Holiday Traditions

I think I've recently stumbled across the perimeter of wisdom concerning why (where I heartily agree with the holiday) I'm beginning to think Thanksgiving is a pain in the arse. It's not for lack of gratitude. It's instead, lack of tradition.

My family isn't big on Thanksgiving. Ever since my grandmother stopped hosting Thanksgiving (in the mid '70's) - My family hasn't really had a fail-safe plan. This opens the door for pandemonium and a lot of "What are you doing?" "Where are you going?" "Who are you with?" and the like. Years ago, to escape, my parents started travelling to their favorite vacation spot and volunteering at a homeless shelter. For awhile, I loved spending Turkey Day in New York (and eating at Frescoes... who still make me wonder what they put in their mashed potatoes to make them so amazingly good)... Some years I'd cook for my family or friends... Last year, I spent the most amazing day with Dave and his father (You can read about it here )...

This year, my parents asked if I wanted to go do the homeless shelter thing with them this year - then they changed their mind... Dave's father said he wanted to go back to the Old Country Buffet - and where I'm so sorry for poor Dave, I can't accompany him on this adventure TWICE, so I've settled for eating out with my parents on Thursday and cooking dinner for Dave on Friday. I know. It's confusing.

But - for the record, I'm grateful - For example, tonight (after spending three or four GRUELING days at work), I ran to the grocery store for evaporated milk, pumpkin pie spice, and allspice (I"ll explain why in a minute). The store was mad-packed. I mean, lines out the wha-zoo... (even the self-checkout lines, which aren't really all that helpful or efficient, or fast) were jammed). I chose carefully and stood in a line behind two other people - both with carts stocked to the hilt. I grinned sheepishly and held my pidly purchases up, "I'm kind of an idiot..."

The first man smiled at me, "Do you want to go first? You only have a few things!"

"Really? You don't mind?" I turned to the woman directly in front, "Do you mind?"

"Not if you buy me coffee someday!"

Deal. I was in and out in a flash.

The reason I had to re-stock was that on Wednesday night (after working till 9 pm) I decided I had to cheer myself up by making Pumpkin pie. Now, I've had my share of kitchen disasters - mostly due to breaking glass and finding myself stranded in the middle of my kitchen with no shoes on - but I've made some really fine pies in my day.

Not this one. I made a significant salt error. I knew it as soon as I put the pie in the oven, too. I tasted some of the batter on the wooden spoon. Spiced salt lick... I baked it anyway - just in case my oven had magical sodium-reducing powers...

Nope. It's just your garden variety oven, in case you're wondering. So I tossed the whole pie. I took this photo for you - just so you understand that I can laugh about it.

Needless to say, I was out of evaporated milk, with necessitated another trip to the grocery store -

Which made me think - maybe shopping in mad-crowds is my Thanksgiving tradition. Maybe screwing up food is something I reserve for the holidays (remind me to tell you about my guacamole soup, my Christmas Mashed Potatoes, and some concoction I whipped up one December that was so icky that my dog wouldn't eat it...)

I guess it's better than fighting with my relatives!

November 16, 1983

I found my junior high school diary... I was surely not the sensitive blogger I am now:

I wrote, "Today wasn't great. Gwen's (my sister's) birthday. She got a pretty dress. She doesn't look all that great in it, but don't tell HER that. She got $, etc... She's going to get a gift certificate for a hamster. (signed, Kelly)"

I would like to issue an open apology to my sister for the awful things I said about her in my diary in 1983. I'm sure I meant it at the time - yet, it was so very, very wrong. If it's any consolation, I'm sure her hamster bit me.

Mother-In-Me

Last night, for the first time in a looooong time – I went back to school shopping with Dave’s daughter. If I remember my own high school days, I usually went with my mother – tried to go to a big mall out of town, and usually, I blew whatever money I made as a trail guide at the riding stable I worked at. I also remember going on ‘spree’ with my friend, Jessica. We’d do the Charlie’s Angels thing in the parking lot… We’d flirt with shoe salesmen (I can’t actually even remember the last time I’ve been to a shoe store where the sales person actually put the shoe on my foot), and eat at Chi-Chi’s (which always gave me pains the next day).

I don’t remember having too many arguments with my mother about my wardrobe… But when we disagreed – well, looking back – I now understand my mother’s point of view. It WAS the Flashdance-era 80’s after all…

“Kelly, that thing has no neck!”

“But Mom!” I protested, holding the panda sweatshirt with no cuffs, neck, or waist, “Everyone’s wearing them. And I love it! Look! Panda bears!” We eventually compromised. I could have the sweatshirt, but I agreed to wear something underneath it.

Every now and then, I hear echoes of my mother in myself. “Mother-in-me” pops up in odd places (i.e. when I’m arguing with my nephew, and out of desperation say, “BECAUSE I SAID SO!” or encourage a busybody to butt out by reciting the poem my mother always told me:

“Never trouble trouble –
Till trouble troubles you.
You’ll always DOUBLE trouble
And trouble others too!”

Last night – mother-in-me emerged at the mall. She stayed quiet for a long time... Until we walked into Hollister.

NOTE: Have you ever been to a Hollister?!! Hollister infringes on my sense of propriety in that most of its merchandise has “HOLLISTER” emblazoned across the chest. My take – and it’s the same for Tommy Hilfiger, American Eagle, Old Navy, Gap, or even Anne Taylor (although Anne would NEVER do this to me…) – is that if I’m going to wear your name across my breasts, you’re going to pay me to do it. It’s called ADVERTISING, and if you’re not paying, I’m not wearing… nor am I buying. It seems counter-intuitive!

Dave’s daughter didn't feel the same way, because she immediately chose a yellow sweatshirt (price $40. Think about it. She was willing to pay Hollister 40$ for the priviledge of advertising the brand!) with the logo sewn across the front. “What do you think?” she asked.

I explained my theory of advertising. She wasn’t interested in my theory of advertising. She said she loved the sweatshirt and was going to get it. She moved on to these itsy bitsy scraps of denim skirts and said, “I need skirts.”

Here is where my mother-in-me couldn’t help but recoil in horror. She couldn't help it but to exclaim, “They’ll let you wear that to school?”

“Sure.”

First, Dave’s daughter, very very slim and lovely, isn’t even large enough to warrant an actual number. She’s a size ZERO. Second, the skirt was barely crotch-lengthed. I would understand if she wanted this rag for the summer at the beach over a swimsuit – but school?!!

I– or more succinctly – my mother – asked the obvious.

“Can you sit down in that? Doesn’t it ride up your butt? How do you bend?”

“I wear shorts under it.”

“But – look at this!” I motioned to a ragged hole located right in front, slightly to the left of the fly. “Are you okay with that?”

NOTE 2: In case you’re wondering where Dave was during this double-team rally, he was standing outside the store against the railing with all the other dads in the mall that night. This was clearly up to mother-in-me and me.

Dave’s daughter thought about the skirt for a moment. I don’t know if she was appeasing me, or really thought maybe it was too holy and short. She put the $40 rag scrap back on the shelf. My mother-in-me raised her hands in victory.

Then, she did something I wasn’t expecting – she put the Hollister-ad-cum-sweatshirt back on the shelf too! Then she chose a smart-looking button down striped shirt and said, “What do think of this? It’s expensive, but I like the way these fit me.”

At this point, mother-in-me lowered her hands and waited to see what I would do, as if to say, “I wouldn’t pay 40 bucks for that – but whatever, Kell – it’s your call…” She disappeared, leaving Dave’s daughter and me alone. I picked up the shirt. It was nice. It had finished hems – it was well constructed. I shrugged and asked, “Will you wear it a lot?” She nodded. I told her I liked it…

As she paid, I went out to find Dave. “You owe me. I just talked your daughter out of buying a 40$ short-short skirt with a hole in the front…”

“Man, I’m glad you’re here…”

He didn’t acknowledge mother-in-me, but I didn’t expect him to know much about that part.

______

PS – On a completely different note, I just spell-checked this post… THE COMPUTER KNEW THAT HILFIGER IS SPELLED WITH ONE “L.” – This is completely WHY I don’t wear Hilfiger. If he’s so famous that the computer knows how to spell his last name, he doesn’t NEED my advertising… However, Tommy? If you’re willing to pay, just send the shirt and the check. I’ll wear it.

What's Success?

I used to do live television - and I always marvelled at how chaotic it could get in the production truck or studio - when the viewers at home never noticed anything wrong... I remember working a football game where the color commentator had a flight to catch immediately following the game. (He coached a high school football team that was playing in the state championships that evening.... Unfortunately, it was not the state we were in...) - The game we were televising involved the most played rivalry in college football... Regardless of how the teams fared in regular season play, they fought their hardest at this game.... Naturally, this meant double overtime. Color commentator was flummoxed, upset, nervous, and tense. Every three seconds, he had me call the airport to attempt (like it was possible - this was before the days of near-guaranteed flight delays) - to hold the flight.

Meanwhile, the director had arranged for police escorts, complicated only by the fact that the football game was in a different jurisdiction as the airport... It would be like a Minneapolis cop escorting a high-speed getaway to an airport in St. Paul... The cops kind of shrugged, and said they'd see how it went...

The scene backstage was chaotic. To viewers at home, however, the only chaos anyone noticed was on the field. The broadcast proceeded exactly as planned. The color commentator never issued as much as a rushed thought, expletive, dangling participle, or unfortunate stammer in his delivery. No one had any idea his heart wasn't in a Division I game, but in an itty bitty high school championship he had no intention of missing.

(I'm told, btw, that he made it to the game)
__________

There is a fine line between chaos and order... And if you're really good, no one will notice the line, where it occurred, or even if it ever got fixed. ( It makes one wonder what the mark of true success - running a flawless event from the audience/client/viewer perspective, or running a tight show backstage... )

Maybe I aim low, but I tend to believe that what matters is the end product, but you decide.

I photograhed a wedding last night... Now, I never understood why anyone (excluding the availability of the hall, caterer, church, and staff) would plan a July wedding. Even the best tuxes aren't lightweight enough to withstand the soaring temperatures -and say what you will about not wearing pantyhose, bridesmades and wedding dresses are made for neither comfort nor ventilation. In July, a wedding party is nothing but a sweat-trap.

So already, this bride was off to a rough start. To boot, there was some confusion about certain elements. The bride's family was responsible for decorating the room where the ceremony took place; the family thought they ordered extra flowers, but didn't... The bride thought she ordered gold chairs (not the black ones that were in the room). The caterer swears by his copious notes that she didn't pay extra for them...

Then, the crazy July Thunderstorms we've been having around here changed the location of the buffet stations. Originally planned to be outside, but the food had to be moved to an indoor location down a long hallway...

Of course, when the wedding ended, and the guests wandered the hallways looking for the receiving line (the bride escaped to a bathroom to bussel a complicated gown), they immediately found dinner, and started eating, therefore completely bypassing the butlered hor's Deuvres they were SUPPOSED to be enjoying. The caterer just shrugged - and buttlered dumplings and bruschetta throughout dinner.

The bride was kind of upset. I mentioned to her that her guests were having the time of their lives. She acknowledged that and just shrugged it off...

Later, during formal introductions, the DJ introduced the bride and groom to a song no one had chosen, nor had I ever heard used to introduce any bride and groom - EVER. In walks the bride with a "What the....?!!" look on her face as the DJ played, "I believe in miracles... You sexy thing..." Then, a few minutes later, when it was time for the bride to dance with her father, the DJ played John Denver when he should have been playing Ray Charles.

I noticed the bride, trying to laugh it off - yet wiping an escaped tear from her eye.

I'm hoping the bride found some comfort during the toasts - a stream of heartfelt confessions:

The best man/brother of the groom acknowledged that he thought he'd never be more proud of his brother than when he won the state football championships 15 years ago (what is it with high school football?!!) - but professed his beaming pride and love for every moment he could spend with his brother...

The maid of honor/sister of the bride winged one of the lovliest speeches I'd ever heard: "We were so competitive growing up, and it took me years to realize how much fun you are - and how you are my very best friend..."

The father began with his long-awaited confession, "I'm giving this speech because I'm told I'm not demonstrative enough with my feelings, particularly around Christmas. I just need you all to know I'm grateful for the gifts - especially when the polo shirt has the proper three buttons... I liked it really, but I don't give a damn about material things - What I care about is in this room right now... I'd do anything for anyone here - and I can't tell you how much it means to me that you're sharing this day with us."

Maybe it's age, or wisdom - but the dad was right. When nothing goes according to plan, the chairs aren't gold, there are less flowers than you would have liked, and the entire family is letting off steam by yelling at the caterer - yet you still have those you love close by - laughing, dancing, and enjoying themselves - it's hard to say the event was nothing but a smashing success...

Clicking My Heels - There's No Place Like Home

Has anyone read "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel? I checked IMDB to verify a rumor I heard that M. Knight Shymalan secured the rights to this book and wrote the screenplay - I'm interested.

Here's a cool excerpt from "Life of Pi..."

"What is the meaning of freedom in such a context? Animals in the wild are, in practice, free neither in space nor in time, nor in their personal relations. In theory - that is, as a simple physical possibility - an animal could pick up and go, flaunting all the social conventions and boundaries proper to its species. But such an event is less likely to happen than for a member of our own species - say a shopkeeper with all the usual ties - to family, to friends, to society - to drop everything and walk away from his life with only the spare change in his pockets and the clothes on his frame. If a man, boldest and most intelligent of creatures, won't wander from place to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why would an animal, which is by temperament far more conservative? ... There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom," involved in the whereabouts of a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard. Both speak of pattern and purpose. In the wild, animals stick to the same paths for the same pressing reasons, season after season....

But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of the question.

If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!" - do you think they would shout and dance for joy? they woludn't. Birds are not free. The people you've just evicted would sputter, "With what right do you throw us out? This is our home. We own it. We have lived here for years. We're calling the police, you scoundrel."

_____

I've lived in the same place since 1994 - the same region anyway... I never thought I'd root here. I had no intention of staying. I thought my first job in the area would last just a few years.... It lasted many more than it should have. After I left there, I tried to fly the coop. Honest, I thought DC would be a wonderful place to live. I thought life in NYC would have a shelf life, but I could probably survive a few years there... I even pondered Philadelphia (a city I don't have a great affection for - although it's growing on me). For the right job, I might even experiment with Boston or Chi-town...

But I never left. When offered a poor paying job with a less than living wage in Virginia, I actually thought about taking it. I figured I could always freelance and survive and within a year or two move onto bigger I found new jobs right here. I made my friends right here. I fell in love here (I can remember a time when this occurred several times a day)

It seems that in my make-believe fantasy Johari window quadrant labeled "unknown bird flipped to everyone," I believe I'm a transient, world traveler, with interesting stories to tell - Well... In the words of the immortal Howard Hill, "I got my foot caught in the door."

I don't think I'm going anywhere - I think I've found my territory - and I doubt I'm moving. Despite all the things going on at work that I don't always like - despite all the people I don't understand - and despite my desire to see the world and make an impact everywhere I go...

So I guess my band's world tour consists of Eastern PA, New York and New Jersey...

Quick to Cry Racism

I have two stories that aren't really PC, but they're kind of funny in their own way... They're about two instances when I was "accused" of racism... but it just wasn't the case.

One night, I was walking to my car. I had been at a show - so it was probably 11 pm. As I walked down the sidewalk, I could hear someone behind me - but I kept moving. As I got to the car, I stepped off the sidewalk and approached the drivers' side door. This, for some reason, incensed the African American man walking behind me.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he steamed. He thought I was crossing the street to avoid him. He thought I thought he was a threat. He thought that by stepping off the sidewalk, I was running away.

"But dude, this is my car..." (I actually said 'dude...')

Second instance. I had photographed a Jamaican couple's wedding. The husband owned a Jamaican restaurant in town. Admittedly, it wasn't a part of town I frequent, but I don't actually GO downtown that often. I didn't know much about Jamaican food - outside of hearing about oxtail soup... so I asked, "So would you guys meet me there sometime? I"d like to go."

The husband looked at me and said, "It's okay. White people go there sometimes..."

"That's fine - but I was actually thinking it'd be nice to have you there to help me with the menu."

There was a short pause before the husband said, "Sure. Just call us up. We'll meet you there."

Job References

Almost four years ago, I left a job that made me miserable. I had nowhere to be promoted to, the GM ("John") and I never saw eye-to-eye on much, and I felt I was never in a position to make much of a difference. So I left.

Without another job.

Looking back, if I had to do it again, I'd plan more carefully, but I never regretted leaving.

The other night, I was at a function where I ran into an old client ("Jeff") of mine from that job. The client was a great one. I really enjoyed working with him - and our projects were successful. So successful that he continues to do business with my former company.

Jeff: So, Kelly, Can I ask you what your impressions are of "John?"

Kelly: Off the record?

Jeff: Of course, of course

Kelly: John's really not my flavor.

Jeff: Well, he's looking to join (a committee within Jeff's company), and I've found him very smart, but completely undependable. He's disorganized, and doesn't seem to manage his time well at all. This committee comes with a pretty hefty commitment - there's a lot of footwork, and I'm not sure he's up to it.

Kelly: Jeff, that's exactly what I think. I think he's a nice, well-meaning man, but if it were my committee, I wouldn't want him - but that being said, I have no problem with him as a human being. I'll tell you what, though. If you really think he'll fit in, ask him what he's going to give up in order to serve on your committee.

I walked away that evening thinking, "How ironic. I just gave my former boss a job reference..." I don't think it was a very positive job reference, but then again, I didn't do that much of the talking, did I? I can't help thinking how great it was, however, to be confirmed. Maybe I wasn't just another self-serving, disgruntled employee... Maybe I'm just a good judge of character!

New Writing Assignment: Nonfiction

For anyone (HP) who's interested - the next writing assignment is 500 words on the impact of a world event on you. I had to think about this for a long time - but I think I have a premise. I'll do it this weekend.

Have fun with it!

Writing Assignment 4

Here it is. We had to develop a story based on the initial sentence. My assignment is 340 words too long, but that's just how it is. Enjoy. For HP's version of the assignment, click here.

___________________________________
Chris was starting to question the wisdom of this trip. Diagnosed with claustrophobia and Vertigo, Chris Parker suffered from a lifelong fear of flying. What was he doing on an airplane? Chris swallowed another Dramamine (his fourth), and hoped to fall asleep. As he drifted, he pondered the varying degrees of fear in his life. Yes, Chris hated heights. Even more, however, he hated the thought of living the rest of his life alone…

He not only lost his favorite car in the divorce, but also his social standing. His married male friends found his singlehood threatening. His brother offered too much advice. Despite the multiple infidelities, his ex-wife's friends quickly chose her side.

Chris wasn't getting any younger. At 47, he was convinced if he didn't find a new partner, he'd die a pathetic soul — like Eleanor Rigby, Boo Radley, or worse yet - his embittered father.

It was this particular fear that prompted him to sign onto an Internet dating site. He was quite specific. He was not looking for a casual fling. Deciding honesty was the best policy; Chris stated his intentions clearly:

“What I'm looking for is a new life. I'm not exactly a trophy, so you don't have to be one either. If you're under 170-pounds with a well-proportioned body, a good sense of humor, and independence, read on. If you don't own cats, are willing to tolerate my occasional trip to the betting parlor, and have some sort of life-supporting job, we just may go together. Please. Only serious inquiries need bother writing.”

His honesty didn't garner a lot of interest, but one woman took the bait. Her name was Rhonda. She said she managed a restaurant, and found his demeanor oddly charming. She even sent a photo. Aside from her over-processed red permanent, she was not entirely unpleasant to look at. If anything, she had similar goals and was willing to give him a shot.

Swallowing his fears, Chris threw low expectations and high hopes into an overnight bag. He purchased a plane ticket and tried to knock himself out for the 4-hour flight.

Falling asleep immediately upon takeoff in Chicago, Chris dodged the bullet that made flying a nightmare. He was still groggy when the plane landed in Denver. Deciding a quick cocktail might further calm his nerves for his connecting flight, Chris downed a martini at the airport bar. Immediately regretting this decision, Chris popped an antacid.

After a long delay, and another round of pills, Chris finally boarded. As the 747 taxied across the long, terrifying runway, Chris turned green. The woman next to him leaned toward the window.

Chris silently prayed, “God, if you get me through this flight, I'll start believing in you… It'd help your cause a lot if Rhonda were my next destiny…. Um, Amen.”

He inhaled slowly. He thought about Rhonda with her red hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. He thought of her restaurant, and the kinds of food her chef may be preparing… For some reason, he pictured liver. His stomach churned, so he desperately thought of Rhonda somewhere else — anywhere else…even the beach… Yes. The beach.

He exhaled deliberately, envisioning her red hair whipping in the wind. He could feel sand blowing around his feet. This annoyed him enough to open his eyes. When he remembered where he was, his stomach gave it's final warning churn. Chris, amidst protests from the seat-belted crew, Rushed down the crowded aisle, and dove into the lavatory. There, he spent the remainder of the flight, kneeling at the foot of the commode, wishing he had met some nice cyber-girl from Evanston.

At long last, the plane stopped moving. The stewardess forgot about him, or she'd have required him to return to his seat for landing. Chris shivered as he tried to shake his legs awake. The last to deplane, he wobbled down the staircase and into the crowed terminal.

Barely recovered, the spinning carousels of baggage claim caused a new wave of dizziness. Chris found that if he turned his head and looked in such a way that he could only see the very tops of the luggage in the periphery, he could control his nausea. He blindly reached for his bag, accidentally shoving a mother and baby from their path.

The outdated loudspeaker of LAX sputtered, “Paging Mr. Parker. Mr. Chris Parker. Please pick up any red courtesy phone for a message. Chris Parker, pick up the red courtesy phone for a message.”

Writing Assignment 3, or I Hate The Misuse of Costumed Mascots

I know I've blogged about this before, but since I'm posting all of my writing assignments, here it is. For blog purists out there, I can say this is a neater, more concise version of the previous post... At least there's that.

Upcoming Topics:

Crabby John Gets Married
Santa Barbara Wedding (Not Crabby John's)
Further Installments of Band Gigs at Seasons Grille

________________

Recently, I attended a classy birthday party at an upscale restaurant. The host wore a silk Versace shirt and velvet blazer. The guests looked as if they were ready for a theater premiere. Danny, the guest of honor was ceremoniously presented with picture perfect gifts: the key to a new BMW Z4 M Roadster, a rare emerald-cut diamond ring, and a cake sheathed in edible gold leaf.

It was a perfect night.

Danny’s sister thought she’d surprise her brother with a big 'ol gift of her own, in the form of chicken-costumed singing telegram. The bird arrived, looking like it had scrabbled up the elevator shaft. The yellow costume was natty, matted, and saggy. It looked like it smelled. During the bird’s routine, no one moved, laughed, or responded. In short, the chicken’s presence proved nothing but fowl.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen costumed mascots perform inappropriately at inappropriate events. A singing gorilla-gram graced a recent wedding reception. It made penis hats out of balloons. It stripped down to a tasseled brassiere. I was specifically embarassed when, following the gorilla’s exit, the flower girl danced madly about in the penis hat.

If I’m not at Disneyworld, Chuck E. Cheese’s, or a major sporting event, spare me the costumed mascots. If for some reason, you simply have to have one, then a few rules should be observed:

1) Costumed mascots should only make appearances if the costume is high-end, good looking, and well maintained… When the costume is natty, fragmented, incomplete, smelly, torn, cracked, or dirty, it should be cleaned, repaired and reconsidered.

2) Costumed mascots should only appear if the material is appropriate for all ages present.

3) If a costumed mascot is required for some reason that feeds into some warped private joke – or a patriotic duty to feed into someone’s economy, limit the costumed mascot’s appearance house parties. Don’t subject your costumed mascot to an unintended audience (see rule 2). Other appropriate events include grand openings, children’s birthday parties, and of course, civic events like fairs…

4) Costumed mascoteers should be professional, energetic, and charming at all times. If you can’t support the humungous head of your costume, find another. If the tail is too long and must be carried, cut it off. If a child runs by and kicks you, do not retaliate.

The way I look at it, the artists and writers who slaved over drawings, storyboard meetings, script revisions, and cel after cel of animation work hard. Their creations should not be dishonored by cheap imitations, inappropriate banter, bad singing, or poor placement. If these characters were flesh and blood, their managers would never allow them to appear at the wrong place looking badly.

Stop the madness. Limit costumed mascots to their appropriate place, time and appearance.

A Failed Shopping Experience

I was in New York City last weekend. The goal was to do a little shopping. I failed. I walked into Lord & Taylor - and couldn't circumvent the Botoxed beauties lining the fragrance and makeup counters - or at least coudn't circumvent all of them. I sampled DKNY's new apple fragrance. (nice) - Decided that Vera Wang's wasn't for me... Then got suckered into a free facial at the Borghese counter.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I've been through the wringer - spent thousands of dollars at the Dermatologist - what makes you think you can fix my skin?" (So glad I asked...) The Borghese line was started by a princess. She fell in love with the healing waters of the land that would soon become the Borghese Spa in Italy. She bought the land - and now, for only 57$, the same facial mud mask that soothed the cheeks of royalty could be mine!

"And besides," said the lady at the counter. "It'll only take 5 minutes!"

Two hours later, she's finishing my makeup. I looked good, I'll admit.

To be honest, I didn't even mind. My friend Audrey and I were having a New York Moment (or 2 hours worth, as the case may be) - discussing everything with the makeup artists from sisters who were on "America's Next Top Model" to what Sarah Jessica Parker looked like when she did a promo thingie at L&T, to children to the hysterical results of Borghese's "Lip Plumper" (It's like my lips got dipped in Novacain - really nutty. "It's not like your friends will notice your lips are bigger - they'll just notice what you're doing with them... LIke what you're doing now!" It's true - I was puckering without realizing it. They were numb!).

It's weird, but over Borghese, we bonded.

At the end of the day, I went home with product that I wasn't intending to buy - but she threw in a free tube of Lip Plumper.

What could be better?

Writing Assignment Two

This week's writing assignment was an exercise in "showing" as opposed to "Telling." I'm a teller - so it was difficult. I was to write a descriptive paragraph that got the following points across:

Loretta and Mick were in a car
They hit a steamer trunk
There was a discussion of drunkeness
They opened the trunk to find a bunch of stuffed animals
They decided to leave the trunk there.

Enjoy


“’Rett? You ‘wake?” Half hoping to awaken her, Mick needed company. He knew what his wife really needed was sleep. A recent money laundering scandal and subsequent round of head rolling kept Loretta working brutal hours at the hospital. The precious little time she wasn’t writing reports, testifying in court, or generally scrambling was spent preparing for her first AMA presentation. Despite the 8-hour drive to an out-of-state hospital, she specifically requested that Mick drive. “I’d only work on the plane, but I’d get sick reading in the car… So if you drive, we can talk – and maybe I can get a little sleep.” She yawned her closing arguments. Mick, always the prudent lawyer, did not object.

Her careful preparations paid off. Although her presentation raised quite a few eyebrows, Loretta’s plan for optimizing ER procedures got her a dinner invitation with the hospital’s board chairman.

As dinner ended, the chairman walked his guests to the parking lot. Mick asked for a hotel referral. “There are closer places – but they’re unsuitable,” said the chairman. Bending, he sketched a quick roadmap on the newly fallen snow. “Easy enough!” With a wave, Mick and Loretta headed to the car.

Mick ushered Loretta into the car. Pulling a credit card from his wallet, he chipped the icy frost from the driver’s side. The cold clawed at his ungloved hands. The half-cleaned view would have to do until the defroster kicked in. Loretta, exhausted, was already asleep in the passenger seat.

The falling snow hitting the half-cleaned windshield was nearly hallucinogenic. Mick cracked the window. Wind rushed around his head. Again, the cold was too much. He closed the window and reached across the lighted dashboard to turn up the defroster.

Without warning, the car hit a something with a hollow, chilled thud. Mick hit the brakes, and instinctively turned the wheel away from the guardrail. Immediately awakening to the sound of rubber skidding across slick pavement, Loretta had no bearings. “What?” she cried. The car spun 270-degrees and stopped. Mick clicked the ignition off. The immediate silence that followed completely engulfed the senses of Mick and his wife.

“You okay?” Mick asked.

“What?” The shock of the collision wasn’t quite enough to shake Loretta from her nap. She shook her head.

“We hit something.”

“Are you drunk?” asked Loretta.

“No! Don’t be ridiculous.” A dent in the car scraped the tire of slush as Mick moved the car to the side of the road. As she stepped out of the car, Loretta’s foot landed in an ankle-deep puddle that revives her senses. “Gaakkk! Brrr!”

They approached the culprit. Sitting squarely in the middle of the road was an old sailor’s steamer trunk. It’s leather exterior scraped, and metal bindings dented with age and hard use. “Where’d this come from?” asked Loretta.

“Do you think we should open it?” She pulled a bobby pin from her failing updo and rattled the tumblers. “Can you do that?” Mick asked.

The lock clicked, combining a dull echo with a warming surge of victory.

Loretta smiled. “I’m a surgeon!”

Mick lifted the lid. The heap of white fur inside seemed to grow long ears, whiskered noses, and crystalline eyes. Loretta lifted one of the plush rabbits from its musty cage. Mick lifted another by the scruff of the neck. In his best mouse voice, Mick’s rabbit quipped, “Kind of a letdown.”

Together, Mick, Loretta and the rabbit closed the lid and drug the trunk to the side of the road. Smiling, Mick took Loretta’s hand and led her back to the car.

“Weird, huh?”

“We’re lucky they were rabbits…”

Writing Assignment One

Here it is - my first effort in Writing Class. The assignment was to write something with the title "The Window."

Windows aren't always made of glass. I've come to think of them as openings that allow us to see what could otherwise be unknown. They're everywhere, and if we're paying attention, they can teach us all kinds of things. For example, the Thursday special may provide knowledge of the chef's culinary inspiration. A red carpet gown can shed light on its designer's personality. 'In The Mood' certainly lends insight into the songwriter's thought patterns.


In the case of my grandmother, a late model console organ became the window that gave an unusual glimpse into the life of her neighbor, Barbara.


My grandmother was a romance-addict. Perhaps it began with her courtship. For each date, my grandfather arrived with a box of chocolate and a Harlequin novel. When he asked her to be his wife, she became the heroine of the romance that lasted “till death do us part.” Throughout their marriage, she read every love story she could get her hands on. She actively watched the soaps. She adored the romantic stylings of the Lawrence Welk singers. I believe the books, songs, and stories reminded her of weekends with her one-and-only.


Barbara lived across the street, and sported a vintage '60's beehive. She was short, stout, and despite the throwback hair, always looked prim and proper. In the months following the death of Barbara's husband, my grandmother and I would visit — just to check on her. I always enjoyed seeing her. Sometimes, she'd let me listen to the banter on her CB radio. Barbara explained that talking on the CB helped pass the time.


My grandmother had different hobbies. After my grandfather died, she never considered another man. Therefore, speaking on the radio with strangers was absolutely out of the question. She preferred making music. Aided by large-print fake books, she spent her afternoons playing 'I Dream of Genie,' and 'Toot-Toot Tootsie' on her console organ. She enjoyed playing as much as I enjoyed listening to the funny old songs.


One afternoon, I walked into the living room. My grandmother was sitting at the console, her ear leaning towards the speaker. “Can you play 'Bird in A Gilded Cage?' I asked. “Shhhhh!” She motioned for me to sit next to her.


She whispered, “I'm listening to Barbara talk to truckers on her CB radio!” Sure enough, Barbara's voice emanated through the speakers. A gravelly-voiced truck driver asked to meet her. I listened with rapt attention as they settled on the local greasy spoon at 8 o'clock. I was stupefied. “How's that work?”


“Shhhh!” came the reply. Silently, we sat listening for quite awhile. When the conversation got a little racy, my grandmother turned the organ off.


I glared at the keyboard. “Does it always do that?”


“Well, it didn't used to — but lately, I can hear everything!” she answered gleefully.


I recently asked my friend, Bob, an engineer to explain why this particular window opened.


Bob laughed. “Well, organs made before the dawn of electronics produced sound from little glass tubes. When the tubes started to wear out, they'd develop vibrations - radio frequencies… The tube's vibrations were strong — but probably only transmitted over short distances.”


I was fascinated. My grandmother's organ, through wear and use, had a second life as a boxy old antenna!


“So what you're saying, Bob — is that other people could pick up Barbara's conversations because my grandmother was transmitting them further?”


“Not only that — it was quite possible that your grandmother was broadcasting her music to the truckers without even knowing it!”


Barbara's conversations were just the entertainment my favorite romance-junkie craved… When I think of my grandmother, sitting at that old console, in my mind, I hear her playing 'In The Mood.' I hope it became something pleasant for Barbara to listen to as she primped her beehive and prepared to meet her date. It seems only fair that my grandmother would return the favor.

Birds, Bees, and Puppies

The other night, I was sitting around with some friends. The conversation skewed to birth and family (not necessarily in that order). Two at the table were married (not to each other). Two were not (see? Someone finally let me sneak away from the 'singles' table and sit with the marrieds.).

The two marrieds were telling delivery room stories. "I wouldn't let my wife have an epidural," said one. "I tried to go natural," said another. "But at the mere suggestion of epesiotomy, I got it..." And so, the stories flowed. Not having any kids of my own, I offered my "This is How Kell Learned About the Birds & The Bees" story:

When I was five, I was told my dog, Gladys, was pregnant. I didn't think she looked fat or anything, but I was thrilled to hear that puppies were on the way. As the due date drew near, I dreamed of little Gladdy's running around, entertaining me. I loved the idea that I'd have another animal - or twelve... and something soft to cuddle.

When the moment of truth arrived, my family gathered in the downstairs bedroom. "Kelly, the puppies are coming out soon!" exclaimed my mother. I couldn't wait. I had no idea, however, what she meant by 'coming out.' I began to search closets. I looked under the dresser. I stuck my head under the bed. "Where are the puppies?" I asked.

My mother had no idea that I didn't understand, so she just said, "soon!"

Gladys, in the meantime, panted on the blanket.

"What's wrong with Gladys?" I asked.

"She's in labor."

Then, something completely educational happened. As Gladys gave birth to puppies one through six, I finally understood.

And I was completely grossed out. Puppies were supposed to be dry and fuzzy. Not slimy - and oozy.

I was further mystified when my dog began licking the dogs clean - but at least I knew where they were coming out...

It was a big shocker.

After an hour or so, I found myself even further shocked, as for the first time, Gladys seemed to growl whenever I took a puppy. She'd slink over, take the tiny pup from me, and return to the others. I wasn't used to my dog growling at me.

She got used to my 'borrowing' Sam, or whatever we named the others, and I got used to the fact that babies come from mom's. I don't know why I didn't think of it before.

Unnecessary Confessions

I've noticed that lot of people (even those I don't know) have told me a lot of things I didn't ask to hear - and in many cases, really didn't want/need to know. It seems to be an ongoing issue I face.

I'm a fairly quiet girl - and despite my unwillingness to blab my deepest and darkest, people feel free to share with me.

Here's just a sampling:

A friend just confided to me that for fun, he once willfully gave a cigarette imbedded with a rolled-up firecracker to a kid he didn't like.
Kell's response: Wide eyes.
"It's okay. He was an ass!"
Kell's response: More wide eyes. I may have even shaken my head a little.

Another friend told me about his girlfriend's interest in nudist colonies, after explaining they were contemplating the "M" word and might enjoy getting married on the beach naked.
Kell's response: Blank stare. Sarcastic grin. Real mental effort to erase the image from my brain.

To tease a co-worker, a friend of mine enjoys rubbing her body (fully clothed) on his keyboard.
Kell's response: "Um, I think you can get arrested for that."

A kid once confided to me that he liked to go bowling and sneak out without paying.
Kell's response: Men of integrity pay for their bowling!

Years ago, I realized I might be a confession magnet when a stranger sat next to me at a coffee shop (I had a coffee and a brownie) and explained, "Honey. You oughta watch the sugar in your diet. Sugar is the leading cause of yeast infections in women. Let me tell you from experience what yeast infections can do to your sex life!"
Kell's response: I can't remember what I said - but had to say something before I learned what yeast infections did to her sex life. Meanwhile, the barista is behind the woman, pointing at me and laughing.

What really gets me is that Frank Warren is making a fortune with his website, book, and museum shows, where people send their deep dark secrets on postcards.

Why didn't I think of it first? Honestly, I didn't think anyone would believe me.

What Happens when Nothing Happens

Ok. It’s January. I’m busy at work – the band isn’t all that busy (Fran is in Kuala Lampur, working, eating, and doing crunches), and at best, the most I’ve done at home is deal with the mouse running around in my kitchen (He’s unfortunately not running around any more. I don’t advocate killing animals – But I DO advocate mice staying out of my kitchen. I know PETA is coming after me in their leather high tops with rubber soles from plants in the rainforest… And I’m sorry. But mice do not belong in my kitchen, so the poor little rodent soul had to go.)

So I’ll tell you what I’m reading and watching – and a funny thing a 6-year old said to me last night.

Reading: Walking The Bible. Bruce Feiler is taking me on his journey to understand the sites visited in the first five books of the Bible (and come to terms with all things spiritual). Currently, I’m visiting Shechem with Abraham, (so my secretary will have to forward all my calls!)

I wasn’t sure I was going to like this book, but I find myself pouring over ancient and modern maps while reading. This book will take some time to get through.

Watching: Just sent Layer Cake back to Netflix. The movie required my full attention – and the subtitles. It’s full of characters with really thick accents. The film was about a drug trafficker wanting to “retire.” He unfortunately got caught in a complicated web of intrigue and a surprise ending. The moral, of course, is be smarter than the film’s hero (Daniel Craig) by finding some other way to make loads and loads of money, do your own accounting, and keep your nose clean.

On its way from Netflix: Rivers and Tides – Andy Goldsworthy documentary. If you haven’t seen Andy’s work, he creates temporal art using only what he finds in nature. He must be a tremendously patient and thoughtful artist, although perhaps not the world's most brilliant conversationalist. However, if we pair him up with GABE, he'd probably prove lovely company. Read on:

What Gabe said: Gabe is an articulate 6-year old. His Dad, Aunt, and sister came to visit me last night. Before we went for dinner, Gabe wanted to know if I had any clay (I’m not sure what brought this on – but that’s what he wanted). It just so happens that one of my clients makes, among other craft items, modeling compound. And of course, I had some. However, what Gabe asked was, “Do you have any Clay Nation?” His aunt clarified, “Claymation. He calls the whole thing claynation.” It was good to know, I was about to go dig up my old VHS copies of Wallace & Gromit. After dinner, we claynationed elephants, flowers, and coffee pads (coasters). It was fun. We also watched HR Pufinstuf - because even Gabe's dad wasn't old enough to remember 70's kids' TV. I think everyone should be subjected to Witchiepoo at some point in their lives.

(Jane & Cara, you will just *LOVE* Gabe the next time you come to visit me!!!)

What I’m supposed to be finding THREE HOURS to do: Go see King Kong. That’s a big commitment, isn’t it?

Benefits

Last night's Sean Kennedy benefit was a great deal of fun to be a part of. My neice, Kylene, organized it, after learning her friend's 7-year old son has lymphoma. I'm very proud of her. It was a great undertaking. She organized a bake sale, full lineup of entertainment, made and sold t-shirts,
gave radio/newspaper interviews, and collected donations from the community. She said about 85 people showed up (less than she hoped), yet she made more money than she hoped - and raised about $2400 for this sweet little boy. (That should relieve the family to no end - as their insurance only covers about 80% of his $2500/MONTH medicine bills). Way to go, Kylene!

Sean's white blood cell count was high enough for him and his family to attend the show... So we invited him to join us on stage... He joined us in a song we taught (See 18 Wheels... below) - then surprised us by leading the crowd in singing I'm Proud To Be An American. He and his brother remained onstage and hummed along as I sang Dylan's Forever Young... It was more than cute.

I'm happy to report that Sean's prognosis is very good - it's just a long road to recovery for this fearless little guy.

After the benefit, Dave and I joined my parents, my brother and neice at a restaurant. Kylene was thrilled that she raised the $ she did. It must be nice to provide some relief for Sean's family. My brother, where equally thrilled to help, was exhausted. He had one thing to ask of his daughter, "Now that the holidays are over, and the benefit is over, can we please, please, please relax a little?" My neice looked at him and answered, "Sure, Dad... Unless something else tragic happens... Someone else may need our help."

18 Wheels on The Big Rig

This weekend, Dave and I are playing a benefit concert that my 15-year old niece organized.

My brother is going crazy. He has always been a rather civic-minded man. He’s a Cub Scout Leader (and a pretty good one. He speaks to them man to men: “Now, I’m very proud of you for the great job you did at the lip-synch, but am not proud of you for the way you treated so-and-so. He deserves more respect, and I will not tolerate anything less.”), and all that… And I think he’s really getting into supporting something nice that my niece is doing…

The beneficiary is a 1st grader named Shawn. He has lymphoma (not leukemia, as the silly local paper reported – which angered my brother to no end), and is in pretty serious condition. Last night, my brother called to work out last minute details:

“Kelly, Shawn’s doctor said his white blood cell count is high enough so that he can come out to the benefit for awhile. I told him to come during your set – because I figured you’d make a big deal about him.” I asked if he’d sing a song with us. “Ask him,” replied my brother.

Later that night, while practicing (Dave and I have never performed as a duet before, so I'm practicing like crazy), Dave asked if kids would be there… I told him that unless his health-state changes, Shawn himself would be there on stage with us. Dave requested (who’dve’thunk?) that we sing 18 Wheels on the Big Rig, which is a song that amuses both him and my father. It goes like this:

There are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 wheels on the big riiiiiiiiig…. (repeat 3X)
And they’re rolling, rolling, rolling. They’re rolling, rolling, rolling.

The idea is to get kids to sing along, then throw them the following ridiculous curves.

“Ok, let’s do it backwards!” (At this point, Dave turns his back to the audience, and I scold him, a la Captain & Tenille, for those of you who remember their goofy little variety show) I sing, “There are 18, 17, 16,…" while Dave wags his butt to the beat.

Then we do it in Spanish: "Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco....diez y ocho wheels on the big riiiiiig..."

Then comes the part that Dave loves - I think just because it amuses him to watch me do it. I sing it in Roman Numerals. “There are I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII wheels on the big riiiiiiig…..

And they’re rolling, rolling, rolling. They’re rolling, rolling rolling.

The thing is – the audience will be so phenomenally impressed with the Roman Numerals, but truth? I's, V's, and X's are so much easier to sing than the lightning fast Spanish rendition...

I'll do it, though. It may be suffering for one’s art – but I can’t wait.

Talking Turkey (or: Why I'm Glad Every Day is Thanksgiving)

In the words of one of my clients, “Thanksgiving is EVERY DAY.” When his wife told him that was corny, he simply told her that’s how he feels. I think he’s right – mostly because it makes this year's Thanksgiving celebration a little less noticeable.

In the grand scheme of things, I had an okay day – It was really important to me this year to spend the day with Dave. I didn’t have much of an agenda. (Yet.) To that end, I kind of forced him into making a decision, and it became a big deal. We actually had a slight series of arguments about it. They went something like this:

Kelly: Can you just tell me what you’re doing for Thanksgiving?
Dave: I have to wait and find out what my Dad’s doing.
Kelly: Can you call him? Would he like to have dinner with my family? Do you think he’d like my Dad? (Followed by a thousand other annoying questions)
Dave: Kelly*I’ll*let*you*know.

Two days later:

Kelly: Did you call your Dad?
Dave: No, but I’ll call him today.

Two days later:

Kelly: Did you call your Daaa…..
Dave: I’ll call him today.
Kelly: What’s the big deal about making plans for Thanksgiving?
Dave: I just have to wait and see what he’s doing.
Kelly: But will you call him?
Dave: I’ll call; I’ll call (mentally, I think Dave hit me on the head at this point)
Kelly (to herself): What are the odds?!

Two days later:

Dave: I called my Dad. He says he wants to go to the Old Country Buffet for Thanksgiving. Do you want to come with us?

Remembering that the primary goal was to have Thanksgiving dinner with Dave, I agreed to go. The little issue surrounding the chosen venue was quite another matter. For those of you who aren’t graced with an Old Country Buffet franchise in your area, allow me to fill you in. It’s a large room with a large buffet full of green jell-o, ham, fruit salad, fish, cole slaw... whatever. The customer base is typically old people and their grandchildren. Peppered among the crowd, you might find a few teenagers, who reportedly go there when they get the stoned munchies. You Pay One Price when you enter the room, then help yourself to the buffet items – whenever you want, as much as you want, for as long as you want.

It’s not great food – there’s just a lot of it, and seniors, either high school or elder statesmen, seem to gravitate there.

I have memories of several ideal Thanksgivings. When I was young, we’d pile into my family’s purple Scout Jeep and drive over the river (The Delaware) and through the woods (Delaware Water Gap) to Grandmother’s House in New Jersey. Something about a long table in the living room filled with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents was more fun than anything I could imagine. More recently, I loved the Turkey Days spent in New York City with friends, freezing at the Parade, and then eating at Fresco. The night before, we ordered drinks according to their color, and met several New York Bartenders - all of whom were from other countries. We had fun at the parade, where I photographed and met members of the NYPD (who were all from New York), and ate until our stomachs begged for mercy.

Another memorable Thanksgiving worth mentioning was the year following, when I stayed home and invited a few single friends over for dinner. It was providential because my landlord left a candle burning in his downstairs office the night before (he lived off-site, but his office was in the building). When the smoke detector went off, we were very grateful we were there to extinguish the fire and save an old building… We sacrificed an old chair, but we thought we were very fortunate.

What was interesting about that day was my call to 911. I figured it was an old house, so even though the fire was out, I asked if someone might come over and check for residual sparks (I don’t know… made sense at the time) – Over two dozen bored volunteer firemen from three counties showed up – just in time for turkey. It was a real crowd. Also interesting: My landlord was so embarrassed by the entire incident that it took him weeks to say thanks for putting the fire out.

Gracious eh?

Back to the Chain Gang at the Old Country Buffet. Remember, the goal was to spend time with Dave. However, the OCB was not my idea of a nice Thanksgiving. As long as turkey is turkey, I figured I could be a good sport.

The problem was – the turkey was not turkey. It was lunchmeat. It was processed turkey-paste molded into a turkey breast shape and sliced on a carving board by friendly Old Country Buffet servers channeling Oscar Mayer.

Do you pity me yet? Honestly, it wasn’t what I had hoped for, but it wasn’t all that bad (outside the turkey). I enjoyed the company, thought about how much fun it would be to cook Thanksgiving dinner next year, and settled down to the truly important Thanksgiving activities – namely, watching football.

My client was right – I have a lot to be thankful for… And wherever I end up, and whichever chain I end up eating at, I’m guess I'm grateful... (I'm grateful also, to Pam, who fed me leftover turkey on Friday... Thanks, baby!)

Harry, the Potty, and the Triwizard Tournament

On Sunday afternoon, I went to see the Harry Potter And the Goblet of Fire - It was very likely that no one would want to go with me, so I took myself. I went to my favorite old theater - where the popcorn is good, the sound isn't too loud, and to date, they don't run 45 minutes of commercials before the previews (I HATE chain theaters!)

Before I bought my ticket, I stopped in the little shop next to the theater. I found a beautiful silver bracelet for Dave's daughter. It was very pretty - a heart with a bunch of chains holding it together - with a Tiffany's style toggle closure - you know - the circle and toggle-bar thingie.

I didn't want the chains to get tangled up, so I toggled it onto my wrist as I left the store.

Before the movie, I stopped in the ladies' room. After doing the designated bathroom task, I flushed, and picked up my bags.

The toggle of the bracelet suddenly un-toggled and as if by magic, flew right into the toilet. Splash! I had no choice but to fish it out (thankfully - the bowl was flushed - but the idea of sticking my hand into a public toilet really grossed me out). I washed the bracelet and my hands thoroughly. In fact, I washed twice.

When sufficiently sanitized, I put the bracelet back on my wrist and sat down to watch the movie. Somewhere between the first and second tasks of the Triwizard Tournament, I heard a jingly sound. It took just a few moments to realize what had hit the ground.

The bracelet had fallen off again. I picked it up. As Harry outsmarted mermaids and rescued Ron from the depths of the Black Lake, I examined the toggle. Sure enough, the rod thingie wasn't long enough to really lock into the circle clasp. That's why the bracelet fell off in the toilet - and that's why I almost lost it in the movie theater.

While the on-screen Tournament continued, I pondered my own strategy. Do I keep a bracelet that had fallen into the toilet or return it? One, I couldn't give a gift that'd been in the toilet... If I didn't return it, I'd have to keep it. Two, I hated that I'd just spent money on jewelry that didn't work. Yes, I could probably fix it - but come on. It'd been in the toilet!

After the movie, I returned to the store. Skipping the part about the toilet, I said I'd owned their bracelet for two hours and it fell off twice. I asked for my money back. They said I could only have store credit.

"Wait - I can't get my money back after two hours?"

"It's store policy." They said.

Convinced that I deserved my money back because I dove into my own proverbial Black Lake to retrieve their crappy bracelet, I made my decision.

I took the store credit and left. Do you think that's horrible?