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.)