Birthday Thoughts

I have always hated my birthday—and I mean always—even and especially when I was little.

Because not only did it fall in summertime when school was out and there was no opportunity to share cupcakes with classmates at snacktime, my birthday almost always fell on Labor Day weekend.

Labor Day weekend marks the end of playtime. It is the unwanted ticket to homework and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It is when pools and beaches shut down--lobster shacks hide behind whitewashed boards.  It is the time when flip-flops and sneakers are switched out for shoes.

My birthday was always a harbinger of doom—a send-off to academic prison.

And now that I am older, it is a bit better—but still not so much. Department stores are still in transition—there is nothing good to buy to satisfy the void. Everyone is distracted by their own spiral of plans. Things get left behind.

But the pit is an opportunity to rise up and take charge—to use calculated information wisely. The pit is the final resting place of fallen ash—the point of dusting off. Because all birthdays—even and especially those on Labor Day weekend are like New Year’s Day. They are the time for a new start—like the crack of an untouched marble composition notebook opening for the first time. The lines are blank—in wait of words.

And so promise begins and hope takes hold. Because the past cannot be changed—only the future. Plans move forward to ensure that this time things will be different—that this revised formula will be the perfect balance. And when the candles extinguish and the grey smoke rises up, maybe this time  I will be compelled to say out loud: now that was a great birthday!

ADD and Scorekeeping

I was a good student. I listened and raised my hand. I got good grades and handed in my assignments on time.

I was always engaged.

But I was also the person in class who diverted the discussion. I was the tangent-maker. I would pay such attention to the lesson that I would curiously inquire  But is that always the case? Which would inevitably lead to some other teacher-ly thoughts outside of the lesson plan.

This need to go off course is a mutant form of ADD: Attention Divergence Disorder.

It means: habitual meandering from the topic.

It means: my interests lie outside of the box.

In Robert Frost terms it means inquisitively investigating the road less traveled by.

And this is what I was thinking about at the US Open Qualifiers the other day—how I could never be the person sitting in the chair keeping the score. I would find too many other things beckoning me from the job at hand. I could not simply count point after point and enter them into the computer. I would think Why is that player continuing to make drop shots when it is clear from the 20 failed attempts that that isn’t a good play? I would look around at the crowd and wonder Is that guy the coach or just a really dedicated fan? I would wonder why a stance was so peculiar or what the player was saying in their native tongue.

All that divergent thinking would impede my record keeping. Too many of my thoughts would lie outside of my demands.

Because tangent-makers do not make good scorekeepers. A scorekeeper’s role is to count without investment---to remain in a vacuum—to have Attention Revert-gence Disorder. They must remain on the road well traveled by. Because the only points that count in tennis are the ones that fall inside and not outside of the "box".

The Ant and his Uncles

I need a few questions answered that I cannot ask. They are a bit delicate—and they all revolve around gay marriage.

 I am curious to know what the protocol is—do gay couples keep their own names when they marry and if they don’t which partner surrenders it? How do they choose? And what about the offspring of gay families—especially if surrogates or donor eggs and sperm are involved--what does the birth certificate look like? What last name is chosen for the child?  

Because things are complicated—particularly for children—and particularly when they get to school. Formerly, class lists had a column each for the  mothers’ and fathers’ name—who’s name goes where if there are 2 Mommies or 2 Daddies? Who is the designated class Mom in the 2 Mommy scenario and in the case of the  2 Dad scenario?

Inquiring minds like me want to know.

Because if the ant was confused to find out that all his uncles were “ants,” imagine how confused the human will be when asked to fill in  his/her mother’s maiden name on the profile form for their SAT.

Gatekeepers

A higher up in PTA expressed her disapproval at my candor with the new principal. She pulled me aside and very brusquely said : You have to stop telling her [the principal] about all these things—because once she knows, she will be obligated to do something about it.

During the second heat wave this summer it became obvious to everyone in my household that the second zone air conditioning unit was failing to keep the upper floors cool. And when I called the repair company to report my dissatisfaction I was met with a woman who explained that during record heat, it was normal to experience fluctuations in temperature within the house-- and since the unit was checked the week before and found to be in working order there was nothing more that could be done about it.

 I reminded her that the point of central air conditioning was climate control, and if this was normal, then I needed a new normal. I thus requested to speak with the engineer.

And I read today that a man discovered a way to circumvent all the security controls on Facebook. The man then attempted to report his hacking ability to the underlings at the company so that the problem could be resolved. But the man was ignored. And so this hacker used his knowledge to illegally post about his newly acquired skill on Mark Zuckerburg’s personal Facebook page.

And I, completely understand the role of the gatekeeper. They are the person responsible for keeping the kingdom (as well as the King) running in a high performance mode. They sift through the debris to find that which is of value. They pan tirelessly with little reward.

 But it can make them a bit too heady. And as a result they make decisions not for them to decide.

They impede, rather than promote progress.

Because a gatekeepers job is to keep the gate—not rule the kingdom. They should be a conduit of information—not the editor. Principals, engineers and CEOs cannot fix that which they have no knowledge of being broken.  Which is why I ignored the PTA higher up, I enjoy a climate controlled second and third floor courtesy of the engineer, and the glitch in Facebook has been corrected.

 

A Teachable Moment

When my brother, my cousin and I were little, Nonny, our grandmother, would always sneak away from the adults and find us with her change purse in hand. She would hand each of us a quarter (which was probably the equivalent of a $5 bill in today’s world) and ask Are you going to spend it or are you going to save it for college?

The three of us knew the correct answer.

I was a visitor at a physical rehabilitation center a few times a week over the course of 4 weeks this past summer.

It was not the most uplifting experience or destination. The hallways of the facility were littered with patients unable to self-navigate without steel-reinforced equipment. It was a sad reminder of the perils of age. The air was thick with surrender.

But not so much on Sundays. On Sundays, the rehab center had a different atmosphere. It had some to do with the bounty of human visitors, but it mostly had to do with the bounty of canine visitors.

Sunday was the day the therapy dogs came calling. It was the day I leapt over people in wheel chairs and walkers to get some loving attention from furry friends on lend.

It is also the day that my guilt bubbled up—and not just because I thoughtlessly hogged therapy time from the people for which it was intended. It was because I realized that my dog Cosmo, who descended from a long line of therapy dogs, had the temperament and intelligence that would have made him a star pupil had I sent him to Canine Service School.

I remained steeped in guilt over the fact that I had denied my goldendoodle his education.

He is the only one of my children without a diploma from an institution of higher learning.

And so that old commercial from the United Negro College Fund replayed in my head: A mind is terrible thing to waste.

And my brother, my cousin, and I knew that my grandmother asked us that question with her change purse in hand as a means to lead us in the right direction. Issuing a quarter was not so much a financial transaction as much as a teachable moment: Nonny wanted us to understand the value of education. She wanted us to appreciate that college was in all ways an investment—an aspiration that required sacrifice. But it was also something with limitless reward—the least of which was pride.

And pride she had—as did we. Especially when we answered I am going to save it for college-- and we could see the joy in her face over wisdom well-understood.

The Necessity of Bottled Water

One of my very real  fears about having  Kara study abroad in Nicaragua concerned her potential exposure to parasitic disease—either via mosquites (yellow fever, malaria, Dengue fever) or through tainted water (dysentery, giardia, ameobiosis).

When you visit third world countries, sanitation is not equal to that of the United States. Which is why the CDC states on its travel website the importance of vaccines and drinking bottled water.

Because something as simple as consuming bottled water can prevent death.

I live in New York. It is civilized. It is not a third world country. The Health Department, in conjunction with the Department of Labs and Research tests the potability of drinking water 365 days of the year. The standards for tap water are stringent—more stringent than what the EPA sets for bottled water like Poland Springs or imported water like Pellegrino.

Yet I have noticed a trend in the last year or so. And it is not just in the high end restaurants of Manhattan, but at local eateries here in the suburbs as well. Waiters are trained to come to the table just after customers are seated to ask Would you prefer bottled or tap water?

And what is to be inferred is that tap water is an inferior option—that tap water is dirty and of questionable origin—and that both my health and palate may be in jeopardy if I make the wrong choice.

It’s a total scam--- and I resent it.

Because I do not wish to pay for my glasses of water when I venture out to eat. My water should be free just like the bread on the table.

And so in an affirmative do you really think you can pull the wool over my eyes? tone I say Tap water will be fine.

Because I do not live in Nicaragua. The water here in America is completely safe. I do not need a pseudo-sommelier recommending  bottled waters as if it were fine wine. And if the day comes, and I am faced with a water steward, then I will say I’ll take the regional water—i.e. from the tap.

Smell vs. Taste

Not everything tastes as good as it smells.

My friend Elissa and I proved this point when we were teenagers by having her silver-gray miniature poodle named Starfi sniff an orange peel and then watched the dog try and rub the bitter taste off of her tongue with her paw after biting into the peel.

The skin of an orange smells great—the taste-- not so much.

Which is why I was dumbfounded the other day that Fozzie, my visiting goldendoodle dog-nephew, ate a small handmade violet scented bar of soap which was hidden in my daughter’s overnight bag.

Because all soap—even if it is all natural and violet infused from Nicaragua, does not taste very good.

It is something I am certain of.

And so should dogs—whose sense of taste and smell is magnified 30-fold compared to humans.

Unless of course Fozzie is part bumble bee—and can convert the aromatic violet into a sweeter than sweet comb of honey.

A Little Bit Poisoned

My mother, like most women of her generation, washed and hung fiberglass draperies. The airborne  glass fibers flew everywhere. And I always knew when the window treatments were clean not by the fresh scent, but because my mother scratched her body raw for days afterwards.

In the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink in both my houses in Yonkers and Dobbs Ferry was a can of insecticide. The active ingredient in the spray was Chlordane. For fun and also because I did not care to touch any insect (especially spiders) I would spray insects with the aerosol until a puddle formed.

In that same cabinet was a bottle  of Carbona. It was used liberally to spot clean fabric. The active ingredient in Carbona was carbon tetrachloride.

To demonstrate the fact that a metal in its natural state could be liquid, science teachers everywhere allowed their students to play with mercury. And mercury, in addition to being in every thermometer, was also in mercurochrome and merthiolate – each a tincture which found its way on every cut, scrape and opened wound on every child in America.

Next to the fireplace at my Uncle Victor’s farmhouse, was a pair of asbestos gloves. They allowed you in a more facile way than tongs, to position the logs while the fire burned. We, as children, put the gloves on for fun and then put our hands in and out of the fire just to prove how well they worked.

And sometimes when I was little I was still awake when my mother entered bedroom to see if I was sleeping. I knew to close my eyes and pretend before I heard her footsteps. I knew to do so by the smell of her lit cigarette.

And I wonder sometimes how it is that any of us are still alive. No one used sunscreen or had organically grown produce. Hair dye contained formaldehyde. Nail polish had toluene. Car exhaust spewed lead and carbon monoxide. Coffee was decaffeinated with benzene. Naphthalene kept the moths in our closets away.

And I do not care to ponder how much radiation I was exposed to at the dentist’s office or from multiple fluoroscopes.

I wonder how it could possibly be that with all that exposure to environmental carcinogens we have managed to thrive at all. How could it be that we have all made it this far? Because we should all be dead from lung, liver, blood and kidney disease----not to mention dementia from mercury and lead poisoning.

Which is why every day is a gift. And why we should all be grateful for every moment we have together. Because we all have been, at least little bit, poisoned.

               

 

Over-Posting on Facebook

A certain member of an elected Board emailed me to say that she did not appreciate my point of view as written in my blog and therefore no longer cared to receive it online. Which is when I  wrote back to her to say that that was the purpose for which the delete button on her keyboard was designed. She had free will.  And I had no ability to reach through her computer and make her read anything that she did not care to read.

This past Saturday two experts of differing viewpoints sat in the plush interview chairs of the Weekend Today Show: a 40ish blond woman, and a 30-something male. The subject matter was social media. The woman was an Emily Post of sorts—offering what she deemed was the appropriate weekly number and type of posting for ones’ newsfeed.

She claimed that one post per week was the golden number—anything more than that was simply tasteless. She quipped Is there really anything so interesting in a person’s everyday life that warrants them typing it in the “what’s on your mind” box more often than that?

And that is when the man went a little bit ballistic. He thought that he had at least one interesting newsworthy event to post every day and that if people were disinterested in his newsfeed then they should simply not read it. He suggested that people who are annoyed by the frequency of others’ postings were merely haters who resented their own tedious lives.

His point was that it isn’t that people over-post, as much as it is that other people over-read.

And no surprise here but I am completely okay with people who might be considered overpost-ers. I accept it as an unforeseen consequence of agreeing to a friend request. I actually prefer the overpost-er to the underpost-er. 

    

 I am more apt to think What keeps a person from sharing photos and links with any kind of regularity? Are they afraid—and if so, what of? What makes them unable to at least hit the “like” button from time to time?

I wonder if there is a direct mathematical relationship between the level of a person’s security or insecurity and the quantity of their postings.

And that elected official would have been better served had she embraced differing opinions. In fact her constituents would have been better served as well. Closed circuits allow for no bursts of brilliance. Still water yields a stagnant pool; stagnant pools breed decay. Yet too much information increases only the odds that some of it may be of very significant interest and value.  At worst, even broken clocks are correct once a day.

Which is why I never honored that elected officials request and continued to send her my blog online until the day she left office. Because everyone has free will---including me. And I would not be bullied into under-sending or under-telling.

In-School Intoxication

Huff: to inhale the noxious fumes of a substance for their euphoric effect. (Merriam Dictionary)

My evidence is purely anecdotal. There are no statistics on the internet for this activity. It is rarely even discussed anymore as doing so is no longer an option. It was done without shame. It was done always with an adult present. It is something that I am comfortably stating that 100% of my generation engaged in. We may or may not have known better but we did it anyway.

 Yet the substance of which I speak was not airplane glue or paint thinner. It was something even more ubiquitous than that. It was something we came in contact with on a daily basis from Kindergarten to Graduate school-- both the cool and uncool kids were eager participants.

The thing we all did was huff. And the substrate of our euphoria was: mimeographed test papers.

There was something about the fumes of the indigo-purple ink embedded into a sheet of white paper that was particularly intoxicating. And the darker the print, and the wetter the paper, the greater the high.

It was our Ritalin.

It was what inspired us upon inhaling,to race through our exams.

It was the snort of champions.

And if you were truly lucky the teacher would allow you to help with the mimeographing itself. So not only did you get the opportunity to inhale the ink but you also got to crank the handle at the same time. We churned copies at the speed of light. We were human laser printers.

But the insidious infatuation came to an end. Technology caught up. Copiers became cost and time efficient. Production killed the mimeograph.

This generation has had to miss out on one of the best parts of being in school.

And the only overlap in the huffing arena between my generation and that which came after mine is a box of 64 Crayola crayons—there is something pretty addictive and intoxicating about them too. Intoxicating enough to make the color unmellow yellow—the stuff of an (almost) 1960’s Donovan song.

Grilled Cheese

When the pleasant red lipsticked heavy-set 70-ish black polyester clad bleached teased blonde waitress came to take our order, I was ready.

I said I’ll take a grilled cheese.

And had I been in a more upscale eating establishment I might have been asked What kind of cheese would you like? and What kind of bread would you like it on?

But I was in The Sandwich Shop--a local eatery which may be best described as a cross between an old school luncheonette and a Greek diner. It is Garden City’s—and I mean this in the most complimentary way-- greasy spoon. It is a wonderful place where no one ever counts Weight Watcher points.

And so it is understood that a grilled cheese sandwich is 2 slices of yellow American with the highest content of milk fat possible on two slices of non-whole grain processed white bread schmeared with butt-ah.

Because grilled Swiss on rye is nothing more than a Rueben without the pastrami and sauerkraut; and grilled mozzarella on focaccia is a panini which ought to be ordered across the street at the pizza place.

There only one proper way to prepare a classic grilled cheese sandwich.

And the only question that ever needs to be asked and answered is: Do you want some fries with that?

The AP Myth

A very lovely woman whose eldest child was still in middle school said Wow. Kara is taking 5 AP courses and plays varsity field hockey too? She is going to be sooo prepared for college!

I didn’t quite know how to respond. Because what I knew for sure was that there was absolutely no nexus between AP courses and college study.

Kara was not going to be soo prepared.

And my point may be proven with just a little bit of math:

The average college course meets for 3 hours a week for 15 weeks. There is typically one midterm and one final with perhaps 2 or 3 quizzes in between. Often one fifteen page, or 2 or 3 eight-page papers are mandated for course completion. In addition to textbook reading, another 300 page fiction or non-fiction book may be thrown into the mix.

In contrast, an AP course in the high school is given for approximately 4 ½ hours per week for 34 weeks. There is a midterm and a final (sometimes not) with weekly quizzes and bi-weekly exams in between. There is hardly ever any written paper at all and the required reading (if any) is completed before the course even begins along with other “packets” of material (amounting to another 10 or 20 hours worth of study)  designed to give a “headstart.”

So essentially, merely in terms of  measure with absolutely no consideration to rigor at all —an AP course calculates out to be nearly 3 times the instructional time of a college course for the exact same amount of academic material.

An AP course is not even close to a college course.

And so Kara, like all her classmates at the high school, would have no clue what to be prepared for.

But Kara’s sisters who came before her did.

Both Samantha and Briana under the policy of a different Superintendent of Schools took college courses at NCC the summer before their senior year—Health and Calculus I (respectively). They understood concentrated rigor and study—even if the setting was a community college. So even though they only took 3 AP courses (offerings and scheduling did not allow for more) in their senior year to Kara’s 5 APs, Kara was by no means better prepared.

AP courses are merely glorified (and sometimes not even as rigorous as) high school honor classes. They are an apple to a university’s orange.

And ultimately I thanked the nice woman who held Kara in such high regard. I chose not to dispel the myth of AP classes that so captivated her. It was neither the time nor the place to bring her up to speed. I hoped (as she was a very bright woman) that she might possibly figure out the AP ruse out all on her own. And I hoped that she would do so before her own daughter tearfully called on week 3 of her daughter’s first college semester to say Mom—I have so much work to do. Why is it so hard?

Because the only response the mother can give her sobbing daughter is Because you were ill-prepared.

The Garden City Pool

Through the arborvitae in my side yard, Andy, my neighbor, inquired What are you up to today?

I said I am going to the Garden City pool.

His response: The pool? Really? Why not the beach—it is only 20 minutes away?

Up until my girls entered middle school, there was no place on Earth more heavenly than the Garden City pool. It was the family camp. It was the ultimate day-occupier:  swim lessons, story time, mini golf, tennis, and of course the slide. The pool was a short 10 minute drive—transport was easy and traffic free.

Some of my most lasting friendships began at the pool-I met my friend Amy under the awning by the kiddie pool when I was in desperate need of a baby wipe.

But like all things, at some point there was a need to move on—going to the pool got a little bit old. And so, like most of my friends at the time, when the kids got to a certain age, we joined the beach club—which became adolescent camp. And for many years that was the most heavenly place on Earth—until it too, ran its course.

And now I have come full circle—rejoining the pool. It is still a little bit of heaven—only seen through new eyes. I am no longer bound by the rules of my youth. I  do not care who or if I sit with anyone. The location of my table does not define me  nor am I self-conscious in my bathing suit. I do not worry if someone is keeping track of my daily cover-ups and Jack Rodgers. What others think about a whole host of things no longer motivates me. I am completely free—and my clock is my own.

In ten short minutes I may be sitting poolside in a cushioned lounge reading my book while stealing swigs from my water bottle. The pool water is crisp. The flowers are vibrant—the background chatter soothes. The grilled cheese and Good Humor is a foodies delight.

And so when I replied to Andy’s inquiry I simply said this—While I love nothing more than the beach, unless there is a locker boy transporting my lounge, cooler, and umbrella from the car down to the ocean for me, I am just not that interested. I am too old and too spoiled to schelpp things around anymore.

The pool is easy---and at least for now—is my happy place.

It is my adult camp.

Restructured Promise

I can’t imagine who would not at least find him intriguing.

He wears generic brown shoes --not red Prada. He chooses not to live in the lap of luxury, but rather communally, with the other priests and cardinals.

And there he was last week—first hanging out with the kids on the beach, and then with the faithful and not-so-faithful in the streets. He entertained questions from reporters that were not pre-approved from an edited script.

And he used a word that no pope had ever used before: gay. Even more shockingly, unlike all of those who came before him, he said Who am I to judge?

He is not your archetypical papa.

And even though he closed the door to women in the priesthood (something that still makes me angry) I cannot help but think a tiny bit of fresh air has filled the room. There is a tiny bit of light coming from the threshold of the doorway. There perhaps might be some warmth from the cold.

His top down management might just renew the idle contracts of self-exiled Catholics.

And while Pope Francis might still be a fledgling, he indeed is a harbinger of flight—of restructured promise. The new pope has erased that which people loathed about the other guy—the one who “retired” of his “own volition”---the one preceding him. In fact I barely remember his name—and maybe that is a good thing. It sounded too much like been a d—k.

On Required Summer Reading

On the book shelf in my basement right now are 3 copies of Farewell to Manzanar, 3 copies of The Bell Jar, 2 copies of The Song of Solomon and countless copies (in multiples) of other literary works.

None of those books belong to me.

They are relics of my daughters’ past—from a time long  ago, but not forgotten.

Those paperbacks were conversation starters. Because for 8 straight summers no less than 10 times a week they initiated the following inquiry from my angry lips: Did you start that book yet?

The reply almost always was Yes.

And what was meant by that response was: I read the title.

Reading the prose of the book was an entirely different issue.

Because there is no thorn in a parent’s side more pernicious than required summer reading. It is one of the most divisive pieces of a child’s (and thus a parent’s) educational puzzle.

It is what summer arguments are made of.

And while it is understood that summer reading primes the brain for school work in the fall, the reality is it is summertime—which by definition means no academic work necessary. Summer is the allotted  time for recreation and non-intellectual pursuits. It is a 10 week period when the most challenging reading material ought to be People Magazine and not Why the Caged Bird Sings.

The brain was just not designed in the months of June, July and August for ideas more complicated than Christina Aguileras’ Hot New Body.

And so there lies the conundrum: to read or not to read? To go with, or go against what human nature dictates you do.

Because not reading, while it may be the body’s natural response, invites disaster. For come September, an exam will be issued--an exam which factors into the first quarter’s grades. And this exam is never easy—it is designed to impugn the slackers. The exam is designed to hinder not help. It is an obstacle to success; not an enhancement to course study.

And I clearly remember being at the beach, seeing Samantha holding one of the three copies of The Bell Jar that I currently possess in the basement in her hands. She had been staring at the same page for about 10 minutes. Finally in frustration, she announced Oh my God if this woman [Silvia Plath] doesn’t kill herself soon I might just kill myself. This book is the worst thing ever—what am I exactly supposed to be getting out of this anyway?

And the answer to that question is: Nothing.

No one ever gets anything from their required summer reading. It is glaring example of good intentions gone academically awry. Required summer reading is failure ad infinitum---an exercise in futility for all parties involved—students, parents and teachers.

And its only redeeming value is that strangers might ask Why do you have so many copies of the same book on your bookshelf? Which is a cyclic tale of purchase, loss, repurchase and rediscover for another day.

Extreme Photography

Tobacco. Alcohol. Marijuana.

They all are considered gateway drugs—primer pharmaceuticals that spark the use of more hardcore and perhaps illicit drugs. Theory postulates that the euphoric sense one feels from moderate to high levels of nicotine or ethanol or THC creates an unquenchable thirst for an even greater high which culminates in addiction and perhaps death.

I am not judging so much as I am bewildered. There is a new trend in wedding photography called trashing the dress. Brides, in an effort to create a one-of-a-kind artistically edgy photograph, chose on their wedding day to destroy their gown while they are still in it; and then capture the moment on film.

The most benign shot might be of a bride walking into the crashing waves of the ocean. The most extreme is of a bride setting her dress (and therefore herself) on fire. 

I don’t get it—for several reasons.

Wedding dresses cost thousands of dollars—females wait their entire lives and spend countless hours searching for the perfect gown. There are multiple reality TV shows dedicated to its pursuit. A wedding dress is practically human.

And then there is the photoshop issue—Why actually endanger yourself and/or destroy an heirloom when there is technology out there capable of safely manufacturing the desired image? Is experiencing a torched dress really necessary when the flames can be digitally painted in?

Because I have my own theory regarding this madness. I suspect this trend is nothing more than the manifestation of a generation so numb to photographic documentation that they can no longer get high off of standard photography anymore.

Instagram is their gateway drug; extreme photography is their heroin.

And in my third floor closet right now is a preserved and boxed wedding gown. It is a personal treasure. What I remember most about wearing it is how I never wanted to take it off—I wanted to keep it on forever---I felt that beautiful in it.

And while it is something I will never wear again, I cannot imagine ever wanting to trash it.

And I cannot help but wonder if those brides who experienced momentary euphoria on snapping their one-of-a-kind artistically edgy photograph, later regretted their decision once they sobered up and realized that they were only chasing the dragon.

On Expired Food

A person who shall remain nameless offered me a pickle with the sandwich she had kindly prepared and served me.

Instinct told me that perhaps I ought to check out the expiration date on the pre-opened jar from which the pickles came.

     

They were a little over 5 years past the stamped-on date.

So I said You need to throw these pickles away—they are no longer good. At which point the person who shall remain nameless scathed You are so ridiculous—pickles never spoil.

And then she took a bite out of the 5 years past the expiration date kosher dill to prove her point.

She said It doesn’t taste funny at all.

But I still refused to eat one.

Because I am of the belief that the FDA knows what they are doing when they mandate expiration dates on labels.

And those pickles were really old.

And when 2 cannibals took a bite out of the comedian the one said to the other Does this taste funny to you? The cannibal replied No--- but I am sure he is fresh.

“Funny” is a qualitative term that should never quantitate the “fresh”ness of any food.