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.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
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?
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?
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
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?"
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?"
Monday, October 10, 2011
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 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.
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