Emily or Chantel?

Birdie and I are slumming it as Big Guy is in Brazil, or perhaps Argentina. So while Birdie remembers to go to school and I remember to take out the trash, that's about it for responsibility. We have Emily and Chantal to worry about. Only one will capture Brad's heart, and an engagement ring, as ABC's The Bachelor prepares to wrap up its season during February sweeps month. Last Monday, Brad gave the heave-ho to our favorite Shantelle. The two of them were touring Shantelle's family funeral business. Suddenly Brad lay spread nervously on the embalming table while Shantelle waved a razor overhead. Formaldehyde, love, sharp razors and coffins make better t.v. than soulmates. With spooky girl gone, tonight Birdie switched her allegiance to Ashley. Now Ashley the dentist is gone. Brad probably envisioned himself lying helplessly in a dental chair while Ashley waved a drill overhead. Or, perhaps, he didn't want to floss. Now two lightweights are left: Emily, a widow with a young child, and rich girl Chantal. I'm pulling for Chantal. If Chantal wins, Emily won't have to explain to her daughter how she won new daddy by beating out a bunch of other Barbies in front of millions of viewers. Tthat reminds me of my other daughter Daisy. She called. I gave her the 20-second, "I'm in the middle of something important" brush-off. I didn't have a choice as Brad was preparing to dump Ashley. I felt a tiny twinge of guilt at putting The Bachelor first. I even suggested to Birdie that The Bachelor wasn't a healthy, good values show. She assured me that she recognizes that the show is ridiculous. I backed away from suggesting that she should do homework, at least during the commercials. I feared Birdie would call the show what it truly is--"a doughnut." And no way is she giving up her doughnut if I won't give up mine. And we have other things to consider, like Emily and Chantal.

You Rang?

Jeff City Finished

To clarify, Green Jacket Lady's jacket looked What Not To Wear appropriate and she probably doesn't wear it everyday. Before meeting up with the bus to Jeff City, I imagined the fervor of true believers would radiate from Planned Parenthood supporters. But no, take the riders off the bus and they are ordinary people. Put them on the bus; they remain ordinary. There was no big rally in Jeff City and no demonstration signs. Inside the capitol, we were just like other groups milling the halls, including the American Civil Liberties Union, a group representing the visually impaired and lots of elementary age schoolkids. The students were shouting, snapping photos, scarfing paperbag lunches and driving their teachers crazy. The ACLU munched on boxed Bread Co. lunches. The visually impaired and my group ate in the capitol's cramped rabbit-warren cafeteria. I saw more lawmakers dining with the masses than I thought there'd be. I quickly figured out why--Tuesday is fried chicken day. Unfortunately, I wasted my time with a donut. It was 1:30 p.m.; the donut was grim. But if it had been 8 a.m. and I downed about three donuts with a cup of black coffee, I could have rammed all sorts of legislation through--another good reason I'm not among the elected. We didn't worry the lunching legislators. Some, like state Senator John Lamping, we caught in their offices. Others, we pulled off the floor of the voting chamber. Our group leader stood at the door of the chamber, handed her card to a messenger for delivery to a specific representative. Once delivered, the representative can ignore the card or leave the chamber to meet in the hall with whomever the card belongs to. We shouted at two representatives pulled off the floor. We shouted because everyone in the hall shouted. It was the only way to be heard. That brings me back to the school kids lunching in the halls. Hidden among them are our future pregnant teens. They're the ones who need to be heard in Jeff City. If a pregnant 14-year-old asked Lamping to support legislation that requires pharamacists to dispense contraceptives and schools to include comprehensive sex education in their curriculum, Lamping might find it hard to call her "anti-life." Green Jacket Lady might not have to say anything. Perhaps, as she takes her a break from doing all the talking, she could treat Lamping and the teen to a Tuesday fried chicken lunch. And instead of fighting over the wishbone, they could share it.

Jeff City Two

Green Jacket Lady scared me. So did John Lamping. Green Jacket serves on Planned Parenthood's board of directors. Lamping ran his election campaign draped in the robes of Pro-Life and represents my district in the state senate. Green Jacket didn't ride the St. Louis bus. But she joined my group for our meeting with Lamping. Green Jacket overpowers. Lamping feels empowered. Until Green Jacket had her say, no one else in our group was given a say. Within the first minute of our meeting, Green Jacket talked about protecting Planned Parenthood and abortion. We weren't there to talk about abortion. But once the word is uttered, it hangs like an ugly cloud, making it difficult to think about anything else. Lamping listened to Green Jacket, spoke smoothly about looking for common ground, then just as smoothly, called us "anti-lifers." Green Jacket didn't like it. Lamping apologized, then called us anti-lifers again. Green Jacket let it pass. Lamping mentioned efforts to stop human trafficking in Missouri. Green Jacket nodded in agreement. Then she asked the rest of us what we wanted to talk about. With the word abortion out on the table, I don't believe anything I said about the contraception and sex education bills proposed in the House mattered to Lamping. He noted that pro-lifers put him in office. I left wondering if Lamping understood serving as a senator means representing everyone in the district, not just those who like him. I left disappointed with Green Jacket. If she had ridden the bus from St. Louis, she would have known what we were there to talk about. Perhaps she would have known our names, or maybe even let us talk first. We had points to make. We had common ground to cover. No one wants pregnant teenagers. But the abortion word, so quickly said, gets in the way and defines the conversation. Tomorrow, more stuff.

The Bus To Jeff City

I rode the Planned Parenthood/Faith Aloud bus to Jeff City yesterday. It was my first time to wander the halls of Missouri's state capitol building in search of legislators to encourage them to preserve access to contraceptives. One bill lurking in committee proposes to protect pharmacists who refuse to fill legally written prescriptions. Another would allow hospital emergency rooms to skip advising rape victims on how to obtain emergency contraception. A proposed bill of a different flavor provides for extensive, comprehensive sex education and require pharmacists to honor prescriptions, including those for emergency contraception. To clarify, emergency contraception is not an "abortion pill." And "abortion pills" aren't available or dispensed by pharmacists in Missouri.  My group met with individual freshmen Republican legislators. With only five weeks on the job, they had heard of Planned Parenthood but not Faith Aloud, and none were familiar with the three specific bills we were talking about--which meant they were a lot like me. I hadn't heard of Faith Aloud until I stepped on the bus. And, while I know Missouri is crazy conservative, I didn't know about the specific bills under consideration. Not that these legislators would couple crazy with conservative to describe our state. They'd probably go with a more feel good Republican description of Missouri, such as a right-minded conservative state. But I digress. Regardless of if the legislators represent the "right-minded" or the "crazy," I found them to be decent people wading their way through their first legislative session. Most scratched down the bill numbers and said they intended to talk to each bill's sponsor to learn more about their thinking. They all shook our hands and thanked us for stopping by. But reality surrounded my day. These are first time legislators crammed into tiny, bottom of the pecking order offices. Some admit their hearts belong to other issues like toads and bridges. As newbies, they will likely look to their party leaders for guidance, which is what I would do if I were in their squeaky new shoes. That's probably why it is good for everyone that I'm not an elected official. I wouldn't be any better than most newbies at remembering to represent everyone in my district, not just my fans. Tomorrow, more about Jeff City, the bus ride, State Sen. John Lamping, the Green Jacket Lady, other groups wandering the halls and donuts.

Two All-Beef Patties, Special Sauce, Lettuce, Cheese

Fast on the heels of our White Castle Valentine's date, Big Guy and I dined at McDonalds. We traded in our Saturday night Blues hockey tickets for free Big Macs. While the company was the best part of the date, dinner was a close second--sinfully salted fries, achingly sweet iced tea and a Big Mac that was, well, "A Big Mac." I was 16 years old when I ate my first Big Mac. I remember how the special sauce transformed the burger into a wonderful, pickle-sweet with a touch of tart taste sensation. And I marveled at the size of the Big Mac, to think that McDonalds served a burger so large that it came with two hamburger patties and an extra bun piece sandwiched in the middle. Eating the first Big Mac was as I believe McDonalds intended, a messy experience replete with dribbles of shredded lettuce and sesame seeds. Since that first Big Mac experience, I haven't eaten a huge number of the fancy burgers. My eyes and taste buds strayed to other emerging delights like Burger King's double cheeseburger and Hardee's curly fries. Then my waistline strayed, taking some of the fun and frequency out of fast food. But only some. I still indulge, most often with a quick hamburger and iced tea delivered at the McDonalds drive-thru. It's cheap, it satisfies and it kills any tendency toward hunger-fueled road rage. Last night's Big Mac was something altogether special. It was the evening, the company and the simplicity. It was a lot like my first Big Mac.

Unnatural Green

Daisy Day

I'm going to have myself a Daisy Day. In a few moments, Tequila and I are packing up to visit Daisy at Mizzou. Correction, I'm packing. Tequila is napping. We're hauling Easy Mac--wish I'd bought stock in the stuff, grape juice, apple juice, Nature Valley granola bars, spring clothes and several outfits for Daisy to squeeze onto Tequila. Big Guy nixed Tequila wearing a sissy-dog sailor dress when he is around. Tequila agrees that dogs don't need dresses, but Daisy and I will coax her into the frock anyway. Big Guy won't there to stop us.

A Walk At The Park

Tequila and I walked at Creve Coeur Park until my feet hurt. Then, we had to keep walking to get back to the minivan. We had lots of company at the park. Moms were out with little ones tucked in strollers. A few of them--the kids, not the moms--looked like they'd rather be running wild, but a lot were napping, which is what moms plan to do later. Bicyclists were out. They're always out. Serious bikers squeezed into skin-tight, official biking suits whizzed past us numerous times. The why-aren't-bike-seats-as big-as-my-butt-bunch lumbered past us once. A lot of people were walking dogs; a few dogs were walking people. Tequila and I encountered one couple walking a large brown shepherd dog. The man yippy barked at Tequila. She wasn't impressed; neither was his girlfriend. I couldn't tell what the shepherd thought. A couple of little yappers challenged Tequila to a fist-fight. We ignored them, not wanting to soil our paws with Shitzu fur. Halfway through our walk, I offered Tequila a drink from the lake. She reminded me that she is a city dog. We skipped the drink. Then I noticed the pair of trees, neatly nibbled and poised to fall across the trail. It is only February; it is only "spring" until winter returns next week. But it seems the beavers are already fed up with the dogs, bicyclists, moms, strollers and random walkers. If it were my front yard, I'd be tired, too.

The Creep, Alledged And Labeled

According to media reports, the alledged creep prowled the shopping mall with a video camera positioned to peek under skirts. I don't know how the budding film maker had things rigged, but I guess not very well as he got caught. The situation might be mildly amusing if the creep were an inept, pimply faced 13-year-old, but he isn't. The creep is middle-aged and, because the media shared his address, I discovered he lives a few streets over from my house. Curious to see how an alledged creep decks out his yard, I walked past the house a few days ago. An abundance of oversized Christmas decorations are scattered across the yard, in February. Hanging on to Christmas is a bit weird. The bark of a guard dog coming from the high-fenced backyard is annoying. But the exterior of the house doesn't scream "watch your skirts, ladies." And, perhaps the confused person who lives there can explain his knee-level camera. As I walked home, I realized that Birdie and Daisy have probably talked to the creep. They used to sell Girl Scout cookies on that quiet street, with a parent in tow. Then I wondered if the creep bought cookies or just said "no, thanks." I feel a bit sorry for him. He is stupid; he can't get his life back, alledged or not; and a lot of people know where he lives. As far as neighborhood creeps go, my vote for disgusting goes to another one. When my Girl Scout knocked at his house hoping to sell cookies, he answered the door in his underwear--briefs, not boxers. It could have been worse, but it could have been better. If you don't want the creep label, put on a robe or don't answer the door. And for sure, leave your camera at home. Once we know who you are, you've got the label.

The Love Castle

Big Guy and I were among those lucky enough to celebrate Valentine's Day at White Castle. We enjoyed candlelight, flowers and the attention of two waitresses and the maitre'd. A photographer took our photo. Our favorites were on the menu. Service was fast. And the food was beautifully prepared, with each item served in an individual container. The white plastic tablecloth was an especially nice touch as I knocked over the flower vase. On the day setaside for sweethearts, between 5 p.m. - 8 p.m., dinner at White Castle requires a reservation made several weeks in advance. As the evening was my treat, Big Guy didn't know he would end up at onion-laden, slider burger central. He dressed more for a night of Italian fare on the Hill. White Castle didn't mind. The maitre'd seated us anyway as we had shirts, shoes and, most important, a reservation. Our evening proved a perfect fit for our 30 years together. Paper hearts and crepe streamers hung from the overhead ceiling tiles. Pink and red tissue paper covered the windows. Huge Valentine greeting cards were taped to the walls. Music faded in and out from a boom box. We were part of the final 7:30 p.m. seating. Once the clock hit 8 p.m., the waitresses pulled crepe paper streamers loose from the ceiling, removed tissue paper from the front windows and gathered up the plastic tablecloths. The photographer packed up his photo booth. And two house painters walked in straight from the job. Both looked tired and more interested in sliders than sweethearts. The maitre'd, now suddenly the night manager, encouraged us to stay as long as we liked. But we had commitments to keep. I promised Big Guy dessert, too, an ice cream cone from Dairy Queen.

Lovely Senorita

I thought I would write profound thoughts about Valentine's Day, the most mixed up of holidays. Instead, I finished a craft project started by Big Guy's mom Lovely Senorita. She was at her finest with a glue gun in one hand and sequins in the other. She never saw a project that couldn't be made better with a really big bow or a generous splash of glitter. And she loved to shower her children and grandchildren with handmade, glitzy gifts. But 18 years ago, the final stages of lung cancer forced Lovely Senorita to set aside her crafting. She died as Birdie fluttered in my womb, still six months from birth. Lovely Senorita started a first gift for Birdie, but she couldn't finish it. After her death, I received the green-painted wooden egg. It needed two photo cut-outs of Birdie's smiling face to transform it into the Christmas ornament Lovely Senorita envisioned. But it was springtime, Birdie wasn't here yet and I was chasing after toddler Daisy. I tucked away the ornament and forgot about it. Over the years, it floated to the top of my squirreled away stuff, but never around Christmas. Last night, I helped Birdie decorate a Valentine's Day box for school. Lovely Senorita would have adored Birdie's pink and red heart fabric-covered box with its big white bow. Although, in fairness, Lovely Senorita would have like it even better with glitter and faux jewels. This morning, I found the unfinished ornament. I dusted it off and glued on the photos. I wrapped it for Birdie to open. Happy Valentine's Day Birdie, with love from Lovely Senorita. 

Ladybug

Marshmallow Love

If I didn't already have big plans for Big Guy on Valentine's Day, he would be ripping into a 4-pack of marshmallow doughnuts. I bought this celebratory treat at Wal-Mart. And it wasn't the last box available. When it comes to Valentine's Day, the marketplace presents a full range of choices...flowers, candy, dainty attire that most closely resembles a feathered hair tie. But nothing asks "How Much Do You Love Me?" like marshmallow doughnuts. Being a doughnut connoisseur, I ripped open the crinkly plastic packaging on the purple "artificially flavored sour grape" doughnut. Then I pulled off a chunk. I had to tug really hard, that alone was almost enough to dissuade me from sampling it. But, in the interest of a fair test, I bit into it. Anyone who nibbles this concoction with a straight face loves the giver or is under the age of 5. Three doughnuts remain--artificially flavored strawberry, raspberry and watermelon. Oh yum. I noticed that China made the marshmallow doughnuts. That's probably why the box only cost $3. With Wal-Mart, Martha Stewart and, sadly and much more seriously, Mexico to pick on, it's going to be difficult to squeeze in time for China. But difficult doesn't mean impossible; marshmallow doughnut doesn't mean good; and true love probably shouldn't be so severely tested, unless you really want to know. I predict that Wal-Mart will have a lot of marshmallow doughnut boxes on its clearance rack. I'm saving my remaining three Valentine's Day doughnuts to serve up at Halloween. After 30 years, I feel a spooky kind of love for Big Guy. He's got eight and a half months to think about it.

Thank You Mrs. Austin

My guess is that Mrs. Austin is still beautiful, even after 40+ years. Mrs. Austin was my fifth grade teacher at Fort Shafter Elementary School in Hawaii. She wore her pretty brown hair in a 1960s up-do that, in my 10-year-old fashionista opinion, looked so sophisticated. Fifth grade wasn't a great year. My best friend Florida Sunshine, who was a year younger, moved back to the Mainland. Without a friend to pal around with at recess, I was easily frustrated at school. Things didn't go well for me. The class voted on class librarian, and I lost to a popular girl who didn't like books near as much as I did. Also, I couldn't get the yarn on Ruby's head to look like hair. Ruby was a fabric and styrofoam ball puppet. I wanted her to sport long flowing brown hair with a snappy center part. I wanted her to look 10 times better than the popular girl/librarian's puppet. I got a gooey glue mess. Her blond-hair puppet Opal looked great. Fifth grade was also the year I started wearing glasses. I was glad to get them because I really couldn't see the blackboard. But glasses added one more strike against me. Now I was the short, left-handed girl with glasses. Getting picked for teams pretty much meant I was last. I cried a lot in fifth grade. That embarrassment was written in ink on my report card. Clearly I wasn't the class favorite, but Mrs. Austin was my favorite. I remember her as beautiful and after a year of being in her class, I'm pretty sure the beauty went way beyond skin-deep. She put up with me and my whines. She also taught whatever fifth graders learn to a whole class of military brats suffering through being 10- and 11-year-olds in uncertain times. Thank you Mrs. Austin.

Ketchup With That?

The gingerbread house is gone. It was constructed to withstand some crow assaults, but not every crow assault.
He Shot A Midwife. Sadly, just days after the midwife died in Mexico, two American teenagers were killed in a Mexican border town as they visited a car dealership.
Fresh Blood On The Block. The Freshbloods have also brought new fashion to the neighborhood. Mr. Freshblood likes shorts, knee socks and flip flops for snow-wear. Maybe Big Guy is better dressed than I thought.
Lessons From Carrington. Mom remembers calling the school board office after the bus incident. The problem got fixed. I think I forgot to tell her about Kelly Nelson. Maybe it's not too late for my mom to call his mom.
Shining. If there'd been a Wal-Mart right down the mountain path, The Shining would have ended much differently. Everyone would have stocked up on Twilight chocolate bars, flashlights and large screen televisions before the winter snows set in. Once spring arrived, they would have returned to Wal-Mart the flashlights with now dead batteries and the televisions, still warm from hours of viewing Animal Planet. As for the Twilight bars, I'm saving those to fill Easter baskets, then I'll return them to Wal-Mart.
Shopping for Smokes. In December, I finally bought cigarettes for the troops. Birdie and Daisy refused to shop with me and I found it really difficult to actually pay for a deplorable habit. I am putting together another box for our troops in Afghanistan. This one won't have cigarettes.
Snow Sidewalks. I'm not visting any friends until the snow melts. If I find out my friends haven't shoveled their walks, I'm afraid I won't like them as well. And, I would feel compelled to deposit dog poop on their lawn.
Tequila. Deep down, the blondie chihuahua mix really wants a cat sandwich, with or without ketchup. Realistically our cats would make a bigger hairball than eight-pound Tequila can swallow. So Tequila sticks to dog food. The cats stick to cat food. They like each other about as well as any three siblings. And somehow it works.

The Party's Over

This morning, in 12 degree weather, I cleaned up after the Super Bowl Party held at the end of the driveway. I don't know if the celebrants were Packers fans or Steelers fans. My guess is that they were dressed as nimble-fingered bandits. Two days ago the green clad Packers were my team. Today, being Tuesday, my clean up attire was a fuzzy, bright red, ankle-length robe. For the record, the driveway celebrants enjoyed the chicken bones, but left the parsnip. Apparently they feel the same way about parsnip as Big Guy and Birdie do. For that matter, they also feel the same way about chicken wings. Once the chicken wings are eaten, the party is over, or at least for the raccoons moved to another driveway. There, someone else--perhaps clad in polka-dotted or striped p.j.s--will once again pick up after their party.

He Shot A Midwife

I read in the newspaper that an American missionary was shot to death in northern Mexico this weekend. She was 59 years old, married, with two grown children. In addition to starting churches with her husband, she also volunteered as a midwife. While the witnessing of missionaries can be controversial, the goodness of midwives is crystal clear. They save the lives of mothers and babies. The gunman who shot the missionary probably didn't know he shot a missionary, much less a midwife. That's the cold convenience of bullets. Her killer didn't have to know anything about who he aimed at. With all the churches the missionary couple started, and all the babies she helped deliver, I figure that word will get back to the gunman about whom it was that he shot. I hope he feels badly about it. I also hope that a midwife is there to help his wife next time she gives birth to a son. Maybe then, the gunman, having once shot a midwife, will teach his son to do much better with the life God is giving to him.

Fish Finder

Snow Miserable House

The License Office Called

Birdie tends to take near illegible phone messages on tiny scraps of paper, only to be found days later. So finding the clearly printed message "Call license office" front and center was disappointing. I worried about why the Department of Motor Vehicles would single me out for a personal call. Big Guy advised me to ignore the message, so I did for a few days. But finally, the Miss Manners within kicked in, and I returned the DMV's call. First, the license office employee thanked me. Then she explained there'd been a mix-up over some personalized license plates I'd ordered last fall. The DMV didn't have a record that I received them. I had them, or more accurately Birdie was enjoying them on the third family car. So I offered to bring my records by the DMV office so they could make copies. In looking over the paperwork, the DMV figured out the vehicle registration didn't match the personalized plates. The DMV employee apologized, fixed the mistake and the local office paid the $30 I should have paid last fall when I picked up the plates. As my DMV employee filled out the new registration papers, I watched the other employees at work. While I had received the phone call, everyone who walked in the door got the same nice treatment, which really changed my mind about the DMV. Thanks to its employees, Birdie's ride has its correct registration papers and I'm $30 richer. I can't say I'm a fan of car registrations, titles and the endless paperwork involved, but service at the DMV's Creve Coeur office is certainly worth raving about.

Hitchcock House

Survivor House

The best way to survive a blizzard is to prepare for one. Then there won't be one. My slice of Missouri missed much of the ice and most of the snow. I shoveled a lot of sleet, which gave me time to think about blizzard survival tips. Keep the drive shoveled--that will get Big Guy back to work as soon as possible. Let sleeping teenagers sleep. If Birdie snoozes until 11 a.m., that's less time for her to be visibly not shoveling the drive. Send teenagers outside. Once Birdie awakens, she can finish the driveway. Take advantage of Steak 'n Shake's half-price midafternoon milkshake offer. By 2 p.m. the crazies are at Wal-Mart, the teens have disappeared and the old people have safely driven at excruciatingly slow speeds into ditches or into the cocky SUVs that arrived in the ditches first at much higher rates of speed. The seniors and the newly humbled will wait together for Triple A. It might be a while. The Steak 'n Shake drive-thru had something of a back-up and the AAA tow truck was in line just ahead of me, also getting a milkshake. Steer clear of private snowplow rigs. I found their drivers at the Seven Eleven, tanking up on extra-large monster energy drinks. After 36 hours straight of making money hand-over-fist, I doubt an energy drink provides enough of a wallop to avoid mailboxes, garbage cans, slow-moving jaywalkers or street signs. Start to casually encourage your neighbor to get a snow blower. That way, he can clear your driveway and everyone else's. Of course, once the drive is clear, it's more difficult to shake free of the family. But I could run out to Wal-Mart.

Sad Little House

Wednesday, 10:30 a.m.

Little House At Night

Tuesday, 7:45 p.m.

Little House On The Snow Prarie

Tuesday, 1 p.m.