Seques who?

Many readers are no doubt aware that large, across-the-board cuts in spending, known as sequestration, are due to take place March 1 in the federal government. During a conversation among colleagues about this, it was mentioned that the word sequestration is possibly being used only by those in the general Washington area, and may cause some confusion among those who are not familiar with it, and in many cases even among those who are. We have endeavored, therefore, to set forth an easily understood glossary of terms having to do with the cutback situation.  

Tax: an involuntary transfer of money from the general public to Congress for the purposes of 1) providing the public with goods and services and 2) giving the members of Congress something to argue about.

Fiscal policy: the raising of revenue by taxes and the apportioning of this revenue to various public needs, which are determined mainly through the time-honored method of Rock, Scissors, Paper. 

Budget: the amount of taxpayer money the government sets aside to fund various services such as education, the military, and what kind of food future astronauts might eat on Mars. 

Deficit: the amount of taxpayer money NOT in the budget that the government spent anyway.

Sequestration: the process of locking all members of Congress in the Capitol until they come to some reasonable solution to the budget crisis. (Not to be confused with defenestration, which refers to a rather abrupt and unwilling exit through a window. We will not make a remark here intimating that some individuals might feel that defenestration would offer a viable alternative should sequestration fail to produce an acceptable outcome.)

Budget surplus: despite diligent efforts on our part to determine the meaning of this term, those surveyed were unfamiliar with it. "Maybe an overbalance of Congresspersons?" one respondent mused.

We could go on, and probably will, but first, in the tradition of Congress itself, pause for a recess after having accomplished little, if anything. We hope that today's glossary terms have been helpful, and will allow you to confidently take part in conversations that may arise concerning the sequestration. If not, we suggest pretending. And staying away from windows.

Monday vs. Thursday

A discussion ensued recently among acquaintances about weekends. "When Monday comes around," one said, "I feel so rejuvenated. I'm ready to go back to work." The other agreed.

I looked at the Hero. "They must be doing something different on their weekends than WE are," I said. "I need at LEAST another day before Monday."

"Maybe we should hang out with them on the weekend," he said.

The wife of the first speaker suggested that perhaps the reason he was ready to go back to work on Mondays did not so much have to do with the rejuvenation of the weekends, but with the chance to escape the close proximity with her all weekend. This was, of course, promptly denied.

The weather during the weekend before this conversation had not been congenial, and the first speaker declared yucky-weather weekends to be "a big bummer." 

Personally the Hero and I do not mind yucky-weather weekends, particularly in the winter, as they offer a perfect excuse not to bundle up and go do something good for your body outside. We much prefer to stay inside and do something good for our mind AND body, like let our thoughts wander over the peculiar enjoyments of eating ice cream, and then having some.

"Too bad it's raining," we'll say. "We could have gone for a walk." Or "It really looks too slippery to drive to the gym." And we will head to the fridge or freezer to console ourselves.

There are many nice days of the week -- though contrary to our acquaintances, we do not necessarily count Mondays as one of them -- but Thursday is a great day. Most of the workweek is behind you, and you have all the anticipation of the weekend to buoy you up. And anticipation is satisfying, because there is no disappointment in anticipation. You don't KNOW yet that the weekend is actually going to be filled with erranding, cleaning, and oh yeah, you were finally going to get around to making meals for the entire MONTH this weekend. On Thursday, your weekend is filled, in your mind, with relaxing, shopping for fun stuff, outings, cozying up in front of the fireplace, etc.

 And maybe, if the weather cooperates, some ice cream.

True smart cars

As drivers, we are no longer required to do much of anything to operate newer cars, except steer, brake, speed up, and argue with the GPS. The car unlocks automatically as you approach. You do not need to put a key in the ignition. The headlights go on and off by themselves. The windshield senses when to turn on the wipers. If someone -- we're not naming any names here, but spouses are prime suspects -- messes up your seat settings, the car helpfully resets them for you. The car tells you how to get to your destination, how long you have until you run out of gas, and -- I am SURE this is coming eventually -- will order a latte for you so it is ready and steaming when you get to Starbucks. 

As much as I appreciate the many features of modern cars, I must say that as a dedicated Jetsons watcher in my youth, I am highly disappointed that cars still operate on the ground. I was convinced, watching the Jetsons and all the other Earthlings in Orbit City zip around in their little space cars, that by the time I became an adult we would all have little space cars and be zipping around in them. (I also imagined that we would have robots to do all our chores for us, and you see how well THAT has worked out.)

Failing a space car, I could be persuaded to settle for a KITT car. The KITT car was one of the stars of Knight Rider, which I also spent considerable time watching after the Jetsons phase. True, it doesn't fly, but it talks, thinks, and does all the driving for you. It will come right to you in a crowded parking lot. Plus it has a grappling hook so it can climb cliffs, an underappreciated feature that you never know when you might need. You could tell the car where you want to go, and then lay back and take a nap while it drives you there. Or shave, or work on a report, or eat a four-course dinner, or whatever. Of course, many of us do these things already, AS we are driving. 

Some will point out that with all my ideas for the ideal car being derived from TV shows, no wonder they do not have much basis in reality. And maybe it's a good thing. As cars get smarter and smarter, we humans may get dumber and dumber. But I still have hope that we can have the cars of our dreams and still remain the undisputed masters. And, at least we're not driving Flintstones cars.

More than they bargained for

It is not easy getting older, as my mother can attest. "Everyone always wants to hold the door open for me, and asks what they can do for me," she said recently. "They all treat me like I'm old."

"Well, how old do you have to be before you're old?" I said. I had been under the impression that perhaps her 87 years qualified her.

She wasn't sure, but old was definitely older than she was.

Yet there are certain advantages to being older. For one, you can fall asleep anywhere, anytime of day, and it generally passes unremarked upon by others, whereas this sort of behavior is frowned upon when engaged in by younger persons during gatherings such as funerals. Particularly if you are the one conducting the funeral.

Another advantage to age is that you pretty much get to say whatever you want, and it does not really bother you all that much. An example is my mother, who may be one of the few people not annoyed by telemarketers. Their calls offer an excellent opportunity for her to talk about what is wrong -- with her, the weather, her toilet, the world in general -- and get out of whatever they are selling or asking, all at the same time.

She feels that she is justified in engaging in these discussions because the telemarketers "always ask how I am doing today. I should tell them, shouldn't I?"

And tell them she does:

"I'm doing horrible today...Why? Well, I've fallen down three times recently and have all these bumps on my head and had to get two CT scans but I couldn't get to the doctor because I don't have a car even though that last accident wasn't my fault and --"

The telemarketer is gone at "all these bumps."

"But I didn't even get to the part about my shingles yet," my mother says, with disappointment, to the dial tone.

When told of this, the Hero sees an immediate application. "We should make it so all our calls from telemarketers get rerouted to your mom's," he says. 

If we did, the telemarketers might begin to feel old before their time. That is, whatever old is these days. 

Where is the Princess?

It has come to our attention, mainly because we write this blog, that there have been no new posts this week. This is probably due to hacking by someone in China. Or not. Possibly it is because the Princess has been away visiting the Queen, whose castle and schedule thwart nearly all attempts by others to engage in technological activities. This environment is, however, highly conducive to playing Scrabble, allowing players to produce such words as bereft (22 words with double word score) and yeoman (33 points with triple word score). The Princess will soon return to the undertaking of writing her highly serious blog posts, none of which is likely to contain bereft or yeoman.

In favor of small

On the food scene, a class of items known as "small plates" has been gaining in popularity on some restaurant menus. Small plates are just what the name implies: small portions of entrees, of which several are often ordered and shared. 

There are many advantages to the small-plate way of eating. Nutritionists have been saying for years that Americans in general need to have smaller portions of food, so eating small plates allows you to follow this excellent advice. At the same time, since the idea of small plates is to let you try a few different ones, it effectively means you can eat MORE food. In some cases you may have to eat approximately 23 small plate meals to equal one typical size meal.

Another advantage is that the dishes come out to the table whenever they are ready, in no particular order, so there is an element of surprise throughout the experience. "Oh, look," one of your party will say when the server brings a dish. "We ordered beef tagliata...did we order beef tagliata?" Imagine if this were applied to home kitchens as well--say, serving dessert before side dishes. This small plates thing might catch on.

Because the food comes out at staggered times, it is difficult to tell exactly how much you have consumed. So just to be sure you've gotten enough, you should implement the final phase in Small-Plate Eating: Head to the restaurant next door to have your REAL meal. 

I confess to some unease over the one-thing-at-a-time way of eating. I personally like having a variety of foods to choose from at the same time. In keeping with this, I have instructed the Hero that should I someday be feeble in body and/or mind, and require assistance eating, he is to ensure that I do NOT get fed all my mashed potatoes first, and then all my meatloaf, and then all my green beans. Variety, please. Unless there is chocolate. Then, bring it on.

Up, up, and awaaaaaay

For the Hero's recent birthday, he received a card that pictured a small boy adorned in superhero underwear and a cape. The message said that although the recipient hadn't fulfilled his boyhood dreams of actually becoming a superhero, at least he had stopped running around in superhero garb. At least, the inside read, the sender HOPED he had.

"Hmmm," said the Hero. "I think my cape might be around here somewhere..."

There is something about boys and capes. I use "boys" in a general sense, as in "males age 10 months to 93 years." A Certain Male Relative, who is somewhere in the middle of that range and normally has his feet squarely planted in reality, nevertheless highly esteems a certain superhero who favors a purple cape and mask. This admiration may or may nor explain a particular incident in this Male Relative's young adulthood, an incident that involved a cape, the roof of a home, and a swimming pool. Amazingly, although we have never been sure exactly how, it did NOT involve any fractured vertebrae or wheelchairs.

When the Hero first observed a photograph of the Male Relative participating in this incident, he was under the impression that the it had been witnessed and sanctioned by other Relatives. He admitted to some jealousy that his own youthful flights in a cape had been limited to the distance he could jump off the ground or from a rock.

I assured the Hero that had the Relative's mother been aware of this incident at the time, there certainly would have been another incident involving her, the cape, and the Relative's backside -- adult or not.

Neither the Hero nor the Male Relative is running around in a cape any longer, and most adult males, so far as I can tell, no longer actively seek a profession as a superhero. But if one of our bath towels suddenly disappears one day, I just may be wrong.

This week

The Princess realizes that the blog posts have been somewhat irregular this week. Life, and the world in general, were fairly uncooperative in providing her with any writing material. Let us hope this situation changes next week. 

The other woman

In honor of the Hero's birthday, which was yesterday, we will present some embarrassing stories about him. No, not really! That would be mean. And also he would get back at me by posting embarrassing stories about me, some of which he has happily gleaned by grilling various family members over the years. We operate under something of a Mutually Assured Destruction agreement, whereby we both know that if one of us launches a tale, the other is sure to come back with something even more embarrassing. Eventually things would escalate quite badly, until we were relating stories with so little relation to reality that even the producers of some reality show would reject them as a story line.

Another woman has appeared in the Hero's life. It happened quite unexpectedly, and I doubt we will ever be the same. The woman is short, opinionated, and a snappy dresser. She is even, upon an extremely short acquaintance, telling him how to dress.

Okay, so technically she is paid to tell him how to dress, although not by us. If anyone is going to get paid for that sort of thing, it will be me, thank you.

We had gone to the mall, one of the Hero's once-every-five-years trip there, in order to procure him some pants that did not look as if he could stash a couple of TVs in them. That was MY objective. His was to grab the first pair of pants he saw, pay for them, and then sprint back home so that he wouldn't miss the Super Bowl, which was roughly 32 hours away. 

And then SHE intervened. SHE was a saleswoman of whom we asked, in our ignorance, if she had a pair of a certain jean in a certain size. 

We left 30 hours later, having learned that we know nothing about clothes, and that the Hero, at least, has been gadding about all these years under the pretense that he was wearing the right size. SHE set us both straight.

"Belts," she said, sniffily, "are for decoration only. They are not supposed to be needed. If you need a belt, your pants are too big."

Off came the Hero's belt, and he went happily down a size in the waist. But she was far from finished with us.

"Clothes that fit right fit close to the body," she instructed. "They do not hang out here or there. I have private clients for whom I do their entire wardrobe. And if I were going to do more of you," she said to the Hero, looking him up and down, "I would definitely get rid of the coat. It is way too big. And your tee shirt -- ridiculously huge."

As she talked we both felt as if we were growing smaller and smaller, while our clothes were getting larger and larger. We felt that under her scrutiny we were children playing dress-up with our parents' clothes, such was their ill fit.

"But what if you have some part of your body that doesn't, uh, look so good in tighter clothes?" the Hero asked.

This launched her on a soliloquy of celebration of the human form. "Everyone has something they worry about," she said. "Big tummy, big fanny, big feet...when your clothes fit properly, it doesn't matter if you have a big something. It's part of you -- there is no need to hide it."

We had a vision of the whole world suddenly letting go, yielding to acceptance of their less favored body parts, and vaunting it all. We were not sure the whole world was ready for this.

She turned her attention to the Hero's face. "Even the glasses would go," she said, stripping away the last vestige of hope we had that we had done something right.

"The glasses stay," I wanted to growl, because I had picked them out. But I didn't growl, because she would have made a snarky remark about MY glasses, and I would have had to agree with her there. And I did not want to agree with her.

An earlier customer, she said, had come in for a pair of pants and had, after her ministrations, left with a complete outfit. We felt fortunate to escape the store with slightly less than this. 

That night the Hero tried out a look that she had casually suggested, minus the loose tie she had championed. He does have his limits. He looked very nice. As much as it grieved me that someone else has succeeded in changing his mind about clothes where I, who have labored for so long, have failed, I was grateful to her.

But never in a million years will I let her know that.