Happy New Year's Videos to You

Hey, it’s almost a new year!  Time to say good-bye to this one.

As a send-off, I’m including five of my favorite videos.  You may well have seen them all--I’ve seen them tons of times!  But they make me happy every time.  I hope they do that for you, too.

I just laugh at this every time.

His voice is so beautiful, I almost can't stand it.


So sweet.  And hilarious.


An oldie, but a GREATIE.  

Can't wait to teach this stuff to Jim.  

Happy New Year, my friends!

Merry Christmas to You!

So I’ve told you my Christmas guilty pleasures.  Here are four of my (movie) Christmas pleasures--sans guilt, avec pleasure.  Why no guilt?  Well, it’s kind of like the guilty pleasure movies are like Harlequin romances: really tacky and probably not well-written, but somehow really enjoyable.  And with no real value.  (I do still remember my favorite, called The Breadth of Heaven—in fact, I still own it, dog-eared and much-loved—where the main character is suddenly whisked away from her boring job as hotel clerk to become the secretary-companion to the Princess of Tirhania, complete with new wardrobe, new country and eventual new husband—the Prince of Tirhania, no less.  Ahh, I still can picture her russet suit, with a blue scarf that matched her cobalt blue eyes...)  But I digress.  The movies I’m including here are (just in my humble, but always correct, opinion), like literature--some are kind of silly literature, but literature, nonetheless.  Or at least closer to that than to a Harlequin romance.

How cute is that??

Elf:  I never liked Will Ferrell on Saturday Night Live.  Couldn’t stand him.  And I used to avoid his movies.  I didn’t know!  I didn’t know that somehow, after his transition from comedy skits to real movies, out popped this sweet, innocent, sincere, loveable guy!  And never more so than in Elf, where he plays a human who’s been raised as an elf and never sees anything amiss, despite the fact that he’s, oh, about ten times bigger than all his friends and neighbors.  I’m happy every time I watch this.

Love Actually – I didn’t actually love this the first time I saw it.  But it’s grown on me so much that it’s now one of my absolute favorites.  A bunch of separate Christmas stories, each very different and mostly quite funny, that all unexpectedly tie together in the end.  Touching, heartbreaking, funny, and full of great actors:  Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson, Colin Firth, Bill Nighy, Liam Neeson, Alan Rickman…   Love this!  And it includes perhaps my favorite modern day Christmas song:

White Christmas:  My favorite movie—and I’m not limiting this to Christmas movies.  It was made just for me, I’m sure of it.  It’s got it all: Bing Crosby, Danny Kay, Rosie Clooney, Vera-Ellen (the most amazing dancer ever, with the teeny-tiniest waist ever), the 1940’s, singing duos, beautiful clothes,  a snowy lodge in Vermont, lots of song and dance production numbers, and absolutely hilarious.  I’ve seen it every year for years and years (actually, we had to put this on an every-other-year rotation with The Bishop’s Wife—we know it too well!), and I laugh out loud every time, and can sing every song, if I’m so inclined (which I usually am.)  Here’s one of my favorite scenes—nothing to do with Christmas, but a killer:

The Bishop’s Wife:  Here’s all you need to know:  David Niven as a pastor, Loretta Young as his sweet wife, and Cary Grant as an angel who’s sort of hankering after Loretta Young (who wouldn’t?)  It’s sweet, a little spicy (just a tiny bit suggestive, in a wistful sort of way), and very funny.  I leave you with the beautiful final line of the movie:

…loving kindness, warm hearts, and the stretched out hand of tolerance; all the shining gifts that make peace on earth.

Merry Christmas, one and all!

Christmas Guilty Pleasures, Part 2

And my number one, all-time favorite, never-ending years long Christmas Guilty Pleasure is…

Made-for-TV Christmas movies!  There are a million of them, some with good production values, some not so good, some with good acting, some just bad.  But I love them all.  Or almost all.  I draw the line at the ones Mr. and/or Mrs. Claus.  And the ones involving Christmas in warm climates (especially when wearing Hawaiian shirts is involved).  And the too-serious ones (can you say The Christmas Box with a rather smug Maureen O’Hara making all kinds of judgments about poor Richard Thomas?  Although, now that I think of it, he is kind of self-centered and selfish in that one, so maybe she’s right after all.  Nevertheless--not interested!)  The ones involving trying to get to a wedding on time. (I can think of two of those, right off the bat!  What I can’t think of is why this is a recurring theme in Christmas movies.)   I am keeping an open mind on all these topics, however, in case some killer Mr./Mrs. Claus movie or one where they actually do get to the wedding and it involves a Vera Wang gown comes along some day

Before I give you my list, let me just say this is not an all-inclusive list.  There are many others I enjoy, that showcase such revered stars as Tori Spelling, Roma Downey, Dean Cain, Olivia Newton-John, Connie Sellecca, even Randy Travis—Good Lord, I could go on forever.  But one can only include so many, can’t one?  All right, having eliminated the riff raff, here you have it, my list of all-time favorite Made-for-TV Christmas movies:

·    Ebbie – a “modern day” twist on the loveable old classic, A Christmas Carol.  But instead of Reginald Owen or Alistair Sim, we have who?  Susan Lucci, of course.  (I mean, it was only a matter of time, really.)  Who better to play Elizabeth “Ebbie” Scrooge, a cold, uncaring workaholic who owns a department store?  Love and romance and a department store—and Erica Kane--all rolled into one movie.  I’m happy just thinking about it.  

·    Comfort & Joy – Hey, remember Nancy McKeon?  You know, Jo from The Facts of Life TV show (that launched George Clooney’s career, by the way)?  Well, she’s back—and looking quite nice--as yet another workaholic who’s never had time for a personal life.  In this one, she crashes her car on the way to a corporate Christmas party.  When she regains consciousness (still at the wheel), she opens her eyes only to be looking at a very hunky, handsome, but down-to-earth guy who’s rushed to her aid.  She becomes puzzled and wonders if she hit her head harder than she thought in the accident, when he refers to her as his wife of 10 years, mother of his children, and combination housewife/volunteer extraordinaire.  You can see what’s coming here, I’m sure.  I’ll just say they all live happily ever after, and Jo never ends up back in her original world.  Thank heaven!  (And a little advice here, ladies (well, and men, too, if applicable):  If you’re single, and you wake up from some dramatic event to find some hunky, snuggly guy insisting that you’re his wife, the love of his life?  Do you wander all over town trying to get your old, lonely, meaningless life back?  I think not!  Let me tell you, this is not the time for questions.  Here’s what you do instead:  Ask no questions, agree with whatever he says, and just move on.  I mean, really!  Just start loving what is, baby.)

    (Or if you prefer, here’s Wikipedia’s much shorter description:  Single businesswoman wakes up married and a mother after a car accident.  Yep, that, too.)

·    The Christmas Gift – Oh man, this is a great one!  Unfortunately, it’s kind of an oldie and they virtually never play it any more.  So sad!  (That they never play it, not the movie—Christmas movies are never sad, you know that.)   It stars Jane Kaczmarek and John Denver—yes, it’s that old.  (Don’t groan--remember how good he was in the Oh, God movies?  He’s charming, I swear.)  Here he plays George, a widowed architect who, supposedly in order to get away from sad memories of his wife, takes his 10-year-oldish daughter Alex to spend Christmas in a quaint—perhaps even magical—town in Colorado.  We the viewers, however, know that his ulterior motive for the trip is to scope out the land surrounding the town, which his company wants to secretly buy so they can build—you know what’s coming—a (shudder) housing development!  Oh, the humanity! 

Upon arriving, father George and (precocious and wise) daughter Alex learn that all the residents of the town are either a little kookoo or a little magical; they all believe in Santa Claus.  I mean, all.  And, get this, even harder to believe--they’re all nice.  Nice!  Every single solitary resident, as we used to say when I was a kid.  Anyway, Alex gets totally into the whole Christmas fantasy (or is it?) immediately, and dad soon follows suit once he discovers that Alex’s new best friend, the postmistress, is very cute and very feisty.  And single.  (Bye-bye, dearly departed wife, there’s a new gal in Christmas Town.)

As you can guess (I know you’re getting ahead of me, here—this isn’t rocket science, after all), there’s a happy ending for all: a family gets saved from going belly up, George finds he just may really believe in ol’ SC and finds a new love, and of course, the town is saved from the evil developer, by George!   No, no, I mean, literally, George saves the town.  And while I may sound cynical and you may be envisioning me rolling my eyes while writing this, I think you may have forgotten that I said this was one of my all-time favorite made-for-TV Christmas movies.  So don’t think for one minute that I don’t get choked up and even possibly shed a tear or two every single time I see it.   There’s nothing like John Denver at Christmas!

(If that explanation is too long—or frankly, has just too many details—here’s  how one short-winded Amazon reviewer describes it: “big-city father and daughter help save small, folksy town and learn the real meaning of Christmas.”  Yep, that, too.)

   Note:  Apparently I’m not the only who loves this movie.  Remember I told you it was an oldie and they don’t play it any more?  Well, never fear.  You, too can own this one--for a mere $38.99 on Amazon.  Holy smokes.  It’s good—but is it that good?  Even I’m not sure of that one.  Not when there’s a golden back-up like Holiday Switch (see below) waiting in the wings.  I mean, come on.

·    The Christmas Wish (yes the title is so close to that last one, but not the same!) – Starring Neil Patrick Harris and Debbie Reynolds.  Well, need I say more?  Well yes, probably.  But I love those two (especially Debbie in her senior years—have you seen Albert Brooks’ movie Mother?  I have never laughed so much at a movie in my life, and I mean all through the movie.  I fell in love with the Debster in this one.)  Anyway, not only does this one have great stars, it’s got a nice, sappy, touching story as well!  Will (Neil PH) is a Harvard grad and successful but cynical Wall Street trader who returns to his quaint hometown to modernize and streamline his family’s business after his grandfather dies.  Now Will was raised by his grandparents after his parents died in a “tragic car accident.”  (Why do they always say that? “Tragic car accident?”  I mean, given that his parents died in the crash, I think that’s a given, don’t you agree?)  At any rate, while back in quaint-town, Will’s grandmother Ruth (Debbie, of course) finds a puzzling entry in grandpa’s journal, referring to a yearly Christmas visit to “Lillian.”  Lillian?  Huh?  Debbie/Ruth ain’t never heard of any Lillian—although presumably she has wondered all these years where hubby disappeared to every Christmas Eve.  (Wouldn’t you?)  She just thought he was picking out an extra special gift for her, no doubt.  Not! 

So Ruth’s Christmas wish (aha, see how title fits in here?) becomes to find out just what ol’ granddad was really doing all those years on Christmas Eve, when he really should have been helping her wrap presents and put those damn toys together.  So Will obliges, but both he and Ruth are fearful the answer to the secret won’t exactly make granddad’s memory shine.

I won’t tell you what they find out.  But it is a Christmas movie, after all, so you can at least be secure in the knowledge that the answer won’t bring out your bitter inner woman.

(Or, as Wikipedia puts it:  A businessman tries to uncover a family secret for his grandmother after he returns to a small town to modernize his family's real-estate company.  Yep, that, too.)

And my number one, all-time fave:

·    Holiday Switch – Oh, my gosh, I’m just happy thinking about this one.  You know how, when your life gets kind of overwhelming, especially at Christmas time, you start wishing you had taken the Other Road at some point in your past, so you wouldn’t have this drag of a husband, and these kids that are just so darn annoying, and no money, and this embarrassing haircut from Great Clips?  And you know how then you go down to the laundry room and try to climb through the dryer?  No? 

Well, that’s why they never made a Christmas movie about you, then.  Because it’s a fascinating story, one we can all learn from.  (If only to warn inattentive husbands to make sure you get your wife a gift certificate to the salon of her choice every Christmas—and birthdays, too, wouldn’t hurt.  That is, if you want to keep those home fires burning, if you know what I mean.) 

Despite the, shall we say, unlikely plot, this movie is actually one of the great ones.  It has beautiful clothes, beautiful sets and lots of jewelry.  Enough right there to make me happy.  But wait, there’s more!  Good acting, humor (intentional), good production value, and a delightful, hilarious story.  And it stars Nicole Eggert, queen of the made-for-TV Christmas movie.  (I don’t know where she got famous, this gal, but I love her.  Not only because she’s a good actress and very funny, but because she’s beautiful and—you better sit down for this one—not thin.  No joke.  She’s no butterball or anything, but she is not a size 0, of that I’m pretty sure.  This is a beautiful, funny, not thin woman.   Oh my gosh, I think she may be my new best friend.)  Anyway, so after she climbs through the dryer, she ends up in a parallel universe.  The road not taken.  (Man, this thing could even be seen as literary.)  

And where does that road, or dryer as it were, take her?  Well, right to a much nicer life!   She crawls out the other side into a much nicer laundry room, for starters.  Then she’s confronted by the, can it be, housekeeper!  After a short period of confusion and hyperventilating and wandering about the new mansion, she realizes she’s now married to the guy that she let get away; the one she turned down for her current saintly but boring and poor Mister.  And this new guy is handsome!  And wealthy!  What could be better?  (Well, if you’ve been reading carefully, and you recall my advice a la Comfort & Joy, here’s a little prescience for you:  note what quality has not yet come up here—is he snuggly?  I’m guessing not, aren’t you?)

After luxuriating in a gorgeous bath, trying on tons of gorgeous clothes, and soaking up every luxury that’s awaiting her there in her parallel life, she plans a romantic dinner, ready to enjoy this road to the fullest with New Hubby.  Only to find out that he doesn’t even come home for dinner, really.  Ever.  Why?  Because he’s now with his new gal, a gorgeous co-worker from his job.  (And sadly, she is a size 0, I’m pretty darn sure.)  And--not to give you too much bad news all at once--Nicole and New Hubby are planning to get a divorce!  Turns out Mr. Beautiful Moneybags is kind of shallow.  And not so nice. Basically, he’s a jerk.  (OK, that’s not good news.  But look, he’s so handsome and their house is so beautiful and then there are all the clothes and those jewels…)  But who comes along, lurking outside her living room window, at just about that point, hoping to find some work so he can support his family?  Oh, no, could it be?  No, it’s not a bird, it’s not a plane, it’s original hubby!  Mr. Boring!  But suddenly, now that he’s out there on her million dollar lawn, working so hard and looking so rugged (and dare I say it, snuggly?), he suddenly begins looking kind of sort of attractive…  Especially when he politely but firmly rebuffs her come-ons because he’s loyal to his loving wife and family.   Oh, the tangled web she’s woven.

Well, I won’t give you all the details—you’ll want to enjoy this little treasure for yourself.  But suffice it to say, she spends a lot of time hanging out in her new laundry room, eyeing that dryer.  A lot.  And she ain’t doing the wash, I can tell you that much. 

Now just a warning: one reviewer on Amazon said they had a hard time following this story.  Well, all I can say about that is…  Well, I can’t say anything about that.  I’m speechless.  

Apparently, after watching this one we’re supposed to appreciate the things we have, not the things we left behind.  And yeah, yeah, I do have the best husband and the best dog right now, in this universe.  But every now and then, when I’m having a hard day, I do start to wonder what’s behind that dryer...  But I suspect that I’ll just end up under our porch.  How glad I am that I didn’t take that road.

Christmas Guilty Pleasures, Part 1

December is such a special month.  It’s the most wonderful time of the year!  It’s the time for Christmas.  It’s the time for family.  It’s the time for gift giving and receiving.  For feeling warm and cozy and snuggly.  For sitting around the Christmas tree, wrapped in your Snuggie (or did you get the original, the Slanket), sipping hot cocoa (or perhaps a hot toddy, depending how much stress you experienced at the mall that day), under the spell of the Christmas lights.  Just lovely!  But something that warms my heart even more at this time of year, something even more special, is that this is the season for… guilty pleasures.  Shopping in the middle of the day!  Buying fancy clothes that you’ll only wear once!  Decorating your house with beautiful, tacky things covered with jewels and glittered pine cones!  Wearing large brooches covered with miniature jewels and pine cones!  Christmas cookies! Gingerbread!  Candy Canes!  Sweets of all kinds, really.  (My husband, Steve, would put fruitcake first on that list.  Not I.  But I respect his choice—especially since it means more peppermint bark, say, for me.)  And maybe even better than all those goodies is the guiltiest pleasure of all, available only this month:   December TV!  And no, I’m not referring to all those “very special presentations,” or so the announcers love to tell us, at this most special time of year.  A very special “Two and a Half Men.”  Please tune in tonight for a heartwarming, “Dexter.”  No, no, no.  Those aren’t for me.  Those involve guilt sans pleasure, in my book.  Actually, not even guilt.  Just the sans pleasure part.

What I’m talking about are two very specific TV pleasures. The first?  Oprah’s Favorite Things. 

Here she is...

       

Let me explain.

For the past who knows how many years, Oprah has been handing out stuff to ladies all a-twitter with the gimme-gimme, er, Christmas spirit.  And it’s a blast to watch!  I admit it!  I’ve even wished I were one of the lucky ones in her audience, a time or two.  Why is this fun?  I’m not sure.  I think it has something to do with feeling like, by having some of the stuff that Oprah herself loves, you’ve now got a direct connection to the amazing, luxurious, perfect life that we imagine Oprah lives (perfect, that is, with the exception of her mysterious relationship with this Steadman person).

In case you’ve been off the planet for the last ten years and aren’t familiar with just what Oprah’s Favorite Things is (or are?), here’s the deal.  Each year, on one of her shows in December (and no one knows ahead of time exactly when it will be, thereby avoiding insanity and out and out law-breaking while women do everything they can to score a ticket), Oprah presents us with a list of products she has fallen in love with.  She has them all in the studio and on stage with her, complete with models when appropriate, and not only does she demonstrate the product, but—and here’s the key—she gives every single person in the audience the product.  Not just, “There’s a little something under your chair, audience members!” but, rather, every single person gets every single item.  Every item!  Sounds neat, huh?  (Especially if you’re in the audience.)  But wait, there’s more.  Because in case you’ve forgotten (or have been away from the planet, and you know who you are, Sir Richard Branson and Mark Kelly), Oprah Winfrey (yes, she does have a last name!) is one of the wealthiest self-made women in the world.  In the world!  (Well done, Oprah!)  So while her favorite things might include such charming items as Josh Groban’s latest Christmas album and her all-time favorite chicken pot pie, there are also items that qualify as a bit more than charming.  I’m talking diamond earrings, a fridge with a built-in TV (I’m not exactly sure of the practical usefulness of this item, but man, it’s cool!), and yes, even a car!  As you can imagine, it’s quite a show.

Actually, over the last few years, the status of this as a guilty pleasure has become somewhat tarnished for me.  So much so that I might have to say, at this point, that Oprah’s Favorite Things used to be an annual guilty pleasure.  Because in the last year or two it’s just become kind of repulsive, with not much pleasure.  A repulsive non-pleasure.  Yikes.  See, the frenzy has grown from year to year, so that by now, the women in the audience are already rabid before they even take their lucky little seats.  So by now it’s just all these women becoming hysterical because they’re getting FREE STUFF.  "I don't know what it is, but oh my GOD, it's FREE!"  "Free!  Free!  Free!" is their rallying cry.  (So much for Oprah's goal of empowering women to be self-reliant, independent creatures.)  Now I realize some of it is really great—I can understand, for example, crying over the pair of diamond earrings or even the oversized scented soaps (they’re very pretty)—but the frenzy obviously just becomes about the FREE STUFF, with gals sobbing and hyperventilating (and EMTs on call back stage, I kid you not) over a Kenny G Christmas album, for God’s sake.  True!  So this has actually transitioned from a guilty pleasure into a Thing to Avoid Seeing At All Costs.

Oh, look!  A man slipped in!

So I stopped watching.  But in my own personal little rule book I am allowed—compelled, in fact—to go on Oprah.com afterward and devour the List of Things.  (Which is why I feel like this is still, after all, a current guilty pleasure.)  And it’s still fun!  Even more so, really, to enjoy the stuff without having to suffer through the hysteria and tears.  Or someone else’s hysteria and tears, at least.

OMG

And now that the Oprah Show has run its course, this year I went and bought her magazine--now the only place to see those Favorite Things. And guess what?  They were b-o-o-o-ring.  Boring.  How can that be?  You tell me: Can you whip up a frenzy of excitement over a Christmas ornament with an artist’s weird rendering of your dog’s face on it?  Or the champagne that Jay-Z sent Oprah?  (Good lord, does she really need to name drop?  She’s Oprah, for heaven’s sake.  And who exactly is Jay-Z, again?)  Mugs that look like they were made by a child?  (They were not.)  A canvas briefcase for $485?  And to add insult to injury, they weren’t even all Oprah’s favorites.  I feel cheated!  She apparently thinks we’re interested in what other people think is neat.  People who aren’t bazillionaires, who don’t wear great clothes and have many beautiful houses and many cute pets.  People who aren't even on any of the Forbes lists.  Do I really want to know what Dr. Oz, for heaven’s sakes, classifies as a favorite thing?  Or Peter Walsh, the organizer guy?  Suze Orman?  (Well, maybe Suze.  I kind of like her mix of compassion and no-nonsense straight-forwardness.  Maybe I would like to see her stuff.

I like Suze

But come on, it’s not going to be in the same category as Oprah’s, for sure.) And I’ve never even heard of Adam Glassman--why would I want his input?  Cat Cora?  Val Monroe?  Who are these people? I don’t know, but I can tell you who they are not:  Oprah. 

So, lesson learned.  I can stash that guilty pleasure away forever.  That’s going to save me some time next Christmas.  And the cost of one magazine, to boot.  How cool is that!

But my #1 all-time favorite, never-ending, years long Guilty Pleasure, something even better than Oprah’s Favorite Things, is still out there.   

And I’ll tell you all about it next time.

Pop Quiz

Pop Quiz:  What do these things have in common:  tights, pantyhose and paper towels?  

They can all come in white?  True, but no.  They all can be shredded pretty easily?  Again, possibly true, but no.  They’re things we (or maybe it’s just me?) are particular about?  Getting closer!

Here’s a clue:  What’s the first thing you do once you’ve opened these things up?  Throw away the packaging, right?  At least, that’s the first thing I do after I open stuff up, despite all the warnings about “original packaging required for full refund” (electronics and clothing excluded—those items come under the rules of one of my Systems: If something is expensive and you’re not sure it’s going to keep living in your house as long as you intended, KEEP EVERYTHING REMOTELY CONNECTED TO ITS PURCHASE).  But paper towels and tights?  Where the heck am I going to keep all that annoying, clingy, floaty plastic once I’ve ripped it up to get at the paper towels?  Or the little piece of flimsy cardboard those tights came in?  Because who ever expects to return paper towels, and who ever has the courage to return pantyhose?  Or even tights.  Not me, at least.  So out it goes.

Which is a mistake.  Not because I want to return them.  Just the opposite:  because I want to buy them again. 

Because the answer to the pop quiz, what these things have in common, is that once opened up and the packaging has gone bye-bye, there is absolutely no identifying mark, anywhere on the darn things, to let you know what you just dried your hands on or just wore to such nice effect with your very happening knee-high Michael Kors boots and short skirt.  No identifying mark, I tell you, not a one.  

I’ve discovered this the hard way many times. 

Tuscan Pears

Paper towels are one item I buy without care for cost.  I buy paper towels because they have the cutest pattern.  (Is there even such a thing as a really expensive paper towel?  So how bad could the hit be?)  No white, a pattern please, and around holiday time, there is always a holiday-themed towel gracing our kitchen.  But the rest of year, too, I strive to find the most charming pattern.  Which involves a little bit of time standing in the paper goods aisle, sorting through all the options, be it the store brand, the brand with that Lumberjack (who is that guy, again?) or Rosie’s quicker-picker upper, looking for the cheeriest print or the one that best reflects who I am—at least on that particular day.  Am I feeling Vegetables today?  Happy Days and Shared Moments?  Maybe Tuscan Pears?  Or no, maybe at this time in my life Toasters and Starbursts will really express the inner me.  (In actuality, our current towels are sporting red and green candies and candy canes, signaling the official start of the Christmas season in our house.)  Anyway, I work hard to get it right.  And the payoff is that when I spill something, or Jimmy (our really really really cute little blonde dog—did I mention he’s cute?) has thrown up all over the kitchen floor, or Steve has (yet again) paid no attention to the fact that there are thousands of coffee grounds all over the floor under the coffee maker, I am immediately made happy just to tear off those paper towels and see one of those charming prints crumpled in my hand.  Despite the less than idyllic situation (does he not SEE the grounds???).

the culprits

So like I said, I work hard to get it right.  And after finding just the right towel to wipe up the dog vomit or the ever-present coffee grounds, I want to be able to perpetuate that lovely moment.  I want those towels again, so I can re-live that moment.  Well, or maybe re-live the moment before those things happened and I was just enjoying the towel in its holder, pre-catastrophe.  So when I get to the end of that paper towel roll, darn it, I want to be reminded of what this fabulous product is that I’ve so grown to love.  So I can buy it again.

And then there are the tights.  I love to wear tights all winter, and this, just like the paper towel selection, takes some research.  They need to be opaque enough to not see through (even in the knees, thank you), thick enough to stretch but not lose their shape (even in the knees, thank you again), and long enough so the crotch is not heading south as I walk.  (I do recall one unpleasant incident a year or so ago, when the waistband of my tights had somehow lost its hug, if you will, and the crotch started falling lower and lower, so that I had to make an emergency stop in Target to buy a new pair, and prayed all the way to the checkout stand that my waistband wouldn’t be hugging my knees before I got to the restroom to put on the new pair.  It was a very close call, that’s all I’ll say about that.)  It’s so important to find just the right pair.

And on that note, let me take a moment to stray off-topic just a bit and offer a little tip here:  If you’re a gal –and I suppose this would apply to men, too, but I’m not quite sure of the ramifications of their sizing—who gains weight from the waist up, you’re in like Flynn:  go with the sizing right there on the package.  You’re 120 lbs  and 5’6”?  (You lucky girl.)  Get the small!  Ignore that “shaded area”:  be bold and get the smaller size!  (And by the way, if you’re 5’6” and 120 pounds, I can only assume there isn’t anything you need to worry about, other than making sure your paper towels are adorable.)  But if you happen to be a gal who gains weight sort of all over, or maybe even from the waist down? (And ladies, if, perhaps, you’re anticipating weight gain--due to upcoming holidays, boredom or perhaps a looming break-up--this applies to you, too.)  Then all bets are off.  A great system I put in place here is:  ALWAYS GET AT LEAST ONE SIZE BIGGER THAN THEY RECOMMEND.  Pay no attention to helpful tips on the packaging such as: “Sized for real women” or “Now more accurate sizing!”  “Now with more stre-e-e-etch!”  Disregard all such “claims.”  THEY ARE NOT TRUE.  Always go up a size; I don’t care if you’re skimming the lower end of the chart, just do it.  You’ll thank me, I promise.  Word of warning here, though:  please don’t take this advice too much to heart and go up too many sizes or you, too, could find yourself in the parking lot of Target sending up one last prayer, before getting out of the car and starting that long walk to the store and into the hosiery section, that your tights will hold their own until you make it to the restroom to replace them.

So I think you can see how important it is to get the right product.  These things don’t just work out by chance or miracle.  There’s a lot of research and effort and, yes, frankly, emotion, put into creating a successful experience.  And as the saying goes, why reinvent the wheel?  Why start all over again the next time you venture out to buy paper towels or tights?  We’re not cavemen, after all; these things have been done by better and smarter people than I, right?

Turns out, possibly not.  Because once you’ve wiped up the last spill or worn those tights till there’s a hole in the toe, lotsa luck.  Because, unless you’re one of those super-organized aliens who anticipates things like this and comes up with a system for it (that’s what I’d call a Ph.D. level system--too much for me, I’ve tried), there is no way to know what it was that you purchased those weeks or months or even years ago.  Because, despite our current fashion system, where every designer in the world from Target to Chanel splashes their logo from the rooftops—or at least from the chest or handle or derriere—there are no identifying marks on these things.  Is it masochism on the part of the manufacturer?  A vengeful brand marketing company?   Is it too hard to print on a cardboard roll?  Are their machines not capable of printing lettering tiny enough to go on the back of a waistband?  Are they just too cheap to make the effort???  My guess is that a committee is somehow involved, and you know what happens whenever something is decided by committee.  Just look at our current Congress for the less than successful results of that little system.

Sadly, I don’t have the answer; I only have the plea.  Bounty, Brawny, Safeway Select, HomeSense, hear me now!  DKNY, HUE, L’eggs, Berkshire, Hanes, listen up!  I want to buy more of your stuff.  Yes, I want to give you more of my money!  I’m dying to!  Why won’t you let me?  How are you missing this opportunity?  Please get your board of directors together, get this on a committee agenda, get your little worker bees to write it out by hand, for heaven’s sake, but do something--print your damn logo somewhere on your product.  Pretty please?

And by the way, guess what?  Remember my falling tights?  There was no tag on those, either.  So I can’t even rest easy, certain that was a once in a lifetime experience.  Oh, the pain.

You Gotta Love the System

   I’m very organized.  And I love to come up with Systems.  Systems are the key to a life that doesn’t involve the daily insanity and awfulness of trying to find something---my keys, my sunglasses, my purse, the bill that I know is due today (or was it yesterday?), that little scrap of paper I wrote something very important on.  Very important.  Not that any of that has ever happened to me.

Mom, aka Jeanne Eimers & Jimmy

   And I have lots of systems; some I created myself, and some I inherited from my mom, the very organized Jeanne Eimers.  Here’s a classic Jeanne Eimers System:  always keep a “back-up” of kitchen items that you really don’t want to run out of.  So the system is this: the first time around, you buy two of, say, Jane’s Krazy Salt (did you ever use that stuff?  It’s great).  You start using one right away, and you stash the second one in the back of the cabinet.  Then, a year later or so, when you actually use up all the JK Salt, are you up the creek without a paddle—or salt shaker?  No, my friend, because you’ve got your back-up salt waiting for you in the hinterlands of the cabinet, waiting for just this moment that you anticipated all those months ago.  You will NOT have to do without salt!  Ah, life is good, as my mom loves to say.

 The system depends on two things:  First, that you and everyone in your household remember you have this system so that when that last little speck of salt has floated out of the shaker, no one panics, thus avoiding ugly accusations.  (“Who was the last one to almost use up the salt and NOT take a minute to write it on the grocery list that’s right there on the fridge door; right there in front of your face???!!” …should anyone in the family tend to resort to such uncouth displays.)  The second crucial part of the system (and this is where it can break down) depends on your family members—HUSBAND--remember to follow the system.  Because as soon as you take that back-up item out to use it, and before you even think about using it, you had better write it down on the list again.  So you can buy another back-up the very next time you shop, in anticipation of that moment, months from now…   You get the picture.  But of course a system is only as good as its users (STEVE). 

  That, I think, is my favorite system.   Here’s another:  If you have a house with multiple stories, in order to avoid a million little trips up and down, put whatever it is that belongs upstairs but is downstairs, in a little pile toward the edge of a lower stair.   Then the next time you’re going upstairs, you just reach down and scoop up that little pile (warning:  this only works with small things; otherwise, injury could result, for which I have no real system)  and take it upstairs to where it rightly belongs.  And voila, you’ve saved yourself a hundred little trips in an exhausting effort to keep the homestead neat and clean.  That’s a good one, too, courtesy of Jeanne Eimers.   Of course, this one also relies heavily on family participation.  I remember my mom trying to get us to use this system when I was growing up. Mostly in vain.  (And we only had a split level, so there was only a half flight to climb.)  So come to think of it, I don’t actually practice that one now that I’m a grown-up, even though I again live in a split level house.  (Weird, huh?  Are there that many of those around?  I don’t really even like them.)   

Steve thinking about all those steps

   But the lack of that system works out fine in our house, because my husband Steve loves to take as many steps as he can in a day.  I’m not kidding!  Very handy for keeping the house neat.  But I have to say, this little quirk is not so endearing when we’ve driven to the movies where there’s a giant parking lot and it’s 110 degrees out and he parks as far away as possible so he can get in all his steps…   OK, I’m digressing.  The point is, he loves making many, many trips up and down the stairs; as many as he possibly can, in fact.  So there’s really no need for this system in our lives.  Although now that I think of it, I do sort of have my own version of this system currently--for my own things that Steve wouldn’t know where they go.  I carefully place them on the ledge above the stairs, for the next trip downstairs.  And then, about a month or so later, I bring them down.  Well, no, really every two weeks, because I have to clean up before the cleaning lady gets here like clockwork, every two weeks.  (That is, unless we’ve canceled her for the week because we’ve been too busy to clean up for her.)  So they’re only really there for two weeks.  And it’s only a little tiny problem if there happen to be any bills due in that little pile.  Not that that’s ever happened to me, of course.

  So I’m good at creating and following systems, is the point.  It makes me happy and eliminates stress and inefficiency from my life.  And inefficiency is my enemy!  Steve, in addition to loving to take lots of steps, also loves inefficiency, if you can believe that.  I find it hard to.  And certainly hard to accept.  His driving habits are a prime example.  He simply does not see any value in the concept of getting somewhere in the most direct way available.  When we’re on our way somewhere in the car, I’ll often make a comment like, “Hmm, Steve, do you know where we’re going, or would you like a suggestion on how to get there?”  This type of inquiry is usually made after I notice that we’ve traveled 3 miles south when our destination lies oh, about 7 or 8 miles north, or when I happen to notice we’ve been circling the same block for quite a while now, despite the fact that we’re nowhere near our destination.  Steve’s typical response in these situations is, “Oh, I was just checking something out over here.”  Which is not true. On other occasions I might be heard to observe, “The speed limit is 65, just so you know.”  This type of comment might be prompted when we’re traveling along the freeway and cars--and I mean all the other cars on the freeway, even those pulling trailers and those with their flashing yellow “I’m having car trouble” lights on--are passing us at what looks, from inside our car, like the speed of light.  The response to this type of helpful hint is usually something like, “Oh, are you in a hurry?” As you can see, Steve does not see value in efficiency.  And these are just the driving examples; I could give a million more on many topics if asked.

   Oh, did I hear you ask?  Well, let me think, OK, got one.  On the weekends, he does not like to have to put forth any effort.  For anything.  It’s understandable, because he works himself to the bone all week long (at something he loves, I want to add, but nevertheless, he starts his day at about 5am and works until about 7pm.  No joke.)  So you can see why on the weekend, he wants to just relax and regain his energy.  This shows up in all sorts of little ways.  In fact, it shows that he, too, has a system or two of his own.  The first is, when dressing, he will grab whatever shirt happens to be closest to his hand.  Now with that little system, the winning shirt is not necessarily the neatest or most pristine or best looking.  Lucky for me, he does include “going to the movies” in the Relaxing category.  And often, as we’re about to leave the house and I glance up and get a glimpse of his outfit, if you will, there results another wise, always helpful observation from me.  “That shirt is kind of wrinkled.”  Steve:  “Oh, it’ll be fine.”  Me:  “Well, I don’t think it will.  It looks like it’s been crumpled up in a ball.”  When I play the “crumpled in a ball” card, he’s almost always willing to go find another shirt.  He’s very easygoing and cooperative.   Another time, that glance will prompt, “You know, corduroys—especially those heavy-duty wide-wale corduroys--are kind of a cold weather thing; it’s 110 out today.”  Steve:  “I’m fine.  I feel great.  I’m not hot.”   At this point, I become the cooperative one and let it go.  But I do then manage somehow to make it look like I’m not with him as we wait in line at the movies and even while he pays for our tickets.  It’s a trick I’ve cultivated over the many years of our relationship.  (This skill was honed in the early days when Steve would wear his huge, old gym shoes with his dress pants.  And not as a fashion statement; just because they were the "best walking shoes.")

  OK, but back to systems!  Other quick, easy to do systems that make me happy:  storing smaller suitcases inside bigger ones so they only take up as much room as the biggest one (the only flaw in this system is when you have to lift that suitcase filled with all those other, smaller ones…  This is yet another instance where Steve, or possibly your own husband, comes in handy); not bringing my purse or wallet or anything extraneous to the gym so I don’t need to waste time getting a locker or worrying whether my stuff will get stolen; keeping an extra driver’s license in my glove compartment in case I get pulled over on the way to the gym and get cited for not having any identification (in hindsight, maybe you should ignore the previous system); keeping each set of sheets and one of its pillowcases folded, then placed inside the other pillowcase, so all the pieces don’t get lost in the linen closet; keeping two laundry baskets next to the washing machine—one for colors, one for whites, so I save myself that very annoying step when I do the wash; unloading the grocery basket so that all the heavy stuff goes on the conveyer belt first, so that light things aren’t crushed by, say, the gallon of milk or giant bag of dog food barreling down to the end (the flaw here—can you see it coming?—is that the bagger, who obviously has not yet earned his Ph.D. in this particular skill, just bags them as they come, resulting in some bags being ve-e-ery heavy, and others light as can be.  Major flaw, actually.  And that always seems to happen when no one (Steve) is home to help me carry the bags in.  Note to self:  you may want to re-think this system.)

  I’ve got a million of ‘em.  These are just a few.  I may tell you more later.  And I'll be certain to tell you more about Steve's quirks, er, "systems."

Pop Quiz!

     Okay, which is better?  The New York Hampton Inn or the Santa Barbara Four Seasons?  Think you know, right? Wrong!!  Read on....

Best Western Carmel Bay View Inn

      I love to travel.  Especially the part about staying in a hotel.  It doesn’t have to be a fancy hotel--although I do love them for sure.  But one of our best trips over the last few years was to Carmel, where we stayed at a Best Western that was, well, the best.  Amazing views looking out over the treetops to the ocean, fireplace, neat deck, cute lobby, continental breakfast.  Now, the room wasn’t fancy, and the only chair in the room was the desk chair, and the bathroom window--which looked right out on the walkway and the parking lot--had no curtain. 

Cute Lobby, huh?

So it wasn’t perfect.  But it was fabulous!  We just covered the bathroom window with a pillow (they very conveniently had extras on the bed), and we used the bed as the easy chair.  And it didn’t cost a fortune--and them is words rarely spoken in Carmel.  It was so great that I’ve recommended it to many people.  (In fact, my dentist and his wife took our advice and had a great time there, too.)  We fully plan to stay there again next time.  (If the word hasn’t gotten out and now it costs a bunch, that is.)

See the Fireplace in the Corner?

     So I’m not a hotel snob.  I say there’s something magical about checking in and then waiting as the door to the room opens to reveal where we’ll be living for the next day or weekend or week.  Holiday Inn?  Courtyard by Marriott?  The Ritz-Carlton?  I love them all.  Some more than others, of course (hello, Ritz-Carlton), but I love them all, nonetheless.  Must be something left over from childhood. 

     I’m remembering our fab Carmel trip because Steve and I have taken a number of trips in the last few months and once again, just like in Carmel, our hotels surprised us.  Some were good surprises!  And some not so good.  You just never can tell.  

W/Graham and Kathleen

W/Steve's Childhood Friend Rett, and Rehana

     In early January we went to New York for a business trip, and we made a long weekend out of it and met friends for dinner a few times and wandered the streets of SoHo.  We both love NYC, even spent half of our honeymoon there.  And we mostly have stayed (at my request) near all the touristy, upscale stuff.  Park Avenue (we stayed at the Waldorf once!), the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Central Park (the Essex House for half of our honeymoon).  And had a blast walking to Rockefeller Center, Tiffany’s, Bloomingdales, the Plaza Hotel, and the museum.  Very neat! 

     But this time, we stayed in SoHo.  I couldn’t even tell you where SoHo is on a map of NYC, but I can tell you it’s neat!  Lots of shops and galleries and pubs and restaurants.  And people, of course.  (We had lunch in a neat pub called the Broome Street Bar and while we were eating, in walked Tyne Daly and some elderly, but classy, gal pals.  Fun!)  We stayed at the Hampton Inn.   And let me tell you, if you ever want a fabulous place to stay in NYC, I don’t recommend the Waldorf: charming rooms, just ok service.  Or the Essex House: great location, cozy and elegant restaurant for breakfast, but mostly a business hotel, I thought.  Or the Cooper Square: tiny tiny rooms with breathtaking views, but so dark in the hallway and elevator you need a flashlight--we're not cool enough for that place, I guess.  And not the Stanhope: right across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but oops, it’s not there anymore.  Nope.  I recommend the Hampton Inn in SoHo.  It's better than all of them.
  

     From the moment we got there, we were treated so well, thanks to Amanda, Klein, and Ginnia, the front desk staff.  They are the go to people for everything there.  And they were friendly, nice and always offering to help us—help us find a restaurant, help us figure out why the vending machine didn’t seem to have Diet Coke (it did, it just looked like it was regular Coke), help us decide how to get to a theatre, or whether we should cab it or walk to our destination.  Whatever we needed help with, they were there.  And they were so nice.  Nice!  My favorite feature, I think.  Well, that or maybe the chocolate chip cookies always on the front desk.  So how great is all that?  I mean, I think I’ve always had good experiences at Hampton Inns, but this was something else!

View from the Deck

     And then, there was the room.  Holy smokes.  They gave us a corner room on the top floor (19).  If you’ve ever stayed in NYC, you probably know it’s famous for rooms that barely fit the bed.  Not this one.  A nice seating area, comfy chairs (two!), a lovely bathroom, a huge shower with so many spigots and shower heads it was terrifying, and a deck.  A deck that overlooked not only the streets and tops of buildings of New York, but also the Hudson River.  Yes, from our 19th floor deck at the Hampton Inn, we looked out on the Hudson River.  The room also had an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows.

      But it gets cooler. Because a good part of that wall of glass was in the shower.  The shower was in the corner of the room, and not just one, but two walls of that shower were floor to ceiling windows.  Not opaque glass, not glass blocks, not rain glass.  Clear windows.  Overlooking NYC and the Hudson River!  I add with relief that there was also a curtain rod running all along those walls that were windows so that one could pull the curtain across for privacy from the outside world while showering.  (Although I have to say that the people in the really tall building across the way could probably see in over the curtain anyway.  And they probably got over that thrill long ago.  That’s what I told myself, anyway, each time I approached my shower.)  Actually, the other two walls of that shower were also clear glass, but those looked into the room.  Weird, right?  So you

Shower with a View!

kind of had to really know your roommate well if you were going to take a shower, because there warn’t no shower curtain between the room and the shower wall for privacy.  Or maybe you could just ask them to avert their eyes while you were cleaning yourself.  Very New York, I have to assume.   And very neat, I have to admit.

     Between the fabulous room (or shower, at least) and the fabulous service, that hotel ranked right up there with the Carmel Best Western.  And next time we go to NY—and we will—we’ll stay there again for sure.

      Too bad the same can’t be said for the very fancy place we stayed for our trip to Santa Barbara in November.  Steve and I went there for almost a week to celebrate our 10th Anniversary.  (Which means we’ve actually been together 19 years, but still, the wedding date is the one to celebrate, don’t you think?)

Nude Beach!?

     We've had Santa Barbara right up there toward the top of our Places We Want to Go list for a while.  So it seemed like the perfect place to go for our anniversary.  Gorgeous, lush, relaxing, filled with long drives, walks on the beach, and reading involved.  But we (I, that is, being our resident travel arranger/concierge) decided not to test the Santa Barbara Hampton Inn or Best Western this time around, and went for the splurge. La di da, we went to the Five Diamond Santa Barbara Four Seasons Biltmore.  How could we go wrong?      

Four Seasons Santa Barbara

     Believe it or not, we did!  Because I can only assume that either the Best Western or the Hampton Inn would have been just as good, if not better.  And a whole heck of a lot cheaper, of that I am sure.  Not a slum certainly (it was unbelievably lovely and pretty and lush), but with the service of the DMV, might be a good way to put it.  (We did see Dr. Drew there at breakfast one morning, though, so our trip was not a total loss.  And if you don’t know who he is—well it’s a good thing you weren’t there instead of us, or you’d have virtually no takeaways from your trip!)

     In all fairness, there were some really great parts about the place.

Outside our Room

       The resort itself was just beautiful, and our room was lovely with French Doors out to a patio, and a really beautiful bathroom with this gorgeous aqua Mexican tile.  We heard the sound of a train going by regularly, which Steve and I both loved.  Room service was great, and the spa (a birthday treat from my mom), was kind of spectacular.  And everyone knew it was our anniversary and wished us a happy anniversary.  How nice is that?  And we had an amazing anniversary dinner sitting outside at the Tydes Restaurant, overlooking beach and bay as the sun went down.  Pretty good stuff huh?

But the rest of our stay?  Not so stellar.  I mean, we weren't treated badly, and no one was rude, and nothing awful happened.  But when we stay at a 5-Diamond property (which is not often!), boy, we at least expect the staff to be friendly and courteous and maybe even (maybe it's too much?) interested in helping.  WE WANT TO BE TAKEN CARE OF, gosh darn it.  But apparently they don't do that there.  Instead, we got a staff with a general attitude of chilly--but polite--indifference. Can that be??

Yes!  I'll tell you how.

     First the concierge.  She was, in a word, bored.  By us?  By her job?  By her life?  Hard to say.  (but please please please say it wasn't us)  Our first experience, once inside the hotel, was to mistakenly go to the concierge desk to check in (in our defense, let me say it looked exactly like the Front Desk.  And there was no sign!)  Anyway, in response to our apparently horribly annoying gaffe, the concierge dismissed us with, “Check-in is on the other side of the lobby,” gave a vague wave of her hand, and then turned away.  Gee, no "Welcome to the Four Seasons, you wonderful people, we've been waiting for you all day!"?  (Well, maybe that expectation is a bit over the top.)  We tried to warm her up a number of times during our stay, but she remained aloof.  Us: "We're here for our 10th anniversary.  Can you recommend a nice place for dinner?" Concierge:  "The blah blah blah Restaurant.   Go here, turn there, it's on your left.   Who's next?"   The next day:  Us:  "Can you recommend a nice drive?"  C:  "Go here, turn there, and drive.  Next?"  After a few tries, we got kind of scared of her and left her alone to her phone calls.  (That's beat only by a concierge we once tried to talk to at the Sun Valley Resort in Idaho.  Tried in vain.  Because (we were proudly informed by her manager) this was only her second day in the United States!  And we could sure tell, because she could hardly speak English.  I mean, like until two days ago she'd never spoken any English.  A concierge who doesn't yet have a grasp of the language.  Huh.  We laughed about it afterward, but at the time all we wanted to do was to get to the damn restaurant.  Which she was totally unequipped to help us do.)  But back to the Four Seasons.

    Registration: The ladies at the front desk were not as indifferent or chilly as the concierge, we were thrilled to discover.  And they even welcomed us.  Phew!  But I have to admit, when one of them said, "Wow, you're here for six days??" I felt sort of intimidated.  Isn't that okay?  Is that too long?  Has no one ever stayed that long before?  (Although in hindsight, her puzzlement makes more sense.)  Anyway, these gals seemed young and just sort of unprofessional.  Why do I say that?  Well, here's a little Front Desk scenario:  The following day I had a question.  I walked up to the front desk, where one of the front desk ladies was standing, putting a Band-Aid on her finger.  Me:  "Did you hurt yourself?"  Her:  "No, but I keep picking at my finger, so I’m putting a band-aid on it so I’ll stop.” Five diamonds, indeed.

      Bellman:  The bellman who took us to our room was fine.  He took our bags just fine.  He found the room just fine (not an easy task at that place, I admit).  He just didn't know much about the room, didn't give us the little room tour, and he also had a hard time with English. (What is with these hotels and staff who can't communicate?  I just don't get it.  I mean, he's not a behind the scenes guy; he's in a job whose main function involves communication.  Right?  Is it just me???) Anyway, we didn't get our little explanation of the lights, the mini-bar, how to get ice, how to call room service.  And not even a mention of the fireplace, let alone how to use it.   (See, I WANT TO BE PAMPERED!)

And so it went.  There's more, but I'm sure you get the picture.  So all in all, the stay was kind of fine.  Which was a bummer. Because we went to the Four Seasons based on their stellar reputation.  We were even willing to pay a ridiculous amount of money (I'll pretend I'm not saying just how much because I am a gal of discretion, but really it's too humiliating to admit at this point).  We were willing to pay because it was a special occasion, and we wanted to be pampered and treated well by nice, friendly people in gorgeous surroundings.  WE WANTED TO BE PAMPERED.  Didn't happen.  (Except for Manny from Room Service, for whom we are so grateful!)

Now, we're nice people.  We don't find people not liking us as we get around in life.  And so we weren't looking for trouble.  WE WANTED TO BE PAMPERED!  (Did you get that yet?)  Isn't that why they give out the little stars and diamonds?  I'm pretty sure it is.  And I speak from experience, I'll have you know.  I was a concierge at The Phoenician in Phoenix (which was a Five-Star property when I was there.  Shortly after I left they "lost a star," as they say.  The two things are probably unrelated, but I like to think it's no coincidence, baby.)  Anyway, my point is that I understand the standard that's expected.  I liked giving that level of service, and I think my clients could probably tell.  (Well, except maybe for the nasty, scary ones, and hey, I was pretty good at faking it with them, so even they felt good about it all.)  And I like to get it when I make a point to stay and pay money at a place that's suggested, by its ratings and its name and its rates (oh yes, especially those rates), that it will provide all that good stuff.

Ahhhh, This Is the Life!

We were so unimpressed by our Four Seasons experience that we checked out early.  We weren't mad, just disappointed and maybe just a little resentful.  (Well, Steve wasn't resentful--he is always in bliss and calm--but I, semi-unenlightened gal that I am, was a teensy bit resentful.)  We decided we'd have more fun spending the rest of our anniversary vacation at home.  So we went home, sprung the dog from his pet resort early, and pampered ourselves, instead. A lovely anniversary, after all.

      And I did write them a lovely, long, letter (friendly and polite and not chilly, I swear) about our whole experience.  So far?  No response.  Should I be surprised?  Hmmm.

So, what's the lesson here?  Heck, I have no idea, I'm not a teacher, or even a parent.  But what I do know is that if you're going to NYC, stay at the Hampton Inn SoHo, and if you're going to Santa Barbara?  Well, you're on your own.

      Just my humble, but always correct, opinion.

      Now, our next trip is to Napa.  Anybody know a good inn?