I woke up this morning to the awesome display of autumn foliage outside my bedroom window. The sun shone past the golden yellows and bronze oranges...and I immediately recalled the opening sequence for my beloved childhood program "Who's The Boss", when Tony Macelli is driving his clunker van from the Bronx across the tracks to Conneticut where the fallen leaves swirl, like gusts of fortune, to greet him and his cretan daughter at posh spice Angela's welcome door. Angela is standing there with a towel wrapped around her head, much like the one I have on now...it's so similar...but it's not.
I have a bony and bossy Englishman, not a hunky Italian former pro ball player. Although he occassionaly amuses me with his Beavis Impression ("I got beers." (means he wants sex!)), he has yet to utter a single "Aye-OH! Oh-aye!", and doubt he ever will. My daughter had a better command of the English language pretty much at birth than Samantha ever had, and also does not chomp bubble gum or know the name a single player for the New York Mets. I don't have a surly little twerp son to interfere with my trying to "tip" the help. I am not a VP of an advertising company, do not have a unibrow and my roots are lighter than the rest of my hair, not ten times darker. So...it's not really a "Who's The Boss" life after all...although...my mother is a rabid slut if that counts for anything.
I have foliage and my mother is a slut...does that make a sitcom???
Hall of Fame