After being cooped up inside the airplane for thirty minutes, a cabin filled with passengers learned we would not be taking off.

“We can’t seem to locate the pilot,” the flight attendant announced over the loudspeaker.

Everyone groaned.

“We’re doing our best to remedy the situation. In the meantime, sit tight.”

Sit tight.

Is there really any other way to sit on an airplane these days?

The man next to me had claimed the armrest and, as he began to snore, his legs relaxed into a wide stance, his knees encroaching into my tight space.

I thought about the Good Ole Days.

Before we had to take off our shoes. Before we had to be patted down and swabbed. Before we had to be x-rayed and scanned and probed.

Once upon a time, people loved to travel by air. Folks even dressed up to look nice in the airport because air travel was for the elite. Cheerful clerks gave us our boarding passes, tagged our bags, and placed them gently on the conveyer belt. So long as our suitcases didn’t weigh over eleventy-seven tons, we were allowed to check two bags through without any additional charges.

(It’s true.)

In the good ole days, security was minimal. A man could carry a whole case of rubbing alcohol onto the plane if he wanted; no one would have thought a thing about it. No one had to remove his shoes or belts or jacket. We did not have to be x-rayed or scanned or swabbed or probed. Our gels and liquids did not have to be segregated into quart-sized baggies.

Once upon a time, air travel was sexy. Flight attendants were women. We called them stewardesses. They liked their jobs and seemed interested in passengers’ comfort.

In the 1970s, stewardesses had names like Kimberly, Debbie, Julie and Susie. They wore starched uniforms and easy smiles. Tall and tan and leggy, stewardesses looked like life-sized Barbie Dolls.

Appearing quickly at the touch of a button, stewardesses wore starched uniforms and easy smiles, prepared to offer an extra blanket.

But back then, everyone had blankets. And pillows. And if you got on the plane early enough, there were even magazines to borrow. Good ones.

(It’s true.)

People rarely needed anything. After all, our bags had been checked and were out of the way, so we read books or napped. No one walked around admonishing passengers to turn off their electric devices because those things hadn’t been invented yet.

Once passengers buckled up, they started to think about the meal they were going to receive because for a time, every major airline served 4-course meals. And these meals were gourmet.

(It’s true.)

The Transportation Library archival collections at Northwestern University lists scores of old airline menus. United Airlines’ coach class meals included salads, desserts, sandwiches and beverages, with menu items such as “Broiled Tenderloin Tips a la Deutsch” (1973, Chicago – San Francisco) and Continental boasted ” Breast of Chicken Vodkaliano” (1979, Washington to Denver).

My husband remembers United Airline’s Sunshine Flight that departed daily from Rochester, New York to Florida in the 1970s. “Everyone got crab legs and a slice of key-lime pie,” he says with a faraway look in his eye.

I remember airline meals coming on silver trays with cloth napkins and real cutlery. Everyone was given knives. And no one worried about getting stabbed.

On my recent trip to Florida, I felt fortunate to have received my tiny pouch of pretzels and half can of soda.

While we waited for the pilot to be located, the woman on my right read over my shoulder as as I typed my words. “I see you’re writing about the way air travel used to be.” She crossed and uncrossed her ankles. “There used to be a lot more legroom.”

She’s right.

Once upon a time, there was more legroom.

And more space between seats, too.

And they never misplaced the pilots.

What do you remember about flying in the Good Old Days?

tweet me @rasjacobson

I’m hooking up with the wonderful people from Yeah Write again this week. Click on the badge to be transported to the grid & consider joining us!

As my regular readers know, my son decided to go to overnight camp for 7 weeks this summer. Before the school year ended, I asked folks to consider sending him a letter. You know, to supplement mine.

To sweeten the pot, I promised that the author of the best letter would win a $25 gift card to somewhere, to be negotiated later with the winner.

I’ve already received a few letters, and today marks the first of the entries in the “Write My Kid an Old-Fashioned Letter” Contest.

Before we get to that, let me tell you about the postcard I received from my son the other day. A simple form letter, the no-nonsense blue postcard features a bunch of check boxes to let parents know our kids have arrived, been assigned to cabins, and unpacked a bit. Yadda yadda yadda.

Normally, my kid just checks things off and signs his name at the bottom.

This year, he had demands.

I can’t find my clipboard. Did I leave it at home? Also, I need a white collared shirt and long socks. Thanks.

{Note: Next year? The boy is  packing himself so we avoid moments like this.}

I hunted down a white shirt, found several pairs of tall socks, and tossed everything into a tiny pile on my son’s bedroom floor.

And then I went to find the clipboard.

My old clipboard.

I was sure I knew exactly where it was.

Except I didn’t.

I must have spent an hour ripping apart the house. I searched the main closet, the basement, my car — where I discovered the remains of a green salad I’d brought to a friend’s house a few nights before. The bowl was slimy and covered in mold.

But no clipboard.

I looked in my son’s bedroom, in his closet, in his dresser.

I was all: Did he take it to school? Did he leave it somewhere?

Then I got pouty.

My father’s gave me that clipboard when I became a counselor three decades ago. Over the next six years, I covered every square inch of it with stickers.

Most people throw away stuff like that, but I’ve held onto it.

Since 1983. 

Annoyed, I walked into my closet. It was the only place I hadn’t looked.

And, there it was.

I have no idea why my old clipboard was in my closet, but it was.

Yesterday, I learned my niece would be home for her first day off. She agreed to deliver the goods to the boy, so I bundled everything up and brought the bag of odds and ends to her.

He’s probably got the package in his hot little hands right now.

In fact, he’s probably reading the note I stuck inside the bag right about now.

Dear Tech:

Here’s the stuff you asked for.  Are you impressed I found a way to get everything to you just 3 days after receiving your requests? You should be.

About the clipboard. PLEASE don’t lose it. I know it’s just a clipboard, but I kind of love it.

Plus, it’s just a wicked good clipboard.

Also, you’ll notice I threw in a raincoat for you. Dude. The rain? Holy torrential downpour. Do you think it’s going to rain every day this summer? I’m guessing you don’t think you need a raincoat. Just take it. I’ll feel better knowing you have it and that you could be dry. If you wanted to.

xo Mom

See how lame my letters are?

Thank goodness BrickHouseChick wrote him an awesome letter, which I forwarded to him a few days ago!

Look at it? All orange and filled with cut-outs and swirly handwriting! Now that’s what I call a fabulous old-fashioned letter.

I’m grateful to BrickHouseChick for sending a fun letter to my kid. After six years of sending him faboosh letters, I so appreciate the assistance. If you haven’t met Maria yet, you should. She’s a wonderful blogging buddy, and I’m hoping she’ll submit a #SoWrong moment here sometime in the future! *hint hint*

If you’re interested in writing TechSupport a letter, it’s not too late. And you could win a $25 gift card if he thinks the letter you’ve sent is the best! Details about this contest are found HERE.

What are the odds that I’ll ever see my old clipboard again? Do you think he’ll wear that raincoat? What’s your favorite part of Maria’s letter?

tweet me @rasjacobson

 

Tomorrow, my eldest niece will graduate from high school. And in August, she’ll head off to college. Unlike her brothers who chose campuses closer to home, Miss Thang will be flying further away from the nest.

Today, I’m sharing one of the essays Audrey authored during her college application process. Because tomorrow, we’ll celebrate her: the person she is and the person she’s becoming. My niece knows who she is. Tenacious, kind, funny and smart: I’m excited for her to strap on her invisible wings and take them for a spin. Can’t wait to see where she lands.

Where I’m From by Audrey Jacobson

I am from ballet shoes and muddy sneakers.

From two older brothers, playing on the driveway.

I am from high expectations and never giving up. From surging on the canal path and running in circles.

From a box of Nike spikes, sweaty locker rooms, a blue and gold uniform and eleven varsity letters.

I am from “suicide sprints” and layup lines. From dropping balls and picking them up again.

From “Eat the hills for breakfast!” and “Keep your head up!”

I am from going out of my way, from hard work. From camaraderie, spirit, and supporting my teammates.

I am from ten summers at sleep-away camp. From fearlessly leaving home, a wee thing toting a humongous duffel bag.

I am from broadening my world, from making new friends, from unplugging from technology, and connecting with nature. From waterskiing and tetherball.

I am from giving back. In song and dance and conversation. I am from conflict resolution, positivity, and motivation. I am a hand, a shoulder, and an ear.

I am from bell-ringing on winter nights, from lugging boxes of books to children who have none, from making bracelets with broken souls.

I am from long nights of studying at my kitchen island. From Multiplication Fast Facts in 3rd grade to Logs and Limits. From Phospholipids and Buffers and Titrations.

I am from High Honor Roll. From parents with great genes. From brothers who showed me the way.

After seeing my name in the newspaper for academics and sports, people have told me, “You’re the whole package.”

Whatever that means, I’m not sure.

What I know is that I am from tutus and jazz shoes.

From getting dirty and meeting new people.

From the love of learning and the love of the game.

From playing hard and winning trophies, but not being afraid to lose.

I am from taking risks.

I know where I am from.

These are my roots.

What no one knows is that I have this box of wings that I’m ready to try.

tweet us @rasjacobson & @audjacobson

What’s essays do you remember being assigned to write? Where are you from?

NOTE: I helped Audrey back in October by providing her with the “Where I’m From” meme when she was in the throes of essay writing, but all the words are her own. Thanks to Jenny Hansen for sharing her piece and to Sharla Lovelace for inspiring Jenny. If you go HERE, you will see this exercise is based on a poem by George Ella Lyon called “Where I’m From,” and if you’d like to try it yourself, the original link is there.

Click HERE for details on how you can enter to win a $25 gift card. 

To be eligible to win Leanne Shirtliffe’s book Don’t Lick the Minivan, I asked people to share a naughty childhood memory (or something naughty their children did) that nearly drove them batty.

In all my years of blogging, the confessional comments that people left here (including Leanne’s responses) kept me laughing for days!

Random Number Generator picked #9.

Don Of All Trades wrote this:

Y’all, Don set his friend’s sister’s dolls on fire and his friend singed his eyebrows and eyelashes off!

He was a very bad boy!

I fee like Don should share this victory with his old friend.

Is that guy still talking to you, Don?

Congratulations to Don Of All Trades! And seriously, if you laughed at Don’s comment, check out his blog HERE, because he writes some hilarious stuff.

Ahhhhh. I love May.

I like giving a little something back to my readers each year during my blogoversary month.

That said, I’m not done.

I have a few more giveaways that have seeped into June, so if you like winning, stay tuned.

And if you hate it, it’ll be over soon.

tweet me @rasjacobson

Don, you have 48-hours to contact me; otherwise, I will pick another winner! Don’t make me get the lighter fluid!

Each May, Rochester holds a Lilac Festival that runs over two weekends.

Some years, the weather is perfect, but the lilac trees have passed their peak. So, you know, everyone traipses around looking at slightly brown buds.

Other years, it’s freezing cold.

Still other years, it freakin’ rains the whole dang time.

Sometimes, it’s mad hot and everyone is sweaty and complaining.

What I’m getting at is that it’s a tough month to hold a festival.

This year, we caught more than our fair share of solidly beautiful days, so I made the mistake of signing up to run a 5K with my son. One of us took 41:00 minutes to come in 900th place, and then puked my way down there to get a few photos.

I love the Lilac Fest. The purple flowers on the trees speak to me.

No, I don’t hear voices.

But I hear a reassuring voice that reminds me summer is on the way.

I also hear another voice. It’s slightly louder. It says:

GIRL, PUT AWAY YOUR SLEEPING BAG COAT! IT’S SAFE NOW. PROBABLY. I MEAN IT MAY NOT BE, BUT THE LIKELIHOOD OF THE TEMPERATURE DROPPING BELOW FREEZING IS DECREASING DAILY. SO TAKE A LEAP OF FAITH AND MOVE THAT PUFFY BLACK COAT FROM THE HOOK IN THE HALL TO THE CLOSET. HIDE IT. DO IT!

And I do.

Because when you see things like this?

Well, how can you not have faith?

And speaking of faith, I know some of you are here because you have faith.

You believe.

And now you just want to know.

Who won the dang Lilly Pulitzer bag?

I know. Not the smoothest segue way.

Be cool.

I have to show you something first.

A couple of people sent me photographs to boost their odds of winning the Lilly bag. Each photo earned folks five points in addition to any points they might have accrued for leaving me comments, tweet and Facebook shares.

And now I have to share them with you!

Aimee Broussard is kind of like the Martha Stewart of the South. Except she’s younger. And perkier. And wicked nice. I met Aimee at BlissDom, and I developed an instant crush on her. She crafts. She bakes. She makes and sells fabulous aprons. If you want to see a gorgeous blog, look HERE. Y’all, Aimee cyber-pummeled me with pictures of all her Lilly-wear. She sent me this photo of herself and some hot plantation owner in Louisiana.

As if THAT wasn’t enough, she tweeted my post and sent this picture of her current handbag.

With her comments, her tweets, her Facebook shares and her photo submissions, Aimee earned twenty-eleventy-two and 1/2 bazillion points. If the contest had not been left up to Random Generator, I think it is fair to say, she would have been the clear winner.

And yet, Random Number Generator was running this show.

Because I knew I could never have been impartial on this one.

Also, I was scared. I didn’t know how out of control this thing was going to get.

~• • •~

Sheri Burns is not a blogger, but she often leaves kind words on my Facebook Page. She told me to be on the lookout because she was sending me a picture of her current handbag. She warned me not to laugh. I assured her I wouldn’t.

What can I say?

I laughed.

~• • •~

Misty of Misty’s Laws just wrote a faboosh guest post for me as part of my #SoWrong series.  (Check out “To Bra or Not to Bra” if you missed it.) Anyhoo, Misty submitted two photos of her purse. The second photo features a close-up of the “shreddedness” of her handbag, but I’m only posting the first one. You’ll have to believe me when I tell you there are puncture wounds in her purse.

Another entry came from Maria of brickhousechick. I recently pressured  her into revealing her first name, which she did. She wrote a post about it HERE! Maria sent this pic:

And this paragraph:

Hello Renee:
Reasons  I would like to win the bag:

1. I don’t own one
2. I love everything  pink (as you can see by my sweater and lipstick), and her stuff always has pink in it!
3. I need to replace the sad aluminum foil bag I have 
4. I, too, have frizzy hair and iron it flat every day.
5. I am nice
6. I commented on your 1,101st Day in Blogosphere Blog 
7. I commented on your Lilly Pulitzer Dress Post 
8. I  enclosed a photo of myself holding something Lilly (kinda)
9. I emailed an image of my sad aluminum foil bag. 
10. I tweeted your post and am now following you
11. I shared your post on Facebook 
12. My name is Maria (hee hee)

I counted up all the entries as we went along, putting names on the appropriate number of lines in one Excel document. Then I let Random Number Generator do the work.

Sheri Burns was attached to #73. And how can we begrudge her, right? I mean she deserves a little Lilly, yes? So I’ve got your email already Sheri. I’ll email you to get your home address! Congratulations! And thank you to everyone who entered! I loved reading your words!

tweet me @rasjacobson

Lily Pulitzer passed away last month, on April 7, 2013 at the age of 81. I’m confident her legacy of brightly colored fabrics featuring flamingos & seals & peacocks & turtles & elephants & hippoptamuses & flowers & flowers & flowers will live on forever. A believer in the power of whimsy, I like to think we would have been friends.

If you saw my post earlier this week about how I Have One Lilly Pulitzer Dress, you might want to go back and read it.

Seriously.

Okay.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

If you are here because to hell with that you want to win the Lilly bag, you’re in the right place.

*smiles*

Today, as I enter my 4th year in the blogosphere and publish my 500th post, I need to thank you, my readers. I appreciate that you read my words and that you keep coming back. You’ve celebrated with me and held me up during difficult times. You laughed when I confessed to being #SoWrong, and you play my silly language games.

You help to quiet the critical voices that live in my head and remind me believe in myself.

Bottom line, you inspire me to write.

Because of you, I want someone out there to have a little Lilly in her life.

Because no one should ever listen to a flat-chested girl named Courtney. 

Also because this bag is adorable.

Men, do not be fooled. This is NOT just a contest for women.

Check out how much Lilly handbags and clothes go for. You can enter and give your winnings a a deserving woman in your life. Or  *insert evil grin* if you win, you can stick the thing up on eBay and use the cash to buy beer and motor oil! So this giveaway is for you, too.

There ARE MANY WAYS YOU CAN ENTER TO WIN:

1. Leave a comment on this post telling me why you’d like to win this bag. (1 point)
2. Read THIS POST and leave a comment THERE. (1 point) Did this already? Guess what? You already have 1 point! Yay!
3. If you are a Lilly lover, email me a photo of yourself wearing/holding something Lilly. You can use Photoshop! Be creative. Include a short paragraph telling me why you need this bag. (5 points)
4. Email me an image of your current sad-looking handbag. Include a short paragraph telling me why you’d like to win this bag. (5 points)
5. Tweet this post. You can tweet your own way (just be sure to include my handle) or, if it helps, you can copy this text right into Twitter:  I just entered to win a @LillyPulitzer handbag. Check out this #giveaway http://wp.me/pViQq-3WX via @rasjacobson! (1 point)
6. Facebook share this post. If you can’t tag me, copy the URL of the page where you shared the post and put it on my blog in a separate entry. (1 point)

The Rules

1. The contest is open only to residents of the United States & Canada. Sorry, I can’t spend 11.3 jazillion dollars shipping this bag abroad.

2. Photos should be sent to rasjacobsonny {at} gmail {d0t} com by Friday, May 17th at noon, Eastern. Be sure to include your name. If you’re a blogger, include your blog URL, so I can link up to you. If you’re on Twitter, please include your handle  — as that is the fastest way to contact winners! If you are neither a blogger nor on Twitter, don’t worry, you can still win! Just be sure to include your name with your email!

3. Entrants agree to have their photos appear in a future post. (You know, if I’m actually that organized… Because I think it would be fun to show a bunch of pics!)

4. DISCLAIMER: I have no idea how big or how small this contest will be, but I’m mentally prepared to put all names and associated points into an ridiculously complicated Excel spreadsheet. Every name will be associated with individual numbers based on a point system based on your number of entries. Random Number Generator will select the winner. You can do as many or as few things to win as you’d like. Obviously, your odds of winning increase if you do more things to win! And yes, you can enter every which way. You can comment on both posts and tweet and Facebook share! You can send a photo of yourself wearing Lilly and send a separate photo of your handbag. Just be sure to send separate emails.

5. One winner will be announced on May 20th, on my blog. If the winner does not respond within 24 hours, I’m keeping this bag another winner will be selected. Please don’t do that do me. I think I may collapse after this giveaway.

tweet me @rasjacobson

I was not sponsored by anyone for this giveaway. I just want to make someone happy. Like Lilly did.  Also, please don’t be offended, but I’m not responding to people’s comments on this post. I have a feeling this is going to get crazy. You know, or not.

I borrowed this idea from Naomi Hattoway. If you are inspired, feel free to link back, so I can see “What’s On?” in your life.

VANITY: Is that the place where you’re supposed to keep makeup and stuff? Um, I have tweezers. And a giant mirror that magnifies everything eleventy-three jizillion times. Being 45 is like totally awesome.

PERENNIAL TO DO LIST: I want to take all my clothes out of my drawers and closet and only keep the things I really wear. I should also do this with my shoes. I’d also like to convince my husband to throw out all the empty boxes he has stored in the basement, but that might be grounds for divorce.

REFRIGERATOR SHELVES: Listen, Tech eats a lot these days. It’s hard to keep up, so even though I do a “big shop” once a week, somehow my shelves always seem to be empty. I have fresh fruit – blackberries, strawberries, blueberries and raspberries. And yogurt.

ITINERARY: Heading to the Berkshires in a few weeks. Other than that? Not much. This is the time of the year where it’s just starting to get lovely around these parts. Things are blooming, and I can finally put away my sleeping bag coat. Probably.

FANTASY ITINERARY: Israel. Do you hear me, Hubby? I want to go to Israel.

PLAYLIST: I listen to everything from heavy metal to bluegrass. But mostly, I listen to Fleetwood Mac and Crosby, Stills & Nash. And Bruce Springsteen. And The Bee Gees. Basically, my heart lives in the 1970s. However, I sound exactly like Whitney Houston when I am alone in my car. It’s uncanny.

NIGHTSTAND: A lamp. A clock. A book. Lip gloss.

WORKOUT PLAN: I walk 30 minutes every day. Then I stretch and meditate for 5 minutes during which time I try to clear my brain, but usually I think: “I should really be doing more than just walking 30 minutes a day.”

IPHONE: Words With Friends. Too many emails. Instagram is my new lover. Follow me!

TOP 5 LIST:

1. Cook yummy meals.
2. Try not to over schedule anyone’s lives.
3. Make time for friends.
4. Text happy emoticons to my husband while he is at work. He likes it.
5. Smile at people.

BUCKET LIST: Publish my book.

MIND: My 3^rd blogoversary is coming up on May 13th. I’m thinking about what I’d like to do for readers this year.

BLOGROLL: I am subscribed to over 60 different blogs, which I read on Feedly.com. I follow writers, photographers and artists – all different kinds of folks who inspire me.

WALLS OF YOUR FAVORITE ROOM IN YOUR HOUSE: Our downstairs powder room has no windows, so we covered the walls in mirrors. Bizarre as it sounds, people LOVE going to the bathroom in our house. It’s a very happy room.

LIQUOR SHELF: Hubby has his Scotch. There’s other stuff, too, but nobody drinks it. The Canada Dry Ginger Ale lives on the bottom shelf of the pantry, so I’m good.

LAST CREDIT CARD STATEMENT: Biggest payments? First payment for Tech’s summer camp, our new kitchen table, groceries, gas.

SCREENSAVER: I don’t have one. But Tech made this image for me as a background. I love it.

TV EVERY NIGHT: Tons of “Phineus and Ferb” episodes that seem to keep getting deleted. We can’t figure out how. Truly, it’s a mystery.

TOES: I’m so glad you asked. I tried Essie’s “In The Cabana.” And I like it.

What are your answers?

tweet me @rasjacobson

A bunch of you know that I’m a Survivor junkie.

And that I’ve even tried out to be on the show several times.

(Can you even believe that they haven’t picked me yet?)

One of the questions the folks from Survivor always want to know is what three (3) non-survival related items you would take with you to a remote location, and why.

I’ve thought about this at length.

Here are the items I’d bring to the island if they let me:

1. A well-stocked medical kit. (No way I’m getting sent home over some infected splinter.)
2. A huge bottle of sunscreen. (Poor Cocharan. Did you guys see that guy’s feet when he burned them? Ouch!)
3. A jumbo-sized box of tampons. (I’ve always wondered if those are considered survival items. No one ever seems to have her period. What can I say, I’d need them.)

Anyway.

As it turns out, two of my favorite blogging buddies, authors Tiffany White and K.B. Owen, are die-hard Survivor fans, too.

And we decided that tonight we’re going to tweet live during Survivor.

I know. Fun, right?

We’re going to use the hashtag #tribalchix, and we’d love it you would join us in the conversation. 

So grab your torches and join the #tribalchix tonight.

You know, until the tribe has spoken.

It’s game on at 8 PM, EST.

What talents/skills would you bring to the island? If you were stranded on an island, who would you most want to be stranded with?

tweet me @rasjacobson

 

I’ve always had a thing for bad boys. There was the guy with the motorcycle. There was the dude with the tattoos. And there was the fellow who supposedly “did it” with a sheep. Maybe this weird attraction to naughty explains why I have a thing for prison movies.

One of the earliest prison movies I remember seeing was Escape From Alcatraz (1979). Based on a true story, Frank Morris (Clint Eastwood) is a cunning bank robber who gets caught and is told upon his arrival at Alcatraz that no one ever escapes. From that moment on, Frank is pretty much hell bent on getting off the island alive. I knew I was supposed to reject Frank, but I found him handsome, persistent, creative and intelligent. I wanted him to get off the island. Honestly, I didn’t care if he went back to the streets of California and continued his life of crime. Weird how movies can get you to do that, n’est pas?

I remember seeing Silence of the Lambs (1991) in Buffalo, New York. A poor graduate student, I rarely had money enough to go to the movies but saw this one on a date. Newbie FBI agent, Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster) has to earn the confidence from the brilliant but wildly psychopathic Dr. Hannibal Lecter (Anthony Hopkins) so that she can stop a serial murderer. What makes SOTL so dang delicious is that there are two hideous bad boys. We have a whack-job sociopath living on the outside with his moth collection, constructing a “skin-suit” out of plus-sized women’s flesh. Then there’s the maniac in a cage: good ole Hannibal Lecter—brilliant, intense, well schooled. And so thirsty for blood. We know they are both crazy as loons and unremorseful. Doesn’t get any better than that.

In The Shawshank Redemption (1994) Andy Dufresne (Tim Robbins), a talented banker, is in prison after being found guilty of murdering his wife and her lover. But as the movie unrolls, we see the real bastard is the warden who finds a way to use Andy’s accounting prowess to doctor the prison books for his personal gain. Like Frank Morris in Escape from Alcatraz, Andy spends every day in prison focused on getting out. He dreams of a life by the sea in a place called Zihuatanejo, and he is able to develop deep friendships while in prison. And we find ourselves rooting for Andy, praying for him to get out of there however he can.

Sidenote: In 1994, I had been dating the same man for nearly three years and knew we would one day marry. After seeing The Shawshank Redemption, we decided that we would travel to Zihutanejo, Mexico for our honeymoon. Yes, our honeymoon destination was based on our shared love for this movie, which was based on my love of bad boys. It should be noted that we arrived in Zihutanejo, we realized the movie had probably not been filmed on location. True story.

In 1995, my (new) husband and I had been living in New Orleans for two years, so you can imagine my delight when Dead Man Walking came to the big screen. I was excited because there were bad boys and also because there were names like Delecroix and Prejean and Poncelet: names I knew how to properly pronounce and spell. After all, a Robichaux, a Boudreaux, a Naquin, and two Biguenets had sat through my classes. I had driven on Tchoupitoulas, and I just had seen a rodeo at Angola State Prison.

In the movie, Matthew Poncelet (Sean Penn) admits to being guilty of his heinous crimes. And while the good nun (Susan Sarandon) tries to guide him to salvation, I wanted him to stay bad. Why? I have absolutely no idea. At the time, New Orleans was a dangerous place. Friends had been robbed at gunpoint; my students had been car-jacked; two of my most beloveds had been stuffed in the trunk of a car and almost murdered. There were nightly news reports of tourists being fatally stabbed. And while I loved living in New Orleans, Dead Man Walking reminded me that life was not all about Mardi Gras and Jazz Fest, sugar magnolias and crawfish boils. Danger lurked there too. And I liked it.

When my husband and I saw The Green Mile (1999), our son was a newborn. I was emotional. Tom Hanks played Paul Edgecomb, the most-seasoned prison guard at the Louisiana Cold Mountain Penitentiary, the fictional setting loosely based on death row at Angola, Louisiana in the 1930s. I knew nothing about this movie going in. I was expecting a bad boy and didn’t expect John Coffey. Eight feet tall and accused of killing two little girls, viewers immediately recognize that John Coffey is gentle as a lamb and possesses an amazing gift: the ability to take away others’ pain. The real bad guy is not the man behind the bars but prison guard Percy Wetmore, the evil and spoiled nephew of the governor’s wife. I was unprepared for the true horror of The Green Mile: that innocent people can die hideous deaths at the hands of “stupid and mean” people with strong political connections, folks who do things because they can. This movie unnerved me, and I sobbed even after the lights came on in the theatre. Hormones.

Which is the best movie? For me, they’re equally excellent and I can’t pick. In each of these films there is a hope—for escape, redemption, salvation, relief. Sometimes that hope is realized; sometimes it is squashed. All I know is that if the television is on and I hear one line of dialogue from any of these films, everything stops. I stop and sit on my chocolate brown couch, box of Kleenex at my side, to inspect the invisible, thin line where naughty and nice collide.

Who is your favorite bad boy from the movies?

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My father is 75 today!

My arithmetic-loving son wants permission to get out of class to call his arithmetic-loving grandfather to wish him a happy birthday at 12:12 PM today. You know, because he is missing out right now on account of having to go to sleep.

“Stuff like this only happens to certain people!” Tech reminded me. “You have to recognize it!”

Turns out TechSupport is right.

December, 12, 2012 or 12-12-12 will be the last date of its kind – when all three numericals in a date are the same – until January, 1, 2101. That’s 88 years from now.

However, there is a bit of a dark cloud looming over my father’s big celebration. You know, the thing about the world ending in 9 days — on December 21, 2012? We have all heard this prediction by now, yes?

It occurred to me that the usual gift I give my dad might not be the best choice this year. See, I usually make my father a calendar each December featuring photographs of family members. But if my dad only has 9 days to enjoy his present, I figured, what’s the point?

I started brainstorming cheap gifts other options that might be good to give my father, assuming the world is going to end in a little over a week.

Here’s what I have come up with:

1. Fruit From Harry & David. Because nothing says “I love you” like Royal Riviera Pears. I’m pretty sure my father could polish off a box of 9 pears in 9 days. On second thought, maybe I’ll just spring for the box of 6. Dad isn’t big on wasting things.

2. Tickets to a Show. Gotta tell ya. There isn’t much going on in Syracuse in the way of entertainment right now. But I think my dad would enjoy getting jiggy to some Gaelic music. He might love Enter the Haggis, scheduled to perform at the Westcott Theater a few days before things get ugly.

3. A Gift Card to A Local Deli & Ice Cream Shoppe. My father stopped eating red meat and dairy over 20 years ago when he learned he had high cholesterol. Knowing he has just 9 days left, I’d bring my dad to a great deli and make start with a toasted sesame bagel loaded with twice the cream cheese. I’d encourage him to stick around for a hot corned beef sandwich with mustard for lunch. If he is a good boy and polishes off his hot pastrami & brisket and his knish, I’d send him to Carvel for a brownie sundae. Surely, this is not the time to be heart smart. Or kosher.

4. Sex Toys. With only a few days left to live, why hold back? I’m thinking it’s time for my dad to pull out the silk scarves and try at least five of the Fifty Shades with my mother. You know, if they aren’t already doing that.

5. Drugs. My father has never inhaled. With only a few days left on the planet, I would get him a baggy filled with green sticky bud, rustle up some magic mushrooms, maybe haul out that betel nut I’ve been saving for a rainy day, and give it to my father to share with my mother. What’s to lose? Those two crazy kids can stare at their hands for hours. They can ride unicorns down the rainbow or chat with imaginary parrots. Hell, they can take naked pictures of themselves rubbing food onto the green velvet wallpaper that’s been hanging in the hall since 1963. If they ration carefully, they can enjoy themselves for 9 days straight and never come down.

Of course, I don’t really believe the world is going to end on December 21^st.

That’s why it is now necessary to smother my father in a some genuine daughter-love.

• Thanks for coming to all my gymnastics meets and dance recitals, Dad. I felt your love radiating from the stands.
• Thanks him for poking your pointer finger into the middle of my back. You definitely trained me to stand up straight.
• Thanks for yelling at me that time I threw away the pennies. You were right. It was an ungrateful thing to do, and small change really does add up.
• Remember the time that you sat me on a raft in the Atlantic Ocean, and I was scared, and you promised you wouldn’t let go… and you didn’t. Thanks for teaching me about trust. I know you do not make idle promises.
• I need you to know that I could listen to you talk about anything for hours. That you set the standard against which I measure every man. That you taught me about learning from doing. About finishing what I start, whether the outcome is good or bad.
• About standing by one’s partner, when everything is blue skies and cotton candy – but also when the toilet is over-flowing and there is poop everywhere you turn.

Oh, I also need to tell my dad that when I saw him on Saturday, I removed a particular object from his desk. The desk that he is careful to keep just so. Unfortunately, I cannot tell him which item I took or where I put it.

At first, he will freak out, but eventually he will realize that I am joking.

Like I’m joking about these crappy gifts.

We got my dad something cool, and – G-d willing — he will be able to enjoy it as he watches the next Syracuse basketball game, scheduled for December 27^th.

Happy birthday, Dad.

And congratulations on making it to ¾ of a century.

Whatever you are doing, please keep doing it.

PS: By the way, that thing we got you? That’s your Hanukkah present, too. No calendar this year. You know, just in case. So don’t hold your breath.

What gift would you recommend giving to someone whose special day falls between now and Armageddon?

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