The Monday Morning Epistle

Last Friday was the Northrop Grumman ‘Holiday Gathering’, and it was much more lively than last year's party, mostly because we actually knew some of the other guests this time around. Almost all of Mary's office sat at the same table, except for Carolyn & Greg, who were snowed in at the Denver airport. The dinner was excellent, and prominently featured the hotel chef's signature dish: a ‘Mashed Potato Martini’. (Put a dollop of mashed potatoes in a martini glass, and garnish with the diner's choice of cheese, bacon, sour cream, etc.) We were also pleased to recognize the same band from last year, who were equally pleased to recognize us as well! Unfortunately, the road conditions were deteriorating rapidly, and we elected to leave a little earlier than planned to avoid the worst of the inbound snow. Judging by the number of people who didn't claim their door prizes at the intermission, I'm guessing we weren't the only ones worrying about the weather.

Friday was a premeditated sick day as we tried to get most of our Christmas shopping over and done with, and one of the things on my list was a slightly more festive bow tie for my tuxedo. (I've always worn a plain black silk bow tie, which has become an annual test of remembering how to tie a real bow tie.) I found a tiny tuxedo rental outlet in the mall and picked out an elegant vest and matching bow tie, but when I asked the sales girl how much the set cost, she replied in a bored voice “We don't sell those, we only rent them.” I put on my best innocent expression and asked politely “What happens if I rent this one and never return it?” and after she had fiddled around with the catalog for a few moments, she answered “After seven days, we'll charge $34.95 to your credit card.” She paused, then suddenly realized where I was going with this line of inquiry: with an embarrassed laugh she concluded “I guess we do sell them after all!” I bought a ‘lightly used’ festive green ensemble—for the agreed-upon retail price of $34.95—and wore it to the party that night…

While rampaging around various malls and toy stores, we realized that our Christmas shopping was a bit less harried this year (at least compared to previous years) and that this was almost entirely due to commercials. Jacob and Garion like to watch cartoons on Saturday morning (who doesn't?) which these days are nothing more than well-orchestrated delivery vehicles for toy commercials. I tend to be computing within sight of the TV during these early morning media bombardments, and have been discretely keeping track of which toys Monkey-Boy consistently pleads for. Consequently, our shopping list was more of a ‘search & rescue’ roster as we hunted for specific toys, instead of staring blankly at aisles of loot with no clue what our children wanted. Naturally, we also soon discovered that TV commercials are rarely wasted on inexpensive toys, as most of Garion's list was in the $50+ range. Then again, Alex's wish list is even worse, because he cheerfully wrote down all the expensive goodies that he can't afford either! It's a good thing Mrs. Claus loves her sons, because otherwise Santa was going to be generally mean and stingy again this year…

On a side note, I find myself increasingly offended by what the toy industry is trying to peddle to our children as ‘normal’. I'm not sure if this is an inherent side effect of the aging process, or that living in Europe insulated us from the worst of the commercialism. As a male of the species, I can usually ignore tastelessness—‘Glow in the Dark Snot’ doesn't bother me much—but more and more toys now come with (what I consider) wildly inappropriate moral or social messages. When did dressing like a 20 hooker become fashionable for 8 year old girls? I was teasing Mary about how bad things have become by trying to invent the quintessential modern-day American toy, and finally came up with the ‘Slut Barbie Totally Me Race to the Mall SUV”. Doesn't it just make you proud to be an American consumer?

KidBit: Garion was playing with a game and asked what the “clock” was for; when I explained that it was for keeping track of his score, he dutifully advanced the pointer and announced each number on the dial as he progressed. He did fine up through eleven, but when confronted with the ‘12’ he hesitated a split-second before asking me “Daddy, what number is this? Is it two-teen?”

PotW: Thanks to my magic ‘Time Camera’, I can steal a picture of Garion, Jacob and Dolly from next week…

Until next week…Tschüß!

,,,^..^,,,

2007.12.19-20:39