Innovators have a knack for spotting trends, but to stay on our game, we always do our homework. I promised my readers that I'd jump out ahead of the curve on the next glassware craze -- the one that will have us all canning our mason jars -- and I'm heavily into the fact finding part of this journey.

But let's start with my gut, who tells me that, as a society, we are simply not done with the repurposing of jars as drinking glasses, even though the mason jar brought with it some noteworthy downsides, namely, lip gashes and clothing stains due to thribbles (dribbles from threading at mason jar opening). On the other hand, jars bring a wink of coziness to a dinner party, and they can be popped into the dishwasher at clean up time, unlike the crystal we would normally use, which has to be hand-washed in water that is room temperature, and then dried with a soft cloth -- all this right when you want to crash.

Let's start our research by looking at the essential features of a mason jar to see how it gained popularity in the first place:

Okay, I don't know if you were shrewd enough to notice, but the name Ball is embossed saucily onto these jars, with Mason shoved down as a stiff all-right-already acquiescence at the bottom. Upon noticing this phenomenon, I immediately smelled controversy. I guess I also have a knack for spotting trouble, because apparently, in the late 1800s, the Ball Family got wind that the patent for the Mason Improved Fruit Jar had expired. So they rushed in and started producing the jars, newly emblazoned with their company logo. The family also added the word "perfect" before "Mason," implying that the Masons had botched the whole damn process from the get go. Historical note: This is where the phrase, "having the Balls to do something like that" originated. 

Wait. Are you seeing what I'm seeing? Stay with. My unearthing of this ugliness is the first chink in the mason jar stronghold. I mean, knowing what we now know, what kind of person wants to sit down at a beautiful picnic and see Balls every time he or she has to take a drink (although I think they do some version of this on Saturday nights at Connecticut College). 

What this means is that my window to identify the hottest new glass trend is closing, so I need to get cracking today and Sunday, which is fine. Sometimes we innovators are way too busy at home thinking to have weekend plans.

I haven't written anything lately because of some injuries I sustained while drinking out of a mason jar. I cut my face up pretty badly on a savagely jagged thread at the jar's opening. Puzzler: why do they have to put that screw-shaped stuff right where your mouth goes? 

The jar that got me had been chipped up during the time that Bo was using our mason jars out in the garage to organize his nails and screws and washers. But when I found out that these jars were being re-repurposed for household glassware, I ran right out there and dumped all that whatnot on his workbench. When he objected, I said, "Don't be silly! And also, can you straighten up the garage? We're having people over for drinks in mason jars." 

That same week, I scalded the palm of my right hand when I served myself some nice, hot black coffee in a mason jar. And yes, I did know that they make mason jars with handles like this one:

But I refuse to purchase these things because I'm a purist and it looks all wrong and makes no sense. Next thing you know, people will start putting lids on coffee cups.


But today my pain level is down to the point where I can almost think about something to write. And though my right hand remains bandaged, I can still type about 40 WPM (Words Per Minute) with my left hand going it alone. So here's what's on my mind. We all know that pretty soon, none of us will be drinking out of mason jars and we'll move onto something else to drink out of. Just like when we quit drinking out of baskets and started drinking out of mason jars. I'm going to figure out what that next thing is. And just so you know, this will make me the innovator, you guys the early adopters, and the people who continue using mason jars, the dirty laggards. 

Next time: Get a jump on cutting edge glassware. 

Some people are mad about my last blog post because 1) it was crude and 2) I never came up with a way to remember how to spell mnemonic. Well sorry, some people, but 1) I am not ashamed of my Vulgar Images and Acronyms Brisk Learning Experience (VIABLE) test preparedness method. It's a winning technique and you are lucky I decided to share it with you at no charge, and 2) the word mnemonic is tough to wrastle with. 

The word wrastle is old English for wrestle, most famously used by Geoffrey Chaucer, the Father of English Literature, who wrote: Who wrastleth best naked, with oil enoint. I'm sorry if that is too crude for some people. If I were helping Margot and Greta study for an English Literature class, using the VIABLE method, and they had to memorize who wrote, "Who wrastleth best naked, with oil enoint," I would recommend: Oily Naked Author: Poet Geoffrey Chaucer.

My sister Julie just called me up to say that she's having a hard time spelling mnemonic, and she asked me to come up with a device to help her remember the word's letters in the correct order. "Why do you care how to spell it?" I barked. "Have you signed up to retake the SAT? You know what this reminds me of? This reminds me of the time you called me to say that you just tried to join the Army, but you couldn't, because you failed to meet the enlistment requirement that you must ship out to basic training prior to your 35th birthday!" Then I hung up on her.

But now, of course, I can't think of anything else but helping my sister with a device for mnemonic. So I'm sitting down right now to figure it out, which means that you people are getting in on the ground floor of this thing.

I know why Julie called me and not my brother or sisters for assistance on this. I used acronyms and other word play to help my kids prep for tests ever since they were in elementary school, and not only did they get good grades, they also loved the process. This is because it was the only time I encouraged them to use foul language. 

I've told you this before, but when I was young I traded on dirty jokes, bodily functions and swears. I learned these things quickly and with staying power. So I let the girls slip in off-color words and concepts to enhance their studying. For example, if a science test's study guide included The Properties of Metal (Malleable, Hard, Shiny, Conductive, Dense, Melting point, Corrosion), the best way to remember that would be: Mr. Henbock smokes crack during metal class. Bringing teachers into the equation is always a winning strategy.

During these pre-gaming sessions, Bo would invariably look up and ask, "Why don't you just have them learn the actual stuff?" 

"You're being silly," I'd say. "Now, Margot, what did we decide on the capital of Kenfucky? Are we going with Frankfart? Or is Fartfort more of a hook?" 

Now I'll share with you something Greta announced before a World History test that I can't believe hadn't occurred to me as a kid: "The capital of Thigh-land is Bang-Cock."

One of my most inspired knowledge cramming tactics was directed at Margot when, late one night, after reviewing for hours to ace an American History exam, she couldn't remember how many US Supreme Court justices there are. The other a-thousand study facts were jammed into their protective virtual wordplay envelopes. "It just won't go in!" she finally cried out. 

"Hold on. I'll be right back," I told her, and I went to my room to grab Jon Stewart's book called, America. When I returned, I looked at her and uttered the classic parental line, "Kiddo, this is gonna hurt you way more than it hurts me." Then I showed her this page:

When she looked up I asked her again, "How many justices are on the US Supreme Court?" 

"Nine," she wept. "There are nine."

I'll start by telling you that I adopted four cats earlier this morning, though at the time, I couldn't understand why. I never wanted cats at all until yesterday, and now look at me. Anyway, in the parking lot of the animal shelter, I assigned each cat a name, and then we all headed over to the grocery store to buy them something to eat. I was in the dairy aisle, reaching for a carton of milk when it hit me like a ton of non-clumping cat litter. 

We rushed home, the cats and I, and we pulled up that "waste milk?" commercial I've watched and talked about so often this week. We slowed it down to take it in carefully, frame by frame, and there it was. At around 5 seconds in, this image appeared -- and then it was gone:

"Okay here's what's happening!" I blurted to Blancmange, Guernsey, Aulait and Colostrum, "You guys drink milk. This is an ad trying to get people to adopt cats so that they'll buy more milk. It's a classic example of subliminal advertising."

I'm leery about advertisers incorporating subliminal directives into their commercials and promotions, because I'm easily triggered by these kinds of messages. While in high school, I got in big trouble for lying nude on the bleachers after "not seeing" this crafty, sexy lady in a photograph on a vending machine.

"Stop grooming yourselves and listen!" I implored the cats (it turns out that cats groom themselves for one-third of the time they are awake). "The Milk People are trying to increase sales by going beneath the threshold of our awareness to demonstrate other uses for their products. Let's see what else they've snuck into this thing." And sure enough, around the 10th second, this image popped up:

At the :15 mark:

At twenty seconds:

And finally, at twenty-five seconds:

Okay, this last hidden frame that shows Robert Redford washing Meryl Streep's hair is off the mark. He was actually using water, not milk. But no woman who's viewed this scene from "Out of Africa" ever really got over it. And who buys the most milk? Women. So, touché Milk Guys. Touché.

I'm using my blog today to blow the whistle on our nation's milk processors. Stop the tricks and stick to promoting milk's protein count honestly! Now I must go. Helga has drawn a bath for five.

I must have watched the "waste milk?" commercial from yesterday's blog post 10 times, mostly because I couldn't believe my eyes. There was so much milk blowing out of so many people in so many places. Here are some things that stood out for me right off the bat: 

1) the empowering milk wind turbine coming out of the little boy -- it's too close to his bottom. 

2) the milk parachute helping the overwhelmed dog walker gain control -- too much whole-body rapture upon its deployment.

3) the milk power boost that jump-starts the basketball player -- why is it issuing from the front of his shorts? 

4) the milk vortex charging up the garage band -- I kind of get that because of the classic garage band/milk connection. But the musicians should be playing inside the garage, otherwise they are classified as a driveway band and that is a dead end for a group like this. However, maybe the mom who owns the house told them to go outside because the family cars and power tools aren't holding up under the routine milk dousing, so I understand the band's predicament. And I feel sorry for the actor who portrays the guitar player on the left, the one with the hair. He's never going to live this down.

5) the staircase in the final scene -- it's exquisite. They really nailed that!

MilkPEP -- Milk Life Anthem

After 20 years, The Milk Processor Education Program (MilkPEP) is shelving its "got milk?" advertising program. It's being replaced by a fascinating new campaign entitled "waste milk?"               

   

This new commercial has made us all feel really weird,

but there's no sense crying over it.