Carp!

I wish the title were something inspiring like carpe diem! which we all know from Dead Poets Society. Or even Carpy Derby, a fish festival my Uncle Bob used to run near Binghamton [NY]. I'd be satisfied with Joe Carp, for that matter (as is Steven), but alas, the title is simply Carp! because I want to complain.

I was at the cat food store, since I'm not allowed around dog food for the nonce, and I was in line behind a young mother with a son. The kid wanted her attention, and kept pulling on her clothes. Her jeans were really tight, but he found a belt loop he could yank, to no avail. She was on a cell phone, which is why she didn't have enough extra attention to give to her son.

Keep in mind that I'm not a mother, so my comments should carry twice the weight of someone who actually knows what s/he's talking about.

But really, before cell phones, at least the mother could snap at the kid to shut. up. right. now. Or she could have threatened him with some privilege being withdrawn. Or, heck, she might even have listened to him and they could've spent five minutes looking at the rescue kitties. With her cell phone, though, she barely had enough energy or brain cells or whatever it takes to deal with whoever she was talking to and the clerk, who needed the Magic Cat Food Store Card and who wanted her to sign the receipt.

Yes. She could have been a pediatrician saving some child's life over the phone, but, again, today's title is Carp! so maybe you should just shut. up. right. now.

I was at Sears purchasing an emergency tire. I had just noticed that my right rear tire was bald as a pancake, so I ran out and got the tire. There's not much to do around a tire shop, even one near Tyrone Mall, so I took my book to the waiting room. A woman who'd removed her red cowboy boots was talking loudly (of course) on a cell phone (of course). The television was squealing and yammering from a high corner. I tried to turn off the TV, but I couldn't find the switch. I would have settled for a mute button, but that was lost to me, too. All I could do was find a channel with snow, which actually worked pretty well. When I turned around to find a seat, the woman glared at me and said, "I was watching that!"

"But you're on the phone!" I exclaimed, as you can see from my exclamation point.

"I can listen to the phone with my ears and watch the TV with my eyes," she said.

I held up my book and said, "You mean I have to listen to you and the TV?"

Apparently so.

The only way I could walk peacefully out the door -- after restoring the barefoot cowgirl's channel, of course -- was by recognizing that I was the freak in that scene. Most people really can watch TV and chat on the phone. I can't.

But I'll bet I could watch TV and carp on the phone ...

The Black Eye Quiz

You know we all put our best face forward on these social networking sites, so when you start getting dizzy from looking at my black eye (and my frizzing gray hair and my sagging right eye and the snarl lines around my mouth), just glance over at the good photo that lives on this page before continuing to read this blog. Think of the good photo as the sherbet served at restaurants to cleanse your ocular palate, as it were ... not that either one of us has ever been to a restaurant that did that.

Are you still with me? Good. So how did I get that black eye?

Mike gave it to me because I want to paint the original tongue-in-groove real wood paneling at Dinky Manor, my new house. Michele did it because ditto. Gower did it because ditto, but he added, "It's your heritage!" It's not my heritage. It's not even his heritage. He's just a second-generation Floridian.

Let's move on to other options.

Mittens gave it to me because I continue to feed Nero, and to aid and abet and otherwise nurture his existence, which I also do for her, which obviously doesn't hold any weight.

Time Insulation gave me the ol' shiner because I couldn't schedule the crawl-space or attic insulation without first conferring with Dave. I'm pretty sure that my friend Steven schedules this sort of thing for a living. Now I know why he always wants to quit his job. First the AC guys have to go in, then the solar tube needs insertion, then the insulation can go in, but that's just for the attic. There are other reasons the crawl-space can't be insulated now, including, but not limited to, electrical work, plumbing work, and spiders with opposable thumbs.

Rhett because, although I have gathered new paint (Mediterranean Blue, Pool Blue, Passion, Kelly Green, and Apple Tart) and have procured another new mailbox, I still haven't started painting. The first two attempts were so disastrous, I had to scrape the paint off and start again.

As long as we're in that vein, perhaps James held me down while his young daughter Jamie kicked me in the eye because I said I'd rewrite their story -- and I will! I will! -- but I just haven't gotten into it yet.

Val and David smacked me because of my political views.

Dave did it because I haven't found the black-and-white floor tile I want in the kitchen.

Do you think Small Adventures Bookshop did it because I was too fast in my turnaround for new business cards? No. Of course not, but I had to add something positive here.

Okay. How about this? How about a can of dog food fell on my face?

Spring Ain't Sprung

I'm dressed in what is by now my normal winter at-home ensemble: black leggings, black socks, black sandals (I'm sorry); a long-sleeved, ankle-length lavender nightgown, an item I go many years without wearing at all; and a black-cream-and-brown below-the-knee caftan. Today I added a yellow-and-orange sarong wound around my head and throat, believing that most of my heat leaves through the top of my head if not out my nostrils like a dragon. I feel like a pioneer woman -- from the Middle East.

My point is, it's still freepin' cold here on the west coast of Florida -- at least in my apartment. I have to say, though, that I'm getting used to it. I'm not comfortable with the cold itself, but I am starting to pull on all these clothes without complaining about it.

Okay. So Spring ain't sprung, the grass ain't riz, but guess just where my hy'cinth iz! Yes! Last year, I planted the hyacinth I'd bought at Publix. I stuck my face in the purple blooms and inhaled the scent of home. Oh my. I think our cold winter made it all possible. I am thrilled on a daily basis. I wonder if I'll dig them up -- there are three -- and bring them with me when I move (eleven blocks east and fifteen blocks north) or if I'll leave them for future renters. I suspect the former, selfish wench that I am.

My friend Fernando (from Colombia) says his mother tosses out tulips all the time because they're overrunning her St. Pete lawn. Really? I hadn't known that bulb plants could flourish without a hard freeze. Well, here I am with my concrete thumb, thinking I should know all about plants.

Fragrant flowers aren't the only new thing I've discovered this season. Look what a routine trip to Walgreens yielded:

Yikes, huh? I can't quite put my finger on what's so amazing about a chocolate cross or praying hands, but I am dumbfounded. It seems sacrilegious, and yet it is a nice melding of the secular and the Christian, and it's doing it with chocolate, so how bad can that be?

On the other hand, someone told me they'd bought chocolate Jesuses at a church once. Man, I'd love one of those! Talk about "This is the body"! Talk about becoming One!

And the last of the newness is MotoBling -- mobile bling. Michele still prefers Mo'bling because it suggests mobile bling and more bling, but since I'm a missionary for artcars, I must insist upon MotoBling. I want people to buy a handful of these painted magnetic-sheeting squares and put them on their cars in patterns. If they won't paint their cars, they can at least decorate them.

I scanned these Oms instead of taking actual photos. The colors aren't true, so you'll have to see them in the flesh this Saturday, March 13, at The Longhouse (www.longhouse.info) from 11 to 4, during the Pink Flamingo Home Tour. The Longhouse is not only celebrating five years of delivering great massages (among other things) but also the grand opening of Longhouse Yoga right next door. I'll pitch my canopy and sell tee shirts, mailboxes, and MotoBling. Much of the latter is geared toward yogites, but Om is good for everyone. There will be free organic and vegan food by King Natural Catering Company (727 631-1314). You can tour the facilities of both buildings, meet the teachers and practitioners of various disciplines, participate in yoga demonstrations, and enter free drawings for great gifts including but not limited to a full set of chakra-colored lotus MotoBling by the verbose local artist, moi.

Positively Republican

That's a bumper sticker on a car that's often in the parking lot of my Walgreens. Someday, if I'm lucky, I'll bump into the driver.

I remember thinking kindly of Eisenhower, perhaps only because he was the first president I was aware of, and I believed, as a child, that presidents were right and good. Or heck, maybe Ike was right and good.

I assume I started viewing Republicans as absolute other around Nixon's time, but I wasn't always like that. I remember hanging Kennedy-Johnson posters with my best friend Linda Seth. She was Catholic: of course she was going to vote for Kennedy. Or would have if we weren't ten. The point is, I wasn't against Nixon. I was for Kennedy.

By the time W came to steal the election, my stomach hurt every time I heard his voice. I had breakfast the other day with a friend who couldn't stand his face. She covered her own eyes as she said it, just as I cover my ears when I say my bit. The repulsion is real. Perhaps it's just -- "just" -- that we've made him stand for everything that's stupid and violent, dangerous and arrogant in this country.

In this country? I almost changed that to "in the government," but these days, I see all Republicans as Bushites: stupid, violent, dangerous, arrogant. I can't stand that they're pro-life and pro-war. Just how does that work? I can't stand that they're big fat Christians, but killing is somehow okay. The bumper sticker WHO WOULD JESUS BOMB? doesn't even strike them as sarcasm. They stroke their beards and think about it. Hm ... who would Jesus bomb? Let's see, we got them A-rabs, of course, and maybe a buncha Jews ...

I got a mass email today with a really funny joke about a Muslim (of course) terrorist (of course). Our American forefathers, in this hilarious scenario, greet him at the Pearly Gates, although how such an evil person made it to heaven is not explained. These righteous Americans take turns committing violence upon him (yes! in heaven!), while quoting the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and their own historical speeches (although not the bit about religious freedom, of course). When the poor man is finally left alone, weeping, an angel appears. The Muslim cries bitterly that this was not what he was promised. "I told you there would be seventy-two Virginians waiting for you in heaven," quoth the angel. "What did you think I said?"

Heh.

I burst into flames when I read that, of course. Well, the email was from a woman in a group of friends from a conservative rural area. Does that also mean Christian? Probably. The kind that hate? Yeah. This whole God Is Love thing that Christians like to promote, based on their own holy text, is nonsense to most of them. Or maybe it's more like a selective love. God loves Christians and whites, for sure. I suppose He loves men more than women, brunettes over blondes, swords over ploughshares. I'm pretty sure He just doesn't have quite enough love for gays, though. Or liberals.

Enough.

I know I have at least one (1) Christian reader here who actually embodies that God Is Love thing. And I know there's at least one (1) Republican, based on that hopeful bumper sticker, who is probably merely conservative, not stupid, violent, dangerous, or arrogant. She (I'm so sure she's a she!) wouldn't refer to her president using a racial slur, even though she may have preferred McCain. So there's hope, right?

Mostly what I want is for me to quit being so sure that all Republicans are idiots. I can't stand it that I'm right there in the black-or-white, either-or world, but I am. I can subscribe to the theory that we're all multi-faceted and that we shouldn't be judged (if at all) by just one facet. What if you judged me only by my near-total inability to find my car in a parking lot? But if you believe in torture, then how we are in the world -- our orientation -- is so very different that I don't know if we could find things to talk about at lunch. If I know that you automatically think black people are less than white people, how can we even chat about books? Don't our politics reflect our core values? I don't know how I can enjoy your (non-religious, non-political) humor while also knowing that you think Palin is a fine example of American womanhood.

Deleting without reading emails from certain "friends" doesn't seem to be the answer. I'm already an ostrich in so many ways. Right now, I'm incapable of calm, political discussion, and I may always be so. I had to take a psychological test when I worked at The Widget Factory. It turned out that in all my reactions, I was never "neutral" or "moderate." I was either "passionate" or "extreme." That doesn't sound like a good dinner companion, does it?

The Big Game

I worked fifteen years for America's Favorite Junkmail®, so I know that Joe's Bar & Grill down the street cannot advertise any "Superbowl" specials. Oh no. That would bring a swoop of attorneys* down on his beer-soaked wooden floors. Now, if he spends the huge dollars and arranges licensing with the Superbowl boys, then it's okay, but those people are few -- and wealthy beyond belief. Therefore, poor Joe has to advertise "The Big Game" specials.

Each year at the junkmail factory, we'd receive a memo reminding us not to type "Superbowl," even if the advertiser did. They'd have to fax us a copy of the license to get The S-Word on a coupon, and I personally never saw one.

For some reason, I thought that law applied only to print advertising, but this year I noticed a couple bars with "The Big Game" on their marquees, and then I went to Publix ... on the day before The Big Game, which I'll never do again.

The place was so packed, I very nearly had to park across the street. The store was full of signs about The Big Game. Drinks for The Big Game. Snacks for The Big Game. Meat, potatoes, side dishes, napkins, cakes, balloons, and feminine hygiene for The Big Game. Okay. Maybe not, but the whole store seemed to have its very existence rooted in the idea of The Big Game. The PA system was full of it, too. At checkout, I gloated to the clerk. "Hah! You can't say 'Superbowl,' but I can!" A department manager overheard me, and we smiled and rolled our eyes in insider sisterhood.

So here's my dream. I want everyone to be so paranoid about saying or typing or even thinking "Superbowl" that we as a nation end up calling it The Big Game. Hah. Let's see 'em copyright that!

_____________

*It's like a pride of lions or a pod of whales or -- closer -- a murder of crows.

Finding Beauty in Death

I know few of you northerners had sympathy for us southerners during the cold weather at the beginning of this month, but perhaps you could dig deep and feel sorry for our plants. Most of them really suffered from the freeze, although I can't tell yet if the damage is permanent. René says this isn't the time for pruning. We're to leave everything alone and see what develops in the spring, which should be in another week or two.

In the meantime, look at how gorgeous these palms are. True, those copper fronds are probably dead, but what colors! In the sun, they're golden. In the shade, bronze. And the plant itself is still alive. I have a cactus of some sort, thanks to Vicki, that's now reddish, too, thanks to the temperature. Based on what happened to a frozen aloe a couple years ago, I think the cactus will resume its green, given time.

Now here's a picture of Silver who, despite the title, is not dead. He's an outdoor cat from down the street who occasionally takes an afternoon nap on my bed and usually shows up once a day for fish. I woke up one recent morning and opened the door to the porch. There was Silver in a chair and there -- stepping backward then -- was something slightly spongy underfoot. It was a three-legged squirrel, an apparent thank-you gift from Silver, for those soft naps and the daily Meow Mix.

The stump seemed pretty well healed, and there wasn't any blood anywhere; nor was there life. For all I know, Silver just happened upon a fresh corpse and decided to cash in on it. Well, why not?

I figured I'd pick it up like I pick up after Benji. I'd put my hand into a plastic bag, snatch up the poor squirrel, and then push the bag down off my forearm for a tidy package. Alas. I turn out to be much too squeamish for that. I couldn't stand the idea of feeling the squirrel's not yet rigid body with just the thinnest of plastic between us. I had to put on a big yellow Playtex glove and, holding four folded-over paper towels (that's eight layers now), lift the squirrel by the merest last hair on its tail, and lower it nose-first into the bag, trying very hard not to watch, yet wanting, at all costs, to have perfect aim.

Interestingly, I also had to make noises. I suppose it was just my version of whistling in the dark, but I had to make eewing and gakking sounds, and I had to gibber out loud. "Oh man. Silver. Jeeze. Thanks but really. Yuck. Ouch. What was that? Aw man."

Whenever I watch suspense movies, I picture myself in her -- always her -- shoes, and I know I could never keep my mouth shut while the demented stalker searches for me, muttering and panting while he tosses his knife from one scarred, rough hand to the other. I could tolerate about four seconds of hiding behind a post in a midnight parking garage before I'd burst into the open, hands in the air, shrieking, "Here I am! Here I am!"

I was going to take a picture of the dead squirrel but decided against it, even though it wasn't especially disturbing. (You're welcome, flahoos.) Instead, I'll include a picture of its initial resting place, a sort of funeral parlor. Or maybe this is the critter version of the Catholic Purgatory (assuming they've still held onto that little bit of dogma). Here's where the squirrel waits until it ascends into that Great Landfill in the Sky.

Two friends later told me I should've put the body in a public waste basket, like at Walgreens or by the Beach Bazaar downtown. That way, it would be taken away the very same day, instead of having to wait the whole weekend for Pickup Monday. So that's the Body Disposal Tip for today. You're welcome.

Parallelism

This is America, after all, so we'll assume that Whitco Insurance doesn't actually sell people, even though that's what its sign says. I understand that the sign isn't big enough to hold the word "insurance," or that they may have run out of S's. I know Mister Whitco is trusting Gulfport's citizens to use that phenomenon of closure to add "insurance" in their minds as they drive by on the way to Walgreens to get some Moose Tracks.

I don't mind any of that, but I do mind it that Whitco also sells "car" insurance. I mind the inconsistency of language here. Why is one type of insurance for an inanimate object (a car) and the other for an animate object (a person who owns a home)? Why not "car insurance" and "house insurance"? Or "carowners insurance" and "homeowners [insurance]"?

Unbelievably, I'm not even complaining about "homeowners" being one word, or about the lack of a possessive apostrophe. No. I'm grousing about the disorderly usage.

I think it has to do with euphemisms. Really now, you don't buy a "home." You buy a "house." Only love and cinnamon -- not insurance -- make a house a home. But the whole real estate industry is about making the structures we live in sound better than they really are. Hence, "cozy" really means "cramped."

And speaking of synonyms, let raise our voices (in unison, of course) to wish Peter Mark Roget a happy birthday. Since he was born in 1779, he won't be smiling and blushing while we sing, but his famous Thesaurus, first published in 1852, has been in print ever since then, so perhaps his spirit is coloring with pride at such an accomplishment.

I think we should all celebrate this occasion -- observe, commemorate, keep, remember, solemnize, extol, honor, praise, eulogize, glorify, exalt, toast -- by using as many synonyms as possible, all day long, in everything we do. Repeat, reiterate, reassert. Another fun activity would be to ponder the fact that there's no synonym for synonym.