Laura Jane

Minty Meerkats

2007-06-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

Aaaah...who doesn't love a good meerkat story? According to the BBCNews, when zookeeepers wanted to introduce 3 new meerkats to a pair already established in an exhibit, they rubbed all the critters with Vicks Vaporub. Ordinarily new members would be attacked, but the scent masking allowed the meerkats to accept each other peacefully.

So I was thinking-- if this works for meerkats, why not for our congress critters? If we just rubbed everybody in Washington with Vicks Vaporub, perhaps the Republicans and the Democrats would accept each other and work together peacefully. It's just a thought. Nothing else seems to be working.

Official State Hellbender

2007-05-02T08:40:00.000-07:00

The naming of Official State Thingys is not for wimps; only the most steely-jawed, resolute politicos can stand up to the protests and outrage that come when naming-- taking a purely made-up example-- Flamingo Pink as The Official State Color of Arkansas. "But what about Burnt Sienna?" plead the Italian lovers. "Too girly!" yell the NASCAR Dads. "People will confuse us with Florida," is the outraged cry of Citizens Who Love Arkansas. And so on.

Therefore it should come as no surprise that the NC House of Representatives, caving into the momentary whims of tiny schoolchildren by naming the American bullfrog as The Official State Amphibian, was rebuked by the state Herpetological Society. "Too common!" the herps cried, and in fact, Missouri, Iowa, and Oklahoma have already claimed the American Bullfrog as their own. "Too fat and warty." Ok, maybe they didn't say that exactly but they implied it when a spokesperson told the Raleigh N & O: "It is a big frog, grows rapidly, is highly vocal, doesn't live long and eats anything they can stuff in their mouth." Gosh, yes, we don't want a big, loud, fat amphibian as common as dirt to represent the proud state of North Carolina. No, no what we want is an elegant amphibian; a thin amphibian who wears Prada and dates Brad Pitt. Barring that, what we want is an amphibian with a funny name.

Enter the Eastern Hellbender Salamander. The biggest, baddest salamander in North America. A salamander that can kick the asses of all other salamanders, which should appeal to those NASCAR dads.

Or what if we did something really wacky and named as the Official State Amphibian a creature that is only found in our state? I know it sounds crazy especially when you consider our Official State Beverage is milk and our Official State Tree is the Pine, but let's face it-- no other state is going to name the Neuse River Waterdog as their official state amphibian because it is only found here. Waterdog or Bullfrog? The state Senate will be voting on the bill soon. All the world awaits with baited breath.

Oh and if you didn't already know, the Official State Color of North Carolina is: Red and Blue, I guess white goes without saying.

Grand Old Southern Names

2007-04-23T07:15:00.000-07:00

After living my entire life in Southern California, I moved to North Carolina: Culture Shock, Ahoy! I sometimes feel as though I am an anthropologist living among and observing a foreign peoples. The phrases "I reckon so" and "you might could do" are still used here. Pig Pickins and Crawdad Festivals are cause for celebration. Easter Monday is a state holiday and there are more varieties of Baptist churches than you could ever imagine. But by far the most interesting aspect of the pure Southern culture is the names; it is so interesting to me, in fact, a year ago I started recording some of my favorite names from the state-wide obituaries published in the Raleigh News & Observer. I doubt you will find many Cleasters or Othas living in other parts of the United States.

Unusual women's names outnumber the men's names by about 4 to 1. Apparently people who name their sons John or Charles like to get creative or whimsical when naming their daughters. First there is a preponderance of "I" names: Iola, Iva, Iona, Ivella, Imojean, Ima Sue, Idella, Irma, and Ilean. Ilean is also an example of variable spelling which includes: Malissa, Myldred, Berdie, Airlean, Aileen, Annita, Maybel, Mabyl, Juelle, Berlinda, Euna, Blance, Lydeah, and Perley. Then there are names which I doubt you would find anywhere but the South: Narcissus, Dimple, Nymphes, Alida, Pernaria, Sudie, Doyette, Verla, Derlie, Beazer, Reca, Dare, Nevella, Louretha, Blonnie, Nula, Niecy, Fernie, Bernell, Margie Bell, Rando, Vysta, Nelma,and Bayetta. Dare of course is popular because of Virginia Dare-- the first colonist born in America.

By far the largest catagory of unusual Southern names given to women is the "een" or "ine" catagory: Berteen, Noreen, Earline, Clarine, Dozene, Ethelene, Atheleen, Erdene, Pearline, Enseldine, Erseldine, Jourleen, Lendine, Undine, Lovine, and Garleen. Say them out loud and it is almost like poetry.

The males are occasionally given unusual names: Livius, Ransome, Lavotis, Wellington, Loy, Flay, Hixton, Craven, Doliver, Napoleon, Swain, Tyrus, Bonnie James, Ludie Earl, Lemon, Velmon, Sherimiah, Sherrard, Pratt, Kermon, Elred, Almond, Zolla, and Badger. While in this case Badger was a Christian name rather than a nickname, male nicknames are a whole 'nother kettle of fish-- with "Fish" being an example.

Animal nicknames include: Bear, Grizzly, Worm, Slug, Buck, Porky, Mole, Frog, Pig, Rat, Bug, Duck, Donkey, Dog, Redbird, Possum, and Skeeter. Do you suppose "Mole" was blind and "Slug" was slow? But what are we to make of "Worm"?

Manly nicknames include: Killer, Mad Dog, Low Rider, Boots, Bro, Woody, and Mack. I hope "Mad Dog" was used ironically.

Not-so Manly nicknames include: Squirt, Elmo, Sonny Boy, Buddy Boy, Shorty, and Pinky. Do you think "Squirt" chose his own nickname?

Then there is the good, old-fashioned nicknames: Jiggs, Flick, Preacher, Foggie, Tink, and Shack. I really like the nickname "Jiggs"-- how many times do you suppose he heard, "The Jiggs is up"?

Female nicknames are much more rare. In the last year the only ones I have recorded are: Sunshine, Baby Sis, Munner, Datie, Sweet Pea, Beady, and Sister Bass. "Baby Sis" was in her 90's when she died-- forever the baby.

The last catagory is the head-scratchers. Only the friends and family know what they refer to: Dibbie,Tree, Tupie, Bunch, Frosty Man, Niney, Red Eye, Boolie, Bronie, Fossile, Ringman, Wahoo, and Shoob. I like to imagine that "Frosty Man" drank his beer very, very cold.

Finally, some names must be presented in the entirity to appreciate their glory. Therefore, Rest in Peace:

Derlie Blevins
Levester Wigman
Cleaster Cherry
Lenwood Suggs
Nettie Jane Slumpf
Luna Hathcock
Pansy Crumpler
Ollie Lee Lovely
Turner Pickle
Delmas Corns
Meta Tew
Elbert Truelove
Ferebee Hogpath
Euzelia Clodfelter
Ersel Outlaw
Velmon Snipes
Lemuel Snaw
Keffrey Jeffrey

Watermelon, Broccoli, What's The Difference?

2007-04-12T13:58:00.000-07:00

Official State Thingys are a minor-- very minor--passion of mine. I figure if the state legislators can go to all the trouble of naming an Official State Blue Fruit for North Carolina (the blueberry), the least I can do is try to pretend I care. So with that in mind, I take note that here in North Carolina the house just passed a bill to declare the American bullfrog as The Official State Amphibian and another to declare The Lexington Food Festival as The Official State Food Festival. I'm not sure what kind of food is being celebrated, but I can guess it isn't celery. Probably not frog legs, either.

And speaking of vegetables, in Oklahoma there was a move to recognize The Watermelon as the Offical State Fruit, but unfortunately that title had already been claimed by the more glamorous Strawberry. It's true, Strawberries do have more fun. Oklahoma legislator, Joe Dorman, was only slightly fazed; he went on to declare The Watermelon as The Official State Vegetable. The reasoning is that, "watermelon comes from the cucumber and gourd families, which are classified as vegetables." Okey-dokey then. This reminds me of when the Reagan Administration declared Ketchup as a vegetable for the school lunch program. I guess politicians don't care for vegetables very much.

It's a Mystery Why Anyone Would Want To Do This

2007-04-05T14:41:00.000-07:00

I was driving in downtown Raleigh this afternoon and ended up behind "Nancy & Udean's Christian Tourbus." I was curious to find out what kind of Christian Tour might be taking place in downtown Raleigh, so I checked their web site when I got home. They offer hundreds of bus tours mostly to places like Branson, Mo. to attend dinner theaters and to the Amish Country to eat. Many of their tours end with a description such as "Day 4: Today we reflect on the many beautiful and amazing sights we have seen and all the wonderful tastes we’ve sampled as we make our way home." Aaah eating and reflecting-- that sounds like the perfect Christian outing.

One of their tours really stood out however: The Honeymoon Mystery Tour. A five day tour, $655 per person the only description is

ITINERARY - ?????? It's a Mystery!!
MEALS
Breakfasts ???
Lunches ???
Dinners ???

I can think of many things I would enjoy doing on my honeymoon but frankly, a Christian Mystery Bus Tour is not on my favorites list. In fact, I would have to be bound, gagged, drugged and with a loaded pistol to my head before I would consider it. The idea of touring in a bus with a bunch of strangers to God Only Knows where does not sound like a very romantic way to spend the beginning of your married life. But, there must be people who do think this is ideal ortherwise I am sure it would not be offered.

Disappointment in the Garden

2007-04-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

Here’s a fun game, walk into the loveliest garden in your neighborhood and ask the gardener about their failures. Chances are, you will hear such a tale of woe and madness that you will be forced to grope blindly for the nearest box of Kleenex. Lovely gardens are built on heartbreak; they are built on experiments gone wrong, on mistakes, on failure. There are so many ways to fail, in fact, it is a wonder that any of us continue to try.

Besides the wrong weather at the wrong time (too hot, too cold, too dry, too wet) there is also the mislabeled plant, insect infestation, damage from other critters (both domestic and wild) and, finally, stupidity. And by “stupidity” I mean both lack of knowledge as well as willful bullheadedness. We plant things that were never meant to grow in our neck of the woods, stick them in the wrong place without properly preparing the soil, neglect them, and then become outraged when they fail to flourish.

Take poppies, for example. As a young gardener I made many attempts to grow Oriental poppies with zero success, until I finally learned that Oriental poppies do not like hot, dry climates and furthermore they need a period of freezing temperatures to grow. But for several years I ordered Oriental poppies from garden catalogs under the mistaken belief that they would not sell them to me if Oriental poppies did not grow in my area. Ha! Perhaps somewhere in Southern California a gardener has outwitted the elements and enjoys lovely Oriental poppies that return every year, but that fantastical outcome never happened for me.

So having moved to a state which does experience a brief period of sub-freezing temperatures, I at once ran the nearest nursery and bought some Oriental poppies and planted them. Year after year I planted them, and year after year they melted into the soil without even a hint of a flower. I know that somewhere in North Carolina a gardener is growing a virtual forest of Oriental poppies, but not in my backyard. So I have come to rely on other members of the poppy family. Unfortunately I don’t like the color red, especially not the orange-red that is so common among poppies.

Not liking the color red is a big handicap to a gardener. One year I planted a few hundred “pink mix” tulips and mostly what came up were bright red tulips. I spent that spring weeding out the red. That was 5 years ago and as tulips tend to die out in the NC garden only a few tulips have appeared this spring. Every single one of them is flagrantly scarlet.

I am also still trying to rectify the red gladioli problem of 3 years ago. I sent away for 50 gladioli of the softest, palest baby pink. Unfortunately what came up in the garden were gladiolas of the fiercest, brightest orange-red. They had been mislabeled. The shipper was notified but of course that season was shot and I had to wait until the following spring to get my pink glads. In the mean time I did not get all the red out—I had planted them in and under roses and some of them escaped my trowel. Gladioli proliferate mightily in the NC garden with the result that I have red gladiolas every spring popping up like weeds.

But back to poppies.

Last year I decided I wanted poppies in profusion. Not red poppies, of course, but soft pink, apricot, peach, cream and white poppies, double poppies, preferably. So I sewed seed like a mad woman, ounces and ounces of seed. I bought it in bulk and I bought it in small packets. I bought it in hardware stores, garden shops and on-line. I even bought seed on eBay. And all the seed was labeled as pink or white poppies.

I got lots of poppies. Mostly red. I tore out the red, and reveled in the lovely double pink poppies with their translucent, delicate petals like silken fairy ball gowns. And when the season was over, I saved the seeds and scattered them about. Hundreds of feet of flower bed scattered with thousands of seeds have resulted in three plants this spring. The flowers have yet to open, but what are the chances that they will be red?

Fun Things to do with Trash

2007-03-06T14:05:00.000-08:00

Artificial Bright idea of a tire reef off the Fort Lauderdale coast is now simply a blight. A 1972 Goodyear news release proclaimed that a reef built out of a million tires dumped offshore would "provide a haven for fish and other aquatic species,' and noted the "excellent properties of scrap tires as reef material.' It turns out that, "They're a constantly killing coral destruction machine."

April 1, 2007
St Petersburg, Fla---Residents here in St. Pete were groaning under the ever growing burden of NASCAR Collectable Popcorn Tins. "You just can't throw them away! They're too valuable," Becky Barefoot, owner of Hands of Glory nail shop and beauty salon, was overheard to remark. Many collectors, frustrated by the amount of storage space the tins required, turned to eBay for a quick fix and were alarmed to discover that no one in the nation wished to purchase used popcorn tins. Some people even attempted to return the tins to WalMart claiming that they were duped by the word "collectable" into purchasing more popcorn tins than they required.

The situation seemed hopeless until 11-year-old Barry Farker of Sandy Pirate Cove Elementary School proposed a novel solution. "We could tie them together and make shelters for the homeless. Popcorn tins would be better than cardboard boxes any day of the week. And the bums could eat the popcorn crumbs when they get hungry."

Wildly enthusiastic about this 5th grader's idea on how to solve two problems at once, the city fathers have begun a NASCAR Collectable Popcorn Tin drive and the construction of the new habitats will begin shortly. Readers wishing to donate to this worthy cause may contact city hall.

Peas of Mind in a Can

2007-02-16T11:43:00.000-08:00

Some months ago, I started buying a few extra cans of food each week to add to the back pantry. I laughingly refer to this as "my bomb shelter." The rules are: while shopping for groceries, if I find food that we like and it is on sale and it comes in a can, I buy a few extra. Simple. I'm not sure why I started, it may be all the talk of bird flu or the memory of the last ice storm when we had no power and couldn't leave the house for 5 days, but it has already paid off. Last Saurday night when we decided to make nachos for our midnight snack, I remembered I had refried beans in the bomb shelter. And last Tuesday when I found I had forgotten an ingredient for my chicken and dumplings dinner, I remembered there was the necessary can of LeSeur baby peas stockpiled.

I've tried to keep this lighthearted ("Honey, if the enraged aliens enslave all the non-tatooed people in Garner, would you rather your last meal be Spaghetti-Os or Beef-A-Roni?) but I think my lack of purpose has confused my husband. He has merrily gone about choosing "a soup you wouldn't mind eating cold" but he recently confessed to a co-worker he wasn't sure why I was doing this. Now that's true love-- going along with your spouse's wacky schemes without knowing why.

However, it turns out my government thinks I should be taking this a bit more seriously:

Secretary of Health and Human Services Michael Leavitt recommended that Americans start storing canned tuna and powdered milk under their beds as the prospect of a deadly bird flu outbreak approaches the United States.

Also, Robert Webster, world-renowned virologist , consultant to the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases says:

The average person should be prepared to live in their family unit for three months. You have to have food, dried food, resources to live for 3 months in your unit. And so that's the maximum we can do.

Three months? The Mormans go one step further and suggest a plan for stockpiling food for a year.

The only problem with the Morman plan is it relies on a source of energy to cook those 10 boxes of macaroni and cheese, and that 700lbs of flour and 6 lbs of dried yeast. These aren't supplies for an ice storm scenerio. This seems more like supplies for a battle siege. A few other differences between my plan and the Morman plan:

The Laura Jane Plan Completely fish free.

The Morman Plan Ends up with 15 cans of tuna.

The Laura Jane Plan No worries about pantry moth or mouse infestation.

The Morman Plan 700 lbs of Flour!

The Laura Jane Plan Only requires the use of one arm to wield a can opener.

The Morman Plan You are going to what exactly with the 700 lbs of wheat, 6 lbs of dried yeast and 6 lbs of shortening?

The Laura Jane Plan I haven't actually found any "Cookies in a Can" so it is a little light on sweets.

The Morman Plan 240 lbs of sugar AND 10 lbs of honey.

The Laura Jane Plan Has nothing for headaches.

The Morman Plan Budgets 500 aspirin for two adults for one year.

The Laura Jane Plan Since I am so drawn to cans of beans, provides for lots of farting which could be entertaining if nbothing else.

The Morman Plan No beans at all.

At least we both agree that peanut butter is the food of choice for people under attack.

Basil Does Hard Time

2006-03-14T08:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday there was much rejoicing in the land: Basil was returned to the bosom of his family after spending the weekend in Kitty Jail. He brought back a dirty nose and a sneeze, but we welcomed him home with much feasting and an orgy of head rubbing. We hope he learned his lesson like Peter Rabbit and doesn't go back to "Mr. McGregor's" garden.

Friday afternoon we thought it was strange when he didn't take his normally scheduled nap in the guest room and Friday night he didn't show up to harass me while I was cooking dinner. When Saturday morning came and he wasn't there to demand a treat while I poured my coffee, it was clear something was very wrong. My husband and I felt horrible. Missing cats usually stay missing and we were depressed at the thought of losing such a valued member of the family.

A conversation with my neighbors across the street gave me some dismay and some hope: several of their cats had gone missing as well and it was rumored that one of the neighbors was trapping cats. I walked over to see for myself if it was true. The Grumpy Old Man who came to the door launched into a spiel about how "It isn't me, it is the city. There are leash laws, you know." I assured him he didn't have to justify his actions, I just wanted to know if a little gray and white cat had been trapped on Friday. He said no cats had been trapped for weeks and he would keep a look out for Basil.

The S.P.C.A. nearest us was closed on the weekend but there were two other animal shelters open on Sunday, so we toured them both. No Basil. Monday afternoon when the shelter opened at 3:00, we were there, chafing at the wait. First, though, we had to watch two families hand over their one-year-old dogs to be jailed for the crime of no longer being cute and puppy-like. It was with a heavy heart I watched my husband being escorted into the depths of animal hell. I was ready to go home empty handed, there to slowly mourn the loss with each passing day.

So I was stunned with the news our boy had been found. He had, in fact, been trapped at G.O.M.'s house and turned over to the city for disposal. Dirty and yowling for all he was worth, Basil was ready to bust out of the joint and return home to his ten square meals a day and his down comforter. In prison, apparently, no one sings songs to you about the joys of chicken, or tells you what a brilliant hunter you are, or rubs your head on demand. When Basil got home he screeched and yowled for a good two hours. It is just as well that I can't speak the language, because I am sure he was dropping the F Bomb with every breath.

So the great looming question is-- where do we go from here? Do we nail up the dog door and tell the bulldog she needs permission to go outside? Do we invest in an electric fence? Do we fatten Basil up until he can't waddle more than a few feet? Do we buy a trap and teach Basil and Eustace, the other cat, they are to be avoided at all cost? It is too bad that one grumpy old man can ruin a whole neighorhood, but we are the ones breaking the law, not him. Now we just have to figure out how to convince Basil and Eustace that they must be on leashes to go outside.

The Mighty Hunters

2006-03-02T08:24:00.000-08:00

Last week I was thinking the new cats, Eustace and Basil, just weren't stacking up to the cats of my past in the hunting department. Sure they are handsome boys with good characters, but where are the presents? Where is the "Thanks for all the canned food, here is a small, dead mouse"? That Sister, now she was a hunter! A fresh, new snake brought right to my kitchen every morning: Snake Express, We Deliver! These new kittens don't impress me, the lazy bums. A few moths. A grasshopper or two. Once a month a vole, if I'm lucky. Why I'd certainly have starved to death by now if I had to rely on their feeble hunting skills.

They read my mind. Or else, as my husband pointed out, spring arrived. This week my kitchen has been body part central. So far I have received: a headless snake, a full grown male cardinal, a baby vole, a bird's head, and a squirrel's tail. And the week isn't over yet. Good pickings if you happen to like assorted small, helpless animal parts.

Fanny, the bulldog, however, remains unimpressed. She has bigger, more impressive prey to hunt. There is nothing she likes better than to go for a drive with Dave or me, and come home with tacos, or pizza, or eggrolls. You can see the excitement when she comes through the door. Look! Look what we have done!

From Fanny's Unpublished Memoirs:

It was a good day for a hunt. She did that thing with her voice, that thing that makes me shiver. Do you want to go in the car? I must sit for THE LEASH even though I am trembling.

She is a great hunter. Our pack is never hungry. Every day she hunts and there is food. Every morning there is food in MY DISH. I must sit and wait. I drool. And then she says, Good Dog.

When she makes that chop chop noise, I run to the kitchen. She is standing. She stands and makes a chop chop noise and something flies in the air and lands in my mouth. It is good. It is meaty.

When I hear the crinkle crinkle sound, I am sleeping. I run to the bedroom. Crinkle crinkle from the bedroom at night is good. Sometimes it is cheesy things, they are crunchy and small. Sometimes it is POPCORN. Sometimes it is things I cannot have. NO. NO. They make me sad.

When I smell that special smell from the kitchen, I know good things are coming. It is RIB time. This is good. I sit ON THE CARPET. GOOD DOG. This is BONES. I get many bones. This is a good night.

Today, now, she does that thing with her voice. You want to go in the car? We go OUTSIDE. The air is good. The air smells like excitement. We go in THE CAR. The car is like the house but smaller. I go in THE BACKSEAT. We sit and we wait. I know she is a good hunter. She is good at sitting and waiting. She will wait and the prey will come. She goes outside the car, but she always hunts alone. Wait in the car. I am in the car and roam around trying to see her. She does not go too far. She is coming back. And this place smells like the small, soft things. I can smell it. It will be good.

Get in the backseat She has brought that smell with her. The small, soft parts are inside the skin. She carries the skin. It is not good, that skin, it is tough. I make a soft cry. She hears my cry. My cry is, "Can we eat the small, soft things now?" She says Do you want a DOUGHNUT? She tears the skin. Inside is the good things. A piece flies through the air. Oh. It is the good, small, soft thing. I swallow it. We should eat all the soft, small things now. I can smell more. There are more. But she sits and waits. She will find home. She will find our pack and share. She is a good hunter.

She goes outside the car with the small, soft things. She comes to get me. I sniff the air. This is HOME. We go INSIDE. The small, soft things go ON THE TABLE. When I was a puppy, I went ON THE TABLE. I ate many small, soft things. I ate the skin. It was BAD DOG. I do not do that now. I do not go ON THE TABLE. I sit. The man comes. "Look at what we found!" I tell him. I show him I am happy. He is happy. Our pack will not be hungry. She is a good hunter.

State of Confusion

2006-02-28T08:29:00.000-08:00

As I wrote previously, the Great State of Georgia might need to rethink their image as The Peach State since they are no longer the leading producers of peaches. As it turns out they are the leading producers of...chickens. Somehow, though, "The Chicken State" doesn't quite have that same ring. Who wants to live on Chicken Street? Plus, dubbing a professional baseball player The Georgia Chicken doesn't sound like an accolade.

So I have a suggestion. I think Georgia ought to negotiate with George Lucas so they can call themselves "The Star Wars State." How cool would that be? Everybody loves Star Wars. Who wouldn't want to own a business on Skywalker Boulevard or a home on Han Solo Lane? The new license plates would be so cool every nerd in America will want one. And The Atlanta Braves could change their name "The Millennium Falcons." Goooo Falcons!

While Georgia is fighting the Peach Wars across state lines, Florida is keeping its skirmishes in-state. The battle to name The Official State Pie is being furiously fought between the North and the South. Northerners, many of whom are citrus growers, are fighting for The Key Lime Pie while Southerners are behind The Pecan Pie. I don't know who the winner will be. But the loser will be anyone on a diet.

Much Ado About Peaches

2006-02-24T07:25:00.000-08:00

I think I must have been dropped on my head as a baby because my "community spirit" lobe seems badly damaged. While everyone around me gets wrapped up in extolling the virtues of their city or state, I'm left wondering what all the fuss is about.

For example, when I first moved here to North Carolina, I was bemused to see their license plates read "First in Flight." Really? John Glenn was born here? "Well no," my darling husband had to explain, "it refers to Kitty Hawk." For months I found this a source of amusement. North Carolinians were proud that the Wright brothers-- who were not born here or even designed their plane here-- chose a sandy hill in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina to jump off. My daughter wasn't so amused, however, when we forced her to climb "The Hill Of Death" (her name) in the middle of summer. It is.. how shall I put this...a sandy hill. As tourist attractions go, it is somewhere between the grand canyon and the Stuckey's gas station on Highway 50.

My point is, that North Carolinians took a sandy hill that hosted a historic moment and ran with it-- making it a point of state pride. Yah Hoo! First in Flight! Most out-of-staters probably don't even know what that means. But never mind. State license plate mottos are not meant for out-of-staters.

And neither are Official State Thingys. As I have mentioned before, North Carolina's Official State Fruit is the scuppernong grape, but the Official State Blue Fruit is the blueberry, a detail that is funny to me, but serious to blueberry growers. Who else cares? Probably only the child who has to memorize this stuff for a school report.

I bring this up because Alabama just passed a resolution on Tuesday naming The Peach as Alabama's Official State Tree Fruit. Georgia is not amused. Georgia is in fact mad as hell. Georgia declares itself to be known internationally as The Peach State, and anybody who has attempted to navigate the byways of Atlanta knows that every other street is named Peachtree. Peachtree Lane, Court, Circle, Avenue, etc. Georgia takes its peachiness seriously. I expect there will have to be a peach-off.

Meanwhile, there has been no word from South Carolina which also declares the Peach to be the Official State Fruit. Oddly enough, South Carolina actually grows more peaches than Alabama or Georgia, but they choose not to flaunt it. Their license plate says: "Smiling Faces, Beautiful Places" which is better than using their state nickname, "The Palmetto State." Whenever I see the word Palmetto, I automatically think of the Palmetto bug and nobody wants their state to be associated with a large, scary cockroach.

Stranger still, the number one grower of peaches in the United States turns out to be...California. California can't be bothered defending their peach status, because it is too busy with the California-Florida orange wars. California is "The Golden State" but Florida is "The Sunshine State." While sunshine is very enticing to the people living in colder states, I personally think that California should just go ahead and declare themselves "The Bimbo State." Now that's a tourist attraction!

Letters To The Editor-- February 22, 2006

2006-02-22T07:25:00.000-08:00

I read The Raleigh News & Observer every morning. As newspapers go it is somewhere between The Los Angeles Times and The Nowheresville Highly Opinionated Weekly. The one feature that I look forward to reading every morning is "The Letters To The Editor" because it is so often a source of naked bigotry, ignorance, and religious zealotry. This morning I read this little gem:

Some of the reasons the liberal elite media despise our vice president are:
1) He is very intelligent.
2) He refuses to worship at their sef-constructed altar.
3) He is amused by their stupid questions.
4) He is effective beyond their collective imagination.
5) He enjoys the full confidence of our president, his colleagues and a majority of the American people.
6) They cannot understand his lack of interest in becoming president.
7) He has a subtle and sophistocated sense of humor surpassing their understanding.
8) He knows his job, and more about government, business, economics and defense matters then they can fathom.
9) He is a patriot.
10) He is a man of faith.

Odd, I never thought of Cheney as a "man of faith." I will say he doesn't wear his religion on his sleeve as so many other politicians do. Perhaps Cheney takes after his boss and is one of those born-again Christians who don't attend church.

Overall that is quite a list and while I could nitpick (#5 is highly questionable) I think that the most revealing are #s 1 and 9. The fact that the letter writer thinks the "liberal, elite media" despises Cheney for being intelligent and patriotic taints the whole list for me.

The word "liberal" means "Not rigorous or literal, open-minded, unprejudiced. Progressive, favoring individual liberty and democratic reform. Generous, open-handed." I suspect that it is the "open-handed" part that has given liberals a bad name. To be liberal is to be open to change-- the very opposite of being a conservative-- and being open to change means welcoming intelligence. Without information how can we change? To state that liberals hate somebody because they are "intelligent" is to completely misunderstand the ideals of liberalism.

But it is the definition of "Patriot" that I have the greatest dificulty with these days. We so often hear it bandied about and lately the idea of who or who is not a patriot seems to have changed mightily. These days the easiest way to be marked as a patriot is to wear a little flag lapel on one's jacket while the quickest way to be marked as a traitor is to speak out against the government, as though the present administration-- not the people or the land or the history or the culture-- is the sole embodiment of America.

I sure wish we could go back to the old definition when to be a patriot didn't mean enriching one's own pockets at the expense of others but meant sacrifice. When serving one's country did not mean earning millions while living a life of power and luxury in Washington D.C. passing legislation that benefits one's friends in big business.

I guess when it comes to the meaning of the word, "Patriot" you can call me a conservative.

Annie Get Your Gun Apron

2006-02-11T08:55:00.000-08:00

A high School performance of "Grease" in the town of Futon, Mo drew criticism-- not as you might think for bad vocals or clumsy dancing-- but in part because of the scene of girls singing in their pajamas. Three letters from the same church (one written by someone who had not even viewed the performance) caused the principal to cancel the upcoming performance of The Crucible by Arthur Miller. Oh the kids still have to read the play in class, but a performance about the Salem witch trials was thought to be too inflammatory.

I think that if you go to most schools and start up some campaign to complain to their superintendent (or principal, whoever is paranoid) about a show the high school is putting on, they'll feel obligated to make some sort of crazy reaction and cancel things

Which got me thinking. If you can criticize "Grease" for its scenes of pajama-clad girls, what about other musicals?

The Wizard of Oz: Flying Monkeys!! Flying Monkeys are the devil's instruments. And witches!?

Oliver!: Do we really want to be giving our children lessons in how to become a pickpocket?

The Music Man: A musical that glorifies the life of a con man. What sort of message are we sending our children?

Romeo and Juliet: Teenagers disrespecting their parents and having sex. Good Heavens!

Guys and Dolls: Do we really want our kids portraying gangsters and loose women?

Peter Pan: The leading man(?) wears tights, flies around, and talks to fairies. Nuff said.

Oklahoma!: Contains a song entitled, "I'm Just a Girl Who Can't Say 'No'"

The Pajama Game: No! No pajamas. Ever. Pajamas are the devil's tool.

Perhaps we should be limiting our high school students to plays and musicals about high school students. Oh wait. That would be "Grease."

Jesusland Is In Trouble

2006-01-11T08:31:00.000-08:00

Pat Robertson, that humble man of God, has made another one of his priceless gaffes. In the past he has offered these gems:

(To Dover, PA:) "If there is a distaster in your area, don't run to God, you just rejected him."

"Feminism encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians."

"You say you're supposed to be nice to the Episcopalians and the Presbyterians and the Methodists and this, that, and the other thing. Nonsense, I don't have to be nice to the spirit of the Antichrist."

However, his latest pronouncement against the Prime Minister of Israel may cost Robertson and other investors millions. When Robertson said God struck down Ariel Sharon because he divided Israel, he angered local businessmen involved with the development of Jesusland, a theme park "to be built in 35 acres around key Christian sites such as the Mount of the Beatitudes where Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount, and Capernaum which was described as the town of Jesus in the Bible."

Oddly enough, there are some who might think the whole idea of a "Jesusland" is blasphemous or at least humorous:

There were plans for food outlets at Tabgha on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, the scene of the feeding of the 5,000.

Lurleen and Dale already put a down payment on a Bible Daze: Holi Land Holi Days Tour Package. Their son, Christian, is out of work right now so he can watch the wiener dogs. Their daughter Christall, divorced mother of 14-month-old Joshua and 5- month-old Josef, was able to use her WalMart employee discount to buy her mother a Tee shirt that says "Jesus 'N Me, Best Friends Forever." (They were sold out of the purple in the XXL so Lurleen got yellow.) So they are good to go.

Dale did have some concerns about being around "those kind of people" and having to eat funny food, but his Pastor assured him that the tour was set up so Dale and Lurleen would spend most of their time around other American tourists. And by the way, "They got funnel cake at the Sea of Galilee!"

"Watching the animatronic Jesus feed the crowd can give you quite an appetite, but they got corn dogs, deep fried pies, fudge, and chicken tenders with three sauces just like home. And you can get you a sit-down dinner at the re-enactment of The Last Supper. I remember the all-you-can-eat fried chicken dinner was pretty good. It comes with a biscuit, coleslaw, potato salad and mashed potatoes and gravy. My wife swears the creamy coleslaw was better than KFC. And you got the choice of grape juice or sweet tea. I got the grape juice in the commemorative cup."

Lurleen and Dale can't wait to go.

Yo Ho Ho and a Merry (Pirate) Christmas

2005-12-15T19:58:00.000-08:00

Some people might look at our Christmas tree and say it is half empty. Other people might look at our Christmas tree and say, "Why in heck are all your ornaments on the top half of your tree?" The answer is: new kittens. Well, to be perfectly honest it is the work of just one kitten, Eustace, but for all we know, Basil might be helping out after hours.

Meet Basil and Eustace, the New Kits on The Block. Last summer we found an ad in the newspaper for free kittens, and when we called for directions the lady with four litters(!) told us we couldn’t miss the house because they were flying a pirate flag. And she was telling the truth. Naturally the two boys we picked out had to have pirate names, so the big black and white one was dubbed Eustace, The Black Monk, and the smaller grey and white one was christened Basil Ring Nose.

As it turns out Basil’s secret name is Danger Mouse– one look and you just know there was a mouse in the woodpile. His coat is matte grey and his face is small and pinched with a pink nose. But unlike any mouse I've ever known he has a big voice, a voice like a fishwife competing with a force 10 hurricane. Basil’s favorite activity is sitting in the middle of the kitchen and relating to everyone (within a ten block radius) the pitiful saga of "The Kitten Who Only Had Dry Food In His Bowl." He is thin and frail looking– which belies his mandatory 10 meals-a-day schedule. His most endearing habit is following me around like a puppy– napping when I nap, eating when I am eating, and climbing right up inside to see what might be available every time I open the refrigerator door.

Eustace, on the other hand, must have an otter somewhere in his ancestry and looks like he spends his evenings giving himself VO5 hot oil treatments. He is also a chunk; solid as a cement block describes both body and mind. Once Eustace seizes on an idea, there is no way on earth of changing it. He decided shortly after moving in that people were a nuisance, the kitchen counter was his private lounge, and Fanny the bulldog’s chest hid the nipple of glory. All of us, including Fanny, have spent a lot of time trying to change his mind about these matters. Fanny thinks of kittens as more of wind-up toys than babies to be cuddled but after 5 months of persistence by Eustace, she has come to accept his nursing for up to 10 minutes at a time. Sometimes I come across them inflagranto delecto and the look on her face is priceless.

Eustace has now gotten it into his head that Christmas tree ornaments are shiny vermin that need to be destroyed. Although we keep moving them higher, he responds by standing on his tip toes and leaping higher to capture them. Once he has his prize in his mouth, he sneaks off to the kitchen to bat it around until it is broken. It takes him only a few minutes to break one before he is back harassing the tree. I’m beginning to suspect that it is his job and he is paid for each (smashed) ornament. Only 10 more days til Christmas. Just how bare will our tree be by then? Only Eustace knows.

Open Mouth 'N Pour

2005-11-13T11:05:00.000-08:00

Just when I thought the processed food industry could no longer shock me, along comes Liquid Cereal “Made With Real Cereal!” My goodness how wholesome. Sounds just like mamma used to make-- back in the good old days when she had time to pour cereal into a bowl and add milk. Sigh. Boy those were the days, eh?

Could we possibly get any lazier as a society? Here is a whole line of foods for people who want the great taste of sugar, refined flour and preservatives soaking in milk, but don’t have the time or energy to chew, much less lift that heavy cardboard box down from the shelves and open it. And before I get a lot of angry comments about “Consider the poor paraplegics for whom this is a godsend!” let me add, I don’t think that is the intended consumer. People with medical problems such as paraplegics have their own line of nutritional liquids. I'm guessing this is for college students too busy playing games on the computer to fuss with a spoon and a bowl.

Having come up with these fabulous new line of fake foods, the mad scientists are no doubt back at work slaving away at their test tubes, looking for that next breakthrough. Looking for ways to make it even easier to pour massive amounts of calories down our gaping maws.

Scene: The Food Laboratory at Giant Conglomerate Fake Food Industries (formerly known as Aunt Betsy's.) Camera focuses in on two serious, science-types in lab coats, Lab Guy One wearing eyeglasses, Lab Guy Two not wearing glasses. Heads bowed together they confer while moving around miniature, toy plastic foods such as fake carton of milk, banana-split replica, pretend plate of spaghetti.

Lab Guy One: How about dehydrating Liquid Cereal and making a dry version?

Lab Guy Two: Been there, done that. It’s called Cereal ‘N Milk bars.

Lab Guy One: Yeah, OK, but you have to chew those. How about a powdered form?

Lab Guy Two: Terrific, then you would have invented Instant Breakfast which has only been around since the 70's.

Lab Guy One: Well... we could leave the Real Cereal in solid form, add powdered milk, and sell it in pouches.

Lab Guy Two: No, still too much chewing. The kids don't want to chew.

Lab Guy One: Wait, I’ve got it. We take out most of the water, add in a gel and sell it like fruit roll-ups. Kids love fruit roll-ups.

Lab Guy Two: Too much work. You have to peel it off the plastic and there is still chewing involved. We have to think about what our customers want. They don’t want to chew. Let’s stick to the liquid.

Lab Guy One: How about making it more nutritious? I’m thinking Bran Flakes ‘N Soy Milk.

Lab Guy Two: Are you kidding me? We came out with the Wheaties ‘N Low Fat Milk and nobody would touch the stuff. Our best seller is the Cap’n Crunch ‘N Half & Half.

Lab Guy One: So let’s give them more sugar and fat if that’s what they want: Sugar Frosted Cookies and Cream ‘N Cream. That would sell.

Lab Guy Two: I’ll shoot that over to marketing– see if it will fly, but meanwhile I think we’re getting bogged down by limiting ourselves to breakfast. Why don’t we move onto lunch. Campbells thinks they’re so great with that Soup on the Go stuff, but you still have to chew the noodles, you know. I’m thinking a whole “Office Mate” line of liquid lunches. Something like Pizza ‘N Pepsi.

Lab Guy One: Yeah! Ham & Swiss on Rye ‘N Cream Soda! Cheeseburger, Chili Fries ‘N Chocolate Shake! Wow, this could be huge.

Lab Guy Two: And if it works out, we move onto dinners. Bratwurst ‘N Beer. Steak ‘N Merlot. Ice Tea ‘N Fried Chicken Dinner, Now With Creamy Coleslaw.

And so we leave our mad scientists to merrily mix up their hellish brews. Coming soon to a Grocery Store near you!

Musical Madness

2005-11-10T07:31:00.000-08:00

In the last few years we have seen some crazy origins for Musicals: low brow T.V. talk shows (Jerry Springer), rock star biographies ( John Lennon), and even urinal stories (Urinetown.) Now prepare yourself for the latest, a musical based on a grammar book.

Yes, the classic Strunk and White manual, The Elements of Style was turned into "an operatic song cycle." The show is performed with the help of the Omit Needless Words Orchestra and features lyrics like "Revise and rewrite" and "Do not use a hyphen between two words that can better be written as one word" Oh the excitement! In my mind's eye I can see dancers lined up on stage performing the showstopping "Punctuation Stomp!"

With this in mind, I cast about for musical inspirations taken from daily life.

AOL the Musical:
You've Got Mail, You've Got Mail, You've Got Mail!
Oh! The World Wide Web is a Wild Weird World!
Come Chat With Me (We Can Talk About Our Grandchildren)
Caps On! Caps Off! Doing The Email Dance.
It's 2:30 in Morning, Please Come To Bed
Shopping, Oh Lord I'm Shopping and (I've Never Been So Happy in My Life)
I'm The Virus Man

In The Garden:
By Mowing, You’re Showing Your Love
Come On Little Leaf, Just Fall
Flinging My Seed
The Japanese Beetles Are At It Again
There is Dirt On Your Face (But I still Love You)

The Garbage Men:
You Say Recyclable, I Say Trash
The Very Smell of You
Look What I Found! (The Treasure Song)

The Tupperware Party:
Burp! I Love that Burp
You Can’t Live Without a Pickle Packer
How Do You Stop A Deviled Egg From Wand’ring?

Fanny, the Famous Farting Dog:
Alas! The Dish Is Empty!
Wieners, Dreamy Wieners
I Love The Meter Reader, And The Meter Reader Loves Me
Find Your Leash Fandango
What an Odor! (It’s Not Me)

Afterword:

I asked my family for their ideas on wacky musicals. My daughter suggested
Sauerkraut, A Celebration in Song, featuring that great hit “What can I do with this cabbage?”

My husband suggested Mountain Biking Men including the dreamy solo “A stinky Glove is like a Melody.”

Basil, the cat suggested Vole-let a modern ballet with songs like "No, No! You Can't Take That Dead Prey From Me."

Eustace, the other cat, declined to suggest anything except filling up his food bowl with canned food.

Designer Chocolates

2005-10-25T11:34:00.000-07:00

What happens when your luxury item becomes too popular with the unwashed masses? Why you upgrade, of course.

$35.00 per pound just wasn’t expensive enough, so Godiva Chocolates has recently introduced: The Platinum line. At $80.00 per pound Godiva once again reclaims its status as the bon bon for the absurdly wealthy. But what is it exactly that makes the Platinum Series worth $2.00 per bite? My first guess was that the secret ingredient was....monkey poop. For those of you who don’t follow the world poop news, Kopi Luwek is made from coffee beans harvested from Indonesian civet poop. At $300 per pound it is the most expensive coffee in the world. So if coffee beans can be “harvested” from poop– why not cocoa beans? Perhaps the Platinum Collection chocolate comes from the digestive tract of rare Peruvian albino parrots.

Sadly, the truth is more prosaic. The Platinum Collection is (drumroll please) “extraordinary chocolates, created by world-class chefs.” That got me thinking about what some of our more infamous chefs might do with chocolate:

Wolf Gang Puck: An exciting fusion of chocolate, fruit and sushi.

Emeril Lagasse: We're kicking it up a notch with a little garlic, a little cayanne so these babies will go Bam! in your mouth.

Anthony Bourdain: A tiny drop of motorcycle grease goes into everyone of these bad boys.

Martha Stewart: If everyone of these morsels is not perfect, someone will get fired.

And now, for a limited time only, if you've got more money than sense you may wish to opt for the G Collection. I'm not talking about a mercedes, I'm referring to the ultimate Godiva. At around $3.00 a bite, you can enjoy the p.b. & jam (peanut butter and strawberry jam covered in chocolate) the apple pie (green apples, spices, and lemon covered in chocolate) or the bananas foster (caramelized bananas and spices covered in chocolate.)

Me, I'm holding out for the K. L. Supreme (monkey poop covered in chocolate.)

Big Baby

2005-10-25T07:19:00.000-07:00

Waaah! Waaah! Waaah! Wails Big Baby. Big Baby is very spoiled and used to getting his own way. Big Baby is also very, very big and when he throws a temper tantrum-- watch out!

Waaah! Waaah! Waaah! Big Baby is sobbing. “I want my money! I want it all paid back– even if it takes people the rest of their lives!” “But Big Baby, sometimes people have real emergencies. Sometimes the co-payment on their medical bills is tens of thousands of dollars. Sometimes people put these bills on their credit cards and then you raise the interest on them.” “Waaaah!” “But Big Baby, the credit card companies are making billions of dollars in profits.” “Waaaaah!” “But, Big Baby, companies get to dissolve and walk away scot free from unpaid bills, so why shouldn’t individuals get the same consideration?” “Waaaah!” “There, there,” murmurs congress.

And so congress passes a new law that makes sure the poor, helpless credit card companies get every penny they are owed.

Waaah! Waaah! Waaah! Big Baby is pounding the floor with his massive fists. “I want to sell my guns anywhere and any way I want." "But Big Baby, you can sell your guns anywhere you want. You just have to be careful about who you sell them to." "Waaah! Waaah! Waaaah! I’m scared of lawsuits. I’m scared of the American justice system. I’m scared of soft-hearted juries. I don’t want to be sued by states and local governments. I’m afraid of facing people who have lost their loved ones.” “There, there,” says congress.

And so congress passes a law that prevents state and local governments and individuals from bringing lawsuits against the poor, helpless gun manufacturers.

Waaah! Waaah! Waaah! Big Baby is red in the face with anger. “I love selling food to little children, it's so easy. I don't want anybody telling me I'm bad!" "But Big Baby, the food you sell is very addictive and very unwholesome. You target little children with your play areas and your cartoons and there is an epidemic of childhood obesity in this country." "Waaah! Waaah! Waaah! I don’t care if if it makes them sick, that’s not my fault!” “There, there,” whispers congress.

And so congress passes a law preventing anyone from suing the innocent little fast food companies.

Ssssh. Big Baby is sleeping right now. Lets hope he doesn’t wake up. Because Big Baby is very, very powerful and congress will do anything that Big Baby wants. The only problem is, the more you give a spoiled baby, the more he wants. What’s next? Fewer emission controls? A drop in the minimum wage? Getting rid of OSHA? No lawsuits against the pharmaceutical industry? I don’t know about you, but Big Baby is starting to scare me.

Pillow Talk

2005-07-28T09:40:00.000-07:00

My Pillow, Lumpy, was thrilled to see his compadres had made the news, specifically an article in The New York Times entitled A Dream Room May Depend on the Pillow (7-74-05) about how pillows have become so important to luxury hotels that one place in Seattle has 16 choices on their “Pillow Menu.”

16 kinds of pillows! Do we live in a great country, or what! Back in the Dark Ages they struggled to make do with 3 choices: hard (pillows stuffed with rocks) soft (pillows stuffed with lard) and hypoallergenic (pillows stuffed with nothing.) Some of the fancier castles might also offer cold (pillows stuffed with ice) and hot (pillows stuffed with boiling oil.) But your average peasant was happy to have his Econo Brand (pillows stuffed with dirt.) Now we have so many choices that we have to have a “Sleep Concierge” explain them to us.

This is a new profession to me. I was trying to imagine the training classes one would need in order to specialize as a Sleep Concierge. History of Mattresses, surely. Higher Thread Count Mathematics. Sheet Tucking 101. I imagine a Sleep Concierge would say something like, “To obtain a light, but fruitful 7 hour sleep with minimal tossing I would recommend the 1997 Egyptian Cotton 800 thread count sheet set in a restful Ecru topped with a swan’s down comforter encased in gold damask.”

The article concludes by quoting an hotel employee:

“We get a lot of requests for the NASA memory pillow because people have seen it advertised on TV,” he said. But guests rarely order the buckwheat hull pillow. “It’s a nice pillow, but it sounds too healthy,” Mr Mattstedt said. “People come here for a good time.”

Lumpy is very reassured by that statement. There never was a more unhealthy pillow than my 25 year old friend stuffed these days mostly with the merest memories of goose down. No wonder I have so many good times in my bedroom. Thanks, Lumpy.

Mick

2005-07-15T15:37:00.000-07:00

.
Our home has suddenly become catless. Our friend Mick has not been seen for three weeks, and we are sure that he is gone for good. We can only hope he has gone on to a paradise with fewer and gentler bulldogs.

His name was not always Mick. Five years ago, we decided it was time to do something about the mice who were punch drunk with freedom and carousing in all corners of the house. Luckily some friends of ours had just had a litter of kittens born in their barn. It was easy to tell which kitten would be our choice, the fearless one with the friendly manner. But we decided he should have a playmate as well so we brought along his sister. We named them Mick and Sister. It became obvious a few months later that we had made a mistake, two mistakes in fact, and the names were switched around pronto. Sister would always be the alpha male, however, even if she wasn't technically a male. She would climb the highest, bring home the biggest snakes, and be the most aggressive lap hog. Sadly, her fearlessness was her undoing and before she celebrated her first birthday, we found her dead by the mailbox. Probably the victim of a car accident.

Mick was always shy and without Sister to help him out, he seemed even more withdrawn. Eventually he bonded with Otis the old bloodhound-- by this time more furniture than pet-- and the two of them spent their days napping together. Otis seemed impervious to Mick's claws as he went about the serious business of trying to nurse from Otis’ stomach. Life was pretty tranquil for this sleepy pair and then we got Fanny.

We thought a bulldog puppy might liven things up. We were right about that, but we were wrong when we imagined that Mick, who weighed twice as much as Fanny, would teach her to be respectful. He never had it in him to be the aggressor. Instead Mick became Fanny’s endlessly fascinating wind-up toy. Fanny and Mick played the same game over and over: Fanny would appear to be fast asleep, Mick would sit and calculate his odds before attempting to cross the room, and then, just before Mick reached safety, Fanny would pounce. Fanny never did anything worse then pin Mick to the floor with one paw, but that was bad enough. Mick never fought back, he just waited patiently until either Fanny got bored or one of us humans got involved. But perhaps that was the best strategy after all– no one ever got injured and frequently the two of them would reconcile with a mutual face-washing orgy. Perhaps Mick’s docility was the only possible way their friendship could flourish.

I’ll miss Mick. I’ll miss seeing his silhouette in the bedroom door assessing his chances of making it to the bed. I’ll miss his loud cries of impatience as he waits for us to join him in taking a nap. I’ll miss his games of hiding behind the newspaper and reaching underneath to attack my hands. I’ll miss the sound of his pretend baby kitten voice as he tries to convince me he needs to nurse on
my stomach. Farewell, dear friend, you will live on in our memories. As my daughter says, "You were the best cheese head-rubber, ever."

Fanny on the Bench

2005-07-06T07:39:00.000-07:00

As you may know, Fanny recently graduated from Big Sal’s House ‘O Meat and Dog School and she has been considering her options for a future career, so she was quite excited to hear that there is a vacancy on the Supreme Court. Fanny likes the idea of wearing judicial robes, she thinks she would look quite regal. I pointed out that she has not been trained in the law, but Fanny reminded me that President Bush has said he may look for someone who does not have a law degree. And besides, she thinks there are too few females and too few dogs on the bench. By nominating her, President Bush can plug two minority holes with one bulldog. I suggested that perhaps her age would be considered a liability but Fanny says Grover Norquist, a powerful Republican with close ties to the White House was quoted in The New York Times, “My only recommendation is that they nominate someone who is 12 or 13 years old, “ to ensure as long a conservative legacy as possible. Fanny is 4, so that would be even better.

I sat down with her recently to discover her stance on some of the hot button issues that any nominated Justice will be questioned about by the Senate.

LJ: What is your stance on abortion?

Fanny: When I was young, I was neutered. That has solved a lot of problems.

LJ: But that does not address the problem of abortion for others.

Fanny: Obviously, if more people were neutered, there would be fewer abortions.

LJ: Hmmm. OK, where do you stand on same-sex marriages?

Fanny: Again I have to say more neutering is the answer. My solution would be to neuter 9 out of 10 children born in America. Think of how many problems that would solve! Instead of worrying about everybody’s sex life we could concentrate on the big issues: Global Warming, Famine, Disease, War, and why there isn’t a decent Jewish Delicatessen in Raleigh.

LJ: Well let us leave the issue of sex for a moment and turn to religion. What is your stance on God in Government?

Fanny: We need to go back and take a look at history. I believe that what the founders originally said was “In Dog We Trust” but the secretary at the meeting was a little dyslexic, so it was mistakenly transcribed as “In God We Trust.” I feel certain this is not what our Forefathers would have wanted. They knew that a closer relationship between Dog and Man will lead to happiness. Those old Foundering Fathers were smart guys.

LJ: That is certainly food for thought. Where do you stand on affirmative action?

Fanny: I’m all for it– in fact I think we need to encourage affirmative action. I look around me and I see that Chihuahuas are being barred from police duty, St. Bernards are losing out on lap dog positions, and Pekinese can’t get jobs as sled dogs. I would uphold any laws that would make the entrance exams for Guide Dog School easier for Great Danes. They are notoriously bad at taking tests, but I refuse to believe that as a class they are all too stupid to be good guide dogs.

LJ: I never realized this was such a problem. One final question. The recent Supreme Court decision on eminent domain was seen as controversial. What are your views?

Fanny: It all depends on what is meant by “for the public good.” To me that should be defined by one question: Will we, the public, get more bacon out of the deal? I will support any legislation that razes shopping malls, condos, hotels, and the like in order to allow for more hog farms. This clearly will be of greatest benefit to the public.

LJ: Thank you for your time. It has been interesting.

Fanny: You are welcome. I’ll just sit here next to the phone and wait for my President to call me. Could you bring me some wieners?

LJ: No.

Better Living Through Slogans.

2005-06-23T11:23:00.000-07:00

Garner, my home town, recently changed its slogan. This is big,big news-- mainly because we didn't even know we had a slogan. It turns out the old slogan was tired and run-down with iron-poor blood: "Garner...The Most Promising Corner of the Triangle." It was so obviously time to ship it off to the Old Slogans Retirement Home. So one concerned citizen with a teeny bit too much time on his hands got busy. He got a seven member committee together and they brainstormed. I hope it won't come as too much of a shock when I tell you they came up with a slogan that sounds like it was chosen by a committee: "Garner..A Great Place To Be." Phew. I'm so glad they chose not to go with "Garner...We Are A Town" or "Garner...A Place With Houses and Stuff." or "Garner...A Small Town With No Particularly Distinguishing Characteristics Other Than The Slim Jim Factory" which wouldn't fit quite so well on a bumper sticker.

However, the new slogan is a bit bland. Confess. You've already forgotten what it is, haven't you. It is not impossible, however, for a small town to have a catchy motto. Some surrounding towns have actually chosen mottos that are zippy, evocative, even a bit whimsical.
"Morrisville...The Heart of the Triangle"
"Rolesville...Small Town, Bright Future"
"Holly Springs...Where Tradition and Vision Meet"
"Apex...The Peak of Good Living"

That last one is my favorite; at least there is wordplay involved so that it remains in your consciousness for more than half a nanosecond.

It is probably too late to convince the Town Aldermen to change the motto again-- unless we want to be known as "Garner...The Town That Changes Its Slogan Every Five Minutes"-- but our family went ahead and held an emergency meeting in order to make up our own town slogans. Here are a few of the gems we came up with:

Garner...
"Home of The Burnt Stuffed Albino Deer"
"We Live here So You Don't Have To"
"One of These Days We Are Going To Fix Ourselves Up--Just You Wait!"
"Only 10 Minutes From Raleigh-- If There Are No Other Cars On The Road"
"Feel The Excitement, Smell The Slim Jims"
"We Are Getting A Bigger Sewer System Next Year"
"100 Thousand Squirrels Can't Be Wrong"
"We Really Care About Our Slogan"
"Can I have a Wiener?"

I think Fanny was a little confused on the whole concept, but she stubbornly insists that that last suggestion would make an excellent Town Motto. She could be right. At least it would be memorable.

Gloves, Sweat: Tears

2005-06-17T08:10:00.000-07:00

It was with a great deal of relief that I looked into the bathtub this morning and saw that my husband had washed his biking gloves and left them to air dry, thereby sparing mankind for a few more weeks. You see I am convinced that the destruction of life as we know it will come about not as a result of alien invasion from outer space or the accidental release of nanobots from the lab or even the unleashing of giant, mutant, killer bombadier beetles. No, life as we know it will end when my husband's bike gloves become imbued with the life force and begin roaming the earth slaying all in their path.

In a general way, I approve of mountain biking. It gets my husband out into the fresh air and gives him a good cardiovascular workout. Plus if you compare it to yachting, it isn't that expensive. The problem lies with the accessories. Better living through Chemistry has resulted in apparel that not only wicks the sweat away from the body it transforms this sweat into a crime against nature, an Unholy Alliance if you will, between perspiration and man-made fibers.

Normally, my husband's sweat is like all the perfumes of Arabia to me. One whiff and every cell of my being instantly decides that it is time to procreate, NOW. But that is in its natural state. What happens when it comes into contact with his biking gloves is something very unnatural.

Lest you think I am some shrinking violet, let me remind you that I live with Fanny whose back-end aromas are no joke. They are enough to make grown men cry "Uncle." But my olfactory organs have been toughened up by constant exposure, and I am proud to say I can survive in a closed room with Fanny for almost an hour without fainting. But the thought of spending more than 10 seconds in close proximity to Dave's biking gloves makes me reel in horror. Which gives me an idea.

I believe I know of a way to regain our national honor while at the same time punishing our enemies. As far as I know there is no Geneva Convention Rule concerning my husband's gloves as yet. So I suggest that the soldiers at Guantanamo Bay should leave off the use of conventional torture. They should put away the dog leashes and the electric cattle prods. They should stop flushing the Koran and stop forcing the prisoners to strip naked. Instead, I suggest that our enemies spend a little quality time with Dave's gloves. It would mean that he would have to ship the gloves off to the prison, but I, being the good citizen that I am, would be willing to make this sacrifice.