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!

Exhaustion

The Old Baguette is fried.  She's so exhausted she feels like a bag of croutons.  She's been cleaning out her one and only clothes closet to make room for new acquisitions:  hand-me-downs from a friend with good taste and bargains from a moving out sale on the 4th floor.  Everyone, absolutely everyone, was there to offer advice.  "Oh, that looks terrific on you.  Get it!"  Or, "That looks awful!  Don't get it."  The prices at moving sales, while not quite as good as the prices of hand-me-downs, are nonetheless excellent.  My new wardrobe cost less than $32.00 of my hard unearned money. 

Halloween is coming up soon, and the source of the Baguette's hand-me-downs is having a party. The Baguette'sgoing to wear her donor's clothes and go as her.  At the moving out sale, the Baguette told a friend about her costume.  The friend suggested  that a name tag would help guests understand the identity of the woman inside the clothes.  What a great idea!  The Old Baguette hopes she doesn't get her outfit elements mixed up.  That would never do.

The Baguette's mother taught French.  A student became a close friend.  Mary was very smart, but she wasn't the slightest bit interested in breaking any glass ceilings.  No, indeed.  She spent her life cooking and taking care of children.  These were not ordinary children.  Their parents had good taste, dressed their little girls beautifully,and had too much money to fuss with clothes that were outgrown. The Petite Pain got them. Mary made sure of that.  When the Petite Pain was three, her mother thought she had too many dresses, so she inventoried  the Petite Pain's wardrobe.  How many dresses were jammed in that closet?A total of  67.  They were all lovely, but she never got to wear the  the velvets and silks trimmed with lace that make little girls think they're  princesses.  Whenever the Petite Pain wore a dress, it was a simple cotton affair.   Most of the time she wore blue jeans and Tshirts.  The first dress her mother bought for her was her First Communion dress.  She was almost seven.  That wardrobe inventory wore her mother out.  She never made another.  Instead, she'd tell Mary that if the Petite Pain had any more clothes she'd be spoiled rotten and that Mary should stop bringing the hand me downs.  As always, Mary ignored  the Petite Pain's mother completely and continued hauling in the goodies.  The closet remained  stuffed with unworn designer dresses, and the child  was not spoiled rotten because she wore blue jeans.  The Old Baguette has mulled over this particular strategy her mother claimed would prevent spoilage and has concluded  that her mother didn't want to wash and then  iron those cute frilly dresses that required special handling.  Nor did she want to pay to have the unwashables dry cleaned.  Ergo, those troublesome dresses shouldn't be worn.  And weren't worn. 

A Sympathy Call

Today the Old Baguette received a sympathy call. People must be giving her a hard time.  Why a hard time?  Because she's Catholic. The Archbishop of the Catholic Church in her area is being regularly quoted in the media, and he comes across as narrow, unloving, less "holey" than a chunk of Swiss cheese.  People assume that the Catholics who still go to Mass on Sunday "go along" with the Archbishop's narrow, unloving pronouncements.  That assumption is just plain wrong.  Some "go along," but the rest don;t. Others who aren't Catholic either agree or disagree with the Archbishop.  One doesn't have to be a Catholic Archbishop to be narrow and unloving.

Just what is the Archbishop all hot and bothered about?  Same sex marriages.  The Pope's against them.  Officially, the Cardinals, the Archbishops, the Bishops, and the priests are against them.  But unofficially?  Unofficially, despite their vows of celibacy, many of the above have had or are having same sex relationships. The Old Baguette suspects that more than a few Cardinals, Archbishops, etc., are actually unopposed to same sex marriages.  Back to the Archbishop here.  He'd like to see every Catholic in his territory working to prevent the legalization of same sex marriages.  "Now, that's going much too far, Archbishop.  You can put on your suit of armor and launch your crusade.  Some of us will follow you.  The rest of us won't."

By the way, where do you expect to get the money for your war?

Questionable Quirks

Since  the Old Baguette thoroughly enjoys quirks, she also enjoys the people who have them.  People with quirks can be "different" and oten don't "fit in.."  Usually, a person with quirks has several, so it takes time to get to know them.  Quirks are like frosting on a cake.  (For the record, quirks are always harmless.  Serial  killing is not a quirk.)  The Old Baguette's parents enjoyed quirks and taught her to how to value people with quirks by what they said and didn't say.  As a result, she was able to acceptt her parents, her relatives, her friends and, yes, herself, as they were, quirks and all.

And what about people without quirks?  The Old Baguette has met them, but they've never become good friends.

And what about people with questionable quirks or behaviors that have lost all traces of quirky charm?
They're not serial killers, but .... Too often these people with questionable quirks are members of the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church -- Archbishops, Bishops.  (The Pope has several questionable opinions, but opinions aren't quirks -- and they aren't infallible, either.)  Except for the period between 4th grade and her sophomore year in college when the Old Baguette was a "drop out," she has been a "practicing Catholic."  Since her baptism,, she's gone to Mass.  She wishes the Archbishops and Bishops would stop scandalizing her with their questionable quirks  Just what do they do?  Her own Archbishop likes to write letters to people who are acting out of love.  He "lovingly" admonishes them to stop and act rather hateful instead.   Bishop Finn in Kansas likes to close down everything he thinks isn't Catholic enough.  (What on earth does that mean?)  He closed down a retreat center that's been around for years.  It had one of those Far Eastern names for peace.  Even atheists seeking peace went there.  That center clearly wasn't Catholic enough, so the Bishop closed it. And then, that same Bishop was indicted.  Finn knew that one of his priests, a Fr. Shawn Ratigan, was preying on young girls.  For six months, Finn protected the priest instead of the girls.  Now, that's defiitely a no-no.  Whether he'll be convicted, no one knows, but Finn does need  to be shut down.  He isn't Catholic enough.

Upsizing, Downsizing, Who Cares about Sizing

The Old Baguette began her adult life with a roommate in a small apartment.  They didn't need or want a lot of stuff, so their possessions were few.  If they couldn't store it, they didn't buy it.  Then, they grew older and began acquiring stuff::  husbands, children, and things they wanted whether they needed them or not.  If they couldn't store it, they bought it anyway.  That was their first mistake. They "solved" the storage problem by moving into bigger apartments or bigger houses.   They grew attached to their stuff.  That was their second mistake, and it was a biggie.

Then, one by one the kids moved out, leaving their stuff behind.  Did they have room for it in their small apartments?  Of course not.  Don't be silly. Sometimes the husbands moved out, too, for a different wife or a different life.  (Less frequently the wives took off for greener pastures, and the husbands were left with the stuff.)  Those big homes were no longer a joy.  They were expensive burdens.   Just think of having all that  stuff to dust, all those flights of stairs to climb,  those expanses of lawns to mow.   When the Old Baguettes or Crusty Rolls got knee  replacements, the time for upsizing abruptly ended., and the time for downsizing  began.  The time had come to move into smaller digs.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         it   For those of you still too young to know the word, downsizing, here's a quick definition.  Downsizing means getting rid of unnecessary stuff.  Sounds simple, but it isn't.  Remember that second mistake?   Over the years, the Old Baguettes and even the Crusty Rolls had grown attached to all their  stuff.  They lost the ability to differentiate between the stuff they need and the stuff they want, so they don't know what to keep and what to toss.  The children are no help.  They don't want anything.  The result?   The process of downsizing turns into something like this:  "Oh, I don't want to junk this meaningful piece of junk.  I'll take it with me and find a place to put it later."  Ha!  There is no place to put it later or ever.  Is there a solution to this problem?

There is.  The residents of  some buildings for seniors like to go on outings together.  They have bazaars to raise money for transportation to and from restaurants,  theaters, gambling casinos.  And what do they sell at these Bazaars?  They sell the stuff they don't want or need.  In time they find a place for their stuff in the apartments of other people as long as they resist the temptation to shop.  Old Baguettes, Crusty Rolls, take warning.                                                                                                                                

Note:  No definition for upsizing exists because the Old Baguette made up the word.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

A Day at the Races without the Marx Brothers

The Old Baguette loves the Kentucky Derby.  She doesn't live within galloping distance of Churchill Downs, so she can't go to the track.  She watches the race on television with her best hat on her head and a mint julep in her hand.  She wants to be part of the glamorous scene. Make no mistake. Everything, absolutely everything and everyone at Churchill Downs is glamorous on Derby day.  The horses with their shiny coats and skinny legs, the jockeys in their colorful, patterned silks, the women in their elegant hats, the men in their tailored suits, Churchill Downs itself.  The Old Baguette loves the sounds, too. The strains of My Old Kentucky Home, the bugle's call, the clanging of the gates, the squeaks of saddles, the pounding of hooves.  Eventually, the winner crosses the finish line,  is led to the winner's circle, and is blanketed with roses.  Great silver trophies are presented.  What an event!

While Arlington Park in the Chicago area wasn't Churchill Downs, it used to be a lovely race track.  Perhaps it still is.  Going to the races at Arlington was a way lots of families celebrated the 4th of July.  The Old Baguette doesn't know why, but every year 50,000 or so would show up.  They bet on the ponies or simply watched the horses run.  The Old Baguette's family went occasionally.   They, like everyone else,  went to Arlington to have fun.  None of the women wore fancy hats.  The men weren't particularly dapper.  No one wandered about sipping mint juleps.  No one gave a hoot about glamour.  Too bad!

One of my school friends, her mother, and her grandmother went to Arlington on a particularly hot 4th  of July.  As race followed race, Granny got hotter and hotter and more and more excited.  She kept jumping up and down as she cheered on her favorites.  Then, in the middle of the 6th race she slumped to the ground.  Oops!  People all around her mobilized.  The stretcher bearers that were always there to take care of injured jockeys materialized and carried her to the track's office.  Had she had a heart attack? A stroke?  Had the heat "done her in?"  The track manager got on his  microphone and called for a doctor.  In about five minutes, a doctor, one man in that mob of 50,000,  responded to the plea.  When my friend's mother saw him, she almost fainted.  The doctor was Granny's own, personal physician.  Imagine that!  Granny never got over beating the odds so completely.  "I was in a crowd of 50,000.  I collapsed.  When I regained consciousness, my own doctor was bending over me.  I didn't know he liked going to the races."  The Old Baguette can't remember the diagnosis, but Granny was quickly cured.  She made it back to the rail in time to watch the last race.  

Trust

From the time she was a Petite Pain, the Old Baguette knew she could trust her mother to tell her the truth.  She couold trust her father to tell her the truth, too, because she never, ever heard him tell a lie, even one of those teeny, tiny white ones that aren't supposed to matter, but do.  Her father didn't have to earn the Petite Pain's trust.  He had it.  Her mother did tell one of those teeny, tiny white lies from time to time, so the Petite Pain put her mother to the test.  Her mother passed.  She took tests well.

When the Petite Pain was in kindergarten, the children painted pictures on large sheets of manila paper that were mounted on easels.  When the other children had painted a recognizable flower or house, they stopped painting.  The Petite Pain didn't.  She kept adding trees, pets, people, suns, moons, pirates, kings, and boats to her paintings.  She used lots of green and red, her favorite colors.  The colors inevitably blended  together.  In the end, almost without exception, her paintings were abstractions in brown.  One day, she looked at one of these abstractions and saw it for what it was -- a study in ugliness.  When the painting was dry, she brought it home and showed it to her mother.  Her mother made the kind of comment a mother makes before she attaches her child's atrocity to the family's refrigerator. "Why, that's very nice, dear."  The Petite Pain looked coldly at her mother and said, "You know perfectly well it's awful."  From that moment, the Petite Pain's mother, when asked for an opinion about anything at all, spoke nothing but Truth.

Did the Petite Pain sing like a nightingale?  "Well, if I were you, I'd save myself some embarrassment.  I'd forget about auditioning for the Major Bowes Amateur Hour?"

Was the cake the Petite Pain just baked any good?  "Well, it was better than plenty I've baked.  Your father liked it, but  he'll eat anything.  Maybe you just need a different recipe."

Do you think I'll ever be a good knitter?  "I can't answer that question.  No one ever sees your knitting.  You get up to the sweater's armholes and then leave it on the bus.  Do you need more yarn?" 

Do you think I could ever be a professional ballet dancer?  "No."

Do you think I'm old enough to wash my hair by myself?  "Yes."

Besides being an absolutely reliable reality check, the Petite Pain's mother never protected her from hearing the truth from others.  When she was fifteen, the Petite Pain told her mother she was going for a job interview at one of the major hospitals in Chicago.  Her mother didn't remind her that her typing skills were poor or that she was probably too young to be hired.  Instead, she said, "Good idea.  Do you know how to get there?"  The Petite Pain did know the way and arrived on time for the interview.  When she was taking the required typing test, she went for speed.  Her fingers flew, but . . . .  After deductions had been made for errors, the Petite Pain had managed to type minus 13 words per minute.  That no one laughed was surprising.  That the Petite Pain was not hired was not surprising.  Her mother's reaction wasn't surprising either.  "Had she had a good time?"  Yes.  "Had she learned anything?"  Yes.  If you want to get a job, make sure you've got the skills to keep it.  Also, when taking typing tests, concentrate on accuracy.  Her father's reaction was equally unsurprising.  "Minus 13 words per minute?  Was that a record?"

Prepared for Encounters

Since the Old Baguette was born ten years after her parents married, many of their friends were childless couples.  Many of these couples were childless because they really did not like children and had the good sense not to have any.  Her mother knew precisely how their friends regarded children and would brief the Old Baguette, then a Petite Pain, before the guest or guests darkened the door.  To be permitted to stick around when the guests didn't like children, the Petite Pain knew she had to be a good little girl.  She had to sit quietly by her mother like all those children of legend who are seen but not heard.  If her mother said that the visitors liked children, the Petite Pain understood that she would be included in the social group.  However, to get to stay, she still had to be a good little girl.  She still had to sit quietly by her mother, but she could be heard as well as seen.  Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, she was encouraged to have her say.  And how did she know when it was okay to speak up?  She'd squeeze her mother's thumb.  When that inevitable lull came around, her mother would ask, "Did you have something you wanted to say?"  In time, the Petite Pain could recognize lulls when they came around. 

The Petite Pain was included always when guests were greeted.  At first she was held.  Then, when she could stand on her own two feet, she stood on her own two feet.  She saw a lot of kneecaps.  With child-friendly visitors, she was encouraged to do some welcoming on her own.

Harry Potts liked children.  As always, the Petite Pain had been briefed before his visit, but she didn't get Harry's name right.  She thought it was "Trary."  Not Harry, but Trary Potts.   That evening when the doorknocker sounded, the parents and the child being socialized opened the door.  After the greetings, the welcome, and the small talk were over, there was a lull.  The Petite Pain  said, "Hello, Trary.  How does your garden grow?"  Trary said, "The silver bells are all in a row."

By the time she was three, the Petite Pain was a party animal.  The socialization effort was planned by her parents and accomplished with a little help from their friends.  The Petite Pain began life relishing encounters.  What could be lovelier?  Perhaps that's why the Old Baguette has had so many of them.

The Win and Trim Precedent

When youngsters, Old Baguettes and Crusty Rolls didn't waste time plunked before their computers.   They didn't have computers of their own.  Many of them had never heard of computers.   Perhaps computers hadn't even been invented.  Still, many of them did waste time successfully.  They played the addictive card game, Contract Bridge, which was invented by one of Anderson Cooper's ancestors to while away the hours that were idle when he was sailing around on his yacht.  Before anyone could say, "Ship Ahoy!," the game was created and became a world wide sensation.  Contract Bridge was as popular as pet rocks, as cabbage patch dolls.   Really good players played for blood;  average players  played for fun.  Then, with the passage of time came an unexpected and almost unimaginable occurrence.   Bridge players became fewer and fewer like the pet rocks and cabbage patch dolls of yesteryear.  Getting up the essential foursome to play a game became almost impossible.  Old Baguettes and Crusty Rolls were forced to follow the example of Bill Gates and Warren Buffet.  Like the billionaires, they head for the nearest Bridge Center, find a partner, and play for blood.  (Bill Gates and Warren Buffet, of course, found each other and have been playing together ever since.)

The Old Baguette was living in D.C.  One Sunday afternoon she felt like a game of bridge, so she headed for the nearest Bridge Center and found a partner.  They played for blood.  After they had defeated a charming gentleman and his sort of charming wife, the Old Baguette's partner and the wife excused themselves, leaving the charming gentleman and the Old Baguette free to talk.  That seldom happens at Bridge Centers.
The usual questions were asked, the "Where are you from questions" we bandy about so mindlessly.  We both were from Hyde Park, not the Roosevelt Hyde Park in New York, or the stand-on-cardboard-boxes- and-give-speeches Hyde Park in London, but the University of Chicago Hyde Park in, yes, Chicago.  He had been a Law School Professor, and my father had gone to that very Law School.  The charming man and I chatted, and for some reason I told him a story my mother used to tell about my father's nefarious ways as a student.  He played poker, generally for money, but once for a moth-eaten, ankle length raccoon skin coat. The original owner was the tallest of the regulars, about 6"5" with his shoes off.  The next tallest, who was about 6'3" tall, won the coat and trimmed two inches off the bottom, so he could be "in fashion."  The next winner was 6'2" tall.  He trimmed one inch off the bottom.  The "win and trim" precedent was established.  My father at 5'10" was the wee lad of the debauched group.  After he became the winner and trimmer, he was stuck with the relic.  Mother said the coat was dirty, that it smelled.  My father loved that coat.  Pictures of my father wearing it  make one wonder about how fads are created.  Who, after all, swallowed the first goldfish? 

Mysteriously, that mangy coat of the proper, fashionable length disappeared.  What happened to it?  Although  Mother never admitted guilt, all were convinced she'd junked it, but she was never convicted.  Because no one ever found a ratty raccoon coat that clearly had been "won and trummed" to reach the ankles of a 5'10" tall male, the case never went to court.  No evidence.


The charming Law School professor liked the story, thought the "win and trim" precedent sounded like the creation of a University of Chicago Law School student.  In fact, the professor guffawed. 

Our partners returned.  We moved to other tables.  At one, an opponent said, "I see we have a Supreme Court Justice here this evening?"  "Oh, where?," I asked.  "There," said the opponent.  Sure enough.  There was our Court's newest appointee, John Paul Stevens, former professor of law.  I had just lectured him on the "win and trim" precedent.  Did he ever cite if in any of his opinions?  Probably not,

For Alicia

Welcome, Alicia!  I've always loved Sextant's comments.  He's such a Crusty Roll.  Rarely did any of my fans except Sextant comment.  I guess they were afraid they'd end up alone with an ATM in Cyprus without a card, without cash, and according to my librarian without an appropriate guide book.  Anyway, thanks for your comments.  Believe it or not, I couldn't satisfactorily prove my identity to the blogger-editors-that-be, so I couldn't thank you by commenting.  The comments that disappeared were brilliant, filled with gratitude. 

Fans now floating in the ether, take note.  Alicia isn't afraid of being whisked off to some exotic land like Wales.  She comments with courage, and I appreciate it.

Sextant wanted to know what after dinner coffee with the Boorstins was like.  It was probably hot, brown, and wet.  I do remember that the Boorstins had books all over the place and that I told them about my encounter with Big Red and the linesmen.   They did not invite me back.   Did they escape me by fleeing to D.C.?  Frankly, my dears, I don't think they gave a damn.

Alicia, what's  your blog?

Kings of the Numbers

The Old Baguette grew up in the area Erik Larson wrote about in The Devil and the White City.  Some of the finest architects in America argued about how to construct a World Class Exposition on a patch of land that once lay at the bottom of Lake Michigan.  They pumped the water out, built buildings, created walks, a grand mall, and a magnificent park.  Voila!  The Columbian Exposition was exposed, the Disney World of the 1890's.  Did it have a ride?  It did indeed:  the world's first Ferris Wheel.  The Exposition's  mall, then flanked by great halls for this and that is now flanked by the University of Chicago.  The great park, Jackson Park, with it's trout streams, and golf course, and lagoons, was called the wooded island because it was both an island and was wooded.  How imaginative!  Children no longer can wander about safely by themselves, but in the era when the Old Baguette was a Petite Pain children could and did roam, climb trees, wade in water, fall in water.  Such sights there were to behold!  Replicas of the Nina, the Pinta, the Santa Maria.  A Japanese tea house and gardens.  Fishermen with rods and reels and trout.

And then, if you have read Larsen's book, you know of 63rd Street, once a halfway respectable street on the Southern border of the Exposition.   63rd became  a den of iniquity under the tracks of the El train which was built to bring people to the Exposition.  There were more seedy bars on 63rd than on any other street in the world.  The street's one redeeming feature was a magnificent Chinese restaurant.  Students ate there, and professors ate there.  That restaurant probably paid big bucks for  protection because no one ever heard of any unpleasant incidents.  The Old Baguette had one of her adventures when she went to dine there one frigid February evening with friends.  We arrived like pioneers in a wagon train.  We each arrived and departed in separate cars.  Inside the restaurant, Dan Boorstin wandered over to our table and invited me to go to his house for after dinner coffee with him and his wife.  He'd won the National Book Award for the Federalist Papers and would become Librarian of Congress.  I'd met him when he was a brilliant young professor zooming along the tenure track.  He was a lion during his zooming days, actually a little scary.  And here he was, a pussycat, not scary at all, but friendly, hospitable, inviting me to his home.  Of course, I accepted.  I didn't say, "Oh, sorry old National Book Award winner, but I have better things to do with my valuable time."  Nope.  I did not say that.  I said the equivalent of:  "You betcha!  Just give me your address."

I ended my meal as the Boorstins ended theirs and headed, alone, for my car.   Having faith in the system of protection, I parked in the only place I could find to park -- in an icy, lonely, dark, dark alley.  Not exactly a good decision because while the Petite Pain, a rather stale Petite Pain, was in the restaurant her tires and the ice in the alley froze together.  The stale Petite Pain tried to rock the car but couldn't.  Thinking stupidly that she might be able to push the car clear, she got out.  She left her purse, her wallet, her money in the car.  She'd have left her passport and birth certificate behind, too, but she didn't have them with her.  Were the keys in the ignition?  I'm afraid so.

Suddenly, a middle-aged man who was staggeringly drunk but affable materialized with five young men who looked like linesmen for the Chicago Bears.  Muscular hunks.  They would help the Petite Pain, said the drunk, who leaned against her while they both watched the linesmen get in the car.  They  rocked it and pushed it with great vigor.  But, they kept the doors open.  As soon as the car budged from the ice, would they all hop in and take off for warmer climes? These linesmen wouldn't.  As soon as the car budged, they all hopped out of it.  One of them handed over the keys, and the drunk, indeed an very affable fellow, said, "I'm Big Red.  Whenever you get in trouble around here, just say you're a friend of Big Red."  The Petite Pain mumbled an okay, got in her car, and found everything she'd left behind right where she'd left it.  As she drove to the Boorstins for a lovely after dinner coffee and a liqueur, she concentrated on remembering the name she should remember:  Big Red.  One never knows when help will be needed.

Time passed.  Daniel Boorstin became the King of the Dewey Decimal Numbers as Librarian of Congress.  And what about Big Red?   His name, too, hit the papers.  I saw his picture near the front page of The Chicago Tribune.  He had been the King of the Numbers Racket in the 63rd street area.  While Boorstin ended up in our nation's archive, Big Red ended up in one of our nation's jails.  I don't know what happened to the linesmen.

About to Procrastinate -- For Whom?

The Old Baguette is writing a new post for two reasons.  She now knows she can, and she wants to procrastinate.  She does not want to crawl up on her scooter and ride two long blocks to her pharmacy to get the prescriptions she needs to STOP COUGHING!  She does want to stop coughing, she'd like to sleep as she usually sleeps, i.e., curled up flat on her side, her face covered by one of those masks people with sleep apnea wear.  That"s what the Old Baguette would like.  Instead, she falls asleep for a wee span of time in her chair before her computer.  The chair has arms so she doesn't fall thump on the floor, but before she's had a moment to dream a halfway decent dream, she is awakened by her own coughing.  She needs those meds which were prescribed FOR HER this morning.  Her concern is that she'll start coughing en route, lose control of her vehicle, and steer into traffic.  Oh, ish!  Such an event would be FOR no one.

Now, the Old Baguette has become fascinated by the issue of FOR WHOM things are done by spending a morning with a sundry number of lab technicians in radiology and the blood lab.      When they want me to do something, they say, "Will you do this FOR ME?"  No, I want to say, I won't do that FOR YOU, but I'll do it to get a good x-ray or to make my lousy veins more giving.  Of course, I don't.  Did anyone teach them to say, "Will you do this for me?"  I don't think so.  The for-me phrase was probably used in 1910 with an uncooperative patient.  When it worked, others began using it until today no one would ever consider saying,  "Would you please put your chin up a little higher?"  No, all say, "Would you please put your chin up a little higher FOR ME?"

* * * * * *  (That's what the sound of a telephone ring looks like.)

Oh dear, I just got a phone call from a friend who ran the blood labs for our medical school's hospitals.
And why was she calling?  She wanted to know if she could do anything FOR ME?  Where did she go wrong?

Mercy, Mercy, and Again Mercy! What's a Poor Blogger To Do?

The Old Baguette has been trying to write a new post.  Trying, trying, and trying.  She couldn't sign in.  Because she couldn't sign in, she couldn't get to her DASHBOARD and use her mouse to click on NEW POST.  On Saturday, a hint of what was wrong emerged as exactly twenty-one friends called to say, "I just got this strange e-mail from you."  Some were laughing that hysterical laugh, others sounded very tentative, and still others wanted details.  According to this email, I was writing for help.  I was stranded in Cyprus (Cyprus???).  I had lost my ATM card and couldn't get money from my bank.  I needed a loan of $2,800.  That, my friends, is what can happen when one changes email addresses, and one's old address goes to someplace in the ether reserved for poor, abandoned email addresses.  A greedy hacker can think, "I'll take that one.  I'll create a scam to get money.  Maybe someone will send me ten bucks."  Whatever can be thought up can then be done.

Now why was my old address null and void?  It was all the result of the inability of corporations to come to agreements that would keep their customers from suffering cruel and unusual punishment.  My provider, which I've had since I bought my first computer, was bought out by a larger company.  My first provider had an "arrangement" with MSN.  MSN would provide my email.  The new, larger company and MSN just couldn't agree about anything at all, so MSN went into a huff and sent our old email addresses into expiration land. 

When I tried to sign in to write a new post, I was told I didn't have a blog.  Well, that was a surprise.  I couldn't figure out how to convince Google that I really did have a blog, so I did the next best thing.  I
created a new one.  A new one with the same name as the old one.  The great Shakespeare scholar at Harvard when asked if Shakespeare or Bacon had written all those plays would respond:  "They were either written by a man named William Shakespeare or by somebody else with the same name."  I'm ashamed to admit that my computer sense is weak, but my problem solving sense is pretty good for an old baguette like me.  Might as well brag a bit since so few will notice.