Bridesmaids and Hangovers

A couple of years ago, Max and I decided to see "The Hangover." I wasn't sure whether I really liked it, but I thought the script was very well written and intriguing, and I thought, sorry guys, that it supported the idea that most men are pretty much focused on one or two things, and those are not responsiblity and steadfastness.

When we saw the trailers for "Bridesmaids," we decided to see it, thinking that it would be the female version of "The Hangover," and because my husband really likes "Molly," of "Mike and Molly" fame, who is one of the bridesmaids. Part of the movie was girls behaving badly, but that part was small. Most of the movie centered around how women navigate through their days, needing friends, fighting against failure, trying to find a place in the world, and ignoring nice guys in favor of men who are more exciting and daring. I was glad to have gone to the movie, and glad that it was its own story rather than a girls' "Hangover." Its lessons were thought-provoking and interesting instead of simply silly and funny.

And then we went to see the second "Hangover." I was not particularly disappointed because I knew that it would not be as intriguingly written as the first one; however, I did enjoy the expanded role of the Asian drug dealer. I didn't enjoy the expanded role of "Alan." What had made him so funny in the first movie was his ability to succinctly say something totally stupid at the wrong time. He talked too much in this sequel. This incarnation also had a higher "gross" factor, and certainly a higher raunchy factor. What else could you expect from a movie that has a monkey playing more than a bit part?

One thing I must add: I have foamed at the mouth for years about films' gratuitous showing of female breasts. I get irritated when women are asked to disrobe in order to add something of a sexual nature to a film, especially when men's genitals are never exposed for the same reason. "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," however, did have male frontal nudity, as did "The Crying Game." My husband asked me, after we left the "Hangover" theater, whether I was happy now, because the movie did contain male frontal nudity. Nope, I'm not happy. The shots were in no way designed to make men sexual objects. They were there simply to add some fun to the works. And they did.

People who like to go to movies can take in both these films this summer. They will enjoy one two-hour break from reality, and one two-hour, somewhat whimsical but enlightening visit to women's lives.

New Moms

I went to a baby shower today for the daughter of a good friend. I was taken with the beautiful young women, all friends, who were new mothers and looking forward to a life of raising children with only the best of what life has to offer. These young women's families have been friends for years, and now they are grown, still close, and all having children around the same time, so THEIR families will continue the long-term, close relationships.

They were young and glowing, smiling, laughing at each other's jokes and stories, remembering past vacations and school stunts, generally reminding me of the women at the parties detailed in The Great Gatsby, where life seemed easy and carefree. I thought back to the days of my pregnancy and the days after a new life was placed in my arms, and I was envious of their confidence in knowing that their best days were ahead of them, that life would offer much and take little, and that they would go forward with more than a modicum of security in their lives and their families. I, too, was just like them at that time in my life, knowing that life would be good, would not disappoint me, would bring me everything I could hope or aspire to have.

And generally, I have been right. Now, 22 years later, I love my husband, my child, my home, the opportunities to beneficially use my gifts and talents in my work, my friends, and my family. My disappointment is that life has not been a party from The Great Gatsby, where everything is easy and carefree. I have been hurt, betrayed, friends have left, some have died, my family is much smaller, I have lost an election, I have gained weight. All in all, however, I am one of the lucky ones and am grateful for those days years ago when I, too, saw life as all possibility, and I am grateful that much of that possibility has come to fruition.

Captain Queeg and Bonnie

When I was in high school, my English teacher, who happened to be my mother, was acutely aware that boys didn't particularly want to read about Jane Eyre or other heroines with unusual romantic entanglements. She allowed that we could read, for our required readings for the year, WAR books, such as The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk, Battle Cry by Leon Uris, and All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. Little did she know that her own daughter would take her up on reading those books.

I had long suspected that my father had suffered ill effects from his part in the war, and I wondered what he had experienced that had such an effect on him that he would rarely, if ever, speak of his service. One day, when my mother, my sister, and I were somewhat paying attention to a war movie that was playing on some television channel, my father walked through the room and made an offhand comment that he had seen too often was was being depicted on the screen: A pilot, during dive bombing training, would become so fixed on the target that he forgot to pull out of his dive, smashing the plane and all occupants into the ocean. Daddy said that he one time saw, because he was so close to the plane, the co-pilot coming out of his seat, pounding on the pilot trying to make him pull out of the dive to no avail. Daddy said that the last thing that co-pilot did was hit the pilot, and then they crashed into the water, and all aboard were dead.

So tonight, while I was cooking dinner, beginning with appetizers of a pureed pea and mint crostini, I turned on the Turner Classic Movie channel. The Caine Mutiny was showing. Humphrey Bogart was at his finest as the demented Captain Queeg. I have to say that I see the trial differently because I now am a lawyer, but I still don't fault Marek for what he did. Of course, I think we should keep in mind that I would probably be a coward in war, and I might have been called "Old Yellowstain." I certainly hope not. As I watched the movie, I remembered Queeg's eccentricities, and found myself wanting to read the book once more. Fortunately, I have the book, and will pull it out so that I can remember all the character nuances and the events that led up to the "mutiny."

One wonders how Queeg ever advanced to Captain. I think I believe in the Peter Principle, but I think that I will once again read the book, this time with a jaded eye toward any war and this time with a 58-year-old perspective. I wonder what will change.

Homage to Fluffy

I knew yesterday was coming for about a month. At Easter, Fluffy, our almost-16-year-old Bichon Frise, became ill and I was alone with her and her discomfort. She was in so much pain for about a day after a trip to the vet that I promised myself I wouldn't make her go through it again. The vet couldn't really tell me what was going on at that time, but I hoped that she would make it through Emily's graduation because Fluffy had been a part of Emily's life all through her school years. She seemed to recover just fine, and was a happy little dog as her life returned to normal - getting up, going outside, coming in and receiving a treat, exploring the kitchen floor for dropped pieces of food, and then heading back upstairs to sleep in her chair all day, before repeating the same routine in the afternoon and then again when Max came home from work.

I had noticed, though, that last week, some of her symptoms had returned, and when Martin came to paint the sunroom ceiling, he noted that she had lost weight. So I knew we were not far off.

Yesterday when I picked her up from boarding her because I was at the judicial conference, she was in pain again. Max and I took her back to the vet, and we tried a sedative and painkiller, but by the time we got home, it was clear that those medicines were not going to work. I had promised that I would not put her through that again, and so we made our final trip to the vet. He was compassionate and gave her a sedative to calm her down prior to giving her the last shot, so that she could have some peace so we could say our good-byes. And then Fluffy was no more.

It was hard to come home, and it was hard to talk to Emily later in the night to tell her what we had to do, but I know it was the right thing.

Fluffy came to us after Thanksgiving right before Emily had her 7th birthday. The summer before, we had visited Mike and Caroline, friends from Kansas City, who had two Bichons (Muffy and Mickey), both of whom had come, miraculously, from Susie in Sedalia. Emily had fallen in love with the two balls of white fur, who were perky and loving and lively. She was taken with the idea of having a dog - one just like Muffy and Mickey. One day in the late summer, she was visiting my mother, when Mother's neighbor came out to talk to her and asked her what she wanted for her birthday. Emly said that she wanted a dog - a Bichon Frise. And he, childless and therefore clueless, said that he would get her one because every little girl needs a dog.

I didn't really think much about it until about a month later, when Emily and I were taking a walk in the neighborhood. We stopped at our across-the-street neighbor's garage sale, and someone asked Emily what she was going to get for her birthday later on that year. She said, "Ted Simmons is going to get me a Bichon Frise." At that point, I knew we were in trouble.

That night, I told Max that we probably should start looking for a Bichon, because I didn't really want to disappoint my daughter on her 7th birthday. We had been a dog family once before, way before Emily was born, when Max's Pepsi had brought joy to our days, with her loving and outgoing nature, her climbing on the bed and licking Max's face to wake him every morning, and her wagging tail. She developed cancer, however, and the pain of losing her was almost unbearable - so much that we vowed we would never have another dog.

So here we were, deciding that our daughter should experience the joy and pain of dog ownership - but I knew that I would be the one taking the dog to the vet, taking her out, making sure she was fed and had water. That is what mothers do, even when their children say, "I'll take care of it and feed it and take it out and water it and pick up its poop." Max checked and found out that Susie was still in the business of breeding Bichons, and so secretly, we went out to look at the new puppies who had just been born to Lucy, Susie's show Bichon, and who would be ready for new homes about six weeks later - right around Thanksgiving.

We looked at the puppies and we fell in love with all of them, but could not take our eyes off the little girl who was beautiful and who ran around and around and around in her cage, and who, when taken out and was held, was, in Susie's words, "Stiff as a carp!" I picked her, and Susie said that she might not be available because our choice was her choice as well. I figured that meant that I had picked well. It turned out that my choice had some defects, and showing her would not be possible. She was going to be ours, but we thought that Emily should name her. So for the time being, she was "the puppy."

So on the day after Thanksgiving, we told Emily we were going to take a ride, and we went out into the country and down a little road, to a house in the woods. We told Emily we thought she might like to see the puppies in the house. I don't know if she was figuring out what was happening, but when we picked up the one who was ours, and put her into Emily's hands, Emily said, "Ooh! She's fluffy!!!" And the name stuck.

Over the years, Fluffy has been a blessing and a burden, a stress factor and a source of joy as she bounded around and around the house just as she had done in her cage. But even though I was usually the one who took her to the vet (and giving credit to Max, who gave her baths), and fed her and watered her and picked up her poop, Emily loved her dog. And so the task of telling her last night was not one I relished, but she, like we, knew it was coming. I think we all just hoped that something else would occur. But it was not to be.

And so once again, Max and I have vowed that we will never have another dog. It hurts too much to love so, and to receive such unconditional love from a little thing who can't say what hurts.

I'll let you know if we change our minds.

For Heaven's Sake!

I clicked the wrong click, and clicked out of my last post before it was finished. I MUST evaluate the fried catfish. I grew up eating fried catfish, fresh catfish that my grandfather caught and froze in paper Foremost milk cartons full of the water in which the fish lived. My grandmother had some sort of secret recipe for frying the fish - my mother says that she soaked the fish in milk before coating it in corn meal and frying it in either lard or Crisco. However she cooked it, I will never forget the taste of that fish, and was thoroughly spoiled by it, so that when people say, "So-and-So has the BEST catfish!," I smile smugly to myself. Grandma's catfish was the best. As I have grown older, however, I have recognized that no one can fix Grandma's catfish, and so if I want to eat catfish, I will have to try other, inferior cooks' versions. So far, by far, Fred's Fish House in Mammoth Spring, Arkansas, has held the crown. I tried the fried catfish at The Fish House in Conway, Arkansas, and found it pleasing, the hush puppies addictive, and the brown, soupy pinto beans delicious, but Fred's coating was still the lightest and most crisp. So when we went to Oxford, where Taylor Grocery was heralded as the best by locals and tourists alike, I had to go and pronounce it good, great, or passable. It was very good. The cornmeal coating was light and crispy, but I needed to add a little salt. The hush puppies were probably, in all fairness, better than Fred's or The Fish House's, because they had just a little bite, probably from a smidgin of cayenne pepper. Taylor Grocery's atmosphere was far superior to either Fred's or The Fish House, because I confess that I believe most meals are made better with the addition of a glass of wine, or the the menu demands, a bottle of beer. Also, I enjoyed the crowd at Taylor, all of whom were raucous, lively, and happy. Fred's customer base is quieter, and Fred's is most crowded on Sunday around noon when all the churches let out. No one is raucous after church! My visit to The Fish House came on a Saturday afternoon, when most of the lunch crowd was gone and our waitress had definitely earned time to sit rather than wait on yet another table. So I cannot determine the best. I prefer the crust on Fred's fish, the pinto beans at The Fish House, and the hush puppies, ambience, and ability to imbibe at Taylor Grocery. Perhaps, just perhaps, the answer lies in yet another trip to each!

Catfish Heaven

On my little jaunt to Oxford, Mississippi, I indulged in one of my secret food faves: eating fried anything! We went to dinner at a little old storefront that once served as a grocery store, and now functions as one of Oxford's most well-known foodie haunts: Taylor Grocery.

Taylor Grocery is not a fancy place; it is a fun place where good ol' boys and girls sit around and eat fried catfish and French fries and hush puppies, and where a couple of guys play old time country music and 1970s rock on acoustic guitars and take the diners' tips as their pay. They get food, too, which is a really good reason to play music there. The high section of the walls of Taylor Grocery are covered with names of people who have been there to eat. In fact, as we read some of the names, one of my traveling companions found someone whose first name as inscribed on the wall was the same as her maiden name - Senn. Coincidentally, the restaurant's floor is vaguely reminiscent of the floor of Senn 5 & 10 in our home town - old, well-worn, distressed wood planks - and the smell, other than the wonderful aroma of cooking catfish, was also that of an old, well-used building.

Lining the shelves on the lower part of the walls are rows and rows of ingredients and condiments that will eventually be used to make cole slaw, hot sauce, wonderfully soggy green beans, and other delectable treats that, though I have not lived in the Ozark hills for 40 years, are still as much a part of me as my right arm. I knew by looking at those shelves that the cole slaw was mayonnaise-based rather than hot vinegar-based; I haven't ever seen so many plastic gallon-jars of Kraft mayo in one place!

Most important, most diners had plastic glasses, the 24-oz. opaque kind that a fan gets at a college football game, and they were full of what fans drink at college football games. Apparently, the liquor laws in the State of Mississippi are as weird as they are in Arkansas: some counties are "dry" and some are "wet." Some cities are "wet" while the county in which they are located are "dry." Such is the case in Lafayette (pronounced luh-FAY-ut) County, Mississippi. According to our waitress, as long as the liquor can't be seen, we were free to enjoy a glass of wine with our meal. I didn't know that rule when I sat down, and I was somewhat disconcerted when the owner of the joint strode over to our table and covered our lovely wine bottle with an old paper sack, the one in which we spirited the juice of the grape into the restaurant.

Atmosphere aside, however, the food was great. I rarely give myself permission to eat something that comes out of a deep fat fryer, but when my two companions and I decided what to order, they chose the grilled catfish and the blackened, which left me with (sigh) fried fillets. The fish came with hush puppies, and I ate green beans, which were cooked the only decent Southern way green beans should be cooked: with bacon, onions, and garlic. We shared the other kinds of fish, but all agreed that the fried was the way to go.

Oxford is a great place to visit!

A week or so ago, I struck out for Oxford, Mississippi, to see what the town was like. Home to Ole Miss and Rowan Oak, which is William Faulkner's home, Oxford is a delightful town around the same size as Sedalia, but with a thriving downtown square that hosts several restaurants, local shops, and a two-story bookstore that sponsors book signings and author lectures. In fact, the weekend I visited, the sole surviving Faulkner was scheduled to talk about her new book, which she had written about the family and the lovely old home that is Rowan Oak. I will detail my visit to Oxford more thoroughly in my article for 417 Magazine, which will be published later this year, but suffice to say here that I stayed in a lovely hotel, ate lots of good food, shopped 'til I dropped, saw the building where James Meredith was housed at the University of Mississippi when the Universtiy was integrated, and enjoyed the gentility of southern manners for an entire weekend. Go there. You'll have a good time.