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Reasons To Be Truly Thankful

How to have a truly memorable Thanksgiving:

1. Buy the biggest turkey you can find, plus generous provisions for all the side dishes, because you're cooking dinner for twelve.

2. Find out Wednesday morning that three of the guests have had to make other plans. Dinner for twelve has become dinner for nine.

3. Wednesday evening, enjoy working with your daughter on the advance preparations, including peeling pounds of potatoes and yams as well as chopping onions and celery.

4. In the middle of that, get a phone call from your son. "The doctor says the kids have pinkeye. Would it be better if we didn't come over?" Reluctantly tell them not to come. There goes the chance to spend time with the grandkids. Dinner for nine has now become dinner for four.

5. While contemplating the huge kettle of peeled potatoes, notice that both sinks are full of water and don't appear to be draining. Oops—maybe putting all those peelings in the garbage disposal wasn't such a good idea. One plumber's snake, several phone calls, one trip to the hardware store, two huge bottles of drain cleaner, and several hours later, the drains are finally unclogged. Clean up the mess. Get to bed early—in the morning.

6. Get up early Thanksgiving morning to put the turkey in the oven. Mix up the stuffing. Pick up the heavy casserole dish of stuffing to put in into the oven. Realize you forgot to take the turkey out. As you start to put the dish down, the handle of the pot holder in your hand catches on the burner.

7. Drop the huge pan of uncooked stuffing. The good news is that it lands right side up. The bad news is that it spews like a horizontal Mt. Etna or a toddler with the stomach flu. Bits of broth-soaked bread, onion, and celery shoot out across the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor, covering the underside of the table, the fronts of the cupboards, the wall, and you from the waist down. Since you're wearing flip-flops, there is even stuffing between your toes. Just analyzing the spatter patterns could keep CSI busy for hours.

8. Clean up the mess. No, despite what you later tell the guests, you don't put the swept-up bits back in the dish before you put it into the oven. For only four people, there's plenty without it.

9. Put the turkey back into the oven to brown while you finish cooking everything else. Smell something burning just as the smoke alarm goes off. Realize you set the oven to "broil" instead of "bake." The turkey is brown, all right. Oh, well, it doesn't matter if the top is a little charred. With only four people, you'll have more leftover turkey than you can handle, anyway.

10. Eat. Laugh. Be thankful. After all, you've survived pestilence, flood, and fire. It could have been worse. The preceding story is true. I heard it from the lips of the participants, including the one who probably still has bits of sage between her toes.

I didn't think it could be topped until I read the following story in the newspaper the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Here is how a family in Boston had an even more memorable Thanksgiving:

1. Plan to cook dinner for just your immediate family, including your eight-months-pregnant daughter.

2. Have your daughter go into labor halfway through the dinner preparations.

3. Call 911. Stay on the line with an EMT while you wait for an ambulance. The baby seems to be arriving faster than the ambulance.

4. In between contractions, run back and forth to the kitchen to make sure the turkey isn't burning.

5. With tech support from the EMT on the phone, deliver your new granddaughter.

Apparently, both the baby and the turkey came out just fine. There was no report on which one weighed more.

And that leads me to the final point—how to have a truly thankful Thanksgiving. Simply be grateful that neither of these memorable celebrations happened to you.

Nice Try, Mr. President

On this day after Thanksgiving, when yesterday's over-eating has given way to today's over-shopping, it seems an appropriate time to consider Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez.

According to an article that appeared in our local paper on November 14, President Chavez thinks "there are lots of fat people" in his country. He's advising them to exercise and eat a healthy diet in order to lose some weight.

And more power to him. I'm sure (considering everything I ate yesterday, you might even say I have a gut feeling about it) that obesity is a significant problem in his country, just as it is in the United States.

The problem, as I'm sure President Chavez has realized by now, is how to advise people to lose weight without actually calling them fat. It's a challenge, even for an experienced politician with years of practice in artful vagueness.

In this case, he may have tried just a bit too hard. After pointing out that his country had too many fat people, Chavez added, "I'm not saying fat women, because they never get fat. Women sometimes fill out."

Nice case of heavy-handed gallantry, Hugo. He'd have probably been better off not to say anything at all. Just ask any husband who has ever been asked the dreaded question, "Does this make me look fat?" Then ask him what would happen if he responded, "No, dear, just a little too filled out."

President Chavez has placed himself in a delicate situation. Encouraging people to lose weight and be healthier presumably means they'll live longer and be able to cast more votes for him over their lifetimes.

On the other hand, if his language is too direct and he offends too many "filled-out" people, they might just squeeze into the voting booths and fill out their ballots for someone else. Even if Chavez still won, it could be by an uncomfortably slim margin.

Maybe he should have followed the weight-loss example of former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee and just written a book.

You do have to give President Chavez credit for being brave enough to take on the serious problem of obesity. Just writing about it is enough to inspire me to go take a nice long walk.

But first, to make sure I have enough energy, I might have to go eat that last piece of leftover pie.

The Hazards of Being a Biker Babe

We've been having our October weather this first week in November, and the mild, sunny days have filled the bike path with walkers and cyclists. (Why, by the way, is someone who rides a bicycle called a cyclist while someone who rides a motorcycle called a biker? The other way around would make more sense.)

Anyway, among the bicycles on the bike path are always a few with those cute little tot-hauling carts hitched behind them. Most of the time they carry kids, though I've seen them with smug little dogs inside instead. Once in a while you'll see a child seat mounted on the back of a bike, but those don't seem to be very popular. I can understand why.

When my daughter was about eight or nine months old, I decided to get one of those seats so I could take her along while I got some exercise. Never mind that I didn't get my first bike till I was 26 and my bike-riding skills were approximately the same as those of an uncoordinated seven-year-old just barely out of training wheels. It still seemed like a good idea at the time.

One beautiful Sunday morning we set out on an expedition: my sister, my six-year-old son, and me, with the baby securely strapped into her seat behind me. We rode through quiet residential streets to the bike path, then pedaled easily along it until it was time to head home. My daughter sat in her seat talking happily to herself. We had a great time.

Everything went smoothly until we were back in the residential neighborhood a few blocks away from our house. I was in front, getting a little tired but still pedaling along, when a man started across the street in front of me. Either he didn't see us, or he assumed, correctly, that we had plenty of space to go around him.

My inner uncoordinated seven-year-old froze. I didn't have time to slow down. I was afraid that if I swerved to miss him, I might tip over. It never occurred to me to shout a warning. Taking the only other available choice, I plowed right into him.

Fortunately, he had better reflexes than I did. He grabbed the handlebars in time to both protect himself and keep the bike from going completely over. The only thing that hit the ground was my left leg.

So there we were, disturbing the peace of a quiet Sunday street. My daughter, still safely strapped in her seat, was screaming in fright. I was crying, mostly because I was afraid she was hurt. Blood was streaming down my leg from a scrape on my knee. And the hapless guy I had just run down was saying, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

I bet he was, too. He probably still flinches if a bicycle gets too close.

My sister rescued the baby and calmed her down. The man dug a first-aid kit out of the glove box in his pickup and stuck a bandage on my knee. We walked the rest of the way home.

My daughter never rode in the bicycle seat again. Every time I tried to put her into it, she started screaming. Evidently she didn't want to be a biker babe.

Halloween? Bah, Humbug--But Please Share the Chocolate

According to a survey of "Halloween Consumer Intentions and Actions" by the National Retail Federation, 29.6% of Americans are reducing their Halloween spending this year because of the economy. I am not among that 29.6%. The economy hasn't affected my Halloween spending at all. I'm shelling out the same amount I did last year, and the year before, and the year before that. Nothing.

It's not that I'm cheap. Well, actually, I am, but that's not the whole story. It's just that I don't really get Halloween. At least I don't get why it has become such a big deal.

This probably stems from the fact that when I was a kid we didn't pay much attention to Halloween. We never went trick-or-treating. When you live in the country and the closest neighbors are a mile down the road, going door to door isn't exactly practical.

We must have had some sort of Halloween parties at school, because I do have a vague memory of bobbing for apples. With only five kids in the whole school, though, there wasn't much point in dressing up in elaborate costumes. We've have all recognized each other anyway.

When I was in eighth grade, our school did go to another rural school for a Halloween party. I dressed up as a pirate, complete with eye patch, which skewed my vision enough so I kept bumping into things. One of my younger sisters had a long braid bobby-pinned to her own short hair, and the other kids were shocked when she took it off at the end of the party. It was real hair, too. Our grandmother had kept it from the one time years earlier she had cut her own hair short. (I suppose some people might think that keeping a braid of your own hair in your dresser drawer for years was a little spooky in itself.)

Whatever the reasons, I've always found Halloween more annoying than entertaining. Carving pumpkins and dressing up for costume parties can be fun. So is handing out candy to little kids in their parka-covered costumes, even the tiny trick-or-treaters who are a little vague about the whole process. But spooky movies and haunted houses are way too scary. Giving candy to pillowcase-toting kids as tall as I am who don't even bother to say "Thank you" is irritating. And decorating the yard with a bunch of plastic witches, skeletons, and pumpkin-head lights? Forget it.

Then there is always the stressful question of how much candy to buy and what kind. Do you get stuff you like and end up eating way too much of it yourself? Or do you get stuff you don't like and end up tossing the leftovers in the trash? Or should you get candy at all? My adult kids probably still roll their eyes when they remember my Halloween health-food phase of giving out peanuts or little boxes of raisins instead of candy—especially because my non-candy views never kept me from begging a couple of pieces of chocolate out of their bags. 

At any rate, it's a relief now to live on a dead-end street where the houses are scattered on large lots and nobody bothers to come trick-or-treating. I can leave the porch light off and skip the whole thing with a clear conscience. And I don't even have to think about whether my low opinion of Halloween is merely resentment because I never got any trick-or-treat candy when I was a kid.

Why Women of a Certain Age Are Such Good Drivers

According to reliable information that I just made up because I didn't find any statistics after five minutes of intensive Internet research, some of the safest drivers are middle-aged women whose kids are grown. Here are the top ten reasons this is true:

10. We're not distracted by eating in the car because we're always trying to lose five pounds.

9. After all those years of preparing family meals, we're not going to do anything that might increase our insurance premiums and reduce the money we have available for eating out.

8. We're not distracted by changing music CDs because all our favorite songs are still on cassette tapes.

7. It's hard to flirt your way out of a ticket when the patrolman is young enough to be your kid.

6. We're not distracted by looking for a radio station because we can easily find by touch the only two stations we listen to: oldies and NPR.

5. We don't touch up our makeup while we're driving because the magnifying mirror won't fit on the dashboard.

4. We never drink and drive because alcohol has too many calories.

3. We're less likely to use our cell phones while we drive. We don't answer the phone because it's buried in the bottom of our purse, so even if we hear it ring we won't be able to find it. We don't make calls because we've never figured out how to use speed dial and we can't see the keypad without our reading glasses.

2. After years of driving while simultaneously feeding Cheerios to toddlers in car seats, answering questions like "Where do babies come from?", and refereeing squabbles about who gets to sit by the window, being alone in the car makes driving a snap.

And the most important reason middle-aged women are the best drivers?

1. We know that, if we do get into an accident, the police report and the newspaper article are going to give our age.

Confusing, Amusing, or Just Plain Odd

Things that make a logical woman think twice:

Why, as a group of us were working out the other morning at the women-only fitness center, the background music was "Macho, Macho Man."

Why the covers of certain women's magazines always feature both a photo of a mouth-watering dessert (recipe on page 87) and a headline about the latest diet plan (details on page 34). It would seem to make more sense to alternate them, with one month's dessert leading logically to the next month's diet plan.

Why a newly purchased bottle of cosmetic stuff included a warning on the label: "Keep product away from of eyes." It was intended to be reassuring, no doubt, but it wasn't exactly practical. The stuff was eye makeup remover.

Why manufacturers and bra designers (now there's a 14-year-old boy's dream job for you) are so careful to make bras fit smoothly so they don't show under tee-shirts—and then they stick a decorative little ribbon or rosette right in the middle. There are probably entire factories in China dedicated to making these rosettes, which are shipped by the billions to bra-making factories, where hardworking women painstakingly sew them on. The bras are shipped to wholesalers, then distributed to stores, where they are bought by hardworking women who take them home, dig out their seam rippers or fingernail scissors, painstakingly cut off the little rosettes, and toss them into the trash.

Why children will sit at the dinner table and painstakingly separate every bit of fat out of their steak or their pork chop to avoid letting the most microscopic speck of the gross and disgusting stuff pass their delicate little lips—yet at the breakfast table, those same children will lie, cheat, steal, and elbow each other in order to get third and fourth pieces of bacon.

Just wondering. A logical woman would like to know.

Be a Kid Again? You've Got to be Kidding.

One of the many humorous/inspiring/possibly fake/probably plagiarized emails that periodically circulates around the Internet is about "resigning from adulthood." It talks about turning in your driver's license and becoming a kid again.

Are you kidding? Who would ever want to be a kid again? True, adults have more responsibility in the gainful employment and buying your own groceries departments. I'll accept that responsibility any day in return for all the benefits of being an adult, like no algebra homework, no school lunches, and choosing your own bedtime.

Here is my Top Ten list of the reasons it's better to be an adult than a kid:

10. You get to plan your own menus.

9. In the car, you almost always get to sit in the front by a window.

8. You can paint your room whatever color you wish.

7. You can eat watermelon just before bedtime if you want to.

6. You can decide for yourself whether you're cold and should put on a sweater.

5. Nobody says you can only read one more chapter before you go to bed.

4. You can do anything your older siblings get to do.

3. If you want a puppy or a kitten, you don't have to settle for a goldfish.

2. Two words: driver's license.

And the top reason it's better to be an adult than a kid?

1. Grandchildren.

Only at the Sturgis Rally . . .

Have you heard the one about the midgets, the professional wrestler, and the kangaroo?

No, it isn't an off-color and politically incorrect joke. It's a love story. Well, a wedding story, at least, from this year's Sturgis Rally. The description of the ceremony made the August 9 Rapid City Journal—in the "nation and world" section rather than "life and style."

The wrestler, here for the Rally in a professional capacity, was the bride. The midgets, both guys who are part of her team of performers, were wedding attendants. (I know, I know, the preferred term is "little people," but the bride called them midgets.) Jack, the kangaroo, escorted the bride down the improvised aisle at the Buffalo Chip campground.

Oh, there was a groom, too. Being neither midget nor marsupial, he rated only a brief mention toward the end of the article.

The bride wore a white leather bikini top trimmed tastefully with fringe. The matching bikini bottom and sheer white overskirt fit just low enough to accent the tattoo across her abdomen. Jack, despite having no visible tattoos, was dapper in his own fur coat and a black leather vest. The rest of the wedding party presumably wore Harley black.

Jack lives at the Roo Ranch near Deadwood, though, as you might expect, he isn't a South Dakota native. He's from Texas. I'm not sure why the Black Hills has a tourist attraction featuring kangaroos and other critters from Down Under instead of native species like the buffalo or the jackalope. Maybe the local tourism market has more of those than it knows what to do with. Or maybe eventually we'll see a new hybrid—the jackaroo, perhaps, or the roo-alope or the buffaroo.

At any rate, Jack, an experienced advertising model, performed his role as the bride's escort with all the dignity appropriate to such a solemn occasion. A good thing, too. Given the bride's profession, she probably would have been able to ensure his cooperation if necessary with a choke hold or a full body slam. She chose a softer method of persuasion, however, coaxing him up to the altar with a handful of his favorite treats. It's amazing the things a guy will do just to get a couple of breath mints.

Each of the bride's previous wedding ceremonies had been, she said, "very traditional. I thought, 'That's not working for me.'"

Apparently not. This was her sixth wedding.

Maybe, this time, everyone involved will live hoppily ever after.

Drop the Corn and Back Away Slowly

Raccoons have invaded Safeway. It's the only logical explanation.

If you're raising sweet corn, raccoons are not your friends. It wouldn't be so bad if they just helped themselves to a few ears for dinner now and then, but they destroy far more than they eat. A couple of them can ruin whole rows of almost ripe corn in just a few nights.

Like people, raccoons want their corn on the cob to be just right. They'll go along a row, pulling down ear after ear of corn with their clever little hands and stripping the husks from the top to see whether the corn is ripe. It if isn't perfect, they go on to the next one, leaving the rejected ear to dry out and die.

Apparently, also like people, raccoons have discovered that it can be more convenient to buy sweet corn at the store than to pick it yourself. The bin of corn at Safeway has their handprints all over it. Sometimes half the ears have a wide strip of husk peeled down from the top. Rejected as not quite perfect, the ears have been tossed back into the bin. They lie there, drying out and becoming increasing unappealing to subsequent shoppers, until eventually the produce manager decides it's time to throw them out.

Surely people wouldn't do this. Not responsible, local-produce-buying, reusable-bag-carrying grocery shoppers. They surely would know that a solid, even ear without obvious signs of bugs will probably be perfectly good. Or they would have figured out that you can check an ear of corn for ripeness without ruining it; you just make a small slit with your fingernail in one side of the husk to peek at the kernels. Above all, people would certainly realize that wasting so much corn means the store has to charge more for it.

Nope, all those annoying corn vandals have to be raccoons. Admittedly, I've never actually seen a raccoon pushing a shopping cart through the produce section at Safeway. But then, I wouldn't necessarily recognize one if I did see it. After all, it would have been wearing a mask.

Smooth-as-Silk Sleeping

The subject line of the email was "erase wrinkles while you sleep." I assumed it was an ad for some miracle face cream made with yak butter, a newly discovered rejuvenating supplement, or a newly rediscovered ancient secret ingredient harvested from deep in the rain forest.

Ordinarily I would have sent it straight to the trash with the rest of the spam. I'd have missed this opportunity to look younger, just as I regularly spurn opportunities to find free government grants, buy cheaper car insurance, order upside-down tomato planters, and of course gain millions by sending my bank account information to someone from Nigeria.

But my computer was slow that morning. While I was waiting for it to finish thinking, I had time to read the wrinkle-erasing ad. It wasn't selling a cream, a supplement, or a new form of Botox. It was selling a pillowcase. Only $19.95, plus $7.95 shipping and handling—and order now to get a second one absolutely free except for additional shipping and handling.

These pillowcases, described as "the world's best kept beauty secret," are made from silk charmeuse, which sounds as if it comes from French-speaking silkworms. According to the ad, this silk contains natural protein. It also hydrates your skin.

I'm not sure the idea of a skin-hydrating pillowcase is all that appealing. It sounds too much like trying to go to sleep on one of those hot, muggy summer nights when everything feels clammy and you keep turning your pillow over just in case the underside might be a little bit cooler.

Then there is the minor technical detail that, in order to take advantage of the wonderful proteins and skin-hydrators in your silk charmeuse pillowcase, you would presumably need to sleep with your face mashed into the fabric. If you sleep on your side, you'd have to be sure to turn over in the middle of the night in order to avoid waking up with one side of your face looking younger than the other. If you sleep on your back, you'd apparently just be out of luck.

What I found most fascinating, however, was the refreshing truth in advertising of this email. My guess is that one of these pillowcases would work exactly as specified.

Nowhere in the careful wording of its two paragraphs was it stated that this beauty secret would eliminate wrinkles in your skin. You might indeed wake up in the morning and find fewer wrinkles than usual. Not in your face, though. In your pillowcase.

It's probably not worth $19.95, plus shipping and handling, to find out for sure.