It was bedtime for the kids, and I followed their voices through the house to find them.  In the living room, something odd on the couch caught my eye. "Ouch," I thought, when I zeroed in on it, because what I saw was a Sharpie marker swipe on one of the cushions. Sharpie marker doesn't come off, and now this dark streak was going to be part of the couch's permanent record. I added this misfortune to the list of reasons why everybody hates permanent records.

I called out to Margot and Greta, “Hey guys, will you come in here for a sec?” When they appeared, I pointed to the black mark and asked, “Do you know how this got on the couch? It stinks because it's not gonna come off.” 

They both looked blankly at the stain. 

“So neither one of you did this?” I asked. "I mean I'm sure it was an accident."

They both shook their heads.

“Okay, well thanks anyway,” I said, and then the whole bedtime thing proceeded as it normally would have.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I saw that someone had pushed a page, hotel invoice style, under my door: 

I smiled, proud that Margot thought to attach the large post-it note to a slick piece of copy paper when she discovered its poor sliding performance. The idea of having to rewrite the admission of guilt on something with more glide, in cursive no less, would have been unpalatable to her. Then my heart scrunched up to think of her, up and alone while she completed this sad and stealthy mission, possibly wearing a headlamp. I got up and grabbed the note to show Bo, relieved, but not surprised that she decided to stick with the truth.

                    

Because they exaggerate their importance, come from a place of underlying weakness, and expect to be doted upon, sneezes are the showy narcissists of protective human reflexes. Sneezes are always met with fawning remarks, such as "Gesundheit!" ("Health!" in German) and of course, "Bless you!" This dynamic is unfair to coughs, which do similar work but are always met with words such as, "Cover your mouth, you sick bastard." 

Gushing over sneezes makes even less sense when you consider that they're usually grosser and always more dangerous to bystanders than coughs. A sneeze can send tens of thousands of bacteria-filled, microscopic droplets into the air at speeds of more than 100 miles per hour. On the other hand, coughs typically deliver around 3,000 droplets at 50 mph. This is a more prudent approach to clearing pollutants from our upper airways and should be recognized. Perhaps we should say "Gute albeit!" ("Good work!" in German) to anyone who coughs. Whatever. It really doesn't matter what we say to coughers, as long as it's in German.

Why all the well wishing to sneezers? The practice started thousands of years ago when they knew that anyone who sneezed was probs gonna die. But even back then, the sneezing part of a cold only lasted a day or two. If you survived that, the coughing phase could go on and on and on, which was irritating to fellow townspeople. Many sick bastards, relieved at having lived through all the sneezing, were clubbed to death because of a nagging cough. 

Discrimination against the cough should not continue because science has shown us the benefits of this healing reflex. But the matter will soon be moot, because the common cold has pretty much been eradicated by people sneezing and coughing into their inner elbows. 

Our Westie dog, Isa, has been limping around, not using her right rear leg. The vet, thinking that Isa may have a torn ACL, put her on bed rest today. "What does that mean exactly?" I asked, "because this dog is a person with no control over her impulses. Just watch what happens when I free associate with her." I turned to Isa. "Reesaronie-onaroo (it's a nickname), I'm going to hold up a flash card with a drawing on it. When I do, please hold up a corresponding image from your pile of cards. Okay. Ready? Here goes." I then held up a drawing of a squirrel.

Isa pawed her cards around on the vet's metal table and picked one up with her teeth. "Let the record show that she's mouthing a photo of people running from a tsunami," I said.

I held up a drawing of a bird.

Isa held up her card -- "Okay," I said. "This is some kind of ring of fire."

Then I showed her a drawing of a dog watching another dog on TV.

Isa held up her card -- "It's a grainy black and white photo of a mushroom cloud."

"Don't you see doc?" I asked. "Isa is a girl who can't be on bed rest. She jumps to the wrong conclusions, and then makes sudden, ungovernable and aggressive movements.  She's happy to go about all this with just the three legs."

"Keep her in a small space, carry her outside to do her business and put her on a leash once she's out in the yard," the vet said. "Give me a call after four weeks and we'll see how her knee is doing."

On the way home, I tried to talk to Isa. "Mrs. Muroney (another nickname), first off, you're a low dog and I never knew you had knees, so that's cool. Beyond that, I hope you heard what the doctor said. You're on bed rest now, for a month. I'm worried that you aren't going to get better if you keep flying off the handle."

"It's just hard for me to take four weeks off of my work detail," she said, "especially in autumn, when falling leaves could result in severe head lacerations. And you, Missy, with no alerts, could wind up in the freakin' hospital. But I'll do it to avoid surgery. I'm just gonna need you to fill in for me while I'm sidelined."

"Just give me a list," I said.

LIST

• the no fly zone around our house - bark like hell at any bird who enters it - don't worry i marked it all off
• rabbit pellet poop in the backyard - eat it and keep eating it until someone sees what you're doing
• the chipmunk who lives under the stone step at the back door - kill that crazy mo fo
• a wet suit hanging in the outdoor shower - i guess just keep your eye on that situation - the same goes for clouds
• when dad's home - follow him around the house with your concerned face on
• you know the drill on squirrels

Happier Days

"Get out of the tub, woman. We've got a situation."

Gifted and Talented Programs in elementary schools started in the upheaval and experimentation of the 1970s, and were then known as G & T Clubs.  Teachers, weary of overseeing kids with scraggly hair, sunburns, lawn dart injuries, fractured skulls and jean-made pants would meet for gin and tonics in a special room (the teachers' lounge) after pulling the smart kids out of class and dropping them off at the library for independent reading. 

Then, during the 1980's a national commission cited G & T Clubs as an example of how the quality of American schools had eroded. A quick-thinking representative of the American Federation of Teachers stated that it was all a misunderstanding -- and that the G stood for Gifted and the T stood for Talented. "Shit happens," said the commission, as people were wont to say back then, and the matter was dropped. Legitimate Gifted and Talented Programs were then put into place.

But problems persist, especially with the name of the program, which as we now know, was hastily thrown together. Calling the kids gifted and talented is off-putting and harmful to the children who are more dumb. Also, the words Gifted and Talented are redundant, which is poor writing, and hence not at all representative of these kids who are supposed to be able to string a good sentence together.

Here are some thoughts on how schools could address this issue: 

1. Change the name to Gifted and Talented: Academics, and rename all the clubs and sports teams in the same way. For example, the softball team would become Gifted and Talented: Softball. This tactic has worked extremely well for the producers of NCIS. 

2. Drop the word Gifted, which makes one feel as though these anointed kids wake up and eat frankincense and myrrh for breakfast (for those of you who don't know about frankincense and myrrh, it's what the wise men brought for baby Jesus to eat in the manger).

3. Keep the word Talented but put it in perspective for school kids by calling the group Born Lucky and Talented (BLT). This aw-shucks approach is more palatable to outsiders and it gives a wink to the original program from the 70's, which was named after something that tastes real good.

I've got a cold that has blown through me like it's a hurricane and I'm the Wait For It trailer park, just south of town. People give names to hurricanes, so I'm calling my cold Gus, which is short for Gusto and also Disgusting. Normally, I wouldn't gripe about my condition because really, who cares about someone else's cold? But Gus has been anything but common.

It's Wednesday morning now, and though I'm feeling a little bit so ravaged, I'm clearly on the upswing. Wasn't it just Monday morning, just two days ago, when I felt that little ahem-tickle in my throat? "Wait, am I getting a cold?" I asked myself. And then it happened -- that "Sixth Sense" moment when I realized I was already dead.  

By Monday afternoon, my throat was a sexual, free-for-all fire-pit for the lusty virus reproducing in my cells. Knowing that this was a real sin, my immune system released hordes of mucus nuns to fight the evil virus by entrapping it, and then making everyone involved feel dirty.

My usual cold remedies: Airborne, Motrin, Tootsie Pops and Hot Toddies* were ineffectual, so that night I sent my husband on a guest room sleep-away from my germs. Then I lay awake in our bed with unearthly pressure in my head. At one low point, I wanted to wake him and cry about my misery. But that would have been ridiculous overkill, like the people who phoned 911 when they got lost in a corn maze.

Yesterday, Tuesday, was a blur. Did the Terminix Man come while I was watching Bob's Burgers? That may or may not have happened. All I know is that at about 7 pm, Bo came home with Werthers Original candy, Cepacol extra strength cough drops and Mucinex (both day and nighttime formulas). He had been asking around about cold remedies at work and put this combination together to surprise me. It worked and I slept through the night.

Right now I'm feeling good and I'm hoping that Gus stopped here. If not, I hope that no one can trace his awfulness back to me, as cold tracing is something that we're all wont to do. 

The Team

*Hot Toddy Recipe:
 Some Tea
 Some Agave Nectar
 Some Lemon Juice
 Some Goslings Dark Rum

Lisa Taylor is my beautiful, brilliant, saucy, snapdragon demigoddess friend who just turned flompty-three. Since demigoddesses are both divine and earthly beings, the best way to honor one on her birthday is to sculpt her likeness out of produce. Then, go ahead and invite some friends over to eat her in effigy. 

You don't have to be super artistic like I am to build vegetable models of your loved ones for their birthdays. If you do take a stab at it, I'd say hair is the most important feature to replicate because it’s such a defining physical aspect of a person. Since Lisa is a sable-maned enchantress, whole black olives were perfect for her hair (note: I used sliced olives around the edges of the bowl to depict the alluring looseness of her curls).

Another recommendation: Study a photo of your subject to match your veggie dip to her skin tone. Lisa's ancestors are Lebanese, so I went with Annie's Tahini Goddess Salad Dressing™ because it captures her tawny Mediterranean radiance.

If you find that your guests aren’t eating your artwork because they don't want to destroy it, remind them that vegetable platter art is always meant to be temporary, like sand castles and ice sculptures. If that doesn’t work, get huffy and say, “Okay, well I'm not bringing out the steak tips till that thing is gone.” Then stand back and watch your get together become a Donner Party.

At the Dentist (continued from last time):

"We're all done now," Keratin said. "And I have to tell you that in all the years I've been a dental hygienist, I've never had someone sleep through a cleaning."

I yawned. "hmmmmm, yeah, that's the ThunderShirt Effect© for you (I hugged myself under the leaded x-ray apron). "But more than that," I said, "you're simply great at what you do. My mouth is super clean and I've never felt better. And I apologize if I've been hard to deal with. Let me run something by you, Keratin. Let's say that you're babysitting me and I lock my infant sister in my dad's banjo case. Let's say we pull her out on the early side and she's fine. Then I say I'm really sorry and we all go on to have a great night. Are you the kind of babysitter who would tell on me when my parents get home?"

"I'm telling the doctor that I think your x-ray is showing a cavity," she said. "And, hey, speak of the devil!"

Without saying hi to me, he walked behind my chair, directly to the laptop that displayed my x-rayed teeth. "Show me the money!" I heard him say to Keratin. Or he may have said, "Let's see what we have here."

"Right here," she pointed, "between 18 and 19."

"Yes, I see. Well, young lady, you have a cavity," said Dr. Cakehole (not his real name), as he came around to chat.

He sat down beside me and said, "Why are you wearing the x-ray..."

"It's fine," said Keratin. Just explain to her what's going on with the cavity." 

He started, "When we age, hormones change, saliva dries up, and gums recede."

"Shut it, Cakehole," I said. "Keratin has already explained to me that only young people get cavities, so I pretty much have the mouth of a six year-old, so this is all very flattering."

I peeled off the apron, jumped out of the chair, grabbed a novelty ring from the display (diamond: my birthstone) and went to the front desk to make a follow-up appointment. Driving away, I passed the old folks home that I'd been looking at when my appointment started. "Lucky them," I thought. "Many with no teeth. Practically babies."

At the Dentist (continued from last time):

"Wait though!" said Keratin. "Before I start to clean your teeth, let's get that heavy old x-ray apron off of you. I forgot you were still draped with it. Why didn't you say something?"

"Because I like it," I said.

"Don't be silly," she said, and she stood up to remove it from my torso.

"Keratin," I said, with my right hand blocking her. "If no one else in this office needs the x-ray apron right now, I'd like to wear it, please, if it's all the same to you."

"But why?" she asked.

"Okay, you've made me extremely anxious with this maybe-cavity and the x-ray apron's heaviness is having a dramatically calming effect," I said. "It's the same thing with my sister's Wheaton Terrier, Harry Potter. He's very disturbed by severe weather. But when he wears his thundershirt, he's able to collect himself."

"His thundershirt?" she asked. "Did your sister make that for the dog?" 

"Well, Keratin, you really can't make a ThunderShirt™, because the hugging feature of the design is patented," I said. "Its constant but gentle pressure has a soothing effect on Harry Potter's nervous system. Experts think that endorphins may be at work here. Keratin, you're a health care professional. Are you following me?"

"Yes."

"Can I wear the x-ray apron?"

"Yes. But only if my colleague, Cuspid (not her real name) doesn't need to take x-rays while you're here. Now can we get on with the cleaning?"

I closed my eyes, did a snuggle-in movement with my shoulders, and opened my mouth.

At The Dentist (continued from last time):

"Your saliva is probably fine," said the hygienist, Keratin (not her real name). "In any case, it's up to the doctor to decide if what I see here on the x-ray is a cavity or not. So we'll just wait and see."

She disappeared behind my reclined chair. SNAP! (her first glove). SNAP! (again). "Anyway," she said, "I'm thinking of buying a small SUV, either the Honda CRV or the Nissan Xterra." SNAP! (she's three-handed?) "Do you know anything about these two vehicles?"

"Aren't you supposed to wait until my mouth is full of dental instruments before you start probing me with questions? When vowel sounds are all I'm physically capable of making and I'm utterly inconsonant? Isn't this humiliating technique just another one of your power tools?" I asked her all of this.

Keratin sat down beside me, her shiny, pointy things tray within easy reach. She slipped her mask up over her mouth and looked at me.

"How do I know you're not sticking your tongue out at me right now, Keratin?" I asked. "Also, are dental hygienists unionized? And if so, don't you think it's high time that your guild change its professional title, which is highly degrading to the people you serve? Because when you call yourselves hygienists, you implicitly suggest that we can't go it alone on something as basic as hygiene. How about Mouth Attendant? It's way less biased. Stewardesses made this move about twenty years ago and everybody loved it."

"You're stalling," she said.

At The Dentist

As I stretched out and looked over my blue paper bib, between my parted boots and out through the picture window at the old folks home in the distance, she said, "You may have a cavity."

I spun my head around at the dental hygienist, who was looking at my x-rays that, earlier, I had tried to wriggle out of by saying that I had eaten after midnight. "That doesn't matter," she said. "I kind of ate a lot," I said. "Nope," she said.

Presently, regarding my possible cavity, I said, "Okay listen, that's impossible. I don't eat Warheads™ or Fun Dip™. Plus, I didn't know that 54 year-old girls could get cavities."

"When we age," she said, "hormones change, saliva dries up, gums recede."

"What are you? A hygiene expert?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Well, I have scads of saliva!" I said, "which will make itself apparent when I spit into this giant-tiny sink of yours, on which I see a plastic cup that you have already filled with water, which I won't even need because I make so much saliva. So that's a waste."

"We'll see."

"I can make saliva on command," I continued. "And just so you know, the command is:  Wed-ding-cake."

We saw David Sedaris on Martha's Vineyard last weekend and he told a great joke:

A woman went to the gynecologist for her annual check up. When the doctor was performing the exam, he said, "Wow, you have a huge vagina!...Wow, you have a huge vagina!"

She said, "you don't have to say it twice!"

"I didn't!" he said.

Margot has a summer internship at the New England Aquarium and the other day she called home to tell us that a man had just snuck into the building, hopped over a barrier and jumped into the giant, 27 ft. deep fish tank that contains sharks. "Apparently he was super drunk," she said. 

"What an oddball. Why would anyone do that?" I asked Bo.

"He probably needed to pee," he said.

I threw up in my mouth a little bit when I reread my chicken posting from today and saw that I wrote someone might "double over wrenching" instead of "retching." Plumbers with bad stomach bugs and no sick leave might double over wrenching but I certainly wouldn't wish that on anyone, especially not you Aldemir!

"We probably ought to eat that chicken." This is something we say a lot at home and it's not a big deal. We buy some chicken, refrigerate it, then ignore it for a couple of days because a bird in the hand is something no one wants to eat presently.

But if you hear someone say, "we probably ought to eat that chicken," when you've been invited to stay for dinner at your friends' house, you're allowed to torment yourself with disturbing thoughts. Unless you can sidle over to their econo-thigh-pak to eyeball that expiration date, you're at risk. There's no way for you to know what their standards are. In fact, who even are these assholes?

If you find yourself in this state of affairs, get out of there. Otherwise, it's on you if, as you're doubled over retching, you realize that you are what you ought to eat.

Dear Margot and Greta:

Because you seem eager for me to weigh in on your personal relationships, I'll caution you not to marry a brooding man. Brooders can be very attractive because they're intense and interesting, and they look like they need your love or at least some kind of assistance. A short term relationship with a brooder is fine -- it may even be a good idea, getting-it-out-of-your-system wise. For the long haul though, they might become tiresome, fun-sucking wise.

You might ask how to spot a brooder. A brooder is any guy who would not appreciate it if you rode your unicycle into a swimming pool at a summer party. In fact, he is apt to peel you away from the festivities entirely, preferring to go one-on-one, often when things are just starting to heat up. A brooder would not go with you to visit your sister in the hospital when you are wearing an opened-back johnny that reveals your novelty rubber butt boxers.  A brooder is likely to be seriously engaged in a particular activity that involves special equipment. This equipment might require roof racks for his car or maybe a guitar case. He won't like to joke about this pursuit and he'll not want it to be called a hobby. You get the picture.

How to avoid brooders, especially if you are just coming off of one? Well, they don't like to dance freely, wear costumes or be caught unawares/observe sudden movements, so for a short time, stick with hoedowns, Walt Disney World and surprise parties. Also don't make eye contact with solo kite surfers or guys at used record stores and you should be fine.

Always here for you,

Connie

This morning, while Greta and I were making breakfast and repairing some stuff in her apartment, it fell upon us to do several Google searches to answer the following questions:

•  Does it slowly poison you if you fry your eggs in a scratched Teflon pan? (No.)

•  Is it okay to use dish soap when cleaning cast iron cookware? (Yes, if you must.)

•  Can you re-energize a uncooperative suction cup? (Possibly.)

•  Who thought up hair shirts, long, long ago? (Credit goes to a team of shepherds and tailors. It was during the Ancient Commonwealth Games, in the final round of the Mortification of the Flesh event. Team Shepherd/Tailor took the gold, narrowly defeating Team Priest/Cobbler, who turned up in excruciating high heels.)

•  Who generally made the hair shirts back then? (Your mom could make a hair shirt for you if your family had goats lying around, but only if you were naughty and listed Self Flagellation Kit at the top of your Christmas list. If you were nice, you unwrapped a cashmere or pashmina shirt, the hair for which was taken from the soft undercoat of the goat. However, in Spain, moms had to make knock-off hair shirts from scraps of scratchy burlap because the family goat was due to be thrown off of the town church during a festival held every fourth Sunday of January.)

•  Do people wear hair shirts to this day? (A few men still do, usually tank tops.)

Reference hair shirt-tank top.

Margot is going into finals week and I told her I was thinking of good stuff to put into a care package for her. "Thanks, but please don't send me one," she said, "because having zero food forces me to leave my room. For me, a care package equals an isolation kit."

Greta is moving into her first apartment this week, so Bo and I asked her how she's planning to set it up. "Well I'm not even going to think of taking any of your furniture," she said, "until I check out Sundance and Anthropologie."

Recent thoughts on candy:

Bad Candy:

I took my dogs to the vet the other day and there was an uncovered bowl of candy sitting on a desk in the waiting room. Mostly I want candy and I have to call upon the "Just Don't Put It In Your Mouth" approach to resist it. But because of this candy's exposure to veterinary office stuff like dander, I observed myself not wanting candy for the first time. So from now on I'm going to mentally transport all the muffins, cupcakes, donuts and candy that come into our office to that desk at my dogs' doctor's office, in what will now be called "The Veterinary Maneuver." You can use it if you feel it would help.

Good Candy:

Bridget, who runs my husband's medical practice, was at a conference in Orlando last week. On the last day, it was announced that she had won a $6,000 piece of x-ray equipment in a raffle. She would not have been aware of her winnings, except for that her Butterfinger melted when she was out by the pool, so she went back into the conference room to get a freshie.

Good and Bad Candy:

Tootsie Rolls were the first individually wrapped candies made in the United States (1896). I love Tootsie Rolls so much, but only when they are thrown at me from slow moving floats during parades. If I'm in any other situation I really don't like Tootsie Rolls.

After weeks of doing serious research and writing boring blog posts, I'm ready to announce what will become the newest thing in glass wear and it's bowls. You laugh now, but pretty soon (well, not that soon, as we innovators typically operate years ahead of the hoi polloi) wherever you go to socialize (as long as you're hanging out with the right people), drinks will be served in bowls, probably ones called calabash bowls, which look like this: 

Why bowls? Well, everyone knows that people, especially men, love to cup things. When we begin to drink two-handedly from bowls, especially the calabash, which is a hollowed out and dried gourd, we will look and feel like we're living a natural lifestyle, which will be super in for the foreseeable future. Drinking thusly, we will appear to revere the earth and whatnot, as we lower our heads and bow to the bounty held within our basins. This is way cooler than what we do now, which is to throw our heads back unreflectively to quaff from mason jars like masters of the universe. Drinking from bowls requires concentration, and this focus will bring us to the present moment, which is where the people who are going to drink from bowls are always trying to be, so that's a win-win. 

There is an appealing communal aspect to drinking from calabash bowls, as societies from Asia, Europe and the Americas have been serving traditional drinks from large vats into calabash-style bowls during events like weddings, concerts and graduation parties for thousands of years. What I'm getting at here is that someone who is planning a large party should consider calabash bowls if he or she is thinking of going with a signature cocktail for the evening.

Since calabash bowls do not conduct heat, they are also perfect for hot drinks, like tea. Tea is no stranger to being drunk from bowls, as handled cups did not exist until around 1750 when an Englishman named Robert Adams invented handles because too many soft, pasty British palms of hands were being badly burned. Today only a few of us tough it out with handleless tea cups for reasons that are purely aesthetic. Soon though, when calabash bowls really catch on, they will be sold in ceramic form on Etsy, and after that at Pottery Barn, then at Home Goods, and then at Everything's a Dollar. At that point, hands will be scalded left and right, just like in olden times. The innovator in me says to apply for the Cardboard Coffee Bowl Sleeve™ patent at my earliest convenience.

Yesterday, an acquaintance came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Hey, why don't you stop writing about jars?" And I said something to him that he'll never forget. I spun right around and said, "I don't know. Why don't you stop writing about jars?"

Well I am going to stop writing about jars, because there isn't one that comes close to equaling the mason jar's charming allure as a drinking vessel. I'm probably just hours away from identifying for you what the newest thing in drinkwear will be. In the meantime, since we're all still in bed with mason jars, I will tell you that, at a party the other night, my friend Lisa Taylor showed me that it's possible to drink from one while at the same time experiencing a sense of well-being. Every time you take a sip, hunt down the area just before the threading begins. Put your lower lip there and tip the jar's opening toward your mouth. Then, if you close your eyes, you will get a load of what it was like to drink from a glass.

Photo by Con

There's no way that we're going to be sipping drinks out of apothecary jars when our mason jars inevitably go out of style. Why? Three words: 

But even though they are poor candidates to hold our vodka tonics this summer, apothecary jars have a fascinating history, which I'm happy to share with you. An apothecary was someone who used to mix up and sell "medicine." They also sometimes acted as primary care doctors and thoracic surgeons. I'm guessing that they said words like elixir, liniment and dropsy ad nauseam. Apothecaries had been at this for years, dating back to 2600 BC (Before Celebrex). Okay, this is confusing, but the stores that were owned by apothecaries were also called apothecaries. Interestingly, the U.S. Supreme Court applies this Apothecary Precedent as it continues to rule that corporations are the same as people. 

Then one time, after Old Man Gower, the apothecary in the film It's a Wonderful Life, boxed and bloodied young George Bailey's ears for not delivering cyanide to a super sick Bedford Falls resident, horrified Americans lost faith in these man/stores. And tout de suit a hysterical run on the bank ensued that led us all right to the Great Depression:

"You put something wrong in those capsules! It wasn't your fault, Mr. Gower!"

Now that you understand the history of apothecaries, you'll have some context for learning about the jars they used. Apothecary jars fell into two categories: 1) the practical kind that actually stored chemical compounds, and 2) the more decorative kind that were displayed in store fronts.

1) Apothecary Storage Jars

Like mason jars and French Kilners, these sturdy jars, with their industrial-chic flair, are great looking. They were often labeled in cool fonts and were required to be clear so the apothecary could verify their medicinal contents. If you go on eBay, you'll see that they are now highly collectible. But you wouldn't want to lick one, so again, bad drinkware. It's interesting to note that nowadays the storage of drugs is mostly the job of mason jars:

Mason, the world's busiest jar.

2) Apothecary Display Jars

Controversy surrounds display style, or show globe apothecary jars. This is because, when they were first introduced in 17th century England, they were mostly filled with different color liquids and people disagree about why that was. Some say it's because, since nobody except Shakespeare could read back then, apothecaries sent messages to the general public through the tints in their show globes: Red -- there is a plague in town, or Green -- ollie ollie out come free: 

The "Headeth F'r The Hills" Jar

Others say that the myriad colors found in show globes were formed from various tinctures that the apothecaries were making out back, and that by displaying them in their storefronts, they came off looking super busy, professional, and not a bit like warlocks. 

Next time: The Leyden Jar and then I promise I'm done.

We've all seen this kind of jar before, but we never cared enough to ask what it's called. I'm sorry, but this does not bode well for the French Kilner as it tries to replace the mason jar as the next it-glass at parties.

 The French Kilner Jar 

The French Kilner, or bail closure jar, was originally used for canning until it gave everybody botulism during the Great Depression. People generally now use French Kilner jars for storage and decoration. Kilners get high marks for looks -- who among us can resist those industrial design features? But can we be expected to use this jar to hold our beverages? Sure, we've grown accustomed to drinking around and over the screw threads of the mason jar, but we have our limits. I mean can you imagine having this thing come at you, like a million times, when you're trying to have fun at a party?  

So, no way. The French Kilner is off the table. Oh my god, here's a Kilner tripling as a cookie jar and a fat joke. If you own one of these, please get rid of it. You're making us all feel bad about ourselves. 

Buzz Kilner

Next time: Apothecary Jars as drinking glasses. Too creepy? 

I've been working all weekend for you people so that you can surprise your guests with trendsetting and beguiling drinkware. Can you honestly say that you've spent your free time so productively?

Picking up where we left off last time, I'm doing research to fill in this blank: _____?______ is the new mason jar. In full-on innovator mode, I've forcasted that those of us who serve drinks ironically to friends will not want to let go of repurposed jars in toto. At the same time, we want to maintain our status as early adopters of the hippest drinkware, and we don't want to get caught with our pants half empty.  

With these factors in mind, I asked myself this question: What other kinds of jars are out there from which we could possibly drink? 

The Cookie Jar 

These large, lidded, primarily ceramic jars were originally meant to induce feelings of happiness and the promise of a good time. Then, during the Great Depression, someone called a Katzenjammer Kid got caught with his hand in one of them. Cookies then became fattening, guilt-activating heartburn pellets, and they've continued in that mode to this very day. Cookie jars are now a symbol of shame for all Americans except for the very young and the rail thin. On the other hand, if you have one in your kitchen, newcomers will take it as a sign that you're a good person. Like the mason jar, cookie jars are now mostly used ironically, housing stuff like dog treats and compost. I'm going to give them a thumbs down for future must-have drinkware, mostly on account of the guilt thing. Why would we want to layer on more of that while we're cocktailing?

Next up: French Kilner Jars -- what are they and should we drink from them?