Random Black Friday Musings

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving, if you celebrate. Hubster had to work, but got home about 4:30. We still had the traditional dinner, just in the evening. It was so nice! I mean, I still cooked way too much, but I didn't have to get up at the crack of OHMYGOD to put in the turkey. It was just us four and no more, and if I may be permitted a holiday blasphemy, that was kind of nice too. I was able to drink an entire cup of coffee before it cooled and watch THE WHOLE PARADE. I love parades. I'm a total sucker for them. I'm so glad my kids are used to my dorkiness. "Look!" I squealed. "Barry Manilow's going to sing in Herald Square!"

"Happy you're enjoying yourself, Mom."

Last Thanksgiving was the last time I really saw my mom. I'm very, very thankful that we decided to stick my brother-in-law's family with the dishes and ran off to a quiet spot to talk. I never in a million years thought it would be the last time I'd sit and giggle with her over absolutely nothing important, but I thank God that I had the chance.

I missed out on something today. And I'm jubilant. No after-Thanksgiving sales this morning, hurray! I used to do that big-time, especially when the kids were small. I got all psyched for it, up at 4:30am, sweats and running shoes ready, elbows hardened for the inevitable block-and-poke so that lesser bargain hunters didn't horn in on MY finds. But the older I get, the less I want to face the ordnance in the field. Almost everyone is getting gift cards or something from an online catalog. If I can't click it, you ain't gettin it. My elbows aren't what they used to be.

In better news, my sister-in-law is hiring me to write some things for her company's website. I'm having a lot of fun, but the best part is that I SHALL BE PAID. I can now tell everyone that I am a freelance writer and not feel that I'm telling a fib. I don't know why most of us unpubbed writers feel it necessary to proclaim that fact. I can't just say, "I'm a writer." That feels shady, somehow, if I can't back it up with a printed book title. It shouldn't, it just does. If I say I write and can show the book, people think, "writer." If I say I write and have nothing published, people think, "bum."

And that ridiculous Mind-Sticker song has gone incessantly through my head, thanks to Girl con Queso. She found some more (more!) of those TAB commercials. See them here. I laughed so hard I almost had a Depends moment. Not because of the bad music, or bad fashion, ladies playing tennis by themselves, or the snotty announcer telling me to get a clue. I'm laughing at the men whose minds have been stuck. These poor schmucks are wandering around walking into walls because they can't quit thinking about boinking their wives. At least you hope the mind-stickers are their wives. Can you imagine the conversation at home?

"Harry, you what?"

"Drove into a tree."

"How on earth did you do that?"

"Simple. I just stepped on the gas."

"Seriously, what happened? Did you swerve to miss a dog or a kid on a bike or something?"

"If you really want to know, it's your fault."

"My fault? How?"

"It's that tennis outfit you had on yesterday. I couldn't stop thinking about it and imagining all sorts of things you could do with a tennis racket. If you had just let yourself go like the other women on this block, it never would have happened."

"Shut up and get me a TAB."