My Mom Survived My Meatballs. For Now.

Now that my mother is living with me, I’m cooking (burning) food more often. Fortunately, I own a kitchen chisel, useful for digging out burnt spatter on the sides of the oven and microwave.

Cooking for two is so much more pleasant than schlepping a can out of the pantry, throwing the can-shaped contents into a pot and stirring. Stirring isn’t cooking, after all. And I love sitting down to dine with my mom. It’s a wonderful part of my day. She doesn’t even admonish me when I put my elbows on the table.

Cooking for two is all about respecting each other’s food issues. Mom’s not crazy about garlic—at least in mega doses. But she’s not picky. She’s discerning. That women can detect rancid overtones at subatomic levels. (No stale nuts in my house. ) One of the great things about her is that she’ll willingly try my different concoctions and mixtures. She wasn’t crazy about the sausage and apples I made one evening, but she ate it and then washed it down with a bowl of ice cream. I haven’t gotten up the courage to serve her tofu. I hid the 25 packages of it somewhere deep in the bottom of my freezer. They’ll be there until the next ice age.

My mom grew up in an era when ground beef wasn’t a menace, the ticking time bomb that it is today. I’m still determined to avoid ground beef, believing it to be one of the riskiest meats to consume. In the last year, more ground beef packages were being yanked out of the stores than were ending up in greasy McD burgers.

My mom and I love spaghetti and meatballs. Hers are what every meatball should be: juicy, tasty, “I want to eat a bathtub full of them.” Her meatballs are more than a conveyance for the sauce. They are the epitome of good eating. (Rumor has it that Julia Childs tried to wangle Mom’s meatball recipe out of her, and despite my Mom’s diminutive size, she put the chef into a headlock and that was the end of that.)

I attempted making my own meatballs the other evening, but I decided to substitute ground turkey for ground beef. I also decided to fool my mom into not being able to tell the difference. While my mom was in the shower, I quickly made the mixture, formed the balls and popped them in the microwave to cook a bit before browning them under the broiler. Sneakiness doesn’t pay off.

I was partly successful in my ruse. I avoided having to mention that I replaced the ground beef with ground turkey. I didn’t have to fess up to that switch. No, instead, I had to convince my mom that I hadn’t substituted golf balls for meatballs.

Golfballs

Meatballs

I can’t recall whether it was her pained expression or her sawing at the meatball on her plate that alerted me to my abysmal failure. Perhaps it was the clink of the hard surface of the meatball against her plate. A well-made meatball shouldn’t make noise. It shouldn’t crack the tile floor if it rolls off one’s plate. It shouldn’t ricochet off a knife. If you have to use a knife with a meatball, you’ve already lost the game.

I discovered this: You can’t hide a granite meatball in spaghetti sauce, believing that the sauce will somehow magically transform the object into something succulent and tasty. You can’t get blood from a turnip and you can’t turn a large marble into a juicy meatball. The glass-like surface of my meatballs resisted moisture.

My failure was more than embarrassing—more so, because I tried to deceive her. During the after meal debrief, my mom and I discovered that I had left out a critical ingredient: Moisture. Oh, that. Plus, there was the burning of the meatballs under the broiler. Whatever moisture had been in the meatballs is now burnt onto the inside of my oven.

I’m not going to give up, however. I’ll try the meatballs again, but not expect them to hang onto their juice without some added help. I’ll forgo the broiling. I’m not yet courageous or crazy enough to try out tofu meatballs on her. Later, perhaps, after I perfect the turkey meatball. Or, we’ll use the 25 packages of tofu for repairing the cracks in my driveway.

Here’s a recipe that just might convince my mom that using ground turkey instead of ground beef is a perfectly acceptable, and tasty, thing to do.

Ground Turkey Meatballs

2lbs ground turkey
1 medium onion chopped
1tsp garlic (or to taste)
1 cup cracker or bread crumbs
1/2 cup milk
2 eggs
1/2 tsp salt (or to taste)
1/4 tsp pepper (or to taste)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix all of the meatball ingredients together in a large bowl. 

It’s Greek to me. No, it’s Bridge!

For years, my mom has extolled the virtues of playing bridge. For years I resisted her call to become a regular devotee. I thought I had compromised by agreeing to play dominoes instead. Dominoes—a game of matching dots to other dots.

Yes, I admit that some minor strategy is required in the game of Dominoes in order to win. Some memory, too. But I don’t believe it takes a lifetime to learn the game. After all, it’s only dots. There are no kings, queens or things called suits.

I’ve never enjoyed playing cards. I don’t like the competitive aspect of card games. I don’t like competing, either. But, once you enter the years when you’re no longer distracted by TV, video games and going to bars, you start to obsess over losing your cognitive abilities.

Enter Bridge. Next to chess, which I never learned and never will, Bridge ranks at the top in requiring the most of one’s cognitive skills: attention, memory, logic and reasoning, problem solving and processing speed.

When my 88-year old mother moved up to Idaho to live here, I promised her I’d learn bridge—anything to avoid playing Dominoes. So, I’ve been taking lessons for the last couple of weeks. I’ve been speaking “Bridge-ese” with my mom.

Learning to play Bridge requires the ability to sit for a long time at a square table among people who deal out cards at glacial speed. At my Bridge class, one woman handed out the cards so slowly, I swear I could see the card molecules colliding. Well, that’s been my experience so far. There’s also Bridge humor. You have to be a regular Bridge player to get it. Apparently, it’s quite a rich vein of jollity.

I’m determined to learn and play Bridge. I’ve made the commitment. I know too much now to go back to mindless activities like Facebooking. One day, when I get up the courage, I will join other Bridge players who are also concerned about losing their cognitive abilities. We will exercise our brains. We will also leave the younger generations to text each other, to spend wasted hours on social media sites, to occupy their minds with vapid entertainment news, and forget where they left their car keys. Because if you don’t use it, you lose it.

My limited experience learning Bridge has left me with a deep appreciation for the crazy person who invented it and its hundreds of rules. Well, crazy or demonized, because in 1432, Saint Bernardo warned the “Faithful” that cards were invented by the Devil. Then, sometime in the 1950s Chex Mix was invented and helped distract Bridge players from feeling the breath of Satan at their heels.

Bridge was derived from Russian Whist, which early on was called Biritch. In 1893, Bridge came to the U.S. and thousands of people with a lot of time on their hands became addicted to bridge, bridge parties, bridge clubs, and Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.

Call it what you will, but no doubt Bridge changed a generation and continues to have considerable allure. Bridge will outlive every other card game invented, I’m sure.

My brain feels better already. And I might be starting to get some of that Bridge humor, too.

Some sample Bridge humor:

Learn from the mistake of others. You won’t live long enough to make them all yourself. 
-Alfred Sheinwold. 

I favor light opening bids. When you’re my age, you can never be sure that the bidding will get back around to you again. Oswald Jacoby at 77.  

Years ago there were only two acceptable reasons for not leading partner’s suit: (1) having no cards in the suit; (2) a death wish.

I think we’re all a little masochistic. Otherwise, why would we continue to play bridge? 

We had a partnership misunderstanding. I assumed my partner knew what he was doing. 

Your play was much better tonight and so were your excuses.  

I busted a gut!

Stop hounding me, Facebook. I’m busy.

Life gets in the way. It gets in the way of life, of picking up the remaining fall leaves, of dusting the cobwebs out of the corners, and of doing the laundry. And it gets in the way of posting on Facebook.

But kicking someone when they’re down or nagging them about their absence on Facebook isn’t helpful.

Is anyone else aware of any posting frequency rules that Facebook has implemented? I’m not. Obviously, though, there must be an unwritten rule about how long one can stay silent on this social media site, because I’ve been getting constant reminders from Facebook that I’ve been silent for too long.

What does my silence and absence mean to the Facebook folks? How do they interpret that? Are they afraid that I’m off dilly dallying on some other social media site sharing copious details about my day-to-day activities? If so, that’s quite an assumption. I’m not being given the benefit of the doubt here. Even if I am somewhere else on the web frittering away hours on other social media sites, I don’t recall signing an exclusivity contract with Facebook.

So what if I have 185 new notifications waiting for me on Facebook? Is the world going to stop if I don’t comment on someone’s delectable meal at a local eatery? Will I prevent an asteroid from blasting the earth to smithereens if I don’t click “Like” on someone’s inspirational quote, daily affirmation or cute Boston Terrier photo?

Give me a break, Facebook. It’s not all about you and your schedule of needs. Besides, how can you possibly notice the absence of this one utterly non-influential subscriber? I am NOT the butterfly that flaps its wings clear across the globe, creating significant, noticeable changes on the other side. Ninety-nine percent of the time I’ve got nuthin’. NUTHIN’.

Hey, I completed our local weekly paper’s extremely difficult crossword puzzle the other day! How about that, Facebook? Is that newsworthy enough for you? Oh, yeah, I also added mulch to my vegetable garden. And I made a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. Alert the media! Star that post on Facebook!

This ongoing pressure to get a life is getting irritating. Even more irritating and stressful is the demand to share these events and incidents that constitute getting a life. From Pinterest to Twitter to Facebook, everyone seems to want a piece of us. And social media experts think they’re being so very helpful when they offer up their “15 Things to Post or Tweet About.” Well, people, I notice that “posting what you ate for breakfast” isn’t on those lists, yet people far more interesting than I continue to leave those fascinating bits of detritus all over the web.

All of these social media sites demand that we be much more than we are: a sofa-squatting, idle, inconsequential passenger on a train to Dullsville. What’s wrong with Dullsville, anyway? My people in Dullsville are perfectly content. They don’t feel pressured to get a life. Life happens all around us here in Dullsville. I can see large pieces of it passing by my giant living room window. My dogs bark at these pieces to let me know that all is safe in Dullsville, yet so very threatening outside.

Dullsville is a fine place to live. We have running water and indoor plumbing here, too. We might not have that ski trip to Aspen or the overseas vacation in Paris, but we’ve got a nice backyard that needs tending to. We’ve got crossword puzzles to work, muffins to bake, and trips to the thrift shop. It’s fine here, perfectly fine.

Busy, so very busy

Don’t pester me. I’m busy.

I refuse to get a life just to satisfy the Facebook bean counters.  I don’t have time to get a life, anyway. I’m busy here, not getting a life. So there.

A Message to Punxsutawney Phil

Buck up, Mr. Phil. Don’t let the sight of your shadow send you back into your hole. We’re all quite sick of the cold weather, snow and icy roads. For the sake of our mental health, crawl out of your hole and go find some golf courses to destroy.

My mom, who moved here to Idaho a few weeks ago from Texas, isn’t convinced that spring will arrive before July, if at all. She looks outside, sees the snow, shivers, and goes back to her bedroom to pile on more clothes. She has a long green robe, the thickness of a comforter, that she wears over her sweater, sweat pants and long-sleeved sweater.

One day, soon after she arrived here in mid January, she and my sister and I ventured out on a short walk to the Community Center. Within seconds of being outdoors, our mom began a steady and doleful litany of groans, squeaks and laments. Granted, it was cold. And, more than 30 years in Texas didn’t prepare her for the freezing temperatures she’s discovered in this new location. 

Her impression of Boise, Idaho was summed up in these words to my sister: “This is a hostile country, isn’t it?”

I wish I could reassure her that it’s only the politics that are hostile. But, honestly, the weather—you get used to it. In my 20 years of living in Texas, I never got used to the heat and humidity. I looked forward to the fall, which seemed to take forever to arrive and turned out to be only a suggestion, a weak representation, of that season. In Texas, you’re very much deprived of seasons. Summer lasts almost 8 months and can suddenly reappear in January. With extreme humidity.

Here in Idaho, summer is shorter and can be quite hot, but it’s bookended by the most pleasant mornings and evenings. They make one forget about the 100-degree heat. But it is truly, almost nearly always, lovely to sit in the shade.

We point out the back patio in her new home and keep telling her about the glorious mornings, late afternoons and evenings we’ll spend there. When spring arrives, we’ll begin our traditional walks around the yard to observe the new growth and the early flowers. We’ll begin the vegetable garden. Mom says she’ll help out there, but she will absolutely not pick bugs off the vegetables. I’m with her. She and I will leave that to my much braver sister and brother.

She’ll sit on the patio with us on warm days and watch the dogs chase squirrels. Happy hours will begin some time in April or May and continue on into November. We’ll cook out and have our dinners outside. When she expresses her dislike about eating outdoors, I remind my mom that she won’t have to deal with mosquitos. She left those behind in Texas.

Yesterday, the temperatures rose, the sun came out and burned off a bit of the chill. I walked next door to talk to my mom and found her outside, on the patio, sweeping up the leaves. She said it was beautiful outside. She said she had to take her sweater off because she had gotten so warm with the exertion. She was cheerful and full of energy.

She’s already getting used to the weather.

But don’t dawdle, Mr. Punxsutawney Phil. Be kind to us this year. Be brave. Bring spring early. For my mom, please.

Tying Up Loose Ends, Tripping Over Some

I’m not going into 2013 without tying up some loose ends. I have enough trouble navigating the hallways and rooms in this house what with all the dog toys strewn throughout the place.

Loose End #1
Many of you know about my ongoing summer battles with voles. Well, it turns out that I didn’t have a vole problem. Forgive me my ignorance of yard rodents. It is the industrious little pocket gopher that has been tearing up my yard, digging trenches and destroying plants. This misidentification of my yard varmint was unfortunate—no, it was more than that—it was tragic. My pocket gopher problem ended one afternoon this past summer after the 8^th or 9^th toxic fumigation of one of its tunnels.

My sister came across the dead gopher one evening on her way to my back door. She placed it on my porch railing so the dogs couldn’t get it and so I could witness the fruits of my successful battle.

But I don’t feel good about killing that gopher, especially after reading that they’re actually beneficial to the environment and they’re close to extinction in some places. So, this coming summer, instead of poisoning the earth, I’ll trap and release them. I’ll be more patient and understanding in between cursing them. They were here first. I’m the intruder.

The Vole. Cute. Not found in my backyard.

Pocket gopher. Ugly. Found in my backyard.

Loose End #2
I’ve decided to try to like more people in 2013. No, not on Facebook. In real life.

It’s always been the case—as a category, I prefer dogs to humans. They’ve been good to me, dogs have. They see me in the morning and rarely flinch. They greet me when I return to work as though I’ve been away for a year AND wrapped in a bacon suit.

What I look like to my dogs.

Not so much with people. But, then again, I really don’t try that hard to endear myself to people. You could call me a curmudgeon. You could, but then I’d probably snap at you. When it comes to warming up to a human, it’s a matter of comfort level and trust. If I see a dog approaching, the thoughts percolating to the surface are positive ones. I see a person approaching and I avert my eyes. If someone’s dog greets me, I reach out and pet their dog. If a human greets me, I wonder how long it will take before I can gracefully excuse myself.

Perhaps I should carry human treats in my pocket and, along with a cheery “Hello!” offer them a goodie. Or wear a bacon suit. It works with dogs.

Loose End #3
It’s past time to thank some blogger friends here. You’ve made my years as a blogger so worthwhile. I have more to read, yes, and not more time, but it’s worth it.

Mostly Bright Ideas: Thank you, Charles, for being one of the funniest humans I know. You have a marvelous way with words. You’ve heard that before but it needs repeating. We can see ourselves in the hilarious descriptions you offer about yourself and, through that, you help us laugh at our own faults and quirks. Even your comments are bits of brilliance, and more often than not, they are the kindest words I’ve ever heard. I love your blog. I recently received your book, “Writing Rules” and I adore it because it’s not your typical grammar guide, the kind containing examples that bore you into a coma.

Say you’re trying to learn the Present Perfect tense. Most grammar guides would include an example like this:

She has not returned the book to the library yet.

Snore.

Charles gives us this:

Have you ever worn a gorilla costume?

Despite his well-groomed appearance, Dan has never taken a bath.

Here’s his example for showing us the difference between “pore” and “pour”:

We pored over his letters, hoping to understand his sudden obsession with wool slippers.

As she poured the milk over her corn flakes, she also poured out her heart to me. It was pretty messy.

His blog is a literary delight. Please read it.

Okjimm: You’re off and on with your blog, Jim, but you’re always there with a funny and brilliant comment on my posts. You’re a keen observer of humans and you do it through eyes that see the profound, the sublime and the silly. I’ve appreciated the postcards and vintage ephemera that you send out of the blue. Mostly, I’m just proud to be your friend.

Lame Adventures: V, my New York girl, for years you’ve given me the insider’s tour of your city and not charged me a single cent. I live through your adventures as though I were there, next to you, wandering the streets of that fabulous town. I’ve realized that a person can have fun just staring up at a tennis shoe tree or wandering the five subway stops in Manhattan between West 57th and West 157th Streets to look at sculptures. And you’re defying the stereotype of the typical New Yorker, too. I wish I could join you and your friend, Milton, on one of your adventures.

She’s A Maineiac: Darla, you forever crack me up. You’ve got the marvelous facial expressions to go along with your goofy outlook on life. I adore your vlogs. You’re going to make a fantastic nurse and if “laughter is the best medicine,” you’re bound to cure thousands of patients. I wish I could visit you just once. I’d find a place for those shoes you keep leaving in the hallway. Please don’t stop writing. It’s my cure for a lousy morning.

A Voice From the Foothills: Sherry, you’re hardly adrift. You’re spot on in your posts. How you can continue to report the insanity in politics and society and still be funny about it, is a gift. You help remind me that I can never be complacent and stand by while injustice and stupidity affects our lives.

Blurt’s Blog: Thank you so much, Oma, for your hilarious takes on the typical, the usual, and the not-so-typical in life. You have the amazing ability to write for your readers in a way that makes us want to get involved in your shenanigans. You keep reminding me that life is going on all around us, in the tiniest of scenes, in the most mundane activities and experiences. We all need to be reminded that the big things aren’t what really matter; it’s when we look more closely at the day-to-day that we feel more a part of this life.

Woodgate’s View: Larry, you’re a sensitive, new-newer age kind of guy. You’re also deeply thoughtful, passionate about your views, and you explore each topic with a thorough understanding of the issues. Along with great information I get from your posts, is the sense that you sincerely want to make this world a better place for all of us. It’s wonderful to have someone like you on my side.

Please check my blogroll for more wonderful bloggers who enrich my life. It’s been a great year with all of them.

Five Ways Our Pets Can Teach Us to Avoid Cynicism

Occasionally, I have to look up the word, “cynicism” to make sure I’m not wrapping my brain in it. It’s an adjective, a noun, and an adverb that can creep up on you, believe me. You’re wandering along, juggling open-minded, clear-headed thoughts and then those thoughts crumble and melt into a stain of distrustful, suspicious and disparaging beliefs.

We’ve heard a lot of cynical comments during the last 4 years, now being magnified in the days coming up to the November election. Many of us—I’m not saying “who”—will need to work hard at shedding the cynicism on November 7. To help you out—I’m still not saying “who”—take this advice from my Boston Terriers, Stella and Sally, on how to avoid cynicism.

1. Play more.  

When my dogs are playing, I can guarantee you they’re not thinking about when their next meal is going to arrive. They’re not thinking about all the squirrels in the backyard waiting to be chased. Nor are they thinking, “Where am I sleeping tonight?” “I hope tonight isn’t bath night,” or “Is she out of those delicious duck-wrapped, sweet potato treats?”

Play has a way of easing the negative out of one’s head. It’s also a good way to avoid mainstream news media and political ads. You can burn calories, too! One of these days, I’m going to run across the street from my home, into the fields, chase a ball and roll around in the grass, just like Stella does. Or, I’ll copy my Sally and stand there, letting a breeze blow past my ears, and look for squirrels.

2. Find joy in the little things.

None of my dogs needs a steady diet of major excitement. No walkies that day? Then, “Let’s go out back and check out the new smells in the yard.” “Let’s watch for squirrels and stare for hours up a tree.” “Oh, look! A new bug!” “Hey, I’ve never dug over in this part of the yard before!” I love to watch their joyful discoveries and the way they find endless satisfaction in things that seem so meaningless. Yes, we can’t all be dog stars in commercials or TV shows. But it doesn’t appear to matter to them. Even a nice stretch after a long day is relished for the satisfaction it brings.

No greater distraction from cynicism exists than finding joy in some little thing. When we’re being suffocated and overrun by bad news and negative commentary, the best antidote is to look out a few inches away from ourselves. Joy is there, waiting for you to attend to it.

3. Forgive – don’t hold a grudge

No matter how many times I’ve accidentally stepped on my dogs’ paws, accidentally bonked them on their heads with a thrown toy, or unintentionally squashed them when squeezing into the remaining square-inch of sofa space, neither of them seem to remember these insults. And forgiveness seems to arrive within seconds of the affront. We’re back to normal, then, enjoying the day and each other’s company. I think about how many hours I’ve wasted clinging to the bad feelings surrounding some incident or comment. Some day, I hope I’ll be more like my pups and just reflexively let it go.

4. Quit thinking, “Life isn’t fair.”

My dogs, I’m sure, take what they get. If they’re left behind when I go off for a jog or on an errand, they’re upset, I’m sure. But I like to believe what the two of them are thinking is, “Okay, maybe next time. I understand.” Or, “I’ll be fine here. I’ve got water, a comfy house and this sofa.”

The Life Isn’t Fair attitude is a direct bullet-train ride to cynicism. Of course, rarely do the scales balance out! Countless reasons exist for the sum total of events to appear cockeyed, so that the columns, “For Me” and “For Them” are weighted heavily against you. Sometimes it’s due to random circumstance; sometimes it’s not. And here’s the beauty of this lesson: When you manage to change your viewpoint and discard the Life Isn’t Fair attitude, it becomes so much easier to replace it with: “I’m grateful for what I have.”

I’m fairly certain my dogs are grateful for what they have. My youngest dog, Sally, is also grateful for what her sister, Carmella has. And she lets the other dog know by stealing it. I don’t recommend that response, however.

5. Don’t harbor regrets.

Stella and Sally live each day as though the previous one never happened. Unless they’re physically hurting, they wake up and go about the day with the same energy and enthusiasm they showed as the day before. I’m convinced that Sally has no lingering angst over what she might have done wrong to get her removed from her first home and tossed into an animal shelter. Oh, yes, maybe she did poop a lot indoors. Perhaps her previous owner grew tired of replacing shoes. And I don’t think Stella looks back and wishes she could undo the damage she did to my sister’s Berber carpet. What purpose does regret serve? To remind ourselves that we “failed” at something?

Regret dissolves into anger at oneself that can easily turn on itself when that target no longer satisfies, and become cynicism. Overall, it’s best not to pepper one’s soul or brain with regret. Resolve to do better, not to undo the past.

I’ll add one more to the list, on second thought. Laugh often. Laughter leaves no space left for cynicism.

Look! Over There! No, Over There!

Today you’ll find me over at the Blurt blog. The extremely talented, extraordinary art critic and downright funny owner of the blog, Omawarisan, invited me, among other bloggers, to guest post while he’s out of town on some covert operation. I think he’s sitting in his backyard with a Margarita, frankly. Head on over and be sure to check out the other guest bloggers during this week.

Fear, Lies, Baldfaced Lies, and Body Odor

Advertising, like politicians’ stump speeches and sound bites, exist to make us all react through fear and avoidance of the worst things imaginable.

Once in a while, to take a creative break, I leaf through some old women’s magazines I bought at antique stores. I’m particularly taken with the product ads in the back. In those days, copywriters were allowed the time and column space to weave a tale that not only included the benefits and advantages of their products, but spoke of impending disaster if one didn’t partake of the commodity offered. (Very much like a political candidate’s speech, eh?)

One ad in my Women’s Home Companion magazine, dated April 1949, begins with the headline, “Don’t be Half-safe!” The writer, Valda Sherman, not identified as anyone in particular, introduces us to the “mysterious changes” that occur when a girl becomes a woman, one of which is perspiration. She speaks of the apocrine glands located in the underarm area, which apparently become hyperactive as soon as a girl enters puberty. These glands secrete a type of female perspiration so odious and corrosive it could strip barnacles from a ship’s undersides.

Gasp. Valda warns us that now we must (emphasis hers) keep ourselves safe with a “truly effective underarm deodorant.”

Women of all ages encounter multiple threats to their safety. Personally, when I was a young woman in my late teens, my mind had often been preoccupied with nighttime intruders, rapists and stalkers. In my “first blush of womanhood” years, I thought I had filled my pockets full of threats to my safety. I never considered adding one having to do with unsafe body odor. After reading this ad, perhaps I should have. Could I have lost more sleep in those days? I suppose so.

In bold type, Valda introduces the next paragraph: Two dangers. She says that underarm odor is a “real handicap at this romantic age” and, so, we must rush out and buy some Arrid Deodorant. Upon applying the cream, odor bacteria are killed in 2 seconds. Imagine the testing of that claim. Take a break from reading this post and just picture that.

The second danger involves perspiration stains. In the course of a day, Valda warns, many things assault us—emotions, physical exertion—and our apocrine glands “fairly gush perspiration.” Before the invention of Arrid Deodorant, women were regularly mopping up the Niagara Falls of sweat that poured from their armpits. Women had to wear waders underneath their petticoats. Small children in tow frequently drowned unless they had been taught to swim or dog paddle away from their sweaty mothers or post-pubescent sisters.

Encouragingly, she states, “Doctors have proved its safety.” But now Valda is talking about two different kinds of safety. Confusing terminology baffles the reader. I re-read the ad. I think the first kind of safety has more to do with the pungent, repellant nature of underarm odor, which is apparently such a noxious threat it can cause men to become abusive towards women—at least verbally so. If she were actually referring to missed dating opportunities, she should have been clearer, because the images in my head have to do with men pointing, holding their noses, and shoving women out of smelling reach.

The other kind of safety must refer to the extensive laboratory testing of Arrid Deoderant. Rabbits died frequently and in horrible pain and suffering until researchers found just the optimum ingredients that would effectively eliminate odor at the same time leaving underarm skin intact. The magical ingredient in Arrid is Creamogen.

Fear motivates. Advertisers and politicians know this. The solution is to take the time and find out for yourself where the real danger lies, rather than swallow the bait without checking to see if there’s a hook attached. And the magnitude of the claim, the promise, the dire warnings matters—the greater the danger, the more we ought to be prepared to investigate. Body odor I can deal with easily. The rest takes responsible, thoughtful research and analysis, something too few of us are willing to do. We take more time picking out a new deodorant or a lawnmower than we do choosing who we want to represent us in Congress or in the President’s office.

Besides, Arrid Deodorant can be purchased now at your favorite drug counter—only 39 cents plus tax! The outlandish lies and deception we hear from politicians—priceless and very, very unsafe.

Read something!

Attack Watch

The Truth About Obama’s Tax Proposal (and the Lies the Regressives are Telling About It)

Politifact.com

And for you climate change deniers: Union of Concerned Scientists

Twitter Away… But Without Me.

The thought of being the only one whose missing out on something is a nag, it’s a splinter in your finger, it’s a pebble in your shoe.

In my twenties, during those compulsory social years of one’s life, I’d often agonize over my decision to stay at home on Fridays or Saturdays. The social animal, a parrot-like creature no doubt, would perch on my shoulder and taunt me with tales of how much I’d miss if I didn’t make an appearance at any of the local bars.

Sometimes the pressure would win out and I’d reluctantly leave the allure of a comfy evening on the sofa with the TV and a bag of Oreos and drive away into the night.

But on those nights I’d stay home—did I miss out on anything? Was there something that might have happened had I been there? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ll never know, of course.

My experience with Twitter has involved the same back and forth emotions: anxiety and enthusiasm, disquiet and engagement. At times, I’ve been absent from tweeting for weeks on end. As the days went by, I’d be uneasy about returning. Would anyone remember me? Would anyone call me out for being an unfaithful Twitterer?

I hated caring that much. It was silly.

The other morning I read a post by mjcache titled I’m Quitting Twitter and Here’s the 4 Reasons Why. And I was inspired! It was all the push I needed to deactivate my own Twitter account.

So I deactivated it. And, lo and behold, nothing happened. Will I be missed? I doubt it. I doubt a single person will notice their follower count dropping by one. I doubt a single one of my tweets will be missed. I was, after all, the quietest person in the Twitterverse. Rarely was I able to come up with 14 characters worth posting, much less 140. I might as well have taken a vow of silence and moved into a monastery.

Throughout my entire Twitterlife, I had steadfastly refused to be one of those tweeps who share the most miniscule, the most banal and mundane tidbits in their lives.

I’ve just eaten the best peach ever!
I’m at the coffeeshop.
This bus smells like poop. (Yes, someone tweeted that.)

Pre-Twitter, few would be subjected to the random stuff that pops into your head—because most of this stuff should remain quietly rumbling in one’s head. Frankly, I reserve my fripperies for my dogs and my family. They have to be indulgent.

Of course, I recognize that there are Twitter users of substance, who report interesting news and facts and let us know about events going on in the world and in our own communities. I applaud them for the time they take to seek out these more useful dispatches and alert the rest of us about them. And that’s the kind of Twitter user I wanted to be. But I didn’t have the time to scour the cyberuniverse for original, interesting tidbits. I just don’t have the time.

Most of all, I didn’t need the constant reminder that my social life is, well, less than active. I do stuff. Oh, yes I do! But to fill the online universe with tidbits about the weeds I dug up this evening, or the funny things my Boston Terriers have done, or the things I saw on my hike today, would always make me feel as though I were littering. And to not have anything to share made me feel dull, boring, and living a life that is more of the hum in “humdrum.”

Twitter makes private issues public, it exposes squabbles and slights and slanderous thoughts to the world so that everyone can see we’re having a bad day or a bad year. Russell Brand just ‘unfollowed’ his soon-to-be ex, Katy Perry. In real life, he’d just stop calling her, he’d tear up all her photos, he’d laser off her name tattooed on his left buttock—he’d do a lot of things that few would know about to bring closure to the relationship. But now, a breakup can be tweeted so the world can stop what they’re doing and pay attention, which only steals valuable time that could be spent filing one’s nails, grinding the callouses off one’s heels, or pouring a bowl of cereal.

Tammy Nelson on Huffpost asks, Is ‘Unfollowing’ Someone on Twitter the New ‘Dis’? Apparently, it is. She says, “When we are hurt or angry we have several new options that we have never had before—we can unfollow someone.” Oh, please. Let’s go back to the good old days when we could send someone a snarky card or put a bag of flaming poo on their front porch. Because that made it all so much more obvious. None of this mincing about with ‘unfollowing’, which only leaves one to wonder what the action means, questioning one’s worth, feeling rejected, and hoping all the while it was an accidental tap of the index finger.

And, so, Twitter, I’m dumping you. As unceremoniously as I dumped that pimply boy in high school, I’m dumping you without typing in a reason in the online box you provided.

You can choose from any of these reasons, if you wish:

It’s you, not me.
I’m just not that into you.
I’ve met someone else.
You don’t give me what I need.
We have nothing to say to each other.

I have nothing to say to you. Bye bye.

And the best part was, I saw the Super Moon

I’m not out often enough in the late evenings and that, of course, is my fault, being a creature of the morning and an introvert as well.

But during event season, the time of the year my job requires booth duty at dozens of outdoors’ events, I see a lot of night skies lit up by the moon. I see an entire day pass into darkness at different locations across Idaho.

Last evening, I worked the booth at Meridian Speedway, one of the raceways at which my program sponsors the main event. A few hours before leaving for the track, I prepare myself for hours of face-to-face with the masses. It’s gotten easier every year since I’ve been doing this event; I know what to expect, what to say. But I still have my moments of indiscretion and snark.

It’s the youth that give me fits. A cross between Rodney Dangerfield and WC Fields dressed in my program’s booth attire, I struggle with the dozens and dozens of children who come to the booth for the free stuff.

I’m piling more foam footballs onto the table and I see the same boy come back for the 4^th time to grab the giveaway. I’m unable to resist the urge and I growl, “Okay, that’s it, I’m cutting you off.” The boy puts back the football and scurries away before I can tell him to look under the stands because I’m certain at least 200 of the footballs I’ve given away that evening are nesting there along with the popcorn and cheese covered chips.

Another boy stops by the booth and grabs four footballs and tries to slink away unseen. Silly child. I have specially designed vision that can spot a miscreant a mile away.

“Hey!” I yell. “You better not be selling those!”

Because they do. They come back for inventory and sell our free stuff in the stands. It drives me nuts. I think, “Where ARE these kids’ parents?”

I’ve become a booth babysitter for all the kids who’ve been dumped there at the racetrack by their distracted parents.

One 14-year old walks up to the booth, leans on the table and says, “I’m bored.”

“And that’s my problem, how?” I think. I only think it. I hold my tongue, wishing he had a mall to terrorize instead of the booth I’m standing in.

Each year now, I’ve come to expect to see the boy who’s been haunting us for the last six years at our events. He was a child when I first admonished him at the booth years ago. I’ve watched him grow from a pre-teen into a teenager with a bad case of acne. I figure he must have an entire storage facility filled with our foam footballs by now. He’s more respectful now since the incident a few years back. I had pointed him out among his tribe, stared him down and told him he’d acquired enough of our goods and didn’t need to return for more. Sort of in those words.

Where ARE their parents? Oh, right. They’re in the stands with their buckets of beer. They can’t come to the booth. Their offspring show up, instead, and say, “Can I get a football for my mom and dad, and my uncle and my grandpa and my cousin and my aunt and for my older brother?”

And I say, “No. Tell them to come to the booth and pick one up for themselves.”

Not that I want to meet the parents of these pesky little buggars. I’ve won the bluff almost every time. I dread the day I have to meet the parents.

Sometimes I get an up close glimpse of just how permissive their parents are. I’ve just finished telling a young boy that the insulated mugs are for adults only. His parent winks and says to his panhandler son, “That’s okay, I’ve got one for you.” Where ARE their parents? Right there at the booth undermining all the discipline I’ve been enforcing and thwarting my adult guidance.

Oh, I know I’m not a charmer. I realize that I lack the necessary tolerance and charisma that would excuse all sorts of behavior from our youthful visitors. But I’m not at these events to win any awards for best booth behavior. I knew long ago that I’d be referred to as the booth Grinch. I have a reputation to live up to now.

I worry only a little that my words are a bit harsh. After all, I’m there representing the tobacco prevention program. I think, “What if my remark turns the kid and leads him to start smoking?” I reassure myself with the belief that my impatient snarkiness isn’t a gateway drug. But I imagine a time, off in the future, when that kid is on his fifth quitting attempt, says, “I can remember the exact day I started smoking. It was at this booth and the woman working there was so mean, she drove me to pick up the habit.”

I see a young girl, probably no more than 11 or 12 years old, walk up to the booth. She’s wearing more makeup than Lady Gaga. My parental inner voice snarls in my head, “Young lady, you go wash that makeup off right now!” I also think, “Wow. I wish I could apply eyeliner that well.”

Where ARE her parents? They let her get out of the house looking like a pre-pubescent streetwalker?

It’s 50 degrees outside with a stiff northerly breeze and young girls are variably undressed in summer attire. I think, “This is no place to meet your future husband, you children.” Sometimes I do feel sorry for them because they’ve been dragged along to the racetrack by parents who can’t afford a sitter. They’d much rather be creating shopping havoc at the mall or trying out illicit substances at a friend’s house. But they’re connected—they’re all texting throughout the evening, updating their more fortunate friends about the cute guys they’ve seen at the concession stand.

I can be thankful that we’re not giving out baseball caps this year. Though, at least a half dozen times during the evening, kids will come to the booth and ask for one. Booth duty when the giveaway is a baseball cap should qualify for hazard pay. During those events, I want to string up barbed wire around the booth and rent a guard dog.

Occasionally, I remember what I was like at their age. And I wince. Oh, if my parents only knew the half of it! I’d have been so grounded.

I return home in time to see the Super Moon. It’s all worth it.