Sorry, folks. I just experienced the best life has to offer. I was setting out the last two tomato plants in our rich Mississippi River soil when a tug on the river sounded its horn and cheers erupted from the ball park across the street.
Of course, there are already mosquitos. And Lucy is ticked because she couldn't participate. West Nile, you know.
Bosh, Josh. John Kerry has a tin ear. That's from a registered independent.
LATER: I'm watching Joshua Marshall on Fox right now. He has a good television presence. Nice voice.
It seems things just don't change:
Last November, exactly one year after the fall of the Taleban, I stayed in the Kabul house once occupied by Osama bin Laden. Though hardly on the scale of Saddam’s palaces, by Afghan standards it was a stately home, the residence of the Saudi-born terrorist’s third wife. It was at once a surprise and a confirmation to discover that the ascetic, anti-Western terrorist had chosen French bidets for the green-tiled en-suite bathrooms. His luxury mansion outside Kandahar, with its door handles studded with semi-precious stones, would not have been out of place in Footballers’ Wives.Caves? Riiiight...
From Smiley Anders in The Baton Rouge Advocate:
According to a recent survey, men say the first thing they notice about women is their eyes. And women say the first thing they notice about men is they're a bunch of liars.
Attacker held off with curling iron
That's as good a headline as I've seen lately. Here's the story from The Baton Rouge Advocate.
Tata Possum posted another excerpt from his turn-of-the-century writing guide today. It includes this excerpt:
Men of Action, Writers of Power.—Any atrophy of action in the writer is loss of power in the writing. The masculine literature of the world is the marrow of men great—in action as in writing: Moses, David, Paul, Cæsar, Æschylus, Michel Angelo, Cervantes, etc. Of more avail, also in literature, it the action any writing means than its literary finish. Homer, less literary than Virgil, is yet the greater influence. Milton, in form more measured than Shakespeare, is yet behind him in magnitude and power. Burns, who made no profession of literature, arouses more enthusiasm than Wordsworth, whose one business was poetry. Emerson is more literary, but less virile, than Carlyle, whose bias was all in favor of action.
Several years ago, to help my son Jason, I read a book or two of Milton for the second or third time. I have no time for Milton anymore. However you go about it, the man is a bore. On the other hand, Shakespeare is a charm.
Here is a story about the expulsion of CNN correspondent Nic Robertson from Iraq which makes a curious counterpoint to the Peter Arnett fiasco.
Way to go, Iraqis.
Not a particularly effective way to cure "humiliation". We could say you fight like girls, but that would insult Cpl. Blondie.
From Sparkey at Sgt. Stryker.
I would advise moderate Muslims to speak out now. I am angry. I have the vote. I will get your asses deported back to the middle ages. This story will work.
Me? I can walk. It would do me good.
I am putting this story up, not because I am a fan of Robert Fisk, or want to malign the Coalition effort, but this is a report of the the view from Baghdad. Regardless of who was responsible for the attack on the marketplace, it's what war looks like, too.
From Obscure Store comes this story from a suburb of Houston:
A Harris County resident Thursday was ordered to pay $100 a day until she cleans up her front yard of "natural" vegetation that has angered her homeowners association.
This is my destiny if I don't crawl "out there" by April Fool's Day. Does clover count as "natural vegetation"?
By gosh, I'm beginning to like that Donna Brazile. (Via The Corner.)
LATER: I have been filtering stories like this through the information in the story above. Donna Brazile ain't no "skeeza" neither.
I could've sworn I had Fritz Schrank on my bloglist when I started on this enterprise, but I see him no more. Let's try again. Sneaking Suspicions.
Many months ago, when I first started this weblog, a story came from Sydney, Australia, through that inimitable source Tim Blair of a parrot stolen from a pet store. Hector, the 31-year-old galah, or rose-breasted cockatoo, had been taken from his cage by a couple of silver-haired ladies. I have been checking on this story from time to time on Google and finally found the resolution to the story the other day. Here it is, from Persons Missing News, a source for missing persons in Australia. As the source does not provide a link, I will reprint the feature on Hector here:
7 August | The Daily Telegraph 7/8 p13 by Stavro Sofios
Hector thieves make contact - Breakthrough in the parrot-napping mystery
HECTOR the abducted galah is alive, "safe and happy" with the animal liberationists who stole him - and his owner doesn't necessarily want him back. The kidnappers made contact with The Daily Telegraph yesterday, claiming the 32-year-old parrot was freed from his "prison-like existence" to live with other birds in a large enclosure. The liberationists received qualified support from Hector's owner Doug Eyre, who offered to give up the community icon if they could prove the galah was now in a better environment.
"If you can show me he is happier in this new place, then keep him. Let him live out his last days happy," the West Ryde Pet Shop owner said yesterday. "My family needs closure, the people around here need closure and I won't push for charges if we can talk about it face-to-face. "If you really think this was the right way to go and if you're part of a fair dinkum liberation cause, why not prove it to us? Show me Hector in a good aviary and I might not take him away."
Expert analysis of the letter sent to The Daily Telegraph reveals it was written by the person who stole Hector and is also consistent with witness reports of the kidnappers -- two greyhaired women in their 50s with a "social conscience". The women took Hector, in his distinctive cage, from the footpath outside the West Ryde pet shop on July 20. The theft caused community uproar, with a reward of $7000 quickly offered for the return of the popular bird. "It says something about our society when $7000 is rewarded to put a galah back into a miserable existence in a cage no larger than a couple of milk crates rather than $7000 being offered to release a bird to his or her natural environment," read the letter, printed on a laser printer and sent in a yellow envelope. "Hector is safe and happy. Hector has not been released in the wild but now has the freedom to move around in a very large enclosure enjoying the company of other birds."
The owner gave his consent. Don't expect mine.
Despite my post below, don't think I'm looking at this war with a casual eye. I sat through the last Gulf War with a different man who had a son in the reserves. He waited every day dreading the news that his son was called up. I cannot imagine the anxiety of parents who know their children are on the front lines, and I cannot imagine the grief of parents losing their children in this conflict, or wives, or husbands, or children of men and women in service.
God have mercy.
Operation "Profound Dismay and Disgust" was a success. Unfortunately, many targets appeared to have been vanquished prior to attack. DNA experts will be required to identify certain specimens. While we can currently report that the area has been sanitized, we cannot guarantee that the area will not require further attention.
The fantasy baseball league will be meeting here tomorrow night, except for the two boys out of state. Let's see, that should be eight. We'll need some snacks. I have kangaroo sticks left from February. What else? Polish sausage? Spanish olives? Dutch cheese? Italian bread?
Friends of ours have experienced a strange repetition of events this weekend. Twenty years ago, their son was outdoors and heard strange bird sounds. He searched about, and found that the source of the noise was a cockatiel in the branch of a tree. He tempted the bird down and took it inside. They tried to find the owners and failed. The bird became a family pet for ten years.
This weekend, the father was outdoors, heard a strange sound in the trees, and looked up to find a cockatiel. The bird lit on a ladder and jumped onto John's finger when he offered it. Now they are searching for the owners. If they don't find any, they'll keep the bird.
UPDATE: The owner responded to the ad placed in the local newspaper and claimed the little guy. Good news all around.
Most of us are familiar with Meryl Yourish's Eat An Animal For PETA Day campaign. She received an e-mail from a critic that she dissected in this post. The writer writes:
I would listen to what you had to say, if you really tried to tell me why I should eat animals for a day. Why don't you tell me and others why we should eat animals for a day?I have a little story apropos of this question. I'll try to keep it short.From 1978 to 1983 I lived in New York City. I fell in with some New Age thinkers. Katherine, in particular, was a vegetarian of the ilk who believed that it was a spiritual necessity to refrain from eating meat. I never had philosophical qualms about eating meat, but to tell the truth, it was inconvenient in the neighborhood I lived in to find meat to cook. It was far easier to pop around the block to the green grocer's and pick up veggies and grains for meals. I also ate dairy and eggs, and spent some effort making sure that I had a complete diet, considering.
When I returned to Dallas in 1983 I continued with the vegetarian diet. One night I was leaving downtown with my pal Sam to go eat Indian food. I stepped badly off the curb and fractured my foot -- just a stress fracture, nothing too serious. I went to the doc-in-the-box the next day. He applied a fiberglass cast, and told me to report back to him in four weeks.
When I returned to the doctor he took x-rays of my foot. After four weeks, NO knitting had taken place. The bone was as clearly fractured as it had been in the first place.
From that day, for the next three weeks, I ate a rare roast beef sandwich and a large glass of milk for lunch every day. After the three weeks, I returned to the doctor and the foot was healed enough to remove the cast.
That's why I eat an animal a day.
I agree with this war much in the tone of Thomas Nephew and Gary Farber. But no one should go forward without reading this post by Salam in Baghdad.
Here's a cheerful departure from the common scum e-mail. 25,000 recipes from Italy and around the world, and I can speak only a few words of Italian. Chow, hon.
Regardless of how low I might feel, a quick trip to Molli Ann's to see how handsome little Sean is growing always cheers me up. She doesn't even know she has a fan.
UPDATE: I might have to delete this post. Sunday night I dreamed that I was mother to not one, but two chubby baby boys. Eeeks, NOT NOW!
All right, I should call the cops. It's pitch dark outside and two girls no more than 22 showed up at my door touting their faith. Keep off my doorstep, proselyters, and keep your pretty girls home after dark. Damn it, can't you understand that girls are taken and killed regardless of faith! I didn't have my glasses on and couldn't read their tags, but this is absolutely unacceptable, not because I have no need of their particular message, but because these young women are in danger. Idiots. We just had another body of a young woman from Baton Rouge found at a Whiskey River boat launch. WTF are you thinking?
To honor Meryl Yourish's Eat An Animal For PETA Day campaign, we will be treating ourselves to Chicken Piccata tonight. Lucy will get a bite, too, little cannibal. No veal, though. I have my limits, and besides, my mother won't let me eat it.
Patricia and Erin left for Dallas yesterday morning and arrived safely home at mid-afternoon. On previous visits, they usually left on Saturday, but some gentlemen friends beckoned them home early. Ah, well. We were all beginning to turn a little inward after four days together, and the long-distance bills were piling up. It was a good visit -- good company, good food, loud laughter, and the girls had some much needed rest. Patricia told me it's always good to come here to rest because she doesn't knock herself out looking for something to do -- because there isn't anything to do.
That's not exactly fair. We could've jumped in the car and ridden up to Vicksburg in an hour or down to New Orleans in 2-1/2 hours. We could've toured the Indian mounds or taken a drive up the Natchez Trace. But after the 6-1/2 hours over here, all the girls really wanted to do was hang out and be fed.
Feed them we did: Lyman's catfish Monday night, spaghetti and meatballs Tuesday night, crawfish and trimmings Wednesday night, and fajitas Thursday night. Patricia e-mailed her boss that she'd be back at work on Monday if she could fit back into the car.
Come to find out, I am a little behind the times (surprise, surprise!). Erin is eighteen years old and in her last year of high school. She has a job and spends her own money as she sees fit, which means that she has had her navel and tongue pierced. Piercings are so common that they're hardly worth comment. We found with our son Jason, the less said the better. If it doesn't arouse the elders, it just ain't hardly worth doing. Cossie, one of the women at the crawfish boil, and I urged her not to do anything to her face, though. Erin is a strikingly pretty girl and it would be a desecration. I also urged her to change her make-up to a more nude look. Why do young girls think they have to wear so much? And such garish colors? That's not what the hot models are doing. Probably did more harm than good with that advice. Thank goodness she's not mine to raise. By comparison, we teens of the seventies were a calm lot. (My ears are burning. My mother is saying, yeah, right.)
The crawfish boil was a success. Six women were present, and Lyman was the cook. He drove down river Wednesday afternoon to buy a 33-pound bag of live crawfish from a family farming crawfish in drained catfish ponds. The crawfish were satisfyingly large for this time of year, so we didn't have to starve to death peeling enough for our dinners. Patricia had never had crawfish before. She picked up peeling them in a snap, found she liked them, and kept pace with best of us. Erin wouldn't touch them. She ate hot dogs instead.
One of our guests was a woman widowed just six weeks ago. The very day her husband suffered a fatal heart attack I sent out the invitations for our party in February. She was, of course, not able to come to that party, but as she's a great fan of crawfish, she was invited to this small gathering. At the end of the evening, once we'd finished eating, she told us that we didn't know what we'd done for her that day. It would have been her 38th (excuse me, that would be 48th) anniversary, she said, and she would have been at home grieving had she not had a safe place to go. Just heart-breaking. We received a pretty thank-you card from her yesterday. Sometimes we do good.
Lucy had a week of it. Patricia was so disappointed early on because Lucy kept her distance and eyed her suspiciously. Patricia kept talking to her, and by Thursday Patricia was stroking her breast. In a few more days they would have been chatting merrily together. As it is, Lucy made a new friend just in time to lose her. We need to expose her to other people more often.
All in all, it was energizing. Now on to the yard.
Peg Britton of Kansas has posted a story of grassroots effectiveness here.
Inspires me to get to work out there in Lucifer's Little Acre. For some, it's the thaw, for some, it's the first robin -- for Louisianans, it's the first crawfish boil that signals spring.
OK. You must go right now to Quana Jones' site for the picture a reader sent. (Friday, March 7, 2003 in the archives. The permalink link doesn't show the picture, for me anyway.)
Lyman has said "Call Kathleen." Kathleen lives across the street. She is married to an old marine and has two boys in the Army reserves. I called Kathleen. She has four children now, the two boys already mentioned and two girls, 16 and 18. I asked her two questions. "Where are the boys?" and "Would one of your girls befriend my niece?" The boys are at Fort Eustace (sp?) in Virginia, undergoing 15 weeks training before they can be deployed. "What do you think of the war?" "It's coming. All we can do is support our troops." "Tell me. I'll buy sunglasses, bake cookies, write notes, send e-mails. Just tell me what they need." "Thank you, Janis."
Many years ago, long before I came to this neighborhood, Kathleen lost a baby girl, Megan, to SIDS. This war is hard on her.
And yes, she thinks it's always good to make a new friend.
So don't expect to hear much from me this week, as my sister and her daughter are coming. I haven't spoken much of Patricia, but she is a pretty, crazily funny and kind woman. I can't wait to have her for a whole week. Her daughter, Erin, has put in an order for Lyman's catfish. (How does Billy Joe Bob do it for only $4.99?)
I might unleash Erin on you. She's seventeen, and I'll predict that she'll be bored without a friend with her.
I want to thank MommaBear and Kathy Kinsley at Site-Essential for introducing me to Iranian Girl. She is a gift:
...It's an ordinary Friday & is our holiday; the weather is great & all signs of nature are reminding me that spring is coming...So I don’t feel like studding at all, you know It's less than two weeks to the end of year & the new year holidays & the high school is not serious at all, no one feels like studding & every ones waiting for free coming days... we have about two weeks & sometimes, a couple of days more holidays for the new year, many ones say that there must be less, I also do believe that generally Iran's holidays are too many , but actually like everyone else I have get used of it & can't stand less than it ;)... Anyway, first days of new year, is the days of dido bazdide eid; that means that all of relatives & friends go to each others houses , just as a matter of seeing each other in the new year, at first the young ones should go & see the olds of the family & then others...I think somehow It's a nice custom, for example there are lots of persons of our relatives that we don't see them in the year at all & It can be a reason for seeing each other, & also the ones who have had argument & are not in touch, must stop these kinds of behaviors & start the new year with kindness. So first days of the New Year is spent on such a think, personally I don't like this custom & have no sense of seeing the ones who I hardly know, but it should be done...there are lots of little things like this that make the great culture of Norooz, & all of them are based on happiness, kindness & nice connection between humans, ... Oh, I feel that nowadays so far we are from these things & we are getting farther & farther, That's why these customs seems strange for this new generation that have been growth in sadness, lie, tricks & have seen many ones who don't care about humans' peace & happiness.
Anyway...forget about these talks, beauty of spring & the magic of nature is another thing & that will destroy all the bad things itself. I'm just waiting for the bride of seasons to come & gives everyone hope of surviving...
Iranian Girl is considering some spring cleaning:
My room is a real mess, I wanna make it tidy & clean it; actually killing two birds with one stone, first for the coming year & the Norooz that we should make house nice & clean & also for the little party that I'm gonna have with my friends on the weekend...although here is like hell & I just don't know where exactly I should start from but I'm happy because both of the reasons are good & I have great motivations...Honey, I feel the same way, except maybe for the "great motivations". When will the weather clear?
Oh, yuck. I haven't seen such overcast since I left Portland, Oregon in 1976. Where went the Sunny South? Where is my book?
Oh, great. Now we have a tornado warning.
I keep trying to do something silly and life overtakes me. Some Christmases ago, I instituted stockings for Lyman's boys. Neither are married, though this past year they were 35 and 27 years old. I shop for nail clippers and emery boards, nail brushes and toothbrushes, pens, post-its, notepads, packs of playing cards and, for a joke this year, duct tape. Every American boy needs a roll of duct tape, right?
Yikes, we're next!
This report from Paul Robichaux targets Louisiana for the next front in the war against WMD. From Sgt. Stryker.
Moira Breen points to a post by Isntapundit regarding the suicide of French chef Bernard Loiseau. Dipnut has had experience working in a restaurant and feels a keen sympathy for the tormented chef. I feel somewhat chastised, though I took my shot not at the chef, but at the tiny portions that are served in "nouvelle cuisine" in a comment on Mac Thomason's site. I have never met a man who left one of these restaurants without a desire to pop by Burger King or IHOP to find something to fill himself up.
As a cook who's happy just to hear my (edit: hollow-legged) boys say, "Geez, Janis, that was AWESOME," I hope Mr. Loiseau now rests in peace.
UPDATE: According to this story of his funeral, his widow says he was "totally exhausted".
Mr. Rogers was a little too late for my generation to watch as children. That doesn't mean that we didn't benefit from his show. When my friend Karen had her son about 17 years ago, she fell in love with Mr. Rogers. She could set her boy in front of the TV and spend a bit of time to herself. He was mesmerized by the show. She could have some moments of peace to relax and collect her wits. What a friend he was to a young mother. Thank you, Mr. Rogers.
Ken Layne tipped me over the edge with this post mentioning yet another favorite Mexican restaurant. I have to drive a hundred miles to find a passable Mexican restaurant, much less a good one. There aren't a great many things I miss about Dallas - my sister, the art museum, the music hall - but there is an abundance of good Mexican food there.
So I've had to turn to the Los Barrios Family Cookbook. Tonight we will try enchiladas with shrimp and spinach sauce.
Darn Californians. Self-indulgent, they are.
Goodness, but here is one who took cooking too seriously:
Chef 'suicide' after critics' attack
One of France's most celebrated chefs has apparently committed suicide after his flagship restaurant was downgraded in a top restaurant guide.
I am adding Gary Farber at Amygdala to my blogroll because ... I like him. Besides, he looks a little like my youngest brother.
The weather predicted for this week is not conducive to constructive engagement with my environment.
All of which means that I need to get on with some spring cleaning and these dark days inspire me to nothing greater than snuggling against my pillows with one of the Donald Westlake novels I picked up from the local library last week.
Lee Ann Morawski at Spinsters.com wrote a nice little essay on the value of cooking last Friday. She writes of how pleasing it is to create good food, how satisfying it is to nourish oneself and others, how important it is to share good cooking with other people:
There is something very satisfying about knowing that you are capable of truly sustaining yourself. I am dependent upon no delivery boy. Cooking is independence and embrace all at once. I can survive on my own or I can nourish you with good things. Cooking is a blessing.
I have tried to teach Lyman's boys that the two cheapest and easiest ways to raise their standards of living are to know how to cook and do it whenever possible, and to keep their homes and possessions clean. They seem to have incorporated those lessons pretty well. Now if I could just teach their dad the second of these.
Lastly, for this evening, here's one for Mr. Colby Cosh, our favorite denizen of the frozen north. Never once considered that Edmonton, Alberta, would be so risk-ay (ok, so I don't know how to do the accent. What's it to you?) And good night, Mr. Thomason, at War Liberal.
This story is another good one for the headline, though perhaps funny only to us in the south:
Man, 49, accused of case of snow rage.
Gosh, it's dark today. Last I saw on the weather channel we were to have a quarter inch yesterday and maybe half an inch today. Rain, that is. My father-in-law, who came by to cadge a hamburger steak and mashed potatoes, tells me one of his compadres has measured three inches. Still counting, with thunder heavy enough to rattle the window frames.
Reading Lileks today, I was taken by his description of the scents of cleaning products. I have something to add. Lemon Fresh Joy changed its scent about a year ago and lost two customers, my cute little mother-in-law who had used the stuff for about forty years and me. Nothing wrong with the cleaning power, mind you, just a change from a fresh to a cloying lemon scent. She switched to Ivory and I switched to Dawn. Heads up, P & G.
Surely you've seen this charming card from Dave Barry's blog.
The language is not of the sort we use in this house, but the sentiment is so ... shareable.
The whole site puts me in mind of the bride here several years ago who spent $50,000 on her wedding and was separated from her husband within six weeks. They went on to divorce. Guess they didn't have anything left to live on.
I find this article from the Baton Rouge Advocate about an old oak being cut down in Baton Rouge disturbing on two counts: 1) what landowner would cut a majestic oak from his or her property if it wasn't somehow a threat or a hindrance, and 2) what gives these progressive thinkers in Baton Rouge the nerve to think they should be able to tell this guy what he can do with a tree on his property? Perhaps if the tree had received some sort of official designation before the purchase of the property it might be acceptable, but not some retroactive designation. I'd still like to hear the viewpoint of the tree's owner. Maybe he wants to sell or develop the lot. I sure hope it wasn't pure cussedness. That would be a terrible loss.
I'll blog about Miss Joy, who came to my party the other night. There must be something in Mississippi water, or a youth pixie, or something that graces certain women in the South. Mr. Oglesby claims one for Miss Reba, and knowing some of the women I do, I am not surprised. And no, Terry, it is not strictly a question of clean living. I don't know if it's luck, or a modicum of suffering, or what, but I can tell you that some southern women seem to look younger as they grow older. I met Miss Joy when she was in her sixties, and there is not a woman of that age that you can name who turned out better than she did back then. Prettily made up, well-coiffed, well-dressed, and with a gracious demeanor that my Texas relatives only approached. She has been coming to my parties for years, and we never saw her looking younger or more lovely than she was the other night. She must be in her early seventies, and she turned up in good humor, with a beautiful complexion and just as prettily turned out as ever. Lyman and I were wondering if she was nearly as pretty when she was young as she was a couple of days ago.
Finally got all the trash picked up, dishes cleaned, and food put away. Lucy is showing a little life if I poke her in the belly. Lyman still claims to have a loss of memory from the trauma of marrying again nine years ago. He had a terrible amnesia that entailed forgetting how to use a vacuum, dishwasher, washer, dryer, mop, or even dust cloth. Though that was nine years ago, he only has infrequent recollection. Sad, indeed. But the boy can still cook up a storm.
This party was in honor of the people who have been good friends to our marriage, which commenced on January 13, 1994. It has been a yearly tradition since then. I was reading an article on etiquette offered by Nick Denton a few months ago, which said you should never give a party for your birthday or anniversary. It looks like a plea for gifts. Oh, shut up. My friends know that I give the party for all of us. Down south we call that a celebration. We have about a half dozen birthdays and first meetings and marriages between us. This year we ran a little late and got Valentine's Day, too.
Had you come, you would have turned north at the Old Courthouse and driven several blocks up the street to our house. This is a neighborhood that was built in the late fifties and early sixties with a bunch of custom-built ranch houses, except for the the really pretty two-story New Orleans replica next door, on a street lined with live oaks that grow like giants down here, even in so short a time.
We lost the party for a couple of years while we renovated our house. We ripped out walls and installed a fireplace, expanded the kitchen, put down a pretty teak floor, and basically made the interior unrecognizable. It was done with thoughts of this group in mind. How can I make my guests more comfortable? What do I want this house to do?
Of course, down here everyone is too kind, but whatever we thought to do, we did it, according to reports.
You would have been with a diverse group: oil geologists, restaurant owners, a carpenter, an earth science teacher, a gift shop owner, an ex-bank teller, a legal secretary, a couple of high-powered salesmen, an off-shore derrick supervisor, a couple of housewives, an accountant or two, and that sleazy couple -- a lawyer and a journalist -- but that's us, so bite your tongue.
Because we saved all that money on diamonds for me (I wear a silver band from the French Market in New Orleans that cost $5) we could turn to our Viking stove and run a course of food. It was good. First your grilled chicken wings, then crawfish pies, then crab ravioli with cream sauce. We had red beans and rice left from the night before. Lyman did the wings, the crawfish pies. I did the ravioli. We had finger foods scattered around the house. We do like to have some odd food about the house. Last year it was coon and sweet potatoes. This year it was kangaroo sticks. You, too, can order the equivalent of Slim Jims made with the dominant ingredient of kangaroo. Guests thought we were kidding until we showed them the label. I find them tasty and am glad we have some left over.
Our recent widow didn't show after all. She's not ready, quite, and southern etiquette dictates that she shouldn't have shown at all for several months. She's among the women I love and I'll see if I can do something for her a little later.
We did have the niece, though. Her parents are in Atlanta and she is a high-school student at All Saints in Vicksburg, I think. I don't know why she is separated from her parents, but I suspect I'll find out soon. She was on top-notch behavior, so I can't tell. No visible piercings or tattoos or ugly speech. Though come to think of it, she did have a belly. Never mind.
I stay so busy during one of these affairs that I don't get much time with my guests. I did get to ask my two military mothers what they thought of the war. Edward is a nuclear engineer assigned to a submarine in Hawaii. His mother is a Republican and said go get'em. Robbie is a young (by, now, I'd say about 32) career Air Force guy stationed right now in Oman. He married not too long ago and his wife is stationed in Saudi. Cheryl says he just wants them to decide what to do and get it over with.
There was a lot of cheer and laughter and the meeting of friends who haven't seen each other in a while.
We're thinking of arranging a pot luck or something in the summer. We don't see each other enough.
Lyman says if we ever build a house, it will have a bedroom, a bathroom, and a 40 by 40 foot kitchen. Still can't keep'em out of the way.
I'll tell you what I told my blogdaddy, I am surfeit of housecleaning, cooking, good-looking women, handsome men, love and wine. I am quiet.
Here is a pretty post from Iranian Girl:
Today was a really beautiful day, we had snowing all day, a great snowing...in school I couldn't notice the lesson at all, I just wanted to watch snowing through the window...that's what I really love...so the snowing was so hard & we expected schools to be closed for tomorrow, or at leas in some areas of Tehran, so I was really exited but it's about some hours that It has stopped snowing, I just wish that at light we have that beautiful white diamonds again. But generally I wish that it snows more, because it's just about one year to the end of this long winter, & I want a winter to be always white & cold...
Don't let the rose-cutters fool you. Tulips are the score. I went to Wal-mart the other night and found tiny little pots of three tulip buds for $2.97 apiece. I needed flowers for my party. I bought 11 little pots of flowers for my girls, and distributed them throughout the house. Lyman thought I was stupid and wasteful.
The first girl, J., had a birthday yesterday, and said "Lord, how pretty your house is. I love tulips." I whispered in her beloved ear, "Shush, you get one."
This is a virtual party invitation to the people who stop by this blog. If you come into town tonight, you will have red beans and rice. Tomorrow night at 7 you will have crab ravioli in cream sauce, crawfish pies, chicken wings, kangaroo sticks, assorted dips and vegetables, assorted dips and chips, and oatmeal-peanut butter-chocolate chip cookies. You'll be with a crowd of people ranging from 70 to 40 years old who have known each other for 10 or more years. Well, there are two newbies--a college student niece and an unknown brother. You're expected to bring an unusually shaped vegetable so you can Play With Your Food. If you can't make it, I understand. If you do come, make yourself comfortable, but keep the heck out of my way. And be careful of Gloria, she's just coming out since she lost her husband to a massive heart attack.
Just heard a bit of the prosecutor's closing statement in the Clara Harris murder trial down in Houston (as well as I can remember):
If you don't like the way your husband is behaving, do what every other woman in this county does ... take him to the cleaners. Take his house, take his cars, take his children, take his self-respect, take his reputation in the community. You can make him wish he was dead ... But you can't kill him.
You know, I didn't mention that I got a present yesterday. I got a new computer. Now, I used to be excited at the prospect of a new computer, but this year it feels as though I got an expensive vacuum cleaner. It's a household appliance without glamor. A pricey necessity. The best thing about the whole experience was when we switched the units out last night after I put Lucy to bed. While we were working, she came to the corner of her cage and asked, impatiently, "What you doing?"
Kathy Kinsley and MommaBear have been pounding us into paying attention to Iranian Girl. Here is an entry from February 10:
What about the future???
Again it's late at night & after a hard day, I'm here...tomorrow is 22nd of Bahman, The end of ten occasion of ten-day Dawn celebration & the 24th anniversary of the victory of the Islamic revolution...Oh, these words seems so heavy for me, & also so familiar, they are the things that we've been hearing years, & specially more at these days...days of celebration…
Do you want to now what is going on now here??? It’s so simple, just like other years…streets are full of colorful colors & most of the nights there is fire work display in some avenues of cities…TV channels are full of different programs about the revolution & many people tries to remind us that we must be happy about that big victory & again those old words about the Kind who was a evil & Khomeini who came just as a angel & made that dirty & damaged land, an Islamic, bright & great country… & again every ones seem to think all of Iranian people as some fool & powerless people who just have to obey peoples like fuckin Khameneii & other dirty mullahs & should always be just like the visitors of Iran’s movie…yeah., every one tell us congratulation for our present situation & in TV programs everything seem to be all right & great, so what could be the reason of sadness , poverty, captivity & all these bad words?? …nothing…yeah, as they say it really seems to be nothing.
Although, like every year, this exterior celebration is going on its common way , but I feel a special feeling among people this year…perhaps a kind of tiredness or unbelievable ness, no one can really believe what is going on & what has happened to our nice land…young generation of present, are like destroyed fruits of the Revolution & young generation of past, that now contains our parents seem not even being able to look at us, they can not stare at dark eyes of their children that is the result of their movements…so painful…& there is no cure for that nasty pain, so all they can do is denying being involve in making this situation…
Actually, Islamic revolution was a big & of course important act in Iran’s history but a foolish & unforgivable mistake…a big mistake that can’t be corrected anyway; who can rebuild all things they’ve damaged these days & destroy the rotten culture that they’ve made?!! Who can give back moments of our life’s best years that could be so sweet but were spent in nasty confusions?!! & after all who can tell us why???...
And now what do we have left to fight with or fight for? What can be done with these young guys who are so wick & different from those days’ young generation…the ones who have so many problems in their way of living & thinking , with so many paradoxes & the generation of spite & lie…
You know, I’m just a young girl that may have less bad experiences from this revolution than many others, so I think all Iranians can write even a book about what have happened to them…what a tragedy it can be!!!
Anyway…I don’t wanna finish this endless note with a foolish hope, like hope of things to get better, Islamic government to leave Iran, a perfect democracy & freedom or things like this…Although all of them are wishes are all Iranians , but al last I wanna wish enough soberness for everyone to recognize the situation & decide for the brighter future…
…so, it’s not all & there are so many other things to be said, written & felt…Actually the deep sorrow of the dead truth is never over…
Ok, it’s late at night, before the 24th anniversary of the Islamic revolution’s victory…& I don’t feel good at all…
It's ironic that I can watch last week's terrible accident that killed seven astronauts, and say, "Yes, keep the program going. If these men and women want to take that risk, give them the opportunities," then say, "Lucy Belle, you could be in danger in this household if you fly, little bird. You are grounded." If Lucy knew, she would be outraged.
Lucy (she looks like the blue and red one in the middle photo) had a vet appointment today, and she is disappointed with her human minders. She responds to the vet much as Mr. Possum responds to his yearly physical, though Lucy shrieks and bites. From what I have read, it is pure Christian charity that keeps Blog-daddy from doing the same. (For shame, Terry, your wife bore four children.)
It was a grooming session. Lucy had her flight feathers, toenails and beak clipped to proper proportions.
In a way, it was a sad day. Since we had last gone to the vet many flight feathers had come in, and Lucy was taking flight in the house. Most of her flights were in the 30 foot range, but she was learning to turn the corner and made about a 60 foot flight from the office to our bedroom. She was learning to land on my arm rather than inside the kitchen sink. It was lovely to see and exciting to hear.
There are proponents of free flight for home birds. Lucy loves it. The possibility of flying anywhere in the house kept her little wings nervous in the morning. She would usually wait until I had got enough coffee to realize what she was doing. She has bonked off the porch windows more than once.
The great fear was that she'd make her way outdoors in a neighborhood full of cats and dogs. Bird dogs. But I hadn't thought at all of what the vet said: "She could be shot." Yes, she could. If idiot kids can beat calves to death in Washington, they could certainly shoot a beautiful little bird in Louisiana.
So the flight feathers were trimmed.
I ripped this off from the The Corner, February 3, since Mr. Dreher didn't offer links:
STRANGE AND SAD [Rod Dreher]
Talking to Israeli reporters on Sunday, Rona Ramon, the widow of Ilan
Ramon, said that her husband was at his peak when he died, the newspaper Yediot Ahranot reported:"He was a happy and an optimistic person. When he left for space, he
left us this wonderful feeling that we are also part of this amazing
thing. He had to write a will but at the end didn't because he thought
it was unnecessary. He always had a smile and he wanted us to keep on
smiling. We are not falling apart. We are strong for Ilan's sake. We
will keep his spiritual will alive and he would want us to be happy,
calm and smiling."
"I knew that if the launching went well, there would be nothing to worry
about because usually the malfunctions are during the launch and not
during the landing. The only thing that tears me apart now is that
during the liftoff, when we were all in high spirits, my youngest
daughter, Noa, looked at the sky and said, 'I lost my daddy.' She felt
what we didn't allow ourselves to think about, as if she knew this was
the last time."
"We stood and waited at the end of runway for the landing. It was a
beautiful day and the clock was ticking. When it got down to 10 seconds,
we started a countdown, just like in the liftoff, to hear the sonic
booms. But they didn't come. We started to worry, and then they took us
to the side and told us that they didn't know what had happened, but we
already knew. I didn't even have to tell the kids, they knew
immediately".
Smiley Anders of The Baton Rouge Advocate writes in his column today:
That's oil, folks…: Bliss Sheer, noting that a lot of folks can't understand how we came to have an oil shortage here in the United States, endeavors to explain:
"There's a very simple answer. Nobody bothered to check the oil! We just didn't know we were getting low.
"The reason for this is purely geographical. All the oil is in Oklahoma, Texas, Louisiana, Wyoming, etc., and all the dipsticks are in Washington, D.C."
I want to refine my last post. Yes, I know that my father-in-law experienced war, and that gives his opinion great weight. I wonder, aside, if your ability to build offsets your horror at the destruction of war. Bless his heart, he has none. Just a question...
For today's events, I wonder how you replace an astronaut mom who was burned up on TV. Seems like in my forty-six years I haven't been able to turn around before a new tragedy turns up.The most vocal war critic in our house is my 83-year-old father-in-law, who stops by two or three times a day. He was drafted for WWII and was taken from his 3-month bride for three years. He served in Africa and Italy. "War is a terrible thing," he says. "They should do everything they can to avoid it." He is a highly lauded past bank president, but has not a clue about how to use a screwdriver. War frightened him no end.
I wonder if the most vocal critics of the war in the public sphere are people who don't do mechanical things (apart from the Germans)?
Mr. Possum, I have one word for district spelling bees: zephyr. In Texas, we spelled the west wind "sandstorm".
Virginia Postrel is showing her roots. Her South Carolina southern roots, that is. Here she has reached her forties and now she is talking about her Lasik surgery, the surgical corrective for myopia. You'll need to scroll down the page.
This procedure has always been interesting to me. I have worn glasses since second grade, moving from farsighted to near-sighted. Unlike many of my peers, these days I see wonderfully at close work like sewing, but can't see a highway sign until I am within twenty feet of it without glasses. But I have seen too many reports that the surgery overcorrects, leaving patients using reading glasses rather than distance glasses, which would be a poor trade in my case. I'll stick to my bifocals.
When I wrote the post below, I mentioned our gasoline usage per year because I had in the back of my mind this article that Gregg Easterbrook wrote in September of 2001. In the article, Mr. Easterbrook mentions that every licensed driver in the US uses 875 gallons of gasoline per year. Doing the numbers, we use about 28% of the normal family's intake. I do not like to be vilified without reason.
Apart from all that, we are in the market for a dependable 4-door sedan for local use. Do you have something for about $6000?
Gee, I like Gregg Easterbrook. I like his articles on affairs and I like Tuesday Morning Quarterback. But what drives his fury at SUV's and pickup trucks in this article in the New Republic?
The article is a review of Ken Bradsher's book, High and Mighty, a scathing indictment of the SUV. Here's an excerpt of Easterbrook's review, including a quote from Bradsher's book:
"They tend to be people who are insecure and vain. They are frequently nervous about their marriages and uncomfortable about parenthood. They often lack confidence in their driving skills. Above all, they are apt to be self-centered and self-absorbed, with little interest in their neighbors." This is Bradsher's summary of the auto industry's own marketing research about SUV buyers, and he adduces numerous on-the-record comments from auto-marketing gurus to back this up. One such wise man, named Clotaire Rapaille, tells the Big Three that people buy SUVs "because they want to look as menacing as possible." It is perhaps not startling that rather than trying to alter these buyer proclivities, the manufacturers of SUVs have tried to encourage them. There are lots of self-centered and self-absorbed people with little interest in their neighbors. Somebody finally made a class of vehicles designed to bring out the worst in them.
I take that personally. I drive a 1997 2-wheel drive 4-door Chevy Tahoe. It has cloth seats, lots of rubber mats, air-conditioning, power transmission and a radio with a tape player. It weighs a little over 4400 pounds without any load. It's heavy enough to pull a 700 pound trailer. It is a glorified pickup truck. It is our only car. We drive it about 7800 miles a year, which in past years has included two 800+ mile trips to Dallas and at least two 600+ miles to Alabama each year. We use about 485 gallons of gas per year.
We live in a small town at least eighty miles in any direction from a major shopping center, so if I want to visit Lowe's, Dillard's or Albertson's I have to hit the road for Baton Rouge, Alexandria, or Jackson, MS. We keep these trips to a minimum, so we often have many packages to carry. For the past three years we have been renovating our house in Vidalia and a condo on the coast of Alabama, entailing loads of building supplies and furniture, carted sometimes in rain. Our house is situated on an acre of land which entails much maintenance and we garden vegetables in the spring and summer, all of which calls for flats of flowers and plants and many bags of fertilizer and soil additives.
Mr. Easterbrook, I do care about other drivers and I drive safely. I was hit by a car at two and a half, and I still carry scars from an accident at 21 in which I was a passenger and my driver wasn't at fault. I don't want to intimidate you or anyone else. I just want to get my work done.
This weather is driving me insane. Today the thermometer is reading 69.8 at 2:51 pm. The forecast on the Weather Channel is predicting a high of 37 for Friday, with lows of 19 for Thursday and Friday nights.
Vivian Brown is informing me all about it. Tell me we haven't come a long way since the sixties when I am taking my weather from a pregnant black woman.
On Hardball tonight, they debated the new daisy ad. Christopher Hitchens was nearly sick in his condemnation of it as lame and incoherent. If you want to do a derivative ad, there's a better one to use. Stupid ad, I don't even know what they're selling, but it's the ad where the little girl asks "Daddy, will you call me?" Then it goes into into the song of "Wherever you go, I will be with you, until the end of time." Her daddy takes off into a world of airplanes and newspapers and racecars, then finally he calls. "Daddy!"
What if daddy never calls? There's your anti-war ad.
Axis of Weevil Pride Alert
I was wandering around the blogosphere today, putting off cleaning up that tacky spot in the guest bathroom, when I ran across a post at Bill Quick's about the PC labeling of African-Americans. A commenter there talked about the 2002 Olympics, when the first black person in the Winter Olympics earned a gold medal. He thought she was from a country other than the US, and that the TV persons were forced to call a "black" person an "African-American" for PC purposes.
The person he was referencing is Vonetta Flowers, who is, indeed, the first black person to win a gold in the winter sport. She is from Alabama. Pretty damned unbelievable, isn't it? I can't much blame him. Why in tarnation does a southern woman who might have seen snow maybe eight times in her life succeed before a Canadian black? Beats me.
Maybe there is a clue in her biography. Here is part of her backstory.
Billy Joe Bob at the barbecue emporium in Alabama has been kind enough to add me to his blogroll over at Compleat Redneck. I have been a fan of his site since its first day, and happily return the gesture. Thank you, Mr. Roberts.
Oh! Me? I'm still trying to figure out how to adjust your cup size so your bra can carry 12 little possums along with your cuddly warm breasts.
(Link via Obscure Store)
