Rosedown, rainbows, and reasons to believe

One of the first times I ever met my brother-in-law, before he was offically part of our family, he and my sister came to Baton Rouge to visit, and we took a little sight-seeing trip together. We drove up to St. Francisville, Louisiana, about an hour and a half away from here, and stepped back in time more than 150 years at Rosedown Plantation. It was a magical day. If you follow the link, you might be able to imagine how we lost ourselves for several hours in the beauty of the gardens and the ancient, moss-draped trees.

We were feeling really mellow as we drove back to Baton Rouge. In the distance there was a faint rainbow, and my sister started telling a story about some people she knew who had found themselves standing near the end of the rainbow. My future brother-in-law and I, almost in unison, began telling her all the reasons why the story couldn't possibly be true. We tried to explain about the characteristics of rainbows and water particles and light refraction, but even before we'd finished making our points, we rounded a curve in the road and came upon exactly what we'd told her was impossible to see: the end of the rainbow.

The arc of a brightly colored rainbow came low over the treetops and ended abruptly on the shoulder of the road, less than half a mile from where we were. We watched it with wide eyes and open mouths as we slowed down and drove past it, and then we turned our heads and watched behind us until it was out of sight. It was an amazing part of a wonderful day.

I think that may have been the first day that I saw my sister's husband-to-be let his guard down enough that I could peek behind his "man's man" exterior and catch a glimpse of his softer side, the side that was rapidly winning over my sister. My sister had told me, quoting Julia Roberts' Vivian in Pretty Woman, "I want the fairy tale." On that day, I believed for the first time that she might have a real chance at getting it.

My sister and her husband have been together for a lot of years now. You'll be pleased to know that the "happily ever after" part seems to be coming along nicely.

Dog days

If one dog year equals seven human years, as they say, Kadi and I will be the same age next week when she turns nine. Both of us are past our prime, a little worse for the wear, but still feeling pretty good.

Lately I've been kind of worried about Kadi because she's been drinking excessively and waking me up in the middle of the night to go outside. That's all behavior that started within the last three weeks or so. On two occasions, she didn't even bother to wake me up (maybe she was offended by my profanity when she woke me the previous night) and just quietly peed in the hallway. Considering Kadi's strong sense of propriety, she must have been in desperate straits to do that.

Otherwise, she's seemed perfectly normal, but I took her to the vet this morning just to be sure. It's the first time she's been in the car since I got a new one last August, so she was ready to ride. In the old car, she'd have a barking fit everytime I used the turn signal. This one's quieter and didn't seem to bother her. Other than having to tell her repeatedly to stay in the backseat, our ride into Baton Rouge was fine.

At the vet's office, Kadi ran ahead of me on her leash as if she were going someplace really great and couldn't wait to get there. Apparently, she only likes the lobby, because she started balking when we headed down the hall to the exam room. We had to wait in there for ten or fifteen minutes, during which she quivered and panted and tried unsuccessfully to climb onto my lap. She did find someplace to climb to, though, and the vet laughed when he came in and saw her big yellow body sitting tall in the straight chair next to mine. No cold floor for my girl.

Fortunately, we got good news: no sign of diabetes, which was my main concern. The vet thinks the likely problem is a urinary tract infection. He told me that an animal's instinct, when it feels discomfort "down there," is to drink a lot of water to try to flush it out. Unfortunately, if bacteria are present, the flushing doesn't always do the trick. He put her on antibiotics and said we should see a difference within the next three or four days. If that doesn't work, we'll do blood tests to check for kidney problems. I'm feeling optimistic at this point.

While we were at the vet's office, my younger daughter and her husband came over and cut my grass. They and my older daughter take care of that job for me, and I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am. Heat gets to me in a very short time (one of the many things I have in common with my sister), and fresh-cut grass, although it's one of my all-time favorite fragrances, activates my allergies big-time.

By the time Kadi and I got home, the lawn looked beautiful and there was a brand-new doggy pool in the backyard. We waited until the grass settled down and the temperature dropped a few degrees, then filled the pool for the pupsters. Kadi likes to run as fast as she can from across the yard and jump into the pool with a big splash, and the doggy-smile didn't leave her face for the whole half-hour or more we let them play.

Not an exciting day by anyone's standards, but a nice one nevertheless.

They hadn't seen each other in a coon's age

This is Rocky Raccoon. There should be a trademark symbol next to his name, but I don't know where to find one.

Rocky lives on a shelf in my closet. He's a puppet. His rabbit-disguised-as-raccoon fur is wrapped around a loosely coiled spring, and by manipulating the spring with your finger, you can make him appear to do all sorts of things. For some reason, most people don't seem to notice right away that Rocky has no legs.

I bought Rocky at a magic show in the mid-80s, when I was in a long-term relationship with a man whose hobby was magic and illusions. (He was good at it, too; he made himself disappear sometime in 1989 and I haven't seen him since.) Rocky has never personally been in show business, but he's entertained a few grandchildren in his time--and me. He's entertained me a lot.

It must have been four or five years ago that I was cleaning out some things and stumbled across Rocky, and my first thought was to introduce him to Butch and Kadi. They were super-excited to meet him. Kadi politely sniffed under his tail (she still does that--every single time), and Butch, who was normally a little standoffish with other animals, wagged his own tail blissfully as Rocky rubbed against his face. Neither of the dogs has ever tried to bite Rocky or to play with him like a toy.

Rocky only comes out to visit once every three or four months. When he does, he talks to my dogs in a voice that sounds a lot like mine, except that his is high-pitched and squeaky, and he talks really fast. He mostly says things like, "Hey, Butch and Kadi, how you doin', little buddies?" and "Ooooooh, I'm soooo happy to seeeee youuuuu; let me scratch your ears." Kadi's sniffed under Rocky's tail enough times to know there's no life force there, so she usually just takes a quick whiff to make sure nothing's changed, then exits. But Butch sticks around until I tell Rocky, in my own voice, that it's time to go home.

Now that Rocky's older, he mostly just enjoys his quiet time, resting in between my steam iron and my old straw hat with the brightly colored floral band. But that doesn't mean he's been forgotten. This morning I walked into my bedroom and found Butch standing at the closed closet doors, wagging his tail, waiting patiently. I knew instantly what he wanted. "Do you need to see Rocky?" I asked him, and his tail wagged faster and faster. I took Rocky down and let them visit for a few minutes, then Butch went back into the den, and I left for work.

Sometimes, I guess, you just think about an old friend for no particular reason at all.

News Bites

Around the World
The U. S. Government checked Abu Musab al-Zarqawi off its list yesterday. Good. So that list would be how long now?

Book Critic
It's critical that I move some books out of my house before they take over everything. Deciding how to decrease the volume of my volumes is my own personal Sophie’s Choice.

Entertainment
On the Today show this morning, a representative of People magazine reported that the new daughter of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie appears to have her mother’s lips. Hmmm. Talk about power-nursing.

Fashion
Britney Spears can afford to dress better. So can I. Both of us should consider it.

Food
Lunch today was from our “white-trash” menu: Cold pork ‘n beans scooped up with barbecued potato chips. It's a dirty little secret, but sometimes I’ve just gotta have it.

Gardening
Everywhere I turn, I see a bush that leans way too far to one side, but I’ve been told that nothing can be done about it for a couple more years.

Health
A new medical condition was discovered today when a Louisiana woman, Velvet Sacks, broke out in hives and repeatedly butted her head against the wall. Sacks stated the condition came on suddenly when she turned on her computer and continued to deteriorate as she remained without blog editing access for nearly three hours.

Help Wanted
Stepping-stone edger needed. Must have strong back and mile-wide masochistic streak.

Music
If I were chief of the music police, the song ”Sabre Dance” would only be allowed at the circus. Because if you hear a snippet of it accidentally, it will stay in your head all day. Don't believe me? Follow the link.

Politics
See “Gardening” above.

Religion
For some unknown reason, it popped into my head today that Jesus was a shepherd, not a sheep. That gives me hope that He could relate to those of us who don't just blindly follow where some people try to lead us.

Weather
Just like politics and religion: too hot to discuss in much detail on my friendly little blog.

Hit and run

To lighten things up a bit, let me tell you about my friend "C."

We met through a mutual friend in the late '60s and ended up working together at an East Texas courthouse. "C" was a slender, very pretty girl, with black eyes, olive skin, and long, long, long black hair that always caught everyone's attention. She dressed well, too, in nice dresses and high-heeled shoes.

In those days, shopping in the town where we lived was limited to a handful of stores in the downtown area and another group of stores in a fairly large, L-shaped shopping center near the traffic circle. The shopping center was anchored by Sears at one end and Weingarten's Supermarket waaaaaaaay down at the other end.

One day, soon after I returned to the courthouse from my lunch break, "C" rushed in. She was a few minutes late, and she looked frazzled.

Me: "Where'd you go?"

"C": "I went to the shopping center, and I got hit by a car."

Me: "What do you mean you 'got hit by a car'? You mean your car got hit?"

"C": "No, I mean I got hit. I was walking across the parking lot and a car hit me."

Me: "Omigod, are you hurt? Are you all right?"

"C": "I think I'm fine, but the car bumped me in front of Sears, and I ran all the way to Weingarten's before I could stop."

It's all coming back to me now

Roles were reversed at my house yesterday. The tribute to my sister was actually the second blog entry I wrote that day, after my older daughter persuaded me I'd regret it if I posted the first one.

The first one was written while I still had my knickers in a twist over something that had started out as a little irritating pinprick and then festered in my mind until it seemed to be crying out for me to set the record straight. To my way of thinking, what I wrote was a great piece of work. It was scathing, biting, brilliantly (or so I thought) sarcastic, with a few well-placed zingers that would have shaken my literary middle finger right in the face of the person who'd angered me. Not that that individual would have actually read it, but at the time that seemed to be beside the point.

Fortunately, I had the good sense to realize I needed to let it sit for a little while before spewing my indignity out into cyberspace. During that cooling-off period, I passed it by my daughter, who already knew why I was steaming. She read it and asked me a few questions:

If [that person] were to read this post, are you willing to sacrifice the relationship?

Maybe, I said with a shrug of my shoulders, if it came to that.

Do you think the preachiness of your post might anger some readers you don't want to lose?

Ummmmm...possibly. I suppose. Actually, there was a good chance of it, because preachiness is exactly what had aroused my ire in the first place.

Would telling someone off be worth the fallout you're likely to get by stirring up controversy?

Maybe not...but maybe so. I don't know. I'll have to think about it. I was wavering, but I was still mad. I'd made a lot of valid points in that post, by golly, and I didn't want to waste them.

Then my daughter said something that stopped me cold: Even though I know where you're coming from, I think the tone of this post sounds like the voice I hear when you and I argue about something and you have to have the last word...and that's not the best side of you. That clinched it. She was right.

Because of something I learned a long time ago in a team-building class, I'm usually the one encouraging everybody else to "let it go." Think of the higher value, I say. I know it isn't fair, and I know you're dying to respond, but don't lose sight of your goal. Focus on the best thing you can do right now to make things turn out the way you want them to in the end. Sometimes, that means not saying everything that's on your mind just because you think it needs to be said.

I didn't figure out that piece of wisdom by myself, even though I should have, given the ample experience I'd had with my own words coming back to bite me in the butt. I'd had to be taught. Obviously, it was time for a refresher course. I'm happy to report that it's still good advice, and it was interesting to find myself on the receiving end of it. I could have made things so much worse.

And today? Everything is okey-dokey!

Sistah-friend

These are my favorite pictures of my little sister (on the left in both photos) and me. One was taken in 1951 and the other 10 years ago this summer. In between, we provoked squabbles with each other, slapped and tattled, vied for our mother's attention, and everything else that goes along with sibling rivalry.

For most of our adult lives, we've lived in different states. For years, we'd talk on the phone once in a blue moon, see one another on rare occasions when I went home or she came to visit, and keep up with each other's news largely by relaying it through Mother.

Then, in 1996, we took a trip together for the first time as adults. We went back to our hometown for a family reunion. Shoulder to shoulder, we stepped forward to meet relatives we hadn't seen in nearly 40 years, and we relaxed together as we felt the warmth of their welcome. We visited schools and parks and shared our separate memories of being there long ago. We mourned the fact that our childhood home had long since been demolished to make way for a university tennis court, but we went to that spot anyway and stood together on the very ground where we once rode our bikes, pulled each other in the wagon, and drew hopscotch squares with colorful Missouri rocks. We looked at each other in surprise and fought back tears as an unidentified fragrance from our childhood suddenly wafted through the air and reminded us we were home.

On the trip back to our present-day homes, we stopped overnight in the majesty of the Ozark Mountains. We sat together on the balcony of a Victorian-style bed-and-breakfast inn and soaked up the beauty and tranquility of the evening. We talked about the places we'd been, the people we'd seen, the things that time had changed, and the things it hadn't. We sweltered together in the heat of an un-air-conditioned auto dealership after we encountered car problems. We stopped over and over at fast-food restaurants to use their clean restrooms and bought cold drinks as a thank-you, whether we needed them or not. We got lost. We struggled through mixed-up hotel reservations. We worked it all out. We talked, we drove, we talked some more and drove some more, and we left the miles and the years behind us.

We both knew when we started out that it would be an emotional trip down memory lane, but we had no idea it would be the beginning of our journey together into the future. We talked--and listened--more on that trip than we'd ever done in our whole lives, and we got to know each other as the women we'd become. We discovered that our differences would fit in a thimble and that our similarities are too big to be confined by time or space.

I've always loved my sister, but from that trip forward I've loved her more, and I've learned to appreciate her to a degree that makes my heart swell. She's fun-loving, quick-witted, whip-smart, rock-solid, and beautiful to boot. She may not always agree with everything I do or say, but I'm convinced she'll have my back either way. And I'll have hers.

Last night I e-mailed my sister about a silly little thing that had ticked me off. Mostly, I wrote to her because I wanted to vent to someone who knows me through and through and wouldn't need an explanation as to why my feathers were ruffled.

I got her reply at lunchtime today. As usual, she didn't disappoint me. If she thought I was right, she didn't feel the need to validate my opinion, and if she thought I was wrong, she didn't find it necessary to point out the reasons why. Instead, with one simple, typed sentence, she let me know she heard me--and understood.

Thanks, Sis. Again. I love ya'.

Zoo-ming in

The top three "modern art" images here were captured by cropping, in sequence, the bottom three photos. You might want to try this with your own pictures when you're feeling creative; it was fun to see things in a different way.






That being said, I find the bottom ones way more beautiful.

Think twice, Taskmaster

At work Friday, I called a local attorney who is opposing counsel in a case my boss is working on. He seemed perfectly pleasant, and we had a brief but cordial chat, in the course of which he referred to a specific report that was in his file. I mentioned that we didn't have a copy of that report, and he replied, ever so nicely, "I'll make my secretary fax it to you this afternoon."

It was just a poor choice of words, right? He couldn't possibly still think that way in this day of enlightened feminism. 'Cause I don't get it. Did he think she would object to faxing it to me? I can picture her now, standing with her arms crossed over her chest and a look of resolve on her face. "Hell, no!" she's saying. "No way will I fax that!"

There's a lesson here for any guys who happen to read this blog: Women will do almost anything for you if you ask nicely enough. But if you want to see passive aggression in all its glory, just order us to do something.

My second husband was a construction superintendent who was used to having a couple of hundred big, burly men do his bidding in order to build nuclear power plants and things. It seemed only natural to him, therefore, to kiss me goodbye in the morning and toss off a quick, "Pick up my dry cleaning today." Guess what. I didn't do it. Didn't have a chance. Too busy. Sorry, forgot about it. The next day, after I'd proved to myself that he couldn't control me, I'd go and pick up his dry cleaning. (I wasn't a complete asshole, after all.) All he had to do to get it the first day was to say, "Could you please pick up my dry cleaning today?" Consider it done.

I'm not saying we'd refuse to comply with an occasional directive issued hurriedly or casually. That happens all the time at work, and it's usually just a language short-cut to get the job done faster. At home, I don't think anybody would object to a quick "Scoot over just a little bit" or "Toss me that pillow right there." I'm talking more about a pattern of speech or an attitude that implies more control over another person than might be warranted.

At a stress-management seminar I attended once, the instructor spoke about reducing stress when dealing with employees and with family members. In both cases, he advised, "The first step is to give up your illusion of control." He said that if we desired certain behaviors in those around us, our best bet would be to set up situations (through reasonable requests, rewards and consequences) that would make them desirous of behaving the way we wanted. "Otherwise," he said, "you'll be continually frustrated, because the truth is, after people have reached their teens, you can't really control them."

So, just to be clear, I'm not telling you guys how to talk to the women in your lives. I'm just asking you to consider that you might get better results with a "would-you-please" approach.

By the way, the report we needed was faxed over later in the day. I wonder how he made her do it.

Going bananas!

I've never been much of a fruit eater. An occasional orange, fresh strawberries, an apple once or twice a year and that's pretty much enough fruit for me. Except for bananas. I don't eat bananas often, either, but I buy them fairly regularly. If there are firm, unblemished bananas in the store, bananas with no green ends and no brown spots, some of them are going home with me.

I know perfectly well that I'll only have time to eat one or two bananas before they start getting spots and turning softer than I like. But do I buy one or two? Of course not. I buy four or five. Then I take them home, eat one or two over the next couple of days, and wait until the rest turn dark and disgusting and start leaking onto my kitchen counter. Then, maybe, I'll throw them out.

Back in my "good-little-wife" days, I'd turn overripe bananas into fresh-baked loaves of banana-nut bread. For someone who thinks of carrot cake as a vegetable, that's a good use of bananas! I still enjoy banana-nut bread, but I don't bake much these days. For one reason, it takes time I prefer to use in other ways, and for another reason, I can't be trusted alone with homemade baked goods.

Anyway, back on topic, I've been aware of my excess-banana-buying habit for quite a while, and it's been bothering me. Maybe that's why my subconscious mind helped me figure out how to stop letting bananas go bad on my kitchen counter.

On my way home from work this evening, I picked up a few groceries. It's the first time I've shopped since May 21, according to the blog entry I wrote the next day, so I've gone 12 days without buying any groceries except for one loaf of bread and three 12-packs of Diet Coke. And, no, I didn't buy any bananas today.

Nevertheless, when I got home and unloaded my trunk, I found one white plastic bag containing five very dark, mushy bananas. Evidently, I bought them on my last trip to the grocery store and they never even made it into the house! And I never missed them!

My new method is still wasteful, but I think it's gonna work well for me. All I had to do was toss the bag of bananas directly into the garbage. Easiest cleanup ever.

Take me out to the ballgame

It's been just a few days since Barry Bonds hit his record-breaking home run. I figure that if I'm gonna post another baseball-related entry, I'd better hurry up and do it while baseball is fresh on people's minds.

I apologize in advance for the fact that this story pokes fun at a fat person. I do know that's tasteless, but I'm gonna tell it anyway. I'm a plus-sized woman myself (okay, plus-sized and tasteless), but because of this story, I still chuckle every time I hear America's best-known baseball song.

When my daughter lived in New York, she told me on the phone one night that a guy she worked with had made a confession to her that day. He told her that he'd accepted a date with a girl he didn't like because she had tickets to a baseball game. He said the girl wasn't anybody he'd ever be interested in getting to know better; she annoyed him in general and, on top of that, she was a "fat chick." He said he knew it wasn't right to accept the date under those circumstances, but "you don't know how much I want to see that game." He'd made up his mind to deal with his conscience later, after the date. In the meantime, he'd make sure the girl had a nice time, and he'd also make sure not to lead her on.

Later that same day, my daughter saw the guy again. As he passed her desk, she heard him singing softly:

"Take me out to the ballgame,
take me out with the crowd,
buy me some peanuts
and buy me some peanuts
and buy me some peanuts
and buy me some peanuts
and..."

Greetings from the infirmary

I had a lovely, peaceful holiday weekend until late Monday afternoon, when some kind of "bug" got hold of me and didn't turn loose. For the next 30-plus hours, I relied on the companionship of my good friend John.

I did make an effort to go to work yesterday, but that lasted only about ten minutes before I turned around and headed back home. Once home, I didn't feel like reading or even watching TV, so I slept almost all day long and then on through the night with no difficulty except that created by a furry intruder.

Late yesterday afternoon, my older daughter came over to stay with me. She'd had a wisdom tooth pulled earlier in the day and wasn't in much better shape than I was. We figured that the two of us together had at least a halfway good chance of taking care of our four dogs in the manner to which they've become accustomed, and it actually worked out pretty well. Would have been fine, in fact, had Lucy not been so excited about the idea of a sleepover. She went from room to room all through the night, jumping on and off the beds to check and see if anyone was awake and willing to play.

This morning I felt weak but well enough to go to work, and I've continued to feel better throughout the day. My daughter, on the other hand, called me this afternoon to tell me she now has whatever bug I had yesterday, so she's still stretched out in my guestroom. The virus was bad enough without the complication of an aching jaw, so she totally has my sympathy.

Two people told me today that there's a virus going around, and I know from experience that if there's one within a 20-mile radius, I'll catch it. That being said, I rarely get colds or flu-type illnesses (knocking on wood here), and I almost never miss work.

Which brings me to the point of all this whining: One day in the 80s, I faked being sick to stay home from work. It was the only time in my life I ever did that, but I woke up just too exhausted to deal with all the crap I expected to come across my desk that day. I really did feel guilty, but I picked up the phone in spite of it, called my boss, and told him I "must have a 24-hour virus or something."

The next day, feeling rested and ready to face whatever came along, I went to work. Within the first 30 minutes I was there, three co-workers called in sick. They all said they thought they'd "picked up whatever it was" that I had.

Memorial Day

I place white flowers
on the grave
of one young soldier
boy who gave
his life, my own and
yours to save,
to honor him.

Though I may not
in fact agree
this war is a
necessity,
he bravely fought to
keep us free.
I honor him.

And as I watch the
mothers cry
in anguish while their
children die,
there is not one who
questions why
we honor them.

The bravery with
which they fought
to buy the freedom
others sought
came from within,
could not be taught.
We honor them.

The question I would
ask is for
the leaders who have
chosen war:
How many men must
die before
you honor them?


Note: The photo accompanying this original poem was taken at a Civil War reenactment at Magnolia Mound Plantation, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in November 1997.

Extra! Read all about it!

The photos here, taken in 1949 or ‘50, show me and my grand-father, on the same end of the same sofa, engrossed in what we’re reading. Other than love itself, the love of reading may have been the greatest gift I ever got from my mother and the grandparents who raised me. All of them read for the sheer pleasure of it, and I learned early on that it wasn’t something they had to do; it was something they wanted to do.

My mother and grandfather devoured “murder mysteries,” the paperback crime novels that sold for 25 cents each at the drugstore on the corner and featured gruff detectives who worked long hours out of seedy offices to prove that blondes (or brunettes) in tight dresses had killed their hardworking husbands. If you look at the stack of books in the picture I posted yesterday, you’ll see that some of that rubbed off on me. Today’s thrillers are less formulaic, I think, but probably not by as much as I’d like to believe.

My grandmother mostly read magazines, Ladies’ Home Journal, Good Housekeeping, McCall’s, and Redbook. She liked articles and stories that were short enough to finish in between household chores. Mammaw was a “good news” kind of person, and the murder mysteries were not for her.

I reveled in comic books, those featuring Disney characters, of course, and especially Little Lulu and my all-time favorite, Archie. (That devious Veronica still makes me mad.) Once I started school, I moved through Laura Ingalls Wilder’s “Little House” series and into the "Ginny Gordon” mysteries. Somewhere along the way I read The Island Stallion, Walter Farley's story about a boy and a beautiful wild horse that haunts me to this day. Those books and all the others took me places I’d never otherwise have gone and introduced me to characters and situations I might or might not have bumped into again in the course of my life.

All of us read the newspaper, and I still remember the first news article I ever read. I was only six years old in April of 1949, when three-year-old Kathy Fiscus fell down a well and died, but I’d heard something about it and wanted to find out for myself exactly what had happened. I’m sure some of the words in the article were unfamiliar to me, but I could read enough of them to understand what had happened, and the story of Kathy and the failed but heroic rescue effort moved me to tears.

One of the books in the stack pictured with yesterday's post, The Great Deluge, by Douglas Brinkley, is about the devastation during and in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I’ve seen some of the results of Hurricane Katrina firsthand and watched hours and hours of television coverage, but I firmly believe I'll understand it much better after I read about it.

Those of us who live in the internet age are fortunate to have an additional source of reading material: weblogs. Who would ever have believed there’d come a time when individuals across the world, skilled writers or not, would be able to share their innermost thoughts and ideas instantaneously with strangers -– with you and me? And who would ever have imagined how reassuring it would be to read that all those people in all those places, people with different orientations, different lifestyles, and different opinions, have so much in common when it gets right down to the heart of the matter?

I could go on and on, but I'll stop now. I've gotta go read the Sunday paper.

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

Well, not exactly, but when Julie Andrews mentioned them in The Sound of Music as she sang about
"favorite things," I knew exactly what she meant. There are no strings attached to the brown paper (cardboad) packages these days, but I still get just as excited to see them.

I splurged recently on a book club order, then, a few days later, ordered a couple of CDs from Amazon.com. Both packages came at the same time.

It was such fun to browse the actual books, not just their catalog descriptons, and to anticipate the pleasure they'll bring me this summer. I read every night at bedtime and take the settings and characters with me into my dreams. (If you have difficulty reading the titles, you can click on the picture to see it in a larger size.)

I don't buy many CDs. Through experience, I've learned that most of them have one or two great songs and a lot of others I wish I hadn't paid for. Of the two I ordered this time, one is a dud, and the other is amazing. It's been my driving music for the past two days, and I could listen to it over and over.

In fact, I'm gonna go listen to it again, because I have a list of errands to run today. I'll be back later to post something a little more substantive, but in the meantime, if you have a minute, check out Joe Cocker's Greatest Love Songs. Be sure to scroll down and listen to a few samples. If you're like me, you'll find yourself wishing you were slow dancing with somebody.

Beautiful bee bait

Honorable foot in mouth

Have you ever heard something come out of your own mouth that stunned you into a horrified silence? And did the person you were speaking to give you a look that said she wasn’t sure she really heard what she thought she heard?

That happened to me. My face still burns when I think about it, and it’s one of those stories that gets passed around at family gatherings a dozen years after the fact. In order not to embarrass anyone else, I’ll use fake names in this confession.

There’s a really nice lady who lives a mile or two down the road from me. We’ve never spent a lot of time together, but our paths cross occasionally, and we’re connected in a way. Her daughter and my daughter married brothers, which makes our grandchildren first cousins. Our granddaughters are just a couple of years apart in age and have shared a number of activities through the years, so this lady and I have sometimes found ourselves at the same events.

I’ve never known her by anything other than her Americanized name, Patty (let’s say), but she was born in Japan. Although she’s been in the U.S. most of her adult life, her speech still evokes visions of kimonos and cherry blossoms. I adore listening to Patty talk. I’ve always been fascinated by foreign accents, and hers is musical, almost. When I listen to her speak, everything else goes out of my head. I know I shouldn’t, but I find myself concentrating on the sound, more than the substance, of what she’s saying. I let her words and phrases roll around in my mind, and I play with them. Silently (and without moving my lips) I practice saying words the way she says them. WARNING: DO NOT DO THIS!

One night after a dance recital, Patty and I ran into each other outside the LSU Union Building and waited together for our daughters and granddaughters to join us. Neither of us had known beforehand that the other’s granddaughter would be dancing, so each of us had brought along a gift for our own grandchild but nothing for the other girl. We held our separate gift bags and chatted for a few minutes about how nice the recital was and how fast our girls were growing up. Once again, I found myself drawn into Patty’s speech patterns. I was enchanted, and as each sentence came out of her mouth, I mentally mimicked it.

Patty, suddenly becoming aware of the gift situation, blurted out, “Oh, no! I not-ta get-ta nut-tin foh Kaaaay-tee!”

To my intense and endless shame, I immediately responded, “Oh, don’t worry about it, I not-ta get-ta nut-tin foh Staaaay-cee.”

Wouldn’t you just die?

Good job, people

Taylor Hicks is the newest "American Idol," and I couldn't be happier. I'm sure those of you who don't watch and couldn't care less are happy, too, because now I can shut up about it.

Which I'll do.

In a minute.

After this.

YIPPEEEEEE!

This will be a difficult post to write...

...because I can't type...fast with one hand...and I have to use...the other hand to press...redial over and over...to vote for Taylor Hicks. So far tonight I haven't...been able to get through, because...of busy signals, but I...will keep trying until...the two-hour voting window...has expired. From the...beginning of this season...of American Idol, my...favorites have been Chris, Taylor...and Katherine. I thought Chris...had the best voice, and...Katherine has a lovely...voice, too, but every time I pictured...myself going to a...concert starring one of...the Idol hopefuls, I was always...smiling bigger at a Taylor...concert. Chris had rock...idol potential, I thought, and...will probably go in...that direction. Katherine has film star...looks, but I have never tapped...my foot to a single Katherine...song, not even the...fast ones. Taylor, on the...other hand, gets my juices...stirring and pumps rhythm into...this aging body. I'm gonna...give it my best shot tonight, boy...just like you did in...your three performances,...and win or lose, you'll...have my vote in the...form of CD purchases...down the road.

To anybody...who reads this post before...10:00 p.m. SDT, please bookmark...it and come back later. Go on...now, go dial 1-866-IDOLS02 and...show Taylor we love...him.

I have an...idea. I'm gonna go grab the...extension phone. With one...in the right hand and...one in the left, maybe...I can redial fast enough to...get at least one vote in tonight.

Edited at 10:25 p.m. to add: I never got past the busy signal. Not one time. I hope I don't cramp up my typing fingers by sleeping with 'em crossed tonight.

Cool dude

It was almost eight o'clock last night before I summoned up the strength of character to drag myself to Wal-Mart. I wouldn't have gone then had I not been out of dogfood, but I'd used up the hurricane-emergency canned dogfood earlier in the weekend and no longer had a backup plan.

It was even more nightmarish at that time of the evening than it would have been earlier in the day. Not as crowded, perhaps, but all the pre-school-aged shoppers were tired, cranky, and prone to letting out sudden, ear-splitting screams. I was at the point of wishing birth control pills could be added to the public water supply until I spotted the little guy in front of me at the checkout stand.

He was probably about five--maybe a tall four--and he was sooooo cute! I'd noticed him in the store earlier, but not because he was one of the screaming, crying, whining kids. Au contraire. He looked like "Joe Cool," trailing casually behind his mama in his jeans and oversized, red-and-navy-striped rugby shirt. His hair was styled in beginner-dreadlocks, and to complete his Lenny Kravitz persona, he wore a pair of wraparound sunglasses. The lenses were smeared with fingerprints, and one earpiece was wrapped in grey duct tape and barely hanging on.

When I saw him again at the checkout stand, he was no longer wearing the glasses. He still wasn't complaining, but he was beginning to squirm a bit and his frequent coughing made it obvious he wasn't feeling too well. And then romance blossomed.

The family in line next to us included a little girl who was about a head shorter than our line's little Rastafarian boy, and she took an immediate fancy to him. She moved over closer until she stood about two feet away from him, smiled her biggest, brighest smile, and silently watched him. When his mother noticed the little girl and pointed her out to him, he whirled around to face her. The cough was immediately cured, and the squirming was gone. He stood perfectly still and studied the little girl for a moment. Then slooooowly, he twisted his body away from her and reached into his pocket. Out came the cool shades. He put them on carefully and, apparently satisfied that his "look" was complete, turned back around, cocked his head ever so slightly, and posed once more for his admirer.