It's Like Festivus In June

Scores of people have told me that, since My Retirement, I have become a Changed Person.  My family tell me things like "Welcome back" or "It's nice to have you back to your old self."  Other people who have not known me for eleventy thousand years say things like, "You are so much more relaxed" or "I've never seen you so happy."
Rick says I am more "serene."

On Saturday, my friend Butch, who has not seen me since about January, said, "Wow.  You're catching up to Rick in the grey hair department." 

Chivalry.  Dead as a flat skunk on the turnpike.

Anyway. 

My Serenity and Inner Smile notwithstanding, I still have a few things to snark about.  Do you?  Howzabout we share, here, at the Dept.?  I'll go first, and you can grouse around in Comments.

1.  Brrrrrr.  It is June, and I have my heat on right now.  Allowing for the absolute fact that I Am Not Normal, it's still abusive that last night it was 49 degrees in NEO.  It got so cold in my house without the heat on that my cheapo wine fridge refused to work.  If it is exposed to temps below 61 degrees, its thermostat malfunctions. Well, guess whose reds were at a frosty 57 degrees until I unplugged it this morning to recalibrate?  Right now, it is 64 degrees outside.  On June 4th.  It was 65 inside when I came home from the afternoon movie. I do not suffer in my house, so on went the furnace.

2.  Duh.  Speaking of the movie, my "daughter" Kait and I went to the noon showing of The Great Gatsby.  Until a few teenagers showed up, Kait--at 20--was the youngest person there.  (I was the second youngest, even though I used my AARP card for $2.00 popcorn and free soda.)  At the end of the movie (possible spoiler!) the narrator Nick Carraway is shown placing a title page on the manuscript of the story he has been telling for the whole movie.  It says "Gatsby by Nick Carraway".  As he is doing this, a teenaged girl behind us said, "Wait.  Wait.  Is this a true story?"  A few moments later, she said, "Hold on.  Wait.  I thought the book was called..." (another possible spoiler detail) and then in the scene, Nick is shown writing "The Great" above the title.  The girl behind us says, "Nick Carraway?  I thought the book was written by F. Scott Um..." and then I stopped listening because I knew that if I didn't, I was going to have to go back there and teach for about an hour in order to be able to go on with my life.

3.  Hello?  The media are all exercised about this Pew Research report that says over the last 50 years, many more women are the sole or primary breadwinner for their families, a figure jumping from 11% in 1960 to 40% in 2011.  Well, holy crap, where the hell has everybody been?  How many of my readers needed the Pew Research report to tell them that?  How many of my readers have been living that stat?  How in the hell can this be News?  I guess I shouldn't be so intellectually disdainful.  After all,
Erick Erickson, Fox News contributor says it's downright anti-science:

"I'm so used to liberals telling conservatives that they're anti-science. But liberals who defend this and say it is not a bad thing are very anti-science. When you look at biology -- when you look at the natural world -- the roles of a male and a female in society and in other animals, the male typically is the dominant role. The female, it's not antithesis, or it's not competing, it's a complementary role."

Hey, so there ya go.  Ahem. 

4.  Grrrrr.  I've said it here before, and I'll say it again.  Until she said that stupid, condescending remark about the Hurricane Katrina victims, I liked Barbara Bush quite a bit.  I still do like the way she speaks her mind and seems to be realistic about her family and politics.  Everyone knew she was fully aware that the wrong son made it to the White House, and when she said there have been enough people named Bush at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, she was right.  Jebby disagrees, however, and he is already starting on the stump for 2016.  When asked about his mother's assertion that their family should end their aspirations for the Presidency of the United States, here is what Jeb said about Bar:  "What can I tell you? All I can say is we all have mothers, right? She is totally liberated, and God bless her."

What can I tell you?  If either of my sons said any of that condescending and chauvinistic bullshit, I'd call him out in the media for A) using empty, meaningless rhetoric; B) stating the obvious; C) being full of hot air; D) acting like a candyass.  Barbara Bush has more restraint than I do, so I'm sure she did all of the above, but in private.  She is totally liberated...what a perfect ass.  Hey, Jeb!  If it were up to people like Erick Erickson in your party, women would never have been liberated, such as we are.  And we liberated ourselves, no thanks to you. 

And the struggle continues.

Your turn now to unload your snark in Comments. 

When I Saw Him Standin' There

In our various travels this weekend, Rick and I stopped to get gas.  The vehicle we started to pull in behind suddenly began backing out. 

"What's going on with that guy?" I said without thinking.

"The car ahead of him probably isn't done yet, and he doesn't feel like waiting," my patient husband replied.  In a few moments, he slid our Prius into the spot at the pump formerly held by the aforementioned Rogue Van. 

As Rick was pumping gas, I watched the lackadaisical SUV driver ahead of us.  He looked foreign, maybe Mediterranean or Slavic.  His clothes were a rumple of two shirts, dark pants, and slip-on sandals and socks.  He had hair falling into his eyes, and in his mouth was an unlit cigarette.  Done fueling, he simply stood at the rear of the car, doing I knew not what.

Pretty soon he wandered away, probably to have that cigarette, leaving his gassed up car parked at the pump.  In a few moments, a back passenger door opened.  Tumbling out as if he had been ejected or had fallen, a boy of about eleven or twelve appeared.  He was wearing a teeshirt and nylon basketball-type shorts, and his hair was moppy and Early Bieber-esque.  He was extremely chubby everywhere, and as he stood there, he scratched his considerable stomach, stretched, and then continued to merely stand there, shielding his eyes a bit from the sun, now and then jerking his head so as to flip the hair from his face.  A woman's voice called out something from the car, and he said, "But it's so hot in there.  And I'm tired."  Another admonition from the car.  It was ignored, and the man was nowhere in sight.  The boy stood there some more.

Rick finished up and got in the car.  As he did so, the boy turned around, and I got a glimpse of his teeshirt's slogan.  How good is this?

via www.spreadshirt.com

post header image via http://zenseeker.net

Patience Is A Virtue, Or Good Things Come To Those Who Wait And Price To Sell

The sun was shining, the breeze wafted the scent of lilies-of-the-valley, and there was no threat of rain.  Birds of all feather sang in the trees, and every now and then we could look out the back door and see a mallard or two gliding by on the serene lake's surface.

My brother and I felt energized.  We had gotten all the tables out in record time.  Not a single item had been damaged in the storage shed over the winter; everything fit on the tabletops, and there was enough new inventory to freshen up the usual offerings that had seen several sales.  We voiced and affirmed our Goals:  This was The Year, I said.  It would be sold This Year.

At nine o'clock the gates opened and a steady stream of cars began driving through the lake community.  Here and there, an Amish buggy clattered by.  We chatted with customers, marveled at the lovely weather, joked about this and that, and did our best to encourage sales.  Suddenly, a woman returned after having had a conversation with me about my breadmaker (marked down from $15 last year to $10 this year!).  She said her husband wanted it.  I walked with her to the table and helped lift it and take it to her car.

As I returned to the table, a young Amish woman was paying my brother.  He glanced up at me with a careful smile, a very, very restrained grin, for in her arms rested...

MY PUNCH BOWL. 

It was all I could do to control my urge to break into a simultaneous peformance of the Halleluia Chorus and an interpretive dance demonstrating my extreme elation and relief, which would have looked something like a fist-pumping, twirling, leg-kicking, spasming victim of St. Vitus' Dance trying to escape a swarm of hornets. 

She looked smug and thrilled at her five-dollar bargain and walked hurriedly away, my her punch bowl cradled in front of her like a precious baby.  As if I would stop her!  HA!

Two other Lifer Items were sold quickly after that:  the Ghostbusters sleeping bag and a set of drapes and bedskirt, both of which had been in at least 5 sales.  (Never underestimate Blowout Pricing.)

I knew you'd all want to share in My Victory.  It's a Dream Come True!

In Which I Present A New Poet, Envy My Hair Products, And Write Such A Lot Of Stuff

Did you ever have the sensation that nothing was happening in your life, yet you were very, very busy?  I'm feeling that way lately, and I have to tell you, it's all very odd.  Of course, these days, if I have anything to do, it seems like a big deal.

While I have a moment in my Big Honking Schedule, I thought I'd share a few Cranial Crumbs and tidy the space up a bit.

---|Google Is So Deep.  Sometimes, when I'm doing a little research, Google likes to wax poetic in order to give me some perspective and some spontaneous poetry.  For example, I was searching for something which began with the word "white." I got as far as wh, and Google began a poetry slam (punctuation is mine; line break is all Google):

white pages,
where's my refund?
what's the word,
white pages Ohio?

Wow.  This really identifies the urban angst that is Out There, in The Mean Streets.  Google really gets it.

I admit it.  I like to nudge Google and make my research queries in the form of a question.  I got this far in my most recent query and Google took it away:  "Why are m-":

why are manhole covers round?
why are my boobs sore?
why are my hands always cold?
why are my cookies always flat?

Why, indeed.

---|Kickoff!  I don't give a damn about football of any kind, but I got very excited about the Cleveland Browns first draft pick this year.  Why?  Only because he has the Best Name Ever.  BARKEVIOUS MINGO.  Oh, yes, say it over and over again.  How fantastic of a name is that?  I heard that name over a year ago and made a Solemn Vow to someday name something BarkeviousMingo, all together like that, because it is a kickass name.  He goes by a wimp-out nickname, KeKe, but not in this house.  He will always be BARKEVIOUS MINGO at the Dept.  The Browns did a great job in the Name Department.  They also drafted a Leon, a Jamoris, and an Armonty.  Nice work.

---|I'm Organic, At Least.  It occurred to me the other day that I would love to be my shampoo.  You probably would, too.  Just read the label.  I really want to be a "sensual and alluring blend."  Don't you want to "have great body and sparkle"?  Wouldn't you like to hear someone tell you that being with you is "rejuvenating"?  I sure would. 

---|'Tis The Season.  Friday was my birthday, and one of my best gifts was the weather.  I actually wore flipflops out in my yard and was able to garden.  Naturally, that is the only time I wear flipflops.  Sadly, I know that A) most teens have been wearing flipflops for months now, and B) most people wear flipflops to weddings, restaurants, funerals, and other public places.  I think my Original Point was, however, that the weather was warm enough that I could both garden and wear summer shoes.  Sigh.

---|Animal House.  Finally, just some general silliness.  Since Rick and I got rid of cable, we're forced to talk to one another more often.

Nance:  Where are you going?
Rick:  I'm gonna go change before dinner and before I jump in the shower.  I just feel gross.
Nance:  Into what?
Rick:  Huh?
Nance:  What are you going to change into?
Rick:  An elephant.
Nance:  What kind of elephant?
Rick:  A baby one.
Nance:  Oh, good.  How cute.
(Later, after dinner, Rick gets up.)
Rick:  Okay.  I'm gonna go grab that shower.
Nance:  Why not just use your trunk?

Go ahead.  Google that.

post header image found here

Two Weeks

Northeast Ohio has finally decided to join the rest of the World and welcome Spring into its cold, frosty bosom.  The windows are open to the warming breezes here at the Dept., and I finally allowed Rick to put the snow shovels back into the garage until October when they will be needed once more.  I've used fresh-cut chives more than a couple of times, we have a fine, fine crop of weeds in the pea gravel between the flagstones in the back garden, and the pondfish are swimming around a little less lethargically.

It's about damn time.

On my various errands--many chauffering St. Patsy to her various Medical Necessaries--I am often enthralled by the many glorious flowering trees so many people are privileged to have in their yards.  One oft-travelled route takes me past no less than five towering tulip trees in full bloom, their spent pink and white petals creating a pastel coverlet on the new grass beneath them.  They are incredible. On that same drive is a bonfire of forsythia at the entrance of a pine forest.  It looks as if a half-dozen bushes grew together unfettered by boundaries both upward and beyond.  Blossoming trees froth with pink like bubbles on a strawberry soda, while the terraced elegance of rare dogwoods look serene and aloof. 

When I was a kid, we had a big, gnarled, knotty apple tree in our backyard.  Its branches spread far and wide, and it blossomed heavily every other year.  My father loved that tree.  Every single one of us was photographed up in that tree, from newborn to college.  Grandkids were, too, the ones who were around while Dad was alive.  The apple tree produced a ton of apples, too, but the bugs and birds always got to them before any one of us could.  "Honey, you ought to get some spray and spray that tree," my mom used to say.  My father would look at her like she had told him he should cut the tree down.  He couldn't imagine spraying any sort of pesticide on his tree.  He figured it was perfect the way that it was.  It wasn't there for the apples, anyway.  It was there for its beauty.

When I got a house of my own, I wanted a few things in my yard.  One, I wanted a lilac bush.  Two, I wanted rose bushes.  Three, I wanted a flowering tree.  My lilac bush got a powdery mildew or fungus or something, and little by little, no matter what we did for it, it kept dying back.  My rose bushes just never did well, either, and even my father, The Rose Doctor himself, couldn't get the soil right for them.  And the flowering tree? 

We had two huge silver maple trees on our teeny tiny lot when we first moved here.  One--which we had removed--was pretty much right in front of half of the garage.  The other was in front of our house, on the curb lawn (which I had always called a tree lawn).  There was no space anywhere for a flowering tree.  Many years later, when we redid our backyard, taking out all the grass and landscaping it into a back garden, I told our landscaper that I wanted a flowering tree someplace in the scheme.  "Can't do it,"  Marv said.  "They get too big.  Besides, the only place you have to put one, really, is too close to the pond.  They drop stuff.  Clog up the skimmer.  Make a huge mess."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.  I appealed to Rick, who pressed the case to Marv again.  But it was true.  There wasn't any place for a flowering tree.  "Everyone gets all excited and jazzed up about flowering trees," groused Marv.  "It only lasts two weeks. Two weeks.  Then what? Just a tree.  No one thinks about that."

He's right.  No one thinks about the other fifty weeks because they're too busy glorying in those two weeks.  Two weeks of unabashed beauty.  Two weeks of affirmation that yes, winter is not going to last forever, that spring is coming after all.  Two weeks of hope.  Two weeks of remembering that the world has lovely things to share.  Two weeks of appreciating Nature's gifts after a dark and cold winter.  Two weeks of knowing that something simple can still have the power to awe you.  A wonderful two weeks that make me smile, appreciate, and remember.

I miss my father every day although he is with me always.

Why Didn't GWB Take Them All Away With Him When He Left?

Today is the day I promised myself Once And For All that I would, henceforth and evermore, stop reading the Comments on any news stories I find on The Interwebs. I will still read the hilarious and daft comments on incidental "articles" on Yahoo because that is just pure entertainment, and it's free.  But I get too disheartened when I read the Views Of America in the comments of actual News.

I have to remember that They are Out There. I don't know why I'm surprised. Two days before Easter, when Jared and Sam informed me that yes, of course we would be coloring Easter eggs; what am I, some kind of communist, I had to hit up a local dollar store to find egg dye.  Luckily, I found some (the packaging and directions were all in French, by the way), and when I made my way to the cashier, I saw a sign that jolted me.  Immediately, I took a photo with my trusty phone, knowing I would send it to Jared and Sam, and thinking I might one day use it here at the Dept.

This is that day.  This, Dearest Readers, is Out There: 

           

 

The very same person who cannot see that the "word" Hamber is missing a few letters and, therefore, an entire syllable is Out There saying that the remaining suspect in the Boston Marathon bombings is not an American because he is a Muslim.  Stuff like that.

 

I have a lot more to say, but I fear that if I start in on The Politics, I will be less able to Reconnect With My Joy.  Spring is so very slow to arrive and stay here in NEO.  (We had snow on Saturday morning!  Nothing accumulated, thank heaven.) There is life, however; my tarragon is peeking, my chives are already over a foot tall, my oregano has resurged, and much to my "daughter's" delight, teeny dill sprouts are everywhere, meaning homemade pickles for her. 

Join me in keeping The Stupid at bay.  Let's all make a solemn promise to be brilliant as often as we can.

post header image found here

In Which I Have Reached Critical Mass On So Many Things That I Have To Let Them Go

Oh.  Hello. 

Yes, this thing is Still On.  Isn't it ridiculous and, in its own way, Wretched that I take so long between posts?  I am Retired, and I have all the time in the world.  But things have reached...Critical Mass on a variety of fronts, and I just don't Have It to bring.

Why Do I Live Here?
For the past eleventy thousand "Spring" days, we here in NEO have had the following weather in endless combinations:  grey, cold, sleety, rainy, cloudy, dark, fifteen-minute periods of sun, hailstorms.  I feel like I am in some Puritan torture chamber or waiting room of Hell.  There are days when I only get dressed in time for Rick to come home at four-thirty, then rush back into my jammies immediately after dinner, at seven.  Even the cats are annoyed by my sloth, and that is saying something.

Is This Irony?
The whole first year of my retirement, my menopause flirted with me.  How anxiously I awaited the Cessation Of The Monthlies.  After some initial screwing around with me, a trip to the ER, and June's memorable Last Stand which lasted nineteen days, it was finally Over.  And then my migraines returned.  March and April have been record-breaking.  I have, on average now, one a week.  My Cleveland Clinic neurologist has tried everything except Botox injections and acupuncture.  He is blaming their return on hormones/menopause.  I blame everything on it:  night sweats, forgetfulness, dry skin, dry hair, the fact that there is no good Chinese food in our town, and Justin Bieber.

What Am I Missing?
How about all these gun freaks go Take America Back and live out in Montana, Wyoming, Arizona, and the Dakotas and leave the rest of us alone?  They can have their own country full of assault rifle-totin', bigass magazine-packin', gunshow-goin', no background-checkin' yahoos all walled off, elect Ted Nugent president, and when they get all likkered up on Buds and Jack, they can blow each other's heads off.  How anyone--in any party (whether they're up for reelection or not)--can say that the right to own an assault rifle and extended magazines is more important than young lives needlessly lost at Newtown or Columbine or Aurora or anywhere (because people keep shooting people), is beyond me.  And I want them all to stop invoking the Second Amendment.  These people are not arming themselves with the purpose of becoming a well-regulated militia, or even for defending themselves against an enemy government.  If they want to shoot an assault rifle for fun, they can do it with a range's gun. Period.  And they can also stop mouthing a lot of fake concern about mental health being beefed up in this country rather than stop law-abiding citizens from having their guns.  These are the same people who want to take the poor off of government assistance (unless it's them) and call Obama a socialist.  And now Congress will debate whether or not to pass a diluted law requiring some background checks.  That's it.  It's like ordering steak and lobster and the waiter brings you a fish stick.  (Hey, no offense to the Gorton's fisherman,who isn't too bad looking these days, in a Spielberg meets Sam Waterston sort of way.)

What Do I Owe You?
I may as well upchuck all my angst-vomit, once and for all.  Cheap therapy, and you know my motto:  First, you wallow.

)^( I am locked in a tense and heated battle for the championship in our Fantasy Basketball League.  It is between Sam and me.  After leading by as much as 180 points, I now cling to the top spot by just 77.  The whole thing is decided on Wednesday, with games Monday and Tuesday as well.  I spend hours working my team and adding and dropping players to maintain this advantage.  It's not fun at this point, but I have to win.  Update:  I lost.  I had a last-minute scratch of Reggie Evans one night, and it was downhill from there. Sigh.

)^( Two words:  Cat Hair.  I have never, ever in the history of my life as a Cat Owner had a cat that sheds like Piper.  It's absolutely astonishing.  And goddam irritating.  My entire life is covered in cat hair.  And both cats are very into cuddling.  My clothes, my bedspread, my carpets...it's horrifying.  Rick refuses to allow his laundry in the same load as mine because the cat hair is ubiquitous.  I got very cavalier regarding the cat beds not too long ago because V-grrrl said she never vacuums her pet beds, unlike me. I used to vacuum them for noisy hours, hating it.  But finally, they got so full of wads of hair that I simply threw them out and got new lovely ones that are NOT FLEECE and that are washable.  Both cats hate them and will not use them. 

Which is how I feel about guns, actually.

)^( The Great Gatsby is coming to theaters soon, directed by Baz Luhrmann.  I've seen a few trailers, and I've read a few articles, including one analyzing the themes in the novel and one defending the teaching of the book.  I love this book, and I so miss talking about it.  Where is my Perfect Job where all I have to do is talk about the books I love to people who want to hear about them/talk about them with me?  You have no idea how fascinating I can be.  When I'm not whining, that is.

I think I need a Jaunt or Getaway or a long drive to Someplace.  I know I need some Spring.

Life Of Pie

One Saturday the boys came over for the day, and they accompanied Rick and me on our Saturday Drive.  By Happy Accident we ended up at our favourite pie shop, and our serendipity continued when, upon entering, we saw that they were having an Open House/Tasting of sorts.  An extremely merry and encouraging woman behind a long table full of little samples practically begged us to try each and every one, including the strudels, lady locks, and cookies. 

It was almost thrilling.

Naturally, I ate far too many, and once I had hoovered a full-sized bunny cooky, I turned to Rick.  "Now I am regretful.  Why on earth did you let me eat so many samples of pie?" I said woefully and accusingly.  "You know how I cannot eat during the day, and you know how I get when I eat too many sweets."

Jared said, "Wow, Mom.  You ate that stuff like you were stoned."

But, in my defense...pie.  So much PIE.

I know you understand.

Jared and I both love pie, so we've decided to do this post together (as in, he emails me his when he is done).  We're going to attempt to identify our Top 5 Favourite Pies, chat about each as necessary, then turn it over to you in Comments.  Jared would like to stipulate that pizza and cheesecake and Boston Creme Pie do not count.  Basically, we are talking about pie.  I think we all know what a pie is.

(When I received his part of the post, I chuckled.  When you see it, you'll know why.)

Let's do it.

Nance's Top 5 Favourite Pies

1.  Lemon Meringue
2.  Cherry
3.  Strawberry
4.  Pecan
5.  Rhubarb

1.  Lemon Meringue pie is probably my favourite pie because it was rare that I got it.  My mom made pies often, but Lemon Meringue only showed up around Easter, and then later, when my older sister Patti* asked for it.  The one drawback of this pie is the meringue.  I hate meringue.  But if you put whipped cream on a lemon pie, it's Too Much.  If you have plain lemon pie, it seems sad.  I think meringue looks pretty, so after I admire it, I just peel it off and give it to whomever likes meringue.  Lemon Meringue pie is tangy, smooth, and sunshiny. Hands down, it is The Best Pie! *perceived favourite child, and this is one reason why!

2.  Cherry pie is a classic.  It's one of the few pies that is truly wonderful with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.  It's also a fairly common pie, so it's almost always available should you need A Pie Fix.  Even if you have to buy a can of Thank You cherry pie filling to bake your own when you crave pie, it's still a decent pie.  Cherry pie is happy and innocent and like a hug from a friend.

3.  Strawberry pie is so wonderful.  I can be put off by the bloody-looking ones, but I make a killer strawberry pie of my own. With a layer of cream cheese (whipped with a little bit of sugar) spread on the bottom crust and topped with my own natural glaze, that pie is a slice of summertime.  Strawberry pie, because it's made with whole berries, makes each bite a burst of flavor.  This is a pie that makes me feel like I'm being bad because it's so darn good, but somehow virtuous because look, it's really just fresh fruit!

4.  Pecan pie is sin on a plate.  It's rich, sweet, buttery, and I can't eat anywhere near a grownup-sized piece, or I feel like my teeth are on edge and my stomach is crystallizing like rock candy.  Pecan pie is always the first pie to disappear at any of our family's functions.  I made one pecan pie in my life.  It was terrific, but it contained almost no ingredients that I ever used again.  I think I still have that bottle of Karo....

5.  Rhubarb pie is something my grandma always made, along with other weird, old-timey pies like elderberry and ground cherry and something called a milk pie.  I'm crazy about rhubarb pie, with its sweet and sour taste.  Lots of people can't take rhubarb straight-up in a pie, and they insist upon mucking it up by adding strawberries.  Forget that!  I'm a rhubarb purist.  Did you know that rhubarb is also called "pie plant"?  That's all you need to know!  Save the strawberries for their own pie.

Getting full?  Save some room.  Here comes Jared.

Let's get one thing straight right now: Pie is the pinnacle of human dessert achievement. If you do not like pie, I suggest you go eat a bowl of hair, as you are a dummy and do not deserve delicious things.

Now that that is out of the way, let’s talk a little about what makes a good pie. It cannot be too wet. The crust must hold up. It must be flaky, yet firm with good flavor, and flavor that says “Look, I know that this isn’t about me. But, since something has to accompany this delicious filling, I am here. I will not disappoint you”.  The following, in order, are the greatest and best pies that one could ever eat. In order of dominance:

Jared's Top 5 Favorite Pies
1.  Pecan
2.  Cherry
3.  Lemon Meringue
4.  Strawberry Rhubarb
5.  Key Lime

1.  Pecan pie. It is basically flawless. A textural tour de force, pecan pie manages to successfully balance the “crunchy, soft, crunchy” sandwich element of pie that is tough to do with other pies. Crispy, sticky, caramel goodness on top. A rich, sugary, center, and a nice, firm crust. The only thing better than pecan pie for dessert with a cup of coffee? Pecan pie for breakfast with a cup of coffee and the Sunday newspaper on the front porch on a crisp fall day. Basically, pecan pie would be uncomfortable if it knew how I felt about it.

2.  Cherry. A good cherry pie should be a bit bitter, with a nice, sweet finish. The cherries had better not be mushy, either, or you can take that shit back, and dump it in the toilet. Because you are a pie failure. I would recommend eating a nice cherry pie slightly warmed, with a scoop of nice vanilla ice cream. And not that Vanilla Bean bullshit. Straight Vanilla will be fine. Who do you think you are, putting fancy ice cream on your pie? Get out of my face with your pretentious ice cream habits. The proper ratio of pie to ice cream should be 2.5:1. Otherwise, you’re doing it wrong and spoiling your pie.

3.  Lemon Meringue. My birthday was this past Thursday the 28th. So, on Saturday, my Grammy, Mom, Dad, Brother, Sister, and I all convened at the Dept. for a birthday dinner. It was a great time. I made my sister try a bite of the Lemon Meringue. She resisted, but as she is young and doesn’t know shit, I insisted and she obliged. She barely got it in her mouth, shook her head, and went out to spit it out in the bushes. I was appalled. The meringue was spongy, sugary. The lemon was just enough of a custard to make it feel like velvet, and I was in heaven. I ate it ice cold, holding each refreshingly lemony bite in my mouth for a spell, moving it over the fronts and backs of all of my teeth so that each one got to share the deliciousness. By the time I had swallowed a bite, I had another one loaded up. Even the gorging at the family dinner table could not have prevented me from relishing this treat. You know the very first cocktail of the weekend after a hard week at work? That “AAAHHHH” feeling? That’s how every bite felt.

4.  Bacon pie.(Kidding. But this should be a thing.) Strawberry Rhubarb. No pie better executes balance like this one. Rhubarb is tart and biting and toothsome, the strawberry soft, delicate, sweet, and delightful. Know what ruins Strawberry Rhubarb pie? Nothing. That’s what. If a big dog licked my StrawBharb pie, I wouldn’t get mad. I would applaud the dog’s good taste. (“Good for you, dog. You know what is up. But do it again, and I will take you outside and leave you there. Forever.”)Resist the urge to go a la mode with this pie. It is better by itself. It would be analogous to putting ketchup on a T-Bone. Also, if you do that, keep that secret to yourself, because it will make me hate you.

 

5.  Key Lime pie. It makes me feel very Floridian. But not in the ugly Conservative Republican Florida Way. In the “I am refreshed because I am eating this delicious breezy treat” kind of way. I had this for the first time EVER a couple weeks ago, and my life is forever altered. It was a brisk day that felt like early fall or very early spring in Northeast Ohio. There were pie samples at the local Pie Haven. I said “Self, go get one of those, and give it hell.” So I did just that. Wow. A little whipped cream topping sitting on the throne of green wonder greeted my tastebuds with a “hey…get ready for this shit” and then….BOOM! Key lime explosion. There is no going back. Graham cracker crust was the vehicle for this treat, and it was the perfect accompaniment. Go have one now. (Also, fuck key lime yogurt. It is crap. It does not do the Key Lime pie justice. It is thus dead to me forever.)

 

What are you waiting for?  Talk about your favorite pies in Comments.

 

cheery pie image here

talking pie image here

Jesus Is So Alright With Me--A Revisit Of The Hot Jesus Collection

I was watching TV the other day, and as I was surfing the guide channel, I heard someone say, "The Bible is hot right now.  Its entertainment value is through the roof."  It turned out to be a segment on some miniseries or something, and they started to get downright Teen Beat-esque about the guy playing Jesus.  They called him a Hot Jesus.  "Hey!"  I thought.  "I already coined that phrase ages ago, and put my collection of them in a blog post!" 

Now, since Jared has delayed our co-post yet again, it seems like a good time to...er...resurrect that Hot Jesus post.  So, here it is.  Happy Easter!

Something celestial, almost otherworldly, happens to an actor when he takes on the role of all roles--Jesus Christ. Now, I realize we all have a pretty misconceived, stylized, White European view of what The Man looks like, but when anyone says "Jesus", we all see the same thing:

"Yep! That's him," we would say to the officer while we stood on one side of the two-way mirror at the lineup down at the station house, "the one with the beatific expression and the flowy hair and the neatly trimmed beard. That's the guy!" We all could describe Jesus and the sketch artists would all draw this same picture.

I started noticing that all actors as Jesus are incredibly attractive a long time ago. I think it started when I was about 8 and I first watched the movie "King of Kings" with Jeffrey Hunter. He was one great-looking Jesus. I remember this one scene when he is down on his knee; he lifts his head and looks up into the camera. His eyes are incredible. Here he is:

I remember thinking, "Oh my God. He is really handsome. Those eyes are making me feel all squooshy inside." Seriously. Here they are.

I mean, come on! I know he's Jesus and all, but really. Mesmerizing.

That movie sort of began my unofficial collection of Hot Jesuses (Hot Jesi?). Pretty much everyone who plays Jesus looks good doing it. Even Willem Defoe. Old Willem is rather "apple-doll faced." He's not really that attractive, but in "The Last Temptation of Christ", he makes a darn nice looking Jesus.

Certainly, black and white can be forgiving, but trust me: I Googled the heck out of Willem as Christ, and even the sweaty and bloody ones were pretty good.

Naturally, you can't have a Hot Jesus collection and not include the Classic Seventies Rock Opera Jesus, Ted Neeley from Jesus Christ Superstar. It's almost not fair; Ted Neeley, who recently went back on the road in Superstar is still hot even now, whether he's playing Jesus or not.

Honestly, he might be the hottest Jesus ever. Certainly he's the most musical, and the only one who sustains a scream worthy of an 80s hair band.

Second only to Jeffrey Hunter in the eyes department has to be Robert Powell, who played Jesus in a television miniseries called "Jesus of Nazareth" in about 1977. Robert Powell has these startling light blue eyes that are almost as eerie as Meg Foster's, whose are downright scary. But I digress. Robert Powell made a very ethereal, Goth-like but fascinatingly attractive Jesus.

Finally, there's Jeremy Sisto as Jesus in the most recent television miniseries offering simply titled "Jesus." It ran in 1999 and had a memorable cast, mainly because Debra Messing of Will and Grace played Mary Magdalene. I didn't watch it, but I saw plenty of previews and magazine covers that proved my thesis that actors are automatically hot when they play Jesus. Jeremy Sisto's Jesus was sort of a laid-back, scruffy Jesus, though, you could tell. He had a casual air about him. Kind of a "geeze, Judas, don't get so serious" Jesus. But still pretty darn easy on the eyes.I mean, a cute Jesus, really, if you look at him. Not that sort of tragic, thinking about the future sort of distracted Jesus, like the other ones. More accessible. I liked that. I thought about whether I had a favorite Jesus or not out of all these, and I guess I don't. But I think Jeffrey Hunter, my first, will always be a little bit special.

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In Which I Use My Noodle(s) And Create My Own American Classic...Sort Of

Although I would prefer to think that this started out to be a Righteous Consumer Rant rather than a Crabby Old Lady Rant, I guess it doesn't really matter.  Because as I started to formulate the post, it took a strange turn and ended up as something entirely different.

You see, the whole thing began innocently enough when I was shopping for a bag of noodles.  What could be more benign?  In my part of the world, when St. Patrick's Day rolls around, so does Prime Time for making the great ethnic dish of Cabbage And Noodles.  Rick and I love it; Sam likes it, and I planned to make it on a Monday when he hangs out here for dinner.  I grabbed a big, chubby cabbage and zipped over to the noodle aisle, and that's where I got bogged down for what seemed like eons.

And let me tell you why:  No one makes a full 16-ounce bag of noodles anymore.  No one.  I lingered there so long with furrowed brow, walking up and down, reading bags of noodles, that two separate Helpful Employees asked me if they could assist me.  The sad truth is this:  Like all other grocery comestibles, packaging sizes have been reduced while prices have not, and we have no recourse.  The 16-ounce noodle package has gone the way of the 3-pound coffee can, the full half-gallon of ice cream, a 5-pound bag of sugar, and all the other large, full-size containers we knew back when I could spell "republican" with a capital "R."

Anyway.  I bought my TWELVE OUNCE BAG of noodles (with extreme prejudice) and went home.  Here they are:

 

First of all, I dare any of you to find where it even says there are 12 ounces in there.  And yes, it's on the front.  I looked forever.  (But they're An American Classic!)

 

But here is the thing that I really, really love.  As I was putting my American Classic Extra Wide Egg Noodles away, I got a good look at the front of the bag.

 

I put it inside a nice purple arrow for you!





 

Oh, thank you, Mueller's!  And here, I was going to cook up Cabbage And Noodles.  All I really have to do is just lean a couple of peppers on the table, and voila! it's Dinner!  I don't even have to use the actual noodles.  And it's lactose-, gluten-, HFCS-, and fat-free!  And vegan!

 

Now, some of you are clamoring, "Wait!  Perhaps there is An American Classic Recipe on the back that utilizes the peppers!"  I hear you, and I am a scrupulous journalist.

 





 

So...nope.  I'm at a loss, aren't you?  But I don't have time to figure it all out.  I've got to get dinner ready.  Tonight, Sam is working, so it's just Rick and I.  I hope he likes it.

 



WanderLost: The Missing Link In My DNA Needs A GPS

One of the stories my mother loves to trot out in order to embarrass me is The Communion Story.  It matters not at all that A) I have ceased to be a Good Sport about it; B) the hearer has probably already heard it; C) it happened eleventy thousand years ago; and/or D) there are several billion other charming stories starring Yours Truly that she could and should tell, but this one remains, inexplicably, her Favourite.

In a nutshell, here it is:

When I was about ten, our parish got a new church built, which was round.  We had a good-sized congregation, and when it was time for communion, it was common practice for two priests to administer it.  We formed two lines and went up.  Well, one time, the priest on my side of the church, at the head of my line, ran out of wafers.  I was directed by a helpful usher to the other line, got communion, and had to circle the entire church to get back to our pew.  I promptly got turned about and became lost.  I could not find my parents and siblings.  I kept looking and walking more and more slowly.  My father, seeing my panic, stood up so that I could see him.  Relieved, I quickened my pace and slid into the pew.  The end.

Well, to hear and see St. Patsy tell this story, it was an epic event replete with emotion and nonverbal histrionics on both sides of the battle.  She really gets into it.  And I sit there while everyone marvels at how anyone could become lost inside a one-roomed area!  And they all look at me as if it just happened yesterday when I was fifty-three and oh how funny!  Good thing you made it, or you'd still be there today!

Sigh. 

In 1981 I was married there, by the way, and made it out just fine.

Anyway, I wish I could say that The Communion Incident was an isolated one, but it wasn't.  I've been getting lost regularly forever.  I used to think it was from not paying much attention, but it really isn't that.  I can go to the same place for years and years, and I can still get turned around.  There just isn't that sort of Logical Orientation Thing going on in me that there is in everyone else.  My mother, especially, has an unfailing sense of direction.  Her problem, though, is her inability to be able to communicate it to others.  Here is a typical conversation between the two of us:

Nance:  Which way do I turn?
Mom:  North.
Nance:  What?  How the heck do I know which way North is from here?  I mean right or left.
Mom:  Oh, Nance.  Of course you know.  North is where the lake is.  So go in the direction of the lake!
Nance:  Mom.  We are nowhere near the lake.  How in the hell do I know where the lake is from here?  We can't even see the lake.  What a dumb reference.  Just tell me right or left.
Mom:  Oh for pity's sake.  You have lived near the lake all your life.  How can you not know where it is?  It's North.  North.  The lake is always North.
Nance:  Mom.  We did not live "near the lake."  We didn't even go in that lake.  And I know where it is, but Not. From. Here.  I'm going right.
Mom:  You were supposed to go left.

I'm the person who gets off the elevator and hesitates because I can't remember whether to go left or right.  Every time.  Give me directions with landmarks because that is a tangible guide for me.  Better yet, come with me and I'll follow your lead.  Yes, you can drive.  (Rick--and my friends--always did before I got my own GPS.)

Can you imagine how overjoyed I was to read this article?  To find out that my defect/disability is probably a genetic disorder?  It was immensely comforting to find out, after all these years, that "individuals with Williams syndrome have strong language skills and are extremely social, but they have trouble...navigating their bodies through the physical world."  Instead of having the chromosome for reorienting one's body in a space, people with the syndrome are unable to construct a sort of geometrical mental map of their surroundings.  They cannot, for example, look for spatial cues to orient themselves.  Their surroundings always seem random, regardless of prior experience with them.

That's me.  And, to a lesser degree, one of my sisters.  And I'm not entirely certain that my dad wasn't a closet Lost One, either.

I'm not going to feel any less cranky when St. Patsy hauls out The Communion Story this Easter (she's way overdue, and that's the next family gathering), but in my quiet heart of hearts, I'll feel vindicated.

image found here

If You're Happy And You Know It, Use Your Words

Here at the Dept. we've had discussions about words we'd like to see banished from the language, and we've totted up the words we have great fondness for.  Now, after reading this article, I'd like to chat a bit about Words That Make Us Happy.  Now, while the compilers of the original list of 25 of the so-called Happiest Words used a bunch of mathy stuff and algorithms and sourced Facebook and Twitter, (and also allowed several forms of the same word to be counted as a separate word, i.e. laughter, laugh, laughing), I am going to set up far more intuitive parameters and use a better sample.  You, of course, are The Sample, and here are the parameters:

1.  The word makes you happy.  It is not a humorous word, per se.  It inspires a feeling of happiness, contentment, and evokes pleasantness.

2.  Any form of the word is acceptable, but it is assumed that all its forms are inherently happy.

3.  No phrases (birthday cake), no proper nouns (Johnny Depp, Nine Inch Nails), no fair saying "this" and hyperlinking to something that would, of course, be a bigass long name.

4.  No more than 5 Happy Words, please, but feel free to explain them completely with as much or as little commentary as you wish.

I had hoped that Jared would join me for this post, but he is very busy with his column over at the Great Blue North website.

Onward.

Here are my Happy Words, in no particular order:

1.  Summertime--As a former teacher, this one is obvious.  It meant freedom, no bells, no grading, and endless hours of no job responsibilities.  It also means no more cold weather.  It hums when you say it and look at it, like the cicadas in the trees.  It says relaxation, sunshine, fresh herbs and tomatoes, gardening, and being outdoors all in one word.  I smile just looking at it.  There's even a great song for it.

2.  Carefree--Look how those E's just trail off at the end, like your hand fluttering and waving goodbye to all your worries.  I want to be carefree; I want my clothes to be carefree; I want St. Patsy to be carefree.  "If you do/buy/install/take THIS, your life will be carefree."  Okay!  I'll take it!

3.  Cuddly--Yes, please.  My cats are cuddly, my two new nieces are cuddly, and Rick is cuddly.  Even if I'm not cold, I wrap up in a fleece blanket in order to simply feel cuddly.  Sam, in his baby/toddler/little boy days was the Ultimate Cuddler.  He was very willing and very toasty all the time, like a little personal space heater.  See those two d's in the word?  Tell me they're not cuddling.

4.  Strawberry--They are the cutest fruit with the most personality.  They are bite-sized, red, freckled (I was always so envious of people with freckles across the bridge of their noses!), and taste wonderful.  Stuff made with strawberries is either red or pink, which are two of my favourite colors.  Also, I could listen to a British person say this word all day long (STROWbry).  I read a book called Strawberry Girl when I was little, and there was another one in which the horse was named Strawberry (a Trixie Belden mystery?).  And Smucker's Strawberry Jam?  Wonderful, wonderful stuff.

5.  Jelly--I know.  I just got done extolling the virtues of jam.  Truth be told, I don't even eat jelly.  My father preferred preserves and jams, so we never ate jelly--NEVER.  NOT EVEN GRAPE JELLY, which is the Fifth Food Group For Children Everywhere.  But I love that word.  It makes me smile because it just looks happy to me.  It is automatically a Kid Word.  And all kids--little kids--sound very Little Kid when they say it.  I want to go on a Mission to get every kid in the USA some sort of stuffed animal or pet and name it Jelly, just to hear a kid say it.  Jelly Jelly Jelly.  Dare you to ask any little kid you know to say the word Jelly and then try not to smile.  Cannot be done.

6.  Joy.  I know that using a synonym for "happy" is very pedestrian, but have you ever noticed this?  When someone jumps for Joy, he or she spells the word. 



Now it's your turn. What words make you Happy? Share the smiles in comments.

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joyful jumper image found here

Plan Your Trip To Guam After Spring, And Please Pack Plenty Of Tylenol (And Maybe A Helmet)

Readers, back in 2008, I made you this vow:  When there is a good animal vs. human story, I am all over it.  Proudly, I have never shrunk from this promise, nor have I ever shirked this responsibility.

Today, it is no different.  I am happy to say that Your Government, beset as it is by Gridlock and General Fussiness, is still able to maintain some sense of Priorities.  I am speaking, of course, of its Program For Dropping Toxic Mice Over Guam.

Hey!  Before you get yourself all in a self-righteous uproar, let me tell you why the Feds are flinging rodents around.  Trust me:  for you, and especially for me, it made a big difference in how I viewed this Enterprise.  It is in order to kill snakes.

See?  How can this not be a good thing?

(Personally, my phobia of snakes is so deep that I cannot even view them on television, in a magazine, or in any photograph.  When I once encountered one on a long-ago camping trip, I screamed, ran away, screamed again, took a breath, then screamed again.  Then I remembered why I had screamed, and screamed once more. I just now got hit with a wave of nausea, simply from recalling it.)

Anyway.

The brown tree snake, which can grow as long as ten feet, arrived in Guam from the South Pacific as stowaways on US military ships after WWII.  It infested the island and decimated local wildlife, especially some avian species.  It now even knocks out electrical power by slithering onto lines; it bites residents, especially sleeping children since it is nocturnal.  Their population is estimated to be approximately two million strong.  And growing.

So the US government, in the forms of the Dept. of Agriculture's Wildlife Services, Dept. of the Interior, and the Dept. of Defense came up with a plan.  They would take advantage of two idiosyncrasies of the brown snake:  one, it didn't mind eating already-dead prey and two, it is defenseless against acetaminophen.  So they loaded up some dead mice with generic Tylenol, grabbed a helicopter, and were ready to go.  But they had to make sure that the Mickey Mice (sorry, but really--no way to resist that!) didn't land on the ground.  They had to stay up in the canopy of the trees so that nothing else would eat them.  What to do, what to do...?

Aha!  Researchers "developed a flotation device with streamers designed to catch in the branches of the forest foliage, where the snakes live and feed."  Wonder what that looked like...


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The Toxic Mouse Drop is set to begin in April or May.  And it isn't just Guam that is hoping for its success.  Three thousand miles away, another island, a more familiar Tourism Mecca is holding its breath.  That would be Hawaii.

 

Because just as the brown snakes found their way to Guam on the hold of a ship and ended up liking it so much they made their home there, these snakes could board a 747 or cargo plane to Hawaii and relocate. 

 







Oh, if only it were that easy, Samuel L.  If only!  Like Guam, Hawaii lacks natural predators of these motherf--, er...brown snakes to keep their numbers restrained.  One spokesperson for Hawaii's wildlife agencies complained that native Hawaiian birds "literally don't know what to do when they see a snake coming."  (They could try my method, outlined above, but I am doubtful it would save their lives.)  She became even more dire, "Once we get snakes here, we're never going to be able to fix the situation." 

So, I love this idea.  I think it's a winner all around.  We knock off some snakes, some mice, and we save some Tourism Havens.  We save some naive Hawaiian birds.  We boost the production of acetaminophen.  We give a few people a great ice breaker at parties:

Her:  So, what do you do?
Him:  I drop dead, Tylenol-filled mice wearing tutus out of a helicopter.
Her: (choking on a vodka tonic) You what?!
Him:  Yeah. It's true.
Her:  But why on earth...?
Him: So that the government wipes out brown snakes.
Her:  Er...which government?
Him:  Ours.  The US government.
Her:  Oh. I see.  (looks wildly around)
Him:  Yeah. We don't want them getting on planes and boats and stuff and going off to Hawaii.
Her:  Are you here with anyone?  Should someone be with you?

Oh, yeah.  Love it.

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In The Throes Of Winter's Discontent: SAD Is Making Me Crabby

Like the proud people at Maker's Mark distilleries, I was unwilling to dilute my content here at the Dept. just to satisfy demand.  Although it has been a long time between postings, and I know that I am retired and should be posting something far more often since I have loads of time and something to say about everything, I didn't want to throw any old thing together. 

Then I thought, Oh hell.  If I wait for something erudite or wonderful, it might be April before I hit Publish again.

So in my severe and advanced state of Seasonal Affective Disorder, I have brought together this Flotsam And Jetsam from my winter-numbed brain, encased as it is in polar fleece and cat hair. 

=*= How Hard Is It?  A few days ago, the Walgreens near me, which is astonishingly busy at all hours of the day, advertised this on its electronic sign:  WHOPPING COUGH SHOTS.  This is the same store that I called regularly to correct when it advertised DEODERANT.  You have the label!  Look at it! 

Similarly, the Catholic church has been running a recruiting ad in our area.  Sponsored by the diocese, it features a woman who has decided to return to the faith.  At the end of the ad, it had a graphic that included the phrase "at your Catholic CHRUCH."  That ad ran with that misspelled graphic for weeks.  I went to the website to contact them and tell them--as a polite and helpful person--but there was nowhere to do it.  The ad on the website had been corrected.  Eventually, it got corrected on air.  Boy, first the Catholics' proofreader quits, then the Pope. They can't catch a break!

=*= Will You Visit Me At The Home?  My sister Susan, my mom St. Patsy, and I had another game night Saturday night.  It was a marathon, and let me tell you why.  It's because we are old and pathetic women.  Naturally, we had to play THE GAME.  (Memory Game, the nostalgic wayback machine Susan bought for $50 on Ebay that is like Concentration.) Well, Susan, whose memory is sharp, was distracted because she had one teenager due home from work on a snowy night and the other at home entertaining two friends;  I have Menopause Mind and am working through a bit of stress at the moment; and St. Patsy is 82.5 and on some new pain meds for her hip.  St. Patsy turned over one, same card ON EVERY SINGLE TURN.  And she was surprised every single time.  I kept forgetting where one of a pair was as soon as it was turned back over.  Only Susan was drinking.  And she won.

=*= I Hope They Donate Their Bodies To Science.  While I was cowering under a fleece blanket in my fleece pants and fleece slippers, some yahoo on television was blathering about Cleveland winter weather.  All I heard was "blah blah blah Well, what do you expect in Cleveland in February?  But I love the snow!"  and then I picked up my space heater and heaved it at the tv.  Okay, so I didn't do that last part, but what I did do is start in on a rant about People Who Say They Love Snow (aka People Who Are Stupid/People Who Shouldn't Be Allowed To Speak Aloud/People Who Make Me Forget That I Am Against Assault Rifle Ownership).  People Who Love Snow are also These People, then:
1.  People Who Love Shovelling
2.  People Who Love Sitting In Traffic Due To Slippery/Snow-Covered Highways
3.  People Who Love Cleaning Off Snowy Windshields
4.  People Who Love Walking Like Penguins On Icy Surfaces
5.  People Who Love Hideous Looking Salt-Marked Cars, Shoes, Pants, Coats
6.  People Who Love Wearing Bulky Garments
7.  People Who Love Dry Skin And Hair
8.  People Who Love Chapped Lips
9.  People Who Love Getting Bundled Up To Simply Take Out Trash
10. People Who Are Sadists And Masochists, Obviously

I got spoiled last winter, The Winter That Never Was.  This year, I feel put-upon and ill-used.  And all those other negative, hyphenated adjectives.  And crabby!  Really, really crabby.  So, commiserate with me in Comments, and don't you dare try to Cheer Me Up.  Let's crank around first.  You know me:  Right now, I just need to wallow.

Easy Does It

Listen, I don't mean to get all philosophical on you or anything, but (and maybe you've already noticed this) Life Is Hard.  And I am all about Making Life Easier.  Oh, sure, Americans have taken this to ridiculous heights with things like spray cheese and vending machines that sell birth control, but there are several appliances that I have come to appreciate for making my life much comfier and less of a hassle.  Here they are, in no particular order:

1.  Snowblower.  When I was much younger and living at home, we kids had to do all of the shovelling.  My dad had a really bad back and four able-bodied kids.  Why shouldn't we have?  When I left home and eventually got a house as a wife and mom, Rick and I shovelled a lot.  So did the boys, under duress (once they got wise to the idea that it wasn't "fun").  Finally, we got sick of all of it and in 2005 we bought a snowblower.  Holy crap, was that one of The Best Days Of Our Lives (and one of The Smartest).  What used to take us forever now takes Rick about half an hour.  Oh, once in a while I go out there after a snow and shovel off the deck and a path to my car, and I clear off the front steps and walk for the mail lady.  But for the Big Job, I wait for Rick and the snowblower.  So wonderful.

2.  TV Remote.  Don't laugh.  I cannot be the only one who remembers The Old Days when there was no remote control, or at least a day when the remote got lost.  (There was one horrifying day here at the Dept. when all four of us had a debilitating flu, and no one could see the remote.  Not one person could move to look for it.  We were stuck watching PBS for about ten hours, including a terrifying period of Elmo on Sesame Street.)  I am almost daily amazed by the remote.  Volume, channel, TV Guide, go back to previous channel!  Set your sleep timer!  All from the comfort of my chair with a cat on my lap while playing Words with Friends against my almost-daughter Kait on my iPhone.  The only remote my parents ever had was, again, four kids.  "See what's on 3!  Bring me the TV Guide!  Go turn it down."  All while we sat the required three feet away so we didn't ruin our eyes.

3.  Mini-Chopper.  My mini-chopper came as an attachment to my hand blender, which I also love.  But I would miss my mini-chopper more if I lost it.  Need half an onion diced up?  In about ten seconds it can be done and tearlessly.  And if you needed a clove of garlic and a jalapeno, too, just put it in at the same time.  So convenient.  It has revolutionized and streamlined my guacamole production.  I've chopped up mushrooms for meatloaves and whizzed up overripe bananas for cakes and quickbreads.  Who wants to haul out a bigass Cuisinart all the time, or stand there and dice up everything?  And I'm not going to pay someone to do it for me by buying overpriced precut stuff at the store.

4.  In-the-Door Icemaker/Water Dispenser Combo.  Oh, I know.  This is the same contraption that viciously and supernaturally attacked me right before Christmas.  But it and its predecessor are terrific inventions.  How terrible and tedious is it to have to fill and refill ice cube trays?  How irritated and irate do you get when you find an empty tray in the freezer?  The icemaker eliminates all of that as well as the loss of skin on your fingers from them sticking to the frozen trays as you handle them.  I can just press my waterglass to the lever and the ice clamors into it. Then I move it over a bit, and a freshet of filtered water joins it.  So easy.  I am admonished by my medical professionals to stay hydrated.  This makes it a pleasure.  (When it is not looking to kill me.)

Modern Life, despite its advances, remains a challenge for all of us.  Computers own our very souls and SmartPhones have turned our society into a strange place where we are isolated, yet loudly sharing our lives with strangers. 

In spite of that, there are machines that improve our lives daily.  What are some of the appliances or overlooked machines which you now realize are the Heroes Of Your Life?

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