"Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity." ~ Gilda Radner

Wednesday, August 01, 2007


Somewhere out in that vast black hole I call the U.S. Postal Service Lost Items Dept., are two jars of Frisch's Tartar Sauce, two cans of Skyline Chili, a sack of my new, albeit needs-to-be-laundered, underwear and one tennis shoe...and a pair of sandals. Oh, and one plush dog.

Likewise, there is a woman somewhere out there,Size 22, who is missing a rather ugly denim haltar top she apparently just bought from JC Penney, a ripped sun dress, and a very small, tattered red sweater... I know this because those items were in MY package that was supposed to contain the above mentioned tartar sauce, dirty laundry, etc.

Yes, the U.S. Mail strikes again.

Somewhere in the shipping and handling process, the box I had mailed (containing items I couldn't fit in my suitcases on my return trip) from Cincy split open, and by the looks of the contents that did make it here, the whole kit-and-kaboodle was run over several times by the greasy tires of a mail truck.


Nothing says, "Hey, girl, your vacation is over, done, kaput" quite like opening a box that you think holds precious vacation memories-- not to mention your underwear and other clothes -- only to find several said "valuables" missing and those remaining, ruined.

And what the hell am I to do with a Size 22 sun dress and an ugly denim haltar top from JC Penney? And the tattered red sweater? I do think it is small enough to fit my rat terrier, Mimi, however.

And to think that someone may be gleefully slathering MY tartar sauce on THEIR burgers...I shudder to think about the fate of my underwear...

Oh, well.

One must get smacked back into reality somehow. Not that I haven't had my share of reality "smacks" this week...but I digress.

What's a little missing tartar sauce in the big scheme of things? Besides, the tartar sauce never tastes as good on MY burgers as it does on a Frisch's Big Boy, with French fries, while actually sitting at a Frisch's restaurant in Cincy.

It's just not the same.

In fact, enjoying and then finishing a jar of Frisch's tartar sauce back here in Iowa only makes me yearn for more. It has even, on occasion, caused bouts of homesickness and mild depression.

Some things are just better left as vacation memories.

Bottom line is, vacation isn't reality and reality is no vacation.

Hence, the following lesson learned (finally, after all these years):

Sometimes, a taste of Frisch's tartar sauce, like a "taste" of vacation, is worse than none at all.

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