www.ku

seventeen inches
it stares at me all day long
and i can't use it?

IT'S ALL ABOUT PEOPLE, AFTER ALL


Nothing is ever black and white. No one is all good or all bad.Life is not always fair.

He has helped me in the past, without expecting any return. He would help you if you needed it. Now he needs help.

ALIVE ALIVE-O!

I'm lucky.

People bring me gifts of food. Not just food, but food that has been prepared and is still hot.

Partial list of food offerings from the last two last weeks:
Pizza made in a wood-fired oven, topped with rounds of fresh mozzarella and basil leaves. The wood fire makes the thin crust crisp - it crunches when you bite into it.
Stuffed crab, very spicy and rich.
Seafood Pescatore over linguine. It had shrimp, clams, lobster in a tomato sauce laced with pepperoncini.
Deep-dish pizza- demarcated into four quarters: double cheese, pepperoni, mushroom, and onion.
Potato pancakes - too much flour in the batter, but also a lot of onion. They were dripping with the oil they were fried in, all the better to attack multiple body organs in one sitting.
And my all-time favorite: Mussels Marinara.

Three times in two weeks, someone has gifted me with mussels marinara. The first time was a delivery to work by a generous patient whose son owns a restaurant. The occasion was a good-bye party for a co-worker, so while I was not the main recipient, I was close enough to stake a claim. These were in a sauce made of crushed tomatoes and onion bits large enough to see. Q: What is the best part of eating mussels marinara? A: finding mussles that have fallen out of their shells lying loose in the sauce. There were at least an extra two dozen mussles at the the bottom of each pan when these came my way. I volunteered to put them out of their misery.

Next came a special delivery to my kitchen - made by a self-taught cook who dreams it, then does it. This sauce was smooth and rich. The mussels on their half-shells were carefully arranged on top of a bed of perfect linguine ( which I just pushed around and ignored.)

It seems a miracle, but my lucky streak continued when another man, who also has a son who is a restaurant owner, pushed open the door and stood before me holding the familiar round aluminum container with the plastic lid. Mussels marinara - these were the best of all. I can't even remember the sauce, because the mussels were so spectacular. Fresh, not frozen. Imported from New Zealand. Small, soft and buttery. I swoon.

I have had two dry days - no food gifts this week so far, but it is only Tuesday. But my life is full of possibilities and I bide my time, armed with knife and fork, expectant.

A GOOD WEEKEND

1. Vroom Vroom! We are late getting to the hospital and visiting hours are over. But we were not born yesterday so that doesn't stop us. We go into the staff entrance and get on the food service elevator. We go non-stop to the 6th floor where we find the little woman sitting in her hospital bed. She is swathed in white blankets and has her eyes closed.

But she smells us, or senses us or something, and lights up when she sees us. She looks pretty good, all things considered. The nurses let us stay almost an hour. We give her the shiny green bag that holds our gift. (My teen age daughter is grossed out by the tackiness of such a thing as a leopard steering wheel cover, and does not wish to be associated with it, so she offers her own gift of rose-scented soap.)

My mother feels the shape of the bag and worries that we have brought a tray or platter to her - she has not guessed what waits inside. She pulls off the tissue paper and sees the furry part of it and seems bewildered. She pulls it out, stares at it for a moment, and then throws down the bag.

She grabs it with both hands and pretends to drive. She has a goofy grin and sits up a little straighter while she steers. She likes it.

2. 100% Ethel-free My sister, the Queen of the Rodeo, looks fabulous. She is another one of the fine-haired women, but she has bent nature to her will by means of an expensive haircut and a $12.00 can of hairspray. She is a maker of Big Hair and knows all the means to acheive it. She offers her services to me for Saturday night. I accept, because after all, it will be dark, and I have been gone from town so long, no one will recognise me anyway - so what the heck.

She is talking about flipping up the ends, and how everyone will be doing this in the fall, and working her magic to make me have Big Hair. She is spraying and rolling and teasing. My hair responds by producing nosies that I have never heard before. Noises of distress. And whatever she is doing does not feel good - she is burning me with her 1600 watts and yanking individual strands in directions they don't want to go. I am worried that it will all break off and I'll be left with 1/2" long hair.

She makes enormous, but funky hair. It doesn't look like anything I have ever had before. We adjust it by lifting one section and flattening another. The result is glorious. I am beautiful. I am ready to dance.

3. Polka Blisters We danced on the pavement of the church parking lot to the music of Jolly Joe ( a Happy Louie wanna-be ). We were dancing under the stars- me, The Cheek, The Queen of the Rodeo, the Guestblogger. Our audience had a mean age of 78 and they were sitting in folding lawn chairs that they carry from one bazaar to another. There were a few hot-shots doing the Philadelphia-style polka hop, but for us, it was enough to count 1-2-3, 1-2-3 and avoid crashing into anybody.

Free Advice: Never wear gladiator sandals for a night of dancing the polka or your feet will be blistered in places they were never blistered before.

SHEENA, QUEEN OF THE JUNGLE

I am going to visit my mother this weekend.

She is a quiet person -conventional and conservative, and never wants to be the object of attention. But yet, she frequently mentions that she loves things done in a leopard print. Until this summer, she did not answer her longing. Then on a rare mother-daughter-granddaughter shopping trip, we spotted a muted leopard scarf, and convinced her to get it. But that one piece is all she has.

So, as a surprise, I am bringing her a leopard steering wheel cover, very similar to the snazzy one I have. It has 6 sections - 3 plush leopard fabric sections alternating with 3 black rubber massaging nubbins sections. The blurb on the packaging material says:

fashionable wild print!
for fun and driving comfort!
absorbs moisture!

I'm pretty sure she will say " What am I going to do with this?" and then contemplate actually driving around with it. She'll like it. I know she will.

UPDATE: When I got my mine, I bought it because of the very attractive red snakeskin sections, but now I like the black massaging nubbins better.

HAPPY HOUSEWIFE OR COWGIRL CUTIE?

I can't decide which suits me more.

Ever since the advent of my Vera Bradley handbag, I have noticed the return of my facination with fabrics. I used to sew a lot of stuff around here - curtains, Easter dresses, throw pillows , etc. - but have gotten away from it for too long. Maybe I could revive my old passion for it. I do have a heart-shaped slipper chair that I got from a second hand store. It has been standing in my bedroom for 4 years waiting patiently for me to cover the striped vinyl upholstery with some charming print. Maybe now is the time.

I started searching around for some fabric ideas, and came across Reprodepot Fabrics, a company that specializes in vintage fabric designs. Now we're talking.

Happy Housewives represents just the sort of chore-loving Donna Reed type that I would like to be if I had a little more energy and a little more interest in that sort of thing. But, oh! those Cowgirl Cuties! (click the image for a larger view - the reclining cowgirl is holding a little surprise ). This one is far more exciting, and fits my life pattern of being attracted to the dangerous.

Mr. Sami would croak if I started redecorating around this pattern.

Might be good for a laugh.

GRATITUDE

generous spirit
surprising me with her gifts
she works while i sleep

I'M IN A PENNSYLVANIA SORT OF MIND

I am still under the influence of my trip home last week. The roadsides were blanketed with a tough plant called crown vetch. Low-growing and holding up small lavender and pink flowers, it covers the sides of all the major Pa. highways ... maybe other states , too. It put me in mind of the mountain laurel growing under the trees on the roadsides in Central Jersey.

Every Pennsylvania schoolchild learns that Mountain Laurel is the state flower. It must be revered and protected. It is not for sale anywhere in the state - it is illegal to grow it on your personal property, and you most certainly may not uproot it if it is found growing in the wild. This is (was?) a lesson that was drilled into us at a young age.

When I was a child, my friend next door - one year older and therefore much wiser - told me that even if you touched one leaf with one finger, you could get arrested. It was a powerful deterrent - I never tried it. ( This was the same girl who told me that the movement of the long white curtains on an open window was not really the wind - it was Dick Tracy trying to climb in the window to get me. I quaked in fear for an entire summer before I figured out that: #1 - he was one of the good guys and : #2 - he was not even real. )

Do you know that they actually SELL Mountain Laurel in the garden centers of N.J.? It is a form of rhododendron, and is grouped right in with all the other shrubs. The first time I saw it there, I walked a wide circle around it, not believing my eyes. I blurted out to the garden center employee who was watching me: "That's the state flower of Pennsylvania! It's illegal to pick it or to sell it!" He reminded me that we were in New Jersey.

But I still didn't touch it.

AND SPEAKING OF BEER ...

For a good long while, I was completely obsessed with beer jingles.

I could sing the jingle from just about any brand you could name. Most of that arcana is lost in the mists of time ... I can barely recall what Shultz and Dooley were singing about Utica Club. Something about carbonated bubbles, I think.

My all time favorite jingle was for a beer made at a small Pennsylvania brewery called Gibbons. It was repeatedly played on the local radio and TV stations.

Here it is:

G-I-B-B-O-N-S
Pure, refreshing Gibbons!
If it's Gibbons, it's good
So the next time you should
Say
Gimme gimmee gimmee gimmee Gibbons!

We heard this 10 times a day on the local radio station, WBAX. ( We lived in coal-mining country. Anthracite coal, also known as blue coal. The very best sort of coal. We looked down on the poor slobs who had to muddle along burning bituminous coal, the inferior soft coal. The call letters of the radio station reflected our great glory - they stood for We Burn Anthracite eXclusively. We are proud.)

The first adult-themed joke I ever heard involved a beer jingle:

Mrs. Smith goes to the doctor and finds out she is pregnant. The doctor tells her she is having a boy and advises her to drink Budweiser beer. Mrs. Jones goes to the same doctor for the same reason, and he tells her she is having a girl and advises her to drink Budwieser beer. Then Mrs. Johnson goes to the doctor and finds out she is having twins, and the doctor advises her to drink Shaefer beer.
"But, doctor, why do all the other women have to drink Budweiser, and I have to drink Shaefer?" she asks.
The doctor replies ( in song ) : "Shaefer ... is the...one beer to have...when you're having more than one!"

I was 9 when I heard this, and I turned it over and over in my mind, comtemplating the sheer wittiness of it. I rehearsed it, in case the opportunity should arise to tell it to someone.

It pleased me.

THE SEVENTH SIGN

Seven signs I saw while driving from New Jersey to Pennsylvania:

SIGN #1 - "Wildflowers In Progress" - on a dirt bank on the side of the highway. Oh, the power of positive thinking. It was dirt.

SIGN #2 - "TOLL $1.00 Exact Change" - on the Delaware River Joint Toll Bridge Commission booths as you cross the Delaware River. No E-Z Pass here - why not? They were asking me to manually take $1.00 from my purse and manually throw it into the basket. Manually. It was a great inconvenience.

SIGN #3 - "Don't Tailgate" - on the Pa.side of Route 80 in a very congested area. This sign was immediately followed by:

SIGN #4 - "Stay Min. Two Dots Away From Car In Front". What? 5 foot wide dots were painted every 25 feet along this stretch of the road. Someone thought they came up with an idiot-proof method of distancing traffic to prevent multi-vehicle pile ups. I guess it could work if you could actually see the dots on the road - they were obscured by bumper-to-bumper traffic.

SIGN #5 - "Tux-citement 2001" - on the board in front of a tuxedo rental shop called Tuxedo Junction. This business shared a space with Gun Junction and Tobacco Junction (formerly Hair Junction). I liked the sound of it: Tux-citement!

SIGN #6 - "$1,000.00 Jackpot - Goes Off Tonight!" - on the side of the Bingo Bus, which is a small school bus, repainted in vibrant colors, that cruises around picking up dedicated bingo players without their own wheels. There was also an 800 number painted on the back, right below: "Call For Free Ride". It looked like fun, but the passengers were grim-faced and staring straight ahead.

SIGN # 7 no longer exists. It was removed during a road-widening project, but it will live in my memory forever. It was a huge billboard right at the beginning of the descent into the Wyoming Valley. Just as the mountain road started leveling off, as the valley spread wide and the vista was breath-taking, it rose up to greet you. It was erected by the local brewing company and stood for decades. It had a plain yellow background behind a giant 3-D bottle of Stegmaier beer that was tilted and pouring into a pilsner glass. In big,bold letters it read simply: "Isn't It Nice To Be Home?"

Yes. Yes, it is.

THAT WORKED OUT PRETTY WELL, DIDN'T IT?

Many thanks to my guestblogger for jumping into the breech and carrying on while I was away last week.

I laughed when I read her contibutions. I always thought she was a Little Miss Sami, but it is starting to seem that she is coming round to my way of thinking. Proof postive came just today, all wrapped up in purses and chickens.

During this last week, I became entranced with a line of handbags by Vera Bradley. These are made of quilted fabric, done in many patterns and designs, but instantly recognizable to those in the know. They are sensibly designed, very well made, horribly overpriced, and completely irresistable to me.

The moment my eyes fell upon one done in the Chanticleer pattern, I knew I was done for. I bought it on the spot. Not only is it a show stopper - I started getting compliments on it before I had the tags off and the contents loaded - but it had the added attraction of having a high annoyance factor to the guestblogger. I was really looking forward to her reaction when she would first see it and realize it was mine.

Funny how things turn out. She loved it. To the extent that she asked for one just like it, but slightly smaller in size. So off we went, shopping together ... it is the stuff maternal fantasy is made of ... mother/daughter dressing at long last!

We made a pact that we would not be seen together with our twin purses, but that lasted about 2 hours. We are both seperately and jointly so bewitched by these bags, it doesn't even matter to us if we are seen together with them. We first attracted the attention of two hospital cleaning ladies in a most positve way. And we created an absolute sensation at the Delaware Water Gap roadside rest area on Route 80 as we strolled along with Bob, the corgi and our matching chicken bags proudly shouldered.

The conversion has begun with one little chicken foot in the door - who knows what lays ahead? It is entirely possible that she will begin to hear the call of vintage American dinnerware.

NICKNAMES

We have a dog. Bob. He's a corgi. And the whole family is madly in love with him. Enough to talk baby talk to him. All the time. Over this period of time, he has amassed a large collection of nicknames, including, but not limited to:

Dog
Doggie
D-o-double-g-z
Dogford
Bobby
Robert
Bobert
Mr. Bob
Monsieur Le Bob
El Bobbo
Bobberino
Bobster
Bobster the Lobster
Sneezy
Boo Boo Kitty
Baby Dog

MR. DADDY

My dad is a very strange man. A man of little shame. A man willing to take things from other peoples garbage cans. Frequently.
"Large Item Garbage Collection Day" is like Christmas in our house. Except for Mom. It is her own personal hell. As mentioned before, everything must be thrown out at all costs. He walks into the house and you can tell by the look on his face there is a large, slightly damaged item awaiting us in the garage. Many of these things still make their home in the garage, like the brown leather couch, which sits underneath a desk and a very large, throne-like lime green office chair. Some things my mother gets to and end up back in the trash, like the 5 X 7 train set that half of the track was falling off of and never ever worked while in our custody. Then, on occassion, a gem is found. The whole bridge of it had completely snapped off when he found it. Ignoring the doubts of every serious guitar player I had spoken to, we simply glued it back together. And it works. And has stayed together for the past three months. And it came with a case and two unused sets of strings. This was very exciting to me, because I didn't have to spend money on a guitar. This was not quite so exciting to Mom, because I was encouraging him. But hey, sometimes it pays off to have no shame.

I HAVEN'T BECOME MY MOTHER...YET

Hello. I'm your guestblogger, bobthecorgi's daughter. I didn't know what to write. She said,"Write about yourself." I still didnt know what to write, because I'm a heck of a lot like my mother, which kills because I'm sixteen and I should be rebelling from and not conforming to her. But, we're still different people. In fact, I've constructed a list of ways we are different.

1. Garden Crap- I don't use the word "crap" loosely. I will never ever put anything in a garden other than plants. I will never put a sculpture of a drunken gnome in a garden. I will never put seven- count e'm- seven sets of chimes in my garden. I will never put shiny glass gazing balls in my garden. And there will be no chickens in my garden. No copper ones. No cast iron ones. No ceramic ones. No humongus concrete ones with sunflowers in their butts. And definetly none made out scrap metal.

2. Dishes- I will never collect dishes. We have enough dishes. We don't need anymore. What do they do? They spend 98.5% of their days in a cabinet located in a room no one ever visits. On the rare occasions we use them (coincidentally the same occasions we break out the gold plated cutlery from QVC), we have to eat carefully so as not to hurt the dishes. She only displays like five of them. We only eat off of one set. And yet we have a cabinet full of them that never see the light of day.

3. "Cleaning"- I look at things before I throw them out. She does not. She's throw out everything. Homework assignments. Important documents. Papers with important phone numbers on them. She threw out an envelope that had her nursing liscense in it. Her nursing liscence. Many of my possetions have fallen victim to her manic cleaning fits. Leave the room for one minute and upon your return, everything that once was in the room will be in a garbage can. Invariably, a garbage can also containing messy foods so nothing can be salvaged.

4.Life Experience- These are my mother's favorite two words. Not a day goes by where she mentions the vast amount of life experience she has in comparison to me. While I recognize she has been living for a longer time than I have. That doesn't make her more knowledgable about every subject in the world. Her favorite way to use this phrase is in response to the question, "If we can't eat in the living room, why can you?" It used to be "because I'm the mother, thats why!" One day she just crossed over from making up answers to our questions to simply spouting the phrase "life experience!" no matter what the context.

"Mom, why don't you make Ted take out the garbage instead of me?"
"Life experience!"

"Can you drive me to the mall?"
"I shouldn't have to do these things considering the amount of life experience I have compared to you."

in reference to something she has made using the computer:
"That's nice, Ma."
" You could make nice things too if you had the life experience I had."
"Mom, I've been using computers since I was four. Up until two years ago you wouldn't touch one.
I think I have more life experience in this area."
"O yeah, who taught you who Gomer Pile was?"
"You did, Ma."
"And how do you think I knew who he was?"
"...life experience?"
"Life experience!"

I think I should stop writing now. This looks too long. I think I was supposed to be linking things too. Oops.

STAY TUNED

A combination of business, pleasure and duty calls me away for a week. I won't have computer access, so, in a great leap of faith, I am entrusting bobthecorgi to a guestblogger.

I'll be back on Sunday.

HE'S WHEELIE SERIOUS ABOUT IT, TOO

The AORTAL project was conceived to promote independent websites. My pick for today is about as independent as you can get.

What Should I Put On the Fence? documents one man's personal protest movement. He makes a practice of using his bicycle to get to work in London, and when he was banished from securing it to a fence railing, this was his reaction.

I think the little devil horns peeking out from behind the logo set the tone for what you will find here. There is a summary of the original incident, a chronicle of subsequent events (with photos), and a place to send The Fencemaster your suggestions of what could be put on the fence.

( The place where he purchased his bicycle is called Wheelie Serious. )

SIX DEGREES OF MR. SAMI

So it's chore day around here and my daughter has finished her part. She is relaxing in front of the computer in her usual way: CD player going, 6 Instant Message Windows open and playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon on the computer.

She tells me that most actors she can name are only two degrees away, and the real prize is to name someone 6 or 7 degrees away. I give it a whirl: Loretta Young - 2 degrees. OK, then: Anna Magnani - 3 degrees. Gee, I guess she's right. That Kevin has really been around.

Here comes Mr. Sami. We say, "Quick! Name a movie star!" Without missing a beat, he says, "Abdel Halim Hafez."

...( silence ) ...

Now, the guy has been here for 30 years. This is who he thinks about when he hears movie star? We sit transfixed and staring stupidly, so he raises his voice and repeats it: "Abdel Halim Hafez. ABDEL HALIM HAFEZ!" He is thinking we must be deaf, for surely we must know who he is talking about. We don't. "The greatest movie star there ever was! Abdel Halim Hafez!"

... uhh, well ... okay. The girl types it in.

4 degrees. I'm not kidding. 4 degrees.

The Oracle of Bacon says:
Abdel Halim Hafez was in Mabodet el gamahir (1967) with Youssef Chaban
Youssef Chaban was in Cairo (1963) with George Sanders
George Sanders was in Jungle Book, The (1967) with Clint Howard
Clint Howard was in My Dog Skip (2000) with Kevin Bacon

Mr. Sami gives us a smug smile and walks out of the room.

NOT JUST CHICKENS

Most of my chickens are outdoors.

There is a cast iron chicken on a spike that says "WELCOME". The weeds are so high that no one has seen it since May. A long rod is topped by the outline of a chicken in rusty wire. In the place where the wings would be there is a metal pinwheel on a loose pivot. When the wind blows, it wobbles and turns unevenly and is very reminiscent of a real chicken dust-up in the barnyard.

I have a large rooster made of concrete sitting on a short block stand in front of the hydrangeas. His face is fierce, his claws are wicked, but his butt is delicately hidden by some carved-in sunflowers. Violence - yes; sex - no. There is a hand-painted chicken planter on the deck holding a rugged plant called "Hen and Chicks". This is the sea monkey of the plant world. Ignore it and it dies; add water and it lives again.

The latest additon is a fantastic creature made from tools, bicycle parts and rebar. It is meant to hold plants, but it is ornament enough on its own. Pecking the ground with it's face made of pliers, standing with feet tipped in 1/2" screws, magnificent tail made from a leaf rake - all welded together and spray painted to fullfill one man's artistic vision.

But I do not limit myself to only one stage of chicken development. Answer this question: which came first? the chicken or the peep?

Marshmallow peeps. A seasonal confection popular enough to run a big factory all year round. They are made from different colors and all taste the same, but everyone has their favorite and is disappointed if there are no yellow ones left. Gritty with sugar coating and eyes made from indigestible carnuba wax. Who can resist?

There are seasonal variations now...snowmen, pumpkins, spooky cats ... but they do not compare to the original shape. I am not the only one who is enamored of the peep. Websites abound featuring peeps - the official site has receipies and crafts using peeps, and in the "Fun Facts" section, you are informed that all peeps are certifed kosher. There are also the repulsive peep torture sites , which try to disguise themselves as science by making claims to peep research . Don't look.

But best of all is the poetry form called peepku. I could not find a link to the one that impressed me the most, but it's beauty has never left me. It captures the essence of the peep experience, although it is a little militaristic. I will recreate it here:

behold the brave peeps
marching shoulder to shoulder
comrads without arms


I sigh.

MR. SAMI GETS HAPPY

Mr. Sami has been offering tentative objections to the amount of time I spend on the computer.

He cannot understand what it is that draws me here or holds my attention for so long. So I try to explain and I show him some of my favorite sites. He is not getting it. "You mean you are just looking at things? Like what?" I take him around to see some of my favorite blogs, a quick trip to iQVC (he is not pleased), the weather forecast, and the Drudge Report. I think he will be taken with that last one, but he has not fallen under the spell of the internet like I have.

So he watches TV and chaufeurs the kids around during the time that I spend on the computer. I can see that his attitude is that computers are for business applications only, and he has no curiosity to explore unless it has something to do with engineering.

Until last week.

I come home to what looks like an empty house. It is not until I go upstairs to the spare room where the computer is that I realize I am wrong. They are all there, having a good time. Sami is smiling and the kids flushed and winded. They have just discovered the high school that he attended has a web site, and so they are all bellydancing while their father claps and sings the old school song in Arabic.

These two average spoiled American teen-agers think that they are the luckiest kids alive to have this man for a father. They are looking at him with such love and pride, I cannot even begin to describe it. They think he is wonderful.They all start talking at once, trying to tell me how great it is that they found this, and he is pointing out classrooms on the picture and singing away. The school's motto is "Virtue and Science" - that's him, alright.

Bliss. He gets it.

SCENES FROM A PARKWAY

Thoughts and events while driving to work on the Garden State Parkway:

I am calmly driving, happily harmonizing with the Heartbreakers as we all back up Tom Petty. The sun is shining and my hair is puffy. I'm ahead of schedule and there is no sign of congestion or delay on the highway. And yet, my internal monlogue goes like this: Jerkface. Don't pass me, jerkface. Oh, yeah, jerkface? Watch this, jerkface. You jerkface.

A Sparkletts Bottled Water Truck passes me, and on the rear door is a wall of aqua colored metallic spangles, fluttering in the breeze and looking pretty much like sparkling water. It brings back fond recall of a certain crocheted hat worn by my old auntie -every fifth stitch was run through a spangle just like those. Magpies loved it. It makes me wish I was more of a fashion maverick and could confidently wear that which pleased me and not be a slave to convention.

In the car behind me is Priscilla Beaulieu! Great exploded boufant hair, her husband's TCB glasses, (the ones that have thick metal sides with little cutouts) and flourescent orange nail tips which would be the envy of any bear you could name. A fashion maverick right near me! She looks composed and is probably thinking that I am a jerkface.

A wee little chipmunk commits suicide by throwing himself under my wheels on the off ramp. He did. It makes a surprisingly big thump. It is entirely coincidental that this is a frequent occurence for me. Too sad was last week's pigeon, who flew low and got caught on the front grill. When I was underway, the wing tip would be extended by the wind. At each stop, it would fall down. I would start moving and the thing would peek up above the hood in a feathery farewell wave. Sad, but unavoidable.

If they want me to go 5 miles per hour through the E-Z Pass lane, why did they make the toll booths wide enough to zip through at 40?

Parting thought: do not try to merge ahead of a commercial van. Be bold with other individual motorists, but painters, plumbers, and the water company? No - you must give way. The drivers of commercial vans do not own them, and do not care if they get scraped or banged. They are jerkfaces.

SHE'S ACTUAL SIZE, BUT SHE SEEMS MUCH BIGGER

"Words fail. Buildings crumble.
The ground opens wide.
Light beams down from heaven -
She stands before my eyes.

She's actual size, but she seems much bigger to me.
I've never known anybody like her - she's actual size!
Nationwide. Believe."

She's Actual Size by They Might Be Giants

The description of this journal comes from a song by the indescribable They Might Be Giants. I think it captures the thing pretty well.

The song continues: "Big men often tremble as they step aside. I thought I was big once. She changed my mind." But that is just a tad too confrontational, and not like me at all.

Hey, at least I didn't choose "The Sun Is A Mass of Incandescent Gas" as the motto.

YOU DON'T SSAY SSO!

Ed Begley, Jr has a sibilant S.

So do Paul Harvey and Rudy Guilliani. You can hear it in the old "St.Elsewhere" reruns from the 80s. Begley, as Dr. Erlich, was preparing for ssurgery or engaged in a war of words with Howie Mandel's character, Dr. Fisscuss. Before he was mayor of NYC, Rudy Guilliani gained fame by prossecuting mobssterss.It seems to me that Ed and Rudy have life-long speech impediments.

But Paul Harvey is so old that his gums have shrunk, and his dentures are loose. He can no longer hang onto them when he pronounces the letter S. And , if you pay attention, you can hear a bit of clicking going on, too.

And now you know
the resst
of the sstory.


Sibilant - (sib.i.lant) adjective
Etymology: Latin sibilant-, sibilans, present participle of sibilare to hiss, whistle, of imitative origin
: having, containing, or producing the sound of or a sound resembling that of the s or the sh in sash

MR.SAMI MAKES DINNER


Features of a dinner by Mr. Sami:

The Shopping Trip - he is a man in search of bargains. It is nothing for him to spend four hours trekking from one store to another, fliers in hand, in search of the best prices. In the tradition of the ancient hunter-gatherers ( he is both), he brings home the prizes and we must sit enraptured by the detailed recounting of the hunt. "Look, cherries for .79!" We gasp in appreciation.

The Meat Grinder - His firm belief is that you don't know what cut of meat you get preground and in a plastic wrapper at the supermarket. Even if you choose your own chunk of meat and have the butcher grind it, you still get the first few inches of the last person's selection. I remember very clearly the scene during our first month of marriage, when he came into the kitchen with an odd look on his face, leaned in close to me, and whispered , " I just bought a meat grinder." Like this was good news for me? I had the good sense to make it clear that I would never have need of it, and so he is the official maker of chopped meat around here.

The Preparation - the chopping, the ginding, the regrinding. Meat first and then a big soapy clean up. Not a dry dish towel in sight as he goes in for a commercial kitchen type of hose-down between tasks. But ours is just a regular suburban family home. You know how some people fondly recall the growth of their children by looking at the scratches on a door post? Around here, the kids and I can point out momentous events by the permanent marks in the kitchen: "Look, this is when Daddy dropped the mixer and broke the floor tiles." " Look, here's where he wore the finish off the cabinets when he used a steel brush to clean up!"
(there is no time limit on this part - we never know when the finished meal will be announced)

The Announcement - we are all called in. Dinner is ready, but where is it? We must hurry to the table when he calls, but all that is there are 4 dinner plates, and a platter with the main course on it. No utensils, no napkins. Then he asks: What do you want to eat with this? Always a last minute scramble to pitch in and complete the meal.

The Aftermath - we all try to ignore the fact that someone has to do the final clean up. We are all masters of record keeping - who did the dishes last sunday, who had to empty the dishwasher an extra time this week. We are pitiful, but he falls for it every time. It is the grand finale - a frenzy of sprayed water and balled-up dishtowels.

Sunday's Dinner:
stuffed grape leaves with garlic and mint
baba gannou ( a dip made from roasted eggplant)
cucumbers in yogurt
fresh warm pita bread
apple strudel

What a guy.

I'LL GET EXCITED SOMEPLACE ELSE, THANKS ANYWAY

The service and support at ExciteMail has been a crushing disappointment to me. I will repay them with my absence.In declaring this, I am fully aware that I will be missing out on the latest bulletins about debt consolidation, or my chances to become an iwon millionaire.

Please note that bobthecorgi will now be excited at bobthecorgi@hotmail.com

I HEAR THE SIREN SONG, AND IT IS A POLKA

At the end of this month, the St. Casimir's Church Bazaar will happen in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. My old church, my old town.

On every summer week-end, a local church or fire company puts on this type of annual festival/fundraiser. The elements are the same at every one: simple games of chance for the kids, a wheel of fortune for the adults, bingo under a tent (the markers are dried corn kernals from last year), a sign-up table where you can enroll in the Altar and Rosary Society or the Christian Mothers.

There are raffles of all kinds - stuffed animals, 50-50s, and a booth for hand made items that were donated to be chanced off : a red, white and blue afghan, a bed-sitter doll with a dress a full yard in circumference. Nothing big. No cars or vacations. These are neighborhood operations. The same food appears everywhere: pierogies, potato pancakes, hot dogs, french fries. On the counter of the french fry stand are a bottle of white vinegar with a sprinkler top and a card boardcanister of salt that has holes punched in the top by a pencil. And beer. Lots and lots of Stegmaier beer, brewed right there in Wilkes-Barre ( slogan: Cold and Gold from the Poconos).

The thing that sets one bazaar apart from another is the caliber of the polka band. Most places have local wedding-type bands, but St. C always had the bigger names - Jan Lewan (his wife was a scandal as Mrs. Pennsylvania) , Lefty and the Polka Chaps (ok - he was somebody's cousin) - never the likes of Frankie Yankovic or Jimmy Sturr, but big names by local standards.

A guest appearance by the priest - maybe even the bishop - a few polkas on the pavement of the church parking lot, the great good luck of winning something good, the beer-fueled merriment - too hot and too late at night to eat anything, really, but you can catch a nice beeze coming off the nearby the Susquehanna River. The whole parish is there at one point or another, and even some advance scouts from St. Mary's - checking things out. Spying! - their bazaar is the next week.

Gosh, I can hardly wait to get back.

"In heaven, there is no beer.
That's why we drink it here.
And when we're gone from here.
Our friends will be drinking all the beer."

Everybody dance!

A MILLION HITS? A MILLION?

Well, I'm no Eric Brooks, but today bobthecorgi will get 1000 hits.

Drop by WHUZZUP! and see what all the fuss is about. One million hits for ericbrooks.com. More fun than you probably deserve.

SEVEN THINGS

Seven things in my cabinet at work:

1. a portrait of Louise Fletcher as Nurse Rachet ... now that's a nurse!

2. a coffee cup that says "I Love My Job" on one side and "Work Stinks" on the other.

3. a picture postcard of Liberace. He is holding poodles, sitting with schnauzers and has a corgi at his feet.

4. emergency lipstick: Cover Girl Midnight Mauve.

5. a festive plastic Head of Santa that plays 15 electronic carols.

6. a red tablecloth from the dollar store.

7. a translucent green frog for feng shui purposes ( one leg is broken off ... I wonder if that is interfering with the flow of my chi?)

A FIREWORKS STORY, BUT NOT THE FORTH OF JULY

Elements of the story:

dried pine needles
bottle rocket
Popeye
Chee-toes


When my son was about 8 years old, he would give me the daily report on the activites and privledges of his peers. Even the most mundane event - a trip to the supermarket, waiting for the school bus - would trigger a litany of freedoms: who can be alone baby sitting his 5 year old sister, who can be at the pool club without his mother, who walks to school by himself.

If this was all true, it meant that my son was the ONLY ONE still treated like a baby, a damning social stigma in the Nerf Ball / Super Soaker / Thundercats set. After I listened to this for a while, I started to think that the mothers of those boys were reasonable people, and maybe I was holding back his developement by keeping him too close to my side. He was smart and obedient and mature for his years - maybe he was ready.

His little sister got an invitation to a playdate 4 blocks away. The roll call of independent 8 year olds started. I considered the risks of leaving him alone for the 8 minutes it would take to drive my daughter to her friends house and get back.

He already had his afternoon snack, so he wouldn't choke while eating alone. He would be in his room at his desk, doing homework, so he would be absorbed and not have time to cook up mischeif. I went over the mental checklist, and gave in. I gave the instructions -lock the door, no TV, don't answer the phone - said a quick prayer, and left him standing alone on the first step to responsibility.

It was a quick dash to the other street. When I got back to my own street, there were great plumes of white smoke rising up from, uh ... wait a minute - that looks like my house! Teenagers, also motherless in that time between school and supper, had set off a bottle rocket which landed at the end of the driveway and ignited the dried pine needles piled up there. Great orange flames consumed the day lillies growing there and the smoke was way more than you would expect.

I all but flew to the house - and there he was: propped up in the TV room, barefooted and doing "the wave" with his toes, pounding down the Chee-toes, and hypnotized by Popeye cartoons on TV. His back was to the window and he didn't see the big flames 15 feet away, creeping along the needles as if they were following a poured trail of gasoline. I croaked out, in a lioness-to-lost-cub voice : "Ted! The driveway's on fire!"

He tore his eyes away from the cartoon, blinked into focus, and said, "Oh, it is?"

A few blasts of the garden hose put it out, the spent rocket that I showed to his mother got the kid next door a little time to think things over, and the lillies regrew the same season even more luxuriently than they were. But it was a long, long time til I left that boy alone again.

There is a lesson in there somewhere - for me, for him or for anyone who has left over fireworks.

PEACE

Early morning is my favorite time of day.

No one else is awake yet - just me and the dog. We go outside to sample the air. I stand on the deck and survey the flower pots; the dog disturbs the peace by madly racing the length of the yard, barking at the squirrels overhead.

It's good here - the birds are just starting to call, the overnight rain makes the grass look as if it had a chance to become a real lawn this year ( it doesn't ), and I can admire my goofy assortment of garden ornaments without having to explain them to anyone.

I have disowned the vegetation in the front of the house ... it is a sad combination of crabgrass, dirt patches and severely over-pruned bushes ( "How To Garden With Chainsaws" by Mr. Sami ). But once you pass through the gate, it is a paradise. Still not much grass, but the flower beds are bursting with plants of all heights and textures. Even my weeds are looking good this year.

The yard ends in a wilderness. This property used to be a tree farm and was sold to a developer 30 years ago. At the end of the backyard, there is a tangle of trees and overgrown shrubs, mingled with wild grapevines, poison ivy and periwinkles. A few discarded plants have taken root there, so sometimes you get a glimpse of daffodils or irises. It slopes down to a small creek and it is home to muskrats and rabbits, chipmunks and possibly a few rats.

The wildlife is vastly entertaining for the dog, but not too good for the flowers. Experience has taught me not to talk about this with Mr. Sami, or he sets to with the gasoline or Roto-tiller. He is not in any way interested in the outdoors , but when called upon, believes that there is a manly role to be played in the garden. He once found chipmunks trying to establish themselves in the drain spouts of the rainpipes, and his solution was to pack the spouts with newspaper and set them on fire.

So for now, I just sit and take in the sights and sounds around me. I am pleased with what I see. When the harsh light of the full sun starts shining on all the problem areas in the yard, I will be someplace else.

SCORECARD



- my son brought home the car with smashed tail lights

+ it was my husbands car, not mine

....................
- looked out bedroom window and saw giant groundhog destroying flower bed which caused loud wails of distress from me

+ free hearing test for sleeping husband

....................
+ had lunch outside using fabulous patented car floor/picnic table of Honda CR-V

- irritated by doctor on his way to first tee wondering if he should wear shorts or long pants.

....................
- met new eager-beaver, wet-behind-the-ears Renal Fellow

+ I think I could take him.

....................
- inspected hemorroids (someone else's)

+ someone held a door open for me and showed me a brighter future.

FESTIVAL OF BOBNESS

This place is turning into a virtual bobfest.

Bobthecorgi
Uncle Bob
Spongebob
(and don't forget I was born on Bob Hope's birthday)

If we could get Buffalo Bob to show up here, then we'd really have something.

p.s. - the last two people that I mentioned Spongebob to burst into the theme song (unasked). One was 17 and the other was 37. Universally appealing, I guess.

FANS OF SPONGEBOB - UNITE!

AORTAL link for today: Surreally a collaborative journal.

east / west
her /him
and so forth / and so on
etc / etc

The first clue that you have arrived at someplace special is right under the title : they have the most amusing motto on the net.

That's what is missing around here - a clever motto. Maybe I should adopt a commonly accepted motto, and change it to fit. Maybe this: THINK DOPEILY, ACT LOCO -LY.

Nah. Maybe something more descriptive - NANCY NURSE : FIRE IN HER PURSE. How about ART CAR / FARD CAR. No? Or something musical - BEANS, BEANS. (the musical fruit). That's pretty musical.

And that, my friends, is why I'm calling it bobthecorgi. No good ideas.

BUG JUICE

It's hot. With a hairdo-destroying humidity. I will not be able to acheive maximum poofyness today, and that is a shame, because I am socializing in a swank setting this afternoon. I always have a much better time if my hair is puffy, but even my protective layering of White Rain Maximum Hold will not save me today.

The only good thing about weather like this is that it is the perfect time to enjoy my favorite beverage, Bug Juice.

Cut 4 limes in half and put them in a blender with 1/2 cup of water.
Grind 'em all up - skin, seeds and all.
Add 3/4 cup of sugar and blend again.
Dilute with 2 quarts of water.

Best when served immediately - if you let it stand for more that a day, it loses it's zip.

!!! ALERT !!! - the sissybabes among you will want to strain out the sludge. Resist this impulse. It is the sludgy finish as you get near the bottom of the glass that contributes character to the experience.

(Mr. Sami insists on cutting off the tiny tips at the ends of the limes to prevent bitterness. Frankly, I don't see what difference it makes, but it is his receipe, after all.)