Sourdough and Pickle Cakes

The stay-at-home mandate put in place due to the COVID-19 pandemic has brought us the phrase “Quarantine 15.” Much like the Freshman 15 of college days, it refers to the weight gain that results from a drastic change in someone’s lifestyle.

Spend even a short amount of time on social media these days and you’ll see that many people are in their kitchens far more often than before the pandemic. If you weren’t tempted to go there on your own, the photos of the culinary creations folks are posting will make your own kitchen hard to resist.

I’ve never been much of a cook or baker. My mother set the bar so high that I figured it wasn’t even worth trying to follow in her footsteps. But I enjoy looking at what my Facebook friends are up to these days. Several of my male high school classmates are particularly prolific. While I’d expect them to be making some hearty fare for main courses, they seem to be putting as much time and effort into their desserts.

TV commercials have also taken note of the baking trend, and one trend in particular appears in several ads. “Why is everyone making sourdough now?” wonders an AT&T agent who is discussing upgrading to 5G with a client.  Of course, it has nothing to do with 5G, but it’s a great topical comment from the ad’s creative director.

A GEICO ad has been updated with a casual reference to this trend. A mother calls her son on his cell phone. She’s working on a jigsaw puzzle; he’s fending off multiple attackers as he waits for a helicopter to rescue him from a rooftop. Inserted into this latest version is the mom’s comment: “Your father’s learning to make sourdough.” In the original call in this campaign, she tells the son his father is researching genealogy. You can count on an ad agency creative to keep on top of the latest trends.

These commercials reflect a public fascination with sourdough during the pandemic. Google searches for “bread” recently hit all-time highs. For a period of time, a craft brewery in Toronto was giving away its sourdough starter for free with local beer deliveries, claiming to have passed out over 300 starters in a two week period in April.

Maybe it’s a consequence of cabin fever and boredom. Watching loaves of bread rise ever so slowly must be at least as interesting as watching paint dry. Apparently there’s some science behind it.  “Eating carbohydrate foods like bread stimulates insulin, which raises the uptake by the brain of the essential amino acid, tryptophan,” according to a professor of nutritional sciences at the University of Toronto. Tryptophan increases production of serotonin, which helps calm you in stressful times. Being able to eat more bread guilt-free might almost be worth being stuck at home. Just sayin’.

Another trend keeping folks tethered to their kitchens is cakes baked in unusual shapes. A New York Times article showed us cakes shaped and iced so realistically that you’d swear they are something else. The pickle cake was especially convincing, as were the onion and the cheeseburger slider. Times reporter Taylor Lorenz cited Natalie Sideserf, owner of Sideserf Cake Studio in Austin, Texas, who says many hyper-realistic cakes are made using fondant—a mix of sugar, water, gelatin and vegetable shortening, but claims she prefers to use chocolate molds.

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According to Lorenz, social media is filled with “hyper-realistic cake slicing videos.” The popularity of these videos seems to confirm the cabin fever/boredom explanation. Folks who have no interest in baking things themselves will sit transfixed in front of their computer screens, mesmerized by someone else slicing a bar of soap or a roll of toilet paper, only to reveal a cake inside.

For my part, I’d rather eat one of these marvels—whether it’s sourdough or a pickle cake—than watch it being made or sliced. So far, I haven’t found anyone who lives close enough to us to drop off any baked creations on our doorstep. If you’ve made something you’re willing to share, email me for my address. Just don’t expect me to make a video of us slicing it.

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

In Praise of Pigs

Part of the collateral damage from the COVID-19 pandemic has been a shortage of meat. Many processing plants have been shut down because of outbreaks of the disease. The domino effect of this is that cattle and pig ranchers have no place to sell their animals. A recent news feature showed a pig farm where the mature stock was being “humanely euthanized” to make room for the baby piglets to grow up. You needed a heart of lead to not feel sad about all those pigs being shot. Of course, absent the pandemic, they were headed to a fate that was no happier.

My husband and I don’t eat a lot of meat, other than chicken. We prefer fish. I stopped eating veal altogether years ago. I had seen photos of young calves kept in tiny stalls so they wouldn’t develop muscles and would stay tender until they were slaughtered. Now I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to eat a pork chop again. My husband and I have often toyed with becoming vegetarians. The pig TV feature has me considering this more seriously. It also led me to think about the places that pigs appear in our cultural psyche.

It starts when we’re babies and everyone around us wants to count on our toes. “This little piggy went to market; this little piggy stayed home.” And so on. There’s also the nursery rhyme: “To market, to market, to buy a fat pig. Home again, home again, jiggety-jig. To market, to market, to buy a fat hog. Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.” I sing this to my cats on the way back from the vet, letting them know that we’re headed home. I have no idea if they understand this, but it makes me feel better.

Early on, we learned about The Three Little Pigs, with their varying home construction materials and how those fared against the huffing and puffing of the Big Bad Wolf. Not long after that, we became familiar with Looney Tunes and P-P-P-Porky Pig and his girlfriend Petunia. As our literature selections became somewhat more sophisticated, we were no doubt introduced to Winnie the Pooh and his dearest friend, Piglet. And who can forget Wilbur, the pig who was saved from slaughter in Charlotte’s Web?

The Muppet, Miss Piggy, deserves a paragraph all her own, even if it’s just two sentences. She has an entire media and promotional empire built around her. The literary creation, Olivia, could give Miss Piggy a run for her money. Olivia has her own books, translated into many languages. Her original book won a Caldecott Honor in 2000. Both of these ladies were featured on U.S. Postal Service stamps, Miss Piggy in 2005 and Olivia in 2006.

Many celebrities have (or had) pet pigs, including George Clooney, Ariana Grande (who appears to have won the custody battle with Pete Davidson), the Beckhams, Miley Cyrus and countless others.

Let’s not forget colloquial expressions that feature pigs: a pig in a poke, in a pig’s eye, when pigs fly, male chauvinist pig. OK, maybe let’s forget that last one, but the other three are permanently entrenched in our lexicon. How about going hog wild and its cousin, going whole hog? Did you have a piggy bank? Ever get carried piggyback? Wear pig tails? And one that I could never do without: As happy as a pig in ____. (You fill in the blank.) Let’s end this exercise with a phrase that’s been showing up in political discourse lately: Put lipstick on a pig. I know there are more pig/hog/sow expressions, but my list should give you a sense of porcine usefulness in language.

This essay is by no means a complete survey of pigs in our culture, but I hope it makes you think twice the next time you order roast pork in a restaurant. Maybe the shortage of chops during the pandemic will result in permanent changes to our culinary behavior. For the sake of all those little porkers, I certainly hope so.

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

Pandemic Beauty Regimens

A friend contacted me during the stay-at-home phase of the COVID-19 pandemic to participate in a Zoom meeting with several other women. She described it as a chance to do hair and makeup, adding LOL at the end. LOL is right, thought I.

I keep my hair very short, getting it cut at least every 6 weeks. It will be 12 weeks out from its last cut when we Zoom. As for the makeup part, in a typical year, I put on makeup maybe five or six times. That’s not per week or month. That’s per year. It pretty much depends on how many weddings we go to. I stopped putting on makeup for funerals years ago. The mourners at funerals these days have eyesight as bad as my own. They’re just glad I can still show up and share memories.

So this “do hair and makeup” for my friend’s Zoom party got me thinking. Exactly what should I do to prepare for this event? I color my own hair. It’s a few weeks past its prime, but the roots aren’t really due for a while. Will the emerging gray show up more on the computer screen? I know those cameras magnify the tiniest details.

More importantly, how do I do the “styling?” I can’t just mush it with my fingers like I can when it’s short. It’s an understatement to describe my current look as raggedy. It’s more like extreme bed head. Years ago, I cut my own hair, but I’m not that flexible anymore. I’m sure I can’t reach around to the back now. I could draft my husband to help; I cut his hair, after all. But he has challenges to his vision for which the treatments are on hold during the pandemic. It would tempt fate to let him near my head with our barber shears.

I suddenly had a great idea. I’ll wear a hairband to push the wayward locks back from my face. It was a look I wore often when I was young and I still have a basket of bands in different materials and widths. A test run showed my hair isn’t long enough yet for those to work. I have plenty of scarves I could try tying on my head, but would I look like Rosie the Riveter?

I decided to defer a decision on my hair and move on to the makeup part of my friend’s suggestion. The other women on this Zoom call are all at least five or ten years younger than I am, so they have less mileage on their complexions. As I already mentioned, I never was one for a lot of makeup. I have a bottle of base coating from decades ago and lipstick that’s almost as old. Mostly I just do my brows and lashes and dust some color on my cheeks.

As I lean in to the mirror in my bathroom, I see that there are now wrinkles all around my eyes. When did they arrive? Probably about the same time as the crinkly lines I see around my mouth. I guess I haven’t leaned in that far in a long time. I realize there will be virtually no chance of hiding any of these without a major spackling job, and I’m not about to get into that. It’s not like I’m going to someone’s wedding, after all.

The close-up does remind me that I’ll need to pluck all my chin hairs the day before the call. Ditto for shaving the fuzz on the sides of my face with that special device I found in the “As Seen On TV” section of the local drug store. I decide I should also spend some time thinking about the lighting around the area where I plan to sit when we Zoom.

I get my laptop and try out a few locations, being sure to do it at the same time of day as the get together is scheduled. We have windows on four sides of our condo, but only two sides are options that make any sense. I try out a few spots, having first removed a cat or two from the place I plan to sit.

Good grief! My neck wattle shines like a distress signal in the fog! No matter how I angle the laptop or reposition the chair, there’s no getting rid of that glow. It seems like the only solution will be a Dr. Brix-type camouflage—I have plenty of scarves, after all. Of course, that means I’ll have to coordinate my hair scarf with the one on my neck, which will take some doing. Then the perfect idea came to me: I’ll just wear my COVID-19 facemask. It hides everything.

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

Grocery Shopping During COVID-19

Going out to a supermarket is an act of bravery during the COVID-19 pandemic. I go about once a week with a grocery list that I’m sure is going to tide us over for at least two weeks. It never does. It’s not that we eat a lot. Certain things that we’re almost out of just aren’t on the shelf the day I go shopping.

I wear a mask and bring along my Lysol wipes, but those widely publicized precautions barely scratch the surface of the challenges that grocery shopping presents these days. I realized that as I replied to a comment someone made on Facebook.

The posting complained that Governor Gretchen Whitmer of Michigan had just declared that stores of more than 50,000 sq. ft. could have only four customers at a time per 1000 sq. ft. He said that results in social distancing of about 15 ft. instead of the federal guideline of 6 ft. Here’s my reply (based on experience two days earlier):

I'd rather allow extra room. The only way a 6 ft. rule would work is if everyone shopped and moved along at the same pace. Else they'd be closer than 6 ft. part of the time. Even with a shopping list, I find myself backtracking and mulling over the stock, trying to decide what to pick up. Shelves are so bare that I'm often forced to substitute. Like, do I want to pay more for a national brand of chicken broth to get no-salt? Or do I want to go with lower price and have to get beef broth, with salt (or various permutations there-of). And that was one of my easier decisions this week. Would you want to be the shopper stuck 6 feet behind me?

The 15 ft. rule would be especially helpful in stores that now have made their narrow aisles one-way. Those are a nightmare for me. The overhead signs never seem to list all the categories. First I roll my cart to the end of the aisle to find a variety of canned beans for chili. As I’m ticking them off my list, I see that I also need canned tuna. More often than not that’s at the other end of the same aisle, but I didn’t notice it when I wheeled by. In a store with one-way aisles, I'd have to go one aisle over and backtrack to the beginning of the aisle with the tuna and beans.

It's not any easier in the cat food aisle, especially if you're shopping for one finicky senior and two who will eat anything. Add to that the fact that the store staff sometimes mix the Fancy Feast chicken paté in with the beef and chicken paté. Both have red labels, one slightly darker. My finicky girl eats beef and chicken, but she’s not as keen on plain chicken. They also sometimes mix flaked salmon in with the salmon paté. Paté is  a safer bet for older cats. I could go on, but I see that your eyes are glazing over.

My recent trip tried my patience. A man was blocking the door of the main egg case, trying to decide which ones to buy. His female companion, behind him on her phone, was providing no guidance. I stood 6 feet away for a few minutes and finally just took a more expensive carton from the neighboring case.

As if shopping for our normal groceries isn’t challenge enough these days, being sequestered at home has led to binge eating comfort food. I rarely bought potato chips before. Now it’s on the list every time I go shopping. Have you ever noticed how long the chips aisle is? Lays sells classic chips and originals (what’s the difference??), honey barbecue and barbecue (?? again), salt & vinegar and sour cream & onion. Supposedly there are over 160 varieties of Lays chips. It’s no wonder I get confused in that aisle. And I haven’t even touched on corn chips.

Fortunately for me, we prefer original types, like Cape Cod kettle cooked. But even that brand comes in multiple flavors. In most stores, chips are stocked by brand, but some have the larger bags are at one end and smaller ones at the other. More often than not, I temporarily abandon my cart and walk up and down trying to figure out what's on sale that's binge-worthy.

The cookie aisle isn’t much easier to navigate and the transition from cookies to crackers is not always easy to follow. More back tracking. It should come as no surprise that grocery shopping during COVID-19 is so stressful that my cart has a lot more binge-worthy products than I had on my list when I left the house. At times like these, it’s critical to have a variety of comfort food on hand to survive each day’s news.

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

Horror Vacui

I’ve become enamored of the phrase: “horror vacui”. It came onto my radar through an article in the NY Times about the auction of the belongings of the late decorator/collector/hoarder, Mario Buatta, aka the Prince of Chintz. Buatta, who was unknown to me until the article, was described as a maximalist. A man after my own heart. I believe that a blank space on the wall is crying out to have something hung on it. My husband, on the other hand, is a minimalist. We’re a classic example of opposites attracting.

I was thrilled to learn that my affliction has a name. One of Buatta’s colleagues said of him that he “had a horror vacui of a plain surface.” The term is generally applied to visual art, especially on walls, but it can refer to a wide range of décor, such as tables and shelves. Simply put, horror vacui leads to the filling of the entire surface of a space or an artwork with detail. It’s also known as kenophobia, the fear of empty spaces, rooms or voids, and is the opposite of claustrophobia.

There is no shame in acknowledging that you have a horror vacui. Even Aristotle believed that nature abhors a vacuum. I feel so much better now that I know I’m not simply an incorrigible hoarder. I always believed there was a psychological basis for my collecting (a term I prefer to hoarding).

I saw my behavior as compassionate anthropomorphizing. I felt that one of something was lonely and needed a friend, so I’d seek out a second. Then whenever I came across another related item, I was compelled to bring it home to introduce it to the others. As I’m writing this, it occurs to me that “compassionate anthropomorphizing”—a description I just now made up—sounds like more of an affliction than horror vacui.

Getting back to this evocative newfound term, it dawned on me that the dislike of a vacuum can apply to a lot more things in life than just visual décor. Take for instance anatomy. Certain women’s surgeries leave a void in their aftermath. I’m thinking in particular of hysterectomies. No one prepares you for the fact that removing your various reproductive organs leaves an empty space behind.

Just as nature abhors a vacuum, so also does the female body. Over time, things move around. Without getting too graphic, I urge you to think of what else is down in that area of the anatomy. Things shift; they change shape; they twist. Your stomach expands, so you eat more. Your intestines spread out, so your colonoscopy takes longer. Sorry. I guess I did get too graphic. It takes a period of adjustment to get used to these changes.

As I mulled this over, it occurred to me that the medical community should come up with some ideas for how to fill that vacuum so there is no horror months later. As you might expect, I have some suggestions.

How about packing that void with Styrofoam peanuts? Of course, they’ll need to be biocompatible ones, but not biodegradable. Otherwise you’d have to go in every few years to get repacked. Not a pleasant thought.

I suppose it’s too ridiculous to consider adapting that space to become a convenient dispenser for disposable personal wipes. They’d certainly be handy down there. And yes, I know these should never be flushed. Moving right along…

My favorite idea is one that could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Let’s fill that vacuum with delicately fragrant potpourri. That might require more extensive R&D than the Styrofoam peanuts, but I’m sure it would be worth it.

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

The Latest Weird Trends

Every now and then I like to report on the latest weird trends. Two that I’ve noticed lately seem geared toward helping folks deal with anger and stress. The first is the growth of an offbeat physical hobby—axe throwing.

My first exposure to this was small signs along the roadside when I was running errands. The signs looked temporary, like the ones that advertise local blood drives or craft shows at the middle school. They included an address nearby. At first I thought it was for a pop-up event. Then I saw signs on a different route, for a different address. Still not what looked like a permanent sign, but it had me questioning how a relatively small area of Connecticut could support more than one place for axe throwing.

This led me to wonder if you need to bring your own gear—protective equipment, weaponry, etc. Or is it more like bowling, where you show up, and the fee to use the lane includes the shoes and ball? Does one even throw an axe in a lane? I wasn’t curious enough to research this. As stressed as I am about the political scene, I’ve yet to reach the point where I’m ready to toss lethal weapons around. Of course, November is a long way off.

Then I saw an axe-throwing commercial on a local TV station. Those ads are a lot more expensive than makeshift roadside signs. A quick online search turned up several places in my area where I can partake in this anger-releasing activity. The nearest site to me—Axe-it!—encourages you to book a party. Corporate Team Building, Birthday and Bachelor/ette. One FAQ suggests wearing closed-toed shoes (surprise, surprise). And yes, shoes are available for rent. They encourage you to sign their waiver on-line to save time at check-in. And no, I didn’t read the waiver, but I can easily imagine what’s in it.

I’ll be curious to hear if any of my readers have thrown an axe—legally or otherwise. Meanwhile, I’m moving on to the second weird trend: Elderberry Syrup. This age-old elixir is an anti-inflammatory, rich in antioxidants. It’s purported to fight colds, the flu and viruses. With the Coronavirus consuming much of the media bandwidth, can anyone be surprised that elderberry is growing in popularity? It also seems inevitable that this juice will soon be in competition with CBDs to relieve stress.

Before you become too enamored of this miracle drink, let’s take a look back into movie history and revisit Cary Grant’s 1944 classic Arsenic and Old Lace. For those unfamiliar with it, here’s a recap. Grant’s two eccentric elderly aunts rent rooms to lonely old bachelors. They serve them poison-laden elderberry wine to liberate them from their “suffering.” They initially hide the bodies in their window seat, which is where their nephew finds one on a visit. Grant’s disturbed uncle Teddy thinks these corpses are yellow fever victims who got the disease while building the Panama Canal, so he buries them in the basement of his sisters’ house.

Grant assumes that the delusional Teddy is behind the window seat murder, until his aunts cheerfully explain what they’ve done. They spiked their elderberry wine with arsenic, strychnine and cyanide, and then offered it as a welcoming drink to each elderly bachelor who responds to their “Room for Rent” sign. The comedy just keeps getting sillier. I’m sure it was the inspiration for a classic episode of Fawlty Towers. Suffice it to say that Arsenic and Old Lace is an apt title for this film. But it really should have been Arsenic, Old Lace and Elderberry Wine. Rent it, buy it, download it, but however you get it, watch it, even if you’ve seen it before.

My husband brought home some elderberry syrup for us. It’s actually quite pleasant. I’m not sure how much of a virus shield it provides, but I’ll keep drinking it now and then. Axe-throwing, on the other hand, will never be a hobby I take up. I’m way too clumsy for that. Even with close-toed shoes, I’d be likely to come home missing at least one of my little piggies.

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

Things That Are Scarier Than the Election

Like many Americans, I find the discussions surrounding the upcoming presidential election distressing. The prospect of who might win in November is a major source of anxiety for me. In hopes of making this blog less political, I won’t say which person alarms me the most, but you can probably guess.

Some people cope with their fears by going to a shrink, but that’s not an option for me. Those professionals are inundated with new clients; plus I’m on a fixed income. I’ve been considering other ways to address this problem. I’ve come up with a surefire way to stop worrying about who will be our next president. I’m gathering ideas that are even scarier than the possible (or—bite my tongue—probable) election results.

I considered fear of an economic meltdown and spiraling health care costs, but they cause me only mild agita. Besides, those are either cyclical, or their trajectory can be altered with committed changes in policy.  The explosive growth of bulletproof clothing and backpacks aren’t personally relevant for me. If I want to block out the election process, I need to focus on worries that will be irreversible and that hit me directly.

The first one that came to mind that met that criterion is our environment. And by “our” I mean the world’s. The consequences of climate change are just one aspect of what gives me a knot in my stomach. The arctic permafrost is thawing and there’s no return from that. There’s also air pollution, water contamination and the destruction of habitats for endangered species. Denial of global warming is just the tip of the environmental destruction iceberg. The rollback of regulations that were put into place to protect our world is making the prospects for our future even scarier. This is definitely something to keep me awake at night.

Here’s something else to keep me up: fake news. I’m not talking about the countless lies that are promulgated on Facebook and certain cable channels. I’m terrified about the direction that improved technology is taking us. Video editing capabilities are advancing rapidly. They will soon reach the point where even the most experienced techies will not be able to determine if a piece of taped footage has been altered.

I’m not talking about those ham-fisted memes any of us can tell have been doctored. In the future, even the experts won’t be able to detect fake pieces. That means one party to an argument will be able to put someone’s face on someone else’s body. They’ll be able to cobble together audio of a person’s voice to say things they never uttered in reality. This scares me even more than 1984’s Big Brother. Simply put, none of us will know what news is true and what’s fake.

If I reach the point where I’m inured to threats to our environment (unlikely) and to fabricated reality (a distinct possibility), there will always be mega companies like Amazon, Google and Facebook to set off my alarm bells. Some folks would include Apple on this list, but I’m a die-hard Mac user, so Apple doesn’t bother me. These giants are controlling more and more of our daily lives. From the products we use and consume to the information to which we’re exposed, a handful of Goliaths are spreading their tentacles ever deeper into our existence.

They’re increasingly forcing mom and pop operations out of business; not just brick and mortar stores, but also smaller on-line companies. Why “shop small” if you can get it cheaper on Amazon, and delivered quickly, at that? And you can’t easily buy from a local supplier if you can’t find them when you search using a monopolistic engine.

The end point of this control is that eventually we could all be doing the equivalent of driving black Ford Model-T’s in many aspects of our lives. Trading choice for convenience. And we won’t even realize it’s happening until it’s too late. Trivia note: from 1914 through 1925, the only color the Model T came in was black. If Facebook continues to expand, we may be unable to escape the manipulation of our social media lives as well. Scary prospects indeed.

So here are three trends that could easily paralyze me if I contemplate them too much. Their one redeeming quality is that they keep me from stressing over the upcoming presidential election. Right now that’s a swap I’m willing to accept. Feel free to make suggestions for other scary thoughts for me to consider. November is a long way away.

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

Banned Words and Phrases 2020

Apologies to those who have been awaiting my annual list of banned words and phrases. An end-of-year crisis with the water in our house put me off my game. The winter concert for the community band I’m in consumed the first week of January. I’ve come up for air, but only just realized that I’m well past my due date for this post. As with the lists for 2018 and 2019, many of my 2020 entries come from the political arena and the media, which these days are pretty much synonymous sources.

My first and most obvious choice to ban is ‘quid pro quo’. There’s no way to deny the need to get rid of this phrase. Since I’m late with my list this year, I’m aware that Lake Superior State University has already claimed this as the single most suggested word/phrase to ban in 2020. Good on them.

I’m compelled to revisit (but not count for 2020) several words that were previously banned but are like those burs that stick to your clothes and you can’t get rid of them. We still have the ubiquitous ‘fake news’ and ‘collusion’ that I banned in 2018, and ‘witch hunt’ that I banned in 2019. This year, let’s pull the plug on another of 45’s favorites: ‘hoax.’ Like the other three, it’s been used so fraudulently that it no longer has any meaning. I want to give them all a mass interment.

Let’s face it. As long as 45 is in office, no list of my banned words and phrases is complete without a few hopeless entries. Here’s another one on my ‘wishful thinking’ sub-list. No more ‘temper tantrums.’ You can’t talk about them and our national toddler-in-chief can’t have them. I know. Good luck with that.

Here’s one without any political influence. I’m done with ‘Period. Full stop.’ This is a classic example of redundancy. Use one or the other. Make a decision. Period. End of story. Or end of paragraph anyway.

I’m begging Madison Avenue to find alternative ways to talk about issues ‘down there’. Stop tormenting us with Cottonelle’s “Down There Care.” Eeeuw! But it’s not just toilet paper commercials that use that. There are many other ads with this phrase, touting everything from better hygiene and manscaping to sexual performance issues. (I can just imagine the ads I’ll be seeing after researching this phrase.)

The expression ‘Excuse Me’ is a passive-aggressive response when used by someone who has been interrupted, especially during an interview. It means: “I’m asking you to excuse me when what I really want to communicate is that I have no intention of excusing you for interrupting me.” Oh, snap! (By the way, I love ‘snap!’ so don’t expect me to ban that anytime soon.) But fie on ‘excuse me.’

Here are two phrases that are over-used by candidates in the Democratic primary. I’m done with ‘The fact of the matter is…’ Sorry, Joe Biden. Find another way to bridge the temporal gap between your brain process and your mouth delivery. I’m also so over Elizabeth Warren’s ‘A Plan for That.’ It seems like she’s cut back on this recently, so maybe she’ll be cool with giving it up altogether. Unfortunately, in the final debate before the Iowa caucuses, Amy Klobochar picked up Elizabeth’s pet phrase. Pundits called her out on it, so let’s hope it was a one-off. (Ditto for 45’s term in office.)

As a fan of The View and Saturday Night Live, I should feel bad about my next entry on this year’s banned list. Thank you, Joy Behar, for providing ‘Who cares?’ and the variation ‘So what?’ I’m also including ‘Says who?’ which is close enough to join the other two in a single entry. SNL actors will have to find other ways to parody Joy, because I care. Anyone who worries about the state of the environment and any number of other important issues should also care.

Finally, I’m outlawing my personal bugaboo: ‘Chillax.’ Have you ever heard someone say: “I’m going to chillax today”? Of course not. This ‘chill’ and ‘relax’ hybrid is never used in the first person. It’s always directed at someone else. Especially someone openly decrying what’s happening to our world, our earth, our almost everything. When I’m told to chillax, I just get more riled up than I was to start with. No matter how well-meaning you might be, telling someone to chillax never deescalates the situation. Even though you'll want to use it a lot this year, just strike it from your verbal tool kit.

There you have it—this year’s list of ten deplorables. I trust it was worth the wait.

Copyright 2020 Business Theatre Unlimited

Sounds of Distant Memories

When we think about which of our senses bring back memories of our youth, we generally think of smells or tastes. That’s probably because much of our early years are spent in the kitchens and dining rooms of the homes we grew up in. Of course, our sense of sight also comes to mind, especially when we’re looking at photo albums (paper or electronic).

I particularly remember the smell of lilacs and honeysuckle, which grew behind our house. My bedroom window faced our backyard and it was almost always open on summer nights. And of course, I think of the smell of a freshly cut evergreen when we brought the Christmas tree into the house. That’s what I miss most now that I’ve done the previously unthinkable and gone artificial. Just one more capitulation brought about by an aging body.

When we reflect on our past, most of us rarely think of the sounds of distant memories. But they can be just as powerful as sights and smells and tastes. When I was watering the plants on our deck this summer, a sound caught my attention. We had several small Amercian flags attached to the posts on the deck railings. What I heard was the flags gently snapping in the breeze. A wave of nostalgia washed over me. It took a minute to understand what was happening.

I was remembering warm summer days on the lake where I grew up. On weekends, I’d take my board boat out to a quiet area along the rocky shore, drop the sail and lie in the sun. The wind on the lake was highly changeable. On the trip to my chosen spot, it often shifted direction with little warning, setting the sail to flapping with a sound much like the flags were making. That small snippet of sound brought back such wonderful memories, ones that seldom bubble up to the surface. Memories of other boats I owned, other places I sailed years ago.

We also have a wind chime out on the deck. The tinkling sound it makes is soothing. It, too, brings back memories, though I’m still trying to figure out where they are taking me. I know it’s somewhere I loved to be. Perhaps it was the first house I owned with my former significant other. My sister gave us a Woodstock chime when we moved in. After we went our separate ways and I had a house on my own, I hung wind chimes as a welcoming gesture to myself. I often give these as house-warming or wedding presents to friends. It’s impossible to feel stressed when you hear a wind chime.

Some sounds send a slight chill up my spine, a frisson of pleasure remembered. One in particular that does that is the whining sound of motorcycle gears shifting in the distance. Then the sound of the machine accelerating, heading farther away from me. It reminds me of summer nights during my college years. Several young men I dated had bikes. I’d sit behind them, arms around their chests, as we headed off on some adventure. That sound is somehow melancholy, especially at night. I think it’s because it’s what I’d hear after the adventure was over, when the young man was heading home. These days I’m sad because I’m not on the back of the bike that I’m hearing.

Some sounds trigger bittersweet memories. That happens when I hear metal scraping on asphalt. My best friend died of lung cancer when she was just sixty. She’d never smoked a day in her life. She’s been gone eleven years now and I still cry when I think about our lost friendship. We met when I lived in New Jersey and we both worked at a large corporation in Manhattan. For a short period of time before she moved back to Rhode Island where her husband lived, she stayed with me.

The first week she was there, I was startled one night by sound of a metal trash barrel being dragged from behind the house, down the driveway to the street. It turned out that in Rhode Island, folks put their barrels on the curb on trash day. Not so where I lived in New Jersey; the men came around the house to get them. We were both laughing as we dragged those cans back up the driveway, making that distinctive sound again. Often when I hear that now, memories of my funny, smart and loyal friend come back to me. I cry a little; I smile a lot. And I’m grateful for all those sounds of distant memories.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

"Fishing" for Seniors

Many of you will have heard of “catfishing.” It’s the scam used on social media sites wherein a person pretends to be someone totally different from who they really are in an effort to get personal information from strangers. I recently read about “dogfishing.” That’s a ploy that singles use as a way to meet other singles. They borrow a cute dog from someone and take it to a public place, hoping to catch the attention of someone who might not otherwise notice them.

The thinking is that cute dogs are irresistible, making their owners more attractive. Of course, this is a bait-and-switch game, since the person who borrowed Pepper doesn’t have a dog of his or her own. But the hope is that by the time the ruse is exposed, a legitimate connection will have been made. This seems harmless enough, so I decided to adapt the concept especially for single seniors.

My husband and I live on a golf course, but we don’t play. It turns out many of our neighbors don’t either and some of them are single. This gave me an idea. If you happen to be similarly situated, don’t let this prevent you from attracting the attention of a desirable mate. Just go “golffishing.” Borrow a bag and some clubs from a friend or neighbor. Position yourself near the golf cart rental station and wait for a potential mate to strike up a conversation. You might have to tip one of the staff if you plan to be there awhile, but it will be worth it.

“Golffishing” not your game? Here’s an option anyone can use: “cheffishing.” Even if all you can do is boil water, you can work this one to your advantage. Invite a group of single seniors to a brunch to sample your favorite appetizers. Order them from one of those on-line delivery services. Be sure to toss the food containers into your trash bins in the garage before anyone arrives. Scatter some appropriate recipe cards around your kitchen counter. The saying is that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Truth is: women are just as taken by a man who can cook, especially if he cleans up after himself. By the time anyone figures out that you ordered in, you’ll likely have found some other common ground to mitigate your deception.

Let’s work with a quality many folks are drawn to: physical fitness. For this one, invest in some famous label exercise gear. Under Armour is popular now. Get yourself a senior membership at a local workout place, preferably not the Y. Suit up and go “gymfishing.” This is another ploy that will work equally for both sexes. Someone who is an exercise fanatic normally won’t look twice at a person who is out of shape. And let’s face it, most seniors are. But if you seem like you’re serious about toning up, it’s a whole other ballgame. Nothing says serious better than  $150 worth of spandex and a pricey gym membership.

If physical fitness isn’t in your wheelhouse, how about reading? Even faux intellectuals can pull this one off. Joining a book club may seem obvious, but unless you’re a widower, it’s not a good idea. First, you’d have to actually read the selected book if you expect to last more than one session. Second, if you’re female, you’ll be in competition with several other women. Many of them will be vying for the attention of the scarce men to be found at these gatherings. The best places for bookfishing are your local library or a quiet park bench. Wear your reading glasses.

Of course, the ultimate come-on for most seniors is the doting grandparent. Women in particular find that irresistible. If you have grandchildren of your own, borrow them for this gambit even if they drive you crazy. Don’t have your own? Ask around your neighborhood. There’s bound to be a harried mom somewhere who’ll be grateful to have you watch Junior for a few hours. The trick with “grandfishing” is to find the right venue to settle into with your charge. Indoor malls where seniors go to walk in small groups is a good place to start. With just one little fellow in tow, you’ll have the chance to check out several potential matches.

These are just a few suggestions to get you started. Pay attention to what seems to interest the singles in your community and you’ll get other “fishing” ideas that could work for you. Of course, there’s always that universal lure—“dogfishing.” Why not borrow a dog from the local shelter? At our age there’s no shame in what we do for love. You might even decide to adopt for real.

Copyright 2019 Elaine M. Decker

Redacted Revisionist Obituary

My last blog, revisionist obituaries, was inspired by something I read about a former colleague. It described his wife as the love of his life and him as a devoted father and grandfather. Definitely not the man I remember, and I wrote: “Talk about a revisionist obituary.” I then proceeded to write my own, well in advance, I hope. The post received many comments, quite a few of which seemed to think my essay was an accurate description of me. In the spirit of full disclosure, here is the redacted version of my revisionist obituary.

Throughout her life, as she clawed her way up the corporate ladder in a male-dominated profession, Elaine was anything but easy-going and non-confrontational. She was often described as having brass ones. She was known for her quick wit and sense of humor, which frequently sank into the gutter. Her lengthy work hours and long commute gave her an excuse for not keeping a tidy home, though she did clean twice a year or whenever she was expecting company.

She didn’t even try to follow in her mother’s footsteps as an outstanding baker. As for her cooking—she had a handful of meals that were generally edible. But she did a great job with her mother’s recipe for Italian meatballs and pasta sauce.

Elaine had an on and off relationship with exercise and had a similar relationship with being trim and fit. She would probably have needed to wear Omar-the-tentmaker muumuus were it not for her good genes, growing up with lots of outdoor activities, and a short but intense few years as a fencer during high school. The ship of her seven-minute mile sailed when she was in her forties, and she huffed and puffed her way through a twenty-minute mile from her sixties onward.

Her skill level in the distaff arts was indeed unsurpassed. Sewing, knitting, crocheting. You name it, she did it well. It is true that she won first prize in Colgate Palmolive’s Holiday Doll Pageant thirteen years in a row for outfits she designed and made for dolls going to disadvantaged children. In her later years, however, she failed miserably in learning to use a glue gun. Her crafts were full of those telltale spider-web strings, a sure giveaway that she didn’t let go of the trigger quickly enough.

Her community service was hit or miss, since she never had much patience for politics, but she was a dedicated supporter of animal rescue groups. A refrigerator magnet reading “Patron Saint of Senior Cats” would be a nice token of remembrance, if anyone wants to get one made.

Elaine had several long-term relationships in her life. In her later years, she learned that a few (not the ‘many’ of her revisionist obituary) men secretly thought of her as the love of their life. Women called her a true and faithful friend. All would tell you (with a straight face) that they never exchanged a mean word or had a single heated argument in all their years together. Then they’d laugh until tears rolled down their cheeks.

Though she never had any children of her own, Elaine was beloved by her nieces and nephew and grandnieces and grandnephew. “Aunt E” could always be counted on to make everyone laugh. Their memories of good times with her, along with the hundreds of books and essays she published, will guarantee that she will not be forgotten any time soon.

Actually, I think this last paragraph was fine as written. At least I hope so.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited

Revisionist Obituaries

Recently I came across the obituary of a former colleague. We’d worked together decades ago at a large corporation. Our respective positions occasionally found us traveling together to various U.S. locations. On more than one of these trips, the colleague, a married man, tried to hit on me. He was known to be a prolific skirt chaser, so I wasn’t surprised. What did surprise me, however, was what I read in his obituary. “He is survived by his wife of 53 years, Anna, who was the love of his life.”

“Really?” I thought. He was also described as a devoted father and grandfather. That didn’t exactly track with what I remembered him telling me over drinks at more than one hotel bar. He often mentioned that he was missing yet another birthday party. He joked that his travel schedule gave him an excuse to avoid attending his kids’ sports events. Talk about a revisionist obituary.

I’m sure his family wasn’t the first to sanitize the facts of their deceased loved one’s life. I doubt that my relatives would do the same for me. It’s not that they don’t love me or that they wouldn’t want to put in the effort. It just would never occur to them that I might want a few of my questionable choices over the years to be revisioned. I’ve decided that the best way to handle this is to provide some choice paragraphs for them to keep on hand for my own obituary. So, here goes.

Throughout her life, even as she clawed her way up the corporate ladder in a male-dominated profession, Elaine remained easy-going and non-confrontational. She was known for her quick wit and sense of humor, which never sank into the gutter. Despite her lengthy work hours and long commute, she somehow managed to keep a tidy home.

Although it took decades for her to manage it, she eventually followed in her mother’s footsteps and became an outstanding baker. What can we say about her cooking? Well, she had a handful of go-to meals that were several notches above just being edible. At the time of her passing, well into her 100’s, she was working on a variation of her signature recipe for Italian meatballs.

Elaine had an on and off relationship with exercise, but was surprisingly trim and fit, given her build. She credited this to good genes, growing up with lots of outdoor activities, and a short but intense few years as a fencer during high school. Though she rarely shared this factoid, she could still do a seven-minute mile when she was in her eighties. Ever considerate of her slower senior neighbors, however, she chose not to run when anyone was with her.

Her skill level in the distaff arts was unsurpassed. Sewing, knitting, crocheting. You name it, she did it well. She won first prize in Colgate Palmolive’s Holiday Doll Pageant thirteen years in a row for outfits she designed and made for dolls going to disadvantaged children. In her later years, she became an expert in the use of the glue gun to create unique crafts that she gifted to appreciative friends or donated to local charity bazaars.

Her community service was so impressive that she was named “Woman of the Year” a dozen times by various organizations throughout the Northeast. Unfortunately, any evidence and details of these awards did not survive her last few household moves. We assume that many involved animal rescue groups. A magnet on her refrigerator read “Patron Saint of Senior Cats.”

Elaine had several long-term relationships in her life. Many men thought of her as the love of their life, even though she probably didn’t know it. Women called her a true and faithful friend. All insisted they never exchanged a mean word or had a single heated argument in all the years they spent together.

Though she never had any children of her own, Elaine was beloved by her nieces and nephew and grandnieces and grandnephew. “Aunt E” could always be counted on to make everyone laugh. Their memories of good times with her, along with the hundreds of books and essays she published, will guarantee that she will not be forgotten any time soon.

Feel free to use my revisionist obituary as a template for your own. You’ll be gone when it gets distributed, so go for greatness. Lord knows, I just did.

Copyright 2019 Business Theatre Unlimited