TGI Black Friday

McDonald's is doing its part to make sure we live up to our reputation as the "ugly Americans," announcing its plan to offer up fries for breakfast on Black Friday. You just can't beat good old-fashioned American ingenuity.

You can't really blame McDonald's for diving right into the spirit of self-reflection and selfless giving that is our holiday season. I know some people might think that offering up fries for breakfast to a nation already plagued by obesity related illnesses is yet another example of the shameless commercialization of Christmas, but when you think of all those joyous, bloated smiles at the drive-thru you can't help but feel closer to God. People are just so cynical.

Maybe I'm feeling a tad bit defensive, since this is my first holiday season working in retail. In my line of work, you get to see the highly spiritual folks, the ones who like to get a jump on all the good will and holiday cheer and get the damn shopping over with early. Just the other day I witnessed one example after another of the love and holiness brought out by the season. "Well, who cares if she likes it," said one sister to the other. "At least we can strike her off the list." Warms the cockles, doesn't it?

Then there was the mother and her grown daughter agonizing about the perfect gift for the daughter-in-law. Naturally, they confined their search to the sale rack, and came up with a hideous bright green jacket. It had a huge snag on the front of the left shoulder. "We can't give her something with a snag on it, can we?" asked mom. "Oh, it's barely noticeable," responded the daughter. I looked down at the snag, a good inch of thread curling downward from a puckered little hole. "We'll cut it and she definitely won't see it, especially since she's so in love with anything green." Well, gosh, maybe they should puke on it too; more shades of green to love.

If it's been this good already, I can't wait to get to work on Black Friday. All the halos, all the angelic smiles -- it's going to be awesome. Especially after I stuff myself with fries for breakfast.

The Year They Cancelled Thanksgiving

A child has been born, and a turkey has been saved.

We knew that my Connecticut cousins were expecting their first grandchild some time around Thanksgiving. Kinda cool, sure, but Thanksgiving with the cousins in Connecticut is sacred, and some baby nobody had even met yet was not going to interfere with our annual family ritual. Or so we thought. After all, it wasn't our fault the baby was to be born in San Francisco.

So for at least a week now, we've all been on high baby alert. Excited to hear of the arrival of our newest family member. Excited to hear whether it's a boy or girl, since the parents have refused to accommodate our curiosity and instead selfishly decided to be surprised. Excited to be reassured that mom and baby are healthy and we could indeed get to our feast with clear heads and the usual gusto.

Well, I've heard that becoming a grandparent is something indescribable, a feeling that takes you completely by surprise and transforms you into a person you never dreamed you could become. And so it was, yesterday, when my usually level headed cousins, upon hearing the baby was on the way, were welcomed into the club of the single minded adorers, folks who just seem to have no perspective. "The baby's coming today. Thanksgiving is cancelled. I'm sorry. Call me," was the email I received in the morning. WHAT??? Conflicted doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. Marginalized. Abandoned. Remarkably hungry.

Really. Really? What does a little baby have that we don't have? All the kid's gonna do is lay around eating and passing gas. Okay, come to think of it, not so different from the rest of us, but what about all the scintillating conversation? The gossip? The inappropriate jokes? Boy are my cousins gonna be disappointed when they realize what a waste all that non-advance-purchase airfare was!

Baby or no baby, my family knows how to overcome adversity, and nothing will stop us from having our annual gorge. The rest of us, the downtrodden, the forgotten, the starving ones, will convene in New York and stuff our faces regardless. And I suppose we'll toast both the new baby and the New England turkey that was suddenly spared.

By the way: It's a boy!!!

Jaded Photographs

Whenever I run into someone I haven't seen in a while, I get to hear how surprising it is that I haven't yet been swept up by a knight in shining armor and am not hearing wedding bells. I get a little defensive, assuring them that I could go out any time I wanted to, could be married at the drop of a top hat.

The truth is, I don't fantasize about any future nuptials (not for me, anyway) but I do fantasize about trying on wedding gowns. My first time around, I was by myself, in an unfamiliar city, and feeling a little too chubby to look good in white satin and lace. No entourage of bridesmaids, no feuding mother and mother-in-law, nobody. I could have been shopping for a sweatshirt.

Next week, when we head to New York, we will be tantalizingly close to Kleinfeld's, the venerable wedding dress capital of the world, and home to Say Yes to the Dress. I suggested to my younger daughter that she, her sister, and I pay a visit to Kleinfeld's, claim that I am getting married, set a ridiculously high price point, and go to town. She found the idea of her old mother trying on fluffy wedding gowns a bit repulsive (I didn't mention I was looking for something red and slinky), although she said she would agree to the adventure if we claimed her older sister was the bride-to-be. How perfectly ordinary; where's the fun in that?

Maybe we should set our sights on some more minor tourist attractions, like Ground Zero. A friend just went with her daughter, and told me about the spectacle of people snapping pictures of their family members smiling in front of the memorial. Ew. Makes televised bickering over bridal gowns seem downright classy.

The truth is my time in the big city will be limited and I need to spend it doing what I enjoy most -- wandering aimlessly. For me, New York is still a place I think of as home -- one of my homes -- and I don't need to do any sightseeing. I can still remember Ground Zero before it was Ground Zero, and I will never forget the first time I trudged with my young family through the still fresh rubble to view all the tributes draped over the fence enclosing the hideous, gaping hole. No need to memorialize any of that in a photograph; some things just stick with you forever.

And if I were to wander into Kleinfeld's to try on wedding dresses, well that wouldn't just be memorable. It would be surreal. My mom assured me, back in the day, that had I been marrying someone Jewish she would have taken me there to shop for my gown. Do I feel as if I missed out on something? Sure, but it's not Kleinfeld's. It's the whole experience of sharing the joy of planning a wedding with my mom. Not with an entourage of bridesmaids and future in-laws. Just with my mom. But I was a different person back then, and so was she. It would not have been possible.

As cynical as I am these days, about marriage and everlasting love, I will have my nose pressed against the window of Kleinfeld's -- or some comparable alternative -- the moment one of my daughters announces an engagement. I will get swept up in the ludicrousness of spending inordinate sums of money on a virginal gown, of seeing my girls star in some anachronistic princess fantasy that can overcome even the most cynical among us.

Maybe they'll even let me try one on. If folks can snap pictures in front of a memorial to thousands who died well before their time, this old broad can take a spin or two on a pedestal in a fluffy wedding gown. No cameras please.

Unruffled Feathers

It's amazing how a few random displays of kindness can take a person out of a funk. Thanks to some unsolicited acts of decency. yesterday turned out to be a much better day than the one before.

With my renewed faith in humanity -- at least the humanity in my little section of the universe -- I have faced today with a much better attitude. Even though reality is setting in, and I probably just enjoyed my last birthday celebration for this year. Even though I'm having trouble zipping up my jeans. Even though Demi and Ashton are finally calling it quits. And the positive mental attitude has been working -- so far, not even a tiny urge for an anxiety pill.

There is much to look forward to in the next couple of weeks. First, there's my annual trip to Connecticut via New York for Thanksgiving with my family. Then, only a week after that, there's a bonus trip to New York for my son's graduation from college. My cynical son, the one who thinks ceremonies like graduations are pointless and exist only to please parents (yeah, so? your point?), has decided to walk with his class after all. Honestly, who does he think pays the bills?

Family milestones can be particularly loaded when you are going through a drawn out and sometimes contentious divorce. But just as we all rose to the occasion for my daughter's graduation last May, it looks as if everyone is poised to do the same this time around. And, for me at least, there will be nothing fake about my joy in having the bickering factions (i.e. me and my husband) and their alleged allies (i.e. our respective blood relatives) together in one room. Raising my son and my daughters was a journey of love I did not take alone, and I cannot imagine not sharing their accomplishments with the people who have loved them right along with me, every step of the way.

Deep fried turkey, a few helpings of stuffing, and celebrating one of my children, all within the span of ten days. Life don't get any better than that.

CYA

I've had far better days than yesterday. I've had far worse days, though, and at least today I can start fresh.

That is as soon as the bile stops rising into my throat and sending me on a sprint to the bathroom, which is what happened several times in the middle of the night. I can't decide if the distress is from the inhuman amount of food I consumed last night at a birthday dinner with friends (a bright spot in an otherwise lousy day) or the phone call with my attorney that kept me screeching all the way home from work yesterday afternoon. Probably a little of both.

I am not sure if any of my wrath made an impact, but I am pretty confident that my attorney will never again make the mistake of repeating to me the nonsense that spews from my husband's attorney's mouth. And you cannot even imagine how thrilled I was to hear that after almost two years of collecting fees for lord knows what the attorney from hell has finally realized what the one true issue is in the case from hell. Naturally, her well thought out solution is to totally screw me, but that's no surprise. I just wish I could describe the sheer delight I felt upon hearing that my attorney, my husband's attorney, and his accountant were able to agree on something -- that their fees should be paid first out of the ever dwindling pie.

Yep, there's zealous representation going on, just not of me. Like I said, though, today I have a chance for a fresh start -- bile or no bile -- and when I skimmed through the MSNBC headlines on my home page I was immediately struck by a bit of good news. Pippa Middleton says it's okay to wear leggings as pants. You know, the kind of pants that don't need to be covered by a long sweater, the kind that can be deemed sufficient butt coverage for public consumption. And if her royal hotness says it's okay, who am I to argue? (Of course Pippa could probably wear granny underpants and make them look sexy but tasteful. As for the rest of us commoners whose butts have not been blessed with royal perfection, I think we have a civic duty to hang on to those long sweaters and flowing tunics. Some things just shouldn't be shared.)

I, for one, will be covering my own ass when I wear leggings. Let's face it, if history is any indication, nobody else is going to do it for me.

Subdivide and Conquer

Parents in some South Carolina town are all up in arms because a teacher there was having her first graders rub her feet. At least she didn't "take showers" with them.

The news is full of stories about grown ups behaving badly, yet we never cease to be shocked when we hear that things aren't always as they seem behind the closed doors of our neighborhood McMansions. Shit may be happening "out there," but for some reason many of us have ourselves convinced that our own subdivisions defy the averages.

As a person who lives in one of the houses with a door that suddenly turned to glass, revealing the stains and the tears within, I breathe a sigh of relief each time another home goes transparent and shows itself to be much more of a fixer upper than anyone might have assumed. It's not that I take pleasure in anybody else's marital or financial or parental problems; it's just that an occasional reminder of the flaws in our Stepford-like assumptions gives me the comfort of knowing I am not alone.

Do I doubt for one second that gossip worthy problems like infidelity or bankruptcy or garden variety family dysfunction are as rampant here in my little corner of deep dark suburbia as they are elsewhere? Not a chance. But do I still get sucked into the belief that all those other houses are as neat and tidy inside as the landscaped lawns in front? Naturally. I am as delusional and prone to flawed assumptions as the next suburbanite. Deep down, though, I know that if you pulled back most of the curtains, you'd see a lot of crap. Okay, busted. Maybe I do take just a little bit of pleasure in the misfortune of others.

As realistic as I can be, though, I still find it hard to believe that any of my neighbors are, ahem,"showering" with little boys or having six year olds rub their feet when they should be working on phonics. That's just too icky.

Margaritaville Can Wait

There's wisdom everywhere; you just have to look for it. "If you love something, set it free," admonished a sign on the wall in the airport food court. "If it doesn't come back, have a margarita." Good advice, and lucrative, no doubt, for the proprietors of the little Mexican joint displaying it. Win win.

It seems counter intuitive, though, especially when it comes to people. Tossing away someone you love just doesn't come naturally to most of us. Then celebrating with some tequila when the person doesn't return? Seems downright harsh. But as I was pondering the pros and cons of the whole issue, I came upon another bit of wisdom, right there on the sign outside the church near my house. "God loves you regardless," the large black letters assured me. Manna from heaven! Okay, then; without so much as a look back, out with the old loves, in with the new. L'chaim.

The other day, I read an essay by a guy who had become hopelessly addicted to Twitter, apparently losing his job and his wife as a direct result of his obsessive hourly tweeting. (I still don't really understand the concept of tweeting as it relates to humans, but it sounds even more narcissistic than blogging, if that's possible.) So this guy would spend almost every waking moment dreaming up clever little tweets for his fans (who numbered in the thousands), obviously at considerable cost. Although I get the feeling he may have snuck in a margarita or two at the loss of the wife.

Finally, he engaged in a sort of self intervention and quit, cold turkey. Actually let go of the thing he loved more than life (or wife) itself. That story, and the serendipitous snippets of wisdom I've come across in the past few days, led me to consider whether I should let go of my blog, set it free. It's certainly something I love, so much so that I leave home at 5:30 many mornings to sit in Starbucks and see what comes out. So much so that I often rush out on my dog at great risk of finding lakes of pee and piles of poop upon my return. So much so that I skip much needed workouts and ignore the ever accumulating clutter in my house. And my head.

Even the prospect of a margarita doesn't diminish my terror at the thought of my blog failing to return, leaving me forever. And let's face it; no amount of tequila will stop me from replacing this little space with yet another obsession, so why let it go in the first place. People may be expendable, but my little piece of real estate in the blogosphere just isn't. (Just don't tell the people I love I said that.)

And if anyone thinks my priorities are screwed up, it doesn't matter. Cause God loves me, regardless.