LocationLaura

Tempeh Bolognese with Basil and Spaghetti Squash

2010-07-09T13:05:00.007-04:00

Recipe Link: (I improvised the basil and the spaghetti squash and the dogs.)

Standoff at the OK Cowpath

2010-04-25T10:53:00.002-04:00

Judge at the farm, ten months after spine surgery to help him walk again.

About seven months ago, we gave up on water therapy, the holy grail of therapy for dogs. In the end, Judge was still wincing and dragging both back legs. So I quit.

The Doc half-heartedly suggested excercises, but my brother sawed some PVC into pieces; I bought some weave poles and, voila! Backyard rehab.

All the above converging into this moment in the life of an eleven year-old Boston Terrier and a spring bull on a hundred year old cowpath in Harmony, NC.

Hello?

2010-03-02T23:30:00.006-05:00

Is anybody still out there?

Since I last saw you, mom fractured her spine, I've gone vegan, and Punk has overdosed. Again. Twice. Three times if we're counting close calls.

Hello? (Waves hands in the air.)

Are you there?

Quiet--and Strange

2009-12-10T00:01:00.008-05:00

So a friend told me this blog had been strangely quiet lately. I like that. Strangely quiet. I think I wrote so much fiction in November that I lost my appetite for the truth. Maybe. Anyway, I missed my 50,000 words in November.

I did not even get the 40,515 words as I have indicated in the top right of this page for National Novel Writing Month. I thought I had. But in the last two days of NaNoWriMo, I decided to scan my 40,000 plus words to look for insight into writing the last 10,000. Guess what? I'd cut and pasted almost SEVEN THOUSAND words from my thumb-drive twice. Holy Smokes! That means I'd only written about 34,000 words. 16,000 to go. Oh no.

Wanna know what I really thought? Good. I can quit now. I'd pretty much stopped writing anything readable a week ago. I was glad to give up. There's always next year! I felt free and danced away from my computer life with glee. I abandoned the blog and email for real life, but now I'm back. It's scary out there.

Out there you get the flu. I've got the flu. I don't know if it's H1n1, but I do know it's horribly immobilizing. But it's on its way out, I removed the bucket by my bed this morning and today, I'm sitting here in the upright position which is promising.

Hang on a minute. Can't breathe. Can't see. Must relocate.

Sorry about that. No, it's not the flu. I had to move into the sunroom. Judge, in his snoozefest, just vaporized the living room with some sort of doggie stink bomb that singed my eyebrows. Strangely quiet. (forgive me, I couldn't help it.)

So I'm going to bed.

Did I say 50,000 Words in November? Are you Sure? Because I was thinking maybe it was somebody else...

2009-11-20T20:24:00.017-05:00

If you look up to the right at the top of this page, you will see my progress on my 50,000 words for National Novel Writing Month. But jeez, I have much more important things to do...

NaNoWriMo

update April 2010: I did not finish, by the way. There is always next year!

Rotating Stack of Books #3 plus 50,000 Words and a Poem

2009-11-03T10:30:00.004-05:00

So, as usual, the Rotating Stack of books by my bed is tottering with paperbacks and scribbles about authors. This month, I thought I'd clear out some riff-raff because I'm going to be so busy writing my 50,000 words, I won't have time to mess with mediocre. Guess what? I could only find one book to clear out. The rest are genius or near genius in one way or another.

One book of fiction that nearly killed me even though I only read 52 pages: The Angel's Game by Spaniard Carlos Ruiz Zafron, author of the wonderfully meaty and ghostly The Shad ow of the Wind. I don't know if the translation is bad or the writing. I recommend The Shadow of the Wind. I'm clearing out The Angel's Game and that's all I'm gonna say about that.

Two books of short stories

My number one in this rotating stack is Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout.

I'm having a love affair with Olive Kitteridge, one of the most tenderly nuanced characters I've read in awhile. Some of you might not have an interest in short stories, but wait! This is different. Olive is in every story and every story is about the same locale. You get a towns-eye view of this talk-aboutable woman, Olive, as if you live here too. I could do an entire post on this book, but I leave it for you to adore all by yourself.

Reasons for and Advantages of Breathing by Lydia Peelle: This is another outstanding collection of short stories. This book reminds me a bit of Pam Houston's Cowboy's Are My Weakness, only better. Houston's title is still one of my favorites, because isn't a cowboy everybody's weakness? But Peelle's title is on my list now too. The best story in Peelle's book is Sweethearts of the Rodeo, a lyrical tale of a summer at a horse farm that will grab you with its frankness and hold on to you with its beauty.

Two non-fiction books

The China Study by T. Colin Campbell and Thomas M. Campbell II. Let me start by saying The Campbells mean business when they subtitled this book The Most Comprehensive Study of Nutrition Ever Conducted: Startling Implications for Diet, Weigh Loss and Long-Term Health. One of the Campbells, I forget which, spent his entire career in biomedical

research centered on protein as the very basic key to diet. Then he ran over to Asia to study a bunch of Chinaman. Guess what years of study proved? Meat protein is not essential. The book is fascinating but dense like a text book. I have to read this in bits and pieces. Otherwise I'd stab out my eyes.

In Praise of Slowness, Challenging the Cult of Speed by Canadian journalist Carl Honore`. This book is in my stack, but I haven't started it yet because I haven't slowed down long enough to appreciate it. I've loaned it already but I haven't read it. It comes highly recommended to me by several folks, in particular, my long distance Minnesota buddy Pamela Kay of the Milky Way. Isn't that a GRRREAT name?

Two books of poetry

William Carlos Williams, Selected Poems: I had no appreciation of WCW at all until I read this book. We studied it in Tony Abbott's annual fall poetry class at Queen's this time and I gotta say, William Carlos Williams has turned out to be THE MAN and studying him has greatly improved my own poetry. I was so moved by William's The Horse I wrote a poem about finding it.

My other poetry find this month is Facts About the Moon by the fabulous Dorianne Laux. I keep one of Dorianne's poem's in what I call The Laura Collection, a notebook of poems I refer to whenever I want to be inspired. It is called Antilamentation and it will knock you out and it is here. And a little more. If you like those, you will love Facts About the Moon.

One for closet-reading

And finally, I might or might not be reading a little Kathy Griffin on the side. I appreciate your discretion in this matter.

Let me know what you think about the books or recommend one to me!

You, too, can write 50,000 Words of fiction in November!

So don't you want to get a few things off your chest? November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Join me and friends and a bajillion other folks across the planet. All you have to do is write 50,000 words this month, no editing, just write. That's about 1700 words a day depending on when you start. It's liberating to write with no agenda and no editing. I'm just telling stories I've been wanting to get down on paper for years, but with embellishments and names changed to protect the innocent. You can be my bud and write too or just check up on my progress here.

Because I'm Iron-aged and Because I'm Drunk

2009-10-28T12:07:00.026-04:00

Thanks, readers, for voting when I asked you to choose a blog post title.

Your top 3:

1. Because I'm Middle-aged and Because I am Drunk

2. Why I'm a $%&@ Vegetarian

3. I've Had Some Great Times When I've Been Lost

So I'm a little disappointed I put BIMaBID as a choice because the title is the best thing about the post. The actual post is kinda lame. Maybe you'll leave a better story in the comments?

I'm not much of a drinker these days. If I have more than two glasses of wine, I get myself a royal headache. Or something bizarre happens like Punk eats somebody's medication or drinks gasoline and has to be rushed to the emergency room. Too much room for error. But once in a while I'll have that third glass.

The blog post title originated at book club a while back. On this particular date, instead of talking about the book,we drink wine and play Apples to Apples, the hilarious card game where one person chooses an adjective card and the other players throw out their own card that best matches the adjective. You might match scary with Dracula, ecoli, or Joan Rivers depending on the cards in your hand. The best match wins the hand and so on.

As the night wears on, we have a little more trouble matching cards or it takes ~~some of us~~ me a little longer to come up with a match or to comprehend the match. The game deteriorates when my response to irritable is broccoli.

My excuse? Of course. Because I'm middle-aged. And because I'm drunk. At the time, we I think this is the funniest thing ever said. See? Lame. At least I now have an answer for any inquiry into my stability. Seems to work.

In another one of her intriguing blog posts, this one related to Halloween, XUP put up this scary photograph of an Iron Age mummy who turned up in a bog in 1984. Ironic that he's now turning up in blogs. Causes of death? Strangulation, fractured skull, and a slit throat. Yikes.

I don't know about you but whenever I see a mummy with its throat cut and its skull bashed, I wonder about the day this person died. Did he wake up knowing he'd fight to the death? What the heck happened? Did he die thinking "boy, I wish I hadn't said that" or "I knew I shouldn't trust that bitch"? Was he taken by surprise?

Or did he, in his last moments, think It's because I'm middle-aged. And because I'm drunk.

So what's your BIMaBID story?

You Tell Me

2009-10-14T21:15:00.013-04:00

So I've started many posts in the last few weeks. Which one do you think I should finish?

1. I Am a Sheep Afterall

2. Top Ten Reasons I Can't Wait to Get Outta this damn Boot

3. Why I'm a &@%#$ Vegetarian

4. Because I'm Middle-Aged and Because I'm Drunk

5. I've Had Some Great Times When I've Been Lost

6. Books I Wish I Could Tell You I've Read

7. Mexican SoulCollage

8. My Dogwalker Made a Punk Sandwich

Well?

The Dog Whimperer plus Salad

2009-10-05T21:34:00.002-04:00

So Friday was a bee yoo tee ful day in Charlotte . 75 degrees, a little breeze, lots of sun. I'm grinning and singing about the fall weather. I've got the day free and I'm sporting a brand new October t-shirt…it is green and it says BOO. I'm dogsitting for my mom, so I have Foxy the red mountain dog and my two. We go for a ride...

Then we go for a walk...

Not pictured: The stroller. The park is down the street from my house. Since spine surgery, Judge only has the stamina to walk to the park. He rides back. So I'm also pushing an empty stroller. On the way, we are an unwieldy bunch. We run into walls and trees. We almost tear off legs. We mow down recycling bins. We chase plastic bottles up and down the street. Luckily I'm the only one to step in dog doo. Dog doo left on the sidewalk by the evil Anonymous. (not us.)

While I'm trying to drag poo off of my shoe in the grass, the dogs wrap themselves around my legs, but at least they stay close. The stroller has a mind of its own and rolls almost to the creek before I can untangle the legs to get to it. Then Stroller time...

What I’m trying to convey to you is that we make a scene. People look at us. A lot.

When we get home, I discover the gigantic bright yellow factory sticker that says GLOW-IN-THE-DARK $5.99 still stuck to the front of my new t-shirt directly above the "BOO". Jeez. I didn't even know it was glow-in-dark.

So we hide indoors 'til dark.

P.S. You won't be surprised to hear that Punk acts up when I'm distracted by the other dogs. I go in the kitchen to make myself a fabulous salad and this is what I find:

Cappy's Portabello Salad (in her words)

Mixed baby field greens

Cherry Tomatoes, halved

Portabello mushrooms sauted in a little olive oil unti well cooked, sliced (use one good sized mushroom per serving)

Mild creamy goat cheese

Fried Shoestring potatoes (not like big french fries the crunchy little ones they sell in a can on the snack food aisle that woman used to use to top tuna casserole)

Balsamic Vinaigrette

Mix the greens and tomatoes with the vinaigrette. crumbled goat cheese liberally on top and cover with the warm mushroom slices to melt. Top with a generous handful of the potatoes. It was good but what really set this off was the fried flavor of the "french fries" the little crispies i used were too thin to really put in a big potatoe punch so I think next time I'll plate the salad on a bed of them AND use them as croutons. They really set off the flavor of the goat cheese in a way that is lovely AND surprising.

Beckon Lovely Again

2009-10-02T09:02:00.001-04:00

Checkout the new Beckon Lovely over at LoLaSuzanne...

A Poor Excuse for a Blog Post

2009-10-01T12:47:00.021-04:00

So, the other day, I run up to the neighborhood drugstore which has a post office in the back. I mail two packages. I walk around all of the aisles to the front where four or five people are in the cash register line. I get in it. When it is my turn to pay, I am as stunned as the cashier. We stare at my hands. They are empty. I'm not buying anything. I just came in here to mail some packages.

I shrug my shoulders at the cashier and walk out of the store. You see, reader, I am getting used to this kind of crazy.

Lately, I'll start out to clean, say, the kitchen. While scrubbing the counter, I find a letter. Oh! I need to add this address to my gmail contacts. Reading email, I realize I haven't paid tuition on a poetry workshop. Which takes me to the bedroom for the paperwork tucked in the rotating stack of books by my bed. While making up the bed, I notice a book I've borrowed. I'll just put this book in the car to return. So efficient! On the way back from the car, I see fire ants on my sidewalk. The fire ant chalky death powder is in the shed out back.

And that is how I find myself, three hours later, in the backyard. With the entire contents of the shed spread out on the lawn. With no kitchen cleaned, no bills paid, and a sidewalk still teeming with fire ants. Of course, now I only have an hour to clean the sweat off of my body and drive to work.

So I gotta go, because now I only have thirty minutes.

Facebooker's Anthem

2009-09-25T16:28:00.004-04:00

I stole this from Schmutzie. I'm going to give a small warning: Warning: Foul language and risque subject matter.

For all you Facebookers who've had to relearn what high school feels like:

I Don't Cry When I Chop Onions

2009-09-10T13:54:00.012-04:00

So I was making this great Cannellini recipe that requires mincing onions until your eyeballs fall out. So I googled "how not to cry while chopping onions". Gotta love that google, people. I found my answer immediately:

Goggles!

Before you try this at home, I have to mention that it takes about a bazillion hours to get swim goggles on and off without giving yourself a mohawk. But no crying and stinging!

Judge is wondering who the heck is that chick with the eyeballs and can I lick the olive oil beans?

Anyway, I chopped the fool out of those onions for my friend Cappy's Cannellini Confit recipe. I added some crusty bread and served it as an appetizer at a friend's dinner party. Raves! I served it to Dad as a snack with crackers. Raves! I froze it, then thawed it to serve for lunch with a salad for a couple of gals. Guess what? Raves. Even outta the freezer. Bonus: this confit is healthy!

Cappy's Cannelini Confit (written just as she wrote it for me)

1 Big red onion minced
1 big lemon juiced
2 cans cannelini beans drained and rinsed
1/2 jar of Sun dried tomatoes in oil, drained and diced
2tb dried parsley
2tb dried rosemary crumbled.
Olive oil
salt and pepper to taste

Let the onion macerate in the lemon juice...needs to be maybe a half hour. You want the onion flavor but not a real onion crunch. Add everything else, cover and yes, I mean cover with olive oil. Let sit, eat as a salad with loads of bread to stick in the olive oil. I made this about 3 hours before i served it. I'm thinking it needs to sit for a couple of days. It was good just not perfect. I'm also thinking about using a 2-1 mix of olive oil and vegetable oil just to lighten the flavor a tad or maybe adding another 1/2 lemon. I can also see crushing the beans just a little and using it as a pizza topping.

So I had to look up macerate, too. It means to soften a solid by immersing in liquid. I used all olive oil and loved it. You will not be disappointed in the confit.

By the way, I've missed you, Reader.

The Rotating Stack by my Bed #2: What I'm reading

2009-08-06T10:40:00.006-04:00

So my fabulously resourceful book club friend Elise talked Ron Rash into calling into our book club night a couple of weeks ago. Elise selected his book Serena as her choice in July and was so enthusiastic that she emailed Ron's agent who emailed Ron who emailed Elise--well, you get the idea. Mix twenty readers with vino and a chance to ask the author anything and guess what? We acted like reporters for the New York Times. We zealous readers fired questions from sofa, chair, or ottoman into that speaker phone and Mr. Rash, who agreed to a half hour, answered questions for close to two hours. I don't know if it was our passion for his work or his passion for his own glass of wine, but he stayed on the line. He was funny, gracious, and earnest in his answers. It was a good evening.

Ironically, earlier in the day, I had the good fortune to be in the same room with another author who answered my questions earnestly. North Carolina Poet and Writer Tony Abbott talked with me about his book The Three Great Secret Things. The book felt slow to me to begin with. When I slowed my usual 90 mile an hour pace, I realized that it wasn't the book. It was me. I'm too fast. The minute I arranged myself accordingly, the book became a beautiful unfolding of a boy's world class coming of age.

The novel is chockful of references to books, plays, and events of the 1940s. David Lear and his fellow students create and are transformed by their own rich community at boarding school. The Three Great Secret Things is a lovingly written positive novel. I especially enjoyed asking Tony which plot lines were true and which were made up. But I can't tell you what I learned because it's a great secret thing. (I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself.)

Fearless Confessions, A Writer's Guide to Memoir is next in the rotating stack of books by my bed. I met Sue Silverman in Vermont last year and she is the kind of writer you aspire to be. A wizard with metaphor and the beautifully turned phrase, she is also inspiring. And kind to podunk blog writers like me.

The last few lines of Sue's essay over at Powell Books will give you an idea what to expect from her new book.

Whether we grew up listening to rock, grunge, or hip-hop, we all discover that, through language, we transform experience into meaning. We engage in this endeavor with the same wholeheartedness with which we rebelled or sinned or simply persevered. That's why memoir, as a genre, has such energy. We are not going gentle. We are making the same great noise in retrospect as we did the first time around.

Another Day at the Convalescent Home with Punkadoo Plus Pie

2009-08-05T20:25:00.037-04:00

So hobbling around on crutches is a wonderful lesson in patience. No, really. I mean it. I go to deep water aerobics and then I take Judge to his water aerobics at the rehab vet. We're all convalescing over at my house.

Which brings me to Punk. Punk is bored with convalescence. I'm in the kitchen whipping up this fabulous

Stone Fruit Patchwork Bake* (see recipe at end of post)

and when I say whipping up, I mean making a mess. See proof in the cherry juice dripping down the counter below.

So while I'm slicing peaches and pitting cherries, I hear a rustling sound. The noise is coming from the deck. I open the kitchen door and this is what I see:

Mmmmh. He's cute in his paper bag bling, but I know by the position of his tail that I'm going to be aggravated. This is when I notice the recycle bin:

I'd show you a picture of a yard full of licked-clean plastic containers if I'd been smart enough to take one while I was stomping around in my crip boot picking up egg cartons. And if not for the rain.

Which brings me to the thunderstorm. Punk runs around like the Tasmanian Devil when the sky starts rumbling. He pants and shakes and boings. You know. Like a pogo stick. Well, dammit. I'm TRYING TO MAKE A COBBLER here! All that's left to do is the crust. I'm rolling out dough and every time I pick up the flour bag, Punk jumps as high as my behind and pops me in the back with his tiny front paws. Great plumes of flour billow around the kitchen.

I told you. The crutches were a lesson in patience. Mmmmmh. How to finish the Stone Fruit Patchwork pie and hold Punk at the same time?

In order to get this:

I did this:

Punk in my backback.

Handsfree. And the cobbler is totally worth it.

+++

*RECIPE!

My friend Beth Harrelson called my attention to this recipe

From the New York Times

July 29, 2009

Stone Fruit Patchwork Bake

8 tablespoons (1 stick) cold unsalted butter, cut into about 8 pieces, more for dish

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, more for rolling

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

3 pounds peaches, seeded and sliced (about 5 large)

1 cup cherries, stones in or pitted

1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice.

1. Heat oven to 400 degrees and butter a 9-by-13-inch or similar-size baking dish; set aside. In a food processor, combine 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons flour, the salt and 1 tablespoon sugar; pulse once or twice. Add butter and turn on machine; process until butter and flour are blended and mixture looks like coarse cornmeal, about 15 to 20 seconds. Slowly add 1/4 cup ice water through feed tube and process until just combined. Form dough into a flat disk, wrap in plastic and freeze for 10 minutes or refrigerate for at least 30 minutes. (You can refrigerate dough for up to a couple of days, or freeze it, tightly wrapped, for up to a couple of weeks.)

2. Meanwhile, in a large bowl toss fruit with remaining flour, 3/4 cup sugar and lemon juice; place in baking dish.

3. Put dough on a floured board or countertop and sprinkle with more flour. Roll dough into a 12-inch round, adding flour and rotating and turning dough as needed. Cut dough into 3-inch-wide strips, then cut again crosswise into 4-inch-long pieces. Scatter pieces over fruit in an overlapping patchwork pattern.

4. Brush top of dough lightly with water and sprinkle with remaining tablespoon sugar. Transfer to oven and bake until top is golden brown and juices bubble, 35 to 45 minutes. Transfer to a rack to cool; serve warm or at room temperature.

Yield: 6 to 8 servings.

Maters and Mercy

2009-07-21T22:58:00.029-04:00

So one of the things I love about friends who farm is that I get to share in their bounty. Every summer, Kristin and Marc Daly plunder their Albemarle, NC gardens for me. This year, they're canning yellow and red tomatoes, tomato sauce, salsa, pickles, and beans.

When I broke my foot a couple of weeks ago, Kristin baked me a tomato pie. I promised you the recipe and we deliver, so here you go.

Fresh Tomato Basil Pie

1/2 (15-oz.) pkg refrigerated pie crust

1 1/2 cups of shredded mozzarella cheese

6-8 Roma tomatoes or 6 medium tomatoes

1 c. loosely packed fresh Basil leaves

4 cloves of garlic

1/2 c. mayonnaise

1/4 c. Parmesa cheese, grated

1/8 tsp ground white pepper

Unfold pie crust and place in pie plate. Flute edges with fork tine. Pre-bake the pie crust for 10 minutes at 375 degrees. Strew 1/2 cup Mozzerella cheese over hot crust. Peel and cut tomatoes into wedges and drain in colander using paper towel. Arrange tomatoes on top of melted cheese. In food processor, combine fresh basil and garlic and blend until coarsely chopped and then sprinkle mixture over tomatoes. In a bowl combine remaining cheese, mayo, Parmesan cheese and pepper. Then spread over the basil mixture. Bake at 375 degrees for 35-40 minutes. Serve warm.

Now that I've fulfilled my recipe commitment, I think I'll head out of town. To the place I go when I want to think or reboot. It's where I go for quiet and mercy, but this visit is different. For the 8th July, I'll meet 15-20 friends and just plain hang out until Sunday.

A peek at one of my favorite places on the planet.

I stop and see my grandmother on the way. She'll be thrilled to see that my hair is too long and my knee length jeans skirt is too short. This and the fact that I'm not wearing a jacket assure her I'm still in need of her advice.

After leaving Grandma's, I follow Hunting Creek about 4 miles north and there's nothing but four days of blue skies, hills, gurgling brooks and love. I get to laugh, eat good food, write and paint and well, do whatever I feel like doing. All right, so the laughing is not unusual. But the painting is rare.

That gurgling brook thing reminds me of Dad. He likes to say that some people who write actually try to make money at it, and some writers are the "babbling brook" kind. He means instead of writing Eat Pray Love, I take pictures of tomatoes and tell you about babbling brooks on the internet.

Water Heals

2009-07-20T22:31:00.007-04:00

My lovely Judge seven weeks after spine

surgery in water rehab...

He's going to LIVE! Maybe even another ten

years!

Okay. Eight. That could happen.

Remiss in Reminding

2009-07-17T08:52:00.010-04:00

I hoped to write a post here yesterday with the Love Thursday link, but I went to Grandma's instead which suited me just fine. So here's the missing link to yesterday's Love Thursday #7: Grandma and Grandpa's Farm posted over at LoLaSuzanne.

Yesterday's visit to Grandma's also figured in my Grace in Small Things Post:

Grace in Small Things #148 of 365

1. I and my crutches riding with Daddy and Brenda up to see Grandma today. (Grandma's farm pics here.)

2. 98 year-old Grandma still keeping tabs on the preacher and the rest home director and the Sunday School Teacher's daughter ("She's living with a man and got two kids but neither one of em's his and they're not to be married...")

3. Grandma still keeping time "well, it's five minutes after three...well it's 25 minutes after three...well it's ten minutes after four...".

4. Grandma still telling me what to do "Lar, I think it's time for you to get that hair cut."

5. Stopping at the barbecue house on the way back, talking about old times, Granddaddy and old Wayne and Uncle Walter. And the time 14 of Grandpa's cows were struck by lightning when they were all sleeping under the same tree during a storm, and about hiding in the smokehouse and on like that all the way back down the highway until they dropped me off at my little house.

Grace in Small Things #144 of 365

2009-07-12T19:09:00.006-04:00

I just posted my Grace in Small Things #144 over at LoLaSuzanne which includes # 2. Kristin's Tomato Pie, Mama's basil:

Updated: Have You Seen This?

2009-07-08T12:36:00.027-04:00

So in order to avoid writing, I've been emptying the stacks of boxes in my sunroom/studio. In order to avoid cleaning up the sunroom, I've macheted my way through grotesquely thick AIR to water my gardenias and hydrangeas. To avoid acknowledging the drought death of my sickly eucalyptus tree, I've come inside to run the dishwasher, but found some cool magic markers in the junk drawer which belong in the sunroom so...

here I am on the living room couch working on my relationship with my laptop. I've been messing around with RhymeZone which gives me 1171 words that rhyme with procrastination, but dear Reader, the results include castration and cardiopulmonary resuscitation. So no, still nothing rhymes with procrastination.

Have you seen YouDigest.com? Kirstin Butler is a Harvard grad news junkie living in New York who posts videos of a short version of news she finds interesting. That is so creative I'm inspired to stop wasting time with the internet and go...

upload my July 4th photographs so now I'm looking though those and, well, isn't my mom cute?

I gave her that t-shirt for her birthday. It says Be.Loved. Which reminds me of things beloved which reminds me that I've been trying to scan my newest SoulCollage cards for this blog, but my scanner will not recognize this laptop anymore. Argh! Any thoughts?

Back to the Fourth photos. This cashier went all out for July 4th. The lady behind me in line rolled her eyes at the hair and was not at all impressed with my decision to photograph it. Sourpuss. Made me want to take her picture.

But I didn't.

I did get waylaid even while writing this post. While I was waiting on this end-of-the-day July 4th photo of an exhausted Judge to load, I decided once again to turn on the dishwasher, but wound up outside messing with the sprinkler, instead. I tripped over a spongy wet place in the yard, got tangled in the garden hose and went down like a stone. I think I heard something snap. I hope it wasn't my ankle, but it kinda feels like it might have been. I crawled to the spigot, turned off the hose, used the side of the house for leverage and limped to the kitchen door.

Just proves my point. I'll go to any lengths to avoid finishing something I've started.

***UPDATE: So while crawling to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I realized I might have actually done some real damage. I took a cab to the orthoDoc first thing and after xrays and a CT scan, guess what? I broke my foot. This might be my all-time greatest procrastination debacle.

Love Thursday #5: Purpley Certain

2009-07-02T00:01:00.001-04:00

Check out the new Love Thursday #5 over on LoLaSuzanne.

Psssst: Three Quickies and a Photo

2009-06-30T01:31:00.010-04:00

Okay, that was just mean. I duped you with the title of this post just to tell you about a little housekeeping. It won't happen again.

1. About a month back, this blog address changed to www.LocationLaura.com. Some of you have had a little trouble with links that still include the "blogspot" part of my old address. If you throw out the "blogspot" and use www.LocationLaura.com, your troubles will be over.

2. I have a new list of 5 Grace in Small Things over at LoLaSuzanne. It's my 131st!

3. I appreciate your notes asking how Judge is doing after spinal surgery. As you can see, he's back to sunbathing in his favorite spot. A keen observer might also notice the Anti-Christ there in the back ground, keeping an eye out for predators and snacks. Click on the pic for a better view.

I'll Get to It

2009-06-28T14:14:00.043-04:00

Firekites - AUTUMN STORY - chalk animation from Lucinda Schreiber on Vimeo.

I stole this simple (five star) video from Dirty Footprints and Vimeo, both excellent diversions if you happen to be deep into avoiding work on a manuscript that's due on Tuesday. And I am.

I could procrastinate by discussing procrastination. And I am. On Facebook with my college roommate:

11:52 a.m.

Barb:

Not only am I still procrastinating, I actually bought an

iron and ironing board today at Walgreens in order to

put off finishing paperwork! I haven't ironed anything

yet - but the shopping for the hardware and setting the

board up was exhausting.

11:53 a.m.

Laura:

I thought we'd grow out of this procrastination thing,

but we have not.

I once cutdown all the vines

along the woods in my back yard

instead of working on a story for deadline. It took most of the day and I lost the

use of my chest muscles for 3 months.

I don't think I even have an iron.

12: 02 p.m.

Barb:

I'll send you mine! It's not like I'm going to use it! I've

already moved on to bleaching the tiles in Bob's

shower.

12:03 p.m.

Laura:

I am now typing with my toes.

12:17 p.m.

Laura:

Guess what I'm doing now?

Waiting for you to reply.

That's it.

12:27 p.m.

Barb:

Sorry I was overcome with chlorox vapors and could not

respond. I'm thinking of getting on my excercise bike, but the

cobwebs have formed a cement bond. It may take a couple of

hours to chisel the pedals free, but it's that or the paperwork.

Now where'd I put that screwdriver...

12:29 p.m.

Laura:

You loaned it to me back in college

when I was taking apart the attic fan instead

of finishing that paper.

Or I could write a new blog post. And I am.

Through therapy I've learned that my lack of motivation is my editor's fault. If he were smart* he'd use reverse psychology and tell me there is no deadline, that he doesn't care if I write the story or not. Then I might do it.

Except I'm my editor. And I'm on to me.

*I'm having a lapse. Somebody help me here. "If he was smart" or If he were smart". Barb?

Love Thursday #4: Traveller

2009-06-25T00:00:00.008-04:00

See my fourth Love Thursday here.

It's a Mad Mad World

2009-06-19T00:25:00.008-04:00

So let's see if I can make you understand.

A friend of mine wrote a check to me for $16. I’ve had it in my purse for three weeks. Today, I’m stopped at a red light in front of American Gigantic Bank (AGB), the sixteen dollar check bank, so I whip in their drive-thru. But the teller will not cash the check in the drive-thru because I am not an account holder here. “But there is no one else in line and the check is FROM this bank. The person who wrote it banks here. I’m your customer by default.” The teller, giddy with power, smiles and chirps “Don’t forget to bring in two forms of identification.” In my head, I squish her like a bug*. In real life, I pull into a parking space.

Inside the deserted bank, the very same teller turns from her window and steps to the counter to greet me as if I were brand new. I look around to see if I’m being punk’d, then hand over the check, lay out my voluminous IDs. Enough security for a $16 transaction, you might think. But you’d be wrong. The teller snaps open a black ink pad and instructs me to leave a thumbprint at the top of the check. As though my plan is to rob the place of sixteen small bills.

Back in the car, after being refused a copy of my mug shot, I’m feeling a little deflated, a tad unimportant. I’m hunched over the wheel in the loser pose of the powerless. Aha. I recognize this momentary depression.

It’s the same hollowness I get when I’m on the other end of the phone line from Gigantic Telecom Conglomerate Bastids (GTCB). Once again begging my internet/phone/satellite service to correct my ninth consecutive month of overbilling. Last time I called, I’m ashamed to say I wept a little, keening into the vacuum can someone, anyone please please help me? I might as well speak in tongues.

And we wonder why people pop pills or shoot each other at the Post Office. I don't have to tell you it's disheartening to be shuffled along, to be waited upon by customer service folks with eyes glazing over, to struggle against the vast machines of Mega-ness that we’ve created. This disconnect is killing us.

So I’m begging you people to wake up! Go out of your way to lift up your neighbors, your tellers, your drive-thru hamburger-slingers. Engage your grocery cashier. Tip your waiter. Roll up your Grandma’s garbage can. Pass your bottled water to those guys working on that hot pavement. Brake for squirrels. Smile on your brother.

But most of all, please understand that you matter. That every single thing you do matters. The enthusiasm with which you brush your teeth, your passion for Elvis, the number of car lengths in front of you. Every. Thing. Any motion you make is a rock skipping out to the world. Dear Reader, make it count.

*Peta: I do not squish bugs in real life.

Love Thursday #3: Heir

2009-06-18T00:05:00.002-04:00

my backyard gardenias from a long line of grandmothers (photo by LoLaSuzanne)

Check out my Love Thursday #3 at LoLaSuzanne.

For more Love Thursday, go to Chookooloonks.

Love Thursday #2 Being Goofy

2009-06-11T08:05:00.004-04:00

Every Thursday, I'm going to post something I love or something about Love or just plain Love over on LoLaSuzanne.

Check out today's Love Thursday #2.

Once again, it was Chookooloonks' idea.

A Berry Bowl and Hope's Boudoir

2009-06-08T00:06:00.001-04:00

In Mexico, my friend Hope introduced me to many artists. At a show in San Miguel, I fell in love with a small blue bowl which had already been sold. My consolation is that Kate Church*** created the exquisite bowl above, then entrusted it to Hope who drove it two thousand miles east where she presented it to me on Wednesday.

Walking the streets of San Miguel de Allende, I was immersed in color and texture and music. Every store front, each tree,

even the doors had a rhythm so very San Miguel, so un-Charlotte. My head almost burst in its rush to absorb. To memorize bougainvillea draped over an eave, jacaranda in a dusty parking lot, drums in the jardin.

Above left is one variation of a San Miguel stone wall. Right is art embedded in the wall of a store front. Click on the images for a better viewing.

But maybe one of the most exciting and inspiring places I visited in Mexico was Hope's home. And I stayed in it for two weeks! You can see Hope's found object pieces at her website but I think one of the best representations of Hope's art is her home. Above is the fountain in her courtyard. Below is but one wall in the studio on her fourth floor overlooking the town. I sat in the studio for hours just looking.

and her terrace...

But the best representation of the joy in Hope's soul is her bedroom...

Nate and Hope's bedroom

Makes you want to visit too, doesn't it?

***Kate Church has all sorts of talents and I could do an entire post about how whimsical and light and inspired I feel when I look at her puppet sculptures and paintings. You MUST check out http://katechurch.wordpress.com/ .

A Couple of Notes on Books

2009-06-07T08:41:00.014-04:00

Pat Conroy has a new novel South of Broad out in August. The six-hundred page book is set in Charleston. Sean over at Thoughts on writing from a Cul-de-Sac typed part of the manuscript and has some scoop. Is it still scoop when it's from November? Oh well, you can even see Pat's handwritten pages here.

Meanwhile back here at the convalescent home, all dogs are slooooowwwwwly improving. I stopped watching them heal for a minute to read John Hart's new novel The Last Child which I downloaded to my Kindle. This suspense novel is an adventurous place to go away for awhile. It's almost as good as his other two The King of Lies and Down River. Though Hart is a better writer than John Grisham, he still puts out that John Grishamy pace and thrillerness. GUESS WHAT? Hart's books are set in North Carolina. And that is fun.

Grace in Small Things #107: Maybe It's Me

2009-06-05T21:39:00.021-04:00

So reader, each day I'm still posting five small things that matter to me over at Grace in Small Things. This is post 107.

1. The vet Emergency Room people are nice to me every time I visit

2. and even though it's 3am, they unlock the door when I ring the bell

3. They know Punk now and treat him extra specially everytime they have to pump his stomach and give him charcoal and keep him over night.

4. Judge of the stapled back and wobbly spine*, finally gets some sleep at home while Punk and I are at the ER.

5. When I pick up Punk today at noon, he's no longer wildly scratching himself bloody or spontaneously barking barking barking and staring. No more twitching either.

Bonus GiST: Actually facing my bank account directly is only required a couple of times a month. The rest of the time I can pretend.

*Judge had spinal surgery Monday which left him with Frankenstein staples in his back. He came home to convalesce yesterday.

This Bling's for You

2009-06-01T13:28:00.036-04:00

So my master procrastinator has done something terrible. Again. Someone wonderful honored me (left) all the way back in February. Thrilled and feeling infinitely superior, I celebrated by running off to Mexico. There, while hanging out among Hope's artifacts and the dogs of San Miguel, I lost track of Superior Scribbler and failed to pass it along.

Fastforward three months. The thrill is gone. I'm now in a praise deficit. I must dig for love. And what do I find in my digging? Professional booster and blog wunderkind Daily Piglet's kind accolade from February. Yea! Clap, clap. Now I get to pass the Superior Scribbler bling to five sites I love to follow. In no particular order, they are:

Paris 2e. Cedric is a creative soul living in Paris who, among many other talents, is an excellent photographer. He posts shots of Paris we might not otherwise see--toilets of Paris, for example. Cedric also sometimes sneaks into galleries and gives us a look. Whatever he shoots, you can bet it's at a fresh angle.

A long way from the Theta house. Hood Mama Mel lives in inner city Dallas where her husband has a ministry. With two teenage boys from the neighborhood moving in with them, her own children, and a brother in Iraq, this blogger has plenty of material. A long way from the Theta house is written with humor, grace, and above all, love.

Vim and Vinegar This is my one and only political blog. The writer, who goes by the name Just Wondering, is a lawyer turned writer with a left leaning fervor you can't help but grin about. Razor wit and up-to-the-minute tirades pick through daily news. Today, her assessment of Pat Buchanan is that he makes her wonder if a "side effect of Viagra is stupidity."

Chookooloonks This is a popular blog and I can understand why. Dreamy photographs with thoughtful and honest commentary on life and times, Karen Walrond's site is always positive. My favorite thing about Chookooloonks is Love Thursday when Karen writes a post about love and invites you to post your own. I'm thinking I might begin my own Love Thursday here.

What It All Looks Like. Mike Terry is a photographer in Utah and this site is chock full of photographs he shoots for the local paper. Though this site is mainly photography, if you dig deep enough, you'll find Mike's poignant words.

Those are my Superior Scribbler picks. But while you're here, I want to mention two other sites that are a little different kind of set up, but S. Scribblers abound.

1. Schmutzie Pickles created Grace in Small Things where you, me, and anyone else can go to write your own 5 small things you are thankful for everyday (or most days or some days). I love visiting to write small graces at the end of my day. GiST's tagline is "Waging a battle against embitterment since 2008" if that gives you an idea of Schmutzie's fabulousity.

2. Indignet. Barb has come up with the anti-GiST. Here is where I go to bitch about those AT&T bastids who just billed me incorrectly for the ninth consecutive month. A great place to spew if you want to spare your loved ones.

So that's almost it. I don't want to close without saying a word for LoLaSuzanne. If you want a quick something positive in your life, it's a nice place to visit.

***Learn more about Superior Scribbler here.

The Place I Go

2009-05-24T01:15:00.021-04:00

Labyrinth photo by Julie Boles

Even if only in our minds, we all have a place we go when we need to think, or not think. This labyrinth is mine. Or a piece of mine. It is just one part of a favored space on my planet. If I show you a picture of the whole thing, you might decide to go there yourself. If we all have the same go-to place, the special drains out of it. Plus it's the kind of spot you must find on your own.

My first visit here was seven years ago this month. My most favorite peeps, my then 92 year-old grandmother, browbeat me into driving her over there. Ironically, Grandma has no interest in labyrinths and zero interest in my labyrinth interests. She insists we make the trip in order that she satisfy her curiosity about what the Catholics might be upto. You can tell by her photograph that she means business. Alas, we find the Catholics are upto exactly nothing that can be reported back to the Methodists.

But I discover a home for my deep down heart. I return and return. I retrace, rebound, redeem, re-up. You understand, don't you, Reader? Where do you go?

Beelzebub Strikes Again

2009-05-19T21:49:00.025-04:00

So I'm driving down my long and winding tree-lined street. Two blocks before the busy intersection, I notice this little black blurry thing dashing along the sidewalk. I don't get it right away. I simply think That looks just like my dog, wow, he moves just like Punk. And even after the joyous black dog skips past me, I think I'm going to have to find out who owns that dog...what a resemblence, maybe it's a sibling.

Then BAM! I get it. That IS Punk. Punk prancing down the street nine blocks from home. Ten-pound dog-about-town, a dog on a jaunt. Of course, it's Punk. The only thing missing is a bandana bindle on the end of a stick.

I pull over, get out. Then the tiny beast jumps in my arms, and that's it. Wow, no chasing or begging. I don't have time to go back to the house and search the perimeter for escape locations, so Punk rides along to my stepmom Brenda's house. We've been there 4 minutes when he runs through Dad and Brenda's back fence like it's a mirage. Runs right through the rails and disappears behind a neighbor's hedge. I never see him again.

Naw, I'm teasing. I can't lose him--I just had his teeth cleaned, just got him out of the emergency room, and just had x-rays done. He's supposed to be good for awhile. I should insure that dog for one billion dollars.

Anyway, Brenda and I drive around the neighborhood wringing our hands and calling for Punk. We give up. We pull back in the driveway, and there he is. Calmly lifting a leg to the flower bed by the front porch. Got any snacks?

This is how I find Judge, the Good Dog, when I get home.

So, the yarddudes left the gate propped open with a brick. See, once again, it's not Punk's fault. I would have danced out of an open gate myself. How about you? Are you a Punk or a Judge?

The Rotating Stack by my Bed

2009-05-16T03:15:00.016-04:00

So my attention span is now close to invisible. I've taken to wearing a timer around my neck. (Left, Polder timer on my fridge). The idea is when the timer buzzes, no matter what I'm doing, I stop and go back to my intended task. For example, I sit at the dining table to extract bills from a pile of mail and pay them. I set the timer for fifteen minutes.

When it goes off, I find myself in the backyard shed reading the eighth grade diary I've pulled from a file box under the Christmas decorations. I guess this means fifteen minutes is beyond my attention parameters. I'll drop down to ten and keep you posted.

I'm sorry, what were we talking about? Oh right. My infirmities. You, reader, might wonder how my weensy concentration affects my favorite pastime. I'm all about the books, but I can't read anymore. Well, I can read, but fitfully. So now I have three or four books going at once with a question mark on completion. Magazines are easier or books of poetry or stories. Short bursts is key. I manage to finish a few.

I just finished Encyclopedia of An Ordinary Life by Amy Krouse Rosenthal. The book is exactly as the title describes, an encyclopedia of Amy's life, crammed with alphabetical anecdotes, theories, adventures, and charts. (Short bursts, I tell you.) An original and engaging book by an original and engaging author. Proof? I implore you to look here. (Note to self: Check "use the word implore" off list.)

You've read about Tony Abbott's books here or seen them on the Rotating Stack to the right of this blog. I'm in the middle of The Three Great Secret Things which I started immediately after I finished the lovely and understated Leaving Maggie Hope. If you don't trust my judgement, go here and scroll to Tony's poem The Man Who Speaks To His Daughter on her 4oth Birthday. That oughta send you to the bookstore. Did I mention that his first book of poems was nominated for a Pulitzer?

Malcolm Gladwell convinced me success has as much to do with luck as it does with talent in the absorbing Outliers. I'm thick into The Wisdom of Yoga about the 3000 year old yoga practice that is more than postures or poses. Maximum human potential in mind and spirit as well as body. The timer around my neck mocks me.

Books pictured above that I'm not reading right now: World Scripture. I look forward to picking through this over an infinite time frame. The passages I've read in For the Time Being by Annie Dillard are so breathtaking, I want to save it for when I'm settled in and only focused on it. (The old folks home, probably.)

I loved Monsters of Templeton by Lauren Groff and recommended to me by the lovely Hope. A fabulous and ridiculous read, full of unusual characters and bits of history. A novel novel and though it won't go down as lofty literary fiction--it bumps up against it. The reason you don't see it up there in the Stack is because it's inside the Kindle above along with Rumi. Right there beside Newsweek*, The Sun, and the canine. My ex-husband called this area between pillows the library kiosk.

So what are you reading?

*Disclosure: I read latest People Magazines at the hair salon yesterday, so didn't have to purchase.

Mammers

2009-05-10T22:02:00.011-04:00

from my Grace in Small Things # 82

1. the way mom leans forward, closes her eyes and throws open her mouth to laugh with her whole body

2. the way mom is enthusiastic about a good effort

3. the way mom is teeny tiny and delicate with that big laugh

4. the way mom thinks I'm grand

5. the way she loves dogs and underdogs, the saxophone and fried oysters, the ocean, the river, sweet ice tea, the way she loves me

Me and Mom in Mexico 07

Some Thoughts on the Antichrist

2009-05-09T05:15:00.007-04:00

This is not the antichrist.

This is the good dog, Judge, sleeping in Punk's bed.

So it's 4 a.m. Saturday. I'm sitting in my favorite chair in the Emergency Vet's office, mulling over the good ole days. Back when the world was green and spacious. When Judge and I could go anywhere, do anything. Oh, how I miss my one-dog life.

This is my fifth nocturnal visit to the Emergency Vet (EV) in the past 10 months. Twice to have human medications pumped from Punk's stomach. Once we had to have the good dog's stomach pumped, too, just in case. This is Punk:

Dear reader, can't you see that he knows what you are thinking? He knows that you will save him from that awful woman who kept him in a tiny box with little food or water for 8 months. Knows that even though he shatters the simple and perfect life you have painstakingly created with the saintly Judge, that you will make a place for him. He only weighs ten pounds. How much trouble can he be?

Those eyes see that you will keep him even after he repeatedly eats his own excrement and throws it up on your white couch. After all three of the new owners you find return him to you within 24 hours. After he regularly digs out of the yard, races down the middle of the street in search of food, food, doesn't anybody have any food?

You'll keep him even when he never dies, though he pops xanax, eats roach motels and batteries, whole pizzas, and chocolate, with no side effects. Not even a loose stool. Even if he runs off your boyfriends and browbeats your mailman. After he chews up all of your eye glasses, sun and prescription. Even when, after another trip to the slammer, you learn that Animal Control has finally flipped out and micro-chipped the animal. Now that you'll never be rid of him, you think: Is this really your life?

Yes. Yes, it is. It's been four and a half years. You're dug in. He is awfully sweet when you hold him against your chest. And he does this:

Embarrassing, isn't it? That I'm so hooked now I'll blather on like that in a video?* Maybe even more embarrassing than the reason I'm sitting in the Emergency Vet's office. Punk moved into my spot on the couch under a blanket when I went into the kitchen. I came back, plopped down. Punk screamed. You heard me. I sat on him. **

So after a thorough examination, xrays, and pain medication just in case, the Doctor finds what he will always find. That there is exactly nothing wrong with Punk. That he's a pre-emptive screamer. That, even when large amounts of money are flung around, Punk will not die.

*Disclaimer: Not my real voice. It's the one I use when I go over to the dark side.

**This EV episode happened one week ago. The video was taken two days ago. As you can see, Punk is doing just fine.

Ve Have Vays

2009-04-19T15:05:00.016-04:00

So last week, I wrote a post about the the things we carry around in our bag s . A few of you were kind enough to disclose your own bag contents including Anonymous who gave a detailed inventory of his tool box right down to the "blue poop bag with a knot in it."

A chance at full disclosure in the safety of this good-natured blog, and still, Ex Urban Pedestrian (XUP) refuses to divulge what's in that conspicuous backpack of hers, saying only that it "shouldn't see the light of day." Interesting. But ve have vays. While ~~stalking~~ staking out her website, I deduced that XUP has made a grave error. In this seemingly innocent post, she reveals how we may extract the information we desire. Embedded in her post is a list described as...wait for it... "ways to make me talk". How cunning, XUP.

Methinks you subconciously vant us to know what's in that bag. Where shall we start? With your #1. Make me sit in a full-day management meeting or #4. Teach me to knit? or my favorite, #10. Give me moment-by-moment updates on Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt?

We'll table this discussion for now because ~~I don't want fly to Canada~~ we can always come back to it and besides, I really want to ~~write my own "ways you can make me talk"~~ have a serious discussion about torture.

So here are my Vays to Make Me Talk:

Make me eat black-eyed peas.

Make me sit through any movie in 3-D.

Make me watch animals on fire.

Make me work at the YMCA Membership desk on a sunny Sunday afternoon when nobody comes inside and my job consists of nexteling false alarms to the security guard or calling my boss at home and snoring loudly into the receiver.

Make me watch people stick, stab, poke, or jab with sharp objects. Or just watch people walk around with sharp objects that I might anticipate sticking, stabbing, poking, or jabbing...

Make me listen to or see medical procedures. I don't want to see your stitches, your broken bones, or hear about your surgeries and I damn sure don't want to watch them on tv.

So I can never be trusted with any high level security information or deep family secrets. I will give away our children and our country if somebody so much as points a pencil or flips up a used band-aid. Family secrets? I just go around spewing those by accident. XUP, you're right to keep that backpack to yourself.

The Things We Carry

2009-04-14T12:28:00.016-04:00

So Karen over at Chookooloonks showed me the contents of her purse. How can anyone be so organized in their purse? After seeing hers, I had to show you mine. I dumped it on the table and there it is...but the angle below might be more telling. Notice the trash and receipt stack in the background.

Karen was able to list her items in ten neat lines. I had to cheat and hide things so as not to have to list them.

What's in my bag:

moleskin notebook and a smaller cuter one my mom gave me. I must have two of everything, the better to fill out that gigantic bag I'm hauling around
A thumb drive, keys, and various discount cards
Chapstick, lipstick, lip gloss
pens and highlighters rolling around loose with the $1.55 in coins
sunglasses, drug store eyeglasses
The Three Great Secret Things by Tony Abbott, the sequel to Leaving Maggie Hope which I just finished
cute leather purse (wallet?) with $69.43 plus American Express, Visa Checkcard, license and insurance card
tums
ipod, earphones, ipod cord in green zipper pouch
anti bacterial hand goop I never use
Wet Ones, because I must constantly wipe ink, yard dirt, and dog slobber off my body, car, etc.
brush--I'm not sure how to use this item. I just know I'm supposed to have one.
blue wallet under the Wet Ones, because I haven't consolidated since I got back from Mexico (hiya XUP)
used movie tickets and a YDrive card. The YDrive card is the number for a company that will come get you wherever you are if you , say, drink too much mescal and are thinking about mooning the bartender. Two men arrive, drive you and your car home. I don't know what happens after that as I've never actually used this card. But one day...

Ironically, I just cleaned out all of the drawers and closets in my home. I think my bag has more stuff in it than they did. No wonder my body lists to one side. Especially when I carry the teeny tiny laptop in there too.

The stacks of trash and paraphernalia visible in the second photo are various movie watcher discount cards, Starbucks and Harris Teeter gift cards (Thanks, Dad), receipts, coupons, kleenex, napkins, prescription glasses case (yes, unlike wallets, I must have glasses in threes), checkbook (oops, remind self to put in other stack) a book light I need batteries for and various napkins. Also, included are bits of poems I find inspiring and crumpled up news articles I think might one day spark a masterpiece of any kind if ever uncrumpled.

I confess I threw away the lint and two empty packs of Eclipse gum. Empty because Punk, the anti-christ, took the booty for himself. He also ate some cellophane. I don't know how he keeps on living, but he does.

What's in your bag?

I Love You, Mom

2009-04-04T23:37:00.016-04:00

So Mom and I are always going to the movies. This time we decide to go see I Love You, Man. We arrive in time for the 2:10 showing, pay for our tickets, and get popcorn, all without bickering or pinching one another, so we're excited.

When we enter the dark theater, we realize that our movie has been underway for many moons. Back out in the hall, we roll our eyes at each other, balance drinks and dig around in various purses and pockets trying to find our tickets. The tickets say 2:45. Well, darn, we were wrong. But what I wonder is why the ticket clerk, as a courtesy, wouldn't mention that we had arrived 45 minutes early. After all, who arrives 45 minutes early for a film on purpose? Oh well, just saying.

Mom and I look around for a time-killer movie and the only one that works for us is Knowing, that Nick Cage (I call him Nick) flick about a guy who knows when disasters are going to happen. So we find seats and situate all of our drinks and coats and purses, take out the waters we've sneaked in under our sweaters and settle into trying to figure out what's going on in the film.

All of a sudden (kinda spoiler alert, but not really cause it's early), a plane comes out of nowhere and crashes sideways on a field. Nick stumbles around the crash site trying to save people on fire as they stagger out of various plane pieces. Okay, so there's that. A few other things happen, and we're intrigued, so we think maybe we'll stay in this movie instead of leaving to catch our comedy. Mom goes to the bathroom and while she's gone, Nick's kid (kinda spoiler alert, but not really) looks out his window and the whole forest is ablaze. Animals are shrieking and crashing out of the woods, burning alive. Big bucks and bears and deer and squirrels tear through the forest, screaming and knocking into trees because they are ON FIRE.

I can't gather all of our things fast enough. I'm snatching drinks and purses, balling up sweaters, and trying to cover my ears while rushing down stairs scattering popcorn. I practically knock mom down at the door. We leave this theater. I can't even speak, we just immediately begin looking for I Love You, Man and go in. A comedy, thank god. Yes, yes, let's laugh.

I have to tell you (spoiler alert, definite spoiler alert) I Love You, Man turns out to be excruciating. It has its funny moments but the time in between them is looooooong. Mom and I never talk in the movies, but this one inches along as if it is deliberately pausing so the audience can have conversations. So we do. When I tell mom about the animals on fire, she looks toward heaven, and even though we're not Catholic, I swear she almost crosses herself. She heaves a sigh and waves her hands, "don't tell me anymore--I can't stand it!" And that's when I get the giggles.

Because. Because we sat there during that plane crash and did not bat one eyelid when people covered in fiery jetfuel raced screaming out of a blazing plane, pieces of engine projectiling off body parts, and Nick hammering fists on the chest of a charred guy he's dragged from an inferno.

But you show a flaming bunny hopping around the woods and we are outta there.

So that was the best laugh we got out of I Love You, Man. I guess you know where we stand on humanity. What about you?

Gringa Addendum: Forgotten Perro

2009-04-02T18:41:00.012-04:00

I forgot Bogart! How could I forget Bogart? Bogart is the white Lab who guards Doug's (Doog's) hacienda!

(See Loco Gringa post for clarification.)

Loco Gringa walks Dog in San Miguel de Allende, Pending Police Action

2009-03-31T12:12:00.043-04:00

View from a restaurant: La Parroquia, the parish church.

So I had two years of Spanish in high school and two semesters in college. This does not in any way mean that I speak Spanish. I might as well have taken gibberish because I've noticed I'm fluent in that language. Before I left for Mexico, my thoughtful friend Barb passed along a phrase she felt might be useful to me: Lo siento. It means "I'm sorry." Yes, she chose well. I used it liberally. Lo siento for stepping off the curb too soon, Senor driver. Lo siento for calling you poop when I meant to say handsome. Lo siento the dog I'm walking lunges and bites at your behind, Senor motorcycle rider. Lo siento, Senora, for hugging you. I can't help it. I will leave your country immediately. Well, soon anyway.

I went to Mexico to visit my friend Hope who is an artist living in San Miguel de Allende. San Miguel is renowned for its community of artists. It has been a seat of creativity for 500 years with art schools, galleries, and an unsettling amount of ex-pats. You can't pitch a rock without hitting someone who speaks English. Lots of Canadians and Americans. So I had many opportunities to apologize in my own language. It's a beautiful city running down a mountain, its chief structure being La Parroquia you see at the top of this post.

One day, we helped teach these kids how to swim at the hot springs. You can see great shots of the kids learning to swim at Joan's photo gallery here.

On the way into Mexico, I met my first policia, a customs agent who sang me Happy Birthday (feliz compleanos) when he noticed the date on my passport. I arrived on my 29th birthday. Ironically the last policia I met was a Federale who searched me at a drug check point on the way to the airport on my way out of Mexico. Coming and going. Hope and I did all kinds of things in between meetings with the authorities but right now I'm thinking about the dogs.

This is Hope's roof and her dog Choco. If I could find a way for Choco and I to be together permanently, I would steal him. Even though Choco is the motorcycle rider biter. Lo Siento. Choco and I had many adventures on our walks. We enflamed most of the dog population in San Miguel. In Mexico, dogs like to hang out on

roofs and bark at passersby--dog passersby. You have to look closely to see the two dogs peering over the roof in the center of the photograph. Click on it to see a larger scale size.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about this perro. He's matted and dirty but ecstatic to guard his perch. During these walks, I became intrigued with the dogs of Mexico. The dogs are as much a part of life in San Miguel as they are in the States but it is not a doting relationship. The dogs have learned to adapt. Many live on the streets or on roofs like my buddy above.

Say hello to my little friend.

See, some dogs have a more pampered situation, but I got the feeling Chiquito here was only tolerated for the sake of the gringo population. The storekeeper snapped at the pup when he moved a tiny bit and this photo was taken after a few sharp words from his mistress.

There are dogs sleeping in the road, on sidewalks, in gravel parking lots. I saw one dog sleeping draped upside down across a stone fence. Twice. So I'm assuming that's a permanent arrangement. Below are the parking dogs. They sleep on gravel. They do not move when a car drives up. You drive around. That's Hope peeking around the fence in the background there.

And the nights of the full moon, omigosh, the dog howling that went on. Sitting on Hope's roof on top of a mountain looking at the moon and listening to those howls from different parts of town was like listening in on a private conversation. No lo siento.

The full moon from Hope's roof.

All photos by LoLaSuzanne

How Sampson Earned Two Cookies

2009-03-24T09:26:00.004-04:00

So I hung out in Mexico for a couple of weeks, then Dallas for a few days. More to come on the traveling including SoulCollage in Mexico. For now, I've spent so much time away from this blog, I think I've forgotten how to do it. Today, I'm just dipping my toe in to see how it feels.

This will make you laugh: Press Here.

How'd You Get Here?

2009-02-23T02:37:00.015-05:00

So I’m a story collector. I’m all antenna and tentacles when a possible saga is afoot. I get this from my Grandma. Not the collecting, but the eavesdropping.

I once overhead a guy, Andy, tell about his one and only experience with acid. The pharmaceutical acid. This particular acid is not only difficult to come by, but produces a powerful sense of fellowship that distinguishes it from all other acid. Says Andy who has learned this from his Singular Acid Supplier. This Singular Acid travels with Andy from his hometown in Michigan to a Grateful Dead concert in Atlanta.

Andy parks himself in the stands where he’s entranced by the rose glow of each of 25,000 individual souls. All souls are grooving as one to ambient blues while waiting for the Grateful Dead. Andy’s giddy with love for the red glow groovy people when he locks eyes with a grinning guy across the coliseum. Andy swears that, for the moment, he and this guy can read each other’s minds like twins. They each stand up and move toward the stairs, but the lights go out, the concert begins and Andy loses the red glow of Grin Dude.

Home in Michigan a few weeks later, Andy attends a party. He locks eyes with the bartender. Yes, it is Grin Dude. Grin Dude grins and the two slap hands. They soon discover they have three things in common: 1. A single visit to Atlanta to see the Grateful Dead, 2. A single Acid trip, 3. A Singular Acid Supplier.

But wait, there’s more. This is the story of how Andy meets his wife 26 years and three kids earlier. Grin dude is his brother-in-law.

So, good story, right? We've all boiled our own soup of coincidence and circumstance delivering us to where and what we are today. I would so love to have your stories. Not your drug stories. The "how you got here" stories.

I’ve combined my love for the narrative and my desire to pass along inspiring stories on LoLaSuzanne. Help me pay some good energy forward.

What I'm looking for: 200ish words that reveal some kind of positive change. Less is more. You can be anonymous, real, and/or linked. I don't care if you've published it or blogged it before. There are good examples on LoLaSuzanne.
What I'm not looking for: The ones about the stepmonster that taught you never to trust again! But yours doesn't have to be goody-two-shoes either.
Email: LocationLaura [at] Gmail [dot] com. Subject line: LoLaSuzanne

Disclaimer #1 I have license to be creative with LoLaSuzanne. And so do you. It’s a baby. I look forward to its organic growth.

Disclaimer #2: Grandma, I have never even seen acid. I overheard the story.

SoulCollage: Girl Floating on Path by LoLaSuzanne. Artwork and photograph clipped from magazine.

I don't Know What it all Means but This Makes Me Happy

2009-02-22T09:57:00.001-05:00

I don't Know What it all Means but it Makes Me Tired

2009-02-22T09:44:00.004-05:00

Grace in Small Things

2009-02-19T10:46:00.026-05:00

With apologies to LoLaSuzanne readers, Grace in Small Things deserves posts on both sites.

I just posted my first entry over at Grace in Small Things:

GiST Numero Uno (things I'm grateful for)

1. Judge and Punk, two little heartbeats running around my house making me smile, stamp my feet, crack up, and press on.

2. My brother, whose kindnesses match infinity.

3. Mom, who everyday, strives for a great attitude, and a fresh outlook, and works to buck up and who is always open to love.

4. Daddy, who everyday, finds a practical way to feed, make comfortable and love my stepmother who is classily fading into Alzheimers.

5. The yard dudes who swarm over the lawn like locusts, cutting and sawing, and trimming and leaf blowing. And then swarm out.

Punk, pulling on his leash, as usual.

I know the above are all big things, especially the yard dudes, but how can I leave out my immediate family, at least on the first day? I'll write about grace in smaller thngs and that little guy at the drugstore who helped me clean up the mess I made when I dropped the Lysol bottle on aisle 3 eventually.

I love the idea of writing five things I'm grateful for every day (or, let's face it, I'll write most days) in a place reserved for honoring those things. If you'd like to get in the habit of writing down your five things-- here is a great place to do that.

Photos: Boston Terrier Judge by LoLaSuzanne

Schipperke-ish Punk by LoLaSuzanne

SoulCollage is the new Prozac

2009-02-11T21:51:00.031-05:00

So my fingers are gluey. Little bits of paper are strewn over my sun room. I've been working with SoulCollage for about 6 months now and I have to tell you it is some of the most creatively satisfying scissor and paste work I've ever done and that includes kindergarten.

SoulCollage is a blend of art and soul discovery. You look for images in magazines that grab you in some way. You're searching for backgrounds and subjects that move you. Then you assemble and paste them together on 5x7ish cards. I find my cards usually resemble the way I'm feeling as well as the way I'm running my life. Even if I don't realize it until months later. The card (right) is a good example of what's usually going on in my head. Insert smiley face here.

The kid coming out of armor is one of the first cards I did. I found the fire-y background, the kid, and the plant. The armor and helmut were from a photo of medieval gear in National Geographic. Infer what you will.

What the open back of buddha and the butterfly mean on the right, I'll also leave for you to decide.

The waitress juggling in traffic is a very good

representation of the way my life feels sometimes, but the butterfly in the other card is the way I strive for it to feel.

I thought, when I was pasting these chickens, that the card would be a funny one. When I looked at it later it didn't feel too funny. I think sometimes I just feel like I can't stand up to the world's judgement.

Other times I realize the world is thinking about peanutbutter and Mickey Rourke's starring with a staple gun in The Wrestler and that chick in accounting who does payroll, and that time they got that free car wash for being 100th in line and, well, on and on about things that have NOTHING to do with me.

And sometimes, I'm just goofy

so the cards are goofy too.

So I've made about sixty cards and counting now. If I'm mad, I make a card. Thrilled? I make a card. My friends and family (Dad, nobody thinks you collage) are making cards. I'm taking a wad of blank cards with me to Mexico next month so I can show my friend Hope how to make cards. You wanna make cards? Check it out.

So why can't I get paid for making cards? I don't mean selling them. I mean just pay me to sit down and make them. Anybody?

Keep in mind that these images, though collaged by me, are other people's work originally published in magazines.

Any Day, Any Hour

2009-02-10T10:34:00.016-05:00

"That was a memorable day to me, for it made great changes in me. But, it is the same with any life. Imagine one selected day struck out of it, and think how different its course would have been. Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day."

--Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Tree in Italian Switzerland--L.S. Moore

Kathyesque Hokey Pokey

2009-02-04T21:38:00.017-05:00

So I’ve been a bad bad girl. Two months ago, I asked my friend Kathy if I could link to her journal by answering five of her questions. She sent me the questions promptly. I’m a procrastinator. Doesn’t it say so in my profile over to the right? Questions 4 and 5 stopped me every time. But I finally faced them down and I think I kicked their butts. You be the judge.

1. Do you do your best work before noon or after?  I do good work before noon, but my best work happens by accident. Any time of day I might suddenly get fired up about some little something and write it all in one great swoop. My muse has no schedule. Curses!

2. Aside from the state of the economy, what's the most disturbing thing you've seen on the news lately? Cruelty stories. I can’t bear them. Animals especially. That news story about the guy who threw that dog into traffic makes me want to crumple up in a dark room. Of course this means I’m no help at all. Snivelers aren't much help at prevention.

3. Gold or silver? Both. I wear more silver. I have no idea why unless it’s because I am shamefully at the mercy of whatever is trendy and then shamefully late grasping the next trend.

4. What was the impetus for you to start writing?  Looking back, I see that I started writing for three reasons.

Reason one. My mother is a writer. I wanted to be like her. I immediately picked up her passion for books which led me to a book about a little girl who always carried a notebook and wrote in it.

Reason two. So I started carrying a notebook, too, in about the third grade. That habit has lasted almost 37 years and led to many stories and poems. At ten years old, the word diary seemed anti-literary to me, so I called these notebooks “Thought books”. I’ve had two terrible mishaps with Thought Books.

Terrible Mishap A: At 14, my aforementioned first stepmother (Stepmother The First) stole one, read it, and reported to my father that I was shoplifting. This is how my also aforementioned shoplifting reign of terror ended. I was grounded and had to return some of my loot (the incriminated loot). My mother would not let them punish me further because she felt stepmother The First had violated my privacy by reading my private papers. (Yea, mom!)
Terrible Mishap B: I can’t publicly talk about this one because I’m still suffering the consequences and it’s deep and dark in there and let's face it, I can't tell you everything. Let’s say I was once again caught doing something I’m not supposed to do, but this time I was not breaking the law. I was an adult and my punishment was my own.
Terrible Mishap Lessons: a)Everybody is not as honest as your mother. b)Write your thoughts not your actions. c)Certainly do not mention in a concrete way, any crimes or deadly sins you may or may not have committed. And d) never ever write poetry about it in the same notebook.

Reason three. Reader, you probably forgot we’re still doing a list here. Reason three for becoming a writer is that I am compelled to share. And I’m good at it. It killed me not to flesh out Terrible Mishap B for you.

5. If you could do one thing in your life over, what would it be and why?  This question is why it took me two months to respond. I cannot settle on one thing.

a) Maybe I would not write Terrible Mishap B in a notebook, or maybe I wouldn’t do Terrible Mishap B at all, but Terrible Mishap B is only a small part of my myriad mishaps, so what of the others?

b) Maybe I'd save marriage for later or maybe I wouldn’t date that one guy for six years or

c) I might’ve traveled and written stories after college instead of taking that arts foundation job or

d) Maybe I would not have paid 500 dollars to that fat bail bondswoman with a beehive hairdo and a Chihuahua on her desk to get my boyfriend out of jail that time.

e) Really? This me wouldn’t change anything because then I wouldn’t be this me. I’ve come too far to risk winding up as somebody else.

But then again, I wouldn’t mind being Melinda Gates so much either.

*If you’d like your own questions, ask me for them in a comment to this post. I'll send you five questions. When you answer them, link back here. Wanna see Kathy’s? Press here.

All Right All Ready, The 25 Randoms

2009-02-01T00:05:00.022-05:00

So I am compelled to do another list as challenged. I'm cheating, though. It's the same one I used after being tagged on CrackBook, oops, I mean FaceBook. 25 Random things about me.

1. I’m a gadget girl, I love macs and ipods and PCs, clock radios that levitate and stereo equipment, (especially cool integrated stereo like Sonos) etc.

2. I love to make things. Paste paper, soul collage, paintings, stories and poems, friends.

3. When I smoked cigarettes, I would smoke outside on my deck in a shower cap and long sleeves so I wouldn’t smell like smoke when I went to work. I don’t think I got away with it. Yoga took care of the cigarettes.

4. When I was 14, I became a thief. I shoplifted my entire record collection (of 45s)

which my brother still has today.

5. My 10 pound dog Punk has had his stomach pumped at the emergency vet twice this summer after his overdoses on my migraine medication

and later in the summer, on my cousin’s anti-depressants. Punk has eaten all of my prescription eye-glasses also. I think “prescription” is the key word here.

6. I’m as content to be thrilled by teenage vampire novels and Harry Potter as I am by Barbara Kingsolver and Walker Percy.

7. My family once had 11 dogs, 2 rabbits and 3 cats all at the same time. Included were a 3 legged dog and a half wolf-half dog dog. Ultimately, in the chaos, 2 rabbits and 2 cats had to be put down by my next door neighbor and his pistol. When I left home, I didn’t even think about having a pet for twenty years. I now have two dogs. I think that’s my limit.

8. My cousin Susan is the closest thing I have to a sister. Growing up we logged incredible hours babysitting our little brothers. Her little brother Jimmy D is autistic. Our adventures in loving him included losing him for two hours in the Citadel mall when he was twelve. The police fed him all of the Orange Julius he could swallow and this made him less disappointed in his recapture.

9. I was hit by a car when I was six. My friends and I were playing in the sprinkler in the front yard when we decided to sneak across the street to see a dead squirrel. I lived.

10. When I was sixteen, my first stepmother enlisted my help in toilet papering a neighbor’s house. She also prank-called my ex-boyfriend’s parents.

11. When I was 17, I won first place in the Poetry Society of South Carolina’s annual competition. I got a check for $15.00.

13. When I was 18, we registered to vote in a bus parked outside our high school. It was 1980, an election year. I voted for Jimmy Carter.

14. I once spent 27 hours in New York City on the way to somewhere else. It was my second trip so I had the lay (lie?) of the land. I saw a Broadway play, an off Broadway play, took a carriage ride in Central Park, ate a gigantic hamburger in Times Square, got kicked out of Virgin Records, and spent 3 hours in the Museum of Natural History. I ate at The Saloon across from Lincoln Center, met some folks at the bar who, the next day, took me on a picnic at the Strawberry Fields Forever part of Central Park. I visited the Barnes and Noble at midnight, and took an hour cab ride around Manhattan for which the cab driver charged me only $25 before dropping me off at Grand Central for the train to Rhinebeck. But not in that order. I also slept about 7 hours at the Central Park West Y.

15. I once sent roses to myself at my place of business to make a boy jealous. It didn’t make him jealous, but it got the attention of another man whom I amicably married. And then amicably divorced.

16. I am secretly fascinated by reality television. Project Runway being the favorite.

17. I jumped out of a plane about 10 years ago. The plane was so rickety, I thought the parachute might be safer.

18. I was practically kidnapped by a forest ranger in Colorado three years ago. He took me off-road in an off-limits area in a national state park. In his National Park Service jeep, he had a huge knife, a 9 mm, and and an M16 strapped to the ceiling. Later, while being interviewed by the Ranger Police investigators, I found out that these weapons became legal and standard equipment for Rangers after 9/11.

19. I once was so frightened of public speaking, my whole body shook like I was dancing a jig when I introduced the next act to the 800 people in the audience.

20. Once, in Blowing Rock, while a camp counselor at a private girl’s camp, I and 3 other counselors got naked and rode the camp’s show horses bareback up the ridge. When they do this in the movies, they make this stunt look a lot more comfortable.

21. I've come to believe animals are of no lesser value than we are.

22. I think we can find humor in most everything and we don’t really have to work too hard to find it.

23. Seven years ago, I thought my job was killing me and that my life’s work should be something more important than selling parking lot lights to shopping malls. I quit my job and moved to my grandmother’s farm in Harmony, NC. I learned that it had been me that was killing me. That no matter what your job is, the way you live your everyday life is your life’s work.

24. I think that every single thing we do and say matters and sends out an irreversible ripple just like skipping a rock.

25. The Well of Mercy and Anne Cowie skipped a rock that changed my life.

Your turn.

Everything's Roses

2009-01-20T17:43:00.024-05:00

So I've been glued to the television today. I thought I was burned out on pre-inauguration coverage, but today's ceremony (and boy, is there alot of ceremony) felt sincere. I was moved. I believe Barack Obama believes the words that are coming out of his mouth. That's refreshing. Uplifting even.

Most speeches are uninspiring. Usually, the people saying the words aren't the ones writing them and the people writing the words aren't writing what they believe or even what the people paying them believe. Speeches are about what they think people want to hear. Today felt real instead of contrived. I crave real instead of contrived.

So I'm not saying everything's roses. I'm saying I felt inspired today by my new President's conviction and integrity. I could get used to this.

P.S. If you missed Reverend Lowery's benediction, you missed a treat. The last few lines brought down the house.

I Love the Movies

2009-01-14T11:02:00.031-05:00

So I've always loved the movies. There was a time when I saw every movie available to me at the local cinemas. I mean everything—even the schlock.

When I was ten, my four-year-old brother and I got kicked out of a Lassie flick because he went wild making choo choo train noises and knocking people’s popcorn out of their hands. I couldn’t see him to catch him but I could follow spectacular puffs of popcorn clouds as he went down the aisle. Management (cough) asked us to leave and the movie wasn’t even good. A pout spread over my face like a plague. A plague I was more than willing to pass along to my mom when she arrived to pick us up. I, sitting with my chin in my hands on the front steps of the Park Terrace, and Johnny behind me on the lawn chasing kids with a branch he’d ripped off the only tree in the courtyard. She let me keep the change.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest broke my heart when I was 14. The film had come back for a second run. That’s what they used to do if a movie was popular…bring it back. The same year I saw Blazing Saddles (also brought back) and Ode to Billy Joe. Speaking of Billy Joe, boy, have I seen some crap. Somewhere in there was a whole couple of years of crap known as the Disaster Movie kicked off by the success of The Poseidon Adventure in 1972.

On alternate weekends with Dad, we and my stepmother and brothers saw all of them. The Towering Inferno with Paul Newman and Steve McQueen. Earthquake with Lorne Greene of Bonanza fame. The absolute lowest point for disaster movies was Tidal Wave which tricked

us into going by sticking Lorne Green in the trailers with huge waves carrying buildings away. (If you insist on proof, look to your right--you zealots can buy the poster here).

Once we'd paid and were in our seats with popcorn, Tidal Wave turned out to be a P

hillipino film dubbed with English. The main character ran around

shouting hysterically and jumping behind buildings as if that would keep him safe from the fake waves. Lorne Green was the only actor whose words matched his lips. The disaster genre redeemed itself with Jaws in 1975, but it’s been downhill ever since.

I love science fiction, drama, romance, action, comedy, horror--The Descent kind, not the Saw kind. I remember my friend Debbie standing up and screaming right there in the theater when Linda Blair's head did a 360 in The Exorcist.

That's my movie-going goal: to be lost like Debbie. I want to be twisted right up into the film. I want to be surprised. I especially dislike being told what is going to happen next. I don’t even read reviews before I go to a movie for fear of learning too much. My mother knows this. I go to the movies with my mother a lot. No matter, Mom cannot help herself. She whispers “The uncle did it,” or “it’s the butcher,” or “he’s in the cellar”. She does not like it when I grimace and roll my eyes, but I ask you, how can I not?

So I read this article about a whacko who shot a father in the theater because his family was chatty during the movie. Holy cow! I bet that family wasn’t even talking about what was going to happen next. See Mom, you should embrace a little eye rolling.

Anti-Gloom

2009-01-10T15:13:00.011-05:00

Winter got you down? Press here.

Psssst: A Healthy Aside

2009-01-08T20:47:00.014-05:00

If you've chosen now as the time to become balanced, thin, vegetarian, or just plain sane, XUP has some great ideas. Especially the soup recipes. Check out posts Ahhh, Soup! and Being Comfortable in Your Skin.

Kathyesque has an excellent recipe for spiced almonds.

Also, Blog-To-Fit is 2 guys and a girl looking to pick up some clean living and drop some weight. They weigh in and measure in every Wednesday. Pretty neat idea.