The Emperor Has No Shame

I confess. Despite the amazing number of scandals and scandal-like outrages the pwesident has survived, I still harbor secret hopes that a great falling-humpty-dumpty  plop or a mass emperor-has-no-clothes awakening could happen any day now. Or maybe something like what happens in that great old movie, “The Dead Zone”, when the evil candidate grabs a baby to shield himself from the bullets of an assassin. I keep waiting for the moment when we all shake off this haze we are in and realize what kind of man he is (if we don’t already).

On the other hand, I have also had a growing suspicion that such moments ARE occurring – it is just that there has been such a long and relentless string of them, we don’t recognize them for what they are. Yesterday’s twumptweet is just another example:

“Don has received notoriety for a brief meeting, that many politicians would have taken, but most importantly, and to the best of my knowledge, nothing happened after the meeting concluded.”

In other words:

 

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Westeros

 

(Ireland 2018 – Part 2)

 

Despite having devoured the first 3 books in the series, I cannot really be considered a true “Game of Thrones” fan. Reading to the end of the fourth book ended up feeling like work. I only managed it because of my neurotic need to finish any book I start. The fact is, I never really got over the Red Wedding chapter in Book 3 and I resent that sadist, R.R. Martin, to this day for putting me through it. When it comes to the TV series, I stopped watching somewhere in the first season. I just couldn’t stomach the (seemingly gratuitous) violence and cruelty.

So it wasn’t “The Game of Thrones” that led me to Northern Ireland, but once there, it was hard to escape the connection. There were all sorts of GoT packages on offer; whole sections of Tourist Information offices were devoted to it. Special maps were made, showing all the locations where scenes from the series had been filmed, like this one (notice all the film camera symbols):

Not surprisingly, a lot of the sites that we had chosen out of old guide books (that predated the show) overlapped with those on the GoT tours. And when they did, we slogged through these sites in a massive convoy of people.

At the Giant’s Causeway it seemed there wouldn’t be enough rocks to hold them all.

At the famous Carrick-a-rede Rope Bridge, there weren’t enough hours in the day to let all the people who wanted to cross over.

And at the Dark Hedges (Westeros’s “King’s Road”), well, we could hardly see the trees for the forest of tourists passing under them.

 

 

And now I have to confess to being a bit hyperbolic in what I wrote above. I still enjoyed all of the sites despite the many other tourists. They were cool and beautiful and worth visiting. Then again, when I look back at the trip as a whole, my absolute favorite moments were ones when we were almost alone in some gorgeous location – and that cannot be a coincidence.

First we got to the Mussenden Temple and the mansion ruins in Downhill Demesne before the ticket office opened and could explore the places almost completely on our own.

 

This was one of my favorite moments from the whole trip. Me and the sis being in the moment:

 

It was only after I got home from the trip that I started researching the connections between “Game of Thrones” and Ireland. It took me all of two minutes to find an article showing that the fictional country of Westeros is actually upside-down Ireland with some extras:

 

I suppose this all won’t be news to most GoT fans, but I thought it was incredibly neat. The article went on to say:

“Speaking at Comic Con two years ago, Martin revealed that not only was Co. Kerry perfectly redrawn, but the Fingers at the Vale of Arryn were, in fact, the Dingle Peninsula, and several other major Irish cities share their locations with famous Westeros landmarks: King’s Landing as Galway, Donegal Bay as the Sea of Dorne, Belfast as Old Town and Dublin as Casterly Rock . . . . With thanks to the success of the show, many fans are now traveling to the Northern Irish sets to see the amazing locations for themselves, resulting in the Dark Hedges in Co. Antrim, used as the King’s Road in the show, becoming one of the most photographed tourist attractions in the world.”

Source:  https://www.irishcentral.com/culture/entertainment/rr-martin-reveals-game-of-thrones-westeros-is-an-upside-down-ireland

 Despite the crowds, I think it is great thing that the popularity of GoT has been a boon for northern Irish tourism. For me, the opposite has occurred. While googling “ireland locations game thrones”, I ended up watching a whole bunch of YouTube videos – scenes from the series with backdrops I recognized. I really enjoyed them. I just might start watching the show again . . . . .

Four and Forty-Two

 

Today – on Day Four of “The Plan” – I am honored to say that I have my first official convert. Joan of “Just Joan 42 – Poetry and Stories about Life, the Universe and Everything” fame (or simply “42” as I call her, since she calls me “227”) has recognized the awesome simplicity and feasibility of the plan and has gotten with the program. (Although . . . I am not sure that she truly grasps the spirit of it all – but more on that later . . .)

In honor of this development, I am making 42 the next Blog Friend of the Day to catch up with. I also figure she will be as funny and inspirational as usual.  There has been a poem or two flowing from my fingertips over these past years in an attempt to try out some new form she introduced us readers to. And she is the one that got me to try black-out poetry, resulting in this first try (of which I am quite proud). It is Twump’s inaugural tirade:

But as I said, now the tables are turned – the master and apprentice have traded places. Despite her enthusiasm, there are some . . . shall we say “deficiencies”? . . . in her initial attempts. Firstly, being retired, she seems to think that three columns are sufficient. So, no “Work” requirement. This trend continues. Is “making a comment” enough to fulfill one’s blogging duties? Does “chasing the cat” qualify as exercise? And as for her house project . . . “changing the sheets”? Seriously??

I’ll tell you what a house project is! A house project is turning laundry day into a complete closet cleaning and reorganization, including a quest to find, wash and pair up every single loose sock under the roof and then banish permanently those who remain single. Now everyone knows the mystery of magically disappearing socks. I was determined to solve it. I checked every clothes drawer; I looked in the corners of fitted sheets. I checked boots and shoes and pant legs. And still there were so many lonely socks!

Later, my cleaning fit led me to pull all the storage boxes out from under my bed with the idea of dusting and vacuuming under there. And . . . wahlah! There they were. About 15 runaway sock partners in a dusty row on the floor, running from headboard to foot under the middle of the bed. All of them had been pushed back by a storage bin unnoticed. Mystery solved.

So, 42, I hope you are getting the picture. If not, Lesson#2 will begin promptly after I post this (and may spill over into tomorrow.) It’s pretty late and I am getting tired. It’s the socks’ fault.

 

Day Ten Thousand, Five Hundred and Ninety-three

Actually it is only Day Number 3 of my

Summer Vacation Plan

which went something like this:

Up at 5:30 am, coffee and some news watching. Answered emails. Went back to bed and slept for two wonderful hours. Then it was laundry, some general administrative work stuff, and more laundry. Then laundry, some house cleaning and laundry. Some dog walking and some more laundry. Cooked dinner, transferred the young chickens from the duck stall to the chicken stall. Scattered a trail of feed for the dumb ducks to lure them into their now empty house. If they opt to stay outside again, that is their choice. Now I am going to do one more load of laundry and then continue catching up on blog friends . . .

It is also Day Number 10,593 of my married life*. 29 years ago today I got married to a man who is currently on a 10-day fishing trip in Sweden.** Even so, roses mysteriously appeared this morning. They were in my favorite Christmas present from said man this year – a very silly vase which I just love. Yes, that is a picture of me holding my favorite chicken, Winnie. Ly took it.

 

* That is 29 x 365 + 7 (leap year days) + 1 (today).
**  They say “Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and you will get a whole weekend to yourself.” In my case, it is a bit longer. But then, it is probably better that he is NOT here while I am executing The Plan . . .

Grape Silver Candle

It is officially summer vacation. In fact, it is . . .

Summer Vacation – Day One

. . . and I am NOT (!) on the couch with the pukey bowl, a glass of water, aspirin and the remote control, suffering through a post-traumatic system collapse. No, instead I am feeling energetic. I have done some laundry and took care of our animals and chauffeured my daughter and talked to my sister for an hour and a half on the phone, and had coffee with a great friend and honed my plan for the summer and am now writing the Post of the Day . . .

Wait! Back up a sec! What was that about honing a plan?

Oh yes. I have a one. And it is deceptively simple.

I took a piece of paper and drew three vertical lines. In Column One I listed the few work-related things I still have to finish up. Column Two is a list of household projects I have been wanting to get to. Column Three is a list of healthy activities – anything from “bike ride” to “eat a vegetable”. Column Four is a list of my favorite blog people whom I want to catch up with.

Here’s the plan: between now and the arrival of my sister two weeks from now, I will cross off at least one thing from each column every day.

And then I will post about some part of it. Whatever inspires me.

Today, the work thing (Column One) was deleting emails. It may not sound like much, but when you have allowed your Inbox to grow to 2000 mails with 600+ of them still marked “Unread” – it is something of task. The house project (C2) was the first three of what will likely be about 16 loads of laundry. In Column Four, I did not start with my first/ur- blog friend, Ly (she will be tomorrow), but with Quirkyone – because I learned what mistakes to avoid when devising a plan from her hysterically over-ambitious New Year’s Resolutions. That leaves Column Three. What I did today for my mental health was call my sister. What I did for my physical health was taking my Black Cohosh tablet.

Black Cohosh. Aka “snakeroot”. Aka “bugbane”. Genus “actaea racemose” or “cumicifuga racemose”. In German, called both “Wanzenkraut” or “Traubensilberkerze” which, translated literally, is grape silver candle.

Now I am emphatically not advising anyone to take it, but I will tell you that after five years of hot flashes and bizarre anxieties and, lately, insomnia, I finally decided a few months ago that “powering through” menopause was not a good plan. Being a hater of pharmaceuticals, I started trying all sorts of natural remedies. This bugbane, this snakeroot, this “Traubensilberkerze” was the first thing that has worked. It might just be a post-hoc-ergo-propter-hoc thing (meaning: the symptoms were about to go away anyway – the timing was merely coincidental), but if it is . . . I don’t care.

I feel better.

So on this Day One of summer vacation, I say thanks to Grape Silver Candle and Quirkyone and Whirlpool and Thunderbird.

See y’all tomorrow.

 

Rooster Re-homed

I’m just gonna un-sentimentally cut to the chase – here’s a picture of our rooster, perched for his first night in his new coop. His lovely new owners were kind enough to send this picture to us last night.

 

Alas, Gustav, we hardly knew ye . . . . . .

 

Actually . . . that is not true at all!

With his constant loud crowing, we knew him too well – as did everyone else who lives within a half-mile radius. And as guests in our neighbors’ hotel did – some of whom wrote about Gustav (unfavorably) in their Booking.com reviews. He did his job so reliably, that all of our hens knew him too well too. They have the bald patches on their behinds to prove it. And two of them are now sitting on piles of eggs in the hen house. When the second one started brooding, that was the moment we realized Gustav was too much of a rooster for us.

So . . . Gustav may be gone from us now, but in about two weeks, we may have anywhere from 5 to 15 of his progeny running around our yard to remind us of him – and of what a gorgeous specimen he was (is):

 

 

It Ain’t Over Till the Fat Lady Tumbles

In my second-to-last post, I let it slip that I had been to the opera. In Vienna. The Vienna State Opera. (Can you tell I am feeling pretty good about myself at this moment?) My mother-in-law (also known as “Omili”) had invited the whole family to performance of “L’Elisir D’Amore”  (which is Italian for “The Elixir of Love”) by Gaetano Donizetti. It is not one of those operas that make you wonder if there are worse things than death (think: Wagner) and it’s not one with an aria that can make a prostitute cry (ala “Pretty Woman”), but it was a nice, if somewhat shallow, story. It was basically “boy meets girl, boy gets girl”  . . . with a little help from a bottle of cheap red wine. What made the opera a success was the wonderful singer/actors who not only clearly gave their all, but who all seemed like . . . realpeople. The kind you want to have a conversation or a beer with and tell them how good they are. The kind who let the audience know that the long and exuberant applause they are getting really means something to them.

And then there were the historic surroundings. The impressive building that is the Viennese Opera House – finished over 150 years ago – in which an uncountable number of famous opera singers and audience members had since . . . engaged. Unfortunately, I only had a minute to take a few shots of the entrance and hall – the boxes, the ceiling, the cool monitor in front of me,

and the empty seat next to me . . .

The one my mother-in-law should have been sitting in.

But she didn’t make it to the opera that night – thanks to an instant of incredible bad luck on the way there – one of those “simply in the wrong place at the wrong time” accidents. The kind where you spend hours afterwards obsessing . . . “if we had only not stopped to go to the bathroom . . .” or “if we had only chosen a different route to the park . . .” But we didn’t. We chose the subway. That required us to change trains and the transfer included two steep escalators with one long hallway between them. We never made it to the second one, because the first turned out to be “la scala mobile della sfortuna” (which is Italian for “The Escalator of Bad Luck”).

An extremely rotund little lady standing one step above Omili lost her balance and tumbled backward. Omili was catapulted awkwardly backward too – but, luckily, my husband was behind her to break the fall. Still – with two hip operations behind her, the situation was scary. And painful.

We all managed to get off the escalator and helped Omili to take some careful steps to the nearest . . . nothing! There were no benches anywhere to be seen. No elevators to the street level either. Just that long hallway leading to the next set of escalators, leading to the next platform for the next set of subway trains, which all were obviously no longer an option . . .

Supported by a child on either side, Omili put on a brave face as we started along one of the long hallways in search of assistance.  We tried to assess the extent of her injury and thought it was a good sign that she could take steps. Then I saw a subway worker up ahead walking toward us. He stopped to talk to the rotund woman who had caused our misery. When I reached them, I asked if a wheelchair could be brought.

“Do I look like I am an EMT??” he asked me arrogantly.

We stood there and I stared at him as the rest of my family reached us. My sister-in-law had heard his answer and laid into him in a polite yet assertive way that awed me. He quickly became more helpful and called for an ambulance.

The next helpers to arrive were the police. Well, actually one policeman and one police woman. We were now standing at the bottom of the up-escalator to the next platform. We chatted for a minute or two about the accident. The policeman then decided to go up and wait for the ambulance while the policewoman took down our information. She asked for my mother-in-law’s name and address, and then . . . she seemed to have come to the end of her repertoire. There was a confused silence.

“So . . . are you enjoying your stay in Vienna?” she asked.

Despite her pain, Omili laughed a bit and admitted that she had had better visits.

We all stood there in an awkward silence. Luckily for the policewoman, the commuters coming down the escalator toward us helped her out.  One after another they saw her, breathlessly approached, and then reported “There is a groper up there!!” Or, “There is a man up there grabbing young women!” Six or seven people did this in rapid succession.

The policewoman seemed a bit confused. She asked us if we thought she should go up there, seeing as how the emergency services were on the way. We assured her that it was probably the right thing to do. She left.

Four EMT’s arrived very shortly after that, but they also didn’t have a wheelchair with them. So two of them left to go get one and the other two stood around and engaged in small talk. In the meantime, the policewoman came back. It seemed her partner had things basically under control up there. Another awkward silence ensued. Now that help was here, maybe she should go back upstairs to her partner, she said. We agreed that it seemed like a good idea. She said goodbye to Omili and added, cheerily:

“Have fun!”

Things ended up working out about as well as could be hoped for. Omili was taken to the hospital and checked out. Nothing was broken to everyone’s relief. She opted to stay the night there and insisted that the rest of us still go to the opera as planned.

When freak accidents like this happen there are at least three ways to look at it.

1) You can say it was just simply dumb bad luck. Shit happens. Or . . .

2) You can look for some reason why it happened. What brought this on? Or . . .

3) You can look for some silver lining. Actually we were lucky because it could have been much worse . . .

I am torn between options 2 and 3.

On the one hand, take a close look at the first picture at the start of this post. It is the unused ticket – Seat 13 in Row 13. Isn’t that a sign?

On the other hand, what if the fat lady hadn’t tumbled and we had made it up that second escalator and on to the platform where the groper was standing? And what if he had seen us?  Then again, one of the witnesses had said he was grabbing “young” girls – so we probably would have been safe. Thanks to Omili, we will never know.