There's No Pictures Like Old Pictures

Look Ma, no wrinkles!!!

Twenty-something me in a wig with my little bro, 

the high-powered lawyer, wearing diapers and jewelry. 

I look like a Cossack from the neck up and a 

fashion mishap from the neck down.

The View from Hong Kong

Amazing how a couple of pictures can reveal so much about life in another country. The top picture is a photo taken from my daughter and son-in-law's apartment. Unless they're renting space in a landing pattern. The bottom photo shows how easy it is to get around in a foreign country that takes the time to translate their language into English. Or words that have the appearance of English.  

Better Than Drugs

When you're cut off from your "connection," it helps to keep a spare stash of the good stuff around when the blizzard hits. Anything to keep the children in a tranquilized state. Short of serving Nyquil for lunch. Today the power was out, the heat was off, and Mom and Dad were this close to being out of options. Aunty Grandma to the rescue!! Those big jars of pipe cleaners, glue sticks, beads, and markers are worth millions on the black market. Especially when the kids are stuck indoors. 

          

R.I.P. Reynolds Price

When I was a freshman at Duke in 1961-62, the school was all abuzz about Reynolds Price's first book, A Long and Happy Life. A Duke grad, Price had studied at Oxford on a Rhodes scholarship and returned in 1958 to take a three year teaching position at his alma mater. Curious about this campus legend, primarily because he was as handsome and dashing as a Jane Austen hero, I bought the book to see what the fuss was all about. Save for his notable skill at writing one brilliant turn of phrase after another, I found the story he told rather mundane, even a cliche. Kind of like covering the wood cabinets in your kitchen with fancy gold leaf. I always wondered if he was just showing off. "Hey watch me turn this opening sentence of my first novel into a work of art." It was as if he wrote competitively, not necessarily to tell an interesting story, but to astonish you with his skillful and beautiful arrangement of verbal furniture. 

          I am breathless reading that sentence, chasing it down the page. 
          I forget when he came out of the closet, but even I could tell that gay professors were rather numerous on campus, so he wasn't going to be a novelty in that climate. Or a pariah, despite Duke's southern Protestant proclivities. He continued to publish, nothing earthshaking, mostly what you might describe as little gems I suppose, the kind of writing appreciated especially by the Duke students and faculty because it reflected on them. By writing books in a timely fashion, he not only kept his job, he parlayed his original three year gig into a fifty year career, becoming a beloved local icon in the process. 
          Reading a Time Magazine review about his latest book many years ago, I learned that a bout with spinal cancer had left him in a wheel chair. His picture shocked me. The gloriously thick black hair I remembered had turned white. He was now forever seated and paunchy from inactivity, hunched over with age. But he still had a great smile, a sonorous speaking voice, and enough charm to keep himself surrounded with two generations of adoring students and readers of his books. 
          What struck me most about his passing from a heart attack this week is how quickly he had become old enough to die. How did fifty years pass in so few hours? 
          Chances are you have never heard of Reynolds Price. He was southern. He was gay. He wasn't a media darling. His illness made him look old before his time. So I won't post a photo of how he looked in his last years, but remember him in a picture taken when he was young, striking, and beautiful, standing on the edge of his future, wondering whether he, too, would have a long and happy life. 

     

Whatever Happened to What's Her Name?

I googled a battered woman's advocate I used to do volunteer work for to see what she's doing now. The last time I did this, a few years ago, she seemed to be in semi-retirement in Wisconsin. She was a bright, shining light when I knew her. Someone people would listen to about domestic violence when DV advocacy was in its infancy.  If -- no, when -- they make the Lifetime movie about her, Susan Sarandon would be a good choice to play her.

Yesterday, as I traveled around the internet, I discovered "Sue" now has a website, a blog, and her own radio show, and she seems to have branched out into Nancy Grace territory, traveling the country to fight for victims of DV and other kinds of violence. She's also credited with several very comprehensive, useful DV books, all of which, I hope, had the benefit of a good proofreader, since her website is in serious need of spellcheck and The Grammar Lady, despite her Catholic school education. She also seems to be in South Carolina now, although, knowing her penchant for misdirection, that may just be the location of her PO box. 

          Sue still enjoys a unique position of respect within the domestic violence field. Her father was a decorated violent crimes police officer who battered her mother for years. When she finally got the courage to divorce him, he killed her, then committed suicide. As their only child, Sue was also a victim of their marriage, becoming hyper-vigilant about her mother's safety. Sensing something amiss one day, she went over to the house where her mother lived, and found the bodies. 

          My background was a little less dramatic. I had several friends and neighbors call me or come to my house to escape their husband's abuse. Seeing the pattern, I thought I'd better find out what to do. I ended up spending six years as a volunteer DV advocate and crisis line worker. Until I couldn't take it anymore. The last straw was when I warned a girlfriend that she was in imminent danger, that she and her children should leave her boyfriend that night or she could die. She ignored me and he sent her to the hospital the next day. The guy had never laid a hand on her before that night. But the signs had all been there. That's when I decided I couldn't help these insane women and I quit, using the same tired excuse that batterers use when they beat up their loved ones, "She never listens." 

          Needless to say, Sue's background gave her a boatload of street cred when it came to being an expert on DV. Can you say Oprah? Twenty years ago, she quit her job with a financial company and began to work full time to bring attention to the issue. To this day I don't know where she ever got the money to support herself, unless her father's life insurance and sale of the family home was enough. She was very good at helping DV victims, even facilitating at-risk women via an underground railway that could create new identities for them.

         At the time I was working with her, she was in her early thirties and proudly claimed to have been married three times. When I said I thought that multiple marriages so young was an indication of childhood sexual abuse, she stopped bragging. She also supposedly had a current husband and a son whom I never saw in person or in pictures. Tall and attractive two decades ago, with a mane of Hollywood quality red hair, I notice from current photos/videos that she is still very telegenic and articulate, albeit with a heavy Chicago accent. It also doesn't hurt that she wears designer clothes extremely well. 

          Back in the day, when I was often with Sue for press conferences outside a courthouse, or accompanying her on radio appearances, she was still the go-to person for DV interviews. She also had bodyguards, but I always felt like they were more for show than anything else. I think the guy who provided them for free wanted some up close and personal time with her. But, even if there were no direct threats that I was aware of, she certainly liked the attention. And it didn't hurt having people around to protect her in public, since these were volatile issues she was taking on, though batterers generally unload their anger on loved ones. 

          Her knight in shining armor, the owner of the bodyguard company, was straight out of Goodfellas. And the quasi-cops he provided to keep her safe as we traveled around the city were way out of my comfort zone. At best they were former high school hoodlums dressed up in black suits. It seemed like most were one speeding ticket short of prison time. However, they did keep me apprised of how her speeches went, the size of the crowds, the details of the event, as well as other unsolicited details about what happened when I wasn't around.

           Two things transpired that ended my involvement with her. I was able to get her a slot on a talk show in NYC. A CBS affiliate as I recall.They needed a DV advocate for credibility. I talked to the producer and his main requirement was that she had to be telegenic. I understood his concern. The stereotype of DV advocates is "fat lesbians."  She, on the other hand, was, and still is, easily the best looking woman in the movement. So they flew her out, limo'd her around, and she made a very good appearance on the panel. When she got back I asked her about the trip and she told me a strange story about the limo being disabled by gunfire in a Queens neighborhood on the way to the airport. I was so astounded by the story I called the producer to tell him what happened. He called me back to say that he talked to the limo company, spoke to the driver, and there was no incident on the way to the airport in a Queens neighborhood. Plus, apparently, Sue had been wandering around the CBS offices, after being strictly forbidden to do so. 

            So I called her up and confronted her about making up stories. And behaving badly. Her only comment was "I should have saved my receipt." I have no idea what she meant. The second incident occurred soon after, when I was sitting outside a courtroom with one of her bodyguards. He said she recently gave a speech where she told a story about a little kid she'd helped escape from domestic violence in the Cabrini Green projects. It was one of those tug at your heart anecdotes that help bring in the money at fundraisers. Only the bodyguard told me it wasn't true. Apparently it was a story she had just made up. I was reminded of a New York Times writer who won an award for her stories about ghetto kids, but it turned out they were also made up. And her career went down the toilet. I had to get away from Sue fast.

            While I know that people raised in dysfunctional families often have a penchant for fabrication, I decided that my ass was grass if I stayed with her any longer. So I called her up and said I didn't want to work with her any more, because her behavior had put my reputation on the line.  

            As long as she stays focused on victims of DV and other crimes, she'll have no problems. Her career has expanded to a national radio show. She's written books. She's still a go-to expert. But as far as I'm concerned, when she's not talking about victimization or staying safe, you can't believe a thing she says. About her private life. About her past. About anything that can't be verified with newspaper clippings or by someone who was there.

            Shortly after our falling out she invited me to a fundraiser where she was the honored guest. It was her attempt to reach out and re-connect, I suppose. 

            No thanks.         

You Don't Know Jack

Twenty-five years ago, I worked for a 5'4" Sicilian, with an excellent hairpiece, whose name was Jack. He looked like a miniature Sylvester Stallone. For three years he was my creative director at JWT, a large ad agency in Chicago. During that time, he divorced his wife of many years, traded in his VW for two Ferraris, and moved a baby grand piano into his office so he could play Rachmaninoff in the afternoons.

          Along with the daily laughter and music that accompanied our sometimes pressurized work, he would regale me and my art director partner with tales of his late night exploits with women. To my chagrin, many of them worked in the office. Needless to say, I often had a hard time keeping a straight face in meetings, when the presenter was someone whose bedroom behavior had been described in excruciating detail earlier that morning. Legally, he knew he shouldn't be sharing his tales of tail to the captive audience that worked for him, but he'd just apologize and continue. Over time, despite his sexist habits, we became surprisingly good friends and colleagues. But our eventual, and some say, inevitable, falling out was so explosive that, except for one notable occasion, we have not spoken in twenty years.

           The falling out began with his promotion to executive creative director. With his new power, I watched him turn into a megalomaniacal little martinet. Around that same time, an article had been written about the recent testosterone shift in the agency.

           So I penned a note to him that said, "Jack, I just read about the new, more macho, JWT. Can I borrow your dick?" And signed my name.

           I heard it was the talk of the senior vice presidents' meeting. I was a mere vice president and not included. He saw me in the hall wanted to know if I had been writing the other notes he'd received. Apparently a lot of people weren't happy with him. "No," I said, "Just this one. And I sign all mine." But I'm sure he didn't believe me.

          The last straw came when I made what some people have said was one of my best presentations ever for a beer campaign to save an account. He ripped it to shreds. After the meeting, one of the account people took me aside and said, "That was a great campaign. What does he have against you?" We'll never know. I stopped speaking to him.

          I left the agency in a cloud of dust, but I ran into him and the former Bulls cheerleader/secretary he married about two years later. Both of them were genuinely pleased to see me, exclaiming, "Hey, Judy!!" but they were stopped in their tracks by the look of death on my face. We had an awkward moment as I introduced them to a friend of mine, since it was obvious I was not happy to see them.

          As they walked away, Jack turned around and said, "It was good to see you."

          I replied, "I wish I could say the same."

          I haven't seen him or spoken to him since.

          Since we still have mutual friends, I have continued to ask about him, to find out what he's been doing. He ended up in Michigan, outside Kalamazoo, raising a daughter, teaching sculpture and doing commissions.

          Earlier in January an email went out to people close to him. I got it secondhand, forwarded from someone who knew we had been friends once. His wife was writing to tell people he had been in a car accident the day after Christmas and died of his injuries on January 3rd.

          Someone who remained friends with Jack, even though Jack had fired him, went to the services and sent me pictures of two pieces of his outdoor sculpture. Jack was a great art director, an accomplished pianist, an artist, interior designer, landscaper, anything with his hands. Looks like he was a good sculptor, too. Of course, I would have ragged him about the thighs on the one babe, or the clothing on the other. "What's with the drapes?" Because it was always tough love with us. The kind of kidding that leaves a mark. The kind we used to do to each other about everything, since there was probably more than we wanted to acknowledge between us.

           I emailed back a thank you for the pictures and asked if it had been a freak accident or something.

           "Jack being Jack, was in his Mustang and decided to drag race a 19 year old kid. He lost control of the car and hit a tree."

           You complete asshole. I bet you weren't wearing a seatbelt either.

           You'd think he'd be over that stuff at 71! Yes, you read that right. He was 71.

           But I refuse to remember him for that stupidity.  What comes to mind is a remark he made years ago, long after everything went bad between us. He was having a drink with my former art director, reminiscing about the good old days and what fun we all had working together. I heard he took a deep breath, exhaled, and said, "I miss the laughter."

           Me too, Jack. Me too.

        

          

One Step Closer to Assisted Living

It looks like my brain matter may be reaching critical lows here. For so long, I've been thinking how well I've been holding my own against the arrival of large scoops of oatmeal where my thinking processes used to be. But after today I'm not so sure. 
          This sad tale begins on Friday. All day Friday I thought it was Saturday. Ha ha, laugh your butt off, but it could happen to you. Ever lost a Tuesday or a Wednesday after one of those Monday holidays? I rest my case.
          Part of thinking that Friday was Saturday was because I had an off site meeting at someone's house. I bet you wouldn't know what day it was either, if you were having a work meeting in a suburban kitchen, while snacking on artichoke dip, instead of sitting in a conference room with your computer and a Starbuck's. So all day Friday, I was in Saturday mode. Saturday Saturday Saturday. Today is Saturday. Except when someone reminded me it was Friday.
          Like jet lag, this problem doesn't usually last very long. But, this time, it lasted all day Saturday, too. Because all day Saturday I kept thinking it was Sunday. And the playoff games just confirmed that it was Sunday. Because the NFL plays on Sundays, right? 
          Now here comes the truly sad part. This morning I woke up thinking it was Monday. For the third day in a row I was 24 hours on the wrong side of dawn. I lay in bed as long as I could, hating Monday, until I just made myself get up and get ready for work. But first I checked my email and there were a bunch already. A client wanted me to call at 2:00, so I said I'd call them at 2:00. Then I was on the road thinking a lot of people must have Martin Luther King day off because the traffic was nice and light going into the city. NPR had an interesting interview on with the guy who's head of the Innocence Project in Chicago -- the folks who have exonerated a very high rate of prisoners on death row. But I wondered if it was just a re-run since they kept calling it their weekend edition. 
          Before reaching the office I planned to stop at The Goddess, my favorite place for breakfast croissants, fresh juice, and pasta salads. I like to load up there on food for the day. But they were closed. Apparently they were celebrating MLK day too. 
         So I went to the 7-11 near the office, and actually got a good parking place. Usually I was competing with a bunch of delivery folks and other worker bees getting their morning coffee and donuts. But today was great -- front row seat and plenty of donuts to choose from. Everybody's enjoying the holiday. 
         The lady ahead of me in line was chattering on about something I half listened to. After she got her change she waved and said, "Go Bears!" And I snapped to, but not the way you might think. Instead of realizing it was Sunday, I thought, WOW -- the Bears' playoff game is on a Monday Night. 
         Purchases in hand, I drove the last couple of blocks only to discover that the gate to the parking lot was closed. What? The office is formally closed for MLK Day? Nobody's coming in? Did I miss a memo--shit.
         Finally. I. realized. it. wasn't. Monday.  
         And those emails? They were from Friday afternoon, when I was out of pocket doing something away from my computer. So busy, in fact, that I didn't check email until Sunday. Or Monday, depending on whose brain you're checking into. So I had some 'splaining to do to my client, once I completed my misguided jaunt into the city and back.  There's fifty miles of gas I'll never see again.
         Crapadoodle-do. 

Accidental Houses

I just realized this morning that I know several people with more than one home. In fact I know two couples who own five homes. And none of them would make a blip on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Extra homes are the two car garages of the 21st century. And most of the time, among my friends at least, they seem unintentional. 
          From where I sit as a spectator, becoming the owner of a fleet of houses starts slowly. The first one could be a beautiful old three story graystone in the city in an up and coming neighborhood. Followed by renting it out after a move to the suburbs. Next up -- the vacation place. Around the Chicago area that means Wisconsin or Michigan most of the time. But Maine, Wyoming, Minnesota, Florida, Arizona, the Outer Banks, Baja, California, as well as South Bend, Indiana have been alternate picks among people I know. Even my friend who shops her local thrift store has two homes. One in Montana on ten acres. And one in Indiana on a lake. After a trip to browse the latest at her nifty thrifty shop, she often calls to tell me how much she's found for $10.00. Okay, maybe someone wore the clothes for awhile. But sometimes they still have the original price tags. I know, because she has sent a few to me. Brand new Ralph Lauren/Ellen Tracy/Donna Karan, $1.50. 
          These days having three homes is what having two homes used to be. A college roommate who grew up in Hawaii has homes on Oahu, Kauai, and the big island. She didn't have to look far to find nice places to live. 
          Then any number of things can add to the purchases. Another vacation home that was too good to pass up. Or a condo in the old country, which for one couple, was Ireland four or five generations ago. One of the physical therapists working me to death in hip re-hab bought a house in Poland. Other friends purchased a home for their college kid, since that turned out to be cheaper than room and board. And it's a really nice house, not one of those slumlord fixer uppers that populate college neighborhoods. Finally, there's the house for an elderly, but still very active parent. Not that they can't take care of themselves any longer, no really -- we just want you to live close. Ah yes, there's a minefield you have to navigate carefully.         
          I just saw the 3BR, 2BA with frpl some friends bought their 90-year-old mom. It's a mere two doors down from a family member on a nice street in a lovely neighborhood. I offered to move in with her so she had someone to bring in the paper. The good news is that now she will be just two minutes away from one of her daughters, instead of forty minutes by car, if there's no traffic. The bad news is she will be just two minutes away from one of her daughters. . .kidding. I'm going to her birthday party tonight. She's got so many friends and relatives coming to celebrate they've had to split the party into two sections -- four hours during the afternoon for people who don't like to drive at night. And four hours tonight for people who don't like to drive during the day. Each party has its own birthday cake. One has chocolate icing, the other vanilla. 
          None of the furniture has been moved in yet, except for a couple of comfy chairs. So the house is itching to get its party on. Yesterday I helped set up tables and chairs in all the rooms. I even offered to bring my collection of lovely black/gold/rust striped fancy tablecloths and matching cloth napkins, but I was turned down because the serving plates are green. Meanwhile, the cable company came to activate the two new plasma TVs. We even took the new Viking [!] oven on a test drive, sharing several hundred calories of some freshly baked artichoke dip after all our hard work. I'm sure there will be no shortage of eating, drinking, and entertainment opportunities to christen Nana's new house, the fifth in their repertoire. I haven't heard whether they're going to sell or rent out her old one. 
          Time to rummage about the only house I own to see if I've got anything to wear tonight. One hopes I can find something less butch than polar fleece. But this could take awhile.    

What Was I Thinking? I Should Have Posted Here.

The astonishing results of Mrs. Linklater's Lunchtime Adventure are reported in mind-numbing detail in the previous entry. Click on -- http://mrslinklatersguidetotheuniverse.blogspot.com/2011/01/does-my-butt-look-fat-in-this-suv.html to find out what the heck happened when two Medicare-eligible former high school classmates had lunch together after fifty years. Was Zantac involved? Were the paramedics called? Did anybody lose their teeth while chatting? Their secrets are exposed! But fortunately, nothing else.

Does My Butt Look Fat In This SUV?

I'm having lunch with a classmate I haven't seen in fifty years. This adventure all started when he went to our high school reunion website -- since we're celebrating our fiftieth this fall. Once there he scrolled through the myriad before and after photos and saw my way-more-attractive-than-I-look-in-real-life picture [see the sidebar]. So he contacted me via email for lunch. Meanwhile, I noticed that he hasn't posted a profile. 
      Turns out we live in the same town. Who knew? I googled him and discovered he's been a race car driver and travels the world extensively. When he mentioned buying me lunch he said something about it could be the date we never had, but should have. 
**** WARNING SIRENS **** WARNING SIRENS **** WARNING SIRENS ****
      So I said I'd meet him. Gotta go.
NOW, IF YOU WOULD, PLEASE IMAGINE THE PASSAGE OF TIME. . .
      Here it is Saturday, noonish. Twenty-four hours later. I'm finally home. . .kidding. But we did have a nice, long, catch-up-with-the-last-five-decades kind of lunch. At a restaurant I've often enjoyed for Sunday brunch. I had the vegetarian tortilla soup and the Asian chicken salad with banana cream pie for dessert. Washed down with iced tea and extra lemon. He had the soup, but opted for a white fish entree, which arrived looking quite tasty, for a fish I consider the flavor equivalent of Wonderbread. He paired it with the house Shiraz, if I remember correctly. Our table was in the quieter side room with a view of the larger dining area, looking out at the long wall of windows that bring in a flood of daylight, so much so there's no need for artificial light when the sun is out. The waiter was very engaging, reciting the assortment of daily specials with speed and agility. My chair was wood. The menus were printed. The flatware was a bit disappointing, however, lightweight and not very substantial. 
      So hurry up and get to the good stuff!! 
      All righty then. My former classmate looks like his old self, only fifty years older. That is quite an accomplishment, considering what age can do to a person. One is always at risk of not being recognizable after so much time, but the schoolboy was still there. The schoolboy still lives in his lifestyle, too. Here's a photo of a color copy he made for me showing what he was doing in SoCal just four months ago. Not too shabby for an old fart. [By the way, I was too lazy to get up and scan it, so I just reached into my purse and got out my flip cam. Then I did a screen grab from the video, if you're wondering.] 

         While he didn't seem possessed of narcissistic traits as we talked, at some point he announced that he is a megalomaniac. His enthusiasm for it almost made me want to congratulate him. In fact, I half expected him to produce a certificate. Of course, he's not a megalo on the grand scale, a la Hitler, Stalin, Rove or Cheney, but enough so that he has a need to feed his ego regularly. Fortunately, unlike most of the rest of us, he can do it with megadoses of strokes from the rich and famous. Or just ordinary, very important people. 
         In his case, that means the rarified world of world class musicians and the like. And not the superficial "Hello, darling, kiss, kiss, let's do lunch" shit you hear from hangers on.  Nope. These people are his friends. They call. They write. They stay at his house. 
         I was actually impressed by his candor -- which seemed kind of confessional, rather than any sort of name dropping bragadoccio. Rare is the man who embraces his true egomania with such gusto. And has good stories to go with it. 
         As a senior citizen with considerable clout, albeit fairly low key, he thoroughly enjoys an exalted position in the non profit and equity worlds as a mover and shaker. Think Donald Trump without the combover and the flashy lifestyle. He also calls himself a right-wing, reactionary, sexist, racist, put-your-conservative-pejorative-spin-here. But don't we all aspire to be successful white men at some point in our lives? 
         Mrs. Linklater, as those who follow her bloggeries already know, may have occasionally hob-knobbed with the nearly rich and semi-famous during her long and occasionally prosperous life, but, for lack of financing, she remains chained to her humble, Democratic precinct roots, despite every effort to undo the shackles. Realistically, the most she could ever hope to be is a libertarian, as much as anyone can be fiscally conservative but socially liberal, a philosophical combo plate that has oxymoron written all over it. 
         Meanwhile, ever the considerate host, my classmate bought lunch, and suggested we could do this again, a pleasant thought, considering how good the food and conversation were. But first, there's his trip to London and several other foreign cities for work. And let's not forget my extensive travels throughout Chicago and its suburbs for my family dogsitting and ad jobs. Yes, we'll have some great stories to share for next time.          

Three Years Old and Counting

I went to a three year old boy's birthday party yesterday. This is the truck and train phase of the Y chromosome, which will be followed shortly by the dinosaur period. The event was a Thomas the Tank Engine theme party. Throughout the afternoon, I kept confusing Thomas with Bob the Builder, because I don't have any Y chromosomes [not for lack of trying]. Let's face it, all those guys with tool belts and gun belts look alike to me.  
     Despite every effort by the moms and grandmoms to follow the prescribed Thomas Tank Engine theme -- which included everything from the tablecloth through the balloons and presents, including Thomas' signature pjs and plenty of story books -- there was one exception to the required decor: a Snoopy candle that has been at every one of the birthday boy's father's thirty-something celebrations. I guess now the Snoopy candle will be making an additional yearly appearance at the son's birthdays.

     You might think after all these years the candle would be down to a nub, but the only time Snoopy has ever had its wick fired up is for the minute or so during the singing of Happy Birthday followed by the extinguishing of the candles. So there's plenty of wax left for future parties.

There were also the usual helium filled balloons from a Hallmark store, which were dragged from room to room with the kind of enthusiasm you might expect from a three year old celebrant. The video doesn't seem to want to load, so you may never get to hear the sounds of the "world's cutest, most adorable" little boy and his cousin, as they raced through the condo, running and screaming with youthful exuberance and not a little noise. 

        I can also personally vouch for the delicious taste of the birthday cake, which was the latest in red velvet baking with a cream cheese frosting. We also had cheese, mushroom or pepperoni pizza and a choice of spinach or Caesar salad to insure that proper nutrition was adhered to, as much as pizza and salad can provide goodness and nourishment. 

Looks like the video loaded after all, so you can glimpse a brief few seconds of toddler excitement after all. When was the last time you squealed with excitement about ANYTHING?