Why? I Ask.

This is a picture of a catalytic converter:

This is a headline in our little paper earlier this week:

Why? I’d like to ask the robbers.  Why do you want more than one catalytic converter?  Even if you really want more than one, why go to the trouble and risk of stealing it/them? And then just keep on doing it? Over and over? Again and again?

Why do all that for something that hangs under your car along with all the other nasty bits?  And is, by its very nature, yucky, dirty and oily?   Why?  For heaven’s sake, I ask. Why?

Lacking a response from you, the perps, I went to my source to try to understand. I asked the Mister just exactly what a catalytic converter is and what it does.  It’s a “thingie” he said, that reduces the amount of harmful pollutants and noxious toxins that would otherwise go into the air we breathe.

Aha, I said to myself. Now I get it and I too, just like the perps, would like a few good catalytic converters.  I can think of many places where they’d be ever-so-helpful and timely right about now. And not so much as one of those places is under my car.

The Six “P”s of Success.

They are: “Proper Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance.” 

It’s a good motto in general and, seemingly, should be just that much more important to those with murder on their minds.

Many of us, here on Hilton Head, live in “gated communities.” To visit, you need a pass, requested by a resident and then given to you by a security guard at the entrance gate.

Like all workplaces, the security gate-houses have unique cultures.  For the most part, they’re congenial, pleasant, places to work, but, apparently, there are those times when tempers flare. 

As a recent story goes, two security guards at one of the communities decided to “off” their supervisor by putting “eye drops” in his personal coffee machine.  Yes, eye-drops in coffee can kill.  Who knew?  Further, it’s a felony and can land a person behind bars for 25 years or so.

But here’s the kicker:  The supervisor was scheduled to be out of the office on that particular day.  As a result, he was never anywhere near his deadly, eye-drop-poisoned, coffee pot.  A foul and foiled plot, indeed!

That’s great news for the supervisor, of course.   But, wouldn’t you think that if you were planning to kill someone, you’d check the intended’s schedule?  Be up to date on his whereabouts on his day of doom? Proper preparation V. piss poor performance and all that jazz? 

As it happened, all’s well that ends well. The would-be perps are doing a bit of time behind bars, and I don’t think the Six P’s will be of any interest to them any time soon. They’ve got other stuff to ponder.

How Sweet “IT” Is.

“IT” is an old movie, made in 1988, directed by Woody Allen, and titled “Another Woman.”

It’s classic Woody Allen.  All those glorious shots of New York City, fabulous music, and actors we’ve long admired.

Gina Rowlands stars, supported by Blythe Danner, Gene Hackman, and, of course, Mia Farrow! Beautiful people in beautiful roles.

The story line was fine.  Not memorable but ala Woody Allen, it was never meant to be the driving element.  He’s all about his characters.  His “peeps.” Their lives, their struggles, their purpose, their angst.  And nobody does angst like Woody does angst.

What this movie didn’t have, and what made it so sweet, were cell phones.  As in, the lack of thereof.  Personal interactions were face-to-face.  There were no jangling ringtones coming from people’s pockets, altering the mood.  Characters stayed in character, uninterrupted by interruptions.

I simply sat back and enjoyed the elegant art of filmmaking. Took in the sights and just chilled out. Went with the flow. How very sweet it was, indeed.

O

Geez Louise, Beez.

Didn’t your mother tell you to measure twice and cut once?

Maybe you just forgot that.  But here you are now, with a boat too big to leave its port.  And the good people of Rotterdam have decided not to dismantle their sweet little iconic bridge for you. Which, unfortunately, is the only way you and your brand new boat can get to the other side.  And, which you most certainly want to do.    Otherwise, really, what is your “largest sailing yacht in the world” going to do with itself?

Listen, Mr. Bezos, I feel your pain.  I really do.  OK, maybe not on such a grand scale, but still.

See, when it comes to measurements, The Mister also has a a bit of an issue.  It’s nearly impossible to recount the times that floors, shelves, cute little bird feeders and more have needed some (or many) adjustments.  A quick trip to Lowe’s usually suffices for his oppsies but that “measure twice and cut once” thing still applies.

While our little mishaps are just that…….little…. yours is more of a David and Goliath kind of thing.  Aka, ancient treasured bridge V. a billionaire’s brand new, seriously outsized, boat.

So, Mr. Bezos, on a personal note, I am very grateful to you and Amazon for bringing all-things-necessary to our doorstep during Covid.  And I thank you.  But given all that, I still feel compelled to root for that sweet little bridge.

And There They Sit.

My barbells.  My cute little pink barbells.  So dainty and lady-like.

They’re right there on the floor, next to the sofa.  Each weighs a mere two pounds.  I could easily pick one up while I’m watching television.  Or reading my Kindle.  Do a few reps here and there.  Watch those crepe-like crinkles on my arms melt away.  Poof! Just like that!

What could be easier? 

I ask myself that question every day.  Several times a day in fact, as I walk past them.   And I agree with myself that it would be ever-so easy to do just that.  

But, instead those little suckers just sit there.   And sit.  And sit.  

They remain untouched.  Unmoved.  Unused.  They’ve become permanent fixtures.   Floor art, if you will.

There’s absolutely no good reason not to take advantage of them and their obvious benefits. There is, however, one very important reason and it’s the only one that counts:  I simply don’t want to.

“What Can We Do?”

It’s a difficult question asked by young women who will inevitably feel the impact of the Roe v. Wade decision.  They, themselves, may be affected and/or they’ll certainly know others who are. The issue is just too big to escape.

They ask of us who are older but not necessarily wiser:  “What can we do?”

And, I as one of those elders, have no answers. 

I know this, however.  Madeleine Albright said: “There is a special place in hell for women who don’t support other women.”   So, I say to those young women who are looking for answers:  “Do anything.  But do something.” 

The “something” doesn’t have to be momentous.  The Mister’s father was famous for saying:  “Many a mickle makes a mackle.”  While some of us who were new to the family were initially befuddled by that particular adage, we soon learned that it means that even “micro” responses can effect “macro” issues.

So, go ahead and put some “mickles” out there. “Mackles” are sure to follow.  Oh, and grab a few good men along the way. There’s no reason they can’t be part of the solution. This is NOT just a woman’s issue.

A Fourth of July Memory

Once upon a time, in a land far away, we were members of a small family-oriented club.  We celebrated most holidays in understated fashion but the Fourth of July was big.  Great big!

For starters, we had our own fire works display!  Family picnics ran the gamut from candles-and-caviar to buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken.  We played silly games and sang songs and marched to patriotic music, a flag bearer leading the way. 

The highlight of the day was the always the baby race.  An oxymoron if ever there was one.

We’d create a circle out of anything that was handy….beach towels, tennis racquets, shoes.  The babies (all under walking age, by virtue of strictly mandated rules) were placed in the middle of the circle and the mothers, from outside the circle, cajoled their babies to come to them.  The first baby to crawl to its mother won something.   What that something might have been doesn’t matter.   What mattered was the pure fun and silliness of the whole thing.

Some babies cried, of course.  Some ate the grass they were sitting on.  Some stared at the sky.  Others sucked their thumbs in bewilderment or tried to cop a toy from the baby sitting next to it. 

The “race” was usually called before it was over. The babies, being non-competitive and in no hurry whatsoever, soon lost interest. As did, eventually, the spectators. The event always ended in mutual agreement that there would be no “winner” this year.  Just a bunch of smiling moms, dads, and grandparents. It was all just exactly as it should have been.

Happy Fourth of July to all. 

Photo thanks to themidwestdailynews.com

Who’s Watching?

We are.  The Mister and I are watching the Jan. 6 hearings.  Closely. We know we’re not in the majority, but that’s okay. 

In thinking back to other hearings, we found that around 100 million viewers watched at least a portion of the Watergate hearings in 1973.  That equated to some 70% of US adults at that time.

The Clinton/Lewinsky hearings in 1999 had a steady viewership of about 80 million viewers – about 40% of US adults.

The McCarthy hearings had about the same response.

Reportedly, opening night of the current Jan 6th Committee hearings drew some 20 million viewers, equating to 8% of adults in the US.

The second hearing, aired during the day, drew 11 million, down to about 5%.

The third and fourth Jan. 6th hearings each drew about 9 million, or approximately 4%. We can assume that the 5th hearing’s audience was about the same.

The decline in actual viewers and percentages of those who follow important, democracy-challenging, events is truly remarkable.

In a theater-of-the absurd comparison, O. J. Simpson, in 1995, had about 150 million followers, or about 75% of our population, who tuned in nearly every day of that seven month event!

So, maybe the real question is: Who’s NOT watching the Jan. 6 hearings? And, more to the point, WHY aren’t they watching? Is it simply indifference, which is antithetical to the whole concept of democracy? Or it is something else entirely?

Finally, a postscript to all the Roe v. Wade protestors: Carry on, please. Peacefully and in force. For the moment, you are our great hope. There IS power in numbers. We have to believe that.

Cartoon sketches courtesy of fineartamerica.com and 123rf.com

“Pregnancy Keepsake”

I enjoy the Wall Street Journal crossword puzzles.  Have for years.  Tuesday’s puzzles are rarely a problem.  The grid fills quickly and easily. 

Such was not the case last Tuesday.  The 35-Across clue, “Pregnancy Keepsake,” totally threw me.  It was nine letters long so obvious answers like “baby,” “infant,” “child,” or “newborn” didn’t do the trick.

“Umbilical chord” came to mind, but it was too long and surely, surely, would never be considered a keepsake.

“Stretch marks” and “varicose veins” also didn’t fit.  And while I wouldn’t call them keepsakes , they do, by virtue of their everlasting and unwanted presence, serve as reminders.

Clearly, the only path to the answer was through the letters surrounding the curious clue.

The AHA moment came as the answer slowly emerged: “belly cast.”   Seriously?  That was the answer?  Belly cast?  

That’s the answer, all right.  I checked and doublechecked. And yes, it’s a real thing. Furthermore, a good one can set you back a pretty penny….$2,500.00 or more. Sure, you can cheap it for around forty bucks, but if you’re gonna do it (questionable at best), I suppose you might as well go all out.

So, thrilled as I am to have a new word in my vocabulary, I’m struggling to think how I might use it in a conversation. And perhaps it’s my age, but the answer to that befuddles me just as deeply as the mere thought of anyone, for any reason, wanting a memento of a stretched-to-the max, super-extended belly. But again, that’s just me. Times, they are a-changin’.

Reunion Field Trip?

The Mister had a college reunion this weekend. Alas, we didn’t attend. We’d planned to be there, but stuff happened so we stayed home.

Even if we’d gone to the reunion, we wouldn’t have marched, all decked out in school colors, down the main drag or gathered in large celebrations with other classes. We had something a bit smaller in mind, namely spending time with a group from the Mister’s fraternity and their wives whom we’ve know for a long, long time. It was truly going to be the “refresher” course we so sorely needed and wanted.

Just as we were feeling quite sorry for ourselves, one of the Mister’s fraternity brothers sent this video along to us. Given that their class is now firmly embedded in what’s known as ‘The Old Guard,” the potential for this sort of hysterical mis-behavior is certainly real. Maybe staying home was the better part of valor, after all.

To see what I mean, just click here!

Video courtesy of YouTube.com

Leonard Bernstein conducts West Side Story

Looking for a diversion?

Something to make your heart soar?

Something to lift your spirits?

Something to keep you on the edge of your seat with joyful anticipation?

Something to leave you singing and maybe even dancing?

Well, have I got a deal for you.

Leonard Bernstein wrote the music for West Side Story in 1957 but had never conducted it until 1984. He wanted to record it, baton in hand and with his own carefully chosen soloists and musicians. This “documentary” is the making of that recording. It is gripping, astounding, fearsome and beautiful, all at once.

Yes, it’s an hour and half long. But you won’t be bored.

There’s nothing quite like the clashing of bigger-than-life-egos to keep you glued to your seat. Most of it takes place in a bare-bones sound studio (with just a couple of peeks into Bernstein’s Manhattan apartment). There’s the music we all know so well, sung simply into microphones. No costumes. No makeup. No sets. Just pure unadulterated sound from ordinary looking people with extraordinary voices. Striving to get it right for all time.

For the Mister and me, it was spellbinding. And a sorely needed and most welcome relief from other matters. If you want to give it a try, for even a few minutes, you can watch it here!

Image courtesy of npr.org

Natural Disasters

We know, here in South Carolina, that we’ll have hurricanes.  

We knew, back in Ohio, that we would get tornadoes.

I knew, way back in West Virginia, that the rivers would flood.

And so it goes.

Natural disasters happen. We expect them. Usually, we get warnings. We stock up on supplies and then we hunker down and hope for the best.

All those natural disasters are just that……natural.  They’re part of the deal and we deal with them as best we can. We count our blessings when we’ve been spared. We’re relieved when loss of life has been minimal and we can put our lives back together.

And we rate those natural disasters.  Of course we do.  We rate everything. We rate things on scales of one-to-ten or bad to worse. Katrina was bad. Matthew, too. We remember them very well. Others did less damage and are not forever etched in our minds and on our landscapes.

But right now, of all things, we’re rating school shootings.  The latest one in Texas, is rated as the next-to-the worst; Sandy Hill being the worst.

Shame on us.  There should never have been ONE school shooting, never mind a whole list of them.  So many that we rate them.  What does that mean for the children who were killed in the “smallest” school shooting?  Are they less significant than the ones killed in the “worst?” Have we forgotten those children as we’ve forgotten our lesser natural disasters?

As Senator Chris Murphy from Connecticut asked recently:  “What are we doing?”   Our answer: “We’re doing nothing.” Nothing at all. We’re just sitting back and waiting for the next school shooting because we know there will be another. And another. Just as surely as we know, and understand, that there will be more natural disasters.

We shouldn’t have to accept that those horrific, senseless and decidedly unnatural disasters are simply a given. That they’re inevitable. That there’s nothing we can do about it. Somehow, some way, we have to pull up our big boy-and-girl-pants and just get it done. I really, really don’t want to mourn another child lost to a school shooting.

Step By Step

That’s what I’ve done for the last 13 years.  I’ve taken it step by step, always keenly, and often painfully aware of every single step.  The left foot is always ready to go; the right one, well, not-so-much. It’s a bit like a recalcitrant child; it would stomp its own foot in protest if it could.

The right foot has “dystonia” for lack of a better name.  It gets cranky, it scrunches itself all up into knots and is reluctant to go forward.    It has a “movement disorder.”

It has visited a broad variety of healthcare professionals.  Here are some, in alphabetical order:

Acupuncturists, chiropractors, holistic doctors, internists, massage therapists, neurologists, neurosurgeons, OB Gyns (hey, any port in a storm), orthopedists, orthopedic surgeons, podiatrists, psychologists, psychiatrists, physical therapists, radiologists and sports doctors.

It has been prescribed more medicines than anyone could possibly remember.

It has had botox treatments, MRI’s, bone scans, EMG’s, Xrays, blood tests. 

The prognoses, diagnoses and the treatments have been myriad and, ultimately, all wrong. 

This, unfortunately, is the story shared by most, if not all, who have been diagnosed with dystonia.

But now.

Now the foot has the opportunity to embark on a new journey.  A journey outside the norm. At worst, it will simply be venture of note. At best, I can unbox all those cute shoes I’ve held onto for thirteen years and take a long, long walk with the Mister.

The New Yorker

It’s long been considered to be a thinking person’s magazine. 

Their thoughtful, in-depth essays are intended to engage your brain, cause reflection and make you just a little smarter than you were before you read them. 

There’s also a fair amount of poetry.  Much of it too obscure for the likes of me.

And, alas, the book reviews gravitate to subject matter that will forever be over my pay grade.

And yet, we are subscribers. Again. We lapsed for a spell but are back in the swim. I originally subscribed only for the cartoons. This time around, I was committed to being more engaged and indeed I am, but primarily because they’ve added a crossword puzzle.  Many of those lengthy articles remain unread.

But an earlier issue from this year really took me by surprise.  There it was, right near the back where I usually begin.  It was a cartoon which I simply didn’t understand. I was shocked to the core. If I can’t at least “get” the cartoons, I said to myself, then why am I still subscribing? Then I took a longer look and now I can’t stop laughing.  Here it is for your viewing enjoyment. Or for your confusion and consternation. Whatever the case may be.

Is The Party Over?

Oh, the parties. The tea parties, the bridge parties, the dinner parties, the birthday parties.  All eventually come to an end. Guests rise from their seats, say their warm good nights and go home.  Unless, of course, someone utters those three little words:  “Roe V. Wade.” 

At that point, all hell is apt to break loose.  Woe betide the hostess who thought her party was over and she could go to bed.  But after those highly charged words, the party begins again.  And with no end in sight.

I’m reminded of an old advertisement slogan: “Nobody doesn’t like SaraLee.”  With regard to “Roe v. Wade,” nobody doesn’t have an opinion and everyone is more than happy to share.

The ensuing conversation will ultimately go nowhere.  We know that from the get-go but our two cents worth will be heard.  Over and over again if necessary.

We obviously should have left the party when the going was good.   Before we wore out our welcome.  Before the storm clouds descended. But Roe is a big issue and we honor it by discussing it and voicing our opinions, different though they may be. So, bravo for us.  Our freedom of speech isn’t on the chopping block.  Yet.

And no, the irony of sending this on mother’s day isn’t lost on me. Very simply, as most of us know, when we choose to have children, every day is mother’s day.

Image thanks to unsplash.com