RAG-OUT

Every time I see a commercial for Ragu, I think of the time when my brother Les was in the service and I wrote to him often and I would mention what I'd fixed for dinner because at that time I was becoming an adventuresome cook, watching Julia Child on television and using her book. In one letter, I wrote about making RAGOUT and he wrote back that although it might be better than K-rations, it didn't sound very appetizing. When he came home, he mentioned some things that he wanted cooked and then said, "But I don't think I want any of that RAG-OUT!" I said, "Oh, it's pronounced like ra-goo, not rag out!" "Well maybe it tastes better pronounced THAT way!"

He had been in Korea and our sister-in-law Kap Hui (Carol) is from Korea. She asked if he wanted her to make any Korean food for him. He said, "Yeah, I'd like some gaegogi!" I thought he had said bulgogi, as I was very familiar with it. Suddenly, Carol hit him on the arm and said, very angrily, "I don't cook dog!" The difference between the two is that gaegogi uses dog meat and bulgogi uses beef!

He said, "Oh, Carol, I was just kidding, but it's probably better than RAG-OUT!"

MORAL SUPERIORITY

Mark Twain: "Give a man a reputation as an early riser and that man can sleep until noon."

I am continually irritated with people who obviously think it is somehow noble to "get up early". They always say "I'm an early riser" with a sort of moral superiority.

Gerald says, "I got up at 4:30 in the morning for 30 years and I'm gonna sleep as late as I want."

I have problems with sleeping and recently my family doctor referred me to a "sleep specialist" who, it turned out was a "sleep apnea" specialist.  He stated that I had "borderline" sleep apnea.  I thought my circadian rhythms would be tested. As my witty brother said, "I bet he found you have sleep apnea;  that's like going to a surgeon;  he'll find something to cut."  The "specialist" recommended that I use C-PAP equipment for a month and if that didn't help, then I should see a neurologist or a psychiatrist.  The supplier has not brought the equipment;  I think I'll just go with the neurologist!

I have never slept much. Gerald sleeps a lot. If I need to get up early, I do, but I am a night owl who spent nearly all of my work life on first shift. I was always happier, physically and emotionally, and more productive at home and at work, when I was on second shift. I could not tolerate third shift.

I am a night person; I've always been a night person. I have more energy at night. Obviously my CIRCADIAN RHYTHMS were inherited from my father who spent the majority of his work life on second shift.

I say that the only thing Mother ever taught us that was sinful was sleeping. She was also one who had the air of moral superiority of being an early riser.

I can recall in school that I was telling what someone had said on the Jack Paar show the previous night. My teacher had a sudden intake of breath and said, "Your mother shouldn't let you stay up late like that!" My mother didn't care if we stayed up late; she was always up--usually still working--but we had better get up the next morning.

When I was a kid, I thought that my mother NEVER slept, as she was always UP--and cheerful. When I was working, I would be rushing around in the morning, getting ready. I am known as "The White Tornado" in my family. I know that Mother was always awake but would never bother me in the morning, because I am totally anti-social until I've been awake at least two hours. When I was ready to leave, she would open her bedroom door and say, "Have a good day, Hon!" By that time I could barely mumble a response, "You too--love you."

Circadian Rhythms (according to ScienceDaily.com):

A circadian rhythm is a roughly 24 hour cycle in the physiological processes of living beings, including plants, animals, fungi and cyanobacteria. In a strict sense, circadian rhythms are endogenously generated, although they can be modulated by external cues such as sunlight and temperature.

Circadian rhythms are important in determining the sleeping and feeding patterns of all animals, including human beings. There are clear patterns of brain wave activity, hormone production, cell regeneration and other biological activities linked to this daily cycle.

Circadian rhythm sleep disorders are a family of sleep disorders affecting the timing of sleep. People with circadian rhythm sleep disorders are unable to sleep and wake at the times required for normal work, school, and social needs. They are generally able to get enough sleep if allowed to sleep and wake at the times dictated by their body clocks. Unless they have another sleep disorder, their sleep is of normal quality.

Humans have biological rhythms, known as circadian rhythms, which are controlled by a biological clock and work on a daily time scale.
Due to the circadian clock, sleepiness does not continuously increase as time passes. Instead, the drive for sleep follows a cycle, and the body is ready for sleep and for wakefulness at different times of the day.

Delayed sleep-phase syndrome (DSPS) is a chronic disorder of sleep timing. People with DSPS tend to fall asleep at very late times, and also have difficulty waking up in time for school or work which begins in the morning. Often, DSP individuals report that they cannot sleep until early morning. Unlike insomniacs, however, they fall asleep at about the same time every night, no matter what time they go to bed. People with DSPS have at least a normal - and often much greater than normal - ability to sleep during the morning, and sometimes in the afternoon as well. In contrast, those with chronic insomnia do not find it much easier to sleep during the morning than at night.

CREPEY

I noticed a flowering bush in a friend's yard and I said, "That bush looks like crepe myrtle but I didn't think crepe myrtle grew in Ohio." He said, "The woman who lived here before us said it's the only crepe myrtle bush in Fayette County." He told that the woman had said she'd brought it from the south and had babied, coddled, and protected it and now it blooms every year. I told him that my mother had fallen in love with the flowers because my brother had crepe myrtle growing in his back yard in Florida. We had brought several plants from Florida at different times to try to have it grow here but with no success.

I posted on the Facebook Group page "I Grew Up In Washington Court House" and asked if anyone else had seen crepe myrtle in Fayette County. I received 10 comments. A man living in Florida who had also lived in North Carolina said that crepe myrtle would NOT grow in Ohio. I received numerous comments from others telling about having crepe myrtle right here in Fayette County. Two respondents wrote to tell that they have bushes; one person wrote that her father also has them. She sent the pictures you see here. In conversations with others, I've learned of eight people with crepe myrtle bushes with three different colors.

Now I MUST have crepe myrtle, as soon as I learn the "secrets" of growing them in Ohio!

I JUST CAN'T AFFORD IT

When we moved into our current home, we could not afford to buy the dining room furniture I wanted;  the middle of the room sat empty for more than a year, with only my grandmother's antiques: the drop-leaf table, "3-corner table", and "library table" (as she called them) situated against the walls.

Any meals we had were eaten at the kitchen table. I wasn't about to serve food on my grandmother's antiques; besides, I had no chairs to go with them.

A brother-in-law of one of my brothers was "touring" the house and he said, "You should get a dining room set like ours." I asked, "Do you have cherry furniture?" He said, "No, we have oak." I said, "But the built-in hutch and buffet here are cherry.", as I gestured toward the items. He said, "But ours is really nice; it would look good in here." I said, "It probably is nice, but it wouldn't match our decor." "Well, why don't you just get cherry?", he asked, rather disdainfully. I considered saying, "I haven't found exactly what I want", but instead I said, "I just can't afford it."

From the look on his face one would have thought that I had just admitted to an ignominious secret. Then, I saw a look of pity from both him and his wife.

Asudden, I felt very liberated.  Imagine, being able to tell the truth!

This was a defining moment in my life. When people are so rude to ask those kind of questions, I always answer, "I just can't afford it!"

OLIVE HEAVEN

You've seen tee-shirts proclaiming, "My parents went on vacation and all I got was this lousy t-shirt!";  I have been the recipient of tee-shirts from people who had found the "perfect" shirt for me and it is usually of a political nature.

However, I'm lucky because a friend of mine visited Greece and other Mediterranean countries and she brought back a box of a large variety of olives for me. KALAMATA, AMPHISSA, ROYAL, ATALANTA, CRETAN, HALKIDIKI, and AGRINION; the only one I'd heard of was Kalamata!

I was in OLIVE HEAVEN!

I asked, "When are you going to France?" She asked, "Why, what kind of olives do they have there?"

She knows me TOO well!

I answered, "NICOISE, PROVENCAL, NYONS, PICHOLINE, s'il vous plait!

MICKEY FINN

One day, when I was in the third grade, Jayne Weaver asked me, "What's your daddy gonna do with all that money he won?" We called our father "Pap". We didn't know that Pap had won any money, although we all knew that he "played the numbers" every day. The "numbers" was an illegal gambling game and was similar to what became the Ohio Lottery. Jayne's father, "Frog" Weaver, "ran" the numbers in Bloomingburg. I asked Jayne how much money Pap had won and she said $3,000. Hell, one could've bought a house for $3,000 in 1952! When I went home, I told Mother what I'd heard and when she confronted Pap, he told the sad story: after receiving his payoff, he went to Vic Donohoe's Pool Hall; illegal card games were played in "the back room" and he also played cards. He also drank liquor and the last thing he recalled was staggering outside the pool hall, where he collapsed in the parking lot. Someone had slipped a Mickey Finn to my father and he was knocked unconscious and was robbed in the parking lot.

In the intervening years I have probably told this story a hundred times, but only a couple of people have known what a "Mickey Finn" is. Today, in a conversation with a group of people, we were talking about gambling and I told this story as an example of one of the reasons I don't gamble. The group of people ranged in age from 25 to 89, and when I related the story, only the 89-year-old had heard of a Mickey Finn. 

He asked, "And did you ever notice that the terminology is always slipped a Mickey Finn?" Yes, I had said that and also "knocked unconscious"!

FROU FROU

When I was in the operating room to have cataract surgery, I did not want any kind of anesthetic or sedation, but my face was immobilized to prevent any movement during the operation.

During the surgery, I could hear banter between two women in the operating room. Obviously they were the surgeon's assistants.

The two women were discussing an upcoming Home Interiors party one was hosting. Of course, I'd seen numerous television medical shows showing the chit chat that goes on between personnel in operating rooms when patients are unconscious. Evidently the women did not know, or forgot, that I was not sedated.

One asked, "Dr. Wittstein, is your wife froufrou?"

The incongruity of being in the OR, experiencing the most serious situation in my life, and the women talking about a damned party bothered me and I asked, in a loud, but muffled voice, "FROUFROU?"

Dr. Wittstein exclaimed, "Mrs. Raypole, are you allright?" I said, "Yes, but I am NOT froufrou, in case they were planning to invite me!"

Dr. Wittstein immediately grasped my consternation--and sarcasm--and said, "Ladies, Mrs. Raypole is NOT sedated, so let's refrain from talking about non-related topics."

After the operation Dr. Wittstein asked, "Now, what the Hell is froufrou?"

During my yearly check-ups, he and I always have a laugh about the incident; this year he said, "My wife still ISN'T froufrou!" I answered, "And neither am I!"

See the A.Word.A.Day article below.

A.Word.A.Day
with Anu Garg

froufrou
PRONUNCIATION:
(FROO-froo)

MEANING:
noun:
1. Something fancy, elaborate, and showy.
2. A rustling sound, as of a silk dress.

ETYMOLOGY:
From French, of imitative origin. Earliest documented use: 1870.

USAGE:
"Too often I go to some lunch party and am presented with an exquisite froufrou creation when what I long for is the pasta the three-year-old sitting next to me is given."

RELATED

Sometimes one should be careful about asking people if they are "related" to other, well-known people. I'm usually only prompted to do this if it involves an unusual name.

A local, former County Prosecutor is named Eckstein. Now, Eckstein is NOT a common name! When I met him, I asked, "Are you related to Billy?" and he said he'd never heard of him. I did not believe him and I later heard from a mutual acquaintance that he was NOT amused. It's probably because Billy's name is spelled "Eckstine" rather than "Eckstein".

Sometimes people do not share my particular sense of humor, but sometimes it's a rewarding experience.

At a meeting recently I met a man named Fred Strahorn. I asked, "Are you related to Billy?" He smiled and said, "Even though it's spelled differently, I always say I am!" We exchanged business cards and I noticed that his name's spelling was without the "y", like Billy Strayhorn's. He asked, "How many people in here do you think even know who he was?" I answered, "Well, they SHOULD!" We discussed Billy Strayhorn's work with Duke Ellington and he said, "You must be a jazz fan." We compared likes and dislikes. Another person at the meeting said, "HOW do you two know these things?"

My favorite example is when I asked a colleague, Carl Hauptmann, "Any relation to Bruno?" Witty and quick on the uptake, he answered, "Oh, you knew UNCLE Bruno?"

However, to me it's sad when people do not know the famous--at least I think they are famous--people with the same names. I asked a person named McCullough, "Any relation to David?" Just because I think David McCullough--the Pulitzer Prize winning historian--is famous, doesn't mean that other people named McCullough do. Another time I asked a person named Furness if he were related to Betty and he said he'd never heard of her. When I told Les, he said, "He's probably too young!"

When I met former Governor Brian Schweitzer I did not ask if he were related to Albert or ask Lilly Ledbetter if she were related to Lead Belly (Huddie Ledbetter). Sometimes I do behave myself.

SPELL CHECKED

Last week, while writing my blog, I was "spell checked" several times.  I can understand Spell check not recognizing foreign words such as borlotti, or unusual words like polysemic, asudden,rupestrian, and oscitancy, but pepperoncini and Facebook? 

 I quoted my brother using the word "odonym". Spell check does not recognize the word. I was certain of the spelling, but I still diligently checked my OED just to make sure!

Also curious: it does NOT recognize "Barack" but it DOES recognize "Obama"!

OUR LAST LAUGH TOGETHER

 

The first time I smelled marijuana was in 1969 at a Richie Havens concert. I asked Gerald, "What's THAT smell?" He laughed and said, "It's pot." I asked, "How do you know?" He answered, "Because I smell it all the time at work!"

Gerald and I had very good seats at that concert and shortly before the concert started a swarm of people flooded the aisles close to us. Security never even bothered to come to make them move! [Hey, it was the 60s!] We had aisle seats and a noticeably pregnant woman squatted down beside Gerald's seat and sat cross-legged on the floor. Ever the gentleman, Gerald jumped up and offered his seat, which she gladly accepted. Within minutes, she offered me a joint. I gasped, "Should you be doing that while you're pregnant?" She said, dopily, "I'll have a mellow baby!" When I didn't take the joint, she said, "Pass it on down." I couldn't believe that someone would take a puff from a cigarette of another person--a stranger--but the next person took it! [Hey, it was the 60s!]

I often told Gerald that we shouldn't take a physical after a concert after being engulfed by the fragrance.

I encountered THAT illegal aroma quite often after that. Sometimes I think that Gerald and I are the only ones of our generation who didn't smoke pot. When my sister-in-law was dying from cancer, she had no appetite because of all the chemo and radiation. She was staying with me for a couple of days while my brother closed on their house out of town. She said that she thought she could eat some of my noodles. I set about making chicken and noodles. I'll never forget, as I was hurrying down to the family room, I tripped on the steps, spilling noodles all over the floor and I broke my little toe. I hobbled back to the kitchen and took another serving to her; when she tried to take a bite, she couldn't. I asked her, "Do you want me to get you some marijuana; I hear it helps?" Shocked, she asked, "HOW would YOU get marijuana?" I looked at the clock and said, "I can have some in half an hour." She said, "I thought that you would NEVER do anything like that." I said, "Hell, I think it should be legalized, and I would do it for you." She said, "I've never even smoked a cigarette." I asked, "Do you know how to inhale?" We laughed. It's the last laugh we ever had together. Since the statute of limits has expired, I am glad I got marijuana for her.

HMA

My new license plates begin with the letters HMA. Gerald said that it stands for HER MAJESTY'S AUTO.

Unfortunately, since buying the 2004 Chrysler Crossfire, I have had TWO people back into me.  My brother said, "I guess HMA stands for HIT ME AGAIN!"

IT SMELLS LIKE A FUNERAL HOME

I never thought that I could have TOO many bouquets of flowers in the house, but I might reconsider.

Last week I had a meeting scheduled at our house and I wanted to have fresh flower arrangements throughout the house. I didn't have a single flower blooming in the yard. Our niece had told me that I was welcome to come by to cut some flowers from her yard as she had plenty of flowers in bloom.

I had picked several bunches of different flowers and she kept encouraging me to pick more. I had black-eyed Susans, gladioli, cosmos, bachelor's buttons, amaryllis, zinnias, and hydrangeas gathered. I had more than enough flowers for arrangements for every room.

After I'd completed 12 arrangements, competing scents were wafting throughout the house. When my brother walked in he said, "It smells like a funeral home!"

Perhaps one CAN have too many flowers in the house!

RED ROVER, COME OVER

In conversation with a group, I mentioned my article about playing marbles.  One friend asked, "How about RED ROVER, ANDY OVER, and THE FOX AND THE GEESE?"

Those take me back to childhood and sweltering summer nights and frigid winter afternoons.

RED ROVER was a summertime game played when there were a large group of kids available to play.

Kids are divided into two equal teams. They form two lines at least 50 feet apart. The members of each team join hands together.

The team chosen to go first calls out a name to the opposite team:

"Red Rover, Red Rover, have Suzy (e.g.) come over." Then Suzy must run across and try to break through the line. If able to break through the line, she chooses one of the two players she broke through to return back with her to her team. If she fails to break through, she must join the other team.

The game is over when everyone is in one line.

Obviously, this can be a dangerous game. The following practices were not permitted when I was a kid:

1. Double-linking of arms instead of linking hands.
2. "Clotheslining"--raising arms up to hit the opponent in the throat or other places.
3. Thrusting joined hands outward to form a fist to jab the opponent

MARBLES

In conversation, a friend asked when I had been the most scared. I told about a time on the school bus when Johnny Hagler had his marbles in a cigar box and when the bus came to a stop the box rolled on the floor and the marbles began a RAT-A-TAT-TAT sound that sounded like what I imagined a machine gun would sound. Several people, including myself and the school bus driver, ducked for cover.

My brothers and I had marble bags with drawstrings made by Mother. Many kids envied these. Mine was denim, made from old Wranglers. Les just told me that his was made from parachute material. Our brother Neil was a paratrooper with the 101st Airborne and had brought home a bad parachute. Mother made a quilt and several marble bags from the material. We gave Johnny Hagler a marble bag the next day.

My brother Norman gave me the Norman Rockwell print here.  Notice her marble bag.

At a family reunion, one of Gerald's grand-nephews asked if anyone knew how to play marbles, because he had marbles. To my surprise, none of the men there said that they knew how to play. I said, "I know how to play." The grand nephew brought out his marbles.

I got a stick and drew a circle in the dirt.

I got down on my knees and started to show him how to play. Several kids came around and soon joined us.

My arthritic fingers and thumb do not work as well as when I was a kid, but I was able to shoot a pretty mean game. The kids asked me to write the "rules" for them. I'm sure my brothers will have some corrections, but the following is my recollection from the Dark Ages:

HOW TO PLAY MARBLES

1. Draw a circle at least 3 feet wide in the dirt. Make a mark in the middle of the ring.
2. Choose the first player by having each player stand behind the lag line and toss his marble into the ring; whichever player's marble lands the closest to the mark is the first player; the next closest, the second player, etc.
3. Select a marble to be a shooter. The shooter is usually larger and more distinctive than the other marbles.
4. All players place their marbles into the the ring (the "pot").
5. The first player shoots by kneeling on the ground and keeping his hand on the ground, flicking his shooter with his thumb from his curled index finger and aiming at a target marble in the ring. ("knuckling down")
6. If the player knocks any marbles out of the ring, he gathers them and has another turn. He continues shooting until he does not knock any more marbles out of the ring.
7. Players continue until all marbles are out of the ring.

The player with the most marbles, is, of course, the winner.

SOME MARBLE TERMS:

FAIRSIES: the rules of playing marbles
KEEPSIES: the player keeps all the marbles he wins
FRIENDLIES: the player returns all the marbles to the original owners
KIMMIES: (or "mibs") target marbles
SLIPPIE: when a marble slips accidentally out of a player's grip.
JUMPSIES: (also called "plunking" and "skipping") shooting in a manner that
makes the marble jump into the air and hit the target marble without
hitting the ground first.
STEELIES: marbles made of steel; very prized
BOMBIES: (or "dropsies") dropping the marble onto another marble
SNOOGER: marbles near the rim of the circle
POT: all of the marbles placed in the ring for competition
TAW LINE: (or "shooting line") line from which players shoot
LAG LINE: line from which players determine the playing order
SHOOTER: (also called "taw" and "boss") the marble used to knock other marbles
out of the ring.
DUBS: when two or more marbles are knocked out of the ring with one shot
FUDGING: moving hand forward while shooting
MIBSTER: a marble player

After the game of marbles, I asked the guys, "Any of you ever played mumblety-peg?" None had, but the boys wanted to play. I said, "You must ask your parents' permission as it's a dangerous game." One of the kids asked, "Is it more dangerous than football?"

I said, "It was Tom Sawyer's favorite game."

I yelled, "Gerald, I need your pocket-knife." Nobody else had a pocket-knife. One of the mothers said, "I can't believe your mother allowed you to play a game involving a knife!"

"Allowed?" I shouted, "ALLOWED? She's the one who taught us how to play!

WHY IS THAT PURSE HANGING AROUND YOUR NECK?

FROM MONA LISA

When you must visit a public "restroom", you usually find a line of women; you smile politely and take your place in line.

Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the stall doors; you see that every stall is occupied. 

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in and find the door won't latch.

It doesn't matter, the wait has been so long you are about to wet your pants.

The dispenser for the modern "seat covers"(invented by someone's mother, no doubt) is handy, BUT empty. 

You would usually hang your purse on the door hook, if there was one, but there isn't; you carefully, but quickly, drape it around your neck, (Mother would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR), yank down your pants, and assume "The Stance". 

In this position, your aging, toneless, (I should have gone to the gym) thigh muscles begin to shake. You'd love to sit down, but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or place toilet paper on it, so you hold "The Stance". 

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you then discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, "Honey, if you had tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper." Your thighs shake more.

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday; the one that's still in your purse. (Oh yeah, and you have the purse around your neck, that you now must hold up, trying not to strangle yourself at the same time). That will have to do. You crumple the tissue in the puffiest way possible. It's still smaller than your thumbnail. 

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work. That person obviously did not look underneath--the first rule. 

The door hits your purse, which is hanging around your neck in front of your chest, and you and your purse topple backward against the tank of the toilet. 

"Occupied!", you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue on the floor, and you lose your footing altogether, and slide down directly onto the TOILET SEAT. 

Of course, it is wet. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper -(not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try).

You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because, you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, she would say, "Frankly, dear, you just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get." 

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose against the inside of the bowl which sprays a fine mist of water that covers your butt and runs down your legs and into your shoes.

The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too. 

At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the wet toilet seat. 

You're EXHAUSTED. You try to wipe with a gum wrapper you found in your pocket and then you slink out to the sinks, trying to appear inconspicuous. 

You can't figure out how to operate the faucets with the automatic sensors, so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the line of women still waiting. 

You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from your shoe. (Where was that when you NEEDED it?) You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and tell her warmly, "Here, you just might need this." 

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used, and left the men's restroom. Annoyed, he asks,"What took you so long, and why is your purse hanging around your neck?" 

This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with public restrooms (rest? you've GOT to be kidding). It finally explains to men what really does take us so long. It also answers their other commonly asked questions about why women go to the restroom in pairs.

It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your purse, and hand you Kleenex under the door. 

SPOILED BY TECHNOLOGY

How spoiled are we by technology?

Ready to go to the Headquarters, I had already packed my laptop computer to take with me and it was in my car.

The television was playing in the background and a commentator said that someone was her Doppelganger.

Les asked, "Is that correct usage? Does that mean they look alike?" I said, "Well, literally, in German, a Doppelganger is an apparition, but in common usage it's come to mean a double or a lookalike."

He said, "I'll look it up."

I answered, "Oh, the computer is already in the car."

Les said, wryly, "I think we STILL have a dictionary!"

How spoiled am I by technology when my first instinct was to run to the computer instead of to the trustworthy OED?

64 OUNCES PER DAY.

In treating my sleep problems, once again my doctor lectured me about drinking 8 glasses of water a day.  I asked, "May I use a Manhattan-size glass?"  Oh, no, it MUST be an 8-ounce glass.  How does one consume 64 ounces per day?  I made the mistake of saying that I consumed at least 64 ounces of LIQUID per day;  that being Coca Cola.  The doctor provided the following comparisons of water versus Coke.

WATER

1. Lack of water is the # 1 trigger of daytime fatigue.

2. In 37% of Americans, the thirst mechanism is so weak that it is mistaken for hunger.

3. Even MILD dehydration will slow down one's metabolism as 3%.

4. One glass of water will shut down midnight hunger pangs for nearly 100% of the dieters studied according to a study conducted by the University of Washington.

5. 75% of Americans are chronically dehydrated.  .

6. Preliminary research indicates that 8-10 glasses of water a day could significantly ease back and joint pain for up to 80% of sufferers.

7. A mere 2% drop in body water can trigger fuzzy short-term memory, trouble with basic math, and difficulty focusing on the computer screen or on a printed page.

8. Drinking 5 glasses of water daily decreases the risk of colon cancer by 45%, plus it can slash the risk of breast cancer by 79%, and one is 50% less likely to develop bladder cancer.

COKE

1. In many states the highway patrol carries two gallons of Coke in the trunk to remove blood from the highway after a car accident.

2. One can put a T-bone steak in a bowl of Coke and it will be dissolved in two days.

3. To clean a toilet: Pour a can of Coca-Cola into the toilet bowl and let the "real thing" set for one hour, then flush clean. The citric acid in Coke removes stains from vitreous china.

4. To remove rust spots from chrome car bumpers: rub the bumper with a rumpled-up piece of Reynolds Wrap aluminum foil dipped in Coca-Cola.

5. To clean corrosion from car battery terminals: pour a can of Coca-Cola over the terminals to bubble away the corrosion.

6. To loosen a rusted bolt: apply a cloth soaked in Coca-Cola to the rusted bolt for several minutes.

7. To bake a moist ham: empty a can of Coca-Cola into the baking pan, wrap the ham in aluminum foil, and bake. Thirty minutes before ham is finished, remove the foil, allowing the drippings to mix with the Coke for a sumptuous brown gravy.

8. To remove grease from clothes: empty a can of Coke into the load of greasy clothes, add detergent, and run through a regular cycle. The Coca-Cola will help loosen grease stains. It will also clean road haze from your windshield.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION:

1. The active ingredient in Coke is phosphoric acid. It will dissolve a nail in about four days.

2. To carry Coca-Cola syrup (the concentrate): the commercial trucks must use a hazardous material placards usually reserved for highly corrosive materials.

3. The distributors of Coke have been using it to clean engines of the trucks for about 20 years

OFF MY GAME

As all my friends and family know, I am a Queen Of Coupons. In that position, I am respectful of clerks in the stores and fellow shoppers; I pride myself on my own efficiency; I always have all of my coupon-items together; I make sure that my coupons have not expired; double-check that if it's a "buy 2" then I have two, etc. These actions are just common courtesy.

Today, in a store, I was in line behind a Coupon Witch. She was obviously much more organized than myself, with an impressive loose-leaf binder filled with coupons. I could tell the Couponer had a great deal of pride in her shopping ability. The clerk began to process the fistful of coupons and at least three were expired, several were supposed to be used to purchase two or more of the same product, and one showed on the register as the product not having been purchased. The Couponer had to dig a jar of Planter's Peanuts from the already-bagged items to have it re-checked; the size was incorrect. The Couponer said, breezily, "I'm off my game today; I'm not used to shopping on Monday and I got the kids with me."

I was enjoying the Witch being caught in her duplicity, and, uncharacteristically of me, I refrained from commenting during this episode. The clerk demonstrated considerable tact and after she had patiently finished with the customer, I said to the Couponer, "You should have watched Extreme Couponing; it showed one how to avoid these pitfalls."

The woman had the chutzpah to repeat her lame excuse by saying, "Oh, I was just off my game today." I said, "That game must be called Cheating Kroger; I would think you'd be embarrassed doing this in front of your children."

I am glad that there was a cart between us because if looks could kill, I would be a dead woman. The word she used about me rhymed with WITCH!

FAT CATS

Our cats were all circling around the family room door, with several lolling on the welcome mat, waiting for the appearance of "The Can Opener With Legs", which is what we call Gerald. All of them (Louise, Puff, Sasha, The Professor, Einstein, Francis, and Spot) have abundant coats, but Stormy and Polky have also gained considerable weight.

Les said, "I think we should change their names to the Koch Brothers."

I asked why and he said, "Because they are such FAT CATS."

The derogatory term "Fat Cats" used to describe wealthy donors to politicians originated in 1928 by Frank Kent, whose essay Fat Cats And Free Rides was published in H.L. Mencken's magazine American Mercury. Kent wrote: "A Fat Cat is a man of large means and no political experience who has reached middle age and success in business and finding no further thrill of satisfaction in the mere piling up of more millions, develops a yearning for some sort of public honor and is willing to pay for it. The machine has what it seeks, public honor, and he has the money the machine needs."

BACK IN MY DAY

My friend Mona Lisa sent the article WE DIDN'T HAVE THIS GREEN THING BACK IN MY DAY. I believe in being "green" and practice nearly everything voiced by the young person, but I also see validity in the article because my mother was the one who taught us about recycling because she had to "recycle" out of necessity. I always say that I wore "hand-me-ups" from my younger brother.


Checking out at the store, the young cashier suggested to the older woman that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment.

The woman explained, "We didn't have this green thing back in my day."

The young clerk responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations."

She was right: our generation didn't have the green thing in its day.

Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles, and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled.

But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Grocery stores bagged our groceries in brown paper bags, that we reused for numerous things, most memorable besides household garbage bags, was the use of brown paper bags as book covers for our schoolbooks. This was to ensure that public property (the books provided for our use by the school), was not defaced by our scribblings. Then we were able to personalize our books on the brown paper bags.

But we didn't do the green thing back then.

We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.

But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.

Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throwaway kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy-gobbling machine burning up 220 volts; wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our day. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

But that young lady is right; we didn't have the green thing back in our day.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house; not a TV in every room and the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana. In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded-up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap. Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut
the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

But she's right; we didn't have the green thing back then.

We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

But we didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service.

We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 23,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest burger joint.

But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?

TROUSERS, SLACKS, AND PANTS

I mentioned to Les that I had heard an elderly man say "trousers" and that I have always said "slacks". I made the mistake of saying, "I think trousers is one of those words which only old people use." Les leaped immediately and asked, "Then why aren't you using it?"

Les continued, "How about pants?" I said, "I know pants is an old word because I think Barbra's song Sam, You Made The Pants Too Long comes from the 1920's."

It is an OLD song, but it is from 1940. In researching, I learned that it was written as a parody of a hit song of the time, Lawd, You Made The Night Too Long which, with the title changed to Lord, You Made The Night Too Long, was a hit by Bing Crosby, which I don't think I ever heard until today.

The parody was written by Milton Berle and is probably the only parody which was more popular than the original and has outlived the original song.

WHEN DOES ONE EVER SEE THE SINGULAR OF TRUVIUM?

Les asked, "What's the singular of TRIVIA?"

I screamed, "TRIVIUM!" He asked, "How the Hell did you know THAT one?" I answered:
"Sue equals trivium!"

The topic for today is words that one seldom sees as singular:

AUSPICES
PAPARAZZI
COGNOSCENTI
MORES
ANTIPODES

I have added:

GRAFFITO
TENTERHOOK
SCAMPO
TIMPANO
SCRUPLE
DREG
MATHEMATIC
ECONOMIC
BILLIARD
SPECIE
PHYSICS
HUSTING

What about diseases? There are a number:

MEASLES, MUMPS, DIABETES, and HIVES.

Then there's clothing:

BRIEF
JEAN
BRACE
KNICKER
PANT
TROUSER
SHORT
TIGHT
PAJAMA

And a number have to do with devices:

BELLOW
SCISSOR
TONG
BINOCULAR
PLIER
GALLOW
SHEAR

CLUTCH

FILE UNDER: WHAT I LEARNED NEW TODAY:

Pinning a pin onto a red hat, I asked, "What do you call these things that are put on the back?"

Les said, "Look it up."

I learned that they are called "butterfly clutch", "military clutch", "pin catch", and "pin back".

The sharp point of a pin is called a "stem". The clutch locks into place when it covers a stem.

The back of the pin has a stem attached and when the clutch is squeezed and pulled up from the stem, the pin is released from the clutch.

I already knew what an AGLET is, and was able to supply the word to someone doing a crossword puzzle.

AGLET: the sheath over the end of a shoelace or ribbon; also, the ornamental cord or braid on the shoulders of uniforms.  I only knew the first definition and not the second.

NATIONAL SNEAK SOME ZUCCHINI INTO YOUR NEIGHBOR'S PORCH DAY

August 8 is NATIONAL SNEAK SOME ZUCCHINI INTO YOUR NEIGHBOR'S PORCH DAY, a tongue-in-cheek celebration about the abundance of zucchini.

For  the County Fair, for several years, I brought zucchini bread for the people working at our booth to enjoy. On Wednesday, someone asked, "Hey, Sue, where's the zucchini bread?"  I turned to Teddy and asked, "Yes, Teddy, where is my zucchini you were supposed to bring?"  He looked sheepish and said that he had forgotten.  The next day he brought three enormous zucchini.

Each year I receive extraordinary amounts of zucchini because people know that I will use them and that they will, in turn, receive a complimentary loaf of zucchini bread. I would be happy if someone "sneaked" them onto my porch.

Just about now, Les is tired of making zucchini bread and I think Gerald is "zucchinied out"--we've had appetizers, bread, side dishes, entrees, and desserts--all courtesy of the bountiful zucchini. Other than zucchini bread, it is difficult to find recipes to use when we're presented with the the very large zucchini. Last week, a friend Cami gave me the idea for zucchini rings and I fixed them the same way as I do small zucchini and they were delicious.

ZUCCHINI RINGS

For 20 zucchini rings: Slice zucchini into twenty slices; encircle the seed area with a sharp knife and cut out the seeds, leaving a nice-shaped hole.

1. Beat 2 eggs and 1/2 cup milk together
2. Dredge in crumbs (I use Panko, but if I don't have it, I prefer Town House Crackers, but Ritz crackers, saltines, or even flour can be used.  I do not care for corn meal.)
3. Pan fry or deep fry until tender

Another favorite:

ZUCCHINI APPETIZER

4 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup green onions, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
1 teaspoon each salt and pepper
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese
1 teaspoon parsley, finely chopped
1 teaspoon basil, finely chopped
1 teaspoon oregano, finely chopped
1 cup baking mix (such as Bisquick--I use Aldi's)
4 cups shredded zucchini, patted dry
1/2 cup oil (I use Canola)

Mix ingredients together. Spread on a large, round pizza pan. Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes or until brown on top.

I use my sister-in-law Betty's recipe for Zucchini Bread.

BETTY'S ZUCCHINI BREAD

3 eggs 1 teaspoon baking powder
1 cup vegetable oil 3 teaspoons cinnamon
2 1/2 cups sugar 1 1/2 teaspoons nutmeg
3 cups zucchini, peeled and grated dash of ginger
3 teaspoons vanilla dash of ground cloves
3 cups all-purpose flour 1 cup chopped walnuts
1 teaspoon baking soda 1 1/2 cups golden raisins
1 teaspoon salt

Beat eggs, add oil, sugar, and vanilla. Mix well; add zucchini. Combine the dry ingredients and combine with the zucchini mixture, blending thoroughly. Add nuts and raisins to mixture and blend. Pour into 2 greased and floured loaf pans. Bake at 350 degrees for 1 hour or until wooden pick comes out clean.

RAPPROCHEMENT

I was the hostess at a recent political gathering.  Two of my friends who are young, have both lectured me about my lack of "forgiveness", were gleefully watching as I greeted a person with whom I've had a fractured friendship and had not spoken to in two years.

 As I was aware that they were sitting, watching my "performance", I soon turned to them and both gave me "thumbs up" and commented "good show";  they know how to put me in my place.  I said, "It was rapprochement, there is no word in English to describe it."  As neither of them, knew the word, there was the opportunity for edification and delectation by me to those whippersnappers!

I said, "For the good of the party."

• (especially in international affairs) an establishment or resumption of harmonious relations.

  ‘there were signs of a growing rapprochement between the two countries’

Origin

French, from rapprocher, from re- (expressing intensive force) + approcher ‘to approach’.

Pronunciation

rapprochement

/raˈprɒʃmɒ̃/

GOOD FRIENDS ARE LIKE STARS

I told my friend Mona Lisa that I was thrilled because she and a number of friends from years past came to my birthday party this year.    Mona Lisa said:  "Good friends are like stars, you don't always see them, but you know they are always there."

One friend, Anne, surprised me the most.  Although she and I were "Christmas-card exchangers" throughout the years, we had not actually seen each other since 1982.  I recalled that she was a petite ball-of-fire worker with jet-black hair and striking, exotic looks.  Of course both of us have changed over the years and she has some gray in that hair but still has

that Nefertiti profile that I told her she had.  She said, "Oh, Sue, I am Ashkenazi, not Egyptian!"  She told me not to publish a "hideous" picture of her, thus there's a picture of the Queen.

 As the child of Russian immigrants who escaped religious persecution and settled in Columbus, Ohio, to me she personifies immigrants.

"T-A-A-A-A-A-CKY"

A friend recently commented that she hoped that a gift she had given me might seem a bit "kitschy".  I said, "I love kitsch!"  I told her that I am chided regularly in my family for overusing the word tacky;  I now use kitschy rather than "tacky". To let me know that I had used the word tacky once too often, my late, beloved, sister-in-law would imitate my pronunciation, and her version would come out with an elongated "a", as: "T-A-A-ACKY".  Once, when another family member suggested that I should get some white, wicker furniture for the back yard, I said it would be tacky. A chorus of "T-A-A-A-A-CKY",  from all assembled, greeted that usage.

A snooty acquaintance once lectured to me, "One must be careful not to be considered too kitschy  in decorating." [I dislike such supercilious, passive-aggressive behavior; instead of saying ONE, I would hope that ONE would have the temerity to say YOU rather than ONE!] I answered, "If by saying ONE, you mean that I am kitschy, I readily admit that I am, and I do NOT have to be careful, but I think I'm more NAFF than kitschy!" [Did I mention that I like to use words like "naff" with pretentious people because I think they won't know the word? Speaking of passive-aggressive behavior? Hmmm? Time for some introspection, Sue?]

The snooty one thinks that "themes" in rooms and borders on wallpaper are kitschy. The downstairs bathroom in our house gives me the double--whammy: a seashell theme WITH a seashell wallpaper border. [After going to Florida for twenty years in a row, what the Hell are you supposed to do with all those seashells?] I especially like the seashell border in the bathroom, the "Irish Beauty" sign in the laundry room, and various geegaws around the house. They are all kitschy.

When we moved here, one of my brothers asked if I were going to put a "CEMENT POND" in the back yard. I'm embarrassed to admit that I grasped that Beverly Hillbillies reference. Hey, you can take the girl out of the country, but.........!

JOACHIM STREET BLUES

Using my GPS, I am amused by some of the pronunciations.  She pronounces Hinde Street as "Hind" and Sabina as   
"Sab-uh-nuh".  

My brother Bode was living in Pensacola, FL but he needed to go to Mobile, AL. This was before the days of GPS and he'd been given directions to an address on Joachim Street. He didn't have a map. After being lost for some time, he stopped at a market to ask for directions and, of course, he asked for the location of Joachim Street, pronouncing it as "Wah-keem". A woman at the store said she'd lived there all of her life, but had never heard of the street.

Bode kept insisting that he knew he had to be close to the street, according to the directions he'd been given. Finally, Bode handed her the paper with the directions on it and she exclaimed, "Oh, you mean JOE-ACK-UM!"

Saint Joachim and Saint Anne are probably turning over in their graves to hear how his name is butchered.

In telling me the story, Bode said, "Well, I shouldn't be surprised; our secretary's name is Beatrice Buchanan but she insists it's pronounced BEE-AT-TRUSS BUCK-HANNON!"