I didn’t make it to the gym again today!
That’s fifteen years in a row.
I didn’t make it to the gym again today!
That’s fifteen years in a row.
I came across the 1970 dress code for my high school and it gave me pause. It’s not as I remembered, which is odd, since I recall with clarity the name of the boy who spit a chunk of bubble gum the size of a cantaloupe into my hair as I sat in the lower bleachers at a 7th grade basketball game. And, I remember exactly how I saved that wad of bubble gum, added to it and placed it on his seat in English class on the very day he was sporting a new pair of Docker khakis. Ah, the sweet stickiness of revenge.
But I digress. The dress code of that long ago day was established by an older generation who was deathly afraid of hippies, nuclear proliferation, bra burnings, Barry Goldwater and Reefer Madness, not necessarily in that order.
This is an actual excerpt from my high school handbook:
For Boys: No shorts of any kind. No pegged pants that are “extremely form-fitting.” Pants are to be worn at the waist, shirttails tucked in, coats may not be worn in school, and no “fad” shirts.” No “extreme” hairdos or clothing styles.
For Girls: No bermudas, slacks or shorts. No “pant-type” dresses. No tight skirts or sweaters, no “extreme” hairdos or clothing styles. Shirts and blouses must be tucked in. Skirt lengths are to be at the top of the knee when standing.
If you wonder why they used quotes on “extremely form-fitting”, “fad” and “extreme”, it’s because they were probably quoting my Dad.
Midwesterners were always at least ten years behind on the newest fashions being worn on on the West and East coasts. By the time Hoosier teens found out who the Beatles were and fell in love with the Fab Four, they were breaking up. So, it was ironic that the school outlawed extreme hair styles in 1970 when many of the girls were still sporting ’60s beehives that scaled the ceiling tiles.
I never did wear the “hive.” That hairdo frightened me more than the Apollo 13 landing. I’d heard tales of horror about bugs burrowing and nesting in the ratted and sprayed coiffures.
The skirt length relegated to the top of the knees certainly would have made me LOL, had that been a known acronym in 1970. In truth, the skirts were so short that we had to hire first-graders to tie our shoes and pick up any change we dropped.
I remember lots of girls getting sent to the principal’s office so he could check and see if their skirts were too short (they were). I always wondered if he also checked to see if their skirts and sweaters were too tight. All I’m saying is some of those girls didn’t come back to class for a long time.
Short hemlines were always a problem, but as you can see, the administration forbade girls to wear anything but dresses and skirts — no bermudas, slacks, shorts or “pant-type” dresses.
Bermudas would have been much more modest than the miniskirts that let everyone see for themselves if we were wearing the appropriate panties for that particular day of the week.
Bermudas, by the way, were not a type of onion or triangle, a self-governed British colony or a semi-permanent area of high pressure found in The Atlantic Ocean. They were longer, fitted shorts that actually did go all the way to the knees. Interesting sidenote: In 1970 we could not say “go all the way” without lots of snickering and raised eyebrows.
The ’70s is the reason I can’t get too worked up about any outlandish fashions, hairdos, body piercings or tattoos that younger people are sporting today.
I had my day. Let them have theirs. We were young, carefree and it was glorious.
Even more so in form-fitting pegged pants, tight sweaters and miniskirts.
I’ve been trying to stick to a plant-based diet. I’m not a nut about it. I don’t go all psycho if I get asked if I want chicken on my salad. (I am the first to admit, chicken on a salad is pretty tasty.) I’m not a big meat eater, so it’s not a hardship to give it up. However — I gotta have my eggs. Cholesterol be damned. Here’s a photo of my fave salad. Everything but the kitchen sink. Oh yes, avocado. Always avocado.
I know what you’re thinking — fried eggs on a salad?! What the …
But trust me, it’s delicious. The yolk kind of melds with the dressing and, oooh, yummy.
I picked up this culinary practice after I attended a Woman’s Press Club of Indiana meeting two years ago at Traders Point Creamery in Zionville, just north of Indianapolis.
Traders Point Creamery is a 150-acre organic artisan creamery and restaurant with a working farm and restored barns. It offers a unique farm-to-table dining experience, inside or outside amid the beautiful gardens and countryside. The Loft Restaurant is located in an 1860s barn with hand-hewn beams and hand-carved wooden pegs. The Farm Store sells Traders Point organic cheeses and 100% grass-fed milks and yogurts. Two 1870s barns house the milking parlors, where the cows are milked twice a day.
It’s not just a place to eat, it’s a wonderful family excursion and experience.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, at our press luncheon, Julie — a friend and fellow club member — and I ordered salads. Julie was sipping her home-brewed ice tea and I was savoring my coffee with fresh, organic cream when our salads arrived — each topped with a fried egg. We looked at each other and raised our eyebrows.
“What the …?”
But we both dived it and later agreed it was a delicious addition. For dessert, everyone ordered the homemade, hand-scooped ice cream, which you can also get at the outdoor Dairy Bar if you’re eating outside. (The indoor Dairy Bar is closed due to COVID-19.)
I hope to make the 2-hour trip again in the near future to share the farm restaurant experience with my grandchildren and show them how to order their salads sunny-side up.
One crazy pandemic-induced hobby is baking bread. Well, for other people, not for me. I baked bread for my 4-H project in fifth grade, washed my hands of bread-baking and never looked back.
Another “bread” craze that I went through in the 1980s has made a ferocious comeback during the COVID-19 Era — Amish Friendship Bread (AFB).
If you’re unfamiliar with Amish Friendship Bread, then you either have no friends or friends who truly care about your mental health and well-being and have not offered you any of this neurotic-inducing yeast concoction.
Here’s how it works: You make the starter batter with yeast, flour, sugar and milk and then let it “grow” in a large baggie on your counter, taking care to “mash” and nourish and breast-feed the bread for ten consecutive days. Ok — just joking on the breast feeding. On day ten, you divide the starter dough into four or five 1-cup batches, keeping one for yourself and giving away the other starters to four or five of your friends.
Then you wait for your friends to “unfriend” you.
If any of your friends, upon seeing you standing on the doorstep with baggies of AFB starters, suddenly screams, makes the sign of the cross, throws a ring of garlic around her neck and slams the door in your face, you can be sure she has had a prior AFB experience, and now suffers from AFB PTSD.
My daughter’s friend — let’s call her Becky, ‘cause that’s her name — swears that her starter dough doubled or tripled in size as she slept. If there were three baggies when she went to bed, there would be 12 when she made her morning coffee. It creeped her out. She even called a priest to exorcise the AFB dough clones, to no avail.
Becky tried baking everything away, but that didn’t work. She was still left with one or two starter batches — which, to her horror, continued to grow — and she soon had 12 baggies of starter dough and 24 loaves of baked AFB on her counter. After the initial thrill of homemade bread (Who does that? Seriously?) Becky’s husband and son quickly grew weary of consuming Amish Friendship Bread, AFB lasagna, AFB tuna cupcakes and AFB WTF casserole.
I sympathize with Becky’s plight (although she better not bring that dough over here). I still have PTSD symptoms from trying to unload AFB on my (now former) friends back in the 80s. I too, tried to bake my way out of it, but my kids put their foot down when I tried to serve them AFB SpaghettiOs Pie.
Close to a nervous breakdown from trying to give away millions of AFB baggie starters to friends who said, “No way in hell!” and from trying to bake or use all of the starters, I tried to secretly throw away some of the starters, even though this caused immense guilt — children in Africa are starving! — but I swear it multiplied in the trash can, crawled out at night and chased my cat around the house before settling back on the counter in a gelatinous blob that greeted me in the morning with strange burping noises.
I paid my dues. Don’t be coming around pretending to be my friend while holding a bag of Amish Friendship Bread starter.
Friends don’t let friends give other friends Amish Friendship Bread Starter.
Since I’ve been “sheltering in place” I’ve made list after list of the things I would finally have time to get done.
I’ve done none of those things.
What have I done? Well, let’s see … I’ve eaten (a lot), slept (a lot) and uh, made lists (you know, a lot).
In my defense, I’m easily distracted. Take today, for instance. It took me a while, but once I figured out what that golden orb in the sky was, I broke into song, danced around the kitchen and put on my work clothes in anticipation of finally getting some yard work done.
I then got distracted and spent a good hour watching an ant try to climb out of the kitchen sink. I wish I was kidding.
I rinsed out my coffee cup and noticed an ant struggling in the rushing water. I turned off the water, but the little gal appeared to be dead. Just as I was about to swirl her into the garbage disposal, she began kicking her skinny, little stick legs (obviously, she had not been in self-quarantine) and began swimming — or drowning, I wasn’t sure which. I didn’t know if ants could swim, and lacking a proper ant life jacket, I did the next best thing and threw her a toothpick. In retrospect, the rounded toothpick was probably not a good choice. But, this insect chick was no dummy. She quickly moved from stern to bow — executing some “Dirty Dance” moves along the way — and deftly log-rolled it to the edge of the water.
When she hit the somewhat dry part of the sink, she abandoned the canoepick, collapsed and panted for a minute or two. She then used her front two legs to drag the rest of her water-soaked body to the edge of the sink, looked up, sighed and began her perilous ascent. She carefully made her way around each drop of water, because if she didn’t — which happened a number of times — the droplet would completely engulf the ant and send her sliding back into the sink basin. She would then have to regain her strength before going at it all over again. She never quit.
When she finally made it to the top, I scrapped all plans for squishing her. She deserved to live. I gently picked her up on the edge of a paper towel and carried her outside, placing her near some well-known and thriving ant condominiums in the back yard. I smiled as I pictured the ants having a parade to pay homage to the hero (ahem …) who bravely swooped in and saved the ant from certain death.
Before continuing with my plans, I decided to make lunch and eat it on the patio. Because God knows, I needed another meal. I was eating some grapes, swinging in the glider, when my attention turned from the ant and backyard flowers to the odd-shaped fruit I had just grabbed. Two grapes had grown together and well, at that point, I became a full-on fruit molester.
I pondered the “pair” quite a while and stared longer than necessary at the fruit breasts, which led me down a long, dark rabbit hole of wondering how many other fruit porn stars were hiding and doing obscene things in my fridge. I had long been suspicious of the zucchini and kohlrabi.
I leaned back on the glider and suddenly felt drowsy. After a day of saving an insect and worrying about the morals of my fruit, I was exhausted and decided to take a nap in the warm sun.
I would work on that list tomorrow.
So very many pandemic decisions every day:
Only a few people know I’m bilingual. I speak two languages: English and NPR.
If you don’t know what the acronym NPR stands for, turn back now and resume watching Dr. Pimple Popper, as this blog is written in geek speak and there may be a language barrier. Pimple popping, on the other hand, is universally understood.
This sheltering in place really has me bummed because I can’t get together with others who speak NPR, like my friend Jayne, and my cousin Chad, who are both proficient in native NPR.
At a gathering, the three of us will find each other and huddle together in a corner, comparing viewpoints and regurgitating excerpts from “Fresh Air,” “All Things Considered” and “Hidden Brain.” Although I yearn to get together with Jayne and Chad during this pandemic, NPR’s “Coronavirus Daily” tells me that’s not a good idea.
Chad is an OTR driver for Walmart and spends countless days and nights delivering toilet tissue and hand sanitizer to hoarders all over the U.S. He has a lot of time to check for stray nose hairs in his rearview mirror and to listen to NPR. Jayne and I are just freaks. In short: We all “get” one another. (pantomime ad nauseam: “You complete me.”)
It seems once, while we were discussing NPR’s broadcasts of world events and “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” everyone else was playing a drinking game with us as the oblivious hosts. Every time they heard Chad or Jayne or me say “NPR” they took a drink. Apparently, we said it quite often. I know this because we were sober, yet informed, and they were uninformed, yet way more fun than us.
There’s probably a lesson in all of this, but I’ll figure it out later. Right now, I’ve got to catch the 7 p.m. “Moth Story Slam” on NPR.
Take a drink.
Breakfast: The most important meal of the day.
Day # 34 of Sheltering in Place or Eldering in the Face
So even though it’s just Him and me, every day, every night, every minute, every second, every @#$% time I turn around, until I am almost ready to take a … but wait, I digress.
What I meant to say is that we have settled into Our Routine Pandemic Pattern: Wake up, eat, nap, eat, watch TV, eat, have a conversation, eat, nap, eat, watch TV, eat, change from day pajamas into night pajamas, eat, go to bed, watch TV, nap, eat, sleep.
Today’s conversation was about the importance of pillows. And eating.
I believe that even in a pandemic there must be bedmaking. This drives Him — and 99.9% of the human population — nuts.
This guy who lives with me — only ’cause I guess that’s what married people do (who knew?) — would crawl out of the same heap of sweaty sheets and covers every day of the year and never smooth the linens, fluff the pillows, straighten the comforter or arrange the decorative pillows if he had his way. He would certainly never, ever launder them.
“What’s the point? We’re just going to mess them up again,” he argues.
The Rule: The first one downstairs in the morning feeds the cats and cleans out the litter box. The last one out of the bed makes the bed — according to the laminated diagram and detailed instructions on top of the dresser.
I kid, I kid. They’re not laminated.
Since the Significant Other is a late nighter/late riser, the bed making usually falls to him.
He reasons that while living through a pandemic and sustaining life (as in feeding the cats and himself) is a necessity, making the bed is not. Plus, he Hates the decorative pillows.
After I redecorated and added even more pillows, he started pinning ominous notes to the pillows:
“I have had no formal training on what to do with this pillow. Zero!”
“Another @#$%ing pillow?! Seriously?!”
“Three grandchildren have gone missing under this mountain of useless pillows!”
“For God’s Sake, I’m Begging You, No More Pillows!”
Not long ago he decided to “add some flair” to the bedroom décor using only his Man Eye, which could use a little — no, a lot — of help from Queer Eye.
Have I mentioned he Hates the pillows?
He threw all the pillows together in a jumbled heap in the middle of the bed in defiance of the chic and symmetrical combination of colors, textures and placement I prefer. When I saw it, my OCD went into overdrive. But since I also have ADD, it didn’t last long.
Our early marriage times of intimate pillow talks have somehow morphed into colorful — yet chic and asymmetrical — pillow fights.
I blame the pandemic.
Tomorrow’s Conversation Topic: Is a top sheet really necessary?
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