Last week my sister told us that a kid at her school asked who would win in a potential match-up between an owl and a coyote.

The child’s question captivated me. I initially decided a coyote would win because they’re lean and mean killing machines. But an owl has the advantage of flight and could pick up a coyote with its sharp talons, so advantage owl, right?

Then I decided I couldn’t be sure what would happen if the owl touched down and stood face-to-face with a ticked off coyote.

Regardless, a 6-year-old boy and I apparently share similar thoughts. Some years ago, I devoted a column to an ongoing discussion my youngest niece and I have regarding who would win if a shark and a lion fought.

I decided on those two combatants because of the shark’s reputation as a dead-eyed assassin and because the lion is known as the King of the Jungle. In hindsight, I should have selected a tiger because that majestic animal is a beast and the real king.

Days after my sister told us about the inquisitive little boy’s query, I asked if his question had been answered to his satisfaction. She said it had not because he had moved onto other questions like who would win between a lion and a tiger and a shark and a whale.

I gave the correct answer – tiger – to the first question. Indeed, my sister said the teacher researched these questions for the child and that was the consensus. But my answer – shark – to the second question was wrong.

Admittedly, I do not tune in to Shark Week programming. I’m more of a Big Cat Week kind of gal. Nevertheless, this answer rocked my world. I’ve seen Finding Nemo. I’m aware of dangers that lurk in the waters, but I’ve long considered the shark to be the tiger of the ocean. Now you’re telling me a whale can kill a shark?

My nephew-in-law, who is a Shark Week kind of guy, said that killer whales are living up to their names as killers. In fact, they’re killing sharks for their…livers. I guess killer whales are suffering from iron deficiencies.

I had so many questions including: Is this a new turn of events? Have whales just developed anemia? Have they just recently learned sharks have livers? Are they removing only the livers? If so, how?

I asked a couple of these question before saying, “No, I don’t want to know.”

But I did want to know. So, I consulted our friend Google. I found a story, read a couple paragraphs, and decided that I do not, in fact, want to know.

However, now I want to know who would win a match-up between a killer whale and a tiger.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

August is my least favorite month.

Until a few weeks ago, I’m not sure I had shared this opinion with anyone. But during a meeting, a friend/coworker expressed her antipathy for the month, and I said something like, “OMG! I hate August, too!”

Then, she and I proceeded to discuss why we abhor August. Granted, we didn’t get further than the oppressive heat, but even if that’s the only reason to hold a grudge against August, it’s enough. After all, when you’re already sweating before breakfast, you have just cause. Indeed, one recent August day, I perspired whilst sitting under a ceiling fan and with the air conditioning running. No thank you, August.

Regardless, I have other reasons to give the month side eye. During my formative years, I was forced to return to school every year during August. As I was not a fan of school, I guess this time of the year will always trigger unpleasant feelings and memories as well as the smell of paint. Why? Because the school rooms received fresh coats of paint during the summer. I’m getting a migraine just thinking about it.

After hearing from my friend/coworker, I wondered if others shared our negative views of August. I researched the matter and found a 2021 YouGov survey that asked respondents to select their favorite and least favorite months. According to their poll, August ranked as the third least favorite month, coming in behind only January and February.

Not every month can be October, which was selected as the favorite month, but I was surprised by August’s ranking. After all, it’s part of summer and I thought everyone but me loved summer.

Thus, I conducted more research and learned that, beyond the heat, people dislike August because of what it represents – the end. It’s the end of summer (splashing in the pool, grilling outdoors, working in the yard or garden), the end of freedom (going back to school), the end of longer days, etc. Endings usually give people a case of the sads, so maybe I’m not the only one triggered by unpleasant feelings and memories this time of year.

Of course, as I told my friend/coworker, August isn’t all bad. When the month’s oppressive heat and depressive endings give me a bad case of the sads, I remind myself that August means the NFL season can’t be far behind.

Hey, whatever gets me through the month.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

When friends, family members, and coworkers introduce me to people, they oftentimes mention that I write a newspaper column. These new people frequently respond by tilting their heads or raising their eyebrows, as if they assume I attempt to establish political discourse or sway public opinion with my words. To disabuse them of these notions, I quickly explain that my columns are instead meant to entertain readers with nonsensical slice-of-life musings.

For the most part, I don’t focus on serious issues in this-here space. Instead, I want readers to know they can come here for a chuckle or two, usually at my expense.

But I don’t feel like chuckling this week.

I suffer from insomnia, so I heard the heavy rains Wednesday night into Thursday morning. By the way, it didn’t help the insomnia. But I finally drifted into sleep and when I woke Thursday morning and checked my messages, I learned flooding had occurred near my niece’s house. Fortunately, she and her family had been spared.

As I would soon learn, so many others weren’t as fortunate.

The photos and videos coming out of counties such as Knott, Letcher, and Breathitt here in Eastern Kentucky left me shaken. When a friend told me he believed this would surpass the destruction of the 1977 flood, I initially doubted him. Despite the evidence, I was in denial.

Then I heard the death count and that they couldn’t get an accurate tally on the number of missing people. They expected the death count to rise. As of this writing, it has and is.

Due to these sobering facts and the horrific images that continued to come from neighboring counties, it didn’t take long for me to snap out of my denial.

Since then, I’ve vacillated between anger, sadness, and gratitude.

Anger because that’s my default emotion and because of looting. Anyone who goes into a flooded home or business with the intention of stealing deserves to contract a bacterial infection.

Sadness doesn’t need an explanation.

Gratitude because of the outpouring of help. From meals to water to cleaning supplies, there has been no shortage of donations.

People have also offered of themselves. On Thursday, I saw a photo of a 17-year-old girl in Whitesburg. The girl sat on the top of a house with her dog. After the family’s home flooded, she placed her dog in a carrier that would float and swam to that housetop. She and the dog remained there, on top of that house, for hours until they were rescued by a kayaker.

As I sat down to compose this column, a friend sent me a video titled Chloe’s Story, which showed the rescue of Chloe and her dog. My friend wrote that it was good to see that story come full circle.

At least that’s what I think she wrote. It was hard to read with watery eyes.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

I don’t have an Amazon Prime subscription.

I’ll understand if that admission causes you to quit reading and/or to report me to the authorities.

This subject came up last week when a friend suggested I watch a movie via Prime. I haven’t told her about my lack of a relationship with Prime. I suppose she’ll find out when she reads this. I’ll understand if she unfriends me in real life and/or on social media. In fact, when I revealed this shocking truth to another friend, she literally gasped.

Anyway, a few years ago I did share a discounted Prime subscription with the sisters and nieces. I wasn’t impressed. Call me unreasonable, but when you promise me next day shipping, then I expect my orders to arrive the next day.

When I consulted with longtime Prime subscribers about this discrepancy, they explained that not every item is eligible for next day shipping. Or even two-day shipping.

Oh, and so it was a coincidence that every item I ordered happened to be ineligible for one- or two-day shipping?

Right.

A Prime subscription also offers you access to oodles of TV shows and movies. There’s also a catch to that. You have to pay extra to gain access to many of those oodles. When I consulted with longtime Prime subscribers about this discrepancy, they literally asked me, “You didn’t know that?”

Apparently not.

Is this something everyone in the galaxy is supposed to have knowledge of when they are born? On what page is Amazon Prime listed in the instruction book on life? Is it before or after the listing for how you can’t put aluminum foil and other metals in the microwave?

Why should I think I would need to pay extra to watch shows and movies? Call me unreasonable, but when you promise me access, then I expect access with my paid subscription.

Regardless, when our discounted subscription expired, we did not renew. I haven’t missed it. In the ensuing time, I have never felt the urge to click on a trial membership when given the offer.

This seems to confuse people. They react much like my friend who gasped. When I explain that I don’t need Prime because I don’t place many orders – I have ordered from Amazon only four times this year – they counter that I could order so much more if I had Prime.

That seems unreasonable.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

This weekend I became consumed with figuring out how my family received the packages my mom ordered from Sears when I was a wee lass growing up on the Goff Estate.

Now, you might be saying to yourself, “Self, is that all she has to think and/or worry about?”

No, but it was better than thinking and/or worrying about the health and well-being of people I love, so that’s what my mind chose to do.

This, some might say, obsession arose from a conversation one of my besties and I had about, you guessed it, the Kmarts. During our discussion, I told her I was fairly sure our Christmas presents came from the Sears catalog.

Indeed, I can remember hearing my mom order all sorts of merchandise. She’d sit at the kitchen table, with the receiver from the yellow rotary phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other, saying, “Page 40, item number 720XTC, color red, quantity one.”

So, that got me thinking…how did the merchandise get to the Estate? What’s more, there was no Internet back then. How did she track those packages?

There also weren’t delivery vans zipping up and down the holler with frequency back in the day, so I ruled out front-door deliveries.

While I didn’t rule out mailbox delivery, I felt sure that’s not how the packages arrived at the Estate because in the summers, I made the long walk to get the mail.

What’s that? Oh, our mailbox did not sit outside the estate. It was a half-mile or so (I have never gotten out a tape measure and marked off the distance) down the holler. We shared the mailbox with two or three – or more — other houses/relatives. It occurred to me as a teen that people who only knew our address would think all of us lived in the same estate instead of on estates of our own.

During the summers, my cousin and I usually volunteered to walk to the mailbox. We would leave our houses as our moms yelled out warnings to watch for snakes. Unless an unfamiliar vehicle wandered up the holler, retrieving the mail was the highlight of our day.

Anyway, I don’t remember many or any large packages arriving in the mailbox.

So, how did we get our hands on that merchandise? I decided to ask my mom.

She and my sister didn’t say so, but I got the impression they suspected I had suffered a stroke. After they exchanged knowing glances, one of them simply said, “We picked them up at the Sears store.”

Oh, yeah, that makes sense. After they said so, I can remember frequent trips to the store. Nobody needs that many appliances.

Dern. I just remembered I forgot to ask Mom how she tracked her orders.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

If you watched the Olympics, then you probably saw the commercial featuring Walter the cat.

The commercial advertises a truck of some sort, but that is not the point. The point is that Walter is wonderful. He fishes. He herds cattle. He fetches a ball. He chases a stick. He trees other cats. He gathers firewood. He relaxes in the bed of the truck with his human.

As someone who is sensitive to the anti-feline propaganda that we cat people are subjected to on a near-daily basis, I am thrilled that cats are finally receiving some good press. Usually, if cats are in the news, it’s because a study has determined they’re plotting to kill humans or are actively killing birds.

Whatever.

Walter performs the aforementioned tasks as Harry McClintock’s “Big Rock Candy Mountain” plays. Yes, I had to look that up. The actor who plays Walter’s human seemed familiar to me, so I looked him up, too. He also played the Dilly Dilly King in the beer commercials that aired a couple years ago.

I did not enjoy those commercials.

Indeed, as I am a sensible person, I do not enjoy most commercials. So, it’s a good thing my streaming service comes with record and fast-forward options. I watched the Olympics semi-live, though. Hence, that’s how I came to meet Walter.

But watching the Olympics semi-live meant I was also subjected to some duds, most of which were meant to tug at my heart. Instead, they made me reach for the remote.

Other than Walter, the only commercials I enjoy feature the patient man who’s trying to prevent homeowners from becoming their parents and the ones that showcase Flo the wacky yet proficient apron-wearing insurance salesperson and her crew.

In fact, I think the patient man who’s trying to prevent homeowners from becoming their parents hawks the same insurance as Flo and her crew. Let me give you a pro tip: If you can’t remember what product a commercial is trying to convince you to buy, assume it’s insurance.

The emu and the half-man/half-motorcycle peddle insurance – possibly the same brand, I can’t remember – in two separate, but equally ridiculous advertising campaigns. Trust me, if you haven’t been subjected to these duds, they’re as bad as they sound.

Commercials are so stupid that a jewel like Walter should be celebrated. No, it doesn’t make me want to purchase a truck. But it does make me want to teach the cat army to herd cattle.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

I promise you that I am not a hoarder

Indeed, I abhor clutter.

However, I have a couple areas of concern. That is why a box of allegedly important papers awaits my attention. I hang onto these important papers for weeks. Okay, months. Okay! Years! As I told the lady at Big Lots the other day, one never knows when one will need that receipt for Starbursts.

My biggest area of concern – vis-à-vis this topic – is that I have trouble replacing and/or discarding certain items. For example, I wear socks until they sport holes and thin spots that you can read through. Then, when I finally buy new socks, I keep the holey thin socks. Why? No good reason.

Of late, it became apparent that I needed to discard my frying pan. Actually, it wasn’t apparent to me. I blamed user error for the reason all the food I made in that frying pan burned. No. The coating had worn off, so I tossed the frying pan into the trash.

I shopped around for a frying pan and considered splurging on one that costs seven bucks. But my niece recommended another one that costs much more. That made me think that perhaps seven bucks didn’t represent the best use of my funds.

I continued shopping around and found a cookware set that contained three frying pans as well as two saucepans and a casserole pan. (Or as we call them at the Goff Estate – kettles.) Hmm. My kettles have seen better days. The inside of one looks jaundiced. And it would be kind of exciting to have more than one frying pan.

This set was kind of fancy, though, but it was on sale, and I had a coupon. My final cost would be less than half the original price, which I will not share unless you and Stefano Dimera administer a truth serum to me. I consulted the abacus and if I multiplied the cost of the frying pan my niece recommended by three and added in the price of three kettles, well, it would be more than this fancy cookware set. I know a deal when I see one.

So, I placed the order.

The cookware set arrived and, let me tell you, it is splendid. Per the directions, I washed the set in warm soapy water. Then, I cleared out a space in the cabinet for it.

Yeah, I had to clear out a space because I’m keeping the other kettles, including the one with chronic jaundice.

This reminds me of other kettles I held onto. I’m not sure how I came in possession of them. It could have been that someone in my circle was fixing to discard them, and I was like, “Hey, if you don’t want those, may I have them?”

Anyway, my parents subsequently gave me a cookware set for Christmas and the kettles I bummed subsequently rusted. One day, my dad, the late great Burton Goff, spotted a rusty kettle at my house and asked why I was using a kettle is such disrepair.

After I explained to him that I didn’t use it, he asked why I had a kettle in such disrepair.

No good reason.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.

From time to time, people in my orbit encourage me to share my housekeeping and life tips with you, my dear readers. (By the way, I believe some of these tips could be considered hacks. However, I use the term hack only when referring to the unauthorized access of technology or when trying to rid my throat of phlegm

Anyway, I’ve shared tips in this-here column in the past. For example, I consider best buy dates to be recommendations. While that’s actually more of a philosophy, it becomes a tip when I remind you to watch out for mold on bread and cheese.

I might have also shared my favorite housekeeping tip. If you see unexpected company pulling into the driveway – or if you have expected company headed your way – and you spot a tower of clutter in a room that will be viewed, simply scoop up that clutter and deposit it in a closet. Problem solved.

Here are a few more:

• If you wash your clothes in cold water, you can wash all colors together, saving on detergent and water and electricity. I’m not sure who shared this life-changing nugget with me, but I hope I bought him or her a box of chocolates. As my family members frequently complain about sorting clothes and separating them by color, I doubt if the advice came from any of them. A note of caution: On occasion, a brightly colored article will bleed onto other articles, so be safe.
• Speaking of washing…I have recently started tossing scrub sponges and Mr. Clean Magic Erasers into the wash. Although I haven’t conducted a scientific experiment, it appears that the cleaning supplies can only be washed once. Indeed, they fall apart after the second washing. But tossing them into the washer after one use instead of tossing them into the trash doubles their life expectancies.
• Speaking of Magic Erasers…due to the COVID, I started dying my own hair. Although my technique has improved, I still get hair dye on my skin. Sometimes, I just let it go because it will eventually fade. But if I’m going to be around humans, I don’t want to be seen with dyed skin. After one dye job, I said to myself, “Self, I wonder if that Magic Eraser will bring this glob of hair dye off your forehead?” The good news is that it did. The bad news is that it also brought the skin off my head. So, this tip is don’t apply a Magic Eraser to your skin.

This post originally appeared in the Appalachian News-Express.