Day 23/24: Things I Won't Be Buying Today

I took a little break from my* Things I Won't Be Buying Today exercise. I'd like you to think it was because I took a break from writing, but I did not. I just started buying everything in sight and couldn't think of a thing to write about not buying. 

But now, I am trying to learn, once again, to practice restraint and have something to write about not buying! 

It's this. 

I'm not buying this.

Just like pre-buzzcut Britney, Oops, Amazon did it again.

I was browsing the big A for a lifting and firming cream that might help the face which I received as a genetic gift from my mother's side of the family. 

Back in the old days, my Nana would've referred to fifty year old loose skin as "jowls". Now, in 2023 when we call serious economic hardship "stagflation" and pedophiles "minor attracted persons", I will also singsongingly refer to the unpleasantness that is my falling face as my "bonus chin". 

Yay! Bonus chin!

Anyway, as a direct result of my nighttime browsing, chin down on my chest (hmm), neck bent at an angle typically reserved for navel gazing (hmm hmm), bathing in the blue light of the best and worst invention ever (hmm hmm hmm), the big A figured out just what I needed to fix that jacked wattle and started showing me a variety of electric face zappers. 

Ack! No thanks. I'd rather wear turtlenecks in July than willingly play shock the monkey with my own epidermis. But when I didn't take that click bait, it began offering me other things. 

Terry cloth face lift things. 

"Chin Bandage."

What?

Now...I'm trying to understand. 

First, the girl in the advertisement is about eighteen. Hey, don't argue with me. I've seen eighteen year olds online this past week and this girl actually looks overdressed compared to them. 

"But she's only wearing a skimpy towel and some sort of head squishing device", you say.

 "Exactly", I say.

Second, I've only seen a product like this one other time, and that was in the movie "Mommie Dearest". Faye Dunaway, as Joan Crawford, cleansed her face by undergoing a fairly lengthy and kind of psycho skin care routine involving steam and ice cubes (I have to rewatch this to be sure I am getting it right) and some sort of milky cream followed by a tight chin-sculpting head contraption. 

Then she proceeded to beat her kid senseless with Bab-O and a hanger, so I'm not sure this chin strap is a great idea. 

Would this purchase automatically send an alert to DSS? Maybe it should.

And finally, the pink factor. 

It's this sickeningly sweet candied pink color. 

Carnation pink. 

Beach pedicure pink. 

Barbie pink. 

Can you picture the product development team sitting around their huge rectangular black granite table in China? 

"How do we sell a torture device that makes a lady look like a dead ringer for Jacob Marley's ghost while she's wearing it? Also, there will be no eating, drinking or speaking when it's positioned correctly, but, hell, it might temporarily flatten out the fatty underchins of those ridiculous Americans?"

"Hmm."

Small guy in the back says, "Make it...PINK?"

And there you have it. 

Ka-ching!

Add to cart. 

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*inspired by John Magee - check out his blog on Blogger, too. 

Cream Cheese and Olives

In elementary school, we ate lunch in the beige school cafeteria grouped by grade. 

First, second, and third graders ate together during one lunch period, and then fourth, fifth, and sixth graders ate together the following period. In hindsight, I see that keeping the potty-mouthed hormonal sixth graders away from the innocent-as-baby lambs first graders was a magnificent strategy. 

You could smell the cafeteria before you saw it; that murky, steaming hot water the galvanized tins of food sat in in order to stay warm, the perfumed sweat of the lunch ladies and the tang of the lemony floor wax, applied in thin layers nightly so that when we spilled, it beaded up and stayed in one place until Mr. Ovitt was dispatched to come mop it up. 

Responsible sixth graders were chosen to sit at the tops of the long cafeteria tables and maintain order. During my fourth-grade year, the sixth grader who sat in this regal position at my table made everyone in her orbit exceedingly uncomfortable, but this was during a time when children just took their lumps and didn't squeal on one another. This was my childhood; and we all have stories like what I'm about to tell you. 

I was (and still am) a talker and I used to dawdle to lunch, yapping nonstop with my friends, my teachers, and the lunch aide, Mrs. Herlihy, who stood paramount over us with her clipboard, strolling around the cafeteria keeping watch. By the time I made it to my table each day, the only seat available was next to the top banana sixth grader, to whom I will refer as "The Wasp". I would, for the sake of this piece, call her "The Queen Bee", due to her top of the table stature, but that would be an insult to the fluffy, gentle pollinators. 

Wasps will sting unprovoked and so did she. When I opened my carton of milk, unwrapped my sandwich or brought out my fat little blue and white fruit thermos each day, she'd peer over, uninvited, with her probiscis and ask me with hardened, dark eyes if my mother hated me. Swallowing anxiously, I'd eat in uncharacteristic silence for a chatty kid, and just stare at the pictures on my Krofft Superstar lunchbox. When she got no reaction from me, she'd move down the line, prodding and criticizing other lunches, haircuts, sneakers, intellectual capacities; whatever she deemed as fair game for her nasty brand of perpetual insults. 

One day I brought my favorite sandwich, cream cheese and olives on rye bread. At home, my mom and I used to eat it together on the weekends, but I rarely got it in my lunchbox, for it took some extra preparation and Mom usually packed extra grainy "Branola" bread in my lunches during the week. 

Unpeeling the waxed paper, I saw that it was a half sandwich. I expected this, as Mom had just told me I needed to lose some weight. I remember distinctly that I weighed 54 pounds and for a fourth grader, that was a little too much. I hadn't had a growth spurt where height was concerned and my older cousin Christopher's hand me down Toughskins were too tight in the thighs and rear, so, half sandwich it was. 

Well, The Wasp noticed immediately that I had half of my usual sandwich and started chiding me. 

"What's with the half sandwich? Are you poor?"

"Are your parents starving you?"

"What is that anyway? Cream cheese and what? Ick, so gross!"

And she proceeded to crow to everyone at our table to take a gander at the disgusting food I was eating. I remember leaning into my lunch, shielding it from the prying eyes of my tablemates. Then, I sat up straight and said directly to The Wasp, 

"I know. Gross. I don't really like it, but I'll eat it."

And that was my first betrayal of my family, my heritage, my home life, for the sake of being a cool kid. A kid who conformed to societal expectations about lunch. A kid who didn't eat cream cheese and olives. 

The Wasp couldn't have been happier to see me squirm and bend to her way of seeing the world. From that day forward, she spent less time picking on me and more time focusing on other weak and quiet children in her midst. She verbally speared them, mocking their lunches brought from home. I remember insincerely chuckling quietly alongside her, knowing I was wrong, watching her ebony eyes narrow and her skinny fingers point at someone's gelatinous ham sandwich or off-brand store-bought dessert. What I felt most was an overwhelming sense of relief that it wasn't me in her crosshairs, underscored by a filthy soul-crushing grime of having sold out for this safety.

Contemplating this scene 45 years later, I cannot recall what The Wasp ever ate. I don't remember her having a lunchbox (and I remember my classmates' Snoopy, Bionic Woman and Herbie the Love Bug lunch boxes with absolute clarity) so it's possible that she bought a hot lunch via the lunch line every day. Her parents, who owned a newer built, beautiful split-level home, certainly could have afforded to buy school-prepared lunches every day and her mom didn't appear to be the Betty Crocker homemaker type, so maybe that was why The Wasp felt the need to be so nosy about what others were bringing in, and why she felt so entitled to heckle us. Maybe her Mom didn't have time, or want to make time, to thoughtfully pack a Superstar Barbie lunch box with a salami sandwich and a small pink note wishing her good luck on field day. 

The Wasp is still around and she is still deriding others. I see her posts on Facebook because she is friends with a few of my friends and she still points out what everyone is doing that falls below her prickly standards. She is still publicly snickering at people's choices. She is still sticking her stinger where it doesn't belong.

I steer clear, though I would love to someday drive by her house, cream cheese and olive sandwich held aloft through my sunroof and tell her to fuck off. 

My mother loved me. 

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25 Things My Father Taught Me

For Dad, Father's Day 2023

Things My Father Taught Me:

1. You can sit behind home plate for less money on getaway days.

2. Cheap bourbon will make you sick. So will good bourbon if you're stupid, but that is no excuse to drink cheap bourbon.

3. There are only three reasons to get up before dawn: the balloon festival, hockey practice, and to go to the bathroom; otherwise, sleep in.

4. Always help the underdog, the downtrodden, and the desperate, but don't hurt your arm patting yourself on the back about it. 

5. Swapping lies with friends over an outdoor fire is just about the best time you'll ever have. The bigger the fish, the better the story.

6. Respect your elders. Call them, visit them, bring them dessert.

7. Old recipes are the best. If it tasted good on Thanksgiving in 1960, for the love of God, don't mess with it. 

8. Buy an American car...during the last week of the month...and walk in knowing exactly the number for a 500-dollar deal in favor of the dealer. If the salesperson flinches, walk out.

9. Own a woodstove, a Bible, a cat, a dog, and a rifle. 

10. Speak highly of people or don't speak of them at all. 

11. Quit trying to win arguments with idiots. It's better to be happy than to be right. 

12. If there are checks in the checkbook, you've got spending money today.

13. Life is short. Pick out the best steak. Invest in the season tickets. Go see the concert.  

14. A bouquet of flowers is usually better than a practical present. 

15. Get to know your neighbors. Invite them to your parties and go celebrate in their backyards; that way no one calls the cops when things run late and get loud.

16. Woolrich lasts a lifetime.

17. Be aware of your town's noise ordinance and have a meter. You'll save more in fines than you'll pay for the gadget.

18. Michael McDonald, Lionel Richie, Smokey Robinson and Neil Diamond are better than the singers who arrived on the scene after them. 

19. The drive to New York City will soothe emotional anguish with the right company and the fun you'll have there will be the cherry on the sundae.

20. Your family is more important than your job, your financial standing, and your ego. 

21. Go to all the weddings and all the funerals. People will remember that you showed up. 

22. Good hair products can change your whole appearance. 

23. Fight your own battles. 

24. Never be too busy, too intimidated or too ignorant to talk to anyone about anything at any time. Read everything you can get your hands on, listen intently to all that goes on around you and absorb everything. Being able to converse freely will be your greatest gift to others. 

25. Run toward the ball, use two hands and pay attention. There will be a test on all of this someday. 

Thanks for over 50 years of lessons.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.

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The Only Living Boy in New York

 

Half of the time we're gone, 

                            but we don't know where. 

                                            We don't know where. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5biEjyXNa2o

In my car, this song is life. 

I hear pointed distress, thick and devout. 

Someone is leaving another less fortunate someone behind.

Deep breaths. Deeper breaths. The deepest breath I can take. 

I drive and I dive.

Simon is Poseidon. I surf his sonorous wave; foamy indigo, quenching and swelling; suddenly ungovernable as the echo of Garfunkel's hypnotic and hoary backing vocal swamps me in its icy undertow and I am dragged beneath.

My throat closes. I pull over. I taste ocean salt on my face. 

Garfunkel's mewl is no match for my own as I increase the volume to a level which requires absolute pacifistic surrender.

I caterwaul in a voice I barely recognize and then let my head hang. 

I drown. 

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All The News That's Fit to Print

Our local newspaper has been shot through its journalistic heart.

From what I hear, it will only be available online, behind a paywall, from this day forward. 

I take no pleasure in wondering if it will be done and gone, out of circulation within a year. 

And you can't even joke about sticking a fork in it...because it's digital. 

Once a thriving publication dating back to 1904, it has been declining in readership for too many depressing years to count. Even I, a multi-decade subscriber, let mine lapse a few years ago when I had been reduced to reading it with a red sharpie in hand, circling spelling mistakes and grammar gaffes like a demented English teacher, scrawling on errors in proper names, historical inaccuracies, and some mighty dreadful syntax. 

I do not recommend starting your morning with that level of frustration. It's horrible. 

Part of the problem is that many of the paper's editorial staff work miles away in another city. I don't know if it is a matter of not having time for us or simply not knowing if they've underreported our local news. Quotes from local residents seemed to have disappeared. Most articles rich in content were inserted from the AP. Photos supporting local news stories looked like they'd been resurrected from those on file. A local hometown photographer from the 1970s who earned a residual every time they used one of his antique pics was happy to be of service, but it might have been nice to see a picture highlighting one of the local annual festivals while actually showing locals who were still among the living.  

Oh, and the obituary page (relegated to the Sports section, a very odd decision) ran almost as many corrections as obituaries near the end of the physical paper's tenure. I feel those errors wouldn't have happened if some hometown folks who'd known the dearly departed had glanced at their tributes for a few minutes during pre-publishing.

On more of an optimistic note, I also predict that someone else will take up the mantle and produce a decent FUBU* physical newspaper in the future. Just like the cool cats are rediscovering small towns, bookstores, record albums, Levis made without spandex, and cane sugar, I bet they will be hungry for some good old fashioned hands-on news at some point. 

Flap it open loudly in the sunlight on a Sunday morning; relaxing on the porch, coffee in hand. Gather the kids and tell them what's going on around town. 

Doesn't that make for a nice story? 

*For us, by us.

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Rich Kids

I am in love with your bathroom. 

(Giggle) Yes, I know I'm weird, but I've never had a friend who had her own bathroom, and yours has two lipstick red sinks. That Crayola Crayon shower curtain is about the neatest thing I've ever seen. Makes me want to jump in and take a shower right now.  No, no...psych! Don't get your shampoo out. Psych...you know, it means like, fooling! Wait, you have Nexxus shampoo? 

Oh shit! You spilled the Covergirl! Ugh! Mop it up, quick! Wait, not with the white washcloth. You're totally going to get killed over this. Oh, the cleaning lady will get it out? Well, ok. I hadn't considered the cleaning lady. What's her name? Well, maybe you should ask her sometime. She is cleaning up your messy bathroom counter, and probably your grody toilet, too, right? I hope she has some bleach, this makeup is the long wearing kind and it's staining big time. Naw, her English doesn't have to be perfect for you to at least know her name. Well, I'd be cranky too if I had to pick up all these Izod shirts and designer jeans and fold them for you. I mean I can, like, barely walk in here. 

Wait, I don't know if we should be in your parents' room. I don't really go in my parents' room at home. Yeah, her dressing table is so pretty. Chanel No. 5? Totally. I've seen it on TV but never smelled it up close. Oh. My. Gawd. That is something I'd definitely wear to a dance or somewhere fancy...like a date with Richie Rich, ha ha!  Hey, stop spraying it on me! It doesn't go with my Asia Heat of the Moment t-shirt. Oh, you like it? Aww, thanks, I do too. You've never had a concert t-shirt of your own? Well, we can fix that. Let's go to Fashions of India at the mall on Saturday and look through the racks for a band you might like. Marillion? Umm, maybe not that one. Don't you like Duran Duran or Van Halen?

Sure, I'd love to go downstairs and have a snack and watch Valley Girl on your Videodisc player. What's a Videodisc player? 

Hi Rich Kid's Mom. Yes, you're correct. I do smell like I'm bathing in Chanel No. 5. Rich Kid said it was ok to spray it. Well, yes, I do love it. Oh, no, no, no...that's all right. I don't need to bring a bottle home with me. What do you mean you have a year's worth in the back of the linen closet? Oh, well that is super nice of Rich Kid's Dad. Yes, perfume is a thoughtful gift, perfect for every occasion.

Caviar on water crackers? You're kidding, right? Usually we eat Cheez Balls or Snack Pack vanilla pudding at my house when we want a little something. No, I can't say I've ever been to a dinner party but I would love to. I'm, like, way too sophisticated for Cheez Balls, especially since I smell so radical. No, radical is good. Absolutely, I'll try your caviar and let you know what I think. 

Valley Girl, mm hmmmmmm. There's no such thing as seeing it too many times. I shouldn't be talking with my mouth full, but this snack is like, totally bitchen. No, Rich Kid's Mom, I'm not swearing. You have to listen to the girls in this movie to get what I'm saying. 

Julie's red Vuarnet sunglasses? Yes, they are major. I'm saving up for a pair. Maybe by the end of the summer I'll have enough money from babysitting. Oh, you have a couple pairs from your trip to France last year? What colors? Mmm, black and brown are nice. And having a leather case for them is totally necessary, I agree. You already scratched the lenses of the black ones? No doy, leaving them face down on your dresser will do that. You think the cleaning lady made them worse? That's heinous. Why would she do that?

Where are you going, Rich Kid's Mom? Rossignol gets shampooed somewhere other than your bathtub? Oh I hadn't thought about his toenails scratching the glaze. Does my tub at home have glaze? I've honestly never noticed. Well, yes, a standing appointment does seem kind of cool. Sure, after I get done eating this delicious caviar cracker, I'd love to ride along so you don't have to lift him into the Mercedes by yourself. Come on, Rich Kid, pause the movie. 

Oh my God, this is a beautiful car, even if it smells like wet Golden Retriever. Are these leather seats? Yes, I love that Rich Kid's Dad bought it so you'd have something to drive Rossignol around in. Now, that is both gnarly and practical. Of course I said gnarly. Gnarly is a good thing. Rich Kid usually gets picked up out front of school in a Jaguar XJ12. I know; I know a lot about cars for a kid my age. My Dad sells them and I am kind of obsessed. An Aston Martin? Well, yes, I think they're the bomb. The bomb. Yes, that is a good thing. Where is it? Oh, I see. The Lake House sounds like a legit place for an Aston Martin. Sure, that would be fun; Saturday sounds awesome but first can we go shopping for a concert t-shirt for Rich Kid? 

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Goodbye #2

Please don't break up with me.

I won't know how to breathe, or what door to wait at to get into school, or how to walk past your locker.

Who will cover your books for you? You were never good at that brown paper bag thing. 

I have a real silver spoon out of your kitchen drawer from when you brought me a wrapped piece of your grandma's special dessert last Christmas. I also have your Walkman, your gray Nike sweatshirt, and your dyed electric blue rabbit's foot with your Stepdad's shed door key on it; and you still have my bike which, you might have forgotten, is in that shed for safekeeping. Bringing it back here will surely mean it'll be stolen in a week, just like my last two ten speeds. 

Do you really want that on your conscience?

Maybe your new girlfriend won't mind if I decide to stop by and grab my bike before school and then bring it back to the shed after school and maybe she won't even notice if I pick it up every weekend, now, too. 

You're right, I haven't ridden it all that much lately but my guts tell me that as of tomorrow, I'm going to be riding that bike 

All

The

Time. 

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