Monthly Archives: December 2025

Christmas Is Over. April Is Coming.

etc., family, holidays, humor, , , ,

It was November, and I was manic. I had just gotten paid for a freelance job, and I went on the internet. I instantly started seeing items for sale that my husband might like. So I started buying.

(The mania was a part of my bipolar disorder and reckless spending is one of the known risks. At least I didn’t get into other risky behaviors like reckless driving. But reckless shopping is fun, and I hadn’t been able to do much recently. But I digress.)

The first thing I bought him was a t-shirt that said: Stay Groovy. I thought it was appropriate because any time a server in a restaurant asks, “How are you today?” he always says, “Groovy.” But then, he’s an old and unrepentant hippie.

Then I found another t-shirt, “Make America Grateful Again,” with the skull and lightning bolt symbol that the band The Grateful Dead used. I was off and shopping.

I found more t-shirts, all in the same vein, such as one with the lyrics to “In My Life” (Dan’s favorite Beatles song) and a shirt with a tie-dye hand missing one finger. (A reference to Jerry Garcia, the leader of the Grateful Dead, who actually had only nine fingers, despite the fact that he was the lead guitar player. Dan is frequently mistaken for Jerry Garcia, as his hair is the same wild, curly mass that Jerry had. Sometimes he tells people he is Jerry Garcia and in the Witness Protection program. And that he had the missing finger surgically replaced as part of his disguise. But I digress again, at length.)

Then I found what would turn out to be his main gift—a piece of the wooden stage from Woodstock mounted in a peace sign pendant—and relegated the shirts to being stocking stuffers. (It came with a certificate of authenticity, but who really knows? It’s the thought that counts. He put it on right away and has been wearing it ever since. But I digress yet again.}

It had become my turn to be Santa. (Dan is often accused of being Santa, especially (but not exclusively) in December. Again, it’s the hair and beard. He often plays along, telling children to mind their parents and play nicely with their siblings. This year, he even wore red sweats and a Santa hat to work on Christmas Eve, then went around the store handing out “Santa Bucks” coupons, “signed by Santa.” He even wore a nametag that said “Santa C.” It was all his idea; no one at the company put him up to it. But I digress even more.)

Was I done shopping? I was not.

While I was perusing t-shirts, I found one that showed layers of rock and said, “My Sediments Exactly.” Well, Dan studied geology in college, and heads to the fossils, petrified wood, and interestingly shaped rocks when we’re in a rock and gem shop. (He even brought home an “interesting rock” that he collected when we were in Ireland. He almost didn’t get it through Customs. But I keep digressing.)

So I pretended that the internet was a fossil and rock shop and fired up PayPal again. I bought basalt, various kinds of quartz, and several minerals that fluoresce under UV light. I also bought a UV light so he could appreciate them fully.

About that time (late November), it occurred to me that I couldn’t give him all these gifts for Christmas. It would be un peu de trop (a bit much). So I sorted the gifts into two piles: one for Christmas and the other to be saved for his birthday in April. I decided that the “hippie freak” gifts seemed more Christmasy, and the “rockhound” gifts more birthday-y. (Don’t ask me how I decided which was which. It seemed logical at the time.)

Anyway, on Christmas, I told Dan to get the pile of presents on the right-hand side of the closet. They proved to be a hit. In April, he gets the other stack.

Fortunately, there are no other present-giving holidays or occasions that occur until next Christmas. One never knows when mania and PayPal will take over. Or at least I don’t.

P.S. Dan never reads my blogs. Let’s keep this just between us.

Where Are the Fat Geese?

Christianity, Christmas, etc., food, funny things, holidays, humor, music, religion, ,

A little-remembered Christmas carol starts out: “Christmas is coming/The geese are getting fat.” In “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” there are six geese the first time around, with more to come, based on their a-laying and the repetition of all the presents ad nauseam.

But you hardly ever see a goose baked and broiled sunny-side-up on people’s Christmas tables, or as part of turgooducken. Turkey and ham are the popular choices. (Me, I go for something nontraditional, such as sushi, lasagna, ratatouille, or Chinese take-out. The Chinese food, I guess, is more traditional for Jewish people, pagans, Pastafarians (who might prefer the lasagna), and others with unconventional tastes. But I digress.)

Why does no one sing the carol about the fat geese anymore? Probably because the rest of the song is about charity to the poor—”Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat./If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do./If you haven’t got a ha’penny, God bless you.” Carolers these days hardly ever accept a penny for their services, and ha’pennies went out with farthings. Carolers might get a cup of cocoa or a cookie with red and green sprinkles, but that’s about it. Maybe they need a union.

Modernizing the carol wouldn’t come easily either. “Please to put a penny in the Salvation Army Kettle” doesn’t fit the meter, and nobody carries around ha’pennies these days. (Indeed, soon, they won’t carry pennies, either, what with the mint doing away with them, and possibly the nickel, too. You’d be left with putting a quarter in the kettle and settling for a dime. But I digress again.)

But back to geese. I don’t think I’ve even seen them on the menu at a restaurant. Perhaps it’s because they’re fatty (hence “The geese are getting fat”). Maybe it’s because they’re big. No one would order a whole goose. A smaller party might order slices of goose, but that would leave the kitchen with a lot of extra goose. What to do with it? Serve goose hash the next morning? I somehow doubt that would be a big seller.

Live geese aren’t any prize, either. They’re mean. Big ones can weigh up to 20 pounds. Just imagine an easily enraged, 20-pound bird with a loud cry, a hard knob on the top of its head, a large beak, and much given to pecking, chasing you around the yard. (It’s my theory that the fad of concrete dress-up geese on the front step (which I hope has passed) was thought up by someone from an ad agency who had been hired to improve geese’s image. But I digress some more.)

(For that matter, swans are also not candidates for the Beast Congeniality crown. Yes, they’re stunning—at a distance—and (it’s said) monogamous. But they are geese with an even better ad agency. They’re really savage. The Stratford Canada Shakespeare Festival warns visitors to avoid the killer swans that roam the grounds. (Despite the swans, the Stratford Shakespeare Festival is well worth a visit. They present theater-in-the-round and frequently stage works not written by The Bard of Avon. The 2026 season includes Death of a Salesman, Waiting for Godot, and Guys and Dolls. But I digress yet again.))

Anyway, we started this ramble with geese and Christmas carols. Every year, I ask friends what their favorite and least favorite Christmas songs are in both religious and secular categories. My favorite religious one is “Mary, Did You Know?” Least favorite: “The Little Drummer Boy.” My favorite secular song is “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” Least favorite: “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” (Though there are some interesting parodies like “The Twelve Days of Star Wars” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hHSEUAXDucw, if you want a change of pace. But I digress musically.)

No one has ever mentioned the one with the geese.

What’s So Funny?

blogs, etc., funny things, humor, writing

Recently, I fell in with a comedy site that has weekly online meetings where members are encouraged to submit their humor for feedback. My interactions with them have proved perplexing. I submitted for analysis a piece I was working on. The response was tepid at best, so I revised and submitted it again. Here’s the first draft:

I Use Satellites to Hunt for Tupperware in the Woods

That’s what a contestant on Jeopardy told Alex Trebek when asked about his hobbies and interests between rounds. Alex was taken aback and, for once, clueless.

I have done the same. (The satellite/Tupperware thing, not flummoxing Alex Trebek. I wish. But I digress.)

What both I and the Jeopardy contestant had in common is “geocaching.”

It goes like this. One person hides a piece of Tupperware or other waterproof container (an ammo case is also popular), usually in a natural environment but sometimes within a city or suburb. The container holds a piece of paper, a small pencil, and assorted trinkets, such as a postcard or a small toy. This is called the geocache.

***

Here’s a revision of the first section, rewritten according to what they suggested, or so I supposed.

I Use Satellites to Hunt for Tupperware in the Woods

That’s what a contestant on Jeopardy told Alex Trebek when asked about his hobbies and interests between rounds. Alex should have replied, “So you’re some kind of kitchenware spy,” but missed the opportunity.

I have aspired to kitchenware spying myself.

It’s called “geocaching” to those in on the process. A piece of Tupperware or other waterproof container (an ammo case is popular) is hidden, usually in a natural setting. The secrets within are a piece of paper, a small pencil, and assorted objects of unknown value. This is known in the trade as the geocache or “drop site.”

***

That second version was close to the one that you saw when I posted it. I think it was improved somewhat, but at the next meeting, they suggested even more changes.

I had trouble implementing their suggestions. The first one was “Lose the digressions,” which I was reluctant to do because of the name of my blog and a reasonably consistent shtick when I’m writing what I intend to be humorous pieces. They act like footnotes or record the meanderings of my mind while I write. But I ditched them for the second version, just to see. I also bumped up the spy references, using words like “agent,” “secret identity,” “tradecraft,” “the drop,” and “Ilya Kuryakin.”

On seeing the second version, they suggested that instead of describing how geocaching works, I should use “I” more: “I bait the drop,” “I decipher the clues,” etc. I agree that, in general, unless you’re writing an academic paper, “I” is preferable to “you.” So that was probably good advice.

They also told me I needed more hyperbole and more jokes. I already had some jokes in there: one clue being “Look under the big W” (a reference to It’s A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World) and my secret identity as “DjangOH” (in honor of my cat Django, who was named after Django Reinhardt, the jazz musician). They thought that one was pretty good, but assumed I was referring to the movie Django Unchained, which has nothing to do with cats or jazz musicians. They were apparently too young to get the other references as well. I’m beginning to doubt they got the one about Ilya Kuryakin.

Anyway, based on their comments and critiques of other people’s work, I gathered that what they were looking for was zingers, punchlines, and an over-the-top tone, like a stand-up comedian’s.

But that’s not the kind of writing I prefer. I grew up on observational, story-telling humorists like Erma Bombeck, James Thurber, and Jean Kerr. And if I could write one-tenth as well as David Sedaris or The Bloggess, I would count myself a happy writer. Hyperbole, yes, but no punchlines.

So I ask you these questions:

• Should I keep doing what I’ve been doing, with digressions?

• Should I lose the digressions and rename my blog?

• Do you prefer a stand-up comedy-style writing or an observational one (but not like Steven Wright)?

• Do you want to see listicles? Shorter pieces of writing?

• Would you prefer no serious posts like the one last week about my father? Should I have a separate blog for them? (It would be occasional, as I don’t think I could write three blog posts a week.)

I sincerely want your opinions. Please feel free to sound off in the comments.

Apparently obligatory joke:

Ist old lady: My, it’s windy today.

2nd old lady: No, it’s Thursday.

3rd old lady: So am I. Let’s all go get a cup of tea.

Melvyn vs. Multiple Myeloma

etc., family, health, ,

This is my father. His name was James Robert, or Jim, or Jim-Bob in his native Kentucky. My friends and I all called him Melvyn. It was based on a line from a comedy show that none of us remembers.

This picture was taken at my wedding reception, after he had dispensed with his tie. It looked unnatural on him anyway, although I must say that all through my childhood, he worked a government job that required a suit. I remember the scents of Aqua Velva and Vitalis, and the shine on his black shoes.

Then, when I was a teenager, he took medical disability because he had multiple myeloma.

When that happened, he went back to his Jim-Bob roots. He wore sneakers, flannel shirts, and a cowboy hat. He spent his time rediscovering hobbies like reloading bullets. When he was bedridden, family friend and library worker Beth McCarty brought him sacks of Zane Grey and Louise L’Amour westerns. It was quite a surprise to me to see him reading.

The disease spread to his bones as well as his blood. His pancreas failed and had to be removed, so he needed drugs to replace its function. He had an operation to take a piece of bone from his hip and use it to support his neck.

He had chemo and radiation. He didn’t really have much hair to lose at that point, but he threw up a lot. The doctors gave him only a couple of years to live. But he beat them by a significant number of years—10, I think. I really don’t remember the exact total; I wasn’t counting then, just hoping it would last.

One thing he didn’t do was go to group therapy. The local hospital had one group for cancer patients called Make Today Count or some similarly upbeat name. He flatly refused to go. My guess is that he had that Kentucky take-care-of-your-own-problems, keep-it-in-the-family mindset. It’s unlikely that they could have given him something more than he found within his own resources. Melvyn was stubborn, which in his case, he could substitute for positivity.

My mother was his caregiver, and she went it alone, too, except one time when she asked me if she was doing a good job. She knew down deep she was; she just needed to hear it from someone else. But, like Melvyn, she kept it in the family.

Recently, however, the New York Times reported a story, “From No Hope to a Potential Cure for a Deadly Blood Cancer.” It was about multiple myeloma and how new therapies are extending life for people who have been given a death sentence. People like Melvyn.

It’s a new kind of immunotherapy, which wasn’t possible, or maybe even thought of, all those years ago. The study, the Times said, was a “last-ditch effort.”

And, somehow, it worked, at least better than expected. “A third responded so well that they got what seems to be an astonishing reprieve—to have made their cancer disappear.” And after five years, it still hadn’t returned in those patients — a result never before seen in multiple myeloma.

No doubt, before the human test, there were studies on rats. (Melvyn always said he hated being compared to a rat.) The immunotherapy isn’t cheap. One dose is all that’s needed, but it costs $555,310. Our family couldn’t have afforded that, even with government insurance.

The scientists hope that if they diagnose the disease early enough and give the treatment then, it could be a cure. As it is, immunotherapy still isn’t a cure, but the treatment “increased median survival from two years to 10.”

That was something Melvyn accomplished on his own.