Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

We've come to the conclusion, Mr. and I, that marketers should pay us NOT to use their products.

still exists in the ether

At this point, you would be justified in scratching your head in puzzlement.

Surely, marketers want you to use their products, no?

But not in our case, for we've discovered we're serial product killers. 

What does that mean? Well, whenever we fall in love with a product, when nothing else will do, it's pulled off the shelves. Discontinued. Eradicated. Shitcanned.

OB-SO-LETE.

One wouldn't think it would be asking too much for the basic necessities to endure. But alas, we've had to bid a tearful farewell to so many favorites. Here are but a few examples:

Cream of Wheat, Whole Grain Edition. We hardly knew ye, oh grain of much bran. Unlike the basic, or I shudder to mention it, instant CoW, it had fiber aplenty, which my body needs, my doctor insists. Instead, I must eat oatmeal. Morning. After morning. After morning.  Until I go toes up. Yes, I can put raisins in it. And the occasional peanut butter. Top it with bananas. No matter, it's like lipstick on a pig. Oatmeal will forever have the consistency of wall paper paste and all the flavor of same. Sigh. (Just to note, the Everything Store still sells Whole Grain Cream of Wheat, only $70.99 for 12 servings. Such a deal!)

Fudgsicles: How can they be "The Original Fudgsicles" with "no sugar added"? Well, of course, they can't. It's like sucking on an ice cube sprinkled with cocoa powder. Gone is the creamy, fudgey, sugar-laden treat of my youth. Hard pass.

Tootsie Roll Pops. Yes, it's the same name. But I can still taste the original in my childhood memory banks, and this ain't it. It's passable, but only barely. Also, like most candy, it's gone down several sizes. 

Tuna Helper: This timesaver recently disappeared from my grocer's shelves. Whoosh. Just like that. Granted, it was a salt-laden, crappy-for-you, guilty pleasure, but I liked it anyhow. In the interest of true confession, I was able to find a copycat recipe online that uses natural ingredients. So while it's still not what you could call healthy (lots of milk and cheese), it's got a whole lot less salt and no artificial "cheese product" in it.

Of course, food isn't the only thing we're guilty of forcing out of existence. Many of our health and beauty products have bit the dust. Mr. loves his Old Spice pit swipe, but they only have it in the deodorant variety, not the the anti-perspirant/deodorant version he requires. His minty Halls cough drops are another casualty. And dental floss that could hold up to the rigors of too-close teeth has been replaced by house brands that shred at the first sign of a challenge.

I'd say this was a new phenomenon, but somewhere deep in my memory banks, I can recall my Mom having the same complaint about her favorite products being discontinued. 

Do you suppose it's hereditary?

Cast Your Vote: The King vs. The Fab Four

Through the ages, there have been several questions that would define one's character.

Do you put your toilet paper roll so the sheets pull from underneath or over the top?

Is it acceptable to put ketchup on your eggs?

Peanut Butter + Bananas: A match made in heaven or a culinary travesty?

I'm sure you can think of several more – feel free to chime in. But today's question is one that's come up over the years with Mr. Ginley and I, and it calls into question our compatibility. To whit...

attribution below

Are you a Beatles fan or an Elvis fan?

Mr. Ginley is in the Elvis camp, I'm firmly planted in the Beatles camp. Although I do admit to liking the early Elvis, and Mr. likes some of the Beatles' later music. 

Growing up, Linda and I faced the same conundrum. I would say that she won – she got her Dad to take her to see Elvis in concert, and he enjoyed it so much, he took her again. It was something they bonded over. 

My Dad never did cotton to the Beatles.

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I'm not sure if my older brothers hadn't been fans that I would have been in the Beatles camp. I grew up hearing their music over and over, to the point where I learned most of their songs by heart. (Although, admittedly, I still struggle a bit with I Am the Walrus. "Elementary penguin singing Hare Krishna," indeed.) So much of the music is tied to a time and place that's personal, so I guess I understand why today's youngsters don't get it. Much like I find a lot of modern music to be meh.

So, what do you all think? Elvis or the Beatles? No need to give a reason, just cast your vote. 

There's no wrong answer – unless you say "neither one."  

Photo attributions: Elvis, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons. Beatles Arrive at JFK Airport: United Press International, photographer unknown, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

An Ounce of Prevention

They say that youth is wasted on the young, and boy, howdy, is that true, especially if you've enjoyed good health most of your life.

Old-timey x-ray, public domain photo

This year, I reached Medicare Age, and it was like a timer went off.

Ding! Knee/hip replacement is in your future.

Ding! You've had some significant bone loss, you're heading for osteoporosis. Time to up the calcium and Vitamin D.

Ding! Start taking these eyedrops every night so you don't lose your vision (hopefully).

Of course, I'd already been through the colonoscopy thing a couple of times. Undetected polyps can turn cancerous. Mine were removed before that could happen. 

And there was that iffy mammogram years ago that turned out to be nothing.

So, why am I sharing my medical history with y'all? 

Just to remind everyone of the importance of early detection. Most insurance plans cover preventive procedures. (Although the bone scan wasn't covered by my insurance, may they rot for their misplaced frugality.) 

So, if you're due for a procedure, suck it up and swallow the solution, submit to being squeezed, or let the scanner do its thing. This is more important than anything in a busy schedule.

Okay, I'm getting off my soapbox. You may now resume your normal programming!

Chance Encounters

I've always had an active imagination. As a child, I played with my two invisible friends, Becky and Roger. I've no idea where I conjured up their names. But we had some great times together, just the three of us.

I suppose it's my imagination that also feels compelled to make up stories in my head when I chance upon something out of the ordinary. Like Daisy Duck, sitting on a bench in the MetroParks, trying to look nonchalant. 

She could be striking a pose. Or maybe she was dancing with Donald (where did he get off to?) Or perhaps that last cup of coffee was a bit much, and she's just off to the loo. I can certainly relate to that.

I paused to take her photo. She didn't seem to mind the attention. I figure I'm not the only one who wondered how she'd gotten there and if anyone would be back to retrieve her.

I'm not sure what the park's policy is on loitering, but given she's a duck, the rangers will probably give her a pass. 

I hope she finds a new place to hang out before winter arrives. 

Her dress doesn't look all that warm.

Sweet Mystery of Life

If you've seen Young Frankenstein, you no doubt remember the line that was sung by both Madeline Kahn and Teri Garr. 

To whit, "Oh. sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you!" 

If you're familiar with the reference, you may be tittering right about now. But I have a completely innocent reason for proclaiming these words.

On a recent trip to the thrift store, I was perusing the puzzles and games section, when what did I stumble across but a vision...a game I coveted during my preteen years. Could it be, yes, it was.

Mystery Date!

I put back the jigsaw puzzles I had eyed only moments before and nabbed my prize. A handwritten note on the top of the battered box said, "new inside." I had to make it mine.

Fast forward an hour or two, and there I was, sitting on my couch, the box open, and, indeed, it looked like the game had never been played. The game pieces hadn't been punched out of their cardboard frame, all the cards were there (I counted them twice), and the door worked (I tested it to make sure all of the guys appeared). The inside of the box said it was the original game, copyright 1965. 

Oh happy day. At last, the game was mine. All mine. I gazed at it lovingly and sighed.

But, alas, I'm not 10 years old anymore, and the novelty of owning this treasure vanished, much like my youth. Poof.

So now I am wondering, what does one do with such a relic? Do I find a vintage game store to sell it to? Do I keep it hoping for granddaughters who will play the game with me someday?

More likely, I'll store it in the closet beside my Barbie Queen of the Prom game. I doubt that future generations will give a toss about it. I'll probably just elicit something like, "Poor you, such a pathetic childhood you must have had to want this silly game."

Fortunately, there are one or two of you out there who understand. Who remember the thrill of finding the desired boyfriend behind the door. 

If any of you would like the game, you know how to reach me. 

My door is always open.

ISO Good News

I'm exhausted from all the awful stories that have surfaced in the news. 

False allegations in Springfield, Ohio, about a neighbor eating Anna Kilgore's cat. (No, it didn't happen, "Miss Sassy" was hiding in the basement the entire time.)

Political ads spouting lie after lie – like the ones about Sherrod Brown, which have been proven false but still flood the airwaves. They're insidious because not only are they patently untrue, they prey on people's fears that those who are different from themselves are a threat. (And yet, the two attempts on Trump's life have been by white, male, Republicans. Go figure.)

Well, there goes my blood pressure.

I'm going to climb out of the rabbit hole of mayhem and instead share a story I read in The Plain Dealer this morning – originally published in The Washington Post – because, don't we all need to be reminded there are good folks out there?

The story is about Raheem Cooper, a UPS driver in Valdosta, Georgia, who was on his route when he saw an older woman sprawled on the ground in front of her house, groceries strewn every which way. He grabbed a bottle of water to cool her down (it was stinkin' hot in Georgia in August), called 911, and waited with her until help arrived. 

The woman, Marie Coble, 78, suffered bleeding in the brain, and would likely have died in her driveway if Mr. Cooper hadn't spotted her.

He left a note with her that had his contact information in case she needed it. Her granddaughter found the note and got in touch with Raheem, who asked if he could visit her. When he came into her hospital room, Mrs. Coble recognized her rescuer, sat up, and gave him a hug.

Since then, he's visited her several times, and the two have become fast friends. When he heard that Marie had to have a second surgery, Raheem set up a GoFundMe account, and captured the attention of a local news station. He's raised $9,730 so far. 

I must say, this story gave me a lift this morning, and I hope it does for you, too. 

Enjoy your Saturday, and hug 'em if you've got 'em.

P.S. In case you're not hip to this one, ISO = In Search Of. You may associate it with Leonard Nimoy. Or not. 

Photo attribution: Vijay Verma, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Setting a Record Straight

If there's one thing writers hate, it's when their work is attributed to someone else.

"Beauty, Thinking About Getting Older"*

Coming from an advertising background where none of your words are your own, I understand the frustration of others taking credit for your work. However, that's to be expected in the corporate world.

But it should not happen to personal writing. Unfortunately, in the age of the internet, we all know how easy it is to spread falsehoods and for them to be gobbled up and regurgitated over and over again.

Sometimes this happens innocently, as when a celebrity quotes a favorite poem, and it's attributed to them rather than to the person who penned it.

While I can't write every wrong (see what I did there), I can set the record straight on a quote I came across recently. It's a poem attributed to Judi Dench that was actually written by Donna Ashworth. I love the poem, it strikes a chord with me, particularly at this point in my life. 

So, without further ado, here's the Donna Ashworth poem (British spelling left intact):

Don't Prioritise Your Looks

Don’t prioritise your looks my friend, as they won’t last the journey.

Your sense of humour though, will only get better with age.

Your intuition will grow and expand like a majestic cloak of wisdom.

Your ability to choose your battles, will be fine-tuned to perfection.

Your capacity for stillness, for living in the moment, will blossom.

Your desire to live each and every moment will transcend all other wants.

Your instinct for knowing what (and who) is worth your time, will grow and flourish like ivy on a castle wall.

Don’t prioritise your looks my friend,

they will change forevermore, that pursuit is one of much sadness and disappointment.

Prioritise the uniqueness that makes you you, and the invisible magnet that draws in other like-minded souls to dance in your orbit.

These are the things which will only get better.

*Photo Attribution: Till Krech from Berlin, Germany, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons. The fountain was designed by Hugo Hagen, 1871