LifePundit

Aren't There Any Grown Ups Left? (Shut Up, Mark Sanford!)

This could be a long and thoughtful post about love, soul-mates and the precious shortness of life. But it's not going to be.I'm too busy gagging.

I got a text alert on my cell phone that Governor Sanford told the AP that his Argentinian mistress is his soul-mate and that he's going to try to fall back in love with his wife.

Isn't that just the sweetest thing?

Now, if I were his wife, if I had any love left for him, that little statement would certainly make it evaporate. Let their boys watch Sponge Bob or find some other role model for them who is at least a grown up. Their father sounds like he's 14. 

Here's a link but I'm not reading the story. I have had enough.

I hope his wife has put his things on the curb. Then, somebody neeeds to put duct tape over his mouth and leave him sitting in the governor's chair. He can just sit there quietly until it's time to elect somebody else. I'm still not ready for Andre Bauer.

Why Sanford Shouldn't Resign

Ordinarily, I would call for the resignation of a governor who let the state go to voicemail and snuck off to Argentina to dally with his mistress. But at least he's more of an adult than our lt. governor, Andre Bauer.

On the other hand, if Sanford resigned, maybe the media would lose interest in him and focus on Cap and Tax, Iran, North Korea and the debt that's going to make us a third-world country.

What to do When Your Governor Goes Missing

I stole this from a friend:

SOUTH CAROLINA: Too small to be its own nation, Too large to be an insane asylum. Please remember that politics in SOUTH CAROLINA are for entertainment purposes only!!!

Y'all enjoy. I'm personally embarrassed by the craziness and feel sorry for Jenny Sanford and their four boys.

No doubt I'll know more about Governor Sanford's affair than I want to know eventually, but I do wonder how you sneak off to Argentina to "carry on" as my mother might say.

At least we don't have to worry about him running for president.

I Would Rather be Hot than Cold

I just got back from Pony Club camp in Tryon, N.C. It's the kind of camp where you don't drop off your kids and their ponies/horses and head off for some fun, and parents do the work. I'm a parent. This is bad news.

And if that isn't gruesome enough, it was so very, very hot. I found myself texting Paul, "I wanna come home." I felt like I was back at camp in sixth grade sending homesick letters to my mother.

We were there over 12 hours a day and it was brutally hot. I wondered how I could stand it. Then I would remember Philadelphia, and try not to complain. I would rather be hot than cold. That's one of the few things I am certain is true about me.

Beyond the heat, and the heat, and did I mention it was terribly hot? I'm also so very glad we went, because it was a great experience (almost) all the way around. Here's a great photo of one of the campers. Probably the best photo I've ever taken.

At least I wasn't cold, so I have no reason to complain or whine. My first job was in construction in Philadelphia. I got "put outside," kind of like the cat at night, on a high-rise project in Center City, in the middle of the winter. I stood on the frozen concrete floors, the building wide open to the wind. My job was to follow the plumber and be sure that he put insulation around the bathtub pipes. He was slippery, fast and knew how to dress for the weather. I was 23 or 24, from South Carolina, innocent and unsuspecting, and completely unable to dress for the weather. They were pouring the concrete floors above me, and they had the salamanders fired up to keep the floors warm (or at least not frozen) while the concrete set. Nothing else was warm. No, make that nothing else was thawed out. The winds and snow blew through the open building. The winds and snow seemed to aim for me.

I have never been so miserable, and that was a formative moment in my life.

Because no matter how hot and miserable I am here in S.C. or even in the Caribbean in July, I think back to sitting on the side of my bathtub in my Philadelphia apartment after a frozen, long day at work, holding my numb feet under the hot tap trying to get the feeling back. I almost cried when the alarm went off in the morning, not because of the job, but because no matter what I wore, I couldn't stay warm. I couldn't even get to be merely very cold. I was so cold I couldn't even think.

I can't stand to be cold. So that means that I will tolerate the heat though I will whine about the heat like my mother-in-law whines when we are five minutes late, yet I will remember: I would rather be hot than cold.

I wish other things were as easy to put in perspective. Or maybe I don't. That was a very painful lesson I learned and I'd rather be ignorant than suffer something like cold. Or worse things that life can throw at you.

If I could only be grateful for what I have. At least I wasn't cold. But I do believe there is a reason that hell is depicted as hot, not cold.

I didn't just say that.

Here's what I really meant to post about. If you're looking for some summer reading, here are a few books I've enjoyed over the last few months or maybe it was several years ago. Whatever. My brain doesn't work if it's too hot, either.

Right now I'm enjoying The Help. I loved The Story of Edgar Sawtelle and discovered it before Oprah. Nyah nyah nyah. And I tried my first Stephen King this past year and thought it was extraordinary -- Duma Key. That's all I can remember for now. In fact, that's more than I can remember about my own novel(s) right now, which I didn't even take with me to Pony Club camp because I knew I wouldn't be doing that kind of work -- and I was more right about that than I could ever imagine.

But at least I wasn't cold.

Now I'm Afraid to Go Outside

I used to be afraid that there were alligators under my bed. Turns out I was not such a foolish child after all.

The alligators have gotten too big for their breeches. I guess that's what happens when you over-protect a species that doesn't appear to need much protecting.

I'm happy to say that it's legal to hunt them in S.C. now, though I don't know when, how or where to do it.

Unfortunately, for the "where" part, it seems you don't have to look very far. A couple of weeks ago, at Betty's Diner on this end of town, or rather, since I'm not in town and Betty's not either, I guess you'd say sort of in this neck of the woods, had a10-12 foot alligator relishing the aroma of cooking hamburgers, fried chicken and tasty customers from just off Betty's property line. Since the marauder wasn't technically on her property and was a good tipper, the authorities wouldn't do anything about it.

Betty said:

“I check under my car when I go out,” said Betty Mack, 59, the diner’s chief cook and restaurant’s namesake who says her specialty is her fast-selling, secret-recipe, nonalcoholic green fruit drink she calls “Jesus.”

The gator hung out all day Friday.

And then, about 35 minutes from here in another town where alligators do not belong, a family heard a noise on the porch at 3:00 a.m. and thought it was a burglar. I think I would have preferred a burglar.

It was a nine-foot alligator. On their porch! And what's with the rug (picture above)? Remind anybody other than me of Little Red Riding Hood? This is serious, folks?

What the heck was a nine-foot alligator -- impersonating an alligator wearing a rung -- doing making a ruckus on their porch? Alligators do not belong next to restaurant parking lots. They don't belong on people's porches.

I'm beginning to believe that they belong in the purse-and-shoe shops. A few alligators is a natural wonder. Alligators leaving their natural habitats (and I'm not talking about how we encroached on them -- they do not belong this far away from their snaky rivers and golf courses near the coast) is how you lose an arm.

I had a friend who used to be in public relations for Jekyll Island. Every now and then she'd have to handle a situation where a tourist would have Poopsie the beribboned poodle on a leash, and an alligator would snatch Poopsie and gobble her down in one bite, just leaving the leash and the horror-stricken tourist. And my friend with a PR problem. (Poodles are apparently alligator chocolate.)

Anyway. I don't know where I'm going with this, but one thing's for sure: I'm not going outside.

I'll Bet You Would Talk to the Dog

A Toyota pulled up beside me, and in the back seat, which was aligned exactly with my seat, a large brown dog ran to the window and looked at me like he had something to say. (Yes, I am sleep deprived.) This dog had a very expressive face, with eyes that locked onto mine and I felt like... well, like I was supposed to respond. 

So I said, "Hey, Dog." My teenage daughter in the seat beside me ignored this. This was Mom as Usual. I talk to animals. The ones at home talk back.

Then the dog's window rolled down. And he was looking at me like he had something to say, so I did the polite thing and rolled my window down, too. Really. 

Somehow, I was expecting a conversation. The dog looked like he was, too. So I said, "Hey, Dog. Having a good trip?" 

The dog didn't say anything, in fact he scooted up between the driver and passenger in the front seat, as if to tell on me. 

"That lady is talking to the dog," the driver said. The passenger glanced back at me, and I couldn't hear what she said. I'm glad about that.

The dog didn't hold up his end of the conversation. I was feeling let down. Hot air poured in the window.

Lily, my daughter, said, "Mom, did you just roll down the window to talk to that dog?"

"Well, he rolled his window down first. I thought it was the polite thing to do."

Lily slid down in the seat. "Mom!"

I rolled my window back up and pretended to look straight ahead until the light finally changed. The dog came back to the window and stuck his head out of the window, but I didn't say a thing this time.

Covering Up

Graduation is tonight (the first of two for one girl graduating from one middle school) and I have come up with a solution to the bosom problem.

A foot of lace trim, an old T-shirt cut into a strip, and some safety pins.

Lily had the choice of death or taking the lace ($1.59 at Hobby Lobby) and facing it with the doubled-over T-shirt strip, then pinning both sides to her undergarments. Voila! A modesty panel.

I don't get mad at her very often, but she found out this afternoon that it does happen.

She looks very nice and we'll be off shortly. We're not showing anything but our smiling faces. We're smiling, right?

We Don't Show Our Bosoms before 4:00 O'Clock

I'm in a crisis. It's funny, the things that come to you in a crisis. Things you think you remember but can't find any evidence of. And the headline for this post shows how I am already in the midst of a battle I am losing.

First off, I said "we don't show our bosoms."

And now I'm negotiating not to show them before 4:00.

Didn't Mammy say that in Gone with the Wind? "We don't show our bosoms before four o'clock." I can see her talking to Scarlet while the rest of the girls are napping and Scarlet has A Plan. Hence, she needs to show her bosoms before 4:00. Or was it 5:00?

At what time of life and time of day is it all right to show our bosoms? From the look of things on TV, as soon as you wake up is a good time to be showing your bosoms (note -- I am talking about low-cut frocks, not naked skin). Coffee and bosoms every morning on the news. And do hospital administrators really dress like Dr. Cuddy on "House"? My den overfloweth with images of overflowing, button-stressed tops.

A couple of weekends ago Lily and I went dress shopping for a dress for her for church confirmation and for middle-school graduation. (Didn't I already whine about this? Well, if I did, I'm not done.) There were NO dresses that didn't show bosoms. My child is 14. She shouldn't even have bosoms. I think she should leave them home in a box, under the bed. Save them for later. But no. She has bosoms and the fashion designers have plans for them.

They are to be emancipated. Yes, as soon as bosoms sprout, they are to be displayed, set free, let loose upon the world. Yes, the dresses are even pretty. But pretty doesn't equal appropriate.

On our very painful shopping trip, Lily picked out several dresses. Hmmmm. Lots of spaghetti straps. Dresses that were nothing more than bikinis with skirts attached. So I went through the racks (no pun intended) looking for more modest clothes (we were in major department stores, not your local Hookers 'r' Us), and they were not there. There are no modest clothes. We are all hookers now.

So, we tried to do the best with what they had. Lily looked stunning. Like a sexy 25-year-old. She'd have to wear a nametag that ready, "Sorry. I'm really 14." with any of these dresses.

We haggled. We negotiated. I looked back through the racks. There were two other mothers in the dressing room, and we were all having the same argument with our 14-year-old daughters.

"You're not planning on wearing THAT, are you?"

Why yes. And before 4:00. In fact, before I'm 16. Before I'm 18. Before your very eyes.

Well, one of the dresses was marked down to $12 and actually was lovely, except for the fact that there was no fabric across the bustline. So I told Lily she could get it if she wore a camisole. She agreed. And tonight she tried on the dress with a camisole. She said it looked terrible and made her look like a hillbilly.

Better a hillbilly than something else.

Hear that stomping? That's me putting my foot down. I'm getting quite a rhythm going. Pretty soon it will be a real 'ho-down.

I may have a new play, though. Something that will be a real game-changer. Okay. She can show her bosoms.

Two can play at that game. Or would this make it four? I, too, have bosoms. And I'm not afraid to use them. 

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, though some apples may have fallen a lot farther South than others. But you didn't need to know that.

Yes, I have a plan. Can there be anything worse than having your mother show up somewhere not fully dressed? And there's only one thing that will stop me.

"When I say, 'WE don't show our bosoms,' I mean 'WE.' You show yours, and I'll show mine."

I will win. This time.

I'd Like an Order of Vicarious Goal Fulfillment with That

A few months ago a friend alerted me to some kind of study (I want to say it was in the book, Emotional Intelligence, but who knows) that showed most of us can only press forward in one area of self-improvement or self-moderation at a time. This is good to know if you're setting yourself up for failure by trying to lose weight, save money and write two novels while continuing with everything you are already doing, all at the same time. (Tried it and it does not work.)

The one thing I remember, since I don't necessarily remember the source, is that they found that people who went window shopping before meeting friends at a restaurant ordered more and worse choices for dinner. Because they had already exerted self-control by window-shopping and not shopping-shopping, their self-control tank was half-empty.

Now here's another study that shows the ways our brains work -- or don't. If there are healthy food choices on a menu -- for example, a salad (though I can quickly make that unhealthy and yummy) -- people are more likely to do things such as order fries and other unhealthy food. They're calling this "vicarious goal fulfillment."

Here's a free and better description on Weighty Matters. You can probably google other stories, too.

Airline Makes Big Guy Buy Two Seats

This is a true story and not one that you've heard about. A friend of a friend has a rather large son (though not 555 lbs.) who is all muscle and plays football at some college. He's a monstrous guy with biceps like my thighs, only muscular and without cellulite, and weighs in at over 300 and something. So, when booking a flight, the airline made him buy two seats. This really made him and his mother mad because he's just your average college football player sort. Only in jumbo size.

Now, I have mixed feelings about this airline big-people, two-seat rule. I have flown before in the middle seat between passengers on each side who spilled over quite abundantly into my seat. The two large folks almost met in the middle, which, unfortunately, I was attempting to occupy. The thought did occur to me at the time that I was not getting full use of the seat I was paying for, and in fact, thought about charging rent. Though since they were bigger than me, and I couldn't be seen or cry for help behind the double-wall of flesh, I just endured.

So I can understand why if a person occupies more than one seat, perhaps the person in the seat who is experiencing the uninvited double occupancy of his neighbor's seat overflow really should either get a discount or a break. Yet, there is something unfair about this selling of two seats to one person. Heavy people and Southerners are the only people it's okay to make fun of.

But back to the true story of this son of a friend of a friend. He begrudgingly paid for his two seats, and showed up on time for his flight...

...only to find that the two seats weren't anywhere near each other!

Found a Blog that Makes Me Laugh and Twitch

I just found a very funny blog but I'm not sure I can ever go back. It's The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotation Marks. Go there and check out their "greatest hits."

They will never run out of material.

And that particular "grammar abuse" is so grating I get physically uncomfortable. Because I'd like to "hit somebody" but there's "nobody" to hit so I revert to twitching.

See the post that goes with this sign here.

S. C. Authorities Search for Mother and 555-lb. 14-year-old Son

I wish this news was really a movie because then it would be funny. A South Carolina mother didn't show up for a custody hearing and so the authorities are looking for her and her 555-lb. 14-year-old son. The reason she is in trouble with the law is that his size critically threatens his health.

You can read the breaking news story here.

Somebody suggested they look for them in all-you-can-eat restaurants. But I didn't just type that, did I?

How can you hide a 555-lb kid? How can you fit him in the car?

And I know from personal experience that 14-year-olds can be a bit frustrating. Obstreperous. Difficult. And that's without messing with their food.

I'll resist all the things I want to say, like maybe he ate her.

It's a Bad Time to Drive a Prius

I've had my Prius for two years. I bought it because VW quit making a reliable car (I had two VWs die on me within about three months of each other) and because, as a bumper sticker says, "I'd rather buy green Japanese Technology than Dirty Arab Oil."

I'm voting with my dollars against funding terrorism. As much as is possible.

And I'm very happy with my Prius. It's not as zippy or as much fun as a Jetta, but it has a better work ethic. You turn it on, it goes. You don't have to call your husband or a tow truck (unlike my recent VWs). I place a high value on a car that runs. Even better if it runs quietly and on fumes -- I drive a lot.

I remember Jimmy Carter's oil shortages. When we don't control a commodity we rely on, it can get scary. So part of my reason for getting a Prius was strategic. I want to be able to go places and not need a lot of gas to do it.

But now, thanks to Obama and his addiction to automotive meddling, my car has become the symbol of everything I'm not. While I recycle and try to limit how much I impact the environment, I'm not an environmentalist. I believe in good stewardship of the earth, which could include drilling for oil in ANWR.  And I believe Al Gore is the cause of global warming, which they have yet to convince me exists.

I hope someone is coming up with something other than oil to power our vehicles so long as it isn't made out of crops grown for food.

I'm not a Democrat or a socialist. I voted for Bush twice and think he's a decent, good man who kept us safe. I would go hunting with Cheney.

I think you have the right to drive a Hummer if you want. I won't even say ugly things about whatever you might be compensating for, because honestly, all I know about you is that you drive a Hummer. That's your business. I'll cling to my guns and religion and you go right ahead and cling to your Hummer. This is a free country still -- right?

But now, my car makes a statement I'm not making. I'm not smug or liberal. So I've just ordered two bumper stickers. This took a lot of thought on my part because I don't like bumper stickers, and the ones I really want to use will get my car keyed.

So here's what I chose: The Gadsden Flag and one about the link between oil and terrorism.

Read up on this flag. Very interesting. And it has a S.C. connection.

My Tadpoles are Turning into Frogs -- or is that Toads?

I've been babysitting a big mud puddle by the horse-watering trough. It's full of tadpoles. Things have gotten a bit complicated because the horses have decided that they like to roll in the water, so the water is no longer clear -- hard to keep track of my tadpoles.

But even without my close supervision and careful feeding (I have no idea what I'm doing but I throw out old mushed alfalfa cubes and cat food -- tadpoles are vegetarians until they grow their back legs, then they become carnivores so I put out something for everyone. I know they liked both of these because I saw them eating them) they have morphed into little tiny frogs. Or toads. Here's a photo of one on the driveway. Notice the scale next to a penny. Now that's a little frog! (Or toad.)

I am Not Anti-Yankee. I Imported and Married One.

As I look over my recent posts, I see that I've been using the "Y" word a lot. Yes, I've been talking about Yankees. It happens.

The first time I went to Europe I was very surprised that people there said I was a Yankee. I explained to them that I certainly was not, I was from the South. We rarely made any headway in this conversation, and I was as confused as they were.

And I'm not anti-Yankee. I like them. I even went so far as to import one from New York and marry him. He's lived here longer than he's lived anywhere else. And he likes it here.

Poor fellow. Around here, when he talks, people ask what part of the North he's from. And when he goes up North, they ask him what part of the South he's from. A man without a region.

The other night we were watching some educational show on television about fiber production and I told Lily that when I was in school I was taught that textiles were South Carolina's number one product. Now it's tourism.

Then Paul said, "We used to grow cotton and that's why there were so many mills."

"We" used to grow cotton? I think he's been converted.

Excuse me if my use of the word "Yankee" is offensive. (And just what about that is offensive? I don't understand.) You can call me a redneck, though it's not really true because I don't have useful skills, such as being able to drink a whole suitcase of beer or get a car out of a ditch. Maybe I'll learn.