Celebrate Everything!

In honor of one of my favorite foods I am proclaiming today Cheetos Day! Even though they make your fingers look like a bum with a bad nicotine habit, they're the best. Crack open a Miller Light and a fresh bag of the delicious crispy orange nuggets and you've got a party started. But this here blog isn't just about Cheetos- it's about celebrating! Our world is in love with celebrations. You can't get through the grocery store checkout without seeing graduation balloons, Dad's Day cupcakes, or buckets of 4th of July flags this time of year. We all buy into it, if there's nothing on the calendar, Hallmark will make something up. But it's not just Hallmark- it's everyone, that is except Jehovah's Witnesses.

I've been a party planner, wedding coordinator, hostess, and mother both novice and professionally, which gives me the utmost credentials. So I feel the need to keep my blogging buddies posted on the next big celebration. There's actually a day to celebrate just about everything. In fact my self proclaimed Cheetos Day, June 16th, coincides with National Hollerin' Contest Day. Now that's something to shout about! Tomorrow is of course Father's Day but get ready because there are at least 16 more reasons to party down before Independence Day, so don't buy those firecrackers just yet.

What's Next is dedicated to looking ahead . . . so to "celebrate" here's a list of next week's reason to get out of bed:
6/17- World Juggler's Day (try balancing your checkbook today, maybe it will work)
6/18- Go Fishing Day (Yeah, take Monday off and join the guys at the end of the pier)
6/19- World Sauntering Day (Stroll like you mean it- or shuffle like you've got slippers on)
6/20- Ice Cream Soda Day (Yep, I'm down for that)
6/21- 1st Day of Summer (Yeeha- finally!)
6/22- National Chocolate Eclair Day (Hmmm, not sure- the pudding inside always glops out)
6/23- National Pink Day & Take Your Dog to Work Day (Double your fun, die your dog pink!)

If you're not into any of the daily dedications June is the National Month of:
Aquariums, Candy, Dairy, Accordion Awareness, Adopt a Cat, and Roses. Now there's some reasons to celebrate!

Don't forget to look ahead to next week's list.

What Men Want

Sunday's paper was stuffed with crap gift-giving ideas for Father's Day. It's the same for Mother's Day. Junk people really don't want, and they really don't want other people buying for them. How many men crave another polo shirt or bass printed boxers. You've got to wonder about a guy who wants a Homer Simpson dashboard bobble head. I got a meatballer and a book on pioneer women one year. Believe me it sucks.

Kmart's flyer showed the top of a guys head with cartoon bubbles above containing the most sought after items a Dad could wish for. They were close; an LCD TV, Stainless-steel gas grill, and a Craftsman 18v cordless drill. But as usual, shorts and golf gear were thrown in- at least they didn't suggest a Kmart tie. Linens-n-Things added a 12-pc. BBQ set in a stainless-steel case or a cordless grill brush (a wire brush on a wheel). Yeah, like that's going to work. Your choice for either obvious piece of junk for only $19.99. But who wants a TV from Kmart, or why would you shop at Linens-n-Things for Father's Day?

The real cartoon dream bubbles would be filled with things like Pamela Anderson, riding nasty motorcycles, getting the big promotion handshake, winning at poker, or crossing the Triathlon finish line. They know they'll end up paying for the TV, tools, or Eddie Bauer bocce ball set anyway. It's the stuff they can't buy that they want.

I asked a Dad I know what was the most memorable Father's Day gift he ever got. He couldn't remember any. I asked if any Father's Day celebrations were memorable...nope. So I thought, do I remember anything special I ever bought for my Dad? Nope.

My Dad has been gone 17 years. I really wish I had him back for just one day. I helped clean up his garage and go through his things with my Mom after he died. He had a lot of crap. Two things he kept that hit me were the pictures of my sister and me he carried in his wallet, and my 6 year-old hand print in finger-paint with paper plate frame. The junk is all gone now. It's the things about him I remember, the things we did together like ride horses, go on his rickety boat, and share banana splits.

Last weekend we played sloshball (yeah, running the bases with beer in hand) with an assortment of people at least 20 years younger. They couldn't believe we liked hanging out with them. That Dad I know, manned the keg at 2nd base, climbed the backstop, and made friends with everyone. He was amazing. The fact that he was invited, enjoyed, and had so much fun won't be forgotten. So, forget the boxers, gadgets, and beer mugs. Go make a memory instead.

Worry, Shmorry

I am going to become a Jewish Mother. Yes, the stereotypical kind. It would relieve me of pretending I don't feel the way I do most of the time. JM's get away with everything; complaining, kvetching, (oops maybe complaining and kvetching are the same thing,) punctuating every instance with melting drama, bossing, worrying, and backseat driving, to name a few.

"Why don't you call your mother?" I'd say just looking at a picture of my children. I'd drop obvious hints about any little concern I might have over their relationships. I could get away with demanding every holiday, birthday or special occasion be at my house. Like the wave of a wand, guilty pleasures would be turned into pleasure guilt, with a mere roll of my eyes.

Health conscientiousness would be a specialty. Chicken soup is just the first course, when you've got the bigger family issues of closet smoking, sleep deprivation, sleep desperation, and all the other unmentionable overindulgences. I'd lovingly spoon the most intuitive JM remedies, sweetened with a select dose of advice, right down their throats. "You'll thank me later," I'd say.

Carrying on like Mrs. Castanza over an argument with my spouse even once, would be unbelievably transcendent. GPS? Put me in the car and throw out that pitiful map quest print-out, and insanely stubborn errant sense of direction. I wouldn't be bullied by those threats of directional finger amputation. Ha!

Here's a good JM joke...Know why it took Moses 40 years to get the Israelites out of the desert? Because he wouldn't ask for directions!

JM's don't get scolded for bragging about their children, mentioning how much (or how little) money someone makes, or comparing themselves better than the "Jones's." It's expected. You can rely on the fact that a JM will fight like a mother bear over threatend cubs if someone belittles her darlings.

Fortunately becoming a Jewish Mother doesn't entail the same "a-hem" circumspect torture it would to become a Jewish father. Oy vey! But I refuse to gain any more weight, grow chin stubble, or let my dye job go any brighter red. I do like the JAP idea, but then I digress into another stereotype. I'd really just settle for being- Drama Queen for a Day. Win all it's consolation prizes, wrap myself in the luxury of demanding and directing everyone's life, and then eat a brisket with all the carb-filled trimmings! Diamond earrings thrown in would be good too.

Dead Man's Hill

When you're 10 years-old riding your sister's (too big for you) bike, taking Dead Man's Hill strikes an Al Qiada terror in your soul. Raking up at a sheer 85 degrees, with bumps, turns, and patch of gravel at the end challenged even the toughest hot dog bikers on the block. The show-offs would ride it like a roller coaster, standing on their pedals, with no hands, and shirts filled with air like the Michelin Man.

My sister was a sissy, what you'd call a major wuss in this era. She'd walk her beloved bike, which she gloated about, down it's almost double distance of a regular city block. It was the fastest way to get to the park entrance where the popcorn wagon parked during the summer. She gloated because she had a bike, and I walked. It was rare to ever see anyone make it back to the top without walking. So it didn't matter, up or down, there was always somebody facing the challenge of Dead Man's Hill, especially if you wanted a snow cone.

Now, I was no wuss. In fact, I rode shotgun (literally) on the back of one the biggest show-offs bike one time. He had a pump action bee-bee gun we loaded with dirt clods, which I shot at the wanna-be bullies of the neighborhood. A sport I wouldn't recommend if you don't want to be jumped and pummeled with water balloons. My charade as Calamity Jane was more to win the attentions of my Wild Bill. It worked for some 10 year-old kissing in the bushes and a few snow cones. But, back to the hill.

My sister, of all people, had taken the hill that summer. We couldn't believe it. She wouldn't ride on a sled, never put on a pair of roller skates, or even attempt the little kids merry-go-round at the park. Her having a bike instead of me was a waste. However, we're not really sure what happened. The story goes that some big kids were chasing her and a friend. The only escape was down Dead Man's Hill. Maybe they thought they wouldn't be followed when they took the curve to Hell. Some people tried a fast start and breaking half way down, but it was never a good plan.

So, there I was- hand grips slippery with sweat, unnaturally clammy for the middle of August, and Dead Man's between me, a cherry snow cone, and Wild Bill. I was going to take it. "Go slow, coast with intermittent braking at least half way, then take it easy until the curve, keep from skidding on the gravel, avoid the dip, and ride across the finish line in glory."

The big green Schwin rattled as I hoisted myself up on the seat. Once perched I couldn't reach the ground so it was all or nothing. The fenders and my heart pounded over each crack in the sidewalk. The speed picked up. Coasting got faster. I pictured myself standing on the pedals. "No- that would be suicide, don't even think of letting go of the handlebars!" Breaking, "don't skid, don't skid. Look ahead." I see my sister's face, white with panic. She was standing at the curve. She raised her arms. The sling on her cast looked like a flag at the finish line.

"No, she shouted, slow down. You're going to kill yourself." The gap between her chipped teeth appeared as she said the word "kill." The basket on the old green Schwin bounced so hard it flew right off. I dipped to one side to avoid running over it with my back tire. I began wobbling. The gravel only 10 yards away. There was the phone pole that gave my sister the gap in her grin and I was heading straight for it.

"All or nothing, what's next?" The end was just past the gravel and around the bend. I got up on the pedals. It probably looked like typical show-off stuff, but it was a power break move on my part. My blouse filled with air. I let up, skiddless through the gravel and then felt my hands slide off the wet grips and catch the wind. The big green Schwin rolled me past the phone pole and my sister's dumb struck face in slow motion. The sling went down on my finish line.

Dead Man's hill was mine!