Urban hospital setting

I just returned from the University of Pennsylvania Hospital gynecology Department without seeing the doctor. The place looked like photos I have seen of Ellis Island, only these huddled masses weren't huddling; they were eating, drinking, talking on their cell phones, shushing or feeding their babies. It was like the emergency room in a large urban hospital, only no-one was actually bleeding. After a couple of hours, I went to the desk and asked the receptionist if I would be seen soon. She told me that there were plenty of people ahead of me. Apparently this was a clinic they held once a month. But why I had to be there on that particular day was not explained. The room didn't actually have a sign over the door: "Abandon hope ye who enter here," but the vibe was definitely there. There were too many people there, doing too many things to too many patients. Something told me I would not like to be treated in this hospital or by these people. So I decamped. The search for a surgeon moves forward.

Our career as brewmasters

I can't believe I never mentioned it, but Mr Charm and I once brewed our own beer. It was not bad either.

We got the idea from a neighbor and fellow graduate student. He made his own beer, due to being an impoverished graduate student. We were pretty poor ourselves, and had a couple of years more to go before Mr C got his PhD. We had tried hand rolling our own cigarettes, but it was tedious and hard to do. We bought a little machine to roll them with, tobacco, and cigarette paper. The hard part was getting the right amount of tobacco in each cigarette--and you'd be surprised how difficult that was, and in the end, more than we bargained for. So we got rid of the machine, the papers, the tobacco, and eventually, the habit of smoking.

But, back to the beer. We discovered that our local supermarket sold malted barley with hops. Yeast was also available, I can't remember what kind. You mixed the barley with the yeast, put it in a large crock, which we placed in the corner of the kitchen. I believe water was also involved, but I don't remember. Occasionally a burbling sound came from the crock, as if a frog had taken up residence in it. After a certain number of days, we strained it into washed soda bottles, which we capped with a bottle capping tool. You had to be careful pouring it out, as there was about a quarter-inch of sediment in the bottom. But it tasted okay, and we kept up making it for a while.

The problem was that this beer had a punch. Ordinary beer has about 6 percent alcohol, but ours had about 20 percent. Mr Charm found he could not drink it with his dinner and then prepare for the next day's classes, because he was pie-eyed. I didn't have to teach classes, but I just lurched around the kitchen, totally forgetting to put the kids to bed, or wash them, or remember I had them. So we stopped production.

As it happened, we were living in an old building at the bottom of a steep hill, which was divided into four apartments. Our fellow tenants were two old ladies with a cat and a dog, respectively, and the aforementioned graduate student and his family. The ladies felt that the young men should do all the heavy chores, taking to garbage up the hill, shoveling snow, etc. The men felt that the age of chivalry was over and that the ladies should hire someone to do the scutwork at least occasionally.

Now I have set the scene. well, not completely, because I forgot to mention that there was a capacious attic in which we stored things we were not using, including a case of the beer. Occasionally, we would hear the faraway sound of one of the bottles blowing up--but it was very far away. Perhaps it was a mouse, or the wind? Or just the house settling? We did not inquire.

After a couple of years we moved on, and moved away. We seriously planned to get rid of the beer, but one of the ladies made a cutting remark about the beer, and we got mad. We left it there.

I liked to think of the old ladies lying in bed and hearing the faraway explosion of the beer in the middle of the night. But the reality of the situation was that the college donated the building to the city, which turned it into a low income housing development. hrthe reamreality

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I am not blogging as frequently because...

blogger has become less user-friendly. I have an enormous collection of photographs in Picasa. It used to be super-easy to transfer photos to blogger; there was a button which said "blog this," you pressed it, and there it was. I've been using blogger for 7 years now and it was ever thus. However, the button has now disappeared. My daughter tells me to figure it out--it will stimulate my brain, according to her. But the last thing I want is stimulation of my brain. Thinking through problems is frustrating, vexing, and a waste of time. I have half-heartedly tried to go around this problem, but doing it the roundabout way is clumsy, kind of like rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time. I thought this was a subtle inducement to using blogger+, but it isn't. Blogger+ is just a pointless new way to waste time on the Internet. Like Facebook and its peers.

Data mining

Why are we worried because the government is recording our phone calls, e-mails, and for all I know, bowel movements? The various governments in the nation don't know what to do with this data.

For example, a man hired to demolish a building in Philadelphia managed to kill 6 people in the process. A cursory background check of this person would have revealed numerous arrests, two jail sentences, and the fact that he was a pothead. Why this individual was hired to handle heavy equipment when there is 7.5 percent unemployment was not explained. Clearly, the government's methods of using the information it collects on individual American citizens needs tweaking.

Military ceremony

We had a military ceremony at Mr Charm's interment. I felt like a bit of a fraud when they gave me the flag, because he got more out of the army than they ever got out of him. He trained as a mountain climbing instructor, but was sent to Austria where he was company clerk and everyone was very nice to him, because he had control over who got furloughs and when. He also drank lots of beer and ate lots of cake topped with shlag (whipped cream), causing him to gain 40 lbs.

But the best thing he got out of the army was the GI Bill, which enabled him to go to college. It changed his life. He went to Brooklyn College, a very fine school which was free in those days, good going for a young man who dropped out of high school because he didn't want to read Silas Marner. No, that's not accurate--he refused to read Silas Marner.

Let's go easy on the IRS

People without a sense of humor are giving the IRS a hard time over a line-dancing video.

I applaud these jolly tax-masters for having a sense of humor. Do you know what librarians do when they have conventions? Powerpoint presentations, that's what! I'll take line dancing any day.

Miss Delaware's weird family

An article about the current Miss Delaware in the local paper is making me crazy.

A paragraph about how pretty she is includes the following statement: (her two twin sisters – one identical, one fraternal – are knockouts as well).

How can she have two twin sisters, one identical, one fraternal? Is she a triplet?

You can't say no to this offer

I am continually getting offers from "financial planners" who want to "educate" me in how to save and invest my money. This is quite a common way for financial planners to troll for new customers. Usually they bribe you to attend by offering a free meal. The one I got today was a little different. Of course it was from a self-seeking "investment counselor," but this was under another guise. The offer was sent by the University of Delaware, and advertised as a "course" given through the university, at the university campus. Instead of getting a free meal, the university required a tuition payment of $39.

When I was a library director these financial gurus were always after us to let them offer a seminar in our library. I always refused because it was all about a hidden agenda, and I didn't want the library to be used for profit. Not that I am against making money--I'm all for it. But the library is a tax-supported institution and should not be recommending an investment scheme under the pretense of educating the public.

Why is the University of Delaware pimping for some financial advisor? Are they that hard up?

Festive

In December, I decided to get a pedicure from my bespoke pedicurist, Mr Tran. Mr Tran used to have a special way of doing Mr Charm's pedicure. He would roll the chair out to the car and help Mr Charm out of the car. The pedicurist used to josh with him, asking what color polish he wanted and sometimes getting a smile for her pains. She also washed his feet and lower legs, put lotion on his skin, and massaged him. When we were ready to leave, Mr Tran would help him into the car.

I continued to go there after Mr C had moved to a nursing home. Wouldn't you? He knew our whole family and asked about them. The pedicure and manicure were the same as offered everyplace else, but the service made us feel loyal.

So, back to December. I chose a color for my toenails, a shell pink. Mr Tran countermanded my choice. "No, no! Not festive enough for holiday season!" He chose a bright red, and I went along with it and achieved festive feet.

It was April when I came back, just for a manicure. "Manicure and pedicure?" asked Mr Tran. No, just a manicure. "Get manicure and pedicure," he insisted. So I did.

Jihadi mom

The Boston Bombers' mom clearly needed Dr Kermit Gosnell's services a couple of decades ago. It would have saved everybody a world of trouble.

Getting old(er)

Years ago, when my grandson was in elementary school, I would occasionally drive him and a few of his buddies to a movie or baseball practice. They were a noisy and unruly bunch, and the topic that amused them most was, er, digestive problems. Mostly farting, but they also enjoyed talking about belching, vomiting, and diarrhea--or anything else that was gross. Twenty years later, and this mindset has taken over the film industry. I just watched the movie Bridesmaids. Vomiting, diarrhea? You want it, you got it.

Poem by Shakespeare

Fear No More the Heat o' the Sun

Fear no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;

Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;

Care no more to clothe and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:

T

he Sceptre, Learning, Physic, must

All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,

Nor the'all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:

All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!

Nothing ill come near thee!

Quiet consummation have,

And renownèd by thy grave!

William Shakespeare

The kiss of the vampire Obama

Well, folks, Obamacare just gave me a big wet smacker in the form of a massive increase--$60 per month--to my health insurance. Thanks ever so. In related government news, Social Security wasted a stamp telling me to apply online for a death benefit, but when I got on their website they informed me that you could not apply online. So why are people so down on the Postal Service? It does what it is expected to do. I write a letter, put a stamp on it, and mail it. The recipient receives it. They don't charge $500 for a stamp, either. Not even when you are a republican.

Tragic

National Poetry Month

I found myself thinking of this poem today, as the weather was so lovely.  I wanted to go somewhere to savor the day.  Instead I went to Macy's.

Anyway, it is National Poetry Month.

 

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US; LATE AND SOON

          THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
          Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
          Little we see in Nature that is ours;
          We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
          The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
          The winds that will be howling at all hours,
          And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
          For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
          It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
          A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;                         10
          So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
          Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
          Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
          Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
                 

Serious

There's no amusing way to say this:  The man I called Mr Charm  died a week ago, so the world no longer has his smile or his hearty laugh.  His long, brutal illness took everything away, and then took him. 

Truly important

Someone left a message on Facebook that she is really enjoying Downton Abbey.  Really and truly?   This is confirmation that the Internet rots the brain.  And yet I recently subscribed to tumblr, so that intimate friends can inform me over facebook, twitter (which scares me, it's too difficult), google + and my e-mail that they have a hangnail.  I can't read my favorite bloggers, because they have stopped posting to their blogs and use twitter mostly, which @#I don't understand, mainly because I don't feel like wasting my time trying to master it.

Blogger is starting to be frustrating to me too.  I used to think I had it mastered, but they have improved it to the point that I can't do anything with it, like post photos.  Ah, the dear old days!

I only know how to do three things on the computer:  1) backup and restore; 2)control, alt, delete 3) answer e-mail.  That exhausts my little bag of tricks.

Reading biography

I ran out of mysteries to read, so decided to improve my mind by reading one of Mr Charm's biographies, a book about the Duke of Wellington by Christopher Hibbert and well worth reading.  He was an authentic hero, who defeated Napoleon and cared not  a rap what anyone thought of him.  He had a chest full of medals and was beloved by the ladies.

Like Ulysses Grant, who had been a quartermaster, Wellington understood the importance of supplying his armies, above all with food.  Send enough bullocks and sheep, and your army will be assured of victory. It sounds very quotidian, but it worked for him.

The citizenry loves military heroes, especially handsome ones. He went from triumph to triumph, including serving as Prime Minister.

The only unsatisfactory thing in his life was his marriage.  He had proposed to a woman when he was a young man and unable to provide for a family, and she refused him.  When he achieved success, he felt honor bound to renew his proposal, though he no longer cared for her, and she, who also had doubts, felt honor bound to accept.  So, despite the misgivings of both, they were married and lived together uneasily ever after.  He avoided her company whenever possible, and she was obsequious and timid, which made him him more impatient with her.

They were totally unsuited to each other.  He was the first man ever to say, for the record, that his wife did not understand him, although doubtless not the first to feel that way.  But as she lay dying, he was at her side.

Fighting climate change

My local newspaper features almost daily articles on the front page about climate change or global warming, with a generous side helping of beach erosion.  So, in order to limit my personal contribution to these  momentous issues, I have decided to cut back my carbon footprint by canceling my subscription.