Bubbles

A long time ago, in a little town, in a little school, a little girl in 4th grade was handed an ominous looking booklet with the letters ITBS stamped on it. She was told by her teacher not to open it until the all clear was given. She was also handed an answer sheet that was filled with tiny little bubbles filled with tiny little letters. And her journey of standardized testing began.

My memories of that moment are dim but I do remember the novelty of the process. Being a nervous little Nelly, I was always afraid my pencil wasn't the required "Number 2" or that I would fill in the bubbles too much or too little, a grievous sin indeed. I glanced at the clock frequently because I knew at any minute the teacher was going to say, "Time's up. Put your pencils down." In all honesty, I have no idea how I did on the Iowa Test of Basic Skills. I suppose my parents received some information but they were never ones to dwell on such things unless there was a reason to be concerned. My school days seemed to chug along with the usual flow of math, reading, story time and jump rope contests. I never knew if I was smart or dumb (no comments from my sibs, please). I did know that I loved reading and I could go the rest of my life without ever participating in another field day.

Such is not the case today. Every one and every thing gets a rating. My dentist wants to know if my recent visit met my expectations. You mean, was it as traumatic as I thought is was going to be? Hmm, yes, as per my vivid imagination. The company I ordered a sweater from wants to know if my ordering process was as pleasant as I had hoped. Well, sure. It arrived without having been dragged under a bus first. My neurologist's office wants to know if I would recommend their services to others. Why not? I could do so if someone else is stuck with a crappy health issue.

Then there are those in the hospitality business. Namely, hotels, motels, campgrounds, yurts and glamps. Technology has made it such that with the click-clack of a few buttons every disgruntled user of such services can rate, post and rant about their stay. I have learned I cannot read too many online reviews before I travel or I will choose to sleep in my vehicle instead. On the flip side, there is the practice of some vacation rental sites of rating their guests. Case in point, a friend of mine was afraid to give honest feedback on a rental site for fear she would receive a lower rating herself. Good gracious, do we really need something else to worry about while we are on vacation? And will there be a hotel left standing after the trolls have their way with such places?

I think it is time to stop the insane ratings mania. I propose we go back to bubble sheets. It will involve a piece of paper, a stamped envelope and a number two pencil. It will also require a little time for pondering and true purpose. And at some point, we need to say, "Put your pencils down."

Frozen

My husband is a night owl and I am a morning lark, therefore, our usual routine is early to bed for me and late to bed for him. I often hear him puttering around between the kitchen and his man cave in the garage after I've settled in for the night. A few nights ago, I awoke to a little extra noise in the kitchen. Further investigation revealed an unwelcome intrusion as my husband declared the dreaded words, "The chest freezer in the garage isn't working."

Apparently, he had reached into said freezer for a fudgesicle, only to find a puddle of brown goo. The canary in the coal mine had spoken. No more freezer. He didn't want to waken me (too late) so he started wrangling foodstuffs into our refrigerator freezer. He went to the 24-hour convenience store to stock up on ice for coolers and loaded them with less fragile freezer items. Thanks to my husband's nightly ice cream routine, the problem was detected before all was lost. That being said, some items needed to be tossed and other food, such as the baked goods, had to be eaten before staleness set in. Bring on the cookies and sweet potato bread.

The next morning required a decision with our morning coffee, to fix or not to fix. A nanosecond of thought resulted in the fate of our faltering friend, time to unplug. R.I.P., dear Whirlly, you served us well. Whirlly was purchased shortly after we were married and, of course, her only repair happened a few months later. Because my husband and I are incredibly lucky people, the part needing replacement was a few weeks past warranty so, ouch, another expense during the lean years. It was smooth sailing after that and despite being a little worse for the wear, she put up a good fight during her forty years of chilling.

Whirlly was home to countless packages of home baked cookies, bars and breads. She hosted containers of chicken soup, wild rice soup and vegetable beef soup, awaiting a rainy day. Bags of frozen pesto cubes saved their herby pungency for the dead of winter. Pork, lamb and beef kept each other company until it was time for grilled chops, lamb stew or our family's "comfort casserole." Whirlly often came to the rescue for occasions such as the annual cookie fair fundraising event at my daughter's school when twelve dozen pecan tassies had to be baked and stored for a couple of weeks. Umpteen bags of ice spent time with Whirlly, as well as fudgesicles, popsicles, ice cream sandwiches and buckets of Schwan's vanilla ice cream. And she never passed judgment when a stray package or two got lost in the shuffle and had to be disposed of rather than used in a timely manner.

When the appliance store truck "deet-deet-deeted" its way back into our driveway and loaded up dear Whirlly, I resisted the urge to play the theme song of Frozen but I did nod my head with a farewell of thanks. I hope her shiny new replacement hums along as well as she did.

Time to bake a few more cookies.