I thought I had unearthed the greatest gift given to female bodies. No, it wasn’t cryolipolysis, or Botox, fillers, or even varicosity zapping, Summer’s Eve wash or the new ULTRA tampons from Tampax. It was indeed, the True Blue line from Bath and Body Works. Unlike any other line of body wash and body lotion, True Blue is a far cry from the latte consistency of Jergens, Eucerin and that milky crap that feels and looks like half and half for your body. This stuff is magically emollient, and your skin becomes baby soft, like a newborn in seconds, and can stay that way for days.
The wife of the magical duo of softness is True Blue Shower wash…just as silky smooth, just as rich, and in a matching tube. Please keep this in mind.
I actually used this stuff on my newborn babies and it kept their skin as thick and impenetrable as a Wendy’s Frosty. So, when my little beanie, my Gianmarco came home, I slathered him in lotion gold after every bath.
One day I noticed on my tiny gift from God, a very gentle, non-invasive type of peeling. It seemed surface only and no chafing or bleeding, just a gentle shedding, like a rattlesnake. Newborns don’t communicate too well except for a few grunts and sleeping shudders, so I guessed he was ok. He seemed ok, but what the hell was this? Of course, I googled new born skin irritations, cooties, peeling, sloughing, etc. I needed to keep his skin hydrated so I kept putting on the lotion. I was on my way to the pediatrician with my quandary, when I realized.
I had a new babysitter, a very, very sweet girl who came to help me for the weekend when I was home with the baby. I went to change him on the changing table after a bath, and to my horror, on the table was indeed TRUE BLUE in it’s beautiful neon blue tube, but it was the SHOWER WASH!!!! OH MY GOD!!!!! Our sweet mother’s helper was dousing our newborn’s skin in shower wash and not rinsing! But, I take blame. In my post-partum noctambulation, which could have occurred at any hour, really, I put a tube of shower cream on his table instead of the lotion. Well, we rinsed him over and over, and eventually he stopped excorticating. It took a few days, but he returned to normal.
So, Bath and Body Works, my bad, totally, but can we hear it for a True Blue face lift for sleep deprived mommies?
If you knew my father, his Leo persona was quite in contrast with his underlying simplicity. After my mom passed away, I would invite him for dinner.
Me: Dad, what do you want to eat.
Dad: I’m happy with a him sandwich…and a martini.
There was always a martini on every menu with him, but his entrée desires were so simple: pasta, pasta, pasta, and sometimes a steak. He was not a huge eater, and I think his culinary desires branched back to his immigrant roots, which bordered on extreme simplicity.
So, since my holiday cooking break is over, I started out slowly this week. I made a slow cooker, (we are having an affair again, lol) tangy pot roast, and this side, one of my father’s favorites:
PEAS and PANCETTA (or ham) with ONIONS.
1 bag frozen, defrosted sweet peas
1 c. chopped Pancetta (or ham can work, too).
1 c. chopped onions
Sautee the pancetta until crisp in olive oil. Not too much olive oil since the pancetta has its own fat to clog your arteries.
Then add the onions and cook until they are soft.
Throw in the peas and cook until they are heated through.
That is IT!!!!! His favorite side dish. I miss him. When I made this…I could smell his cologne. I think he came for dinner.
I’m not really sure Ann Moses knew what was about to become of her young adult life just from making orange juice at the orange juice stand at Disneyland in the mid 60’s. She loved her job there, and was steadfast and true to the happy, happy that makes Disney the happiest place on earth. She didn’t think she could want for more. The closest she came to touching a celebrity was when Uncle Walt himself appeared out of nowhere at her juice stand and called her by name, asking for some freshly squeezed juice. It was after that encounter with Uncle Walt that Ann started dreaming, just like Uncle Walt did in Michigan many moons ago. Ann wanted to write, and that she did.
I am totally dating myself, but one of my “fave” things, most awaited treasures was Tiger Beat Magazine. My kids can stalk anybody they want, probably see what their vomit looks like and find out who their aunt’s aunt’s daughter-in-law is just by perusing Instagram or Facebook. My generation…not so lucky. We had to wait for the font of teenybopper knowledge, Tiger Beat, to pound the newsstands so we could drool over the Bay City Rollers and Leif Garret once a month. And groovy, we might even find out what Donny Osmond’s favorite color was. Oh, and ouch, the centerfold, stapled right in the bulls eye middle of the rag mag beheld
hunkity hunks like Shaun Cassidy or Parker Stevenson. But, it was my undying love for David Cassidy, that led me to Ann, former writer and Editor at Tiger Beat. Ann’s piece on CNN, “I Watched Fame Take its Toll on Young David Cassidy” was short but poignant, making me seek her out for an interview. As I told her, I found her fascinating, and sacrosanct, just as a second relic.
“I hadn’t been on an airplane until 1966,” giggles Ann. That’s when she first started writing for Tiger Beat, after a string of smaller stories starting with a piece she did by wriggling her way backstage at a Dave Clark Five concert at Melodyland, a theater across the street from her beloved Disneyland where she was a volunteer usher. After a series of fortuitous and local stories, she met Derek Taylor, former press manager for the Beatles in the U.K., turned press manager in the U.S. for the Beach Boys, Byrds, Paul Revere and the Raiders and all of the bands on Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars rock tours. He wrote a monthly column for Tiger Beat. Derek introduced Ann to Charles Laufer, publisher of the Beat, and the rest was history.
Her first published TB story was a piece on Herman’s Hermits. She then covered everyone from James Brown to Desi Arnaz Jr., the Monkees, Eric Clapton, the King himself, Elvis, and the list goes on. I said, “But, my God…you were so young.” and I was so jealous just listening to the stories. I asked Ann if she realized what a dream job she had. “I absolutely was aware of things at the time and how special they were.” She remembers, “I used to go to baby showers and the women would say, ‘we wished we had your job.’ I didn’t want a baby right then and they envied me, and all the amazing things I was getting to do.” She then casually told me those “things” were like riding a dirt bike in Hawaii with Desi Arnaz…sans Patti Duke who appeared on the scene about four years later.
As fascinated as I was with all the bubblegum and cheesecake, I wanted to hear what life was like when Ann was presented with the cream on top of the egg cream, on top of the root beer float, on top of the strawberry shortcake… covering the Partridge Family. Full access was granted only to Tiger Beat, on their set when she wanted. I couldn’t breathe…I said, “How did you go home at night without stealing one of David’s socks or an empty soda can or yanking out one of his chest hairs?” She admitted the Cassidy kid wasn’t her guy. “I loved the Monkees and Davy Jones.” Such sacrilege, but I was so enamored by Ann’s sweet and bubbly, yet informative demeanor, I didn’t care. I needed to hear more.
I wanted to know first hand how such an Adonis as David Cassidy, this untouchable sculpture, could have fallen out of grace with life and ended up completely washed up, and now dead, at 67. Ann admitted although she and David hit a rough patch during the time she was on the Partridge set (Jack Cassidy sold his kid out for a few dirt bikes for David’s step-brothers and got David back to chatty status), David was always a nice guy to her. “I think the way he lived his life and the way he faced his demons was the handwriting on the wall,” she recollects. “He never found love that lasted…it was an overwhelming experience, and it set the pace for what his life was going to be like.” She said that David idolized his absentee father, and when he was an impressionable teenager his mother, B-list actress Evelyn Ward, transplanted him in Hollywood, “only to see his dad once in a while. His Dad was busy having babies with Shirley Jones.” She added, “He was on his own through high school with no supervision or guidance.”
As David became an adult, his issues exacerbated after he tried to be a serious performer and the Partridges flew the coop. He was in a constant search for normalcy and support, and “roots”, as Ann philosophizes. I pondered that emotionally raw observation for two days. She was right. Roots.
Drugs. I wanted to know why so many rockers needed to get high, and eventually destroyed themselves. She says most of the 60’s rockers were imbibing in what today would seem like ‘innocent’ drug use, like marijuana. (Hip Mom finds nothing innocent about any drugs, but looking back at the 60’s and 70’s, it was like drinking soda.) Some were starting with LSD, but the early “Acid Rock” groups came around after Ann left the magazine in 1972.
“It was the best job I ever had.” admits Ann. “I loved putting the magazine together. I’m picky. The most pleasure I got was putting together what helps the magazine sell better. I got into marketing.” She then became the editor of the juicy publication, Tiger Beat.
Today, Ann says her TB days are neck and neck with raising her two boys. In 1983 after her son Matthew came into her and her husband’s life, she never turned back. She stayed home to raise her family and says that choice changed her life, and was one of the best she ever made.
So, what does a retired Tiger Beat editor do with all the drooly gossip, photos, some hunk’s favorite sandwich bread, and other inane “stuff” she accumulated? She writes a book, and what a book, what stories, what photos. “MEOW!.MY GROOVY LIFE WITH TIGER BEAT’S TEEN IDOLS” is Ann’s most recent contribution to the world of teen idolatry. You 50 somethings, there is no centerfold here, but the snippets, stories and pics are just right on…I can’t get enough. All the vignettes and tales that bring these celebs right back down to earth are outasite!
Ann, you are MY idol. Thanks for bringing a little “humanness” into your stories on the big, the brave, and the ugly, and everyone we ever idolized. I know you said you loved Davy Jones, and best bud is Bobby Sherman, but if it wasn’t for David, I wouldn’t have found you.
Stay tuned for a Hip Mom Contest Giveaway of a signed copy of Ann’s book. It’s gonna be real hip and DYNAMITE! C’Mon get happy and
Doesn’t it sound just super gross? Remember I come from a long line of cooks and survivors who did not let an animal die in vain. We use all the parts … every single one. In reality, that’s what post Thanksgiving turkey soup is … turkey carcass soup.
I cook a feast on Thanksgiving. It’s quite the catharsis, and rewarding. I also lose about five lbs. every holiday because I get full picking.So, it’s really a symbiotic relationship, the bird and me. When Thanksgiving Monday comes and we are back to the grind before Christmas, I keep it simple, and really, it gets no simpler than shoving a turkey rib cage into some flavored water and letting it boil for a few hours. Let the stove do all the work. What you will need:
Saute all the veggies with some olive oil and kosher salt. (Except the bay leaves). When they are tender, throw in your turkey body. (IF there is meat on the bones, leave it alone. Fill the pot up about ¾ of the way with cold water. Throw in the bay leaves, bouillon, season with some salt and pepper and stir.
Turn the pot on simmer.
Stir every hour or so, and let cook for a minimum of three hours. You will know you have accomplished this herculean task of making soup when your house smells like, well, turkey soup.
You may have to turn it off earlier than dinnertime, and reheat it. That is fine.
When you are ready to reheat, or eat, get another pot, and dump everything in the soup pot into a large strainer positioned on the extra pot. Now the fun begins. Pull the meat off the bones and throw it back into the broth, and search for any bones and ditch them. Throw all the veggies and the meat back in the broth. Throw away the bay leaves.
Cook your tortellini separately. If you cook them in the broth, the pasta absorbs all the liquid and you have very swollen tortellini and no broth.
I put them aside to be eaten when you eat the soup.
Decorate with a little Parmigiano and there’s dinner. EASY, EASY EASY.
They say you never forget your first love. My only problem is that I knew my first love totally existed, but there is no way in hell he knew I existed. Like really, no way. He was seventeen years my senior and when I fell in love with him, I was ten and he was twenty-seven. But, I was determined to make it work. I had many long term family goals with him, and it would all come to fruition, even if only in my own mind.
I was dreamy-eyed, not even a teeny-bopper, yet, but I will never, ever forget how I felt every time I saw him, and made up stories in my head about how he would fall in love with me, even at such a young age. We would break all May-December age barriers and he could care less if I didn’t even have my twelve year molars or a drivers’ license. He would just fall madly in love with me and wait until we could get married when I turned eighteen. Then we would just stay starry-eyed and have lots of babies, and I would be the envy of every teen girl turned soccer mom. That’s how it would work. My only problem lie in the logistics of making this all happen: how could I meet David Cassidy and make him fall in love with me? In my pre-pubescent mind, we had a house, a family, I was a big deal on the Hollywood wives circuit, and he adored me and nobody else. Nice try…
Well, here I am forty years later, and guess what, it never happened. And even worse, he’s gone. Just gone. hocking to find out that David Cassidy was just that, a mere mortal. He had organs that succumbed to years of torture and abuse? He was not built like Steve Austin? He was whatttttt? A human, created from other humans with chromosomes and pitfalls? This was impossible! A teenage nightmare! Yet, at 67 years of age, the fantasmagoric, pretend, fantasy boyfriend of every girl in my age group, and possibly even twenty years older, left none of us with a chance at fulfilling the same celebrity-commoner relationship enjoyed by Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise, and today, Meghan Markle and Prince Harry. David left this world on November 21, 2017, only to return in a Partridge Family rerun or a downloaded album on I-Tunes. It actually left me with a void and a heartbreak I wasn’t prepared for, or maybe a scar that my childhood died along with him, or the cockamamie fantasy of ever being Mrs. Cassidy was really a goner.
I guess the fact that I am married with eight children really wouldn’t have been an obstacle. I would have somehow worked around it, even if David and I just became friends. (Wink wink). We would love him and bring him into our family, since I think that’s what he may have needed most, and the lack of it drove him to a life of sloppy and fearless debauchery long after Keith Partridge cut his hair and hung up his hip huggers.
My husband obviously had no fear that David and I would become star crossed lovers. He’s the one who bought me tickets to David’s concert here in NJ a few years ago at the NJPAC. I was the youngest female in the room, and I swore the women in the audience were going to start taking off their bras and panties when David began to croon “I Think I Love You.” Of course he would spot me in the audience and it would be all over for the rest of them…but that didn’t happen. My husband felt the need to assuage my desire for David by taking me to hear him sing after he found a love letter I had written him that he needed oxygen to recover from after reading because he could not control his laughter. I didn’t find it very funny. I thought the letter, professing my undying love and desire for him written in crayon on that triple spaced penmanship paper they give you in Catholic school was rather tempting and seductive.
I decided a long time ago that both of David’s wives were not pretty enough and undeserving. First Kay Lenz and then Sue Shifrin whom he was married to for 25 years just until 2016. I guess maybe they weren’t really ugly, it’s just that he was so beautiful I couldn’t figure out the attraction. It was all out of jealousy, really. He never met me. Lol
I didn’t realize until the last few years, what an unfortunate train wreck David had become. I’m not sure his life of addiction was born from something in his unfulfilled home life, or genetic. I remember seeing his mugshot from a DUI he was nailed for in Saratoga, NY, and I was horrified, yet mesmerized at the same time. What happened to Keith? Where was his hair, that perfect smile, that perfect skin? Keith was long, long gone, and it seemed David could not adjust, many years later to the not-so-teenage idol any more, and just crumbled into the private sector. I was sad. Very sad. I still loved him, but the image was daunting.
As stories poured in after his death at an untimely 67, even the posthumous accounts of his shattered life could not dissuade me from the fantasy I carried for forty years. As a matter of fact, it made him even more human and I felt he really yearned for “normal,” for “real,” for a home-cooked meal or a meatball on Sunday. Something he probably never had.
I read a piece about him where he was pulled over for a DUI and the cop who stopped him was named “Tom Jones.” Well, guess what an open door that was. Apparently David looked up at him and said “What’s new pussy cat?” Shows some bravado and a sense of humor. The timeliness of the one liner may not have been the most judicious, but I am still laughing about what a great line it was.
So, as I look back on the unrequited love I shared with David, I know that one of the reasons I loved music so much and broke into singing was because I couldn’t get enough of him. He wasn’t a great singer, a great actor or a great dancer, but there was enough of something that launched him into superstardom and into the fantasy of every teenage, drooling, swooning girl in the 70s. Even though so many years passed and David pretty much wrote his own destiny, there is a piece of my heart he will always have that will never belong to anybody else. I joked with my friend who was my rival for David’s fantasy wife, that had he met me now, I could have fixed him. And, now, 50 to a 67-year-old guy would be “hot.” LOL
Farewell to my first true love. May you now find what you were lacking in your life, and thank you for giving a little kid a dream that would never materialize, but one so beautiful, it would last a lifetime.
Please read my coming soon interview with Ann Moses, who I am so excited to connect with. For those of you who remember Tiger Beat (I do!), Ann was an editor there and had exclusive coverage of David and the Partridges. We will be giving away a copy of her book, “MEOW, MY GROOVY LIFE WITH TIGER BEAT’s TEEN IDOLS.” Don’t touch that dial.
My mother used to laugh at the New York Times cooking section on Sundays. She was a well accomplished cook, and her roots came from eating tripe and veal brain from my grandmother’s kitchen. The reason she ate tripe and brain was obvious: immigrants wasted no part of the animal. The Italian mantra: if we have it, we cook it, whatever the F it is. So, when she saw the recipe of the week was stuff like Spaghetti Carbonara or Fu-Fu Polenta, she would always rebuke the culinary selection with comments like, “Really, we ate this stuff because we were poor, and now it’s on the front page of the food section?” Hey, everything old is new again, even in the kitchen.
She had an issue with Carbonara because it was something that she could throw together when she didn’t know what to throw together that night.
It’s so painfully simple; pasta, eggs, cheese, bacon; that it’s frustrating what a culinary delicacy it has become. “Carbonara,” in it’s simplicity means relating to coal, or in this case, the burnt bacon more than likely. Some say it’s origins go back to the prostitutes who beckoned the soldiers during WWII ... oh no, wait, that’s another recipe ... alla Puttanesca. But they say the soldiers had few rations that they took bacon and eggs and threw them on the pasta.
The key to authentic carbonara is you need to cook the bacon or pancetta (even better) till it’s sizzling, burn your hand off hot, and mix it with a mixture of raw egg and Parmigiano cheese. The hot oil from the bacon will cook the egg, and the whole thing takes like twenty minutes, including boiling the water.
However, Americans, unlike the Italians, will bathe in fat and grease, so nothing better than adding cream to your grease for good measure. Giada does give in to the American way here, but I will admit, it was fat-cell amazing.
Click here for the link.
I guess somewhere in in the early 80s, to the best of my recollection, I was attracted to baseball. Looking back, I’m not sure if the attraction was to the sport or the guys who played it. In reality there were some really ugly ballplayers, but as soon as they put on a uniform and grabbed a glove, they were instantaneous hunks, ready for battle, similar to Vikings who put on those masculine Malmström, Doeplers and titanium chest protectors, butt ugly but so ready for battle they made the shield-women drool.
I think the Bronx pinstripes did me in, and after watching one game on PIX 11, it was all over. I dragged my friends into the Yankee milky way with me, and the X chromosome section of Yankee Stadium was born. My friend Annette and I used to drag her very, very patient and unaware father to all these games, and we ran around the stadium eating, drinking Pepsi, (no soda allowed in my house), and learning the sport we thought would land us baseball husbands. Needless to say neither of us scored a star athlete, and as the years went by, although my love for the Bronx Bombers has never wavered, I got a more adult glimpse into what it’s probably like to be married to a professional athlete, and well, I think I’m waaaaay better off.
Somewhere between say, 1984 and 2017 I had the privilege of working with the Yankees in a few capacities and made a few connections along the way. Some, I was honored to meet like the Scooter, Phil Rizzutto, and my baseball sweetie and Montclair, NJ heartthrob, Yogi Berra, and some were just such stuffed shirts they probably wear the same suit to bed and cut deals in their dreams. But, God always has a plan, and in the mix, somehow, I had the privilege of meeting the classiest guy in baseball, (next to Yogi), former Yankees manager, Joe Girardi.
Joe and his wife, Kim unbeknownst to me took a Perillo tour in 1995, before they became parents. When I met Joe for the first time in Toronto about ten years ago, the first thing he said to me was that he took a trip with us. I was so impressed that he humbled himself as Yankee skipper at that moment to approach me. Since then, I have done a few vacations for Joe and Kim, making arrangements for the Girardi family with simple, demand-free plans. Joe and Kim are easier to work with than the every day no celebrity client.
Whether we were in the throes of planning a trip or not, I would text Joe here and there to say “great game, way to go, etc…,” and he always responded, even to little old me. I was impressed with each and every response, because it was just that, a response. I have nothing to offer from a sports perspective, a gazillion dollar contract laced with endorsements, or a huge, money making appearance. He responded because I reached out to him, and as important, unimportant, impressive or unimpressive my text was at that moment, he took the 20 seconds to acknowledge it. (And, of course, we are paesani). This speaks volumes of a man who cares about those around him, and who acknowledges the “little people,” the same as if his agent were calling.
Was I caught off guard when the Yanks and Joe parted ways? I can’t say I was shocked because the Yankees didn’t win, and Joe’s contract was petering out. The Yanks need to win, even when they aren’t winning, and I guess this didn’t sit well with the higher ups. I always felt a manager really was about morale, and not a babysitter for MLB players who get paid a million dollars an at bat to produce. But whatever, I’m not on the innards of a billion dollar team. I’m just a thirty five year boy crazy observer.
Maybe Joe was finished with the Yankees. Maybe the Yankees were finished with Joe. Maybe we just won’t know. But what I do know is that underneath the shroud of “celebrity,” which can effect those who have been laureled with this dubious distinction in sometimes the most egotistical way, there is Joe Girardi, the guy who has embodied all a Yankee should be, or all they perceive to be, or, rather, all they want you think they are: clean shaven, handsome, classy, suit donned winners. Joe, wherever you go, you are a winner. Thanks for always being, well, a nice guy. And in the end, that’s what gets you to heaven.
It’s soup season. One of the reasons I do embrace soups (just not soup season) is the one pot/tummy filler concept. Soups can be a big dump in one pot, add some bread and a salad, and the tummy is filled quickly, and you spent almost no time laboring over your dinner.
A lot of soups can be done in the slow cooker, but I threw this one together in about 20 minutes, and reheated it for dinner. The cheese and the ham combined with a flour and milk base create a stick to your ribs consistency, and a fun, kiddie-like crowd pleaser, combining cheese and corn.
This is from TASTE OF HOME magazine:
2c cubed peeled potatoes
½ c sliced carrots
½ c sliced celery
¼ c chopped onion
1 tsp salt
¼ tsp pepper
¼ c butter
2c whole milk
2c shredded sharp cheddar
1 can (15oz) whole kernel corn, drained
1 ½ c cubed cooked ham
In a large saucepan, bring the water, potatoes, carrots, celery, onion, salt and pepper to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and simmer 8-10 min or until veggies are just tender. Remove from heat, but do not drain.
In another saucepan while the veggies boil, melt the butter and stir in the flour till smooth. Gradually add the milk, and bring to a boil. Cook and stir until thickened. Add the cheese and stir until melted. Add this to the veggie mixture and turn up the heat.
Throw in the corn and ham and howdy! You are back on the farm!
The only satisfaction I receive from the fall weather is change of fashion: hues melt into darker silhouettes, textures are heavier and more fitted, sweaters are a staple, and my favorite, admittedly, is the OTK boot. It’s the only thing I don’t mind saying I actually like to wear.
I fell in love with these pants from THEORY because they are fitted, and can accommodate an OTK boot very easily, and dark enough they don’t make my short legs any shorter. The fall mesh of black and gray is not so heavily opaque, and accommodates a bright top very easily. The only caveat with anything from THEORY that has stretch, and these leggings are all about stretch and fit, is you may need to go up a size. They also tend to be a little short waisted, so someone like me who has hips and a—may need a little more material.
You know Free People is my fashion kryptonite! I love this top, paired with a “funky” lace bra or bralette. With my boobs, I always need support, so although I’m not a huge Angel fan when it comes to every day braziers (lol) I love these bras for that show it off open back. They have underwire and a front closure for support. Not a daily staple, but it makes an open back so inviting.
I would do a black or even gray OTK boot to compliment this pair. I tend to like a stretch boot which gives me a leaner line, and a sexy hug, but if you are endowed with skinny thighs, you can do a slouchier look.
Fall sucks, but shopping doesn’t.
Most people do experience some kind of winter blues, or the winter doldrums as we call them, well, in the winter. I experience the fall F-OFF in September.
I really do think I might need an evaluation for SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), but we won’t go there right now. However, I do start hating September, without even giving it a chance, starting around August 1, and although I perk up right after Thanksgiving, I mourn summer like a kid whose carnival goldfish passed away in that cheap bowl two days after throwing a ping pong ball in there.
There was a great commercial from Staples which aired for a few years in a row. I pee in my pants watching it, but I cannot understand the concept. It is not the most wonderful time of the year … there is no free time, my shorts are clinging to my legs like a frightened child on the first day of school begging me not to put them on the shelf, it’s getting dark at 8:30, my kids are grumpy, my grill has entered into a depression, there is no frolicking in the pool after camp, no sleeping in till 7:30, no grabbing ice cream after dinner, trips to the shore. Need I go on about bikinis, tanned legs and icy ombre pink drinks from Starbucks?
But, there are those, who personally and commercially try to get me to love Pumpkin Spice Lattes, sweaters, pumpkin and apple picking. Guess what, you can’t make me love fall. I think it sucks. Back to routine, homework, after school activities that have me embedded into the leather of the driver’s seat of my car so when I get up you see the indent of my coolie. Oh, I have tried to love the fall, and all it’s beauty, which really doesn’t show up until November, and by that time, fall has started to collide, with the 8th deadliest sin, winter.
Does anybody understand what is about to happen here? You all bitch when it’s too hot, “Holy crap, I’m sweating like a pig … omg, this is too hot, ugh, I can’t deal … I’m dripping … I’m melting…” Ahhhh, but when it’s 20 degrees outside and your ass slips on that piece of ice developed by a crying pipe when you walk in to get your toasty latte in the morning wearing your ugly parka with the fur hood, you are cursing the winter and crying “where’s Spring!?” like church goers who go back to God when they find out they are terminal.
The only thing I like about the winter is a big frieking blizzard that knocks out power, shuts down the neighborhood and keeps everyone home. I can stay in my pjs and watch my kids fight over the best cookies to make and take a nap mid-day.
So, personally, I hate the fall. It’s a prequel to winter, which is even uglier, but fall is like winter’s pimp … trying to sell it in sexiest way possible by appealing to your sense of smell, sight and touch. But, really, you get a cheap, decrepit, dead, broken down season that gives you a five minute thrill from November to January, but has you crying from regret every moment after that.
So, to you September, the longest month of the year, the month who seems to have eight weeks and each day is Septmber 1st. You pumpkin, sweater lovin’ kool-aid drinking fall culters, you aren’t fooling me. I want my summer back, and September is the beginning of the end … to the most beautiful season, summer. But, in May, we will all be back with a vengeance and a beach towel.