Years ago, we were on line at the nurses’ station to have some gifts okayed and we witnessed a very dramatic scene. But, wait, I should back up a little. Caity was in the hospital for a few days (she’s fine now, kinehora) and they gave her the choice of being in a regular room, with some old woman wheezing all night, or on a mildly restricted floor with young women closer to her age. She chose the latter (duh). Since some of the patients on that floor were at risk for harming themselves, there were some restrictions in place, like anyone who brought gifts had to clear them first at the nurses’ station: no sharp objects, e.g.
We were bringing her a few small items (blow torch, cleaver), so we were waiting on line and were the next ones to be seen. The couple in front of us (husband and wife) were bringing a whole bunch of little toys for their daughter, who must have been pretty young, judging by the nature of the gifts. They were little inexpensive items designed to give a moment or two of amusement.
But one by one, the nurse was rejecting them for some safety reason or other. You could tell each rejection was a blow to the mom — not for the loss of the toy itself but for what it said about how troubled her daughter must be if it was dangerous for her to play with the little thing.
After about three rejections, the mom exclaimed “Be nicer!”
The nurse was totally taken aback. “What do you mean?,” she asked. “I’m being nice.”
The mom said, “No you’re not — this is very hard for us.”
And the dad said: “You’re being very cold.”
The nurse was deeply struck by the charges and just said, “But these rules are important.” She ran through the remaining items quickly and the couple left to see their daughter.
That’s when Linda and I stepped up to face her. She was devastated; near tears. Nursing is a caring profession, and she was just charged with about as serious a charge as a nurse can get — hardness; not caring.
She looked up at us, pained to her core, and I said “It’s okay — you don’t have to be nice to us.”
That’s a true story — every piece of it, including my line, which I will go to my grave proud of. It’s the sort of line you think of too late. But it came to me in time, and I damn well said it. (We also reassured her that she was doing fine and shouldn’t be upset.)
Now bend over for your shot.
Lauren Boebert apologized for her behavior in a Denver theater last weekend that included vaping and rowdiness leading to her getting kicked out. She later denied vaping but was caught on tape. By all accounts she was quite obnoxious. Boebert is a Republican Congresswoman from Colorado and a right-wing monster of epic proportions. She has yet to apologize for everything else she has done since birth. I will spare you her photo — Phil refused to waste film on her.
I don’t usually pay attention to how long it takes me to complete a puzzle, but one feature of the on-line puzzle is you get your time. It took me 41:30 today, but I nailed it! Very satisfying. It’s hard to explain to someone who has no interest in crosswords how they’ve become such a pleasure for me, but this paragraph in commenter Lewis’s note today is apt:
“I want the Saturday puzzle to shift my brain into first gear and keep it there from start to finish, grinding and doing heavy lifting – a high-intensity workout ending with me in a puddle of happiness and satisfaction, bolstered by the knowledge that I did my brain a solid and that it is happy as well. And this is what I got today.”
One of my favorite clues/answers was “Component of a Mr. Clean costume, say,” and the answer was BALD CAP. I commented that I thought it would be funnier if the clue referenced Dr. Phil.
Another one I liked was “They might make it difficult to compare notes,” and the answer was TIN EARS. (Think musical notes.) My comment was: The tin man must have had tin ears, no? A better clue might have been: “Why a Wizard of Oz character was not musical.”
The last clue I solved (and only by “running the alphabet” to get the A), was “Credit lines?” The answer was HAT TIPS. It turns out it’s a thing — if you compliment something or someone, you have “tipped your hat,” i.e., given “credit.”
Did you know that “tittle-tattles” means CHATS. I didn’t. I thought it had something to do with ratting somebody out: tattling. But if you look it up you’ll see it means idle talk or gossip.
Another toughie was 14A: “What cucumber slices and seaweed can be part of.” If you’re thinking of the last time you had a cucumber salad around 8 years ago, you’ll never get it. You need to think of those slices over a pair of closed eyes. The answer was SPA TREATMENTS. D’oh!
Two other good clues in this very clever puzzle by Jonathan Kaufman were “Barn locks,” for MANE (think hair for locks), and “Move more” for OUTSELL.
NINA Hoss from the movie “Tar” visited the grid today. She was born in Stuttgart, West Germany on July 7, 1955, so she’s 48. Hoss received the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany in 2013, and was appointed a Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres in France in 2015. She’s been wasting her time doing crossword puzzles since then. [No she hasn’t.]
In a review of her 2009 film A Woman in Berlin, The NYT said Hoss, “whose strong frame and graceful bearing suggest both old-style movie-star glamour and Aryan ideals of feminine beauty, is an actress of haunting subtlety, and the film, episodic, ambitious and a few beats too long, is held together by the force of her performance.” She later made her name in Hollywood playing a German agent in three seasons of Homeland (2014–2017).
Nice shot, Phil. Very Aryan.
A little three-letter answer opened a door today: ABA. It’s usually clued with lawyers (the American Bar Ass’n) but today it wasn’t. Rex started the discussion:
Hey, what does the “B” in ABA stand for today (I mean, since it doesn’t stand for its more customary meaning, “Bar”) (21A: “Trade org. of interest to publishers and authors”)? I think it’s “Booksellers” but I’m gonna have to check … Whoa, I just googled “ABA” and apparently in the real, i.e. non-crossword world, everyone thinks ABA = “Applied Behavior Analysis” (whatever that is). My god it is hard to find today’s ABA … searching [ABA books] and [ABA library] is useless … I’m getting American Beverage … American Bankers … ah there we go. I was right: American Booksellers Association. Man, google really Really doesn’t want you to find this particular ABA. The quality of google as a search engine has so horribly degraded in recent years, and somehow the fact that it’s hiding booksellers from me today feels ominously on-brand.
Later, Ted commented: Applied Behavioral Analysis is an autism therapy thing. It’s a gift not to have to know “whatever that is.”
And Dr. A added:
Applied Behavioral Analysis is a very popular “therapy” for people with autism that treats them like trained dogs and makes me more than a little sick. I have a kid with autism and when it was super popular it just didn’t appeal to me and now it’s being berated by the autistic population. It probably has a place for the more severely affected but for anyone who can be reasoned with, it’s pretty insulting. Anyway that’s my rant du jour!!
My ears perk up at that topic — Linda taught autistic children for quite a few years. I’m very proud of her for working so hard to bring light and warmth to them.
Those of us who take great joy in expressing ourselves in speech can only marvel at folks who struggle so hard with stuttering. I sometimes run across one in class and always try to give them the space they need. They seem so brave to me to open up with their difficulties to make a point in class. I appreciate any contributions to the class discussion, and those are a little extra special.
Here’s a poem called “When I Stutter,” by Elizabeth Meade from the Poetry Foundation today.
Sometimes, m’s elongate,
grow long tongues to taste the last bit
of breath my body has to offer.
Sometimes, i’s echo
like the harsh cries of a seagull,
try to fly far away from the nest of my mouth
only to circle the ocean of my uncompleted sentence.
Sometimes, my breath becomes caught
in the chamber of my throat, my head cocked back
until the word —at last— launches out of my mouth like a bullet.
or a punch.
(Sometimes, my soft, raspy voice
provides no balm to soothe the ear.)
Sometimes, I remember Daddy said my voice
sounds like Mommy’s. I rejoice then, as syllables
trip over one another like eager children
rushing toward the playground
with all the freedom her voice no longer has.
All that remains is the deep ache in my throat,
vocal cords like mud stomped flat
under the feet of my rowdy utterances.
Okay, everybody — see you tomorrow!
The Wellington Files 