Saturday, February 24, 2018

Cookie tells his cousin she needs to just stop. Stop it now.



Cookie has a Cousin Wendy.  And everyone knows it's Wendy when Wendy storms into town and loudly announces herself.   She literally will stand outside my house and bellow: "COOKIE!!!  COME OUT HERE AND GIVE YOU COUSIN WENDY A BIG OLD HUG."

It's Wendy's style. 

You can't take this woman to a professional sports game because she will want to run out on the field and BELLOW out the Star Spangled Banner.

Anyway, Wendy was driving through Baltimore on her way from visiting her daughter Jazzmin (I know, I know, but no one listens to Cookie) who attends school at Catholic University, and she calls me up to say that she is driving up 95 to New York to see her old college friend Midge who is in from some European country where she moved to blah, blah' blah and could I meet Wendy at a Panera near exit blah, blah, blah for a cup of coffee and pastry.

So I drop everything, literally, because its either Wendy or it's folding laundry and if I have to go to a Panera, it might as well be to get out of folding laundry to see Wendy.

So we meet and she bellows out to everyone in the store that "THIS IS MY COUSIN COOKIE AND COOKIE IS MARRIED TO A NICE MAN AND THEY LIVE HERE."

People look at me like "Huh?" I look back at them with a "Yeah, I know - I want this to over too."

But the girl has to do what she has to do because Wendy is a force of nature.

Folks, this has been going on since I was a kid.  I am used to it. 

The only thing louder than Wendy's mouth is her heart, which is huge and full of life and love.  Sometimes, you just need to let the people you love be who they need to be.

Except on my Birthday, because Wendy is never allowed to spend any time with me in my birth month because it will end with her standing up and BELLOWING "HEY EVERYONE, IT'S COOKIE'S ANNIVERSARY OF HIS TRIP THROUGH THE BIRTH CANAL, and then a mariachi band will appear.   And the restaurant doesn't have to be Mexican for that to happen.  Trust me on this.   I have lived through it, twice.

Anyhow Wendy is all about all things gay, Gay GAY.

So this Olympic season, she is all about the whole Adam Rippon/Gus Kenworthy kiss. 

"Did you see it?  It is so fabulous to have a same-sex couple not only kiss but fall in love at the Olympics!"

Huh?

The first openly gay hook up at the Olympics!

No - no.

"Well, what would you call that passion."  Now she's looking like Kathy Najimy in Sister Act.

Wendy, STOP.

I explain that it was done for the camera, but that Gus Kenworthy has a man, and Gus is most likely a big old bottom. 

The look on her face is one that you would expect when a Christian Woman sees one of the LOLCats memes that reads "Every time you masturbate, God kills a kitten."

"Gus is cheating on Adam?"

I have to explain to her that Gus is cheating on no one.  Gus and Adam are not anything to each other except Olympic buds who happen to share a love for cock.

Well, "QUELLE HORREUR" comes over Wendy's face and she slaps the table in disbelief.

"But they make such a cute couple!"

The balloon is burst. 

I show her a picture of Gus and his man/boyfriend/husband/hunk and still, Wendy is crushed.

"But what about Adam?"

I put my hand on hers and remind her that there will always be Stars on Ice, and then Dancing with the Stars, then porn for Adam. 

"And you need to stop.  Seriously."

Later that night I get a text from Jazzmin who said that she spoke with her mother, she made it to New York, but that she was crushed that "Adam and Gus will never be together."

I text back "What advice did you give?" 

"I told her that Sally Field is trying to fix up her son with Adam and it will work its way out.  And to have another bottle of wine.  And I told her that no, Gus and his boyfriend will not break up so Adam and can move in for the kill."

Thank GOD these Olympics are coming to an end.  Between the Curling team getting gold, and this Gus and Adam thing, I just can't take it anymore. 

And Wendy needs time to go through the five stages of grief.

And I need to fold the damned laundry.


Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Mother nature is just 'effing with us



No Norma, we're having a heatwave, you're having the heat flash.

Mother Nature (who will forever look like Dena Dietrich to me - you remember Dena as Mother Nature in the Chiffon commercials?  Chiffon Margarine? You don't?  Well fuck you for being so fucking young.)

It got up to SEVENTY-SIX today, and it's only February 21st!  Oy!  It was so hot I have to think cool thoughts and not turn on the AC.

Cookie started out the day in jeans and mock turtleneck, and by noon I was in a tee-shirt and shorts.

Well, thank the green goddess that tomorrow we slide back into bleak, wet, cold February, again.   I love a warmish day in February, but 76 and sunny just fucks with you. 

By the way, I have no idea what Miracle French dressing is.  I think it went onto become Catalina brand dressing.

Cookie.


Tuesday, February 20, 2018

This ain't my first time at the rodeo, Shirley



So the Husband and I were at the Late Late Early Late Winter Cocktail hour the other night chatting and drinking and looking over the gay boy couple's addition (learn by seeing the mistakes of others) and we bumped into Shirley, the neighborhood busybody.

"I was talking with LaVaughn and she tells me that you are planning an addition," Shirley states.

Shirley *thinks* that she is the self-appointed committee on architectural review for the civic association.  Make her a couple Manhattans, and she becomes the design Stassi.   She has created numerous headaches for people and scared off a young couple that we met at our local watering hole who said: "She started telling us that we had to buy all new closable shutters for every window and all of sudden the house got more expensive than we budgeted for."

And she has no authority to do this.  Nothing but her big old nose.

The husband and I knew that this was coming and we had been keeping the plans under our hats until we knew exactly what we are doing.  Now that we know, we are waiting for the money to make it become possible - hopefully before 2022.

It's a modest remodel.  A small (120 square feet small) with a small area with a new foundation, but we're building up, not out.  Doing that will allow us to reconfigure three bathrooms and redoing the kitchen remodel.   So we are only adding a wee small area of the new roof.  Nothing near the 1,000+ of new structures being tacked onto the houses around us.  We are building up, not OUT.

Shirley started lecturing us on runoff - if anything, this will fix the current runoff problems around our foundation and it will not impact any neighbors.  We explain that we have had the expected runoff calculated and would love to show her the figures.

Then she states that the design will have to be reviewed for its appearance to verify that it conforms to the style of the house.  We explain that the architects are known for their work in Homeland, Ruxton, and Guilford, and we would love for her to see the plans.

Then Shirley - clearly getting frustrated that we are neither afraid or rattled by her says that the neighbors will have to sign off.  Done.

Finally, Shirley states that the design will have to be approved by the Board, and this is the kicker.  Shirley isn't on the Board.   Husband is, and of course, he has to recuse himself for the vote.

Shirley waddles off, perturbed and Jack, the Chair of the Board, comes up to us and knows my background in historical architecture and preservation and says "Man, she was hammering you and you were ready."

This, I explain, ain't my first time at the rodeo.  "I have doing battles with her ilk for decades."

Then Jack lays something on me. "Hey, you know that David and Molly are moving, and David has been the architecture committee since Shirley got booted.  How would Cookie like to become the review committee?"

I ask if I can appoint some helpers to aid me, and the answer is yes.

I smile.

Here's my thing, when you live in an older neighborhood that has design standards you can do one of two things.  You can either become Shirley and turn off everyone to the point where they start getting defensive, or you can use it to educate people and make suggestions to help them to help them see what makes good design and will enhance their property.

The idea is to help people become excited so they do the right things, and hopefully steer them away from doing things that will present them with headaches later on.

"A pool? Great?  Have you looked at the increased price of liability insurance and the fencing costs?  Have you formulated a plan on what to do during a water restriction or drought?"

"Great fanlight for the front of the house.  But have you considered using a thicker molding around the outside with a keystone or another design to make it stand out instead of making it look skimpy?"

One of the other duties is to go out and measure the site to make sure the 10-foot buffer by the property line stays in place.

I can live with that.

As for Shirley, I'll invite her down for some Manhattan's and let her feel included.   Isn't that what we all want - to be included?

Like I said, this ain't my first time at a Rodeo.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

February Blahs



You know, there comes a time every winter where Cookie says "I really have had quite enough of winter."  Today, February 17, 2018, is that day.  Normally it happens earlier in winter, around the first week of January, but I was distracted by the week in Los Angeles.

I am just at the point where I am tired of the cold, I am tired of the wet, I am tired of snow, and I am tired of people hunkered down in their homes finding something to do other than listen to more and more news about the mess in Washington, or children being slaughtered by guns and Wayne LaPierre.

About the only thing that polite people can talk about these days is the Oxford Comma, in support of, or against.

Really, this is getting to us all.  We need the first of March, the second official day of spring in Cookie's Calendar of Annual Events to happen. (The first, if you missed it is Ground Hog Day.)

I keep telling myself that you only have 12 more days to March, less than two weeks.  Anyway, tomorrow is Sunday, then Monday and so forth and so on.  "Never wish away time," my mother would say. 

But Cookie is looking forward to his (gulp) 56th spring on earth. 

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Anger and Charges of Elitism: Thursday was not my day



Thursday morning was not my day.

I am knee deep in my HUGE project for the year when two shoes dropped.

Shoe number one involved a young woman in a Facebook group (isn't always in a Facebook group) who called Cookie an elitist for wanting to know what we could do to get more people involved in an online discussion on Shaker's foreclosure blight.  Following the collapse of the real estate markets in 2008, Shaker's Lomond and Moreland neighborhoods were dealt a blow as houses went into foreclosure and Cleveland economy as a whole went into the toilet.

Cookie contended that the discussion online was well and good, but that more people needed to be heard and give opinions.  Young lady, fresh from a shaker education and college found that idea to be "Elitist" and "none of (your) business whether or not people participate."

The young lady who called me an elitist then went on to:

1) Announced that not only did she receive a Shaker Schools Education, but that her education was superior to mine because "You didn't even graduate from Shaker." (This is true. But she knows not why. It had nothing to do with IQ, but everything to do economics and personal safety) and,
2) Announced that not only had she graduated from SHHS, but that she had graduated from Sarah Lawrence, and,
3) Stated that her sister held a high ranking position within city hall and that her sister had also been a Shaker graduate and graduated from Yale, and,
4) Her other siblings had graduated from Shaker, etc., and,
5) Moreover, her parents still lived there.

All of this meant one thing to the young woman, she, not I, was better able to judge what was best for the discussion.

Here's the thing about this young woman: she may have learned a lot at Shaker and at Sarah Lawrence, and how nice for her that she could attend such a school, right?  But the one thing that she didn't learn was that you don't call someone an "elitist"  because they want more people to be involved in a discussion.  And if you do call someone an elitist, don't lord your imagined superiority over them.

Why?

Because the Young Lady was outing herself as a bully, and an ignoramus who IS the true elitist.

This was followed by others jumping into the fray, which resulted in the young lady shucking her elitism and 1) calling Cookie a loser, and 2) doing victory posts - "Samantha  (not her real name) shoots and scores over Loser Cookie and "Samantha is on record that Cookie is a loser."  In other words, the ignoramus proved her point about herself. 

Evidently, she was never cursed with self-awareness.  But she was embarrassing herself.

In any event, a moderator defenestrated her from the group.  I received a message from Mickey saying that "Samantha was removed for violating the rule on bullying, and being a total douche bag."

This was good news as I don't have time for people like Samantha, and it answers the question that indeed, women can be douche bags. which I thought was a male-only club.  "Women are never "douchenozzles" - that is a male thing."  Thank you, Mickey!

Shoe number two involved a distant cousin who sent Cookie a package between Christmas and New Years that arrive at Cookie Manor about a week before I went west for the week to work.  The package contained two booklets, written by the distant cousin - the second set she sent.  Somewhere, things got mixed up and Thursday there was a little Facebook (again with the Facebook) note asking if I got the envelope and I acknowledged it through the Car's system while driving by speaking two short sentences "Yes, I got them.  But I don't think I'm ready to write my own just now."

This was followed shortly by a great amount of unpleasantness, and the accusation that I am self -serving. I understand and admit that I breached the thank you note.   But self-serving?  Hardly.  In fact, I am rather offended by this.

I care about this distant cousin, and I own my mistake.  But this huge project that I have been working on has come out of my time and money. I have never asked for anything in the way of money to help propel me into archives on the West Coast, and I have never asked for money for anything related to the family in anyway.  I have always shared whatever I have found with whoever asked for it.   I am not in this for glory, I am in it for the benefit that everyone receives.  And I have never gone around and thumbed my nose at anyone, or giving anyone a "Nanny nanny bo-bo" and stuck out my tongue.

I am hoping that we can get beyond this.  I forgive her for being purposely mean, my hope is that she forgives me.

So I hid under a rock this weekend.  To the young woman who is really named Samantha, I wish you well, but until you grow up, and after you get some life experience under your belt, I hope we never cross paths.  Once you get a few years of practical adulting under your belt, I'll buy you coffee at McDonald's, because that is not at all an elitist place. 

And as for my cousin, I hope that you can forgive me because I do miss you, and I know that you truly carry the weight of your world on your shoulders.

Monday, February 5, 2018

Well, that was an ugly little surprise

Norma has been possessed by the spirit of my mother.
But not my mother's sense of good taste.  Pity. Mother
would never dress up like Fred Flintstone in drag. 

Dear Reader: If you are a Mac user of a certain type who loves to pile on the misery by reminding PC users that Mac's and you are superior, and get through my daily twaddle and think that leaving a smarmy note like "You wouldn't have had this problem is you were using a Mac," you don't want to go there.  My MacBook really is my other computer and I can regale you with hardware and software issues on that machine, including a crapped out hard drive after three years of use and the night before my brothers funeral. So keep your piehole closed on this one.

Well, now that we got THAT out of the way, we,  I mean I, Cookie, got a nasty surprise when we turned on the workhorse computer today!

No, not ransomware, thank the gods and thank the actual one true G*d whose name is so perfect that one dare not write it out.

EVIDENTLY, a year and a half ago, when Cookie updated the le Machine to Win10, a toggle got flipped to include "FILE HISTORY" onto my "Z" drive, which is where I back up stuff to anyway, I thought "How great is this?"   I set must have set it and thought, gee, this is nifty - automatically backing up my files and only my files.  Meaning my documents, my pictures, my music, etc. and so on.

And the great thing about file history is that it catches pretty much everything.  Create a graphic and save it, and then you edit it and save it again, only to open it later and decide that the last edit really did muff it up?  File History to the rescue, because it has a copy of the image is held at multiple time points.  Nifty, see?

So I have been working on this horrifically HUGE project for the archive in California and I had to do some image file conversions.  Since my main drive - at 2TB is over half full,  And Cookie hates a half full main drive, anyway, I decided to move the non-converted original project files over the Z file. 

But when I brought up "My Computer" and saw I got a bit sick to my stomach.  The "Z drive" was a few mega bites away from being totally full. 

Quelle horreur!

How in the hell did that happen?

I called my friend Missy, and Missy said "You know, that happened to me right before Christmas.  It was like being handed that looked like Chief Wiggam....So I pulled the secondary, took it to MicroCenter, bought a bigger drive and had them migrate it for me.  Poke around and let me know what you find out."

So I poked around, and did some digging around and discovered something.

When I installed Windows10, it must have asked me about this setting to make a "File History" auto backup - which creates a file called "File History" (duh) and I never set it to a time limit on how long to keep the files before the program would overwrite them. 

So for the past 18 months, it's been creating file after file after copy after copy and suddenly we have 800MG of files, which are getting updated every hour.

That is critical mass on a grand fuck-up scale.

So today I reset the options to a reasonable 90-day limit because, by that point, I forget that there ever was another version like the current one.

So that raised another point.  What to do with the 800mg of stuff it created? 

See Cookie is not the type of data swashbuckler who cavalierly just deletes stuff like that just because you can.  I want to make sure that everything continues to run for a few days and boots up without a problem.  Once I am certain that everything is running fine, THEN I'll delete the stuff.

So what that meant was moving this data elephant to another drive - the server, which was started at 8am today and is still chugging away at 3:25pm and looks to wrap up in about an hour.

SO, use my pain and suffering to make sure you go and check your settings on this program. Make sure you didn't do something stupid like Cookie did. 

Better I should suffer, than you.




Friday, January 26, 2018

Karen Algebra, wasn't that Anita Algebra's daughter?


My mother was always calling up and yabbering away about "Myrt's daughter Susan..." and "Harold Butz son Harry Jr."

"You remember Fat Hopkins, don't you?" she would start.  

No.

"Yes you do.  You met him that Christmas you came down with food poisoning from Taffy's crab dip."

Uncle Stanford (who was nicknamed Taffy by our daffy aunt) made crab dip?

"No!  Cookie.  You remember him, he won that trip to Lake Erie when he delivered the Marion Star. "

And it would go on and on. 

This ad reminded me of those conversations. 

The Husband had the same types of conversations with his mother.

"WELL, you remember my childhood friend Bosco who was killed in WWII?"

You mean the war that started twenty years before I was born?

But back to the ad. 

I know that they meant that the young woman taught "Karen" algebra, but that isn't the way it comes off. 

And I know that in return, Karen told her everything that she needed to know about that initial signal that womanhood was upon her. 

But what was the class that was held during the first period. 

Trust me, the nut doesn't fall far from the tree.

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

Bullock's Pasadena



So, tonight, on night four of this California adventure that has me trapped inside a major research library, and my hotel, on my drive back to Pasadena, it dawned on me that I have nothing to relax in.  Nothing!

And I have shot a couple thousands images in the past three days.   The project will help the library.  The project will help my career.   But its really intense.  Monday I worked six hours without a break.  No bathroom, no water. Yesterday and today I took enough of a break to get me through a quick pee and a V8.  And today, my mind fried out at 4PM.  It was too late to start a new volume.  So I gave myself permission to leave an hour early so I could head back to the hotel and relax.

But, I needed some "man lingerie".  You know, so I can relax in this room which is unrelaxing.

So I stopped Bullock's Pasadena.  Yes, I know it's "technically" a Macy's store.  But it is my favorite department store and the only Macy's where I will drop a dime.  First, it's not anywhere near a mall.  Secondly, Macy's has left the main floor, the elevators, and the top floor pretty much untouched, and it is lousy with that late 1940s California Glam look. 

You half expect to see Mildred and Veda to waiting for an elevator. 

BUt what shines in this building is the women's cosmetics area - seafoam green walls with banana leaf trees painted in forest green on the walls and the Men's department with its nautical theme and delightfully cool ship models.  Then there is the dark mahogany paneled walls.



This is what shopping used to do to make you feel special.

So I picked up some socks, and I bought a pair of lounge pants.  And I left feeling good. 

Which is surprising because I loathe Macy's, but I adore this store.

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Tragic, simply tragic.



Cookie is, this week, on the West Coast working.  I adore being out here.  The palm trees, the vibe.  But getting from the east coast to the west coast is exhausting and expensive.   Exhausting because the time change fucks with you.  Expensive because Cookie flies first class.  Circulation, you know.

So I booked in at the same hotel in Pasadena only to find that its been remodelling, again.

Don't get me wrong - a hotel needs to stay up with the times.  This one was built and opened in 1969, and It probably went through remodels in the the 1970s, 80s, 90s, and the 2000's.

But this time, the remodel results are very HGTV meets boutique hotel and the results are tres tragic. And the look is NOTHING like the pictures online.

First off, the lobby has come full circle.  Built in 1969, the walls have been redone in faux 1969.  Dark, dark wood, laid like a screen, vertically on the walls with white accents. And white, white walls.  And the panel behind the registration desk is uber HGTV texture wall.

The dining room has lost its 2000's comfy chairs, and have been replaced by this faux Danish design chairs paired to white metal tables.

But the rooms are where the whole design thing went off the rails.

Gone are the beds from the Big Plush Bed era, replaced with a stark platform bed, with white duvet and four tiny feather pillows.  On a queen bed they look lost.  On either side are side tables, mounted to the wall, and above them are small sconces with hidden switches.  Each putting out a droplet of light at night.

In the place where the chest of drawers that no one ever used is a wooden wall that holds a huge flat screen tv mounted flat to the wall.

The desk is now a small table sitting on two crossed legs perside, much like a picnic table.  But this is finished in faux Danish Walnut.  This is mated to a side chair, better suited to a dining room table, that is non adjustable.  Said chair looks like it came from Target, and is too short for the height of the desk, so if your laptop is on the desk, then your wrists are up in the air near your nipples.

In lieu of an occasional chair is a chaise lounge that has more in common with a corner booth at a restaurant.   And NONE of the seating areas has a place for you to put your arms.  Everything is armless.

The chaise is sitting about a foot from the wall because it would otherwise block the HVAC system.

The corner torchere is a tripod of plain round brown metal legs, and a center pole.  Connecting them is a cup with a plug, and a switch and a USB hub.  This is crowned by a drum shade and holds a 40 watt equivalent bulb.   This is another thing - the room, at night with every light on is dark, dramatic and impractical.

But the final indignity is that bathroom.  Everything is lovely, right down to the TV Cart inspired sink base and the concrete countertop.  But there is no hook in the bathroom.   How does one have a bathroom without a hook on the wall?  And why is the toilet paper hidden by the trash container?  Why is the soap dish shaped like an egg cup, with the bar of soap standing erect?  Why is the bar of used soap sitting in a pool of slimey soapy water in the the egg cup?

And the sink has no faucet, but a tube.  To regulate the water, you use foot pedals, like the wash up sink at the dentist office.  How is this ADA compliant?

The room does come with a low hearing guest doorbell.  You flip a switch inside and then push the button out and you are assaulted with a noise that sounds like the fire alarm in your office building.

When I asked at the front desk, I was told that their marketing people at Namebrand Hotel Chain have found that today's traveller prefers to hang out in the lobby and socialize.  And they love working in a coffee shop atmosphere.  "We put a great deal of emphasis on the lobby and lounge seating."

Nice, if you suffer from Hipsteritis.  But I am paying for a room designed to be stark, alienating .  I can go and sit in a hotel lobby for free.

So I fear that this may be my last time staying with my old friend.  It seems to have forgotten that some people travel and expect substance over style.  The idea of a hotel should allow you to relax, not make you feel like like an $300 a night unwanted guest.

Saturday, January 13, 2018

I'm not crazy, the dogs say so




Since we moved to Baltimore, one thing that the husband I have missed is being missed by others.  It gives you a lot of time to think about stuff, and it is incredibly lonely.  You try and you hope, but in Baltimore, the social convention is not to accept an invitation from someone you just met in the last five years.  You have to know them a good ten years before things jell.

At some point, the dogs start talking to you, and I know this for a fact.  No, they aren't replying to your own personal mutterings.  They are asking questions, and sometimes you think you can hear them plotting, sotto voce of course on how to get treats and different ploys to try and get you to feed them treats for the slightest movement that looks like a behavior that should be rewarded.

Sometimes the up and start barking for no reason, tear down the stairs and you swear the little one (who is part Jack Russell) say barking "SOMEWHERE OUT THERE SOMETHING JUST HAPPENED!"

And our other dog, who is just as protective but not as intent will answer back "ARE WE DOING THIS, AGAIN?"

Just as I imagine they are talking to each other, I imagine that the reason why we're so isolated in the middle of a big city could be the people who live here, or us.

Both the Husband and I are introverts at heart, and neither of us is great attracting new friends.  And we're Midwesterners, and we seem to pose a social problem because, as one of the neighbors said when we threw a cocktail party that brought people together from two different neighborhoods, the reaction was like "You mean Upper Scunthorpe and those Lower Scunthorpe people?  Together? In the same house? Is this a Midwestern thing?" never mind that all of the people lived on the same road, but there was this imaginary line that simply couldn't be crossed. 

So we threw the party and people seemed to have a lovely time.  And we were having a lovely time until a woman named Sandra from Lower Thorpe was preparing to leave and mentally girding her loins to cross the impenetrable imaginary divide, stopped and said - rather cattily - "who would have thought that a Midwestern person would move here just to upset the social apple cart."

I really hope she got her twaddle all caught up in that impenetrable imaginary line in the middle of the road.

Anyway, when you throw or attend a party, you'll see the people who attract other people. These are the extroverts.  They thrive in that type of environment.  "Vonda!  I have seen in forever!  Let's do a lunch.  Let me grab a drink and I'll come back and we'll just catch up.  Oh, Marty, over here with Vonda.  You too don't know each other?  You must meet her and you two will become the best of friends!"

Being busy, going out, bringing people together and attending shows and exhibits and sporting events really energize the extrovert.  Speaking in front of a thousand people? Awesome! Go out for dinner and dancing that night, "count me in!" 

An introvert can speak in front of a thousand people and be totally dynamic, but its preceded by a countdown of worries and dread, and immediately afterward, you have to go into seclusion to recover and get re-centered. 

But at a party, find the extroverts.  Either they are at ease in a crowd and know how to send off a vibe that says "Well step right over here and let's get to know one and other," or that have some invisible magnetic energy that just draws strangers to them. 

If they aren't that type of extrovert, but they home in on you and develop an instant rapport, you have either found a friend and/or acquired a sociopath.  If its a friend, you, the introvert is set. 

But if it's not, and it’s the kind of person that just bonds with you too easily, seems to know everywhere you 've ever visited, tells fabulously funny ("Then I got off the ship in Tierra del Feugo in Chile, of all places, and said 'how much do I owe you for going out of your way?'") stories that don't have a shred of honesty and even the "A's" and the "the's" are lies as well.  The type that just loves that Limoges finger bowl that your great-grandmother left you.  Really loves it. And keeps talking about how pretty it is.  

About a month after the party, you notice that the place where you kept that bowl – that you only have because it’s a family piece – is empty. 

Eventually, you find the little Limoges finger bowl, right where the sociopath put it, and it's sitting on their coffee table.  You get a phone call that starts out "Hi, Vonda.  You know how you were telling me that you misplaced that little piece of china from your mother's house?  Well, I was just over and she has one just like it.  She said she picked it up someplace.  Isn't that strange? You lose one and she finds one..." 

You either have to confront them or, when they leave the room to get more ice you poke it into your pocket and either dash out the door or you sit there - continuing the visit as if something never happened. 

If you are lucky, it really is your piece of Limoges and you know better than to ever let that person back in your house.  If you find your great grandmother's Limoges bowl in a place where you could have poked it had you not been so damn drunk at your own party, now you have a real problem.  You have stolen something from some else's house makes you a thief, and how do you return the stolen goods without being found out.

You decide that it has to go back where it belongs because you aren't the type of person who would corner the market on Limoges finger bowls, that would be crazy, right?

Of course your fingerprints and DNA are going to be on that box so you run to the store in Pennsylvania to buy a box, and a box of latex gloves so the security camera at the store that is near your home like someone who is not as cunning as you are, doesn't get your face that can be used as evidence.  That way you can pack the box in a sterile environment, but it will make the post office employees in Washington, D.C. look at you strangely like "Why is that oddball wearing gloves and what is in that box?" to which to their co-worker will say "maybe they are freaks about germs." 

For a return address, what to do, what to do? You could choose something local, but they could look that up on Zillow and look through the listing and say "God, no wonder they stole this." Or, you chose something from that night - one of the lies that they told you.  I mean who goes to Tierra del Fuego, you say to yourself, and then it's on the box, "That'll teach 'um."  You are too witty you say out loud under your breath, and the dogs, who are looking right at you, agree by pawing at your legs.  This is their way of showing approval you think.  Or it could be their way of saying "No, really; I have to go out, now."

Relieved that you got the box in the mail, you are driven crazy by the idea that you can't check the tracking on the package because then someone will have evidence of your ISP and looking at where the package is.  So you start walking your dogs around the block when you see the postal truck in the neighborhood and start cruising by the neighbor's house waiting for the box to be delivered, but you have to be cool about it.  There are those older people on the block that keep watch on what is going on in the neighborhood.  When they are break-ins on the block, everyone is grateful for these people because they see everything.  But now, its paranoia and pain that won't go away. 

Finally, the box arrives. But no one takes it in. What in the world are they doing?  What's wrong with them, you wonder.  So, being the take charge kind of person that you are, you walk down to their house, backbone rigid, and pick up the box and carry it back to your house.  Now you decide to write a note, one that says "Hi, I noticed that the post office dropped the box off and with all the funny stuff going on with people taking packages I thought better safe than sorry.  Call me at 555-1212 when you get home and I'll bring it over."

Then you wait and wait and wait, and wait some more and FINALLY, the sociopath show up at your door and say "I got a box?  I wasn't expecting anything and of course, you have to play dumb because you are in this too deep for anything to go wrong.   So what do you do?

You panic, of course, and invite this person into your house for a Nespresso, because you were always taught to let someone in; if you didn't that would be rude.  I mean they're the crazy one, not you.  They come in and they set the box down your kitchen island and say "This has got me bamboozled.  I don't know this address, why would anyone at that address send me anything?"

You set the hot coffee cup down for them and look at the return address and it says "Tierra del Fuego, Argentina."  You say "Wow that has really traveled quite a distance."  And the sociopath says "Well I did a stopover in Tierra del Fuego, but it was on the Chile side, I never crossed into Argentina..."

OK, shit!  Who in the world knows that they are two countries laying claim to neighboring tiny dots of land on a map?  Fuck, now it's all going wrong! 

Inside you are panicking but strangely, on the outside, you are calm and controlled.  Because “they” are the crazy ones, not you. No, if you were insane then they would have figured it out.  Oh, no. But you have to get that person out-of-your-house, like now, because they cannot open that box in your home.

"Well," says you, "I hate to rush and I love talking to you, but I have to go to the grocery store.  Dinner, you know."  And they ask if you would mind their tagging along and you say "NO!" because you go to a special market up in Bel Air.

"Bel Air? What's in Bel Air at this time of the day?"

Fuck, it's like five of five and driving 20 miles to Bel Air, Maryland, to grab a dinner is a three-hour proposition like a cruise on the S.S. Minnow! All that crosstown traffic and then I-95 will be a parking lot.

So you think about what odd thing you can only get in Bel Air and it's "Goat.  We love goat and I have a farmer just outside of Bel Air that raises goat and it is low fat, tastes just like chicken."

By this point, you may have crossed a line.  Sure, Nathalie Dupree has a recipe of goat in the cookbook on the shelf you are looking at, but who eats goat?

So you get the crazy person out of your house and now you have to disappear for three hours and your husband is going to wonder where you are and what if he goes to the sociopath's house and asks where you are and they say you "went to Bel Air to buy you goat because you love it so much and he says well yeah, I love baby goats and they say "but you're having it for dinner," and he says "NO!" because the idea of eating an adorable baby goat is beyond his comprehension. 

"I love baby goat yoga where the crawl all over you, not to eat them" and they look at each other like what the fuck.

And that's exactly why it's so hard for us to meet new people and make friends when you are an introvert.  When you're an introvert, all that is simply exhausting.  Frankly, I don't know how they do it.  I'd rather just stay home and play Scrabble where your words all have to be in the dictionary or an agreed on, like a subset - like all the words have to be onomatopoeia or words that all begin with a vowel or something.

As for Vonda, on the other hand, she's getting help.  Poor dear. Seems that she has some sticky finger problem and her second personality most likely stole that piece of china from a resale shop up in Happy Valley, after seeing it and it brought back memories at how much that person admired it. So she took it and then gave it to the Vagabond Woman as a house-warming present.   Her main personality turned herself in.  Never would have thought it was Vonda in a million years.

Trust me when I say this, but sometimes, I just rather be alone. 



Sunday, January 7, 2018

Answered: Things my mother would have said, Episode 1

Oh, no Mike. I hope it's not a case of the "She Gots"


In yesterday's post, I asked which the following, all, some or none would my mother have said in reference to the clips on the screen.  The possible answers were:

1) "Someone looks like she just wants attention."

2) "Missy there looks like she has ants in her pants."

3) "You know my friend Nevelyn?  Yes, you do - you went to school with her granddaughter Tammy. How would I know what Tammy's last name is - you went to school with her. Well, Nevelyn has a friend who had a sister who went down this exact same route and ended up in White Slavery. Said she was going to on Broadway.  She got the "broad" part down, she was running with a fast crowd and then one day - not a peep!  When she stopped writing her folks hired a detective to find the girl.  They found her on a boat in some place overseas; this what she had to do on the boat to keep the help happy.  Then when they got her back her she found Jesus like he was lost or something, and now she has a show on Public Access in Columbus where she paints and yabbers away. She claims that she still has Jesus, but that, she still likes to dance around like this at the Courtesy Inn after a few beers in praise of "Him."  I think she's full of shit.  Jesus would never set foot in that joint."

4) "I used to have a body like that."

5) "Bet she got plenty hot when she got done."

6) "Can you go in the kitchen and get me some of that cheese in a can, and some Trisket's?  No, bring the can, I can squeeze my own cheese onto the crackers..."

The correct answer(s) would be:

Drumroll, please,




2) "Missy there looks like she has ants in her pants."  (Mother loved the phrase "ant in your pants." She always giggled when she said it.)

3) "You know my friend Nevelyn?  Yes, you do - you went to school with her granddaughter Tammy. How would I know what Tammy's last name is - you went to school with her. Well, Nevelyn has a friend who had a sister who went down this exact same route and ended up in White Slavery. Said she was going to on Broadway.  She got the "broad" part down, she was running with a fast crowd and then one day - not a peep!  When she stopped writing her folks hired a detective to find the girl.  They found her on a boat in some place overseas; this what she had to do on the boat to keep the help happy.  Then when they got her back her she found Jesus like he was lost or something, and now she has a show on Public Access in Columbus where she paints and yabbers away. She claims that she still has Jesus, but that, she still likes to dance around like this at the Courtesy Inn after a few beers in praise of "Him."  I think she's full of shit.  Jesus would never set foot in that joint."  (Mother would see something, be bored with it, and then find a way to divert your attention by making it the springboard for a silly story - LIKE THIS ONE, which the husband and I always laugh about it because we never believed for a second that there was a woman named Nevelyn, until she showed up at the funeral home when Mom died.)

6) "Can you go in the kitchen and get me some of that cheese in a can, and some Trisket's?  No, bring the can, I can squeeze my own cheese onto the crackers..." (Mother loved canned cheese, to a point. When she was dying I brought her some in the hospital and she said: "You'll kill me with that stuff..."  She died about six hours later of her own accord.)

Why not the others?

She wanted the attention, all of it. So she wouldn't recognize it in others. 

She never thought she had a good body, even though she was fashionably built, made anything look like a million dollars, and thin in the right ways. 

Mom HATED the "gots".  Like "He got," and "She got," - it made her want to scream. "Cookie, it just sounds like you were raised in a barn and educated in the wallow."

Thank you for playing and see you again on "Things my mother would have said"



Saturday, January 6, 2018

Things my mother would have said, Episode 1


Underneath the pictures are comments that my mother would, and wouldn't say.  Or she would say all of them.  Maybe she'd just say nothing. Which one(s) would Cookie's mother say if she were alive and saw the following?







1) "Someone looks like she just wants attention."

2) "Missy there looks like she has ants in her pants."

3) "You know my friend Nevelyn?  Yes, you do - you went to school with her granddaughter Tammy. How would I know what Tammy's last name is - you went to school with her. Well, Nevelyn has a friend who had a sister who went down this exact same route and ended up in White Slavery. Said she was going to on Broadway.  She got the "broad" part down, she was running with a fast crowd and then one day - not a peep!  When she stopped writing her folks hired a detective to find the girl.  They found her on a boat in some place overseas; this what she had to do on the boat to keep the help happy.  Then when they got her back her she found Jesus, like he was lost or something, and now she has a show on Public Access in Columbus where she paints and yabbers away. She claims that she still has Jesus, but that, she still likes to dance around like this at the Courtesy Inn after a few beers in praise of "Him."  I think she's full of shit.  Jesus would never set foot in that joint."

4) "I used to have a body like that."

5) "Bet she got plenty hot when she got done."

6) "Can you go in the kitchen and get me some of that cheese in a can, and some Trisket's?  No, bring the can, I can squeeze my own cheese onto the crackers..."

Put your answer in the comments.

Wednesday, January 3, 2018

Tastes Better: Says so on the box

Norma, having one of his *manstrel* cramps

So the temperature outside if frightening for us soft-bellied Marylanders, and I am offended that after five years my stout-hearted Midwestern blood has become accustomed to easy winters.

In the midst of this, Cookie caught a cold.

And then the cold turned out to be the flu.

Honestly, its the first time I have puked because I was coughing so hard.  Nasty business.  And I had the flu shot, too.

Today, I ventured out for more cough syrup because the husband called from work with an "I tink I got," sniff, "wud you have," hack, hack, hack.

So now we both are down with it.   And when we get sick, its a bit of schizo thing because we both get man flu-ish, but we both turn into bears that just want to be left alone.  The "Honey...I need a box of tissues!" is joined with "I just want to be alone," upon delivery of said tissues.

Dinner is reduced to whatever soup you can make for yourself and walking the dogs in the afternoon becomes a thing that both of us wants to do, but only because it means that someone else has to walk them in the morning.  And that person isn't the one who walked them in the afternoon when it was light outside and not nearly as bitter cold.

Anyhow, since I have been ingesting the legacy meds from last cold and flu season, I went out in search of cough syrup because the husband is going to need something.  And I needed to get out of the house and get the stink blown off of me.

So I went to a big, Big, BIG national chain store that is adored by the bourgeoisie, and as I am walking down the aisles of syrups and tonics for mitigating what Americans call the "crud", one of their helpful employees asked if they could help, and I said no.  And yet she persevered and asked if I had considered their store brand "which is just as good as the national brands we carry."

God love that simple child.  Store brands are never the same.  You may think so, but you are wrong.

You can buy Busch Beer, and know what you are getting, or you can buy generic beer in a white can with black lettering and wonder what you are getting.  When I am getting ripped off, I want to know who is ripping me off.

Besides, that "Robitussin" on the box makes me feel confident and reminds me that I can still afford name brands.

So she hands me their version of the type of cough syrup they carry, in a box that kinda of looks like the leading brand, but just different enough that you know its the copycat brand and I notice that it has one of those "Getcha Attention" graphics that they use to draw your attention away from the smaller size that they charge you just as much for, or announces that the product is in some way improved (and it never really is) which reads:

"Tastes Better!"

Better than what?   I mean I get "Better Tasting", which means it tastes better than it used to, but "Tastes Better" kind of opens up the door of ambiguity.

Are you old enough to remember this crap?


The coal tar taste that Vicks Formula 44 used to taste like?

Having a bar of Life Bouy soap in your mouth?

Analingus? (Note: Cookie is not a crack snacker)

So I ask the sweet young help one, staring at me, pride welling up in heart for her employers brand and asked: "Just what does this taste better than?"

"The other stuff."

Well, duh.

I had that coming.

And had I been in a non-flulike stupor I would never ask such a stupid question.   How would this sweet young thing know what ass tasted like?

Anyhow, I thanked her, she said "no problem" (and don't get me started on that) watched her bop away, feeling accomplished, then put that store brand crap back and bought the named brand crap that tastes like medicine only to come home and find my husband - home from work, with a red nose from cheap office supply store brand facial tissue - and he looks at what I have hunted and gathered and says: "Why didn't you just get the liqui-gels?"

"They have it in a pill form?"

Well, fuck for fuck sake.

Anyhow, if this "flu" I am on runs its expected course, expect temperatures in the 100-degree range for another day or so and then a recovery by the weekend.

Till then I will have watery eyes, a productive cough and drink plenty of fluids.  I doubt that at this point I will have high fever and hallucinations.  They always make for good copy.


Monday, January 1, 2018

Gene and Mayrene would just like to wish you...


...a Happy New Year.

And Cookie would like to remind you that 2018 is a Mid Term Election year and that in the first week of November, we have the ability to change both houses of Congress Blue.  So get your tails in gear and get out and support a qualified candidate for your House or Senate Senate seat and end this one-party rule that the Ogre in the White House enjoys.  Remember - we WANT a very happy 2019 and 2020.

Friday, December 29, 2017

Lies told to children of the 1960s.


This past weekend, WTBS again indulged us in a 24 hours of a Christmas Story, the movie that reminds us that if you desire the wrong thing, "you'll shoot your eye out."

So at a dinner last night a group of us, all ranging from 59 to 50 started chatting about the lies that we were told by adults in 1960s to keep us from doing things that children like to do, or attempt to do.  Some of the lies included the following:


  1. Sitting too near the color TV set will make you sterile.  
  2. Make that face and it'll freeze that way. 
  3. You have to sit while eat a piece of hard candy or it will lodge in your throat and your choke to death.
  4. Wonder Bread helps you grow 12 ways.
  5. If you keep doing no one will like you.  
  6. If he/she is bothering you, just ignore them. 
  7. So help me God, but if you two don't stop it, I will turn this car around and we'll go home.
  8. That dime is from the tooth fairy. 
  9. Santa Claus is coming to town. 
  10. If you can play the piano well, you'll always be invited to parties.
  11. Everyone loves watching Lawrence Welk. 
  12. There are children starving in India (or any other foreign land) who would just love to eat that beef liver. 
  13. You need to take this cod liver oil. 
  14. There is nothing under your bed. (Yes, there is - hundreds of dollars of toys you don't play with.)
  15. Winky Dink needs your help to get across the valley.  Draw him a bridge to walk across. 
  16. You don't like that. 
  17. That man is light in his loafers. 
  18. Why doesn't Aunt _____ get married?  She hasn't met the right man.
  19. Well, Aunt Sally and her friend Mary live together to share expenses. 
  20. Don't run with those scissors.  The little boy down the street ran with scissors and he tripped and fell on them and now he's dead and he feels just terrible about what he did. 


Then there were the "Do as I say, not as I do" moments:

  1. Smoking is bad for your health, it'll stunt your growth. (Says your 6 foot tall father with a cough.)
  2. Drinking is bad for you. (Says your parent, aunt/uncle or grandparent on their fifth rye whiskey.)
  3. Lobster?  You won't like it all. (Says your parent as they order it in a restaurant.)
  4. Playboy? Well I read it for the articles. (Says your older brother.)
  5. Let's not tell Mommy about meeting cousin Taffy.  They don't get along like "cousin" Taffy and Daddy get along.  
  6. Mommy will be very mad at you if you tell her that we had lunch with "cousin" Taffy.
  7. Don't stick your arm out of the car.  Says the driver resting his elbow on the sill and fingers on the window frame.  
There may very well be other little lies and tales.  What do you remember being fed a load of?

Wednesday, December 27, 2017

With this crown of thorns I wear, why should I worry about a prick like you?



After yesterdays "fuck you up" fest, Cookie should explain that he had been off his allergy meds for about nine days getting ready for today's allergy testing.

See, Cookie has watery eyes, a cough, itching, stuffy nose and a wheeze.  I have had hay fever and and a world class allergy reaction to cats and kittens since I was but a wee small child.  But since moving to Maryland, things have gotten beyond worse.

Finally, about two weeks ago, Cookie's doctor said enough of that, get thee to the allergist.

So we set up the appointment.

Thing is, that means no antihistamines for seven days.  Cookie thought that if seven was good, lets get a couple extra days in for good measure, and I went for nine.  No Zyrtec, no Pazeo, no calming cremes/lotions, nothing.

At first, everything was fine, by day three I starting having sneezing fits.  The itching started on day four.  By yesterday, with the car break-ins and the broken glasses and the leaking shower drain (and it really is true - it never rains when all this shit is going down, it pours) Cookie was a hot mess of rage.

So I really got those old ads that claimed "Woman Cured of Terrible Itch."

Today's appointment went well enough, as the doctor and I chattered.  THEN it was time for the test.

The doctor exited and a young woman came in with a tray.  She said I had two options.  "If we run the tests on your arms, its a twenty minute wait.  If we do it on your back, its half hour. The back won't itch as much.

Given that it was one of the colder mornings and the room was terribly cold, I had no issue with the arms.  So she had me sit in a chair, my hands palms up on a table, and she bring in these three trays, sets them down and them washes my fore arms was alcohol swabs.

"Alright, there are eight substances on each pad, and each arm gets three pads, starting at you shoulder and down to your hands.  Its really important that once these begin to react that you don't scratch anything in the touch area. You mustn't touch the area, either as it could ruin the results."  I agree.

At first they look like large stamps from a stamp pad.  What she did tell me at the last moment was "You may feel a small pricking sensation," and she was right.  I imagined that that if this was bad, an iron maiden must be worse.   With that, though, the iron maiden pads, of eight tiny needles at a time, went into my flesh, at one of the thinnest stretches of skin on the body.. Then comes the second, then the third - I now had 24 weeping punctures on the right arm and she moved to the left, and the tiny "scratches" (little stabbings) started anew.  The iron maiden thing done, she took a special pen, broke the seal on the pen, and started writing with ink all over my arms.

And that is when the itching really started.

Mother of God!

After carefully blotting each stamp area, she turned on a dine and said "Now you get to watch a video and I'll be in in 20 minutes and with a smile, she spun on the balls of her foot and took the trays with her.

Ten minutes, Cookie's tender pale flesh was a rashy red, and the welts and hives were in full blossom, and the itch was tremendous.

GAWD!

My Kingdom for a tube of Lanacane!

But I sat there pretending to be a Catholic saint.

At twenty minutes on the dot she returned to find me as she left me, and I did not move because there is no fucking way I will go through this again, I thought to myself.  I was almost in the promise land.

Then we did breathing measurements.  They hand you a tube and you inhale and exhale as much as you can carry through your lungs. Then they give yo a steroid, and you do it again until you are light headed.

She took pictures and started measuring.  Out of 48, I scored a 44! 

I seem to be allergic to everything.  Trees, bees, mites, and cats.  But kitten dander was my number one reaction, followed by "timothy", which is a "hay".  Ragweed put in a strong showing as did walnut trees and walnuts.  Every variety of turf grass as well.  Sycamores, pine trees, birch trees, etc and so on.  Flowering bushes and molds.  Just about the only thing that didn't send me over the cliff were perfumes, commercial scents, detergents and thank Christ on a cracker - dogs.

And how did dogs escape my body reactions?  "When they brought you home from the hospital, did your family have a dog?"  Yes.  "Lucky you.  You established a relationship with dogs early in life."

What about if they would have had cats?

"No, cats are different than dogs."

Duh.  But a better explanation about what she said will come in a couple lines.

The woman than mercifully slathered my arms with extra strength PreparationH (which is nothing more than cortisone cream and mineral oil) which calmed the areas down immediately as far as the itching.  "The mineral oil will help soothe the rash."

The doctor came in and said "You are a high achiever. And you also have asthma."

Really.

They ran more tests and sure enough, inhale and exhale is way off.   "With everything you have going on with regard to windpipe irritation, you are not getting enough oxygen."

The goal is to get the windpipe calmed down, and then start me on shots.   "And for the love of God, stay away from cats, and stay out of the houses of people that have cats.  Spend a night in a house with a person who has cats and doesn't keep the house clean and you'll end up in the ER."

The tests were 12 hours ago, and cats and pine trees are still fleshy spots.  Shots start in ten days.

And what is the big deal with cats?  Evidently cat urine, cat saliva (because they lick themselves) cat gut bacteria (All that fur comes right back up in a hairball) and cat dander gets airborne and sticks to fabric, walls, rugs and floors.  "And it stays active for up to six months."

So who loves kitty?  Not me.

I have been pricked, steroided and will start my shots regime in a couple weeks.

I do feel better and am headed to bed as I wrap this up.  Some folks from back home are coming by tomorrow for a visit.




Tuesday, December 26, 2017

It's Boxing Day, Motherfuckers, and not the civilized type of Boxing Day, either



Sometimes, you just wake up and think fuck it.

Then there are the days where you are awoken with news that really is "What the fuck?"

Today, the day after Christmas, aka Boxing Day, was such a day.

Husband, getting ready to leave for work, come into our room, gives me a kiss goodbye and leaves.  Next thing I know he's waking me up with: "Someone has been through my car."

What the fuck.

What about the Cookiemobile?

So he goes out to look, and I see him from the bedroom window taking pictures.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!

Of the two cars, mine was the one trashed.  No damage to the exterior or interior, but the motherfucker took my prescription sunglasses, the wallet containing the manuals for the Prius, and a two dollar winning lottery ticket.  Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Luckily, Cookie is not the type of idiot that leaves his backpack containing laptops and ipdas and the like in the car like a woman over in Pikesville who was interviewed on the news and said "I only had in my car for a day or two."

Thanks to NextDoor, you read about these acts of stupidity fairly regularly.

"My car was stolen when I ran into the Petrol station to buy a pack of cigs.  I guess I'm not used to Baltimore.  On the shore - where I am from - I leave my car running whenever I run in for cigs.  What kind of person would steal my car like?"

What kind do you think?  I'll tell what kind sister-woman - the kind that steal cars, motherfuker.

Now we lock our cars and we are downright neurotic about that.   So we did not pull a sister-woman.

Our cars got cracked because the fucking bastards who did this built a radio device (instructions are out there) that pings the remote in your house and then opens the car from afar.  So now I own two Faraday Cages to make sure that the motherfuckers don't get in again.

Now on the plus side of this, our neighbor DID find the wallet of manuals, and there was great rejoicing because those motherfuckers are expensive as fuck. And the car registration was in the wallet.  So that takes a load of worry off my shoulders.

If you're out there fucker, come around here again and I will beat the shit out of you, and then beat it back in.  And it doesn't need to be Boxing Day for me to do it. Don't make me go all Dr. Detroit on your ass.



Do not fuck with Cookie's car, Cookie's house or Cookie's loved one's because I will hunt you down, find you, beat you senseless, wake you up, and then school you K-12th, college and post grad on what happens to fuckwits like you when you fuck with the wrong cookie.  Then I will haul your ass to your mama, so she can go all ugly up your bony little ass.  I hope she smacks you so hard that she sends on a trip into next month.

To everyone else most Happy Boxing Day, whatever you do in your foreign lands.

Monday, December 25, 2017

Christmas with the neighbors


Over at the Davenport's, Dawn was disappointed that there were no No cha-cha heels for year this year.


The Barbie's got together for their seasonal night of drinking - call the red party - when Bouffant Barbie showed up and evidently didn't get the message that it was the RED Party and not the Red and Matched Sets party.


The neighbor's cat endured another annual embarrassment and this morning it's owner woke up to find that the chair became a scratching post in the middle of the night.


Over at the Wifebeater's, it was a casual affair.


The Flockman's still haven't learned that a little leopard goes a long way.


Things are getting Oh-E-Oh-E-Oh at the Robinson's



And Aunt Darlene is sitting in the den and she is just fine, "don't worry about me. But a scotch, neat, would be a nice jesture.  And an ash tray.  Where are you fucking ashtrays?"  We weren't planning on her but she is happy to sit there, judging us.


Just ignore her, but remember, Roni Spector and the Ronette's hope your day was swinging fun!

Merry Christmas from Nancy, Ernie and Cookie.


Saturday, December 23, 2017

Negative Net Christmas


Well, we're here.

Twas the night before the night before Christmas, and frankly, Cookie isn't feeling it.

Nope.

Part of the reason being is that Cookie is MISERABLE at the moment.  My allergies have gotten to the point where no over the counter anything was helping.  So I scheduled an appointment with the allergist after my eye doctor said "Yeah, its time.  We don't want to increase the steroids because of a glaucoma possibility.  But this is the best time of the year to get it done."

So he called my doctor who called his buddy and I went in for the sign up and paperwork and they got me in this week. 

The thing is, they tell you stay off the antihistamines for "168 hours, which is seven days.  If you can go 240 hours then that would be even better."

At this point, I should be at my ripest, betterist and ready to become inflamed when he does his scratch tests. 

My eye's feel like sandpaper, I am itchy, coughing, sneezing and phlegmish. 

I was hoping this year we could do a simple, non-decorated Christmas, given my physical state, but the hubby wanted the tree up so we hauled it out of the box and set it up with a minimum number of ornaments and it looks great.  No candles in the windows.  I had to draw the line some place.

But since its just us in Baltimore, it'll be like 48 hours in a snow storm.  No stores, no activities, just home bound because there is nothing to do .  Maybe a movie on Christmas Night, but it has to make me laugh.  No crying on Christmas.

And no presents this year for he and me.

Nope, instead we are cleaning out our clothes bureaus and linen closets.  We have too much crap, and a local charity could use this stuff.  I mean how did I end up with 36 pairs of black socks?  So this year, it's a negative net Christmas.  Nothing coming in, but stuff is leaving the house and getting into the hands of people who need it and can use it. 

Now the dogs, are getting all manner of squeaky toys.

But this year I just think that we have everything we want or need, except a Zyrtec, at the moment.

Thursday, December 21, 2017

A Look Back: Christmas BHG 1958 style

I ran the following post in 2015, and it was enjoyed by many.  Now its time for a revisit.





Cookie is now 53 (in 2017, I'm the same age.  My blog, my rules) years old, and through my life I have lived through shocking moments, and I have seen shocking things.   I know, I know - hard to believe, but true.  Yes, I have seen things that one should not need to see - so few things "shock" me today.

Actually, I take that back.  I am still shocked and repulsed by people who support Donald Trump.  There you have it.

So imagine my surprise when this arrived in the mail after I won an eBay auction.  I had not bid on it, but the seller got confused and I ended up with it.

It is shear Christmas Porn.  Page after page of lurid color images.  Each page more SHOCKING than the next.  And people think that things were better in the good old days?  Think again...

Lets look at that cover, shall we?

The evil humpty dumpty - with long legs that would easily get him off that wall, if he just tried.  The fruit cake sitting on sharp metal points.  Bags filled with God knows what on the tree.

Inside, the editors invite you think "outside of the box" and try an "Oriental" style Christmas theme.



And how do we know it was inspired by the east?  Because nothing says Tokyo than Pink Tulle glued to driftwood, right?





And we also know that this is ORIENTAL because of the cunning ORIENTAL man hiding presents for his neighbor's Caucasian wife.  (Hint: Asian Americans like being called "oriental".  We are using it as an Occidental reference.)

And what this?


Nothing says ORIENTAL Christmas like a tree made out of Golden Rod, eh?

Meanwhile, on the east coast....




Inside we find the Mame Dennis Burnside home on Beekman Place.  Evidently things are lean as Nora and Ito have resulted to making a Star Burst Pinata, and cheap ribbony gee gaws on the wall.  It's all very sad...Tasteful, but sad...This is an example of basic decoration for people who don't like the fuss and bother that BHG intends on unleashing in the pages to come.





What the flock!

This looks like a festive tree.  I actually love the colors and the decorations.  Something quite different than the usual theme trees of today.  And where does one get those fabulous 50s decorations?  You make them.  The magazine gives you step by step instructions.  Well, actually, not you, this is job for your...




Looks like it's time to get your kiddies sweat shop up and running!  And what adorable moppets don't love crafts?  And crafts for eight to ten hours?  Too much fun!!!  Plenty of sugary Christmas cookie will help keep them hopped up and cranking out those ornaments till the whole flocking tree is covered.

Now according to the text, you are going to need wooden clothespins, wooden picnic spoons and forks (wooden?), tin can lids, embroidery hoops - wait a minute.  Tin can lids?


YES!

Razor sharp tin can lids!   And other sharp pointy things painted with lead based paint, and plenty of small beads - the perfect size for choking on!  Did I mention the sharp pointy skewers that can take out an eye faster than you can call 911?  And that glue?  Made from Mr. Ed's hooves.




So while the kids are pinching one and other with those clothespins, Mom will be sitting down with a scotch and her scrap bag to create toys that the kids really can throw at each other.  See, it's easy - see?  Not quite sure what up with that stoner dog puppet - damn hippies.


And what about Dad?  Where is he with all this mirth making being made?



Well I'll tell you where he is - He's in the Rumpus Room basement, damnit, with his man friends, war buddies, the type of friends that you kill for, and have when the North Korean's are on the march. 

Being manly and making a manly meal, it's not a snack.  FUCK NO! BHG calls this a STAG FEED.  Now girly or pussy man food here.   

BOOYAH!  

And while Dad is carving his meat in a manly fashion, his buddy Maury is getting some pocket pool time in, and their friend Dick - well, he's leaning in.  Why?  BECAUSE, men need to be manly, that's why!

Let's take a look at that holiday man food will ya:



Just look at that god damned delicious chow for this manly STAG FEED!  Manly cheese - a whole wedge of it - slices are for pussies.  And mustard - lots of them - because only sissies and kids like ketchup.  Big Manly crackers.  Flat Bread is a pussy term.  Men eat crackers - and they love big six inch crackers - and larger too!  And we've BEEF because men crave red meat. {Snarl} And for bread - there is the most manly bread known to MANKIND - dry rye bread, with plenty of seeds and lots of that dry gummy dough, because men know how to woof it down.  On the stove?  A big pot of beans.  Why beans?  Because it's a manly dish, and men can fart around other men - hell, it's inspriational. One guy will fart then another and then it smells like a man party. And the Indian Club style grinders?  Because real men GRIND their salt and pepper.  Shaking from shakers is for Commies, and women.  Never mind that Earl there is playing pocket pool, or that Mike is looking at Steve's meat zone. Just the guys.  Nothing gay going on here. 



And speaking of plastered, Baby Jesus certainly looks plastered.  And HEY!  Just in case you are one of those idiots who has forgotten what this season is REALLY about - it's about a plaster likeness of the baby Jesus, swaddled in a golden doily and placed upon a pink glittery piece of scrap fabric.  And oh, Come let us adorn him with glittery silvery ornaments and lights, because THAT there, bub is the REASON FOR THE SEASON.

GOT IT?  Merry Christmas and none of that Happy Holiday Bull Shit.