When I opened my used book store four years ago, I discovered some pet peeves I didn't know I had: dog-eared pages, books with writing in them, missing dust jackets, broken spines, scribblings in children's books, and prices written in ink on books that eventually made their way to my store.
Small irks. All things I learned to live with. A little Wite-Out took care of the inked prices. Broken spines and dog-eared pages came to be seen as signs of a well read book. Lines of initials on first pages as proof of a well traveled book. And children's scribblings as a sign of an early appreciation of all of the arts.
A few of the peeves I even learned to love. Like the personalized inscriptions that so often express a fondness for a specific book as well as for a certain person. All in all, a more than even trade for the pleasure of spending my days surrounded by books instead of by lawyers.
But lately my pet peeves seem to have gotten bigger. I get irritated not at books but at people. The ones who write letters to editors bemoaning the closure of a local bookstore but buy their books off of Amazon. The ones who don't browse in a bookstore because their lives are just too busy with all their electronic gadgets. The ones who buy Kindles so as not to clutter their homes with books, but have four sets of china and two more bedrooms than family members. The ones who consider books clutter.
Admittedly these new irritations are all in direct correlation to what I see as dwindling book sales and the willingness of people to give up the pleasure of holding an actual book, flipping through it's pages, cuddling up in a chair with it, writing a personal inscription in it and, when they're finished, handing it off to a friend who might enjoy it.
A woman came into my store recently looking for paperbacks because she thought her new Kindle was causing her hands to cramp. I almost cheered. It gave me hope.
Surely, amid all the warnings and testings for hazards that we do in this country, someone will verify a causal connection between the new book readers and some minor health hazard. Maybe they'll even find a slight, but verifiable, harm from second hand exposure to the devices. They might even want to test for any slightly offensive odor that they emit. With luck, some sort of graphic warning will be required.
I'm not hoping for a cancer connection. Just something minor that we booksellers can grab onto. Something that makes people just a little bit afraid or irritated.
And while they're at it, I hope they also do a test to reaffirm that browsing used book stores and holding an actual book in your hands causes pleasure. Because too many people seem to be forgetting that.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Soap on a Rope
Jim isn't the easiest person to buy presents for at any time, and June is a particularly bad time because his birthday and Father's Day are usually only days apart. Years ago, one of his children had the grand idea of getting him soap on a rope for the shower. Jim oohed and aahed over the gift, used it daily, and hung it up in the shower where it became a very visible symbol of a successful gift. Forever after, soap on a rope became the present of choice for Jim--and the present that always created dissension among the four kids as they competed for who would find the first (and best) soap on a rope.
Many months ago Johanna and I found an amazing collection of soaps on a rope at our favorite TJ Maxx. They had soaps on a rope in the shape of a dog bone, a ghost, a frog, and a rubber duckie. Ever aware of the difficulty of finding soap on a rope at auspicious times, we bought out the lot and Johanna came home with a big grin and years worth of presents for Jim. And unique soaps on a rope that would probably outshine any that her siblings might buy.
We stashed the soaps in a drawer for safekeeping, completely forgot that we had a ghost soap on a rope for Halloween, but did remember the dog bone for Christmas. Then we promptly forgot them once again until, searching for items for Steve's garage sale, I opened the drawer and found a ghost, a duck, and two frogs!
We were heading down to Lake Mattoon for Father's Day and had invited our friends the Garlands and the Meents to join us. Jo and her friend Sarah love to sing and they had decided to compose a song in honor of Father's Day. It only seemed appropriate to incorporate soap on a rope into the song and share Johanna's soap on a rope bounty. Jim and Greg Garland ended up with frog soaps on a rope and Dick Meets got the rubber duckie. I'm guessing that they had no idea just how much panache attaches to soap on a rope, but they were still impressed. Jim, as usual, was pleased.
As I am sure that he will be next Halloween when he gets a ghost soap on a rope!
Jo, Sarah, and Matt's Father's Day Song
We like our DAds, /Yes we do
Jim, Dick, and Greg,/ What a crew!
Jim takes our pictures. / He makes us smile.
When it comes to fashion,/ he is out of style
Our coach, Greg, /always makes us hustle.
His son, Matt, /shows off his muscle.
Dick likes to talk a lot./ He's full of hot air.
That's why Sarah/ can lift him in the air.
Jim says that we/ are a bit squirrly,
He always yells/ “not another girly.”
Dick's favorite spot is/ his chair that reclines.
He likes to relax/ with a clicker and felines.
Greg is our favorite coach./ HE loves running drills.
When he's not coaching us,/ he loves running GRILLS.
Jim likes poker/ and he likes sudoko
We all think that/ he’s a bit loco!
Dick likes to drink/ a beer after mowing
We wonder where/ his hair is going.
Greg likes to make us/ run laps and jog.
He would really like/ to get a family dog.
We like our Dads,/ yes we do
JIm, Dick, and Greg,/ What a crew.
You’re the best dads,/ so lets give a cheer.
We’d like to give you/ a year’s worth of beer
But beer is too expensive/ and we’re too cheap
Jim, Dick, and Greg, /please don’t weep!
You're the bestest fathers/ and that's not a joke.
So here's your present, / its soap on a rope.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Just Like My Dad
I've always been a lot like my mom--small in stature, introverted, self-conscious in groups, and a little too quick to find something I'm dissatisfied with or worried about. My dad, on the other hand, was portly, a people person, and completely content with all aspects of his unassuming life--including me. I adored him.
As a kid, I tried to be more like him. I went to White Sox games instead of shopping, practiced softball more than piano, and collected autographs of major league players instead of movie stars. I avoided the hard classes, reined in ambition, and on almost every night during my last years of high school I watched Johnny Carson with him.
We had our regular seats. Dad's was a big brown plaid recliner that I never had enough heft to make recline. The fabric was worn in patches and the arms were smudged with grease that the Lava soap didn't reach and that Dad brought home every day from the chemical plant where he worked from my birth until his retirement.
Mine was Mom's stuffed, blue tweed rocker that sat to the left of Dad's chair, separated by a lamp table that allowed them both to read their library books at night. By the time Johnny came on Mom had usually vacated the chair and moved to the couch, where she'd recline and fall asleep with an open book by her side. On the few occasions when she stayed awake, I'd lay down on the shag carpet directly in front of the console TV, with Dad at my back.
Dad almost always had a crossword puzzle that he would work on during the show and I had Dad. It was a more insular world back then and not a lot of popular culture reached our small rural town. With only three TV stations and sporadic radio reception, I didn't know the majority of the guests. As they were making their entrance, Dad would patiently explain who they were and why they were famous, often adding a little of his own history to their stories.
We each had our favorites. Mine was an author, whose name I don't remember, but who was urbane and witty and always brought along his Asian wife, who was both exotic and gorgeous. Dad liked anyone who was connected to sports or the big bands, but also had a particular fondness for Angie Dickinson, who never failed at getting him to set down that crossword. We both liked the new comedians and Carmac the Magnificent, and rarely missed the opening monologue.
Sometimes Dad would get up during a commercial to make us popcorn. And sometimes, I would get up and bring back ice cream. But more often than not we didn't need anything besides each other's company. It was an hour and a half each night where I was completely content--and just a little bit like my dad.
As a kid, I tried to be more like him. I went to White Sox games instead of shopping, practiced softball more than piano, and collected autographs of major league players instead of movie stars. I avoided the hard classes, reined in ambition, and on almost every night during my last years of high school I watched Johnny Carson with him.
We had our regular seats. Dad's was a big brown plaid recliner that I never had enough heft to make recline. The fabric was worn in patches and the arms were smudged with grease that the Lava soap didn't reach and that Dad brought home every day from the chemical plant where he worked from my birth until his retirement.
Mine was Mom's stuffed, blue tweed rocker that sat to the left of Dad's chair, separated by a lamp table that allowed them both to read their library books at night. By the time Johnny came on Mom had usually vacated the chair and moved to the couch, where she'd recline and fall asleep with an open book by her side. On the few occasions when she stayed awake, I'd lay down on the shag carpet directly in front of the console TV, with Dad at my back.
Dad almost always had a crossword puzzle that he would work on during the show and I had Dad. It was a more insular world back then and not a lot of popular culture reached our small rural town. With only three TV stations and sporadic radio reception, I didn't know the majority of the guests. As they were making their entrance, Dad would patiently explain who they were and why they were famous, often adding a little of his own history to their stories.
We each had our favorites. Mine was an author, whose name I don't remember, but who was urbane and witty and always brought along his Asian wife, who was both exotic and gorgeous. Dad liked anyone who was connected to sports or the big bands, but also had a particular fondness for Angie Dickinson, who never failed at getting him to set down that crossword. We both liked the new comedians and Carmac the Magnificent, and rarely missed the opening monologue.
Sometimes Dad would get up during a commercial to make us popcorn. And sometimes, I would get up and bring back ice cream. But more often than not we didn't need anything besides each other's company. It was an hour and a half each night where I was completely content--and just a little bit like my dad.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Sathre as a Surname
I have an ongoing inner debate about whether the internet is a good thing or a bad thing. It was a good thing when I found a "no egg" cookie recipe the night that I had a sweet tooth but an empty refrigerator. It was a bad thing when I had a minor back ache and self diagnosed myself with any number of scary diseases.
And earlier this week it was a good thing when I discovered yellowpages.com and realized that I could throw out all those Yellow Books that seem to arrive on my doorstep in multiples several times a year. I probably could have thrown away all of my white pages too. Except that I have a particular fondness for white pages.
Every vacation when I was growing up, I had a mission. As soon as we checked into a motel room, I'd pull out the local white pages and search for other people with the name of "Sathre." I never found a single one. And I always felt a little smug about having a name that no one else had. It was almost like having our very own family crest.
According to our family lore, my grandfather made up our name when he immigrated from Norway in the early 1900's. Starting the journey as Peter Anderson, he became increasingly upset to find that a large number of the passengers on the crowded boat shared his common Scandinavian surname. Not wanting to start a life in a new country with a name that so many people had, he decided he needed a new one and, somehow, came up with Sathre.
Since my grandfather died when my dad was seven, this account was never properly vetted. But I loved the story and was certain that my grandfather had done a great job of distinguishing our family with a wholly original name. I didn't know a single Sathre outside of our immediate family, and there weren't any Sathres in the phone book of our small, southern Illinois town. But since our town had only 3000 people and a phone book of a mere 34 pages, I wanted further proof.
And I got it. On family trips to Springfield, Illinois, Kentucky Lake, Kentucky, Kingsport, Tennessee, and McCormick's Creek, Indiana, I'd check phone book after phone book to confirm my singular distinction as a Sathre. I was never disappointed.
But it was our trips to Chicago and Indianapolis and St. Louis that really made me proud. There, right next to the Gideon bibles, I found phone books the size of booster seats with more names than even my grandfather could have imagined. I nervously ran my finger down page after page of S's and Sa's and Sat's and Sath's, and to my great delight, never found a single Sathre.
I was able to travel through childhood and most of adulthood without ever having to see my name in print next to someone else's address. It played a part in my deciding to keep my surname when I got married and in giving "Sathre" to both of my daughters as a middle name.
This morning, like I do so many days, I got up, got on the internet and opened my Facebook page. I had a suggested friend. It was no one I had heard of before. His name was Joseph Sathre.
The internet is a very bad thing.
And earlier this week it was a good thing when I discovered yellowpages.com and realized that I could throw out all those Yellow Books that seem to arrive on my doorstep in multiples several times a year. I probably could have thrown away all of my white pages too. Except that I have a particular fondness for white pages.
Every vacation when I was growing up, I had a mission. As soon as we checked into a motel room, I'd pull out the local white pages and search for other people with the name of "Sathre." I never found a single one. And I always felt a little smug about having a name that no one else had. It was almost like having our very own family crest.
According to our family lore, my grandfather made up our name when he immigrated from Norway in the early 1900's. Starting the journey as Peter Anderson, he became increasingly upset to find that a large number of the passengers on the crowded boat shared his common Scandinavian surname. Not wanting to start a life in a new country with a name that so many people had, he decided he needed a new one and, somehow, came up with Sathre.
Since my grandfather died when my dad was seven, this account was never properly vetted. But I loved the story and was certain that my grandfather had done a great job of distinguishing our family with a wholly original name. I didn't know a single Sathre outside of our immediate family, and there weren't any Sathres in the phone book of our small, southern Illinois town. But since our town had only 3000 people and a phone book of a mere 34 pages, I wanted further proof.
And I got it. On family trips to Springfield, Illinois, Kentucky Lake, Kentucky, Kingsport, Tennessee, and McCormick's Creek, Indiana, I'd check phone book after phone book to confirm my singular distinction as a Sathre. I was never disappointed.
But it was our trips to Chicago and Indianapolis and St. Louis that really made me proud. There, right next to the Gideon bibles, I found phone books the size of booster seats with more names than even my grandfather could have imagined. I nervously ran my finger down page after page of S's and Sa's and Sat's and Sath's, and to my great delight, never found a single Sathre.
I was able to travel through childhood and most of adulthood without ever having to see my name in print next to someone else's address. It played a part in my deciding to keep my surname when I got married and in giving "Sathre" to both of my daughters as a middle name.
This morning, like I do so many days, I got up, got on the internet and opened my Facebook page. I had a suggested friend. It was no one I had heard of before. His name was Joseph Sathre.
The internet is a very bad thing.
Monday, May 30, 2011
What To Do Next?
Alex had just given birth to Flynn four hours earlier when she looked up from her hospital bed and, in all seriousness, asked me, "What are we going to do here for the next 48 hours?"
I broke out laughing. It was so like her.
Go into labor. Check.
Get to the hospital. Check.
Give birth. Check.
Okay, that's done. What's next?
Admittedly, she was probably still under the influence of her epidural and almost certainly still had an adrenalin rush. And, as a first time mother, she likely didn't fully understand how much she was going to need both sleep and pain medication over the next 48 hours. Still, for someone who had worked right up until the day of her due date, I would have thought that the idea of 48 unplanned hours would be something to look forward to rather than something to fill. Especially since free hours were going to be in short supply all too soon.
It reminded me of a coworker I once had who insisted that when he had kids, they'd have to fit into his life rather than he into theirs. I laughed then too. I knew that kids tend to take the front seat in your life whether you want them to or not. There are pacifiers to find, cheerios to pick up, mini-vans to shop for, tantrums to tone down, and t-ball games to coach.
And it doesn't even stop with the busy stuff. They also dominate your thoughts. I certainly hadn't intended to write a second blog post about Flynn or grandmotherhood--at least not so soon. Yet here I am.
It's like the poster I bought for Ellen years ago when she had four small kids running around, all wanting to ride shotgun. It shows a picture of a woman with kids growing out of her head like frazzled hair, and the caption, "My head is full of children." It hung in Ellen's kitchen for over twenty years and was taken down just recently when she remodeled. With her own grandmotherhood looming, I think I can safely tell her to hunt it down. It's going to be true again soon.
As for Alex, she's proving to be a natural mother, perfecting swaddling, feeding, and diaper changing like a pro. All the while cuddling and marveling at her new son. Her days and her head are filled, and it's unlikely that she'll be asking "What to do?" any time soon.
More likely, her next question will be the same one I had as I watched my first-born hold her own first-born. "Where did the time go?"
I broke out laughing. It was so like her.
Go into labor. Check.
Get to the hospital. Check.
Give birth. Check.
Okay, that's done. What's next?
Admittedly, she was probably still under the influence of her epidural and almost certainly still had an adrenalin rush. And, as a first time mother, she likely didn't fully understand how much she was going to need both sleep and pain medication over the next 48 hours. Still, for someone who had worked right up until the day of her due date, I would have thought that the idea of 48 unplanned hours would be something to look forward to rather than something to fill. Especially since free hours were going to be in short supply all too soon.
It reminded me of a coworker I once had who insisted that when he had kids, they'd have to fit into his life rather than he into theirs. I laughed then too. I knew that kids tend to take the front seat in your life whether you want them to or not. There are pacifiers to find, cheerios to pick up, mini-vans to shop for, tantrums to tone down, and t-ball games to coach.
And it doesn't even stop with the busy stuff. They also dominate your thoughts. I certainly hadn't intended to write a second blog post about Flynn or grandmotherhood--at least not so soon. Yet here I am.
It's like the poster I bought for Ellen years ago when she had four small kids running around, all wanting to ride shotgun. It shows a picture of a woman with kids growing out of her head like frazzled hair, and the caption, "My head is full of children." It hung in Ellen's kitchen for over twenty years and was taken down just recently when she remodeled. With her own grandmotherhood looming, I think I can safely tell her to hunt it down. It's going to be true again soon.
As for Alex, she's proving to be a natural mother, perfecting swaddling, feeding, and diaper changing like a pro. All the while cuddling and marveling at her new son. Her days and her head are filled, and it's unlikely that she'll be asking "What to do?" any time soon.
More likely, her next question will be the same one I had as I watched my first-born hold her own first-born. "Where did the time go?"
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Jeanne's a Grandmother!
As the older sister, I’ve spent my entire life doing things before my sister. I was the first to ride a bike, to go to school, to swim the length of the pool, to dance in red boots, to lead cheers at ballgames, to learn my way around the University of Illinois campus, to get married, to have a baby, to buy a house, to be eligible for social security. The list goes on and on.
So how on earth can Jeanne be a grandmother?
I’m sure that Jeanne could have done all those things that I did first on her own just fine, but I like to think that following in my footsteps eased her way a little bit, that North Side School and swimming pools and the University of Illinois and motherhood were all a little bit less scary knowing that I was there. I like to think that it was comforting to have a big sister who knew the ropes.
So how can Jeanne be a grandmother?
Despite what social security says, I barely feel old enough to be a grandmother myself. It was only yesterday, it seems like, that I joined the ranks of mothers. My baby sister is much too young to be a grand mother.
So how can Jeanne be a grandmother?
It’s not as though she’s that far ahead of me. My own grandbabies are no longer just the proverbial twinkles in their daddys’ eyes. My first two grandbabies are firmly entrenched in their mommys’ rapidly expanding bellies! And I’m going to meet them soon. But I haven’t met them yet.
How on earth can Jeanne be a grandmother?
While I’m dreaming of tiny bundles of joy and trying to remember my old repertoire of lullablies, Jeanne is cuddling Baby Flynn and singing real songs. She’s deciding if she’s a Grannie or a Grandma, buying itty bitty boy clothes, learning how to work the newest carseats, trying to remember that babies no longer sleep on their stomachs, and falling madly, crazy in love. And she can’t stop smiling!
I can’t believe that Jeanne’s a grandmother!
There’s a whole lot I don’t know about this whole grandmother thing. I’m used to blankets on babies and umbrella strollers. I’ve never swaddled a baby, hooked up a baby monitor, or attached a car seat to a base in a car. And I’ve never watched my own baby be in charge of a much loved infant. It’s all going to be a bit scary. It’s going to be crazy. It’s going to be wonderful. I think it will be comforting to have a sister who knows the ropes.
Yeah!! Jeanne’s a grandmother!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Grandma
Yesterday I found myself flying home from Washington D.C. with a cell phone full of baby pictures of my week-old grandson, Flynn, and a brand new title of "Grandmother." Or maybe nana, mimi, baba, grams, gigi, or one of the other non-traditional grandmother names that seem to be preferred these days.
My moniker's still up in the air. I used to think I had a strong opinion about it--not so much about what he'd actually call me, but with some pretty strong notions about what I didn't want to be called.
One of my own grandmothers was called "Ma," a name she got from her first grandchild and that was handed down to the rest of us as we came along. It was the only name I ever called her for 25 years, and it never crossed my mind that she might have preferred something different--something a little more sophisticated or modern. "Ma" was who she was. It was only as an adult that it began to sound a little Hatfield and McCoy to me. Backwoods, hillbillyish. It might have been right for her, but it wasn't right for me. I definitely didn't want to be a "Ma."
Nor did I want to be a "Granny," the name given by my cousins to their other grandmother. This just sounded way too frumpy, conjuring up a stout, gray haired, farm lady, wearing a faded apron around her waist while wringing the necks of chickens. Actually, it sounded pretty much like who Granny was.
But not like who I am. I'm a modern grandmother just like my contemporaries. We don't have white hair-- and won't--unless we choose to. Even then, we'll probably call it platinum. We still shop at the Gap, cook with olive oil instead of lard, and buy our chickens precut and mainly deboned.
And, although we anxiously look forward to grandkids, we cringe a little at the thought of being called something as old-fashioned as grandma, or granny, or ma.
Flynn has already made a big impression on me. As soon as I held him that first day in the hospital, I knew I'd recognize him anywhere. At least until I saw him in the nursery with five other swaddled babies, three of whom also had dark hair and big eyes, and two of those who shared his blue name plate. I was too far away to read names, so ended up waving to them all, just in case.
Over the course of the next 10 days I had a lot more face time with Flynn, and I'm positive I'd recognize him in the nursery now. He's the one that likes the orange pacifier better than the green one, and who sucks on his fists when the orange one isn't near at hand. He makes cute little noises and funny little faces, wrinkling his forehead and scrunching his mouth into dozens of different pouts and an occassional grin. Maybe not all that different from those other babies in the nursery, except that his face is firmly imprinted on my heart. I'd recognize him anywhere.
I'm more worried about him recognizing me. I won't get to see him again for another month, and after that he'll be flying off to Africa for two years, and then to some other foreign country as his parents traverse the world with their careers in the foreign service.
Not exactly the relationship I had with Ma, who lived just a short bike ride away and cooked Sunday dinner for the whole extended family every single week. And not like the relationship my cousins had with Granny, who lived just a short walk away down a country road. My relationship with Flynn will be a more modern one, with a lot of our future face time occurring over Skype instead of across a dinner table.
Flynn and I practiced his "oohs" and "aahs" during my visit, but he's not going to be calling me anything for quite a while. The ball's in my court, and I'm a little surprised to find myself leaning towards the rather old-fashioned "Grandma." I think it's because I'd like to bring something a little traditional into this modern relationship. But I'm not totally committed.
I'm pretty sure that if I'm ever on Skype and hear a "Ma!" floating across cyberspace, I'll change my mind.
"I'm right here Flynn."
My moniker's still up in the air. I used to think I had a strong opinion about it--not so much about what he'd actually call me, but with some pretty strong notions about what I didn't want to be called.
One of my own grandmothers was called "Ma," a name she got from her first grandchild and that was handed down to the rest of us as we came along. It was the only name I ever called her for 25 years, and it never crossed my mind that she might have preferred something different--something a little more sophisticated or modern. "Ma" was who she was. It was only as an adult that it began to sound a little Hatfield and McCoy to me. Backwoods, hillbillyish. It might have been right for her, but it wasn't right for me. I definitely didn't want to be a "Ma."
Nor did I want to be a "Granny," the name given by my cousins to their other grandmother. This just sounded way too frumpy, conjuring up a stout, gray haired, farm lady, wearing a faded apron around her waist while wringing the necks of chickens. Actually, it sounded pretty much like who Granny was.
But not like who I am. I'm a modern grandmother just like my contemporaries. We don't have white hair-- and won't--unless we choose to. Even then, we'll probably call it platinum. We still shop at the Gap, cook with olive oil instead of lard, and buy our chickens precut and mainly deboned.
And, although we anxiously look forward to grandkids, we cringe a little at the thought of being called something as old-fashioned as grandma, or granny, or ma.
Flynn has already made a big impression on me. As soon as I held him that first day in the hospital, I knew I'd recognize him anywhere. At least until I saw him in the nursery with five other swaddled babies, three of whom also had dark hair and big eyes, and two of those who shared his blue name plate. I was too far away to read names, so ended up waving to them all, just in case.
Over the course of the next 10 days I had a lot more face time with Flynn, and I'm positive I'd recognize him in the nursery now. He's the one that likes the orange pacifier better than the green one, and who sucks on his fists when the orange one isn't near at hand. He makes cute little noises and funny little faces, wrinkling his forehead and scrunching his mouth into dozens of different pouts and an occassional grin. Maybe not all that different from those other babies in the nursery, except that his face is firmly imprinted on my heart. I'd recognize him anywhere.
I'm more worried about him recognizing me. I won't get to see him again for another month, and after that he'll be flying off to Africa for two years, and then to some other foreign country as his parents traverse the world with their careers in the foreign service.
Not exactly the relationship I had with Ma, who lived just a short bike ride away and cooked Sunday dinner for the whole extended family every single week. And not like the relationship my cousins had with Granny, who lived just a short walk away down a country road. My relationship with Flynn will be a more modern one, with a lot of our future face time occurring over Skype instead of across a dinner table.
Flynn and I practiced his "oohs" and "aahs" during my visit, but he's not going to be calling me anything for quite a while. The ball's in my court, and I'm a little surprised to find myself leaning towards the rather old-fashioned "Grandma." I think it's because I'd like to bring something a little traditional into this modern relationship. But I'm not totally committed.
I'm pretty sure that if I'm ever on Skype and hear a "Ma!" floating across cyberspace, I'll change my mind.
"I'm right here Flynn."
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