Hey Beautiful*

*Originally ran on November 11, 2007.  Was written for Dad's birthday of that year.  

Dad always answers the phone to me, “Hey Beautiful.” It always makes me smile.

My dad reads German theologians for recreation. He also puns constantly and loves Notre Dame, the Astros, fishing, hunting and 99.9% of all classic English literature. He is Texan. He is Southern. He is Catholic.

When I was a kid and he was mad, even if I wasn’t the person who did anything, I went to my room and cleaned. The thundercloud would roll by and see a virtuous kid doing only right stuff. This was the image I strove to maintain. I had figured out it would keep me out of trouble. It did, and my parents got a clean room out of the bargain, by allowing me to think I was manipulating them.

I remember him teaching me how to do flips off the high board and how to drive. He taught me to rig a lure for fishing and retrains me when I forget. He didn’t yell when I wrecked the car again. He met all my dates. He made me watch Casablanca and The Quiet Man. He bought me a guitar and a silver bracelet. I can gut a fish, train a dog and make Coq au’Vin today because at some point, he taught me. I cannot do algebra. He tried to tutor me. I know something of Latin. He made me take it. I scream like a banshee at Notre Dame Football. He showed me the game and helped me come to obsess over it.

Dad drove me to get ice cream when I lost my wallet at Christmas. Dad took me out to lunch when I worked at his office. Dad asked me to paint some crabs on the fireplace at the beach house and helped reel in the 40+pound Red Fish I had hooked. Dad danced with me at the Debutante ball and I wished, oh how I wished, he was at the table with me, for my date was boring.

Senior year at Saint Mary’s College, he wasn’t coming to Father/Daughter weekend. I tried to be offhand about that, I wished he could be there but knew money was tight. The Sunday before the Father/Daughter weekend, my then boyfriend proposed. That Friday, Dad was on a plane.

As my roommate and I got dressed to go out to dinner with him, Dad was serving as her dad for the night too, I said, “Just watch, the first thing Dad’ll say is “Why do you want to marry my daughter?” Annie laughed and disagreed. “I’ve met your Dad, he won’t say that.”

We picked up Marc, my fiancé at Notre Dame and drove to the restaurant, Dad, Marc, Annie and Me. No sooner were we all seated, then my father said, “Why did you ask my daughter to marry you?” Annie and I looked at each other and bust out laughing. Marc was left with two giggling girls and no help. He rallied. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Dinner was fun.

That summer I worked at his office. I went on walks with him sometimes when we were both dieting. We’d talk about food and how much we missed it. We’d argue over wedding plans, band vs. DJ, morning suits vs. Tuxes, receiving line vs. announcements by the band.

Eventually, My Dad sang the Notre Dame Fight song to me as I walked into the Church to get married. It helped me to stop shaking. I remember Dad’s smile as he walked towards me at my wedding reception to have our dance, but I do not remember the song.

Sometimes he sends me papers by his favorite theologian, Von Balthazar. I dutifully try to read the treatise, “Does Original Sin Exist?” but I want to scribble back a short post-it, “Yes. Next Question.”

Dad has had many heart surgeries, but the one I remember is the one in 2000. I arrived after the surgery had taken place, and sat in the living room with Danny and Joe and Jennifer and my newly crawling son, feeling how empty the house felt with Dad in the hospital. When we went to visit at the hospital, Joe and Danny attempted to move Dad by lifting the recliner he was in, and dropped the chair. I was terrified, but Dad was okay. He showed me the stitches that ranged all over his body. They had cut open his chest, taken out his heart, stopped it, cut away things and put everything back together and stitched him up. I looked at the long line of black threads on his legs and arms and it looked like a large black rosary to me had been carved onto his body. It hurt to look but he was alive and so I looked anyway. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time.

Just before we left, a former partner of Dad’s, dropped by to check on Dad. I had a long-standing dislike of the man ever since the firm restructured and Dad left it. I occasionally had called to jam up the 1-800 line at the firm but knowing this was childish, I had stopped. I had even thought of returning the wedding present he had given my husband and me, a dessert server, saying, “It leaves a bad taste in my mouth,” but again decided it was small minded. Seeing the man visit my Dad at the hospital, I thought, “Damn, now I’m going to have to forgive him.”

Dad held no grudges so I couldn’t either, much as I might sometimes want to…really. That ugly stuff still doesn’t matter. He still calls me and says, “Hey Beautiful.” because that’s how he sees me and how God sees each of us. “Hey Beautiful.”

And by saying that, over and over, eventually, we come closer to becoming it. 

Happy Father's Day Dad!

Law and Order in the Food Court*

The following is a future conversation coming to a municipality near you.

Sitting down at the local chain establishment known for its greasy cheap abundant delicacies that have been deep fried more than once, I prepared to enter that gastronomic paradise known as fresh fried chicken. My meal was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a staff member from the chain, dressed in the red uniform, wearing secret service glasses and holding a brief case.

“You ordered the trans-fat saturated high carbohydrate and sodium basted poultry with a side of twice submerged in canola oil high starch potatoes with a whole milk sugar enhanced frozen beverage?”

“It’s on the menu, #3.” I sputtered.

“Yes Ma’am, please sign these release forms.” He said as he produced a stack of paper an inch thick and placed them in front of my meal.

“What for?”

“Exemption from liability for any current existing known or otherwise health conditions that may or may not be exacerbated by the ingestion of excessive carbohydrate and fat infused food products, resulting in but not limited to heart disease, high blood pressure, hardening of the arteries, diabetes, high cholesterol, stroke, obesity, muscle fatigue, and gout.”

I looked around for a camera or someone to shout “You’ve been punked.” But everyone else in the store was ordering, eating or simply observing. The staff of the business seemed not to notice anything.

“Is this a joke?” I started.

“No Ma’am, no joke. We here at …have started a proactive policy of targeting 10% of our customer base at random to ensure that we show due diligence in warning our patrons about the dangers of eating these particular foods which the government has deemed exceptionally hazardous to the long term well being of its citizens.”

“And I’m…”

“This noon’s recipient of the information.”

"Why me? I'm not that overweight!"

"Ma’am, if we only spoke to people who were obese, we'd be accused of physical profiling. That's against federal law."

“I see. Well, you’ve told me. Now take these forms and go away. My food’s getting cold.”

“You will not sign these release forms?”

“No! I bought the food and I’m going to eat it.”

“I see. Thank you Ma’am for your time.” He removed the first form and my drink.

“What are you doing? That’s my chocolate shake!”

“Substituting a healthy soy-based, protein enhanced sugar substitute frozen beverage, flavored with carob.” He snapped his fingers and another employee in red with sunglasses appeared with a new drink and placed it on my table.

“But I ordered a chocolate shake.”

“If you had signed the release form, it would stay Ma’am.”

“Get me the manager.”

“Certainly, sign this affidavit indicating you wanted to initiate mediation rather than accept responsibility for your poor health choices.” He pointed to the next form.

“Why?”

“It makes you responsible for all potential legal fees involved in the negotiations regarding the return of your chocolate shake.”

“Get me the manager now. I’m not signing anything.”

“Very well Ma’am, I’ll alert the management. In the meantime…” he snapped his fingers again and away went my food. The second employee in sunglasses put an apple, broiled chicken breast and salad in front of me. “Enjoy your meal Ma’am.”

“Give me back my chicken. I paid for it.” I stood up, I was mad.

“Ma’am, you may have back the entire meal on one proviso.”

I should have said “No provisos, I want to eat my food now!” But curiosity got the better of me, “What proviso?”

“Sign this form indicating a pledge enforceable by law that you will put in the obligatory 10 hours of cardio-vascular exercise necessary to erase the calorie-intake health risk represented by this meal.”

“I belong to a gym already.”

“Yes Ma’am, this makes it possible for the government to check into your gym records. You also will not be allowed to frequent another establishment of this franchise until those ten community service hours of exercise are served.”

“What?”

“Oh, and one more thing.” He puts the remaining papers back in his brief case and my cold chicken and fries and melted shake back on the table.

“What?”

“You owe an additional $4.25 for the heart healthy lunch.”

“But I didn’t eat…”

“Yes Ma’am, but federal regulations prohibit the food from being served to someone else, so it is yours to dispose of as you wish. Here is your bill. Bon Appetite.”

*Original run on November 12, 2007

Slaughter House Rules

The people of Congress have adopted the Slaughter rule. In a close vote of 222-203, the House now can deem to have passed anything the Senate gets through its august body. White House spokesman Gibbs has already hedged about whether the rule will be used for other bills than healthcare so I'd say it's a fair bet that all future legislation will be run through whichever party friendly chamber can pass it first to get rubber stamped by its fellows in the opposite chamber after a few pork laden adjustments. The entire legislative body will have mastered how to vote “Present” and still get major graft in the process.

Why have votes at all if they can be rendered unnecessary?

We deem Cap and Trade to pass. We deem Stimulus II to pass. We deem that all Republicans shall be taxed at 300% to pass. We deem that we are elected for life shall pass. We deem that this judicial nominee shall be seated. We deem that this industry shall become nonprofit. We deem that this nonprofit may not do what it does. We deem that the Fairness doctrine shall be in place. We deem and it is passed. The deliberative part of crafting a bill has been eliminated. The declarative part that requires people to stand up and be counted so they can be held accountable has also been circumvented. Laws need only be drawn up and approved by one part of the legislative branch to get to the Executive. Couple this mischief with Executive Orders and we don't have much of the legislative process left that actually concerns the whole of the Republic.

The pernicious element of the Slaughter rule is that it speeds up the rate at which legislation might be made. Pork deals used to undermine bills such that Congress would then opt for the leaner versions that could pass. Legislators now no longer have to worry about sinking a bill at all via excessive pork pet projects. The members of the House can just add in after the fact as much as they wish. Alternatively, they can gut an entire bill of its teeth if the body affects their political chances. The Slaughter rule establishes a procedure that will allow Congress to spend even more recklessly than before. (Hard to imagine but technically possible). It's a lot easier to pass a bill if you only have to persuade one part of the legislative body and it’s even better if you no longer have to worry about your constituents being made uneasy by your plans.

The whole purpose of having the two houses and the process of reconciliation was to help strip away pork from bills; to make sure that the people’s will was being properly represented before the bills became law. Now Nancy's statement about healthcare will make sense because it will become the norm. People won't know what has been put in the bill until it has been passed, because the stuffing of amendments won't occur until after a bill makes it through either the House or the Senate. The legislators from the opposite deliberative body shall stand poised at the ready once a bill gets through the voting process, ready to bloat it to satisfy their various cronies, flunkies, toadies, lobbyists and lackies. The vetting of the bill will take place prior to the application of deals; so a bill will appear far more pure and garner less public rancor before it “poof” becomes ready for signage by the President with possibly a whole lot of less savory extras that we only get to discover after they have the force of law.  If you're okay with this, just pretend it was the opposite power in party and pick a project you loathe and imagine how you would feel.  Again, the arguement that Republicans did it first or before does not mean they should have or that you should be okay with it then or now.   A corrupt sleazy process is a corrupt sleazy process.  The R or the D is irrelevant.

We are being taken out of the legislative process entirely; we just get to foot the bill. But I'm sure since they're all such honorable people committed to public service and the public good that we have nothing at all to worry about.

No nothing at all.

Why Resolutions Don't Work in 2009

It's 2009. I didn't make a resolution. But then I haven't bought a converter box yet either. Maybe it's the times. Maybe it's emotional and intellectual and physical sloth but resolutions these days seem very fossil fuel. Much of what we seek to change or improve has been either rendered unnecessary or made mandatory, such that it isn't so much a resolution involing personsal responsibility as an obligation we didn't know we signed on to before getting the New Year's To-do list.

10) Resolving to be fiscally responsible. In this day and age, with Congress doling out the dough to every institution that knocks on the door, it would be the height of folly to practice frugality in light of the free largesss the government wishes to pass out to the needy massive corporations. Saving money in 2009 is the equivalent of passing up 20 Trillion sitting on the street waiting to be picked up. You could do it but in heaven's name why?

9)Losing weight. Southbeach, Adkins, Tae Bo, Lippo, Gastro, Phen phen, Jenny Craig, Weight watchers, even Oprah couldn't manage it and she's got personal chefs cooking for her. If millionare president pickers can't beat the bulge, what chance do the rest of us have against Krispy Kremes, french fries and all things chocolate. Let's just call Congress, ask them to rewrite the Body Mass Indexes/average weights to incorporate our greater girth and change the standard deviation such that 75% is within the 3/4th range.

8) Becoming better educated. Between Google and Wikipedia, there is so much information and misinformation, everyone can become an instant expert or idiot on virtually anything, just ask Caroline Kennedy, Al Franklen, Blago, Burris, the list goes on. Today, all you need is a staff and and a blackberry and you need never crack a textbook again. So kids, cram for the tests and forget all the rest.

7) Being Counter-cultural. What would this mean? What would it look like? Reading a newspaper? Using incandescent bulbs? The Amish?

6) Volunteering. With the economy going down the drain, this formerly noble impulse to serve without pay is rapidly become the norm of the actual capitalistic business model. We Americans need to work more and get paid less. It's more "patriotic." Break out the fireworks and the cheap hotdogs and pay your taxes. Whee.

5) Green living. Perusing all the "simple everyday tips" for being more Earth friendly offered in this week's paper alone, I should give up all paper products, coffee, heat, electricity, fruits not in season, one's car, use of planes, computers, printers, baths, tin foil, milk, beef, fish, chicken, processed sugar, leather products, bottled water, appliances and beauty products. I've seen this some place before...oh yeah, Europe.

4) Correcting/improving spelling, writing and grammar. These days, who would notice?

3) Becoming famous. With Youtube, Facebook, blogging, call-ins to every television show and reality television shows popping up faster than kudzu alongside the highways, this isn't so much a goal of any year, as it is something one must actively seek to avoid.

2) Learning all the things that are on the 2009/2008 In/Out list. It's simple. If you knew what they were, and what they are, you're in. If you didn't, you're out. If you have to ask...(Note, saw the list, was able to identify 6 of the in, 10 of the out, of 100).

1) Having more actual fun. I'm not sure this is still allowed by federal law.

On a personal note: Planning to lose weight, save money and stay organized while learning to play the drums on the Wii, master french, finish my book, keep my house neat, get published 52 times and learn three pieces on the piano, read 12 actual books and have more fun daily, pray the rosary and maintain my Saint Bridgette's discipline. There, I made resolutions. Now That's Counter-cultural.

Happy New Year!

Every Breakfast Tells A Story...

My favorite breakfast in the whole world is blueberry pancakes with syrup and Jasper county sausage on the side. The problem with this combo was that it used to require tremendous coordination of my parents, not to mention the postal service.

Before the internet and 24-7 mail order catalogs, maple syrup didn’t exist in the south. My grandmother from Dunkirk, New York would to ship it to us once a year for Mom’s birthday. Mom would parcel it out like a miser, for fear its golden taste was being wasted on young moppets who might have been just as happy with Mrs. Butterworth.

Dad grew up on sugar cane and caro syrup and enjoyed experimenting. He’d buy boysenberry and blueberry and blackberry flavors. We liked the colors but not the taste. We knew what the Good Stuff was.

Then one day, Dad was cleaning out the cupboards of extra stuff. He was consolidating the peppers into one space, doing inventory for a grocery shop. When he found three different types of mustard, he began interrogating no one in particular, asking “Why do we have three jars of pepperocini? Did you know we have four different kinds of olives in this pantry and over fifteen separate types of jam in the second fridge alone?”

Mom could have said many things at this moment, but she wisely responded, "That’s why you are clearing out the stuff dear." And left the room.

Dad got efficient and ruthless in his cleaning frenzy, to the point of being reckless. He consolidated the syrups, all of them: the boysenberry, strawberry, the cheap log cabin and the sugarless into the biggest tin of all, the Pure Grade A Dark Amber Maple.

My childhood was a fairly happy one, but I remember, this was a grave sin.

Suffice it to say, Mom got a new tin of Grade A Maple Syrup and it is now considered sacred, such that she eyes every new different bottle of syrup that darkens our door with suspicion.

Now getting the Jasper County sausage was a separate issue all together, shrouded in secrecy.

My dad gives his clients, his friends and his family and those who know about it, two wonderful gifts at Christmas time; a five pound bag of rice from the Beaumont Rice Mill (our ancestors started and some of our family still own it), and a five pound slab of spicy pork sausage known only as Jasper County sausage. Dad hunts ducks in LaBelle and thus has contacts with all sorts of people from the South East Texas area, including apparently this mysterious sausage man.

Once a year he clears out the Suburban and drives to Jasper County, (we don’t know where) and comes back with his truck filled to the gills with fresh processed meat which we then dutifully wrap in butcher block and red cellophane and tie with green ribbon. Then the freezer is stuffed and we begin the sausage runs around town, delivering spice, rice and good cheer as we go.

The only thing I think I know about the Jasper County Sausage man is that one year he got a new helper. That year the links were shall we say, extra spicy. Almost inedible by some standards, but I found if you drenched them in maple syrup, all that was left was the pleasant after burn of eating something hotter than usual for breakfast and feeling you had conquered any chance of being labeled a wuss, (and all before noon).

Now we have tried over the years to learn the name and address of this man. Somehow, Dad always manages to duck us, I think it tickles him that we have to take it on faith that this sausage will reappear each year. Once, my younger brother even tried to tail him to Jasper but Dad lost him on the back roads. In recent years, however, he has taken Mom. I suspect he has sworn her to secrecy.

Still, while maple syrup and jasper sausage are filling enough on their own to supply all the calories necessary for running a few marathons, they need the plain comfort of fresh pancakes. Pancakes are the Larry to Curley and Moe in breakfast.

For years, my parents had used the very sensible (you are too short, you are too young) rationale to keep me from the griddle. However, when my mom went into the hospital two months early with my sister,I thought it had become necessary for me to master making breakfast for my brothers and myself.

Could I have made cereal? Yes but that’s too easy. Could I have made scrabbled eggs? Yes, but I had been making those for years and those were boring. Could I have made oatmeal or grits? Yes again, but I didn’t think of those because, well, I wanted pancakes.

Now most pancakes are fool proof but then most of my functional cooking life, I have personified fool. A Mensa member I am not. After I wrecked the kitchen, my Aunt stepped in to do clean up and save my bacon, or at least, my pancakes.

Still, after years of practice, I can now flip them with a practiced ease and make my own favorite breakfast thank you very much, I just have to get Dad to cough up the info on the sausage man.

Maybe I can bribe Mom with some Maple Syrup.

Here in Spamelot...X Marks the Spot

By the number of spam letters I get a week, I am quite certain the human population of Abidjab is -45,327. Nearly all of them died under horrific tragic and highly suspicious conditions. The remaining heirs to the residents of this woe be stricken province are bogged down in Probate court because none of these folks had the good sense to create wills.

From all the reports, it seems Abidjab is awash in diamonds, oil, Swiss bank accounts, mansions and unclaimed checks for six+figures waiting to be distributed. By my calculations, and I could be off by a few billion, there's enough surplus to eliminate this Nation's national debt, fund social security for the next seven eons, and eliminate taxes entirely.

These same fated unfortunately deceased exotic people left behind detailed instructions on how to reclaim their many magnificent sources of wealth. It is interesting to note that they knew ahead of time, the government of Abidjab would unjustly seize their assets. It's a bad evil, highly legalistic place that oddly enough, I haven't been able to find on Google Earth or Middle Earth for that matter.

Thankfully, the good souls, Mr. George Davies, Jennifer and Don Simpson, Mr. Adul, and Sir Nigel Righly, some of them lawyers for the dead, others the long lost seventh cousins twice removed or estranged family heirs, have taken upon themselves, to selflessly fight the power. With help, they'll see to it that the executives at the treasury, banks and other corrupt and unfeeling institutions that did these dasterdly deeds and probably bumped them off, do not get to keep their illegal ill gotten windfalls.

And all they need is help from someone caring.

How did they know I was such a kind and understanding person?

Sniff, sniff…It’s so true.

They knew they could trust me with this special secret because my name was whispered on the dying person’s lips. Apparently my family tree has some forks I didn’t know about.

Sure we never met, but he/she, it, they,… were a fan of my blog and knew my kind and understanding heart would leap at the chance to right a wrong and rid the world of a grave injustice while netting a tidy tax free 100K or more on the side.

All I need do is put myself out just a little bit, by providing a bank account, social security number, credit card and a mere handling fee of 10-55K per transaction.

Think of the Good I could Do!

If only I weren’t such a cynical creature.