I'm in training again. Unlike the last time we did this, when my expectations were to be reduced to tears at least twice, I'm having a good time. The lunch-time visit to the winery up the road may have helped my mood. The hummingbirds outside the hotel window this morning may also have had to do with it.

Solvang has two needlework stores, a quilt store, and a spinning and weaving shop just across the street from my hotel. Is this a great village, or what?
Another reason I'm in such a happy place today is that the place I'm in is not my office. Despite a three-hour layover at LAX, where you cannot smoke outside the terminal, and a twenty minute flight on a prop-driven puddle jumper, the flying itself wasn't bad, either.

Let me go back to the no smoking rule for a minute. What's up with that? Are they afraid that smoking will damage the air quality at the airport? I mean, jeez, the air was brown and visible when I got there. Air you can see, what a concept.

Maybe it was the airport, maybe it was being in the puddle jumper annex, but another thing I noticed about California was that there is either a lot less plastic surgery than one is led to believe, or the surgeons out here are infinitely better at their jobs than the ones in Miami. I didn't see the same quantity of obvious noses, tits and facelifts than I do at home.

And the radio out here! Wow! It had new music, and Tejano music and classical music and live interviews with interesting people. Except for that thing about fire seasons, mud slides, mountain lions and the occasional earthquake, this could be a cool place to live. I prefer my natural disasters to have a timeline attached, like: "You have a hurricane heading your way, it should be here in a week." And then there's the price of housing. Even here in the valley, housing is not affordable. For what would buy a mini-mansion with a lot in over-priced Miami, you can get a cottage on a zero lot line here.

More observations later.

Cat, I'm a kitty cat, and I dance dance dance and I meow meow meow. (Thanks to Styrofoam Kitty for the heads up on this. And thanks to G-Shack, from whence I stole this, and loaded it on to my server. Full credits and kudos, but no link, cause it wasn't working.)

I can't stop playing that. Over and over. As for the Squirrels that go WHEEEEEE!, you can find them here. It's an acquired taste.

I'm blogging instead of packing. I told you I was into avoidance in a very big way.

Now this is one I didn't see coming. After all, I haven't listened to Howard in years. He'd ceased to amuse me since before the biographies. But this story in Salon has me gaga for Mr. Stern once again.

Among the other things the story has to say is this tidbit about exactly why Clear Channel pulled the plug on the King of All Media.

"Stern's torrent of Bush barbs came in the wake of Clear Channel Communications' move in late February to pull Stern off six of its stations, condemning his program as "vulgar, offensive and insulting." Following the controversial Super Bowl halftime show featuring Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson, Clear Channel, like most major broadcasters, was under scrutiny over allegations it broadcast indecency. ...

...But Stern quickly complained on-air that the real reason Clear Channel yanked his show was that just days earlier he'd begun questioning the president and praising comedian/commentator Al Franken's anti-Bush book "Lies, And the Lying Liars Who Tell Them." Stern insisted it was political speech, not indecency, that got him in trouble with the San Antonio broadcasting giant, whose CEO, Lowry Mays, is close to the president and the Bush family. The jock still condemns Clear Channel and its Republican connections, but most of Stern's firepower today is directed squarely at Bush and his close association with the religious right, which Stern says is the driving force behind the FCC crackdown on indecency."

And since I live in one of the six markets where Clear Channel cut Stern, I hadn't heard any of this:

"Stern had strongly backed Bush's war on Iraq, but in the past two weeks, he has derided the president as a "Jesus freak," a "maniac" and "an arrogant bastard," while ranting against "the Christian right minority that has taken over the White House." Specifically, Stern has assailed Bush's use of 9/11 images in his campaign ads, questioned his National Guard service, condemned his decision to curb stem cell research and labeled him an enemy of civil liberties, abortion rights and gay rights. "

I don't know about you, but that kind of talk just makes me all warm and fuzzy.

That's from Dilbert. It's also my motto.

I've been reduced to posting PDFs as content on my day job's web site, because... uh, I don't know why because.

Because nobody will part with actual content? Because people think that scanning some piece of crap that was printed off a dot matrix printer and posting it is a good idea?

I leave for a week of training on Sunday. I'll be tripping out to the left coast. It's not that I hate to fly so much, as the terror I feel about ceasing to be flying. But it's a long flight, and I have money for alcohol and a bag of knitting, so I should be OK. Just call me Madame Defarge.

Not that I have much of a choice.

I'm starting to live in the zen moment, not because I have evolved and meditated to that point, but because I am practicing avoidance with every breath. Spending one's time not thinking about stuff leaves one with very little except the moment.

I'm a brain wave away from catatonic. Numb. Crazy.

Sucks.

Up front, I'm telling you this is a rant about bad bathroom behavior. If you don't want to read about nastiness in public places, come back tomorrow.

Item 1

Random young(ish) bum, pissing into the bike lockers at the train station, in broad daylight. The bike lockers are right on the main street, too, not buried behind the station, somewhere in the parking lot. OK, you're a drunk, or a junkie, or maybe just mentally ill, so the public pissing thing is a gimme. But pissing in the bike locker? On the bike locker? That's just nasty. Because he's doing it on the front side, on the door side of the lockers. Which means that there's going to be some pretty foul bikes in there. Thanks a fucking lot, pal.

Item 2

There is a huge difference between "ladies" and "women". I don't care what the sign on the door says, if you need to see a poster on the inside of the stall door with this bit of doggerel :

"If you sprinkle,
when you tinkle,
Please be neat,
and wipe the seat."

then you are not, and will never be, a lady. You are probably not even a dame. You are a pig.

One of the unforseen side effects of the office move is that I no longer have a private bathroom. I share with all the females on this floor, and let me tell you, I have no desire to ever set foot in any of their houses. Ever. If the way they use/abuse the public latrines are any indication of how they live, then the basest untouchable in the farthest reaches of inhabitable space could give them some lessons in manners.

There seems to be no knowlege of indoor plumbing, or the concept of a flush toilet. Every single stall has a reeking toilet, with evidence of numerous uses without the benefit of a single flush. Every seat is wet. The floors are wet. The sink surrounds are wet. There is dirt and filth every where. The room itself reeks. This isn't a matter of poor housekeeping, this is a matter of disgusting habits and a total lack of concern for other people. A blinding disregard for their own health and cleanliness.

I have never, and I mean never, in my twelve years at this institution, seen a more revolting sight than the ladies' loo on this floor. That includes the public access bathrooms in the main lobby.

This is a professional office floor. There aren't junkies wandering in from rehab here. You couldn't tell that by strolling into the loo.

I could just throw up. Except nobody would even be able to tell.

It's primary day here in the Sunshine State, and I went out bright and early to exercise my civil liberties while I still have them. There was nobody and I mean nobody in the polling place except election workers and they almost cried tears of joy when they saw me and the RLA stroll in.
I'm swanning around the office in my "I Voted Today" sticker, feeling all holier than thou.

But it's a sham and a lie. I did vote, I cast an electronic ballot with no confirmation of any sort other than the ATM ballot screen showing an electronic "Thank You for Voting" message. I can only go on faith that my vote was recorded and recorded correctly.

There isn't a big turnout today because the Democratic candidate has been anointed by the voters in the states that hold their primaries earlier than Florida. There was only one item on the county ballot today besides the pointless exercise of Presidential nominee, and that was the question of whether the county mayoral election should be held on primary day or later. Not an especially pressing question, so the voters aren't turning out.

There I stood, in the half-box of the voting station, not really a booth, anymore. Not like the big ole lever-driven, cloth-curtained booths of my childhood. No. A spindly, waist-high table with an electronic tablet and three "privacy" flaps on the sides, coming to shoulder height. Depressing, really. Kind of like the choice I was faced with.

As usual, I was of three minds about it all. On the one hand, the candidate I wanted to vote for was still on the ballot, just no longer in the race. I could cast a vote for him. On the other hand, that would be a futile gesture, a symbolic vote. On the third hand, I could vote for The One, the one that the voters in other states had named our candidate. Doing so would push the numbers in this most watched of states, and give the pollsters and pundits something to say, an avenue of speculation for what will happen in November. Satisfying as that is, in and of itself, I wanted to be able to vote for the candidate of MY choice, without feeling like it was a waste of everybody's time. Unfortunately, that was not an option.

So I did something I have never knowingly, or willingly done before. I threw my vote away. I voted with my heart and my conscience, and voted for General Clark.

Besides, considering the turnout, I should be able to tell, when the precinct results are in, if my vote was cast and counted. It'll be the one and only vote for the General.

I am thinking about getting a personal trainer. I've had them before and liked having the discipline of someone standing over me making me do another 5 crunches before I broke down and cried.

The problems I had with my earlier trainers were that they were very young; graduate students in fact, and I was working out at the University gym where I (the competitive creature that I am) started to try to match or outdo the people next to me. This resulted in some major surgery to my shoulder after I got a little too butch.
Now I can identify between pain as in oooh, muscle is overworked and pain as in, hmmm, that's a torn rotator cuff. Trust me when I say that isn't a lesson you want to learn first hand.

I've since changed my ways when it comes to gyms. I look for a gym that has women who wear matching outfits and makeup. I know that they aren't going to be doing anything that will cause me to compete to self injury. I won't go under the knife to look like they do. I won't starve myself to be as stringy-thin. It's safe for me there.

So today I interviewed a potential personal trainer. I like her. She's lean, but not stringy. She's not too young, and although blonde, it isn't bleached blonde and in a pony tail. She's from the hood and understands my world view. I told her I want to get leaner, fitter, more flexible and able to ride my bike twenty miles without collapsing.

She talked about women's bodies and their changing needs as they age. I wasn't even offended, because it was coming from a woman of a certain age her own self. What do you think? Keep on at my current gym, or go for the whip and chair of a personal trainer?

I thought it was going to be "Crazy Random Drunk Old Man On the Train" day. There were two different ones between home and the hospital. One sat near me, but left at the next stop, and the other got on a few stops later and plunked down next to another woman and proceeded to chat her up. I don't know how that happened. Most of the time, that's my lot in life. Crazy random guy? They'll sit next to me and fall in love.

The most amazing thing happened when I got off the train, though. I had someone thank me for holding the elevator door for them. Then, in the office elevator, another guy held the door for me. And was polite about it. And talked to me. I was two and two on the day at that point, and held my breath, waiting for the other shoe.

Another random crazy guy? No. The next elevator ride included yet another polite man who held the door and said hello.

I must be dreaming.

But I'm not. The new office? No windows? No air conditioning, either. At least, not yet. I'm dying in here. But I have my diploma up, some of my awards, and a piece done especially for me by the RLA.

The only person to comment on my reorganization was a secretary who seems to be suffering under the delusion that she outranks me, and/or that I actually care that she's giving me the nose in the air, sniffy puss-face.

"You were told not to get rid of the other desk."
"No, I was told not to cost the hospital any money getting rid of the other desk. And I didn't. I also didn't get rid of the desk, I merely reconfigured all of the pieces."

Neener neener neener.

Time to pretend to do some real work.

Okiedokie. I'm done weeping and rending my clothing. Well, I'm not, but it doesn't make for such a good read. Having come out of the shock and awe sadness of the past weekend, I am beginning to notice things like appallingly bad manners, bad style sense and stupidity disguised as management. Those are three separate things, although I do tend to notice a little bit of overlap now and then.
Bad Manners

For the last time, people: If you are standing in an elevator, and a total stranger is heading towards you, making eye contact all the way, the polite thing, the nice thing, the courteous and right thing to do is to hold the fucking door, not press the close door button. Not stand there next to the door or the door open button and let the door shut. What, it'll break your arm to hold a door? You might get to the next floor a nanosecond later than otherwise? Who cares? Hold the fucking door. It won't kill you to be polite. I, on the other hand, may cause your head to spontaneously combust through the sheer force of my will if you let that door close on me one more time.

And this is for the woman in the white lab coat at the Metrorail this morning: Hey! The people on the inside get off or out, then the people on the outside (that would have been you) get in. You don't strong arm your way into an elevator first, preventing the occupants from exiting. In any culture, that's just bad manners.

Bad Style Sense

Hey, Fab Five, do me a favor and take a minute to talk about the importance of clean, shiny shoes. You've taught men how to shave and open a bottle of wine, how about shining their shoes? Guy in cheap aftershave and the Armani suit sitting next to me on the train? It was all working (well, except for the cheap scent) but the shoes were scuffed and shineless. The heels were probably worn down, too. I didn't look. Men, (and women) shine your shoes. 'Nuff said.

Stupidity Disguised

The office move is back on. I am assigned a single office, but with two full desks in it. Not that there's another person going to sit at it, but the director who caved in to the Toxic Manager doesn't want to pay to have the furniture moved. The reason I have two desks and one person is because when the director split the rooms and told us all to play nice, the Boy Wonder and I were going to work in the same office. But Boy Wonder decided to be Boy Diva and copped an attitude, and moved down the hall to another set of offices (away from the rest of the team) where he could have his own space. My manager let him do it. The director let him do it. O.K. He has a private office now, and so do I, so could we get the extra desk out of my space and let me arrange the furniture so that I am not sitting in either the doorway or with my back to the door?

And the answer is: "No." I said, "well, that doesn't seem too equitable (grown-up, corporate speak for "That's not fair!") for everyone else to get what they want, when they want it, despite the repercussions to other team members, but I can't have a desk moved out." Too bad. The director refused the request.

So I did the only thing I could. I went to the new office and proceeded to draw a blueprint of how I want the furniture laid out and then told all the other workers in the three groups that all extra pieces of furniture are available to the first taker, but they have to move it themselves.

As all of us corporate drones know, it's easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission.

And so ends another episode of WWRanting.

Bite me.

Thank you for your kind wishes and e-hugs. It helps.

Fafhrd passed easily into the next life, and I held him until he was gone. The girls at the vets office cried, too and even the vet got all sniffly. The RLA stayed with us, and kept sticking tissues under my nose.

I think I'm going to get an addition to the tattoo of an angel cat that I have on my shoulder. An orange-tipped star, under the cat. Small. Tasteful.

In other news, the weather here is magnificent. Limpid. Tropical. Ideal. And also, outside, where I am not.

But spring training has started, and I ask you, what else is needed for all to be right with the world?

Fafhrd is my flame-point siamese. He used to be so fat, I called him a siamoose. Now he is skin and bones. We have had a great weekend together. In twenty minutes, I will take him to the vet for his final visit. My vet will let me hold him as we open the door to the always-sunny meadow, where the mice are fat and slow.

This sucks. And the alternative sucks worse.

Thanks for listening.

I was nine or ten when my father's mother died. I remember that he was upset because he'd taken her a bathrobe to the hospital, and what ever color he'd taken, she'd preferred another. He was terribly upset because he felt that he should have known that she would have liked pink more than blue. Or blue more than pink. Whatever.

I think of that often, these days.

This morning I started out at the vet's trying to negotiate when we would put down my cat. Is it too soon? Is it too late? Is he suffering? Is there more I can do? My cat and my father are both dying of leukemia. What I would do for my cat the government will not let me do for my father.

I told my dad about the cat, and he said, don't let it suffer. I know what suffering is.

I ended my day with a phone call from my cousin, telling me that my father needs another transfusion, but refused it because it might have kept him from being home when my mother came back from her day of cognitive therapy. Cognitive therapy is the politically correct term for what you do with someone suffering from end-stage Alzheimer's Disease. It means that she spends her days doing flash cards so that she can remember her name, remember what two plus two is.

Years ago I saw a cartoon that I thought summed up my life. It was a solitary person sitting in an auditorium under a banner that said "Adult Children of Normal Parents." My brother, the therapist, doesn't agree. He says that what ever you grow up with is normal, even if it's not.

But he's wrong. They were normal. They loved us. They cared for us. They cared for their parents. We belonged to a country club and took summer vacations to a family home. They worked. Our mother cooked meals. Our father mowed the lawn. We were the archetypical 1950s family living in a small town. I grew up -- we grew up, in a Norman Rockwell painting. That is, if Norman Rockwell had painted Cisley, Alaska.

A couple of years ago I offered to bake a cake for my dad for his birthday. I asked him what his favorite cake was. He couldn't tell me. This is a man who has lived his entire life in the service of family. He hadn't a clue what his favorite was. I made an old-fashioned coconut cake. He loved it.

His birthday is coming around again. I have no idea what cake I'll bake for him this year. I have no doubt, however, that whatever comes out of my kitchen will be, for that day, his favorite.

There are no words to tell him how much I love him. There is no end to the pain I feel. Why don't they tell you how hard it is to lose a parent? Why don't they tell you that there is a hole that will never be filled?

I think because if we knew, none of us could go on. And yet, we must. I pour through my book of Bartlett's Quotations, looking for the verses I'll read at their funerals. For my mother, I have chosen Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night." Do you know it? It's required reading in almost every English Lit class.

"Do not go gentle into that good night
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

But for my father, I need something else. Something that will make clear what he is/was to me. For my father, I have chosen W. H. Auden's "Funeral Blues."

"Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good."

This is from Gourmet. If you've never been to their website, I urge you foodies out there to do go. I have about one hundred recipes in my personal recipe box. No matter what I'm looking for, I can always find it at Epicurious.com And if by some chance not, then there is always Saveur.
FILLET OF BEEF WELLINGTON

Some say it was his favorite meal, and others claim it resembled the boots that he wore. Whatever the case may be, the Duke of Wellington has a grand dish named after him, which became the entertaining extravaganza of the 1960s.

a 3 1/2-pound fillet of beef tied with thin sheets of larding fat at room temperature*
3/4 pound mushrooms, chopped fine
2 1/2 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/2 pound p? de foie gras (available at specialty foods shops) at room temperature**
1 pound puff paste (page 196) or thawed frozen puff pastry plus additional for garnish if desired***
1 large egg white beaten
an egg wash made by beating 1 large egg yolk with 1 teaspoon of water
1/2 cup Sercial Madeira****
2 teaspoons arrowroot dissolved in 1 teaspoon cold water*****
1/2 cup beef broth
2 tablespoons finely chopped black truffles (available at specialty food shops) if desired
watercress for garnish if desired

In a roasting pan roast the beef in the middle of a preheated 400?F oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the thermometer registers 120?F. Let the fillet cool completely and discard the larding fat and the strings. Skim the fat from the pan juices and reserve the pan juices.

In a heavy skillet cook the mushrooms in the butter over moderately low heat, stirring, until all the liquid they give off is evaporated and the mixture is dry, season them with salt and pepper, and let them cool completely. Spread the fillet evenly with the p? de foie gras, covering the top and sides, and spread the mushrooms evenly over the p? de foie gras. On a floured surface roll 1 pound of the puff paste into a rectangle about 20- by 12- inches, or large enough to enclose the fillet completely, invert the coated fillet carefully under the middle of the dough, and fold up the long sides of the dough to enclose the fillet brushing the edges of the dough with some of the egg white to seal them. Fold ends of the dough over the fillet and seal them with the remaining egg white. Transfer the fillet, seam side down to a jelly-roll pan or shallow roasting pan and brush the dough with some of the egg wash. Roll out the additional dough and cut the shapes with decorative cutters. Arrange the cutouts on the dough decoratively, brush them with the remaining egg wash, and chill the fillet for at least 1 hour and up to 2 hours. Bake the fillet in the middle of a preheated 400?F oven for 30 minutes, reduce the heat to 350?, and bake the fillet for 5 to 10 minutes more, or until the meat thermometer registers 130?F. for medium-rare meat and the pastry is cooked through. Let the fillet stand for 15 minutes.

In a saucepan boil the reserved pan juices and the Madeira until the mixture is reduced by one fourth. Add the arrowroot mixture, the broth, the truffles, and salt and pepper to taste and cook the sauce over moderate heat, stirring, being careful not to let it boil, for 5 minutes, or until it is thickened. Loosen the fillet from the jelly-roll pan, transfer it with two spatulas to a heated platter, and garnish it with watercress. Serve the fillet, cut into 3/4-inch-thick slices, with the sauce.

Serves 8.


Gourmet
January 1991

* I used a 3.5 pound beef tenderloin, no larding
** I didn't like the p? I saw at the market, so I used a p? mousse, with black truffles in it
*** Puff pastry, feh. I made a regular old Crisco pie crust, enough for 3 single crust pies. The guests raved.
**** Sandeman Rainwater Madiera, the only thing on the shelf at the market
***** Arrowroot, son of Arrowshirt, also known as Stomper. Wait. That's from Bored of the Rings. Who has arrowroot hanging around? Not me. I used a heavy pinch of regular old flour to thicken. Again, the crowd raved.

I am Iron Chef. Fear me.

Work two days straight at an art show. Get up, go to the office the next day. Come home and prep for a dinner party by baking a cake, roasting a tenderloin and making pastry. Clean and go to bed. Get up, go to the office. Come home and prepare a Beef Wellington, a Caesar Salad (from scratch, especially the dressing) and a saute of celery. Prep the house. Throw dinner party, drink, watch movie, clean the kitchen. Go to bed at quarter to two. Get up. Do not go to the office. Wake up at 4:30PM and wonder where the truck is that hit you.

I used to be able to do all that and still go to the office on the day after. I thought, when I decided not to go to work today, that I'd sleep late and then go get a manicure. "Sleep late" was not defined by me as sleeping all day. My body and my brain need to coordinate their plans better.

Still, the Beef Wellington was a masterpiece. The martinis were flawless and flowing. The repartee unbeatable. I just have to remember to do this on a Friday or Saturday next time.

I have half of the Welly still in the fridge. I'm debating about photographing the evidence of my kitchen prowess. It's either shoot it, or eat it. If there's a picture, you'll know the answer.

Tonight I bring you a letter written by my mother in 1970, to my aunt and uncle who were abroad. She tells the story of the day my cousin and I decided to cook dinner. I give it to you in its entirety.

"Dear I** and E******,

As I write this, you have been gone from Stuart only five days. I know it seems to you like five months, and you'll be surprised when you get back at how little has happened here. B****** (ed. note: my cousin) wrote you a letter yesterday, and sent it to Stockholm, so I'm sending mine to the next place. You needn't worry about her - we are getting along fine. L**** (ed. note: that's me) loves to have her here, and maybe I won't give her back to you when you return. Saturday, when she was dressing to go out, she saw L's old games (Candyland, etc.) in the closet. She told L to wait up for her and they would play them when she got home from her date. Is this a college girl? She's just as young and childish as L.

M** and L***** (ed. note: my father and brother) are getting along pretty good in the store. He's (L) working in fine -- selling shoes, etc. At home it is still pretty grainy. He is such a slob -- and of course runs to Ft. Pierce every night -- and doesn't get home until everyone's asleep.

G***** and A** (ed. note: aunt and uncle) were up yesterday, with W***** (ed. note: another cousin). L**** (ed. note: yet another cousin) is not going to school or working. All he does is play bridge. (ed. note: he's now a professional bridge player). He has a couple of old ladies from Palm Beach that take him and pay his losses. If he wins, they let him keep the money. Some life -- a bridge bum. W***** is going to PBJC in the fall.

They finally opened the exercise studio this week. I am going in to talk to them this morning.

(Tuesday) I didn't finish this yesterday, because I thought there'd be something else to tell you. I joined the Sauna Club -- but haven't started yet -- don't have time now. B****** worked this morning and decided to stay home this afternoon. When I went to the store at noon I told them to think of something for dinner. M** told me they had the kitchen full of limes when he went home for lunch. I got home at 4PM. "Don't ask!" Up to then they had made a souffle for dessert. They were throwing beaten egg whites at each other and at 4:30 they decided to go to the grocery store to get something to go with or before the souffle. They left me to wash -- 2 pots, 5 bowls, 2 dishes and 12 assorted items. There was dried egg yolk on all the counters and stove -- and they have worked themselves to death. It is 5:15 and they aren't back yet. I pity the man that had to eat what they make.

Just now in the store a Jewish woman came in. She is moving from Titusville and Ira the butcher told her to look us up. They are building in Sherwood Forest here. Anyway, when she told me her name -- I recognized her. We were in college together 34 years ago. She has a daughter, 18 going to Gainesville in the fall, and twins 15. I'm going to introduce them to our girls.

Incidentally, maybe I'll let you have B****** back, plus L***** when you come home.

Haven't heard from the folks. They only write when written to.

Hope you are having a wonderful time. I'll see you in West Palm on the 21st."

Now, my cousin and I don't remember throwing the egg whites at each other, and we have each become the hostess for family gatherings on either side. We are both known to be a dab hand in the kitchen, and have never had a man complain about our cooking.

I bring this up because as soon as I end this entry, I am off to prep a Beef Wellington for tomorrow night's movie night. We're doing Our Man Flint and so a 60's revival menu is called for. Martinis to start. Caesar salad at the table and a Grand Marnier cake to finish.

And, no, my mother neither kept my cousin, nor gave me away.