LifePundit

Back from Holden Beach, North Carolina

You probably figured it out, but I've been on vacation. This required a flurry beforehand as I prepared for vacation, then the vacation itself, then the flurry afterwards as I tried to remember what I do when I'm either not in a flurry or on vacation.

We went to Holden Beach, N.C., and stayed at The Barnacle, my favorite place. I was a little girl when Jak Smyrl, my cousin and idol, carved this sea captain's head on a support beam of the house. I think I'd gotten into trouble the week before for writing on the walls, so seeing Jak carve up part of his house left quite an impression. I'd like to go to the house every year, but we don't seem to make it that often. When I see the crusty old sea captain's face, I feel like I'm visiting an old friend.

Here's my favorite reading place. I love the beach but sunburn easily. Holden Beach has a rough, challenging ocean and is often windy. Here are the before and after pictures. As you can see, I was blown out of my reading spot.

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.

How to Find Your Rabbit a New Home

Meet Clover, our pose-able bunny. Now say goodbye to her.

You can't really appreciate her from this photo, but I'll try to explain. If you lay her down on her back, she will stay there. If you move her feet/legs into different positions while she is on her back, she will keep them where you put them. Yes, she's a pose-able rabbit.

We've been posing her for two years. But after you've run through all the poses, exactly what do you do with a rabbit?

We decided that maybe she needed another home. A more creative home, where perhaps she would be free to pose however she desires. But nobody I knew wanted a bunny. Not even a pose-able bunny.

Then one day, an e-mail from a 4-H leader landed in my inbox promoting a chicken project. So, I hit "reply all" (yes, if I need to get rid of a rabbit bad enough I will spam you) and suggested that we had a rabbit suitable for a rabbit project. Complete with hutch, etc.

And I was deluged with responses -- none of them threatening to turn me in for spamming. So Clover now has a new home. Happy Easter, Happy Bunny, Happy New Family. Happy Me.

But that wasn't the end of it. Another parent with an unwanted pet saw the brilliance of my spamming the 4-H mailing list and the next thing to hit my inbox was an e-mail declaring: Free Hermit Crabs to Good Home, All Supplies Included.

I don't know if those hermit crabs found a new home or not, but we had a hermit crab once. Worst pet ever. It never moved while you looked at it. I would place the shell the crab was hermitting in in one location in the cage/tank, and if the shell was somewhere else the next day, I took that as a signal that the thing was still alive. I soaked it on schedule, fed it, saw nothing to clean up but cleaned it up anyway. We had to move it out of Lily's bedroom because it could scale the plastic walls of its tank, making a terrible screeching sound like claws on a chalk board. You not only couldn't sleep with that noise -- you couldn't breathe. If you turned on the light, all you saw was Still Life with Crab. Don't know how it did it but it did.

One day the shell stayed put. And it stayed put the next day. And the next day. What a heartbreaker that was (just kidding).

But that's still not the end.

Next to land in my inbox was this reply-all message: "Don't need a chicken, a rabbit, or a hermit crab, but will raise you a horse." And thus went the pitch for a non-free to good home horse.

I assume all is well with Clover. I told a friend what had happened, and she said, "You do know what they do with 4-H rabbits."

Uh oh. "What?"

"You do know what they do with 4-H cows and pigs," she said. Yes, I know. I hadn't thought about this. In the 4-H horse projects, you don't eat the horse.

"Well, they said they'd send me pictures," I said defensively. "And she's a small rabbit -- not much meat."

"If they said they'd send you pictures, it's probably all right. Just hope they don't send you recipes."

Thanks a lot. What else are friends for?

Things I Think I Remember from 2008

I had this idea that I would post a list of books, movies, good food and other good things I remember from 2008. The only problem is, here on January 1, I can't remember.

I do remember reading an article many years ago in Harper's? The Atlantic? The New Yorker? that was entitled, "Books I Think I've Read." That's me. Except I can't remember which ones they are.

I did discover something this year that greatly surprised me. I really like Stephen King! I had read his book, On Writing, and thought it was one of the best books about writing I've ever read. I keep it on my desk and recently listened to him read it on my iPod. (www.Audible.com is a great source for books you can listen to on-the-go, though my library is rapidly overtaking them in titles that are free).

I decided to try out one of his books of fiction, and listened to Duma Key. Highly recommended. Then I read where Stephen King recommended The Story of Edgar Sawtelle (this was before Oprah, etc.) and I listened to that. Absolutely fantastic.

It's Hamlet set in Minnesota with a hearing mute boy and dogs. Riveting. And here's one of the things that made me laugh the hardest this year: one of the reviewers on Amazon panned it because she didn't like the ending. It's Hamlet! You're not supposed to like the ending. But even the ending was wonderful.

I'd recommend more but I can't remember. Here's to a more memorable 2009.

She Who Hesitates is Lost

I got invited to India before Paul checked out the travel costs. Did you know that a first-class ticket to India is $14,000? He's not going first class and I'm not going at all. I think if I had flung myself into the whole adventure, had run off to the health department to get my shots and had not asked repeatedly, "Are you sure it's going to be clean and nice like Epcot?" that I probably would not have gotten myself dis- invited.

I'm not great in crowds. I dislike football games for that reason, and also because I really hate football. And I'm a bumpkin kind of tourist, forgetting to watch where I'm going while marveling at the sights. I trust everybody. I have an open kind of face that attracts crazy people. And I try to help them, because I fail to notice that they are crazy. I don't look like I know what I'm doing or where I'm going. I look like a target. Or so Paul tells me.

And then, I'm funny about food. In fact, if I weren't so squeamish and high maintenance about eating at places in St. Martin where there were more flies than people and the "refrigerate after opening" condiments weren't sitting out in 95 degree heat in the sunshine (translation: can't eat there), I probably wouldn't have gotten the, "I think I'd be too worried about whether or not you were having fun to work," discussion. Yes, I'm afraid I'm not the sort you can drop just anywhere and I'll be fine. I'll be fine, but I probably won't eat. (This could be a good weight-loss strategy.) And I have the gift for making everyone with me just as squeamish as I am.

I love Indian food and cook it quite a bit. (One of my favorite cookbooks is Quick and Easy Indian Cooking.) But when it comes to eating it, I need to know what's in it? (My new experiment is with Moroccan cooking -- absolutely delicious. I'll post on that later, once I've gotten the turmeric stains out of my fingernails....)

When we used to go to China Town in Philadelphia, I loved absolutely everything until one day we went to Dim Sum. There were no menus in English. Nobody could tell me what things were on that little cart with all the dishes, but the things I could recognize were chicken feet and duck feet. Nope. If that's what I can recognize, who knows about the things I've never seen before.

I feel a need to apologize for all of this. But I can't help it.

When my sweet mother, child of the Depression, would cook the squirrels that my father and brother would kill, I would skip supper. I didn't eat my grandmother's famous liver mush (what a name!) and in fact couldn't be in the house while it was cooking. I don't eat frogs, though I have eaten snails just because they were a vehicle for garlic. I won't eat goat, prefer not to eat lamb, and wouldn't dream of eating a rabbit. I've eaten Bambi to be polite. I've got a narrow view of what's edible in the animal kingdom. Vegetables and spices are no problem at all.

So what makes this so silly is that I'd probably really enjoy the vegetarian dishes in India. Maybe next time.

In the meantime, we're going to try for a romantic weekend getaway. I have no idea what that would be like.

The Old Goat Eats Goat

Okay, you're on an island that's supposed to have the best restaurants in the Caribbean. So what do you do? If you're my husband, you go to a seaside cafe in Phillipsburg and.... you order GOAT for lunch.

Some things you just aren't supposed to eat. No wonder they're all in a tree.

more cat pictures

Bathing Suits, Weight Watchers and Hunger

This is me in a few weeks. I've ordered this suit from Lands End. It's on backorder. That will give me time to get down to this size AND grow my hair long.

Well, maybe not quite this size. This may be a few months away. And I'm actually going to get my hair cut, not grow it out. But you get the idea.

I like swimsuits that look like tennis dresses. Yes, I am that old. The last time I wore a bikini was three years and many pounds ago. Lapse of judgment in a foreign country, egged on by my husband. I felt silly wearing the bikini, and right now, nobody would want to see me in one. They'd be scarred for life. So, it's tennis dress-looking swimsuits for me. And if this one doesn't come in on time (or look okay), I've already received this one below, also from Lands End. Mine is just the same but has a blue skirt bottom.

Somehow, I can't muster the smiles these models have when wearing these suits. And honestly, if I looked like these models, these would not be the suits I'd be wearing.

For the first time in forever, I am motivated to change. I joined Weight Watchers last Monday night at a local church. Sadly, I just got a phone call that they didn't have enough people sign up so they're canceling for now.

Paul said the funniest thing he has ever said. "Why don't you go stand in front of Wal-Mart and recruit? You'd find a lot of eligible people."

I'd probably lose a lot of weight in the hospital, too, recovering from the assaults. "What you mean 'Would I like to join Weight Watchers?' Do I look fat to you?" And then she'd beat me to death. Or just sit on me till I was squashed into nothingness.

But motivation is motivation. I'm going to diet off some of the moving parts I have acquired in the last few years. Those places that keep walking after I've stopped. Those pointy little things on my hips that made Lily think I had tennis balls stuffed under my new tennis-looking swim skirt (since that's what I do with real tennis balls in my real tennis skirt). Mean child. Tells the truth.

I've downloaded The Beck Diet Solution to my iPod and am going to brainwash myself into "thinking like a thin person." I got the workbook on Amazon. It looks just right for me.

I've got sticky notes all over the house with my motivations on them. And cards where I've written the reasons I'm going to do this. (None of them say, "so I can wear a bikini.")

My cleverest one is "Baggy clothes only hide who you really are."

My saddest one is "People treat you differently (better) when you are smaller."

My scariest one is "You're going to live a long time. You'd better be sure you're healthy."

My truest one is "So what if you're hungry? You're going to eat again in a couple of hours. Hunger is good."

My best one is "I like me so much I'm going to choose me over food."

Do I dare say I'll be reporting my progress here? Will I be posting a photo of me in these suits?

Not unless I can figure out how to Photoshop my head onto these pictures.

Wish me luck! And send carrots.

Even Our Starving People Are Fat

I'm still trying to make sense out of how Americans spend $40 billion each year on weight-loss products and programs while 24,000 people die every day in the rest of the world from hunger related causes. I talked about this in an earlier post.

Yesterday the Salvation Army ran out of volunteers to serve in their kitchen, so they called our church, which called me. I didn't know what to expect, but Lily and I showed up, put our hairnets and plastic gloves on, and worked in different spots on the serving line.

All I did was do as I was told and this is hardly an in-depth report on the demographics of the people served by the Salvation Army. But one thing I can tell you is that nobody was skinny, and quite a few were fat.

They may have been malnourished and fat on unhealthy foods, but this is my point: in our country we have such abundance that even our "starving" people who need a free meal are fat. Or at least some of them are.

That's a blessing. And a curse.

Not Sophisticated Enough for Edible Flowers

Pansy Psychedelic Blue Butterfly Hybrid from Park Seeds. Would you eat something called "Psychedelic Blue Butterfly Hybrid"? I don't eat blue food. I don't eat flowers. I certainly don't eat psychedelic blue butterfly flowers. Do these make your mouth water?

I used to fancy myself a sophisticated eater (several notches below a "gourmet" but a few notches above "all you can eat"). I knew that a dish with "Normandy" in the title meant something to do with apples and a few other code words that might keep me from accidentally eating tripe. But I draw the line at flowers.

My mother told me never to eat flowers or other things that were in the yard. We had azaleas and abundant other blooming things that were poisonous. Never eat flowers, she said. And I lived to tell you that I never did.

I still can't bring myself to eat flowers. If you're going to garnish my plate, I'll take parsley or chocolate. Please, keep the flowers in the centerpiece. If you throw nasturtium petals in my salad, well, I'll be intimidated at your boldness and you'll probably find them later in the centerpiece, where they belong. My mouth won't accept flowers. Like one of those Coke machines that's picky about dollar bills.

Now, Lucy, my horse, will eat pansies. I was really sorry to find this out after she ate a whole planter full I had put by the barn. Quite pretty. Must have tasted even better.

I get an e-mail newsletter from Park Seeds, my father's favorite supplier of seeds for his garden, and today's promotion was edible flowers. This is not an ad, but a confession.

The Subway Salad I Couldn't Eat

I don't mean to pick on Subway here. We eat there a lot on road trips because we all like it and it can be a healthy choice.

But one day I got a salad there that I couldn't eat. Of course I was in a hurry. Of course there was a line at Subway, and the people behind the counter were in slow motion. I ordered a salad, which seemed like it should be fast and easy. It wasn't.

If it doesn't suit you to work behind the counter at a fast-food restaurant, you should perhaps consider finishing high school. But I didn't say anything. First the drop-out sullenly plopped some lettuce in a disposable bowl. She flicked the pieces that escaped back in. Then she plopped on the veggies I wanted -- tomatoes, cucumbers, olives. Then she took out the pre-assembled slabs of lunch meat and put them on the chopping-block counter.

With her knife, she began to cut the meat into strips. With every slice, she took off a fingertip of her plastic gloves. When all her glove fingertips were cut off and some had made their way into my salad, she sullenly picked the fingertips out of my salad and threw them away. Then she threw her gloves away and put on another pair.

I knew at that very moment that I would never, ever be able to eat that salad. Why I paid for it and walked out the door has no explanation. Perhaps, for once, I was speechless.

What would you have done?