There Were No Posts

There were a lot of us in the house. 

We did all the San Francisco things.

We didn't win the cash lottery,

but we certainly won the people part.

it was a wonderful two weeks.  We will be back in Tucson tomorrow,  resuming our regularly scheduled programing here in The Burrow and in real life.  Thanks for understanding my inability to maintain my usual daily posts. There were just too many wonderful distractions. 

There Will Be Posts

There have been adventures. 

There have been hugs. 

There have been delicious meals. 

All of this has photographic evidence residing in my phone.  Unfortunately,  Blogger turns my photos sideways. 

We are not really that weird.  It's the app, I promise.  While I could list the places we've gone and the foods we've eaten,  without the photos it's too boring for even the most devoted of denizens to read. 

So,  I will borrow a laptop tomorrow morning and begin, once again, to type.  For now,  though,  let's revel in the absurdity that is running our country.

FFOTUS says Russia wants Ukraine to succeed. The fact that Zelensky kept a straight face as this nonsense was a tribute to his acting chops. 

The Epstein files were redacted with see-through black marker. Apparently,  you can save them as a document and the redactions disappear.  They aren't just corrupt,  they are incompetent, too.

Even if you didn't enjoy your Christmas,  FFOTUS liked his less.  There must've been no one to talk to.  Went else would there be 200 some tweets?

The Kennedy Center's lineup for 2026 looks incredibly bare.  Hamilton,  the Jazz Showcase, dozens of artists - they've all found something better to do with their time than wait in line to walk under the faux named doors. 

And within those doors will be seats with marble armrests. There's a reason FFOTUS can brag that it's never been done before.  It's a dumb idea.

Next week tens of thousands of Americans, unable to afford health insurance, will once again be showing up in the Emergency Room with preventable illnesses and the common cold.

I hope that the most vulnerable of them aren't sitting next to a kid with measles in the waiting room. 

Christmas Eve Musings

Written for December 24, 2009.  

We were sitting on the steps in the main hallway of Annie's Washington abode, watching the 2 little girls play in their fantasy land, when he asked the question.

Not "How does the seed get into the egg, Mom?" Nope, that one was just before the Fullerton exit on Lake Shore Drive in a raging snowstorm on barely plowed roads when we were already 15 minutes late and traffic wasn't moving.

Peacefully watching the girls, the sunshine through the magnificent beveled windows making the prism rainbows we were, I thought, busily counting, out of his 7 year old mouth came "Santa's not really real, is he, Mom?"

He noted my pause, and, ever the Big Cuter, his face took a serious cast as he reassured me: "Don't worry. I won't tell her. She really believes he's real."

What followed was a precise analysis, continent by continent, time zone by time zone, of the why-nots of Santa's voyage. He was quietly demolishing every possible rational explanation for his existence, yet he was still insistent that we not destroy his sister's illusion. "She loves Santa, Mom. I mean really loves him."

I remember the intensity with which he informed me of that fact. It moves me, still. I knew right then that he'd always be there for her, no matter how silly she might be.

She was 10 or 11 when the subject of "when you stopped believing in Santa" became acceptable on-the-way-to-tennis-lessons-car-pool conversation. Then Little Cuter said "Of course there's a Santa Claus!" and the case was closed. I never heard anyone mention it again in her presence. No mothers called to ask me if it were true. She never said that anyone teased her about it. She knew it as a fact, and, somehow, within her 4th or 5th grade universe, that made it inviolable.

Was she that powerful amongst her friends that no one dared to defy her? Perhaps. Were they surprised that one of them was still stuck in child-like wonder and struck dumb at the concept? Unlikely. I like to think that Santa himself had something to do with it.

Because what I said to the Big Cuter, after his rationalizations had come to an end, was that his reasoning was valid but meaningless. The reality is that Santa is joy and love and family and caring and friends and warmth and giving and everyone ought to believe in that.  

Christmas is about welcoming a new baby into the world, and, as I told Brenda Starr (and she quoted me in the paper) what's not to like about that?

He bought it then, Little Cuter's teaching it to her kids now, and Honey Bunny will hear about it soon enough.  

from Robert Sabuda's The Night Before Christmas Pop-Up Book

Monday Night Football

Honey Bunny needed to watch football. Not just wanted to watch football, but needed to watch football, with the intensity that an almost 3 year old needs anything. 

"Where's Brock Purdy?" she asked, over and over and over again, in the highest little voice imaginable, unable to process the fact that the game wouldn't start for a while.

The 9ers are her team, in their red uniforms.  The Colts are in blue.  She groaned with every tackle and cheered at every touchdown.

What we couldn't do was find her cousins.  They were in the end zone,  with seats SIR was gifted from work. But Little Cuter took care of that problem. 

Do you think he's excited to be there?

Random Thoughts

I'm writing this introduction after I finished downloading my disgust with FFOTUS.  

Random Thoughts because that's all I can muster.  I can't put them together into flowing paragraphs.  I'm letting my pre-travel have I packed the right things anxiety allow other bad thoughts to intrude.  If you're in a happy mood and don't want to be disturbed, I totally get it. But my cup spew-eth over and this is my space to vent. 

I'm going to leave the venom and dismay sadness and hopelessness right here and go on to enjoy my family and friends.  I really really really hope the world allows that to happen and that all of us have joyous and peaceful times before us.  A girl can dream, can't she?

If you're ready, read on.

*****

Why am I surprised?  I had high hopes that were (ridiculously) dashed.  For some reason, not based on anything past or present, I did believe that the pedophile's files would be open for perusal by America and the world by this time. 

Why was I expecting this Administration to follow the rules?  Why did I think that the courts and the Congress gave a damn, had any power, would choose to do something about the flagrant middle finger being hoisted their way.

*****

And what about the new plaques under the presidential portraits in the White House?  

Who gave the toddler the crayons?

*****

Did you watch The Residence or read my post about it?  

If not, this sentence from that post will help The White House itself is a character, its history the mortar between the bricks of the story.  

Right now, the White House itself is weeping.

*****

It is illegal for someone to remove the name he attached to the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.

It is also against the law for him to have pasted his name on the building, no matter what the Board voted.

I don't want to think about the disparity between what's not happening and what would happen if I rented a crane and brought some tools.  

The website has the same url but don't click through unless you want to gasp.  Here, if you're brave.

*****

We do know that no one gave him permission to play with the Lincoln Logs and the Legos.

NBC News

Tis the Season

My nails are a shimmery, shiny red.

My menorah is fully embracing Chrismukkah.

I had to freeze The Cornellians' annual kringle; I ate one third of it before reason set in.

We are spending the holidays with our kids and their kids and that's about the most wonderful sentence I can think of typing right now.  It's a gift we don't have to wrap or ship or worry about.  It's a one size fits all (maybe a little squished but still.....) joy fest and Giblet made his class newspaper by announcing the news.  

Right now, though, I'm too pooped to pop, and certainly unwilling and (even more) unable to let any 22 minute rant derail my happy train.   Self care is vastly under-rated.  

Happy Happy Joy Joy
 

One More Day

Today was Crazy Sweater Day, tomorrow is Pajama Day, Friday is the first day of Winter Break.  

From the looks on the teachers' faces it can't come soon enough.

$92 million ..... $57 million .... guaranteed for nine years or four years .... with health benefits and state of the art workout facilities ... and is it enough for the talented young man who can throw a ball?  

I know 60 educators who might take any one of those deals.  

As the vacation nears, the kids start losing their minds and the staff bears the brunt of it.  There are no free breakfasts and lunches during Winter Break.  Everyone is at home and there's barely room when they're just sleeping and one third grader fell asleep today at her desk because it's very noisy at my home.    

Many of the kids will be moving to new homes, new families, new schools.  One Garden Leader is getting four more brothers and I already have five. Another is moving so far away but won't change schools because then I can walk here; I've given up trying to figure out the logic.  

The district is downsizing (charter schools, fewer families) and all of a sudden seniority is an issue for teachers who thought they could spend their whole career in our little corner of the universe.  No decisions will be made for a while, which just extends the anxiety that even festive sweaters couldn't disguise.

In the garden, our mandarin orange tree is setting fruit, the tomatoes are ripening, and the kids have eaten all six spinach plants down to their nubs.  Did you know that it tastes like salad?  The irrigation is still wonky and the plants will be untended for two weeks; all my potential plant waterers will be traveling, too.  Right now it's in the 70's, but who knows what climate change may create over the holidays.  

All in all, it's been an interesting week in public education.

A New Look

An occasional reader of The Burrow commented unfavorably about that big picture that takes up the whole screen.  That was the motivation I needed to take the time and correct the situation. 

The interface is uncomfortable.  Not much is where I intuited it would be.  I found a theme that made me happy - plain, simple, a white background, and a way to make the font bigger.  Unfortunately, it did not have a way to reply to comments.  I couldn't find a work around.  

Organizing that failed theme took more than enough time.  I moved on.  I moved further on.  I went back and forth between several bold and bright ideas.  Time passed.  The options began to blur into one another.  

Did that one have a way to remove the picture?  It did, but finding the drop down menu where that was lurking was no mean feat.  

There was the matter of The Burrow ... the words in the header, not the content below.  Did I like one of a squadrillion colors and/or some kind of pattern in one of those same squadrillion colors behind the title?  And what font would I choose to represent my wit, whimsy, and profundities?  

I'm a person who takes stationary personally  I'm afflicted with a deep seated need to be sure what I choose is just right.  Thus, I spent too much time view clicking and ctrl + tab'ing.  Readability, an upbeat vibe without being silly, not too charming to overwhelm the content - there was much to consider. 

When serif became indistinguishable from non I knew I'd had enough.  My brain needed a cleanse, a sorbet, a walk around the block.

What it got was a quick look at the last saved iteration as I clicked Apply.   I hope you like it.

He's Intruding Into My Space

I was trying to get through December without totally losing my shit.  I made steady progress on the Brownie List, finishing all but 3 deliveries and cleaning up the wreckage before the cleaning ladies came today.  There's something wonderful about the moments before you rearrange the pillows for comfort rather than show, especially when someone else has created the pretty setting just for you.

That's the vibe I was carrying into the evening.  There's not much left to do.  My house is neat and clean.  We are as healthy as our 150+ years on the planet will allow.  I lit the Hanukkah candles and sat back to do the Wordle.

I opened my phone and there he was, the human wrecking ball of our Constitution, talking about Rob Reiner.  Rob Reiner for crying out loud.  Princess Bride (the perfect movie according to FlapJilly) Rob Reiner.  When Harry Met Sally, Spinal Tap, Stand By Me Rob Reiner.  The man who is being lauded as having re-invented the romantic comedy genre was responsible for his own death. 

I was appalled.  I couldn't pull my eyes and ears away from the clip (I won't link it).  I listened to him call Rob Reiner seriously deranged.... T*** derangement syndrome.  The man who understood human relationships in a way that is unfathomable to FFOTUS was on the pointed edge of presidential barbs. 

And then I started to laugh.  It was Archie Bunker yelling at Meathead.  Rob Reiner's political presence was obviously an irritant to the petulant person in the White House, and that petulance was on full display when a reporter gave him an opportunity to walk back his comments.  Like Archie, he doubled down.  He made it worse and worse and I couldn't look away and then the clip ended and I came here for solace.

There's Bondi Beach (with the added pleasure of sharing the name of the woman who's destroying the DOJ) and Brown University and I was doing a fairly good job of ignoring the whole situation outside because it's Hanukkah and Christmas and New Years and family will be close and babies will be held and there's so much that's right in my little corner of the world.

Apparently, it took Rob Reiner to prick my protective balloon.  

Thanks for being here and helping to dissipate the evil, the cruelty, the democracy killing and Republic destroying (sorry, Mr. Franklin, we are in danger of not keeping it) that's creeping in and eating at my soul.  

I will be back decrying it all when it's 2026 because this is going to get worse.   Acknowledging that I, as an individual, can do nothing to make it all go away, I'm going to concentrate on joy for the next little while and give my outrage button some time to recharge. 

Self-care is crucial. 

Chappy Chanukkah

Most of Us

I dropped off brownies to my nursery this morning.  The owner was there to greet me.  She and her husband, and now her daughter and son-in-law, have been my friends and GRIN supporters since before there was GRIN.  They caution me if the plant I'm admiring will require more care than I'm willing to provide.  They do the heavy lifting and I do the pretty planting.  

Our politics could not be more different.  Staunch conservatives, small business owners, and devoutly religious - just think of the opposites and there I'll be.  Abortion has been the lightning rod for our (friendly and respectful) disagreements over the years, until FFOTUS came to town.  They were fans.

They weren't thrilled with his verbiage but were willing to overlook it because he was espousing the up by your bootstraps mentality that lay behind their growing business.  Things didn't go quite as well as they hoped, but Pandemica was nothing but great for their business.  We could be outside, distanced, and enjoy socializing and chatting while shopping.  They did well enough to buy fancy new shelving for the $4.99 starter plants that live outdoors.

Then there was Biden and politics rarely came up; that made me happy.  

Now there is FFOTUS again and the cracks in their foundational beliefs are showing.  Today was a good example.  I posited that even she would agree that if a Chief Executive fell asleep at a televised meeting that he is chairing, firing that person would be the logical next step.  Her lowered eyes and sickly smile said it all.

But then we moved on as she talked about an upper age limit to complement the lower age limit for the Presidency.  And how about the Congresspeople who are in nursing homes (what she heard on her news) or just plain mentally unavailable (my Eleanor Holmes Norton and Diane Feinstein contributions)? 

At the same time, with the same smiling vehemence, we looked at one another and said throw them all out and let's start over.

Then she added this: We're neither of us at the ultra-crazy end of the spectrum, and we aren't that far apart.  We went on to agree that in addition to an awake President, we knew that children should not go hungry and that we'll be paying for everyone's healthcare anyway so why not give them insurance so they have a stake in the game and a chance to stay healthy?  

People shouldn't come in illegally (I have dead relatives who would have liked to swim across the ocean before the Nazi's wiped them out) but the border here was so porous for so long that residency and respectable behavior ought to be enough to validate someone's right to be here.  And don't get us started on the DACA kids; a child is not responsible for his parents' decision to move him without papers.  

Most of us believe the same things, it's just......

That's where we ended.  Another customer came in and commerce triumphed over conversation.  But I left feeling pretty good about America.  Like Mark Kelly said,  It will take time, but I believe we can get it back

Thinking Back

While waiting in line for a prescription, I was visited by my (dead) mother.  She stood right next to me, pointing at the shelf, upon which sat this remnant from my past:

I had neither seen nor heard nor spoken about Albolene for approximately half a century, yet suddenly I was transported to a bathroom in my ancestral manse (a split level in 1950's suburbia).  While I'm certain that my mother never considered paying this much money for it:

I am also confident that she wouldn't refuse a tub if I were to buy it for her.  

That got me thinking about what other blast from the past might be lurking on the shelves.

Would I find Prell shampoo, neon green and smelling luscious its tube? The thought sends me straight to the showers at Girl Scout camp, my first sleep away experience.  

click Americana

TBG had a law school professor with an unusually white and bright smile; they called her Ipana.  Does anyone born in the last 50 years know why?

created by AI via Google and I don't know how to credit it

My Bubbe came to America on a steamship.  70-some years later she took her first airplane ride to watch her eldest grandchild (that would be me) graduate from college.  Did the turnips in Waldbaum's produce department look the same to her as the ones she remembered storing in the root cellar as a child?

Ah, yes. Another reminder that the world is moving on.... and I am here to see it, so, by definition it's a good day.  And if my mind thinks I'm a lot younger than my body reminds me that I am, that's okay, too. 

Little Conversations

In every Joy to the World and Merry Christmas and Season's Greetings and Happy Holidays embellished box I fill with red or green tissue paper (a little bit, just to be festive) and silver squares of Reynolds Wrapped brownies, there's also a little conversation.  

Granted, I'm the only one participating in the exchange, so it's really a soliloquy.  But I'm addressing the recipients, by name or nickname or relationship, and the dialogue is peculiar to the recipient.  I really am looking for answers to the questions I'm positing as I pack and address and ship.  How old, how long, how serious, how happy..... these are things I wish to know.

Not-Kathy, aghast at the cost of shipping all this love, suggested that I get everyone who lives near others to meet at a central point and pick up their gifts.  I laughed and replied that she was the only one who would think of that (true) and the only one who would do that (not true).

That was another reminder of the beauty of the brownie list - everyone would do that if I asked.  I am surrounded near and far with fabulous humans.  I've been enjoying their company all month long.  I still have several dozen talks awaiting me, so off I go.

Elfing is serious work.