Someone To Feed Them

I saw this load of Missouri hay on its way somewhere to feed someone's creatures. That led me to thinking about just which someone fed everyone and every creature that arrived to see Baby Jesus. I'm pretty sure that someone was Mary, being the only woman in the barn. And I wonder how she did it. The wisemen from afar brought valuable gifts. But being kings, they most likely expected others would take on the honor of feeding them. Shepherds may have been hunters and foragers, but I don't think they scurried to pack a lunch in the limited amount of time borrowed from their flocks. And there's the visiting animals to consider. They needed hay and fresh water. Perhaps the innkeeper made out like a bandit and did everything, for everyone, for a tidy profit. But I like to think that somehow Mary handled it. She kept busy making rock soup for a crowd of strangers and forking hay for their livestock. In between, she held her baby tight. Having seen him honored by kings and adored by shepherds and angels both, she must have worried if somehow God made a mistake in picking an inexperienced teenager to be his mother. Then a new visitor would enter the stable, or a donkey would slurp the bottom of a water trough, and Mary would lay her sleeping Jesus in the manger, to go and do for others.

I See The Arch!

I have heard that the St. Louis Arch is the Gateway to the West. That might be true for those passing through town desperate to get to Colorado, California or perhaps even just to Kansas. But for my family, the Arch is our signal that we are almost home. Eight mind-numbing hours after leaving Chattanooga, TN, suddenly a scream splits the monotonous hum of tires hitting the highway--"I see the Arch!" It happens somewhere near the exit that marks the last Illinois McDonald's along I-64. The scream is invariably followed by at least one declaration from someone else that he or she saw the Arch first, but were too polite to say anything. Yea, right. Polite after a full day of riding together--not our family. Eventually, closer to the Mississippi River, the screams settle. On a lucky day, we cruise across the Poplar Street Bridge without a traffic snarl. We admire the magnificent Arch close-up and also the brick house that is Busch Stadium. Then, we zip pass the St. Louis Zoo, the Science Center and the Galleria. Quicker than it seems possible, we are home again--glad that our Arch is our welcome mat and not a marker to somewhere else.

Christmas Goodbye

My good and faithful blind dog Chuck died Christmas Day. He woke up hurting. I knew that his hurt, at 17, was final and it was mine to heal. First, we took a walk through the Tennesee snow. Chuck ate some snow, sniffed a few spots other dogs had marked and, for a moment, I thought it would be a good day. Then he quivered with a sudden bout of pain. And I knew again what my heart already knew--Chuck needed me to do for him. We wrapped Chuck in a quilt for his journey. I held him tight as we drove to the vet. There, in a tiny room, Chuck fell asleep, then slipped away with his head cradled in my hand, surrounded by Big Guy, Daisy and Birdie. We drove back to Grandma's house through softly falling snow. And I thought, now Chuck can finally see the snowflakes.

Four Wisemen And A Fifth

Loading the minivan and trekking to Grandma's for Christmas used to put me in shepherd mode. I would squeeze mystery packages into the back, herd Birdie and Daisy into their carseats and Big Guy would check the tire pressure one more time. Some years, the flock didn't even ask where we were going; they had no vote on our lunch stop and offered no helpful driving hints. Now we are four wisemen and a fifth. The fifth being the blind, gassy dog Chuck.Travel involves checking four calendars to be sure we are set to depart; the Christmas packages are much closer to gold than playdough; and there's near constant negotiating over air temperature, singing vs. sleeping and if one wiseman's foot is trespassing into another wiseman's territory. With four wisemen, "following yonder star" gets old, fast. Especially with the gas. While I suspect the only truly happy wiseman was the one on the lead camel, Chuck's silent but deadly approach affects each wiseman equally. We groan. We roll down the windows. Three out of four wisemen glare at the blissfully sleeping offender. When the air clears and the windows are rolled up, we wisely agree: Where our hearts are is where we'll find our Christmas, so yes, we'll endure just about anything to make our visit to Grandma. And next car trip, the dog rides on the roof.

Gonna Need The Stretch Pants

Big Guy learned an important lesson. Don't treat the family to Crown Candy Kitchen and expect them to be anything but worthless for the remainder of the day. While Birdie skipped out on this new family tradition, the rest of us scarfed BLTs and milkshakes. It's going to take at least 48 hours to bring our blood levels anywhere close to not dripping with oil. During that time, should we be attacked by a grizzly bear, we'll know we deserved it as our every pore exudes a bacon fragrance. Our adventure was totally worth it, although next time I may ask the waitress to hold the lettuce and tomato--and perhaps the bread, too. I'm forward-thinking to how I might be able to squeeze in a piece of Crown Candy chocolate. I'm also going to invest in some substantial "wouldn't be caught dead in" stretch pants. I'll save them just for my trips to Crown Candy Kitchen, and maybe the Donut Palace. In fact, I'll buy some extra pairs of pants to sell out of the trunk. Chances are, other clientele of these establishments will wish they'd thought harder about their wardrobe.

Bacon! Fa! La! La!

Tomorrow marks the start of a new Christmas tradition. As soon as Birdie finishes final exams, we will drive to Crown Candy Kitchen to order BLTs for lunch. We haven't done this before, but as the plan involves bacon, in our family that pretty much has all the earmarks of a Fa! La! La! tradition. Bacon rules in our home. On Saturday mornings, Big Guy--the chief lover of bacon--fries an entire pound of it in the cast iron skillet. About half a pound reaches the table, and Big Guy still wants his share of it. Bacon is the only food that could break the five-second rule. A theoretical half-slice of bacon could lay on the kitchen floor for a week. Big Guy would sandpaper off whatever debris might have collected, fry it, and probably not share. Big Guy really likes his bacon. In fact, I'm pretty sure that when he departs for his heavenly future, his ashes will be rolled in bacon, deep fried and then spread over a field of lettuce, with tomato slices scattered. The only problem will be our daughters. I'm not sure they will allocate precious bacon to their dear dad's remains. Thankfully, that's a problem they--and Big Guy--have years to work out. I really like chocolate. So, tomorrow, after the rest of the family passes out from too many BLTs, I will search out some sort of chocolate. And eventually, when I go to my "great reward" I'm thinking about some sort of ash-laiden chocolate dip...or, no wait, I really like Autumn's caramel apples. Should I pass at the right time of the year, that would be a trick or treat for someone. Fa! La! La!

This Day Will Come Again

Santa Dear

Dear Santa, 

Yes, my Christmas wish list is starting to fill out. Yes, I've been good enough to get everything on it. But, seriously, this letter isn't about me, it's about you. Why waste your time with the Barney crowd? Why ask naughty or nice? With preschoolers, you know the answer is both. And no matter how many times tykes promise to be good, within 48 hours they will revert to crayoning walls, biting the cat and peeing in carseats. All those gifts elves are assembling, while it keeps the pointy hat and shoe crowd employed, the Barney bunch wants cardboard boxes as forts, palaces and boats. That's the discouraging part. The good news: Teenagers need you, or at least their parents do. Ask teens the naughty or nice question. Immediately, they say nice. Then the fun starts. As the "sees you when you're sleeping, knows when you're awake" guy, you can nail them on TP'ing lawns, "reserving" really cute shirts on clearance by hiding them under store mattress displays, and leaving the car gas tank lower than empty. Those charming teens will stick to their nice stance, but longterm they may think harder before sneaking into "R" rated movies. Would you want Santa watching you watch the naughty screen? No, it won't keep them out of "R" movies, especially if they are 17, but it might make those movies less fun. But, back to you nailing them on naughty or nice. After the eye-rolling over whatever lecture you choose to give, teens will present their wish list. It's going to be long, expensive and require batteries, chargers, gasoline and hair straightening gizmos elves have never seen. But you can handle it. I heard you have A Team elves, while Keebler got the B Team. Or maybe that's Outsourced. I'm rambling. But think about it. Do right by the teens and grateful parents will gladly fill your stocking, sneak Jack Daniels into your Christmas Eve egg nog and give you first dibs on the really big boxes.

Christmas Mall Howler

Snowy December Christmas shopping is not for the faint-hearted. Neither is it for three-year-olds, I think, especially after standing in the Sears store listening to one howl. Not one that belongs to me. Not one even within eyesight. Just one angry pint-sized human expressing herself from many aisles away. Hearing her, my first thought is that I need a nap. A child crying always triggers my nap response. But I shrug off my desire to hide among the neatly made bedding displays. Birdie is along and wouldn't tolerate me napping in stores. I hope Howler and her mom are heading home. In about 14 years, they will be back for a much better Christmas mall trip. They will shop from a coordinated list, find bargains and share a snack from the food court. They will laugh at each other and at the other shoppers--the really crazy ones. Then they'll make fun of ridiculous store displays and get distracted shopping for themselves. At the perfume counters, they will smell all the smells. They'll want a pretzel, or a mocha latte, or an ice cream cone, but then remember how their jeans fit--or don't fit--and settle for a free hot cider sample from their favorite store. Howler, and Howler's mom, will suddenly both realize their feet hurt, which signals time to go home and claim some me-time. If you're lucky, that's how Christmas mall trips always end, with me-time. Unless of course Howler is a boy. Then I don't know what happens in 14 years. But in about 25 years, I know what happens. Howler will once again be howling through the mall, but this time he'll be carrying packages for someone whose feet never seem to hurt.

Zuckerberg Tribute

Sorry Chilean miners. You had my vote for Time magazine's Person of the Year. I planned to celebrate by turning out the lights in the basement and taking a nap--the closest tribute I could come up with that vaguely compared to being stuck in a mine shaft. Unfortunately, you didn't win. Mark Zuckerberg did. So I dropped my plans for a convenient, cozy nap in favor of updating my Facebook profile to the newer, more friendly format. Quickly figured out the Zuckerberg-led machine isn't as fun-loving as I hoped. While Facebook let me list my birth year as 1908, it wouldn't permit me to list the Sienna minivan as my hometown. I don't claim a hometown, but it seems that people who do, usually end up moving somewhere more exciting--and I pretty much feel that way about the minivan. Also, Facebook wouldn't let me list my alternate languages--Momspeak, Toneofvoice and MenacingGlares. But despite those drawbacks, I completed my Zuckerberg tribute. Imagine if the Tattler of State Secrets had won Time magazine's honor. I would have felt compelled to tell some family secrets like where the teeth are buried, where the teeth are that aren't buried, what really happened to the frying pan full of shrimp and why one birthday cake sported a ditch filled with frosting.

Shoe Nation

I notice shoes. Not shoes on feet, but ones without feet. People can't hang on to their shoes. I found this shoe nestled in gravel at Creve Coeur Lake. If I were going to the lake, this isn't a shoe I'd wear, so maybe that's how it ended up forgotten. Usually, if I find a shoe near water, it's a broken flip-flop. Then of course, it's not really a shoe as much as it is litter. Other shoes that get lost frequently are baby shoes. That's because babies are sneaky. Give a tot a stroller ride, and while you think the little one is napping, she is actually wiggling her toes free. Yes, Birdie and Daisy, you could be the "she" I'm referring to. And I know why moms don't retrieve the lost baby shoe, they're tired...make that exhausted...and a day with just one lost shoe is still a pretty good one. Teenage boys seem to lose a lot of sneakers. Drive a street long enough and you'll find a huge, battered sneaker midroad. I like to think the squirrels use these boats for cover as they make their suicidal streaks across the street. Although, on second thought, I don't think even a squirrel's nose could tolerate a teen's sneaker. I've spotted a few nice men's dress shoes. I guess the owners settle for barefoot day at the office. The most intriguing shoes I've seen are the beaten up remnants left docked in the Arizona desert like mini-Mayflowers. Illegal immigrants pile their worn out shoes on top of faded clothing. They switch into new clothing and fresh shoes brought with them as they cross the border. They change their look, and their shoes, to blend into life as they hope to begin to know it. I wonder how their shoe stories turn out. Do they settle in to enjoy the luxury of losing sneakers, tossing flip flops and replacing baby shoes? Or, do they end up back where they started, saving up for another pair of shoes to make another break for the good life?

While Birdie Slept

Jewish Foods Week

In a brave and naive nod to Hanukkah, I proclaimed the last eight days or so to be "Jewish Foods Week." I envisioned tying on an apron and preparing lovely homecooked meals. I ended up blundering through a few recipes in the kitchen, grabbing things from the kosher aisle at the grocery store and shopping five different stores for He'Brew Beer. I fried latkes, cooked matzo ball soup and baked knishes. I bought pastries including cinnamon babkas, poppyseed hamantashen and freshly fried donuts. I wisely avoided the gefilte fish. I learned how to make a Menorah martini. And, I finally found the He'Brew beer. Tonight, we'll dine on brisket with beer or menorah martinis or both. Next week, maybe I'll eat the ears off the chocolate Easter bunny languishing in the freezer.

Love Is Blind, Deaf Too

Quite a few colleges boast of coed bathrooms in dormitories. While their students vote on sharing, it's still a stupid idea. Being around someone who farts and flosses at the same time, and finding it charming, used to be one test of true love. With everyone sharing space, how will anyone know which farter, toe-nail clipper or toothpaste spitter they are truly attracted to? I predict a lot of lust mistakes in the making. Colleges should figure out how to have separate bathrooms on the same dormitory floor for men and women. Knowing too much about what is done in the shower, at the sink, in the toilet  or at the urinal should be saved for marriage or at least for living together. Loose hair in the sink, empty toilet paper rolls and strange body noises are cute only to those who are in love. Love ya, Big Guy.

Cat Squabble

Fancy Less Trash

Fancy Free's birthday request to have friends and family pick up a bag of trash in her honor has given me more trouble than I thought. I'm all for my niece's really cool idea to spruce up Mother Earth, except I can't decide where I want to go to pick up my trash. While I know any bag of trash is one less bundle of cigarette butts, plastic bottles and food wrappers, I want my collection to be extra special. I don't want to pick up street trash. Do-gooders already claim a lot of streets through signage, although some streets seem a lot cleaner than others. And a quick look at local parks reveals that they are in pretty good shape. Now I'm thinking about the creek that runs close to my house. It is invisible to most of the neighborhood, but I suspect the ducks, deer and raccoons consider the creek to be an eyesore of a watering hole. So, let me carve my resolve in stone, or at least into my blog. I will pick up creek trash, in the spring, when it is warm. I will re-introduce myself to the wildlife nosing through rubbish for their morning drink. I might even spring for an orange zippered jumpsuit so they will know I'm there to pick up after people. Fancy Free, your birthday present will be late, but it is definitely in the works.

Crazy Complete

Fifteen pounds of flour, four bottles of corn syrup and three boxes of margarine; three bags of brown sugar, nine pounds of powdered sugar and 24 powdered egg whites; cinnamon, nutmeg and cream of tartar; Skittles, candy corn, Twizzlers and M&Ms; gum drops, Smarties and caramels; Red Hots, Lifesavers, jelly beans and sprinkles; pretzel sticks, shredded cereal and peppermint candy; candy canes, ribbon, glue and a hammer; eight motivated teenagers, one enthusiastic dog, a scattering of cat hair, two Menorah martinis and one Big Guy. 

Fast Food Fast

Don't You Sass Me

Sass happens, especially with two young daughters in the house. Like good moms everywhere, I tried to solve the sassiness. I ignored it. Gently, I redirected it. I sent sassers to their rooms. I sent sassers to time-out chairs. And sassers skipped play dates. I even sassed back, and no, that wasn't helpful. None of my sass solutions satisfied until I discovered the piano. Commanding the sasser to "go practice piano" hit the spot. The sasser could not glare at me; neither could the sasser whine and play at the same time. And the sound of plunking keys meant no sneaking away. Eventually the sass settled. Now I'm stuck with daughters who play the piano. And they have their revenge, which I'm sure is sweet. They practice the same few notes over and over; then they practice some more. They say, it's to get it right. But I think it may be sass at its finest.

Randall

There are bigger worries than getting the perfect photo. But in my junior year at the University of Georgia, for one quarter, that's what I worried about most. As a perfectionist, I lived in misery trying to take decent black-and-white photos for my journalism class. I would shoot pictures, but not know if they turned out well until I printed them in the darkroom. And, there were no do-overs. My friend Randall saw me through my misery and listened to my whines. One night, I needed a photo of streetlights. Randall grabbed the camera, snapped a photo and told me to quit worrying. I felt better. Randall didn't take other photos for me. And I survived the class. I lost touch with Randall after college, only to find him again in his obituary. In December, 18 years ago, Randall died of AIDS. In college, I chose not to guess his secret. Thirty years ago, college wasn't such an enlightened and liberating place; and AIDS was a bad joke about Rock Hudson and some other movie star. Technology and thinking have progressed. I like cameras the way they are now--with instant notice of how photos turn out. AIDS is not an ignorant joke. And, I hope, good people like Randall no longer feel compelled to live secret lives with private worries. Randall was funny, hard-working, endlessly patient and really tall. He suffered through my worries, while I never knew about his. I don't think about Randall often. But each December, I wish my long-ago friend was still here.

Another Catsup Wednesday

It's Catsup Wednesday.
The fun donut shape Scotch tape dispenser: It talks directly to my brain, "You're a fool for buying me." I quickly lost the end of the tape inside the plastic donut. It is totally useless although perhaps slightly more tasty than a Twilight chocolate bar.
Thanksgiving: Candy Squared and Darling Gale got distracted by a Martha Stewart magazine on their way to encouraging Big Guy to dance with the turkey carcass. Chuck, the blind dog, settled for scarfing giblets. Don't know what's sadder--CS and DG ending the T-Day feast with Martha or Chuck not sharing the giblets with Daisy and Birdie.
Martha: Two thumbs up for her "holiday ascot." If Chuck could see himself, he'd know he is doggone handsome. Cracker, the yappy cat, caught his ascot in his teeth, rendering him speechless for a few moments. Maybe Martha deserves three thumbs up for that one.
Again Martha: If you're caught in the grocery checkout line, check out Martha's calendar near the front of the magazine. In the December issue, for the 26th, she lists: Kwanzaa begins, launder linens.  Earth to Martha, just doesn't sound right.
Black Friday: Didn't get my tobacco for the troops bought as Daisy and Birdie both nixed the notion. Now that they're back in school, I will make my purchases.
Gingerbread Village: Five houses down. About five to go.
Missing Keys: The chief of the Not-Me's found his keys right where he left them. 'Nuff said.
Turk Head: Really good elementary school projects live long lives; bad ones never die.
Mom: With her shoulder repaired, she went to Sis's house for Thanksgiving, and, by all reports, had a very good time. She should have come to my house. Candy Squared and Darling Gale would have shared the Martha mag; the giblets would have been in the gravy--for Daisy and Birdie to pick out and hide in napkins; and chances are, the swear-like-a-sailor Sweet Potato Pie would have earned a different name.
Write Fright, Revisited: Now that I've got writing firmly in fun mode, the family lives on hot dogs, in buns and in casseroles. And they love it, at least as much as endless turkey leftovers.

The Business of Lamb Chops

To celebrate Cybershopping Monday, I lent $25 to Casinaldo Torres Moron, a sheep farmer in Peru. He will use the money to improve the quality of feed, which will allow him to produce bigger sheep and sell them more quickly. With more money flowing in faster, hopefully, Moron will increase the size of his backyard flock, put more food on his family's table and repay my loan within a year. I did my little dabble in international banking through Kiva.org. Browsing the website was a bit of brain-power overload with so much to pick from. I could have started with a favorite country, or a gender-specifc request, or a specific type of project. In the end, I clicked on the last page of project requests and there I found Moron's sheep project. Instantly I knew it was the right one for me. I have a weakness for sheep. I spent my summer between high school and college living on my grandmother's farm. My grandfather had died and things were falling apart. My family, moving to the farm, put it back together. Sadly, we arrived too late to fix the small flock of sheep. A dog pack had repeatedly gotten loose in the flock and run the animals. Some died from fright. Others from injury. By the time the dogs were gone, only five sheep remained. The tiny rag-tag flock quickly learned to follow my voice around the yard. I felt like schoolyard Mary. They, no doubt, felt like they might be fed. For them, the terrible time of dog packs was over. And like a sign of faith in a better future, one summer day, a ewe gave birth. Little Jergens joined the flock. I left for college and my parents gave the flock to a neighbor. I like to think that Jergens went on to live a pretty good life for a sheep--one filled with green pastures and protected from dogs. Though, eventually, I am sure he became lamb chops for someone--after all, he was livestock. With my business loan to Casinaldo Moron, I hope his sheep will eat a bit better on their way to being grilled into lamb chops. The Moron family and their sheep both deserve a good life. Check me out on Kiva at kiva.org/lender/florrie1756 That'll link you to any projects I fund, though right now, it's just one.

Gingerbread For A Village

Birdie asked me to bake gingerbread houses for her friends. I forgot Birdie has lots of friends. I'm baking House No. 3. By midweek, I hope to have a village ready to decorate. That's the problem with pretending to listen. Sometimes, I agree to things I have barely heard. Gingerbread houses are fine. I like Birdie's friends almost as much as I like Birdie, and that's quite a lot. I first made a gingerbread house when Birdie and Daisy were little ones. Each decorated half of a house, while eating as much candy as possible. They enjoyed decorating, they enjoyed the candy, but what they liked best happened in mid-January. We took the gingerbread house out to the backyard, placed it on the ground and the girls demolished it with hammers. The process lasted about five minutes, and we all felt very relaxed and satisfied with the results--candy and chunks of stale gingerbread flung everywhere. That's how our gingerbread house tradition began. Birdie has told me about this year's decorating party--it's Saturday. I feel certain she is planning the January demolition party. A lor of candy corn and peppermint will fly across the yard--lucky raccoons--and a bunch of teenage girls will suddenly feel more mellow-lucky parents.

Turk Head Meets Santa Claus

Turk Head

Underwear Location Clarification

Having read through yesterday's blog, I realize that at least one clarification is needed. For a variety of reasons, our Thanksgiving plans have changed. My family of four is not traveling to dine with the greater clan. Typically, we would be at my mom's house. Mom always pulls together a fantastic culinary feast. Mom never starts her meal planning with an edict to make sure the correct undergarments are worn. I, of course, am trying to avoid any possible disaster now that the stay-at-home meal is on me. Six of us will gather at the table--Big Guy, Daisy, Birdie, Big Guy's sis Candy Squared, our good friend Darling Gale, and myself, if I'm not overcome by the wine gravy fumes. Not being at Mom's house, I am google searching how to dislodge a turkey carcass. With the combined persuasive power of Candy Squared and Darling Gale, either Big Guy or Chuck the blind dog may end up dancing on the table with a tight-fitting turkey hat. I am bracing for a feast to remember, probably not one to repeat.

Wear What's Fit For The Occasion

Already the turkey wars have started. Someone in the family, I don't know which someone, got her feathers ruffled. And once one set of feathers is ruffled, everyone's feathers seem to follow. I hope the ruffling calms as this week's Thanksgiving hinges on getting along like pilgrims and Indians. Though I'm guessing the first Thanksgiving feast got a bit dicey. The pilgrims wore itchy, winter, woolen underwear. Hard to imagine sitting through a meal without scratching. While the Indians, perched on a rough hewn bench, picked up wicked splinters from not wearing enough underwear. And a celebratory feast certainly goes better with the right amount of underwear worn--undies not too tight, but sturdy enough not to pop from the expansion of the well-fed. Of course, no one in our family will show up near naked, although that must be what the pilgrims thought the Indians were doing. In fact, the pilgrims probably wasted a lot of time at the table trying not to stare. While the Indians had to sit on their hands to keep from pointing at those scratching, odd-duck foreigners--which led to more splinters for the Indians and additional worries among the pilgrims about where the Indian hands had been. Somehow, through it all, these two very different groups shared a meal, avoided feather-ruffling and walked away from the table as friends, at least for a while. I have high hopes that our Thursday feast will be equally successful. I'm telling everyone now: Wear underwear fit for the occasion.  That's my start to planning the perfect meal.

Look Deep Into My Eyes

Listening Ears

Mizzou shuts down for Thanksgiving Break and Daisy will be home tonight. We will have her for a fat week, long enough to transition her into helping with chores. I asked her to bring home some working-in-the-yard shoes. She said, "We'll see." Our plans may not be exactly on the same page. I asked Birdie to clean the once again to-be-shared bathroom before Daisy arrives. But Birdie is bleary-eyed from her midnight viewing of Harry Potter. A sparkling clean bathroom may not happen. Of course, Daisy might not notice or care. She, too, will be bleary-eyed as her entire dorm saw Harry Potter at 1 a.m. I am a bit nostalgic for those days of "listening ears." I'd tell the two tots to put on their "listening ears," and if I kept my request to less than 60 seconds and wrapped in the promise of a treat, about 75 percent of the time, they'd comply with whatever. Actually, the promise of treats still works fairly well. I will figure out some sort of reward. Daisy will find a pair of yard shoes that fits. Birdie will clean the bathroom. Big Guy will be happy. Or the worst will happen, we will disintegrate into a big fat time-out, reading books and napping. That sounds pretty good, too.

Martha, Let's Coordinate Calendars!

Today Martha Stewart is riding a horse. I know because Martha publishes her personal calendar in Martha Stewart Living. In Martha's world, November 18 is set aside for a horseback ride. That's quite a coincidence because I, also, have set aside the day for riding. I'm saddling my Toyota Sienna minivan and riding to the grocery store. We're out of bread and nearly out of milk. I feel certain Martha is heading out to complete chores, too. Even now, she probably has the dairy cow roped tight to squeeze a fresh gallon of milk. I don't know how she will do that from horseback, but with Martha, all is possible. Ditto for harvesting organically grown wheat to grind for bread. Even now, I hear her voice in my head, "No need to dismount. With proper technique and good form, an enjoyable ride can be combined with chores, leaving an abundance of time to prepare for dinner guests." Her calendar doesn't specify dinner guests, but being the matron of hospitable living, surely she and her small herd of dogs don't dine alone. Martha's dogs, by the way, are receiving new beds for Christmas in a festive shade of red that matches the holly leaf felt "ascots" tied around their necks. Fortunately, Martha provides the ascot how-to at www.marthastewart.com/ascot. I hope (or as Martha would say, aspire) to capitalize on her knowledge and whack out a sporty ascot for my dog Chuck. He might prefer a new bone to gnaw, but he'll suffer an ascot to emulate the Martha dogs. Martha already has her calendar published for December. On the 18th, she will work out and plan a birthday dinner for Kevin. If my invitation comes through, I'll adjust my plans to fit in the festivities. Those plans, tentatively, are to saddle up the minivan and get mik. My family always need milk.

Shopping for Smokes

Cigarettes and chewing tobacco are on my list to purchase on Black Friday. Along with a bunch of other stuff, these items will be shipped in care packages to our troops in Afghanistan. A military family in nearby O'Fallon, MO, has been shipping goodie boxes to troops for about four years. I visited their website, www.americanherocarepackages.com, and immediately felt that this effort is something I want to join. I like that their appeal includes tobacco products. It reminds me that wars are fought by real young men and women--a lot of whom smoke, drink beer and would love to be home driving too fast, staying out too late and not listening to mom. In a perfect world, we wouldn't have war. In a fantasy world, wars would be fought by frontlines and support teams filled with clean-cut, poster boy super heroes imprevious to bullets and IEDs. But that's not our world. If our battle-tested young, and the career soldiers who lead them, can take time for a smoke I provide, that's my little thank you. When they come back and have time to focus, I hope they'll quit the tobacco habit, as it's a nasty one. Long term, life without cigarettes lasts longer, much like life without war.

Cast Your Vote For Sunshine, Please

A sunshine-driven school is what students at Parkway North High School hope to end up with. They have applied to the Pepsi Refresh Challenge for a $250,000 grant to install solar panels at the high school and nurture their adoption at the district's other schools. Standing between the students and the cash are a bunch of other really great projects. Pepsi will fund the top two projects, based on which ones receive the most votes. Parkway North is currently in sixth place. You, me and everyone else has until the end of November to vote on which project we'd like to see funded. The good news is that we can vote every day, and we have three different ways to vote--on the Pepsi website, on facebook and by text-messaging. The voting details are listed below. They're boring and non-entertaining. But please, plow through them and consider supporting the students at Parkway North. It is not every day that students get so excited about something that sounds suspiciously close to science. And their enthusiasm is like sunshine on a rainy day.

All you need to do to vote for our $250,000.00 proposal in the Pepsi Refresh Project yourself is use any or all of the methods:

1.  Text 104078 to PEPSI (73774)   (no additional texting charges apply)
2.  VOTE using Facebook
           -Add the Pepsi Refresh Voting App
           -Go to RefreshEverything.com
           -At the bottom of the page click Sign In and select "Login with Facebook"
           -Find Install Solar Panels in Parkway School District and click VOTE
3.  Create a Pepsi username and VOTE
           -Go to RefreshEverything.com
           -Find Install Solar Panels in Parkway School District and click VOTE
           -You'll be directed to Sign In
           -On the right side, enter your email and select "No, I'm new here!" to
             create your account

Aw Chucks! It's A Prize Give-Away!

In reading through Blogging for Dummies, I learned that my blog is a failure. According to the book, a successful blog is one that attracts comments from readers. It advised me to recuscitate my blog by offering a prize giveaway to readers who comment. Unfortunately, now that I've written about the loud cat Cracker, it's probably too late to offer him as a prize. So I'm offering Chuck, the blind dog. This Stray Rescue hairy, short, pig-shaped mutt joined our family more than six years ago as an "old dog." Now he is an "older dog." Chuck specializes in sleeping (and snoring) on the couch. When he is awake, he bumps into doors, chairs, the mailbox post, laundry piles, shoes, compost piles--basically anything in front of him. He has walked off porch steps and a boat dock, and, more than once, been lost in the backyard. But Chuck never complains. He also never gives up. A few years ago, Chuck scaled the dining room table and devoured 33 homemade chocolate chip cookies. And, yes, that many cookies at one time doesn't digest smoothly. Not that Chuck cared. The Wonder Dog has taken out more than his share of Halloween candy and McDonald's leftovers. In his favor, he is comfortable enough in his neutered manhood to wear a ladybug costume at Halloween and any other time he is stuffed into it. I anticipate a flood of comments from blog readers eager to win this one-of-a-kind prize giveaway. So comment early and often. Should you be the lucky winner, don't worry about Chuck's stomach rumblings. I expect his digestive issues to clear up in time to tackle some turkey, pie or whatever else is placed just barely within his reach.

Highway Underbelly

Trolls Among Us

We're more than a vampire neighborhood. We have a troll family living among us. Trolls make good neighbors once it's realized that trolls love what is theirs--especially their lawns. Our trolls keep their lawn insanely free of leaves. They rake a lot. They also use a leaf blower to blow the neighbor's stray leaves back across the invisible lawn divide. Some of their own leaves end up in the neighbor's yard, too. But that's ok, because the neighbor will ignore them. Eventually, the leaves will blow back into the troll's yard to be pummeled with the leaf blower once again. Leaf action is good for trolls because it gives them a break from thinking about children--other people's children--turning bicycles around in their driveway. I don't know if trolls worry about black tread marks, the potential for scraped knees or the vague possibility that stray kids on bikes will somehow move into their garage. Whatever the worry, kids don't use the troll driveway more than once. Trolls also chase after dog owners whose pets offend on their lawn. On that point, I'm firmly in the trolls' corner. On the other stuff, if I worried about all of that, my head would explode. That's one thing I don't have in my neighborhood, exploding troll heads. That would be quite a clean-up.

Click To Vietnam

Like a lot of American families, in the 1960s, the t.v. remote control was alive, well and sulky in our house. At 5 p.m., Dad walked in the door. Bro, Sis or I would pry ourselves off the sofa, walk to the t.v. and click the dial. Gone would be the Andy Griffith Show, I Love Lucy or whatever other comedy we'd been watching. In its place, Walter Conkrite and the Vietnam War. What made my family different from some others, was that when Dad walked in the door, he was wearing his crisply starched--though now wrinkled--kakhi Army officer's uniform. He watched the news and we knew we had to be quiet. Actually, usually we'd disappear. I saw the news as boring and repetitive with its endless scenes of soldiers in military gear and its talk of foreign places like Cambodia and Saigon. It took some growing up to realize Dad's friends, and soldiers he'd trained, were "over there." And, as he watched the war unfold on t.v., he could make some educated guesses about who might not be coming back. I don't know how often Mom and Dad talked in hushed tones, behind closed doors, about the wounded, the dead and the families broken forever. And I wonder how often those conversations were about friends. That sorrow, that worry was kept private. All I knew was that Dad didn't talk much some nights. Forty years later, changing the channel no longer requires sulky kids. War isn't seen on grainy film in black and white. But good soliders--men and women--still sit in front of t.v.s worried about friends who are "over there." Some nights, they probably don't talk much.

Missing Keys, Ask The Not-Mes

Not-Me phoned home from college to say she didn't have the second set of keys to the Chrysler. A different Not-Me phoned from high school to say she hadn't touched the keys. Not-Me No. 3 grumped that the keys had better show up. And the most level-headed Not-Me checked her purse to be sure the missing keys weren't there. Next up to ask is the Not-Me dog. Chances are, he didn't eat them. If he had, by now something key-shaped would have emerged from the other end. Ouch. Certainly, the missing keys will turn up. At this point, my guess is that whichever Not-Me finds the keys will quietly slip them onto the key hook. And I hope it happens soon. Otherwise, I'll have to inquisition the Not-Me cats about the keys. They, of course, are the kings of the Not-Mes. How else to explain the grass spit-ups in the hall and the rodent halves in the garage?  

The ACLU, Luzianne & Christmas

Every family has a crazy. We have Luzianne. A recent mass email from Luzianne asked that we jump onboard a scheme to flood the American Civil Liberties Union's New York office with Christmas cards. That way, the ACLU would know to keep its paws off Christmas and also waste its precious staff time opening cards in hopes that donations were hidden inside. My guess, souls like Luzianne are the fuel that keeps the ACLU going. Under the U.S. Constitution, individuals can pretty much say what they want as long as it's not yelling fire in a crowded place. So Luzianne and anyone else can send out bizarre emails plotting to clog up the inner workings of the ACLU. It's their right, although it seems a bit bitter to use Christmas cards that way. And that got me to thinking, assuming Jesus checked his email, what would Jesus do with Luzianne's request? Being a helpful guy, he would want to help. First, he would cruise to Wal-Mart to scan the greeting card section. Along the way, he might get distracted by leftover Halloween candy and slightly dinged Sarah Palin masks. But soon, Jesus would be back on track. He'd look at the 99-cent cards and the ones that play music. In the end, I think he would settle on a simple, moderately priced Christmas card and purchase two of them. Inside the one to be addressed to Luzianne, he'd write, "Thank you for caring, but chill. Christianity and Christmas have survived a long time, with and without holiday trees, presents and tacky lawn ornaments." On the one earmarked for the ACLU, Jesus would write, "Thank you for caring about those who are especially hard to love. It's hard, but your help makes my job easier."  My guess is that Jesus might even scrape up a few dollars to tuck inside a card. I just can't decide which one.

Cracker Time

Any time I ride nine hours in the minivan, I know I'm dumber at the end of the trip than when it began--which is why I don't expect much out of Cracker. As a kitten, he traveled from Chattanooga to St. Louis, 500 miles, wedged into the engine compartment of our Toyota Sienna. We knew he was there. Each time we heard his plaintive meow, we turned up the radio. In our defense, we tried very hard, for a solid hour, including some car dismantling, to get Cracker out of the engine before the trip started. We couldn't reach him, and neither was he interested in any sort of rescue. After much thought, we figured that at least in our car, the wild thing was perched where the moving parts of the engine weren't close. If he abandoned our car for another one, he might not be so lucky. And this wasn't his first engine ride, as he was orginally found in eastern Tennessee emerging from the engine of a car with Indiana tags. Fortunately, Cracker survived his rustic Sienna perch, while the rest of us enjoyed airconditioning. When the Sienna plus Cracker arrived at our house, he hopped down from the still-warm engine, lured with a slice of turkey, a tactic that hadn't worked in Tennessee. We snatched up the furball, tossed him in the house and he disappeared under the piano. Eventually, Cracker decided to join the family. Now all of Cracker's minivan rides are in the cat carrier and only as far as the vet. On those infrequent occasions, he complains loudly and I turn up the radio. As a cat, Cracker is more vocal than smart. And, he is not the prettiest thing. Maybe that's why his journey here had to be so hard, so unexpected and so much a slice of real life.

Morning Pearls

Lazy Kitty Fight

Wheel of Fortune

I time dinner to hit the table midway through Wheel of Fortune. I figure a few minutes of puzzling over letters might stave off Alzheimer's disease. And, it saves Birdie from the undivided attention of two parents wanting to know lots of details about her day. For Birdie and I, the absolute best part of Wheel of Fortune is watching Big Guy. He shouts at the t.v. like it's a live sporting event. Contestants that don't solve puzzles fast enough are only slightly less shamed on than those that know the answer, choose to spin again, and then land on bankrupt. The true sissies really catch Big Guy's ire. They are the ones who have no money banked, but solve the puzzle without even a single spin. "Weinies" would be his word for them. While Birdie and I don't comment so much on the players, we are invested in the game. The final 10-second puzzle tends to send the three of us into a shouting match. Each of us thinks we are the smartest one, even if someone else shouts the answer more loudly. I don't know what strangers would think of the commotion if they knocked at the door. Even saving our souls would have to wait until Vanna flips the last letter.

Where's Lassie?

Negative political campaigns work better with Republican voters. At least that's my theory. There is a reason why Democrats are called "bleeding heart liberals" while Republicans aren't. Robin and Roy both threw aside civility and good taste to point fingers at each other in their quest to become Missouri's newest U.S. Senator. Roy won, by a painfully wide margin. The margin would have been narrowed an itsy bitsy bit if Robin had earned my vote. Instead, my vote for her went to a Libertarian whose name I don't remember. I figured he didn't raise enough money to have slung much mud, making my vote a "thank you" for good manners. Avoiding the Robin and Roy spat gave me time to think about what new brand of political candidate might give Sarah Palin's Mama Grizzlies a run for the vote. My idea: The Lassie Mamas. Freshly brushed and always smiling, Lassie Mamas carefully discern between real danger and made up nonsense. Neither they, nor their offspring, ever appear in raunchy videos. Lassie mamas fight for the underdog, as well as imperiled kittens and bunny rabbits. They defend the homestead from wolves and grizzly bears. They herd sheep, and can herd Congress, in the right direction. Lassie Mamas don't expect special treatment and they make sure that everyone on the farm has the right to go to the vet. And if a Lassie Mama wants to be a boy, that's OK. And if a boy wants to be a Lassie Mama, that's fine too. Both can protect the farm. Lassie Mamas listen well and bark even better. They can bite but prefer to make their point in more civilized ways. Best of all, Lassie Mamas don't discriminate. They'll save whoever needs saving from the well--be it Timmy, Robin, Roy, Barack or Chief Mama Grizzly. For Lassie Mamas, doing what needs to be done is all in a day's work.

Turkey, Birdie's Way

The gods are shining on Birdie. While my last night's skype with Mom and Sis led to a general agreement to switch from the oven to the smoker for preparing the upcoming Thanksgiving turkey, we were undecided about what to do to please Birdie. Of the family members polled, Birdie was the most adamant about a traditional oven roasted turkey. To keep her happy, Mom volunteered to boil a couple of turkey legs. Sis snickered and suggested sticking a Cornish game hen in the oven and telling Birdie the turkey shrank. Obviously, they spiked their iced tea with something. And of course, neither of them was going to tell Birdie about the smoker decision. I was hoping Big Guy would do it. Then fate intervened. A text from Sis let me know that her Better Half volunteered to do the 4 a.m. heavy lifting required to get an oven-roasted turkey finished by 1 p.m. Oven-roasted is back on the menu. Birdie has other ideas about the Thanksgiving Feast: In-the-bird stuffing, out-of-the-bird stuffing, green beans, green bean casserole, potato casserole, macaroni and cheese, pumpkin pie, pecan pie... It is a list that she adds to regularly. And that's good. The more Birdie manages to get Thanksgiving done her way, the better I'll eat.

Trick or Treat Made Better

This Halloween, the kids in my St. Louis neighborhood lost out. In the God-Belt of eastern Tennessee, a lot of communities were stirred up over the issue of which night was correct for trick-or-treating... Saturday, the 30th, or Sunday, the 31st. Those pushing for Saturday trick-or-treating reasoned it would be irresponsible to trick-or-treat on Sunday and send grumpy, sugar-stuffed children to school on Monday--and, they noted, Sunday is for Church. Those favoring Sunday trick-or-treating, including me, simply pointed to the calendar--Sunday is the 31st and that is Halloween. So while this turmoil fueled the local Tennesee t.v. newscasts, on Saturday, I returned to St. Louis, where it seems everyone trick-or-treats on the 31st. Sanity restored, I thought, until I realized how much sharper the Tennessee children, and their parents, are. Kids who trick-or-treat on the 30th can scout out which houses hand out Reeses Cups, Snickers and other good stuff. Then on the 31st, it's possible to make a return trip. After all, no one is going to refuse candy to a bejewelled princess or wobegone ghost whose parents didn't know Halloween was moved up one day. Next year, Halloween--or at least the 31st--falls on a Monday. I predict those crafty Tennessee trick-or-treaters will figure out how to doorbell ring for candy at least three nights in advance. In my neighborhood, the children probably won't be any wiser. Unless, of course, they remember to skip my house completely. This year, I handed out the weird mixed bag candy. And when that ran out, I gave peppermints that never made it onto last Christmas's gingerbread house. Next Halloween, I plan to  hand out the candy canes.

Autumn's Fire

Time Well Spent

I ate another donut today. Actually, it's mom's fault. I wanted to photograph a trashy house close to Daylight Donuts. Mom talked me into a donut run instead. And that is when I discovered Daylight Donuts charges 50 cents for a cup of ice water. Shame on Daylight Donuts. I still bought the donut and water. But next trip to Cleveland, I will look for a new donut shop. Tomorrow Chuck, the silent but deadly gassy dog, and I hit the trail for St. Louis. I lookforward to returning to Big Guy, Birdie and the cats Cracker and Slim Jim. Also, Daisy will be a just a two-hour hug away. Mom and I had fun this week. I opened her eyes to new treats like "What Not To Wear." We were glued to the t.v. set through two reruns and the premiere episode. We both clucked, shook our heads and gave ourselves bonus points for being well-dressed. And Mom reminded me of old favorites such as The Andy Griffith Show. That Andy was quite a southern charmer. I'm not sure what he was doing living with Aunt Bea. If it weren't for the family in St. Louis, Mom and I could hole up a while longer. We'd need a steady supply of donuts, the t.v. remote and someone to let the cats in and out the door.

Private Prayers

Soddy-Daisy has dropped prayer before high school football games. The Tennessee town felt divinely inspired to avoid a possible lawsuit. I don't live in Soddy-Daisy, but I'm glad to know prayers are more private now. There is not a prayer that's plain vanilla enough to not offend anyone. And honesty tends to shine in individual prayer. In Soddy-Daisy, students and parents can pray for exactly what they hope will happen on the football field. Some will pray that each player plays to his potential and stays safe. Others will be more blunt looking not only for their team to win, but for they themselves to be involved in scoring the winning touchdown. Those in an especially sour mood will flat-out pray for the other team to lose. A few bored moms may pray the game ends quickly. While one cheerleader may pray that the school jock finally dumps his girlfriend, the girlfriend might pray that her wandering-eye boyfriend and the cheerleader get struck by lightening. The principal probably prays that she can avoid the really whiny parents and manage to keep alcohol off school property. The parent running the concession stand prays he won't run out of ice. At least one dad prays that the ex-wife won't run into the new one. At least one mom prays her ex sees her hanging on the arm of her much younger boyfriend--the new one who still has a full head of hair. And the baby brothers and sisters pray the parents will let them stay until the game's over--and that it'll last way past their bedtime. With all of these prayers winging their way toward heaven, I think God gets reminded pretty well that we are human and He (or She) created us.

Catsup Wednesday

By any other name Catsup would be Ketchup or Catch Up.
The Girl Scout Samoa donut: Mom nixed the midnight run to Daylight Donuts. I settled for a solo midmorning trip. The GS Samoa donut tastes exquisite. I noticed walk-in customers of donut shops at 10 a.m. tend to be guys in all shapes and sizes. Women use the drive-thru.
Cat Videos: Yes, the cat-licking video was "softly focused." No, I wasn't drinking.
Work: One assignment completed, thanks Fae, hoping for another to follow.
Get to Work: Birdie and I (mostly not Birdie) pulled the house together enough to avoid landing on the hoarders show while Big Guy was in Brazil. And he's back.
Sweet Saturday: I have no idea who is in that photo.
Yellow Dog:  Robin is well on her way to losing the election, so when I get back to voting, it'll probably still be for Democrats.

Daisy:  Daughter Daisy and I skyped tonight. I noticed her bed wasn't made. She noticed I had a cat on mine.

Spiders: Last night I reminded myself that I liked spiders when a Daddy-long-legs spent the night. Could not find a cat to eat it and thought mom might bite.

Vampire neighbors: They're not out for blood, so guess they are not reading the blog.

And finally, Write Fright, it's gone :).

And The Sign Said

My guess is that there's a story behind the sign at Cofer Cemetery. I'm figuring sibling rivalry...two sisters competing for the same eternal resting spot next to a handsome beau, we'll call "Hubert," who died too young to ever "speak to daddy." One sister declares to the other, "You lie next to Hubert--over my dead body!" On that note, the two sisters quit speaking to each other and sit on opposite sides of the church. No doubt, there was a lot of headshaking over their spat, but true love is true love no matter how dead or two-timing the fellow might be. And then, one sister dies. She is halfway down to side-by-side hand-holding with Hubert when living, breathing sister shows up. What's meant to be a solemn graveside service turns into a lot of dirt flinging and hollering for Hubert. In the end, it's determined that Hubert can go in the middle and the dignity of the living and the dead is recovered.  If only the sign could tell me how close I am to right. Even more intriguing is a tidbit on the opinion page of the Daily Post Athenian--"This is a notice to the people who are dumping on McMinn County Road 5, west of River View. Smile the next time you dump a dead donkey; you're on camera."  Now that's a story.

Cleveland's Best

"Cleveland's Best Coffee" served as my perfect flimsy excuse to check out Daylight Donuts in Cleveland, Tenn. Cute name, cute donut-painted sidewalk and fabulous hours as it remains open until midnight on weekends. There's also a drive-through. All of these factors weighed heavily into my thinking as, of course, I would be comparing this donut place to Ellisville's Donut Palace. I didn't talk donuts with the clerk as much as I talked hours and coffee. Turns out, a lot of Cleveland Friday & Saturday night dates end at Daylight Donuts. Actually let me rephrase, some dates end at the donut shop, others refuel and keep going. As for the coffee, the clerk confirmed it is Cleveland's best and asked if I wanted it "strong." I did, she poured, I sipped, and also I nipped on a glazed donut for balance. The coffee earned its marquee billing, full-bodied without a bit of bitterness. The donut didn't meet Donut Palace standards, but it was 520 miles more available. On my way out, I took a second look at the donut counter and realized glazed wasn't what I should have ordered. This shop boasts delicacies so encrusted in sugar, the coffee--really strong--comes in as a mouthwash back-up. With donuts topped with crumbled Heath bars, crushed Oreos, and--be still my soul--Girl Scout Samoa crumbles, I'm coming back for a wilder walk on the donut side, probably at midnight. And I will bring mom. She is home now and I am going to need a driver.

Sweet Saturday

Patience

The emergency room requires patience, lots of patience. I spent today waiting at the ER with my mom. She had surgery a few days ago and didn't feel quite right. So we went in, just to be sure everything was OK. Turns out, just enough wasn't right with her blood work and other things that the hospital decided to keep her for the night. Tomorrow, I expect, she will be released. But today, we were in limbo. The emergency room wasn't like the t.v. show ER, with lots of action to occupy our thoughts. Instead, mom and I were wisked into a private ER room with a closed door, no windows and no clock on the wall. We had a t.v. to watch, but nothing worth watching. And so we waited. We napped a little. But mostly we waited. It was dull. But dull beats critical any day. We had patience enough to last and that made the day OK.

Dad's Day

Today would have marked my dad's 78th birthday. He died about 18 months ago, so I've had time to think about gifts he gave. First, the gift of reading. Dad was a reader. Growing up in the small town of Midville, he read every book in the library before he was a teenager. And in the home I grew up in, there were newspapers scattered everywhere, along with magazines and library books. It was impossible not to read, and to enjoy reading, in his house. Second, the piano. Dad got it into his head that the grandkids should have the opportunity to learn to play the piano. So my siblings and I each received some money to put toward a piano. That gift didn't take with every grandkid, but it took with some. Third, church. Growing up, our family mostly went to church--which is remarkable in that we moved a lot and while good churches abound, it takes time and patience to find one that fits. A fact I squirreled away from somewhere is that children are more likely to attend church as adults if their father attended with them when they were children. Fourth, pets. While Mom loves cats, Dad was the one that said yes to raccoons, horses and dogs. Don't know that Mom was happy about that. And fifth, education. Both of my parents believed in college and made sure all three of us went. In recent years, Dad tutored at the local high school and, along with my mother, established a scholarship to be sure kids in a poor rural county could continue their education. He gave a lot more gifts and for his giving, I am grateful. Few things in life are as special as having a dad. I certainly had a good one.

Cat Licks

Yellow Dog Season

I have always had yellow dog Democrat tendencies. As much as I may like Republicans as individuals, I have never cared for their collective legislative nose in my business. But this year is different. I don't like Democrats either. Watching t.v. commercials for Robin and Roy, our two U.S. senator wannabees leaves me feeling like I've stepped back into sixth grade at Hillandale Elementary School. Robin would be Alison, who constantly cozied up to the teacher. Roy would be what's his name who swaggered around the playground--note to what's his name, sorry I don't remember your name. Both wanted to be The One Big Fish. As a small fish, I wished they would switch to a different pond--maybe one with snapping turtles. Alison and what's his name could have improved life for the little fish. Alison held the teacher's ear and what's his name could have picked at least one geek for his team in dodge ball. But that is not how sixth grade worked. It's not how Washington works either. My bet is that Robin won't spend her capital to deliver my message to President Obama. Neither will Roy form coalitions with grown-up geeks who think differently. Robin and Roy excel at tattling. Once they finish tattling on each other, whoever wins will find someone else to tattle on. Come November, I'm not voting for U.S. Senator. I hope that whomever loses will learn and bounce back with a no tattling campaign. That candidate will get my vote. In the meantime, I support the yellow dog with his tongue stuck out. I don't know his politics, but chances are, he is not a tattler.

Spiders

I like spiders. I don't want to touch one. I'm as happy without them as I am with them. But as creepy crawlies go, spiders are o.k. They catch insects and wrap them for tasty snacks. Wilbur, the pig, would have been an anonymous pork belly without Charlotte. And camping with Girl Scouts would have been just another adventure of knot-tying and Dutch oven cooking. On this weekend, my troop of 10-year-olds arrived at Camp Butterfly. They ran to the cabins and started squealing. Turned out, spiders lived in the cabins. Sweeping the floors helped, but not enough. The rabble-rousers muttered about sneaky spiders lurking in corners. I assembled the troop at the picnic shelter and asked, "Has anyone here actually been bitten by a spider?" Half the troop raised their hands. Not the response I anticipated. Although, now that I think about it, no good answer exists to that question. Eventually I found a better way to reassure my precious charges--sleep with spiders who probably won't bite or sleep with leaders who will bite. Problem solved. In the years since, I don't know that any of the girls learned to like spiders. What I'm really glad for is that my Girl Scout leader days passed before bedbugs took hold. I wouldn't want to be the Girl Scout leader trying to convince a troop that "sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite" is simply a children's rhyme. My bet is that bedbugs bite just as much as leaders, though not as much as spiders.

Picture Pitchers

Freedom To Plan

Planned Parenthood is circulating a petition to make prescription birth control available at no cost to every woman who wants it. I signed the petition, via the internet. I hope the organization reaches its goal of a million signatures and that lawmakers listen. Contraception is only as good or as poor as its failure rate. I love Birdie and Daisy. I love that I planned for them. I never had to sweat the fine print on an over-the-counter package of something that might not work as well as what a physician could prescribe. And, with insurance, I didn't worry how to pay for the right to plan my family. I want that freedom for everyone, especially for the babies. Every baby deserves a welcome mat firmly in place.
http://www.ppaction.org/campaign/bcm10ppan

Get To Work

Big Guy travels to Brazil and Argentina. Today, he is in Sao Paulo. This weekend, he will be in Buenos Aires. While he is gone, Birdie and I relax. Very little gets done. I walk the dog. Birdie watches Law & Order SVU. I feed the cats. Birdie watches Glee. I pick up my book, this week it's "Help." Birdie skypes a friend. We consider when the lawn might need to be mowed. Or rather, I think about mowing; Birdie thinks about taking out grass with Round-up. The house could use a vacuum, but really, who cares. Birdie remembers to go to school. I think about the grocery store...as in, why shop when fast food and fine dining exist?  I notice celery in the refrigerator. It has been there awhile. Birdie searches for the half-pint sized peach frozen yogurt. I ate it yesterday. Big Guy calls to tell me about the view from his sixth floor hotel room balcony. I think that a second cup of coffee in bed makes perfect sense. Big Guy describes Sao Paulo traffic, in a knot like always. I think, yeah, but soon you will be wandering the streets of beautiful Buenos Aires. Birdie complains about pre-calculus. I complain about the dishes. Both will get done, but not right now. I check my email. A photo of Big Guy stares back. It's that "Get to work" expression. A new email address or a better spam filter? Birdie and I will work on it.

Worth Keeping

Profound thoughts come from strange places, so do useless ones. Sometimes it's hard to tell the quality of the thinking until a thought is thought about. So when a teenager, not my own, declared that Wednesday was the most useless day of the week, I decided to think on it.  I tried to look up Wednesday's mythological origin and that was boring. Then I researched if I or Big Guy happened to be born on a Wednesday--nope. And I already knew Wednesday didn't first welcome Daisy or Birdie. Situated equidistance from weekends, Wednesday is entrenched in work. Some banks close early on Wednesday. Its silent "d" adds treachery to spelling tests. And there is its fortune told-- "Wednesday's child is full of woe." I find a lot of reasons not to like Wednesday. But then I remember what the day is good for--Wednesday Addams. The psychotic-edged sixish year-old with her spooky black attire, slithering black braids and love of spiders added an extra layer of odd to the already odd Addams Family. I'd like to run into a stuck-in-time Wednesday Addams at Wal-Mart, the Donut Palace or Creve Coeur Park. I picture her hanging with her new BFF, the Brady Bunch's youngest, pigg-tailed blonde Cindy; they're both dressed in goth with piercings and tatoos. Imagine the chaos that friendship would unleash on the Brady Bunch. It makes Wednesday, the day, worth keeping.

Donut Test

My weakness is donuts. So I found the new Scotch tape dispenser especially intriguing. Could tape "in fun donut dispenser" be as fun as a donut? What an excuse for investigative reporting. I purchased the tape donut in fun cherry red, then wheeled up to a place I hadn't been before--Ellisville's Donut Palace. The sign on the door said, "When the line gets this long, please keep the door closed." That's my kind of donut shop. I wanted to be fair to the tape donut, so for my "is it as fun as a donut" test, I ordered, to-go, a sprinkle-laden, chocolate iced donut most likely intended for six-year-old Captain Crunch munchers. For immediate consumption, I ordered an exquisitely glazed classic. The counter girl and I exchanged cash and commentary about the lines and which donuts she loved best. She sent me on my way with my bagged sprinkle test donut and a complimentary, fresh from the kitchen, glazed donut hole--her personal favorite. I could already see the test sliding in favor of the sprinkle, not the tape. So I let the sprinkle, and the "fun donut shape" tape dispenser ride around in the minivan for about five hours. Then I went home and explained the donut test to Birdie. In a moment of spirited uncooperation, she grabbed the tape dispenser, called it cute, and refused to try the sprinkle donut. And we share the same gene pool? So Birdie played with tape; I ate the donut--which tasted pretty good in spite of its age and sprinkle overload. Soon afterward, we went to dinner. A starving Birdie dove into bread plastered with butter. I watched, smug in my satisfying sugar laden high. Having discovered the Donut Palace, I wouldn't trade my day or my donuts for all the boring bread, or tape, in the world.

Twin

I first saw Twin a year ago and believed he was mine. The grey-striped tabby looked so much like my cat Cracker that I thought I knew him, right up until the moment he ran. That's when I discovered my feral squatter. Twin sat on my back porch step. He lurked in my yellow bells. While not mine to touch, he became mine to feed. And with that connection established, I tried to trap Twin to provide basic veterinary care. I bought a cheap cat trap, but it proved too flimsy to keep anything trapped. So I bought a better cat trap and caught my own cats, several times; angry raccoons, both large and small; and one dim-witted opossum. But Twin evaded me. He ate cat food near my feet, played with string and bathed under the bushes. But he wouldn't enter a baited trap. It became a game. I settled into a lawn chair, read a book and talked to Twin while he nibbled catfood and sniffed at the sardines, chicken or dog food in the trap. Eventually, he would wander away. I would close up the trap--to keep everyone else out of it and we both knew we'd be back, same time, same place tomorrow. Yesterday, that changed. Twin took the bait. This morning, I hauled him to the vet and discovered he has FIV, feline immunodeficiency virus, an incurable, contagious condition. I agreed to euthanize Twin. This morning, Twin knew I wasn't his friend. Tonight I know I wasn't his savior. In his little piece of heaven, I hope Twin knows I love him. And I hope he forgives me.

Cats

Next Door Neighbors

Bright daylight sends the family next door scurrying for wide-brimmed straw hats and long-sleeved shirts. While my neighbors hail from Nebraska, their gaunt paleness gives them away. I'm pretty sure they are vampires. They don't nip on neighbors or even stray cats, thank goodness. I count them as friends good for borrowing stuff from and great for swapping lawn tips. Though, I wonder about the coffee grounds scattered in bushes--something beneath the ground demands caffiene when it rains. Their backyard is especially cool, with the maple tree sporting a bat house for friends passing through. With their quiet ways, there's something especially nice about my vampire neighbors. What I can't figure is why they left the rich food supply of corn-fed Nebraska for ravioli-fed, garlic-tinged St. Louis. Some night, I'll send Birdie over to ask, freshly scrubbed and well-salted.