Another happy birthday to Miss Francesca!

Happy birthday to Miss Lee Ann Morawski! (I think she's, like, 13 or something. Hard to tell with these youngsters.)

A whole new level of dust bunnies from Dave Barry.

Listening to Kid Creole makes me want to buy everything by the Neville Brothers. I saw them first in a small hall in NYC around 1980. There were about 500 people there, and everyone was on their feet. I grew up with this album. OK, so I'm in a mid-life crisis. Not talking about leaving my husband. Yet.

"Welcome to the lifeboat party, chile. Special invitation to the rank and file ..."

What better way to celebrate Labor Day than to discover a labor-saving device?

Yes, we have received La Roomba. It's no replacement for a good conscious cleaning with a power vacuum, but I can see where it has some value. During the hard days around a party, I can confine this little sucker in spaces and go along shopping or cooking while it cleans. I can close it up in the guest room and let it clean while I clean the guest bathroom, or shop for groceries. I can confine it to the office or let it run the whole great room while I work in the yard.

It won't work in two of our bedrooms because of thick, tasseled Moroccan carpets, but the rest of the house is fair game. It does a pretty good job.

I can see where this little guy could have been helpful to my mother at a point in her illness when she would have been strong enough to handle this little thing without being strong enough to handle a vac. It would have helped keep her house clean between visits from the housekeeper.

Thumbs up.

NOTE TO JIM: Lucy isn't a lot happier with the Roomba than she was with the other vac. She retired to the corner of her cage at 8:45 tonight, a little early for her. She just knows it's going to get her somehow.

Returned from the surgeon's office. I have been released. Last time that good-looking man will be looking at my groin.

Had I that turn of mind, it could've been the stuff of fantasy -- except I know too much about his malicious ex-wife and rotten kids to find him very attractive.

Living in a small town sure can put a damper on the imagination.

Jim Smith at Unfreezing has asked for more Lucy stories.

She's at my left hand now, drying after her bath. She is standing on a small perch in front of her personal fan heater. She has a bath three times a week under the sprayer in the kitchen sink. Lucy looks like this after a bath. Eclectus are not as dusty as some parrots. Regular baths are recommended to hydrate their feathers, though. Her natural habitat is the rain forest.

She spent a long time this afternoon chattering away. Her vocabulary is not expanding very fast, but she has one new thing -- she imitates the ring of the telephone, then answers it, "Harro?" Very disconcerting to son Michael when he stays over.

Lyman tells me she was a good girl while I was away, but by Sunday she began to think that I wasn't coming home and started to pine. She wouldn't eat, and moved listlessly around her cage area all day. Now she'll be accompanying us on our trips to Dallas.

Ah, there goes one of those big loud yawns. Never thought about birds yawning before Lucy. Certainly never thought of them making noise when they did so. All that chattering must have tired her.

After she dries, she'll get a treat of seeds, then we'll put her to bed about 9:30. She'll sleep the night through, and wake around 8:30 in the morning.

Lyman has taken issue with my fan-girl status. I came home to find Dr. Buzzard's Original Savannah Band and Kid Creole and the Coconuts. The boy likes to play hard. What a girl Cory Daye was. Sheryl Crowe should wish.

One of the interesting things in my mother's house was the old medical handbook, either edited or written (I don't remember which) by Dr. Morris Fishbein for publication in 1942.

It was a useful all around guide to hygiene, sex, childhood diseases, fevers, first aid and care of the ill.

Patricia was quoting from it the other night. I paraphrase:

Many people think that bathing is harmful to pregnant women. This is a pernicious belief.

Notes from Dallas:

If you live in Texas, take Spanish as your foreign language. I took three years of French, and it was absolutely worthless for my purposes this weekend. (Though I do live in the only state in the union where French has any value.)

To find boxes, go to the 24-hour Wal-mart or grocery store in your area and follow the stockers. Cereal boxes are ideal moving boxes, since they can't be packed too heavy, even with books. There's a large variety of sizes in a grocery store. Watch for those with split bottoms, though. We wound up with several frozen pizza boxes that were inadequate. Talk to the manager. Find out when stocking is done, usually around 1 am.

Scott Chaffin might scoff at my fear of 635, but we were driving at 70 miles an hour at 9:30 pm Wednesday night and saw brake lights go on ahead of us. We were in the third lane from the left. A chair had fallen into the middle of the road. Not cool, and very hard to get around in a town full of rude drivers.

Eat chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy at Gennie's Bishop Grill in Oak Cliff for lunch. Slap me, but it was better than my mama's, and she was an excellent cook.

I will crawl across broken glass for my sister.

You know what? I have cruise control on my car, too. I find that if I accelerate in the passing lane, it will go right back to cruise speed when I've passed the car in the right lane. Does everyone not know this?

Hey, y'all. Home.

After spending two hours vacuuming and mopping floors, that Roomba is looking a lot better -- though I think we need about half a dozen running continuously. Just a little more laundry and light packing and I'm ready to go.

One day, someday, I'm going to visit Dallas for nothing but pleasure. I'm going to the art museum. I'll visit the new aquarium. I will eat in good restaurants and go shopping. I haven't been able to enjoy Dallas for ten years. Mother didn't drive, and she kept lists of chores for us to accomplish when we visited. I don't resent that, but it did prevent us from taking advantage of the attractions Dallas and Fort Worth have to offer. Maybe we could team up with Scott Chaffin and Cindy and take in a little music.

But not this time. See y'all Monday. Think good thoughts about my getting off 635 alive, if you will.

I called my sister to confirm that I'm to travel on Wednesday. We are on go. Good thing I called. Today was her birthday. I remembered it a week ago, and planned to remark on it. This week? Forgotten.

She is a tad overwrought -- really, just confused -- trying to sort Mother's house out by herself. She's ready for some help.

Near the end of the conversation, she drew her voice up small and said, "You're not going to take Mr. Thumper are you? Mr. Thumper is my friend. He has a special place beside my bed."

I bought this powerful massager because my mother needed considerable back-beating to help clear her lungs for a few years.

Patricia appropriated it for tension and leg problems. (She's a walker.)

I guess she gets Mr. Thumper for her birthday.

I get a burnt-up Roomba.

Looks like we're going to be the first people on the block to have a Roomba. Lyman has set his heart on one. I suggested that we would come out better if he'd just get the @#%$ out from under my feet for about 4 hours a week, and take Lucy with him (geesh, she shrieks when I vacuum).

So much for my pearl bracelet.

From a guy whose house I vacuum with a Shop-Vac. Poor little thing will just burn up.

I don't like to be a first adopter. We have a Kodak digital camera that cost $400 that doesn't even have a zoom.

I've been listening to Ken Layne's recommendation, Drive-By Truckers, country and rock and roll, something like the Rolling Stones with fiercer lyrics.

They could have come from down the road.

Across the river there is a big club (relatively) called "Dimples". They could play there. It's the scene of drinking, adultery and fights. The sort of place where you could be cornered in the parking lot with a broken beer bottle at your throat. With a girl holding it.

Now, I'm a medium-tall slender woman. My hair is cut very short. I typically wear it flat, but it can be spiked.

To tease Lyman one night, I spent some time alone, spiking my hair, putting on dark eye make-up, red lipstick, and some slinky black things.

"Lyman," I said. "Take me to Dimples tonight."

"Janis," he said. "Put your hair down."

I bought Eight Little Songs from Dr. Frank. Would it bother him to have a menopausal fangirl?

I finished the notes and I finished the book. My conclusion is this simple: loving Ireland was an act of masochism in 1914.

Terry, avoid this and any of its relations to the furthest degree, and you should be fine buying an anniversary gift for Miss Reba.

I took a nap yesterday afternoon and dreamed that I was looking for a job after graduating from college. Will that finally put to rest all those weird dreams about not being prepared, or improperly dressed, or missing classes? Isn't it about time? I'm 46. I don't want to fret over math classes anymore.

Reason 745,237,140 to be married to Lyman:

Lyman and I received a test in e-mail. It's just one of observation.

Who is missing from the seven dwarves? Sleepy, Happy, Sneezy, Grumpy, Dopey, Doc.

Lyman suggests "Queasy". What? He's not a dwarf?

I was my mother's seventh child. When I was twenty, she gave me a quilt, a pretty beige negligee set, and a bottle of perfume. Do you think she was trying to get rid of me?

Here's an interesting thing. Patricia found my little Singer sorting through the house. My brother Bill gave it to me for Christmas when I was six. I haven't seen it in years.

LATER: Let's change that. Patricia, sorting through the house, found my little Singer. Better?

Lyman says no hand guns for me. He suggests a sawed-off shotgun, with triple-ought shot. I don't see too well.

There she is!

Mr. Greg Hlatky, and his excellently-named wife, Prudence, are seeking suggestions for coffee brands at A Dog's Life.

I vote for Community Dark Roast. But then, I've been taken by my husband's chauvinism.

All right. Does anyone have any experience with yard or simple estate sales? Any personal experiences that yielded unexpected insights into such a thing? It's been put off a week, so you have plenty of time to let me know.

I'm looking at this site.

What I've learned so far is this:

One person handles money.

Wear a fanny pack rather than use a cash box.

Use neon-colored poster paper. Very black markers or black paint, with arrows.

Tag things with prices.

Newspapers for glass objects.

Advertise guy things.

Have plenty of plastic bags on hand for people to carry things away.

Watch local restrictions.

Carry a 45. (Sure it's not the same, but close enough.)

There you go. Have at it, Kim. Why did, like, everything turn bright blue?

I've been piddling with Haloscan's comments today. Any changes in the template are entirely my fault. I was good with Pagemaker. Years ago.

Kidding aside, I do think every person needs to know how to change a tire or belong to Triple A. I was working late one night on Hwy 114 in Dallas. I stayed late, as I often did, working on the advertising graphics for a little paper called Las Colinas People. It was a high-dollar neighborhood, where every working person left at about 5 if they had any damned sense.

I was working in my office, and I heard a knock at the front door. I found a woman, approximately my age with an 18-month child in tow, asking if there was a maintenance man around. I asked her what she needed. Her tire was flat.

"Hell," I said. "I can do that."

I asked her where her jack was. She didn't know. I asked her for her manual, which she gave to me like her maidenhead.

I found the jack, and the spare, and changed the tire in good order.

My boyfriend at the time drove up in his pretty gold Lexus SC400. "What's wrong?", he asked. "I had a flat tire," she said. "That sounds like a man's job," he said. I popped up over the edge of the fender, after tapping the wheel cover into place, and said, "Yeah?."

We really need new bedside lamps. What do you think of these? I prefer the Nepal. Shouldn't they go nicely with the Tingler? Just to change the ambience a bit?

Darlins', don't y'all understand why this blog is named Gone South?

Truth is, I have been overwhelmed by a bout of laziness in the dog days of August, depression at the prospect of driving to Dallas in this heat next Thursday to help dispose of my mother's and father's belongings, and deep disappointment in the Tingler, which I've decided will make a lovely whisk for the kitchen.

And I will point out that Miss Francesca is hardly one to be pointing fingers for a lack of posts. And she still hasn't gotten back to me on Fabio.

"Lyman, haven't you planted that mint YET?!"

LATER: Maybe I have been unfair. Here is a Tingler testimonials page. With a little more work on those tines ...

Or maybe what I really need is a Sqwiggler.

I received my Tingler today. It looks and feels like a large egg-whip. It came in a red velvet bag. I'm adjusting the tines.

A silly thing from e-mail.

Here is a sort of curious tidbit to be found in the notes:

15.1467 (482:1). BELLHANGER -- One whose craft is the installation and maintenance of bells. It is a difficult craft, and its exponents are highly regarded in England, where bell ringing has evolved into an intricate national art.

Craft? Difficult?

Hah! I bet you thought I'd given up on reading Joyce's Ulysses. Well I haven't. I've been reading the notes in Ulysses Annotated.

I am on page 490 of the notes, which is a vast collection of tidbits including Irish historical figures, myths, history, Biblical references, Catholic liturgy, Theosophy and proponents, rare and obsolete Irish and English phrases, remembrances of Homer's Odyssey, Shakespeare and his history, colloquialisms common to Dublin in 1904, and then odd parts like this:

p.490

15.2234 (509:5). Whelan -- Cf. 8.353n.

Flip back to p.165 in the notes to find

8.353 (161:1). Whelan -- Identity and significance unknown.

Looks like the boys have gotten into the Guinness, with 152 pages to go.

It's good to remember the opening quotation from the notes:

I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality -- James Joyce

When I'm done with the notes, I'll return to the novel and reread it, making a rough correllation with the notes along the way, since my edition is not the one quoted page and line in the notes. A once in a lifetime project. When my schedule picks up, maybe my only lifetime project.

And I still have my copy of Remembrance of Things Past.

Peg Britton sends this:

A New Orleans lawyer sought an FHA loan for a client. He was told the loan would be granted if he could prove satisfactory title to a parcel of property being offered as collateral. The title to the property dated back to 1803, which took the Lawyer three months to track down. After sending the information to the FHA, he received the following reply:

(actual letter)

"Upon review of your letter adjoining your client's loan application, we note that the request is supported by an Abstract of Title. While we compliment the able manner in which you have prepared and presented the application, we must point out that you have only cleared title to the proposed collateral property back to 1803. Before final approval can be accorded, it will be necessary to clear the title back to its origin."

Annoyed, the lawyer responded as follows:

(actual letter)

"Your letter regarding title in Case No. 189156 has been received. I note that you wish to have title extended further than the 194 years covered by the present application. I was unaware that any educated person in this country, particularly those working in the property area, would not know that Louisiana was purchased, by the U.S., from France in 1803, the year of origin identified in our application. For the edification of uninformed FHA bureaucrats, the title to the land prior to U.S. ownership was obtained from France, which had acquired it by Right of Conquest from Spain. The land came into the possession of Spain by Right of Discovery made in the year 1492 by a sea captain named Christopher Columbus, who had been granted the privilege of seeking a new route to India by the Spanish monarch, Isabella. The good queen, Isabella, being a pious woman and almost as careful about titles as the FHA, took the precaution of securing the blessing of the Pope before she sold her jewels to finance Columbus' expedition. Now the Pope, as I'm sure you may know, is the emissary of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and God, it is commonly accepted, created this world. Therefore, I believe it is safe to presume that God also made that part of the world called Louisiana. God, therefore, would be the owner of origin and His origins date back, to before the beginning of time, the world as we know it AND the FHA. I hope the hell you find God's original claim to be satisfactory. Now, may we have our damn loan?"

The loan was approved.

No, Lyman didn't write the letter.

I am intrigued by this device.

LATER: And yes, I ordered one. Though I'm not expecting the more, uh, exotic benefits. But then, maybe I'll get lucky. Certainly cheaper than some other utensils I can think of.

Well, now. That was fun, even if I did want to drop a mickey in everyone's drink and cart 'em home at 7. Lyman says his ears are still ringing.

Nicole is a a cute little girl with a Polish last name (that I haven't fully gotten yet) from Ponchatoula, LA, home of the state's big strawberry festival. Ponchatoula is a town about 40 miles due east of Baton Rouge. She's going into her second year of college next semester at 21. I think she is too young for Jason at 28, but my parents married at 19 and 27 and lasted for 50-odd years. I guess it's not for me to say. She wears little to no make-up, as Jason likes, and has an easy smile. A tidy little figure, too. We'll see.

I was too busy to pay a whole lot of attention to her or Jason, either.

Both these boys stay away long enough that all they want to do when they come home is talk. When they leave, Lyman and and I lay slumped in our chairs, fumbling for the keys to the liquor cabinet and motioning each other to hush.

Girl, 83, 4'10", 115 pounds, was fresh from the beauty shop and raring to go. She talks up a storm.

I forget my in-laws' wedding anniversary, mainly because they think nothing of it. This dinner, though casual, fell in nicely. Tomorrow, Girl and Big Daddy will have been married 62 years. She says she can't understand how that can be, since she's only 65. I suggested that it was an arranged marriage. She thinks that must be the case. "Married 62 years to the wrong man," she said.

Constructive re-engagement is moving apace. Son Jason called last night to say that he was bringing his new girlfriend for a visit this evening. I keep trying to teach these boys to give me a little lead time and they keep ignoring me. So it's on with housekeeping today.

A fried fish dinner tonight will kill two birds with one stone. Everyday since we were given a large mess of white perch, Big Daddy has said, "I'm just waiting for you to fry some fish." I know he's an old man who is good to us, but it still gets tiresome. Especially since he has fried fish every Friday night with his domino cronies. He'd be happy eating fried fish EVERY night.

What I can't have is Nicole telling Jason, "I can't use that bathroom, Jason. Is there a gas station somewhere?" Or, "Ewwww, does your stepmother, like, EVER dust?" How about, "What do you think they put in the garbage?"

Femorally challenged or not, it's time to get a move on.

Iranian Girl is feeling low.

Thirteen things "PMS" stands for, from Peg Britton.

I was looking at my archives, and realized that this blog and Allison Lane have the same birthday!

That makes this blog a Leo. Interesting, that.

Apparently, it's time to change the description of this blog. The easiest way to explain the reason is to present the courriel (that's French for e-mail) correspondence I had with Carolyn Swicegood of Land of Vos yesterday:

From me to Miss Carolyn --

My two-year-old SIE, Lucy, has taken to a sort of "parrot dance", usually between about noon and 2 pm. It looks like a variety of birdie "yoga" and reminds me of formal Thai and Korean dancers. While she moves about, she makes any range of odd little noises, including clucks, growls and chirps. It usually lasts just a short while, maybe two minutes.

Have you heard of such a thing? Is it a mating behavior? Exercise?

Carolyn responded --

Is there anything that she can SEE during that time that she cannot see at other times? Or hear? I'm curious about what inspires her to do it.... She's old enough to be hormonal but they are such complex creatures one can never take anything for granted. :) Please tell me more...like what she's doing just BEFORE the dance, after the dance, and any other information you can share........

From me --

It's seems to start from nowhere. There's nothing particular outside at that time of day. Her cage is in front of a safe side window. She's takes her stance on the same branch, usually sometime between 12:30 and 1:15, and begins her ritual. She extends her body forward, then rolls her neck in all sorts of contortions, sometimes looking at the ceiling, making all number of sounds all the while. At times, she does a quick, tight flip and flutter of her wings. Sometimes she'll move a step up the branch to continue. She'll go until she's done. Then she'll straighten up and preen, usually, and get on with normal Lucy business. It's a pretty thing to watch, and an odd thing to hear. Martha Graham would be proud of her.

Sometimes she likes to be watched, sometimes not ... That's about all I know. If you like, I'll watch her more closely and report back any details I might not have noticed.

Carolyn responded --

...I think this is probably a perfect example of a young Eclectus female coming of age and trying to find a mate...she's dancing in the window and hoping that her knight in shining armor will be watching or fly by and see her enticing display and help her find a nest site for babies and live happily ever after! :)

This is printed with Miss Carolyn's permission, and she stipulates that it is only a personal opinion. She is a breeder, however, and I suspect she knows as much as anyone.

Therefore, Lucy is no longer a baby. Thank goodness the car keys are safe.

Oh my, what are we going to do if she takes up with a crow?

I am working on "constructive re-engagement" with the community. Today, Lyman and I drove all the way across town to SUPER WAL-MART (13 minutes because the light wasn't functioning properly on Hwy 61). There I bought dish towels, cleaning cloths, Lysol, Lime Away, Dawn dish liquid, Mr. Clean and bags and filters for the Shop-Vac.

We bought the Wet-Dry Shop-Vac for remodeling three years ago, but it's proved to be a godsend in common housekeeping on a hard floor. The housekeeper who helped a couple weeks ago gave it her seal of approval.

When Lyman and I flew to my brother's in Portland, Oregon, three years ago to cook gumbo and crawfish pies for his son Alex's and Amy's rehearsal dinner, my sister-in-law taught me to buy cheap white hand towels for service in the kitchen. She bought towels five for $5 at Costco. (I was a little ticked today. I had to pay $1.20 apiece.) Use 'em, bleach 'em to rags & throw 'em away. I added cheap white washcloths for cleaning cloths -- 18 at Walmart today for less than $4.00. We use paper towels for blowing our noses, cleaning up Lucy messes, and draining fried food. (Not the same ones, mind you.)

Lyman bought a pack of Hanes tighty-whities, 6 for $5.95.

We bought two beautiful thick pork chops for $6.00 and 3 packs of cleaned baby spinach for dinner at $7.50. Bought an odd squash for Lucy for $3.50.

That's Louisiana values in action.

LATER: Darn! Missed dinner. We were listening to the radio.

EVEN LATER: Lyman no longer says I am a "selective invalid". We now prefer "femorally challenged".

That girl up there in Kansas, Peg Britton, e-mailed this:

A mechanic was removing a cylinder head from the motor of a motorcycle when he spotted a well known heart surgeon in his shop. The surgeon was there waiting for the service manager to come take a look at his bike. The mechanic shouted across the garage, "Hey Doc, can I ask you a question?"

The surgeon, a bit surprised, walked over to the mechanic working on the motor cycle. The mechanic straightened up, wiped his hands on a rag and asked, 'So, Doc, look at this engine. I open its heart, take valves out, fix 'em, put 'em back in and when I finish, it works just like new. So how come I get such a small salary and you get the really big bucks, when you and I are doing basically the same work?"

The surgeon paused, smiled and leaned over and whispered to the mechanic..."try doing it with the engine running!"

Popped by the surgeon's office this morning. Recovery is going nicely. The patch is "solid". He pulled a stitch that has been an irritant. Back in a month.

We had an excellent dinner last night. Lyman found this light, tasty recipe for chicken on FoodTV. We complemented it with carrots Vichy (carrots, butter, sugar, pepper, nutmeg, lemon and parsley) and grilled zucchini.

I was back in the saddle, barefoot in the kitchen. (How y'all like that for mixing metaphors? Or whatever.) Lyman felt so much better. Now he says I am a "selective invalid".

I like this story that I found via Kathy Kinsley and MommaBear. Take a look at the picture.

A man bolted from the bush ahead and she pursued, knocking him to the ground with a blow to the head from the butt of her weapon.

"He looked up at her and all he could say was 'You're a woman.' Heather told him 'Yeah, but that doesn't mean I won't put a bullet through your head,' " James said.

From Scott Chaffin comes a picture of a purple polar bear. I have to wonder along with Scott whether the bear knows it's purple and if it bugs her.

Reason #675,273,479 to be married to Lyman. We were listening to Joe Scarborough's show on MSNBC while he was talking about shopping on Rodeo Drive.

Joe said, "And here's a bra and panty set that sells for $700."

Lyman said, "That's some expensive utensils. They better have something to put in 'em."

I've been watching the ads at the top of my page for a while. It's interesting to see how they change to reflect the content of the page. When I wrote about Lucy, there were ads for parrot equipment. Since my recollection of Lyman's building accident, DeWalt is hawking power tools. This could be an amusing game. Will they try to sell me and my readers pool supplies?

Cooking for Lucy again today. This is a bean recipe with 13 beans and peas, brown rice, sweet potatoes and carrots. This large batch will be frozen in snack baggies and should last 3-4 months. Even Lucy is not a vegan. She eats boiled eggs, fish, chicken and devours a chicken bone. Toxic little cannibal.

4:30 a.m. There just ain't a lot of reason for Missy Janis to be up at that hour: no cows to milk, no children to tend, no hours to drive, no exams for which to cram. But it was a good hour to listen to the passing of the mild storm that settled over the area last night. I like rain, even if this one will delay yet another week the filling of the "Great Money Pit" aka swimming pool and hasten the coverage of our white-painted woodwork with gray mildew. Don't tell me about the humidity in your area until you have to pressure wash at least once a year. (Looks like it will be twice for us this year.)

Son Michael is grieving a little over the pool. He understands our reasons and approves, but we're literally burying part of his childhood. He, his brother and their friends were in the pool everyday during the season until everyone was up and away. For Lyman, it served the practical function of keeping his children at home and observable during their teenage years. Their friends' parents knew where to find them, too. Before he left Friday, Michael said, "Last night I dreamed about ghosts out there."

I have regrets, too. I regret the $10,000 or so we've funneled into the thing the past ten years. That might have been a nice fishing boat that would have finally shut his Daddy up.

"New Age" idiot murderers.

(Link from Obscure Store.)

I never want to hear these words:

"I said, "Ken, you've got a hole in your front yard and your car is in it,"' Sharpe said.

(Link from Obscure Store.)

I didn't research the solar race that came into town on Friday until today. The race is called the Dell-Winston Solar Challenge and is restricted to high schoolers. Is that too cool, or what? The calendar and race route are here. Scroll down to find the route for today and the towns along the way. Go, speed racers!

Lyman won't look at my scar from the femoral hernia repair. First time in ten years he hasn't been interested in my naked belly. "No," he said. "I don't want to see it. I can handle things happening to myself, but I can't handle them with other people."

In more than one post, the most recent one here, Larry Anderson has reported that he injures himself while doing repairs. Lyman is the same. He always turns up with a scraped knuckle, or a small cut, or a bruise.

In one case, it was worse.

We were working on remodeling the house. The living room furniture was stacked on the porch, and we were putting up crown molding. Lyman was in charge of the electric miter saw. (I can use drills and screwdrivers, but no self-respecting belle runs a miter saw. Unless she frames pictures.) I had taken a bathroom break while Lyman was outside cutting an angle. From the opposite end of the house I heard "Janis, I've hurt myself bad!" Dreaded words.

I hitched up my sweatpants and went to see what was the matter. Lyman had cut the back of his wrist with the saw. I grabbed a clean cloth from the laundry room and pressed it against his wrist. "We need to go to the hospital NOW," I said. Lyman was trembling. He sat down at the kitchen bar. "Let me rest for a minute," he said. "Okay," I said. "Would you get me some coffee?" "Okay." Lyman kept the compress on his wrist and drank a little coffee to settle his nerves. (Yeah, yeah.) "Lyman, let's take a look at this and see what we have." He reluctantly approached the sink, we took the compress off, and ran cold water over his wrist. It really wasn't too bad, but it needed stitches. "This needs stitches, Lyman. We need to go to the hospital." "Okay." "I need to change my shoes." "Okay." "I'll drive." "Okay." So I started walking to the bedroom. At the corner of the dining area and the hall I fainted right to the ground. "Janis? Janis? Are you okay?" "I'll be all right." I rolled over onto my knees and crawled down the hall to our bedroom, then dragged myself onto the bed. "Janis, are you okay?" "Give me about five minutes." It took about that long for the swoon to pass. I changed shoes and we drove to the hospital. A week later, I took the 13 stitches out myself with a single-edged razor blade and a pair of tweezers.

I don't want to look at his scars, either.

LATER: Looking at this post, I see it makes no sense to include the detail of the furniture being stacked on the porch, unless you consider that I could have cracked my head going down. I don't want to imagine that fiasco.

This story linked by Kevin McGehee leaves me speechless.

I just saw Kobe Bryant and his wife on television. What in the world was he thinking? She looks like a supermodel.

LATER: I'm still looking for a picture for this post. Googling "Vanessa Laine Bryant" isn't turning up anything that does her justice.

This one looks pretty good.

What do you feed a badger on his birthday?

LATER: According to this page, meat loaf might be in order.

That's one thing to do today. Go see the solar cars. Ah, shoot. They're gone already. You folks to the east might keep an eye out. They're headed to Florida.

Lucy was a tired girl last night, though we didn't do much special. I baked "Bird Bread" for her and roasted drained, canned chickpeas as a treat. I put two candles in a piece of the bread, which is more like a HEAVY cake, and Lyman's dad, Lyman, Michael and I sang "Happy Birthday". Lyman and I sing to her all the time, which she likes, but the group thing was a little overwhelming for her. She recovered her aplomb quickly, though, and made a real mess of the cake.

The cake wasn't bad. It had corn meal, whole wheat flour, mashed sweet potatoes, raisins, pecans, sunflower kernels, cinnamon, apple juice and a bit of baking powder. It might have been even better had I been able to find pumpkin and papaya nectar. Without a lot of work, the recipe would be right palatable for humans. There was nearly a whole large baking dish left, so I cut it into chunks to freeze. Lucy can enjoy her cake for months to come.

I stumbled over a shoe in the living room yesterday morning. It wasn't mine and it wasn't Lyman's. I checked the guestroom, and lo, there was a son asleep. I looked out the window and found Michael's car. We learned later that he had been in Baton Rouge scouting for a new job. He wants to move back to Louisiana from Dallas, where he can be with his brother and friends and within easy driving distance of Vidalia. He came late in the night, after both Lyman and I had gone to sleep.

The discovery recalled a post from some months back where I recounted a dream in which I found Ken Layne asleep in the guest room one morning. I didn't ponder or analyze that dream because such a thing is utterly normal around here. If I find a boy asleep in the guest room or on the sofa, I don't ask, "What the heck are you doing here?." I ask, "Would you like some breakfast?"

This is Lucy.

(Good grief, this is ripe pickins for the likes of Kim Crawford and Chuck Myguts.)

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.

Lucy is reading Lyman the riot act because her playtree has been misplaced. It's outside waiting to be hosed down.

There. Now she is content.

Did you know that mashed kiwi, dried on a surface, has many of the same qualities as Elmer's glue? A creative soul could run with this idea, creating a wholesome, nutritious vegetarian paste for young children to use in art projects. (Tasty, too!)

"Help! Help! I am in flames!"

(Link from Gothamist via Gawker.)

The boys of summer are coming at six for the all-star game and hamburgers. My sister-in-law is loaning me her cleaning lady for the afternoon. I have to get busy so the poor lady doesn't freak when she walks in.

Fritz Shranck has more fun in Rehoboth Beach. That's a bingo game I could go for.

Oh, Kathy, you wrote that letter yourself, didn't you? Didn't you?

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.

Lucy is stone-cold exhausted. She's been supervising the work around her, and she's a stickler.

Chuck has a good one, too.

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.

D'oh. Young vandals videotape acts of vandalism.

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 little parrot news:

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.

"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.

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.

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 ...

Maybe not, Chuck.

I am, by birth, a Davenport.

B. Indigo has mail. Southerners are a vain bunch.

I was going to say "We Southerners ...", but I knew it would draw howls from the natives. I've only been in the South for ten years. Some people around here wouldn't let me pet their dog yet.

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.

Bad news for our locality.

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."

Medpundit links to this story about a peculiar hazard of body piercing.

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 Affection

Lovemaking 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?

Zapped, again. When I visit my dental hygienist, I do deep breathing exercises to overcome my wariness of the equipment. I leave the office unfit to drive. Luckily, it's only eight blocks away from home.

James Joyner likes a link. Seems he wants to be an "influential" blogger. I'll do my share.

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?