Saturday, July 22, 2017
     

Mornings in our house are currently looking like this: roll out of bed, grab some breakfast, brush our teeth, and head out the door.

On our way out, I yell out a bunch of activities, like clothes bag, reading bag, baseball bag, swim bag, piano bag, or whatever the day’s adventures may be or might possibly be.

It’s the kids’ job to pack up these bags the night before with everything they might need for the day, and they resemble small pack mules as they head out to the car. Summer turns us into bag people.

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Mornings in our house are currently looking like this: roll out of bed, grab some breakfast, brush our teeth, and head out the door. On our way out, I yell out a bunch of activities, like clothes bag, reading bag, baseball bag, swim bag, piano bag,...
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Claire:

Once upon a time, watching television was for Philistines. The uncultured masses would tune in to watch the latest sitcom every night, blissfully ignorant, while the intellectuals would sit in their ivory towers reading books, or at the very least saving their money for a subscription to a network like HBO or Showtime, where all the "artsy" television supposedly dwelled.

That's how the joke goes, anyway. These days, though, a few shows have me questioning the old adage that television is just for dummies and couch potatoes.

Jim:

Our most faithful fan does not live in Lehighton or Jim Thorpe or Tamaqua, or anywhere in the hard coal region.

No, he lives on the other side of the world. Dan Bloom is a freelance writer and ex-patriot, who resides in Taiwan where, he says, he is "buffeted around by Pacific typhoons every summer." Maybe that's why he worries a lot about climate change.

Jim:

There's an old saying: "They treat me like a mushroom. They keep me in the dark and feed me B.S." I know I'm a mushroom and hope that, at least, I may be a Portobello.

First off, there's the cosmic mystery. Where did the universe come from? If it's expanding, what is it expanding into? These questions give me butterflies in my stomach. I try hard never to think about them. I have butterflies right now. Let's change the subject.

Claire:

Writing down one's dirty secrets and posting them all over the web is de rigueur these days. It's hardly edgy or shocking to read the intimate details of a person's sex life, mental issues, or weight problems.

Heck, not too long ago a woman live-tweeted her miscarriage yup, that means she was writing about it on the Internet literally while it was happening.

JIM:

So Bradley Manning wants to be called Chelsea. I wonder how Chelsea Clinton feels about that.

Fort Leavenworth prison officials say he'll get no hormones and no surgery. Manning's lawyer calls this cruel and unusual punishment and vows to sue.

Advocates of transgender convicts claim (per recent news reports), "Self-castration, suicide and waves of desperation are byproducts of the denial of sex hormones to inmates yearning to switch genders." Sounds pretty grim, doesn't it?

As I pulled into my parking space after being at work on Monday, all I wanted to do was take a nap in front of the air conditioner.

I had not really slept all that well over the weekend and my body cried out for some solid sleep time.

After getting out of my car, I was informed by a family member of one of my neighbors that the power was out and wouldn't be back on until 5:30.

Considering that it was 4:50, I didn't think anything of it and went upstairs to claim my nap regardless.

I was sitting outside on my porch trying to decompress after a very long and stressful day when I noticed a bird land on one of the telephone wires in front of my house.

It was a very drab brown and black and looked kind of dirty to me.

Its feathers were a little ruffled and I thought to myself, "that is one ugly bird."

As if that bird read my mind, it scooted itself about a foot and a half further across the line and promptly pooped on my car window.

Ugly, telepathic AND mean-spirited.

I had to do a bit of a double take when I first read the headline. Surely this had to be some satirical piece disguised as actual news.

Nope. It's real.

"Pentagon deploys 'May I kiss you?' training."

I read it again and shook my head in disbelief.

It would seem that last week, the United States Air Force awarded a $10,000 contract to a company known as The Date Safe Project to provide three training sessions to servicemen and women to instruct them on consent and the prevention of sexual assault including bystander intervention. Each session lasts 60-90 minutes.

I love to be able to get away every now and again, even if only for a couple of days.

I enjoy the change of scenery and waking up someplace different, whether at the home of a friend or family member or even on an air mattress in my tent.

I am, however, really leery about staying in hotels and motels.

Over the years I have had some rather unpleasant experiences that make me cringe to even think about.

As a kid, my mom and I always spent a week "down the shore."

I remember the first time I used a computer.

I was quite intimidated by the thing and thought for sure I would break it.

The woman who was instructing me on its use assured me that there was no way, aside from hitting it with a hammer, that I could break this wonderful and mysterious piece of office equipment.

I don't remember much of what I was taught that first day, except for one thing she said decades ago: "Garbage in, garbage out" or GIGO.

GIGO is an acronym used in computer science that means that bad input will result in bad output.