 I know you're out there, Willard, I can hear you blowing out candles.
Willard Scott is the guy on The Today Show who's become a minor celebrity by showcasing people who are celebrating their 100-year birthdays.
And believe it or not, there are 100,000 folks in the US alone who have reached that ripe old age. But personally, I don't think that this number will grow. In fact, I predict it will decline. The people who are now turning 100 didn't have the pressures we have these days.
Yeah, sure, they had world wars, flu epidemics, the Great Depression.
But we have telephone trees, multi-tasking (I don't even want to single task), and the heartbreak of trying to get a simple thing done: Like getting Willard Scott to mention your parents anniversary. FYI he's now also featuring couples celebrating marriages of 75 years.
 Which is how long these two cute people in the photo have been married for. Seventy-five. Years. Really.
For some of us, seven years — or even five — would be a record. But seventy-five? Isn't that impressive enough for Willard Scott to get excited about?
Apparently not.
After many. many attempts to get through to a human person, making a total pest of myself, and even trying to impress them with my credentials and those of any relative living or dead who has accomplished absolutely anything at all in the past few centuries, all I managed to get was the assurance that Willard himself sends letters of congratulations to everyone who calls in.
Of course, I didn't believe them, and when the anniversary date came and went with no letter, I started thinking about going into revenge mode . . .
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 It's December 7 as I post this, but I can safely say that whenever you read it, I'm still not ready.
Wasn't it just summer when I was worrying about buying a bathing suit?
Wasn't it just Halloween and I was passing out packets of
hyperactivity-producing goodies to cute little gremlins who seemed
shocked when asked whether they wanted a trick or a treat? And then
there was that Halloween party at the National Arts Club. (Hate Fall, Love Halloween ) Maybe
having too much fun can actually alter your sense of time, make it fly or something.
But come on, aren't we pushing this holiday thing earlier every year?
I got announcements for the Christmas Show at Radio City in May. The Holiday Fund in my building is already closed. The tree-lighting ceremony at Rockefeller Center is over. We're still eating turkey sandwiches — but quick! Throw out the pumpkins and get out the poinsettias. Before they're sold out!
Too bad I can't just decorate my apartment with all those colorful catalogs that clutter my mailbox, most of them from stores I will never, ever order from, in this or any other season. Hello! I'm five foot two and a female: stop sending me stuff from Big and Tall Men's Sportswear.
What really gets to me is the "Last Minute Shopping Suggestions" that I got — in October. Last minute! These people don't know from last minute . . .
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 Let's talk turkey.
It's the Monday after Thanksgiving, and we have survived. We do feel fat, let down, and guilty that we ate so much and have done so little to get ready for Christmas, which is Coming Soon to a life near ours. So what should we do to cheer ourselves up? Maybe a fun Broadway play?
H'mm, there's Finian's Rainbow (weirdly wonderful) or The Royal Family (dysfunctional, sure, but in a good way). Or we could see a real turkey, the revival of Bye, Bye Birdie at the Arthur Miller Theatre.
Ouch.
Pat, you always write reviews about plays you like! What's happened? What has John Stamos ever done to you? Well, nothing, but maybe if he had . . .
Hey, there's a first time for everything, and this is my first negative play review.
Sorry, folks, but the show deserves it, and while I hate to be The Grinch Who Panned Birdie, you need to be warned. For starters, There is no — absolutely no — chemistry between the two main characters, Albert (Stamos) and Rose, his voluptuous, marriage minded secretary, played by Gina Gershon.
Separately they're knockouts, but in Bye Bye Birdie, they just don't look good together. Stamos is slight — good looking as all hell, but not big -— so with Gerson in big skirts and really big hair, it feels like one of those cartoons where one character is purposely drawn bigger than the other: Think Natasha and Boris in The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle. . . .
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No, not a gun. A suitcase.
It's a big suitcase, but there's a bigger pile of things. How can I know what to bring? How can I make all the right decisions? I can't, and I wont.
Instead, I will experience the The Eleven Stages of Packing.
Yes, I know, grieving has only seven stages, but this is more complicated.
Stage 1: Regret: Why Am I Taking This Trip? Why? Because it's a cruise on the Queen Mary 2, that's why, and it leaves from Brooklyn, a mere cab ride away. No plane! No expensive tickets! No security lines! No being trapped in a flying sardine can with people who mess up the bathroom in unspeakable ways!
Just sailing to the Caribbean, with all the comforts of home, a home I can only imagine, not being to the manner (or is it "manor?") born. You get my drift.
In view of all this luxury, it does seem pretty petty to complain about having to pack. But for me, packing has always been traumatic . . .
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Why do these tiny Turkish bowls remind me of the Italian superstar Sophia Loren?
 It's this: I love these bowls, even though I really and truly believe the great Sophia's wise words, "Never love anything that can't love you back."
She gave this advice when interviewed about a high-class heist that relieved her of many valuable "things" — like furs and jewels. And yes, those things surely couldn't have loved her back. But I have always felt, deep in my heart, that this sentiment could also apply to certain boyfriends and other assorted louses who shall remain nameless. You know what I mean.
Be that as it may, you must be wondering why I am so attached to these colorful little two-inch ceramic bowls. Well, I can give you some very practical reasons, and I can rationalize as usual from here to Sunday (it's now Monday), but the honest answer is "I don't know."
Why do we love anything? Anybody?
The heart, as Woody Allen once famously said, has its reasons. Athough one reporter rather sagely suggested that the particular organ in question, in regard to Woody's relationship with Soon Yi, was something other than the heart.
Let's not go there . . .
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