The American Experience

Last night, in the wasteland that is cable television, Satan and I lucked up on a gem. The latest installment in the PBS Series, The American Experience, on RFK.

I've spent most of my life fascinated by all things JFK-related probably because my birth and his assassination happened only a few months apart. I'm all too familiar with all the details of the events of November 22, 1963.

I'm a little hazy on the days and years that followed the assassination. Last night's program really brought home RFK's struggle first with the grief and devastation that came as the result of the loss of his brother and best friend and then the further monumental struggle he went through to be transformed from a right-hand behind-the-scenes man to being a out-front leader and visionary in his own right.

What really struck me, perhaps because it further reinforces a belief I've come to have over these last years, is RFK's ability to be thoughtful. To take responsibility. To change his mind, to become, to evolve, in a word, to LEARN.

It's a quality that seems to be in short supply in our country's current leadership (if you can call it that) today. Everyone is so sure they are right, that they have all the answers now. Today. No one, it seems, is willing to concede that they might have been wrong, ever, and to be open to a new paradigm or a better idea.

When RFK finally came out against the Vietnam war, along with suggesting a new course of action besides the endless slaughter of American troops, he took reponsibility for the role he played, during the JFK administration, in starting that war. He had learned, he had moved on, and realized there was a better way and wasn't afraid to say it.

There are lots of qualities that make a great leader. But I really think the most important quality in a leader is the ability to learn. Really absorb the lessons that life teaches and change tactics and even one's mind entirely if that's what the situation calls for.

To be fluid. To be open. To be thoughtful. To have the courage to change. Even when you're the guy (or woman) in charge.

Last night's special really brought it home to Tom and I what was lost in the Ambassador Hotel that day in the summer of 1968. The hope for an end to that terrible war, and racism and poverty. A leader who cared about all these things who had been through the fire of loss and self doubt, and having suffered himself, was ready to address the suffering of others.

A leader who wasn't afraid to change, to do the right thing.

Have we ever really recovered?


He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.
-Aeschylus
(Inscribed on RFK's tombstone.)

Thanksgiving: The Recap

I had a lovely Thanksgiving and hope you did too. I cooked this year, because I enjoy doing it and because we finally, thankfully, have a place large enough to host more than a couple of people at a time.

I took and would post pictures, but I’m having a HECK of a time with my computer. It has ceased to function normally and has somehow downloaded some new operating system (or something) and keeps having pop-ups about “phishing” whatever the hell THAT is. I am fighting the urge to chuck the whole damn machine out the guest room window so I can watch it land with a satisfying deadly crash on top of the giant semi trailer that is still parked in our back yard.

Anyway.

My favorite new recipe to come out of this year’s dinner has to be Caramel Pecan Pie. It is delicious, decadent, and as my Mother put while enjoying a piece for T-giving dessert, “Sweet enough to make you swoon.” It is from my friends at Southern Living, the only people I trust enough to make use of an untried recipe at perhaps the most important dinner of the year. As usual, they didn’t let me down (I also made, for the first time, their Candied Sweet Potatoes—delicious, which came from a “Best of Southern Living” cookbook I received for my b-day from Christa—Thanks Christa!).

Here’s the pie recipe:

Caramel-Pecan Pie

Prep: 20 min., Bake: 38 min., Cook: 7 min.
1/2 (15-ounce) package refrigerated piecrusts
28 caramels
1/4 cup butter
1/4 cup water
3/4 cup sugar
2 large eggs
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt 1 cup coarsely chopped pecans, toasted Chocolate-Dipped Pecans (optional) Fit piecrust into a 9-inch pie plate according to package directions; fold edges under, and crimp. Prick bottom and sides of piecrust with a fork.

Bake piecrust at 400° for 6 to 8 minutes or until lightly browned; cool on wire rack.

Combine caramels, butter, and 1/4 cup water in large saucepan over medium heat. Cook, stirring constantly, 5 to 7 minutes or until caramels and butter are melted; remove from heat. Stir together sugar and next 3 ingredients. Stir into caramel mixture until thoroughly combined. Stir in pecans. Pour into prepared crust. Bake pie at 400° for 10 minutes. Reduce heat to 350°, and bake 20 more minutes, shielding edges of crust with aluminum foil to prevent excessive browning. Remove pie to a wire rack to cool. Top with Chocolate-Dipped Pecans, if desired.

***

After our guests moved on, Satan and I enjoyed a leisurely viewing of Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rebecca” during which we debated the merits of Joan Fontain versus Olivia DeHavilland (they were sisters) and speculated on the supposed sexual orientation of Mrs. Danvers (we both concluded that she was crazy, not gay).

On Friday, I had plotted a secret mission with my friend, Julie, to procure, for the first time in my married life (ten years if you’re counting), a flocked Christmas tree. And here I suppose I should interject some back-story. At the time I married Satan, I had a lovely fake but VERY REALISTIC (mind you) Christmas tree that had served me perfectly well for several years.

Shortly after we moved in together, Satan and I—well really just Satan, decided we should have a (I shudder at the very phrase) “yard sale” in order to get rid of the overflow that resulted from combining our two households. My perfectly lovely and serviceable, but ultimately defenseless, Christmas tree was packed away in its storage box and parked in a dark corner of the garage with items that were DECIDEDLY NOT for sale.

Satan, being, well, Satan, and believing that fake Christmas trees are a sin against nature, dragged out my defenseless fake tree during a time when I was away cringing in the house from sheer embarrassment (I spent a lot of time doing that while perfect strangers pawed through my crusty old junk in the driveway) and sold the tree to one of our first customers FOR A DOLLAR.

One Dollar.

It’s been downhill from there as far as the Christmas tree goes.

It’s generally a struggle every year to agree on the type/size/and décor of the tree. According to Satan it must be a) REAL and b) NOT FLOCKED. Last year, in one of my worst Christmas tree defeats EVER, he finally wore me down, convincing me that it would be a REALLY GOOD IDEA to decorate the spindly branches of a live Norfolk Pine houseplant we have.

Ya’ll. It was ugly.

I resolved at that time to do better this year and, to that end, had conspired with my friend Julie to take a trip out to a local nursery and order up a BEAUTIFUL tree and have it flocked, festooned with lights, and delivered. Our plan was to meet up the Saturday after Thanksgiving and head out to the nursery together to pick out The Perfect Tree.

As it happened, on the Saturday in question, Satan and I had just gotten in from a lovely long walk to the river and back when it came time for me to head out to the nursery. As those who know me well know, Satan almost never accompanies me on outings with my friends and so, when he asked where I was going, I didn’t give it a second thought and told him.

Evidently, his evil satan senses were working overtime, because this time, of ALL TIMES, he decided he’d just come along.

Which is how I found myself at the nursery, with Satan, my friend Julie, and my friend (and nursery employee), Sherry, surrounded by beautiful Douglas Firs as far as the eye could see with Satan loudly proclaiming to everyone in the vicinity that, should he find a flocked tree in his house, he would, “throw it off the balcony”.

At which point, I had no choice but to turn to my friend Sherry and say,

“Obviously, he’s just determined not to get flocked this holiday season.”

To which she replied,

“I see that.”

The good news is that I picked out a beautiful three that will arrive on Friday. Hopefully by then I’ll be able to post a photo.

Be Prepared

Last night at the Wal-Mart Pharmacy, the lady in line behind me had the cutest Cairn Terrier EVER in her cart. The dog was very patiently standing in the belly of the cart wearing a stylish multi-colored sweater and a matching pink rhinestone collar with a pink leash attached.

I couldn’t resist asking her if I could pet the dog. She said yes, and I launched into my “pretty girl” talk in my ridiculous doggy voice while giving the puppy an enthusiastic (and much appreciated) petting.

I first mistook the dog for a silky terrier, but her owner corrected me saying the dog was in fact a cairn. “Like To-To!”, I commented still scratching the puppy under her chin.

“Yes,” she said “like To-To. Not many people know that.”

I smiled.

The owner continued, “Well, like To-To except for she’s blonde,” the owner added.

“I’ll be she has more fun than To-To,” I said.

She laughed. She’s actually watched The Wizard of Oz a couple of times,” she said, gesturing at the dog.

“Oh yah?” I said, “What did she think of it?”

The owner shrugged, “Eh. Not much.”

This made me giggle.

I looked more closely at the woman. I guessed her in her mid-fifties, thin, no make-up, with a kind face. She had on a knitted sock cap. There was nothing in her cart besides the dog and a small doggie dish with water in it in case she got thirsty. The dog was standing on a cart-sized square of cardboard.

I suppose the woman mistakenly thought I wanted an explanation (I was actually thinking how nice it was to see a dog in Wal-Mart) so she told me, “I can bring her in here because she’s working on becoming a certified therapy dog.”

“How nice,” I said.

The woman went on, “She used to be just a plain old pet until this happened.” She drew back her knitted cap to reveal a completely bald head. On the left side of her scalp was a huge c-shaped open gash at least two inches wide at its widest point.

“She must be a huge help to you,” I said looking back down at the dog that I was still reflexively petting.

“Oh, YES,” the woman said, “I don’t know what I would have done without her. Sometimes I have seizures and she can actually detect one coming on.”

“I’ve read about that,” I told her.

She asked me if I had a dog and I told her about FurGirl. She was in the midst of telling me about how Retrievers make great therapy dogs when it got to be my turn in line. I turned away from her, took care of my business, and when I turned back she was gone.

I couldn’t get her off my mind as I walked to my car. And then I thought about her all the way to my next destination. Finally, I realized: I should have invited her to Thanksgiving dinner.

Because maybe? Maybe she has a husband and three kids and two grandchildren and four invitations for Thanksgiving? But, somehow I doubt it. And if she does, it’s always nice to have another invitation, right? Also, I never learned the woman’s name or the name of her dog.

I wish I had.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone. Don’t miss your opportunities this holiday season. I’ve resolved to be ready the next time the universe presents me with one.

Succulent Sunday Cont'd

So! Blogger continues to annoy the hell out of me by being contankerous about allowing me to post photos. Today, it allowed me to post the previous photo, but then--annoyingly!--would not allow me to post any text (without then disappearing the photo).

I've overcome the problem by posting this here text in a new entry. Just pretend they're all together. Because, indeed, I did pot the little succulent garden pictured in the last entry just this morning. You probably can't tell by the photo, but the carmel colored container (alliteration points!) I used is very shallow and is, in fact, the bottom component to what was my ceramic water fountain earlier this year in my balconey garden. When the pump stopped working, I resolved to pot it with succulents. Fortuitiously, I came across a succulent sale last night at Lowe's, where the plants ranged from a mere dollar to fifty cents in price. I have three other plants that I did not pot, and I'm already scouting the house for charming shallow ceramic dishes to transform. This whole succulent thing plays into not only my love for plants but also into my obsession with all things tiny and thus I'm wondering if I could possibly quit my job and become a miniature succulent farmer/potter?

Yah, probably not.

Otherwise, I am FINALLY getting around to reading Running With Scissors. The universe has, luckily, made sure I didn't miss this fantastic, hilarious, and disturbing book. In a literary world rife with memiors about dysfunctional childhood (i.e., "The Glass Castle" and "The Tender Bar", and let's not forget the original, "Angela's Ashes" to name a few), "Running with Scissors" has to take the proverbial dysfunction cake. Augusten Borroughs tells the story of how he, after growing halfway up with an alcoholic father and mentally disturbed drama queen mother (who enjoys cigarette butt and smoked oyster sandwiches), is then shuttled to the bazaar home of his mother's therapist to live. The place really defies description. Please read the book. It left me laughing out loud three seperate times. And that's just this morning. (You can read it next, Mom!) But, you need to get a move-on, the movie release is upon us.

Let's hope they don't screw it up.

Succulent Sunday

Something in the Air....

I know.

I've been away a REALLY long time. SO long, in fact, that someone actually e-mailed me to request a blog post.

So! Here I am.

Has this been a week or what?

Don Rumsfeld...GONE! House...BLUE! Senate...BLUE! Pelosi...SPEAKER! President...eating sh--!

It's been so long since I've had hope for this country? That I almost forgot what it felt like. And actually? It feels wonderful. But, to be honest, a little scary.

Also? I can't stop writing. Short. Staccato. Sentences.

I blame the Toad Hollow Chardonnay. Which? I highly recommend. If you don't mind. A little brevity. Also? Sounding a little? Like. William Shatner.

Bones!

Anyway. The Toad Hollow? After much research over some really delicious spaghetti? We discovered it wasn't aged in oak and therefore does not taste smokey. WHICH? Is a really good thing. We speculated that, perhaps? It is aged in Tupperware.

Not that there's anything. Wrong with that.

In other, hopefully less staccato and question mark ridden news, a friend of mine and sometime blog reader (La Donna) has a daughter (Stephanie) who along with her friend (William Sledd) has made just about the CUTEST YouTube video EVER. It's called "Ask a Gay Man about Denim" and it's getting quite alot of attention. IN FACT, along with receiving a bunch of designer jeans...FREE...they have been contacted by WARNER BROTHERS and will be transported to California to produce yet another YouTube video about an up and coming rock band (I'm not sure which).

So when my friend (La Donna) told me that her daughter (Stephanie) wasn't mentioning her new found fame and fortune much around town I was all, "WHAT? Well, then, I'll just have to post on my blog about it and I DON'T EVEN KNOW THE GIRL (Stephanie)".

And it totally doesn't matter if the previous two paragraphs are too convoluted to understand. The point is: GO WATCH THE VIDEO.

And then go buy yourself some long and leans.

(Have I noticed this entry is WITHOUT PHOTOS? Yes. Am I pissed about it? Yes. It's this thing Blogger does sometimes. WTF?!)

(Edited the next day to add: The Toad Hollow Chardonnay? Is actually aged in stainless steel. Who knew? Also? It's made by Robin William's brother. We DID know that much last night. And? Despite having now sobered up. The staccato thing [not to mention the annoying question marks] are still with me. And? You're probably wondering? Why I'm not being more specific about my Big Outing last night [yes, I was out until NINE P.M. I am a Party Monster]. I'm not being specific about certain out-of-town friends because. Because the whole thing is a SECRET and cannot be discussed at this time.)

The Hike

It pains me to report that this is the only photo I have with which to document a lovely event yesterday. The Annual Hike, otherwise known as New Laketon Woodstock. I realized just after I snapped this photo that my photo stick was full and I had, brilliantly, forgotten to pack any spares.

Pictured here are: The Pope of New Laketon Woodstock (completely obscured for security reasons) and then from left: Eva, Dennis, and NLW mastermind, promoter and organizer, Mary Ellen. In the background, is the Pope's tent which was the only tent at the event sporting an actual porch on which the Pope could lounge and think popely thoughts. Not pictured here is the Pope-mobile in which the Pope may or may not have later circled the festival.

The weather was beautiful, if a little unseasonably warm. FurGirl and I picked up Mom and then drove down to the rondezvous point. The twenty or so of us set off at two p.m. for Sandy Creek (bottom?) hiking for the first leg of the journey through dense steep (downhill) forest to an old gravel road where we encountered a few small snakes, large earthworms, and were passed by a few hunters in pick-up trucks. Experienced hiker Toby was charged with the important responsibility of carrying The Pope's medication in a large backpack. Thus fortified, The Pope tolerated the trip surprisingly well.

Once at Sandy Creek,which looked to be the sandy bottom of (guess what?) a dried-up creek, several brave souls in the group hiked a ways up the bed in search of arrowheads. Many of us stayed behind (as one jaded hiker observed, "You've seen one arrowhead you've seen 'em all.") and were rewarded for our laziness with a lively impromptu management seminar by an up and coming young professional in the group.

Which goes to show you never can tell what might happen on The Hike.

We then posed for the obligatory Group Photo (and if any of you readers have a good one, will you please e-mail it to me?) before setting off on the return hike.

FurGirl was in her element, trotting happily along, usually among the hikers at the front of the group, but occassionally dropping back to do her duty and check on me. She managed to charm Cindy out of some of the snacks she had brought along doing her, "My Mommy never feeds me" schtick.

The return hike was actually a work out with the second leg being the reverse climb of the earlier downhill slope. We returned to base camp at 4 p.m. tired but invigorated.

I'm already looking forward to next year.

World News Tonight

We awoke this morning to the ABC news crew filming a segment in the alley behind our house:

Immediately, Satan went down and bossed them around for a while. They seemed to take it a whole lot better than I do.

Closer to Fine

I've just arrived home from my little tour of southern cities. It's a balmy October afternoon. The perfect day for a drive. I was welcomed by the slightly psychotic meowings of Tigger from up above on the ledge of my balcony has I dragged my suitcase across the sidewalk and lugged it up the steps. It's good to be home.

Christa and I met as planned at a hotel in downtown Nashville on Tuesday night excited to be away and together and at the prospect of seeing the group whose songs we have sung together perhaps more than any: the (warning: noise on the next two links) Indigo Girls. Adding almost more excitement than we could to bear to this prospect was the fact that our lastest musical obsession, a group called The Weepies, was to be the opening act at the historic Ryman auditorium, original home of the Grand Ol' Opry.

I snapped the picture above in our room at the hotel just before we boarded the shuttle that took us to our desired destination: a bar really close to the Ryman. As you can see from the picture, Christa wore The Cutest Shirt Ever to the show. It's a wonder one or both of the Indigo Girls didn't run clear off with her.

Once at the requested bar, as we sipped our TWO DOLLAR (I ask you, how lucky can two girls get?) margaritas as we discussed our usual topics i.e., Botox: should we? and the perfect haircut: possibility or urban legend?, etc. I told Christa I had come very close to buying a set of tickets to the concert that were second row balconey for a fairly insanely expensive price off e-bay, but had decided against it. She told me what everybody had been telling me--that there really aren't any bad seats at the Ryman. I statement which, frankly, I had decided weeks ago was likely horse hockey as I obsessively studied the seating chart on the Ryman website and silently bemoaned our seats in row Q, floor, center.

Guess what? There really aren't any bad seats at the Ryman.

It's a wonderful intimate venue, sort of like being in somebody's really big living room. The seats aren't seats at all but rather curved church pews and, as we made our way to Row Q, seats four and five, I could hardly believe how close we were to the stage and what a wonderful view we were to have of the concert. The building is a national landmark, and while new entrances and lobbies have been constructed around it, the original hall has remained the same small untouched space as when the opry was first broadcast there.

Our concert tickets clearly stated that no photographic equipment would be allowed at the show and so I had left my camera back at the hotel. And it is my sad, sad duty to report that, when the announcer introduced The Weepies, he also announced that photographs WERE to be allowed from one's concert seat only.

People, I had to choke back a sob on that one. From where I was sitting with my 12x zoom I could have catured zillions of wonderful images from the show to post for your enjoyment. I'm still sniffeling about it even now.

Anyway. Bygones.

As expected, The Weepies were wonderful. Fun, sweet, smart and talented, they came onto the stage with little fanfare and a guitar a piece, which they traded with lots of informal giggling and fiddling, back and forth between them depending on the song. They didn't do a whole lot, maybe--eight songs? Many were from their newest, "Say I am You": "World Spins Madly On", "Gotta Have You", "Nobody Knows Me at All".

Christa and I later agreed that Deb Talen sounded spot-on and fantastic on every note, but that Steve sometimes struggled through the notes. We also both also later discussed that I had thought, before the show, that Deb and Steve were simply musical collaborators, Christa had thought them brother and sister, but we both came away with the impression that they are a couple. For no particular reason we could say.

Both Deb and Steve were charming and talked seemingly, anyway, off-the-cuff about Deb's case of raging "band envy" for the Indigo Girls back-up band and Steve about his time in NYC living with a roommate in an apartment so small that he sometimes had to write as he put it "angry little songs" in a bathroom the size of a broom closet at night. They each did a song from their solo days. They both seemed thrilled to be at the Ryman and still surprised by their success. And just...NICE. So genuine.

And, before we knew it, the Indigo Girls were introduced.

Now, I don't know why, but I for some reason just had this idea that the IG's would be a couple of girls perched on simple wooden stools on a darkened stage strumming away earnestly on their guitars .

Not so much.

As Deb had alluded, they have a great back-up band--all girls except for a male drummer. And Amy and Emily rocked. Hard. For two hours.

As I watched, it made me realize just how infrequent it is that you see two strong women fronting a band. Not often enough, I think. Both girls played an instrument the entire concert, but they almost never used the same instrument twice. After each song a new banjo, acoustic guitar, mandolin or electric guitar would be carried out to each of them by the crew. They sounded, seriously, better than the CD's we've been listening to all these years. And they both looked great. We couldn't have asked for more.

About midway through the show, Emily introduced Mindy Smith, who came on stage and played and sang a song--what a great break for her. Of course, she really did sound (just call me a broken record here) great.

Perhaps the high point of the concert came when the girls did "Closer to Fine". They broght The Weepies back to the stage to help them sing. Every single person in the place stood and sang the song with them. No kidding. I saw no one NOT singing. Pretty amazing considering how little airplay the IG's get and just how old the song is now.

As we walked back to the hotel, a group of guys were behind us discussing how disappointed they were that the girls didn't sing a song called "Kid Fears". I mean seriously. Kid Fears. We were in the company of some seriously die-hard fans.

We are both a little closer to fine for the experience.

(coming soon: Part Two: On to Louisville)

Little Miss Sunshine

Greetings all—I keep hearing from more and more people that they read or have heard tell of my blog.

It’s a little scary.

I had a wonderful, if busy weekend, what with the barbecue, shopping, cleaning, and getting ready for my big trip to NashVegas for the Weepies/Indigo Girls concert—woohoo! I was thrilled to receive not one, not two, but THREE CD’s chock full of the appropriate pre-tunes from my concert-going companion, Christa,—we are READY! Also, we will be sure to take jackets, pack Aleve, and both of us remain hopeful we still possess the ability to remain vertical past 10 p.m.

Sunday, after a delightful dinner of my increasingly popular Pad Thai with charming friend and neighbor Mark, we all caught the last showing of “Little Miss Sunshine” (stupid blogger will not let me post a photo today...DRATS!) at our local cinema. Three thumbs WAY UP on that one. Add it to your Netflix queue, pick it up at Ballbusters when it’s released, you will not be disappointed. LMS is the story of a dysfunctional family with a capital DYS making a cross-country trek in a VW bus in order that the youngest member of the family, little Olive, played by a charming Abigail Breslin, can compete in the “Little Miss Sunshine” pageant in California.

Along for the ride are Olive’s stressed-out parents, played by Toni Collette and Greg Kinnear, her silent teenaged brother played by Paul Dano, and way left-of-center grandpa played by Alan Arkin. Perhaps most surprising is the performance given by Steve Carrell who rounds out the cast hilariously playing Olive’s depressed gay uncle. You’ll recognize Steve from his role as a wacky reporter on The Daily Show. (IMDB tells me he got his start on SCTV—who knew?) Anyway, this one is headed for Oscar-ville for sure. And deservedly so. It is easily the best movie I’ve seen this year.

Otherwise, Satan and I continue to lose ourselves in the hit TV series “Lost”. Initially, I added the first few episodes of season one to our Netflix queue, but was pleasantly surprised yesterday to discover our local library has the entire first season available for FREE check-out. I was able to pick up the remaining DVD’s from season one yesterday and I’ve now added all of season two DVD’s to the Netflix queue.

We’re both loving “Lost”, a series about a commercial airliner that takes off from Sydney, Australia and crashes a thousand miles off course on a tropical island. Miraculously, forty or so passengers survive the crash. The show splits its time between telling the stories of the sometimes practical and, more importantly, sometimes creepy going’s-on on the island and showing the back-stories of the castaway’s previous lives in civilization off the island. The show is sort of a cross between adventure and thriller and could be classified as sci-fi (which may be the channel that originated it).

I know season three of “Lost” is airing on TV this season in real time, but Satan and I have found we much prefer immersing ourselves in TV shows this way, after the fact, watching as few or as many episodes as we want to at a time SANS commercials. In this fashion we’ve discovered “Project Runway” as well as “Dead Like Me”, of which I’m in love with both, Satan only the latter. Sadly, “Dead Like Me” was so good it had to be cancelled. I am eagerly anticipating the release of season three of “Project Runway”.

Otherwise, I can hardly believe it’s October…OCTOBER! How did this happen? Didn’t we just have Christmas? The only good news is that sweater weather is, or should be, here. Frankly, I’ve already busted out the sweaters, eighty degrees or no eighty degrees.

And, I'm prattling on like this because I'm afraid to say, what I should be saying for fear the universe will hear me...

(I had a lovely weekend. I am happy.)

So there.

Stopping to Smell the Barbecue (on the river)

You know, it's hard to get anything done around the house when, just around the corner, 10 tons of haunch of beast is slow cooking in its own juices.

My Dad will be surprised to learn that Satan and I have taken a total of two strolls to the barbecue specifically to enjoy a particular haunch of slow-roasted beast: brisket.

Second favorite activity: shoe shopping:

Third favorite activity: anything on a stick:

Renegade

Since my "A Place for My Stuff" entry recently, I've had some questions from readers wondering if there REALLY is a semi trailer in my back yard.

It's a fair question. And so today I snapped the photo above from the very chair I'm sitting in now. This is the current view of our back yard from window of our guest room where my computer is located.

Pretty, huh?

You'll note the back end of my car protruding from where it's parked at the far end of the trailer in the distance. Beyond my car is the alley that borders our property. To the left is Satan's vehicle, and to the far left is the edge of the red barn that is soon to be demolished. Right after we move the crap out of there and into the semi.

In the foreground, you can probably tell there is a sign on the front of the trailer. Though you can't make it out in this picture, it is an advertisement for the semi trailer company telling one where to call in case you! too! would like to experience the joy of an entire semi trailer in your yard!

As you might imagine, there are absolutely a thousand and one uses for a semi trailer in your back yard: a place for your crap, a place for your husband to hang out when he's in REAL trouble, as a source of additional shade, etc.

Yesterday, however, when Satan was out in the back yard working on a little painting project and enjoying the weather, he discovered a use we hadn't quite counted on: hiding place for a fugitive from justice.

As Satan scraped the windows he was working on, he suddenly heard a noise coming from the far side of the trailer. When he walked around the corner to investigate, he found the fugitive. He was a young man, looking desperate and shifty and he asked Satan if it would be okay if he, uh, relieved himself in the outdoor shade of the semi?

And, go figure, Satan told him he'd prefer he didn't, just as a couple of police cruisers roared up the alley. The suspect then immediately took off running.

That was the last Satan saw of him until we awoke this morning to find his mug shot in the paper. Turns out he had been apprehended and is suspected in the small-time burglarly of a downtown business.

Yep. It's just non-stop excitement around these parts.

***

Let's see, otherwise, I continue to enjoy losing myself in the Mary Tyler Moore show. I've just purchased season three. While I knew I would enjoy the stories and the gags, what has surprised me most about seeing the episodes again is THE CLOTHES! At the time, I thought Mary and Rhoda wore the MOST stylish outfits.

Seeing them now is an endless source of amusement.

One thing I'd definitely forgotten about those days is the prevalence of the color ORANGE. It is everywhere in MTM. In the clothes, as carpet, an extra in a recent episode had on a pair of bright orange cordouroys. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now I realize it's just a color we don't wear like we did in those days.

Maybe we should.

Found

Lost

We had a terrible scare with the kitty.

It was all Satan’s fault, of course, although he continues to disavow any responsibility.

See, the kitty had been settling in fairly well to his new surroundings spending much of his time out front on our balconies (also where his food, water and litter are located, so go figure).

Last Thursday, Satan decided to bust out the hose and water the zillions of plants on the balconies. Unfortunately, the kitty (who I erroneously called “Willow” in my other entry, his name is really Tigger), was out on the balcony as well and as those of you familiar with cats know: cat plus water equals badness. Kitty became so agitated that he actually leapt from the (second story) balcony and was lost.

Thereafter ensued much disruptive searching about the neighborhood. As in:

SATAN
(across the street calling to kitty near midnight Friday night)
KITTY!

ME
(coming out the front door of our house)
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
(crossing the street to join forces with Satan)
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty!

SATAN
(Pauses. Looks at me.)
What the hell are you doing?

ME
Gee, I’ll give you three guesses and the….

SATAN
YOU’RE IN A NIGHTGOWN WITH NO SHOES ON.

ME
Yah?

SATAN
KITTY!

ME
Kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty…

And so on. I sent an e-mail with a picture of Tigger and word of our plight to our neighborhood association group at which time we started receiving word of all kinds of “Tigger” spottings, none of which actually turned out to be Tigger.

We eventually stirred up every cat in the neighborhood, stray and otherwise over the course of the two-day and night search.

Thankfully, Tigger was found in the pre-dawn hours of Saturday when a sleepless Satan wandered outside, called out from the balcony, and heart a faint, answering, “Meow!”

Tigger was huddled under a parked car on the street in front of our house and was probably so hungry that he finally actually allowed himself to be captured by a relieved Satan.

The cat spent the twelve hours immediately following his return asleep in an exhausted furry heap on the bed in the guest room (which he considers his own) and is now back to splitting his time between the guest room and the balcony.

We haven’t watered the plants since.

We're going!

Indigo Girls and The Weepies October 3rd at Ryman Auditorium! Special thanks to Eliza for the heads up.

Revival

Go ahead on over to River Walk Journal and enjoy Mom's latest, "Revival".

Shoo!

A Place for my Stuff

It's been another busy weekend around here.

First off, FurGirl has gained a brother:

Willow, barely pictured here in his secure hiding spot under the bed in the guest room, has officially moved in. Willow technically belongs to Satan's son, David. The feline's future was somewhat uncertain following David's departure last weekend to college. Thus, he is now officially the newest member of our little household.

While the photo really leaves something to be desired, I had to share it because I took it by simply placing the camera on the floor, pointing the lens toward where I thought the cat was and depressing the button without ever looking through the view finder. I didn't expect to capture any image at all, much less the whole entire annoyed cat.

The first Mrs. Satan has also been visiting, bringing her along her black lab, Lokie, to keep FurGirl company. The two are nearly impossible to catch in the same frame. Here is the closest I managed to get to that this morning:

And that is pretty much the extent of the enjoyable part of the weekend.

Otherwise, Satan and I turned our attention to a task we've been putting off for years: our storage shed.

Basically, we've been paying large american dollars for years to rent a 10x12 storage shed in which to house approximately $1.79 worth of CRAP that we otherwise have no room for in our actual house.

We now dealt with this problem yesterday by paying more large american dollars to rent a U-Haul truck into which we loaded the $1.79 worth of crap (in ninety degree heat), and then proceeded to drive the crap to our house where we had prepared for the in-coming crap by having the entire back of a semi-truck placed in our back yard.

We then spent the rest of the afternoon, in the still ninety degree heat, unloading our $1.79 worth of crap into the semi-truck trailer. I wish I could tell you that our new crap-holding device (the semi truck) is free, but sadly, it isn't.

Part B of this neverending brilliant plan is for us to move the approximately $3.75 worth of crap that is currently in the barn on our property into the crap-holding semi, thus combining two fairly large piles of crap into one gigantic pile of doom worth (are you with me here?) that's right, $5.54.

But the fun doesn't stop there! Oh no. The plan is to then sort the large pile of doom into smaller piles of crusty stuff which we will tag and display in our yard, thus becoming the scurge of the neighborhood, and eventually hosting a--GUESS WHAT--yard sale!!

This means that large groups of the regional undead will lurch into our yard in droves in the pre-dawn hours on the day of the sale offering us pennies on the dollar for the crusty crap we've been (inexplicably) storing for years at a cost of a zillion dollars. In this fashion, we will divest ourselves of approximately 25 percent of the crap.

And....here's where I just have to draw the curtain, because I'm starting to get hysterical just writing about it. I think you get the picture.

The good news? The good news is that I located the other half of the tiny Christmas Village! Which, I totally need for the upcoming holiday season! Also, Chaseroo, who was brave enough to help us for a portion of the day, found a treasure trove of his old original Nintendo games. Also, I found some old pictures that I've been missing for a while.

I'm really glad to have a day of rest.

Off the Map

Pictured here is my breakfast that I decided was too lovely and righteous not to share.

It is with some sadness that I share any pictures, however, as my picture-taking self missed out on a major photo op this weekend. Satan and I traveled to the big city of Lexington to move his youngest son into the dorm at the University of Kentucky. I took my camera and FORGOT a photo stick.

Yah, I was not happy.

Still, I can report that said freshman is now settled in his (tiny) dorm room with as many comforts of home as possible. In fact, the entire endeavor would have been a raging success but for one small incident during which, in a traffic jam, consisting of approximately one million sweaty, annoyed college students and their parents, at high noon, with not a car moving in any direction, in the ninety-five plus degree heat, in the center of the UK Campus, Satan became agitated, leapt from our vehicle, stood on the CENTER LINE of the street and, gesturing wildly, and screeching at the top of his lungs, had some, let’s just say, less than complimentary comments to share with the entire assemblage about my, in his opinion, less than adequate map reading skills.

You might be thinking that this incident has the makings of a legendary marital smack-down, and normally you’d be right, except that I was laughing so hysterically at his outrageous behavior by this time, that I simply was unable to engage in battle. Also, I was wearing my new sparklies which, as you’re probably aware, often have the effect of magically draining the fight right out of a girl.

Ironically, as it turned out, the spot where Satan had his meltdown was actually within spitting distance of the dorm we were headed for and we were completely and absolutely on the right track to get there. A fact that Satan still has yet to acknowledge.

As you might imagine, I later shared this story with every single person we met during the remainder of the weekend (and a few strangers on the street) and with each telling of the story, Satan managed to interject more and more fictitious details about the (essentially nonexistent) role he played in navigating us to our destination.

The truth is that later, I went on to navigate us directly to our hotel as well as orchestrate a complicated directional rendezvous with Satan’s other son who met us mid-journey en-route from Louisville.

All this while essentially writing this entire blog entry in my head.

I’m tired.

Sparkles

I'm up WAY past my bedtime (it's AFTER 10 p.m. for God's sake) because I wanted you to be the first to know: I am now in posession of some very nice sparklies to mark a VERY SPECIAL ten year anniversary.

What can I say? The man is crazy about me.

Squeaky Clean

I had an appointment at my dentist this morning for a cleaning. Both Satan and I go a dental center which is owned by a husband and wife team of dentists and staffed by a small army of hygienists.

After Diana the hygienist cleaned my teeth today, Dr. K my dentist, stopped in to give my teeth the once over.

DR. K
So, how are your teeth today?

ME
Great! Only two bleeding points and my numbers are good.

DR. K
(Peering into my mouth)
Your teeth really are in great shape.

ME
I’m very proactive. I do floss and brush every day, you know.

DR K
It shows.

ME
Too bad you can’t say the same for my husband.

DR K
Oh?

ME
There’s really no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it: the man hardly ever flosses.

DR K
Is that so?

ME
Certainly not every day for sure.

DR K
You don’t say!

ME
Absolutely. And last night?

DR K
Yes?

ME
Well, last night I’m not sure he brushed.

DIANA THE HYGIENTIST
(gasps)

DR K
(nodding his head sadly)
We have suspected as much for some time but couldn’t be sure.

ME
I think it’s time somebody made a note in his file.

DR K
(solemnly)
We’ll take care of it.

***

A wife in posession of a tenth anniversary present might not have felt so chatty.

Is all I'm saying.