Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Dear Poppy Harlow, Kate Spade was NOT hung by her neck





Dear Poppy,

Poppy, I wanted to touch base with you regarding a huge mistake that you made on air this morning, June 6, 2018, while covering the tragedy of Kate Spade's suicide.

Because you work for one of those companies that follow the odd and unhelpful protocol of employing operators who claim they cannot connect you to anyone but a voice mailbox, I am sending this out into the ether.  You may or may not ever read this, but I am hoping it gets through to you on some level.

While I was watching you on your show on CNN, you made a grammatical speech error in what you said, and it is the type of error that is akin, to my ear and the ears of others, to dragging one's nails across a chalkboard.

Today, you stated quite clearly, several times, that when Kate Spade committed suicide that she was "hung".

You probably chose "hung" because it sounds like the past tense of "hang".  Its one of those things that are, and isn't.  But in the case of people who commit suicide, it is grossly incorrect. 

Essentially, what you said meant that at the least Kate Spade was found to have a large, as in long, penis.  Hung is to people, a word regarding genitalia.

Yes, we know that people can be hungover after a night of drinking.  And yes, in Auntie Mame, the line is spoken by Patrick imitating his late father is "Pipe down sonny, the old man is hung."

And when a person has an issue or is disturbed by something, they can be hung up on that matter.

One can also say, so I am told, that "Over the weekend, I hung out with my friends."  I prefer a good game of bridge or a good museum.  But if hanging out with a friend is "your thing", better with friends than it applies to your décolletage.

But the correct past tense word to describe someone who commits suicide (or murdered by some fiend, for that matter) by hanging is always "hanged".  Always.  No exceptions, ever. 

Yes, I understand that it sounds stilted.  But sometimes English is a bit off.  Like when the accused enters his or her plea to charges, and it is later reported that the accused "Pleaded not guilty."  One wondered, why did they just say that the person "pled not guilty."  Why indeed.  Well, its because one does not "pled" to the court (or one's spouse for that matter) one's status.  One "pleads" and in that case the past tense of "pleads" is "pleaded".

English is one of the most imperfectly perfect languages.  Unlike romance languages, we need not assign a sex to a "thing", instead, a belt that wraps around your waist and holds up your pants is just a belt, whether you are a man or a woman.  In French, a belt is masculine, which mean that Mr. Belt not only keeps up a man's trousers but Mr. Belt also holds up a woman's slacks as well.

Well, in English we have some quirks too:

1) After a meal, people are finished; it was the meat that they ate that was "done".

2) When asking about whether or not one indulges in a cookie, it is "May I have a cookie," versus "Can I have a cookie."  The answer to the former is going to either be "yes" or "no", while the answer to the later could be "I don't know, can you?"   How does that work?  To your host, or parent, or your superego, the question is "May I?"  To your doctor who is trying to get your blood sugar down, "can I" is the proper question.

3) You can most certainly spread out a blanket in Key West and lie on the beach.  But if you lay on the beach, you should be arrested.

4) A well-known news anchor used to mispronounce the word "puberty" as "pooberty" and seemed surprised when I called him on it.  My mother worked as a nurse for his uncle.  I know he knew better.

But when you say that man who is "hung by the neck" until dead, he most certainly was popular with the women (and/or some men) in the village.

A woman who is hung is most certainly either leading a life of masquerade or is a hermaphrodite.

So remember: Meat is hung, people are hanged.

And that isn't what you meant to say about Ms. Spade.  I know that.  But getting it right means getting it right.  It also means being able to respect the dead, for whatever reason they saw no other way of carrying on.

Kate Spade was an incredibly talented business leader, designer, a wife, and a mother.  And it pains all us to think that she felt there was no other way forward but to end her personal pain by suicide.  At moments like this, we all wonder if we could have saved her or any loved one from committing the act that ends their life.

We owe her that one final dignity of getting it right.

Love,

Mrs. Edwin Smith Standish
Shaker Heights, Ohio

PS - I had a friend at Miss Porter's who we called "Poppy".  She is now a Viscountess. ESS

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

How I almost ended up in Dermatology Detention Hall



Cookie has this icky problem that only seems to bother Cookie.

What?  Yes.  I know its hard to concentrate with "Thing" giving masturbation lessons to the women's book club - "Where the only thing we read is the wine labels!"

Anyhow, Cookie, FOCUS, has this skin issue and it really has been bothering me for the past 30 some odd years.  Now that I have a dermatologist, who I adore, I love going to see her because even she can make wart removal seem like fun.

So the reason why we have "Thing" with us today is that this problem has to do with my hands.   It's a hand "thing", and the thing is, every spring, my fingers get covered in these wee-tiny blisters that look like athletes foot, but it's not.  And its only during the months of May and June.  Then it goes away.

Medical doctors just sniff at it, but I figured, what with the established relationship with the dermatologist, you can go and ask her, right.

So I stopped by the office and spoke with Connie, who works the front desk - who I would love for a best friend - and Connie looked and said, yeah, I can get you in next Monday at 10:30.  Because I have a horrible sense of time since that wee-small TIA I had back in 1992, she printed it off for me.

Well, into Cookie's head comes the idea that the appointment is at 1PM.  How did that get planted? I had no idea.  Its been stressful here in Maryland with all the rain and the mud and the silt and sand and we live miles to the nearest creek.

Anyhow, I fucked up.

So I called IMMEDIATELY and tried to mea culpa my way out of it because you know how doctors offices can be, especially with specialists.  The woman who answered was Connie, and she was very serious, as she had every right to be.  And I was about ready to cry because being told not to come back to a specialist office is like one of the worst sins in my mother's book of common guilt, when Connie said: "Normally, you would be put into Dermatology Detention Hall with all the other appointment scufflaws.  But you called, you apologized, we can work this out.  How about tomorrow at 9AM?"

And the stress came down, way down.
                                                 Like way down here, d
                                                                                       o
                                                                                         w
                                                                                           n.

So I went in today, tail between my legs, and Adrienne is at the front counter and she is like "NAME? TIME OF APPOINTMENT? Oh, you're the one who missed yesterday!  Its Dermatology Detention Class for you!"

Connie, walks out of the billing area and she is cracking up and then Adrienne starts laughing.

"We put a sign on the supply closet where patients can't go, and its now officially the Dermatology Detention Hall.  You must have had some weekend."  I told her what was going on and she was telling me what was going on.

Long story short is that I get back to see the doctor, who is WONDERFUL, and she asked her questions, then got out a pad and wrote down what it was.  "I'm writing this down because I understand you have a hard time remembering things... This is not bad, its common."

I think that I blushed embarrassed because she said: "Now that is what I call a super flushed look!"

The diagnosis is that I have a very common form of eczema.  Evidently, lots of people have this.  "And there is no cure.  Just don't pick at them.  They'll disappear in a few weeks.  They may come back in the fall.  Probably allergy related.  Here's a script for some cream that will help with the sloughing of the dead skin."

And like Santa Claus, with a wink of her eye she said, "no charge for yesterday, but let's not have it happen again, K?" and up the chimney, she was gone in a flash.

On the way out Connie was like "Remember, use your navigator in your car so you get home."

I love Connie.  And the Dermatologist.  Cookie is a lucky guy to have such great peeps watching over me.



Wednesday, May 30, 2018

I have planted my own tree



Like Helen Lawson, yes, I have planted my tree.

Four in fact.  "Duraheat" birches, at that.  It involved an awful lot of driving around, but we found them halfway to Philadelphia.  But our neighbor the landscape architect was very specific about these trees and their heat tolerance.

These trees are not scrawny trees.  No - these trees are broad trees - trees that have a span.

And to make sure my trees will grow, we cut down SIX other trees including a 100ft tall pin oak (that was the final word from the tree service)  that could have taken our house our the neighbor's house out given the right combination of wind and prolonged rain.  It really threw me into a giant funk, too.  The day it came down I was moody, bitchy, sad, upset and easily aggravated.  It was the universe, exacting its revenge because someone else planted that tree and made it their tree and I ruined that dream and had an eighty-year-old dream cut for firewood.

In the end, these trees are better situated for the lot and in a couple years will give shade and a nice filtered light.  And none of them will grow so big as to kill anyone should the right mixture of water, wind, and rain take them out.

What I really wanted was a weeping willow, but those are illegal in the city and their root systems can go out 100 plus from the base of their trunks in search a water source.

So one is named after Helen Lawson, the other after Neely - they are planted together, by the way - and then the other two are Barbara and Sharon.   Couldn't remember the names of either of the characters in the damned movie.

Now go out there and plant your own tree, and earn your oats while you're at it.

And remember, SPARKLE NEELY, SPARKLE!



ONE LAST THING.  If you are a Maryland Resident and Plant a Tree, You can get cash back from the state!  Go to Maryland's Forestry Division and get your coupon.  Coupons must be presented at the time of sale.

Saturday, May 26, 2018

I'm not one to talk, but...



We had a neighborhood cookout last week and the patio was BUZZING with juicy gossip:

ITEM!  Mary Madelon (NOT Madelyn! Dear GOD, never make that mistake!) Somethingorother was out shopping with her teenage daughter and was in a foul mood.  She had a sinus headache was grumpy.  Her daughter found a Massage Envy and bought a thirty-minute neck and shoulders session just to "Help me relax," which is code for "shut her mother up."  When she returned to pick Mary Madelon back up, her mother said that her shoulders felt better, but that her sinuses were still miserable.  Massage Envy's "Shaquilla"  said "You have the sinus?  Why didn't you tell me you had the Sinus?  Come, You should have told me.  Come back to the chair."  She made Mary Madelon sit upright, and then she began in the jaw muscles and then dropped her thumb down behind the jaw, then pressed the thumbs "firmly yet not harshly" up to the top of my neck bone and then down either side of the neck bone."  Evidently, on the first try, Mary Madelon's flesh tingled. On the second attempt, "My sinuses opened up like the red sea and the pain disappeared!" SNAP!  Shaquilla has quite a fan because Mary Madelon does not tolerate quackery or brightly painted front doors on her street!

ITEM!  Gracie and Vickie are looking for a male sperm donor to help them get pregnant.  Gracie's brother has said no, again and Vickie doesn't want to to have a child "fertilized by Gracie's brother," because they have interpersonal "issues."

ITEM!  Cookie and Husband are getting trees removed and then new ones planted.  This makes Mary Madelon unhappy because the pin oak that is coming down is so tall and so beautiful.  Cookie and Husband agree, but the tree is too close to two houses (it really is) and could take out either home in a bad storm.

ITEM!  Dr. Mitch had forgotten how much he liked he liked a glass of good Shiraz!

ITEM!  The hostess, Becky, didn't tell him it came from a box!

ITEM!  The host and hostesses house passes Nan's white glove test, she tells Cookie in sotto voce. Impressive.  Then Cookie goes into the dining room where everyone is trying not to look at the dust cobwebs in the dining room light.  Oopsie.  Looks like host missed this one and so did Nan's White Glove Test!  Double OOPSIES!  Sharmel whispers to Cookie "Why don't people leave this room so I can deal with that when no one is around?"  Sharmel, Becky, and Doug have a good friend in you.  "Has everyone seen whats in the backyard?" Shouts Cookie?  "It's charming, let's go take a look!"

ITEM! While Cookie herds everyone back to the most gorgeous yard in the world, it starts to rain.  Hoping Sharmel had enough time!  She did  But Mary Madelon's keen eye picks it up when she notices that the cobwebs are gone!  Harrumpf, indeed!  Queso, Mary Madelon?

ITEM! Connie in the 400 block is miffed that the city street sweepers aren't following the schedule clearly printed in the city calendar.   They do both sides of the street on the same day!  Solution: Call 311!

ITEM!  Bob has had enough to drink and has called himself an Uber to get him home, which is half a block down.

ITEM!  Houses are selling at a furious pace in the hood - even going before the brokers open.  Multiple offers!  In five years no one has seen anything like this.  Many wonder if now is the time to get out.  And who are these people buying into our neighborhood? 

ITEM! Do not patronize Tetrazzini's.  Carter and Madge had a terrible experience.  "Territa was our waitress and it was like being ignored."

Blind ITEM:  Which neighborhood Chateline STILL hasn't picked on the fact that you can buy anything at this unnamed merchant, but you never, ever, EVAH buy produce from them.  They have carrots older than she is for sale.  No! No! No!

UNSPEAKABLE ACTION:  You there!  In your Tesla Model S sedan. On stopped at the traffic light on Owings Mills Boulevard.  I saw you stick your finger in your ear, dig around, remove your finger and then smell your finger.  Gross.  All the money in the world can get you a great car, but you are still common as a Cold.


Thursday, May 24, 2018

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Clint Walker



Word has come that big, beefy, hunk-a-licious Clint Walker has died.  At 6'6", Walker was never a top movie star, but he did have his own TV show, Cheyenne during the era of Westerns in the 1950s and 1960s.

His height worked against him.  He was drop-dead handsome, but staging shots between a 5'3" heroine and a 6'6" man required too much fancy work, so he was resigned to doing Westerns, which usually had male heavy casts, and men tend to be taller than women, so there you go.

Walker was 90 according to his daughter. 

Let us remember him the way we would like to remember him, in his prime.













Farewell, you, magnificent beast, you.

Monday, May 21, 2018

The GDPR and DHTiSH



Well, here goes nothing:

I, Cookie, have this bit-o-business that I feel like I should take care.  "Blogger" is of no help, but I feel like I need to do something, so here goes:

On May 25, 2018, the European Union will begin to enforce something called General Data Protection Regulation, and it will impact how and what data is collected and require permissions, compliance, etc.  This is to protect the information gathered about EU residents and permissions granted, blah, blah, blah.

I say "blah, blah, blah" because you can look the rule up online and get lots of information.  Suffice it to say that Doing Hard Time in Shaker Heights does NOT collect, store, analyze or otherwise commit voodoo any information on anyone who visits the blog other than what Google Analytics provides the blog managers in snapshot form, day by day.

Really, Cookie is feeling a bit like Hodor with all of this.

I do not know who comes and visits this blog - unless you leave a comment - other than how many people stop by and look at a particular post.  This is not a business, so I have no interest in who comes here and from what IP.  I do not know what kind of operating system, I do not, to our knowledge deploy cookies to your computer.  "Blogger - a Google entity - may do so, and you have to take that up with them.

I really would like to be compliant, and since I know nothing about our audiences or their preferences and are not privy to such things, that really takes any Cookie out of that loop.

If you find that you have been blocked from the site, contact your National government, or the EU, and give them what-for keeping you from this site.   Shake your fist, no tighter.  Damn them!  That's the spirit.

All kidding aside, though, I really cannot find how this impacts us or you since I have nothing to do with such things.  So while I would love to comply and believe that I would because I can't get to the stuff that this covers.

Wish Cookie all luck, then.  This could be nothing, or it can mean headaches for one or all.

Cheers!

Cookie

I think that I shall not see...




...a site as lovely as our holly trees being ground up into pulp.

Cookie is a tree lover and today is a happy/sad day. 

We are sad because having six trees removed from the property, leaving two.  And then adding four.

We are happy because two of the trees are these scraggly holly trees that have failed to thrive under the manse's previous residents, and after our efforts to feed them and care for them.  But Cookie has a rule - no plants that sting or harm you.  So Eloise and Abelard must go and are being ground up as I type.

We are sad because one of the trees, a pin oak topping out at 90 feet is coming down because of decline, and because it was planted too close to the house and the neighbor's house.  In the last windstorm, I thought it was headed for us as the wind blew from the west and towards them as the storm hooked out to sea and blew from the east.  We are really going to miss that tree.

We are happy because two dying/dead ash trees are going.  The Emerald Ash Borer is slowly munching its way through Maryland and killing every ash tree in the nation as it hops from place to place.  In Ohio, the loss of ash trees has been devastating.  We are talking about one of the greatest plagues to every hit the U.S.  Think Dutch Elm was bad? The larva of the Ash Borer is the Satan of insects.  Their eggs are laid by the mature insect who drills a "D" shaped hole into the bark  When the larva emerges, they chew serpentine tunnels through the layer of the tree that delivers nutrition to the branches.  the trees starve to death.  So, while we hate to lose them, they are infested and the vermin will be burnt to a crisp. One less Ash for them to propagate in.

And we are sad, because the box elder that we thought we had scheduled to be removed is a sugar maple, with another ash tree growing between the two stalks of the sugar maple.  So all three have to go.  That sucks.  And it's an extra $400.

And all of that is on top of the $,$$$ that we are already paying because of the pin oak.  Its so close to the houses that they can't bring the

In the end, though, we are happy.  We have four very large birch trees being held and they will get planted a week from today. They are better suited to our swampy backyards, their branches and leaves will give movement in the breeze, and they provide good hiding spaces for the birds. 

So next week, Cookie will get his Helen Lawson on and plant some trees, not any trees, but my trees.

Friday, May 18, 2018

The Kabuki Theatre of Small Dogs on a Rainy Day

Kevin is not amused. 


I wanted to capture it with the camera, but it was not to be.   Two of the players were not in a mood to be photographed.

We have had almost a solid week of rain.  Morning rains, afternoon storms, evening storms and over night drizzles.  We have had peeks of sun.  Full gutters.  Flooded streets.

In Frederick County, to our west, there have been floods of biblical proportions that have taken out roads and bridges.

Here in Baltimore, we go out to our cars each day and find that torrents of water have flushed down the block crumbling pebbles and small stones from the rotten pavement on the street at the end of our block one day, and the next, the pebbles and stones have bee washed down to the catch basins at the ends of the the street.

And because we are at the low end of a two plan axis of terrain, the water flows through our yard like a raceway on its way to the street.

All this water, of course, poses another issue.

Our dogs hate being in the rain.

Can we blame them? 

Yes, they are animals, but humans can be animal like.  And I don't know a single person who would enjoy being told "Go out there and do your business," while the other human who opened the door and gave the order sips on a cup of Nespresso and waits to let you back in.

We have trained the dogs to go outside on their walks or in the back yard.  Normally, on sunny days the bolt out of the back door with the energy of a thoroughbred horse at Pimlico.  But when it rains, the barometer drops and the small dogs become sluggish and tentative when the back door is opened.

This is when the Kabuki Theatre of Small Dogs on a Rainy Day takes place.

In this production, they are the protagonists, and I, the gate keeper, the antagonist.

In our first act, one of two things happen.

In the first plot development storyline, one of the said dogs will come to me while I sit at my desk working, and work to get my attention from the computer screen to them.  I, ask "What does my (INSERT DOG NAME HERE, which is Either Rocky, or Kevin) need?  Do you need to go out?"

Or inn the second possible scenario, they have heard a sound and want to explore it.  This is indicated by yapping.  Lots and lots of yapping.

The dog (or dogs) will cock their head (Rocky) or start spinning in tight circles (Kevin) indicating that in fact, their needs have been heard, and in the affirmative they want to go out.   We go downstairs.

Act II

Our staging is the back door.  As the curtain rises, we see me at the back door and the dogs at my feet. I open the door.  And we see it is  raining. 

Me: "You guys aren't going to like this."

Rocky: I shall begin jumping to demonstrate my excitement.  I will will begin the jumping to demonstrate his excitement.

Kevin: I will languidly stretch.  My energy level has gone from energetic to lethargic.

I open the door.  Rocky, at high speed bolts from the door and travels about ten feet, and stops, dead in his tracks.

Kevin walks to the threshold and sniffs.   

Kevin:  "I see no need to follow the foolish one outside.   Here I shall plant my feet, here.  Two inside, two out.  I shall make my body heavy. You cannot close the storm door for I am here. Moving me will become a task.  I am a load of lead."

Rocky: "It is wet out here.  Let me survey what I can see. "

Kevin: "He has not found a squirrel, I am going inside."

Rocky: "This is not worth it," he turns and comes back inside.

Act III 

I have closed and lock the door.  I return to the kitchen.  The dogs have not gone out for it is wet.  Yet they expect a cookie.

In unison, they say: "Human who controls the door and the food; we demand tribute.  For it was you who said the word "OUT" and we have complied. Now favor us with a biscuit, but we prefer something chewy and liver like."

Me: "But you have done nothing to receive a merit based reward.  And I told you it was raining."

Dogs: "We understand this, but it is you who demanded our compliance with your outdoor toilet practice.  It is not our fault it is raining.  Feed us treats, or one of us will urinate on the Persian silk rug.  One of us may hop upon your bed and use or claws to make a nest, thus ruining the new blanket."

Me: "True.  And more often than naught, you do go out and perform your toilet."

I remove two Milk Bone biscuits from the box.  Rocky, the Elder, gets first choice, left or right hand.  Never mind they are both the same.  It is his right to choose.

Kevin: Biscuit?  This is not my first choice.  I will not take it in the kitchen, you must follow me, human, to a room far removed from the the dog you call Rocky.

I follow Kevin, first to the dining room, where he pretends to take the cookie, then toddles off to the entry hall, passing Rocky who is gnawing at the rock hard biscuit, then the living room and finally the sun room.  It is here that Kevin decides taking the cookie is acceptable.  Once in his jaws, he retraces his steps to a place to where the other dog is finishing his cookie.  Kevin plops down, right next to his alpha dog and begins to grind his teeth into the tasteless biscuit.  As if to say "Now it is my turn.  Watch and learn."

And thus, we find that no progress has been made, only customs have been followed.  And in this, our drama is done.

FIN

Normally, the Kabuki Theatre Small Dogs on a Rainy Day, plays about four performances if the entire day is rainy.  The outcome is always the same.

Now if you say W-A-L-K, and it is pouring, they are all in.  No drama.  They are more than willing to get wet.

Why? Because that means you too, the Human holding the leash is getting wet, and they are only too happy to see you in your misery.  This, we call the Kabuki Theatre of Walking the Dogs on a Rainy Day

And it is always played at an outdoor venue.


Saturday, May 12, 2018

New Computer, UGHS!

Remember when you thought no one would ever need more than 10mb?
It sucks getting this old, dude!


Cookie has come to the realization that it is most likely the time that money should be invested into another computer, and is here to state that he dreads this process.

The current computer was built way back in 2010 and, if it was a person, be wrapping up second grade.   But when I designed it - yes, Cookie does hardware - that I overbuilt the computer because I wanted to end the cycle of a new piece of junk every couple years.

So I have been shopping and I am shocked - SHOCKED I SAY - not at the new processor speeds - which are amazing, but to discover that desktops are now more expensive than comparable laptops!

For what I do, a laptop is a nice thing to have when I travel, it is not practical in the home office.

My head was literally SPINNING in MicroCenter.  Cookie only buys from a MicroCenter.  You can't beat the deals they have.   Well, you could, but if something goes wrong, you have to ship it someplace for warranty work.  Microcenter does it all.

Buying the beast isn't the bad part.  The bad part is moving everything over and replacing the programs you lose.

UGHS!

Friday, May 11, 2018

Why Aunt Wanda...



...whatever are you doing up there? You better hope that there are no sudden stops.

Sunday, May 6, 2018

Commencment at Emerald City High School



I would like to take this momentously grand and special occasion to to thank our School Board, teachers, and families for being here, today, on the occasion of the 137th graduating class from Emerald City High School.  As the Valedictorian of this class, I have been asked to say a few words.  You don’t want a long and drawn out journey, down memory lane, because our future is before us.

During our time at good old ECHS – Go WIZARDS! YES! ALL RIGHT! – our classes have taught us a great deal about life inside the Emerald City, and life in faraway places, Like Munchkinland and the and amongst the Quadlings.  We have learned how to “Rub Rub Here” and “Scrub Scrub There,” in the applied arts, how to drive carriages, and how to dye shoes to match ones gown – especially if it’s in a shade a green.

But we have also learned lessons from places so far away that they have names like “Omaha” and “Kansas.”

But out of all these lessons, there are some truths I have discovered that are universal that I would like to share.

The first of these is that everything is not Emerald green.  Emerald green is an aspirational color, but it is not the only color we should reach for.  There is blue and there is yellow and when you meld them, they make green.  But you can adapt that green by peppering in a bit of blue here, and perhaps an additional daub of extra yellow to make “Teal” and even “Lime”.  From that, we can learn never to settle for just plain seafoam green.

The second lesson is that we never know what journey someone has taken to get here.  Some people take the Yellow Brick Road.  Others can literally drop in on us without a moment’s notice.   A friend may come to you, self-absorbed in her own bubble.  And we welcome them and help come out of their own little world. 

The third lesson is sometimes,  there are those who may come into your life on a smoke-belching broom, which can cloud the sky.  Yes, it’s messy, sooty and befouls the air, we have to remember that “hurt people hurt people.”  Be kind.  Someone could have taken of value from them, or worse removed something from the corpse of their sister. Be kind but be smart.  Always be at the ready with a bucket of cold water at the handy if things go awry.

The fourth lesson is that somewhere along the road to our destiny, we will meet people who will do anything for us, even if it means getting the stuffing knocked out of them.

The fifth lesson is that if there is a curtain, we need to look behind it, especially when someone says “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”  Surely that man is back there for a reason, for no one stands behind a curtain without cause.  Expose him and demand to know why he is behind that curtain!

The sixth lesson is that you must not enter into a field of poppies.  When someone directs you through the poppies, just say “NO!”  Because once you frolic through a field of poppies, you'll keep needing to find bigger and bigger fields of poppies.  And from there, it's a hop skip and a jump before you start seeing flying monkeys everywhere.  Just remember, "NO!" and you'll never have that flying monkey on your back.

The seventh lesson is that when someone wants to give you a pair of ruby slippers, ask yourself, is anything in life worth anything, free?

The eighth lesson is to find something that you are really good at and go for it.  If chopping wood is your passion, don't make a suit out of tin, but chose a miracle fabric that shed water.  If you want to live as a cowardly lion, excel at sniveling. If you want to be a scarecrow, well, learn to dance. Dance? Yes, dance.  Because at some point, we all have to be able to dance, and dance like no one else is looking because that is what makes life sweet. 

The ninth lesson is to plan.  OZ has one of the greatest longevity rates in the land, but at some point, you'll want to set sail in a balloon, into the sunset, for a faraway land.  So learning to plan and navigate is really important or you could end up in a place called Elizabeth, New Jersey or worse, Steubenville in something called Ohio. 

But most importantly, the tenth lesson is that we must realize that our lives are our own.  Our obligation is to stay fixated on our day to day lives and to cast uninvited strangers in this land upon their own journey lest anything happen to us.  Lead a teenager throughout their entire adolescence and they will need to be led for the rest of their life.  Teach them to walk on their own two feet, and they will be able to outrun flying monkeys on their own.

That is the way of OZ. 

If they find their way back and haven't been turned into a newt, well maybe then, we can tell them that all along they had the ability to be the best version of themselves all along.  But that only through their own heart’s desire will they find the way back home.  Thank you.

Saturday, May 5, 2018

Make my stuff, your stuff



Well, we have survived another annual garage sale.  Thankfully, the COMMITTEE that handles this annual event held it this past weekend instead of the hottest weekend of the summer as they have in the past.  And reader, we sold a shitload of stuff.  But DEAR GOD, a 7 A.M. start date?

As in the past, we had the regular players, but new people came along, too:

7:05 A.M.
LEGO MAN, "Do you have any Lego?"
Cookie: "No."
LEGO MAN: "I can wait here while you look.  Be sure to check in the back of the closets."
Cookie: "You know, I understand that a sale in the 600 block of W. Joppa Rd.* is clearing out the toys that a collector has socked away for years.  Another man looking for Lego's said the was heading over there when they open at 9."
LEGO MAN: "Thanks for the tip.

9:15 A.M.
Mid Century Modern Man: "What table has you mid-century modern items?
Cookie: "Those sold completely out before we even opened."**
MCMM: "Who starts a neighborhood yard sale at 7 A.M.?"
Cookie: "People who have things to do by noon."
NOTE: This guy shows up in classic Volvo wagon, and always looks like an L.L. Bean threw up on him.  But he smells of canine cologne and as if he spent the night sleeping in a dirty ashtray.

9:30 A.M.
Vintage Camera Man: "You got any vintage cameras?"
Cookie: "Well as you see we are down to a "Take and Tinker" Snowthrower, some CD's, some decorating trinkets, a lawnmower, and some other stuff that nobody wants."
VCM: "So you don't have any vintage camera equipment?"
Cookie: "Guess not."
VCM: "Well I am looking for vintage camera equipment."
Cookie: "Have you looked at other sales?"
VCM: "I'm looking around.  You're sure you don't have any inside?"
Cookie: "I'm pretty sure I am not going to check inside for something that isn't there."***

10:05 A.M.
Vintage Playboy Man: "Where are your vintage Playboys from the 1950s?"
Cookie: "I'm a child of the 1960s and I have no idea where my father kept his stash back then."

10:07 A.M.
Snoopy woman: "I think it vile that he's looking for pornography at a community yard sale."
Cookie: "That reminds me we must have 300 pounds of vintage gay porn from the 1980s in the basement to bring up..."

But the kick in the balls moment came at around 10:45 when we were down to some unloved CD's, some brass trinkets that belonged to my late stepfather, and some DVD compilations that a neighbor begged us to see for her.  The husband is shuffling things around and getting ready for the 11 A.M. close when a young woman and her son come down the street.

Child: "Mommy, whats in this box?"
Mommy: "It's a game called "Trivial Pursuit"
Child: "What's that?"
Mommy: "It's a game that people like your great grandma used to like to play back in the olden days."****

ANYHOW, here is Cookie's way of getting ready for a yard sale, and it starts the year BEFORE the next yard sale.

What you need is to go to Target and buy about three to six green (or purple, or red, or blue) storage tubs.

Throw preprinted price stickers into each bin.  As the year progresses, when you come across something that doesn't tickle fancy, price it, and put it in the bin. 

Once it goes in the bin, it doesn't come out of the bin until the Yard Sale.

Bin full up, pull out another, repeat.

On yard sale day, All you need to do is set up the tables and carry out the bins and set it up.


* I made that address up. Every year we go through this with this twit, so I had to get rid of him.
**I would never put anything MCM in a yard sale.
*** In my mind was "Would you please get your head out of your ass because I have said no like four different ways."
**** Oh. You. NASTY. Snatch!  Fuck you, Mommy.

Thursday, May 3, 2018

I'm not one to talk, but...




ITEM:  It is hot as FUCK today in Bawlimore.  In the sun it feels dreadfully intense and hot.  Two weeks ago, it was cold as fuck.  But the thermometer to left says 111°; weather(dot)com says 92.

ITEM: Houses have been coming on the market in the hood, and they are in contract before the Brokers Open.  Which is strange and weird because they are going into bidding war scenarios, and this Baltimore, not some town in Silicon Valley.

ITEM: One house isn't selling.   It's overpriced and needs a lot of work.  Take the hint, you don't move property based on statements like "We got most of the rats out of the garage," savvy?

ITEM: The hardware store down the street SUCKS.

ITEM: Enquiring minds want to know if this Saturday is a washout for the community yard sale?  And if so, is Sunday going to be any better?

ITEM: I can't stand that one cashier at the grocery store.  Which one?  The one who sounds like an uneducated Edith Bunker is LOUD when you go through her line.

ITEM: To the woman who smokes cigarettes and throws them half smoked into the local playground, Crossing Guard Mary's got your number, Sweetheart.

ITEM: Cookie sees impossible options and no-win scenarios in the month of June when The Middle fades into its final season of reruns.  What if Sue doesn't get the guy?

ITEM: The new Roseanne show is not a normalization of Drumphs America.  It's actually a pretty damn accurate account of family life in West Virginia.

ITEM: Who is that black child, Mary, on Roseanne? Yes, we know its a TV grandchild, but why hasn't her story been explored?

ITEM: A neighbor reported that her purse, laptop, and cell phone were stolen from her locked (wink, wink) car in her driveway the other night.  I think someone either doesn't have a lick of common sense or wanted that crap stolen so they could get new stuff courtesy of the insurance company.

ITEM: To the salesperson at the cookware store, yes, I understand that leCruiset doesn't go on sale often, but when I want a 5qt flame orange dutch oven that you have to special order, I do not want a red dutch oven shaped like a heart because you have it at 30% off.  No matter what the markdown is, it's not my style and not worth it.

Blind Item: You know who you are and we saw what you did.  Pervert.

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Words of Inspiration: Been there...


...done that.

And whatever you do, do not fuck with Phyllis. Because Phyllis will fuck you up. 

Consider yourself warned.

Saturday, April 28, 2018

The night Emmett's wife forgot to dress for dinner


Bring on that juicy-ass tomato aspic.   But keep an eye on Dwight over there playing that game of pocket pool.


Time marches on, so must we


This is the Lynnfield Rapid Station in Shaker Heights, taken around 1927. Waiting for the rapid are what appears to be three or four males, all wearing caps - a hallmark of boys and young men into their twenties in that era. We are looking East-Northeast.  The building is there - a bit of a community touchstone - but the wide open spaces are now full of four and five story luxo-apartments and mondo condos from the 1940s and 1950s.

In Shaker Heights, the light rail has always been called the "Rapid" because when it started, it was the fastest way to get downtown.  There are two lines of Rapids serving Shaker, the Van Aken line, which is where the Lynnfield station is, and the Shaker Boulevard line which terminates at Green Road.   I have no idea why it's called Green Road, it just is. 

Beyond the Green Road terminus, is miles and miles of right away to the east that once served the Nickle Plate Rail Road.  The Van Swearingen brothers, who founded Shaker Heights bought the Nickle Plate just to get the right away for Shaker commuters.  Eventually, the line was to extend east, but the Depression, the death of one of the brothers - they were not twins, but they were everything to each other that if one didn't know better one would have thought they were Siamese Twins - the collapse of the Railway empire they built and then the death of the second brother ended that hope.

As I type this in, the Van Aken line has its own temporary "green" goal - the rebuilding of Van Aken Center is clad in green sheathing as the new building go up.  Eventually, the new complex will try and meld offices, retail and condos together into the "New Urbanism" mold so popular today.

After seeing people bickering online with one and other over this mass of "green" materials, on an uncompleted build out,  Cookie is simply annoyed with people who cannot see that the project is unfinished, and the holes for windows haven't yet been cut on the rapid side of the development.

Cookie really would like to kick some people's ass over their freak out on this project.

The city bent over backward to hold public forums to get input on what people wanted for the site, and the residents went.

The people who didn't go these meetings are the Shaker ex-pats, like Cookie, who don't live there any more, but boy ol' boy, are they the ones who are complaining the loudest.

Jesus H. Christ, the griping, bitching blame casting is grating on my nerves.

Grow the fuck up people.

Or, put another way, the Husband, always a bright and cheerful sort point out that Cookie is, in 2018, 5X and born in 196X.  If we subtract my age today from the year of my birth, that puts me back to the 1905 to 1915 era. That's kind of scary* when you think about that as a scale of time when you play "what-if's" and "imagine that".

Look, for as much as I loved Shaker, a city cannot live on the memories of what once was.  It has to progress.   If things could be kept exactly as we remember it in our era, then the people who are standing in this picture would have wanted the area to remain as they remembered it - say in this picture.

Now you are asking, Cookie, what the fuck are you talking about?

Well, remember at the top of the post how I mentioned that this picture was taken about 1927.  Remember what I said about taking your age, and subtracting it the year of your birth?  Think about.  The guys in the pictures are wearing caps, not hates, so they are young men.  Say born about 1905ish.  Would they expect all the brick apartments and luxo-units to be torn down just to accommodate their memories of this part of the city?

Change is going to happen.  It's OK not to like it.  It's OK to embrace it.  But bitching about a half complete project in a town that you've left behind?   Look, you either get with the program or you get left behind.

So sayeth Cookie.

*Cookie's mother was born in 1924 and died in 2010 at 86.  If we take 86 from 1924, we get 1838.  She would freak out over that. 

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Who is that fondling that Divine tombstone?

Muscato is such a handsome man.  And brilliant as well. 

So, WHO up and shows up at our door at Cookie Manor yesterday?

Mr. Muscato!  Sort of like a visit by Mary Poppins, sans the umbrella and the carpet bag.

Well, he didn't show up uninvited.  Cookie invited him.  So it wasn't a surprise, but it was pure joy.

The reason was simple enough - its spring and in spring, well, you need to go out and see different people, places, and things. 

And what better place to see "things" than Baltimore?

As we welcomed him into the bosom of our house, Kevin was having none of it.  Yappy, yappy, yappy. But soon, he was giving our friend big love and snuggles.

And where does one take guests when they visit?

First stop was Divine's grave because one must pay tribute to Divine.  As you can see, it hasn't been decorated for springtime, and it looks a bit mondo trasho, but Muscato was enchanted and entranced and as in life when he was living, Divine was embalmed.

From there, we hit a twofer.  Lunch at Gertrude's at the Baltimore Museum of Art.  Followed by viewing of art at the BMA.

Lunch at Gertrude's was, and always is, DIVINE.  

However, Cookie kept getting attacked by an old woman in one of those walkers with handbrakes and a seat.  Evidently, this is a woman who either has a bladder issue or never had a Sister Mary Immaculata in her life. ("Cookie, Control. Your. Body. Or. It. WILL. Control. You!")  No sooner then I had a bit of my club sandwich then WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! as she tried to slink by me like a female cat in heat.  Had the dear old Dowager said "excuse me" as she snuck up on my back, I would have gladly stood, moved my chair.  No, she was a darling, yet passive aggressive Quaker woman intent on not bothering anyone by bothering anyone.

So what does one see at the BMA?  We went to see the "Cone Collection", which is really rather fascinating.  The two Cone sisters lived on the same apartment floor, in Baltimore, had a lot of money and were friends with Gertrude Stein.  Stein had a lot of artist hanging around her place in Europe, trying to make ends meet so she brought the Cones and the artists together and the Cones bought the paintings.

The paintings were then donated to the BMA when the sisters left this world.

Which, if you think about it, is rather remarkable for a museum like the size of the BMA to have a collection with such a direct provenance.  In this way, the BMA is like the Columbus Museum of Art with their Sirak Collection, but better focused.  And the Cones knew the immortals whose works they were collecting. 

The BMA also has one of Rodin's "Thinker" statues, and the last one I saw was the one at the Cleveland Museum of Art before it was blown up by an unhinged person 46 years ago.

We stayed as long as we could - but when I saw the Dowager with the equipment making a beeline for the Cone collection area, it was God's way of saying "time for today is up."

Thus, was our day.

In other news, I am struggling with allergies.  The shots are working as far as sneezing, wheezing, watery eyes and stuffy noses, but I can feel my body at work trying to respond to the allergens but being unable to come up with a response.  It's a bit like one's immune system sensing that something is afoot, but unable to figure out why it hasn't the energy to respond. 

"Why," asks my immune system, "aren't you sneezing and itchy?"  to which my body is saying "Dunno, but a nap sounds lovely."

On the books for tomorrow is an oral coronation ("Arise, Sir Molar!") and more work on this L.A. Project.  Ugh, because I would rather be in L.A. than be in Baltimore.

Anyway, Spring has arrived as I sit in my office typing this, I am serenaded by birdsong from outside.






Friday, April 20, 2018

Mr. Sneakers



Found this on the Face of Books and it took me back - way back to my early, early childhood.

Cleveland had three major department stores that I can remember in my life.  May Company.  Higbee's. And The Halle Brother's Company, aka Halle's.

But The May Company's "May's on the Heights" store - quite possibly one of the largest standalone departments stores built outside of a downtown area was near our house by about 10 minutes.

While I am happy to report that Mr. Sneakers and I never made an acquaintance that I recall. the ad does feature the childhood tennis shoe brands of choice for those us born in the Eisenhower and Kennedy years, namely Converse, Red Ball Jets and PF Flyers.

I was a Red Ball Jets child until I graduated to PF Flyers.  Converse was not the shoe for flat footed kids like myself.

By the way, the "PF" in the PF Flyers name?  Stood for Posture Foundation.

I do not, however, remember "Little Abernathy".

From winter into summer

Angela Cartwright reminds us that Spring fashion is possible, just not on earth.


Cookie is really feeling very vexed with Mother Nature and her minion, the groundhog, aka a Mr. Phil of Puxatauny, Pennsylvania. 

So this year, Phil tells us it is going to be a short winter.

Phil lied.

We have, however, seem to find ourselves stuck in Groundhog Day type weather.  Grey, cold, and dank.

Even Easter this year was a stinker.

The dogs are so disgusted by it all that "going out" has become a Kabuki Theater effort.

They fritter about like they have to go out.  I open the door.  Out goes Rocky to the top of the deck stairs while Kevin remains at my feet.  Rocky looks around determines that its just grey and "blah", turns around and comes in.   Now, these are dogs that like to shoot down those deck steps and charge at anything in the yard, real or imagined under normal circumstances.  But no.  They just go and sit for their treat that they haven't earned.

"Don't blame us - the weather sucks."  And it does.

Well, according to the Weather Channel THAT changes today, and in a BIG way.

Over the next week, we are going from the 50s to the 80s in as fast as time as we can.  And it's going to stay like that for ten days or so.

And that means - no rest for the wicked.  Cookie will be installing air conditioners in the windows downstairs.  Ugh.  I loathe window AC units.

But, beggars can't be choosers.

Feast or famine for us.

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Tuesday, April 17, 2018

Ohio-lag, or these things happen



"Some days you're the windshield, some days, you're the bug."
                                                                                               ~ Mary Chapin Carpenter.

Cookie is having a low energy day. 

It happens.  It is most likely the "Ohio-lag" - that moment when the adrenaline of last week finally wears off and you realize that five days worth of a nine-hour drive, conferences, visits with old friends and pressure to be here, be there, be everywhere, and then another nine-hour drive, take their toll.

And we can't be perfect every day, every moment.  If Cookie thought that he must be perfect every minute of every day, then you would most likely find half-full glasses of brown liquor hidden about the house.  I would be ready for the rubber room.  Curled in a fetal position. Or I would be Martha Stewart.

But no.  I am hauling my lazy ass up and out of the house to do something productive. Unlike Forest Gump, who claims "life is like a box of (generic) chocolates," without a map in the box lid to keep you from eating the Dark Chocolate/Apricot Creme bonbon.  Cookie sees the stuff of life as a series of dirty plates.  You might as well get them done or they start to pile up. 

For if I don't get this errand done, verily it's just going to be another dirty dish waiting to be washed, so to speak. 

So please, NO comments wishing me well, or hoping I get better.  I will. I am. I am not Bar Bush in palliative care.  But when these moments occasionally happen, I am wise enough to know that you have to embrace them. 

I am basking in the low energy knowing that it, like this lousy spring weather, shall to pass.

Words from Cookie



If SPAM had never been invented, our unwanted email and unwanted social postings would be called "TREET".

Let that sink in.

This has been Words from Cookie.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

The Ohio's beckoned me


The Ohio's (yes, plural, because there is no unified State of anything in Ohio) called my name and I harkened back that "YES! I'm coming..."

The Ohio Genealogical Society had its annual meeting in Columbus, and I will ALWAYS go to that event when it's in Columbus because it's on my home turf.

Cookie is now heading home to Baltimore.  Leaving everything behind that I hold dear, with the exception of my husband, the dogs, and our house, which are in Baltimore.

I shall miss the grocery stores, the pizza, the manageable traffic and that feeling that it is safe to drive just about anywhere, at any time of the day.   Menards, BD's Mongolian BBQ, Hell even Wendy's*.  And the FRIENDS!  ALL. BETTER. IN. OHIO.

The suitcases are loaded down with Ballreich's potato chips.  I wish there were a real way to transport the pizzas and the subs that I ate.

I learned lots and lots about genealogy that I already knew, and remain totally bamboozled by the DNA aspect of it.  I know enough to get through the basics, but the glory of the chromosome browser really escapes me. 

But it also reminds me that Summer travel is already booked up!  Trips back to Ohio, to one Chicago, and one, we hope back to Los Angeles.


*Wendy's in Maryland and northern Virginia are beyond disgusting.  Run down, stark, ancient buildings.  It's so bad that they sued the franchise holder, DavCo, for the region in 2015.   DavCo claims that Wendy's business plans are unrealistic. Well, the outlets are still nasty, with "yellow" roofs - yes, YELLOW.  Unfortunately, nothing has changed, here, while the rest of the country the outlets are, for fast food, fabu.  That tells me it is still in litigation.  So whenever we travel, we scope out a Wendy's for old time sake.   You can read more here, here and here.

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Debbie's a doll. But she's moody.



I would like to introduce you to "DEBBIE in Different Moods".  Debbie is not creative Photoshop.  Debbie is or was the real thing from the late 1950s/1960s.

A Barbie knock-off fashion doll (Her clothes form her torso, so her knees are jointed to her skirt), you couldn't change her clothes, but you could change her moods.

Unlike Barbie who came with a wardrobe, Debbie came with four heads, each one conveying a different mood.

Debbie came with:

- A HAPPY face
- A SAD face
- A FURIOUS face - more like I AM GOING TO RIP YOUR FUCKING BALLS OFF Furious.

and a generic RESTING BITCH FACE.

ALL of these faces most striking detail are the Divinelike arched eyebrows and blue eyeshadow.

Each head has the same penis shaped ponytails on its top.

My question is WHY DID THEY STOP MAKING THESE?????

Can you imagine having one in your cube at the cube farm?

"Cookie has a smile on his face, but Debbie has a Furious face.  I would stay away."

Anyway, if you have deep pockets, you can buy Debbie online through eBay every now and then, but she'll cost you a little more than sixty-nine cents.  Debbie in package is listing north of $100 these days.  And worth EVERY PENNY.

Sunday, April 8, 2018

DHTiSH Book Club Selection


The current book club selection is T.S. Eliot's classic, April is a Motherfucker. In it, we are lashed with the stinging whip of a winter that refuses to release us from its loins.  We are beaten by March winds in the month following, drenched in its rains, taunted and teased before relief is finally delivered to us, a bit at a time, and a bit more each time.

And don't even get me started on the scourge of Bitter Wintercrest.

I picked it up this it was a tell-all on April Stevens, which would be some great escapism from this miserable weather.  Thankfully it had nothing to do with April Stevens who is Goddess and very sweet woman.

But, it's really more like T.E. Lawrence, than T.S. Eliot if you ask me.

What are your feelings on this miserable April 2018?

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

Who's a dumb bunny, now?

The rabbit with the thousand yard stare.  The man inside did everything he could to remain calm.


On Sunday, the *leader of the "free" world*, United States President Donald J. Trump, took to the stage to greet thousands of parents, children, and journalists, and standing next to a decorated veteran wearing an Easter Bunny costume, said the following:

“I want to thank the White House Historical Association and all of the people that work so hard with Melania, with everybody to keep this incredible house or building or whatever you want to call it because there really is no name for it,” the president said, referring to the White House. 

“It is special. And we keep it in tip-top shape. We call it sometimes tippy top shape,” said Trump.

Let that sink in for a moment. 

The leader of the free-world found himself without facts as he gave an off the Tippy Top of his head speech to thousands of children. 

Now Linda Ellerbee once said, "Ideas off the top of one's head are a lot like dandruff, small and flakey."  It was a cute quip of common sense, but now it has real meaning.

The man who knowingly ran for the office of the President of the United States cannot remember the following:

1) The building is the White House.
2) The building was built approximately 218 years ago to serve as the official residence of the President of the United States.
3) When it was finished it was named the Presidential Mansion.
4) When it was burned in the War of 1812 by the British, all that was left were the four outer walls.
5) AFTER it was rebuilt and its exterior walls were whitewashed to cover the scorched surfaces of the stone, and it was nicknamed the WHITE HOUSE.
6) It has an address - 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and it is also known as such.
7) It is a building of State importance.  And that is State as in it the universally recognized residence of the serving leader of this nation.

ALL of this is taught in schools across this country.  It is on and in the news. This is not something that requires an advanced degree in anything.  This is basic knowledge.  It is fact.

But the dumb (as in silent) bunny in the picture's expression captures this all.  The President is lost. 

And it makes me wonder when Hope Hicks ordered this costume did the phone conversation go something like this:

"I'd like to place an order for an adult Easter Bunny suit for the White House Easter Egg Roll.  Yes, the facial expression should be one of amazement, because the man wearing it will be standing with the President.  And yes, the President will be saying any crazy-ass thing that comes to mind, so the look has to be "amazement", not shock or consternation..."

The President, the man in the bunny suit, the first lady, and their son are standing in the South Portico, so named because it faces the South.  They are either standing under, or on, the Truman Balcony, so named because it was built by President Harry S. Truman - a man who was intellectually smarter than the President could ever be, and a man who was adult enough to understand that "THE BUCK STOPS HERE" means that he as the leader of the free world takes the blame when something goes wrong. 

This type of responsibility eludes the current President who blames everyone else for everything and hoards accolades like a demented Daffy Duck's "It's mine! It's mine! I'm a greedy miser."

We can take this "no one knows what to call it" even further. The President is looking out over the South Lawn.  Why?  Because it faces the God Damned SOUTH.

As for "Tippy-Top", that sounds like a three-year-old who can not articulate that he wants a toy located on the more complexly structured "Very Top Shelf".  Even Gloria Epson, the empty-headed debutant fiancee of Patrick Dennis in Aunti Mame would grasp "Top Shelf".  But like Trump, Gloria found books very decorative. So, now we have "Tippy Top." 

Amazingly, the President did not close the event by saying "All Gone," when it was time to chase the toddlers off the property.

God, I hope someone remembers the job that Hope Hicks had to do every morning after kissing Donald's ass.  That would be hanging a tag around his neck with his name, address and a phone number that someone will answer.  Because evidently, Donald doesn't know the basics of his name, his address or his phone number for the policeman who is his friend so they can bring him home.  And we no longer have pictures of missing children on milk cartons, so that option is out. What a terrible tragedy that would be.

It used to be an aspirational goal for parents to tell their young child that one day they could grow up to be the President. 

Now, parents can say to their five years old's, "you can be president right now.  Who wants to go to Iowa and Caucas?"

The president is teaching us every day that adulthood and maturity mean nothing when it comes to his agenda.  Even MAGA is dead.  Now Donny "want to make America Tippy Top again," diddems.

Sunday, March 25, 2018

Before the Clothes Come Off



You will never see blatant sex on DHTiSH because that would be, well, not what this blog is about.  No one is going to stamp DHTiSH as an adult content blog because that would be unseemly.

But, I've been in Baltimore for five years and it's getting to me.  At some point, I have to at least bend to this warped place, but I will never yield completely.

Thus I was utterly delighted to find a Tumblr that cracks me up.   "Before the Clothes Come Off" is a look back the adult material of years ago, but only at the point before the clothes come off.  It's not X-rated, adult in content, but more W-rated.  W for wonderfully warped.

Thus I give you samples from the Tumblr:


Here we have a woman who looks like Camilla in her macintosh gear - you know, rubber fetishwear for the horsey set.   She certainly looks very chummy and good-natured.  Yet under that raincoat, embalmers gloves and waders rests the clammy heart of fetishist. 



This is self-explanatory.  He's wearing a cheap leather jacket, and she's wear more fake leopard than anyone has a right to.  PLUS, the decor.  Exposed wiring, cheap luggage and you have a horny welcome in multiple languages. 




No expense was spared on this set.  Works of important art.  Fine folding chair furniture.  Strappy high heels.  A man with a towel around his head like Ursula Andress in Casino Royale.  You know where this is going.   And these men are about to become pretty-pretty.


What is the sickest thing that you could imagine in porn?  Yes, you have it. A greasy pre-orgy meal at Burger King by three people, two women, and man who all have the same haircut. Oy, the gas!  And the onion ring breath!  Can you imagine!  Snatch!


There is more of this adult fun on the Tumblr itself.  Enjoy!

Before the clothes come off. 

Wednesday, March 21, 2018

Love, all sixteen flavors, and that douche bag


Cookie has run this image before, but it came up on a friend's "What the Fuck Wednesday" feed and it got me thinking about the late 1960s, and the fucked up commercial culture of that era.  For what its worth, Cookie thinks the guy is fugly and Amy needs a bra.  But they both look higher than the Graf Zeppelin.

I mean a douche that smells and tastes like apricots?  The only people I know who like apricots are all over eighty and live in trailer parks in Florida.

Anyhow, reading down the ad, it says "One of sixteen delicious flavors-of-love from LOVE," What are those sixteen flavors?


Well, here's my guess:



1) Strawberry.  Its a given - everything in the late 1960s was Strawberry.  From Bonnie Bell Lip Smack to Boons Farm.  Strawberry is an automatic given.



2) It's citrus, its clean, sure, why not?




3) So far, so good.  I am not a fan of currants because I think that they taste gamey, but then again, someone thought that apricots would make a fine scent for a woman's secret lady place.




4) It's plausible. Not likely, but if the ugly dude like apricots, then prunes are a logical step, right.


5) I figured that since dude likes apricots, and then assumed that prunes would be next, what raisins?


6) Rhubarb - tangy, in the spring.  After spring it gets pithy.




7) Avocados? Imagine, Judy Tenuta, saying: "It could happen."  And it could.



8) It's natural, and garlic has curative powers in folk medicine.  And it would keep the vampires away during that magical yet unspeakable time each month in a ladies life...Again, as with Judy Tenuta, it could happen.



9) It's exotic, has anti-inflammation powers.  Popular with the Brits. What's not to LOVE.



10) C'mon, everyone loves a little heat, right?  I am not that person.  I eschew hot food because food should not hurt you.  But we're not talking about food, we're talking about douches.


11) Again, it's exotic!  What other food do you bury in the ground so it can rot in peace and then dig it up so you can enjoy it?



12) Not that I would ever eat it, but dude looks stoned enough that he'd go for it.   To me, it smells like cat food.



13) I know.  I shifted gears on ya.  C'mon, Winnie the Pooh Face looks like he'd like to eat out the honeypot.  Pot?  Did someone say POT?  Dude!



14) Dude!  It's served at the restaurant in Dad's Country Club.  Yes, it is an establishment dish but with butter anything is good!



15) Yeah, I know.  Could be worse.  Could be Marmite. Pass the Ritz. AND


16) Pumpkin Spice.  Yes.  THIS.  Someone had to get the idea somewhere.

What flavors should I have included?