Introducing Miss Lou Tennant

     I had previously stated that I would not be attending the tour of the animal shelter with Sissey, but this morning, I realized I must my face my failures head on, look shame in the face, "man up"to the situation, and go forth to the shelter to meet Miss Lou Tennant Alexander. Armed with note cards and pens, we headed out to Dawson Drive, where the animal shelter was located beside the local county jail. As we pulled into the shelter about 12:30, a female officer in full uniform was out in front of the entrance to the building,  accepting a truck loaded with supplies: dog food, cat food, office supplies, etc.  I knew at once that it had to be the Lieutenant. I tried to sneak around the back of the eighteen-wheeler  and enter the building unnoticed, hoping I could somehow pull off the visit without exposing myself to further humiliation.
     A friendly young man named Mike greeted us as we came in the door and asked if he could help us with anything.  I explained that I was the one who had called earlier in the week to set up an interview, introduced him to Mary Lapsley, and then tried to fade into the background. I inched over to the front desk, casually perusing the bulletin board and posters lining the walls, keeping my head down and my face averted from view. As Sissey was chatting with Mike, "Lou" walked in the door.  I was trapped between the front desk and the door, with Lou blocking my exit. There was no escaping, I couldn't sneak out unnoticed, couldn't pretend I was not there with Sissey, so I slapped on a huge smile, walked over, stuck out my hand and said, "You must be Lou."
       She broke into a big grin and started chuckling. It was obvious that she had not forgotten our phone conversation earlier in the week.  I tried again to explain my confusion over her title, tried to establish my credibility as a sane adult, and finally just gave up and admitted to being completely embarassed over the situation.  I would not have begrudged her a single smirk or snicker, but as she had been on the phone earlier, she could not have been more gracious and polite, a real "trooper" in the face of an awkward situation. She not only agreed to have her picture taken and posted on my blog, she handed out her business card and invited us to come back....anytime... as often as we liked!
     So now, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to a most gracious lady, an officer of the law, lover of animals and college students and crazy middle aged women:
Miss Lou Tennant Alexander.
      By the way, I finally did learn her real name. It is Sherry.  But you can just call her Lieutenant Alexander.
      And as for those guns in her holster, they're real.

Lou Tennant Alexander

     Sissey has been busy working on a rhetorical analysis for her first English essay of the semester. For her project, she selected a weekly ad from the "Pet of the Week" column to use as the basis of a visual analysis. To complete the assignment, she needed to gather some background information from the animal shelter in order to establish it's legitimacy as a valid organization.  I offered to call the shelter to find out to whom she needed to speak and to get the hours that person would be available.      
     When I made the call, an assistant answered the phone and informed me that the person in charge was Lou Tennant Alexander. She was currently in a meeting, but he would be glad to have her call me back as soon as she was finished. I told him that would be fine and hung up the phone.
    I couldn't place who Lou Tennant Alexander was, couldn't remember that name from my high school days, didn't know her from church,  couldn't picture her face. The name didn't trigger any recognition, and I wondered if she were perhaps a newcomer to town.
    "Do you know Lou Tennant Alexander? L-o-u T-e-n-n-a-n-t?" I asked both my parents, spelling the name out for them.  "She is running the animal shelter now, but I just can't place her. The name doesn't ring a bell."
     They both thought for a few minutes, but said no, they didn't know who that could be.  There were some Alexander's in town, but they didn't know anyone named Lou. 
     Later that afternoon, the phone rang.
    "Hello?" I answered after a few rings.
     "This is Lou Tennant Alexander," a voice pleasantly responded. "I'm calling from the animal shelter."
      "Oh, hi Lou! Thank you for calling me back. I'm trying to find out when my daughter could talk to you about your shelter....."
      The conversation lasted several more minutes, as she gave me their office hours, her availability, the location, directions, and other pertinent information Sissey would need to complete her research.  She informed me that the shelter operated under the authority of the Sherriff's Department, and that she was in charge of running the organization.   After each bit of information, I politely said, "Thank you, Lou," or "That is just great, Lou," or "One more question, Lou."  She finally gave me her cell phone number so that Sissey could reach her directly. She said to tell her to ask for the lieutanant when she called.
    I don't know when the neurons started firing, or exactly what it was that triggered the sudden realization, but seconds after I hung up the phone, I had an epiphany.
   "Oh, no," I groaned. "I just realized something."
     It was only after I hung up the phone that it clicked. I realized that the person I had just been speaking with, that  the person I had been calling "Lou" for the past ten minutes, that that person was, in fact, not named Lou at all. She was Lieutenant Alexander.  Officer of the Sherrif's Department.  Enforcer of the law. Hired gun.  Legal defender.
    I had mistaken the assistant's drawled out version of her title, "Looo-tennn-ant"  as her first name -- "Lou Tennant".  There was nothing unusual about having a double first name. My own daughter had one, we were in the south, double names were common here. It never dawned on me for a second that the assistant was referring to her by her title, her rank, her order in the chain of command--not her name.  She had let me call her "Lou" the entire time, not once correcting my mistake, not embarassing me as I rambled on. She had endured my ignorance quietly and politely. I had presumed that the female superior to which the assistant referred was simply a gal named Lou. The rank and authority which she had earned had been completely ignored by me. I was humiliated by my presumption.
      The only thing I could do was pick up the phone and dial her cell number. When she answered, I began babbling and fumbling through an incoherent explanation, nervously laughing  to disguise my embarassement. I managed to explain my mistake, of which she was obviously well aware, and  apologized profusely.
    "I am so sorry," I tried to explain. "I didn't realize until after I hung up that your name is not Lou! I am so embarassed. I hope I didn't offend you, I apologize. I should have known he meant Lieutenant....."
      On and on and on I went, offering every form of apology I could concoct, trying to cover up my stupidity and embarassment. She graciously laughed at my mistake, but I hung up feeling as foolish as ever.
     Sissey is scheduled to visit  the shelter sometime this week.  I graciously declined to attend with her. You will be able to reach me in the dog house, just me and a dog named Lou.

It's all educational, you know.

   When I was in college, a semester was a lifetime. It was a period that seemed to have no end, an infinite span, a continuous line on the spectrum of eternity. From the very first day of classes, when the fresh syllabi were firmly ensconced in my eager little hands, when textbooks were crisp and new and begging to have their spines cracked open and their pages highlighted,  on that day I could still gaze into eternity and not even envision the final week of classes.  Tests and due dates for projects, quizzes and reports and final exams--these were no more than a thought, a wisp, an idea not yet formed.  There was no pressure to perform at a rapid pace, for the world was spinning slowly and there were days, weeks, months left to complete the necessary requirements. The semester was such an interminable span of time that it could not be, need not be, should not be measured. It was that vast.
     Not any more.  Today's college semester lasts exactly sixteen weeks.  Sissey just started the spring term, and already has two weeks under her belt. I'm not sure if the world is spinning faster or if contemporary students are learning more quickly than their predecessors, but it seems to me that the college semester is getting shorter. I am almost absolutely certain that when I was in college, a semester lasted at least twice that long. Plus we didn't get holidays. Or weekends off. Or spring break. Or trips abroad. At least that is how I recall it.
      Now, as I cross each day off the semester calendar, I am constantly reminding Sissey that she has just finished week one, week two, etc...  The ink has barely dried on yesterday's "X" before it is time to cross off another day. At this rate, she'll be graduating tomorrow.  The semester is zipping by at an uncanny clip. I barely have time to catch my breath before another week has flashed by.
     The semesters are getting shorter, the books are getting more expensive, and it takes longer to get a degree. Few universities offer four year programs anymore.  Ever wonder why?  They've shortened the semester to sixteen weeks and added an extra year. Do a little mental math on the income made during that extra year of tuition, room and board, textbooks.....see a pattern here?  I think the smarter, more contemporary college students are in cahoots with the university administrators on this new college time-line.  The schools are gaining an extra year of guaranteed enrollment and tuition, while the students gain an extra year of living in carefree abandon while still on their parent's bankroll.  As an extra payoff, they have shorter semesters, longer breaks, and more holidays. It's all educational, you know.
     Then there are the various "apprenticeships"  and "internships" that many colleges require. For example, the daughter of a friend of mine is currently completing a semester internship which is required for her degree.  She is living in Charleston, working a forty-hour week as an intern (salary gratis, of course) earning exactly ONE college credit hour for those forty hour weeks, PLUS her parents are still paying full tuition to the university just for the privilege of allowing her to complete the internship.  Time for a little more  mental math:  Sixteen (forty hour weeks) x $0.00 salary + $6,000 spring semester tuition + living expenses for off campus room and board = Some Very Confused Parents. They are still trying to figure out how the university and their daughter managed to pull that one off. It's all educational, you know.
      And don't forget the mandatory study abroad programs.  Mandatory, you ask? So did I. According to my son, it's practically required for students to spend at least one semester studying in a foreign land, preferably one that has an exotic locale with plenty of extra-curricular activities available. It's all educational, you know.
      Last, but not least, what college education would be complete without spending at least one spring break in some third world country building clinics or digging wells, courtesy of the credit card of dear old mom and dad. Who in their right mind could possibly refuse their child the chance to help make the world a better place, the chance to save the life of a child, the chance to bring hope to a hurting soul ? It's all educational, you know.
      If someone had told me I had the following options:
 A. Stay in college an extra year with room and board provided, foreign travel included   
OR
B. Hit the streets after four years to look for a job while also assuming all financial responsibility
I think you can figure out which option I would have chosen, but we simply weren't given those options back then. The college plan was: Get in, Get out, Get to work. Period.
     I must admit that today's college students are certainly smarter than back when I was in school.  They have beaten the system: shortened the semester, added a cushy fifth year, included foreign travel, thrown in  apprenticeships and internships and  participation in global community service. They have limitless options and opportunities.  These kids aren't just smart, they are super-smart. 
   It's great to be back in college.  I like the new educational structure, the quicker pace, the longer game plan, the wider options, the global interaction.  I'm going to learn a lot from this new breed of students.  Life is good, and it's all educational, you know.
   
   

I don't eat birds

   Rooster Ferrell is a hard-working, honest man.  He lost a job once, two weeks before Christmas, because he couldn't sell cheap lumber to a man who had paid for prime. Seems the owner of the store didn't have a problem charging customers for premium materials then substituting a less-expensive version at delivery time.  Rooster did.
      "When that man come to pick up the lumber he'd ordered, I just couldn't let him walk out of there with that cheap wood.  I told him when he come to the register to pay for it that he wasn't getting what he had ordered.  I got fired for that, lost my Christmas bonus too, but I just couldn't do it."
     He walked out of that job with his head held high and his moral compass pointing in the right direction, but sorely missing that paycheck and bonus two weeks before Christmas.  It wouldn't be long, however, before Rooster was working again. He was blessed with the ability to build or fix anything and had an honest character, and that meant work was never far away.
       It was his usual time to arrive this morning and the secret "signal" telling him it was O.K. to enter the house was on (a little ritual he and my mother had developed: Rooster arrives at the back door,  peeks in the window, checks to see if the red light of the coffee pot is on, indicating that everyone is up and he can come on in). The light was on full force, with the second pot of coffee brewing, and we were sitting in the den chatting when Rooster came in the door with samples of trim to select for the family room bookshelves. As we discussed the trim and the quality of the lumber, Rooster had chuckled and told us the story of losing his job as a lumber salesman.
     Earlier, Sissey had asked him if he had a real name. Unlike Rumplestiltskin, she did not have to spin straw into gold to get the answer.  It was Harvey, he said. She then asked why he was called Rooster, and in his patient drawl and with a slow smile, he told her.
    "Well, Sissey, you see, we come up on a farm, and when you come up on a farm back then, seemed like everyone got an animal name. Don't really know why, just did.  I had three brothers and a sister. We all had animals names. I was Rooster. I had one brother called Turkey, 'nother one went by Hawk, and then there was Mule. My sister was Cooter. She had two girls, and they got animal names, too. We called my nieces  Doodlebug and Cricket. We all still get called by our animal names. I don't even know how they picked'um, that's just the way it was."
     Sometimes in life, the answers are so simple you wonder why you asked.  That's all there was to the story.  It was just the way life was: you lived on a farm, you worked with animals, you got an animal name, you kept it for the rest of your life.
     I had just happened to bring two things back from Richmond when we returned the day before: terrapin stew and goose hash.  I thought it rather ironic that I had soup made from the same animal his sister was named for and insisted that Rooster try both the stew and the hash. The terrapin stew had come from the Commonwealth Club in Richmond and was a rare treat served only once a year at the annual meeting.  Rooster said he loved "cooter stew" and used to make it all the time.  He and his brothers spent many days going to the river to engage in some "cooter grabbing" (sticking your hands in the murky water and trying to catch the turtle by the tail before he caught your hand in his mouth). When they managed to land one that was "eating size" they'd throw it in a bag, haul it home, and toss it in a pot of boiling water,
       "That ole cooter would just clean hisself when you threw him in the pot of boiling water. Before he died, he'd scrape all the shell and bones off''im and leave nothing but the meat.  All you had to do was lift that meat out the pot, cut it up, and through it in the stew pot with some vegetables. That was some good eating."
     When I brought the terrapin stew out for him to try, I was convinced he would love it.  However, the rich, brown Virginia soup turned out to be a whole lot different from the tomato-based Carolina cooter stew he used to make.  Rooster looked at the strange concoction in the bowl.  He wrinkled his nose at it, nibbled a small bite, and said it might be "aw-right" on top of some rice or mashed potatoes.
      He declined anymore. I wasn't about the tell the chef at the Commonwealth Club that his terrapin stew hadn't cut the mustard down south.
     "Well, I know you're going to love my hash," I tried next. 
       He had a spoonful almost to his mouth when he stopped and asked, "What kind of hash did you say this was?"
     "Goose hash."
     "Uh-huh, " he shook his head and put the spoon back down. "Nope. No thanks."
      What's the matter?" I asked. "You're not going to try it?"
      "Nope," he replied, handing me back the bowl and untouched spoon. "I don't eat birds."
       "You don't eat birds?"
       Rooster said he didn't eat anything that flew. Didn't touch any kind of poultry. Not a thing. No ma'am.  Not even chicken.
      Well, I had that coming, I guess.  Should have known that a man named Rooster was not going to consume one of his own.
     I wasn't about to tell his sister, however, that he had tried the cooter stew.

Tennis, Anyone?

     Today is the eve of my children's twentieth birthday.  Twenty... Two-O...  Two decades......no more teens.  OK, you get my point. They are leaving the teen years and officially entering young adulthood.  The sad thing is, when you have to tell people that your children are twenty, you can no longer pretend to be a young adult yourself. You are now, officially, middle aged, over-the-hill, on the decline, frumpy, a has-been. That is painful.
     The reality of entering middle-agedom may be painful, but the physical process is even more excruciating.  Today, my son and I engaged in a strenuos one-on-one tennis match.  I, of course, have spent numerous hours at the club playing in suburban tennis leagues, spent numerous denaros engaged in tennis lessons and clinics, spent numerous afternoons competing in grueling club matches, spent obscene amounts of money on really cute and coordinated tennis outfits,  and unfortunately, have not lifted a tennis racquet in the last six months.  My son, on the other hand, has not picked up a tennis racquet in over a year, has not one single cute outfit to play in, has declined lessons since the third grade, and yet he beat be soundly in two out of three sets.
      I couldn't believe he did that.  I am his mother. I carried him in my womb for over six months (OK, he was a preemie, I shorted him three months,  but is he still carrying a grudge over that?). It was the eve of his BIRTH day, the day his MOTHER delivered him into the world, gave him the opportunity to breathe his first breath of life, and what does he do to observe this most sacred of days? He beats me unmercifully.
     Let me state, however, that I made him work for it.  There were more duece games in those sets than you'll see in the front row seats of Wimbledon.  He may have had me on speed and aggression, but old mom here definitely took advantage of all those lessons and had him sweating when it came to finesse and stragegy.  The problem was, however, that those two sets took a much larger toll on my middle aged body than it did on that suppile, young, nineteen-soon-to-be-twenty-year-old body.
    After the first set, I told Bro that I needed to run up to the house for a moment, take a quick break, get a drink of water. Actually, I was sneaking to the hot tub to crank up the heat, anticipating a need for a little therapuetic soak after the match.
      I   would not dare admit to him that after the beginning of the second set, I heard a distinctive "snap" in my neck, and that after that point I could no longer turn my head to the left.  My knees were popping every time I tried to make a net shot, my back had long ago decided to quit functioning and I could no longer twist and bend.   The plantar fasciitis I had spent a year trying to overcome was screaming it's  return in my heels, and the bursitis in my elbow was bulging and throbbing. Bro kept the ball moving cross court, telling me to run for it, make an effort,  keep moving, quit being lazy.  He asked me during the second set if I needed to stop.  It was 5-5 at that point, and I would have suffered a massive heart attack on the court before I gave him the satisfaction of quitting.
     "I'm good," I panted. "Don't think you've got this in the bag.  Old mom here is on the rebound. I'm making a comeback."
      Now, don't think that I don't believe in building the self-esteem of my children and that I wouldn't move heaven and earth to help them become the  mature, responsible, self-actualized individuals they were born to become.  It's just that in this highly-competitive family, the lessons are learned through trial and tribulation....no free rides here.....you earn it or you lose it.  If I had quit, let him beat me simply because he could, what glory would there have been in that?
     Actually, I was counting on the fact that he would feel extremely guilty for pummeling his forty-plus-almost-fifty-mother on the eve of his birthday. I was counting on the fact that I had spent all morning cleaning the geese from his hunt, marinating and chopping and preparing the hash he had requested for his birthday dinner. I was counting on the fact that I had assembled, washed, and ironed all the clothes he had deposited  in the basement upon his arrival home from school in December. I was also hoping for a few sympathy shots, but since that didn't happen, at least I made him sweat.
      He beat me, but I made him work for it. 
      I wondered later if it was worth the struggle.  Upon entering the house, I immediately downed three extra-strength ibuprofen.  I spent almost two hours soaking in the hottub, strategically placing the jets on throbbing joints and muscles. I consumed a large glass of wine and enjoyed a steaming shower afterwards. 
     As I sank into the bed, I contemplated whether childbirth and the subsequent child-rearing was as painful and strenuos as challenging your nineteen-year-old-soon-to-be-twenty-year-old-former-football-player-son to a two hour tennis match.  I concluded that childbirth-and-rearing was the easier of the two, but the challenge of that game, the opportunity to spend an entire afternoon with my college-aged son, the laughs and memories we made that afternoon on that court...that was worth all the aches and pains, the swellings and muscle strains, the bursitis and faciitis that  I endured. I knew that each time I rubbed an aching joint, wrapped a swollen tendon, soaked a bruised muscle or tended a throbbing ligament,  I would smile back upon the day that my son left his teenage years, entered adulthood, but chose to spend the day playing with his mom.
    
   

The Second Semester: And so it begins...

     It's here. It's time. It's now. It's today. 
     The second semester has officially started. We arrived on campus on a very cold, very frosty, not-what-you'd-expect-in-South-Carolina-kind-of-January morning. I thought we had left frosty windshields and black ice behind in Richmond, but old man winter seemed to blow right on down I-85 straight into the Carolina's, and it was just flat out freeze-your-you-know-what off cold when we cranked up the car for our morning commute to the Lancaster campus.  Thanks to Sissey's new thirty-second Keurig coffee pot, we could load up on hot caffeinated drinks before heading out the door, giving us a little fiery ammunition before meeting that first blast of frigid air.
      We started the day with Sociology. The study of human societies, social groups and social interactions is just my cup of tea.  Being a professional voyeur will definitely come in handy in this class, especially now that I know "people watching" is actually a recognized method of experimentation and a highly-valued research strategy in the field of sociology.  It just has a fancier name..."participant observation," which means that the researcher (me) observes people (everybody else in the world) in normal settings and then tries to figure out what it all means. Turns out that most voyeurs are actually sociologists with fancy titles and good-paying, tenured positions in the world of academia. They are doing what I've been doing  all my life: observing people and writing about it, but  somewhere along the line, I missed the memo that said my obnoxious habit of voyeurism could actually be turned into a lucrative career. I'm just waiting for some  sociologist to do a little structural-functional analysis mingled with some underlying conflict theory and a hearty dose of symbolic interaction in order to come up with a current perspective on why this middle-aged white woman is living back at home, attending college with her daughter, and writing about the experience on the world wide web while earning no salary, no benefits, no tenure.  That'll keep'em busy for a while.
     After an hour and fifteen minutes of going over the syllabus, rules, attendance policy, class requirements, and assignments, we packed up our books and headed to History of Western Art. As we left the class at 12:15, a bewildered young man was wandering down the hallway, a slip of paper clutched in his hand and a confused expression on his face.
      "Could you tell me where Room 101 is located?" he asked as I passed by him (for some odd reason, the students seem to think I should know where they need to go and how they should get there; I am not offended in the slightest by the fact that they do not mistake me for one of their own.)
      "There isn't a Room 101 on this floor," I replied. " What class are you looking for?"
       "Sociology."
       "Is that your schedule?" I asked.
        He handed me the crumpled paper that listed all of his classes, the times and locations of each one clearly listed beside each course. As I glanced down the list, I realized the source of his confusion.  His schedule read "Sociology. 101. M/W. 11:00-12:15. Medf.221."
       "I think you just missed class," I began. "101 is the level of the course you are taking, not the room number. The class just met in Medford Room 221 and it's over now."
       "Oh," he mumbled, shaking his head as he retrieved his schedule.  I watched him as he ambled on down the hall and entered the classroom, either oblivious to what I had just told him or refusing to believe that he had managed to miss the entire class.  I would have loved to have stayed and done a little "participant observation" of the conversation that ensued when he entered the professor's empty classroom, but we had to hustle across campus to our next class and had no time for research.
      The rest of the day was rather uneventful, save for one minor melt-down when a certain young scholar became a little overwhelmed by the reality of her fully-loaded spring semester schedule and wailed, "What have I gotten myself into?"  After a good cry, some Psychology 101 therapeutic analysis, a little TLC,  and a great steak dinner, harmony and balance were restored to the household. I reminded her of her 4.0 President's List status from Semester One, assured her that the weight of the world and the future of mankind did not rest on her shoulders alone, and told her that even if she flunked out of college she would still be dearly loved and would continue to be a respected member of the family. She called her brother and father for some confirmation and inspiration, and with a relieved sigh headed off to bed.
     I, too, sighed a huge sigh of relief, rejoicing in the fact that I could simply be a "participant observer" in this journey back through the maze of academia, and that I never, ever, ever  had to be a nineteen year old college student again.

Trevon, the Elf and the Little Girl: A Christmas Fable

     Once upon a time, there lived a sweet little girl named Mary Lapsley. She had blonde hair and green eyes, and lived with her mother, father, and twin brother in a faraway land called Virginia.  Every Christmas, she would travel to a beautiful place called Carolina to celebrate the holidays with family and friends. It was a magical, wonderful time and the little girl dreamed all year long of the Christmas season.
     Once again, the time had come for her to travel to Carolina. It was the day before Christmas, and the little girl made a special announcement.
     "This year," she said, "I do not want an 'all-clothes' Christmas."
     "What do you mean?" her parents exclaimed, "You have not told Santa of anything special that you would like."
      " I don't know what I would like," the little girl replied. "I just know that I do not want all clothes."
      Her parents pondered this for a moment and knew the little girl actually did not need anything special.  She was quite spoiled with all the current electrical gadgets, and had all the accesssories, perfumes, jewelery, books and anything else they could think of that she could ever possibly need. The problem, they realized, was not that she didn't want an "all clothes" Christmas, the problem was that she was an over-indulged child who actually couldn't think of anything she needed.
      They looked at their watches and realized Christmas Eve was upon them and it would soon be time to leave for the candlelight service at church.  There was nothing left for them to do but to contact Santa and leave the problem in his hands.
     A note was quickly dispatched to the North Pole, and heaving a great sigh of relief, they all went to church, then dinner at Aunt Ann's, and finally home and off to bed in time for Santa to arrive.
     Early the next morning, the little girl and her brother scampered down the stairs, eager to see if Santa had actually arrived and if he had left them any special surprises.
     Lo and behold, Santa had come!  The tree was twinkling in the corner and a pile of presents were waiting on the floor by the hearth. And Santa had left a very special note just for the little girl.  It was attached to a thick rope that led to something hidden behind the chair. With eyes full of excitement and a trembling hand, she ripped open the card from Santa and read what the jolly old saint had written.

    "Dear Sissey," the note began.
"I heard that you were quite livid about only getting clothes this Christmas. Although Santa thinks that plenty of children in places such as  Bangladesh, Latvia, Sierra Leone, and Oakland would be very happy with receiving clothes for Christmas, he would not be happy seeing such a sweet little girl be upset on Christmas. However, as your request came a little late after most toys had already been made, and as there were no back-up toys since the Obamanible snowman took them all in these rough economic times, Santa had to give you the best he could. Santa put his best elf, Trevon, on the job to get you "proper" gifts. I'm sure he knew just what you would have wanted. I just hope he did not start hitting Mrs. Clause's Eggnog before he went (Trevon has a bit of a problem). Enjoy and have a MERRY CHRISTMAS. Love, SANTA"

She tossed the letter aside, and with all her might, she pulled and pulled on the rope until a great big box began to appear from behind the chair.  The box was covered with bits and pieces of wrapping paper and was all tied up with the rope.  With a puzzled look, the little girl began to unwrap the box.

      Her family sat all around as she opened the package from Trevon, and everyone wondered what the little elf could have delivered on such late notice.
      The box contained many packages all wrapped in brightly colored Christmas paper-- although it was somewhat of a mess. It would seem that Trevon is not a very good wrapper, (actually, it would seem that Trevon was not a very good elf, despite what Santa had said) but  with a squeal of excitement, the little girl began to rip open the packages. 
     The first package contained a brand new set of bungee cords. She gave it a puzzled glance, tossed it aside, and grabbed the next package. A set of broken reindeer antlers? A can of green beans?
      "Wait a minute," she said, "What is going on here?"
       Package after package was opened..... hot sauce, windshield wiper fluid, a handful of branches.  She couldn't understand what was happening, yet her brother was laughing delightedly as she went through the pile of presents, and her parents had a funny little smirk on their faces. A can of anti-fungal foot spray seemed a very useful present, as did the farmer's almanac that she opened next, and certainly, there were no clothes, but the little girl was still puzzled by the odd assortment of packages.

      A half eaten can of nuts and a half-empty bottle of vodka lay at the bottom of the box. Trevon had written a note on the bottle in a shaky little elf hand: "Sorry Santa, Trevon he got a little thurstie," he wrote, but there was no explanation for the nuts. Seems that Trevon actually did have a bit of a drinking problem, and perhaps an eating disorder as well.
      When the box was empty and the pile of presents lay beside it on the floor, the little girl's father exclaimed, "Why, there's not a single item of clothing in the whole lot! It wasn't an 'all-clothes' Christmas after all! Trevon saved the day!"
     The little girl didn't say much after that as she sat there and played with her bungee cords and wiper fluid.
    Fortunately, Santa had been in on the surprise from Trevon, and being the jolly old soul that he is, he had left a few other presents for the little girl that were much more exciting than green beans and hot sauce. She spent the rest of the morning opening the presents from Santa and was thrilled with the clothes that he brought her, even though her mother whispered in her ear, "Be careful what you wish for, little girl, it may just come true."
    "What a minute," the little girl thought again, "Didn't I learn that in Aesop's fables? I thought this was supposed to be a Christmas story, not a moral lesson." And with that being said, she went back to playing with her bungee cords.
     Next year, Trevon is sure to be back, but hopefully, the little girl will have no last minute announcements,  Santa will not have to place such a burden on Trevon,  the brother won't have to laugh, the parents won't have to smirk, there will be no fables to tell, and Christmas will be merry for all!

And the moral of the story is: Be careful what you wish for. Elves with substance abuse problems may give you a box full of surprises. Better leave to Santa what Santa knows best.   
     

And a very Happy New Year!

     2010 has safely arrived and we have officially entered the teen years of this century.  Get ready for  pimples, mood swings, rebellion, and all the other delightful perks of going through puberty.  Hold on, America, we've got a bumpy ride ahead...
     If the entire country is going through puberty, then who is left to be the parent in control of everything? The one who lays down the law, sets the boundaries, lets us make our own mistakes but still hangs around to clean up the mess, the one who loves us unconditionally even when we are pouting and stomping our feet in defiance of all that is good for us, the one who sets the perfect example we should strive to become? Guess you'll have to figure that one out on your own, but I've got a pretty good idea who I'm going to be turning towards for advice.
     First off, let's get the resolutions out of the way so we can promptly proceed to break them.  I, of course, have resolved to lose all the weight I gained during the freshman first semester.  That "freshman forty" weighs alot more when you're breathing down the neck of fifty. I'll have to take a physics class or something to figure that one out. I may even add a physical education class to the schedule to throw in a little exercise, although lugging a fifty pound backpack around all day has to burn off a few calories.
      Before one can start a daunting diet, one has to purge the house of all temptations.  I worked diligently on this all day yesterday. It takes a lot of effort to eat up all the Christmas goodies, but I was dedicated to the task.  As I was polishing off the last of the toffee a friend had sent for Christmas, Sissey walked into the kitchen and caught me redhanded with a mouthful of candy. She frowned at me as I chewed and asked the ambiguous question, "Aren't you supposed to be on a diet today?"
     I was stunned that I even had to point out the obvious to her.
     "Of course I am, " I garbled through teeth stuck together with toffee.  "It was my New Year's Resolution. But EVERYBODY knows you have to eat up all the Christmas goodies before you can officially start.  It's one of the cardinal rules of dieting. I am in the purging phase, cleaning out the house so I won't be tempted to eat anything fattening. "
     I just don't understand this younger generation. How can anyone begin a diet when there are sausage balls, fruitcake, and chocolates that must be consumed first? And while we are on the subject of fruitcake--it's fruit, and everyone knows you can have fruit on a diet, so technically you are not breaking your diet there either. You have to prepare for the diet, you can't just jump in without a plan. That's the problem with youngsters,  they act on impulse without thinking through the process. I had meticulously planned for this diet and that started with ridding the house of all temptations. I also counted on  the fact that the last few pounds gained were usually the most delicious to acquire and the quickest to lose, so they really didn't count anyway. I had a lot to teach Sissey about the rules of dieting, but since she had not yet broken the 100 pound mark, that conversation could wait a few years!
     I  have another cardinal rule of dieting. Anything consumed before breakfast does not count in the calorie intake since those calories are going to be quickly burned off during the day.  Those are counted as "freebie calories", so go ahead and sneak a sausage ball while you're waiting for the coffee to perk, it's not going to break your diet.
     And everyone knows the  "Universal Rule of Standing"
           --anything eaten while standing,
           -- anything eaten while not placed on a plate,
           --anything eaten while hiding in the pantry
Hereby let it be known, those calories do not count, they are designated as free calories.
   I will keep you posted on the results as they roll in, or rather off, since I am confident my plan will be successful.  I have years of experience in the dieting department, you could actually call me a professional dieter, I have lost enough weight over my lifetime to make three whole people, so I do not anticipate anything but success this time around.
      My final resolution is to try to be forgiving, tolerant and understanding of all that happens as our nation plods through the pubescent teen years of this century.  I may have more problem keeping to that one than to the diet, but we all have to make some resolutions we just know we are going to break. Besides, I already have a plan for that, too. As I said before, I've got a pretty good idea who I'm going to be turning towards for advice.
     So I wish you all a Very Happy New Year, much success with your resolutions, much health and happiness in the year ahead,  and I sincerely hope you all have a plan for surviving the bumpy ride.