On The White House Lawn

It happened on our lawn.

Not only was it tacky.  Not only did the grift include paying the fighters in the felon's personal crypto.  Not only were the military personnel (fit and clean shaven) used (illegally) for political capital.  Not only did the fly over shake buildings in DC and delay flights out of National Airport (without prior notification of the airlines, passengers, or air traffic control).  Not only were the lights bright enough to cause a pilot to file an incident report (because he couldn't see) with the FAA.

Nope, that's not all.  At the end, the winner decided to opine on Michelle Obama's gender.  The head of the UFC smiled.  There were cheers.  

All of this happened in front of the people's house.  A president created a situation that allowed (and appreciated) a foul remark about a woman to go unchallenged.  That woman lived for eight (exemplary) years in that house.  It was her lawn.  

On FFOTUS's birthday, he defiled it.  

If your neighbor's animal crapped on your lawn, you'd do something about it, right?  As Nicole Wallace pointed out, none of the corporate sponsors whose banners decorated the arena have spoken out about the outrageous behavior.  I searched and found that I don't patronize most of them - Ram trucks, Budweiser, Monster Energy (there were others).  But there was one place I thought I could make a difference - Scotts Miracle Gro.

I have a conflicted relationship with them.  I usually buy untreated (but excellent) soil and add my own amendments.  Especially for the school garden, it's the most cost effective way to grow.  I don't have grass, but Scotts line of grass related products is extensive and profitable.  

Their advertising is ubiquitous, featuring responsible, middle class, home owning family men, none of whom are shown shirtless.  I get the trucks and the beer and the energy drinks.  I don't get Scotts Miracle Gro, not one little bit. 

That this obscenity occurred on a lawn makes their lack of response even more egregious.  

I went to the computer, found the website, looked high low, clicked on all the links I thought would be relevant, and finally found  Send us an email.   Obediently, I clicked.  And, after several failed attempts to load the page, this is what I found:

            So sorry.
We're currently updating this site.

It won't take long, so check back soon.

We apologize for any inconvenience.

- The Scotts Company

There's a phone number I can call in the morning.  There's a land address to which I can send a (soon to be more expensive) letter or postcard.  Those are at the end of the post if you want them.  They offered a chat option, but this is what I got when I typed how can i comment in the little box:

Agent said  Could you tell me a bit more about what you'd like to comment on? Are you looking to leave feedback about a product, an article, your order, or something else? Let me know so I can guide you!

You said  corporate response to ufc fight

Agent said I’m sorry, I can’t help with that request.       

They really don't want to hear from me.     

But I needed to write about the cowardice of executives who do nothing when their advertising is used to promote the most vile of insults.  There's no walking this back.  Target lost $12 billion when they abandoned DEI. This fool insulted the most admired woman in America in front of the people's house and got paid to do so. 

Some of the money that went through FFOTUS's crypto company on its way to rewarding the slimiest (expression of freedom of) speech imaginable originated in The Scotts Company's coffers.  If they deplore such behavior they should say so.  

Actually, they should have said so already.  

Their silence speaks volumes.  I'm no longer conflicted.  I hate them.

And yes, I promised to post the address and phone number but I've just spent five fruitless minutes searching for them, all to no avail.  Have I mentioned that I deplore them?

I Found The Joy

The World Cup was barely on my radar.  

Then it started. 

Suddenly I'm cheering for Uruguay and searching for the exact location of Cape Verde (which is now Cabo Verde and has always been about 350 miles off the coast of Guinea Bissau).  

I can type during hydration breaks and half times.  Otherwise, I'm mesmerized.

Almost like I was mesmerized on Friday night, watching the scaffolding, and the rain, and the workers outside The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.  

But that's a post for another day. The Iranians and the Kiwis are about to go at it again.  

Gotta go.

I Got It Back

Big Cuter learned about MJ in preschool.  He was a devoted fan until Jordan's last (championship) game with the Bulls in 1998.  His loyalty never transferred to the team.

We were living in Marin by then, and the 1990's Warriors were uninspiring, to say the least.  The 49'ers, on the other hand, were the winningest NFL team of the decade, and his fandom stretched to cover every aspect of his life except, perhaps, his underwear.  

He moved to the East Coast and took his 9'ers gear with him.  He was a regular at the neighborhood sports bar which showed their games.  He dragged us to one here in Tucson in what he said was a crucial situation.  Sunday game times were sacrosanct; call only if you wanted to talk football. 

We knew that Queen T was the one when he shared a photo of them hiking while his team was on tv.  Granted, they weren't playing that well and being disappointed had dampened his affections just a bit, but still.... these were his 49'ers.

I envied him his devotion.  I didn't think I had it.  I came to the Cubbies in my twenties and I love them still.  That's felt like my longest connection until this past week.  Once I heard the organ in the Garden I was transported back to my childhood on Long Island, when tickets for the family didn't call for a second mortgage, when Daddooooo or Uncle Abby chaperoned one or two of us into the city to see The Knicks. 

They were very good and then they were very bad and I had the Bulls and glommed onto Big Cuter's Warrior's obsession once they moved across the bay and I didn't miss the Kncks at all. Or so I thought.

I've spent the past ten days feeling every bit the New Yorker I am at heart.  Taos Bubbe and I text about it frequently, as does Sister.  OG Anunoby's Indiana University heritage creates a double whammy of affection, as proud alum Little Cuter delights in reminding me.  Big Cuter calls cheering for the Spurs and my New York snark joyfully fills the air.  

I am seriously thinking about investing in a championship t-shirt.  Turns out I do have a childhood sports connection.  It ust took 53 years to reappear.

I Understand It Now

He did it often.  It was commonplace.  Others of his species appreciated it and were willing to join in his enjoyment.  More than once.  It amazed me that he could find something new to see or feel.

There were times I could identify what was on the screen before entering the room.  Not always from the announcers' voices, but from TBG's moans, groans, and cheers of delight.  Watching and re-watching and re-re-re-re-watching certain sporting events made him inordinately happy.  

I didn't really understand it until now.  But I spent the better part of last night watching and re-watching the Knicks come from behind, erase a 29 point deficit, and triumph with 30 seconds of exceptional basketball to end the game.  It made me inordinately happy.

This morning I watched rabid Knicks fan Stephen A Smith tear up recounting his experience on his couch with his kids.  I never watch him willingly; today I awaited him anxiously.  Michael Wilbon called it the most epic collapse he'd ever seen in a championship series, and I enjoyed ever schadenfreud laden moment.  

I watched those last 30 seconds again and again and again all day long.  TBG tried to find something else to watch and I whined until he relented.  The last time I could name more than one player on the Knicks was 1970.  Listening to Let's Go Knicks chanted with the MSG organ's encouragement brought the fervor of those days right back.  

Sister texted me her memories, including specific point totals and players' actions.  She'll happily engage in a Was Game 5 or Game 6 more impressive conversation at the drop of a hat.  She doesn't recognize this new game, calling it football with jumping.  I suppose that's why she gave up and slept through the second half, a fact I plan to use when she goes on too long about her long ago devotion to the team.

And now it's time to watch the hockey finals.  I can't believe I'm watching and enjoying hockey.  As my life continues to expand in unexpected ways,  it's nice to find one that one of those ways amuses me.

 

And Now It's Wednesday

And that sports post is still awaiting ... lurking... hiding in the shadows of my draft folder and seemingly unable to escape.  There's another game tonight and another game tomorrow night (basketball then hockey... yes, hockey) so it will still be relevant if I ever finish writing it.

But it's hard to focus on The Burrow when I'm just feeling sad and overwhelmed and angry at the world.

FFOTUS doesn't think Stephen A Smith has the brainpower to be President.  Rolling Stone attibutes this to racism.  I think it's a doddering old man's go to response when he has no idea what he's talking about.  Whether the Orange Menace's presence at the 3rd game of the NBA Finals caused the Knicks to lose is debatable.  The fact that he fell asleep during the game is just unacceptable.

TBG's medical regime creates unbelievable tiredness and dizziness. This gets in the way of most everything he (or I or we) want to do.  Part of the reason my posting has been sporadic is because nothing is happening.  I don't like leaving him alone; falling is not part of the future I have planned.

It's triple digits and getting hotter here in Tucson.  It was too hot to plant seeds at 9am.  I tried to see The Kiss again last night (Venus and Jupiter touching in the sky.... not really, since they're zillions of miles apart, but to us here on earth it's pretty spectacular) but there were clouds in the early evening when they would have been visible.  My zip code is not being kind to me.

I'll try to recover my good humor and my sanity and anything else I'm missing so that I can be back on a regular schedule once again.  Thanks for your patience as my brain sorts out this new reality.  It's really no fun at all.

Monday, Monday

Are you with me here? The next lyric describes it all - can't trust that day. 

I slept until 9:30. I did the puzzles,  and the 30 minutes of doomscrolling i allow myself each morning, and there were house chores and laundry and a drug store run and suddenly it was 2pm and I had yet to swim (self care for today: 45 minutes in the pool and garden) orshower before TBG's appointment. 

Somewhere in there i was supposed to put the finishing touches on today's post.  That will now appear tomorrow. 

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

 Explicatory Bloviating

The Big Cuter thinks I should divulge more of myself because, in this medium ("New Media, Gasp" said Princess Myrtle one day) bloviating is encouraged. The Little Cuter is my first follower. It's nice to be loved and supported and mentored by those you've loved and supported and mentored yourself. Maybe that's what G'ma means when she thanks me these days.

Ashleigh Burroughs has been with me since college, when I realized that I was never going to write the great American novel but that, perhaps, Ashleigh would. It's good to have dreams and it's awful when your dreams make your reality seem paltry in comparison - especially when your reality is a good one. Giving Ashleigh her own persona cured that problem lickety-split. Like her namesake from Gone With the Wind, her intentions are stronger than her actions. But that's ok. She's been waiting for just this occasion to shine.

The Edgar Rice Burroughs Martian series kept The Big Guy sane during boring summer jobs in his youth. He read them aloud on Carribbean beaches and at Floridian pool-sides and they prompted a 7 year old reluctant reader to become a literary junkie. Inspiring, exciting, provocative -- I'd be glad if the Burrow meets that standard.

When I really really really like a book I'll try to make it last by rationing the chapters I allow myself to read in one sitting. Herman Wouk's The Winds of Wargot me through my first lonely weeks in graduate school that way. The Hobbitkept me company on a cloudy week near Disney World, and Sam Gamgee and Bilbo Baggins (also great names) have been by my side ever since.  Bilbo loved his burrow home, and never wanted an adventure, and fit right in with the community and his friends and went out and DID SOMETHING SPECIAL anyway. Home should be like that, I think - keep you cozy and toss you right out.

Ashleigh Burroughs is a great writer's name. A burrow is a great place to live and to leave. Living up to the name and enjoying the adventure - that's the challenge. Welcome to Ashleigh Burroughs in the Burrow.

Apologies

Looking back to the very beginning, in April, 2009, I made a promise to post every week day.  Almost all of the 4,463 of them since then have kept to that standard.

Age and caregiving have caught up with me.  I've been sloppy lately.  The Little Cheese has stopped emailing that my screed hasn't posted today; she understands all too well how hard it is now to fit everything into a day that used to have large gaps of empty spaces.

I'm not berating myself.  What has to be done has to be done and it's really not that difficult at all.  It's the always piece that's tearing at the edges of my life. 

I'm lucky to be taking care of a person I love.  We have the resources, financial and familial, to withstand everything they've thrown at us so far.  I have the brains and the bandwidth to coordinate the pills and appointments and protein intake and all the rest of it.

I stop every day and wonder what those without are doing right now.  It didn't take a masters degree, but it did take two hours and several iterations before I came up with the first medication/dosage/time/purpose/end date chart.  And that was once I figuired out that I couldn't possibly keep it all in my head.  

But I was able to think clearly and sort it all out and now I'm on the 7th version of that chart.  I have answers to all the nurses' questions at my fingertips.  I have little paper cups with hours, am and pm, in purple marker outside and the appropriate medications inside.  When he's taken them he turns the cup over, so that we both know what he's done anytime we want to look.  

I've gotten really good at tempting his tastebuds; G'ma's stuffed cabbage was a big hit last night.  Costco chickens keep me easily fed and provide plenty of other culinary opportunities.  Sometimes is chicken on pasta, sometimes it's chicken salad, sometimes it's shredded chicken on one of the bags of salad that have become staples in my kitchen.  

It's all interesting and amusing and exhausting.  

I'll try to post daily, but sometimes I might have to resort to oldies but goodies.... like tomorrow.

Abdulrazak Gurnah

He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2021.  That would be enough to scare me off had Theft not been sitting on the Large Type shelf (so I could read it under improper lighting, ie my living room), in paperback (so it's not too heavy to hold), with an engaging picture on the front cover.  

I'm still working out the deeper meaning(s) behind the title. 

The obvious one is obvious, obviously. (Sorry, I couldn't resist)  

The others have something to do with love and loss and betrayal and mostly hope and confidence and a generally upbeat sense that life has a purpose and a meaning even as reality tries to smother it.

It's an easy read, even if he's left off the quotation marks.  If I were starting out, I'd create a series of family trees to help me remember who did what to whom, and when, because the prose is so inviting that I read so quickly to see what was coming next that the plot got lost in the rhythm.  

It's a glimpse into modern day Africa, something I don't encounter in my everyday life.  Some of the characters are slipping into my thoughts in the few days since I finished it, carrying on the conversations we started when I had to reread a few chapters to pick up the thread once again.

That didn't bother me.  It gave me a chance to admire the verbiage once again.

Happy Birthday, Sister

Today is Sister's last birthday before she enters the decade her brother and I have inhabited for a while.  She's never stopped reminding us of the fact that she's the spring chicken in the family. 

She claims to have stopped enumerating the years after she turned 39.  You're only as old as you feel makes a lot of sense to me.  It's how I've tried to live my life - hanging on (with my fingertips, at times) to the energy and enthusiasm, tempering it with the comforting knowledge and experience garnered over the years.  

 Act as if you are 17 again just makes me anxious.  I have no interest in going back to my teenage years.  I'm happy to have left the angst and uncertainty and insecurities far behind me.  Adulthood has suited me just fine.

Sister, on the other hand, has had a harder time.  I'm sure 17 feels relatively uncomplicated for her.... if anything in her life can be said to be or have been uncomplicated.  She's a survivor, a rationalist, a self-sufficient human being who has a harder time accepting help than anyone I've ever known.  I finally hit her sweet spot with a Whole Foods after knee surgery delivery of ice cream, chocolate syrup, and vodka.

Of course, I only found out about the surgery after the fact.  Did I mention that she doesn't like asking for help?

She's been the most entertaining person I know and the most aggravating.  She's brilliant and can't seem to get out of her own way.  She's demanding, insistent, and usually right when it comes to everything outside her family.  

She's an activist, taking personal credit for the election of Andy Kim to the Senate (not much of an overstatement, actually), displaying anti-FFOTUS signs in her red neighborhood, flooding our siblings WhatsApp chat with gift links to the NYTimes' political screeds.  

She's complicated and annoying and funny and probably the book-smartest of the three of us.  Here's wishing that the world sends her peace and smiles and more world travels.... and that she comes to realize that her 70's might not be as scary as she imagines.

Happy Birthday!

It Hit Home This Month

Gas prices keep going up and up.  I miss the Prince scholars, but I'm not unhappy saving the twelve miles of traffic to get there.  I've been filling up at Costco, whose membership fee has already paid for itself.  Twenty cents a gallon times twelve gallons times twice a month and we're talking real money here.  

Fabletics adds an individualized tariff expense to each item.  I have no choice but to pay it.  Those tariffs were/are illegal and the money will be refunded. To me?  The one who explicitly paid it?  Hardly.  If it goes anywhere at all it will flow straight to the companies.  Will they then replace the money in my account?  Probably not.

Mexican restaurants all over town are suffering as the price of tomatoes rises.  I'm no longer blanching as I put Egglands Best eggs into my grocery cart; $7 feels reasonable these days.  I fill my basket with all the fruits and melons and berries that appeal to me even though the price tags make me wince.

But what stopped me dead in my tracks was opening this month's bills from Blue Cross/Blue Shield for our Senior Security plans.  My monthly premium went up 30%.  TBG's went up 40%.  

It had to be a mistake, right?  Not so, said the kind woman who answered the phone on the first ring.  "What I've been told is it's the overall industry and rising costs."  

No matter what they tell me, I refuse to believe that the cost of supplies associated with the medical profession has risen 40%.  I know that the professionals and paraprofessionals and uncredentialed but essential staff are not looking at paychecks that are 40% fatter. 

Profits over people.  This is what Daddooooo would call out as HIGHWAY ROBBERY.

When he felt that way, he'd stick it to the man by installing yet another illicit, unauthorized, cheating the phone company outlet.  By the time I left for college, I could make a call from every bathroom and almost every closet in our house.

The older I get, the more things seem to spiral out of control, the more I understand the impulse.  

They Heard Me

I complained and something happened. 

One day after I posted about the absence of signs announcing the Democrats' congressional candidate I saw these all over town:

They are big and cheery and say Arizona; see our flag referenced?

The Democrats in my legislative district are encouraging alternative signage. 

I'm open to suggestions for what I should write. 

Oops

The days get away from me, sometimes. 

I'll be here tomorrow.