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Alphabet Soup: A PSA, Followed by Some TMI

6 June 2008

“A [City name] woman was killed when her vehicle was hit in a head-on collision on Highway 28 Tuesday evening.”

We read or hear these short announcements when visiting a local newspaper’s Web site or when listening to the local news on the radio. Often, we don’t even feel bad. It’s too removed, and the idea of a car death too abstract for it to cause more than a brief, “Boy, car travel can be dangerous” reaction.

On Tuesday evening, a woman who is part of our circle of friends in Iowa was killed when an 18-year-old driver overcompensated as his car swerved onto the shoulder of the road. She was 44. Her husband was her high-school sweetheart. She has three daughters, ages 17, 16 and 8. I didn’t know her as well as the others in our group, but she always had a smile on her face, and it was always a pleasure chatting with her when we did see each other. She had that calmness about her of self-confident people. She was happy in her life.

Go tell your friends that you love them. Make sure your family knows that even if you bicker, they are special to you. Look your kids in the eye and tell them that you do love them (and you know they love you), even if sometimes there’s more arguing than laughing. Go do it now.

Blog friends, even though I haven’t met most of you, I really appreciate your comments here. You make my space the Internet a happy place for me to be. I thank you.


Last night, we went out to eat at a local Italian restaurant. I figured that I’d give in and stimulate the economy by ordering a Mafiatini (a vodka martini with a gorgonzola-stuffed olive). I don’t know why I picked it — I don’t really like vodka; I haven’t liked it since college, when I got really sick on Seabreezes once, and for years blamed it on the cranberry juice (silly Imperatrix). I should have picked just a plain old (yet delicious) Cosmopolitan, but the gorgonzola-stuffed olive caught my eye.

The olive was tasty. The drink? It had the trademark bitterness of vodka, with an extra hit of saltiness that hit me at the back of the throat.

“How’s the Mafiatini?” asked the Consort.

“I don’t like it. The taste reminds me of another salty fluid, and now I just can’t drink any more of it.”

“Oh, I see.”

“No, this is one fluid I don’t think you do see.”



“You see, it—“

“I get it! I get it!!”

It was a family dinner, after all. And this is not that type of blog.

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