Our first "Betazoid" Supreme Court Justice?

Sonia Sotomayor has the potential to become not only the first Latina Supreme Court Justice, but possibly the first one from another planet.

No, I'm not talking about some of her supposedly "out there" statements reported by her opponents and the media.

I'm talking about the fulfillment of one of President Obama's requirements that a Supreme Court nominee have "empathy."

Just so we're on the same page, here's how the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines it:

em·pa·thy

Pronunciation:

\ˈem-pə-thē\

1: the imaginative projection of a subjective state into an object so that the object appears to be infused with it
2: the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner ; also : the capacity for this

I think we can agree number two is the definition Mr. Obama had in mind.

One of the most famous "empathetic" characters in the world of science fiction is Deanna Troi, a half-Betazoid/half-human woman who serves as ship's counselor in "Star Trek: The Next Generation."

I had to wiki Betazoids to refresh my recollection of the species. Human/Betazoid hybrids are emapths, meaning they have the ability to sense someone else's feelings, even those of other species.

So how much are Counselor Troi and Judge Sotomayor alike?

See if you can tell which of the following statements were made by Sotomayor or Troi:

1. The aspiration to impartiality is just that — it’s an aspiration because it denies the fact that we are by our experiences making different choices than others.

2. I am the goddess of empathy....

3. However, to understand takes time and effort, something that not all people are willing to give.

4. Higher emotions are what separate us from the lower orders of life... Higher emotions, and table manners.

5. I can and do aspire to be greater than the sum total of my experiences but I accept my limitations.

6. Timeline? This is no time to argue about time, we don't have the time!


7. I am an ordinary person who has been blessed with extraordinary opportunities and experiences. Today is one of those experiences.

8. Words are here--on top. What's under them, their meaning . . . is what's important.

9. Whether born from experience or inherent physiological or cultural differences our gender and national origins may and will make a difference...

10. That's the problem with believing in a supernatural being . . . trying to determine what he wants. .

11. I was just counseled not to be nervous. That's almost impossible.

12. Almost everyone has a moment in their lives when they exceed their own limits . . . achieve what seems to be impossible.

13. My... identity also includes, because of my particularly adventurous taste buds, ... pig intestines, ...pigs’ feet with beans, and ...pigs’ tongue and ears.

14. I never met a chocolate I didn't like.

Bonus question.

Is this...
Troi to Barclay: I feel your confidence, your arrogant resolve. It excites me.

-or-

Sotomayor to Obama:I feel your confidence, your arrogant resolve. It excites me.

Not so easy is it?

I wonder if any of the Senators will bring up this comparison in the confirmation hearings?

Stranger things have happened.

Scroll down for answers, underneath the sources.


Sources:

http://www.memorable-quotes.com/deanna+troi,a1555.html
http://www.sjtrek.com/trek/quotes/S_TheNextGeneration/
http://tvsothertenpercent.tripod.com/startrek/troi.html
http://koti.mbnet.fi/neptunia/movies/troi1.htm
http://www.time.com/time/politics/article/0,8599,1900940,00.html
http://ac360.blogs.cnn.com/2009/05/29/in-her-own-words-sotomayors-2001-raising-the-bar-address/

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Answer key:
Odd quotes are from Judge Sotomayor. Even quotes belong to Counselor Troi. The bonus question is: Troi to Barclay.

A "Crib" we can afford

I got a link to this video from the Dave Ramsey people. Actor Seth Green spoofs the ultra-luxe TV show "Cribs" with something a little more realistic:

Un-Broke: The Seth Green Cribs Edition - watch more funny videos

This airs tonight on ABC's special, UN-BROKE. Here's info on the special:

Friday May 29th at 9/8c on ABC the one-hour special UN-BROKE: What You Need to Know About Money" takes an unconventional look at the fundamentals of everyday finance featuring Will Smith, Samuel L. Jackson, the Jonas Brothers, Christian Slater, Cedric the Entertainer, Seth Green, Sesame Workshops Oscar the Grouch, Rosario Dawson, the E*Trade Babies and more!

It's nice to see celebs urging us to live within our means and be responsible with money. I hope this economic "wake-up call" that we're having creates permanent change in our "buy now, pay later" mentality. I know I needed to make the transformation myself.

Gumball Encounter

I read more about local TV news these days, rather than watching it.

And I'm just catching up on some of the changes at WGCL-TV thanks to the blog Live Apartment Fire.

Some of the news staff members are gone, including the station's only meteorologist.

The blog shared a video of Laura Huckabee and a hiccuping incident that has gotten over 23-thousand hits on youtube.com.



My husband and I got a chance to meet Ms. Huckabee when we visited the station last year.

I saw her get a giant gumball from a machine seconds before our host spotted her and introduced us. Her mouth was filled with a giant unchewed gumball when she greeted us and shook our hands. She was gracious and kind despite the awkward situation.

This was about three months before the hiccuping incident. Maybe she didn't get her gumball that day, as I know swallowing sugar is a known cure for hiccups.

I hope Huckabee gets another gig soon, without any, er, hiccups.

Bijou vs. Bella

After wrestling for dominance of the new rug, one of them threw up on it.

I guess that works.

Bijou, the Golden Retriever, effectively "claimed it."

I wonder what Cesar Millan would say about this?

I'm following"The Dog Whisperer"on Twitter.

I'll ask him to take a look and he responds, I'll post it here.

I can spot a rug a mile away....

No, not really.

But if you're visiting someone's house and the rug is bad, you can't ignore it.

It's the decorating equivalent of having spinach stuck between your front teeth.

You don't want to talk about it, but it's just there.

But when you have dogs, it's not so easy to keep the rug looking nice.


Witness the two wet dogs, Bijou and Bella taking a nap on their favorite spot: the living room rug. Click on the photo and you can really see how ragged it is: pulls, rips, missing yarn.

At least the color blends in with Georgia clay so it doesn't look dirty. But you still wouldn't want your baby crawling on it.

Too bad the rug is only nine months old.

I bought it with my birthday money last year to replace a nine-year-old rug that had lost its fringe. It has paisley and for some reason, I love paisley.

It was billed as an indoor-outdoor rug. Great for dogs right? But it was trashed in two days. Their claws snagged on the loops and it has numerous pulls. One section has even come unraveled.

I do love the dogs more than my birthday present. I never yelled at them for tearing up the rug because they didn't even realize they were doing it.

But I should have known better to buy a hook rug. Again.

I used to have this great lemon-patterned hook rug in the kitchen. The dogs, then puppies, loved it too. The picture on the right, is our late great Golden Retriever, Bailey. She only acted like she wanted to eat the rug, but she left it alone.

Bijou (below) came along six months later and posed for a pretty picture on the rug, but waited until I was out of sight to unravel it. Completely.

Isn't it funny that when humans and animals do something they know they're not supposed to be doing, they do it in secret?

Thankfully, Bijou's out of that stage now (she's eight, and is the top dog in the big photo.)

I also hated to see that lemon rug go because it's sort of famous. That rug used to belong to Bobbie Batista, the former CNN Headline News anchor.

Ten years ago, she was getting rid of quality junk and I was trying to decorate a new house, so I bought several things from her. The rug was the big prize. And I'm still using almost everything else that I purchased. At the time I didn't have dogs. My sixteen-year-old Cocker Spaniel had died a few months before, and I wasn't ready for another dog.

I was single at the time, and that pretty, clean, nicely decorated house soon got awfully lonely.

When I told my mom I was getting a puppy, she gasped, because she knew what would happen. "The house..." she said. She didn't have to finish, but I knew what she meant. Paw prints, accidents, fur on the furniture. Rugs with stains that won't come out. Landscaping displaced by industrious digging.

Still, I knew I wanted a dog. I needed one. I was ready to love a dog again.

I got one puppy, then another and they were worth every bit of trouble they caused, which really wasn't much.

I have a website that I made in 2000 dedicated to the two original dogs (we lost Bailey last year then adopted Bella.) I'm about to shut it down as I cut non-essential expenses, so if you like dogs a lot, click here and take a look. If you've got insomnia, this page might help you feel sleepy. And if you want to laugh at silly excess, this is the page to check out.

My husband is at work now, and the only sounds I hear are the clicking of the keys as I type and the dogs snoring.

It makes the place feel like home. A little messy, a little too fuzzy. Not just a house, but a home.

American Idle

I'm going to miss American Idol when it turns 8:00 tonight. The competition is over. Kris is the champ and Adam has won legions of fans of his own.

I didn't watch every minute of every episode this season, but I'd been rooting for Kris for a long time. He's the kind of singer that I would have had a huge crush on when I was a pre-teen and I would have purchased Tiger Beat magazines with his picture the cover. I liked his singing too, of course.

But I gotta hand it to Adam though. WHAT A PERFORMER! And what I admired most about him is that he was exactly himself every single performance, even if he knew it would cost him snide comments from Simon and votes from the audience. It is a risk to do that, and I think it will make him millions.

I'm not very good either at trying to be something I'm not. Thirty (30!!!) years ago, I decided to enter a competition to give an address at my high school graduation. The valedictorian would give a speech (I was 13th in the class of 500+) and so would another talented student with a well-written and crisply delivered speech.

I tried soaring, uplifting speech after motivating speech and none of them rang true. They were all fakes.

Crumple->toss->trash can.

Like most of my high-achieving fellow students, I had spent most of my senior year sloughing off. English, newspaper, band, French, history. Driver's Ed: I took all of my favorite subjects (well not French, but I liked the idea of French.)

I prided myself on the fact that I did not do any studying or homework at all my senior year. I could finish any assignment in between classes or during lunch. Not one book home all year! And I still made mostly A's. I was definitely not challenged.

I also saw classmates who expected to sail through college to their dream job to living their dream life, whatever that was. We were all lazy and I was angry.

I was to give the speech before a panel of teachers the next day and time was running out. I had to work the night before, in the concession stand at Southlake Cinemas. I wrote the following poem during my 30 minute break:

"Ballad of a High School Graduate"

When it's time for Bill to graduate

With Sue and Tom and Ben

You KNOW that he will be a success

But not how or where or when

He broke "13" on his SAT

And got a scholarship to Yale

He was quarterback on the football team

And was voted the best-looking male

He was in every club and sport and group

That he could possibly be

He was strong in leadership in clubs --

He was President of three

Now it's June and Bill takes the time

To be lazy and rest and sleep

It turns out that he likes it so much

That it becomes a habit he'll keep

When college comes along in the fall

And he's on to something new

He's convinced that his past record

Will be able to get him through

Bill becomes a slave to complacency

And life is turned to grey

So then he flunks out of school

And is on the streets by May

And then he realizes that

He is stagnant in the stream of life

And that to sit and let the world go by

Can be as fatal as a knife

He tried again to build his dreams

And reconstruct his plan

After he got on his feet once more

He had turned from child to man

Although Bill IS fictitious

His story still rings true

Don't let yourself be like him

Or it may happen to you

The moral of this story is

That you must start anew

After Graduation or

THE WORLD WILL CATCH UP WITH YOU!

I knew going in, I wouldn't win the competition, but that's what I had to say and I wanted to say it. There was polite, but deafing silence after I read my poem. I'm sure that would have been the case if I'd read it to a crowd of parents at Tara Stadium. Too cynical, too radical. A message no one wanted to hear.

The poem was a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts. When I arrived at the University of Georgia that fall, I was unprepared and undisciplined. I did not know how to study.

By that spring, I had been kicked out of the Honors program and got a flat "F" in Honors French and a "D" in Classics.

I still managed to pull up my grades high enough to get into Journalism school, but it was painful. If I'd been more disciplined, I wouldn't have been in that boat to begin with. And I knew I shouldn't have listened to the person who advised me to take "Honors" French when I struggled with it in high school (probably because I didn't study.)

I always mess up when I don't listen to my gut. The gut knows!

I have a Mary Englebreit calendar with this saying: "If you can't be a good example, then you'll just have to be a terrible warning." Let me serve as that terrible warning, nieces, nephews and young cousins.

I did make it through college, and actually got on the Dean's List my senior year (I loved the classes--all Journalism!) But I almost washed out.

Like the Bill in my poem, I had to grow up.

I'm just glad it wasn't too late.

*************

POSTSCRIPT: I know some of my fellow classmates from 1979 and family members are now going back to college, and I admire you so much for that. I could barely hack it in young adulthood, so mortar board hats off to you for doing it "at our age." Well done!

DOUBLE POSTSCRIPT or THE E! HOLLYWOOD TRUE STORY: I thought I'd lost this poem shortly after I wrote it. Even though it was totally inappropriate for the graduation ceremony, my English teacher loved it. (She was on the judging panel and I think she probably fought for me to win.) A newspaper photographer came by to take a picture of some graduates for some reason, and the teacher gave him what I thought was the only copy of the poem and suggested "The Clayton News Daily" run it. They never did. But there was one hand-written copy and I discovered it when I was cleaning out a storage unit I'd kept for nearly five years. I still haven't found my High School diploma though. Maybe that was just a dream....

Cringe-worthy

"It makes me feel better when I see other people in so much worse shape that I am," said the Woman.

It does?

I heard this recently and I cringed.

I hear this often. Too often. And only once or twice it's been about me. This time it wasn't.

I don't think this particular Woman really meant the message it conveyed: "I feel good when other people hurt."

I never feel better seeing anyone worse off than I am.

If you're thinking anything like that, please don't say it out loud!

Of course, I have no right to tell you what to think, but if the idea that someone else's misfortune gives you a spring in your step and helps you soldier on, something is seriously wrong with you.

Here are some things it's OK to think:

Boy, that really makes me count my blessings. So much we hold dear could be taken away in an instant.

This makes me feel so much empathy. But I can only begin to imagine what it would be like in that situation.

I have no idea what it would be like to be in their shoes. So that's one more reason I can't judge the way they're coping.

I can see they're really hurting. My heart goes out to that family.

And if you pray, then pray for them.

Deep questions to ponder:

What's helping him get through this struggle?

Why am I having more trouble accepting ________ than she is?

There is a man named Mike that my husband and I give a ride to church on a regular basis.

I don't even know what's the cause of his medical problems. I just know he has trouble speaking clearly and has to have kidney dialysis three times a week.

He also loves his two turtles, Love and Faith. He talks about how they are always glad to see him.

I am too.

I have never, ever seen him without a smile or heard him complain about pain or his situation.

He is always upbeat and cracks some really corny, but funny, jokes.

He is an inspiration every time I see him.

Not because I see how much worse I could be, but how much better I can be if I'm more like him.

Another inspiration is Contemporary Christian singer Jeremy Camp. He became a widower at age 23 when his wife died of ovarian cancer.

There is a depth and tenderness to people who have suffered great loss. You can't replicate it or get it any way but the hard way.

No one ever wants the pain and would usually undo what caused it, if given the chance. But what's gained is more priceless than gold.

I heard one of Camp's songs at one of the many funerals I've been to this year. I'll let it speak for itself:



Next time you see someone with severe financial, health, work, etc. problems or they've suffered some other great loss and they're smiling, it's definitely OK to think this:

I'll have what he's having!

A Moment of Liver Appreciation

Did you know...

"...if approximately 85 percent of the liver stops functioning, practically every other organ in the body would eventually deteriorate."

--From Dr. Melissa Palmer's Guide to Hepatitis and Liver Disease

Giddy with "Glee"

I finally got to watch the entire episode of "Glee" today.

Sitting upright for an hour, frankly, doesn't feel good, so I managed to connect the internet to the laptop in the living room and watched it on fox.com.

It'll be one of my "must see" programs when it runs this fall.

I have to admit I laughed out loud at the last line in the extended promo:




"You think that's hard, trying living with hepatitis like I do. THAT's hard!"

It's kind of like when I got a silver BMW, I started seeing them everywhere. Or a Vera Bradley bag. Or when I was a teenager, a "Tennille" haircut.

The word "hepatitis" is popping up everywhere.

I went to Books A Million after church today and actually looked for a "Hepatitis for Dummies" book but didn't find one.

But I did pick up "Dr. Melissa Palmer's Guide to Hepatitis and Liver Disease."

It's actually quite helpful. It includes a whole chapter on autoimmune hepatitis.

I haven't found anything funny yet. And I just checked the index in the back and "humor" isn't listed.

I'm still hoping for a laugh.

Sophomore Slump?

It turns out Susan Boyle is a hard act to follow, even for herself.



Off key, and wobbly, Boyle still advanced to the next round in "Britain's Got Talent." But you could see by the look on the judges' faces, they were worried her entire performance would be terrible.

Fortunately, it got better as it went along.

Alas, her song selection didn't help. It's from "Cats", in my view, is the best song from the worst musical ever.

Bravo for her getting over her nerves and hopefully she'll be rid of them next time around.

STOP, REWIND, PLAY

5I had so much optimism about today.

I could go to the gym, do my Centergy class, which I've missed for weeks due to doctors' appointments and mini-surgeries.

I even brought my bike shoes in case I also felt up to a Ride class.

The class was small, just three of us, and it felt good to move. It felt good not to think of anything but following the lead of the instructor.

I have to sit out the second song in the routine because I can't put a lot of weight on my right arm. I usually just lie back and stretch.

Today, I decided this would be a good time for a rest room break, put on my Skechers and headed downstairs.

A few minutes later, I quietly slipped through the back door, ready to rejoin the class.

But then I noticed someone, a woman, was using my mats!

Plank, step forward, fold, reverse swan dive, lunge.

I blinked, then stood motionless.

Plank, step forward, fold, reverse swan dive, lunge.

She finally noticed me, "Is this your mat?"

"Yes," I replied

************

This is where I stopped writing yesterday.

I was soooo tired. Physically and mentally. I needed to lie down.

I wanted to finish, but not that day

The words just wouldn't come. My thoughts were cloudy.

Maybe tomorrow...

*************

I had so much optimism about the day.

I could go to the gym, do my Centergy class, which I've missed for weeks due to doctors' appointments and mini-surgeries.

I even brought my bike shoes in case I also felt up to a Ride class.

The class was small, just three of us, and it felt good to move. It felt good not to think of anything but following the lead of the instructor.

I always sit out the second song in the routine because I can't put a lot of weight on my right arm. I usually just lie back and stretch.

This day, I decided this would be a good time for a rest room break, put on my Skechers and headed downstairs.

A few minutes later, I quietly slipped through the back door, ready to rejoin the class.

But then I noticed someone, a woman, was using my mats!

Plank, step forward, fold, reverse swan dive, lunge.

I blinked, then stood motionless.

Plank, step forward, fold, reverse swan dive, lunge.

I was thinking, "She doing what I'm supposed to be doing, moving the way I'm supposed to move. She's taken my place!"

It felt like what I've always heard an "out of body" experience should feel like.

I was standing outside my own body watching it move. Beautifully, with grace and strength.

The spell was broken. The woman had noticed me.

"Is this your mat?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied.

Embarrassed, she scooted away and grabbed a fresh mat from the closet.

I laid down on my violated mat and waited for the song to end, the images of what I'd just seen replaying in my mind.

Grace, beauty, strength, health. Not me. Someone else.

Sjogren's Syndrome has robbed my eyes of tears. Without those tears, I'm also missing the healing properties of tears shed in sorrow, tears that release both toxins and toxic emotions.

My eyes remained dry.

It was just then I realized my inner parts were overflowing with uncried tears.

My body was broken, but for the first time I also realized, so was my heart.

**************

If it's even possible, I think I went a whole week without taking a full breath.

Last week's liver biopsy makes it feel like a staple gun perforated my side and it hurts to fully inhale.

But more than that, the wait for the results was agony. It felt like the world was m o v i n g i n s l o w m o t i o n.

I couldn't write anything meaningful for the blog. I had several good ideas, but my thoughts always turned back to the waiting, and I wasn't ready to write about that.

My follow-up appointment with my doctor is next week, but I couldn't wait until then.

My sister, a nurse, told me that you can usually get the results directly from the hospital much sooner. She has battled breast cancer, so her disease-coping skills are finely tuned.

My biopsy was on a Thursday, so I showed up Monday and Tuesday hoping for the results. Nothing.

The surgeon said they would be ready in two or three days. What was taking so long?

I wasn't able to make it back there on Wednesday (and therefore continue to make a spectacle of myself) so I returned Thursday afternoon.

The pathology report was ready. The clerk sealed them in an envelope and didn't pass it through the window like she normally does.

She walked out to personally hand the results to me. Her expression was grim.

I didn't want anyone to see me read them, so I walked out into an isolated hallway.

The words jumped out at me, CHRONIC ACTIVE HEPATITIS. My liver is inflamed and some cells have already died.

That's what I expected, thanks to blood work that showed my body was attacking my own liver.

All viral forms of hepatitis had already been ruled out. I'm not contagious and not harmful to anyone but myself.

Auto-immune hepatitis seemed to be the likely diagnosis. Not just likely but expected.

Knowing what it might be and knowing what it is are two entirely different things.

I started shaking.

There are a lot "at leasts" to be optimistic about. At least it's still in the early stages, at least there is no cirrhosis, at least the bile ducts aren't damaged, at least there is no sign of cancer.

But I'm already thinking, if I feel this tired and listless now, what's it going to be like if it does get worse?

I'm preparing for a lifelong battle, but there are some weapons to help me fight.

My doctor has already told me the treatment for auto-immune liver disease a powerful immunosuppresant drug and prednisone.

One of my earliest blogs described my wonderful week on prednisone for a neck injury. I didn't beg for more, but came close.

I think real-life irony is an expression of God's sense of humor, sort of a spiritual wink.

My request for a refill was refused because the drug is dangerous and has some pretty scary side effects. Some would just harm my vanity, others threaten my health. But you can't live without a liver that doesn't work so I choose to treat it.

From what I read, auto-immune hepatits patients can be on prednisone for years. Years!

I'm looking forward to feeling good, even great even if it's a false sense of well being.

My rhematologist said that "Prednisone can bring dead people back to life." I think that's an accurate description of how it feels. I look forward to doing a lot more writing when I'm on it.

I might even feel up to straightening up the house.

Meanwhile, I know I have to work through the stages of grief that immediately began to consume me: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I think I went through all of them yesterday in that Centergy class.

Writing about all of this makes me feel better. Few people have the time or desire to listen to me talk about them and I don't have the energy. And if you've read this far, thanks for reading. It makes me feel better somehow, reminds me that people really do care.

I went to another Centergy class this morning. I didn't step away this time, and didn't have any visions of someone in my place doing what I was supposed to do.

It's becoming clear that I'm doing what I'm supposed to do, right where I am now. Some days it's just surviving.

And to remind me that He's in control, God sent me a bush of gardenias, which bloomed for the first time today. They are one of my favorite flowers, and a favorite scent. I also love to paint them.

The bushes next to the back door were completely green when I left the house this morning, but now they are in gorgeous bloom.

I drew closer, to inhale the fragrance. A deep inhale. My side didn't hurt anymore.

I looked closer and saw what most would probably call raindrops. But to me, they are the tears shed in my behalf.

I was wilting just a day ago, but today, a new day, I see signs of life.

Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning. Psalm 30:5

"Open" Oops

President Obama's "open hearts, open minds" quote from his address at Notre Dame is being widely reported in the news today.

I wonder if he realizes that's also the slogan of the United Methodist Church?

It's actually: "Open hearts. Open minds. Open doors. The people of the United Methodist church."

That church has a position on abortion that's a little closer to his own. But not much.

I doubt Mr. Obama was suggesting that the Roman Catholic Church adopt the UMC's position on abortion.

But his staff would be wise to Google key phrases from any future address.

The Human Bean and Multiple Pangs

A person shouldn't get so stressed about a can of green beans.

When asked what I could bring to a covered dish dinner on Sunday, I impulsively answered, "green beans."

I was thinking that I could dump the two cans in a casserole dish, microwave, then wait for the compliments to pour in.

It was nothing. Really.

Now these aren't any two cans of green beans. They are GLORY Seasoned Country Style beans. They taste as good as my mom's green beans which sit simmering on the stove for hours.

You see, I was born without the Southern mushy vegetable cooking gene.

If you want your vegetables steamed, lightly seasoned and crisp to the taste, I'm your woman.

But if you want your veggies so mooooshy you can eat them through a straw, forget about it.

And if the recipe calls for ham hocks or anything like that, it's the part of the meat that I probably threw away before I served it.

An infamous family story has to do with the time my grandmother frantically dug through the trash to find a Thanksgiving turkey carcass, after she discovered we'd thrown in away.

The day I promised green beans for the covered dish, I had just served the last can of GLORY beans in the pantry. No problem getting more.

The trouble was, I couldn't remember where I bought them.

Time to go shopping.

3:36pm Publix: Not there. I didn't even browse the aisles. I was on a mission.

3:50pm Dollar Tree: So much for the mission. I didn't really expect to find the green beans there, but wanted to see if any new books had arrived. I considered purchasing one and starting a regular review of books I find at the dollar store. I would read just $1 worth of pages, based on the original retail price, then post a review. I realized just thinking about that slowed me down and so put the books down and left.

3:55 pm Wal Mart: Lots of GLORY collard greens to be found, but not my beans. Collards were going to be the backup plan. Or maybe a green bean casserole. I was good at casseroles.

4:10pm Michaels: Sorry. A 40% coupon was expiring today and I needed to stop and buy some palette paper.

4:20pm Target: Not a single can of GLORY vegetables was on the vegetable aisle. Yankees!

4:3pm Kroger: Lot of GLORY, but the closest thing I found was string beans with potato pieces. Then I looked down on the bottom shelf and shoved back in the corner, were about half a dozen cans of my green beans.

Cue the heavenly music.

Then I looked closer. These were string beans. I've always called them green beans. Have they always been string beans and I never noticed?

I looked around for more GLORY vegetables. The cans that caught my eye first were blackeye peas. Blackeye? That's not what I called them either.

I looked at other cans for confirmation. Blackeyed. Blackeyed. Blackeyed.

All Blackeyed Peas.

Then I looked at the label, already knowing what I would find.

GLORY FOODS, INC. has a Columbus, Ohio address.

Carpetbaggers!

**********

I don't have anything against Yankees, mind you, after all I married one.

And few people in Georgia actually know West Virginia fought on the side of the Union, so I don't get any grief about it.

My husband would say his favorite vegetable is "salad," so I was a little surprised at how delighted he was with the selection of sides on Mary Mac's menu.

Squash casserole. Sweet potato souffle. Fried okra. Yum.

Mary Mac's Tea Room opened in Midtown Atlanta in 1945 and serves Southern-style cooking that Paula Deen herself might endorse. In other words, it has lots of grease and tons of butter.

They even have the nerve to call the leftover juice of turnip greens "soup." Mary Mac's doesn't charge you for the "Pot Likker with cracklin' bread" the first time you visit. Like me, my husband won't turn down much that is free, so he ordered it.

The waitress suggested my husband crumble the piece cornbread into the juice and add some hot sauce. He wanted the bread but not the sauce. He offered me a spoonful and it was delicious. My husband concurred.

He won't eat either of those foods if I serve them at home.

Hmmmmn.

He also raved about the selection of thirty-seven side dishes and was worried that he couldn't narrow it to just two.

Double hmmmn.

Who is this Mary Mac and why am I feeling a pang of jealousy?

Or is that just a hunger pang?

I told him that I would give him one of the four vegetables from my vegetable plate, so what would he like to try?

He wanted the salad.

I'd feel better now if not for one thing.

My husband will be home from work in an hour and instead of cooking a meal I've been writing this blog.

But I did get him something Southern and something I know he likes.

A takeout meal from ChickfilA.

Was that a hunger pang? Or a pang of guilt?

Most Clickable Link of the Day

Certain Speculation: Horror On Page 219 . . . .

The Most Clickable Link(s) of the Day

Two links from the main page of ajc.com

Sexy mascot can stay if curves covered

Dating: When he calls out the wrong name

Maybe he was thinking about the sexy mascot?

Tinker Bell Shops at DSW

A liver biopsy feels like...

Tinker Bell just put on a new pair of stilettos, aimed between two ribs and then stomped. Really hard.

Most Clickable Link of the Day

OK, I'm marching right back to bed after I post this.

I found this on my friend Joel's Facebook page:

http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/

Enjoy! (Oh, it hurts to laugh...)

A Nice Chianti and Fava Beans

Hannibal Lector made the liver famous in "Silence of the Lambs."

And I had an insatiable craving for duck liver myself before I was diagnosed with a B12 deficiency.

But now it's my own liver I'm worried about.

I have auto-immune liver disease.

There, I said it.

My body is attacking my own liver as though it were chicken pox or a staph infection.

It's the biological equivalent of "friendly fire."

Blood work shows my body has antibodies to my own liver, and my liver enzymes have been on a roller coaster of high and normal levels.

This morning, I'm having a biopsy to see how much damage there is, so I'm not sure when I'll feel like posting again.

My grandmother died of cirrhosis of the liver when she was in her 30's. That was in 1940-something and there wasn't much they could do back then. And I doubt there was any way to test if it was caused by an auto-immune illness.

It's usually assumed that cirrhosis is caused by alcohol abuse, but that's not the case.

I haven't had enough alcohol in my lifetime to fill a bathtub.

Autoimmune diseases tend to cluster in families. My sister has one too.

And if you have one, you're more prone to get others. I have Sjogren's (SHOW-grins) Syndrome and pernicious anemia.

I hope the biopsy doesn't show much damage. It would be even better if there's none, but the tests are showing otherwise. I know I have a lot of people praying for me. It may not change the outcome, but it changes how I feel about the outcome.

I have peace.

I have a dear friend with another type of auto-immune liver disease and I see how she struggles.

Yet she has a closer walk with Jesus than almost anyone else I know. I know I'd rather have that than anything else.

She's also a prayer warrior and I'm comforted that she is praying for me!

I'm not sharing this because I want you to feel sorry for me. That's the last thing I want.

I just want you to know there's hope even in our struggles.

Everyone has them. Maybe not every minute of the day, but they come. It's inevitable.

Just don't give up. Fight.

I'll be in there fighting with you.

A Scam Email from Someone who watches too much "Lost"

Maybe the money is actually coming from Hurley's bank account?

FROM THE DESK OF MR.ROY FRANK
AUDIT/REMITTANCE DEPARTMENT OF
AFRICAN DEVELOPMENT BANK (ADB)
OUAGADOUGOU BURKINA FASO
PHONE: 00226-71191557

SIR/MADAM,

(CONFIDENTIAL)

I KNOW THAT THIS EMAIL WILL BE A BIG SURPRISE TO YOU, BUT I WANT YOU TO CALM DOWN AND READ VERY CAREFULLY.

I HAVE A BSINESS WHICH WILL BE BENEFICIAL TO BOTH OF US. THE AMOUNT OF MONEY INVOLVED IS ($ 5,700:000:00 FIVE MILLION SEVEN HUNDRED THOUSAND US DOLLARS) WHICH I WANT TO TRANSFER OUT OF THE COUNTRY TO YOUR BANK ACCOUNT, ALL TO MY FINANCIAL BENEFIT AND YOURS TOO. AND ALSO TO TAKE MY WIFE ABROAD FOR TREATMENT OF LIVER DAMAGE.

THIS MONEY IS OWNED BY A MAN CALLED JIN SUN, A BUSINESS COMMERCIALIST IN WEST-AFRICAN REGIONS. HE HAS BEEN DEAD SINCE SIX YEARS AGO AND SINCE THEN, NO CLAIM HAS BEEN PLACED ON HIS BANK ACCOUNT BALANCE.

I WANT TO TRANSFER THIS MONEY OUT OF THE COUNTRY BUT SUCH FUND CANNOT BE TRANSFERRED WITHOUT A NEXT OF KIN ATTACHED TO THE FUND.

THE FUND COULD BE TRANSFERRED IN THESE WAY; YOU SHALL PRESENTYOURSELF AS A BUSINESS ASSOCIATE TO THE DECEASED PERSON[JIN SUN] AS DETAILS SHALL BE THAT YOU ARE THE CARE-TAKER BUSINESS ASSOCIATE TO MR. JIN SUN AND HIS PROPERTIES.

I SHALL MAKE AVAILABLE TO YOU MATERIALS AND INFORMATION WITH WHICH A SUCCESSFUL CLAIM SHALL BE PLACED ON THE FUND.

I SHALL ALSO BE YOUR GUIDIANCE AND INSTRUCTOR THROUGHOUT THE DURATION OF THIS TRANSACTION SO AS TO ENSURE A SWIFT AND SURE TRANSFER OF THE FUND TO YOUR BANK ACCOUNT.

AS TO YOUR BENEFITS, YOU SHALL BE ENTITLED TO 40% OF THIS FUND FOR YOUR CO-OPERATION IN THIS TRANSACTION WHILE 5% WILL BE SET ASIDE FOR EXPENCES INCURED DURING THE COURSE OF THIS TRANSACTION.

SO IF YOU ARE INTRESTED, SEND A REPLY TO ME IMMEDIATELY AND IN YOUR REPLY PLEASE INCLUDE YOUR [PRIVATE PHONE AND YOUR FAX NUMBERS] URGENCY HAS TO BE IMPLIED AND THIS BUSINESS MUST STRICTLY BE A DEAL BETWEEN BOTH OF US.

WAITING FOR YOUR URGENT RESPONSE SO THAT I CAN MOVE AHEAD AND GIVE YOU THE INDEPT DETAILS CONCERNING THIS TRANSACTION AND ALSO THE STEPS TO TAKE FOR A SMOOTH TRANSFER OF THE FUND INTO YOUR BANK ACCOUNT.

BEST REGARDS,

MR.ROY FRANK

PLEASE REPLY ME HERE; roy_frank01@live.com

The Most Clickable Link of the Day

On ajc.com

• Zinkhan buried, shot himself | Photos

Photos? I'm sure they don't live up to the possibilities that the headline in front of it implies.

But still...

Miss-Information

Donald Trump says Miss California gets to keep her crown.

So why did Carrie Prejean get so much heat for stating her position on gay marriage anyway?

After all, it's the same as President Barak Obama's.

Prejean gave a hearfelt answer to the question in the national pageant. It looks like she meant it.

The problem with liberals is when candidate Obama said he was for marriage "between a man and a woman", none of them believed him.

They thought he was just saying it to get elected, to appear more moderate.

What else did he "just say" to get elected?

I'm sure we're going to find out.

The Emotionally Unavailable Man

I remember when I started crushing on Spock. It was a teenybopper type crush. I was only in junior high.

I was not alone. Women love Spock. Then and now.

I haven't seen it yet, but I hear the pointy-eared Vulcan brings sexy back to the Enterprise in the new "Star Trek" movie.

Google "sexy Spock" and see what I mean.

The original Spock made women swoon too. He shared intellect and bad bangs with Bill Gates. But Spock could step in and command the Enterprise if he had to. And he could do it without showing an ounce of fear, concern or other emotion.

I can change him. I can make him feel love. I can make him love me back.

Alas, in real life that's the kind of woman who will stay in love with an abuser.

Luckily, I grew up and saw such men for what they are: toxic.

The book Safe People: How to Find Relationships That are Good for You by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend describes a woman trapped in a relationship with an emotionally unavailable man. Here's the cycle:

1. Feel attracted and excited by an emotionally unavailable man.
2. Experience his stimulating come-and-go game as "being in love.
3. Experience his hurtful behavior as creating more longing in her.
   
4. Begin to try to "win" him over by compliant behavior.
   
5. He gets more self-centered the more compliant she becomes.
6. Can no longer stand it.
   
7. Tries to break up.
8. Is unable to stand the separation so she returns to the relationship.
9. Repeats the cycle.

I just thought about the idea of trying to even hold hands with Spock and shuddered. It would be a cool, flabby hand that doesn't hold back.

Does not compute. Does not compute. Does not compute.

I mean illogical.

The yin to Spock's yang is FOX-TV's misanthropic doctor, Gregory House.

He has superior intellect and diagnostic skills, but shows a total lack of empathy for his patients.

In the romance department, he's no prize either.

House uses excesses of emotion to drive women away. Make them run away, screaming and shaking their heads.

***DON'T WORRY, THERE ARE NO SPOILERS AHEAD****

House and his supervisor Dr. Lisa Cuddy's romantic entanglement is either a measure of growth for House or desperation for Cuddy.

It looks like she wants to rescue him. Bad idea. See numbers 1-4, above.

But should we blame House? Of course not. He isn't real.

To paraphrase Jessica Rabbit, "House isn't bad, he was just made that way."

TV series about Marcus Welby-style doctors just aren't interesting anymore. And who hasn't come across some really vile doctors in their lifetime? They make House seem vibrant and real.

That's why we like to watch him at work and see how outrageous he will become.

We women, just might want to "fix" him, a little teensy entsy little bit.

But a paramour that mixed up belongs only on TV.

Certain Speculation: Outrage . . .

Certain Speculation: Outrage . . .

My dogs came running when I played this.

New blog: What Lies Beneath (follow up on John Oxendine story.) http://ping.fm/azEgq

What Lies Beneath

Once an investigative reporter, always an investigative reporter so it makes sense that Certain Speculation blogger CB Hackworth would be asking questions about Sunday's AJC report on John Oxendine's campaign contributions. Some of them may be illegal.

Not a fan of Oxendine, but an advocate for fairness, Hackworth raises questions that needs to be answered, and the main one being, "Is someone framing John Oxendine?"

One thing that troubles me is the PAC donations seemed to be hiding in plain sight, begging to be discovered.

"The reporter found 10 political action committees donating the exact same amounts of money on the exact same dates. The PACs were all located in Birmingham. Records of The Alabama Secretary of State's Office showed the PACs all had the same addresses and the same chairperson, the son of lawyer and businessman Donald V. Watkins."

It's like watching CSI Miami and the crime seems to be solved a little too quickly. Look at your watch and it's only 10:30pm so you know the airtight case is about to unravel. The real culprit has yet to be caught.

This campaign story may just be starting to unfold. Is there a culprit here, one who is trying to derail Oxendine's campaign?

Unlike Hackworth, I do support Oxendine and I like what he has to say about running our state. I also like what he's done as Insurance Commissioner.

His campaign should not be tainted without proof Oxendine knew about the contributions, when it's just as likely he may have been set up.

I want the truth about those contributions to come out, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Whatever it may be.

The House finale is on tonight. Cellphone set to "stun." (Oh got it confused with that movie thingy.)

I'm linking all of my social networks with ping.fm This is a test run.

The Dark Side

I've spent 90 minutes trying to look for a story about a former television news colleague, but I don't have a Lexis-Nexis budget and much patience so I'm giving up. My memory is now unreliable so I'll change the names, most of the facts and just call this fiction. It's based on a true story, but a true story loosely remembered.

"Dirk Conroy Simpson" was a phone buddy. We talked daily because our television stations exchanged video and news reports. He was a television assignment editor in Birmingham and I was one in Montgomery. Dirk was in charge of the "Alabama Video Network" and he basically ran the show.

Engaging, charismatic and entertaining, he made the morning conference call a pleasure instead of a chore.

I did meet him during quick visit to his station and later at an AP Broadcasters conference. While friendly in person, we didn't talk much. Phone buddy friendships usually work better over the phone.

In 1990, I left the state for my Atlanta "dream job" and he moved on to a station in Florida. We didn't keep in touch, there was really no reason to. Our common point of interest was the "Alabama Video Network" and that was it.

The next time I would hear about Dirk I was so stunned my knees buckled under me.

He had committed suicide. After committing a murder.

His stripper girlfriend was found dead, rolled in a rug and discarded in a dumpster. The evidence was mounting against my old friend. Dirk said he was ready to turn himself into police and before they arrived, he took a pistol, walked in his back yard and shot himself in the head.

But he was so nice, so friendly. A GREAT guy.

"He was a mean drunk," I was told. I couldn't imagine it. Whatever dark side he had, he kept well hidden beneath an amiable veneer.

So what's making me think about Dirk? One name: George Zinkhan.

Zinkhan's body was discovered late Saturday afternoon in a heavily wooded area outside of Athens.

Reports about circumstances were especially bizarre: he had apparently dug his own shallow grave, covered himself up with debris then shot himself in the head. He apparently didn't want to be found. The specter of his possible return would have kept the community on edge for years. Maybe it was his last act of revenge.

Dirk Simpson's and George Zinkhan's apparent suicides have some things in common. The first, is avoidance, cowardice, whatever you want to call it.

Simpson would have been nailed for killing his girlfriend and trying to cover up the crime. University of Georgia professor Zinkhan was wanted for killing his wife and two other men in a downtown Athens theatre.

After the shootings, Zinkhan reportedly dropped off his two children at a neighbor's house, telling her he "had an emergency."

The other similarity is the calculated natures of their suicides.

Here's a memory of one that was not thought out:

When I lived in Jonesboro, a neighbor two doors down impulsively grabbed a gun during the high point of an argument and shot himself in the head.

Clayton County's version of the Sunshine Cleaning Company arrived later to clean the blood-soaked carpet. The run-off created pink suds that swirled down the storm drain in my cul de sac.

There go the property values, I thought gruesomely.

But both Dirk and George Zinkhan went outdoors to commit their last act. There was evidence of planning, at least several minutes of pre-meditation. Did they have a sense of pride in their homes that made them not want to taint them? Did they want to spare relatives from the horror of seeing a house that was the scene of a violent death?

I'm sure a criminal profiler might have some good theories.

So what darkness lurks in men's (and women's) souls?

I had a News Director ponder the question out loud, "Are men basically good or basically evil?" His conclusion was basically good.

But most students of the Bible would disagree, believing that humans by nature desire to do wrong, to rebel. No one is not good, not even one. (12 Psalms 14:1-3; 53:1-3; Eccles. 7:20, Romans 3:12.)

Twenty years ago, I got a momentary glimpse in the the dark deeds my own soul was capable of, not limited to the acts of Dirk Simpson and George Zinkhan. I've never been so frightened. But I consider that vision a gift from God, a chance to see what I did not want to become.

That was a turning point for me in my walk of faith. It was a hard truth, but a transforming one. I knew I wanted to be changed, but I knew I did not possess the power to do it on my own.

The tragedy of suicide is there is no chance for redemption, no chance to express remorse for unthinkable deeds, and yes, pay for crimes committed. And for those left behind, the question "why" can never be fully answered.

There are some things you can't take back, and that's one of the most heartbreaking.

Twizzler

Since I did a celebrity post last night, I'll give you two links today to another friend's blog with one Mother's Day awwwwww story and another one for American Idol and dog lovers.

If you comment, tell 'em I sent you.

Candy Corn

I'm not supposed to call attention to the ads on my blog (so look away) and I'm not allowed to click on them.

But I noticed one that was very interesting, a blog-writing workshop hosted by Hollis Gillespie. I heard about her on my favorite Atlanta blog, Certain Speculation, so I typed in the url directly to take a peek.

It costs $175, which is probably a bargain for a budding professional blogger, which I'm not. I just checked and my blog has made $.02 in the last month. If it continues at this rate, I'll be able to pay for the seminar in 729 years.

I wonder if Hollis offers scholarships?

The Celebrity Next Door

When I walked through the doors of Michael's this evening I had a sense of deja vu.

And it wasn't because I was about to use another 40% off coupon on a watercolor pad.

Suddenly, it hit me like a slow-flying bug intersecting with a fast-moving car.

I remembered what happened there last year on the day before Mother's Day: my very first McDonough celebrity sighting.

I was all sweaty wearing a ridiculous pair of pink foam bunny ears that I'd picked up at the Susan G. Komen race at Atlantic Station. My hair was sticky and wet, pulled back in a ponytail. Any makeup I'd been wearing had melted off.

Then I saw Mark Hall.

For the uninitiated, Mark Hall is the lead singer of the Contemporary Christian sensation, Casting Crowns. They've won two Grammys and a wagonload of Christian music honors since their first album was released in 2003. Just two weeks ago, they came home victorius from the Dove Awards.

What makes Casting Crowns so unique is many of their songs aren't about how good it is to be a Christian, but how hard it is to be a Christian.

The title song on group's latest CD, "The Altar and the Door" lays it out plain and simple:

Careless, I am reckless

I’m a wrong-way-travelin’-slowly-unraveling shell of a man
Burnt out, I’m so numb now
That the fire’s just an ember way down in the corner of my cold, cold heart

Lord, this time I’ll make it right, here at the altar I lay my life
Your kingdom come but my will was done, my heart is broken as I...

Cry, like so many times before
But my eyes are dry before I leave the floor, oh Lord
I try but this time, Jesus, how can I be sure I will not lose my follow through
Between the altar and the door

There's a bounty of quotes from Hall about this on the group's web site.

"When we're at the altar, everything makes sense," Hall says. "We know what we're supposed to do. We know how we're supposed to live. Everything's black and white. But somewhere between the altar and the door, when we leave and go out into our lives, it all leaks out, and everything gets gray again."

The genesis of the album began when Hall read some of his youth group's posts on their MySpace pages. Their words weren't matching the truth they were proclaiming in church.

"The Christian life is the journey between the altar and door, trying to get the things you've got in your head, into your hands, feet, into your life," Hall says. "The Altar and The Door is all about the journey. The realization on the journey, the struggles and the victory of seeing it as possible."

Hall captures this idea better than any Christian artist I've ever heard.

Sure, there are soaring vocals like these Word is Alive from the Lifesong CD:


The Word is alive
And it cuts like a sword through the darkness
With a message of life to the hopeless and afraid
Breathing life into all who believe

But there's also the devastation of a family torn apart as told in the video Slow Fade. It's also about how close we all are to fading away:

The journey from your mind to your hands
Is shorter than you’re thinking
Be careful if you think you stand
You just might be sinking

Check out the lyrics and scriptural references on castingcrowns.com. Better yet, buy the CD. It's even better with the vocals and music. Promise.

Flash back to 2008: Hall had brought his kids to Michael's to buy supplies to make Mom something special for Mother's Day.

My brother and his wife may be even bigger fans of Casting Crowns than I am. I called their cellphone to tell them about the sighting.

I said, "You'll never guess who's at Michael's? Mark Hall!" I didn't have to say "Mark Hall, the lead singer from Casting Crowns." "Mark Hall" was enough.

They happened to be in the same shopping center, so they packed up their two girls and joined me at Michael's in less than five minutes.

My sister-in-law is bolder than I am and she walked up to Hall and introduced herself. The rest of us were waved over and we talked with him briefly. That's how I learned about the construction of a Mother's Day gift. I mumbled something unintelligible about running past McDonough First Methodist (where they filmed the video Does Anybody Hear Her?) when the song's lyrics "She was running.." played on my IPod.

He was friendly and humble and patient and didn't try to rush us away. I used my cellphone and my brother's cellphone to take a picture of Hall with my brother and his family.

After we said goodbye, I wanted to see how the pictures turned out. They weren't there! I was new to camera phones and I didn't know you had to select "save" after snapping a picture, otherwise it would disappear.

I was sick. I wanted to find Hall again, take the picture over and undo my mistake. But my sister-in-law didn't want to bother him again and I agreed.

I kept beating myself up about what I'd done. I almost wrote him to ask for a signed photo but didn't know where to begin.

Remember the sweaty lady with the pink bunny ears?

I was with my husband at Chevy's Diner for lunch when I saw Hall again. He was with a group and it didn't seem right to interrupt. I told one of the owners who he was, and pointed out that Casting Crowns had songs on their jukebox (I had recently played them.)

We briefly conspired and thought it would be fun to play one, but the owner decided against it. Let them eat in peace.

My husband and I have seen Casting Crowns perform at their home church, Eagles Landing First Baptist Church. (If this sounds familiar, the Henry County swine flu cases are the adjoining school, Eagle's Landing Christian Academy.)

It amazes me that despite mega-fame in the sphere of Christian music, Hall is still 100% committed to his day job there as a youth pastor. It's all about the kids.

If my husband and I were to pick a church solely based on the music, we'd probably go there. Casting Crowns debut single, "If We are the Body" is partially responsible for us being together. I was so disarmed at how touched a certain guy in my Sunday School class was by this song, that I really began to notice him for the first time.

We were married four years later.

If we were to go to a church just because we are fans of the band, then we'd be going for the wrong reasons. Our church, Community Bible Church has given us so much that we're privileged to give back. We wouldn't be any other place until God decides that we're needed somewhere else.

Until then, we'll relish the few opportunities we get to see Casting Crowns live or even see Mark Hall around town.

And maybe I'll get another shot with the camera phone.

A Good Story is Hard to Find

Dear Flannery,

I know you're dead, but I have a few things I need to talk to you about.

My life keeps intersecting with yours and I'm not sure why.

First of all, Miss Mary Flannery O'Connor, you may have saved me from flunking out of the seventh grade.

I had just transferred from Louisiana to Georgia and was failing English. I got an "F" on my very first test. I had never got an "F" before, nothing even lower than a "B" and I was mortified.


I hid the test and never told anyone.

Thankfully, we moved from grammar to literature and I was hypnotized by the dark themes in the short stories in our textbook. Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery" and Richard Connell's "The Most Dangerous Game" were chilling.

Then I read your short story "A Good Man is Hard to Find." I knew I had found the true Georgia, or at least a Georgia I wanted to get to know. It was grotesque and gorgeous and wonderfully fascinating.

I also knew you were writing about me and every car trip our family had taken.

"The children began to yell and scream that they wanted to see the house with the secret panel. John Wesley kicked the back of the front seat and June Star hung over her mother's shoulder and whined desperately into her ear that they never had any fun even on their vacation, that they could never do what THEY wanted to do. The baby began to scream and John Wesley kicked the back of the seat so hard that his father could feel the blows in his kidney."

That would be me kicking the back of my father's seat. As the oldest I was positioned behind the driver. My sister sat next to me, within poking distance, and my two brothers were in the back of the station wagon.

If we'd start whining like that, my dad would yell, "Don't MAKE me pull over." Usually that was enough. If not, my dad would swat his hand over the back seat and smack me on the right leg just for the sound effect it made. That always stunned everyone into compliance.

Our 10-hour car trips to Louisiana (before I-85 was finished) were so tedious that my dad started the trips at dark so we'd sleep through most of it and give my parents blissful silence. Shaking off the sleepiness was worth the sacrifice.

There were other familiar bits in the story:


"June Starr said her hair was naturally curly."

My mother often repeats a story of me emerging from a discarded appliance box in which I'd been playing. I patted my sweat-drenched ringlets and declared, "I have the curliest hair in the house."

Well I did!

And the part of the story where the family turns down the wrong dirt road and is brutally murdered by a man called "The Misfit," still resonates with me today.

My husband is quite an explorer and we've driven around lots of back roads in rural Georgia. Lots of dirt roads.

I won't go down a dirt road if I don't know what's on the other side. But I'll willingly ride along if my husband is at the wheel.

But I always get a catch in my throat when a car is coming from the opposite direction.

Flannery, when I saw your photo, I felt a kindred spirit as another girl trapped behind an ugly pair of eyeglasses.

I wore mine from age three until I was liberated by contacts in the tenth grade.

Although, lenses are difficult to capture on canvas, I decided to include your eyeglasses when I painted your portrait for Henry County's "Women of Substance" exhibit. Your glasses are your visual signature.

For the "WOS" exhibit, we could paint whichever well-known woman we wanted, and I chose you because your writing had been such an inspiration to me.

My fascination with Georgia was honed into a fascination with Atlanta, and it inspired a non-fiction book that I co-wrote. I'm sure I would have included you in it if you had spent the end of your days in Atlanta instead of your family farm near Milledgeville.

I painted the farmhouse, Andalusia, as well as one of the many peacocks that inhabited the property. The apple tree wasn't in the photo I used as model. It was added in at the suggestion of another artist to "balance" the painting.

It would be unforgivable for a journalist to add something that wasn't there. But this was artistic license and I'm sure as a writer of fiction you would understand.

And my own memory is so faulty that I need to call anything I write fiction just to cover my mistakes.

In my research for a short biography I needed to write, I learned some fascinating things about you.

You were known to be a meticulous editor, writing and re-writing each story until it was perfect. No word was wasted.

I know your lupus slowed you down. You were bed-ridden and couldn't write for months at a time. Yet you wrote at your typewriter when you felt well enough and your works were published up to and even after your death at the criminally young age of 39.

I too have an auto-immune illness. More than one in fact. I have Sjogren's Syndrome, a connective tissue disease that's a sister of lupus. I was just recently diagnosed with auto-immune liver disease and a biopsy next week will determine how much damage there is.

It's sapped so much of my energy, my strength and my mental powers. I know I press PUBISH POST on a blog before it's really ready, just because I've grown tired of writing and fatigued by the editing process. I've wondered how you were able to write up to your own standards feeling as weak as you did.

I found my answer in the introduction of my copy of Flannery O'Connor, The Complete Stories.

"'If I were well," she wrote,"'there is a lot of rewriting and polishing I could do, but in my present state of health, [the stories] are essentially all right the way the are."

So you cut yourself some slack and let "good enough" be good enough for publication. That's a relief to know.

I also read that you took cortisone for you lupus. I was on prednisone, a type of cortisone for just one week for an auto accident injury and boy did I feel great. I started this blog and began a flurry of other writing, the type of writing I haven't done in years. I lost most of that surge of productivity immediately after I went off the drug. Only the tiniest bit lingers.

I asked the doctor for a second week and she refused. Too dangerous, I was told.

When I learned about my liver, a different doctor told me the preferred treatment includes prednisone.

I almost applauded, but the too dangerous part echoed in my head. At least I'll probably feel like writing. I wonder if the cortisone helped you write?

Another thing my research uncovered was your deep faith and the biblical and Christian themes in your work. They are just there. You don't try to teach a message or weave in allegory.

In 2005, The Washington Post wrote, "... religion never descended into religiosity with O'Connor, and it certainly did nothing to ameliorate a sharp sense of humor or tart literary opinions."

I could learn a few lessons from you.

But you would know, as a student of the Bible, I believe I can't communicate with you directly so I'll just have to ask God to pass along the message.

Well, I've been working on this for two days and I'm tired of writing and editing. Time to PUBLISH POST.

Thanks for listening. Oh, and most of all, thanks for writing.

Kim

Spin Cycle

Who is this BACH-O-ME who has just taken over $1,000 out of our checking account?

My thumb was on the speed dial to the bank.

BAC-HO. BACHO-MLO. B-ACHO-MELOA.

What's the meaning of BACHOMELOANSVCLP?

I'm terrible with anagrams.

Bank of America Home Loans! I still haven't figured out the SVCLP.

So Very Coveted Loser's Pockets?

Our home mortgage was with Countrywide for the last ten years. The service was nearly flawless and the website extremely easy to use.

I rarely needed to talk to an actual live person.

So when they buckled under the sub-prime mortgage mess, I was dispirited.

For about five minutes.

Last summer, Bank of America bought Countrywide and now they're getting around to re-branding the company as Bank of America Home Loans.

Oh yikes, this is the same Bank of America that took $45 billion in federal bail-out money. What should I expect?

Well the news about BAC is expected to be fairly good this afternoon. The bank's stock has surged in the lead-up to a federal "stress test" report that will be released after the market closes.

I don't know what's so great about the bank needing to raise another $34 billion in capital to weather the recession. But it's less money than expected and that's how spin works.

Lower expectations, then the sort-of bad news seems like great news.

The Associated Press reports that it's believed the bank can easily raise this kind of money.

I just hope they don't come after me.

ME-NOT-HOME-GO-AWAY.