Hate Wins the Day

 Mr. Ginley always says I should avoid writing about politics. But today, that feels too much like fiddling while Rome burns.

I know there's absolutely nothing I can do about any of this mess our country is in. The truth is big and ugly and tears me up.

My fellow Americans voted to put a convicted felon and rapist in the White House. A criminal so vile that there's not one single positive thing that can be said about him. 

He's a big fat nasty ball of hate. He hates women. He hates minorities. He mocks people with disabilities. He calls American POWs cowards. He told people to drink bleach during COVID. And he discouraged them from getting the vaccine, although he did himself, of course. He lied and lied and lied and lied over and over and over and over.

Which leads me to wonder, what would that monster have to do for people to say that's enough, I can't vote for him? If he raped their daughter or ruined their business, would that do it? Or would the faithful simply shrug and say, "Boys will be boys. He's okay by me."

As if all this wasn't bad enough, my fellow citizens voted out Senator Brown. Sherrod Brown has been the one shining light in this blood red state. A decent man who fought valiantly for the rights of the people of our state. So who was elected instead? A car salesman who's engaged in sketchy business practices, ruined his employees, and generally just been a bad human being. 

Do we see a pattern here? Why yes, we do.

It feels like Pandora's box has been opened. Again. And while on some level I appreciate the efforts of my fellow Facebookers to come away with a positive attitude, I just can't. 

So, like many of you, I'm going to go back to my life, hunker down, and...what? Is this like the atomic drills in school where they tell you to crawl under your desk, curl up, and kiss your ass goodbye? 

Well, that's what it feels like. 

I wonder what his followers will think of him when he's dismantled our democracy.

Maybe something like, "At least he made the trains run on time."

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.

attribution below

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 

The Chair of Shame

Don't get me wrong, working from home is wonderful.

There are plenty of advantages. I don't have to drive 30 miles to the office, make nice with coworkers, or pack a lunch. And, perhaps best of all, I can work in my pajama bottoms.

The downside is that occasionally, I need to go to the office for one reason or another. This coming Monday is one of those times. 

"I'd better try on my dress pants," I said to Mr. Ginley. "I've put on a little weight, so I need to make sure something fits."

Add one more downside to working from home. 

All of which means we'll be heading to Kohl's to find a pair of work pants that won't make me look like a stuffed sausage. And because I'm dragging Mr. with me, he will need to prepare for his stint in The Chair of Shame.

I recently alluded to this when talking to my brother-in-law, John, a few weeks ago. 

"What is The Chair of Shame?" he wanted to know.

It's the chair outside the women's dressing room, where Mr. waits patiently, holding my purse, while I try on several items. I model them for him, and he provides a thumbs up/thumbs down to each article of clothing.

He's pretty good at this, commenting things like, "That works" or "Makes your butt look big" or simply "Nope, not gonna happen."

Truly, he does not mind doing this, but he does draw disapproving looks from other shoppers, who eye the old guy in the chair holding a purse as being henpecked, having cognitive issues, or being a pervert. 

Since it's been quite some time since I shopped for nice clothes, I suggested Mr. Ginley prepare for our shopping trip. As part of the warm-up, he:

• Assumed the Position: We recreated the scene in our dining room (see photo).
• Chose the Look: Arranged his facial expression to elicit sympathy rather than fear/disgust from other shoppers.
• Practiced Quipping: Chose some snappy comebacks to raised eyebrows such as, "I'm waiting for my wife" or "Good day to you, madam," or simply calling out, "How are you doing in there, honey?"

Things are going quite well, and we discovered that, like riding a bike, sitting in The Chair of Shame is a talent that comes right back to you.

No need to tell him I'm shopping for underwear today, too. 

P.S. Alas, no chair of shame. Only a wall of mortification:

 

Playing With Words

When Wordle hit the puzzle scene several years ago, I swore I was never going to engage. 

Kees Swart, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

Well, so much for that declaration.

While I won't go so far as to post my results on Facebook (because they're pretty dismal, honestly), I now attempt to solve it every morning. I don't know why. There's not a lot of strategy involved. Mostly, you're trying to guess what word is in someone's head. The word is selected from a list of about 2,500 common 5-letter words.

Here's how it works. You begin with five empty boxes, one for each letter. You get six tries to guess the word. So you type in the first five letters. (There's some strategy on this, like typing a word with three vowels – vowels are key.) If you have the right letter in the correct spot, it will turn green. If you have a letter that's in the word but you've slotted it in the wrong place, it will turn yellow. If the letter ain't there at all, the space turns black. Below the puzzle, it shows an alphabetic listing of all the letters so you can see your progress.

Most of the time, I can guess correctly before I run out tries. There's a screen that shows your statistics. I've only guessed the word right on the first try one time. Mostly, it takes me four or five tries. The stats don't give you a failure rate, which is nice, I guess. It keeps me coming back.

Just to note, I didn't just start Wordle one day out of the blue. It was included in a handy-dandy app the New York Times has for all their puzzles. A sort of one-stop-shopping for word nerds with nine interactive games:

1. I got hooked on Spelling Bee, where you make words out of a set of seven letters.
2. Connections is a diabolical word association game where you have to figure out what's going on the game-maker's mind. (I'm really bad at it). 
3. There's the crossword (which I won't do in the app, it's a bit much)
4. I do partake of the mini crossword. 
5. Strands is a word search of sorts. 
6. Letter Boxed connects letters to make words. 
7. Sudoku is there, but it's not my thing. 
8. Tiles describes itself as a game where you "match motifs." I think it was created by someone on acid.

I find myself spending an inordinate amount of time playing these silly games. It's really cutting into my Facebook time.

Which, come to think of it, may not be a bad thing, after all.

In Tune With the Past

Given the current state of the world, there are mornings when I simply delete my New York Times Newsletter. I can't always face the insanity and mayhem that have come to define the cultural climate in this country.

However, weekend topics tend toward the more frivolous, so I opened today's newsletter and read on.

The lead story was about music as the playlist of your life. I was intrigued.

The gist is that you create a playlist for a particular time period, a season, perhaps, like Summer of 2024. It isn't necessarily current tunes. It can be music you've rediscovered, for example. Songs that you'd long forgotten about and played over and over as you were working or hobbying or driving around town.

I can certainly relate to this idea. There are songs that define certain times in my life. The Beatles carried me through my early years. Carole King's Tapestry has popped up again and again as I've struggled with life. Graham Parker, Dave Edmunds, and David Bowie are some of Mr. Ginley's favorites artists, and their music set a "when we started dating" watermark in my life. There's music from old loves and painful partings. Tunes that even now can have me tearing up or laughing aloud. 

It's funny how music can evoke so many emotions. 

So, maybe that's a good project for me to think about. Sorting and categorizing the music that helped me get through. 

More likely, I'll just do what I've always done – pull out random musical selections, and let them carry me back to a lost time and place.

Obscure References

One of the many things I hate about aging is that youngsters don't understand my references.

Brother Paul, all set to see the USA

Of course, they can always google it, but I suspect most will just shrug off my odd phrases and chalk it up to my being an old quirky wingnut.

Which is not entirely off-base. 

But I digress.

Here's an example. The other day, I was writing about Chevrolets for work. I decided to try and incorporate the phrase, "See the USA in a Chevrolet," but I didn't want to take credit for this snappy slogan, which was penned in the 1950s and was used for decades. I left it in with an aside, but I have a feeling it won't make it through the editing process. Sometimes, I just can't resist.

I know that getting odd references isn't just an aging thing. Musicians, for example, have been misunderstood again and again (as illustrated in my blog last week – yes, this is a shameless attempt to get you to go back and read it if you haven't already).

Mr. Ginley was reading a book about rock songs, and he stumbled across AC/DC's Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap. There has been a fair amount of speculations as to the impetus for this tune, but the truth is much better than anyone could have imagined. However, it's only really funny if you're familiar with Beany and Cecil. The three main characters were a boy named Beany, a "seasick sea serpent" named Cecil, and Dishonest John (DJ), the antagonist, fashioned after classic black hatted villains. The show ran for a few years in the early 1960s and, much like Rocky and Bullwinkle, was rife with puns. 

DJ had a business card. It read, "Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap. Holidays, Sundays, and Special Rates." Which is where AC/DC got the idea for the song. Feel free to share this bit to impress family and friends.

And I can still recall the hoo-hah caused by Don McLean's American Pie. I was one of those who listened to the song over and over to discern what it meant. The tune is really long – I had the 45 single, and it was on two sides. My mom, who quickly grew sick of the whole matter, saw Don McLean on a talk show saying the song didn't mean anything, and she told me I should give it a rest. Critics and fans analyzed the lyrics ad nauseam until they'd broken it down. Eventually, Don McLean relented, and fifty years later, the song was the subject of a documentary, The Day the Music Died. McLean explained the song is biographical and chronicles the music social scene of the 1960s, starting with the 1959 plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, and J.P. "The Big Bopper" Richardson. 

Another amusing rock music reference which is less obscure is the origin of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker's band name. Steely Dan is a steam-powered dildo featured in William S. Burroughs' book, Naked Lunch. In all likelihood, it was before the battery-operated kind and was likely a plug-in. (Sorry, I could not resist.)

Of course, there are many other such examples of sly asides, inside jokes, and hidden meanings, rock musicians being the cheeky sort they are. You probably know of several yourself. Please share.

In the meantime, I'll keep on working Eight Days a Week – by the way, did you know Ringo got the title from his chauffeur? 

I just can't help myself.

A Higher Calling

As Mr. Ginley was flipping through YouTube channels the other night, he paused and said, "No, this has to be fake news."

Lawrence Welk, ABC Television, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

Mind you, there's plenty of that going around, but there are times when the real thing is stranger than AI-generated tripe.

Calling me over to the screen, Mr. pointed and said, "Check this out."

There were Gail Farrell and Dick Dale, two singing darlings from The Lawrence Welk Show, and they were belting out "One Toke Over the Line." They sang it with reverence, the same way they would harmonize to "How Great Thou Art" or "Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore."

Hallelujah, indeed.

Okay, before we continue, permit me to refresh your memory (or bring you up to speed). 

Lawrence Welk was a band leader from the Swing Era. My folks always said he was too schmaltzy for them (they liked their Swing to swing). He had a TV show in the 1950s through the 1970s that was popular with the geriatric set because it was wholesome in a Wonder Bread sort of way, if you catch my drift.

One Toke Over the Line was a hit for the musical duo of Mike Brewer and Tom Shipley in 1971. As you may suspect, it's a reference to pot smoking. 

Brewer confirmed the song was about getting high. In fact, he said they were between sets in their dressing room and stoned when they wrote it.

The song drew immediate criticism from then-VP Spiro Agnew, who called it subversive, thereby guaranteeing the song would be a hit with the youngsters.

It was at about the same time that Lawrence Welk plucked the tune from the airways and had that other duo of Farrell and Dale perform the song. Clearly, Welk had no idea what the song was about. Perhaps it was these lyrics that captured his attention: "One toke over the line, sweet Jesus" and "Waiting for the train to come home, Sweet Mary." I don't believe he ever commented on it, but imagine it's these references that caused Welk to nod approvingly after the performance and identify it as "a modern spiritual."

For those of you who are still doubting Thomases, I now give you the YouTube link to One Toke Over the Line.

And a one-ah and a two-ah...

Brewer & Shipley, 1971
Photo by Nick DeWolf, CC BY-SA 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons

Went With the Wind

We had quite a blow this week.

attribution below

Several tornadoes ripped through the region, tearing up trees and damaging property. 

For a time, trees blocked the road and power was out for hundreds of thousands of people. Mr. Ginley and I were extremely fortunate that our electricity wasn't affected, particularly since half our street lost power, as did many nearby neighborhoods.

There are two camps on FB. One is cranking about their service not being restored fast enough, and the other is telling folks to calm down because we had several tornadoes rip through the region, there's a ton of damage, and workers are laboring around the clock to restore power. 

People will be people, though, and it's in our nature to be most concerned with what's happening to us. Of course there are exceptions. There are those with chainsaws who went around and cut up trees or pulled them out of the street. Lowe's offered free ice and water to those whose power was out. And several of the libraries in the area reminded patrons that they have wifi access and phone-charging capabilities.

I suppose like any crisis, it brings out the best and worst in all of us. Patience is hard. Watching a refrigerator full of food go to waste is gut-wrenching. And not being able to see our favorite shows is a trial.

Still, there is good news. 

People didn't die. Trees were decimated. Stuff was broken. And inconveniences were rampant, but stuff gets fixed, trees replanted, and soon this will be a story for kids to tell their kids one day.

It all reminds me of one of my favorite Monty Python ditties.

Always look on the bright side of life...

Photo attribution: Stefan Klein, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride

Okay, I give in. 

Here you go, Mr. Ginley. 

This week, it's ALL about you. Enjoy the ride!

Meet the Man of Many Hats...

And so much more...

Feel free to add your own captions. See you next week!

Thank you, Thank You Very Much

This past week, I celebrated what's commonly referred to as a "milestone birthday."

Denise's Surprise

Figuring there must be some perks to aging, I've granted myself a week off from writing in this space. For those of you who see my blog pop up in your FB feed and think, "What on earth is she blathering on about now?," you can consider this a birthday bonus from me to you.

And for those of you who wished me well on FB, sent me flowers (Denise) or cards (Diane & John, Linda & Stan) or snazzy water bottles (Joe & Jill), I thank you. 

Carry on!

Gratuitous Cat Pic, Apropos of Nothing

Kitty Not Kitty

The character Hello Kitty is not a kitty.

Hello, Kitty!*

Did I just blow your mind? According to the Washington Post, there are folks out there who don't know this – or who have heard it before and are in denial.

I learned the backstory about Hello Kitty in my prior job, when we were writing copy for Charmed Memories, our line of Pandora-like bracelets that featured Sanrio's iconic character. We were provided with an entire list of dos and don'ts, one of them being that Hello Kitty was to be referred to as a little girl, in spite of her catlike visage.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the backstory, the Kitty of Hello Kitty fame is a third-grader named Kitty White, a Londoner who likes making friends, eating cookies and traveling. (No mention of piña coladas, getting caught in the rain, etc.) She has parents (was one a cat? you may wonder), a twin sister called Mimmy and, to further confuse the issue, a pet feline called Charmmy Kitty. 

Don't be fooled by her youthful appearance, however, Hello Kitty was born in 1974, meaning she's got milestone birthday coming up (aka, "The Big 5-0"). How does she maintain her kittenish good looks?

While the folks at Sanrio, who came up with the concept, are adamant about her heritage, like any character, people are going to see it how they want, whatever the real story may be. 

Which is fine when you're talking about fictitious characters. Maybe not so much with real-life people.

But that's a subject for another day.

*Naturally, I couldn't use an actual photo of the subject image without permission, so here's a cute cat waving at you. And here's the attribution: GPS 56 from New Zealand, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Blackberries for Barb

We're about halfway through July. so you know what that means...any day now, they'll fire up the back to school ads.

a modest sampling

Ugh.

Back in the day when anyone who mentioned the "s" (school) word got smacked down, summers seemed to stretch on forever. 

Endless games of tag and kick the can and treasure hunts and roller skating and bike riding and playing in the garage when it rained. And, in spite of all these activities, the inevitable, "there's nothing to do" followed by Mom's refrain, "I can give you something to do," followed by a speedy retreat.

One of our yearly activities was blackberry picking. There was an area along Rockside Road that was still wild (alas, no longer) where you could find blackberries aplenty. We'd take buckets and pick away, careful not to get too scratched up or bug eaten in the process. We'd bring home our spoils, and Mom would bake them into a fabulous pie. 

This memory returned hard and fast when I discovered that the modest blackberry bush that snuck into the side yard last year had become the thing that took over the place this year. Initially, I was delighted. Who doesn't love fresh blackberries? But soon my delight turned to chagrin as I realized how bountiful this beast was.

So, what have I been doing this summer? Picking a crap-ton (or is it a shit-ton?) of blackberries. I've frozen enough now for one pie (or maybe two or ten) but there are still plenty out there.

If you're driving by and have a hankering for blackberries, feel free to pick to your heart's content.

Just watch out for the prickers and the bugs. 

Happy (what's left of) Summer!

P.S. Kudos to those sharp-eyed readers who observe such things: My title riffs off the name of a favorite childhood book, Blueberries for Sal, by Robert McCloskey.

All Fired Up

Another 4th of July has come and gone, but the fireworks linger on.

attribution below

My neighborhood FB group can be counted on every year to bring up the topic of fireworks. There are two camps: those that shoot them off and those that hate those who shoot them off. 

Maybe it's my perception, but it seems that over the years, shooting off fireworks has gotten progressively more obnoxious. I can recall a time when they were only being shot off on the 4th. Nowadays, activity begins the week (or two) before and will continue for the week (or two) following. Also, it seems every patriotic holiday requires celebration by fireworks. That never used to be a thing.

While I don't place myself entirely in the camp of anti-fireworks, I'm clearly not a fan. Yes, I put up with them, and I don't really mind the little "pop pops," but I never understood the allure of the "BOOM BOOMs." Maybe it's because our kitty cowers, but it's also because i get tired of bouncing up in my seat every time I'm startled by one of these nasty explosions. 

Also, I think there should be a curfew. Anyone caught shooting them off after 11pm should be horsewhipped. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who has to work the day after, but even if I didn't, I wouldn't want to be awakened half the night by loud booms. There's one inconsiderate jerk who shoots them off at 3 am. Not cool, dude.

What I find somewhat hilarious is how so many people are complaining about food prices, but they clearly have a ridiculous amount of money to spend on fireworks. 

Just sayin'.

Thankfully, we have air conditioning, so we can keep the windows closed. That helps us (and kitty). 

Before you know it, summer will be over and we'll be marking it with Labor Day. 

I know, let's celebrate with fireworks.

Yay.

PSA: For those who shoot guns in the air instead of fireworks, here's a little science lesson: What goes up must come down. Bullets return to earth. And hurt people. You're welcome.

Photo Attribution: National Archives of Sweden, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. It's an 18th century design for a fireworks display. More interesting, I think, than a photo of fireworks.