All right, I won't

There is a television commercial for a sleeping pill that features two little pretend creatures that appear to be fashioned from giant, fuzzy pipe cleaners which are twisted into words. One, in a light gray color, spells out the word Sleep, and the other, a darker color, is Wake.

They are about the size of your basic house pets, which appears to be the point, because, unlike the semi-rigid keepsakes we created from pipe cleaners at Girl Scout troop meetings, these critters are pliant and ambulatory. They follow around behind a woman we presume is insomnious, waving that part of their initial letter that mimics a tail, rubbing against her ankles, and hopping up on her bed. Eventually, through the miracle of modern pharmacology, our insomniac goes to bed cuddling the little cat-like Sleep in her arms while the somewhat more canine Wake dutifully lays down in its own bed on the floor.

The whole thing is uncommonly creepy.

The real outstanding moment in this ad, however, comes at the end during the recitation of the myriad side effects, contraindications, and possible drug interactions of this sleeping pill when the speaker actually says, "Do not take Belsomra if you have narcolepsy."

Really? Ya think?

Room With a View

I just finished washing up some dishes, which at our house comes with the added-value opportunity to look out the window above the sink at our lovely back yard while you do it.

My mother would have loved that. I remember when I was a kid she often said how much she wished there was a window above the sink. When my parents built a new house in 1966, she finally got her wish.

I saw an old photograph last week that somebody in the family dug up and emailed to me. It shows me and my Aunt Blanche sitting at the kitchen table in that house, taken at least 40 years ago. Behind us you can see that nice big window over the sink that my mother wanted so much.

The irony of it is that when you looked out that window, all you saw was the side of the neighbor's garage.

Chihuahua Day at our house

It is the birthday of my tiny dog. She is 14 years old today.

She came to us from our local humane society when she was nine months old, having been manhandled by a three-year-old whose (infinitely stupid) grandmother gave it to her for Christmas.

She is a plucky little dog, brave, loyal and as cute as a button. Unlike most Chihuahuas, she is calm and easy-going. All she really wants is to be loved and cuddled. She is deaf now and has lost most of her teeth, she sleeps 23 hours a day, and when she is awake, she pees. She has been a joyful addition to our family.

Happy birthday, Soji. We love you.

Long To Reign Over Us

On February 6, 2012, Queen Elizabeth II celebrated 60 years on the throne, which I, being her cousin, joyfully commemorated in a posting here. I also said I hoped she would be able to last another 3 years and 216 days so that she would overtake Queen Victoria as the longest reigning British monarch.

And today she did it.

It isn't just her longevity that will always distinguish her reign but also the dignity, poise, intelligence, and selfless sense of duty she brought to it. It was on her 21st birthday, five years before she ascended to the throne, that she made a famous speech to the Commonwealth in which she declared that her "whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service."

Happily, her life and reign have been long, and Her Majesty has fulfilled her royal promise.

God Save The Queen.

No Lots

Sometime in the last 25 years, I was talked into shopping at a store called Big Lots. It was explained to me that this particular store bought up lots of discontinued or overstocked merchandise at bargain prices, which savings were then passed on to its shoppers.

It was a terrifying experience. The store was dirty and messy, there was little or no organization to it, and many of the store's "aisles" were created by long lines of large cardboard boxes on the floor that customers were expected to paw through. I about had a nervous breakdown, as my wife described it.

I could not be prevailed upon to visit a Big Lots store again, at least not until this weekend.

Except that there were no boxes on the floor, this store was just like the other one -- messy and dirty and disorganized, and many items were clearly created for them because the Big Lots name was printed right on the packages. As if that were not enough, the prices were outrageous. One would do better at a dollar store.

Perhaps because I felt forewarned by my previous visit, I did not have a breakdown this time, and I did actually make a small purchase because they had something I can't find anywhere else.

Just now I came across the receipt, the bottom of which asks me to tell them how they are doing, and if I logged into the web site and took their survey, I could win a $300 Big Lots Gift Card. That stopped me right there. I would love to tell them what I think of them, but it would be just my luck to win the damn $300 and have to go into that store again.

And I will not. Ever.

This is too much

There is a role-playing game for mobile devices called "The Walking Dead: Road to Survival" which is advertising itself on television with images of what I guess are the undead engaged in combat with their enemies, whoever they are, over which a male voice recites, in somber tones exemplary of melodramatic over-acting, several lines from what is probably Robert Frost's most famous and possibly most beloved poem, The Road Not Taken. There is only one very tenuous connection between the two that I can see, and that is the "road" that the game player and Frost's narrator will travel.

I am appalled and insulted by the use of something so sublime to sell something so ignoble, and if it were up to me, I would set the game makers and their admen on the road to perdition.

And also in addition Arschbutz too

Fugitive thoughts caught up with me yesterday when a reference on a cooking show to Pork Butt made my mind jump to Rump Roast, and then I suddenly heard an anonymous but southern-drawled voice in my head saying, "Chicken butt fried in grease - want a piece?"

That led me to ruminate on the myriad names we have for that part of the human anatomy (if not that of fowl) that is medically known as nates (NAY-tees). Not a word common enough for general use. ("He fell on his nates" just does not work.)

For polite society, I suppose buttock and buttocks would come next, but those are laughable words, especially the way some people pronounce them. Then there would be gluteus maximus, too big a mouthful and actually a reference to the three muscles that comprise the nates.

That leaves the door open for so many fine names for it, and there are plenty, viz:

arse - ass - backside - back end - behind - booty - bottom -  breech - bum - buns - butt - caboose - can - cheek(s) - derrière - duff - fanny - fundament - haunches - heinie - hind part - hindquarters  - keister - moon - posterior - rear - rear end - rump - seat - sit-upon - stern - tail - tail end - tuchus - tush - wazoo

I presume that final word makes the list in relation to "up the" rather than "sit on."

Fundament and breech are new to me as euphemisms for the tuchus, for which I am using the Yiddish spelling.

Finally, there is no further point to any of this, or, therefore, none at all. My last random thought on the subject is that, as children, my brother and I thought that Fanny Butts was the funniest name in the universe. Maybe it is.

Okay, it's time to get my nates off this chair and go do something productive.