Bill once knew a man married to a woman who believed she loved all mankind.  She always supported far left candidates politically,  voted the Democratic ticket, espoused extremely liberal causes with letters to various editors, and also appeared to be color-blind, gender-blind and blind to ethnic and religious differences. At Christmas time, likely with a warm glow of good feeling in her heart, she wrote out small checks (representing money her husband had earned) to fifty or more charitable organizations of all kinds.

Yet everyone in their social circle disliked her. She was neither kind nor generous in situations where she couldn’t play Lady Bountiful. A colleague with whom she had worked closely and productively asked her to write a letter of recommendation supporting his application for another, better job. She didn’t say she would prefer not to.  She agreed to do it and then proceeded to send a letter trashing his job performance and inter-personal relationships at work. He found out only when he inquired why he had not gotten the job.  Her husband invited to dinner a colleague of his own, of whom he was fond; she instructed him at the end of the evening she did not want this man in her house again because he was a messy eater and left crumbs around his dining-room chair. Although he was a college professor, she didn’t like his Brooklyn diction either. Her brother, and only sibling, broke off relations with her thirty years ago after she hounded him, over and over, about the alleged psychological imperfections of one of his sons. (The boy grew up just fine in the end, without the interventions of his aunt.)  This woman, who her husband has now divorced, apparently continues to love all mankind in general, but ironically has difficulty cutting specific individuals any slack.


I recently met a journalist with strong views about what is wrong with the bottom-line driven, impersonal and inhuman first-world society we live in. At the time of our meeting, which was by appointment, he was particularly irate about the scripted use of expressions of human warmth in coldly commercial transactions, a context in which they are meaningless.  Examples: “Have a good day” from the checkout clerk when you leave the checkout line in a supermarket, even at nine o’clock at night.  “Welcome to Bank of America,” from a greeter whose job it is to welcome you to an institution interested only in your money and how much they can make from your patronage.  “Are you still working on that?” from the apparently solicitous waiter who really only wants to clear you out of the restaurant so as to turn over the table to another customer.

Wishing these patently insincere remarks removed from the context  of the marketplace, where they are neither expected nor wanted, the journalist had apparently also expunged them, and other gestures of courtesy, from the context of more personal discourse where expressions of human warmth might have been anticipated.  No “Hi, how are you?” No “Nice to meet you.” No offer to clear a chair, covered with his coat and hat, for me to sit down. No offer to shake hands (although he did briefly take mine, as if reminded, when I made the offer), or to  summon a waitress to take my order. (He had already drunk his coffee while waiting for me.) A meeting which might have been a pleasant exchange of ideas became stiff and uncomfortable as it went on in this vein — certainly for me, and I cannot imagine not also for him. Expressions counterproductive of good feeling when present in a commercial context had ironically become counterproductive of good feeling when they were absent from a personal context.


I’m probably not overstating the case to say many of us were glued to our television screens on November 13 and the days following. We were both stunned by what had happened in Paris and avid for every scrap of information concerning how what seemed unimaginable had come about and — far more difficult to untangle — why. But as the television reporters congregating there over the weekend and into the following week began to run out of fresh data from the police investigation both in France and Belgium, they fell back (as they always do) on the “human” angle, bringing us the testimony of eyewitnesses and survivors to perhaps revive flagging viewer interest with stories of blood and bodies and rounds of shooting helpless people on the floor.

Two of these survivors were a particularly attractive and articulate young couple, separated at the time of the terrorist attack on the Bataclan. He had gone to the bathroom behind the stage, so neither knew what was happening to the other.  They held hands as Anderson Cooper interviewed them on CNN.  She was blonde and spoke English softly but very well.  He was dark-haired and spoke mainly French, but Cooper repeated the gist of his account in English.  He had barricaded himself behind a door. She pretended to be dead, beneath the bloody body of a person who really was dead.  She said each time she heard the gun begin again, she thought the next round would be for her.  She also kept thinking, “I love you,” because she wanted to die with love in her heart. Cooper then asked them what they have taken away from this experience. She said she had learned on that night how important it was to live, to live every day, to appreciate every day, to love every day.

And there were Bill and I, immobilized on our sofa for much of the previous three or four days, watching this lovely young woman telling us to live, when ironically, we were not really living.  We were just gobbling up a news feed about horror as if it were a kind of entertainment. We were not particularly appreciating each of the days we may have left. (He is nearly 88 and I, as you know, am 84.) We were complaining that the news (read “entertainment”) wasn’t coming fast enough. We were also complaining about all the commercials — for each of which I have to press “mute” and then “unmute” — while the sun shone outside and our own lives were slipping away a day at a time.  We normally are not television watchers.  What were we doing on the sofa?

So we took her advice, turned off the set and got up.  We can find out what happens in the world in about ten minutes every morning from the Times. There will be  lessons for the West in what happened in Paris, but one of the lessons it offered us, Bill and me  — not a new lesson, by the way, but one which needs reinforcing every once in a while — is that watching screens on which other people talk about living life is not living life, even though (ironically) more and more of us think it is. That is even truer if we dolly back from the television screen to include other digital screens. The virtual is not the real. But that’s a topic for another day.


P.S.  [No irony here.]  Happy Thanksgiving to all!



Reading a Shakespeare play every week in a six-week seminar attended exclusively by “students” well over 55 where everyone but me seems to be an expert. I thought it would end about now, but it’s been such a success the professor agreed to extend it by one more week. So instead of being over last Monday, we’re ending next Monday. With The Tempest.  (There goes much of my weekend.)

Trying to learn the first movement of a Beethoven sonata. A very easy sonata. (No. 20) Not easy for me, though. I can’t play the rest of it as fast as I can do the rolling triplets in the left hand, and when I slow down the triplets to the speed at which I can sort of manage the rest of it, they don’t sound so good.

Adding an “easy” Chopin Prelude (No. 7) to the Beethoven. Chopin’s fingers must have been much longer than mine. I am extremely grateful to YouTube performers of this Prelude, from whom I discovered I could roll the one truly impossible chord and take the top two notes written for the right hand with the left hand by crossing it over. (A maneuver which also looks impressively graceful.) I’m also relearning how to pedal. I never realized one needed to script the pedaling. Well, maybe not everyone does. But I do, marking the score each time the foot comes up and goes down again because teaching an old dog new tricks isn’t easy without visual aids.

Tutoring English conversation again, with a fun post-graduate from Italy. She’s at Princeton collecting a living-expenses stipend to turn her dissertation (written in Milan in Italian) into a book for the general (English-speaking) reader. She’s attached to the Department of Politics; her topic is International Human Rights. At the beginning we talked only about human rights. (And a little fashion.) But then I took her grocery shopping in my car last week and we talked about tomatoes and whether it was better (and cheaper) to buy a package of twelve pieces of frozen Atlantic salmon that were going to be baked piecemeal or twelve pieces of fresh Atlantic salmon, freeze them, and defrost as needed. We also pinched avocados together. She’s a big texter and an old-style shopper – weighing everything and calculating prices minus or plus an apple. So I’m learning almost as much from her as she is from me.

Clothes-shopping for a few nice new things to replace the many not-so-nice, not-so-new things that moths had a picnic with last year when I wasn’t looking and spraying and mothballing because I was thinking about what to write for you. Gone: too-tight narrow skirt, old grey wool out-of-style pants, very old Calvin Klein pant suit that was always too good to wear and thus never got worn much; unloved black sweater set from Brooks Brothers; red cashmere turtleneck sweater. May it all R.I.P. Welcome: terrific “passionflower” merino jersey dress; bluish purple poncho-ish sweater (hides all signs of overeating); new charcoal sweater set with kimono-style long cardigan that looks like an elegant short coat without buttons.

Collecting notes, as class correspondent, for the twice-a-year magazine of the college I attended, and discovering two more classmates, plus a third classmate’s husband, have died since the last issue. This is now getting scary. Of the seven of us who took an off-campus house in our last year (which was 1951-52), leaving three places for foreign students, five are gone, and eight years ago, when last I spoke with her, the sixth was badly crippled with arthritis. I have no way of reconnecting with the foreign students, but as they were our age, it might be just as much a downer if I could.

Also reading two crappy novels for book groups I still belong to because I like the women in them; having personal struggles with the leftover Halloween candy until I bit the bullet and threw it out; making a pot roast that took too many days to finish eating; fearing annual cardiologist and pulmonologist visits because of the increasing risk of bad news each year; watching many economists give talks on YouTube in which they explain what’s wrong with the world and which particular basket it’s going to hell in – because it makes Bill happy to hear these deeply learned experts agree with him.

And wondering what I should do with TGOB going forward (besides getting older while writing it).   I feel it needs a plan, or a mission statement, or something more unifying than just what bubbles out of my head. No answer to that one yet, but at least now you’re all caught up.

And what have you all been doing?



[Nothing new in that. A cliche, actually. But nonetheless true.]

The parking pass machines at the Princeton Municipal Parking Garage are being replaced.  Parking passes are sold at the two entries, for either $20, $40 or $60; the incentive to invest in the larger amounts is that when you do, you get an extra $4 or more added to the card, over and above what you purchased. The incentive to keep a pass in your car at all (rather than take a ticket each time you enter) is the ease of getting out of the garage when you leave; you slide your card in a machine at either of the two exits, the cost of your parking is subtracted from the amount left on the card, the gate lifts, and out you go. You don’t even notice what you’re paying, especially if you can afford to load the card with $60 at a time (plus the additional dollar incentive); the amount left after each exit drops so slowly it seems quite a while before you have to reload the card.

Now for six weeks, while the replacement of the machines takes place, pass holders like me have to take a ticket when they enter anyway, and later pay in cash or by credit card at another machine near the entrance before getting back into their cars to exit.  For this reason the other day I found myself in a line at the machine where you pay the ticket before exiting. The line was short but the waiting time long.  The woman ahead of me was having difficulty figuring out which slot was which.  She complained loudly that the machine wasn’t giving her any change.  Then she shrugged and began to walk away, as if that’s what you might expect these days, when it seems every corporation and institution and merchant one deals with is trying to squeeze a bit more profit out of each transaction in which you engage with them.  In this instance she was wrong. Not giving change without prior notice would have been blatant fraud, and the subject of all kinds of indignant letters to the editors of Town Topics. Just as she was about the enter the elevator with her paid ticket, the machine made gurgling sounds and vomited out a handful of change.

I was next.  I used a credit card and the machine reported digitally that I had paid $6.50 for my three hours in the garage.  The woman behind me noticed.  “It’s gotten so expensive,” she complained. “It shouldn’t be so expensive.  It’s a town garage.”

“Of course, it’s expensive,” I said.  “What do you expect? We’re in Princeton.”  Then I rashly continued this line of discourse, channeling the economic observations of Richard D. Wolff. (You can find him on YouTube if you’re interested; he’s very funny while being dead serious. In my view, he’s also 95% right.)  “And why do you think your Princeton real estate taxes are so high?  Double what they are one county north of us!”

She was holding a box that from the look of it may have contained a small pizza.  She clutched it more tightly, as if I were about to suggest something subversive.  She was right.  I was.  But since she said nothing, I went on.

“It’s because of the university,” I said.  “Rich and famous Princeton University, a private educational institution that holds title to about a quarter of the real estate in the township and also owns millions and millions of invested dollars generating  more millions every year in unearned income — yet pays no real estate taxes at all, much less any state or federal tax on what its investments produce.  Who do you think is paying to run the town?” I went on. “Who is paying to send firemen to put out fires on campus and to deploy policemen for redirecting traffic while the university builds and builds? You are!  If Princeton University paid real estate taxes, our personal real estate taxes would drop way down, and yes  — the cost of tickets to park in this municipal garage would too.  If you think about it a slightly different way,” I concluded, “at least half the cost of your parking ticket is going into Princeton University’s pocket.

“But, but…” she sputtered as I turned towards the elevator.  “If there were no university, there wouldn’t be a need for the garage. And then where would we be?”

She hadn’t gotten it.  “Who said there wouldn’t be a university?” I exclaimed.  “Of course there would be.  It would just be paying its fair share like the rest of us, instead of getting richer and richer year after year. So it would grow a little more slowly. So what? Many of the rest of us wouldn’t be tsk-tsking in the garage, and pinching pennies to go on living in Princeton.

I didn’t know that woman.  I shall never see her again.  And I shouldn’t have said it. Imposing real estate taxes on private universities, colleges and posh secondary schools is not going to happen, at least in my lifetime, and what’s the point of talking about things that aren’t going to happen?  But as I rode up to the third floor where my eleven-year-old two-door Honda Civic was parked, I felt like a heroine. Perhaps the woman with the small pizza will remember what I said — if not the next time she parks, then the next time she gets hit with an installment of her annual real estate tax.  Great oaks from little acorns grow. Another cliche that’s true.




The New York Times for October 11, 2015, pictured above, is  the last issue of theTimes I’ll be going down to the end of the driveway to collect on Saturday and Sunday mornings. With mixed feelings, I’ve canceled the subscription.

As far back as I can remember, there was a New York Times at home. My father carried it in from work six evenings a week, having bought it at the newsstand outside the subway station in the morning to read commuting in and out of the city.  It would remain in the house until the next one arrived the following day, after which my mother could use yesterday’s paper to wrap up coffee grounds, orange rinds and other organic garbage before taking them to the incinerator. On Sunday mornings, my father got his constitutional by going out to pick up poppy-seed rolls from the bakery and stopping at the newsstand on his return to get a copy of the Times, on that day a heavy and unwieldy multi-section affair.

By contrast, my mother favored an afternoon newspaper, which she bought when she went out to do her daily shopping — first the New York Telegram, and after it merged with the New York World, the New York World-Telegram.  As a young girl, I preferred my mother’s choice; it had bigger type, more photos and fewer boring news stories about government and politics; instead it featured murders and other local tragedies, a horoscope column, advice to the lovelorn, a column of Hollywood gossip by either Hedda Hopper or Louella Parsons (I forget which), an easy crossword puzzle (with the answers appearing the next day) and a page of “funnies” (comic strips).  The Times —  despite its considerably harder crossword — was, in a word, dull. However, I did always piously acknowledge it was where one went for “the real news” (as my father put it).  It was also where you looked for an apartment, a used car, or a job if you were old enough to work and didn’t have one; the Classified Section in the Sunday Times was massive.

Those were the days when newspapers were one of the two major sources of news; there was no television, internet, smart phone.  (The other  news source was radio, but only at certain specified hours in the morning and evening, unless an announcer interrupted a regularly scheduled program with “a special news bulletin.”)  Most cities had at least two newspapers. New York had seven when I was growing up (before the Telegram and World merger).  Besides the Times, the other full-size morning paper was the Herald-Tribune, which my parents dismissed as “too Republican,” whether with justice or not I have no idea. Since they equated “Republican” with “anti-Semitic,” the Tribune never entered our house. These two, plus the Telegram and the World in the afternoon, were all large newspapers, difficult to read unless on a table or with your arms spread wide apart to turn the pages.  You had to learn how to fold these papers to be able to manage them neatly on a train or a bus.

The other two morning papers, the New York Daily News and the New York Mirror, both called “tabloids,” were much smaller in size; you didn’t need to fold them before reading. I understand they were good on sports, but otherwise seemed pretty cheesy; needless to say, my immigrant but educated parents, who didn’t know from sports, scorned them as papers for “riffraff.” There was also the tabloid-size Post  in the afternoon; in my girlhood, it earned theoretical parental approval as “liberal.” But as it was always getting excited about some new scandal in very big headlines, which my parents probably thought uncultured (nyi kulturnyi), it never dislodged my mother’s loyalty to the Telegram or, later, the World-Telegram.

You can safely bet the Sarah Lawrence College library had a couple of copies of  the current issue of The New York Times up near the front desk during all the four years I was there. Then I went to California with my parents and did not read theTimes for five years.  Not that I had really read it before, but it had been there, if I’d wanted to. The Los Angeles Times, which entered the parental home soon after we reached the West Coastwas equally bulky in weight, thanks to much advertising, while at that period of time being considerably lighter in intellectual content.

Back in New York again with first husband — a tight man with a nickel, not to mention a dollar — we were paperless for a while, except for when he pinched part of the Times (or anything else he could find) from street wastebaskets while he was out and about. That wasn’t often, as shortly after we arrived he decided not to accept paid work he deemed beneath him and was devoting himself instead to writing great books. (No, you have never heard of him.)  I myself became gainfully employed as quickly as possible, because one of us had to, and soon thereafter began bringing home my boss’s copy of the Times, with her permission, when she’d finished with it.  I was still pretty much ignoring the front pages, but made careful study of the Times “Help Wanted” Classifieds (in search of a better job) and slightly later of the Times “Apartments for Rent” Classifieds when planning escape from the marriage.

Once legally separated from first husband and ensconced in a studio apartment on the other side of Manhattan, I assumed my own purchase of the Times.  If like me, one were looking for an appealing second husband and father of one’s as yet unconceived children — that is, a not unsightly possessor of sperm and a decently remunerated profession — it was important to be well informed on subjects of interest to upwardly mobile men.  I therefore had to learn at last how to read the Times, including the front page news, on the bus. You open it up completely and fold it vertically down the middle. Then you fold back half a page at a time for reading, as needed. You can bend your half a page horizontally if required. You are thus looking neatly and compactly at a quarter-page at a time and don’t have to hold open a full paper to turn a page, to the detriment of the  faces or laps of those sitting next to you.

The only problem with reading the Times, or any kind of newspaper, in public was related to the white gloves — think Grace Kelly — mandatory for the professional young woman aspiring to upward mobility herself; it was impossible to touch newsprint and also appear at the office with pristine white gloves. The solution? Keep the gloves wrapped in Kleenex inside your purse until outside your office building, at which time you tuck your folded Times under your arm, fish out your unblemished white gloves, put them on, and enter your place of work absolutely comme il faut.

Another observation about theTimes in what we might call my second-husband-hunting days: I spent two summers worth of weekends during this era of my life hunting on the right-hand side of the East Hampton Main Beach. As far as I could then tell, the apparent principal occupation of appealing professional single men in their thirties sitting on towels becoming tan while waiting for an attractive woman to show up — was timing themselves when doing the Sunday Crossword in the Times. The Times Sunday Crossword was otherwise known to most of the rest of us New Yorkers as a real bitch. Some people worked away at it all week, till the answers showed up the following Sunday.  But those young lawyers and doctors and bankers on East Hampton Main Beach: a couple of them could fill in 98% of it in slightly less than an hour!  It’s not clear to me that this skill correlated positively with qualities one might appreciate in a second husband, as I didn’t get to marry one of them and find out for myself, but I was certainly impressed. That’s the Times for you.

In the marriage to the second husband I did get, I continued to read the Times. There was never any question about it.  While we still lived in the city, one or the other of us went out to buy it at the corner.  When we moved to Massachusetts, we had to order it and have it delivered, together with The Boston Globe.  The Globe was for what was happening where we lived. The Times was for what was happening in the world.  (Also for what was happening in what both of us probably still thought of as the center of the universe. But I won’t go there. Not this time.)  I kept on with this bulky habit when we parted after the children went away to college. What was home without the Times? By then, I was a lawyer, and the Times was also the paper of record. But the Globe, which began to improve the longer I lived in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, was the paper of the Commonwealth, where (and only where) I was licensed to practice.  So how could I choose?  Let me tell you those were heavy trips to the recycling bins in the basement with a weeks’ worth of both papers.

And then came the internet.  Once I had met Bill and five years  later retired, we transferred ourselves to Princeton. Where of course we kept the Times delivery going. What good was a Trenton or Philadelphia paper to transplanted (via Boston) New Yorkers like us?  But what do you know? A few years after that the Times went online!  At first it was free, and a sort of novelty.  But several years later, just when I was getting used to reading most of my news on the desktop, it wasn’t free anymore. You had to subscribe to the paper printed on paper to be able to read more than ten articles on the web.  Except we were already subscribing to the paper paper.  Even if I cut the paper delivery down to weekends, the online Times was still free. So that’s what we did. Every weekend, we had a Saturday and Sunday delivery at the end of the driveway; every day we had the Times on the computer.  And then on the two iPads, with cute little apps to make it even easier. And finally, when I at last succumbed to a smart phone  — iPhone naturally, not to have to deal with too many Clouds — the Times app came with it.

Now I could read the Times everywhere, anywhere, wherever I was.  Well, it wasn’t exactly the Times as I’d known it all my life. It wasn’t the post-Sunday-morning-coitus Times. It wasn’t the after-Sunday-morning-breakfast Times, spread out everywhere, with sections traded back and forth between members of the family. It didn’t carry with it all the associations — childhood, marriages,  East Hampton bachelors — that the look of its type and neat front page always brings up for me, like Proust’s madeleine dipped in tea.

But for the past two years, Bill or I have been trundling two heavy weekend copies of the Times in its paper incarnation back out to the curb in the yellow recycling bins Princeton requires for its bi-monthly recycling program — and they haven’t even been opened!  That’s right: we were now keeping the paper on the coffee table in the family room near the kitchen just for visual effect.  Even the cats have lost interest in lying on it or chewing up bits of it.  So I made a phone call.  It seems we were paying $93 and change every three months for the privilege of bringing the paper paper in from the driveway every Saturday and Sunday and dragging it back out to the curb twice a month. But if we dropped the paper paper, access to the paper through the web and the app on the iPhone would cost less than half that:  only $15 a month, or $45 every three months.

I suspect the Times doesn’t really care if we never turn another page of its newsprint again.  I suspect the Times is pricing its digital subscriptions so favorably because selling advertising on its web edition is more lucrative than selling advertising in its paper edition. The Times keeps interrupting my online reading to proclaim that it’s got one million digital subscribers already.  I doubt very much if as many as a million present and past New Yorkers, libraries, universities and the like bought the paper newspaper, even in its heyday.  What am I saying?  This is the Times’s heyday. It’s making more money than ever, and you have to click “x” (if you can find it) to make its online ads go away.

You know the end of this story.  We caved to “progress.”  Also to the fact that we’re getting quite old, and the recycling bins seem to be getting heavier, and money keeps going out without coming in (except for those “entitlements” the Republicans want to shrink or remove), and we weren’t reading the damn paper paper anyway. Still, it’s hard to think there’s one more thing gone that used to be so much a part of life as I knew it.  At least I took its picture before throwing the October 11, 2015 front section away.  I told myself I was photographing it for you. Who was I kidding?  It was really for me.



…I couldn’t resist.  I thought it was funny.  “It” was tacked on the wall of an examination room at Princeton Healthcare, where I was waiting with Bill to meet a new doctor.  His old doctor in this particular speciality had retired, without much notice (and without being that old), and I had shoehorned myself into the initial meeting between Bill and new doctor to hear for myself what new guy had to say, so I could nag Bill properly between visits.

“It” (the thing I thought was funny) was a list of answers second-graders had given to questions about their moms, as published in some town newspaper unknown to me.  Immediately, I thought “Blog!”  (It was the sort of thing many blog readers, although not necessarily mine, seem to “like.”) Unfortunately, I saw no way of discreetly ripping it off the wall, so I had to wait till I got home to try to find it on the web.  And I did!

These are the first five reasons I can think of for why I shouldn’t be using what I found to reopen TGOB after having been absent for a while. (If I’d pondered longer, I’m sure I could have come up with more.)

(1) The website on which I found it was a Tea Party site.  (Boo, hiss.)

(2) It has absolutely nothing to do with getting old.

(3) I haven’t been a mother of a second-grader for thirty-nine years, and as best I can recollect, neither of mine would have given any of these answers.

(4) I don’t normally include God in my blog posts, as I really have no idea what that word means (I tend to think of it as metaphor), and am not at all sure what it means to other people either.

(5) It is beneath me, and perhaps also insulting to my readership, to pander to what I imagine is popular taste when I know everyone who has chosen to spend some time with TGOB is both highly intelligent and discriminating.

But I am a weak woman, riddled with human frailty, so here it is anyway.  Enjoy it if you can.  If you can’t, cheer up: For next time, I have in mind a wry observation about the international economic situation.

P.S. Also do feel free to comment on any of the answers.  I myself am quite partial to the second answer to the question of why the child’s mom married the child’s dad.


Why God Made Moms

Answers given by 2nd grade school children to the following questions:

Why did God make mothers?

  1. She’s the only one who knows where the scotch tape is.
  2. Mostly to clean the house.
  3. To help us out of there when we were getting born.

How did God make mothers?

  1. He used dirt, just like for the rest of us.
  2. Magic plus super powers and a lot of stirring.
  3. God made my mom just the same like he made me. He just used bigger parts.

What ingredients are mothers made of?

  1. God makes mothers out of clouds and angel hair and everything nice in the world and one dab of mean.
  2. They had to get their start from men’s bones. Then they mostly use string, I think.

Why did God give you your mother and not some other mom?

  1. We’re related.
  2. God knew she likes me a lot more than other people’s moms like me.

What kind of a little girl was your mom?

  1. My mom has always been my mom and none of that other stuff.
  2. I don’t know because I wasn’t there, but my guess would be pretty bossy.
  3. They say she used to be nice.

What did mom need to know about dad before she married him?

  1. His last name.
  2. She had to know his background. Like is he a crook? Does he get drunk on beer?
  3. Does he make at least $800 a year? Did he say NO to drugs and YES to chores?

Why did your mom marry your dad?

  1. My dad makes the best spaghetti in the world. And my mom eats a lot.
  2. She got too old to do anything else with him.
  3. My grandma says that mom didn’t have her thinking cap on.

Who’s the boss at your house?

  1. Mom doesn’t want to be boss, but she has to because dad’s such a goof ball.
  2. You can tell by room inspection. She sees the stuff under the bed.
  3. I guess mom is, but only because she has a lot more to do than dad.

What’s the difference between moms and dads?

  1. Moms work at work and work at home and dads just go to work at work.
  2. Moms know how to talk to teachers without scaring them.
  3. Dads are taller and stronger, but moms have all the real power cause that’s who you got to ask if you want to sleep over at your friends.
  4. Moms have magic, they make you feel better without medicine.

What does your mom do in her spare time?

  1. Mothers don’t do spare time.
  2. To hear her tell it, she pays bills all day long.

What would it take to make your mom perfect?

  1. On the inside she’s already perfect. Outside, I think some kind of plastic surgery.

2.  Diet. You know, her hair. I’d diet, maybe blue.



That’s the message Christopher Robin put on the green door of the tree in which he lived (in The House at Pooh Corner) when he was not actually inside the tree.

It has been brought to my attention that I have not been present inside TGOB — which coincidentally has a green background on its home page — for quite some time; that some of my dear virtual friends and followers might be wondering (if not indeed worrying) where I was; and that I should put up a notice to the effect that I have gone fishing.

Unfortunately, I don’t fish.  (Except once, when I caught nothing.) But not to wonder, not to worry.  I seem to have overwhelmed myself with new undertakings and have always been unable to multi-task so as to fool everyone all of the time that I am on top of everything.  I am not on top of everything, and since posts don’t clamor to be written regularly in the same way assignments for regularly meeting classes and lessons and group meetings clamor to be properly prepared, guess what fell by the wayside?

However, if you just hold on a bit longer, I shall be “backson,” as six-year-old Christopher Robin would have put it, as soon as I can. And with more new stuff to read. In the meanwhile, if you’re really bored, you could go try to catch a horrible Heffalump with honey and report back on how that worked out. I’d love to hear.