GOATS for Goats

In modern vernacular, GOAT stands for Greatest Of All Time. Recently, a small town in Utah called Stansbury Park,  got a shout-out for being GOATs for actual goats.

photo attribution below

The story, attributed to Cathy Free for the Washington Post, goes that Jose Garcia and his uncle Bartolo were hauling 50 bleaters from Minnesota to their dairy farm in California when they got caught in a massive snowstorm. The pair began to panic because the goats needed to be milked every 12 hours. If not, their udders would swell up and things would get mighty painful for them.  

After five hours of creep-and-beep, Jose was able to exit the freeway and head for a place where they could milk the goats. Fortune smiled on them when they pulled into the parking lot of Stansbury Park's Tractor Supply Company.

Assistant Manager Lisa Fernandez was closing up the store at 9 p.m. when she was approached by a frantic Jose, who asked if she'd ever milked a goat before.  

Startled, Lisa replied she hadn't, but she was up for it, and also enlisted the help of another store manager, who called employees to see if anyone else could assist. One of them did a post on the local Facebook page, and pretty soon 40 volunteers showed up in the 31-degree weather to milk the goats. When the sheriff pulled into the parking lot to find out what was going on, even he agreed to help. 

The game was on.

Ms. Fernandez gathered buckets and supplies from the store. Many of the volunteers brought their own containers so they could take the milk home. Unsurprisingly, most had never milked a goat before, but all were willing to learn. Jose quickly taught them the proper technique. 

By 11:15, all the goats had been relieved of their burden, and a very happy Jose and his uncle were able to complete the final leg of their journey to California.

So, why am I sharing a story about goat milking in Utah? Because I get so tired of the daily rag sharing stories of mischief and mayhem. It's refreshing to hear a story about real people helping real people. 

I'd like to think most of us are like those folks in Stansbury Park, Utah, not the trolls who pollute social media.

Maybe I'm delusion, but it's my delusion. 

And yes, if the opportunity presented itself, I like to think I'd pony up and milk a goat, too.

Photo attribution: Bernard Lens (II) (died 1725), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

For the Love of Splooting

"No, we're not getting a dog," Mr. Ginley said many moons ago. "I'm not a big fan of dogs. One cat. We can have ONE cat. That's it."

Galison puzzle, "The Corgi Museum" (1,000 pieces)

So it was written, so it shall be done. Which is why we've only ever had one furry four-legged creature wandering the vast Ginley estate. And it's always been of the feline variety.

While I'm okay with his decree, I still think about pooches from time to time, my pup of choice being the corgi. It's not because the Queen of England was partial to this particular breed, although that certainly does give them props. 

Corgis are just so stinkin' cute.

So when my friend, Ilona, got her corgi, I was thrilled to live vicariously through her adventures thanks to the sometimes-miracle that is Facebook. 

In the course of my stalking photos of corgis, I learned they're particularly good at splooting. Who knew that was a thing? It's when a dog lays on its stomach with its back legs splayed out. It's too adorable, although they do it because it's comfortable, not to amuse humans. Splooting is kind of like a person doing the child's pose in yoga. It's a good stretch. Apparently, it's also a canine move to find relief from heat in the summertime. So when you dog sploots, it's cool, no need for concern.

My love of corgis spilled over into puzzling territory this week, which is why they've been on my mind so much of late. When I saw the corgi puzzle at a local thrift store, I couldn't resist. Plus, the puzzle had never been done before and all the pieces were there, so huzzah!

It was such a joy to work on. Now I'll take it apart and share it at the library puzzle exchange so someone else can ooh and ahh over it.

Sure, and what's all the fuss about, you may wonder. I guess you could say it's a coping device. It keeps my spirits up as I avoid political ads, social media trolls and other depressing assaults on my sensibilities.

"Oh, look, he's so precious! Who's a good boy?"

Pondering Euphemisms

As a writer, I'm perhaps more sensitive to the words that were once commonplace but are now being replaced with euphemisms, presumably to lessen their impact.

aka a prostitute (attribution below)

For example, I hear the word "unhoused" a lot. Wait, do they mean "homeless"? Yes, they do. But "unhoused," doesn't sound so dire. Labeling someone as "homeless" taints them, apparently. In my opinion, however, saying someone is "unhoused" clouds the picture, doesn't it? Isn't it easier to ignore the plight of someone who's "unhoused" as opposed to "homeless"?

I've also read that "senior citizen" is becoming passé. It's now better to use the term "older adult" for someone who is 65 or over. (Mr. Ginley says he's not giving up his soon-to-be "senior citizen" status; he wants all the discounts.)

There are a gazillion other examples, too. Our friends in human resources, for example, have created a cottage industry inventing variations on "fired". I've heard the following. Note that in all cases, it's not "me" or "we" but "the company," a nameless, faceless entity:

• "You're being separated from the company."
• "The organization is downsizing."
• "The company is moving in a new direction."
• "The business is being restructured."
• "Your position is being eliminated."
• "You to step away from the organization."
• "You're being offboarded."

All of these are meant to soften the blow of being shit-canned, but they don't really. Even knowing you're not the only one getting the boot is cold comfort. And getting let go is something that stays with you, even as you move on to better things.

Bear in mind, I'm not condoning we use hurtful words or labels. Racial slurs and mean-spirited phrases are never acceptable. I was once schooled for unwittingly using the word "retarded" (referring to a process, not a person) because someone in the room had a sibling with mental challenges. You don't know what people's lives are like, and you don't get to decide what's going to send them to a bad place. In all things, be kind. If you're not sure, use a different word. There are plenty to choose from.

But I digress.

My point is, when we use jargon and flowery language to cover up topics we're uncomfortable with, we risk losing our humanity. The Vietnam War has been labeled a "conflict." Medical personnel refer to the deceased as "having a negative patient outcome." The poor are "economically disadvantaged." Those who lie are "truth-challenged." The people who stormed the Capitol were laughably labeled as "tourists." And, of course, the Nazis were masters of this technique, with phrases like "the final solution." 

Is it tricky to deliver hard truths? 

Sure. But shouldn't we always be transparent?

*Photo attribution: Turner, Snow Hill, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Coming of Age

I was never popular in school, but that's okay, because I never wanted to be.

If I could have gone through that part of my life invisible, I would have. My report card always said things like, "Barbara knows the answers but will not raiser her hand and participate." But I'd learned early on that the other kids didn't appreciate the smart ones. You were jeered at and picked on for volunteering the answers, so I kept my hand (and my head) down and became as invisible as I could possibly be.

Many of you will be surprised to hear this, given how outspoken I have become since those early days. While I'm still something of a lone wolf, I howl more now than I once did. Yet there's still a part of me who wishes others couldn't see me.

"Others," of course, being insurance companies. Thanks to the information age in which we live, marketers know that I'm approaching the age when Medicare becomes available to me. As that day nears, I've noticed there's a decided ramp-up in the amount of mail I get from insurance companies who want to help me navigate the tangled process.

"Come have coffee with us, and we'll explain how it works," one of their pitches goes. It's much like those timeshare offers we used to get. (Sit through the presentation, and you'll get a free TV. No strings attached.) Thanks, but I can get my coffee at home without feeling pressured to sign up for your Medicare Supplement plan.

At one point, I was getting dozens of calls from the same company. I made the mistake of answering the first one. Although I hung up and blocked that number, I continued to get calls from the same exchange, except the last four numbers were different. When I complained to Mr. Ginley, he suggested I answer one of the calls and tell them I'm not eligible for Medicare for 10 years. Which I did, and that ended the harrassment. (Why do I feel guilty about lying to telemarketers? That's dumb, I know.)

As far as the mail is concerned, I know it's only going to get worse. I just went through this with Mr. Ginley, and the insurance companies were relentless. 

Spoiler alert: This part is my PSA for anyone getting ready to sign up for Medicare.

While it's true that signing up for Medicare is a minefield, thanks to my sister, I used a website called Boomer Benefits, and they were wonderful. If you're entering the Medicare zone, go to their website and watch the two videos they've posted, then sign up to talk to one of their folks. They don't sell supplemental insurance, they're brokers. So they walk you through the process, explain your options and help you sign up. And they continue to work with you after you've enrolled, so if you have questions, they can get you answers. But they don't harass you every five minutes. Honestly, I don't know how the average citizen figures out what to do. It's shameful what certain politicians have done to screw up a system that used to be straightforward. (I won't mention any names, but you know who you are.)

Okay, off the soapbox now. 

Of all the mail we've received concerning health insurance, life insurance and burial insurance (let's make sure we cover ALL the bases), the most bizarre are the postcards and flyers addressed to my father-in-law. 

We're not exactly sure why he's getting mail at our address, given that he never lived here – and he's been gone for over 40 years. 

"Maybe we should forward this to Holy Cross," my wisecracking husband quipped. 

I guess those marketing folks don't know everything about us after all. 

On the Wings of a Wish

There are times when I feel as though I was born in the wrong era.

Union Pacific Railroad, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

I felt this acutely the other night when Mr. Ginley began reading to me from a book that featured travel ads from the 1900s.

"It's almost like traveling on the wings of a wish...this skimming thorough the air in our big, fast ships. You simply step aboard and before you can begin to believe, you're there..."

The book was chock full of carefully crafted copy that made me yearn to get on a plane or a train or a ship and zoom off to exotic locations, snuggled into a wide, comfortable seat or crossing the ocean in an Art Deco style cabin or dining in style in a beautifully appointed Pullman rail car.

Oh, to write copy like that. Copy that would make people dewy-eyed with possibilities.

These days, I supposed if you have the means, it's possible to travel and enjoy such amenities. But you won't find them described as eloquently as they were in the last century.

Nevertheless, I hold out hope of someday taking a train across the country. Maybe when I've retired. I picture Mr. and I tucked into our cabin, watching the world pass by our window. Reading a book and looking up every now and then. Taking in the scenery, basking in a sunset. Noshing in a well-appointed dining car. The destination won't matter. Time will be inconsequential. We'll just be along for the ride.

Someday...