I need a diversion

DHTiSH's official Geisha, Shigecko aims for the sweetspot.

It has been a grueling day.

It really has.

Yesterday it was that Trump Shit Storm in NYC where he bragged that Chinese think that he has a very large brain.  Where he called the Turkish Ambassador to the UN "Mr. Kurd".

As my mother would say about my father, "Don't pray for any harm, just a little stroke.  One severe enough that it makes his arms useless and his ability to speak melt away.  It's the humane thing to have happen."

Today, Orrin Hatch called Dr. Ford - during a break from her testimony - "a very attractive witness."  He then had to clarify that statement.

But come on people.  HE MEANT JUST THAT.

It's Orrin "Funny Underwear" Hatch, for the love of Joseph Smith.   He's been wearing his collars to damn tight for too many years and that raisin of a brain he has still is stuck in 1901.

Calling her attractive simply means that Dr. Ford is not a real person with feelings, but an object.

Cookie is disgusted.  Cookie will go make himself a Nespresso, and stir the coffee in the cup with a zenlike "TING" of the silver spoon striking the side of the teacup.

The things you remember while the world changes around you

I have instructed the husband to put a bag over my head to keep from this from happening to me.

Look, let's face it, with this fakakta President in the White House, and people angry and just so fucking ass rude, sometimes, Cookie is one to sit back and stare at the T.V. set like they are here at Shaker Heights Haven Rest Home and Final Stop.

I remember the house on Sherrington Road, and digging a hole in the flower bed with Jeffery Landau.  We wanted to make a swimming pool for ants. Two problems, the ants didn't want to swim - drown actually - and the soil was a rich loam that sucked the water right down.  This meant if we weren't scooping ant's towards their watery deaths, then we were filling the hold with the hose.

I remember the time we were driving in my mothers 1965 Impala, and I was maybe four years old, and the hubcap (my father felt full wheel covers were a waste of money because someone would just steal them and then you had to waste $20 for a set of four) flew off the car while we were going someplace.  It was the left front and for someone so young, I was certain that this was a badge of shame, a sign of impending bad thing.  People would think we were those kinds of people.  You know - the people who don't take care of their nice things, people who were poor.  I would ride on the floor next to the back seat lest anyone see my face and feel sorry for me. 

I remember when my father went to stay at Grandma Bess's apartment when Grandma Bess went to visit her younger daughter in California.  Grandma Bess never came home - she died out there.  Grandma Bess was my half brother's maternal grandmother.  She wasn't my grandmother by blood.  But she loved me and she took good care of me.  Anyway, my two brothers went with Dad to live in the apartment.  Things were peaceful, and then my father came home one day with the brothers.  What I didn't know was that my parents had divorced, they kept that from me.  They also kept that they reconciled from me as well. 

I remember that when after Dad was back from staying at Grandma Bess's things were OK, for a while, then it pretty took on a Hellish reality for the next 30 years until the old man died.  They divorced within five years or the reconciliation. But until he left the earth, it was pure Hell for everyone.

I remember my father taking me to vote at Lomond School.  They were wooden booths with orange draping.  He asked me who I wanted to vote for and being maybe three, I started listing off every adult I knew of.

I remember the horribly long visits with my father's parents, who I loved, but I was so young and there wasn't anyone my age around, and everyone was ancient.  My grandfather loved watching the Wild Wild West.  I didn't like it but I was transfixed by Robert Conrad with his shirt off.  And I knew it was shameful and naughty for me to stare.  I was maybe four years old, and I also wanted Bat Man's uniform to rip open.  I didn't understand why.  I just did. 

I remember the simple joy of dragging my wagon - again with Jeffery Landau, to the top of Glencairn at Newell, and then riding the wagon down the biggest hill in the world, the hard rubber tires hitting every bump and dislodged slate slab that forms the famous sidewalks in Shaker.  We would do this for hours, jarring are innards, first Jeffery and then me.   Eventually, our four-year-old bodies were simply too tired to make the trip again, and we would look for other things to do, like climb the hill behind our garage and find rocks to throw in a bag for our rock collection, which was nothing more than a sack of unspectacular rocks.

And then, after the rocks were too heavy to carry, we swing, run up to Jeffery's, run back down to my house, and then we would go back to doing stupid stuff that kids do, like making a swimming pool for the ants.

Where Cookie goes to a fundraiser

We were shocked, shocked I say by how we saw people behaving!

Last week, Cookie and husband went to a fundraiser for a good cause.  It was held at a very chic mansion in a very chic neighborhood.  The husband and I more beer and pretzel guys, so I have to admit that we encouraged to come by Nancy, our hostess, I bought the cheap tickets because I felt that they were reasonable.  The suggested donation was $1,000/couple - way out of our league.  But when you made the suggested donation, each of you received a gold pin and a private audience with some Broadway star that Cookie has never heard of or could tell you what plays she starred in.  Whatever, but unless you had that glint of gold said "Star" wouldn't talk to you, which I found silly.  I mean we forked over a few hundred dollars, she could have at least said "Hello," right?

The cause is dear to our hearts and we were looking forward to seeing how the other half lives - as our hosts are both straight and well to do old money.  But raising funds for this organization (Women's Reproductive Rights) is something that I must do in the memory of my mother who schooled me well on what happens when abortion becomes illegal.  And this whole Trump in charge of the Supreme Court scares the living daylights out of us on several levels.

Anyhow, each of us dressed in suit and tie went, parked, went through security at the said mansion (you never know what looney is going to try something stupid at an event like this) and signed in.  We received some slight directions for what was in which room and a briefing on the where certain foods could, and could not be taken because of the Kosher/Non-Kosher thing.

In the Drawing Room, there was a string quartet playing soothing music.  The conservatory there was the gentle murmuring of a fountain and a place for us to leave raincoats, umbrellas, etc.  Kosher Food was being served in the Living Room (on blue rimmed Lennox, which could not leave the living room) and the real food was being served on the gold-rimmed Lennox in the dining room.

This is important because 1) this was held during High Holidays in the Jewish Calender, 2) This is still Maryland and all manner of shellfish is always served.  The bar/cocktails were being served in the "Dressy Kitchen," while the Messy Kitchen was used for the Non Kosher food prep.  We noticed that the guest house was being used for the Kosher food prep "because the family doesn't keep Kosher and the Rabbi could bless the guest house after it was emptied of furniture."  We learned by listening in that the furniture had to be stored in the pool house,  and the structure scrubber from floor to ceiling.

For the love of chopped liver, right?

Being raised in a Reform Jewish household, and being that maternal grandson of a farmer known for his fine Poland China Hogs, this Kosher thing to me always seemed like a big to-do.  I mean really - with Donald Trump in the White House, Hurricane "Flaunce" wreaking havoc, that monster typhoon in Asia, Global Warming, etc., does God really care if you eat bacon? Or a crab ball?  God is bigger than that.

But at $1,000 a couple I guess you go the extra mile. Especially when you have 100+ people at an event.

Anyhow there were was chattering couple everywhere, but alas, Mr. Husband and I knew no one, and Baltimore freezes you out when you don't know people, or have the gold pin on the lapel.  We got looks, and cheap social smiles, but no one engaged us.

But Cookie was APPALLED at the table manners of some of the these Hottentots and Poobahs because I witnessed men and women shoveling food into their mouths over the buffet table. Try and imagine people at a salad bar reaching into the food in with their fingers, and then eating it over top the platters and bowls! 

Who raised these Rottentots? 

Dr. Ph.D. was eating stuffed mushroom caps over the serving platter like it was his personal feeding trough!  This man had to be in his 60s, and he should have known better.  And it didn't stop there!  We witnessed others stabbing food with a toothpick, eating it off said toothpick and jabbing another in the chafing dish with the same pick!  Another woman could under why she couldn't take her gold-rimmed plate into the Kosher room and get some chopped liver.  Did she not get the tour?

At one point we were called outside where chairs had been placed in a semi-circle to hear Miss Broadway thank us for being there, especially those in the gold pin club who shared her "passion for the cause" (Really?), sing a song from her show, tell her personal story about choice and ask us to dig deeper and give more.  The husband leaned over and said "Katherine Hepburn did it better in Stage Door. And with calla lilies." The Host and Hostess thanked us.  A local politician talked too long about themselves, and when it was over, we decided that it was time to leave despite our host's plantive calls to stay around and engorge on the food: "everyone stay and eat, we have plenty of food and the bartender is here till midnight!" We all stood up, thankful that was over.  I went into the house to get our umbrella, and Husband to stuff a couple fresh scallops into his mouth.

The husband pointed at the worse offense of the night - people had stuck their name badges to the Hepplewhite buffet like it was a trashcan.  They were also stuck on the door jams, fireplace mantles, and the marble fireplace mantles.   There was a young woman who worked for the organizers trying ever so carefully to remove these tags.  The husband and I gathered a few very carefully, and the hostess who invited us thanked us and took them.

"People are such pigs," she said, her breath hot with cigarettes and scotch.  "And it amazes me how these name badges won't stick to suit jacket but refuses to lift off a hand polished French commode."

We agreed - not that we have any antique French commodes with hand polished marble tops, mind you - in solidarity and sympathy.

"But," she continued sotto voce, "when you are shaking them down for money like this, you can't police them on the little shitty thing unless you see them stealing something."

Really?  Stealing something?

"Oh, yeah, We lock up the good stuff for these events now.  Just because they have money," She scrunched up face smiled and gave a kitten wave to an old woman waddling our way, "doesn't mean they are honestLY ANNETTE! I was afraid I wouldn't get to thank you for coming. I want you to meet Cookie and his Husband..."

After a minute or two pleasantries, Annette, who was huffing and puffing from her walk from the buffet table to the doorway where we stood froze us out and stole Nancy from us when she found out we weren't really Baltimorians.  ("So, you really have only lived here six years?"  Well, Nancy, I wanted to ask you...")

And with that, Umbrella in hand, we left while the diehards stayed behind.

Sometimes its good to do what you can.  Sometimes its even better to see how the other half lives.  But the only thing I would ever take from a part is maybe a mint on the way out and a few good stories tell.

And Annette really needs to eat fewer meatballs and go see her cardiologist.

Damn, Damn, Damn!

In Cookie's line of work, most of the time you are just performing a family "audit".  Person A is related to people B and C, themselves the children D & E, and F&G.  That's the way it works.  Pretty straight and forward delivery of the promised package.

"You mean I have no one interesting in my family," a client will ask.

They have plenty of interesting people.  What they want is SST: STARS, SCANDAL, and TITLES.

While we are all related to someone who is famous - Cookie is the fifth cousin four times removed from Bessie Wallis Warfield, but then again, ANYONE who has family that lived in or around Baltimore or Anne Arundel Counties in Maryland before 1750 can most likely claim he as blood kin - the simple fact is that most families are interesting, but not "James Michener" famous.

Huh?

James Michener, the late great fiction writer (Tales of the South Pacific, Hawaii, etc.) would write these huge sweeping narratives.  In Hawaii, when it was published, the inside flaps included a family chart, which you needed because of the marriages and intermarriages of the families.

Most people have interesting stories in their families, but a lot of people want bragging rights.

I met a woman once - an optician - who asked what I do, and I told her - and then she said "WELL!  You never guessed that you would be fitted for glasses by a direct descendant of Abraham Lincoln, did you."  It wasn't a question - it was a statement.

No, and I wasn't at that moment either.  This idiot had never bothered to look at her family, she just relied on stories told and passed down.  This was in the olden days, before the internet.  When you had to crawl through libraries and courthouses like a cobra looking for documents and indices that told you which book the documents were in. 

That woman's problem was that Lincoln's last surviving direct descendants at that time were old men with no children to pass it on.  Today, I could have asked this woman if she had DNA proof of such.

Then, yesterday, I came across something not good.  Not good, at all.

"Client" is someone close to me, someone, I am protective of,  and it is an adoption case.  I am, by professional standards and respect for said Client, unable to tell you what I found.  Suffice it to say, and no - this in no way involves anyone in the news - was one of those moments where you say to yourself: "damn."

Breaking bad news to someone is hard.  Breaking to a loved one that you have known for most of your life is really hard.

Damn!, Damn! Damn!

The news was don't go a step further on your mother's line.  Just don't.  You don't want to go further on this lead. Nope.  Just don't.

What was there was bad.  What I found just made it worse.

The news on her father's side was a bit more like Elizabeth Montgomery on Bewitched trying to explain something and it began with "Well...."  And it ended with "I can't tell you if you should move forward with this, or not.  It's up to you and you have my support."

Its all been verified, we just need to pull the legal documents.

That's the upshot of it.  Sometimes you don't find a winner.  You find what you find, and that is a win. And sometimes you don't find what you thought, and there is a win on that level, too.

In this case, just one of those things that have you uttering then yelling "damn, damn, damn!" like you are Florida Evans finding out that James has died.

I'm taking today off.  I need to get my shit together after what we found yesterday.

Your Kipplet, the Jewish Festival of Sand

Being the product of a mixed marriage, and being the half-breed, that's all I ever was, the whole bit of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur has always perplexed me.  Why, I would ask myself, as a five-year child in Sunday School at Brith Emeth Temple (since disbanded), do Jewish People celebrate the New Year, and then pray to God to make it through the New Year on Yom Kippur?

So the holiday shakedown is this:

1) Most Jews have no idea when Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur will happen unless they read the Temple Bulletin and are DUES PAYING MEMBERS to get their seat tickets for the functions.  Yes, the High Holidays are ticketed events.  You just can't walk into a temple and get a seat.  The Holidays are set by the Jewish Calander, not the calendar that we use in the Western World.  So like shifting sands, one year to the next, the dates move about.

2) Rosh Hashanah - New Year's Day, Sunset 9/9/2018 through Sunset 9/11/2018.  This is a celebration of the close of the old and the opening of the New Year.

3) Yom Kippur - Sunset 9/18/2018 - Sunset 9/19/2018.  This is the day of atonement - the day that you atone for your sins and ask God to write your name in the Book of Life.

Here's the thing I never understood - you have two homework assignments, one in a class you hate - say Algebra, and another in a class that you love, say history.  To me, you get the Algebra done first and out of the way, then you start on the History because you can happily lose yourself in that?

So for me, I always thought that you should start off with Yom Kippur - atoning for your sins over the previous year and making peace with those who you have sinned against - and it's going to take at least ten days or so to track everyone down, and then slide into Happy New Year?

But that is not the way it works.  And as the days clock down to Yom Kippur, the angst runs higher and higher.

By the way, I should add to my non-Jewish readers, Yom Kippur is a very solemn day.  You can give someone a Rosh Hashana card - it's a nice gesture, but a noodle pudding would be a nicer Happy New Year gift, but who am I to argue - but it's unnecessary.  But never a Yom Kippur card.  It's bad form.

When I worked in Ohio, one of four non-blonds in the small company I worked for came up to me and say "Shelia in accounting tells me that your father was a "Hebrew" - and we are off to a bad start, thanks, Shelia! - "And a Jewish couple has moved in next door, and it's their New Year. What do I give them?"

I would say "It's enough to say 'L'shana tova'.  But a card isn't necessary unless you own stock in American Greetings."

They would get a confused look on their faces and say "Why am I calling them L'Shana Tova?  Their name is Brian and Sandra Appleman."

I would explain that "L'shana tovah" meant "may you be inscribed (in the Book of Life) for a good year to come," which always gave the Baptists a look like they had gas, and they would nod off with their basket full of good intentions ready to deliver a wish on a concept that they couldn't grasp.

(In Christendom, Jesus does the heavy lifting.  When you are Jewish, what you are carrying around isn't heavy enough.  Here, have some more guilt.)

Then in nine days or so that same woman hunted me down and "Well, I said Shania Twain to the Appleman's and they gave me a funny look.  I am in damage control mode thanks to you.  I have looked all over town for a "Your Kipplet" card, but Hallmark has never heard of that holiday, and you people have so many."

You know us Hebrews!  When we aren't running from the Cossacks, we're being chased by Nazis!  So let's have a holiday.  Right now.  Are you with me?

So I explained to this woman that "Your Kipplet*" was the Jewish Festival of Sand and it comes sometime while the wise men are wandering in the desert trying to find the Baby Jesus ("They traveled over a lot of sand in those days.), but that Yom Kippur is the holiest of holy days to all Jews.

"This is the twenty-four hours when you look back over the last year and tone for your sins in hope that God will write your name in the Book of Life for the year to come."

*Blink*

 "It's about reflection, and asking that God forgive you..."

"You mean they are accepting Jesus and he's saving your collective soul?  Jews are born again?"

No.  No Jesus. No.

"And we aren't born again. It's prayer for healing and renewal.  And no, you do NOT exchange gifts.  Hallmark should never create a card for this.  Not that kind of holiday."

I explained that should she happen to see the Appleman's that it was perfectly polite to say "I'm not quite sure what this Holiday means to Jews, but I hope you find the meaning and answers you seek."

Three days later Darlene hunted me down.

"You are the best.  The Appleman's thanked me with a smile, and Mrs. Appleman is going to teach me Mah Jong!  I just love playing that on the computer...."

Oh, boy.

"Darlene, just whatever you do, do not call her a Hebrew.  Hebrew is a language, not a person.  When you call a Jew a Hebrew, it's an insult."

"Got it!"

I didn't stick around to see how the Mah Jong lessons went.  Instead, we moved to Maryland.  I know if I had to explain robbing a Kong to go out that my Jewish head would explode.

And if you should run into a Darlene and they ask you when Your Kipplet is, tell them its sometime after Tisha B'av** and that you'll get back with them on that.


*This isn't a holiday.  It's nonsense from The Onion.  But we live in interesting times.
**A GREAT Drag Name for Jewish Drag Queen, pronounced "Tish Above".

Hurricane "Flaunce" is on the way

Cookie is a bit perturbed.

It's hurricane season, and we all know what happens during hurricane season.

Plans get ruined.  The wind blows. Tree limbs come down.  There is flooding.  And people die.

That's what really sucks.

People die because they think they can ride it out in places too damn close to the shore.

The Husband and I will watch House Hunters where "Allison and Dick are looking for that very special forever home on the beach."

And?

We all know that "Forever Home", a term that Cookie thinks sounds childish, and "on the beach" are two phases literally at war with each other.

"Allison" is the one who wants to kick off her shoes and go from bed to beach to shower.  Dick wants a dock for their boat.

State Farm sure as hell isn't going to insure them if they do this in Ocean City, Maryland.

Inevitably, Dick or Allison will - at some point in the future - be shown on the national news, picking up the waterlogged pieces of their lives and saying things like "It's all gone." And "oh, look, a picture."

And the worst part for Dick and Allison?  They voted for Trump because they too don't believe in climate change.  In their hearts, they know that Hillary did this to them.

No, they did it to themselves.  They bought the dream without even a clue that the reality could slam into them at 100mph sustained winds.

So Cookie gets angry because he understands the lure of sunrises over the Atlantic and the carefree beach lifestyle.

But Mother nature really hates it when you get in the way.  Remember Jennifer Lawrence in Mother? She wants you out of her house.

But I also dread hurricanes because they also wreak havoc with those of us inland.  Trees come down - in reality, most of these trees that come crashing down are the trees that are only standing out of habit - they are all rotted inside, and are a hazard.  Wires and poles come down as well.  And the dogs hate going outside to a pee.

I can't blame them.   I wouldn't enjoy taking a poop in fifty miles an hour winds either, especially if I were nine pounds.

The biggest inconvenience for us will be the run in the grocery stores, usually the 48 hours before the storm.  People panic buy - they are like a plague of grasshoppers on a grain field.  They will strip a grocery store of everything but Tang, pine nuts and capers.  Ugh.

And "since you all now live in the south," our neighbor Eva Mae Makenzie pointed out today at the market "it's not Florence, like the city; its Flaunce, like a lady, do."

Seriously?

"Y'all worry too much, and the weather after a storm is always delightful," she reminded us.  "The sky's are their bluest.  Hurricane's are Lady Nature's way of clearing the miasma of summa for crisp fall days to come."

Well, if you insist.

I'll have to haul out my favorite Hurricane movie, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, which means I get to spend time with Sister Woman.  Sometimes, you have to find the silver lining in every miasma choked cloud there is.

Then there are the people who will start with "Oh, LAW! Surely 'Flaunce' is a sign of end times!"

Still, my troubles are nothing compared to what all those Dick's and Allison's are expecting.  I hope they have enough sense to get out as soon as they can.  For as much as I love to hate them, I don't want to see anyone gets killed in this storm.

The second reason why I am perturbed?  because my favorite writer of all time, Florence King is dead and won't be around to enjoy this storm that shares her first name.  Miss King, a spinster and proud of it, would have enjoyed this moment.  "Spinsterhood," she insisted, "is powerful.  It is why men name their motorcycle's Virago, their luxury cars Cressida." 

Just remember folks: Things can be replaced, people can't.

Miss King, This is in your honor:

So tired of the Trumplestiltskins

Today, these are President Trump's biggest fans.

And they are out of their fucking heads.

I had a nut on Facebook threaten me today because I laughed at his promise that "one day you be grateful for the chance to beg at the feet of greatest President in United States history for your life. Donald J. Trump is GOD!"

"Are you fucking for real?" asked Cookie?  "Are you off your meds?"

Of course, I knew that every one of his bats in his belfry was rabid.

That's when he promised to use his "inside people" at the sheriff's office in some backwater place in Kentucky to hunt me down.   Then he told me the name of the place.  So I contacted said place in "Crotchless, Kentucky" (the name of the place is masked to protect the nice people on the phone) and gave them his name.  The nice woman there said, "You just have to wonder about some people."

Amen sister, AMEN.

Anyhow, after the shit storm of the past week, you just want to scream.

My husband says my biggest problem is that I like to poke at bears.  He's right.  I buy my ten foot poles by the gross.

But these crazy people who were running and between 2008 and 2018 screaming about "OBAMA IS A MUSLUM!!!!!" are now the same people who are backing a man who has just about "done broke" every commandment in the good book, and they are as dazed as the high school loser who has been kicked in testicles by the Home Coming Queen.

They have that same glazed look in their eyes when they talk about Trumpslestiltskin, too.  The high school loser is all dreamy eyed and muttering "She's the most beautiful girl in the school," even though she has sterilized his exploded gonads.

And these folks who follow Trump follow Jesus are the same way.

• "Donald Trump is the Greatest President, ever."  
• "Lincoln freed those black people, and that started this whole Black Lives Matter, so you tell me what's so great about Abraham Lincoln - he started this mess."
• "Jesus will strike you down for not kneeling before President Trump."

Swear to God I am about to smack some of my oldest friends for this crapola.

It's not a Shaker thing.  Dear Lord no!  They're onto this bullshit.  These are my friends from North Central Ohio.

But yes, Cookie will be glad when this is over.  I need some peace of mind.  In the meantime, I'll have a Corona.

And trust me, when this over, there will be a whole lot of people who will be denying that they ever bought in this garbage in the first place.

The damned door

Damn this woman and her perfect set of French
Provincial doors!

So, we have this house.  Built in 1928, and only owned by three family's, the Architect, the Quaker Couple and Husband and I.

When you buy a house, you never want to make the mistake of having owned for that long of time by old people.  Face it, we get older and most people defer repairs, they may get sloppy with paint, etc.

Face it, when you are on the downward side of the great bell curve of life, those cataract lensed eyes miss the detail.  What you see as a small crack is a big crack twenty years later if you don't fix the cause of the crack.  Sure you can spackle and paint it, but if the cause isn't addressed, eventually that crack is coming back.

The house we have has a traditional Colonial Revival six panel door, which has no windows.  It's just a BIG door.

And over the years layer upon layer of cream, then white paint has been painted over the last layer until the paint hid all the details of the moldings, and it began to "check".

What is checking?

Have you ever looked as something that been outside and the paint is cracking in squares?  That's checking.  And checking happens for a couple reasons.  The first is that there are so many layers of paint expanding and contracting over the years that each layer is moving at a different rate.  The other thing is that there are so many layers that the actual weight of the paint begins to pull on it as well. 

And the previous owner's solution?  More latex paint and they glopped it on top of the lead white paint. 

So Cookie tried to strip the lead painted mess a couple years ago and it was such a miserable job, and the weather didn't cooperate, and then other things got in the way and it just stayed half door. 

And Cookie had gotten to the point where he said to the husband, let's just get a new, accurate for the house door made out of wood.  No fiberglas knockoffs that "sparkle" from the imitation lead glass Victoriana knockoff.  But something decent. 

The husband felt that we could get the door stripped.

Today, he gave it a whirl.  And after about an hour, he signaled surrender.

There is a good quarter inch of led and the wood underneath is just pine.   So Cookie is going shopping.  Bother.