I’m cleaning the basement with dad

Facebook is full of touching tributes to dads everywhere — both present and past.

Every piece of praise I read makes me want to talk to my own dad. But since he’s been gone more than 20 years now, it sounds a lot like talking to myself.

So I went down to the basement and started cleaning. That seems like a really Dad thing to do, only his cleaning usually happened in the garage. Right now, my garage is too jam-packed to straighten up, so I decided to descend to the equally messy depths of the house where gems are waiting for judgment — do I polish it up or send it to Goodwill. Right now, the polishing is winning, but there are plenty of Goodwill items waiting on the steps to finish the journey to the car.

I remember once, as a teenager, deciding to clean out the garage for Dad. Boy, was he mad. I didn’t realize then that he knew where everything was and what appeared junky and messy to me, was just right to him. I had invaded his kingdom and I didn’t make that mistake again.

Still,  it is amidst the junk and mess that I feel right at home and close to Dad. The only other places we had in common were the garden (which I didn’t discover until my 30s) and under a good light with a good book.

Now that I have dirt smudges everywhere, I’m going back to the thriller by Barry Eisler I was reading earlier. I think Dad would approve.

 

 

Advertisements

Come-pleat

When the ringing phone woke me at 9:12 a.m. today — don’t judge, I’m retired — I was deep in a dream in which I was teaching someone to pleat.

To understand just how odd this is, you should know that I don’t think I’ve ever pleated anything myself. Pleating takes precision and measurement. I don’t do those things.

However, in my high school years, I’m guessing I ironed over a thousand pleats because part of the Pacelli High School (Austin, Minn., not Stevens Point, Wis.) uniform was a green-plaid wool skirt.

Yuk, yuk, yuk.

To this day, I don’t wear pleats, I don’t wear green plaid, and I don’t wear skirts. And don’t get me started on green blazers. Not gonna happen.

But that pleating dream did get me thinking about that uniform skirt. It was such an obvious hallmark of where I attended school that advisers told us we should wear our uniforms on job interviews because Pacelli had high academic and comportment standards.

The complete uniform consisted of the skirt, white blouse and green blazer.  Go, you Pacelli Shamrocks! We could wear knee-highs, nylons, anklets or any other kind of stockings. My memory, though, is they had to be white.

But somewhere in the middle of my high school career, the administration had a mental hiccup and proclaimed we girls could wear any kind of shirt we wanted with our uniform skirts.

We went crazy!

I fondly remember an olive green paisley shirt that was a favorite of mine. It was passed down from a far-out cousin in California and I couldn’t wait to pair it with that horrible skirt. That same cousin had gifted me with a wild Hawaiian shirt, which I thought looked quite wonderful with green plaid. (Never been a fashion guru.)

My sister Therese took it as personal style challenge and never wore the same ensemble twice during the school year. Although,  I think her variations may have included scarves and the pairing of sweaters and blouses.

Maybe it was this experience that brought me to the bit of style rabble-rousing I exhibited at the La Crosse Tribune. I was probably the first employee to occasionally wear jeans to work before we ever sponsored a Jeans Day.

At first, I would say I was going to tour a construction site and I couldn’t do that in dress pants. Or, I was going to go on a garden interview and you don’t do that in a skirt. Or, I was interviewing a musician and I should dress the way my interview subject was dressed.  Pretty soon, I wasn’t even explaining it and by the time I retired I was wearing jeans every day.

But one thing I can tell you for sure. None of those jeans had pleats.

 

As the trump turns

When I was in college, I got hooked on “All My Children.” How many men would Erica Kane marry? How many marriages would she destroy? How many times would characters come back from the dead, or at least from the other side of the world?

It’s been decades since I watched a soap opera. And I’d say that’s because there are hardly any of them left on television. But just when I was about to settle for game shows and talk shows, along came 24-hour news shows. And now it’s become “All My Politics.”

How many lies will Donald Trump tell? How many dictators will he fall in love with? How many foreign leaders will he betray and unfriend?

When I covered news for a living I rarely watched televised news. Why would I want to question people all day long and then go home and turn on the TV to see people being questioned? It just didn’t interest me.

But in retirement, I’ve become hooked on MSNBC. If you watch it all day long, as I sometimes do in the winter, you see the same guests on panel after panel being quizzed by host after host.

Poor Jeremy Bash. When does he get a chance to eat a meal or throw in a load of laundry? I can do both while I watch this former chief of staff for the CIA and DOD pontificate on the many sins of Donald Trump.

And if I’m to believe counter-terrorism expert Malcolm Nance, the world is on the brink of destruction daily. It makes it hard to enjoy munching on an ice cream bar as former CIA Chief John Brennan details all the ways in which Trump has turned himself into a Russian co-conspirator.

Never did I think I would know the names of so many cabinet members and ex-cabinet members. They seem to change out of the Trump administration more often than I change the sheets on my bed.

In the beginning, I burned with rage at all the horrible, immoral things perpetrated by Trump. Now, I’m just exhausted by watching this 6-year-old in an old man’s body insult foreign dignitaries, deny climate change, pretend to be pro-life, and expound on his own faux greatness.

Please, Robert Mueller, release your report. Please, SDNY, get him for tax evasion. Most of all, please Nancy Pelosi, just impeach him. I want to go back to watching game shows.

 

 

 

 

Crime and punishment

Part of being a good parent is preparing your child to be a good adult.

You teach your kids not to lie, not to steal, not to cheat, not to bully.

Donald Trump’s parents apparently skipped all those lessons.

Most of all, they never taught him how to say, “I’m sorry.”

Not only does he not know how to say it, he doesn’t know how to feel it.

It seems there has never been a time in his life when Trump has been able to admit to a wrongdoing, a mistake, an error. It is always someone else’s fault, someone else’s misstep, someone else’s job to take the blame.

But we’ve all seen the video timeline of his lies. Yes, let’s call them lies. Unlike the media that has tiptoed around his perfidy by calling it factual errors or misstatements, I am willing to call him out for what he is —  Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire.

It was frustrating to hear the constant lies. It was infuriating to hear him call my profession “The Fake Media.” It was painful to see him cozy up to international bullies and killers.

But watching him punish government workers with a needless government shutdown is the last straw. He doesn’t care about the unjust pain he is inflicting simply because some FOX hack tells him he needs to keep fighting for the wall.

Trump needs to be taken to the woodshed and given a good political beating. I hope the Democrats, with the help of any decent Republican still holding office, will finally teach him what his parents never did.

It’s likely too late to hope for any decency out of this most indecent of presidents.  But maybe he can be forced to do the right thing when circumstances leave him with no other choice.

I hope that happens soon.

 

 

And still I remain

Today was the last day of delivery of the La Crosse Tribune to my door.

Because it actually costs money to deliver it to me, the promise of a free paper for the rest of my life has gotten shuffled to the online world.

I like to hold the newspaper in my hands, thus never reading it online.

I like to hold a book in my hands and turn the pages, thus no e-reader or anything of the sort for me.

I like my magazines the same way, thus no online subscriptions.

So this a blow to the last living Luddite.

Yes, they don’t come much more tech-averse than Geri Parlin. Even this online blog came about because a former co-worker gave me instructions on how to do this. That’s how tech-averse I am. I’m still bad enough at it that I don’t know the number of people who read it. (But I know for sure that my mom is following it.)

Once, when I couldn’t get a new router to work, I just banged on the keyboard for a few minutes in frustration … and the thing connected.

Isn’t that a bit like the 17th Century Luddites smashing the textile machinery when they were displaced by those machines in Nottingham, England?

I have never owned a garbage disposal or a dishwasher. My kitchen scraps go on the compost heap where they belong and my dishes go into soapy water where my hands do the washing. These were supposed to be time-saving devices but I don’t think I spend any more time on these chores than my sister whose garbage disposal seems to break down way too often and always seems to be loading or unloading the dishwasher.

I own a little apartment-size dryer that my mom gave me when she sold the rental property next door. I tried to use it once but it appears incapable of drying anything. That’s OK, though, because I didn’t actually want a dryer.  My house is so dry in the winter that my sheets dry in a few hours. And in nice weather, the laundry goes out to the clothes line where it belongs.

I don’t have a smart phone, partly because they are expensive and partly because I feel my operational level is not where it would need to be to use one. I still have a difficult time answering the dumb phone I own. It could do a bit more if I let it, but I’m not interested in sending or receiving texts.

I have a hair dryer that I use once in a while to dry out something I am refinishing. My hair and that machine have never been introduced.

I don’t tweet, or do Instagram, or find music on Spotify. That’s what my radio and turntable are for.

For a long time, I couldn’t post pictures on Facebook until wonderful Facebook friend Lynn Miller Carr responded to my distress and sent precise directions. Now, I can post like crazy, which gives me rare moments where I almost feel tech savvy.

But now, if I want to know what the Common Council is doing or what nefarious criminals have been nabbed in the Coulee Region, I will be reduced to scrolling through the Tribune’s website.

It’s enough to make a Luddite read a book.

 

 

 

 

PARLINS IN FOR PRAYERS

It’s December. That means well-meaning folks are angst-ridden over whether to say
“Merry Christmas,”  “Happy Hanukkah” or “Enjoy the Heck Out of Kwanzaa.” Most have decided it’s great to just say “Happy Holidays.”

I don’t care what you say and I hope you don’t take offence if I mistakenly yell out “Merry Christmas” to you.  What I really mean when I say that is I hope you get together with your family, have some great food, get a few presents and generally feel great.

When I say “Merry Christmas,” it’s not an indication that I expect to see you at Midnight Mass. Let’s face it, many people who never attend church celebrate the commercial aspects of Christmas. Why can’t that be merry?

When I was growing up, religion was not something to be ashamed of, likely because I lived in a largely Catholic neighborhood. Each night in the summer, Dad would lean out the front door and yell, “Parlins in for prayers,” and we would come running into the house, crash to our knees and join my parents in the Rosary. And if some of the neighbor kids were around, they had to crash to their knees, too.  Heck, they were Catholic, too, and, in my house, at that time, everybody was praying.

The Parlins were so well known for praying that when we would go running home, friends would ask, “Is this just prayers or do you have to go in for the night?”

So I can only imagine anyone trying to convince my Dad to say “Happy Holidays” just to be politically correct.

But time rolls on and the world changes. The Midnight Mass I attend nowadays starts at 8 p.m. Honestly, I don’t think I could stay awake until midnight now.

The Parlins don’t come running in for prayers anymore. We are scattered to different cities and pray separately.

But we still get together for Christmas. I am circulating the annual Christmas email right now trying to figure out how many will be there for the holidays and what each family member will contribute to the Christmas dinner table. (It seems we have a surfeit of carbs coming to the table at this time.)

If you find that offensive, then Happy Holidays to you. But I hope they are at least as merry and bright as I expect mine to be.

 

Don’t vote for me

If elected, I will not serve.

Seriously, after watching all of these political ads, I have to wonder at the people who willingly and eagerly subject themselves to the rigorous scrutiny that follows the announcement of a run for office.

I am not aware of anything in my background that would trip me up on the way to the popular vote, but does anyone really think the skeletons in their closet are going to come out to rattle in the light of day?

Probably not.

But as a graduate of Queen of Angels Elementary School and Pacelli High School, I feel well armed with advice from nuns and priests that has helped guide me through the pitfalls along the path of life. (And, contrary to what everyone thinks of Catholic priests, I never met an abuser throughout my school years.)

I don’t drink. Well, hardly ever.  Once, about 40 years ago, when I was in charge of getting the paper out on time, I let the guy who made PMTs (photo mechanical transfers) go home early. Then I discovered we didn’t have a PMT of the Blue Stars. That may not seem like a big deal but our managing editor at the time was a big Blue Stars fan and I knew I would hear about this at length on Monday morning. So I called a series of bars looking for the PMT guy, but never did find him.

By shift’s end, I announced I was going to get drunk. Every person with me trotted along to watch me down four gin and sevens. I don’t know how I decided on that drink, but I was smart enough to get a ride home and sick enough the next morning that I swore off drinking. That’s my wildest drinking story.

As for drugs, never used them, but I did inhale. At the old Mary E. Sawyer Auditorium, where I was reviewing a Heart concert, the ventilation system was really bad and everyone around me was high, giving me a contact high. I was so nauseous by the time I got back to the Tribune I could barely write.

Since I didn’t drink or do drugs, I didn’t have to worry about drunk driving. Though my car was involved in many car accidents, it was usually parked when it was hit. A car even hit the back door and front porch of my house once, but I wasn’t at home at the time.  Still, it was weird to come walking up the back way and notice a car in my yard and cops questioning folks as they tried to locate me.

I’ve always lived within my means so that means no credit card debit, the house is paid off, and I bought my car with cash.

I’m kind to old people (especially now that I am old) and love babies.

Yes, now that I think about it, I am well qualified to run for office.

But don’t worry, I won’t. I can’t stand to attend meetings and haven’t attended one since I retired from the La Crosse Tribune. I don’t even attend neighborhood meetings.

So don’t invite me to any meetings and don’t ask me to run for office.

I mean it. If elected, I will not serve … and I won’t have a gin and seven.

 

 

 

Cool, cool kitty

I have never been cool.

Not whining or anything. Just telling the truth.

And the truth is, I knew I couldn’t be cool so I never put any effort into it. Why bother with something that is out of reach?

Even when I was reviewing concerts and theater and comedy shows for the La Crosse Tribune, I wasn’t cool. But I was fast on the keyboard and could string coherent sentences together on deadline and that’s what was important when writing for a morning newspaper.

There was never a moment in my life when I dressed cool. (I did own a leather bomber jacket but that alone couldn’t carry the look for me.) I didn’t talk cool. I didn’t drink or do drugs. The only wild side I ever walked on was a weedy garden path.

But a Steely Dan song came on the radio this afternoon as I was on my way to the grocery store. And for that moment, I felt cool.  Every time I put a Steely Dan album on the turntable (yes, I have them on vinyl — maybe that’s a little cool), I am reminded how literate and beyond interesting the band was. I mean, c’mon, what other rock ‘n’ roller has ever written about Charlemagne? Seriously. That is cool.

So when I got home,  I put on “Can’t Buy a Thrill” and felt cool while Walter Becker and Donald Fagen sang about loser gamblers in Vegas.

And then I remembered that a month ago when two of my sisters and a niece were visiting me, we were listing to Gary Lewis and the Playboys sing “Everybody Loves a Clown.”

So much for cool.

 

geri.parlin is back

For a brief while this morning, my handle was geriparlin2.

I hated it.

I got this new moniker because Gmail decided to not recognize my original email address and I couldn’t remember my password. So I gave in and went with this new, unimproved version of my email self.

It was like Geri Parlin Lite — no full-to-overflowing inbox, no contacts list. Even no annoying promotional emails.

Have I mentioned before that I hate technology?  I’m pretty sure I have but it bears repeating.

My IBM Selectric never made me identify myself before I sat down to pound its keys at 70 words per minute in my high school typing class. My old Remington didn’t care who was at the keyboard in the Tribune newsroom. It just knew it had to spit out a headline in two minutes or less or we weren’t going to make deadline.

Just when I settle into some technology niche that I foolishly think I’ve conquered, some gnome out in Internet Land sends a command to me that I can’t understand and everything stops working.

But I fooled you, Gmail, because I remembered my password while I was showering away my technology angst and I’m back to my original snarky self. Geri.Parlin is back and she’s not going anywhere … until you kick her off again with some other technology wizardry.

 

.

 

 

Ready, set, bake!

I am not a good cook.

No false humility here. I’m just not.

It’s probably because I cook only for myself so I don’t make a great effort. I’m also sloppy at measuring and that extends into building things of wood and material.

When I sewed clothing, my seams would vary from the standard 5/8 inch down to a quarter inch and up past an inch. I was a speed demon on the foot pedal and ruined many a piece of clothing because of it.

As for wood, my sister Therese does all the measuring and cutting because I can be off by as much as 2 inches, as I just proved to myself last week when I was cutting a piece of wood for a shelf I was “improving”.

But back to baking and cooking.

I blame my lack of talent on books. Yes, it all comes back to reading. I would pop whatever I was making into the oven and then trot off to read. I would pull myself from the book when I smelled the burned cookies, charbroiled pork chops or boiled-to-black-encrusted potatoes. I actually grew to like burned boiled potatoes, but then I like just about anything potato.

I was thinking of all this while watching “The Great British Baking Show.” Their showstopper challenge was to bake an “American” Pie and the bakers all came up with things I’d mostly never heard of except for Key Lime Pie. There wasn’t an apple pie in the bunch.

I guess that’s because the British think of eel pie and shepherd’s pie and other meaty things when they think pie.

Am I tempted to make my own American pie? My only experience of that would be a store-bought crust filled with chocolate pudding and topped with whipped cream.  That was the favorite American pie at my house.

I later grew up to eat blueberry pie (canned filling) coconut cream pie (mom did make the meringue), and French Silk Pie from Baker’s Square.

I guess none of those really count as pie. It’s more like sticking a spoon in a jar of sugar.

Nowadays, I do most of my cooking and baking vicariously through the Food Network and “The Great British Baking Show” — fewer calories and less mess to clean up.