The disappointment of the Jersey-bound family was extreme. They threatened lawsuits, which we laughed off. They attempted an occult summoning, but our many wards and talismans thwarted their so-called wizard.

    Ultimately they settled on paying for Heather’s airfare. Samantha had been looking forward to the trip more than anyone else, as she missed her second-cousins a lot, so I agreed to pay her way, while Riley and myself remained in Michigan in order to defend our house from looters.

    Mere hours after her arrival in the Garden State I received a text message stating that Samantha had fallen out of a bunk-bed, had hurt her arm, and was to be dropped off at a godless NJ emergency room by a party bus on its way to inebriate the entire family.

    X-rays revealed a broken elbow, and while the trip still involved some amount of fun for all involved, it will forever be remembered as the time that New Jersey broke Samantha.

    So its been a week, and while Sam has been fairly sanguine about the ordeal–at least as sanguine as an ADHD addled 8-year old can ever be–she is still suffering from aches and itches in equal measure.

    And since the whole enterprise had such a miserable ending I can’t even parlay the fact that I didn’t get to go into any sort of credit towards gaining some momentary personal freedom this weekend. *sigh*

    Today I learned about the “Gentlemen Only” department at the downtown Hudson’s department store.

    Run a bit like a burlesque parlor, this was a department where all the customers were men, all the workers were women, and live, lingerie clad models paraded in front of patrons. The men would lounge in leather chairs while sipping coffee, reading newspapers, and choosing which model should wear what clothing for their amusement and shopping pleasure.

    Ostensibly this allowed well-to-do men to purchase clothes for their chattel–I mean women–in confidence and with a clear idea of what they would be getting for the money. And, during the late 1960’s, Heather’s grandma Iris was a popular part-time attendant due to her charming English accent and polite demeanor.

    Tonight’s story had two parts:

• Mafia Encounter
  •     A high ranking member of a prominent Detroit mafia family, accompanied by stereotypical ‘heavies,’ directed various models to wear skimpy underthings and expensive fur coats. After making his selections clear to Iris and delivering a veiled threat that there better be “no funny business”, he left for a few hours only to return with several thousand dollars in cash to make good his purchases.
        In parting he said, “I guess we’re all set, then,” and handed her a $20 bill.
• The Philandering Pilot
  •     A Pan-Am pilot lounged away an afternoon directing various models to do his bidding, eventually purchasing two assortments of clothing. The first pile, fairly plain clothes fit for a portly lass, were to be packaged in Hudson’s shopping bags and packages. The second pile, made up of sexy undergarments and an expensive mink coat fit for a slighter build, were to be packaged in unmarked parcels, tightly sealed.
        ”Whatever you do,” said the pilot, “don’t mix those two orders up. It will mean your job if you do.”

    Its like Mad Men come to life, and an amazing example of the man’s world as it once was.
    This was one of my favorite Iris stories to date, although it does not trump the stories of developing the first aerial photographs of Auschwitz while in the RAF photography corps…. I should get a recorder and get a few of these down for posterity.

    First, locate a crying toddler.

    Second, pick up the toddler and hold him/her under your arm with the noisy end pointing toward your enemies.

    Congratulations! You’ve assembled your very own Sob Cannon.

    This surprising* weapon is capable of clearing public restrooms, busy shopping aisles and other public spaces.

    It may be an effective form of self defense against obsequious wait-staff or commissioned salespeople as well, though I’ve yet to try it on anything more threatening than a timid waitress who apparently was immunized as a child. I found that in her case a stern glare was just as effective but deprived me of a much-needed coffee refill.

    She was sent to school wearing a tiara: an opulent plastic tiara with imitation diamonds made of simulated glass* and bearing a box of Hannah Montana cupcakes–something I’m certain delighted the little boys most of all**.

    Heather bought Sam some nice printed bed sheets. Instead of wrapping the pillowy and awkwardly shaped sheet-bag, a covert operation was successfully executed to dress her bed in the middle of the night. So during the day Heather surreptitiously laundered the new sheets and secreted them within our bedroom.

    At approximately 10pm I scooped her little sleeping form up in my arms along with a tag-along teddy bear, carried her silently down the hall and laid her in our bed.
It was a few minutes later that we’d removed the several dozen books from her bed, stripped it, and carefully installed the replacement sheets, pillow case and comforter.

    I then gathered the little birthday girl up in my arms, carried her back to bed and laid her down amidst the new bedsheets.
    In the morning she spent a few seconds in confusion and a few minutes in delight. Any more time than that would imply an attention span my little girl simply doesn’t have.

    In the evening we laid waste to a local Chuck E Cheese per her specific request.
    It was here that Riley lived some anxious moments fearing the animatronic rodent and then wasted about a half-hour attempting to get its attention. Samantha ran wild; like a gazelle with opposable thumbs and a slight mean streak.

    At night-night time I read her the first two chapters of a new Lauren Child “Clarice Bean” book and thus ended the eight anniversary of my initial parentage.