Congratulations! It’s a bouncing baby GMO

Standard

‘What happens when Mother Nature meets Mr. Science’

So, I was going to tell a babysitting story. A really good one that involved somebody getting peed on. But then I saw that The Child had posted this article on Facebook:

Well, being That Kind of Mom, I clicked on it, And saw that what was distressing Her Childness was news that companies like Chipotle are saying no-go to GMOs. Without any real scientific reason. Basically, it’s to make themselves more attractive to the Millennial Market. This makes The Child intellectually furious, since she is a Millennial herself. And a Scientist. Continue reading

Channeling Sully Sullenberger

Standard

‘My lifesaving skills are for the birds’

Remember Sully Sullenberger? He is the pilot I always want piloting whatever plane I happen to be on. (I always check for a sort of older guy with a mustache when I get on an aircraft). Because Sully is the pilot who safely landed that plane smack-dab in the middle of the Hudson River and didn’t lose a single soul.

In case you don’t happen to live in New York where this happened right under our noses in the middle of a work day (meaning we will never ever forget about it), that was the plane that had an unfortunate encounter with a flock of birds shortly after takeoff from LaGuardia. The Control Tower Guys told him to head for this little airport in New Jersey called Teterboro. But Sully knew in his Experienced-Pilot’s Heart that if he did, scores of New Jerseyites on the ground would be toast as well as everyone on his plane, so he ‘landed’ on the Hudson instead. Fasten your seat belts and check this out. Wow. Continue reading

The Motorcycle Diaries

Standard

Get your mother runnin’ (alongside a Honda 125)

Yes, it’s called ‘Motorcycle Diaries’ (plural) because I really do have stories (plural) involving motorcycles. Remember the one about Elvis flirting with the five-year-old me while revving a white Harley? (Elvis being the one doing the revving, not the five-year-old me.)

Well, my motorcycle story for today is in honor of Mother’s Day. And how I almost didn’t get that shiny Vespa in the picture at the top because I almost didn’t get to be a Mother. Continue reading

The Emperor has no peppers

Standard

‘A Tale of Two Families (and an identity crisis)’

Okay. Let’s take a quick poll. What’s a brownie? Is it thick and cake-y? Or sort of gooey and dense? And what about oatmeal cookies? Fat, with raisins? Or thin and chewy, with chocolate chips?

And, not to make this all about sweets, what about potato salad? (that is, if anybody out there even eats potato salad anymore): is it sweet and sort of vinegary? Or made with mayo? And if it’s the mayo-y kind, would that be Hellmann’s, or Miracle Whip? Continue reading

Confessions of a B-Team Mom

Standard

‘You never step in the same family twice.’

Apologies to Heraclitus, for mangling (er, adapting) his line. He said something like ‘No man steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.’ I’d actually never heard of Heraclitus till I googled that quote, which I had floating around in my head. (Um, brief aside: Am I the only one who thinks ‘Heraclitus’ sounds a tad, well, unseemly? Or do I just have jet lag?)

See, last Thursday was my Little Brother Doug’s birthday (he’s the guy squirming in my lap in the picture at the top of this post.) And last Friday I got to go out west to visit our Mutual Mother, who now lives in a quaint little town on the Oregon Coast. But no more of that for now.

On the endless plane ride out there, I got to thinking that, since I am almost 12 years older, Doug and I were, for all intents and purposes, raised in completely different families. (Those of you who’ve been along for my Blog Ride know by now that I am the oldest of five: Scott/Me are the Big Kids, Laura/Doug are the Little Kids, and Roger is stuck in the Middle Kid position.) Continue reading

Short men and flat-chested women

Standard

‘Mad Men, Memories, and Me’

What a quandary Sunday night! Two hot shows in competing TV time slots. Do I watch the one with the bloodthirsty power plays, the deadly palace intrigue, the dangerous illicit sex, the fabulous period costumes, the one where women lose their heads over the charismatic moody king?

Or do I watch Wolf Hall?

Through the miracle of modern technology (well, um, DirectTV), I actually got to watch them both. Even though they are, essentially, the same deal. TV-wise, anyway:

Mid-Century Lust (for sex, power, clothes), 16th-Century Edition

Saga of sex and power, with great clothes. 16th-Century Edition

Mid-Century Lust (for sex, power, clothes), 20th-Century Edition

Saga of sex and power, with great clothes. 20th-Century Edition

Now, as much as I’m sure you’re dying to hear my views on Hilary Mantel and Henry the VIII, it’s nah, not today. Let’s talk about Mad Men.

Continue reading

Winning the Dude-A-Thon

Standard

‘We make it to 31 on the 31st’

It snowed late that March too. A lot. So much that we were worried about travel. No, not for our guests, but for us.

See, we didn’t really have a wedding. We are officially married, rest assured. But those jillion-dollar affairs with champagne spigots and swans carved from ice? Not for us. For one thing, we were paying for it ourselves. And for another thing, while Dude Man does like attention, he does not like being the center of attention. Which can’t help but happen if you have a wedding. With yourself in it, I mean.

Speaking of being the center of attention, The Dude and I demonstrate the secret to a long marriage: racy underpants. Worn on your head, of course

Speaking of being the center of attention, The Dude and I demonstrate the secret to a long marriage: racy underpants. Worn on your head, of course. (Oh, I’ve got a story involving underpants and a huge dog you might like)

See, The Dude had been to one too many weddings where people did things like write ‘Help Me!’ on the soles of the bridegroom’s shoes so everyone tittered when the kneeling bits happened. And, speaking of shoes, he once forgot his when he packed for an out-of-town wedding–a wedding where he was the Best Man. Continue reading

Howie and the Muscle Shirt

Standard

‘There goes the neighborhood’

Could it be Spring Fever? Last week I wrote about going topless. And now I’m going to tell a story that has my Brother Scott removing his top. Of course he was a kid, and a boy. But still.

The top in question was an item of clothing known as a ‘muscle shirt’. There’s a fine example pictured in the photo at the top of this post. The photo also features a rather fine example of what was known as a ‘banana-seat bike’, also popular during the Time of Which We’ll Speak. At least popular among pre-adolescent boys.

Important note: no self-respecting pre-adolescent boy of my acquaintance would appear dead in those fringed shorts, though. Picture must have been taken in California.

But I digress, as is my wont.

This story takes place when The Henry Family lived on the West Side. The West Side of Carlyle, Illinois, that is. No Sharks or Jets, but plenty of neighborhood kids roaming free and getting into mischief.

There was one kid in particular, named Howie, who got into all sorts of mischief. Throwing rocks at houses was his particular forte. But he also liked to wander into Other Peoples’ Houses and pop up at random moments. Oh, my goodness! Howie! Whatever are you doing in our bathroom?’

But this story isn’t about Howie, fascinating child though he was. This story is about the time our Aunt Marilyn came for a visit and we got out the badminton set. See, Aunt Marilyn was rather a young sporty aunt, so games were called for. On other occasions we whipped out the croquet set. But this time it was badminton.

Now, you might think of badminton as rather a genteel, dignified Downton-Abbeyesque kind of game. But these were Henrys playing. And it was summertime in Carlyle, which was in the general orbit of St. Louis, climate-wise. Which meant it was hot and muggy. How hot and muggy? People in the British Foreign Service stationed in St. Louis qualified for hazardous-duty pay.

Continue reading

In outer space, no one can hear you scrinch

Standard

‘On Misophonia, Hyperosmia, and other fun syndromes’

God bless the New York Times. In just one issue (yesterday’s) there were articles about annoying noises driving people nuts, kids developing allergies because their parents didn’t feed them nuts, and one about couples married over 65 years having more sex than younger couples. Which is probably driving researchers nuts.

Now, these are all topics dear to my heart. But I feel I just have to start with the Noise Thing.

As one says when one is diagnosed with Misophonia, 'at least I am not alone'

As one says when one is diagnosed with Misophonia, ‘at least I am not alone’

It seems that researchers have identified a syndrome called Misophonia (‘hatred of sound’), which means, basically, that certain ‘selective sounds’ drive certain people, um, batty. The Times specifically mentions lip smacking, swallowing and ‘breathing sounds’. Don’t you just love that this is a ‘syndrome’?

Continue reading

The King and I

Standard

‘Getting my Blue Suede Shoes(On)’

Last week the one and only Elvis Aaron Presley, bless his heart (and swiveling hips) would have celebrated his 80th birthday. (Big pause to take that in).

Now you Young People out there may need a bit of Elvis Ed (which you can find right here). But before you Wikipedia yourselves senseless, let me just say that, in his day, Elvis could have out teened-frenzied that Bieber Boy with one pouty lip tied behind his back (now there’s an image). And here’s an image of each; you be the judge. But do notice how Elvis didn’t need to resort to tattoos to look, um, hot. And he never posed in his (or Calvin’s) underwear. Not that I know of, anyway.

So. This story happened Continue reading