It's All The Rage

Locally-grown food. It's the thing. The newest, coolest thing to do. And I can't deny it.

I love going to meetings where I get to talk to actual farmers. People out there trying to make a living by feeding the rest of us. It's the most rewarding part of my job, and I love every conversation I have with a grower. Every. Single. One.

Maybe it's my farm roots. Maybe it's my respect for the hard work it takes to produce food. Maybe it's because we all know that freshly-picked strawberries taste better than what you buy at Kroger. Maybe it's by knowing the person who toiled over the plants, I trust them. Maybe it's all those things combined.

While I have so much to say on the subject, I'm going to make this short. The next Saturday your local farmers' market is open, go.


That's it. Just go. Support your local grower. Eat your local food. Enjoy your life. Locally.

See this guy? That's Harvey Williams. He grows, among other things, sweet potatoes, squash and greens. And I'd eat anything from his farm. Why? Because I know him. I trust him. And his food is always good.

L.

What Does It All Mean?

A blog-friend was "tagged" to post about five things around her house that say something about the person she is. The rules indicate that you take a picture of these five things, post them, and tell the blogging world what they mean.

I thought this was great idea. Unfortuately, most of my things are still packed in boxes. So, I'll just have to tell you about them.

1--The Fireplace:

The fireplace, which I posted about when I first started this blog, says so much about my life. My love of family. My need to nest. I love our fireplace because it makes me closer to the life I had as a child, and the life I see for myself in the future. I love curling up next to a warm fire while readinig a book and feeling nestled into life. Happy. At peace. It says to me: you don't have to do the laundry, clean the bathroom, finish that proposal for work, you can just sit next to me and enjoy your life. In this moment. Worry about all those other things later.

2--A picture of Dave and me in front of the US Capitol on Inauguration Day

There's something about that picture that takes me back. It doesn't take me back to a "better time." It takes me back to a "different time". I was living in DC. I didn't have a car. I lived in a one room apartment. I watched George W. Bush, even though I disagree with him on every issue, be sworn in as President of the United States. It's small picture of the way we lived then. I was excited to see someone sworn in as President, but it wasn't unusual that I might attend that sort of event. Now, I'd be lucky to see a motorcade, and if I did I'd wonder, "Wow, who could that be?" Then, I was pissed everytime the Secret Service blocked the street in front of my apartment building.

3--Our Bookshelves

I love our bookshelves. They're filled with interesting and re-readable books. I love everything on those shelves. Sometimes I just stand in front of them and think about all the things I've learned from those wonderful pages. Such as "We Wish To Inform You That Tomorrow We Will Be Killed With Our Families". This book, as depressing as it is, completely changed my view of the world. There I was in 1994 thinking that life was just a breeze while 800,000 people in Rwanda were being killed because of their race. I didn't even know things like that happened anymore.

4--The Refrigerator

Not the contents, although I do love to eat and cook, but the things on it. It (if they were unpacked) is covered in photos of so many fun times Dave and I have had together, times we've each had with friends. It's like a collage of tiny, fleeting moments caught on film. Some are flattering. Some aren't. But all of them make me smile from ear-to-ear.

5--The Bathroom

OK, I know it sounds a little strange, but it's my sancutary. The place no one bothers me. The place I can go to settle my thoughts, my feelings, my life. It's the place I know I will always be alone. Maybe while I'm taking a bath, or maybe while I'm in the shower. But, it's my place. My little spot in this crazy world. And I love it.

So, that's it. According to my blog-friend, I'm suppose to "tag" someone. Well, I won't. If you think this might be a fun exercise to you. Then do it. If not, don't.

Pretty simple, really. But now you know all there is to know about me.
L.

What To Say?

I enjoy writing so much that I often feel like I need to write something even when I have nothing to say.

It's been an interesting couple of days.

I was evaluated at work. It was a great evaluation. My boss is pleased with my performance, and is recommending me for a promotion.

We named the racoon that frequents our backyard. Lenny. That's his name. Lenny scared the shit out me Sunday by standing about 10 feet away from my car while I was digging for something in the passenger's seat. I didn't see him until I turned to walk back in the house, and there he was. Staring at me like the damn devil. I stopped dead in my tracks. I suppose I'll have to get used to Lenny since I can hear him digging around in the yard as I type this. As long as he stays off the deck, Lenny and I can remain friends. Until then...Freeeakkky.

A dear friend of mine didn't get a job she'd hope to get. Hang in there!

I wrote a proposal for a $500,000 project while also spending tonight announcing our award of a $2.2 million project. I guess the world of nonprofit work means always looking for the next big funding win.

I was asked BY A MAN why Dave and I aren't married. I'm used to this question from women. But, a man. Extremely strange.

It's just been a weird couple of days. Tomorrow will, of course, continue down this path as I go to the dentist to get a permanent crown. Keep your fingers crossed!

L.

What Would You Say?

"Don't drop the big oneIf you a monkey on a string
Don't cut my lifeline
If you a doggie on a chain
Don't bite the mailman
What would you say"

Oh, Dave Matthews, you keep coming back to me.

This morning my job took me to a sustainable agriculture strategic planning meeting.

Sustainable agriculture is right up my alley. Support local farmers? Check. Grow indigenous business? Check. Do the best we can do to be sure the freshest foods are available to those that want them? Check. Getting used to pretentious people who think that everyone can afford what the some us can afford to spend on food? Not so much check.

While sitting in this meeting that I managed to show up for at 8:50 a.m. on a Saturday that was scheduled to start at 9 a.m., but really started at 10:30 a.m. I encountered a woman, “Charlene”, who was so obnoxious that I couldn't begin to stand it.

A few reasons I didn't like her:
1--She couldn't stop talking about her son, Cody
2--Her fingernails were long, and by long I mean extremely long and half of the polish was peeling off and the underneath were unseemly.
3--She wasn't as nearly as thin as she thought she was.
4--Possibly most importantly she wouldn't stop talking about her "past" experiences.

Here's the set up: Everyone in the room agreed that locally-grown products are the way to go. If we care to insure that our smallest famers are able to sustain a profit then we must care to find a way to insure their products are available to the general public.

This, obviously, includes farmers' markets, but also includes finding a way to put locally-grown foods into local school systems, local nursing homes, local office places, but we also have to be sure that local communities are aware that local products are available for purchase. I'm all over all of these things.

So, I'm sitting in this meeting, during which I've met the most amazing local farmer, who is attempting to start a real farmers' market in the Little Rock area. By "real" I mean a place where actual "local" farmers sell their products. Apparently the River Market is open to any vendor, which means that the product sold by that vendor doesn't have to be produced in Arkansas. So many of the vendors are selling "fresh" produce while, in fact, that produce may have been farmed and produced in Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri. Virginia. You get the picture.

This guy was amazing. Who was not amazing was the woman I mentioned earlier.

During the course of our discussions, she said, "I was behind a 'large' woman and her 'large' child at the grocery store. Cody, my son, looked in the woman's cart and said, 'Mom, why aren't they buying any food?’ I looked in the cart and saw that her cart was full of frozen boxes and our cart was full of fresh produce, and I knew that woman was just too lazy to cook."

It took all I had not to fly directly across that table and strangle her. All I could think was, "You know what, Lady? Fresh produce isn't expensive to us. But it's expensive to the single mother working three jobs. And, you know what, Lady? Taking the time to cook a fresh produce meal and sit down with my boyfriend is hard. How difficult must it be for a single mother working three jobs just to support her "large" child to afford fresh produce much less find the time to cook it so that you can feel good about what the person in front of you at Kroger is purchasing. I guess everyone but you is lazy.

I almost came unglued. Really.

Please understand that I'm all for purchasing locally-grown food, but I don't do it everyday. And I can afford it. If I don't do it everyday because I know that the organically-grown apple costs more than the regular apple, I'm buying the regular apple then how can any of us expect someone likely living on a smaller budget would do it?

Who is this woman to judge what I'm buying, much less a woman who is no doubt working much, much harder than me?

Oh, hell, it pissed me off.

I'm all for farmers' markets. And I'll call that local farmer to see what we can do to help him get started with his “real” farmers’ market. And I'll drive to his market to purchase fresh produce from him. But, while we're trying to support local farmers and local produce and are paying a bit more to do so, here's my theory: How about we not judge those people who can't afford to do what we're doing? How about we work to lower the price of locally-grown foods so that they can compete in the market place so that the “large” woman and her “large” son can afford that produce?

Most importantly, how about we not judge people who aren't fortunate enough to live the way we live?

Until then, “Charlene”, fuck you.

L.

Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

No need to worry, everyone. I'm fine.

I had a bad day. Yes. And I welcomed a not-so-welcomed-but-pretending-to-welcome birthday. The big 3-0.

Don't you know it wasn't so bad? I'm 30. I have a fantastic life.

I'm 30. I have a wonderful boyfriend who loves me beyond all I've ever known.

I'm 3o. I have a house that I love more that I could ever imagined.

I'm 30. I'm sitting in my kitchen writing a blog post listening to a television rebroadcasting of the Democratic debate, which I didn't watch, in Spanish. Yes, Spanish.

I'm definitely 30.

So, life is good. Life is all around good. I'm happy. I'm healthy. I'm in a good place.

I missed my Dad today, but what's more is that I looked forward to my evening with Dave, with phone calls from friends, with my life. My life as it is.

And my life is good. After all, I have this amazing life. An amazing life with Dave.

According to the Ramone's, Sheena is a punk. A punk rocker.

And according to the picture below, Dave is definitely the punk.

I, according to Dave and a few other friends, am apparently not.

Gotta love the guy. Far from punk, but pretty damn good nonetheless.
L.

Break It Down

Well, I had a complete meltdown tonight. It hit me like a ton of bricks. My father can't visit our new house. My father can't know what it is to be me at 30. My father will never meet Dave.

It was a complete, total breakdown. I don't know what caused it, but it happened. Here's how it came about: I was talking to my mother. We discussed the newly painted room. We talked about our day. Then it happened. Just as quickly as the day passed, I was in tears. Why can't Dad see the newly painted room? Why can't Dad see the new house? Why can't Dad know Dave? Why can't Dad be here to know what it is to be me?

I was a mess. I was balling my eyes out. And, at the end of being a mess and balling my eyes out, it was time for bed and I had no resolutions. I guess that's just the way it goes--especially wen you're 19 when your father dies and now you're approaching 30.

I have to know that Dad is proud of me. Deep down in my soul. I have to know that Dad looks down on me and is proud. I have to know those things in my heart, in my soul, in my body.

And, if from time to time I have a breakdown, I suppose that's completely fine. I'm just going to hate it everytime it happens.

Why? Because I hate missing him. Why? Because he was an amazing man who had so much to offer this world. Why? Because his life ended long before it had to end.

Unfortunately, he didn't realize what he had to give this world, and his life was taken from us entirely too soon. It's a sad fact, but it is what it is, and I can't be sad all the time.

I can only rise above. I must rise above the darkest days. Even if today is one of the darkest days...I must rise above. I must see the sunrise. The light at the end of the tunnel. I must see it.

Why? Because that's what my father would want me to do.

L.

After

Here's the same room finished. My thighs literally hurt from squatting so long yesterday painting the lower portion. But, no pain, no gain, right?

L.

PS--Please ignore the one "hat" on the chandalier. I was testing to see if the old "hats" would work with the new paint. For the record: they don't.

Midway

Here's the same room without wallpaper and a white, rather than red, ceiling.

I call it the Chi Omega room.

L.

Before

Here's a "Before" photo of the room that will eventually be our reading room.

Stay tuned for a "Midway" and "After" shot.

L.

Eight Days

Boy were we wrong! Turner received her care package today. It took eight days.

Wow!
L.

Testy, Testy

We all know that mornings aren't exactly my thing. It's at night when I'm at my best. I'm funnier. I'm more alert. I'm thinking clearly. I hash out the days, weeks, months ahead. I can get an idea of where I've been and where I'm headed. I'm a night owl and no matter what I do that's just the way it is.

Mornings, on the other hand, are just painful. I know there are some of you who will say that mornings are bad because I stay up late--that it's a cycle. Maybe so. But even when I try to go to bed earlier, I'm largely unsuccessful. I toss and turn. I stare at the ceiling. My mind reels and I get no sleep at all. Consequently, I still have a bad morning.

In the morning I feel down. I know that I should feel excited about stepping into a new day, but I don't. I can only think about all the things left undone the day before. How busy I'll be at work. Do we have anything to cook for dinner or do I need stop at the grocery store (which, by the way, I also hate)? What do I need to do before the sun goes down? What can wait until later?

All that is to say that I can be a little testy in the morning. This is something that I know about myself, and I've known it since I was a child. I don't even pretend that I can or want to speak to anyone prior to a shower. I've learned I just have to have that time for me before I have time for anyone else. But, as soon as I'm out, I try to control my tendency for bad mornings by saying a loud and cheery "Good Morning" or by singing "Good morning, good morning. We talked the whole night through. Good morning, good morning to you and you and you and you" from "Singing in the Rain." It usually works. It cheers me up about the day ahead, and I start things off with a bang.

Not this morning. I overslept. I wished it was Saturday, not Friday. I thought of my dad, which made me a bit sad. I couldn't get ready in my bathroom due to the drop cloths, one coat of paint and no mirror. So, I showered in Dave's bathroom without my stuff, put on makeup sitting on the bedroom floor in front of the bathroom mirror, and dried my hair with no mirror at all. Things just weren't going my way.

That's when Dave started talking about what to paint this weekend, and that he thinks we should just paint over the hinges on the kitchen cabinet doors because the three coats of paint already on them makes the hinges nearly impossible to remove. I was processing this information when he said, "Painting those cabinets is going to take most of the weekend anyway." This is when I said, "Well, Dave, no one ever said it was going to be easy." Those of you who know me can just hear it coming out of my mouth, can't you? Or if you know my mother, you can hear her saying it, right?

Why? Why did I say that? I wasn't pissed. I thought he had a fine idea. We all know that the kitchen painting will take a while. So, why? He wasn't being mean. He wasn't saying that he was leaving all the painting to me. He wasn't doing a thing but expressing his feelings about the length of time it would take to paint the cabinets.

But, could I hear that through my pathetic little morning? No, of course not. Could I understand that he was doing what most people do by planning his day and weekend on a Friday morning? No, of course not.

What I heard him say was, "I don't want to paint the kitchen. Why did we move in a house with so much work to do? And why must I lose my weekend because you don’t like the color of paint in the kitchen.” Obviously, he didn’t say that. He didn't even come close to saying that. He probably hasn’t even thought that. But, that's what I chose to hear.

So, in one moment, not only did my day worsen, but I was able to worsen Dave’s as well. Jesus, I’m such a bitch.

Only 11 more hours before I hit the prime time of my day.

L.

A Rose By Any Other Name Would Smell As Sweet

I received a newsletter two days ago. I admit it. I ignored it. I thought it was just another Spanish-language church bulletin.

We get so much mail at our new address that just isn't meant for us that I didn't register the return address. I saw it. I saw Spanish. I didn't think past it.

This morning I got up, took a shower, and walked into the kitchen to say good morning to Dave. While I was taking my daily "Linsley Has A Temporary Crown" antibiotic I glanced through the mail.

For the past two weeks, I've just glanced at the mail. If it doesn't say "mortgage" or "tax information enclosed" I've basically ignored it.

But, this morning, I was taking that crazy antibiotic and talking to Dave about Valentine's Day and how we would choose not to celebrate by painting the bathroom. I turned to go dry my hair when Dave said, "Are you going to read your letter from Jennifer?"

I was shocked. A letter from Jennifer? Who's Jennifer? Oh, right, you refer to Turner as Jennifer. From Costa Rica? How could I have missed it? But, you know what? I’ll be damned if I didn't.

Right there, obvious to the entire world, was a newsletter from her Costa Rican address.

I read as much as I could before realizing I would be late for work and headed back to make myself presentable for the day all the while thinking, "I'm going to have such a delightful time reading about her life tonight. I'll just hang on to that until I have a moment to really digest it all".

So I waited. I waited until I had a moment for every word. Every thing that would pull me into her world. It was delightful. It was fantastic to read her writing while thinking of her saying it. It was so reassuring to hear from her and about her adventures.

I read that newsletter, not once, not twice, but three times. And I can't begin to guess how many times over the next few weeks I'll read it again.

Here's the thing: The Spanish must be getting to her. We've been friends--not close friends, not acquaintances--but best friends for a decade.

The letter was addressed to...wait for it...

"Lindsley and Dave Matteson.

It's funny enough that it's "Dave Matteson". It's only funnier that it's addressed to "Lindsley".

I guess she's Hooked on Phonics.

L

P-eew Is for Opossum

Dave has been on the prowl for a set of free weights with a bench. Apparently, he looked at new sets online and then searched nearby Craigslists. Wouldn't you know one turned up in Conway.

So, Friday evening we trekked to Conway. After sitting in stand-still traffic on I-430 for 30 minutes, we finally made it past a very pathetic fender-bender that had traffic blocked for miles and got to Conway. I should insert now that I only went along for adventure because I was under the impression that Chik-Fil-A was in the cards.

We traveled through downtown Conway following directions given by "Rupert" from Craigslist. When we arrived, we met "Rupert". He was sitting next to his driveway in a camp chair having a smooth 7 and 7 cocktail and a cigarette.

"Rupert" can only be described as a "college hippie". You know him. That auburn-haired guy with a beard, but no mustache, who is probably just smoking a bunch of pot while his parents are paying for it and a college education. We've all known him. And we've all liked him.

As Dave and "Rupert" discussed the "equipment" I surveyed the surroundings. "Rupert" was surrounded by a bunch of...well...by a bunch of crap.


There were four camp chairs, a picnic table, a RV, a 10-feet by 8-feet stack of cinder blocks, a beautiful German Shepherd named Spider, a small "deep freeze” sitting on top of the air conditioning unit, and a pile of beer cans. When I say "pile" I mean it was a solid foot high directly outside the backdoor to the home. Obviously "Rupert" and his roommates were walking outside the backdoor and tossing empty beer cans directly to the right. It was an interesting place.

I couldn't fault the guy. He was 21, maybe 22 years old, and that's how guys that age live, right? We've been to those houses. And had the time of our lives while we were there.

"Rupert" was a super nice guy. He joked around about "y'all wanting the equipment", which we all know I will never use, and about Dave not needing the heavier weights "because he didn't look like he'd need ‘em". You got it. I liked the guy. Anyone who makes fun of Dave without knowing him is immediately placed in the "Linsley Likes You" camp.

While "Rupert" and Dave dismantled the bench and loaded up all the heavier weights that Dave will likely never use, I played with Spider and looked around.

One guy, then another came home. I assumed they were "Rupert's" roommates. One had a bunch of Obama signs in the back of his car, so I immediately liked him, too.

"Rupert" made a couple of more jokes. I put down the back seats of the Forester to make enough room for the equipment. Just a normal Friday night in the lives of Dave and Linsley.

Then I noticed it.

Right next to the air conditioning unit with the deep freeze on it. There it was. Plain. As. Day.

An opossum carcass.

Not a recently deceased opossum. But a carcass. The head and tail were immediately recognizable. What was also recognizable was that it had been there, next to the deep freeze and the air conditioning unit, for some time.

There were no flies. No bugs. Spider wasn't inspecting it. It had been there a while, and it clearly wasn't going anywhere soon.

Again, Dave takes me to the nicest places.

I never got Chik-Fil-A. By the time we left, Dave had a headache (probably all those heavy weights that will now sit in the garage to rust), and all I wanted to do was get home to a nice hot shower. Gotta wash off the thought of that opossum carcass.

L.

Holy *#!*

If this can happen, I should definitely consider sticking to my Lenten resolutions.

L.

Paint The Town Red

Or rather Behr's "Haze".

We were able to get one room painted this weekend. Yep, just one. We have six. But, the baby blue ceiling no longer matches the baby blue walls. The ceiling, which is a lot harder to paint than I thought, is now the color ceilings are meant to be--white. The walls are "Haze", which is really just a fancy way to say beige.

I've also managed to paint over the brown ceiling that once was my bathroom and get the areas around the trim painted as well. Of course, I'll be out of town for the next two days, so there won't be any progress made on that front until Thursday.

Wait, Thursday is Valentine's Day and Dave has promised me a heart-shaped pizza. I know what you're thinking, "He's really too good to you". Before you judge, it's what I want, and we typically don't celebrate Valentine's Day. After all, my birthday is just a week later, and I'd much rather have a nice dinner out on my birthday.

In reality, we'll probably have a normal-shaped pizza that night. He takes me to all the nice places.

L.

Testing. One. Two. Three.Testing

This is a test. It's only a test...

I mailed a care package today to Costa Rica. Here's the test: How long does it take for a package to make it from Little Rock, Arkansas to Costa Rica? Keep in mind that the package was mailed on a Friday. For testing sake: I took it to The Mailbox Place in Little Rock, AR on February 8, 2008.

Bets are on the table for how long it will take before we know it has made it to Costa Rica. To make the pool fair, the guy at The Mailbox Place told me, "It will make it in a reasonable amount of time". So, I have no idea how much time it will take before the package makes it.

What are your thoughts on a "reasonable amount of time"?

Bets start at my thought "a month". Of course, we won't know for sure until we hear from Turner on the date she received it.
L.

Stupid Teeth

If I didn't need them to eat, which I love doing so much, and I wouldn't look like a redneck without them, I'd just have all the teeth ripped straight out of my head.

Knowing that a filling was coming out of one of my molars, and knowing that it was the second time a filling had come out of the same tooth, I prepared myself for the need for a crown. What I did not prepare myself for was the Novocain numbness of my lower left eyelid (although I am thankful for the enormous amounts of drugs the dentist so graciously injected) nor did I prepare myself for the bruising of my left check.

Let's just say it was an experience. One that I'll be able to repeat in a mere 10 days when I return for my permanent crown. In the meantime, my temporary crown has no actual bite (the best thing to do right now is to run your tongue across the bottom of your teeth. Feel how they're all groved? Yeah, my temporary crown doesn't have that), so it feels like I have a Chiclet in line with the rest of my teeth. It's an odd sensation.

I guess I shouldn't sit around putting baby marshmallows in my mouth acting like they're Frankenstein teeth a la the photo to the right. Not that the sugar in those marshmallows would have anything to do with two fillings falling out of the same tooth. No, not at all.

L.

A Vote For Change

I didn't want to make this a political blog, but it's hard for me to turn away from my political upbringing, my political life.

Tomorrow I will head to the polls to vote for the first politician within whom I've ever found any true excitement. Any real sincerity. I'm excited to cast my vote for Barack Obama. I'm excited, for the first time, to walk into a polling place and know that I'm not choosing between bad or worse. Tomorrow I will walk in St. Paul's Methodist Church and know that I'm choosing someone I firmly believe can take this country to a place we've not yet seen.

I imagine this is how so many people felt the first time they voted for Bill Clinton. It's hope. It's excitement. It's looking beyond what we've always known as the "inevitable".

So, while it might upset some of you, but won't be surprising to so many others, I cannot disagree with Andrew Sullivan.

L.

Yes We Can

I'm usually a bit turned off by celebrities in politics. But, something about this video gave me goosebumps.

I'm guessing that it's the message.

Yes we can.
L.

Oh! The Places You'll Go

After six years in the political world, I was thrilled to step into my dream job in the nonprofit sector. Sure I knew that "our" mission was to "help people help themselves." That's what all nonprofits do, right? I never knew that my job would take me here:



Yep. That's me on the right. Yep. Those are goats in the background. Yep. That's me on a goat farm.

As far as I can remember, Dr. Suess didn't say a damn thing about smiling while standing in goat shit. Oh! The Places You'll Go, indeed, Dr. Suess. Indeed.

L.

Just in case you doubt it, here's a picture I took of the goats pictured behind us. I won't tell you why were there. I'm afraid PETA would object.

Working For The Weekend

All week I've thought we'd get so many things done this weekend. Well, for those of you who know me, you won't be surprised to hear that didn't so much happen.

The wallpaper is gone, but other than that very little happened at all. We moved some boxes around. The boxes are still packed. They've just been moved to a room where they can't be seen. We still don't have new furniture. We still haven't painted.

But, we did see a movie. "There Will Be Blood." And it's excellent. Daniel Day Lewis almost made The List.

You know The List. The List that Dave and I started almost five years ago. It's a list of famous people that we're allowed to leave the other one for with no questions asked, no hard feelings and nothing but admiration of the other for picking such a person. To explain The List I should say that most of the time the people on it are people we wouldn't actually ever meet, but should we, we're gone and the other can't be mad about it. Sure, it's strange, but Dave and I are strange people.

Last I heard, this was Dave's list:
Kelly Willis
Kate Winslet
The girl from the Right Guard commercials
Cat Power

My list is:
Clive Owen
Josh Brolin
Colin Firth
Ralph Fiennes

Really? Look over my list. Is it just me, or do they all look a lot like Dave? With the exception of Josh Brolin they all look marginally like him, except with an English accent.

Guess that means I really am the Anglophile everyone says I am. Or maybe it just means I really love Dave...with an English accent.

L.

Photo: My fellas. Dave, my nephews and some freakishly close dolphins.

I Am Woman...Watch Me Run

I grew up in the country. A small town, limited street lights, no actual street address until 911 made us go from PO Box F to 314 West Fourth Street.

Our address always cracked me up. We lived on the corner of Fourth Street and Fourth Avenue, and our town had no more than 12 "Streets" or "Avenues" in it. Yet we lived where Fourth Avenue and Fourth Street met. Really?

"Outsiders" would drive into town, and if, for some strange reason, they had a hard time finding our house, they could go to the local E-Z Mart and ask, "Can I get directions to Linsley's". The reply would always be, "Sure, take this road, pass the grocery store, turn right directly past Lance's Butcher Block, go three blocks and you'll see her car." It was that easy.

Well, since I was 18-years-old, I've lived in a city. I went to college in Fayetteville, from Fayetteville to DC, from DC to here. You might think that after a mere 10 years my country upbringing would hang on. Apparently not.

Since moving to our new house, which backs up to the woods in the middle of Little Rock, I've realized that I'm not so accustomed to the country anymore. As I write this post, I hear noises in the woods behind our house. Is that noise a racoon, which can carry rabies? Is that noise a dog from a nearby home, which can bite my hand off? Is that noise a criminal coming from the nearby park, who could rape me on the back deck? Or is that noise a wolf ready to rip my eyes straight out of my head?

I thought I was a fearless woman. Apparently my childhood country life and my adolescent city life have only made me a fearless woman when I'm inside with the doors locked.

What in the hell has happened to me? Bring me a group of disadavanged farmers who can't make a living on their own. I can help them. Bring me a small community that needs help with a grant. I can help them. But that strange noise I hear in the woods that sounds a lot like a monkey in the middle of Little Rock, and I lose my shit.

So much for "I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar." I can only hear "I'm Hungry Like a Wolf."

L.

What Was I Thinking?

It hit me. Today. I am a homeowner.

The light in the utility room doesn't work. I changed both light bulbs. Still doesn't work. The fan in the hall bathroom doesn't work. I flipped the switch--two, three times. Still doesn't work. The lock on the front door sticks. I cursed at it--two, three times. Still doesn't work.

Then I talked to a friend who told me about a crazy dream about water dripping down a wall and the paint bubbling and she thought (in her dream) "I'll have to call the rental company." It hit me. No rental company. No one but us to fix the utility room light fixture, the bathroom fan problem, the sticking front door lock. No one. But us.

And, we're no Bob Villa.

L.