Odds and Ends

 Ms. Roberts

starbios.tripod.com/julia

Mrs. Linklater would like to congratulate Julia Roberts and her husband, Danny Moder Roberts, on the birth of their twins, who may or may not have been conceived with the aid of marital devices. She would also like to ask what drugs Ms. Roberts and her spouse were on when they decided to name the babies Hazel and Phinnaeus. 

Over the holiday, Mrs  L discovered that a longtime friend cancelled Thanksgiving two days before his family was to gather for their annual turkey meal.  Apparently he was at the grocery store, carrying a gigantic bird and three pounds of butter to the checkout lane, when it suddenly bothered him that his family wasn't acting like a family should act anymore. [Is there a book of rules that covers these things?]

So, he asked himself, why should he go to all the trouble of cooking for these ungrateful people? [Mothers everywhere are shaking their heads.] His one son had neglected to tell him he'd dropped out of school. His younger daughter, her husband, and their baby were living with him, but he rarely saw them. And his other son had the nerve to spend the holiday with his girlfriend. The only bright spot in all this was that his ex-wife and her boyfriend were bringing the rolls.

Mrs. Linklater figures that any family where only one kid becomes a dropout and forgets to tell you, where the married kids try to live their own lives, and former spouses are not only invited, but can bring their new boyfriends to dinner, can't be all bad.  So she hopes the Christmas holidays go better.

Mrs. Linklater's older daughter had a busy Thanksgiving weekend in Nevada.  Her future brother-in-law announced over turkey that he and his fiance would be getting married the next day. Luckily Las Vegas is prepared for such decisions. Although the happy couple didn't choose the Elvis package. And there was an engagement party for the future sister in law the day after that. Mrs. Linklater is overjoyed when hope triumphs over reality. 

www.images.encarta.msn.com

Mrs. Linklater's younger daughter called to say that she and her boyfriend celebrated Thanksgiving inLondon with other similarly transplanted Americans on Sunday.  Turkey and everything.  So, even though she had to go to work with the rest of the Brits last Thursday, she enjoyed a bit of U S of A over the weekend.Makes Mrs. L want to stand up and sing the national anthem. Or maybe America the Beautiful, because that one doesn't have all those high notes. 

Today is a travel day for Mrs. L.  But she has all day to prepare. Years ago she developed a phobia for early flights after getting up on way too many Mondays at 4:00AM [which would have to be 3:00 these days] to catch the 6:00AM to Smalltown, USA, to be on time for 9:00 AM client meetings.  She was in re-hab for several years.

Now she can phone it, fax it, or email it in during the day. And enjoy the luxury of a leisurely stop at curbside check-in, a short line at security, and nobody sitting next to her on the plane. At night.

The rest of the world should be so low maintenance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patrick's Saturday Six

To play, you can either answer the questions in a comment at Patrick's Place [see Other Journals], or put the answers in an entry in your journal, but either way, leave a link to your journal so that everyone else can visit.

1. How long do your Thanksgiving leftovers usually last, and what's the first non-Thanksgiving item you begin to crave when you tire of turkey?

I never tire of turkey.  I will cook one up for no reason at all except that I feel like having turkey.  But you didn't ask that. This year I don't have any leftovers, because I was invited to someone else's house.  So I may go home and make some, since the best part of Thanksgiving is going to the refrigerator and carving more meat off the bird.  Usually my leftovers last about four days.  Gravy a little less, because I will put gravy on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, if left unrestrained.

The one thing I start to crave is steak.  Or a chocolate malt.

2. Of the following, which would you most prefer to be located in:

a) Interstate highway traffic jam

b) Slow-moving checkout line

c) Dentist's chair

Since sitting in traffic is as much fun as getting a root canal and waiting in line is as delightful as gum surgery, I choose the dentist's chair.  Why? Because I really like to have my teeth cleaned.  I have actually fallen asleep during the procedure.  I don't mind drilling either because they have DRUGS that numb your mouth, tongue, lips, cheeks, nose, and anything else that may come into contact with dental machinery.  Next to waiting in traffic and a long line, the dentist's chair is heaven. And I think I'm the only one who feels that way.

The only thing I don't care for at the dentist are the x-rays.  There's something unpleasant about the feel of a dry cardboard square placed in a metal holder and jammed into my mouth, followed by pressing a pointy corner of it against my gum until it bleeds. And holding that pose for a very long time. BLECH.

3.  What is at the top of your personal Christmas gift wish list this year.

That we no longer exchange gifts but give our money to charity. Then instead of opening presents, we can go around to each person who then shares the names of the charities they donated to and the work those charities do.

4. What improvement would you most like to see added to AOL's Journal software?

One?  I only get ONE improvement? I don't think so!!!  Improve the font selection.  Make it easier to upload pictures.  Fix the counter so it doesn't revert to zero for no apparent reason.  Make it so we can cut and paste from WORD without code showing up everywhere.  JUST FIX IT ALL!!

5. What seasonal movies do you most look forward to this time of year?

One of my brothers and I have had a family tradition of watching The Little Mermaid on December 23rd.  It started the year I bought it as a gift for my kids.  That was the same year he starting helping me wrap presents for them.  So we put it on and found ourselves singing along as we cut and measured the paper.  The next year, we did the same thing.  And sang even louder as we tied the bows and put things under the tree.  Then we continued to watch it even when my children went to college -- no doubt to get away from the singing -- and just never stopped.  Second place is anything from Pixar. 

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #33 from TARA:  What is your favorite classic 80's video game?

I didn't grow up on video games.  The only one I ever played was Pac Man.  So I don't have a favorite, I only have an only.  However, I have watched people play all of the latest violent, sexual, scary stuff on the most high-tech equipment money can buy and never EVER felt a moment's inclination to join them.

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Day Assignment

Scalzi's weekend assignment #36 is here.  He's got a mug full of $70 or so in change and he wants us to tell him what to do with it.  Extra Credit: Show a picture of your own penny jar/mug/box/drawer.

Since it's Thanksgiving, might as well load up on Tums, Xantac and Pepto Bismol.  Or use the change to drive back and forth on the Toll Road.  You can see Mrs. Linklater is not very inspired by this particular assignment.

However, Scalzi also mentioned that today's the day when it's possible for one's caloric intake to exceed the GNP, so Mrs. Linklater has decided HER weekend assignment will be to track how much food she eats before going to bed tonight.  So here goes:

10:45 AM -- ten red, seedless grapes plucked from their stems out of the refrigerator -- boy were they sweet and crunchy.

11: 15 AM -- one English muffin toasted, spread with leftover hollandaise sauce -- you read that right

1:08 PM -- one clementine

2:03 PM -- ten more grapes -- they are really good

. . .to be continued

4:00 PM -- traffic sucks, but finally get to destination for turkey day celebration

4:01 PM -- start sipping a tonic and lime -- but without the lime

4:32 PM -- eat one crab and one asparagus canape

4:37 PM -- try three slices of summer sausage after dipping it in horseradish sauce

4:42 PM -- try a wedge of mysterious imported cheese, try a second wedge

4:46 PM -- lose the paper I was writing down all my food intake on

4:50 PM -- find it under the coffee table -- it's a really big coffee table, so I ask one of the kids to crawl under there and retrieve it for me

4:56 PM -- inhale four or five wheat thins with creamy dried tomato spread

5:02 PM -- realize this is really creepy writing all my food down

5:07 PM -- ask someone to pass the canape plate and promptly eat two more crab and two more asparagus canapes

5:15 PM -- gotta have some more of that summer sausage, the horseradish sauce is great

5:28 PM -- two more canapes are gone

6:00 PM -- all the oldest and youngest members of the family are helped to the table and served their dinners 

6:15 PM -- the rest of us hit the buffet

6:16 PM -- there isn't a plate large enough to hold all the food, so I stick to basics, sliced maple basted turkey breast, mashed potatoes, dressing, carrots with leeks, sweet potato casserole, green beans and a wonderful maple flavored mushroom gravy

6:20 PM -- sit down and realize there was no cranberry sauce, rats

6:50 PM -- cell phone rings, one of my children calling, take the call in another room

7:00 PM -- get seconds of turkey, mashed potatoes and that wonderful gravy, then realize afterward that I'm really full

7:30 PM -- everyone moves to the living room to recover

7:45 -- discussion begins about who wants coffee with dessert, not me

7:58 PM -- wedges of pumpkin and apple pie with whipped cream or ice cream begin arriving, but I decline

8:15 PM -- someone brings out some chocolate coated butter brickle and I have a one inch square

11:00 PM -- arrive back at house where I'm staying and eat 15 red seedless grapes

All in all, not as bad as I thought it would be. It helps that Mrs. Linklater rarely drinks.  

But anyone who thinks I've passed up the pie, think again.  I was too full to have it tonight. I'm having it for breakfast in the morning.

Along with some grapes.

As for the extra credit picture of her own jar of pennies -- that will have to wait until Mrs. Linklater gets home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving Essay Contest

 

Judithheartsong’s Artsy Essay Contest is hard this time.  I may not be able to do it. She wants us to write an essay about something funny that happened on Thanksgiving. And I am racking my brain to think of anything about Thanksgiving that has ever made me laugh. That Janet Jackson thing was the Super Bowl. 

 

Having said that, many years ago, during a Thanksgiving trip to my Grandmother’s house in Delaware, my Uncle Bud challenged one of my brothers to a beet-eating contest. All things considered, there is nothing funny about a beet-eating contest, except for the fact that it’s beets. 

 

In lieu of hors d’oeuvres that anyone might recognize, my grandmother used to serve her signature homemade pickled vegetables instead. I call them her “signature” pickled vegetables, because they always had a slightly off flavor which I was convinced came from something she didn’t wash off her hands.

 

In the culinary world, if you serve vegetables fresh, you get to call them crudités. But, when you pickle them – and I don’t care who does it -- they just taste cruddy. Nevertheless, on whatever depression glass plate she had chosen to pile high with strange, vinegary comestibles, Grandma had included beets.  They weren’t sliced or julienned or served in any way suitable for eating. She just put out the whole beet. 

 

The contest sticks out in my mind because my Uncle Bud, a kindly, sober man, wasn’t given to fits of zaniness, so I don’t know what possessed him to challenge my brother to such a bizarre eating contest.  Pies, hot dogs, pizza --those things I can understand. I think of them as food. Beets, not so much.

 

As I recall, the rules were simple. You had to put a whole beet in your mouth and the first one who finished the entire thing won. Sounds easy enough.

 

The only problem with this was, as I said earlier, they were going to eat my grandmother’s homemade pickled beets.  And, if she was proud of anything, it was her ability to grow vegetables and flowers much larger than nature ever intended, thanks to the big bags of fertilizer she spread generously throughout her garden. So the beets I’m referring to were bigger than average beets, which made them a little too big to fit in your mouth comfortably.

 

At this point, I think I should mention that, technically speaking, the beet-eating contest didn’t take place on Thanksgiving. It had to be the day before or the day after.  That’s because my grandmother wasn’t allowed to make Thanksgiving dinner. My mother saw to that.  Grandma was a little too old school for company.  Her idea of cooking was to boil everything.  Until it was dead.  Again.

I actually watched her put a perfectly good five-pound sirloin roast into a big pot, cover it with water and walk away.  I remember lifting the lid and thinking, “No, she didn’t do that.” But she did.  With chicken and pork too.  Luckily for us she didn’t like fish.

 

If Grandma had been allowed to cook the turkey, she would have purchased a live bird, chopped off its head right out back, most likely while we were all eating lunch, showed us the gizzards, and then boiled the hapless bird until it turned to soup.

 

Without fail, she would have served the turkey with her famous green Jello mold. You know the one I’m talking about. Well, your mother does. It is one of our country’s iconic Jello molds, a lasting contribution to American cooking from the fifties, along with the green bean casserole. 

 

Simple to make, all you need is a package of lime Jello, cottage cheese and a can of crushed pineapple. Except that my grandmother, who was a frugal woman, wouldn’t add any of the pineapple to the recipe.  She thought it was too expensive. Besides she figured no one would notice it was missing.  PTUI.

 

So, back at the table, there was that solitary plate of pickled vegetables with two big purple beets sitting on top of everything like Barney’s testicles.I think they had been passed around to everyone a couple of times. But nobody was having any. 

 

For some reason -- boredom, temporary insanity, who knows -- my Uncle Bud said he could eat one of those beets whole.  My brother, who was always ready for any mischief, said he could too.  And the gauntlet was thrown.

 

I was seated across the table from the two of them, so I had a front row seat. Probably not a good thing. As the contest unfolded, I watched Uncle Bud jam one of those behemoth beets into his mouth in one piece and try to eat it.  My brother did the same.

 

In less than a minute, their eyes began to tear up and it was pretty clear this beet thing could get ugly.  Even I was feeling a little nauseous just watching them struggle to get traction on those slippery round orbs.  Every time they would try to bite down, the beet would slip out of their mouths. Or into the back of their throats. 

 

Somehow Uncle Bud cracked the code and began to get chunks off his and slowly worked his beet down to a manageable size.  There was no cheering from the spectators as I recall, just pained expressions of squinty-eyed disgust on the faces of everyone sitting around the table.

 

People tried to avert their eyes, but even if you turned your head sideways, you felt compelled to turn your eyes back to look at the culinary train wreck taking place.

 

The two contestants glared at each other like prizefighters in a staredown, watery eyes and all.  The question on everyone’s mind was -- how soon and how far would the beets get hurled? It was like sitting in the first five rows at a Gallagher show.

 

Somehow, by sheer force of will, because there was nothing else that I could see, Uncle Bud and my brother both managed to finish their beets. The relief I recall on their faces after that last swallow reminds me a little of the Fear Factor contestants. Uncle Bud was just a little faster, so he was declared the winner.  Not that any ribbons or medals were pinned on him.  We all just breathed a sigh of relief that it was finally over and we could get on with the meal.

 

It wasn't a great moment in Thanksgiving history. As moments go, it was more GAG ME. But in retrospect, the complete stupidity of it never fails to make me smile.

 

I don’t know about Uncle Bud, but I do know my brother has never had another beet since that fateful day. Personally, I can't look at one without thinking of Barney. 

 

And every Thanksgiving when we've had a quorum of family members gathered, someone will say, “Remember the beet eating contest?” 

Patrick's Saturday Six

To play you can either answer the questions in a comment at Patrick's Place [see Other Journals], or put the answers in an entry on your journal. But either way, leave a link to your journal so that everyone else can visit!  (And if you're playing for the first time, please be sure to say so in the comment!)  Enjoy!

1. Other than news, sports, editorials and weather, which specific features or columns of the newspaper do you always read?

Advice columns, the more the merrier.  Because they are SOOOO bad they're good. And without them the "Ask Mrs. Linklater" segment of this journal would have to be about home repair, which is not one of her strong suits.  

2.  When do you normally do your Christmas shopping?  Have you started this year's, yet?  Do you intend to spend more, less or the same this year versus last year?

I spend as little time as possible shopping. Thank goodness there's Harry and David, Omaha Steaks, things you can ORDER by phone.  I'm big on gift cards too.  My motto -- the thoughtful gift is just a pain. Fast and easy does it. Oh, and YOU are into the joy of giving, I suppose? For anything else -- the closer to Christmas the better.  I'm all about getting into the Christmas spirit, but for that I need snow, a fire in the fireplace, the smell of spiced cider and plenty of egg nog.

3. You're having a true "TV Dinner," made by a classic character:  who would you rather have in the kitchen:
A) Aunt Bee from "The Andy Griffith Show"
B) Alice from "The Brady Bunch"
C) June from "Leave it to Beaver"
D) Edith from "All in the Family"
E) Claire from "The Cosby Show"

Claire from Cosby.  She's the only one who doesn't wear housedresses and has a successful career as a professional. So I know the food would be good, since we'd probably order out.

4. What topic are you most sick of hearing about in J-Land?

The election. The war. AOL Terms of Service. Anything we have no power to change.  And a special shout out to Jeff and Anna.

5. What company is annoying you most with junk mail?

One of the universities I attended sends me travel junk all the time. I mean, ALL THE TIME. Most of them are for learning cruises where you can take a course in Italian art as you cruise the Mediterranean, or study the feeding habits of killer whales while you boat through Antarctica.  Like I want to take a midterm while I'm on vacation.

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #32 from Chantal:  What cheesy sitcom (from any era) most describes how you grew up? Your family, location, dynamics, details...

The new funny one on Fox with Jeffry Tambor as the incarcerated dad, Jessica Walter as the wacko mom and Jason what's his face as the son who tries to maintain sanity.  You know the one I mean!!!!!  AHA!! Arrested Development! 

I know people just like the folks on that show.  The big surprise is that they aren't in my family for a change.

Ask Mrs. Linklater Thanksgiving Leftovers Edition

Wherein Mrs. Linklater performs interventions on advice columns -- a public service for which she receives no personal remuneration

 

 

 

MOM'S DOG DAYS ARE EVERYDAY

Published November 6, 2004, Chicago Tribune

 

Dear Abby:

My mother, who is in her late 70s, lives alone with her standard poodle, "Bonaparte." She refuses to go anywhere unless we agree that Bonaparte can go too. When one of us offers to take her to dinner, the poodle waits in the car. She won't visit family members either, unless Bonaparte is welcome.

 

For Mother's birthday, I planned a special outing at a lovely restaurant and a matinee performance of a show that was in town. Mamma refused to go unless we took the dog. It wasn't appropriate, so I told her no. She refused to go and is still mad at me. She continually tries to make me feel guilty for "spoiling" her birthday.

How can I make my mother realize that the dog is an animal companion, and there are times when she needs to enjoy the company of people sans her dog?

 

-- Had It Up To Here In New Jersey

 

Dear Had It: Some people are so fond of their pets they are reluctant to part with them, even temporarily. Your mother appears to be one of them. She has made her feelings clear, and I doubt anyone -- myself included -- could persuade her to socialize without him. Because you can't teach an old dog new tricks, when you invite your mother and the dog out, make sure there is plenty of air circulating in the car and a water bowl so Bonaparte will be safe and comfortable.

 

Mrs. Linklater butts in -- how can she not?

 

Far be it from me to actually be helpful here, since that’s not in my nature -- but this seems like such an easy fix.

 

Considering that Bonaparte is clearly the Emperor of all your mother surveys, why not join him instead of trying to beat him. There's nothing quite so pathetic as a child trying to fight for her mother's affection over mama's sweetums poopsie. Sorry, honey, you lose. 

 

And Mrs. Linklater does not consider putting a bowl of water in the back seat and leaving the air conditioning on an acceptable alternative.

 

Pretty much every town with more than five dogs has doggie parks, doggie beaches, and doggie daycare centers.  So instead of doing things at venues that eschew the presence of canines, why not invite your mother on a picnic to one of the canine parks so she can watch Bonaparte frolic with some new friends and she can enjoy a sandwich with you. Don’t forget something for Bonaparte, too.

 

When the weather gets cold, spend some money for an afternoon at a doggie daycare. Or an afternoon of dog grooming.  Do a dry run some afternoon so your mom can see that Bonaparte loves hanging with his homeboys. Or getting his hair done. And she won’t feel like he’s being left out if you want to take her someplace where he’s not allowed. 

 

There, I can’t believe I actually tried to offer some real advice. I hope this doesn’t happen too often.  Mrs. Linklater has a certain reputation to maintain.

 

BTW -- if you have a question to ask Mrs. Linklater, think twice before submitting it, because she may actually take the time to answer it. At your own risk, of course.

 

 

Scalzi's Weekend Assignment

Weekend Assignment #35: Tell us something you should be thankful for -- but that you're usually not.
Mrs. Linklater is thankful for lots of things she usually doesn't think about being thankful for.
1. She is thankful for her Jeep.  Like a good man, it's strong and reliable. And has a great rear end. Not to put too fine a point on it, but it's also handsome and black. It tears through mud and snow like butter. And carries all her stuff for her. In fact, she spends so much time in her Jeep, she may try to marry it. Or at least have a civil union performed.
2. She is thankful for the salads at White Hen Pantry. Talk about fast food, Mrs. Linklater can jump out of her car [see No. 1] within five feet of the front door, run in and choose from the chicken Caesar, the mandarin chicken, the southwest chicken, the ham and chicken, or  the chicken cobb and be on her way in no time, except in the very early morning, when all the construction guys are in there and she sometimes gets sidetracked.
3. She couldn't be more thankful for her digital camera. Do you know what a pain in the ass it is to try to carry film with you anymore?  Or regular SLR cameras? No thank you.  Her digital is not only so portable she can take it everywhere tucked in a pocket, she can also upload everything in a matter of seconds and send out photos so fresh you can smell coffee and donuts. And the pictures are good, too.
4. She is thankful to be lefthanded, except for the stuff she does righty. She loves that only ten percent of the population are southpaws. And she likes not being lumped with the big group and hanging with the small group. She loves the name southpaw, too, because it sounds like something Yogi Berra might have made up if someone else hadn't gotten there first.
5. She is thankful that the best deli food is here in this country, not some place snotty like France. And not just in New York, either.
6. She is not only thankful, but completely astonished by the internet. And how it has opened the doors to the ever expanding cybersphere. How she can find answers to her questions almost as fast as she can type. How she can communicate over tens of thousands of miles in a second with the push of a button. How it has been her entree to meeting some of the most fascinating, exciting people she has ever known. Once she got through the perverts.
7. She is thankful for polar fleece, without which she wouldn't have a winter wardrobe.
8. She is thankful for the 25 years she was able to enjoy her huge elm tree before it died of Dutch Elm this year. She lives in a town where the first sign of illness in an elm tree and the village will demand that the tree come down.  But hers was almost 13 feet in circumference and nearly 50 feet tall. So she was also grateful that last fall the village forester and three other arborists, all of whom loved her tree as much as she did, stood looking at the evidence of the beetles and told her just to trim back the dead areas and give the tree a chance to make it through the winter, which it did, only to succumb later in the summer.
9. She is thankful for COURT TV because now she understands what her ex-husband does for a living.  She once read a transcript following a trial he won where he called his opposing counsel a cunning linguist.  Think about it.
10. She is thankful for our free market economy, however flawed it may be, because without it she wouldn't have any work.

Ask Mrs. Linklater Thanksgiving Edition

Once again Mrs. Linklater butts in and offers her remarkable insights into the world of human behavior.

 

ASK AMY
Published November 15, 2004 Chicago Tribune

 

Hunter's thrill of kill disgusts his girlfriend

Dear Amy: My boyfriend and I are in our early 50s, so we're not kids. We get along great and are even speaking of marriage.

Here's the problem: I am a true-blue animal advocate. "Frank" absolutely loves to hunt.

He hunts deer, turkey and bear -- anything he can. He has a license and the firearms for doing so, but why do I get sick (not literally -- but it always causes a huge fight) when he goes? We've been dating now for seven years, and, yes, I knew he hunted when we first met. Since then, however, my thoughts have changed.

He wants for nothing and says it's the "thrill" of the hunt. This is something I cannot comprehend. I'm not compulsive about it; I do eat hamburger and wear leather, but why kill an innocent animal, just for the thrill?

Please help. We both agreed we'd abide by your ruling.

-- Animal Lover

Dear Animal Lover: First of all, thank you for making me feel like the great and powerful Oz -- or Judge Judy. But I have to admit that temperamentally I come down squarely on your side on this issue. As someone who grew up in a rural area, I've eaten and enjoyed my share of venison. I know and love hunters. Hunting isn't the problem; actually, it's the killing I object to.

If "Frank" is truly bringing home the bacon and would like to stock his freezer with turkey, venison and bear, or if he is donating the meat he kills to a shelter or food bank (as some hunters do), he has some leverage on this issue. If he is helping to cull overabundant animal populations under the direction of your state's Department of Fish and Game, that is also somewhat defensible, in my mind.

If he is stalking and killing game and leaving the woods littered with carcasses, that is just killing for the sake of killing. That is unconscionable, no matter how much he enjoys it.

I'd like to suggest a few activities that Frank might enjoy as much as hunting. Since he sounds willing to entertain options, I hope he finds a less violent pastime.

Frank could try: fly-fishing (catch and release, of course), skeet shooting, paintball, competitive bird watching, "shrooming" (mushroom hunting) or orienteering. I'm sure readers have additional suggestions.

 

Mrs. Linklater butts in:  Give it a rest Amy, like you’re going to get Frank into competitive birdwatching during this lifetime. 

 

And shrooming?  Hahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!! What were you thinking? 

 

Mrs. Linklater finds it amusing that Frank gets a free pass as long as he’s not "littering" the countryside with carcasses.  Earth to Amy -- do you know any hunters? Do you watch Babe Winkelman?  Have you seen how long it takes and how hard it is for a hunter to take down just one wild TURKEY?  Get with the program, sis.

 

Actually this isn’t about animal rights and changing Frank’s behavior, you twits, this is about seeing the girlfriend’s behavior for what it really is.

 

THIS WOMAN IS A COMPLETE CONTROL FREAK. 

 

Oh, sure, she's a TRUE BLUE advocate as long as we’re talking about the animals her boyfriend kills, but don’t get between her and her medium rare hamburger, dripping with the blood of eight hundred thousand innocent Angus steers slaughtered every year – oh, and while you're at it, make that with fries.

 

She’s REALLY ticked because the boyfriend gets a THRILL out of hunting. He has the nerve to say he enjoys it.  Well, let me tell you -- not on HER watch. The least he can do if he’s going hunting is to feel really bad about it.

 

And she’s just the woman to make his life a living hell. I can just see her taking a long drag on her cigarette and lecturing this poor mope every time he heads for the woods. Oh, and be sure to pick up some veal on the way home, I feel like Italian tonight.

 

She might want to be a little more circumspect.  After all, she ain't no spring chicken any more. And he does have a gun.

 

Mrs. Linklater has two names for this insufferable bitch -- James Carville and Mary Matalin.  The ying and yang of politics.  Two more polar opposites do not exist on this planet.  And yet, they’re married.  And somehow produced children.  So clearly, it is possible for people leave their differences on the doorstep.

 

But some people just have to be right.

 

 

[NOTE TO FRANK – I sure hope the sex is good]

Thanksgiving Stories

Show of hands.  Is Thanksgiving your absolute favorite holiday?  That’s what I thought.  Mine, too.

 

It’s all about the food and good friends.  And, if you’re lucky, you’ve got family you can stand to be around, too. Just enough Jerry Springer to keep it lively.  Not too many firearms to get ugly.

 

Thanksgiving occupies a kind of mystical place in my family. If you think of mystical as something mysterious and unexplainable.  Of course my family fits that profile, too.

 

At first glimpse they seem like any other upwardly mobile suburban familial group. Let’s see, my dad was a doctor. My mother was valedictorian of her high school class and became a nurse.My stepmother has a masters degree in special ed and published her first novel at 21. I write and produce commercials. My younger brother is an attorney, my younger half-brother is an attorney. My other younger half-brother is studying to become an actuary.  And my sister was a stripper.  What’s that? You can’t hear me? I said, my sister was a stripper.  Oh, still can’t hear me?  MY SISTER WAS A STRIPPER!  So why did she become an exotic dancer?  Hey, it’s a mystery tome.

 

As it happens, Thanksgiving occasionally falls on November 24th.

 

That's the day my father and stepmother chose to get married a year or so after my mother died too young, many years ago.  The occasion was planned so it may not seem like it’s up there on the astral plane of momentous events.  But there’s more.

 

A few years after their marriage, my half brother Steve was born.  Big freaking deal I hear you saying.  Well, it was November.  And the day was the 24th.  HA!!   Coincidence? You may not think so, but the gods of Karma and cranberry sauce weren’t done yet.

 

My father had an older brother, Archie, who was not only a great college baseball player, but in 1932 he enlisted in the Army Air Corps, the precursor of the U.S. Air Force.  He spent a year in flight training, down in Texas, writing letters home almost daily with tales of landings, take offs, bad food, and all his buddies.

 

During the last week before graduation, when the year of training was almost up, he died following a midair collision with his wingman. Archie bailed out in time only to have his parachute catch the tail of his plane and take him down with the aircraft.

 

Going through a trunk, my stepmother found a whole bunch of old newspaper clippings about the accident when it was reported in the Chicago papers.  As she read one out loud she came to the date of his death and stopped.  We all looked up from whatever we were doing and she said, “Archie died on November 24th.”

 

Cosmic.  Karmic.  Whatever.  Every November 24th Archie has found a way to spend the day with us.  And I don't know if it means anything, but I carried on his legacy as the family ballplayer and my younger daughter received a coveted senatorial appointment to the Air Force Academy. I think he'd be amused to find out that his talents were passed down to the women.  

 

So on November 24th we celebrate three anniversaries – a birth, a marriage, and the death of an uncle I never knew except in letters and pictures. 

 

And sometimes, every seven years or so, it happens to be Thanksgiving too.

 

 

Mrs. Linklater gets a question to answer

"Mrs. L reminds me of Prudence on Slate. Very similar tone. Here's my question: can a Black woman rise to the top of the platform tennis world? And could I bring my family?"
Question from kahluadiva - 11/14/04 5:13 AM

Mrs. Linklater is flattered by kahluadiva's comparison to Prudence, although she can't claim Prudie's expertise in marriage, having only been married and divorced once. 

Prudence, on the other hand, has had four husbands, one of whom was Ken Howard, who played the coach on The White Shadow and most recently, the bartender father on Crossing Jordan.

Prudie, or Margo Howard as she is known in civilian life, is also the daughter of Ann Landers [aka Eppie Lederer] the woman who pretty much defined the advice column genre.  Now where was I?

Oh, yes, kahluadiva asked Mrs. Linklater a question, the first one she has received since coming out of the advice column closet, by the way. Too bad we can't have it bronzed or dipped in Lucite and made into a paperweight. 

AND THE ANSWER IS:  Yes.  And yes.  Yes a black woman could rise to the top of the platform tennis world, despite the fact that the sport is currently the nearly exclusive domain of white people who belong to private country clubs. 

Mrs. Linklater is happy to report the existence of TWO public racket clubs in her area that accept members based on their ability to pay the dues. [There's a novel approach to membership.] She herself is a member of one. And recommends their chicken sandwiches on nine grain bread.

Unfortunately these clubs are in the Chicago area, which might make getting to your weekly matches on time from another state somewhat difficult. But not impossible, with a little planning.

As for bringing your family, YES OF COURSE -- platform tennis is all about family. Your nanny can supervise the little tykes with educational toys while you play. If for some reason you should be detained on the courts playing a third set, she can also offer them a tasty repast of tomato and cucumber sandwiches on crustless white bread with bibb lettuce and mayonnaise.

Mrs. Linklater has only one question regarding kahluadiva's proposed ascent to the top of the platform tennis heap:  How soon can you learn to play?

Scott Peterson is a lying sack. . .

 

I find it ironic that in our system of justice we are asked to consider a defendant innocent until proven guilty.  However, the verdict doesn't come back as guilty or innocent.  It is returned as guilty or not guilty. The defendant is either guilty of commiting a crime, or not guilty for lack of sufficient evidence to convict.

The only innocent people are usually the victims.

 

 

 

 

Northwestern V. Michigan

 

Northwestern V. Michigan -- NOON E.S.T.

This is not as easy a pick as you might think.

Michigan is ranked 9th in both polls. Very respectable considering their loss to inconsistent Notre Dame early on.

As usual, Northwestern wasn't on anybody's radar at the beginning of the season.  Still not much of a blip. But something interesting has happened.

The Big Ten title is on the line. Michigan and Wisconsin are both 6-0 in the Big Ten.  And they don't play each other this year [a good reason for a Big Ten title game].  Wisconsin takes it all if they both go undefeated. I think that's based on per capita cheese consumption or something equally relevant.

Iowa, an early pre-season favorite is 5-1 and could still cause trouble.  But guess who's sitting back in the bushes ready to be the spoiler of all time?

Northwestern. At 4-2, they're still in the hunt. Mathematically.  Realistically. NOT. But oh, the damage they could do to Michigan.

I wasn't going to root for NU today even though I went there -- get over it. I was leaning toward a U of M Big Ten Championship. This year I have an "any team but Wisconsin" bias.

But now that I know NU actually has a chance to be really bad boys [not easy to do when your uniforms have so much purple], I may wait till halftime to decide who I'm going to root for.

Michigan plays Ohio State next week I believe, which is a much bigger game for them, physically, spiritually, financially, whatever.  And you could argue they're already looking ahead to that one. 

So I will be watching those first two quarters with great interest before I decide who to back.

Unless anybody wants to make a friendly wager.  And gimme points. A lot of them.

 

 

UPDATE:

Nine minutes to go

Michigan 40-something, NU 13.

Is that a fat lady I hear singing? LOL

 

 

 

Patrick's Saturday Six Episode #31

                       

If you'd like to join the fun, it's quite simple:  to play you can either answer the questions in a comment at Patrick's Place [see Other Journals], or put the answers in an entry on your journal, but either way, leave a link to your journal so that everyone else can visit!  (And if you're playing for the first time, please be sure to say so in the comment!)  Enjoy!


1. Who is the last house guest you invited into your home and was it a pleasant visit?

My old college roommate decided to visit during the winter.  She does stuff like that. Not always a pleasant time to come to Chicago.  But we still had fun.

2.  Other than to work or school, where was the last place you drove?

One of my healthclubs. Do you know anyone else who belongs to two healthclubs and can't do anything but swim and eat at the snack bar?  A triumph of hope over adversity. 

3. In terms of emergency supplies, how many of the following do you have in your home?  A) Candles  B) Fresh batteries  C) Containers of bottled water  

I've got dozens of plumber's candles [which are used for luminaria], a container with all kinds of batteries from triple A to D, and an extra Hinckley Springs five gallon jug of water that goes on the cooler of the same name, when the other one runs out. I also have butane lighters to light all the candles. 

4. You're invited to a pot-luck dinner:  what specialty do you offer to bring?  (It has to be something you can cook yourself, not something you bring from a store!)  

Homemade banana cake from scratch with almond buttercream icing.  Or Hungarian goulash. And there's always Mrs. Linklater's chocolate chip macadamia nut cookies and tuna tettrazini.

5. Which of the following do you feel is the most true based on your own life experiences:
A) It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
B) The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
C) To have a friend, you must first be a friend.
D) Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
E) Never judge a book by its cover.
F) The tree of knowledge bears the noblest fruit.

It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  There's no better feeling than being in love and nothing worse than afterward.  But the highs and lows are what make it so exhilarating.  Nothing else short of prescription drugs comes close.   

6. READER'S CHOICE QUESTION #31 from Cherie:  We have all watched movies and TV shows that have inspired us to want to do what the characters in the show are doing, (doctors, lawyers, politicians, fire fighters, etc).  Has there ever been program that you watched that made you realize that the occupation of the characters was something you could NEVER become?  

I could never be a professional football player. To start with I wouldn't be able to pass the physical.


.

Ask Mrs. Linklater

The original name for this journal was going to be Ask Mrs. Linklater. The name still pops up in my link.

I have friends who, over the years, have called me for advice about any number of things -- husbands, boyfriends, neighbors, and often, their kids.  Usually I preface whatever I say with a disclaimer [this one was true at one time, btw]: "Remember you are asking me to give you advice about your children and mine aren't speaking to me right now." Stuff like that.  Kind of like the surgeon general's dire warning on cigarettes.  Use this advice at your own risk, the source you have queried doesn't have any more of a clue than you do. 

For some reason, my warnings never stopped them from asking.  Or me, from answering.

When Ann Landers' advice column left one of the local papers here to go across the street to the other paper, there was a huge contest to replace her at the old place.

I was a creative director at an ad agency and more than one person suggested that I try out for the job.  I don't know whether they thought I would be good at it, or whether they thought they could finally get rid of me. Probably a little of both.

One of the local morning shows had all the finalists on one day so that people in the audience could ask questions and test their mettle.  I guess it was a "how well do the prospects think on their feet?" moment. 

An audience member stood up and said, "I have a friend with an eating disorder.  Every time I invite her for dinner, I know she goes into the bathroom afterward and throws up. What should I do?" 

The wannabe advice columnist she asked blathered on and on about eating disorders and after awhile, I wanted to shoot her just to put her out of my misery. It was then that I realized I had missed my calling because Mrs. Linklater would have said,

"What should you do? Stop inviting her to dinner, you sick bastard."

With that in mind, Mrs. Linklater has decided to offer her answers to some of the current questions being posed to the advice columnists in Chicago, which include Ask Amy, Dear Abby [now written by Dear Abby's daughter], Judith Martin [aka Miss Manners] and Cheryl Lavin.

She'll be back shortly after she has decided which question to answer. Meanwhile, feel free to leave your own questions about your life in the comments. If you're lucky Mrs. Linklater won't answer them.

Published November 12, 2004 Chicago Tribune

Dear Abby: Last summer I was attacked by my boss' dog at work, leaving a nasty scar on my nose.

My boss, claiming to be a "healing expert," advised me to avoid a trip to the doctor (as they don't put stitches in one's nose, he said) and to instead let him apply "healing oils" to my face. He said the scar would be gone within a month. I naively heeded his advice.

During my remaining time at work, his wife (also my boss and the true owner of the dog) looked after me caringly, always wishing me well on my healing, swearing genuinely by her husband's talents as a healer.

Three months and nine days later, the scar is still there, and on a recent trip to the doctor he informed me that I should have gotten stitches.

I now face expensive plastic surgery or dermatological work if I want to be rid of the scar.

I am debating whether I should take legal action.

I'd feel guilty because the wife would take the brunt of any lawsuit when, I believe, she sincerely had faith in her husband, but I can't help but feel he cheated me. What should I do?

-- Downtrodden And Dog-Bitten

Dear D&D: It should be as plain as the scar on your nose to your employers that the husband's "healing powers" failed in your case.

Put them on notice that you will be getting a referral to a board-certified plastic surgeon or dermatologist to repair the damage to your face, and that you expect them or their insurance provider to pay the bill.

If they give you an argument, consult a lawyer.

Do not feel guilty. You are the victim.

How the "healer" handles this letter will reveal whether he's truly a healer, or just a heel.

MRS. LINKLATER'S REPLY: Let me get this straight -- a dog attacks you and instead of going straight to the emergency room -- where, HELLO? they have trained professionals who fix things like that -- you let the dog's owner treat you with healing oils. What kind? Duomo, Bertilli or Colavito?  Mrs. Linklater is so disappointed in you. In fact, she thinks you've got a lot of nerve suing your boss for your own incredible stupidity. Pay for the surgery yourself or keep the scar as a reminder for next time. 

 

Scalzi's Weekend Assignment #33

The blogmeister [click on By the Way in Other Journals] is humming my tune this week.

You can have any person, past or present, sing any song for you that you want. What is the song, and who is singing it for you?

Extra credit: Name a singer you wish you could sing like, but can't. So that means even those of you with excellent voices have to pick someone you can't sing like.

My older daughter's godfather was the quintessential southside Irish football player from Chicago. Big as a house, square-jawed and handsome, with dark hair and steel blue eyes. As if to punctuate his heritage even more, he graduated from Notre Dame University, too.  

Danny and his wife started having kids around the same time we did, but in no time they were way ahead of us with four to our two. And a fifth on the way.  He was a great dad and we were honored that he was willing to assume the responsibility of godfather to our daughter. And then the inexplicable happened.  Only in his early thirties, he got lung cancer and died within two years. For personal reasons I wasn't able to go to his funeral but I know they sang Danny Boy for him. Every time I hear it, I'm reminded of a wonderful man who died too soon.

That's why I'd like one of the Irish tenors, Ronan Tynan, to sing Danny Boy for me. I don't think anyone can capture the poignancy of that familiar tune and make it sound like you're hearing it for the first time the way Dr. Tynan can. I'm sure he's recorded it, but I would like to hear him sing it in a huge cathedral on Danny's birthday, for Danny's friends and family, his goddaughter and me.

http://www.nyso.org/images/cdfront.jpg

EXTRA CREDIT:  I want Tony Braxton's voice. Might as well give me everything else that goes with it, too, except the bankruptcy thing. We have the same range, but that's where the resemblance ends.  Of course, it wouldn't be the same having a white chick singing Unbreak My Heart no matter whose voice she uses -- you just know she'd go shopping instead of suffering so much.  All the same, I'd like to give it a try.

http://rnbmind.free.fr/img_lite/tony_braxton/122858.jpg

 

 

Lift and Separate

HEARING: WNUA commercial-free radio -- Aaron Neville/Everybody Plays the Fool 

 

Mrs. Linklater hasn’t heard this tune in YEARS.  Why now?  Let us take a moment for some metaphysical reflection on the lyrics

 

Everybody plays the fool

There’s no guarantee that the one you love is going to love you. 

Everybody plays the fool -- sometime

There’s no exception to the rule

Listen baby

It may be factual it may be cruel

I wanna say it again

Everybody plays the fool

I ain’t lyin

Everybody plays the fool 

 

Okay that's enough.

 

Metaphysics aside, this is going to be one of those entries full of HTML code the first go round, because Mrs. Linklater wants to write offline. Not that she’s complaining, but can’t AOL hire smarter programmers to figure out how to let us cut and paste from Word without all the <<>> crap that shows up? 

 

<o:p></o:p>

 

See what she means? That's all the code that's left. But it was EVERYWHERE. She erased all the rest.

 

Isn’t there a button they can devise for your keyboard that makes HTML code invisible for freaking EVER?  Like the wiring in your house.  Or the plumbing?  Of course, every time Mrs. Linklater uploads from Word to her journal and sees all that code appear, she feels like she’s been taking a shower and suddenly the whole world can see through her shower curtain – oh, and, by the way, there’s a tour coming through.

 

BUT SHE DIGRESSES. 

 

Today is all about Mrs. Linklater’s attempts to stay in shape, now that she has been told by her doctor that short of a body transplant, which will no doubt be available as soon as they crack that part of the DNA code, her workout days are pretty much toast. Burnt.

 

Okay, she can swim all she wants.  But she feels about swimming the way some people feel about their ex-spouses. Hers included. And besides, it's getting cold out and even indoor pool temperatures feel arctic when the weather chills.

 

But never underestimate Mrs. Linklater’s determination to find a way to overcome her physical adversity.  Since her thinking cap fits better after a bag of Cheetos, she’ll be back in a moment.

 

Nothing like a jolt of orange dye no.14.  Houston, we’re good to go.

 

Mrs. Linklater often works on the computer, in between rounds of solitaire and forwarding jokes, so why not turn the area around her computer chair into a mini gym? 

 

Inspired by this flash of creativity, she has been galvanized into action, albeit slowly. First she went down to the basement and brought up some three-pound hand weights. What?  You have a problem with LIGHT weights?  Sorry, Mrs. Linklater doesn’t do heavy anymore. No more heavy sauces, heavy make up, heavy water, heavy relationships, heavy thoughts or heavy lifting.

 

Mrs. Linklater’s delicate condition [which is so NOT pregnant] means that, for her, less is more.

 

Besides she doesn’t want any weights that are too big, she might sweat.  No point leaving salt stains on all her electronic devices, some of which actually serve a purpose. 

 

Needless to say, getting the weights upstairs took a lot out of her. And they sat next to her chair for a month.  Like good cheddar, Mrs. Linklater was all about the aging process.  Then she realized that while she continued to get older, she was not getting better. So, one morning, she moved the weights from one side of her chair to the other. 

 

No reason to overdo it.

 

But the other day, inspiration really struck.  She tripped over the weights.  Damn.  So she picked them up to move them someplace else for crying out loud and realized that one of her favorite songs was playing.

 

Instead of putting the weights up on a shelf, where it could be argued they belonged, she sat in her chair and did three minutes of curls. And three more minutes after that – a commercial free music hour had just started and the songs just kept on coming. Triceps, biceps, shoulder raises, wrist curls -- she was having some fun now.

 

Now she can be found sitting in her chair doing nine sets of fifteen reps in front of the computer while it uploads a file. Oh, did she mention she discovered she can do this nude? Here was yet another benefit of her home computer gym. [Besides using the weights to hold down paper.] Now there was no need to track down a clean pair of shorts or a shirt or sports bra or socks or shoes anymore. Or find a water bottle. Or locate her gym bag. Or suck in her belly like the old days at her health club.  [Oh, and YOU never walked around doing that?]

 

Before anyone thinks Mrs. Linklater wants to parlay this nude work out venture into some kind of webcam pay per view financial bonanza, let her just say that it did cross her mind.  But her children have threatened to put her in a home if she mentions it again.

 

Her private life aside, Mrs. Linklater has proved that if SHE can work out at her computer, anybody can. All it takes is a good look in the mirror at your burgeoning Jabba the Hut girth and you'll be hooked.

 

It's the ultimate in multi-tasking synergy. Working, working out.  Even the words are similar. 

And there's that clothing free component, too. 

 

Mrs. Linklater feels she has brought new meaning to something. When she finds out what that is, you’ll be the first to know.   

 

The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Month of the Eleventh Day

For Bill Freerks, Mike Scott, Sal Grigola, Fred Tiemens, Charlie Johnson, Ken Nichols, Peter Solber, Kurn Kruger, and Ked Fairbank -- my heroic friends who went to war and came back.

And for Sandy Kempner, who didn't.

Thank you.

 

Quote from Patrick at Patrick's Place: 

"I hope we never take the sacrifices of the soldiers for granted as easily as we do the liberties they won for us."

Amen.

 

The Paddle Palace

In Mrs. Linklater's continuing efforts to educate the world about the great white sport of Platform Tennis [which you can read about in the previous entry], she continues today with a heartwarming story about The Paddle Palace -- how one little hut rose from obscurity to dominate the paddle world. 

Plus she will provide a head count of how many white people she saw at the country club where yesterday's nationally sanctioned paddle tournament was concluded.

The litmus tests for the quality of the facility where a sport is played are usually its size and the amenities provided.  Platform tennis is no exception. The paddle hut is where country club morale can be lost or lifted.

The unfortunate truth is that paddle huts are usually little more than heated toilets with a window for viewing the courts, plus a sink and a popcorn machine. Since you can't see them from the circular drive up to the country club, nobody gives a rip how fancy they are.

Frankly, you might as well blame the economy for the ridiculous cutbacks of much needed funds to leave no country club paddle hut behind.

In recent years budgets have been slashed so much that there is one facility of Mrs. Linklater's acquaintance which doesn't even pretend to have a toilet -- pretty much the only reason for a paddle hut's existence. 

Instead paddle players must walk all the way to the club proper to take care of business, as it were.  News of this travesty sent a wave of shock through the paddle community when it was first discovered. 

On the other hand, there is one bright beacon of hope on the horizon -- one notable exception to this spartan spate of service for paddle players. A respite from the deprivation they must endure for their sport.

Located just outside Chicago, there is a paddle hut where paddle players can come in from the cold and not only find both men's and women's restrooms, but a staffed bar and grill, a cable television with a remote that works, a huge stone fireplace, a selection of matched furniture that you wouldn't mind having in your own home, and a Hinckley Springs water dispenser made from oak. Not to mention all the beautiful bay windows for watching the matches on the courts, unobstructed from your comfy seat.

So glorious is this venue that Platform Tennis magazine [yes, there is one] nicknamed it The Paddle Palace, gently mocking its grandiosity, like Donald Trump making a joke about his hair.

Of course you'll never see the Palace if you're not a member of this particular elite country club or a bona fide guest of a member of this elite country club or you play paddle for another elite country club, which happens to be playing a match at this elite country club.

Luckily Mrs. Linklater knows somebody who knows somebody and got some up close and personal pictures for you.

In the first picture you can see the former paddle hut, which was considered quite adequate, certainly well within the standards proscribed for paddle hut quality.  In the second picture you can see what can happen when a paddle hut uses steroids.

In an effort to put lipstick on this pig [yes, Mrs. Linklater just used this metaphor in a another entry] the powers that be decided to embrace the gargantuan proportions of this giant restroom for rich country club swells, instead of trying to pretend otherwise. And so a nickname was born -- The Paddle Palace. 

Rich warm appointments make the Palace a place of peace and gentle comfort for your trip to the throne. Only two ply tissue is used. A scented soap is at your disposal. Real cotton towels are provided. Surely, this is what you signed that prenuptial agreement for. That and the privilege of paying expensive interior designers who continue to soak the club for a ton of money.  

Proving that even paddle huts can be recycled, the old, boxy style edifice is now covered with pegboard inside and used as a place to store socks, handwarmers, wristbands, paddles and other items players with lucre [that is redundant] can buy.  Clearly this has been a win-win for everyone. Mrs. Linklater, for one, is cheering.

As for the number of white people sightings at yesterday's tournament finals competition, Mrs. Linklater found it was easier to count the number of minorities in attendance.  She only needed one hand. There were two, Jeff and Jose.  They were the bartenders. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What ever happened to the white athlete?

In her attempt to bring diversity to sports, Mrs. Linklater is asking you to tell your minority friends about Platform Tennis, also known as Paddle tennis -- not to be confused with West Coast Paddle or East Coast Paddle, which are two are entirely different games altogether.

Platform tennis is an American racquet sport enjoyed by thousands of people of all ages. [CLARIFICATION:  Platform tennis is a country club sport enjoyed by thousands of WHITE people of all ages as long as they can fork out the fees and pass the ethnicity qualifications for membership]

It is the only racquet sport that players can enjoy outdoors in cold weather. [Because so many country club members complained that you can't play golf in the snow and they wanted something to do when they weren't traveling in France or Switzerland.]

This unique appeal attracts people who desire fresh air, competition, and social engagement - all on a chilly winter's night. [Remember these are people who only hug on holidays, so COLD suits them very well.]

The sport is played at private clubs [minorities are welcome to WORK there], public facilities [as long as your local park district can afford the $50,000 to $100,000 it costs to build just ONE court], and in backyards [of huge estates] at both highly competitive and purely recreational levels. Because it is easy to learn, it is enjoyed by players as young as eight and as old as old bones [and expensive orthopods] allow.

The Court: The game is played on an elevated aluminum deck [NOTE: Do NOT fall on this deck, the surface is like metallic sandpaper] that is 1/4 the size of a regulation tennis court (a 60' x 30' deck with a 44' x 20' in-bounds area.) The court is surrounded by a 12' high superstructure with taut, 16-gauge "chicken wire" fencing which allows play off the walls, as in racquetball and squash. [Everyone who thinks squash is a vegetable take one step backwards].

The base of a platform tennis court is usually enclosed, allowing for a heating system beneath the deck (propane, natural gas or kerosene.) The heating system melts ice off the aggregate deck surface, allowing athletes to play outdoors in all weather conditions. Most courts have lighting systems for nighttime play. While the official platform tennis season runs from Fall through Winter, the game can be enjoyed year-round. [But they haven't invented a SUMMER ball yet. The WINTER ball is for VERY COLD weather and bounces like FLUBBER in warm weather]

The Rules: Platform tennis is a doubles sport with two players on each side of a 34" high net. Rules of the game are identical to tennis with a few exceptions: only one serve, serves that touch the net are played, and what many consider the best thing about platform tennis - the ball can be played off the screened walls. [ZOOWWIIEEE!!!]

The Equipment: Platform tennis paddles are made of a composite material with aerodynamic holes drilled in the head. Paddles are approximately 18" long. [Think ping pong paddle, only bigger, thicker and WAY heavier].

The spongy, rubber ball measures 2.5" in diameter. A flocking material on its exterior keeps the ball from skidding. [For some reason there is a rule that you cannot wear clothes that match the color of the ball -- greenish yellow. WTF? Nevermind that for years regular tennis was played with white balls and people were REQUIRED to wear matching white clothing.] 

 

NOTE: There is an important tournament going on this weekend at country clubs in Mrs. Linklater's part of Chicago. She will attend the championship matches and report on how many white people she counted in her next entry.