O Christmas Eve, O Christmas Eve

Well, here we are. Christmas Eve in the Year 2020. It's a year we will no doubt look back on with more shock than awe. The Year of the Great Pandemic, the Year of the Great Threat to Democracy. Fortunately, there is a small glimmer of light at the end of this long, winding, cold, dripping, nasty tunnel. At both branches in that tunnel.  

I don't think we'll ever look back on this year and laugh.

Too many people have died, many unnecessarily. And democracy nearly died, completely unnecessarily. (Thanks, Republicans, for giving Trump a pass on just about everything and leaving it until way too late before a few broke ranks and finally and half-heartedly acknowledged that we were, indeed, hanging by our fingertips, dangling over the cliff, while Trump, Sidney Powell, Michael Flynn and a few of their equally disturbed and disturbing pals stomped on our fingers.)

But we will look back on it - at least those of us who survived it will - and say that we're survivors. We were cautious. We wore our masks. We washed our hands. We didn't eat out. We didn't eat in with much of anyone else. We ordered in. We socially distanced.

On the political front, we supported the Good Guys. We made donations. We made calls. We wrote letters. We mailed postcards. We knocked on doors. We even prayed. (Even atheists pray when they're in the foxhole that sure looks more like an abyss.)

And so this is Christmas Eve, 2020.

Christmas Eve has always been the big deal in my family, and I've been hosting it for nearly thirty years now. (Oddly, it still feels oddly grownup to host a holiday get together. I'm 71, FFS. It's not like there's a generation ahead of me slacking off. Well, I guess they did slack off, only permanently.)

This year's gathering is pared down. The folks in my tiny bubble (all four of them also in tiny bubbles) will be here. The others will be Zooming in.

The Zoomer's will miss my tree, other than in background. And they'll miss the in person comfort and joy that we experience when we're around each other. 

With the exception of my West Coast brother and sister-in-law, I have - very cautiously - seen each of the other virtual guests a couple of times since March. But as winter approached, our yellow caution lights have turned red. We've pretty much all settled down to a metaphorical long winter's nap. So until the vaccines start rolling out to the Phase Two and Phase 3 cohorts, Zoom 'R Us.

Anyway, Christmas Eve should be fun - just not as much fun when we're all here together. 

Christmas Day is supposed to be warm and rainy, with the last of last week's foot of snow likely to be washed away. I will read, doze, eat leftovers, consider (and reject the thought of) taking down my tree, nap, and Zoom-ebrate with my friends Sam and Sarah, marooned in Maine; and, later, my friends Joyce and Tom, sheltering in place in Dallas.

At holidays, my grandmother always toasted with some variant of the Irish toast: may we all be alive at this same time next year. As the family elder, Nanny pretty much thought she'd be next up. But she outlived both of her sons, my father (58 when he died) and my Uncle Charlie (died age 66). And my Uncle Ralph, her son-in-law (who was in his mid-60's somewhere). Nanny died a few months short of 97 years of age. 

Anyway, may we all be alive at this same time next year. 

Merry Christmas to all, then, and to all a good night.

In keeping with Pink Slip tradition, I'm taking the week off and will be back in the new - and I have every reason to believe - far, far better new year.

 

Goop, glorious Goop

As this annus horribilis winds down, it's comforting to know that neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night nor COVID pandemic stays Gwyneth Paltrow from the swift completion of her appointed rounds as maintainer-in-chief of a "modern lifestyle brand" that is Goop. 

Without Gwyneth, where would we look for advice like "Helpful Hacks for Your Sweat Suit Rack?" Of course, one - at least this one - would do well to ignore Goop's advice. How can spending $445 for sweatpants and $850 for a sweater to top them off with count as a hack? I mean, isn't a hack something like 'turn your old business suits into something that's actually comfortable to wear'? But what do I know? My sweat suit advice is buy a couple of pairs of sweatpants and matching zip-front sweatshirts from L.L. Bean and wear them to death.

Then there's the reminder that, frankly, we all need when we're trolling for comfort an joy. A piece entitled "Today Is the Youngest You'll Ever Be - Enjoy It." Thanks for the reminder, Gwyn. I mean that sincerely.

I also enjoyed "Which Winter Style Archetype Are You?" Obviously, Alpinist and Sun Chaser are automatically out, but I did have to pause a bit to decide between the Creature of Comfort and the Eclectic. Then I saw that the Eclectic has naturally wavy hair, so Creature of Comfort it is - a creature for whom one of the recommended gifts is a vibrator. (Gwyneth, I blush!)

For Gwyneth, "modern lifestyle brand" is all about the accumulation of lifestyle-affirming goods, and her annual gift guides offer a little something for just about everybody, as long as everybody = self-conscious high-end ultra-precious consumer with money to burn. Enough to afford items like the $1,895 burnt agate marble checkers set. Top of head, I'd think that if you wanted to pay this much for a board game, it'd be something like chess. But there's sort of a homey, stuck-at-home retro vibe to checkers, I guess. 

If $1,895 is a tad too much for a game you'll never play, but you do have some money to burn, how about $75 for a candle with a scent called "This Smells Like My Prenup".   

A gorgeous blend of invigorating grapefruit and sexy, citrusy bergamot with supple notes of ripened raspberry subtly interlaced throughout, this sophisticated (and hilariously named) scent is the one to burn—and we mean burrrn—when you’re in some type of a mood.

Maybe Barron will get one for his mom.

Goop is also about braininess, of course, so they sell books. Including "Taller, Slimmer, Younger: 21 Days to a Foam Roller Physique," which sort of seems to contradict the advice about enjoying today because it's the youngest you're ever going to be. Or maybe enjoying the day means getting out your Creature of Comfort vibrator - or one of Goop's other bestsellers in this category - and going at it.

Sigh. So many options on Goop, I can't possibly swipe through them all. Besides, it's too late for Christmas delivery. Maybe next year. 

And as much as I enjoy making fun of Goop - and I surely do - there is nothing in their guides that's anywhere near as offensive as an ad that the NRA is tweeting:

Buy the gun you want. Wrap it and mark it from Santa. Your spouse will have to along with it or they’ll ruin Christmas for the kids.

Is that festive or what? 

Last week, a 2-year old boy in Indiana shot himself to death with a handgun he found while his mother was in the next room feeding his new-born sister. Whatever's under that family's tree isn't going to bring back their little one.

At least Gwyneth Paltrow and Goop - absurd as the enterprise may be - never killed anyone. 

Wonder if he buried Grandma after she got run over by a reindeer...

Mostly I hate it when you click on an article online, only to find out that you've been click baited into looking at something that is months, if not years old. Newspapers are notorious for this practice, and it's generally annoying AF. Who wants yesterday's news? Except when yesterday's news is not really news, but a story that's still pretty interesting a year later.

Thus, the article I somehow found my way to on, the gravedigging Santa of Nome, Alaska. 

Now Nome, Alaska (pop. under 4,000) doesn't have a ton going for it. It's fairly remote and there's no way to get to it by road, so it's only natural that it's major claim to fame is that it's where the Iditarod sled dog race finishes up. 

It's also home to Paul Kudla, the town gravedigger, cemetery maintainer, and city truck driver, who is also a Santa for hire. And a pretty well-established and in-demand one, too.

If you sideline as a professional Santa, gravedigging for the departed of Nome is not a bad gig, as it's too frozen up there to do winter burials. So winter's pretty much downtime. 

Kudla gets around.

Despite being so far from his pearly bearded peers, Kudla is fairly well-known. In 2015 he won the title of America’s Best Santa on the TV competition show Santas in the Barn, where he competed against nine other diverse Santas in contests ranging from speed present wrapping, building gingerbread houses on ice, and Christmas song knowledge (his weakest category—he doesn’t care for holiday music). He ended up beating out the Surfing San Diego Santa on the final episode, broadcast on Christmas Eve. The title netted him $100,000 in prize money and $10,000 for Make-A-Wish, his charity of choice.

Last year - remember way back then? in the before time? - was a good one for him:

Right before the 2019 Santa season kicked off, Kudla and nine other Santas from around the world toured around Japan, doing photo ops everywhere from hospitals and schools to the subway and a Toys ‘R’ Us. He’d been invited by a fellow Santa he met while competing at the Santa Winter Games in Norway and again at a convention in Kyrgyzstan.

Santa Winter Games in Norway I can see, but, seriously, I get that conventioneers get sick and tired of convening in Chicago or Boston or Las Vegas, but who holds their conventions in Kyrgyzstan? (I did hear it's lovely this time of year...)

Anyway, that's Kudla above, straphanging on the subway in Tokyo, and I have to say I admire his getup and think that he makes a kick-ass Santa. 

While gravedigging and cemetery caretaking bring you mostly in contact with grownups, and Santa-ing mostly with kids, the skills overlap is significant. In both situations, he's dealing with heightened emotion and plenty of tears. Sometimes he's providing comfort; sometimes he's providing joy; and sometimes he's bringing a measure of both. 

Like all good Santas, Kudla has a workshop:

...where he repairs sewing machines that are over 100 years old and crafts his extensive collection of Santa regalia. “I Santa-ize all my clothes,” Kudla says. “I’m finishing a jacket I made out of muskox. I look huge in that thing. I have a golden moose hide and a pure white buffalo hide that I’m saving—those need to be for something special. I have a vision of a duster coat with fur trim and a half cape in red leather. I just made a Russian Army officers hat Santa-fied.”

Not surprisingly, Kudla welcomes Santa jobs in the climes that are sunnier than Nome's, where daylight lasts only 4 hours during December. (The less time to actually see the cold and snow, I guess.) Last year, though, his Santa work was in Anchorage, Alaska's big city, where the weather isn't a whole lot better than it is in Nome.

He's back in Anchorage again this year, and he's lucky to have work, what with fewer mall, store, and party Santas in demand, thanks to COVID. He'll be playing Santa at Cabela's, the hunting-fishing-shooting store. So kiddos hoping for snowshoes, ammo, or duck calls will be able to ask Santa in person. 

Sadly, Santa needed to don PPE as part of his apparel this year. 

Unfortunately for Kudla, the physical barrier greatly hinders interactions with children. “You can barely talk to them, ” he said. “Santa smiles from be hind a shield and glass.” “It’s heartbreaking, ” Kudla said of the situation, and of the children who don’t understand why they can’t approach Santa. According to Kudla, Santas across the country and world are similarly unhappy, and he knows some who decided to sit this season out. Kudla said that he considered not working as a Santa this year, and he recently came close to quitting. “I almost walked away last week, ” he said. “I felt as if I was losing my Santa magic.” (Source: Nome Nugget) 

But fortunately, once Kudla started getting into the swing of things, he found himself getting his Santa mojo back. So for now, the tidings are glad. And if any Nomeite Grandma should happen to get runover by a reindeer on Christmas Eve, Santa Paul Kudla will be back to make sure she gets a proper burial next spring when the frozen tundra thaws.

How the Grinch is stealing Christmas

I ordered most of my things early on, so they all arrived here or at their final destination in plenty o' time. But one of the things I ordered delivered to my cousin - a table-top Christmas tree - turned out to be something of a Charlie Browner, shedding mightily despite her best efforts to keep it green. 

Unfortunately, by the time I called to lodge my complaint, it was way too late to get a replacement sent. Not that I hung on the customer service line long enough to get told this in person. 

Bad enough to have a long wait, but they were only playing two songs. And one Gene Autry's execrably sappy and wildly pious version of "Here Comes Santa Claus". Come on, I'm all for keeping Christ in Christmas, but there really is no need to bring God into a jingle about Santa. Plus Gene gives off a decidedly creepy vibe on this number. The other song was Bing Crosby's "Silver Bells," which wasn't enough to negate the Gene Autry. 

So I lodged my complaint online. 

Haven't heard back what they're going to do, but I know from the website that things are crazily backed up. Packages are being sent out seven days later than normal. So...

Part of the problem is COVID. Part of the problem is more folks ordering online, partly due to COVID. Part of the problem is the whopping snowstorm we just had. And part of it is that all these elements are combining to result in this:

An estimated 6 million packages a day are piling up in retailers' warehouses or shipping centers and awaiting pick up by FedEx, UPS, Amazon, the U.S. Postal Service and other shippers. Another 3.5 million packages are being picked up daily but not reaching their destinations on time, the latest shipping data show. It could soon get even worse: On-time delivery rates for the USPS have dropped to just over 86% in the third week of December, down from 93% three weeks ago. (Source: CBS News)

But we can't overlook the non-zero probability that the real Grinch of a fly in this ointment is the fiddling that USPS failed-

leader Louis "No Joy to the World" DeJoy did - no doubt at the behest of the Maniac in Chief - to turn the US Mail service into such a third world outfit that the citizens would throw their hands up and beg to send a birthday card through UPS or FedEx for an order of magnitude more than they now pay for a stamp.

All part of the trend to privatize all sorts of services that shouldn't be privatized. Like prisons, because, gee, no private prison services business would ever feel incented to promote laws that result in more prisoners, not fewer. Like schools, because, gee, no private school would ever think of jettisoning a troubled kid because providing help to said troubled kid would eat into profits. Like healthcare, because, gee, no private healthcare delivery system would ever pump up recommendations for lucrative but not necessarily necessary procedures.

And why should Granny in Ruralfree, Idaho, get to send a letter to Boston for the same fee that I would pay to send a letter to Boston? And why should they keep sorting machines in place that might be needed to process mail-in ballots for all those lazy-arse liberal cheaters. 

Anyway, the shipping sitch this year is really pretty bad. 

Many businesses (especially smaller ones) are finding that the shippers are putting a limit on the number of packages they'll pick up from them each day. This is pushing more packages to the beleaguered USPS. 

Sigh. 

Etsy is letting its sellers "flag for removal any negative reviews from customers complaining solely about shipping problems."

Sigh.

Everything that was going to be sent to me - as far as I know - has arrived. The pedicure kit from my sister Kath. (I'll have silver toes for New Year's Eve, so I'll have something shiny to look at.) The brisket sandwich kit from my friends Joyce and Tom in Dallas. (Yum.) The wreath sent from Maine from friends Sam and Jane.

But it is, of course, more blessed to give than to receive, and I do feel bad for those who are trying to give, only to be frustrated in their efforts. 

Of course, if people took a deep breath and thought about it for a minute, it really shouldn't make any difference to a mature and rational adult - or even to a kid who's beyond I-believe-in-Santa age - if something they want doesn't get there by Christmas. 

Still, it is one more thing that's adding insult to the already acute injury that is 2020. 

Bah humbug! May everything shipped to and from Louis DeJoy's house get lost in the mail. 

Snowbound

On Tuesday, there was a slight rush at the grocery store - gotta get milk! gotta get bread! - but because of social distancing for checkout, it looked a lot worse than it was. Me? I was mostly there for a poinsettia and an eggplant. 

Wednesday was definitely a snow-is-a-cumin-in sort of day. A wan winter sun in the morning, lowering clouds in the afternoon, and that wonderful (yes!) sense you get when the first storm of the season is approaching.

I didn't notice when things started, but by the time I woke up on Thursday morning, it was snowing aplenty - something of a shock to Bostonians who "enjoyed" virtually no snow last year. (And a bit scarily reminiscent of the whopper, week-after-week snow events of 2015, when we got ten feet of snow in a bit over a month.)

I was, of course, hunkered down to be hunkered down.

There was no need to go out, but go out I did, just to take a little peek at how lovely everything looks when it's snowing. 

I didn't have a Robert Frost experience. There are no woods nearby, let alone woods that "are lovely, dark, and deep." And, of course, I don't have any "promises to keep." But I did scoot over to the Boston Public Garden, where there are plenty of trees and where all the fountains and monuments were charmingly snow-capped. 

I didn't stay out all that long. After all, there was a Nor'easter on. Plus I (un)fortunately had an exceedingly boring work project to complete, foolishly promised by c.o.b. on Friday. 

Once I managed to race my way through the project, I did my favorite first snow day thing. I made myself a cup of tea (Barry's) and reread James Joyce's The Dead. This does, of course, sound incredibly artsy-fartsy pretentious, but it's such a brilliant story, and there's snow in it, and it's one of the few things I ever reread, and I had my cuppa Barry's, so...

Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

And then I did a bit of baking, which puts me in my kitchen, which has a greenhouse window and a wonderful lookout over the snow coming down. 

Yes, the newspapers, and TV, and the weather app on my phone were right: snow was general all over Massachusetts. And a lot of it.

It was falling softly upon the Public Garden and, further westwards, softly falling all over Worcester, which, whenever there's a storm, always seems to get the brunt of it. And not always softly.

I wasn't there to see it, but I'm pretty sure it was falling, too, upon every part of Mt. Auburn Cemetery, where a good part of my husband's ashes lay buried. I suspect that it's laying thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the big gates...And on the ash plot on Azalea Way.

My soul did not swoon slowly as I heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

But I did feel something looking out on all that snow. And that was wishing that it would remain light, fluffy and pristine. That the sidewalks would all be shoveled and no snow left to harden into treacherous icepacks that can turn into broken hips for elderly widow ladies who venture too far out. That Christmas will be white, and not covered with a gritty scrim of exhaust fumes. That today's winter wonderland will not be transformed into nodes of hardened, blackish-gray mounds, riddled with yellow dog piss marks.

For today, however, it's lovely out there.

Nice to be snowbound every once in a while.

We know which toys are bad or good. (So buy good, for goodness sake.)

Each year, Boston's World Against Toys Causing Harm, Inc. (W.A.T.C.H.) pulls together their list of the year's ten worst toys. They did so this year under the dire heading that "One Child Is Treated In U.S. Emergency Rooms Every Three Minutes For A Toy-Related Injury."

I think it's safe to say that toys back in the day were actually a lot more dangerous. 

My sister Kathleen had a toy iron that would have plugged in and heated up to burna-burna level if my mother hadn't taken the plug off and replaced it with a suction cup.

I had a stuffed poodle with eyes that were on a corkscrew-like screw and that were pretty easy to pull out. If I'd been a kid bent on violence, I could have caused some harm.

Then there was Creeple People Thingmaker, a kit that included plastic goop and a mold that heated up to about a billion degrees so that you could bake the goop into a Creeple People. 

Despite having access to these and other toys that were completely and utterly hazardous, I never made a toy-related trip to the ER. My one and only excursion there was to get a tetanus shot after I got bitten by Blackie, the outsized German Shepherd owned by the Hurley family (cop father; two cop sons). I was just walking by, quite innocently, on my way home from school when Blackie hurtled himself off the Hurley's front porch and bit me in the arm. Trust me when I say that I could have been voted "Child Least Likely to Provoke a Dog". Nonetheless, the theory (according to the Hurleys) held that I must have been unconsciously swinging my bright green and yellow Our Lady of the Angels book bag, a provocation similar to waving a red flag in front of a bull.

Of my sibs, the only toy-and-game related ER excursions I recall were made by my brother Rick, who once tried to ski (on a pair of mini-toy-sized skis) down a pile of cushions he'd stacked up in the den. However he ended up, he tore something open that called for stitches. Another time, he broke his nose playing baseball. Not quite sure whether this merited the ER. After all, it was just a broken nose. Put your head back, use a cold compress until the bleeding stops, and put a bandage across the bridge of your nose.

Despite being an old fart survivor of the Golden Age of Dangerous Toys, I laud the work of W.A.T.C.H. 

Unless you're eyes on 24/7, you can't prevent your kids from doing themselves some harm with a toy, whether they're using them for the toy's original purpose or not. After all, as anyone who was ever had a child or been a child and/or had siblings or has observed children at play can attest, anything and everything can be turned into a weapon. Still, toys obviously shouldn't be created that pose a clear and present danger.

For over four decades, W.A.T.C.H. has tackled the issue of dangerous toys in the hope of bringing about change and reducing injuries to children. Nonetheless, dangerous toys remain on store shelves, in catalogues, and on e-tailers’ websites. Shockingly, classic toy dangers, such as small parts, strings, projectiles, toxic substances, rigid materials, and inaccurate warnings and labels, continue to reappear in new generations of toys putting children at risk.

Sigh.

So what's on the hit parade for 2020?

CALICO CRITTERS have small parts that are choking hazards for oral-age kids. And they're the right shape, size and cuteness for an oral-age kid to glom their mouths onto.

THE MISSILE LAUNCHER What kid wouldn't want one of these? Come on! A weapon that's can be used as a weapon? Sweeet! It comes with a warning not to aim at people or animals. Right. You really could put someone's eye out with this one.

MARVEL AVENGERS VIBRANIUM POWER FX CLAW would be a big hit with Black Panther fans. Sure the package advises "do not hit or swing at people or animals." But do you really think a 5 year old reads the packaging? Not to mention that it's designed to take a swing.

GLORIA OWL is sold from Home Goods on up to Saks.

It's plenty creepy, and I'm not embarrassed to admit that, at a certain age - way before W.A.T.C.H. began going after bad toys - I would have liked it. But Gloria sheds, and if some of that distinctly non-owl like wispy "hair" gets sucked in by an infant, there could be respiratory problems.

SCI-FI SLIME is, not surprisingly, harmful if swallowed, and is "not to be used by children except under adult supervision," which is pretty much no kid who has ever drawn breath's idea of a swell toy. 

THE BOOMERANG INTERACTIVE STUNT UFO looks, from the right angle, like a kitchen fan. A kitchen fan wouldn't have boomerang properties, but, like this toy, "can cause damage to the user, spectators and animals….” who might get hurt by a kids tossing it back and forth or doing tricks with it, both of which are encouraged behaviors. Tossing back and forth? Isn't the entire purpose of a boomerang is that you throw it and it comes back all on its very own?

BOOM CITY RACECARS "are sold with a ripcord 'launcher'" to get them moving. As long as you don't launch it at an animal, someone else's eyes or face, or your own eyes or face, instructions that are bound to be heeded by the average 4 year old.

MY SWEET LOVE LOTS TO LOVE BABIES MINIS is a cutesy little doll that comes with accessories like a mini little spoon and a mini little bottle that are for "doll use only." Good thing 2 year olds have excellent reading comprehension and ability to proceed with caution.

STAR WARS MANDALORIAN DARKSABER users are "encouraged to 'SWING FOR BATTLE...!' with this lightsaber, while at the same time warned NOT to "swing, poke or jab at people or animals." Just how much fun is swinging a lightsaber if you can't make contact with something or someone. Big swing and a miss!

WWE JUMBO SUPERSTAR FISTS are inexpensive - just four bucks - and what sane-minded parent wouldn't want their 3 year old donning these fists and pretending that they're a wrestler. Of course, no sane-minded parent would buy this. But I can see plenty of uncles getting it for the little guy in their life. 

 

W.A.T.C.H. urges those shopping for toys "shop defensively" and "spread the word" about toys that are unsafe at any speed. Keeping in mind that almost everything requires adult supervision for all children under a certain age, and for some children until they become adults and beyond, I'd add that any toy that requires adult supervision isn't much of a toy. 

Anyway, a shout out to W.A.T.C.H. for trying to make Toyland a safer place for the kiddos. 

And now for a little less pricey luxury...

Yesterday, Pink Slip window shopped for the highest of the high end Neiman-Marcus Fantasy Gifts. For the most part, not my fantasies, mind you, but a nice little peek at what the ultra-ultras - the 0.1 percenters - might be indulging in this Christmas, if they're looking to spend in the quarter-million plus-or-minus $100K range. 

Today, I'm dropping down into one-percenter land to see what's on offer if you've got mere thousands of dollars burning a hole in your Vuitton pocketbook.

Now the French Fry Rainbow Clutch is something that I might have picked up as a gag gift in the late, lamented Filene' Basement if I saw it there for fifteen bucks. But, seriously folks, if you were going to spent $5,695 on a pocketbook, wouldn't it be something a bit more serious? Something you could use most days, wearing it to death?

Still, the French Fry Clutch looks practical compared to the Christian Louboutin Shimmery Red Sole Pump Clutch Bag for $3,990. Yowza! Are you familiar with the expression "you could poke your eye out with that"? Because with this clutch, you surely could. On the upside, I guess it could double as a weapon if you were trying to evade a bag snatcher. But what if you fell while running in your Louboutin Red Sole Pumps (which are what we used to call spikes; pumps, back in the day, were a bit more sensible, shoe-wise).

Bags are a big deal on the luxury front. Of course, you probably don't want to pay $5,695 for a nifty new backpack for your kid. Or even the relatively more reasonable $3,990. But you have to start 'em on the luxury trail young. So there's this:

Only $1,250. And if you really can't afford it, there's a plan - as there seem to be for a number of the items - where you can pay $113 a month. (Maybe it's just me, but if you have to buy your kid a backpack on time, I think you'd be better off picking something up at Target. Not to mention that if any kid had showed up at my grammar school wearing this, they would have been laughed out of the schoolyard, and would have gotten nowhere near $1,250 worth of value out of it.)

And I know I'm spending way too much time on bags, but for the man in your life, how about $1,095 for a fanny belt pack.  And I'm going to say it: anyone who'd pay $1,095 for this has entirely too much money. 

The luxury menu is by no means entirely baggy. Why, there's this Pave Skull for $9,500. I'm not quite sure what sort of decor this would fit with. Not mine, for sure. And there's no indication of what size it is. Is it 3" tall, or standard adult skull size? My sister Trish likes Day of the Dead stuff. Hers are more of the made-of-clay variety, but she may be wanting to up her aesthetic, switching from eclectic liberal elite to let's-flaunt-ugly Texan. Too bad we don't exchange gifts...

Then there's these sitting balls. Doesn't that look like $1,095 a piece worth of fun? I'd just like to know if it comes with liability insurance in case someone reaches for their drink and ends up bonking their head on that glass table.

And who in their right mind would want a $25,000 24 k gold Mike Tyson boxing glove. First, boxing. Foremost, Mike Tyson??? (If you don't like boxing/Tyson, you can swap this out for a 24 k gold Joe Montana and Jerry Rice football helmet.) 

Finally, I'm not going anywhere soon, but if I were, I'd sure be happy to bring along my bev of choice in this Versace Medusa travel mug ($1,100).

And with that, I'm Neiman Marcus window shopped out. Fortunately, it didn't cost me a dime. 

If your fantasy is for $95K worth of hats, well, Neiman-Marcus has got a little something for you

Each year, I look forward to the Neiman Marcus Fantasy Gifts catalogue. Sad to say, this year, reflective of COVID and Neiman's financial woes, I suppose, there seem to be fewer fantasy gifts to indulge in than in past. Or maybe they're just a bit lower key than they've been. Still, there are plenty of crazily outrageous gifts in it to occupy the empty and idle mind for a while.

I'm a reader, so one would suppose that I'd be interested in an ASSOULINE CUSTOM TRAVEL LIBRARY - "for the armchair jet-setter". Well, I've got the armchair part covered, but the jet-setter...not so much. Then there's the price tag, a hefty $295,000, which also disqualifies me. 

PROSPER ASSOULINE and his wife, MARTINE, created their renowned publishing house with the goal of being the first luxury brand to supply everything for a contemporary library, from books to furnishings. “Our digital world moves faster than ever, and nothing remains of it,” the founders say. “But books are the solid part of our past and present. They are also beauty.” Now, ASSOULINE wants to share that beauty with you. It all starts with a meeting to determine the aesthetic of your custom library. The publisher will then curate a collection of books, furniture, and one-of- a-kind objets d’art just for you. 

Sure, books have been a "solid part of [my] past and present," and - hopefully future, once I can get myself to stop doom scrolling Twitter and pick up one of the two-dozen books in my waiting room. But personally, I prefer to determine my own aesthetic, even if, at present - when it comes to books - it's mostly "pile in the armchair next to my bed, or on the top of the offseason clothing storage chest (a.k.a., my mother's hope chest) underneath the bedroom windows."

Seriously, I have to say that I trust my aesthetic more than I do that of Prosper and Martine. I mean, does this say serious reader to you?

Come on, man. Those objets got the books pretty much outnumbered.

For the self-improver in your life, and isn't that everyone, starting with Numero Uno, there's a YEAR OF WELLNESS WITH CANYON RANCH. I could live pretty well, at least for a year or two, on the $345,ooo this giftolini costs. But there's a year of living well, and a year of wellness living at Canyon Ranch. The year includes four - count 'em - weeklong stays at one of the Ranches, plus monthly check-ins to make sure you aren't straying from the path of wellness. I do know people who've ranched in Lenox, Massachusetts, and loved it. But, knowing me, I'd spend my entire stay fretting about the costs, even if everything is "free", once you've forked over the $345K.

If you want to cheap out and save $200K, there's a JONATHAN ADLER ARTFUL ADDITIONS game room for $145K that you can take advantage of all year long and not just during those paltry four weeks at Canyon Ranch. 

You’ll work together (safely via video chat) to develop a plan to transform the room of your choice into a one-of-a-kind game parlor. It all starts with an eye-popping custom-made piece of hand-beaded artwork, designed by Jonathan and created by a master beader. From there, Jonathan will fill out the details with a collection of decor and games chosen to complement your personal aesthetic.

Master beader? Who knew there was such a thing? But, oh, why not? 

My why not is that my personal aesthetic seems like it would be at total odds with Adler's.

Think I'll stick with playing Parcheesi on my dining room table.

There's a range for the EXOTIC GEMS RING FROM THE OSCAR HEYMAN COLLECTION. $100,000 (13.58 carat Mandarin Garnet and diamond) to $190,000 (3.11 carat Alexandrite and diamond). I have no idea what a 13.58 carat garnet weighs, but I'm guessing the ring is honking enough that it'd need to come with a little wheelbarrow to carry your ringed hand around in. So even if I were the type to wear a big honking cocktail ring, I'm going to take another hard pass on this one.

Personally, I don't eat enough red meat to merit paying $185,000 for a meal and the PERINI RANCH & TENDERLOIN FOR A YEAR, even if the gift includes a pair of custom cowboy boots and a helicopter ride to watch cattle in pre-tenderloin in action. Yippee-ki-ay and all that, but $185,000?

Admittedly, I've always longed for a shiny Airstream trailer. But if I can get a low-end Airstream for under $50K, I'd be hard pressed to up the ante to $255,000 for a high end BOWLUS ENDLESS HIGHWAYS BESPOKE PER PERFORMANCE EDITION trailer. 

Plus I'd have to get an SUV to haul it around...

You've heard the expression "all hat and no cattle"? Well, for an additional $95,000, you could combine the Perini Ranch thang with KEITH AND JAMES CUSTOM-MADE HATS and you could be both cattle and hat. And these aren't just any old hats. They're:

 ...a signature collection of custom-made chapeaus, designed in collaboration with luminaries including Run-DMC, as well as globally renowned artists such as Paul Gerben, PixelPancho, Kelly “RISK” Graval, Man One, and Leroy Campbell.

Chapeaus, you say? That makes a difference. Not to mention the involvement of Run-DMC and PixelPancho. A tip of the hat to this gift, for sure.

Another possibility to enhance the Perini Ranch experience would be the MONTAGE HEALDSBURG WEEKEND & WINE FOR A YEAR for $215,000. This buys you a five-day getaway for you and five of your besties, where you'll be wined and dined at a pretty fine looking vineyard and resort run by one Jesse Katz:

Even better, you’ll receive wine for 12 months personally curated by this wunderkind and an exclusive golden Coravin Wine Preservation System.

No explanation of what 12 months of wunderkind curation means: bottle a week? bottle a month? We're not talking Two-Buck Chuck here, so this inquiring imbibing mind would like to know.

Rounding out this year's catalogue is THE SHELDON CHALET ALASKA EXPERIENCE for $345,000. You and five friends:

...will have this secluded place to yourselves for five nights, enjoying a private chef, glacier exploration led by professional Denali guides, spectacular night skies, and more. 

This place is gorgeous. And Alaska's on my bucket list. So, if I can come up with a spare $345K, which I'll have if I don't buy the Assouline Library and the hats, this is definitely a possibility.

I'll see you in my dreams...

That's Dr. Biden to you, bub.

If you've been paying attention to the non-COVID, non-Trump coup news, you may have seen that one Joseph Epstein - essayist, editor, and former lecturer at Northwestern - wrote an op-ed in The Wall Street Journal on non-physicians using the title "doctor." In particular, he doesn't like non-physician Jill Biden using it.

My husband had a PhD in Economics. He didn't pursue a career in academia but, rather, worked as a consultant. Professionally, he used the title Doctor. Why not? He'd earned it. His clients liked having someone who had a doctorate from a prestigious university (incoming namedrop: Harvard), and it was handy when he appeared as an expert witness.

Jim grew up in a working class family that became a poor family after his father was killed in a work accident (he was a brakeman on the Boston & Maine Railroad) when Jim was eleven. Getting a PhD from Harvard: A BIG DEAL. 

Admittedly, I found it a bit goofy when Jim used it when making restaurant reservations. His assumption was that we'd get a better seat if they thought he was a doctor (i.e., a physician). I was always concerned that some patron would have a heart attack or start choking, and the restaurant manager would ask Dr. Diggins for help. 'What exactly are you going to do if you're called on to save a life? Talk about the IS/LM curves?'

My brother Tom has a PhD, too. While he was in the midst of a very successful career as a civil engineer - he oversaw some pretty big-deal projects, including the construction of the Camden Yards, the Baltimore Orioles' stadium - he managed to earn his doctorate in Communication Theory and Information Management from the University of Maryland. He then went on to a 20 year second career as a professor of project management at Northern Arizona University. Professionally, Tom uses Dr. Rogers. Why not? He earned it. And, by the way, if you grew up in Main South Worcester, which wasn't exactly crawling with PhD's, this was A BIG DEAL.

At the age of 55, Jill Biden earned her doctorate (a Doctor of Education from the University of Delaware). She now teaches at a community college in Virginia. She goes by Dr. Biden. Why not? She earned it. Her career path has been non-traditional, but she didn't just want to be a Senator's wife, a Vice President's wife, a President's wife. Having a EdD is A BIG DEAL.

Then along comes stuffy, snotty, snobby old Joseph Epstein with what can only be seen as an entirely gratuitous attack on Jill Biden.

Here's how his piece started out:

“Madame First Lady — Mrs. Biden — Jill — kiddo: a bit of advice on what might seem like a small but I think is not an unimportant matter,” writer Joseph Epstein began. “Any chance you might drop the ‘Dr.’ before your name? ‘Dr. Jill Biden’ sounds and feels a touch fraudulent, not to mention comical.” (Source: WaPo)

Epstein has gotten a ton of blowback on social media for what is seen as standard issue misogyny, starting with the use of "kiddo." Throughout the tone is snotty, snobby, and condescending. But I also see plenty of plain old classism going on here.

Her degree - sniff sniff - is a lowly EdD. It came from - sniff sniff - a state university. She teaches at a sniff sniff - community college. And the title of her dissertation? Well, to Epstein's ears, "Student Retention at the Community College Level" sounds "unpromising."

Frankly, I think it sounds completely promising.

Who attends community college? Working class folks. Those striving to improve their lot in life. First-in-the-family to go to college. Making sure that these students can overcome the considerable odds stacked against them and finish their degrees and - fingers crossed - go on to a four-year college is very important. A lot more important than plenty of the dissertations written at more prestigious universities. (Case in point, my husband's was titled A Short Term Model of Federal Reserve Behavior in the 1960's.)

I suspect that Jill Biden's students are quite happy to address her as "Dr. Biden." Having someone with a doctorate teaching you confers value. 

I went to a small, no-name Catholic college in the late-sixties, early seventies - a school founded in 1919 to educate the daughters of Boston's Irish (and to lesser extent Italian) immigrants. Most of the students of my era were the grand- or great-grand-daughters of Irish (and to lesser extent Italian) immigrants. Many of us were the first generation to college. Many of our professors were nuns or priests. We addressed them as "Sister" and "Father." Most other professors were addressed as "Doctor", not "Professor." (I was a sociology major, and ours was a pretty left wing department, so we called most of our teachers by their first names.)

When I began graduate school at a big name, prestigious university (Columbia), I found out that I wasn't cut out to get a PhD. And that a professor was "Professor" - never "Doctor". It's kind of a class thing. 

Anyway, if Jill Biden wants to be called Dr. Biden, that's good enough for me. 

As for Joseph Epstein, that's Dr. Biden to you, too, bud. 

It's all about the bass

For a while there during the Obama Administration, I got regular fundraising calls from the Republican Party - back in the days when they were just authoritarian adjacent. Anyway, a typical call would begin with a recording of moral exemplar Newt Gingrich bitching about something that the pinko Dems and their Kenyan imposter leader were up to. After the recording, I would be asked to stay on the line and speak to a representative. Why, yes I'd be delighted! The agent who was standing by would shake the tin cup in my ear for a while, interspersed with asking questions. I would mildly push back on some of the more outrageous claims they would make, going back and forth for a while, figuring that if they were willing to waste time with me there would be fewer bucks to put in their coffers. So less money squirreled away to wreck democracy a few years down the line.

Needless to say, I never gave them any money, even though with every refusal to donate, they'd lower the ante on the next ask. 

My favorite convo was about Michelle Bachman. When they asked who I thought might be the nominee in 2012, my answer was that I thought she was a comer. The representative agreed. She was "hearing a lot of good things" about Bachman.

Finally, after years of playing fake-footsie with them, some guy I was talking to asked, "You're not a Republican, are you?" I fessed up. And that's how I got off the call (and mail) list. 

I'm not 100% how they got my number to begin with, but if I had to guess, it would be that I subscribed at that time to The Wall Street Journal. (Surely, The Economist wouldn't have sold me out...)

Another odd-ball list I got on was for the Lubavitcher rebbe, one of the leading lights of Hasidic Jewry. They never called, but did send me a nifty little white plastic license plate with something embossed on it in Hebrew. That and a letter addressing me as "Dear friend of Hasidic Jewry." Sorry, bubbele. My guess was that my name had made its way to Brooklyn from a donation I made to the Simon Wiesenthal Center.

My latest is even weirder: a subscription to Bassmaster: The Worldwide Authority on Bass Fishing. Entirely unsolicited, and not running out until next August.

Nothing against bass mastery, but, huh?

It's not that I don't like fish. I do. And I can even imagine myself fishing - although in my imaginings I'm in my waders, standing in a frothy stream, surrounded by murmuring pines and hemlocks, contemplating the universe, and casting (with fly, of course) for trout. Not in a speedy speed boat gunning around a lake.

Among other things, waders are a lot cheaper than the Skeeter speedy speed boats advertised on the inside cover. They cost over $70K.

I'm guessing that those are for the pros. Because there are, in fact, professional bass fishermen. Women, too, I suppose, but little evidence of that in the pages of Bassmaster, which I suppose would have to be renamed Bassmistress. 

Never say never, but I can't see all that many women getting excited about the giant sized Copenhagen  chewing tobacco packs ("Satisfaction since 1822"), which is another full-page ad. Comes in wintergreen. Too bad, as it says on the tin, "can cause mouth cancer." This differentiates Copenhagen from Skoal. ("Classic mint...can cause gum disease and tooth loss.") And Skoal's ad uses an African American model, but I've gotta say that bass fishing sure does look like a white man's world.

Grizzly tobacco - pinch? chew? chaw? - doesn't warn about the health risks, but does admit that "smokeless tobacco is addictive."

And if you're wondering where cigarette ads went, well, Winston used to taste good like a cigarette should. But now it's "plant-based menthol. Enough said." But it's not enough said, because the ad also carries the Surgeon General's Warning.

Tobacco aside - that and the speed boats - bass fishing looks like a relatively healthy pursuit. You're in the great outdoors, away - one would hope - from social media, trying to catch something that (as long as it doesn't come from a poisoned lake) can make for a healthy meal.

I'm wonder how they got my name. (Can the Nature Conservancy have sold me out?) Or why they wanted it. Can't be a ton of bass masters in my zip code.

Anyway, it was fun to get the November-December issue. I just hope that they don't keep me on their list until next August. 

Guess if I hear from them again, I'll have to tell them to go jump in a lake. (Politely, of course...)

There are occupational hazards, and then there are OCCUPATIONAL HAZARDS

Many years ago I spent a summer waitressing at a famous, venerable, olde Boston restaurant. (We're talking 50 years ago. I don't kid around with the words "many years.") I will not name names here, as the restaurant remains in business, and I suspect - or at least fervently hope - that it is not the rathole it was during the Summer of 1970.

As a city dweller, I had, of course, seen rats. But not quite up close and personal, and never in the workplace.

At Ye Olde, if you looked closely, you could see ratholes all over the place: beneath the tables, in the halls, throughout the kitchen. And late in the evening, when the patrons had left and the "girls" were left with the clean up, out they'd come, marauding in their little packs.

Our closing up chores were simple and few: filling the salt and pepper shakers, sweeping food bits off the tables and chairs (onto the floor, where the real cleaning crew would see to them), and "coffee-ing" the tables. Coffee-ing degreased Ye Olde's wooden tables. It entailed pouring boiling hot coffee onto the tabletop and wiping it off with a napkin.

Anyway, the informal house rule was that, if you actually saw rats running the table, you could leave things for the lunch shift to take care of when they clocked in late the next morning. But the managers frowned on this practice, so we were encouraged to introduce our cleanup by hurling large, heavy soup spoons at the ratholes. When the rats heard the noise, they tended to bide their time. If one of the bolder rats decided to rear his ugly head, the night manager - either Mr. M. or Mr. L. - would swing into action, get out the house sidearm, and shoot at the rathole.

Occasionally, if there were only a few lingering diners, a rat would show up on the floor. It was a firing offense to scream when you saw a rat if there were customers around. I once had to stifle a scream when a rat ran over my toes as I was crossing into the main dining room from the side room that housed the service bar.

On a memorable occasion, a dish-boy known as The Animal reached into a sink to unplug it, and pulled out a drowned rat by the tail. So, yeah, if I were to tell you that you looked like a drowned rat, I know whereof I speak.

As far as I know, no one - patron or worker - was bitten while I was working at Ye Olde. Not so lucky were the four employees in a NYC Chipotle who were munched on by the "massive rodents" that have been plaguing the restaurant. 

The besieged fast-casual Mexican joint on Broadway near West 169th Street in Washington Heights closed to customers indefinitely late last month, but only after rats chewed through the wiring of a computer system that handled orders, two employees told The Post.

In the meantime, those workers are still going into the store to clean, in an effort to keep the vermin at bay.

They say they’ve killed dozens of the rodents by stomping on them, smacking them with broom handles, dropping boxes on them and various other medieval methods of extermination. (Source: NY Post - where else?)

Oh. My. God. At least I never had to stomp a rat to death, or stickball one with a broom handle. And all this for what I'm pretty sure is minimum wage.

“It really started to take a toll on us,” said Melvin Paulino, a three-year veteran at the store who was bitten by a rat last Friday while cleaning. “We’re all scared, it’s pretty common that some of my co-workers will just start screaming out of the blue and we don’t know what’s happening. “It’s pure chaos every time a rat appears.”

It was bad enough running across the odd rat at Ye Olde - or having the odd rat running across you. I can't imaging if they were there in hordes, accompanied by screaming employees.

The rat problem at Chipotle (which, by the way, is still listed as having an "A" health rating from the city) began late last summer, when workers started finding bites taken out of avocados, holes in bags of rice. 

The rats started to grow fat, multiply, become more assertive. Then they started attacking the employees. Even worse - from the Chipotle perspective anyway - they gnawed through wiring, crippling the electronic ordering system.

Anyway, the restaurant is closed for deep cleaning and location repairs. That, presumably, means figuring out where the rats are coming in from and plugging the holes. And/or doing whatever they need to do to keep them from swimming in through the plumbing. 

Sure makes me happy I'm no longer playing the restaurant game.

Now THAT's what I call a laundromat

The first time I was ever in a laundromat was in sixth grade.

My friend Bernadette's family washing machine was on the fritz, and we were dispatched to do a couple of loads at Pat's Laundromat, which was across the street from her house. 

As I recall, the machines were front-loaders, and we forgot to put the Tide in before we started them up. So we opened the doors to throw a cup o' Tide in and nearly flooded the place out.

Everyone I knew growing up had a washing machine in their house. Over time, most acquired dryers as well.

In college, we had a nice and very clean laundry facility in the basement of the dorm. When I moved off campus, we used a not quite as nice and not quite as clean place on our street.

When I first moved to Beacon Hill, well over 40 years ago, I did my laundry in a scuzzy but convenient laundromat that has since been a corner store, a 7-11, another corner store, a bank - or two, and a Peet's Coffee. It now stands empty.

The biggest inconvenience about this laundromat was that, for a while, if you left your wash unwatched, you risked this skeevy guy coming in and taking your undies out of the washer or dryer. Ewwwww...

That placed closed, but there were two laundromats across the street. So no big deal.

This was before my husband and I moved in together. True to form, while I was using the skeevy laundromat, he was having his wash done for him at a place around the corner from where he lived.

Then we moved in together to a place that had laundry in the building. Yay!

Then we moved to a place that didn't have laundry in the building. Not-so-yay! 

But we had our routine: put the laundry in the washers, go across the street for dinner, run back over to put the laundry in the dryers, finish dinner. Voila! 

When we bought our condo 30 years ago, there was shared (free) laundry in the building. It's a small condo - six units - and while there are occasional problems, it's all worked out pretty well. The biggest issue was when a lovely woman with OCD lived here, and felt the need to wash a half dozen pairs of Lanz flannel PJ's pretty much every other day. On the extra-dirty, extra-long 2.5 hour cycle. Which she ran after she'd run the washer on empty through an extra-dirty, extra-long 2.5 hour cycle. Oh, and if you touched her laundry to move it along, she felt compelled to do it all over again.

Sometimes I'd just give up and go to the one laundromat still left standing on the Hill. A bit out of the way, but there is something to be said for being able to do multiple loads at once.

Anyway, none of the laundromats I've used have been any great shakes. Strictly utilitarian.

In Japan, they apparently take laundromat-ing more seriously. A lot more seriously. 

Some laundromats have gift shops. Cafés. Art exhibits. Staff members certified as laundry experts. People actually hang around in laundromats. Not to keep pervs away from their undies, but to read and work on their computers. 

At one Tokyo laundromat:

The services also include curated background music, some of which is available on the laundromat’s “Laundry Music” CD. It features 12 songs including a number called “Moody Dryer.” (Source: WSJ)

Laundromat habitué Chika Takayama:

...tried listening to one of the songs at home. “It just wasn’t the same,” she said. “The music here felt soothing, beautiful…maybe because the atmosphere is good and the lighting different.”

Good atmosphere? Decent lighting? You mean they don't have flickering fluorescent lighting there? I can only imagine.

The high-end go-to laundromat in Tokyo is Freddy Leck seni Waschsalon, "a cousin of the original in Berlin. It is the place with the wash-and-dry CD."

Freddy’s has collaborated with L.L. Bean on a limited-edition tote bag ($138), and puts its logo on a white staff coat that resembles a doctor’s lab coat ($157). The cafe serves an organic elderflower cordial and German wheat beer.

Not that I need yet another LL Bean tote bag, and not that I'd pay $138 for one if I did need one, but what a hoot. And the staff coat? Where might one wear this? Wouldn't it be something like "stolen valor" to wear a laundromat staff coat if one hadn't passed the certifying exam.  

Masato Nishikawa, 29, is one of the certified cleaning masters at Freddy’s after he passed a national exam in Japan. The exam is administered by each prefecture, with certificates recognized across the country.

The exam requires applicants to memorize characteristics of various textiles and puts them on the spot by making them distinguish the type of a particular stain and which chemical would dissolve it.

“I was always good at removing stains,” Mr. Nishikawa said.

I'm okay at stains, just not great.  As often as not, I don't spot them until I'm folding the laundry coming out of the dryer, by which point they're set. But I can do basics like blood, sweat, and ink. And I know enough about the "characteristics of various textiles" to know what to dry on low or medium, and what to line dry. Guess it comes down to the fact that I actually enjoy doing laundry, pretty much the only chore I can say that about. 

While the coronavirus has forced Freddy’s to postpone its in-person seminars on cleaning topics, Mr. Nishikawa is planning online tutorials, including a possible course on how to clean sneakers at home.

I'm assuming that this is not the same method we used to clean our white P.F. Flyers and Keds when we were young: polish them with white "nursing shoe" goop. 
  
Japan even runs a contest for best laundromat. And, yes, Freddy's has been the grand prize winner in the past. The California Laundry Café in Kyoto has also taken home a trophy for its design. The judges said that the design -  with its wooden floors, seasonal fruit smoothies, and general airiness - "makes you feel like you're in California." 

Decades ago, on a cross country camping trip, I logged a bit of time in California laundromats, and don't remember them as being anything special. So I'm hoping the judges mean that the California Laundry is like California - whatever that means -  and not your average California laundromat.

LL Bean tote bags. Stain and fabric experts. Fruit smoothies. Art shows. Not THAT's what I call a laundromat. If I'm ever in Japan, I'll make sure to stick my head in.