Anyone who has traveled with a cat will tell you this is not an easy task. Cats hate transportation, regardless of type or duration. Whether it is across town to the vet's office or across the country is immaterial. As a veteran of several long-distance moves with small children and pets, I have acquired a few handy travel tips. They have come to me one by one, usually resulting from some sort of traumatic experience.
#1. Cats Understand English.
Our most recent feline considered herself lucky, because that was her name (ha!). Risking a gross understatement, I must say Lucky did not travel well. At first mention - not sight, mention - of the cat carrier, or the kennel, or the vet, she bolted and hid under a bed. Then we began our little game called Cat Trap. To play this game requires a long-handled item, such as a broom or a full-size umbrella (in the 'down' position). An additional player is nice, but not necessary. Begin the game by selecting any room in the house that has a door. Inspect the room carefully for your cat. Pay special attention to their usual hiding places, such as under the bed, behind the clothes in the closet, behind the curtains, and so on. Once the room is declared 'cat-free', close the door and move on to another room. Continue until said cat is located. If you have played this game correctly, you will be able to ambush the cat before it streaks off to a new hiding place, as all the good hiding places are now inaccessible. The broom or umbrella comes in handy if your cat likes to hide under the bed, smack-dab in the middle. It is useful for 'encouraging' your cat to emerge. Careful! This is a tool of persuasion, not an instrument of torture.
#2. Cats Do Not Travel Well.
The trusty pet carrier by no means insures a safe and worry-free trip. We learned this lesson when we moved from Toledo to Kansas City, our first move with Lucky. We weren't even out of Lucas County before Lucky started yowling her head off in her carrier. Thinking we could remedy the situation, we let her out of the carrier. She promptly did some extraordinarily nasty "business" on my husband's brand new jacket. That was our signal to pull over for a rest stop and exercise the animals (I know, I know - too little, too late).
#3. Cats Have Little Regard For Leashes.
We were feeling confident about a rest stop for the animals, because we had Lucky on a leash. If you have never seen a cat on a leash, you are in for a treat. Your eyes take in the leash and send the "leash" signal to the brain; but when your eyes get to the end of the leash and send the "cat" signal to the brain, the brain rebels. A cat??? That's supposed to be a dog!! Adding to this surrealism, Lucky developed a curious limping gait while so ensnared, as if trying to extricate herself from the leash one limb at a time. Her problem was solved by a jolt of the cat equivalent of adrenaline.
Once out of the car, our chocolate lab, Coco, did the Doggy Celebration Dance in her excitement to be free for a few minutes. Leaping and twisting in glee, Coco bounded over to encourage us to join her canine freedom frenzy. Already frazzled by her imprisonment in the carrier, Lucky freaked. She bolted, and before you could say “That Darned Cat!” we were all running around some park in Ohio, at dusk, looking for a perfectly camouflaged tabby/tortoiseshell cat. Thank goodness, the fuschia leash stayed attached to her somehow. My husband finally ran her down - literally! - by stepping on the end of the leash. After much huffing and puffing, we got her back to the safety of the car. Needless to say, she was not allowed out of her carrier for the rest of the trip.
#4. See #3.
Keeping this in mind and wishing desperately to avoid a repeat, we made careful plans before moving from Kansas City to St. Paul one August day two years later. We upgraded the leash to a HARNESS and piled into the car. The process of strapping it on the cat went something like a fitting a space suit on an astronaut. First rest stop, not even out of Missouri yet, and it was Lucky Escapes: Part II. Everything was going well, until our good friend Coco reprised her Doggy Celebration Dance. Lucky about strangled herself and half dislocated a shoulder doing a Houdini out of that new harness. The "escape-proof" contraption dangled loosely from my hand, mocking me. Lucky took off at light speed, heading for the thicket at the edge of the park area. At least it was broad daylight and we could see her a little more easily.
#5. Cats Have A Finely Tuned Sense Of Revenge.
My daughter was was borderline hysterical, wandering the perimeter of the thicket in a trance. My son was trying to be helpful. This consisted of him standing around calling, "Lucky, Lucky". You all know how most cats come a'running when you call their name . . .
I drew jungle duty: climbing the barbed wire fence, smashing down the waist-high weeds, and fighting off the mosquitoes. Every step produced a plume of golden pollen so thick, my clothes were covered in it. Wicked marble-sized stickers blanketed my socks and the laces on my sneakers; one ripped a gash in my bare upper arm. Every now and then one of us would spy Lucky, creeping along in the thick underbrush. "There she is!" one of us would shout. "Over there! Just ahead of you. Stay there, cut her off . . . dang it, there she goes!" and so on. It was 20 minutes of pure fun. At one point, I made the mistake of saying what I was thinking out loud. I didn't realize my son was within earshot. He said, "Gee, Mom, I never heard you say THAT word before. Only Dad."
#6. Cats Are Weird.
It didn't take long for me to have my fill of this. I told my daughter to forget about the (expletive deleted) cat. It was hot, I was filthy and sweaty and tired, and we needed to get back on the road. She was devastated about leaving her poor cat, but I was fed up. As I headed back toward the car, I glanced to my right, and there Lucky sat. The little devil was curled up under a dirt overhang, obscured by a tangle of exposed tree roots. She was looking right at me, still as a statue. I called to the kids to circle the wagons, made my way over to her very carefully, and picked her up just as if she was sitting on the sofa at home. All I can figure is she must have been scared stiff. I am just thankful she didn't have the courage or the spirit to run away again.
Time has passed. We are pet-free for now. But that doesn't mean the cat stories have come to an end. Quite the opposite! The family tradition has been passed on to my children. They're all grown up, with cats and cross-country moves of their own, and plenty of tales to go along with them.
Once upon a time we attended an awards banquet, held at a posh seaside resort. Having been to many catered banquets in my time, I had girded my loins for the dreaded rubber chicken dinner. A small part of me was hopeful, since we were in one of America's greatest food cities. Alas, 'twas not to be, cherie.
I am not a foodie exactly, other than I sure do like to eat. So I am not sure but I think they were going for Nouvelle Cuisine? You know, the fancy French stuff that is long on presentation and short on, well, food? At our table, everyone's plate for the salad course was identical, down to the number of carrot shavings (not pieces, not slices) and cherry tomato halves. I envisioned a crisply uniformed Food Nazi
Beware the rubber chicken
standing at the kitchen entrance, complete with one of those drop-down barriers they use at toll booths and railroad crossings. No plate shall pass unless it contained the precisely calculated and arranged accoutrements of saladry (and yes, I just made that word up - 'saladry', not 'accoutrements'). Perhaps neatly labeled Tupperware containers sat lined up nearby, ready to receive any excess items the Food Nazi was fully authorized to pluck off the plate with his plastic-gloved fingers (which would of course be recycled onto any plates found wanting).
Our table was a combination of strangers and work acquaintances, not exactly the Fellowship of the Ring. So we kept our salad snarks to ourselves, cleaned our plates in record time, and held out hope for the next course. It's only a salad, after all. Our expectations were low. Next up: the entree.
The facility had graciously provided each attendee with a menu so that we knew what to look forward to with each course. The entree was promised as some kind of pork, with sweet potatoes, asparagus, and portabello mushrooms. Heck yeah! That's what I'm talking about! I don't like salad, anyway.
I will say the caterers must have felt some guilt about the stingy salad course because the pork item they served next was plenty big. I think it was a chop or a loin; not being particularly interested in animal flesh, I am not sure. It had a bone sticking out of it, if that is any help. I think I was the only one at my table who was satisfied with the quality. I like my animal flesh cooked in such a way that I am able to forget, however briefly, that I am indeed eating animal flesh. No juices running, no pink middle, and forget about it mooing or oinking. The thing on my plate was suitably disguised, putting me more in mind of the time I tried to make cornbread with water because I was out of milk: crumbly, chalky, set up quickly - excellent for concrete patch. Imagine my surprise to find my carnivorous table mates somewhat less satisfied. Go figure.
As for the promised side veg, yes there were potatoes-a-plenty. I think they used one of the settings on their blender that I am afraid to use at home - frappe, maybe? and used them a creamy but very un-potatolike underlayment to the pork. I did spot two pinkie knuckle-sized pieces of asparagus on my plate, but there was very little 'spear' to them - they looked more like dark green cigarette butts.
After the plates were cleared, I remembered we had been promised portabello mushrooms with that course. I am no mushroom expert, but those Frisbee-size babies are hard to overlook. When I asked the lady across from me if she had mushrooms served with her plate, she said 'yes, those three little black cubes were the mushrooms'. I did in fact recall three black squarish items on my plate, but I thought it was grated black pepper.
Well, at least we had the dessert to look forward to. The menu promised us cheesecake. Yay! It had been ages since I had any real cheesecake. I had a fond flashback of a piece of plain New York style cheesecake I had been served at a chain restaurant when we lived in Minnesota. It was beastly huge, like one of those ridiculously large portions where you get a free t-shirt if you finish it. Even if there had been a shirt offered, I would not have received one. It was one of the few times in my life I was unable to finish a dessert by myself. Let's just say it exceeded expectations. And also add that I love cheesecake (except blueberry cheesecake due to an unpleasant gastronomic memory from a long-ago summer vacation road trip).
Deconstructed cheesecake. When you don't care enough to put out any effort whatsoever.
So here comes our dessert course, and this is what they bring us. This is not a picture of my actual plate, but close enough that you get the idea. Loose graham cracker crumbs - check. Squirt of whitish substance excreted over top of crumbs - check. Our plates were missing whatever that orangey-yellow thing is in this picture, and we had exactly four frozen blueberries (blueberries! why did it have to be blueberries??!!) lined up to one side of the white stuff, but other than that, same deal. The whitish substance turned out to be the 'cheesecake'. At about this time my brain kicks into gear and dredges up the word 'deconstructed' from the menu. Ah. I was hoping that meant it was some fancy new flavor like Key Lime or pomegranate. But no, they meant it literally.
Of course we all cleaned our deconstructed plates. Didn't take long.
After chatting with some friends afterward and doing a little Googling, I guess this deconstructed food fad is a thing. Does this mean I am way ahead of the curve on this one every time I have a 'deconstructed' peanut butter sandwich by standing over the sink and eating the peanut butter straight out of the jar? I understand restaurants wanting to appear on the leading edge and offering the peeps what they want, no matter how weird, on the off chance that it will catch on (sushi, anyone?). But this deconstructed thing is a food manager's dream. You mean I can use half the ingredients, put out half the effort, and people will think they're getting something fancy? Love it!
Constructed cheesecake. Which would you rather have? Me, too.
What's next, a deconstructed hamburger - a quarter pound of ground beef served still in the plastic wrap with a package of hamburger buns? How about some deconstructed spaghetti: a bale of hay and a couple tomatoes?
I am definitely not a food expert. But I am an expert on cheap, so let me give all of you food managers out there a heads-up: by serving me anything 'deconstructed', you look cheap. And not in a 'hey, what a value!', Good Way cheap. More of a 'jeez what a waste of money', Bad Way cheap. People will pay to have their cheesecake constructed properly. If you don't believe me, just compare the two pictures of cheesecake I have provided. Which one would YOU rather eat?
As a self-described Lazy Cook, I freely admit when I am looking at a recipe, the first thing my brain looks for is not how delicious or what ingredients or how much it feeds or wine pairings. No, it is already wondering what shortcuts can be made to make it easier or faster to cook. This is why I don't have a show on a cooking channel. This is also why I don't waste a lot of time in the kitchen unless I am cleaning or eating. Cooking = no time wasted here.
Take this recipe, for example. I am in the process of organizing 20 years' worth of recipe detritus. The process is simple. I make the recipe. If it is good, I keep it. If it is not, I toss it. In tennis tournament parlance, single elimination. No consolation round. If it is my fault the dish is bad, too bad. Any recipe I keep better be bullet proof! No Julia Child Fancy French Cooking in my house!
So, back to the recipe. This one floats to the top of the rotation and it looks easy enough. I plan on having it for dinner the other night but as usual have not a) paid attention to detail, or b) planned for said details prior to preparing dinner at around 6pm. So when I see 'bake potatoes for one hour' the usual Oh Crap, Go To Plan B kicks in.
This was an easy fix thanks to microwave technology.
My Hero: Dr. Percy Spencer Inventor of Microwave Oven
Sweet Mother of Pearl, seriously, what would we do without the microwave??? 10 minutes nuking and three big potatoes (of course I did not plan correctly and only had three) were just right, turned out fine. Another minor adjustment: I was also out of sour cream but scrounged around in the fridge and came up with a container of spreadable cream cheese. In it went. Also had no green onions. Left them out. No problem! Are you starting to see why I don't have a show on a cooking channel?
This baby is rich and creamy - just look at all that butter, flour, potato, sour cream (or in my case, cream cheese), cheese. At least there's a sprinkling of bacon in there for the protein portion of our show. It's a miracle I even made this for myself, because Carbs Are The Devil. But it was easy and delicious. Be sure to use a big pan like a Dutch oven - it makes a lot. Final word of warning here: if you are on a low-carb diet, No Soup For You!
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The great wheel of Karma just has a way of seeking you out, tracking you down, and rolling over you so hard, by the time you climb out of that rut, you will need a haircut. I prefer keeping Karma at a comfortable arm's length, but every now and then she wraps me in a bear hug. And I always have it coming.
My neighbors across the cove got a puppy last Christmas. No idea what kind of pooch it is. Sort of looks like a hyena, if hyenas wore dark gray fake rabbit fur coats. She's cuter than that sounds. Anyway the thing that is NOT cute is that she is a Yappy Dog. When she is left outside she is smart enough to voice her displeasure. Sadly for all of us, she is left outside fairly often. We have a running bet at our house which will fail first, her bark or my sanity. We make snarky, superior, self-righteous comments about their obvious failures as pet owners. We agree we are so so thankful that OUR dog is not a yappy dog and a nuisance to the neighborhood.
Flash forward to one recent weekend when our lovely next door neighbors invited us to dinner at their house. We happily agreed and walked the 20 yards over, homemade potato salad and beer cooler in hand. As we sat in the kitchen socializing, I kept hearing an intermittent honking, like a defective car horn trying to outlast a dying battery. Turns out it was our dog, barking at the indignity of being left behind. We have a little-used full glass door on the side of the house that faces that particular neighbor, and she had seen us traipse over there without her. I'll fix this, I thought. I excused myself and walked back over to draw the blinds on that door so she wouldn't see where we went. Being extra tricky, I fed her a dog treat and left out of the opposite side of the house so she would think I was just going to work or to the Piggly Wiggly as per usual. As I was doubling back around the front of the house on the way to the neighbors, I glanced at the front door (which is also glass). I was a little surprised to see my pooch standing there waiting for me - she got there before I did! Huh. Impressive. How she knew I wasn't driving to the Piggly Wiggly, I'm not sure. She usually doesn't give a rat's behind when I leave the house - can hardly be bothered to raise an eyebrow, much less get up and follow me to to the door. Oh well, no worries, I thought. Even if she does track me back to the other side of the house, the blinds are closed now, so end of problem.
Naughty Dog
Yeah, you guessed it - I didn't even get halfway back to the neighbors' when I heard, well, yapping. I turned to see a little pink nose nosing aside the now-closed wooden blinds on the side door to get a better visual on my position.
The battle of human wits vs. canine wits was so on!
I'll fix this, I thought. Again. Back in I went. No treat this time for Naughty Dog - I was all business. We have a sun room on the far side of the house where she likes to recline, queen-like, for her afternoon naps. Confident in my superior human intellect, I led her into the sun room, closed the door behind me, and headed back to the neighbors'. Before I could even get out the door, she had escaped the sun room through an open window (it's a weird house - yes there are windows in some of our INTERIOR walls . . . ) squirting through her conveniently located escape hatch like the proverbial greased pig, and had beaten me to the back door. There she waited, blinds nosed aside, ready to yap ambush (yambush?) me as soon as I left the house. Never once in our several months of living here had I seen her go through those windows in the sun room. I didn't even know she knew they were there - they were partially blocked by a sofa. But she knew.
Okay, my confidence in my superior human intellect was officially shaken. Three times I had tried to fake her out. Three times I had failed. I went back inside, eliminated all means of escape from the sun room, and left her in there with a very stern parting look. You know how dogs just hate when you look at them sternly. I may have even shaken my finger at her. I returned to the festivities next door. By this time everyone was wondering what I was doing that was taking so long. I hated to admit I was literally at my wits' end trying to outwit a dog. But there it was. And yes, you could still hear a faint yapping from a northerly direction. I so wanted to pass it off as the dog across the cove.
My husband, sniffing out my unspoken failure, joined the fray and excused himself to go next door and do what I could not. I am not sure how he accomplished it. I know what you are thinking, but he would sooner drink Budweiser than harm a hair on our pooch's head. Trust me when I say neither of those things is going to happen. I am guessing his solution was related to the empty freezer bag of ham hock bones I found shoved behind the recycling bins. Whatever he did, it worked, and mercifully the yapping came to an end.
So, mission accomplished, Karma! Lesson learned! Little Yappy Dog can yap all she wants now. Let her bark from 1:20pm until 5:23 pm, which she did in fact do one afternoon last week. Let her bark until her barker is all barked out. All I do now is think Bless her heart and reach for the headphones.
Well, we made it through a record-setting cold 24 hours without burst pipes or power outages. Still chilly here, which at my house means chili for dinner. Here's my recipe.
1 pound or thereabouts ground beef
some portion of chopped onion, maybe 1/2 to 1 full cup depending on your taste
1 can chili beans
1 can Rotel-type diced tomatoes (knock-offs ok)
1 8-oz can tomato sauce
1 package chili seasoning (cheapos ok)
Brown the meat and onion. Add beans, tomatoes, tomato sauce and chili seasoning. Simmer for about 30 minutes. Longer is fine. Enjoy with a sprinkling of shredded cheddar cheese, fresh chopped onion, sour cream, whatev. If you are really naughty and craving crunchy/salty, enjoy with Fritos Scoops.
Things you can fool around with on this recipe and it won't mess it up too much:
chili beans with regular or hotter sauce
flavor/variety of Rotel-type tomatoes. Notice I say 'Rotel-type'. Don't feel any pressure to use the real thing. Have you seen the price of authentic Rotel tomatoes lately???
onion variety - any type will do (white, yellow, vidalia) though maybe not red
Things you best not fool around with:
meat proportion - if you increase the amount of meat appreciably, increase everything else accordingly.
meat type - just stick with the ground beef unless you are a chili pro. If you try the 'chili meat' grind from the grocery store, for example, it might be too tough/need longer cooking than recommended in this recipe, especially if it is cut into cubes rather than ground.
beans - I have tried pinto, black, and kidney beans in this recipe. And Ranch style? Fugghedaboutit. Hate them all. My brother thinks I am a traitor for putting any beans at all in the chili, but what can I say? I like the plain ol' chili beans.
tomato sauce - I used to make this without any sauce and it's okay, but better with. In a pinch, squirt some ketchup in there if you are out of tomato sauce. Just don't tell my mom I said to do that.
I have tried lots of chili recipes. I have one that calls for grilling the meat 48 hours in advance, growing your own tomatoes and chilies, stirring the pot counter-clockwise with a wooden spoon handed down from at least 6 generations of Native Texans while the Deguello scene from Rio Bravo plays in the background, etc. etc. To heck with that. This recipe is quick, simple, inexpensive, and satisfying. When the weather is frightful and you are worried about ice breaking tree limbs and knocking out your electricity at any moment, you don't have time for any stinking 48-hour grilling. As we say in Texas, 'git while the gittin's good'!
Recently I heard Viggo Mortensen interviewed on the Q radio program. They mentioned his movie A History of Violence a couple of times. Pretty good flick.
*** SPOILER ALERT ***
I prefer this role. NERD.
It's the story of a man who seems perfectly ordinary (aside from his amazing hotness), but is concealing a deep, dark reservoir of potentially lethal violence. That theme was on my mind today as I sat down to catch up on some writing projects and otherwise ease the pressure that accompanies me every waking hour to get more stuff done. 'Twas not to be.
It began innocently yesterday when my usually reliable printer decided it was bored with being reliable. This only occurs when I am running late. I was tempted to punt its plastic carcass into the lake, but I didn't have time. So I went to Plan B for getting my thing printed and moved on.
Upon further inspection today, when I needed to print out something else, same problem. Tried the usual tricks (disconnect it from the laptop; turn it off and on; curse it into the wild blue yonder; punt it into the lake). Sought help via printer software on computer. Program would not open. Sought help online. Laptop would not connect with wifi hotspot. Sought help in Control Panel. Printers section of Control Panel would not load.
At this point I should mention the things I need to print are FedEx labels for something that has to be mailed TODAY.
Do you see where this is going?
I am trying to see the silver lining here. I have forced myself to take a break rather than go out into the shed and get my husband's sledge hammer. I will use the time productively to finish today's blog post and ponder on how even mild-mannered folk can be transformed into printer-bashing maniacs by seemingly inconsequential hiccups to the daily routine. Here's a brief list of handy tips to improve your temper-losing experience.
Shouting helps. It doesn't even have to be real words. ARRRGGGHHHH is a good one. Maybe check to see if anyone (small children; neighbors) or anything (pets) is in the area and may misinterpret your therapeutic shouting session. Recall how many folks carry guns these days. You don't want to get shot when you are screaming your head off at your printer because your neighbor thinks a 'roid raged meth head has broken into your house.
Cursing helps. It really, really does. Especially if you were raised not to curse. My go-to is GD but F-bombs appear to be the clear favorite. Again, be aware of your surroundings. Don't do like my brother did and drop an F-bomb when he singed his arm while lighting one of the candles at the Mother's Day dinner table.
Breaking stuff does not help. This is a fine line. I get a tremendous satisfaction from breaking stuff, followed by an overpowering sense of regret and shame. Plus, any innocent bystanders may be injured by flying debris. Plus plus, you have to clean up the mess. If you are going to break stuff, have some cheap junk stowed away in a Breakables box just for the purpose. When the need arises, don your safety glasses, take your Breakables out in the back yard and fling away.
There are way too many examples in real life of people reaching their breaking points with unfortunate consequences. Let's keep it light today and enjoy this supercut of famous movie meltdowns. Warning: lots of cursing, so NSFW. But extremely satisfying. Notice how many scenes involve utter destruction of technology. Yes, printer, I am talking to YOU.
Recently I got a chance to visit my folks in Dallas. One of our favorite activities is sitting around the kitchen table, stuffing our faces and swapping lies. My brother, who inherited the oral storytelling gene from my dad, somehow got off on a tangent and said, "Hey, let me tell you my monkey story". We are close in age as well as filial affection. We share similar temperaments, senses of humor, human frailties, musical tastes, and a love of Tex Mex. I have known him since the day he was born, but I had never heard his 'monkey story'.
It seems he was out at some snooty Dallas eatery in the 80s, where all the men's collars were popped and the ladies' hair was big. One couple brought their pet spider monkey with them for lunch out on the patio. Apparently the monkey found a wad of gum stuck underneath their table, amused himself with it for a while, then rinsed his tiny monkey paws in everyone's iced tea. They were so busy looking cool, they didn't notice, and enjoyed their tea just like everyone else.
This story got a few laughs around our table. And as often happens, one story leads to another. Turns out my brother had another monkey story, about the time he visited the local zoo on a field trip for a high school photography class and was selected to hold an orangutan while everyone else took photos.
Huh. Another monkey story I had never heard. And what I wouldn't give to have a copy of one of those photos!
But wait - there's more. There was that time he and his husband Peter were on vacay in Africa (well, ONE of the times 😉), and a monkey jumped down onto their table and snatched Peter's toast right off his plate, quicker than you can say 'capuchin'. That one, I had heard.
Which reminded my mom of the time one of their neighbors had a pet monkey that jumped onto my grandmother's back and scared the everlovin' bejeezus out of her. Granny Winona never much liked monkeys after that.
By this time, I was feeling very inadequate that I didn't have a monkey story of my own. So I shared one I had heard on NPR about how some folks in India are sick and tired of the rampaging monkeys raiding their village. Sure, it was second-hand, but it was all I had.
All this monkey business got me thinking about why some people have monkey stories, and some don't. Monkey stories represent getting out there and living life. I don't mean you have to actually get yourself a pet monkey or afford pricey vacations. Just interact. Go places. Do things. Observe and remember. Document and share. Sitting at home in front of a glass screen is not going to get you any monkey stories. It's the first-person monkey story that people want, not some regurgitated thing you heard on the radio or read online.
I still don't have any first-person monkey stories. But I bagged a good bat story, a peacock story, and an airplane-vs-flock of birds story recently. Next time I have dinner with my brother, let's see if he can top that.
I was scrolling through my Facebook feed, minding everyone's business, when this drifted through:
Pardon my juvenile scrawl, but it should be obvious by now why I found it necessary to protect the guilty. My first reaction: stunned silence. Second reaction: what the what??? Part of me wanted to believe the poster coincidentally had run out of Charmin at the EXACT SAME TIME their drawer full of carefee, wanderlust-filled traveling socks chose to hit the road. But I knew in my heart this was not so.
Side note here: someone suggested this solution would be more trouble than it was worth to get the socks clean enough to use as proper socks again. Somehow I think this was a one-way trip for the doomed socks, so don't trouble yourselves too much coming up with extreme laundry solutions.
This TP incident got me thinking about life's necessities and what we do when they are not available. I tried to remember the last time I was out of TP, and couldn't remember EVER being out of TP. So I tried to imagine a scenario where, if I WERE out of TP, my thoughts would run to socks. Nope, never happen. Paper towels or tissues, maybe. Other less satisfactory paper products, possibly (apologies, Sports Illustrated!). But socks? For the love of all that is holy, when where and how did socks become a viable substitute for toilet paper???? I am eternally thankful I did not get the memo on that one.
Anyway, by this time I am into full-blown Historian Mode. I remember tales of outhouses long past, where corn cobs and Sears catalogs filled this particular need. Sweet Mother of Pearl have I mentioned lately how thankful I am for the American toilet tissue industry?? Imagining wiping with either of those two options has me willing to pay upwards of $20 a roll for my beloved dual-ply Charmin. Maybe $20 a sheet.
The infamous three shells from the film Demolition Man. Image from VH1.
Prior to the invention of a product designed specifically for cleaning one's nether regions, history tells us folks grabbed whatever was locally available. Materials as disparate as leaves, wool, sand, snow, and pottery shards have been used. Some cultures went back to basics and used their left hands and their left hands ONLY, which is why eating with the left hand is still considered utterly repulsive and highly uncouth in some Middle Eastern cultures. Ancient cultures used rocks and shells, which may partially explain the bathroom joke from the 1993 Sylvester Stallone movie Demolition Man.
A little Googling tells us the first documented use of paper for bathroom hygiene purposes was in China. This is no surprise. China seems to be the leader in inventing such first world necessities such as gunpowder and fireworks, so why not TP? Writings from the 6th century A.D. describe sheets of toilet paper for the Emperor's use, measuring 2 feet by 3 feet. This odd size got me thinking: was this a typo? Did they mean 2 inches x 3 inches? Or did they have a piece of paper the size of a modern bath towel just lying about in the loo, waiting for the Emperor to do his business? Doesn't that seem overdoing it to you? Either he was a huge guy, or an average-size guy who made a huge mess. Did he use it once and wad it up and toss it? There was no flush toilet at that time, so it couldn't go down the tubes. And even if it could - 2 feet x 3 feet??? No, I suspect/fear this large sheet was intended for multiple uses. Sweet Mother of Pearl.
So festive. I'd buy that as long as it was colorfast. I swear that top roll is two of Charlie's Angels.
A little closer to home, you may have noticed plain white TP is the new world order. I vaguely recall solid colors being available back in the day. Apparently a combination of high price and low demand booted colorful TP from most American shelves. I did find a company in Serbia with the unfortunate tagline of 'Family Doo' that may still offer fun colors and patterns. Since I don't speak Serbian and Google Chrome did not offer to translate, I can't tell if they actually sell the patterns shown here, or just think it's a cute picture.
Soon after the Facebook Sock Debacle, I issued an edict here at home: no socks will be harmed, sullied, or otherwise sacrificed in the pursuit of my personal bathroom hygiene. There is now great joy in my sock drawer. But the magazine pile definitely has the jitters.
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I was amused by a recent article speculating on the popularity of yoga pants far outstripping the popularity of yoga. Apparently people are eschewing the expense and effort of actually taking a yoga class, opting to just wear the yoga outfit instead. Why didn't I think of that??
It's about time a women's clothing fad is something that is both comfortable and has a reasonable expectation to be flattering on most. Farewell, stripper platform heels! Sayonara, overalls and flannel shirts! Bring on the leggings and ballet flats! And what's all this squawk about the dreaded 'camel toe'? If you ask me, it's a small price to pay for comfort. The current women's athletic wear industry is a godsend, with its stretchy yet firming miracle fabrics and built-in shelf bras. 'Twas not always so. We've come a long way, baby.
Improving and maintaining one's health through physical activity has been around since the Greeks jogged up the steps of the Parthenon. Those nice ladies pictured below playing beach volleyball notwithstanding, exercising for health was directed more towards the gents until gender equality arrived on the scene 2500 years later. Around the turn of the 20th century in the U.S., two activities in particular resulted in women becoming more active and therefore needing a wardrobe update: bicycling and basketball.
Early bicycle manufacturers were so considerate to design a model that allowed women to keep their legs together.
Nowadays, keeping their legs together is the least of this team's worries.
The Colombian women's bicycling team. They must have held an 'Ugliest Uniform Design' contest. Winner!
A century ago, women were lucky to be allowed out unaccompanied and let the sun touch their delicate complexions. It was too much to ask that they be allowed to wear comfortable clothing as well. Heaven forfend any ankles might show.
Girls playing tennis at what would become Texas Women's University, Denton, ca 1904. Source: SMU digital collection.
Tennis togs have lightened up considerably since then.
JK - this is not an actual tennis outfit. Model Bar Refaeli has a new lingerie line. Why she is wearing it on court is a mystery to me.
Golf has always been a big ask for women, both for its misogyny and its [lack of] fashion sense. I can confirm the game's reputation for being misogynistic. I once had a lesson from a pro who stated I would never develop a quality golf swing because I was too, ahem, well-endowed. Looking at these outfits, I'm not sure what would get in the way the most - the boobs or the skirt.
Nowadays the view is definitely better, but golf clothes still have a ways to go IMO.
The widest swing of the athletic fashion pendulum has to be women's swimwear. Bikinis were all the rage in ancient Rome. Too bad the fad got lost in the shuffle until 1946.
In the early years of recreational swimming, one risked literal drowning by being weighed down in these hideous outfits to avoid risking personal shame by swimming in something more comfortable.
Thanks to a fabric shortage during World War II and an enterprising French designer, we no longer have to swim in our pajamas. However, there were some bumps along the road. The Chicago police department, among others, had a hard time adjusting to the new paradigm. Swimsuit Patrol had to be the most popular beat at the station!
Exercise for fitness has cycled in and out of popularity since the days of laurel wreaths and togas. The most recent wave has surged forward to compete with our hundred-year obsession with American team sports. It it too much to hope more modest exercise fashions will cycle back as well? I was all for the less-is-more fashion philosophy until I reached middle age. Now the last thing I need is athletic wear that exposes the sun damage/wrinkle/cellulite-inducing sins of my past. If I don't push away from the keyboard and get some exercise, I'm gonna wish tennis skirts still covered the ankles. Time to put on my yoga pants and watch a yoga video.
When Chloe hears activity in the kitchen
game requires a long-handled item, such as a broom or a full-size umbrella (in the 'down' position). An additional player is nice, but not necessary. Begin the game by selecting any room in the house that has a door. Inspect the room carefully for your cat. Pay special attention to their usual hiding places, such as under the bed, behind the clothes in the closet, behind the curtains, and so on. Once the room is declared 'cat-free', close the door and move on to another room. Continue until said cat is located. If you have played this game correctly, you will be able to ambush the cat before it streaks off to a new hiding place, as all the good hiding places are now inaccessible. The broom or umbrella comes in handy if your cat likes to hide under the bed, smack-dab in the middle. It is useful for 'encouraging' your cat to emerge. Careful! This is a tool of persuasion, not an instrument of torture.
the (expletive deleted) cat. It was hot, I was filthy and sweaty and tired, and we needed to get back on the road. She was devastated about leaving her poor cat, but I was fed up. As I headed back toward the car, I glanced to my right, and there Lucky sat. The little devil was curled up under a dirt overhang, obscured by a tangle of exposed tree roots. She was looking right at me, still as a statue. I called to the kids to circle the wagons, made my way over to her very carefully, and picked her up just as if she was sitting on the sofa at home. All I can figure is she must have been scared stiff. I am just thankful she didn't have the courage or the spirit to run away again.
recipe.
