Things I Should Have Asked For

Squirrel gun Disposable fine china
Larger stocking
Moratorium on Alvin & The Chipmunks
More quiet cat
Less smelly dog
Scissors that cut wrapping paper to the correct size
Wrapping paper that stretches
Tape dispensers that never run out
Tags that write themselves
Explanations for 'what is it?' gifts
More wine
Less whine
Cinnamon babka or vodka or whatever
Self unassembling Christmas tree
Stretch pants
More memory to remember my blessings...Big Guy, Birdie, Daisy, Slim Jim, Cracker (sort of), Tequila (the Dog), Mom, Bro, Sis & family, Candy Squared, Darling Gail, Niece Nightingale, Fancy Free, Footloose, Miss Blue Eyes, BroGirlfriend, Angelique & Brad, Gertrude, Florida Sunshine and so many more.

10 a.m., In The Kitchen

Birdie:  Do we have anymore of that cinnamon babka?
Me:  No. Sorry. Your dad and I finished it.
Daisy:  You mean what was in the freezer!  You drank the whole thing!
Big Guy: What are you talking about?
Daisy:  I can't believe you and mom drank an entire bottle of vodka! Cinnamon vodka! I wouldn't even want that!
Me:  Not vodka. Babka. We ate the last of the Babka.
Daisy: Oh.

If You're Going To Wrap Gifts With The Big Guy...

don't expect to find the tape. If you find the tape, chances are the scissors will be missing. Once the scissors are found, Big Guy will wander into the kitchen to search for his glass of iced tea. Once the iced tea is found--in the den--don't expect Big Guy to remember which present is in the box he almost finished wrapping. Scrounge a second roll of tape, but don't expect that one to stay found long enough to pen a gift tag. What pen? Check under Big Guy's feet. Chances are, you'll find the first roll of tape, but not the pen. Search the crevices of the couch. Lucky or not, you'll find pennies, Dorito crumbs and a high school attendance slip from last year. Chances are, you won't find the pen. Send Big Guy to the grocery store. Pry loose the end of the tape, find another pair of scissors and another working pen. Wrap gifts as quickly as possible. Thank Big Guy when he returns. Save another thank you for Mrs. Claus, who wraps up Christmas while Santa searches for misplaced tape and thumbs through the channels.

It Would Work...

It's Friday & You Want Answers?

Dear Miss Flonotes,
Regarding "Plunder & Charity," how did you get so 'holier than thou?' 
Sincerely,
Conscience Calling

Dear Conscience Calling,
December brings out my 'holier than thou' self. I'll feel less like a snot when businesses extend their charity largess well beyond the boundary of Christmas and Amazon pays state sales tax. A generous cup of spiked eggnog will help, too.
Warmest regards,
Miss Flonotes

Of Plunder & Charity

Christmas ads are smothering me. Email ads, invited or not, pop up telling me where to shop to get the most bang for my Christmas bucks. Mailbox stuffers weigh in too...and if I wanted to buy another new car, Santa is selling them as the elves run the toy shop. Even the little bookstore--that I remain fond of, although I don't work there anymore--has jumped into the commercialism fray. As part of the St. Louis Alliance of Independent Booksellers, it invites me to purchase a book so it may be donated to a homeless shelter. I would prefer to give freely in peace without believing that a bookstore, or any other business, will earn a dollar as I support its chosen charity. But it is a confusing time of year. I want to spend my Christmas present dollars wisely and yes, the discounts and deals-of-the-day stretch my buying power. I also want to do that extra boost of remembering others. So I'm annoyed at myself for being annoyed at the little bookstore and its sincere effort at charity. In part, I blame Amazon. Independent bookstores are scrambling to find and maintain their niche in the face of Amazon's Scrooge-like behavior. The internet giant is reportedly rewarding customers who price-shop in stores and then purchase on Amazon. The small bookstores that bleed pink, if not bright red, are owned by booklovers. Imbedded in worries about tomorrow, they may not see the discomfort that comes in aligning themselves so purely with a charity that puts a little something in their own pocket. Perhaps next year they might fine tune their good-hearted effort to match the donations of their customers. But, I digress. This holiday season, I have bought from Amazon and other internet retailers. I spent other, more fun, dollars shopping local. I will support the little bookstore's holiday effort to place books in the hands of homeless mothers who want to read gently worded, peaceful bedtime stories to their young children. Most likely, I will grab a book from my home stash and donate it on the sly, without it ever crossing paths with the store cash register. At the same time, I will purchase a book from the little bookstore as I know its heart is in the right place, and I want it to do as well as any other business in this season of holiday plunder.

Ham & Stuffing

I am going to teach Tequila how to grab ham out of the refrigerator and then blame its disappearance on Big Guy's favorite cat Slim Jim. I see no other way to rid my life of last week's fresh baked ham. Similar to the leftover turkey guest of honor--and by that I mean an actual turkey--not Candy Squared, Grandma or Daisy--after a while, what started out as welcoming symbol of holiday cheer has morphed into big pink chunks of garbage-day-can't-get-here-soon-enough. And I like ham. But not day after day of it. Leftover bird stuffing is also hogging refrigerator space. And I have no idea how to guide Tequila's nondiscerning nose away from a ziploc bag of stuffing and toward the one filled with ham. Not that I'm saving the stuffing for nibbling. I will need it to patch up the holes I'm expecting. Sooner or later, someone will start another round of Alvin & The Chipmunks Christmas music. That turkey, whomever it might be, will fly hard enough to make a good-sized, well-deserved in the wall.

How Much Love?

At Birdie's request, I checked her tattoo last night and informed her that the bits of fuzziness she was worried about were itsy-bitsy scab edges drying up. It took a bit of mother love to look that hard at her healing tattoo. It took a whole hunk of mother love to do what I did last week. I shone a flashlight up Daisy's right nostril to help her figure out how to free the earring from the side of her nose. She needed it out to meet the dress code described in the handbook of American Eagle, her holiday break employer. I peered up the nostril at the backside of the piercing I didn't want Daisy to have in the first place. From the outside, Daisy spun the tiny snippet of metal around. She described how there was some sort of twist that she couldn't figure out how to do that needed to be done to remove the earring. Her nose turned red. The panic rose in her voice. The earring spun in place. I kept shining the flashlight. Eventually, I knew, either her finger or mine would be up that nostril. As my finger inched closer to decision time, the earring popped loose. Happy once again, Daisy left for her Christmas job at American Eagle. I washed my hands and finished preparing dinner. That night, Daisy returned home and told me that American Eagle doesn't care about nose piercings. I wish she'd found that out earlier, but then again perhaps not. Because now I know just how much love it takes to pick someone else's nose. The answer is right here at my fingertips.

The Tattoo

Finally. At long last. It is done. Birdie has her tattoo. On Saturday, Birdie's aunt Candy Squared and sis Daisy helped her disguise the trip to the tattoo artist as an "aunt-nieces shopping" bonding experience. I should have suspected "something" as, in retrospect, they slinked out the door. The troublesome trio phoned in Birdie's intentions once they were safely on their way. They caught me when they knew I would be too busy spending my own money to worry about how Birdie spent hers--beyond hoping that needling a tattoo would hurt enough to keep the artwork small. Birdie returned home with her tattoo covered with a taped on, white paper towel. We trimmed the Christmas tree. I stared at Birdie's back. We decked the halls. I stared some more. We listened to the Chipmunks Christmas album. I kept sneaking peeks, wondering what lay beneath the Bounty. Finally, in the soft glow of the tree lights, she unveiled it. We stared in confusion at it and what it didn't say: No proclamations of I love mom, or dad, or grandma, or June (Daisy's treasured first cat), or Chuck (my treasured departed dog), or bacon (Big Guy's treasured treasure). I think we all thought we would get to own at least a small chunk of the Birdie back. In reality, the tattoo is a lovely, simple black-etched faceted heart. It sits on the midsection of Birdie's back, close enough to her side that if she twists around, she can see most of it.  We complimented Birdie on her choice. There's plenty of room to write I love Mom around it. And Birdie's Grandma--a nondrinking woman not brave enough to get her own ears pierced--chimed in cheerfully, and sincerely, that the tattoo will show just fine when Birdie dons her beach bikini. Clearly somewhere among the stuffing, cranberry and swear-like-a-sailor sweet potato pie, I lost control of my Thanksgiving children and my Thanksgiving company. For that I am grateful. I like Birdie's tattoo. Already I am planning mine. There will be a Birdie, a Daisy and a Martini--as a drink glass is easier to sketch than a full-blown depiction of Big Guy snoring in front of the TV or a multi-layered stack of crisply fried bacon. If Candy Squared isn't available to tattoo with me, I will conference phone her in to the procedure. But I won't ask Mom how fine my tattoo will look when I wear my bikini. She would have to turn into a serious drinking woman to contemplate that sight. So would I. Sooner or later, the Birdie tattoo will make its blog debut. Right now, Birdie reports, it's healing.

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (about thank-you notes)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
Recently, I received an expensive gift that I'm fairly certain is "hot." How do I write my thank-you note?
Sincerely,
Always Proper

Dear Always Proper,
With a guilty conscience.
Warmest regards,
Miss Flonotes

Little Red Wagon

Big Guy, Birdie and I camped at a local state park during our visit to Indiana University. It was there that we stumbled upon Santa conferencing with two elves, only one turned out not to be an elf, but rather the new "Mrs. Claus." Santa looks like Santa, drives a huge motorhome and uses a motorized wheelchair to manuever around the campground. Mrs. Claus is about 25 years old, slender, Asian, with beautiful black tresses. Big Guy tried his best not to get caught, by me, oogling Mrs. Claus. Birdie and I oogled away at the situation. We speculated that becoming Mrs. Claus might be how the young woman got to America. We watched as she and Santa interacted over fishing poles and grilling and concluded that they liked, and were kind to, each other. We agreed, that perhaps, if what we thought really were true, perhaps a marriage for citizenship--if that gets you to a better life--might not be such a bad thing. Thinking that true love found its own path, Birdie and I (and Big Guy, too) watched the happy couple. Mrs. Claus brought a child's red wagon out of the motorhome. She placed it on the ground and then sat snuggly tight in the wagon. We kept looking, mesmerized, as motorized wheelchair-bound Santa grabbed the wagon's handle and pulled the young Mrs. Claus around the campground. That's how we learned Santa is a Hoosier and citizenship, true love--or perhaps both--comes delivered in a little red wagon. I wish I had a photo of the wagon pull, but it's hard to focus a camera when laughing so hard. For that, I'm sure Mrs. Claus is grateful.

Wildlife

Camping provides ample opportunities to observe wildlife. Last summer, in our campground outside the Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, we witnessed the mom and dad of a "blended" family screaming about each other's kids. The next morning, the family "unblended" as half of them split.  Earlier this summer, at the Silver Mines campground near Fredricksburg, MO, our neighbors played their radio loud. But they were polite about it. Pot-bellied, No-shirt Guy strolled over to be sure we were o.k. with the volume. That's how we found out he wasn't working; his camping date was his neighbor; he was supposed to have his eight-year-old son with him, but the ex-wife and her rich new husband kept bribing the boy with Nintendo, so now the boy hates the outdoors, and he never sees the kid. Wow. That was a lot to take in. Then Pot-bellied, No-shirt Guy offered to share the whiskey he'd brought. We declined and he took a giant swig straight from the bottle. Suddenly, I understood his ex-wife. Vomit Guy I'll never understand and this was years ago. Long after dark, he and his buddies pulled into the adjacent campsite at Robertsville State Park in Missouri. As a young Daisy and a younger Birdie blissfully slept, Big Guy and I laid awake listening as Vomit Guy upchucked in the grass, then stumbled around in the dark, spitting. That's when we learned how campground hosts with huge RVs, plastic flamingos and Japanese lanterns earn their keep. A team of two showed up and ordered Vomit Guy to go to bed. And he did.

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (About today)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
How'd it get to be Friday?
Sincerely,
Just Woke Up

Dear Just Woke Up,
I don't know.
Warmest regards,
Miss Flonotes

Indiana University

I can't define Hoosier, but I know it when I see it. Big Guy, Birdie, Tequila and I toured Indiana University. The campus is beautiful; the trees are packed with squirrels; and pretty much every inch of sidewalk is scrawled with chalk. I arrived excited with the prospect of observing Hoosiers in their natural state. Mostly I saw exceptionally well-dressed college students walking to class. Then again, I missed the football game.  And the residence hall tour didn't include a peek at the dorm bathrooms. I suspect, both are prime places for Hoosier sightings. But the visit wasn't about me or about Tequila chasing squirrels. It was about Birdie. While Indiana University was the seventh college we visited, it was the first with an administrator blunt enough to tell Birdie that her intended major won't make her rich. Birdie didn't take the news well. Big Guy and I laughed, sort of. We know Birdie better than Indiana University. Chances are, if Birdie sets her sights on "rich," she will get there. And she will have fun, too. Eventually Birdie cheered up. We left campus satisfied that we'd seen enough to keep it on the Birdie list. Then our time in Indiana turned much better: We scored a major Hoosier sighting. That's a story for another day.

Morning

I woke up this morning disappointed to be awake. It's the first Tuesday of "fall back an hour" and my internal clock woke me an hour early. Awake, I twisted and turned, trying to cash in on my "bonus" hour of sleep. For a stray moment here, and a stolen moment there, I slipped back into the unsatisfactory sleep of a grown-up with things to do. Then my back began to hurt. The covers bunched into an uncomfortable knot. And the sounds of morning crept in--Big Guy in the shower; animal toenails clicking down the hall; Birdie drying her hair. I awoke more fully and realized: This day, like every day, is worth the waking up for. That, and I could smell the coffee.

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (about the actions of another)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
By nature, I am a very busy person. Normally, I don't have the time or inclination to wonder about the actions of strangers. However, the other day, I was finishing a wee coffee break in the Starbucks parking lot. As I watched, a dark blue SUV reversed out of its parking space and scraped its entire side against the dumpster. The driver kept going, without even a look at the damage. Busy, but intrigued, I followed the vehicle. The driver drove straight to McDonalds. What should I do?
Sincerely,
Busy

Dear Busy,
Starbucks has a dumpster in the parking lot? Who would have known? For sure, not the SUV's driver. More to your point--what should you do: Quite simply, learn from others. Fries and a $1 sweet tea are an excellent feel-good choice for days when dumpsters, or other solid objects, jump in your path. 
Warmest Regards,
Miss Flonotes

"I Love You"

Found on the internet
My old lady doesn't have very many teeth any more, and she's underweight, so I would like to get her chopped hay or hay cubes.  I was just wondering if there's a way to chop and maybe even make a "soup" of hay at home.

Someone Has To, But Not Me

Big Guy and I had children for the same reason everyone else does: So they can do things for us. With a bit of prodding, over the years, Birdie and Daisy have unloaded the dishwasher, mowed the grass, folded laundry and shown remarkable self-initiative in monitoring our wardrobe choices. But now, the family sits trapped at an impasse. Daisy is away at college. And Birdie appears to have inherited a double dose of aversion to Styrofoam. Two huge slabs of the nasty stuff rest on our back porch. These remnants of replacing the hot tub cover need to be broken into smaller pieces to place in the trash. Neither Frank nor I will lay our hands on them long enough to break them. They feel creepy stiff--like Styrofoam--and we worry that we will accidentally create a noise akin to fingernails on a chalkboard. Just amongst you, me and whomever else stumbles on this blog, if I had known Big Guy felt so strongly about Styrofoam, I might would have reconsidered my choice in mate. Spiders wander away eventually, grass grows only so tall and AAA will bring gas when your car runs completely dry. Nothing is going to move that Styrofoam. Tomorrow I will attempt to lure Birdie to the task by offering cute pink earplugs and flowered gloves. When that doesn't work, I will threaten her. She will capitulate--sort of, meaning she will promise to take care of the Styrofoam, then hide the twin slabs under beach towels. In the end, we will wait to spring the task on Daisy. Perhaps she will come home for Thanksgiving full of goodwill and ready for cash in her pocket.

Halloween Scary

My girls have had some great Halloweens--like the one where Birdie, costumed as princess, daintily accepted candy from the neighbor who lived down the street, then inquired if she was, in fact, "the mean old lady everyone talked about." Another year,  Daisy scored a pair of ruby slippers--the gateway drug to Uggs, Sperrys and Jimmy Choos. Some years, my girls faced down chain-sawing wielding vampires, jumping spiders and misplaced treat bags. They endured threats of "not getting to go," but always got to. And they rebuffed warnings of "you'll need to wear a coat over that." With some decent Halloweens under their belt, they can claim to know "scary," but I know "scary." I was a not-quite-teenager, not quite bored with Halloween, but much too old to do more than yawn at creepy monsters. I don't recall my costume or whom I trick-or-treated with. I remember hearing the screams of packs of kids running from house to house. Darkness cloaked everything. I caught a vague amoeba-like shadow as one group streamed past me. Then, for a moment, I stood alone on the leaf-strewn, wet asphalt one street over from my familiar Britt Street. There, in the night, I took one step forward and then another. A sudden massiveness lurched toward me. Immobilized by fright, I waited. Labored breathing and dripping drew near. Warm stench enveloped me. Then, the presence passed. My Halloween continued, but with a bit more skittishness in my step. In the cold light of November, my scare settled. One street over from Britt, a mild-mannered St. Bernard with ropy trails of saliva roamed on slow plodding feet. He had a name. But whatever it was, he'll always be my Cujo.  

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (On Nail-biting)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
I chewed my fingernails to nubs watching Game Six. How do I clean toenails enough for a good gnaw?
Sincerely,
Redbird Fan

Dear Redbird Fan,
Don't. Sturdy floss should remove any chunks from between your teeth. 
Warmest Regards,
Miss Flonotes

The Wager

The Minnesota Twins beat my beloved Atlanta Braves 20 years ago, in the seventh game of the 1991 World Series. I didn't remember the moment, as I was busy worrying over Baby Daisy, who refused to stay awake long enough to eat. This year, it's different. Long ago, I ditched the Braves for the St. Louis Cardinals. Tonight, I'll watch Game Six as the Cardinals face the Texas Rangers in a must-win situation. In between innings, I'll be texting Niece Nightingale. She lives in Texas. I wagered chocolate candy from Crown Candy Kitchen and a sea of tears deep enough to break the Texas drought. She promised me "something." Twenty years ago, that "something" would have been a Barbie doll or half-stick of gum. But we are both older, and more focused on the game. My wager is definitely a wise one. Should the Rangers win, heaven forbid, Niece Nightingale will get her chocolate, wrapped in soggy tear-stained paper. I will console myself with a Crown Candy Kitchen BLT and milkshake...and chocolate for the ride home. Should the Cardinals win, I'll get "something" from Niece Nightingale. And she'll get a consolation photo of me, at Crown Candy Kitchen, enjoying a victory feast--with Daisy, perhaps. While Daisy still loves her sleep, she will wake up for bacon.

The Daisy Day

The notion of childbirth used to be one of supreme vagueness. Only the active participant, and the medical staff, could truly confirm that childbirth didn't involve storks, massive cabbage plants or tightly woven baskets floating in the river. Twenty years ago, enough progress had been made that Big Guy joined me for labor and Daisy's arrival. And that, pretty much, defines much of what I remember about the day. To clarify: Mostly, it was My Day. My Day to watch as Big Guy tried to snooze in the labor and delivery room's recliner. He didn't get the comfort of a bed nor the relief of an epidural--which yes, while getting an epidural bends the spine and racks the nerves, having an epidural makes everything easier to manage. For example, Daytime T.V. While I snoozed through Phil Donohue's talk show and mind-wandered my way through Sally Jessy Raphael's insipid program, Big Guy had no drugs and very little sleep to blunt their yammering over the airways. I could have turned off the t.v., but with my epidural, I didn't feel like bothering. And, admittedly, as talk shows morphed into soap operas, it gave Big Guy something to complain about until early evening. Then his complaints, and mine, shifted to the Braves. They played in the World Series, Game 6 in Minneapolis, on this night twenty years ago. It was painful...not childbirth painful, just painful. Again, I had the bed and comfy epidural. Big Guy had the sturdy vinyl recliner and no pain meds. He also had to get up each time he wanted to go to the bathroom. Not me, a tiny perk in retrospect. As 10 p.m. closed in, Big Guy looked ragged around the edges. I, with my epidural, didn't care how I looked. But I did want that baby out of me. Suddenly, nurses walked in. Bright lights flashed on. And the Daisy Delivery Doctor walked in. He said he'd come from a party, but I knew the crisp white long-sleeved shirt and silk necktie were worn especially for Daisy. With one push and then another, Daisy arrived--wet and unhappy. Probably more unhappy than the Braves. And in that moment as Big Guy cut the cord, his day, and my day, turned into Daisy's Day. Happy Birthday Daisy.

Waiting For The World To Change

On this night, 20 years ago, I waited for the world to change. I remember: Walls painted blue with pink stenciled rabbits running in a row; curtains--white trimmed with blue; the hand-me-down wooden crib--decorated in pink and blue bunny motif--pushed against one wall with fabric balloons gathered over it; a brand new changing table tucked into a corner--a diaper bag, again with bunnies, hooked to it; itsy-bitsy diapers stacked tight and hypoallergenic wipes still sealed. Mostly I remember the wide-bottomed chair, upholstered in soft blue. On many nights as summer slid into fall, that chair begged me to sit and swivel for a moment--to daydream of a belly flat and arms full. And so, on this night, I sat and swiveled as half-hearted twinges began to find their rhythm. Impatient, I pried my awkward self loose from my reverie. Big Guy called the doctor. We grabbed our stuff, filled the cat's food bowl and left. We traveled the sleepy midnight highway. Late night slipped seamlessly into wee morning hours. And my world--our world--began to change. In room five. A bunny free zone.

There's A Story Here, Somewhere

Found stuck in a copy of a textbook: Probation, Parole & Community Corrections.

Dad Remembered

It's Friday & You Want Advice? (About Rock Chalk)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
I am desperate. Rock Chalk, Jay Hawk, Rock Chalk, Jay Hawk keeps running through my head. My brain is like a choo-choo train. How can I get it to stop?
Preoccupied.

Dear Preoccupied,
Hum the Brady Bunch theme song. That will obliterate the Rock Chalk chant, provided it is not God chanting to you. I've heard He is partial to Kansas, where the dinosaurs never roamed.
Warmest regards,
Miss Flonotes

The Davin Rant Finale

There's nothing quite like an apology to dampen a two-blog rant, which is why I buried the second half of my "I hate Davin" rant. Turns out that once I finished composing my first blog rant and switched my attention to dicing Davin on dealerrater.com, I received a within-10-minutes phone call from Davin--as dealerrater.com alerts dealers when they are close to getting blasted on the internet and provides a two-week long opportunity to calm an irate rater before a negative rating gets posted.  Davin apologized for his crappy behavior and ta-da! the Sentra with everything we want will be delivered to our house next week. I warned Davin that I would write about my experience. Hope that crow was tasty dining. And that Daisy enjoys the soon-to-be-hers birthday car. 

Davin At Lou Fusz Nissan

Last night, Big Guy texted a photo to Daisy to let her know that, yes, she was the proud owner of a 2012 Nissan Sentra. Ten minutes later, I texted Daisy to let her know the deal fell through. Thank you Davin Agnew at Lou Fusz Nissan. There's not much I like less than disappointing my daughter. My guess, there's not much Davin likes more than teasing customers and grabbing commissions out of salespeople's pockets. This was, quite literally, what happened. As Big Guy prepared to drive "our" sparkling new Sentra off the lot, he discovered it lacked one feature we specifically requested. Our sales person Nice Enough Guy had already left for the evening, no doubt counting his money as "earned." Davin stepped in to say that if we wanted the feature that was promised, we'd have to pay another $200. We showed him our email agreement with the Lou Fusz Nissan sales staff. It was a very detailed, very well spelled out email. Davin refused to honor it. So Daisy doesn't get that car. But on the bright side, I gain a handy new phrase for "not living up to commitments." It's called "Doing A Davin."

Santa Sighting

It's Friday And You Want Advice? (about money)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
First, I discovered six pennies.
Then, I found a Canadian quarter. 
Should I be worried?
     Thinking About It


Dear Thinking About It,
Yes.
Warmest Regards,
       Miss Flonotes

' Steve Jobs

If you want to attract a geek, here's a fun fact to drop at parties: The ASCII code for an apostrophe is '  In truth, it probably works better at detecting geeks than attracting them. A true geek would be so aware of ' that he/she would likely stroll away from you as "not geek enough" to merit communicating with. A nongeek would mistake your fun-fact for a misheard, not understood, joke, then laugh and drink another beer with you. Last night, a news flash on the internet alerted me to the death of Steve Jobs, undoubtably the coolest genius to have walked the Earth in my lifetime. Like a lot of keyboard tappers, I work off a PC. But I've never loved it like I love my daughter Daisy's Mac. It is reliable, intuitive and downright touchable, just like the IPods, phones and other gizmos Jobs had a hand in creating. The man had a gift and he used it well. I like to imagine a young and impatient Steve Jobs at a party. An awkward, young woman drops some sort of near totally ignorant comment about computer punchcards. In my imagination, I see Jobs mentally dismiss her as unimportant. He turns and walks away. Then he does what made Jobs so good at being Jobs. He comes back, listens to her and figures out to communicate. I don't know that Jobs ever experienced this exact moment. Now that you've read this far, perhaps you have figured out I have no clue if ASCII has anything to do with Apples, but I still admire Steve Jobs.

Them Bones

There is stuff even I don't want to know, like how to make musical bones. An overenthusiastic backwoods musician wrote the instructions. And my eyes accidentally read them: Obtain bones from large animals. Let bones bleach dry in the sun for several years. The rest of the instructions read blah... blah... blah... as I'm lost wondering how to convince the large animal to give up its rib, and if drying the rib in the yard violates the subdivision covenant. I know the covenant prohibits chickens, a personal disappointment, and clotheslines--which I should care about using, but don't. In all the years our subdivision has existed, I don't think there's ever been an emergency meeting to revise the covenant. A front yard rib-drying operation might do it. I've learned that neighbors don't like strange, unless it's their own brand of strange--like hanging curtains that resemble large red lobsters in the front windows or raking new-fallen snow.  Neither, I admit, are on the same scale as yard preparations for musical bones. And, no, I'm not going to position a rib cage by the red bud tree--I just wanted to share that image with you. And for those still reading, here's what else to steer clear of thinking about... if someone offers to let you watch sausage being made, don't bother to eat breakfast. Another tip, never eat a salami sandwich and read the salami package ingredient label at the same time. Turns out, there isn't much that doesn't go into salami, except maybe the bones.

Oahu Curls

It's Friday Night & You Want Advice? (on poop)

Dear Miss Flonotes,
Every morning there's a big pile of dog poop in the center of my front yard.  Every morning, I hand shovel the poop into the storm drain. What should I do? 
Crotchety Old Guy 

Dear Crotchety Old Guy, 
It's difficult to comment on your technique without watching you through my front window, and I'm not getting up that early. Remember, bend your knees to avoid back strain. 
Warmest Regards, Miss Flonotes. 

 Tune in next week for another installment of It's Friday Night & You Want Advice?

Great Expectations

Did you really expect another blog today? Scroll through yesterday's accidental early releases:  Coffee Talk (meant for today/Wednesday) and Get On The Bus (meant for tomorrow/Thursday). At the bottom of yesterday's blog, you'll find what's meant to be there: Dorothy Was A Strong One.

Coffee Talk

By the time Birdie and I stumbled on the Kansas University on-campus Milton's Coffee, I was desperate for ordinary, plain-brewed iced tea. That wasn't available. So I settled for a canned Coca-Cola, along with an extra cup of ice so Birdie and I could split. 
"Are you a KU student?" I asked the cashier.
"No," he said.
"I'm a student," said the older guy behind the counter. "Are you looking at KU?"
"Yes," I said, "But I'm not sure enough money will come through as we are out of state."
"Move to Kansas," he advised Birdie. "Work awhile. Then KU will give you plenty of money."
"I graduated in May," said the cashier. "I got a lot of scholarship help."
"How'd you get your scholarship?" I asked.
"I'm in-state and had good grades," he said, then added, "I majored in English. A lot of my friends aren't as lucky. They majored in other stuff, graduated owing a lot of money and work for corporations. They aren't happy and they make a lot less money than I do."
"So what do you think about while you make coffee all day?" I asked.
He paused, then smiled and said, "Mostly, I think about coffee."
I forgot to tip him. I don't know if he noticed. There's a lot of wisdom at Milton's Coffee: If you want to go to school, find a way to do it even if it takes longer. Consider in-state, even if you need to earn the privilege. And, if you love your major and avoid debt-overload, you can brew a perfect cup of coffee.

Get On The Bus

Riding buses is an emerging hobby of mine. Earlier this year, I rode a chartered bus to Jeff City in support of Planned Parenthood. Then, I rode Greyhound to Cleveland, TN, to visit Mom. On the first, I traveled with strangers united in a cause. On the second, I traveled alone surrounded by kind and decent seasoned with slightly crazy. On Saturday, Oct. 22, there's a bus trip I covet. The St. Louis Independent Booksellers Alliance is hosting "Get On The Bus," a tour of four local bookshops--Sue's News, The Book House, Rebounds and Rose's Bookhouse--with lunch at La Hacienda included. The round-trip ride, which starts at the Galleria, is a $35 bargain. I could hop in my car, drive alone to visit book shops and run through the Taco Bell drive-thru (as I only eat alone in the car). But, I would miss walking the "red-carpet" these four shops will roll out for die-hard book fans. I'd also miss connecting with a busload of booklovers ready to trade tips on books worth reading. My earlier, spontaneous bus journeys were somewhat equivalent to jumping off a cliff into unknown waters, only a lot safer. And on both adventures, I stepped out of  my comfort zone. As for the "Get On The Bus" bookstore tour, that's a no-brainer in terms of company and fun. But sadly, I won't be on the bus. I'm working that day. At Rebounds. So I'm counting on others to hop on the bus and come visit. I'm saving a special story for my red-carpet visitors...it's one about dogs, the canine kind.  For more information about "Get On The Bus," visit http://www.stlindiebook.com/  Or call Rebounds, 314/469-5400. Maybe, I will give you a hint about my story.

Dorothy Was A Strong One

Dorothy was made of stronger stuff than I am. It has been a week since Birdie and I returned from visiting the University of Kansas in Lawrence. Only now, have I regained enough strength to write. One of the most well-kept secrets in Kansas is that Dorothy didn't leave Oz to get back to normal...she left to return to crazy. The first thing to know about KU is that it is made up of hills, and all of them go up. Also, there's not a cozy morning breakfast spot within spitting distance of campus--not that Birdie and I could find. We ended up two miles away at McDonalds, grateful for melted cinnamon stuff, gulped down 10 minutes before our on-campus appointment. There, we learned, that if you visit campus the day after Seniors' Visit Day, it is you and three other visitors. Not a bad thing. In a move that wouldn't look like crazy on an ordinary day, KU has a bus devoted entirely to visitors. It's full-size and most of the time, we were the only ones on it. My guess: Keeping the visiting riff-raff separate from the students protects the KU secret chant. Birdie and I never figured out what "Rock Chalk" means, although students wore it on their chests, fannies and legs. (To clarify--on their clothing.) The KU crowd is especially proud of its throwing arms.  A student, the bus driver and a faculty member all spontaneously shared that the campus pond, newly restored, at one time held numerous football goal posts, a Vespa motorscooter and several desks. That desks held the same level of prestige as goal posts either means KU students study, or that they don't. KU is a campus that aims to please. The five-story music/fine arts building has ground-level entrances on four floors, facilitating escape from jilted lovers and those to whom money is owed. The library building was contructed for sturdy, heavy books that didn't happen. The weight of books required by KU professors wasn't enough to settle the floors evenly. There's enough slant that with a little physics driven momentum, students may be able to roll themselves right out the front door after studying/napping in the back stacks. And, lest I forget, KU has Chik-Fil-A on campus. Enough said. We loved our quirky visit. And the two guys who run the campus coffee shop gave us some of our best college advice ever. That I'll share tomorrow. Right now, I have a blue plaid dress to stitch. Birdie remains undecided. But I want to be ready should she decide to stuff Tequila in a basket and clicks her heels three times.

Also Overheard At The Mall

"...that was before my father left us..."

Heard At The Mall

"I can't wait until I'm rich and old."

"Old?"

"Well, you know, like 20."

Birthday Princess

Have A Happy Day!!!

Daisy is coming home for the weekend!!! Birdie is turning from minor to major!!! I painted Tequila's toenails bright red!!! It finally rained!!! No more watering the dead grass!!! I cleaned the bathrooms!!! Make that just one bathroom!!! I closed the door on the others and posted 'sorry for the inconvenience, this stall closed' signs on the other two!!! Not that they're stalls!!! My book boss sent me an irritating email!!! I sent an irritating email back to her!!!  She is not really irritating...it's just the stacks of John Grisham and Nora Roberts duplicate novels with nowhere to shelve are irritating!!! So is Sarah Palin!!! Ann Coulter is the devil!!! What if I go to hell!!! Will Ann Coulter be there!!! Will stacks of crappy books be there!!! Not that John Grisham is crappy!!! Nora Roberts is crappy!!! But I don't think she'll be in hell!!! Just her books!!! Have a happy day!!!

Fish Circles

If ever there's a reason to pray fervently that reincarnation is fanciful thought, it is the fish I saw at Wal-Mart. This one, a tri-colored goldfish, cartwheeled in water in a plastic bag topped with a tightly twisted rubber band held by a young girl. The fish swished back and forth in vertical and horizontal circles. The child, squished into a lavendar leotard, pronounced in one, quick run-together sentence, "I'm four and I'm here with my cousin and my uncle and this is my fish and I'm taking him home with me and my mom doesn't know about it and I haven't named him yet cause I can't decide and do you like him?" She stopped moving the bag. The fish bounced off the side, mouthed silent fish gulps, then it was back to circles. The circles weren't wild ones, but the two-inch fish probably disagreed.  So did the uncle. He unpropped his large, sweatsuit clad frame from the customer service counter, swiveled around and told the little one to hold the fish still. Then he went back to what he was doing, which turned out to be getting a price correction on three cardboard boxes of videos. As the clerk adjusted the price on about 100 movies, the uncle apologized to Big Guy and I for making us wait and explained that he sells videos on the internet. That got my attention. I never thought about where those videos come from or who it is that sells them. Then my attention swung back to the fish, once again spinning. As I watched, the plastic bag slipped from the little girl's fingers and hit the floor. It didn't break. Call it good luck, bad luck or what goes around, comes around.

Book Bits

Books Currently On My Nightstand:
Getting To Happy by Terry McMillan & One Day by David Nicholls

Favorite Book As A Child:
My Box and String by Betty Woods

Top Five Authors:
Charlaine Harris, Terri McMillan, Nelson DeMille, Maya Angelou & E.B. White

The Book I Was Supposed To Read For Class, But Never Did:
Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Book I Most Often Recommend:
Bird by Bird by Anne LaMott

Book Bought For The Title (and my review):
The Worst Thing I've Done by Ursula Hegi  (only a so-so read)

Book That Changed My Life:
Down Came The Rain by Brooke Shields

Favorite Line From A Book: 
"I knew there was going to be trouble when Joyce came home with four packages of juicy jumbo hotdogs..."  from What Looks Like Crazy On An Ordinary Day by Pearl Cleage (you
can read the remainder of this 78-word sentence at the start of Chapter 24.)

Tattoo and Pierce

Birdie has wanted a tattoo since she was first strong enough to pry the cap off a Sharpie marker. Soon, she will be old enough to get one that is as large and vividly colorful as her heart desires. My hope is that the tattoo will be petite and modestly colored. I'll settle for anything that looks like it couldn't be done in prison and was etched with a clean needle. And Birdie, the young adult, will do whatever she wants. If I don't think about it too hard, I'm fine with the tattoo. It's the eventual nostril-piercing I worry most about, as I'm partly to blame. I should never have allowed Daisy and Birdie in the same room at the same time. They were in the kitchen, and in a fit of misjudgment, I said, "Oh my God, you have the same nose!" (Yes, it was an odd moment to call upon God.) Their heads snapped toward each other and they looked relieved. Apparently, they liked what they saw. A few days later, Daisy and Birdie were once again in the kitchen, this time I wasn't there, but Daisy's friends were. By the end of the evening, Daisy had her right nostril pierced. As did a Daisy friend. I don't know how long Daisy teetered on the brink of "Should I do it?" But Daisy likes to teeter, and I'm certain Birdie helped push her over the edge. As Daisy discovered, in a loud sort of way, I don't like the Daisy nose pierced. But now that I've calmed down, I admit, it is kind of cute. For Birdie, I suspect, the Daisy nostril is one trial run complete with the real nose to follow.

Caught!

When Death Touched

More than most, I think, I woke up on Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, believing it would be an ordinary day. After my Monday, Tuesday had to be dull. Here's my story: Sunday night, I was asleep--dead asleep. Just moments before midnight, Big Guy burst open the bedroom door. "Call 911. Al had a heart attack," he said. Before I could pull myself awake, Big Guy left. I slipped on my flip-flops, and in my nightgown, fled across the street to Al's house. As his wife watched, I dialed 911. Big Guy pounded on Al's chest, vainly willing his worn out heart to restart. A firetruck and an ambulance arrived. Al was dead. He'd probably been dead from the moment the heart attack happened. I called the neighbors' parish priest. Then Big Guy and I sat with the newly made widow at the kitchen table. We waited: For the priest to arrive; for the body to be cared for; for the fire truck to leave. The kitchen clock ticked past 1 a.m. And somewhere in that time of waiting, two barefoot, p.j. clad, rumple-haired souls wandered through the silent chaos of a crisis stilled. Birdie and Daisy woke up, found their parents gone, saw the ambulance outside, then wandered hand-in-hand across the street. Big Guy and I explained that Mr. Al died. I led them home and tucked them into bed. Today, death touched them, I thought. Just one day later, the Twin Towers fell, the Pentagon cracked open and a Pennsylvania field morphed into a crater. And death, this time as an abstract, touched my children again.

It's What's For Breakfast

http://www.castanet.net/news/Offbeat/62971/Donut-seeds

Missing From Oahu

I didn't see what I most wanted when Big Guy, Daisy, Birdie and I traveled to Oahu. I saw a lot of great stuff--the incredible blue ocean; the rugged, razor-sharp pali; lush tropical vegetation; surfers (mostly confused Asian ones); mongeese and strange birds. But gone was my childhood playground. Infused in how I viewed all the tourist stuff were my 40-plus-year-old memories of living in Hawaii and playing with my best friend Florida Sunshine. I moved to the Fort Shafter army base as an eight-year-old, and within a day, met Florida Sunshine. I don't remember if we instantly liked each other, as military brats have to determine who is and isn't ok to hang with, but soon we were inseparable. We spent our free time swimming, baking sugar cookies, exploring the backyard mountain and playing with her sister's Barbie dolls. But my favorite memory, and the one I hoped to share with Birdie and Daisy, was of the jungle gym. At the Fort Shafter of long ago, privates lucky enough to not be shipped to Viet Nam spent long hours painting the playground's jungle gym. They would finish. Then Florida Sunshine and I would peel off the newly dried silver paint with our fingernails, competing to remove the longest continuous strip possible. On my return trip to Fort Shafter, I wanted to discover that the playground survived. But the area where Florida Sunshine and I lived and played has been torn up and replanted with a more modern Army community. The new playground, while functional, isn't peel-able. The new Army brats aren't inadvertently consuming specks of paint as they play. And now I'm thinking, it may have been lead paint that we peeled as the Army intended for its work to last. Florida Sunshine and I intended otherwise.

Tequila & Stieg Larsson In The Margarita Moon Pie

My magic Sunday afternoon happened. Big Guy and I took the kayaks to Lincoln Lake. He fished from his fancy red Field & Stream kayak. I floated in my lime-green, bathtub like Precision Swifty, aptly named the Margarita Moon Pie, accompanied by Chihuahua-mix Tequila and my copy of Stieg Larsson's The Girl Who Played With Fire. A chihuahua, however unhappy, will nap away worries about drowning. And a book, unlike a Kindle, can be read in a kayak. And this writer, Stieg Larsson, is one of my favorites. Larsson reveals himself in his writings. He supports the rights of individuals--even mentally shaky ones--to make their own choices. He values an independent press. He abhors violence against women, especially the illegal sex trade. None of these revelations is unique to Larsson. A lot of us feel the same way. But few of us have the gift to write novels that weave these beliefs into individual characters and situations. It's impossible to read a Larsson book without sludging through society's underbelly. At the same time, darkness doesn't saturate or drive his books--complex, flawed, prickly characters keep the story moving. Unfortunately, Larsson is dead. He wrote three novels and died before the first one was published. Once I read the last book of his trilogy The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest, there won't be any more Larsson. But tucked away in his first novel The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo are references to other writers. My guess, and I'll find out if I'm right, is that Elizabeth George, Sue Grafton, Gellert Tamas and Ake Edwardson tell intriguing tales that include a slice of themselves in each one. From wherever Larsson is now, and I think he's one of the good souls, I hope he sees his complex characters spring to life far beyond the borders of his native Sweden. I plan to take his recommended writers out for lake floats, too. My guess is that Larsson would approve. The Margarita Moon Pie is where I read and think about what's right and Tequila naps and/or worries about all that water. No Kindles invited.
What I'm reading now:  Faithful Place by Tana French.

I Got One!

It's more fun to fish when you catch a fish.

I finally caught one, a small mouthed bass.

Then I panicked. I didn't want my fish to die. 

So Big Guy freed it from the hook. 

It swam away, embarrassed.

Feeble-Minded and Laundry-Free

As soon as I age enough to look like a feeble-minded sack of wrinkles, I plan to vacation naked. Almost three weeks have passed since we returned from Hawaii. Vacation laundry still haunts me. Thanks to Big Guy's frequent flyer status, we took as much luggage as we wanted on our trip. And we wanted lots. Everyone didn't wear every bit of clothing, but every stitch of it got dropped down the laundry chute as soon as the trip ended. I've washed it. I've dried it. Now I'm folding shirts, matching socks and ignoring anything that needs ironing. I have time to think ahead to my naked trip. I'll wear one set of clothing to get to wherever I go and wear the same set on the way back. I will pack a towel for sitting, a huge bottle of sunscreen and a pair of sunglasses. I'll bring my flip-flops, too.

Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood

A Good Sermon Gone Bad

Some events stick with you. Years ago, I sat in the pew as an Episcopal priest declared "Heaven is not a fish-fry." Like a good sermon gone bad, I immediately quit worrying about my soul and started to worry about what food God serves to guests. Eternity is forever. And that's a really long time to be pushing food around the dinner plate. Afer visiting Hawaii, my bet is that God serves Spam. With as much time as God invested in creating Hawaii, sprinkling the islands from one end to the other with tins of Spam has to be a sample menu of some sort. Hawaiians love their Spam. They eat the jiggly, artificially formed meat-treat morning, noon and night. Trying not to think on the canned aspect, I ate an omelet egg, cheese and Spam sandwich and liked it. I also ate a seaweed wrapped Spam sushi roll, and I liked that, too. I didn't try the Spam-flavored shaved ice. But I'm feeling decidedly Spam-confident about finding something worth nibbling on in heaven. Spam isn't the first weird food I've encountered in Hawaii. As a child at Oahu's Fort Shafter Elementary School, I remember the school cafeteria ladies serving what seemed to be raw fish for lunch. On our trip, we stopped by my old school and  I asked a kindergarten teacher about the lunch menu. Raw fish isn't served now, and she didn't know if it ever had been served. But, she added, squid is on the menu. Apparently school kids, even in paradise, can't catch a break. In heaven, though, it'll be different. It'll be Spam-tastic.

Fixing To, In Paradise

A real surfer keeps stacks of surfboards stuffed under his house. That's what I discovered when we stayed in a backyard studio apartment owned by Surfer Guy and his wife. They live on Oahu's north shore, one block from Rocky Point Beach in a house wedged on a tiny patch of ground. It's guarded by a Jack Russell and comes with a five-foot wide right-of-way to a deserted strip of sandy beach owned by a striped, calico cat. The only fly in their patch of paradise would be their neighbor Grumpy Old Guy. He sits on his carport and screams at cars to slow down. He screamed his island greeting at our rental car, a Chevy, as it turned onto the street between the two houses. Big Guy tried to return the greeting, luckily the car windows were up. As we pulled up to our rental, Surfer Guy met us at the door. He was fixing to replace a clothes dryer. "Fxing to" in that it took four days for the new dryer to move out of the yard and into the basement. In Hawaii, "fixing to" is contagious. We awoke the first morning "fixing to" see the sunrise on the beach, but settled for seeing it from our front porch. Birdie kept "fixing to" do her summer homework. Daisy kept "fixing to" stay up really late at night. I kept "fixing to" make some phone calls and Big Guy kept "fixing to" peel the Chevy around the corner really fast. But there's no way to rush in Hawaii. Birdie set aside her homework. Daisy gave up on turning us into night people. I let my phone die. Grumpy Old Guy wasn't on the carport when Big Guy thought about gunning it. After five nights, we checked out of our studio to head toward Honolulu, I got the point of Grumpy Old Guy's island greeting. Get the dryer installed, you'll do laundry. Drive too fast, you'll won't get anywhere faster. You'll simply be stuck that much quicker behind someone driving slow, probably Grumpy Old Guy savoring one more day in paradise.

Chicken Lady

We almost met Chicken Lady. As we ate dinner outdoors at the Shark's Cove Grill on Oahu's north shore, she walked around back to rummage through the grill's dumpster. The wild chickens, who nibbled near our feet, took off after her. At that moment, I learned, motivated chickens move fast. They formed a ragged half-moon around Chicken Lady. Then a second ragged curve, this one of feral cats, gathered behind the chickens. Chicken Lady, bent over waist-deep in whatever, started flinging scraps behind her back: Some juicy bits landed near chickens, other tidbits landed near cats. She kept a few pieces for herself. "Girls," I observed, "That's what happens when you buy a one-way ticket to Hawaii." During the next few days, we watched Chicken Lady make her rounds and discovered she lives with a pet cat under a patch of shrubs along Waimea Bay Beach. She was the first of many homeless we saw on Oahu. Most probably started their Hawaiian adventure with a dream to live in paradise, then tumbled into mental illness. Chicken Lady sleeps and wakes to the sound of the surf. She feeds the chickens and the cats. They would miss her if she wasn't there. To live by the ocean, to be needed: It's still a scrap of paradise.

School Starts

Today, Birdie began her senior year of high school. Just like her first day of kindergarten, Birdie decided to wear a purple shirt. This one didn't have a silver star etched across the front. And the rest of her outfit is different. She traded out the matching purple knit skirt popular with five-year-olds for a decidedly brief pair of denim shorts, popular with teens. And her backpack isn't pink and purple. Now it's practical black. Looking at her in the fuzzy light of morning, for a moment I wondered, where did my baby go? I wanted sweet five-year-old Birdie back. Then I shook sentiment aside. I embraced my prickly teenage Birdie in a no-nonsense hug, wished her a good day and returned to bed for a few minutes more. By choice, Birdie fixes her breakfast, pulls together her backpack, fills her water bottle and makes a lunch. Then she drives herself to school. All of that's O.K. I raised her to do for herself. Now she can. Not only am I proud of her, I'm also well-rested.

The Giant's Passing

The giant book store that is closing has crept into my nighttime dreams. I stand at the entrance with a "30% off original retail price" coupon. But there is nothing to buy. Bankruptcy sellers have marked everything to 75% off. My coupon is worthless. Most of the shelves are empty. A forlorn copy of a James Shatner autobiography lays on the floor; footprints mark the cover.  As I awake, this much I know is true: I hate those 30% off coupons. Before the giant book store inundated my inbox with discount coupons, I paid the asking price for books and I bought books when I wanted to read them. Then the coupons started. I got the crazy notion that it is wrong to pay full price for a brand new book. Purchasing books became a matter of waiting for a coupon. A lot of good books didn't get bought. Now, for lots of reasons, the giant is dying. Its passing marks the end of my misguided obsession with linking books to coupons. Tere are better places to buy books. St. Louis has a strong alliance of independent book sellers who sponsor book clubs, host book signings, support their neighborhoods and often offer books that large chains won't consider. Most important: They don't flood my inbox with an unending stream of impersonal discount coupons. I shop Rebounds for recycled books. But I'm done with buying new books only when I am given a discount. For those got-to-have, first-read treasures, I plan to shop the independent stores. I will pay a fair price to own and read a new book. I will dog-ear to my heart's content and then pass my book to Rebounds. I get store credit and my read becomes someone else's treasure at a sweeter price. Don't misunderstand: I love a good deal, but no longer will a coupon determine where and when I buy books I want to read.
What I'm reading now:  Everyone Worth Knowing by Lauren Weisberger.

When School DOES Start

Check back in three weeks. The girls will be in school and I won't be so scattered. Learn about NOSE piercings, the fish that didn't get away, my latest visit to Wal-Mart, my tooth, what really goes on in the country and other good stuff. Aloha!!! Learn about that, too.

Wednesday Catsup

Another Day In Paradise. AKA Dantes Inferno. Tequila hates the lake, puddles, rain showers and her life jacket. We purchased two kayaks so Tequila can spend even more time in hell.
Milk and Herring. Forgot the herring. Missed my A&W rootbeer float stop. Compensated with slightly stale Krispy Kreme donut nuggets. Departed grocery store in a monster rainstorm. Unloaded groceries in monster rainstorm.
American Idol. Next year Birdie will be 18 and I won't have to get up at 4 a.m. to accompany her. When she wins, I expect to cash in on a huge share of loot and glory.
When Books Go Camping. Big Guy talked me into another camping trip. I will tear pages from my used book stash to blot the sweat running down my body. It's going to be a hot one.
Tequila and the Chicken Wing. Poor dog hasn't stolen another one. Neither did she catch the squirrel that fell out of a tree and landed at her feet. Tequila almost caught a cat, a red-handed one. Cracker loves dogfood, especially if it's stolen.
People Of. Attention Wal-Mart: Did you know some of your people escaped? I'm finding them at Target.
What Daisy Wrote. The author is pretty sure she wasn't sincere when she wrote her essay. Judging by the follow-through, I'm positive she is right.
Bite Candy. Break A Tooth. Repeat. Discoverd my dental plan provides good coverage for crowns. Have returned to chomping on ice and munching hard candy.
Little Shop Of Books. Turns out I don't spend four hours a day eating bon-bons in my p.j.s.  The family is scavenging for clean laundry, drinking the bottom dregs of milk and alarmingly close to out of toilet paper.
Clueless About Grass. My neighbors that planted grass out of season have a good-looking lawn. My other neighbors the Freshbloods are growing nutsedge around chunks of concrete and discarded brick. I will return to picking on them.
The Girl With The Voice. She can also wield that voice to scream at her mom, who regretfully popped her for it and screamed back. Sometimes, it's not so great to be the mom. But it's hard to be the daughter, too. I remember.
Scrambled Brains. No Daisy, I didn't fix them for dinner. I just thought about it.
Ashes, Iced Tea & Casseroles. I can no more make casseroles for Lent than I can successfully give up iced tea. I completed six casseroles, mostly after Lent was finished. 
Bachelor Brad and Sweet Emily. The engagement is off. I bet their bank accounts are fatter, but not as fat as the coffers of People magazine.
Red Velvet Success. Sis wants my poundcake recipe. It's Southern Living's Granny's Poundcake. I'm not sharing as Sis will call me "Granny." Already niece Fancy Free called me "Grandma," apologized, then fled to Mongolia. I'm dipping big time into Clairol's Natural Instincts. If successful, I will send Sis the recipe retitled "My Much Younger Sister's Poundcake Recipe That Puts To Shame My Red Velvet Cake."

It's Hot

This morning, I dropped Big Guy in a corn field, with five hoes, a canopy and two water coolers. He and a group of five buddies will build character, experience a growth opportunity or just plain sweat as temperatures top out in the triple digits. My character doesn't need to be built, I'm not interested in growing, and whatever charm Big Guy worked to get buddies to the field isn't working on me. I will spend my day in air-conditioning except when walking from the house to the car to the book store and back again. And while walking, I plan to complain about the heat. If I knew where my cellphone was, I might even call Big Guy to compare notes on how hot it is in the field vs. how hot it is in the parking lot. He will say, the heat is not that bad, come join us in the field. I will know different. It's hot. It's July. It's St. Louis.

Snails

I stop a lot when I walk my dog Tequila. Not so much because Tequila stops, although that happens, but also because I toss wriggling earthworms off the sidewalk and into the grass. I'm sure the birds aren't happy, but I like to think the earthworms live to wriggle another day. I feel the same way about snails. I don't find them as often, but when I do, I pluck them up and scoot them out of danger. When Birdie and Daisy were preschoolers, earthworms, including one named Stacy, lived in a jar on our kitchen table. That worked until we ate spaghetti for dinner. Not a pretty picture, so we turned them loose in an outdoor planter. Birdie sobbed thinking the birds would get them. I told her not to worry as our earthworms were smart. The girls grew older and we graduated to other pets, including four snails kept in a glass bowl on the kitchen table. The kitchen table has always been popular for housing. I found the snails while walking at Creve Coeur Park. That was the easy part. I had a harder time figuring out how to keep them alive. I googled "snails" and recipes for escargot popped up, followed by ways to kill snails plaguing gardens. It took a lot of misfired searches before I discovered how to care for them. But I did. Dotted with flecks of different nail polish, Sunny, Mr. Pink, Royal and Ocean lived good lives in the kitchen. Birdie and Daisy would let them crawl on their fingers like moving rings. Although, I'm not sure my two teenagers would do that now. And we all discovered that snails aren't timid and will move really fast when you set them on the kitchen counter and forget to watch them. After several years, Royal and Ocean died. I turned Mr. Pink and Sunny loose in the backyard and told them to watch out for birds. Chances are, that day, the birds were happy. I hadn't thought about the pet snails for a long time Then I stumbled across a children's book called The Snail's Spell by Joanne Ryder. I am glad someone else liked snails enough to write about them. Ryder's book was even recognized by the New York Academy of Sciences as an Outstanding Science Book For Young Children. I wish I'd had her book before I googled and accidentally found out how to cook and kill the little critters. I plan to spend more time browsing through kid books. If I ever find a porcupine, I'll need to know how to raise him or her or at least how to remove sharp needles from my nose.

Another Day In Paradise

You, Too, Can Do It

I'm highly susceptible to suggestion, which is why I stay away from Floridians with land to sell. I've heard Florida real estate bargains are code for "own a piece of the swamp." The last thing I need is to move closer to establishing a habitat for wayward iguanas. While working at the used book shop in St. Louis limits my availability to explore Florida land deals, it's not a safe environment. I expected to stumble across books I want to read like The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets Nest and The Pact. I didn't anticipate encountering highly suggestible treasures like The Basket Book. I flipped through it during an itsy, bitsy break expecting to find photos of pretty, handcrafted baskets. Turns out this treasure, first published in 1988 and available for about $6, contains instructions for making baskets. As my itsy, bitsy break melded into a 10-minute work stoppage, I agonized between weaving a "decorative, but useful" Melon Slice Wall Basket or a "service" Potato Basket. Then I remembered, I don't weave. I resumed shelving only to stumble onto Flower Drying With A Microwave. That one nearly had me plucking flowers from in front of the shop two doors down. Then, I remembered, my microwave isn't clean enough to fry flowers. For the record, Flower Drying With A Microwave doesn't describe its technique as frying, but that is what would happen in my kitchen. For $2, someone else will channel Martha Stewart, learn the flower secrets and redecorate the world. Encounters of the suggestive kind always come in threes, so I wasn't surprised when a slim, $1.50 project book leapt out at me: Cartoon Animals. The very first page states, "If you can draw a circle and a straight line--and if you can unleash your imagination...there's no limit to what you can create with animals...and it's fun!" So, yeah, I'm going to be an artist. I will use the proceeds from my work to buy land in Florida for iguanas gone bad. Then I will teach iguanas to weave baskets while I dry flowers in the microwave.

Milk And Herring

If it were left up to me, my family would be vegetarian. We would graze the backyard grass for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That's how much I hate shopping for groceries. But in an hour, I'll put my distaste aside. List in hand, I will drive to the store. There, I'll discover I have lost the list. I will shop anyway, knowing that we need milk. We always need milk. Why I ever told the girls to drink lots of milk is unexplainable. Stubby children with weak bones and fragile teeth are happy children. At least I think they are. Daisy and Birdie are always unhappy when the milk runs out. If they didn't miss it, they'd be more content, although perhaps toothless and short. As for Big Guy, he thrives on herring in wine sauce. Every evening, he snacks on it. That keeps the cats lining up for kisses. The rest of us keep our distance. When I go to the store, I'll attempt to buy herring. How hard I'll look for it is debatable. Shopping complete, I will run through the A&W drive-through for a rootbeer float. Or maybe I'll skip the shopping and go straight for the float. If the family gets hungry enough, there's grass to nibble. And it's fresh.

Idol Audition

As a well-grounded, secure-in-myself, not-living-life-through-my-daughter individual, I assumed I was immune to Idol Fever. Wrong. The moment we entered the Scottrade Center, a tiny piece of me knew Birdie would be the next American Idol. I started planning how I'd be a really cool Idol mom, modestly deflecting numerous suggestions that my daughter must have inherited her singing skills. And I indulged in a few fantasy moments of Birdie keeping me in the lifestyle to which I'd like to become accustomed. Two points supported my Idol fever: Birdie wasn't wearing cowboy boots, and there was a whole lot of screechy, flat, sharp singing filling the arena hallways. Birdie still had to audition. That meant continuing with the herd, now three hours into Idol mode. We found our seats inside the arena and settled in to wait. An Idol wanna-be behind me chattered about this Idol producer and that Idol producer. She'd auditioned seven times. I snuck a peek at her: An aging cowgirl with pig-tails surrounded by a whole family dressed to herd cattle. In front of me was an Idol wanna-be guy, asleep. He woke up long enough to shout "I'm the next American Idol!" with the rest of us. We screamed because the Idol Machine said scream. It also told us to shout, "Welcome to St. Louis!" At this point, going on 9 a.m., we would have shouted anything the machine asked, especially when Ryan Seacrest appeared. The cowgirls, and everyone else, leapt to their feet. Ryan reminded us that St. Louis is where Carrie Underwood kicked off her run for the Idol. Then Ryan left and the crowd settled. The Idol Machine set up audition tables on the arena floor. Then section by section, Idol-wanna-bes were herded into line. As they reached the arena floor, workers took their tickets and release forms. The forms bluntly warn that auditioners may be made fun of. Everyone was placed into groups of four and directed to an audition table. One by one, each singer sang for Idol producers. A few Carrie Underwood clones received "golden tickets" to move to the next round, so did the irritating banana and the chunky guy in pink tights. I hope they understood the "may be made fun of" part of the release. Pepto girl didn't advance. Neither did Birdie. And that's when my Idol fever faded into tired from waking up at 4 a.m. Idol workers snipped Birdie's wristband, and mine, too. We followed other not-gonna-bes off the arena floor and were released into the arena parking garage, near the dumpsters. We shuffled out to the sidewalk and back to our ordinary lives. Maybe a fruit-suit would have propelled Birdie through to the next round, or perhaps a pair of cowboy boots made from Ryan Seacrest photos; or a matching set of pink tights and angel wings. Or maybe if it had been a different day, a different city and a different audition table. Birdie can sing. But at that moment, all she wanted, all I wanted, was a nap. And maybe a bite of lunch. But no more Ryan Seacrest sightings. Ryan will have to wait another year to hear this American Idol.

Idol Wanna-bes

I misread my American Idol wristband. It didn't say, "I'm with crazy girl." It said, "I'm with not-crazy girl." Birdie wasn't weird 6 a.m. Hula-Hooper. At 6 a.m., Hula-Hooper broke loose from her section of the American Idol street cattle pen to climb the steps to city hall and, on its veranda, perform her Ode to Idol. As she wasn't singing, I would have thought her to be ordinary St. Louis weird, except an American Idol logo covered the front of her long denim wrap skirt. A few bored souls filmed her. I wasn't that bored. I was eyeing Angel Wing. Not because she was winged at dawn, and possibly a vampire, but because she lacked cowboy boots. Nearly everyone got the message, "Let's dress like Carrie Underwood!!!!!" Pepto Girl overdosed on the message. Her cowboy boots were pink. Her skirt was pink, and possibly feathered. Her blouse was pink. And her blonde hair had a big pink bow, which got me wondering why her hair wasn't pink. There's a lot of pink hair in the Idol crowd, and some pink tights, and one six-foot Banana. The Birdie Bunch ignored Pepto Girl, Angel Wings, Hula-Hooper, the Banana and a bunch of really bad practicing "singers." Decked out in tie-dye, they were on Ryan Watch, which brings me to the lie that Birdie told. At 7 a.m., Ryan Seacrest whizzed by on a golf cart. The Birdie Bunch squealed, except for Birdie. She blinked. I blinked, too. Neither of us saw him. But we said we did. In Idol-wanna-be land, Ryan sightings are, well, Ryan sightings. No one worth their Idol salt blinks mid-Ryan. My ears survived, because Birdie didn't squeal; my bladder survived a huge, complimentary Red Bull without waking up any potty-dozers; and no one lost an eye. At 8 a.m., the Scottrade Center opened its doors. Wristbands intact, and tickets in hand, the Birdie Bunch and I, along with Pepto Girl, Angel Wings and everyone else walked in.

American Idol

My purple tyvek wristband screams, "I'm with crazy girl." Tomorrow, at 5 a.m., my wristband will get me into the American Idol auditions. To be precise, I will be a very short piece of the crowd of thousands waiting to get into the Scottrade Center at 8 a.m. Event organizers advised us to be there three hours early for extra fun. Yesterday, Birdie registered to audition. That's when she received a blue contestant wristband and I, along with four of her friends, received our purple ones. If only she had a friend who looks old enough to be her chaperoning mom. My hopes for tomorrow are simple:
No rain. I'm too short to get poked by an umbrella, but three out of four Birdie friends are tall enough to lose an eye.
No flu outbreak. Coughing and sneezing trickles down to the short person level. Maybe I do need an umbrella.
No free coffee. I don't want to wake up whomever sleeps in the porto-potty. Neither do I want to drop my American Idol ticket down the hole.
No Ryan Seacrest Look-Alikes. If Birdie and her friends blow out my eardrums with "OMG, it's Ryan," please let it be the real deal.
No Regrets. My Birdie can sing. Crazy girl also has a talent for recognizing a really good time. No matter how tomorrow works out, I anticipate no regrets about being the Birdie chaperone. Unless, maybe, someone loses an eyeball.

Not A Giant Red Party Bus

I think Big Guy thought the Greyhound bus line and I were having too much fun. So Monday, he and his work buddies loaded up a coach bus of their own to head south. He says, they were looking at plots. And I'm sure they checked out a few fields, as surprisingly, for Big Guy and his research intense friends, looking at plants grow is fun. Between plot stops, I don't think they buried their noses in scholarly journals or field data. I've already seen a brief bit of video from the B.B. King Museum in Memphis loaded onto Facebook by one traveler. No documentation of educational statues of blues/jazz legends, rather the real thing (although not B.B. himself) jamming on stage. The video was too grainy to see if Big Guy or anyone else I know leapt onto the stage to jam. But as the band sounded darn good, I suspect there was no audience assist. Big Guy has been mostly silent during this two-day southern swing. He called once to say his phone broke. He didn't say he tossed it off a two-story high balcony onto concrete below. Not that THAT has ever happened. He returns home today. I'll pry out a few more details. But already I've heard what I want to hear. Big Guy, according to Big Guy, claimed a seat close to the front of the bus. That would be among the "well-behaved." Riding Greyhound confirmed that while back-of-the-bus riders may (or may not) graduate high school, there's a reason why they sit as far from the front as possible.

When Books Go Camping

My weekend of camping reminds me why I'm such a fan of books found at the used book store. I took three paperbacks with me--Running With Scissors; Eat, Pray, Love; and Clan Of The Cave Bear. The first two were ones I'd never read, while the third one I read long ago and thought I might want to revisit. I dug out Clan Of The Cave Bear as my first read, and realized I'm not the same sharp-eyed person who first read it. The print is tiny, the book is long and my weekend wasn't. Next, I started in on Running With Scissors. Midway through, I realized I didn't like it. Apparently, only really dysfunctional people run with scissors. I can't lend this book to my friends. I'd have to hide the scissors. With two books down, my third and final choice was Eat, Pray, Love. I took this book to the St. Francis River. I  fashioned a cozy reading nook on a boulder in the middle of the wet, but not very big, river. I propped Eat, Pray, Love between my knees and belly and began to read. As the pages started to curl, I figured out my swimsuit was wet so I tucked a towel underneath the bottom edge of the book. That worked great. Then on the way back from the river, a drink leaked inside my bag. Critics have described Eat, Pray, Love as absorbent reading. They're right. So was Big Guy's heavy, clunky library book that I was also carting in my bag. His book is nearly a month overdue. Now it'll go back to the library with water damage. For the moment, Big Guy is not worried. His library book is not checked out on his library card. Birdie will be the one apologizing; paying the fine; and perhaps, paying for damages. Chances are Big Guy will wish he carried his own book back from the river. As for my paid for, gently used books, they remain a camper's bargain. With its wrinkled pages Eat, Pray, Love will remind me of the fun I had not catching fish; Running With Scissors will become tinder on some future trip; and sometime soon, Clan Of The Cave Bear will be read again by me or snagged by Birdie, who most likely won't share it with her dad.

Tequila And The Chicken Wing

Big Guy forgets Tequila is a dog. After dinner, he pushes back from the table and invites Tequila to sit in his lap. The pint-sized pooch loves stretching her nose close to whatever is left on the table. Not that she ever gets a bite. Tequila has bad knees and we've been warned keep weight off her. So sniffing is as good as it gets for Tequila. Until Sunday happened. Big Guy and Daisy had the house to themselves for dinner and decided to make it "picnic night" in the den. They laid a spread of store-bought fried chicken and cole slaw on the coffee table. Big Guy returned to the kitchen to fetch the iced tea; Daisy focused on finding the perfect t.v. show; Tequila grabbed a chicken wing. She dashed into her crate with Big Guy hot on her heels. Big Guy loves his chicken wings. So does Tequila. Sadly for Tequila, Big Guy hauled her out of the crate and pried the wing loose. Sadly for Big Guy, Daisy was home. So, no wiping off Tequila spit and pretending the theft never happened. Maybe lessons were learned: Don't encourage Tequila around food; don't leave Daisy in charge of the chicken and the remote; and don't run into a dead-end with your treasure.