Englightened Self Interest

Confidential to the two women who sat and complained for half an hour this morning, near where I sat at the coffee shop. You may not want your tax dollars going to public schools. You (according to your own statements) have no interest in having children (lucky children!). But you might bear in mind that when you are ancient and in some extended care facility, it's going to be the children in public school now who will be your doctors and nurses and caregivers, who will set up the trusts that keep your retirement income intact, who will arrange for social services to help you, will run the food banks and Meals on Wheels programs that keep you from eating catfood three times a day. Me, I want all those children, including mine, as well educated as possible, and as appreciative of what my generation has made possible for them as can be. Since they'll be changing my IVs and clipping my toenails as well, I consider this not only consideration of the public weal, but good planning for the covering of my ass.

In Which My Head Explodes

I realize that there is a segment of the population for whom collecting Barbie dolls in various astonishing costumes is a passion. It's not my passion, but that's okay, it doesn't have to be. What gets me about this is not the doll or the collecting of dolls, it's the copywriting:

A fabulous fantasy, Tano™ Barbie® doll is equal parts ethnic princess and couture queen.

...with just a leetle smidgeon gin and an olive?

AAaaaaarrrrhhh!!

I got four decent pages written this morning and returned home, where my in-laws and husband were hanging out. Decided to make a double recipe of the sublime cranberry apricot compote my family uses in place of cranberry sauce (it's my brother-in-law's recipe, and utterly fab). So I start it up, set it going, and Sarcasm Girl calls from school, where she is feeling weak and wobbly and must be picked up instanter. So I tell Spouse to remove the cranberry sauce from the heat when the timer rings, and I go fetch home the child. When I get home, of course, the damned cranberry compote had burnt solid to the bottom of the damned pot, the house is smoky and smells horrid, and...and... damn.