L'eggs Oh

Is this title too obscure? Sorry, children.

Auntie was trying to be funny by conflating the slogan “Leggo my Eggo™!“ with the idea of L’eggs™ and kick in some foreshadowing in the process.

It’s all because of my little dog Jonah, who doesn’t wear socks, let alone pantyhose, but would happily steal your frozen waffle if he could reach it.

Robert was busy, so I walked the dog yesterday morning. For context, it was just before noon on a sunny Saturday. This matters because there were tons of people out and about so the walk took forever because the little beast is not only adorable and knows how to work it, but old and crotchety to boot.

No, he doesn’t wear boots either. Focus, people!

We passed a group of women, probably realtors, who were happily and busily going door to door. I say realtors because the church people had already been by and most of them were men, but it doesn’t matter. The women could have been anything. The important thing is their legs.

They were all wearing pantyhose.

I haven’t even owned pantyhose since I was in my 20s. I didn’t wear them much even then, but I had them. Maybe in case a pantyhose emergency cropped up. I dunno.

Our paths kept crossing, mostly because Jonah planted himself like a teeny tiny sumo wrestler and refused to budge whenever they were nearby. So I had a lot of time to think.

Do they even make those little plastic eggs with pantyhose in them anymore and if not, when did they stop? Did I notice at the time? Did the world change when they went away?

If that’s not loopy enough, I started getting loopier, as one does when one is – and has been for a while -- standing around waiting for a little dog.

In all the infinite futures, was there one in which I would now be wearing pantyhose? Which decision turned me away from that?

Considering that I saw Xanadu in the theaters at least 3 or 4 times, you’d think my legs would be laminated with an uncomfortable and shiny off-beige polymer. They’re not.

I don’t eat frozen waffles, either.

(In case you’re curious, they stopped marketing pantyhose in plastic eggs back in the 90s. There’s a dinosaur joke in there somewhere.)

Corduroy Pillows

“Police Push Into Kiev Square as Crisis Grows”

“Effort to Help Filipino Women Falters, U.N. Says”

“Thai Premier Rejects Demands That She Quit”

Oh, there’s more. French paratroopers died in Africa. A Chinese professor who advocated for free speech was fired. Most chilling of all, a child welfare agency in Arizona was found to have 6,554 cases of documented physical abuse that were filed away without any investigation at all.

That’s six THOUSAND.

Do these headlines sound familiar? Then I’m not the only one who read yesterday’s New York Times. High five! No, it’s the NYT. Sedate but firm handshake instead.

Now let’s talk about how there’s only twelve days until Christmas.

What? Was that transition too abrupt for you?

That’s kind of how I feel when I see luxurious ads juxtaposed with stories about human suffering, but there’s more than that.

I know I just complained about the surfeit of (and subsequent desensitization to) information in our techie global world, and I wouldn’t want to repeat myself.

Har har. True enough, Auntie doesn’t mind repeating herself, endlessly or otherwise.

But instead of trying to work through to a way of handling massive amounts of conflicting input, I’ll focus on the one thing that, no matter how hard I try I just can’t get a handle on. On which I can’t get a handle. You know. Never mind.

The thing that I need to come to grips with is how they decide which words to capitalize in the headlines. It’s really bugging me.

Ding dong, ding dong, merry merry merry Christmas.

Shake'N Fake

Once upon a time, things were supposed to be “real” and “honest”. “Organic” was shiny and new, and “authenticity” a gold ring for the distant yuppified artisanal future.

Calling something (or someone) fake was an insult. Being fake was bad.

People were still supposed to be physically attractive, but nobody (of either gender) wanted to look like they were wearing makeup, or even like they bathed. Think Woodstock.

And it wasn’t enough to have opinions, people were supposed to care about absolutely everything. Think Earth Day, which started in New York 1970 (and generated hundreds of thousands of metric tons of trash but let’s not go there.)

Oh, and all of our ideas were supposed to be original and well-founded.

There was more to us than just ecology and politics and music and art and clothes. We were supposed to care about everything.

Well, everything except food. That came later.

Let’s recap: Unassisted beauty and informed passion, all based on unique, well-researched experience – this in the days when information only came on printed sheets of paper, either bound, stapled or folded. Unless Cronkite was on, of course.

It was an impossible standard, yet fakery was still supposed to be bad.

Did you catch that transition? Now I’m saying fake was just “supposed to be” bad.

See previous, re impossible.

The aesthetic was to have a face that looked like laminated fabric, in a way that human skin just doesn’t. Well, the makeup was real, and for all our ecological zeal, it sure as hell wasn’t “organic” or “cruelty free” back then either.

We all decorated our clothes ourselves, but in a precisely similar way. So much for originality.

And as for our opinions, well, go Netflix “The Breakfast Club”. Same as previous.

I’m conflating my eras here, but it works.

Historically, we faked being informed and passionate. Now we are surfeited with information, and fake being too cool to care.

Ironically, irony wasn’t in fashion back then either.

Jingle Bell Time

You can’t tell from looking at our leftover Hanukah decorations, but I generally like Christmas.

This in spite of the “All Christmas! All the time!” music our Loud Neighbors have been playing (loudly) since the day before Thanksgiving…

And, okay, yeah, our house is the dark splotch on an ersatz Candy Cane Lane.

(Not to mention my Growing Grinchiness with the excessive capitalization the Holiday Season inspires.)

Still, for the most part, Auntie likes Christmas.

Let’s be honest here, what I really like is the excuse to make cookies for people and the justification for all the Santa Clauses I keep around all year long.

Don’t snark. The spirit of joy and generosity that is symbolized by a smiling fat guy who doesn’t happen to be Robert is a beautiful thing. Robert is also a beautiful thing, but that’s beside the point.

Giddy-up Jingle Bell Rock.

So Busted, Door Busted

It’s true. You won’t believe this, but Auntie tried to keep a secret from you. Mea culpa.

Yes, you snarky little brat of indeterminate age, there are things which your apparently boundary-less old Auntie won’t blog.

Sigh. Go on, get it out. Ha ha. Very funny. Feel better now? Can we get on with this?

The ostensible and ersatz former secret is that Auntie went Black Friday shopping on Thursday night after Thanksgiving dinner.

Way, way after, but Thursday night nonetheless.

It was actually tremendous fun.

I got a plate! Auntie does love her plates. The newspaper coupon even worked. Double yay!

Now for the double object lesson. Don’t make that face. You knew there had to be at least one.

Object lesson #1: We also got a lovely new red Christmassy tablecloth. It was what they call a “door buster.” The original ridiculous price was temporarily cut by an arcane mathematical series of formulae, down to a fair price.

No math quiz, that’s not the lesson.

Most of the “door busters” were ugly, badly made, still ridiculously overpriced and/or otherwise a complete waste of time, material and effort. That’s not the lesson either.

The lesson is that after one day (count it, 1 day!) our lovely new tablecloth has a mysterious little black squiggle of ink that wasn’t there when we got it.

Sigh #2.

Of course I’m treating it like the dent I got eight years or so ago, the day (1 day!) after my car was new.

But there’s still an object lesson in there. I think it’s something about acceptance & making the best of things, blah blah etc. I’m not entirely sure, but that’s what most object lessons end up being, so let’s run with it.

I’ve forgotten Object Lesson #2.

Sigh #3.

Mea maxima culpa.

But if you come over for dinner, and I’m inviting you right now, I’ll make sure you get to eat off of the new plate. It’s very pretty.

Back To The Happy-Happy

I’d apologize for the tone of the previous post, except that the Internet is traditionally used for catharsis. You know what else is also traditional? Family drama at the holidays.

Knock on wood, I got mine done early. Yay, me!

You know what else I got done early? Absolutely everything I can. Could. You know.

There are obsessive Civil War re-enactors who put in less effort staging the Battle of Antietem than I do when mapping out my Thanksgiving cooking strategy. I also enjoy it even more.

Wheeeeeeeeeee!

Sometimes I think I spend the whole year waiting for Thanksgiving, the way kids are supposed to wait for Christmas, only I’m not disappointed after. Knock wood again, and let’s not think about the year the (fill in the blank) didn’t come out.

That was a joke. Something always doesn’t come out, but I make so much food it gets lost in the crowd.

This year, with Hanukah falling on the same day, I feel like one of those people whose birthdays are December 25th, only not really, because they generally get screwed and my joy is doubled. Bad analogy. Never mind.

So far I’ve made and frozen the piroshkis and both pie doughs. The chicken soup is waiting for the matzoh balls, and the brine is chilling (haha get it? Anthropomorphic humor!) before it meets Sheldon Turkey on Wednesday.

I got Manischevitz ™ brand noodles for the kugel. You know, for verisimilitude. The label says “Quality since 1888”, which really should be 5648 but who’s counting?

Little bunches of parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme await their bed of stuffing. Now I have that damned song in my head. Never mind that too.

It’s Thanksgiving week, hooray!

It’s also only Monday. Boo!

Boo because it’s too soon to start the real cooking, so I’m chomping at the bit and pacing around, tidying and sweeping and re-checking the lists, waiting waiting waiting until the roller coaster of the week gets to the top and the real fun begins.

You know, tomorrow.

Happy Thanksgiving, my darlings! And a very happy Hanukah too.

Thanksgiving Day update: Well, at the last minute I decided not to make the broccoli gremolata. And Sheldon Turkey turned out to be a free range organic Cindy. Other than that, though, I have time to sit here and type this, while I wait for the arrival of my loved ones, both human and canine. Very Happy All-You-Can-Eat Day, my darlings!

2 Helluva Things

It’s that time of year, folks. The lite (or soy) egg nog is flowing and twinkle lights have gone up across the land, all backed by a soundtrack of premature Christmas music.

Oh, and Auntie’s seasonal affective disorder started a week and a half ago.

You all know how Auntie is estranged from both sides of her extended family. I say this having been told that my sweet and seriously stunning cousin-in-law reads this blog. (Hi, honey! Hug!)

She’s not related to me via biology, so my thesis stands.

You know what? My thesis doesn’t just stand, it rears back and roars. To wit:

Once upon December 16th 2012, there was a seasonally affected post about “my aunt who was never an Auntie.” We had an interesting and rocky relationship, dependent upon her (occasionally desperate) needs and her (verbally voracious) disapproval.

As anecdotal as the details are, I’ll spare you. (You’re welcome.) The point is that eventually we drifted into semiannual phone calls and cards.

A week or so ago I got a group email from a friend (please note that it was from a friend) with the subject line “Zelda’s Obituary”. Yep, Zelda was the aforementioned Aunt.

That’s the first helluva thing.

She died last July. Neither of her kids, their spouses, or their kids bothered to send as much as a text. Yes, if I had known she was seriously ill, I would have visited to say good-bye. Bad times aside, I would have shown respect.

For the record, the sweet & seriously stunning cousin-in-law is on the other (albeit equally estranged) side of my family and had nothing to do with any of this.

It’s a helluva thing to find out about the death of a family member months later from the subject line of a group email.

The second helluva thing is that I’m telling you about it.

Or shouting it, rather, from the far side of the burned bridge.

Part of why is the whole “what you can’t fix, feature” thing, but part of it is that Auntie is looking out for you. You’re still in the early pages of the Choose Your Own Adventure™ book of your life. I’m here to tell you that even if you jump from page 26 to page 174, all the stuff in between will still happen. Prepare yourself and plan accordingly.

I’m going to have some soy egg nog now.