Mother India

We took my mother out to an Indian (East African) restaurant Saturday evening. People of her generation and culture are pretty set in their ways and opinions—tunnel visioned, IMHO—so I wasn't surprised when the "oohs" and "aahs" weren't forthcoming as she tried (clockwise, from top left) the naan, tandoori chicken, butter chicken, and fish biryani, among other dishes.

She's been ill lately, complaining of fever and chills, and a general lack of energy and appetite, so that might partly explain her less than enthusiastic reaction.

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Internet-savvy Shaula recently asked me to explain the term "pen pal". That certainly made me chuckle. Yep, I'm getting old. Had I been a professional hockey player in my younger days, I'd now either be a coach, a commentator, or just plain fat. A few month ago, I spent an evening looking at the bios of some centerfolds. Sagittarius, born 1960, one of them read. Taurus, 1962, read another. Okay, so I didn't feel as old anymore. But then it struck me that these were back issues from, like, 1979!

Did I say centerfolds? I meant hockey cards.