I really can’t explain why every year on the day after Thanksgiving, otherwise sane people lose their minds. Many, even before dawn, rush out to their favorite big-box store for a chance to claim the bargain of the century — usually some overrated item of inferior quality that they don’t even need.
I’ve always been smug about separating myself from people who fall prey to retailers’ high-pressure marketing blitzes designed to turn nice people into predaceous, shameless Christmas shopping warriors.
Stampeding through stores, racing for that one, must-have, highly publicized article — of which there is always a shortage — they trample anything that gets in their way.
I have never engaged in such behavior. But … I must confess there was that one holiday season when I came close.
It haunts me still.
The year was 1998. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I was sitting at the kitchen table preparing my Christmas shopping list. My then-9-year-old son, Matt, excitedly called me to the living room.
“Mom, look. Here’s that toy I’ve been wanting.”
Filling the TV screen was Furby, the adorable, interactive, battery-powered “pet” predicted to be that year’s must-have toy. For Furby’s manufacturer, the hype would mean millions of added revenue. For hordes of consumer puppets (i.e., parents), it meant only one thing: The annual Christmas-shopping war was under way.
I had no intention of doing battle for a toy and told my son he’d have to wait until after Christmas when the Furby furor had finished.
However, just two days later — i.e., “Black Friday” — while my son and his dad scoured the malls for Furbies, I stayed home phoning stores. Sadly, responses were identical. Everywhere, supplies had been depleted.
Clearly, we were in the throes of a Furby crisis. I feared even fervent efforts to find a Furby would be futile.
At our house, the frenzy over Furby would have ended there had it not been for the “secret” shared with my son by a cashier at an Indianapolis toy store. A truckload of Furbies was expected for the store’s six o’clock opening the next morning, she told him.
“So, can we go, Mom? Huh?” he pleaded. “Pleeeeaaaasse?”
“No!”
No way was I going to be separated from my bed three hours before dawn on a Saturday to drive 45 miles to fight a mob of crazed shoppers and shell out hard-earned cash for an overpriced child’s plaything.
The buzzer on my clock radio jolted me out of a sound sleep at 3:45 the next morning. On school days, repeated vigorous shakes were required to wake my son. But that morning, after one gentle nudge, he was on his feet, raring to go.
Soon we were in the car, toottling along desolate country roads, enveloped in starlit blackness, headed for the Indianapolis toy store. Matt and I giggled hysterically at one another’s silly jokes and our mocking renditions of the golden oldies blaring from the radio. We marveled at how different our familiar world operated when its inhabits slept. Who would guess that at 4 a.m. all the traffic lights in town became amber flashers — beacons for motorists, like us, on a mission? And what a surprise to discover the belt of Orion, which we had always viewed in the eastern skies, at four a.m. was melting into the western horizon.
Despite our levity, I wondered how many other kids had been privy to the overzealous cashier’s tip.
“Don’t be disappointed, honey,” I warned. “If there’s a big crowd, we might not get your Furby.”
“I know,” he answered, emoting somber wisdom at least a decade beyond his years. “That’s OK. At least we tried.”
We pulled into the store’s driveway at precisely 5 o’clock. Except for a half-dozen empty cars ice over in frost, the lot was barren. Nevertheless, maintaining optimism, I parked close to the front door to maximize our advantage over the mob soon to arrive.
Fifteen minutes passed. Thirty minutes passed. Forty-five minutes passed.
No mob showed up.
In fact, no one showed up.
The anticipated 6 a.m. opening was only two minutes away, when the store’s manager peered through the plate glass window at us.
He shook his head at me. I shrugged.
I like to think it was a selfless sense of humanity rather than the condescending, pompous arrogance he projected that compelled him to step outside and strut over to our car. Through my half rolled-down window, he reported, “Ma’m, we don’t open for two more hours.”
I thanked him, although gratitude was blatantly absent from my tone. As he walked away, I called out to him. “And I’ll bet you’re not getting a shipment of Furbies today either.”
Over his shoulder, he hurled a terse reply.
“No, and we have no idea when we’ll get more.”
I wish our little quest had a better ending — the one where valiant efforts reap the desired reward. But that was not the outcome in this case. My son and I returned home entry-handed and slept till noon.
Through these ensuing years, I have realized that, although I failed to give my son the material gift we set out to claim, he came away with something of far greater value — lessons he can use his whole life.
For example, rising hours before our bodies wanted us to was an exercise in self-discipline. Our fun and laughter demonstrated that entertainment was possible anywhere, even without toys. Waiting a full hour for the store to open provided a lesson in patience. And finally, pursuing our goal, even against unlikely odds, showed my son that if you do your best, there’s no room for regret.
So … I’m proud to say, that day my son went Furbyless.
And thank goodness.
What he ended up with, I wouldn’t trade.
Not for a Furby. Not for two Furbies. Not even for a whole truckload.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Write Anyway
Having declared myself a “writer” about 20 years ago, I’ve since enjoyed a couple of minor successes. With a few short stories, essays and articles, one novel and half another under my belt, I dream constantly. I want more. I want to see a novel I’ve written … no, actually, I want to see a whole series of my novels on an actual bookstore shelf, on the New York Times best-seller list, on the cover of Publishers Weekly or, heck, even in the “just released” section of the local library. Recently, I was reminded why none of these dreams have yet materialized.
This past week I attended the 2009 Bouchercon, the world’s premier annual orgy for lovers of the mystery genre. It took place for the first time in Indianapolis, where more than 200 published writers and more than 500 fans flocked for a love fest that maybe rivaled Woodstock. After mingling, listening, talking with and observing writers, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’m convinced that there’s only one simple act that separates me and a highly successful, famed and revered published author: Doing it.
Although I consider myself a conscientious, purposeful doer, I whine that after spending my weekends running errands, cleaning the house, doing laundry, paying bills, shopping, surfing the Internet, answering email and catching up on my movie watching, there’s no time left to write. But you know what? The published author has responsibilities and finds a way to write anyway.
I bellyache about having to work eight hours a day, drive more than an hour to get to work and more than an hour to get back home. I also sleep eight hours, spend an hour with my dad each evening, take an hour and a half each weekday morning making myself presentable for work and spend at least a half-hour winding down before heading to bed each night. But the published author does these things too and still manages to write anyway.
I use up numerous vacation days each year seeking out ever-more sage advice by published authors at exciting writers conferences, as well as spending untold hours poring over the latest books on writing. But the published author plops her butt in her chair, pulls from her life experience, confidence, talent and determination and gets the job done anyway.
I spend months revising my manuscript-in-progress in an effort to make it perfect before moving on to the next chapter. The published author writes and keeps writing, fully aware that there will be time to make revisions once the entire story that’s swirling in her head is committed to ink on paper.
After that, the published author has the nerve to actually send her manuscript out to agents and editors in an effort to sell it. If the thing comes back with a rejection letter, she doesn’t crumble into a heap and declare herself a failure. She sends it out again. And again. And again. And again. Fifty times. Eighty times. A hundred times. If that manuscript doesn’t sell, she uses what she learned from the experience and writes another one.
The 2009 Bouchercon provided a marvelous opportunity for mystery-writer wannabes like me to rub elbows with real-life, published, working writers who were once struggling wannabes too. While getting up close and personal was exhilarating, I must confess that the high point of the event was the revelation that there’s only one difference separating me from them: They all have busy lives and distractions, but they write anyway.
And so now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve procrastinated long enough. I have a ton of crap that I should be taking care of. But I’m going to write anyway.
This past week I attended the 2009 Bouchercon, the world’s premier annual orgy for lovers of the mystery genre. It took place for the first time in Indianapolis, where more than 200 published writers and more than 500 fans flocked for a love fest that maybe rivaled Woodstock. After mingling, listening, talking with and observing writers, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’m convinced that there’s only one simple act that separates me and a highly successful, famed and revered published author: Doing it.
Although I consider myself a conscientious, purposeful doer, I whine that after spending my weekends running errands, cleaning the house, doing laundry, paying bills, shopping, surfing the Internet, answering email and catching up on my movie watching, there’s no time left to write. But you know what? The published author has responsibilities and finds a way to write anyway.
I bellyache about having to work eight hours a day, drive more than an hour to get to work and more than an hour to get back home. I also sleep eight hours, spend an hour with my dad each evening, take an hour and a half each weekday morning making myself presentable for work and spend at least a half-hour winding down before heading to bed each night. But the published author does these things too and still manages to write anyway.
I use up numerous vacation days each year seeking out ever-more sage advice by published authors at exciting writers conferences, as well as spending untold hours poring over the latest books on writing. But the published author plops her butt in her chair, pulls from her life experience, confidence, talent and determination and gets the job done anyway.
I spend months revising my manuscript-in-progress in an effort to make it perfect before moving on to the next chapter. The published author writes and keeps writing, fully aware that there will be time to make revisions once the entire story that’s swirling in her head is committed to ink on paper.
After that, the published author has the nerve to actually send her manuscript out to agents and editors in an effort to sell it. If the thing comes back with a rejection letter, she doesn’t crumble into a heap and declare herself a failure. She sends it out again. And again. And again. And again. Fifty times. Eighty times. A hundred times. If that manuscript doesn’t sell, she uses what she learned from the experience and writes another one.
The 2009 Bouchercon provided a marvelous opportunity for mystery-writer wannabes like me to rub elbows with real-life, published, working writers who were once struggling wannabes too. While getting up close and personal was exhilarating, I must confess that the high point of the event was the revelation that there’s only one difference separating me from them: They all have busy lives and distractions, but they write anyway.
And so now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve procrastinated long enough. I have a ton of crap that I should be taking care of. But I’m going to write anyway.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Empty Nest Blues
After alternately sitting and lying around the house continuously since Memorial Day, my 20-year-old son, Matt, loaded up his Pontiac Grand Prix and returned to college Wednesday night, leaving me an empty, chaos-free nest. Well sure, I’m a little sad. What loving, caring, devoted mother wouldn't be? Matter of fact, I'm choking up right now. ... Excuse me. I’ll need a second as my emotions erupt Mount St. Helens-style and spew pieces of my broken heart all over my computer keyboard. ...
OK. Just kidding. Gotcha.
Last year, when Matt left for his first year away from the nest, the experience was very different. I drove him to college, his “new home” 150 miles away from his “real home,” and after a long, painful goodbye (painful to me because of the new chapter starting in my life without my baby; painful to him because I hung around way too long, giving his new dormmates the impression that he might be a mommy’s boy -- which he isn’t, but what’s wrong with that anyway?), I numbly headed home choking back tears.
All the way back, I relived every day of my precious only-child’s life -- from his long-awaited birth forward: The many sleepless nights thanks to his nonstop colic for his first three months, the morning I awoke in panic certain he'd succumbed to crib death after he slept through the night for the first time, his first word (“dada” ... grrrr), his first sentence (“Pug it in” ... don't ask), his first step, first base hit, skinned knees, upset tummies, chicken pox, major surgery, sunburns, preschool, kindergarten, parent-teacher conferences, video games, Pokemon cards, superhero action figures, drivers ed, senior prom, high school graduation ... and finally transporting him to an unfamiliar destination many miles away from home and leaving him there like an unwanted stray cat to fend for himself – a responsibility he was in no way prepared to handle.
Ah, but what a difference a year makes.
I arrived home from work Wednesday evening to discover he’d decided to return to school three days early. His car was packed, and he was itching to hit the road. Fine. But first … I needed reassurance that he had all his clothes, toiletries and school supplies; that his car was operating properly for the long trip south; that he would drive safely, that he had his Triple A card in his wallet and that his cell phone was fully charged. All he needed was reassurance that his bank account would be properly stocked.
All reassurances made, I soon was standing in the middle of the street by myself watching his taillights fade into the darkness. There’d been no maudlin speeches, no long faces, no tears -- just a couple hugs and exchanges of “I love you.”
I danced a little jig and hurried inside the house that would once again be mine. All mine. But immediately, it hit me. The atmosphere was unnaturally quiet. Lifeless. Its energy had gone AWOL. I wandered around and sighed. Certainly, my son had left his mark. Every room was a mess – in the kitchen the sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the stove was spattered with grease, the living room was littered with fast-food wrappers and pop cans, his bedroom strewn with unwanted clothes, and the bathroom… well, never mind the bathroom. My work was cut out for me. Restoring order would take some time. Probably six weeks -- which, according to the college’s academic calendar I’d taped to the fridge, coincided perfectly with his fall break.
And so, my guess is, all the work in store will leave me scarcely enough time to notice the pieces of my broken heart spewing all over the place.
OK. Just kidding. Gotcha.
Last year, when Matt left for his first year away from the nest, the experience was very different. I drove him to college, his “new home” 150 miles away from his “real home,” and after a long, painful goodbye (painful to me because of the new chapter starting in my life without my baby; painful to him because I hung around way too long, giving his new dormmates the impression that he might be a mommy’s boy -- which he isn’t, but what’s wrong with that anyway?), I numbly headed home choking back tears.
All the way back, I relived every day of my precious only-child’s life -- from his long-awaited birth forward: The many sleepless nights thanks to his nonstop colic for his first three months, the morning I awoke in panic certain he'd succumbed to crib death after he slept through the night for the first time, his first word (“dada” ... grrrr), his first sentence (“Pug it in” ... don't ask), his first step, first base hit, skinned knees, upset tummies, chicken pox, major surgery, sunburns, preschool, kindergarten, parent-teacher conferences, video games, Pokemon cards, superhero action figures, drivers ed, senior prom, high school graduation ... and finally transporting him to an unfamiliar destination many miles away from home and leaving him there like an unwanted stray cat to fend for himself – a responsibility he was in no way prepared to handle.
Ah, but what a difference a year makes.
I arrived home from work Wednesday evening to discover he’d decided to return to school three days early. His car was packed, and he was itching to hit the road. Fine. But first … I needed reassurance that he had all his clothes, toiletries and school supplies; that his car was operating properly for the long trip south; that he would drive safely, that he had his Triple A card in his wallet and that his cell phone was fully charged. All he needed was reassurance that his bank account would be properly stocked.
All reassurances made, I soon was standing in the middle of the street by myself watching his taillights fade into the darkness. There’d been no maudlin speeches, no long faces, no tears -- just a couple hugs and exchanges of “I love you.”
I danced a little jig and hurried inside the house that would once again be mine. All mine. But immediately, it hit me. The atmosphere was unnaturally quiet. Lifeless. Its energy had gone AWOL. I wandered around and sighed. Certainly, my son had left his mark. Every room was a mess – in the kitchen the sink was stacked with dirty dishes and the stove was spattered with grease, the living room was littered with fast-food wrappers and pop cans, his bedroom strewn with unwanted clothes, and the bathroom… well, never mind the bathroom. My work was cut out for me. Restoring order would take some time. Probably six weeks -- which, according to the college’s academic calendar I’d taped to the fridge, coincided perfectly with his fall break.
And so, my guess is, all the work in store will leave me scarcely enough time to notice the pieces of my broken heart spewing all over the place.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A Close Call at 30,000 Feet
On Aug. 4, just four days before nine people died in a mid-air collision over New York City’s Hudson River, I was a passenger aboard a Northwest Airlines DC-9 en route from Tucson to Minneapolis.
For this leg of my trip to my final destination of Indianapolis, I was one of the lucky few to be seated next to a window. Around the flight’s halfway point, traveling north at a cruising altitude of about 30,000 feet somewhere over northern Colorado, I took a break from my book and casually glanced out the window, curious whether I would see snow atop the Rocky Mountains. I saw no snow, but what I did see a relatively short distance below gave me the chills.
It was another commercial airliner within spitting distance – its nose pointing northwest, locked to the 10 o’clock position, approaching on what looked to me like a T-bone collision course with my packed plane. I spun around to call a stewardess, but changed my mind. We were doomed. Without a miracle, within seconds, I and my fellow passengers would all be dead, vaporized in a ball of fire.
Pressing my nose against the pane, I gaped into the cloudless sky and steeled for the outlaw plane to slam into us. But ... where was it? I swept my gaze from left to right and bottom to top. I gasped! Where had it gone? I rolled my eyeballs heavenward, and there I found evidence revealing the intruder aircraft’s alarmingly close proximity: its cotton-candy jet stream just inches overhead. Its path had cleared us as it had flown over.
Expecting an outburst of panic from other passengers who, like me, had seen the near-catastrophic event, I scanned the cabin for signs of emotion. But no one appeared out of sorts. OK, well surely the pilot would make an announcement. But none came. Was I the sole witness to this marginally missed mid-air mayhem that would have consumed hundreds of lives in a mere moment? Apparently I was.
Hours later, safely grounded in my own home, I couldn’t let go of what I had seen. Someone had made a serious error, and I believed it was my responsibility to report it. So, I dutifully called the FAA. Failing to get hold of an actual live FAA representative, I followed the recorded instructions and left a detailed message. A week later, I received this email response:
“Thank you for contacting the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) Aviation Safety Hotline. The FAA enacted reduced vertical separation minimums (RVSM) several years ago, which allows for a minimum of 1,000 feet of vertical separation between two aircraft at cruising altitudes. This was done as a result of advances in avionics technology which can more accurately determine an aircraft's position. ... Based upon the information you have provided, it appears that the aircraft you saw was a legal distance from your aircraft.”
OK, let’s think about this for a moment. The FAA allows 1,000 feet of separation between two aircraft at cruising altitudes – a thousand feet, approximately a fifth of a mile. But how many miles of open, unoccupied sky are up there? When I’m driving my Saturn down the highway, for safety’s sake I maintain one car length for every 10 miles per hour of speed. Shouldn’t the FAA apply that same rule of thumb to airplanes?
I’ve done a little research and made a few calculations. Here’s what I found. According to Boeing.com, the average length of a DC-9 is 120 feet. Its average speed at cruising altitude is 570 mph. Now do the math. Applying the minimum car-lengths rule to planes at cruising altitude, they should maintain a distance of AT LEAST 6,840 feet – nearly seven times greater than the FAA minimum requirement.
According to an article in today’s Daily Beast, “On a typical American airline, your chances of dying on an airplane flight are somewhere around one in 13 million.”
I suppose that’s meant to be comforting. But it’s not. But then again, this morning I heard that the New York Lottery had swelled to $252 million. And what are those odds? According to About.com, the chance of winning is one in 175,711,536.
So, I guess there’s a strong probability that I will no sooner die in a plane crash than I will win the lottery.
But still, regardless of mathematical odds, 1,000 feet is too dang close.
For this leg of my trip to my final destination of Indianapolis, I was one of the lucky few to be seated next to a window. Around the flight’s halfway point, traveling north at a cruising altitude of about 30,000 feet somewhere over northern Colorado, I took a break from my book and casually glanced out the window, curious whether I would see snow atop the Rocky Mountains. I saw no snow, but what I did see a relatively short distance below gave me the chills.
It was another commercial airliner within spitting distance – its nose pointing northwest, locked to the 10 o’clock position, approaching on what looked to me like a T-bone collision course with my packed plane. I spun around to call a stewardess, but changed my mind. We were doomed. Without a miracle, within seconds, I and my fellow passengers would all be dead, vaporized in a ball of fire.
Pressing my nose against the pane, I gaped into the cloudless sky and steeled for the outlaw plane to slam into us. But ... where was it? I swept my gaze from left to right and bottom to top. I gasped! Where had it gone? I rolled my eyeballs heavenward, and there I found evidence revealing the intruder aircraft’s alarmingly close proximity: its cotton-candy jet stream just inches overhead. Its path had cleared us as it had flown over.
Expecting an outburst of panic from other passengers who, like me, had seen the near-catastrophic event, I scanned the cabin for signs of emotion. But no one appeared out of sorts. OK, well surely the pilot would make an announcement. But none came. Was I the sole witness to this marginally missed mid-air mayhem that would have consumed hundreds of lives in a mere moment? Apparently I was.
Hours later, safely grounded in my own home, I couldn’t let go of what I had seen. Someone had made a serious error, and I believed it was my responsibility to report it. So, I dutifully called the FAA. Failing to get hold of an actual live FAA representative, I followed the recorded instructions and left a detailed message. A week later, I received this email response:
“Thank you for contacting the Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) Aviation Safety Hotline. The FAA enacted reduced vertical separation minimums (RVSM) several years ago, which allows for a minimum of 1,000 feet of vertical separation between two aircraft at cruising altitudes. This was done as a result of advances in avionics technology which can more accurately determine an aircraft's position. ... Based upon the information you have provided, it appears that the aircraft you saw was a legal distance from your aircraft.”
OK, let’s think about this for a moment. The FAA allows 1,000 feet of separation between two aircraft at cruising altitudes – a thousand feet, approximately a fifth of a mile. But how many miles of open, unoccupied sky are up there? When I’m driving my Saturn down the highway, for safety’s sake I maintain one car length for every 10 miles per hour of speed. Shouldn’t the FAA apply that same rule of thumb to airplanes?
I’ve done a little research and made a few calculations. Here’s what I found. According to Boeing.com, the average length of a DC-9 is 120 feet. Its average speed at cruising altitude is 570 mph. Now do the math. Applying the minimum car-lengths rule to planes at cruising altitude, they should maintain a distance of AT LEAST 6,840 feet – nearly seven times greater than the FAA minimum requirement.
According to an article in today’s Daily Beast, “On a typical American airline, your chances of dying on an airplane flight are somewhere around one in 13 million.”
I suppose that’s meant to be comforting. But it’s not. But then again, this morning I heard that the New York Lottery had swelled to $252 million. And what are those odds? According to About.com, the chance of winning is one in 175,711,536.
So, I guess there’s a strong probability that I will no sooner die in a plane crash than I will win the lottery.
But still, regardless of mathematical odds, 1,000 feet is too dang close.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Dis'ing the Senior Discount
This weekend I'm going to darken my hair a couple shades. It's been this shade of light blonde since I was 17 years old. But now that I'm of a more mature "certain age," it's too often mistaken as white. I don't know if darker hair will make me look less old, but apparently the $79 Perfectionist Wrinkle Lifting Serum, the $85 Advanced Night Repair Lotion and the $45 jar of Time Zone purchased at the Estee Lauder counter of Elder-Beerman's aren't working.
I recently was criticized by my dearest, life-long friend, Barbara, who eagerly accepts -- and often asks for -- her senior discount with zestful enthusiasm. She told me I was nuts for feeling insulted and refusing my own senior discount at the local multi-plex movie theater where I was actually four years too young to satisfy the age requirement.
I realize I am fighting a fruitless battle with unempathetic cashiers and clerks who continually assume I'm 100 years old, the age of "senior discount" eligibility. But frankly, where my age is concerned, there's not a "senior discount" large enough to get me to sell my pride.
I'm actually thinking of starting a national movement against letting these insulting, belittling discounts be thrust on perfectly fine, viable, mature adults like me who would far rather pay the posted price than accept management's pity of a few cents savings on a movie ticket or burger and fries. I find it hard to believe that I am so unique in my thinking: A senior discount truly is discounting.
Here's another thought: What if there was a discount for idiots? How would all the non-idiots feel every time some thoughtless clerk glanced at them and instantly assessed that they were idiots and therefore met their establishment's criteria for the idiot discount? I guarantee there would be an outpouring of anger not seen since all those the gullible insurance industry pawns started turning out at town hall meetings to protest health-care reform.
Reform. Hmmm. Now that's an idea ... senior discount reform. Stay tuned. In the meantime, if anyone can get me a discount at the Estee Lauder counter, I can produce proof of age.
I recently was criticized by my dearest, life-long friend, Barbara, who eagerly accepts -- and often asks for -- her senior discount with zestful enthusiasm. She told me I was nuts for feeling insulted and refusing my own senior discount at the local multi-plex movie theater where I was actually four years too young to satisfy the age requirement.
I realize I am fighting a fruitless battle with unempathetic cashiers and clerks who continually assume I'm 100 years old, the age of "senior discount" eligibility. But frankly, where my age is concerned, there's not a "senior discount" large enough to get me to sell my pride.
I'm actually thinking of starting a national movement against letting these insulting, belittling discounts be thrust on perfectly fine, viable, mature adults like me who would far rather pay the posted price than accept management's pity of a few cents savings on a movie ticket or burger and fries. I find it hard to believe that I am so unique in my thinking: A senior discount truly is discounting.
Here's another thought: What if there was a discount for idiots? How would all the non-idiots feel every time some thoughtless clerk glanced at them and instantly assessed that they were idiots and therefore met their establishment's criteria for the idiot discount? I guarantee there would be an outpouring of anger not seen since all those the gullible insurance industry pawns started turning out at town hall meetings to protest health-care reform.
Reform. Hmmm. Now that's an idea ... senior discount reform. Stay tuned. In the meantime, if anyone can get me a discount at the Estee Lauder counter, I can produce proof of age.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
