Dammit, this area needs a grocery store. I have been to three stores and cannot find a can of pumpkin, I cannot find a bag of dried garbanzo beans, and a lady and her son grabbed the last two bottles of papaya nectar off the shelf before I realized they were there. Lyman is off to the Super Wal-mart to see if he can find things there.
LATER: That was no help at all. Neither was Piggly Wiggly. And yes, this is all for Lucy on her birthday. I bought candles, too.
The boys had a good time. Today I'm off to Land of Vos to find recipes appropriate for Lucy's birthday tomorrow. She will be two years old.
I have been watching with some interest (not enough to post all the links) the discussion of the new idea of calling non-believers "brights", as in "I profess no belief in religion, so I am a Bright". Jimmy Doc over at Outside the Beltway has been participating. (See what would have happened had you gone to college, BJB?)
I think the term is arrogant.
I offer the Webster's-approved appellation "secularist" as an inclusive and inoffensive name for non-believers.
It seems they would like something shorter and catchier. I can't see why. Episcopalians and Presbyterians seem to do just fine.
On the other hand, having someone call himself a "bright" would send you that perfect signal to say "hey" to Betsy across the room...
LATER: Sorry, looks like Dr. Taylor put forth "secularist" first at Poliblog.
Kim Crawford has a great post. "... a gaggle of Blanche DuBoises on Muscatel ..." Does it get better than that?
We got your front-end loader, your dump truck, your F250, and your incipient flower garden. The great money-sucker is going down.
LATER: Lordy, Lordy. The girl in the yard is a dump truck driver. Her ex-husband is driving the front end loader. He got into the dump truck to back it up and dump dirt into the pool, and had a hard time of it. She got into the truck and handled it. He wouldn't listen. Never did.
NOTE: Two years ago this month, my utility bill would have been $400. This year it is $196.It's a sorry life I've led the past few weeks. When we came in last night I realized I've been shopping twice since the 10th of June and both trips were to K-Mart.
(See that, Larry?)
14,975 divided by 365 equals 41 by my calculator. It's a Birthday Boy! Happy birthday, hon. Or somewhere hereabouts. How does 41.0273 fall out in man-years?
A clock-store owner will appear in court Monday on an assault charge for spanking a boy he says was teaching one of his store's parrots to cuss.Both of these people are handling the incident badly. In these days, it doesn't serve to lay a hand on someone else's child, though the gent was probably treating the boy no differently than he would his own grandson. The mother is overreacting by filing charges. She could have left it at chastising the man. Most people knew better than to spank other people's children even in earlier times."I think I can protect my property against vandalism, as long as I don't use a gun," said William Soper, co-owner of Clock World on West Broad Street downtown. "A pop on the bottom is non-lethal."
Sheree Bustle, mother of the spanked boy, sees it differently. She called the police to file charges. "If you've got a problem with a kid abusing a bird, he could've handled it differently," she said.
It is vandalism to teach a parrot profanity. Circumstances sometimes force changes in ownership (or guardianship, in areas of California) and many prospective owners neither use nor like to be around profanity. We don't use much profanity in this house, and always out of Lucy's earshot, unless we happen to bark our shins on that @!$#%^* glass coffee table.
In local news, the River City Fantasy Baseball League, of which Lyman is a member and I am sometime help, would like to have a party for the All-Star game. They would like to have it at our house, which, as I've said before, we've designed for such occasions.
The boys are more than willing to do their own cooking, but who is going to clean?
Glenn said not to worry, they used to meet at John's Place, which was, by all reports, a dump. I don't know because I wasn't invited to go there. They didn't actually forbid women, but they deeply discouraged them from visiting. The patrons wanted a place to have a beer after work where their wives wouldn't suspect they were chatting up other women. Just a drink at the end of the day.
John's was sold to a historical society in Natchez because it occupied land that was part of the site of one of the largest slave markets in the country.
But our home is not John's Place, and my question remains unanswered.
And it's a week away.
I have just purchased a copy of Ken Layne's new CD. I think he should play Under-The-Hill along with Dr. Frank.
Jeff Jarvis is watching July 9th activities in Iran.
Kathy Kinsley & MommaBear are watching.
Iranian Girl is in Tehran.
Tim Blair has offered a name for the newest giraffe born at the Western Plains Zoo in Australia:
Stilty, the leaf-suckin' sky horse
Kind of has a ring to it ...
I'm bragging about touching my toes and Nate McCord's 90 year-old grandma wants a new bicycle?
I should be embarrassed, depressed, downhearted, shame-faced ... but I'm not. I'm training to become a proper belle. First thing is no more lugging those 40 lb. bags of potting soil around for this girl.
"Lyman, darlin', did you get that mint planted yet?"
Aha! I've reached a benchmark in my recovery. I can touch my toes! I can scrub my feet! I can crawl on my belly to find the screw that attaches Lucy's food dish to her cage.
This means that we need to start planning a trip to Dallas to help my sister with the estate sale at my mother's house.
Lucy hasn't gone to Dallas yet. The trip is an hour or so longer than the trip to the coast. It will be hard on a little girl.
Oh for goodness' sake. Peg Britton of Kansas just sent this silly joke:
LIMP PARROT
A woman brought a very limp parrot into a veterinary office. As she laid her pet on the table, the vet pulled out his stethoscope and listened to the bird's chest. After a moment or two, the vet shook his head sadly and said, "I'm so sorry, Polly has passed away."
The distressed owner wailed,"Are you sure? I mean, you haven't done any testing on him or anything. Might he just be in a coma or something?"
The vet rolled his eyes, shrugged, turned and left the room returning a few moments later with a beautiful black Labrador. As the bird's owner looked on in amazement, the dog stood on his hind legs, put his front paws on the examination table and sniffed the dead parrot from top to bottom.
He then looked at the vet with sad eyes and shook his head. The vet patted the dog and took it out but returned a few moments later with a cat! The cat jumped up and also sniffed delicately at the ex-bird.
The cat sat back, shook its head, meowed and ran out of the room.
The vet looked at the woman and said, "I'm sorry, but like I said, your parrot is most definitely 100% certifiably dead."
He then turned to his computer terminal, hit a few keys and produced a bill which he handed to the woman.
The parrot's owner, still in shock, took the bill. "$150!" she cried, "$150 just to tell me my bird is dead?"
The vet shrugged. "If you'd taken my word for it, the bill would only have been $20, but........what with the Lab Report and the Cat Scan the costs went up."
Irene Adler likes Natchez. Just a clue, Miss Irene. Every child with half a mind is a lawyer in Natchez. Or Jackson, or Memphis, or Atlanta. At this point, the best thing to be in Natchez is an undertaker.
For Independence Day, three cheers for the red, white and blue. Always dressed for the occasion. Hey, Lucy!
I am by no means a sexual prude, but I will welcome the day the discussion about sodomy laws dies down. I've never exercised my imagination much about what other people do in their bedrooms.
I do prefer a becoming modesty in public, rather in line with the old Emily Post:
Public Displays of AffectionLovemaking is a personal matter and does not belong in public. Displays of affection or attraction are often embarrassing to others, are not appropriate in the presence of children, and belong in a private setting.
Holding hands, affectionate greetings accompanied by a kiss on the cheek, or a quick hug are perfectly acceptable in public. Passion is not.
I think she might agree with me that sodomy laws should be struck down because they were not fit topics for public discussion in the first place.
LATER: Maybe I AM a prude. Is that so bad?
I have received my copy of Ulysses Annotated and have been studiously figuring out what I read under the influence of drugs last week. It didn't hearten me much to remark that it has been 29 years since I read Homer's The Odyssey in college.
Of general interest is this wonderful new word that I learned:
crawsick -- Ill in the morning after a drunken bout the night before.
Local culture provides many excellent opportunities to use this word, as in, "Pierre don't feel so good today. He crawsick after the crawfish boil yesterday."
As is often the case, the most interesting thing I can find this morning is from Virginia Postrel. The Texas building codes have included a new rule that will limit lighting options for new businesses in the interest of reducing electricity usage. Read that to mean "fluorescent" as opposed to "incandescent" lighting in the future.
In her column in D Magazine, she looks specifically at Victoria's Secret where artful arrays of lights make the merchandise, and the customers, "glow". Regulation of lighting will change that experience.
Here's an excerpt that gets to the heart of her message:
The dirty secret is that this is really an aesthetic battle. It's the latest version of the old American conflict between pleasure and Puritanism (the triumph of the latter led to the current smoking ban in Dallas restaurants). Efficiency-minded engineers regard anything more than simple illumination as waste. Environmental activists are repulsed by "unnecessary" consumption. The boards that set energy codes and evaluate their effectiveness include engineers and environmentalists. They don't include artists or designers, much less lingerie shoppers.
Let me tell you, as a middle-aged woman, this does not make me happy. I don't like overhead lights or flourescent lights. If I had my way we'd have 25-watt incandescent bulbs in every fixture except where I cook, make up or read. Ms. Postrel is just a few years behind me. Perhaps it's a personal issue with her, too.
LATER: The more I think about this, the more insane it sounds. Women flock to Dallas to shop. For Pete's sake, it's a "market city". What the hell do they think we go there for? The Cowboys?
Let's talk "flyover country". Let's talk Kansas. Let's talk Mrs. Peg Britton. She's taken it upon herself to mother me during my trials (no easy task) and she's good at it. There's a girl. See what's happening in Ellsworth, Kansas.
Can't let this one go unremarked. Elizabeth Spiers of Alabama goes among the sophisticates of New York, and finds owners taking their dogs for yoga classes. Right here in the Washington Post. I like this part:
Half an hour on the yoga mat makes Isaac, her cocker spaniel, a calmer dog, said doga devotee Sarah Klein."Usually when he's in the park, he can't focus," said Klein...
LATER: I suspect Elizabeth will get over her affair with New York one day. It's a poor lover.
I am fond of primitive art. My proudest art possessions are a lovely batik and painted village scene from Zimbabwe and an "imagination rug" woven from dyed camel hair from Egypt.
I was delighted to come across Tyler Cowen's site while surfing the other day. He is a contributor at The Volokh Conspiracy and is a connoisseur of "amate art". What is that? He'll show you. Part of his collection is posted here.
What a trove.
Oh, migosh, I'm bored. Paid bills today. Caught a nifty surprise when I opened the IDT Long Distance bill and found a $179 charge where I usually find something $20 or less. Seems that when the BellSouth DSL went down last month the dial-up number was in Jackson, MS. I'm an invalid. I'll leave that to Lyman to resolve.
Due to visit the surgeon's office for a follow-up in the morning at 11:15. My last appointment was at 10:30 and I was finally called at about 12:30. The time went quickly last time. There was an older black gentleman that had driven a patient in. When we found ourselves sitting alone in the waiting room he struck up a conversation and we spent at least an hour talking about his life growing up near Church Hill, MS. He talked about long hours of work and gardens and orchards and hunting. He talked about biscuits in the morning and drinking beer on the way home at night. He talked of leaving school early when a storm was coming so the kids could make it across the bayous. He talked of women canning and fixing fences and tornadoes. I wish I'd had a tape recorder.
I'm not expecting much of tomorrow. Maybe I'll be surprised.
So, I spent $4 on the copy of Ulysses that I have read about half-way through. To make heads or tails of it, I need this book for $29.95. Bet it's not in our tiny public library.
... 46, 48, 50! 2, 4, 6, 8 ...
I know very little about John Scalzi's writing, but in this post he talks about his young career as a writer in a no-nonsense, unromantic and optimistic way. If there's a wannabe in your acquaintance, it would do him or her no harm to read it.
Francesa Watson has e-mailed to say that she's been in touch with Fabio's people, but unfortunately he won't be back in-country until Fall. It certainly is good to know that SOMEONE in the Axis takes me seriously.
I think it's been about five weeks since this house was cleaned properly, and we're moving from the need for a housekeeper to a need for disaster relief assistance. It's reached the point that I'd be embarrassed to call someone in without cleaning up at least some first, and that's just not in the cards right now. The vacuum is my enemy.
I've been extremely disappointed in the quality of drug prescribed as pain medication after this surgery. Oh, the drug is fine for decreasing pain, but its only side effect is sleepiness. I have been taking only one of a possible two, but I'm afraid that two will lead only to the side effect described on the label: POSSIBLE DIZZINESS.
I had a bout of dizziness the night I returned from surgery, which resulted in Lyman manhandling me back into the wheeled office chair, and rolling me across the living room and down the hall to the bedroom, where there were only a couple of unsupported steps until I could ease myself into bed. Nothing broke, far as I can tell, but it's not an experience either of us wants to repeat.
Instead of pleasantly spacing out on drugs, I have opened my second-hand copy of James Joyce's Ulysses from Half-Price Books in Dallas. My brother picked this copy out for me because it was prefaced by the court ruling that judged the book was not obscene and should not be banned from the U.S. market. He also said it was the best English translation he could find. (Silly snot. Surely he could have found a better one.) This is my first reading, and I'm doing it cold, without any supporting materials. Which is another reason I am taking frequent naps.
Today I'm going to make myself useful by rolling change, which is falling out of the dishes provided for it on the dresser. One of our sons took a pile of change to one of those machines located in grocery stores and lost $10 on $100. I asked, "Michael, when have you become so well off that it's not worth an hour of your time to make $10?" Neither of these boys grasps that 100 pennies still make a dollar, and dollars aren't all that easy to come by, regardless of how prosperous you are. They'll learn the day they're hungry and 7 cents short of the cost of a Sonic burger. In earlier days, I've turned out every pocket in the house and searched every crevice in the furniture for a nickel. I hope those days are past, but if they aren't, I'm ready.
For more shopping news, visit the Wed., June 18 entry at Compleat Redneck and read Cletus' hot tip for shopping for accessories. Remember "Compleat Redneck -- not just barbecue anymore."
This month has been so packed that some of my story lines have gotten lost. I just know that Chuck over at redneckin is dying to find out if I found a suitable bedspread for the condo.
Yes, gardener-boy, I did, but not without a lot of effort. (Go see his pictures from the garden. He grows pretty flowers.)
Let's preface this by saying that I do not like to shop. I don't revel in spending money, and I never buy something just to say I bought something after visiting a store. I start out with a specific need in mind, and shop until that need is fulfilled, which can turn into a wildly frustrating experience.
There were several criteria the bedspread had to meet:
1) it had to be a throw style bedspread
2) it had to coordinate with, and not overwhelm the numbered print in the bedroom where it would be used
3) it had to coordinate with the colors in the rest of the condo
4) it had to be reasonably priced (think replacement in a few years)
5) it had to have a "beachy" theme
6) it had to be king-sized
7) it had to machine-washable
You'd think that in condoland such a task might require no more than a run to the nearest Wal-mart, but you would be wrong. We started at Old Time Pottery. No throw bedspreads, many bed-in-a-bag values, most without a suitable theme or color. Then it was on to the outlet mall in Foley, where WestPoint Stevens disappointed with another large collection of bed-in-a-bags and a small collection of unsuitable throw styles. They did carry about six very pretty inappropriate comforter sets that I would see over and over again until I finished shopping. We spotted a place called "Tropical Linens" that was closed when we went by, but would later be revealed to have custom-made bedspreads in the $400 to $600 range -- something I wouldn't put in my own house, much less a rental unit.
Having exhausted the stores in Alabama, we drove over to Pensacola and started at University Mall, where there is a Sears, McCrae's, Penny's and Beall's outlet store. I came within a size of what I could use at Penny's. The only throw styles at the other stores were 100% light cotton cottage-style throws (think Martha Stewart) that would soak up every stain and particle of dirt on the beach. Linens & Things, Bed, Bath & Beyond and Dillard's were no better. That exhausted Pensacola.
It was too late to shop more. We drove back to the condo and had a drink (and I mean an adult beverage, and I mean more than one).
The next day we were going to have to use some imagination. One place we didn't visit was a Sleep Shop in Pensacola. Hey, they sell mattresses, maybe they sell bedspreads, too. So we pulled out the Yellow Pages and looked for stores that sold bedding. The first place I called was Henry's Furniture, which offers Sealy bedding. They had three king-sized throw style bedspreads in stock. We drove over to the store on Canal Road, maybe five miles from the condo, and were introduced to Charlotte -- a very good-looking beach grandma -- who showed us the spreads. Voila! There it was. A spread with a graphic pattern in colors soft enough to coordinate with the rest of the furnishings. She even allowed us to take it home and try it on approval. It worked!
We got the side benefit of seeing the rest of the shop, which has many things appropriate for our unit. Best of all, we found Charlotte, a budget-minded, practical, tasteful woman who can help us in the future. I think next year we'll replace the other bedspread.
Blogger won't let me edit the post below. What's with that?
I'd like to tell the spammers sending me sexually-enticing e-mails to cut it out. The whole idea makes me want to scream with pain. Though I'd be grateful if Fabio would bring me a cup of coffee, please.
That wasn't so bad, if I forgive them for bringing me in at 6:30 am and not operating until about 1:30. There's soreness at the site of the operation, but I am otherwise fine. Now where is that coffee?
LATER: This is all a little of nothing. Go to Nate MCCord's site and wish his father's new wife well.
Here's a great site I found at Gawker -- a contest to decorate Martha Stewart's new cell. (Sorry, this contest is closed, but the entries are fun to see.) On the left side of the screen, check out Martha's New Digs 2 under "related contests". That contest is open for decorating the cell lavatory facilities.
I caught a glimpse of the aftermath of this accident on my way to a test yesterday. What a hideous mess.
OK, I'm still waiting for a phone call from the surgeon's office. What's the deal?
LATER: Aha, there they are. The nurse will call this afternoon to schedule.
Tomorrow, hospital, 6:30 am. Pre-admission today.
And test results from yesterday's ultrasound scan: no evidence at all of an aortic aneurysm. ("Eeeks!" you say. Well, that's what I said, too.)
In-Laws to Love
Since I first appeared under the weather, my in-laws (that would be Girl and Big Daddy -- this is Tennessee Williams country, after all) have repeatedly said that they would help in any way we need. At about 8 pm last night they dropped by after having spent the day with Lyman's sister's family over in Natchez. I told my mother-in-law that if she wanted to help she could send over some of her potato soup when she had time. (At 83 she's still a good cook.) At 10:30 last night she called Lyman to tell him the soup was ready and to bring a large pot.
Isn't that a gift?
Kids, this ain't gettin' any more fun. Yesterday found me at the surgeon's office, planning an inguinal-femoral hernia repair. (Yes, that was the source of all that pain.) It's a day procedure, scheduled for Tuesday. The doctor will literally patch my abdominal wall with a piece of mesh that living tissue will integrate with to form a stronger container.
It's not all bad. The surgeon says they'll give me Demerol, which, from prior experience, leads me to say, "Bring on the logging saws!"
Baby, that is some good stuff.
LATER: I'll be fine, if I don't smother in dust-bunnies first.
Now isn't that just like a self-described liberal? Michael Bowen of A Minority of One asks of his own accord to join the Axis of Weevil, then expects to be flamed by other members for his political views.
Mr. Bowen, you'll get more flack knocking sweet tea around here than you'll get for the link to Michael Moore on your site. Believe me, I know.
Reading of Cletus starting a new story over at Compleat Redneck reminds me of a story from Mother's funeral.
For the convenience of all concerned, we decided to have the post-funeral gathering at my mother's house. My sister, Patricia, and I raced to the grocery in the morning to buy a few more things to serve, gathered what we had bought the night before, and charged around 635 to arrive at Mother's house at about 9:30 am. After we'd stored the things we brought, we had a little time to rest before going to the funeral home.
We heard a knock at the door, which was my nephew catching up with his mother. Then we heard another, unexpected knock at the door, and opened it to find Aunt Glenda, my father's sister, 80 years old and looking fine indeed. With her was Aunt Leona, 88, and looking pretty as always. (She has my grandmother's complexion, which defies sun, age and gravity.) They had gotten themselves lost in Dallas trying to find the funeral home and dropped by the house in hope that someone would be there.
We sat them down and offered them drinks. Glenda said she'd be happy to have a margarita. Can't blame her there, after an hour lost on Dallas roads. I told her no, it was only 10 am, and that she'd have to wait until after the service. (This is all teasing. Glenda probably has a margarita once a month, if that.)
We visited a little while, and it was time to go. At about that time, Glenda started on a story about her dog. Aunt Leona grasped her cane, got up from her chair and headed for the door. I followed to escort her down the drive. As we went out the door, Leona said, "She's started on one of her long stories. We'd better get going or we'll miss the funeral." We walked on down to the car. As I was opening the car door Leona said, "Glenda is losing her memory. She gets started on one of these stories and then I have to finish it for her. Who's going to finish my stories for me?" Then she laughed.
Bryan, my nephew, offered to drive and look after the ladies for the rest of the day. Did a handsome job of it, too.
Natchez writer Greg Iles, six times on the New York Times Bestseller List, has finally hit the big time. He's joined the rock band Rock Bottom Remainders to play with the likes of Stephen King, Amy Tan, Scott Turow and Dave Barry. A local story is here.
Fame continues to narrowly evade Vidalia. Let's not forget that just down the road to the west, Ferriday is the birthplace of cousins Mickey Gilley, Jimmy Swaggart and Jerry Lee Lewis.This might be the sexiest, most romantic thing I've read in blogs, from Stuart Buck:
Yesterday, my wife heard a radio broadcast of the middle movement of Ravel's Piano Concerto in G, except with a twist: a classical guitarist was playing the melody line. (It's one of the most beautiful works of the 20th century; click here to hear a clip of Martha Argerich playing it.) Janis: you'll have to click on the post to get the reference, that one I can't figure out how to do.So last night, after the kids were in bed, my wife and I sat down to try our hand at it -- her on the piano and me on the classical guitar. She had played the entire concerto in college, and still had the music (arranged for two pianos). The first few pages went fairly well -- the melody actually fit nicely on the guitar. After that, it became much more difficult (i.e., lots of notes), beyond my ability to arrange for the guitar while sight-reading.
But it was lovely indeed -- a shared moment of beauty at the end of a long day.
We never did anything like that when I was in Dallas. Not that I can play piano or guitar.
If I were a purveyor of fine wines, whiskies, or even coffees, I'd snatch this scene up for a picture of the good life.
I'm not exactly a screaming ninny when it comes to pain, but after two days this weekend struggling with all sorts of embroiled viscera, I visited the lovely Dr. Palmer this morning. I'm on a regimen of antibiotics for the week, battling a kidney infection. Could be a physical manifestation of stuffing emotions, I suppose.
At any rate, I'm a little fuzzy, and such concern as I can muster regards the condition of a house that has been left for weeks to a man of many fine qualities other than cleanliness and a small parrot of generally good manners who eats like a flock of macaws.
I'll be better in a day or two.
LATER: I have distracted myself by reading this book that I borrowed from my brother. The 23rd Psalm is utterly flat in anything other than the King James version.
I have been inordinately tired this weekend, so writing has been confined to answering two requests -- one from Florida and one from Iowa -- for a recipe for sweet tea. Now why they would be writing me for a recipe was a curiosity until I remembered that I had offered a recipe to little Fiona's father in comments over at World Wide Rant several months ago. A Google search turned me up about 15 entries in.
Little do these trusting correspondents know, but I make only a lightly sweetened tea, and that only in deference to my father-in-law, who likes a little tea with his sugar. My mother-in-law prefers unsweetened as do I. Lyman likes it as I make it, and Big Daddy has to make do with adding extra sugar. Running a household is a round of compromises. Perhaps I should follow Alton Brown's advice and keep a beaker of simple syrup in the refrigerator. It dissolves better in cold tea.
And I think I might like a glass or two of tea today.
LATER: My correspondent in Florida wrote to tell me her tea turned out wonderfully, then countered with a family-favorite recipe for lemon ice-cream. What would I do without the Internet? I mean, besides get my housework done?
Thanks to all of you who have sent condolences. I received a sweet e-mail from Francesca Watson which I acknowledged without knowing that her father is ill. Miss Francesca, I wish the best for your father and your family.
Mother died about 10 minutes after I boarded a plane in Baton Rouge. My sister and sister-in-law who were present tell me that she departed peacefully and quietly, slipping away while they were talking in the room. My sister tells me she had checked on her only a couple of minutes before. She did not die alone, which was a fear for us while she lived in her house. This year had been a particular struggle for Mother, whose world was becoming smaller and smaller as her breathing capacity diminished until she was finally bedridden. Cliched as it is, her sufferings are over.
I had no issues with my mother, so my grief is mainly sadness that she is gone. We had no long-standing scores to settle, no bitterness between us, no regrets. She was a hard-working homemaker whom God will happily invite into his Heaven because she made the best chocolate cream and coconut cream pies (and apricot fried pies, BJB) in all creation.
Ecclesiastes is the scripture for me right now. And the angels better watch their weight.
Let's see, we have Lucy's tree and her travel cage, three kinds of food, a first-aid kit, cups for the tree, her personal fan heater for drying after baths, her special buddy toy she sleeps beside at night, a couple of toys for the tree, newspapers, a skewer for fresh foods -- looks like Lucy is ready. I'm still packed from Dallas. Lyman will add a few things and we're out of here. Plus we had the radials rotated and balanced before the trip to Dallas. Y'all have a fine holiday.
Here's an interesting side note to my trip to Dallas. We rented a car so Lyman would have wheels in Vidalia. Rental cost: $366. Miles driven: 53. Cost per mile: $6.90.
One night Lyman called and told me to bring the red Tahoe home. He had been to Wal-mart that evening and lost the rental car in the parking lot. "Do you have any idea of how many little silver cars there are in this area?," he asked.
Another busy day today, cleaning and packing for a trip to the Redneck Riviera. We were not careful in planning this trip, and will find ourselves among Memorial Day crowds. Drat! Who decided to schedule the holiday for May 26?
The project at hand is to find a king-sized bedspread suitable for the condo. Do you know how hard it is to find a proper bedspread as opposed to a comforter set? Nigh unto impossible these days, unless we choose a chenille, which is an option. Experienced advisors tell us that it is far better to use a print fabric, to conceal such stains and spots as can be expected when children are running around slathered with sunscreen and tanning lotions and carrying colored drinks. A bedspread, I'm told, is the better choice because it is easier and tidier for guests to put right.
We will also inventory the kitchen and replace any items that have been broken, lost or snitched. People do take the funniest things: steak knives are always missing, plastic containers of all kinds go missing, can openers, knife sharpeners, bedside clocks all go missing. Maybe we should buy some cheap novelty ashtrays so people can take a souvenir from the beach without inconveniencing the guests that follow. Sorry to say, some people just don't get this sharing thing.
In Dallas, I stumbled across a display of battery-operated clocks on sale ($2.78 apiece, with batteries!) and bought half a dozen. Maybe I should have bought more. "Stay at our condo. Get a free clock!"
I'm really too tired for this trip right now, but given the situation in Dallas it's best we go and get it over with as soon as possible. Not a very beachy attitude is it? Maybe it will improve when we arrive.
I don't plan on being near a computer during our stay, so this might be the last post until sometime next week. Y'all have a safe and happy Memorial Day. (And I am taking suggestions for bedspread shopping anywhere from Mobile to Pensacola. And I know about the outlet mall.)
LATER: Steam irons go missing. Who in hell wants an iron?
We will not be publishing the name of the rehabilitation center. My sister was reacting without getting her facts first. The doctor in attendance says Mother did not have pneumonia when she left the center. The attending doctor at the hospital she was transferred to says she did not have pneumonia. That does not excuse the rehabilitation center for not calling Patricia when things didn't happen as planned.
Mother is now a patient at a nursing home about four minutes from Patricia's home, and maybe eight minutes from her work, as opposed to Mother's house 25 miles across town. A 50-mile round-trip across Dallas is not the optimal way to end a working woman's day. The home is clean and friendly, with many kind and cheerful people to look after everyone.
Patricia decided, and I concur, to bring a hospice facility into Mother's case. The hospice nurse who first looked over her chart explained to us that at this stage of Mother's disease, pneumonia and other pulmonary illnesses cannot be eradicated. Her lungs are warm, dark and filled with fluid, and there are no drugs strong enough to rid her of illnesses.Mother will eventually drown in her own lung fluids. The treatment now is to give her morphine derivatives and other anti-anxiety drugs to quell panic. She compared Mother's experience to being dropped into the deep end of a swimming pool and not being able to reach the surface.
When I left yesterday, Mother was quiet and lucid. It has been a roller coaster ride as they've tried to find the proper dosage of drugs. Medicine is still a hit or miss thing in her case. They're not helped by the fact that Mother has never been drunk more than once or twice (when I was a little girl she had some champagne with the neighbor next door and set the kitchen trash on fire when she cooked dinner that night) and never took so much as a tranquilizer to affect her mind. Mother has always dreaded being "drugged-up" and left in a nursing home to die.
So that's where Mother is.
I'll write more about Dallas later. I found that I've become quite the country mouse.
I'm home. Thanks for your prayers and good thoughts for my family. Whenever I come off 635 in Dallas alive, I'm sure God is watching over me.
Mother is stable, but not happy in her new environs. Patricia, my sister, is considerably calmer.
There is a lot to report from the Valley of the Shadow of Death, but it can wait until tomorrow. Y'all have a good night.
Coming soon to a theater near you is the name of the "rehabilitation center" that sent my mother off yesterday without doctoring her pneumonia. My sister called me yesterday afternoon in tears and anger.
This so-called rehab center released my mother to a nursing home yesterday. The drivers had to stop the conveyance twice because she couldn't breathe. The nursing home refused to accept her because her oxygen count was too low. She was taken to a local emergency room. The rehab center didn't bother to call Patricia at work. She didn't know what had happened until she called the nursing home to see if Mother was settled in. Apparently, they were intent on scaring Mother to death.
All is pending. Patricia is going to need some relief in a day or two.
I await her word.Yes, I know, I'm spluttering. Better that than the language I want to use.
LATER: Mother has asked for me. I leave tomorrow. I HATE this drive.
Two pissed-off Davenport girls. Somebody is going to think, "This sucks".
She's pretty, and I'm smart and we can take 'em all.
So I was thinking about trolling the comments over at Nate McCord's site, when I ran across this story from the Drudge Report about a restaurant in China using underwear as dish cloths.
Eeeeks!! you say.
I have a dirty secret. Because Lyman's undies and t-shirts are white cotton, they go into the laundry with dish cloths and dish towels which are also white cotton. The whole load is soaked for hours in hot water, detergent and a more than healthy dose of bleach. The load comes from the dryer white and sanitary. I'm confident that no cross-contamination is occurring. (Gads, you should see some of the dish towels that come out of this kitchen.) I see no need to freak until they determine what laundry procedures the restaurant follows.
And, well, the Chinese and laundry ...
This post at Ken Layne's enticed me to buy Roger L. Simon's out-of-print books on the Internet.
The site where you buy offers several formats. I e-mailed Mr. Simon, who graciously responded quickly, about which would be the best format to choose. He replied that any would probably work, but the easiest might be Adobe Acrobat. We googled a bit about other formats, and finally decided on MS Reader.
We downloaded the program as per instructions. We have hit a snag. Before making a purchase the user must "activate" the program. Well and good. The instructions are simple and they flow right up to the point where activation should take place. The Microsoft activation server is down. It has been down since this time yesterday afternoon.
So who handles the server?
And where are my Roger L. Simon books?
Here's an interesting discovery: 179 front pages of newspapers from around the world. When you click on a front page, you can go to the website, if there is one available.
I called my mother at the rehabilitation center. Tomorrow she will be transferred to a nursing home for a little while. When she leaves there, she will return to her house, and then I will go to Dallas. She has COPD and is approaching the end stage.
She is 84, and has been lonely for my father for 14 years. Today she could barely breathe well enough to keep up a phone conversation.
We expect to be orphans by the end of this year. Maybe that's why I've been lightly depressed this year.
I shouldn't chide anyone for grammar, but there is an almost universal error on the Internet (not just the Blogosphere), and coming soon to a book near you, that is driving me starkers. That is the misspelling of the past tense of 'lead'. The proper spelling is 'led'.
"Currently, I lead a quiet life. When I was younger, I led a raucous one."
I don't think I have read one source in the past year or so that has spelled this word correctly.
Mechanical spell-checkers, I guess.
No, I didn't do the fried pies yesterday. I like to cook and I am good at it, but I have my limits. Monday night Lyman and I cooked Shrimp Creole from Rima and Richard Collins' The New Orleans Cookbook. It's as good a recipe as we have in the house, and if you are willing to sell your favorite child or grandchild into slavery, you, too, can try it.
Here's the list of ingredients (no amounts -- too taxing): oil, flour, scallions, celery, onion, green pepper, garlic, parsley, tomatoes, tomato sauce, chives, red wine, bay leaves, whole allspice, cloves, salt, black pepper, cayenne, chili powder, mace, basil, thyme, lemon juice and water. And 2 pounds of peeled shrimp.
We used home canned tomatoes rather than tomatoes and tomato sauce, and Lyman made a stock from shrimp shells to use in place of water. This recipe calls for 1 & 3/4 cups of thinly sliced scallions, and let me tell you, my personal Hell is standing at the sink cleaning green onions thinner than my little finger. And it was delicious.
But last night? Hamburgers were too much trouble.
Billy Joe Bob, many thanks for that pretty red soil, but I really wish y'all would keep that and send some of the rain that's been falling. Our local farmers are beginning to worry.
By the way, I have assembled apricots, shortening, flour and a little advice from Miss B. Today just might be the day to try those fried pies.
I've added Michael Totten to the blogroll because he brings a different perspective to many issues, linking to unusual stories and references. He also has the cutest red-haired wife (but you can't see the photo because none of his archived photos are showing up).
All this talk of Bill Bennett is going to force me to set up a bourre game. The day we married, Lyman and I joined a group of friends for an evening of cards. I won $42 that day, though I don't think any person in the group lost more than $10.
I might even have to ask Miss Alec from across the street. She is 79, and doesn't get around so well anymore, but she has a reputation as a wicked card player.
Because his bathroom was in flames, Theisen ducked behind a large oak tree in his back yard to relieve himself. Before he could finish, though, one of the police officers at the scene declared he was under arrest for lewd conduct."I tried to tell him, 'Sir, my bathroom is burning. It's on fire.' But he didn't seem to care. As soon as I zipped up, he put handcuffs on me," Theisen said.
(Link via Obscure Store)
Tim Blair dishes up some vitriol from readers of the Sydney Morning Herald. Here's a small sample:
"Bush is currently the greatest treat to world peace, he is a second IDI Amin, he over estimates his own self worth, I put him up with all the othe dictators of the world. The IQ of America can move from 1 to 2 if he is put in exile. I continue to deplore anything American, as they are one of the most backward countries in the world."
I think my feelings are hurt.
We heard the wailing of a bunch of sirens earlier this afternoon. "No," I thought. "Not another of those accidents down the levee road." The levee road is a snaky thing and drivers are apt to cut corners. In February, two 17-year-old girls driving north were killed when they had a collision with a pick-up driving south. The cars hit each other head-on in the middle of the two-lane road.
The sirens came closer and I thought, "No, please, not a fire."
None of that at all. The Vidalia High School Lady Vikings softball team was returning to town after winning its first ever state championship. The team bus was met at the edge of town by a full police escort (I mean every police and sheriff's car in town -- all seven or eight of 'em), and paraded throughout the neighborhoods, sirens blaring and horns blasting. You go, girls.
The boys are in the playoffs, too. I wonder if they can keep up?
I woke this morning to two Post-It tags on my monitor. One says that Cossie called and asked if I would like to do lunch with her today. Another says "MONEY FOR LUNCH" with an arrow pointing to a stack of twenties on the counter. $140. Maybe we should do lunch in New Orleans?
LATER: That was a temptation until I remembered that sugarmama was off to the New Orleans Jazzfest this weekend. Nix.
So we wound up at the bar of the new Comfort Suites hotel down by the riverside. We sat near windows where we could watch the barge traffic going up and down the Mississippi. At 85 degrees, it was too warm to sit on the patio outside, even closer to the riverbank. Excellent Bloody Mary, too. Not too alcoholic with plenty of spice.
Lunch for one = $12 for a drink and a turkey club, including tip.Hey, if Possum is Larry Anderson's blogdaddy, and Possum is my blogdaddy, then we're blog siblings! I knew I liked that guy. Of course, being a sibling doesn't necessarily mean liking. But that's a long post I'll keep to myself.
By the way, I think I've finally figured out how Daddy comes out so wonderfully off-the-wall. Two words: sleep deprivation.
Billy Joe Bob of Compleat Redneck and I have had an e-mail correspondence going on for some time about fried pies. He says he remembers his grandmother drying fruit on feed sack bedsheets. I have no such memory. He wonders if he is dating himself by bringing it up. I suspect it's regional. My grands canned. I don't know that he has ever said where his grands came from, but mine lived most of their lives about 60 miles north of Dallas, TX, up around Gunter, Sherman and Van Alstyne.
I know that my mother's mother was born in 1900. That's a date that sticks with you. My daddy's mother died at 86 when I was in New York, which would be 1979-1983. I couldn't afford to go home for the funeral, and my parents couldn't afford to fly me. Miss Ida Gibson, her name was. Well, at the time of her death, her name was Mrs. Lee R. Davenport.
So, unless I am totally wrong about Billy Joe Bob, he's not entirely out of my generation -- though we could be at the long ends of one. My big brother is about 64. "Talking about my generation ..."
Chastised? Chastised? Oh, Dr. Taylor, you don't know chastised until I catch you setting your sweating tea glass on my antique desk. That was the quietest little nudge.
Go over to James Joyner's distinguished site and find the movies made in your birth year. For me, we have "Hud", "Peyton Place", and "The Three Faces of Eve". The influences ...
