Everyone has cameras these days...

 ...so above all other things tonight, remember your dignity.  And think about it: La publicité!

Have a SAFE and Happy New Year's Eve.  We'll post pictures from our party tomorrow!

Current Mood

 

Look who showed up for a a cup of Christmas Cheer

 Why it's Miss Minnish, the newly retired girl's gym teacher from the grade school.  She's come to spread sunshine, and smoke from her Phillip Morris.  "I snip the filters off because they interfere with my rich, full tobacco enjoyment."

Vonda came over in her nightie to show us her cat's costume. Never mind she is her underwear. She just had to show us King Ferdinand of Tiggie-Whompers and his Kitty Costume of Good Cheer. "He thinks he's the ghost of Christmas past." Yes, Vonda, that's it exactly. 

Aunt Faye has shown up.  Fay was supposed to be here Yesterday.  She and Miss Mannish don't get along.  As long as Faye stays in the living, and Mannish stays in the den, we should be OK.  I should add that Fay is pissed off, she is judging you.  "Did Dom leave me here and drive back to Bayonne? That bastard." And Faye is not in the holiday spirit.  Not. At. All.

And then these two assholes showed up, complaining about their sled.  "Sled's need snow, Steve, and we ain't got none," Aunt Faye had to opine.

And finally, Aunt Gert would like us to freshen her drink.  We just poured the damned thing.  "Well honey, I like my Scotch neat and in a manly kilt!" Her throaty laugh reminds cookie of wuffa-wuffa sounds the exhausts on a 1969 Riviera make pulling away on a cold day.  

As for Cookie, I am looking forward to getting the house back to ourselves.  Merry Christmas, all y'all.

Ghosts of Christmas Parties Past: The Special Purpose Christmas Party

 

The following was part of a post that Cookie made back in 2014.  An update follows at the end.

Last Friday the Husband and I went to the painful, unfriendly Christmas Party ever.  Husband is a member of LGBTQ+ network at International Amalgamated.  He joined because he thought it would be a boffo way to meet people, and we have met people.  Strange, odd people.

Anyhow, Christmas was at the home of two men who live the "Loft Condo" lifestyle.  You know, RAW brick, RAW steel trusses and beams and ENORMOUS windows for all to see out of, and for the neighboring similar condos to see into.  Designers call this great sophistication, but Cookie is unimpressed.

We were greeted at the door by one of the hosts who was high as a kite, and TOLD to put our coats in the closet, then TOLD to get a drink.  Once we had said drink, made with well spirits, we were TOLD to go up-stairs to the living level.  This was a four-floor condo, and I knew we were on the ground floor level, but if the next level up was for living, and one level presumably for sleeping, Cookie wondered what the other mystery level did.  But we were told to go up a level, and up to the living level we went. Arriving on the living level, we were TOLD that they would give us a tour of their "space".  We walked around this enormous room and were told that the air ducts "delineate our purpose spaces."

"Purpose spaces?" asks the husband.

"Well, we can't very well call them rooms, can we.  It should be obvious that there are no walls.  Will you excuse me while I go greet Monica?  You can find your own way back to the Conversation Area.  MONICA!...."

(Husband turned to me and said "Bitter party of one...")

Monica, a woman of color and her bald girlfriend walked in.  Bald girlfriend, Clothilde, shaves her head to shatter the male dominated paradigm for women's fashion.  Monica told us this.  Clothilde, who we have tried to chat with before is rather rude.  She looks, and she doesn't engage, but does engage with other "womyn'.  In her path to shattering sex, race and gender paradigm, EVIDENTLY Clothilde doesn't include men in that mission.  Fine by me.

And we had been at other events where both women had been outwardly annoyed whenever I had been seated by them, or by how I chewed my food, how I breathed, how I had the audacity to simply be. Husband said that he had talking to them and Angelea said the bare minimum before turning her back.  They were both fine with the organizers, they were both fine with the people who worked in their building. But as far as we were concerned, they were simply rude. 

Anyhow, I had worked a ten-hour shift on my feet earlier in the day, my legs were killing me, and I was exhausted.

But I put on that support husband smile and chit chatted for about two hours, when my body - which was still 50 days out from surgery (two feet of colon removed for chronic diverticular disease) - started to get wonky.  I needed to sit and sit fast before my legs went out from underneath me.  

Even the husband noted that after drinking three plain old ginger ales (from cans we brought) and dining at the buffet while standing up, that the color had drained from my face.  He looked into the "casual dining purpose space" and saw that a chair had freed up and sent me to it.

No sooner than I had sat down then Clothilde said her first words to me: "You aren't going to sit down there.  There is a pregnant woman standing over there," and she nodded at a youngish twenty something with a trim figure. I must have had the "Huh?" look on my face so Clothilde reasserted herself by calling to the pregnant woman 

"Renee, git yourself over her, this man needs to git up and out so you can git off your feet and sit in this chair."

I looked up at the husband who looked at Baldy, who looked at him and said "Find him some other place to sit."  Both offended, we walked towards the kitchen area where there was a food bar and stools when the host, who was on the verge of a hissy fit came over and TOLD us to move towards the "Social Purpose Space" (reader I am not making this up) because "I spent all this money on this loft and people need to learn to use the spaces."

So the husband and I got up, and moved towards the stairs, which moved up toward the coat closet, which moved toward donning our coats.   

The man who runs the group saw this ten-minute Kabuki Theatre presentation and looked as horrified as we felt. As we donned our coats, he had followed us downstairs. 

"Fred's just nervous about hosting ... and Clothilde is a lovely person when you get to know her. Please stay."  We thanked him, but I pointed that I really did feel wonky, and had to work the next day.  "Maybe another time," and we left.

Now, all this said, and Clothilde, and the creepy host aside, this group is important to the husband at International Amalgamated because it gets him social access to decision makers.  And the man who runs the group is very nice, and 90% of the people are exceptionally nice as well.   

But even the husband was really put out by these people.

On the way home, husband said "Did all that really happen?"  Yes, it did.

Between the host who treated us like circus dogs by ordering us about, and ol' Baldy, I am just fine as long as we can get away from these people.

Just fine indeed.

UPDATE: As it happened, this was our last event with this group.  

Months later we saw the group organizer who noted that he saw we had moved, and what a lovely house we once had, and we explained that the new house was much better for hosting gatherings.  He remarked that he would love to know if we could host the Christmas Party in the coming months and we honestly said we'd get back to them, though we never did.  

Sometimes, you know where you belong, and sometimes no matter how hard you try to accommodate people, it just isn't in you to do so again and again. But these people would have shown up, used our house and our efforts, and walked out. 

But oh, reader, in my mind how I yearned to show Clothilde hospitality really works.  

You see, in our house, anyone can sit anywhere. But if I catch you telling another guest that they cannot sit in the empty chair next to you, you'll be invited to go sit on our curb.

People with problems

 

Why, because, we all have...tendencies.  

And his is your hair.

The pre-Christmas rant

 

Time for Cookie's pre-Christmas rant.   So take heed.

1) One of Cookie's most hated seasonal songs is the Little Drummer Boy, which can suck the happiness out of any room. So Cookie has joined the Little Drummer Boy Challenge.  It's easy - you are a winner as long as you don't hear anything from that song. The song, lyrics, melody, etc. when you are listing to playlists, grocery store muzak, waiting room muzak, NPR, the Robert Shaw Chorale, ringtones, anything.  So far, so good.  And the husband who loves all kinds of music has been placed on notice to void that song from any playlists he might listen to protect my ears. 

2) People in Baltimore with cars in parking lots.  Good Lord in heaven above, but every time I pull into a parking lot - be it the grocery, target, the little market down the hill, etc., and so on, I swear that Jesus is testing me.  Evidently, the rules of safe driving are off the table as people shut off every sense that there is anyone around them and pull some of the most dangerous and stupid things.  

Like today, the woman who pulled into the market lot about ten minutes from our home and just stopped her car to check her texts blocking the entrance.  There were no cars in front of her, but she blocked the whole parking lot entrance.  Cookie was trying to make a left into the parking lot, which is on a busy road, but it was the people trying to make the right that lost it.  And what did the driver do? She stuck out her hand as if to wave people around her.  One driver tried that and what did the driver of the car blocking the lot do, she started moving forward and CRUNCH hit the car she just waved around her.  Cookie said "hell with this" and went to the veddy veddy upper crust market in Ruxton instead. 

3) Rude people at parties.  These are the people who act like assholes without the benefit of being drunk.  But put a Christmas Sweater on Dale from one block over and he becomes Super Dick, and not the kind you like to look back on with misty memories.  

4) The twenty-dollar Big Mac meal.  I can't eat them, but for the love of God, twenty dollars for a Big Mac, fries, and a soda, indifferently bagged by a person making $20/hr.?  This comes from my friend Dee Dee who nearly choked when she got the receipt at the drive-through in California.  "Christ, I can make four quarter pound sirloin burgers for $8.99, add in the buns, and tater tots, and you are feeding FOUR people."  Convenience, what can I say.   

5) 49% of voters in Georgia.  For Christ's sake people, Walker couldn't finish a goddamn sentence without sounding like a moron, is evidently cheating on his property taxes, is against abortions for others (but its OK for his girlfriends) and doesn't know how many children he has, and yet as of today, 49% of voters across Georgia voted for him.  WTF.  Anyhow, Warnock won.  Thank you 51%.

6) Cable TV.  This is a perennial complaint.  Comcast sucks.  Day in and day out. 

7) And Finally That Guy in Florida who stole top-secret papers from the White House, and has had his lawyers TWICE state that these were all the documents he had, until today when his lawyers announced that they had found a third collection in a padlock-secured storage unit.  

Do we really think that this is the end?  Nope.  Dig Up Ivana and what is in that casket!!!

When you can't cope, take Cope®

Cookie has always been fascinated with the marketing made toward women in the 1940s-1960s because it was mostly created by men who knew very little about what women really needed.  Instead, they decided to tell women what was good for them, and most of the time, it wasn't. 

From fashion to dishwashing detergents, from haute couture to hot meals in minutes, and from drudgery to sexuality, Madison Avenue advertising firms and corporations twisted minds and sent subliminal messages. 

Today we focus on Cope® a pain reliever from the mid-1960s, targeted at women as a cure for tension headaches - the type brought on by the demands of being a woman.   

Make that a white woman upper-class woman, because only white women appeared in the ads.  And Cookie couldn't find a print ad in a major marketing magazine that was targeted toward African American women. 

Unlike plain or buffered aspirin or other pain relievers, Cope® was marketed exclusively to "better" women, containing salicylate (aspirin), caffeine, and a mild relaxing agent to calm one down. And here's the important thing - the relaxing agent. 

Anacin® promised the same type of headache relief, but in a more in-your-face, working-class fashion:

But women of a certain class, evidently needed a different message, one that was softer, one to help them COPE. Cope® would take away the headache, indirectly promised tranquility.  

Even the Cope® bottle was different with an off-side neck and opening.  

The label stated that the product was for women, and just in case one had any questions, a Venus Symbol appeared on the label. 

In other words: NO MEN ALLOWED. 

Commercials for this product featured middle and upper-class women - much like Shaker Heights housewives - happily and proudly interacting with family members. Voiceovers came from men - calming, soft-voiced men.  The implied message is "Men knew better."  And what set off these headaches was that Cope® was the best treatment option. 

And just what set off these Cope headache moments?  Not men.  Not money problems.  

It was children.  

And it just wasn't any child, that set these headaches into motion.  It was little girls, around the age of five or six.  Little women pushed mature women over the edge, and into a world where they needed to be calmed down. And Cope® would make it all better. See: 

 

Cookie felt it should have been an ad featuring a daughter who was about 12-14, and oppositional.  The type who gets in a mood and retaliates at authority by saying "You're the worst mother, EVER!", or a teenage son who mutters "bitch" under his breath when she finds junior hanging with the wrong crowd and forbids it. 

But those were moments when one was at the end of one's rope, a valium might be the better option. So no, Cope Of course, Cope® is no longer sold in the US.  

No, now mommy takes the edge off with a bottle of wine, but that's for another time and rant.

SNL takes on the Big Dumb Hat Fem Bots

 

On October 23rd, Cookie broke out the picture of the Pumpkin Spice Fem Bots for the annual naming and poking fun of all things beige, look alike, and wealth privileged. 

I got a couple nasty grams from people saying that as a male, I had no right to judge these women, despite the fact that they all looked like they were refugees from a Nordstrom catalog shoot on their way to Starbucks for Pumpkin Spice Latte fest. 

And I wondered - could this be true?  Or is it just me.  

But then Saturday Night Live skewered the look on its show on November 5, 2022 show and they went after their hats.  Their big dumb hats. 

The only thing missing is where they all meet up together, squeal, tennis kiss, and then compliment each other on their outfits that look like what they themselves have on from the Nordstrom catalog. 

And while Cookie is validated, Cookie also is dying. Enjoy:

The Revolutionary Costume of the day

 

Big Edie Sold Separately.

If its October its time for the Pumpkin Spicebots!

 

We're all cycling together!

Every year, in October but before Halloween, Cookie drags out this picture and celebrates all that the trendy Pumpkin Spice Nordstrom way of living has brought to the world. 

And is tradition, we bestow the women in this picture with names that mirror the devotion that they bring to choosing their wardrobes, which are still curiously still on trendy in 2022.

So, from left to right we have Madison, Mara, Marlo, Mathe, Mimi, Maree, Marla, Maren, Marr, Mazie (always with a "Z", like Liza), and Mame.  

And it's been so super fun-fun seeing all of them! (Squeals!)

Over cups of green tea and sugar-free cocoa, the conversation drifts between cars (Three of them drive Tesla SUVs, and two have Volvo XC40s ("Because I really think that we need to protect the planet, and they are so trendy!"), two have BMW Hybrids, two have Mercedes Benz SUVs, and one doesn't own a car because she still lives in the city and she can uber wherever "just so long as the uber is an electric that's all I care about."

One has a brother-in-law in Federal Prison because he got involved with something that "I don't want to get into." 

"You don't need to with us.  We're here for you, in this moment! We see you, we hear you."

"Thanks, you guys! I have the best friends."

Another has a sister who is simply "out of my life with all her types of crazy."

Mara is pregnant yet again this year because "It's so easy for me, I LOVE BEING PREGNANT!"  (Squeals!)  She and Anders are having their fifth!  (Squeals!)

Mame just downsized because she wants to travel.  "You know, nothing fancy. "Fiji, the Galapagos, and I'll winter in St. Barts, just to unwind from the other trips." 

"And you should see Mame's new place on Central Park East - it's so functional."

"Well, it's only 4,800 square feet.  That's doable, right?"

"And so cute."

"Super cute."

She has her own pilates studio in the unit. 

"My trainer Arden comes in three days a week for pilates, and then on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I meet with Ravi, who removes negativity from my chi.  We meditate for an hour, and then he anoints me with Tibetan oils as we do vocalization therapies to help clarify my inner voice."

"Ravi is so amazing," adds in Mimi.  "He helped Cooper release all the pent-up negativity through chanting and stretching."

"Coop just takes in so much anger from others. And he is so unselfish with the giveback."

Marla BTW is the daughter of Murial Puce, so you know it's all top-drawer.

So super to see you, girls.  Until next year!  (Squeals!)

The lettuce is the winner! But can Boris be far behind?

 

Cookie seldom comments on the political situation in other countries, but I have been following the ups and mostly downs of Liz Truss, the Prime Minister of England for a scant six weeks.  He high point was meeting with the Queen.  Then there was her presence meeting King Charles, the State Funeral, then the slide really started when she announced a tax decision without any reason plan beyond that.  

In 1980, Ronald Reagan sold the United States on the lie that was then known as Supply Side economics.  It didn't work for us, but in the forty years since the rich have gotten richer and the middle class is barely hanging on by a thread.  Plans like Reagan's, like Truss's' don't work because they fail to take into consideration how they favor the rich, harm the poor, and do nothing about greed. 

I mean, at the beginning of the week the big question was would Truss of Lettuce last longer?  The Lettuce won.  All Hail the Lettuce!

Now comes word that traction is gaining for bringing back Boris Johnson to right the ship.  As of this moment, Boris was sporting a speedo in the Caribbean.  If that doesn't make you shiver, I don't know what will.  For my part, I really hope that the people who make these decisions remember that they defenestrated Boris for a reason and that they don't backslide. 

And what are the parting gifts for Ms. Truss, now the shortest PM in the modern history of England?  She gets a lifetime annual pension of about $127,000.  That's more than Zachary Taylor, the President of the United States of America for a month got when he died of gastritis. 

But all kidding aside, I hope that the Conservatives do the right and proper thing and elect a Prime Minister who is ethical, compassionate, and will work to undo the damage to the economy.  

Seriously, Madonna, Herman Munster Wants His Shoes Back

 This appeared in news outlets today.  What the eff is she wearing? 

The answer? High Fashion Crocs with a Babushka dress, and washed-out pink hair, and that look that old people get when they are asked to guess who is coming to dinner.

Can you hear the Mistress holding her own face in her hands and saying "I can't even."

I can. 

Poor Madge. 

She's been stuck in a horrible loop for years. This outfit says "Such Tsuris."

Once one to keep reinventing herself, she seems stuck in her own cliche. 

Now she looks tired, old, grotesque.  And seen outside without her fishnet fingerless gloves, no less. 

Maybe she had a rough Kabala Style Yom Kippur.   Yeah, I'll go with that. 

Grocery Shopping with Sam and Rose

 

Today we did errands.  The vet, Joe Banks to pick up our suits for the upcoming wedding we are attending, Grocery store one, Grocery store two, and grocery store three. 

Why three? Because you cannot get everything at one store.  Impossible around here.  Not in Ohio, but here in Baltimore, grocery shopping is a multi-store hassle.   I mean in Columbus, it was Giant Eagle or Kroger. For specialty items, we would go to Weiland's, or Carfagna's. 

Here it depends on what we need.  

Some weeks it's Safeway, others Wegman's, and still others, Weis. 

But they are always followed up by runs to Eddie's or Grauls or both.  Eddie's and Graul's each have their charms.  One is good for baked goods, the other for their butcher counter. Both are local "markets" and since we hate Giant (not the same as Giant Eagle, which we love), they are our go-to markets for a quick in and out.

BUT TODAY, my chickens we were shopping at one of these boutique markets when we heard what I thought was someone in pain, and the Husband thought was someone taunting an angry nesting blue jay.  

"SAM? SAM? SAAAAAMMMMMMM! WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU?"

And we were never quite on the right aisle to see who (or what) was making that horrible hog-calling noise. 

Sam was on the opposite side of the store bellowing "ROSE! ROSE! ROSE! Damnit ROSE, where in the hell are you?"

It was a demented version of Marco Polo, without the pool. 

And as one went through an arch into the other side of the store, the other would head to the frozen food area, and the whole thing would start anew.

"SAAAAAAAAAMMMM! Where in FUCK ARE YOU?"

"ROSE! ROSE! ROSE! WHERE ARE YOU HIDING?"

Eventually, we checked out, and then we saw a man who was evidently Sam tottering outside toward the parking lot.  

Then the Bickersons moved out into the parking lot.  Where it got louder.

"ROSE! ROSE! ROSE! ROSE! OVER HERE! OVER HERE!"

And out from the store comes this gnome of a woman, wearing what looked like a housecoat, I think, with wrinkly skin, a rats nest of unkempt hair and she is screaming in her raspy six-pack-a-day voice.  SAM? SAM? WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU SAM?"

"ROSE! ROSE! ROSE! OVER HERE! OVER HERE! LOOK OVER HERE, DAMNIT!"

"SAM? I AM NOT A DAMN DOG.  I DON'T GIVE A DAMN WHERE YOU ARE.  YOU CAN GO STRAIGHT TO HELL FOR LEAVING IN THERE BY MYSELF..."

"LIVING WITH YOU IS HELL!"

And at that moment, she looked at the two of us stunned by this Kabuki Theater of the absurd, and shot me a look that probably cast an evil eye on us.  Those eyes were black as frying pans and mean.  This was a woman that no one crossed. 

Then she really laid into Sam.

"COULD YOU BE ANY MORE USELESS, DAMN IT! THE GROCERY BAGS ARE INSIDE, GO GET THEM...WHERE IN THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING LEAVING THE DAMN CAR LOCKED ON ME."

"CAN YOU PLEASE SHUT YER PIE HOLE?"

"YOU CAN GO STRAIGHT TO HELL SAM!  WILL SOMEONE RUN THAT FUCKER OVER AND END MY MISERABLE MARRIAGE?"

We got into the car. 

My normally stoic handsome husband would just sit there, and I said in a soft voice, "You can go to Hell Sam," and my husband cracked up. 

I mean the two of them had to be in their eighties, and they were carrying on and on.  I'm amazed one of them didn't need oxygen.

"Can you imagine living next door to that?"

"I'd rather live under the flight path to BWI," said I. 

I carefully drove out of the parking lot, avoiding the possibility of coming near them, and on the drive home, along Bellona, up the big hill towards Charles Street, I held my husband's hand and thanked God that our first, and hopefully last encounter with Rose and Sam had come and gone.  

Still, tonight, before dinner, I am taking a pinch of salt and throwing it over my left shoulder just in case that rump-fed runyon put the evil eye on me.

The latest news

Well, I wish I had better news than this, but situations change.   Things have become complicated. 

On the known cancer front, we are waiting on news of a genetic test.  This was done, in part because of continued large bowel issues that took an unpleasant turn last week, resulting in the cancellation of a colonoscopy, and an emergency CATScan and flexible sigmoidoscopy. 

Nothing looks cancerous (hooray!) but other things aren't right.  And I haven't heard from the colo-rectal surgeon that all is clear, either.  I am hoping for that news soon.

Bottom line (no pun intended) but the assurance of my colorectum surgeon eight years ago that I was good for a full ten years could have been deadly.  Get your colonoscopy today, people. 

I remain on all manner of caustic antibiotics and am pretty enervated, lackluster, and just feel pretty oogie. 

Sorry, it's not better news, or funnier, or wittier tales to be told.  But Cookie doesn't have it in him. 

Killing time with Miss Marple, Miss Marple, Miss Marple, and Miss Marple

 

Ever since Covid struck, one of the things that I have become of a fan of are the ITV series, Marple and Poirot. 

Poirot took some time to get through because ITV started the series with several seasons of one-hour mysteries that took some time to cut through before getting to the mysteries based (sometimes loosely) on the books.  But each episode was perfection. 

Marple, on the other hand went by way too fast.  Two actresses played Marple in this series.  

In the second half, she was played by Julia McKenzie who I admired and enjoyed for years.   Her take on Marple was business like, efficient.  Unfortunately, to get enough material, someone of the scripts were based on non-Marple stories. Several of the episodes seem to have flashbacks, and I am not a fan of flashbacks.  Flash forwards are fine, but a flash back is usually unneeded if the dialogue is written correctly.

For as much as I have enjoyed McKenzie - I was first introduced to her as woman who made trousers for her cow on Cranford - the real joy came in the first twelve episodes of in which Geraldine McEwen played Marple. 

Unlike Margaret Rutherford's boisterous turn, and McKenzie's cool cookie, McEwen was as sly and she was charming, a softer Marple.  Observant, and gentle, there was a twinkle in her eye in every episode.  And she played Marple as a woman who was more than just as an inquisitive old woman. 

My understanding was that as Marple progressed, she found the process taxing and asked to leave after the 12 books were completed.  She died several years after she left.  I have been scrounging about for her other roles. 

BOTH of these fine actresses were enjoyable.   

AFTER we finish up with Ms. McKenzie (we have four episodes left), then we start what the Miss Marple's that everyone claims is the Ultra Marple - played by Joan Hickson.  

Hickson impressed Christie in a radio program in the which she read the part so much so that Christie told the actress that she hoped she would one day play the role in a film.  I was surprised to see that Hickson was part of some "Carry On" films.  I might want to see those as a primer of sorts. 

Even Queen Elizabeth reportedly so enjoyed Hickson's portrayal over Rutherford's that she complimented Hickson by saying that her efforts were exactly what Elizabeth herself Marfple would be like.  

We'll see about that.  

 

How many times I have told you No Credit Card Rate Reductions, EVER!!!!!

 

Cookie is an instigator.  Most of the time I annoy people, but when I put my mind to it, I can really get under people's skin. But piss me off, invade my privacy or try and cold call me on a scam you are trying and I don't play nice.

Take these fools who call our landline.  And yes, we have a landline because of the husband's job we need a phone system that works when the power is out. 

But we get a lot of calls that can get irritating, and mundane.  And I like to stir up the pot. 

We live in a hundred-year-old house without a furnace and no furnace ductwork.  (Boiler and steam heat.) but we get calls from people in India that want to sell us duct cleaning services. 

Caller: "May I talk with the woman of the house?"

Cookie: You're talking to him. 

{Click}

What I have started doing for the month of August is reciting random lines from Mommy Dearest whenever they ask a question.  You know, just to spice it up. 

Male caller from overseas: "Hello, may I speak with *Cookie Blogger* about his credit card rate?

Cookie: "Don't Fuck With Me FELLA'S. This ain't my first time at the Rodeo."

Male caller from overseas: Pardon?

Cookie: "CHRISTINA, Bring me the AXE!"

{Click}

There are also the times that we get these "keyboard" automated calls from some bullshit charity.  What you hear is a humanist voice that is being driven by a human at a keyboard chocking out prerecorded phrases.

Keyboard Voice: "Hello. Am I Speaking with Cookie's Husband?  I hope I have called the right number."

Cookie: "Helga, I am not mad at you. I am mad at the dirt."

Keyboard Voice: "I Can Call Back If..."

Cookie: "HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU: NO WIRE HANGERS EVER!" 

{Click}

And just today I got to use this plum of a line:

Female Caller: "Hello, I'd like to speak with Cookie Blogger about ...

Cookie: "Why can't you give me the respect that I'm entitled to? Why can't you treat me like I would be treated by any stranger on the street? Why? Why?"

Female Caller: "Excuse me, this is Dr. Urologist's office calling about next Monday's appointment.  Can you come in at 7:30AM instead of 11:00AM?"

Cookie: My bad.  I thought you were trying to sell me something.

So I guess I'll have to give that respect line to someone else.  But I need a movie for September.  Perhaps Sound of Music?  Misery? The Wizard of OZ?

Thank God IMDB has an app for that. 

The report is in...

 

The report from the BIG cancer scan is in. 

It was a horribly uncomfortable scan. It started out with radioactive dye (delivered by a man in a radiation suit carrying a metal canister) injected into my arm, allowed to swirl around for an hour while it infiltrated every nook and cranny.  Then, after an hour, I was delivered to the PetScan equipment where I was told to lay flat, arms over my head for 30 minutes while the scan read the locations of the PSAT seeking dye.  "Hold that position!" and thirty minutes of agony later the guy had to help me bring my arms back down.  I was in a foul mood. Even the husband could see the pain I was in. 

The scan would tell us if any PSA was found in any other part of my body other than the previously known cancer in the prostate.  Anyway, it can spread, you know.  And that's the way the find it.

But the report results are officially unofficial - they haven't been shared with us by the surgeon, that comes next week. But the doctor leaked them, and the rectal colo surgeon seconded them (we were afraid that it spread to the colon.  More about that in September.

But results are in and they tell us that cancer HAS NOT spread.  It remains localized. 

Thank Baby Jesus and the Big One too. 

Now, I'll hippity-hop along until next week when we decide on a course of action on the prostate cancer, which will be sometime after September is my guess.  

So Much Drama: Movie of the Week

 

Love me some Uptonking.  

In leaving a comment for the last post, Uptonking reminded me of the staple of ABC television in that started in 1969 and ran to 1975: The ABC Movie of the Week. 

ABC promised us, not movies that were years old on TV, like The War Wagon, or Love is Many Splendored Thing, but "World Premiere" movies were 90-120 minute movies (with commercials) with original scripts "made especially for TV."  Or so the announcer said with great gravitas.  (The hidden meaning was "movies" that break for commercials with mini cliffhangers, instead of mid-scene.)  In actuality, these were 72 to 100-minute or so one-off TV shows. 

To build excitement, Harry Betts got the rights to use Burt Bacharach's 1969 composition "Nikki", rearranged it, and when combined with state-of-the-art graphic animation, the tune became synonyms with MOVIE OF THE WEEK.

     

Some were very good, like Steven Speilberg's Duel, starring Dennis Weaver and the demonic truck intent on terrorizing him.  Others were just awful, like Gidget Gets Married (see below). 

None starred Steve McQueen, Barabara Streisand, Warren Beatty, or Elizabeth Taylor, but the actors were TV staples and some slightly faded stars.  Dennis Weaver, Patty Duke Astin, Henry Jones, Stella Stevens, and Joseph Cotton.   

Some of the movies were just that; movies that were ends unto themselves. 

Then there were movies made as TV pilots.  Take Gidget Grows Up, with Karen Valentine as Gidget who is a tour guide at the U.N., which did not get picked up.  Starsky and Hutch started out as a Movie of the Week.  So now you know who to blame for the second coming of the Torino that swept up car culture in 1975-1976, and David's Soul's "Don't Give Up on Us Baby".

Then there was Gidget Gets Married, which was a *movie*.  In this, the last of the Gidget flicks, Gidget marries Moondoggie and moves to a Stepford-like community, where employees of a company are residentially segregated and socially isolated in their position with in said company, I kid you not.  And it was Gidget who was sick and tired of the Man bossing everyone around and fighting for social justice. The result was something so bad that evidently, the young woman who was chosen to play Gidget walked away from acting. 

While the Movie of the Week tried to rotate its genres, with ratings slipping, and towards the end of the run it became top-heavy with films that had a message.  Comedies, which were seldom guffawed out loud funny became fewer, and dramas and thrillers increased.  And the ratings continued to slide down, down, down.

But it was the 1975 season, at the end of the run that gave viewers its two best camp classics:

1. Episode 246 was a cringe-worthy social drama called "Someone I Touched" which starred Cloris Leachman as a wife in a loving marriage who contracts VD from her husband who liked to fiddle around.  If that wasn't bad enough, Leachman's character - who had desperately yearned for a baby - discovered that she was pregnant.  Also notable is Lena Peterson, who plays the mother of Glynnis O'Connor.  O'Connor sleeps with Cloris's husband and you know what happens.  He gives Glynnis a social disease. In a tearful scene tries to tell her mother that something terrible has happened.  The mother thinks she is pregnant and comforts her daughter saying that there were ways to deal with the situation.  But O'Connor pushes on with the truth: Syphilis!  And Lena Patterson then begins one of the longest slap fests on TV, punctuated by calling her daughter a tramp, while play smacking Glynnis into the next part of the movie. Patterson was a noted actress, and a Tony nominee, but the camera is so close to both actors that the violence isn't at once amplified and muted.   And oh, did I mention that Cloris sings the theme song?
2. Episode 247 is the cult favorite, and I am warning you that you need to put aside reasonable disbelief when you watch it.  Trilogy of Terror, starring Karen Black, in three unrelated mini films inside of mini made-for-TV movies where she plays four different characters.  I would try and explain it all, but frankly, I don't have the strength.  Suffice it to say that Karen emotes.  A lot.  And you can get this one on YouTube for FREE.

Now, of course, cable vomits whole channels like this onto our laps, movies with mediocre plots. For many, only the titles are entertaining.  (A personal favorite was Tory Spelling in "Mother May I Sleep With Danger.") For others, there is a cathartic release for SOME PEOPLE (Yes, you, Dee Dee) for watching movies where the psycho boyfriend locks his girlfriend away in the poorhouse while seducing her loved starved mother, or the new nanny sets out to gaslight the mother of quadruplets so she can send the children to a Swiss boarding school and do craven things to the handsome husband. 

But back in the day, it was a weekly dose of fluff, with a thin plotline, and a great fanfare, starring people whose faces were familiar, and whose names you needed a TV guide to ID. That was Tuesday night living in America. 

The Sugar, The COVIDS, The Cancer

 

She got the RONA?

Back home in north central Ohio, people for some reason or another like to put "the" in front of nouns when those nouns are names for diseases. 

"Estil is feeling poorly; he's got the sugar real bad."

"I told Louise to get the vaccine but she would stop listing to that Margie Taylor Green.  In the end, she ate that horse paste, and because that doesn't work, the COVIDS/RONA got her."

I asked a friend back home about another acquaintance and the conversation went something like this:

"How's Doreen?"

"It's a sad tale.  She got the woman cancer."

"Breast or uterine?"

"Up-top one.  We're all wearing pink hoping she recovers.  She's doing the radiation in Columbus."

Well, Cookie's family generally gets the cancer.  Prostate cancer.  It hit my grandfather, my uncles, and a couple cousins, all on one side. While I am not a gambling man, in the back of my mind, I knew it could come for me.  

And it has.

NOW before anyone says or thinks or does anything, no weepies, no "I'm thinking of you," and no I'm sorry stuff.  DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

I know you are concerned. 

We all are.  It's natural.  With cancer comes the world of the unknown.  The BOHICA aspect of cancers is scary stuff. 

But it isn't something I have failed at.  It's not a failing, its genetic, its tissue that mutated beyond your body's defense abilities.  So we face it head on and we deal with it.  

The good news is that we 1) found it early, and 2) the Gleason score (1 to 10, how they grade cancer, how bad it is, how aggressive, etc.) isn't good, but it also isn't above an 8, and that is really good news. 5 and below is really, really good news if it's caught early.  But I am not walking about, ringing my hands, wailing "woe to be me," through a veil of tears.   And if you are spiritual, God is giving me a "You got this," thumbs up.

So here is what is going to happen: I am getting a PETScan and that will tell us if it has spread.  That isn't for a couple weeks - insurance and finding time in the machine is a factor. The doctor will discuss the results with us, and  THEN the Husband and I will make the best decision for me, for us, and for our future. The more involved it is, then the more involved the treatment will be.  

The horse may be out of the gate, but we'll be on the horse when crossing that bridge, and we will get to it.  

We live in an age when healthcare is, for lack of better terms, a pain in the ass - no pun intended, but it does fit. BUT treatment options are far advanced over 70 years when you died of it, and fifty years ago they used to de-ball you. 

But that was then, this is now.  So Cookie is hopeful.  In fact, Cookie is going to recover. 

Still, I know that people back home will say that "He's got the cancer."  

True, but trust me: the cancer doesn't have me. 

Couldn't I just stay at a Hilton instead?

Cookie will be having another trip to Ohio yet this summer, and we are looking at places for me to stay.  I will be hitting up the Tri-Cs of Ohio: Columbus, Cincinnati, and of course, Cleveland. 

The trip is all about cemeteries, being on the Board of Trustees for one, visiting others to record them, and then attending a memorial service for a dear friend who was like a mother to me.  She passed in the fall of 2020, and it was a blessing.  But oh, to have her back in her prime. 

In any event, I won't be staying at our featured hotel.  Instead, I'll be Hilton properties.  No nooks and crannies to explore, no drapes like a velvet glove, but they take points, and points are good.  

Be safe this Fourth, darlings

 Have a HAPPY and SAFE Fourth of July!

And like Ms. Eden, think twice about setting off any fireworks!  

Make this your mantra: Every Election, Every Vote, Every Level of Every Time.

 Cookie has been thinking, long and hard, about why Democrats are losing the upper hand, and the answer is a tough one, but its also easy to explain.

Dems have been lulled into three fantasies. 

The First is "One and Done".  Dems have fought in the past, and righteously so since the 1960s, to advance our causes and see them done.  Be it legislative, judicial, or election, and think once the job is done, it's done. 

The Second is that things of importance "Stand" for the ages and cannot be revoked.

The Third is that only Presidential year general elections matter and sometimes off-year elections matter. 

This is a recipe for two things.  The first is that this tact means we are always playing defense - ALWAYS.  And you cannot win any game if all you do is play defense.  Playing defense means you are trying not to lose and you cannot win with that mindset. 

The second is that our opponents are always going to be chipping away at our wins by being better organized, playing dirty, and playing to win. And if that happens away they have eroded the grounds of last win and we will collapse so they can storm ahead.

We have to come to understand that we can only gain ground by: 

1) Voting in EVERY ELECTION.  Every one of them. 

2) That EVERY VOTE - and I mean every legal vote matters.  And I just don't mean that showing up is everything.  This is about setting differences aside, and focusing on what really matters together.  This is about uniting people and getting them to vote instead of assuming the other guy or gal is going to carry your belief system. 

3) EVERY LEVEL of government is equally important.  The old adage is true - "all politics is local" is truer now than it was before.  We have seen everything from education, public health, city, and state governments turn on their ends because people don't see off year and midterm elections as anything they need to worry about.  

The next generation of leadership is forged locally.  Local governments control state and national policies. and we have to learn that, except that, and work with it.  If we control local government, if we control state politics, then it follows that we drive national matters.   And we have ceded that area in too many states, school boards, etc., and so on. 

Every election, every vote, and every level of government matters.    And once we regain that place, we have to fight on to maintain it.

And the next election does begin in the weeks leading up to cast your vote.  The next election begins immediately after you cast your vote.  The other side isn't sitting around licking their wounds, they are out there trying to figure out how to screw us in the next election. 

EVERY ELECTION, EVERY VOTE, EVERY LEVEL OF GOVERNMENT, EVERY TIME.

Fuck them all

Fuck Clarence Thomas.  

Fuck Samuel Alito.  

Fuck Neal Gorsuch.  

Fuck Brett Kavanaugh.  

And finally, fuck Amy Comey Barrett. 

May they all live long lives - long enough to see the damage that they did to this country undone.  Long enough to be held up as the worst justices to ever sit on SCOTUS.  And long enough to know that they're there to fully experience that legacy.  

We must not give up the fight to elect candidates to the Presidency, Congress, and state legislatures who will remedy this. We must insist that SCOTUS Nominees understand the law and will not push us back in time. 

Packing the court will not help.  Just as a pendulum swings in one direction, it swings in the opposite direction.  Nine jurists who understand that they must detach themselves and make rulings based on a number of things, just not their Catholic view of the world.

Don't give in to anger.  Anger never solves anything.  And anger will not undo this mess created today that will reverberate for years to come.  Complacency got us here.  Throw that cloak off your shoulders.  

Work hard so that this November, and every November afterward this doesn't happen again. 

Too Many Balls

Old Cambridge Burial Grounds, 
Cambridge Mass.  Their husband has some 
people buried her.  But no Balls here. His
Balls are south of here. 

Cookie has been laboring over the Husband's Balls this past weekend. 

Get your mind out of the gutter. 

Cookie is crass, but never so crass as that.  Genealogy is a noble endeavor, and don't you forget it.

No, my husband's ancestry includes a line of people with the surname Ball.   And I have been trying to sort these Ball family members from another family of Ball's. The problem is that they are from the same town, but a different cemetery as my husband's Balls, and people tend to lump them in together.   And because of COVID, we did not travel to see the Balls, but the work is remote. 

Both are fine families, the problem is they aren't related in the American Colonies, or even in the United States, at least until Madelon Holden married one William Ball.  Oh, what a headline that would have been made in the society column.  "Holden-Ball Vows Trotted" or even "Holden-Ball Hymenial Celebrated".

And these are very early Balls that plug into the husband's line.  There is a letter that describes "Squire and Goodie Ball of an advance(d) age, and unpleasant demoeaner (sic)."   Just the verbiage makes me shudder, but the image in my mind of old, withered Mr. and Mrs. Ball - well you get the idea.

Thankfully, he is not descended from the Feltch family of Natick.  Cookie almost drove off the road when he saw that headstone.  

So what are your summer plans?

 

We all know a *Betty*...

 

Betty is cranky.  Betty is a pill. Betty can be the reason why we opted not to have children.   

And what Betty needs isn't a product, she needs a parent. 

What Betty needs isn't sugar.  

What Betty doesn't need a diet drink, either.  

What Betty needs is a nap. 

Betty will argue that she is too old for naps. 

No, Betty is overtired, cranky, wearing down her auxiliary battery, and she is working everyone's last nerve. 

But sugar?  No. Oh, no, no, no.

Not today Betty.  Not today.

If Cookie could name the horses in the Kentucky Derby

 The Derby is this week.  As is tradition, Cookie renames the horses to suit his whims. 

Place bets at your own peril.   But my sources tell me that Elmers Bound is running scared, or coming to a bottle near you soon.

Don't fuck around with SEPSIS...

 

So, Cookie's Friday didn't go the way that he had planned. 

Thursday night I came down with a 100+ fever out of nowhere.   I took some Tylenol.  At 3am, it was even higher.  Friday morning it was still higher.  And this wasn't just any old fever, this was a full-on Mrs. Lovett's radiating heat fever. Like the Husband could feel how hot I was from two feet away.

Friday morning I got in to see the doctor, who looked at me fading in and out of a stupor (like an idiot, I drove myself to the doctor's office), and said, "Yeah, I am admitting you, right this minute."  I was put in a wheelchair and literally pushed to the ER. 

Long story short, I had two things wrong.  1st, a medical condition that we thought we taken care of in 2014 with abdominal surgery was back, and 2nd, they diagnosed sepsis and had I waited another day, could have landed me in ICU.

Here's the good news, they got me in, drained enough blood out of me for tests that I might as well have been being bled by George Washington's doctor, sent me through a machine or six, and then hooked me up to a battery if IV's.  Test results came back fast.  In some instances, I had the results before the doctors did.  Of course, I had no idea what was going on, but I have never had labs in an ER come back that fast, ever.

The miracle is that in 24 hours I got to come back home.  How?  The executive summary is powerful drugs and I responded almost as quickly as the whole event started.   I am still feeling wonky, I am on multiple anti-biotics, one of which is Flagyl - which makes your mouth taste horrible - but I am without pain. 

Why tell you this? 

Well, you hear about people going into sepsis (your body going into an extreme state to fight an infection), you don't know what it is or why getting to the ER fast is vital to prevent damage or even death.  I am providing THIS LINK to the CDC.  Look at it, read it, take it seriously.

What I experienced was a swift onset of fever, my blood pressure dropped, my heart rate became irregular, I felt woozy to the point of passing out.  

How they treat it depends on what triggered it.  Because mine was in the gut, it was IV antibiotics by mouth and by IV. 

In my case, it was the high fever, sudden and unlike any other, that was the red flag for ME.  I knew something was very wrong and I should have been at the ER that night, but I kept thinking it would pass and it didn't.  

I feel lucky and I know I got very lucky.   And I also know what could have happened had I tried to tough it out. 

The things that are done

 What has gotten done in the Cookie house today?

Bitch, this isn't chaos for anyone but the guy in the wig.

1) The conversion to Windows11 is DONE.  And my recommendation to you is to do everything you can do to avoid it.  It is VILE and has left Cookie feeling defeated.  Jesus fucking christ, I hate what Satya Nadella and his wrecking crew have done to Windows.  And personally, he won't be getting any cosmic love from me. 

2) The TAXES are done.  And we get refunds from the Feds and our home state. 

3) The accountant's bills are paid for the taxes.  FUCK YES!

4) I told that bitch off in the genealogy group today who was whining about something that happened on a major genealogical website like 20 years. 
Bitch, "chaos" isn't what happened to that website just because it no longer finds it useful.  Chaos happens in an enemy bombing civilians trying to get away from a military attack.  Chaos happens when some criminal whips out a semi-automatic on a subway car.  Chaos is watching a highly sugared child running rampant in a meltdown while his parents do nothing to soothe that child and question their own abilities as parents.   What your problem is DRAMA, and nothing more.   And I am not buying a ticket to that show, is neither is anyone else.

So excuse Cookie while I go and take a valium, a couple of pieces of chocolate, and eat a nice juicy steak for dinner in my victory lap.

Before you clean up that tombstone...

 

...ask yourself, does it have to be cleaned?  Do I have a right to clean it? Do I want to be the person who destroys the tombstone?

Cookie is going down this rabbit hole because what used to be the history buff and genealogy nut thing to do is evidently becoming a "Pinterest" hobby for many people. 

And that scares Cookie. 

I have been a genealogy buff (aka nut) for 45 years, and in those 45 years I have seen too many examples of the "best of intentions gone horribly wrong."  Over time, preservation and conservation techniques change, evolve, and too often than naught, get discarded. 

And with the explosion of internet access, messages boards, Instagram, Facebook, Bloggr (yes, I know), and social media, there are way too many people watching videos and crowning themselves experts.   And many, many, many of these self-educated experts are doing real damage in our graveyards and cemeteries. 

It wasn't even forty years ago that people advocated tombstone rubbings as a way to preserve the writing on tombstones.  "Look!" they said, pointing at papers that they had dropped over stones.  "I'm persevering history!" 

But they weren't.  They were adding to the abrasion damage caused by chalking and crayons being scraped across the face of gravestones, which accelerated the decay.   Don't do it!

About three weeks ago, an attendee at RootsTech, the world's largest genealogy conference - which was free again and virtual this year - was pointing to all sorts of horribly abrasive and damaging technics that they claimed to learn about cleaning tombstones and then advocated making rubbings!

No. No. No, NO!

So if you find yourself with a bad case of the Tombstone Twitch, my best advice is as follows: 

1) Stop.  Seriously, don't act.  Don't do anything.  Really.  

2) Ask yourself "do I really need to do this?"  Are you the best person to do this? Are you professionally trained or self-trained?  Or are you just someone who watched a video and thinks that this is too simple to screw up?   Trust me, you'll screw this up.

3) Does the stone need to be just read, or is it imperative that it must be cleaned?  Many stones need to be recorded, but not all stones must be cleaned.

4) Should I be cleaning this stone?  Is that your family member?  Do you have the input of all of the people descended from that person and they have all given you all of the permissions needed?

5)  Can I afford this?  Can you afford the right tools? Can I afford a professional restoration should this stone break or be damaged?

6) What are the laws regarding this?  Did you even think that cleaning a stone could be classified as vandalism?  Will the cemetery association allow you to clean a stone?  If the stone is in a rural cemetery, is it owned by a local government?  Are you trespassing to get to the stone if its a private cemetery?

7) You've decided that the family has abandoned tending to the grave, or have they? Are you assuming, or do you know for certain?

8) Can you afford the correct tools?  Do you have the money for the soft brushes, the D2, the distilled water to rinse the stone?  (Never rinse a stone in chlorinated water!)

So...

Cookie's bottom line: do NOT clean a stone unless you have received proper training, do not assume anything, and understand that even the slightest mistake could be destroying history for future generations.  

And one other thing to think of - do you remember that woman in Europe who destroyed a fragile fresco of Jesus with her handiwork?  You don't want to be her.  Seriously.  No.  And it is not funny, it is not that no one cares.  She ruined a piece of work with the best of intentions and it went horribly wrong because she didn't know what she was doing.  

Don't be that person, OK?

In other words, don't clean that stone unless it's got your name on it. 

This must be what Hell is like...

Cookie is aghast. 

Simply, aghast. 

Seriously, what the hell was in the water in Bryan, Ohio, that led the makers of Etch-A-Sketch down this path? 

The toy is not the issue.  It's a record player with an attached mic.  A white mic.   One that Mike Douglas would be comfortable holding. 

But the horrible sound quality of the commercial!  The stilted verbiage!.  The off-key singing!  The sugared-up children!

I mean what creative mind came up with "It's a record player with a microphone, but without the record."

Would it have been so hard to write "It's a record player with an attachable microphone," and at the end state "records not included"?

And in what pop tart powdered sugared world DJ need a Mike Douglas-styled microphone? 

Seriously, what the fuck?

Of course, now I must possess one...

They want me so bad. Well, their gonna have to wait, forever.

 

When we moved to Baltimore, we had to get a landline phone.  There were a variety of reasons, but it boiled down to two things.  First, the husband is on call 24/7 for work, so we have to have a guaranteed way for his coworkers to reach him.  The second reason is that we have owned two large houses, and Cookie refuses to become one of the people who carry their cell phones 24/7.   The cell phone only is in use when I leave the house for a period of time, or travel, period.  

As a result, we get all manner of whack-a-doodle robocalls all day long.  You learn to live with that. 

I also get a lot of odd calls from our old area code, which is where the cell phones have their numbers based, based in Central Ohio.  One caller, "Bob" from the "electronic company" that and that he was "coming to turn our power off in your Columbus abode unless you give me your credit card number NOW and pay the $3,000 balance this very minute."  I laughed.  "Thees is not humorous," said "Bob".  I told him I had a thick juicy steak to eat, and that he was free to knock his socks off while trying to cut my "electronic".

We don't get many spammy text messages because we don't give out our cell phone numbers. But this morning, which making coffee,  I got a very odd text message through the cell phone from a dealer who bills themselves as Ford Superstore.  And Son of a Tallahassee Bitch, the dealership is for real.  How about that?

"Mr. COOKIE COOKIE" it begins...
"We have buyers for your used Ford F-150..."

This gave me pause for a number of reasons.   First, they had my full name. Which I found odd.  Secondly, they had my full name with my correct cell phone number. Thirdly, I don't own a F-150. 

So I called said dealership and said: "Why am I getting these from you when I have no business relationship with you?"

The operator said she would connect me to the right person. 

Eventually, Mr. Right Person picked up and said "Mr. Cookie - Yes, we would like you to bring in your truck and give you a premium on your trade-in amount."

So she put me on hold and transferred the call to the person who was up next to be the Right Person. 

This guy explained that this was part of a batch broadcast fax (which I call SPAM) from customer profiles drawn from their service department.  "You brought your Ford F-150 in last fall to have the tires rotated. It had Ohio plates."

"Now that intrigues me," says I.  And then I explain to him why:

1) I do not own a currently own a Ford.

2) I haven't owned a Ford since 1982 when I junked a 1973 Ford LTD that the engine seized up on leaving me stranded at college.

2) I do not now own, lease, rent, or drive a Ford F-150 pick-up, now or ever. (I know who I am, and someone living in a big city has no need for such. Or for a fragile self-esteem reason that many men buy such trucks.) 

3) I have never considered owning such a vehicle.

4) Until today, I had never heard of this Florida town where said dealership is located.   And If I have never heard of it, it isn't possible for me to have been there last fall when we were in Baltimore - ALL FALL WITH NO TRAVEL because of COVID.

5) I would never take any vehicle to a dealership out of warranty and based on their text message said truck was way out of any new car warranty, for a tire rotation.

6) I haven't set foot in Florida since 2011 and have no intention of doing so in the future.

And finally: I haven't lived in Ohio for a decade. 

"So if  I have never been in the corner of the state where you are, or heard of the city where you are, or own the vehicle that I have never owned, leased, or driven, and thus I cannot rotate its tires, how did my name, and phone number get into your dealer's service logs on a vehicle that as far as I am concerned doesn't exist?"

Dead silence. 

Now, he did promise to take me out of their rotation of broadcast (SPAMMY) messages. 

Either this dealership has had a customer that used my name, my cell phone number, and someone else's VIN in their system. You'd think that would get kicked out, don't you? Or the person at the dealership made some fantastical (as in "I call bullshit") story up. 

Then the coup d' grace. I asked what number he had just taken out of the system.  He says "Well, the one you are calling from," and he rattles off my landline in Baltimore.  

"Guess again, son."

Now, I am not saying that this dealership isn't above board and all, but something here ain't right.  And had he just come out and said "Sir, I do not have any idea how this happened," it would be a closed book. 

But this story about me being someplace I was not, doing something that I did not do, and driving something I wouldn't drive, now that gets to me. 

And I will get to the bottom of it.  Because my question is, have other people fallen for this?  Or who in their right mind would want to be me.  (I should add that Life Lock hasn't ever sent me a warning that someone was trying to be me.)

But one thing is for sure, I'll never buy a car from them, new, used, leased, or otherwise made up.

There two kinds of people. Which are you?

 Cookie begs the question, are you someone who looks at the obvious, or do you see the big picture? 

Because you could be missing out on the lie that tells the truth.

And someone could get embarrassed. 

Or Cookie could post the picture on his blog. 

A new computer means new angst...

 

Over the last several years, Cookie has been plagued with computer woes.  And its all my fault. 

Now, before you read further, do not comment by throwing Apple love at my bitterness. I too love Apple machines.  But they don't work well with what I work with. 

ANYWAY...In 2010 I built through Dell an amazing machine - in fact, I overbuilt it.  I did not want to go through the process of having to buy and then a couple years later, jettison a computer because it was struggling to keep up.  And this machine was the answer.  I loved it so much, I named it, Endora because it felt effortless, and like I could do anything.

I built it so well, that except for a bump in RAM, it ran beautifully for eight years - a record for me. Endora never let me down.  Alas, the processor was aging, and I determined it was time to say goodbye. 

So like an idiot, instead of doing my own homework, I listened to the sales reps at MicroCenter and bought a Dell that they had customized. (Normally, I love Microcenter, having never been led astray before this purchase.)  The operating system was on a small SSD, and the former C drive was repositioned as a "D" drive for my documents and pictures.  They claimed that I could load programs to the D drive and they would run just fine. Well, I had problem after problem after problem and the machines just locked up, so they replaced them. There were three replacements in a six-month period.   I was not happy with Microcenter and they were tired of me, but the fourth machine stuck, kind of.

First off, some programs didn't like being on one drive and the operating system on another.  Photoshop kicked up the worst fuss. But the other issue was that for whatever reason, there never seemed to be enough resources or cooling power.   And no amount of upgrades seemed to help.

Idiosyncrasies that we intermittent  - like the mouse freezing up for a second once in a great while, or the computer pausing like it had a momentary lapse in memory happened, but they were the rule, until...

Last year it started behaving wonky and when 32g of ram didn't help, we upped it to 64g.  But the performance was declining. It was like Esmerelda had taken control of the machine.

This past December things became dire, and we entered the AUNT CLARA stage right after Microsoft uploaded one of the pesky Windows11 updates, and I didn't install it.  That was when the mouse pausing went into overdrive, the screen started flickering and flashing, and Photoshop started crashing. 

We decided to replace it with another one built directly with Dell.  Then we would slip out the D drive and install it in the new machine.  Wouldn't that be easy? 

In the middle of February, New Dell arrived, shiny, nice case, and in a pleasant surprise, the 500mg SSD drive was upgraded by the manufacturer to a 1000tb SSD. 

Then I turned it on and there it was, Windows11 Professional.   That first couple of hours wrestling with the new operating system was pretty hellish. I developed one of my sick headaches, and we set the new machine aside. 

I started doing some homework and soon learned that Windows11 is a mother fucking pain in the arse, and I am not alone in my opinion.  So much so that a whole cottage industry exists making apps to make the thing work for you better, rather than you working on it as it demands. 

And don't even get me started on how "flat" (cheap) it looks.

One example is that Cookie does not "chat" through Microsoft, or other platforms.  I do use IOS messenger, but I have no need to "chat" unless you call me on the landline.  But you cannot get rid of the Chat button on the toolbar.  For that matter, the ersatz Apple IOS-looking toolbar takes up a bit of room on the screen, too.

But change is coming.  I have to get the new computer up and running, AND, I understand that Microsoft will be unleashing so many changes to meet with consumer complaints in the fall.  

Mid-March looks like a beast, but I'll make it.  Then after this machine is completely ended of anything usable, I reformat the C drive and take it to be recycled.  It's not that I dislike it, but no one else shall be burdened with it.