DowntonDallas

The Super Bowl is so two days ago.  (Madonna, the 80′s called and they want their music back).  Madge pulled it off, but honestly–you’d rather watch the etrade baby.  But now that the Super Bowl is over, what are ya gonna watch?  Downton Abbey may not have enormous appeal for wing-eatin’, Bud-Lite guzzlin’ folk, but give it twenty minutes, and you may just get sucked in.  The show has garnered many emmys, as well as landed a huge young American following.  The brilliant writer, Sir Julian Fellowes, claims to have based the series on NYPD Blue.  At any rate, you haven’t been so hooked on a series since DALLAS.

You lived in London when DALLAS first debuted.

“Don’t ya love Dallas then?” Marcella–the middle-aged next sec over– whispered around the plastic partition.

“What?” you replied, Americanishly.

“DALLAS!” she hissed.  ”It’s all the rage here.  Don’t ya watch J.R. and all that lot then?

“J.R. who?” you asked, typing a letter using old carbon paper, while attempting to photocopy using a Thermofax machine, before your architect boss reappeared.  ”We don’t have a telly in our flat, Marcella,” you replied flatly.  Nor an iron, which she pointed out every day when you entered the office–in a sweet maternal way.

“You are missing out,” she singsonged, then sighed.  Once you moved back to the States, you got all entrenched in the Friday night soap.

One rainy day last summer, you hunkered down to watch the first season of DOWNTON with your husband and daughter.  While you all stared non-blinkingly at the screen   forgetting to breathe, much less eat–your son headed to the gym, ate barbecue, re-watched Bourne on his laptop and led a normal existence.  (Earlier, all you of had watched a Bourne marathon).

Last Christmas, after you presented them with the second season imported from the UK, you all grabbed your seats again for another mini-marathon.  Meanwhile, your son headed to Best Buy, Sports Authority, brought us Five Guys take-out and led some semblance of a normal life.  (Earlier, you had all watched The Office for seventeen hours straight).

Instead of sharky J.R. propping his boots up on brother Bobby’s desk and swilling bourbon and branch, you have the courageous Lord Grantham, who, dressed in finery, stands in various rooms of the 72 billion square foot manse, waiting for the next staff member to arrive breathlessly with yet another piece of unfortunate news.  Does the man possess any character flaw?  His lovely American wife, Cora, sits in various rooms worrying about their three spirited daughters.

Instead of dear Miss Ellie, you have the upper-crusty Dowager Countess played by Maggie Smith.  Instead of 80′s-cute Bobby, you have dashing Matthew.  Instead of sly, swillin’ Swellen, you have gorgeous, headstrong Lady Mary, who conducts the exact opposite of speed dating.  Instead of voluptuous Pam, you have sneaky Edith, who busts out of her homeliness.  Instead of Lucy, you have Sybil–a beautiful nurse with a rebellious streak.

Then below deck, there’s the staff of the manse:  the avuncular Carson gently thundering orders, star-crossed lovers Anna and Mr. Bates trying to steal moments alone, and sweet dotty Daisy.  Then there’s the evil Thomas and O’Brien cooking up schemes as they smirk, sulk and smoke (somehow managing to do all three at once) at the back door.

Yes, there are a couple of syrupy moments, but nothing that compares to Bobby waking up and declaring the entire Dallas series had been a bad dream.  Aside from suspenseful writing and immense popularity, there any similarities end, you suppose.  You would like to see the Dallas cast when they reunite this summer–what. a. hoot.

You hear tell that Shirley McLean has been asked to join the cast as Cora’s American mum.  Think Steel Magnolias’ Weezer, pitted against Professor McGonagall’s evil twin–on steroids.  You can’t wait for Sir Julian Fellowes to finish penning Season three.  How many plotlines can he balance on the tip of his pen?  Five of which you haven’t cared for, but that still leaves about sixty others.  When it finally ends, you can always go back and rent Gosford Park …

Image via Wikipedia

There has simply got to be a Pinterest for guys.  Hence, you propose the name, dudeboard.  Guys, next time you google, ‘where dem girls at,’ listen to this.  ’Dem girls’ are sitting sweetly at home or in Starbucks, pinning away.  After logging some 1,748,052 hours of seriously ‘researching’ the pinterest phenom, the results are thus: at about ten p.m., even party girls turn into pumpkins and come alive on this virtual bulletin board, pinning faster than a house a ‘fire.

One night, you tried to keep up.  Honey, you didn’t have a snowball’s chance.  You kept trying to fetch items they’d be interested in, and no sooner did you give them the world, than they done snatched up your goods and repinned you into oblivion.

Snatch. repin. repeat.  Lawd. have. mercy.

The madness began after your daughter mentioned it casually, over Thanksgiving.  “Oh, looks fun,” you said.  And then the night the holidays ended you waded in, slowly, and then fell in the deep end.

The stylist at your salon whispered, “Everyone’s in the back room looking at pinterest.”  You had indeed noticed a great deal of traffic in and out of the break room.  All quite innocent.  She said ‘they were studying how to furnish an apartment on a budget.’  You know good and well they were probably pinning lil Justin photos.

So guys, face it–if you can’t beat ‘em, just join ‘em.  At least churn up some faux enthusiasm if a female excitedly shows you a bulletin board or two.  Or fifteen.  Even if they display that their greatest hits are ‘channeling Chiquita Banana,’ or their favorite flats from Jimmy Choo.  This does not mean that you will suddenly into one of those Village People.

You can also go so far as to venture out and create your own dudeboard, which may, for example, showcase anything from a selection of barca-loungers, to bronco bustin,’ to small batch Bourbons to microbrews, to various bungy jumping venues, to your favorite burger chains–Five Guys, WhataBurger, In-N-Out Burger, and so forth.   And, just to throw something out there, you could actually create a visually intriguing bulletin board on perhaps the two most lame Sports Center announcers, or maybe the Longhorn vs. Outback saga–you name it.  The world is at your doorstep.  Perhaps different flavors of wings, if you will.  Or, think outside the box and craft a Tebowing board, featuring your favorite different photos.  Bless his lil heart.

So, in summation, dudes–yo–what other winter solsticesque hobbies you got going, that are free.  (You would not truly appreciate the appeal of Etsy).  And yes, you can go to Costco, purchase a full-array 55″ flat screen, call the cronies over for the game, and return it the next day.  But somebody’s gotta pony up for the chips and dip, Solo cups and Jager bombs for the ladies.  

Start 2012 in style–what say ye?

…whoo hoo…gotta go–it’s your move on Words With Friends…

Image via Wikipedia

Image by stevegarfield via Flickr

Wreath up, stockings down, set out old drippy candles that somewhat spread light around.  Tree sort of up, but listing wildly against one wall.  Boxes of lights and ornaments awaiteth, as well as rounds of signing, licking, addressing and stamping cards.

Image via Wikipedia

If you’re lookin’ for info about the Security and Exchanges commission, this article isn’t for you.

This Saturday, Georgia plays LSU in Hot-lanta for the SEC championship.  SEC means we’re talkin’ real, live football.  Football as religion, not sport.  Last weekend, there was the Iron Bowl.  Sound tough?  It is.  No wine and cheese crowd here; they get down.to.business.  And, as for tailgatin’– the Deeper South you go, the thicker the eyeliner, skimpier the sundresses, louder the voices and more likker in the hipflask.

Forget about game rules; we’re talkin’ pure pageantry here.  First, let’s talk about the ‘outfits.’  There’s a plethora of orange, red, purple, garnet, orange, white and black.  Why not wear aqua (pronounced ak-wa in these parts) uniforms for example?  You do love the mardi gras theme that LSU has goin’ on, but to complete the look, they need strands of beads thrown around their necks.

Mascots n’ such:  they got ‘em–from hawgs to dawgs.  There are also a whole lotta wild tigers and wildcats, then you got your gamecocks, a bluetick dog named Smoky, some creature that looks like a mad armadillo or wild boar, some fiesty bulldawgs, some fierce snappin’ gators…and then you got your red elephant.   There’s also a Commodore and a Colonel who looks like Colonel Sanders’ son.    You hear tell that the Colonel is being retired and replaced with a Star Wars’ figure named Admiral Akbar… (shouldn’t mascots be at least a little intimidating?)

OK–back to the game.  There’s all manner of neck and spine wrenching, collisions and bodily harm.   You pure-tee cringe as players are thrown up into outer space like stuffed dolls, or trampled by a stampede.  Bulls running in Pamplona must be easier to watch. 

“Is that allowed?” you gasp.

“Mom, it’s football,” your son sighs for the zillonth time, “What do you expect?”

Well, you have absolutely no idea; you grew up in deep basketball country.

Driver's License, 1972

Flashback, Summer 1972.  You and your cousin, age seventeen, are wearing tube tops, bell bottoms and flip-flops, with hair two feet straight down the back and parted in the middle and immense chandelier earrings you’d bought at the Gay Dolphin in Myrtle Beach.  With a swish of hair, you leap into the front seat of your canary yellow Camara and hot-foot it down Highway 17 like Super Fly.  You suck down cokes and crank up Eric Clapton.

Lo and behold, blue lights start flashing from behind, and you pull off on the sandy shoulder, cussing up a southern storm–using words such as dadgummit and dadburnit amongst choice others.

The trooper sidles up to you and asks for your license. It doesn’t help that y’all look like what they call, hippie freaks, which does not bode well with the trooper.  He is as cool as iced tea with his hat clamped around his forehead, and states that you were going 15 over the limit and that and you owe him $100. Cash.

You have no checkbook, no credit card, no cellphone.   You tell him that you have twenty-four dollars and thirty-two cents.  They didn’t cover this in Driver’s Ed.  Can’t they just bill you?   You and your cousin sit Indian-style on the hood, under live oaks draped with Spanish moss.  Bummer.  Man–you were gunning it to get home so you could meet that cute guy Kyle–winged hair,  jean jacket, Frye boots– at the Silver Dollar.

Then y’all get scared.  What’s that movie where hippies travel through Mississippi and never come back out?  Does it count that y’all are really just FAUX SOUTHERN HIPPIES and just dress like the real ones?  After a couple of hours, he gets out of his squad car, takes your cash, and peels off.  No points ever appeared.

Fast forward, 2011.  Age double-nickles, you climb into your old tan SUV to drive home from the beach.  J. Crew top, black jeans, hair  foot long and parted on the side, small chandelier earrings, flip-flops.  As you try to find the beach music station, you pass a parked patrolman.

No. frickin. way.  You’re not real speedy by nature, but this is the only state where you’ve ever been caught going over the limit.

You remember a sweet, nerdy lawyer friend, who’d just left her firm to drive back to her apartment one night.  Soon there was a flashing rack behind her on the highway; she got all nervous and searched for a well-lit spot.  She hesitated for so long that the patrolman in pursuit called for reinforcements, and by the time gentle Julia exited, she was surrounded by 3 squad cars in a Chic-fil-a parking lot, as she quaked in her perm and dark suit–complete with a bow tie blouse, supp-hose and sturdy pumps.

The gas station is chock-full of folks staring at you as you pull in, softly cussing up a southern storm–dadgummit, etc.   Face burning, you scrunch down in your seat like you are seventeen again. Even your children have never gotten tickets.  What are the rules now?  Will he search your car?  What’s in your car?  A humble chicken salad sandwich in tin-foil.  Duffel bag, stale snacks and bottled water, some shirts to take to the cleaners.  Quickly you try to look as Mom-ish and boring as possible.  You gather your hair up into a pony tail, fluff up your neck pillow, take off your aviators, and apply reading glasses.  You re-position your Diet Green Tea and packet of Nabs, and then pull out your license and registration.

He takes your cards and disappears.  With horror you realize your back window sports big fat decals of  South Carolina’s two major football rivals.  Hmmm.  Too late to rip those babies off.  To add insult to injury, your state license plate is their third biggest enemy.

He crunches back over and hands you a ticket.  You can mail in a check.  Your cell phone suddenly sings out, “Bell Bottom Blues,” and you hastily turn it off.  Easy.  Done.

You are the only one of  five sibs who has not attended traffic school;  you gotta hold on to that record. 

Missing that date with Kyle?  Thank God.

Image by J. Stephen Conn via Flickr

(That's Siri in the back) Image via Wikipedia

You just spent a mother-daughter weekend with your daughter…and Siri, the new virtual assistant iPhone app. You are the last. person. on. earth. to be on the scene when some new hip electronic device is launched, but you were desperate.  You were the oldest person standing in line to buy the new iPhone, because your old one died.  While you sat in plastic chairs outside of a strip mall, you all pondered questions to ask Siri:

Is there a restroom inside the AT&T store, because we all bought el-huge-o coffees at Dunkin’ Donuts next door in order to sit outside and wait to buy your services.

If we’d known we’d have to wait 4 hours to buy you, would we have waited 4 hours to buy you?

Can Siri pick up carpool?

Can she text my boss and tell him that I hate him?

At first Siri’s replies sound sorta like those old magic eight balls, that you’d roll over and peer at the bottom for the answer, floating in liquid–her voice being a combo of the robot from “Lost in Space” and Hal from “2001: Space Odyssey.”  It is decidedly so.  As I see it, yes.  Signs point to yes.  Reply hazy, try again.  Outlook not so good.

Image via Wikipedia

You picture Siri looking sort of pale like your Wii trainer–because they don’t get out much–but sitting erect  at a desk with a headset on, in a pencil skirt, sweater set and heels, as opposed to the ‘Ask Cha Cha’ dude, who you envision sporting a soul patch and wearing board shorts and Reefer sandals, plopped down in one of those round rattan chairs.

Note to Helicoptering Parents:  Here is your chance to pay extra bucks to boss someone around for the rest of their cyber-life.  She never loses her temper, never chews Jimmy Choos, nor slams the door or tells you to shush up.  She can act obtuse at times, although you know deep-down she isn’t.  And she can get a wee bit testy.

That night, your daughter asked Siri for a roasted chicken recipe.

“I do not know of rested chicken,” Siri retorted, suddenly  sassy.

“Where can I find nude patent leather pumps?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Siri answered flatly,  ”Strip clubs or attorneys?”

After you got lost the following morning looking for a breakfast place, you both got the giggles.  You asked Siri where a bagel shop was, and Siri started to feel left out, you could tell.  She issued a curt response: “SHAWTY, I do not know what you are talking about.”  (Your daughter admitted that she secretly told Siri your name was Shawty).

Later, your daughter thanked Siri for locating a museum.

“That’s nice for you to say,” she replied flatly.

“Siri, you’re wonderful,” your daughter laughed.

“Was it something I said?”

“We love you, Siri.”

“Oh, stop.”

Other questions:

Where is my Prilosec?  (senior moment)

“Here is your current location.”

Where has my girlfriend done gone.  (Gen X, Y, Z and  A.D.D.)

Here is a place matching ‘my girlfriend.’  It is not far from you.

Where are my car keys?  (senior minute)

I found 12 auto parts stores.

Where the —– are my car keys? (Gen X etc.)

I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.

Siri has now far surpassed Google as your new BFF.

Siri, can you write a post?

http://shitthatsirisays.tumblr.com/post/11569190001

Image by libraryman via Flickr

The weather’s gotten a wee bit snappy in these parts, in your neck o’ the woods.  But not too chilly yet to sit on the porch for a spell.  Last evening, your friend, Elizabeth upped and said, “Well, I reckon it’s gotten cold enough to kill a hog.”

“Excuse me?” you leaned in closer in case you’d gone deef, as Mama used to say.

“Oh–well my uncle used to say that when it started to get cold,” she said, simply.

Southerners have always been wordsmiths extraordinaire. But y’all need to revive these adages, because they are quickly goin’ by the wayside:

Honey, she was always barkin’ up the wrong tree.

He was caught with his pants down, 

and furthermore, he just. didn’t. cut. the. mustard.

That bug was deader than a doornail.

Don’t just sit there like a bump on a log.

Don’t bite off more than you can chew.

Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.

Don’t put your eggs all in one basket.  (this is quite a popular one in your own household)

Well, he’s just dumber than a sack of hammers…

…but I could just eat him up with a spoon.

Well, she just pure-tee flew off the handle. 

He got the short end of the stick, 
And then he went hog wild. 
Then he went at it whole hog. (There seem to be several concerning bugs, dogs, hogs, horses and barns.  Sort of a farm theme, if you will)

Sugar, they got on like a house afire.

He always goes around his elbow to get to his thumb. (as mama often described an uncle)

Great day in the morning, great scott, and good night.   Heavens to Betsy, and Oh.my.word. (You have never heard a Gen X’er say one of these; nary a one.  Goodness, gracious)

I’m going to have a fit and fall in it.

I’m gonna lick the tar out of you, 

But I love the stuffin’ out of you.

He’s nothing but a Johnny Come Lately.

Truth be told, I’ve been running around all day like a chicken with my head cut off.

You scared the living daylights out of me.

There’s more fried chicken than you could shake a stick at.

Long story short, our cousin has gone and gotten as big as a barn.

Well, I wouldn’t do that to save my neck. (this saying alarmed a young, northern acquaintance one day, as she thought you’d had neck surgery)

It’ll only take two shakes of a lamb’s tail. (as she’d whip up a delicious breakfast of eggs, sausage and biscuits)

Katy bar the door, there’s trouble up yonder.  So if you ever hear any Gen X’ers and so forth making these utterances, please thank them from the bottom of your heart.  They have a lonnnnnng road to hoe…

When an old friend from Denmark arrived in town with her new husband, you quickly gave them Mason jars of sweet tea and herded them out to the porch.  They miss being outdoors; they’ve had only one nice week of summer sun without rain and wind. You quickly made a list of what they’d like to do.  They had not visited the States in years.

“I’d like to see the old neighborhood,” Kristin sighed. She was your next-door neighbor when your children were little.  Some of your fondest memories are sitting out on Kristin’s front steps, sipping coffee in white mugs and watching her oldest son scale the top of the playhouse, while your daughter danced ballet barefoot across the cool fescue.  Meanwhile both of your toddler sons trawled about on a tiny trikes, making appropriate zoom noises.

“And go to the Gap,” she added, smiling.  ”And Marshall’s.”

“I, myself, would like to eat a hamburger and a hot dog,” Jensen beamed.  ”And Tex Mex.”

“I miss Krispy Kreme,” Kristin said.  ”And Pop Tarts.  And is there a Bud Lite, please.”

Passing them a platter of pimento cheese and crackers, followed by shrimp salad, you promised them a trip to the grocery.

After a drive down memory lane past your old homes (the playhouse long gone), you strolled in the old playground where you spent hours gently pushing swings, next to the small green field where the children learned to ride their bikes–where they held ice cream parties with pony rides–past the duck pond where the weeping willows shelter a new batch of goslings.

Then, after more sightseeing, you drove them straight to Five Guys.  They clung to their greasy brown paper sacks to go, bobbing their heads along to  “The Sack Brown Band,” as they called Zac’s band.  You took them to the drive-in so that they could sample a hot dog.  Kristin had never been.

“You can sit in the car, and not go in?” they asked, amazed.  Our curbside host headed over in his jaunty paper cap to take our order.

“If you please, I would like a hot dog,” Jensen proclaimed. 

The car hop, Rufus, shook his head.  “Sir, what’ll ya have, what’ll ya have, what’ll ya have?  You wanna red dog, chili slaw dog, mustard or naked dog?  It’s your pre-rog-a-tive.”   

Jensen looked at you in alarm..

“Naked dog,” you said.  ”Chili slaw dog, rings and an F.O.”

“And can I please have a Diet, Dr., Pepper, Cherry?” Jensen asked.  The man looked at him as if he was pure-tee off his head.

“This is pretty much a Coke town,” you whispered over your shoulder, nodding at the Coke headquarters looming up over us.

“Rufus, make that a Coke Zero,” I said.  ”And we’re good to go.”

Kristin loved her Frosted Orange drink.  Afterwards you headed home for a nap before Tex Mex.  Gotta fit it all in before they left the next day.  Kristin had asked where they should take a coastal side-trip while they were in the States.

“Charleston,” you said, simply, and then Mapquested them to Meeting Street.

(When they return, y’all will give them cheese straws and barbecue…and a Cheerwine for his Dr. Pepper fix…)

Image via Wikipedia

Last Friday evening, you plopped down to watch Food Network, and Paula Deen appeared on the screen, whooping it up with one of her sons.  Your hairdresser said that Paula had a fake Savannah-esque accent, and furthermore, that she was actually from PENNSYLVANIA.  Being a southerner born and bred, you whipped out your phone and began to type, “Where is Paula Deen from?” to get the lowdown.  You didn’t get very far.  The second you entered the word where, here’s the Google Suggestions list that automatically popped up:

Where is my refund (uh, oh)

Where is chuck norris (has he gone missing?)

Where them girls at lyrics (?)

Where them girls at (don’t know, but hope you are referring to the song above)

Where am I (aw, bless their lil heart)

Where the red fern grows (good book)

Where the heart is (good movie)

Where the wild things are (good book)

Where is monte carlo

Then, once you added the word is, you got:

where is the love (you hope they are referring to the song)

Where is my mind (bless their lil heart, too)

Where is ho train (goodness–is there such a thing?  Maybe that’s where some of them girls are at) 

Where is your appendix (poor thing; you hope they aren’t headed to the hospital)

You were captivated.  Then, after you dared to type the letters, “is P…:” 

Where is penn state

Where is patagonia

Where is prostitution legal (My goodness, is this the same person who’s looking for the ho train?  Dude has a more exciting evening planned than my sittin’ on the sofa watchin’ Paula)

Where is pit bull from (this you don’t want to know)

Where’s prague

Where’s persia (in Iran, you suppose?)

You then added the letter ‘a’:

where is pancreas (poor thing; there appear to be lots of concerns over various organs)

where is palestine

where is pacific time

And, finally, Where is Paula Deen from (in full)!!

Where is pauly d from

Where’s paul in the bible

Where is paula deens restaurant

Where is paul revere buried (interesting)

Only Google Search can group a cluster such as “Pauly D, Paula, Bible Paul and Paul Revere.”  Turns out that my fellow southerner, Paula, hails from Albany, Georgia.  (And the ‘ho train‘ is a scale of toy train, usually capitalized as ‘HO.’  Whew.)  Meanwhile, you are hooked on Google Search, or rather, on reading your fellow Googlers searches…

Image by Dunechaser via Flickr

You spent most of the weekend trying to herd your children away from Lee.  Last week, your daughter called from further north to give you a heads-up that although a big, fat depression would be sitting on top of the gulf all weekend, she’d be fine with reading, shopping and going to movies.  Perfect—you had two books to finish.

You drove down to the beach early to set up shop.  Along the way, you picked up a huge container of your fam’s favorite chicken salad, and produce at your favorite roadside stand.  You spent the evening ‘fluffing up’ the house to get it ready, arranging shells, candles, flowers and books.  The following morning you bought boatloads of groceries and then you got on your iPad.  Instead of a sun/thunderbolt icon, the Weather Channel app showed a mean, scary storm cartoon for the entire weekend, and the storm warning now ranged to the neighboring beach–your rainy day ‘go to’ venue.  Your crystal ball held images of being stuck in the house for days with the wind howling.  This beach is isolated, and the evacuation route involved driving several hours in the middle of nowhere through floody areas, in order to get to the highway.

Hmmmm.  You look into re-routing the rest of the family in order to salvage the holiday.  This appeared to create some discord.   Your family did not think Lee was such a horrible dude.  Your daughter was very kind and said, “Mom, I know you have a strong maternal instinct which is something I don’t have yet.”  Which was a sweet way of saying, “Mom, you’re ruining my beach vacation because you believe everything the Weather Channel says.”

http://reelingintheyears.wordpress.com/2010/12/28/step-away-from-the-weather-channel/

You started to get defensive–is it your fault there’s a storm?–and feeling like a huge ol’ depression # 13.  Then you thought about your friend Jane.  When she visited Seattle with her family, she attempted to navigate using a ‘real map’ instead of relying on her son’s gps in order to find a cool new restaurant.  Well, how dare she do such a thing; they got stuck in a big, fat traffic jam and all turned on her, their collective blood sugar plummeting.

“Why are we always blamed for everything?  Traffic, weather and whatnot,” she laughed.

Your family finally agreed (the thought of a power-less and wi-fi-less house did the trick) You ate all of the chicken salad, packed up the house and re-loaded the car (much to the bewilderment of the dog) while your sweet husband spent hours re-routing the children.  You spent the holiday back at home, sans sun-bathing.

Yesterday, when your son decided to drive back to school through tornado alley without your consent, you lost it.  How dare he make his own decisions and up and turn into a man before your very eyes.  Couldn’t he wait and drive back early the next day?  But Lee had caught up with us; the following morning looked rushed and rainy.  So you spent the remainder of the holiday tag-team worrying.  First, enlarging weather maps on your desktop to locate red blobs and tornado sightings, while the tornado siren sounded in your neighborhood.  Once he arrived safely, you gave a huge sigh, and then began wringing your hands over your daughter’s flight home, and enlarging the map on your phone to see where the pilot could possibly find an open window in the weather.  Then you got exhausted.  Let the pilot deal with it.  High time to muster up some faith.  You just finished Elizabeth Berg’s novel in which one of her Mom characters learns how to ‘stop trying to control’ everything.  So you said some prayers and went to bed.

Getting home safe and sound, priceless.