The Thanksgiving Day Newspaper

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day. Thank goodness I don't have to cook. I'll be too busy trying to open my front door.

The Thanksgiving edition of our local paper is scheduled to weigh about 7 pounds. The newspaper delivery person hasn't quite worked out the best place leave my paper--the bushes next to the porch have been ruled out, the driveway under the pick-up truck is not good, and the middle of the swampy front yard is downright dangerous if you're not wearing hip waders . Yesterday, my paper was wedged against the screen door. I had a hard time opening the door --and that was just a puny little weekday paper.

Seven pounds of retail ads promising Christmas delights--if only I'm willing to get up at 3 A.M. and fight thousands of my neighbors for them--might do serious damage to my screen door (or my back) if I try to strong arm my way out. If you happen to pass my house and notice me at the front window pointing frantically at the front door, won't you please roll the behemoth newspaper off the porch so I can escape?

Thank you.

Chocolate Ancestors

When I was a kid, I thought the See's Candy lady was my great grandmother. I came about this misconception when my dad's mother, Gramma Jo, pulled an old box of pictures out of her closet and showed me a picture of her mother. Once. For about 30 seconds. I got a glimpse of white hair, little round glasses, and a white collar. Gramma Jo was German-American, which partially explains her belief that children should be seen and not heard--and should definitely not touch a person's private stash of old pictures. I never saw that picture again--until See's Candy opened a store in the mall near our house.

All the women in our family are chocolate slaves, so a See's Candy store opening was a major event. My mother and I floated into the store on a cloud of chocolate aroma. I couldn't see over the counter, which put me at eye level with shelf after shelf of beautiful, glistening mounds of chcolates. I was hooked. And there , in a frame on the counter, was a picture of my great-grandma. I recognized the white hair, the little round glasses, and the white collar.

"Mom, Mom!" I cried. "That's Gramma Jo's mother!" My mother was lost in the ecstasy of choosing chocolates. She looked at me with dreamy eyes and said, "No, I don't think so. That's a picture of Mrs. See." I was thrilled. I was related to the See's Candy Lady!

My affection for Great-gramma/Mrs. See grew with each visit to the See's candy store. I envisioned the lady with the halo of white hair and kindly face whenever Grandma Jo mentioned her mother.

When I got older, I asked my dad about his wonderful grandmother. He looked puzzled. "She was tougher than a drill sergeant," he said. "She dragged me to church every morning before school, and smacked me in the head if I didn't pay attention." I asked why he didn't just tell her he didn't want to go. "When Grandma Schussler told you to do something, you did it!" he said, as if the answer was obvious. I was bemused. Who was Grandma Schussler? I thought Mrs. See was my great-grandmother!

It's just as well I never met my actual drill-sergeant, head-smacking German great-grandmother. I rather like my vision of a kindly woman with a ready smile. I've more or less adopted Mary See as my ancestor. Hey, it would explain the chocolate in my blood stream, wouldn't it?

Ve Vill Return Your Coll Widin 24 hour...

I'm trying to cancel my long distance service. I've been trying for six weeks. The service was a great deal 10 years ago, when I set it up with some guy in Utah who seemed to be a one-man operation, giving fabulous rates and customer service. I miss him.

He was bought out by a company whose CEO is now in jail, their customer service is in India, and even my local carrier can beat their long-distance prices. All I have are the phone numbers they chose to divulge to me--numbers that never get me to the person who can actually terminate our ailing relationship. I did get two recorded messages, offering me the opportunity to leave my own message and promising, "Ve vill return your coll vidin 24 hours." A lie, of course--unless "vidin 24 hours" is Klingon for "never." How does one find a private detective? I think I need one.

I made the mistake of allowing the service to bill my credit card directly. Now, my credit card company says they can't stop the bills from being paid until I can prove I told the service to cancel the account. I can't cancel, because I can't find them...

But I have a secret weapon. I am a Boomer, and I remember how to use antiquated methods. I remember how to use snail mail! I shall write a letter. I will keep copies. I will put it in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and schlep it to the post office. Then, I will have proof that I want to terminate this account, despite their best efforts to avoid me. My credit card company will accept that. Even a lawyer would accept that.

HA! Take that, you megalithic, multinational, elusive, faceless, so-called "service provider"!

Sometimes, being a Boomer ain't so bad.

Soccer Tot

Baby Girl is now Soccer Tot. Very coordinated and athletic at 2-1/2,she was deemed advanced enough to learn soccer at the YMCA with the 3-year-olds. "Advanced" being a relative term, of course. Beckham has nothing to fear--yet.

I showed up at the big game in a gym overflowing with four running, laughing, talking toddler teams--sometimes chasing the ball, sometimes not. The coaches earned my deep respect for their tolerance for chaos and their ability to explain again and again that no, the goal is not to grab the ball from the other kid with your hands.

My Soccer Tot was so excited to see me that she repeatedly picked up the ball in one arm during practice so she could wave at me with the other as she ran by. Her exuberance began to wane about halfway through the game when the coach gathered the team at the goal. She crawled into the goal, tangling her pony tail in the net. Mom ran out and removed out the stretchy fastener. Soccer Tot grabbed the hair fastener, and ran out onto the court with it when coach returned them to the game. She was too busy playing with it while running to pay any attention to the game. Could drama be far behind? Nope.

Her mom dashed onto the court and took the fastener from her, trying to redirect her attention to the ball. Soccer Tot fell to her hands and knees in the middle of the floor like a wounded warrior. She put her head down on her hands and remained motionless, contemplating the cruelties of life, no doubt.

She eventually got up, walked to the side lines, and crawled into her mom's lap, thumb in mouth.

Beckham would be envious.