Friday, December 15, 2006


So, I think you know how it is: your name is Mike, your wife's is Jen, and you go to New Jersey and you see that Dunkin' Donuts is running some ad campaign wherein someone named Jen gives someone named Mike a Dunkin' Donuts gift certificate for Christmas. And you get all misty-eyed and choked up, because it's like they're talkin' to you. (I mean me. And Jen.)

Just when you think that nobody in this world cares anymore and that Christmas is nothing but crass commercialism, Dunkin' Donuts shines their light on you. (I mean me. And Jen.) That's Jen there in the picture; we couldn't be more happy.

About a week ago, we went to the Frick Collection just off Central Park. My sister Kath drove from her house in the country and it took some time to get there--Route 80, NJ Turnpike, Lincoln Tunnel, and about 40 blocks of driving in Manhattan. So we get there, the we being Jen, Kath, myself and 7-year-old Baker, and look what the sign says outside the Frick: Children under 10 are not admitted. Know what we all said in unison--anyone? ... Right, What the frick! So suddenly Bake was 10. Ironically, it was Kath who set off an alarm when she leaned in too close to get a better look at a painting.

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