Beyond the Birds and the Bees

We go to the library almost every Saturday, and check out a new bagful o' books.  About three weeks ago, we were heading to the checkout desk when Sam snagged this one off the shelf:

I was *this close* to telling him to put it back on the shelf, we had enough books already.  Thank goodness I didn't.

This book has been single-handedly responsible for giving me more free time in the past three weeks than I've had in the past three and a half years combined.  Well, if you count free time as ten-second intervals of silence in between requests to identify a bushbaby or a lesser red panda.  I've actually learned a lot, too.  Did you know that a black panther is actually just a regular old leopard, who happened to be born with black fur?   I don't know exactly when I'll use that tidbit, but you never know.  It may come in handy someday.

Who'd have thought the answer to all (well, one, but it was a big one) of my problems could be purchased for only $29.99?  (Actually, I'm going to be buying a used copy for much less, but I'd pay about 10 times the cover price if I had to.  Shhh...don't tell the seller.)

Book Review: Look Again

I recently finished Lisa Scottoline's newest book, Look Again.  I've read (and loved!) everything she's ever written, and this book was no exception.  Even though the ending was a bit too pat and the plot was a bit too implausible, I still loved it.  Scottoline is funny and clever, but unlike Janet Evanovich, whose Stephanie Plum books I stopped reading a few books back, Scottoline's books are always original.  (I used to love the Stephanie Plum series, but after the first ten books, I started to feel like I was reading the same book over and over again.  Then again, maybe I was.  My memory, like the old gray mare, ain't what she used to be.)

 

If you've read Lisa Scottoline before, you know that she normally writes legal fiction, and her books usually star the same case of characters.  Look Again was a total deviation from her regular formula.  The main character, Ellen, is facing the possibility of losing her 3-year-old son so I'm sure this book affected me more than it would affect someone else who doesn't have a 3-year-old son.  But you may not want to read the last 50 pages when you're, oh, riding a crowded passenger bus home from work.  Just sayin'. 

 

I was most excited to read on the inside flap of the cover that Lisa Scottoline has a weekly column that runs in the Philadelphia Inquirer.  If you're a die-hard fan, like I am, this column is worth adding to your reader.

Finally, An Update

Phew.  As I wipe the sweat off my brow, I hardly know where to start explaining where I've been and what I've been doing.

I have been a bit busy lately, with a big project.  Not the "raising two young children" project, or the "taking care of a house" project, but a different one.  Gardening is one of my passions, something I haven't been able to do much of since having kids.  The summer after Sammy was born, we had to tear out my beautiful garden to put in an ugly septic mound.  

This used to be my garden.  Now it's basically a big pile of...well, you know.

Ever since, I haven't had the time or the ambition to start over, but this year I've decided to change all that.

This is what I have to work with:

And this:

I've spent the past couple of weeks digging out tree stumps, hauling black dirt, weeding, mulching, planting, and fencing.  And that's why I haven't been posting lately.

*********************************************************

I love summer.  Love, love, love it, for reasons to numerous to mention, but one of the reasons?  Messy projects can move outdoors, leaving the cleanup to Mother Nature instead of Mother Exhausted.

  

Nah, I didn't really leave the kids outside until it rained.  I mean, I let Mother Nature clean up the driveway.  The kids, I sprayed down with a garden hose.  Which they thought was great fun - almost as fun as the painting itself.

They Say You Shouldn't Judge a Book By Its Cover...

But sometimes, it's really hard not to judge a person by their bumper stickers.

 

Recently, I was in a parking lot and walked past a car bearing two bumper stickers.  The first one proclaimed, "It's not about whether you pick your nose, it's where you put the boogers".  The second one was a political bumper sticker apparently featuring a 2008 Presidential candidate that I'd never heard of (and I followed political coverage enough to know about early candidates like Ron Paul, Dennis Kucinich, and Mitt Romney).  Alongside this unknown politician, were the faces of Obama and McCain.  The unknown politician's face smiled out from the bumper sticker, while McCain and Obama's faces had been decorated with marker moustaches, glasses, and whatever else.  If you were ever in second grade, you know the juvenile nonsense that I'm talking about.  There was some dumb saying on that bumper sticker, too, which went in one eye and out the other.

 

I had an immediate mental image of the kind of person who put those stickers on their car.  Not even a physical image (although I'm guessing either a teenager or early-20-something type person) but more of a personality image.  I have to admit, I hoped I'd see the car's owner but it didn't happen.

 

When I was in high school, my first car was a 1987 Dodge Aries.  There was something special in the paint used on that car model.  Something special that made the paint fleck off in huge chips.  I could spot a fellow Dodge Arian from a mile away simply by noting the paint job (or lack thereof).

 

In a misguided attempt to hide the ugliness of the exterior, I decorated the back bumper with some bumper stickers.  A big, colorful flower.  "Peace" or "Love" or some other hippie-ish saying, written in colorful, glittery, bubbly font.  I think those stickers drew even more attention to the car.  I know for a fact it drew more attention from the police, because I got pulled over twice in that car for "speeding".  There was no speeding involved either time, and I was let go with a "warning".  I know now the police were simply looking for an excuse to pull me over, because...come on.  If you see a car like that, don't you assume the driver probably does a little wacky tobaccy sometimes?  (And for the record, I've never smoked any kind of a cigarette.) 

 

Like it or not, a car's bumper stickers say a lot about the driver - but not always what the driver is intending.  These days, I go au naturel.

Scenes from a Midwest Restaurant

The recent news story about the disgustingness that took place at a North Carolina Domino's Pizza made me think of my own experiences in a restaurant kitchen.  If you eat out regularly and are squeamish, you may not want to read the rest of this.  Just saying.

 

There seems to be a particular type of person who works in the kitchen at certain restaurants.  I'm not talking chefs, here - I'm talking minimum-wage burger flippers or greasy spoon cooks.  In the town in which I grew up, there were two middle-of-the-road restaurants, and one pricier, more upscale place.  I worked at one of the middle-of-the-road restaurants, and knew a lot of people who worked at the other joint.  In fact, a lot of the cooks would quit (or more likely, get fired) from one place and go to work at the other.  So I feel pretty confident in saying that the same types of "pranks" went on at both places.

 

One memorable incident happened when the waitress reported to the cook that "so-and-so" had come in.  I didn't recognize the customer's name, but apparently the cook did and he looked extremely pissed off.  He asked the waitress, "Is this his order?" holding up the customer's ticket - a BLT - and the waitress confirmed it.  After she left the kitchen, the cook (I'll him Bob) took the bacon off the grill, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it.  He commented while he was doing it that those were the same shoes that he wore out in the yard where his dog sh!t.  He wouldn't listen to me when I told him to stop it, and just started laughing.  So I intercepted the waitress and told her not to serve that sandwich to the customer, and why.  It got back to the manager (I can't remember if I told him or if the waitress did - it doesn't really matter anymore) and Bob got in huge trouble.  Didn't get fired, though why he didn't is beyond me.  If I was the manager, he'd have been gone that second.  And then Bob had the balls to ream me out for "telling on him". 

 

Bob did eventually get fired, after many further offenses, and his replacement came in the form of "Arthur".  Arthur was an old buddy of the restaurant's owner.  And by old, I do mean old.  He was easily 70, 75 years old, and wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed anymore.  He was a nice guy, but extremely slow and was very aggravating to work with on a busy Friday or Saturday night.  I was a fry cook on those busy nights, and my job was to time my stuff to be done along with his stuff.  It was excruciating to see the tickets piling up while I was standing around unable to do anything, because Arthur was puttering around in back instead of tending to the grill.  One night, Arthur left the hash browns sitting out all night and I caught hell from the owner the next morning because they were all rotten.  Of course, nothing was ever Arthur's fault, because the owner and him went waaay back. 

 

Friday nights were fish fry night.  One night, I witnessed Arthur absentmindedly dump a whole fryer of freshly-fried fish into the garbage can.  When he realized what he'd done, he simply picked them back out of the garbage and put them on the customer's plates.  One of the other cooks there, when something like that would happen, he'd throw them in the fryer for a couple of seconds and state that the oil was so hot, it would kill any of the germs picked up from the garbage.  Uh, yeah, maybe - but what about all the rotten food in the garbage that is now fried onto the fish?  Ewww.

 

Oh, and just a tip - most cooks take it personally if you send food back and there's a good chance they'll do something disgusting to your food.  I witnessed Bob, more than one time, spit on someone's food because he was angry that the customer had complained.  (And yes, I intercepted that food and reported it as well.  And no, he didn't get fired for that either.)  I have never sent anything back to the kitchen, and don't ever plan on doing so.  I'd rather just eat it (or not eat it) in silence and not come back to the restaurant.

 

Surprisingly, I still eat out in spite of knowing what goes on behind the scenes at many, if not most, restaurants.  But I do have to work hard at not thinking about what went into making the food.