Big news flash on Tuesday of this week: the Powerball jackpot was up to the nice round figure of $1,000,000,000. I didn’t buy a ticket . . . not just because the odds were so ridiculously slim, but also because I honestly would not want to have to deal with that kind of money. But on Thursday morning (or Wednesday night, L.A. time), someone in Los Angeles did win it — and I would like to express my sympathy. I mean, think about it . . .

To begin with, at my age it would only make sense for me to take my winnings in cash, and not as an annuity to be paid out over more years than I probably have left. Then, of course, there’s Uncle Sam waiting at the front door of my bank with his hand out. In the end, what I would end up with is about 30% (or a little more) of the original amount: “only” around $300 million. Bummer. But our government is trillions of dollars in debt, so if my tax money can help, I won’t grumble . . . too much.

Now seriously, what does one do with $300 million? After you’ve finished rolling around in it, that is. I mean, logistically . . . what the hell do you do with it??!!! You don’t just plunk it into your checking account and head for the nearest Rolls Royce dealership. Clearly, you take some — maybe 20 or 30 million — to be put to some immediate use, like sharing with your family, contributing to your favorite charities, and buying that forever home you’ve always dreamed about. But the bulk of it has to be invested somewhere, preferably somewhere secure. So do you begin with your checking account, and then start making wire transfers to . . . Well, to whom? Or what? And how? Where do you buy gold bullion, for example? And do you suppose Fort Knox has private safety deposit boxes? Do you start a foundation of your own for some worthy cause? And if so, where and how do you begin that process?

You’re probably as befuddled as I am about this, so let’s agree that the smart thing to do would be to postpone claiming the winnings until you’ve hired a team of advisors — a lawyer (to draw up your new will and all your trust agreements), a tax accountant, an investment advisor, and a really good psychiatrist to help you deal with all of this stress. And, if you’re the religious sort, I’d also recommend a spiritual advisor to join you in praying that you don’t get bumped off by all those relatives looking to inherit your new-found wealth. Come to think of it, a phalanx of bodyguards wouldn’t be a bad idea either. And maybe you could get in touch with someone like Bill Gates or Warren Buffett — people with actual hands-on experience in rolling around in piles of greenbacks. They’ll take your calls now because you’re one of them. You’re a one-percenter.

By now, if you’re anything like me, you’ve got a splitting headache and you’ve starting screaming at the walls. It’s just . . . too . . . much. Like most people I know, I’ve had my little fantasies of being rich enough to do pretty much what I want — cruise around the world, buy or build that dream home, hire a masseuse on payroll, and secure my children’s futures. But I don’t need a billion — or even a third of a billion — dollars to do that. I’d rather wait for someone else to hit that jackpot, then buy a winning ticket for the next round of $20 million. Figuring on the cash option and the tax bite, that would leave around six or seven million in the bank. I don’t know about you, but I could live happily ever after on that.

So that’s my fantasy. It’s about as attainable as my becoming a tennis champ, negotiating a peace treaty with North Korea, or solving a Rubik’s Cube. But that’s why they’re called fantasies. And they’re fun.

Just sayin’.

Brendochka
7/21/23

July 20, 2023 – Update. In an unprecedented move, the head of Britain’s MI6, Richard Moore, has given a speech — for some reason, in Prague — for the first time confirming that Vladimir Putin and Yevgeny Prigozhin made a deal on June 24th to end Prigozhin’s rebellion against the Russian military without ending his life, and simultaneously to save Putin’s political skin. He also indicated that Prigozhin had, indeed, been “welcomed” into the Kremlin just days later to meet with Mr. Putin.

Moore — apparently euphemistically known within MI6 as “C” (not coincidentally bringing to mind James Bond’s “M”) — said that “Prigozhin started off I think, as a traitor at breakfast. He had been pardoned by supper and then a few days later, he was invited for tea.” Actually, if “C” has read his Dostoevsky, he shouldn’t be at all surprised at the twists and turns of Russia’s centuries-old, masterfully diabolical methods of plotting and skin-saving.

But this still leaves us with the unanswered questions of Prigozhin’s present whereabouts and his likely future. According to Mr. Moore, when asked whether Prigozhin was “alive and healthy,” he replied that MI6’s understanding is that he is still “floating around.”

That answer, of course, simply leads to more speculation. Is he indeed in Belarus? Back in St. Petersburg? Hiding in a Ukrainian field of sunflowers? Backstage at a Taylor Swift concert? Or hanging out on a Russian military warship in Havana? Each possibility seems more ridiculous than the last, but with Yevgeny Prigozhin, I’ve come to the conclusion that nothing — absolutely nothing — is impossible.

To quote Mr. Spock of Star Trek fame, “If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” In the case of Mr. Prigozhin, that leaves an infinite number of options to consider — an exhausting prospect indeed. But as distant bystanders, we’re better off remaining on the sidelines and seeing what happens next. I, for one, can hardly wait.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/20/23

First things first. For those of you who may not have read any of my earlier Reflections (really?), let me introduce myself: I’m a very senior American woman, retired, fairly intelligent, who enjoys writing about her life experiences and observations on the world’s foibles. I consider myself somewhere in the middle of the liberal-conservative spectrum, open-minded, accepting of the views of others and of most contemporary trends (with the notable exception of adding cilantro to every dish), and respectful of the rights of all individuals to their own opinions and points of view.

But . . .

Well, no one’s perfect, myself included . . . so yes, there is a “but.” A few of them, actually. There are some things today — let’s call them trends — that I just don’t get and doubt I ever will. Nothing to do with politics, ethnicity, or gender identification — those are way too heavy for this blog. I’m talking about the little stuff. Like ripped jeans. I don’t think they’re the work of the devil; I just don’t get them.

As though the price of jeans weren’t already ridiculous enough, some genius (“jean-ius”?) got the brilliant idea that thoroughly destroying them before offering them for sale to a gullible public might become a “thing.” And because of the extra labor involved in ripping them to shreds, they could be sold for way more Dollars, or Euros, or Yen than the perfect ones. Well, why not? They’re only going to appeal to young people anyway, and we already know how stupid today’s kids are! So let’s go for it. Or so the genius reasoned.

And succeed they did. “But why?” — I ask myself. Decades ago, when I too was young and stupid, wearing shredded garments would have gotten you picked up for vagrancy. That’s if your parents had let you out of the house looking derelict in the first place. Or if they hadn’t grounded you for destroying the clothes they’d worked so hard to pay for. And when an old pair of jeans finally did develop holes or rips from long years of wear, they were either patched or cut off to enable them to enjoy a second life as shorts of varying lengths, from Bermudas to the most revealing Daisy Maes. But they weren’t ever worn with the rips or knee holes on display. So what brought about the change?

Actually, when I think about it, the answer turns out to be quite simple: it’s the eternal urge of the young to be different from their parents’ generation — to express themselves, usually in as shocking a manner as possible. Like the purple hair and rock music of the ‘60s. Remember “sex, drugs and rock-n-roll”? Or, going even farther back to my parents’ generation, they had jazz, and the Charleston, and flappers in short skirts with rolled-down stockings, bobbed haircuts, and bootleg liquor. Shocking, right? (Somebody please stop me, before I break into a chorus of Cole Porter’s Anything Goes.)

So, I guess I do get it after all: it’s a generational thing. What a relief!

*. *. *

But that was an easy one. Fashions change, and people’s tastes change along with them. But what about our literal sense of taste? I mentioned cilantro earlier, because that’s something I really don’t understand. I had never even heard of it until a few years ago, when it suddenly became de rigueur for every cuisine on all sides of every ocean. And now it’s everywhere, except perhaps in tiramisu, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find some pastry chef even trying to pass that off as a dessert of his own creation.

I read an article recently that tried to explain people’s reactions to this strange herb, and I found verification of my own reaction: that it tastes like . . . soap. Yes, I said soap. It even smells like soap. I thought at first that I was crazy, but it seems — according to that writer — that a substantial percentage of people have that same chemical reaction to it, while many others think it’s delicious. So it’s not a question of preference; it’s an actual chemical thing. Whew! But that being the case, I don’t understand why it’s so prevalent in recipes — though at least there you can simply omit it — but also why restaurants don’t offer an option of “no cilantro” . . . much like the old “no MSG” thing. Something to consider.

*. *. *

Next subject: Have you noticed that we have an entire generation, or possibly two, of young people who don’t know how to write? I mean actually write — in cursive, or script, or whatever you want to call it. They’re taught in school to print, and that’s supposed to be enough. Even an official signature today may be nothing more than a bunch of printed letters squished together. “What’s wrong with that?” — you ask. “It’s easier to read than some people’s handwriting.” Well, I’ll tell you (as if there were any doubt that I might). First, from a perfectly practical point of view, it’s slower. And from an aesthetic slant (pun intended), script is prettier . . . with the possible exception of a doctor’s handwritten prescription.

But let’s think outside the box for a moment. If a student today were asked to read a copy of the original Declaration of Independence . . . could they? Not likely — because it’s written in cursive! And ditto the U.S. Constitution, the Gettysburg Address, the works of Shakespeare, and every other major historical English-language document known to man. Even the Magna Carta, while written in Latin rather than English, is in cursive Latin. In my humble opinion — or, in today’s abbreviated language, IMHO (another pet peeve) — if it was good enough for Abe Lincoln, it should be good enough for today’s kids. (But not so for his big stovepipe hat; some things deserve to become extinct.)

*. *. *

What’s that you say? You take exception to my issue with acronyms? I’m not surprised. But let me explain. I get the whole need to “keep it brief” in emails and texts. IMO, that’s OK. It’s not even a new idea; I recall, as a young girl, writing SWAK (sealed with a kiss) on the back flap of greeting card envelopes. But, as with so many trends, this one is being overdone and showing up in places it doesn’t belong, like business memos and correspondence, and even news reporting. BTW, IDK who decided to add numerals, probably J4F, but to them I say: KISS. And B4 it’s time to say TTFN, I have one more acronym to throw in, that I just made up out of desperation: ITOFTS. That’s right: I’m too old for this s**t.

NFC (No further comment), 😉

*. *. *

And while we’re on the subject of the massacre of the English language . . . be forewarned. This is a favorite subject of mine, and one with which I have been known to drive people out of the room, if not out of their minds. So, please LMK if it becomes TLTR. :-))

Let’s start with pronouns: subjective vs. objective. It’s so simple, really. “I,” “he,” “she,” “they” and “we” are the subjects of sentences or clauses, whereas “me,” “him,” “her,” “them” and “us” are the objects of verbs or prepositions. You wouldn’t say “Him gave the book to I,” or “Me told she to eat her dinner.” You know better than that. So why is it suddenly considered all right to change the rules when talking about more than one person? For example: “Me and him went to the movies last night.” No, us did no such thing!!! In fact, he and I went to the movies. (And BTW, you always name the other person first — not “I and John,” but “John and I.” Just FYI.)

Then there’s the whole Pandora’s box of adjectives vs. adverbs. This one is trickier. I was taught that an adjective modifies a noun or pronoun, whereas an adverb modifies an adjective, a verb, or another adverb. Not to beat a dead horse, let me just give you an example of the one that really sets my teeth on edge: “The party was so fun.” No! No! No! No! “Fun” is a noun, and “so” is an adverb, so you can’t . . . Oh, what the hell! I’m never going to change a whole generation of English-killers anyway, so I may just as well call it quits and accept the fact that “her and him” have “I” beat, and my life will just be “so misery” from now on. IGU.

*. *. *

Next: too many tattoos. Painful . . . and just plain ugly. And what happens to them when you get older and your skin inevitably begins to sag? Come to think of it, the entertainment value of that picture just might be worth the initial pain. But I still don’t get it.

*. *. *

There are also some modern takes on familiar foods that I just don’t get. Like avocado toast. Don’t misunderstand — I love avocados. I love them in salads, guacamole, even as a garnish on a juicy burger or a tuna salad sandwich. But just sliced or mashed and laid out on a piece of toast doesn’t work for me, especially for breakfast. At least drop a fried egg on it, will you?

Then there’s the whole bacon obsession. I now live in the U.S. South, where a favorite mantra is: “You can never have too much bacon.” Now, I like bacon as much as the next guy, despite the fat, nitrites, and sodium overload. I also agree that it adds a nice salty touch to other savory foods, like shrimp and scallops, or potatoes and pasta. But what’s with the addition of bacon to desserts? I’ve seen recipes for bacon apple pie, bacon brownies, and even bacon chocolate chip cookies. I just don’t get it. Maybe it’s a death wish that some people have — if the sugar doesn’t kill you, the nitrites will. Is that it?

*. *. *.

But there’s one trend that totally blows my mind, and has nothing to do with food or taste buds — and I can only assume it’s because I was born one generation too soon: Fantasy games. Especially violent ones, which they all seem to be.

Perfect example: Dungeons and Dragons. My family is totally into it; in fact, they have friends over every weekend for a D&D session. They’ve invited me to join, but when they tried to explain the game to me, my mind simply shut down. They might as well have been describing Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, or the meaning of Richard Wagner’s Gotterdammerung. See what I mean? Absolutely nothing pierced my brain. I did say, though, that if I were ever to jump in and try to play, I wanted my character to be . . . ready for this one? . . . the Whore of Babylon. She is described in the New Testament (Revelation 17) as “Babylon, Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.” I don’t know why, but that’s a character that has always fascinated me. So I guess maybe I do have a dark side after all.

*. *. *

I suppose what it all boils down to, as I said earlier, is a purely human difference in tastes and interests. I’m absolutely certain there are a lot of people out there who think I’m strange for eating my grilled cheese sandwiches dipped in sour cream (try it — it’s delicious), or being such a stickler for proper grammar, or staying up until 3 a.m. to write these blog posts and then sleeping until noon. But that’s okay — I don’t tell you how to eat your grits, do I?

Just sayin’.

TTFN,
Brendochka
7/20/23

Note: I do not ordinarily post more than one item per day. But an unexpected news event has caused me to break with custom and issue this extra “Extra” a couple of days early, with an explanatory postscript. - Brendochka

Remember a series of books first published in England around 1986 originally called “Where’s Wally?” (the name was later changed to “Where’s Waldo?” in the U.S. and Canada), in which readers were challenged to pick out the Wally/Waldo character in drawings of large crowd scenes?

Well, forget about Waldo. What the whole world wants to know now is: Where on earth is Yevgeny Prigozhin?

This scary dude — who just a few short weeks ago was almost single-handedly directing the most successful (and brutal) campaigns of Russia’s “special military operation” against the sovereign nation of Ukraine — is suddenly everywhere . . . and nowhere. “He’s in Rostov.” “Now he’s in Belarus.” “No, he’s in St. Petersburg getting his money back.” “Or is he in Moscow meeting with Putin?” “Maybe he’s been arrested.” “His plane is in Belarus, but is he on it?” About the only place he hasn’t been spotted is in Tupelo, Mississippi, with Elvis. Maybe he’s using body doubles, or disguising himself with some of the hairpieces he allegedly kept in his St. Petersburg mansion.

As time passes, the real question becomes, not where is he, but whether he is still alive. No one is talking. But one thing is becoming clear: he no longer appears to be in charge of his “private military company,” the Wagner Group — a collection of some of the most brutal, murderous, inhumane barbarians imaginable. So, if not Prigozhin, then who is in charge?

According to Vladimir Putin himself (as reported by The Telegraph in this week’s news), that would be a stocky, middle-aged, grey-haired, former Russian army artillery colonel by the name of Andrei Troshev. Oh, goody — another brute for the world to get to know, hopefully before he too gets carried away with his presumed position and tries to acquire more power than Putin is willing to allow. It’s business as usual in Moscow.

Meanwhile, we’re still left asking, “Where’s Yevgeny?” Perhaps he’s alive and well, being “recycled” for some as-yet-unrevealed, nefarious purpose; or perhaps, as the ultimate irony, he’s locked away with his two polar opposites, Kremlin nemeses Alexei Navalny and Vladimir Kara-Murza. Is it possible that the Fates really have such a diabolical sense of humor? Time will tell . . . perhaps.

Just sayin’ . . .

*. *. *

Postscript: This “Extra” was scheduled to be published on Friday. But since completing it (I thought) yesterday, a news alert has appeared on CNN concerning the alleged appearance of Yevgeny Prigozhin speaking to his Wagner troops in Belarus at dusk yesterday (7/18) or dawn today (7/19). The video of the event is “grainy and filmed in low light so CNN cannot definitively say the speaker is Prigozhin or when it was filmed. CNN has so far been unable to geolocate the footage.” But the speaker — and let’s assume for the moment that it is Prigozhin — first explains why they are in Belarus, and that their stay there may only be temporary. Then he adds, “We should prepare, get better and set off on a new journey to Africa.”

Sounds like “recycling” to me. Or could it be a means of making him “disappear” into deepest, darkest Africa? Again, only time will tell. And in the meantime, we keep our eyes open for any sign of this latter-day “Waldo.”

Brendochka
7/19/23

Remember that little ditty from your childhood? Well, maybe not, if you’re under 60, but I remember it clearly. And some of my fondest early memories revolve around, or at least include, a huge double-dipper in a sugar cone . . . with sprinkles, please.

But this week I ran across a horrifying headline implying that America has fallen out of love with ice cream. EXCUSE ME??? What parallel universe are we living in, and how quickly can I get back to reality? As I read on, I saw that the author was focused only on regular, full-fat ice cream — not low- or non-fat, and not sherbet or frozen yogurt, which aren’t ice cream anyway. But still . . . this cannot be true. The article went on to cite U.S. Department of Agriculture statistics indicating that the average American’s annual consumption of regular ice cream has dropped from 18 pounds in 1986 to only 12 pounds in 2021.

Clearly, I was not included in that study.

I was a child of the 1940s and ‘50s. A favorite family treat was a simple thing in those days: a drive into the countryside, a stop at a farm to buy some fresh vegetables or pick a couple of quarts of blueberries, and finally a detour to our favorite ice cream stand for a cone. And later, in high school, no movie date or school dance was complete without an ice cream sundae afterwards, or the ultimate treat: a banana split, with three scoops, a whole banana bisected lengthwise, mashed pineapple and strawberries, chocolate or caramel sauce, whipped cream, and three maraschino cherries — one atop each scoop. (I was never a fan of the chopped nuts, but they were available if you wanted them.) That was Heaven in a dish.

Tastes change; people’s habits change; and a lot of traditions gradually become dim, distant memories. But not ice cream. If the USDA thinks I’m going to conform to their description of “average” when it comes to my favorite dessert, they’re nuts (chopped or otherwise). Consider this: 12 pounds of ice cream per year equals just one pound, or 16 ounces, per month. In any given month, that’s around half an ounce, or a single tablespoon, per day. Yeah . . . right.

Today, in 2023, if you ask me to name my favorite dessert, I will unhesitatingly reply, “Ice cream.” I do love pie, cake, cookies, donuts, cobblers, baklava, and tiramisu. But if I have a choice, it’s ice cream every time. In fact, my principal guilty pleasure these days is a small (3.6-ounce) cup of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream. Every evening, after dinner. No exceptions. And I finish each day with a contented smile . . . calories be damned.

Now, if you take those 3.6 ounces and multiply them out by 365 days, we’re talking about 1,314 ounces, or 82.125 pounds, of high-fat, sugar-sweetened, cholesterol-packed, sinfully delicious malfeasance. And I don’t give a damn. This world is tough, and I think that I — in fact, we all — have earned the right to a little treat, don’t you? I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, I drink very little alcohol. And I’m sticking with my Haagen-Dazs addiction. End of discussion.

And as for you, U.S. Department of Agriculture: I suggest you take my 82.125 pounds of ice cream and go . . . factor them into your calculations. Because I’m not quitting as long as I can still lift a spoon.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/19/23

No, I haven’t suddenly become disoriented — no more than usual, anyway. But I read on Sunday (in CNN’s regular “Week Ahead” column) that tomorrow — Wednesday, July 19th — is National Hot Dog Day. That in itself is not big news to me — I certainly don’t have to run out and buy someone a Hallmark card. But it reminded me of all of the other “days” out there that someone has taken the time and trouble to memorialize, and I was actually curious enough to ask Google for some help. As usual, it came up with way more information than I needed, so I had to make some choices. And now, in the words of the immortal Jackie Gleason, “. . . awa-a-ay we go!”

Naturally, the first date I checked was my own birthday, March 18th. Apparently, I merited two memorable events this year: National Biodiesel Day, which I won’t even try to understand, and . . . wait for it . . . Awkward Moments Day. Yup, you read that correctly: a day tailor-made for yours truly. Whoever chose to create a day devoted to the sort of person who falls down in the middle of the street during the Cherry Blossom Parade, passes out in restaurants, and regularly “opens mouth and inserts foot” — and then assigned that event to March 18th — well, that individual had to be thinking of me.

And now that I’ve stopped ROFLMAO, I can’t wait to check out the rest of the year; it has to be epic. But as it turns out, even choosing one event from each month would make this post mind-numbingly long. So I’ll give you a sampling, and then I’ll give you the link to check out the rest for yourself. First, of course, is . . .

January. This was a tough one to decide — so many good options. But while I was tempted to choose Penguin Awareness Day (they’re just the cutest birds), or National Squirrel Appreciation Day (because the nasty little rodents don’t get any respect), I settled on . . . January 30th: National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day. Seriously. How many times have you practically gone into a trance while absent-mindedly popping those airy little circles until your fingers ached? Even if you don’t appreciate its value as a protective packaging material, you have to recognize the amount of simple pleasure it brings into the world. And if you get chilly, you can always wrap yourself in it.

February. I’m a little puzzled by National Toothache Day (are we for it or against it?); and World Spay Day has me wondering whether we’re talking strictly about our pets, or if we’re trying to revive that ghastly Eugenics movement of a century ago (Heaven forbid). So I skipped right over them, and landed on . . . February 18th: Pluto Day. That poor confused little hunk of space rock has been through so much: “It’s a planet.” “It’s not a planet.” “It is so a planet.” “It is not either a planet.” “Fine — then let’s just call it a dwarf planet.” Talk about an identity crisis?!! Or maybe I’ve misunderstood the whole thing, and Pluto Day is just the birthday of a Walt Disney dog. Either way, I’m all for it.

July. Skipping along to the current month, there’s no contest. Although I momentarily considered National Be a Millionaire Day, it seemed the odds of that happening were too slim to worry about. And International Town Criers Day is clearly obsolete. So the winner is . . . July 23rd: National Gorgeous Grandma Day. (Hello! The “Applause” sign is on now, and I am taking my bows, thank you very much.)

So you can see how many causes for celebration we have to choose from, and perhaps we could even lobby to have a few designated as national holidays. If your curiosity has been aroused, you can check out the rest at http://www.calendarr.com. (No, that is not a typo.) In the meantime, I will spend the remainder of today, July 18th, celebrating World Listening Day — if someone will please just tell me what I’m supposed to be listening for.

TTFN,
Brendochka
7/18/23

When I retired in 2016, I had been living for 29 years in a 1,500-square-foot apartment in a suburb of Washington, D.C. — 25 of those years by myself. There were two big bedrooms plus a smaller den, two bathrooms, and a large living room, dining room and kitchen. And tons of closets, which was one of its big selling points. That’s a lot of space for one person, but in more than a quarter century, I had no problem filling it with furniture, decorative pieces, clothes . . . and a wide variety of other “stuff.”

What’s that — you want me to define “stuff”? How much time have you got?

During the three years that my sister was ill and I was taking care of her, I confess that I neglected my own life to a large extent. Medical and dental appointments became less frequent, as did housekeeping chores, which is why there are maid services. And when I’m stressed, I invariably turn to two things that I hope will make me feel better (but seldom do): eating and shopping. On this occasion, the eating wasn’t too big a problem because I didn’t have a lot of energy for cooking or noshing. But the shopping — well, thanks in no small part to Amazon, UPS, and the Internet, I may have gone just a wee bit overboard.

In all fairness to myself, though, a lot of the boxes that began arriving in my building’s package room contained household necessities, like bulk paper products and cleaning materials (for all the housework I wasn’t doing). But a lot more didn’t. For example, it was my honest intention to start cooking and entertaining again. But it turns out the road to Hell really is paved with good intentions, and I wound up with three Crockpots of different sizes, an air fryer I had no counter space for, several uniquely-shaped baking pans, and more beautiful serving dishes than the White House would normally require for a state dinner. And when I finally began preparing to move out in 2020, many of those things were still in their original boxes. They made great Christmas gifts for some very appreciative friends.

Then there were the clothes. When I worked in a law firm, and was doing a lot of travelling, I had an extensive wardrobe of beautiful jackets, silk blouses, trousers, cruise clothes, shoes, scarves, handbags, and jewelry. But when I retired, I found myself short of casual, hang-around clothes. So I started ordering jeans, sweats, tee shirts, sneakers . . . you name it. And a couple of times, when I hadn’t had time to do my own laundry because I was busy doing my sister’s, I found myself running low on clean underwear . . . so I simply ordered more to tide me over until I could get to the laundry room again. (TMI?)

When my sister passed away in 2017, I told myself that I would get to all of that backlog of mine . . . as soon as her estate was settled and her condo sold (I was her Executor). So I enlisted some help and began clearing out her apartment. Have you ever had to do that? It’s not only heart-breaking; it’s just plain hard to decide what to do with everything. In all, it took just over six months. Most items were sold or donated, but there were things that had great sentimental value to me, so they got packed into boxes . . . and added to the stack in my apartment! It was beginning to look like my very own Mexican border wall.

*. *. *

Here’s a word of advice. If you ever find yourself overwhelmed by all the “stuff” you’ve amassed over the years, and you’re not actually a hoarder who just can’t let go of things for some deep psychological reason, then there’s an easy way to deal with it: move. I don’t just mean “move it” as in “get off the couch and get going” — but really move. To another location, another state . . . or another country, if need be. Then you have no choice other than to deal with all the crapola.

As it happened, that turned out to be my best option — not another country, and not just because of the “stuff,” but to another state, and because of my encroaching physical limitations. So I was forced to make the hard choices. And there was another consideration: I was moving from my 1,500-square-foot apartment into two rooms of my son’s home — two rooms that total about 300 square feet. One big bedroom, an adjoining, slightly smaller bedroom that serves as my den, my own bathroom, and two decent-sized closets — one for clothes, one for storage. A nice little “apartment”; but with all of my stuff? Oh. My. God!

Furniture was no problem. I took with me what I needed, sold or donated what I didn’t. Electronics — TV, laptop, iPad, iPhone — also a no-brainer. Pictures, fairly easy. I had a lot of wall space and thus a lot of pictures, but a good many fit nicely onto the walls of my two rooms and the connecting hallway; the rest — the family photos and such — are still in boxes in the attic. You don’t get rid of family stuff, gifts, or mementos of travel and special occasions. You let your kids deal with them after you’re gone, and since they’ll feel guilty about getting rid of things that meant so much to you, the boxes will probably wind up — again — in an attic. It would be interesting to see how many generations will continue to pass them along before someone actually looks at them, says “I have no idea who these people were,” and finally has the guts to donate them to the local historical society or simply throw them away.

But what do you do with things like table cloths, candy dishes, and that jar of buttons you’ve been saving since before you were married? Or the eight pairs of sunglasses that never fit quite right but might be useful in an emergency . . . or all of that other stuff that “might come in handy someday”? Like the Tupperware containers with missing lids, music CDs you haven’t listened to in years, and office supplies from when you worked at home. Or the yarn you bought to knit a baby blanket when your grandson, who is now 20-something, was born. Or . . .

Get the point? And I haven’t even mentioned the books — literally hundreds of wonderful, well-worn repositories of all the world’s wit and wisdom. It broke my heart to have to purge myself of the majority of those; but it shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that in the three years since I moved, I’ve started building up my collection again, little by little. I can live without cruise clothes and air fryers . . . but not without the comfort of being surrounded by my books.

I suppose the best advice I can offer to someone young and just starting out on your own is not to get burdened with a lot of stuff in the first place, and you’ll never have to pack it all when you move, or get rid of it later in life when the time inevitably comes for you to downsize. But remember this — and I recently read this on a tee shirt designed by an anonymous individual so it must be true: “If it’s books, it’s not clutter.”

There was one item that took pride of place in my move: not in the moving truck, not even the rear of the big van we packed full and drove to my new home, but the front part of the van, closer to me and carefully wrapped in a mile of bubble wrap. That was a big, incredibly heavy urn made of pink Himalayan salt, which used to recline on my coffee table and now sits on a shelf above the fireplace mantle in the living room. It contains my sister Merna’s ashes — the one thing I cannot make myself part with. If that makes me an ash hoarder, or a crazy person, then so be it. But she and I had a “ribbit pact” — a name inspired by a little pillow we each had, depicting two frogs and the legend, “Together ‘til we croak.” And since I haven’t croaked yet, she’s not going anywhere either.

And now here I sit, among my pared-down possessions, secure in the knowledge that I will never again have to move all that accumulated “stuff.” And even better — I no longer have to dust it! Take heed, though, dear reader: your day will come. You might even want to get a head-start on it. If so, I suggest you begin with those sunglasses and buttons.

Just sayin’.

Brendochka
7/17/23

There was an article in the news yesterday about a group of around 100 tourists who were trapped for a few hours inside the British home of the late, great mystery novelist Agatha Christie. It seems the one access road to the house had been blocked by a tree knocked down in a storm while the group was touring the house.

In an Agatha Christie novel, the tourists would have been stranded overnight; the power would have failed, leaving them with only a few candles for illumination; and people would have been killed off, one by one, by a mad cousin of the home’s owner hidden away in the attic. But this was real life, and all ended happily: no one was murdered, the tourists received tea and British hospitality, the road was cleared, and everyone had an interesting story to bring home to their friends and families at the end of the day.

But my train of thought leads me from Ms. Christie’s home to some of my favorite old mystery TV shows, and to some of the amusing gaffes that went undetected and continue to show up in the reruns. A prime example would be the hit series of the 1980s and ‘90s, “Murder, She Wrote,” starring Angela Lansbury as small-town-school-teacher-turned-successful-mystery-writer J.B. (Jessica) Fletcher, in which homage is frequently paid to Ms. Christie and other renowned masters of mystery.

I recall one such blooper that occurred during a conversation between J.B. and a friend in Chicago. J.B. had called this friend from her home in Maine, and was apologizing for phoning so early, saying she had forgotten about the two-hour time difference. Wait . . . what? Has Chicago moved west? Or perhaps Maine has floated one time zone out into the Atlantic. But the last time I checked, there was just one hour’s difference between Eastern time and Central time. That show’s editor appears to have been asleep at the switch.

Possibly my favorite goofs were the ones that took place at a fictitious writer’s convention in Moscow (yes, that Moscow) at which the eminent J.B. Fletcher was an honored speaker. To begin with, while she was out strolling — in mid-winter, no less — in front of the Bolshoi Theatre, she told her Russian host that she’d like to walk over to Novodevichy Monastery, which according to her map was nearby. Fact check: the actual distance from the Bolshoi to Novodevichy is 6.4 km., or just about four miles, and is an estimated walk of around an hour and 20 minutes, not accounting for snow and ice. Of course, if you’re a schoolteacher from Maine, and you’re accustomed to the sub-zero, snowy winters, maybe that’s considered “nearby.” But not in my book, J.B.

In that same episode, a murder inevitably occurs while J.B. Fletcher is in the vicinity (would you invite her to your house?), and she becomes embroiled in the investigation, single-handedly taking on the KGB and solving the crime. Here the writers have her entering the U.S. Embassy directly across the street from the Kremlin — not even close in real life — and later wandering unaccompanied through the Russian Foreign Ministry. No comment on that one! I guess the writers just figured most Americans wouldn’t know the difference, and went bat-shit with literary license.

Those geographical goofs are rampant in TV shows and movies, and can be quite funny if they take place in a city you’re familiar with. I’ve lived most of my life in the Washington, D.C. area, and I just love it when a car being driven over the Memorial Bridge from Virginia into D.C. immediately finds itself sailing past the U.S. Capitol Building — in real life, wa-a-ay across town from one another — or passes the same landmark twice on the same trip.

*. *. *

In one oldie-but-goodie movie, “No Way Out,” starring Kevin Costner, there is a lengthy chase scene, on foot, in which Costner is being pursued by the bad guys through various parts of Washington. He runs along the C&O Canal towpath, into a side entrance to the Georgetown Park shopping mall . . . and makes his escape by hopping onto a waiting Metro train. Fact check: There is not, nor has there ever been, a Metro station anywhere in the Georgetown neighborhood of Washington. When the Metro lines were being designed and built, the homeowners in the elite, historic enclave refused to allow a station to blemish their sanctum sanctorum. And thus it has remained.

*. *. *

So maybe I am a little OCD; I don’t deny it. But these things — along with misprints, misspellings, and grammatical errors in books and magazines — can drive me bonkers. So I try to make a game of it and catch as many flubs as I can. Maybe one day I’ll apply for a job as editor for one of the studios or publications that turn out these mistakes — they really do need my help.

And now I’ve got you thinking about it too, don’t I?

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
7/16/23

That simple sentence can be read two ways: first, the absence of any news means that at least there’s no bad news; but alternatively, it could mean that there is news but none of it is good. Unfortunately, the second circumstance is the one we most frequently encounter in newspapers, TV broadcasts, and onine. Doom and gloom prevail. If it’s good, it’s just not news.

Since I am admittedly a news junkie, I recently began a second series of blog posts I call “Extras” (concurrent with my “Reflections”), briefly commenting on bits and pieces of the news of the day. And I have found — not surprisingly — that there’s not much to write about that isn’t depressing or downright frightening. And then I remembered: CNN has a column called “CNN’s Good Stuff,” printed online every Saturday and featuring stories about the more pleasant, cheerful, often heartwarming side of life. It’s a delightful departure from the norm, and I decided to refer to it this morning for inspiration.

But wait a minute! Is this the best they could come up with today, from the whole of last week? Two articles about Barbie; the story of an AI program that tried to follow crochet instructions and didn’t do so well; a recommendation of some off-the-beaten-track national parks; one nice story about a couple who met in a chocolate shop in Brussels 40 years ago and are still married; and — most interesting of all, but ultimately depressing — the tale of a sea otter who is going to be relocated as soon as they can catch it because it dares to snatch the surfboards from people who are intruding upon its watery home in the first place. (I’m rooting for the otter.)

Then, reading to the bottom of the column, I see that CNN is “opening the floor” to readers for their “heartwarming” real-life stories so that CNN can “spread the positive news.” And I’m thinking: OMG, they’ve actually run out of good stuff to write about and are reaching out for help! The well is dry. There is no joy in Mudville . . . or anywhere else, apparently. Life officially sucks.

But hopefully not. I’m basically a realist, which means that I have a dual personality: both optimist and pessimist, ideally in fairly equal proportions. So I’ll try again next Saturday, and see how successful CNN’s search for good news turns out to be. And maybe I’ll even try to submit an uplifting item myself . . . if I can come up with anything. Maybe the otter will outsmart the people who want to evict it. Wish me (and the otter) luck.

Brendochka
7/15/23

As the Russian Navy’s “training class” ship sits docked in Havana’s harbor, we are now told that it is there for a four-day “visit,” during which its crew will “carry out a wide range of activities,” and Cuban citizens will be invited aboard, for . . . what? Tea and blini?

Prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Cuba was largely dependent upon its relationship with the Soviet Union to shore up its fragile economy. Since that time, the Cuban economy has faltered and virtually collapsed. President Obama saw the opportunity to help Cuba begin throwing off the shackles of Soviet authority by restoring diplomatic relations and easing existing economic sanctions previously imposed by the U.S. Unfortunately, Donald Trump, in his presumed superior wisdom, did away with all of that by reversing Obama’s reversals. And President Biden has done virtually nothing to improve the situation.

So now, Cuba is ripe to become, once again, a vassal state of Russia. Its current President (more accurately, dictator), Miguel Diaz-Canel, himself a staunch Marxist-Leninist socialist, stands firmly behind Putin’s Russia, loudly voicing approval of the “special military operation” in Ukraine and opposing NATO’s proposed inclusion of countries in close proximity to Russia’s borders, such as Sweden and Ukraine itself. Sound like someone else we know all too well? Perhaps a man who has been much in the news lately, one of Vladimir Putin’s many puppets: Aleksandr Lukashenko, the President of Belarus.

The presence of the Russian warship in Havana is only one of a recent series of Russian incursions into Cuba. The island nation has lately been the recipient of tens of millions of dollars worth of desperately-needed oil, along with the promise of future development and investment. No savvy businessperson could seriously think that this is all being offered out of the goodness of Putin’s (or anyone’s) heart. There has to be a tit-for-tat in there somewhere.

This may all seem to be business as usual for Russia — except that it is happening on America’s doorstep. Is it “deja vu all over again”? If so, let us hope that we — the United States — don’t make the same disastrous mistake we made following the breakup of the USSR some 30 years ago, when so many wanted so much to believe that the new Russia was now our trusted friend. Or just last year, when Putin expected us to accept as fact the preposterous claim that the enormous buildup of Russian troops on Ukraine’s border was merely a routine military exercise. I would hope that we’re smarter today, and that we recall the words of Sir Winston Churchill: “Those that fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

Just sayin’.

Brendochka
7/14/23