isn't that Nancy Kerrigan?" And off she went, to hunt down another celebrity.

And, my friend Buns had a story for me. You know me, I'm all about the stories.

"So, there was something I didn't tell you last Sunday," she said. We had gone to her house for a game party, the Sunday after Thanksgiving. "We're going to have to put Robert Redford down."

Kill Robert Redford, the hunky star of so many Hollywood movies, including The Way We Were ? How can that be, I hear you ask? Well, actually, she meant her dog, Robert Redford. He's a big old hyperactive thing that she picked up as a puppy, only about two years ago.

"Put down Robert Redford?" I asked, sort of shocked. "Why?"

"He bit Nathan," she said. "Drew blood."

"So you have to put him down?"

"That's what we've been told."

"I've never heard of such a thing," I said. "I mean, one incident?" Then I paused. "Was that why you didn't let Robert Redford inside the night of the party?"

Buns nodded. "I've been beside myself. I mean, he's a pain in the butt...way too hyperactive...but I really don't want to put him down."

"I can see why. Can't you do anything?"

Buns grinned. "Well, I was all set. Had everything planned. Robert Redford was supposed to be put down this week-end. But I was so unhappy about the whole thing, and so I called the animal rescue shelter that I originally got him from. And the lady there told me that it's their policy that they'll take back any animal that's in a situation like this, so that he isn't put down. So, I'm sending him back, this Thursday."

"Well, that's a relief," I said.

I'm glad that this story's going to have a happier ending, because I hate to hear about animals being put down like that...especially famous movie star celebrities. The only time we've had to have an animal put down was when Prince was suffering from cancer...oh, and the hamster that I accidentally dunked into a sink full of boiling hot water...don't ask, the memory of it haunts me still, and my oldest still hasn't forgiven me, even ten years later.

Still, pets become such a huge part of your life, and I'm sure that even though Robert Redford's going to be okay, Buns' house is going to feel kind of empty on Thursday.

This whole Robert Redford thing for some reason reminds me of a story that Buns told me, years ago. A while back, she was really into tracing her family roots, and she came across the story of a member of her family named Moosh. Moosh was a bit of a scoundrel. He would take off on his wife every so often to go on drinking benders, and one of those benders landed him in Florida, without any money or any way to get home.

Desperate to get back, he sent his wife a telegram, pretending that he had died, and would she pay to have his body shipped back home for burial?

Well, of course she would, and so she wired money down to ship the body. A few days later, she was at the train station, waiting for the coffin to arrive, and mourning the loss of her wayward husband. And you can just imagine her surprise when Moosh stepped off the train, alive and well.

Moosh's wife was beside herself. "The next time I get a telegram saying you've died, you'd better live up to your promise!" she screamed.

Well, there'll be no "come back Robert Redford" moments here, I suspect. Too bad, too...a dog sending a telegram and faking his own death. Now THAT would be quite a story.

Not having a wallet has made it very difficult to survive. I can't wait until my credit cards finally arrive in the mail. This past week, I have totally lived off the kindness of Corb...oh, and twenty dollars, kicked in from Josie, too.

Take last night, for example. Around five, Corb called me at work, to remind me that he was working until seven. "That's a problem," I frowned. "I don't have any money for dinner."

"Make the pork chops in the fridge," he said.

"You expect me to actually cook?" I replied, aghast. "Good god, man! I can microwave things in little plastic bowls, but I do know nothing about cooking no porkies!"

Oh. Well, maybe I didn't say THAT, exactly. But I did saying something similar...just not so Prissy...

"Don't worry," said Corb, amused. "I'll email you direction on how to make pork chops."

"Please make it idiot proof, would you?"

"Will do."

Corb's a man of his word. Here's the recipe he gave me, which he called "15 Easy Steps to Delicious Pork Chops":

1. Approach oven
2. Preheat oven to 350 degrees
3. Take out aluminum foil
4. Place foil on a pan or sheet
5. Place pork chops on top of foil lining the pan or sheet
6. Generously season pork chops with garlic salt
7. Place in oven for 45-50 minutes
8. Remove from oven when the pork chops are white in color
9. Place on plate
10. Get utensils (fork and knife)
11. Cut into chewable pieces
12. Place in mouth by using the fork
13. Chew 20 times or until soft enough to swallow without pain
14. Swallow
15. Digest

"I'm only thankful he stopped at 15," I told my friend David on the way out of work. "I can only imagine what number sixteen would have been."

David looked over my list. "You know, if you want to add a little zing to your pork chops, it's easy. Just pour cream of celery soup over the pork chops and let it bake in."

"Really?"

"Yep," he said. "And you could even add some stuffing inside the porkchops, too. Really suprise him."

There I was, getting advice from my Jewish friend David on how to make pork chops. Is that kosher? Still, I have to admit, I followed his advice...well, and Corb's too...and they did turn out pretty nicely. Even Ashes, who was grumbling about pork chops at first, ended up admitting they were pretty good.

Perhaps this experience is removing that one final barrier that was created by my grandmother when I was a child: real men don't need to learn to cook. Or do laundry, for that matter. Of course, they do, but Nana insisted that menfolk didn't need to bother to learn, since they'd have a wife to do that sort of thing. Me Tarzan, you Domestic Goddess.

It's a creed my dad stuck to all his life, but it's one I quickly ditched the first day I moved in with Josie, when she went to do the laundry and used bleach on all of my clothes. After that day, I quickly learned how to do laundry, myself.

Cooking, on the other hand, has always been a mystery. I've been blessed with having great cooks nearby all my life--first my mom and grandmother, then Josie, and for the past six years, Corb. Even when I spent that one year on my own, I still pretty much specialized in hot dog casserole and chicken nuggets.

Maybe this experience has taught me that cooking isn't as scary as I always think it is, though. Maybe I can actually overcome this fear. I don't know, anything's possible.

At least, as long as I always have 15 easy steps. Maybe Corb needs to do a cookbook...

Proof positive that too much cheese consumption will lead Little Sally into a life of serial murder...

"Now, who in the world would want to buy $20 of cheese products?" asked Corb, as we were exiting the South Eldredge version of the local Stop and Grab.

"Someone who wants to be really constipated?" I asked.

"No, seriously," he said, staring down at the slip in his hands. "The cash machine just handed me a coupon for $2 off any $20 purchase of cheese. Who would want to buy $20 worth of cheese?"

Clearly, it was time for me to put on my Sherlock Holmes cap.

"Oh, that's easy," I said, digging in my pocket for the car keys. "Mice."

For some reason, Corb looked at me rather strangely, as if that seemed like an odd thing to say. "And what would mice be doing with coupons for cheese?"

"Corb, mice like bargains, too, you know."

"Don't be ridiculous!" he said. "How would a mouse earn enough money to buy $20 worth of cheese?"

"Duh. By working, of course. What, are you saying mice aren't hard workers?"

"I've never actually seen a mouse work, ever. And who would hire mice to work for them?"

I thought about that for a moment. "Oh. Cats!"

Corb squinted his eyes. I turned my back on him to open up the car. "Ummmmm...so, why would cats hire mice to work for them?"

I shook my head. "Really, Corb. To eat them, of course."

"To eat--"

"Can you believe it? I was a little shocked when I first heard about it, myself. What a wicked, evil scheme! Cats place 'Help wanted: Mice' ads in the papers. The mice read them, and then, when they go to the office to fill out the application, voila! While they're busy filling out paperwork, holding little tiny pens in their hands, the cats pounce. The mice don't expect a thing. It's a ready made and endless supply of food for the enterprising feline. I tell you, it's brilliant!"

Corb scratched his head. "So let me get this straight. Cats are placing help wanted ads in papers to lure unsuspecting mice in for jobs so they can eat them?"

"Exactly. Devious, isn't it?"

"So, where do the $2 coupons off every $20 purchase of cheese products come in?"

Oh. Oh! "That's the best part of all! You see, those coupons are incentives."

"Incentives?"

"For the mice to WANT to work! They want to get the jobs so that they can earn the money to buy the cheese. So, clever cats have placed those coupons all over local supermarkets, hoping the mice will see them and want to start to buy the newspapers looking for the 'Mice Wanted' ads. Then they'll get the job to buy the cheese and go to the office to get the job and get eaten by the cats. There! Another mystery solved. No, no need to thank me. It's all in a day's work."

I turned the stang on and put the car into drive, satisfied. Corb shook his head. "Ted, sometimes you REALLY scare me."

For those who have been wondering how the Ashes room turned out, I think we're ready to unveil the final product. Here's how Corb scribbled it out on paper:



...and here's what it looks like in real time. Note, some of the elements aren't complete, yet. For example, the room hasn't yet received a paint job, and probably won't for a few more months. So, as you can see from the design, there will be a black border around the grill and candles.



I think Corb did a pretty good Captain Fantastic job, frankly. And it looks especially spooky if you add some mood lighting:



Check out the black chandelier, which you couldn't see in the previous shot. I tell you, if I were a vampire, I'd be happy to live in this room. And, if I were Liberace come back to life as a vampire, or a sixteen-year-old girl, I'd be especially happy to live in this room.

In other news...
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Two years ago, I wrote the following around Thanksgiving, and it's a piece I've always been proud of. Somehow, for once in my life, I managed to say what I wanted to say, in exactly the way I wanted to say it. The foods mentioned truly are my favorites...as is the company mentioned...and at this time of year, as we give thanks and spend time with people we love (not to mention, consume more food than would seem humanly possible), this toast to good food and love, and also, times past, seems appropriate to repost, once again. I'm sure we all have that one favorite dinner guest we'd love to enjoy a meal with, just one more time.

This week's New Yorker has an article about a new coffee-table book by photographer Melanie Dunea, called My Last Supper . The book features fifty of the world's greatest cooks, all answering the musical question, "If you were to die tomorrow, what dish would you choose as your last?"

The answers were, as was to be expected, typically top chef: duck, caviar, and foie gras all rate mentions.

Bleh, I say unto thee. That stuff is all too highbrow in the way of feast fare for me. Personally, I don't know what the f--er, foie, gras is.

If I were aware that my next meal were to be my last, and that I was being given the privilege to choose whatever I wanted, from any period in time, rest assured, I'd choose carefully. And I think that, mental sentimentalist that I am, I'd make my selections based not only upon food that had a specific delicious taste, but even more so, a specific cozy memory.

I'd start off my meal with hot and sour soup from Ruby Foo's, washed down with a cold cosmopolitan or two (but did any of you seriously doubt that one?) I'd also try to work in a few dozen olives of all shape and sizes (to satisfy the Greek in me), as well as a few luscious slices of cheese.

For dinner, I'd have baked stuffed shrimp, coated in Ritz crackers, the kind that mom used to make for my father, when I was a kid. Every so often, on a Friday night, Mom would cook dinner for Dad after the kids went to bed, and invariably, there would be a few shrimp left over. Being the oldest, I was called out of bed, and allowed to sit at the grown-ups table, to eat what was left. I'm not sure if it was the late night thrill or the knowledge that I was getting something the other kids weren't, but they tasted better to me than anything else in the world.

I'd probably also have some Maine lobster, as well. Lobster always brings back memories of father's days with my dad stretching back over thirty years. And, it tastes good in your beard, even hours after you've eaten.

To go along with the seafood, I'd pick au gratin potatoes and my mother's homemade broccolli casserole, staples of every Thanksgiving that I've ever had.

And for dessert...I think, strawberry cheesecake would top things off quite nicely, thank you very much. There's just something so soothing about cheesecake. I think I could even face certain death knowing I had some in my belly.

But I'd want one more thing, besides all this. One more special request.

I'd probably have to clear it with the big guy, I suppose. But it'd be worth it, if I could wrangle a special clearance.

More than anything, a few hours later, in the twilight of my life, I'd like to enjoy one last twilight snack.

And I'd want to eat it somewhere special, too. Down in my grandmother's living room, sitting on that naughahyde couch of hers. Nana sitting beside me, clinking her crochet needles as she worked away on an afghan.

Lord, give me one last cup of tea with her, filled with milk and sugar; with just a few slices of toast, covered with peanut butter, okay? I'd give up everything else for that.

She's got to be up there, working away in heaven's kitchen. Wherever I end up going, whatever journey I'm on, can't I just have one more for the road, with my Nana?

Then, I think, I could truly die a happy man.

"Oh. So, you're living at the old chicken farm?"

Leave it to the locals. Saturday night, Corb and I were invited to gather at the local pub in our new town, South Eldredge, to celebrate the surprise sixtieth birthday party for one of our favorite friends, Mama Sue. Mama Sue is a world traveler and dispenser of sympathetic motherly advice. Oh, and a frequent spotter of celebrities. They simply seem to fall into her path, and usually in the strangest of circumstances. Like, she'll be roller skating down a country road, will fall into a mud puddle, look up, and exclaim, "Oh my God...it's Liam Neeson!"

Sue's a lot of fun to be around. This past January, we spent five days with her in New York City, seeing more Broadway shows than you could shake a fist at. While we were there, she bumped into Carol Channing, Liza Minelli, and Hugh Jackman. So of course we were happy to be invited by her daughter, Sister Sarah, to the culmination of her fifth decade on this planet.

The pub is located maybe three minutes from our house. And thank God, because Corb and I had spent the whole day FINALLY moving everything out of the old apartment and cleaning it up. If the place had been any farther away, I'm not sure we would found the energy to go anywhere, frankly. After the long day, it was a quick hop back home for a change of clothes, and then, off to the party.

They stuffed the lot of us into a secret room in the pub, waiting for Mama Sue to arrive. No word of a lie--there's like this secret wall that pushes open, like something out of Diary of Anne Frank. Corb and I whiled away the time hanging with some of our friends, all members of the local theater group, the South Eldredge Artstastic Playhouse (or SEAP, for short). I nursed my signature Appletini, and the two us caught everyone up (whether they wanted to be caught up or not) with the details of our move.

"Oh, you're in South Eldredge, now? And where are you living?" was the standard response.

"Oh, it's an apartment community near the local Shop and Grab," we'd say. "You can't miss it."

"Where?" And we'd give directions.

Usually, recognition, at that point. "Oh, you're living at the old chicken farm!" they'd exclaim.

And I'd bite my lip and refrain from blurting out a cock joke.

Turns out, before our friendly little complex was built a few years ago, the land housed an enormous chicken farm. "It used to smell something awful," Mama Sue informed us, when she finally arrived. "You could smell it from miles away!"

Might be a reason for that. Today I did a little bit of checking, and discovered the name of the chicken farm. And, from that, this charming entry, from the local paper: "April 7, 2005. The skeletal remains of an unidentified person were found yesterday in a plastic bag beneath shrubs on a former Mansfield chicken farm, police said. It was not clear how long the decomposed body had been there, police said. Someone who lives on the property reported finding the bones yesterday about 1:50 p.m. in a wooded area on Lamonte's Poultry Farm. Neither police nor prosecutors would identify the person who made the discovery. An autopsy was planned for today."

Hmmm. Maybe I won't tell the kids about THAT little bit of trivia.

Thankfully, no one at the party identified the place as the "Chicken farm where the human bones were found." That wouldn't have been cool. Still, they all knew it as the old chicken farm, old human bones or not.

Funny how local people always remember things the way they once were, not the way they are today. It's as if there's a picture of the past, frozen in their heads. I lived in North Eldedge for most of my life, and used to pick my kids up for certain things at the "old junior high," even though it hadn't been a junior high for over twenty years. The local mall was located near the "old drive-in," the local CVS was where the "old HoJo's" used to be (and man, do I miss having french fries and iced tea with my friends Buns and Pauloo at that old Howard Johnson's...)

And now, Corb and I live at the smelly old chicken farm. Well, it could be worse, I suppose. Maybe South Eldredge had an old whorehouse, somewhere. Now THAT would have been somewhat embarrassing.

Anyway, it was a fun party. Complete with a new Mama Sue celebrity spotting!

"Tom and I were touring China just last month," Sue said, chugging down a glass of white wine. "One day, we were taking a bus tour from Beijing into one of the outskirts. I realized about two hours into the trip that there was no bathroom in the bus, and nature was really calling. So I went up to the bus driver and asked him what he could do about it, and he pulled over to an abandoned building and told us to relieve ourselves behind it! Well, for the guys, it wasn't that bad. They just had to stand there and hold it. But for the women, we had to squat behind a pile of hay. So there I am, squatting down, with my head peering out from behind a bale, and suddenly I look up and say, 'Oh my God...it's Tom Selleck!'"

I tell you, it could only happen to Mama Sue.

All right, all right, I confess. I hate to admit it, but I've being strongly tempted by the dark side.

The Sarah Palin dark side, that is. Get thee behind me, Satan!

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“How did your parents meet?”

Yesterday, as I was taking a train in to Penn Station at some absurdly early hour of the morning, my friend Sarah asked this question, just to pass the time away. She knew the answer for her parents—Brighman’s Ice Cream, after a football game. Sarah’s dad was a wide receiver and her mom was a cheerleader. It was love at first pass.

David, our other fellow traveler, knew the answer for his parents, too. It was at a shop in San Francisco, and he had recently passed by it, on a trip to California.

Did I know where my parents met? HAH! Hardly, self-absorbed slob that I am. And I have to confess, it made me feel a little guilty, too. Stupid git, not to have asked my parents how and where they met. It made me wonder how many other questions I had overlooked or neglected, through the years.

As soon as I could that night, I called my mother (or as Corb likes to call her, Betty Barnacle the Frog Killer) up on the phone.

“Oh, we actually met on a blind date,” she answered, for some strange reason not even the least surprised that I was asking her this question, out of the blue. Then again, I think she’s used to me, by now. “I was in eleventh grade and in my third high school—grandpa always moved us around, from school to school, because he kept changing jobs. So I was at Tollman High School at the time. I was in gym class, and we used to have to exercise with our shoes off, and I was all upset, because my feet smelled terrible. I really had bad smelling feet back then.”

“And that was when you met dad?” I asked. “Was he attracted to the scent of your smelly feet?”

“No!” she laughed. “But this girl named Lorna sat down next to me and said, ‘I really don’t want to take off my shoes because my feet smell so bad.’ And I said to myself, ‘I want to be friends with that girl.’”

Now here’s something I didn’t know. Fun fact! Apparently, smelly feet were quite common in the sixties. Well, I guess it was before the invention of Odor Eaters.

“Anyway, Lorna’s brother Woody had this friend, Dennis, that Lorna liked. And Dennis’s best friend was your father, so Lorna said to me, would you like to go to go to the Tollman Thanksgiving dance with me, to meet these two guys? I said sure, even though your dad was in college and had graduated from St. Ray’s, which was Tollman’s rival. He kissed me on the lips that night, which was very bold, considering I was dating someone else at the time.”

Scandal! “You were dating someone else?”

“Well, yes, but it wasn’t really serious. I mean, I can’t even remember his name, now. I had been dating him since I lived in Barrington, and that had been two towns ago. Besides that, after I met your father, there never was anyone else. I knew he was the one. He asked me to go to the football game with him the next day and one month later, we were going steady.”

“What about that poor other guy? How about if he’s still waiting around for you, in Barrington?”

“Teddy, I hardly think he’s still waiting for me. All I know was, for months, I had been knitting him a sweater for Christmas, and by the time it was done, I ended up giving it to your father. And we’ve been together ever since—50 years, as of next week!”

What are the odds? Sarah should ask me a question about when my parents met, which prompts a phone call to them. Next thing I know, I’m learning about a pretty important anniversary, just days away.

I guess it just goes to show—you never know when love is going to grab you by the scruff of your neck and make you its slave. It occurs in the strangest of places, with the slightest provocation. It could happen at funeral, a nudist convention, or even a fondue party.

Still, I find it amazing to think that if not for my mother’s putrid foot odor problem, my parents never would have gotten together. This is a case where love was truly in the air...but that air didn't exactly smell like roses.

For those who enjoy romance novels, I'd like to recommend my friend J.M. Cornwell's book, Past Imperfect.

I "met" J.M. a few years ago through Live Journal (a.k.a. fixnwrtr), and she quickly became one of my favorite posters. So, when I heard that her book had been published a few months ago, of course, I had to pick up a copy.

Even though I'm not a reader of romance normally, I'm glad I read her book. It reads just like the J.M. that I know and love on Live Journal: smart, confident, and eminently quotable. J.M. clearly has a love for the classics, and I especially liked her hints of Roman mythology within the story. And, her main character has a bathroom I would die for.

Since two of her main characters both fly planes (and do so frequently in the book), I thought it would be fitting to finish her book on my way to El Paso, and sure enough, I went through the last 100 pages in one sitting.

I won't give anything away, but let's just say that it's a book of love stolen and ultimately earned. And, the story ended up the way I hoped that it would, which pleased me to no end. I was going to scream bloody murder if it had gone in another direction...

So here I am, in sunny Fort Worth, Texas. Yeah, that's me over there, standing next to the steer with the triangle branded on its left flank.

Ah, Texas is okay. I mean, I was a little nervous, wondering whether a diehard Yankee liberal like me would be met by an angry mob of conservative cowpokes with pitchforks in their hands at the airport, but of course, that didn't happen. Everyone's been nice and quite polite. Maybe it helps that I left my Obama T-shirt at home (note: I did wear my Red Sox T-shirt on the way here, however).

Of course, since I'm at a conference, I haven't seen much of the scenery. Until last night, that is. We ate at a historic restaurant called the Reata restaurant that's built under a geodesic dome, and affords a beautiful view of the skyline. We took a walk after dinner, through the city, and checked out a few spots. Frankly, it was my favorite part of the trip. I'm all about the local color, after all.

I think the most memorable part of the trip has been my drives to and from the Dallas airport with my friend David. It was like something out of Thelma and Louise. I swear, the two of us were going to drive off a canyon at any moment.

You see, they really do like to grow things big in Texas, and their highways are no exception. They're huge and sprawling, which can be a bit overwhelming, but to make matters worse, the only things they don't seem to like to make big are their road signs. They're teeny tiny, and sometimes, non-existant. That's led to a lot of confusion, especially when we drove in at midnight the first night.

David would yell at me every time we'd pass a megachurch and I'd miss a turn. "Ted, what are you doing, what are you doing?"

I'd grit my teeth. "I'm trying the best I can, Dave!"

"Well, it's not good enough...oh god, now you're forcing us to drive onto George Bush highway. Kill me now!"

Somehow, we managed to make it into Fort Worth in one piece, by figuring out that we needed to take a left at the eighteenth megachurch we passed. See? Jesus saves.

So now I'm sitting here in my hotel room, staring at a framed painting of a bull.
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This past week-end, Corb and I, wholesome parents that we are, took the kids to see "Paranormal Activity." It capped off an entire evening of thrills and chills, as we actually dared to venture back into Friendly's for the first time since the infamous "Silva" incident. Brrrr.

Sure enough, guess who was there. I had been placing bets weeks ago that our friend "Silva," the hapless waitress with all the waitressing abilities of a broken Rock-em Sock-em robot, would have either been quit or been fired. Nope, she was still there.

And sure enough, guess who was assigned to be our waitress.

Talk about horror stories. It was too scary a thought for me, so I timidly approached the hostess before we actually sat at our table. "Ummm, do you mind putting us at another table?"

She seemed to know where I was going with this. "Do you want another waitress?" she asked.

"If you don't mind."

All through the meal, I kept glancing over to see where Silva was. Whether she was coming after us with a steak knife or something. However, she was too busy annoying other customers. Thank God.

Anyway, it was actually a pretty entertaining movie in a cinema verite kind of way, although brave old Corb, hardy soul that he was, couldn't speak for about an hour after the movie, afterward.

He was too scared. Which I think is pretty funny, considering that he's always made fun of my morbid fear of "The Exorcist."

I think it hit too close to him, though, because it got him thinking about our old apartment. And, the old man, who has been making himself known, as we've been cleaning the place out.

I don't think he's happy that we're leaving.

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"Meow."

I turned around in my bed, propped one eye open to check out the time. 2:10 in the morning. Yeck.

"Meow."

"Meow."

"Meow."

The sounds of the plaintiff caterwauling echoed through the new apartment on our second night. And, I seemed to be the only one awake enough to hear it.

Our cats are quite different, when it comes to moving. Haley, our grizzled female, could care less. She kind of reminds me of a feline version of Rosie O'Donnell. Have food, will travel.

Oliver, on the other hand, is one big orange bundle of nerves. I think it was all that drama associated with his pink noodle about a year or so ago. Ever since then, he associates any change, especially any change involving transportation in a car, with the vet, and starts to freak out.

The minute Corb started deconstructing the old apartment on Thursday, Ollie scrambled under the nearest bed. That night, he didn't come out until supper.

Friday, as we started the actual moving process, was even more traumatic for him. To cope, he managed to find a hiding spot in the little bedroom. He just cowered in that spot, like an ostrich in the sand, trying to ignore the chaos taking place around him.

He was still hiding when Corb went back to the old apartment pick up some additional boxes at around three, after the movers had moved all the heavy stuff, which didn't include fluffy orange cats. Corb couldn't find him anywhere.

He was still missing in action at around seven, when I went back to feed the cats. As a temptation, I started to shake a drag of dry food, which is usually something that gets him to rush to my side and run up against my legs. Not this time.

That's when I started to get worried. What if he had managed to sneak out while the movers were there?

I started to look all over the apartment, calling out his name. I finally discovered him, wrapped up in a white comforter, when totally by accident, I lifted it up and shook it. Oliver tumbled out, looking more than a little annoyed.

Even then, he took one look at his food, sniffed, and walked away.

I decided to take pity on him and let the cats have one last night in the apartment.

Saturday night, that changed. It was time to get them to the new place. So, we bundled Hayley in a blanket and put Oliver in a cat carrier, and started to make the move. Ashes sat next to Oliver the entire way, stroking his paws and whispering words of encouragement.

And after all of that, how are we rewarded for these acts of kindness?

"Meow."

"Meow."

"Meow."

I turned around in my bed and propped one eye open to check out the time. 5:10 in the morning.

Well, at least Corb was rewarded. He ended up with a good night's sleep, and the comfort of knowing his pumas were home.

###

"Ted, what have you done, here?"

I looked up from the book I was reading in our bed and smiled. Corb was standing beside the Expedit TV unit that he had purchased from Ikea--basically a black grid of 20 cubes surrounding a space for our television.

He spent the time putting it together. I was responsible for surrounding it with stuff.

"I decorated it," I said. "That's what you asked me to do, right?"

Corb held up a copy of "Your Heiress Diary," by Paris Hilton, which had been given a place of honor in one cube. "You call this a decoration?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.
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Well, we're getting there. Most of our life is packed away in boxes now. Everything's crammed and stacked. Sorted and organized and taped shut, trapped inside cardboard. Ready to be unbound and lifted out in less than twenty-four hours, as we begin anew in a different location, just ten miles away.

I'm typing this from the remnants of my desk. Most of it's boxed up, too, except for the base. we decided to keep one computer working through the night.

It's a beautiful fall night and all the windows are open, giving me one last night listening to the sounds by the pond.

Right now, the cats are running about, chasing after each other, bumping into boxes, mattresses. Oliver spent most of the day hiding under a couch, freaked out by all the noise Corb was making.

Corb's in the living room, packing up his desk. He's been playing Christina Aguilera's "Back to Basics" CD, over and over again. It's perfect moving music...and thankfully, one CD that doesn't really grow tiresome after repeated listenings. Unlike so many.

The big guy's done so much around the apartment today. I'm quite grateful for him. I was at work all day, but have tomorrow off...almost had to go to New Jersey, but thankfully, David volunteered to take my place, so I could help with the move. Good thing, too. I think Corb would have killed me.

I think I'm a little sad about moving. Don't get me wrong--I'm excited about the future, too. Still, this has been a nice place to heal for seven years...and, to start building a new future with the person I want to be with for the rest of my life.

This is the next chapter of that, and I can't wait.

It's certainly not as sad an occasion as the last time I moved, from the homestead.

About a half an hour ago, needing a break from moving, I looked back through my journal, to see what I wrote back then. It's funny, in a way. Much of what I wrote then still applies now. Pretty cool when that happens, isn't it?

Editor's note: Cue up "Let's Do the Time Warp, Again"...it's flashback time...
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Like every other person in this great country of ours with nothing better to do, I've been drawn to the Balloon boy saga, like a man with haunted nachos in his system to a toilet bowl.

In fact, I've seriously considered making Balloon boy the centerpiece of this year's manger scene. He could be the baby Jesus, appearing alongside a half dozen or so other reality TV stars. A real housewife from some city could be Mary.

Trouble is, fifteen minutes after I made the damn thing, no one would recognize anyone in it. It hardly seems worth the effort.

Still, I have found the entire saga to be terrifically entertaining. Those first breathless 9-1-1 calls. The news that a six-year-old boy had drifted away in a helium balloon--hell, it could happen! The terrific waste of taxpayer money--more than the cost of the TARP bailout, at last count!--as police, firemen, the National Guard, Rin Tin Tin and even Inspector Gadget are called to Fort Collins to save little Timmy. And then, the discovery of the little brat in his parents' attic, and his subsequent confession: "Daddy made me do it." Kids say the darnedest things!

And now, dad's lost his home and the kids, and even the right to use his own birth name (he's only supposed to be called "Thing One," these days). Next week, he goes on trial, where he awaits felony charges.

And why did all this take place? Because the guy wanted to be a reality TV star, of course. He's only had his family on Wife Swap a measly two times, after all...he needed more!

Which just goes to show you, sinners, at some point in the not too distant future, every citizen in American will have appeared on a reality TV show, no matter how old or young, no matter how untalented. Even me!

I see it all around me, no word of a lie. My friend Psychic Sue has been petitioning to become a reality TV star for years...she even has her own web site! Josie has written letters to Oprah. Corb has been seen lurking outside the studios of "So You Think you Can Dance."

We're a nation of Harry McAfees just wanting to appear on the Ed Sullivan show. That desperate self-infatuated man could be any one of us. Thing One's Balloon boy could be our Balloon boy! So I say, why not just give this idiot his own reality TV show? Why not?

It could be called, "Whoops, I did it again," and every week, one member of his family could make a failed attempt to become a reality TV star that people remember for more than fifteen seconds. His wife could go on The Biggest Loser, only she's not really fat, just covered from head to toe in lard. One of his sons could go on Flavor of Love disguised as a ho. Balloon boy could pretend to be possessed by the spirit of Chesty Morgan and end up on Ghost Hunters.

Personally, I think he needs to capitalize on it fast, though. From what I can see, reality TV is starting to lose its appeal, and is on the way out. I mean, where else can it go? Or more to the point, where else hasn't it gone?

What's that? There's a new show in development about Christians and lions? In a fight to the death?

Hmmm. What's old is new again...

These past three weeks, Corb's been assigned to draw a nude female model for one of his architecture classes. It's the closest he's been to a actual vagina in 26 years on this planet.

Even at birth, he was the product of a C-section.

"So, what's it like?" I ask, after each class, peppering him with questions. "Does it get you excited and squirmy inside? Is it changing you? Do you have an urge to jump over and join the other side?"

"I have an urge to purge," he replied. "She's old! Around 57, I'd say. And her boobs are really saggy. One of her nipples exploded inwards. And she doesn't really..." He wrinkled his nose. "Trim."

Well, I had learned that most nude models aren't exactly swimsuit models. That's sort of the point, actually. My friend Leslie told me that her grandmother was a nude model, in her later years.

"She liked the fifty dollars she'd get for each job," she told me. "Plus, she figured no man was ever going to see that side of her ever again, unless she took some drastic action."

Last week, the professor stepped out of the class, and the students started asking their nude model questions. "Why do you do this?" asked the skaterboy with super hairy legs.

"What do you do in real life?" asked Hektor, the only one older than Corb in the class.

Turns out, she's brilliant. Has a PhD from Harvard, has attained several degrees. She's never really worked at a full time job. Gets bored too easily for that.

I could see that being a pretty nice life.

"How do you pick your models?" was the question this week.

"Oh, I just have a regular team that I work with," said the professor of the class, putting down his brush. "Although there was one time that my assigned model didn't show up. I was pretty upset about it, but then I realized that there was a party going on outside the classroom, and maybe I could get one of the students to model. I asked all the girls, but they wouldn't, but one girl said, 'Oh, Ed might.' Ed was this big kid, really wasted that night. Drunk on beer and scotch. Sure enough, he agreed to do it."

"A few weeks later, he came to me, with a check in his hand, from the school. 'Did I do some modeling for you recently?' he asked, looking at me, totally confused. Didn't remember a thing!"

Anyway, Corb showed me his drawings from class. He's actually pretty good! I think he has a future in vaginas.

###

"Do you think they deliberately made these nachos like this, because we're getting close to Halloween?" I asked Corb, as we sat down to an especially nutricious meal of nachos and buffalo wings at our favorite tavern. Hey, we're still guys, after all.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Well, look at them. The colors are all so Halloweeny. Orange and red and black. They're scary!"

Corb shook his head, smiling. "They're just plain nachos, Ted. Plain, boring nachos."

I shook my head right back at him. "Nope! They're haunted nachos. I just know it!"

Corb reached out and grabbed a crisp one, covered in cheese and onions. "Haunted nachos, eh?"

"And your buffalo wings are haunted, too! They're actually buffalo things! With boo cheese sauce."

Corb lowered his head and continued eating. I took the opportunity to grab a celery stick and write in the sauce that surrounded his wings.

"Oh my God!" I cried out. "Look what the spirits are saying to us! They've written, 'Die!' 'Hell!'"

Corb looked down at the plate in front of him. Then he looked up at me, trying not to laugh. Then he look down at the plate again, and grabbed a celery stick.

"Oh my God, Ted, look it, the spirits are at it again! Only, they didn't mean to write 'Die' and 'Hell'! They actually meant to write 'Pie' and 'He'll want some!' They're advertising ghosts, Ted. Advertising ghosts!"

Oooooh, these are clever spirits. So, we had some pie.

This morning, in the midst of a sound sleep, I was tapped awake by Corb, who was getting ready for work. He had just gotten out of the bathroom. "Those nachos really were scary," he whispered.

PLEASE NOTE: Image is not mine...it was found on the internet. It's an oil painting by the artist Fernando Botero, found at www.oceansbridge.com.

One of the rules to overcoming a hostile enemy: don't attack. Engage.

Corb figured that one out this week, when it came to solving the Ashes impasse. Ashes, as you may recall, has been dead set against the move to the new apartment, in no small part because she'll no longer have the largest bedroom in the house. In the fact, the one time she went to visit the new place with us, she ended up hiding in Corb's walk-in closet.

Well, what are you going to do? Corb started by trying to get Ashes past her silly demands...which were, gaining control of the master bedroom, and if not that, A LEAST moving her bedroom door so that she had complete control of the second bathroom (leaving Theo in a bit of a tight spot, to say the least.)

Instead, Corb talked colors.

"Okay, but if you were going to move in with us, what color would you want your room to be?" he asked.

"Lime green," Ashes replied. "Or blood red and black."

Charming. I can just imagine how lovely a room painted blood red and black would look. Three minutes locked in that room and I think you'd immediately turn emo.

"Well, why do you want it blood red and black?" asked Corb.

"I want it to look like it was a vampire's bedroom in Buffy," said Ashes.

"You want a coffin?" I asked, in jest. Ashes looked over at me, and I suddenly thought about a famous old Jack Benny routine, where Jack's the victim of a hold up. The robber growls out "Your money or you life," and there's a huge pregnant pause before Jack comes back with "I'm thinking!"

Ashes was actually considering it.

"Well, how about if we try to make it kind of gothic looking?" Corb asked, trying to find a graceful way out.

This intrigued Ashes.

It intrigued her more when he found a black chandeliere he could hang from the ceiling.

On Friday, he presented her with a design for the bed, which he proudly showed off to me. "See? So, instead of the $2,500 heavy oak bed that she wants, I'm thinking of getting two wrought iron grills that I can hang over her bed," he explained. "On either side, I could hang lights that look like fake candles, and I could paint a thick black line around the bed to frame the area off. We could place two small black tables on either side as night stands and...voila"

"Sounds great," I said. "Why don't we wait until Saturday when Josie's here to show it to her?"

"Why wait?" asked Corb.

"Josie might be a good middle man," I said.

Corb snorted and walked into Ashes bedroom to show it to her. He emerged five minutes later, without any scratches.

"So, what do you think of Corb's design for your room?" I asked Ashes Saturday morning.

She nodded her head. "It's good," she said.

That's about as good as you get, with Ashes. And it might just make this move a little easier.

###

One of the rules of disengagement: Don't dwell. Distract.
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Thursday morning, I took the train from Providence into Penn Station.

I love train rides. Love them so much better than flying in a plane. With planes I'm in a continual state of apprehension. Will this be the time I perish in a great big fiery blast? With trains, the worst I worry about is having a really fat smelly guy sit next to me.

My plan was to work on the nebulous chapter of "Pictures" for most of the train, and I well exceeded my quota. I got through the rough stuff and wrote out four pages. The rest should be easy, and I plan to work on more while Corb's studying this afternoon.

###

That evening was a night at the theater. Dinner at Ellen's Stardust Diner, which is a totally touristy choice, but one of my favorite places to eat on Broadway. My friend David would have much preferred drinking a dry martini in a place that wasn't covered from ceiling to floor in kitsch. Me, I'm all about the kitsch.

Then, off to see Bye Bye Birdie, which is in previews in a revival by the Roundabout Theater Company. Even though it's been performed by every high school in America, I've never seen the show.

It was cute. The set was fabulous. A friend who saw it last week said that the secondary characters were more interesting than the leads, and I think I agree. John Stamos basically hits one note the entire show--that of a self-confident swaggering Dean Martin wannabe--and doesn't show any passion whatsoever. His female lead, Rosie, got better as the show progressed, but spent a lot of the first act talking and singing in this pouty sexy tone that kind of reminded me of Fran Drescher without the Brooklyn accent.

Still, although it was fun, the show was sort of dated, and some of it doesn't play well. I found the bigoted mother to be annoying, for example, and didn't have much use for the song Spanish Rose. And, as with the revivals Guys and Dolls or West Side Story that took place earlier in the year, I think I was haunted by why came before--all I saw in my head when I watched John Stamos on stage sing "Put on a Happy Face" for example, was the thought of what a great performer Dick Van Dyke is. Maybe as a result, it really hasn't stuck much with me much after it was all over.

Not like Billy Elliott or even, say, the 39 Steps, a revival of an old movie that was really cleverly staged. These shows had some different to say. I like different.

Revivals like Bye Bye Birdie, I think, are kind of like Chinese food--tasty going down, but one hour later, you're hungry for something with more substance.
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Made the mistake of taking the kids to the new apartment today.

Well, to be more precise, made half a mistake. Theo, of course, loved it. He was thrilled with the loft area, you could just see it on his face. The thought of having his own space--and a really cool space that overlooks everything else--is really exciting to him.

Ashes, on the other hand, was less than thrilled. "I hate my room," she said.

"How can you hate your room?" I asked. "It's larger than what you have now, and you've got your own bathroom and walk in closet."

"I hate the view," she said. "I liked the view at the old apartment better."

Well, it's true, the old view was a duck pond, and it's absolutely gorgeous. The new one is really more of a meadow, so it's not quite as pretty, but it's still a very nice wildlife view.

Ashes walked into the master bedroom. "I want this room," she said. "The view's prettier."

I walked into the room and looked out the window. The view was pretty much the same .

"Well, you can't have this room," I said. "Sorry."

She walked back to her room. "I'll only like it if you move the door so that the bathroom is part of my room, too."

"We can't do that," I said.

She frowned, put her earphones back in, walked into the closet in the master bedroom, and didn't come out until we were ready to leave.

I have to admit, I'm disappointed. I wanted her to like the place as much as we do. I think part of it is that in the current apartment, she has the biggest bedroom, and wants that in the new one. Which is kind of silly, frankly.

"I know what you're saying," said Chad's mom, when we bumped into her at a furniture store later on. "Jo-Ellen has the biggest bedroom in my house, and she's still not satisfied."

"What is she, crazy?" asked my mother, as we took her on a tour of the apartment, in the afternoon. "This place is ten times better than what you have right now."

"I know," I said, frowning. "I just don't understand it."

"Teddy, she's a teenager, she'll get over it," she said. "Just get her a few things she likes and she'll be just fine."

And she's right, I'm sure. In fact, we've already been looking for a few things in the color scheme she says she'd like...which, incidently, is either lime green or blood red and black.

Even so...grrr, I hate it when my kids do this! I worry about things so much, when they're unhappy. And with Ashes, it's inevitable...she hates change. And yes, she totally got that from me.

Oh, well...as my friend J.M. Cornwell wrote, "Dreams take work to make real, lots of hard work." We've still got time, right?