I was working on book four (tentatively titled Doubly Murdered), but it’s turkey o’clock again.
In the way that the chair you choose on the first day of class is yours for the duration, my spot at my oldsters aerobics class seems to have become the left-hand side, one row from the front.
On my way yesterday to drop Mamie off at the groomer’s, I passed our town’s elementary school.
Having grown up in an environment so WASPy that I could sign up with the Daughters of the American Revolution if I had a mind to, I didn’t receive the formative lessons on guilt that, according to the stand-up comedians, good Catholic and Jewish mothers hand out.
(As I write this, our three turkey friends are on their afternoon constitutional through our backyard. They have a schedule tighter than Boston’s MTA.)
So, making idle chit chat while waiting for the group ahead of us to tee off: