A CHANUKAH FAIRY TALE

Once upon a time, there was a Nonny Bear and a Papa Bear. They had three little grandcubs that they loved very much. 

One day, Nonny Bear looked at the calendar. "Oh, dear!" she said. "Chanukah is coming very quickly indeed!" 

Papa Bear jumped up from his comfy chair. "Really? Then we must go to the magical Amazon Forest and look for many, many toys for each of the cubs, and for each of the eight nights!" 

Nonny Bear smiled at him. "Well, they are very small cubs," she said. "The oldest isn't even two! They don't know about the eight nights of Chanukah. So why don't we get each of them one very special gift instead?" 

"You are very smart, Nonny Bear" said Papa Bear. "We will do that." And off they went to the Amazon Forest to see what they could find. 

After much searching, Nonny and Papa Bear picked out a marvelous gift for each cub. The oldest got a little teepee so he could pretend that he was an explorer and stop playing in the big cardboard box his daddy's office chair came in. The girl cub got a developmentally appropriate activity center so she could become good at technology and math and crush little boy cubs when it came to science someday. The littlest cub got magical stacking cubes with many colors and shapes and sounds, even though his main focus still was keeping his head from hitting the floor during tummy time. 

A few days later, Nonny Bear looked at the gifts and sighed. "Three things really aren't very many, are they?" 

"No, they are not," said Papa Bear. "And even though the cubs are small, it might still be good to teach them about the eight nights of Chunukah." 

"And we don't have to buy big presents," said Nonny Bear. "We can go to Dollar Store!" 

"Or Five Below!" cheered Papa Bear. And off they went. 

When they got home again, the Bears looked at the Styrofoam swords and plywood puzzles and the many, many other cheap toys they had bought. 

"These presents don't look very special," said Papa Bear. 

"No, they don't," agreed Nonny Bear. "Should we upgrade to Target?" 

"Oh, yes!" said Papa Bear. 

And off they went again!

Soon they came home with even more toys. And books, because everyone knows that books are very good things. And some really adorable clothes, because there were some that had cute little Bear ears on the caps and little Bear-paw slippers and how could they NOT buy them? 

"This is good," said Nonny Bear. 

"Yes. This is very good!" agreed Papa Bear. But, deep in their hearts, neither of the Bears thought they had bought NEARLY enough presents for their very special grandcubs. So each of them secretly snuck out and bought a few more. 

Then one evening Nonny Bear announced, "It's time to wrap the Chanukah presents!"

"Hooray!" said Papa Bear. So he went to the garage and the closets and the basement and brought all the presents to Nonny Bear to wrap. There were many, many, MANY presents. In fact, there was a whole mountain of presents! 

"The cubs' parents are going to kill us," said Nonny Bear. 

"I don't care," said Papa Bear. "They can't stop us." 

So Chanukah came, and the gifts were delivered, and the cubs were happy and laughing. And Nonny and Papa Bear were happier still! As for the cubs' parents, they just shook their heads and smiled. Because really, what else could they do? 

So from the Bear family to all of you, Happy Holidays! May your days be filled with love and laughter. (And lots of presents for the little ones.)

WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU'RE BORED

So, yeah, a lot of us are stuck inside again. (And for those of you in Florida and Arizona and other states where shelter-in-place can be accomplished in golf carts or next to a swimming pool, you should know, and I say this from a place of deep love, that the rest of us really dislike you right now.) 

Now if you're NOT living in those states, and like me, are no longer in the world of full-time work, you're bored out of your mind and looking for something to do. And I'm not talking about baking sourdough bread, or learning Mandarin, or starting a humor blog. Those things are so last March. 

No, at this point we need to become much more creative. So I'm offering these options, all carefully researched and tested by myself. 

• Check the lint trap on the dryer. If it is full, see if you can pull it off in one unbroken sheet. (Bonus: You can shove the lint into empty toilet paper rolls to make fire starters, and yes, I looked that up, and yes, I'm considering doing it, and yes, that's just how bored I am.) 

• Light several candles. Place bets on which one will burn down the fastest. I did this with three Memorial Candles this past Yom Kippur, and it was quite an exhilarating 24 hours. 

• Play "What's in My Junk Drawer?" Make a list of everything you THINK is in your junk drawer, and then open the drawer and compare the contents to what's on your list. Give yourself +2 points for each match, and -1 point for each surprise. My score was negative 27. But at least I now know that I have a couple dozen self-adhesive cork pads, a pack of something called "trim replacement springs," several mystery keys, and absolutely no Scotch tape.

• Make up a story for your dog using all the words she knows: "So MOMMY and CASSIE went OUTSIDE for a WALK in the PRAIRIE because CASSIE was a GOOD GIRL and deserved a TREAT." This will increase your creativity, sharpen your linguistic skills, and convince your dog that she's brilliant. 

• Rearrange the MixTiles that now cover every inch of wall space, a situation that may or may not be the result of your husband receiving coupons promising him "guaranteed happiness" from the "stunning wall art" we would own if he ordered them. (Mind you, the stunning pieces of wall art are actually 8x8 foam-core tiles made from the pictures on your phone.) The website also mentions that millions of tiles have been sold. Most of them to my husband. 

• Order a whole roll of bubble wrap from Home Depot. Pop the bubbles, keeping track of how many you can pop before you hit a dud. (My personal best, as of this writing, is 76.) 

• This is another betting game. Gather up all the pens and markers in your house. Place wagers with other household members, or interested outsiders who are no longer able to visit casinos, on how many of them still work: fewer than 10, 10-15, 15-20, and over 20. (Tip: the answer will always be "Fewer than 10.") The winner gets two unopened packs of Sharpies and Bics. 

• Put all the non-working pens and markers you discovered back in random locations so you can have a fun little treasure hunt every time you need to jot something down.

• Watch TV shows and YouTube videos you swore you'd never, ever, under any circumstances, watch. But be careful. Some women I thought were my friends recently referred me to the videos of Sandra Lee, aka Dr. Pimple Popper. And let's just say... there are some things that you can't unsee. (Prediction: I suspect that those of you who watched "Baby Shark" after I warned you against it in an earlier blog will now race to look up Dr. Pimple Popper.)

• Write a hostile but creatively worded response in my Comments section describing how much you hate me for making you aware of Dr. Pimple Popper. 

That's all for now. But I will be happy to share any additional brilliant ideas that the rest of you may have discovered over these past weeks. As they say, "We're in this together."

FAILING SOCIAL MEDIA

We are all dealing with big, important questions these days. Just this evening, for example, my husband turned to me with a troubled expression and asked, "So…what exactly is TikTok?" 

I shook my head despondently. "I have no idea. At first I thought maybe it was a character in a Pixar movie, but I realized I was confusing it with Forky. And then the girl who cuts my hair told me I should check out her TikTok dance, and I asked her if it was something like 'I'm a Little Teapot,' but with a clock." 

"And?" 

"And she just patted my arm and gave me a sad look." 

Now, you need to understand that I have tried very, very hard to stay on top of social media. I never referred to "The Facebook." I spoke knowledgeably about LinkedIn, discovered Pinterest, opened a Twitter account, and once impressed my kids when I mentioned I'd been on Reddit to find out what everyone thought L + R = J meant in Game of Thrones. 

There was also the period where my husband and I discovered emojis and GIFs (which I admit I am still not sure how to pronounce correctly). We were really proud of ourselves until our sons told us to stop. Immediately. 

😢😢😢

I was pretty much ready to listen to them, too, because I realized that every time I figured out one social media innovation, another popped up and made me feel stupid. For instance, when everyone under 30 fled Facebook in droves, I took a deep breath and dove into Instagram because that turned out be one of the easiest ways to see my Arizona granddaughter, whom impartial observers agree is the most adorable girl-child on the planet.. But suddenly everyone on Instagram started adding "stories" and graphics and music and other embellishments that require a degree in cinematography. I became depressed.

In fact, I almost gave up social media entirely. Luckily, before I did, I discovered some additional, very important benefits of remaining on Instagram. Click "Read More" to learn about three of them.

GRANDPARENT LIFE HACKS

If you have grandchildren in your life, you already know that they are absolutely, utterly, no-doubt-about-it perfect. You also know that one of the best things about them has always been that you get to give them back when they become unreasonable or you need a nap. 

In these days of shuttered day cares and remote work situations, though, grandparents are suddenly being called back into active duty. As a result, many of them have been heard to utter the immortal words of Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon: 

"I'm too old for this sh*t." 

As a public service, then, I would like to offer some GRANDPARENT LIFE HACKS that may make the return to child care a little easier. 

Hack Number 1: Beware of the floor. It's important to understand that being a grandparent requires getting down on the floor. This happens when the child is still in the dreaded "slug-on-a-play-mat" phase; needs assistance with Lego construction; has an unexpected diaper explosion; or, in our house, asks you to activate the Dinosaur Death Trap (which I will be happy to provide detailed diagrams for). 

Now, getting down on the floor is all well and good, but please make sure that there is a spouse or some other stationary object nearby that you can grab on to when you want to get back up again. Otherwise you may still find yourself in beached whale mode long after the grandchild is no longer anywhere in the vicinity. 

Hack Number 2: Study their language. Grandchildren say things that sound like familiar words, but those words do not always mean what you think they mean. For example, my husband and I learned these words and definitions early on: 

• Uh-oh: This all-purpose exclamation can be used to express excitement, dismay, poop, or an airplane. 

• On: This word, which requires an accompanying finger point, is actually a request to turn on the indicated fan, light, or toy; but it is also understood that if the indicated item is already "on," the word should be interpreted as actually meaning "off." 

• Ow. A candle. We have not yet asked our grandson's parents how he came to connect the two.  

• Cah-Cah: Good guess, but this does not mean car. There is actually no word for car—rather, a cah-cah is a toy truck. And a real truck, when seen on a highway, is referred to as a "WHOAAAAAAAAA!" 

• Ba-Ba: The pacifier. Or milk bottle. Or the television. Or a brief history of the universe. 

HIGH ANXIETY!!!!

Ok, so I had a perfectly fine blog post almost written, and I was going to publish it last Thursday, but on Wednesday I did my civic duty and stood in line and voted early for my Preferred Candidates, which made me wonder how many other people were standing in line and voting early for their Preferred Candidates, and if so, who WERE those Preferred Candidates and how were things going for all of them,  and so I started flipping back and forth between CNN and Fox to try to get a Balanced View of Things, but the polls were one way on one channel and another way on another channel and then I started getting a little anxious and on top of that, see, my Preferred Candidates and a bunch of their best buddies kept texting me for money day after day and sometimes hour after hour which made me feel like I was the only one in the world who could save them, which is in fact what they kept telling me, and so I kept sending money to them but it was never enough, you know, never enough, they just kept texting, and so I finally started texting them to STOP IT for godssake, which only added to my guilt, but then I thought hey, why should I have guilt since I DID write one hundred postcards telling the Florida people to get off their rear ends and vote and I also mailed the postcards on October 26 EXACTLY AS I'D BEEN DIRECTED in case my house was bugged and someone was watching me, which I kind of think they were, not that I really believe that a bunch of stupid postcards are going to make a difference, plus even if everyone DOES vote, there are all those fake drop-off boxes and also ballots floating in rivers except maybe that's a lie and I don't have to worry, except what if it's NOT a lie and the rivers are absolutely CHOKED with ballots, all of which have the name of my Preferred Candidates on them, so it's no wonder I haven't been sleeping even when I take a buttload of Unisom, and it is furthermore no surprise that I keep having that old song going through my head about how "THEY'RE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY, HO-HO HEE-HEE HA-HA" which embarrasses me because it's a very tone deaf and insensitive song except at this point I would indeed be happy if those nice young men in their clean white coats took me somewhere where life is beautiful all the time and the election was very many years ago and I did not have nasty awful stress,  and where I could publish an innocent post, which of course I'm not doing now, Mister Man, because who wants to read a stupid lighthearted post when THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT COULD END ON TUESDAY???? 

So, anyhow, I just wanted to explain to you why I didn't post last week.

QUIZ: ARE YOU STILL CIVILIZED?

Okay, so the weather is getting colder, and our dining options are once again becoming limited. We will soon have to forsake the delights of semi-safe dining in converted parking lots and spend perhaps the rest of our lives eating inside our own homes.

Now for some people, this is not a hardship. It is an Opportunity, a chance to spend many blissful hours in the kitchen happily trying out new recipes. These are people who use words like "saucing" and "infusing" and "carmelizing," and who to love to invest in things like $400 Le Crueset Signature Enameled Dutch Ovens. My nephew is one of these people, and this, for example, was one of his recent posts on Instagram.

I used to like my nephew. 

Other people are okay with the indoor thing because they are able to create aesthetically pleasing dining experiences no matter what the situation. The other night, for example, we brought Chinese take-out over to my mother-in-law's. When we arrived, her table was set with woven placemats, gleaming china, her good silverware, linen napkins (rolled inside of silver napkin rings) and crystal. The lights had been dimmed, and two candles glowed softly. 

I used to like my mother-in-law.

As for the rest of us, I think we're worried about being trapped indoors again because we have already given up the fight to stay even moderately civilized when it comes to eating. If you are not yet sure which group you belong to, see whether option A or B in the following descriptions best describes you. 

Planning 

A You scan websites like Bon Appétit or go through your personal collection of treasured family recipes to determine the menu for the week. You then order ingredients from Sunset Foods or Mariano's for delivery. 

B Planning? 

Preparation 

A You gather the necessary ingredients for your dinner, sometimes beginning your prep the evening before the actual meal. You chop, marinade, sauté, smoke, or braise, as necessary. 

B The night of the meal, you open the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets at 5:45, hoping to find something edible and/or unexpired. At 6:00, you call Grub Hub. 

Before the Meal 

A You lovingly set the dining table with complete place settings and perhaps a vase of flowers. (See description of mother-in-law's table, above.) You then bring out serving dishes with aromas so tantalizing that you don’t even have to call people to the table. 

B You go into the family room and sweep the newspapers off the coffee table in front of the TV. 

The Dining Experience 

A You begin the meal, ask about each other's day, and perhaps have a good-natured debate about current events. 

B You shovel the take-out food onto paper plates, tear off a few Bounty paper towels to serve as napkins, head to the coffee table, and turn on the TV. 

Après le Dîner 

A You clear the table, pour a glass of wine, and linger over dessert, just to enjoy each other's company. 

B You throw out the paper plates, instruct the dog to finish cleaning the coffee table and the floor around it, and continue watching whatever TV show you've turned on. 

Now maybe you don't fall into either category, exactly. Like, maybe you order from Jewel instead of Mariano's, and maybe you're still making a half-hearted attempt to COOK the meals you eat in front of the TV. But if you are already well on the path to Category B, what the heck, just embrace it. Your dog will thank you for it.

MY HUSBAND TAKES A STAND!

A few days ago, I posted dark thoughts about watching TV with my husband during the pandemic (See "MURDER, She Wrote"). Not long afterwards, he approached me with a serious expression on his face and a sheet of paper in his hand. 

"We have to talk." 

I was totally unnerved by this. You have to understand that my husband never wants to talk. For example, he would rather wash a hundred dishes by hand after a holiday dinner than converse with stray family members. And even when we're alone, he is perfectly capable of going several hours without uttering a syllable. (On our first dates, when he didn't talk, I fantasized that he was a brooding soul with a mysterious past, like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. Turns out, he wasn't.) 

So anyhow, I was nervous. 

"What's wrong?" 

 

"I know I gave you permission to use me as your designated doofus in these posts, but this last one about me and television-- It's just wrong." 

 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, you're a lot worse than I am." 

"For instance?" 

 

He raised the sheet of paper, which I realized was actually a list. "For instance. You like to crunch on Snyder's pretzel rods while we're watching a show. I have missed whole chunks of dialogue while you crunch." 

 

"I think you're exaggerating." 

"Am I? Am I really?" He looked back down at his sheet. "You also seem to need to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes." 


"Well, it's hard for me to focus on the show when I have a full bladder." 

"You can't stay focused two minutes before the end of a season finale?" He looked at me skeptically, muttered something about too much Diet Coke, then glanced again at the paper. "There's also the little problem of the running commentary you provide concerning story logic." 

"Hey, I'm sorry if I don't believe that tens of thousands of zombies can possibly be getting enough to eat on a regular basis. Or that none of the Bachelors and Bachelorettes have figured out that there will ALWAYS be a contestant there for the wrong reason."

"But did you have to point out during Finding Nemo that there's no way Dory could have learned to read English? And did you have to tell our grandson?" 

"Well…" 

He sighed. "And then there's your research addiction. When I said that the boss on Killing Eve looked familiar, I was NOT asking you to dive into IMDB at that exact moment and read all her screen credits to me. And when I said I liked that one song on The Morning Show, it was NOT a directive to immediately Google the Episode 6 soundtrack and tell me it was 'Let's Burn Down the Cornfield.'" 

I peeked at my phone. "Sung by Lou Rawls." 

"STOP IT! JUST STOP!" He regained his composure. "But the worst is when we're watching the Bears. I know you're not into sports and that you're trying to show some interest. But telling me that you think the single-color uniforms are ugly, or asking me which side has the ball, or wondering if we really have to watch the last two minutes—I'm telling you, you are dancing with death." 

He put the paper down in front of me. "I'm sorry. But a man can only take so much." 

He turned and strode proudly back to his den, leaving me to reread the list—which went on for a full page-- and ponder what he had said. And, well, he may be kind of right. So I tried to think of a way to admit my guilt and share the truth with all of you. 

This post is my solution. And I pledge to cut down on the Diet Coke and find a non-crunchy substitute for pretzel rods. 

MURDER, She Wrote

It is an inescapable fact of life that people who spend too much time watching TV together during a pandemic are putting their relationship at risk. And now that it seems increasingly certain that TV will be our primary form of entertainment for the foreseeable future, I'm truly concerned about my marriage. Indeed, I'm worried about our very lives—well, my husband's life-- because innocent little things that didn't used to bother me are now making me homicidal. 

Take the clicker, for example. My husband, admittedly, has a master's touch when it comes to the TV remote. Seriously, if clicker control were an Olympic sport, he'd win the gold every time. He can intuit the precise instant at which he should release the fast forward button in order to land us on the opening moment of the next post-commercial scene. 

This is certainly a skill to be applauded, and it is one I do not have. But, unfortunately, he also has a compulsive need to see the first micro-second of the scene that follows each commercial. So, if I happen to pick up the remote when the ads start, two things happen. First, I invariably fast forward us a second or two into the program. Second, a conversation like the following ensues: 

HUSBAND: Hit pause! (Impatiently motions for the clicker) Okay, give it to me. 

ME: Why? We just missed a second or two. 

HUSBAND: Give it to me. 

ME: Hon, I think we are both smart enough to figure out what happened. The elevator doors opened and Meredith walked out. 

HUSBAND: But what if there was a voiceover? What if there was someone important in the back of the elevator? What if someone was holding a cute baby? (He lunges forward and grabs the clicker from my hand.) 

ME: I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU REWIND THIS I WILL KILL YOU! 

I realize I may be overreacting a bit.

But in my defense, the clicker issue is compounded by the falling-asleep problem. Now in my mind, if you sit down to watch a show with someone—especially a show that you both have deemed is Quality TV-- you have made a commitment. You owe it to yourself, your viewing partner (me), and the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences to watch and appreciate that show in its entirety. Yet although, as noted, my husband doesn't like to miss the first micro-second after a commercial, he has no qualms about falling asleep just as you're finding out if Logan Roy's son is going to betray him--which he damn well should!--or right before that final scene in Season 3 of Ozark.

But that's not the real issue. The REAL issue is that my husband does not feel ashamed of his actions or even acknowledge that he has fallen asleep. I'll know that he has, because I'll hear a loud snort and turn to see that his eyes are scrunched shut and his mouth is open. At that point I grit my teeth, pause the show, and punch him. 

"Hon. Wake up." 

"Wh..? Not asleep." (He immediately goes back to sleep.)

"HON! WAKE UP!" 

"Am up. Resting my eyes." 

"You were snoring. You also just muttered something about having to clean Trump's teeth, and then you asked me why my computer was talking to you." 

"Did not." 

"Okay, then tell me what just happened during the last five minutes."

He slowly opens his eyes and stares intently at the screen. "Wait. Who are those people?"

And that's when I killed him, your honor.

CASSIE'S OPINION: THE DEBATES

Hi, evvyone! It's me CAssie again. (And I'm sorry my selfie is not so very good.)

First, thank you for liking my Blog last week!! The only problim is, Mom said more peeple red it than they red any of hers, so I think she's a little bit of upset about that. But I didn't mean anything bad. And the good news is, now I know I don't have to pick between her and Dad! And thank you for liking my Pome, too. Mom said that three of you told her it made  you cry a little. I was kind of supprised, but I guess Pomes about Milky Bones and goose poops would make me cry, also.

Anyhow, I wazn't going to write for a long time because I didn't want Mom to feel sad if you liked me more again, but she's been throwing things around for about an houR now so I know she's not going to finnish the Blog she was writting for you. I'm not exacly sure what happened. Her and Dad was sitting on the Couch watching TV peeple, like they always do at night now that Dad doesn't go out any more to play with his Poking Cards. Usually they just sit there until one of them starts snoring or they find out who the next Head of Household is on Big Brother.

But tonight there was some kind of speshul Show on, I guess. It had only 3 peeple on it, but they were all barking and growling at each other. And I mean, they were barking and growling a LOT! Then after just a little bit of time Mom was yelling too, or making little screechy sounds, or just wrapping her arms around her head and whimpering, "Make it stop!" And Dad just kept staring and staring and staring. And then Mom said that maybe they should make the TV peeple go away because her heart was pounding to hard and she couldn't breathe. But Dad said no, it was kind of like watching Succession or Ozark and he wanted to see if anyone was going to get Killed.

So I started looking at the TV peeple more closer, because I was mad that they were making Mom and Dad crazy. And I will tell you what I think. I think that those peeple rilly, RILLY need a good trainer. They need to learn "STOP," and "NO," and "DOWN," and "QUIET!" And that little sitting one with the glasses needs to learn how to control the standing-up ones. Like maybe he should have a water bottle so he can spray them when they don't listen. Or maybe they should have shock collars. And if somone gets rilly bad and makes a mess, then the glasses man has to be ready to rub their nose in it. It worked with me and poop.

So that's what I think.

Anyhow, Mom and Dad look a little better now and Dad bought Mom an Oreo to calm her down. But I'm going to have to keep both of my eyes on them. And if these TV peeple show up again, I'm going to steel the clicker and bury it.

Cassie

A DOG'S BLOG

(No, this is not a heartwarming movie starring Dennis Quaid and a Labrador Retriever. This is a blog written by my dog, which I shall immediately regret agreeing to publish.)

Hello, Hoomans! My name is Cassie and I was in one of my Mom's earlier blogs. I was the pikture where everyone said "Ohmigosh, what a cute dog!" Which I really am, I mean, look at me.

Anyhow, I will start by telling you that I am going to be yoor Gest Blogger today. I am doing this because Mom had to get her back fixed on MOnday and since then she has been eating a lot of little white treats that she calls Happy Pills, and they make her lie on the Couch for many hours with drool coming out of her mouth. And so I desided I would be nice and do her blog for her which I can beCause GoogleTranslate now has a Mikeyfone and a Dog Bark Option.

Also, I kind of need some Advise and I was thinking you could help me with it. I herd Mom and Dad talking the other day and Mom was saying (again!!!) how they really should move to a new Howse, but then Dad said they tried that once and it didn’t work, and so that was a sign that he was supposed to stay in his comfy room with all his HObbies and his steeming videos for the rest of his life. And that's  When Mom said how she could arrange for a hit man if necessary. 

So now I'm a little scared. I don't think Mom rilly would Hire someone to hit Dad, even if she had a creepy smile when she said it, but I may end up having to decide which of them I want to live with if she moves away! And here is my thinking on this.

First, I don't think either of them would do very Good without the other of them, because Dad and Mom are in charge of different Things in the howse. Like, if I lived only with Dad, he would never have clean Clothes because he is scared of the Washing Mashine and the Drying Mashine. And if I lived only with Mom, all her Plates and Glassis would be crusty because she is afraid of the Dishwashing Mashine. She would also never have soap or paper towels or toilet paper because Dad is a very good hunter-and-gatherer and Mom is afraid of Costco.

But I'm not really so worried about them. I'm worried about ME!! Here's why, for an example. If Mom was not around, OUTSIDE would disappear! This is a true fact. Dad does not like to be in OUTSIDE exsept for at Costco, where he is very brave, or when he goes out to kill little white balls with his clubbing sticks. And no OUTSIDE means that I would not get any walks, which also means that there would be little poops and pee stains all around the howse. (Akshully, I think Dad and I would both be okay with that because we'd just pretend we don't see them, which is kind of what we do now.)

But if I was living only with Mom, I would starve and die because another true fact is that she always forgets to feed me and give me water.Dad does that.  And Dad is also the one who sneeks me treats and string cheese and beef jerky all the time until Mom tells him to stop or I’ll get fat. But you know what? Fat would be okay, too, because then I'd have a nice round tummee just like Dad!!  And speaking of tummees, if Dad was not here I wouldn't get those yummly belly rubs and skritches because Mom doesn't know how to do those good. And she gets bored of it too fast. But Dad NEVER gets bored of it!

Of course, one thing I WOULD miss if Mom was not here is the rilly good smells she makes when she's sitting and thinking in the special sitting-and-thinking room, the one with the sink and the neat white chair with all the water inside. I always like to go in next to her when she's thinking and just sniff. Dad shuts the door when he's thinking, but I bet he makes nice smells, too. And I bet I could train him to leave the door open. PROBLIM SOLVED!

(To read about Cassie's final decision, click page 2)

So never mind, Hoomans! I have figured out my own advise. I will stay with Dad. And I will give him this pome from my heart to tell him so.

P.S. Take THAT, Dennis Quaid!!! I can break hearts, to.

P.P.S. Dad just read this and said I won't ever have to choose. So that's a releef!

Cassie 

Gest Blogger

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NEW ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING

Although we were a little worried at first, I am happy to report that my husband and I are finally getting the hang of this whole "grandparenting" thing. Not that we were ever terrible. I mean, we did raise three kids of our own, and none of them have yet sued us for malpractice. But a lot has changed since then, and frankly, someone should have forced us to take a refresher course.

Take the first time our son and his wife asked us to babysit Grandchild Number 1. This was a serious error in judgment on their part, possibly attributable to weeks of sleep deprivation. That would also explain why, when we walked in the door, they hurled the baby at us and raced frantically for their car.

Wait a minute!" we called after them. "Any special instructions?"

"They're taped to his forehead," our son shouted. And then they were gone.

The baby immediately began to cry. We stared at him, disconcerted.

"Okay," I said. "Let's not panic. I seem to recall that crying means they're either hungry, or tired, or have a dirty diaper." My husband nodded and peeled the instructions from the baby's head.

"It says here that if the stripe on the diaper is blue, it needs changing."

"There's a stripe?" I unsnapped the baby's onesie and peered at the diaper. There was indeed a stripe, and it was definitely blue. "Wow," I whispered, awestruck. "It's... it's like a miracle."

My husband, though, was afraid to feel too hopeful. "Does it turn blue just for pee? Or does it show...?" I looked at him compassionately. See, he'd never recovered from the time our own firstborn had a truly epic "blowout" while I was at work, and my husband was alone with the baby. When I got home, I found the poor guy huddled on the floor next to the changing table, rocking back and forth and muttering, "The horror. The horror."

As it turns out, this diaper was just wet. "Okay," I said. "So the directions say we're now supposed to apply...butt paste." 

"What the hell is that?" But there it was, right in front of us. A container labeled Butt Paste. The stuff inside looked like spackle, and next to it was what appeared to be a little blue putty knife. My husband examined it.

"So, is this why there wasn't any poop? Are they trying to seal the hole up permanently?" Perhaps remembering the blow-out episode he added, "That would be a very good thing."

"Okay, but what's this?" I picked up a box labeled NoseFrida Snot Sucker. 

Curious, I read the directions: When your baby has a stuffed nose, simply place the tip of the snot straw just below its nostril. Put the mouthpiece in your own mouth and then gently suck out the snot. I threw the box down, horrified. "THIS IS THE MOST TWISTED THING I'VE EVER SEEN!"                    

The challenges continued. Play mats that had more lights and buttons and switches than most aircrafts, and that were impossible to turn off.  Bottle warmers that didn't warm bottles.  Swaddling instructions that required me to ask both Siri and Alexa for help.  

And then, finally, it was bedtime. Unfortunately, not for us. We went to the bedroom and put the baby in his Zippity-Zip, a soft potato-sack-like sleep garment that I secretly found myself coveting. Then we turned on the white-noise machine per the instructions, aimed the baby-cam in his direction, and dragged ourself back to the couch where we collapsed and turned on the baby monitor.

That was our biggest mistake. Baby monitor videos are creepy, like something out of a Paranormal Activity movie. Jerky movements. Sudden terrifying disappearances when the kid rolls out of camera range. The damned, maddening white noise. And you find that you can't look away. 'Cause you know if you do, the evil spirits will come and take over the baby's soul. So we clutched each other and just...kept...staring.

That's how the kids found us when they got home.  They gently peeled us off the couch and tucked us tenderly into our car. After a few minutes, my husband turned to me. "We gonna do this again?"

I paused. "Maybe. But I’m gonna need my own Zippity-Zip."

HOW TO GET ORGANIZED

The truth is, I have no idea. I mean, I'd like to tell you that I am an INCREDIBLY well organized person, but I can't, because I'm not. So in recent years, especially as my brain has begun to atrophy, I've tried to use as many established organizational techniques as possible to prevent myself from losing control altogether. 

Unfortunately, there have been issues with each of these methods.

1. KEEP CALENDARS UP TO DATE.

This is a basic strategy, but I'm sorry to report I do not manage it well. I'm pretty sure the calendar in my kitchen is accurate, give or take a few birthdays and my next colonoscopy appointment. But that calendar never seems to match the one on my phone. Or the paper calendar I keep in my purse for the times that I forget my phone. 

2. MAKE LISTS. 

I love lists. I love to make them and I love to cross things off of them. I even add items that are already completed just to have the pleasure of scratching them out. I keep lists on note pads, lists on my phone's reminder app, lists on computer sticky notes, lists on the side of the refrigerator, and lists on the backs of whatever envelopes have recently come in the mail. The problem is, I have no idea which list is where, so they're all pretty much useless.

3. HAVE A PLACE FOR EVERYTHING. 

I suspect I need to work on this a bit. For example, I recently found a hammer and a screwdriver in my bathroom drawer, which may explain why there are a couple bottles of Redken shampoo and several cakes of Irish Spring soap in the garage. Otherwise, I follow the "place for everything" tip pretty well. 

• The place for unclaimed mail and outdated Bed, Bath, and Beyond coupons is on the Lazy Susan on the kitchen table. 
• The place for old newspapers is on the floor by my husband's desk. 
• The place for my grandson's toys is all over the house.

4. CHECK AND DOUBLE CHECK. 

I learned the importance of this a few years ago when I purchased 8 tickets to a New Year's Eve show and found out, after our group arrived, that the tickets were for the previous night's performance. But double-checking has not really helped, either. For example, I recently double-checked the destination and date for some airline tickets as I bought them, but I did NOT remember to hit "confirm order." Because of this, we nearly missed the bris of our grandson in Scottsdale. Luckily, he turned out to be a girl. 

5, KEEP A NOTE PAD BY YOUR BED. 

This is supposed to allow you to capture all of the Very Important Thoughts that pop into your brain just as you're falling asleep or when you wake up in the middle of the night-- the ones that you know are essential for you to attend to the next day. As near as I can make out, my tasks for today are 

And yes, these are real. Extra credit if you can figure them out, since I couldn't.    

6. FINISH ONE TASK BEFORE MOVING ON TO THE NEXT.

I'm okay with this if "one task" means leaving the the TV show I'm watching to head to the laundry room when the dryer buzzes, but first stopping to let the dog out, and then looking at some stuff on TikTok while I wait for the dog, and then running to the den to show my husband the funny video I found of a swimming squirrel, which reminds me to go back to the kitchen to let the dog in, which requires cleaning up the mud the dog tracks in, after which I finally head back to my TV show. Feeling that I may have forgotten something.   

7. USE DOWN TIME WISELY. 

This is especially important during quarantine, when almost all time is down time. So I was quite proud of the fact that, after exhibiting true dedication and determination, I reached Level 527 of Papa Pear.  But then I found my husband had reached Level 2745 on Cookie Jam, and I'm feeling greatly discouraged.   

That's enough for this blog, I suppose. I had some more tips, but I can't find that list.

ME AND MY DIET

In these times of reduced physical activity and increased dependence on comfort foods, diet and exercise are more important than ever. But let me be clear: I'm violently against both.

Now, I'm not against them in theory. In fact, I've actually tried each of them multiple times, often motivated by something like this online ad:

Lose 20 Pounds in One Week!

Unfortunately, both diet and exercise, at least in my experience, are synonymous with disappointment and despair. Take dieting, for instance. Every night, I brush my teeth, wash off what passes for make-up these days, and stare at my unvarnished, roundish face in the mirror. I shake my finger sternly in my direction and tell myself, in no uncertain terms, that the next day will NOT be a repeat of the one that just ended. Feeling thoroughly chastised, I head to bed, confident that I will soon be jogging down the road that leads to being a svelte, attractive woman with only one chin.

 

Here's what actually happens.

 

Morning: I wake up and take a quick shower to rinse off any dead skin cells that might have collected on me overnight and which could adversely affect my weighing-in. Next, I ease myself onto the scale, hoping that a slow and careful ascent will trick the internal weighing mechanism into not registering my full poundage. Finally, I put my hands over my face, squeeze my eyelids nearly shut, and peer down at the scale from between my fingers. This increases my chances of misreading the numbers and/or gives me an opportunity to quickly look away if the last two digits appear to be too upsetting.

 

Breakfast: Diet experts have informed us that a healthy breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It gives us much-needed energy and cuts down on cravings. With that in mind, I take one of the following approaches to the meal. I either have two scrambled egg whites made with Pam, a "light" Thomas's English Muffin, and a teaspoon of orange juice; OR, I ignore the whole "important meal" theory, figuring that if I don't eat breakfast I will be justified in having a skinny TKY at Potbelly's for lunch, along with two mini oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies.

 

Morning Snacks: The diet experts who recommend the "healthy breakfast" thing have also suggested that it's good to eat several smaller meals or snacks during the day to reduce the possibility of triggering hunger pangs. This idea of constant snacking is, I feel, absolutely brilliant. That's why I make certain to have healthy, lo-cal snacks close at hand. An apple, for instance. Yogurt. Celery. And then, several days later, I throw out their wasted, rotted remains.

Lunch: See Option 2 under "Breakfast."

Afternoon Snacks: All right, fine. I obviously slip up a bit during lunch, a problem I attribute to the failure of the healthy morning snacks routine. So for my post-noon snacks, I usually decide to indulge in something I really like; for example, all but one bite of a thick slice of chocolate cake. This choice may seem surprising, but many of us once learned--and fervently choose to believe--that 95% of calories reside in the last bite of any chocolate-based food. Besides, I'm quite certain that the calories I do eat are canceled out by the Diet Coke I drink to wash them down.

Dinner: I'm sure you would agree that it would be thoughtless of me to deprive my family of a satisfying meal just because I'm trying to control my own caloric intake. So we always have a nice dinner, but one that allows me to keep my own dietary needs in the forefront.  For example, we might have a plant-based dinner (my Vegan son would be so proud!), often in the form of several large cartons of carry-out from New Golden Dragon. Or, perhaps we have a good thick steak, because not all of those high-protein, low-carb diets could have been wrong and, honestly, why restrict myself to one approach to dieting when there are so many to choose from?

 

Evening and Late-Night: Dietitians also warn that one should not eat anything after 8:00. This assumes, though, that the "one" they are referring is not so lacking in will power that she has been reduced to having her husband hide packages of Evil Oreos around the house and doling out a single cookie every night as a treat. It also assumes that this same individual does not wear out a path from the family room to the kitchen while binge-watching Ozark or inhaling Shark Tank reruns. On a recent evening, this path led to my consuming three King's Hawaiian Bread rolls, a few pretzel rods, leftover egg foo young, and a half-dozen cookies that I only discovered after a frenzied search of the house when my husband ran out to Walgreens to pick up some Advil that I told him I desperately needed. 

All was not lost, however. Thanks to one of the old Shark Tank episodes, I learned about the Skinny Mirror, which makes the user look ten pounds lighter. Kevin O'Leary and the other Sharks condemned the product as a deception and refused to invest. I, however, cried out in anguish at this loss to society and immediately hit eBay in search of one. It should arrive any day now.

Minions of the Evil Oreos:

the Hershey Kisses of Death

 

 

 

BOYCOTT BABY SHARK!!

"BA-BY SHARK---" Okay. So if you're the parent or grandparent of a little person, you just automatically went DOO DOO D-DOO D-DOO, and if you pretend otherwise you are a big fat liar.

Now, some Baby Shark victims may actually think this song is cute. Others have accepted it as an excruciating but inescapable part of life. But in this age of conspiracy theories, I feel compelled to warn you that that Baby Shark is actually part of a diabolical plot against all humankind.

Let's begin with the basics. First, if you haven’t heard this little earworm from hell, here's your chance. But really, you should NOT, I repeat NOT, click on this link if you value your sanity. Seriously, don't do it. Okay, fine. But I've warned you. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XqZsoesa55w&vl=en

 

Bet you're sorry now, aren't you? Anyhow, on the surface, the song appears to be a harmless ditty about a shark family that heads off for a fun-filled day of eviscerating happy little sea creatures. But it's more than that. The song is actually a subtle form of mind control. 

There is the aforementioned "Doo-Doo" reflex, of course. But now you will also find yourself having a Pavlovian response that forces you to start singing the song every time you hear the word "shark," see a picture of a shark, or sit down to watch "Shark Week" on the Discovery Channel. This can be very humiliating in the wrong context. Meaning always. 

But worse than this, a thoughtful listener/observer will realize that there's some really nasty ageism at work  here. Let's look at the video a little more closely, shall we?

This adorable little fellow, you may recall, is Baby Shark. There is no denying he is very cute and extremely yellow. And then we meet Mommy and Daddy Shark. Daddy Shark is a handsome, virile fish with a deep voice, massive jaws, and sharp teeth, all expertly portrayed in the video by a truly terrifying boy-child. Mommy Shark is less threatening, perhaps due to her carefully applied mascara and lipstick. (Contact me if you would like to discuss gender bias.)

 

Now, here come Grandma and Grandpa Shark. Look at them closely. Then check out the kids’ hand motions. What do you see? 

THESE SHARKS ARE TOOTHLESS, PEOPLE! GRANDMA AND GRANDPA ARE TOOTHLESS SHARKS! This means that Grandma and Grandpa can't viciously rip apart other fish on their own. Which further means that little children (and Baby Shark) are being conditioned to believe that grandparents can contribute nothing to the family unit or to society as a whole, except, possibly, singing ability. This is completely unacceptable, except for that last part, which is good news for me.    

Now I wouldn't be so worried except that this freaking video has been played over 6 billion times on YouTube. You heard me. 6 BILLION TIMES!! And it gets worse. There are now sequels: Baby Car and Baby T-Rex. And to show you just how truly awful all this is, here's what Grandma T-Rex (TEE TEE T-TEE T-TEE) looks like:

So I'm begging you.  If you are related to a small child, BLOCK THESE VIDEOS!! Although tragically, for some of us, it may already be too late.

The COVID Effect

 Okay. I think we can all agree that this COVID thing has gone on for entirely too long. 

Now, I'm not talking about the fact that we have to deal with the depressing daily statistics, or the crisis in education, or the fact that Portillo's still has only a limited menu. No. I'm referring to the way this thing has affected the simple pleasures and routines of daily life.

 

Take fashion, for example. We used to study the latest clothing styles and trends, and then outfit ourselves accordingly. (Well, not me, so much, but I have it on good authority that lots of people did.) Lately, though, we've really lowered the bar. I personally overheard the following conversation between two women at Kohl's, where I was returning yet another Amazon package:

 

"Oh, wow, I LOVE your face mask! Where did you get it?"

 

"I made it."

 

"You're kidding! And did you make the lanyard too?"

 

"I did."                                                                                      

 

"Well, no wonder you look so put together!"  

     

Friendly conversation has also become less than scintillating. I have a gaggle of friends who identify as the Frentes, after characters on the TV show The Goldbergs. We used to meet for a hearty breakfast on Wednesday mornings--the somewhat ironic offshoot of our weekly attendance at Weight Watcher meetings--and chat about everything from jobs to family drama to world events. Now we still meet, but it's on ZOOM. And where once we still managed to have some high-energy gabfests, here is one of our more recent exchanges:

 

"So…what's new?"

 

"Nothing." "Nothing." "Nothing." "Nothing." "Nothing."

 

Silence.

 

"Oh. I did finally get to see my new granddaughter on Facetime the other day."

 

"That's nice! How did she look?"

 

"Blurry."

 

More silence. Finally, one of the Frentes brightened. "Wait! I have something. Did you hear about Barbara?"

 

We leaned into our screens. "No. What about her?"

 

"She went to lunch the other day and…she ate INSIDE the restaurant!"

 

"No!" There was a long pause as we absorbed the enormity of that statement. Finally, another Frente looked solemnly into her camera.

 

"We will never speak of her again."

 

Yep, it's bad. And because we're getting less satisfaction from social interactions, many people are hungry for new entertainment. For a time, summer provided opportunities for golf, bike rides, and socially-distanced outdoor gatherings. But now that the sun is already setting earlier and earlier, we find ourselves returning to ritual TV viewing. Unfortunately, people like my husband and me have watched almost everything we care to watch—Killing Eve, Ozark, and The Bachelor: Greatest Seasons Ever! (What can I say? We have eclectic tastes.) I didn't realize how desperate we were getting, though, until I turned on the TV the other day and felt an electric shock rip through my body.

 

"Hon!" I screamed.

 

"What? What's wrong?"

 

"Get over here!" He charged into the room. I pointed.

 

"The screen-saver pictures on U-Verse have changed!"

 

He plopped down next to me and we watched for twenty minutes with happy little smiles on our faces.

 

But there's something darker happening, too--something I call the COVID Effect. I define it as a tendency to want to inflict bodily harm on others for no good reason. For example, one of the creative mask-and-lanyard makers mentioned to me that she had made one hundred additional sets to give to friends and to people in need. I wanted to slap her. And little children no longer seem particularly cute, especially when they are screeching outside of an ice cream shop and are within kicking distance of me. And I don't want to name names, but one of my relatives, who has been endlessly knitting scarves, recently switched to nooses.

 

The vaccine can't come soon enough.