Category Archives: humor

Roommate Roulette

books, etc., funny things, health, humor, television, travel, , , ,

When I spent time in a skilled nursing facility recently, I quickly learned that one didn’t find a compatible roommate. The choice was up to the whims of the powers that be. It could turn out either good or less-than-good. (My insurance company would only spring for a double room, so there was no chance of a private one, except on the occasion when my roommate happened to move out. But I digress.)

All-in-all, my experiences varied from okay to excellent. My first roommate was Norma, who was quiet and inoffensive, but unfortunately addicted to the TV show Gunsmoke, which she watched all day long. I suppose I could have raised an objection, but I was determined to keep the peace and, after all, I could hardly inflict on her eight-plus hours of cooking shows and Star Trek reruns. Norma was released to go home, however, and I had the room all to myself, my chefs, and my aliens.

The next time I returned to the facility, my roommate was Brenda, a woman with a large family who created quite a commotion when they all visited at once, though that was not often. When it happened, I retreated to Pandora and my earbuds (a must for any stay in such a facility).

I was moved to another room when Brenda developed an infection and had to be isolated. (Since we were then across the hall from each other, our Physical Therapist arranged for us to have weight-lifting sessions in our doorways so we could see each other and chat. Sometimes, Shirley, the lady next door to Brenda, joined in as well, and we all chatted while doing curls. But I digress again.)

My best roommate, however, was my third one, Darlene. She didn’t care for TV and had only a few visitors. Among her other ailments, she had PTSD, so she preferred to keep the curtain between us pulled and wouldn’t be distracted by comings and goings in the hall.

The curtain proved no impediment to our growing friendship, however. We started bonding over our shared love of murder mysteries and true crime books. Naturally, the subject of Jack the Ripper came up. (As it does.)

“When we were in England, my husband and I took the Jack the Ripper walking tour,” I shared.

“Oh!” Darlene exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to go on that.”

“It was a foggy, drizzly evening—very atmospheric. And we booked our walk when Donald Rumbelow was guiding it.”

She recognized the name immediately. “Donald Rumbelow! I’ve read his book on Jack the Ripper! He’s the best!”

“That’s why we chose a tour when he was leading. We also went to 221B Baker St. and saw the Sherlock Holmes Museum. It was a small, narrow building sandwiched between two others. Every floor had displays related to his famous cases. The top floor held a toilet with a blue Delft-like design in the bowl. It looked much too pretty to use. Even if you could make it up all six flights to get there.”

“You’ve been to the places I’ve always wanted to go and done the things I’ve dreamed of doing! Tell me more!” We were off and running on travelers’ tales.

After that, we dissected our favorite mystery series and recommended them to each other. We talked about holidays and favorite foods and family and pets. We spoke of exes and jobs and rated the nurses and aides. We cheered each other on about the distance we’d walked during physical therapy.

And we talked politics. I had been reluctant to share my political views with anyone at the facility, knowing how divisive, not to say explosive, such talk can be. But once again, Darlene and I were completely in sync. We despaired of the state our country is in and blamed the same people for it. When neither one of us could sleep, we talked well into the wee hours of the morning.

Darlene had a birthday while we were both residents, and she shared it with me. Literally. We each ate half of the yummy carrot cake with cream cheese frosting that her family brought her. She reveled vicariously in the little anniversary dinner that Dan arranged for me, which featured sushi, electric candlelight, mood music, and ginger ale in champagne glasses. Dan brought Darlene a case of Diet Cokes and a box of plasticware that her arthritic hands could manage at mealtime. (The aides often forgot.) She let me watch Practical Magic on her DVD player and I ordered her a copy of Fletch when she told me how much she liked it.

I’m out of the facility now, but Darlene is in for the long term. Today, we’re going to stop by and surprise her with a box of the cheese-and-peanut-butter crackers she can’t resist. I can’t wait to see her face light up.

What Went on at the Nursing Home?

etc., fun and games, health, humor, television, ,

Well, to me it was post-acute rehab care, but there were long-term and memory units, so let’s call it a nursing home. I was there for about a month and a half recovering from complications of my knee replacement.

When I checked in, the first person I met was my roommate, a 90-year-old woman named Norma. I’m not sure what she was in the home for. What I did know was that James Arness was her secret love crush. I know this because she kept Gunsmoke playing on the room’s TV eight or more hours per day. Being the newcomer to the room and being over 20 years younger, I didn’t feel I should offer to arm wrestle the remote away from her.

(I was equipped, however. I had my phone, complete with Nook, Kindle, Facebook, and Pandora, complete with a charging cable and a pair of earbuds. I was set. When Norma left to stay with relatives, I had an essentially single room and complete control of the remote. But I digress.)

For those who didn’t choose to stay in their rooms watching TV, there were lots of activities, starting most days with a coffee hour and Wii bowling. Throughout the week, there were concerts, Bible stories, card games, trivia sessions, karaoke, cooking classes, and movie-and-popcorn days. There was a beauty salon for appointments, and one week, even a prom.

I mostly stuck with my phone and its assorted diversions, as well as non-Gunsmoke TV. (The one time I went to a “Family Feud”-style contest, the talk devolved into politics, and I bowed out. And I never even went to my own prom, so theirs didn’t appeal to me, at least. But I digress again.)

Another diversion for me was the age-old sport of door-staring. The restroom and room doors were made of wood, and I could spend endless time staring at them and identifying shapes I could see. There was one spot that looked like a spy peeking through a crack, or if you looked at it another way, a surly baby. Then there was one area that looked like the Virgin Mary or the Dr. Who that my husband likes (the one with the long scarf), only with a coat hook for a head. (Technically, this activity is known as pareidolia, which is a fun fact to know and tell. If you can pronounce it, that is. But I digress yet again.)

It was also fun to collect names. That is, to see how many different ways the staff referred to you. Most of the time, I was called Miss Janet or Mrs. Coburn (both of which are inaccurate), but I was also called Babe, Hon, Sweetie, and even Girlfriend. The woman in the next room was called Chiquita, which I never was.

(I’ve heard this described as “infantilizing” nursing home residents by using endearments instead of their real names. My mother told me that at one place she stayed, there was a woman who had a Ph.D. When she needed help, she would stand in the doorway and shout “Yoo-hoo.” I don’t know what the staff actually called her, but ever after, I thought of her as Dr. Yoo-hoo. But I digress some more.)

The staff had games of their own. They would hide little cutout figures of ducks or gnomes (or something) around the facility and see who could collect them all first. It was entertaining to see the nurses and aides careening down the corridors, laughing and squealing as they searched for the numbered items.

Another pleasant distraction was the little ice cream cart that the staff took around. I couldn’t have any because of my diet, but Dan was there once when it came around and scored himself a root beer float. Most of the time when Dan visited, we held hands and watched reruns of Star Trek.

To me, that was the most fun in the nursing home.

Codger the Codger

etc., family, funny things, humor, pets

One summer, I took a trip with a group of friends. We went up north to enjoy some brisk weather and scenery. Instead, it rained the entire time, and we stayed in the hotel room playing word games. I like word games, but there are limits.

(My husband doesn’t object to my traveling without him, although he does tease me about going to meet my lover Raoul. I call him when I’m on my way home to tell him to make sure the dancing girls leave. But I digress.) When I do go away without my husband, I generally come back to a major appliance. (I like to comparison shop. He just wants to make a decision. But I digress again.)

This time, however, I came back to a new pet. A hedgehog.

I was just as glad not to have a new appliance (we didn’t need any), but a hedgehog? We’re a cat family. (With the occasional rescue dog.)

Obviously, I had questions about the hedgehog.

Why a hedgehog? (shrug)

Where’d you get it? (a guy at work)

What did you name it? (Codger)

Why? (shrug)

Dan set Codger up with a home in a large fish tank (which he had previously used for a snake and some hermit crabs that he claimed were building a secret missile base. But I digress yet again.). Dan acquired a small hut for Codger and a large, green plastic ball for him to play with.

Despite having a toy, Codger was not a joyous pet. He ate mealworms, so we went to the bugstore regularly to get some. Even with a constant supply of worms, he was cranky. I began to suspect how he got his name.

I have seen pictures on Facebook of adorable little hedgehogs reclining in muffin cups or wearing cunning little hats. Codger was not adorable and he did not go in for little hats, no matter how cunning. He snarled and rearranged his furniture. That was the extent of his repertoire.

After a while, Dan and I went away on vacation together. (We do that sometimes, when we don’t need any appliances. But I digress some more.) We left Codger with our friend John, who reported that the creature ate bugs, snarled, and rearranged his tank.

Codger also had a habit of sticking Dan with his spines. Wanting to understand our pet’s behavior, I looked up hedgehogs on Google. It said that you should socialize them when they’re young, or they grow up to be surly as well as pointy. Dan’s friend had evidently stuck him with an overage hedgehog.

(I told Dan that he should try to socialize with Codger. Dan poked him with a plastic fork. “That’s what he does to me,” he explained. (He didn’t want me to reveal this, for fear of being arrested for animal abuse. I convinced him the statute of limitations has expired.) But I digress even more.)

Eventually, Codger passed away. What can I say about the little guy? What he lacked in personality, he made up for in surliness. Perhaps he is now in a better place, feasting on mealworms and snarling at the angels. That’s how I like to picture him, anyway.

Down the Rabbit Hole

books, etc., humor, literature, writing, ,

Almost five years ago, I wrote a post about how memories from my (and likely your) childhood were being repurposed for political statements and propaganda.

This time I’m writing about a classic piece of literature being rewritten for other purposes. (Largely unobjectionable ones, it’s true, but it’s the principle of the thing. But I digress.)

The work in question is Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (more often known as Alice in Wonderland). It’s one of my favorite pieces of literature and I have returned to it many times since I first read it (murfle) decades ago.

(I have a friend who despises Alice. He finds it to be nonsense (which it obviously is) and incomprehensible. This despite the fact that he has returned to it frequently to see if it makes any more sense. (He ought to like at least part of it because he’s a mathematician, like the author, Lewis Carroll. I recommended The Annotated Alice (edited by Martin Gardner), which explains the jokes, Briticisms, and outdated expressions. (It also includes “Jabberwocky” in French, German, and IIRC, Latin.) But I digress, pedantically and at length.)

The “quotations” in question are not political but psychological or philosophical. I’m not saying they’re invalid—merely that they are misquoted, misattributed, or completely made up.

One of the most common misquotes is attributed to the Cheshire Cat:

“You’re mad, bonkers, off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.”

What the Cheshire Cat actually really said is much more complex. Here’s the context:

“But I don’t want to go among mad people’” Alice remarked.

“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.” 

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.” 

One quotation supposedly from the Mad Hatter is:

The secret, Alice, is to surround yourself with people who make your heart smile. It’s then, only then, that you’ll find Wonderland.

Unobjectionable if sappy, but not from the book. The same with this one:

But, said Alice, if the world has absolutely no sense, who’s stopping us from inventing one?

The most annoying fake dialogue is this one, between Alice and the White Rabbit.

“Do you love me?” Alice asked.

“No, I don’t love you!” replied the White Rabbit.

Alice frowned and clasped her hands together as she did whenever she felt hurt.

“See?” replied the White Rabbit. “Now you’re going to start asking yourself what makes you so imperfect and what did you do wrong so that I can’t love you at least a little. You know, that’s why I can’t love you. You will not always be loved Alice, there will be days when others will be tired and bored with life, will have their heads in the clouds, and will hurt you. Because people are like that, they somehow always end up hurting each other’s feelings, whether through carelessness, misunderstanding, or conflicts with themselves. If you don’t love yourself, at least a little, if you don’t create an armor of self-love and happiness around your heart, the feeble annoyances caused by others will become lethal and will destroy you. The first time I saw you I made a pact with myself: ‘I will avoid loving you until you learn to love yourself.’”

The White Rabbit was late to play croquet with the Queen of Hearts. He wouldn’t have had time to discourse on self-love.

Alice has been in the public domain since 1907, so one can misquote or invent all they want. (The Disney movie version only came out in 1951, The book was in the public domain, but the movie isn’t. I think we can expect a live-action film. I hope they lose the repellent pink-and-purple Cheshire Cat, though I doubt they will. But I digress again.)

Surely no one would do this kind of thing to The Wizard of Oz…or would they? [squints suspiciously]

New Love Languages

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Noted author Gary Chapman has written that there are five “Love Languages.”

They are physical touch, quality time, words of affirmation, acts of service, and gift-giving. Others have suggested that there are seven love languages that add emotional support and intellectual sharing to the total. (These all sound just fine, but trouble arises when a couple speak different languages. If one offers physical touch and the other longs for quality time, they’re destined to clash. But I digress.)

I would like to suggest two more: baton twirling and cake decorating.

In general, I don’t care for cheerleaders, especially the ones for professional sports, who wear the skimpiest of outfits and do the lewdest of dances. That’s the stereotype, at least. I understand that nowadays, cheerleaders perform acrobatic moves and build themselves into complex pyramids. (Evidently, I need to rethink my prejudice regarding cheerleaders. But I digress again.)

Baton twirlers, on the other hand, I hold in higher esteem. They have a talent to show that involves a piece of equipment and dexterity. (Not completely unlike the tuba player in the marching band, who never gets the credit they deserve. But I digress some more.)

However, I discovered something when I talked to a coworker. Her daughter was a baton twirler, and Mom watched her practice in their yard, offered tips from her own twirling days, and came to every game she twirled at. What I realized was that it was her mother’s way of speaking love. If you define it in terms of the seven love languages, the eighth one (baton-twirling) could also be called consistency.

Consistency comes in any number of ways. The key element is being there. Someone who gives consistent attention is someone you can rely on. They’ll read your novel drafts (every time you rewrite them) and accompany you to all your dreadful office parties. You just know that when you need them, they’ll be there, whether that’s to remove a tick or (to choose an example not totally at random) open a letter from the IRS. Or watch you throw a stick in the air and catch it.

The other love language I learned about (cake decorating, in case you’ve lost track) was also inspired by a coworker. Every year, she created a cake for her son and decorated it in honor of one of his interests—cartoon or comic book character, motocross, whatever he happened to care about that year. These were elaborate decorations, not just a toy motorcycle popped on top of a bakery cake or something similar. They were elaborate, decorative, inspired, and personal. I’ve seen the pictures.

(It should be noted that this was in the days before everyone learned how to make buttercream roses, tempered chocolate, Swiss meringue, macarons, gelees, mousselines, molecular gastronomy, and all the other spiffy elements you can learn on YouTube or Food Network. But I digress yet again.)

I would call this the love language of creativity—making something special with your hands for a loved one. It doesn’t have to be something edible, though of course it can be. A flower you’ve grown yourself, a bookshelf you’ve crafted, or a refurbished treasure that’s been broken or forgotten are all examples of creative love. (My husband and my mother found a rag doll of mine (Raggedy Johnny, like Raggedy Andy, only John Denver) in disrepair after a move and fixed him up. That’s the sort of thing I mean. But I digress even more.)

I don’t expect baton twirling or cake decorating to appear in the next edition of the Love Languages book. But I do think that Consistency and Creativity deserve consideration. So does Consideration. After all, at heart, aren’t all love languages Consideration?

Paczki-Palooza

Christianity, cooking, etc., food, holidays, humor, , , , ,

It’s Lent. So why are there three dozen paczki in my freezer?

As usual, this story begins with my husband.

(Actually, let’s start a little further back. If you’re not familiar with paczki (pronounced ponchkee, paunchkee, etc., depending on where you’re from), they’re Polish donut-like devices filled with cream, curd, or jam. They’re made and eaten in the lead-up to Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday), the day before Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent. They were allegedly invented when an annoyed cook threw a ball of dough at her husband, and it landed in the fryer oil instead. I totally believe this origin story, knowing how annoying husbands can be. But I digress.)

The next thing to know is that Dan works in a store that has a bakery section. For the last few weeks, Dan has been bringing home boxes of paczki—blueberry, raspberry, lemon, and Bavarian cream.

But this week, as Lent rapidly approached, the bakery started marking down the paczki. And Dan can’t resist marked-down baked goods. He keeps me supplied with muffins (my usual breakfast). He’s the carb-peddler. He brings home French bread, Italian bread, sourdough bread, coffee cakes, apple caramel pies, and nearly anything else made with flour, eggs, and butter. (Fortunately, he doesn’t bring home game-day cookies shaped and decorated like little footballs. Or Jack-o-lantern cookies, for that matter. But I digress again.)

So, naturally, he brought home NINE boxes of paczki this week. (He did call and warn me, “I’m going to be bad,” which can mean nearly anything. But I digress some more.)

I’ve been stuffed with paczki for the last couple of weeks and couldn’t bear the sight of that many more. So we had a paczki party this week. Now, for most people, this would involve inviting over a bunch of people, making a huge pot of coffee, and chowing down.

But no. We couldn’t organize a party like that in the time it would take for the pastries to go stale. (When we do have a party (which isn’t very often), we have it at a Chinese restaurant. And paczkis would not really be welcome there. Still more digression.)

What we did have was a box of small plastic zipper bags. (We always have them on hand because Dan always takes peanut butter sandwiches to work with him, for his lunch and his breaks. I would get tired of peanut butter day after day, but he feels, as the old joke goes, “How can you ever get tired of food?” But I digress yet again.)

We sat down with our stack of paczki boxes and our box of bags and began stuffing, one paczki per bag. We licked the sugar off our fingers and stuffed all the bags in the freezer. When we get a craving for a paczki (which may not be until the run-up to next year’s Lent), we’ll just pull one out of the freezer and indulge. Or maybe Dan will take one for lunch. Or maybe I’ll give up on breakfast muffins.

I just hope there are no baked-goods-related holidays coming up for a while. I’m in sugar shock already.

Dan’s Only Friend

books, etc., humor, music, ,

The phone rang and Dan picked it up. He held it out to me. “It’s your friend,” he said.

“Which friend? I replied. “My friend Robbin?”

“No, he replied.

“My friend Beth?”

“No.”

“My friend Tom?”

“No.”

“My friend Kim?”

“No.”

“My friend Jean?”

“No.”

“My friend Peggy?”

“No.”

“My friend Leslie.”

“Yes.”

“Geez,” I said, snatching the phone. “You make it sound like I only have one friend!”

The irony was that Dan worked in a place where friends were hard to come by. His hobbies are solitary, like working in the garden, reading about archaeology, and watching old movies on streaming services. He doesn’t like sports or going out drinking. Then he went to a support group, where he made one friend, John.

Whenever John called for Dan, I was truthfully able to say, “It’s your only friend.”

John caught on and was amused. Sometimes he would call and say, “Tell Dan it’s his only friend.”

(Dan also continued the joke with me. Someone would call for me and I would ask, “Who is it?” He would say, “It’s your only friend.” I would reply, “Is it my only friend Kathy?” “No.” “Is it my only friend Mary Jo?” “No.” And so on. But I digress.)

At one time, there were friends we shared. Beth, for example. Dan met her at a job they both worked at. One evening, however, we went to a work party and Dan introduced us. We got on the topic of science fiction.

“You’ve got to meet my husband,” Beth said. “He loves Isaac Asimov. He’s read everything he’s written.”

“Oh?” I replied, without thinking, “He’s written 200 books.” (Later, he wrote even more.)

Then we talked poetry and Beth, abashed, admitted that her favorite poet was Ogden Nash. (He’s considered pretty low-brow, but I can recite several of his poems, which I enjoy for his ingenious rhymes “platinum” and “flatten’em,” for example. But I digress some more.)

Beth was intimidated. (I have that effect on a lot of people for some reason.) But we became friends anyway. Once when Dan was lamenting that he had only one friend, I pointed out that he was friends with Beth before I was. “You stole her,” he replied.

There was a chance that I would steal John as well. He and I had a lot in common, like country music and murder mysteries, which we could talk about for long enough to make Dan feel left out. But instead of one of us claiming his friendship, we ended up sharing custody.

John and Dan would go off together on occasion without me. When I asked where they went, Dan would only reply, “That place.” They would never say where it was. (I figured it wasn’t a strip bar, since Dan had gotten them out of his system in his youth.)

Then John and I started going off on our own, just the two of us. (We called them our “hot dates.” A typical one would be thrift shopping, lunch at a diner, and a shared bag of M&Ms for dessert. We never told Dan what they consisted of. But I digress again.) (Once we went to a tobacconist (John smoked a pipe) and it was all I could do not to say to the proprietor, “My hovercraft is full of eels.” Yet another digression.)

All of us were cool with this arrangement. There was no jealousy or fighting over our outings. But John passed away a number of years ago, upsetting the balance of our friendships. We both still remember him fondly.

Now, I’m Dan’s only friend.

It’s All a Blur!

etc., family, funny things, health, humor, , ,

My history with eyeglasses goes way back—over 60 years, in fact. That being the fashion at the time and me being even then the opposite of a fashionista, I wore many pairs of cat-eye glasses.

My husband, Dan, was only a little older than I was when he got his first pair of glasses. Unlike me, he’s near-sighted. (I’m cross-eyed and far-sighted.) He always tells the story of how, once he had glasses, he said to his mother, “Look, Mommy. Those people on television have faces!” (Although we have different diagnoses, we both require Coke-bottle prescriptions. But I digress.)

By the time I was in high school (when I had at last graduated from cat-eye to aviator frames), all my classmates were wearing contacts, and losing them regularly. I was unable to follow suit because of being cross-eyed and, more importantly, because I can’t bear to even think about anything, including me, touching my eye. I recoil whenever there’s a commercial for a drug that requires an eye injection. (That’s true to this day—both the wireframes and the horror of anything touching my eye. But I digress again.)

When I was a child, I had an ophthalmologist, Dr. Saunders, who was the epitome of gentleness and kindness. When it was time for me to select my own eye doctor, I wanted someone with the same vibe. So of course, I went to Dr. Gary, whom I knew from being in the same martial arts class. (I figured that if he needed to touch my eye for any reason, he could at least subdue me first. But I digress yet again.) When I first visited his office, his partner glanced at me and exclaimed, “You’re a hyperope!” which is the technical term for far-sighted, I learned.

Over the years, both my husband and I have been through increasing thicknesses of eyewear and various styles of frames. After all these years, I still prefer wireframes and Dan has come around to my way of thinking. Bifocals were an eventual necessity and I opted for computer glasses as well, since I spend so much time online.

We’ve had a few eye-related emergencies over the years. Mine occurred when I set off a flea bomb in the house and accidentally bombed my face. Fortunately, my glasses offered some protection and there was a bottle of distilled water nearby. Suddenly, I wasn’t so worried about something touching my eyes as Dan held them open and poured.

Dan’s extreme eye occurrence happened when he was driving. All of a sudden, he saw a flash in his right eye, and the vision in that eye became blurry. The next day, he had small, dark pinpoints in his right eye’s field of vision.

A quick trip to Dr. Gary seemed necessary. Dan learned that he had experienced an age-related phenomenon that affects the vitreous fluid in his eye. This information gave me the willies, of course, but Dan took it all in stride. The flash didn’t return and Dan named the largest of the floating points in his eye. He called it “Freddie the Free-Floater.” (Any Red Skelton fans out there? But I digress even more.)

I’m preparing myself for the day when I also see that flash and the dark points in my vitreous fluid. I don’t think I can come up with a better name for them, though. Dan surely wins on that count.

Practical Beauty Tips

etc., fashion, funny things, humor, , , ,

If you want to look like a million bucks, get real! And by that, I don’t mean using all-natural charcoal slug placenta serum on your extremities. No, I’m talking about budget reality. You don’t have expendable income that would cover a single day of Angelina Jolie’s beauty regimen. What you need are practical tips like these.

How to exfoliate. Before you bathe, rub your face vigorously with a dry, rough towel. Take a hot shower. After you do, rub your face vigorously with a dry, rough towel. Your epidermis will disappear in a trice. You’ll have a luminescent pink glow just like someone who has lived through ionizing radiation, without the expense of costly fissionable materials.

How to use bath bombs. If you have a bathtub, the directions on the package will work pretty well, as long as you don’t mix up your bath bomb with the similar kind of bombs that you drop into pots of soup for seasoning. The curry and chili varieties may prove painful or leave your skin an interesting new color. But a bath with your bouillon bomb will leave you with an appealing fragrance that attracts hungry men and dogs.

If you have a shower rather than a bath, wrap the bomb in a piece of cheesecloth like a bouquet garni and hang it from the shower head. (Be careful. The bouquet garni technique may confuse you and make it more likely that you will douse yourself with a miso or onion soup bomb. But I digress.)

How to select a fragrance. Go to the perfume counter these days and you’ll think you’re in the produce section of the grocery store. Natural, vegetal scents are the current trend. Think of lemon wedges, herbs, and any vegetable that can be carved into the shape of a rose. Throw them in your blender and garnish your pulse points with them. If you want, take the leftovers from your lunch salad and whiz them up. Don’t forget to put a sprig of parsley behind one ear. Think of it as a leafy, green fascinator.

How to accessorize. Coco Chanel famously advised that when you’re ready to leave the house, remove one accessory before you go. Lose the brooch. (No one ever pronounces it properly anyway. It rhymes with “roach,” not “cooch.” But I digress again.) Or ditch the parsley fascinator. If you’re wearing earrings, the greenery will be un peu de trop.

How to get an eye-catching tattoo. Text tattoos are always popular. You can convey an important message like “No Regrets,” “Slippery When Wet,” or “FTW.” The important thing to remember is to consult a proofreader before the tattoo machine revs up. Otherwise, you might end up with a permanent message that says, “No Regerts.” (Actually, “FTW” might end up as “WTF,” which could be what you say when you see it. But I digress some more.)

(If you want a Chinese symbol, which is a perennial classic, as a tattoo, it’s even more important to hire a knowledgeable proofreader. Most tattoo artists aren’t bilingual and will happily decorate you with characters that mean “oyster sauce” or “I’m ready for the first man I meet.” Assuming that’s not what you asked for. But I continue to digress.)

Next Week! Follow me for more Practical Beauty How-Tos: Tame Your Unibrow With a Birthday Candle; Get Your Weight-Loss Game on With Turnips; and Use Spackle to Freshen Your Look!

The Good, the Bad, and the Others

books, etc., film, humor, literature,

The Wicked Witch used to be a villain. She tried to kill Dorothy and her companions. She enslaved flying monkeys. She wanted revenge for her sister’s accidental death.

Now she has her own musical and movie.

The elevation of villains is a thing now. Personally, I blame Star Wars. I was once visiting some friends who had a young son. He held up his Darth Vader action figure and said, “This is my friend.” (This was in the days before the proliferation of Star Wars movies culminated in Vader’s redemption at the last possible second. But I digress.)

My theory is that villains have power but few limits. It’s no wonder youngsters view them as positive influences. When Darth Vader is your friend and protector, you share in his power. You fear nothing.

Maybe this rise of the villain started with the rise of the anti-hero. Let me explain. And let me use Buffy the Vampire Slayer (one of my favorite TV classics) as my vehicle. (Actually, I’m going to do it whether you let me or not. So there. But I digress some more.)

Here’s the backstory, for those not familiar with the Buffyverse. Buffy’s first love was the vampire-with-a-soul Angel, and he was a Byronic hero, a type that became popular when Byron (duh) was writing poetry. Byronic heroes are tortured souls who waft around in black clothes and clouds of pain. They’re never cheerful. They don’t crack jokes. They suffer from existential angst. They have troubled pasts and isolate themselves from society. (Other Byronic heroes include Batman holed up in his Batcave, grieving over his dead parents. The Brontes knew their Byronic heroes, too. Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff are classics. But I digress yet again.)

In opposition to the Byronic hero, we have the anti-hero. They don’t behave according to the heroic model. They’re “bad boys” who manage to dominate the plot and achieve their goals despite being misunderstood or refusing to follow convention. Think Han Solo, Captain Jack Sparrow, or in the case of Buffy, Spike. He’s never going to be Buffy’s Great Love, but he has his uses in her world. (Deadpool and Robin Hood are two other examples who would never have a beer together but occupy similar literary spaces. I suppose Dexter would be the ultimate anti-hero. Still more digression.)

No, wait. Satan is the ultimate anti-hero. Take a look at Milton’s Paradise Lost. Lucifer has agency and is the more interesting character. At some level, the reader roots for him. They know God’s going to win. That’s a given. But Satan’s quest, while reprehensible, is also on some level noble. (I’m talking literary characters here, not theology. But I digress again. And as Jean Kerr said, in reference to the story of Adam and Eve, the snake has all the lines. But I continue digressing.)

So, what makes the bad guys more interesting guys? For one thing, they’re deeply misunderstood. They’ve often been victims of bullies or of an uncaring, unfair society. They touch the darkness, the “shadow self” that lives within each of us. We recognize ourselves in them, identify with them in ways we simply don’t with standard heroes. We’d like to identify with heroes, but we know they’re better than we are.

Standard heroes require supervillains to make them at all interesting. Without Lex Luthor, Superman just flies around foiling ordinary bank robbers. Without Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes is simply Columbo. (I could say that without elusive diagnoses and the looming specter of death, House is basically Doogie Howser, but I won’t. That would be ridiculous. There’s also misanthropy. But I digress some more.)

Personally, I respond more to anti-heroes than Byronic heroes. Pure villains don’t interest me, but neither do sanctimonious heroes like Galahad (“My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.”). But when it comes to the villains and heroes in the wrestling ring, I don’t give a fig for any of them. Besides, they change places so often that you need a scorecard to tell which is which. (Don’t assume that this means I watch “pro” wrestling. I learned about their ethical switches from the New York Times. Go figure. But I have finished digressing. For this week.)