Tuesday, February 12, 2019

Name Game, Part III: Oh, the bitter irony

So genealogist Cookie is taking a sick day because I wasn't paying attention to my meds this morning, and I accidentally took the P.M. meds (Vybryd, Trazadone) when I should have taken the morning meds (allergy pill, GERD medication, a Wellbutrin, and a white pill that the doctors insist that I take for blood pressure) and the result is that I am very, very sleepy.  On the good side, I get to wear jammies and play Camille.

Anyhow, since I am homebound (there is no way I would get in a car and drive) I have been working on a family line and have my favorite 17th Century baby name: "Accident"

Apparently, after having eleven children, said ancestor couple thought that they were in the clear by late thirties (their "last" child, Daniel, was born when the mother was 35) when a night of human rutting resulting in the September birth of "Accident".  Said accident, Accident, was a boy.  Mother and father were 40 and 41 - which is like 70 in 2019 years.  Apparently, Mother did fine carrying the baby and through the birth; she lived to 81.  Father died at 60, so the mother was not left a minor child raise.

As for Accident, or Axa, as he was later known he spent his life in Connecticut, married, and left farming to become a Minister, dying under a freak circumstance at the age of 47. 

And how did he die?

"Whilst felling an oak on the farm of John Williams, the tree half dead over from (a) storm strike, a "limbe (sic) struk (sic) the Reverend killing him, and leaving his wife a widow."

Yes, Accident was killed in an accident, accidentally.

I want to laugh out loud so badly, but these pills have me so mellow that all I can say is "dude".  Still, a reminder:

"Family is stranger than fiction."

Friday, February 8, 2019

Dessert for dinner

So last night, I made arrangements to have dinner with my friend Arlene at a tony place in the magical city of Upper Arlington, Ohio.

Upper Arlington.  Euphonious, Upper Arlington!

Well not really.  Its a really bland community, architecturally.

Anyhow its been seven years.  And in walks Arlene and first of all, she is looking amazing.  Not what she was wearing, but radiating this glow of health and good karma.  And she is rocking a twenty something body on a older model body.

So we sit down and order our cocktails - and this is a nice place opened by a local restaurateur with a very good track record and we chat and no dink, and we chat and no drink and finally I get up to find out where the drinks are and our server said they were on the way, so Arlene and went back to chatting, and the drinks arrive.

The wrong drinks.

Cookie ordered a Vodka Gibson.  Cookie was served a Martini.  Cookie ascribes to the same philosophy as Dashiell Hammett that  "gin is for old ladies."

Arlene ordered a Cookie Sidecar (standard sidecar, but ditch the triple sec and in place, St. Germaine) what she got was booze in a martini glass.

So we call the server over and ask about our drinks.   Her reply? "What can I do to make this right?"  Arlene says, that the right drinks would be the right place to start.  The server nods, but she seems a bit "off" her game.

Manager comes over apologizes, drinks on the house, says she.


In the middle of of our conversation the server disappears and the manager comes over and we learn that "Lori" will be our new server.  "Mandy had an emergency."

Arlene asked if she was fine and the manager said she hoped so.

Fine.  So Arlene and deep in a discussion on media, which is her field of expertise - former news anchor - and Lori comes over and delivers the dessert.  Which was great.  "But what happened to our fried chicken and waffles?"

Evidently Mandy must have been sent home, because a lot of weird got served up in that section.

It was a weird dinner dessert before salad, and all.

The manager came over and Arlene, ever the charmer said "who in their right mind would send back that a delicious looking dark chocolate tort? "

"Of course I am going to eat it!"

So the manager, feeling horrible, left the tort, brought out our entrees when we signaled, and dinner went a little upsey daisey out of order.

The cherry on top?  All of it was comped. And we got gift cards!

So Arlene got out and envelope out of her purse, wrote Mandy's name on it and slipped a twenty into it with a note ('We all have off nights.  Hope this makes things better.  Reach higher than tonight, and everything will work its way out.') and gave to the manager.  We also gave Lori a nice tip, too.

The manager couldn't thank us enough.  "You know, people today have every right to expect us to get it right, and I am taking steps....next time..."

But Arlene's good mood rubbed off on me as well.  "It's a meal, not Judgement at Nuremberg."

Arlene reminded me to embrace the least expected turns and twists in life.  "Besides, make me feel like a kid again."

"You know, there is so much in the world that isn't right, why do people let a FUBAR dinner, but with really good food ruin an evening.  Hate injustice, fight for rights.  But LOVE the people you are with and make memories."

Its good to have friends who put the fun and love into your lives.

Thursday, February 7, 2019

New Cookie in the Cookie Jar

Ironic that I posted twice about names, and find out today that Niecey in California delivered a bouncing healthy baby!

The problem is, I am a terrible uncle.

I forget birthdays.  Kids hate me.  I just do not relate to children under 21, which is why I never dated anyone younger than me.  I could have, but frankly, I cannot keep up with them.

I am, however very supportive of the Nieces and the Nephews.  I am also an uncle who will tell it as it is.  I think they appreciate that, to a degree.

No word on a name, but I would be a fool to place a bet on the name "Pleasance" or "Rhubarb".

This is my last great niece of nephew on that side of the family.  Which is kind of sad.  Cookie is getting old, and eldest great niece is ten, so hopefully, there will be more after 2028. 

And by that time, Pleasance and Rhubarb maybe fashionable and trendy names for a girl, or a boy.

Wednesday, February 6, 2019

The Name Game, Decoded

Several of you endeavored to play the name game from the last post.    The 16-17th Century names given were:

1. Mehetable
2. Zohra
3. Lettus
4. Seekpeace
5. Francis
6. Pleasance
7. Mayhew
8. Fairfax
9. Eudoia
10. Syntyche

So lets run this one down.

1. Mehetable - Female.  From the Bible.  Meaning "God Rejoices" .  In North American parlance "Damn, another dowery."

2. Zhora - Female.  Found in the bible as the city in which Samson was born. From the middle east.  Brought back by traders.

3. Lettus - Female.  Yupper. A harkening to bountiful gifts from the harvest.  Uhm, yeah.  My friend the super adorable Justin McKenzie performs under the name "Anita Lettus."

4. Seekpeace - Male. Tis true.  "Seekpeace" was an aspirational name.  It was a spin on Stephen.

5. Francis (Frank-Is) - Female.  Now here me out.  Francis (Fran-SIS) IS a male name.  But "Frank-Is" is a variation on the nature of women as property.  In Handmaid speak - literally "of Frank".  It morphed into Frances, and lost it harshness.

6. Pleasance - Female.   Cookie is going to give full disclosure.  I am a direct descendent, of one Pleasance Ely, of Ann Arundel County, and her first husband Edward Dorsey, who are my tenth great grandparents.  Pleasance, so named by her doting father, grew into a woman with a well known disposition that was anything but pleasant.  Harridan would have been a better description.  In fact, a Maryland history book notes that where Edward Dorsey died by drowning when his boat sank in the Chesapeake, several men attempted to court the widow Dorsey, who was - by her late husband's will the wealthiest widow in the state, but she hissed and spat until there was one suitor left.  He soon regretted his union, because it wasn't an act.  She was a throughly unpleasant person and made his life miserable for years to come.   SECOND tidbit.  Another Pleasance descendent is the Duchess of Windsor, the former Bessie Wallis Warfield Simpson. 

7. Mayhew - Male.  One of the variants of Matthew. 

8. Fairfax - Male. Yes.  Allegedly, a male named Fairfax allegedly had hair of flax.  Now, how are you going to know if the baby is bald.

9. Eudoia, Female. See Syntyche

10. Syntyche - Female.  Both Syntyche and Eudioa are biblical names, women, who are members of the same congregation in the New Testament.  Eudoia meaning, we think, Sweet Fragrance.  Synthyche meaning fortunate.

Friday, February 1, 2019

Just not enough children named Cuthbert anymore...

I wonder if she really was a Modest Outlaw...

My mother used to say that a child's name should be something that they grow into, and will serve them as an adult.

I would get this talk each day when she read the obituaries.

"It says that Murial Cooper died, age seventy."  Then, Mom would take that name and swirl it around in her mouth like a wine connoisseur at a world championship judging it by flossing their taste buds for every nuance.  "Murial. Muir-ee-al. Not enough children named Murial these days..."

Or it could be a call from her later "Flossie McKey died.  She was a hundred years old.  So you would expect a name like Flossie.  Popular during the McKinley era.  Not enough girls named Flossie."

Later when I was older and reading the obituaries myself each day, I still come across a name or two and out bubbles my mother's from my voice box when I utter the name and how its gone from our daily lexicon of familiarities.  "Lois Smith.  Not enough girls named Lois anymore," and when I skip to the sports page, every now and then an oldie but baddy will pop up eliciting a "Marvin? Who the hell names the kid Marvin, today?"

The problem is, parents name their children with cutesy names that fit children when they are wee small, not as adults.   This is how we ended up with boys named "Declan" and girls named "Troika".

My first "Troika" meeting happened at an event a neighbor was throwing.  The baby was adorable, with lovely baby fat that you just wanted to nibble on in the way that adults want to gobble up a baby.  Her mothers were bursting with pride.  "What did you name her?"

"Troika," they said.  "It's a name of strength, that honors her spirit, her body, and her mind.  She will be a force to be reckoned with."

I smiled.  In my head, I could imagine a life for Troika filled with endless questions about her "uncommon name."

And a middle name?

"We went with Rachel after Beth's mother who died a couple years ago."

Rachel is a beautiful name.  But trust me, Troika will be "Rachel" by the time she hits eight, twenty-four max if she becomes a TV Anchor.

Every era has a phase when it comes to naming babies.  Remember in the 1980s when there was an outbreak of baby girls named Ashley and boys named Christopher?  And then in 1990s, it was Brittany and Mathew?  In the 2000s it was Madison and Jacob.

These trends are nothing new.  In the 1600s it was just as bad with fads and such.  There was even a period in the 1600s and 1700s when children were given first names that sound to our ears like something from a hippy commune.  "Friend" for boys and "Thankful" in the 1600s for girls were far more popular than "Moon Unit" and "Apple" were in the 1960s and 1990s.

As a genealogist, I see these all the time.   It is especially vexing when the child dies young and it was before the advent of organized birth records because either the sex of the child is evident, or its anyone's guess.

I mean take baby "Shirly" Moore, born in Kentucky in 1801.  You look at that name and it sounds like someone your mother or grandmother would know.  Shirly could even be in the Bridge Club, right?

But baby "Shirly" died at age six months.  There is no birth record. Just a bible entry.  We don't even know where baby Shirly is buried.

So what sex is Shirly?

You read that right.  What sex?

Is Shirly a girl?  Or is Shirly a boy?

Shirly could be one or the other.  We don't know.  All we have is "Thomas and Ann Moore's" family bible which records the birth and death dates for "Shirly".

And was Shirly's name surely spelled Shirly?  Or is it Shirley, like it's printed in the book written in the 1970s by the person who was, in canon law terms Shirly's fifth great grand nephew, one Beverly Simpkins.  Yes, a man named Beverly. And yes, Beverly's granddaughter describes her "Grandpappy" as "Beverly, the Hillbilly".

(She thinks its funny. She's also paying me $100/hour to look all this up, so if she wants to laugh, let her.)

One Millenial, who is clueless asked me "Why do you have to assign a sex to these people.  Maybe they were gender fluid..."

Unlikely.  Look, you have to assign a sex to figure out how to start an organized search to rule in your hypothesis or, rule it out.  if you just go willy-nilly at the records, you'll never find anything.

So let's play this little game, shall we? It's one I play whenever we go further back than 1900.  Its called "Is it a He'in or a She'in?"  The way this gets played, I'll give you ten "Western" names that are pretty gender fixed, but way out of date.  You have to assign the most likely gender.  The names won't be ones you hear today but were common in the 17th and 18th centuries.  You have a 50% chance at getting them right.  Don't cheat.  I can spot a cheater a mile away.   (But you can whip this out and show it to your friends and defy their ability to get them all correct.)

1. Mehetable
2. Zohra
3. Lettus
4. Seekpeace
5. Francis (pronounced Frank-is)
6. Pleasance
7. Mayhew
8. Fairfax
9. Eudoia M
10. Syntyche


Mathe in New England


1) Mehetable - Female.  Taken from the bible.  Its translation means "God rejoices."

2) Zohra - Female.  Taken from Islamic culture, up through the Middle East into Europe, it can mean "Beautiful

3) Lettus - Female.  Later Lettice (Le-teece)

4) Seekpeace - Male.

5)  Francis - Female.  Yes, I know that Francis is a man's name, but "Frankis" morphed into Frances.

6) Pleasance - Female.  My 10th great grandmother was a woman named Pleasance Ely*.

7) Mayhew - Male.  A forerunner of Mathew.

8) Fairfax - Male.  One would think that "Fair" would apply to a girl, fair of face, so to think.  But no.  Fairfax was a name given to males.

9) Eudoia - Female.  I know, you are thinking "Endora", but no.  Eudoia is a new testament thing.

10) Syntyche - Female.  A buddy of Eudoia.


If you have made it thus far, the bonus name is "Mathe".  Not Maive.  And no, not Maude, either.  "Mathe" can either be a form of "Mary" or it can be - especially in New England a form of MARTHA.  Martha?  Now, sound it out: Ma-the, Ma-the, now say "Ma" and "the" fast together.  ma - THE, Martha.

Now if you will excuse me, but I have to wrap a gift for the new baby next door.  They named him "Viscount".

I honestly just can't.  You know?

Tuesday, January 29, 2019

Celine Dion's Industrial Accident

Does this woman not have anyone around her that is honest with her?

OK, let's imagine that you are best friends with Celine.  And the two of you are going out. In public.  And she walks into the room and says "How you like the outfit?  Eez eet too avant guard?" 

And you reply:

1) Maybe a bit too much.

2) You look like you are in a Space Attendant Suit, but we are not auditioning for a remake of the Starsheep Troopers remake.

3) It's 2019, not 1983.

4) You know, that plunging neckline only worked for two people, JLo, and Matt Lauer, and neither has a great career at the moment.

5) I bet that cost you a lot of money.

6) It's fa-fabulous let's go.

7) For Paris?  No.

8) Honey, I think we need an intervention.

9) I can't even.

10) I think we need to reattach your artificial leg.

Or make up your own reply.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

On the HiFi

Brought to you by EXCELLO RECORDS.  "We make your home your studio." 

Monday, January 14, 2019

Sleepless in Baltimore

In October/November the doctors changed my meds taking away Lexapro and adding in Viibryd (VI-bred). 

In some ways, things have been better.  In other ways, far worse.

Mood wise, I am much more level, less prone to panic attacks. 

However my habit of dropping letters and words when I type has increased ten-fold, my short term memory is fried, and now I am tired all the time, unable to sleep. 

You take these at night, but they keep you up.  If you take them in the morning, you feel like Judy Garland just before L.B. Mayer orders a dose of uppers to wake up and counteract the dose of barbiturates that he he ordered so you could sleep.

Anyhow, we have passed the point of patience.  A call is in order later this morning.

Sunday, January 6, 2019

What was once may be no more and some personal growth

Mays on the Heights bit the dust years ago. 

Cookie got a call the other day from a relative in NE Ohio and apparently, a part of our past may no longer exist much longer.  I am apprehensive about being more specific because we don't know if its certain or not.

It wasn't any place that was beautiful or a place that would be a community loss or anything that in and of itself is important to many.  But it is a keystone to our upbringing and part of my heart is still in disbelief.

It's hard losing a place that you know so well.  It's part of your life, your history.  Physical places are the anchors that we have to a place, long after family members have passed, and friends from childhood move away.

You can drive by these familiar landmarks and even if you don't go into it, it's there, and remember a time when you could go there.  And then one day you drive down the road and it's not there.

Last spring I drove to Columbus for a conference and ended up having to drive down High Street from East North Broadway.   Columbus has dramatically and swiftly changed since we moved in the late summer of 2012.

Let me state that again, Columbus - the sleepy capital of Ohio, has changed with dramatic results.

How swift? As I drove down High Street, the main north-south drag, from Lane Avenue, south to the Convention Center, I started feeling lost.  Everywhere are five story mid-rises, new stores, 13 story condo structures, apartments, hotels, etc.   The change is so dramatic that I lost track of where I was.

Thirty-five years ago, this was all burned out slum. Ten years later it was undergoing a revitalization, twenty years ago it popular with LGBT people and still had its edge, with bars and and funky shops.  When we left in 2012 it was losing its edginess, becoming very suburban.  Now it has flipped again.  Totally hipster centric, and I felt lost in its big city feel.

But this recent news is a place in Shaker and it's just something that you never thought would change.  Everything changes, and the older you get, the more change you see in the places you remember.  And the more changes you see in yourself.

That's why my reaction kind of dumbfounds me.  I should be beyond this.  It shouldn't hit me hard.  But it does, and that tells me that for as much as I have spent saying the structure meant nothing to me, it, in fact, means something.

And I have some time to spend before I can figure that out.


This past week I did something that I never considered doing.

 I sent a letter to the summer camp that I went to as a child and reported to them that I was sexually molested by a man who was working there as an odd-jobber.   The man lured me into his van at eleven, got himself high, got me woozy from the pot smoke and then sexually attacked me.  He was able to do that because I was terrified of having to go in a locker room and change for swimming instruction.  Apparently, he had told someone that he needed help cleaning out something that he would make sure I was safe and then we'd play catch until the bus came back.

The second time, he told me to meet him at the old May's on the Heights building on a Saturday afternoon, or he would come to my house.  Humiliated and freaked out, I did as other children back then did, complied with the abuser's demands.  He took me to the lower level bathroom and handed me over to another man, and watched as that man violated me.  When he was done, the guy gave my abuser four five dollar bills.  I was given one of the five dollar bills and told to say nothing. 

On the third time, after attacking me, he told me that the next time would involve a trip to his uncles where the three of us would swim nude and "have our fun."  Hearing that made something in my head click, and I knew if that happened, I would be in trouble, and I might not make it home alive.

There were two more weeks of camps, and the guy disappeared a week before the end.  During those last two weeks, I stuck by the camp counselor.  I varied my way home (I rode my bike to camp) and then I spent the next month terrified that he would show up at the door.

He never did.

And I pushed this down, deep and dark and forgot about it.  Until forty-four years later.

So as part of my healing process, I wrote to the camp Board - it still exists and told them what happened.  I also explained that because this guy jobbed for the camp doing odd jobs, they probably had no record of him.  I tried to tell them what he looked like, and about his white van, and how he took me off campus that one time.

There is nothing they can do, and too much time has passed. Without a name, I can't help them find him or identify him.  Heck, I can't even tell you the name of group's counselor.

I just wanted them to know.  I also apologized.  There is a significant amount of guilt in surviving what he did to me and then not telling anyone because there is the possibility he did it other campers in other years.  Had someone come forward before me, then maybe I would have been safe.  So if my silence at eleven did anything to allow him to hurt someone else, I am profoundly sorry. 

I also said I wanted nothing from them, except to log the abuse by a non-payroll employee, and know that it happened. I also asked that if someone ever fitting that description was caught, to let me know, so I can lock him away for good in my mind

So that makes me feel better.

Sunday, December 30, 2018

Dance, Dorothy, Dance!

No one does a better 1950s Hot Mess on the screen as Dorothy Malone in Inherit the Wind.

I have a love-hate thing with Dorothy.  I love her, I hate the makeup that they used on her.  Her eyebrows were too dark for her hair color, and her hair was the wrong color for her skin tones.

As her career went on and they cut back on the brassy look, lightened her hair, and gave her a softer look, she took on a whole new look. 

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

Merry Christmas: "There is no pig in here."

Sunday, Donald Trump's butt boy, Secretary of the Treasury Steve Mnuchin pulled a boner over the weekend.

Donald Trump was fuming about the market tanking on Friday, so Mnuchin - who really doesn't have a clue and should be investigated for running an agency that he had a track record of lying to before he was named its leader - thought it would be a spiffy idea to bolster the sagging markets. 

"Let's talk to the heads of the biggest banks, and not tell them I am going to make a statement," thought the Secretary of the Treasury.  The man has a marble-sized brain, so he thought it was a good idea.

What Mnuchin does get is that the only good news about a bank comes from its CEO when it exceeds - by a little bit - that earnings were higher than expected.  Or that the bank has a branch near you.  Or that they have a large ATM network.  Maybe your neighbor tells people "I got a great rate on a car loan."  But that's about it.


Because banking is a little bit like running a whore house. 

Actually, let me change that.  Banking is a lot like running a whore house. 

Everyone in town knows where it is.  Everyone in town knows what it does.  People transact business in there, and it's nobody's business but your business what you do when you walk into a bank office.  Everything is pretty private if it is 1) Legal and 2) Not Illegal.

What you never want to hear about a bank is a whole lot like what you don't want to hear about a whore house.   You never want to hear that the regulators are in there (bank), or that the health department paid a call (whore house) and in either case, when it becomes public, it makes people nervous.   In fact, it's nothing for a regulator to be in a bank because they are making sure that everyone is doing exactly what they are supposed to be.  Same with a whore house.  Health department checks up on it to make sure that the women (and men) who work there are doing so because they know what they are doing and aren't being forced to do it and that they aren't passing social diseases.

So after his call, what did the Secretary of the Treasury do?

He issued a statement that the largest banks are well run, have liquidity, and they want to make loans.


But if you have ever seen the 1984 farce, A Private Function - starring Michael Palin and Maggie Smith - then you know that when you announce to the world that there is "no pig in here," that there is, most certainly a pig being hidden in there.

Smug with his good deed of what was proclaiming "No pig in here" as it were, the result was that on the stock market side on Monday, Wall Street and Dow Jones, together, showed the single biggest loss in one day since 1931. 

What Mnuchin should know, and if he had the brains to know that you don't do that because people start questioning what you aren't saying.

If everything is fine with the banks why would you say anything?

If in fact there is "no pig in here" why say it?  You just open the door to the police and show them there is no pig in there.

And in fact if there is "no collusion" - which is a term, NOT a legal definition - you don't need to say "no collusion" at all, or repeatedly.   If there is no collusion, then the report will clear your name.  But when you say it continually, it sounds like a "denial" of what you are most afraid that they are going to find because you know something is there.

So tomorrow, if the market tanks again, remember: Steve Mnuchin will be insisting that there is no "no pig in here."

Saturday, December 22, 2018

Yeah, I don't have time...for this.

So this past week, Cookie decided that he really needed a new pair of shoes.  It's not a capricious decision.  Cookie buys shoes only when Cookie needs new shoes. 

I hate going shoe shopping.   I hate the entire process.  Hated it when I was a kid, too.

In my mind, I know what I want, but the stores never have it.

Anyway, I had a pair of Merrill's that are maybe six years old and I really love them.  They're just a pair of slip-on shoes, but they are awesome.  I wear them around the house and they are so comfortable you forget they're on.  But alas, Merrell no longer makes these. 

So a neighbor said that there is a Merrell store at Arundel Mills, the "outlet mall" down by the airport.  No anchor stores.  But it has a casino.

Anyway, I drag myself down there - about a half hour drive - park the car, and having never been there, I picked a door and walked into the mall. It took a good ten minutes to get from the door at one end to Merrell's store at the other end.

I go in and I look and they have nothing at the outlet store that I want (Suprise) but a guy has to do his due diligence, right?

Now before we go any further, that day, I was wearing a ball cap, a pair of ratty old jeans, a ratty old mock turtleneck from L.L. Bean and a fleeced lined hoodie from a Farm and Fleet store in Ohio that I bought when they went out of business.  In other words, I look heterosexual. 

Dressed as I was, I got out my iPhone and started looking for the nearest REI, which had the shoe closest to what I wanted, and while I am waiting for the map to come up - because I know nothing about that part of the region, someone walks up to me.

This someone says, her very best "ohmygod," voice: "OK, I hate to interrupt your phone time but you to go in the back and find me this shoe," which she hands me, "in a size five."

This Chippy doesn't look up from her phone, she is dress like Arbutus' version of Arianna Grande, and a cheap looking Arianna Grande at that.

I start to say "Miss, I don't..." when she puts up her hand and says "Don't tell me what you can't do, just get IT done," in a perfect vocal fry.

Now, maybe she saw me, maybe she had those laser-focused eyes of her focused on the phone, but you don't treat anyone like that.  ESPECIALLY retail workers.

So I asked her to have a seat, she replies with" "Look, I don't have all day. I don't have time...for this."  And with her hand, she does a brush off move, like I was a gnat. 

OK, I'll be right back, says I.  And I head to the exit.

As I am leaving the store I said to the clerk "There's a brat over there who needs help."

And I left.

During the drive home, it got me wondering, about entitled people.  Where does that entitlement come from?  Is it a function of being in an outlet mall?  Would this have happened if I were in a Nordstrom?  And if I were in a Nordstrom, or Lord and Taylor, or Bloomingdales, would have any of the employees even asked me if they could help me dressed as I was.

I still don't have an answer or anything profound to report back.  I also don't have that new pair of shoes I need, either.

One conclusion is that I miss the Midwest.  I don't think I will ever acclimate to the harshness of people here.  There is no reason for it.  Baltimore calls itself the Charm City, but Charm has been something that is in short supply.

There is a lot of anger here.  There is a lot of crime.  And a great deal of insecurity.  All of that could be in play.  And I suspect that there are a whole lot of people who look at me and ask "Why does he get to live in a ratless neighborhood?'

But then again, this young woman's problem is that deep down, she is an utter bitch.  Just one of those Chippy's that buys a dog because its a fashion accessory, or snarls at children who are playing and loving life, or someone who sees some who is homeless and hates them because they "homeless" and that, not their condition, annoys her.

Or, she's just an utter bitch. 

And no, I don't have time for her.

Friday, December 21, 2018

When will this holiday madness end?

Seriously, Cookie is feeling boxed in by the growing crowd's desperate people jamming up the parking lots.   And there NO ONE waving a wand of dusting the place with magic dust to remind people that the holiday is not about getting the best parking spaces. 

And now we are throwing the obligatory X-Mas party!

I told Noreen it wasn't a costume party!

DAMNIT!  I forgot the Christmas Ham!  Back to the store, and that means playing Holiday Parking Lot Dodge'um, again!

Got back just in time to see Norma Desmond entertaining the troops with her Sunset Blouevard Cooch Dance.

Now to heat up dinner!

So how's your Friday before Christmas shaping up?

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

So what's with this Christmas thing, anyway?

Not the Little Drummer Boy, but close

Stolen from Ann Marie

What do you hate most about Xmess? 

Commercialism, and the waste it leaves behind.

What is your least favorite piece of Xmess music? 
The Little Drummer Boy, because - and believers will tell you this - there was no Little Drummer Boy in the manger.  It was a SILENT NIGHT for Christ's sake.  And percussive instruments are not soothing to a woman in labor.  And they certainly are soothing to a newborn babe, either.  AND the fucking song goes on and on and ends around the beginning of the Annuciation

What traditional Xmess food OTHER THAN FRUITCAKE (too easy) is being sent down the garbage disposal? 

Homemade anything from a person I don't know and like.  "Why Jerri!  Homemade Quince Jam?"  And there is always a cat hair in Jerri's homemade jam.  So into the trash, it goes. 

Which animated TV Xmess special leaves you wanting to rip the wallpaper off the walls? 
Anything animated by Rankin - Bass, EXCEPT "Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer".  Even as a kid I hated them.  Have you ever looked at their feet?  They look like irons.  And there are a total of 18 specials.  

What was your least favorite Xmess gift ever? 

ANYTHING that comes from an "EXECUTIVE" gift selection provided at stores, by their checkouts.  This includes puzzles made of wood or chrome. An old timey locomotive mad of wood.  A basketball net and a nerf ball.  You know, the gifts you by someone when you don't know what to get?  HATE THOSE!

For whom on your Xmess list is the hardest to shop? 

I only shop for my husband, but even that's hard because we have a $50 limit. 

How would you spend this time of year if you weren't caught up in all the "holiday" madness?

But we are.  And that's what I hate about this time of the year.  You can't escape it unless you a Ba-zillionaire.

But if we win the MegaMillions, the Husband I would move to Pasadena in October and return home in March.

Anyway, we're less than sixty days to Ground Hog Day, so spring is just around the corner. 

Merry Christmas, Bitches!

Monday, December 10, 2018

God Damn it: Jury Service

One of the BIGGEST things I hate... HATE about Baltimore (city of) is that it is its own county, separate from Baltimore County which surrounds it on three sides.

And because of this being the City of Baltimore, where everything is - and if it isn't, just wait - fucked up, is their jury service policy and procedures. 

Back in the Midwest, jury service is a two-week term, that you can only be called on to serve every two years.  What nice about that, after the initial aggravation, is that you get a rhythm two it. If you notice says you are to report Monday, June 1st, you go on Monday, June 1st.  And if you aren't called by the second Thursday of service, noon, they let you go.  And when you walk out, if you serve on an actual jury or not, you get a "Certificate" that gets you out of jury duty for the next two years!

IN BALTIMORE, however, it's one day, and you can be called once a year. Only if you are selected for a jury do you get a one year exception to serving again in the a one year period.  Furthermore, after getting the notice, your life hangs in the balance until 5PM the day before, because that is when you call in to see if your "Block" of numbers have been called. 

So let's say that you are assigned draw number 5312, for Thursday, December 27, 2019.  You don't report until you, and hundreds of other people, all call at the same time.  You have to listen to this gawdawful recording, that goes on and on and on.  Then they get to the numbers "If your jury number is between muffle muffle muffle and 8000, you will report tomorrow at 8:00am..."

So you have to call, and go through the same bullshit again and hope that the record doesn't get mucked up.   And you listen and the voice says 5500 and 8000 - YOU ARE IN THE CLEAR.

But if the voice says 5000 and whatever fucking number is greater than you, THEN you go.

And parking is a hassle - because they don't have a decent mass transit system here - and the traffic and the security, and on and on.

Most of the time they don't select me during the questioning.  But you still have to report to the court to be part of voir dire, or selection process.  Sometimes you can be in there for hours with nothing to do but watch the judge and the lawyers talk and ruffle papers.  If you get selected, then great - you know what your purpose is.  If not, you have to return to the Jury room and wait to be called again. But the absolute worst is being chosen an alternate.  Because you have to be there, paying attention to everything, without being able to decide the outcome. 

I usually don't get chosen.  My father was a lawyer, my brothers are lawyers, my cousins are lawyers, my best friend is a lawyer and represents the alleged defendant in capital crimes trials.  I have been to paralegal school. I have worked as a paralegal.  I have gone into juvenile prisons to interview the "yutes" about their conditions of confinement and give them information on the progress of their early release petitions.  (More than usual, they don't get out early unless they have made enormous strides in their treatment and in their education.)  And I have a bias; which is, if someone has prior convictions on a crime of opportunity, then they more likely to re-offend again.  Its a fact of psychology - past behaviors are a good prediction of future behaviors.

Is that fair to Defendent?  It is if you get it all out there during your voir dire, then you have been honest.

I also cannot serve on juries involving sexual or physical abuse of a child, because I was one as a child.  PTSD and all, Defendant may be innocent, may be guilty, but I literally had too much skin that game.  And besides a victim of a crime should never be asked to determine the guilt or innocence of someone accused of that crime because the chance of projecting yourself as the victim is way too great.  In my mind, they are guilty until proven innocent.  And that doesn't mean a fair trial them.

And for your time, effort and expenses, you get paid an amount less than the parking rates.

It's not that I mind jury service, just tell me how many days, and what day to report so I can make life plans.  But this one day a year lottery that they run is not only a drag but its stressful.  I could get out of it by unregistering to vote.  But given the way things are going, in this nation, that isn't a smart move.

So sometime in the next 30 days, I will be locked up in a room awaiting someone to call my number, and then pay an outragous amount to park my car.  No fun.

Sunday, December 9, 2018

Some changes at DHTiSH

Back in November, I came to the conclusion that after eight years, it might be a good time to call it a day with DHTiSH.

Blogs on Blogger have pretty much run their course, and I had launched Krab With a K on Tumblr.  And let's face it, Tumblr is a great source of "artistic" images.

But then, last Monday, Verizon, which bought Yahoo! and Tumblr in 2017, and then folded the two into a holding company called "Oath:" to keep it separate from its ungodly expensive cell phone business and its landline business, and its FIOS cable business, finally forced Tumblr to eliminate all of the adult content on the platform.

Here's my problem with that.

Verizon knew what it was buying when it bought Yahoo! and Tumblr came with the deal.  Even at the at the outset, market and industry watchers said that Verizon was going to address it.   They could have spun off a platform for the adult Tumblrs, but no, they wanted everything.  Well, on December 3, 2018, they "fired" every Tumblr contributor, artist and community member that contributed to the adult community.

What does that mean?  EVERY Tumblr member was given two weeks notice that on December 17, the site was taking down everything identified that contains sexual content.  We were all given two weeks notice.  Since then, images on my Tumblr's had been flagged, and that includes Krab With A K, which is a "G" rated Tumblr.

We weren't given a month, we weren't given an option, everything is going if their bots and people find it to be of an adult nature. 

What brought this one?  Apparently, it was child pornography found on an APPLE app for Tumblr, which was then banned from the Apple Store. 

Now, let me be perfectly clear - Child Pornography has no business being anywhere or existing at all, period. There should be no safe haven for that at all.  I even get uncomfortable thinking about a couple of nude pictures taken of me when I was a toddler by a professional photographer hired by my parents. Never mind that the guy penciled out my "stuff" so I looked like a sexless childs toy baby doll.  I don't want some creep buying those at an Ephemera Sale in the future.

But pictures of adults, who pose for those for that media, is not legal to own in the U.S.

So what happened, in a nutshell, was that Apple got a complaint, dropped the app, which gave Verizon the reason to ban the LEGAL adult content. 

But also what happened is that Verizon, Oath, and Tumblr have killed communities.  There were groups of men and women, in the leather communities, in the S&M communities and other fetish groups (did you know that there are people turned on at the thought of being in a dental chair?) have been sidelined. 

These communities have to find a new place to go because Verizon got its knickers in a bunch.

Now think about this.  White Power and ProNazi groups weren't banned.  Pictures of mutilated bodies, murder victims lying in pools of there own blood, big game animals being slaughtered, pictures of war, starvation, and Tumblrs that are hate groups that target LGBTQA, races, religions and people from other nations weren't banned. 

But adult nudity was.

ALL of this means that we all have to rethink what an online community is, and who owns that ability to congregate online.  If you have a community on Facebook, that means it exists only through the benevolence of the people driving the platform.  They, not you, have the right to flip that switch and destroy your online community.  You have no say in it.

So, for the meantime, DHTiSH will continue to be online.  And it also means that I am heavily involved in helping several of these communities and their members stay in contact with one and other as new platforms are developed.  (And for the record, Cookie is not turned on by any Dentistry Fetish.  Just not my thing, but if it yours, go knock your socks off.)

Is Tumblr going to reverse itself?  No.  You can send all the petitions and all the communications you want to the evil empire that owns and runs it.  Nothing is going to change.

What I do know is that something will fill the void and provide the service.  Who and what that is unknown and when it will be up and running, no one knows. But it also presents one heck of an opportunity for someone. 

Saturday, November 10, 2018

The Event That Moved the Goal Posts Down the Road

That bowl of gruel that they are cheerfully passing off as Oatmeal?
It's a $400 bowl of porridge.  At least that's how much you'll get billed for it.

On Tuesday evening, Cookie found himself in the middle of an event.

And it's not the type of event anyone wants to find themselves in.  It was not the Met Ball or some such.  It was a cardiac event.

I had been feeling a little on Tuesday, my left arm just ached all day.   Mentally I was feeling dull because of a change in my SADD medication (remember, this time of year is a period of pure dread for me) and the election had me going.

So, as I said in the post from that day that I ignored the election day coverage, I thought I had myself in a good place.  Win or lose, we would endure.

I posted that to the blog.

About ten minutes later, however, my chest began to tighten.  I stretched, turned on the TV and went back to editing pictures.  With the sound off I couldn't hear anything but the pain in my arm distracted me.  Then I looked at the TV and saw the faces of some people who looked concerned.  I turned up the volume and Nate Silver said that "this district appears to be turning red and this was the one that we said if it went blue, the Big Blue Wave was coming and right now it isn't looking good..."

And then I got horribly hot, followed by a cold sweat.

Left-arm hurting.  Chest tight. Clammy.  Pale skin.

I went downstairs, the husband looked at me and he said that I looked like I was going to go pass out and went to the ER.

I was crying the whole way.  I wanted to go home.  I was in pain.  I thought I'd never go home.

We got to the hospital, they got me in immediately.

They couldn't find a vein on the first attempt, or the second and by the fifth, my arm was black and blue and the triage nurse pushed aside the youngin and found a vein on the seventh time.

Now my arm hurt, and it looked like leaches had attacked it.

After about twenty minutes we all figured out that I was not about to go into cardiac arrest, and I did not have the jaw pain aspect of it.

So they got us back, I took off my clothes as instructed, put on the hospital gown, got on the horrible stretcher, which wasn't too bad, they brought me a hot blanket, which was pure heaven, and they took more blood.

By this time, because you can't get cell coverage in an ER, we turned on the TV and the Blue Wave was nowhere near the Senate beach, but the House beach was about to get it.  My spirits lifted.

 The doctor came in and said that my EKG was perfect, and compared to the baseline EKG that I got in July.  The blood work showed no sign of the enzymes produced in a heart attack, however, it was now Midnight, and they needed to do another in a couple of hours and they wanted to admit me.

"Was it a heart attack?"

"We can't call it that, yet.  But you definitely had a cardiac event.

Cookie was relieved, and concerned.  If the numbers were good, save for my cholesterol and my blood pressure, and they weren't calling it a heart attack in the least, then what was it.  And I wanted to go home.

But the doctor was insistent and brought in another doctor to tell me that they need four hours to six hours for valid third enzyme reading and they wanted me to do a stress test to see if they could replicate abnormal activity.

And my adoring husband was there, and I just wanted to go home, but I agreed that I would stay on two conditions.  If it wasn't a heart attack, I wanted out by noon, and I wanted the stress test first thing in the morning.

The husband wanted to stay, but the dogs were home alone, and he had to work in the morning and I just told him that I would be fine, and to go home and let these nice people take care of me.

I was admitted and wheeled to my room, and unceremoniously dumped at the door of what had to have once been a broom closet.  No, I am told.  "This is the standard room for (name of the insurance company that paid for the fittings) members."

I thank God for being alive, and that said company is not my insurance company.

While I will not name the hospital, I was shocked by the condition of the room.  So I must have been feeling better.  I have visited elderly people Medicaid nursing homes that were better than this.  And this hospital has more money than it knows what to do with.

By now it was 2:30 and I was dog tired, but the bed they assigned to me was a cruel joke.  The "mattress" was much closer to an elementary school tumbling pad, hard as a rock, and about an inch and a half thick.  The pillows were the cheapest fiber fill models.  You know the kind, $2.99 at Target, and filled with a material that would not yield its fluffy shape.  You can't be comfortable with these because they push against your head to return to their shape, you need to exert downward pressure to keep from having your neck snapped into a 45-degree angle.

They took more and more blood, and they wired me to the heart monitoring device, which I wore in a pocket on my chest.  Now, remember, they port the IV port in my right hand, which is my dominant hand, so it hurt more than my arm.

At some point, I drifted off into an uneasy sleep of exhaustion, punctuated by my nurse, Caroline, coming in, waking me up to take blood oxygen reading, stab me in the stomach with blood thinners, poke pills down my throat, and draw more blood from my now ragged, and black and blue left arm.  All the while the TV control was on in a low murmur telling me over and over that the blue wave was indeed securely taking the house back from the Republicans.

At some point, I conked out until 6AM when Caroline brought in Mary, my day nurse to introduce me.  I could barely get my eyes open when I went back to sleep.  At some point, Mary - who sounded exactly like Regan's speech writer, Peggy Noonan, came in and said that she needed to take my blood pressure.  I was laying on my right side, and instead of getting up, remember shooting my left arm up into the air.  I remember the tightness of the cuff, and Mary saying "Wow, that really went down from last night" (which was 156/100) to 90/70.

I conked out again.

When I did wake, I looked at the clock and saw it was 7am.  The hospital did not come and get me by 7:30am, or 8am, or 9am or 10am for my stress test.  And because you can't have any liquids before the test, my mouth was like corduroy.

Muscato texted me and said, "You have to be your own advocate."

In walks Mary and I start advocated on my behalf and told her that they were running out of time to give me the stress test, I was leaving at 12 noon.

And Mary kept saying "now we can't have you stressed after your coronary event, blah, blah, blah..." and I kept saying "Mary, it's not you, but the goal post keeps getting moved down the road."

Mary responded that "our computers were down until six so we couldn't get the stress test scheduled until 8 for 10:00 and that the stress test will take two hours..." and again and again, the goal line kept getting moved further and further down the line.

Finally, they got me, and I passed the stress test without a blip.  They even gave me a can of Diet Pepsi.  I was in HEAVEN!

I'm talking to Nurse who assisted in the stress test and I said that I expected to do it earlier, but that Mary told me the computers were down...

Nurse says, "I came on the floor at six and the computers weren't down.  Most likely the doctors were in a meeting and didn't come out till seven and then you test was ordered at 8AM."


Back in my room, I started putting my clothes and called my husband to come to the hospital and in comes Mary who says that "the doctor wants you to stay in bed...and they may want to keep you a second night..."

"On that bed?  No, no. Not going to happen"

Then she leaves and comes back and says "the doctor will be in, but she wants you to eat something first."  Again, the goal posts are moved further down the field.  I am forced to order something heart healthy.  Something that I didn't want to eat.

The thing about hospitals is they are pretty easy to get admitted into, but they are Hell to get out of and on your way home.  So to get Mary on her way and to get the show moving, I ordered Oatmeal.

"And fresh fruit?"

"Yes, fresh fruit would be nice."  ANYTHING to get the ball rolling.

This one was no different.

The husband arrives and he wants to know what was up, and Mary comes in and tells me that the doctor will be in about 40 minutes.

I thanked Mary, but I make it clear that I know she is doing her best, and that she can't give orders to a hospitalist, if this was as serious as we thought, I would have seen a doctor long before this, save for the cardiologist who did the stress test.

She leaves, and a young doctor comes in, and he stresses that I needed to be careful after the "Cardiac Event" that I have been through, everything on the surface looks normal, that I need to take this seriously.

I nod and agree.  I promise to contact my doctor right away and schedule an appointment to discuss my "cardiac event," which I have decided was not a heart attack, but a panic attack.

But I also point out that if the hospital really wants patients to be patient, that they need to provide clear communication and stop forcing people into something that isn't a bed by calling it a bed.   But I also point out that everyone keeps telling me that I need to take this seriously, but no one around me makes me feel like I am a priority or that this was serious.

Oh, says Doctor, somewhat surprised.  "Didn't you have your My Health app up?"


"Well," says he, "this app tells you everything we are doing and scheduling for you..."


"You mean they didn't tell you about that?"


And sure enough, there is the whole battery of messages going off in the app.  Like 30 of them.

I had no idea because someone never bothered to tell me.  It could have been a nurse at my doctor's office.  It could have someone in ER.  Or it could have been one of the many volunteers that came in to smile and have non-commital comments.  But NO ONE told me that I WAS RESPONSIBLE because they put it in an app!


I mean, there could be something to this, and there will be most likely something that I learn when I see the doctor this coming week.  And yes, I am not getting younger.

The bottom line is that the event was most likely a combination of a lack of sleep from the drug change over, a pinched nerve in my arm and two years of extreme stress culminating in a major, yet minor health event.

A hospital is not a spa, the nurses are not your personal caregivers, things happen in scheduling.  But clear communication, a bed that doesn't hurt you, and a goal should be something that for the amount of the bill should be afforded you.

If something is wrong, then let's address the matter.  If you don't know, say you don't know.  But third rate care at a first-rate institution shouldn't be the outcome.

I can't wait to see the bill for this adventure.

Because I am not paying for that bed or for that $400 bowl of oatmeal.

And I know when the bill comes due, there will be no moving of the goal posts, then.

Thursday, November 8, 2018

Ann Coulter gets some tough love

I feel bad in a way for Ann Coulter.

Remember her?

She used to be the go-to CONservative for nastiness.

You know, the bully who mocked the 9-11 wives and said "they don't deserve to be compensated for their loses because their husbands, had they lived, would divorce them all." 

If the host said, "Ann, aren't you being a little harsh?"  he comeback would be "Oh, come on, I'm joking!  Lighten up."

So like a really abusive bully, right?

How many of us remember having the living crap being beaten of us and the bully says "I was just kidding, lighten up," or "Hey look, you're hitting yourself, why are you hitting yourself," while they punched and slapped us black and blue?

So then imagine being Ann Coulter, today.

Trying desperately to be relevant in a world of Trump.  You know, the Donald Trump, right?  The 73ish old Man-Baby President.

Uses every tactic of Roy Cohen without Roy's brains or charm?

I mean who needs Ann Coulter shitting on the nation from her New Jersey condo when Donald Trump shits on this nation, daily, from the White House or his KKK Rallies I mean political rallies, right?

So when Ann Coulter, said she was done with Kansas because they came to their senses after EIGHT BANKRUPTING YEARS under their previous governor who was too Chicken Shit to stay around for the end of his term, Ann felt aggrieved.

Bravely through, she tried her best to fire off a quick quip about really done with Kansas she was:

Such tsuris.  "That's really hurtful to write," said no one in Kansas, ever.

The problem is, Ann doesn't know that she isn't relevant.  So...

It wasn't long before Ann Protnoy's complaint got this response:


Ken didn't zing you without help, Ann.  

You walked right into that buzzsaw without paying attention to cultural references.  

The judges give KEN a TEN!  GO KEN!

And look at Ken, who isn't a professional asshole and he has an astounding 3.6k likes, to your measly 5.5 likes. 

How are your PR dollars being spent, Ann?  Maybe you should try milk cartons to get noticed.  Oh, wait, the dog is telling me they don't have missing children on milk cartons because everything come in plastic. Like your face. 

Ann gets a certificate of participation and a ride home, on the political commentators' short bus. 

You lost Ann.  Why?  Because you're "brilliant, not very bright."  But keep trying.  Why look at Pat Robertson.  He's still trying, despite having dementia. 

C'mon Ann lighten up.  Get a sense of humor.  It was a joke, Ann.

After all, you still have Nebraska.  And I understand that you have a couple fans in upstate Idaho, too. 

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Spending Election Day With the Ladies Who Lunch

So how did Cookie spend his Election Day?   

I have no idea what these women's names are, but they all need more champagne cocktails.

Well since we voted ten days ago, and since I didn't have to work today, I spent the day with the Ladies Who Lunch.

A little art therapy was just the ticket to get through the stress of the day.

What I know about this picture is it was taken either in 1961 or 1962 and its either the Brith Emeth Temple's Sisterhood or its a meeting for the coming year's JFC drive.  (BTW, you never renege on your you JFC pledge.  Because if you do and you don't have a good reason, let's see who doesn't get tickets to High Holiday Services, right Norma Desmond?)

Brith Emeth, which was in Pepper Pike, Ohio, was our temple, designed by Edward Durrell Stone.  The congregation folded years ago after a wealthy, wealthy man yanked his endowment from the temple.  But it was a lovely place to worship.   Alas, in 1961 or 1962, the building was a dream in the eye of the Rabbi, so the congregation met in other temple's, a Unitarian church, etc.   You can still see the building off of I-271 at Shaker Boulevard.

What was "the Sisterhood"? Think of it as the workhorse of the Temple, made up of the wives of members.  Mother was President of it once.  Anyway, the Sisterhood raised a lot of money in those days and provided a sorority-like atmosphere (absent of the pillow fights) that you would find in a town's Women's Club, or the Junior League.   The Sisterhood met once a month and it was a big thing back then.  Hats, nice knit suits, the best handbags and matching shoes, white gloves, you know, all the things that used to show that we were a civilized nation, once.

I *think* that this was taken in the multipurpose room at Park Synagog' first post-war building by Eric Mendelsohn.   ANYHOW, the point is moot because Park merged in Brith Emeth, so we are one big happy family.

Mom stopped taking slides about the time I came around because the Ektachrome film wasn't as good as the more expensive Kodachrome.

One of the problems with Ektachrome is it used crappy dyes and it fades to a horrible magenta.  So I figured that today was a good day to work on pictures.  The original (top) had OK color, but the slide was covered in a million flecks dirt that had stuck to the emulsion side.   Though it may not look like in the layout format for the blog, the whole thing was bespeckled and needed to be "debespeckled".

Since I am not great with photoshop, it took hours.

Hours spent in silence.  No TV, no Facebooking, no contact with the outside world, except the Dentist who gave me the best news today: "You need a crown and your insurance for the year is used up."

What did I care?  It wasn't about politics.  And it beats having a tooth pulled.  You know what I am saying?

Come Hell or Highwater to tonight, we'll live.

Hopefully, the outcome is good, but it may not be so good.

Just remember that if things don't go the civilized route tonight, we can take Wednesday off to lick our wounds, but we HAVE TO start on Thursday getting ready for 2020.  And things go our way, then we have to start getting ready for 2020 TOMORROW.

Just think of the Ladies Who Lunch.  They got prettied up, had social engagement, and then went home to care for their children and their homes.   Life can't always be about white gloves and the good times.  You got to fight for what you have, and you have to fight to keep it.

Friday, November 2, 2018

Now is not the time to be tilting at windmills

On this Tuesday, we go to the polls.

We're coming down to crunch time, and I am going to be as clear as I can be:

The midterm election is Tuesday, November 6th. 

YOU have to vote.  And you have to vote straight line Democratic Candidates.


To free this country of the tyranny and lies of our President who is unchecked by a Republican majority in both the House and the Senate.

To address the ballooning deficit that Trump and the Republicans are creating by their reckless spending and padding of their own pockets.

To ensure that pre-existing medical conditions are protected by affordable insurance.

To end the threat to steal our hard earned dollars paid into Social Security.  We paid for it, we are entitled to it.

To end the wave of violence rocking our world.

To stop white supremacist groups.

To protect freedom of religion and the people who practice their religion.

To protect all family values, traditional and emerging.

To protect the rights of transgendered people.

To make sure public education stays strong.

To protect a woman's right to "choice".

And to hold the President accountable for every word out of his mouth and in his tweets. 

Look, I know that some of you are thinking "But democratic candidates don't support everything I support."

Adults know that real life is about making compromises. 

And at election time, we get the candidates that we get because the majority of Americans are not engaged at the local level of politics.  They don't attend meetings in the city where they live.  And they pay attention to party politics. 

So we have to make do.

We know exactly what it is that we have to look forward to in 24 months more of Trump and the Republican House and Senate because it's going to be like the last 24 months, only worse.

So think very hard before you vote.  Because your life, my life all of our lives depend on getting this right and electing one or two chambers that are going to be able to hold the President accountable for what he says, what he spends, what he signs, and what he either threatens or promises to do.

Now is not the time to be chasing unicorns and dreams.  Now is not the time to be tilting at windmills.  It's time to adult.

This is the election that determines our future. And it determines your children's future and your grandchildren's future.

Nero is fiddling and we need to put the fires he's created out.

Simple vote Democratic. 

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

The More Things Change in 50 Years...

The election is a week away.  Vote for the 93% and send a message to the President.

Saturday, October 27, 2018

Oh, what is this, a curse on me?

Tonight, Cookie was getting ready to check in and I took a look at the comments on the Vildya Chaya post.  And what should I find by an "Anonymous" commenter?

"May you die an interesting death"

Look, eleven innocent people were gunned down in a temple in Pittsburgh today, and you have the nerve to place a Yiddish death curse on me?   

My response?  I deleted your bullshit.  Guy kokken effon yam.  And may you live to be 100.  

Cookie, Out

Wednesday, October 24, 2018

Vildya Chaya

Well, my self-proclaimed year of respect for the dead stepmother has ended.  I made it, but I only did it for the sake of her children. 

May her memory be a blessing to them.  

But yesterday, Cookie was sitting here pondering what I could write about my stepmother, Vildya Chaya*.  And I was struggling.  Do I lay it all out, or do I drop her and her crimes like a hot brick?

Thinking that I would just like to lay it all out there, and enumerate the sins, the torture, and the malevolence.  I put together a post and, and then pulled it all down. 

Frankly, it made me feel like she made me feel whenever she was around.  And that wasn't worth it.

Look, the bottom line is that she was a cruel, malevolent, petty and crude being.  But me pouring out the stories about how she dicked over my father, and our family isn't going to undo what she did.  It isn't going to teach her any lessons and it's not going to settle the score or retrieve any real property.

On the other hand, God knows what she did, our family remembers what she did as well.

Because of this, I can lay a curse out there on whoever inherited her money:  May the money, property, bonds, stocks and real estate she stole out from underneath us bring the heirs nothing meaningful.  She tainted the money, so it should never bring them real happiness or good fortune, unless they donate it to a charity, because its the right thing to do. 

I have visited the cemetery, however, because I needed to settle the score and close the book.  I spat on the grave and said: "You threw me out of the house I grew up in and now I am going to do something you will never do, leave this cemetery."  I got in my car and drove out.  I have no reason for driving back in.

For the record going forward, I will call her what we in the family called her: Shark.  Should I feel the need to tell a Shark story, you'll know who I am talking about.

* "Not Her Real Name" but accurate.  In Yiddish, Vildya Chaya literally means "Wild Beast, Malevolent, Unredeemable."

Friday, October 19, 2018

If you can't say anything...

I am sure that no expense was spared. 

Next week will mark one year since my father's last wife passed away.

In the Jewish tradition, the eldest child of the deceased will read the final Kadish, a prayer that they are supposed to read every morning for the date of death until the anniversary of their passing.  This is done in their mother's name.  In hardcore Judaic terms, the gravestone is unveiled, a life remembered, and life for the living goes on.

The woman, who was his final marriage, meant so many things to all of us.  Because she did so much, that we cannot forget her.  And her actions left an indelible mark on all of us.

Despite our history, I vowed that I would respect her passing for that year, not so much as mourning, but as the polite convention that my parents would expect of me.  I am, after all, their child.

In other words, I would refrain from saying anything.  That's right, anything. 

And for the most part, it looks like I am going to get a gold star on this one, folks.

Read that as you will, there is as much in what is written as there is in what is unwritten.

For now.

On the anniversary of my father's wife's death, I am released from that vow. 

I will be in Baltimore, observing that day with an exhale of gratitude that one has when you out swim a man-eating shark.  Perhaps I will treat the husband and myself to a good restaurant.

Send me your good energy.

Friday, October 12, 2018

You all have been warmed, Cookie is getting a mother fucking cold

Well, the husband came down with a cold two days ago cold, and it stands to reason that my cold is beginning. 

Today has been spent with watery eyes, sneezes and my body temperature has had a few spikes, tonight the snot is running.  My body is letting me know that I am about ready to become a miserable burden to mankind.

When a man gets a cold, we all turn into our version of Camille.  Misery loves company, but when we are sick we want ALL the attention.

I have been called for jury duty on Tuesday, and there is nothing I would love more than to show up in the jury pool, eyes red and weepy, hacking a lung up, harvesting lung butter into a tissue.  That to me is an automatic "Challenge!" from serving the system.

Be forewarned, if this a cold coming on, it ain't going to be pretty.

Thursday, October 11, 2018

And now a word from Melania, FLOTUS

I am not posing, the photographers make me look like I am being insouciant to mock me.

As I return to the country I love best, I Melania Trump do so as a woman who is the most bullied woman in the United States. 

Even, perhaps as the most bullied in the history of the nation.

I have been the target of shaming during my husband, your Maximum Leader's ascension into the office that the Founding Fathers had the foresight to create for a national savior like Donald Trump.

And yet, even with his powers growing as the mutant Super Hero that he is, I and persecuted unlike any other wife of a leader in the history of the world.  And here is my proof:

1) I have been mocked for my "Best Best" campaign's name and mission.  People ask me not about how to stop bullying, which is not the point, but how to Best Best at being bullied. 

2) People have laughed at my accent as if I am Zsa Zsa Gabor playing someone named Eva Gabor playing someone called Lisa Douglas on some sill American TV show called "Green Achings".

3) Unlike Eva Peron, who doesn't return my calls,  I speak eight languages and am taking a Berlitz course on "Mastering Conversational English."

4) I have been taunted for stealing Michelle Obama's speeches, and yet when she took the words from a dictionary to write those speeches, no one criticized her in the Fake Media for using words from the books of Webster's or Mr. Funkinwagnalls.

5) And I am attacked every time people say that my husband, a very smart man and with a godlike body modeled after Zeus himself married me for my looks and beauty.  Do not hate me because I am beautiful.  Hate yourselves by being best.

6) Following my most recent trip to Africa, I did not model or posed for the picture takers like you see here on this image.  This is the look that I have on my face, all of the time.

7) Like Vladimir Putin, my next husband, says "It is harder to govern when you have to watch your back," so the Donald will eliminate all resistance so he can maintain leading his nation.

And yet for everything I have been through, Anna Wintour has never had the courtesy to pay a call on me at the White House, or the Trump Tower building to beg me to return to my modeling to appear on the cover of Vogue.  Mrs. Wintour is a hateful, malevolent woman for not paying me the respect I am owed.

Let me reminds you that I was named "Muse" by the Secret Service for a reason.

In closing, I plan on being best First Lady of the Land, all of the land.  And once we catch and imprison people for not showing me the respect owed to me, my naturally pouty lips, flawless skin, and my MENSAesque great brain power, I can promise that America will make Melania Again.

In The Donald We Trust,