nancysue’s posterous

          Thanksgiving is one of those inconspicuous, innocuous holidays most people take for granted, much as we take for granted the very things for which we should be thankful.   

          Wedged between six weeks of Halloween and at least three months of Christmas, the entire Thanksgiving celebration takes only about 24 hours, from bake to belch.  Once the dishes are washed and leftovers refrigerated, it’s on to the more commercial concerns of Christmas shopping.  Sundown on Thanksgiving is essentially the checkered flag of the Christmas retail race – “Gentleman, start your gold cards!”

          When I was a child, Thanksgiving was a pretty big deal.  Of course, that was before the age of immediate gratification.  Despite the onset of the space age, in the 1960s, we were still a society conditioned to wait for all good things.  Consequently, Halloween occurred exactly on October 31 – not for the three preceding weekends.  Thanksgiving was THE “holiday of the month” for November, and not until and only after Thanksgiving did we even seriously think about Christmas.  I am pretty sure it was not until the 1980s that the human eye had ever even beheld a Jack-o-lantern and Christmas tree displayed together in a retail setting.  

          I’m not sure how it came to this.  It seems we are but innocent consumer victims of a retail revolution in seasonal celebrations.  Clearly, Thanksgiving just needs a better p.r. agency – or maybe it could use a novel pitch man, like the Geiko gecko or something. 

          My guess is Thanksgiving is just too basic and non-glitzy, like the very values it represents:  home, family, good health, good food, freedom, and gratitude.  This Thursday in November is simply a day to sit down together with loved ones and enjoy those blessings.  It’s really not very commercial, and certainly not sensational – not the stuff of which retail profits and headlines are made.  It is baking, basting, and broiling; turkey, television, and travel.

          Yet, aside from football games and good food, Thanksgiving gives us at least 24 hours to count our blessings and say thank you.  And to the cynic who would argue that it doesn’t take long to count his blessings, try this:  Count all the things you don’t have that you don’t want.  It’s food for thought.

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My perception of the "Balloon Family,"Octomom, Jon & K8, and this entire generation of unreal "reality" celeb wannabes is their attitude is:  "What do you mean I have to DO, CREATE, or PERFORM something original and actually noteworthy to earn true fame???  

That's too HARD!!"

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     If you are one of those lucky people who can look at a picture hanging slightly askew, and think absolutely nothing of it; if you have never required any group of objects (pens, pencils, silverware…) to line up perfectly - then stop reading this right now.  You just won’t get it.  On the other hand, if you refuse to part your hair without a level or a ruler and you cannot even THINK about cutting off your car engine when the windshield wipers are still halfway up the windshield, then read on – you are one of “us.”

Here’s how it went down:  My son (who drives a high end SUV that I’m too embarrassed to name, because it is almost decadent) stopped at a gas station in Austin.  A couple of “Austin’s Finest” (you know, policemen) were also there quenching their thirst.  When one of them asked my son if the SUV was his, my son (assuming the policeman, like most everyone else, just wanted to discuss the bells and whistles on the vehicle or ask about the gas mileage) proudly admitted the truck was his.  However, the officer had no interest in either the luxury options or the gas mileage.  He just wanted to advise my son his registration sticker had expired. 

     My son admitted he was aware of that, but added, “I’ve got the new sticker – it’s in the glove compartment.  You see, I have this OCD about getting it on the windshield perfectly straight…”  At that point the officer half-winked at his fellow officer and informed my son, “Well, you’re gonna have a $275 fine to go alone with that OCD if you don’t put that sticker on the window.”

     Obviously, the officer either did not believe my son in fact, did have the current registration sticker in his glove compartment, OR he is one of those people with no need of symmetry and balance in his world, and therefore, could not even imagine the extent of anxiety my son experienced at the very thought of applying the registration sticker any way but PERFECTLY STRAIGHT on his windshield.

     I understand.  Oh, I totally empathize.  If you don’t apply that decal absolutely perfectly – aligned with your universe the very FIRST time – you’re stuck with it – GAME OVER – you are forced to look at that crooked sticker for an entire year.  There are no do-overs in state sticker application.  If you are one of those obsessive-compulsive people faced with 365 days of seeing that cock-eyed sticker virtually gorilla-glued to your windshield – right in front of your face – there’s only one way to escape the anguish – SELL THE CAR.  That’s right.  You just have to trade it in.  Tell the dealer you need to trade it for a vehicle with perfectly aligned registration and inspection stickers.  I really think that’s what Tony Shalhoub’s “MONK” character would do.  

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As another school year begins, I reflect back a couple of decades ago, when I wrote a regular newspaper column in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, and the new school year saw my youngest child start kindergarten and my niece go away to college.  The following is a barely edited text of my column that ran September 8, 1988.  It’s funny how the theme is basically timeless.  However, reading my own words filled with hope for my children’s future is quite poignant today.

September Signals Start of Season of Separation

Few scenes are more pathetic than a disenfranchised mother, like a mama bird, peering regretfully over the edge of her empty nest.

Case in point:  The first day of school at my son’s elementary, where a covey of kindergarten mothers cluster in the hall to commiserate.

          Inside the classroom, enthusiastic 5-year-olds proceeded with the business of growing and learning, while outside in the hall, a handful of teary-eyed adults bemoaned their “babies” growing up.  There was a difference of opinion, as to whether it was more difficult for those of us blowing goodbye kisses to our last “baby,” or for those mothers who, while gently nudging their first into the world, still had at least one safe in the next.

          There was only one dad among us, and he left long before the teacher ushered the rest of us to the door.  Clearly, nest-nudging is one of those jobs that goes with the position of “mother.”

          Altogether, it was not an easy first-week-of-September, as I was forced to acknowledge the encroaching adulthood of my niece, as she went away to college, and my little boy started kindergarten.  Only my fourth grade daughter lent some sense of stability, by not embarking on any “significant firsts.”

          September – summer’s end, seems to be the season of separation.  Oh, I know there are songs from the 1960s, which would have us believe otherwise:  “See You in September” and “Sealed With a Kiss.”  But, they are about teenagers’ school crushes, distanced by summer sabbaticals.  I may have fallen for that romantic rhetoric then.  But, wisdom is in the eyes of the beholder.  From the parental perspective, I see September as a time of letting go.

          My daughter’s first day of kindergarten went quite smoother.  And knowing my son’s survival instincts, I should have known he would also ace the first day of the rest of his institutionalized life.  Yet, I couldn’t suppress the memory of horror stories I’d heard about hysterical kids clinging to their parents’ car bumper on the first day of school.

          Not to worry!  Last week’s inauguration seemed to take its toll primarily on those of us over three feet tall.

          I don’t know about other mothers.  But, I probably tend to project my own childhood onto my more self-actualized offspring.  So, I am always pleasantly surprised that, not only do they cope, they conquer new situations.

          My niece and my children represent the secure 80s generation – the boomers’ babies who rarely view anything new as the end of an era  Instead, they approach life as an adventure, seeking less to maintain the status quo than to EXPERIENCE. 

          It’s a great winning attitude – one I’ve tried to sow and nurture in my children.  (It’s always a good idea to raise kids who will be positive role models for you in those formative years – from 30 to 45).

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This just in:  Physical education can be hazardous to your child’s health.

I kid you not.  It was in the news today. A study appearing in the September edition of Pediatrics indicates injuries to American children during physical education classes increased by 150 percent from 1997-2007.

Every week it seems the “new studies” indicate kids today are too fat and too sedentary – and we worry.  But, we don’t just worry – we take action!  We restrict the number of sugary cereal ads that can be run on Saturday morning TV.  (Yeah, that oughtta knock some fat off the kids’ behinds…)

In fact, we have demonized breakfast cereal to the point that “sugar” is now a four-letter word.  Seriously, when I was growing up, we had Post SUGAR CRISP.  Now, they are “Golden Crisp.”  Tony Tiger’s SUGAR FROSTED FLAKES?  I don’t think so – they’re just FROSTED now.  Apparently, the “S-word” itself is unhealthy.

But, I digress. 

So, last week, we were all upset because kids are too fat.

This week, the crisis is they’re bonkin’ around too much in gym class – breaking limbs, skinning their knees, and getting strains, sprains, and heat strokes. 

At the risk of sounding like an old fogy (though, if the bell bottoms fit…)… I am forced to hark back to President John F. Kennedy and the President’s Council on Physical Fitness.  Because of President Kennedy, my fellow baby boomers and I were forced to do sit-ups, push ups, chin-ups, and any other kind of “up” you can think of.  We were made to do this primate thing called “arm holds,” like a chin-up, only you just hang there until your arms are shaking so hard you either drop to the ground in a heap of perspiration or just have a stroke.  We also had to regularly run the whatever-yard dash, and we were GRADED on these things.

Now that I think about it, even our playground was physically challenging – returning to the primate theme, we had steel structures aptly named “monkey bars” and “jungle gyms.”  You want to talk about injuries –plenty of blood and bone chips were sacrificed at those altars of recess.  But, who cared?  The school nurse had plenty of mercurochrome and Band-Aids, and nobody’s parents ever sued the school.  If anything, the child would be chastised by his own parents (and definitely his siblings) for being a klutz and a spaz. 

In retrospect, I believe it is entire likely the school playgrounds of the 1960s were actually part of a Population Control plan – a "natural selection” blueprint to weed some of us boomers off the planet. 

Clearly, I have little sympathy for this new worry of the week.  When kids are not active, they get fat.  When they are active, we worry that they are getting hurt. 

What do we want fat kids with no “boo boos” or fit kids who get hurt, and learn to be more careful next time?

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"Don't Ask, Don't Tell" Policy is back in the news.
President Obama wants Congress to repeal the law.  In 1993, it was former President Clinton's way of appeasing both sides of the gays in the military issue.  I thought it was an excellent compromise.  After all, it was a huge departure from the strict ban on gays in the military, and was in some ways, a reflection of President Clinton's attitude toward his country and his wife - "What you don't know can't hurt me!"
 
No, seriously, I do think "Don't ask, don't tell" is the best policy - not just about gays in the military - about EVERYTHING.  But, then, that's the generation I come from.  My mom used to admonish, "Don't tell everything you know."  And people who DID tell everything they knew were considered "common" - not as in "ordinary people" - as in "white trash."
 
Proper people did not:

   Ask women or authority figures (in general) their age

   Ask about someone's finances - or tell about their own.

   Of course, it was never considered polite (or safe) to discuss politics or religion in certain company (that company being anyone who might disagree with you). 
 
My gosh - even CLAIROL reminded us that ladies did not reveal their natural haircolor:  "Only her hairdresser knows for sure..."  Given the intimate details of every personal "lifestyle" or hygiene item that is trumpeted in television commercials today, it seems ironically quaint there ever was a time when revealing that you color your hair was deemed "sharing an intimacy" or breaking with coy tradition... 
 
Clearly, if it was not polite to tell your age or income - maybe even your haircolor or weight - you can be sure NO ONE  was talking about their "s-e-x" life.

While a lot has changed in my lifetime - and I mean a LOT - there are still some things I choose not to know about other people.  At the top of that list is their bedroom activity - whether homo or hetero - military or non-military - I'm just not sure why anyone should ask or anyone should tell.

"Don't ask, don't tell" is just a good policy for life in general.

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In Southlake, TX, several small pets have become victims of wild bobcats prowling the area. 

As much as my heart goes out to those who have lost their domestic pets… Well, at this point, I am feeling some degree of sympathy for the bobcats.

The Dallas Morning News reports that the Homeowner’s Association will be taking action. 

If those bobcats are smart, they're thinking, “Oh, NO!  NOT the HOMEOWNER’S ASSOCIATION!  What about Animal Control?  What about the Parks and Wildlife Department?   Give us traps, poison, bounty hunters, but NOT the HOA!!!!”

I don’t know how severe the penalty is for gobbling small pets.  But, if those wily bobcats have been doing anything sinister like – oh, putting American military decals on their trucks, or worse – if they have dared display an American flag – you can bet, that HOA will make them pay dearly.

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In 2001, I was an editorial contributor to Suite 101, and my topic was "Life in America, Circa 1960s.  This is a portion of an article I wrote for that website (somewhat redacted and updated). 

Dying Young a Great Career Move

The saying is “the good die young.”  I don’t know whether it’s true.  The implication is that “good people” die young, because they are just too pure to live in this cold, cruel world.  Maybe those who die young just seem good to us, simply because they didn’t live long enough to succumb to the worldly temptations that could ultimately corrupt them.

More often, those who die young were not necessarily all that good.  But, for some reason, they are exonerated by their own premature demise.  Dying unexpectedly is apparently more effective than baptism for washing away a person’s sins.

Since this column was a reflection of life in the 1960s, I went on to consider some ‘60s icons whose untimely demise was the best thing that ever happened to their careers.

Marilyn Monroe would now be 83.  She died at 36, when her bust measurement still exceeded her age.  But, had she lived far past that number, she might be like Mamie Van Doren – an antique sex symbol writing “kiss and tell” books about the men in her life.

Elvis Presley – Had he not died at 42, he would likely have faded away a la Jerry Lee Lewis.

James Dean – If a car wreck had not forever freeze-framed the actor in our minds as the restless, risk-taking, 24-year-old “rebel without a cause,” today, he might be, at best, Dennis Hopper – at worst, Robert Blake.

Buddy Holly – The “music died” when he was only 22.  Would a 72-year-old Holly be more like Paul Anka?

Bobby Kennedy – If he had not been assassinated at age 42, today he would most likely be – TED KENNEDY???

John Lennon – He was already beginning to mellow at age 40, when he was killed.  I suspect that 68-year-old Lennon might be very similar to Neil Diamond.

Apparently, an untimely death is a great career move and a shortcut to LEGEND status. 

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I would never question the need or appropriateness for a public memorial for this cultural icon.

However… (you saw that coming, didn’t ya?)… considering the current state of California’s finances, I do question the charitable offering of not only the Staples Center itself, but all of the ancillary costs that go with that –including, but not limited to:  Facility utilities, crowd control/security, and post-event cleanup. 

Michael Jackson’s genius and Sinatra-esque standing as an American/International/Entertainment/Cultural icon of the century, does not entitle him to that sort of state funeral – a la John F Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, etc. 

No, while I agree his adoring fans and the interested public at large should be given the opportunity to participate in some kind of final farewell at a public memorial, I feel the event should be underwritten by someone or entity.  If not the family, then some event management company needs to step up and ante up.  The state of California is currently printing IOU’s to pay their bills.  This generous bout of benevolence, while admirable, just does not make good fiscal sense. 

Rather than dipping into funds set aside for state funerals and the like – or worse, incurring even more debt, the City of Los Angeles could actually make money on this public memorial if an event management company (or the Jackson family or other supporters) would sponsor it.

If STAPLES CENTER is anything like the City of Dallas Convention Center, it is an “enterprise facility,” meaning they bring in revenue for the city every time they lease the building for any event – be it, the circus, rock concert, sports events, ice shows, even church programs and religious events.  The facility makes money when those events are booked – and not just from the rental (which is detailed even down to the number of chairs the groups needs to use), but also gets a percentage of the concessions.  Certainly, a logical part of this memorial will be tee-shirts and other souvenirs.  

Bottom line – I salute the City of Los Angeles for offering its facilities and services for free.  However, Michael Jackson was not their “native son” – his hometown is Gary, Indiana.  If Michael was the savvy businessman we are told he was, he might even admire the City’s ingenuity to memorialize him, while adding to its cobweb filled coffers.  Michael was a showman - I believe he would "get it."

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