AN OPEN LETTER TO ANY EVILDOER OF EVIL WHO IS HEADED MY WAY WITH THE INTENTION OF PLUNDER, PILLAGE, RAPE OR MURDER

I guess I could best describe myself as passive rather than pacific.

It is something that I have always accepted about myself. I just don't have it in me to search for fresh water or canned goods during a nuclear winter. (My one concession to survivalism is that I have always insisted on having a hand-cranked can opener rather than an electric one. That way, after a world-wide disaster that knocks out electricity, I would be able to open the canned goods that I have. But after they ran out, that's it - I'm not about to go scuffling around looking for more.)

If the bomb dropped, I wanted it to drop right on top of me so that I could be incinerated instead of lingering around beset with radiation sickness. I am thankful that my children are at the point now where they can use their wits to survive on their own. I used to feel bad for them that they had a mother who would just sit down and die.

But no more. I can't do much about a bomb or a chemical cloud, but in a personal encounter, look out.

I am not physically fit so hand to hand combat is out for me, and I guess I wouldn't be too good against a scimitar in a knife fight. So I want a gun. And not one of those little ladies' guns, either. I need one of those big boo-ya ones.

If you think you will gain points in your afterlife for taking me out, I can guarantee that you will be facing your 70 virgins without a pubic area.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

There's a little costume event at work today.

I am going as The Soup Lady.

IF YOU FAIL TO HAVE A (SEATING) PLAN,
THEN YOU PLAN TO FAIL
Countdown to Thanksgiving: 23 Days

It's going to be a big group.

Two groups, actually. So in order for things to go well, we need to have a stategy for the seating. If we leave it to chance, it could have comdeic, but aggravating, consequences. Tina put it so well when she said: "The guests must be placed strategically. The hard of hearing men must be alternated with the hearing---otherwise the conversation starts to play out like the game truth-----where each person whispers to the next and by the time it gets to the last the original thought has long been lost."

The women, although they can hear, keep forgetting what they were talking about. So they are a perfect fit - the men won't realize they are listening to "...uh...uh..." and the women won't feel rushed to come up with the end of the sentence. The burden of socialization will fall on the oppressed teenagers. They will shoulder the responsibility for filling in the missing words and answering the crabby "What are they saying?"

But the best reason, and our ulterior motive for using place cards is this: maybe they will get the hint that they should be sitting down at the dining room table, not jamming up the kitchen. Tina discovered a long time ago that that taking the chairs away from the kitchen table helps in this situation, so we'll do that , too.

Whatever it takes.

THE LINE FORMS TO THE RIGHT, BABE

I apologize to Bobby Darin.

I was wrong about him. He was one swingin' cat. Really, a masterful song stylist.

A. WORD. A. DAY.

Oh no. Debridement.

I had a half-baked plan to start working the Word of the Day into my posts. I thought it would expand my vocabulary and sharpen my storytelling ability by forcing me to utilize words that I wouldn't normally come up with by myself.

Todays' word is debridement - just my luck. This is a word that I come across all too frequently and sometimes have to use in my writing, but in other places, not here. If the day comes that I start using that wordset over here, I'm closing down shop.

JUST LIKE A BIG OLE STICK OF WRIGLEY'S

Bah. Monday morning.

I really must change the timer on the thermostat. The heat hasn't come on to the daytime setting yet and it's a pretty chilly deal to leave the warm bed and head towards that cold, cold bathrroom.

But once I got there, I shut myself in and turned on the hot water, and took a long steamy shower with my new Minty Fresh soap. This stuff is so good that between the shower and the computer, I may not even make it downstairs today.

What a shame the coffeepot is down there.

FROM ATLANTIC TO PACIFIC, THE TRAFFIC IS TERRIFIC
Countdown to Thanksgiving: 24 days

I went to Kohl's department store yesterday to take advantage of their One-Day-Only Super Sale, which turned out to be their Every-Week-Usual-Sale.

If you exclude the picture frames and the novelty hairbands, there is not much to get excited about in that store. It is the type of store that always has piles of "their own" seasonal merchandise in stategic locations near the checkouts. They have already started with the books, ornaments and CDs for Christmas. While I was killing time waiting for the inevitable price checks, I picked up a Songs of the Season CD and scanned the playlist. It was a compliation of well-known artists doing B-list holiday songs.

Out of 12 tracks, 10 were Christmas songs. One was Bobby Darin singing "More". What holiday is that for? And it's the end-of-the-line Darin, too. Definately in the terminal cardiac patient years - I'm pretty sure he was propped up in the recording studio.

But the 12th track was the ultimate Thanksgiving song: "There's No Place Like Home For the Holidays" by Perry Como.

Now I have always been partial to this song. Maybe it's because I first heard it as a small child and got thrilled at the mention of my home state:

"I met a man who lived in Tennesee
and he was headed for
Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie."

That is the Thanksgiving part, right there: pumpkin pie. Now you could sing this song as you are driving home for Christmas or Hanukkah, too, but the pumpkin pie part gives it away as a Thanksgiving song. I remembered this song as slow and wistful, but it only starts out that way. After the first verse, a skiffling drum starts up, some Andrew Sisters types start doo-wah doo-wahing in the background, and the arrangement could be right at home in a Vegas Lounge act.

All of this behind a cornball sentimentality of the highest degree:

"Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays.
Oh, no matter how far away you roam.
If you want to be happy in a million ways,
for the holidays you can't beat home sweet home."

AN ANNOUNCEMENT

I'm changing my name from bobthecorgi to BobtheCorgi.

React accordingly.

DO YOU THINK THIS IS NICE?

Today, in a very reasonable manner, I was communicating with Mr. Sami about the list of chores to be done today. It turns out we have different priorites for the order of the tasks to be done. As I was restating my case, he squinted his eyes and said this:

"Dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dit."

I do believe he was imitating me.

So I added an extra job to his list.

BREAKING NEWS BULLETIN
Countdown To Thanksgiving: 25 days

It has just been revealed that The Other Cheek's mother - a woman who is not afraid to picket a used car dealership dressed as a lemon; she who has been engaged in life-long skirmishes with the Pennsylvania Railroad; the originator of the phrase "I'll kill you till you're dead!" - will be contributing her most excellent Poppy Seed Roll and Nut Roll to the dessert buffet.

In this age of political correctness and sensitivity to diversity, one must never make sweeping generalizations based on ethnicity. But I am telling you this right now: the Russians are born with a talent for dough.

It cannot be denied. Any woman (maybe any man as well - so far there is no evidence) who has even one ounce of Russian blood can roll out the most perfect breads, patries, noodles - for anything that involves dough, they have the golden touch. The Other Cheek has been blessed with this ability as well, for she is queen of Christmas Cookie Land. Unlike this pitiable writer, who valiently produces a good-looking Easter Bread every year, but it is unrisen and has the same mass density as a concrete block. Kind of a mixed message for Easter.

And so I eagerly anticipate the pleasure of baked goods from the hands of a woman with Russian blood.

PLOG WATCH

I added a new feature to The Joy of Soup called From The Mailbag. Here is where I will be adding correspondence from readers who want to share their recipes and stories about soup.

The first Soup Guest is none other than my old friend Dave. His grandmother's recipe for Sauerkraut Soup is now posted.
Warning: Contains the phrase Sauerkraut Jello!

Say, that gives me an idea! Maybe I could start a special section devoted to Unusual Jello Recipes. Let's see, first there was Beef Jello, and now this ... hmmmmm, this could work.

HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Countdown To Thanksgiving: 26 days

In order to get into the proper frame of mind for the upcoming holiday, I strongly recommend that you watch a movie called Home For The Holidays.

The storyline: it's comedy about adult children of a dysfunctional who return to the family home for a strained Thanksgiving reunion.You can read an on-line review for a more detailed synopsis of the plot. But I would like to point out three great moments of pure truth that make it worthwile to see this film repeatedly.

Great Moment # 1: The eccentric aunt (Geraldine Chaplin, looking quite fetching in a necklace made of Fruit Loops cereal) sponaneously bursts into a reedy-voiced rendition of "We Gather Together" in the middle of a conversation at the dinner table. The family suspends their conversation, gives each other agonized looks, but it is clear they accept and make allowances for this odd family member.

Great Moment # 2: The aunt is recounting a memory from 40 years earlier, when the boyfriend (now husband) of her sister kissed her, unbeknownst all these years to the wife (Anne Bancroft), who cranes her neck and looks daggers at the husband (Charles Durning), who dismisses the importance of the event with an eager-to-get-past-the moment shrug and gesture. Watch that moment - it is perfection.

Great Moment # 3: The uptight and repressed younger sibling in the family leaves enraged after the ruination of the special Nutri-bird she has brought to the dinner. The older sibling (Holly Hunter) follows her home to make peace. She finds her sister (Cynthis Stevenson) on the Stairmaster, determindly working up a sweat and unable to stop exercising to discuss the incident. The look of steeled determination as she acknowledges and does her best to conquer her extreme disappointment in life is honestly revealing and frightening in its intensity.

After you see this film, you will then be in a the proper mind set for your own holiday gathering.

No family is perfect.

AN ETHICAL QUESTION

How many free ink pens should you take from a pile set out by a vendor of pharmaceuticals when you visit his display?

One.

How many free ink pens should you take from a pile set out by a vendor of pharmaceuticals when no one is looking?

Seven.

IN WHICH I GO TO THE WELL OF KNOWLEDGE
BUT DECLINE TO DRINK

Today was not a regular work day for me today.

Instead of going to my outpatient clinic, I attended a seminar on organ transplantation hosted by one of the major transplant centers in this state. It is a full day of scheduled speakers and their Power Point presentations, one after the other, from 8:00 am to 4:30 pm. These are the experts and it is a great opportunity to get the latest and most official information about a topic that is always under discussion in my neck of the woods

I stayed with it for most of the morning, but right around the time the topic turned to Coagulopathy: Issues & Answers, I started to drift away. I jotted down notes for the next installment of the Countdown To Thanksgiving, dreamed about a new design for this blog*, and scrutinized the crowd.

After close examination of the 200 people in attendance, I can report that I was the only one carrying a Vera Bradley handbag. People are so slow to catch on. After they are all the rage nationwide, please remember that you heard it here first: these bags are the Next Big Thing. I carried this one today:

FOOD = LOVE
Countdown To Thanksgiving: 28 Days

I am in charge of the deserts this year.

It's time to make a firm plan for which ones I will be serving. The invasion of the beach at Normandy took less planning than it takes for two bossy women (and their two mothers and one mother-in-law ) to orchestrate and deliver a traditional Thanksgiving meal, so planning ahead is essential. Here's what I've got so far:

Chocolate Cake ( a request from the host)
Pumpkin Pie ( a request from the hostess)
Rice Pudding ( another request from the hostess)
Cranberry Cake- a buttery bundt cake with a cranberry glaze.

Now I need one or two more things. These are the items under consideration:

Raisin Pie - this is a Martha Stewart recipe and my favorite. Made with both brown and golden raisins and covered with a puffy pastry crust. I serve it with a rich vanilla ice cream.
Sweet Potato Pie - might be too similar to the pumpkin pie, but I make a special crust for it that has ground pecans in it.
Pecan Pie - if I make this one, it would definately exclude the pie with the pecan crust.
Cranberry Apple Pie- too much cranberries? We have the cake and cranberry relish, too.
Lemon Meringue Pie- Ok, this one is really my favorite. I was just kidding before. This one is a Martha recipe, too. The real name of it is "Mile High Lemon Pie". Don't you just want it right now?
Pineapple Dream Bars- this was a very popular desert in my hometown when I was growing up. No one has seen it in years. It would kind of fit our vintage theme. It is a tart filled with a creamy pineapple mixture and it has a lattice top crust, and in every opening is a maracino cherry half.
Rice Krispy Treats- I'm not kidding. Everybody mocks them, but there are never any left. They are especially festive if you replace some of the plain rice krispys with Fruit Loops or Fuity Pebbles. I also can make a similar thing out of melted chocolate and Cheerios. Looks nice if they are both on a platter together, piled in a pyramid.
Jello- You know what they say: there's always room for Jello. Especially if it is orange jello with with mandarin oranges molded into it and topped with whipped cream. Mr. Sami used to love this, now he objects to it. It may be a case of too much of a good thing.

So those are the choices. I think I need to choose two things from this list to add to the desert selection.

Do you think it is excessive to have this many deserts? The answer is no. Don't forget, there will be about 20 people for dinner and afterwards there are likely to be drop-ins. We'll have the 30 cup party pot going for the coffee, and after the dinner settles, people can keep coming back to the desert buffet.

What do you think?

LA SOCIETE HONORAIRE DE FRANCAIS

There was excitement in the house last night as the Guestblogger was inducted into the French Honor Society.

A lovely ceremony was held at her school for the language honors program and the three language clubs - French, Spanish and Latin. We were treated to a solemn and dignified induction followed by cultural perfomances. There were songs in Spanish, poems in French and a violin solo of something with a Latin name.

Because of the big deal nature of the thing, we all primped up a bit for it, and the Guestblogger paid special attention to her hair. She has been blessed with a head of luxurient, thick, puffy hair. And she hates it.

Her hair has always dazzled people. From the time she was a baby (with springy Shirley Temple curls) to grade school ponytails (so thick she could have doubled for a Cabbage patch Kid) to this very day when her chestnut-colored hair hangs thick and wavy and her face is framed by charming ringlets.

When she was 13, she heard of a program called Locks of Love. One of the local hair salons was participating in a program to provide wigs for children who had cancer and lost ther own hair due to the chemotherapy or other medical conditions. The deal was that you would get a free cut and styling if you donated the clipped off pony tail, which had to be a minumum of 12" long. Her hair was so thick that it could not be restrained in one ruber band. She was able to donate 6 14" long tails and walked out of there with a funky cropped 'do that instantly changed her look from little girl to teenager.

She is plagued by her hair and wishes for straight hair with less volume, and she puts a lot of effort into getting that look. Gel, spray, fixative, pins, hairbands, special combs and brushes - she works it over until she gets the flat, panked-down results that satisfy her. Last night, she acheived maximum flatness and I know that pleased her. Ironic, isn't it?

. . . . . . .

Side note: This is not the first time that French honors have come to our house. When the Frat Boy went to that same high school, he was an actual gagnant. Oh, yes he was. His French composition about how to be a good houseguest garnered him second place in a competition sponsored by The French Alliance, a social/cultural club of French speaking socialites. Prior to this event, there was no indication that he knew anything at all about good manners, so it was very gratifying to me to see that years of nagging repetition and frequent references to Goofus vs. Gallant did him some good.

Life is full of nice surprises.

I ALMOST GAVE HER THE BIRD
Countdown to Thanksgiving: 29 days

The menu for the celebration this year will be extensive and multi-ethnic.

It will be suitable and pleasing for Lithuanian, Polish, Egyptian, Lebanese, Russian and Pilgrim backgrounds. The centerpiece, of course, is the bird. Since her home borders on Pennsylvania state game land and is overrun with all types of wildlife, including wild turkeys, The Other Cheek got the idea that her husband should shoot one for the table.

This set off an absolute chorus of complaining husbands. I made the mistake of telling Mr. Sami that we might be having a wild turkey for Thanksgiving, which activated his Complaint-O-Matic: " Wild turkey?... Why would I want to eat a wild turkey?... It's bad enough I have to eat a regular turkey, why does it have to be a wild one?... Name one other person who is having a wild turkey? ... Is it safe to eat a wild turkey?" and so on.

I was almost able to save the price of one bullet, though, for on my drive through the Poconos last weekend, during the last ten-mile stretch, a giant wild turkey flapped up from the roadside right next to me. In a scene reminiscent of this summer's deliberate animal suicides, the thing barely cleared my windsheild. If I had tried just a little, I could have whacked it and strapped it onto the roof rack and delivered it. Maybe the feathers would have blown off it, too.

However, Mr. TOC spent his time carrying on about how tough and stringy wild birds are. And on and on. So it seems as though we are back to Square One with a normal Butterball.

That seems so drab and ordinary now, doesn't it?

COAL MINER'S DAUGHTERS

We spent a lovely morning in the Russian Cemetery.

Armed with fresh charcoal and unmarked tablets, we were ready for a day of rubbing tombstones. We chose the Russian Cemetery because of the number of relatives buried there and because we thought we might find some stones craved in Cyrillic lettering. It is deep in the country and we didn't expect to see many others there.

The weather was magnificent - it turned out to be one of the ten best days of the year (apersonal rating). We entered under an arch bearing a golden onion dome and the inscription: "Happy Are They Who Live In The Lord." We were surrounded by peak leaf color, the sun was shining the entire time and there was a most pleasant breeze. We pretty much had the place to ourselves, except when we were surprised by Cujo the Killer Dog, who raced up from out of nowhere. She screamed; I screamed. He turned out to be a big a galoot that just wanted to play.

(I am comforted to find out that I can scream. Whenever I imagined that I might find myself in danger and I would have to scream, it seemed such an embarrassing thing to do and I always felt with some degree of certainty that I would meet my end mute. I was glad that I was able to produce a scream. It was more of a whoop than a scream, and it sounded like this: Wah-ah!. A small offering, but, still, it was something.)

Grave rubbing turns out to be much more difficult than it sounds. My first attempted resulted in a heavy-handed smear and a handfull of black dust. After repeated attempts, and after I had run out of inanimate things to blame for my sorry self, it finally dawned on me that there was some finesse required beyond taping the paper up and having at it with the charcoal. After several false starts, and migration from stone to stone, I was able to produce a memento of the first day out:

FUN IN THE KITCHEN
Countdown To Thanksgiving: 30 days

Well, I see by the old calendar on the wall that it is one month until Thanksgiving.

It's going to be a bash this year. We are combining family celebrations and my gang will be joining my best friend's family for the event. The final census is unclear at this point, but the crowd will be anywhere from sixteen to twenty-two people. Ages range from 17 to 82 and we have the entire spectrum of medical ailments covered. All of the men are hard of hearing, and all of the women have the word they are looking for right on the tip of their tongues.

The day by day countdown will be chronicled here and at The Other Cheek. To begin, we discuss the wardrobe: aprons.

I am of the firm belief that large family affairs always run so much more smoothly if you are dressed like Harriet Nelson. To that end, my mother is sewing aprons for us from this pattern:

IT WAS ONLY KITCHEN SPICY

If you are a fan of hand-made soap, you will understand my excitement when my order from Custom Creations Co. was delivered over the weekend. It was waiting on the kitchen table for me when i returned from my weekend trip.

The Guestblogger and I spotted it at the same time. Like kids at Christmas (or maybe like apes with a new puzzle), we turned it over and checked every angle. Then we sniffed it.

We pried up one corner, and a lovely smell drifted out. So we took turns sticking our noses into the opening and inhaling. "Uh-oh." We said it at the same time. "Anthrax!" - beat - beat - beat - Then we shrugged simultaneously, and sniffed again. The lure of scented soap was stronger than our common sense.

But, oh! - the soap! Hippie days, smelling of lavendar and patchouli. Ocean Song Shampoo/Shaving bar, with a lather that is thick, silky and super creamy ( it has special ingredients. Special! Ooh! ) And the best so far - Kitchen Spicy: lemon, lime, orange, grapefruit, cinnamon, clove and bay. It is very strongly scented and I can think of more than one lucky Friend of Bob who will find this in their stockings this Christmas.

The scent of Hippie Days is drifting up from the keyboard as I type this, and the guestblogger has made off with Kitchen Spicy and has no intention of returning it.

Anthrax, be damned!

THE MOTHERS

My Mother
My mother: Our church had a special Spanish Mass last week.
Her ladyfriend: I saw that, but I didn't know what it was.
My mother: I was curious, so I went to it.
Her ladyfriend: How was it?
My mother: I don't know. It was all in Spanish.


Her Mother:
Me: Your hands are so soft and smooth.
Her mother: Everybody says that to me. I tell them it's because I stick 'em in the toilet.

PLEASURE

It's getting chilly here now.

The nighttime temperatures are dropping to the near freezing mark and there is a crispness in the air. The heat is on, but low at night. It's time to get out the flannel sheets and the down comforter.

Take it from me - there is nothing finer than clean flannel sheets and a goose down comforter to make a warm and cozy bed.

You can quote me.

IN OTHER NEWS ...

There is much terrible poison ivy-related itching going on and a tiny thorn left over from last week-end's garden adventures is now making itself known in an unpleasant way.

Maybe I'll cash out a week's pay instead of using the time off so that I can have the money for the major events that are about to drain me: the guestblogger's birthday 11/6, Thanksgiving 11/??, my mother's birthday 12/8, the frat boy's birthday 12/15, mr sami's birthday 12/20, and christmas 12/25.

I have 7 wedding rings. Wait ... maybe I'll make that a seperate entry. 7 Rings.

Yesterday, I saw a reference to pinhole photography done with a Pringle's chip can. That is something that interests me. I'm pretty sure the directions start out with : "Eat one can of Pringle's potato chips".

I also saw a resource for poutine information. This is something that I am struggling to understand, but it seems to thrill the daylights out of those that are fans of cheese curds.

WHITE-THROATED SPARROW AT TEN O'CLOCK

Someone gave me a birdsong clock.

It it the sort of thing that has a picture of a bird as each hour marker, and when the hour hand gets to the top, the bird sings. It is most cheerful. The sounds must be acutal recordings of birds chirping - it sounds pretty realistic. It's not too loud, and it has a light sensor so that there is no chirpfest while you are sleeping.

I got this last year and put it up in the kitchen. It didn't take long until some wiseguy took out the battery that drives the birdsong. I thought it was nice, but the others had nothing but scorn and derision for it. I hope they leave it alone here in my inner sanctum.

Yesterday, I brought it upstairs to the room where the computer is. It's dark green rim and giant face with bird pictures stick out like a sore thumb - it's not nice to look at (except for the fact that I am at the point where I appreciate a large dial and clearly marked hours on a white background), but it is a lovely asset here.

The american robin at 1:00 is surprisingly lyrical. The tufted titmouse at 5:00 and the northern oriole at 6:00 have sweet, melodic trills. My favorite is the black-capped chickadee at 9:00, but I could do without the spooky mourning dove at 7:00. Maybe they ran out of good birds.

So as the days pass, it is becoming more bunker-like around here. This room used to be just a spare bedroom - smallish and peach colored, it has a TV, a bed, a bookcase and a sewing machine. Now it is known only as the computer room. Yes, there is a little homework that goes on, and a smaller amount of business communication, but mostly it is a recreational thing that takes up a lot of my time.

I'm going for coffee now so I don't have to listen to the mourning dove.

I MET A MAN WHO HAS A COLOPHON

col·o·phon Function: noun
Etymology: Latin, from Greek kolophOn summit, finishing touch; perhaps akin to Latin culmen top
Date: 1774
1 : an inscription placed at the end of a book or manuscript usually with facts relative to its production
2 : an identifying device used by a printer or a publisher

He has it prominently displayed on his page. When I asked him what it was, he defined it and then stated plainly:

"I mean it as an honor to the designer."

Because I had nothing of worth to contribute to the discussion, I fell back on teasing and making juvenile puns. He was untouched by my lame humor, and treated the discussion with the gravity he intended all along. He offers it as an honor to the designer. No further explanation needed. It is quietly displayed for your consideration. He doesn't try to convince you or to argue you into agreement with him. It is a pure declaration of something he believes in. And in very short order, you do come to appreciate the design and the pride of work behind it.

He went on to explain his decisions for creating stark layout design and colors, and his preference for vintage fonts. His content speaks for itself, and that is the focus of the web site. The colophon is in the right upper corner, the same location that newspapers devote to the most important news story of the day.

For everyone who joined the conversation, he reiterated the meaning and the purpose.

"I meant it as an honor to the designer."

You've got to admire the purity of that.

Blank Headspace.

ODE TO THE CORNFIELD

Recent discussion regarding television preferrences over at The Back Porch has prompted me to remember with fondess one of the all-time great TV shows.

The longest running syndicated show in the history of television. An evolving cast that included some of the biggest stars of their genre, new and old alike. A formula for success that did not change over a quarter of a century. Devoted fans from all demographic catagories.

Hee Haw.

I didn't appreciate it when the broadcasts were airing for the first time, but looking back on it, I realize that the sketches and characters have stayed with me as beacons of whacky and original icons of humor.

The incomparable Junior Samples, painfully bumbling through the cue cards until he got to his famous tag-line: BR-549. The radio station KORN , broadcasting the local country news infront of a backdrop of egg-cartons used for muffling. Hey, Grampa - what's for dinner? It was one of the last remaining places, besides Halloween costumes and porno films, to see a nurse in uniform, although Gunilla Hutton was a pretty good combination of Daisy Mae and a playboy bunny. The worst "corny "jokes ever, straight from the cornfield. And the master story-teller, John Henry Faulk, whom you may know from the annual NPR broadcast of his Christmas Story.

And my all time favorite, buned into memeory as true comedy genius:
Archie Campbell and Gordie Tapp singing "Where, Oh Where Are You Tonight?" which ended with the famous "Pththththtttt! You was gone!".

If asked, and even if not, I would tell you that I despise country music, but this show had the top notch pickers and grinners ever. Buck Owens and the Buckaroos. Roy Clark, and the creme de la creme of country artists. Maybe I am more ruralized than I would like to admit: I confess a fondness for Green Acres, too.

Coming tomorrow: a tribute to County Agricutlure Agent Hank Kimball. Well, not a tribute. Though you could say he is a beaut. And not tomorrow, either. Even though tomorrow is coming.

and so on and so on until you give up and give yourself over to the humor of it all ...

A DAY IN THE LIFE

Things I did on a glorious autumn day:

... drove a shiny dark green car though orange and gold leaves.

... wore a handknit Aran sweater that I got from QVC.

... stopped at a family-owned farm and bought Winesap apples straight off the tree.

... inspected and rejected the Hallmark "Son" and "Daughter" Christmas ornaments for this year.

... found the grave of Philip Freneau, Revolutionary War poet.

... posted entries on 5 blogs in one day. Entries, not comments.

... ordered four kinds of hand-made soap from a site I found on the internet.

The perfection of this day was marred only by the fact that I am covered with poison ivy and have a honking big cold sore.

I hear my nerve endings singing.

OH, BABY!

I am a traditionalist when it comes to naming babies.

I much prefer plain old-fashioned names like John or Sarah, but I confess to a grudging admirtion for people who can combine the parents names and come up with something unique.

Raymond + Arlene = Raylene
Harold + Alice = Halice (prounounced hal-EESE)
Joseph + Ellen = Joselle
Bea + Jay = BJ (Hunnicut. From M*A*S*H)
Jim + Nudey = Nim (why they didn't go with Judey, I don't know)

Name add-ons can also tell a story. I am from the time when it was commanded that Catholic children have saint's names. The more inventive parent would tack on part-two of a name they desired to make it acceptable.

ex: Chantele = NO / Chantelle Marie = YES

Or names that indicate inclusion : Africa - the last name taken by members of MOVE, a radical anarchistic group that was heavily armed and bunkered down in Philadelphia in the 80's. They were considered a threat of such magnitude that the city govenment saw fit to burn down an entire city block to defeat them ( I think Tupac Shakur's mother was part of this group.)

the Cheeses - Swingcheese, SpaceCheese, Drugcheese, Smokecheese. Origin and affiliation unclear.

The Purple People - a colony of artists, ecologists and squatters who resided in lower Manhattan in the 80s. Led by Adam Purple; at least some of the women and children took Purple as their last name.

Another fine source of names is our own Madison Avenue. There are entire teams of people whose only job is to sit around and select names. They consider the image implied by the name, develop variations, and test it with focus groups. Some of these names are quite lyrical and are in almost endless supply. Using these thouroughly pondered names would really broaden the selection available to parents - it is much preferrable to a second grade classroom overrun with Heathers and Samanthas.

While any product will do ( Ultresse. Exxon. Corelle. Zima.), vehicle names are especialy good for this purpose. Alantra. Harley. Fiesta. Cimmaron. Dart. Chevelle. Metro. Leganza. Caprice. Corolla.

Try it:
Celica Smith
Geo Johnson
Windstar Wilson
Blazer Brown.
Caprice Kelley.

signed, camrythecorgi

FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF I'D REALLY RATHER NOT KNOW:

Emotional Inteligence: Why It Can Matter More Then IQ ForCharacter, Health and Lifelong Acheivement by Daniel Goldman*

" ... men with the traits that mark emotional intelligence are poised and outgoing, committed to people and causes, sympathetic and caring, with a rich but appropriate emotional life -- they're comfortable with themselves, others, and the social universe they live in. "


The E-IQ Test

Best score: 200
Average Score: 100
My score: 60

Shut up.

I know you are, but what am I?

Shut up.


* Best part of the book review done by the Philadelphia Inquirer:
"My amygdala says, 'Buy it, read it, absorb it, love it--the man speaks the truth.' My neocortex remains skeptical ..."

PLOG WATCH

The long awaited Cabbage Soup, now showcased at The Joy of Soup.

WEAPONS OF WAR

I used to be a volunteer for Mobile Meals.

It was our county's version of Meals On Wheels. Once a week, I would deliver hot meals to the homes of people who could not manage shopping or cooking for themselves. The meals were supposed to meet one third of their daily nutritional requirements, but it was often the olny food they had all day. There were locations throughout the network that prepared the meals, and the source for my route was a state-run nursing home.

So I would put the kids in the station wagon, pick up my 77-year-old-partner, and go get the food. My intention was to impress upon my children the value of doing good deeds. Volunteerism. No reward except the satisfaction of knowing that you were helping people. But it backfired.

There were two containers: the cold one held milk, juice, fruit and bread; the other had hot entrees. And they stunk to high heaven. They always had some kind of gravy or sauce and were not spiced or seasoned in any way. Something was always spilled and the contaienrs themselves took on an aroma of their own. The kids begged to be left behind every week, and since that never happened, they complained the entire time and held their noses or fake-gagged in a most theatrical manner. So much for them absorbing the lesson - they could only focus on the smell.

We did it for two years. Some time later , when the Gulf War broke out, the children stood transfixed in front of the television listening to the reports. You could see the distress written on their faces. They were to young to understand or to care about the issues, but they knew it was a terrible thing that were were bombing the enemy with mobile missles.

Because they misheard it and thought we were sending Mobile Meals. They imagined the horror of yankee pot roast with gravy coming out of the sky and pork chops with white sauce everywhere you looked. And the smell - the awful smell! They had great sympathy for the Iraqis - they could imagine no torture more horrible than the delivery of mobile meals.

We explained it to them as best we could, and we laughed about it when they were out of earshot. "Oh, those kids! Imagine bombing with food."

Now these many years later, when America is dropping boxed meals throughout Afghanistan, I have to wonder if those who plan our military strategy had accompanied their own mothers on the Mobile Meals trail? Maybe it is a form of psychological warfare to impose peanut butter and jelly on innocent civilians. Picture the scene as they open the boxes and face a packet of plastic cutlery and condiments.

What must they be thinking?

I DON'T LIKE IT, BUT EVERYONE IS JEALOUS OF IT,
SO I THINK I'LL KEEP IT ANYWAY

When I got my new computer at work, part of the package was a dark grey mouse pad whose only adornment was the words "www.dell.com" across the bottom. Utilitarian.

Last week, I got a some advertising junk from one of the drug companies that sells medication to increase red blood cell production. They gave me a very fancy mouse pad. It is filled with fluid, and the back wall is various shades of red with blood cells pictured in all stages of their development. Inside the fluid are 8 freely moving plastic corpuscles.

When you move the mouse, the corpuscles are set into motion and they scurry about inside the fluid. Sometimes they coagulate, and you have to squash down on them to get them to shoot out from under the mouse.

It is very disturbing.

MONUMENTS

It's a new interest of mine.

I'm not even sure what to call it. Cemetary crawling. Grave rubbing. But I've developed an appreciation for cemetary monuments, thanks to the vacationing Sheila, who lit the spark but still doesn't know the fire she has started. It started with just casual admiration of the photos she has posted from her cemetery observations, and then moved onto a discussion about engraving and making tracings of them.

So last week, when I was again in Pennsylvania, I called my best friend and said, "Pick me up at 8:00am. we're going to look around some cemeteries." Her initial reaction was "uh ...ok." and I know she went thinking if she got it over with, then we'd have the rest of the day to inspect the entire Martha Stewart collection at Kmart. But within an hour, she was totally into it, flinging herself on the ground in order to get a better angle for photos.

A MONTH AGO TODAY

A moment of silence.

8:48 am

BIKER DOG

Bob the corgi's pleather biker jacket has found a nice home with Magnus, dog of the other cheek.

THE BIG DEAL OF THE DAY

I don't watch a lot of television, but when I do, I prefer reality based television.

I don't mean Survivor or Big Brother - I am proud of the fact that I have never seen a single moment of either one. I mean real reality - COPS and Judge Judy.

I like COPS because the criminals have messier bedrooms than I do, and it makes me feel good about myself. And I like Judge Judy because I think I am wiser than the dolts who give their credit cards to boyfriends of only two weeks duration or the simpletons who buy cars for $600.00 (pink slip not included) and then complain that they have discovered mechanical problems. They make me feel good about myself , too.

Do you see a pattern emerging here?

Recently, I was reminded by Jill Matrix about my #1 all time favorite show, now in syndicated reruns on The Game Show Network - Let's Make a Deal. No one was better at whipping up a frenzy than America's Big Dealer, Monty Hall. No one could present a bottle of Scott's Liquid Gold and make it sound as desirable as the Big Deal of the day the way Jay Stewart could. Only Carol Merrill could look so elegant standing next to a goat as the ZONK theme music announced the bad news:
wah wah wah waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

My favortie part was at the end - the quick deals. Monty would quickly dart from one contestant to another saying things like, "I'll give you $1.00 for every rubber band you have." or "Show me an unpaid bill and I'll pay it for you." "$5.00 for every safety pin." People would dig in their bags and grin as they held up baggies full of whatever it was. They loaded up their purses before they left home, just in case Monty would offer them cash for these odd little items. Maybe it was this scenario that was the model of my personal pocketbook management style of today. If Monty Hall ever shows up in New Jersey and asks for crumpled up receipts from the dollar store, I will be able to retire in comfort.

I'm usually pretty good at guessing the price of commonly found items within 10 or 25 cents (makes me feel good about myself), but in a world where a Pontiac GTO complete with title, tax and liscence costs less than $5,000.00, I am at a loss to estimate the cost of a purse-sized container of Jungle Gardenia by Tuvache, nevermind a year's supply of Turtle Wax with the hard-shell shine.

THICKER FULLER HAIR

Ethel no more. Fine-haired people of the world rejoice!

I have found a wonderful line of hair care products that really lives up to it's name: Thicker Fuller Hair. I started using the Super Volumizing Shampoo and the Ultra-Volume Hair Gel, both of which contain "oat starch". That must be what makes all the difference. Today I was able to acheive a big swooping Conan O'Brien thing going on top of my head. It's great.And I am quite confident that I can create great expanded styles unlike any I have been able to accomplish before.

These products are about $7.00 to $9.00 dollars each - not my usual $.99 bargain brands. But, believe you me, it is worth every penny. Maybe I'll even spring for some of that $12.00 hairspray my sister uses.

Goodbye Ethel Mertz. Hello Patti LaBelle.

3MB

Another in the continuing series, The Three Minute blog, here is today's entry:

THE THREE MINUTE DOG
Well, it turns out that my excessive facination with the Westminster Kennel club dog show is shared by my best friend. We have made plans to be at Madison Square Garden this February when the show rolls around again.

I have a connection who works at ABC and another one who workd for CBS news, as a sound man for Dan Rather- that fat bastard.( he is not looking too healty these days - have you noticed?)

Anyhoo, i wonder if they can get free tickets for me? i would hate to pay if one of them can get me in for free. Is that wrong? no. \and i would probalby have more extensive access backstage

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Have you tried one yet? Read about it here and use the cool 3MB timer.

THE DIAMETER OF THE BOMB

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won t even mention the howl of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making
a circle with no end and no God.
--Yehuda Amichai

I read this poem weeks ago at So Blue It's Black, and it's been with me ever since. For this, and for many other thought-provoking entries, I thank Moira.

SOMEBODY STOP ME!

I think there is sufficient evidence to suggest that I am quite in the manic phase now.

Here is a quick compilation of my internet presence:

... solo blogs:
bobthecorgi
the joy of soup

... collaborations:
surreally dot com
the dream log
The Back Porch
Under The Same Moon

... guest blogging
upcoming stint at Pristine's Ledge

... chat
surreally bad samaritan chatroom

Is it too much? Have I gone too far?

I don't think so.

WOKE UP, IT WAS A TUESDAY MORNING
AND THE FIRST THING THAT I KNEW ...
...I Bought a Bunch of Stuff That I Really Didn't Need, But I Really, Really Wanted.

One of the frequent stops on my usual circuit of flea markets, secondhand shops and factory outlets is a great place called Tuesday Morning.

It is an outlet for close-out merchandise and discount stuff. You can find left-over, discontinued, and seasonal things at great prices. It is where I got all of my Mr. Potato Head greeting cards, a miniature tea set in the shape of Babar, King of the Elephants, and two serving dishes with the look and feel of a real cantaloupe. It is like a big indoor flea market of new merchandise that is too outlandish for the big department stores. It is the very place to go if you ever need a majolica casserole dish in the shape of a fish or a rooster. You never know what you will find when you go in there - the merchandise is quickly turned over and never to be found again.

When PETS.com closed up, Tuesday Morning got their left over inventory, and one day, there it was - the perfect dog outfit! It was the biker Dog model ... black pleather with studs and chains. The PETS.com price was 34.99 and the asking price that day was $3.99. True, it was size L, and Bob is only an M, but for four dollars - how could you go wrong?

So I took it home and put it on the dog. ( I do love the look of a dog in clothes - especially a poodle in a skirt. A corgi in a biker jacket is appealing to me beyond words.) It was too big. First he licked it, then he stepped out of it, then he licked it some more. That was the only time he had it on.

So it hangs on a peg next to his leash. It is too good to get rid of ...but he will never be able to wear it.

Anybody out there have a size large dog?

HUH?

I was walking around this morning getting ready for work and I had the radio on in the background.

Talk radio. Really, you must give it a whirl - it is so facinating. Except in the morning. The state of talk radio is the major metropolitain area around NYC is deplorable. So I am forced to listen to the nationally syndicated/linked with MSNBC Imus In The Morning.

The commercial breaks are clumped together and easily avioded or ignored. But this morning, I was sitting next to the clock radio tying my shoes and this came on the air:

*Snappy peppy music* *girl background singers going "ooh ooh"*
and these are the lyrics:

Dr. Alexander Saylor
will remove unwanted hair from you.
In a simple painless procedure
that will make you look and feel brand new.

It was a catchy tune and the singers were so happy, but what a message!

WHAT ARE THE VARIABLES?

The professor in the statistics class that I am taking is Indian. His English is very heavily accented with the lilting rhythms of his native language.

Many of my classmates have said to me that they are having a hard time understanding him because of this. But really, it is the most charming thing. It's possible that I think that after so many years of decoding Mr. Sami's accent. I learned that if you just ride on top of the sounds for a while, you can fall into the patterns and it all clicks into place. It must be like that for people who are bilingual - if you think in French, but encounter someone who is speaking German, you switch your brain to expect German - it is only a problem if you try to squeeze German words into a French pattern. I'm just guessing.

Anyhoo, the man must have gotten some complaints in the past, because he says things over and over in an effort to impart these difficult (for me) math concepts.

... "What are the variables?"
... "The variables are these: (whatever whatever whatever)... "
... "And so, these are our variables"

Then he writes it on the board and says : "Variables", but he says it like this: VAH- ree- ables. A long streched out VAH, a long E, and a hurried ables. It is hard to get it across in these dull letters, but the result is very musical, and I find myself saying over and over in my head.

The variables - what are the variables?

I don't have any trouble at all understanding his English. It is when he starts saying stuff like this that he loses me:

FLAG ETIQUETTE, Part II
An Update

I am not surprised to find out that others are having the same reaction to improperly displayed American flags.

A similar essay to my own was written by Veronica Lynne, although in a much more cogent manner. Read through the piece and discover the author of the poem "Ragged Old Flag" - it came as a surprise to me. She also links to an excellent article in TNR Online.

As long as I can remember, I have been in settings where the flag was honored and revered. In high school, I was a majorette for four years. We marched in every parade right behind the color guard. In our small town, you could see the effect that had on the crowds that lined the streets.

The cub scouts/boy scouts place a great deal of emphasis on the flag and the rules and regulations around it. All those meetings, camp-outs and ceremonies prominently featured the flag. The bagpipe band that both of my children belonged to for years also marched in the type of parades that featured military groups, veterans and service groups. They also played many VFW, POW, police and Marine Corps events. In all these settings, there was an unspkoen code of behavior regarding respect for the flag. Unspoken because everyone of us knew the standards - the proper flag etiquette.

Please continue displaying the flag and display it correctly.

REALLY? MY, HOW FLATTERING!

Excitement in the e mailbox today.

It seems that bobthecorgi has been selected as a potential candidate for a free listing in the 2001 Edition of the International Executive Guild Registry. Apparently, it is a coveted honor.

The International Executive Guild thinks that bobthecorgi may make an interesting biographical subject. I wonder if they mean bobthecorgi, or Bob - the corgi?

Hmm... let's see now ...

Bob - the pembroke welsh corgi: Bob came from a corgi rescue operation. Bob the Unwanted. A family who was primarily interested in their horses gave him up when he was two. Although he was cared for in a material way, the focus was on the horses, and at least they cared enough to try and find a good home for him.

When the rescue called and said they had a dog for us, they described him this way: He is a red-headed tri-color. His head is red, his back is black and his belly is white. We envisioned Woddy Woodpecker. Mr. Sami came along on the pick-up because he didn't want me to come home with "an ugly fat bastard with no legs." He was handsome, but fat from lack of exercise. He looked like a furry beachball with toes.

Now he is trim and active and loved by all who see him. He is the focus of every teen-age sleep over party, although he prefers to hang with the frat brothers. He has been invited to live in the dog-friendly frathouse, but he would never make all those steps. He is still haunted by ghosts of his former life - he goes berserk if he hears horse hooves clopping on TV, or if he hears a doorbell there (we don't have one).

bobthecorgi: an unfocused ramble that does not yet know what it wants to be.

I think they meant the dog.

FLAG ETIQUETTE

Many people are moved by recent events to display the American flag, many for the first time. While the motives behind this are varied and personal, I would like to point out that there exists such a thing as flag etiquette.

Etiquette - et.i.quette Pronunciation: 'e-ti-k&t, -"ket Function: noun
Definition: the conduct or procedure required or prescribed by authority to be observed in social or official life.

There is a specific standard for display and use of the flag. It's not necessary to memorize all the rules and regulations, but please observe the basic elements of respect for the national symbol:

... the flag should be displayed from sunrise to sunset, unless it is properly illuminated ... not put outside of your house and left there for days and weeks.

... the flag should not be displayed on days when the weather is inclement... in the rain.

... the flag should not be draped over the hood, top, sides, or back of a vehicle ... or stuck in a rolled-up window, plastered wet against your rear window, or strapped to the antenna to be pulled to tatters by the wind.

... the flag should never touch anything beneath it, such as the ground, the floor, water or merchandise ... stuck in the flower bed and resting on the dirt.

... the flag should never be festooned, drawn back or up in folds ... or gathered with black ribbons, or bunched for artistic effect.

... the flag should never be used for advertising ... like using the 911 disaster and an image of the flag as a lead in for your on-line promo.

... when the flag is in such condition that it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way ... a condition such as soiled, torn or ragged at the edges.

The sight of the flag produces strong emotion. Not everyone has the same motivation or is sending the same message by displaying the flag. But no matter the reason behind it, the flag should be treated with respect. It is the symbol of the pride we have in our nation, a reminder of the sacrifices made for our freedom, an emblem of liberty.

Thirteen stripes, fifty stars - the red stands for hardiness and valor, the white for honor and the blue signifies vigilance, perseverance & justice.

It is the symbol of our nation's history and of it's future.

PLOG WATCH

Attention, soup fans! ... Baked Potato Soup now being served at The Joy of Soup.

Sit down and have a nice bowl of soup.

A SPECIAL PERSON

I've been a slacker when it comes to the AORTAL project ... no excuses. To point to this journal as an aortal site would be to lump it in with all others, and it deserves to stand on it's own.

In Search of a Soul ...

Read her words and her poetry. See her photos and her artwork. Start with The Cast page and you'll be hooked. She's a reader and a thinker. She's got her own dream log. She's got a fuzzy navel and one beautiful eye.

She's special.

Happy birthday, Sheila.

OK, NOW WE'RE TALKING!

A Stunning Idea from Jimformation.

IT'S A RICH AND FACINATING LIFE

Highlights of a weekend that went by too quickly:

...went to a nursing home to visit an old friend.

... watched the original version of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" and spotted a Stangl Country Life platter on the counter in Becky's kitchen.

... picked up a new Vera Bradly handbag, courtesy of theothercheek.

... toured a cemetary and saw the graves of 57 nuns in a cluster.

... cooked three things from one head of cabbage.

... got a refill of my 34oz. coffee mug for $.79 at Turkey Hill.

... found a real good deal on Funny Bones cup cakes.

... admired a large medal of St. Jude, patron saint of impossible causes. Considered the potential for statistics class.