Today is Bob Dylan’s birthday. It is, as I have often said, one of my personal high holy days, the others including the Oscars, Bruce Springsteen’s birthday and the opening day of the major league baseball season. I’m planning a bar-b-que, and if Bob’s in the area, he’s welcome to drop by for mango pie and green tea ice cream (that was a hit around here, so we’re reprising it). Don’t get me wrong, if Bob wants burgers, he’s welcome to come for the whole party. Oh, there’ll be the usual potato salad and cole slaw, but I’m pretty sure that the mango pie will be the part my guests remember.

Speaking of memory, I took a quiz that I saw on RJ’s blog: What Flower Are You. Much to my surprise, I’m a snapdragon. My grandfather grew snapdragons in his garden in Newport. He was not much for tender moments, my grandpa, but I remember he used to show me how to make snapdragons snap. And I remember his garden. He had flowers and vegetables. There were pear and apple trees, and of course, there were the raspberries.

“Mischief is your middle name, but your first is friend. You are quite the prankster that loves to make other people laugh.”

The other night the RLA was out with his friend, and I was home on the couch watching a very good little documentary. Around a quarter to nine, the dogs started to bark like crazy and the phone rang at the same time. I answered the phone to find The Girl Cousin calling about family business and the dogs continued to bark. I tried to shush them, but they wouldn’t be shushed. Just as I got up to smack them on their butts, I saw that the RLA was standing in front of the house, and I figured that he’d been teasing them, or talking to a neighbor before he came in and they were just idiots. It’s a reasonable conclusion… particularly with JoJo, the dog of very little brain.

Except, when I got up the next morning and went outside to get the paper, I discovered that someone had ransacked Tweety McPeeps. I never lock the car when it’s in the driveway, and besides, it’s a convertible. Locking it seems pointless and maybe even a little stupid. If someone wants into a convertible badly enough, they will just slit the roof. Why tempt fate? Don’t lock it. So no windows were smashed, no rag tops were eviscerated, but the glove box was emptied out and the contents strewn around the interior.

Someone violated Tweety, and the only thing that stopped them from doing anything more was the return home of the RLA. And yes, the gate was closed, but not locked. I love my neighborhood, but this makes me uneasy.

Never one to let a sleeping meme lie, I’m jumping on the Nature Notes meme, begun by Michelle at Rambling Woods, and embraced by RJ at Flamingo Musings.

My first entry, baby lubbers. To quote from the second best Star Trek movie ever made (Galaxy Quest) “Oh, sure, they’re cute now, but in a second they’re gonna get mean, and they’re gonna get ugly somehow, and there’s gonna be a million more of them.” When these little guys hatch, they are soft, tiny and black with that little yellow racing stripe. Then they eat everything in your yard, and within the month, they are Kodak yellow, armor plated eating machines. They have hot pink and black wings, and they spit an irritant that looks like tobacco juice, only stinkier. And they average about 4 inches long.

Any child raised in South Florida has nightmares about lubbers.

The other morning, as I pulled open the gate, I saw a herd of the little bastards happily munching on my copper leaf hedge.

To truly appreciate the horror, view the full-size image.

The mangos are falling. The mangos are falling. There is fresh rhubarb in the grocery store. What to do? Make a rhubarb/mango pie, of course. I pulled out a vintage tin of cardamom seeds, and they still seemed to have some flavor. A vanilla bean. Some turbinado sugar. Lots of chopped mango. Chopped rhubarb. A pie crust. Bake and serve with a side of green tea ice cream.

Life is good.

Right up front, I’ll say that this wasn’t my finest moment, OK? But here’s the thing, I don’t get manicures because I work with my hands. I very, very rarely get pedicures, because they are an expensive indulgence. But Friday last, I had a lunch-time appointment to get my toes done. I took my wallet and my i-pod, loaded up with the Easy Stars All Stars Dub Side of the Moon, and prepared to go to my happy place.

When I got to the salon, it was full. They put me in a chair, and there were women on either side of me, in the middle of their treatments. There was another woman just finishing her manicure, and yet another in the wings. The woman to my right was on her cell phone, chatting about what time the sun set for lighting the shabbos candles. The woman on my left was chatting on her cell phone about nothing in particular, in Spanish. I apologized to the manager, who was about to start on my feet, saying that I hoped she wouldn’t mind if I just zoned out with the earbuds. Not at all. Ahhhhhh. Happy place.

And then. And then, a large, unpleasant woman came in through the front door and started demanding her manicure. And complaining that there wasn’t an open chair, when she had an appointment. And demanding to know who the manager was, and why did this salon make appointments if they weren’t planning on keeping them. And demanding service. RIGHT. NOW. And I could hear every word, through my headphones. And the tension in the shoulders of the three woman working on the three customers was visible and growing more so. The tension among the clients was palpable. Dammit, Beavis, this is unacceptable. So I took out the earbuds, and put on the carrying teacher voice, and said, as avuncularly as I could manage, “Madam. Please. They will get to you. Please stop. Take it outside. You are, to use the vernacular, harshing my buzz.” And I smiled.

It was like throwing gasoline on a fire. She exploded and started to yell at me. “Oh, I think you probably already have quite a buzz on. Why don’t you go back to Coconut Grove among your own kind.” I blinked. I thought of any number of replies, beginning with, what decade are you living in, honey, the Grove hasn’t been the Grove since the early 70s, through my kind? Spawn of yuppie scum spending mummy and daddy’s money? to the short and to the point, which is what I said… still in the teacher voice. “Hmmm. Yeah. Right. FUCK. YOU!!!” Like I said, not my finest moment.

Well, with that, the fat, unpleasant woman said that judging by my vocabulary, perhaps I should take myself back to Liberty City. Liberty City is the inner city, the hood, the 99% black, poverty-riddled heart of Miami. Oh, no, she di’n't. Oh, yes, she did. So I said, “Hmmm. Yeah. Right. Not only are you rude and impatient, you are also intolerant and a racist.” And with that, the woman on my right joined me in making fun of the fat, impatient, rude pig-woman. In normal voices, and as though she weren’t standing 10 feet away, we began to discuss what an unhappy creature she was, whether or not she should expect any sort of manicure after her behavior, and whether or not she was aware of how horrible she was.

Fat, unhappy, unpleasant and impolite, the pig-woman was still standing at the counter when I left with the best pedicure I’ve gotten in years.

The final three are given the script for their Cover Girl commercials. Aminat has gotta learn this. Wind In Her Face is overwhelmed. RabbityMouthBreather is going to do everything and anything to be the winner. Like, for example, stop breathing through your mouth and stop being terrified of everything? That would be nice.

They head to a studio for their shoot. M’Key is there to give them the drill on how to be a Cover Girl. The photos they take today will be the winner’s CG ad and go up in Wal-Marts every where. And they want to win this, why?

Aminat is first, and although Mr. Jay has to remind her to move her face when she speaks, she does an adorable little shoulder wiggle and girlish giggle at the end. Then it’s off to have Jim de Yonker shoot the stills.

RabbityMouthBreather has been given the winner’s edit hair and make up job. She can’t remember her lines. She’s stiff. Mr. Jay says she’s good but that he has his doubts. Jim de Yonker says she has a sort of Bettie Page look. Miz Shoes says that’s a Bettie and Veronica, Archie comics look.

Wind In Her Face looses her shit in a major melt down. She freaks, she cries, she flubs every line. She also has those weird backward top finger joints. Mr. Jay tells her not to worry, because editing will make it work. Jim de Yonks says that he liked working with her.

TYRAMAIL! One of you bitches has seen your last challenge. Time to go home and get a real job. Aminat knows that she’ll be in the final two because she was phenomenal. RabbityMouthBreather is, of course, scared. Wind In Her Face has lost her shit for good, and cries and cries in the confessional that she has lost her shit for good.

DISCLAIMER: at this point, my notes become more or less illegible as the second, and very strong dirty martini kicks in. I should know better than to skip food on ANTM night.

The judge is Rosa someone or other. After the judging, the girls will go straight to the 17 cover shot. Miss Jay’s tie is very pink and very huge. Wind In Her Face’s commercial is about thirty seconds of her crying. She cries at the judges, too. When the judges look at her still and declare it is the dictionary definition of “smiling with your eyes” she dries up the tears. RabbityMouthBreather’s commercial isn’t bad, but neither is it any good. She is expressionless (what has Miz Shoes been saying for 11 weeks?). The judges claim that her voice is more expressive than her face. Her still is commerical, and the judges call it sexy. Miz Shoes calls it pose number one: slack mouthed.

Aminat’s commercial is cute, she is a natural genius, but her still shot? Not so much. There is more deliberating, but we on the couch were busy making plans to go see the new Star Trek on Sunday morning, and so missed the rest.

RabbityMouthBreather gets the number one photo and my notes say “Fuck. Me.” Aminat has The Body, and got better and better every week (except for her face) and she had the best Cover Girl commercial. Wind In Her Face was super strong from the beginning, but completely melted down doing the commercial, which is, let’s face it, the big chunk of the Cover Girl prize. So who stays and who goes? Say buh-bye to Aminat, and What the Fuck? as Wind In Her Face gets the number two spot. Aminat can now go get a real contract with a real modeling agency.

Finally, the muthafuckin’ walk off. Wind In Her Face calls it do or die. M’Key is there. RabbityMouthBreather is scared (and come on, is she ever anything other than scared? I’m so over that walking Walter Keane painting, that I don’t know if I can last another 15 minutes) because her walk is shit. No kidding. And now she’s in a panic because it’s a swimsuit show.

What the hell is Miss Jay wearing? M’Key leads off with an awful walk. How did she win last season? Wind In Her Face is meh. RabbityMouthBreather is meh. The second pass is a samba theme and Wind In Her Face is good, and although it pains me no end to say this, RabbityMouthBreather is kind of cute. The third pass involves writhing down a runway that has become a black oil slick. Is this a statement? We’ll never know. Wind In Her Face works it like the rent was due yesterday and is flinging her weave around like a dancer in a strip joint when it flies off. She just grabs it and keeps working it.

The next scene is the girls cleaned up, back in their bikinis and in the judging room. There is some bullshit about a neck and neck competition throughout the season, but all I see is O-face and slack mouth versus some variety. And with that, and another round of Tyra blah-blah-blahing, Wind In Her Face wins season 12. Nigel shoots her with Tyra. And we are over and out.