Sunday, April 23, 2017
So you know with the advent of smart phones, everything has changed?
In the good old days if you were with someone who was a bit of a wolf, their eyes would drift and oogle a dame, or a broad? And I don't mean someone with a peerage, or someone that is as wide as they are tall.
Even I, Cookie, appreciates a handsome guy and in my mind image him throwing himself at me, for a second, but that's the "Walter Mitty" in me.
Well, being a bit slow to notice, I have just witness the creepiest thing yet, more creepy than Donald Trump kissing a strangers baby.
People who use their phones to stalk other people and take candids of them to leer over.
I know, it's been going on for a while, but I probably turned a blind eye to people doing it until I had to have lunch with son of friend who did it in front of me.
Now said son is older than I am - his mother, my friend, is 95. Sonny boy is 60+ going on 12.
We get seated, the server takes our drink order - water for me, scotch for him, and he spots a woman and young guy - under 20. I figure its just mother and son out for lunch.
Sonny boy sees something different, a target for his "newest obsession" - he's filming the guy. Now the target of Sonny boy's is well over 18. But still, Sonny boy was really overt.
"Isn't he delicious," and smacks his lips.
"What are you doing," says I, shocked by what I think he's doing.
"Oh, just want to add him to my gallery of future husband's." Then he shows me on the phone - he has galleries of these guys.
"That's kind of creepy, Sonny," I point out.
"Oh, it's not hurting anyone. You need to loosen up. Look at this hottie - yummeee! Don't you think that other's do it to us?"
Now I am old enough to remember the women in the diet Coke commercial oogling a guy named Lucky for his yummy body. And yes, that was objectification.
And no - no one is objectifying this 1962 model man. And it makes me ill to think that anyone would be objectifying Sonny, unless it was a cannibal looking for his next meal.
But this was kind of sick. His reasoning was kind of sick.
Turns out, this is now a sport for some people.
I ordered salad and having no way to get out of this lunch now that it had started, and ordered a salad and prayed that the prey and his mother would leave soon, which they did in 15 minutes, I was trapped.
After they left, Sonny boy returned to his same lurpy self.
"He's so alone," said said his mother Reva. And he'll only be in town a day or two. Can't you take him to lunch?"
Yeah - now I know why Sonny boy is alone: Sonny is a pervert. Sonny is the type of guy who sees nothing wrong in this creeping behavior.
The whole thing made me feel dirty. Remember, I'm the guy who looked at Chatterbate and found it sad. I wanted to help these people with their sets, lighting and production values.
"No, no, no RandyRandy123, you just can't sit there looking bored and expect people to start throwing tokens your way..."
"RandyRoughGuy, I love the leather, love the big fatty cigar, but it conflicts with the lacy curtains and the six cats parading through the room. And can we either close the curtians or move your crystal animal collection to the other room?"
"Now, now, SitOnMyFace69. We need for you the sun to be coming in the window to be behind the camera and move you over here so the sun is on you. Now that I see you in the light, I think we need to go back to the old set up and make you mysterious..."
Sonny and I finished up lunch, he paid - put it on his expense account. That made me feel even dirtier, then said "If you're even in DesMoines, let me know. The men are all corn fed and delicious."
Oh cannibal, my cannibal, find Sonny and eat him. Drive the devil from this earth.
Not that I am pure as the driven snow.
The slush, sure.
But the snow? Nah.
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
|What we have is a breakdown in society!|
So, how many of you belong to Nextdoor©? If you do, then you'll understand the following, with the names regrettably changed to protect the dimwits in the neighborhood to our north.
For those of you who do not know what Nextdoor© is, its site/app that acts as a listserv for one's neighborhood. There are neighborhoods that you are referred to join, then you also get included on information and posts from other area and regional neighborhoods, but nothing too far from where you live.
People sell things on the site and buy things. They look for contractors. They share safety messages. Its all like a listserv, but with a site/app and all the pretty pretties that modern design can do.
But people also make horses asses out of themselves on Nextdoor©, like the residents in one established neighborhood that declared war on their neighborhood association Board, then proceeded to air their opinions of the board in the group. Sort of like KFC people discussing the secret recipe in Board Room of Popeye's. Savvy?
Yesterday, amongst the ISO's* and LTB** and the ALTGROAPBMS's*** there was this thread:
"Something Foul is Afoot"
Angie: "I don't know what this world is coming to but I hung a down comforter on the line behind my house to air it out, and someone snuck in and stole it. What is wrong with people?
Well. Society is defiantly breaking down according to this person. But the responses also mimicked this sentiment.
Michael: "Who would do such a thing?"
Andrea: "This is why I don't let me children play outside unless I can supervise."
Tomiko: "Some people just need to be slapped upside the head."
Steven: "I think we need to start a neighborhood watch. For what we pay in taxes, this has got to be stopped!"
Gwynn: "We need to take our neighborhood back!"
Todd: "I can arrange a meeting at St. Somethingorother's Community Room and demand that the County Chief of Police attend."
Cookie: "Sounds like a case for Miss Marple. Oh, wait. She only does murders. Pity."
Marilyn: "Angie, I found your comforter, it was laying in a heap between our houses - it's a bit muddy. The wind might have picked it up and carried it if you didn't clip it to the line. I put it on your back stoop."
Thom: "Last week someone stole two new planters from my friend's front door over in Edgewater."
Gerri: "My husband and I are installing deadbolts. This world is cracking up. And just so everyone knows, we have a gun."
Angie: "Thanks Marilyn, I feel kind of foolish. I never thought that the wind could pick it up, but that seems more rational than someone stealing it. It's my daughter's so it has sentimental value. And the dry cleaners have it."
Gwynn: "We need to take our neighborhood back!"
Michael: "Steven, I know the Rector at the church. I can make arrangements for the meeting."
Estelle: "What kind of sicko would steal a child's blankie?"
Marilyn: "Estelle, we had gusty winds yesterday. No one stole it. It blew off the line. Let it go."
Guy & Susan: "This is why we lock and arm the alarm on our house."
Tomiko: "Gwynn, just who do we need to take our neighborhood back from?"
Gwynn: "Evildoers - they are everywhere. This is why President Trump is going make us all safe again when the budget comes out."
Gwynn: "I think someone needs to mind their own business."
Tomiko: "Gwynn someone needs to keep their politics off this board, and mind her own business before shooting off a back handed comment to someone else."
Allen: "Can the moderator shut this thread down?"
Tomiko: "If Gwynn hosts any part of the progressive dinner, I am not going."
Moderator: THREAD CLOSED
Strangly, Tomiko doesn't even live in our neighborhood.
But know that I have seen her spunkiness, I think she'll be our guest at our neighborhood's progressive dinner in June.
Take that, Gwynn.
* ISO: In Search Of
** LTB: Looking to buy
*** ALTGROAPBMS: Anyone Looking to Get Rid of a Pottery Barn Microsuede Sofa - I KID YOU NOT. This was a post from some twit in Roger's Forge, as in "Would anyone be looking to get rid of Pottery Barn sofa in good condition, no rips or tears, from a pet free house. Looking to spend less than $200. Thanks!" Bitch PLEASE! ~ Cookie.
Monday, April 17, 2017
|Receptionist desk, GM Technical Center. Designed by Eero Saarinen.|
You know, there are times that you get so buried in a project that you feel alone at your desk - quite alone. And that is how Cookie has been feeling of late.
In January I took on a HUGE family scanning project for a cousin in Ohio who is dying. I literally got in the old Prius and hauled ass on a whim, and came back with cartons of his mothers and grandmothers images. Since January I have scanned thousands of pictures, back and front.
I used to love scanning images, but my mind can only take so many at a time. But with thousands of them my mind has grown numb. I am unable to think things through.
I feel like this woman sitting at the reception desk. Isolated. Alone on an island.
The project is coming to an end. Really, I have one album of cart d'viste pictures to do and then code in the meta data and Cookie is finished until September.
In September we have been invited to stay for a long weekend at the home of my third cousin and view her collection of family images.
That I find in joy in this is a blessing.
Though it has me a bit concerned. In my mind are thousands of names, stories and facts. And though I am fifty four, and not planning on going anywhere, anytime soon. I am getting concerned about what will happen to what I know, what I don't know and what I long to pass on.
When you work on researching a family so thoroughly that you get to know the people you are researching, I feel as if I need to keep on doing this because I don't want to let them down. They all have stories that need to be told.
"Well then," people will say, "write a book!"
As someone who has written books and seen them published by a real honest to gosh publisher, easy said than done. I can write. But I don't enjoy writing.
It leaves me feeling like this woman - alone and isolated.
And I am feeling that at fifty four, I need to look to other things so when my time does come at a ripe old age, the funeral home isn't empty because I spent so much time documenting and doing for dead people when maybe I should be doing more for the living.
Something to ponder.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
|The Goddess of Canadian Mobility is lacking from our automobile.|
While I love automobiles, I hate cars.
Automobiles take you places, allow you mobility and let you see the world.
A car gets stuck in traffic, requires insurance, belches pollution, and have to be replaced.
When my mother died, I decided to simplify. I sold my Maxima SE, sold the Highlander she left me, and I bought a used base Prius, because it made a lot of sense. No car payments, great mileage, the feeling of superiority that you get with owning a Prius. And it came with that lovely new sense of superiority over other drivers.
When you own and drive a Prius, you know you are better than everyone else, because you are better than everyone else. And you are getting 50 mpg.
Well, nothing lasts forever, and come seven years of owning said Prius, the husband got the new car bug. First, he wanted a new car. His employer was offering a huge deal on loaded, 2017 Nissan Leaf's - an all electric car. The numbers for the car came to half of its actual sticker price. $17,000 out the door.
Then we started looking into it deeper. We'd have to put in a driveway. That is $12,500. Then we'd have to install a charging station, another $900. We got free charging at the husband's place of employment, but he likes driving his SUV because driving in Baltimore is like driving in Baghdad, and you kind of like seeing what incoming. That meant that I would be left with a car that has a one hundred mile range before recharge. And since we hope to break ground on an addition in 2018 or 2019, that would mean repairing the driveway damaged in the remodeling.
All of sudden, the good idea looked a whole lot less.
Still, the husband was convinced that the Prius needed to be replaced. "What about a new 2017 Prius?" asks he.
Well, to be honest, they are fugly. They look angry. Prii (that is the plural) have never been beautiful cars. Their form follows function. But this new batch is nasty ugly. Now you may think they are lovely. But you are wrong. They are fugly.
So I promised to keep an open mind, and we looked. But seriously, what they hey, Toyota. These cars are are fugly.
Instead, we looked across the lot and saw a 2017 Prius V trim level 4. The V is the station wagon version of the Prius. The level four is the bells and whistles level. There are five levels. Levels two and three are not as nice as the four. The five, well, that would ostentatious.
The Japanese have never great about naming cars. Nissan had the "Fair Lady". Diahatsu had the Charade. Isuzu has the Esteem. And Suzuki, bitches, and I am not making this shit up, had the "Every Joypop Turbo".
But we bought a Toyota Prius V. First of all, it's a Prius V, as in "VEE". Not as in the Roman numeral V, for five. Never mind that the the thing has five doors, no.
"Do you know what the "V" stands for, the dealer asked?
Vigilante? Vampire, Viper, and "Vavavavoom?"
"Like Gypsy Rose Lee?" When I said that, he looked at me odd and you could hear crickets.
So we settled the price, and I said farewell to my old friend, who will become a taxi cab in Washington, DC.
I like the new car. I am fortunate to have a new car. But somehow, getting 50mph no longer makes me feel as superior as it once did.
It's hard get juiced over a car that is a "Prius V Level 4". I could get juiced over a Every Joypop Turbo, though.
There is something to be said for the ability to push a button and have Miss Toyota ask, "How may I help you, Cookie?" And I say "Find me the closest grocery store." And Miss Toyota says, "there are three within two miles, Acme, Ajax or Dented Cans R Us. Which would prefer?" I answer Ajax, and Miss Toyota says "Good choice. Let me set up the navigation."
And if I push another button, she answers me in English (United Kingdom), Japanese, Spanish and French. I tried the French, but her voice lacked the disdain and ennui that I felt I deserved.
Still, when I slide behind the wheel, seated on the vegan pleather seats, let my hand glide over the application station and HVAC controls and push the START button, resulting in total silence, and pull away from the curb, I really better am better than the people next door.
Not because of the Automobile.
But because they are Republicans.
Thursday, April 6, 2017
Wilson Franks suggests that a stewpendous suppers start with Wilson Franks and the Dippy-Do Dinner. Not Dippity Do. Dippy-Do. A hot dog chowder, it claims. Yurp.
CALLING ALL CATS! A taste treat for everyone who loves a tuna smoothie mixed with animal gelatin and most French sounding of condiments: mayonnaise. Add in some A1 for color and call it Salmon Aspic.
Golden Meatloaf, anyone? Anyone? Hello?
And what the fuck, really. Has no one at Musselman's ever heard that presentation is everything?
Thankfully, this has never been an issue for me.
Really? The baby pukes on a pancake and its haute cuisine?
Who is Star Kist fooling. No child will eat this. No adult would eat it. Would you? Didn't think so.
Ham and pineapple loaf? It's actually really good. Don't judge me.
Saturday, April 1, 2017
So you may have been asking, where has Cookie been and what has he been up to.
Well, my dears, no sooner than clean up from Winter Storm Stella began when I became horridly, horribly sick with a stomach thing.
And it's not for the squeamish.
If you will remember, the doctors removed two feet of colon from me in the fall of 2014 because of diverticular disease. And when they perform that operation, they reconnect all that plumbing, but they also remove the ligament that the squatty potty is supposed to help you stretch so you can poop like a prince.
One of the side effects is that without that ligament, your need to go becomes, shall we say, urgent and wildly unpredictable until you learn to listen to the body and figure out the triggers.
All well and good when everything is rosey, but when something stops interferes - like a stomach flu or something you ate or continue to eat becomes an issue, well then, all bets are off.
About two weeks ago, I change something in my diet, and the culprit did a number on me.
So I started an elimination diet, basackwards as usually. In an elimination diet, you stop eating everything but a single, bland, low waste food, like baked chicken breast for a week, and then slowly add in one thing, then the next, each time looking for the foods that make you sick.
Well the way I do it, you continue eating everything, except one item, which goes away every couple days until you start to get better.
Well, three days ago, we hit paydirt, so to speak.
And you will never guess what it was. Something good for you, and something I have used for over two years without a single problem: Mega Red Krill Oil supplements. Within 24 hours the problem cleared up.
Still, it bothered me - why now, why after all these years - that's over 720 pills. I mean I love the product.
The husband looked at the bottle, and it was in date. "Didn't you start using this bottle about two weeks ago?"
Then the husband opened up the bottle and a smell unlike any other came out from the opening. It smelled of rotting fish. But this bottle is rancid. "Smells like Lake Erie, before the EPA."
You see I started on the Mega Red because it had no smell, no fishy burps. But it has done wonders for my cholesterol numbers. Jeez oh Pete! Dropped me well below the unhealthly threshold.
So when we go to the store tomorrow, we're buying a different bottle, a different lot, and we're going to see if it goes down without a hitch. If the other bottle is bad, then we'll call the maker on Monday.
As a public service, I should tell you that you should eat more fiber. The fiber crisis in our diets has been a terrible thing - it is over 100 years old. No shit. So really, eat more fiber. It really could save your life, and keep you from a semicolon life like I lead.
So remember what the doctor says "Fiber makes it Fluffy!"
Tuesday, March 14, 2017
Well we seem to have survived "Winter Storm Stella", aka, the perfect storm that wasn't. If it were the perfect storm, it would have been named "Winter Storm Shelly". Like the actress with great potential, it never lived up to its promise.
I should have known better. These Baltimore meteorologists have been chomping at the bit for a weather event and when looks like it could happen, it was "Oh, LAW! THE WHITE DEATH IS COMING!"
Turned out to be a normal winter's day for us. Northwest in Carroll County and into the Appalachians got snow. So did everyone else up into Nova Scotia.
But the people around here PANIC when you mention snow. And with some good reason:
- Noreaster's can be brutal weather fronts.
- Noreaster's can dump a ton of snow on you.
- No one in the mid Atlantic knows how to cope with snow. They don't know how to plow it, shovel it, drive on it or dress for it.
I knew last night that this wasn't going to be much of anything because the two tiny four-footed weather forecasters in our house, Kevin and Rocky, where up and about and seemed rather nonplussed.
Usually when there is a storm to be had, they hunker down, are not perky and are more sleepy than anything. But these guys were, at seven, like "Let's go for walk!" and playing tug-o-war. At eight nothing had started. By ten something was coming down - fine dust-like snow.
|Not even bad enough for board games.|
So, all told, we have less than six inches on the ground, and some icy spots.
The worst part of the nonevent happened at 1PM today when the glacier and snow pack on the roof of the house decided it too was done with it and released.
If you have never been in a house, with a slate roof, when the ice and snow on the roof decides to let go, you are really missing something. Unlike an asphalt roof which has a gritty texture, slate roofs are relatively smooth. They also suck up the UV light energy, and the heat from the house below and layer of water forms from the melting snow, and that acts like a slip and slide. Normally, things called "ice stops" are supposed to keep everything together, but the fact is, unless they are brand spanking new, they're no match for the glacier's weight. And when that happens, the noise is like a train is approaching your house and the building shudders, followed by silence. Outside, there is fresh pile of snow.
Awe, you shouldn't have, House. No, really...
Anyway, it always catches you by surprise, and because the weather here is not Siberian, we kind of forget about these events until they happen and you have an "Oh, yeah," moment.
I have a roast in the over and now the dogs have crashed, which is their normal routine. I spent the day scanning pictures (160 done, BOOM!) and making a roast. My two new Flip and Folds arrived so there was a folding festival!
The silver lining is that we don't have to put up with Baltimore lousy snowplowing. It is really pathetic. It's like they hire blind people to drive the plows, or trained the seeing ones on a game of "Tickle Bee".
The husband is working from home today and goes back in tomorrow. And it is back to normal tomorrow for Cookie, too.
Monday, March 13, 2017
|The nervous smoothing of skirts, twiddling of thumbs has begun.|
Yes, we are sitting around, waiting for it.
It is supposed to be the biggest one to come to in 2017.
Are you ready for the biggest one this year. Why, in Baltimore, it hasn't happened in months!
The ticking of the clock, the slowing of the hours.
On TV, they are rapacious in their lust for it because the ratings will soar through the ceiling!
When, oh when, will it come?
And let us not even ponder the white mess. It's amazing how fast that white stuff gets all watery.
Yes, a spring SNOW Storm is on the way. Worst of all, its a Noreaster!
The panic buying in the stores has started. The Giant was running low on milk. Why?
BECAUSE WE HAVE TO BUY MILK BEFORE A SNOW STORM!
These people down here crack me up. It is March 13th and you would think that they have never seen a Noreaster before.
Moreover, like I said, this is March 13th - it isn't like this is December or January and this snow is going to be with us for weeks.
More like a week, if that.
This is promising to more like a hot and heavy short term relationship with one great event followed by a lackluster finish.
No, make that "ugh".
Thursday, March 2, 2017
...because BGE can't get its shit together.
Yesterday afternoon a weather front moved through the mid-Atlantic, bringing with it high windows that last 15 minutes. So from 1:45 to 2:00 we had some wind gusts of up to 50mph. EVERYTHING was fine until normal returned at 2:01.
At 2:03, the power went out. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
BGE, aka Baltimore Gas and Electric, has some serious reliability issues so I called it in and the woman said power will be restored by 4:15PM.
So I started looking for things to do in the dimming light. I washed woodwork, folded clothes, made the bed, made some files, and at 4:15, nada. Still no power.
So I grabbed my laptop, called my husband and headed for the favored watering hole for the neighborhood. I hunkered down and waited for the husband.
At 5:00 PM BGE has shut off its electric customer service phone center, and was playing a message that essentially said "You need to be quiet and use the online service." But the online service wasn't working either. There were no updates, no nothing.
So we ate dinner, hung out until 6:30, went home, in the dark, got out the lanterns, found the fresh batteries, and noticed the people across the way had electric, so we headed down to our friend Trixie's house and hung out with her, which is always a blast. We took the dogs so they could play with their buddies Buddy and Roscoe, so everyone was a winner.
I again called BGE who told me they could be out until morning. Well, fuck me running.
FINALLY, at 9PM, the lights come up,
Well miracles of fucking miracles. So we trudged home and spent a half an hour resetting clocks, timers, the battery on the security system - all of it.
Now today, the winds have been howling, and so far so good.
Still, it annoys the fuck out of me that 1) I need electricity this much and 2) A multi million dollar utility can't get it's shit together for a 15 minute fucking windstorm that knows out electricity to 2,000 homes.
Fuck you very much, BGE. Fuck you.
And when we do our addition, its going to have a heavy duty generator built in.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Cookie HATES the Dentist. If I could insert HATES in a larger font without throwing everything off in BLOGGER, well then, I would. But I can't so I shan't.
Anyhow, lets just say that a tooth that had been drilled and filled and drilled and refilled finally when bad.
Mayonnaise and potato salad, left out in the hot sun, for hours bad.
I only have myself to blame. I kept my big yap shut while I was in Salt Lake City but realized that it was really bad when I got home.
So I went to the dentist. I have been back two weeks and have been to the man's office three times, because that's what happens when you let thing get to this point.
The good news is that he saved the tooth and I am getting a crown. The bad news is that I have spent seven hours in a dental chair because of my procrastination and fear.
And it was seven hours of needles, files, drills, gum resections and lasers, MORE lidocaine and needles, and on an on.
So now I have my temporary on and I have to wait three weeks for the permanent. The crown will be in in two weeks, but the dentist and his wife are in joint practice, so they close the office during spring break so they can get in a family vacation.
That isn't their fault, that's mine.
Let us say that I have learned my lesson. I should be chewing pretty on the first day of spring.
Monday, February 20, 2017
So, a week ago we woke up in our bed, in our house, in Maryland, with an awful case of jet lag.
And we still have the jet lag.
Well sure, there were social events all over the convention area, and yes we burned our candles at both ends, but jeezy oh Pete, gosh darn it's been hard to shake this Utah thing.
Making matter more difficult is that the weather has been springtime lovely here, for the most part.
So we are a bit off of our game.
And a little afraid.
I broke a tooth and that never ends well for me, the tooth or the wallet.
So that cashectomy is tomorrow morning. You know dentists. When they start poking around this has gone bad and that has gone bad and this is going to have to be taken care of. Bother.
BUT, and let me do this, if you are interested in genealogy and can afford it, RootsTech is an utter blast. I said I would never go back and do it, but I am already making plans for 2018. Just remember, register, book your hotel as soon as registration opens up. Its worth it.
Sunday, February 12, 2017
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.
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
|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."
"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
Monday, January 30, 2017
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 Eleanor'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 quickly collected his wife, his coat and car and making haste to the train station and then New York.
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 interior 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 Episcopal 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 rededicated 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, and sparkle in her eyes.
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, and sparkle in her eyes.
Friday, January 27, 2017
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.
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
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
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.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
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:
- Take a deep breath and not to panic.
- FIGHT for the rights of a free press, one that is not muzzled by the White House
- Befriend someone who is in one of the targeted minority. Let them know that you care.
- If you have children, explain to them that they are safe. Kid pick up on the stress in adults. Don't weird kids out.
- 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.
- 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.
- Support the people who are supporting the people of this nation. Legislators who are taking on the tough issues.
- 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.
- 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
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."
"Trump is a man of God, he ain't no creep."
"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
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
|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
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
Well kids, do you know what I LOVE to do more than anything? Take down the Christmas tree!
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.