Yearbook

A few days ago Rick and I had occasion to drive by what used to be the site of a high
school in my hometown. Now it's just piles of dirt.  It wasn't my high school, but my sister Patti's.   She made lifelong friends there, had a lot of fun, and it was a big part of her life.  She's sad, noting that now, all three of the schools she attended have been razed.  No more Palm Avenue Elementary, no more Whittier Junior High, and now, no more Admiral King.

I went to Whittier and Palm Avenue, too, but by the time my brother and I were ready for high school, the city decided we South Side Kids deserved our own high school. Yet, if that school was knocked down tomorrow, I wouldn't think twice about it.  I had a great high school experience there, but to me, it's just a building.  It means nothing to me.  What I remember when I think of high school are the people, and when I do remember them, in many cases I miss them.

Esther was one of my more unusual friends, and not because she was Puerto Rican.  Where I lived, if you didn't have Puerto Rican and Mexican friends, then you simply didn't have very many friends.  Esther's mom spoke very little English, and her dad's English wasn't very good.  Esther had a motorcycle, and she used to ride it over to my house, nine blocks away, to hang out.  It took a ton of begging for me to be able to ride on the back, behind Esther, just to go back to her house. 

Over at Esther's house, I got treated like a celebrity.  Apparently, at one point my father, who was a security guard at US Steel, did her father a favor when he was coming in or leaving by the gate Dad was stationed at.  My dad's badge had only his last name, and Esther's dad unfailingly called me by my last name whenever I was there.  I'd come in and say, "Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Rivera.  Nice to see you!"  Their faces would light up, and a double-barreled barrage of Spanish would follow, interspersed with my last name and "Esther!" in varying degrees of intensity.  A whole menu of dishes and drinks would be translated and offered to me via Esther, her eyes rolling, and I would usually smile and refuse gently. Once in a while, something too good to say no to would appear, and when I'd accept, Mr. and Mrs. Rivera would be thrilled.

Esther's mom had a pet mynah bird named Jose who spoke English and Spanish, but his best trick was impersonating an airplane taking off. It was uncannily accurate.  Mr. Rivera had a pet rooster who was downright vicious.  Until the neighborhood kids got wise, Mr. Rivera used to put a heavy string around the chicken's ankle and then sit on the front step.  He'd call out to passing kids, asking them if they wanted to come and see his rooster.  As soon as the kid would come up the front walk, he'd let the slack out, and this Tasmanian Devil of a chicken would go tearing down the path wildly, squawking and flapping.  Those were the best Sundays of his life, I think.

We'd spend hours sitting on the Rivera garage roof when the cherries on her three trees were ripe.  She'd yell down to her baby brother to hand up her guitar sometimes, and we'd eat cherries, spit the stones at the robins, and then she'd play (and sing) the only two songs she knew on her guitar, Something Stupid and Spanish Eyes.  At one point, I think she started working on getting Strangers in the Night, but I don't remember exactly.  I do remember her mother being really upset about the whole garage roof/cherries thing.  She was sure that I would either fall or get sick.  She didn't seem too worried about Esther.

Senior year, one of the best-looking boys in school started paying a lot of attention to Esther.  A bunch of us were, unfortunately, surprised.  We always knew her as a tomboyish, quirky, brainy friend.  If we had paid any attention at all, we'd have seen what he had been seeing:  cute figure (stacked even), big dark eyes, long eyelashes, great smile, smart, effortless confidence and fun.  They started going together, but it didn't change a thing.  She was still just herself. 

Esther once made a Time Capsule during a slumber party.  Our friend Patty ended up with it.  I talked to her a few years ago and she mentioned it.  I think it was in a Tic Tacs container, or maybe even a Sucrets tin.  I don't remember.  Does it matter? 

I doubt it.  But again, I don't care about the container.  We had lots of slumber parties, each one more fun than the last.  And I have the memories of them still, even though Esther, Patty, Lana, and I have all moved away from our hometown and each other, and whether they knock down our school or not.

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To Every Thing There Is A Season--My Version Of Ecclesiastes 3

How breathless and incredulous do you find yourselves to be that it is beyond mid-September already?  This was the most Unsatisfying Summer of them all.  It was dreadfully uncooperative on a variety of fronts:  weather, tomato production, Good Hair Days, and hormones.  And something, something is growing unabated in my yard that will not be hindered nor killed.  We had to engage a Lawn Service just so that the locals would stop running past our house.

It's time, then, for a little End Of Summer Housekeeping here at the Dept.  Just a few little Natters and Nits to sweep out; a bit of Polishing Up to do to get ready for Fall.

 

1. The Island Of Misfit Stuff. Last weekend was the Big Garage Sale at my brother's lakehouse in Amish country.  Sadly, it was not an extravaganza.  This was due mostly to the unrelenting rain of Day One.  It not only ruined sales, it ruined my cute navy Marc Jacobs flats.  I did sell our canoe, however, so that was good.  St. Patsy had her very own table of goods, and sales were brisk, especially for the "handmade" dreamcatchers sent to her by her adopted Indian kids from the reservation.  Still unsold are my black lace negligee, my Where's Waldo kids' sleeping bag, and my various framed art prints.  All of those have been in multiple sales now, with the sleeping bag leading the league with six.  That's okay, considering my brother has a Joe Namath suit in there that has seen ten sales.  Both items are priced at four bucks.  Bets on which goes first.

 

2. Is It Just Me? You know, I carried eight, eight-foot tables laden with merchandise (assisted by my brother) in and out of that garage numerous times.  We carried a seventeen-foot aluminum canoe several times in rain- and dew-soaked grass (once down a hill), and lifted and carried the boxes repacked with the unsold merchandise, and I was fine.  Was I sore? Oh, hell.  But a few days later, as I was in my chair, taking care of emails, my foot apparently fell asleep, and I didn't realize it.  When I stood up, it buckled and I rolled my ankle. It's all swelled up and hurts like hell.  Did I cry like a big baby?  Oh, you know that I did.  I felt--and feel--like a huge idiot.  Can you imagine?  "What happened to your ankle, Nance?"  Um, I stood up.

 

3.  Hey, Look Me Over!  Probably you've noticed a different look here at the Dept. of Nance.  Blogger very unceremoniously nudged me to update my blog to one of their new layouts.  I'm still tweaking it here and there (thanks again, Ortizzle!) to refine its look.  Please email me or leave a comment here if there is something you notice that's awry, or something you particularly like or dislike.  It will help in future iterations or over at The Tie Report, which is next on my To Do List.  As always, I appreciate your comments, feedback, and criticism.  For right now, I am simply echoing the little favicon--that martini that shows up in your browser tab next to the name of my blog--for my design.  I am not a big fan of blue or green, but it was a quick design motif I could grab. 

 

4.  One Of Our Own.  I'm sure that many of you have wondered where Nancy, our jolliest of commenters, has been.  We haven't heard much from her as of late, and she has been missed, I know.  She will be telling the story of her absence at her own Elderblog site on Friday, 20 September.  If you haven't ever been there, please plan on spending some time in her archives.  Her stories are short and very like O.Henry's--they often have a twist of the unexpected.  The best part is, all of them are true stories from her own life, which has been one of varied experience and much history.  Here is the link; go and read some Nancy!

 

Sigh.  Despite its balkiness, I'm a bit sad to see Summer take its leave.  "The cukes are almost done!" warns my friend at the farm stand.  "So are the tomatoes.  Eggplant's coming in hard right now.  But the beans...," she frowns a little and shakes her head.  I already know.  My basil is almost over, and so are my chives. Already there are hard squashes like acorns, delicata, and my favourite, butternut, at the stands.  Mums are there, too, like grandmotherly cushions of colour.  Chubby cabbages nudge onions.  Knobby potatoes settle in.

 

Autumn begins a sort of settling overall.  There is a pervading restfulness that quells the riot of Summer.  It's quieter, more reflective.  Are you still in Summer Mode?  Have any Natters or Nits to unload and spiff up your headspace?  Sweep them out in Comments.

 

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Yellow (Cake) Journalism

Readers, in the interest of Journalism, I simply must offer up this post to you.  Not so terribly long ago, that Bastion Of The Fourth Estate, The Huffington Post, published an article that I found to be absolutely awful.  Not only was the writing terrible, but it took up a subject that was already trivial at best and tried to elevate it to some importance by instituting a ranking system that was so flawed, so idiotic, so arbitrary, so contradictory, that not only did I feel it necessary to comment, but my son Jared also wanted to add his thoughts.

Here is the objectionable article, one titled The Best Cakes, In Order.  What follows is a pointless and inane fluff piece (including photos!) of cakes, from worst to best.  (Huh?)  I would summarize it for you, but it is impossible and incoherent.  Is it even possible, then, to rank The Best Cakes, In Order?  Oh, absolutely it is.  Jared and I have done it, and so will you, in Comments. 

Nance's Best Cakes

Firstly, let me say that I prefer Pie, but if Cake is the thing, then I have a few Cake Rules, and they are:  1. The Cake must be cold; 2.  The Cake must be dense;  3.  The Cake must be moist.  I would add that the Cake must be devoid of all coconut, but if the other three are in place, I can put up with it.

1.  White Cake
2.  Chocolate Cake
3.  (Real/Fresh) Banana Cake
4.  Angel Food Cake*
5.  Lemon Pound Cake

I am a Cake Purist.  I don't like a lot of fancy bullshit cakes.  I don't like decorator icing or white canned frosting.  If I had my way, all cakes (except Angel Food) would be the consistency of banana bread.  Fluffy cake with a lot of crumbs is a failure to me; how do you know you've even eaten anything?  And, again, let me restate my disdain for the Cupcake: hard to eat, stupidly trendy, usually dry, overly frosted, never as complexly flavoured as it's touted (Blueberry lime mojito vanilla mint! Nope.).  *Angel Food Cake is the exception to almost everything. It is wonderful and I have no idea why.

White Cake, like Wedding Cake, is the best Cold Cake ever.  Does it have a hint of almond flavouring?  Yes, please.  Does it have Hershey's chocolate frosting?  Save me another piece.  I almost never make this Cake because it is worky, separating eggs, storing and then remembering to use the yolks.

Unlike the stupid article, I don't differentiate among chocolate cakes.  I like them all. (Except German Chocolate; hate that coconut stuff.) My mother made one called "Lazy Lady's Cake" with vinegar and cocoa, among other ingredients.  She frosted it with homemade frosting with little chunks of pineapple in it. I always loved it. I make it once in a great while, and once I used orange juice and orange zest instead of pineapple, which was crazy good.

The only other one I want to discuss is Real/Fresh Banana Cake.  If you have never taken a yellow, butter, or vanilla cake mix and added a couple of mashed-up bananas to it, then you have not experienced full Cake Enjoyment.  I hoard overripe bananas in the freezer because I detest waste of any kind.  I pull them out for baking.  Just cut back on the oil about half.  Frost with Hershey's chocolate frosting and put it in the fridge.  You're welcome.

And now it's Jared's turn:

I want to first start off by saying that I do not particularly care for cake. Aside from the following five cakes, I find cake trivial and, frankly, vastly overrated. Two reasons: 1.  Most Real dessert lovers eat pie. 2. The rest of them eat cobbler.

When Nance approached me about the cake post, I was excited. I like blogging with my mother. Also, it allowed me to think about something other than dumpsters and basketball.  This is nice.  It did, however, lead to a soul-crushing discovery. Red velvet cake = liar. There. I said it. It’s just white cake with food coloring? And cream cheese frosting? This is bullshit. What a waste. I will never eat it again. Ever. Over it.

So, here it is, the Definitive Cake Power Rankings By Jared:

1.  Oatmeal Cake. And not just any oatmeal cake. Not some bullshit “my mom made it” oatmeal cake. I refuse to deal with that. Know why? BECAUSE MY MOM MADE IT AND IT CAN KICK YOUR MOM’S CAKE’S ASS. That’s why. Dense. Moist. Rich. My mother’s oatmeal cake may be her crowning dessert achievement. And that is saying something. I could eat an entire oatmeal cake right now. And I’m not even hungry. Not even a little. Plus, you know a cake is powerful stuff when it can make me have a glass of milk. That. Is. A. Serious. Fucking. Cake.

2.  German Chocolate. It is the most dominant common cake of all time. Coconut, chocolate, and whatever that stuff is that binds the coconut together. I love that shit. And it has never lied to me the way that red velvet cake has. I know exactly what it is. And it loves me back. Unconditionally. Ever had a piece of German chocolate cake on the front porch with a coffee? No? Idiot. Go do it. Also, it is a textural tour de force. Crunchy, soft, gooey in all the right ways. It is as if someone asked for perfect and then this cake showed up. I consider this to be the Germans’ finest contribution to the world.

3.  Carrot Cake. Does not taste like carrots. Also, don’t bog down my carrot cake with some sort of dried fruit frivolity, i.e. raisins. Also, who doesn’t love an excuse to eat cream cheese frosting? Carrot cake reminds me of fall. It tastes the way that a fall breeze feels when you’re wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans and walking down to the store for something unimportant. Just a little frivolous. A little bit warm in the right way. But it also leaves you satisfied:  Good. Now I did that. And I am better for it. That’s what carrot cake does.

4.  Angel Food Cake. Light. Airy. Borderline whimsical. Just dense enough to feel like you’re eating something, but not enough to make you regret if you have a gigantic piece of it. Throw some blueberries with it. Slap a strawberry up there. Go on. It is so universal. It is the Ritz cracker of cakes. Anything + Angel Food Cake = Delicious. That’s science.

5.  Bacon Cake. (Kidding. But how come this isn’t a thing?) Yellow Cake. Just a plain old yellow cake with chocolate frosting. But not too much. Because that is silly. Just enough to make it so that you can press the back of your fork against the paper plate to make sure you get each last crumb. Every time I think of it, I envision it on a paper plate. I like it better that way. That’s the right fucking way to eat yellow cake, dammit. Throw it in the refrigerator, please. Because it is ridiculous not to. Everyone likes yellow cake. I don’t like it, Jared. So…ha! Liar. Fool. Sillyheart. Everyone likes it. There is nothing to dislike about it. It’s like trying to hate a cup of cocoa after shoveling snow or hugging your grandmother on a holiday. If you hate yellow cake, you hate hugs. And grandmothers. Is that the kind of thing you want to stand for?

Ah, dear Readers.  What a lot of fuss about Cake.  Whether or not poor Marie Antoinette ever really did say, "Let them eat cake",  I have to say that I like this takeoff much, much better.

Again, however, I prefer pie.   We await your Comments. 


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The Everchild Equation--A One Act Playlet For Your Enjoyment

Curtain closed.  Spotlight illuminates center stage.  Solitary figure walks out of wings and stands in spot.  It is Nance.  She faces stage, begins soliloquy.

Nance:  Human nature is a funny thing.  As adults, we do grow older and taller, but we remain children in the face of many things.  I found this out last week, when I was taking care of St. Patsy after one of her minor surgeries.

Curtain draws wide to reveal a sunny, beautiful, pastoral scene of a wide lawn and a fishing dock over a lake.  St. Patsy is seated in a padded lawn chair; Bobby, a 50-something man, is standing at the lake's edge, trimming brush.  Nance goes to St. Patsy and fusses with her chair.

Nance:  Mom, are you sure you're comfy here?  Do you need anything?  Do you have your sunglasses?

Patsy:  I'm fine, Nance.  Now go and fish for a while.  Go on!  Did Bobby fix you a pole?

Nance:  Yes. (lifts pole with bobber from beside chair) I'll be right over on the dock.  Let me know if you need anything.  (walks up and onto dock; tosses line in)

Bobby:  (after a moment or two)  Any bites?

Nance:  Nope.  These worms are mostly dead.  But I don't really care.  I just wanted to fish a little.  It's gorgeous out here!

Bobby:  We really lucked out.  Hey!  See that? (points a little to his right)  Right there.  It's a snake.  Mom, see it?  That little thing just poking out above the water?  Watch. Right there, going toward the dock.  Snake!

Nance:  (horrified and paralyzed) No it's not.  Where?  No it's not.  Bobby, don't. 

Bobby:  (casual and oblivious to his sister's trauma, as usual) Yeah!  Right there.  It's probably gonna come in and sun itself on the rock there, or on the steps to the dock.

Nance:  SHUT UP.  No it's not.  NO IT'S NOT.  Mom!

Patsy:  Oh, Bobby.  It's probably not.

Bobby:  I lost sight of it now.  It probably went under the dock and will come up--

Nance:  (in a major panic)  What?!  No it can't!  There's no way!  Bobby, stop it.  I mean it now.

Patsy:  (calmly, almost disinterested) That snake is already gone.  It's under the boat or--

Nance:  Mom!  The boat is right there!  It's right in front of the dock, sitting there!  What are you talking about?

Bobby:  Mom, remember that huge blacksnake I saw out here that one time?  That thing was as big around as--

Nance:  Shut up.  I have a bite.  (begins to reel in and lift pole; screams as she pulls up the snake, which had been briefly attached to the worm) OH MY GOD!  WHY?  (throws pole down on dock and runs screaming into yard)  WHY, MOM? WHY?  MOM!  WHY?  MOM!  ALL I WANTED TO DO WAS FISH!

Bobby:  What?  What happened?

Patsy:  (calmly; shading her eyes with her hand) Wow, Nance.  I've never seen you run so fast.

Nance:  (tearfully) Did you see it?  Did you see it?  Oh my GOD.  That stupid snake!  That stupid, stupid snake was on my line!  All I wanted to do was fish and that stupid snake had to ruin it.  Why?

Bobby:  Was it really?  Where is it?  Is it on there?

Nance:  No.  It fell off.  But not before I saw the whole stupid, awful thing.  Its mouth was open!  It was disgusting. 

Patsy:  (conversationally) You should have seen her run, Bobby.  She really ran.

(Bobby has walked over to the dock, where he inspects the now empty hook.  He picks up the bait container and looks at the worms.)

Bobby:  These worms are dead.  They're no good anymore.  If you're done fishing, then, I'm just gonna dump them out.  (leans over; shakes them into lake)  Was that snake really on there?  Are you sure?

Patsy:  (adjusting her visor)  You should have seen her run.  I'm surprised she didn't throw the pole into the water.

Nance:  (indignant)  Yes, it was on there!  The whole thing was on my line!  I didn't know there were snakes down here!  Now what will I do?

Bobby:  (grins; to Patsy)  There's all kinds of snakes down here.  Remember when Ken was here and found that huge snakeskin in the yard there?  And the one guy down the road said he saw a python out here one time.

Nance:  Oh shut the hell up.  (gives him The Finger)  A python.  (glances around)  Let's go  up.

(End Scene 1)

Scene 2

Scene opens in Rick and Nance's living room. St. Patsy is asleep in the chair, left.  Rick and Nance are on the couch, center.  Nance is finishing her story about the day's events to her husband, who is exhausted from his first day at his new job.

Nance:  (earnestly)  He just would not stop yammering away at me about snakes for the rest of the day.  It was awful.  I think you should call him or send him a text message.

Rick:  (stifling a yawn; surprised)  What?  Your brother?  I should call or text your brother?  And say what?

Nance:  And tell him to quit it.  Quit it or you'll...you'll beat him up.

Rick:  I should call Bob and say, Quit teasing my wife or I'll beat you up.  Is that what I'm supposed to do? 

Nance:  Well, I feel like you should do something!  You weren't there to protect me from the snake!

Curtain, finis

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It Is Decidedly So: My Sources Say 8

Yes, without a doubt, it is certain that the Dept. of Nance is eight!  Way back in 2005, I started this site, and I am still here eight years later.  To what do I attribute this Longevity?  Let's see if the Number Eight holds any clues.

8 Parts of Speech--Oh, I do so love marshaling nouns and dynamic verbs, those expressive adjectives and actively precise adverbs.  And while I am not too proud to admit an Unhealthy Obsession With The Semicolon, I still appreciate a well-placed conjunction here and there.  Yada yada yada, and holy crap! (That's an interjection, by the way (prepositional phrase right there), and do you--pronoun alert--see what I did there?) we're done.  I suppose the Defender of The Language would have a few things to say about not using brackets instead of double parentheses, but maybe she'll let me slide on my Eighth Anniversary.

8 Tiny Reindeer--Holidays, and all of my family's Rules And Regulations concerning them, give me great ideas for posts.  My disdain for Halloween; my deep admiration for Thanksgiving; my antipathy for Christmas inflatables (and my hidden desire to be a BB Gun Vigilante and deflate them all); my No Christmas Music Or Displays Before December First Rule; my battles and joys regarding The Perfect Christmas Tree and its upkeep are all subjects I've written copiously of both here and at my now-defunct co-authored blog Stuff On Our List, which Jared and I abandoned years ago. (But you can still read all the posts.)  Imagine my horror when yesterday, 21 AUGUST, I heard my first mention of The Holidays and Christmas Layaway on television.  Outrageous.  IT IS AUGUST.  Please, all Overachievers, kindly refrain from exclamations of "I've already started/finished/wrapped/given all of my Christmas presents!"  Don't make me come over there.

8 Virtues of the Samurai--As enumerated in the Bushido, the 8 virtues are Rectitude, Courage, Benevolence, Politeness, Sincerity, Honor, Loyalty, and Character.  I know, right?  What in the hell does this blog have to do with any of these traits?  The key here should have been in the word "Virtues."  I'm 54.  My days of Virtue are Over.  In all seriousness, however, I am, as I have always maintained, on a Continuous Journey Of Self-Improvement.  In the past, I have, for a variety of reasons, equated Kindness with Weakness.  I have come to realize that this is a serious flaw in reasoning.  I have also tried to become more Courageous.  Loyalty and Sincerity have always been important to me along with, thanks to my father's influence, Character.

8 Rules of Fight Club--Let me say firstly that I really don't care for this film.  (It is, unfailingly, the favourite film of teenaged and twentysomething males.)  The first two rules of Fight Club are the same:  You do not talk about Fight Club.  It's private.  I get that.  I'm a Very Private Person.  Even though I have a public blog, name myself, my husband, and my kids here, I don't identify much else.  At least not much that you can pin down.  It's laughable, really, because there are eleventy billion blogs out there, and who cares who I am?  Or where I am?  It's not like I'm in the Witness Protection Program, or that I'm a secret IRA operative, or that I'm CIA or something.  It's just that I enjoy my privacy.  There are a few people out there who might want to know where I am, and I'd rather that they didn't.  I like an uncomplicated life.  But a few of you have wondered/asked several times about what I look like.  And it's not really a cat with glasses.  So, for those of you who are, as one of you once put it, "painfully curious", I've put up a few photos on a new page tagged "It's Me".  I'll leave it up for a little while.  But no Facebook.  Do not talk about The Facebook. As the Magic 8 Ball would say, "Very doubtful. Outlook not so good."

But, where are my manners?  What kind of Samurai would I be if I were not Polite enough to offer you some birthday cake?  Let's go for something a little lighter this year.  After all, I'm not getting any younger, and those Meno-pounds are getting really tough to lose.

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delicious cake found here

And Now, A Public Service Announcement For My Readers

The Dept. of Nance prides itself on being a timely commentary on our Culture (or, in some cases, our Lack Thereof).  That alone is a Public Service.  Today, however, the Dept. is providing you with a Consumer Alert! so that you can begin preparations for the imminent demise of some products currently available on your local marketplace shelves.

How am I in possession of this Closely Held Knowledge? you may ask.  Based upon my personal history, I can accurately predict which products will be discontinued, pulled from the NEO market region, reformulated, or sold only in certain warehouse clubs of which I am not a member or are not located in the Midwest.  This has happened to most of the products I have developed a bedrock loyalty to, that have made me happy, that have solved a problem for me, that made my hair look wonderful consistently, or have merely been a damned good product for the price.

Did you ever use/love/eat/cook with/depend upon:  Garnier Fructis Body Boost Hair Gel?  Bath & Body Works Breathe Comfort Vanilla Milk Scent?  Mr. Yoshida's Gourmet Sauce?  Reynolds Plastic Wrap?  Flex Shampoo?  The Original Herbal Essence Shampoo? Aziza Mascara? Olay face soap?  Purina One for Overweight Cats?

Well, NOT ANYMORE!  Gone. Done. Discontinued or Reformulated into useless crap. 

I know because I loved them and used them all, only to sadly bid them goodbye.  First, there were marvelous markdowns; then, they became difficult to find; and, in the final stages of their death throes, I'd find stashes of them at discount grocers and dollar stores.  It was So Sad.  So Terribly Sad.

Get ready.  Here is the latest roundup of products that I have loved too deeply and now must lose:

FOODS
1.  KC Masterpiece Teriyaki Marinade
2. Trader Joe's Meyer Lemon Cookie Thins
3.  Contadina Extra Thick n Zesty tomato sauce
4.  Bertolli EV olive oil

HBAs
1.  Organix Cherry Blossom & Ginseng shampoo
2.  Garnier Fructis HiRise root lifter
3.  TreSemme Superior Hold hairspray #4
4.  Clear Care contact lens solution

HOUSEHOLD
1. Awesome

Allow me a brief commentary for each section. 

While I certainly can and often do make my own teriyaki marinade, I don't always feel like it or have all of the ingredients.  KC Masterpiece is the only one I have found to have the taste I like without being overly salty or fake-tasting.  It also makes a decent stirfry sauce base if you add it at the last minute as a glaze.  This has disappeared at the local chain and suddenly appeared at the discount grocery.  And if some of you have not yet tried TJ's Meyer Lemon thins, go now and get a box.  Holy crap, are they good.  Crazy good.

I am painfully and mortifyingly aware that the preponderance of my health and beauty aids are for my hair.  Currently, I am ignoring my hair, in that I am not going to the salon and am trimming my own bangs.  I saw my stylist about a month ago, and she said, "Oh, are you growing out?"  I said, "I have no idea what I'm doing."  (Sadly, this is true of about 85% of my life at present.  I'm leading a Nike-Inspired existence in that I'm Just Doing It.) Anyway, if it were not for the three products above, I would not leave the house.  And I blame Shirley for leaving the Organix in my shower last year when I visited.  She is my Shampoo Pusher, and now I am hooked.

Finally, we here at the Dept. are just as environmentally conscious as the next person as long as that person is not wearing hemp capris and shoes made from recycled soda bottles.  But there is only so much that vinegar, baking soda, and lemon juice can be relied upon to do.  What's left is handled by a spray or two of Awesome.  Got a bloodstain on your towel? Awesome will remove it immediately.  Got a grease splatter from stirfry that the dryer set in?  Awesome will take it out.  Is there mildew all over your patio furniture?  Awesome.  Ink on your car seat?  Awesome.  Wine on the tablecloth?  Awesome.  I am not kidding you, this stuff is...awesome.  AND IT IS ONLY A DOLLAR for a 16-oz. bottle.  Oh, it's probably loaded with awful chemicals, but holy crap.  It's nuts how great it works.  And I personally used it for all of the above scenarios. 

It is only a matter of moments now before these wonderful products will be gone.  (Look what happened to the Mars bar.  Not even available in the USA.  And I loved them oh so much.)  You know I'm right.  It's happened to you.  Tell me all about it in Comments. 

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In Which I Am A Poor Excuse For Mister Rogers

Last year at around this time, give or take a few months, I took you with me on a walk around my town.  (I think more than a few readers didn't really understand that it was, in fact, really my neighborhood in which I found every single one of those signs I pictured.) This year, though, I'm not out and about as much as I was before.  It seems like I'm either down with a migraine or getting over one, or there's something else taking up part of my day.  Add to that a healthy (unhealthy?) dose of Sloth, and there could be a maximum security prison under construction around the block unbeknownst to me.

 Probably, it wouldn't surprise me.  Ours is an old neighborhood--or was, until the mainstays started dying off.  Now it's a little schizophrenic.  The Old Guard died, and their heirs, already ensconced in homes elsewhere, couldn't always easily sell the parents' house in a cold real estate market.  Our street is now an odd mix of rentals, New People, and suddenly, children again. 

Rick and I are now The Old Guard.  We are The Mainstays.  And hell be damned sure I don't want to die on this street.

But it's funny.  Every once in a while, this town can make me laugh.  Not at it, but just laugh.  I stopped at this stop sign because, well, it's a stop sign, but also because of this:

I swear that this had to be printed on an old dot-matrix printer.  Part of it was colored in with pink marker.  Who does this?  This isn't Justin Bieber's advance team doing guerilla marketing in Northeast Ohio towns of 50K.  Jared got this pic for me when we were out on errands, and then another day, I drove around looking for any more of these fliers.  None.  Honestly, I felt bad that I didn't tell anyone to tell anyone that Justin Bieber's new single is coming soon.  This helps me feel better, and I hope that little eight-year old girl and her friend had a lot of fun that afternoon in her family room.

"That's so random!" one of my students would say about the next sign I happened upon.  I feel like it is, except it looks like a fair amount of work went into it.  It was tacked up on a telephone pole at a busy intersection about a block away from the hospital.  It was at a stop street, so it got a fair amount of attention.  It either fell down or was taken down about a month after it appeared.

I think the signature/tag on the bottom right reads "Smash," who I guess is the creator of both the sign and its sentiment.  Why or how Smash was moved to create and then hang this sign, we will never know.  That's what I love most about it:  knowing Smash is out there, ready to Take It To The Streets when he/she is so motivated.

You know how when you go to the DMV/License Bureau to renew your driver's license, and you look at the people and wonder, "Where the hell are all these people from?"  Because, you know, they look like someone hosed out the drunk tank at the jail and told them all to wait there.  Or like it's Central Casting for a show called "My Life On The Streets."  These are The Neighbors You Don't Want To Know. It's bad enough that there's proof positive that They're Out There.  You don't want to have to stand behind them while they "git a sticker fer th' trucks."  And how is it that so very many of these individuals own boats?

But I wouldn't mind catching a glimpse of Smash on a late-night sign-hanging run, sign in hand, staplegun safely cached in a hoodie's tunnel pocket.  Or seeing the two little Beliebers giggle as they run and scotch-tape their sign on a nearby post, clapping and hugging each other when they're done; then sharing an earbud each to listen to Justin himself on a pink iPod while they dance.

They're my neighbors, after all.

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On Luncheon: A Word Of Advice To Those Hampered By Celebrity

Astonishingly enough, my now-frequent luncheons out have gone completely unnoticed by The Media At Large.  It would seem that Hillary is Doing It Wrong.  I've given this quite a bit of thought lately since the former Secretary has been all over the television news, print media, and Interwebs munching on salads with President Obama and rumoured to be lunching with Vice President Biden soon.  If Hillary wants to have a nice afternoon meal (or snack, or cocktail with nibblies) with her friends, and she does not want it to become Journalistic Fodder and a Media Event, she should pay attention to the points I delineate below.

1.  Location:  Hillary went to the White House for lunch.  I go to relatively pedestrian, often chain, restaurants.  There is no way that a bunch of reporters are hanging out in a press pool at the Ruby Tuesday or the Olive Garden.  Additionally, I lunch in Northeastern Ohio, where no one of any consequence lives or works, (unless you count members of the Cleveland Browns football team or the Cleveland Indians baseball team.  Right.  I didn't think so.)

2.  Location 2.0:  Hillary and Barack ate (ahem) outdoors.  As in, outside.  As in, not inside like People.  Also as in, They Were Asking For It.  Now, while I applaud the Secretary for considering being photographed in natural light, this is an Invitation For A Photo-Op.  I, on the other hand, always ask if we can be seated along a wall with no vents so that I am not cold, which pretty much guarantees an obstructed view for cameras.  (It is a Given for all Dept. readers that I will not eat outside. How silly.)

3.  Companions:  Hillary's lunch companions are Washington D.C. elites.  My lunch buddies are retired teachers, teachers on summer break, friends, and family.  I would venture to say that a good 80% of the people who Hillary pals around with or is related to probably are newsworthy on their own.  I would say that a good 99.9% of the people who I can call up and who would know who I was are not.  Newsworthy, I mean.  This is how I can maintain my Cloak Of Privacy and Anonymity, but Hillary cannot. 

I feel like Hillary isn't even trying.  That we have in common.

For me, this whole Going To Lunch Thing is part of my new Retirement Philosophy, which I add to every now and then.  Of course, I forget what I already adopted as part of my Retirement Philosophy in the past, but I just go ahead and assume that I've mastered it and move on.

Anyway, this latest tenet is inspired by a quote from a favourite book, The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton.  In it, a pariah countess tries to explain to a straitlaced admirer why she is going out that evening to a dinner even though it is hosted by a man she does not care for.  She says, "I must go where I am invited or I should be too lonely." 

I decided to be mindful of this, so when I was invited to a retirees' monthly luncheon for the staff of the junior high where I served one year, I went.  And I also went to the retirees' lunch for the high school.  Both were pleasant, and at both, my colleagues said, "I never expected to see you at any of these!"  And even though I normally do not care to eat lunch, I found that having a Bloody Mary can be wonderful. 

One drawback to that, however, is that it often ends up costing as much as a Lunch.  Incredibly, my Bloody Mary at the Olive Garden cost eight bucks.  And all I said was, "I'll just have a Bloody Mary."  What arrived was a tarted up Bloody Mary containing a skewer with a few olives, slices of pepperoni, and cocktail onions.  A couple more slices of pepperoni lay atop the drink.  There may or may not have been celery.  I was so stunned, I can't remember.  When my check came, I was glad I had an old gift card my husband's boss had given him. We don't care for the Olive Garden, but I'm happy to eat Bloody Marys there for lunch on his dime.

Oh, and one more drawback to the Luncheon Bloody Mary.  I am often not tall enough to drink it using a straw.  Who the hell are these things for, the starting centers in the NBA?  Why are they served in fourteen inch tall glasses full of ice, slippery with frost, garnished with a half-cup of foliage, then set down in front of me like a challenge?  Yesterday, out lunching with my friends Pam, Sheila, and Sue, my drink arrived and I felt like a toddler who refused her booster seat. 

Amid the laughter, lunch was lovely.  We talked about things International and Cultural (Croatian customs and Belgium); Education (why are the wackos afraid of Common Core?); Nature (the Pony Swim at Chincoteague); and lots of other things.  Probably not much different than what Hillary and the President talked about, topically.  And all without the crush of reporters and photographers.

So, Hillary, give me a call or zip me an email.  We should definitely do lunch. 

I'm Melting, Melting...And A Little Of My Brain Is Leaking Out

After sixteen consecutive days of rain, we have had approximately eleventy thousand days of temperatures of ninety and above with tropical humidity.  I find myself dopey and numbed by Air Conditioned Cabin Fever.  When I venture out, it feels like I am trudging through a bowl of soup. 

It's abusive.

Very few things make sense, and those things that do are:  trekking across to the neighboring town to go stand in my sister Susan's swimming pool; going barefoot; taking care of my herb garden; watering; and overfilling the fishpond so that Frigidaire-Ziploc and Tina don't cook.

Nothing of value is rattling around in my head, but a few clutterbits are clogging things up, so I'll dump them out and see if you want to pick at them.

1.  Accidental Art:  Rick is Old-Skool about his cellphone, and he wears it clipped to his belt.  Sometimes, it rotates and, when he bends or reaches and, er...laps over a bit, he somehow manages to inadvertently take a picture.  This happened a lot more with his old phone, and he once took an entire movie while he played golf, including the part where he stopped suddenly and said, "Wait!  Do you hear something?  Like something is running, sort of?"  Here is Rick's latest impromptu photo:

 

 

I believe this was snapped as he got out of the Prius at the Angola exit/rest stop on I-90 on our way to Canada.  It was our only stop, and I see a Red Roof Inn sign up there in the background.  This never happens to me.  I keep my phone in my little red Italian purse.  I told Rick he should start a tumblr.blog of these pictures.  Sadly, there are a lot.

 

2.  Tweets For Salvation:  I have been torturing my Catholic sister about this already.  Pope Francis is offering a reduced time in Purgatory for any Catholic who follows him on Twitter.  Holy crap--literally.  What a racket.  What's become of the Catholic Church that I left years ago?  First the Mass stopped being in Latin, then they allowed a bunch of folk guitar music, then everyone had to shake hands in the middle of things, now this!  It's not that easy, however; "to obtain indulgences over the internet or otherwise, believers would first have to confess their sins, offer prayers and attend Mass."  But...isn't that what practicing Catholics do anyway?  Further clarification is offered by  Archbishop Claudio Maria Celli, head of the pontifical council for social communication.  “You can't obtain indulgences like getting a coffee from a vending machine,” he told an Italian newspaper.  (But pretty much like that.)

 

3.  No Frills:  Quite some time ago, Rick and I got rid of cable TV.  We had Time Warner, and it was awful.  I mean, Awfully Awful and in every single way you could enumerate.  Here's the verdict:  We do not miss anything but CNN and MSNBC.  We went to an HD antenna (this one), and really, we have never looked back.  Each day, I look in my sacred Plain Dealer to see what is on cable, and I have yet to sigh, "Ohhh, if we only had cable!"  We have use of Jared's Netflix, and we are reveling in "The West Wing."  So good!  So smart!  And, sadly, still so current.

 

There.  Empty again.  And outside, ninety again.  Humid again.  Horrid again.  I'm off to the grocery store for a few key foodstuffs (shrimp, flatbread, pasta, steaks--all sale items!), then it's pool time again!  Now that I think about it, not too terrible after all.

 

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Perspective

Last week I was fussy overmuch.  St. Patsy was due home from her Month Of Sistering in Gettysburg; I was thence on Chauffeur Duty for her Medical Necessaries.  I had a luncheon scheduled.  I had to get an E-check for the car.  I had to go to the bank.  I had to go to the grocery store for a few things.  I had laundry to do.  And since we were leaving on Thursday morning for our annual Independence Day Weekend Jaunt To Canada, I felt pushed and rushed because I also had to pack.  Ugh. 

So, on Tuesday I zipped out to the grocery store.  It was another hot and tropically humid day with ever-threatening showers.  I only needed to grab a few things, mainly nibblies for our Jaunt.  (We like to have a little Road Food on hand to keep our stomachs full for tastings, and Room Food for snacking.)  I was zooming through the aisles as much as I could, which was not much, because it was the 2nd of the month and the store was full of the elderly Social Security recipients.  The checkout lines were also long and slow due to heavy couponing, WIC cards, check writers, and exact change counters.  I, however, was patient and made a mental note to report back to my husband the vast numbers of individuals following The Rick Rule:  Retired People need to shop during the week and leave the weekends for the working people.

I glanced nervously out the huge windows ahead.  It was clouding up again.  I hoped like hell I wouldn't have to load up my car in the rain, then unload it all in the rain.  I saw a few drops hit the glass.

Finally through the line, I hurried out to my car.  Once I stowed my stuff, I happened to glance over to the store's front.  A young couple were unloading a full cart, and the man was valiantly stuffing as much as he could into a large backpack.  The young woman kept shaking her head.  It occurred to me that they had no car.  They were going to walk home with all their groceries.  And there was no possible way that any more of the contents of that cart were going to fit into that backpack.  Simple physics.

I backed my car out, hesitated, then resolutely drove up to the couple.  Pulling up alongside, I called out the open window, "Do you not have a car today?  Would you let me help you by giving you a ride?"

The two exchanged a glance, and the young man came to my window.  "We don't have a car," he said.  "But, ma'am, I guess if you would give us a ride, we'd be glad to take it. Thank you so much."  They opened the door to the back seat and began stowing their bags.  "Wow.  Thanks so much!"  the young woman said as she climbed in after them; the young man sat up front to navigate.  "I don't know what we were gonna do.  That backpack broke, and we had a lot more stuff than we thought."

"I'm so happy to do it," I said.  "Besides, there is no way I could let you even try to walk with this heat and the weather looking this way.  It might storm again any minute.  Now if you'll just tell me where you live and how to get there, we'll be off."  I introduced myself, and told them where I had taught in case one or both had attended there.  They gave their names, thanking me over and over again, the woman recognizing me from school years ago.

"This is awfully nice of you, Mrs. D.," she said again.  "You're probably the only person in this town that would do something like this, though.  No one in this town gives a damn about people like us."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true!" I protested.  "That's just not true at all.  But I'm glad I saw you and am able now to help out."  We drove by a restaurant a few minutes from the store and stopped at the light.  "Do you like that restaurant?" the young man asked.
"I do," I said.  "But it's so popular and crowded that I don't eat there often.  I like the food, but I don't like waiting for it."  "I work there," he said.  "I just got promoted to staff trainer, and I'm being trained for manager."

I looked at him; his pride was evident.  "That's awesome.  You must be a very valued employee," I told him.  "But, how do you get to work every day?"

"I walk.  It adds another couple hours to my day, and it's worse when I work real late, but I walk.  That's what I do."

As I drove, he told me little things here and there about the neighborhood as we passed them:  the school that is now a charter school, the neighbor who barbecues every Sunday, the guy who is real nice about letting all the kids play in his yard.  Pretty soon we drove up to a tiny house on the corner, and I drove up the driveway.  I admonished them both not to be in a hurry; I was retired and had all the time in the world.  They laughed and pulled their bags from my car, thanked me about eleventy more times, and told me I really saved them that day.

A light rain was falling, and I said they shouldn't get wet.  "I'm so glad I could help you!" I said again, and I backed out of their stubby driveway and drove off.  And really, I was.

It was an interlude I sorely needed. 

My father used to tell us constantly that we needed Contrasts in life to help us fully appreciate the Good Things.  One of his watchwords was Appreciation.  We were raised on it.  And here I was, forgetting it.  I am thankful for such an Object Lesson.

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If Your Brown-Eyed Husband Wants More Sex, Do The Laundry and Look At Your Facebook Profile

My crossword puzzle this morning was a themed one, and its theme was Sigmund Freud.  I used to delve into Freud and his theories quite a lot when I was teaching The Catcher in the Rye because, well, holy crap.  There is a ton of Freudian reference in there.  Beyond that, I, like most thinking people, have little use for the rest of Dr. Freud's musings.  While I do see "talking therapy" as generally a good thing overall, I don't see The Mother as the root of all psychoses, to be admittedly simplistic.  Or sex.  And, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. 

But all that thinking about Freud was evidently simmering on my brain's back burner, for when a psychology story popped up on my Google News Page, I kept clicking and clicking and, before I knew it, I had found several fascinating studies that I just have to share with you here.  It's kind of a Pop Psychology Potpourri!

1.  The Facebook.  Here's a study that seems obvious.  Facebook May Boost Self-Esteem But Reduce Motivation.  "This is one of the first studies of its kind to use (the Implicit Association Test) psychology research tool to evaluate whether there are any psychological effects associated with using the online networking site....The Implicit Association Test involved asking the participants to associate positive or negative adjectives with words such as 'me' and 'myself'."  Basically, a bunch of people gazed at their FB profiles for 5 minutes.  Then they were given the IAT, which showed a marked increase in self-esteem.  After that, they were given a task, to count down from a large number by intervals of seven, then answer some general questions.  The FB people performed more poorly with relation to accuracy and speed.  "Who needs this crap?" the FBers seemed to indicate, "when I'm already so awesome and have 670 friends?"  Or, to put it in more scientificky terms, "The researchers believe that after spending time on Facebook people generally feel good about themselves, so there isn't as much motivation to increase self-worth by trying hard in the lab task compared to those in the control group." 

2.  Brown VS. Blue.  This particular study, Why Do We Trust Brown-Eyed People More? really caught my attention.  I have brown eyes, as do Rick and Jared.  Sam's eyes are changeable, but are usually green.  I first started thinking about the people whom I do not trust, and I could not really come up with anyone right off the bat except George W. Bush and Congress, and the latter has too many people to have this theory apply.  Then I started thinking of any blue-eyed people I know, and I couldn't come up with any.  Then I stopped hurting myself and just read the damn study.  Anyway, this study ends up saying that it isn't really the eye color that determines trust; in the final analysis, it is the shape of the person's face that goes along with the eye color, and in that case, it seems to be that only in men is it the deciding factor.  Women of blue eyes and brown eyes are judged almost equally trustworthy.  The study ultimately found that "brown eyed men generally have wider mouths with upward-pointing corners, wider chins, bigger eyes and eyebrows closer to each other, characteristics considered masculine and more trustworthy. On the other hand, men with blue eyes tend to make them seem more shifty, sporting smaller eyes and narrow mouths with downward-pointing corners."  For the record--Sam has large, round eyes, and his mouth is not narrow or downward-pointing.  He can, however, at times, be shifty.

3.  The Honey-Do List.  Ladies, this study could be a bitch if The Wrong People read it.  Husbands Who Share Housework Have Less Sex sounds like something commissioned by the GOP or the NFL or Budweiser or someone like that.  You and I both know that this whole study is bullshit, and let me list just some of the reasons why:

1.  The data is from 1992-1994
2.  It defines a traditional marriage as one where housework is done exclusively by the wife.
3.  It mentions a previous study whose research implied that "married men generally have more sex in exchange for doing housework."
4.  It found that sex "is associated with the kinds of chores each partner completes."
5.  This:  The researcher "does not believe that the division of household chores - which in this study did not include child care - and sex have changed much since 1994."

Please do not point out to me that a woman authored this study.  I hope she has already gotten the call to Turn In Her Card at an authorized center.  Her face will be added to the Woman Wall Of Shame, along with, well, you all know who They are.

I have just completed my own Psychological Study titled The Longer You Stay In Your Jammies The Less Likely You Are To Accomplish Anything Beyond The Virtual World.  It's taken almost two full years of intensive research.  When I get around to writing it up, I'll be sure to let you know.  In the meantime, do catch me up or sound off in Comments.

Don't Tell Them, But My Students Were Right

Last weekend, my sister Patti and I drove St. Patsy to Gettysburg so that she could spend a month with her remaining sister and my favourite aunt, Shirley.  She and her husband (my Uncle Dick) are former English teachers and avid history buffs, as is my sister.  So...I was pretty much in heaven.  We crammed as much Gettysburg Battle Lore into 36 hours as was humanly possible, leaving time for family stuff as well.

One evening, after a narrated tour of the Battlefield and a long-awaited, up-close viewing of the life-size bronze monument of General Longstreet, we drove to my cousin's home for a cookout.  (No, I did not eat outdoors.  Don't be ridiculous.  And my cousin did a very sensible thing that I must mention:  he had a large oscillating fan out on his deck.  Not only did it provide cool air from the woods behind, but it kept bugs away.  Marvelously smart, that.)  As we sat around talking, I was immediately reminded of something my students used to tease me about.

You see, throughout my teaching career, my students used to swear that, because I was so enraptured with literature and constantly stringent with grammar and spelling, my idea of fun would be to sit around and talk about books and pick apart sentences and grammatical errors.  To discuss symbolism in film and literature; to argue whether a character's dialogue was true; to discover themes in what we've read and seen.  I used to fix them with an icy stare and simply move on.

At the big family table, my sister, my aunt, my cousin Mark (a former radio personality, writer, and journalist), and I immediately started talking about books.  There is a new Lincoln book out, and Aunt Shirley wants me to read it.  I want her to go and see the new Gatsby film.  Patti had read a critical analysis of Gatsby and was rereading the book before she saw the film.  And then we were off.  Pretty soon, we went from there to everyday errors that irritate us:  further vs. farther, irregardless (aargh!), it's vs. its, and so many more.  It was absolutely wonderful.  My students, of course, were right.  There is nothing I love talking about more than books and The Language.  And there is almost nothing I like more than the company of other English teachers.  Or English-y people.  Even when we don't agree--Mark reads a lot of fiction, and you know how I feel about that--I find their company stimulating and engaging.

At one point, my aunt mentioned her church group, the name of which tickled me.  She is Episcopalian, and her group calls itself the Episco-Pals.  You know, pals, as in friends.  I got a charge out of that.  I was informed that when a committee was organized for some project, they called themselves the Episco-Planners.  "That's wonderful!" I exclaimed.  "You can form a study group for the works of Edgar Allan Poe and call yourselves the Episco-Poes!  Virtually anything that begins with P, really, can be EpiscoPized."  It's true, you know.  They can be the Episco-Painters, Episco-Pilots, and they can use their Episco-Power to stamp out Episco-Porn.

Okay, so, maybe not that last example.  But it's fun to play with The Language, isn't it?  I know that's not so just for those of us who used to teach it or write it for a living.  It's a very satisfying contrast for me, to revere The Language in the gorgeous prose of Fitzgerald's Gatsby, in the speeches of Lincoln, and in the clean beauty of Whitman's poetry, but also to be able to tease it and twist it like the EpiscoPuns, slang, and creative neologisms that arise from every niche of our world. 

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.