Post 900: Chicken Pox, Me?

I. Want. This. Sign. Period.  Isn't it wonderful?

________________________

Whats going with Cookie today:

Well yesterday I got a letter from my doctor confirming that I have had chicken pox in my life time.  Let me clarify this. I went to our new doctor in Baltimore and looked over Cookie's medical records and saw that I have never had any childhood diseases.

Really, said the doctor?

Really.  My mother's idea of giving me love was to make sure that I was stabbed by every doctor and  vaccinated against everything that I could catch.  But evidently, I never got the gay vaccine because I have my cravings for dick.

Really, said the doctor, who is terribly handsome.

Really, I says.

Well what about Chicken Pox?  They didn't have a vaccine back then.

He had me there.

I told him for my entire cognizant life, and I don't remember much before the age of five except for the BIG events, like my father beating the crap out of my mother and the police arriving nightly to get him under control, and I would have remember chicken pox.  At least I would have had a scar or two, right?

I also told him that according to my mother, I never had it as a baby, toddler and on up.  HOWEVER, two weeks after bringing me home from the hospital, my two brothers came down with it, and within two weeks after that, my father came down with it.  My mother had it as a child, so she skipped the fun and got trapped taking care of three guys and a colicky baby, that would have been me.

I also told him that the last time I was around anyone who broke out in chicken pox was about four years ago when the children of friends bloomed at about 3AM - three hours after we left their house after playing cards with a group of friends.

So the doctor said this called for at least a blood test, because chicken pox at my age would be really bad, but that shingles - and there isn't any kind of increase in shingles going around, you just hear about it because the availability of the vaccine - was pure torture.

"If you had it as a newborn, it could have just been a slight fever..." he surmised.

BUT because I know of five people from high school who have had come down with shingles - one guy had his outbreak around his left eye and lost his vision for six months - I saw the doctors point.  So we did a blood test and low and behold, I tested positive for the virus.

I went to the doctor again today and we talked it through and he said that new born status had probably saved me from a full-blown outbreak, still my immunity is down for the herpes virus that causes it, and that's when shingles can break out.  "This is why old people get shingles.  The virus lays dormant, you immunity declines over the years and when the Herpes sees its chance it breaks out."

So we did the shot for good measure. And this mother fucker is a live virus injection!  And expensive!  Thank God for the husband and good insurance.

An hour into it and so far the only side effect is a headache of sorts, but nothing like the fever, aches and pains that one can get from this if things go wrong.

But in all seriousness, if you haven't had chicken pox, get tested.  This is one thing that you can do to love yourself and save yourself from a great deal of misery.  And if you haven't, they have a vaccine for it.

30 Years of change

Today is special date for Cookie.

Thirty years ago this day, I came out of the closet.

At the time I was a 20 year old skinny kid from Ohio, with the emotional maturity of a thirteen year old, who hated himself.  I hated my upbringing because it wasn't normal, I hated my parents because they weren't normal and I hated God for not letting my like girls.

I had been sexually active since the fifth grade.  That was when a pervert man in a toilet in a department store made me feel wanted.  That encounter shaped my entire sexual maturity, slinking around in places I had been told not to go and letting adults who should have known better have their way with me.  They wanted me, they desired me and they made me feel like I had the greatest treasurer of anyone on the planet.

But everyone one of these encounters left me afraid, left me feel lonely, made me feel abandoned and ultimately made terrified of what I was - a fag.  I had gone from being the child that adults worried about, to the living embodiment of what they were afraid I would become.  I hated myself to the degree where I just wanted to die and be forgotten - like someone who didn't exist because I was tired of existing myself.  I just wanted to fade away as if I never existed.

So thirty years ago yesterday, while studying journalism at American University in Washington, DC, I hoped a bus to Georgetown to walk around.  I also wanted sex. I needed to feel wanted.  And I cruised a man and followed him up to his apartment and we had mind blowing sex.  He was thirty-four and I was totally enamored with him.  He held me after the sex, no one had done that before. I wondered if this is what normal felt like.

Then he got up, I got dressed and was ready to walk out, ashamed of who I was, when he said "Would you like to stay for dinner?"  I had never thought about men like him eating, or even wanting me around after we had had sex.  This was the first crack in shield - homosexuals ate dinner, and with other people, including those they had just had sex with.

Now before you laugh at me, remember that this was 1983, and I had been in a small town, influenced by small town minds and all that was frosted over with a heap helping of complete shame and self loathing.  "Those Homos" lived in filth and breathed sleaze.  But the guy cooking dinner had a great apartment in the heart of Georgetown.

This was a moment in time when things started clicking for me.

While he cooked (and my mind clicked away at being treated like a human) he asked questions, and figured out I was still very closeted.  Then he started conversations about politics, the Super Bowl and whether I played cards.  He really did put me at ease, and for the first time in my life I didn't feel like a freak. I was this this gay guy and he was talking to me as if I was a someone.  And oddly, to me at least, this conversation was like I would have with anyone else.  More clicking, and more pieces coming together.

And I started to feel normal, and said so.  We were at the dinner table and he gently put his hand on mine and "you are normal, its the rest of the world that is fucked up."

He invited me to watch TV, we went out to buy the next days paper (which went on sale after midnight with the first printing), we slept together, had more sex, he made me waffles and sent me on my way.  And I as I left, I didn't feel used.  I didn't hate myself. And my heart was singing because this was the honest to gosh moment in my life where I began to think that I could do it.  I could recognize who I was and it was going to be OK.

So it was this day, 30 years ago, I watched the people around me.  And what this man - Bob - had said to me the night before became quite the epiphany to me that day.  That 10% of the population was probably gay.  That unless I was watching the Boys in The Band, I wouldn't see any gay people mincing about.  And that ten percent of the population was going about its day just as I was.  And that probably 50% of the straight population didn't give a rats ass that I slept with men.

Thirty years ago today, I came out to myself and said there is a place for me in the world.  It wasn't back in my home town, and it wasn't with my family, but that I would find it.  And that was the day that the self loathing ended.  The need for quick sex  went away.  That was the day that I felt whole for the first day in my life, and it was the first day that I felt some love for myself.

Bob and I continued on with relationship, and it ended when I left DC. We plan on having lunch next month, and I'm sure he'll bring up that day of first tryst.  It gives him pleasure to do so, and secretly I enjoy hearing his rendition.

But what he can't speak to is how that encounter forever altered my life, and the long road it took to raise myself, to become who I am, what I know, and most importantly to recognize the things that I don't know.

So today I am spending the day by myself, doing a lot of thinking, a great deal of reflection and even some planning for the next thirty years to come.

Today is the anniversary that I accepted who I am and that I am worthy.

Skyrockets at night

Last night the husband and I (and the whole north end of the City of Baltimore) were treated to a non-stop thirty minute fireworks show that was launching about a quarter mile from our house.  We literally stood in the front doorway and watched one right after another being launched.

And it was perfect weather for this kind of show - cold (good for height) crisp and low humidity.

Columbus, Ohio brags that their Fourth of July Red, White and Boom - which draws about 800,000 people into downtown Columbus - is the biggest show east of the Mississippi.  And it is a massive show coordinated to music.

But last night topped it, though without the music.  Several times we said "this must be the finale" but they just kept coming - huge purple and orange chrysanthemums, shimmering silver cascades, hoops, bangers and tiered umbrellas of blue, pink, dark red and green.

The husband and I have never seen deep orange and purple fireworks.  Most places just do the white, pink and green, which are the least expensive colors.

This show was expensive - well into six figures.  These shells went high and the amount of color and lasting color was jaw dropping. But when you get into the deep oranges and really red reds, and the multiple big mums off one shell, its gets pricey.

When they did get to the finale it was five minutes of silvery curtain shells, starting very high, and each one successively lower. These were followed by a barrage of big mums and a lot of noise.

Our street was parked up with cars that pulled over to watch.

We all guessed it had to have something to do with Ravens in Super Bowl, although no one seemed to have a fore knowledge that it was going to happen.

Say, what's this I hear about a big football game coming up

If you haven't heard, quite possibly because you live under a rock, live someplace other than Baltimore, or simply don't give a tinker's damn about football, the underdog Raven's are going to the Superbowl next week.

As a boy from Shaker Heights, I am a die hard Cleveland Brown's fans.  Art Modell be damned for stealing them away to Baltimore and creating the Ravens. 

Anyhow, this past weekend we ventured back to the hinterlands to see our friends.  And when we got back from Ohio tonight (Cousin is out of the coma and improving) I ran to the market to get something for dinner while husband walked the pups.

So I'm in the deli area of El Bandito, the market at the bottom of the hill that caters to the pampered and the pouty well-off families in the area, and while I'm waiting for my number (105)  to get called, and there is a demo lady with her cart pushing bite sized pieces of subs fit for your Super Bowl party.  I never eat samples in stores because they don't drive my shopping decisions.

Anyway, I am trying to avoid eye contact when this really good looking man comes in and I accidentally follow him with my eyes, and that leads to eye contact with the sample lady. 

And in a sing songy voice she asks me if I'd "like a tasty taste of our famous subs made with Hog's Head Quality Meats and our crispy fresh produce?"

I smile, thank her, and say no thank you. I look away.  This should be the end of it, right? 

Nope. Verily, she is gunning for me. 

"Say," she says to me with a chipperness saved for musicals - especially Nunsense! -  presented by community theater groups, "what's this I'm hearing about a big game coming up?"

Pardon?

She has stopped being a sample lady, and she has morphed into a little theater actress.  And we all know that I am not a theater fag. 

"Well, we need to cheer on the team!  And what better way to do it than serving our subs at your tailgate party!"  She smiles at me. 

This woman thinks I'm going to fall for this dog and pony show. 

And the deli mercifully calls my number.  

And the sample lady pouts, but goes after her next victims, a 40 something hot daddy couple waiting for their turn at the counter.

I mean, I don't mean to be a party pooper, but after four hours in airports, going through security (and there is something up because everyone was body scanned, patted down and wanded) and lugging luggage, all of that had worn my armor of pleasantness off from my aura. 

But seriously, how is buying their subs going to do anything to "rah, rah, siss, boom, bah" the Ravines onto a victory?  

As I'm going through the cashier, person 106 unloads his cart behind me.  He too is good looking, and so is his husband.  My eyes follow him and I make eye contact with the husband.  We nod and smile.  I say "I see you didn't buy a sub or twenty to cheer on the home team."

"I told her," he said, "that the only thing I needed to cheer on the team was a fifth of good vodka and some mixers."

So this Sunday, think of us, submarine and hoagy free, Cookie-tini (Vodka gibson, sweet vermouth - so smooth) trying very hard not to cheer on the home team.  

Ah, what the heck, I'll watch as I am weak.  Art Modell is dead, afterall. 

And one in the hospital

Cookie has just received word that my cousin in Cleveland is in the hospital, in a coma after a heart attack.

Bad news travels in threes.  Cousin is a good man and I would be sad if he were taken from the family.

A death in the Cookie family

Cookie learned this past week of the death of the woman who was a dear family friend, and my mothers very best friend.  This girl in the picture isn't any relation to Cookie, but she is the essence of Ellen Heller. 

Thombeau first used this image one of his blogs and the second I saw it it was love at first sight because it reminded me of Ellen, aka "Granny".

My mother never had a lot of close friends.  People who have been hurt in life as she was are very careful about who they let into their lives.  Ellen was one of the few. 

We lived up the block from Ellen and her daughters in Shaker Heights.  And I can really remember my mother and Ellen interacting until my parents final split up.  It just so happened that Ellen was resolving her marriage and I guess the two of them found common ground in their fights with the men that would be their ex-husbands.

When we moved from one end of Shaker to the other when I was in the fourth grade I road the bus home (before the school was just a walk) only to find Ellen scrubbing the bath tub in our new house. 

Ellen's home wasn't like any other I had ever seen.  It was an old country house, and it looked nothing like the 1950s modern homes that surrounded it.  And it was filled with the most marvelous antiques and stuff.  Around every corner was a wonderful suprise to delight you.  One afternoon we went over and found plaster dust everywhere - Ellen decided that knocking down the wall between two closets and making a hallway out of them was a better use of space.  I adored her for that, and I think my mother envied her for her ability to take risks. 

And the door to the house was always open and unlocked, and the coffee pot was always on.  And the cast of characters that walked through that house all had one thing in common. From iron workers to trucker to artists and teachers and society wives, all were wonderful people.  I don't know anyone, except hermits, who don't dream of having a home filled with these people.  We all want to be the palce where everyone comes, but it rarely happens. Ellen's house was that place. 

Ellen had four daughters, one my age, but they were more tolerant of me than my friends.  And I understand. 

She helped me with my love of architecture and taught me how to draft house plans.  She even gave me her portable maple drafting board.  Ellen also taught me how to look at a slate roof and tell if it was shingled correctly.  Now when I share this with other people, I suppose I see in their faces the same sense of wonderment that I saw. 

If you look at a house with a slate roof, from the gutters to the ridgeline, the the slate facings should become narrower - by sections - as you go up the roof.  This makes the roof seem and look steeper than it is, but it also keeps the slates from looking "blocky".  It's more expensive, but the end result is a roof that looks balanced, and it looks lighter than a slate roof where everything is equal. There, now you know!

Eventually, we decided to leave Shaker for central Ohio - to get away from my father and all of his bullshit, and Ellen, along with her new husband, decided to relocate to the north woods of the upper midwest. 

One day, about a month before our house was to go on the market, Ellen called us and asked Mom to go over to her house and pull up the marijuana plants that someone had planted.  Evidently a Realtor had said something and they needed to go as they were scaring off serious offers. 

So my mother and I drove to the house on the hill with out shovel and garbage bags, and my straight laced mother found the plants, and found that they had a nice shape. They reminded her of a dracaena, and since this was the house plant happy 1970s, she scooped them up, took them home and plunked the smallest one into the terrarium, and put the others in large ceramic pots.  One of the pots was placed over a former pet stain clean up gone awry. 

I was TERRIFIED that we were going to be arrested - the fears of a child and all.   When our Realtor came through the house she loved them and said that they were a "kicky addition" that "mellowed the vibe".  The couple that bought our house wanted the plants as part of the deal, but my mother turned that down.  Instead she took them to my ultra upright Uncle to destroy.  "If they want that wacky weed, they'll have to find their own," said mother. 

It wasn't until years later that I asked my mother why she snagged those plants when she did. 

"Well, they had a nice shape.  And I figured that "Granny" would have decorated with them. So I did."

And when we moved into our new house in Marion, I noticed that some funky and fun things started showing up - an homage of sorts to her friend near Lake Superior.  But never any pot plants.  That was a one time thing. 

But this picture is Ellen in spades. The big sunglasses. The hair band.  The funky earrings. The freckly complexion.

Ellen is survived by her four daughters and her grandchildren.  I will miss her, but will hold her in my heart. 

  

What do gay guys think about vaginas?

Did Lance dope before the testicular cancer?

Normally I would have a picture accompany this post, but I do not want a picture of Lance Armstrong on my blog.  No. He disgusts me.

Well, Lance has finally admitted that he lied, cheated and ruined the lives of other people just so he could win.

But what no one is looking into is the fact that Armstrong as so far admitted - and you know that more is going to come out because he's only admitted to what wants to admit to - is if he started this steroid and blood transfusion thing before he was diagnosed with testicular cancer.

Lance admitted to Oprah that he started with the doping in the 1990s.  He was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 1996.  But his career in sports started before the testicular cancer, and their were no real routine tests for doping in cycling at that time that were consistently applied.

But Lance hasn't given us a definitive start date for his doping.  And testicular cancer usually impacts men from ages 20 to 35.  So it could very well be that he was clean before, got sick at age 26 and started doping afterward to make up for the loss of what cancer stole from him.

But what if he started in his late teens and early twenties?  What if his doping fueled his cancer?  I'm not saying that it did, mind you, but he needs to clarify his actual start date.  But if the doping started in the late 1980s and early 1990s when he was the Motorola team, then there is a good chance that Lance either caused or accelerated his own cancer, and then used that fight as his fuel for the cult of hero worship that has surrounded him.

And for me, the real nail in coffin on Lance is the bullying and the lives that he has admitted ruining.

No amount of contrition is give those people their lives back.  Lance can give back his metals, lose his money and forever where the mantle of cheater, but he can't give back to the people who he slaughtered in the court of public opinion their peace of mind or their time wasted on him.

Cheaters never prosper.

Robert Conrad would never dope, Lance.  And he could kick your ass in his prime. 

Taylor Swift is probably going to write a nasty song about Adele, now.

Why?

Because Adele got the award that Taylor feel she deserved for her "Safe & Sound" from Hunger Games. 

Watch and study Taylor Swift's face.

That is the face of a vindictive scheming little bitch.  And Taylor is seething while the fabulous Adele accepts the award for her work on Skyfall at the Golden Globes.  You can just hear her little puny chicken sized mind just trying to think of the words that rhyme with "you took the award that should have been mine, bee-otch."  And that's the way that Taylor rolls.

Taylor feeds off  revenge and we have no time for that.  Taylor "thinks" she fabulous.

But she isn't.  She's just bony. We also don't find her the least bit entertaining.  (And neither does Ethel Kennedy, who is too well brought up to mention it, we are willing to bet.)

And men are kinda afraid of Taylor, and for good reason. Two dates and she'll buy a house down the road from yours. And if you break it off with her because she can be a bit smothering, she'll exact revenge by writing a song about what a loser you are.

So Taylor came to the awards alone.  And she left alone, without an award.

But the fabulous and talented, luscious and curvy Adele again reminds us why we'd love to buy her a drink and just chat with her fabulous self.  Adele is flawless, but she isn't arrogant. She is, as my grandmother would say "good people."

And don't you love how Adele "brought my friend Ida" for a girls night out because "we both had babies"?  Now that's a real friend.  It also tells me that Adele knows who she is because she doesn't need a trophy anything define who she is at the moment.

And we hope she'll be with us a great long while.

Why?

Because it makes us happy.

Remember: Keep it gay

{{via}}

My experience is that organ "stylings" tend to limit the conversation to "Mmmmmmm" and other guttural sounds.

Brutal 1600 Penn is (Josh) Gad Awful

Last night something inhumane happened on TV.

As you know, Cookie, that is I, will from time to time comment on television and programming.  It takes a great deal to move me to do so, but every once and a while something happens on TV that is so horrific that I cannot hold back.

Executives and the marketing people at NBC - the same network that does everything in its power to keep the brilliant Community from a full season - aired something called 1600 Penn, and to be fair, I sat through two whole episodes.

So reader, I know of what I speak of.

The words, and I mean by that the "G" kinda words that every one from six to sixty can read without blushing,  really escape me in describing how God awful this show is.

If comedy is hard, 1600 Penn is a brutal, a soul crushing 30 minutes of unfunny.  Gall bladder attack unfunny.

How bad is it?  Imagine the West Wing but without the talent or the writing.  Then you need to add in the painfully unfunny Baby Huey from cartoon lore.  And it would still be better than 1600 Penn.

Allegedly, this show is about the First Family.

But the nasty little secret behind Bill Pullman and Jenna Elfman's brave facades is that they are nothing more than a charade to mask that this show is really about how annoying Josh Gad can be.

Gad, who is one of the "brains" behind this disaster, inserts himself into every possible scene, including ones in which the "pretend" President should be in charge.  He counsels his pregnant sister, he solves border disputes and he rages "USA, USA, USA!" as well.   He does just about everything that is unlikely, and none of it delivers a single laugh.  Worse, he is inserted into most of the scenes, whether it makes sense or not.

Now on the stage, as he was in The Book of Mormon, Gad's mugging and screeching voice probably illicit laughs.  On TV, he makes you want to turn off set.  

This viewer found himself pining for an episode of the equally unfunny "Whitney", the last NBC comedy to receive this type of media hype and build up "Must See TV" from NBC. By the way, has anyone noticed how Whitney has been allowed to quietly drift away from schedule?  So much for the HILARITY in that show.

What also makes 1600 Penn painful is that NBC is losing two of its best Thursday night shows, 30 Rock and The Office.  1600 Penn's writing is the type of writing that almost killed off the sitcom in the 1990s.  No wonder Tina Fey decided to end 30 Rock; it was to escape being the lead in for this asshat of a show.

Here's the good news.  Josh Gad's last sitcom, Back to You lasted one season, according to Wikipedia.  But for the life of me or the husband, who could only get through this show by taking NyQuil for his head cold, neither of us can remember that show.  Forgetting is easy.  Its the living through 1600 Penn that is hard.

I could continue to beat a dead horse, but I won't take a cue from Gad, who would beat a dead horse, so I shall wrap up my message to NBC with this statement:

Dear NBC,

1600 Penn is the type of show that makes me want to turn off the TV and sort socks.  Its the type of TV that makes HGTV's Love It or List It Pulitzer caliber material.  Never again in our house.

Warm, personal regards,

Cookie

Time for some Kan Kan Kabuki & an Update

I love bad art, and V Laslo's Kan Kan Kabuki is one of my favorite pieces.  The original is somewhere in our basement, boxed and ready to be sprung whenever I figure out what to do with it and the 50 other pieces of bad art that I own.

UPDATE:

Well, Gladys, the neighbor who escaped with our fence bid and application appeared this morning to say that she had signed off on the plan and happy she was to have someone in the neighborhood who played by "the rules that benefit us all".

Well, OK, I guess.

In the interim we have decided to call in a surveyor for a full lot survey - dropping pins and all.  Knowledge is power and if we have to deal with this doyenne again and again it is better to be armed to the hilt.

Well, I'm off to go buy some veal for dinner!

There's a word for it

Thankfully, someone has color coded this for easy pocket reference!

Community Capers: The Drama Continues

Gasp and swoon! Clutch your pearls!  We'll fill you in as soon as we can!

Stop that woman!

So the husband and I are wrapping up our few final projects on the house before we take a "break" on the house.  The new sofa has been ordered from Ethan Allen.  New Andersen windows - with the proper fenestration - have been ordered for our sun room.  And we have begun the process of getting a fence so little dogs can roam the back yard and play in the sun.

It was with the fence that we hit the speed bump.

If you will recall, we found out after we bought the house that said house lies inside a neighborhood with restrictive covenants on the architecture of the of the houses.  And, if you'll recall, I locked horns with one of the surly dowagers of the Architectural Review Committee who takes all of this way too seriously.

Reader, with this fence, she is back in our life.

I had to have all of the neighbors sign off on our fence plan.  To do so I had to provide a survey (from closing), a picture of the fence style and specs, and I have to get each neighbor whose property adjoins ours sign off on the fence and put their name on the dotted line.

Everyone on the right and left of our house were easy to work with, but because the back yard of the doyenne from  "The Committee" adjoins ours across the back yard for ten feet, she too had to sign off on it.

So we met with her and everything was going well when she starts mumbling about "public rights of way" and how sure she is that there is one across our back yards.

Had their been one, it would have been on the property description and deed when we signed on the dotted line.

However, before we could say "Jack Robinson", the octogenarian grabs our application and bid, says she is going to research this this week and that she'll return our paperwork once she determines whether one exists or not, and off she goes.

The husband and I are a bit stunned.  We've knocked on her door, but she isn't answering.

And evidently, she did this same thing with the family down the block.  Even though they didn't need her sign off, she knocked on the door, came in their house, chatted, saw the plans, scooped them up and made off with them, holding them and claiming something about an right away that prevented them from building a fence.  They built the fence anyway.

The husband and I feel a bit of anger at her presumption, and we've decided to give her until Monday evening to return said paperwork.  If she doesn't, then we will examine our options.

We want to be good neighbors, but we find her actions odd, and we are not amused.

Creepy Christmas Commercials, Take 2

Now that we have seen what happens when siblings drink Folger's coffee, lets take up this good idea, gone horribly awry.  The US Postal Service wanted to advertise how easy it is to use Priority Mail to make a return:

 

Again, a Christmas commercial.  Watch, and then answer the following questions:

1) Why would a man wear an ugly Christmas Sweater?
2) Is this man straight or gay?
3) How gay is he?
4) Define "totally gay".
5) Who would send someone that sweater?
6) Who would send it to a man?
    BONUS: How could there be two of that sweater in the world?
7) Isn't the house a bit too clean and orderly?
8) Does he dye his hair, or his beard? Both?
9) When the postal employee sees the man in the sweater, what is the man in the sweater's reaction?
10) Watching seconds 16 through 21, is the man in the sweater blushing?
11) In the same time frame, is the man in the sweater flirting?
12) Is the man in the sweater hoping this is a love connection?
13) Do you feel you are watching something terribly personal between these two?
13) Does the postal employee share the same fetish?
14) When the man in the sweater says thank you, do you sense his feeling of relief?
15) How long does their Down Low relationship last?
16) If forever, how long until they get cats together?

Creepy Christmas Commercials of 2012

Now that Christmas is over, I can confess that two Christmas time commercials creeped the husband and me out this year.

Offender Number One debuted in 2008, and Folgers keeps hauling it out:




After watching this, ask yourself these questions?

1) Why did the son go to Africa?
2) Why did he wait until Christmas to come home?
3) Why didn't he have his parents pick him up at the airport?
4) Knowing how real life brothers and sisters get along, what seems off about the relationship between these two with their sly smiles and furtive glances?
5) Is this interplay a bit more intimate then you would have with your siblings?
6) Are you beginning to feel as if you are watching something that isn't right?
7) Isn't this the same vibe that you got from Sandra Bullock and Bill Pullman in "While You Were Sleeping"?
8) If the sister is so happy that her brother is home, why didn't she call to her parents?
9) If your brother gave you a gift after a long absence, would you say "You're my gift." or would you say "What's in here?"
     BONUS - Would you say "Is this all?"
10) What does she mean "You're my gift?"
11) If you were on the verge of an incestuous relationship with your budding sister, how far would you go to get away from her to keep something terrible from happening?
12) Would you too choose Africa?
13) What kind of present is she going to give him later?
14) And why is it wrong, very wrong?

Your answers should be in full sentences, and Norma, no pink ink.

The second commercial will appear tomorrow.