Grounds for DI-vorce

According to one of the Petite Pain's cousins, her father should have been enshrined in the Pantheon for his wit.  Some people "got" the humor of his casual remarks.  Others didn't, perhaps because his comments were so brief, so wry, and so unexpected.   He never gave a clue that he was about to say something funny -- or had said something funny.  He never smiled, even when a particularly successful remark had sent several into a state of hysterics.  He simply said what he wanted to say and that was that.  At family dinners, half of us would explode with laughter at one of his one-liners while the other half would continue feasting as if nothing had been said.. (The Petite Pain suspects that one of the main reasons her parents stayed in love was that her mother laughed at her father's jokes.)  Alas, the comments really can't be repeated.  One had to be there.  However ....

The Petite Pain's father was not only funny in word but in deed as well.  The words were said with the intention to amuse, but the deeds probably weren't.  Happily, the deeds also amused the Petite Pain's mother.  What could well have been "grounds for divorce" were instead "reasons for laughing."
As just one example ....

The Petite Pain's father was a night owl.  Like others in the species, he did his "best work" in the wee hours of the morning.  After paying some bills or getting his time sheets sorted out, he'd wander into the kitchen for a snack.  And what would he find?  A disorganized kitchen.  The pans were where the plates should be.  The glasses were where the bowls should be.  Staples weren't where they should be.  And the condiments?  Where were the condiments?  Every six weeks to two months, he'd have about five free hours in the middle of the night.  What a bonanza!  He could spend those five hours reorganizing the executive chef's  kitchen.  (There you have it -- grounds for divorce.)  After reorganizing the kitchen, he could squeeze in a nap before he'd have to get up to reorganize corporations.

While the Petite Pain and her mother slept, the organizer switched everything, absolutely everything around.  He'd draw a massive and meticulous diagram of all the shelves and drawers in the cabinets on the back of a sheet of columnar paper, the kind that accountants use, the very largest size.  Then, he'd write the new locations of all the stuff he'd switched around.  His handwriting was so tiny, he could fit in every item.  His handwriting was also legible with the aid of a magnifying glass.  Yes, what you think is coming next is coming next.

When the Petite Pain and her mother got up the next morning, the organizer would be taking his nap, probably snoring in bliss..  The new diagram would be spread out on the kitchen table.  Next to the diagram would be the magnifying glass.  Since this sight was so familiar,  the two knew what the next few weeks would be like.  Everything would get  really exciting at dinner time.  The Petite Pain's mother would be a tad frantic because she couldn't find anything.  She'd open and shut cupboards and drawers with abandon while she cooked.   The Petite Pain stood at the ready, prepared to scan the diagram for something the chef needed.  "Quick!  I need the colander.  Where is it?"  The Petite Pain would make every effort to be a speedy searcher, and usually, she succeeded. When she simply could not find the new location, the chef and her helper waited for the organizer to get home from his day of reorganizing.  Then the chef cooked, the Petite Pain and her father searched and found, and all three had a grand time laughing.  Why would any sensible organizer put ice cube trays next to the stove?  Not once did the chef look the organizer coldly in the eye and ask, "Are you out of your mind?"  He was, of course, quite out of us mind.  And how lucky the Petite Pain and her mother were to live with him!

Then, just when everyone knew where everything was the organizer would strike again..

Dealing with the Inevitable

The Petite Pain's mother knew she wanted to be free to discuss anything and everything with her child.  Many parents and children share nary a thought, nary a feeling.  From a very early age, the Petite Pain was encouraged to have ideas and opinions of her own.  What she chose to share, she shared.  What she didn't choose to share, she kept to herself.  The Petite Pain and her mother would sit at the kitchen table together, talking and listening.  They'd cuddle up together on the living room couch, talking and listening.  They'd stretch out on her parents' bed, talking and listening.

During these conversations, the Petite Pain's mother would describe a challenge that the Petite Pain would have to deal with or would want to deal with as she grew older.  Once the inevitability of the challenge had "sunk in," the two would begin brainstorming.   What would the Petite Pain need to know to meet the challenge successfully?  Would practice sessions be desirable or necessary?  The brainstorming and the actual practice sessions could go on for years before both the Petite Pain and her mother were confident that all would go well.

The Petite Pain's mother always introduced an inevitable like this:  "One of these days, you're going to want to go downtown by yourself."    Now, that particular inevitable surprised the Petite Pain.  She was only  five and had never ever wanted to go downtown by herself.   When she was surprised, she always  responded the same way:  "I will?"   Her mother would answer firmly:  "Oh, yes.  You will.. Definitely."  What would be would be.  "You're going to have a lot to learn.  If we start practicing now, you'll be ready to go when you want to go."

From that point on, the Petite Pain and her mother discussed and practiced what to do on that first trip downtown alone.  The destination would be the children's section of the Main Public Library because the Petite Pain wouldn't have to cross any heavily trafficked streets  to get there.  The Petite Pain practiced buying tickets, counting change, putting both in a deep pocket, so they wouldn't be lost.  She gave the conductor the tickets, got off at the end of the line, led her mother to the children's section of the library, got out a book, and then led her home.  She had to get on the right train, get off at the right stop.  The return trip was more difficult, but the Petite Pain knew what she needed to know.

One Saturday, the Petite Pain wanted to go to the library.  Her mother said, "Why don't you go to the library downtown?"  The Petite Pain said, "Good idea," and off she went on her solo trip downtown.  She was nine.

The Petite Pain went downtown alone before any of her friends knew they'd ever want to go downtown by themselves.  When they first had the idea that a solo trip would be fun, they had to ask.  "Mom, would it be okay if I went downtown by myself?"  Then, the arguing would start.  "But the Petite Pain's ;been going since she was nine."  Their mothers didn't care about the Petite Pain's adventures.

How Did Ihe Old Baguette Get Here?

Another accidental tourist, the Old Baguette traveled there to here and can't remember her route.

She was going to write a post about something or other, but this note  flashed on her screen.  "Your browser is no longer accepted by blogger.  Some parts of blogger will not work, and you may experience problems.  If you are having problems, try Google Chrome.".  Well, this is Google Chrome..  The Old Baguette did get here.  But what was she going to write about?  She can't remember.  Somehow, instead of   there is another blog listed with the blogs she reads. That will get fixed in time.  Perhaps

She was at home today, so she decided to see if she could fix her printer.  To her amazement she could and did.  She plugged it in.  She hasn't figured out how to resolve the blog problems, however.  .

Unfit to Be Seen in Public

When the Old Baguette was a very young Petite Pain, she "dined" all by herself in the kitchen.  She was propped up and strapped securely in a high chair.  She wore a bib.  A parent, or both parents, or a competent adult fed her and made sure she didn't tip over the high chair or fall out of it.  The Petite Pain loved athletic wriggling.

She developed some very annoying eating habits which obviously gave her great pleasure.  When no longer hungry, she'd get a look of glee on her face.  Then, before one of her parents or a babysitter could snatch her bowl, she'd shove it on the floor or toss it over her shoulder.  Before anyone could snatch her cup or her spoon, she'd send them both soaring.  Or, if her bowl hadn't been snatched soon enough and there were soft foods still in it, she'd puree them with her fingers.  She'd make mounds with them or shake her hands and send bits of pureed food into orbit.  The pureed food would land on flat surfaces or stick to the walls.  She was very quick and had a glorious time.    Her parents, each of whom had a strong sense of self preservation, became even quicker with practice.  As soon as they saw the "look of glee," one or both would race to the high chair and begin snatching.

When the excitement was over, one of her parents would clean her up while the other cleaned up the kitchen.  They then put her in her Dr. Denton's ( Dr. Denton's were cozy, one piece pajamas  that zipped up the front.  They covered every inch of skin except for the face and, sometimes, the hands.  They went from the top of the head to the tips of the toes.)  When she was dressed for bed, her mother read her a few rhymes and stories,  Her parents put her to bed and kissed her goodnight.  When they had put out the light, they retreated to the dining room for a leisurely meal and some good conversation.

Now, the Petite Pain's parents did not like this dinnertime routine.  It was too English   No nanny was involved, but the practice of having children eat separately from their parents seemed both  unfriendly and shortsighted.   When  families break bread together, parents and children get to know each other.  With a bit of luck, they'll learn to like each other.

One night while the Petite Pain slept,  her parents had a serious discussion that had short-term and long-term consequences.  They decided the time had come for action.  Years could pass.  The Petite Pain would be an Old Baguette eating alone in the kitchen in an over sized high chair, and they, an Old, Old Baguette and a Crusty, Crusty Roll, would  be gumming dinner together in the dining room.  They wanted to eat with the Petite Pain, but they did not want to eat with her in their small kitchen.  They wanted her to eat with them in their large dining room.  But, they liked their dining room carpet and didn't want it ruined.  They liked the mirror in the elaborate gilt frame that hung on the wall over the buffet and didn't want it shattered.   They liked well prepared food and didn't want their appetites destroyed by the sight of veggies being pureed.  The Petite Pain would be "ready" to move from kitchen to dining room when she no longer shoved, hurled, or pureed.  Her parents had devised and fine tuned  many strategies for teaching the Petite Pain new tricks,  but this was the first of many plans they made to modify the Petite Pain's behavior when it was flat out unacceptable. When they felt their plan would work, they implemented it.

First, they moved her play pen into the kitchen and put a bottle of water in it.  Then they put her in her  high chair, gave her her dinner as usual, and then stepped back.  They watched her carefully.  The instant she stopped shoveling her food into her mouth and that gleeful look appeared, they rushed to the high chair.  Instead of snatching up the bowl, cup, or spoon, they snatched up the Petite Pain.  They whisked her out of her high chair as quickly as they could and put her in her play pen.  They weren't rough, just speedy.  They didn't stop to take off her bib, to clean her face or her hands.  They didn't pause to clean up the kitchen, either.  Those chores they did later.  Leaving the light on, the two headed for the dining room and their own leisurely meal.  They didn't worry that the Petite Pain would starve.  She had, after all, made it only too clear that she had finished her dinner.  Nor would she be thirsty.  She had a bottle of water in her play pen.

Now, the Petite Pain didn't like being left alone.  Not at all.  She did cry a bit the first few days.  Then she stopped crying.  She must have mulled over causes and effects, for in no time at all, she figured out that shoving, throwing, and pureeing would lead immediately to solitary confinement in her play pen.  She  stopped creating incidents.  Amazing!  She seemed to be "ready."  The plan to modify the Petite Pain's unacceptable behavior had worked.  She and her high chair were moved into the dining room.  The playpen was moved, too, and placed within the Petite Pain's line of vision to remind her of  the inevitable consequences of shoving, throwing, and pureeing.  All went well. 

When the Petite Pain began talking, she went through a brief Oliver Twist phase.  She'd hold out her plate and ask for more.  She always said Please.  She contributed to the conversation.  She was growing up! She was becoming a bit obnoxious, so her parents had another discussion.  Perhaps, the Petite Pain was too grown up for a high chair.  When she mastered the use of a fork and a blunt knife, when she could drink from a glass, she'd be  "ready" to move from her high chair to a youth chair.  Youth chairs can be  be pushed right up to the edge of the table.  The Petite Pain wouldn't be near her parents when she had dinner.  No, she'd be with them, really with them.

But who'd be the table manners teacher?  Betty, the nine-year old from across the hall, begged to be allowed to take on the job.  The Petite Pain's mother couldn't have been more pleased.  Betty's table manners were impeccable.  Her standards were high.  Even better, Betty was a dictator.  She'd make the Petite Pain  learn.  To help out Betty, the Petite Pain's mother read books about the Goops at bedtime.  The Goops had no manners.  They ate with their fingers and licked their knives. No one ever wanted to eat with the Goops.  They were wonderful.  The Petite Pain did not want to be a Goop although she loved the stories about them.  The pictures were even better.  To avoid becoming a friendless Goop,  the Petite Pain submitted to the demands of the nine-year old dictator.  Betty made the Petite Pain learn how to use oyster forks and salad forks and dinner forks;  the Petite Pain learned how to use cream soup spoons, clear soup spoons, iced tea spoons, regular teaspoons.  She learned that she would always use the correct fork and the correct spoon if she simply worked her way from the outside in.

One day, the dictator showed the Petite Pain how to use a fish knife and a fish fork and then said, "Do what I just did."  The Petite Pain refused.  She didn't like fish, so she wouldn't need to know anything at all about using a fish knife or a fish fork.  The dictator quit, saying "The kid isn't any fun anymore.  She's turning into a brat."   The Petite Pain's mother was pleased that the Petite Pain has resisted.  Until then, she had done everything Betty had demanded of her.  Betty had played with her as if she were her doll.  With resistance, the formerly compliant doll really wouldn't be much fun, so Betty abandoned her and took up horse back riding.  With the teacher gone, the lessons ended.  The Petite Pain was transferred from high chair to youth chair, and the chair was pushed up to the table.  From that point on, the little family broke bread  together while sitting together at the same table.  They got to know each other very well and to like each other very much.   They managed to get along without fish knives or fish forks, but they couldn't get along without the Goops.

During her middle years, the Old Baguette ate at home, in hotels, in restaurants.  She had dinner with friends, and her friends had dinner with her.  She remembered Betty's lessons, so she knew how to use a variety of knives, forks, and spoons.  Her table manners really didn't deteriorate too much.

But when she became an Old Baguette?  Oh, dear!

The Old Baguette had lunch with two lovely young men last week.  They all ordered Bloody Marys, which came in glasses big enough for root beer floats,   The red, or bloody part of the Bloody Mary was hidden under a construction of veggies.  A ring of raw onion and another of green pepper were looped around a stalk of celery that rose from the glass like a Lombardy Poplar.  Draped across the top was a green plastic skewer that secured chunks of salami, cherry tomatoes, and a couple of giant green olives stuffed with pimento.   The Old Baguette wanted to soak her veggies in her drink, so she tried to slip them off the skewer into her glass.  Oops!  One of the giant olives slipped instead onto the table and began rolling.  In an attempt to keep  it from rolling off the table, the Old Baguette crouched over and  began slapping away, hoping to stop its progress with the palms of her hands. 

The slapping created quite loud. syncopated sounds.  Heads turned.  What was that woman doing?  Playing a bongo?   Despite the vigorous slapping, the Old Baguette did not capture the olive.  It rolled off the table and landed on the floor.  Hearing the commotion, the waitress came over.  Did we need help?  Yes, said the young men.  An olive has fallen on the floor and is rolling around under the table.  "Oh, kick it out here to me," said the waitress.  Thus began what well might be the world's first game of table soccer.  Here's how it's played.  The only equipment necessary is a giant green olive stuffed with a pimento.  First, drop the olive on the floor under the table.  Next,  find the olive so you can kick it.  To find it, you must bend over, stick your head under the table and search the floor.  Once you've found the olive, try to remember where it is.  .  Get your head out from under the table, slide up in the booth, stretch out your legs and try to nudge the olive into a position where it can be kicked.  Fail because the olive's too far away.  Slide down  until your chin rests on the edge of the table.  Stretch out your legs again. Get your feet tangled up again.  Slide up again and down again.  Rest your chin on the table.  In short, do what you did before repeatedly while the waitress gets on her knees to make a catch.  Finally, the olive can be kicked.  In this game, one of the young men punted it right into the hands of the waitress.    A few in the audience applauded.  Well, why not?  Table Soccer is a strenuous sport, and they'd seen a great catch.  In a few years, teams from all over the World might  be vying for the World Demitasse Cup.  (Then again, they might not.)

The waitress rose.  Would the Old Baguette care for more olives?  Of course, she would.  While the three
waited for their lunch to be served and the extra olives to arrive, the Old Baguette started twirling the skewer with her fingers.  It suddenly broke in half.  One of the halves stayed in her hand;  the other shot out like an arrow.  The young men ducked, and the skewer soared on..  Where it landed remains a mystery.  Some diner, perhaps, found it in his soup.  The extra olives arrived, and the Old Baguette, still wanting an olive soaked in gin, tried to drop it in her glass.  Her eyes aren't what they used to be, so instead of dropping the olive into  her glass, she dropped it outside her glass.  It landed on the table and started rolling.  Again, the Old Baguette bent over and started her slapping action.  Again, heads turned.  Fortunately, the Old Baguette caught the olive.  She didn't have enough energy to play another game.   Do you think the Old Baguette should have a few sessions of behavior mod before going out for lunch or dinner.  Perhaps she should simply stay at home, practice playing a bongo, and read stories about the Goops.

The waitress, the Abner Doubleday of table soccer, got a good tip.

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Footnote:  No, I didn't delete it, Sextant

An Open Letter to Blogspot

I, the Old Baguette, have been writing posts thanks to blogspot.com for quite a spell.  Then, scammers captured her contact list and sent e-mails here, there, and everywhere with a plea for help, supposedly a plea for help from the Old Baguette herself.  "Help!  Help!  I'm stranded in Cyprus.  I don't have my ATM card with me, and I need $2,800."  ( A friend similarly stranded in Edinburgh a few weeks ago needed more, much more.)  The Old Baguette got many, many calls from her friends, her librarian,  her health insurance agent.  Health insurance agent?  Yes, health insurance agent.   "Why did she need $2,800?"
"Oh, ho, ho, ho," said the Old Baguette, "she doesn't.  It's a SCAM!"  Her poor computer tower was  completely compromised.  Nothing worked.  A computer with clinical dementia has forgotten what it once remembered.  She got a new computer tower.

While all this was going on, her provider put on a new corporate name through merger or worse, and suddenly the Old Baguette lost her former e-mail address.  She couldn't sign in.  She couldn't get to her dashboard.  She couldn't write a new post.  She couldn't comment on the blogs of others.   Now, she can write a new post.  (You're reading it.)  But she still can't always comment on the posts of others!  Has blogspot helped? No!  When she clicks on the Help! button, a page written in computerese pops up.  The Old Baguette does not know computerese;  she knows English.   Blogspot instructions are written for the young who grew up speaking computerese.  So here is her Open Letter to Blogsport.com:

Blogspot.com:

Be sensitive!  Help your Old Baguettes and Crispy Rolls who blog.   Hire a nine-year old editor who can write words in English, a language that we ancients understand.  If you do, we ancients might possibly be able to solve the problems we're having with our own *&%$&* blogs.  Better yet, hire a ten-year old who can speak English into the mouthpiece of a telephone, who can help same Baguettes and Rolls solve the problems they're having with BLOGSPOT.COM!  The Old Baguette is rapidly becoming a Crisp Crouton, fried in a furnace fueled by frustration and fury. 

Thank you, Blogspot.com, for your prompt attention to this matter.

Still yours,

The Old Baguette

It's Halloween

The Old Baguette is not sick of words, words, words.  Not at all.  As she slips into one of the 100+ forms of dementia that aging minds are heir to,  she makes slips.  Not the kind with lace on the bodice that are boxed in crisp, white tissue paper, but the kind the venerable Sigmund made famous.  Freudian slips.  Where do they come from?  What do they mean?

Today, the Old Baguette and a friend drove by a cemetery, an old and venerable cemetery.  The Old Baguette said, "Oh, look at the seminary!"   Now, that's a slip to pique the venerable Sigmund's interest.  After a sufficient period of analysis, Sigmund might say the Old Baguette has confused the words "cemetery" and "seminary."  But why?  Because they're both scary!

Then there are the venerable British Prime Ministers, Israeli and Sadstone.  Surely you've heard of them.

Happy Halloween!