It’s Beginning To…

I was out shopping yesterday. Shopping is probably overstating it. I went out to pick up a prescription so it wasn’t like I was planning a spree complete with breakfast out, a break somewhere around mid-day, and tea and scones before wrapping things up and heading home with my packages. My plan was to pour the rest of the morning coffee into a travel mug, shoot down the road to the pharmacy while sucking down the leftover sludge, run past the drive up window to retrieve aforementioned prescription, then head for home where fresh, follow up coffee should be ready for the next cup.

That was the plan. And it would have worked if there hadn’t been a 3 car line in the drive through. Blame it on the rain. So I pulled into one of the every spot open in the lot spots, reinforced myself with an extra glug of caffeinated dregs, and headed inside.

I could have still stayed close to my original plan and been home before the car heater had a chance to actually heat except for the aisle that I had to walk through to get to the prescription counter. The seasonal merchandise. And the season of the hour is …… Christmas.

I can’t help it but I am a Christmas Junk Junky. If it sparkles, I will stare at it. If it blinks and flashes, my eyes will follow it. And if it has a “Try Me!” button, I’ll try it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a multicolor LED light set, a winter scene in motion snow globe, or a plush flamingo singing “Santa Baby.”

SantaBabyI must have bought the last one of those 6 or 7 years ago because I haven’t seen one since. Yes, I’m the one who’s one aisle over pushing all the buttons and laughing like I’ve just seen A Charlie Brown Christmas for the first time. (That reminds me, It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown will be on ABC this Sunday at 8.) (In case you were wondering.)

I know, for the last 6 years I’ve harped on how stores rush every season, unveiling this Christmas’s hottest toy before last Easter’s leftover remote control hopping bunny can make it to the clearance bin, but all is forgiven (temporarily) while I read the cards’ inside inscriptions or check out the dancing Santa and elves. If Christmas brings out the kid in us, it does doubly so on me. In me?

Then I realized I hadn’t even bought Halloween candy and came to my senses. As long as I was inside the store I picked up a little supply of candy for next week’s treats. I rarely get trick or treaters where I am but just in case I wanted to have something on hand. Besides, the Halloween stuff is such a great size for when you want just a bite. But it will never beat red and green M&M candies in a motorized nutcracker dispenser. Um, yeah. I got one of those, too.

 

When A Door Closes

This past weekend I was getting out of the car when I realized car doors don’t close right, the kind of light bulbs that last ten years don’t last ten years, and computers ask questions they have no intention of doing anything with about. I also realized these are all first world problems but, well frankly, those are the kinds of problem I most encounter.

Let’s look at those cars doors. Every other door in the (first) world either opens or closes. Most exterior and interior house doors have latches or knobs and you push them open and they stay open or fasten them closed and then stay closed. Some even have pneumatic or motorized closers that close them for you, and thus a name that has nothing to do with baseball. Refrigerator doors have those magnetic strips that run the complete inner rim of the door with the expressed purpose of making certain the door, when not opened, is indeed closed. An entire industry has been created around the process of opening and closing garage doors. The point is that most all doors in most all buildings are mostly always open or always closed unless you take steps to leave them partially opened (or, for the half empty types, partially closed).

Car doors are a different breed. Yes car doors have a latching mechanism that ensures the door remains in the closed position until you take steps to open it (a perfectly reasonable expectation of a car door when travelling down the highway at 15 miles over the posted speed limit), but only the car door has taken pains to provide the user with a position not open yet not quite closed (and a quite unreasonable position on that same highway). So often are these doors in this position that car manufacturers have taken steps to alert the driver that a door is not completely closed by means of a warning light on the dash panel. Would it not be a more reasonable resolution to take steps to make a door that closes completely? Perhaps the car makers should get together with the refrigerator makers.

Now, speaking of lights, I have this pole lamp in the corner of my living that has graced the corner of this living room, the previous living room, a family room, and a room that once had aspirations of being a den but became a nursery instead. As you can see, it’s a versatile and, at least in my opinion, an attractive light. I bought it about 15 years ago. I almost didn’t buy it. It was pricey for the time and for its type and that, I was told, was due to the light’s lamp. Lamp’s light? It has (had) a most usual bulb that looks like a miniature fluorescent tube that had the added bonus of a built in dimming mechanism. I questioned this arrangement, not to mention the price, before making the purchase. I was assured that the dimmer worked as well in the home as in the showroom, that indeed it was expensive and when it comes time to replace the bulb it too will be expensive, but that its bulb would last at least 10 years if not longer.

Well indeed it was expensive but it worked as advertised and its bulb lasted more than the claimed 10 years. I use the past tense here because after those ten and half again more years the bulb has given its all. I never found out if the replacement bulb is expensive because when I went to buy said replacement bulb I was told that “they haven’t made those for at least ten years now, but, who knows, maybe you can find something on the Internet.”

So to home I went, in my car with the now fully closed doors, fired up the old desktop computer and thought I’d check my email before beginning my what would probably be fruitless search for a miniature, dimmable, fluorescent light bulb. A message from my doctor’s hospital organization was there telling me I had a message on their server. (If they can send me a message that says I have a message why can’t they just send me the message? That may be Thursday’s post.) So I signed on to their server with my user name and super secret password and was immediately presented with a pop up window asking me if I want my browser to remember my super secret password. I suppose so I was not confused by this question I was presented with multiple choice answers. — Yes — Not Now — Never —  And as I do every time I am asked that same question entering that same site I select “Never.”

And then I wonder…we can’t even make doors that close all the way and I expect a computer to understand the concept of never.

 

Sunday Funday

Now that football season has started I must be more selective about shopping days. The local college fans aren’t so bad, but I have to remember, don’t go to the store on Sunday before a football game. Those people are nuts!

The closer to kick off the more desperate the die-hard fans are to get their share of the game goodies home to the buffet before the rest of the tailgaters get there. Buffet might be a bit ambitious.

These folks have carts with nothing but nuts, chips, salsa, pretzels, those pre-arranged shrimp rings, football shaped chocolate chip cookies, cupcakes decorated in team colors icing, pre-cubed cheese, and sausage. Lots and lots of sausage.

And they don’t wear clothes. Not real clothes. The women are wearing halter tops, and short shorts, and things that wouldn’t pass as cover ups at the pool. Men have shorts, team logo baseball caps, flip flops, and replica jerseys. Everything is color coordinated to the home team and everybody wears sunglasses.  It is October isn’t it? Now, to be fair about it and so you don’t think that I live in a town filled with chauvinistic stereotypes, I did see one couple that she was the one dressed in a jersey and he in a muscle shirt which could be the male version of the halter.

If I had shopped with a list on Friday I wouldn’t have even been in the store on a weekend. But I didn’t and if I wanted breakfast this morning I had to run in for eggs. I thought I was going to be in trouble when I got inside the door and there were no shopping carts. Just needing a dozen eggs meant I didn’t have to have a cart but it was significant that there were none to be had because the parking lot wasn’t particularly full. That meant that each couple in the store had two carts. One for the aforementioned munchies and one for the beer.

It was also significant in that grocery stores always site the dairy section in the complete opposite corner of the store from the entrance. In order to get to those eggs I was going to have to do my impression of a running back picking his way through the line looking for that opening that will lead me to my goal. Once I made it to the egg case I had to tuck that carton in like I was protecting the ball as I turned for open field and bolted for the checkout lines.

Ah the checkout lines. Never get behind people wearing replica football jerseys in the self-service checkout line. Picture the conversation between the referee and a head coach who did not get the call go his way after a lengthy replay timeout. That would be mild compared to the discussion between pseudo-quarterback and the electronic cashier’s disembodied (and dispassionate) voice. In fact, I should remove those parentheses because I think it was the repetitive “please remove all items from the belt and try again” in the calm, dispassionate tone that had him really riled.

Eventually I got myself home with my dozen chicken eggs and a proper breakfast will be had. I have a feeling that a lot of my fellow shoppers will be having aspirin and lots of black coffee for their morning meals today.

Boy am I glad that we hockey fans aren’t like that.

 

Pump It Up

PumpkinFor the last few years I’ve publicly marveled at the extent to which each fall pumpkin has invaded our daily lives. Please understand that I am the last person on earth who would turn down an extra slice of pumpkin pie for dessert. I have my very own self with my very own hands fashioned a pumpkin cheese cake. I will wait with rapt anticipation for the once a year release of Reese’s pumpkin shape peanut butter cups. (Yeah, I know they’re not pumpkin flavored and barely look like a pumpkin but it’s my post in my blog and I happen to like peanut butter cups, or didn’t you read “Caution, Falling Pump(kin) Ahead” last year?) But I am not ready for pumpkin soap! That’s right, soap, not soup. Soap!!!

I thought that when we saw pumpkin flavored chewing gum three years ago we saw the most extreme pumpkining we were going to see. (You didn’t miss that one too, did you? Ok, go refresh your memory at “It’s The Not So Great Pumpkin.” We’ll wait for you.) Since then, pumpkin flavoring pretty much has been kept food based. Granted there have been some expectedly unexpected choices. Pumpkin salsa to go with your pumpkin chips, and pumpkin cream cheese to top your pumpkin bread are a couple of the newer fall flavor offerings. The newest pumpkin food that I’ve seen this year is the pumpkin flavored chicken sausage. A double feature at the “What’s Wrong with this Food Film Festival” but not so wrong that I couldn’t be talked into tossing a couple on the grill and see what happens when you cross a spring chicken with a fall gourd.

SoapBut up until this week’s grocery store ad, pumpkin chewing gum was the most extreme pumpkin offering out there. So extreme it was that after that one sighting in 2014 it didn’t even show up in the case load buy outs stores. But this week we might have stepped over the edge. This week we might not be coming back from. This week, somebody, somewhere, for some reason…..is going to actually buy…..pumpkin pie liquid hand soap in a convenient pump dispenser.

Oh, for sure, it’s not the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

(Oh, in case you’re wondering, I still haven’t seen any pumpkin tea. Have you?)

Edible Portmanteau

We were at a buffet brunch yesterday. There was a time in the 90s when you couldn’t escape to a buffet brunch offering on any a Sunday. Then brunches fizzled. The local “family dining” restaurant option continued the buffet offering. It gave them something to do with the salad bar setup that would have otherwise gone untouched. Otherwise, you couldn’t buy an egg anywhere outside a grocery store after 11:00 for all the bacon you brought home last week. Then McDonald’s said breakfast is good all day and soon the Sunday brunch was back. Sort of.

About 6 years ago brunches reappeared on the local high end dining scene as carefully selected menu selections. You could purchase Eggs Benedict and a fruit cup but your $17.99 was going to get you just that. A poached egg and some pre-cut melon. Still, it was another option for an after church repast.

Yesterday we discovered the return of the all you can eat Sunday Brunch. Omelets to order, sausages, baked fish, donuts, and a Caesar salad all on one plate! Permission to stuff your face with as much as you want for as long as you want (up to 2pm) in exchange for one twenty dollar bill. Only in America! (Actually I’m assuming that. I haven’t ever had a weekend, mid-morning buffet in another country but then my international travel is somewhat limited.)

While I was munching away at my bacon topped salmon cake I allowed my mind to do what it does best when dining with my family. Wander. And it was off and running.

The word “brunch” is one of the most recognizable portmanteau, the words breakfast and lunch combined into a new, accepted contraction. We do this all the time with English. Smog. Dumbfound. Modem. Portmanteau itself is a portmanteau, a small case used to carry outwear. (porter = carry, manteau = cape)

At buffet brunches every serving vessel or station is clearly marked with their, sometimes quite disparate, contents. Baked Salmon/Chicken Parmesan. Fresh Fruits/Baked Desserts. Green Beans Almondine/Potatoes au Gratin. And the ever popular Omelet and Carving Station. How much easier it would be to read and recognize these offerings, while minimizing decision making and thus maximizing eating time, if one didn’t have to read and digest all those letters? But why stop at just renaming the stations when we can reinvent the very offering. And so I began devising the list of Edible Portmanteau.

Hash Brown Potatoes and Pancakes become Hashcakes, a light and fluffy griddle cooked cake made of shredded potatoes and onions served with maple syrup and applesauce. Bourbon Glazed Salmon and Chicken Veronique morph into Salmonique, a patty of ground fish and poultry of indeterminate origin covered with a sauce of orange marmalade, green grapes, and Jim Beam. The ever popular omelet and carving station relieves the low man on the cooks totem pole assigned there from running end to end trying to keep omelets from over cooking while slicing slabs of rare roast beef, redirecting his or her energy into scrambled eggs cooked with spinach, mushroom, horse radish and Steak’Ums at the new Carvlet Station.

I don’t know about you but I think I’m on to something here. I have to go make some calls. This could be the start of the newest breakfast offering since the McGriddle. The Sunday Brunch Buffet, or as I like to call it, The SubRay!

Travel Size

Friends of mine are traveling this week. My sisters were out on the road last week. My daughter is planning a trip in a few weeks. Everyone is traveling.

I always liked traveling in the fall. You don’t have the summer crowds or its heat and humidity to deal with. It’s well before the holiday travel seasons so those crowds are avoided. The weather is still warm so you’re not stuck packing multiple layers and trying to figure out what to do with that heavy winter coat when you get unbearably hot in either the plane, train, or car. And if you catch it at the right time for leaf changing, it’s a pretty trip. All in all, fall is the time to go.

But there’s one thing that fall vacationing isn’t noted for. Unless you are travelling far south (or far north for the Southern Hemisphere crowd), hotel swimming pools are not an option.  Oh there are certainly those high class establishments that sport the heated indoor variety of aquatic recreation facilities, but even in my best year those places weren’t within my travel budget. No, the places I visited were of the kind that sported the tarp covered outdoor variety of aquatic recreation facilities.

GymIf you are looking for exercise while vacationing around the autumnal equinox your choices are limited to the indoor exercise room or sprinting across the hotel parking lot to the neighboring bar and grill and back. Now, about those exercise rooms. They are almost universally labeled “Fitness Center” on their door signs and the hotel floor plans but they aren’t likely to be mistaken for your quintessential, full service YMCA. You’ll find no sauna, no juice bar, no Pilates classes. These “centers” do not boast of juice bars or healthy living cafes. And they have no indoor pools! There are, at best, travel size “fitness centers.”

Still, the “fitness center” was always the first place I would seek out on my arrival at an unfamiliar hostelry. I went not to exercise but to observe. No, not to observe others exercising. That would be creepy. I went to observe their cleanliness. I liked to see how clean “the fitness center” was so I knew if I could feel comfortable using the bathrooms. No it’s not like you can’t use a bathroom while you’re traveling, but at least you should know if you could feel comfortable doing it.

See, those travel sizes do come in handy.

Ahead Of My Time

I have 3 clocks that are battery powered. Well I guess technically I have 5 of them if you count the 2 in the cars. Six if you count the clock radio in the bedroom that is corded but it has a battery backup since it used to be an alarm clock.  Actually it still is an alarm clock but I don’t use the alarm function any more. In fact I hadn’t even used its alarm feature when I was working and needed to get up early on a regular basis. I still kept the battery in it even though it didn’t need to consistently keep accurate time, and I still do because I like it to keep consistent time because it’s really a pain to reset the time if it should stop in a power failure.

Now where was I?

Oh right. I have 3 clocks that are battery powered. Four actually but one uses a really weird size that nobody carries. It hasn’t kept time for about 14 years but it looks good on my desk.

Oh. Sorry.

I have 3 clocks that are battery powered. To keep them running and to not have to open them up at odd and unexpected times of the year, I change their batteries every fall when we change from daylight saving time back to standard time. I figure as long as I have them opened up I might as well change the batteries whether they need them or not. And that’s worked pretty well for the last 40 years when I bought my first battery powered clock. Well, there was 1986 when I actually moved over the weekend that the time changed and we packed the clocks with their batteries in place and still running. (Not intentionally, it just worked that way) (That was probably dangerous.) (But nothing bad happened.) When we unpacked them they were hung on their walls and the batteries weren’t given a thought. Not until they started running slow 8 months later. Then I remembered what I forgot.

SlowClock

So slow it’s running backwards!

Sorry. I digressed again.

I have 3 clocks that are battery powered. I usually change the batteries when we change the time in the fall but they are all running slow. I think I forgot last year.

Did I tell you about the 3 battery powered clocks I have?

 

In Labor

If you are reading this from outside the United States, boy, are you lucky! Here it is Labor Day. Oh, there’s nothing wrong with the holiday. I just hate its placement in the calendar. It’s so close to the actual end of summer that everybody wants to make it the end of the season. When they started doing that a month ago I expressed my displeasure at rushing through summer. (See “Strike Up the Grill,” Aug. 27, 2017.) Well, they’re at it again!

Yesterday, a whole day before this fictitious end of summer, I received 7 e-mails, 4 tweets, and a text message touting extra special, lowest prices of the year, super savings packed “End of Summer Sales!” But, as much as I want to criticize the marketing world for keeping us 4 to 6 weeks ahead of any actual event you can think of, I have to admit that this weekend, even I was doing some preparation for the arrival of autumn.

Although I would never think of putting it into storage this early, I did some fall prep work on the little convertible. I conditioned its top and got a good wax to cover its paint, taking advantage of the coolish weekend weather knowing neither conditioner nor wax would dry prematurely in blazing sun and heat making me work less enthusiastically on an already heartbreaking time when the garage door will be closed for good. Or at least for 4 or 5 months.

And even though I didn’t put the walking shorts and the tropical print shirts away, they got shuffled to the back of the closet and the more cool weather practical khakis and polos took their spots on the lower closet bar. Save for one pair that I hope to use later today during the pool’s last operating hours of the year, the swimwear has been laundered and folded and stowed in their bin, hoisted onto the top shelf where room was made in the space formerly occupied by [shudder] sweaters.

In the dining room, the baby blue and yellow and white napery was swapped for navy and orange and ivory linens. The tablescape now sports sunflowers instead of pansies.

So there you have it. A share of my shame. As much as I decry hastening the loss of the season, I too was swept up in the American fixation of making Labor Day the end of summer. Now I don’t know what I’ll do in three weeks when fall actually makes its entrance.

Sept2017

Three on a Match

I just finished rereading a Phillip Marlowe mystery. Philip Marlowe is the hard boiled detective invented by Raymond Chandler in 1939 in the novel The Big Sleep. You might have seen Humphrey Bogart play Marlowe in the movie version. If you did, you saw a man do some serious detecting. And some serious smoking. Well, it was the time. Between the wars. A manly man. In a manly field. Doing a manly job. Smoking like a man.

Last week one of the movie channels replayed the 1985 film, St. Elmo’s Fire. A bunch of kids just out of college, working their entry level jobs, drinking their every level cocktails, loving and hating their entry level lives. And smoking. Wow, they smoked a lot in that picture. When they drank they smoked. When they partied, they smoked. When they drove, they smoked. When they danced, they smoked. When they attempted suicide, they smoked. When they thwarted suicide, they smoked. When they broke up they smoked. When they made up, they smoked. I don’t remember if they ever ate.

I mentioned a couple of posts ago that I had been watching Bond, James Bond movies during a month long marathon of the classic spy stories. One of the things about the early 1960s offerings that you might notice is how much they smoked. Everybody smoked. The spy, the counter spy, the henchmen, the femme fatale. Bond, James Bond. Everybody smoked. Some of Bond, James Bond’s best secret weapons were built into cigarette lighters. Others into cigarette cases. Some even into cigarettes.

NoSmokingFrom the 40s through the 60s to the 80s, everybody smoked. By the time we got to the 2000s people just stopped smoking. Movies today even have disclaimers at the end of the credits stating nobody, but nobody involved in the production of the just viewed movie got any financial, moral, or athletic support knowingly, unknowingly, or even accidentally from anybody, any corporation, or any organization supporting or even involved with the tobacco industry. Often the disclaimer is more prominent than the notice of what type of camera used to shoot the film and the union local responsible for driving the caterer from location site to location site.  In the most recent Bond, James Bond volumes nobody smokes. Not in the bars, not in the casinos, not on the stakeouts. Not just the spy and the supporting spy people. No body. No where. No Smoking. They must have all gone cold turkey.

Amazing the strides they made in 20 years. The Surgeon General would be proud of Mr. Bond, James Bond. Now if we could just get him to drive a little safer.

 

Conserving Matter

As a scientist, one of my personal commandments was thou shalt not deny the conservation of matter. What we have we always had and always will. Never more. Never less. Always was, is, and will be. It can change, but it won’t disappear. It might look new, but it’s only rearranged. Ice melts into water, water vaporizes into steam, steam condenses into water, water freezes into ice. Always there, always the same, even when different.

Sociologists have their own sort of conservation of matter. Everybody we have is every body we will have. Old people move from the cold of New York to the warmth of Ft. Lauderdale. Immigrants from Caribbean refuges move from south Florida to Chicago to open diners specializing in arroz con gandules. Bright eyed 20 year olds move from Naperville to the seek fame and fortune in Manhattan.

Now, economists want to horn in on the fame afforded to our anything but fortuitous conservation of matter. You’ll recall the landmark post uploaded to this very blog not even some 30 months ago about the ever increasing sizes of American sizes. (If you don’t, you can read it here. If you do but don’t recall it as “landmark,” then you must have a pretty low opinion of yourself reading such drivel. If you do and you do recall it as “landmark,” have I got a bridge to sell you!) To refresh your memory, there is no more small or medium in American. It’s all large, extra large, and full size. This would seem to contradict the natural order of the conservation of matter. Where are the extras going into the larges coming from? In a word, coffee.

Coffee? Yes, coffee. For some time coffee package sizes have been dwindling before our very eyes every time we bring them (our eyes, not the coffee packages) into a grocery store. Years and years and years and years ago, and a few more before that, the standard coffee sizes were one pound cans or bags (for single coffee drinker households), two pound cans (for those teetering on the brink of narcolepsy), and three pound mega-cans (for households with small children). (If you ever had small children you understand that.)  The three pound cans disappears years ago replaced by 36 ounce canisters and the one pound varieties lost 4 ounces to become sleek 12 ounce bags. Now the largest single size container of coffee you can buy is a 30 ounce plastic jug, the small choice is a mere 11 ounces (8.4 to 10 ounces for designer brands and flavors), and medium has disappeared altogether.

So you’re going to say that you don’t drink coffee so your matter is indeed growing every time you order a large sweet tea or test drive an extended cab pickup. No, no, no. You might not drink coffee but if you’re partaking of the classic American coffee break you’re part of the proof of the hypothesis, eating one (or maybe two) out of a pack of 21 prepackaged cookies that used to come in cartons of 24, or one of a new baker’s dozen of donuts that now total a mere ten. Crackers that used to be sold in 12 ounce boxes are now 11, and cream cheese for your bagel is in a 6.5 ounce container when once it was 8.

So there you have it. The modern iteration of that most ancient of all absolutes. Everything indeed is as it once was, merely changed.