Been out back in my pith helmet, hacking back the cannas, elephant ears, and vines that have completely overgrown my tiny patio. The weather is lovely. Little lizards are hiding among the vines on the fence, and monarch butterflies are floating over.
The high school Gang of Six was here for lunch. I fixed a big bag of frozen hash browns, a bag of Little Smokies, ten scrambled eggs with a half bag of grated cheddar, and a quart bowl of fruit salad. They devoured it, all washed down with the requisite Texas national beverage, Dr. Pepper. Guess they were glad for a change from nachos, hot dogs, and pizza. Today I learned about the prevalence of french kissing in the school hallways, but I don't really eavesdrop.
One evening this week I gave my son The Talk about STDs and oral sex. Always wonderful dinner conversation! Normally we have the (equally disgusting) discussion of Dubya and his daily dastardly deeds. Lysol! Lysol! Clorox! Raid! Weedwackers! At breakfast the two of us don't talk much, but growl and hiss at the newspaper reports of the Texas Republican redistricting power grab.
The "Get Fuzzy" comic series on spray adhesive/deodorant for Satchel reminded me of my olden days in the art department's studio space. The building had been a brewery warehouse before being annexed by the university. It was devoid of windows and any climate control, and primitively partitioned into "private studios" for senior painting majors and grad students. All the rolls of canvas were a happy haven for miller moths. I HATE miller moths! Okay, I'm mostly over it, but there had been traumatic experiences in my childhood and teens that took years to work through with pharmaceutical assistance. The moths were so bad in the studio that they brought out my Dark Side. I came to enjoy, yes, enjoy, bringing down a moth with a well-aimed shot of aerosol artists fixative to the wings. Hell, I felt like Wyattetta Earp and Annie Oakley.
Yeah, I know you are trying to imagine kinky moth traumas! When I was little it was so scary to get up in the middle of the night, walk down the hall to the bathroom, switch on the lightl, and set a dusky miller moth flying at me. The only thing worse was when grasshoppers as big as cigars would jump at my bare legs in our parched backyard when we were sent out to get "fresh air".
When I got my driver's license, my dad drove a red and white '61 Plymouth Sport Fury with push-button transmission and rectangular steering wheel. This is quite possibly the greatest American car ever made. Should I ever be interviewed for one of those "County Snapshot" columns in the newspaper, I know I will name that as my fantasy vehicle. (I waver a lot on the guests for my fantasy dinner party, and my desert island books though, not due to any lack of consideration). The only trouble was my dad parked the Sport Fury in a gravel parking lot with the windows rolled down at his office. In the evenings, my hip-hugger, bell-bottom, macrame belt self would get the chance to drive to choir practice or cruise Taco John's. Mere words cannot describe the total panic of losing control of that car when a miller moth would fly up my flared pant leg while driving on "O" Street. Especially with Alice Cooper on the radio!
Did I happen to mention bagworms? We had mind-blowing infestations on all the bushes in our yard in my impressionable junior high years. My anti-chemical/fiscally strapped dad sent all his natural born children out to pluck the hideous things off the junipers. When we got a good coffee-canful of bagworms, we would roast them in the charcoal grill. The bagworms would emerge from their bags and writhe, but refuse to die. On the good side, I got to take my transistor radio with the earphone out on these shock and awe operations, tuned to KLMS Top 40. "Last Train to Clarksville", "Georgie Girl", "To Sir With Love"...
Alas, we still have bagworms in the Bushes.
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