Sunday, February 12, 2017

Husband + Cousin = COUSBAND



So, know that you know that where we were in Utah for the RootsTech conference, you might as well what fun we had at the Family Research Library on Temple Square.

The library building itself is smallish, and frankly outdated, BUT, and that is a BIG BUT, they have modernized the library's welcome center into a multi-media extravaganza for genealogists.

If you have a family tree posted to FamilySearch, which is the LDS Church FREE, wonderful, website (Yes, you have register and sign in, but it is free and amazing), you sign in and you get a smart tablet.  There are stations around the library where you can work with ginormous touch-screens to get basic information on where your surname is from, pose in virtual period clothing for free images of you living as an ancestor of yours would have lived, etc.  You can even record, a la StoryCorps-like answers to questions, etc.

BUT, the most fascinating station is the first one you come to.  Stick your tablet to the giant magnet next to a screen and you and your ancestors come up.  So do your relationships to others who are visiting and uploaded their trees.  And you can select their pictures and see if you are related to them.

This is very cool.  A little loosey goosey, too.  Because in genealogy, it's the *proof* that matters.  And these lineages are based on information submitted by you and augmented by others research as submitted by them.  So it's kind of fun, but you could never submit this to make the DAR, SAR or even most small town genealogy societies.  I mean it's dazzling, but far from the certain truth.

Into this walks Cookie and the Husband.   So we each get signed in, we each get tablets - mine was No. 1 out of the shelves and draws full of these, and off we go.  So I attach my tablet to one large screen monitor, and the husband attaches his and up and we started exploring.  And as each person coming in joins the network you can see who is and who is not related.

Now, I have to confide, almost everyone I connected with was ninth cousin, or beyond, meaning our connections date to the late 17th century or early 18th century at best.  And if you start connecting through with people from the 1400's, well then, you are most certainly related to lots and lots of people because the world was a much small place.

So I choose my Husband's picture.  Why, I don't know, but I do.  Now on Ancestry DNA, we are not related.  There is no way.  Our DNA doesn't match.  But that only goes back eight generations or so.

We, I touched the picture and almost fell off my high heels.

Eleventh cousins, once removed.

Well.  Shit.

This is a relationship that isn't even on the Canon Law chart, which stops at 10th Cousins.   In astronomical terms, our cousin relationship is the genealogical equivalent of Pluto.

Still, this was cause for much fun and merriment.  The line drops for husband on his father's side, and on my side drops through my maternal 2x great grandmother's side.

I am not allowed to call him my "Cousin", but I am allowed to call him my "Cousband".

But never during sex.

And seeing that we are not Snuffy Smith or Little Abner fans, it wouldn't come out during our fantasy roleplayings.  And since neither of us is in to that, well, so much for roleplaying at all.  

Now to prove the lines.

Could be fun, to find out how much of a kissing cousin my husband is.

Saturday, February 11, 2017

Of Sporrans and a Merkin

Ask her about her merkin.  I dare you.

So, you are most likely wondering, where has Cookie been.

If I told you Salt Lake City, Utah, would you believe me?

There are three things that you can do Salt Lake City this time of the year.  One of them is ski.  The other is attend the world's largest genealogy conference, RootTech.   The third involves having body parts anointed with oils in the LDS Temple.

I can assure you that I do not ski, and I have not been anointed with oil, or anything else.

So yes, I have been at the largest genealogy conference on the face of the earth, along with an estimated 29,999 other hobbyists and professionals.   And I am not making that number up.  The Salt Palace Convention Center is one of the largest convention centers in the United States, and it was packed.

And if any of you has ever been to a large national convention, then you know that there are never enough places to sit and hide from the maddening crowds.

I found such a place in a booth operated by by some friends on Facebook and plopped down.  While I was eating a sandwich people popped in and others walked by.

At one point, a handsome Laddie from the tour Scotland Booth stopped by in his kilt and tweeds, looking rather natty.  Another friend of the people in the booth stopped by.

"That," says I, "is an impressive sporran he has there."

The man standing next to me said "That?  That is a merkin."

Now, Cookie knows that regular readers know what a sporran is, and I damn well know for certain that all y'all know what a merkin is.   And forty lashes with a limp noodle if you don't know.   Still, Cookie was a bit caught off guard.

So this handsome man and I banter back and forth a bit, much like "Sporran!"  "No, it's a merkin!"

Finally, Cookie whispers into his ear what it is.

And he was a bit gobsmacked.

"Don't believe me, look it up."

He did.

"They come in heart shapes, and look!  A shamrock!" says the handsome young man, a bit of shock peppered with wonderment.

Aye, brings to meaning to "Lucky Charms".

"And look at that one," I pointed out.  It was shaped like an asteroidea.  "Now you and the misses can both have delicate starfishes of your own to play with."

That went over his head.

This encounter included, Cookie has to admit that it was a wonderful experience.  The education was top notch and the people at the conference were wonderful.  The speakers were especially so.   But laughing with friends, new and old, is worth the adventure.

Tomorrow we fly home and can kick out the house sitter and bask in the love of our dogs, our shower, and our own beds.

Just remember, a sporran is worn on the outside, and the merkin is not a sporran.




Saturday, February 4, 2017

Clown Violence Needs to End



So is this cover art for the Mystery of the NUDE NYMPH, or the Unholy Crime of the CHEATING LOVERS?  And what his he poking her with to merit that look?

Monday, January 30, 2017

The legacy of Eleanor Borton



Long time readers of this blog will know that Cookie loves three things, and one of them ain't live theater.

Cookie loves a good story. Cookie loves cars. And Cookie loves smart, funny women.

One of the cars that Cookie loves is the iconic Jordan Playboy, a high style, bold colored car manufactured by the Jordan Automobile Company of Cleveland, Ohio.   Though plain by today's standards, the Playboy combined high grade materials, a colorful palette - when almost ever mass produced car was Japan black lacquer, and a light body with excellent handling properties.  The whole thing was powered by a Continental Motors six cylinder motor.

What made the Playboy a hot commodity was the web of words that Edward S. Jordan (Ned Jordan, to his friends) wove around the vehicle and the aura he cast around its attributes.  In an era when cars were sold on durability and engineering, Jordan was the first man to sell cars based on style, color and personal style.

While the Playboy is best remembered for Jordan's ground breaking ad "Somewhere West of Laramie" which featured prose, not the car, its price or its specifics.  It is the story of how Jordan got the idea for the Playboy that is the stuff of F. Scott Fitzgerald tales.

Jordan had been building his cars in Cleveland, which in the 1920s was second only to Detroit in automobile companies headquartered and built including the Jordan, Chandler and Peerless.  One night in 1918, he and his wife left their East Cleveland estate and traveled east to the Mayfield Country Club, on Mayfield Road beyond what is today South Euclid.  Arriving, the party was in full swing with jazz, swanky clothing and liquor poured generously.

As the night progressed, Ned found himself dancing with one Eleanor Borton, a Cleveland area socialite, and good friends with all the best families, including the Seiberling's of Akron, who owned Goodyear Rubber.  Borton was besties with Harriet Seiberling, and would be Harriett's maid of honor.  When Elanor's time at the alter came, Harriett would return the favor.  Borton had connections.  She also had a brilliant mind - she was attending Brown University at the time -  a healthy sense of self, and a well known sense of humor and wit.

As the dance progressed and Eleanor ask how the car business was going, she said to Ned that she needed a car, but that none was making one that she would consider.   "They're all too drab, too dark, too big or too small."

Ned Jordan, from his autobiography, tells what happened next:

“Dancing one night at the Mayfield Country Club, Cleveland, with a real outdoor girl, Eleanor Borton.  ‘Why don’t you build a swanky roadster for the girl who loves to swim and paddle and shoot, and for the boy who loves the roar of the cutout?' asked Eleanor.  ‘Girl, you’ve given me an idea worth a million dollars!  Thanks for the best dance I’ve ever had.  I’m leaving for New York.’ ”  
And with that, Ned Jordan was collecting his wife, his coat and car and making haste to New York on the first train he could hop out of Cleveland.

The rest, is automotive history.  The Playboy was not fancy, it wasn't race ready, in fact, it was an assembled car, like all of Ned Jordan's cars.  But it came in a myriad of colors, and plush upholstery colors.  The finest leathers, fittings and tolerances.  It was easy to turn, brake and shift.  It was a car at home in the city as well as on the back roads.   But it sold well enough to give Jordan a product with national appeal.

That appeal was cast into American Advertising history when Ned Jordan penned his Somewhere West of Laramie ad copy.  With no real picture of the car, no mention of its cost, its attributes, Jordan spun a web of golden words that lit the imagination of the American public, and started the revolution in American advertising that made Mad Men possible.



The copy simple read:

"Somewhere west of Laramie there’s a bronco-busting, steer-roping girl who knows what I’m talking about. She can tell what a sassy pony, that’s a cross between greased lightning and the place where it hits, can do with eleven hundred pounds of steel and action when he’s going high, wide and handsome.
The truth is—the Playboy was built for her."

In subsequent ads, Jordan added the following verbiage to the original text:
"Built for the lass whose face is brown with the sun when the day is done of revel and romp and race. She loves the cross of the wild and the tame. There’s a savor of links about that car—of laughter and lilt and light—a hint of old loves—and saddle and quirt. It’s a brawny thing—yet a graceful thing for the sweep o’ of the Avenue. Step into the Playboy when the hour grows dull with things dead and stale.
"Then start for the land of real living with the spirit of the lass who rides, lean and rangy, into the red horizon of a Wyoming twilight."

Ned Jordan was less a car man and more advertising man, and that is exactly how he lived his life after the final Jordan was built in 1931.

And what of Eleanor Borton, the woman who set in motion a revolutionary idea that car could be nimble, stylish and rugged?

For starters, Ned Jordan handed Borton the keys to one of the first Playboy's off the assembly line, stylish in red to match her lips, butter tanned leather that was smooth to the touch.  Well, Eleanor finished her education to Brown, returned to Cleveland.  She married Rudolph Garfield, the grandson of slain United States President James Garfield.  Though the marriage only lasted until Garfield's premature death, it was a happy one that produced two children.  Following his death, Borton went into business for herself, repairing and refinishing antique furniture.

In 1951 she decided that having successfully run a business, she would like to try her hand at running a city, so she ran for Mayor of Mentor, Ohio, and clobbered her two opponents.  She was so popular, that when she ran for reelection, she ran unopposed.

Eleanor also saw opportunities for Mentor beyond the immediate needs of the town.  She successfully leveraged her friendships from socialite days to buy the estate of her mother in law's family - the Newell's for Mentor's use as its first major, all purpose park and recreation area.   To accomplish this, she gained the support of Leonard C. Hanna, a philanthropic industrialist who helped to underwrite the project.  But Eleanor also knew that if it was wholly given, the town residents would have no investment in the project.  So part of the purchase was made through subscriber shares.

My favorite Eleanor story, besides the encounter with Jordan, was when she heard that the local Episcopel Church was building a new church, but it hadn't enough more for a steeple.  Said Eleanor, "It'll look like a garage!"  So Eleanor studied to get her real estate license, listed and sold three homes and paid for the steeple - $5,000 - out of her commissions.  That's how you get things done.




In 1980, Mentor dedicated Newell park in her honor.  A surprised, ever humble Eleanor Borton Garfield said "Usually they do this type of thing once you are dead, but here I am getting this honor.  That is what I find so extraordinary about this.  I'm alive and get to see my name on a park.  That is a 'hoot' as we used to say."

But Eleanor Borton also deserves to be recognized as the muse for Ned Jordan.  What was said on that dance floor at the country club ninety-eight years ago changed what cars were made and how they were sold.  On top of everything else, she was one in a million.

Eleanor Borton Garfield died in 1994.  She evidently passed her sense of humor to her son, Borton Garfield who rests a few feet from his parents.  His stone reads "A PUN THIS GRAVE HE RESTS."

She is for me, ever the sparkling young lady at the country club dance, ready for a good time, but not naughty time, just one in which she can smile and flirt; the proto-flapper, smart and saucy with verve and zest for life.

Friday, January 27, 2017

Oh, Mr. Grant: The Oprah Tyler Moore Tribute



So, last night CBS was scheduled to air a tribute to the late Mary Tyler Moore (MTM), the beloved actress who gave us Laura Petrie and Mary Richards, and a whole slew of performances (Change of Habit, excepted) that endeared her to the American psyche like no other actress comedienne since Lucille Ball.

When Lucy died, CBS put together a top notch tribute on Ball, the actress, comedienne mother and business woman.

So this should have been a slam dunk.

Cookie's heart began to sink when he heard Gayle King's name as the host, and having seen the Oprah interviews following MTM's death, Cookie had a very, very bad feeling.

And like Donald Trump in the White House, that bad feeling came true.

After a very brief minute or two over view about MTM's career and heart ache - yes, a whole minute or two, Gayle King drove the tribute into the Oprah Zone.

Before you knew it, she was showing more tape of Oprah pretending to be Mary Tyler Moore, than she was showing of Mary Tyler Moore.

This went on for nearly a half-fucking-hour.

And thus, Oprah Tyler Moore was born.

Cookie left after 15 minutes because he knows what happens when Gayle and Oprah come together.

The husband, on the other hand, wanted to give it a fair shake.  At 25 after the hour, he shut down the TV.

OK, I am willing to accept that Oprah is the single most powerful woman in media.  And she owns half of Weight Watchers - and by the way, she didn't look lean and fit last night - and that Oprah carries a lot of weight in media. And that she earned her position, and deserves to be an oracle.

But seriously CBS.  A half fucking hour of Oprah?

This begged the question.  Where were Cloris Leachman, Dick Van Dyke, Carl Reiner, Rose Marie, Valerie Harper, Georgia Engle, Bob Newhart, Ed Asner and for Godsakes BETTY WHITE in that first half hour?

Now granted, Paul Sand, meh, maybe not.

THESE were the people who are alive who worked with MTM in her series days.  Even Robert Wagner is alive, and he starred in "Just Don't Stand There" with her.  Even RJW would have been happy to be there for MTM.

But Oprah?

This begs the second question - could they not find more examples of her talent when there are 12 seasons of programs?  Could we have not enjoyed at least one extended scene?

Winfrey? Winfrey? Winfrey?

C'mon CBS - five minutes with Oprah would have been fine.  But thirty fucking minutes?  Who scripted this bullshit?  The Trump White House?

Let us hope that ABC's 20/20 eschews Oprah during its tribute tonight.   If she show up there, the screams you will hear will be Cookie, leaping from the basement window.

As for your CBS, you fucked last night up on on your own.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Kellyanne Conway doesn't nail it.



Cookie hates to admit it, but in the land of politics, no one currently does a better job of controlling a conversation than Kellyanne Conway.

Love her, or hate her, she is a very talented professional at steering the conversation, dominating it, and redirecting it.

Now we are not going to talk about Gucci Coat that made her look like a nut cracker, which matches he personality.  No, its her grooming that catches our eyes.

Now, about 30 years ago, Cookie worked in a financial institution and oversaw a line of tellers that interacted with the customers.  For the most part, they were all kick ass awesome tellers.  Every now and then you come across a teller who wasn't so great. And we had to let one go when she panicked over a very old twenty dollar bill and called a customer a counterfeiter.  (NOTE: If you ever get a $20 bill and the Truman balcony isn't on the picture of the White House, check the date of said $20 bill.  If it was made before President Truman was in office (1945-1953), then it won't have said balcony on it.)

One of the best tellers, and a consistent whiz bang at balancing, helping other tellers out of balance balance their drawers, and kept the neatest, cleanest cash drawer I have seen (during surprise audits) was a woman with three male names, Mickey Scotty James.

Mickey's work was beyond reproach.  She was excellent.  She was reliable.  She was impeccably dressed.  She knew our product line backwards and frontwards, inside out and she was an amazing cross seller.

But I began to notice something about Mickey Scotty James.  Her handwriting was beyond horrible. She wrote like my grandfather printed in the ninth decade of his life. Jittery, jagged, ragged letters spelled out words that drifted about the page like a drunk sailor trying to find his way back to the dock.

And there were her hands, and her nails in particular. These were nails that even Madge would throw up her hands and walk away from.  No amount of soaking in it would fix them.

She would gnaw at her nails like a nervous fiend.  They were stubby, and almost down to the quick. When she lacquered them, they looked like the lacquer was allowed to partially dry before she brushed them out.

Now I later found out while talking with Mickey Scotty James, that she had a horrific upbringing, suffered child abuse from a nun who clobbered her for the slightest imperfection, and so she excelled at work, she was filled with self doubts.  So the biting the nails was a safety valve of sorts, it relieved the pressure of what she had to do to get through the day.

And there were other perfectionists that I have met in life who have something about them that weighs out that craving for perfection.  My friend Carl dated a high profile tech CEO who was at the top of her game, but would retreat to a room in her apartment for an hour each night where, as he later found out, she would hug a stuffed animal and suck her thumb.  Frankly if I had her job, I would do the same.  But Carl struggled with this, and while the relationship continued on for a while, he couldn't see past it.

What does this have to do with Kellyanne Conway?



And lov at her face, her hair and hands.  Tragic for a woman born in 1967.  I kid you naught,


Well, today I witnessed her "Alternative Facts" meltdown on Meet The Press, and was looking for how the media covered it.  And the picture of Kellyanne checking her hair in the picture above shows Cookie something I have never considered.

It looks like a bit of Mickey Scotty James.

Look at her nails.  Those are gnawed down.

So my question is - is one of Washington's biggest bullies filled with questions of self doubt? Is she over come with stresses?  Does she know, deep down inside that she is on thin ice in the role she has picked up and that this pony she attached herself too cannot go the distance?

Or does he just have a hygiene problem?

Whatever it is, Cookie thinks its sign that there is something going on within Kellyanne that is causing her a great deal of conflict.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Let the three ring circus begin


We have Elephants in the White House, so why not a Clown at the Inaugural?





And the best part?

1. It's Gucci designed - so Smellyanne used a foreign designer when her boss is bullying about bragging about forcing U.S. Manufacturers to stay in the U.S.

2) The buttons are brass CAT HEADS.

3) You read No. 2 correctly - CAT HEADS

4) This is a Saturday Night Live sketch in real life.


Kevin the wonder terrier...



...is a bit blue over today's events.


Saturday, January 14, 2017

I am making plans for the Inaugural



So I guess we are out of miracles and POTUS-e will soon be sworn in as the POTUS, and Cookie has resolved not to normalize it, but at the same time, Cookie plans to stay busy, stay offline and tackle all the unpleasant bits and pieces of life.

So starting at about 11 am, all of the TV's in the house go off.

At 12:30, I shall hang the American flag outside, upside down.

At 12:35, I shall begin cleaning all of the bathrooms in Cookie Manor

At 1:35, I shall break for lunch, tuning the TV to TCM for what I hope is some escapism.

The rest of the afternoon will be spent on the computer cleaning up genealogy files and scanning pictures.

For the rest of the night, my husband I will light a fire and honor Denmark and its tradition of "hygee" - that is staying safe, warm and cozy.

Verily, the world will change by the next morning and we will be able to wake up and see what the new POTUS is doing or has done to us.

Look, I know that the situation looks dire, but now is the time to do the following:


  1. Take a deep breath and not to panic. 
  2. FIGHT for the rights of a free press, one that is not muzzled by the White House
  3. Befriend someone who is in one of the targeted minority.  Let them know that you care.
  4. If you have children, explain to them that they are safe.  Kid pick up on the stress in adults.  Don't weird kids out. 
  5. Don't engage in a debate with a Trumpet.  Like the musical instrument played by someone who doesn't know what they are doing, it can be loud, obnoxious and deafening.  
  6. Watch what you say on Facebook and to whom you are speaking.  It is not about being afraid to be truthful - stay truthful - just know your audience, because there are people itching for a fight and no one wins in an online cat fight. 
  7. Support the people who are supporting the people of this nation.  Legislators who are taking on the tough issues.  
  8. Try not to turn this into an us v. we thing.  Trust me - there are a whole lot of people who voted for the POTUS-e who did it because they were swept up on the anti Hillary thing more than they were pro-Trump.   They can be led back to the side of facts, rationality and voter sanity.
  9. Get involved in local politics.  Why local?  Because it is true that all politics are local.  Local parties select the delegates to national conventions.  Local political parties get the work done.  Local parties control the state party.  And the state party controls the roll of national parties.  GET INVOLVED NOW. 
And MOST IMPORTANTLY - we have to prepare for a difficult two to four years.  Remember that. 

  And remember, if the POTUS insults someone, something, an issue, or whatever, support it.   If it pisses him off, then it must be good.

Being a good American means more than beating ones chest and chanting USA, USA, USA.  It means standing up for what is righteous and good for all people in this country.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

From Fascism to Fetishism in one day



So, here I am in The Ohio's.

Minding my own business.

Visiting and aged and ill cousin, doing God's work in bringing him some company, a cup of tea, his hearing aids, you know.

And then he has cousin Deb and I go to the basement and find every photograph and safeguard them.

At 4 PM, I get in the car to head back to the Columbus, so I can start home in the morning.

I have been in a news vacuum.

My mind is tired, exhausted.  It is raining.  and the radio is tuned to NPR, in a low volume mode.

I hear the NPR broadcasters talking about "golden showers" and Trump.

"Oh, for Christs sake on a cracker," I think.  Is this man planning on installing golden plumbing fixtures in the White House?  What the fuck.

And then it dawns on me that they are not talking about Fascism, but Fetishism.

Could this be true?

I stopped in Waldo, Ohio.  Where's Waldo?  You're on a computer, look it up on Google maps.

And they have a new Duchess Store in Waldo.  And while I am waiting in line to buy six pounds of Ballreich's potato chips, a diet soda and V8, the guy behind me starts grumbling about the "Libtard in the Prius with Hillary sticker."

I turn around and said "That would be me."  He seemed a bit shocked that I would acknowledge that I was the libtard, but no amount of schooling from me is going to educate this idiot.  

And I ask this village idiot, "Hey, you look like someone I could ask about this.  What do you think about this news about the President elect and this "golden" thing going on?"

"You mean them showers?" asks he.  "The God Damn Libtards in the Ci of A got this thing wrong.  Putin is sending him a shower for the White House."

Really?

"Trump is a man of God, he ain't no creep."

Really?

"Yeah.  You ever seen his penthouse?  Gold everywhere.  The man has classic tastes."

I pay for the bags of chips heading back to Maryland, my soda and the V8.

Well thanks, says I, for helping to set me straight.

"You know," he says.  "From the look of your car, I thought you were one of those funny woman.  The ones that look like men who like woman."

To fuck with this twit, I said "Oh, yeah.  I am a Lesbian.  You give your woman a big kiss from me."

So instead of getting all ginned up thinking about what could be, I am going to hold my opinion and any gloating.

Even if it is true, Trump isn't going to give up this easily.   He is not going quietly and I am still preparing for the worst, and hoping for the best.






Monday, January 9, 2017

For now, a rest pit



I gotta give it to PennDOT.

They really are trying to make these rest plaza's more sanitary, in the disease sense of the word.  Lots and lots-o-choices.

It used to be when you were on the turnpike, you got lousy cafeteria food topped with Jell-O Jewels.

Now, you have choices.

It's not like the New Jersey Turnpike Southbound, which is Chris Christie's "F-U" to travelers.

No, hear instead of state workers cooking up state prison grade chow and feeding it to you, you get state workers being paid by Corporations and serving you prison grade chow.

They do quite a traffic in Belvita, Peanut Butter and Cheese Crackers and Freshen Up (the gum that goes squirt!)  Although the double header Chinese Buffet serving pizza and taco's looks interesting.

Me?  I'm doing fine.  The worst part of the trip is Baltimore to the Allegheny Tunnel.  Then you coast into West Virginia and Ohio.   The Prius is getting 46.6 miles to the gallon.   That makes me feel superior to everyone else.

Maybe a post tomorrow.  Maybe not.  Most defiantly by Thursday.  If not, then look on Friday.

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Its Curtains for the Curtains

You have no idea about my shame. 


Cookie HATES packing.

In my mother's head I hear her saying: "You'll need a fresh change of clothes for each day, plus one. Stick to neutrals. Take your own pillow.  Take only nice underwear."

Aw, Ma, do I have too?

Unlike Mr. TJB who packs clothing with style and flair, that is not my modus operendi on this trip.

I am going shoe shopping when I get to the Ohio's.  Their DSW's are bigger, better and have real winter shoes.

The weather will be cold to mild cold.  Rain on Tuesday or Wednesday.  Ugh.

And I need to find a couple David Sedaris books to listen to while I drive in the public radio dead zone, which is Hagerstown to Washington, Pennsylvania.

I have picked up two errands while I am back in the Ohio's.  ONE is looking for drape material at Fabric Farms.  I know, I know, the name, brings up all images of ducks and geese, and "Krafty Krafters" but you cannot beat the deals on gorgeous interior design fabrics, or what they charge for custom lined pinch pleated drapes.  You can get two sets of double hung window drapery for the cost of a single window any place else.  The workmanship is beyond compare.   And the nasty old curtains that came with the house disintegrate every time you open and close them.

And Cookie is not a fan of the nude window look that designers love.  No, no, no.  I mean who lives like that, in a city?   In the summer, if you go all Grey Gardens in the 1940s, well then.  Yes.  But in the winter?  No, winter is for nesting and getting all snugly.

My life is not a drama for all to watch.  You can read about it here, but you cannot watch it through my windows.  Moreover, I have a clean window fetish.  There can be dog toys all over the place and tufts of dog hair rolling about like tumbleweed, but clean windows are a must.

I have tried looking, everywhere, for premade, but its either Kute and Kunty lacey bullshit, with flounces and swags, or its this "grommet" bullshit.

And this house is a style that requires something more substantial than mini blinds.  This ain't no tin can in a mobile home park.

My house is a god damn elegant 1920's, pre-crash, Dutch Colonial, in a fancy schmancy dignified neighborhood where the home owner's shit don't stink.  You got that.  This house has an open stair hall, massive sun room and two floors of fucking bedrooms.  That's right, you got your living rooms on one floor, and above that two floors of bedrooms. Boo-yah! And the cherry on top?  Four fucking toilets. And I have pooped in everyone.

And it demands not curtains, but full on hard core draperies.   Yeah, you like that draper action.

Anyhow, with Fabric Farms you pick out the material, take a swatch back and then phone in your order and the drapes appear about a month later.  And the drapes are TITS!

Wish me luck.  Because if Cookie can't find fabric, then the people in this house may be the naked, and nude.








Saturday, January 7, 2017

West With the Night



And we are on the road again, to the Ohio's.   This time to Central and North Central regions.

Received word from a cousin that another cousin, in his mid 80's is nearing the end of his life.

No need for sympathies.

I love Jim - he is as good and gentle and bright and kind as they come.  He's also 84.  So when he transitions to the next big adventure, it will be for good reason, and a well deserved rest.

And I am going now because I want to spend some more time with this lovely man, his wonderful wife and our mutual cousin, instead of waiting and go back and give another eulogy.  2017 is about the living.  

Do I need to go?  On one hand, no.  The average person would say that he and I are far enough in age apart, and generations that a card would do.   My mother would say "Save the gas."

One the other hand, 2016 was such a year of being beat up by fates, Cookie has said "screw that!"

Cookie has decided that if you wait for good things to happen, they will pass you by.  So 2017 is the year of going and doing and finding enjoyment instead of sitting around and waiting for it.

This of course means driving, which means winter roads and ugh, no one likes that.  So while I normally would jump into the car and away we go, there is some inkling of the weather, and I commit to doing this in a sane, careful manner.   Which means the seven hour trip may last 10, with more stops and slower speeds.

And because it gets dark sooner at night, it also means driving to Ohio means going west with the night, which by the way is the title of a wonderful memoir by Beryl Markham, the Anglo-African pilot who was the first female pilot to cross the Atlantic flying east to west.  Of course, I plan arriving safely - poor Beryl had to ditch her flight in Nova Scotia.  Still, if you haven't read it, go find it and enjoy it.

So I am up in one day, spend the day with Jim, and then I will return on Wednesday.

Friday, January 6, 2017

This epiphany is not my catharsis.



Well kids, do you know what I LOVE to do more than anything? Take down the Christmas tree!

Not.

And the tree in the picture isn't even this years tree.  Its the tree from two years ago, when we were in the old house.   Before the dogs destroyed the upholstery on the antique settee.

While two can put up a tree, only one at a time can take it down.  Other wise its a two hour encounter of confusion and chaos.

I know which boxes the fragile red ornaments go in.  I know that there were four, now there are three.

I also know that if I find two of them, the husband will find the third and wander off with the box saying "Did we break two more of these?"

So tomorrow, it falls to me to take it down so everything ends up in the correct boxes, then it gets packed into their tubs, then into the crawl space until next year.

And get this kids, as of today March 25th, the date of the Annunciation is only 77 days in the future.

Such is the circle of life.

Friday, December 30, 2016

Separated at Birth - Maryland's Governor and Wormtail

You never see them in the same place at the same time.



In an article published today Maryland's Governor, Larry Hogan, who has a 30" neck, who told said that he would never vote for Trump called Vice President Elect, Mike Pence one of his very best friends.  And though allegedly voteless for Trump, he has apparently scored tickets to the President Elect's Inaugural.

Which gives this Separated at Birth image a bit more of a "bite", and conferring upon Hogan the appropriate title of Wormtail, and all that comes with it.


Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Another death, and a story about afterlife



News has filtered through the ether that Debbie Reynolds has passed away, just about 24 hours from the passing of her daughter Carrie Fisher.  They are reunited in the hereafter.

While 2016 has been a one for the records for deaths, when I heard of Debbie's passing, I am reminded of the events of November 26-27, 2011, when something similar, much closer to home happened.

I have written back then of the events in 2011, just check the annual index at the side.  You can't mess with those dates.  Maybe, if you read this, you'll see what I mean.

First off, you know by now that Cookie has a very deep respect for genealogy - its is my passion and my obsession.  And I was raised at my mother's knee, so I was her captive audience for all the tales of her youth, and all of the farming families in that community where she grew up.

By the time I was 10, I knew those families well enough that its wasn't much of a stretch for me to step back from 1972 to 1932 in my imagination.   Mother's roots run deep in that part of Ohio, and in eight generations, we are either related, or family friends.  Their were no strangers in that part of our state.

But, I am my father's son as well, and that means I am a skeptic, and I have an even shorter view of bullshit and bullshitters than the old man had.

But back in that November, 2011, the husband and I were at home, and he had the day off.

I got a call from Karin, who is a distant cousin and a fellow genealogy hobbyist.  She called to say that another woman, Lucille, who was my mothers age, and who was Karin's mother's cousin was at the local hospital as her daughter had had an "episode" and was on a ventilator.  Out the door I flew, as the hospital was just five minutes from our home in Columbus.

Lucille was in her 90s.  On her mother's side, we were related through Mom's paternal grandmother.  On Lucille's father's side - an even more distant connection - but on my mother's paternal grandfather's family.  I knew Lucille growing up because when we would visit my grandfather in the nursing facility he was in at the end of his life, I would also visit Lucille's parents and their eldest daughter Jean, who was paralyzed in an auto accident from the neck down.

Jean was just about 17 when the accident happened in 1937.  Before 1930, sedans built in the US were still built with some wooden sub-members with steel encasing the outside.  Roofs on these sedans had large cutouts on top that were about four by seven feet.  To enclose the roof on these sedans, wooden cross members were factory fitted, and then a canvas top was stretched in place.  Owners then used a dressing on the canvas to keep the fabric weatherproof.  Only custom sedans had full steel tops as it was an expensive stamping given the technology of the 1930s.  It wasn't until 1936  that automobile manufacturers got really serious about making all steel bodies ALL STEEL.  GM came out with its "Turret Top" sedans with steel roofs and everyone else finally gave in.

But the car that Jean was driving was one of those pre "Turret Top" sedans.  And on a Sunday, the three girls were on their way home from church choir practice when the car Jean was driving hit a patch of loose gravel and the car fishtailed into a curve.  The impact was so strong that Jean was flipped out through the canvas roof of the sedan and her body thrown into a barbed wire fence, snapping her neck.

Lucille came too and found her leg bleeding very badly - she took off her belt and tied off her upper thigh and then applied direct pressure.

Only Mary Joan, the 10 year old sister didn't have any visible injury, she was talking, but felt light headed.

Their mother was working in her kitchen when she heard the wreck and she and her husband tore out and down the road.  Other farmers who had heard it were on the site and the sheriff was on his way.

While everyone fussed with Jean and Lucille, Mary Joan started going down hill.  She died shortly after getting to the hospital.  The coroners report showed a ruptured spleen and lacerated liver.

For the rest of her life, Lucille took a backseat to Jean's care.  And when Jean's parents could no longer care for themselves, let alone her, that care fell to Lucille.

And Lucille had her own problems.  He husband, a devilishly handsome man, suffered from debilitating bouts of depression.  Pam, their daughter fought with pyschosis.  And the son that followed Pam was born profoundly retarded, Lucille being exposed to rubella by one of students before she knew she was pregnant.

She had watched her sister die, her son die, her father die, her mother die and her sister.

Pam was all she had left.

That late afternoon in 2011 we sat with Lucille.  Her friends had driven her the sixty miles from home while Pam was life-flighted to Columbus.  The doctors wanted to meet with her and she asked me to join her two friends and herself in the meeting.  We sat, we asked clear questions,  hard questions and we made sure that Lucille heard those questions, and comprehended the answers.

When the doctors left, we were silent.  Lucille began to speak.  She said that she had dreamt about Mary Joan every night of her life after the accident, and that the dreams had stopped after Pam was born.  And she said that the Monday night before, she got up in the middle of the night, which was unusual because she slept through the night soundly, but she got up because something told her to look in on Pam.  So the 90 something mother made her way down the hall and looked in on her 60 something daughter who was sleeping soundly.

"Then I went back to my room and felt like I had to look out the window, I don't know why.  And there, in the next door neighbors front yard, was girl, about ten years old, dressed like Mom and Dad used to dress us in white cotton dresses.  Here hair was bobbed like we used to wear our hair. And she must have been cold.  Why was she out by herself? I opened the window and called to her, but she turned and went into the dark."

Then she got quiet for a minute.  She looked up at me, eyes drilling into me and said "Cookie, you know who that girl was don't you."  It wasn't a question.  It was fact.

And I said, as fact, not looking for something to say but said "It was Mary Joan, come for Pam."

Lucille thought for a minute and said "It was Mary Joan."

Pam died early the next morning, about four hours after coming off the ventilator.   Karin, the cousin who had told me that Pam was at the hospital stayed with her until she was gone.  She also made plans with Lucille to pick her up the following day to go to the funeral home and make arrangements.

That Sunday morning, no one answered the door at Lucille's.  They found her dead, in her chair in the family room.

When I told events of the night that at the hospital during the eulogy, I said that there was no way for me or anyone else to know that Mary Joan came for Pam, and for Lucille as well.

Lucille's life was one of loss and victory over death.  But God in his wisdom gave her sufficient strength to live through what she needed to live through to see the people around her shepherded through their lives, then she could rest.

Perhaps this is what happened with Debbie Reynolds.  Perhaps, it was her job to nurture and protect not only her talent, but the talent of Carrie Fisher too.  With Carrie's departure, Debbie too could pass on.

None of use knows why we are here, how long we'll be here or what our real purpose is.  Sometimes. we're lucky enough to get a hint of what it could be.

I do not believe in ghosts, but I believe in something greater than all of us, just as much as I believe in the reliability of math or science.

In Lucille's life, and her death, and in Mary Joan, I found my answer.

I am grateful to have that veil lifted that one time.

And I hope that Lucille and Debbie are enjoying one and other's company.

Monday, December 26, 2016

Pictures from Your Family Gathering



Your father.  Mention "Hillary" and you get this. 



Your Mother, who says "Now, [INSERT YOUR NAME HERE] was it really necessary - really necessary - to mention Hillary and send your father's blood pressure rocketing skyward?  I swear, sometimes I think that you must be intent on making me widow..."




Kitty Carlisle, who pukes when there are too many people around. 




Your partner's Step Father.  Just don't ask. 




Aunt Rose, the gravel voiced scotch drinker who smokes Lucky Strike's unfilitered.  No one knows how, or if, she is related, but she's known the family for years and is a fixture at every holiday gathering.  And you can't not invite her.  She's worth millions, has no children and she's just your FAVORITE (Cough) aunt there is.  And her laugh is akin to Whooping cough.




Cousin Cedelia - the artistic cousin, with the far away stare and interpretive dance in her blood.  In college, she will eschew colorful clothing for black sweaters, leggings, skirts and plain black hair dye.  She will eventually grow out of it, become a Republican.  Or a Lesbian.  Or both, 



Uncle John.  He's been to Santa School.  But refuses to play Santa because he hates screaming, crying children.  Every year he asks but one question: "Is the game on yet?"





The Centerpiece.  Someone thought this a good idea.  Its execution is never quite as good as the pictures would imply, and someone shoos you away as you pick at its central body admonishing "Stop it!  You'll ruin it."  So for the rest of the night you'll hear a plop as pieces release.  Mayo only works as glue for so long.  Trust us. 



Your father's cousin Shirley (who looks decades older than she is), her husband Mort, and their annoyingly accomplished late in life son Adrian.  Jesus, it's always "Adrian this and Adrian that. Blah, blah, blah, Adrian."  And Adrian is like a sixty year old man in a 12 year old's body.  "Adrian, wouldn't you rather go out and play with your cousins?"  "No thank you, I'll just sit here and read War and Peace."   Adrian's latest piece of art work is of his mother bear breasted, and when she shares that proud moment, it comes with a "He really is advanced in his composition and light distribution."  



Your mother's sister, "Flounce".  She was born in the mid west and her name is spelled Florence.  But twnety years ago she moved to Atlanta and now she's "from the 'South'".  



Your Brother Walter.  Walter lives in a downtown tenement, and loves to share the bounty of the world.  Walter bathes once a week because the CEO of Nestle wants to keep the world's water hostage and he thinks being stinky will cure that problem.  Then he met a wonderful woman named Amy.  But Walter insisted on calling her his "special Lady."  ("Walt, stop it - you're embarrassing me.") Everyone hoped he would marry Amy - she was the first normal girlfriend he had.  But she left. She couldn't put up him biting his toe nails.  Just - don't ask.




Cousin's Estil and Corliss.  They just stopped in "to look and everyone before we up to Corliss' Mother's house."  You offer them food and Estil says "That looks too fancy for us.  We're plain food people."  They'd just love to host Christmas next year.  

And of course:



Your next door neighbor, Miss Mannish.  You just hate the idea that someone is alone on Christmas, so you invite Miss Mannish,  You are not sure of where Miss Mannish falls on the gender identification spectrum, but since Miss Mannish introduced their self as Miss Mannish, Miss Mannish it is, and Miss Mannish it will be until you hear otherwise. 

Sunday, December 25, 2016

Merry Christmas*, and *the appropriate legal disclaimer



From Cookie and The Husband, we send you our holiday best, and holiday wishes - may your Christmas is merry and bright.*


___________________________________________________________________________

*DISCLAIMER

The following Terms and Conditions may apply.  By reading this Christmas Wish, The Cookie and Doing Hard Time in Shaker Heights (DHTiSH) do not guarantee, indemnify or otherwise promise, hint, suggest and or otherwise deliver any said "wish", may it be expressed by the host of this blog, or used by the reader when redeemed.

Said sentiments are legal in your location, if allowed by local, state and Federal law, and may also be used if said reader is a resident of any other friendly nation to the United States, and are available to any adult over the age of 18 without a felony conviction in the states of Louisiana, Mississippi or Florida.  Those reading this blog under the age of 18 must do only after submitting a notarized parental permission slip.

Furthermore, said reader shall not misconstrue any such statement of wish to mean anything other than it meanings in the most abstract terms.  Do not attempt to use said wish if you, or anyone else is operating a motor vehicle or heavy machinery.   In the event of an emergency landing you will directed to the nearest emergency exit.

Delivery of said wish is the full financial responsibility of the "Wishee" as are all appropriate taxes, licenses and permits needed or required to own, operate, store or build.  In some cases, you may need regulatory permission, and this wish does not cover any legal fees associated with your wish, the making of the wish, or the placement of said wish.

Discontinue the use of this Christmas Wish if exposed skin develops a rash.  Call you doctor if you experience an erection lasting more than four hours.  Do not cross go, do not collect $200 dollars.  If cabin pressure drops below a certain level, a mask will drop from the compartment above.  If you are traveling with small children, please place the mask over your own face first before placing one over their face.

DO NOT remove tag under penalty of law.  Do Not take more than then one wish, the recommended dose, as serious injury may occur.  Stop using your wish if you develop shortness of breath tenderness, loss of appetite, ringing in the ears, throbbing in your temples or a bit of the dry vag.  If the wish causes you to cough for more than 14 days, see your doctor, because it may be an indiction of other underlying conditions.

This wish is not guaranteed, however it may be void if you live in a flood zone as your standard home owners insurance may not cover damage from any high water that may result.  Eating an under-cooked wish my expose the Wishee to unsafe bacteria - please thoroughly cook your wish to an internal temperature of 175 degrees, Fahrenheit.   Do not flush said wish down the toilet because it may cause sewer issues, and repair to such is not covered by said wish.

Said wish may not be used to wish, inflict or cause harm to any person, living being or national interest.  The delivery of any fuel, chemical, natural resource, man made or natural chemical compound that may cause harm to others is hereby excluded from this wish.  Said compounds may include fuels, alkalies, acids, patent in-force or patent pending proprietary formula that can react, fizz, smoke, explode, or otherwise harm a living being.

You must be this high to ride.

And wish that can transmit, receive or otherwise emit a signal, a pulse, an electronic wave must first pass FCC approval channels.  Likewise, if you wish requires the writing of a check, it falls to the Wishee to comply with any and all ID requirements.

This wish may not be exchanged, tendered, traded, resold, and it has a cash value of 1/1000 of a cent.  Said offer may not be combined with any other wish.  One wish per visitor.

The Cool Cookie, i.e. the wish grantor, reserves the right to withdraw this offer at anytime and without prior notice rescind, modify or terminate the Christmas wish procedure.  The wish grantor also reserves the right to withhold said wish until an amount equal to the tax owed is received or a bond equal to the amount owed is posted and named Internal Revenue Service is cited as the beneficiary by the Wishee.

OTHER CONSIDERATIONS include not breaking the seal until ready to use, do not shake, jostle or otherwise cause the wish to become agitated.  With six, you get egg roll.  Flush eyes with water for one minute.  Do not push the red, shiny button.  Please leave the airplane bathroom clean for the next passenger.  This is a coaster - use it.  Proper dress required.  Look both ways before crossing.   Do not spit on the floor.

Do not leave oven unattended.  Surfaces may be hot.  Freezing may cause separation of ingredients.  Be kind, rewind.  Keep hands and feet, and other body parts away from moving parts.  If you see something, say something.  Keep Off. No Parking. Yield.  Wipe your feet before entering.  Sit up straight.  Clean your plate.

And, most of all...

Do not SASS me.


Friday, December 23, 2016

Thursday, December 22, 2016

Most Hated Woman of Christmas 2016, And For Good Reason

The Ugly, Old Hellkite, Herself


2016 has been a motherfucker of a year, no doubt about that.

But as 2016 draws to a close, the woman in this picture has emerged as the ugliest of Americans.

Yes, there are worse things done in this year, but this grandmotherly woman from Kentucky has become the poster child for everything that is wrong with the US.

This malevolent foul mouth creep in the blue sweater, with the Green Box, in the midst of the Christmas season - the season where we celebrate the birth of the Savior, Jesus Christ mind you - let loose a racist rant on the woman in front of her because the woman let a family member throw a couple items in on her tab at the register.

That was her sin - letting someone add three or four items to the pile of things she was buying.

And it was ALL caught on video.

Of course it was.

Now, I know that tempers and emotions can run short in the Christmas season, but what came out of this every-woman's mouth was beyond vile.  Besides her obnoxious behavior, her offensive mode of "dress" (Call it white trash lounge wear), and her foul mouth, the scene she created has so angered and embarrassed people that:

  1. JCPenney has apologized for its role in training its employees to call for manager backup to get this bitch to shut her pie hole.
  2. The Mall has apologized for not knowing about it so they could send mall security to deal with this old and ban her from their property for the rest of her natural born days - and - 
  3. The Mayor of Louisville has apologized to the world for what this woman said because it reflects badly on his city. 
The only person that we haven't heard from is Kentucky Governor Matt Beven, and we won't because he is batshit insane himself. 

If you haven't seen the video, you may have some questions of your own - like why didn't anyone step up for the woman at the register, who showed considerably more grace than the Most Hated Woman of Christmas 2016. 

Frankly if Cookie were there, I would hate to think about what the jail cell I would be in for clocking the old hellkite and knocking her out cold. (No offense meant to other Hellkite's, I was just using it as a figure of speech.)

Perhaps it is the person who took the video may not have stopped the verbal assault, but she documented The Most Hated Woman of Christmas 2016 so we all can be appalled. 

The identity of the woman is not known, yet.  Her name will come out eventually.  It always does.  Right now she is probably holed up in house in a Barcalounger, muttering to herself about how unfair the world is. 

If she thinks its unfair now, just wait until learn her name. 

Full story HERE

Saturday, December 17, 2016

Real and Fake X-Mas Sentiments


We have finally got our Christmas cards DONE.

If you aren't getting one, do not I fear.  I love you so.   There are a core of people that Cookie and Husband send cards too.

And that would be the people who send cards to us.

That we like.

People from my hometown and longtime family friends.  This card thing started right after Thanksgiving.  Then they sat on the dining room table.  I would say to my husband "We really need to get on this...,"  and he would respond "OK...," then something would come up and the cards just sat.   This past week I finally had it and started on them.  They were mailed today.   Even though we use labels on the envelopes - because my hand writing is so bad - the notes inside are personalized to each person.

While I love getting the "The Family and Friends" letters they all seem a flat of the last couple years. When I read these I have a morbid fascination on how far people will take them, but with Facebook, people know you can check up on them so they hold back on the bragging and the imaginary accolades that they used to drop in, like:

"Last year Van earned a huge promotion, and a corner office.  To celebrate, we took our dream vacation to ..."

Now you can look up on Van's Facebook page and see that he is still stuck in a cube farm and hates his cube mates, and that vacation turned out to be a drive to Ohio to see the Blue Hole, or to Hayward, Wisconsin to see the Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame.  All perfectly acceptable things to go and see.  But they aren't something that the normal person brags about, you know?

As a side note, Cookie has been to both places.  The Blue Hole, was what my Grandfather considered a vacation.  Everyone into the 1955 Buick Special and an hour and a half we passed under the stone arch and once our tickets were paid for we marched down the path with dozens of other people to look a hole in the ground filled with crystal clear, ice cold, blue water.  That was the Blue Hole.  Nothing more.  Simple pleasures.

The Freshwater Fishing Hall of Fame in upstate Wisconsin has things you can do.  Like go inside the gigantic fiberglas fish.  Up the stairs and you come to a balcony that looks out of the one fishes mouth.  And that's that.

Anyhow, Christmas cards seem to be the one tie that I have to the analog world, and as long as they make them, I will send them, with a personalized message.

Our picture of day is a faked Christmas image from the 1950s.  It's been fixed - when Cookie found it in its original state, the reds had been replaced with magenta and the blues had turned gray.  Blame it on that God damned Ektachrome film that Kodak pushed out after the War.  Unlike Kodachrome, which produced luscious colors, crisp lines and was very stable, the cheaper Ektachrome film was faster, cheaper and terribly unstable.

Overtime, the green dyes broke down leaving things PINK, MAGENTA and PURPLE.  If you know what you are doing, its snap to fix these images.  If you don't - like me - its an effort of playing around until you find something that works.

Besides the fact the image is posed, the snow on their laps is fake and there is no snow ground, which makes it hard for a sleigh to travel.  Actually the fake, wire posed "reigns" that the guy is holding are only about nine inches long.

What's ironic is that if you are a certain age, and your parents were from that generation, you remember these images.   And they do stand for something - a reminder to the Christmases the way we insist that they used to be, not the way they were.

Just like Christmas cards, I will believe in these images as long as I can.


Tuesday, December 13, 2016

DHTiSH 2016 Christmas Holiday Bingo Card



Cookie gives you his 2016 Christmas Holiday Bingo Card.

Retired for this year are:

* "What do you mean your gay?"
* Getting hammered in front of Mom,
and everyone's most dreaded
* Wet kisses from your grandfather.

New for this year are:

* Christmas at Disney World
* Tree Toppled Over by Cat
* Carolers in Restaurants

And remember, this Christmas isn't about making more than your stuck up brother, or buying your child's love with more toys than they have sense, or even feeling guilty about why you haven't given your mother any grandchildren.

Christmas is about simply getting through it without doing something or saying something that will cause drama and a family schism.

There, now isn't that easy?

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Mike and Carol Brady raised her better than this.



Every family has at least one child that seems to drift away from the values and lessons that the rest of the family have embraced.  And eventually, the kid will drift back.

But if the parents are total assholes, in the very least, dysfunctional one would hope that the kids could escape that and get help and live fully healthy lives.

Then you have a lovely, lovely family, like Mike and Carol Brady.  Never mind that they are fictional. The lessons taught on their show about understanding, honesty, respect for ones self and others are lessons that an entire generation of American child, now adults, embraced.

Sure it was make believe.  But when a Brady kid did something, like wear a big brown wig so she could not be in her big sister's shadow, developed a terrible imitation of Jimmy Cagney Disease, they would get a talking to.  And it had to be something terrible -  for some horrible transgression, like when Cindy Brady tattled on others, then they got hauled into dad's den.




In others families, it was that family's version of Devils Island - your room.  But with Mike and Carol, it was always about reason and self awareness, not being back handed for sassing Alice.  

But who would have ever thought that Cindy Brady's Susan Olsen, with those golden sausage curls and innocence enough to carry a Kitty Carryall doll when she was young would turn out to be such a fat, foul mouthed, Cheeto loving right wing "Coughing Until Next Tuesday"?

Apparently, Susan has been fired from her job on radio following a number of vitriol laced posts on her Facebook page.  How bad could it be?



Yes, sad to say that even Carol Brady would be appalled at how Susan Olsen turned out.



But, just as there was a lesson to be learned, Susan now has plenty of time to reflect on her actions.  Her employer has kicked out on her ass and locked the door behind her, so reports the New York Daily News.  

Even Jan is disgusted. 

So for once, it isn't Jan who is feeling sorry for herself, it's Cindy who is kicking herself for her big, fat mouth.

*Used in the British sense.

See: Actress Susan Olsen Fired From LA Radio Show

Sunday, December 4, 2016

"...Why I'm the nicest person I know!"




Bobby Brady knows a bitch when he comes up against one.

Gay men do a damn good job at taking the shit that people throw onto us and sling it back.  But sometimes, the hurt cuts a little deeper than we can freely admit, and the cut never really heals.  And like they say, hurt people hurt people.

At the last high school reunion I went to, I made a promise to another 50+ year friend that I would find it in my to forgive one of childhood tormentors.  A woman named "Benita"*.  As a child she was short in stature and in temperament.   She was the type of person who, after you raised your hand and giving the right answer, because you had done your homework, would call out "Mr. Hawthorne, Cookie just stole that answer off my homework notes."  Never mind that she was writing down what I was saying while I was saying it in pink ink, this was Benita's game. And she was good at it.

Benita would say things that ended in a sneer.  She would see a project that you had worked on and just put you and it down.  "Is that your paper?  I don't need to touch to know that its pure shit."

Mr. Hawthorne, who was a sister in my spirit, pulled me aside and complimented my work.  "You really loved writing about this, and it showed.  Your sources were excellent.  And don't let others tell you that you didn't deserve that grade.  Trust me, you did the work and it showed, I gave them what they deserved for the amount work they showed."

I loathed Benita.  And had carried that loathing through decades.  Kick a dog, and they remember.  And shame on you Benita for kicking me.

In my new high school, there was none of that.  Yes, there were bitches, but truth be told, I never had to deal with them like I had to deal with Benita, who drifted away and out of mind.

But, my allegiance is to my friend Rachel because, well, after 50 years when you are really friends with someone because they are good people who make you a better person, you know that they are on to something.

So at last reunion I made it a point to speak with Benita.  I was about to say I was letting go of my anger when she asked "Where did you go after 8th grade?"

We moved.

"But why?  Why leave Shaker?"

Because.

"What do you mean because?  Shaker was just the best, ever."

And I stayed silent.

Then I said "We left Benita, because the opportunity came up for something better, and it was.  I got to go to high school with great people, I got a great education."

And Benita says, I kid you naught, "But we could never have been friends.  I am never mean to anyone, but we had nothing in common.  Why I am the nicest person I know..."  And she continued "Me, I, Me, blah, blah, blah, Me!"

And there it was - that click with the whole "Who me?  Why I am the nicest person I know..."

After Benita got done talking about herself, she left for her table of friends every step thinking she had just made my day, I turned to Rachel, who was standing there and said "I tried."

And Rachel said "I know.  I try every day." She gave me a hug.

The lesson that you need to learn yourself, after telling others it for years, is that an honest to God real bitch is clueless about their impact on others.

They don't care.

They don't care to care.

And they will never care enough to care enough to wonder "is it something I said?  Something I have done, ever?"

They don't care that you care.  In fact, according to them they are wonderful, you are the one with the "problem" because they are the nicest person they know.  

Nope, because a bitch like Benita sails through life thinking that they are nothing but the nicest person on earth, and they will shit all over your parade because that is the way they are bolted together.  And in her mind, anyone she shits on should be happy.

Surround yourself with Rachel's.  Rachel's are worth more, anyways.  And Benita?  I wish her well.  I gave her a chance, and this time she got the answer wrong, all on her own.  B-bye Benita.

*And no, her real name isn't Benita.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

1969: Pimpletons Opens its Triangle Square Store


There is always an ounce of truth in advertising, Grant Tingley used to say.

Take this Pimpleton's ad.

"If You've Never Been to Pimpletons, Then You've Never Been to the NEW Pimpletons!"

Can't argue with that logic, can you?

Mr. Tingley said that Mrs. Gertrude Pimpleton was so taken by the Kennedy Center that she wanted the new store to mimic its modern lines and grand promenade.  Mr. Pimpleman sure got his money's worth.  They had also planned an apartment complex near the mall inspired by the Watergate to be name Akromore Gate, but the plan fell through when the owner of the 3-D Drive in refused to sellout.

Father used to love shopping with Mother at the Triangle Square Mall store.  While she would head to the Queens Court, Pop would saunter to the Taxidermy Studio for some relaxing and lessons on form molding, and skinning.  Their Sweet Tooth Candy Counter was a kids dream, and who didn't love those chocolate Pimpltons - when you bit into them egg cream would ooze out.  Perhaps skinning a chinchilla wasn't your dad's idea of fun, then he could the Vitalis treatment in the King's Lair, or hang around with the rest of guys who were waiting by the lower level men's lounge, where buxom young beer maidens served Ballentine with panache and gusto.

During Christmas Time, the store shimmered, but it was during the Festival of Purim that it really was festive, with a costumed Haman plotting extra discounts for women named Esther.

Despite the glory that was Pimpletons, it came to an end when Blemishmen Brother's opened their store, which included an AMC Dealership.  Who wants to hang around a taxidermy studio when the all new car from AMC (the first WIDE small car) is going to be unveiled.

Its not a question.  But a statement of fact.