Trailer Park Karma

I Know What Boys Like

I can just see all you 80's trendsetters swaying in front of your keyboards... "nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah..."
I also know how to tease people over to my blog, don't I?  /grin

Like I said in this other post the other day, no more coddling you Facebook Fiends. If you like Trailer Park Karma, I want your eyeballs here on this piece of Web property. Facebook's fine, but really... who *can't* do FB?  /grin

So here's what boys like:



And here's why you're seein what boys like:

Neighbor GirlDawg, who shall remain unnamed here to protect what's left of her innocence, has been itchin (if you know what I mean, and I don't mean fleas, although there's them, too) and therefore hanging out in my acreage for nearly a week now. 

No, we don't have "animal control" here, whether that's official personnel or even laws. What you do when there's an animal problem out in my neck o The Sticks -- and this is per the only authority for 100 miles around, to whom I spoke way back when I first moved here just so I was in on the up-and-up -- is take care of it yourself. 

However that may happen.Take that hand you were dealt and let the chips fall where they may.

So when I got back from Swamp City after a few days, I was really hoping GirlDawg had retreated. The Boy and I pull the Buddhamobile in to my dusty driveway (dusty, even in the rain, no kidding, it's that dry out here) around Midnight and there she sat in the middle of the front yard, just beyond the place where I'd shoveled up a dead cat (her love offering to Burb Dawg, no doubt) before leaving town.

Worse, there was evidence that GirlDawg's BFF's (two ratty, roaming ankle-biters who've been wreaking havoc in this town since before I moved in) have been partyin on our porch with her the whole time I was gone. 

The Boy was granted maternal permission to fire at will, with a caveat: please avoid their faces.

"No guarantees," was his reply. Good enough for me.

It took a few skirmishes but, for now, the Bevy of Beautiful Bitches has fallen back. Not even a big ol' rawhide stick can bring the winsome grin back to Burb Dawg's countenance.

I've received my first lesson in air-soft shooting and reloading, so I can act quickly when I'm not copywriting or boiling boxed mac 'n cheese while The Boy romps around town. All's well. Just don't mention the incident to Burb Dawg.

 

How to Be a Happy Camper, Part 2: Enjoy Everything

Deep night fell with a hush on the campground, so The Boy and Burb Dawg and I retreated from the bat cave to our little site. 

I forgot to bring a lamp.

But I remembered the pre-soaked charcoal -- and matches -- and there was a stray log in our fire ring. A fire commenced.

I broke out the Coleman burner and, with the help of my kid's way-too-big knife, cooked up a dinner fit for a preteen king: bacon. Just bacon. Well, okay, you know me -- I also had some tortillas and cheese to go with the pig. Nothing says love like a thick arterial coating.

The bacon-stirring was coming along nicely when The Boy sliced his finger open with the way-big knife that he'd convinced me just that day to buy for him. We'd been chatting while he did what any boy does with a new sharp object: cleaning bacon fat from the blade with his finger only to be so mezmerized as to test out that enticing edge...

He was incredibly stoic. We are so far from where we were several years back.

Soap-and-water, a little iodine, a band-aid, and back to the bacon. Burb Dawg watched the darkness that spoke to him with strange voices while he lay tethered on the concrete pad under our picnic table. Dawg Prison. The Boy and I burned marshmallows over our awesome fire and talked about life. Some of it's good. 

Next, the obligatory photoshoot of UFO's, a quick trip for all campers to designated relief areas, and then to bed.

Burb Dawg prefers the Buddhamobile, figurin it to be our Little House on Wheels. The Boy and I were tent-cozy. The temperature outside was nothing less than perfect. 

"No shoes in the tent!"

"But Mom, shouldn't you bring them in, in case it rains?"

"Nah, it'll be fine. It ain't gonna rain."

Of course, it rained. But not enough to make the tent leak, just enough to wake me and then lull me back to dreamland. And dampen my tennies.

The dawn saw a lonely Dawg and sleepy Boy.

 

I whipped up a fantastic camp breakfast,

 then it was off to hike the eager paws off the dog,
catch a fat tadpole,

climb a hill,

see some pretty stuff,

and squeeze in a family photoshoot.

Then we loaded up basecamp and abandoned Dawg in the Buddhamobile

for a quick unencumbered jaunt on a different trail. The park map being what it was -- in need of updating, apparently -- I used the one bar I could find on my phone to text our whereabouts before setting out. Two bottles of water, a fourth of a chocolate bar (88%), half a bag of shelled sunflower seeds, and a couple of Pop-tarts accompanied us.

The quick jaunt took a couple of hours. 

Eventually, The Boy laid down at a dry creek crossing, expressing his intention to die there. I was prepared to shoot video of his death, but we had too much fun laughing instead.

We kept trudging. Pretty sure that map needs an update.
But yes, we made it to where we thought we might come out (but where we'd kinda hoped not to, because it was a solid couple of miles from where the car was parked...)

I love hiking.

The Boy cratered about a mile down the road. He perched on a rock ledge while I finished a solo journey to the Buddhamobile. Burb Dawg was sleeping soundly. I drove back and fetched The Boy from the ledge. 

On the way home, we grabbed a snack -- a Slim Jim and two boxes of Tic-Tacs, plus some juice -- at the only place open in a little town that was closed for Spring Break.

Stopped and shot a photo of the remainder of another town named for the trees that had been harvested for telegraph poles. The gas pump was stuck at $1.99...

The best part of camping is always the shower and comfy bed that follow.

How to Be a Happy Camper, Part 1: Expect Nothing

Some folks recently mentioned they can't make it through my long posts before nodding off. It's true, a jillion stories slip through my brain's crevices and into The Nothing because I wait for elusively long stretches of time to do the writing. So, I tried to work on this wordy problem by rendering a quick version of this year's Spring Break camping adventure -- before I even hit the shower.

But I couldn't do it.
 
Everything is a story to me. Whether or not it's worth telling isn't up to me. 
So I'm at least breaking this 36-hour adventure into more than one post.

The Camping Trip Begins

High-five us! From lazy PJ's and coffee to fully packed and ready to roll in only an hour! 

Before hitting the road, we hit the liquor store. Bought the cheapest bottle of wine they had, only $5, some real headache-conjuring grape juice. I'll be using it for cooking, but not at camp. I was distracting the owner while The Boy tossed our household garbage in their dumpster (the City dump was closed for lunch). 

Next, the library, where I tried to upload my first video-editing attempt which failed in the end after a cumulative 25 hours over two days, either because the Internet out in The Sticks sucks or because I make too-long videos to go along with my too-wordy blogposts. Off to the Dollar Store for dog food and necessaries. Important things like the humongous switchblade my almost-12-year-old talked me into buying (with his money, but I had to hand it over because he's not 18 yet). 

Then we hit the road for a state park we'd never ventured to -- we love trips like this!

I forgot a map.

Curvaceous highways, never-seen-by-us scenery, and chat so pleasant that we didn't even need what was left of the radio. We were rolling!

Two and a half hours later, things got a little testy. The Stop n Shop high-schoolers were clueless, trying to send us further south. "No, really, I'll just buy this map," I insisted.

We were an hour and a half lost. But now we were rolling again! All we had to do was find the relatively isolated Ranch Road we'd missed from the other direction. It would be smack dab in the middle of a town I'd actually heard of!

Only drove in circles in that little town for 15 minutes before I slammed pulled into a Lounge. Happy Hour was well under way. The Boy and Burb Dawg dutifully remained in the Buddhamobile while I went into the dark, smoky shack. Just inside, three men with drinks in hand expressed way too much Happy Hour Happiness to see me.

Quick business-like announcement from me to the crowd: "I'm lost."Oh, boy, now they were excited. "NO, I got a kid and a dog in the car. I need to find Highway 674."

"Oh, hell, I don't know," the bartendress said, throwing her hands in the air and walking away to her other customers.

"You see, this is where it is..." began one stumbling bumblehead with a shot glass in front of him. 

And we were off to the races in the small-town lounge, with two drunk, old men (yes, older than me) rendering advice and arguing back and forth about directional variations. Finally, the younger man of the three noted my dismay and impatience (which my friends and family can tell you is pretty observable at moments like this) and offered up -- in a way that still respected his older, drunker friend -- a succinctly sensible summary. I nodded, thanked, and smiled at the younger guy. The old guys were having none of it. No, no, it wasn't that way, it was this way.

I left -- with the chattiest of the trio reaching his arms out and begging me to stay -- determined to follow the younger drunk's helpful and tidy advice. Sure enough, it was a simple right at the only light and keep going straight. 

My son's recollection of this event is now permanently "Don't ever get directions from old, drunk people." I'm good with that.

We arrived not only before dark, but half an hour before the bats fly. We raised my tiny tent with panache.  The Boy whittled a stick while we watched the critters whir out of their cave. Twilight started to cover us,
and the moon, waxing toward full and with a huge ring around it, lit up our campsite. The night was off to a perfect start.

Sometimes, It Just Takes a Small Clump to Bar Independence. And A Bitch to Free You.

Happy Texas Independence Day!
You didn't know that today is the 175th birthday of The Republic?

That's funny -- neither does Burb Dawg. Yet.

Because so far this morning, Dawg is demonstrating how little it takes for even the fiestiest of us to get duped into thinking we're stuck. 

See, we ain't got a fence here at The Park. And while that may sound like the way we all look forward to living, the truth of the matter is that fences make for nice boundaries that keep us alive. 

I know, I know, this is a really tough sell, especially to Americans, and good lord, really tough to explain to people born and raised in The Republic. But I'll take a stab at it...

Just imagine yourself as Burb Dawg:

You love to run. I mean really run. None of that pretty canterin' crap, but full-on, tongue-hangin-out-your-mouth's-side, eyes double-sized, barrelin' ahead with nary a thought to what's gonna stop you from either direction. This kinda love should be illegal. It's tantamount to addiction, and we all know that addiction is Bad. This kinda lovin' to do somethin' is the kind that makes you think about it when you're not doin' it, do it with all your might and gusto when you're doin' it, and be in nothing short of Blissful Nirvana immediately following doin' it -- until you start dreamin' about the next time you're gonna do it.

You're healthy enough to do what you love to do. Nothing but good graces there. Why, you're so healthy that you don't even know that the opposite is possible.

You live in a place where that kinda runnin' just ain't allowed.

Okay, so now that your mind's swimming with What It's Like to Be Burb Dawg, here's the rest of your story:

Where you live is so freakin' gorgeous, it's just made for that Thing You Like To Do. "Wide open spaces" and all that Susan Gibson song kinda thing. You can see for miles and at the end of that are rocky hills. Holy Sense of Abandon, do you wanna get there! 

But wait! The bitch who owns you locks a tether to your chain collar as soon as your front paws hit the concrete steps, front or back. What the hell? She knows you love to run like you do. She knows it! Have you been bad? 

[Enter Reality: Ranchers around here use coyote bait that consists of yummy meat, tasty flesh, juicy muscle tissue -- all covering a mechanism that puffs cyanide into the nostrils of unsuspecting, delighted carnivores. That delight ends pretty quickly. 

And while these ranches are, yes, surrounded by fences, they're the kind that keep cows and horses in. Not so much for keeping dogs out.

But you're Burb Dawg, so you don't know that tidbit of deadly fact.]

While it's nice that your Owner Bitch let's you romp down the caliche road a bit with her every day, she keeps you on the line then, too (and lord, does she run slow...) If you had a nickel for every time she yanked that choke chain just because you headed for a hapless creature -- hell, even just a tantalizing scent! -- well, you'd be living on your own for sure. I mean, you love her, sure, but really... nothing and no one beats running.

And sure, sometimes she takes you to that place where your dog friend lives and the two of you get to run loose and free there, barking at the Big Dogs (who have pretty strange barks, themselves) and coming home just to lap up some water before heading out again to terrorize the peace. But she always makes you leave there at some point, and you're back where you started -- on a tether in your own yard, watching those *#&%$#&!! cats and deer and armadillos skirt the edge of where you've carefully scented. If you could just once get away, you'd show them.

But... you're a good dog. You really do love that Bitch who feeds you. She talks to you, too, and though you don't understand a word, it's a pleasantly appealing sound. Oh, and she drives you places, and that's a LOT of fun, being in that moving thing. And when it's cold, there's that fluffy, warm bed that's so high off the bare floor.

And really, if you didn't have her, where would you be? 

Out there.

And yeah, that sounds cool, but how tough would it be to have to get your own food all the time? And what if you couldn't find a place to hide when it's scary, or a place to stay warm when it's cold or dry when it's raining? And who would talk to you?

So, being a good dog, you wait for the click that signals you're tethered before venturing beyond the porch steps. You travel at whatever gait is best for the moment -- sometimes that's a scent-driven flash, but mostly it's a mildly curious saunter -- to the end of your rope. You look beneath your feet at the burrs that are destined for your coat once you're bored enough to roll in them. You survey the edge of your home territory in case there's something that needs a good barking-at. You lift your nose and catch what's on the wind. Your gaze is directed to the ranch beyond your pee line and the rocky hills past that, and you blink. 

One day.

And you're such a good dog that all it takes is a tug on that tether to tell you that's it, you've gone as far as you're gonna. Sometimes all it takes is the rope getting caught on a small clump of grass. At least until the Bitch comes out and unclumps it for you. Then the End of The Line stretches farther. 

Happy Independence Day, Texas.  

Never Too Late: Winter Time On the Flatlands

[Editor's note: While I toil in the Editor's frozen cubicle (and I should add that a hat makes all the difference!) on more mundane money-making matters, please enjoy the latest entry from My Old Man.]

(from the emails of David G. Morris, with permission)

Wow!  Comes now, known as a phenomenol occurrence, the weather that we're not used to...  I live in Houston, Texas on the coastal flatlands of the Gulf of Mexico, ya unnerstan. Some strange stuff is about to come upon us regular flatlanders. Folks here get all excited about this kinda thing. They go out and buy long-sleeved shirts and everything! 

Been watching the magic electric box that shows pictures that move back and forth (up and down, too) while one of those talkin' guys who calls himself a geologist (oops, my mistake -- he says he's one of them there meteorologists, one of those who study meteors, I reckon.) Anyhoo, he claims we'll have snow shortly, maybe starting in the later hours of this coming Thursday and lasting through Friday AM. Says, "We might get 3 to 4 inches of snow." Dang! Brang out the sleds and snowshoes forthwith, huh? Too bad we don't have a hill or two in my area to slide down. But that's okay 'cause I burned my ski (didn't have but one) in the fireplace one winter, long ago. (Won't ever have to drive or fly in snow, for any reason, again. Left Rhein Main in the snow by a transport plane in late December and just glad it made it across the "pond" safely, even though I was in one of them there misguided U.S. Navy planes.) 

Mein Gott! It's liable to look like the weather we had in Furstenfeldbruck, Bavaria back in the winter of '54-'55. And I don't even have any chains for my auto tires, either. Too bad that McLain doesn't live closer so's I could borrow some tire chains from him. Is he still alive?? Quien Sabe? 

By the way, should that have been, "Barvaria" in the above? The "Bar" part makes sense to me. 

Okay, gotta go see if the snowplow is still on the street ready to work -- takin' the driver some iced tea. 

Dave the M  (Fox)

 

Careful Who You Slam

It’s fun to find $20 bills in a coat pocket, birthday messages from years past, and unpublished blogposts. Sort of like hindsight mirrors, like this piece that I wrote before moving to The Sticks:

You know that old saying, "The older you get, the more like yourself you become"? It's a good one. I first heard it from one of my former in-laws, H2's dad.  Think on it for a while.  That's what I did, and sure enough...

I tend to view everything from a baseline belief that we all start out perfect. Not so much 'tabula rasa' as pure. And not 'pure' in the sense of morality so much as 'mint condition'. In my mind, we're born into this existence as "good" (in the chemical sense -- in that 'it is, therefore, it's good') as we're gonna be.

I know, I know, this can be a tough pill to swallow for some folks who like to think that enlightenment only comes later and after years of experience, struggle, and letting go, but this is what makes sense to me.

Have you ever read any accounts of Siddhartha Gautama's vision of himself as an infant under a tree, witnessing the world around him, and feeling in each cell that all was well? Reminds me of a visit I made to the Jersey coast once (which is really weird, given that the relationship I was in at the time was catastrophically toxic...)

Anyway, I think jhana (maybe, samadhi?) is what I'm trying to describe here. In a way, that deep feeling of Everything's A-OK is what we're all trying to get back to through our trials and tribulations. A whole lot of us haven't had that sensation since infancy, unless it was chemically-induced.

So, Point A: We're all aiming for who we started out to be.

On to Point B, that being the title of this blogpost.

For some reason that I haven't fully grasped yet in my gray matter, I have a weird tendency to become like those I've dissed.

That can be pretty scary when you've ranted and raged against as many people as I have.

Point B Example: I'm going to go ahead and make public that I've said some less than sensitive things (how's that for re-framing, Editor!) about... some of my in-laws. You get no more details than that, sorry. It wouldn't better the world in any way, and I'm all about bettering the joint. Besides that -- I have many former in-laws.

So, I'll cut to the chase. 
In a life filled with the study and championing of children, I have a tendency to get pretty high-and-mighty about their welfare. So whenever I've heard tales (I've heard more than a few) of women who up and leave their brood, even in the care of another adult, I've been known to blow a self-righteous gasket or two.

As my own hard-earned progeny transforms into an adolescent who can stand on his own two feet more and more, the idea of stealing away to the country -- far, far away -- appeals in a way that it never did before. Some might call it "abandonment"...
Lately, I have a greater understanding of women who "abandon" their homes. (Oooh, I can hear your wheels whirring all the way over here as you dredge your memory banks.) Now, notice my previous quotation marks -- they’re deliberate.
 
It's the old "walk a mile in my shoes" thing, coming back to haunt me as I get older. I was always proud of my innate empathy with folks. Nowadays it seems life is eager to wag a finger in my face about all those individuals I slammed in the past. Many a day I gaze at the sky and mutter, "I get it. I get it." Lucky me. More compassion training. And humility.

The good part of this is that I was a damned nice little kid. I'm looking forward to getting back to being her.

The Wisdom of Sister Martha

Scene: Three sunburned sisters and a patient 11-year-old rolling down a country highway in a crowded sedan, dog hair wafting on the A/C breeze, river silt coating the oil-stained carpet mats.

The Boy: "Look, mom. A monkey fat fry." (dangling a long, greasy fried potato sliver toward the front passenger seat)

TPB {that's me}: "Cool!" (staring straight ahead, searching the road for stray deer)

Martha & Annie Pearl: "Monkey fat... what??"

TPB: "It's what a co-worker explained the really good fast-food fries are cooked in... the ones that are limp and juicy with grease. It's monkey fat."

Martha: "Oh. I used to cook monkey brains."

The Boy: "Oh my god!" (giggles all around) 

Annie Pearl & TPB: "Mmmm..."

Annie Pearl: "So when did you make monkey brains?"

Martha: "A long time ago."

The Boy: "No, really."

Martha: "Really." (several minutes of silence in the car)

The Boy: "So..."

Martha: "I used to live with these people who, when I got home after being at work from 7 AM to 5 PM, would sit on my bed where I'd collapsed and ask me my least favorite question."

The Boy: "What's that?"

Martha: "They'd ask, 'What's for dinner?' So I finally started saying 'monkey brains.'" (simmering laughter)

Annie Pearl: "And did they eat monkey brains?"

Martha: "Mm hm. They'd eat it."

TPB: "But now you don't make monkey brains? Or they don't ask you the bad question any more?"

Martha: "They still ask. But now I just say, 'I'm having my avocado and tomato sandwich.’ And they leave me alone."

Martha is the proud purchaser of two 4-year college degrees and she’s working on buying a third.

Mr. Apocalypse

From the Dept of This Is Too Good To Be Civil & Leave Unpublished:

Wanna know something that's really cool about being married and divorced three times? Besides the fact that I have more experience than most of you at wedding planning (and yes, I did consider it as a career at one point), the best thing about being tethered and loosed as often as I have is the funny stories that come out of it.

H3 referred to them as "camping stories." I don't know if that's what he calls them now, because I have virtually no contact with him. In fact, if he's reading this, I'd like to talk to him about a few things left hanging...

And H1 -- well, he's out there somewhere, and is a really nice guy. And that's all I'll say about him.

Now, H2 -- with whom I stayed hitched the longest and produced my Uber Boy -- he's pretty much Mr. Apocalypse for me. Unfamiliar with the term? It's the person/s you'll be contacting first in the event of... There are two, no, three, make that four reasons why H2 is Mr. Apocalypse (and sorry, H2's Woman, I know I'll be sharing his efforts, and I'm good with that -- good thing we've camped primitively in advance of The Big Day, huh?):

1. He's the kind of guy who you're pretty sure could survive really well when the End Times arrive. Like, he couldn't grow food, but then the soil will all be so horribly radiated that gardening won't be popular. But he'll know where to scrape some up and how to finagle whatever is necessary to procure it.

2. Along the same lines, he's big. Of course, if the Apoco-Party comes during our lifetime, chances are good he'll be a might withered by then, but he's starting at a good baseline. And when radiated folks are thrashing it out over food for the kids, big counts big.

3. He's my kid's dad. Should be 'nuf said about that fact, but for those of you who didn't get the memo before you reproduced, human children really do need both parents in some form or fashion. Doesn't have to be traditional marriage, but you get the idea. Check my credentials if you doubt.

4. He's got a hellacious sense of humor when it comes to dukkha. And aside from physical characteristics, I can't think of a single more important interior trait to need after the whole world's gone bonkers.

So what's the point of saying all this now? And why am I not still married to this excellent specimen?

Am I trying to make up for all the crap I've tossed his way over the years? Heck, no! He deserves still more, and he knows he'll get it, too.

Is this a feeble attempt to wedge my old, white-haired self in between him and his younger, brillianter music-and-living-partner? Do I sound insane to you?

Is it his birthday?
Well, maybe. I'm not sure when you're reading this. But even that's not the point of this rambling post, because he knows full well that the only gift he gets from me is through our son.

No, my purpose is really no greater than this: I recently wrote him an e-mail of the type pretty reminiscent of me, and his response had me in stitches. That's all. He made me laugh. But it was the timing and nature of the humor that made it so perfect.

It went like this:

After yet another heated IM exchange with The Editor where I contained my outbursts with aplomb (you all would've been impressed), I decided to unleash my fury on -- you guessed it -- poor beleaguered H2.

My email to H2:

Btw, if you ever spoke to Mr. Editor about my anger, you may have planted a deleterious seed. And I swear to you that I've never blown up at him like I did at you. I just want to warn you about talking [EXPLETIVE] about me to people. I don't do it to you.

Well. I told you my tantrums are legendary -- I wasn't kidding. As soon as that e-mail left my outbox, I was done with it. Defused. Cool. Ready to read my little book on tantric sex and hit the pillow. And H2 -- being Mr. Apocalypse 'n all -- didn't respond until the next day. He told me later that he spent the evening chuckling about my e-mail.

H2's e-mail to me the next day:

So, you're saying giving him that “Tracy Is The Devil” page-a-day calendar created the rift?

And it was all over. Not only was I LOL-ing around the kitchen after reading his response, but most of my laughter was at myself.

Now, that's Apocalypse material, folks. Let that be a lesson to any of you who were wondering. And that's something that’s really cool about being married and divorced three times.

telling stories and microwave bacon peach potato with a side of peach tomato olive blue salad

by Jason Songhurst

I think I know a lot. But I know that I don't. I know that; and I know that I think a lot.

Everything I experience and think about is the extent of my subjective existence in this world, and there are vast realms of experience and knowledge of which I know nothing. I've seen that a lot of my experiences have some characteristics in common, but each of them is also unique, each of them a moment in time. This fraction of eternity that I know, even the portion that I do know well, is so poorly remembered and so imperfectly experienced that it seems to require constant evaluation and re-evaluation to understand.

What I'm trying to say is, I forget everything.

I get lost in stories in my mind, stories that take me away from where I am. I experience physical pleasure only while distracted, through a body awareness dissolved into a rain barrel of stories.  I forget conversations because I get lost in stories instead of listening.

But I like the stories. The stories repeat back to me everything that I have already thought about or experienced in the world.

Some of the stories are memories.  Others are fantasies, plots and regrets.

Lots of those.

 In the middle of this sludge of stories, I hurt the feelings of my brother.  So, I'm not having dinner at his house tonight.  I want something kind of fancy, the stuff they cook over there, the kind of food people pay 20 a plate for in beautiful restaurants with civilized people.

What I've got is a couple of peaches, a tomato, some olives, a sweet potato, some bacon and some blue cheese dressing.

Slice the potatoes.

Dice the peaches and tomato.

Put a layer of peaches on the potato slices and seal with bacon.

Cook it in the microwave oven in a closed dish.  I used two plates.

The rest of the peach and the tomato go in a bowl with olives and blue cheese.

It wasn't fancy, but I really tasted the peach between the bacon and sweet potato.  My one complaint was that the potato was undercooked. I could have blasted it a bit harder with the microwave, but I got a little nervous, hearing the bacon popping. Just my skittish nature.

The peach tomato olive blue salad was great.  Lots of blue cheese because I wanted a bit of comfort food, so I went high fat tonight.  I don't want to forget that a story I tell myself might not be the same story that others tell to themselves, and I've got a story that tells me that a high-fat meal will help me to remember that. )))

P.S. I ate one last night, the other two slices tonight.  I nuked them for six minutes and then waited until the temperature was down to 140 before eating it.  The bacon was crisper and the potato was nice and soft.  Yummy.

It's Never Too Late: Pock An Egg

(From the emails of David G. Morris, with permission:)

Awakened (woke up, if you prefer) this AM, prepared (made, if you prefer) a pot of coffee, had a couple of cups, prepared (made, if you prefer) breakfast for Paula and I, and did then consume a goodly amount of same.

 
Strolled out the front door, a little later, to observe Easter Sunday happenings in the neighborhood on and around South Alley Court.  Saw only a few kids and they all had baskets and colored eggs in hand.  What I did not see was any "pocking", at all, going on between the kids. 

As a matter of fact, I have never seen pocking of eggs in this part of Texas, none now, or in the past. 

I have in past years asked others here about this non-phenomenon and no upright, walking-straight, person has been able to identify the word -- "pock" -- or pocking, or the phrase, egg pocking (that a phrase?) 

Are any of you folks familiar with pocking, or egg pocking? 

Also, have not seen pocking in other locations that I have visited in the "US of A" -- there is one exception, howsomever, as follows:

On Easter morning the kids appeared outside their homes carrying colored eggs and baskets and began a game of "pocking," all up and down the streets.  To me, this first occurred in the town of Ville Platte, Louisiana where I attended school during the 1st, 2nd and 3rd grades, and I only assume this is some sort of Cajun practice in Ville Platte, maybe the surrounding areas like Opelousas, too, or that general area (Cajun folks tend to run amuck around there.) 
 
The kids all try to pick out their hardest and toughest-shelled Easter egg and then challenge one another: one holds out his hard-shelled egg in his hand and the other will take his hard-shelled egg and knock it against the other one.  (Egg-striking-egg was the "pock.")  The egg that breaks is the loser and the loser has to turn his egg over to the winner, who of course, is trying to collect as many broken eggs as he can and be the champion.  No money is involved, just whomever collects the most broken eggs is judged the winner, until next year. 

So, if you find someone who wants to do some egg pockin', make sure you have a really tough-shelled egg so's you can clean out all comers.  Happy Pockin'! 

Also, hope all youse guys got your Easter trees up and decorated this year.  Boy, I used to love the smell of an "egg pock" in the early morning!

(Now and then some wise-apple would color a raw egg or two, use them as a pocker, then pock with them just to see how much of a yellow and white sticky liquid would be spilled on the other guy.) Aye Chihuahua!
 

Dave the M (Fox)