Month: August 2024

It may be time to bring back the “cuss box” parents sometimes kept on kitchen tables or countertops. Kids had to deposit a coin every time they said a bad or ugly word. The present crop of candidates running for president and vice-president could fine themselves and fund their own campaigns.

Coarse language among politicians is nothing new. There is a long and storied history of presidents swearing. Andrew Jackson swore so much that his parrot, Polly, began using profanity, too. A genuine “fowl mouth,” Polly was removed from Jackson’s funeral at The Hermitage, Tennessee, for swearing so loudly it disturbed the mourners.

LBJ was legendary for his swearing. The man could have made Jackson’s parrot blush.

President Nixon will forever be remembered by the tape transcripts peppered with “expletive deleted.”

But once upon a time, politicians confined crude language to the private sphere. Vulgarities and profanities were deemed beneath the dignity of the office.

Former President Donald Trump recently spoke about receiving an email from Franklin Graham, the son of evangelist Billy Graham, urging him to refrain from using foul language in his speeches. He laughed it off.

The Washington Post recently ran a story headlined, “Kamala Harris rallies are edgy with four-letter words.”

I received an email from a candidate so rip-roaring mad that he said he was, well, having urinary tract issues, only in cruder terms.

Pennsylvania Governor Shapiro brags that his state motto is “Get Stuff Done,” only he frequently, and proudly, substitutes a different word for stuff.

In accepting the vice-president slot on the Democrat ticket, Minnesota Governor Tim Walz gave a shout-out of thanks to the crowd chanting, “Mind your own d— business.”

The current challenge for both political parties is seeing how many times candidates can call each other weird and weirdo.

I’m sorry, what are you, like third grade?

I apologize to all third-graders.

The uptick in crude is not by chance. These are not slips of the tongue. The coarseness is intentional and purposeful. Strategists think this is how you reach average people and win votes.

Whether this is or isn’t how average people talk is irrelevant.

When you are running for the highest office in one of the most powerful nations in the world, you carry yourself with class and dignity. You respect yourself and respect those you represent.

If you want to be a leader, talk like a leader.

In these days when grocery budgets are stretched thin, we somehow find ourselves flush with cash. It’s embarrassing.

A friend stopped by and had to clear a pile of 100s on the sofa before she could sit down.

We are rolling in the dough. Literally. This morning, I found a $500 bill in the dryer. I didn’t even know they made 500s.

Bills of every denomination are scattered under the dining room table. I just discovered $10,000 and $50,000 bills sitting on my desk. And I thought the 500 was a shock.

Naturally, I stuff my purse and yell, “I’m going shopping!” Just kidding.

It’s doubtful the orange, yellow, green and blue bills could get past a cashier or bank teller. You could always try, but you’d definitely need a “Get Out of Jail Free” card.

I also have in my possession a small bill labeled Homeowner’s Insurance that says, “This Policy Protects Your Home From Damage and Theft.”

Too bad it doesn’t cover small scale vandalism from grandchildren.

Three times today I have found “Salary Cards” scattered throughout the house. Two were for $80,000 and one was for $60,000. I wonder what my new profession is – it’s clearly no longer a columnist.

The big bills I can manage; it’s the coins that do me in. Someone (the usual suspect also known as “The Fun One”) brought home a large bag of play coins. They are replicas of the real McCoy but made of plastic and slightly smaller. At a glance, they can easily be mistaken for the real thing.

I am constantly stooping for coins to determine if they are real. If Fitbit counted deep knee bends in addition to steps, I’d be at the top of the leaderboard.

The sudden surge in wealth is amusing, although I know when I go to the game shelf that Life, Monopoly and Dogopoly will have been trashed.

All the loose coins on the floor, under the furniture and between sofa cushions grow annoying. They are on a par with wedding invitations that come with glitter in the envelopes and graduation announcements that come with confetti. (Don’t make me sweep the floor if you want me to come to your party.)

And know this—if you want Grandma’s homemade cookies—put the play money back where you found it.

Sometimes you just have to get tough. It only makes cents.

My small charge brought her rain boots with her, per my request. A heavy rain fell last night. Humidity is sliding down the windowpanes and the morning grass is so wet it squishes.

I pull on my rain boots, the ones with unicorns that she and her sisters gave me for my birthday last year. She pulls on her Pepto Bismol pink boots and we head outside.

The young miss is interested in growing things. She keeps a small bouquet of fresh flowers on her desk at home every day.

You could easily miss the bouquet amid her many other treasures piled high—early-reader books, construction paper creations, small stuffed animals, shriveled markers without caps, scissors, old birthday cards and fossilized Halloween candy. But amid her carefully curated collection routinely stands a small Ball jar holding cosmos and zinnias. She and her momma plant them in galvanized tubs where they bloom and bloom ‘til frost.

You’re off to a good start in life when hand-picked bouquets are part of your everyday.

Today she is making rounds in our backyard.

First stop is the fairy garden, a bowl-shaped clay pot with white impatiens sheltering an aging miniature fairy with no nose and a clipped wing. She repositions the fairy closer to the miniature yellow duck in the miniature birdbath.

Satisfied, we move on to the herb bed. She eyes a big leafy green plant that routinely bullies the other herbs.

“Pinch off a leaf and bruise it,” I say. Her entire life she’s been told not to hit, kick or punch and now here’s Grandma telling her to bruise something.

“When you bruise a leaf, you gently rub it between your fingers so it will produce a smell,” I explain.

She rubs the green leaf with her chubby fingers and lifts the leaf to her nose.

“What does it smell like?”

“Lemon.”

“Correct. It’s lemon balm. What is it?”

“Lemon bomb.”

“No, lemon balm.”

“That’s what I said.”

Moving along, she pulls a chive in bloom, lifts it to her nose and sniffs.

“What does that smell like?”

“Onion.”

“Close enough,” I say.

She then breaks off a low-growing herb with tiny leaves shaped like mouse ears.

“That’s thyme,” I say. “Smell it.”

She’s not repulsed, but she’s not terribly impressed either. “I know how to spell that one,” she says. “T, I, M.”

“Well done!”

We move to oregano with even bigger mouse ear leaves. She bruises the leaves, sniffs, and shoots me a look that says, “Did you really think this one would be hard?”

“Spaghetti,” she deadpans.

I pinch off a leaf of sage for her. She sniffs it, says, “YUCK!” and tosses it.

Just like that – there goes Thanksgiving.

We cut a small bouquet for her to take home, adding stems of lavender and rosemary to the collection. Regrettably, we both forget about it when she leaves.

I do the only thing I should do, and the only thing I can do— set the bouquet on my very cluttered desk.

Christmas is only five months away. I was hoping to be the first to alert you, but Hobby Lobby beat me by a month.

We had not yet marked Flag Day or the first day of summer when the Christmas creep commenced.

While we were breaking out the shorts, merchants were breaking out artificial trees dusted with artificial snow.

While we were searching for our flip flops, Santa was searching for his boots.

While we were firing up the grill, burning burgers and singeing our eyebrows, Santa was firing up the sleigh.

Turns out the most wonderful time of the year is now a full half of the year.

Ho, ho, ho and pa rum pum pum pum.

It’s topping 90 today. The grass is brittle, the hanging ferns are begging for water and rabbits that ravage the garden are knocking at the back door, panting with their little tongues hanging out.

Who wants to light a Christmas spice candle?

How ‘bout giving that winter wonderland snow globe a good shake? Harder. Harder. That’s it! Ooops.

Please excuse my inner Scrooge. I’ve never liked being rushed. I can move fast, talk fast, make chocolate chip cookies fast, throw sheets a kid got sick on in the wash fast, pack a suitcase fast and exit the house fast—but I can’t stand being told to go faster.I’m going to take my time. I’m going to savor the final scorch of summer and the last bark of the dog days of summer.

I’m going to leisurely stroll through the trashed school supply aisles at the store, throw my arms in the air and yell, “Thank you, Lord, those days are behind us!” I’m going to watch the neighbor kids shuffle to the corner bus stop.

I’m going to observe Labor Day by doing no labor whatsoever.

I’m going to watch the maples, birch and oak turn yellow, orange and crimson. I’m going to relish nights that grow chilly and savor the goodness of a heavy sweater. I’m going to drive on back roads at dusk and hope to see deer.

We’re going to rake enormous piles of leaves in the backyard of this old house, then call our grands who live in a new subdivision with tiny trees you can snap in two with your bare hands and tell them the fun is waiting.

I’m going to make a big deal about turning on the heat. We’ll both rail about the cost of utilities and the monopoly of the gas company. Tradition.

We’re going to enjoy apples, pumpkins, squash and endless zucchini and, come November, I’m going to win another wrestling match with a turkey.

I’m going to watch the very last leaf drop and the very first snowflake fall. Then . . . and only then.

Don’t rush me.