Stoned

It’s been a week now and I’m still bummed about the passage of Amendment One here in North Carolina.

It seems counterintuitive to prohibit two loving adults–regardless of sex–from marrying.   Sheesh!   Put that energy toward preventing little girls from being promised to old men… toward getting rid of child pornography.   We’re among the worst in the nation in the number of children who suffer “food insecurity.”  That means they can’t assume they’re going to have food that day.  Or the next.  Thousands are homeless in our state.

I must tell you, I have never understood the threat of gay marriage and I can speak with some authority.  At one time, Dearly Beloved and I lived in a hip, contemporary urban neighborhood where, for a while at least, we were the only married heterosexual couple on the street.

The day after we moved in, we were welcomed with still-warm chocolate chip cookies from the two men who lived diagonally across from us.  We liked them immediately.  They watered my plants when we were away, Introduced us to their extended families, and invited us to their parties.  They are still a couple two decades later.

The two men next door to us moved in about the same time we did and their relationship is still intact today.   One confided to me that his mother told him she would never set foot in his house.  It was her loss, for they were intelligent, funny, kind, successful guys.

Here is the wording of the NC amendment:

[] For [] Against
Constitutional amendment to provide that marriage between one man and one woman is the only domestic legal union that shall be valid or recognized by this State.

This wording affects common law relationships between a man and a woman as well.  Already a local commissioner is at work to take away benefits for the families of any city/county workers, gay or straight,  who don’t conform to this definition.

Far wiser people than I have written about homosexuality.  I’ll stay out of that and so should Franklin Graham.  I can, however, report that during the time we lived in the gayborhood,  DB and I never once considered switching teams.

Perhaps our experience may reassure the professor of Christian ethics at Southeastern Baptist Seminary about two concerns he voiced during the pre-election debate.  Although I dearly loved my Akita, the late Howard Lee, it never crossed my mind to marry him.   Nor was Dearly Beloved inclined to wed the bowl of ice cream he ate every night.

I hope that puts the professor’s mind to rest.

Although I can’t remember the name of the book, a line comes to mind where one of the characters asked the other, “How can you possibly think that??”   Her friend answered, “I don’t have to think.  I’m Catholic.”  

Of course I have thinking Catholic friends.  The point is that too many of “the faithful,” whatever the denomination, let someone else tell them what to believe and I’m not talking Jesus.  

Despite all the fist-pumping preachers and the ecstatic red-suited middle-aged platinum blondes celebrating on the television news,  I can’t picture a jubilant Jesus high-fiving the passage of this legislation.

It feels pretty low here in the land of the moral high ground.

Don’t Come A Knockin’ Until He’s Out There Rockin’

Remember this house?  The one that was sitting on packing crates on a lot about five miles from the ocean.  The lot is at the intersection of two very busy roads, one of which is the beginning of I-40.  That one continues across the country to Barstow, California.  We have a friend here who rode his secondhand bike that entire distance.  Twice.

I drove past again last week.

The “house raising” was done because the city considered the site a flood zone.  A snaky zone, too, I fear, unless the air pollution from all the cars and trucks whizzing past deters them.

The owner is definitely making progress, although I’d bet that he doesn’t get many callers ringing his doorbell.  No Girl Scout cookies, no Watchtower, no politicians.  That probably means no pizza delivery either.   Now I’m curious to get back and see whether there is even a driveway so that he can receive mail.

Stay tuned.  Next time there may be a rocker on the porch.

Monday Moaning Headache

What is wrong with this picture?

The label on the bottle on the left specifies that is an aspirin for women. To be specific, a regimen, 81mg coated caplet aspirin.  The bottle on the right is a regimen, 325mg coated caplet aspirin.

Here’s the thing. . . .

The one on the top–the yellow, smaller one–is the 325mg.  The one on the bottom, at twice the size, is the 81mg. caplet formulated for women.

???????

Hey, Bayer…!   Women don’t believe that bigger is always better.

That’s a little hard to swallow.

Ivy League

Granddog Ivy had gone to the canine coiffure the day before she and her peeps visited us and frankly, Dearly Beloved and I weren’t sure what to make of her new “do.”

Sometimes her grooming has left her fluffy and other times she’s been shaved to waif-like thinness.  This time, she had a fluffy tail, shaved body and a pouf topknot which came off looking more like a permed mullet.

She seemed more reserved than she has on earlier visits.  Only during walks did we see signs of her usual enthusiasm.  Even our daughter thought that Ivy seemed a bit depressed.

(What was it about that hair style?   Shirley Temple?  Roseanne Roseanna Danna?  Aunt Pittypat?  I couldn’t put my finger on it.)

I e-mailed a picture of Ivy to my British pal.  She wrote back immediately that, “the dog looks like a real floozy.” 

Really?  Look at that melancholy expression.  It says, “I’m a sensitive, pensive  adolescent.”  

Does it say, “floozy”?  I think not!

Ivy’s lack of zest was so obvious that even Miss Piggy, who usually considers the granddog a pest,  seemed sympathetic.  She made a real effort to get closer.

After Ivy returned home to her peeps, I continued to worry about her.  Worried, that is, until I received an e-mailed photo from my daughter.   I couldn’t believe it was the same dog!

The subject line:  “Ivy and her boyfriend.”

Good grief!  My friend had a point!

Simply FLAB-bergasted

“Unsubscribe” has been the watchword of late around here.  I don’t remember signing up for those Groupon, Amazon, and ShopRunner e-mails, but if I did, it was to receive deals on merchandise I probably didn’t need.

That hasn’t been the case and I haven’t once been tempted to pull out the old credit card.  Mostly, they’ve been for discounted services: winery tours…  massages …  footbaths…  pole dancing lessons….

When Amazon sent out a deal on a fat-blasting boot camp,  I was intrigued by the words “fat-blasting,” but then stopped cold by the accompanying photo:

Seriously, do you see fat blast-worthy in that line of Bony Moronies?  Where are the chin rolls…?  The turkey necks…?   Shouldn’t there be some bellies hanging low in there?   I think my big toes are bigger than a couple of those wrists and I don’t consider my toes to have a weight problem.

Not that I can’t picture myself being an asset to the class.  They could use my upper arms as starting flags.   After that, the vision gets murky.

That lineup and starting position wouldn’t work for me.  Even if somebody goosed me from behind, I’d be stuck unless somebody pulled from the front.  I’m pretty sure my feet would have gone to sleep by then, so I still wouldn’t be able to move.

I can’t blame the foot napping on my age.  Once I attended a women’s meeting where we sat in a circle of chairs.  Until everyone stood for the benediction,  I had no idea that my left foot had gone night-night on me.  I domino-ed seven women before someone solid enough to stay upright stopped the chain reaction.

When our energetic granddog Ivy came to visit a couple of weeks ago, as usual, Dearly Beloved took her for long, brisk walks of several miles.  He’d come back talking about how invigorating it was.  Since thigh-exposure weather is almost here,  I decided to walk Ivy myself.  After all, Ivy’s energy is boundless enough for all of us.

The first day’s walk brought on shin splints.  It’s hard to believe that such a skinny-necked dog could pull that hard.

The next trek injured the Achilles tendon on my right foot.  I’m still limping.

I’m thinking that my exercise walks should include props like shopping carts, preferably in a store and not wandering around sidewalks, of course.   Boot camp is not for me, even if the supplied footwear is leather and zippered.

I’ve got a girl named Bony Moronie.  She’s as skinny as a stick of macaroni. - Larry Williams

Come Again?!?!

Vanity Plates–those personalized license tags– intrigue me.  Whenever I travel, I often keep my camera on the car seat so that I can photograph any interesting ones.   Otherwise, my memory being what it is, I forget before I have a chance to tell Dearly Beloved about them.

Since the sun was shining through my windshield when I took this photo, I must apologize for the poor quality, but you can see why it caught my eye.

Huh?

MARY???

The minivan turned into a strip shopping mall containing a supermarket and a YMCA.

I didn’t hang around to see which one, but I’m going with YMCA.

Oh BroJoe, Where Art Thou???

We thoroughly enjoyed the 666 barbecue of my earlier post.   In fact, I’d give it a 9-9-9 (with a nod to Herman Cain) on a scale of 10-10-10.

Doctors don’t recommend The Southern Diet.  In fact, they recommend moving our appetites to another warm locale, say, with The Mediterranean Diet.

My brother, the health nut, has always turned up his nose at Southern-fried anything.  When our mother used to want to go out for “fish fried so that it curls up at the edges,” BroJoe would shake his head in horror.   Just the word “grease” could set off his gag reflex.  So when he sent this photo, I was surprised that he’d even gone inside any place that served this stuff.  I couldn’t imagine him bellying up to the buffet line just to take a photo!

What th'...?

(Take a guess.  I know what they are, but not how they taste.  I’ve never eaten either.)

I wrote back to BroJoe that the one on the right used to be one of Mother’s favorite dishes.  As a joke, I asked which one he tried.

Astonishingly, he answered, “Both.  I ate them for lunch.  Now they’re eating me.”  

Not a 666, though the aftermath does sound beastly.  Nope, I’d say this one was an o o, possibly an o o o o.

“In God we trust. All others must pay when they order.” – Sign at Southern barbecue joint

(Okay, Connoisseurs,  the pans hold fried chicken livers and gizzards–livers on the left.  Expecting something else?  Nope, this is a chitlin-free blog.))

Circling The Drain

Yesterday was one of those days that I didn’t really do anything except run around in circles, a one-woman April fool.   I circled my circles.

I don’t recall how we came to have a lampless guest bedroom, but with some of the grandsons arriving tomorrow, that needed to be remedied.  They’re big-time readers.  I started with the return of the too-small lamp I’d bought earlier in the week, but my hope of  finding another at the same store was dashed when lamp likability and price tag likability didn’t mesh.  It took two more stores before I found another possibility.  Its price tag is still dangling, in case I change my mind.

Plants were next on my list and I had no problem finding them at Home Depot.  When  I opened the car trunk to load them, however, I found the old pots I’d planned to take to Lowe’s for recycling.  That’s where I’d planned to go for the plants.  Sigh.

I circled over to Lowe’s for the pot drop.

Because we’re having the kitchen jazzed up here at the beach-house-not-on-the-beach, we’ve been without some basics like stove, oven, sink, dishwasher, microwave, cabinet doors, sink, countertops, and drawer fronts for a week now.  There has been no cooking, except for the evening I cut a frozen pizza into quarters and baked it in the toaster oven.

Not that I recommend that.

After the supermarket foray for juice and bananas but before the pet store stop, I realized that I hadn’t come up with anything for lunch.  Perhaps it would be a good time for our we-only-do-this-once-a-year barbecue and slaw meal?   I called Dearly Beloved, who thought it sounded like a capital idea as long as (a) he didn’t have to go out for it and (b) it wasn’t on bread.  He’s sandwiched out.

I drove to the favorite place in town for eastern NC barbecue, a completely different animal from western NC barbecue.   (Okay… technically, it IS the same animal, but a different method of preparation.)  This place once fed Martha Stewart.  It wouldn’t feed us, however.  Closed on Sunday.

I drove west to another barbecue restaurant we’ve seen but never tried.  Closed on Sunday.   

Now I was on a mission, hellbent to find barbecue.   I’d heard of a third place, so groceries, lamp, and plants got to ride east with me to find this one, which turned out to be  in the next town.

Forget lunch.  Now it would be lunch and supper.  Lupper.  I found the place after only one wrong turn into the driveway where a giant lighted sign bore the name of the restaurant.   Nope–it was about 50 feet farther down the highway, hidden from view by the damn sign.

I went inside and gave my order to a young woman at the counter.  She had a blond ponytail,  a French manicure, and an eastern NC drawl as authentic as I hoped the  barbecue would be.

She started to circle my order number on the receipt, but stopped her pen in midair and  gasped.

“I don’t like this.  I don’t like this at all,” she said, her face deepening into a frown.

“What?  Did it charge me too much?”

“No, but this number shouldn’t be here.  This is not good.  This order number is so wrong.”

I looked around.  There was no one else in the place except for a couple eating at a back table.  Why did I even need an order number?  When it comes out of the kitchen, it’s mine!

“It’s okay,” I reassured her, having no idea what she was talking about.

Reluctantly, she circled the number and handed me the receipt.  It wasn’t exactly a lottery winner.

6 6 6.

“Are you SURE?”  she asked me.  “ I can probably ring it up again and get a different number.”

I assured her it was fine.  She looked unconvinced.

I told her that I felt pretty beastly anyhow.

When the food was ready, instead of simply handing me the bag,  the young woman came from behind the counter to usher me out the door.

“You have a nice day, Honey,”  she said, patting me on the shoulder in benediction.  When she handed me the hush puppy-scented sack,  I was pretty sure I could read her mind.

I was receiving The Last Lupper.