Objects in Packaging May Be Smaller than They Appear

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Dear Olay, I like your products. I really do. They work pretty much like you say they will and they sure beat the fancy stuff, price-wise.  It’s just … well, I always feel as if you’re trying to lull me into thinking I’m getting two or three times more than I actually am. And there’s no need for that. It makes you look sort of duplicitous and sneaky (see Survivor’s Boston Rob for an example of this type of behavior.) I’d be happy with packaging that actually was the size of the product I’m buying — happier, truthfully, than paying for and disposing of three or four times as much paper and plastic than is required. And why place the jar behind the clear plastic so that you can’t really see the top of the bottom of it? Do you think I’m going to believe the jar is bigger than it is? I mean, I can read. I know how much is in the jar. When you try to pull a bait-and-switch, it makes me mad because 1) you think I’m that gullible and 2) I fell for it a little. So, please, just make a box that’s the size of the jar and we’ll all be much happier. Thank you very much.

The Captain and Tendrils

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How 3-year-old grandson Captain Adorable went from hippie nature child to sweet little boy to cool rocker kid in 20 minutes …

We didn’t really realize how long the Captain’s hair was until the stylist combed it out — there was more than enough for a Locks of Love donation, which is what the Captain’s mommy wanted.
Oh so cute … this look says, “I use my inside voice and sit quietly in Sunday school.” And while the Captain can do those things (well, sometimes, anyway), they are not his favorite activities.
This is the Captain’s new look. It says, “I like worms, mud and climbing over anything that Mommy & Daddy say I can’t.” Bath time took care of the blue spikes, but they could reappear at any moment. 

The Captain’s mom, my Older Daughter, is having a hard time with the new ‘do. She was tired of people mistaking her little boy for a little girl — an understandable mistake, though — and going through more bottles of conditioner for his hair than she used on her own. But this is new. And different. It’s change. Her baby’s growing up. And mine, too. Sigh. 

 

Five Senses — Yum! (Sung to the Music from the Red Robin Ad)

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Oh my goodness! Husband and I recently had a wonderful meal at Five Senses restaurant in Murfreesboro, Tennessee quick overnight trip, and after a late and satisfying lunch on the way at Miss Annie’s Rustic Park Restaurant and Beer Garden in St. Joseph, Tennessee, it was later in the evening before we started thinking about eating again. (Oh, who am I kidding? When we’re on the road, I always think about eating.) The ‘Boro has some great choices, and since we still mourn the loss of downtown pizza place “Tomato, Tomato,” we picked its upscale sibling Five Senses. Or, rather, JP picked it and I agreed. It was either Five Senses or Red Robin, and while I always enjoy working my way down a tower of fried onion rings,  we made the correct decision here. We went with small plates instead of entrees and so started with three appetizers: fried oysters, Readyville Mill grits and a crabcake, all flavorful and with lovely sauces and little salads.  Then Husband JP had a wedge salad, which he was delighted to see came in deconstructed form so he could play with his food, and I had a salad with fresh local lettuce. And then, dessert. Oh my oh my.  Usually creme brulee is my go-to, but JP talked me out of it with a suggestion to try something new. Thank you, dear sweetie, because this trio of sorbets — pomegranate, mango and pink grapefruit on crispy lace cookies “glued” to the plate with homemade whipped cream — was absolutely divine. Every bite was cool, creamy, tart or sweet. And, honestly, to tell the truth, as much as I adore creme brulee and would eat it every day except that it’s like 10,000 calories per bite, the best part is the contrast of the crunchy sugar top with the smooth richness underneath. When that’s gone, it’s still good but bordering possibly on sameness. However, every bite of this sorbet — every single bite  — was an adventure. As it always is when I go out with my husband.

No Audience for Little Boys

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I’m not sure what our (at this point) almost-3-year-old grandson, Capt. Adorable, was thinking here at his mothers’-day-out Easter program after-party. He’s in the 2-year-old class, which was the youngest group to perform in the annual spring event  — and by “perform” I mean “stare bleakly out at the audience and try to get out of his chair numerous times.” He loved singing the oh-so-cute little songs about bunnies and chicks and birds and flowers AT HOME. But, sadly, singing before an adoring audience of Mommy and Daddy and Kacky did not prepare him for singing in front of an impersonal audience of hundreds of strangers who did not jump up and down and hug him in delight after he finished each tune. He stuck it out, however, even as he silently implored his mommy and me with his precious Capt. Adorable eyes to please take  him offstage to someplace where there were trucks and trains and other cool things. He actually sing and make the hand motions to one song. Out of about 12, that is. But, still. We thought the party treat of chocolate cupcakes would cheer him up, but it took awhile. Does this photo capture him contemplating revenge? Is he already rehearsing the words his 37-year-old self will tell his therapist: “Oh my gosh, when I was almost 3 my mother and my grandmother forced me on stage and I’ve never been the same since.”? Or perhaps he’s simply eyeing the party plate of the child sitting across from him. Actually, however, I’ve seen this look before. It means “I’m not happy and I want you to know it but I’m not going to go all 2-year-old on you and scream and cry and throw myself on the floor. I just want you to know that I’m extremely not happy. And you will pay.” I first got this look when he was about 9 months old and I put this darling hat and scarf on him one windy winter afternoon. He was not amused. Sort of, you know,  like when he’s made to sit on a stage and sing Easter songs.

Food: The Don’t-Go-Anywhere-Near-This and the What-Are-You-Waiting-For?

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Think fried. Think crunchy. Now think onions. Doesn’t that sound as if it would be a lovely combination — sort of like fried onion rings without all that pesky finger-licking grease?  That’s what I first thought when I spied these “Onion Chips” at the Fresh Market in Huntsville, Alabama, recently: “Chips made out of onions! Genius! Why didn’t someone think of this sooner?” But the answer to that question was clear after one bite: No one had done this before because it’s a horrible idea. At least this version is. You know how when you accidentally eat some of the inedible onion skin and it literally tastes like paper — paper that tastes really really bad? Imagine that in crispy form and you’ve got these onion chips. Yuck. It’s sad that somehow the concept of fried onions got messed up so badly. I couldn’t even think of anything to do with them after everybody I forced to taste them politely declined to have any more. I mean, there’s your sign, right there. I’d thought about grinding them up for breading crumbs or salad add-ons or something creative like that, but these don’t even deserve a second life.

So to offset such food awfullness, go out and buy/borrow/read/look at/check out Martha Foose’s new cookbook, “A Southerly Course.”  Martha is a Mississippi native and personifies the best of the Magnolia State — open-hearted, generous, adept at storytelling, skilled in the kitchen and wrapping it all up with a wry sense of humor and an appreciation of all the cultures and heritages that make up today’s South. And the recipes are absolutely wonderful: Bacon Crackers. Sugarcane Sweet Potatoes. Honey Pear Salad. Pickled Crawfish Tails. Summertime Spaghetti Squash. Peach Shortcake. Dandelion Cracklings. And the photos! Gorgeous food close-ups using heirloom china and vintage linens combined with hometown shots of the Foose folks  —  Martha even reveals her messy refrigerator door — make this cookbook seem both a food-feast and a friend’s scrapbook.   But “A Southerly Course” is more than a collection of user-friendly yummy recipes. Martha knows that the soul of good cooking is the love that goes into every spoonful — the sharing of good times with family and friends, the sharing of laughter around the table, the sharing of priceless memories with those you care about. Now, that is Southern cooking, Mississippi-style.

Corinth Home & Garden Tour

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This is our backyard. Oh, okay, that’s a downright lie. You know that our backyard actually is about the size of this patio table. And even if it were bigger, I still wouldn’t have the talent and skill to make our outdoor space look this cute and inviting. I mean, don’t you want to just pull up a chair and pour a nice cool drink? Love the bright red and green tablescape with lemon-yellow accents. So summery! This was only one of the dozens of inspiring “rooms” on this past weekend’s Corinth (Mississippi) Home & Garden Tour. Sponsored by Verandah House Friends, the annual tour raises money to restore Corinth’s 1857 Verandah House, a Greek Revival beauty where Confederate officers planned their Shiloh campaign. The tour included a flower show, a silent auction of amazing local art, a bake sale and a plant sale. But the stars, of course, were the homes and gardens. Three houses in one of Corinth’s historic districts were open to visitors, and it was a constant stream of admiring “ooh’s and ahh’s” as we peeked into interior rooms and wandered through outdoor spaces. I especially was impressed with the way the owners combined respect for their homes’ authenticity with modern individual touches — beloved family heirlooms were cozily comfortable sharing with cheerful 21st-century details. But, you know, that’s how we do it* in the South.

* I was going to say “that’s how we roll in the South,” but since that invariably would lead to “Roll, Tide!” references I went instead with a less inflammatory phrase. After all, this is a free and open space where we tolerate all opinions and where differences are welcome. On the other hand:  “War Eagle!”

Safe from the Storms

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For the past few days, we’ve had storm evacuees at our house: Older Daughter with our son-in-law and 3-year-old grandson, Capt. Adorable. Their neighborhood in Huntsville, Alabama, lost power and water from this past week’s deadly storms, so they headed east to stay with family for a few days. Husband JP and I got to have them first! Oh my cookies, you know it was blissdom to have the Captain (and his parents, of course) at our house. We played trains. We looked for trains. We crashed the wagon. (This only means I pull him around town in the red wagon I pulled his mom around in 25 years ago and I go really, really fast. When appropriate, of course.) We walked to the drugstore for an ice cream cone. We went to the doughnut shop and bought doughnuts. We chased the kitty cats. We ate oranges. We cracked pistachios. He taught me how to play Dinosaur Train games on the computer. He showed me a “castle” I didn’t even know was in our town. We went to the park. We went to a playground. We jumped, bounced, slid, tickled, crab-walked, ran and swung. I didn’t have time to do official workouts while they were here, but every morning I felt as if I’d done Jillian Michaels’ 30 Day Shred, Level No. 3. Twice. Consecutively. But also I got unlimited kisses, hugs and flowers from the Captain. It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a gorgeous bunch of hand-picked blossoms. That’s worth a few aches and pains, I think. And at the end of a week when unbelievably violent weather has, tragically, ripped families apart, I’m humbly grateful that it brought our family together in safety.

You Say “Goodbye” and I Say “Hello!”

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When my boss asked to meet me at a coffee shop a few days ago, I was surprised. She’s so busy at work she barely has time to drink coffee in the break-room, much less take an hour away from the office. I figured this had to be Something Big.
“I’m doing such a great job, she probably wants to give me more responsibilities,” I thought confidently. “Maybe a move up? Or probably the big bosses realize they’re underpaying me and finally are giving me that raise. Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”
But as we sat down with our coffee, she sighed and said, quickly, “I’m just going to say it: I’m sorry, but you’re fired.”
Gee, this sure wasn’t going how I expected.
And, OK, she didn’t say “you’re fired.” I think Donald Trump’s the only one who can say that. What she actually said was, “Things are tight. They’re cutting the budget and dropping some things, and one of those things is you. It’s about money, not you. And I’m so, so sorry.”
Because she’s my friend as well as my boss, I knew she meant that last part.
On the other hand, that first part sure sounded like “you’re fired” to me.
Now, I know times are bad. I know the economy’s weak and finances are rocky and folks have to tighten their belts. It’s just that nobody asked me if I wanted my own personal belt pulled in a few notches.
Because I was fine with it the way it was.
And here’s the thing: This was the first time I’ve ever been let go from a job. Ever. And this is what I learned: It’s a lousy no-good very bad feeling.
Family and friends told me to go with that feeling.
“Take time to grieve,” they said. “Rant. Rave. Cry. Vent. Get it out.”
It will be alright, they promised. After all, considering the devastation and destruction nature heaped on the South this past week, losing my job doesn’t rank anywhere near the end of anything significant.
But it is the end of something.
It’s the end of 15 years of writing my a column for the first newspaper I ever wrote a column for.
My job – the job getting the budget ax – was writing a weekly column as a freelancer for the TimesDaily newspaper in Florence, Alabama. So today is the last Friday that column appears in the TimesDaily print edition.
I’m still in the sad phase of The Three Steps of Grief in Losing Your Newspaper Job.  (By the way, those phases are 1) “I’m Really Really Mad,” 2) “I’m Really Really Sad” and 3) “Can Some of You Young Whippersnappers Show Me How To Use the Twitters?”) Hanging out with readers every week for almost 15 years in the pages of the TimesDaily has been an honor, a privilege – and a blast. I’m going to miss it. Heck, I already do.
And if you’re here at my blog because you read about it my final TimesDaily column, welcome! So glad you’re here.
Let’s sit and reminisce for a minute.
We sure have had fun during these years, haven’t we? We’ve laughed and cried together, grieved and celebrated. You stuck with me through weddings, graduations and band-booster meetings. We went shoe shopping. You helped me raise two daughters and four cats. Most recently, you shared husband hints to help me train the man who finally succumbed to my feminine wiles after decades of bachelorhood.
Thank you for that.
Thank you for everything.
And since there are plenty of adventures ahead, I hope you’ll keep visiting here. You don’t have to sign up or register or pay for anything or be bombarded with ads for stuff you don’t want to buy, so pour a cup of coffee and let’s keep the conversation going.
You won’t believe what 3-year-old grandson Capt. Adorable said the other day!

Storm Damage

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Thanks to all who have so kindly asked if my family and I are OK, after the deadly storms that swept through the South during the past couple of days. We are so thankful that family and friends made it through. In  the towns where my husband and I live and work — the Shoals, Alabama; and Corinth and Tupelo, Mississippi, — there’s only minor damage from flooding and downed tree limbs. In Huntsville, Alabama, Older Daughter and her family are without power, and they lost tree limbs and parts of their back-yard fence. Of course, other places were not so lucky. A couple of nearby small communities are completely devastated and the death toll is climbing. Please join us in praying for those who are grieving and suffering today.

Is It Live? Or Is It A Pumpkin?

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I just want to know: Is it the pumpkin that’s live? Or the bar? And how does one tell if a pumpkin is live, anyway?