I Hate Houseguests

I saw an article about words for eating styles, like vegetarians and vegans.  Most of us are familiar with those, but these were some new to me:

Pescatarians – eating a plant-based diet, plus fish.

Flexitarians – favoring a plant-based diet, but eats meat occasionally.

Reducetarians – eating less meat (red meat, poultry, and seafood) as well as less dairy and fewer eggs, regardless of the degree or motivation.

I love words, so I wondered if there were others I hadn’t heard of.  Sure enough, I found some at MyTrainerFitness.com:

Pollotarian – semi-vegetarian but includes poultry.

Pollo-pescatarian – semi-vegetarian but includes poultry and fish.

Paleotarian – focuses on eating as did our hunter-gatherer ancestors, a diet of organic meats and healthy doses of fruits, vegetables, roots, nuts and seeds, with minimal grains, legumes, starches and sugars.

Pegans – combines principles from the paleo diet to their veganism.

But wait!  I kept researching and found even more:

Pesca-Paleo-Pollotarians – people who are so confused they don’t know what the hell to eat.

Smallians – those who eat whatever, but only small amounts.

Dessertarians – those who refuse all plant-based foods except strawberry shortcake, Peach Melba and Bananas Foster.

Saltandpepperarians – people who season their food before they’ve tasted it.

Onomatopoeians – people who only eat food that tastes like it sounds.  Since there aren’t many, this lifestyle was short-lived.

Interviewians – the hiring manager who eats all the way through your big job interview.

Moochians – people who don’t order anything when they’re with a group in a restaurant, and then ask for bites off everyone else’s plates.

Sleepinarians – those who’d rather sleep in and skip breakfast.

Desklunchians – people of no particular food group who always eat lunch at their desk.

Beardians – guys whose food gets stuck in their beards and stays there until someone mentions it to them.

Dietarians – those who’ve lost the same 20 pounds 20 times.

Cellphonians – people who go out to eat and focus on their phones instead of each other.

Oldiearians – people who say, “At my age, who gives a shit?”

This image is from a commercial for Viberzi, a drug for Irritable Bowel Syndrome with Diarrhea (IBS-D) which of course is no laughing matter.

The commercial, however…

What I’m imagining is the conversation in the conference room at the ad agency that created this commercial:

“OK, everybody, listen up!  I’ve got a great idea for our new client, Viberzi.  We get an actress and put her in a skin-tight body suit, pale, like her skin, so the viewers focus on the image on her stomach.”

Long silence, and then, “OK, Jake.  What’s the image on her stomach?”

“It’s her intestines and the…uh…stuff below it.”

Another long silence.

“And this actress, Jake.  What does she do?

“She walks, she talks, but other people can’t see or hear her.  She follows around another actress who has that IBS-whatever while the voiceover talks about how great Viberzi is.”

Silence.  And then,

“So the second actress is interacting with the first actress’ guts?”

“No!  She’s interacting with her own guts and the…uh…stuff below it.”

“Jake.”  Long silence.  “Could you wait out in the hall?”

And the “guts” actress – here’s what I imagine is on her resume:

“Since 2016 I have starred as ‘Irritabelle’ in nationally broadcast Viberzi TV commercials, skillfully and sensitively depicting the small intestine, cecum, ileum, ascending colon, traverse colon, descending colon, and sigmoid colon.  This multi-faceted role required:

• Acting
• Emoting while speaking lines such as “Diarrhea and abdominal pain!”
• Smiling
• Gesticulating
• Portraying guts credibly
• Being invisible to everyone but the afflicted person

“Chosen ‘Ad of the Day’ in Adweek, April 14, 2016.  I am now nationally known as ‘The Viberzi Girl.’”

I hope this actress gets to do a lot more Viberzi commercials.

It would be a shame to let all that talent go to…uh…waste.

Publication date:  October 2017

Review, short version:  Three roses out of four.

Long version:

We are inundated with endless recountings of history, but there’s a lamentable lack of herstory.

So I was delighted to read Natasha Boyd’s The Indigo Girl – a fictionalized herstory – about a mostly forgotten woman who made her mark with a mostly useless plant.

The woman was Eliza Lucas and the plant was indigofera tinctoria.

Who?  What?

The Indigo Girl answers both.

Eliza (1722-1793) was 16 when the story begins on her family’s plantation in the colony

of South Carolina.  She was smart, educated, and loved botany, in an era when a woman interested in science was regarded with suspicion, if not scorn.  She was determined to be her own person, and rejected suitors suggested by her father, at a time when a female’s only role in life was marriage.  When her father sailed off to the Caribbean island of Antigua to pursue his military/political career, he left the running of the plantation – and two others – in Eliza’s young but very capable hands.

Unheard of.

Determined to save the plantations and secure her family’s future, Eliza begins experimenting with indigofera tinctoria, or indigo, a plant that, after an extremely risky and labor-intensive process, produces a deep, rich and very rare blue dye – a dye greatly desired by the wealthy for their clothing.  Clothing then, as today, was a status symbol, and indigo blue was in high demand by European elites.

Can Eliza’s efforts turn this indigofera tinctoria…
Into this expensive indigo dye…
Which will be used for aristocrats’ clothes, like this lady’s costly hunting outfit, made of indigo-dyed satin?

Eliza tries and fails, and tries and fails, and you can’t help but root for her.  She was a young, single female, the only one in the American colonies trying to grow indigo as a cash crop.  “Ridiculous!” most men decreed.  Besides, rice was the thing in South Carolina, so never mind indigo, something the French had already mastered.

Never mind doing anything different – if you’re a female.

Will Eliza make a go of indigo?  As author Boyd recounts in her Afterward, one has only to look at South Carolina’s state flag and its indigo blue field for the answer.

Reading The Indigo Girl sparked my curiosity – always a sign of a good book for me.  I discovered more information online about Eliza’s story, so perhaps she isn’t mostly forgotten after all.  Some of the information is conflicting – it’s the Internet, so no surprise there – but all the sources agree that Eliza was an exceptional woman who did extraordinary things.

The Indigo Girl is herstory – and it’s a great read.

Let’s start with this premise:

I don’t use my cell phone much.

So I was puzzled by the “Roaming Minutes” I was charged for on my most recent Sprint bill.

I went online, and while I can review my bill there, it doesn’t detail when the roaming charges were incurred.

So I called the Sprint.  I know – pain in the butt, right?

It was.

After listening to 15 – yes, 15 – options on their phone tree, I was connected with a human, Daniel.  I explained that I wanted to know the dates and times the roaming charges were incurred.  Seemed simple enough.

Of course it wasn’t.  Daniel asked me to hold three separate times while he “researched” my account.  After the third interminable wait he finally retrieved the information, and advised that some of the roaming charges were as follows:

Three calls, all between 5:34am and 5:38am, all on December 29, and all to the same number.

That number?

My own cell phone.

Sprint was saying that I incurred roaming charges because I called myself three times in five minutes.

Is this as stupid as it sounds?

Oh, yes.

(Sidebar:  When I call my cell phone from my cell phone, it goes directly to my voicemail box to retrieve messages.  I’m pretty sure one of the options is not, “If you’d like to talk to yourself, press…”)

I questioned this, and Daniel said it required further research.  He put me back on hold, where I sat, and sat, and then…

You guessed it.  I was disconnected.

Super pain in the butt.

So I called back, and this time spoke to Allie.  I explained about talking to Daniel, learning what the roaming charges were for, sitting endlessly on hold, and getting disconnected.

Allie read Daniel’s notes, put me on hold (of course) to do her own research, then returned and said a credit would be issued for the roaming charges.  She also said something about, “Since you’re such a great customer, you’ve been with us since 2000,” or some such nonsense, as if that’s the reason Sprint is being so “generous.”

Like Sprint is doing me a big ?#@*&%! favor, issuing a credit for calls I didn’t make.

Seriously?  Why would I call myself three times in five minutes?

I never did get an answer to that one.

Now, you may sneer – I went through all this for less than $5.

But why should any service provider have one penny my hard-earned money – or yours – when they don’t deserve it?

Unless you’ve got money to burn, which I sure don’t.

Is this the first time it’s happened, but I just haven’t been paying attention?  If it happened with Sprint, maybe other phone companies as well?

And how will you know, unless you check?

Sure, phone bills are ridiculous – on mine there are seven categories of charges in addition to the monthly plan and the infamous roaming charges.  What the heck is “Federal Univ Serv Assess Non-LD” for $1.81?

But those roaming charges – those I understand.

And I’ll be looking at them from now on.

Are you like me?

You don’t like and/or trust Wells Fargo Bank but you just can’t face and/or don’t have time to deal with the complexities of moving your money from one bank to a different one.

Well, I’m reconsidering that attitude – and even liking Wells Fargo – after the recent stories about their January 17 computer glitch:

It was an eensy-weensy glitch, after all.  It just emptied your checking account by paying some bills multiple times, then hit you with overdraft fees.  Multiply that by the multitudinous people it affected, and those fees represent lots of money for Wells Fargo.

But noooo…

Wells Fargo is canceling those darn fees and putting your money back where it belongs.

Now, seriously – is this anything to get upset about?

And Wells Fargo apologized:

Well, not exactly apologize, that usually has the words “We’re sorry” somewhere.  And they’ve had so much practice apologizing recently, it’s probably getting old.

So what’s your problem?

Now, here’s an example of a real spoil sport:

That’s not an attitude of gratitude, Dr. Harriton-Wilson!

And these folks – so you were on “hold” forever, like you have something else to do with your phone?  And your time?

Wait – you want them to fix this glitch AND answer the phones???  And tsk, tsk, Donielle, using ALL CAPS is the online equivalent of yelling.

Let’s do like the song says:

Come on, people, let’s have a group hug:

After all, “To err is human.”

Or computer.

Or whatever.

Yeah, it looks the same everywhere:

The DMV.

Back story:

I was due to renew my driver’s license.  When I’d gotten the notice from the DMV a month earlier, it advised renewing would include taking a written test.

If you saw me that day at the DMV I may have appeared normal, but I was living in a state of barely controlled panic.  I HATE taking tests.

It had been years since I’d taken a DMV written test, and my stomach clenched every time I thought of it.  So I started preparing way ahead of my appointment.  (Sidebar:  If you have to do something at the DMV, make an appointment.  You’ll still be treated like a third-class citizen, but you’ll spend less time being treated that way.)

I went to the DMV and got their 104-page publication entitled “California Driver Handbook,” subtitled, “Let’s See How Many Ways We Can Baffle and Befuddle You.”  I read that sucker from cover to cover.  I highlighted obscure items I thought might appear on a test, like that thing about “center left turn lanes” and “California Vehicle Code 21460.5 (c).”

I also went online and took the sample driving tests.  There are five of them and I not only did each test twice, I printed them out and reviewed them.  There’s also an online Driving Knowledge Tutorial which I took.  And took again.  And again.

As I drive to my appointment I’m so nervous my sweaty hands are slippery on the steering wheel.  Oh, great, I think, lose control of the car and crash on my way to the DMV.  Instead, I arrive early and spend the time in my car doing guess what – studying some more.  I’m sure I spent 20 hours studying for (and obsessing over) this thing.  Now, finally it’s time.  I’m as ready as I can be.

After waiting an amazingly few minutes I step to the first counter.  Paperwork, write a check, a quick eye exam, and I’m given a tag with “F013” – the number they’ll call when it’s time for my next step.

Before I even sit down, I hear my number.  Different DMV person, paperwork, thumb print, waiting while the slowest printer I’ve ever seen produces multiple forms.  My palms are still sweating.  My stomach is still clenching.

And then, “Here’s your temporary driver’s license.  Go over there and get your picture taken.”

Wait.  What?  What am I not getting here?  I’ve just been handed my temporary license with no written test?  I say, “Don’t I have to take a test?”  She looks at me like I’m crazy and applying for a job there.  “No,” she snarls, and points me toward the camera.

I don’t know why and I never will.  But all that studying, sweating – and obsessing – all for nothing.

Well, maybe not for nothing.

Go ahead…

Quiz me.

From: Darrell Issa, California’s 49^th District Representative Extraordinaire

To:     My Congressional Colleagues

Re:     My Retirement

I no sooner announced my retirement on January 10 than a bunch of my loving constituents threw me a party – look at this cake!

Here they are, all lined up along the street, waiting to wish me well in person:

Of course, they’ll all have to look up, because as everyone knows, I like to hang out on the roof of my office whenever my constituents are around:

And yes, I’m going to stick around and finish my term, mostly because I enjoy being known as “The Richest Man in Congress.”  None of this “Richest Man in the House of Representatives” stuff for me!  Nice picture, yes?

In conclusion, to clear up any questions, I’ve written a little ditty with music from  that Evita show:

Madonna as Evita…

Darrell as Evita.

Don’t cry for me, California

I am the richest man

In our Congress!

In case you’re worried

To ease your tension

Of course I’ll also

Collect my pension!

Take a close look at this picture.

It’s a group of firefighters in Santa Barbara County, rescuing a teenage girl from a mudslide that buried her home on January 9.  This was one of 50 rescues that firefighters had conducted by mid-afternoon that day.

But wait – there were no fires in the area.  This was a mudslide caused by heavy rainfall.

Firefighters? 

Oh, yes.

Here’s another pictures of the same rescue – see the word “Fire” on their jackets?

Firefighters.  Oh, yes.

Firefighters are the amazing men and women who, when we’re all running away, they’re running toward.

Toward the fires, the floods, the mudslides, toward the victims of hurricanes and tornadoes and earthquakes.

Toward the World Trade Center on 9/11, where more than 300 firefighters lost their lives.

Toward the car with the “Jaws of Life” to extricate the driver before the car explodes.

Toward a different car – this one with a woman delivering a baby now.

And, yes, toward that cat stuck in a tree.  Not a life-threatening situation, but that’s what firefighters do.

They rescue:

Our lives, our loved ones, our homes, our pets.  And they don’t even know our names – we’re strangers to them.  They risk their lives every time they go work, to rescue strangers.

What a strange and wonderful profession.

I don’t know why firefighters choose this profession – it sure isn’t something I would do – but I’m so grateful they’re out there.

I don’t have the words to express my gratitude, admiration, and respect for firefighters, so I’ll hope these quotes can do it for me:

Firefighters save hearts – and homes.

 Firefighting is all about ass – busting ours to save yours.

 Firefighters:  Your worst day is our every day.

Does ANYBODY write thank-you notes anymore?

Thank-you emails?

Thank-you texts?

OK, not even write.  How about thank-you calls?

Something?  Anything?

The answer to all of the above is a resounding…

No.

Why?

No etiquette.

Etiquette:  An old-fashioned word, going back several hundred years when it evolved from French into Spanish, back into French and eventually to English.  In all those languages it meant the same thing:

Good behavior.

Behavior that takes into consideration the feelings of others.  The comfort of others.  The acknowledgment that there are others on the planet who are impacted by your behavior.

Examples of etiquette:

• Waiting until someone finishes speaking before you speak.
• Being punctual, whether it’s a business meeting, lunch with a friend, or a doctor appointment.
• Saying “please” and “thank you” and “you’re welcome.”

Examples of etiquette failures:

• Dropping your airplane seatback into the lap of the person behind you.
• Picking your nose in public.
• Failing to acknowledge a gift.

Several years ago I sent my nephew and his fiancée a wedding gift.  Now, etiquette guidelines suggest that a bride and groom have three months to send thank-you notes, so as time passed I didn’t think much about it.  Then more time passed, and more and then…

They got divorced.

I guess I can forget the thank-you note.  Or email, or text, or call.

I’ve got way too many examples like that, and I’ll bet you do, too.  You send someone a gift and then spend days wondering if they got it.  The days turn into weeks.  Finally you call and ask if they got it.  The conversation goes something like…

You:  Hey, Mikey, I just wanted be sure you got the (birthday/wedding/ Christmas/whatever) gift I sent?

Mikey:  Um…gift?

You:  Yes, the (birthday/wedding/Christmas/  whatever) gift I sent?

Mikey:  Um…oh, wait.  Maybe.  I think so.  Yeah!  It’s great!  Um…thanks!

Perhaps you’ll consider NEVER SENDING MIKEY ANOTHER GIFT AS LONG AS HE LIVES?

Sorry.  I know all-upper-case letters is online yelling.  Bad netiquette.

Emily Post (1872-1960) cared enough about etiquette to write a book about it in 1922 and it became a best seller.  After Emily (politely) passed, her descendants continued with updated versions, their 19^th edition released in 2017.

Why?

Because good manners matter.  Good manners make life easier and just plain better, for you and me and everyone around us.

And when have we needed that more – than right now?

So go write those Christmas thank-you notes.  Or emails.  Or texts.

Or call.

Do something.  Anything.

Please!

I sit down and…

THUMP!

The airplane drops.  It’s sudden.  Sickening.  Terrifying. 

The seatbelt sign flashes on, and I hear passengers crying out and screaming, and then comes the pilot’s voice, calmly but firmly advising us to “return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.  Flight attendants, secure the cabin.  We just encountered clear air turbulence and we need you to remain seated until we’re past it.”

I remain seated – I have no choice.  Somehow, in that terrible drop, I’ve become stuck where I sit:

On the toilet in the airplane bathroom.

This can’t be happening.

I shift from side to side, but I’m still trapped.  I brace my hands on the seat, try to push myself up, and fail.  My heart is pounding – I haven’t had this much exercise in years.

I look around, hoping for a sign with emergency instructions:  How To Extract Yourself From The Toilet.  No sign.  Why not?  They have signs for everything else:  No Smoking; Fasten Seat Belt; Dispose Of Hand Towels Here, but nothing useful when I really need it.

The plane continues to bounce and shudder, people continue to cry out and – cry.  Yes, I hear someone crying, someone praying – it’s terrible.  It’s me.  But the noise I’m most aware of is that annoying, nonstop hissing you always hear in airplane bathrooms.  Will that be the last sound I hear in this lifetime?

Because I know we’re all going to die.  But I’ll be the one what’s-his-name talks about on the CBS Evening News:  “Among the victims was a woman, apparently stuck on the toilet in an airplane bathroom.  We’ll have more on that tonight on CBS News at 11.”

And there will be my picture, pants down around my ankles, my posterior exposed for posterity.

I try, one more time, to push myself up and at that moment, the plane drops again.  And – I’m free.  I yank up my clothes, shove the door open, stumble down the aisle, fall into my seat and buckle up.

I am so grateful.

Because now, if we die, at least my bare ass won’t be on the 6 o’clock news.

At least once a week we hear or read a local story about someone, somewhere, in need of rescue:  a surfer or swimmer takes on waves he shouldn’t and lifeguards pull him safely to shore; a hiker ignores the “No Hiking” signs along an unstable cliff, and a search and rescue team climbs down to save her; a skier glides into a “No Skiing” zone, falls, breaks a leg, and the ski patrol risk their lives to save his.

I have two reactions to stories like these:  I’m grateful for the brave people who, without hesitation, put their lives in jeopardy to rescue someone from a dumb decision.

And I wonder:  Who pays for this?  Who pays for the lifeguards, search and rescue teams, ski patrols?  Well, you and I – the taxpayers – do.

That’s the case where I live, but in the Midwest do things a bit differently.

It’s 1pm Friday, December 29.  A call comes in to the County Communications Center about a man who’s fallen off Die Here Mountain, a popular spot for climbers.  According to his climbing partner, the man dropped 40 feet, landed on a rock ledge, is lying on his right side and complaining of pelvic pain.

The helicopter Search and Rescue Team is dispatched; the weather is cool and clear – a good day for a rescue.  As the team’s UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter hovers over the climber, the following scene takes place:

“Sir!” a voice booms from the helicopter’s loudspeaker, louder even than the copter’s powerful engine and whirling blades.  “Hang in there – we’re lowering the basket.”

As the basket reaches the fallen climber, he’s shocked to see it isn’t large enough to hold him.  It’s barely large enough to hold a grapefruit.

“Sir,” the voice continues, “in order to effect your rescue we’ll need a pre-payment of $3,862.  We accept MasterCard and Visa, but we do not accept American Express.  Please place your credit card in the basket, along with your photo ID, and stand by.”

Stunned, and in serious pain, the climber struggles to reach the wallet in his backpack, and manages to extract his credit card and driver’s license.  He places them in the basket, which swiftly rises into the open hatch of the Black Hawk.

A few agonizing minutes pass, then the basket descends again, this time falling to the ground, along with the severed rope.

The climber hears the loudspeaker voice again.  “Sir, we regret to inform you that your credit card was declined.”

A pause…and then, “Good luck!”

Publication date:  September 2017

Review, short version:  Four skunks out of a possible four.

Long version:

One of the many tragedies of the 1992 Los Angeles riots was the near death of Reginald Denny, a truck driver who was in the wrong place and the wrong time.  Denny was pulled from his truck by several men and beaten with fists, kicks and bricks.

The beating was broadcast live from a freelance news team’s helicopter and was eventually seen all over the world, going viral before anyone had coined, or even conceived of, the phrase.

A tragedy for Reginald Denny – and a gold mine for that news team, Bob and Marika Tur, parents of Katy Tur, the author of Unbelievable.

And not just Bob and Marika – Grandma Tur got in on the gold mine, as well.  “At one point,” recounts Tur, Grandma “was flipping video of the Reginald Denny beating for five grand a use – helping to turn my parents into on-paper millionaires…We had a seven-figure helicopter, two Porsches, and enough extra cash for biannual ski vacations and a trip or two to Hawaii.”

Nothing like “flipping” a tragedy into some ski and beach time.

This is one background story from author Tur, a reporter for NBC News and MSNBC.  Perhaps she shares this story to explain why she “wanted to chase the news,” how she ended up becoming a TV news reporter, and covered the Trump presidential campaign for 500 days.

But don’t know for sure – I stopped reading on page 123, and during that time I was too busy being overwhelmed by Tur’s whining.

Tur whines early, and often, starting on page three:

“More around-the-clock live shots, more airports…I can’t.  I just can’t…I’m never going on vacation.  I’m never seeing my friends.  I’m never getting my bed back…”

But wait, there’s more.  Much more:

“I’m exhausted and cold and, at 5:30am, I’ve already been up for an hour.”

“The last three months are a blur.  I have forgotten what sleep feels like.  In 120-odd days, I’ve been to more than forty-one different cities in at least nineteen states.”

Following a work-induced breakup with her lover:

“I’ve been too busy to mourn.  It will make me too sad and make this job too difficult.”

“Maybe I am just feeling burnt out.  Time off is getting harder to come by.  There is no such thing as a weekend.  I turned off my personal cell phone a long time ago.  The guilt was just too much.  I can’t face three hundred unread texts from people…”

Would suggesting Tur consider a career change be too obvious?

“Do people think we enjoy living out our lives on the road, dragging our suitcases behind [Trump] all over the country…we have faceless airports, cramped coach seats…every night we’re in yet another random, far-flung hotel…we finally make it to our rooms, exhausted and grumpy.  This job is hell.  On relationships.  On your body.  On your mind.”

I’ll declare a whine-free zone after one particularly articulate passage:

“For god’s sake, I can’t stand in front of a camera every hour until eternity!  It’s cold and it’s wet and – Fuck, I’ve lost it – Jesus Christ, people need to eat!!”

If this is what Tur does with the written word, I shudder to think what she does with the spoken word on TV.

Not that I’ve ever seen her on TV.

I’d thought a book with the subtitle of My Front-Row Seat to the Craziest Campaign in American History would provide some insights, some insider’s knowledge.  Wrong.  I encountered nothing – up to page 123 – that I hadn’t already heard, seen or read about.

But, as is often the case, Amazon’s readers don’t agree with me – Unbelievable is running at 4.5 stars with 1200+ reviews.

Maybe Tur’s book will be her goldmine.

Dear Juror (the letter begins),

Thank you for taking the time to fulfill this important civic responsibility.

Let’s dissect this first sentence in my recent summons to jury duty.

First, “for taking the time.”  I’m not taking the time – you, the court system, are taking it from me.  I’m not volunteering for this; you are demanding that I appear, or suffer possible consequences “pursuant to Code of Civil Procedure section 209,” which threatens me with being “placed in custody and/or fined.”

Second, “important.”  Maybe important to you, the court system, but not to me.

Third, “civic responsibility.”  Who decided that jury duty is my civic responsibility?  Paying taxes – that’s my civic responsibility.  Obeying traffic signals – that’s my civic responsibility.  But jury duty?  No.

You, the court system, without consulting the taxpaying citizens, decided that jury duty is we, the people’s, civic responsibility because you couldn’t get anyone to volunteer for jury duty.  You said, “Ah!  We’ll call it ‘civic responsibility’ and brainwash people into doing this onerous thing.  And if they resist, we’ll arrest and/or fine them.”

Here’s how it works where I live.  I show up at the designated place at the appointed time.  Many other people have done the same.  We’re all herded into a large room and the first thing I notice is, it’s cold.  When one of the herded comments to one of the court staff about the temperature, the response is, “We have no control over this.”

Oh, really?  You have control over me, but not the temperature in this room?  I’ll bet you have control over the temperature in the court room, if the judge says it’s too cold.  I’ll bet you have control over the temperature in the judge’s chambers.  I’ll bet you have control over the temperature in the judge’s bathroom.

But no control for the huddled masses yearning to be warm, who don’t want to be here in the first place?

Now let’s talk about wasted time.

There are 134 schlemiels in the jury assembly room including me, and not including court staff.  For every one hour that ticks by, that’s 134 hours of unproductive time.  On that day we were stuck there for five hours, so five hours X 134 people = 670 hours.  Divide that by a 40-hour work week and it’s 16.75 weeks’ worth of wasted time.

That’s more than a month of wasted time.

Oh, sure, there are a few fools tapping away on their laptops, but they aren’t being productive.  We’re freezing, remember?  And worrying about what’s not getting done at work.  And/or who’s going to pick up the kids from school.  And/or the appointment to get the furnace fixed that you had to cancel because you had show up for jury duty.

Plus we’re bored.

And pissed.

None of us is getting paid for showing up on this first day.  If I do get seated on a jury and the case goes to trial, I’ll be reimbursed the princely sum of $15 a day, plus mileage.  But get this:  The mileage is one-way only.  Now, where is the logic in one-way mileage?  Did those powers-that-be who came up with this plan decide, “We’ll pay people mileage to show up, but not to leave – whether or not they leave isn’t our business”?

And suppose my employer is one of the many who don’t pay people who are forced to serve on a jury?  In my state, “employers are not required by law to compensate employees on jury duty.”  So if I want out, I can “fill in item #10 in the Request for Excuse section…and describe in detail how jury service will cause extreme financial hardship.”

Seriously?  What part of I’m not getting paid don’t you understand?

Our jury selection system sucks.

Wiser heads than mine – and there are many of them – argue in favor of full-time jurors, and I agree.

They’d be professionals, just like judges and lawyers are professionals.  They’d be trained in understanding laws and court systems.  They’d show up for jury duty because it’s their job, not because they’re threatened with arrest and/or a fine.  They wouldn’t be sitting in a jury box distracted by what they’re missing at work because they’re at work.

Professional jurors vs…	What we have now

Professional jurors want to be there.  They’re interested in the process and in being part of the solution.  They’re familiar with the law, so before deliberation begins, when the judge gives instructions, they understand what the judge is saying instead of hearing what the rest of us hear:  “Blah, blah, blah, now that you have heard all the evidence, blah, blah, blah, do not discuss this case, blah, blah, blah.”

There are those who argue, “But Constitution says you have to serve on a jury!”  Wrong.  Article III, Section 2 states, “The trial of all crimes, except in cases of impeachment, shall be by jury.”  The Sixth Amendment adds, “In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial by an impartial jury…”

Nothing about how juries are selected.

Nothing about forcing us under threat of arrest and/or a fine.

Nothing about depriving us of our income.

Nothing about one-way mileage.

And nothing about freezing our asses off.

I’m a great one for saving recipes from the newspaper.  Not for actually making any of the dishes; just saving the recipes.

Especially if the recipe has a color photograph.  Just picture this in living color:  Rosemary Apricot Pork Tenderloin.  Baked Chicken in Lemon Sauce.  Blackened Salmon with Cilantro-Lime Crème Fraiche.  Oh, does that look good.

I especially like recipes with adjectives in the names:  Perfect Pot Roast.  Sprightly Potato Salad.  Sensuous Stuffed Mushrooms.  Oh, does that sound good.

Now if only someone would show up at my door with it all prepared and ready to eat.  Preferably with a nicely chilled chardonnay.

It was one such recipe – and color photo – that sent me to my own collection.  I use that word guardedly; I’m not talking about a recipe box or accordion folder with every recipe in its place:  appetizers, casseroles, desserts, fish, meat.

No.

My collection resides in an old, large white envelope that’s torn along one side, and the contents are in no recognizable order.  So when I actually want something, it means burrowing through a messy mound of newspaper clippings, recipes cards of many sizes, and scraps of paper in many shapes.  By the time I find it, I’ve usually lost interest in making whatever I was looking for.

So, back to that recipe and the color photo.  It was for Sloppy Joes, and it looked good, but I knew I had Mom’s recipe, and hers sounded a lot better than the newspaper’s offering.  So the hunt began.

Only this time, I did things differently.

Instead of a quick glance and on to the next clipping (or recipe card or scrap of paper), I actually spent some time visiting with my past.  And with the women who, over the years, have shared not only their recipes, but their wisdom, as well.

First:  Mom.  She sent me lots of recipes, all in her familiar, beloved handwriting.  Mom knew I wasn’t much for cooking, plus I was single and lived alone.  She envisioned me, I’m certain, standing over the kitchen sink and eating out of a can, so recipes were her way of encouraging me to occasionally make a decent meal for myself.  Hence, “Dear Laura, Here’s a recipe that’s real easy.”

How well Mom knew me!

That contribution was her Spinach Fandango, but my collection also includes her Chicken Gabriela, Lemony Steamed Fish, Roast Pork Boulanger, the aforementioned Sloppy Joes, and many more.  As I sifted through them I realized I didn’t want to make any of them.  I wanted to be back in Mom’s kitchen, with wonderful cooking smells surrounding me and a homemade dinner headed for the table.  But Mom died 25 years ago, and you can’t go home to eat again.

Mom’s mom, my Grandma, was also big on encouraging me to cook.  Especially after I moved from Michigan to California and discovered a wonderful appetizer called “Potato Skins.”  I actually started making my own version, and told Grandma about it when I next went back to visit.  She nodded, somewhat indulgently – California was a strange place, after all – then asked what I did with the insides of the potatoes after I’d made Potato Skins.

“I throw them away,” I shrugged. 

She was horrified at the thought of wasted food, and went on a quest to find something to do with all those insides of potatoes.  So as I searched through my recipes I encountered “Mrs. Streeter’s Cake” which calls for “two cups of mashed potatoes.”  Then there was Potato Fudge.  And Potato Candy Log.  And Potato Biscuits.

Starch, anyone?

Grandma’s recipes were also handwritten, hers on pieces of paper, her handwriting shakier in her later years.  But if her handwriting had gotten shaky, her brain had not, and she always included helpful hints along with the recipes:  “In case you already have a Bean Salad recipe, waste basket.”  “Put a dollop on top of the Fruit Salad.”  (“Dollop” was family lingo for “a copious amount of whipped cream.”)  “Try your hand at cookies,” she urged.  Then there was a chicken recipe that wasn’t all that complicated, but ended with, “Maybe I can explain when you visit us.”

How well Grandma knew me!

My mother-in-law made many contributions to my collection, most of them at my request.  She’d invite my husband and me over for dinner, and I’d ask for one or more of her recipes from that evening’s meal.  I’ve realized this is something of a ritual, to compliment a hostess by saying, “This is so good, I want to make it, too.”  I know this to be true, because I can’t think of anyone who’s ever asked me for a recipe.  When I do cook, more often than not my husband and I will look at each other and say, “Well, I don’t need to have this again.”

Not so with my mother-in-law.  She was a great cook, and gladly provided any recipe I asked for:  Beef Stroganoff, Chinese Chicken Slaw, Hot Crab Dip, Red Clam Chowder.  She gladly provided, but she learned to stop asking if I’d actually made the Hot Crab Dip, or whatever.

I encountered other great cooks on my recipe journey:  my sister and her Frances’ French Chicken.  (“You can’t go wrong!” she wrote at the top.  HA!)   Aunt Max and her Cheesy Potatoes.  Two recipes from my husband’s boss’ wife.  Yes, I was complimenting the hostess.

OK, I was sucking up.  What are the chances I’m going to make Pickled Cauliflower?

Caesar Salad from one sister-in-law, Stuffed Mushrooms from another, Gazpacho recipes from my vegetarian friend, and Hot Spiced Cider from my alcoholic friend.

In fact, for years I’ve been around great cooks and managed to not become one.

Then there was a recipe from a cousin with a title I can only describe as scary:  Spinach Balls.  And as if that wasn’t scary enough, attached to it for the calorie-conscious:  Low-Fat Spinach Balls.

Balls, anyone?

And what’s with this recipe I’d obviously torn from a cookbook?  Torn from a cookbook?  Even I know this is not good etiquette.  Ah – it’s for Hot Fudge Pudding, and I can assure you that when it comes to fudge, there’s no such thing as larceny.

There were a few recipes in my own girlish, very-young-20s handwriting:  Oven Fried Chicken, Dijon Chicken, Stuffed Chicken Breasts.  I must have had a thing for chicken.  Or maybe I thought, “Chicken!  You can’t go wrong!”  HA!  And recipes in my more mature handwriting:  Broccoli Stir Fry, Spinach Salad Dressing, and my Mom’s potato salad, which I’ve never been able to duplicate.

Of course not.  It was Mom’s potato salad.

As I reached the bottom of the pile, I realized for the first time what a presence was in that old white envelope:  my mother, grandmother and mother-in-law; my sister and sisters-in-law; my cousin, my friends.

And I have used some of their recipes – these are the few that are stained, somewhat wrinkled, somewhat faded, but treasured.  There are many more I doubt I’ll ever make.

But would I throw even a single one away?

Never.

Is English your first language?

Do you know someone who speaks English as their second language?

If you answered “Yes” to the first question, then you have NO idea how challenging it is to learn, in English, to speak, think, read, work on a computer and do myriad other things.

If you answered “Yes” to the second question, give that person a hug.  Or at least recognize their huge accomplishment in learning a language that sometimes makes absolutely no sense at all.  Even to people who grew up speaking it.

Take, for example, “nym” words.  That is, words ending in nym.  There are more than 50 of them, and good luck sorting them out.

Like ethnonym, “the name of a people or ethnic group.”  Ethnonym is related to, but not to be confused with, demonym, which has nothing to do with demons, and means “a proper noun used to denote the natives or inhabitants of a particular country, state, city, etc.”

Or how about those nym words that identify groups of words:

• Antonym – a word having a meaning opposite to that of another word; wet is an antonym of dry.
• Heteronym – one of two or more words that have identical spellings but different meanings and pronunciations, such as lead (to conduct) and lead (a metal).
• Homonym – one of two or more words that have the same sound and often the same spelling but differ in meaning such as bank (embankment) and bank (where money is kept).
• Synonym – a word having the same or nearly the same meaning as another word or words; Romeo has become a synonym for a youthful lover.

Come on, you remember these from grade school grammar, yes?

No?

Then you’ve got anonym, which means the same as pseudonym.  Well, why didn’t you just say that in the first place?

And paronym, defined as “a paronymous word.”  That’s helpful.

How about metonym, “a word used in metonymy.”  Equally helpful.

And apronym, something to wear when you’re making a mess of nym words.

Are you getting numb from nyms?

Then I’ll leave you with hodonym and odonym.  Here’s a clue:  They mean the same thing.

And I gave you the answer earlier.

Awhile back I reminded everyone to get crackin’ on their Christmas newsletters.  I did –  and now here’s mine, to you:

 

Publication Date:  June 2017

Review, short version:  Four roses out of a possible four.

Long version:

The movie Thelma & Louise came out in 1991, and while I remembered bits and pieces of it, what stayed with me was the ending.

The ending stunned me.  Flummoxed me.  And yes – disappointed me.

After keeping me thoroughly engaged throughout, Thelma & Louise, at the end, left me shaking my head and thinking, “Why?”  And then, “Why did I watch this?”

I admit – I’m a person who likes happy endings.  A bad ending to a movie, book, short story, any story, can spoil the whole experience for me.

But after reading Becky Aikman’s Off the Cliff, I realized the ending of Thelma & Louise wasn’t a “bad” ending.

It just wasn’t the ending I wanted – for Thelma, for Louise, for any woman who resists “the place they’d been dealt in society,” as Aikman puts it.

Off the Cliff tells the story about the creation, production and aftermath of Thelma & Louise on several levels.  One is a fascinating tale of an unknown – Callie Khouri – writing a screenplay (her first), for a movie unlike anything Hollywood had seen, and therefore unlikely ever to make it to the screen.  The behind-the-scenes recounting of how Thelma & Louise was made and who was involved would make a good movie on its own.

On another level, we learn more reasons why Thelma & Louise should have been a non-starter.  It’s a buddies-on-the-road movie but with two women instead of two men – unheard of in the 1990s (or 80s or 70s, etc.).  The women evolve, when the norm was male characters evolving while women remained window dressing.  There is violence – another no-no for chick flicks – some perpetrated against, and some by, Thelma and Louise.

Khouri and the handful of others who believed in the movie were vindicated:

• It received a slew of awards, and was celebrated on the 10^th, 20^th and 25^th anniversaries of its release. How many movies get all that?
• Less than a month after its release, the movie was the Time cover story. That generally happens…nearly never.
• Thelma & Louise stirred, and continues to stir, controversy – and how often are movies still debated a quarter century after their creation?

Aikman is a good storyteller, drawing, according to the book jacket, from “130 exclusive interviews with the key players from this remarkable cast of actors, writers and filmmakers.”  Her insights are an important part of Off the Cliff, especially those about

how far women have – and mostly haven’t – progressed in Hollywood.

And the timing of the book is amazing, coming as it does in sync with the ever-growing number of stories about sexual harassment – and worse – by men in show business.  And elsewhere.

If you haven’t seen Thelma & Louise, see it.  Then read Off the Cliff, and you’ll see it even better.

I was reading an article that mentioned a guy’s name, age and occupation.  I cruised right through the name and age, but his occupation brought me to a screeching halt:

“Professional mushroom collector.”

Whoa!  Really?

I didn’t know there was such a profession!  If only I’d known, I could have done that instead of spending every day doing boring old brain surgery!

OK, I’m kidding about the brain surgery, but not about being a professional mushroom collector.  Apparently the hills (and valleys and forests) are alive with the growth of mushrooms.  There are all sorts of professionals out there finding them, and all sorts of restaurateurs salivating to buy them.

But whoa, again.  Not just any mushrooms – chose the wrong fungi and the person who eats it could end up dead:

The Amanita virosa is so dangerous that its nickname is “death angel.”
Just inhaling in the fumes from cooking Galerina marginata – Autumn Skullcap – could be your last breath.
And selling a restaurant some Lepiota brunneoincarnata – Deadly Dapperlings – will not get you invited back.

But don’t get discouraged – there are all sorts of good mushrooms out there, and all sorts of good ways to find them.  Get started by reading the “Mushroom Hunter” job description at InsideJobs.com for tips including treading carefully across those hills:  “It would be a shame if you accidentally squished a whole crop beneath your boot.”

Next, you can attend Michigan State University’s course offering “foragers necessary certification for selling wild mushrooms.”  That same website also offers a “related article,” Why and How to Report Sightings of Brown Marmorated Stink Bugs in Your Home or Business.  Related how, I don’t know.

Finally, to make sure your skills are top-notch, visit mushroomexam.com to test your knowledge about “key features of fungi” and “tree and fungi relationships.”

Before you know it, you’ll be tossing off terms like a regular mycophagist, including:

• Kinfinanuthin:  What you say when you leave the forest empty-handed.
• Quick walk in the woods, Honey:  A little white lie told to spouses by avid mushroom hunters.
• Xcuse:  What you’ll give to explain being three hours late from a “quick walk in the woods, Honey.”

You’ll be sourcing that perfect mushroom-gathering bucket,
donning those perfect mushroom-gathering clothes,
and tramping around those hills (and valleys and forests) finding the perfect morels, chanterelles, and shiitakes.

Or, you could just go to the grocery store and buy them.

Whoa!  Really?

Have you ever watched the sport of curling?

Correction:  Have you ever watched the sport of curling and stayed awake?

Now, while I’m far from a sports know-it-all – or even a neophyte – I have seen a bit of curling and here’s what it looks like to me:

Seriously, badly dressed adults
Walking, squatting and assuming other uncomfortable postures on ice
And making faces
While pushing big rocks around with – what else – brooms.

Eventually someone wins, but I have no idea how.

I just learned that not only is curling an Olympic sport – but at the 2018 Winter Olympics, for the first time ever:

MIXED DOUBLES CURLING! TEAM USA QUALIFIES!

Wow!  Is that like mixed doubles tennis?

Yes, exactly!  Except it’s on ice, the participants are badly dressed, they squat a lot, and instead of gracefully volleying tennis balls, they’re shoving around a 40-pound rock and cleaning house at the same time.

I decided to learn more and it turns out that was easy – reams have been written about curling (ZZZzzz).  Websites are devoted to the sport, for the World Curling Federation, the United States Curling Association, the Curling National Championships, and about a gazillion curling clubs (ZZZZZzzzzz).

And there’s a long history here –  there’s evidence that “curling existed in Scotland in the early 16th century, including a curling stone inscribed with the date 1511 uncovered (along with another bearing the date 1551) when an old pond was drained at Dunblane, Scotland.”

I guess no one told those badly dressed, squatting Scots that the game loses some of its appeal when the pond melts.

Curling includes a mixed bag of terms such as sheet, the ice on which the game is played; stone, a clever nickname for that rock; and the broom thing is called a brush, “a device used by players to sweep/clean the ice in front of a moving stone.”

Like I said, housekeeping.

The male/female curling teams will make their debut this winter in PyeongChang, South Korea, a destination that makes the event sound even more attractive.

Hello, does the name Kim Jong Un ring any bells?  South Korea is, like, sorta close to North Korea?

Ah, well.  A mere bagatelle.

Olympic advertisers will spend tons of money like they always do, the ratings will stink, like they always do, and a month later we’ll have forgotten who won, like we always do.

But at least we’ll have clean sheet.

Let’s say you’re engaged in a creative effort – dancing, singing, writing, sculpting, painting, any creative effort.

Let’s go with writing.

Now let’s say you’ve written a short story, and wonder if it’s good enough to be published.  As in, not self-published.  As in, published in a print, not online, format.  As in, you get paid for it.

What do you do?

Well, if you’re Tom Hanks, you just send the short story to your pal Steve Martin (left), who says, “Yeah, I’ll send it to my agent.”

Hanks’ short story was published in The New Yorker, a highly respected magazine that’s been around forever, has a million+ circulation, and no doubt paid Hanks enough so he could stop worrying about his electricity being shut off.  That month.

“Within weeks,” according to The Washington Post, Hanks “was signed to write a collection of short stories” by Alfred A. Knopf, a highly respected publishing house that’s also been around forever, has won about a million Pulitzer and Nobel Prizes, and no doubt paid Hanks enough so he could stop worrying…

Well, you get the idea.

Hanks’ book, Uncommon Type, was published October 17, 2017 and hit The New York Times best seller list at #3 on November 5.  It’s garnering a fair amount of praise, and some not-so-flattering reviews as well.

Praise:

“Uncommon Type offers heartfelt charm along with nostalgia for sweeter, simpler times – even if they never really were quite so sweet or simple… Even when Hanks writes about somber subjects like the durable distress of combat or the high stakes for immigrants fleeing persecution, he finds a sweet spot.”
– NPR

Not-so:

“It’s rare that a book is actually painful to read, but getting through Tom Hanks short story collection, Uncommon Type, was like pulling teeth… We have 17 stories, ranging from downright terrible to decidedly mediocre.  I’m just going to come out and say it:  Written by anyone else, I don’t see how this collection would have been published.”
– Independent

What’s it all mean?

Well, for better or for worse, if you’re engaged in a creative effort like writing, for example, and want your effort recognized, just follow these 10 easy steps:

1. Become as famous as Tom Hanks, and
2. Write something that you’ll

   

3. Send it to your pal Steve Martin, who will
4. Send it to his agent, who will,
5. Get you published in The New Yorker, which will
6. Lead to a contract with a major publishing house, which will
7. Publish your book, which will
8. Hit The New York Times best seller list, and will
9. Cost $26.95, which will
10. Mean you don’t have to worry about your electricity being turned off…

This month.

I just googled “sexual misconduct allegations” and got more than 1,300,000 results.

Headlines shouted the word “misconduct”:

CBS News:  “Gayle King and Norah O’Donnell Address Charlie Rose Sexual Misconduct Allegations”

The New York Times:  “After Weinstein:  A List of Men Accused of Sexual Misconduct and the Fallout for Each”

The Los Angeles Times:  “Russell Simmons and Brett Ratner Face New Allegations of Sexual Misconduct”

Here’s the problem:

The word “misconduct.”

“Misconduct” is when a third grader punches a first grader.  “Misconduct” is stealing a towel from your hotel room.  “Misconduct” is going online at work to Christmas shop.

When a man forces his attentions on someone who doesn’t want them, it isn’t something as innocuous as “misconduct.”

It’s assault.  Definitions:

• Actual touching or violence upon another.
• An attempt to initiate harmful or offensive contact with a person, or a threat to do so.
• An act that causes verbal or physical injury.

As long as I’m objecting to the media’s use – misuse – of language, here’s one I heard on the TV news:

“Serious sex crimes.”

As opposed to what?  Funny sex crimes?

And “sex crimes” is another media misuse of language.  As soon as the media introduce the word “sex” into the equation, the perpetrator’s actions are trivialized.  The assault is diminished into a guy sex thing.

But the actions of these men have nothing to do with “sex,” and everything to do with violence.  Definitions:

• Rough or injurious physical force, action or treatment.
• Behavior involving physical force intended to hurt, damage or kill someone or something.
• The use of physical force so as to injure, abuse, damage or destroy.

And here’s one more, from the TV news:

“Forcing her to have sex with him.”

When a man forces someone to have “sex with him” it’s not “sex” – it’s rape.  Period.

This is in the same category as another one we’re hearing a lot:  “non-consensual sex.”  If one person is non-consensual then it’s not “sex.”  It’s rape.  Period.

It’s not just on-air and online media – this same language misuse appears in print, as well.  On one recent day my newspaper, a major daily, carried six separate stories about accused men.  Here is language from those six articles:

1. Behave inappropriately
2. Crude sexual advances
3. Improper behavior
4. Inappropriate behavior
5. Inappropriately touching women
6. Perpetrators of unwelcome sexual advances
7. Sexual misconduct
8. Sexual assault and misconduct
9. Sexually harassed
10. Unwanted advances
11. Unwanted sexual advances
12. Unwelcome sexual advances

Only once did the word “assault” appear.

The media play an important role in shaping our thoughts and language.  We quote the media all the time:  “On CNN I heard that…”  “US Magazine says that…”

The media – and we – have to stop thinking of, and speaking of, assault in benign terms like “misconduct.”

If the media – and we – stop tiptoeing around what’s happening and call it “assault…”

If the media – and we – start telling it like it is…

Maybe, just maybe, men will stop.  Or at least start thinking about stopping.

Hell – just think, period.

That would be different.

 

Publication Date:  May 2017

Review, short version:  Four skunks out of a possible four.

Long version:

Susan Mallery is, according to GoodReads, a #1 New York Times bestselling author with more than 25 million books sold worldwide.  On Amazon her book, Daughters of the Bride, garnered 4.5 stars from 600+ reviewers.

Why, then, was I begging the book gods to PLEASE don’t make me keep reading this?

Daughters of the Bride is chick lit, and chick lit is defined as “books with heroine-centered narratives.”

So why, then, are the most likeable characters not female, but male?

In fact, the only likeable characters are male?

Because the book is riddled with cruel, degrading dialogue exchanged among the female characters who are family and – theoretically – care about each other.

I’ll spare you, because there’s no reason for you to suffer reading this like I did.  The females are Maggie, the bride of the title, and mother of Rachel, 33; Sienna, 30; and Courtney, 27.

Maggie is obsessed with planning her pink-themed wedding, which she hopes will include live swans, dyed pink.  (There’s an eco-friendly idea.)  Rachel is divorced and has self-images issues; Sienna has a nasty mouth and a penchant for getting engaged but not married; and Courtney, who has a learning disability, is working as a hotel maid while secretly studying for her Bachelor’s degree.

Sienna to Courtney:  “I’m surprised you know how to work a computer…You’re a maid.  There’s not much call for being tech savvy when you’re cleaning toilets.”

Sweet.

Mom Maggie says, “I’m so proud of my daughters…and Courtney.”

Sweeter.

And sisters Rachel and Sienna have coined a phrase to describe any kind of clumsiness or other physical mishap:  “Pulling a Courtney.”

Sweetest.

As for the likeable – well, less dislikeable – guys, one is Quinn.  Or so I thought, until he gave Courtney a gift:  peacock suede shoes with a pointed toe and four-inch heels.  Courtney is six feet tall and has never worn high heels.  By way of explanation Quinn says, “I’ve watched you walk.  You hunch your shoulders as if you’re trying to be smaller.  Maybe even invisible…You need to embrace your height.”

I had to wonder, was Quinn:

1. Trying to change Courtney’s appearance to please himself?
2. Trying to change Courtney rather than accept her as is?
3. Trying to cripple Courtney with shoes known to cause foot and back problems?

How about:  All of the above?

I hope Courtney tells Quinn where to shove the shoes.

I hope Courtney learns to dish it out instead of just taking it.  I hope she gets her degree, and gets the hell out of town.

But I’ll never know because, in an act of self-preservation, I stopped on page 258 out of 400.

And that was 258 pages too many.

This isn’t a movie review, but I’m starting by mentioning 2016’s Hidden Figures because it was the catalyst for this blog.  I truly enjoyed that movie except for one thing:

It glorifies NASA, and I think NASA is a total waste of money and brain power.

In Hidden Figures we see President John F. Kennedy giving what came to be known as his “We choose to go to the moon speech” at Rice University in 1962.  According to some sources, this speech was “meant to persuade the American people to endorse the Apollo program, the national effort to land a man on the moon.”  In the speech Kennedy says,

“We set sail on this new sea because there is new knowledge to be gained, and new rights to be won, and they must be won and used for the progress of all people.”

“Rights” to what? I wondered.

Later in the movie Al Harrison, played by Kevin Costner, says,

“Discovery is for human survival…Whoever gets there first will make the rules.  Who do you want calling the shots in space?”

“For human survival” how?  What “rules”?

Since Costner’s character isn’t an actual person but rather a composite of NASA employees, I don’t know if anyone actually said this.  But it certainly reflects the attitude then about the space race:

If the Bad Guys (U.S.S.R.) established a successful presence in space before the Good Guys (U.S.A.), all manners of calamity will befall the Good Guys.

In the early 1960s the U.S. and Soviet Union were in the throes of the Cold War, so I suppose I can understand, but not agree with, this attitude.

But what’s our reason for continuing the space program since the Cold War ended more than 25 years ago?

What’s our reason for funding NASA to the tune of $19.1 billion in fiscal 2018?

• Has the International Space Station furthered the establishment of peace in the Middle East by one iota?
• Have pictures from the Hubble Telescope fed a single hungry child?
• Has scientists’ possession of moon rocks improved your life in any measureable way?

Just think of what that $19.1 billion could do if allocated elsewhere.

Let’s take one example of a Needless And Stupid Assignment.  Time magazine recently mentioned OSIRIS-REx and that “The spacecraft took gorgeous photos of Earth en route to asteroid Bennu.”

NEWSFLASH:  If I want to see “gorgeous photos of Earth” I can google them.

I hadn’t heard about OSIRIS-REx, but a little research revealed that it launched in 2016,

cost around $1 billion, and that “its mission is to study asteroid 101955 Bennu, a carbonaceous asteroid.”  The spacecraft is supposed to reach Bennu next year, and return “a small sample to Earth in 2023” for analysis.

One “small sample” of whatever for $1 billion of your tax dollars.

NASA employs many big brains, and I’m not being facetious.  So it’s a travesty that those big brains are wasting their time – and our money – instead of

• Discovering cures for cancer.
• Providing the best possible care for our veterans, especially those who may be suicidal.
• Finding ways to better protect people from hurricanes, earthquakes and other natural disasters.
• Help the 32 million American adults who can’t read.
• Fill in your own suggestion here – there are plenty to choose from.

“But wait,” you may be saying, “look at all the ways the space program has improved our lives.  It brought us Tang and Teflon and Velcro…”

Velcro, smellcro.

According to Consumer Reports online, NASA had nothing to do with Tang and Teflon and Velcro.  The website invites us to check out NASA’s annual publication, Spinoff, which “highlights NASA technologies that are benefitting life on Earth in the form of commercial products.”  They’ve profiled “nearly 2,000 spinoffs since the publication began in 1976.”

That’s all well and good, but for anyone to suggest that those nearly 2,000 items wouldn’t exist except for NASA is ludicrous.  Remember “See a need and fill it”?  Our world is full of innovators who have done that and will continue to see a need and fill it, and they don’t need NASA to do that.

Here’s my suggestion:  Let’s spinoff NASA.

One-way to the moon sounds good.

If you’re thinking, “Whaddaya mean, men would still be wearing them?” take a look at no less a male personage than King Louis XIV of France in his red high heels in the mid-1600s.

This guy set the fashion, so you can rest assured that high heels for men were de rigueur, as they say in France.

Men wised up not long after, and donated their high heels to the unwashed masses, which caused the masses no end of health problems, which led to the French Revolution in the 1700s.  While the peasants were kicking up their (high) heels and cutting off aristocrats’ heads, not one aristocratic male – and this is well documented – went to the guillotine wearing Jimmy Choo stilettos.  The dudes were still dead, but still de rigueur.

(Speaking of Jimmy Choo, you know he doesn’t wear his stilettos either, right?)

As for women, they didn’t wise up.  Women persisted throughout the centuries in clinging to this peculiar form of torture, through the…

1700s…
1800s…
1900s…
and into the 21st century.

“Torture?” you ask.

Here are just a few of the aforementioned health problems that can be yours (at no extra charge) from those snazzy Valentino Garavani gladiator sandals you found at Neiman Marcus for just $1,445:

Bunions – A bony bump that forms on the joint at the base of your big toe.  It forms when your big toe pushes against your next toe, forcing the joint of your big toe to get bigger and stick out.
Pump Bumps (Haglund’s Deformity) – A bony enlargement on the back of the heel.  The soft tissue near the Achilles tendon becomes irritated when the bony enlargement rubs against shoes.  This often leads to painful bursitis, which is an inflammation of the bursa (a fluid-filled sac between the tendon and bone).
Hammer Toes – A deformity that causes a toe to bend or curl downward instead of pointing forward.  This deformity can affect any toe on your foot, most often the second or third toe.
Foraminal Stenosis – a spinal nerve condition that can occur when anatomical abnormalities block or reduce space in one or more foramina.  This condition can cause cramps, muscle spasms, numbness, tingling and pain.

There are many reasons why women wear high heels – you can find reasons all over the Internet, and likely more from your friends.  Interestingly, none of the lists – or your friends – offers the simple suggestion that perhaps women simply aren’t as smart as men.

Or perhaps women are just sheep, following each other’s lead.

After all, if high heels were so wonderful…

 

Is the above picture:

1. The biggest wedding in the world?
2. The biggest bunch of coincidentally, identically dressed tourists in the world?
3. The biggest BYOE in the world and you weren’t there, you loser?

If you chose #3, you’re right.

You’re still a loser.

Because you weren’t at this exclusive BYOE – Bring Your Own Everything – event, with thousands of your closest personal friends.

But they were there – in secret locations all over the world from Los Angeles to Budapest and points in between.  In 70 cities on five continents every year, masses of people all dressed in white congregate to eat.

Eat what?

• Food they brought themselves. And…

  

• Beverages they brought themselves with…
• White tables, white tablecloths, white napkins, and chairs they brought themselves and…
• Dishes, silverware and glasses they brought themselves and…
• They’ll clean up with garbage bags (preferably white) they brought themselves and…
• Go home and do their (white) dishes themselves.

They brought everything to this event – hence the above-mentioned BYOE – and here’s the best part:

They paid to do this.  Paid.

I don’t know about you, but to me this sounds a lot like eating at home, but a lot more work.

“It’s experiential,” says one guest.

Well, that explains everything.

This exclusive event is Le Dîner en Blanc, French for The Dinner in White, and the idea was, in fact, launched by a Frenchman nearly 30 years ago, according to their website.

This “chic picnic” takes place at a location so secret that the guests aren’t told where

they’re going until the last minute.  Then the thousands of people are taken en masse via chartered bus or organized public transportation – along with their tables, chairs, food, etc. – to “a crowded public place that was not designed for such a purpose.”

Wait – seriously?  Isn’t this what restaurants are for?  You go to a restaurant, not en masse, not schlepping furniture and food, because the furniture and food are already at the restaurant, which is not a crowded public place and is designed for such a purpose.

Can’t you just hear the conversation?

“Louise, where is it again, this place we’re going for dinner?”

“I don’t know, Richard, just grab the chairs and the napkins.  No, the white napkins!”

The guidelines are strict:  To attend you must be a member of Le Dîner en Blanc or sponsored by a member; attendance is mandatory, rain or shine (doing all this sounds especially enticing in a thunderstorm); your food must be gourmet; you must wear white and dress elegantly; and originality in your garb is encouraged “as long as it stays stylish and denotes taste.”

Guests, the website notes, are expected to conduct themselves “with the greatest decorum, elegance, and etiquette.”

I was wrong.  This is a lot more work than eating at home.

But apparently the concept is a big hit, especially with millennials, definition:  the generation born in the 1980s to early 1990s and have way too much time on their hands.

So heads up, millennials:  If you’re that crazy about picking up garbage and doing dishes, come to my house.

You don’t need to wear white.

And I won’t charge you.

 

More examples of dressing elegantly en blanc.

 

To:  Mr. Jeff Bezos, CEO, Amazon

Great strategy!  You have 200+ cities and regions in a lather, hoping you’ll bless them with your second Amazon headquarters, now nicknamed HQ2:

All the free publicity is generating, well, more publicity, along with fierce competition to have the privilege of offering you “the largest possible package of subsidies and tax breaks,” to quote a recent article in Forbes.  The article goes on to say that “some simple math suggests cities should pass on this contest.  The winner of HQ2 will almost certainly be a financial loser.”

But no matter!

Because I’m writing for a different reason:  To suggest that before you spend all that money on HQ2, and before you spend another $13 billion+ buying another company like Whole Foods…

Could you please spend some money on grammar lessons for your team?

I recently made a purchase on Amazon and it arrived with a small problem.  I used your online procedure to send an email to Customer Support, describing the problem in two succinct sentences.

Later that same day…

I received a response that was so generic, it was laughable.  And full of grammar errors, which was not.  Examples:

First, please accept my sincerely apologize for all the inconvenience that this situation caused to you.

… there are some informations that cannot be discussed via e-mail for your account security.

I realize that at this point of time asking you to contact us again would be disappointing, but in a situation like this, it is very important for us that we provide you with accurate resolution and make sure the security of your account and in my experience, this is the best way to be certain that your issue is address more appropriately.

I know, I know, Mr. Bezos – you’re cringing with embarrassment.  To quote another part of the email, you’re trying to “build the Earth’s Most Customer-Centric Company,” and here’s your representative using such uncustomer-centric grammar.  Truly cringe-worthy!

But don’t panic – on your very own website you have, in stock, the recently published English Grammar for Dummies, list price $19.99, your price $13.85, that’s a 31% savings of $6.14!

Not that you’ll need the $6.14, with all those subsidies and tax breaks that are coming your way…

Warmly,

Your Friendly Grammarian

 

 

Publication Date:  June 2017

Review, short version:  Three skunks out of a possible four.

Long version:

If I’m going to stick with a book, I have to care about what happens – with the characters and with the plot.

It was hard to find anyone to care about in The Identicals, or to care what happened to them.

The identicals are 39-year-old twins, Harper and Tabitha.  They loathe each other.

Harper is stupid, shallow, irresponsible, childish and a liar.  She’s having an affair with a married man and stringing along a nice, single cop when she’s not rendezvousing with Dr. Married.

Tabitha is superficial, super-neurotic, a rotten parent, childish and a liar.  She works in her mother’s (see below) boutique on Nantucket, and apparently doing a poor job of it, as she owes the landlord $80,000 in back rent.  She also owes her ex-lover $40,000.

Tabitha is the mother of Ainsley, her 16-year-old daughter, whose extracurricular activities include drugs, stealing, lying, being boring, and loathing her mother.

The matriarch of this family is has-been fashion designer Eleanor, who is snobbish, supercilious, cold, distant, and harshly judgmental of pretty much everyone.  Eleanor divorced their father years ago and the couple split the twins – Harper to her father, Tabitha to her mother.

And yes, the plot is a rip-off of the 1961 movie, The Parent Trap, remade in 1998 – separated twins, and what happens when they trade places.

I’m supposed to care about these people and their hackneyed storyline…why?

What happens takes 418 pages to unfurl, none of it interesting or surprising.  Harper continues to be a flake.  Tabitha continues to be a rotten parent.  Eleanor continues trying to sell clothes that are 40 years out of date, and criticizing the twins, whichever one is handy.

Ainsley does evolve somewhat – she goes from using drugs and alcohol to also planting them in an ex-friend’s school locker as a revenge thing.

The twins, like all twins, have a number of things in common, like their long, dark hair.  Yes, though nearly 40, they’ve done nothing to differentiate themselves, hairdos included.  In fact, physically they’re so similar that few can tell them apart, from their lovers to their mother.

And they’re equally lacking in the integrity department.  On page 164 we learn that Tabitha continues to work for, and accept abuse from, her mother because “There will be a payoff:  Tabitha will inherit the empire.  And even if that empire is diminished, Eleanor still owns a mighty fortune in real estate:  the house here, the house on Pinckney Street.  Tabitha will not relinquish her claim to that.”

Then there’s Harper, her married lover, Reed, and time-filler police officer, Drew.  Reed is her dying father’s doctor, and Harper is at the hospital when her father dies.  Harper (page 17) calls Reed, who’s at a family gathering.  “Come to me,” she demands.  Reed resists:  “I have to stay here with my family.”  “So you won’t meet me?” she whines on page 23.  “You’re going to make me call Drew?”

Ick.

The story (I use the word loosely) is mostly told from three points of view – Harper’s, Tabitha’s and Ainsley’s.  The final chapter is told by a dog whose name is Fish.  The reason for the dog’s name is not explained.  The reason for the dog’s contribution is not explained, either.

You may have heard the phrase, “So many books, so little time.”  I often think, “So many books, so many dysfunctional families.”  And I know that without dysfunctional families we wouldn’t have stories – no one wants to read about happy, well-adjusted people, after all.

But did this family have to be this dysfunctional?

Melania Trump called it a “daunting task.”

Was she talking about recovery efforts in:

1. Texas, after Hurricane Harvey?
2. Louisiana, after Hurricanes Harvey and Nate?
3. Florida, after Hurricane Irma?
4. Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands after Hurricane Maria?
5. California after the October wildfires?
6. All of the above?
7. None of the above?

When Melania said, “…we were very busy with all that goes into” was she talking about:

1. Rebuilding in Texas?
2. Rebuilding in Louisiana?
3. Rebuilding in Florida?
4. Rebuilding in Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands?
5. Rebuilding in California?
6. All of the above?
7. None of the above?

When Melania referred to “poor Hervé” was she referring to a resident of:

1. Texas?

   

2. Louisiana?
3. Florida?
4. Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands?
5. California?
6. All of the above?
7. None of the above?

If you chose #7 for all three, you’re right.

Our  First Lady was referring to…

Creating her inaugural ball gown.

That was the “daunting task” that kept her “very busy,” as we learned at the gown donation ceremony at the Smithsonian on October 20, 2017.

And “poor Hervé”?  That’s Hervé Pierre, the gown designer.

No worries about the cost, though, since we taxpayers weren’t on the hook for it – the gown was “gifted” to Mrs. T. by poor Hervé.  So at least those tax dollars can go toward helping (see #1-5, above).

Definition of “trivial”	Picture of “trivial”

Suppose you were an idiot, and suppose you were a member of Congress.  But I repeat myself.

Mark Twain died in 1910, but our politicians have continued consistent for the past 100+ years.

The latest:  Tim Murphy, the formerly distinguished member of the House of Representatives, formerly proudly representing Pennsylvania’s 18^th congressional district since 2003.

Tim’s official portrait…	and unofficial portrait.

Until he not-so-proudly resigned in October 2017.

Because…he’s an idiot.

Even scarier, he has Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees, plus a PhD in clinical psychology.

And he’s still an idiot.

And was a practicing psychologist.  He actually sat in an office and doled out advice to schlemiels like you and me about our various mental, emotional, and/or behavioral disorders.

If I’d been a client of Tim’s, I’d ask for my money back.

This guy is married, has a kid, and a cushy congressional job making $174,000 plus benefits including a pension.  He was in his eighth term and on track for another.

Then he blows it.

Not because he had a lover named Shannon Edwards – he admitted that back in early September.  This news elicited some headlines, and some yawns from Capitol Hill.

But then on October 3 the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette ran a story about a January 25 text from Shannon to Tim which said that he had “zero issue posting your pro-life stance all over the place when you had no issue asking me to abort our unborn child just last week when we thought that was one of the options.”

The newspaper goes on to say that “a text response from Murphy’s cellphone number that same day said that his staff was responsible for the antiabortion messages:  ‘I’ve never written them.  Staff does them.  I read them and winced.  I told staff don’t write any more.  I will.’”

It wasn’t his asking – that’s just typical hypocrisy.

It wasn’t his texting – though most five-year-

olds know that texts live forever and can be accessed by others.

No, it was Tim’s getting caught.  That’s what makes him an idiot.

On October 4 Tim announced he wouldn’t be seeking re-election.

On October 5 he announced his resignation.

Guess the folks in that 18^th congressional district will have to find themselves another idiot.

Won’t be difficult.

My drug store, CVS, occasionally sends me a flyer with coupons, but not just any coupons – they’re based on products I’ve bought in the past, and the flyer’s even personalized with my name.  So thoughtful.

As I perused the latest flyer I found…good, $3 off on those things I like…great, $4 off on that stuff …and oh, here’s $3 off on…

Butt Paste.

This gave me pause.

I had no recollection of buying Butt Paste before, had, in fact, never heard of the product.  The picture on the coupon was too small to discern what the product actually was, and the text on the coupon gave no clue as to what I’d do with it.

So my mind wandered.

Butt Paste.

I use toothpaste to clean my teeth, so is Butt Paste…oh, surely not.

I use paste to stick one thing to another thing, so would I use this to stick my butt to something?

Or stick something to my butt?

A quick online query answered the what:

Butt Paste is diaper rash ointment.

Butt Paste is a diaper rash ointment with a website.  I don’t have a website, but a product for diaper rash does, which says something.  I haven’t the slightest idea what.

Not only a website, but icons that invite you to visit Instagram, YouTube, Pinterest, Twitter and Facebook so you can read about/watch videos about/share thoughts about…

A diaper rash product.

But not just any diaper rash product.  To be specific, this is Boudreaux’s Butt Paste, motto:  Let’s Kick Some Rash.

Pictures of doting young mothers with cherubic babies offer captions including,

• “Kicking diaper rash one day at a time.”  Mama Dani.
• “I swear by Butt Paste.  Talk about game changing.”  Mama Jess.
• “Keeping them smiling since day one.”  Mama Angelica.

There’s a diaper Rash-O-Meter where you’re invited to choose the severity of the rash:  Mild, Moderate or Severe.  A simple click and up pop pictures of the best Butt Paste for your situation:  Original, Natural, or Maximum Strength.

There’s also an illustration of a cherubic butt inflamed with diaper rash in the shape of a starfish.  A very red, very angry starfish.

Scroll just a bit further and you’ll see a photo of three babies, back view, from the waist down, perfect little butts free of those nasty starfish.

Which is all very interesting.  Well, not really, since I’ve never bought any diaper rash product and have no expectation of every buying a diaper rash product.

I have no idea why the drugstore sent this coupon to me.

I don’t mean to act rashly (get it?) and make light of what I’m sure is a very serious situation.

Well, yes I do.

Or maybe not the rash situation, but the name:  Butt Paste.

But (get it?) wait, there’s more.  According to Wikipedia (motto:  Everything you need to know, true and otherwise), Butt Paste was invented by a pharmacist named George Boudreaux in the 1970s, who named it “after a physician told him a story about a patient who had referred to the product as such.”  Boudreaux wisely included his last name to avoid confusion with any other…butt products.

And there are other “Butt” products out there, including the Butt Enhancer Padded Panty; the Butthurt Care Package; and Bad Byron’s Butt Rub barbecue seasoning, “used by champion barbecuers everywhere,” but not, I hope on their butts.

From those modest beginnings the use of Boudreaux’s Butt Paste spread (get it?) and apparently is now also used for psoriasis, jock itch, shingles, cold sores, acne, and chapped lips.  Alternate motto:  Butt Paste, “It’s not just for diaper rash anymore.”  Possible commercial:

“Oh, Sally, my lips get so chapped.  But yours don’t.  What’s your secret?”   “Ashley, it’s no secret – what else would I use on my sexy, smooth, kissable lips but…Butt Paste!”

And more:  In 2004 Butt Paste became a National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing (NASCAR) sponsor.  Apparently the sponsorship was short-lived, but for a while, professional drivers Kim Crosby and Kevin Ray proudly drove race cars immortalized with, and wore clothes emblazoned with, the Butt Paste logo:

Kim Crosby and her #24 Butt Paste Chevrolet
Kevin Ray and his #90 Butt Paste Ford

According to the writer at jacobnovo.wordpress.com, “This sponsorship may go down as one of the most unusual in history, but in the end*, I’m sure neither party will ever regret being the ‘butt’ of a good joke.”

*Get it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

To:      Mr. Tom Perez, Chairman, Democratic National Committee (DNC)

During your interview on the PBS NewsHour you talked at length about what Democrats have to do to start winning elections.

Excuse me, I mean to start improving our lives.

Early in the interview you said,

“I think the Democratic Party, we have always been fighting for ordinary Americans, whether it was fighting for the Social Security Act in the 1930s, fighting for Medicare and Medicaid.”

If you and your colleagues would really like to turn things around, here’s my suggestion:

Stop referring to Americans as “ordinary.”

This reminds me of something Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg said a few years ago during a hearing of arguments about the federal campaign finance law:

“By having these limits, you are promoting democratic participation.  Then the little people will count some and you won’t have the super-affluent as the speakers that will control the elections.”

“Little”?  “Ordinary”?

You talkin’ to ME?

Mr. Perez, in this faux pas you’re far from alone – other politicians, pundits and the media all use the word “ordinary” to describe Americans who aren’t among you favored few.  Here’s a smattering of the many examples to be found:

“By referring to millions of Americans as ‘deplorables’ and ‘irredeemable,’ Hillary Clinton is showing her outright contempt for ordinary people and proving yet again why Americans overwhelmingly regard her as dishonest and untrustworthy.”

                                                            Reince Priebus, The Hill, September 2016

“But if you look at it, I mean, African-Americans watch the same news at night that ordinary Americans do.”

“We’ve begun to make the Government work for ordinary people.”

President Bill Clinton, November 1994 interview

“This is where I learned that change only happens when ordinary people get involved, get engaged, and come together to demand it.”

“That faith I placed all those years ago, not far from here, in the power of ordinary Americans to bring about change – that faith has been rewarded in ways I couldn’t possibly have imagined.”

President Barak Obama, Farewell Address, January 2017

(Is this getting old?)

“So many Republicans were elected. They had  one job:  repeal ObamaCare.  It’s fairly clear to most ordinary Americans what ‘repeal’ means.”

 

Conservative commentator Michelle Malkin, June 2017

 “Ordinary Americans Caught Up in NSA Sweep, Report Claims”

                                                                                CBS News online in July 2014

 “Millions of Ordinary Americans Support Donald Trump”

                                                                                The Guardian online March 2016

 “Here’s What Ordinary Americans Did When They Were Given Control of the IRS”

                                                                                                    Inc.com June 2017

And just recently:

“When the judge refused to allow a jury, she refused to let ordinary Americans speak.  So now they have to speak, through their president.”

Jack Wilenchik, attorney for former Arizona Sheriff Joe Arpaio, August 2017

“Donald Trump…in tune with ordinary Americans.”

Telegraph online August 2017

(Yeah, really old.)

This becomes even more offensive when I consider the definition of “ordinary”:

1. Of no special quality or interest; commonplace; unexceptional (Dictionary.com).
2. Of common quality, rank or ability (Merriman-Webster.com).
3. With no special or distinctive features; not interesting or exceptional; commonplace (OxfordDictionaries.com).

Mr. Perez, would you, perhaps, care to name the Americans of your acquaintance who fit these definitions?

I’m betting you wouldn’t include yourself among the “ordinary.”

So, if you talkin’ to me…

Dave Roberts served as a San Diego County Supervisor for one term, from January 2013 to January 2017.

During those four years, according to the San Diego Union-Tribune, he experienced “a repetitive use injury to the right side of his body, which he developed during four years he spent using a computer, talking on a phone and doing the other regular duties of his office.”

Poor little Davie got an owie at work.

Then he lost his bid for re-election this year, but as they say on the game shows, he’s not going away empty-handed.

Because our Dave had filed for workers’ compensation, received “examinations over two years with five physicians,” and will receive “a $12,250 settlement from the county” as a lovely parting gift.

That’s $12,250 of public money, i.e., your money.

The Union-Tribune received records of Roberts’ case from the state Department of Industrial Relations under the California Public Records Act.  “In those records physicians all agreed that Roberts had pain from his right hand to his right shoulder and that his job activities contributed to his symptoms.”

Said one doctor, “This can arise out of his work as a county supervisor with his frequent use of the computer and a smart phone, and it also appears to have occurred during the course of his employment.”

This suggests that Roberts, who was 53 when he was elected, had never before touched a computer or smart phone, because otherwise he could have gotten his owie prior to taking office, right?

 

Thanks goodness Roberts’ pain wasn’t too severe for him to fill out those workers’ compensation forms.  Or to endorse his paychecks, which amounted to $153,289.60 annually by the time he left office.

And I was relieved to know that “supervisors are paid a flat salary regardless of whether or not they are at work, or are out for a medical issue, vacation, or other type of absence, and they would not lose pay if they had to leave to receive care for an injury or illness.”

Sounds exactly like the same deal the rest of us get.

So here’s the process:

1. Go to work for four years, use a computer and smart phone.
2. File a workers’ compensation claim for “cumulative trauma of repetitive tasks and stressful work environment.”
3. Collect workers’ compensation.

Since I find work a “repetitive” pain in the ass, that should be no problem.

Publication date:  June 2017

Short version:  Four roses out of a possible four.

Long version:

It’s been ages since I’ve said, “This is my kind of book.”

And, “This time I agree with Amazon’s 4.5 stars.”

And, “I hope this author has more books.”

I didn’t feel any of the above when I started reading The Alice Network.

The story takes place in two eras with two female narrators:  Charlotte, or Charlie, in 1947, and Eve, 22, in 1915.

Charlie St. Clair is American, a math whiz, single and pregnant, the last of which spelled Doom with a capital “D.”  In that era all the blame and disgrace fell on the female, and Charlie is indeed blamed and disgraced.  She loathes herself.  As Charlie puts it, “…1947 was hell for any girl who would rather work calculus problems than read Vogue, any girl who would rather listen to Edith Piaf than Artie Shaw, and any girl with an empty ring finger but a rounding belly.”

I groaned, “Not another pregnant single woman story.”  Plus, I don’t read books starring teenagers – too much teen angst.

So, not a promising start.

Charlie, accompanied by her mother, is in Europe for “The Appointment,” a euphemism for an abortion.  But Charlie has her own agenda:  To track down her beloved cousin Rose, who disappeared somewhere in Europe during World War II.

Now to Eve in 1915.

Europe is embroiled in The Great War.  Eve grew up in France but is living in London, grateful to be there instead of in her war-devastated homeland, grateful to have a crappy office job which she wouldn’t have except all the young men are off fighting the war.  She’s grateful to have any job at all, because she’s got a serious stutter.

Though she’s grateful for her job, she wants to do something more:  “She wanted to fight.  Prove that stuttering Eve Gardiner could serve her country as capably as any of the straight-tongued thousands who had dismissed her throughout her entire life as an idiot.”

So both Charlie and Eve have their own agendas.  How their paths cross, and how those agendas mesh, turned out to be an intense, engrossing, and captivating story.

There are plenty of great books with characters who remain basically the same throughout the story; Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind comes to mind.

Then there are books where the characters evolve, some for better, some for worse, but they change.  Charlie and Eve go through plenty of changes, and going along with them grabbed me and held on right to the end.

Speaking of the end, the Author’s Note after the story was also fascinating reading, and made me want to learn more.

And speaking of the author, I’m delighted to report that Kate Quinn does have other books, all of them four stars+.

Looks like my reading list is squared away for now.

There’s so much more I could say about The Alice Network but then I’d have to include a spoiler alert.  And I’d much rather leave it to you to sit back and savor every well-written word, reach the end, and say, as I did,

“This is my kind of book.”

Dear Equifax:

I know how busy you all are, so thank you for taking the time to let us know about the security breach that compromised the personal information of 140+ million of your customers.

I thought, “Wow!  So many customers!  That is a really popular company!  I’m honored to be one of them!”

Thank goodness you waited all that time between discovering the hacking on July 29 and when you shared with us on September 7.  That allowed time for…

• Equifax Chief Financial Officer John Gamble to sell shares worth nearly $950,000 on August 1…
• Joseph Loughran, Equifax’s president for U.S. information solutions, to sell shares worth about $685,000 on August 1…
• And Rodolfo Ploder, president of workforce solutions, to sell stock for just more than $250,000 on August 2…

Before your stock tanked.

Well, I don’t mean “tanked,” exactly, your shares are only down 27%, and anyway, who really understands the stock market?

And besides, telling us back in July would have just given me all that extra time to worry about it, and as everyone knows, worry leads to stress and that’s bad for my health.

As long as I’m writing, I wanted to compliment you on your business model.  According to award-winning financial columnist Liz Weston, we have no right to stop Equifax and the other two credit bureaus from collecting information about us.  We also can’t prevent you from selling that information or keeping it in inadequately secured databases.

You NAILED it!

Speaking of getting nailed, not long after your announcement, my Visa credit card was hacked, and then nine days later, my husband’s Visa card was hacked.  This has provided us with yet another shared interest, and married couples can’t have too many of those.

I do hope Richard F. Smith, your chairman and CEO, gets a chance to read this because I have to compliment him on the statement he issued on September 12.  He called the cybersecurity breach “the most humbling moment in our 118-year history” which was

sweet, but equally important, not once did Rich promise, “This will never happen again.”  Good strategy!

And who can blame Rich for just announcing his retirement, when he has $18.4 million in retirement benefits and could get millions of dollars more, including lifetime health coverage, according to a regulatory filing?

Retire, big bucks – good strategy!

Lifetime health coverage – good strategy!

Oh – gotta run, I just got a text…wow, my new Visa credit card was just hacked…

I wrote this after our beloved mother died on September 26, 25 years ago.  I offer it now, to honor her memory.

A woman’s purse is a thing of mystery to a man.  This I’ve always known.  What I didn’t know was how sacred the privacy of a purse was – until Dad asked me to go through Mom’s purse, shortly before she died.  By then, I’d been with Mom at her hospital bed, and later, her nursing home bed.  I’d helped my intensely private mother to bathe, to the toilet, onto a bedpan.  I’d thought all the barriers were down – until I opened my Mother’s purse.

A purse is a homemaker’s office-on-her arm, and Mom’s was well-organized.  It had three sections plus a zipper pocket; a place for everything and everything in its place.  Mom kept her purse much the way she kept her home:  in order, but not stiflingly so.  So, even while I was aware of invading Mom’s privacy, I also felt right at home in my Mother’s purse.

There was a small envelope labeled “Iron Money.”  Mom had received an iron as a gift, discovered it was defective and returned it.  Committed to buying a new iron, Mom’s unique financial code dictated that the replacement be bought not with just any cash, but with the very same bills she’d received as a refund.

Makes perfect sense to me.

There was another envelope, unlabeled, containing a crisp $20 bill.  That was Mom’s emergency stash.  “Never go out without money,” was one of Mom’s dictums.  “Never go outside with wet hair,” was another.  I’m afraid I often failed to comply with the latter, but I never go out without money.  I inherited Mom’s overactive imagination, and that stash is the shield against cars that go clunk in the night.

Or possibly – funds for a bargain at a garage sale.  How Mom loved sales!

Sales – and shopping.  Some of Mom’s best times were spent walking the mall.  Armed with a battery of credit cards – and she had them all – the walking was her exercise, the looking her recreation and the buying, which happened only occasionally, was almost incidental.  Mom never abused those credit cards.  She was a child of the Great Depression and being frugal was ingrained in her, a trait I have not inherited, but one I try to emulate (with questionable success).

I was puzzled by the two books of matches until Dad explained that Mom carried them for him.  That was typical of Mom.  For years she’d been after Dad – albeit gently – to quit smoking.  Her love was balanced enough to urge him to give up the habit, but to provide him with matches if he needed them.  Some might suggest that if Mom truly loved Dad she wouldn’t have offered the means for him to light up, but I disagree.  Mom’s love was accepting, not controlling.  An outlook I’ve had many reasons to be grateful for.

A neat, blue cosmetic bag contained hand lotion, nail cream, half a dozen lipsticks, and blusher (which Mom called “rouge”).  I was glad that, at 73, Mom still cared enough about her appearance to wear makeup, though I often wondered, over the years, how it felt to apply blusher to her left cheek.  Mom had a scar that reached from eye to chin, from mouth to temple, the result of a childhood accident.  She rarely referred to it, though she did tell me once that kids in school called her “Scarface.”  What a burden to live with – though she never showed any bitterness about it.  Or about anything, that I can recall.  Even at the end, knowing the brain cancer was killing her, Mom could still smile and say, “I’ve had a good life.”

Car keys, house keys, and two keys on a ring we have yet to discover a use for.  Maybe Mom was carrying them around in hopes of encountering the doors they opened?  An address book with that oh-so-familiar and beloved handwriting.  And a small plastic card that listed 15% and 20% tips.

How Mom enjoyed going out to eat – though it was a luxury my folks had been able to afford only in recent years.  Mom often teased Dad, “You got to retire – don’t I?” and for the slightest reason, or for no reason at all except that she didn’t feel like cooking (which is the best reason I can think of), Mom was ready to Go Out.  At our lunches together, in those last months, she often insisted it was “her treat” and was scrupulous about leaving the appropriate tip.  She’d carefully study the bill, refer to her tip table, count out the exact amount of money and then look at me, a little self-consciously.  “Did I do it right?” she’d ask.  You did it right, Mom.  As always.

There were various cards for pleasure – the library, video rentals – and other cards with a more serious intent:  insurance, Social Security, voter registration.  And a serious card that gave Mom great pleasure:  her ATM card.  Mom thought automatic teller machines were a wonderful invention.  “You just put in the card and out comes money!” she’d marvel.  Of course, she was kidding.  Kidding my Dad was one of her favorite pastimes.  That, and loving him.  And the five children that love had created.

I suppose Mom had one cough drop in her purse for the same reason she had one piece of candy:  You never know when you might have a cough – or a craving.  Expected items:  driver’s license, pictures of grandchildren, pens, sunglasses.  Then one item that surprised me, but probably shouldn’t have – The Frequent Communicants Prayer Book.  I’m sure Mom used it, though I never saw her do so; she was low-key about her faith.  Steadfast – from the day she converted to Catholicism just prior to marrying Dad – but low-key.  I know she regretted the Church and I parting company all those years ago.  I suspect she snuck a few prayers in, now and then, for my return to The Fold.  But she respected my right to make my own decisions and never tried to impose her beliefs on me.  Tolerant.  My Mom was so tolerant.  How else could she have lived with the six of us?

In the back of the prayer book were memorial cards from three funerals:  her Father’s in 1982, her younger sister’s in 1985, and her Mother’s in 1987.  Mom’s Mother lived until the age of 93, an age Mom and the rest of us blithely assumed she would also attain.  I’m angry that I was robbed of those extra 20 years with Mom.  At the end, Mom expressed surprise, but no anger.  “What good would that do?” she’d ask me.  You were right, Mom.  As always.

So, this was my Mother’s purse.  No great mysteries here; no great revelations, either.  In fact, it was a very ordinary purse.  That belonged to a very extraordinary woman.

Our Mother:  Kathryn Roberta Phelps Walsh.

 

I’m not super-savvy when it comes to computers.

OK – I’m not even savvy.

To get the above image from my library’s website – and this was a real stretch for me – I did a screen print, then I scanned it, saved it, opened it in Picture Manager, cropped it, saved it, then added the red arrow in Paint and saved it again.

I was exhausted.

So when it comes to high-tech talk, I need help.  I need someone to translate for me.

Maybe the eight-year-old who lives next door.

When the library’s website with the above image appeared on my computer screen, I cringed.  I was sure this was yet more complicated high-tech talk with which I was unfamiliar:

“Because we are changing things, you may find areas that are broken or act funny.”

“Act funny”?

It can’t be the obvious – there must be some secret meaning here.  To aid me in discerning it, I went online to look for high-tech talk that might explain “funny.”

I found the Jargon Generator at shinytoylabs.com and lots of high-tech talk, including:

• The RAM pixel is down, program the optical spyware so we can generate the SMTP port!
• They’re inside the malware, use the ethernet SQL system to synthesize their microchip!
• You can’t reboot the transmitter without quantifying the neural ADP form factor!

These were funny, but they didn’t help me figure out the secret meaning of “funny.”

Then I found netlingo.com and fifty – fifty! – high-tech terms, alphabetized, no less.  Surely I’ll find “funny” on a list that offers…

Cluster funk:  When a multitude of things go wrong on a computer system, at the same time, because of one action.  It can also refer to a room full of smelly programmers, as in, “You don’t want to go back there; there’s a major cluster funk going on.”

Ohnosecond:  The fraction of time it takes to realize you’ve just goofed; for example, right after you hit the Send button on an email and realize you forgot to include the attachment.

Zen Mail:  E-mail messages that arrive with no text in the message body.

Again, funny, but no “funny.”

Ready to tear out my hair, as a last resort, I went to a dictionary.  Surely an online (high-tech) dictionary would tell me the meaning of a (high-tech) term like “funny”?  I found:

Funny (fuhn-ee), adjective:

1. Providing fun; causing amusement or laughter; amusing; comical.
2. Attempting to amuse; facetious.
3. Warranting suspicion; deceitful; underhanded.

Funny, but not helpful.

Guess it’s time to ask that eight-year-old next door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Beatles’ famous hit Yesterday was first released in 1965.

And yes, I realize that was not only in the last century, but the last millennium.

According to Wikipedia – that source of all information, accurate and otherwise – the song has been analyzed, marginalized, lionized, and trivialized.  It’s also been recorded by more than 2,000 people, some of them decent singers.

Musicologist Alan Pollack described the scoring

of The Beatles’ version as “truly inspired,” citing it as an example of “[Lennon and McCartney’s] flair for creating stylistic hybrids,” then going on to praise the “ironic tension drawn between the schmaltzy content of what is played by the quartet and the restrained, spare nature of the medium in which it is played.”

Whatever.

Because the song has been recorded so many times over so many years – as recently as May 2017 – you’ve no doubt heard it, even if you weren’t born in the last century.  Or millennium.  Perhaps the Motown version by The Supremes in the elevator.  Or the country version by Tammy Wynette in your dentist’s office.  Or that 2017 version by Guy Lee, piped into the bathroom late at night at the bar where you were hoping to get lucky.

In fact the widespread playing of Yesterday so saturated my brain that I found myself actually thinking about the lyrics, which is something most people don’t do with most songs from the 60s.  And one lyric in particular really started to bother me:

Oh, yesterday came suddenly.

What does this mean?

By definition, “yesterday” means “time in the immediate past,” the key word being “past.”  Yesterday is over.  It’s history.  And history is immutable.  It can’t “came” or “come” or “go” or do anything but be in the past, not “suddenly” or slowly or in any other way.

So how could yesterday “came” suddenly?

If Lennon and McCartney had written “It changed yesterday, so suddenly,” that would make more sense.  His troubles had “seemed so far away” but she went away and everything changed and now his troubles are “here to stay.”

“Yesterday came suddenly” just plain doesn’t make sense.

Come on, you know it doesn’t.  No matter how big a Beatles fan you are.

So flummoxed was I over the meaningless meaning of “yesterday came suddenly” that I was overwhelmed with an urge to write my own lyrics in response.  Here, without further ado…

 

Question:  How does giving military equipment, paid for with our tax dollars, to local law enforcement “save taxpayer money?

Answer:  Darned if I know.

Yet on 8/27/17, saving “taxpayer money” is exactly what Attorney General Jeff Sessions stated will happen once local law enforcement again starts acquiring “excess military equipment.”  Also known as “castoff equipment and “assets that would otherwise be scrapped.”

There are also various euphemisms that describe this process:

• CBS News online talked about “law enforcement’s ability to acquire” and also used the word “transfer.”
• The Chicago Tribune online included the phrase “restore the flow of surplus military equipment.”
• NPR online corrected an NPR radio story which apparently indicated that “police departments again will be able to purchase” and instead called them “military transfers.”
• The San Diego Union-Tribune quoted documents obtained by The Associated Press which used the word “repurpose.”
• CNN online referred to a program “that provides local law enforcement agencies…”

All of this is another way of saying “give,” which Sessions was careful not to say.

Give surplus military equipment, paid for by us taxpayers, to local law enforcement.

Now, wiser heads than mine have debated, and will continue to debate, the wisdom of giving military equipment to our police departments.

I’ll leave the debate to those wiser heads.  I have different issues:

1. Why do we have “excess military equipment”?
2. Which bozos are over-ordering this stuff?
3. Why, if not given to police departments, will it “otherwise be scrapped?” Aren’t we currently fighting wars in several locations?
4. What kinds of equipment and what did it cost us taxpayers?

The answers to some of these are easy to find.  On a government website – the Defense Logistics Agency’s (DLA) Law Enforcement Support Office (LESO) – I learned about something called the 1033 Program which originated from the National Defense Authorization Act of Fiscal Year 1997:

“Since its inception, the program has transferred more than $6 billion worth of property.”

Now, I had trouble visualizing just how much $6 billion is, until I found this:

The length of 1,000,000,000 (one billion) one dollar bills laid end-to-end measures 96,900 miles.  This would extend around the earth almost 4 times.

Multiply that one billion by six = extend around the earth almost 24 times.  That’s a big bunch of bucks.

The DLA’s LESO website goes on to assure us,

“No equipment is purchased for distribution.  All items were excess which had been turned in by military units or had been held as part of reserve stocks until no longer needed.”

“Held as part of reserve stocks” means, of course – unused.

This equipment – called “Controlled Equipment” – includes:

Manned Aircraft, fixed or rotary wing	Command and Control Vehicles
Unmanned Aerial Vehicles	Beaching Apparatus
Wheeled Armored Vehicles	Riot Batons
Wheeled Tactical Vehicles	Riot Helmets
Specialized Firearms and Ammunition Under .50 Cal (excluded firearms and ammunition for service-issued weapons)	Riot Shields

Seriously?  The military has all this stuff just lying around?

Seriously.  It does.

Bottom line:  Our government has transferred/repurposed/restored the flow of/provided/given $6+ billion of your and my tax dollars in military equipment to local law enforcement.

Darned if I know why no one from the DLA or the LESO or any other federal government acronym didn’t contact me beforehand about this.  Hey – I’m not fussy; an email, a text, even a Tweet would have been appreciated.  Such as,

And look – I did it in less than 140 characters!

Well, perhaps the folks at the DLA and LESO were too busy putting together their brochure, which features some of the “Controlled Equipment” available – here’s just one page:

Isn’t this great?  Can’t you just see the caption for this one?

Here’s an idea:  Rather than transferring/repurposing/restoring the flow of/providing/giving this stuff, how about if we get that money back by selling it on eBay?  For instance, a bullet-proof vest, also known in the military as a Modular Tactical Vest (MTV) and its lightweight alternative, the Scalable Plate Carrier (SPC).  Those things never go out of style.

Here’s a nice Eagle Industries SPC, originally $1,199, but their low price:  just $749.  Of course we know the bozo buyers paid WAY more than that:

But look!  On eBay I can sell an Eagle Industries SPC for $480!

So if our government sold just…um…12,500,000 at $480 each, we’d get back that $6 billion!

Heads up, Jeff Sessions!  That’s how you “save taxpayer money”!  The money could come back to us taxpayers as a tax credit and – instant tax reform!

Yes?

No.  On August 29 the President signed an Executive Order to transfer/repurpose/ restore the flow of/provide/give surplus military gear to local police departments.

And as for question #2 above, Which bozos are over-ordering this stuff?

Darned if I know.

Publication date:  June 2017

Short version:  Three skunks out of a possible four.

Long version:

Back in the 90s there was a TV sitcom called Seinfeld.  It became iconic, famous for being “a show about nothing.”  I’m going to rephrase that slogan for John Grisham’s Camino Island:

A Book About Nothing.

In an earlier book review I noted that, since I was having issues with a New York Times best seller, rated at 4.5 stars on Amazon, that perhaps the problem with was me, not the book.

I’ll have to take that notion to the next level with Camino Island.  I didn’t like it, but 375,462,509 Amazon reviewers (OK, I’m exaggerating a bit) give it four stars.   And it’s been on the NY Times best seller list for many weeks.  Maybe years.

In fact, because the author is John Grisham, Camino Island was on the NY Times best seller list before it was published.  No, wait – before he even wrote it.

Seriously.

So here’s my issue:  It’s half a book.  A chunk of it is missing.

I’m wondering if someone out there who read a different Grisham book and realized their version was also missing a chunk – could you send your version to me?  So I can read the whole story?

Camino Island has no plot.  No what-will-happen-next? tension.  And – sorry, Mr. Grisham – no blockbuster movie potential.  Unless someone hires a highly skilled screenplay writer and says, “Put some mystery into this.  And excitement.  And, oh, yeah – a plot.”

Here’s what that unfortunate screenwriter has to work with:

1. Valuable manuscripts stolen by five guys – successful.
2. Four of the five guys caught, one killed – not successful.
3. Valuable manuscripts returned to owner.

And how about our female protagonist, writer Mercer Mann?  She, the book’s cover description promises, “learns far too much, and there’s trouble in paradise as only John Grisham can deliver it,”  Actually, she:

1. Experiences writer’s block, loses her job, moves to Camino Island.
2. Has sex.
3. Leaves Camino Island, gets a  new job, starts writing again.

Yawn.

For $28.95 plus tax.  You Canadian readers, $38 plus tax.

But maybe I’m jumping the gun here.  Maybe Grisham, as we speak, is at work on Camino Island Too.  Or Son of Camino Island.  Or Revenge of Camino Island.

You know – the part with tension.  And excitement.

And, oh, yeah – a plot.

Life is too short to be in a position or company that doesn’t bring you joy or doesn’t support you through difficult times.  Loving what you do and loving where you do it are keys to long-term health and happiness.

Well, isn’t that special?

I recently read that quote in an article by Marissa Levin who, according to her website, is

“A 20-year entrepreneur, speaker, & globally recognized growth strategist, Marissa’s lifetime legacy mission is to educate, equip, & empower 100 million entrepreneurs & leaders with the skillsets and mindsets they need to reach their greatest potential.

“As CEO of Successful Culture, Marissa helps CEOs master the 3 most critical aspects of business growth: leadership development, strategy formulation & execution, and organizational culture assessment & improvement.”

Marissa is also very fond of bold, italics, bold italics & ampersands&&&&&.

In the article Ms. Levin shares that at her first company, “We had a Good Times Committee (GTC) that was responsible for planning fun events.  We had a line item in our budget for fun.  No matter what the day held, we knew there would be some laughter along the way.”

I wish she’d gone into more detail about their “budget for fun.”  Exactly how much did they spend and on what?  Perhaps…

• Whoopie cushions for every seat in the conference room?
• Decoy food in the company refrigerator that blows up when someone tries to steal it?
• A secure, anonymous system that allows staff to truthfully review their managers?

In the article Ms. Levin’s sub-heads suggest:

• Laughter keeps us focused on tasks.  (What “tasks”?  You have minions to do those.)
• Laughter is a great natural team builder.  (Yeah, especially for the loser nobody wants on their team.)
• Laughter improves employee health and can reduce sick days.  (Which is fortunate, since we’re socking you for astronomical health insurance premiums.)

I also wish Ms. Levin had gone into detail about how many actual people she’s interviewed about “loving what you do and loving where you do it.”  Did she talk to, for example,

1. The person who has to maul breasts all day long – that is, a mammogram technician?
2. Or the person who works on their feet, in factory assembly line, eight or more hours a day?
3. Maybe the person who drives around picking up Port-a-Potties?

I’m suspecting that for these folks and a majority of working people all over the world, “bring you joy” wasn’t high on their list of job-hunting criteria.  They were too busy ascertaining if the job would pay a decent wage so they could support their peculiar habits like having a place to live, eating, and affording health care coverage that actually covers something.

Because, Ms. Levin, that is why people work.

Good Times Committee notwithstanding.

I love KPBS TV and radio.

OK, pledge drives not so much, but otherwise?  True love.

And I put my money where my mouth is – I’m a donor, and glad to be.

Or I was.

I’d gone online to donate and when I got to the part where they offer a gift, I was going to decline as I always do.  But a nice-looking coffee mug caught my eye.

I drink lots of coffee, so why not from a KPBS mug?

Here’s why:

It was after – and only after – my donation was complete, that I learned from my receipt that $8 was deducted from my donation, identified as a “Value of Premium.”

Wait.  What?

Yes, there it was – I was being charged for what KPBS calls a “gift.”  Now, having given and received gifts over the years, I’m pretty clear on what a gift is:

“Something voluntarily transferred by one person to another without compensation” (Merriman-Webster); “a thing given willingly to someone without payment” (Oxford Dictionary); something given voluntarily without payment in return” (dictionary.com).

Where, in there, does it say, “A gift is something you pay for?”

Annoyed?  Oh, yes.

My annoyance doubled – no, quadrupled – when the mug arrived.  For there on the bottom was a sticker that read, “Made in China.”

Now I was really ticked.  Not only was I not advised ahead of time that my donation amount would be reduced to pay for this “gift,” but it’s made in China?  Hello?  KPBS couldn’t find a mug maker in San Diego?  The entire U.S.?

So I went online and shared these thoughts with KPBS.  I was polite, but firm.  I advised that I expected a prompt response to my issues, otherwise my continued financial support was doubtful.

To their credit, the next day I received a response from a gentleman in KPBS’ Audience and Member Services Department.  He said, in part,

“For any donation made to a charitable organization where a gift item is chosen, U.S. tax law dictates that the gift’s Fair Market Value be deducted from the total donation.  The amount that is left after the Fair Market Value of a gift is deducted, is the amount that the donor can deduct on their taxes.

“We are not charging you the $8.  In your case, you made a donation of $60 to KPBS, a non-profit organization, and as your gift you had chosen the KPBS Black Ceramic mug with the red interior.  The Fair Market Value of that item is $8.  Based on U.S tax law, the Fair Market Value of a gift is to be subtracted from the total donation.  In this case, your total of $60 – $8 (FMV) would equal out to $52.00.  That is the amount that you would be able to deduct on your taxes.”

Oh, now get it.  KPBS isn’t charging me $8 for the mug – the federal government is.

There was no response to my question about why I wasn’t advised about the FMV prior to completing my donation.  There was a response as to why the coffee mug was bought from in China:

“While I work on getting an answer for you regarding where the gift item is made, I at least wanted to reply to you regarding where the $8 Fair Market Value of the coffee mug comes from.”

So I fired back a reply, asking how much information he needed about where the mug, excuse me, “gift item” was made, when it’s clearly marked “Made in China”?

I also asked him to verify that the online donation system does not advise of the FMV deduction until after the donation is complete.

At this point I’m wondering, Am I the first person in the history of KPBS online donations to question this don’t-tell-until-the-donation-is-done policy?

Am I the first person to question why this so-called “gift” was not purchased from a U.S. company?

Here’s why the latter issue especially ticks me off.  In addition to KPBS receiving local U.S. dollars from you and me in donations, it also receives money from the federal government.  That’s right – our tax dollars.  And I have no problem with my tax dollars going to support public broadcasting.

According to the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB) website, in 2016 the CPB asked for, and received, $445,000,000 of our tax dollars.  CPB is asking for the same amount in 2017.  The “Formula for Allocating CPB’s Federal Appropriation” indicates “Not less than 89%…to grants to stations or program producers.”  “Stations” includes KPBS, both TV and radio.  “Program producers” means many of the shows we watch or listen to are funded by the CPB.

With local and federal tax dollars coming in, I think KPBS should spend those dollars in the U.S. and buy their “gifts” here, not over there.

Anywhere over there.

The member services gentleman got back to me about the mug:

“The actual cost of the mug is $4.95, with tax and S&H costs it’s approximately $6.06.  Our cost is less than the Fair Market Value because it is a bulk cost, since orders from our vendor come in large quantities.

“Though the mugs are made in China, our vendor, Made to Order, is a local company.  When possible, we do prefer to use USA made gift items and definitely local vendors.”

Do you know what “when possible” and “we do prefer” sound like to me?

They sound like, “We try.”

Do you know what Star Wars’ Yoda said about “try”?

“Do.  Or do not.  There is no try.”

The gentleman did not address my issue with their don’t-tell policy, so I emailed again.  And while I was at it, I added that I’d never heard the FMV deduction mentioned during TV or radio pledge drives either.

Apparently at this point, KPBS decided it time to bring out the Big Guns:  I received a lengthy reply from the supervisor of the Audience and Member Services Department.   He was very polite, and very professional.

He did not address the mug-made-in-China issue, but he did discuss asking about “the technological feasibility” of providing the FMV information ahead of time to online donors.  He indicated that he could bring up the idea with his “superiors for their consideration.”

I’m hearing that word try again.

He also discussed a number of other things, and I did the same in my even-more-lengthy reply.

These were my bottom-line suggestions:

Stop and rethink the whole “gift” thing.  Many charities/non-profits don’t give gifts – they give sincere thanks for your donation and leave it at that.  I found a 2012 article in Forbes magazine, Charities:  Don’t Thank Your Donors With a Gift, that talks about a paper in the Journal of Economic Psychology and “a series of experiments that show that, contrary to expectations, rewarding contributors cuts donations in most circumstances.”  The article goes on to suggest, in part, that “promising donors a thank-you gift can be hazardous to a non-profit’s income!”

Stop telling donors after the fact that the amount of their donation may or will be reduced due to the FMV.  This means online and on TV and on the radio.  Tell us ahead of time so we can make an informed decision about choosing or not choosing the “gift.”

Stop buying “gifts” from other countries when comparably priced American-made items can be purchased (and you know they can).

And please, please…

Stop calling them “gifts.”

Or at least…

Try.

Personal ads are placed for all sorts of persuasions, but so far I haven’t seen any for those beloved characters in the stories we grew up hearing as kids.  Maybe those folks need a little help, too?

See if you can figure out who’s running these ads.  Click here for ads answers if you’re stumped.

1. Single guys seek single gals who like to whistle while they work. Must be OK with short men who are known for being grumpy, sleepy, happy and, well, dopey.  There are seven of us hoping seven of you will call 1-800-SNO-WHITE.

2. Wanted:  Woman who is into nature and wildlife, especially frogs, for possible romance.  Must enjoy kissing and be willing to do so on our first date.  I am a prince of a guy – or I hope I will be.

3. Adult supervisor needed for barnyard to keep animals from picking on a duckling which is, frankly, ugly. The chickens won’t cut him any slack, and the other ducks are bullies.  We’re also seeking a new home for him, where he can be around other ugly birds like himself.

4. Distinguished gentleman, somewhat shell-shocked, needs female companion who can do what all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t.  If you’re good with glue, I need you.  This is no yolk.  Call 1-800-GOOD-EGG.

5. Young woman seeks older lady who is willing to provide transportation, driver, and clothes so I can to go a ball.  I’m really into shoes, particularly glass ones, size four.  Am also in need of a prince to rescue me from my dysfunctional family.  When you get here, I’ll be the one by the fireplace.

6. Need tailors who will work in-house, making new clothes that will be invisible to anyone who is incompetent or stupid. Must be willing to work long hours and will be subject to inspections by court officials.  Emperor will wear new clothes in a parade for townspeople and their children.

7. Wanted:  Etiquette teacher for young female who told me I have big ears, a big nose and a big mouth.  She also insists on wearing a lot of red, which isn’t her color at all.  She tends to wander in the woods and talk to strangers.  If you can help call 1-800-BIG-WOLF.

8. New living situation needed immediately. My roommates want everything their way, but the porridge is too hot or too cold, the chairs are too hard or too soft, and don’t get me started on the beds.  The youngest one is a whiner and won’t share.  Please help – this has become unbearable.

Ad Answers

1. Snow White (Seriously?  You had to look for this answer?)
2. The Princess and the Frog
3. The Ugly Duckling
4. Humpty Dumpty
5. Cinderella
6. The Emperor’s New Clothes
7. Little Red Riding Hood
8. Goldilocks and the Three Bears

Publication date:  May 2017

Short version:  Four skunks out of a possible four.

Long version:

Nora Roberts published her first book in 1981 and our reader/writer relationship goes back almost that far.  She’s written more than 200 books, and I’ve read most of them.  All I needed was to see her name on a book’s cover and I wanted it.

To have.

To hold.

To devour.

But lately, I’ve lost that loving feeling.

Nora’s latest, Come Sundown, currently shines with 4.5 out of five stars on Amazon, and spent several weeks on The New York Times best seller list.  So I know the problem isn’t the book.

Maybe it’s me.

During more recent years, as Nora transitioned from romance novels to romantic thrillers, I became less and less thrilled.  Thrillers meant the introductions of all sorts of elements I wasn’t interested in:  bad guys, worse guys; sexy, stoic ex-CIA or ex-SEALS or some other ex-acronym; and often, a woman who needed rescuing from her own stupidity.

But I persevered.  This was Nora, and we go way back, after all.  You don’t just dump a long-term relationship, do you?

Well, yeah.

Plus, I’ve gotten weary of women whose translation of “interpersonal skills” is, “act like a guy.”

I’m referring to Nora’s main female character in Come Sundown, Bodine Samantha Longbow, known as Bo.

Which begs for Bo Peep jokes, but let’s not go there.

For women who “act like a guy,” see Bo on page 63:

“You’re always thinking, Bo.”  

“That’s why I’m the boss.”

Sounds like an insecure guy response to me.

And actually, Bo, you’re the boss because of nepotism – your family owns the Montana ranch and gave you your job.  Kind of like Trump did for Trump Jr.  And Ivanka.  And Eric.  And Jared.

In case we forget Bo is the boss, she reminds us on page 70:

“Abe should have come to me…He should have come to me

to discuss whether I approved…Then I decide on all that…”

Uh-oh.  Insecure guy stuff again.

On page 75 Bo calls a ranch hand, Cal, by his last name (very macho); on page 89 she calls him “a stupid son of a bitch” (even more macho); along the way she hits Cal and gives him a black eye, then on page 90 she threatens to kill him (OK, now we’ve gone from macho to psycho).

In a later conversation with Cal (page 129) Bo says “it pisses me off” (twice), “to beat the shit out of him,” and she ponders how men “irritate the living crap out of her.”

Wow, four bodily function references on one page!

And to Cal on page 148, “…you’re an idiot.”

Cal, the “stupid son of a bitch” and “idiot,” is Bo’s love interest, of course.

I got as far as page 161 (out of 466) and pulled the plug after I encountered yet another of the psycho’s stream-of-consciousness.  No, not Bo; the story has a full-time psychopath, and we spend a lot of time riding his derailed train of thought.  Just a sampling from pages 160-161:

“He had a right – God given – even an obligation to procreate, to continue his line.  To spread his seed into the world…He hit her…given her a good whack with the lug wrench…there was a lot more blood than he’d expected…she’d gone and died on him right in the back of his damn truck.”

This is not my idea of entertaining reading.  This is more like the evening news.  I don’t need to read about violence against women like this.

I see enough on TV.

At this point – where I gave up – we’ve learned that the psycho kidnapped Bo’s aunt many years ago.  He kept her chained in a cellar, and impregnated her three times.  That was then.  More recently, he’s murdered two women.  At least, I think that’s the score.

I admit my attention was wandering.  I had ceased longing for answers regarding:

Will the kidnapped aunt make a reappearance?

Will Bo and Cal become lovers, and will she continue the name calling?

Will the full-time psycho go after Bo, the part-time psycho?

Who cares?

Note to Nora:

So, the thrill is gone.  I just can’t face another 300+ pages of psycho violence, bodily function references, and Bo’s lack of linguistic agility.

I’m just grateful I got this book at the library and didn’t spend $28 on it.

That would have made me psycho.

Unless you live in a cave – well, even if you do – chances are that now and then you need to call a service provider and ask him or her to come to your house (or cave) and fix something.  Or clean something.  Or kill something, like bugs.

But have you ever thought about how that service provider – as long as they’re there, fixing or cleaning or killing – could also free up some of your valuable time for important things, like binge watching Prison Break?

Here are some ideas for you:

1. Give your housekeeper a key. Then you won’t have to answer the door and miss your BFF’s latest tweet about what she had for lunch.
   

2. After the landscaper finishes with the yard, tell him to come in and water the houseplants. He’s the plant person, not you.

3. When the exterminator is done spraying for ants outside, he can kill that spider in your bathroom so you can take a shower.

4. And speaking of showers, the guy who’s inspecting the hot water heater should turn the temperature up a notch, so your shower gets hotter sooner.

5. Before the plumber leaves, ask him to clean that gunk out of your swimming pool filters. Unplugging things is his job, not yours.

6. When the window washers are finished, they can clean all your mirrors. Glass is glass, right?

7. The guy who’s there to fix the washing machine? He can throw a load in to wash before he leaves.

8. Before the handyman comes over to check that leak in your roof, tell him to pick up a Big Mac and fries for you – it’s right on his way.

9. Is the air conditioner guy finished with his inspection? He should hurry up because…

10. It’s time to take a nap. Simplifying your life is exhausting.

There’s a rumor going around that July is Cell Phone Courtesy Month.

I’d say it’s more like Cell Phone Stupidity Month.

Just look at these examples, from this month alone:

“Courtesy?   Of course I’m courteous!  I called my husband to let him know my flight was taking off two hours late, and yes, I was loud, because those stupid flight attendants were in the aisle talking about that useless safety stuff, and besides, how else would hubby know my flight was late, it’s not like he can go on the Internet and find out, right?”

“Ashley, I can barely hear you.  The stupid dentist keeps interrupting me.”

“Ashley, I can barely hear you.  These stupid drivers keep honking at me.”

“So, like, our art teacher?  She, like, said we had to come to like, this museum place?  Or else we’d, like, flunk the class?”

Pokemon Go Gen 2…That is like, so last week.

“Who, me?  Eating?  No!  Why do you ask?”

“Who, me?  In the bathroom?  No!  Why do you ask?”

He’s your dog.  Do you know where else his mouth has been?

You’re talking into your hot dog!  You’re supposed to eat your hot dog and talk into the phone!

“Beach?  What beach?”

“Teeth?  What Teeth?”

And finally, not that anyone would ever do this…

“Who, me?  On the phone?  No!  Why do you ask?”

 

Publication Date:  May 2017

Review, short version:  Three skunks out of a possible four.

Long version:

Michelle Gable’s latest offering, The Book of Summer, involves three central characters:

Bess, 33, a soon-to-be-divorced Emergency Department doctor who, if you have to go to the ER, you do not want her walking into your cubicle;

Cissy, 65, Bess’ mother, who utilizes the mantle of eccentricity to excuse selfish behavior and an extremely foul mouth;

Ruby, Cissy’s mother, dead though very present, demonstrating repeatedly that if she were any shallower, she’d be a dry spot.

Cissy lives in a crumbling old family home, Cliff House, aptly named as it’s perched on a Nantucket bluff overlooking the Atlantic.  The house and the bluff are about to fall into the ocean, and Cissy is determined to save both. Bess is asked by her father to save Cissy.  Now, Bess lives in San Francisco, while her father lives not far from Cissy, but apparently he’s too busy making money to rescue his wife.

Cissy arrives at the Nantucket airport to pick up Bess – on a bike.  This is our introduction to Cissy, and our first inkling that Cissy is several dimes short of a dollar.  Their neighbor, a guy named Chappy, arrives on scene and offers them a ride, and here is our first inkling that the author, Gable, is also missing some currency.  On page 10, during the drive, Cissy “keeps emitting small burps, as if she might be sick.”

What?  Why?

Cissy isn’t physically sick, there’s no further mention of this, so how did the “small burps” further advance the story?

Currency isn’t the only attribute Gable is missing; though a native Californian, she’s egregiously lacking in knowledge of the vernacular of San Francisco, twice referring to Beth’s home as “back in the Bay” (pages 151 and 184).  As a longtime resident I can assure you that no one – not even the most ignorant tourist – ever refers to San Francisco as “the Bay.”  It’s called “The City.”  You might even call it “Frisco.”  But “the Bay”?

Eye roll.

Gable also lacks a basic knowledge of motor vehicles, referring to Chappy’s transportation mode as a “wood-paneled truck” on page eight, then as a “car” on page 10, then it’s back to “truck” on page 11.

Did an editor have a crack at this book before its publication?

Not to suggest Gable is lacking in her command of vocabulary, particularly active verbs.  Instead of simply writing “Bess said,” Gable hits us with a barrage of them:

“Ha!” Bess yaps. (Page 49)

“What the hell?” she squawks.  (Page 53)

“What happened after that?” Bess sputters.  (Page 61)

“I know what you’re thinking!” she chirps.  (Page 62)

“Gimme a break!” Bess chirps.  (Again)  (Page 181)

“It’s not like that with Evan,” Bess prattles on.  (Page 182)

We get a bit of a break from Bess and her active verbs, and then:

“Whaaaat?” Bess grumble-moans.  (Page 378)

“Coming,” Bess gripes.  (Page 378)

“Hold on, let me get my shoes,” she mumbles.  (Page 380)

Does Bess ever just speak?

And speaking of active verbs, on page 338 we encounter Bess “jumping up and down, literally hopping mad.”  Remember that Bess is a supposedly mature graduate of medical school, responsible for life-and-death decisions in an Emergency Room.  Scary thought, isn’t it?

Gable handles a number of topical issues – the environment, gays in the military, and aging, the latter particularly badly.  It turns out that Cissy, whom you’ll remember is 65, is having an affair with her contemporary, Chappy.  According to Bess (page 309), “Indeed they are both too old for this shit.”  In case we missed Bess’ attitude, on page 324 she reminds us, “This is about Cissy and Chappy and their AARP love affair.”

Ageism, anyone?

When Bess reveals to Cissy that she is pregnant and considered an abortion, Cissy’s negative reaction surprises Bess, since Cissy is “a registered Democrat, politically obligated to be okay with this sort of thing.”

Stereotyping, anyone?

And not just stereotyping; Gable is equally adept at clichés.  One is Bess’ marriage, because of course while Bess is a saint, her soon-to-be ex is unkind, stupid, vicious, verbally abusive, patronizes prostitutes, and probably kicks small animals.  All of this came as a great surprise to Bess.

More clichés:  Shortly after Bess arrives at Cliff House, she encounters her high school flame, Evan, who is kind, smart, handsome, hunky, loves small animals and is a volunteer coach for kids’ sports.  The sparks are rekindled – there’s a new approach – Beth engages in a rebound relationship – another new approach – and Evan declares he was, is, and always will be in love with Bess.

Clearly an aberration for Evan, who otherwise actually is smart.

The book winds down with Cissy in Chappy’s arms, dancing; Beth in love with Evan, mostly; and Cliff House in the Atlantic, completely.

The End.

Sigh of relief, anyone?

 

 

 

 

 

About every six months I get the urge to cook.  Usually I ignore it, but this time my craving for homemade pot roast was too strong.

That craving coincided with a rare Friday I’d taken off from work.  I dusted off my cookbook, checked the recipe, made a grocery list and headed to the store.

The street in and out of my subdivision, Douglas Drive, was one I’d traveled hundreds of times going to and from work.  The speed limit was 45mph, and I’m very conscientious about not exceeding the speed limit.  From day one of driving I’d never gotten a ticket, and was proud of that.

There’s a school on Douglas that I’d never paid much attention to – why would I?  Besides, today I was focused on how good that pot roast was going to smell in a few hours, and taste for dinner that evening.

It was around 8:15am and there were a couple of cars ahead of me and one next to me, all of us doing the speed limit.  There was also a car behind me, which suddenly transformed from an innocuous sedan into a monster with blue and red lights flashing, siren screaming, and a terrible voice saying, “Turn right at the next street and pull over.”

It was the police.  And they were talking to me.

Heart pounding, I turned, parked, shut off my engine and stuck a smile on my face.  I had no idea why I’d been pulled over.  My license plate tags weren’t expired.  Did I have a burned-out taillight?  What could it be?

The police car parked behind me, and I watched in my side-view mirror as the officer approached.  Stocky, thick neck, buzz haircut, pristine uniform, all business.  “Ma’am,” he said, “do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“You were speeding.”

Speeding, I thought.  Me?  I’m always the one in the right lane, going the speed limit.  Buses pass me.  School buses pass me.  Bicycles pass me.  Speeding?  No way!

I didn’t say this, of course.  I didn’t say anything.  Picture deer in the headlights, but with its mouth dropped open in shock.  Like mine.

The officer continued, “Did you see the sign back there with the flashing yellow lights?  It says the speed limit along here is ‘25mph when children are present.’  Kids are in school today.  I clocked you at 45.  I’m giving you a citation for 20 miles over the speed limit.”

He collected my driver license, registration, proof of insurance and walked back to his car.

I said I’d driven this street hundreds of times and that was my problem:  I went to work before school started, and came home after school was out.  No school, no kids, and no flashing lights to think about during the week, or on the weekend.  But this was Friday and school was in session and I was in deep trouble.

How deep?

For the ticket:  $332, according to the “Courtesy Notice” mailed from the San Diego Superior Court.  (This event happened several years ago, so rest assured these amounts have increased since then.)

The notice went on to advise that if I was eligible to attend traffic school and if I chose to attend and if I successfully completed it, then the violation would be dismissed and no points added to my DMV record.  There would, of course, be an additional fee of $52 for processing the traffic school paperwork.

New total:  $384.

Cost of online traffic school:  $20.99.

Cost of the trip to make pot roast:  $404.99.

After the officer concluded our get-together and drove away, I sat in my car and stewed.  Then I went from stewing – to steaming.  First, why me?  At least three other cars were going 45, so why did he choose me?

Second, this “when children are present” stuff.  What does that sign mean?  If there are no kids in sight because they’re all in class, are they still “present”?  If the kids are on the playground but the playground is fenced in, are they still “present”?

Now my steaming evolved into something bordering on self-righteousness.  When I got home from the grocery store – yes, I went ahead with my pot roast plans – I called the police.  They advised that whenever school is in session – any time kids are in, going to or coming from school – the speed limit is 25mph.  Period.

So now I’m painfully aware of where the school is.  When I drive by Monday through Friday between 7:30am and 4:30pm, I slow down to 25mph.

People behind me are not happy.  Expressions of displeasure range from fist shaking to extending the middle finger to illegally passing me.  So far no one has followed me home to share their road rage, but I continue to be vigilant.

What’s my takeaway?  Any school with a “25mph when children are present” sign means what it says.

And the next time I feel the urge to cook – I’ll ignore it.

Here we are at a Buy American – Hire American rally.

Check out the woman in the top row, just right of center, likely taking a selfie.

When she got that phone, want to bet she didn’t Buy American?