Enough Already

You know what I think
when I look at this photo?

"My hair looks great!"

The second thing I think
is, "How old am I? Ten?!"

The other second thing I
think is, "Exactly what is
that expression on my face
supposed to be?"

I mean, what the hail is that?
Somebody gimme a magnifying
glass! I needs to make me a
zammination.

Lemme see. The eyes kinda scrunch up and look real sincere, like there isn't anybody else
on the planet Earth. The mouth goes like this in a trusting smile that says, "I'll follow
you to the end of the moon AND always be on your side because you are always right
no matter what! The chin is doin' somma dat, "I love Youyouyou, You Are The King
Of The World! kinda stuff.

Yeow! That expression kinda hurts.

I must have drunk me a bottle of Love Potion No. 9 that morning.

Now, when-oh-when did I last gaze at The Man like that?....

..."I'm thinking!," as Jack Benny said after the hold-up man stuck a gun in his ribs
and said for the SECOND time, "your money or your life."

Oh, well, as another favorite of mine, Scarlett O'Hara would say, "I can't think about
that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow."

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So, in case anyone was wondering about whether or not The Man got me a present
or not, well, no, he didn't. He wouldn't bow to the pressure. However, he did give
me permission to go back to the Hahn Farm and buy more beets. So, I did!

I didn't get any diamonds, but I got beets! And when you think about it, what's
the big difference? They both come outta the ground, don't they?!

Now, don't I sound jes like that little dummy girl in the picture? The Man told me
I deserved beets and, by Job, I got me some.

The refrigerator was chock full of beets and the beet greens. I had so many beets
that I finally decided I'd better can some, so I now have about seven pints of pickled
beets on the counter, and those pints are gonna last until my next anniversary, at
which time I will officially announce that I'm changing my birthstone from diamond
to...BEET!

AND, in case anyone is wondering what I got The Man for his 30th Anniversary, he
got a special Spode dinner plate with an engraving of a Rome scene printed on it.

So, now when he eats my beets he jabs his fork in the heart of St. Michael, standing
atop Castello St. Angelo, along the Tiber in Rome...which gives me an odd sense of
satisfaction.

I don't know why.

And The Beet Goes On

Oh, oh, oh. This morning after
swimming we stopped over at
the Hahn Farm to get some
sweet corn. Farmer Hahn grows
THE BEST sweet corn anybody's
ever tasted. Every July the word
spreads like wildfire through Lime
Plant City that "Hahns's got sweet
corn!" and everybody drives over
there to get some. They just drive
in and out of the Hahn Farm all
day every day until every last ear
is picked and eaten...sometime in
September.

Hahn's Farm is one of the few
excellent reasons for living here.
They really know how to do it.

We couldn't decide if we should
get half a dozen ears, or if we
should just have the farm boys
unloading the days haul dump
as much as they could into the
back of our Geo.

We ended up opting for the half
dozen. The boys told us we could
always come back tomorrow and
get fresh ears. (They talked like, "why would anyone eat day old sweet corn when they could get fresh?"
...so fresh it smells like a hundred years of good soil and light rains...so fresh the sunshine falls out when
you tear off the husks...)

While there I noticed a sign they had posted indicating they also had beets for sale. 4 for $1.
I asked for some, although I couldn't see any over the mountain of corn. One young boy yelled
out, "Mr. Hahn, are you getting any beets?" Mr. Hahn came around the corner and asked
"How many do you want?" I thought fast and said, "Eight!" Then, Farmer Hahn walked away
down the field to the beet rows and started pulling out my beets. I mean, I just stood there
thinking, "Wow! Beets! Fresh!" He came back and presented me with a beautiful bouquet
of beets with all the greens attached. I smiled from here to the moon.

Tonight we had sweet corn, roasted beets and cooked beet greens for dinner. The Man put
his fork down at one point and said, "I've never heard anyone enjoy their food like you are
doing tonight." I think he was slightly annoyed because I was moaning after every bite.

I told him, "Beet it, Pal. Lemme alone. I'm in beet heaven. " I stifled my moans, though,
and got it down to an involuntarily squeek.

The Man asked me which of my ancestors was a beet eater. I told him I'm descended from
an ancient tribe of Irish beetniks.

If you can't beet 'em, join 'em, that's what I always say.

Hamlet asked, "To beet, or not to beet?"

In the words of Michael Jackson, "Beet It! Just beet it!"

Cops walk their beets, but I prefer mine roasted with a touch of olive oil.

I really should stop beeting myself up.

I think I should beet a hasty retreat.

Perhaps beet around the bush.

I could always try beeting the clock.

But, why beet a dead horse, that's what I want to know!

THIRTY YEARS!!

THIRTY YEARS! PEOPLE, T-H-I-R-T-Y Y-E-A-R-S!!

That's how long I've been waiting for an anniversary present!

I just finished announcing to The Man (I think he's starting to like announcements)
that "THIS IS IT!" I either get a present this time or "I'M OUTTA HERE!!"

The date in question is...well, actually, there are two anniversary dates due to a bit
of drama ten years ago...but okay, so whatever... Now, the "dates" in question are
July 28th AND the 29th. The Man planned it so that our wedding dates make for
a two-day celebration.

Not that we EVER do anything...like going out for some fancy schmancy dinner
where, after which, I would have to witness the embarrassing fiasco of The Man
attempting to leave a tip! (I won't go there, except to say he thinks a dollar is a
king's ransom - which is the result of him never having had a corporate job...or,
more importantly, a waitressing job!)

ANYWAY, I just walked in from the kitchen, followed by a trail of steam and acrid
smoke, like Bealzabub accending from the depths of hell, and disrupted The Man's
pitifully, innocent "waiting for dinner to appear on the table revelry" to let him know
I'm waiting and he better get his you-know-what in gear.

Am I being mean?

THIRTY YEARS, PEOPLE!!! I'm still waiting for a little wrapped present with a prize
in it. I'm not asking for diamonds and furs...although, diamond happens to be my
birthstone, I'm just wanting something, anything wrapped with a ribbon!

Jacob, (I'm talking biblical here - Genesis to be exact) HE only had to work 14 years to get
Rachel after the Leah debacle. So, what am I, chopped liver?

THIRTY YEARS!!!

I mean thirty years ago the Shah of Iran was deposed and the Ayatollah took over.
Thirty years ago, Sony introduced the Walkman! (Oh my God, the Walkman...that's
so pathetic!) Thirty years ago, The Deer Hunter won best picture, "Saturday Night
Fever" won Best Album Of The Year and Pittsburgh beat Dallas in the Super Bowl.

Sound like ancient history, People?

Well, just imagine! In all the years that have passed since Christopher Walken put
that gun to his head and spun the chamber, I HAVEN'T RECEIVED AN
ANNIVERSARY PRESENT!!

I'm getting hot.

I need to calm down.

Oh, the vapors, the vapors!

Help!

Dr. Phil?

The Man said he's going to try and come up with something to prove it hasn't really
been a THIRTY YEAR drought of Saharan desert wasteland proportions...a grey,
vacuumous, cratered moonscape of gift-giving deprivation.

Ha! That's what I say...HA!

Look at him there, trying to think of something.

I need to go lay down with a cold washrag on my face.

That's what I get for making multi-decade realizations.

Lulu's Day

This is my Mom, Lulu.

Today she is celebrating the 69th
anniversary of her 18th birthday,
which is how old she was when this
photo was taken in 1940.

I love this picture. She looks so
pretty and young and sweet,
and she was! She looks shiny,
like a new copper penny.

I never knew this young girl.
By the time we met she was
32 years old, and had a husband
and three other kids to take
care of. I didn't realize that my
mother was an individual until
she was about 40. And, sadly,
sometimes I still forget.


But, I love to look at this photo because I'm looking at the woman who's going to
be my mother. You know what I mean? I just love her. It makes me happy having
been born to her.

I see the person she was and still is and I see my Mom and feel so proud.

Today my brother is taking her to Disneyland. She said the last time she was
there it was to see Count Basie. Wow. That must have been fun.

She grew up in a great era. California's population in 1940 was about 7 million.
Can you imagine that? No traffic, no lines, everybody knew everybody in town.

Anyway, I hope she has a great time today...

and everyday.

Oh, and Mom, I want to confess that when I was in Junior High School I was
ashamed that your name was Lulu. I was afraid that my friends would make
fun of me because of the "Little Lulu" cartoons, so when they asked me, "what's
your Mom's name?" I told them "Marguerite," which is your middle name.
I feel so yucky about this, now. I mean, what a spineless piece of milk toast
I was. It's one of those hideous memories from my youth that makes me want
to "rid my crop!" (See previous blog entry about vomiting buzzards.)

Anyway, I want you to know that now my secret desire is to change my name
to...you guessed it...Lulu! Only I'm going to put an accent on the second "u"
to give it a Frenchy sound, which is appropriate given your French heritage.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

... from one Lulu to another!

Buzzard Tips

My new, old favorite song on the planet Earth, theme for the movie "Mackenna's Gold."
I remember loving it when I first heard it in 1969....which sort of tells you where my head
was when the rest of my generation was out smoking pot and protesting the Vietnam War.

Ol' Turkey Buzzard

Tell me. Do they even make movies like this anymore?

If not, why not?

And Jose Feliciano? Where is he? I need more of him.

We have 'em here, you know. Turkey buzzards, that is. They come in the summer months
and spend vast amounts of time here in Lime Plant City circling over my sweaty head. I
think they're waiting for me to keel over.

Remember that movie where the kid creepily says, "I see dead people." Well, I see birds
that are looking for dead people. I think about that whenever their wings' shadows pass
over me. They're looking for dead stuff. Brain dead or really dead dead, they don't care,
just bring on the dead. They want it and they want it bad and they won't stop circling until
they get it.

I don't think I've ever lived anywhere where there were creatures waiting to feed on you
if you suddenly...you know...croaked.

I understand the usefulness of carrion birds, I really do. When that squirrel gets run over,
boy when is the buzzard clean up crew going to arrive?! And, that old possum's getting
mighty ripe out there on the double yellow, don'tja think? Oh, and didja hear 'bout Ol'
Miss Crabapple's little yapping chi-wawa? Yeah, well, little Snookems got mistaken for a
rabid barn rat and the buzzard's got 'um.

Seriously, they are wonderful birds and we can learn a lot from them, as illustrated by
the following:

The Horaltic Pose

Turkey Vultures are often seen standing in a spread-winged stance. This is called the "horaltic pose."
The stance is believed to serve multiple functions: Drying the wings, warming the body, and baking
off bacteria.

(BAKING OFF BACTERIA! EUREKA! WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT!)

Why the Turkey Vulture Vomits

The turkey vulture has few natural predators. Its primary form of defense is vomiting. The birds do
not "projectile vomit," (THANK GOD!) as many would claim. They simply cough up a lump of
semi-digested meat. This foul smelling substance deters most creatures intent on raiding a vulture
nest. It will also sting if the offending animal is close enough to get the vomit in its face or eyes.

(THIS WOULD INDICATE THAT IF YOU CHOSE TO BE A VEGETARIAN BUZZARD YOU WOULD BE
DISADVANTAGED IN THE CASE OF A HOME BURGLARY.)

In some cases, the vulture must rid its crop of a heavy, undigested meal in order to lift off and
flee from a potential predator. In this case, the regurgitated material has not yet been digested.
Most predators will give up pursuit of the vulture in favor of this free edible offering.

(REMEMBER TO TRY THIS THE NEXT TIME YOU GET MUGGED.)

Why the Turkey Vulture Urinates on its Legs
(I'VE SPENT SLEEPLESS NIGHTS WONDERING ABOUT THIS.)

The turkey vulture often directs its urine right onto its legs. This serves two very important
purposes. In the summertime, wetting the legs cools the vulture, as the urine evaporates.
The vulture cannot sweat like us. In addition, this urine contains strong acids from the
vulture's digestive system, which kill any bacteria that may remain on the bird's legs from
stepping in its meal.

Wow. I love this bird. I want one!

Oh yeah, that's right, I've got several...right there...over my head...posing, baking,
vomiting, urinating and searching for the recent dead...in Lime Plant City.

For Neglected Petunias Everywhere

This is proof that Blogging is not like riding a bicycle. I'm positive that if I didn't write
anything for another week, I actually would forget how.

It has been a while, I know, but I've been experiencing difficulty remaining inside the
house, tied to the computer for any length of time. The compulsion to get outside is too
strong to resist.

But, it's like I was trying to explain to The Man the other day. I'm NOT a domestic goddess.
I'm a dirt-lovin', bug-ridden, sweat-drippin', whis'lin-while-I-grunt, outdoorsy kind of a gal.
I do NOT want to dust and vacuum and clean the toilets. I want to be outside where all the
action is, among the twisting worms, the begging squirrels and the fightin' robins.

I always say "the fightin' robins" with a Scottish accent, with a heavy trill on the "R."
I forget why I do this, probably something The Man came up with. But, it suits them.

Anyway, I announced the other day (to The Man, mainly) that the inside of our house is
"going to go to hell" and I will apologize to no one! I have surrendered to the fact that
flittering around with a feather duster is not my cup of tea. Oh, sure, I'll still see that the
dishes are done...eventually...that the laundry is done, and that the meals are prepared,
but, BUT my daily labour shall be the perfection of my garden.

I'm not sure what drives me, but I am as a woman possessed. I go out first thing in the
morning and start puttering around, digging this, moving that, weeding, mulching, watering,
and before you know it, it's getting dark and The Man is starting to look peaked. I walk up
to him all filthy and sweaty, picture Ma Kettle after a tough day of butchering hogs, and I
holler "What's the matter with you, Pa? You look a little parched!

Poor guy. He's like one of the shrubs in the backyard. They just kinda sit there day after
day, and I pretty much ignore them until I realize they need to be pruned, fed and mulched.
I perform the task in a perfunctory manner and march on.

My little honeysuckle, my sweet elderberry, my eternal smoke bush, my darling dogwood
is attention deprived!

I'd better change my attitude, if I know what's good for me. Either that or my wild mountain
rose is going to sprout legs and skedaddle on outta here looking for more fertile ground.

"There he goes," I'll say, waving farewell with my sweaty bandana, watching him trudge off
into the sunset. "Au revoir, mon petit petunia!"

I wonder if I have heatstroke.