Spare Me Your Oral Recipes

Another item to add to my growing list of pet peeves?  People who tell you how to make their favorite recipe.  Do you really think anyone will remember whether to add one or two eggs to the moussaka or  how much cinnamon goes into those breakfast rolls? 

Do I stir?  Blend?  Whip?  Are we baking and if so how high and for how long? 

I have difficulty remembering my phone number and I have to start from the beginning when the credit card company wants only the last four digits of my social security number.  I need what little room is left in my aging brain cells for important information.  There's no freakin' way I'm going to store your gramma's recipe for snicker doodles.

And the worst thing is that I pretend I'm getting it all.  Seemingly taking mental notes, nodding my head, muttering words of understanding and feigning interest.  Waiting for them to finish so I can add my "sounds yummy" comment.

Tweet it. Post it on your social network page. Text it. E-mail it.  Copy the recipe and send it. All of the above.  Just don't narrate it. 

The Saga of the Bamboo Socks

Having been in advertising for some twenty years, I'm pretty savvy about claims made in commercials and print ads.  Madison Avenue wants you to think you'll look ten years younger by slathering anti-aging cream on those crows feet or that you'll get the job by having whiter teeth or achieve nirvana by driving a hybrid.

So while I'm usually skeptical about far-fetched promises,  I do have a blind spot for products that say they're good for the environment, unscented, biodegradable or eco-anything.   This is my excuse for buying ten pairs of socks made from bamboo.  The package featured bamboo shoots and Chinese-style lettering that touted the processing from plant to sock was eco-friendly --- my personal kryptonite.  Luckily pandas were neither mentioned nor pictured or I would have bought twenty pairs.

They were soft, fun colors and designs and eco-friendly.  You'd think I'd be in sock heaven.  Here's the downside.  Every one of the socks sported a hole in the toe after only one day.  Same shoes I always wear, same toes I've always had.  Time to go back to the bamboo sock drawing board for a brainstorming session about  reinforcement. 

Now back in the day our mothers and grandmothers would have darned the hole and breathe new life into the sock.  If you can find me a modern woman --- not Martha Stewart -- who can do the same I will bow down before her --- and send her ten pairs of bamboo socks to mend.

The Most Inappropriate of Greetings

Happy Birthday.  Happy St. Patrick's Day. Happy Valentine's Day.  "Happy" is our go-to word  when we greet someone on these special days.  It implies some type of celebration, perhaps a Hallmark moment, at least a glass of green beer.  It's acceptable social behavior to wish someone a Happy (fill in your holiday here). 

Although I must admit that Happy Labor Day never quite hit the mark. What do we do on Labor Day?  Since most of us don't actually work, we spend the day mulling over how we've frittered away the summer, that fall is coming and what will I dress up as for Halloween which, as we all know, is right around the corner.

So with this cultural norm in mind, I was taken aback when someone wished me a Happy September 11th.  I honestly didn't know how to respond.  I couldn't say "same to you" knowing that the original greeting was totally inappropriate. I couldn't say "thank you" knowing that the person obviously had the social skills of a yak. I said nothing -- unusual for me -- but it seemed right.

Does anyone ever say Happy Pearl Harbor Day or Happy Start of the Civil War Day or Happy Anniversary of the Day President Kennedy was Assassinated?  

If so, give them an "F" in sensitivity and another one for truly bad taste.  These are the same morons who talk about plane crashes when you're waiting for a flight and the time they got stuck in the elevator when you're temporarily stuck on the 15th floor.   A pox of laryngitis on them all.

Since When is a Twelve a Plus Size?

It's Fashion Week again in New York.  Time to watch locust-like women strut down the catwalk wearing clothes we know we can't afford and, even worse, won't fit.  Some of them look downright angry.  Perhaps it's because they haven't eaten anything but lettuce leaves for days.  Feed them a cheeseburger and see if they don't brighten up a tad.

We all know these models don't represent real women.  We who have eaten a burger or two or three don't wear a size zero.  If you use that as the norm, does wearing a 12 make you plus-size? 

Apparently so, according to a reporter on one of the early morning shows who interviewed a gorgeous Amazonian model -- 6' 2", size 12 -- and kept calling her a plus-size.  This woman was curvy, all legs and
she smiled while telling her story about how she became a cover girl. 

Hurrah for her for breaking the bony barrier in fashion mags. Shame on whoever labels her plus-size. Twelve is the size of the average American woman and I doubt that we consider ourselves in the "plus" category.

The problem is that a 12 by one designer isn't the same as a 12 by another.  If only there was a standardization of sizes.  Right up there in the "best thing since sliced bread" category for me.  That way if I order a 12 on-line I know it is indeed a 12 and I won't be schlepping the box to the post office as a return.

It may sound shallow, but size does matter.  Probably lots of psychological and body issues involved there, but it does.  That's why I love shopping at Chico's where I wear a size 2.  Of course, I know that translates to a 12 but let me have my moment.

Cursive & Math -- So Yesterday

So let's amble down memory lane for a sec, if that's alright with you.  Think back to your early school days. Try to skip over the images of the towering nuns wielding rulers or the many hours post 3PM that you were punished for some academic misdemeanor.

Instead think about your penmanship class.  Our nuns swore by the Palmer Method complete with all the swirls and flourishes on the upper case letters, ascenders going just so high, descenders just so low.  Personally I had a difficult time with penmanship due to what was then thought to be a minor handicap -- I'm left-handed.  The nuns insisted I use my right hand to no avail.  Well, then at least hold the paper properly as though you were right-handed.  Also to no avail.  Thus I am one of those lefties who writes upside-down, curling my wrist above the emerging text.  (Watch President Obama next time he signs something. You'll get the picture.)

Penmanship was thought so important we had a line for it on our report cards.

Now, however, a growing number of school districts plan to eliminate cursive instruction while opting for keyboarding classes.  I'm all for progress and being a whiz on the keyboard is a needed skill but not in lieu of actually being able to physically write a sentence OR read one.

Memorizing multiplication tables is also on the chopping block.  The thinking is that since kids have access to electronic calculators why teach them their numbers.  Why?!  Why?!

What if you accidentally hit the wrong button on that handy dandy calculator and suddenly 7x7 comes out to be 46 or 51?   Without having the multiplication tables drilled into your brain how will you know you made a mistake. 

Technology can get a tad testy at times.  It likes to crash or freeze or forget that its user-friendly personality.  Then what?   All writing and calculating comes to a grinding halt?

Let me think for a sec -- 1x3=3.  Okay. Got it.  Three cheers for the abolition of cursive and basic math.   

Another Birthday for Moi

Here we go again -- yet another birthday.  No need to regale me with the usual platitudes:  consider the alternative (yes, I could be residing in an urn on the family mantel),  age is just a number (but does the number have to be so high), you look good for your age (I'm one wrinkle away from being mistaken for a pleated skirt). 

You know what I really hate?  When someone introduces an elderly person as "95 years young".  The person is five years shy of making it to Willard Scott's list of centenarians. There's not a microscopic element of youth in someone that old so please stop trying to be cute.

And since I'm ranting -- stop calling me "young lady".  In the restaurant --- and what will you have, young lady?  In the shop -- how can I help you young lady?   Is that supposed to be a complement you condescending twit?  I waved tata to "young lady" during the Reagan administration.

As you can tell, I'm not handling this ageing business well.  However, large quantities of chocolate cake -- the antidote for all life's problems -- should calm me down.  Just make sure it has only ONE candle.

Roach Coach No More

Not all that long ago we avoided food trucks like the proverbial plague -- possibly because that's what you might catch from eating at one. Lunch was yours to enjoy since nary a colleague would ask for a bite of anything purchased at a greasy food truck.

Roach Coach. Upchuck Wagon. Either way you were guaranteed greasy fries and burgers for not much cash.

Fast forward to 2012. The food truck is king. Long live the food truck. It is now way cool and semi-fine dining to buy a meal from these wheels. In fact, a Friday night gathering of food trucks at one local site is the place to be seen.

Of course, many of these food trucks have upgraded their menus from the greasy burgers and fries that made them famous -- or infamous -- to tasty international dishes from Thailand,India and other once exotic locales. I generally like the idea of a moveable feast. Sometimes it's a real "find". Unfortunately my next "find" needs to be someplace to sit down and eat.

Cheers for the 'Empire Builder'

Pencils ready?  Good.  Compare and contrast traveling across the country by train or plane.

Didn't know there'd be homework, did you? Feeling a tad stumped?  Allow me.

If you're not in a hurry and actually want to see the country, perhaps chat with fellow passengers, freely roam through the cars, my vote goes to the train. 

I just rode the Amtrak Empire Builder from Portland, Oregon to Milwaukee, Wisconsin.  Yes, it took about two days but my only worries during those nearly forty-eight hours were what to order in the dining car. 

Well, that's not entirely true.  The morning of day one, I attempted to shower while the train was zipping across Montana. I've never been in the shower during an earthquake, but I think I get the idea.  Hang on to that shampoo bottle -- and the grip rod --- it's one bumpy ride. Passengers wtih balance issues?  Slap a little water on your face in the loo and think refreshing thoughts.

Security?  No removing of shoes or any other clothing, no body scanners, no pat-downs. You felt like a guest, not a potential criminal.  Guess the Empire Building isn't on any watch list -- too slow, too folksy?

When we arrived in Milwaukee -- on time, by the way -- I felt relaxed and a bit sad that my trip was over.  When I fly I'm always so extremely relieved by a safe landing that I mentally thank a higher power and any and all saints I can remember from my Catholic school days. In my head I give a round of applause for the pilot, crew, mechanics, air traffic controllers, ground crew, the guy who sold me a bag of chips in the terminal, the womens' room attendant, their families and friends and on and on. 

So I made it back home in a mere four hours but there are no stories or memories like I have travelling east.

No News is Entertainment

What makes news news?

This past week everyone was tsk-tsking about the tanning mom.  The story quickly shifted from whether or not she took her kid to the salon to her own fixation with bronzing. 

Was this news because Lindsay Lohan's finally getting her act together and that leaves a huge gap to fill on the morning shows.  Or was nothing else happening in the world except a sluggish economy or May Day protests or -- what's that called, again?  Oh yeah -- a presidential election. 

Granted we've been yakking about the candidates for months and both reporter and audience are getting a tad weary.  Perhaps we need to swallow our electoral pride and admit that the French have the right idea in limiting campaigning to around six weeks.  Everyone starts on the same day and gets the same amount of air time.  If the run-up to the election were shorter we just might pay more attention.

Instead it goes on endlessly and we need to entertain ourselves with non-news like celebrity break-ups and the octo-moms financial troubles. 

If you watch a program labeled "news" that's what you expect to find.  Otherwise call it entertainment.

A Visit from the Language Police

As much as we don't want to be defined by our age, there is such a thing as age appropriate.  Time to leave the overdone pink behind, the short-short skirts, the bare midriff.  Definitely time to donate the go-go boots to Goodwill -- if they'll even have them.

I also think some words are age appropriate.  Dude, for example, should be deleted from your vocabulary early in life.  Leave the dude to Bart Simpson who is, as you know, in elementary school and a cartoon character.

Awesome is another word that sounds marginally pathetic when used by those of us of a certain age. First of all, the word has lost its meaning.  The pizza was awesome.  Correction -- the pizza was, perhaps delicious or yummy but hardly awesome.  The party was awesome.  Correction -- the party was a blast, really fun, just great but hardly awesome.  The Grand Canyon was awesome -- now there you go. 

As a self-deputized member of the language police, I advise choosing your words carefully. A tweet or Facebook entry can go viral and your poor choice of words can haunt you forever.   Ask any politician -- the masters of back-pedaling after being quoted "out of context".   The number of times these dudes are misquoted is awesome. 

Elderly? Surely, Not I

Thursdays are usually upbeat, hopeful days in that you're pretty sure you can make it through Friday and then be rewarded with a relaxing weekend.  I was of this belief and perhaps even thinking about it when I suddenly found myself splat on a busy downtown San Francisco sidewalk.

Embarrassed?  Of course.  Chiding myself for the stupidity of falling?  Certainly.  In pain?  Yup. Bleeding? Unfortunately, affirmative. 

Thankfully, several passing people were kind enough to wrap my gashed leg with a towel offered by the nearby florist and get me into a cab headed for the emergency room.

No complaints about my treatment there.  Since my gash was hardly life threatening, I did have to wait my turn for an available doctor but I also got to hear the stories of other patients.  Top of the most interesting character list is the guy who overdosed on something but insisted he was ok because he was part of the Occupy movement.  Nothing confidential in the ER, since only a shower curtain separated our beds. 

I got my stitches and was discharged with a prescription for pain killers, information on what to do in case of complications and a fact sheet on "Fall Prevention, Elderly".

Elderly?  Elderly?  Good thing the nurse took my blood pressure before I left the ER since it was surely elevated now that I was deemed elderly.   What's next -- a walker, large print books, early bird dinner specials? 

What boomers calls themselves elderly?  And will we ever?  This post has a homework assignment: coin a word for this third act we're in. Something with panache and pizazz.  Anything but elderly.

Tax Day Cometh

This being April 14, the most obvious topic is --- taxes.  So not to disappoint, here we go.

As usual, I tackled my own until a rough tally showed I owed several thousand dollars. 
Time to round up those stray receipts and dump them on the desk of a tax professional -- one whose
figures showed a welcomed refund.  I certainly like their math better than mine, plus they know
what to deduct, which line it lives on and on what form.  Apparently they've actually read
the tax manuals -- score points for bravery -- and understand them.

Don't want to gloat in case you're clicking those little abacus beads in haste today, but I filed my taxes
in February.  Yes, I'm stress free today, but it also means the refund is long since spent while all you
procrastinators have yours to look forward to.

I don't mind paying taxes but I'd like a say in where the money goes. No bombs, tanks or
bullets purchased with my contribution, thank you.  How about supporting a struggling arts program
or nutritious school lunches instead?

Do you think the so-called Buffet Rule will actually be in place this time next year?  I'd sleep better
knowing that Wall Street CEOs and others of that ilk pay more taxes than I do.

Easter Bunny & His Basket of Sugar

Here it is Easter Sunday and me without a new bonnet.  Of course I appreciate the religious significance of the day but once you get past that, let's face it, it's all about the sugar.

I bet Easter is right up there with Halloween in pounds of sugar consumed. That Easter basket could contain a record-breaking number of calories.  How many handfulls of jelly beans does it take before your teeth fall out?  I wax rhetorical -- not mathematic so put the calculator away.   Add the Peeps, chocolate bunnies and candy eggs and you can say hello to a sugar coma for most of the day.

The only thing really healthy are the hard boiled eggs, now dyed in colors not found in nature.  Unfortunately, since most of us cook way too many, after a few days they end up slathered with mayo thus cancelling out any possibility of  low calorie edibles.

One of the TV cooking shows made a recipe for sugar-free Peeps.  The host tasted the finished product which was sweetened with agave or stevia or molasses or something of that ilk.  She put on a good oh-this-is-yummy act, but you could see the disappointment in her face.

For some holidays there's just nothing better than pure junk food.  Yes, it rots your teeth and makes the butt grow a tad wider, but you can't top it for bringing back fond memories of Easter morning and that cheap little basket filled with colored plastic grass and sugar.

Lotto Fever

Don't know if it was restraint or stupidity, but I made it through the week without catching lotto fever.  I have to admit to the passing thought or two or three that I might actually be the "one" mentioned in those outrageous odds.  But my other horrifying thoughts were about the throngs of supposed long-lost cousins, who I've never met, coming out of the family woodwork pleading for donations.

Would I quit my job if I won?  Remember how the Road Runner could disappear in a blur?  That would be me sans the "beep-beep".  Save the lectures on how a person needs work to give them a reason to get up in the morning.  Having the day to myself to do whatever I choose is plenty of reason to rise and shine. Ahhh, a lifetime of Sundays -- always my favorite day of the week -- without the mandatory church services. 

Would I shop at Nieman's and say ta-ta to Marshall's?  Unlikely.  I may be suddenly rich but that hasn't altered my IQ.  A bargain's a bargain.  

I'd be happy to share my one big splurge with you, if you'd like.  After all, a lifetime supply of Oreos is really too much to eat by myself. 

The Passing of Britannica

I'm not sure of the protocol for mourning the loss of an American icon so I created a memorial of my own.  Do you think draping my bookcase in black shows sufficient respect for the passing of Encyclopedia Britannica?

The Britannica announced last week that it will be available on-line only.  According to the editor -- interviewed on NPR -- Wikipedia and Internet search engines didn't influence the decision, but there might be a tad of the Pinocchio in that statement. .

Personally, I've never fully trusted the on-line sources.  I can't shake the image of a guy uploading an entry in his pajamas with twelve cats padding across the keyboard.  On the other hand, someone who writes for Britannica smokes a pipe and wears a jacket with leather patches on the elbows.

When we were growing up, the Britannica was a staple in most homes. Just having a set gave the impression that your family was worldly and cared about education.  No one need know they were used more for booster seats than research.
Maybe it's time to take a trip to the attic. Those old editions gathering dust up there might soon be collectibles. 

Key on Aisle 5, Please

Understanding the criminal mind is best left to criminologists, psychiatrists, sociologists and any other well trained -ists that may apply.  They can explain why some people commit the often horrific acts we hear about on the news. 

But what about less serious, non-violent crimes? Why would anyone be compelled to steal, oh let's say, common, every day eye care products? I ask because these products are behind a locked plastic shield at my local pharmacy.  To purchase a vial of eye drops it's necessary to contact a store employee who meets you in Aisle 5 bearing the appropriate key.

Shoplifting eye drops -- who knew?  What's the street value of Visine anyway?  Who runs this eye drop underworld?  Unlicensed optometrists?  Allergy sufferers? 

Are these guys part of the same cartel that's stealing liquid Tide to use as currency in the drug trade?  If so, they might want to shift their dirty work to Aisle 5.  Eye drops are so much easier to get past the checkout counter.

Growling at Mother Teresa

Cranky?  Of course I'm cranky.  So cranky I'd growl at Mother Teresa if she skipped the line at Starbucks.  Much of the country is feeling the same.  After all,  we lost an entire hour of sleep last night -- assuming you remembered to 'spring forward'.

As a kid, I was told that daylight saving time was to give farmers more time to sow, nurture and then harvest the crops.  Under daylight saving time, they could be out plowing well into the evening hours unhindered by darkness.  Paints a rather romantic picture of rural America, doesn't it?

As a kid, I bought this line.  All hail the farmers!  Now, however, Farmer Joe is part of the agribusiness conglomerates who have the means to illuminate the fields with floodlights should they need to get those cucumbers out of the ground and onto your table.  Darkness isn't an obstacle.  Ta ta to the idyllic rural American image.

The most recent explanation for DST is to save energy.  All hail the energy savers!  No red blooded citizen of anywhere will argue against energy conservation, but there's something illogical -- and irksome -- about messing with the clocks.

Yes, it's great to have those added hours of daylight after work.  Makes you want to get out and do something and we don't turn the lights on til later -- thus the energy saving part.

But did anyone pay attention to the morning.  It's freakin' dark at 6AM when I get up.  I don't care a fig about saving energy before I've had a shower and a cup of tea and in order to do either of these I must have lights.  I guess I could grope my way to the bathroom and kitchen, but that muscle memory knows to lift the arm and flick the switch.

I should feel a little calmer, oh say, midweek.  It takes a few days to get my circadian rhythms back in sync. For now, I need some breakfast -- or is it time for lunch?  Blast these time changes!

Happy Bday to Our Favorite Cookie

Twist. Lick. Dunk.  Follow these easy steps and you're on your way to taste bud nirvana. 

Let's raise our voices -- swallow the cookie first -- in praise of the Oreo.  Wouldn't you want to be remembered on your 100th birthday?  Someone should alert Willard Scott. 

March 6, 1912 -- the day some lucky kid ate the first Oreo.  Was the twist-lick-dunk ritual born then as well or did it evolve over years of after-school snack experimentation?

Think about it. There are no instructions on the package, so how do we know to take these glorious little sandwiches apart?  Instinct, I say and, maybe even a legitimate way to play with our food. Mom might nag about mixing your peas and mashed potatoes, but no mother would ever complain about playing with your cookies -- not this kind, anyway.   It's simply un-American.

So this March 6th pour yourself a glass of milk and dunk those cookies like you've never dunked before.  Diets be damned.  You can sweat a little harder tomorrow.  Today it's all about the Oreo and all your fond cookie munching memories.


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Note:  There should be a registered mark after Oreo but I don't know how to make it on the computer, so lawyers please relax.

Happy Birthday Leaplings!

Greetings all leaplings and leapers.  You know who you are.  Hope you're prepping for one helluva birthday party since you only have them -- well, legitimately -- every four years.  Wednesday, Leap Day, is all about you -- and, of course, keeping the solar system in sync -- but birthdays are just so much more fun than astronomy.  With all due respect to Galileo.

A leap or intercalary or bissextile year -- credit Wikipedia, the current source of all knowledge with supplying the more obscure terms -- comes every four years as you know.  That extra day doesn't seem to upset our routine in any major way, but imagine if we followed the Chinese or Hebrew calendars that add an entire month.  If it's a month like February, which always seems to drag on, it would be torture. On the other hand, if it's a month like July, filled with fireflies, warm sunny days and barbecues, the crowd would roar.

Typically romance is involved in a leap year.  In some cultures it was the only time women could ask men to marry them -- sounds pretty dated now, doesn't it?  And in Greece, leap year marriages were considered unlucky.  Unfortunately, pretty much everything in Greece is unlucky these days.

So if you have a leapling or leaper friend,  do something special for their birthday this year.  They won't have another one until 2016.

Happy Presidents' Day?????

So it's Presidents' Day weekend.  While you won't hear me complain about having a day off work, I'm just not sure what this holiday is all about.

When I was a kid, we drew pictures of log cabins and tall men with beards for Lincoln's birthday.  Our finger paintings were barely dry when we shifted to the young Washington chopping down a cherry tree. Two bank holidays within days of each other undoubtedly made for a bit of a stop and start work flow, so someone got the bright idea to combine them.

Should I feel cheated?  We have one holiday less on our calendars and our holiday tally is already a bit sparse compared to some countries.   By law, Europeans get a minimum four week vacation -- many take the month of August off -- yes, the month -- and get a lengthy Christmas vacation as well.  You have to work at many American companies for years to accrue that much time off. 

But that's another rant.  Back to the holiday at hand.

So it's one day.  Fine. Live with it.  But is it Lincoln and Washington we celebrate or is it all presidents?  And how exactly are we to celebrate?  When someone says "Happy Presidents' Day" I feel like there should be balloons and confetti -- maybe a small red, white and blue gift of some kind.  There are no traditions to generate the "happy" part.  

Perhaps we could initiate a  national pilgrimage to Mt. Rushmore where we contemplate what democracy actually means.  Sounds a tad too PBS though.  Add a concert, a brutal competitive sport, scantily clad cheerleaders, a barbecue and beer to broaden the appeal  and we may be onto something. 

Meanwhile, until we can pull it off, go shopping.  Whether you're a president, a veteran or a descendant of St. Patrick, it's how we celebrate most holidays anyway.  Get out there and buy something.

Take a Seat, Please

My current nomination for most challenging job?  Designing a one-size-fits-all-behinds chair.  This after a recent visit to a coffee shop where I lost a battle with what appeared to be a perfectly decent looking piece of furniture. 

My demands for a comfy chair are simple.  I would gladly sacrifice "soft" to be able to lean back and still have my feet touch the floor.  As a short person, I can attest that 'tis a rare chair that offers this basic human right.

The chair in question was designed by the same guy who gave us the rack.  If I sat back, my legs actually, well, dangled.  Since the edge of the seat was rounded like a pizza crust,  if I sat forward I felt like a canary balancing on a perch.  

I fidgeted like a two year old and contorted like a Cirque acrobat trying to settle in.  Surely this chair had it in for my backside.

I was mentally designing my body for next lifetime --- long legs, please --- when all became right in the cafe world.  One of the big overstuffed armchairs called to me and I pounced. Well, maybe pounced isn't the right word since by then I'd lost all feeling in my above mentioned dangling legs. 

Perhaps throwing your newspaper at the chair with a cry of "dibs" violates proper coffee shop etiquette but my tush and I were desperate.  Ahhh, now this is a chair!

Word Origins for $200, Alex

'Word Origins for $200, Alex' would certainly have put me in the minus column guessing the etymology of  "funk".

Based on no information whatsoever, I just assumed "funk" -- as in low, depressed mood -- came from the counter culture of the drug addled sixties.  Scored some bad stuff, now am in a funk.  One little syllable that simply exudes description.

Well, I was at least a hundred years off the mark.

I'm an avid fiction reader.  I like to get lost in a contemporary novel or two, then read a classic just to keep things balanced.

I'm currently reading Flaubert's "Sentimental Education", a morality tale of modern Parisian life in which the unheroic hero tries to fit into upper class society.  He earns a few francs, loses a few.  He loves her, loves her not.

Not a great story but I'm invested now and won't put it down until I find out what happens to the protagonist.
You may think I digress, but it's because of this novel that my thoughts went to "funk" at all.

During one of these hard times, the hero admits to being in a funk.  In the next chapter, his friend asks him what he's going to do about getting out of the funk he's in.

Funk?  A novel published in 1869 using words right out of the Haight Ashbury?  The ol' synapses were immediately askew.  Off to my trusty dictionary I went to find that people walking the cobblestone lanes of Flanders originally coined the word.

I know the Flemish produced some famous painters. Now I can thank them for their contribution to the American vocabulary as well.

Sick to my Stomach

Heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes -- all top priority health problems in our country.  But if you watch TV or movies it appears that Americans have gigantic gastrointestinal issues as well.  Why else is there an abundance of vomiting on the big and small screen?

Who, I ask, finds this in any way funny except perhaps teenage boys?  I suppose there's a few million utterly immature men to be added as well, but let's save that for another time.  Throw in a few flatulence and boob jokes and you've got a hit.

Who, I ask, creates this stuff?  Guys who recently were teenage boys and, again, those utterly immature men? Gee, no one's barfed in this episode yet. Let's write it in.

Look sick, hold your belly, run to the bathroom  -- period.  Most viewers are quite capable of  filling in the blank here, including sound effects, since we've all been there, done that, got the proverbial t-shirt.  No need to overdue it with attempted realism.

It's so typically Hollywood. Watch the BBC and you won't see the Brits with their heads in the loo.

BUT  WAIT!  NOOOOO!  I wrote this on Saturday but was made a liar Sunday evening when the BBC actor says he's not feeling well and....well you can take if from there.  I stand corrected and horribly upset at that last bastion of  class.

Does Hamlet throw up?  Does Othello upchuck?  Even Ophelia, with all her herbs and flitting about, doesn't get nauseated.  Shakespeare wrote something like 36 plays and I don't recall one puking scene among them -- comedies or tragedies.  

Of course TV and most movies aren't fine art, but do they have to be so tasteless?  The whole trend makes me sick to my stomach.

When the Venue Doesn't Matter....

Looking for an unusual venue for a wedding reception, anniversary celebration or birthday party?  Something that won't max out your bank account, but a place your guests will remember? 

Call your local funeral home.

According to an item in the recent "AARP Bulletin", eight percent of funeral homes added party planning to their list of services in 2010.   You have to admit they know how to put on an event and you can only hope they can think outside the box.   (Sorry, but it just slipped out and, well, I kind of like it so....)

Invitations might send shock waves through the guest list.  After all, the Guiding Light Memorial Chapel doesn't exactly send a message of frivolity and an open bar.  On the other hand, you could wow them with the flower arrangements.

Two bits of advice:

•  Don't sign up for the hair and make-up service lest you look like one of their more regular clients. 
•  If this is your wedding, pass on the hearse rental.  Talk about starting off on the wrong foot. 

And add this to the plus column -- turn the music up as loud as you like and par-tay.  The other residents won't complain about the noise.  

The Demise of My Comfort Cupcakes

Ready for a stroll down memory lane?  Okay if I wax nostalgic while we walk? 

Think elementary school lunch time.  We retrieve our lunch boxes (mine had Dale Evans on it) from the cloak room, sit at our desks, mumble a quick Grace and dig in.  In my case there were no surprises: a bologna sandwich on Wonder Bread, a few carrots and, for dessert, a Hostess Cupcake or Twinkie. 

Lots of my classmates loved the Twinkie, but I was a Cupcake kid.  They tasted good, but I found little room for creativity while eating a Twinkie.  The Cupcake on the other hand..... 

Here's my routine.  Notice I write in the present tense because they're still a part of my life.  No, not every day at lunch, but every so often when I'm feeling sad -- or just utterly fed up eating tasteless bran muffins.

Back to the Cupcake.  First, flip it so the icing is face down.  Eat the cake around the cream filling. Exercise a little restraint and avoid sticking your tongue into the cake for a taste of the cream.  After all the cake is eaten, then lick said filling.  Finally, savor the chocolate frosting. 

I did this as a kid in the lunchroom.  I still do it, but in the privacy of my kitchen.  I confess my guilty pleasure.  Embarrassed?  No, more hypocritical since I generally profess to be the tofu queen. 

Granted, the Cupcakes don't taste quite the same, but that doesn't make me enjoy them any less. Why spoil it all by reading the ingredient and nutrition information on the package.  I'm aware that that creamy inside I so love has never seen the inside of a dairy, but let's not burst all my bubbles, okay?

The sad news is that the company that produces all these childhood foods has filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection.  You'd think in a country that suffers from an obesity epidemic, business would be booming, but apparently consumers are buying more whole grain breads and healthier desserts.

If they're going to stop making my beloved Cupcakes, I should stock up.  Their shelf life is probably longer than mine.

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By the way, I know the product names are trademarked but, techie that I am, I don't know how to make that little sign.

And the Winner Is.....

Here we are, less than two weeks into the new year and my brain is already saturated by presidential campaign news.  I use the word hesitantly since most of what we hear is conjecture, trivia and predictions by the pundits who enjoy the feeding frenzy that an election provides. 

Imagine being a citizen of Iowa, generally a quiet, peaceful state.  Your daily routine consists of a relaxing breakfast at the local diner before going to work. Suddenly you're surrounded by media sticking microphones in your face while you're trying to pour the maple syrup.  Who will you vote for?  What do you think about...?  Do you believe candidate so and so can win?  If it's not the media, it's the candidates themselves vying for attention.  By now your pancakes are cold.

Thankfully these people are now in New Hampshire interrupting someone else's breakfast.

Unfortunately, it doesn't matter what state is hosting.  The mud slinging, name calling and finger pointing don't change. The holier than thou attitudes and pontificating continue. These guys ought to empty their pockets of stones, since they all live in glass mansions. 

One candidate wins and becomes the media darling.  Next week, he loses and becomes an also-ran, overtaken by the latest flavor of the month.

This entire process is far too drawn out and way too expensive.  I propose we change the system and adopt the "American Idol" model.   Each week there's a topic -- foreign affairs, the economy, the environment.  Each week candidates give a brief presentation on said topic. Each week viewers vote for their favorite.  Contestants are ranked weekly and the final vote determines who will face off in the general election.

Think about it.  Six weeks of interactive TV or six months slogging through primaries. Show of hands?