Choices. Choices. Choices.

Life is a string of choices. And just like questions, there are stupid ones.

But not this afternoon.

This afternoon I choose to watch one of the final four productions of Dame Agatha Christie’s mysteries featuring Hercule Poirot.

The Big Four promises to have everything. David Suchet in the title role. The period costumes and set design will be off the hook. The plot is sure to have Dame Aggie’s trademark twists and turns. And of course, that mustache.

To complement the event I’ll prepare a plate of biscuits and a steaming hot cuppa.

To quote others who looked deep inside themselves to inform their smart choices …

… that’s right boys. It simply does not get any better than this.

Attention Childhood Myth Busters: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

“Man, the Tooth Fairy is seriously lazy!”funny-tooth-fairy-comic-boy

“I know, right?”

My son’s tooth has been languishing under his pillow for weeks as I tell myself night after night to put something under his pillow. Anything.

Forensically speaking, “languishing” may not be the best word as it denotes “loss of vitality and strength” which I’m not sure happens to teeth.

It’s my impression, from watching repeats of Bones, that teeth are some of the last remains when all else has decayed to dust.

Well, unless you use Meth. Then your teeth languish really, really quickly. Like this guy’s.

meth teeth

Teeth on meth. (courtesy of

Sorry for the visual. But if you want more just Google “before and after meth” images. Sobering.

In the meantime,  an 8-year old patiently waits for his singles. I either forget or if I remember simply don’t have the cash. Who carries cash these days? I had to dig for change under the car seat and flirt with the attendant just to escape a parking garage the other day.

Instead of cash, I could use the coupon for a free meal at Chipotle that a librarian gave me for coming to Games Night. A free taco bowl with drink! It’s transferable and valid until 2015. But technically, it’s my son’s coupon. Re-gifting would make me simultaneously cheap and busted.

Perhaps my old Metro card? It still has about $18 on it. But he’ll have to fill out a form to activated it. I could put that under his pillow too. Tell him it’s like a treasure map.

But really. I’m off the hook for this one. It’s not my fault. It feels good blaming a mythical fairy. Too good. Instead of complaining about perpetuating these childhood myths, now I’m figuring out how to recruit more to the Home Team.

“Mom, what’s for dinner?”

Good question. The Food Fairy has been serious slacking lately.

“Mom! I’m out of bubble bath!”

That damn Keep House Supplied With Toiletries Fairy! Remind me to fire his fairy ass.

Make motherhood more like a union job. Yeah, I’d love to organize those Legos. But that’s the Lego Fairy’s job. Would hate to step on toes. Especially tiny fairy toes.

“Get out. I need to go to my Mind Palace.”

I don’t know about yours, but my Mind Palace is devoid of art.

Art boggles me. I don’t get it. Once I brought home a huge stop sign abandoned by a road crew. I thought it would look great over the couch. Until my husband called it Frat Art.

Frat Art. Ouch.

A gay friend agreed forcing me to face facts – I am art challenged. Art museums cause me confusion. Disorientation. Visual overload. After one exhibit, I need a chair and a pint.

So finding that I absolutely love Edward Hopper is a big deal. He gives me peace with the art world. I am understood. I understand. My Mind Palace finally has some art on the banquet walls.

And when you combine this new-found understanding with an old-found addiction like Sherlock Holmes

Hopper and Sherlock

… well, you can just pinch me.

Finding a Moral Compass in a beer commercial is like finding a prize in a box of Froot Loops.

“I don’t like football. And I like eating ancient grains.”

Philosophically, this makes sense. It doesn’t create any dissonance in your mind’s eye. In fact, you could almost write those two sentences this way – “I don’t like football because I like eating ancient grains.”

So for a woman who doesn’t like football, who doesn’t drink Bud Light (because I’m okay leaving my high school beer in the past) and who enjoys herself a big bowl of quinoa, this may be a strange commercial to list as a favorite. But it is. It is my all time favorite commercial. Ever. So far.

It has the Philadelphia Eagles, my husband’s beloved football team, which I don’t like watching but will, on occasion, for him. It has quinoa, my beloved ancient grain, which my husband doesn’t like eating but will, on occasion, for me.

And it pokes fun of both. A Philosophy of Irreverence that joins us at our cores. A moral compass to navigate the white-peaked waters of self-seriousness to which so many are susceptible. “What is that? A loofah?” Indeed.

Fine Feathered Friends

Morning was off to the unusual start. Yoga. Coffee. Son to School. Coffee. Work. Coffee.

Then out of the corner of my eye from a seat in the sunroom, I spot a large dark feathered form, pear-shaped, sitting atop the 7-foot high chain link fence in the backyard.

I stage yell, not knowing what it is or how good it can hear and not wanting to scare it off, to my husband to come see this massive fowl that is perched on our fence.

“I think it’s a …” I search through my Big Bird Names and recall the hippie music festival I went to once in upstate New York. “… a Blue Heron.” But squinting more closely at its dark brown feathers quickly add, “… or maybe the North American Sepia Heron.”

“Cool. It’s a wild turkey!” he says.

our turkey

Wild Turkey (Washington, D.C. November 2013)

Right. Turkey. That was my next guess.

BFranklinFurCapAnd it makes sense. Our backyard is only minutes from the center of Washington, D.C. And Benjamin Franklin did want to make the wild turkey the national bird of the United States. Not the bald eagle, a scavenger that, according to Franklin, is a bird “of bad moral character” and “does get his Living honestly.” Lastly but least, it’s my husband’s favorite bourbon.

wild turkey posterExcited and impressed, my husband snaps a quick picture of the turkey retreating to the woods. Pointing out nature, something not in my nature, connects me closer to my husband, who like Mr. Franklin has strong opinions about wildlife and woodland creatures and says things like, “You know, people may not know it, but squirrels had it pret-ty good back in Colonial Times. Pret-ty good, indeed.”

Always the good host, I go to The Google to find out what turkeys eat and feel very prepared that I can concoct a suet patty from the morning’s bacon grease and a collection of chia and flax seeds collecting dust in my pantry.

With one wild turkey that just happened to wander through my yard, I strengthen connections to nature, my spouse, a Founding Father and the Colonial importance of my address. I have learned the definition of and recipe for “suet” and with a major score in the nature siting games, will most likely get lucky later in the day. Cha-cha.

All in all, a pret-ty good morning.

But like a dead canary in the coal mine or one of Edgar Allen Poe nefarious ravens, The Turkey is a harbinger of things to come.

I’m still basking in my hey-I-spotted-a-turkey moment when my husband yells down from his political HQ (Home Quarters).

“Hey! Cher just mentioned me in a Tweet!”

And then he calmly continues his political call, something about candidate viability.


CHER Cher?

THE Cher?

What stars aligned for this to happen? Just how do my husband and The Cher connect on Twitter?? Turns out, when my husband comments that biker bitches and Cher pioneered tattoos, she adds “AND Janis Joplin” to the conversation. She just chimes in from CherLand to connect to his Twitter conversation. Just like that.

However shallow and tenuous this connection is, I relish it. I relive every minute spent watching The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour as a little girl which I would have linked to but couldn’t find any episodes that are still funny. (One of those things better left in one’s memory.)

But I will link to Moonstruck, because she beat out Meryl Streep, Holly Hunter and Glenn Close for the Academy Award for Best Actress. And it’s a really great film

cher at the opera

Sigh. Just look at her. Cher. My Close Personal Friend.

I relive every costume party where I dressed like her because I have her 80s hair and with just a hint a lot of make up can fake her nose, eyes and cheekbones. Add some feathers, dim the lights and I can almost pull it off.

This attempt to connect to The Cher makes me feel cheap but that doesn’t stop me from sharing our newly found friendship on Facebook. Or blogging about it. Obviously. Like a one-night stand with a long-standing crush I sacrifice all self-respect for a little more time together.

I’m so Moonstruck that I don’t even mind that my husband’s National Treasure, a long-necked beauty with exotic plumage, trumps mine by a long shot. A gorgeous Vegas-style long shot.


1960s Cher