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update: 12.01.02

For Katie.

Katie is moving to England tomorrow! I really can't believe it. Is all that gone forever? Sniff!

I'm gonna miss ya, babe, even if you do get on my nerves 99% of the time. But I'm glad you're doing this.

First Piece of Advice:
Moving to a new place is hard as hell and I should know. After living in six states and one district and never going to the same school twice, I'm an expert. It will be even harder for you since you've never lived outside of the DC metropolitan area. So give it time. Getting settled won't be easy and you should expect that.

Second Piece of Advice:
Don't move to Kentucky.

A few memories:
Getting stoned..."If I had all of your only five dollars"...two scandalous nights of sex...piling into your heaterless car with half of Montgomery County and clubbing through DC...PIA 113..."Do you want the plant, Katie?"...Resident Evil, Tomb Raider, Final Fantasy and years of Playstation games...WOOOOSH!..."I think I'll start a paper route right now!" and other silly quotes...your infamous date at the Four P's..."Sir. Sir! SIR?!"...cleaning Kara's room while she was away...Chinese New Year celebrations..."You're a maniac! You're insane! You're a mani-"...watching Bert dangle Kara over the bed...Movie Days...Epic and Sistas in Crime...setting off the metal detector at the airport while fucked up...swallowing cigarette wrappers in the midst of acts..."I'M NOT YOUR CAVEWOMAN!!"...all the coasters I dragged you on...scary, scary drug runs...cigarettes outside Giant and the Parklawn...Sarah: "Where's the water?!"...our trip to Canada...West Virginia and "The club was packed!"...all those steak and cheese sandwiches with Nick...fighting, arguing, wrestling, and beating..."By the way, Katie, I found your-"...singing those damned songs and being bitter when one knew the words and the other didn't...and Jill in general.

Twelve years of friendship and all I can come up with is a high school Last Will and Testament? Maybe I'd better just say so long and good luck!

Love,

.::Rob::.

And one final thing:
"I'm the Mary!"

update: 12.03.02

Therapeutic activities for the modern man...via blee bloo blar BLOG

On Saturday, I realized both that I am a nut and also where it all began. And if you can't guess who's going to take the blame for this, you haven't been ghettopimpin very long.

It was early in the afternoon and I was poring over C++ code for stacks when my mother called to tell me that a woman would be stopping by to pick up an antique. I spent the rest of the day tense and agitated, waiting for this presumptive stranger to invade my space. Am I the only one who dreads a knock on the door and who wants to tiptoe behind the curtains when it finally comes? My heart races and I suppress an urge to hide in the closet. There must have been a point years ago when I smoked that fateful blunt that sent me over the edge and into paranoia.

Nor is this my sole phobia. I also dislike heights. Whenever I see someone in a movie clinging to a narrow ledge, my hands sweat and I look away from the screen. I also feel uncomfortable in large crowds and, therefore, dislike movie theaters, concerts, parties and shopping malls. I loathe the ocean and see nothing enjoyable about the beach. I would have to be sedated before boarding an airplane and I have a 12-gauge beside my bed for that phantom prowler planning to burgle my house late one night.

I'm not so badly off, though, because I am able to control myself in uncomfortable situations. I don't get carried away. But you take my mother--she just lets herself go. Her oft-discussed mania for redecorating rooms and moving heavy furniture (recently one of the pianos was temporarily moved onto the porch--and who temporarily moves a piano?) are only the beginning. She also manufactures situations that call for hysterics and engages in reactionary behavior entirely inappropriate to the circumstance.

For example, while crossing the Niagara River Gorge a few years ago we became entangled in a bit of traffic and came to a stop on a bridge hundreds of feet above the turbulent water. My mother panicked. Shivering and sweating, she threatened to leap off the structure if we didn't get moving. I guess that would solve the problem of being trapped high in the air, but it seems like a Pyrrhic victory to me.

She may also suffer from tinnitus. No matter the vehicle, while on the road she hears all sorts of whistles, chirps and pings coming from the engine. "What's that noise?" she'll question ominously, with outstretched arms. We're all shamed into silence as she listens intently. "Have you had your oil changed recently? Are your tires sound? I just know we're going to be stranded along the road here any minute!"

During Darren's visit, the combination of a televised tornado warning and a sudden gust of wind sent her scurrying to the basement hollering "Take cover!" Darren and I were in the midst of cocktails and ignored her advice but when she shouted "John, get the dog and get down here!" we snickered.

In another weather-related incident, the family was just getting in my Jeep after closing the mall when a storm swept through Shelbyville. Now, my mother has a fear of lightning. But rather than waiting calmly for the storm to pass, she leapt from the vehicle and ran screaming down the sidewalk and back into the store. All it lacked in histrionics was hair-pulling, teeth-gnashing and a pack of ravenous bloodhounds at her heels.

Is this what I have to look forward to in twenty years? Should I invest in Lithium before it's too late?

.::Rob::.

update: 12.05.02

I'm sure everyone has seen the Martha Stewart Holiday Calendar by now, but 'tis the season.

"Robert, are you coming to the party on Saturday?"

Thus questioned my mother after I groggily made my way upstairs this morning. Having survived the adventure of cooking for twelve on Thanksgiving, she is off on her next adventure. This week's scheme is a Christmas party for the dealers at her antique mall. All seventy-five of them. The menu for this fete stretches for pages and her to do list is exact to the minute.

Sue's To Do List
5:00
Wake up. Shower and Dress.
5:30
Vacuum, rather than sweep, hardwood floors
5:45
Slam cabinet doors and crash dishes
5:50
Fight with Robert about all the commotion
5:55
Say "I just have so much to get done!" while standing completely motionless
6:00
Let Waterbug (one of her cats) out
6:02
Let Waterbug in
6:04
Let Waterbug out
6:06
Let Waterbug in
6:08
Say "This cat is driving me crazy!"
6:10
Let Waterbug out
6:15
Sort laundry -- turn on every light in the basement to do so
6:30
Fight with Robert about all the lights being on
6:35
Say "You don't understand, I just have so much to get done!"
6:40
Go back upstairs, leaving basement door open so Robert can hear you letting Waterbug in and out
6:45
Endlessly pace the floors until it sounds like the Kentucky Derby is being run through the living room
7:00
While pacing, discover random worrisome problems and comment loudly on them (i.e., "Where did this water come from?" or "Is that a crack in the foundation?")
7:10
Holler "John!" several hundred times. Have him move piano back into position
7:15
Shake the dog into consciousness and drag her outside for a walk even though she is roughly two hundred and no longer digests anything at all
7:20
Vacuum the dirt that has accumulated since the last vacuuming
7:30
Try to connect to the online banking service
7:32
Scream down the stairs for Robert to come and help you
7:34
Disregard his comments that you have done this 1,000 times
7:36
Give up in disgust and say "I just can't work with this machine"
7:37
Rather than standing up and leaving the machine, simply turn it off
7:40
Go on a search for allegedly missing eye cream. Turn the house upside down to do so
7:50
Find eye cream exactly where it always is
7:55
Loudly comment "I'm almost out of eye cream!"
8:00
Sharply criticize Robert for waking up grumpy

I could go on, but you get the idea. Needless to say, she will be handling this party without me. Although she'll undoubtedly end up bullying my stepfather into doing her bidding, I'm sure I can find some schoolbooks that urgently need studying.

.::Rob::.

update: 12.07.02

Fantasy Soaps: How about Marlena tells John "You were never that good in bed"?

(Cue music) Like sands through the hour glass...

I was sitting in a large common room at school with the LQ, the NSLQ, the Sex Goddess and several others, reviewing material that would be covered on a quiz that afternoon. In spite of his academic shortcomings, the LQ at least tries to pay attention during our study sessions. The Sex Goddess, on the other hand, concentrates exclusively on lining her lips, reapplying mascara in the Tammy Faye style and flipping her stringy hair--anything but the boredom of hearing about a billion people living in absolute poverty.

The Sex Goddess:
Now what did you say institutional sexism was?
Rob:
That's when-
The Sex Goddess:
(Interrupts, having already forgotten the question)
How do you know all this?!
Rob:
Well-
The Sex Goddess:
(Overhears a news report on the television in the lounge)
You know what I don't understand?
Rob:
What's that?
The Sex Goddess:
If the economy is so bad and people are poor, why doesn't the government just print more money?

I only know enough about economics to be startled by such a naive question, but I tried to explain the concept to her. Though she gave me her undivided attention, it just wasn't working.

Rob:
Let's break it down like this. The money you're carrying around has no inherent value, right? It's symbolic.
The Sex Goddess:
What's "inherent?"
Rob:
Well, it means it has no value on its own. It's just paper. For example, a piece of gold is inherently valuable but paper isn't.

She paused dramatically, lipliner poised in the corner of her pouting mouth, and stared blankly at me. Meanwhile, the LQ was pointing into the book and mouthing "Mal-thu-sian Theory." I could see I was getting nowhere and searched wildly for an analogy the Sex Goddess could understand. Suddenly, inspiration!

Rob:
Let's say your boyfriend owned a jewelry store.
The Sex Goddess:
(Suddenly attentive)
Right, right.
Rob:
And let's assume he has a hundred diamonds in it.
The Sex Goddess:
Right, right.
Rob:
Now, say he has a hundred cards printed up saying "This card is good for one free diamond at Boyfriend's Jewelry Store."
The Sex Goddess:
Right, right.
Rob:
These cards have no value of their own, right? They're just paper. But what they stand for is worth something.
The Sex Goddess:
Right, right.
Rob:
So now let's say he goes around town like a stud, giving these things out and then runs out. What's he gonna do? He can't get no more play! So he has a hundred more cards printed--but since there aren't any more diamonds, they have no value.
The Sex Goddess:
Oh, now I understand!

Satisifed, she turned back to the books while I wondered "Is that how it actually works?" It didn't matter. The Sex Goddess suddenly heard the theme from Days of Our Lives playing and knocked us all over in a mad dash to the television. It was like that movie The Time Machine where the Morlocks summon the docile Aryans to dinner by playing weird music. Meanwhile, the LQ had moved on to mouthing "So-ror-al poly-gyny."

Incredible.

.::Macdonald Carey::.

update: 12.10.02

Sisters are doin' it for themselves.

On the dinner party front:

I'm sure the invasion of Normandy was less orchestrated than my mother's Christmas party. The woman has become obsessive. For Saturday's soiree, she created a map detailing the position of the tables in the room and the coordinates of each dish on them. Next, she reached into her bag of tricks and produced individual To-Do lists for the help. I alone was dumbfounded when they were handed out. As the compliant crew scurried off to do her bidding, she surveyed the scene like a military commander; her busy minions were everywhere, heating crepes, spreading tableclothes and fighting the good fight.

Meanwhile, according to the Lawrenceburg Local:

"The Sassy O'l Souls of the First Baptist Church journeyed to Nashville No. 21-22 and spent the night at the Opryland Hotel. Enroute they visited the Corvette Museum at Bowling Green, lunched at the Scoreboard, toured Fantasy in Ice and visited the Arts and Crafts Fair at the hotel.

"The evening festivities included dinner and the Linda Davis show and Christmas Spectacular with the Rockettes. Homeward bound they enjoyed a tour of Nashville and shopping at the Opry Mills Complex. Those attending were..." etc.

My, my, those seniors certainly are sassy. I mean, Linda Davis (who?!) and the Rockettes all in one night? Madness. Still, I have to imagine my mother coordinating their next adventure. I'm sure she could slash any luxuries of time from the itinerary, allowing them to blanket the South faster than General Sherman himself.

.::Rob::.

update: 12.12.02

If I spent the semester posing for drunks.com, I could be frantic just about now too.

It's the the week before final exams and University of Kentucky students are in a collective tizzy. A semester of partying has led to the need for all-night cramming sessions for some, but my status of Ubergeek protects me from such worries. I am as prepared to discuss Durkheim's concepts of Mechanical Solidarity as I am to find volumes created by solids of revolution or to generate C++ code on the fly. Exams ain't no thang.

Far more worrisome is the office Christmas party. It's taking place during Exam Week and, although I have two tests early Wednesday morning, I planned on joining everyone at the restaurant afterwards. Unfortunately, a party signup sheet was placed in the kitchen and my name was conspicuously absent from it.

Before going further, I shall dicuss the hierarchy of the Medical Society. Four out of five employees have highly-important titles: there is the CEO (whom we've discussed), an Exchange Manager (Vicky), a Credentialing Manager (Tina), a Web Manager (guess who) and a secretary (Sona). The Exchange itself, where the doctor paging service is "headquartered," is treated as a ghetto and its thirty operators as second-class citizens. Though the two groups share just a little over 1,000 square feet of office space, they are highly stratified.

So:

"Vicky, may I come to the Christmas party?"

"It's really only for Exchange employees, Robert."

Never mind that I was an Exchange employee for over a year; never mind that I still work for the damned Medical Society; never mind that I am friends with everyone in the Exchange. Due to a titled dimwit eyeing a technicality, Robert is not invited to the office Christmas party.

But I'm not embittered. I have agreed to meet Tubby on the 21st and my mother probably has something in the works as well. My life is one party after another.

Nevertheless, I plan to crash the Exchange's Christmas bash. Stay tuned.

.::Rob::.

update: 12.14.02

My friend Joe, the witty, intelligent and "glacially cool" Canadian accessibility expert, has sent me an inscribed copy of his book Building Accessible Websites. It is as engaging, informative and amusing as the author himself and is likely to be one of the most entertaining texts on HTML ever produced. I highly recommend it. Where else will you find such jewels as:

I suppose this is as good a time as any to broach the intractable philosophical distinction between usability and accessibility. Certainly, thousands of Gitanes have suffered smouldering deaths as bands of intellectuals, wearing dramatic rectangular eyeglasses and sporting just the right handbags and mock turtlenecks, spend countless hours debating the fine gradations of difference between one discipline and the other. (Can you imagine being stuck at the adjoining table, forced to listen?) (Clark 141)

But maybe my opinion isn't worth much; after all, I also recommend this letter to the editor of the Lawrenceburg Local:

"Watch out Lawrenceburg, our animal is back.

"I call this person an animal because a human wouldn't do this. I put a statue of Jesus' head on my mother's grave last November for her birthday. It was taken off her grave one week before her birthday this year.

"My mother, Beulah H[.], was the best person anyone could ever meet. When she was here on earth, she would give you her last dollar if you needed it. But yet people would always steal from my mom and dad.

"Don't you think she went through enough when she was alive? Leave her alone and let her rest in peace. How can you lie down and sleep at night in peace knowing you had to drop so low to steal from the dead? Don't you know that you will burn in Hell?

Tina H[.]
Salvisa"

Certainly no one would argue that graverobbing is a lowly occupation but after reading this, I fell out. While enjoying her fervor over the eighth commandment, Tina gurl overlooked the second.

.::Rob::.

update: 12.17.02

Having nothing to do with anything: The Ugly Couch Contest.

The week in preview:

The short-sighted Exchange Manager, who denied me access to the office Christmas party, called today to apologize. "Robert," she hollered, "I made a terrible mistake! Do you remember the other day when I told you that you weren't invited to the Christmas party?"

No. I've long forgotten the humiliation and crushing defeat of being the only person in the joint not worthy of five dollar appetizers from a local dive.

"I spoke with Carolyn [the highly-important CEO - ed] and of course you're invited! So we'll see you there, okay? Thanks! Bye!"

Humph. First she tells me I can't come, then she spoils my plans for infiltrating the party and providing an entertaining moment-by-moment account of the break-in for my loyal readers. Don't blame me when all you get is "So I went to the office Christmas party and got drunk."

I also have my exams this week, all of which I will pass with flying colors; at some point, I need to race over to Louisville to pick up a cell phone; and since my parents are going out of town on Thursday, I'll be running the antique mall for the next two weeks. I've threatened to sell the business and abscond with the proceeds. They think I'm joking.

Finally, I have agreed to meet the infamous Tubby for drinks on Saturday. He plans on getting me drunk and then seducing me; boy is he in for a surprise.

.::Rob::.

update: 12.19.02

Don't you love it when dudes date dudes in heels and don't realize it until everything is revealed on Jerry Springer?

Fini

The LQ Saga has come to an end. Though I've lost all interest, I figure I should document the denouement for those of you who care.

First things first - the NSLQ is now hopelessly devoted to me. He is probably doodling my name in his notebooks as we speak. He follows me from one end of school to another. I'm thinking of having my Ubergeek status tattooed on my forearm so there can be no further embarrassing moments such as the one that occurred the other day. Imagine a tall, large dude attempting to be demure and flirtatious. We're talking batting eyes, twirling hair and breathlessly asking "Will you skip class and come to my house?"

But that is only an ego-gratifying aside. Last Thursday, I met the LQ and others in the library for what I decided was to be the final study session. I am tired of whisking up and down the Bluegrass Parkway to explain simple concepts to people who haven't read the chapter. Besides, the only interesting development was when the LQ announced that he'd be visiting his girlfriend over the weekend.

"Girlfriend?!"

Yes, that's what he said and, no, "she" doesn't live in Canada. My eyes rolled through an arc as I surpressed a chuckle. Half an hour later, we all went our separate ways. Since then, the NSLQ and the LQ have called several times to see if I'll be hanging out with them when they celebrate the end of the semester on Thursday night. I've been vague and noncommital.

The story does have a happy ending, however: it seems I've graduated from chasing straight boys to chasing gay boys who think they're straight. Things are looking up! In another few years I might be able to maintain an interest in an actual homosexual. Imagine that!

.::Rob::.

update: 12.21.02

I finished my last exam on Thursday afternoon. Only one gave me trouble and that was Calculus. My professor designed pages of diabolical questions to tax the pre-engineering brain. We were expected to not only demonstrate an awareness of the sundry mathematical concepts we have been exposed to all semester but then apply them to complex and terrifying problems. The audacity!

The most horrifying example involved the first, second and third derivatives of a dreaded trigonometic function, somehow tied in to the position of a hurtling falcon. Actually, that was easy; the one I really hated was "Find the maximum area of a rectangle that can be inscribed in the ellipse defined by x^2 + y^2 = 16." Who am I, Euclid? This ain't Geometry! Fortunately, I passed. (Passed, right. Who am I kidding?)

When I got home, I bid adieu to my parents who were leaving on an antique-buying excursion through the Deep South. Packing two weeks worth of clothing, recipes and food along with a white cat named Lucy, they boarded my stepfather's pride and joy, their thirty-nine foot motor home, and roared down the hill. I am blissfully alone. "Do a little dance! Make a little love! Get down tonight!"

The next day, I attended the office Christmas party without having to sneak in. I had some fun with the Exchange Manager too. When she shouted "Merry Christmas!" at me I said, "Thanks, but I'm Jewish." She became flustered and looked around the table for support. After finishing my Mahi Mahi, I opened my Chanukah present; forty dollars and a tool set. (Shades of Reconstruction) Now to fly out and install those "twenty inch rims sitting crazy-low" on Bubba!

Finally, tonight is the ordeal of dinner with Tubby. Now, I've never been on a date date before and I don't know that this qualifies since I have no romantic intentions. All I want is Indian food. That said, I was a bit dismayed when I woke up with a zit on my face. I am over thirty after all. What is this, My So-Called Life?

.::Rob::.

update: 12.24.02

I wanted to have a good time during my "date" with Tubby and I did. He, however, seemed less pleased with the experience. Whereas I was relaxed and at ease (knowing beforehand that sex isn't an issue has that effect), he seemed to be trying hard. He knew I wasn't interested; maybe that's why his remarks were all designed to "take [me] down a peg."

Tubby:
You like my cowboy boots?
Rob:
Nah, but I'm not really into western wear.
Tubby:
Well, look at you, you're a wigger! It doesn't matter, though. Everyone still knows you're a big fag.
Rob:
Oh, I agree. I'm a big fag. And you dive every night.

Silence.

Tubby:
Let's go to Best Buy so I can buy Queens of Comedy
Rob:
Alright.
Tubby:
Turn on some country music!
Rob:
Hell no!
Tubby:
By the way, you have terrible taste in movies. That Reee-qwime for a Dream was so bad.
Rob:
What would you recommend then?
Tubby:
Oh, I don't know. I liked Happy Gilmore a lot.

Silence.

Tubby:
You're too damn pale. You need to get some sun.
Rob:
Shall I go to the tanning salon with you?
Tubby:
No, you should go to the leather bar with me. Like right now. Let's go!
Rob:
I don't feel like hearing Cher.
Tubby:
Whatever. You're not man enough to go in there. You know you'd get your ass kicked.
Rob:
Don't you mean fisted?
Tubby:
It's too early anyway. It doesn't really get going until ten o'clock.
Rob:
Ten?! Amateurs.

Now, Tubby also spent the entire time cruising every male in the vicinity under twenty-five, via ridiculous comments ("Ooh, Mama wants some of that!") and bugging eyes. It was like being out with Thyroid Mary. I finally asked him to stop and, predictably, he accused me of jealousy.

"No, I'm not. It's just dumb."

I suppose, however, that, as Grace Jones once cautioned, I'm not perfect. To give you an accurate idea of what an evening on the town with me is like, consider this; I insisted we go to the bookstore, then flew to the math section, pulled out a copy of Advanced Calculus and inundated the hapless Tubby with beautiful equations. Meanwhile, he eyed a queen reading Power Muscle and paid no attention.

The finale came when he tried to kiss me goodnight. I was the model of a Victorian spinster about to be ravished, shouting "No, no, let me go!" During the drive home I thought about my motives for going out with Tubby. Did I really just want to have a little fun or did I think I should be out dating? I'm not sure. But I'm thinking of retirement--I doubt I'll be doing that again.

.::Rob::.

update: 12.27.02

We all have plenty of time to lay about watching movies during the holiday season, so why not take a gander at Star Trek: Exeter...via Joe.

I hope everyone has had or will have a nice holiday. I was looking forward to spending the week blissfully alone since the parents were out of town, but my mother decided it was some kind of a heresy for the family to be apart on Christmas. Therefore, they roared up the driveway on Christmas Eve like conquering heroes. Being a close-knit familia, we did exactly what we always do...but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Christmas morning dawned and I rushed upstairs to rampage through my gifts. Then I remembered that I'm an old man who only accepts cash and decided to brush my teeth instead. Meanwhile, my mother was busy in the kitchen, stirring together a big ol' country breakfast: eggs, grits, hashbrowns, fried potatoes, sausage, applebutter, biscuits and gravy...

As my stepfather straightened the living room, I watched television. Within a very few minutes I was mesmerized by an infomercial featuring an exciting new product: the Roomba! This tiny robotic device glides silently about, vacuuming pet hair and cleaning pesky spills while you catch up on Jane Austen. Now, at that very moment my stepfather stood vacuuming beside the television, completing one half of a live-action before and after advertisement; while I watched him sweat over the chore in 3D, this tiny machine effortlessly performed the same task on TV. My cranky reserve was worn away and I gave in to Christmas consumerism. "I want a Roomba!" I cried.

Ignoring me, my mother sat breakfast on the table, "Come and get it!" she said and the Roomba was quickly forgotten in the excitement of grits swimming with butter. After gobbling down our breakfast, we shared a few minutes of conversation over coffee. Suddenly, my mother looked concerned and said "I'm worried about poor Lucy! She's all alone out in that motor home!"

Lucy is the adopted kitten found outside my mother's antique mall and recently dragged along on my parent's Southern pilgrimage. She was quarantined in the motor home because we don't want her exposed to the feline leukemia one of our cats in the house carries. Though Lucy was lounging contently, free of annoying customers patting at her, this simply wouldn't do. Even though she came all the way back from Alabama to spend Christmas with me, my mother braved the snow to "check on" Lucy, then took up residence in the motor home for the rest of the afternoon and kept her company. My stepfather retired to the living room to watch a ballgame and I moved between the basement and the computer.

As predicted, we ended up in three separate rooms on Christmas.

.::Rob::.

update: 12.30.02

With a road trip and a new year looming before me, I suppose now is as good a time as any to admit a harrowing secret: whenever I'm away from my mother and Kentucky for a little while I get homesick. Now that I've told you that, I'll have to kill you.

I spend so much time (affectionately!) making fun of her that I figure she is owed at least one post that lists her many redeeming qualities. So, though she irritates me 59 minutes out of 60, here is an Ode to my Mother:

She has never passed a person stranded on the side of the road whom she didn't turn around to help. This includes the sort of scoundrels and ruffians that make my hair stand on end. Though I applaude her good intentions, I hope she never does this when I'm not with her.

She has never let a homeless animal go without food and actively tries to adopt them all. Again, I applaude her intentions but I am also sick of changing cat litter for our ever-expanding menagerie. "The smell! I can't take it!" she says. Like I can't get enough of it.

She has befriended every freakish character in Shelbyville. She gives them carte blanche to stomp through her store while she, like any good Southern woman, just smiles and says "Bless their heart!" Recently, however, one of them was involved in a scandal: another customer allegedly "saw" one her favorites steal a Star Wars figurine. Though there is no solid evidence, my mother is adept at handling these situations, so we'll see what she does.

Despite growing up on a backwoods farm in West Virginia, she treats everyone equally. When a customer asks if they can Jew me down on a price and I say "I guess so since I'm Jewish," she plays along. And if some hillbilly makes an off-color remark about blacks, her mouth will open before mine. A lot of people have to excuse their parents behavior when it comes to dealing with different races and ethnicities but I don't.

She's got street smarts, works incredibly hard and has always been successful in business. In Miami, she was vice president of a nationwide insurance company and now she has started her own antique mall and is very successful at it as well. Not only am I proud of her but I'm also the heir to the RR Antique Mall fortune! Woo-ho! Now to laze about on a trust fund for the rest of my life...

I have eaten at many fine restaurants and can honestly say that my mother can cook as well, if not better than, any chef whose food I have ever tasted. She has a sort of inate ability to improvise in the kitchen and is fluent in every genre. My expanding waistline is testament to her ability to produce delicious Southern, Italian, Indian and even Haute Cuisine (chitterlings!) dishes with no strain a'tall. Whenever I'm perishing for some victuals, she can whip up a plate of something out of nothing more than chicken stock and ditalini. This is truly her gift.

I love my ma!

.::Rob::.