8 Weeks

   Today's ultrasound, at Tuft's, reveals that the newest (as far as we know) Schroder is the size of a Gummy Bear, and has a strong heartbeat.
    My initial feeling was that baby is a boy, but that could just be a historical reaction because of  the previous babies.  If a girl, Charlotte may or may not be ruled out, possibly replaced by Juliette. 

Fly away home...

 ...or wherever you go.  Authentic lady bug, or some form of beetle wannabe, we don't want you here.  You are annoying and you do stink.  If you're inside and vacuumed up, your fate is not to be returned to the wild, but to be flushed.  Fly away soon.

Word---to the Wise

  I came across some advice, a while ago, about conversation:   Don't say anything unless you think it's something of importance to the listeners.  Your words  should be about something of interest to them, not to you.  In most cases then, you would be talking about them, not you or your thoughts or ideas.  You'll know, all right, when you stray from this advice. The words you utter sink to the ground like lead, lie there, and die.   I am speechless.

Puffballs and Saddle Shoes

  Puffballs, we called them
  Not knowing, or caring to know, their scientific names.
 We found them at random, without ever looking for them.
 They lay in wait, full and round and ripe,
  Waiting for detonation.

 We stomped them with our saddle shoes, or barefooted
  In the hot summer days.
  But no matter how hard we stomped,
 The results were always the same---
 No pop, no explosion:
 Just a quiet release of brown dust,
 Spores, we later learned.

 In the indolence of childhood, 
When everything remained  the same forever,
We knew what would happen, knew its unimportance,
But still we stomped.
Our saddle shoes bore the mute testament of dust.

Our vague, unspoken hope for something bigger
Waned, in time, and we no longer stomped.
Our childhood pursuits teetered at the brink of change,
And followed, all unknowing, the trail of an earlier dust.

Metaphorically Speaking...

  Some may not give a tinker's damn, but I don't give a fiddler's f**k.

Apples to Apples Ad Infinitum

    Today I am feeling the same way I did when I handed  in a college term paper:  immensely relieved.  I just made an apple crisp using the last of the apples I'd bought.  I probably always thought so, but preparing anything with apples now strikes me as a major chore.  I stand in front of the kitchen sink, with apples, bowl, specialty peeler, apple corer device,  paring knife and  plastic bag for the peels and cores.   I peel and core  away, and when I think I must be nearing the end of the supply of apples, I look over  and see there are still 5 left.  I've only done 2.  It seems like forever, as if they'll never be done. 
     I may bake 5 or 6 pies for Thanksgiving dinner each year, but I have never baked an apple pie for that day, and have no plans to ever do so.   Baking an apple pie is a reason in itself to declare a holiday.

Joint Procedure

     Liz Bishop's health interview today was with orthopedic expert Tim Bartos from Baptist Surgery and Rehabilitation Center.  The subject was knees and what to do about them, including total knee replacement. The preface to the talk was the usual caveat that knee replacement is either a success or a nightmare.  He said that recovery time is from 3 months to 1 year.  My TKR will be 3 months old later this week; I seem to be ahead of the pack, due to the miracle-worker surgeon, I guess. 

Costume Shock

    During the family Skype session a few days ago, the conversation turned to Halloween.  Annabel said she wanted to be a witch, a good witch, by the way. She thought her brother Theo should be a bat.  Papa volunteered he would be a pirate.  No one asked me.  I went into the bedroom and slipped into an actual costume.  I don't think I have ever worn a real costume in my entire life, but I happened to have in the house a cast-off left over from Marilyn's annual scholastic theme event, the year of the cartoon characters:   an adult sized, all -encompassing Tweety Bird with orange feet and big round canary head.  I walked into the Skype viewing area where Annabel was watching.  The instant she saw me, she froze  in mid-conversation.  Her eyes got big and she exclaimed (and  that is the right word)------"Oh, MY goodness!!"          O, the horror, I hope she's not marred for life.

Words of the day

     I see it coming, sense its arrival, await the saturation point.   "It's everything."   Who started it, I don't know, but it's all over the place.  Maybe it will be the next big thing when contestants on "American Idol,"  "The Voice,"  and various other contests are asked what winning would mean to them.  Something must be destined to replace,   "It would mean the world."    So many words, so few pertinent clichés.

What Is Your Emergency?

    Sleepless last night, I came across a show with a title something like this.  The show played actual conversations of people making absurd calls to  9-1-1.   One woman complained that a patrol car was following her and wanting her to pull over, a man said he was bothered by flies in the house, a woman said a dog was digging in her driveway, a man called because his wife had her jacket zipper stuck----foolish calls, all.  But one caller had a genuine emergency, in my opinion.  He called to say he was in a restaurant and had found a Band-aid in his soup.

Shape Shifter

  It happened several months ago.  The makers of margarine (or vegetable oil spread) changed their packaging from the familiar round container to a square container.   Several brands did so at the same time.  I wonder why.  There's not a lot of difference except the lids were easier to get off the round shaped tub.  Sometimes you have to lift the square lid in 2 separate areas.  It must have been costly to make the switch, and to what end is beyond me.  Change is inevitable, even in the world of Omega Fatty Acids. 

Obama! Care!

  A ''friend" of a "friend" is complaining and cussing out the hospital staff because she's in the E.R. and told them she's hungry, and they ignored her.   What is the world coming to?

Gone, Girl!

     I've heard favorable reviews of the movie, "Gone Girl," thought I might like to see it when it came out, and so when one of the morning talk shows announced they were going to air a clip, I was interested in watching it.  I did so, and now I'm not sure.
   The TV hosts and one of the stars of the movie engaged in considerable conversation  leading up to the actual clip, and I could understand every word they said.  Then the clip aired, featuring  dialog between two of the actors, and I might as well have gone deaf.  If I said I couldn't understand a word that was uttered, that might be an overstatement, but if I said I couldn't understand 90% of the dialog, that would be dead-on accurate.
      No doubt, I have incurred some hearing loss, but why it demonstrates itself only selectively I don't comprehend.  It must be the acoustics in the recording studio, but when actors do what actors do, and pretend to talk only to each other, that's precisely how it comes across to me--as if I'm not in on the conversation.  I know this is not specific just to me, because in the theater, viewers are constantly asking, "What  did he say?"   Not all who ask are of a certain age, either, but because I am, I make a concerted effort not to ask that question, and most of the time what is said is not that important anyway.  Maybe I'll just read the book.

Heads Will Roll

   After the series of atrocious blunders, you knew Secret Service Director Julia Pierson was toast.  She had to go.  Maybe she was the most clueless director ever, but what about the agents themselves?  Did whoever hire them assess their basic IQ's?  Even if your Director is inadequate, should a Secret Service Agent need someone to tell him that he needs to stop a fence jumper as  soon as possible. A basic rule for any security guard is exactly that----guard what you're hired to do.  That training should take about an hour at most:  "Do not let any unauthorized individual into the area that you're supposed to protect."   And if the President of the United States, a man who has been threatened many times, enters an elevator, at least install a metal detector.   Security for concerts and public buildings have figured that out.  We quake when the President travels out of the country or even makes a public appearance in this country, but he and his family should at least feel safe in their home. 
    If I were Director, the first thing I would have done was fire the oafs who let an intruder run past them---AFTER climbing a fence.  And, assuming there are security cameras, as there are in most grocery stores, I would get rid of the people who should have been observing.  And if Agents are too out of shape to run the guy down, hire those who are fit.  And if they are too timid to use their guns on a potential assassin, provide them with Tasers, which ordinary cops seem to have no problem using, even on those already in custody.  And just imagine what would happen if the intruder ran onto a football field.
    I was in an Amtrak station in Baltimore, and the alleged security consisted of four fat guys, with guns.  I saw them early in the morning all gathered at the main desk, backs to the front door, chatting with the woman behind the desk.  Someone could have walked  in and wiped out all of them before they even turned around.   That's the thing:   Surprise attacks are never announced.