If true, Marilu...

 Marilu Henner, if you can remember everything that ever happened in your life, how could you forget the steps of your routine yesterday on Dancing with the Stars?  Derek was really annoyed with you.

Terror of the Surreal

  The strongest emotions any television show ever triggered in me was the 1990's series  "Twin Peaks."  I have memories of sitting on one end of the couch with my youngest child on the other end, and both of us entranced and semi-terrified as each  show played out.  It seemed we were always watching alone, in an empty house. His brother and sister would have been away at college, and perhaps their father was working out of town that year, because the focus was always on just us two.  The mood of the show was strangely surreal, with danger lurking in the most unexpected places, including inanimate objects.
    I was unable to take my eyes off any of the scenes, was fascinated by each  scene and every eerie camera angle.  I waited eagerly for each episode to begin: I think it may have been shown on Thursdays from 9 to 10 p.m.  and though I watched each minute of the show, I remember running out to the kitchen during the commercials to check the clock, hoping it was close to 10 because I couldn't bear the suspense.
   The plot was double-edged, campy, mysterious, deliberately ambiguous, with double-edged occurrences and multiple themes, microcosms in and of themselves.  There was the obvious evil and the perception of evil  in the presentation of common objects.  The camera would pan around, and we would wait, expecting  to see something absolutely horrible in its depravity, but it would settle instead on a clock, and that would appear as the most mortally terrifying sight imaginable.  Just a clock, ticking away.
   I have now, in my present situation, my own presentations of the absurdly surreal Twin Peaks images.  By necessity, I'm the last one to go to bed at night.  As I brush my teeth, I see, reflected in the bathroom mirror, the image of the black headrest of the wheelchair, its back turned for easier access.  I see the same illusion in the early mornings also, and though now I've grown accustomed to its presence, and know what it is, it still elicits the eeriness of the unknown, that fallen-away jolt of the unexpected potential threat.
    And I can't dismiss the appearance of a black shrouded figure disguised as a headrest as a solitary incident either.  Late last night, I went down to retrieve some laundry in the basement.  Now our basement runs the length of the house, a walk-in basement I think it's called.  There is a door that opens to the outside, and  two full-length windows.  All are locked, theoretically, but sometimes one forgets, and the windows still have the screens in place.  Unfortunately, there is a lot of clutter in the basement, as well as tools and pool stuff, a lot of cartons; that is, sufficient space for many concealed  beings.  But who would want to hang out in our cellar, I assure myself, so I'm not really scared, just wary.  So:
     I open the door to the basement, turn on the light, which is not that bright, but serves to illuminate the steps.  I take a few steps down, and see on the floor at the bottom of the steps....something.  I peer at it, trying for identification.  I can't make anything out of it, can't think of what it could be,  It's not large, a dead bird maybe? Or even a live bird? Or another creature, dead or alive?  Some years ago, I discovered the body of a red squirrel curled up on the chair by the dryer.  I thought at first it was one of my son's stuffed animals.  But that was in daylight, and there were other people in the house.  This item is lying in the middle of the concrete floor, in a place I know I hadn't put it no matter what it turns out to be.
My eyes attempt to focus on it, much like the Twin Peaks camera.  I look closer, finally walk nearer to it, and in the dim light, finally see that it is a fanned-open whisk broom.  The theme music from Twin Peaks fades from my brain.
 

Wedding Days

Sister and Brother:
  September 26, 1964  Dorothy Evelyn Madigan and Arthur Augustus King
  September 24, 1966  Rosemary Keegan and Joseph Edward Madigan
Two days alive with hopes and dreams.

Salted Caramel Hoax

   Who the heck comes up with these things anyway?  I guess salted caramel might sound good, but why does it appear in every product at the same time?  Didn't we already have caramel and salt in Carmel-Corn popcorn, isn't that enough. I succumbed to the inane trend and bought a package of Thomas's Salted Caramel English Muffins; they tasted neither like salt or caramel, but bitter, so I threw them away.  I tried salted caramel yogurt, and didn't like that well enough to eat it either.  Not one to give up easily, I ventured to buy salted caramel ice cream.  That was bland, no flavor at all that I could detect.  Maybe it's me...

Bite me.

Brand Infringement?

   Today I went to Rite Aid.  Near the checkout is a fully stocked display of small boxes with what appeared to be the Entenmann's brand beneath a sign reading "Candles."  Each box bore the descriptive label of pumpkin spice, vanilla cream or whatever.  I thought the sign may have read Candies--it's lower case with only one slim letter difference.  I picked one up, a small square box with what looks like the authentic Entenmann's colors and branding.  It is indeed a candle, with a delicious-sounding scent (flavor) and most likely aroma too, though I didn't smell anything through the sealed package.
   I can't believe this is a genuine product, but neither can I believe anyone who has ever heard of a recall would  stock such an item in their store.  I wonder what they taste like....

The Shark

     In a moment of weakness, and out of utter boredom, I succumbed to an Infomercial for the first time ever.  And ordered a Shark Rocket. It was a little pricey for a vacuum cleaner, but shipping was free, and also free returns.  Besides, I have a considerable windfall,  a refund coming  from overpaying my income taxes for 2014, or so the accountant tells me,though I haven't received it yet.
   So I'm stuck in the house, unable to shop for anything except groceries, and watching the Shark infomercial.  I don't need a new vacuum, strictly speaking, because there are two in the house, though one is broken.
    I think my first vacuum was a Hoover, maybe more than one, and then a number of those little stick vacuums that were popular as wedding and shower gifts.  They had limited lifespans.
    The oldest one in the house right now is a fairly modern Hoover Wind Tunnel, a behemoth of a vacuum, very heavy but also automatically powered, which can be very hard on your feet when you travel from carpeting to bare floors. Especially if you vacuum in your bare feet, which I always do.  Don't know why, just have always done so.  The Wind Tunnel came equipped with a signal light on the base:  it stays red until all the dirt is removed and then it turns green.  Sometimes that can take eight or ten  passes before you can move on to the next swath, rather tiring and also boring, but impossible to ignore.
    I was glad to retire the Wind Tunnel when I was given a Dyson.  It was lighter, seemed more thorough, and best of all was bagless.  I was completely satisfied with the Dyson for several years. Then when I was in the hospital for knee surgery, someone decided to clean up a little and bashed the vacuum into some furniture, cracking off the plastic cord rewind holder.  I priced the replacement part, but like today's automobiles, you can't replace the small plastic part, but need to buy the entire housing.  So I used it as is, wrapping the cord around the unit as best I could.  The first chink in its armor, until about a year ago, when one day it made a horrible noise and our attempts at replacing the belt or belts were in vain. So the Dyson remains in the section reserved for repairs some day.
    It was back to the old Wind Tunnel.  It still worked though seemed hesitant to vacuum up Maybe's cat hair, a challenge to be sure, one that kept the red light glowing for many swipes.  It also has the paper bags, a feature I thought I was  done with for good.  I used it-----until THE SHARK.
    The commercial was strangely engrossing; I believe the psychology that goes into the sales pitches makes sure of that. I ordered one.
   Even for something that costs "less than $200," buyer's remorse set in, actually not so much for the cost but because here's another thing I don't have room for. The package arrived yesterday, and I thought  of returning it unopened, but tonight I opened the package and assembled all the pieces, a lot of plastic, though a very pretty aubergine color.  I'll give it a try, I thought.  I had "just" vacuumed on Monday, when I had the opportunity of having the house to myself.  It's hard  to vacuum around someone, and also kind of rude.  I expected the floor to be fairly clean; I'm the only one who walks in and out on a regular basis anymore, and I usually take my shoes off in the house.  So I pushed the vacuum over the living room floor.  It moved easily, weighing only about the nine advertised pounds, and was very quiet, also as advertised, so it didn't seem to have much suction.  When I went to empty the cup into the kitchen garbage, the cup was jam-packed overflowing with not just the usual cat hair which had been mostly previously vacuumed up, but just plain dirt, scads of it.  The Shark had struck.
 
 

Repugnant

   In a single week, I've learned from watching TV that Hoda runs the water to help her pee, that Mel B. has saved Bear's life by peeing on his jellyfish sting, and that Heidi Klum eats boogers, fried or otherwise.  I didn't get all the details, too grossed out.

So which case is it?

Their own site has it as eBay, ebay, or in some instances Ebay.  Can't we all agree?

Retro Wildflowers

   Across the road was a huge field teeming with all sorts of wildflowers, or so it seemed then.  But I believe that was not far from the truth.  Helen would lead us over there across the narrow dirt road, a road that led to only one other house further up the road.  That was the reason that they could not get "the electric."  The power company would not erect poles and bring their resource unless there were enough customers, much like the cable and then internet offerings.  But I digress.  There was a sea of flowers, colorful, most of them at least  waist-high, to the waists of us kids anyway.  There were daisies, buttercups, and paintbrushes, both the red and yellow versions. We would pick and pick, armloads for us and an apronful for Helen.
    Back to grandmother's house we would go bearing our bounty, and ready to put them in a receptacle with water.  We needed to keep them fresh because of course we would bring them home.  The container would always be the same: the only suitable and available flower holder would be a canning jar, Atlas or Ball.  Unlike today's collectible vintage canning jars, then they  would be ordinary household items, necessities as everybody canned, just extra jars that were not in use.
    I have no recollection of what happened with the flowers when we arrived home.  But seared in my memory is the vision of a sun-filled field full of flowers and Helen in her glory, amidst the flowers and the visiting children that she loved.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

  Wildflowers, that is.  The kids, as usual, entered the "Wildflowers" category for the Schaghticoke Fair.  Seems simple: each of you just go pick a bunch of wildflowers.  But trying to find them is not as easy as you might think, not anymore.  Oops, the purplestrife across the road from our house unexpectedly got mowed down just the week before.  I guess the highway workers are still compensating for a snowless winter.  So we'll try the ball field, maybe along the fence.  Also mowed and neatly trimmed.  We drove along, looking in the ditches, but they'd all been recently mowed also.  We finally found some along the roadside, but the area was much too dangerous. One doesn't want to stop and pick wildflowers anywhere near  where flowers have been planted as a memorial.            The village playground had a few growths of Goldenrod near the back roadside border.  I usually try to avoid this plant because so many are allergic to it, but we're getting desperate.  Greg, armed with scissors, exits the car, cuts  what he thinks would constitute a wildflower bouquet worthy of being an entry, and deposits them in the back seat next to his brother, who yelps, "A bee is in there!  And I got stung in the forehead once, and I really didn't like it!"  I tell him not to move until we get home, where the kids left the car and I was left to remove  flowers and  bee.  That was Entry #1.
    Right next to the front door of our house is a growth of yellow flowers resembling Black-Eyed-Susans, but much taller, which mysteriously appeared just this spring.  I don't remember having planted them, so we deemed them wildflowers, and the bee-intimidated one safely snipped off several of the blossoms.  Entry #2 was satisfied.
    The third and last entry was the most iffy.  Some tall plant with what could conceivably be called a flower at the top qualified, at least in our state of wildflower fatigue.