Sometimes the best Christmas memories of gifts received aren't the ones where we were the recipient of the gift at all but instead were among those privileged to witness the exchange.
I would be hard pressed to name a specific Christmas that was "the best" for me growing up as a child in the days where toys pretty much were only displayed in stores for two months out of the year and where children only received toys twice a year at Christmas and on birthdays. No one that I can even think of in our large, kid-filled neighborhood got toys in the middle of the year unless somebody was lucky enough to maybe have an aunt or uncle come to town bearing gifts like the 3 wise men in June but even this was pretty rare. There was just something so exquisite about the day when the Sears Christmas catalog arrived and each of us kids would take turns at the breakfast table for the next month or so turning the pages and marking our "wants" from Santa. Those wants changed as the days drug by; President Andrew Jackson's "Kitchen Cabinet" never made any more important executive decisions than we did if we decided to change one of our "big" presents on the list. It never occurred to any of us as to the reason that we had to circle stuff in the catalog anyway; after all we always sat on the old man's knee down at the Roebuck Shopping Center (except for my sister who was scared to death of Santa although she claims not to have been but that is another story for another day) and recited our well-rehearsed and multi-bullet-pointed verbal list of what our hearts desired for him to load on the sleigh that year. Somehow the explanation that Sears had a direct line to the North Pole sufficed and we wore that catalog out, each dutifully taking our turn with it at the breakfast table with care not to rip any of the pages.
My Christmases past are filled with achingly exquisite wonderful merriment and adventure of growing up in Sherwood Forest along with a bunch of other kids just like myself who wanted and got a Barbie doll, a three-speed bike, a skateboard or maybe Rockem-Sockem Robots at some particular time in some unnamed year and there was much peace on earth and good will toward men. By noon on Christmas we were all out in the street sharing our loot, showing off whatever the "best" prize (in our opinion) happened to be that was under our tree that morning and playing together like it was any other day of the year because by noon on Christmas well, it pretty well was.
Growing up in Birmingham the smokestacks of Southern Electric Steel cast a long shadow. Steel was King and if your daddy didn't work for a public utility or in insurance he pretty much worked in a steel mill. Daddy was a foreman over the melt shop. This meant that he never worked a 9:00 to 5:00 job and the work shifts meant that he wasn't at home with us a lot during our waking hours growing up. He had to miss out on a lot to make a living for the five of us. But on this one particular Christmas Eve morning he was at home in bed. As a matter of fact we were all still in bed because it was very early when there was a knock at the front door. I don't remember who got up first, mother or daddy, but one of them did. And there followed an exchange of voices at the door and with my mother becoming as vocally animated as a school girl while she and daddy and this unknown third voice all talked excitedly together (at least from what I could hear from the bedroom) and then I heard something being huffed and puffed in to the house. I knew it was for her because I could never ever remember my mother being so downright giddy before; she was far too sensible and a good Baptist besides. But there it was, I could hear it in her voice. I rolled over in bed just letting the excitement of whatever it was that involved my mother being so happy wash over me like bubbly, swishy Seven-Up. She and my daddy were like two kids in the kitchen along with this unnamed third person. I guess I must have finally gotten up to see what the fireworks were all about and ran in to the kitchen to find the Sears delivery man rolling in a brand new portable dishwasher. You know, the kind with the hose attachment that affixed to the kitchen faucet (built-ins were still for the idle rich back then) and as big as bulky as a small chest freezer but for us as fine a work of art as the Taj Mahal--no more washing dishes in the sink! My mother was mouthing those sweet exchanges with my daddy about how he shouldn't have spent so much money on her and my daddy, who at that particular moment appeared to be ten-feet tall in my eyes was whispering back that he wanted her to have it and that he'd been saving his money for it and that he loved her--I actually have no idea what they were saying but it all appeared to be what I've just written or something close because she was hugging him and we kids were all dancing around our new dishwasher and we were so happy because they were so happy! This was going to be something to brag about to my friends in the neighborhood--"my daddy got my mother a dishwasher for Christmas...oh don't worry about using a clean plate, it's ok, we'll just put it in the DISHWASHER when we're finished..."
It's hard to surprise a mother at Christmas. And after having been one for many years I know this even more to be true. We are the orchestrator of so much at Christmas that it's sometimes very hard for our loved ones to truly pull off a surprise. But on that one special morning, the day before Christmas, my mother was as surprised as any child would ever have been when they woke up to find that Santa had brought them something magical. And she loved that dishwasher. And we loved our daddy for buying it for her.
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Saturday, December 24, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Remembering
9-11, 2001, found me in Gulf Shores with my family and it was there that we watched in horror as the tragic events of the day unfolded like pages in a guest book at Jefferson Memorial. I think being away from home made it seem even more surreal, more cold (as if the killing cold could have been any more bitter) almost like it was happening someplace else and not here in "you can't touch this" America. There's just something about being in your own home with its familiar intimacies that make things seem more, well, "real". I think that must be why so many people feel the need to get away after suffering a personal tragedy, maybe somehow the impersonal-ness of a hotel room in a strange city must give some a temporary respite from the pain of reality? (God never said that there wouldn't be pain, He promised that He would be with us during it.)
Since we didn't come home from the beach until late that next weekend it wasn't until I went back to work on Monday that I was finally able to talk to friends about what had happened that past Tuesday, about where they'd been when they heard the news and about how their own lives had been affected. I think that God created in us an innate desire to bond, to cling, to share those common experiences with fellow human beings. You might say that we unconsciously create our own unofficial group therapy sessions as the need arises as part of the mechanics of coping. (Women, I must say, seem to have more of those bonding genes than men and we aren't afraid to call a therapy session in a heartbeat.)
Today in church we watched a short video of remembrance about 9/11/2001. And as I sat there and watched it I realized that almost all of the young children who had been in the early part of the service to share in a second-grader's baptism were not even born then, that the only thing that they will ever know about that day will be through the media and whatever we who were here then, tell them. It made me think about Pearl Harbor and my generation. We weren't around then. I've only read about it or watched film clips of it. My parents lived it as children. 9/11 is my own "Pearl Harbor" and the middle schoolers who sat in those seats at church will unfortunately have to wait on theirs. And it will come. Actually, I think it happens each day that any soldier loses his life on the battlefield but another event such as that which happened on 9-11 will probably happen again during the lives of those innocent children. I say this with the sincerest regret that I can give you but also with a truck-load of confidence because as sinful man living in a sin filled world we are doomed to repeat our own bloody history until Jesus comes back to take His children out of it. As long as sin exists we will keep hurting each other with a vengeance but Hallelujah, what an Answer we have for the hurting and the incredible pain that we bring on ourselves. Thank you Jesus, our very Balm in Gilead.
Kiss your loved ones today. Tell God thank you, for everything, and I mean everything. Never take tomorrow for granted. Those who perished at the World Trade Center had absolutely no idea that their last tomorrow was already in the history books.
Since we didn't come home from the beach until late that next weekend it wasn't until I went back to work on Monday that I was finally able to talk to friends about what had happened that past Tuesday, about where they'd been when they heard the news and about how their own lives had been affected. I think that God created in us an innate desire to bond, to cling, to share those common experiences with fellow human beings. You might say that we unconsciously create our own unofficial group therapy sessions as the need arises as part of the mechanics of coping. (Women, I must say, seem to have more of those bonding genes than men and we aren't afraid to call a therapy session in a heartbeat.)
Today in church we watched a short video of remembrance about 9/11/2001. And as I sat there and watched it I realized that almost all of the young children who had been in the early part of the service to share in a second-grader's baptism were not even born then, that the only thing that they will ever know about that day will be through the media and whatever we who were here then, tell them. It made me think about Pearl Harbor and my generation. We weren't around then. I've only read about it or watched film clips of it. My parents lived it as children. 9/11 is my own "Pearl Harbor" and the middle schoolers who sat in those seats at church will unfortunately have to wait on theirs. And it will come. Actually, I think it happens each day that any soldier loses his life on the battlefield but another event such as that which happened on 9-11 will probably happen again during the lives of those innocent children. I say this with the sincerest regret that I can give you but also with a truck-load of confidence because as sinful man living in a sin filled world we are doomed to repeat our own bloody history until Jesus comes back to take His children out of it. As long as sin exists we will keep hurting each other with a vengeance but Hallelujah, what an Answer we have for the hurting and the incredible pain that we bring on ourselves. Thank you Jesus, our very Balm in Gilead.
Kiss your loved ones today. Tell God thank you, for everything, and I mean everything. Never take tomorrow for granted. Those who perished at the World Trade Center had absolutely no idea that their last tomorrow was already in the history books.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Saved From a Life of Crime by Mississippi Power
This morning I saw a beautiful sight...the power company setting a new pole in my neighborhood. I threw on my sensible Birkenstocks and headed down the hill just as fast as my chubby legs would carry me, (never mind that I still had on pajamas, by this time I was past caring what I looked like--you try putting on makeup by flashlight and see if your lipstick doesn't wind up looking like something out of Sunset Boulevard) and all but kissed some young man from Mississippi Power who'd come to save me from being sent to Julia Tutwiler. I had been just this close to shooting out our neighbor's generator (with my imaginary gun) because they had power for the TV and microwave and I didn't. I have my priorities and electricity is high on the list. Don't get me wrong, I know that I have been extremely blessed. God is so good and I could never thank Him enough for the blessings that He has given me. Too many times we forget to thank Him for the simple things like electricity and if you've been without it for a couple of days He'll bring you right back on track with what you ought to be thanking Him for!
Our power was off for two long days almost to the minute and I think if I'd had to walk around with a flashlight one more night I think I'd have thrown my "Little House on the Prairie" books straight through our still-blank TV (the power may be on but you know the cable company hasn't gotten with the program yet.) Camping is not a favorite hobby of mine nor is anything that involves flashlights or porta potties. A lack of electricity makes me claustrophobic, like I've moved to Laura Ingalls Wilder-ville. I can feel a panic attack wanting to start churning up my diaphragm every time I watch LHOTP and snow starts falling thicker than Eaglebrand and Halfpint is whining because she can't walk that 5 miles to school (it can't be up hill both ways because they lived on the prairie for pete's sake and the prairie doesn't have any hills.) I could not have been Ma Ingalls; I'd have killed Charles or Mr Edwards or Mr Olson or anybody else who'd driven up with a wagon full of beef jerky and a sack of meal telling me to throw another log on the fire, that it was time to start dinner. It's a good thing that God didn't leave it up to the likes of me to populate the United States because I'd have never left "back East" where people had neighbors and stores and gas lights and half-off sales.
I know there will be times ahead when the power will go off again and I'll get just as jumpy. But we're going to invest in a generator. I think I've convinced Larry that the expense would be well worth it when you compare what it would cost in gas these days to drive to Wetumpka on visitation weekends (the home of Julia Tutwiler Women's Prison for those that didn't already know) versus buying a generator that will run a television and a microwave. It's really his civic duty to keep a potential criminal off the streets!
Our power was off for two long days almost to the minute and I think if I'd had to walk around with a flashlight one more night I think I'd have thrown my "Little House on the Prairie" books straight through our still-blank TV (the power may be on but you know the cable company hasn't gotten with the program yet.) Camping is not a favorite hobby of mine nor is anything that involves flashlights or porta potties. A lack of electricity makes me claustrophobic, like I've moved to Laura Ingalls Wilder-ville. I can feel a panic attack wanting to start churning up my diaphragm every time I watch LHOTP and snow starts falling thicker than Eaglebrand and Halfpint is whining because she can't walk that 5 miles to school (it can't be up hill both ways because they lived on the prairie for pete's sake and the prairie doesn't have any hills.) I could not have been Ma Ingalls; I'd have killed Charles or Mr Edwards or Mr Olson or anybody else who'd driven up with a wagon full of beef jerky and a sack of meal telling me to throw another log on the fire, that it was time to start dinner. It's a good thing that God didn't leave it up to the likes of me to populate the United States because I'd have never left "back East" where people had neighbors and stores and gas lights and half-off sales.
I know there will be times ahead when the power will go off again and I'll get just as jumpy. But we're going to invest in a generator. I think I've convinced Larry that the expense would be well worth it when you compare what it would cost in gas these days to drive to Wetumpka on visitation weekends (the home of Julia Tutwiler Women's Prison for those that didn't already know) versus buying a generator that will run a television and a microwave. It's really his civic duty to keep a potential criminal off the streets!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Wherefore Art Thou Bobby Sherman?
Dear Cheryl Tiegs:
It's me again, forever the faithful fan of you and Summer Blonde by Clairol (although at this age I've had to resort to the professional stuff and let my hairdresser do the heavy "lifting" to get that sun-kissed look.) I hope you are doing well today. In my imagination you're still skipping down the beach in that famous pink bikini while the likes of guys like Moondoggie and Bobby Sherman are falling all over themselves just itching to hoist you aloft like some life-sized Barbie doll. Work it honey, because in this blog you won't have a single wrinkle and those pesky spider veins won't ever appear in the city limits of the Malibu that's in my mind. You're safe here, Cheryl, I've got your back (now if I only had those long legs!)
About this weight loss gig that I've taken up. You know, the one I told you about in my last blog where I needed to lose 90 pounds to get back down to my lowest high school weight that I can remember? You know, so I can create my OWN Cheryl Tiegs kind of Summer Blonde commercial because I absolutely adored you in yours where the cute guys were holding you up like some freshly-cut pine tree in the lumberjack Olympics? Now you remember. Well, I've lost a whole pound since we last "spoke" so I've just got 89 more to go. Oh, don't get me wrong, I know it's too early to start looking for 4 or 5 cute young guys who'd be willing (or persuaded for a fee) to hoist me up like some prized heifer at the County Fair but I'm a pound closer than I was when I last blogged.
One whole pound...I'm nothing if not optimistic. Are my bifocals lying or is that Bobby Sherman way down at the end of the beach looking my way? Just 89 more pounds, Cheryl, just 89 more pounds...oh yes, and the pony tail is still a project in the works, more like a pony's thumb. I've been sweatin' like a field hand today while I cleaned out the basement but I didn't take the scissors to it even though I wanted to. I just kept thinking "what would Cheryl do?" I figure what you'd do is pay someone to clean out the basement while you and your beautiful hair sat on the couch upstairs and read movie magazines but unfortunately that is where my fantasy and cold, hard reality slapped each other like two divas fighting over a cocktail dress at a two-for-one sale.
Bobby Sherman, please see if you can dial up Moondoggie on the hot line and tell him that mama's comin in 89 more pounds. And Cheryl, keep that hair swishin' and stay perky!
Sincerely, your biggest fan (and I do mean your biggest fan)
Modine Gunch
See Yoo in Mala-Boo
It's me again, forever the faithful fan of you and Summer Blonde by Clairol (although at this age I've had to resort to the professional stuff and let my hairdresser do the heavy "lifting" to get that sun-kissed look.) I hope you are doing well today. In my imagination you're still skipping down the beach in that famous pink bikini while the likes of guys like Moondoggie and Bobby Sherman are falling all over themselves just itching to hoist you aloft like some life-sized Barbie doll. Work it honey, because in this blog you won't have a single wrinkle and those pesky spider veins won't ever appear in the city limits of the Malibu that's in my mind. You're safe here, Cheryl, I've got your back (now if I only had those long legs!)
About this weight loss gig that I've taken up. You know, the one I told you about in my last blog where I needed to lose 90 pounds to get back down to my lowest high school weight that I can remember? You know, so I can create my OWN Cheryl Tiegs kind of Summer Blonde commercial because I absolutely adored you in yours where the cute guys were holding you up like some freshly-cut pine tree in the lumberjack Olympics? Now you remember. Well, I've lost a whole pound since we last "spoke" so I've just got 89 more to go. Oh, don't get me wrong, I know it's too early to start looking for 4 or 5 cute young guys who'd be willing (or persuaded for a fee) to hoist me up like some prized heifer at the County Fair but I'm a pound closer than I was when I last blogged.
One whole pound...I'm nothing if not optimistic. Are my bifocals lying or is that Bobby Sherman way down at the end of the beach looking my way? Just 89 more pounds, Cheryl, just 89 more pounds...oh yes, and the pony tail is still a project in the works, more like a pony's thumb. I've been sweatin' like a field hand today while I cleaned out the basement but I didn't take the scissors to it even though I wanted to. I just kept thinking "what would Cheryl do?" I figure what you'd do is pay someone to clean out the basement while you and your beautiful hair sat on the couch upstairs and read movie magazines but unfortunately that is where my fantasy and cold, hard reality slapped each other like two divas fighting over a cocktail dress at a two-for-one sale.
Bobby Sherman, please see if you can dial up Moondoggie on the hot line and tell him that mama's comin in 89 more pounds. And Cheryl, keep that hair swishin' and stay perky!
Sincerely, your biggest fan (and I do mean your biggest fan)
Modine Gunch
See Yoo in Mala-Boo
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
It's True Blondes Have More Fun...
Dear Cheryl Tiegs:
You probably haven't given a whole lot of thought to that commercial you made back in the late 60's, early 70's for "Summer Blonde" by Clairol but I certainly have. As a matter of fact, just about every summer that rolls around I think about that commercial and how doggone much I wanted to be that long haired beautiful blonde ("now your hair can have that summer look all year long, with Summer Blonde by Clairol") with legs from here to Tuesday, horizontally perched across the chests of half a dozen baby-faced, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfectly chiseled Adonises in Malibu.
I used Summer Blonde on my hair religiously. By the age of 13 that dreaded puberty phase had set in like a pair of pantyhose with a run right up the front. My naturally blonde hair had begun its nose dive in to the spectrum somewhere between "mousey brown and dishwater blonde". A dishwater blonde was practically no blonde at all so something had to be done to bring back that youthful cotton-top look of my babyhood. Clairol promised me that sun-kissed look, maybe not the hot guys on the beach just waiting to hold me like a human surfboard but blonde locks anyway. Though somehow, Cheryl, I never quite got the look I was going for. I wanted to look like you. Never mind that you were about 5 inches taller than me and probably 40 pounds lighter (and believe you me, being a size 12 back in the Twiggy era was like being a size 22 today.) Back then a girl's weight had to be in double digits only and her dress size in a single one or else you were destined for eating potato chips with the sweat hogs on date night, or at least that's what I was afraid of. It never quite got that bad but at times I did think that unless my hair grew down to my shoulders over night and I grew legs the length of a lamp post that I'd have been relegated to sensible pumps and clothes from the "chubby" department for size 12's. I can't say that the horrible, misguided opinion about a girl's weight has really changed much since I was a teenager but at least now people are more aware of its consequences.
So Cheryl, how are you these days? Had any hunks pick you up like a big catfish on Hillbilly Handfishin' lately? Is your hair still long and blonde? I hope so because in my mind you're still hanging out in Malibu putting Summer Blonde on your hair and spinning old Beach Boys tunes on a Hi Fi. Lately I've decided to let my "inner Cheryl Tiegs" and I'm growing a pony tail. Yes, a pony tail. I know I'm awfully old for one and during this steamy, hot Alabama summer I've threatened to whack this hair that's grown down below my ears off but I keep thinking "what would Cheryl Tiegs do?" and I put the scissors back in the drawer. I've never had one, a pony tail that is, not a real one anyway, in my life. But I'm going to have one and it's going to be blonde.
I've also done a quick analysis of my vital statistics and found them to be sadly lacking in several areas as far as you are concerned and unless I can grow about 5 more inches, lose about 80 or 90 pounds, bob my nose to a perky little button and change my eye color to blue I'll never have anyone stop me and ask what Cheryl Tiegs is doing here in Trussville, Alabama. But you've given me hope, Cheryl Tiegs. I may not can grow vertically but I can lose horizontally and I'm doing it all for you. Well, that's not really true, but you have definitely given me a goal. I'm going to lose 90 pounds to get me back to my high school weight (hard to believe that in 40 years I've put on 90 pounds but if you do it slowly enough it'll creep up like kudzu on a telephone pole.) And you can bet your bottom dollar that when I get my pony tail all out there and I've got it "blondeened" to the proper hue that would make Clairol proud, I'm going to round me up 6 of the cutest young hunks I can find (or rent, for a nominal fee) at the beach to hoist me up just like you were in that commercial. My sweet husband will just shake his head and laugh I'm sure, but he'll be a good sport and take pictures. (my friends can be counted on to play some Beach Boys tunes on their iPods while I pose.)
I'll keep you posted on my progress, Cheryl. I may not be a California girl but I've got a great hairstylist that can give me that summer look all year long!
Yours very truly,
Modine Gunch
See you in Mala-Boo
You probably haven't given a whole lot of thought to that commercial you made back in the late 60's, early 70's for "Summer Blonde" by Clairol but I certainly have. As a matter of fact, just about every summer that rolls around I think about that commercial and how doggone much I wanted to be that long haired beautiful blonde ("now your hair can have that summer look all year long, with Summer Blonde by Clairol") with legs from here to Tuesday, horizontally perched across the chests of half a dozen baby-faced, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, perfectly chiseled Adonises in Malibu.
I used Summer Blonde on my hair religiously. By the age of 13 that dreaded puberty phase had set in like a pair of pantyhose with a run right up the front. My naturally blonde hair had begun its nose dive in to the spectrum somewhere between "mousey brown and dishwater blonde". A dishwater blonde was practically no blonde at all so something had to be done to bring back that youthful cotton-top look of my babyhood. Clairol promised me that sun-kissed look, maybe not the hot guys on the beach just waiting to hold me like a human surfboard but blonde locks anyway. Though somehow, Cheryl, I never quite got the look I was going for. I wanted to look like you. Never mind that you were about 5 inches taller than me and probably 40 pounds lighter (and believe you me, being a size 12 back in the Twiggy era was like being a size 22 today.) Back then a girl's weight had to be in double digits only and her dress size in a single one or else you were destined for eating potato chips with the sweat hogs on date night, or at least that's what I was afraid of. It never quite got that bad but at times I did think that unless my hair grew down to my shoulders over night and I grew legs the length of a lamp post that I'd have been relegated to sensible pumps and clothes from the "chubby" department for size 12's. I can't say that the horrible, misguided opinion about a girl's weight has really changed much since I was a teenager but at least now people are more aware of its consequences.
So Cheryl, how are you these days? Had any hunks pick you up like a big catfish on Hillbilly Handfishin' lately? Is your hair still long and blonde? I hope so because in my mind you're still hanging out in Malibu putting Summer Blonde on your hair and spinning old Beach Boys tunes on a Hi Fi. Lately I've decided to let my "inner Cheryl Tiegs" and I'm growing a pony tail. Yes, a pony tail. I know I'm awfully old for one and during this steamy, hot Alabama summer I've threatened to whack this hair that's grown down below my ears off but I keep thinking "what would Cheryl Tiegs do?" and I put the scissors back in the drawer. I've never had one, a pony tail that is, not a real one anyway, in my life. But I'm going to have one and it's going to be blonde.
I've also done a quick analysis of my vital statistics and found them to be sadly lacking in several areas as far as you are concerned and unless I can grow about 5 more inches, lose about 80 or 90 pounds, bob my nose to a perky little button and change my eye color to blue I'll never have anyone stop me and ask what Cheryl Tiegs is doing here in Trussville, Alabama. But you've given me hope, Cheryl Tiegs. I may not can grow vertically but I can lose horizontally and I'm doing it all for you. Well, that's not really true, but you have definitely given me a goal. I'm going to lose 90 pounds to get me back to my high school weight (hard to believe that in 40 years I've put on 90 pounds but if you do it slowly enough it'll creep up like kudzu on a telephone pole.) And you can bet your bottom dollar that when I get my pony tail all out there and I've got it "blondeened" to the proper hue that would make Clairol proud, I'm going to round me up 6 of the cutest young hunks I can find (or rent, for a nominal fee) at the beach to hoist me up just like you were in that commercial. My sweet husband will just shake his head and laugh I'm sure, but he'll be a good sport and take pictures. (my friends can be counted on to play some Beach Boys tunes on their iPods while I pose.)
I'll keep you posted on my progress, Cheryl. I may not be a California girl but I've got a great hairstylist that can give me that summer look all year long!
Yours very truly,
Modine Gunch
See you in Mala-Boo
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Just Call Me Big Maude from "Convicts at Large"
If you asked me if I was a law-abiding citizen in good standing with the local constabulary I believe I would quickly tell you that, yes, I am, other than the occasional breaking of the speed limit; and even then I am prudent with my decisions. I love animals and trees and anything else that one might could hug and still be legal about it. I want to save the dolphins and the whales and polar bears. I even have a heart for those little tiny little snail darters which, for some unexplained reason that only God knows the answer to, have found themselves to located in only like 4 places on the entire earth and two of them happen to be in a pond near Roebuck Recreation Center and in Turkey Creek. I've been to both of these places on more than one occasion and I can attest to the fact that they've got some hard living going on there.
However, and you knew there was going to be a "however" didn't you, those who know me well, there is a place where this law-abiding citizen will draw the line and quicker than you could say "satan's handpuppet" I'd become the Bonnie Parker, Ma Barker, Belle Starr, you name her and I'd be it, of crime, and this is concerning an article that I saw in the Birmingham News yesterday where the Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake is being put on the endangered species list and that it will become law that they can not be killed. I'm getting out my imaginary six-gun right now and loading it up with enough virtual ammunition that would rival anything that was ever seen in the wild wild west on a hot Saturday night and would blow away the first one that I saw with nary a thought (actually, if I really saw one, I'd probably set a new land-speed record for a fat girl in a pair of flip flops.) I am not saving rattlesnakes from extinction nor snakes of any kind. There. I've said it. I will break the law, officer get out your handcuffs and take me away, I just don't care. If I happen to have the bad luck of driving through somewhere that Eastern Diamondback rattlesnakes lurk (because I surely don't want to be on foot) and see one crossing the road you can bet your sweet Aunt Fanny that I'm not going to put on the brakes for it to get to the other side (I've stopped more than once while driving through our neighborhood to give some silly squirrel enough time to make up their mind about which side of the street they really wanted to be on.) I don't care that the paper went on to say that the snakes keep the rodent population down, bring on the rats, that's what we have cheese for.
I am all about conservation, preservation, the Sierra Club, Auntie Litter and even the tiniest fraction of a smidgen of Al Gore when it comes to keeping things "All Things Bright and Beautiful". The Father indeed "made them all" and left us in charge of keeping this earth clean, green and healthy. But I'm falling back to Genesis on the snake bit (oh, a pun!) and I'm going with the cursing of anything that crawls on its belly and has fangs. Snakes don't belong in my world and I'm giving them fair warning that if they come around my house (please please don't) I'll be looking for something in my virtual arsenal where weapons only exist in my imagination or, for my very real and trusty hoe with which I'll show you some extinction! Sorry, you snake lovers, if you're out there, you can put 911 on your speed dial and send a squad car after me if I encounter one of the new "endangered species" because I'll be going to jail.
However, and you knew there was going to be a "however" didn't you, those who know me well, there is a place where this law-abiding citizen will draw the line and quicker than you could say "satan's handpuppet" I'd become the Bonnie Parker, Ma Barker, Belle Starr, you name her and I'd be it, of crime, and this is concerning an article that I saw in the Birmingham News yesterday where the Eastern Diamondback rattlesnake is being put on the endangered species list and that it will become law that they can not be killed. I'm getting out my imaginary six-gun right now and loading it up with enough virtual ammunition that would rival anything that was ever seen in the wild wild west on a hot Saturday night and would blow away the first one that I saw with nary a thought (actually, if I really saw one, I'd probably set a new land-speed record for a fat girl in a pair of flip flops.) I am not saving rattlesnakes from extinction nor snakes of any kind. There. I've said it. I will break the law, officer get out your handcuffs and take me away, I just don't care. If I happen to have the bad luck of driving through somewhere that Eastern Diamondback rattlesnakes lurk (because I surely don't want to be on foot) and see one crossing the road you can bet your sweet Aunt Fanny that I'm not going to put on the brakes for it to get to the other side (I've stopped more than once while driving through our neighborhood to give some silly squirrel enough time to make up their mind about which side of the street they really wanted to be on.) I don't care that the paper went on to say that the snakes keep the rodent population down, bring on the rats, that's what we have cheese for.
I am all about conservation, preservation, the Sierra Club, Auntie Litter and even the tiniest fraction of a smidgen of Al Gore when it comes to keeping things "All Things Bright and Beautiful". The Father indeed "made them all" and left us in charge of keeping this earth clean, green and healthy. But I'm falling back to Genesis on the snake bit (oh, a pun!) and I'm going with the cursing of anything that crawls on its belly and has fangs. Snakes don't belong in my world and I'm giving them fair warning that if they come around my house (please please don't) I'll be looking for something in my virtual arsenal where weapons only exist in my imagination or, for my very real and trusty hoe with which I'll show you some extinction! Sorry, you snake lovers, if you're out there, you can put 911 on your speed dial and send a squad car after me if I encounter one of the new "endangered species" because I'll be going to jail.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The End of Innocence
My grandparents built a wonderful house out in the country. I can distinctly remember riding over 10th Street Mountain the summer that I was five with my grandmother as we took a hot lunch to my paw paw and the laborers to eat as they paused in their work long enough to perch on upturned concrete blocks and share in a good noonday meal. There were no sandwiches back in those hot, un-lazy days of summer for those men, no sir. Grandmother fixed a "meat and three", wrapped it up good and set the bowls on trays along with gallons of cold, sweet iced tea for the bumpy ride that she and I took daily. At that time the highway department was still working on the road that crossed the mountain which separated "town" from "country" and it seemed to take forever to get to where we were going (this same journey can now be made in about 10 minutes.) The house was isolated from other homes but in reality was only a few blocks from the next one on a sleepy highway that would later see traffic greatly increase as the area built up out past my grandparent's on Choccolocco Road.
Their house became a wonderful place to spend summers; my great grandmother, "Mama Doss", (who lived in town yet still had my paw paw wrapped around her finger until the day she died as if he and my grandmother had never moved out of her home on McCoy) had the good fortune (in my opinion as a child) to have been born on the 5th of July which was certainly close enough to the 4th of July for everyone to have an excuse to celebrate in a big way. The proverbial "fatted calf", in the form of juicy beef ribs, was smoked for hours in a homemade Bar-be-que pit that my paw paw got up and tended on the morning of the 4th before the chickens had even taken the curlers out of their hair. Relatives came from far and wide to fete both Mama Doss and America on the 4th of July. I, as a child, could never understand why they didn't just throw my birthday in to the big celebration mix and make homemade ice cream in my honor as well since my birthday was on the 10th of that month but I never said anything. After all, Mama Doss was old, and I was going to have a fabulous birthday party back at home in Birmingham anyway in less than a week.
Life was good at that house. The isolation meant that we could make all the noise we wanted, wear our pajamas on the porch if we felt like it because the distance from the house to the highway although quite visible was just enough to blur the fact that one was still in their sleeping clothes as a friendly neighbor tooted their horn as they passed by. Once when my brother was 11 or 12 he put on an old cheerleader's outfit and a blonde "fall" that he'd gotten somewhere (I'm not even sure why he had it but I know that my sister was teaching him some sort of cheers to go along with it, probably as a prank) and they were jumping up and down out in the front yard. Some guy came driving by blowing his horn and hollering at that long legged "sweet thang" with the pretty blonde hair and it made my brother so mad that he gave him the middle-finger salute and flounced back in the house. The road was just far enough from the front yard so that he really did appear to be a girl.
The house on Choccolocco long outlasted both my grandparents and at some point my mother and dad became the tenants there along with my brother and sister. It was fully remodeled so that on the inside it was only a vague resemblance of the way it looked when my grandparents lived in it. But the one thing that had never changed was the isolation save for the one neighbor who lived on the acreage next door but who couldn't have heard you if you yelled or seen you from their porch and everyone liked it that way. Grandchildren explored every bit of those 5 1/2 acres around that house and great-grandchildren fell in line doing the same thing, continuing to wear pajamas on the front porch if we wanted to because even though the traffic had greatly increased on the highway it was still too far away to really matter.
My brother went off and joined the Marines and then never really came back home to live again except only briefly before he married. My sister moved to town. My dad died several years ago and then it was only my mother. And suddenly the isolation that we had once enjoyed there had now become a liability and I prayed hard each night for a hedge of protection to be around my mother in that house. You can think of its location in the same way that you might think of walking down a busy street with a group of friends and you are leading the way. You come to a corner and because you are in front for a few seconds as you turn the corner you are alone with whatever is there. Of course in a few seconds your friends are joining you, having turned the corner too. But that's the way my mother's house can best be described. She is so close to neighbors but she might as well be a thousand miles away because they all live several acres away and through thick woods. It goes without saying that cellphone service is almost non-existent there as well.
My mother's car is sitting in our driveway. A few weeks ago she made one of her trips to visit my brother in Tampa; we take her to the airport, the flight is an hour and five minutes, and my brother meets her there. She can get there quicker than I can drive from my house in Trussville to hers in Anniston. There was no car in her own driveway and no lights to be seen to keep the wolf from the door. My sister called me this past Monday to tell me that Jeanne, a friend of mother's had gone by to leave some peach jam for her return and noticed when she walked up that the back door was standing ajar and a footprint imprinted on it where it had been forced open. She immediately ran back to her car and backed out of the long driveway as fast as reverse would take her and called 911. She couldn't reach her husband so she did the next best thing and called the preacher. He lives right down the street so it didn't take him long to get there in his flip flops and packing a pistol. Jeanne was afraid that one of the robbers could still be in there, or even worse, my sister so Bro. Roland walked through with his gun drawn hoping to find no one but preparing for anything. No one was there. Whoever had broken in to my mother's home had long gone and fortunately my sister had been safe at her own place in town. The police got there quickly and did what they could but you know that CSI is only a TV show and that real crimes are never solved in an hour nor do the perpetrators ever leave those tiny slivers of evidence that locks them up before the last commercial.
Larry and I rushed over to my mother's as quickly as we could that day. Friends were there. It sort of reminded me, in a sick sort of way, of the Amish building a neighbor's house. Someone was sweeping the floor of all the debris left from the broken door. Jeanne's sweet husband had immediately gone and bought another door, a much heavier one, and he and my son Will were working on getting it back in place. Larry went and bought timers for the lamps. My sister, Jeanne and her 4 children began the task of picking up the things in my mother's bedroom and in the other rooms that they had gone through. Whoever did this was obviously looking only for jewelry and drugs because they did not take anything else. They did not find much either, the things that they did take had more sentimental value than a dollar one although they will probably get money for their drug habit from what they did take. I felt such a sense of violation yet a sense of relief that my mother had not been home and that these people, whoever they were, did not do anything malicious to my mother's home. All they did was take our innocence and it's hard to pawn that for a quick high.
My mother took the news of the break-in just as you'd think that she would, with much grace yet incredible sadness for the things that had belonged to my dad that would or could never be replaced. Once innocence is lost it can never be regained and the innocence of that house disappeared with that footprint on the back door. Whoever put it there had no regard for what they were doing and the far-reaching effects that their actions have and will cause. I almost feel sorry for them, the losers that they are, and pray that God will be merciful and woo their hearts toward His Son Who loves them as much as He loves me. We no longer want my mother there in that house and when she returns from the safety of Tampa we will begin to process of "the next step." Right now we aren't exactly sure what that next step is, we just know that the house that brought such joy to so many and gave us so many wonderful memories in its isolation will never be the same. It will be put up for sale and life will move on but this time it will be where there are neighbors for my mother.
Their house became a wonderful place to spend summers; my great grandmother, "Mama Doss", (who lived in town yet still had my paw paw wrapped around her finger until the day she died as if he and my grandmother had never moved out of her home on McCoy) had the good fortune (in my opinion as a child) to have been born on the 5th of July which was certainly close enough to the 4th of July for everyone to have an excuse to celebrate in a big way. The proverbial "fatted calf", in the form of juicy beef ribs, was smoked for hours in a homemade Bar-be-que pit that my paw paw got up and tended on the morning of the 4th before the chickens had even taken the curlers out of their hair. Relatives came from far and wide to fete both Mama Doss and America on the 4th of July. I, as a child, could never understand why they didn't just throw my birthday in to the big celebration mix and make homemade ice cream in my honor as well since my birthday was on the 10th of that month but I never said anything. After all, Mama Doss was old, and I was going to have a fabulous birthday party back at home in Birmingham anyway in less than a week.
Life was good at that house. The isolation meant that we could make all the noise we wanted, wear our pajamas on the porch if we felt like it because the distance from the house to the highway although quite visible was just enough to blur the fact that one was still in their sleeping clothes as a friendly neighbor tooted their horn as they passed by. Once when my brother was 11 or 12 he put on an old cheerleader's outfit and a blonde "fall" that he'd gotten somewhere (I'm not even sure why he had it but I know that my sister was teaching him some sort of cheers to go along with it, probably as a prank) and they were jumping up and down out in the front yard. Some guy came driving by blowing his horn and hollering at that long legged "sweet thang" with the pretty blonde hair and it made my brother so mad that he gave him the middle-finger salute and flounced back in the house. The road was just far enough from the front yard so that he really did appear to be a girl.
The house on Choccolocco long outlasted both my grandparents and at some point my mother and dad became the tenants there along with my brother and sister. It was fully remodeled so that on the inside it was only a vague resemblance of the way it looked when my grandparents lived in it. But the one thing that had never changed was the isolation save for the one neighbor who lived on the acreage next door but who couldn't have heard you if you yelled or seen you from their porch and everyone liked it that way. Grandchildren explored every bit of those 5 1/2 acres around that house and great-grandchildren fell in line doing the same thing, continuing to wear pajamas on the front porch if we wanted to because even though the traffic had greatly increased on the highway it was still too far away to really matter.
My brother went off and joined the Marines and then never really came back home to live again except only briefly before he married. My sister moved to town. My dad died several years ago and then it was only my mother. And suddenly the isolation that we had once enjoyed there had now become a liability and I prayed hard each night for a hedge of protection to be around my mother in that house. You can think of its location in the same way that you might think of walking down a busy street with a group of friends and you are leading the way. You come to a corner and because you are in front for a few seconds as you turn the corner you are alone with whatever is there. Of course in a few seconds your friends are joining you, having turned the corner too. But that's the way my mother's house can best be described. She is so close to neighbors but she might as well be a thousand miles away because they all live several acres away and through thick woods. It goes without saying that cellphone service is almost non-existent there as well.
My mother's car is sitting in our driveway. A few weeks ago she made one of her trips to visit my brother in Tampa; we take her to the airport, the flight is an hour and five minutes, and my brother meets her there. She can get there quicker than I can drive from my house in Trussville to hers in Anniston. There was no car in her own driveway and no lights to be seen to keep the wolf from the door. My sister called me this past Monday to tell me that Jeanne, a friend of mother's had gone by to leave some peach jam for her return and noticed when she walked up that the back door was standing ajar and a footprint imprinted on it where it had been forced open. She immediately ran back to her car and backed out of the long driveway as fast as reverse would take her and called 911. She couldn't reach her husband so she did the next best thing and called the preacher. He lives right down the street so it didn't take him long to get there in his flip flops and packing a pistol. Jeanne was afraid that one of the robbers could still be in there, or even worse, my sister so Bro. Roland walked through with his gun drawn hoping to find no one but preparing for anything. No one was there. Whoever had broken in to my mother's home had long gone and fortunately my sister had been safe at her own place in town. The police got there quickly and did what they could but you know that CSI is only a TV show and that real crimes are never solved in an hour nor do the perpetrators ever leave those tiny slivers of evidence that locks them up before the last commercial.
Larry and I rushed over to my mother's as quickly as we could that day. Friends were there. It sort of reminded me, in a sick sort of way, of the Amish building a neighbor's house. Someone was sweeping the floor of all the debris left from the broken door. Jeanne's sweet husband had immediately gone and bought another door, a much heavier one, and he and my son Will were working on getting it back in place. Larry went and bought timers for the lamps. My sister, Jeanne and her 4 children began the task of picking up the things in my mother's bedroom and in the other rooms that they had gone through. Whoever did this was obviously looking only for jewelry and drugs because they did not take anything else. They did not find much either, the things that they did take had more sentimental value than a dollar one although they will probably get money for their drug habit from what they did take. I felt such a sense of violation yet a sense of relief that my mother had not been home and that these people, whoever they were, did not do anything malicious to my mother's home. All they did was take our innocence and it's hard to pawn that for a quick high.
My mother took the news of the break-in just as you'd think that she would, with much grace yet incredible sadness for the things that had belonged to my dad that would or could never be replaced. Once innocence is lost it can never be regained and the innocence of that house disappeared with that footprint on the back door. Whoever put it there had no regard for what they were doing and the far-reaching effects that their actions have and will cause. I almost feel sorry for them, the losers that they are, and pray that God will be merciful and woo their hearts toward His Son Who loves them as much as He loves me. We no longer want my mother there in that house and when she returns from the safety of Tampa we will begin to process of "the next step." Right now we aren't exactly sure what that next step is, we just know that the house that brought such joy to so many and gave us so many wonderful memories in its isolation will never be the same. It will be put up for sale and life will move on but this time it will be where there are neighbors for my mother.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Candles on the cake
Yesterday, July 10th, was my birthday and July 12th is my best friend Henrietta's birthday. Her name isn't really Henrietta, it's Sherri, but I haven't called her that since we were freshmen in high school. Back then we had both decided that we were destined to become literary giants someday and that to be a good one, giant that is, a memorable pen name was needed. Her choice was "Henrietta Snodgrass". We may not have become quite the publisher's darlings that we'd dreamed of being but her name stuck, at least for me it did, and I've called her Henrietta ever since. She calls me Trixie and I like that just fine.
I believe that one truly has only one "best friend" in their life and that everyone else is called by other adjectives which modify the word friend, i.e., "good, dear, close, closest", you fill in your own blank. It doesn't even matter if you and that person grow apart, which most best friends from childhood are oft to do, I think that once you've identified them as your "best" that no one can ever have that name again. Henrietta and I went all through grammar school together and we were friends but weren't that particularly close. It wasn't until we were freshmen in high school and wound up sitting next to each other in the same French class that we somehow clicked and virtually became inseparable. We shared secrets and dreams and anything else that came to mind back in those high school years. We watched each other fall in love, wish that the one we'd fallen for would love us more, and shared our kleenex as we sobbed when Ryan O'Neal uttered those immortal words in Love Story, that "love means you never have to say you're sorry". It didn't take long though to find out that Ryan O'Neal was no real psychologist and that Ali McGraw still died no matter how many times you watched the movie.
Henrietta and I moved on with our own separate lives in separate cities after graduation but somehow, and I give her all the credit, she kept the friendship from dissolving even when its depth had become no more than the width of a card and envelope. Many years passed, who knows, maybe thirty, I quit counting, and Henrietta and her family moved back to Birmingham. We both have moved on. We rarely see each other except when I pop in occasionally where she works to say "hi" but when I do it's as if we've never been apart. She sent me a birthday card a few days ago, with the same almost illegible handwriting that she had in high school, and scrawled on the back of the envelope was her home address. It is the same address of the same house that she has lived in since she was a child, the house that she grew up in and the house that was so much a part of my own life. I felt comforted by seeing that address. There are so few constants in my world but that address is one of them because I know if I went there and rang the doorbell that she would answer.
So Happy Birthday in a few hours, Henrietta. I love you, my always and forever best friend.
I believe that one truly has only one "best friend" in their life and that everyone else is called by other adjectives which modify the word friend, i.e., "good, dear, close, closest", you fill in your own blank. It doesn't even matter if you and that person grow apart, which most best friends from childhood are oft to do, I think that once you've identified them as your "best" that no one can ever have that name again. Henrietta and I went all through grammar school together and we were friends but weren't that particularly close. It wasn't until we were freshmen in high school and wound up sitting next to each other in the same French class that we somehow clicked and virtually became inseparable. We shared secrets and dreams and anything else that came to mind back in those high school years. We watched each other fall in love, wish that the one we'd fallen for would love us more, and shared our kleenex as we sobbed when Ryan O'Neal uttered those immortal words in Love Story, that "love means you never have to say you're sorry". It didn't take long though to find out that Ryan O'Neal was no real psychologist and that Ali McGraw still died no matter how many times you watched the movie.
Henrietta and I moved on with our own separate lives in separate cities after graduation but somehow, and I give her all the credit, she kept the friendship from dissolving even when its depth had become no more than the width of a card and envelope. Many years passed, who knows, maybe thirty, I quit counting, and Henrietta and her family moved back to Birmingham. We both have moved on. We rarely see each other except when I pop in occasionally where she works to say "hi" but when I do it's as if we've never been apart. She sent me a birthday card a few days ago, with the same almost illegible handwriting that she had in high school, and scrawled on the back of the envelope was her home address. It is the same address of the same house that she has lived in since she was a child, the house that she grew up in and the house that was so much a part of my own life. I felt comforted by seeing that address. There are so few constants in my world but that address is one of them because I know if I went there and rang the doorbell that she would answer.
So Happy Birthday in a few hours, Henrietta. I love you, my always and forever best friend.
Monday, July 4, 2011
The Ice Cream Version of the Neiman Marcus Cookie Urban Legend
I figure that most anyone who actually takes the time to read my blog is already well acquainted with the urban legend about the Neiman Marcus chocolate chip cookie recipe...you know, the one where the lady buys a cookie at the bakery at Neiman Marcus and has such a fit over it that she asks how much they'd charge for the recipe and supposedly the salesperson says "$250" which the person mistakes for "$2.50" as in "two dollars and fifty cents" but when she gets her credit card bill she discovers that she's been billed two hundred and fifty dollars so to get back at them she shares it with everyone she knows yada yada yada. The first time I heard it I think I actually believed it and in addition the cookies were fantastic. Nice story, just not true though.
Well I've got a story for you and it's no urban legend, I can guarantee it, but it's about as bad. I think Southerners have an intense relationship with homemade ice cream about the same way we do with anything fried in grease and tall, cold glasses of sweet iced tea. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of being the "designated sitter" on my paw paw's ice cream freezer. First he'd cover it with newspapers, then with an old terry cloth towel and lastly me for ballast. He'd churn and I'd hold everything in place until he knew just by turning the handle when the delicious confection inside was finally ready to eat. Ambrosia of the gods was what that stuff was.
So I recently decided that I'd try and duplicate the efforts of my long departed paw paw and get the stuff in which to make memories and homemade ice cream myself. I know what you're thinking...back when I was the "designated sitter" on the back porch of yesterday there was no such thing as BlueBell or Ben and Jerry's or Mayfield's or Edy's (who all make their own pretty doggone good version of faux homemade anything) and homemade was what you got unless you wanted some of that nasty stuff called "ice milk" or maybe some Barbers vanilla that didn't even come close to the real thing.
It was 98 degrees in the shade and hotter than a $2.00 pistol when I walked in to Walmart to walk down Nostalgia Lane looking for an ice cream freezer. The lightweight, cheap plastic version of my aforementioned paw paw's 10 pound wooden bucket with metal can, metal dasher, metal and wooden handle was hardly worth the $22.99 that I plunked down for it but I figured that was the best that I was probably going to be able to do. And right next to it was the "ice cream mix" which I figured took the place of all the goodness that your mama used to cook on the stove to make "real" ice cream so at $2.50 or something like that each, I figured why not, and bought 4 of them. I traipsed around to the back of the store and bought a half gallon of milk and then a quart of half and half, another $5.00 or so spent and then picked up some strawberries on sale for 99 cents. The rock salt however, was another story. I looked around where I'd found the freezer but no rock salt was to be found (as opposed to the other day when I was in the same store looking at the same freezers which were then surrounded by a plethora of boxes of rock salt.) Not to be discouraged, however, I schlepped around to the garden center to see if they had any rock salt there. I was not the first person who'd come to the garden center looking for rock salt either, the cashier told me, but they didn't have any either. The cashier called the service center and they said to look around where the Epsom Salts was. I knew it wasn't going to be in the pharmacy area so I didn't even bother to search there. I did go to the "regular" salt area on the spice aisle just to give it a look but nothing was there. I flagged down a customer service manager who appeared to be studying an end aisle of candy bars and asked him (by this time I was about to call it a day and just forget the whole idea) and he said that they were out of it, that they'd been out of it for several days. I'd come this far however and was not going home empty handed.
Hot as blue blazes in the car with my purchases...so far that's $22.99 for the freezer, $2.50 for the "mix", $5.00 for the milk and half and half, and 99 cents for the strawberries and I still don't have the magic salt. I pulled in to Walgreen's and asked them if they carried it and of course they didn't (if the cashier had told me to check by the Epsom Salts I'd have thought it was some sort of service desk conspiracy going on.) My last hope was K-Mart. Sure enough, ole K-Mart had it but buddy were they proud of it. Rock salt there was $3.99! They knew they had a captive audience though since they seemed to be the only folks around (at least in my area) that had any on the weekend of the 4th of July. Naturally I had to pick up some $1.99 ice cream cones to go with it since they were sitting there just asking to be taken home.
By the time I got back in that hot car for the 3rd time and drove home I'd done a mental calculation of what my homemade ice cream was going to cost and with tax it came to around $40.00. Without even realizing it I'd just bought in to the Neiman Marcus cookie trap. I've got to admit that BlueBell's homemade vanilla at $6.00 (even cheaper if you catch it on sale) is about as good as whatever concoction I'm going to make with my new freezer (that "mix" stuff is still suspect--it won't hold a candle to real sugar and eggs and vanilla and whipping cream that mama'nim used to stir on the top of the stove until it was time for me to sit on it.) I think I've learned that sometimes you just need to salute the flag and go on...BlueBell or any of its close competitors, wins. I may have bought the freezer but every time I want to use it I'm still going to have to buy the "stuff" that goes in it which will run a lot more than $6.00 and won't even come in a convenient carton to boot.
I'd invite you all over for some homemade ice cream but first I've got these bills to pay.
Well I've got a story for you and it's no urban legend, I can guarantee it, but it's about as bad. I think Southerners have an intense relationship with homemade ice cream about the same way we do with anything fried in grease and tall, cold glasses of sweet iced tea. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of being the "designated sitter" on my paw paw's ice cream freezer. First he'd cover it with newspapers, then with an old terry cloth towel and lastly me for ballast. He'd churn and I'd hold everything in place until he knew just by turning the handle when the delicious confection inside was finally ready to eat. Ambrosia of the gods was what that stuff was.
So I recently decided that I'd try and duplicate the efforts of my long departed paw paw and get the stuff in which to make memories and homemade ice cream myself. I know what you're thinking...back when I was the "designated sitter" on the back porch of yesterday there was no such thing as BlueBell or Ben and Jerry's or Mayfield's or Edy's (who all make their own pretty doggone good version of faux homemade anything) and homemade was what you got unless you wanted some of that nasty stuff called "ice milk" or maybe some Barbers vanilla that didn't even come close to the real thing.
It was 98 degrees in the shade and hotter than a $2.00 pistol when I walked in to Walmart to walk down Nostalgia Lane looking for an ice cream freezer. The lightweight, cheap plastic version of my aforementioned paw paw's 10 pound wooden bucket with metal can, metal dasher, metal and wooden handle was hardly worth the $22.99 that I plunked down for it but I figured that was the best that I was probably going to be able to do. And right next to it was the "ice cream mix" which I figured took the place of all the goodness that your mama used to cook on the stove to make "real" ice cream so at $2.50 or something like that each, I figured why not, and bought 4 of them. I traipsed around to the back of the store and bought a half gallon of milk and then a quart of half and half, another $5.00 or so spent and then picked up some strawberries on sale for 99 cents. The rock salt however, was another story. I looked around where I'd found the freezer but no rock salt was to be found (as opposed to the other day when I was in the same store looking at the same freezers which were then surrounded by a plethora of boxes of rock salt.) Not to be discouraged, however, I schlepped around to the garden center to see if they had any rock salt there. I was not the first person who'd come to the garden center looking for rock salt either, the cashier told me, but they didn't have any either. The cashier called the service center and they said to look around where the Epsom Salts was. I knew it wasn't going to be in the pharmacy area so I didn't even bother to search there. I did go to the "regular" salt area on the spice aisle just to give it a look but nothing was there. I flagged down a customer service manager who appeared to be studying an end aisle of candy bars and asked him (by this time I was about to call it a day and just forget the whole idea) and he said that they were out of it, that they'd been out of it for several days. I'd come this far however and was not going home empty handed.
Hot as blue blazes in the car with my purchases...so far that's $22.99 for the freezer, $2.50 for the "mix", $5.00 for the milk and half and half, and 99 cents for the strawberries and I still don't have the magic salt. I pulled in to Walgreen's and asked them if they carried it and of course they didn't (if the cashier had told me to check by the Epsom Salts I'd have thought it was some sort of service desk conspiracy going on.) My last hope was K-Mart. Sure enough, ole K-Mart had it but buddy were they proud of it. Rock salt there was $3.99! They knew they had a captive audience though since they seemed to be the only folks around (at least in my area) that had any on the weekend of the 4th of July. Naturally I had to pick up some $1.99 ice cream cones to go with it since they were sitting there just asking to be taken home.
By the time I got back in that hot car for the 3rd time and drove home I'd done a mental calculation of what my homemade ice cream was going to cost and with tax it came to around $40.00. Without even realizing it I'd just bought in to the Neiman Marcus cookie trap. I've got to admit that BlueBell's homemade vanilla at $6.00 (even cheaper if you catch it on sale) is about as good as whatever concoction I'm going to make with my new freezer (that "mix" stuff is still suspect--it won't hold a candle to real sugar and eggs and vanilla and whipping cream that mama'nim used to stir on the top of the stove until it was time for me to sit on it.) I think I've learned that sometimes you just need to salute the flag and go on...BlueBell or any of its close competitors, wins. I may have bought the freezer but every time I want to use it I'm still going to have to buy the "stuff" that goes in it which will run a lot more than $6.00 and won't even come in a convenient carton to boot.
I'd invite you all over for some homemade ice cream but first I've got these bills to pay.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner
Admit it...when Dirty Dancing comes on (I get pulled in if I watch more than 5 minutes of it, Patrick Swayze, dead or alive, will always be Johnny Castle, and Johnny Castle is magnetic enough to snatch you through the TV set quicker than you can say "Carry me to the Catskills") you're gonna watch it, especially if it's the last 5 or so minutes where Johnny Castle utters that immortal line "nobody puts Baby in a corner".
I don't have to watch any other part of the movie, those last 5 minutes are the part that I've bought my ticket to see. And for that entire time, this plus-sized, old Southern Baptist married person and mother (which means that we did not grow up dancing in our household and I will forever blame my parents for making me the left-feet on the dance floor that I am. I know you and daddy jitter-bugged, mother, you just did it before I was ever born and I never inherited any dancing skills, shame on it all) is indeed Frances "Baby" Houseman. It's ME that Patrick Swayze, a la Johnny Castle, is flinging and slingin' around like a rag doll in a rat terrier's mouth, and it's ME that flies off that stage in that lift that Johnny and Baby could never get right any other time. I am too fine. I know all the words to the song and he's singing it to me although it's a little hard to hear because I'm huffing and puffing after doing all those fancy moves. But not to worry, we finally slow down at the end and do a big smooch and the world is all peach pie and ice cream.
I don't give it any thought that after Baby and Johnny finished the dance and her doctor-daddy had packed up the sedan that Baby went home, started college, probably joined the Peace Corps afterwards, than married a nice Jewish lawyer and Johnny probably went home, joined the Painter's and Plasterer's Union alongside his own daddy and was too tired to dance except for Saturday nights after a hot hour of League Bowling. There were no cell phones in 1963, long-distance calls were way too expensive and writing letters was probably out of the question...guys like Johnny Castle didn't do well in high school; English was not one of his better subjects and if it hadn't been for that cute little cheerleader (you know there had to be a cheerleader involved) that helped him study or gave him the answers, he probably wouldn't have even graduated. But it really doesn't matter to me because I don't let Dirty Dancing take me that far. I don't ever leave the Catskills. And Johnny Castle never ages one day, no one gains one ounce and I am forever and always Baby...and I never get put in a corner.
I don't have to watch any other part of the movie, those last 5 minutes are the part that I've bought my ticket to see. And for that entire time, this plus-sized, old Southern Baptist married person and mother (which means that we did not grow up dancing in our household and I will forever blame my parents for making me the left-feet on the dance floor that I am. I know you and daddy jitter-bugged, mother, you just did it before I was ever born and I never inherited any dancing skills, shame on it all) is indeed Frances "Baby" Houseman. It's ME that Patrick Swayze, a la Johnny Castle, is flinging and slingin' around like a rag doll in a rat terrier's mouth, and it's ME that flies off that stage in that lift that Johnny and Baby could never get right any other time. I am too fine. I know all the words to the song and he's singing it to me although it's a little hard to hear because I'm huffing and puffing after doing all those fancy moves. But not to worry, we finally slow down at the end and do a big smooch and the world is all peach pie and ice cream.
I don't give it any thought that after Baby and Johnny finished the dance and her doctor-daddy had packed up the sedan that Baby went home, started college, probably joined the Peace Corps afterwards, than married a nice Jewish lawyer and Johnny probably went home, joined the Painter's and Plasterer's Union alongside his own daddy and was too tired to dance except for Saturday nights after a hot hour of League Bowling. There were no cell phones in 1963, long-distance calls were way too expensive and writing letters was probably out of the question...guys like Johnny Castle didn't do well in high school; English was not one of his better subjects and if it hadn't been for that cute little cheerleader (you know there had to be a cheerleader involved) that helped him study or gave him the answers, he probably wouldn't have even graduated. But it really doesn't matter to me because I don't let Dirty Dancing take me that far. I don't ever leave the Catskills. And Johnny Castle never ages one day, no one gains one ounce and I am forever and always Baby...and I never get put in a corner.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Bah Bah Mother's Day, Have you any wool?
Readers beware: This is not a sweet and frilly mother's day message. For one, I am not a "frilly" person and sometimes I'm probably not even sweet although I try to do my best.
Mother's Day was a day, in my humble opinion, invented by the Hallmark industry and the International Brotherhood of Restaurants (I just made that up but it sounded good) to guilt-trip hapless men and women into buying cards and going out to eat at 12:00 noon on Sunday with their mothers. In theory there is nothing wrong with this...every mother should get sweet cards from their children and should definitely be honored at a meal often and maybe even oftener (another word I just made up) but why do we have to be like the sheep that we've made ourselves to be and wait for Hallmark to tell us when to do it? You just try and take your mama out to dinner this Sunday after church and you'll see how many other sheep have gotten there before you and are holding one of those little beepers in their hand just waiting for a table that's not going to be called "yours" for a good, solid hour!
Mothers should be loved every day. We should send them cards in months that don't always begin with an "M". Restaurants will be glad to seat you and your mother most any day of the week, last time I checked, and the food will be just as honorable then as it is on mother's day. Wouldn't it mean so much more to you if your children called you up on another day, during another season even and invited you out someplace just because they loved you? Wouldn't a card mean so much more if you got one in Junevember from someone just telling you that you'd done a great job raising your children?
Sorry folks, that's my tale and I'm currently sitting on it...riding in a car on my way to the beach and yes, my mother is with us, and yes, we'll be sitting somewhere in a restaurant on Sunday looking out at the beach...but I can promise you, the card that I bought isn't frilly!
Mother's Day was a day, in my humble opinion, invented by the Hallmark industry and the International Brotherhood of Restaurants (I just made that up but it sounded good) to guilt-trip hapless men and women into buying cards and going out to eat at 12:00 noon on Sunday with their mothers. In theory there is nothing wrong with this...every mother should get sweet cards from their children and should definitely be honored at a meal often and maybe even oftener (another word I just made up) but why do we have to be like the sheep that we've made ourselves to be and wait for Hallmark to tell us when to do it? You just try and take your mama out to dinner this Sunday after church and you'll see how many other sheep have gotten there before you and are holding one of those little beepers in their hand just waiting for a table that's not going to be called "yours" for a good, solid hour!
Mothers should be loved every day. We should send them cards in months that don't always begin with an "M". Restaurants will be glad to seat you and your mother most any day of the week, last time I checked, and the food will be just as honorable then as it is on mother's day. Wouldn't it mean so much more to you if your children called you up on another day, during another season even and invited you out someplace just because they loved you? Wouldn't a card mean so much more if you got one in Junevember from someone just telling you that you'd done a great job raising your children?
Sorry folks, that's my tale and I'm currently sitting on it...riding in a car on my way to the beach and yes, my mother is with us, and yes, we'll be sitting somewhere in a restaurant on Sunday looking out at the beach...but I can promise you, the card that I bought isn't frilly!
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Humpty Dumpty
I've decided that there are two types of people in the world and you'll know which type you are simply by answering the question "when you are going to the basement because a storm is coming what do you take with you or what would you have taken with you if you could have?" Not considering the third answer of "I'm not thinking about taking anything but me and my family" for the sake of this particular blog, the other two answers are going to be something like "wallet, cell phone, check book, car keys" or "photographs and heirlooms".
My husband is of the "wallet, cell phone" ilk while I fall firmly into the "photographs and heirlooms" category. So many many people lost everything in the devastating tornadoes across the Southeast this week, none hit harder than our own state. Whole communities vanished in to thin air like a wave that washes up on the sand only to ebb back into itself and the sea. The tales of destruction and survival are incredible. The pictures on television remind me of a sci fi movie where the BOMB has been dropped and civilization as we know it has ceased to exist. I half keep expecting giant ants or spiders to come crawling across the TV screen, impervious to man's guns or rockets and looking to make a meal off the first living creature that falls in its path when they show parts of Tuscaloosa that used to be and is no more. Now please don't hear me and think that I am trying to make light of the devastation for that is not my intent. All I am saying is that unless you actually go through what those poor people did in places like Pratt City, Tuscaloosa, Cordova and Cullman I just don't think we who are safe in our own well-shingled houses with electricity and hot water could ever truly grasp what it means to lose every physical possession that one owns. And I hope to God that I don't ever truly understand.
Hence, the thoughts about what I would take with me to the relative safety of my basement, or even further underground, to our downstairs bathroom, if I only had a few moments to gather up that which I didn't want to lose to the claws of a tornado. When it passed over Trussville this past Wednesday and we were spared I took nothing with me except for 8 of our neighbors who had no basement to run to. It was only later that Larry shared with me about taking his wallet, cell phone, etc... and I shared that I had thought about taking pictures downstairs with me but that was all, just a thought. I can replace a wallet, a cell phone, car keys, the roof to my house, a car, a check book. Even those who lost these things will eventually do the same. However, it is for their photographs for which I grieve for them the most. Those cherished little momentos that mean absolutely nothing to most anyone else, but the very world to some mother, some daddy, some grandparent. My heart breaks for them now even though most probably haven't even had something as mundane as a photograph cross their mind while they are in the fight of their life just trying to get a roof over their head. But I've been thinking about it for them and it makes me so sad because this is a loss that no All State or State Farm can replace.
If I was a magician I would snap my fingers and begin photographing every child who was affected by this terrible storm and begin a new collection of pictures for the families who have none. Children have relatively short attention spans and someone with a camera would produce smiles that would never detect the hurts and shock from the past Wednesday. If I was a magician I would produce photos to make any mother proud. Unfortunately I'm no magician and it would take a thousand photographers with a thousand cameras to get the job done. But maybe I can help one. Or maybe even two. I know that this is such a small small thing in the grand scheme of things but they say that it takes a village to raise a child and right now the village has gone the way of Humpty Dumpty. If I could help to spackle over just one of Humpty Dumpty's broken parts...could I make some mother smile again?
My husband is of the "wallet, cell phone" ilk while I fall firmly into the "photographs and heirlooms" category. So many many people lost everything in the devastating tornadoes across the Southeast this week, none hit harder than our own state. Whole communities vanished in to thin air like a wave that washes up on the sand only to ebb back into itself and the sea. The tales of destruction and survival are incredible. The pictures on television remind me of a sci fi movie where the BOMB has been dropped and civilization as we know it has ceased to exist. I half keep expecting giant ants or spiders to come crawling across the TV screen, impervious to man's guns or rockets and looking to make a meal off the first living creature that falls in its path when they show parts of Tuscaloosa that used to be and is no more. Now please don't hear me and think that I am trying to make light of the devastation for that is not my intent. All I am saying is that unless you actually go through what those poor people did in places like Pratt City, Tuscaloosa, Cordova and Cullman I just don't think we who are safe in our own well-shingled houses with electricity and hot water could ever truly grasp what it means to lose every physical possession that one owns. And I hope to God that I don't ever truly understand.
Hence, the thoughts about what I would take with me to the relative safety of my basement, or even further underground, to our downstairs bathroom, if I only had a few moments to gather up that which I didn't want to lose to the claws of a tornado. When it passed over Trussville this past Wednesday and we were spared I took nothing with me except for 8 of our neighbors who had no basement to run to. It was only later that Larry shared with me about taking his wallet, cell phone, etc... and I shared that I had thought about taking pictures downstairs with me but that was all, just a thought. I can replace a wallet, a cell phone, car keys, the roof to my house, a car, a check book. Even those who lost these things will eventually do the same. However, it is for their photographs for which I grieve for them the most. Those cherished little momentos that mean absolutely nothing to most anyone else, but the very world to some mother, some daddy, some grandparent. My heart breaks for them now even though most probably haven't even had something as mundane as a photograph cross their mind while they are in the fight of their life just trying to get a roof over their head. But I've been thinking about it for them and it makes me so sad because this is a loss that no All State or State Farm can replace.
If I was a magician I would snap my fingers and begin photographing every child who was affected by this terrible storm and begin a new collection of pictures for the families who have none. Children have relatively short attention spans and someone with a camera would produce smiles that would never detect the hurts and shock from the past Wednesday. If I was a magician I would produce photos to make any mother proud. Unfortunately I'm no magician and it would take a thousand photographers with a thousand cameras to get the job done. But maybe I can help one. Or maybe even two. I know that this is such a small small thing in the grand scheme of things but they say that it takes a village to raise a child and right now the village has gone the way of Humpty Dumpty. If I could help to spackle over just one of Humpty Dumpty's broken parts...could I make some mother smile again?
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Where's Jesus?
If you know me well you've already heard this before and if you know me less then you'll be educated. I do not care for holidays.
While Mother's day is the "holiday" for which I hone my sharpest darts (this blog will come later with much spit and vinegar) with Christmas following a close second I suppose that Easter will slide in to third safely. These "holidays" are little more than man-made efforts to get me to buy greeting cards, flowers, gifts that I can't afford and marshmallows that have been shaped in to everything but the Mona Lisa. I guess the Easter season has my motor running faster than Steppenwolf's and I'm having to look in the mirror to see my own guilty face staring back because I've got a huge shopping bag full of everything for Easter that is not Jesus. I've got chocolate rabbits and chocolate footballs and marshmallow peeps and stuff from Bath and Body Works for my daughter-in-law's basket. I've got skittles and starbursts for the boys and a chocolate covered something or other for Larry. I've got a little scented candle and some lip gloss for my mother (actually it was a buy one get one free at B&BW so mother is going to be the recipient of the free part along with some little snicker bars and bright pink peeps.) I've got plastic eggs that look like little animals from Noah's ark so do I get points for that? Of course not. I've got Reece's Pieces in a plastic bag that's shaped like a big carrot; I'm not sure who will get those yet. I've got everything but Jesus in the basket.
Have you ever stopped to wonder what Jesus must think about us when He looks down at His creation and all he sees is us standing 10-deep in line at Walmart with our pre-lit Christmas trees and tinsel and stuffed bunnies and plastic baskets so that we can celebrate HIS BIRTH AND RESURRECTION? Have you taken a look around when you are trying to decide if you want milk chocolate or dark to see if there was virtually any sign of why we are celebrating? I know that some stores will throw Him a sop by having a token Nativity scene or two squeezed in between the Disney stockings and dancing Santas but at Easter you are not even going to find a token in your major stores; although I will have to say that at the dollar store I saw chocolate praying hands...I even bought two of them but when you think about it even that carries the scent of clever marketing to get my dollar. Chocolate praying hands? I've even seen chocolate crosses and that just about takes me to a level of hypocracy that I am not comfortable with. The Jesus that I know did not die to be commemorated with a chocolate cross. We have sanitized these so-called "holidays" until they are so far from the truth that if we were to discover a civilization in the deepest, darkest jungles of somewhere, anywhere, that had never heard of Christmas and Easter, and we brought them to America during one of those two shopping seasons do you think they would have even the remotest clue as to why all this "stuff" was displayed like carnival fare in the windows of our shopping establishments? Sometimes I think that we have gotten so far away from what Christmas and Easter actually mean that even WE can't distinguish truth from fantasy.
I'm pretty sure that when we get to Heaven that there won't be any holidays celebrated, or, at least there won't be any dancing Santas or marshmallow peeps. Sorry to disappoint you peep lovers but I just don't think they're going to make the cut at the table of plenty. There will be a celebration all right, but it will be focused on Him alone, with none of the human trappings of plastic and goo that we have allowed our own personal Jesus to become buried in. I'm sorry if this wasn't the Easter message that you would have expected in my blog--don't read it on Mother's Day unless you want your ears to sizzle. I don't even want to think about it right now, that holiday just makes my pressure go up like a Roman candle.
Have a blessed Easter! He is indeed risen and He loves you very much! (and yes, we will be eating peeps tomorrow...)
While Mother's day is the "holiday" for which I hone my sharpest darts (this blog will come later with much spit and vinegar) with Christmas following a close second I suppose that Easter will slide in to third safely. These "holidays" are little more than man-made efforts to get me to buy greeting cards, flowers, gifts that I can't afford and marshmallows that have been shaped in to everything but the Mona Lisa. I guess the Easter season has my motor running faster than Steppenwolf's and I'm having to look in the mirror to see my own guilty face staring back because I've got a huge shopping bag full of everything for Easter that is not Jesus. I've got chocolate rabbits and chocolate footballs and marshmallow peeps and stuff from Bath and Body Works for my daughter-in-law's basket. I've got skittles and starbursts for the boys and a chocolate covered something or other for Larry. I've got a little scented candle and some lip gloss for my mother (actually it was a buy one get one free at B&BW so mother is going to be the recipient of the free part along with some little snicker bars and bright pink peeps.) I've got plastic eggs that look like little animals from Noah's ark so do I get points for that? Of course not. I've got Reece's Pieces in a plastic bag that's shaped like a big carrot; I'm not sure who will get those yet. I've got everything but Jesus in the basket.
Have you ever stopped to wonder what Jesus must think about us when He looks down at His creation and all he sees is us standing 10-deep in line at Walmart with our pre-lit Christmas trees and tinsel and stuffed bunnies and plastic baskets so that we can celebrate HIS BIRTH AND RESURRECTION? Have you taken a look around when you are trying to decide if you want milk chocolate or dark to see if there was virtually any sign of why we are celebrating? I know that some stores will throw Him a sop by having a token Nativity scene or two squeezed in between the Disney stockings and dancing Santas but at Easter you are not even going to find a token in your major stores; although I will have to say that at the dollar store I saw chocolate praying hands...I even bought two of them but when you think about it even that carries the scent of clever marketing to get my dollar. Chocolate praying hands? I've even seen chocolate crosses and that just about takes me to a level of hypocracy that I am not comfortable with. The Jesus that I know did not die to be commemorated with a chocolate cross. We have sanitized these so-called "holidays" until they are so far from the truth that if we were to discover a civilization in the deepest, darkest jungles of somewhere, anywhere, that had never heard of Christmas and Easter, and we brought them to America during one of those two shopping seasons do you think they would have even the remotest clue as to why all this "stuff" was displayed like carnival fare in the windows of our shopping establishments? Sometimes I think that we have gotten so far away from what Christmas and Easter actually mean that even WE can't distinguish truth from fantasy.
I'm pretty sure that when we get to Heaven that there won't be any holidays celebrated, or, at least there won't be any dancing Santas or marshmallow peeps. Sorry to disappoint you peep lovers but I just don't think they're going to make the cut at the table of plenty. There will be a celebration all right, but it will be focused on Him alone, with none of the human trappings of plastic and goo that we have allowed our own personal Jesus to become buried in. I'm sorry if this wasn't the Easter message that you would have expected in my blog--don't read it on Mother's Day unless you want your ears to sizzle. I don't even want to think about it right now, that holiday just makes my pressure go up like a Roman candle.
Have a blessed Easter! He is indeed risen and He loves you very much! (and yes, we will be eating peeps tomorrow...)
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Bloom Where You are Planted
Driving past St Vincent's East one day last week I happened to notice a tall stand of cedar trees off on the right side of the road. Doing a quick count I think there must have been five or six of them and you could tell that they had all been planted at the same time. It looked like they had been placed there as a cover for some flaw in the landscape and were doing their job well. However, one of them on the far end was as dead as a rock concert featuring chamber musicians and then one in the middle was about "half" dead. As I passed on by I immediately began wondering what made the one die and another one trying to follow close behind. I figure they'd been there for close to twenty years by now, probably put there when they built the hospital. And they would have all received the same kind of care or lack of it, the same amount of rain and sun, the very same soil, the very same everything. Yet, something, at some point, happened to make one of those trees die and another one to begin following in its own path of destruction.
Of course, being a person who is always looking for the "more" in something, more of an explanation than what I've been given (not quite to the level of those pesky White House reporters who pepper the president with their endless staccato of question marks but more closely to Alton Brown on "Good Eats") I began thinking about how those trees were such a telling commentary on our own personal existence today. Like when Jesus spoke in easy-to-understand parables to the people who crossed His path such as the one about the farmer who planted the seeds and how they fared depending on where they landed (some dying immediately, some living but at the first sign of bad weather dying on the vine while some flourished) I think that we humans are basically no different, in this way, from those cedar trees or seeds.
If my purpose for being put here in the grand scheme of things is to be like one of those cedar trees and serve as a covering for some flaw in the landscape then so be it, God had that plan down pat for me before I even born (breech but that's another blog for another day.) I know He wants us to be faithful and to bloom no matter whether we're a cedar tree or a giant redwood sequoia right where we are...to bloom where we are planted.
Of course, being a person who is always looking for the "more" in something, more of an explanation than what I've been given (not quite to the level of those pesky White House reporters who pepper the president with their endless staccato of question marks but more closely to Alton Brown on "Good Eats") I began thinking about how those trees were such a telling commentary on our own personal existence today. Like when Jesus spoke in easy-to-understand parables to the people who crossed His path such as the one about the farmer who planted the seeds and how they fared depending on where they landed (some dying immediately, some living but at the first sign of bad weather dying on the vine while some flourished) I think that we humans are basically no different, in this way, from those cedar trees or seeds.
If my purpose for being put here in the grand scheme of things is to be like one of those cedar trees and serve as a covering for some flaw in the landscape then so be it, God had that plan down pat for me before I even born (breech but that's another blog for another day.) I know He wants us to be faithful and to bloom no matter whether we're a cedar tree or a giant redwood sequoia right where we are...to bloom where we are planted.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Larry and Will's Excellent Adventure
Larry and Will were fortunate enough to be able to go to the practice round on Tuesday in Augusta at The Masters. It really takes a lot to excite my husband but this was on "par" with a chocoholic being given the keys to the city in Hershey, Pennsylvania and being told to stay awhile. He loves golf and has always wanted to make the pilgrimage to Augusta to the most famous golf course and tournament of all. (I guess this is no different than the time that I went to Memphis so that I could see Graceland; I mean I think it's a law or something that if you go to Memphis you've got to see Graceland at least once.)
The Masters was everything that Larry had hoped it would be. He was able to see some of the top players in the world on a day when they could be more relaxed since they were only practicing and they played more to the crowd than they will as the week progresses. Will took some beautiful pictures of the landscape and I'm sure they don't even do it justice. It almost doesn't even look real; it kind of reminds me of the "Disney effect" that you get when you walk through The Magic Kingdom for the first time.
I think it's positively wonderful when people that you care for are able to cross something off their bucket list as having been done and at the same time making a memory with someone they love that will last long after the list gets tossed aside and forgotten. Memories and pictures...some of my favorite things.
What's on your bucket list?
The Masters was everything that Larry had hoped it would be. He was able to see some of the top players in the world on a day when they could be more relaxed since they were only practicing and they played more to the crowd than they will as the week progresses. Will took some beautiful pictures of the landscape and I'm sure they don't even do it justice. It almost doesn't even look real; it kind of reminds me of the "Disney effect" that you get when you walk through The Magic Kingdom for the first time.
I think it's positively wonderful when people that you care for are able to cross something off their bucket list as having been done and at the same time making a memory with someone they love that will last long after the list gets tossed aside and forgotten. Memories and pictures...some of my favorite things.
What's on your bucket list?
Saturday, April 2, 2011
LuLu and Shady, Part Deux
"I knew it was only a matter of time...seems twin #1 cut it a little too close while racing through the house and caught a corner with the side of his head...yep you said it...emergency room for stitches....after it was all over and back at home, Shady complained 'my whole day was wasted and I ain't taking nobody else to the emergency room' "...Bro
I have a feeling that it will be a cold day in, well, let's just say that it's going to be a cold day on the "great gray greasy mighty Limpopo" before Shady lets LuLu extend the right hand of hospitable friendship to any relatives from across the big pond to visit again. It may take months for his blood pressure to crawl out of stroke level.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Help Wanted at the Bronx Zoo
While getting dressed for work this morning I happened to catch a newsbyte on TV about a catastrophe that happened this week at the Bronx Zoo. It seems that one of their cobras has disappeared from its container and is nowhere to be found. "Not to worry", the newsperson said, "zoo officials have closed down the reptile house until the 20 inch adolescent can be found." Not to worry, my Aunt Fanny's backside.
What poor sucker is going to have to look for that snake, I mean who are they going to make put that on the top of their list of things to do? I suspect that on the next day following the great escape a higher percentage than normal of reptile-house employees felt a touch of the rheumatism flare up or had a burrito back up on them so maybe they'd just better call in sick and stay home. If I was one of those cage cleaning, copperhead caterers I'd have thought twice about going in to work that day myself. A cobra, either a "20 inch adolescent" or a full grown, 8 foot, mean motorscooter is going to kill you dead as a ballpeen hammer if it bites you unless you've got a pocket full of anti-venom right close by. I've seen enough shots of New York traffic on TV to know that you've probably got a better chance of finding a clearance table at Tiffany's than you do of getting from the Bronx Zoo to a hospital that's got a vial of cobra anti-venom sitting and waiting on you to wheel in. If I was a betting woman, and I'm not, but if I was, I'd lay odds on that cobra living to see another day and you becoming worm food if you happen to be the employee who runs up on that thing and surprises it. I don't know much about snakes but I do know that they don't take kindly to being surprised at all.
Yep, I can just see the help wanted sign outside the reptile house about now: "Wanted, one Cobra Hunter, advantageous to be single, preferably with no next of kin (and few aspirations of advancement because this could very well be a dead-end job.") Watch where you step in The Big Apple!
What poor sucker is going to have to look for that snake, I mean who are they going to make put that on the top of their list of things to do? I suspect that on the next day following the great escape a higher percentage than normal of reptile-house employees felt a touch of the rheumatism flare up or had a burrito back up on them so maybe they'd just better call in sick and stay home. If I was one of those cage cleaning, copperhead caterers I'd have thought twice about going in to work that day myself. A cobra, either a "20 inch adolescent" or a full grown, 8 foot, mean motorscooter is going to kill you dead as a ballpeen hammer if it bites you unless you've got a pocket full of anti-venom right close by. I've seen enough shots of New York traffic on TV to know that you've probably got a better chance of finding a clearance table at Tiffany's than you do of getting from the Bronx Zoo to a hospital that's got a vial of cobra anti-venom sitting and waiting on you to wheel in. If I was a betting woman, and I'm not, but if I was, I'd lay odds on that cobra living to see another day and you becoming worm food if you happen to be the employee who runs up on that thing and surprises it. I don't know much about snakes but I do know that they don't take kindly to being surprised at all.
Yep, I can just see the help wanted sign outside the reptile house about now: "Wanted, one Cobra Hunter, advantageous to be single, preferably with no next of kin (and few aspirations of advancement because this could very well be a dead-end job.") Watch where you step in The Big Apple!
Sunday, March 27, 2011
LuLu and Shady
I've wanted to talk about these two particular characters for quite some time now but wasn't quite sure how to go about it since, how shall I put it, they are family...not immediate family mind you but still in the same garden where our family tree flourishes so it's family all the same. I am changing the names to protect the guilty, innocent, the dizzy and the dotty but let me say up front that my garden spot would be so very boring without LuLu, Shady and all their kin watering it with their antics from time to time.
LuLu isn't from around here, she hails from a small village across the "big pond". She met her husband "J.D.", a deep-South redneck, who'd hopped a freighter for parts unknown looking for fortune and adventure (and not necessarily in that order) and their paths happen to cross like Bogie and Bacall (or Bardot and BillyBob.) Neither could understand each other's language but the language of amour needed no translation and so love and marriage commenced. She also couldn't pronounce her "J's" very well and "J.D." came out "Shady" and the name stuck. I think they've been married close to 50 years so I guess they've learned to communicate even though sometimes you still have to listen close to what LuLu says in order to understand what she is saying.
Right now LuLu is in the proverbial doghouse thanks to her generosity which she unwittingly extended to some younger members of her family who still live across the "big pond". She invited one to come for a short visit and instead, wound up greeting six of them at the airport with three being children under the age of ten. Shady is not happy a bit and I think that if he wasn't so concerned about them destroying his entire house that he would just check in to a motel for the duration of their visit. Oh yes, and they are staying for a month! Within the first few days one of the two year old twins had already thrown something down the commode and stopped it up necessitating an expensive call to the plumber. Then they threw coins in to the swimming pool and practically tore up the filter. More than one of LuLu's favorite antiques has had to be rescued from their grasp. Their mother's solution has been a double harness with a long tether in order to keep them from running any more amok than they've already run, at least when they go outside. Shady just shakes his head and keeps threatening to move in to a motel while LuLu just keeps cooking and cleaning up the house.
Now LuLu weighs next to nothing. She loves high heeled shoes and how this little woman teeters around on them without falling down is a mystery to me. So when her daughter drove by the house last week just to see if there was any evident carnage from the twin cyclones she was rewarded with the sight of seeing LuLu holding on to the reins of their harness for dear life, being pulled along like a chihuahua on a jet ski and doing her best to keep her balance in her best high heels. Those two miniature steam engines had pulled her down the steps, out of the yard, across the street laughing like banshees and she wasn't strong enough to stop them. I wish I could have seen that.
Now LuLu just cooks and cleans and marks days off the calendar while Shady picks up toys off the floor. I think he would leave town for the next few weeks just for some peace and quiet but he's afraid that they'll burn down the house while he's gone.
Wasn't it Benjamin Franklin who uttered so astutely that "fish and visitors both smell in three days"?
LuLu isn't from around here, she hails from a small village across the "big pond". She met her husband "J.D.", a deep-South redneck, who'd hopped a freighter for parts unknown looking for fortune and adventure (and not necessarily in that order) and their paths happen to cross like Bogie and Bacall (or Bardot and BillyBob.) Neither could understand each other's language but the language of amour needed no translation and so love and marriage commenced. She also couldn't pronounce her "J's" very well and "J.D." came out "Shady" and the name stuck. I think they've been married close to 50 years so I guess they've learned to communicate even though sometimes you still have to listen close to what LuLu says in order to understand what she is saying.
Right now LuLu is in the proverbial doghouse thanks to her generosity which she unwittingly extended to some younger members of her family who still live across the "big pond". She invited one to come for a short visit and instead, wound up greeting six of them at the airport with three being children under the age of ten. Shady is not happy a bit and I think that if he wasn't so concerned about them destroying his entire house that he would just check in to a motel for the duration of their visit. Oh yes, and they are staying for a month! Within the first few days one of the two year old twins had already thrown something down the commode and stopped it up necessitating an expensive call to the plumber. Then they threw coins in to the swimming pool and practically tore up the filter. More than one of LuLu's favorite antiques has had to be rescued from their grasp. Their mother's solution has been a double harness with a long tether in order to keep them from running any more amok than they've already run, at least when they go outside. Shady just shakes his head and keeps threatening to move in to a motel while LuLu just keeps cooking and cleaning up the house.
Now LuLu weighs next to nothing. She loves high heeled shoes and how this little woman teeters around on them without falling down is a mystery to me. So when her daughter drove by the house last week just to see if there was any evident carnage from the twin cyclones she was rewarded with the sight of seeing LuLu holding on to the reins of their harness for dear life, being pulled along like a chihuahua on a jet ski and doing her best to keep her balance in her best high heels. Those two miniature steam engines had pulled her down the steps, out of the yard, across the street laughing like banshees and she wasn't strong enough to stop them. I wish I could have seen that.
Now LuLu just cooks and cleans and marks days off the calendar while Shady picks up toys off the floor. I think he would leave town for the next few weeks just for some peace and quiet but he's afraid that they'll burn down the house while he's gone.
Wasn't it Benjamin Franklin who uttered so astutely that "fish and visitors both smell in three days"?
Sunday, March 20, 2011
A Love Story in a Single Paragraph
He was a blonde-headed, long, tall drink of water with more tattoos than he had bare skin on his arms and legs and he was loading their groceries in the cart. She was a short, slightly-chubby thing with several tattoos herself, wearing glasses and sporting hair that was obviously dyed from a bottle that must have been labeled "Black as Egypt." She was paying for the groceries. In the child's seat was a little blonde-headed moppet with a Disney Princess T-shirt on, happy as a lark and making funny faces at me while I waited for my turn to check out. She was a little doll and when her dad looked my way I spoke to her and said something like "well aren't you the cutest thing" and she just grinned. Her dad looked at me and replied "she sure is the cutest thing" and then he paused for just a second and looked at me again with a smile and then said "just like her mama". To me the onlooker, that child looked nothing like the girl paying for the groceries but at that very instant there was absolutely nothing else in the world that could have competed with that compliment. That short, slightly-chubby, slightly-tattooed, glasses wearing, dyed-hair sporting young thing suddenly straightened up a little and looked at him with such love and tenderness that I swear for an instant she looked 10 feet tall and runway model beautiful. The love that passed between them in that moment was more tangible than if a dozen tuxedoed men had just waltzed by the cash registers singing "You Are So Beautiful" and I felt incredibly privileged to have witnessed it. I watched this odd little family as they walked out of the store laughing and talking, quite in their own little world, her chubby little arm linked in his as they pushed their daughter and their groceries out of the store and in to the night. Sometimes Walmart can indeed be the very best place to make a memory.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
A Robe by Any Other Name Smells Just as Sweet
Yes, that is no typo, I meant robe not rose. I have one that I love, a robe that is, do you? It was given to me by a dear friend several, several years ago for Christmas I think. It's exact age is unknown but its comfort is not. I absolutely love cuddling up in it when the days are cold and blustery in the Fall and Winter and even Spring when it's raining or there's an unseasonably cool evening. I suppose it gets a "summer break" because of its warmth so maybe that's why it has held up as long as it has. It is long, with a big fluffy collar, deep pockets and lots of room. I loved it from the very first time when I unwrapped it from the package and tried it on.
While my old, beginning-to-get-ratty blue robe is one of my most favorite pieces of clothing that I own it is not something that you want to have your picture taken in. On Christmas mornings I've tried to remember to throw it over a chair before we start opening presents and the cameras came out. As a somewhat hefty old broad compared to say, Uma Thurman, I look like the entire defensive line for the Green Bay Packers when I've got it on (and you know how those cameras add pounds!) There is absolutely nothing sexy about it either. I've tried cinching the belt in as tight as I dared and I still can't find a waist line (the term "haus Frau" comes to mind if I pass a mirror in it) There's a small hole about the size of a nickel down near the bottom that I haven't the foggiest as to how it got there but I don't even care except for when it catches on a chair and slings me across the room in a big less-than-graceful swan stumble.) I'm pretty sure that Murray gets a little embarrassed if I've got it on when I take him out to do his business in the middle of the night but he's had to just get over that--anything that requires a leash and poops in the yard is just going to have to take what they can get.
Over the years whatever my wonderful robe is made out of has gotten really "fuzzy" (making me look even more gigantic, kinda like a blue Jackie Gleason) and it has subsequently slipped to the "worse for wear" side of the fashion scale, but I'll still wear it like it was a $20,000 sable, unashamed, in my house. I will not get rid of it until it has utterly fallen apart in the washer or the dryer though, it has become much like a faithful old friend...a rather ugly old friend but a faithful one all the same, ready to provide warmth and comfort as soon as I slip it on. I dare say a pair of Jimmy Choos wouldn't do that for you.
Do you have clothes that you are attached to? I don't think I'm alone with my attachment to my robe, I think you're out there but it may be with some other wearable thing. Exactly what do you love that's in your closet?
While my old, beginning-to-get-ratty blue robe is one of my most favorite pieces of clothing that I own it is not something that you want to have your picture taken in. On Christmas mornings I've tried to remember to throw it over a chair before we start opening presents and the cameras came out. As a somewhat hefty old broad compared to say, Uma Thurman, I look like the entire defensive line for the Green Bay Packers when I've got it on (and you know how those cameras add pounds!) There is absolutely nothing sexy about it either. I've tried cinching the belt in as tight as I dared and I still can't find a waist line (the term "haus Frau" comes to mind if I pass a mirror in it) There's a small hole about the size of a nickel down near the bottom that I haven't the foggiest as to how it got there but I don't even care except for when it catches on a chair and slings me across the room in a big less-than-graceful swan stumble.) I'm pretty sure that Murray gets a little embarrassed if I've got it on when I take him out to do his business in the middle of the night but he's had to just get over that--anything that requires a leash and poops in the yard is just going to have to take what they can get.
Over the years whatever my wonderful robe is made out of has gotten really "fuzzy" (making me look even more gigantic, kinda like a blue Jackie Gleason) and it has subsequently slipped to the "worse for wear" side of the fashion scale, but I'll still wear it like it was a $20,000 sable, unashamed, in my house. I will not get rid of it until it has utterly fallen apart in the washer or the dryer though, it has become much like a faithful old friend...a rather ugly old friend but a faithful one all the same, ready to provide warmth and comfort as soon as I slip it on. I dare say a pair of Jimmy Choos wouldn't do that for you.
Do you have clothes that you are attached to? I don't think I'm alone with my attachment to my robe, I think you're out there but it may be with some other wearable thing. Exactly what do you love that's in your closet?
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Bad Poetry
I found an old book of poetry that I'd handwritten in a journal a hundred years ago (or so it seemed.) It was in the basement in a cardboard box full of books that we moved from our old house almost 6 years ago. I told you this was bad poetry...a Rod McKuen I will never be but boy did I try. Here's one:
Good Friend
...Exchanging giggly secrets
behind cupped hands,
Knowing when you're blue.
Always being there
Remembering your birthday.
...Listening.
Agreeing even though you disagree
just to keep the peace.
Understanding mood swings,
private jokes and
Temporary fits of temper.
Realizing each other's faults,
even joking about them.
(But God help someone else who tries
the same.)
Good friend...defending your honor,
your place in line,
Your right to be.
12-13-1983
I told you it was old! And even though it's pretty bad as poetry goes most of it still rings true. Aren't friends, especially good ones, the best thing since sliced bread!
Good Friend
...Exchanging giggly secrets
behind cupped hands,
Knowing when you're blue.
Always being there
Remembering your birthday.
...Listening.
Agreeing even though you disagree
just to keep the peace.
Understanding mood swings,
private jokes and
Temporary fits of temper.
Realizing each other's faults,
even joking about them.
(But God help someone else who tries
the same.)
Good friend...defending your honor,
your place in line,
Your right to be.
12-13-1983
I told you it was old! And even though it's pretty bad as poetry goes most of it still rings true. Aren't friends, especially good ones, the best thing since sliced bread!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
With Six You Get Egg Roll
A ladies' brunch among friends, specifically in this instance, friends from Sunday School, is one of the best places in the world to bond as only women know best. Riding over with a newer member of the class, I told her that she would learn more about her friends there than she would in five years of regular Sunday School attendance. On Sunday mornings we simply don't have enough time to share those colorful, interesting pieces of the fabrics which knit our lives together into a virtual crazy quilt of friendship.
"Whatever is said at the brunch stays at the brunch" has become a time honored code of silence among us; no one wants to bare their soul only to have it re-hashed in the market place. I think that it's an honor for this group of wonderful, wise, Christian women to think that I am worthy of knowing their secret joys and personal pain. It is in an atmosphere of caring and non-confrontation that we will share our fears, misgivings and a hope for tomorrow knowing that we are loved just like I'd like to think that Mary and Elizabeth loved each other more than 2000 years ago. I can just picture those two: one pregnant with the One Who would forever change the world and the other with one who would herald His way, sharing coffee and secrets and laughing and crying together as they faced the uncertainty of the impending deliveries. Things haven't changed much along the way I suppose. Although there are none in our group with "impending deliveries"(most of us are a good 10 years past that biological clock or the "tick" is definitely a lot slower than the "tock") we have children, grandchildren and husbands who light our way and who sometimes singe us with the candle. It is the Christian friends like these who make up our "quilt of friendship" and who help us to know how to pray for our loved ones. Since I may be getting dangerously close to breaking the code of silence here I'll say little more except to say that the Holy Spirit, our "Comforter" sustains us when the candle gets a little too close for comfort. And isn't it ironic that we often call a quilt a "comforter"? How appropriate!
"Whatever is said at the brunch stays at the brunch" has become a time honored code of silence among us; no one wants to bare their soul only to have it re-hashed in the market place. I think that it's an honor for this group of wonderful, wise, Christian women to think that I am worthy of knowing their secret joys and personal pain. It is in an atmosphere of caring and non-confrontation that we will share our fears, misgivings and a hope for tomorrow knowing that we are loved just like I'd like to think that Mary and Elizabeth loved each other more than 2000 years ago. I can just picture those two: one pregnant with the One Who would forever change the world and the other with one who would herald His way, sharing coffee and secrets and laughing and crying together as they faced the uncertainty of the impending deliveries. Things haven't changed much along the way I suppose. Although there are none in our group with "impending deliveries"(most of us are a good 10 years past that biological clock or the "tick" is definitely a lot slower than the "tock") we have children, grandchildren and husbands who light our way and who sometimes singe us with the candle. It is the Christian friends like these who make up our "quilt of friendship" and who help us to know how to pray for our loved ones. Since I may be getting dangerously close to breaking the code of silence here I'll say little more except to say that the Holy Spirit, our "Comforter" sustains us when the candle gets a little too close for comfort. And isn't it ironic that we often call a quilt a "comforter"? How appropriate!
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Signs of Spring!!!!!!!!
Spring may not officially be here according to the Julian calendar but my sinuses know that it's flown in like a pregnant woman looking for the nearest bathroom. Bradford pears might be pretty to look at when they're in full bloom but "snot funny" the way they make my head feel.
Another sure sign that Spring is comin' is the way the geese that hang out at the lake in front of our building start acting. Eleven months out of the year those silly Canadians are just as compatible as a pair of old shoes. But when the sap starts rising then the feathers start flying. All the male geese who were just as cordial to each other the day before start flapping and dive bombing each other all over the lake trying to appeal to the ladies with their goosey "I am strong like bull", manly charm. You can be certain that in just a few weeks after that we'll start seeing mama and papa goose minding 4 or 5 little yellow fluff balls as they glide across the lake showing off their progeny. It's funny how grown people will act when that new "family" makes its first appearance, kind of like how you used to could stand in front of the nursery window at the hospital and admire all the new arrivals. We all gather at the window and ooh and aah just like they were ours. And like Elton John sings about the "circle of life" we all know that when the baby geese appear then so do the turtles. And turtles like yellow fluff balls for dinner so most of them disappear before they get very big. I'm not sure who likes turtles on the food chain but there must be something that does because otherwise we'd be overrun with them. Everything has its place and there's a place for everything. I like how God planned it that way and I like that we're at the top of the heap. But stay out of the way of elephants...they trump everything.
Another sure sign that Spring is comin' is the way the geese that hang out at the lake in front of our building start acting. Eleven months out of the year those silly Canadians are just as compatible as a pair of old shoes. But when the sap starts rising then the feathers start flying. All the male geese who were just as cordial to each other the day before start flapping and dive bombing each other all over the lake trying to appeal to the ladies with their goosey "I am strong like bull", manly charm. You can be certain that in just a few weeks after that we'll start seeing mama and papa goose minding 4 or 5 little yellow fluff balls as they glide across the lake showing off their progeny. It's funny how grown people will act when that new "family" makes its first appearance, kind of like how you used to could stand in front of the nursery window at the hospital and admire all the new arrivals. We all gather at the window and ooh and aah just like they were ours. And like Elton John sings about the "circle of life" we all know that when the baby geese appear then so do the turtles. And turtles like yellow fluff balls for dinner so most of them disappear before they get very big. I'm not sure who likes turtles on the food chain but there must be something that does because otherwise we'd be overrun with them. Everything has its place and there's a place for everything. I like how God planned it that way and I like that we're at the top of the heap. But stay out of the way of elephants...they trump everything.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Thinking Outside the Box at Weight Watchers
I recently discovered an old email that I'd sent to my sister years ago when we were both going to Weight Watchers and counting "points" were the big thing. I don't know if they still count points at Weight Watchers any longer since I am a Weight Watcher reprobate. I've backslid more times than I care to count and I am just not dependable when it comes to counting anything. But I must admit, even if I did write the email below myself it still makes me laugh all over again.
"Do you think there are any points in a leather purse? I'm eyeing it right now and I was sort of thinking that if I cut it up and put it in the crockpot with some salt and pepper and onions and then throw in a few other zero point vegetables that I might have me something tasty. You know a crockpot can just do wonders with tough meat (of course I'm not sure about the zipper, it might be a little hard to chew) that I figure if I put enough "other stuff" in there with it I might get filled up this weekend. I'm also looking in to that Chipper Jones autographed bat that Dan has and pondering if there would be any points in it if I cut it up in hunks and put it through the food processor and then combined it with 3oz of hamburger and some onion. That way I could make myself about a 32oz meatloaf with only the points for the 3oz of meat; you know that people always put crackers or oatmeal in their meatloaf to make it stretch further so I figured this would be close to the same if I just pureed ole Chipper's Louisville slugger into sawdust and threw in a little bit of ketchup. Then maybe I would be so full that I wouldn't be tempted to start on the hardrock maple chair legs in the dining room, them being so expensive and all. Hmmmm...maybe I could parboil one and then put it in the blender with some fat free milk and some sweet and low and make me a big fat maple shake. Well, I gotta go. That microwave stand looks awfully good but I keep forgetting that it's not real wood. It's too full of "fillers" for me to really enjoy and even I have my limits."
Going on a diet can make you come up with some real creative ways to beat the system. Confound those points!
"Do you think there are any points in a leather purse? I'm eyeing it right now and I was sort of thinking that if I cut it up and put it in the crockpot with some salt and pepper and onions and then throw in a few other zero point vegetables that I might have me something tasty. You know a crockpot can just do wonders with tough meat (of course I'm not sure about the zipper, it might be a little hard to chew) that I figure if I put enough "other stuff" in there with it I might get filled up this weekend. I'm also looking in to that Chipper Jones autographed bat that Dan has and pondering if there would be any points in it if I cut it up in hunks and put it through the food processor and then combined it with 3oz of hamburger and some onion. That way I could make myself about a 32oz meatloaf with only the points for the 3oz of meat; you know that people always put crackers or oatmeal in their meatloaf to make it stretch further so I figured this would be close to the same if I just pureed ole Chipper's Louisville slugger into sawdust and threw in a little bit of ketchup. Then maybe I would be so full that I wouldn't be tempted to start on the hardrock maple chair legs in the dining room, them being so expensive and all. Hmmmm...maybe I could parboil one and then put it in the blender with some fat free milk and some sweet and low and make me a big fat maple shake. Well, I gotta go. That microwave stand looks awfully good but I keep forgetting that it's not real wood. It's too full of "fillers" for me to really enjoy and even I have my limits."
Going on a diet can make you come up with some real creative ways to beat the system. Confound those points!
Thursday, February 24, 2011
I don't understand skinny people
My dear mother, Carolyn, ("Nana" to her grandchildren) is a skinny person with a skinny person's mentality. Of course she's going to have a quick come back to this...something like that she's bigger than she's ever been before or maybe that she can't even fit in to her clothes, blah blah blah, I've heard it all. Carolyn, you are a skinny person with a skinny person's mentality, end of story, period, infinity squared, and I just can't understand it. I did not inherit this gene. I inherited plus-sized jeans instead. Food and I have been friends for so long that it knows me better than most people do.
I don't understand how a skinny person's mind operates. It is as far from my reasoning as the East is from the West, as far as Chalkville Mountain is from Rodeo Drive, as far as Ben and Jerry's is from Great Value Vanilla, you get the idea. My mother can turn her back on food quicker than Charlie Sheen changes girlfriends and never give it a second thought. If she's not hungry she's not going to eat it no matter how good it looks. I've known her to make a bag of Oreo's last for several weeks. How does anyone do this? It's that skinny person's mindset, I'm telling you, and I just don't understand it. How can anyone pass an opened bag of Oreo's and not get one? How can anyone pass a bag of Oreo's that's NOT opened and not get one? Food is seductive and I'm a sucker who falls for it the same way my friend June Matthews falls for the names on Clairol bottles (of course "Pretty Surfer, Adorable Sun Kissed Blonde" or "Cute as Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle, Blonde" makes you want to pick it up and pour it all over your head, I understand girlfriend, just like that pizza on TV that's dripping with gooey cheese makes me want to call up Papa John's and get a delivery, quick) so whenever I hear a skinny person talk about what they eat I just want to call the doctor and make an appointment...for them.
I will talk more about this later...but for now my fridge is calling my name and I certainly don't want to disappoint a friend.
I don't understand how a skinny person's mind operates. It is as far from my reasoning as the East is from the West, as far as Chalkville Mountain is from Rodeo Drive, as far as Ben and Jerry's is from Great Value Vanilla, you get the idea. My mother can turn her back on food quicker than Charlie Sheen changes girlfriends and never give it a second thought. If she's not hungry she's not going to eat it no matter how good it looks. I've known her to make a bag of Oreo's last for several weeks. How does anyone do this? It's that skinny person's mindset, I'm telling you, and I just don't understand it. How can anyone pass an opened bag of Oreo's and not get one? How can anyone pass a bag of Oreo's that's NOT opened and not get one? Food is seductive and I'm a sucker who falls for it the same way my friend June Matthews falls for the names on Clairol bottles (of course "Pretty Surfer, Adorable Sun Kissed Blonde" or "Cute as Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle, Blonde" makes you want to pick it up and pour it all over your head, I understand girlfriend, just like that pizza on TV that's dripping with gooey cheese makes me want to call up Papa John's and get a delivery, quick) so whenever I hear a skinny person talk about what they eat I just want to call the doctor and make an appointment...for them.
I will talk more about this later...but for now my fridge is calling my name and I certainly don't want to disappoint a friend.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
An Unexpected Snowfall
Sometimes a computer crash can actually come with a benefit. For almost an entire day our server at work was down and people had to resort to doing things manually like calling their counterparts on the telephone and actually having a real live conversation rather than through an instant message or email. And even stranger still, some of them even made personal visits to confer. I haven't seen any livelier discussions in the aisles or heard more laughter than I saw today, in years. It was almost as if we'd all been caught up in some great big giant snowstorm on the interstate and everybody had pulled off at the nearest Waffle House to wait for the snowplows. Normally this same group does their due diligence at a computer churning out miles of data and beau coup productivity but not today...it was "snowing" and there wasn't a thing that we could do about it except to watch it fall. To bring even more deliciousness to the situation one of our vendors had scheduled today of all days to come by and have lunch. Usually the crowd is 5 or 6 tops (some people just won't tear away from their work, even for lunch.) Today it was 17. Everyone had the time today. The restaurant we piled into couldn't seat us all together so all of "the girls" sat at one table and the guys split up. I haven't had that much fun with work friends in years, most of us hadn't eaten together in more years than we cared to count and it was fun just catching up with what has been going on in everyone's lives at a leisurely lunch. The moment was savored.
Computer "snow" days don't come around very often fortunately, after all, what kind of business could operate if "snowstorms" were regular? I can't even remember a day like today happening in the past 5 years as a matter of fact. But on that rare rare occasion, when the timing is just right (or wrong, however you choose to observe it) and a computer-crashing comet streaks across the horizon taking down all the bits and bytes it can devour then we will find time to actually talk to each other about something other than business here at work. For those few moments of precious time we can be "friends" and not just colleagues working on a project together. Work will be here tomorrow with a vengeance and spreadsheets will exact their toll. Instant messages will fly faster than you can say "beam me up Scotty" and schedules will be met and in some cases, midnight oil may even be burned. But just for today we had ourselves an unexpected snowfall and was it ever fun!
Computer "snow" days don't come around very often fortunately, after all, what kind of business could operate if "snowstorms" were regular? I can't even remember a day like today happening in the past 5 years as a matter of fact. But on that rare rare occasion, when the timing is just right (or wrong, however you choose to observe it) and a computer-crashing comet streaks across the horizon taking down all the bits and bytes it can devour then we will find time to actually talk to each other about something other than business here at work. For those few moments of precious time we can be "friends" and not just colleagues working on a project together. Work will be here tomorrow with a vengeance and spreadsheets will exact their toll. Instant messages will fly faster than you can say "beam me up Scotty" and schedules will be met and in some cases, midnight oil may even be burned. But just for today we had ourselves an unexpected snowfall and was it ever fun!
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Think About Who You're Talking To
I've always enjoyed hearing someone pray who had "the gift" of prayer (I call it a gift, "talent" is just the wrong word.) I can think of several people that I've known in the past, men who were my father's age, that I always loved for the preacher to call on to pray, especially at the closing prayer just before the choir sang "God be with you 'til we meet again" and we trooped home for pot roast and mashed potatoes (the real kind, not the ones out of a box!) It just seemed that their prayers were so, well for lack of a better word, soothing. Their words flowed without effort, each syllable like a healing coat of Carmex to be painted on the dry, parched lips of the backsliders and backbiters at the Baptist church. I loved how their voices rose and fell with passion and how their familiar tone and command of the language with which they were so steeped, soothed my Junior Department heart and made things right between me and God.
I find myself in my own prayers saying the stupidest things (thankfully He doesn't think they're stupid however) when I start clarifying about who I'm praying about as if He didn't already know. "God, please watch over (any name will do here), You know, they're the one that (fill in your own description of what might have happened to cause the reason for my prayer in the first place) as if He didn't already know these very people intimately without my promptings. I catch myself doing this all the time. I guess I think that I've got to introduce Him to them or their circumstances just so He'll know exactly who it is that I'm talking about or why I'm praying for them. And it's only when He gently chides me with His unseen finger digging in to my temple that I realize (again) that He is so sovereign. That He already knows my heart and what I am asking for. That all He wants is for me to just talk to Him like a best friend Who needs no explanation for anything or about anyone. I may not have that "gift" of uttering beautiful, Carmex-like prayers but He listens all the same. You, me or Billy Graham, we all reach that same Holy ear....that's nothing less than awesome.
I find myself in my own prayers saying the stupidest things (thankfully He doesn't think they're stupid however) when I start clarifying about who I'm praying about as if He didn't already know. "God, please watch over (any name will do here), You know, they're the one that (fill in your own description of what might have happened to cause the reason for my prayer in the first place) as if He didn't already know these very people intimately without my promptings. I catch myself doing this all the time. I guess I think that I've got to introduce Him to them or their circumstances just so He'll know exactly who it is that I'm talking about or why I'm praying for them. And it's only when He gently chides me with His unseen finger digging in to my temple that I realize (again) that He is so sovereign. That He already knows my heart and what I am asking for. That all He wants is for me to just talk to Him like a best friend Who needs no explanation for anything or about anyone. I may not have that "gift" of uttering beautiful, Carmex-like prayers but He listens all the same. You, me or Billy Graham, we all reach that same Holy ear....that's nothing less than awesome.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
An Ad Man's Sucker
Like I said before, blogging gives you a sense of self-realization like nothing else can.
I'll admit it, I am any ad man's sucker when it comes to good verbiage on the label. If it appeals to my sense of imagination I'll buy it or at least give it a good, long, second glance. Take my air freshener for example. I bought something called "Brazilian Carnival" because the name just oozed with excitement and mystery; imagine my home in the suburbs turned in to a veritable street festival! I could almost hear the Samba dancers in their little feathery costumes (and I do mean little) and those mile-high stilettos tapping down my hallway with that tall, tanned girl from Ipanema (if you're younger than 50 that probably went right over your head--ask your mother who I'm talking about) as I stood there in the grocery aisle and imagined myself joining them on top of one of those glittery floats wearing a headdress that would give a Las Vegas showgirl goosebumps, throwing out baubles and gewgaws to scores of admirers clamoring in the streets below. Say "Corinthian leather" Ricardo Montalban, I feel a dance number coming on (never mind that he wasn't from Brazil but man could he roll those "rrrr's".)
Back to reality.
I must tell you that "Brazilian Carnival" smells ok, it actually has a nice pleasant aroma, but it did not produce a single Samba dancer in my living room. And you know, when you get right down to it, I'm not even sure about the name any more. After all, what does a carnival smell like in the first place? I'm thinking old grease, motor oil and sweat. This sounds more like what you'd find in a garage in Rio (or right here in Trussville for that matter) and where does my personal float fit in with that?
My air freshener won't deter me however, I'm still a sucker for a good label. I've already got a date on the calendar for Calgon to come and take me away.
I'll admit it, I am any ad man's sucker when it comes to good verbiage on the label. If it appeals to my sense of imagination I'll buy it or at least give it a good, long, second glance. Take my air freshener for example. I bought something called "Brazilian Carnival" because the name just oozed with excitement and mystery; imagine my home in the suburbs turned in to a veritable street festival! I could almost hear the Samba dancers in their little feathery costumes (and I do mean little) and those mile-high stilettos tapping down my hallway with that tall, tanned girl from Ipanema (if you're younger than 50 that probably went right over your head--ask your mother who I'm talking about) as I stood there in the grocery aisle and imagined myself joining them on top of one of those glittery floats wearing a headdress that would give a Las Vegas showgirl goosebumps, throwing out baubles and gewgaws to scores of admirers clamoring in the streets below. Say "Corinthian leather" Ricardo Montalban, I feel a dance number coming on (never mind that he wasn't from Brazil but man could he roll those "rrrr's".)
Back to reality.
I must tell you that "Brazilian Carnival" smells ok, it actually has a nice pleasant aroma, but it did not produce a single Samba dancer in my living room. And you know, when you get right down to it, I'm not even sure about the name any more. After all, what does a carnival smell like in the first place? I'm thinking old grease, motor oil and sweat. This sounds more like what you'd find in a garage in Rio (or right here in Trussville for that matter) and where does my personal float fit in with that?
My air freshener won't deter me however, I'm still a sucker for a good label. I've already got a date on the calendar for Calgon to come and take me away.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
I Am Not a Sipper
Blogging will give you a lot of self-realization, I've learned that quickly.
I have a close friend who is a Mr. Shipshape/Black&White No Gray In-between/Precision Driven/Obsessive-Compulsive/High Performance individual. He and I are about as much alike as Walmart and Tiffany's. I am about as "gray" to his "black and white" as you can be. We get along famously, however, because both of us recognize traits in each other that we'd like to possess (but know we'll never have.)
But for all of "Mr. Shipshape's" driven impulses and my keep-it-in-neutral-and-sit-in-the-driveway traits I've discovered that he is a sipper and I am not. I don't have the patience to sip and he does and it makes no sense to me. He drinks coffee luxuriously slow, enjoys the moment. I can't enjoy the moment, I'm too busy slurping it down. I don't drink coffee very often and I guess it's for that reason--I just can't sip it. I've got to get to the bottom of the mug, I'm not capable of letting it just sit there and blend with conversation and a piece of pie. I can make the pie last for an hour but that coffee stares back at me like an impatient time bomb. I can almost hear it asking me "how long do you think it's going to take before I'm cold and you know how yucky I'll be then". Pie = slow, coffee = quick and so far the twain have not met.
I went by Panera Bread today and grabbed breakfast and a Chai tea latte; a small indulgence that I permit myself to enjoy every now and again. Panera is literally across the street from where I work and by the time I got in the building to my desk and put my things down that latte was almost in the past tense. It's almost pointless for them to put it in a "go" cup, I should have just gulped it down in the store.
Maybe some day I'll learn to sip and savor but for now I'm a gulp and grab girl; it ain't pretty but it's me. Now about that pie though...
I have a close friend who is a Mr. Shipshape/Black&White No Gray In-between/Precision Driven/Obsessive-Compulsive/High Performance individual. He and I are about as much alike as Walmart and Tiffany's. I am about as "gray" to his "black and white" as you can be. We get along famously, however, because both of us recognize traits in each other that we'd like to possess (but know we'll never have.)
But for all of "Mr. Shipshape's" driven impulses and my keep-it-in-neutral-and-sit-in-the-driveway traits I've discovered that he is a sipper and I am not. I don't have the patience to sip and he does and it makes no sense to me. He drinks coffee luxuriously slow, enjoys the moment. I can't enjoy the moment, I'm too busy slurping it down. I don't drink coffee very often and I guess it's for that reason--I just can't sip it. I've got to get to the bottom of the mug, I'm not capable of letting it just sit there and blend with conversation and a piece of pie. I can make the pie last for an hour but that coffee stares back at me like an impatient time bomb. I can almost hear it asking me "how long do you think it's going to take before I'm cold and you know how yucky I'll be then". Pie = slow, coffee = quick and so far the twain have not met.
I went by Panera Bread today and grabbed breakfast and a Chai tea latte; a small indulgence that I permit myself to enjoy every now and again. Panera is literally across the street from where I work and by the time I got in the building to my desk and put my things down that latte was almost in the past tense. It's almost pointless for them to put it in a "go" cup, I should have just gulped it down in the store.
Maybe some day I'll learn to sip and savor but for now I'm a gulp and grab girl; it ain't pretty but it's me. Now about that pie though...
Monday, February 7, 2011
I'm Ready to Live in Ecuador
No, not really. A friend sent me a link to a picture of her sister taken recently in Mississippi and published in the local newspaper. Barbara (or as I like to call her "Baaa-bra" because even though she's lived in the South for a double month of Sundays she still sounds like she just strolled down Beacon Hill in Boston) was bundled up like Nanook of the North and in the caption she said that she was tired of the cold weather and was ready to move closer to the Equator. When I first read the sentence I immediately thought she'd said that she wanted to live closer to "Ecuador" and thought she'd lost her mind. I mean there's probably not anything wrong with living in Ecuador, especially if that's the only place you've ever lived and known about, but personally I'd pick Bermuda although I just don't know if my knees would be legal in Bermuda shorts. There's nothing attractive about adult knees, they just don't age well. Now baby knees are precious--you want to kiss 'em twice but let them get a little age on them and they'll turn on you quicker than you can say varicose veins!
I'm ready for this cold weather to push on off to the Arctic Tundra where it belongs and let me get back to complaining about the heat...in my pedal pushers (I think we're supposed to call them "crop" pants now though) and sensible sandals (albeit with manicured toes though---feet will turn on you too like a woman wearing chiffon to scrub the shower!) Come Spring come before I get crazy and pack my bags for Ecuador!
I'm ready for this cold weather to push on off to the Arctic Tundra where it belongs and let me get back to complaining about the heat...in my pedal pushers (I think we're supposed to call them "crop" pants now though) and sensible sandals (albeit with manicured toes though---feet will turn on you too like a woman wearing chiffon to scrub the shower!) Come Spring come before I get crazy and pack my bags for Ecuador!
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Star Spangled Bungle
I just watched the opening of Super Bowl forty-leven or whatever number it is (actually I think it's 45) and heard pop star Christina Aguilera (definitely a misspell) totally botch The Star Spangled Banner right there in front of billions of people. This next week she'll be fodder for the Jay Leno's and David Letterman's of the world and anyone else with a microphone wanting to discuss the Super Bowl. Now in her defense, our National Anthem is not one of the easiest songs to sing in the world. Supposedly the tune is to that of an old English drinking song (I can believe that, somebody had to be about half lit to have come up with it the way it goes from low to high and back again like a john boat in a typhoon) and the tune alone has stumped more than one aspiring singer. But the words...there's just something about those few opening phrases that'll get you every time when you're singing in front of the entire English-speaking segment of the world and your palms are sweaty. I think once you get to the "and the rocket's red glare" part you're pretty much home free but when you're dog paddling in the murky waters of the "who's broad stripes and bright stars...." part you are either going to sink or swim depending on whether you've written the words on the palm of your hand or not. Ole Christina should have written them in glitter or something because she wrecked her big chance and will now just be known as another Robert Goulet, who, not only did Elvis shoot at with a big ole gun when he saw him singing on TV one time (apparently Mr. Goulet and Elvis were not the best of friends) he too forgot the words to our National Anthem when he was singing at a football game. Oh, and don't forget Roseanne Barr's despicable rendition either. It's a shame she didn't just forget the words, walk off the field and do us all a favor.
Robert, Roseanne and Christina...not a club I'd be wanting to join...
Robert, Roseanne and Christina...not a club I'd be wanting to join...
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Toys Aren't Us
I love my computer...I love how I can google anything that happens to flit across the gray matter and then quicker than a Cam Newton touchdown I've got an answer. I am simply mad about how it lets me keep up with the world through all its jillion websites at my fingertips (I must confess, I no longer even know where my library card is.) Up until now it has been a paragon of helpfulness and entertainment (except for the time that I clicked on an innocent -enough sounding site and went straight to the virtual bastions of Sodom and Gomorrah but that's another story for another day.) So how come it has managed to make me crazy all of a sudden with its refusal to upload pictures to Facebook any more? I've tried over and over and get the same logon error when it worked fine before and all of a sudden my "paragon of helpfulness" has become a "plethora of horses behind". I am so frustrated with it! It's not that I even want to upload pictures that often but when I want to I want that Cam Newton effect, not a "Fig Newton" (goes slow and tough to swallow.) Some kind of evil little critter has laid its nasty little progeny inside my computer, I just know it. It couldn't be something that I've done to it myself, surely not.
Since I'm about as technologically savvy as a piece of cheese toast I think it's time to take this toy to the doctor for a proper diagnosis. And as for whatever is wrong with it (I know, it's probably something I messed up all by myself but it's just more palatable to blame it on a bug), hopefully the Tech Doctor will have a big ole can of Raid handy to get me back to normal.
Achoo! Toys, when they work right, are fun but when they don't they make me sneeze. I think I need some take-out Chinese to make me feel all better.
How about you? Does your computer ever make you crazy? Achoo! I need a kleenex and a can of virtual bug-killer!
Since I'm about as technologically savvy as a piece of cheese toast I think it's time to take this toy to the doctor for a proper diagnosis. And as for whatever is wrong with it (I know, it's probably something I messed up all by myself but it's just more palatable to blame it on a bug), hopefully the Tech Doctor will have a big ole can of Raid handy to get me back to normal.
Achoo! Toys, when they work right, are fun but when they don't they make me sneeze. I think I need some take-out Chinese to make me feel all better.
How about you? Does your computer ever make you crazy? Achoo! I need a kleenex and a can of virtual bug-killer!
Friday, February 4, 2011
Do You Have a "Polite" Face?
My mother and I must have one of those faces that seemingly conveys that "I know everything about this store; as a matter of fact I can answer all your questions and find anything you ever thought about buying in this store for you and will freely offer opinions as to what you are thinking of buying and on top of all that I am willing to share this knowledge with you if you will only stop me in the middle of the aisle and ask." It happens all the time and I don't know why so it must be something about our face that says "questions answered and opinions offered here." We are ordinary people, no different than you. I always try to be polite, so maybe it's a "polite" face that's the tip off that help is on the way. My mother and I have traded so many "you won't believe what someone asked me about the other day at ____ (fill in the store of your choice, it happens in all of them) that it long ago lost the surprise factor; now it's mere inevitability more than anything else.
I can go in Walmart and a drowning man-on-a-honey-do-mission who's practically walked the rubber off the wheels of the grocery cart looking for who-knows-what that the little woman had to have will spot me like a life jacket floating in a sea of mysterious merchandise. There can be 10 other shoppers on an aisle with us but I know who he's coming to for help. Is it the way that my mother and I stare at what's on the shelf with self-assurance (or would that be "shelf-assurance"?) I'm not afraid to make eye-contact with people (everyone deserves a smile) so maybe that's it, who knows...sometimes I think people just like to be reassured about what they're putting in their buggy. I must confess, I'm a sucker for old people needing assistance because I know that Lord willing, I'll be in the same situation one day and looking for someone with a "polite" face to show me where the Fixodent is.
Do strangers talk to you? Down here in the South we talk to people we don't know all the time, some just more than others. I guess we don't really even think of them as strangers so much, more like people to whom we haven't been properly introduced who just need to know which aisle the Mop & Glo is on.
I can go in Walmart and a drowning man-on-a-honey-do-mission who's practically walked the rubber off the wheels of the grocery cart looking for who-knows-what that the little woman had to have will spot me like a life jacket floating in a sea of mysterious merchandise. There can be 10 other shoppers on an aisle with us but I know who he's coming to for help. Is it the way that my mother and I stare at what's on the shelf with self-assurance (or would that be "shelf-assurance"?) I'm not afraid to make eye-contact with people (everyone deserves a smile) so maybe that's it, who knows...sometimes I think people just like to be reassured about what they're putting in their buggy. I must confess, I'm a sucker for old people needing assistance because I know that Lord willing, I'll be in the same situation one day and looking for someone with a "polite" face to show me where the Fixodent is.
Do strangers talk to you? Down here in the South we talk to people we don't know all the time, some just more than others. I guess we don't really even think of them as strangers so much, more like people to whom we haven't been properly introduced who just need to know which aisle the Mop & Glo is on.
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"While enjoying a meal this evening at Cracker Barrell, Shady informed LuLu in between bites of his open face roast beef platter that "she" was just about "in trouble" with him. Lulu sneaked off to the local casino with her visiting nephew presumably to teach him the evils of gambling....didn't return until 1:30am to Shady's dismay. All of this being said while Shady's scratching off the last number of a losing lotto card and complaining that they must have changed cooks, cause the food just ain't as good as it used to be. Fine dining at its best".....Bro