Dear Margot and Greta:

Thanks so much for the lovely earrings you gave me for Christmas. As you know, I don't own much jewelry, having not gotten any push presents from your father. So these treasures that depict my look alike, Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London, stuck on a zip line, are real hot picks in my collection. The gift is a true testament to a trait of some kind that you two share.

The quality of the earrings became apparent the moment I laid eyes on them. For instance, given the tiny size of the pieces, it took a true craftsman to kern Boris' eyes so close together (close set eyes being one of the most prominent features that Boris and I share, as you both know, you rascals!). And how clever of the artist to make these earrings dangle, lending added verisimilitude, although there's no way of knowing what that means.

I found the little card below in the gift box, which verified my suspicion that the earrings were not easy on the pocketbook. So I checked my American Express Card Online Account and saw that you charged the first easy payment of $70.32 to me. How nice for us that the fourth and final installment will be in April, which puts us right at my birthday, when you can charge me another thoughtful gift.

I hope you will tell me if my ear hair is as dominant as this model's. Right now it's all that I can look at.  

Love, Connie

I'd like to thank the one Russian who filled in that huge area on my Pageview by Country Map. To you I say what Christine Todd Whitman (love child of Mary Todd Lincoln and Walt Whitman, also the former governor of New Jersey) once said: "Anyone who thinks that they are too small to make a difference has never tried to fall asleep with a mosquito in the room." благодаря братан!

Hey Canada, if you are reading this, well, never mind, apparently you aren't. Okay listen friends, if anyone knows someone up there in Canada, please ask him or her to read this blog and together we can watch this map light up. Also Greenland, China, India, Australia and whatever that big fat country that takes up so much of South America is.

Malaysia, in honor of your surprising support,

I have just learned how to spell you.

Dear Foodie Friends Who Were at Sandee's Birthday Party Last Night and Who Laughed When They Saw The Dessert I Brought:

Here is the recipe:

One Oreo Pie Crust (next to graham cracker crusts in baking aisle)

One carton Brigham's Peppermint Stick Ice Cream, slightly softened 

Hershey's Dark Chocolate Syrup

Chocolate Peppermint Bark, crumbled

Call mother-in-law. Ask what to do when told to bring dessert to party. Get excited when Christmas Eve pie is recommended. Go to store and buy ingredients. At home, squish softened ice cream into pie crust and smooth out. Squirt on syrup in pattern of your choice. Apply crumbled bark. Refreeze. Take to party and slip into freezer. When time is right, trot out proudly and present pie to the quality police you call your friends. Listen calmly as room fills with laughter and hooting. Stay confident when asked if "pie" was "made" from "recipe" written during the Kennedy administration. Cut dessert, serve and eat. Watch as grown women brawl over the last slice, when they deny it to a passing child, and when they finally decide to each take one bite of it. When "tell us exactly how you made this dessert" is said, blurt, "beg me." Relent when pleading subsides, but threaten to leave out one ingredient, old school. Take that back, but demand foot rub. Go home. Let it sit overnight. Go online and give out recipe.

Love, Connie

Dear Those of You Who Are In College:

You'll be coming home shortly for your holiday break and people my age will be asking you: a) How are you liking college? b) What are you majoring in? c) What do you plan to do after you graduate? 

Fifty-somethings know that you guys find these questions annoying, but we can't stop ourselves from asking them because a) we want to connect with you, b) we're genuinely interested in how you are doing and c) we're excited to hear what your plans are. At the same time, we never expect you to reciprocate and ask us questions about our lives and our plans because a) you never have.

So, if you want to dodge this type of questioning and quickly get back to living your life, just turn the tables on us and ask what's up with us, or what our plans are. Guaranteed, it will go something like this:

Me: Oh my gosh! It's so great to see you! How are you? How's school?

You: Great! What have you been up to?

Me:

Okay, three great things have just happened to you: a) you got around answering the questions, b) you saved a ton of time -- time that could be used to catch up on your sleep, and c) you will be remembered by me as the only person your age who ever asked me what I've been up to.

After the exchange, things aren't going to be so rosy for me. I will a) spend the rest of the day wondering why I couldn't answer your simple question, b) sign up for an art class, and c) book plane tickets to Tuscaloosa for a Habitat for Humanity gig. 

But truly? It would be worth all of it just to see you walk through the door.

Love, Connie

The gag in yesterday's blogpost only lasted one day because this entry has pushed it down and its photo is now out of position. So my little finger is no longer pointing out that you can have my posts sent to your email. I realized that was going to happen, but I was so eager to show you my disfigured pinkie that nothing else seemed to matter. One day I will show you that I can do Mr. Spock's Vulcan Salute, only with my toes. My close friends already know about this cunning maneuver because I tend to trot it out at parties.

I'm saving my Vulcan Toe Salute for later, no matter 

how many people want to see it over the holidays.

And relax, it's fine if you don't want to subscribe to this blog. I wouldn't be able to figure out who did and who didn't so please don't explain to me why you haven't because that would make me feel socially uncomfortable. It's just that some people have asked me to add this feature so they don't have to go looking for my posts, while others have told me they wouldn't subscribe even if they could (Mark C.) because they always have to be in control of everything, including how they read my blog. 

Let's all just go about our business and act like this never happened. Live long and prosper. 

Showing photos of mangled body parts is a great way to capture the attention of your readers. That's why you're looking at the pinkie that I broke in a football game when I was in high school. I have what is called a mallet finger deformity. I can't straighten it out and it's pretty gross. But now that I've drawn you in, please note that it's pointing to a brand new feature of my blog. 

Because of the holidays, everyone is talking about food. So I thought it would be a good time for me to jump in and share that I feel sorry for the food pyramid. Stay with, stay with. The U.S. Government decided that the pyramid was too confusing, so they dumped it. Was it too confusing? Yes, but the pyramid is a shape of strength and grandeur that paid homage to the world of food and all of its gifts. At the same time, the food pyramid created the kind of peeky intrigue you feel when looking into the back of a doll house.

Is that really a donut up there in the attic?

So in an attempt to simplify their admittedly valuable "Here's What You Should Eat" public service message, the Administration developed a new graphic and theme that reminds me of a place setting I used when I was four:

Based on this visual presentation, the website should be:

ChooseYoureNotGoingAnywhereUntilYouEatThis.gov

Now I'm not slamming plates, but aren't they things we always look down on? So see right there, we can't help but mentally tut-tut the non-pyramid design. The toddler plate reminds me that when I see food, I should stiffen, fold my arms and turn my head. So there's no way I could ever read this thing.

Let's take another stab at this project and design a learning tool using an icon that reflects our reverence for what we eat. I'm going to go ahead and work up something for Foodhenge to start with. Or maybe something man-made that can be seen from outer space, like the Great Wall of Food or pollution.

If you're working from home and you're freezing cold, and you get the idea to take a hot bath, and you bring your phone in with you - just in case - and you're carrying towels and the new soap you remembered you bought over the weekend, and you're about to step into the steaming water, remember to glance down at your phone to make sure you aren't FaceTiming the insurance guy you spoke with a few minutes ago.

Dear Margot and Friends:

I know this is the last full day for you at the School for Field Studies on South Caicos Island. I want to thank you guys for reading my blog over the last several months. Your support has meant the world to me. I'm not a statistician, but I'm guessing that my viewership numbers from Turks and Caicos will plummet to zero after you leave tomorrow, and that France will sneak into the number two slot. Merde! 

Wait! If two of you guys move to Norway, 

instead of heading home tomorrow, 

we can keep France in third place.

I'll miss knowing that you're all down there together on that little island, so close-knit, so cozy, so filthy.

Love,

Connie

As we were leaving to take Greta back to school on Sunday, we had this exchange:

Greta: "Just so you know, I took fifteen dollars out of your purse."

Me: "Oh. Okay. Why fifteen?"

Greta:  "It's all you had."

After Greta dutifully wrapped up all of her Thanksgiving medical, dental, optical and other appointments, she and I sat down for pedicures as a treat. Faced with a minor language barrier at the salon, we wound up having chocolate rubbed into our legs and calves for a small upcharge of $10 each. The package included fifteen minutes of extra massage, which began when my pedicurist ceremoniously twisted the face of a classic, AcuRite kitchen timer. When his latex-gloved index finger pointed to the 15 marker on the clock and he gave us a solemn look, our fears of receiving fourteen minutes of the treatment were quelled.  

But it's hard to relax and settle into a foot rub with a tick-tick-tick reminding you that the great stuff that is happening now is all very, very temporary. And just as I was starting to feel shellacked by that, a 25-year-old mother named Ashley Nicole came in for a spa treatment. Ashley Nicole has a three-year-old daughter named Layla and three-week-old son from whom she really needed a break. Her mother-in-law was watching him for a few hours, thank god. Layla was with her dad. Ashley Nicole just found out about another girl named Ashley Nicole who looks just like her. There is a photo of Ashley Nicole II on her phone as proof. She loves bling on her cell phone covers and just paid $20 at the mall for a ruby one. Ashley Nicole bought these two items over the phone while her feet were soaking: a) another gem-covered cell phone case for $5 that her nail technician told her about, and b) a rottweiler puppy.

When the timer DINGed, our pedicurists abruptly raised their hands in the air, like two Chopped finalists at the end of the dessert round. They painted our toe nails and we left. On the way home, Greta and I spoke about the roller coaster effect that Ashley Nicole brought to our 15 minutes of relaxation. The highs were extremely entertaining, as when she said the words "bitch" and "whelp" to the dog breeder. The lows were annoying, as when she phoned her husband about what he and Layla should buy at the mall. But these boring low moments also served to slow down time, which was a great gift for those of us who were on the clock and having our heels rubbed. 

Over the weekend, Greta acclimated to being back at home for Thanksgiving break, but she was thrown off by the dizzying number of appointments that I scheduled for her today. She looked totally flustered when I happened to bump into her downtown, in between her visit to the dentist and her trip to a doctor's office.

"I need to run because I'm meeting Lizanne for coffee," I told her.

"All right fine but make eye contact with me for a second," she said. "I feel like I'm in a clown car."

Our daughter Greta is a freshman in college and she hasn't been home for a long time. So I was really excited about grabbing her from school in Portland, ME on Saturday, and bringing her home for her Thanksgiving break. She seemed happy to be leaving her her cramped dorm room and the pressure of her classes and we had fun catching up on the three-hour drive back to our house. As we came into our town, she started to feel a little funny. 

"It seems weird that you can just drive here," she said. "It feels like a place you need to be transported to from another dimension."

Upon entering the house she grew up in, Greta said, "You really do have a lovely home. So spacious."

And later, when we sat down in the living room after dinner: "I
can't believe you guys are still here doing this."

Well you can forget I told you that culinary foam is all the go.  As of right now, it's out, having trickled down onto Olive Garden's menu with the Never Ending™ Foams di Rome Bowl, as shown below:

From Olive Garden's new menu, page 30, under Tastes di Italia.

Olive Garden's annexing of culinary foam is bad action for everyone everywhere:

Shareholders see that this is clearly a dumb business move for Olive Garden. It is virtually impossible for customers to fill up on foam because of its air quantity index. Patrons who order All You Can Eat foam will be camped in the restaurant for hours, slowing down table turnover and reducing profits.

Culinary Artists liked the healthy, creative, modern, flavorful and textural qualities that foam brought to the table. Now that down-scale restaurants are recklessly serving the once-favored flavor accompaniment, chefs are informing foam, "You are now ketchup to me!" 

Snobs are upset that, with foam out of the picture, they won't know how to place the most upscale order at the table. These nice people are rightfully worried that the next new thing will be cooking with feathers, or the "feathering" of food that I mentioned earlier in this blog.

What you can do: Continue to check in with me, as I will be on the hunt for the latest in culinary trends. For now, stay away from any restaurant that offers "fusion" as that movement is now seen as distastefully inauthentic. Until further notice, just eat Asian street food and you should be fine.

Since I've answered the question, "How?" about culinary foams for you, the next questions become, "Why? Why? Why?" The answers can be found in Spain. Spain is a rascally ground breaker that invented California and circumnavigating, so it makes sense that they also put food foam on the map. A modern, deconstructive Spanish chef named Ferran Adriá popularized culinary foam in an effort to help Spain start discovering things again like they did in the good old days.

Adriá nosed out that using flavored foam (sometimes ambrosially referred to as espumas) on his creations enabled him to add or intensify taste without changing the essential composition of his dishes. In other words, you can plop a little flavorful foam on top of a piece of beef and it won't go running like bulls all over what you just worked so hard to put together, as sauce is wont to do.

Literally a mouth watering foam?

Culinary foam is part of a broader movement called molecular gastronomy. If you're interested, there's a book called "Molecular Gastronomy" that goes on and on and on about it. The book's author is named Hervé This. If my last name were This, I would have felt compelled to name Margot, my older daughter, Thatanne Theotherthing This. And little Greta's first and middle names might have been, Now Hear. Anyway, in short, molecular gastronomy is a way of making your meal look more like the colorful cubes and spheres that they ate off trays in the cafeteria of the Starship Enterprise: 

Didn't an intense fight break out right about now in this scene?

I've written about culinary foam for the past two days, and a few readers have asked me to do some research to find out how the foam is made. I did look into it, but remember, I'm not a food writer, and this blog is not about helping you to "learn." So I'll scratch the surface by telling you that it's super easy. Take the flavored liquid of your choice, for example a broth or puree, mix in a stabilizer, which keeps the air bubbles from popping (you can just pull some agar-agar, lecithin or xanthan gum from your spice cabinet) and then drive air into the mixture with mechanical force. 

I selected this photo to share with you today, because it's a good example of the profound visual impact that foamed food can have at a dinner party. For instance, I can imagine seeing this at a lavish outdoor soiree, and everyone stepping around it to get to the table.

We now know that culinary foam is all the go at elite restaurants because it's modernist and healthier than sauces. Sauces already have an old-timey, vintage feel to them, so expect to see them again soon, because old-timey, vintage things are also all the go. Also expect to see sauces again soon because many people, not me, are unsatisfied with foam on or under their food, especially when they are paying for it.

It will anger the chef if you ask for your foam on the side. 

Just try to move through it.

Maybe today's leading chefs are foaming our dishes because they're bracing us for the day when commercial fishermen take the last fish out of the ocean in 2050*. And with no seafood left to serve, culinary artists will be forced to create the illusion of fish and shellfish on our plates by including items that I normally try to dodge at the beach, like sea foam, driftwood and potentially feathers**.

Tomorrow:  How to make culinary foam, if I can get a bead on it.

*This is what the U.N. is saying according to a website that I recently saw. I didn't recognize the organization that sponsored the site, but I know it's legit because there was an Anthropologie ad running down the right side of the page and I bought a sweater.

**Cooking with feathers is something I will not be able to handle, even though I usually gravitate toward things that are all the go. We can talk about it another time, but for now, just know that, at the beach, I would sooner pick up a used condom or a plastic tampon casing than an unattached feather.

Top chefs are now serving foams instead of sauces with their offerings because foam fits the needs of today's upscale patrons. For those of you who have not yet experienced it, here's a photo of a scallop dish with mushroom-infused foam that my sister-in-law, Sarah, snapped at a fabulous restaurant in Quebec City:

 
Sarah's dinner that 
got foamed in Canada.

Culinary foams have a light, pleasant texture, and can be flavored with anything, including beer, thus eliminating the ghastly chore of burping it up on your own. Foams are less caloric and healthier for us than sauces. Cream and eggs are dropped from foaming recipes, in favor of a less caloric ingredient called air. This is important for those of us who want to have good butts for the weekend.

Tomorrow: More reasons to eat foam. 

  

I was reading about haiku the other day and I mentioned to Bo that I find that kind of poetry interesting because of the structure of seventeen syllables, divided into three lines of five, seven and five beats. They're like limericks, which of course I love, but more sensitively written and there's no rhyming.

Well, for reasons I'll never understand, Bo wasn't listening to me. So for a punishment, I got a piece of paper and a pencil and asked him to write a haiku for me, reminding him that they often describe the essence of a poignant experience.

Slick new saddle shoes

Made you slip in the lobby

Of course people clapped.

Technically, he nailed it. Then I remembered that haiku traditionally have something to do with nature, so I asked him to redo it in that vein.

Slick new saddle shoes

Made you slip in the lobby

It was raining out.

"Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater" is an expression you don't hear very much anymore because it's not ethically correct to put babies in harm's way. So, too bad for us, now there's no real way to cleverly say, "let's not get rid of something good in our efforts to weed out the bad." However, if you knew in advance that you were actually going to throw your baby out with the bathwater, it would be cool to name it "Jettison."

I invited lots of people over to watch football last weekend but no one could come because all of my friends have concussions. So instead, I arranged to meet my sister Barb at our parents' house in Philadelphia. But as soon as we set foot in their house, my dad said, "I'm happy to see you girls, but try to keep a lid on it because your mother and I both have concussions." We had a nice time, considering that we were visiting people who were trying hard not to concentrate on anything.

When I got home last night, I went to check on our pet turtle. "How's Natasha?" I asked Bo.

"She's okay, but she has a concussion," he said. "She swam up too fast and hit her head on her basking platform."

"Ouch!" I said.

"How are you doing?" Bo asked me. "You look a little off. Do you have a concussion?"

"No," I said. "I just look concussed because I ran out of eyeliner. How are you?"

"I think I'm good," he said. "But I still have a concussion. Thanks for leaving me that new helmet. It's very cool."

"You're welcome," I said. "I thought the black would bring out your left pupil."

Greta was dragged around antique stores when she was little and I think that's why she appreciates old things and the way people used to live their lives.  I'll bet this is why she never calls me from college long distance. It's also probably why she's communicating with me in her emails and facebook messages like she's paying by the word to send me a telegram:

WESTERN UNION

Telegram

CONNIE: YES I VOTED  STOP  YES I HAVE FRIENDS  STOP  GRADES GOOD  STOP  GOT AUNT BARB'S BROWNIES  STOP  NEED BLACK TIGHTS  STOP  HOME FOR BREAK 11/21  STOP  PLEASE NO DENTIST THIS ONCE  STOP  MASSAGE WOULD BE NICE  STOP  MY OFFICE INSTRUCTED YOU TO ADVANCE ME UP TO $25,000  STOP  HEE HAW AND HAPPY THANKSGIVING! GRETA 

I love everything about getting presents, except when I get lots of them at someone else's house and no one thinks to help me carry them out to the car. I'm pretty tapped into when and why presents happen and I'm always open to it. So it's funny that I didn't know that gifts women receive from their husbands when they have new babies are called push presents.

Of course, I had heard about ladies getting jewelry on the day they delivered, but there was no name for it and I wasn't that interested. It's not that I believe the baby itself is reward enough on the day you push it out, not at all. It's just that I really don't wear jewelry, so I don't know what would have been the right push present for me. Maybe a lamp. Definitely not a puppy.

I read that the phenomenon is big in England and I heard that Kate Middleton got a ring when she pushed out the future king. Push presents should become a thing here too, right? But let's put a new spin on it. So say the doctor has to go in and break your water. Well, in America, that calls for a push-pin present, which is usually some kind of brooch. But what if you need to have a c-section and there's no pushing? In our land, you'd get a pull present, which could be a nice lawn mower or a small outboard motor.

Dear Jes:

Thank you so much for writing back to me on the microphone drop thing and I'm glad that you understand why I had to let go of it. When I think of the hours you spent working with me on the move -- "So, it's hold the fake microphone up to your mouth and then drop it." It seemed like it was going to be so easy and I still think that you're an amazing teacher. Also I think maybe you're right about why it was impossible for me to learn. When I got the fake microphone in my hand, real stage fright kicked in and I panicked because I knew there was zero way for me to deliver a two-hour PowerPoint on Bikram yoga, especially when I was running late and had no clothes on.

In your letter, I noticed that you spelled it "mic drop," instead of "mike drop," so I went back to yesterday's blog post and changed my spelling, because I know cool when I see it.  Also, I teared up with joy when I read that you, and other people in their twenties, are still doing the corn-on-the-cob/ding move. Maybe it is a timeless thing, like pull my finger.

If you have time over the holidays, I'd love for you to work with me on a new signature move.

Love,

Connie

Dear Jes:

Thank you so much for all the work you did over the past year trying to teach me how to fake a microphone drop. Unfortunately, I was never able to get the movements down smoothly, and now the mic drop is a thing, so I wouldn't be doing it anymore anyway. That said, I am very good at raising and lowering a fake microphone for people of varying heights and also tapping a fake mic to see if it's on.

Also, I will no longer be saying "Connie Out!" to punctuate my departure or to end a conversation on my terms, because that phrase is also now a thing (of course, people are inserting their own names). It's sad too, because I've been saying "Connie Out!" since the girls were little, and it used to give them great comfort. For instance, when they were upset that I got a babysitter -- over their sobs, I'd say "Connie Out!" as I shut the front door, and magically, right then, the crying would stop. 

I want you to know that I am really great at faking the slamming down of a phone receiver, which is strange because I don't think I've ever hung up on anybody in real life. The movement, holding my right thumb to my right ear and my right pinkie to my mouth, then pretending to smash the fake phone onto its base, comes really naturally to me. It's used when I'm telling a group of my friends what I would like to have said, but didn't, in a phone conversation with a meanie. Sadly, most telephones won't be traditionally shaped for much longer, so this move will become obsolete, just like the one when you eat a whole row off of a piece of corn-on-the-cob without stopping and then say "ding." That was a great move and it never got old when typewriters were still a thing.

Jes, let's keep talking, though, about how to make me look cool.

Love, 

Connie

Another reason why I'm embracing my likeness to Mayor Boris Johnson of London is because he's likable, self-deprecating and funny, in a Drunk Uncle kind of way. It has been written that Boris "invites underestimation," and that also really applies appeals to me. Here he is at an unplanned stop on a zip line whilst promoting the London Olympics. 

Boris and I both know that getting stuck places is always funny, which is why we are able to laugh stuff like this off: 

Let's close it down with my favorite Boris Johnson quote: 

"I could not fail to disagree with you less."

Many of my followers are upset about my idea that I look like the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson. Well, thank you for being nice, but I've embraced our dead-ringerness because who doesn't want to look like a famous person?

Plus, there's no denying that our squinty eyes are almost identical, both of us preferring skin folds to peripheral vision. Also, do you see how close-set our eyes are? We can't even use binoculars because the sides don't push together far enough. This means that birding is off the table for us both. We share that pain.

Boris and I both have mussed-up blonde hair*, and our eyebrows are too light to see. Our noses and cheekbones are virtually interchangeable. Another spitting image may be our mouths, but it's hard to get a bead on what his teeth look like, as British people rarely smile for the camera.

That's me on the right smiling openly.

*Okay, okay. Boris' hair has always been blonde.

I'm noticing that this fall, the fashion world is bringing us sweaters and other tops that include a full back zipper. The garment below is from one of my favorite stores, Anthropologie. If you grew up with a little brother, you'd never be comfortable going out in this sweater unless someone literally had your back.  The black bows practically scream:

"YOUR SISTER'S NEW BOYFRIEND IS RIGHT HERE IN THE HOUSE! WAKE UP MISTER! YOU COULD PULL DOWN FROM THE TOP TO LET THE GUY KNOW THAT HER BRA IS EQUIPPED WITH CHAINS AND PULLEYS! OR, OPTION TWO, YOU COULD PULL UP FROM THE BOTTOM AND REVEAL THE BRIMMING OVER OF HER MENTAL INSTITUTION UNDERWEAR! TOUGH CALL, YOUNG MAN AND HAVE AN EXIT STRATEGY!"

Anthropologie, didn't you have a little brother?

                                

I'll never forget the day I discovered that I look just like Boris Johnson, the Mayor of London. We were on an escalator, descending into a London Underground station, and along the wall was a stream of posters that included extreme close ups of the mayor. Not knowing who he was at that point, I became distracted and curious, wondering, "what's up with this big line of mirrors?"

When I realized that I wasn't passing my reflections, but photos of Mayor Johnson, I did a semi-black-out. Then, while I pulled myself together, I considered not mentioning the phenomenon to Bo and the girls, because I feared teasing from them down the line. But I'm too much of an extrovert to keep something big like this bottled up, so I pointed to the the male-me images as we glided by each one. "You guys," I said. "You're gonna to think I'm crazy, but I'm telling you that I look exactly like the Mayor of London."

Greta reached over and put her hand on my arm. "You're wrong Mom," she said. "I don't think you're crazy."

Guess which guy is me.

We got back from Turks and Caicos late last night and the first thing I did was check on our pet turtle, Natasha. She had all but trashed her aquarium because Bridget, our turtle-sitter, let it slip that we went down to see Margot with out inviting Natosh along. Through various hand signals, and by silently making the facial movement you would do if you said, "bwah, bwah, bwah," I tried to communicate to her that she would've made the trip way too sloshy. But she was ripping mad and turned a deaf red-ear.

The issue here is that Natasha is passionate about Margot, as you will see from this erotic video, which was shot right before Margot left for the semester. To clarify, in this scene, Margot is the one with human fingers.

Though I didn't ask, I'm pretty sure that one of them laid eggs 60 to 90 days after the making of this film.

Today I asked Bo if he tried to dig to China when he was little, especially at the beach. And he said, "Of course I did. But only at the beach. We weren't allowed to dig China holes in our yard. Were you?"

I've preached to you for months that cairn is the worst sounding word in the English language. But sorry people because someone (thanks, Mom!) said the word jitney out loud a few weeks ago and the clashing of auditory effects made me collapse flat on the floor, which, p.s., is the exact opposite of what cairns are up to.

Now for those of us who are lucky enough to be unfamiliar with the word jitney, it's a vehicle that picks up and drops off people at regular intervals.

 

Definitely a jitney.

Probably not a jitney,

 but worth seeing.

The good news here is that the English language is kind of like the popular table at a high school cafeteria, so weirdo words are weeded out because nobody identifies with them. And the fact is that over the years, both cairn and jitney have tracked negatively because they are virtual ice picks in everybody's ears.

More good news is that no one needs to say either word ever again because jitney can be shortened into "bus." And cairn can be shortened into "heap of stones set up as a landmark."

But here's what reminded me of all this jitney business. Yesterday, Margot and her friends got onto a small bus that left our hotel in Provo for the airport. It was time for them to fly back to South Caicos so they could start working and studying again at the School for Field Studies. As I watched the bus pull out of the parking lot I got a huge lump in my throat, I teared up in my mouth a little, and I thought, "man I hate that stupid jitney."

This is something that actually happened.  Bo and I were packing to visit Margot in Turks and Caicos, when I reached into one of our suitcases and pulled out a something that was hard, brown, oval-shaped and definitely a result of natural processes.  

I was nervous because it looked like some kind of a pod and I'm afraid of pods because they often encase unpleasantness like spider or praying mantis or even cockroach eggs. To ensure delivery of their contents, pods are built to last and hard to look at. I'm thinking my brother Dave probably chased me around with a pod or two when I was little.

Anyway, back to the pod-like formation* that I was now touching with my actual hand. I asked Bo if he knew what it was. He said, "Yes I do. That's a moose turd that I brought home from Montana. When you light it on fire, it smells like incense."

"Well it's a good thing our suitcases are out," I said, "on account of I'm leaving you for someone whose name is the Orkin Man. Because unlike you, he's against bugging people and he certainly won't give me any crap." 

This man really gets me.

*Something called a formation also has a high chance of turning out to be pretty disgusting, because no one can control its aesthetic -- it just keeps forming on its own.

I'm so happy to be visiting my daughter Margot in Turks and Caicos, where she's doing her semester abroad, studying marine science-y stuff with her amazing new friends. And while that sounds super glam, they are living very simply, taking salt water showers and washing their clothes by beating them on rocks, like in the Bible.

Margot and her friends are on a five day break and Bo and I met them at a modern hotel, flush with fresh water. I've never seen people more excited and grateful for simple pleasures.

When I first laid eyes on Margot, she looked so different -- so tanned and salt-encrusted, like the good side of a Triscuit. "I'm resisting the urge to lick you to see how salty you are," I said to her (okay, I know that sounds weird, but I knew she would understand.  Margot doesn't like going to art museums because she's afraid that she'll lick the paintings).

"What do you want to do first?" I asked her as she set foot into the air-conditioned hotel room.

"How about the opposite of a salt water shower," she said.

"So, pepper spray?"

"Haha, no," she said. "I think I'm gonna take a two hour bath."

"You are crazy filthy," I said, motioning her into the bathroom. "Get in the tub, woman. And if you like it then you better put a ring on it."

I put some roasted chicken into Isa's dry dog food for a treat  -- so flattered and happy to see that she counted it as food porn and instagrammed it:

My mom cautioned me -- never talk about your dogs at a party. "No one really wants to hear it," she said. "It's like being at the DMV counter. What you are saying is not getting through to a soul, and there's a long line of people behind you who all have boring stories to tell."

Maybe that's why I never write about our pets, Isa (a Westie) and Toby (a Scottie), preferring to focus on Natasha (a Turtle). For those of you who want an update on Natasha, she's fine, and rapidly outgrowing her oversized and decor-destroying aquarium. I wish there was something I could do to make Natasha stay the same size -- kind of like when I used to wear two bras to bed.

Anyway, I will share with you that Isa got in big trouble for digging a giant hole in our yard:

At first she seemed sad and sorry for making such a mess, but later I found this selfie of her in which she looks not sad and not sorry:

It seems like Congress might be about to reach a deal and I'm thinking that it's happening because of today's threatening hext from me.

The gist of it is, unless there's a deal today, each of the congressmen holding up the works will "accidentally" send his mother graphic and cringe-worthy oedipus rexts (which is when a guy sends his mom sext messages). My hext also cautions the congressmen not to text their mothers afterward to say they are sorry. Because even crazy people don't want to have make up sexts with their moms.

Well this is embarrassing. It's Columbus Day and the United States Government has been shut down for two weeks. How would Christopher Columbus, an old, old, great American Patriot have felt about these goings-ons?

In a word, he never would have stood for this kind of incompetence with regard to Congress running our great nation. Let me remind Tea Party Republicans that Christopher Columbus spurned the original Boston beverage-oriented event, sitting on his hands while a band of American Indians dumped a shipment of tea into the harbor to protest colonial Massachusetts' use of the word "corn" over the word they favored, which was "maize."

And why did he choose to support our government when that tea dumping prank would have been the best fun ever? Well, and I'm talking to you lawless members of Congress who are holding us all hostage, it's because Christopher Columbus relied on the U.S. Government to fund his expeditions and colonizations. If you Boehn-heads© had been running the show when Columbus was flexing his muscles, we never would have conquered and purchased Louisiana, and your beloved Texas would still be on Mexican soil.  

So Congress, let's honor Christopher Columbus on his actual birthday and reopen the government. I mean, come on -- we look like fools! Countries from around the world, like Spain, are reading this and cringing.