Of Goddesses and Birthday Angels

 Did you ever have something happen to you that absolutely defied all odds and just seemed basically incredible? I have experienced this a few times, and it's always startling. Makes the most logical person scratch their head, because it is just magic.

Two weeks ago, after a long day at work, I popped into the thrift store. They always have a shelf of trinkets right inside the door -- they have Christmas stuff on it all year around, as well as other little do-dads and statuettes and such.

The moment I looked at the shelf I saw her:

EXHIBIT A: THE ODDS ARE PHENOMENAL

This is a Lefton birthday angel ca. 1966. I have never seen anything ceramic of this vintage in the thrift store before. And of course, March is my birthday month.

It gets better.

You see, I actually had a birthday angel like this, had her for decades in fact.

I gave her away as part of a fundraiser to save Terrapin Run.

Only my oldest of old-timers will remember how a rural community in Western Maryland had to pay a land-use lawyer to fight a developer who wanted to build housing for 11,000 people alongside a little Tier I stream called Terrapin Run. While the lawyer supported our cause, he needed to eat. So the little consortium to save the stream had all kinds of auctions and such to pay the lawyer bills. I sent them jewelry, and I sent them my little March angel I had owned since I was a kid. Had tears in my eyes when I turned her over.

In addition to giving what I could to the fundraising, I worked magic along the bank of Terrapin Run. For years. The Goddess I petitioned was Venus Cloacina, the Roman Goddess of the sewers. I figured if any deity would object to a crystal clear stream being turned into a wastewater dumping ground, it would be Cloacina.

Developers almost always win these battles. But this developer didn't. He lost like an egg-sucking dog and limped his saggy, broke-ass butt back to Washington, DC.

Ever since then I have thanked Cloacina whenever I visit that area, because I truly believe She answered my prayers.

Back to the present: What are the vast odds of finding a 50-year-old ceramic angel, exactly like the one I donated, just sitting on the shelf at the thrift store I visit twice a month? (By the way, she cost me $3.50.)

It gets better.

I had been waiting six weeks to hear from the attorney in Bedford who was handling my purchase of a property in the land of my ancestors. Not two days after bringing home the March angel, the documents and paperwork arrived in my email.

I am as scientific as the next guy, but that angel was nothing but an omen. Sent by Cloacina.

Don't pish tosh me now, reader. Terrapin Run is less than 10 miles from the property.

Which is now my property. It has closed.

I have land. And a Goddess. Bless them both.

Problems

 My knees really hurt. Especially the right one. I have to go up and down the stairs at my work, and I'm literally gripping the bannister and grimacing with every step.

My Altra Lone Peak 5 trail runners would be a game-changer with this, but I am not allowed to wear my Altra Lone Peak 5 trail runners to school. The school has a dress code. Teachers are forbidden to wear sneakers without a valid doctor's note.

I got a note from my doctor in March of 2021 so I could wear my Altra Lone Peak 5 trail runners to work. Last month I was told that since my doctor's note is not dated after September 1, 2021, it's no longer valid.

The principal nicely asked me to call my doctor and have him write out another note. But when I saw how the doctor rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue and sighed that any 63-year-old school teacher would actually need a note to wear comfortable shoes, I was so embarrassed that I would rather work barefoot than bother him again.

I could get a healthy checkup in March, but now I have to wait until September, so I can get the properly dated note for next year.

It's very hard for me to find comfortable shoes, as I have bad bunions on both feet. I often have to buy shoes that are a size or two too large to accommodate my feet. I actually have to rotate three pairs of shoes that are "suitable" when I go to work, because each pair has issues for my feet. I'm sure these shoes are contributing to the knee pain.

This is my problem right now. By all that is holy, what a lucky woman I am! Such a trivial damn thing, compared to all the tragedies all around, all the time. I have no doubt that some day I'm going to look back with longing at the time when my knees hurt because I couldn't wear sneakers to school.

May we all struggle with minor nuisance problems. Things can change overnight.

You're Really Dissing the Thrift Store, Country Magazine?

 It's President's Day weekend, and what does that mean? Everything's half off at the thrift store! And whoa, doggies. The place was packed.

Have you seen the average thrift store shopper these days? No you haven't, because all kinds of people shop at the thrift store now. Lots of artsy Gen Z, lots of handsome metrosexual men, and lots of school teachers. Tons of school teachers.

I have a favorite thrift store that I visit at least once a week for retail therapy. Over the years I have almost completely outfitted myself and my house from that store. I've gotten towels, bath rugs, sheets, bedspreads, throw pillows, small pieces of furniture, books, shoes, decorations, and small kitchen appliances there. Clothing? Almost all my clothing comes from the thrift store. The only clothing I buy retail is fairy attire!

Fact: Last week I went to Target to buy a Valentine's Day gift for Mr. J. I picked up the one thing I'm loath to buy at the thrift store (underwear) and saw a cute set of pajamas that I liked. With Mr. J's gift I spent ... get ready ... $70. My jaw dropped. That's three or four hefty hauls from the thrift store!

So you can imagine my surprise when Country Magazine, that chic bastion of finding cute stuff at the antique mall, came out with an article entitled "40 Things You Should Never Buy at the Thrift Store."

40, mind you. Should have titled it "Don't Shop at the Thrift Store, Buy Something Expensive Instead."

Needless to say, I was intrigued to see what Country Magazine deemed unworthy of purchase from a thrift store.

*Old furniture. Might have lead paint. As opposed to stuff at the antique mall, which is presumably pristine.

*Anything upholstered. Well, they don't sell such things at my thrift store, thank you very much.

*Bedding. Might have bedbugs. Except you can see the industrial-sized washing machines in the back room at the thrift store.

*Stuff for kids, as in, car seats, strollers, and toys. Excuse you, Country Magazine. While my local thrift store is chock-a-block with cutie pie young skinny guys, it's also always full of poor people. You know, the people the thrift store is supposed to serve. And those people might not be able to go out and buy a brand new car seat. Shit's expensive.

*Throw pillows. Again, bedbugs. The magazine's advice? Buy a throw pillow from Target, where it's $10 - $20. News flash: $20 will buy 10 pillows at the thrift store. It's a bedbug gamble, but so is staying at the Hilton.

*Clothes. Say that again? Yes, you heard me. Clothes! They might be torn or stained, and you can't return them! For the love of fruit flies. As if anyone goes into the thrift store, plucks something from the rack, flips it on the counter, and doesn't so much as glance at it to see if it's stained! I'll admit, I did buy a shirt two weeks ago that is missing the bottom button. But stains and tears? Everyone checks for stains and tears.

*Anything that smells bad. Duh. That's advice for trash-pickers, not Goodwill shoppers.

*Kitchen appliances. They might not work. Well, let's see. I got my crock pot there, and it works. I got my hand mixer there, and it works. Case closed.

In this slideshow article, the list goes on and on, and most of the stuff on it isn't stuff I see in the thrift store where I shop. Who buys old windowpanes at the thrift store?

I can't imagine that many readers of Country Magazine actually shop in thrift stores, but I guess maybe the sport is getting so trendy that even rich faux-chic snobs are going there now. I'm stretching it with this one, but do you think perhaps Target paid the magazine to run such a spurious slide show? Hmmm. 

One last powerful point to this sermon, and it's the kind of whopper of a point that would bring any new congregant to the altar call. Have you read that little tag on the brand new pair of blue jeans you bought at Target? WASH BEFORE WEARING. WASH SEPARATELY. You see this on everything new. Everything. So how is that different from bringing home thrift store garments and flinging them in the washing machine? Well, maybe all the poisonous dyes have been leeched from the thrift store attire already!

I'll bet you're wondering what I bought today at the thrift store. Oh, readers. I got an NFL brand zippered hoodie with the Eagles logo, in my size, for $2.50. Have you priced out official NFL merchandise in the retail sector? Don't. Go to the thrift store, especially after the team has had a bad year.

There will be more in this space about the thrift store in coming installments. But this sermon has run long, and I know you want to get on with your day.

 

An Auspicious Full Moon

 Thank you for visiting "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson. How can I help you? Please hold.

Had to add that last part, for those of you who actually remember how phones used to work.

Just now I got home from work and opened my home email. (Can't do it at work without spying.) Nestled among the come-ons for Hello Fresh and the latest God Pod and my Patreon payments and my electronic pay stub, there was another email.

An email with a deed.

And another email with information on how to close on a property from afar.

Full moon tomorrow, perfect time to sign documents and cut a check and get everything under way.

This is the part where I add that the property is coming to me from a private sale. On the multiple listings land of this sort goes for twice to three times the amount I am paying per acre. I've been looking at the online listings for years and years and years and years.

Four acres and change, all of it forested, off the grid with nothing built on it. No house for me to fret about. One contiguous human neighbor whose house cannot be seen and who was a chum of my uncle's. The other boundary belonging to the State of Pennsylvania, game lands.

Feature this. For the price of a middling cruise to Alaska, I will have a forest. A forest all of my own. Just for me and whichever bored deities like to go camping. I know Cloacina is wild about the area. She'll be my first invite.

Hold me in the light for this last haul, but it does look like all systems go.

Haiku from a Teacher

 Please stop banning books

I'm trying to teach reading

Can't if you ban books

Three Gross-Outs before Noon

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," sunny Sunday edition! I'm Anne Johnson, as always your hostess with the mostest!

Dang! Three gross-outs before noon, on a Sunday! Trigger warning: gross stuff follows.

First thing, I went out to sweep off my front porch and put away my Yule lights. There was an advertising flier in my mailbox from a new evangelical church in close proximity to my home. It was a glitzy production, including the following quip:

    From attraction and dating to marriage and sex, the Bible contains eye-opening advice...

yada yada yada.

I promptly sent this church a Facebook message, to whit:

Dear *** Church, I am a hedge witch, and my house is particularly warded against such intrusions as your flier in my mailbox. The wards are not hidden. Whoever was distributing fliers over the weekend should be notified.

That ought to give them pause.

Second thing, I had to go to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. On the way, I smelled it before I saw it: a dead skunk in the middle of the road. Looked up in the sky, and already there was an inquisitive vulture circling. But you know ... a busy road! The cars regularly go 40 miles an hour along there.

So, on my way back from the pharmacy, I pulled over and (trying not to heave) heaved that full-grown, freshly smashed specimen right to the curb. Now if the homeowners just leave it alone, it'll be gone in a few hours. 

Well, you know, as you might imagine, one can't pick up a dead skunk by the tail without suffering a little blowback. But after a thorough scrubbing my hands are fine, and the car doesn't reek.

Tempted to drive by later and see if the skunk attracted any customers.

Third thing, it's not a biggie. A regular occurrence, really. My Gamma Cat suffers from crystals. Not the kind on my altar. Some kind that make him uncomfortable and therefore an outside-of-the-box thinker. We've got him on urinary tract food, and he's been better about the box, but there's still quite the cleanup to do. But that's kind of a gross-out I'm used to.

You know what? N95 masks are great for cat clean up! Another use for a useful tool!

For the love of fruit flies. This all happened before noon. I hope the afternoon is less eventful regarding gross stuff. I've reached today's capacity.

Imbolc 2022

 It's Imbolc here at "The Gods Are Bored," and I must say this is a very special holy day. We're socked under some snow, but the days are bright longer. Already we have gained more than a half hour of daylight.

I feel like a spring bulb just beginning to quicken under the frozen ground. Still awaiting word on the property I hope to buy ... you know how that is. But Imbolc is the holy day of yet-to-come, and I'm feeling it in my bones. Something is stirring.

Something has happened in the 17 years I've been writing this blog. The Goddess Queen Brighid the Bright has gone from bored to busy. I could not even schedule her for an interview today. She now has a vibrant and growing praise and worship team! No more lurking behind "Candlemas" and sainthood for her. She's on the move!

This is the season of home and hearth, of the interior work we all have to do to keep our souls spiffy.

It is also the time of making plans and of anticipating the spring. We've been through the wringer the past two years. There's been a pestilence abroad in the land. It has claimed many people's lives. Now, though, there are vaccines and medications for the illness. No one need get a deadly case if they follow the protocols. Look how far we have come since we all crept home in March of 2020, fearing for our lives!

Let's prepare to plant and harvest the way we did before Covid came along. Imbolc is the time of preparation. Can you feel the possibilities in the air? Even if the Goddess is too busy to pop in and chat? I can.

Bright Imbolc blessings to you, readers of "The Gods Are Bored!" Light the candle, everything's all right.

Got It!

 You might have read that the Least Coast got a snowstorm on Friday night.

Here in Haterfield, we got about 7 inches of snow. Most of it fell in the overnight hours. By morning my yard was chock a block with wild birds, all fussing around the feeder.

The snow tapered off by noon, and I went out to shovel. My next door neighbor helped with the hardest part, so I was done in about 30 minutes. 

Then I went inside to bake cookies for my neighbor. But they didn't turn out quite right. I think I put too much sugar in them. So I ate them myself.

The Fair and her boyfriend stopped by in the evening to borrow the sleds. Fair made a snow angel in the front yard.

I built a fire in the fireplace as soon as it got dark.

Best part? I bought a new pair of Altra hiking shoes, and I wore them all day, and they didn't hurt my feet at all.

Best year of my life so far.

In Which I Report a Rogue Teacher in Narrows, Virginia to the Governor of That State

 Hey, fans! Do you remember when the worst thing about the Commie governments was that they encouraged citizens to snitch on other citizens who were thought to be "subversive?"

Wait. You're not that old? Well, trust me that it's a thing we elementary kids learned about in Social Studies when we were taught about Communist China and the Soviet Union.

The idea of citizen espionage sounded bad in 1966, and it sounds bad now. How awful to live under a regime that would target certain people (almost always intellectuals, teachers, and writers) and persecute them as enemies of the state!

Welcome to Virginia in 2022.

The newly-elected Republican governor of the state has created a special email box for people to report public school teachers who are teaching "critical race theory" or other curricula that makes white students feel bad about themselves.

It's a public email that anyone can write to.

Of course they are asking correspondents to be serious and not to send frivolous emails.

And of course this stricture is being completely ignored.

Someone reported Professor Dumbledore for punishing students who discriminate against mudbloods.

Gods bless America.

However, it's not enough for us here at "The Gods Are Bored" to let other people sneer at authoritarian regimes. So I went to my email address that I keep just for these types of correspondences, and I penned a little note to Virginia. I titled the email REPORTING A ROGUE TEACHER IN NARROWS, VA. Here's the text:

I'm a 63-year-old teacher of English at the high school level. When I was a kid in school, our nation had two enemies: Communist China and the Soviet Union. What we as students were chiefly told was that those societies were evil because they encouraged citizens to "report" other citizens for subversive behavior. Gosh, everyone thought that was awful. Just think, ordinary people spying on each other!

But isn't this tipline exactly that? A tool of an authoritarian regime? It has always been the goal of fascist governments to be thought police and to subvert intellectual advancement. Welcome to the club.

I was just kidding about the Narrows, VA part. My grandparents lived there for awhile. I'm in New Jersey, and so far as I'm concerned, Virginia is off the tourism table as long as you are encouraging people to persecute school teachers.

Anne Johnson

I would have liked to be wittier, but I figured all the good literary allusions had probably already been flung.

I'll bet you would like to report a rogue teacher yourself, wouldn't you? All you'll need is the address and a map of the state, so you can pick out some cute little mountain town to mention in the tagline.

And here's the address:

helpeducation@governor.virginia.gov

Tell them Anne Johnson sent you.

 

Don't Look Up Is Weak Broth

 Oh, all my peppy young readers! All you who are up-to-date on everything! I usually envy the fuck outta you, but not today.

Over the weekend, Mr. J and I sat down to watch this new movie called "Don't Look Up." We watched and watched and watched. And then the cable signal went out (as it often does).

Usually when the cable signal goes out, we collectively groan and fuss like two old doddering wrecks.

In this case we were 90 minutes or more into the movie, and suddenly it just wasn't there, and we didn't care.

Sorry, striplings, but that movie was so boring I won't ever watch the rest of it.

I get it, I get it. Filmmakers want to say something important about the flaws in our society. Hey, I do too! I've been writing this blog since 2005! But, as Hamlet said, "brevity is the soul of wit." Drawl on too long, you lose the crowd.

Forced to make conversation amidst the silence, I said to Mr. J: "Anyone who has ever seen 'Dr. Strangelove' would hate 'Don't Look Up'."

EXHIBIT A: "Dr. Strangelove, or: How I Stopped Worrying and Learned To Love the Bomb"

"Dr. Strangelove" was released in 1964 and is about the end of the world. It was written, produced, and directed by Stanley Kubrick before he, too, went off the rails and started making 3 hour movies.

"Dr. Strangelove" clocks in at 95 minutes and covers all the ground that "Don't Look Up" covers except the billionaires, of which there were fewer in 1964. It's a succinct, hilarious comedy founded on the tragic possibilities of nuclear annihilation. And if you minty fresh young'uns don't think nuclear war was as much of a threat as climate change, well. You don't know what it was like in 1964. 

How many roles did Peter Sellers play in  "Dr. Strangelove?" I think three. Yep, I'm counting three.

I'm not making light of climate change here, my pets. I'm making light of heavy-handed, didactic filmmaking. "Don't Look Up" is too long. It loses steam. At the 90 minute mark I was rooting for the asteroid.

If you've never seen "Dr. Strangelove," I recommend it wholeheartedly. I'll bet I've watched it seven or eight times, including as part of some foofy college course I took at JHU.

The moral of this sermon: If you find yourself with time on your hands on a Saturday night and a vague worry about how human fuckups could bring about the end of the world, your go-to film should be "Dr. Strangelove." Not "Don't Look Up."

This is free advice, and it's good. You'll most likely thank me, if you like this blog.

A Rant about Snow

 I'm Anne Johnson, and I love snow.

I have always loved snow. My fondest childhood memories include feet and feet of the stuff, sledding with my dad, building forts and snowmen, and just watching the fat white flakes fall from the sky.

But that was Appalachia. Now I live in southern New Jersey, 50 miles from the coast.

It's just really great to be able to hop in the car on a whim and drive to the beach in an hour's time. Breakfast ... ZOOM! ... sand under my feet.

But you know what happens in the wintertime? That ocean just 50 miles from my door influences the weather. It almost always feeds warmer air into snowstorms that change the snow over to rain. Or keep the rain from turning to snow. Or, if a storm hugs the coast, it snows like mad on the beach resorts and passes my town by.

DAMN YOU, OCEAN, WITH YOUR 40-DEGREE TEMPERATURE!

You know how frustrating it is to see winter storm warnings for freakin' North Carolina, and rain for New Jersey? Happens all the time.

Take this past weekend for example. The forecasters started their hype days in advance, for a snow event on Sunday night. When the event actually hove into sight, the forecast totals took a swan dive. From 3 - 6 inches we got downsized to 2 - 4. Then, when the precipitation started falling, it snowed beautifully for one hour, turned over to rain, and the rain washed away what little snow had accumulated. Meantime, the Poconos got a swell haul of 6 inches.

A similar scenario reared its head last night. The forecast called for a period of rain to turn to snow and accumulate between 1 - 3 inches. Sure enough, the rain moved in. AND IT STAYED. Around 10:00 it snowed lightly for about an hour, leaving no accumulation. Happens all the time.

Last year was better. We actually had a period of three weeks where there was snow on the ground every day. Unheard of in New Jersey! We actually got snow on top of snow! 

Alas, that was a one-off. This year has brought back the usual hyped-up forecasts that devolve into rainstorms. There's nothing quite so dispiriting as a rainy January afternoon.

You would think that a lady of my age would not want to have to deal with a snow event requiring a shovel. Ha ha! I don't mind shoveling at all! I'll shovel the rare blizzard event with a vim that quite belies my age.

You know what I love? Shaking my fist at the snowplow as it undoes all the shoveling I accomplished. That's my idea of a good time.

The most heart-rending part of this rant is this: A good snowfall means an unscheduled holiday for school teachers and students. O frabjous snow day! Caloo, Callay! Nothing to do but linger over breakfast and shovel.

So far this year we have had zero snow days and zero delayed openings.

Where are the bored deities of snow? Why are they leaving me so rain-soaked this year, when all I ask is a little 3 - 6 inches of white loveliness?

It's the damn ocean. Remind me, next summer when I blithely set out for it with my beach bag, that it ROBS ME OF SNOW.

I Stand Corrected

 January 6 was not, as I scoffed last week, a bunch of drunken yahoos run amok. It was a group of terrorists with a plan who drew in a bunch of angry, whipped-up ill-informed rubes.

New indictments handed out (finally) by DoJ. A long article in New York Times Magazine about the officers who were killed or injured due to that riot. Those are the two things that changed my mind.

One can only hope that this country includes enough citizens who don't want to see the government overthrown by bad white men with guns. One can only hope that this country includes voters who don't want their elected officials to glad-hand terrorists in support of an unhinged dictator.

What we need, to keep this from happening again, are some serious penalties. All these goobers have gotten off easy, except the one that was shot. But when you think that we have kept a number of Islamic men in Cuba for decades without a charge, shouldn't we be preparing similar accommodations for the people who planned this Capitol attack?

I have asked myself what these people would have done to Nancy Peolosi, or AOC, or Mike Pence, if they had laid hands on them. Would they have had the nerve to actually kill them? Well, they damn near killed a dozen Capitol police officers and injured dozens more.

So for the record, I went way too easy on the Capitol terrorists. Now the American justice system is doing the same. Pack them off to Gitmo. Deny them shade and Bibles.

Adopt a SadCloud!

 My daughter The Heir is fostering a bank of SadClouds. You could say The Heir made these from scratch and has nurtured them right along. They are now ready for adoption!

If you haven't heard of SadClouds, they are very useful and a lot cheaper to own than a mammalian or reptile pet. SadClouds exist to absorb depression and to soften anxiety. Because they understand completely. The world leaves us floundering, especially in these dark times of the year. SadClouds get it.

EXHIBIT A: Bank of SadClouds

The thing about adopting a SadCloud is, you don't have to care for it. It cares for you. Everything you are feeling is immediately recognizable to the SadCloud. It understands completely, whether you're just seasonally depressed or literally battling for a toehold. SadClouds feel you. You can look at them and see it in their eyes.

These SadClouds are immediately available for adoption to a good home. Their fee is $35, which includes all shots and examinations, postage and handling.

If you want one, you can email me at annejohnson17211  at  gmail  dot  com.

Here are some closeups of each individual SadCloud. Alas, they have no names yet. That would be up to you.

EXHIBIT B:  Blue SadCloud

Photographed in its current foster home in West Philadelphia.

EXHIBIT C: Purple SadCloud

Those eyes. Those eyes.

EXHIBIT D: Half and Half SadCloud

This SadCloud, so I'm told, is for someone who has up-and-down cycles and is never sure what the day will bring.

EXHIBIT E: Pink SadCloud

This pink SadCloud draws energy from light sources and then distributes it like a cooling rain.

Any and all of these sweet little SadClouds can be had for the fee of $35 each. They have been lovingly hand-fed with no resort to machinery! Organic, free range, ethically produced, locally sourced in West Philadelphia. Crafted in the USA.

Contact me if you or someone you love needs a SadCloud in their life!

My Case of COVID is Postponed

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I'm Anne Johnson, working at home again until January 18. Because flattening the curve has been so very successful in the US of A.

Well, maybe it will be this time. But my guess is that I will return to school on January 18 to a miasma (great word) of Omicron variant and no N95 mask for my mug.

I do have the paper mask I wore at the Mummers Parade, and lots of microfiber cloth masks. I'll double up.

Yesterday, January 6, there was a lot of hoo hah about the riot at the Capitol last year. CNN and MSNBC have been harping on this event nonstop for 365 days, so it's not surprising they were slobbering all over the anniversary.

Here is my two cents on that awful event:

1. This was not a well-organized, well-planned attempt to instigate a coup d'etat. This was a rabble of stupid white men (mostly), many of them liquored up*, all of them fired up by the hateful rhetoric of the person who was president at the time.

2. These people had been encouraged not just by the former president, but also by his "superstar" propagandists, to expect "something big," or to cause it to happen. It happened organically, maybe driven by a few individuals who weren't drunk and had read Crowds and Power by Elias Canetti ... oh wait. A few individuals who felt like they could get something going and weren't drunk.

3. The most despicable piece of this is the recent news that the former president sat in a White House dining area and watched with glee while the attack was occurring. Sat there, apparently re-ran parts of it, and refused to speak against it even when begged to by the superstar propagandists.

4. The even more than most despicable piece of this is that the entire elected Republican party, except for two members, has made peace with all the lies, deceit, and violence behind that day. Some of them even say the thing was a false flag, or a happy tourist romp, or no big deal -- let's move on. Elected Republicans don't believe this bullshit. They're just too craven to tell the truth.

5. Liz Cheney loses nothing by losing her seat in Congress. Her father is richer than God, and she'll be all over CNN and MSNBC even though her conservative bona fides should put her under a general gag order. And while I'm ranting, have you noticed that Wyoming has two Senators and one Congresswoman? Tell me why Wyoming should have that much senatorial power. I'll wait.

6. The liberal news media is beating 1/6 to death. By the crucial election next November, people will be sick of hearing about it. So shut up, already. We've seen the footage. Let it marinate until election season instead of re-running it every night. Here's a tip: Talk about how efforts to unionize are meeting with success. That would be refreshing.

*My evidence for the drinking is this: I have one Facebook friend who attended that debacle. When I saw her plans on her page, I started following her posts. And those planning to attend with her bragged not about bringing firearms, but about bringing Fireball. Which makes men mean, for sure.

Triumphant Return of the Two Street Stompers

 On New Year's Day 2021 I sulked around the house and watched reruns of past Mummers Parades. Not so 2022! Back on Broad Street with the Two Street Stompers!

Considering that Christmas was 50 percent here in Chateau Johnson, a 100 percent Mummer experience was welcome indeed. The parade was delayed one day by rain, so we stepped off on January 2 under cloudy skies and balmy temperatures.

This year our theme was "Not All Heroes Wear Capes." It was a salute to essential medical workers. Our suits were designed to look like scrubs, and we all had surgical caps and - yes - masks! (Well, I wore mine, except for photos.)

Sorry, but I don't have a video of the routine. If it's posted on YouTube by someone, I'll show y'all at another time. It was a touching show. We all wore the same color satin, and the kids came out in front and did a little dance (which was eye-popping adorable). Then all the health care workers in the club came out of the ranks and waved to the crowd.

I have to hand it to our captain. It's hard enough to get 230 sober people to move in straight lines and follow some dance steps. When your troupe has been liberally lubricated and still can bust the moves, you're doing something right!

We did our routine at City Hall and then headed down Broad Street. The crowds were sparse, needless to say, but my daughter The Fair and her boyfriend came down to watch. When we finished up at Broad and Washington, we made our way down to the Mummers Museum on Two Street for a group photo.

EXHIBIT A: Two Street Stompers NYB 2022

I'm in there somewhere. Aren't those dresses gorgeous?

From the museum, we strutted all the way down Two Street to Oregon Avenue. It's a long hike, but that's where the real mumming occurs. That neighborhood is steeped to the gills in Mummers clubhouses, and the people love seeing us.

EXHIBIT B: Two Street Strut!

That's me on the left, and looking over my shoulder is Mummers Hall of Fame member Ed "Buzz" McLaughlin, basically my brother from another mother. Buzz's grandfather was a Mummer, and now Buzz's grandson is a Mummer too. Generational wealth!

The day finally wound to a close in our home base of Gloucester City, New Jersey. It was an 11-hour strut, and every second of it a pure joy.

EXHIBIT C: But Wait, There's More!

Guess which club made the local newspaper, above the fold, on January 3? Bing bing bing! The Two Street Stompers! And this is a huge honor, given how elaborate the string band costumes are.

Another parade is in the history books. I'm so stoked that I can dance that much and strut that far at my age! I love being a Two Street Stomper. Such fun.

Working from home the next two weeks, I remain

Your correspondent from the City of Brotherly Love,

Anne Johnson, Fired Up!

Highlights of 2021

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," end-of-2021 edition! As always I am your charming hostess, Anne Johnson.

The Mummers Parade has been delayed one day due to rain. I thought I would fill the time by recollecting all the highlights of 2021.

Please Don't Rain on My Parade!

 Literally. Because it's that time again ... The Philadelphia Mummers Parade!

And for the first time in the 10 years since I've been marching, the forecast is calling for rain.

Okay, 2021. Surprise me.

A week before Xmas break, my daughter The Heir phoned me to tell me her house mate had tested positive for COVID. By Wednesday, December 22, Heir's boyfriend was running a fever and experiencing all the flu-like symptoms you might expect with a breakthrough infection. Heir and her boyfriend both stood in line for two and a half hours for PCR tests, and they didn't get the results back for three days. He was positive, she was negative.

Needless to say, Heir and her boyfriend were scratches for Xmas. The Fair came with her boyfriend (and her endlessly fascinating cat, Bijoux), but we all felt like COVID won another battle.

Now the weather is threatening the Mummers Parade. Gotta say that would be a perfect capstone to a dreadful year.

Or maybe it's the beginning to another Bullshit Year from Suck City, 2022. We don't need a crystal ball to see that Roe v. Wade is fucked, or that no meaningful social change will happen in America, or that this virus will continue to plague us. It's like we've been dumped into Republican Hell and are totally at the mercy of Bible-thumping blowhards.

Speaking of Bible-thumping, did you see that NASA hired a bunch of religious experts to predict how the faithful of various sects would react to the news of life on other planets? I am VERY INSULTED that they didn't hire me! I could give them chapter and verse on two dozen deities from a dozen pantheons. But NOOOO, let's talk to the Baptists!

I wonder if NASA hired a Pagan. Fat chance, huh?

Well, it's a question to pose to bored deities if I can get any to drop by in the next few weeks. I believe that some of them have subcontracted to other solar systems in the past, but don't quote me until I can get a few of them on the record.

P.S. - if you are looking for Yellowdog Granny, she's doing an end run around Blogger. her site is now https://westbygoddesstexas.blogspot.com. Go and see the nice holiday meal she set up for her Meals on Wheels buddies!

I Survived National School Shooter Day 2021

 I blame Big Tobacco.

Despite their best efforts, Americans have finally turned up their noses, for the most part, at tobacco products. So Big Tobacco looked for a new market and found China. Yes, that China.

Chinese men are nuts for their cigarettes. I had to toss my exchange student because he was smoking in my house. He wouldn't hear of trying any cessation techniques. And all his exchange student pals smoked like smokestacks too. This is going to be a big public health problem for China in years to come.

You know that nation isn't going to take this lying down. And thus we got TikTok.

Tobacco is a scourge that affects the lungs. TikTok is a scourge that affects the brain. In case you didn't know it, TikTok is owned and run by the Chinese.

My students have the attention span of chipmunks. Instagram has helped, but TikTok reigns supreme in senseless distraction. 

But wait. There's more.

TikTok users have been issuing "challenges." As in, October was "Slap a Teacher Month." The idea was to assault a teacher and record it on video to show on TikTok. I feel like the hacking of my online Parent Night Google Meet was probably filmed for TikTok.

Each month has its own challenge.

Last week some TikTok shitbird posted that Friday, December 17 would be National School Shooter Day. This prompted my school district to send a message to all parents, staff, and students that there were no credible threats against our school. The district also promised an enhanced police presence on campus on December 17.

The result? Almost half the students at my school took a nice long weekend, skipping school on December 17.

I didn't see an enhanced police presence at my school on December 17. I can see the arrival of police cars and ambulances from the windows at my school. Shit happens occasionally, and our administration is tight-lipped about it. But I know that there are severe ramifications for any student who threatens the school. We also have an armed cop on campus at all times.

I also know that many of my students know someone who has been victimized by gun violence. It's not a game to them. When you have seen the ramifications of firearms, you're far less likely to play with them the way these troubled white boys do.

All this is my way of saying that I did not feel unsafe at school on December 17, and I understand why so many students stayed home. It was very quiet in the school.

As it happened, I sat in the faculty lunch room with the security guards and lunch ladies that day, which I haven't been doing due to Covid. I love the security guards and lunch ladies. They are by far my favorite people to hang with at school. We had a great time discussing local sports, cooking tips, and where they were going for happy hour. No one mentioned the school shooting business.

I survived the fiasco without a scratch. But I fear that the TikTok scourge has only just begun. Teenagers' brains aren't fully formed in the areas where judgment and reasoning are concerned. They are ripe for "challenges" and inspired by seeing others get away with stuff. TikTok gives them a blueprint for bad behavior.

China wins.

Shhh ... Don't Tell!

 I did it. Just don't tell any administrator, okay? I know I can trust you.

I talked about bored Gods in school.

This is the first year I have ever had upperclassmen. And I have them, by golly! One class of 13 juniors.

They are my first class in the morning. Because we are short on buses, some of them have to get picked up at 5:45. (The buses have to run multiple routes.)

So what I actually have is 13 of the sleepiest people on the planet, at 7:45 in the morning, and I'm expected to engage them.

Trouble is, the junior curriculum for my district is ridiculous. I can't see how it would engage them to spend 8 weeks on Fahrenheit 451, when half of them would gladly burn every book in the room.

In these cases I always fall back on Antigone, by Sophocles.

Have you read it? It's about a brave young woman who defies the decree of a dictator to bury her brother, because the laws of the Gods are more important than the laws of men. Of course she pays for it with her life, but damn. Girl has some spine.

I like teaching something where the female lead is badass.

Antigone is not in the curriculum. But I feel like if some admin wanders in, I can say, "Oh yes, I'm teaching Sophocles," and that will be acceptable.

Oh, and if you haven't come across this 2,200+ year-old wonder, it's short! Two quick acts, and everyone dies in the end. Appreciate that, because it takes Shakespeare five acts to slaughter his casts.

But ah, there's a rub.

When the title character, Antigone, talks about following the laws of God, she's not talking about Yahweh. She's talking about Zeus. And as you can imagine, I make that crystal clear from the get-go.

So today, as I looked out over 13 sets of glazed eyes, I asked: "Emmm... people really worshiped Zeus. Those people would be offended if you called Zeus a 'myth.' And in the Bible, God says, 'You shall have no other gods but Me. Clearly implying that there are other Gods. So, students ... sit up ... open your eyes ... Where is Zeus now?"

This opened up a semi-lively discussion, which included (in no particular order) the fact that Africans brought into slavery were forced to be Christians when they had their own Gods, the fact that some people who worship Thor are racists, and the fact that we don't know much about the majority of our planet; namely, the part that's under water.

Wow! A philosophical discussion at my school, at 8:00 in the morning!

One student said he thinks Zeus is satisfied with His status with us moderns, because at least we know who He is. Which made me ask the students, "What happens to Gods whose names are forgotten?"

No one had an answer for that. But I'll bet they think about it after the basketball scrimmage. Well, maybe not.

First time my day job and my blog have intersected. It was fun.

Extreme Ice Cream

 How far would you drive for a quart of ice cream and some local oysters?

Let me add some detail to that question. How far would you drive for some award-winning small-batch cinnamon ice cream and a quart of freshly-shucked oysters from a local trawler?

Yeah, I thought so. You would throw all thoughts of gas prices to the wind.

The weekend before Thanksgiving, I was as fried as a slab of Virginia ham. Mr. J had ordered some ice cream from the Scottish Highland Creamery in Oxford, Maryland, and we agreed to drive down to get it. Oxford used to be too far for a day trip, but Delaware (yes, it does exist) just opened a nice highway to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, and now scenic Oxford is less than a two-hour drive.

But you know what happens when a place is quicker to get to, and you've been there 10,000 times? You go farther afield. Last summer we rented a place in Cambridge, Maryland. It's not far from Oxford, but it's not touristy. Less crowded, less posh, more genuine. We loved it immediately.

In Cambridge last summer we found the local fish store. And you just know what a fish store on the Chesapeake Bay has in abundance in November, right? Lovely big snotty oysters!

But you know what happens when you just found a new fun place last summer and you're fried like a ham? You wind up way the Hell out on an island in the Chesapeake, sea-glassing your fried little eyeballs out.

EXHIBIT A: LOOK AT THAT SHIT-EATING GRIN!

It wasn't Halloween, but it felt like Halloween. It felt like vacation. It felt like I was 180 miles from all my troubles. Damn, I do so love Maryland.

All that driving, and we still got home by 7:00. And don't try to pry the location out of me, but I got five goddamn pounds of sea glass. A quart of oysters. Three quarts of cinnamon ice cream.

And for a few days, I wasn't fried. More like soothingly marinated in a beach glass bath.