My Dish On Ole Miss

Like Yankees arriving 155 years late, Birdie and I started to retreat as soon as we began our drive-by of the Ole Miss Rebel campus. After visiting laid back Birmingham-Southern, we weren't prepared for the visual onslaught of a million students armed with cars. Then reality set in. First, we're southerners, not Yankees. Second, a million is way off count. And third, students drive SUVs and pickup trucks. So we smoothed our ruffled feathers and quickly discovered Ole Miss belongs on the Birdie short-list. First, Rebels eat well. Oxford's town square is ringed with bars and restaurants. At the Ajax Diner, Birdie and I inhaled grilled shrimp hoagies then tried to kill ourselves swallowing toothpicks. The idea is to use a drinking straw to launch toothpicks into the ceiling tiles. We failed miserably. However, if Birdie selects Ole Miss, Big Guy and I will have years to practice toothpick shots while Birdie eats in the dining hall. In addition to great food, Ole Miss has Dr. Kerri Scott. Birdie and I met the forensic chemist as we walked through the famed Ole Miss grove. Dr. Scott welcomed Birdie to Ole Miss just like she knew us. In fact, she'd noticed Birdie's visitor tag. I don't know where Dr. Scott was walking, but she was late getting there. She talked with us a long time about why she likes Ole Miss and about how to make large intro. science classes less anonymous. She made the campus feel more manageable. Later manageable turned into almost cozy. As Birdie and I wandered the chemistry building, again we met Dr. Scott. The three of us peered into a chemistry lab and Birdie spotted Merle Scheff Girl. Actually, she spotted the Merle Scheff sweats, then noticed the goggled blondie who sported them. Merle Scheff Girl is a friend of Daisy's--a very startled one as she waved our way. I asked Dr. Scott if Merle Scheff Girl was in her intro chemistry class. She isn't. With that fact locked down, Dr. Scott scored another point for Ole Miss. This school, that seemed so large, has professors who know who their students are.

Birmingham-Southern Best Bits

Birdie and I wandered into a biology lab at Birmingham-Southern College, but I left without a fetal pig stashed in my purse. The pigs, encased in plastic and stuffed into an open cabinet, were tempting. Ever since Big Guy dumped a fetal pig into the high school cafeteria milk cooler (years ago, not recently) those rubbery yet organic, biology tools have special appeal. So yeah, I wanted one for the home frig. Birdie didn't. I also wanted a BS t-shirt. Birmingham Southern only offers BSC.  And I wanted to play with the campus stray cats. So did Birdie. We're suckers for felines even the feral ones. So should Birdie select her school based on easy access to fetal pigs, the potential to play with college initials and the stray cat population? Probably not. But there are other reasons BSC remains on the Birdie short-list. Its students are really nice, especially the four I inquisitioned Sunday evening in the dining hall and met again on campus the next morning. The BSC professors are equally nice. The biology professors didn't frisk us for purloined pigs and freely shared why they teach at BSC. Ditto for the choral music director. And we almost got to meet BSC's new president. Well, sort of. Our campus tour day coincided with his first day. Birdie's admissions counselor invited us to the "Welcome New Prez" festivities. We went, but never saw the guy. A solid mass of students stood between us and the podium. I think that says something about how much the students like their school--especially as the Prez was competing with a free ice cream giveaway in the school courtyard. And lest I forget, Birdie enjoyed her very own marked parking spot at the BSC visitor center. We lingered a long time on campus, enjoying our star treatment. I thought about fetal pigs and cats. Birdie thought about applying.

College Search

By the end of our five-day, four-college road trip, I also wondered what Birdie did in her past life to be saddled with me. It is hard being the visiting prospective student with the mom who asks questions--lots of them--of the college tour guide and the admissions counselor as well as the college secretary, security officers and receptionist; not to mention random professors, random students, hotel clerks and waitresses. Sorry Birdie. Your next round of college visits is with your dad. That should go better for both of you, I think. And we had fun on our trip, I think, at least at the restaurants: Nick & Jack's BBQ in Birmingham, AL;  some place on the townsquare in Oxford, MS; B.B. Kings Blue's Club in Memphis, TN; and Culvers and Cracker Barrel in Murray, KY. I need the stretch pants; Birdie, annoyingly, does not. Birdie accused me of snoring. I blame it on being so well-fed. She resorted to earplugs and I think she glared at me, but I don't really know, as I was asleep. Birdie slept, while I drove. When she wasn't asleep, she was texting. It seems that her friends were bored. Or, I guess they weren't bored as they were texting. I was bored as I couldn't read Birdie's texts. That would be snooping. And really unsafe driving. When Birdie wasn't texting or snoozing, we played "sofa on the porch." Birdie proved much better at spotting inappropriate sofas placed on front porches. I was better at spotting camels. Yes, real camels. But they weren't sitting on sofas on porches. So they didn't count, which shouldn't surprise anyone as camels don't go to school, much less look at colleges.

Goodbye Winter

The Unfortunates

My neighbors The Unfortunates are moving out this weekend. They lost their house. Unfortunate Dad, an architect, lost his job several years ago and hasn't found another one. Unfortunate Mom works, but not at a job that pays well enough to keep the house. I don't think either of them had time to listen to President Obama's midday announcement that the U.S. is moving into the fray in Libya. Our country is in charge of enforcing a no-fly zone over the middle eastern/north African nation. If The Unfortunates knew the President was keeping the skies safe halfway around the world, they'd probably feel better about things. They might even view their circumstance as an unfortunate sacrifice for the greater good. Anyone can see, leading the world is a lot more impressive than keeping a house whole--unless, that house happens to hold your neighbors.

Luck Of The Irish

Faraway, my Tokyo cousin, is lucky enough to have a mother-in-law in the same hemisphere. He and his family have temporarily relocated to her home in China. The mom-in-law enjoys her toddler grandson; we enjoy knowing the Faraway clan are safe. Sis is especially fortunate as I gracefully retired from red velvet cake making although perhaps not from cutting hair. I hope Chantel is at the grocery store purchasing lottery tickets. That lucky girl escaped The Bachelor's Brad and might meet a nice guy in the produce section. Chicago is definitely a lucky Irish town. The city got Daisy and the Mizzou University Singers for a whole week. In less than two weeks, I'll get my turn with Daisy when she comes home for spring break. Also lucky, my neighbors who didn't shovel snow from their sidewalks. Turns out Tequila prefers to poop in her backyard. While my neighbors aren't shoveling vengeful piles of poop, I'm avoiding landmines. Cracker the kitty must be a tad Irish. He stretches in the sun and poops in fresh mulch. Ditto for the rolly polly kitty Slim Jim. Birdie's Irishness prevented her from spreading as much mulch as Big Guy wanted. She sprained her ankle to avoid yardwork. Wish I thought of that plan first. Big Guy knows he is lucky as I remind him. He has a beautiful, charming wife; two beautiful, charming daughters; and a yard to escape to. And we have a yard to send him to. We are the lucky ones.

Racing Cabbages

Daisy's Girl Scout troop was full of  first-borns. Nearly all of them wanted to lead; few cared to be led. And they were very competitive. All of which explains the cabbage races. Around St. Patrick's Day, grocery stores almost give away cabbage, and cheap fits the troop budget. When the girls were five- and six-year-old kindergarteners, I bought about eight cabbage heads, divided the girls into teams and set them loose to roll cabbages from one basement wall to the other. Leaves fell as heads rolled. Matter of fact, the cabbages took a beating that day. No one wanted a slow cabbage. When the races were over, the girls picked up the leaves--another race to see which team could pick up the most leaves, the fastest. It was cute and killed a lot of time. The cabbage races were even more cute seven years later on a summer day. My blossoming, yet still bossy, 13-year-olds gathered at the neighborhood pool to say goodbye to one of my loudest bossy ones. They split into teams and, clad in swimsuits, rolled cabbage heads alongside and into the neighborhood pool. Again, the cabbages took a beating. If the girls hadn't been so competitive, I don't know that they would have set aside their teenage dignity for cabbage races, in public. And I don't know that I would have had as much fun leading them.

Bachelor Brad and Sweet Emily

Birdie picked the wrong night to be too tired for t.v. Last night, Bachelor Brad chose Sweet Emily over Fun Chantal on The Bachelor's season finale. In deference to Birdie, I postponed watching The Bachelor, only to stumble on this morning's The Today Show discussing the Emily-pick. So much for trying to avoid learning how riveting t.v. turns out. Early rumblings are that Brad and Emily's fairy tale ending is crumbling. If only they had met in the supermarket produce section. Brad crashes his shopping cart into Emily's somewhere around the carrots. Both smile, move on and catch each other's eye a few aisles over. Emily rushes as she has milk to buy and a school lunch to make for her daughter. Brad slips his phone number into her cart. She finds it later unloading groceries. Nothing happens for a while, then she calls him. They talk. They meet for coffee on a Saturday morning. It's a date, not a snog-fest. Not riveting t.v. But who cares.

Tokyo Cousin

My cousin Faraway lives in Tokyo. He is quite a bit younger than me, so we don't stay in close touch. But every few years, we are in the same place for some sort of gathering. I am always glad to see him and know he is well. Likewise, Faraway is glad to see me, too. When I woke up Saturday to learn of the earthquake, I thought about Faraway. Tokyo is a big city, surely he is OK, surely he wasn't traveling. And what about his wife, who is my birthday twin, and their young toddler son? And what about Birthday Twin's family?
Here's what Faraway emailed to his mom, who forwarded it on to me:
"Just a quick note to say that my family and I are fine. We are currently at home in Tokyo. I was in my office on the 20F on the phone with a colleague in Malaysia when the earthquake came around 2:45pm on Friday afternoon. I ended up spending a very long night at the office because all transportation was down and it was extremely cold outside. My wife and son were safe at home. I joined them on Saturday. It is a huge tragedy and I believe most of the us are in complete shock. The important thing now is to get rescue teams to the northern areas where there has been massive devastation and getting the nuclear reactors at Fukushima under control which are only 250 km away from Tokyo. We appreciate your concern. Please pray for the families of victims and for the heroic rescues workers and experts working with the nuclear reactors."
I am glad Faraway's mom got her good news. And I am glad she shared it.

Sunshine Stretch

Sister Trust-Cut

I wasn't there for Birdie's first substantial haircut, as Daisy didn't tell me she planned to do it. Birdie was two and a half years old; Daisy was a confident four-year-old. It was the day before Easter. Earlier that morning, I caught Daisy taking a sample snip of Birdie's hair. I took the scissors away and gently told her to leave Birdie's hair alone. An hour later, a large chunk of Birdie's hair lay on the floor. This time, I grabbed the scissors (a different pair), threw them in the trashcan and pretty much screamed at Daisy, "Why did you do it?" Her fierce reply: "Because I'm good at it." Then, with a swatch of Birdie hair in my hand, I asked her sister, "Why did you let Daisy do it?" Her reply: "Daisy had a prize for me, if I was good and kept still." Great Clips evened the edges of Birdie's "Daisy Cut" and an Easter hat plopped on top the next day made for cute photos. That is how I learned: With a fierce belief in ability, many things can be accomplished--especially if your sister trusts you and trust comes backed with a bribe. Next time I visit Sis, I plan to bring the scissors. Maybe two pairs, in case Mom should catch me.

The Event

I was sorting through ideas to write about, when Birdie asked if I wanted to watch "The Event" with her. It's truly a show worth skipping--aliens inhabiting Earth, Earth being saved by 20-somethings--but I'm invited, to watch, with Birdie. That's reason enough to ditch the blog for the day.

Ashes, Iced Tea & Casseroles

Here in St. Louis, it's hard to not know it is Ash Wednesday. By midafternoon, any trip to the grocery store or Wal-Mart will bring me into close proximity with those who bear a smudge of ashes on their forehead. I wasn't raised in a tradition that emphasized Ash Wednesday and Lent, but I have dabbled in the ritual. Some years, I attend Ash Wednesday evening services and receive my own ash smudge. Other years, I give up something for the 40 days of Lent, usually iced tea. But I have found that in sacrificing tea, I focus on myself and my sacrifice, not spiritual things. And I spend a ridiculous amount of time thinking about tea if I can't have it. Collections of daily Lenten devotional readings are like books. Good ones I flip through in a day, having no restraint. Boring ones collect dust and hit the recycle bin sometime in July. This year, I will try something different to acknowledge Lent. I will return to my Methodist roots and make casseroles for my Episcopal church's Pot Luck Pals program. I will help feed the hungry of St. Louis County. And, in the kitchen, with its triple peril of a hot oven, hot stove burners and boiling water, I won't focus on me. Though I will sip an iced tea.

Field Trip

Lots of stuff gets better in college, including field trips. Daisy and the rest of the University Singers climbed on a bus this morning in Columbia bound for Chicago. They are to attend a national music conference. I should know more about it, but I no longer sign permission slips. I remember bits and pieces of my childhood field trips. I sampled poi on a field trip. That's no typo. I meant "poi" as the field trip was in Hawaii. Also in Hawaii, the bus enjoyed endless rounds of "100 Bottles of Coke on the Wall." G.I.s drove the buses; many teachers had husbands in Viet Nam to worry about. We were nine-year-olds. Our voices were undoubtably sweeter than Vietnamese gunfire and more distracting than the worry over unwanted knocks at the door. That was before I knew the song was intended to be "100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" and before coke meant more than Coke. North Carolina teachers believed in field trips, maybe they wanted out of class, too, as about 40 children were packed into each classroom. The field trip to hear a symphony perform "Peter and the Wolf" was almost as boring as sitting in class. I liked the symphony hall's velvet seats, but not as much as I enjoyed the thrill of standing at the gallows on another trip. On my favorite field trip, we watched thousands of cigarettes roll off an assembly line. North Carolina is The Tobacco State; it was the early 1970s; and the surgeon general shouldn't scare decent folks trying to enjoy their inherited gift from the "Indians." As school children, we didn't know Indians were  Native Americans; we didn't know people from India were Indians. We thought they were "people from India." But I digress. I chaperoned a few of Daisy and Birdie's elementary school field trips.  The No. 1 rule: No singing on the bus. Children's untamed voices must be more grating now without the Vietnamese bullet worry factor. I hope the "no singing" rule is relaxed on Daisy's bus. The University Singers can sing much better songs than beer/Coke ballads. 

Red Velvet Success

Victory comes at a cost: Six eggs, two and one half pounds of powdered sugar, 24 ounces of cream cheese, two and a half sticks of butter, two bottles of red food coloring and some other stuff went into the making of a six-layer Red Velvet Cake. Not just any red velvet cake, but the one I've dreamed of making ever since I found out it was believed that my sister made the best red velvet cake. Neither Sis nor her daughter Nightingale were here to sample my cake. But Big Guy, Daisy and Birdie all stepped up to the plate. The panel of three surveyed the cake in its entirety. In the words of one, "It looks like it needs a haircut." Bet Sis never gets that dessert compliment. Already I knew I was heading toward victory. Delicately, yet firmly, I sawed through the cake with a sturdy serrated knife. Moments later, I slid out three superb red and white striped slices. Big Guy and Daisy scarfed their slices. Birdie ate hers a bit slower and left half a slice on her plate. I don't know how Birdie found the willpower to save some of hers for later. All three showered my cake baking skills with compliments. But I admit, I was too focused on the ultimate question to hear their praise. Cutting to the heart of the matter, I asked the panel of three, "Is my cake is better than Sis's or her cake is worse than mine?" I know a winner when I bake one. They do, too.

Stop!

Second Time

With second daughter, everything should be easier. It's not. Daisy slept through the night at 11 weeks. Birdie took longer. Toddler Daisy took super fantastic naps. Two years younger Birdie quit napping when Daisy quit. Daisy quickly got caught at whatever mischief she found; Birdie developed a stealth approach to trouble. Now, Birdie and I are starting the college search. Already Biride has put her own stamp on looking. Only one college that Daisy considered is on Birdie's list, and that's just barely. Over spring break, Birdie and I will blaze through four colleges in four states in four days. Together we will experience tedious road time, fast food and cheap motels. I will fork over the credit card for expensive gas; I hope Birdie will pump the gas. Each campus will impress us, after all it's springtime. And statistics of what they all have offer will blend together. I know we will have a great road trip. That's the bonus that comes with second daughter. Nothing is as serious as first time around and everything is just as much fun--except for that wait to sleep through the night.

www.flonotes.com

I bought a website address. I didn't intend to purchase it, but once I saw it could be mine, I wanted it. Thanks to Go Daddy and my credit card, I own http://www.flonotes.com/  Don't click on it as there's nothing there. But it's mine and for one year no one else can claim it. I'm receiving emails with offers to increase traffic to my website. Obviously, the senders haven't checked the website. Or they'd know it exists in name only. I have no plans for my website, but I think I should expand my empire to include ownership of  http://www.flonotes.org/, http://www.flonotes.co/, http://www.flonotoes.gov/ and http://www.flonotes.edu/  For the last two, I might have to establish a government and start a college. Sounds good. Under my government, no strident Green Jacket Lady or smug John Lamping, just commonsense and compassion. And with my own college, at least one Biridie will be tuition-free.

Things I Haven't Written About

Big Guy's Snores. The noisemaker returns from Argentina tomorrow. Thank goodness, he is cute even in the dark.
The Visit With My Nephew Footloose. I thought the college student might live knee-deep in beer cans and unwashed laundry. That's what I remember from college. But no. Footloose and his housemates keep such a tidy dwelling. They even clean the kitchen together, at 10 pm. And there's no beer cans. The beer comes in recycled gallon jugs. Sweet.
Baby Names And Who Pays For Them. As I bagged my groceries, I noticed two young moms admiring each other's babies and discussing which government programs were paying for each kid. They had four children between them. Mom #1 has "J" names for her babies. Mom #2 is dabbling in "D" names. With another one on the way, she is trying to figure what will go with Dillon and Destiny. Cute.
Free Amish Heaters. Check the full-page ad in USA Today, then call the 800 number. The Amish will give you a free heater, if you pay $400 for an attractive wooden frame. The fun you will have toying with the eager telemarketer almost makes the deal worthwhile.
Charlie Sheen. Earth to Mother Ship: Come get him.
Chocolate Ice Cream Donuts. They exist; they're in the freezer.
Personalized License Plates. CAT NIP, CAT NAP, TKT 2RD Would any of them make driving a minivan more cool?
Fish Cars. I keep watching to see if drivers who sport The Fish ever behave badly. They have given me nothing to write. Does that mean The Fish works?

Blame The Nightingale

Sibling rivalry is alive and well, even if Sis doesn't know it. Two years ago, my niece Nightingale told me that her mom made the best Red Velvet Cake. Ever since, about once a week, I've thought about that cake lovingly made from scratch. I figure Sis's cake might be good, but if I made a Red Velvet Cake, it would be better. This weekend, I have my chance to beat Sis. Big Guy and I are invited to a Sunday dinner. I volunteered to make dessert and I found Southern Living's Red Velvet Cake recipe. It calls for six layers, two bottles of red food coloring, 24 ounces of cream cheese, plus a bunch of other stuff. Immediately on the heels of Southern Living's Red Velvet Cake recipe is a half-page listing all the reasons cakes don't turn out. That's wasted paper in my kitchen. Not so much because I'm an expert cake baker as because it's my turn to win. When I was 13 years old, I entered a cake baking contest at our church. I made two spice cakes, a light and fluffy practice cake a week in advance that was followed by a heavy as lead contest cake. My mom never called my cake a dog of a creation, but I'm pretty sure she let me take full credit for it. And shortly thereafter, we moved. I left cakes alone after that, until I had little ones with at home birthday parties. Daisy was turning three. I carefully baked and iced a chocolate cake the night before her midmorning birthday party. I left the cake on the counter. The cat tongued a huge furrow through it. I carefully cut around the furrow, filled it in with icing and fed it to three-year-olds. They seemed to like it. So yes, it is my turn to shine. My Red Velvet Cake will be fantastic. It will be better than Sis's cake. After all, she won the "who can scrub their feet the cleanest" competition when I was eight and she was five. I think the competition was rigged as she had three fewer years of dirt to scrub from between her toes and my feet were the cleanest. I should have been the one who got to pick the first popsicle for dessert, not her.