The Smart Aleck Press prides itself on bringing up to the minute expose’s on really important news events. This column is no exception. Once again we have arrived at the Easter holiday. This is a Christian holiday, wherein consuming large quantities of every relatives’ homemade goodness is in order. This is not to be confused with the Jewish holiday of Passover, where people gather in relative’s homes to consumer large quantities of their families’ homemade goodness. I believe the holidays are fundamentally different because of the types of food that are served. And because this year we are all celebrating with observance of social distancing, we are all celebrating in very much the same fashion. At home, with small numbers of close family, consuming the aforementioned bounty sanctioned by generations past.
No matter which holiday you are observing, we feel that it is your right to know that certain foods are served at various family gatherings, buffets, and brunches. Thinking back, you will recall that there is also a plethora of chocolate animals abounding in most retail outlets. If not chocolate, there are copious quantities of sugar covered marshmallow critters. Looking at the candies in the stores, there is a large representation of baby farm animals. Baby ducks, baby bunnies, baby chicks, baby lambs and of courses eggs in every color imaginable. Nothing but cute; nothing but chocolate splendor. However there is one animal that is under represented throughout the pageantry.
That’s because it’s all a lie. They would have you believe that all this chocolate bounty, along with colored, hard boiled eggs are delivered in a basket by some philanthropic rabbit. Not true.
Think about the scientific rationale here. April flowers bring May flowers. Along with that comes puddles, mud and general messiness. No matter the generosity of any long-eared mammal with soft fur and a cute nose, they don’t like to be messy. Consider the animal that truly does enjoy being messy. It’s the pig. Their fondness for mud bound activities is legendary. They would spend any amount of time in the aftermath of inclement weather. So we submit to you that in reality it is not an Easter Bunny delivering cavity prone goods. It’s the Easter Pig. This is proven definitively by the fact that ham is predominantly served on Easter Sunday. Happy Easter everyone.

We are in the throes of an international crisis due to a pandemic caused by a heretofore unknown virus.  Currently referred to as the Corona virus or it’s technical name, COVID-19.  As well as the problems from the illness itself, this virus has caused myriad social problems.  These include government ordered shelter in place orders, the closing of many places where groups would gather, such as bars, movie theatres, restaurants. There are shortages of all kinds of products as well.  One notable product that disappeared early in the course of the virus pandemic was toilet paper.  People were buying it in bulk, stores were running out of it and it was the hottest commodity since the iphone came out.  This made me laugh.

That’s because I have never been without toilet paper in my entire adult life.  I have always treated paper products with the respect they deserve.  Especially bathroom tissue.  At this point in time, there are only two or three brands that I will purchase for my personal use.  If you’ve read any of my recent posts, you know that I will only purchase them when they are on sale.  At such time of the sale, I typically buy two packages, and bring them home for storage.  I don’t buy more because I don’t want to be greedy.   A part of me wants to be a little greedy, but strict Catholic upbringing really hampers those urges.  That’s probably what the nuns intended.

Several years ago, I moved in with the fellow I was dating.  This was before we got married, but were spending so much time together, it was inevitable.  Doubtless you’ve been there yourself.  So happy, so in love, so let’s move in.  Carloads of necessities went to his house:  clothes, shoes, dog food, the dog, hand bags, make up and piece de resistance:  toilet paper.  This was a carload unto itself.  My car had fold down seats and the car was crammed with unopened packages of toilet paper and paper towels.  My then boyfriend laughed as he opened the hatchback, asking, “Where are we going to put all this?”  “Not to worry, I will find a good place for storage and then we will have this stuff when we need it.”  Using a very sarcastic tone he replied, “How much do you think we need!”  I ignored him and began the first of several trips into the house with my paper treasures.

Perhaps you are shaking your head wondering what on earth would possess someone to behave in such a way, absent a national emergency.  Let me explain.  Remember the strict Catholic upbringing mentioned earlier?  No, the nuns didn’t make us buy toilet paper.  Growing up in our house, many things were in short supply.  I had a single mother who did her best to raise us on a limited budget.  She also did her best to raise her daughter without discussing anything of a personal nature.  This made for a very tricky adolescence and one that often had just a one word answer: DON’T.  Whatever it was that needed to be asked, whatever you were thinking about doing, whatever your body is thinking about doing, just don’t.

Adolescence is confusing for child and parent alike.  I recall spending hours in the bathroom, using it as a sanctuary.  There was one bathroom in the house and this habit wasn’t acceptable to anyone else.  I recall that I had a high use of paper products and, as our facial tissue supply was kept in the living room, I used toilet paper.  Aside from the obvious personal uses, I used it for putting make up on and taking it off.  One day I noticed that my mother had placed pieces of newspaper next to the toilet.  Of course she didn’t explain anything, she just put them there.  Being forbidden to ask anything approaching a personal question, I continued unaware until one day my mother, red-faced and sputtering, asked why I wasn’t using the newspaper for those kinds of things.  When I asked what she was talking about, she gave her standard reply for personal questions:  “Oh, you know.  Just use those instead of toilet paper during the time of the month for wrapping and throwing away.”   I was in shock.  This was as close as we had come to a personal discussion in my life.  Now I knew what the newspaper pieces on the floor were for.  For a few months, I  complied with my mother’s plan. I was still finding sanctuary in the bathroom with various ablutions and using toilet paper for them.  Then one day the newspapers were no longer there.  I don’t know if my mother gave up the plan out of futility, or if she became disinterested.  It’s easy to reach futility when dealing with a teenager.  Nothing was said about the project ever again.  I didn’t question it, because I dared not.  But that was a pivotal moment in my life as a consumer.

I made a decision during those early teen years that I would never risk out of toilet paper again.  Other than the abject poverty of graduate school, I have never had a short supply of toilet paper.

What I have learned from the Corona virus is that others do not approach this subject in the same way I do.

 

Buying anything on sale is very appealing to me.  Often I end up with several of the same item, same brand, same size.  Otherwise I end up with several kinds of the same product but with different brands, different sizes.  All of it, after all, was on sale or there was some kind of couponing involved and I feel good that I didn’t pay full price for any of it.

Recently, I began to notice the names of the “beauty” products that take up residence in my bathroom.  They are all purchased with the idea that my appearance will be enhanced by using these soaps, creams, cleansers, and toners.  The word “toner” sounds more melodic than skin-centric, but everyone seems to know what it’s for.

It was unclear if the names of the product are meant to be descriptive of its function, or if it’s meant to make the wearer feel better about themselves.  A product described as Soft Skin Avocado & Honey sounds more like an appetizer.  Not a terribly good appetizer, as the thought of combining smooth, creamy, savory avocado with honey is quite unappealing to me.  Perhaps those with more of a sweet tooth would see the merits more readily.  If the manufacturers are going to include vegetables, I’d vote for anything that includes cucumbers.  They are refreshing, delicious, crunchy and, this is a big plus, extremely low in calories.  I would feel confident that putting a cucumber-something onto my face would not add calories to my thighs.  I would still question whether or not it would make my skin look any better, but my thighs are safe. Full disclosure:  I have used fresh, crisp cucumbers to cover my eyes during facials and I can attest to the soothing nature of the application.

Other names are not so inspiring with regards to soothing one’s eyes, skin, etc.  The Morning Burst Facial Cleanser sounds like it’s meant to jolt me awake.  I don’t want anything bursting in the morning.  Let’s not startle the nice lady when all that’s really needed is a cup of coffee.  Perhaps the Morning Burst marketers would consider renaming the product “Makes You Feel as Good as Your First Cup of Java.”  If you don’t call it coffee, it sounds more hip.

Increased scrutiny of names caused me to be more conscious of items that provide a positive description or image of the intended consumer.  Currently on my counter is Age Perfect.  I actually hold the jar up to the mirror and swoon slightly as I tell myself that I am at the perfect age and that I look perfect for my age.  Slathering it on slows my heart rate nearly as much as having cucumbers on my eyes.  I feel even better when I recall that I purchased the cream on sale.

My favorite product, however, is a facial cleanser.  It’s sudsy, and feels creamy on my skin.  I lather it on a wash cloth  chosen specially for my face.  This cleanser cleans off all the things it says it will.   It leaves my skin smooth.  Even better than smooth skin is the way I feel when I hold the jar next to my face and say to myself, “You are Positively Radiant.”  Likely I would still buy the product because of the name, “Positively Radiant.”   Yes , it was purchased with a coupon.  But even if it weren’t on sale in some way, it would be worth it to have that wonderful reminder to myself in the morning.   Going through my day having been told that I am Positively Radiant.  Boy, am I worth it!

 

There have been some staffing changes here at the Smart Aleck Press.  The editor, myself, has been renamed the Editor-at-Large due to some recent gains made over the holiday season.  This change in title is in keeping with our policy here at SAP to bring you truth in reporting and editorializing through the FinallyFridayBlog.com.  We will update the reading public when the editor-at-large becomes the editor-at-diet or simply just returns to being the editor.

Meanwhile, as the Editor-at-Large, I will still be getting my own coffee, answering my own phone.  Wait, we don’t have a phone, so I won’t be doing that.  Also, I will be responding to all letters to the editor in both electronic and handwritten form.  There will be no change in the staff meeting schedule.  Currently these meetings are held on an as needed basis.  The gatherings are comprised of the entire staff (myself), the editor (myself), and the editorial board.  Serving on the editorial board are the two cats that let me live here.   Theirs is not a working board; strictly advisory.  Primarily, the cats are not interested in anything that goes on with publishing the FinallyFridayBlog.com and have even less concern about the Smart Aleck Press.  What they are concerned with, actually nearly consumed with, is  maintaining their status as world-class sleepers.  Daily practice toward this goal nearly assures their status in this Olympic category.

As a reader , you can continue to look forward to having us maintain our usual standards for hard-hitting, fact-finding journalism that is found nowhere else.  Stories such as the one where we uncovered the scandal of the Easter Pig/Easter Bunny, the trouble with vacuuming wasps in the summer (and at other times) and the notable classification of Californians as the special individuals they all know themselves to be.  You can also rely on coverage of coffee as a beverage, stimulant and possibly addictive substance enjoyed by millions.  What you will get as a reader of the FinallyFridayBlog.com is in-depth information about how coffee came to be this way and possibly why.  The “why” of coffee coming to be the way it is, is currently being reviewed by the editorial board.  This remains a family site and anything possibly offensive in this arena needs review before publication.

There you have it.  The new editor-at-large pledges to keep the blog running the same way the previous editor ran it. You’re thinking that’s not really any change because I’m the same person I always was, just larger.  Remember, with new titles come new responsibilities.  We proudly accept ours!

You can expect to receive weekly posts on the FinallyFridayBlog.com by checking in with us at that web address, by liking us and/or following us on Word Press or you can wait a few weeks until the editor-at large figures out how to get this distributed through Instagram or Twitter or something.  The reason you would want to do this is because: it’s Finally Friday.

For those of you who remember me, or for those of you who never knew me, I’m writing to let you know that I’m back.  It’s been a long two years of surprise packages from the universe.  Some of you may remember reminiscences about my divorce, otherwise known as leaving the tenth circle of hell.  Dante only wrote about nine, but if you’d met the ex-husband, you would understand how there came to be another one. Not that I have any divine right to invent means of eternal retribution; I’m just pissed off enough to do so.  I digress.

This missive is about a return to the blogosphere and what occasioned the lapse in writing.  As I said, there were many surprise packages from the universe and the Big C was one of them.  Seems there was a large tumor tucked away in my peritoneum that had to be taken out.  You know how the doctors are:  As long as we’re in there, let’s do a hysterectomy!  I’m pretty much done with most of the lady parts, so I consented.  The bargain was that I would get to keep my health and my life.  At no time did any one discuss with me an option to take the removed vintage lady parts and sell them on the black market so I could obtain enough money for a down payment on a cabin on the North Shore.  Coulda, woulda, shoulda.  Dopey me, I didn’t think of it until after I was well and the damned organs were long gone.

Following the Big C surprise was a series of infections that nearly killed me.  Literally.  It’s never a good sign when several doctors stand around your hospital bed, stroking their chins, saying, “We just don’t know.”  Some of them appeared puzzled; some of them shook their heads for emphasis.  Things looked bleak.  Some of you may have surmised that your favorite smart aleck writer is a bit contrary.  It’s not that I was trying to be oppositional, I just didn’t have the good sense to die.

I figured the docs better fix it because it was getting harder and harder to be taken care of by my children.  They descended on me like white on rice and gloried in bossing me around.  Often I sat in the only chair I could use and regretted teaching them to think for themselves and to step up when things needed to be done.  I have two children that I adore, as well as my daughter’s fiancé, who’ even came from out of state to take care of me as well.  Cooking, cleaning, feeding, visiting, laundrying, you name it, they did it.  And I loved them all for it.  But every time they told me what to do, they had smiles on their faces.  Eventually I could do things on my own and I could tell they were disappointed about not being large and in charge any longer.  My daughter had even come up with a schedule for friends to sign up to take care of me.  Lovely folks all, generous to a fault.  Because of all of them, I am well, happy and have returned to a reasonable level of sassiness and sarcasm.

So here I am.  Back at this blog.  Come back again for further adventures into the psyche of the ridiculous.  See you soon.

 

What do the following things have in common?

Big Bird, The Simpsons, Krusty the Klown, rubber duckies, horror flicks, the walking dead, my cat, your cat, bank robbers, George W. Bush, cremation advertisements, television sitcoms, ugly Christmas sweaters, Yugo automobiles, goldfish, roller skates,  Domino’s pizza, chapstick, dental floss, sushi, snake bites on the arm, Ashton Kutcher, water bottles, skillet breakfasts, concrete steps, light bulbs, vegan meals, electronic card readers, lawyers, ice cubes,  medical waste,  nail polish remover, drying paint, doorknobs, vacuum cleaners, snow shovels, marching bands, wine bottles, t-shirts, Walmart executives, mirrors, parking lot stripes, mini-van drivers, garage sales, fish bait, bird feeders, unnecessary tattoos, roof tiles, squirrels,  excessive FB food photos, gym socks, school closing announcements, skin tags, flashlights, kitchen timers, laundry detergent, umbrella drinks, boy bands, cumin, scissors, gB’s, mustaches, Richard Nixon, garage door openers, and comic books.

 

I have more respect for all of those things than for the 45^th president.

Not too long ago I let all of you know about my divorce that occurred last year.  It was a whirlwind affair, taking about six weeks until it was all said and done.  My ex-husband insisted that everything be finished as quickly as possible.  This necessitated review by the editorial staff of the Smart Aleck Press. Being the only staff person, I found myself engaged in many one-sided conversations about the matter.  A tentative title in my head for the legal proceedings was “Wham, Bam, Thank you Ma’am.”    It was like a quickie movie star divorce from the ‘50’s, only I’m not a movie star, I’m well past my 50’s, and I’m  not living in that decade.  Most of the time, the movie stars got to go to someplace exotic, such as Nevada or Mexico.  I merely went to my lawyers office downtown.  The only thing exotic was the price of the parking.

During one of the solitary staff meetings of the SAP (not to be confused with the Spanish language option), I thought it might be helpful to trot out epithets from the ‘70’s.  Moving ahead by a few decades felt like an improvement.  Slogans such as: A Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs a Bicycle! came to mind.  Burn Your Bra, was another one.  Bra’s for older women are so terribly expensive, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  Besides, the ozone layer doesn’t need the chemicals from that much burned spandex wafting through it.

Being alone for a large part of the time, I began to wonder if I would ever date again.  Not the gentleman caller variety, you understand, just looking for a little giddy-up.  Can that happen when one divorces in the Golden Years of Medicare?  I’ve been told that there’s a word for women who are a lot older but who date much younger men.  The urban myth is that the age group for women who are considered Cougars is younger than I am.  I’ve heard this is somewhere between 40 and 55.  If that’s the case, I am  way past Cougar Town here.  This is one time I don’t feel lucky to have aged out of something.

I have only heard men use this term.  They are referring to a “much older” woman that dates younger men.  For the life of me, I can’t remember what it is.  It is delivered as a derogatory term, as  many epithets about women often are.  Pondering the matter only seems to make the word escape further back into the recesses of the brain but would be s instantly recognizable upon hearing it.  There is a small part of me that wants to blame this memory lapse on age.  I don’t really think it’s my age, I think it’s just obscurity.  Not having heard the word very often, it’s hard to pull it out of storage for convenient use.  As I consider my options for who and when I will date, for whatever reason I choose to date them, I don’t think there’s one word for this phenomenon.  I think it’s a whole phrase, and it typifies how women usually handle the quandaries of life:  I know better.  I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar. (Thank you Helen Reddy).

A recent flight for vacation brought me to the waiting area for the airplane.  You’re likely familiar with the small cramped waiting room at airline gates that have room for about 30 people, but they’ve booked 120 or so for the flight.  While I sat in one of the luxurious pleather chairs, I had the good fortune to be staring at the TSA sign showing what you can and cannot take aboard a flight.  Many of these made good sense.  For example, you cannot take weapons of any kind.  I like that rule and hope that we all abide by it.  The reason for prohibiting the other items seemed less obvious.  Apparently you cannot take a car battery with you on a plane.  My first thought was that if you needed a car battery, you would likely be near your car and not an airplane.  Also, if you needed a car battery at the place you were flying to, wouldn’t you just go to the local auto parts store.  Like democracy, I believe that there are auto parts stores everywhere and that car batteries can be purchased easily.  This may not be the case all over the world, but I’m hanging on to the notion about the auto parts stores, and the availability of car batteries.

The real puzzler for me, though, was the prohibition against carrying on cleaning fluids.  First of all, flying anywhere for me is usually a vacation.  I won’t be cleaning anything. As, I’m sure, are none of the other women in my vicinity who are also traveling.  While I’m sitting in the airport waiting area, I try and pick out the men who would travel with cleaning fluids.  I’d like to know who they are.  I’ve raised one son and had a couple of husbands.  All of them expressed vehement disdain for being anywhere near cleaning solutions.  Who the hell would fly with them?

Is TSA concerned that some guy will bump into others as he boards with his matching O-Cedar Mop and Bucket?  Are they afraid that the scent of Pine-Sol would overpower the smell of their great “famous maker” coffees?  Perhaps  they worry that those seats we all sit in over and over again would finally get clean.  Truthfully, I would like to see some guy trying to wrangle bottles of cleaning solutions, a squeegee, some rags and those little yellow plastic cleaning gloves onto an airplane.  This is a man I would want to sit next too.  Worry-free, germ-free, right in the seat next to me.

An adage from my youth was that cleanliness is next to godliness.  If we have men bringing cleaning solutions onto airplanes, and those airplanes are up in the sky, I’m thinking that I’ve doubled down on the “next to godliness” part if I’ve got one of those clean freaks on the same flight as me.  Safe travels for everyone!

Recently my doctor told me that I would need surgery on my lady parts.  This is a fairly routine operation for a simply cyst removal.  The doctor did express that anything removed would be sent for biopsy to verify that there was nothing cancerous.  Initially he stated that there should be a removal of all female organs  “just to be sure.”  I turned down this offer, as I am politically opposed to hysterectomies. I feel that if someone went to medical school for 12 years and has been in a female related specialty practice for more than 10 years, one should be able to come up with a solution that is better than “let’s take it all out.”  Thinking I might need those lady parts throughout the rest of my life, I declined the generous offer to make me a eunuch.  Instead, I settled for a partial parts removal.  This involved tubes and valves and knobs and whatnot, but not my uterus. I didn’t want my uterus removed for two reasons.  First of all, I’m still using it and, secondly, it contains the Thing Finder.

You may not know it by that name, but there is universal consensus that all women have a Thing Finder.  Not everyone is aware that it’s located in the uterus but where else could it be if only women have it?  Whenever someone in your family is looking for something, they typically ask the woman of the house, “Hey, where’s my .  .  .(inset name of the thing they are looking for)”  It is fully expected that the woman will know where the thing is.  Near as I can figure, this can only be accomplished by use of a Thing Finder.   Popular examples of using a Thing Finder include asking your wife where your car keys are,  asking your mother where laundry detergent is kept, asking your sister where a broom is to sweep up something that you spilled, or asking your grandmother where the silver ware or dishes are  when you visit her for dinner and  she asks you to help set the table.  People doing the asking know that all these women have a Thing Finder.   Because only women have them, it is logically located in the uterus.  All women have them but women who have had children have the advanced  version.

Personally, I have model #A09214500, installed when I was born.  The advanced version was updated in 1982 after the birth of my oldest child.   It’s important to know your model  number, in case you have to order parts or if you have some of it removed, so they can substitute the correct piece based on your particular manufacturers model.

Almost immediately after childbirth, people began asking me to find things for them.  There seemed to be a signal, like the Bat Phone in the sky, that I had upgraded to the advanced version of a Thing Finder by virtue of having a ushered a human being through the birth canal.  After that , it was expected that  I would be able to find things like lost hairbrushes, the location of items in refrigerators, items lost between car seats.  They don’t have to think about where things are, because they are in the company of someone who has a Thing Finder.  Possession of a Thing Finder can give the impression of near invincibility, all because of the ability to find “things.”

I believe that men have Thing Finders, but I don’t really know where they’re a range as the models issued to women and certainly are not activated with child birth.  Not everyone who has a Thing Finder wants to use it for others, which is fine.  Some days I can’t seem to shut mine off.  No matter, it’s a pretty handy gadget.  I’m looking forward to the rest of my lifetime of being able to find things.

Recently my doctor told me that I would need surgery on my lady parts.  This is a fairly routine operation for a simply cyst removal.  The doctor did express that anything removed would be sent for biopsy to verify that there was nothing cancerous.  Initially he stated that there should be a removal of all female organs  “just to be sure.”  I turned down this offer, as I am politically opposed to hysterectomies. I feel that if someone went to medical school for 12 years and has been in a female related specialty practice for more than 10 years, one should be able to come up with a solution that is better than “let’s take it all out.”  Thinking I might need those lady parts throughout the rest of my life, I declined the generous offer to make me a eunuch.  Instead, I settled for a partial parts removal.  This involved tubes and valves and knobs and whatnot, but not my uterus. I didn’t want my uterus removed for two reasons.  First of all, I’m still using it and, secondly, it contains the Thing Finder.

You may not know it by that name, but there is universal consensus that all women have a Thing Finder.  Not everyone is aware that it’s located in the uterus but where else could it be if only women have it?  Whenever someone in your family is looking for something, they typically ask the woman of the house, “Hey, where’s my .  .  .(inset name of the thing they are looking for)”  It is fully expected that the woman will know where the thing is.  Near as I can figure, this can only be accomplished by use of a Thing Finder.   Popular examples of using a Thing Finder include asking your wife where your car keys are,  asking your mother where laundry detergent is kept, asking your sister where a broom is to sweep up something that you spilled, or asking your grandmother where the silver ware or dishes are  when you visit her for dinner and  she asks you to help set the table.  People doing the asking know that all these women have a Thing Finder.   Because only women have them, it is logically located in the uterus.  All women have them but women who have had children have the advanced  version.

Personally, I have model #A09214500, installed when I was born.  The advanced version was updated in 1982 after the birth of my oldest child.   It’s important to know your model  number, in case you have to order parts or if you have some of it removed, so they can substitute the correct piece based on your particular manufacturers model.

Almost immediately after childbirth, people began asking me to find things for them.  There seemed to be a signal, like the Bat Phone in the sky, that I had upgraded to the advanced version of a Thing Finder by virtue of having a ushered a human being through the birth canal.  After that , it was expected that  I would be able to find things like lost hairbrushes, the location of items in refrigerators, items lost between car seats.  They don’t have to think about where things are, because they are in the company of someone who has a Thing Finder.  Possession of a Thing Finder can give the impression of near invincibility, all because of the ability to find “things.”

I believe that men have Thing Finders, but I don’t really know where they’re a range as the models issued to women and certainly are not activated with child birth.  Not everyone who has a Thing Finder wants to use it for others, which is fine.  Some days I can’t seem to shut mine off.  No matter, it’s a pretty handy gadget.  I’m looking forward to the rest of my lifetime of being able to find things.