Eating My Words: A List Of Nevers That Are Now Alwayses (Is That Even A Word?)

Many, many years ago I was a person of absolutes. I used the words Always and Never liberally in my conversations, and I really meant them when I said them. So many things seemed so clear to me all the time. Distinctions were not fine; they were obvious and defined. I found decisions relatively easy and clear-cut. 

In short, I was an idiot. And young. And lacked the wisdom and experience to know very much at all. As time has gone on, I've learned to stop using words like Always and Never. Instead, I say things like, "I can't imagine myself ever" or "At this point, it's my habit to". 

As you can imagine, I've had to eat my own words many times. Here is a list of

Things I Said I'd Never Do, But Now I Do Them All The Time

1. Text

2. Use the word Text as a verb

3. Go out in public wearing leggings

4. Be okay with my kids having tattoos

5. Wear sneakers any time but for exercise

6. Let Rick go to the grocery store with me

I know, right?

Back in the early days of cellphones, I could not understand how anyone wanted to type on those itty bitty keyboards and pay for the privilege. It just seemed ridiculous to me. I hated all the stupid word shortcuts, too:  ur for your or you're; l8 for late; cu for see you, etc. They irked me. Then! Students started using the word Text as a verb, and worse yet, they added tense endings to it. "He texted me that he'd be absent today." Aaarrgghhh. I swore I'd never, ever use Text as a verb, let alone pay for typing out messages on a minuscule keyboard. Not me! Oh, ha ha it is to laugh.

I held out on leggings for a bit longer, but not by much. Black leggings are my uniform, and you will never, ever pry them out of my grasp. I wear them 3.5 seasons out of the year, and I don't care if I have to use the lint roller every single time I step out of the house. It's worth it. 

Tattoos are so mainstream now that my initial objections seem quaint and stuffy. I still wish my sons did not have them, but that's mainly because they are my babies and I remember them as that. All that beautiful, perfect skin that I knew every unblemished inch of. But their ink doesn't change who they are, and they designed meaningful illustrations, mostly of family emblems and symbols. Will I ever get a tattoo? I can't imagine a scenario in which I would.

See? I've learned to never say Never! How about you? Have you had to eat your words like I have? Or has it usually been your habit to avoid that situation? (I'm pretty good at this now!)

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Shaking A Few Things Loose

This week I feel a Big Purge coming on. As I was packing to go to the lake for the weekend, I noticed that there were several things in my closet that I hadn't worn all summer; in fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had worn them. Clearly, it's time for them to go. That made me think about the rolled-up rug in the office closet and the shoes in there that haven't been worn lately either. Time to box and bag things up and call my favourite charity, Vietnam Vets of America, and get them out here for a pickup. (As usual, I'll try to inspire Rick to--cue dread and doom music--go through his things as well, but I don't expect that to amount to anything.)

I'm also feeling the need to Purge a few Thought Nerfuls and Cerebral Clutterbits taking up space in my head, so I'm going to give it a rattle and see what shakes loose.

BOOBS.  As in, mine are because I am Rebelling and refusing to wear a bra for the rest of the summer as of about two weeks ago. Now, to be fair, I am not Copiously Endowed, and because I am an Older Lady, mine are not, shall we say, prone to Being Bouncy. I have spent too much money on trying to find a bra that is even remotely comfortable, and yes, I was even professionally fitted. If I am wearing something sheer, I wear a cami; if I am not, then Shirt Only it is. Chances are extremely good that I continue this for all three remaining seasons and for the rest of my life, especially since I Just Don't Care. 

BOOKS.  I finished--with some disappointment--Parallel Lines by Edward St. Aubyn. Listen, the writing is excellent. I remain entranced and entertained by the character Sebastian, who features in the opening chapter and made me want to read this book. BUT. There were too many characters cluttering up the landscape and they weren't all different enough to make me notice. As a matter of fact, at one point I just sort of skipped lots paragraphs concerning a couple of characters AND IT MADE ZERO DIFFERENCE TO THE PLOT. And the ending made me irritated in that I put up with SO MUCH just to get to...this? Maybe your reading will be vastly different and I truly hope so. Maybe I am just a Huge Pain In The Ass about modern fiction.

However.

I am now reading Orbital by Samantha Harvey. First of all, thank you Julie for reviewing this book over at your place and for providing an excerpt. This book. This book is so achingly beautiful that when I read it, there are times that I simply have to put it down and breathe and recover myself. This morning I took it out on the patio with my coffee; the sound of my little pond waterfall was in the background, and now and then a bird would sing. As I read I would almost be overcome. What an incredible piece of literature. I feel privileged to read it.

PLANTS.  My basil is a green machine. I've made so, so many jars of pesto--in total a little over two quarts so far. I put it in little jars so that it stays fresher longer. Somebunny has gotten into my parsley despite my menacing fake owl and mowed down almost an entire plant. One suspect lounges quite nonchalantly under my swing in the evenings. My catnip got a severe case of powdery mildew, so I cut it all back and took it outside. Neither Piper nor Marlowe care/d a whit about catnip in their old age (I found out), so I was basically growing catnip to give away to the grandcats (Baker and George) anyway. (Side Note:  Jared and Jordan often threaten George that "Nana will come and speak sternly to you" when he misbehaves because they heard me threaten him with that ONE TIME.)

PLEASURES.  It's important to make note of Small Things That Make Us Happy, and here are mine in no particular order:  

1. Coffee

2. The family group chat

3. My porch and patio

4. My little pond and waterfall

5. Blackberries

6. The icemaker

7. Seeing Theo's crib in the office

8. Watching the two little boys across the street and remembering when Jared and Sam were that age

9. My volunteer tomato plant 

10. Piper snoring

I absolutely cannot wait to read what you have to say in Comments about Boobs, Books, Plants, or your life's little Pleasures.

Porch Martinis and Peanut M & Ms: A Public Service Announcement

In a completely astonishing turn of events, I have become 66 years old. It's done no good to refuse it; the reality of it stubbornly exists, and I just have to live with it. There are times when I completely forget about how old I am, but then there are days like yesterday, when I am putting in my herb garden and attempting to help Rick get the little pond and waterfall cleaned up and running again, and weeding and yardworking, and my body reminds me that it's NOT HAVING IT AND HEY! REMEMBER YOUR ARTHRITIS ALL OVER THE PLACE?

This morning was a nightmare.

Can I buy Aleve by the drum?

Anyway.

Not too long ago on our way home from working at the lakehouse, I mentioned that I was in the mood for a martini. I didn't really want to go someplace to get one, but it sounded good. Of course, we had nothing at all at home to make one. That's when my hero answered the call:  we stopped at a liquor store on the way home and Rick got everything we needed to make not only martinis, but cosmopolitans, too. And The Porch Martini was born. 

I cannot recommend this highly enough. Rick makes lovely dirty martinis or cosmopolitans (aka pink martinis), and we sit on the front porch relaxing, chatting, and watching the world go by. Sometimes we let the cats out and let them enjoy the porch as well. It's an unwritten rule that we cannot discuss stressful things--that would disrupt The Porch Martini Vibe. It's the ultimate relaxation for me. We each have two martinis and sometimes some snacks. I've wholeheartedly embraced The Porch Martini. (And come on--everyone looks and feels so cool even just holding those glasses.)

But even as I've embraced The Porch Martini, I've had to break up with (for now!) Peanut M & Ms. Again. This gives me no end of grief, for as you know, not only do I consider them The World's Most Perfect Food, it proves that I did NOT learn my lesson from 2023. Conveniently, however, this time I can blame Rick for my transgression. Yes, he did thoughtfully ask if I wanted anything from the kitchen. True, I did say, "I do, but I don't know what," and he brought me just the right snack, said Peanut M & Ms. He did, however, just plop a big sack of them (thoughtfully given to me on my birthday by Jordan, my daughter-in-law) on the table next to me rather than give me a little portion. After two martinis, I just kept popping them into my mouth whilst watching Netflix, and pretty soon, (like the Cheetos and Lay's Original Potato Chips before them) they turned on me. Now, I've had to ask Rick to hide them while I see other snacks, like red grapes and the pretzels that look like little checkerboards.

You know, I've just read this over, and I am a bit concerned as to what sort of example I am setting for those of you who are younger. People who buy liquor are heroes! Booze it up on your porch! 

Yet, I am advocating for Snacking In Moderation. And Dealing With Your Stress. And Physical Activity In Your Advanced Years.

Really, this post is a Public Service, if you think about it.

You're welcome. 

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This Old Lady

 This lousy winter has made me start to Feel My Age, and I wonder what kind of Old Lady I'll be. I mean, I've had several Old Lady examples to look to, but really, it's one of those things I have to figure out for myself. 

Certainly, I would rather not be an Old Lady. I'm resentful of the limitations I'm suddenly experiencing, lending me new empathy for my saintly grandmother Ethel who used to always lament, "My mind wants to do so many things, but this old body just won't let me!" She used to go to her doctor and warn him not to tell her that any of her problems were due to Old Age, or to be overly cautious in his treatments, either. Grandma once told him to just remove one of her toes that kept giving her problems; she was tired of dealing with it. She was still doing floor exercises on a mat in her nursing home room in her nineties. She made all my winter coats until I was 13, and she did that for dozens of grandchildren. Her sense of organization and ambition were formidable. I never inherited her skill in sewing, but I did inherit her arthritis, sadly, and I'd like to think I got my sense of order from her, too. 

Her mother, my Great Grandma Hetsler was the most horrible person I ever knew. On the unfortunate days that our visits to Grandma's house coincided with Grandma Hetsler's stays, I was devastated. She sat in the living room like a Puritan judge, ramrod straight, with her grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore little glasses and her face wore a constant pained look. Her cane was always in her hand, at the ready. She disapproved of girls wearing pants, and she always said so, both to us and to our mother. And whenever we were close enough, she whacked us, hard, on the back of our legs with her cane. There was no reason at all other than she wanted to or took some perverse pleasure in it. I constantly appealed to my mother and my grandmother, but all they said was, "She's an old lady. Just never mind her." I made a vow as a child to never, ever be like her, and to always listen to my children.

My husband's grandmother, who liked to be called G-Ma, and who had a hand in raising him, was one of the kindest women I ever knew. Each and every one of her grandkids was perfect, a superhero, a genius, and the best at their job. They all made all the right decisions always. That woman was the biggest cheerleader for her grandkids and, eventually, their spouses and great-grandkids. She lived only a few blocks away from us when we were just starting out with our house, and one day she drove over with a huge watermelon she'd gotten on sale, and wanted Rick to cut it up so that we could have most of it. We did it right in the front yard on the tailgate of her station wagon. There were a lot of birthdays when her gift was a car payment or grocery gift card. She was special. I hope I showed her how much I appreciated her when she was still with us. She really knew the value of Truly Being There.

Today, this Old Lady went grocery shopping, swore at her car (I hate that it gives me a score for my driving that goes lower if I use the heat ), took a walk in the rain, and sat with her cat while he watched a video of birds and squirrels (because he asked to). She signed petitions against republican bullshit and wrote emails to Congress. She said The Eff Word about 20 times to no one in particular. And she ate lunch with her son. So, for now, I'm That Kind Of Old Lady.

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Five On Friday: The Fussypants Edition

 Enough of this Christmas Cheer already. I woke up feeling a little crabby and fussy today, and despite our mild weather and a good, brisk walk, I'm not getting any better. Let's see if I can Write It Out of my system.

1.  Food:  I have a New York Times subscription. It includes access to NYT Cooking and all their recipes. "Oh boy!" one would think. "That sounds like a great resource." Well, it can be, but for the past 18 months, all the food editors can think/write about is gochujang and chili crisp. Before that, everything was about chickpeas. Salmon is featured constantly, and I detest salmon in any form. (That made our Alaska vacation awkward, let me tell you.) Do not get me started on their fixation with kale, which I think tastes like dirt.

2.  Hair:  Once again, I waited too long (no pun intended!) to book a haircut, and now I am in Ugly Mode. Absolutely nothing is working with my hair. The ends are dry and terrible. The layers are too long. It is flat. I have completely butchered my bangs so many times that--what? what can I even say? I am in such Desperation that I dragged out my old hot rollers and tried those with predictably clownish and frightful results. Susie booked me for 11:30 on 3 January thank heavens and she will get a sizeable tip.

3.  Amazon:  I'm happy to say that Rick and I did the vast majority of our Christmas shopping In Real Life and I only used Amazon for a handful of gifts. However, those gifts, although they were ordered on 11 December, did not come until TODAY, 27 December. Sam, whose Christmas shopping is almost done exclusively online and at the very last minute, had all his gifts arrive on time. I struggle to understand WHAT I HAVE LEARNED.

4.  Old:  There is no getting around it; I am Not Young Anymore. I thought I was Perfectly Fine with this fact, but apparently I am NOT. Did you know that, as you age, your body starts aching and bitching when you do stuff you always used to do? Right now, my neck and shoulder hurt a lot. And they have for days and days. So do my feet. Did I do anything different to cause this? No I did not.

5.  Over It:  I want my house back. All this Christmas stuff has got to go. Tomorrow, the tree comes down. Trust me, I don't decorate the house even a tiny fraction of what I used to, but I need the serenity of Things Back To Normal. Things would have been put away today, but Rick is now a Social Butterfly in retirement and had lunch plans and dinner plans today with friends. While he is gone tonight, I am going to take a muscle relaxer, put on my jammies, finish my book, and watch something not at all cerebral on television, and I will take recommendations. 

Are you feeling a little crabby, too? If not, make me feel better in Comments.

Clearing Out My Cranial Clutter: Drugs For The Elderly, The Dress, And Marcel's Philosophy On Blog Comments

 Let's start right in, shall we?

After three days of suffering a vicious migraine that my meds would not even touch, I called my neurologist for a cycle breaker. This is a steroid med pack (6 the first day, 5 the next, and so on). I put on my sunglasses and drove the short distance to CVS to pick it up and gobbled the first 6 in the parking lot like an addict needing her fix. It was only when I got home that I looked at the attached paperwork and saw this very Disheartening missive:

I am the Older Adult In The Combination

Because I have reached The Magic Number, I'm now asked a bunch of questions I never got a year ago. Like Do you feel safe at home? (Honestly, I think every patient in the ER should be asked if they feel safe at home, don't you?) Anyway, so much for the whole Age is just a number philosophy.

 
Some of you asked to see my dress for Jared and Jordan's wedding. The photo isn't very good, but here it is:

Just imagine my head, arms, and legs poking out, and my feet wearing great shoes

What you can't see is that the skirt is split at the side wrap with cascading ruffles, and the front is shorter than the back, like a cutaway. Here is a link to the actual dress online, but it's not that great of a photo, either. Regardless, there it is. 

One more note about the wedding. Last weekend, Rick and I hosted the family along with Jared and Jordan's parents at the lakehouse before they had to fly back to Colorado. We talked more about the wedding, and I said I realized I didn't cry a single tear during the whole thing. Not one (and I had even bought waterproof mascara). Jordan said, "I know. I was watching you. You were so incredibly calm. But you were radiating Joy." I agreed. I said that I simply felt complete--contented and complete. I knew that everything was right and perfect about their marriage. I felt like I was watching the natural next step, the culminating event. I was just so happy.

Finally, during my Migraine Days this week, I was edgy and restless. I couldn't do much, but I didn't want to just sit in a darkened, silent room. I could read on and off, or watch television if it was something quiet. I found the movie Marcel The Shell With Shoes On, a film which had intrigued me a while ago, but I had forgotten about.

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 It's a lovely little film with an endearing protagonist and a dear, yet important, message that resonated with me. And it expresses my philosophy about blogging, specifically the Comments section.

Over at Kyria's place, several bloggers spoke about not answering Comments at all, and others spoke about not checking back to even see if their Comments had been answered. To be blunt, I find that dismissive and rude.

In the film, Marcel reluctantly goes online to find his family. Instead of receiving help, he gets fans and followers. At one point, he says something like, "This is an audience, not a community." And that's what those kinds of blogs are to me. People who don't engage with their commenters are just looking for an audience, not a community. Wouldn't a Like button serve the same purpose for them? I don't know. I know that I choose carefully who I read and want to spend time with.

Thank you for spending time with this broken down, yet joyful, old lady who feels quite safe in her home (both of them). 

Have you reached a Milestone Birthday, and did it come with some unexpected baggage? Have you seen Marcel The Shell With Shoes On? Do you cry at weddings? Chat with me (and everyone else!) in Comments. 

The Skin I'm In

 This morning, after I washed my face in cold water and observed it closely in the mirror, I struggled to choose a moisturizer from among three jars on my dresser. Did my skin need moisture and brightening? Did my skin need moisture and sculpting and tightening? Did my skin need extra moisture and a boost of collagen repair? As I stood there deciding, I could feel my face draw and dehydrate. In truth, I needed all of them--immediately. 

What has become of me?

I am the girl who used to wash her face with whatever soap was available in the dish back on E. 38th Street:  Safeguard, Ivory, Caress, Irish Spring, or Dove. My skin was constantly oily. I used to use straight rubbing alcohol on a wad of toilet paper dabbed on my nose and forehead to rid myself of the shine and the greasy feeling. All of us had that skin, a gift from our Croatian father whose own swarthy complexion never got a wrinkle as he aged. I abused my skin for years, according to dermatologists, using harsh soaps and astringents, Laying Out for a tan and using baby oil. Even well into my thirties, forties, and fifties, I never understood all the Women Who Lotion religiously. 

I am also the girl who had storybook-worthy thick hair. I wore it long, and I had to shampoo it every single day or it would look greasy and stringy, especially at the scalp. It was incredibly frustrating. At times, I even washed my hair with dishwashing liquid, again using whatever was available at the kitchen sink, where all hairwashing was done since we had no shower. (You try washing long, long hair while taking a tub bath.) Forget conditioner because it made my hair lie flat and look--you guessed it--oily. On date nights, I washed my hair in the morning and again when I was getting ready to go out.

Now, I have dry skin and wash my hair about twice a week. My skin drinks in even the richest, most emollient creams and lotions like water. My lips are as dry as that old-fashioned onionskin typing paper. My gorgeous thick hair is a shadow of its former self, and I condition the ends.  I also use a volumizing spray at its roots. It all seems incredibly cruel to me. And terribly unfair.

Perhaps there should be a product for us, The Extremely Dry, that is Industrial Strength. It could come in a huge drum, and we could put on a bathing suit and merely stand in it, up to our nostrils, for about a half-hour each day. We could conveniently locate it near a television so that we could be occupied for that time and not be fidgety. When our time is up, we'd carefully emerge fully moisturized and ready for our day or for our restful night's sleep. Certainly, there are Safety Considerations, and Sanitary Ones as well, but that's for other people to figure out. I cannot be bothered with those sorts of Engineering and Science-y details. 

I feel a little better now, having thought of a Possible Solution. Do you have one? Share it--and your feelings about all this Unfairness--in Comments.

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Catching Up Old-Style

 

Oh, hello. 

It seems we have some Catching Up to do. Let's get started.

*I Am Old And They Are Liars:  For 30+ years I wore high heels with pointy toes for 8 hours a day. My students and my colleagues appreciated (and envied) my shoe wardrobe. I seldom wore flats or sneakers, ever, even in my off hours. Fast forward to now, 12 years later:  I wear flat shoes with good support and a wide toe box like all the Experts recommend in order to Take Good Care Of My Feet. And for the First Time Ever I had to buy a corn removal product at the grocery store like an old person. Adding to my outrage was the fact that I had no one tangible upon which to focus my anger and resentment. How I'd love to go back to wearing my wonderful, beautiful career shoes in some audacious display of self-righteousness! Alas, however, I'd look ridiculous since I am constantly in leggings, skinny jeans, and comfy shirts.

*Am I Old Or Not And What Is She Trying To Say?  I've written here before about my funny grocery store and its astonishing Closeouts section where customers can buy anything from a Ben Franklin bobblehead to Subway restaurant visors to a bathroom vanity cabinet (no top). A couple weeks ago, I found a New York Times page-a-day crossword 2023 calendar for 25 cents. It also includes a free one month subscription to NYT Games. I grabbed it immediately. My favourite cashier, Sunshine, was ringing me out and she couldn't get over the price. "This is 25 cents?!" she said. "That's crazy!" I was bagging my stuff (reusable bags, of course) and agreed, "Right? I stood there for a minute trying to think of anyone else I could buy one for. It's such a great deal." Sunshine unintentionally clouded my skies with this remark, "Well, any old person, really, would love it." Thank goodness this was not the same day I had to buy my corn pads, or I probably would have smacked her.

*Speaking Of Old People, This Weather Alert From My Mother, Age 92:  Here in NEO, we've had an extremely mild winter. As in, I've only shovelled snow once SO FAR. Oh, we've had a bit of snow here and there, but nowhere near where we normally would be.   Nowhere near. And I've seen lots of robins around, along with my daffodils poking up several inches and the silver maples already budding red and getting their fringe. This, according to my mother, is Bad. "It's not good for this area of the country not to have snow this time of year. It's not good for the trees or the birds or anyone else. It's bad; it's not natural." I'm sure you all remember her Dire Warnings back in October of a Hard Winter. True, we still have March and at least part of April to go. And we did have a nasty snowstorm in May that broke down so many lovely blooming crabapples. But right now, I'm inclined to say YOU BLEW IT AGAIN, MOM.

*But Some Things Never Get Old:  I'm still taking tremendous satisfaction from quite a few Simple things, like my daily walks, which are full of happy encounters with neighborhood dogs; reading good books, most recently The Dictionary of Lost Words by Pip Williams (highly recommended for any lover of words); a hot cup of coffee and Biscoff in the afternoons while watching Judge Judy or, more recently, Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee with Jerry Seinfeld. (The latter is a show on Netflix which I'm completely charmed by. I love hearing people talk passionately about their work, and I love listening to the perspectives of these comedians--how they see things so differently from the rest of us.) And I find constant Joy in our family group text. I'm crazy about my kids; there, I said it.

How are you feeling about your age these days? Lied to? Almost insulted? Silly? Grateful? Thanks for waiting, and chat me up in Comments.

V Is For Volume

 News Flash--I am old. All the symptoms/warning signs are there, and every single one of them can be put under the heading of one word, Volume.

As in:

1.  The fact that some television shows are SO LOUD and others make me strain to hear dialogue irritates me almost unreasonably. Commercials that feature music seem incredibly cacophanous and annoying. And car/truck commercials are also terrible. We have several streaming services, and the Volume of one set perfectly is way too soft for the other. Sam, my gadgety son, has a sound bar for his television. It is a nightmare.

2.  About a hundred years ago, I used to decorate copiously for Christmas. Every room in the house reflected the Yuletide merrily. My mantel was a showpiece. Now, that Volume of holiday decor is not only worky but smothering to me. We just this week finally put up our tree, and it was a sort of perfunctory exercise. I hung the stockings on the mantel, period. That is the extent of my holiday decorating. I simply cannot stand any more.

3.  Oh, how I do miss my thick, thick hair that used to burst elastics and defy brushes and combs with its Volume. It was downright huge when it was curled, and I never had to use a thing on it or brush it hanging upside down or anything. Now, I have to buy a Volumizing Root Spray to get any fullness at all. (Thank heaven for that stuff!)

4.  Volume itself is the measure of space that an object occupies, and I've started to begrudge the amount of room a lot of things take up in my home. "Why is this still here?" and "Why do we have this?" and "Why am I keeping this?" are constant questions I ask myself as I move around my little home. Now that Indoor Season is here, I'm feeling the need for more and freer space. The sheer Volume of Stuff I/we have collected over the years makes me feel fussy and weighed down. My sons aren't going to want to deal with all this in the future if I don't want to deal with it now.

What do you think? Am I old or just fussy? (Probably both.) How are you doing with these Voluminous Things?

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Holy Crap, We Are Old Now

Scene opens on the living room. Rick is in his chair, researching something with his laptop. Nance sits on the couch with her laptop open, reading the newspaper online. Behind her are perched the two cats, mildly interested in what lies outside the window. Maybe.

Rick: So if we have Amazon Prime, we have Amazon Music, right?

Nance: Yes. Which reminds me, earlier this week, when I was coming home from the store, I had the radio on, and--

Rick: (whole face brightens; looks doubly interested) I can't believe I just heard that.

Nance: I know, right? *I* was listening to the radio. Did you know you can change stations right on the steering wheel? I just discovered that. There's a little button right on board, and--

Rick: Haven't you been reading the book? I thought you said you would read the book.

Nance: I have been, but it's terrible. It's all over the place.

Rick: And it's vague.

Nance: Yes. It's vague. Anyway, I had the radio on, and Lose Yourself by Eminem came on, so I cranked it up.

Rick: (grinning and wholly amused) I cannot believe what I'm hearing right now. Go on.

Nance: What? That I like that song or that I cranked it up?

Rick: All of it. Go ahead.

Nance: By the way, you can crank it up using the same button that changes the stations. So, I'm blasting Eminem and doing some car dancing and it's really alleviating my stress from shopping, and then it's over. The next song is some boring song by Diplo and somebody.

Rick: Who? Who is that? I never heard of him.

Nance: Not important. Anyway, I don't feel like listening to that, so I switch stations and try to find something else. I find something briefly, then I decide to go back to the original station, figuring Diplo is about done. Next thing I know, here comes Eminem with Lose Yourself again!

Rick: What the heck?

Nance: I know! So I crank it back up and car dance like crazy. All I can think is that a lot of these stations are automated now. They don't even have DJs anymore, just preprogrammed lists and ads and it's all autopilot. It's probably a glitch in the program. So as I'm sitting at the light acting like some hyped-up senior from 2002 on the last day of school--in my Prius--I'm laughing and wondering if the next song is going to be Diplo again.

Rick: And?

Nance: I was already pulling into the driveway, but I actually sat in the garage and waited to see if Diplo was next. It wasn't. They must have fixed that glitch. But now that I'm thinking of it, I want that song on my phone. The Eminem one. I'm going to download it now. (looks at Rick, who is shaking his head and laughing) What?

Rick: Just...everything. All of it.

Nance:  I know. It's a lot.

End scene.

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Change Your Life: Fifth In A Series--I Tell You Where To Go And Ask You For Some Help

Before I try to change all of your lives with this week's Sentence, I want to ask you to help me with next week's post. We've reached the halfway mark with today's offering, so I'm ready to take a break or even call it quits and instead showcase some Honest-To-Goodness helpful sentences, sayings, tips, or tricks that have actually improved all of your lives in an authentic way. These helpers can be practical or philosophical, and they can be from any arena of life you choose:  cooking, driving, crafting, relationships, grief, whatever. All I ask is that you do NOT leave them in comments. Instead, please send them to me via email: deptofnanceATyahooDOTcom. I promise to corral all of them and put them in a post and share them with everyone, hoping that each reader will find some Sparkle Of Wonderfulness to make his or her life better in some way.

Again, no contributions via Comments. Email me your Helpful Wisdom, and I'll share all of them in a post next week. Okay, onward.

This week's Life-Changing Sentence is not the worst thing ever. I can actually see some people finding it to be a worthy philosophy, repeating it sagely to others, especially to adolescents in search of popularity.

Here is Life-Changing Sentence Number Five:

Go where you're celebrated, not where you're tolerated.

This Sentence reminds me of Rev. Jesse Jackson's or Simpson attorney Johnnie Cochran's rhetorical style--it's punchy and because it rhymes, it's memorable. (Can't you picture both of them saying this? I can.)

Its source is a motivational speaker and life coach, and the actual quote is "Go where you are celebrated, not merely tolerated", which makes a little more sense, but the sentiment is still implied in the above Sentence.

The philosophy here is good--to a point. It makes a lot of sense to avoid people who, quite simply, don't want you hanging around with them. As I said above, it's a valuable piece of wisdom to give to middle-schoolers who are desperate to break into the It Clique or sit at the Cool Table for lunch. They might endure some miserable conditions in order to do so.  Kids can be cruel and cutting.  Heaven only knows how this all translates to the various social media platforms. I am daily grateful that I raised my sons well before InstaTwitFace and WhatSnap.

As adults--and I know for sure I qualify since I turned (gasp!) sixty earlier this month--we instinctively know this already, but...do we, really? Again, social media and the internet at large have probably not brought out the best in lots of grownups. But overall, we do tend to go where we are wanted and where people are glad to see us. It's behavioral science at its core--the stimulus and response of operant conditioning.  We love a big greeting, a warm smile, a happy hello. Humans generally want to feel wanted.

As adults, however, we also know that there are times when we have to go where we are "merely tolerated." Sometimes we're caught in a less than desirable work situation where a coworker makes our lives miserable, but go we must. Still other times we have to go to a gathering of our spouse's family, perhaps, where our reception is a bit frosty. I'm sure you can think of lots of examples where we have to put in an appearance and Be Tolerated because it is The Right Thing To Do, our comfort to the contrary.

But by all means, yes, if you find yourself saying about Book Club, perhaps, "Hey! Why do I keep subjecting myself to These People?" and there is no Good Reason, jump that ship and don't even wave goodbye. Then Celebrate Yourself and your Freedom. You've made some space in your life for something better.

Here then is Sentence #5 one more time: Go where you are celebrated, not where you are merely tolerated. Did it "give you the power to go on" and "change your life for the better"?

And don't forget to send me your Tips, Tricks, or Words To Live By for an easier or better life to deptofnanceATyahooDOTcom to be included in next week's post. (And not in Comments.)  Thanks.

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As Seen On TV...Almost

Scene opens on Living Room. Dinner is over; it is approximately 7 PM. Rick is in his chair. Nance enters from the bedroom where she has just changed into her pajamas and heads past him to the small trunk where she keeps blankets. She draws out a patchwork quilt backed with flannel and heads to the couch. Out of nowhere, both cats trot over to her, waiting.

Nance: Holy crap, do you see this? It's ridiculous. (curls up on couch, spreads out comforter, and both cats jump up onto it, with enormous orange cat claiming her lap)

Rick: (chuckling) Well, that's what you wanted. You wanted a cat to keep you company and be on your lap.

Nance: I know, but this is all the time. Every single time I sit down. (orange cat begins snoring) And now, I can't move. I simply cannot move.

Rick: Nance, it's a cat. You're bigger than he is. Maybe not by much, but you are. If you need to move, just move. You know he'll come right back.

Nance: That's not nice. Piper knows he's fat. But I hate to bother him when he's not feeling well. He's been so stuffy lately.

Rick: I know. I can hear him over the TV.

Nance: (getting fussy)  Both cats rushed me, and now I can't move. I want this light off, and I can't reach it.  (sighs, then brightly)  You know what I need? I need The Clapper.

Rick: You what? The Clapper?

Nance: Yeah. That thing for old people. Then I could just clap this light off. It would be great!

(Rick is looking at her with increasing suspicion and disbelief. He is not sure if she is serious or, at this point, even sane.)

Nance: (continuing excitedly) What would even be better is if The Clapper could multitask. Like, right now, I can't reach the light. But I also can't reach my water, my phone, or even my iPad. What if The Clapper could get those things for me? Now that is something I really need.

Rick: (in the spirit now) It could clean the shitboxes for you, too!

Nance: I don't really mind that job. Litter has come such a long way that it's almost nothing to do it. But if The Clapper could put my jammies on me and wash my face every night while I just sit here on my couch under my blanket, I'd take it!

Rick: How about if it just finds your Chapstick?

Nance: (big sigh) Yeah. For sure...that, too.

End scene.

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We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Programming To Bring You This Severe (St. Patsy) Weather Alert...Whether You Need It Or Not

Ever since I was a little girl, my mother has been an alarmist about The Weather. As soon as skies would darken with storm clouds, she'd start scanning the horizon for low-lying, purple-black ones and a well-defined, heavy cloud deck. She'd peer out the windows, sometimes even venturing out on the porch to check the skies for lightning and to listen for that telltale "freight train sound" that foretold the one Terror Above All Else, a Tornado. In the days before The Weather Channel, the Internet, and even before network meteorologists broke into regular programming to report a simple summer storm, my mother's own Weather Alert System was often in overdrive as she looked for signs of Apocalyptic Weather Events.

Her precautions were many and legend, and we had no choice but to follow them: Don't talk on the phone during a storm! Don't take a bath when there's lightning! Get your hands out of the dishwater--there's lightning out! Turn off the TV; can't you see it's storming out? Every one of you kids get in here now; I saw lightning and it's coming this way! I don't like the look of those dark clouds over there; I think we'd better get down the basement. The weatherman says to take shelter; let's go down the basement right now.

And lest you all forget: I did not grow up in Oklahoma, Kansas, or Nebraska. I grew up in Northeastern Ohio, where, yes, there was actually a tornado in my hometown in 1924 (and, ironically, the Lorain Tornado was my father's nickname when he was a professional pitcher many years later), but my mother's fears still seem excessive. Especially since she grew up in Ohio, too.

Things have not changed much, as I found out not too long ago.

Scene opens on Rick and Nance at the lakehouse. They are chatting, finishing up dinner and talking about heading out for a boat ride. Nance's phone chimes, indicating a text message.

Nance: It's Mom. (reads aloud) Bad weather in your area. Watch out! Stay off the boat!!! That last sentence had three exclamation points. (looks outside at the calm lake and cloudless sky) Wow. I'm confused.

Rick: I'll put on the local radar channel. Maybe something is headed this way.

Nance: (types back) Really? It's nice here right now. Nothing threatening that I can see.

Rick: The radar is absolutely clear. I don't know where she's getting this. I'm confused.

Nance: Well, she says (reads aloud) They have tornado warnings for the Mansfield area and a tornado watch for Wayne and Ashland Counties, so you are in the area! Watch the sky! Stay off the boat!!!! That last one had FOUR exclamation points. And no emojis. She is really exercised about this. Let me bring up my app. (brings up weather app as Rick sits, exasperated, in front of television radar, still seeing nothing) I don't see it, either! What the heck is going on? This is like a Twilight Zone moment.

Rick: I'm getting the boat ready.

Nance: (types) Ok. We have the TV on and have not seen that. I just checked my iPad weather app and didn't see it there, either. You have the scoop, I guess. (to Rick) I can bring down my own wineglass and water bottle if you can carry the wine and your glass.

(Nance grabs a bottle of water out of the fridge; she checks to make sure the cats have water. She grabs her phone, wineglass, water, and heads down to the dock. Once on the boat, her phone chimes with a text message.)

Nance: (reads aloud) I am sorry. We were watching the soaps recorded from yesterday and that was the weather for yesterday! I just realized that!! Sorry!!!! (laughing hard) I'm not even going to tell you how many emojis and exclamation points are on all of that. Oh, brother. That's so great.

Rick: (laughs, shakes his head)  Doll. That may be her best one yet.

Nance: Wait. One more message. (reads aloud) Senior moment!!

Finis.

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A Bunch Of Stuff Off The Top Of My Head

Obviously, I'm in a Writing Slough Of Sloth. If I wait until I have Something Valuable To Say, this spot will collect cyber-cobwebs and digital dustbunnies. So! I'm going to just reach into my head, grab whatever I find, and see what we think.

Here we go.

Wake Me Up When: 1. Winter is really over. 2. republicans knock it the hell off/are extinct. 3. He's arrested and frog-marched out of the White House with his staff. 4. Wine is the cure for migraine. 5. Joe Biden is President*.
*Since we can't have Hillary, because Woman. (And actual Fake News. Thanks, Facebook.)

Either No One Ever Told Me Or I Was Young And Therefore Stupid: Holy Crap, what is the deal with suddenly becoming as dry as those bleached bones in the desert? I used to have oily skin, oily hair, plenty of spit, and the ability to wear contacts and grow my nails long, longer, longest. I had to wash my hair every day--hell, when I was a teenager, I would sometimes use dishwashing liquid! Now that I am technically Too Old to be termed even Of A Certain Age, I can go two or three days before my hair becomes oily or flat. My contacts are a misery; my skin is taut and painful this winter. My hands are strangers to me, with their ragged cuticles and peely nails kept short by necessity. Did anyone ever foretell this Sadness? Probably I laughed merrily, tossed my brilliant locks, and waved them off with my long-nailed hand. What a heartless bitch I was, surely.

When Your Husband Is A Carpenter And You Are A Knitter: As you, Dear Readers, well know, I accompany Rick on many of his Outings to stores For Him, such as Home Depot and Harbor Freight and the like. It's not always All Bad, as there are more than a few things there which are Multipurpose and Handy for other things, and some of the stores, like Rural King, even have baby ducks, which are the most charming animals in the world (possibly). After seeing me linger over one Handy Item, my husband bought me one as a gift, so it could become my Knitting Caddy. Here it is, and I love it:

It has a place for everything! Eight side pockets hold my stitch markers, spare glasses, lotion, stitch counter, tapestry needles, scissors, you name it. Deep end pockets hold a small tablet and pen, pattern, and circ needle packet. A loop on the end even holds a large safety pin, used to hold stitches when I make my charity bears. And, as a bonus, when I hold it on my lap and prop my elbows on it, it keeps my knitting at eye level and my shoulders squared, just what the physical therapist ordered to combat my cervical myofasciitis. (Bonus: it is, apparently, an Excellent Cat-Chin-Scratching-Edifice.)

Everyone Stop:  1. Quoting Twitter as a News Source. 2. Overusing the word amazing (still!). 3. Telling me that Spring Officially Starts Next Week. 4. Saying Daylight SavingS Time (THERE IS NO 'S').  5. Putting up holiday decorations if you cannot take them down in a timely manner.

Okay.  Your turn.  I can't wait for you to peel off a little brain banana or two in Comments or chat about mine.



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Snakes Are Not The Boss Of Me

That I have a debilitating fear of snakes is not news. I've mentioned it in almost a dozen posts, most notably in this one about Irrational Fears and this one, a little playlet starring everyone's favourite, my mother, St. Patsy. (Speaking of which, let me take a moment to remind her: Hey, Mom, whenever you see the little words in a different colour, you can touch them and go to read or look at whatever it is I'm talking about.)

Thanks, everyone. Onward.

I'm happy to report that I've made considerable progress with regard to my phobia of snakes. Much of this progress has to do with the following:

1. My need for control
2. Actually, there really is no Number Two, as it all really boils down to my Need For Absolute Control, come to think about it.

Here's the thing: I really do not like Being Afraid. Of anything. And I also do not appreciate snakes being around where I am, making me feel scared and generally Being The Boss Of Me, which is another Thing I Do Not Like. Just ask my husband, who will readily answer the question, "Who is the boss of Nance?" with an emphatic and vociferous "No one!" Truth be told, my mother will answer the same question in the same way. And, that is precisely how I want snakes to answer it as well.

Seeing a snake on the shoreline of the lakehouse is still not something I'm happy about, but it no longer makes me rooted to the spot. Yes, I'm forbidden from using the ax on it after a few ill-fated forays into that practice of snake killing, but I have my methods.

I've come a long way from the little girl on East 38th Street who cried and cried one day, eventually calling out for her mother. Desperate to use the bathroom, I was too afraid to go in. I called my mom, who came to me, probably harried from hanging laundry outside or taking care of my then baby sister. One of four children, I was not usually a problem, so my mother was probably surprised by my distress. "Mom! Come quick! Call for help! Call the fire department or something. There's a rattlesnake in the toilet. I can hear it in there." My mother ran to the hallway and stopped to listen. There was absolutely no doubt about it--a rattling noise was coming from the bathroom. "Mom! Do you hear it? You heard it, right?" I knew she heard it. I was crying by then, so hard. My mother turned to face me, her eyes wide and her mouth desperately trying to hold back her smile. Then she just couldn't help herself; she started laughing. "Oh, honey," she said. "That's just the wind coming through the Venetian blinds."

Now before you all--and YOU, MOM--get too smug and superior, take a look at this:

courtesy Big Country Snake Removal

Trust me; I'm not happy about it in the least. I want stories like this to be Urban Legends. And I'm sure that the little boy in Texas who found it wasn't real thrilled either, nor was his family, who found a whole basement full of rattlers, as well as a nest under the house. After the initial shock, they called a snake removal system (the fact that this is a real thing makes me doubly sure I do not ever want to live in Texas) to get rid of them all and prevent further infestation. A spokesperson for Big Country Snake Removal said, "People have an irrational fear about" rattlesnakes. Herpetologist Sara Viernum reminds us that, while a rattlesnake bite can cause "temporary and/or permanent tissue and muscle damage, loss of an extremity depending on the location of the bite, internal bleeding, and extreme pain around the injection area", fatalities from rattlesnake bites are rare if treated with antivenin in a timely manner.

I really don't think Big Country Snake Removal and Herpetologist Sara Viernum are helping rattlesnakes a whole helluva lot with their PR .

Not that I care.

Let me just say that I am putting All Snakes On Notice.  If I have to put an ax next to every single toilet in the house, I will.  I have already eliminated all Venetian blinds.

I am In Control.

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Y Is For...Yikes! Random Y Things I'm Tossing At You In An Impromptu Post

You know, this whole Alphabet Construct was supposed to help me post more often, but it really turned out to be Not So Very Helpful After All. I'm glad I'm almost done; the Alphabet was starting to feel like The Boss Of Me, and you all know how I feel about that.

Let's jump into this Y Post and I have to tell you, like Certain Persons In The Politics, I have nothing prepared. I'm winging it, composing at the keyboard, hoping The Muse shows up as I go. The difference between us is, Oh hell. There are a ton of differences. Let's not, as they say, Go There.

Y1: Yvonne de Carlo, aka Lily Munster. Here is a photo, for your reference:

Now, for those of you who know/remember/imagine what I look like, just superimpose my face on there because that is exactly what my hair is starting to look like, much to my dismay. My grey is now appearing in huge swathes against my almost-black hair, which I am growing out because I have A) no regular stylist, and B) chronic indifference/sloth. Thank heavens that I do not wear pancake makeup, eye shadow, or lipstick, or it would be Halloween year 'round at the Dept., and you all know how I feel about that "holiday." Ugh.

Y2: Yarn. As in the stuff one knits with. I'm not going to bore all of you non-knitters, I promise. Just let me say that not one single Knitting Person warned me that, once I began knitting, a chemical receptor in my brain would be switched to the On position, and I would become almost pathological in my urge to amass yarn. I'm not even a Good knitter, mostly a Therapeutic one (for my hand arthritis), but I keep looking at and feeling the need to buy/acquire yarn. I have declared a Personal Yarn Moratorium until...Forever. Which is how long it will take me to use up what I now have.

Y3: Yardwork. I was at a party over the summer, and as part of an icebreaker game, we were asked to write one sentence about ourselves on a slip of paper. Each sentence would then be read aloud, and the guests would all guess at who wrote it. One person wrote I love yardwork. My first reaction was Holy Crap. What is wrong with that person? My second reaction was I have got to get the name of that person and see if he/she wants to come work in my yard! Because, honestly, the second part of the word yardwork is WORK. And, remember, I am retired. Yardwork, to me, sounds like something on a prison duty roster. "Okay, Detweiler, this week you've got yardwork. Make sure the inmates don't huddle up in groups larger than three, and watch out for contraband. And stay on top of the litter situation."

Y4: Yams VS. Sweet Potatoes. I still don't care about which is which, and I never ever will. I call them all sweet potatoes because I hate the word Yams. I hate to say it; I sound terrible saying it. Maybe it's what my late friend Ann from Orlando, Florida, called my flat NEO "accent", but when I say it, it sounds like I can't stop the vowel sound soon enough; like I'm trying to draw it out: Yaaaaaams. Let me assure you; I'm not. Besides, sweet potatoes sounds nicer.

Okay! I made it through. I'm back. And I can't wait to hear about your Y Words or your comments on mine.

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U Is For Underwear

Underwear is one of the biggest scams out there. How on earth did this Necessity become so absurdly expensive? Honestly, if it were at all expedient and convenient to Boycott Underwear, I would Do It. And it's not just Certain Brands of Underwear. Then it would be easy. Then, those of us who view Underwear as Utilitarian and Not Part Of Our Signature Look could simply scoff and say, "Seven dollars for a pair for Underwear? Surely you jest. My derriere and I will do just fine, Overpriced Underwear Purveyor, without your wares. We don't need any fancy schmancy Underwear, thank you very much." And off we would go to Reasonably Priced Underwear Emporium, plunk down our few bucks, and walk out with Basic Underwear, happy and fulfilled.

Oh, if only.

No, that is Not The Way It Works. Because apparently, there is a Vast Underworld Underwear Cartel, and this makes it downright impossible to get a decently priced pair of Underwear anywhere. I mean, come on, IT'S UNDERWEAR. What do we really need from it? We need comfort, number one; we need utility, number two. That's pretty much it. (If you need some Sexy Prancing/Writhing Come-Hither Underwear, then by all means, pay top dollar for That Ensemble, but how many of those getups do you really need? And trust me, you could use a newspaper or a bath towel or a Got Milk sun visor and it would be just as effective, because...Men.)

But I digress.

There is absolutely No Way that my Underwear should cost what it does. Hell, even Rick's Underwear should not cost what it does. I just Don't Get It. Now, disposable diapers--that cost I understand. There is a lot of ongoing Research And Development invested there. Diapers are way, way thinner and better now than the ones I put on Jared and Sam back in the '80s. But basic Underwear has changed (no pun intended), relatively speaking, very little.

Unless you are speaking about the names of Underwear, and there, the changes have been stunning (Victoria's Secret, I am talking to you). Holy crap. I'm ready to pin the whole Underwear Inflation Scandal on that place alone. I feel like the whole Idea of that place is not only responsible for Underwear Price Inflation, but also some pretty major setbacks in Feminism. And Body Acceptance. And Sensible Budgeting.

(Is this a good time for me to go and holler at some kids to get off my lawn? I think so, too.)

Sigh.

My point--and I do have one--is that Underwear is a terribly overpriced Necessary. And once I find a source for a variety that I Like and Accept The Price Of, I buy a bunch of it because I know what will happen. That particular brand or style or source will completely disappear for No Reason Whatsoever, just like every single other product that I loved and lost.  And nothing lasts forever; certainly not Underwear.

(Although I know that more than a few of you have at least one pair of Emergency, Third-String Underwear in the drawer, right?  Just In Case?  Bonus points if it is actually maternity Underwear and the youngest kid isn't even living at home.)

Your turn.  Mention all your Unmentionables in Comments.

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Q Is For Quirks

Now that I have reached the Advanced Age Of Fifty-Seven, chances are slim that I will change very many of my habits now. Oh, sure, if my esteemed neurologist told me that, say, sleeping on my memory foam pillow was triggering my migraines, I'd switch to whatever he said. But some of my Quirks are so ingrained as to be Second Nature, and I can't Just Stop Them.

I know some of you have them too, these Quirks that are part habit, part genetic code, part survival instinct, part plain old preference. I'll share some of mine, and then I want you to share some of yours, too.

FOOD: Ketchup on eggs; ketchup on roast lamb (I know--sacrilege!) and the only ketchup is Heinz; all beef is rare rare rare; Miracle Whip, not mayo, unless I'm making tuna anything. And in this house, white sandwich bread is a Sin. And so is any pepper that is not fresh ground. Oh, and I keep all cake in the fridge. I like cold cake. But no cake and ice cream. I hate that combination. Actually, I dislike pie and ice cream as well.  I am secretly in love with french fries.

DRINK: No "sweet tea." No milk. No instant coffee. Dry wine only. No ice in martinis. No hot tea.

COMFORT: I cannot sleep without a cover of some kind, and the room must be completely dark. I rarely sit without my feet up under me unless at a restaurant or if I am "company." I do not eat a meal outdoors unless forced. After I eat ice cream, I usually need a blanket. I hate wind, but also dislike having to run the air conditioner.  I do not like an overhead fan blowing directly on me, but a heater directly on me is heaven.  If the water would stay hot, I could take a bath for several hours.

MISCELLANEOUS: I do my hair and makeup every day, even if I'm not going anywhere. I put my seatbelt on just to move cars in the driveway (I also use my turn signals). At home I verbally correct everyone's grammar and usage on television, online, and in the newspaper. (To the cats, if Rick is not around. To no one, if it is on my car radio.) And each time it is on, I gamely watch about half of "Dateline", then promptly fall asleep before any resolution. (That show is The Best Sleep Aid, and it's free!) I run a fever when I get overtired, when I have a migraine, and sometimes when my arthritis is Just Plain Horrid. I still hate feet unless they're baby feet or animal feet, and we all know how I feel about republicans (I still won't capitalize that word).

Okay! Your turn. What Quirks make you You?

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E Is For Endurance

Here's a short list of a few things which tax my Endurance. They require that I Soldier On gamely and mightily, often times with more Good Nature than I truly feel.

1. My Hair
2. Presidential Primary Season
3. Chapped Lips
4. Rick's Windshield Wiper Behaviour
5. Downton Abbey's Final Season

Please find something to grip tightly and To Steady Yourself, and allow me to Explain.

1. Something has happened to my hair in the past year or two, rendering it limply soft and Completely Impossible. There is no shampoo, no gel, no spray, no hair mucilage invented that can make my hair do a damn thing. Additionally, it is (cue horror movie music) Growing Out, which means it is Completely Awful and an Endurance Test each time I try to, oh, let's say...do any damn thing "with" or "to" it. Thank you to anyone who is crying empathetically whilst reading this.

2. We are now in Year Eleventy of the Presidential Primary Season, and I could throw up. Again. After ramming DTrump down our collective gullets for months and months, pollsters and pundits and news anchors are now gleefully performing gory post mortems on his Primary Corpse. After one primary. In Iowa. Listen, I'd be thrilled if we really could lay TheDonald to rest for real, but come on. One primary. And it was a caucus, which is like a coffee klatch, really. Is it okay if, oh, I don't know, THE REST OF THE COUNTRY HAS AN ELECTION? WITH REAL VOTES/BALLOTS AND SUPER DELEGATES AND STUFF? When is the country going to finally have one primary election date and stop this staggered primary voting? It's insane, and more than we should ever Endure.

3. This has been the mildest winter in years (NEO had temps in the 60's yesterday!), but I am Enduring the worst case of Chapped Lips in decades. Nance, you say, have you tried Burt's Bees, Carmex, Vaseline, olive oil, Blistex in a million varieties, and scrubbing at them with a washcloth? Oh, ha ha; it is to laugh. But of course I have. I have even tried the Super Duper All-Natural Remedy of Plain Honey. Here is what is working the best: None of them. None of them is working.

4. I am going to stop riding in any car with Rick when it rains because he cannot handle the windshield wipers. As soon as it stops raining, or if the rain lessens, that does not matter in the least; the wipers must still be employed continuously as before, even if they are screeching across a completely dry window. This is His Rule, apparently, and it is Consistently Applied. I have tried to Endure this with Extreme Patience And Silence. Believe me; I have. It is Impossible. After many minutes, I completely Lose It. "PLEASE TURN OFF THE WIPERS OR I AM GOING TO KILL MYSELF/JUMP OUT OF THIS CAR/SCREAM MY BLOODY HEAD OFF!", is what I usually say if I don't simply reach over in a lather and shut them off myself.

5. How can PBS and creator/writer Julian Fellowes do this to me? That this is Downton Abbey's final season is too much to Endure! Why do all of My Shows end up gone but terrible and awful shows seem to go on forever and forever and forever? I've become a DA junkie. I've started watching each episode twice a week: once on Sundays, then again midweek when it's offered, savouring each little character moment, each costume, each British-accented word. Oh, how I'll miss it. And nothing--nothing--can take its place.

Oh, darlings.  What do you think?  And what are you currently Enduring?

Grumpy: Maybe This Is The First Of A Series

A few things are making me Grumpy lately. My hope is that venting them here will settle me down. Then, if any of you seem a little Grumpy lately, too, you can offload your Crabbies in Comments, and we'll all Feel Better.

1. The Phrase "No Worries". This is a small thing, I know, but it annoys the hell out of me. What does it even mean? Is it really too uncool or Old Timey to say the more comforting, "Don't worry", which actually means something because it has a subject and verb? To make a statement like "No Worries" is idiotic, really. It's imprecise. It's...more like a title. "Ladies and gentlemen, help me welcome Verna Wetnoodle, author of No Worries." It is also patently untrue. Of course there are Worries! We live in a world of nuclear weapons, ISIS, insufficient gun regulation, and Donald Trump as a presidential candidate. If none of those things is a worry, then someone is overmedicated. Here is what a Proper Exchange should sound like:

Guest: Oh no! I meant to bring the white wine, and instead I brought merlot.
Host: Please don't worry. We're having chocolate for dessert. It will be perfect.

Instead, here is what some Hipster Doofuses (Hipsters Doofi?) would have us hear:

Moocher: Oh, man. We're out of beer, yo.
Guy: No worries, brah. T-Spot will hook us up.

If you're wondering who to blame for this inanity, here's an interesting article about its source.

2. Fear Of Commenting. In the decade that I've had this blog, so many people have told me that either they or others do not comment on the site because They Are Afraid To. This makes me both Sad and Grumpy because it's so silly. I am welcoming, kind, and pleasant to all of my commenters because I am so thrilled to have them! It is only when a commenter is rude that I might be rude or snide in kind. I know that the reason so many commenters are apprehensive about commenting is due to my own...persnicketiness regarding The Language. But I set all of that aside when it comes to the dialog in the Comments section. Comments are quick, personal, and informal, like notes you post on the fridge to your family. So relax! Let's chat. And my Regular Commenters are so nice!

3. People Who Talk Down To The Elderly. My mother, St. Patsy, is pretty damn sharp yet at 85, and it frosts my cupcakes when people half my age call her Sweetie or Hon. I'm talking complete strangers, like the clerk at the drugstore and the nurse at the Cleveland Clinic. Now, I know the temptation is very real:  my mother is short, cuddly-looking, and should pretty much be in the Picture Dictionary next to the word GRANDMOTHER. But how about "Ma'am" or, if you are her nurse, "Mrs. LastName"? It may seem innocent and even sweet, but that is how elderly people begin to lose their identities in society. My mother is still a Very Real Person, and she deserves to be called by her name or by a title of respect. It is a very insidious thing. Think of how you would feel if you were addressed by "Hon" or "Sweetie" in public by a stranger.

Okay! Not sure all this grumping inspired New Commenters, but I do feel better. Now it's your turn. What's been bothering you lately?

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