What Do I Do with my Face?

Dear Diary,

Last night I had a dream but unlike Martin Luther King, I dreamed that I was late for a school play, hadn't memorized my lines, a flood was preventing me from getting to the theater, darling, and I was not wearing a bra.

On the upside, my breasts were firm and perky.

This was a change from my usual anxiety dream.  In "IT" I come to after having amnesia or being in a drunken blackout for two days.  I have no idea where I have been or what I have done.  I do know that I had a great time but have thoroughly shamed my family.

I haven't written in my diary for so long that I am rusty at sharing my inner most thoughts and desires.  Must be the reason for the dream.

Right now, I smell like a wet dog.  My Buddy just jumped on me after a swim in the pool and wants to make out.  He is such a loving dog but I don't have time for that now.

My daughter came to me for some advice the other day.  She wanted to know what she should do with her face when her boyfriend played the guitar for her.  She was particularly anxious because he had promised to write her a song and she knew he would be playing it and singing to her in the near future.

I was happy that this was her problem because I was serenaded frequently in my day so had experience in this.  First I showed her the sweetly entertained look and instructed her how to rock her shoulders, neck and head from side to side with the beat of the music.  Her eyes should be as wide as her smile.  Or she could go with a surprised look, eyes wide again but her mouth in the shape of an O.  She would need to place her hands on her cheeks simultaneously.    Of course if she didn't want to encourage his behavior she could throw her hands over her ears, moan and scowl. 

I met some friends for drinks Saturday night and was surprised that none of them had ever experienced this form of courtship.  They did have ideas on what Elizabeth should do with her face and some interesting hand gestures to emphasize her look. 

Impulse Buying

Dear Diary,

I went to San Diego this weekend to see baby sistah. We went shopping and did some impulse buying. She got some cute clothes and shoes. I bought some shoes - not impulsively. I needed them. One of my students told me my shoes were ugly and he was so right. They weren't comfortable either. These new shoes are comfortable. I find out at circle time,Tuesday if they are cute or not.

I regret impulsively putting some of my impulse items back on the shelf at TJ Maxx. I had picked up some paint splatter duct tape and a large rubber stamp. I did make it home with a night gown and a whistle that blows bubbles.

The night gown was great - so comfortable - but the whistle did not blow bubbles like the picture showed. They kind of dripped down the side of the whistle and got the cord all slimy. The sound of the whistle was not shrill enough either. I was disappointed.

On the drive back to Sistah's we saw a homeless person on the side of the road with her sign. I guess she was taking a break from begging because she was on her cell phone. We remarked that something wasn't right about a homeless person on a cell phone. Was the money she was given going toward her cell phone bill? What kind of coverage does she have? Is texting free because that can get expensive and who was she talking to? Sistah was curious, if she was indeed homeless where was her cell phone bill sent?

Her Hair Story, a recollection

Dear Diary,

My baby sistah came to visit over the week end. It was a quick trip for her, Thursday through Saturday . We didn't have much time to visit but I will take what I can get. Sistah Sarah Ann took her son to ASU orientation. She was impressed with all she saw and did that day and was recounting it for us Friday night at the kitchen table. It seems that one of the speakers spoke to them about a project he had going concerning "hair" He claims that everyone has a hair story. I begged to differ. I told Sarah Ann that I did not have a hair story, but then I recalled the 1970's.

I got my hair "done" at the Nu Look Beauty Parlor on Hwy 69. Usually just a trim. I had quite an active imagination and adventurous spirit but lost all when it came to my hair. I have often said that instead of my business degree from the University, I would be better off if I had gone to beauty school and interned with a carpenter but I digress... My best friend and I both had long straight hair and we both really wanted our hair to look like Farah Fawcett's. We got the cut but never could get it to "do" right. It just lay there limp. Worst hair cut I ever got if you don't count that horror of a cut I got in the eighth grade that was supposed to look darling on me.

I mentioned the Farah Fawcett cut to Sarah Ann. Then now all the wiser mentioned as a side note that it would probably have looked better if I had used the right "product". That is when sistah unloaded the ultimate family hair story. It was one that I had totally forgotten about.

"The right product! Remember when Momma brought the case of Afro Sheen Shampoo home bragging about what a great deal she got on it. That Afro Sheen lasted a whole year!"

In her defense, I said maybe she didn't know what it was. Sarah Ann said of course she knew what it was. Soul Train was one of her favorite shows. That is true, She did watch a lot of Soul Train.

Today I looked through some 70's era pictures and I noticed in some, my hair had a lot of body and bounce. In others it lay pretty flat. I think I'll see if Afro Sheen is still on the market and see what it does for this gray mess of hair I have now.

I pity the fool that rings my doorbell after 8 p.m.

Dear Diary,


Besides making monkeys, I have been working all spring on one art piece. It is a "No Soliciting" sign to hang by my front door. It's not that I don't want solicitors. I love it when the Girl Scouts come by and sell their cookies and we do support the neighborhood schools but sometimes "strangers" come by and ring our bell. It is usually around 8:00 o'clock at night and we are right in the middle of a movie or Law and Order reruns. When that doorbell rings it disrupts our evening routine. First, we look at each other with the "Are you expecting company?" gaze. Second, whom ever has the remote pauses the show. We pause too, and kind of wait out each other to see who will get up and answer the door. Sometimes I do but more often Frank does because he is the quickest at getting rid of solicitors. We always have the same discussion after the interruption. "Who was it?, What were they selling?, What in the hell are those mother fuckers doing out at this time of night in our neighborhood?" It takes us a while to settle down and get back to our previous zen.

I have an uncontrollable curiosity when it comes to the doorbell. I can't ignore it. I'm not sure who I am expecting, but am usually disappointed.

Since the weather has been so nice, I have already had two surprise afternoon visitors. One, a young man helping the past, present, and future drug addicts of America and the other a beggar for the homeless shelter. I only had $2.00 in my purse for the drug addicts but scrounged up $10.00 for the homeless after my dog jumped on him and nearly knocked him down. I was God blessed by both but not thanked.


During the summer we often get those solicitors that have the memorized canned speech and the "notebook". I would rather have a visit from the Jehovah's Witnesses than be visited by one of "them" because if I answer the door, they are guaranteed to get a donation and their water bottle refilled or a soft drink.

A few visits from these notebook holders come to mind:

A black man that looked to be older than me stopped by one hot summer day with his notebook. He gave me his little speech then we looked through his notebook together. I listened and nodded in all the right places. He had the special permits and articles about I don't remember what, a few pictures of himself with his sponsors, and other things in his notebook. When I offered him a seat on the porch and an icy cold 7 up he was delighted. While he sipped his drink he told me about his life. He went on about his past and how he had just messed up his life with drugs and alcohol. He had a promising future playing baseball but he foiled that future with sin. His relationship with his wife and four children went sour. I forget the details but somehow he pulled himself out of that hole he dug for himself and turned his life around. He would be attending Grand Canyon University this fall and trying out for the baseball team! I was so inspired by his story that I rushed in the house to get my wallet. I handed over $20.00 and watched him carefully write out a receipt. All the while I told him about my dream of becoming an elementary teacher. I poured my heart out to him, telling him that I had always wanted to be a teacher but that my Mother said no, she was paying for my education and I needed to major in business because teachers didn't make any money so I did but now I was following my dream! I was going to online college! I had a captive audience too, he hung on to my every word until he finished filling out that receipt. He thanked me again then he was gone.

We had a visit from a weathered white guy a few weeks ago. He too had a notebook. It was about 115 degrees out side so I thought he deserved the courtesy of an interested listener. He immediately started in on his prepared speech. He speed through it gracefully as he flipped the pages of the notebook. His tone was a little sing song as he showed me the legalities of his personal charity, a homeless shelter for veterans. I couldn't send him away empty handed so I invited him in for a cold glass of water while I wrote the check. The water and the air conditioning caused him to get right chatty. He had been homeless himself and used the services of this shelter. In his previous life he was a van driver for Mayflower Moving. A back injury landed him in the hospital for surgery and a lengthy stay. When he was finally released, his home had been foreclosed and his assets which included a houseful of antiques was auctioned to pay his debts! This shelter helped him get his life together. He even served on the board of directors. Recently he bought a travel trailer with cash money. He would never be homeless again. His plan is to buy some land in Arkansas and live on it in his travel trailer. After hearing his personal testimony I regretted just writing the check for $10.00.

I know these were legitimate charities because I got a receipt and saw the proper paper work in their notebooks, but one guy came by the house last summer with the most original gimmick! It was so clever that I didn't hesitate to give him some of my hard earned money. This guy had a notebook too. He started out his speech by telling me that he was one talented fellow. He could rap and was a comedian too. He opened his notebook and showed me testimonials written by friends who were in agreement about his talent and charisma. He also had pictures of his little bastard daughter and of his mother too. I was surely interested in his pitch because I had no idea what he was selling. Finally he got to the meat of the matter. He was selling tickets to a show in which he would be the star! He wasn't sure when this show would occur but he guaranteed it would happen. For $20.00, my husband and I could attend. Also included in that price was an autographed 81/2 x 11 xerox copy of his picture. After receiving the $20.00 Our names would be added to a list. We would be mailed personal invitations to the event when it occurred.

My neighbor put up some kind of opaque film on her door windows so that no one could see her when she is pretending not to be home. But at our house, solicitors can see me when I can see them. I don't think I'll hang that sign. I'll keep my options open.

She Spoke to Me in a Dream

Dear Diary,

I have always been skeptical of supernatural phenomena, ESP, and so forth but I loved hearing about it. That said, when my Aunt told my sista Janice and me about a bizarre dream that our cousin (I'll call her Kim) had dreamed my interest was peaked. This all happened a long, long time ago. Back when I wore size 9 jeans and drove a powder blue pinto.

We were sitting in my Aunt's kitchen in Tarrant City, Alabama (probably sipping sugary sweet tea with lemon and eating a ho-made desert so delicious that it would make Paula Deen tear up and cry). Aunt Mary mentioned that she had talked to her brother, our Uncle, and he had told her that Kim had been visited in a dream by our dead Grandmother. I imagine sista Janice and my ears perked and we quit chewing at that point. According to Kim, Grandmother told her that she needed to go to Micheal's and buy all these art supplies and start painting. Kim was astounded by this idea, never having picked up a paint brush, canvas or had any interest what so ever in art. Anyway, she jumped in her Jaguar and headed down to the closest art supply warehouse to buy every item on her list. After she got home she set up her easel and began to paint. According to our Aunt, Kim's creative juices started flowing and what with her newly found talent, brush strokes and paint blending, she created a masterpiece so fine that our Uncle had hung it in his Insurance office before it even dried.

All kinds of emotions were running through my mind. I found my voice and asked Aunt Mary what Kim had painted. My Aunt started describing a Caribbean type theme or maybe it was Gulf Shores - Palm trees, sand, piers, sail boats, and a clear blue ocean with waves. I spoke out defensively, it just didn't add up, that couldn't have been Grandmother that came to Kim. Why would Grandmother choose to visit Kim? I thought I was her favorite! And the style of painting was all wrong. Grandmother painted landscapes! Kim had to have made this all up! Sista Janice, unemployed at the time stated matter of factually that she was just glad that she didn't receive the visit because she couldn't afford all those art supplies.

While hanging out in the lounge the other day, I picked up an Oprah magazine. On the cover was an article entitled "Finding your Inner Calling". By the time I flipped to it, (I had become distracted by the pretty pictures in the magazine) my break was over. I was alright with not getting to the article though, I figured it was probably one of those quizzes like those I have taken before where you picked out your likes and dislikes, interests, hopes and dreams. My results would be a ballerina, author, artist, or movie star. They always are. I have no exceptional talent for any of these things but that doesn't mean I wouldn't like to be one of them.

Years ago one of my friends called me long distance from Atlanta, Georgia, and told me about this wonderful perk her new employer was giving to a few select employees. She had been chosen and was being groomed for management. Besides advising her on professional dress and not using adjectives like "big ole" she would be given a test to identify her strengths. Her mentor would then define her strengths and put her on the fast track to success. I didn't hear from her for a while so I called to find out about her new career. She told me it didn't work out like she planned. Her test results showed she would make a wonderful mime or puppeteer. AT&T didn't have any of those positions available.

About 8 years ago, I was visited in a dream by my Grandmother. I didn't tell anyone about my dream for a few years. I wanted to but always hesitated because of the scorn I felt toward Kim after Aunt Mary told us her story. In my dream, I was sitting in my Grandmother's lap with my face buried in the bosom of her dress. She had her arms around me while she rocked, and comforted me while I cried. I was frustrated and distressed because I wanted to be an artist. She soothed me by saying Art doesn't have to look real. Your art is art.

I think of that dream often and about what my grandmother said about art. I like to think that she was actually reassuring me from beyond, validating my art. Who knows. It could also have been my subconscious. This is all too heavy for me right now. I think I'll go eat some sugar.

I'm no Queen of Sheba but my Resume Looks Good!

White socks tie dyed and made into monkeys!

Dear Diary,

My momma told me one time that when people ask you how you are doing they really don't want to know how you are doing. I tend to agree with her. I usually say "FABULOUS!" when anyone asks.

Not that anyone is asking but......
Summer is here and my motivation and life is being sucked out of me. Dare I be dramatic? I'm listless and bored. I have no drive or ambition. But, enough about me.

"I'm a displaced southern "Timba Heiress"presently creating in the dry, arid, moistureless, outskirts of Phoenix, Arizona. I find inspiration in family, friends, quilts, antiques, fabric, children, my dog, and nature. I am a fiber, doll, and collage artist but must also have a paying job. 50% of all money earned from sell of art is squandered by my children, 25% goes to art supplies and the remaining 25% is deposited in a jar marked plastic surgery. This money will pay for a much needed face lift, boob lift, and tummy tuck."

I was sorting through some piles of stuff and found the above bio I had written - A while back I taught a sock monkey class and was asked for an artist resume. That was not what I turned in. I wrote one more polished and professional. Recently I have had to update my resume since I received my Arizona Teaching Certification for kindergarten through eighth grade. I am 53 years old so it could have been quite lengthy but I was told to only highlight the last ten years. I wrote a cover letter too. I used many colorful, energetic, high powered adjectives to describe myself. I found it exhausting later to read how phenomenal I am. Reading it made it hard for me to believe that there ever was a time when I had low self esteem.

The Scar Book

Speaking of self esteem, I drove to Birmingham with Daddy and Momma back in March. Momma had an appointment to visit the heart surgeon at St. Vincents hospital. Sista Lucy drove from Nashville and met us there. Before our appointment we had time for a leisurely lunch. We found an Arby's right away but that is not my idea of leisurely. Luckily a few minutes later we came across a Fish House. It was decorated so cute and had great atmosphere. Even the restrooms were quaint.

Momma ordered grilled fish, Daddy had gumbo, I ordered fried scallops and oysters and Lucy had fried oysters. I am telling you this because I bit into one of the scallops and out spurted fishy juice all down the front of my cute outfit. When I got in the elevator at the doctor's office next to the hospital a nurse joined me and made the comment that they must be having fish in the cafeteria today. She startled me when she said that. I immediately asked her , "Do I smell like fish?" She was taken a back by my question and replied, "No, I smell fish from the cafeteria." I meant to go online after I got home and find out if they were serving fish that day or if she smelled me. But I am getting off track.

Momma signed in for her appointment and right by the sign in sheet was a photo album. I picked it up and took a seat next to Daddy. I started flipping through it and much to my surprise it was a picture album of scars. I was startled and got the giggles because I thought I was going to be viewing company picnic or holiday party photos. The pictures were mesmerizing! I stopped randomly flipping and viewed the first photo in the book. I couldn't believe what I was seeing but I had to see them all! The more I saw the more I giggled. Hysterical, uncontrollable giggles. Tears were flowing from my eyes. People were starting to stare. Sista Lucy said, "Sista whatcha lookin at?" I said, "I'd tell you but you wouldn't believe me." She came over to sit by me and got her eyes full too. Then she started to giggle. We called over to Momma to come have a look. She said no. She did not want to see any scars. I said - It's not just scars! Each of the pictures were taken of men or women naked from the neck to the waist and these people were old. In fact I swear a few of those pictures resembled me but I don't have a scar. Some of the people in the photos were more modest than others and had used an arm to try to cover their bosoms. Others just let it all hang out. Talk about high self esteem!

Daddy took the book from us and flipped through it. Isn't this sweet! He had paused on a picture of a man and a woman with matching scars. They were sitting on a bench and holding hands in the photo. The woman had 82 written on her with marker and the man had 84. We suspected by the looks of things that this was their age. We were all giggling now and getting a little loud and rowdy. All but Momma. She refused to participate in our fun.

I don't often give my Momma advice but that day I thought it would be wise. I said Momma don't sign anything until you read it. You may be giving them permission to take your photo! Then I got to thinking. What would possess someone to pose for a picture like that. There had to have been something in it for them. I said - Momma, they may offer a discount on your surgery if you pose for a scar photo later. Are you tempted? Momma said she didn't need a discount, she'd pay full price for her surgery. I asked her if she would do it for 20% off? How about 30%? I doubted that the surgeon would go much higher than that.

There were three other ladies obviously together in the waiting room while all this was going on. One of them asked to see the book. I walked it over to her and she and her friends started pouring over it like grade schoolers with a National Geographic Jungle Native edition. We watched them closely to catch their reaction to the photos. They gasped, then giggled. The lady who was the patient called out for all to hear, "I'm paying full price too!"

Momma, Daddy, and Lucy went back to that doctors office in Birmingham after Momma's surgery. They said the book had been removed from the waiting room.

Exhibitionist

Dear Diary,

My older sista and I were talking the other night and and she brought up the delicate subject of flashers. Not the ones on your car but the ones that used to display their naked bodies in public to unsuspecting females. Not as an expression of youth as the streakers did but to make a statement as in showing you my pecker really gets me off.

We shared a similar experience of this sort in the spring of 1974. She was in college at Mississippi State and I was a junior at S.D. Lee High. Below is my recollection:

A friend of mine and I were in the Lee High parking lot at the beginning of 5th period. She was off that hour and I should have been in French but was stalling because we had a test that day and I had forgotten to study (or some similar excuse). We were talking when we noticed a vehicle come cruising slowly into the parking lot. I looked to see who it was as the car drove by. The guy looked to be about 23 or so and I don't know how he was able to reach the gas pedal with his foot or maneuver the turns because he was in an awkward driving position. One hand was on the steering wheel and the other he was using to grease his piston.

My eyes were as big a saucers because I had never been exposed to the like. I asked my friend if she saw what I saw. She said no so I said look now - here he comes around again. He was driving pretty slow so we virgins got an eyeful. A spontaneous thought popped into my head. Laugh Marion, I said. He won't be expecting that. Marion and I tossed our heads back and laughed like mad men. We slapped our knees as we chuckled and all but rolled on the concrete. I have often thought back to that occasion and wondered how I knew about this particular psychology. Was it instinct?

He didn't come back around for a third time but luckily I now had a witness to back up my story if it should come to that - and it did. Minutes later a teacher came out and asked us why we were hanging out in the parking lot. We didn't say why but launched into the exciting event we had just witnessed. Mrs. quickly ushered us to the office and the police were called. Unfortunately, my friend and I had been checking the exhibitor out so intently that we had failed to get the license plate and make of the car so the perpetrator was never found. The principal and sweet Mrs. Quinn were so sure we were traumatized by the event that we got to hang out in the office until our Mamas picked us up!

Sista Lucy's experience was entirely different but she is so sure that it was the same guy. Put her on a witness stand and she could convince a jury it was the same guy. I'm not convinced though. I told her I needed to do a little background research to ascertain just what the average number of flashers there was per capita for that area in 1974. Plus the mode of exhibition was entirely different. She was thirty miles away on a college campus in her dorm room when she was approached - indoors and no car. But thirty six years later she is still so sure they were the same guy even though she only heard my account of the story.

I will tell this as best I can second hand: Sista Lucy was packing in her dorm room when she heard screams in the hall. She looked up and there was a naked man! He paused in her doorway to give her the full effect, then ran away. Not thinking of her own safety, she ran out of the room. In the hallway, she met up with the other traumatized co-eds. Let's get him! she yelled. I think she had grabbed a weapon of some sort from her room but don't remember for sure. Some of the girls were probably carrying torches, sticks and stones. They were rallying behind her, their fearless leader. He was nowhere to be seen in the hall so they bravely checked the bathroom and just like in the movies Lucy forcefully kicked each stall open but alas they were all empty. She has often wondered what they would have done if they had found him.

A few years later I was in front of the Army Recruiters office on Hwy 45. A young man pulled in and asked for directions. As I approached the car, I noticed he was sans pants. This time I did get the license plate number and complete car description. Lucky for him but unfortunate for me, he was from Alabama and the Columbus City Police were not interested in following up on my lead. I insisted that they find him and arrest him immediately but they assured me that he was probably out of their jurisdiction by the time I made the call. "Ms. Moore, it's not like you see on TV." This made me pause and wonder, Why not?

Special Guest Writer

Dear Diary,

From time to time it is good to remind myself that my memories are very one sided. Some times it is good to hear the other side of the story. This can be fun especially is you are not in a court of law. Below I respectfully submit Kathy's memory of our trip:


Being Kathy from Mississippi, I must share some of my memories.

To say he had buck teeth is slightly embellished. The few yellow rotten teeth remaining in his mouth were sticking out in all directions. He could have never eaten even one carrot stick.

Lisa forgot to tell about my attempting to steal a rock. One was only supposed to take one rock with a gold flick and I took two rocks. I was collecting rocks so I thought that would be OK but "Buck" said I could only have one rock.

The "Gift Shop" was an overstatement. To keep Lisa's children (my son was a perfect angel) from whining all the way to the gold mine, Lisa promised gifts from the gift shop and there were no gifts or souvenirs of any type. The only available "gifts" were just old dusty candy bars and expensive rocks for sale.

When Lisa and I meet in Sedona in June, I am sure that my self acclaimed best friend and I will have more delightful stories.

Indeed we will Kathy!

Get him to show you his teeth!

Dear Diary,

I got to see one of my good friends last week when I was in Mississippi. In fact she is such a good friend that it is recorded in a legal document in the Lowndes County Court House that I am her self- acclaimed best friend. She told me about her new favorite drink - Sweet Tea flavored vodka. She said to add water and lemonade to it and a spig of mint. How refreshing it sounded.

Tonight, after taking a hiatus from alcohol for six months or so I decided to try one of these. I went to Fry's and checked out the Vodka aisle. There were three different Sweet Tea Vodkas but none of them were SKYY (My vodka of choice). I buzzed her to find out which one she used but she couldn't recall, but then passed on some great advise. She said, "Buy the most expensive one because you don't want to have one of those Gawd Awful headaches in the morning!" No kidding!

I got home and fixed my drink and was sipping it and thinking of her when a field trip she and I took our children on when she visited us one summer came to mind( Please note that we are studying similes and descriptive language in school).

The long bumpy road seemed to go on forever. Dust rolled like fog over the windshield. Whose idea was it to visit a gold mine?

From the backseat came the wail of a hyena in heat. I reached back to swat whichever child I could reach and still keep the wheels between the ditches. My hand collided with something wet and sticky. It's a good thing we were in Frank's new truck! I don't want that stuff on my car seats! Where was the turn. We had to be close.

Up ahead in the distance was a sign too difficult to read what with the shimmering heat waves and the mirages. We slowed to a halt like a dehydrated snake. Gold Mine Next Left.

A pack of wild animals that curiously resembled Kathy and me stampeded from the vehicle. They ran hither and yon from the parking lot to what looked like a grazing field/out door theater.

Kathy and I were the adults here and were in total control. We looked around, our eyes surveying the area. Up ahead we spied what looked like the entrance to the gold mine. There were two men besides us on the premises. One was dressed like what anyone would think a gold miner slash prospector slash dry goods employee (aka Mr. Drucker) would wear. The other looked and dressed like he was taking a mental health day off from Honeywell or General Dynamics.

The kids stopped rolling in the grass long enough to notice the goldmine/gift shop entrance. They rushed to it like deranged leprechauns and screeched to a halt in front of the sign "Miners under 12 must be accompanied by an adult". We were quickly summoned. The gold miner slash prospector slash dry goods store slash gift shop employee sauntered into the store and gave Kathy and me a smile. If we needed a bottle opener we had just found one. I say this not because I would make fun of someone with buck teeth ( I had buck teeth for a good part of my development years) but because it is relevant to the story.

The set up and design of the gold mine were perfect. The owner must have gotten the idea from Disneyland. All guest had to enter and exit the gold mine from the gift shop. The tunnel of the goldmine made a half turn and after an extremely short wind you were at a dead end. There blocking progress was a miniature rail road car full of ore. A sign suggested that we search through the pile of rubble for gold.

Our new friend, the dry goods store slash gold prospector helped our children find a nugget with a speck of gold. They left quickly, following the light at the end of the mega short tunnel to the souvenir shop. I picked through the rocks and immediately found my fortune in gold but Kathy was having a more difficult time. Our new friend, let's call him Mr. Drucker, was very attentive toward Kathy. She was getting all ruffled and pissy because every rock she picked up was a rock. No gold. Mr. Drucker patiently shifted through the ore and found her a golden nugget. She didn't like that one so they pawed through them till she found one that suited her.

After spending way too long in the gift shop with the children, we made it back out into the fresh air. The corporate looking guy (Dilbert) joined Mr. Drucker in chatting us up. Dilbert owned the gold mine and the property for as far as we could see. He had really big plans for developing his spread, like adding an out door theater, or amphitheater as they are sometimes called.

Kathy and I were trying to round up the wild mustangs and corral them into the truck when Dilbert told us about one last feature we shouldn't pass up. He had just acquired a mule. Dilbert said that Mr. Drucker would take us down there to see it and while we were there we should get him to show us his teeth. Kathy and I looked at each other with dropped jaws. Sure the guy had bad teeth but why call attention to them like that. We had both been trying not to focus directly on his teeth during the whole gold mine experience. Mr. Drucker grabbed some carrots seemingly unphased by Dilbert's rudeness. Our large party followed Drucker to the pasture. There was the mule. When he saw the carrots that Mr. Drucker had he tilted his head in the air and ruffled up his lips proudly showing us his teeth. My faith in mankind had once again been restored. Dilbert just wanted us to see his mules new trick.

Rusty Pickle Class with Lance

Dear Diary,

This is Lance of Rusty Pickle. I took a class of his at Mystic Paper. It was from 8:00 pm until 11:00 pm! I could not believe I could even think of staying out and awake that long w/o alcohol being involved but I did! The class was fun and the teacher was fun - You can tell by his smile in this picture. I learned a new tactic. When the going gets tough - go to the bathroom. I excused myself to go to the potty and he picked up my project and started working on it - using it as an example. Lance would work on my Paradise book every time I left to go to the bathroom. He did a great job on it. I love it! I recommend you take a class from him. He is very entertaining.

Quit your whining and take ballet! Tap dancing gives me a headache!

Dear Diary,

When I was a young, my sistas and I took dancing lessons from Miss Betty's English School of Dance. Momma let us choose what lessons we wanted to take but put her foot down when it came to tap dancing lessons. She said tap dancing gave her a head ache. I really wanted to learn to tap. I loved watching the old movies where Ginger Rogers, Gene Kelly, or Fred Astaire danced. I loved those black patten leather tap shoes with the black ribbons too.

Sista Lucy took ballet and eventually learned to toe dance. I took a year or two of ballet then got obsessed with John Phillips Sousa and decided to learn to twirl the baton. Sista Janice stuck with ballet and so did Sarah Ann (for a while anyway until momma gave in and let HER take tap dancing lessons).

The memories of my unrequited desire to learn to tap dance came flooding back the other day when Sista Sarah Ann called to say she was taking tap dancing lessons with her girl friends. She wanted to borrow my black patten leather tap shoes with the black ribbons.

I had forgotten or repressed the memory that I had attempted to learn to tap dance as an adult. It was back in 1992 or 93 and I was working at a veterinarian clinic. The Doctor's wife, the head receptionist and I were talking and it came out that we all had a secret desire to learn to tap dance. We made a pact that day to take lessons together. I was pregnant with Elizabeth at the time. I didn't look pregnant, but my butt looked way obeast. The lessons were fun and the three of us had a good time tapping and laughing at our miss steps. Over the weeks we learned a tap routine to Micheal Jackson's Rocky Robin. At work we practiced in between patients and during lunch. We were good! Then, one night in class the teacher spoiled it for us. She started talking about "The Recital", our costumes, deposits and the tickets we would have to sale. Recital! I had no idea when I signed up that we would be performing on stage! I could not wear a skimpy red sequined costume with black fishnets in my condition in front of an audience. My friends had their own personal excuses for quitting that night.

A few years ago, one of my friends at the elementary school talked me into taking tap with her. It didn't take much talking because we were going to learn at the community center and there would be no recital. When we showed up for our first class, it surprised me that only three of us were taking lessons. The song we were learning to tap to was "All that Jazz" from the musical Chicago. It was a lot faster than "Rocky Robin" and I was about 12 years older but I felt like a professional dancing to an authentic dance number. After a few lessons I began to realize that there was a misprint in the catalog because there was no way this was a beginning tap class. The teacher was on my back constantly. It became a chore to go. I couldn't remember the steps and sometimes I would be tapping real good and feeling good then get a glimpse of my self in the mirrors that covered the whole wall in front of me. I would get startled and forget my steps. "Who was that gray haired chubby lady with no rhythm staring at me?" Eventually I just quit going. I made up some lame excuse to my friend every week for the duration of the class. I think it was that I had a headache.

I haven't gone anywhere but I have been away.

Dear Diary,

I think I'm getting eccentric. Yesterday I went to PET SMART to get Buddy some treats. I left the store and was in the parking lot looking for my car and I said out loud, "Buddy, where did I park my car?." I do talk to Buddy a lot but I have never talked to him when he wasn't with me. It stunned me for about a 1/2 minute. Good thing too because as I stood there in the parking lot thinking about what I had just done, I spotted my car.

I was walking towards it when I heard a sharp toot of someone's car horn. Was that toot directed at me? I turned and stared in the direction of the sound. There was a friend I hadn't seen in a long time. She asked me how I was doing. I told her, then I asked her what she had been doing and she told me! She had had a heart attack! She is about my age so this was surprising. She said two of her arteries were clogged and she actually had to be revived! I thought immediately of "the light". I wanted to ask her about "the light" did she see "the light"? What else did she see? Did she see her life flash? Did she have last minute regrets? Had she since changed anything in her life besides the doctor's requirements? She began to tell me about her open heart surgery but I couldn't focus. What is the etiquette for asking about the light? She got my attention back when she said, "Yes, the heart attack was a surprise because I am not o'beast or anything. My senses sharpened. Did I hear that right? Did she say o'beast? I agreed, "You certainly aren't!" Then she said it again. "I am not o'beast." She is correct, yes, that is true. She is not o'beast.

I wondered if I was. February is my one year anniversary with Jenny. I have lost and gained the same two or three pounds over and over, but, I have managed to keep off 6 pounds. Surely these results are not typical!

MANDINGO

Dear Diary,

I had a teacher in high school that was really exceptional. That is what teachers strive to be - I am learning this in school! I don't know that I knew at the time she was exceptional or even if she knew she was exceptional but looking back - she was exceptional. I'm trying to picture her in my mind- close knit perm, cat eye glasses, momma clothes.....but I'm getting side tracked. She taught me 10th grade English and Journalism when I was a junior or senior. She was the sponsor for the school Newspaper. I hung out with the newspaper staff so I was sort of a honorary staffer that never wrote anything but posed for pictures when they needed someone in a pinch. Another perk was getting to go to their parties! She had a ranch off the Highway between Columbus and Starkville and raised Brahma Bulls of all things. Passing by in the car at sixty miles an hour you wouldn't get to look twice if you thought you saw a Brahma bull instead of a Holstein or a Jersey. But she had them. The ranch had a lake, and those big hay bales that are round and tall and fun to climb on when you aren't overweight and arthritic.

I really liked my teacher and we got along just fine so I guess it was no surprise when we remained friends after I graduated from high school. I still called her by her adult name, Mrs. Pittman. I never thought of calling her Jane. She was older than my Momma and that just wasn't done!

After high school, I went to an all girls University which was in our home town. They let boys attend now but that's a different story. I could tolerate most of my classes that first year but had an awful time in freshman English. The professor was an old sour woman who wore dark clothes and was virtually unapproachable. Actually the memory of that class is vague. I'm sure I tried my best in class but I had a very busy social life and there was free beer for ladies every Thursday Night at the Welding Works. Every paper I got back graded looked like the drop cloth for a sacrificial lamb (or some similar analogy). That old biddy used a red pen and would just mark all over my paper. I knew I was an A or B student so what was this with the Cs and Ds? I decided to try a little experiment. I asked my exceptional former teacher if she would help me with a paper for my college class. She said she would be happy to and that her husband was working all night at the local small motor factory (Which coincidentally I got a job there after college graduation and worked there too for a year, then got laid off) so why didn't I spend the night Friday?

That Friday I went to her house and she said, "Lisa, there is this movie I want to go see at the Varsity. Do you want to go? I said sure!" So after she wrote my paper for me we went. She said the movie was called Mandingo and it was set in the deep south before "the conflict". We got popcorn and drinks and settled into our seats. I had no idea what I was about to see and I don't think she did either. Through out the movie she would whisper to me I need to go smoke a cigarette. I was glad I didn't smoke because I didn't want to miss any of it! I got my eyes full and quite an education. After a particularly moving scene, I got worried about my exceptional teacher because she had been smoking longer normal. I hated to miss any of the action but...I walked backwards up the popcorn grease stained red carpet to the lobby, pushed the door open and quickly glanced out, there she was pacing and smoking. No need to interrupt her. She spent the majority of the movie in the lobby, smoking.

About eight or nine years ago when I was visiting my parents, I went by to see Mrs. Pittman. We immediately took up again where we left off. We didn't go to the movies, and she didn't write papers for me (She got a C too!) but we did correspond by email. She loved receiving and sending funny emails. I visited her every time I went home and one of my visits I took the kids and my husband with me. Frank took a picture of us. I need to find it. She died of cancer a few years after we reconnected. I sure do miss her.

Monkey Money and Rappin Rodent

Dear Diary,

Whoa! I have been studying, working, and making monkeys! John had to go on Cobra and some friends wanted some monkeys after Gooch did the photo shoot so I have been making monkeys. I decided that instead of giving the monkeys away I would sell them then I could donate the money to the Cystic Fibrosis foundation. Then I thought Hey! I've got my little 25 year old cyst(That used to drive mama and me crazy when the nurses at the Birmingham Children's Hospital would call him "The Little Cyst" but now it is kind of funny!) right here that could use the money. Hell I could even use the money for my college tuition but, It will be fun to see if I can make his Cobra payment with Monkey Money! No more giving away monkeys. Over! Done! I'm selling those suckers. So far - $65.00 and it is only the 18th. I'm optimistic but don't think it will get paid by monkey money this month. Of course he balked when I told him my plan.

I found a stuffed Rat called the Rappin Rat that Raps that "It's your Birthday". Mini Me used to sing it in that commercial. You might not know this but that is my mamas special talent. She does a Mini Me routine with the hand motions and everything. It is really something to see. She was a hit at the last family talent show. I'm afraid that sista Janice will win hands down if she does her imitation of Little Edie performing the flag dance. Her costume and moves are so like Little Edie's that it will take your breath away. But back to my story..... I thought this rappin Rat would make a great Christmas present for my Mama. I saw him at CVS drugstore, my creative juices started churning and the idea of a rappin sock monkey came to mind. The perfect Christmas gift for my Mom. I bought it , brought it home and told Ian and his friend my idea. They loved it. That night after a few cocktails I carefully cut off his costume and beheaded him. Then I proceeded to make a sock monkey to fit over the shell. I got the arms on and was figuring out how to add the head/body when it started going off and repeating the rap over and over and over. I had accidentally cut through some wires so only one arm was moving to the rhythm and where the head had been a white plastic nub was rotating. Every time I tried to maneuver the sock, the damn thing would start playing again. My husband was starting to complain. Then it came to me that I could just remove the batteries but when I checked the battery holder the cover was screwed in. But, not with a hex head or slot screw, a new kind of screw. I guess I'll need a tool to get it open.

I need to go to Lowe's tomorrow anyway. The Poinsettias are 1/2 price.

Solana Beach Shopping Trip

Dear Diary,

My sister is coming for Thanksgiving. Her boys and husband are coming too. That will be fun. I've been studying alot so I haven't blogged. It is hard to do both. I've been doing all I can to Avoid house cleaning. I've painted a toy highchair and been making monkeys like I have jungle fever! I am addicted to making monkeys. It's like I am possessed by Charles Darwin or something similar. But I digress.....

My baby sista, Sarah Ann (Who we lovingly refer to as Precious) and I went shopping in Solana Beach, California, a couple of years ago. That town is pretty as a picture ( I can't spell picturesk). It was a beautiful day and we had money in our pocket books. A perfect time to spend. The first shop we entered was full of bric a brac and other wonderful accessories just begging to be picked up and fondled. We virtually had the run of the store because the employees /best friends/owners were oblivious to us - they were off to the side dressed in chic black outfits with blond flowing hair and perfect makeup. The "help" were chatting and laughing and so enthralled with each other that it would have been a shame to interrupt them. We left that store empty handed and headed to another.

The next shop looked like a magical snowy fairy land. Everything in the store was a shade of white. It was all crisp and cool looking. Nothing practical for a family with dogs, children, husbands or us. In my fantasy life, my cottage by the sea would be furnished like this store. George Clooney and I would be so happy, often looking into each others eyes and sighing a content sigh....... This shop, like the last had beautiful, blond, black clad proprietors. I'm being critical but thought they should have dressed in something paler and gauzy. But, they didn't ask me. In fact they didn't address us at all. Like in the other store, these ladies had so much to tell each other. They talked in hushed tones and were pouring over what looked to be a catalog. Never looking up. I don't think they even heard the bell that rang when we opened the door. Since we were raised right, we kept our voices at a respectful low and tried not to disturb them as we browsed.

We entered a boutique - same scenario, an art gallery, ditto. We were beginning to suspect that we were invisible. I reached out and touched my sister, she felt real, we stared at our reflections in the store front windows, we could see ourselves. What in the hell was going on?

Over lunch we discussed this strange phenomena. We came to the decision that these ladies must not have to sell anything to keep their stores open. Hence, the poor customer service. Maybe they had trust funds, alimony, made it rich on the stock market, or wealthy husbands that just wanted them to be happy. Maybe the stores were their hobbies, something to do to get them out of the house. Keep them from getting in the maid's way. The more we talked about it the more jealous we got. Baby sista and I were down right indignant when we left Solana Beach that afternoon. Why wasn't that our beautiful life?

Some times Precious and I fantasize about owning a shop together and how we are going to giggle and teehee and fix each others hair, stare at our painted finger and toenails, pose, flip through magazines, and ignore our customers . Wouldn't that be the life?

Stuart - and one of many lost chances at Fame and Fortune

Dear Diary,

A dear friend passed away in May. Even though I had not seen him for years he is always in my heart. I met him at Lee High School. I was a Sophomore and he was a year older than me. Stuart was tall, thin and had great hair. I loved that he liked to hang out with me. He always had fabulous ideas. He was fun, fun, fun! I thought of him as my personal Cat in the Hat. He got me in lots of scraps but somehow he would make things right before Mom got home.

Once he talked me into taking our RED 1973 Honda 50 on a joy ride. It was a beautiful fall afternoon. Stuart was driving and I was on the back hanging on for dear life. We rode it to his house (off Highway 12) while he serenaded me - singing "Teenage Runaways"! We were not wearing helmets and that highway is so narrow and winding that it is a wonder we didn't get killed. We girls (the sistas) were only allowed to ride our motorcycle in the back yard.

Stuart was very witty. One time in High School a "hood" from the Air Force Base slammed Stuarts locker closed and asked him if he was a Basie (from the Air Force Base) or a Townie (from Town). Stuart replied, "I'm a County" (He lived outside the city limits). That Basie was later convicted of murdering a local Lawyer! Stuart always claimed that his mom and dad loved his little brother the most because he had blond hair and blue eyes and Stuart had brown hair and red eyes. Once at a bar he fashioned his straw into a triangle and stuck it on his nose. He proclaimed to all in an alien type voice, "I am from the Golden Triangle Region!" (That is what the area we are from is called because the three small cities in close proximity are like the points of a triangle.)

Stuart talked me into having a "wild" party at my parents house while they were out of town. We had a fabulous time and were the perfect host and hostess and would have gotten away with it too if a genuinely good hearted classmate had not told my Mother in the Sunflower Grocery Store parking lot what a beautiful new home we had and what a lovely time he had at the party! Stuart had fun parties at his house too. He and his brother shared a Toyota named Turkey Red. One night while leaving a party, I backed into Turkey Red! I was a wreck! Stuart said, "no worries, we have insurance". A few years later I let it slip to Stuart's Dad that it was me that maimed the Turkey. He had been told an unanimous driver had hit it in the parking lot at Leigh Mall.


He was my date to Senior Prom but had to leave early because he worked the night shift at Beneke Corp. They are called Magnolia now. They make toilet seats. I got him a gorgeous boutineer. He loved it and later that evening took a bite of it. He said he read some where that some flowers were edible! He wasn't the least bit embarrassed that he forgot to get me a corsage and later that evening he presented me with a beautiful one. I asked him where he got it. He said he got it off an empty table. I don't know whose it was, but I wore it proudly that evening and still have the dead thing in a scrap book in the attic. I regret that I didn't tell him to put it back. I know it was some heart broken classmate's.

On most Saturday Nights a group of us would go to the Country Club Golf Course. Stuart had worked there and said he knew the night watchman's schedule. It was a great place to drink beer and look at the stars. There is something special about rolling around on the golf greens at night. After a few beers we would usually take a golf cart ride. I'll never forget the night I learned to fly. I remember saying, "Stuart! you are going too fast!" then I was airborne. Stuart got confused and hit the gas instead of the break. I got a nasty bruise and a temporary limp from landing on the decorative bricks that lined the drive.

I guess our most exciting adventure was a road trip to Nashville. One summer we got this harebrained idea to get jobs at Opryland. He planned to get hired as an entertainer and I had experience in retail and could count back change so I'd have no trouble getting a job in one of the gift shops. (I still can't believe my parents were okay with the idea.) I was in charge of transportation and Stuart was in charge of reservations. I picked him up at his house Friday morning in my baby blue 1972 Pinto and off we went! We made lots of detours but finally arrived in Nashville around 7:00 p.m. We had about $20.00 left between us. We stopped to get gas, call our friend we were staying with and when we couldn't reach him, cleaned up a little in the nasty gas station bathroom before we went to dinner. We decided to celebrate our new beginning by dining at a what was to us a "nice restaurant". Stuart got a little agitated when they seated us in the back by the kitchen (which had a swinging door). I asked him again about our accommodations. All day he assured me he had them taken care of, nothing to worry about. At the restaurant I asked him to please call and get directions. I was starting to get tired and we had found out at the gas station that there was a major prostitute war going on in Nashville. Prostitutes were killing each other! Frankly, I was nervous. I knew what a prostitute was but had never seen one. I was scared that I might be mistaken for one. That may sound ridiculous but at that time in my life I was naive and scared most of the time about things that could never possibly happen, happening.

Stuart made the long walk back to our table with no smile. He said, "Lisa, I can't get a hold of David." I said, "He knows we are coming, right?" I'll never forget what Stuart said next. "I thought we'd surprise him!" We had just spent the last of our money on our celebratory dinner and had just a few dollars between us. We needed a new plan. One of our friends lived in Memphis! She and her husband would probably love to see us! I called Elizabeth. She and her husband were thrilled to let us stay the night but, they were going to Mississippi Saturday morning so we'd have to leave then too. We made it to Memphis but I did fall asleep at the wheel and woke up on a bridge but luckily in the right lane. I've often thought about that and wondered how far I drove while sleeping and also about the great schematics of life.

What if David Stampley had been home and expecting us that night? What if we actually did get summer jobs at Opryland? What if we were discovered by a famous Hollywood agent and the rest of our lives were magical like Sandra Bullock's or Nathan Lane's? and What if we had not spent all our money on the way to Tennessee and had been able to get a hotel room that night? What if some prostitute saw me entering the seedy affordable motel room with Stuart and shot me thinking I was an encroaching prostitute? What if I had not woken up while driving on that bridge.

What a Trip!

Alice wasn't sure if it was her Birthday or Un-Birthday

Dear Diary,

There is never enough time when you visit. You always want one more day!

Sista Sarah Ann and I decided when we bought our plane tickets to GTR to leave Tuesday. That would give us an extra day with Momma and Daddy after all the party hoopla was over. After sista Janice and sista Lucy left Sunday things got a little quieter,( I had more time to move around my parents' house without some nosy sista looking over my shoulder) sticking duct tape with my name on it under various treasures I hope to eventually inherit. Sista Lucy always accuses me of doing this. (I do have my name under a few sentimental things like the front tire of the Lincoln and Momma's big ole diamond ring.)

We got ready to leave Tuesday and I discovered that I had bought so much stuff at the garage sales that I had to borrow a suitcase to haul some of it back. It was an avocado green hard case. Like the one I got for high school graduation back in 1975 - a Samsonite. I had trouble getting it to close. It didn't shut real well. Sista Sarah Ann tried sitting on it. That didn't work because she only weighs about 98 pounds. I laid on top of it, no go, then tried laying across it using all my upper body strength to get it closed and finally, before my arms got too weak and trembly it snapped shut. Nothing broke in it thanks to the heavy duty Samsonite siding.

We got to the airport and I told my Mom and Dad and Sista that if they needed some one to stay behind because they over booked the flight, I was going to volunteer. I needed to stay one more day. I wasn't satisfied with my visit length. There were still too many left overs in the fridge and not enough time had been spent sitting, visiting, and watching the prime time TV show lineup. When we checked our bags, we found out the plane was late. So we waited. The four of us were sitting in a line, people watching and chatting when over the loud speaker they announced that the plane was unbalanced and they needed volunteers to stay.

I hopped on that one! I said, "Sarah Ann, why don't you go check it out and see what they are offering." (She is a better listener than I am.) She said, "I've got to go to work tomorrow." I said, "I don't I'm an independent contractor!" Sarah Ann came back after about 5 minutes and said, "They are offering us money or a voucher and a taxi ride to Birmingham, Alabama to catch the next plane if we give up our seats." I followed her back to the counter, there was a man there talking to the ticket agent that was taking the deal and would be traveling with us. I looked at sista Sarah Ann, This man wasn't the type you would want to share a cab with for a short trip much less two and a half hours. It was not just because he was smelly and unkept. I am not a snob but I can't tolerate a bore. We could tell right away he was boring and he was quite a talker too. I was hesitant to take the deal now. I asked if we could still have the deal if we left tomorrow and stayed another day. The Ticket Agent said yes. I said - "Well then I'm staying another day!" Sista Sarah Ann looked at me with wild eyes! She said again, "But I have to work tomorrow!" I reminded her,again, that I was an independent contractor. The boring man turned and started eyeing his future seat companion. Sista Sarah Ann blurted out, "If you can fly me first class from Atlanta to San Diego, I'll stay another day too!" Miraculously, they were able to accommodate her!

You know, your family can bring the best or the worst out in you. When sista Janice found out about our good fortune she was livid because she had missed her flight into GTR for the birthday and had to rent a car and drive from Memphis. She said all she got was an "I'm having a shitty day discount" on her car. Here we were with all these wonderful lovely parting gifts for delaying our flight that we didn't want to go on in the first place. Like I said, when Sista Janice found out about our reprieve she got spitting mad. She was venting at us but, in her heart, I know she was just upset because she had not been treated as well by the same airline after her misfortune. Sista Lucy called that night too. She had read sista Janice's rants on face book and wanted to hear about our big Bonanza!

We enjoyed our extra day with family. But when we got to the Airport Wednesday we had to leave. One good thing did happened - I had been upgraded to first class too! Sista Sarah Ann and I found out that the warm towel is no myth. Personally, I thought it was so classy the way the stewardess picked up our trash and placed it on a tray instead of dropping it in a big white plastic bag. I never want to fly coach again!

Great Day in the Morning!

Dear Diary,

What a wonderful day I have had! I went to see Jenny this morning and I had only gained 1.6 pounds! Can you believe it? While I was in Mississippi, I ate a whole bag of fried peanuts (that may account for 8 ounces). Aunt Mary made pecan brittle and I partook of a large portion of that. Then there was the fish fry and the ribs and Mexican Kitchen. It seemed like everything I ate was greasy or covered in chocolate icing and supersized. Jennie also quizzed me about my trip. I wasn't sure how to answer some of the questions. For instance, Did you stay on plan while you were in Mississippi? Did you watch your portion size? I do believe that it is important to be truthful so I just flippantly retorted "Are you kidding?" (An improvement from the usual "Hell No!") I felt like I was in therapy when she asked me how I felt after seeing sista Janice. (Sista Janice has been sending me the fat clothes she no longer needs.) I could answer that one perfectly honest - She looked great! Way to go Sista!

Next, I went to the antique mall. Big sale this weekend. I bought some figurines from Japan. I love little figurines from Japan (see above). Judy's booth looked great!

Then, I went to Mystic Paper. I needed some new Tim Holtz scissors. Something happened to mine. They were either left behind in Mississippi or whoever searched my checked bag took them. I feel a little like Scarlet when I say this but, "As God is my witness, I will never go without Tim Holt scissors again!" They are self sharpening! How does he do that? I would say they are a modern marvel. But I digress....

While I was there who should I meet but The Quinn McDonald! (Ya'll are just going to have to google her because I have tried and tried to link her site and can't get it to work.) I was so glad to be able to put a name with the face. I mean Face with the Name. She was talking about writing secret code messages. Very Interesting. I immediately thought about writing my friend notes using lemon juice and getting notes back from her written with lemon juice. I still have a note she wrote that I carefully toasted over a lit bare light bulb back in the 70's. Quinn showed us this little code book. It was interesting to think about writing secret messages. What would I want to write about but also keep secret? The first thing that popped in my head was - old lovers hmmmmm or maybe recipes? What? I'm on Facebook and blogging - I tell all my secrets. Those I manage to keep will probably come babbling out of my mouth at my future nursing home.

I'm going to Mississippi and I am going to take a .....

Dear Diary,

I leave Thursday morning for Mississippi! Momma says it will be in the low 80's. Sista Lucy says it will be in the low 70's. They both say bring a sweater. I bought a really cool mink sweater pin at the antique mall but I don't believe I'll pack it or a sweater. I'll be a rebel and buck authority. I haven't felt chilly in I don't remember when. It is still over 100 degrees here! A day hasn't gone by that I haven't sweated down my butt crack! It's not bad enough that I'm still going through menopause and have teenagers. We have record high temps too. Well enough of that.

Sista Lucy called me tonight. We are all getting excited about seeing each other. Sista Janice arrives Wednesday. I arrive Thursday and sista Sarah Ann is flying to Nashville and driving down with sista Lucy Thursday.

Sista Lucy asked me a question tonight that made me pause - "What are we going to do for entertainment?" Well, Thursday night we are having a catfish fry - that's always entertaining. Friday is the Big Birthday party for Daddy - He will be 82. We can play some party games. One sista suggested pin the hemorrhoid on the Daddy. I searched Martha Stewart's site and didn't see anything that looked more fun than that. We considered a talent contest. My cousin Lynne will be there from Birmingham, Alabama and she sings like a lark. She will have no serious competition so that will not be fun. Sista Janice usually plays "Don't tell Aunt Rhody" on the tonette, sista Sarah Ann can still fit in her tap costume she wore as a child (but that's not her talent, tapping is) and I would perform Elizabeth Taylor's dramatic monologue from Suddenly last Summer. Although sista Lucy is multi-talented she usually sits on the sidelines and makes fun of us all. I used to consider my talent - twirling the baton - but a couple of years ago when I participated in the 5th grade talent show my act was recorded. I no longer twirl in public.

Beeswax Silouette

Dear Diary,

I have been studying and substituting so have not felt like blogging about my hopes and dreams. Since it has been over a week - I thought I would post an essay my son John wrote when he was in college at ASU. The teacher gave him an A - best in class so I hope you enjoy it. Some of ya'll have seen this before.

Here goes - it is kind of long.

Anyone who owns a cat has, at one point, come home to find the mangled remains of a bird that kitty managed to have for lunch. One day I did too, and imagine that this bird had been creamed on the freeway by a speeding tour bus: the end result would be similar, but not quite as messy as the number my sister's cat had done on this one. Getting home from school I happened upon the little creation Flower left for us on the front porch. Within a ritualistic circle of feathers and guts she had decapitated the bird, left the head looking straight up at whomever would find it, and to the side had stretched out the wings and legs in a grotesque degree, as if to say she "loved us 'this' much."

Normally one might be shocked, but the sad fact is that so many animals have met equally horrendous deaths involving my family that, like the horse whisperer on a tour of the glue factory, I came out with a pretty upset worldview.

In this case though, I attributed it to Darwinism. If Flower had managed to kill it, then that was one stupid bird and it deserved to die. Why? Because this cat can be best described as a big black poof wearing a bell. It bares repeating: a bell. Whenever I step into the yard, she flattens herself in the grass, so all that I can see is a big black ball of fur, and eyes looking at me through blades of grass. Think camouflage! Then she darts to the next bit of cover, "ring, bling, ring, swish!" And then she darts to the next bit of cover, "ring, bling, ring, swish!" and then she pounces, "jingle, bling, ring, rawr! Ah! They see me, run away! Blingy, ring, jingle."

Now usually people say that when cats leave dead things for you to step in, it means they love you, or are giving you a present...but at the point where the cat goes Hannibal Lector on it's food, and rips off the head...that's not a present, that's a threat. Instead of "Ilove you" it's more like "this could be you, I know where you sleep." My best guess is she is tired of my little brother stepping on her tail, or still bitter that we stole her kittens and gave them away. Especially when she still doesn't know who her babies' daddy is.

That's another thing about Flower, not only is she apparently evil, but she's also a whore. Before we had time to spay her, she was out wandering the neighborhood and got knocked up. She was a teen mother of a broken home. Of course I got in trouble when, talking to my dad, I referred to her as "the skank". My ten year old sister overheard and wanted to know what it meant...and it means bad kitty if she should ask. Flower didn't take it hard though, and in fact for some reason I became the surrogate father to the little bastards. She so thoughtfully chose the dirty clothes underneath my bed as a nest to keep the kittens....Kittens that like to meow as loud as they can in the middle of the night. She put them there because that was the only place she could keep them out of the hands of my brother and sister who spent hours trying to squeeze under the bed, faces pressed against the side, reaching as far as they could to get one of the meowing fuzzy bundles of fun. And whenever she would get hungry, or go out and search for her babies' daddy, she would carry them one by one to the top of my bed so that I could babysit while she was gone....Thanks kitty, let me put down my calculus so I can keep kittens from tumbling off my bed to their death while I beat my siblings away from them with a stick.

It turns out though, that it was my dad who actually killed the bird. That makes more sense too, because he wasn't wearing a bell AND has a BB gun. Lucky for me, I can go to college because in his midlife crisis, instead of buying a corvette, he chose a more economical instrument of death, the BB gun. The logic behind this purpose was "the damn pigeons" keep nesting over the porch and installing chicken wire just isn't fun enough. What apparently was fun was buying about one hundred forked spikes to glue down on top of the pillars holding up the roof of the porch which was where the pigeons lived. Apparently, the idea was for the pigeons to fly into them at full speed and skewer themselves. Instead, the pigeons merely flew over the spikes and enjoyed a new fortified nest. Birds, one. Dad, zero.

Aside from the pigeons, there are also large black birds called grackles that steal the dog's food, and apparently carry mystery bird diseases that can kill us all. Therefore the best solution is to pump those bastards full of lead! So far, the pigeons are gone but since Dad has taken to baiting the grackles by putting the food in plain sight, there are actually more birds than there were originally. So it stands to reason that we are all therefore much closer to dieing of exotic bird diseases. Birds, two. Dad, zero.

Not only does dad enjoy mercilessly killing the bird menace, he's discovered an even greater joy in the telling of his killings.

"There was this huge one, right? And it was sitting on the fence, and I thought, maybe there are houses behind it in the line of fire, or maybe not...but I'm taking this shot! And I shot it and you could tell it was like 'What the hell?!' and it starts to fly off, but then it's like 'uhoh...not feeling so good...' and then it took a nose dive into your mother's ferns...and I think I saw the cat run off with it a little while later." So dad fearlessly maintains his post when he's outside; reading the newspaper, drinking beer, he always has his faithful Red Rider within arm's reach. In fact, after he's done with the newspaper, and a substantial amount of beer, he's still clinging tightly to it while passed out and snoring...which I think is a bit unhealthy...but we've learned not to discuss these things.