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.

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!

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.

March: Madder Than You Knew

The NCAA Sweet Sixteen begins today and Dearly Beloved is bummed that the first game isn’t until 7 PM.  He’s carping on behalf of our grandsons as well as basketball-loving kids everywhere because they’ll probably be able to watch only one of tonight’s games.

Some of DB’s mutterings are on his own behalf.  He knows he’s apt to doze about midway into the second game.

“Why did they DO that?” he whined when he saw the TV listings.

I’m sure that not everyone feels the same way he does.  There are groups that applaud the schedule.  Take, for instance, the Vasectomites.

The number of vasectomies increases dramatically during March Madness, according to a USA Today article.  The head of the Dept. of Regional Urology at the Cleveland Clinic says that he had them scheduled every 15 minutes… twice as many as he usually performs.

These days, the procedure can be scalpel-free and the anesthesia doesn’t even require a needle, so the sobs should be down to mere whimpering.

Guys who have steadfastly ignored their wives’ pleas for assistance in the birth control department decided the Big V could be an option, provided it was scheduled during NCAA playoff rounds.  A  couple of recuperative days on the sofa are just what the doctor orders.

Good enough!

Not only that,  the ice packs keep them from dozing….

There has been no outcry from the political candidates.  Or Congress.

I suppose it’s only humane to schedule the rest of the games after work hours, as optional appendectomies aren’t that easy to come by.

At our house, DB is making game preparations of his own:  an early nap. beginning now.

If that’s not enough to keep him alert tonight, ice packs are stashed in the freezer.

When creating wives, God promised men that good and obedient wives would be found in all corners of the world.

And then She smiled and made the earth round.  (Unknown)

Proof That BroJoe Reads My Blog

Also proof that he has a diabolical sense of humor.

Why else would he send these…?

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You can’t be friends with a squirrel! A squirrel is just a rat with a cuter outfit.     

-Sex in the City

(These are also posted on BroJoe’s World with a different text.)

Fruit Bowled

Since Dearly Beloved and I don’t get to see our grandsons as often as we’d like, we’re grateful that our daughters are pretty faithful about keeping us in the loop about their sons’ activities and what is going on in their homes.

Sometimes a simple photograph. . . .

One of these things is not like the others,
One of these things just doesn’t belong,
Can you tell which thing is not like the others
By the time I finish my song?

(Sesame Street song)

Reservations

Dearly Beloved planned all along to take me out to eat on Valentine’s Day.  He really did.

The problem is that the man is commitment phobic about reservations.   He was sure there wouldn’t be a problem.  I was sure there would.

He must have thought better of it that afternoon because he began calling for a reservation while he was out on his walk.  It wasn’t as easy as he thought.

Eventually he e-mailed me a Valentine’s Day Menu from a new restaurant we haven’t tried. He said they had two reservations left–one at 5 PM and one at 10 PM.  Since he didn’t want to have to set the alarm clock to guarantee we’d be awake for the 10 PM one, he’d opted for the one at 5.

Before we left the house, he hastily e-mailed our three guys to share the wisdom he had gleaned from his experience:

Date: February 14, 2012 4:28:54 PM EST
Subject: Learn from the master
 
When taking the wife out for a fancy Valentine Dinner, don’t wait until the day itself to make reservations.If you do your choices are:
1. 5:00
2. After 9:00
3. 10:00
We’re leaving now.

The restaurant was wonderful– perfect, in fact–and we’ll definitely return.  We ordered from the Valentine’s Day Menu, so haven’t even tried the regular menu yet.  They have at least 15 more flavors of gelato I’d like to try.  DB had espresso, I tried the salted caramel.

We were already in bed, moaning that we’d eaten too much, by 10 PM.

My brother eats out often, since he is on the road a lot and he checks out the local restaurants in the towns he visits.  He’s pretty much of a health nut, so I’m not sure I believe some of the things he claims to have eaten.

For instance, even though he once sent a photo as proof, I’m none too sure he’s ever actually eaten a collard sandwich.   However, he is the one who hooked Dearly Beloved and me on Hatteras Clam Chowder.  I tried it after BroJoe told me he eats it “all the time.”   Even our grandsons like it.  (I don’t know if that’s how he fixes it–I found this recipe online and liked it.  I ignored the ones that called for fresh clams because I didn’t want to chop them.)

But back to Valentine’s….  Just after Valentine’s Day,  BroJoe e-mailed a photo of a menu.

I am so-o-o-o hoping that this is not the place he took his Valentine.

♥y Har Har

I love coming upon hearts in nature.

(Perhaps. she wrote mushily, it’s because Dearly Beloved stole hers.♥)

Although I enjoy irises,  I’m not a fan of their cactus-like leaves after they bloom. The plants with heart-shaped leaves in our yard may have insignificant flowers, but oh, those leaves!

HEART-SHAPED LEAVES


ROCK HEARTS are treasures to find.  I have one I lugged back from Arizona, but it must be camera-shy because I couldn’t find it today.  However, my friend Dirt Woman supplied me with a photo of a rock heart she found.  It looks like chocolate, I think.  (The caladium leaf above was also one of hers.)

SAND HEART, compliments of DB.

I

In a dark corner of our back yard, I was delighted to discover this surprising heart:

MOSS HEART

Moss Hart won 1937 Pulitzer (Drama) for The Man Who Came to Dinner

OOPS!  Wrong picture.  Let me try again.

MOSS HEART:

Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.
Oscar Wilde