I like you too, Fred

I knew that I was treading in soul mate country when my boyfriend gave me Tim Madigan's book I'm Proud of You: My Friendship with Fred Rogers for my birthday last year. Although I was a little older when public television introduced the afternoon children's staples of Sesame Street and Mister Rogers, I got my chance to know both Big Bird and Fred via my daughter Sarah in the eighties. One of my favorite magazine cartoons ever showed an aproned mother kneeling at the television while Mr. Rogers repeated his familiar words: "I like you just the way you are". The housewife reaches out to the screen and confesses passionately, " I like you too, Fred". I grokked that one. Sometimes, no one but Fred seemed to understand.

It's taken me months to finish this slender book. It's an unintentional tearjerker for those of us who still sometimes reside in Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. I'm going to finish it today, but have extra Kleenex handy for the task.

NTD

I got so worked up thinking about Prince that I checked Ticketmaster once again to see whether any tickets were available for his Friday the 16th performance in Las Vegas. Lo and behold, I managed to get a pair. We had considered buying Zumanity tickets since we would be at the (cough) trade show all week; but Prince became a higher priority.

I am a happy woman.

NTD

I read today that Prince's Super Bowl halftime show was a little phallic for some critics' taste. Now I didn't watch the Super Bowl itself, but was hanging on YouTube first thing Monday a.m. in order to watch the man's performance.

Apparently some viewers felt that the shadow-behind-the-sheet portion rendered his guitar looking like Dirk Diggler's best asset. Hey, at least he didn't show his man-nipple.

The uncomfortable truth is that the old Baptist joke is right: the problem with sex is that it could lead to dancing, i.e., all music is sexual at some level, and all sex - excepting perhaps the clumsiest white sex - could be set to music, because it's all based on rhythm and until James Dobson decides that driving a stake through the heart in order to stop the jungle rhythm of the heartbeat is the greatest act of godliness - well, until then there's gonna be music that people will want to f*** to. And Prince uses this to his performance advantage.

Fred Astaire said it well: Dancing is a vertical interpretation of a horizontal intention.

The guitar is the phallic instrument. Also, the saxophone. The didgeridoo. The clarinet your seventh-grade daughter plays in band. And Prince knows how to stroke and point and thrust his guitar better than anyone since Jimi Hendrix.

And because Prince could make the crowd - our daughters included - think lascivious thoughts at a rainy football game makes some critics feel compelled to complain. I have yet to read any criticisms from WOMEN, mind you. The men might not know, but the little girls understand.

I suspect that the phallus police are just jealous. How can a little guy like Prince - 5'2" and steroid-free - be so damn talented and sexy that the big dudes holding a Budweiser in each hand suddenly question their own masculinity? I think that's a question that the couch potatoes have to ask themselves.

NTD

There were no antibiotics for me, just a hundred dollars' worth of snot-dehydration pills which make me feel sunburned and stoned. Also, the cheerful folks at my doctors' office informed me that my weight is at an all-time high.

On the bright side, my blood pressure is excellent.

How many miles do I need to walk in Las Vegas next week to lose twenty pounds?

NTD

Your call is very important to us.

No, it isn't. My call does not matter to you at all. You're making, what - eight, nine bucks an hour? And whether you care about me does not affect your paycheck at all. If I speak to your supervisor this afternoon to complain, one of two things will happen. I will either maintain my dignity and politely explain this inconvenience, then the supervisor will thank me and immediately forget that I ever called. Or, I will express my exasperation with your service, and the supervisor will thank me and later gossip about that impatient crazy bitch who got her panties in a wad over being put on hold. The supervisor might even be sitting at the bar laughing with you and the other co-workers about my anal retention. And look - no one who really knows me would call me anal-retentive, buddy. It's just that I'm coughing and my nose is running and I continue to balance this phone against my right ear while trying to type, since there's nothing else to do and it's already been like twelve minutes of silence. I have a great sense of humor. I am the life of the party, I swear. I'm just sick for about the fourth time in two months, and both my employee and my daughter have had strep throat during the past couple of weeks. I couldn't sleep last night. I'm in a bad mood. And I had to call your office ten times just to get past a busy signal, so I hate to hang up and start the cycle of pain all over again. I don't want to hate you, really. I just want some antibiotics, that's all.

Please, just pick up the phone.

Okay, I hung up and called again. And finally, after twenty rings and several minutes of automated voices, the receptionist picked up.

"This is Gina, can you hold please?"

NTD

Little Yellow Taxi

I bought a yolk-colored Ford Focus yesterday. No one else in this town seemed to want it, according to the dealership. Two years old and almost four grand under the Blue Book value, there seems to be nothing wrong with it (fingers crossed) except for the smiley-face yellow paint job. Since the truck died and the Saturn was looking terminal, I was tired of worrying and just bought the thing. Good gas mileage, decent price. I will get used to driving in the sunshine-mobile.

The saleswoman said that everyone wants a big-ass truck or SUV here. The car drivers prefer Toyota Corollas and Nissan Altimas... there's even a Prius or two on Main Street now. But the raised eight-cylinder 4WD king cab rules the manworld, while every size two lady requires an armored Suburban or Denali to transport her groceries. My first question is - how do these people afford these 14mpg tanks? My second question is - why?

Gotta find a sticker for the bumper which does not make me look like an overly-earnest middle-aged school counselor trying to feel the amber energy...

NTD

the weather outside was frightful...

South Georgia females such as myself are poor judges of ice and snow. It was so much easier to declare any daytime icky weather as grounds for a snow day. So although I spent the last week at my mountain home near the shop which I allegedly run, it seems that less than thirty hours were actually spent next to the cash register.

Thanks to the baby Jesus and old man Buddha for my wonderful employees, Beth and Julie.

We were lazy as housecats all week, watching movies and eating the weird stuff which lingers around the kitchen until a storm. Bubba burgers with couscous and Claxton fruitcake for dessert. We watched Jesus Camp and campy erotica followed by Disney's Aladdin, Woodstock and Breakfast at Tiffany's (not all on the same day, which could induce a schizophrenic psychotic reaction).

And now... reality has returned back in Georgia. I listened to the dismal news on NPR all the way down south - global warming, the Iraqi civil war, the Bush administration's sabre-rattling over Iran. My daughter's truck is broken down in a parking lot. I have four subjects to approach for an interview. I need to decide on some kind of newish car. Taxes. Bookkeeping. Repairs.

But there's a Las Vegas trade show in just a little over a week. "Trade show" is code for "tax-deductible vacation", in case you didn't know.

NTD