Foolery

The Politics of Birthdays and Cold Calling and JIMINY, Where Is the Heroin?

(Photo stolen from Jeremy Dunham on Flickr)

It's Free-Association Friday!  On a Thursday because it's 11:19 p.m. as I type this and I know darn well I won't finish before midnight and it's well into Friday on the east coast, and I haven't done a No Punctuation Wednesday in FOREVER, and this is pretty close.

Kinda want to bitchbitchbitch because this week I started a new phase of my job called Save My Job and involves ** ulp ** COLD CALLING, which I despise but which is actually pretty good for me.  So I've been so focussed on this at work (which involves excessive insane nervous Twittering, of course, but THAT'S ALL PART OF MY EVIL PLAN) that I wasn't paying attention to the date, and it's here.

Smedley's eighth birthday.

Oh, I shopped, for the most part -- one or two small things left to take care of -- but I completely forgot about the whole Cupcakes At School phenomenon.  I was, of course, reminded of this tonight, by Smedley, at 8:17 p.m.  Panic ensued.  Well, not really, because I am a great believer in a well-stocked pantry, which does not, apparently, include chocolate chips.  Cupcakes were not an option because Smedley shares a birthday with another little girl in her class, and her mom will bring cupcakes.  25-30 second graders eating TWO cupcakes at one sitting?  I don't think so.

So I made oatmeal cookies, which will really chap Smedley's hide in the morning when she wakes up to discover this, but that's what the goodie gods directed me to do, so there you go.  From 9:00 to 10:00 p.m.  Plus I'm a firm believer in packing food full of hidden nutrition, so they are oatmeal broccoli cookies.

Just kidding.

AND we're not having a party Saturday because of about 13 reasons I'm just too tired to share, so -- like last year -- we'll have a kid party NEXT Saturday, when the weather will probably be perfect, if history is on my side.  That's what we did last year, and it was fantastic, whereas the actual birthday day was rainy.  But will Smedley remember this nature fact when I casually mention the plan to her tomorrow?  I'm certain she won't.

Okay, here's one reason: the other (very nice) little girl having a birthday is going to be a Super Popular Cheerleader someday, and we have not heard anything about a birthday party for her, which means she is probably having a sleepover like the one she had last year, and if Smedley were to invite kids to OUR (not happening on the right day) park party (lame-O mom), most of the girls would not be able to come because they'd be heading off to Cheerleader Girl's party instead.

I can't take that chance.

So Smedley will hate me when she realizes it tomorrow, but I'd rather have her hate ME than have no one show up to her party.

Sigh.

Sorry for the ramble, but I uncorked the Mom Bottle and now it's foaming all over the floor and I can't put it back.

When did motherhood -- no, CHILDHOOD -- become so political?

Oh crap -- Saturday's my anniversary, too.

11:45 and I'm screwed.  Happy Free-Association Friday, everybody.

Raise Your Right Hand

(Photo stolen from Dan Morgan1 on Flickr)

The United States Oath of Allegiance is as follows:

I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God.

This is the oath that, I'll bet, most of you reading have never had to take.  Or, put another way, most of you have never had the privilege of taking this oath, and neither have I.  This is the oath one takes upon becoming a citizen of the United States, upon becoming a new American.

This is the oath my neighbor Adriana will take soon.  I saw her in the grocery store tonight.

"I passed my test!" she said.  Her citizenship test.

"I knew you would," I said, and I hugged her.

I knew she would.

And she's the person who we all root for, the one who came to this country from Mexico to make a better life.  She and her husband have two darling children, two decent jobs, and two good cars.  They are saving to buy a house of their own, and maybe, once the New Depression passes, they can.

She will be a new American soon.  I have just had an attitude adjustment.

One of a Few of My Favorite Things

The December 10th, 2001 cover of The New Yorker.  Chas saved it.  I want the shower curtain version, but I don't think they make it any more.





("Newyorkistan" by Maira Kalman & Rick Meyerowitz, stolen from this site)

The Mormor Stories: Off to the Races

(Art by Catherine Jones and available for sale at art.com) 

According to this site, the value of a dollar in 1918 was equivalent to $15.08 in today's money.  Keep this in mind as you read this story of Mormor's from 1918 (if I did my math correctly).

On one of our Fourth of July trips my father's cousin, Alfred Anderson, took us to Bear Creek in his new car.  A community picnic was being held as well as baseball games, races, horseshoes, and games for the little ones.

When the race for twelve year olds and younger was called I eagerly ran to the starting point where quite a group was gathered.  I was lucky enough to win, was given $2.50 as prize money, and promptly shared ice cream cones with my brother, Art.  Another race was for twelve year olds and older.  Art urged me to enter because I was exactly twelve and he saw prospects of more ice cream.  This race attracted some young women so I had to really ramble, but I won and got another $2.50, so Art got his ice cream cone again.

The last race was an obstacle race and open to anyone, girls or women.  We were shown the course which involved running around things, running backward, hopping on one leg, and going up over stumps.  Once more Art kept urging me to enter, even though there were quite a few grown-up entrants, so away I went.

I was in the lead and just climbing up on a stump when my mother spotted me and yelled, "ESTHER PATRINA HOLMGREN, HAVE YOU GONE CRAZY?!  COME HERE!"

Well, I couldn't obey and still win, so I kept on, just calling I'd be there in a minute.

Well, I won, Art got another cone, and I hurried to explain things to my mother.  You see she'd been putting away the leftover food from our picnic table and didn't know what I'd been doing.  She was glad for me that I'd won $7.50, but I must admit I felt quite humiliated when she yelled at me in front of all those people.

By my calculations (questionable, certainly) her total prize money would equal $113.10 in today's money.  Well, last year's money, anyway -- this year's money is too volatile to tell.

Tweeting the Oscars with Foolery

Guess what I did tonight instead of writing?  Yup, I actually watched the whole Oscar ceremony.  Crazy, I know.  And as I watched, I made ridiculous comments on Twitter. So this is as close to writing as I got, big smart aleck.


There seems to be two choices for Oscar hair: messy or Hair Helmet. I've got messy down pat, myself.



(Photo by REUTERS/Jason Reed)

Sophia Loren looks like Endora from Bewitched.


(Photo by REUTERS/Mario Anzuoni)

@IDoThings Wassup? I can't believe I'm watching the red carpet stuff. Surrendering brain cells as a punishment.

@IDoThings Excellent. Got 'ny guacamole? Ya gotta eat guacamole when ya watch skinny bitches.

@IDoThings I've got a 75-pound lasagna in the oven, will that do? TAKE THAT, SKINNY BITCHES!

@IDoThings My husband is watching "The Mask II" with the kids to avoid the Oscars. Do you know how BAD that movie is? He REALLY hates Oscar.

@ijefff just said that Valentino has a washboard forehead, but would he Twitter it for y'all? Nooooooo. So I am.

Anybody hear the Slumdog kids interviewed by CNN reporter? The oldest said his favorite thing about flying to America...
...was all the free champagne on the flight. Hear that? Someone just got fired.

@IDoThings I'd take the long way to the bar just to trample Angelina or Miley on the way. Now THAT'S sacrificing.

This is what I hate about the Oscars, right here.

How drunk would I need to be to laugh at the musical numbers? #oscars

#oscars Puppets would have been an improvement.

#oscars Look! It's Barbie and Ken! Or, Kengelina.



(Photo stolen from Yahoo! images)

#oscar I think Tilda Swinton appears terrified of contrast.


(Photo by REUTERS/Jason Reed)

#oscars Tilda Swinton needs to pick up Quaker Oatmeal as a corporate sponsor.

#oscars WHERE IS THE MUSIC AND THE GIANT SHEPHERD'S CROOK WHEN WE NEED IT?!

#oscars Is it just me, or does Jennifer Anniston look pissed?

#oscars Is "Spielzeug" really the word for TOY in German? What a fun, fun language.

#oscars OK, I was wrong -- THIS is what I hate about the Oscars.

#oscars HA! Baz Luhrman outed for creating that ACK-WHEEZE-COUGH-GAG-ACK-ACK-ACK song and dance monstrosity.

ha ha ha ha ha R/T @ijefff did that guy buy that tie at a gas station? #oscars


(Photo by REUTERS/Gary Hershorn)

Does Phillip Seymour Hoffman think that's a good look? Maybe he too is channeling Joaquin Phoenix. #oscars

Still working on Hoffman #oscars -- Yarmulke gone really really wrong?

#oscars Zee shortest speech een Oscair eestory eez not zat short.

#oscars "Stay tuned for Will Smith. The biggest a-a-a-a---" well, my mind didn't hear the word "action" coming, did yours?

#oscars WHEW! Thank heavens for commercials. This live tweeting is thirsty work. #gettingmydrinkon

#oscars Sparky asked who were the couple getting married onstage. Whaa? One of the Star Wranglers is in a white gown.

#oscars The third "Slumdog" guy looks like he wants to grab the mic away from his colleague.

#oscars People who should be givens, and therefore exempt, from Oscar thank-yous: spouse, parents, God, Steven Spielberg.

#oscars I love the live orchestra on stage for the music segment. Anything to keep the jazz hands away.

#oscars It's an all-slum Oscars.

#oscars Oh crap, singing and dancing. Better not be any #&%*ing jazz hands.

#oscars If Peter Gabriel didn't do his song, John Legend was a good second choice.

#oscars Hugh Jackman looks like Clint Eastwood. So tonight hasn't been a total loss

#oscars "I'm berri berri happi." LOVE THAT GUY!

#oscars Queen Latifah wins for Best Performance at the 2009 Oscars. Total elegance.


(Photo by REUTERS/Mario Anzuoni)

#oscars Oh, I thought she just said "elevating CRAP to the level of art." I was gonna tell her DUHHH.

#oscars Kate Winslet: absolutely lovely, and hair done by LEGO.


(Photo by REUTERS/Gary Hershorn)

#oscars Ladies and gentlemen, appearing tonight as Jesus, Adrian Brody!

#oscars Robert de Niro has the best line of the night.

#oscars Camera is a little too close to Mickey Rourke for comfort. Plus, he has a vampire behind him.

#oscars Is it me, or did all of the speeches to Best Actor Noms sound like "sorry, you're not gonna win, but whatta guy!"

#Barbarawalters: "...for his wwwrenching performance as a wwwrestler." Wwwwreally?

@ADramaticMommy All silly, all the time. ; )

Midge

This is Midge.  Midge came to me when I was still young enough to love Barbies but old enough to know an ugly friend when I saw one.  Still, what a body, eh?  And just like Barbie, Midge's tan/sexy/vapid/materialistic friend from Malibu, Midge has legs that go on for miles.  Even if she can't bend them or touch her heels to the floor.

There's a funny story about Midge.

The first thing any girl does with a new fashion doll is strip it naked and dress it in something trashy, right?  Please tell me it wasn't just me.  Well, my best friend Cheryl and me.  Cheryl is part of this story.  When the strange-looking Barbie came to live with me, handed down from an older girl (who had moved on to cool 1970s teenage stuff like "Saturday Night Live" and The Bay City Rollers and Pong), Cheryl and I were fascinated by the doll's silly beehive hairdo and '60s vixen make-up.  We immediately stripped her out of her housewife dress and discovered that she had a factory-inscribed stamp on her butt cheek.



(Photo stolen from this site)

"Midge," read the inscription, along with a copyright and some other stuff.

Choking laughter ensued.  This was the first we knew of the doll's name, "MIDGE."  The only person either of us had ever known named Midge was a crabby middle-aged woman from our general neighborhood who chain-smoked and bitched all day long, at least in our presence.  Okay, so Mattel got the permed hair right, but nothing else about this doll was anything like the Midge from our world, unless the doll chain-smoked and bitched in private.

I turned to face Cheryl and stuck out my hand for a handshake.  "Hi, I'm Midge!" I began as she grabbed my hand and shook it.  "I know because it says so on my BUTT!"

 
(Photo stolen from this site)

Shrieks of laughter.  This was WAY more fun than Pong.

To this day, when I hear the name Midge I surreptitiously stick out my hand and mouth the words, "Hi, I'm Midge!  I know because it says so on my BUTT!"

And if I ever decided to get a tattoo?  You guessed it, Sweetcheeks.

Public Purse Excavations -- Oh, the Humanity!

 

(Photo stolen from this guy)

 

One of my favorite clients is in the office this morning.  He's one of my favorites because he's always so very pleasant, he has a great business, and he's Greek God Gorgeous.

I've had a teeny little huge fat crush on him since his NFL days.  No, unless you're somewhat local to me, you've probably never heard of him.  But I won't tell you his name because he's a client and that would be indiscreet.

I always blush and stammer and act weird when he comes into the office.  I'm sure he thinks I'm off my meds.  If only I took meds so I'd have that excuse.  But he's still so very pleasant anyway, even though I am definitely a dork.

So when he peeked his head around the corner just now to ask me if he could borrow my hairbrush to touch up before he went on camera, my walnut-sized heart grew two sizes too big.  HE wanted to borrow MY hairbrush!  Wait, do I even HAVE a hairbrush?  Does this mop above my eyebrows LOOK like it's ever met a hairbrush?  I dug through my purse as he towered over me, watching.

Oh, the blood, the blood, the blood rush to my facial capillaries!  Or whatever they're called for real!  I pulled out a mostly-empty can of almonds.  He laughed.  I pulled out a banana.  "Just like my wife," he said, and the blood washed my face again.  There was palpable heat coming off my cheeks, and I sensed a faint reflective red glow on the backs of my hands.

"I think it's down here," I said lamely, crinkling the wrapper of my protein bar.  Wait, now I have to pull that out, or he'll think it was a candy bar, and we can't have that, since he owns a health club.  Tossed the protein bar on the desk and kept digging.  Please please please please don't let me accidentally snag a tampon in this excavation.  Aha!  Yesterday's apple.  Now he thinks I knocked over a fruit stand on my way to work.  At least there aren't any Peanut M&Ms in here.

TA-DA!  I produced a small hairbrush.  Started to hand it to him, then snatched my hand back quickly.  What if the brush houses my usual hairball festival, and I hand it to him, and he hands it back with a queasy look on his face and says, "Uh, thanks . . . never mind"?

But there were only two hairs on the brush, which I quicky extricated.  He brushed his hair and handed the brush back to me.  Got to find out who still bronzes stuff, I thought as I stuffed the brush back into my purse with the almonds and the fruit and the protein bar.

Oh great -- now I'm hungry.

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

(Cartoon stolen from this site)

It was a dark and stormy night.

That's it; dark and stormy, no drama. Other than the awards show on television, that is. Fake tension, fake tatas, fake bake.  Hell, I'll bet even the gold statuette is fake!

GAHH how she wanted one.

KABOOM, the thunder.  Thunder -- in February? Not likely . . . no, it was just the hammering of her fist against the warm television. Oh.  In retrospect, not a good idea, since it was made of glass and plastic and . . . out of warranty and all.

Crap.  Plus, she missed the Best Picture of a New Artist award.  And then the electricity blinked out.

It was a dark and stormy night.

*     *     *     *     *

I do NOT write fiction, and it's obvious why.  But, since I don't watch awards shows, this is the closest I get.  But if you have a hankering to write fiction? PLEASE go visit San Diego Momma on Tuesdays for her wonderful PrompTuesday series.  She gives you a topic, or -- in this case -- an opening sentence.  You write it in ten minutes or so, keeping it short and sweet.  Or, in my case, short.

Also?  She's a heckuva lot of fun.  And anyone who let's me write the tripe I write?

AWESOME.

Add Caramel Until It Tastes Good

Have you made it through the first layer of See's Valentine Candy yet?  No?  Well, put it down and go check out this link because you're going to want to make this Right. Now.

 

(Photo stolen from the article at Bon Appetit)

Have I made it yet?  Um, well, no, actually, I haven't, but I have a very good reason.

I am a LAME-O.  On file.

But I will make that apple crisp.  And actually?  There are a lot more recipes in the March 2009 issue of Bon Appétit that are equally compelling and which I will be attempting, because they are from the very able, talented, likable and funny chef Sarah Patterson Scott, who is Chas's cousin, and it is my duty and pleasure to brag up the heck out of a family member whose success has absolutely NOTHING to do with me.

(Photo stolen with the blessing of Jim at  www.napaman.com)*

Sarah has worked for years bridging the two worlds of food and wine, working for wineries -- most notably that of Robert Mondavi, Sr. -- creating and pairing food with their wines.  Now stop and go back and read that sentence again.  Hellooo, working with food and wine?  Who do I talk to about THAT job?

And the other reason I'll be trying some of these recipes is self-evident: caramel.

Our family had lunch with Sarah in the Napa Valley last month.  She told us that she and a partner are working on a cookbook, which I will also be shamelessly plugging once it comes out, so fair warning.

Go check out Bon Appétit and leave Sarah a comment!

*Thanks for the photo goes to Jim White at Napaman.com, a beautiful blog and a great place to browse if you love wine, food, good photos, the Napa Valley, and pretending you understand anything fancier than Two Buck Chuck.

The Mormor Stories: Carl's Work Avoidance Technique

I knew my grandfather Carl, whom we called Papa, to be a serious and honorable man, and I think he truly was.  Self-sacrifice was his way.  Diligence was his middle name.  So it was particularly delightful to learn that he was not a perfect angel his entire life.  From my grandmother's stories, here is this little story about Papa.  I have changed only the way Mormor referred to Papa -- from Papa to Carl.  Because while her grandchildren had no problem with it, it's a little weird for you folks to read about a pre-teen called "Papa."

When your grandfather, Carl, was a young boy, he and his brother Harley got jobs weeding carrots for Mr. Costa who lived out on Arcata Bottom.  They were paid 10¢ for each long row.

One day, when it was quite warm, Carl got tired of working, and anyway he had heard that there was an abandoned rowboat somewhere along a dike that he would like to find, fix up, and use.  So he left in spite of Harley's protestations.

Carl walked and walked and walked along the dike for nearly two miles, but nowhere did he find a boat.  However, when he was about to turn back in disgust he saw what looked to him like a scarecrow floating among the reeds and trash.  For some reason he poked the thing with a stick and, to his horror, discovered that it was a man's body.  You can imagine how fast Carl got out of there.  He raced to the nearest farmhouse where the people phoned the sheriff.  Finally the sheriff arrived, the farmer's pickup* was hired and they set off.

After a bit they had to walk down the dike with the sheriff continually asking "how much farther?" and Carl just guessing "another hundred yards."

Well, they walked and walked and walked until the law man was certain he was on a wild goose chase.  But Carl kept insisting it was just a bit farther which, coupled with his vivid description, kept the sheriff walking until, at last, they came to the place.  I'll spare you the details of how they got the body out and into a box and then into the pickup* for the trip to the mortuary.

For finding the body of Timothy O'Leary Carl was paid ten dollars -- more than he would have earned in two weeks at weeding carrots.  Harley always felt there was something very unfair about the whole business; after all, he had stayed on the job!

*Remember that this story took place in about 1915 or so, and so I don't know exactly what a farmer's pickup might have looked like in that year, but it certainly wasn't a Ford F250.

HELLO-O-O-O CLEVELAND!

Posted some photos tonight over at my other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins, in case you're feeling frisky.

Meanwhile.

One (among many) of my favorite people roaming the halls of Foolery is Bob Cleveland.  Bob is deep, insightful, caring, spiritual, warm, and witty.  But mostly?  Bob is a heckuva lot of fun.  So when last week Bob and I were e-mailing back and forth about fake news stories or something, it triggered a funny memory for him.  I asked Bob if he cared to share the Cleveland magic with us here at Foolery, and I wasn't the least bit surprised when, not only did he say YES, but also he had it written in a matter of hours.

It's I who am the tardy one, not Bob.

Here is Bob's story, which I know you're going to enjoy.

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

My Uncle Wilbur, husband to my mom’s next older sister, was the foreman of the composing room at the Indianapolis News. He had the ability to produce a sheet of news print that said most anything we wanted.

 

When I was a junior in high school, my brother’s picture was in an ad on the back cover of a national magazine. He was in his lifeguard gear ... he was the pool manager at a local swim club … and he was talking to a local girl.

 

The News picked up the story of the local kid on the cover of the magazine, and ran a little story about it. Complete with picture. The caption said something like “Art Cleveland tells a funny story to (whatever the girl’s name was)." Uncle Wilbur had the wording changed to “Art Cleveland tells a dirty story to….” and printed up the page for us. He knew we didn’t get the paper, so he told Art here’s a copy for you.

 

My brother was thunderstruck. It took him about a week to find a genuine copy. All those days of keeping a straight face, down the drain.

 

When my wife and I were married and had our own home in Carmel, Indiana, we belonged to a pinochle club with seven other couples. Dale, one of the guys, told us one evening that he’d bought a wooded lot a mile away and was going to build a house. He also mentioned there was a black walnut tree on the property that was very valuable and would pay for a chunk of the house. About a month later, he said he was disappointed; it turned out to be an oak tree.

 

I couldn’t resist. I had Uncle Wilbur print up a page of routine articles, headed The Pittsburgh Press (my folks lived there). I wrote an article about the incident, featured all sort of outrageous stuff like a team from Purdue had come down to appraise the tree and had observed that there were normally walnuts, not acorns, around a walnut tree.

 

Then I glued it to a piece of paper (it was only printed on one side) and wrote in a big red marker “Bob ... is this anyone you know?” and stuffed it into the next letter we got from the folks.

 

I uncorked that jewel at the next pinochle party, and it got passed around and howled about all evening.

 

I never did tell Dale what I’d done.

*     *     *     *     *

Laurie's note:  internet news is probably easier to fake, but it just wouldn't have the same zing! to it.  Thanks for a great story, Bob.

Thanks, Bert

My friend Bert brought me Schuberts for Valentine's Day.

If you are from Chico, California, or the surrounding areas, you understand what that means.

That means that Bert and I are now married.

Bert!  Don't run away, Bert!  Come back; I was only joking!  maybe

Consider the box.  Such a sweet little gold box.



I won't open the box.  Should I open the box?



I had to open the box.  Wow, four chocolates!  Just one to tide me over.



And now there are three.  The balance is off.



So, I'm pretty sure I'll save the other two for Smedley and Sparky at home.



No I won't.



Only one left.  The hairy one.  Saving the hairy one for later.



Aw, crud.



Maybe there's one hiding there that I missed . . .



Nope.



Is it later yet?  I think it's later . . .



It was a goner.  Alrighty then . . . I dun' feel so good.

Now what'll I eat?


*     *     *     *     *

Thanks so much, Bert!  Happy Valentine's Day!  (urp)

-- Laurie

Why I Blog

 

(Photo stolen from www.global-b2b-network.com/b2b/13/14/721/page...)

I just figured out why I blog.

It's not about the writing (though that is a very close runner-up).  I can write on envelopes if I have to, or in a journal which no one would ever read, as personal as I wish.  No, it's not about the writing.

It's not to make new friends, although WOW have I had a good time doing that!  So many people out there that I never would have otherwise met, many who could conceivably be life-long friends.

But I didn't start blogging to make friends.

Some people actually make money blogging.  Do I?  Not one red cent.  Not even a spif or swag bag.  I gave it a half-hearted attempt, but that's not why I started blogging, either.

And it's certainly not to have a cleaner house.

I just realized that I started blogging in order to actually finish a sentence.

I'll let that sink in.

To be able to complete a thought, flesh out an idea, run on at the mouth, without children breaking in, without commercial interruption, without having to see glassed-over eyes and hear "uh-huh" or "you don't say?"  The phone NEVER rings during a blog rant.  My blog never tries to talk me out of my ridiculous, unfounded opinion, never says "you're wrong."  My blog may not think all my jokes are funny, all my photos are interesting, or all my ideas are brilliant, but it sits there silently and lets me make a complete ass of myself if I feel like it.  And oh, how often I feel like it.

I don't blog to be understood, or even to be heard; I blog to flush the cache in my head.

Completely.

And I'll just bet that some of you out there feel the same way.

Well, I have flushed.  You may commence with the uh-huhs and you don't say?s now.

Brown-Noser

Last night I crawled into bed somewhat earlier than usual.  Chas was, as usual, already there, pinned to the mattress by a large cat.  But which cat, exactly, I didn't know.

"Who's on ya, Mr. Foolery?"

"Campos," he answered, sleepily.  I stuck out my hand to pet the big puffy cat.  The thing about Campos is that in the dark you have to feel around a bit to tell exactly which cat part you might be petting (unlike a short-haired cat, on which you can tell immediately its head from its hiney).



"G'night, Campy," I said said as I patted his . . . well, some part of him.

"Yeah, he's a good cat," Chas said, and lifted his head a bit to nuzzle the old cat.

And then, something went very wrong.  I could tell, even in the dark, that Chas froze.

"Oh," he said quietly.

"What?"  I asked.

"Well, Campos must have turned around on me.  I thought I had the other end . . . "

Beat.

Beat.

"Wait, did you just THINK you kissed him on the nose?!"

"No!  I just . . . nose-nose-nosed him, but on the . . ."

(A nose-nose-nose is our family's version of an Eskimo kiss -- rubbing noses together.)

"OH GAHHHH!" I shrieked.  Usually you hope and pray for a good reason to yell that in bed, and usually you don't expect it to have anything to do with a 90-year-old cat.

"No no!" protested Chas.  "It was only on his fur!  There was NO touching of skin!!"

But it was too late.  I was laughing so hard I was nearly choking.  The more he protested that he had not, in fact, goosed the cat with his sniffer, the harder I laughed.  We howled, we snorted, we cackled.  And Campos rode it out with great feline disdain.

Then, just as the laughs were petering out, Chas added, "Well, it could have been worse.  At least it's not as bad as when my dog Joshua sat on my thumb."

Oh GAHHHH.

The laughter started all over again.

Another Sordid Tale of Underage Debauchery

I was an angel in high school.

Ahem.  Yes I was.  Mostly.  Mostly because no one was particularly interested in getting my wings dirty and giving my halo a tilt.  Mostly.

And then I got to college, where I continued the tradition, mostly, except for that one time, and then there was that other time, and, well . . . mostly.

But by Christmas of my freshman year I was finding my way, stretching my angel wings.  The big Christmas party that Cricket and Judy and I planned, along with some other South Hall, second floor girls, put a good dent and some scratches in that halo.  (Now Mom, if you're reading this, have no fear: we're talking about UNDERAGE DRINKING here, and nothing more.  At my age I don't need to add a therapist's bill to my debt load.)

Drinking of any kind was forbidden in the dorms (yes it was, but this rule was also the spark for President Clinton's Don't Ask Don't Tell policy).  We figured, and we were right, that what the Resident Adviser couldn't see wouldn't hurt her, so we kept the drinks flowing and the party from overflowing out into the halls by creating party rooms.  Cricket and Judy's room was the bar, Mary and Cathy's room was the dance floor, and there were probably more dorm rooms pressed into service for other activities, but I wouldn't know about those.

As one of the hostesses I took my turn monitoring the bar.  We served hurricane punch, which is one of the four food groups in college, and mulled wine, which is one of my biggest mistakes of college life, or any other life.  I took my turn pouring.

It was a very long turn.

Did you know that mulled wine is a lot like hot sangria?  Neither did I.  Did you know that sangria and mulled wine are both registered by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms as lethal weapons?

I know that now.

I was serving up the hurricanes and the mulled wine to beat the band, of which there was none, but there was plenty of loud music.  I know because I could hear it thump-thump-thumping through the wall-wall-wall of the bar room that was my prison.  Well, a prison that served endless and unregulated lethal weapons mulled wine, anyhow.  So it wasn't all bad.

Until it became all bad.  That was the point at which the noise curfew had been reached, then ignored, then enforced, and we all said "Merrrrrry Chrishmish" and stumbled back to our own rooms, or for some their closest equivalents on the boys side of the dorm.  I fell into my dorm bed, which immediately levitated and began spinning like the Teacups at Disneyland.  Yes it did, and I did what any reasonable college student would do: I threw up on my art supplies.

Well, they were there in a convenient cardboard box under my window, so why not?  The bed finally quieted down, and I fell into a deep slumber.

Until about 6:00 a.m., when I awoke in dread of the coming day.  The room smelled strongly of sour grapes, oranges and horse hair paint brushes.

Oh God.

I staggered to my feet which were inconveniently pointed in opposite directions but which somehow got me down the hall to the communal bathroom.

The damage to my makeshift art supply box was indescribable -- now, and certainly then, in the predawn hours of what would come to be an epic hangover.  Everything was . . . purple.  I dumped the aerosol cans and paint tubes and brushes and trays into the sink and began scrubbing them to get rid of the evidence before --

Too late.  Terri was already up.

Terri was the closest thing I had to a nemesis in college.  She was a tiny thing, definitely under 100 pounds, with the voice of Cinderella and the tongue of a serpent.  Sort of like Angela from the TV show "The Office"


(Photo stolen from these guys)

only crabbier, and with a teeny-tiny baby voice and hair like The Church Lady.



She smiled a withering, tight-lipped smile at me , wrapped her baby pink quilted robe around her even tighter, and stared at my sink full of soapy art supplies.  She looked at me warily.  Did she guess the truth?  It seemed unlikely, since how many people have barf-covered art supplies?

"They needed a washing.  I wash them sometimes," I said.  I didn't add, "before dawn on a Sunday morning when the rest of the world is up setting its hair in hot rollers and glaring at its dorm mates."  I should have added that.



I never volunteered to watch the bar at a Christmas party again, and I never got that wasted again, no matter what Gubby -- whose ISP will be blocked from commenting today -- may try to make up about me.  Back to being an angel.  Mostly.


(Photo stolen from these guys)

On Missing a Friend

A friend passed away a week ago today, and people in my town are reeling at the loss.

In a way we should celebrate -- she dropped to her floor and her life ended, without lingering, without endless suffering.  She was, after all, 79 years young, so you couldn't say it was out of the bounds of possibility.

And yet, and yet.  Shirley was the youngest 79-year-old I will ever meet, and her death was a shock to all of us.  The morning she died she was expected at aerobics and breakfast with friends.  She rode her bike and golfed, and she took active vacations in which shuffleboard was probably bypassed for something more exciting, like riding a zip line.  She cheated death last summer when her ski boat caught fire on the water, and she and her family jumped ship while the boat sank to the bottom of Black Butte Lake.  What was she doing out on the lake?  She was water skiing with her children and grandchildren, of course.  Oh yes she was.

Shirley was not my close friend, but she was everyone's friend.  She affected everyone she met, I think, and the church was packed.  All week I thought about Shirley, and yet, as is typical for me, I never got teary until the memorial service at the church Saturday, and then I couldn't turn the water works off.  Our hand bell choir was asked to play for her memorial, which may sound strange, because hand bells?  Sort of joyous and tinkly sounding.  But Shirley was one of our bell ringers, and she'd been practicing with us for a scheduled church performance this weekend.  A dear friend took her place, but Shirley was there in spirit.

My track record at funerals is poor.  I cry like a baby, and would definitely cry at the funeral of a stranger.  I tell you this not to diminish my feeling of loss, but merely to explain what a total and relentless sap I am.

And so it stands to reason that I am ridiculously taller than the other members of our bell choir.  There I loomed like Lurch, hulking above my teammates at this funeral performance when I desperately wanted to be short, melting into my surroundings with my tear-stained face and my bloodshot eyes.  I can usually handle towering over the others, and even having to stoop low to scoop up my bells.  Hey, if a giraffe can do it, I can do it.  But what was particularly painful for a weepy, retiring soul like me was that we had to sit in the choir loft during the service -- and it is behind the altar, facing the congregation.  My facial muscles were actually sore at the end of the memorial from fighting a big, ugly, public cry.

I will miss Shirley's huge sense of humor and zest for life -- our whole town will.  She and I used to crack each other up at practice when we were supposed to be paying attention, and if Donna on the other side of her really got her laughing, Shirley would start snort-laughing, which would pretty much bring the practice to a halt for a while.  It was like practicing with Lucy Arnez, and we loved it.

I will miss Shirley's piano club performances, where instead of just playing a piece she'd been practicing, Shirley worked up a full routine, complete with singing, and sometimes even with her own customized lyrics.

No one lived bigger than Shirley Bell, and while this weekend was so very difficult, I'm so happy I got to know her.

Smedley and Sparky's Anti-Pregnancy Plan

(Poster stolen from The Humane Society)

Sparky, my kindergartener, brought a proposal to me this morning.  She's alarmed at the difficulty we've had getting the first young outside cat, Buckeye, spayed.  Buckeye has developed an infection at the point of incision and is on antibiotics for ten days, and she's wearing a cone on her neck to keep her from licking her wound.  It's been stressful for all of us (especially Buckeye), and the girls and Daddy are railing against the idea that two more outside cats must be spayed.

But they haven't accepted the true choice: spayed or euthanized.  We CAN'T have more kittens; it's ridiculous and grossly expensive to take care of a yard full of cats as it is, especially when you consider that people will forever drive by and dump more cats on us.  But this is the third cat on a 10-day round of antibiotics since Christmas, and the prospect of two more cats in queue makes all of us a little queasy.  And that's just the females!

So here's how Sparky presented her plan.

"Mommy, Smedley and I have come up with a plan to keep Green Eyes from having kittens.  Here's how it works:

1.  Keep away from males.

2.  Eat lots of fruit.

3.  Eat lots of grass.

4.  Keep away from other cats.

That way, Green Eyes won't have kittens.  Okay Mommy?"

Now why didn't I think of that?  Maybe we should spread the word to a certain unmarried unemployed bankrupt* California woman who is prone to litters.

Please spay and neuter your spouses pets.  The Humane Society's Spay and Neuter Day 2009 is February 24th.

*I am retracting the word bankrupt because of a reader suggestion that it was out of line. She's absolutely right and I'm leaving it here so that the comments make sense, but I shot my mouth off and I'm sorry about that.

Can't Decide Which Way to Fall

I've taken a lot of photos of this old barn over the years.



Like me, it's seen better days.  It's seriously rickety, it's graying around the edges and it has bats in the rafters.



Also like me, it is vastly improved by the presence of children.



Unlike me, however, this barn's butt isn't getting any wider.

Chicken in Training: Bringing Home the Blue Ribbon

I grew up on a dairy; that is well- (shorthand for "overly-") documented.  Dad loves cows, and continues to collect them.

My sister is a horse fanatic.

My brothers and I raised chickens.

With 70 acres of land, lots of barn and corral space, and a father extremely knowledgeable in all things bovine, not one of us ever raised a steer for 4-H or FFA (an activity which, let's face it, is really a license to print money come sale time) or any other market animal.  Why not?  Were we idiots?  Well, I'll come back to that question.

We didn't raise livestock because 4-H and FFA animals don't get to ride home in the truck with you after the fair.  No sirree; they go on to places like Bob's Big Boy, Kibbles & Bits and, heaven forbid, Taco Bell, to become Extreme Value Meals.

Poor Fluffy.

But chickens have a Get Out of Abattoir Free card.  They have return tickets from the fair.  So my brothers and I raised ornamental bantam (miniature) chickens, and gave them names like Cluck, Brewster, and Fluffy.  Poor Fluffy.  (Pet names have never been a LaGrone family strong suit.)

But do you know what it takes for Fluffy to bring home the blue ribbon?  Well, I'm gonna tell you.  As much as I remember, anyway.

First, the chicken must be healthy, and healthy looking.  No scaly leg (a condition I battle myself in these dry, dry months); you've got to grease up the chicken's legs.  (At least we didn't have to wax them.)  If I remember right we used Vaseline on their legs, combs, and wattles, which made them look plump, shiny and very rosy.

If you're gonna enter that bird in the fair you'll need to dust it regularly for mites and other nasty bugs.  My brother Mantel Man usually was in charge of dusting with Malathion, which is why he still walks funny to this day.

But you're not done.  Beaks must be kept trimmed, so we used nail clippers.  This is every bit as tricky as it sounds with a feisty bantie rooster, or even a hen.  So to calm the chicken you've got to cradle it on one hand, with the wings held down with your thumb and pinkie finger.  If you do this right, it's very easy to invert the chicken with one hand -- that is, hold it upside down -- while you trim its beak and talons (claws, fangs, nails -- whatever they're called).  This is apparently calming to a Bird of Very Little Brain, and it's fairly easy to groom them once they're calm.

And, for the pièce de résistance, you must bathe your chicken, especially if it's white.

I'm not kidding.

In the utility sink.  Yes, bathe.  Go on, you're wasting time.  Chop chop.

Have your sink full enough to partially submerge the chicken but not so full that you can't find Fluffy in the bubbles.  Water should be the same temperature you'd use for a baby.  A very gentle shampoo is best, but if your chicken is white, get a shampoo with bluing in it, like you might use on a drop-kick dog white poodle.

before



after

See what a difference PhotoShop bluing makes?  In theory?

The chicken may try to get away, so have the door closed.  But don't worry -- they can fly only a little bit.  Did I mention you should clip their wings first?  Oh, sorry.  You should have done that.

Rinsing the chicken may actually be more challenging than lathering it, but you'll get the hang of it.  Plus, that bird won't have much fight left after it's flown around the laundry room a few times and smacked the window.

Lightly towel dry the chicken.  You'll probably want to use the one-hand-upside-down method as described above.  Then get the blow drier from the -- what?  You didn't have your blow drier out and plugged in already?  Well, that was a mistake, because now you have to carry your wringing-wet bird through the house to your bathroom to retrieve the drier.  Please don't use the hot or high settings, or your

will get all

and you don't need that.  Gently blow dry your chicken.  It could help to have some soulless European house music thumping in the background.  I know that's how the big-time hair dressers do it.

Those are the basics for getting your chicken ready for the fair.  Next time, Judging Day Etiquette: How Not to Be a Backstage Mother.  Thank you for your time.  Also?  We are idiots, very likely.

Contentment

I spent most of last evening on the phone, which will surprise some of you not at all, so I didn't get my Bumpkins post about bulls up last night.  If you'd like to go read it, it's here, but I warn you: watch where you step.  There's a lot of residual cow poop over there.  There are also a few terrible photos of big ol' bulls.

After we got home from the Red Bluff Bull and Gelding Sale Saturday afternoon -- yes, we run in a fast crowd here -- I had to feed hay.  Like any good hayseed I had the proper equipment: rickety $5.00 knife from a flea market in Mexico, and my camera.  Smedley must have been feeling her inner hayseed, too, because she climbed up on the stack and joined me.  She grabbed the camera and took this picture of her favorite little bull calf, whom she named Nigel:



I don't know if Grandpa knows that Smedley named Grandpa's bull calf Nigel.  I don't know if Smedley knows that Nigel won't be a bull calf for long (and may already be a steer, for all I know).  I don't know if Nigel knows what his purpose in life will be.  For now the three of them are content.  And content is a good thing to be.