Since I used to work in the travel industry, and my new job brings me to exotic destinations such as Seattle, Scottsdale, and Skokie, I felt it would be a good idea for me to share some of the travel tips I’ve learned over the years. And particularly in this time of high gas prices and still sluggish economy, advice for the budget-conscious traveler is more important than ever.
So with that in mind, I bring you the first and potentially only installment of Jenny’s Money-Saving Travel Tips. A penny saved, as they say!
How to Save $10 on America West Airlines
By Jenny Amadeo
As some of you may know, one of the great many perks of traveling on America West flights that are three hours in duration or longer is that you get to watch semi-popular movies on the little TV screens that flip down from the ceiling. I recently learned that in order to accommodate these TV screens, America West had to remove the oxygen masks, but really, I think we all knew they were there just for show anyway.
Imagine my excitement when I thumbed through my well-worn copy of the America West Airlines magazine – which is cleverly titled, America West Airlines Magazine – and realized that my southbound in-flight movie would be the critically acclaimed film, Coach Carter, starring Samuel L. Jackson as the controversial high school basketball coach who benched his undefeated team due to their collective poor academic record in 1999.
As eager as I was to enjoy this cinematic experience, I couldn’t help but remember the wise words of my Grandmother, a woman who never paid for a newspaper a day in her life, as long as she could read one over the shoulder of someone on the bus. If they got angry at her, she would just smile her innocent smile and say, “If the good lord didn’t want me to read your newspaper, he wouldn’t have given me such keen eyesight.”
As we would collect bottles and cans out of the neighbors’ garbage together, she would say, “Jenny, my little wren, don’t you ever pay for something you can get for free. You hear me? Now wipe the maggots off that pickle jar. Good girl.”
Her words kept running through my head the entire time the flight attendants were walking down the aisle collecting $5 for the headsets. Just as I was about to pull out my wallet, I stopped, looked up at the TV screen, and realized that if the good lord hadn’t wanted me to watch this movie for free, he wouldn’t have given me Lenscrafters and an iPod.
I waited until the flight attendant passed me by, and then I tried to shove my iPod headphones in the headphone jack. Apparently, America West armrest engineers were more clever than I had anticipated, as my headphones did not fit. Now, flight attendants long gone, I had no choice but to watch this film without sound.
Being a fairly sharp student of human nature, I figured that I could probably understand what was going on during the film. I quickly realized that not only could I get the general gist of the movie, I had absolutely no need to ever hear anyone speak again. I knew exactly what was going on the entire time, and I am here right now to share this fine film with you all.

***SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!***
Read no further if you are one of the stragglers who has yet to see this masterpiece! I now bring you my interpretation of Coach Carter!
Hey! There’s Samuel L. Jackson. I loved him in Pulp Fiction. “And I will strike down upon thee…” Ha.
Wait. Who’s that guy? Did he just buy drugs, or is he a drug dealer?
Oh. There’s a kid the other kids don’t seem to like. I wonder why. Is he Coach Carter’s son? They were in the same car together. How come they won’t let him play basketball? Maybe because he wore a tie to school. Maybe he transferred from a Catholic school.
Wait a minute – is that guy with the baby the same guy who’s on the basketball team? How come everyone is mad at that one guy with the afro? Maybe he really is doing drugs. Now Samuel L. Jackson pulled him out of the game. He’s pissed.
Huh. I guess that little guy who wore the tie before must have proven himself because now the team seems to like him. He’s really fast.
That woman’s mad at Coach Carter and yelling at him in the grocery store. I’ll bet her son is one of the players, and maybe Coach Carter kicked him off the team. Probably for doing drugs, maybe. Boy, she won’t stop talking to him – she must be really peeved.
But now the Coach is shaking hands with that player he kicked off. I guess he must have let him back on the team. I bet he just made a promise to stay away from those gang kids, or to get better grades.
Ooh – they’re all dancing in a club. Bumping and grinding. I should switch my iPod to some Prince. Gotta not talk dirty babe, if you wanna impress me. The sexual tension is really high.
Jealousy!
Anger!
Breakup!
Don’t let her go!
Make up!
Now we’re back at another basketball game. Oh – it’s the championship game. Says so right there. Backwards slam dunk! In your face, opposing team!
Oh I feel sick with suspense. The game is 79 to 78, with Coach Carter’s team behind. Only 9 seconds left on the clock…
And he makes it! Those Oilers can’t lose! I’ve never seen Coach Carter so happy!
Uh oh. This looks like trouble. That girl from the other school just gave her phone number to the star player on the Oilers. Now there’s a bunch of rich white girls throwing a wild party. I’ll bet their parents aren’t home. And I think a fight might break out because there’s drinking and dancing and lots of teen sex.
How the heck did Coach Carter know where they were? And are those the parents? Strange that they both got there at exactly the same time. Uh oh – Coach Carter’s possible son is in a hot tub making out with two different girls. Now he’s yelling at all the players on the bus. I’ve never seen Coach Carter so disappointed.
How come the students are all taking a test? Is that the SAT? They’re smiling at Coach Carter. Is he a teacher and a Coach? I wonder what class he teaches.
Now they’ve made it to the final championship game. It’s back and forth all night. The Oilers are making a comeback. Wow, these kids are good. I’ll bet colleges are already scouting them.
Oh the tension again. The teams are tied, the Oilers get the ball. Go! Go! Run, dammit! Oh my god! He made it! He made the basket! The Oilers are ahead by two! They’re going to win the championship!
I’ve never seen Coach Carter so – WAIT! Now the other team got the ball with just 4 seconds left! They’re all running, but it’s in slow motion. The guy shoots the ball. Oilers jump up to block it, but they miss. It’s nothing but net! Are you f*ing kidding me? The Oilers lose?! I paid none of my hard earned money to see the Oilers lose the championship? What’s the message here? Work hard, stay off drugs, take that test, and you’ll still lose?!
But wait? Why does Coach Carter look so happy in the locker room? It’s almost like he’s really proud of his team. In fact, I’ve never seen Coach Carter so proud. What’s he saying to them? Probably something like, “You did what no one thought you could do. This is the proudest moment of my life. Each and every one of you is a winner today. You all won the second you stepped onto the court. I love you all.”
So there you have it. I successfully saved $5 yet still thoroughly enjoyed my in-flight movie. I must admit, however, that I liked that movie a lot better when it was called Hoosiers and Lean on Me.
What’s that? I promised to save you $10, but that was only $5? Well, stay tuned for my next installment, where I recap my northbound in-flight tearjerker, Racing Stripes, where an abandoned zebra, with the help of his barnyard friends and a teenage girl, sets out to achieve his dream of racing with thoroughbreds.

4 Comments; | Filed under: General

Woman: heavy set Russian woman, early to mid 50’s; O’Hare employee
Man: tall, late 30’s; O’Hare employee
Woman: “She make dat face (scrunches face tightly)… you feel like slapping her! How she make you feel?”
Man (visibly uncomfortable): “Well… uh. Did you ever talk to her about this?”
Woman: “Talk?! How I am talking to her when she making dat face?”
Man (looking at watch and around terminal): “Well… uh. I’ll see what I can do. But you’ve got to talk to her.”
Woman (throws hands up in air): “Yeah, sure.”

6 Comments; | Filed under: General

Monday’s Temperature in Arizona: 100 degrees
Monday’s Temperature in Arizona Felt Like: 100 degrees

3 Comments; | Filed under: General

There are several important rites of passage that go along with being in a jug band, one of which is being given a nickname. One of the stipulations of this ancient nickname giving ceremony is that the recipient must not actually like the nickname given to him/her. Natasha and I got a little worried about what our jug names would become, particularly when we heard that two of the current members had been named Sergeant FatAss and T.J. Rat-Nose.

We quickly devised a scheme to give each other nicknames and pretend that we hated them, to avoid being stuck with a name like Grey-Roots Amadeo or Old Jenny Four Eyes. Last weekend, while Nat and I were scouring the antique shops for washboards and jugs, I kept complaining about how bruised up my leg was getting from all the spooning. She just laughed, told me to take some vitamins, and said, “Aww. Little baby Jenny. She’s just delicate like a piece of fruit.”

I laughed and said, “Yeah, I’m just like a little peach.”

And then it hit me: Peaches! My nickname would be Peaches!

Nat cocked her head to the side and said, “Jenny. There is no way that this class is going to believe that you hate the nickname Peaches. Please.”

“No, but what if we explain why I’m called Peaches. You know, because I bruise so easily. That’s kind of gross, right? And I can pretend like I’m really mad when you suggest it. Let’s role play – pretend we’re in class and you suggest the nickname.”

“Oh brother. All right. Hey, I came up with a nickname for Jenny! Let’s call her Peaches!”

“Natasha! I said, no! Do NOT call me Peaches!”

“Ha ha! We’re gonna call you Peaches because you’re all black and blue from playing the spoons!”

“Noooo! I hate that name! Pick something else!”

Natasha stopped me at that point, and said, “Okay, if I’m going to make them believe that you hate the name Peaches, then you have to convince them that I don’t want to be called T-Bone.”

“Oooh – T-Bone’s a badass nickname! Peaches and T-Bone, together at last! We’ll be running the show in no time.

As much as I wanted the nickname Peaches, I did agree that we had a tough road ahead of us in trying to convince the group to let me keep it. I figured that the only way I could win them over would be to write a song about the name. How could they deny me then? So Nat and I sat down over lunch and penned what I believe will become one of the greatest bluesy jug band songs of our era.

Bruised Peach Baby Blues
© 2005 Natasha and Jenny
I calls my baby Peaches, but she don’t hang on a tree.
Oh I calls my baby Peaches, but she don’t hang on no tree.
She’s like sweet Georgia peaches, ‘cause she bruise so easily.

My baby plays da spoons, and she gets all black and blue.
Yeah, my baby plays da spoons, and gets all black and blue.
Took my baby to the doctor, but ain’t nothing he can do.

She’s got bruises on her thighs, and bruises on her knee.
Oh she’s got bruises on her thighs, lord and bruises on her knee.
But I still loves my Peaches, ‘cause she means that much to me.

She don’t wanna play no washtub, nose flute or kazoo.
No, Peaches won’t play no washtub, nose flute or kazoo.
She just keeps on playin’ spoons till she turns all black and blue.

I calls my baby Peaches, but she don’t hang on a tree.
Oh, I calls my baby Peaches, but she don’t hang on no tree.
Well I calls my baby Peaches, ‘cause she needs some Vitamin C.

While I’m gone, if anyone cares to contribute an additional verse or an alternate nickname, please feel free to unleash your inner jugbandster. Please note, however, that all proceeds from the Bruised Peach Baby Blues will go to the Run Jen Run Scotch and Soda Fund.

11 Comments; | Filed under: Jug Band

I had a huge blowout with my friend Vivian this week. I was telling her that I’m worried about not having enough time to balance my job, gambling habits, writing, and jug band all at the same time. I love games of chance, and Seamus just taught me how to beat the house at blackjack, so I can’t give that up. And my paycheck is the only thing that allows me to gamble, so that left writing and jug band on the chopping block. I needed to discuss my dilemma with someone close to me. Someone who would understand the internal struggle I was going through. Clearly that person was not Vivian.

“So, I think that music might be my true calling. You’re a musician, I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Jenny. You cannot choose jug band over writing – are you nuts?! Stop playing the damn spoons!”

“Stop playing the damn spoons? You did not seriously just say that to me. Okay, what part of I’m in a jug band now do you not understand?!”

“Um, pretty much starting with the part where you said jug band.”

“Look, Viv. Let me explain it to you again – I’m in a jug band now. This is who I am. And if you can’t seem to accept that, then maybe I need to hang out with someone who can.”

“Fine, Jenny. So play the spoons and write. How hard can it really be to clack some spoons on your leg? A monkey could do that.”

“A monkey could do that? A monkey?! A monkey can do three finger rolls, a double thigh slap, and a side knee tap, all while keeping time with the banjo player? Find me one monkey with bruises all over its thighs from practicing for hours every night and risking eviction due to excessive spoon noise. Well? Go ahead! You can’t, can you?!”

“You have bruises on your thighs? Gross. Why don’t you play the washboard?”

“BECAUSE I PLAY THE SPOONS! IT’S WHAT I DO!”

“Jenny. Calm down. I’m just saying that I think you’re being irrational. You can figure out a way to balance all these things in your life. I mean, if jug band has to be put on hold for a while, I’m sure it will-“

“I can’t talk to you right now. I’m too emotional. Why don’t you go find that spoon-playing monkey to talk to? Oh wait – I know. Because it doesn’t exist!”

“Lord help me. Bye, Jenny.”

“Bye.”

After I cooled down for a while, I realized that Vivian might have had a point. I’ve always been good at multi-tasking, so maybe I could juggle all these different priorities at once. All I need is a well thought out action plan. Fortunately, I’ll have some time to put that plan together, because next week, I’m attending a work conference in the glamorous destination of Scottsdale, AZ! And given my track record over the past decade, I’m all but guaranteed to have at least a three-hour flight delay in one direction, allowing me plenty of time to map this out.

But I guess there is still one thing that worries me – do you think I’ll be able to get my spoons through airport security?

6 Comments; | Filed under: Jug Band

In preparation for our rise to jug band fame, Natasha and I both bought shiny new harmonicas last week. As I sat on my couch watching The Bachelor Monday night, I tried to play a few tunes on the old harp, but quickly discovered that whenever I would play, “You Are My Sunshine,” my cats would go berserk and attack each other. I then tried playing the intro to The Beatles, “Love Me Do,” and the same thing happened. I would have tried to play, “On Top of Old Smoky” next, but I just bought the harmonica song book and haven’t learned that one yet.

Thinking this might have just been a strange coincidence, I waited about an hour before playing the harmonica again. But as soon as I played the first few bars, the attacking began again. Now, I have always heard that music soothes the savage beast, so I was perplexed by this reaction from my cats. Is it possible that my newly acquired harmonica skills don’t qualify as music? Are my cats not savage enough? Or is it the more likely answer: that I have been lied to all my life by proverbs?

That had to be it. Well, I’ll be darned. Music really doesn’t soothe the savage beast.

But if that’s the case, then what about all the other proverbs that have guided my every life decision? What if those two birds in the bush really are worth more than this stupid one crapping all over my hands right now? And what if a rolling stone actually does gather moss?

Are you telling me that I could’ve been sitting in my recliner all these years, covered with no more moss than those go-getters over there?

Since my entire world has been turned upside down by this discovery, I now realize that I have a lot of ground to make up. With that in mind, I put together the following list:

To Do:

• Borrow some money from Vivian, and then lend it to Seamus.

• Knock over a glass of milk. Cry.
• Count chickens as soon as the eggs are laid.
• Collect all those eggs in that big basket.
• Accept gift from Olympia Dukakis.
• Make hay at 9:30pm.
• Wait for iron to cool down, and then strike it.
• Close eyes. Leap.
• Wake up that dog.
• Teach him to roll over.
• Make bed. Sleep on couch.
• Get mad at face. Cut off nose.

9 Comments; | Filed under: Jug Band

Last week I was able to break away from the hustle bustle of my busy high-powered marketing job long enough to run out for a quick lunch at the sandwich shop down the street. I had about ten projects due by the end of the week, so I knew I would only have a few minutes to eat. I ordered my usual sandwich – buffalo chicken with bleu cheese spread – and sat down at a table to gobble it up.
With each bite, I kept glancing down at my watch to make sure I was back in time for my 12:30pm high-powered marketing meeting. All of the sudden, I bit down into something unexpected. To my keenly sensitive palate, it felt like neither bread nor buffalo chicken nor bleu cheese spread. I slowly pulled the sandwich away from my mouth, and had to choke back a blood-curdling scream when I realized that I had just bitten into a bleu cheese covered human index finger.
Fighting the urge to retch, I carefully wiped the bleu cheese off the finger, and soon discovered that the digit was my own, still firmly attached to my hand. I could clearly see the irregular teeth marks just below my first knuckle, leaving a vaguely pink line that throbbed with pain. Realizing that this atrocity committed against my being was far more important than any high-powered marketing meeting, I sought solace in the only place I could think of: my friend Seamus’ law firm, which is fortunately only a few blocks away from my office.
Seamus was able to get me an appointment with one of their top attorneys who handles restaurant chain lawsuits, and although his specialty is rat droppings, the attorney was willing to see me immediately.
Handing me a tissue, he leaned in and said, “Ms. Amadeo, I’m so sorry for your trauma. You must still be in shock. You did the right thing by coming here. But tell me, were you able to retrieve the finger from the sandwich?”
“Well, yes. I have it right here,” I explained, pointing my left index finger at my right one. “You can just make out some of the bite marks here.”
He looked a bit puzzled, and asked, “Wait? Do I understand this correctly? You bit into your own finger?”
I held my face in my hands and just nodded, sobbing softly. It was all still too fresh.
My attorney cleared his throat and said, “This is highly unorthodox, I’m afraid. When I agreed to see you, I assumed that you had bitten into a severed finger. The severed finger market is really what our firm is looking to get into. I… I just don’t know that-“
I wiped away the tears with my slightly red finger, and said, “Is my horror and disgust any less real than if the finger had belonged to a stranger? Am I not still a victim here? If I bite me, do I not bleed?”
“Yes, yes. I’m certain that this was a traumatic experience for you, but I just don’t see that you have a case. In fact, I’m not sure who the case would be against, if I were to file one.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, I said, “Why, the sandwich shop, of course! That sandwich had at least twice the normal amount of delicious bleu cheese spread on it, causing it to drip all over my hands, thereby making my own finger look exactly like a tasty piece of buffalo chicken. If that isn’t gross negligence, then I don’t know what is, sir!”
He leaned back and scratched his cheek a bit, then probed, “Interesting. Twice the normal amount, you say? Was there anything else that caused you to mistake your finger for chicken? Perhaps an extra tomato or some lettuce?”
As emotionally painful as it was for me, I tried hard to think back to the time of the incident, approximately twenty minutes earlier. “No, lettuce doesn’t come with that sandwich. And I don’t remember if there were any tomatoes – some of the details are foggy. Everything happened so fast – I mean, I kept looking at my watch because I had to get back to the office. I don’t know, there might have been a tomato, but I can’t be-“
He stopped me and said, “Wait a minute. Go back. Did you say you were rushing because of a meeting?”
“Why, yes. I only had a few minutes to eat because of a high-powered marketing meeting that was at 12:30pm.”
“So would you say that the stress of this upcoming meeting, inconsiderately scheduled during the lunch hour, coupled with the excessive bleu cheese dressing, both caused you to bite into the finger?”
“Well… yes. Yes, I guess that’s true.”
“And this company of yours – how big is it?”
“I work for Valhalla, Inc. It’s an international company – we have over 18,000 employees worldwide.”
My attorney quickly picked up his phone and dialed his assistant. “Gene, get Richard on the phone immediately. Code Deep Pockets. Repeat, Code Deep Pockets.”
Tomorrow I have to go in to have plaster casts made of my teeth and finger so that the forensic experts can reconstruct the crime scene. My new team of attorneys has advised me to stay out of that sandwich shop until after the trial date is set. Until then, I’m just sitting tight, trying to shake the memory of the day I discovered a human index finger in my sandwich.

4 Comments; | Filed under: General

Monday, May 2 (after first jug band class):

“Marketing, this is Jenny.”

“Why did you say I played the nose whistle?”

“Oh hey, Nat. What are you talking about?”

“You wrote that I played the nose whistle. I never played the nose whistle, and you know it!”

“Ha! So what? It sounded funny. One of us had to be playing the nose whistle, and I was too busy with the spoons.”

“Nose whistle is for dorks. I don’t want people thinking I play the nose whistle. I want you to print a retraction.”

“Natasha. It’s a blog. We don’t print retractions. Little thing called creative license – ever hear of it? Besides, you never seem to complain when I give you all the funny lines. You can’t have your blog and eat it, too.”

”Well, I don’t care. Make me the straight man from now on, but leave the nose whistle out of it.”

“Actually, I just found out that it’s officially called the nose flute. Does that make it any more appealing to you?”

“No. That sounds even dorkier. Now people will think I’m just sticking a flute up my nose and blowing in it.”

“Ooh – when I was a kid, my brother used to steal my recorder and play it with his nose. I think that’s why I gave up on music long ago.”

“Look, Jenny. I’m not trying to tell you what to write, but I just don’t like being associated with any instrument I have to play with my nose.”

“How about nose trumpet?”

“No.”

”Nose saxophone?”

“No.”

“Nose harp?”

“I said no.”

“Wait… you said nose?”

“Shut up!”

“Nose dulcimer?”

“Dammit, Jenny! I’m not kidding!”

“Okay fine. So you don’t have any nasal talent. I get it. Consider it stricken.”

Wednesday, May 4 (after second jug band class):

“Jenny – did you see how many nose flute solos there are in our song book? I had no idea.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s a pretty key instrument for the old jug band. Who knew?”

“Huh. You know, I think they sell them in the music shop for only $1 each…”

3 Comments; | Filed under: Jug Band

Because I believe in a free market economy fueled by healthy competition, I stopped by the new Caribou Coffee in the train station yesterday, thereby making my contribution toward toppling the Starbucks Empire. This being my second visit to the new coffee shop, I have now determined that Caribou’s market positioning must be something akin to, “The Coffee Shop That Cares.” I say this primarily because everyone working there shares the same smurftastic, whistle while you work type attitude.
Now, I’m all for good customer service – far too many establishments lack this crucial skill – but I also like to keep a professional distance between myself and, well… pretty much everyone else. I don’t want to be pals with the barista, I just want her to make me some coffee. I guess really, I like my coffee encounters just the way I like most of my human interactions: quick and anonymous.
So I instantly knew I was in for trouble when the 20-something perky cashier with burgundy hair bounded over to the cash register, and gave me a huge smile as she chirped, “Hi there! How are you doing today? What can I get for you this afternoon?”
I squinted at their menu board to see what they called a medium sized coffee, and was refreshingly surprised to see that they just call it a “medium.” I pulled out some cash and said, “Hi – can I have a decaf medium skim latté, please?”
“You sure can! We’ll get that for you right away! Is there anything else I can interest you in? Maybe some chocolates or some Caribou mints? If you’d like to put $20 on a coffee card, your latté will be free today!”
“No, just the latté is fine, thanks.”
The Stepford cashier rang up my latté, handed me my change, and kept talking to me as I was walking away, her voice slowly drifting off: “Thanks for coming in! Just step right over there, and we’ll get your latté to you in a jiffy! Hope to see you again soon.”
As I waited for my drink, the barista gal had a permagrin on her face, and kept looking over at me while I impatiently flicked a packet of raw sugar between my fingers.
She smiled widely at me, and said, “Hi there! How are you doing today? I’ll have that decaf medium skim latté ready for you in just a second! Will you need a coffee sleeve for that? I’ll get you one just in case.”
I closed my eyes a bit and calmed myself with the soothing image of a sweaty, gold-chained Mr. T smashing through the glass doors of the coffee shop while shouting, “Enough with the jibber-jabber! Give the woman her damn latté, fool, ‘fore I mess you up, real good!”
I was snapped out of my fantasy by the arrival of my piping hot coffee, but the whole experience reminded me of another encounter I had with overly engaged service employees. Several years ago, a friend and I were eating dinner at a local restaurant. Our waiter was a young man, clean-cut, seemed nice enough, but he would not stop smiling and staring at us the entire time he was taking our order. His eyes were fixed intently on mine as I perused the menu, and as I gave him my order, he kept looking directly into my eyes instead of down at his notepad as he scribbled out my order.
The frozen eye contact made me extremely uncomfortable and fidgety. As soon as he walked away, I leaned over to my friend Kim, and said, “Why is it that we always get the crazy waiters? I mean, how totally creepy was that guy?!”
Kim nodded in agreement, and whispered, “No kidding! Hey, Starey McEyeballs – try looking away every now and then, why don’t you!?”
Later in the evening, the waiter came back to see if we were interested in dessert, and as I looked over the menu, I asked him what the cheesecake of the day was. I kept my head fixed firmly on the menu because I didn’t want to look him in the eyes, for fear that he might steal my soul.
This time, he didn’t start writing my order down right away. Instead he stopped, and said to us, “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that – I’m actually a little hard of hearing.”
As he walked away, Kim and I looked at each other with an entirely new perspective on the situation. So as it turned out, our waiter wasn’t a psycho after all – he was just hard of hearing, and had to keep staring at us in order to read our lips. This was one of those experiences that really makes you think twice before passing judgment on people.
We walked out of there with a whole new attitude, having learned a valuable life lesson. I guess that the moral of the story is that you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover – black, white, gay, straight, deaf, hearing. The bottom line is that no matter what your background, it’s still really creepy to hold someone’s gaze for more than ten seconds.

8 Comments; | Filed under: General

After encountering three children in the elevator, and one pre-teen eyeing up the coffee machine at work, I eventually deduced that last Wednesday was “Take Your Child to Work Day.” I’m all for inventing new holidays, particularly if they involve me getting presents, but I’d at least like a little more truth in advertising. With that in mind, I came up with a few more descriptive names for this annual event:
“Get Out Of Paying For Daycare Today Day”
Or
“Flaunt Your Fertility In Front Of Your Single, Childless Co-workers Day”
Or
“Let’s See If We Can Possibly Make Union Station Any More Crowded At Lunchtime Day”
Or
“Prove To Junior That At Least Someone Respects Daddy Day”

3 Comments; | Filed under: General