Hallowe'en-after the tricks

I know when the Irish, bless 'em, gave us Halloween they never intended this. But, by gum. How cute can you get?




He'd pulled of the mask by this time. The whole proceeding had become tiresome.


Who are you, Buster?
I'm Sah-pyda may-an!

Halloween is here.

I could blog about candy choices, but I’ve already made my preferences about candy known here. So, let’s talk about the second best part of the evening-the costumes.

Prissy usually made my Halloween costumes. Because of finances, you got what you got and were grateful. I knew we couldn't buy a costume from the store.

But, oh how I wanted one!

I remember wandering through Kmart circa the 1970’s. Costumes came in boxes then. They were small cardboard affairs that had a clear window on the top so you could clearly see the mask. You picked the costume based on the mask. Always.

I wanted to be Wonder Woman. I just knew I would look like Linda Carter in the little plastic one piece outfit that reached down to my knees and was large enough to wear over jeans and coat. And the mask… I could feel the condensation forming on my face as I dreamed of putting that plastic mask on.

But, alas it was never to be. (Here is a link to a great site. Even thought Wonder Woman isn’t represented, you get the idea. Check out the Donny Osmond costume!)

URL=http://www.geocities.com/~stuarts1031/halloween8a.html

I was always a hobo (Dad’s flannel shirt, jeans and a piece of cloth tied around a stick) or a ghost (faded flowery print sheets with eye holes cut out never really scared anyone) or my favorite-the statue of liberty. This also involved an old sheet draped strategically around you. Prissy then made a head piece and torch out of cardboard and tinfoil. My arm got sore holding the torch up during the parade. After that we’d have the class party. Then that night-with excitement bubbling over-we’d get ready to trick or treat.

Of course we had to choke down dinner first which always sucked.

It’s a shame kids don’t get the same experience. I mean they still trick or treat (at least mine did) and the aisles of the stores are crammed with merchandise. But in this part of the country you don’t have Halloween parties at school anymore. You have ‘Fall Festivals’. And no one comes to school in their costumes.

We live smack in the middle of the Bible belt and every church in the tri-state area has some kind of festival Wednesday night to counteract Halloween and make you feel like you have to sneak to trick or treat.

I am a Christian. (Is it telling that I almost didn’t reveal that in my post because I’m so embarrassed at how some in my faith behave?) But I don’t think for one minute that my kids are going to take up Satan worship because I dressed them up in costumes and went house to house for candy.

It is a sad world indeed, when kiddies (and their parents) are made to feel evil for taking part in what should be a night filled with chocolate, pennies and popcorn balls-and innocence.

I’m sure someone, somewhere will lament this same issue much more eloquently than I, but I’m closing for now. My nephew is coming over to trick or treat me this evening.

He’s coming as Spiderman.

…in a really nifty store bought costume.

S*#t Happens

Big and I are on our own this weekend.

Big Daddy and Little are in the woods in search of the wily and illusive North American white-tail deer. A call not 30 minutes ago informed me they were still searching-which is part of the fun. Still it would be Little's first deer and I would love to get an excited call from him.

Big has the night off and is going to a Halloween party at friendgirl's house. I don't know whether or not he wants her to be a girlfriend, but I think she would like that of him.

Sorry, Big. I just do.

That leaves Sugar to her own devices. I think the BFF and I will head down Branson Landing way and check out the soft opening of the White River Fish House. We'll then head to Waxy's for a pint or 7. Maybe. We'll see how the spirit moves us. And how long the cash holds out.

Because the point of the post is shite does indeed happen.

My washing machine went out. The water won't drain. I have a load of sheets soaking in a sea of water.

So? You ask.

Well, its one of those things that you don't plan for and piss you off when they happen because you never have funds set aside to assist in such an emergency and it sends you into a panic of where is the money going to come from? And Christmas is coming and property taxes are due and there are school trip payments to make and oral surgery to pay for and braces to buy. And self-sufficient though I am, repair is one of the things I leave up to Big Daddy to look into.

...and he's in the deer woods.

So instead of keeping my mouth shut, when he called a while ago to check in, I immediately told him about it. Now instead of enjoying his weekend with Little, he's going to worry about the washer.

Jesus!

Where is my brain?

Wednesday, May 21, 1997 Part 2

We had dinner at the residence this evening. Anup’s wife, Lima, served us a traditional Goanese dinner. We had Pomfred (which is a fish found only in this part of the world) in an orange sauce, prawns (really big shrimp), roti(flat bread) and a casserole-type dish with baby corn, carrots and mushrooms in a cream sauce. It had a spicy flavor I wasn’t used to.

Ah, of course, curry.

Lima told me she couldn’t cook if her life depended on it, but with the four servants bustling around I don’t think she worried about it much. She is a gorgeous woman- lithe, dark skinned and her English is better than mine. She didn’t have a very thick accent like everyone else. I learned she was educated in London, which seems to be common here.

Their home likens to a two-story condo with a small walled-in garden out back. Like everything else here, it needed a paint job. I’m thinking maybe only we Americans are obsessed with cleanliness and paint.

Or maybe it’s just me.

It was very neat and tidy, but looked very dated. I guess I harp on this because Anup’s home was that of a very wealthy man. My little house at home seemed more modern and I know full well I don’t have his bank account. It just seemed incongruent to be in a 2 million dollar home where the bidet didn’t flush. (I wouldn’t have known how to use it anyway!)

After dinner, Lima asked me what I wanted to do while I had some free time. I told her I wanted to buy a sari and a salwar kameez. She swept me to her bedroom and proceeded to give me two sets of salwar kameez complete with matching dupatta.
URL=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salwar_kameez

The first was brand new from one of the finest shops in Bombay. She said after she got it home, it just never suited her fancy. The second set she had worn once. She kept apologizing over and over again for giving me a used garment.

Is she kidding? I am ecstatic! I guess they don’t have yard sales in this part of the world.

She said she preferred western dress, but her mother gives her a hard time when she’s not dressed traditionally. So, she has several outfits to put on when she needs to appease her Mom.

We stopped for paan again on the way home. I’m getting to where I like that stuff!

Bling

Brighton is showing off a new piece of jewelry today. It was given to her by her favorite man and created by her second favorite man-David Yurman.

Sigh.

That’s not a sigh of envy. It’s a sigh of apathy.

I’m just not that into jewelry.

Shocking I know.

That’s not to say I don’t have pieces that I treasure. My wedding set, my mother’s ring, and the Journey necklace Big Daddy got me for our 20th anniversary will never leave my possession this side of Heaven. There is a Black Hills gold wedding band that Big and Little fished out of the lake when they were snorkeling. (They were little bitty guys and I’ll never forget how proud they were when they gave it to me) There’s my high school and college rings.

The jewelry I treasure has sentimental value. It’s the sentimental quality of what I have that is important not the designer name.

That being said, let me also say I do love all the trappings of being female. I like the make-up, shoes, clothes-and jewelry. I love spending a full day at the salon. I just don’t feel the overwhelming urge to have 75 pairs of shoes, 45 overpriced, over-hyped handbags, and a collection of jewelry so large I couldn’t possibly wear it all.

I’d rather take all that money and spend it on gadgets!

Last year for my birthday, Big Daddy got me a video iPod. I swooned. This year he got me a docking station for it. I melted. I’m pining away for a laptop. I use a Blackberry. I’d love a new home computer with all the latest bells and whistles. What’s it like using a Mac vs. a PC? How long should I wait before I investigate the iPhone in all its glory?

Brighton doesn’t understand this about me. We are on different pages when it comes to what we shop for. I say ‘meh’ to her new piece and she couldn’t care less about my need for new ear buds.

One thing though. It drives me crazy that she doesn’t use an ATM/debit card. She still writes a check for cash…and for her David Yurman.

Facial Hair, Part 2

I commented previously that I like facial hair. I have examples today of what to do and what not to do. Since somehow I’ve decided I’m an expert in this area.

This is sexy. (however a neck trim wouldn’t be out of line.)
http://popsugar.com/725557

This is not.
http://popsugar.com/724352

One Word

You know those surveys that get emailed around all the time? The ones that ask you questions like “What are listening to right now?” and “What’s your favorite movie?”

I think in the blog world these are called memes.

I dread getting them.

Not because I don’t like talking about myself, because we all know I live for that. (I have a blog, don’t I?) It’s because they are the same old questions, and they are always sent by the same people. I guess they forget to save the responses and have to send it again and again-and again.

Today, however, I got a new meme. It asked me to describe the sender of the email in one word.

Wow. I never use one word for anything. Let alone, describing someone.

In this instance, it was surprisingly easy. I answered right back.

The other side to this activity was to reciprocate and have others describe me in one word.

I don't think so.

I enjoyed this game very much when it was to describe someone else. But I had no desire whatsoever to have anyone else describe me. I’m not a masochist!

So of course I did it.

Here is what came back.

Talented
Actress
Generous

Three people responded back. I sent out eight or so.

This means:

I’m indescribable in one word.
Only three people had kind/neutral words to say. (If you can’t say something nice…)
Three people felt duty bound.
The others were afraid of this game also and just didn’t respond.
The others saw immediately it was a time waster and deleted.

Of the three ‘one words’ sent to me here is my reaction.

I believe the first person-she’s my best friend.
The second one could only think of something superficial.
The third word came from a man who continually surprises me.

I thought he’d come back with something cute and suggestive. He likes the word ‘lush’ a lot. (the adjective, not the noun) The word ‘generous’ though threw me, and gave me a lump in my throat because somehow I know he wasn’t describing my ass. He was describing me. In one word.

The third word came from the man who knows and loves me best in the world.

…and that’s the only person who counts.

Different

...but equal.

Big just left Sweeney Todd paused in the DVD player to go to rehearsal at the high school. He will sing the heck out of "Modern Major General" when they present Pirates of Penzance in November.

Any minute Little will be home from turning in his football uniform for the year. Next week he picks up basketball manager duties.

And they both make me laugh out loud.

Wednesday, May 21, 1997

I’m watching Bewitched dubbed in Hindi. TV over here is a hoot. Everything is so over-the-top and well, kind of campy. Funny stuff.

As I look out the window, there are the most beautiful flowery trees and shrubs growing up and out of the piles of garbage. I hate to keep harping on the trash, but being a small town girl and all, I’m not used to it. There are orange mimosa trees and some really hot pink bushes that are quite fragrant.

Little kids are running through the streets without any clothes on. The naked boys bother me. They crack me up though. They’re giggling! If you think about it, it is really practical of their mothers not to bother with clothes in all this heat. They outgrow them so fast anyway. I saw a little boy yesterday taking a bath in the street. He just soaped up along side the road.

There are no sidewalks by the way. Everything just goes from store front to street.

They are constantly doing road construction here. They don’t have a lot of time saving modern machinery. I was told they don’t want to take employment away from the masses.

They are having a wedding at the hotel tonight. The lower courtyard was filled with Christmas lights. I ‘clicked a snap’ but I don’t think it will come out.

Chuck and I traveled by rickshaw back to the office today. It wasn’t nearly as fun as I envisioned. The exhaust fumes were awful. There was thick black smoke everywhere. It’s actually the first time I’ve been outside in the streets.

When we finished up at the office and had Rasheesh drive us back, we thought it would be a great idea to walk down to the beach. I had never seen black sand before and I wanted some to take home. We went through the pool area. We thought it was odd that the gate was locked. We realized then that the lock was to keep people from the beach coming into the hotel. I had three Indian boys leer at me. (The slutty American woman in shorts, you know) There was an old woman begging for rupees.

Now we are bored. We want to explore, but were told it wasn’t in our best interest to go out into the city ‘unescorted’. So, we have to wait until Bob and Anup get here from the office. We’re going to ‘the residence’ for dinner tonight.

We figured out how to get the door open between our rooms. That was exciting. So we watched a cricket tournament followed with a rugby chaser.

Now I know what those flat bat things are that all the boys are carrying around.

I Got Nothin'

No, no. Hang on a minute...

No. Still nothing.

I guess I could go to You Tube and dig up something cute and relevant to post. But from reading other blogs this is considered a cheat. Something you do when you can't think of anything to blog about.

Kinda like this post, no?

I reckon I'll finish my posts on India.

Then what?

What do you do when you got nothin'? Do you work to get your groove back?

...or just let it go?

I Love a Parade

All that talk of Fall festivals left me thinking about the parades that go along with.

A parade must begin with a police car and end with a fire truck-unless of course it’s the Christmas parade and then Santa comes last-sometimes in the fire truck. It’s always best if these vehicles have the lights flashing and sirens blaring. This is very exciting to all concerned and children love it. Unless of course you have very small children and then they scream and put their hands over their ears. Parents are then forced to walk back to their car and watch from there or stick it out until the candy starts flying and then most kids’ ears stopping hurting immediately and the tears miraculously dry up.

The success of any parade is directly related to the number of marching bands performing and how much they actually play vs. just marching and whether or not they have their uniforms on or just jeans and the official band t-shirt. Bands definitely score higher if they have the uniforms on. It’s also important that they play several times throughout the route and not just in front of the judges.


I love Marching bands. I think I’ll post about them next. I know you await that post with bated breath. You need something to read while you sit on the pot anyway. You’ve already read the Enquirer.

If you’re a politician, yes I’ll take your flyer, but don’t try to talk to me because I’m busy. The Shriners are coming through with their classic Mustangs and little motorcycles and I can’t be bothered with your promises to get trash day moved to Tuesday.

If you are riding on a float in the parade, do not pummel me with the candy. Toss it. Give it a gentle underhanded lob. If you blacken my eye with a peppermint, I’ll kick you ‘till your dead. Not just because of the black eye, but because you’re throwing crappy-ass peppermints at a parade. It’s like Halloween. Nobody wants old-people candy at a parade. Look at the road when it’s over. What’s leftover littering the streets? So leave them at home along with orange slices and circus peanuts.

Along the way, the Grand Marshall will pass by. Usually this is a town elder or other such civil servant. My uncle Fred was the Grand Marshall of the Christmas Parade one year. He never quite got the wave perfected.

Why are the radio station vans always directly behind or in front of the marching bands? They have the radio station blaring away and it drowns out the band’s performance. But then again, the radio stations usually throw good candy.

I love the classic cars. They pass for days it seems. But does your Camaro all done up in gray primer really count? I mean, shouldn't you have a paint job to be able to line up in the parade queue?

But, I'm quibbling. I'll stand in the rain and snow to watch the neighbors and friends pass by. I've been in a parade on several occasions. I can take it or leave it. I like standing on the sidelines cheering on Sarah the flute player. She grins when I yell at her. I like waving at Jimmy on the choir float. I see Kent who lives just down the road from where I'm standing. I don't take the time to visit with him like I should. Is that Maria? No way! She's grown at least a foot since I've seen her last.

It's goofy, I know. But I love the sense of community I feel when the flags go by and a faithful few get busy cleaning up after the horses.

...and throw chocolate, People. Always throw chocolate.

Festival

If you want to experience small town America, go to a festival.

Around these parts -usually in the Spring or Fall-there is a festival heralding the virtues of the town in question. Not only is there the requisite number of food vendors, musicians, and politickin’, there are arts and crafts. Usually this is light on the art and heavy on the crafts-meaning you’ll find a lot of crocheted doll clothes, homemade whirly gigs, and lots of denim with lace sewn on it. But then again, who’s to say its not art?

Now don’t think for a minute I’m looking down my nose at these activities. They are the backbone of our society-eliciting town pride and allowing chance meetings with friends and relatives you haven’t seen since, well, last year at the same event. I am first in line to road trip to various festivals wandering in and out of booths, munching on fresh kettle corn and sampling just made jams and pumpkin butters.

In the Spring, my own hometown has Sucker Day. Lest you confuse that for a lollipop, let me set you straight. A sucker is a fish. It’s an ugly, but tasty fish that used to run plentiful in the rivers of these parts. The whole town gets together on Saturday for a huge fish fry. Back in the day, kids got Friday before Sucker Day out of school and everyone went sucker grabbin’.

Nowadays the sucker is few and far between and the kids no longer get Friday off (mainly because they don’t want to go grab suckers) but we still fry fish, set up booths, listen to music, and play games.

But the Friday night before-what I look forward to most-is the parade. With the Sucker queen and her court gracefully passing by in her Daddy’s convertible.

Along with all the other trappings of these small town gatherings another vital ingredient is the parade. That will be the subject of my next post. That or marching bands. I can't decide.

I love me a parade.

And, yes, I own a doll with crocheted clothes. You doubted it?

Travesty!

Listen to this nonsense:

Silberling directing Ferrell's Land of the LostBrad Silberling (Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events) will direct Land of the Lost, Universal's movie adaptation of Sid and Marty Krofft's 1970s live-action Saturday morning series. Will Ferrell will star as a disgraced paleontologist who, along with his enthusiastic assistant and macho tour guide, finds himself in a strange world inhabited by dinosaurs, monkey-people, and evil reptilian Sleestaks following a disastrous expedition. Universal has approved a March start date following a reported tweak in the budget, which is now set at $100 million. Silberling's most recent movie is 10 Items or Less. His past work also includes City of Angels and Casper. (Hollywood Reporter)

No good can come of this. How can you improve on perfection? I mean no Will? No Holly?

Chaka: Hurry, Rill! Hurry, Horry!

If you are not familiar with this show, then something is lacking in your education. Go here immediately and get up to speed.

Go on. I’ll wait.

Land of the Lost (paired with a big bowl of Life cereal) was a staple of my Saturday morning youth. It was a perfect, cheesy, campy adventure. Bubby and I would cringe at the Sleestak. (If you think Darth Vader has a scary raspy breathy thing going on, you have never been trapped on the couch by the sound of an approaching Sleestak!) We would wonder at the power of the crystals. We’d marvel at the special effects. (How did they make a T-Rex look so life-like? How did they make the family go over the waterfall like that?)

The seventies had the best cartoons and Saturday morning programming. I learned so much from School House Rock. To this day I can sing the words to Conjunction Junction. (Sad, but true)

And can anything really be better than pre-Scrappy Scooby-Doo? (Captain Caveman comes close, but trust me, he’s a distant second.)

However, nostalgia abounds when I think of Land of the Lost. It was never the same after Uncle Jack showed up, but Will Ferrell?

He’s a great Ricky Bobby, but I know Rick Marshall. And he, Readers, is no Rick Marshall!

Will Ferrell?

I’m devastated. I feel like Grumpy after having a log jammed down his throat.

A Storm

It's coming.

Even in the office, I can hear the rumble. I actually feel the walls vibrate with the thunder.

Now that the rain is actually falling, I hear it pummeling the roof.

Okay, that’s it. I can sit here no longer. I have to go look. It’s a compulsion. I can’t stop myself.

Ah, there it is. It is what I thought. A gully washer…Oops! There’s more thunder. I’m standing in the vestibule and the rain is lashing the sidewalk so hard it’s bouncing back up to the sky. It’s falling off the curbs like water pouring out a pitcher…or piss out of a boot if you’re from around here.

Uh-Oh. Here comes Sherry from accounting. Her umbrella is useless against this barrage. The wind is catching it and I‘m afraid it’s going to…yep there it goes! She breaks into a run and I grab the door open for her and get sprayed in the face for my trouble. Bless her heart. I can hear her shoes squishing against the tile floor as she trudges to her cube.

It’s about over now. This will blow by any minute and we’ll be left with overflowing runoffs and cool, damp air.

There is so much power in a storm, yet I also feel a soothing in the black clouds. They cocoon me. I feel comforted, invigorated, and awestruck all at once. God reveals himself to me in this way- if you don’t mind me waxing philosophical.

I feel better.

Tuesday, May 20, 1997

I didn’t write yesterday because the lag caught up with me. I went to bed. But, the day went something like this.

Rasheesh came around with the car about 11:00. Jimmy said I could wear shorts over here since its so hot, but I was the only woman in Mumbai showing her legs. I stick out enough being so white. I didn’t need that to contend with, but it was too late.

On the way to the office we stopped buy Anup’s new building. He’s building a flat for himself and his wife. The furniture is being made and the cabinets and woodwork is being put in. It’s a tiny little thing, but it has three bedrooms with each one having it’s own bath. It‘s got marble flooring and a great kitchen. Bob asked me what I thought. He had a weird glint in his eye. I told him I thought it was nice, but I’d seen bigger places back home. The glint in his eye was the price tag. One. Million. Dollars. I was floored.

The offices were just as dirty as everything else I’d seen. I feel like such a snob, but if I had a bucket and soap, I’d have gladly scrubbed the place. We worked there for a couple of hours and then Chuck and I moved to the factory.

The drive out wasn’t as devastating as I thought it would be. There were slums upon slums of people-some were just camped on the side of the road and this is the middle of the city! There were kids running everywhere. At stoplights we would have an old woman begging for food-or a child. They would always point to their mouth. When they saw we where white they would get even more excited. Anup said not to give them anything because they would just take it back to their pimp. People sold stuff at the lights-magazines, garland, strings of fragrant flowers for women to weave in their hair. Some of them had handicaps or limbs missing. We were told this was done intentionally. People would sometimes maim themselves to obtain more value as a beggar.

Jesus.

One little kid kept asking me for chocolate.

Chuck and I saw an Indian family in the car beside us. There were five or six kids in the back seat. They had this long pink stick that they kept poking at us through the window. Their Mom finally took it away from them and gave them a universal chewing. That was fun.

Have I mention the people drive crazy here? Well guess what? Men don’t care where they pee either.

We got to the factory and it was the cleanest building I’d seen yet. It looked like any 'cut and sew' I’d seen in America. It was ungodly hot, but so is a garment factory in mid-July in Arkansas. Did they straighten up because they knew we were coming? I honestly don't think so. Call me naive. We talked UPC’s and packing and headed back to the office after a quick tour. We’ll come back tomorrow and get to work.

We went to China Garden for supper after having China Gate for lunch. We passed by the China Camp and China Valley. Lordy, these people love their Chinese. So far, it all they’ve wanted to feed us.

I’m so glad I’m not driving in this country.

We had something called Paan tonight. It’s a digestive served on a betel leaf. Don’t ask me what’s in it-I’m not sure I want to know. They made two triangles of it and you put it between your cheek and gum or you can chew it. Yeah, kinda like you would Skoal. In fact it had tobacco in it. I’m told what we ate were held together with pear and I could taste coconut and ginger. Whatever else was in it, I got a buzz.


Paan

I’m trying to get Anup to teach me to curse in Hindi, but so far I’m getting nothing out of him.

If you’re ever in Bombay-try the Mango ice cream. It’s killer.

Paying Attention

Little plays football: ‘A’ team, first string, defensive lineman.

Fortunately for him, I’m more the artsy-fartsy Mom, so Big Daddy has to take over the bulk of sporting conversation. I go to his games, cheer him on, and pass out cold hamburgers at the booster meetings, but I just don’t ‘get it’ like Big Daddy does.

And this is a good thing.

Boys need their Daddy for football conversation and their Momma for advice on how to counteract the acne outbreak from the chin strap.

This is the first year he has played consistently and since his first game a month ago I have been waiting for his name to be called over the loud speaker after making a momentous play.

Cut to last night.

There we are sitting in the bleachers in a torrential down pour, huddled under an umbrella watching Little play football.

‘He’s gotta keep his hands on the ball!” Says Big Daddy.
“He couldn’t get his arm around it much tighter. It’s so wet.” Says Me.
“When you’ve got three men tackling you, you have to keep both hands on the ball!” Says Big Daddy.
“Well, then why don’t you get out there then if you know so much.” Says, well, uh, Me.

It went down hill from there.

Granted he wasn’t talking about Little, but Big Daddy and I aren’t on the same page when it comes to watching sporting events. He sits quietly studying every move and muttering/commenting to himself.

After awhile, I get distracted by other things-the smell of the food and the dumb cheers that are being led by seemingly six year old girls. I watch people pass by. I go visit. I get up to get a Coke. I go pee. I get up again to get some nachos. Last night, trapped under the umbrella, I commented on the poor sound quality of the PA system.

While I was commenting, (or had my head up my ass, as I like to translate) I missed an important announcement:

“And the tackle is made by number 54, Little Britches!”

I have to pause here and admit that his pseudonym totally sucks for this post. Somehow his real name shouted over a loud speaker for the whole stadium to hear is much cooler. Or it would have been if I’d bothered to shut my pie-hole and pay attention!

Next week I’m going to sit my butt down and stay there. I’m going to lose ten pounds by ignoring the call of the concession stand. I’m going to eschew my visiting friends. I’m going to watch attentively and listen to every sound coming out of the PA.

I will not be moved!

Yeah and monkeys might fly out my ass. (When I get up to go pee)

Bacon-It’s What’s for Breakfast

Yesterday morning I had a bacon sandwich.

Now this seems like a simple thing. A bacon sandwich-breakfast of the Gods, but in actuality there is a process involved.

First off the bacon has to be crisp. Not cooked to the point of crumbling, but just to the point you get a nice satisfying crunch when you bite down. Three slices is perfect.

Secondly, the bread needs to be whole wheat and it is never ever to be toasted. I use one slice of honey wheat which has just a hint of sweetness. The bread needs to be ultra fresh so the doughy goodness gets caught behind your front teeth when you bite down.


I put the three slices of bacon on one slice of bread and fold it over.

Condiments aren’t necessary or appreciated.

Now then, this could lead to a discussion of bacon’s virtues and other mouth-watering applications, such as a BLT, the use of bacon on a burger, running it around your plate to sop up the yummy, runny egg yolk, and putting salt pork in your brown beans, but this would just muddy the waters.

The perfect use of bacon is on a sandwich, Kids.

It’s good for the soul.

It's a Small World

…and getting smaller.

I signed on to the high school website today to check out the daily announcements. I read this:

• ATHENS TRIP: Spaces are still available for the Rome to Athens trip in May 2008. HS credit can be earned with this activity. Interested students can contact the Guidance Office for more information.

Athens?

From Rome?

For high school kids?

I don’t know why I’m surprised. The French club goes to France every year. The Spanish Club takes a trip to Mexico or Spain.

The Eighth graders are preparing for the annual trip to Washington DC.

The choir is going on a cruise this year. Yes, you read right. A CRUISE!

Of course these little jaunts are chaperoned and school approved. They are not, however, school funded.

Herein lies the rub.

Some parents have the means to send their children on all these trips. Some do not.

When I was in school and living in the Ozarks, traveling was reserved for the wealthy and retired. The local banker’s kids went skiing every year on Christmas break. But they were rich! It never occurred to me I could go overseas. It didn’t occur to anybody. If you wanted to go, you joined the military. In fact, that was a great recruiting tool. Join the Army! See the world!

Big is saving money for a trip to Ireland and England when he graduates. Another young friend of mine just got back from the same trip. He stayed in youth hostels and saw everything on the cheap.

I guess there isn’t really a point to this post. On one hand, I love the fact that our young people get to see the world before they get caught up in college and making a living and raising families.
On the other, it puts a financial burden on families who can’t afford it, and brings about feelings of guilt and inadequecy when they can’t provide for their children what they see other parents providing for theirs.

My Senior year the Drama club went to New York. I didn’t tell Prissy about the trip for weeks because it never occurred to me I could go. When I did tell her, she started to cry and then proceeded to cash in a CD and sent me on my way.

I never loved her more.

In Europe, I suppose crossing over into another country is like me crossing over into Oklahoma or Kansas or Arkansas.

Now that I think about it, crossing into Arkansas is like crossing into another country