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Showing posts from July, 2010

C: Indulgence

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V and I had a wonderful Saturday!  Last night my two young nieces spent the night with me, the plan being to visit our local Farmer’s Market early, before the heat set in too much.  I invited MIL and my mother to attend—both declined, having heard the triple-digit weather report and knowing the energy and stamina of my nieces… V, the girls and I were down there by 8:30, and the heat was rising already.  We breakfasted on pastry and French toast (the girls) then perused the lovely display of fresh vegetables and fruit and the array of  other goods in small booths.  Mom had “ordered” some locally-grown okra and tomatoes.  She likes to make this stewed okra-tomato thing ( ugh ! I have to have my okra fried or in gumbo).  We found the former but discovered that there are NO local tomatoes.  The story goes that the heat here has caused them to split, so vine-ripened ones had to be trucked in.  Mom had to make do with tomatoes from the next state. After o ur produce shopping, we heade

C: Artemis of the Back Yard

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A couple posts back, here , I wrote about my cat, Sasha: she who lives on my back porch and reigns supreme in the fenced back yard.  As I mentioned, she is a shy sweetie. But Sasha is much more than that.  She is a killing machine…. At my back door I often find little offerings of small animals, laid like little sacrifices on the altar of the cat-food-bringer.  Usually they are birds or mice.  Occasionally there will be a small rabbit.  As disgusting as this is to me, I realize that these are tokens of Sasha’s affection.  Just doing her part… Tonight I heard a little distress call from my back porch just outside my bedroom window, and I knew that Sasha was, again, plying her skill.  Artemis of the back yard. The sound raises my blood pressure a bit—like hearing a crying baby.  I can’t tell for sure what type of animal is in Sasha’s clutches, but I can tell that it is too late for me to do it any good.  The cries are weak and I know from experience that if I open my back doo

C: The Times, They are Changing

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Notice to those who have designs on snatching my purse:  There’s never any cash there!  If you get my cards, I’ll cancel them pronto…you may as well give it up.  The only thing that will be accomplished is aggravation to me as I go through the rigmarole to replace my identification and credit cards. I remember just a few years ago first hearing the talk that we were moving to a “cashless society.”  I scoffed at the idea.  I’m eating my words; I think I’m there.  I never have any “folding money” in my pocket these days.  And when I do, it is likely because I ran by the ATM machine, not because I held out from a deposit or cashed a check, like the old days. Remember asking the grocer if you could write a check for $20 more than the grocery bill?  I used to do it so that I’d have money for lunch or gas.  Doesn’t happen for me anymore.  I just swipe my debit card instead.  Everywhere. Just the other day I was in the bank grabbing a deposit slip form and thinking, “ I never seem to ha

C: Pampered to Death

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She was the lone sister left at home to care for her widowed father, selflessly.  She had given up college to do so.  Her father needed her, after the long battle with her mother’s illness. When she was in her mid-thirties, much to her surprise, a gentleman began to court her.  He was a big fish in their small town; he spoke in public for the local chapter of his preferred political party.  He was a lawyer and accountant; a man of substance with the freedom of a professional office in his home.  By this time he was divorced from the mother of his four almost-grown children, all of whom lived in another county a couple hours away.  He was fifteen years older than her. After several years of storybook courtship filled with trips to stage plays, dinner in fine restaurants she had never before experienced, and surprise gifts, they married.  As a wedding gift, his mother gave the new couple a nice five-acre tract sliced from her larger holdings.  Our girl threw her savings account int

C: Sweet Homecomings

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Like Dorothy, I have learned that there’s no place like home!  Last weekend I spent one night away from home with Mom, MIL and Aunt E.  My own bed felt so good when I came back. But, it’s not just my familiar bed that beckons me back.  No, it’s the warm greeting I receive from those who await me: my pets! Last Saturday, as we were making were way home, my phone rang.  It was my son: “ Mom,” he said, “ The weirdest thing…the dogs won’t come home!”   Now, let me give you the back-story: My two dogs, Chili and Scout, are usually home whenever I’m home.  When I leave for work each morning, they immediately head to Grandmom’s just up the driveway toward the road from me, where they spend most of the day. MIL spoils them, letting them in and out of her house and providing treats. Wh en I return, the dogs greet me at MIL’s and watch to see if I am turning in to visit her or if I’m passing her turn and going straight home.  Wherever I go, they go. Friday, when I went to pick up

C: The Right Response

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Yes, I’m on a Mel Gibson roll, here.  This is the third post in a row which has sprung from his shenanigans (see these links for the first and second ).  I have a bully pulpit, here, and I’m fairly elbowing V out of the way to write my thoughts.  Al Gore did me such a favor by inventing this internet thing… There is so much that this episode has stirred up in me.  I think that one benefit of celebrity for us “nobodies”  is that famous people can play out their dramas in public and portray life in a magnified way so that sometimes we can pick through the drama and learn something. Mel’s girlfriend, Oksana is in a pickle, isn’t she?  She’s saddled with an aging, crumbling man (because when you have a child with someone, you are saddled with them) and she’s saddled her little daughter with one, too. While I am on Oksana’s team when it comes to exposing and resisting domestic violence, I cannot help but point out her own complicity in getting herself into this situation.  Mel was,

C: A Necessary Permission

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Some of the news reports on Mel Gibson’s tirade, which was addressed in my last post , has prompted me to repeat to you something that I say to my clients (especially women) all the time.  As a family law attorney, I work in a field that is intimately involved with the subject of domestic violence , I want to make something clear: If you are abused, it is OKAY to document the abuse in any legal way you can.   V told me today that she had just heard a discussion—between women, no less—that Oksana was somehow wrong to tape Gibson in his tirade.  Let me say this again: the fact that she had the tape recorder rolling and continued to speak with him and let him rant is OKAY . Do you hear me?  If you are in an abusive relationship, it is OKAY to trap these guys at their game by any legal means. Oksana was successful in “setting up” Gibson (to her great credit) because she had endured life with him.  Don’t you see?  This only documents what she has already endured.  She k

C: Mel Gibson - You knew This Was Coming, Right?

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Well, it happened twice yesterday…first, my sister comes in to work and says that my brother-in-law “… is waiting on your post about Mel Gibson .”  To be truthful, I have been so swamped that I was only peripherally aware that Braveheart had been in the news again.  Then, last night on the phone, V says, “ Haven’t you heard the tapes? Oh, C, you should !”  Well, no…. But I have now.  Oh, dear!  This man is so off…he is a danger to this  girlfriend and to his little baby.  That picture above is of the couple in happier days.  If you notice, she is sporting what Mel calls her “alien bodies” which is his demeaning reference to her breast implants-probably one of the very attributes that attracted him in the first place. If you care to hear the second tape, it is here , but I warn you: It is strong and vile.  He should never be left alone with his child; he is not in control of himself, and there is no telling what he might do.  Talk about doors unhinging… Mel is now going on 55

C: Flygirlusa Makes Me Remember The Cuban Missile Crisis

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I was perusing flygirlusa and she jogged my memory about the Cuban Missile Crisis with her post.  I’m really telling my age, here, because that was back in September 1962; and, if you must know, I was 10 years of age. For you spring chickens, I suppose I should explain:  John Kennedy was our president; Nikita Khrushchev was prime minister of Russia.  We kids were a little afraid of this grandfatherly-looking prime minister because just two years prior he had banged his shoe on the podium in a display before the United Nations; just a few years before, we were told, he had promised to “bury” us!  Clearly he was the bad guy here. Our guys found out that there were Russian missile pads on Cuba, just 90 miles south of the US.  At the time, Russia was who we Americans feared most.  There was a tense month or so, after which the Russians dismantled and removed the missiles in exchange for the US’s promise never to invade Cuba.  As I was looking at Wikipedia about this, I learned som

C: Road Trip Report

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We’re back, after one night on the road.  MIL, Aunt E, my Mom and I took off for Branson, Mo. yesterday (Friday) to see The Dixie Stampede.  Aunt E (like me!) has a life-long love of horses.  We thought she’d enjoy seeing the Stampede, which is performed mostly on horseback.  We had a grand time, meandering up through North Arkansas and back. Below is a not-so-good picture (sorry about my lack of photo skills) of Aunt E enjoying seeing some of the star performers up close—such beautiful horses! Is it okay for me to say that I don’t particularly like Branson?  We had fun  taking Aunt E to the Stampede, alright, but I just find Branson, itself, a bit kitschy…well, more than a bit.  But we enjoyed zipping in and seeing the show and zipping out. We came back down through Eureka Springs to drive around and see all the Victorian homes.  The hilly, cobbled walking is a bit much for my octogenarian travel mates, so we toured in the car but still had a grand time doing it.  Here is some