another texan tells a tall one

Gather up,

cowgirls and cowpokes.

You don't want to miss this.

The latest in a long line of Texas' finest

guv-mint 'fishals

spoutin' off at the mouth.

Without further ado, I inner-duce you

to one of Texas' State Representatives,

Debbie Riddle, Republican from Tomball, Texas.

Don't know whar Tomball is?

Why it's just east 'o Waller, down the road a middlin' from Stagecoach.

Whut? Don't know whar Stagecoach is?

Ok-doke.

It's up the road a piece from Houston-town.

So go 'head on. Watch the clip.

Where Anderson Cooper gets all swole up talkin' to Rep. Riddle on her claim that,

pregnant women are coming to the U.S. as tourists, having babies, and then going back home, quote, with the nefarious purpose of turning them into little terrorists who will then come back to the U.S. and do us harm as part of an organized terror element.

Terrorist babies. Now if that don't put pepper in yer gumbo!

Rep. Riddle goes on to spin a yarn that "it is common knowledge" that 81% of babies born in one Houston hospital are "anchor babies."

You know what that is, don't chee? Anchors are babies born to illegal aliens (undocumented immigrants to you and me) in the U.S. so they can later brang more immigrant relatives to soak up our well-far (tax payer supported health care).

But these anchors want more than our well-far. They're gonna be trained terrorists who come back to the U.S. and blow up our cars an' buildings an' ever'thang!

Contacted by staff from the Austin American Statesman, Riddle stated she "shouldn't have talked about the terror babies."

Whut? Nuh -uh! Of course you should, Missus Riddle! We Amaricans have a right to be cattle-prodded into voting booths out of fear of infant terror cells spewing out in our very own hospitals.

Who cares that Riddle's facts don't squar?

Facts she got from an opinion piece written by fellow republican and State Senator Dan Patrick, R-Houston. How 'bout that? Another republican't. Well, I'll just swaney!

Truth is, where truth equals fact published on paper, closer to 60% of mothers giving birth in Houston hospitals are undocumented. That's a sobering statistic, to be sure, but it ain't nowhar close to no 81%.

But hold yer horses. Only "a few percentage points" off, according to State Senator Patrick.

Hell fire f-ck, that man does some wondrous 'rithmatic.

But I'll swan that Riddle and Patrick know what their fellow Texans have to say about opinions:

They're like assholes. Some are just louder and smellier than others.

click here to see what this picture of "W" is made of

Dad'gum right.

Here's the clip again if you want to take a gander. Worth every one of them thar eleven minutes.

I love the way, at the end, she figgers out she's bitten off more than she can swally so she lapses into the usual clap-trap, "The people of Texas are demanding that our border be secure!"

Do you think by we Texans she's including the 37% that's hispanic?

P.S. I tried to embed the clip. "Embedded disabled by request." Hmm. I wonder who doesn't want this clip going viral?

what have you done for me lately?

Here is one example of how the Democrats prioritize we the people: As of today, thanks to the Credit Card Act, gift cards must be good for a minimum of five years.

And thanks to President Obama for signing it. He promised change and in my book this is change worthy of a toast.

You can read more about how the law effects credit cards and fees, here and here.

I don't think I've ever had a gift certificate expire on me. But I have won several restaurant gift certificates at my kids' school silent auction fundraisers. And several times I have gone to use one of these cards only to find that it expired after 3 months. I assumed all cards were good for one year, so I didn't look.

Another benefit of the Credit Card Act that I will soon be grateful for: no credit cards issued to kids under the age of 21 years (unless they have a co-signer or can show proof of independent income). I've seen too many bedraggled parents in my office who sent their kids off to college only to come home with many thousands of dollars worth of credit card debt.

When I was in college, I couldn't get a major card even with a steady part-time job and despite having established a record of paying lesser cards in full every month. I now understand. Credit should be earned, not handed out to every college freshman willing to sign up.

where a mother ponders back to school shopping and parking lot crematoriums

Sssssh. My girls are still sleeping.

Our plan for this morning, after much begging, whining, stomping, threatening, crying, doors slamming, and teeth knashing (ok, no teeth knashing, but only because I don't know what that means), which all took place yesterday between the hours of 11am and midnight, and most of which ill behavior was conducted by me, is to take them shopping for shoes.

Shoes they don't need, per se, but do want, per se, for their first day back to school.

Shoes that have a certain label as opposed to, say, any pair of lace ups from a thrift store.

Shoes that they have promised to use their own allowance money to purchase because they will be entering 7th grade and need to set a fashion plate example. No longer the wide-eyed, newbie 6th graders, after all.

Because me? I'm no longer into labels. I don't care what the little rubber tag says on the heel or the little fabric tag sewn into the side seam. All I care about is whether the shoes are comfortable and look to be in reasonable style from the past two decades. Because no, I will not wear saddle shoes or penny loafers or these

But then, I never would wear Jellies. Even at the height of their fashion, whenever that was, exactly. Seems to me like they would make my feet sweat. But I wouldn't have worn them even with cute little white bobby socks, Japanese wooden sandal style. I don't want to wear a shoe named after something sticky that gets smeared on breakfast toast. And because, as you may remember, shoes matter.

My girls promised me they would get up really early to beat the heat. It's now 10:30 am and by my way of thinking, they have already missed the window of shopping opportunity.

What I am trying to avoid is spending money coming out of a department store in the middle of the kind of heat we're having, entering a car that could now be substituted for a crematorium.

Hey, now there's business plan: cheap cremations in your cherished vehicle in the parking lot of your choice. Might fund my idea of retirement. Because you just know there are a ton of men people who would love nothing better than to spend their last flesh and bone moments sitting upright in their vehicle, as opposed to, say, reclining in a hammock, next to their loved one, watching a beautiful sunset, sipping Merlot, holding hands. I don't know how a cremation could be arranged in such a romantic scenario, but it's worth considering.

But back to the incinerator in the asphalt parking lot where you turn on the AC and feel like a blast furnace is smelting your earrings into a silver plated tattoo onto the side of your neck.

And your hair. No matter how much spray you use to keep your baby fine hair up in thirty clips of varying sizes and colors, you will look in the rearview mirror only to find this looking back at you

Or worse

So, the question is, do I wake up my slumbering daughters and try to get as early a start as possible?

Do I leave them be and hope they sleep until the stores are closed?

Do I take the hard line, Nope. Sorry. I agreed to take you shopping only if we left the house before the temperature reached 96 degrees. You are now three degrees too late.

Do I cave in like I always do, forget about the sweaty hair, thighs sticking to the car seat, bottled water hot as a cup of tea and embrace the Bikram-esque shopping experience?

Because in two days time my daughters will be right back at it, having forgotten all about my Herculean effort and my maternal caving, because they just have to have another particular fashion item that every 8th grader is wearing and why are you always so mean?!

What is your vote, reader? Generous, forgiving, hot shopping mom or lounging on sofa under ceiling fan watching Netflix freebies mom?

what a heat index of 110 looks like

In one particular backyard in Austin.

One flower bed of parched and brown-leafed zinnias.

One evaporated and moldy bird bath.

Three forgotten and forlorn koozies.

AKA huggies, if you are blonde and live in south Jersey.

One empty and discarded beer can.

Too hot to pick it up.

Don't judge.

It's that hot.

And south Austin's official sign of a heat index of 110?

One downed pink flamingo.

Flamingo's have been known to revive when provided a bucket of ice and Corona Light. Or, I'm pretty sure that's what international flamingo expert, Debbie, told us. But only when there's a zesty lime wedge balanced on the rim of a long neck, I think were her exact instructions. Or was that for the revival of a heat-zapped landowner? I can't remember.

I do know one full-proof method for beating the heat:

Add more heat.

trusty travel tips or how to avoid airline hell

1. Check and double check the names on your plane tickets days or weeks before pre-boarding time, not 18 hours pre-boarding time, or at least check the names during the hours your travel agency is open.

And by double check I mean get your husband or best friend to check, because if you have a different last name than your husband and kids, you may not notice that the travel agent listed your family's last name as your own instead of the maiden name you kept when you married.

BRADLEY, SAM

BRADLEY, CHILD1

BRADLEY, CHILD2

BRADLEY, CHILD3

BRADLEY, COFFEE

i.e., not

YOGURT, COFFEE

And the Transportation Security Administration? You might find after two hours on hold with your airlines 1-800-TRAV-HELL line that the TSA does not like it one bit when the printed name doesn't match your government issued ID; i.e., they just might ground you.

2. Or not, if you make a special trip to the airport the night before you are scheduled to depart, and find a kindly airline agent who was about to leave for the night but returned to the desk just in time to see your frantic face begging for assistance. She may not even need to see the thousand pieces of identification you gathered in a desperate attempt to prove you are who you say you are.

3. The next day, when you are flying into DFW airport at 11:30 am and read on your ticket that your connecting flight departure time is 2:35 pm,, you may not want to assume that you have a two hour layover; i.e., when the GATE column on your ticket reads, "GATE 1," but the travel magazine map in the seat pocket shows that DFW has no GATE 1, it might be a good idea to double check with the airline agent before you get yourselves all comfortable in the adjacent lounge area.

By getting all comfortable in the adjacent lounge area I mean lying on the floor, head on backpack, feet propped on a lounge chair, losing yourself in the book you've been waiting months to read, ignoring blaring calls on the loudspeaker which say something like,

Bradley, party of five, please report to the check in desk immediately

Because? The ticket might have been printed incorrectly, and, in fact, the depature time is actually 12:35 pm, not 2:35 pm

And? You might just find that you have missed your connecting flight.

And then? You might just find that all remaining flights into your destination city are booked for the rest of the day, ma'am, where were you when we called your name on the loudspeaker over and over?!

4. When the flight attendants use your family's last name to announce the gate numbers for connecting flights, i.e., "Bradley 15" equals American Airlines speak for Gate B-15, and you point this fact out to the annoyed airline agent and tell her this is the reason you ignored her repeated loudspeaker calls, she might look at you like you have grown an extra head and tell you that two-headed passengers require two tickets; i.e., she may not validate the fact that using a common last name as a Gate identifier might make it their fault that a party of five missed their connecting flight.

5. When you miss your connecting flight and learn that all of the remaining flights are full, it most definitely is a good idea to put on your most deferring and pathetic face when you ask that they please put your family of five on the stand-by list. If you do this, they might just bump you ahead of 15 stand-by passengers and get you on the next flight out.

some mornings are sheer poetry

Belinda Del Pesco

Watercolor: Saturday Morning Sleep-in

I don't think of myself as someone who likes poetry. I don't usually seek poems. I've been known to run from them on occasion. At a fast gallop.

I might have taken a book of poetry out of the library once or twice, Erica Jong comes to mind. But I don't think I've ever read more than a few lines before I put the book down and then forgot where I put it and then it was time to take it back to the library.

I do, however, love to listen to The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor. I catch it some mornings when I'm getting dressed for work. Often hoping the timing of the blow drying of my hair will not coincide with Garrison's reading of his selected poem of the day.

Below is one such poem I managed to catch.

This poem has stuck with me. Some mornings it is consoling. Some mornings it saves my marriage, maybe.

After a Noisy Night

by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

The man I love enters the kitchen

with a groan, he just

woke up, his hair a Rorschach test.

A minty kiss, a hand

on my neck, coffee, two percent milk,

microwave. He collapses

on a chair, stunned with sleep,

yawns, groans again, complains

about his dry sinuses and crusted nose.

I want to tell him how

much he slept, how well,

the cacophony of his snoring

pumping in long wheezes

and throttles—the debacle

of rhythm—hours erratic

with staccato of pants and puffs,

crescendi of gulps, chokes,

pectoral sputters and spits.

But the microwave goes ding!

A short little ding! – sharp

as a guillotine—loud enough to stop

my words from killing the moment.

And during the few seconds

it takes the man I love

to open the microwave, stir,

sip and sit there staring

at his mug, I remember the vows

I made to my pillows, to fate

and God: I'll stop eating licorice,

become a blonde, a lumberjack,

a Catholic, anything,

but bring a man to me:

so I go to him: Sorry, honey,

sorry you had such a rough night,

hold his gray head against my heart

and kiss him, kiss him.

"After a Noisy Night" by Laure-Anne Bosselaar, from The Hour Between Dog and Wolf. © BOA Editions, Ltd., 1997. Reprinted with permission (on the Writer's Almanac but not here on CoffeeYogurt)

what not to do during your first couples therapy session

1. Do not show up at the first session with a bill board size list of all the things your spouse does that annoys you. You look controlling and narcissistic. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a worse mood than a controlling narcissist.

2. Do not, when asked what you think after your spouse has listed a complaint, say, "I don't know." You look like a passive-aggressive numbskull. And there's nothing that puts a shrink in a foul mood like a passive-aggressive numbskull, except maybe a controlling narcissist.

3. Do not, when your spouse is rambling about her complex and convoluted feelings, doze off. You look like you don't give a sh*t. And since you're paying the shrink a hefty fee to occupy that comfy couch? You look like a spend thrift and an ignoramus. And there's nothing that gets under the skin of a shrink more than finding out you don't give a sh*t and apparently don't mind wasting hard-earned money while you perfect being an ignoramus.

4. Do not, when asked how you feel after listening to your spouse's rambling, complex and convoluted feelings, say, "Huh? Uh. What do I feel? Uh. Nothing." You look like a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker. And nothing makes a shrink side with your spouse faster than realizing you are a 1950's out-of-touch suburban slacker.

5. Do not, after your partner explains in a sensitive and carefully worded way that she is not having orgasms with your decades-old, same-old routine, say, "Huh. None of my ex-girlfriends ever complained." You look like a cad who has spent far too much time in front of cheap porno movies pushing the rewind button until your thumb is sprained.

And P.S. Your old girlfriends were lying.

You probably also bought the line, "You're only my second."

6. Do not, after listening to your spouse take responsibility for faults and overwrought, coming-unhinged emotional tendencies, say, "Well, as for me, I won Best All Around three years in a row." You look like an insensitive clod whose sense of self is as fragile as that English soccer goalie's ego after this now infamous World Cup move.

Speaking of the English goalie, here's a must-see video clip of a never-before-seen camera angle, complete with Green's never-before-heard internal dialog as the ball slips past. If you missed that link, it's What the English Goalie was Thinking.

7. Do not fool yourself into thinking that you will be let off the hook that easily.

You will not. You will, instead, look like a spouse who needs intensive individual therapy if your relationship stands a snowball's chance in July in New Jersey. Your spouse has drug you into therapy not because he wants to humiliate you but because she wants this relationship to work, i.e., your partner loves you. Now quit being a bonehead, wake up, take some responsibility, and show some love back. Because nothing makes a shrink feel more optimistic than two people willing to talk openly and risk showing the love back.

buckets of rain

Woke up to an overcast sky. Forecast calling for 50% chance of afternoon thunderstorms. 11am -- sunny. 12 noon -- steady sunny. Checked the radar. No rain in the immediate area. Barton Springs Here We Come.

Forty-five minutes and nine dollar bills later. Comes the downpour. Buckets of rain. Buckets of tears. Nearly 6pm now. Still coming down. Rain guage says three plus inches.

Rain is much needed. Garden needs it. Lawn needs it. Creeks need it.

But.

It could have waited two measley measly hours.

First rain at Barton Springs. For me. Tried to enjoy it. New experience and all.

But. The beach bag. Not water proof. Cell phone. Not water proof. Kids complaining. Not waterproof.

Rain drenched schlep back to the car.

Blown up rafts. Unused. Submarine sandwiches. Uneaten. Sour cream and onion chips. That's right. Uneaten.

Load of laundry.

Off to the gym.

First time in a month of Tuesdays. So not a total waste of a day. Just sticky. And extra hot. Elipticizing in sunscreened skin. Not my favorite. Tennis shoes soaked in parking lot puddles. Not my favorite.

Forgot my water bottle. What with so much rain and all. Drank cooler water out of styrofoam cup. Makes my teeth ache. That styrofoam. But listened to new tunes in my ear buds. Rolling Stones. Some Girls. Start Me Up. Perk in my step.

And now home. Blog tending. Smelling dinner. Cooked by bestest husband.

Not like swimming in Barton Springs. But not bad either.

best summer read - my nomination

It's awfully early to say this is the best damn light read of the summer. Especially since some parents, teachers, and kids are not even out for the summer (Hi, Sis!) So I won't say it.

I'll just nominate this novel and say I'll hold my real vote at the end of summer (wink, wink).

It qualifies as a light read because there are no longer-than-your-driveway sentences, it's not thicker or heavier than your Websters New Collegiate Dictionary, and it's written in a three-paragraph-per-section style, i.e., you can pick up the book soon after sitting your feeling-fat, matronly self down at Barton Springs Pool, surrounded by the hundreds of young, single, hip, tattooed, hard-bodied University of Texas coeds, and immediately jump right back into the story, without being distracted once.

I loved this book because Julia is such the anti-heroine. She reminds me of an all grown up and married with a kid version of Bridget Jones. And I lurrved Bridget Jones.

Julia's conversations with herself are such a contrast to the out loud conversations I have with the moms I run into.

You know the type, the I only buy organic, gluten-free, lactose-free, corn syrup-free type and the Gotta run, my son has a soccer tournament in Dallas and my daughter has a soccer tournament in Houston, busy day!! type and the I'm so tired I stayed up reading the entire Harry Potter series to my identically dressed, identically hair-styled triplets type.

The type where I walk away, thinking, My kids are soooo screwed.

But not true with Julia. This is a mom who writes honestly about her parenting foibles. Who shares her dissatisfactions within her marriage (read, mediocre to forgettable sex) . Who does all the wrong things, thinks all the most irreverent thoughts, hopes for all the most immoral endings.

And I loved her. Lots of cynical, gutteral sniggering in my beach chair.

My one complaint - I wish it were the size of my Websters New Collegiate Dictionary.

If you like self-loathing, sardonically witty, modern-parenting-trend-bucking moms who still have a naughty sex life, at least in their minds, and occasionally in real life, you might love Julia too.

strong women, talking babies and bum phucks

Woman and Child is back. Yay!

And posting about good, strong women who age out of the nicey-nice, takey-care of everybody but me, phase. And the good, strong men who love us.

And posting a nod to the "totally brilliant humour coming out of the U.S." in the form of talking babies in advertising.

Since this is one of the few commercials I will do a mad-grab for the remote, risking a herniated disc and a twisted intestine in order to de-mute so as to catch the latest baby with 'tude, I thought I would post this E*Trade clip for all to enjoy.

It's so much funnier in it's full-wide version rather than this chopped off one but it's your choice.

I don't know about your motives for gawking at tawking, wisecracking babies, but think I will look at this clip whenever I need a break from the agonizing coverage of the BP Gulf disaster.

Hang in there Louisiana, my mother's motherland. Katrina did not break your spirit and neither will this.

And BP? Stands for Bum-Phucks.

You can show your support by participating in Deb on the Rock's Love the Gulf Blog Carnival.

doc spelled backwards is cod not god

We really like our family doc. He's willing to offer homeopathic suggestions, for one. He's down to earth and friendly, for two., i.e., his ego is not the size of the heavenly firmaments.

So we've been going to our family doc for ten years now. A couple years ago he moved into a brand new building, a condomininum setup, so he now owns his office. Or the bank does. Within his office suite he has established a lab testing unit.

So my husband, Sam, takes an Rx that requires regular lab tests. Over the years, he's been going to one of those large, chain labs. No cost with his insurance card. Lab sends in results to the doc. Doc checks and notifies if there is a problem. All part of the regular check up.

Until recently.

Family doc's office staff instructed Sam to get his blood work done in the on site lab. Requires that Sam set an appointment, return to get blood drawn. Sam gets there, his weight and BP are taken (even though he was just there a few days ago), gets his blood drawn, does not see a physician, but is charged a copay for a "short office visit." In Sam's case, $35 copay. Ouch.

Sam protested to the office staff and the doc came out. Sam told him "I want to go to my usual lab." Doc insisted he get the lab work done on site.

Does this ring of a conflict of interest to anyone besides me? Might this be an ethical violation? We think he's funding his new office. Or has this "short office visit" become prevalent out there in family practice medicine?

flipflop season

for SOME of you out there, that is. But apparently, not everybody.

I know this now thanks to all the comments of support and empathy for the fact that I mostly have to wear thick soled slides.

As one example, thanks to Fantastic Forrest, my new summer mantra is, Slides are not clunky. They are hawt.

Yeah, baby.

Either lots of people can't wear thong sandals with abandon, like me, or the regular readers of my blog tend to be comfortable-shoe-wearing-feminist-lesbians, also. Ok, well, minus the lesbian part, for some of us, anyway.

cartoon by nataliedee

thong envy

I am in a fashion crisis. I need your help. Opinions. Suggestions. Sympathy.

From women of experience.

Wearing thongs.

I have long resisted wearing thongs for reasons that, I'm certain, are not unique to me: the anticipated discomfort of allowing, well, a strap, for lack of a better word, to wedge between my sensitive southern skinfolds.

But I decided to be adventurous yesterday. I tried on a pair.

Eureka! They felt good. Surprisingly awesome. I liked the airy sensation. The freedom. I never would have imagined.

Bought them. And a second pair in a different color. Brave new thongy me.

Got them home. Modeled them for my husband. He wasn't as excited as I was.

Not to worry. I was undeterred. I wasn't going to let his, or anyone's, lack of enthusiasm get in the way of my newfound happiness.

I wore them around the house as I went about my usual business.

Suddenly, I was seized with pain. The strap was rubbing my, er, crack. One side, in particular. Felt like it was hitting bone.

A knuckle.

A toe knuckle, to be precise.

The thong strap was rubbing the inside of my second toe. Leaving a red mark.

So I ask you, lucky wearers of the thong, is there an art to finding a pair that do not cause wincing pain upon prolonged wear?

Or, as I fear, is there a foot type that is simply unable to enjoy this style of footwear?

I have a wide foot with short toes. Paddle foot, as my own personal queer-pal-for-the-straight-gal so delicately phrased it. My second toe is shorter than my third. You don't see that very often.

We are a small, unfortunate tribe.

So small, in fact, that when I was shoe browsing yesterday, I saw one of the first other short-second-toed women ever. Sister!! I wanted to shout. Wanted to hug her, truth be known. But refrained. Didn't want her running off to report a suspected toe fetishist to the store manager.

So here's my serious question: Am I the only woman who suffers from thong envy? Who is missing out on the thousands of cute springy styles? Who must limit her shoe fashion to clunky slides? The dreaded comfortable shoe?

Anyone?

jensational haiku wednesday

Needing more, not less

Putting myself first, not last

Ergo my ego

And if you didn't figure it out by now, I built the entire Haiku around my wish to use "ergo my ego" as a line. Pathetic excuse for a Haiku but there ya have it.

forever young

I am slowly recovering from a Fab50 reunion with six of my closest girlfriends from high school, all graduates during the late 70's.

When I mentioned this visit to people, I was met with incredulous looks.

High school? You're still friends with girls from high school?

I do realize that for some people their best-friends-for-life were met in college. For others, as the psychology department head told we incoming graduate students, this would be the place where sacred, lifelong friendships would form.

But for me? It's always been my high school buds. No question about it.

I was really lucky that way. I moved to a new area the summer before my 8th grade year. A few weeks before school started, two nervous, 13-year-old girls knocked on my front door to meet me. The mother of one of the girls made them introduce themselves, I was to find out later. It was probably more our of nosiness about the new family in town than genuine concern for my wellbeing. But whatever the reason, these two girls became my friends and introduced me to a larger group of girls who became some of the best girlfriends I could ask for.

I've met many friends since then who have become very good friends. Excellent friends. Cherished friends. We relate in a way my high school friends and I don't, or can't, or won't ever relate.

But there's something singularly special about hometown friends. All the shared experiences, a shared larger network of friends and towns people, memories of some of life's most difficult heartaches.

Over this past weekend, here we all were, gathered in my home, the first time a few of them had even been to Texas. All of us 49 or 50 years old. (Come think of it, only ONE of us was actually 50. Poor woman. The rest of us will remain forever 49).

But here's the remarkable thing. As I looked at my friends sitting around my living room, or on my back porch with the sunlight fading, or on a river bank cooling our feet in the spring fed water, I was taking them all in.

I saw not their crow's feet, nor their varying shades of color enhanced hair hiding the gray, nor their extra-padded midlines.

What I saw were laughing teenagers. A seventeen year old running beside me during a field hockey game. A young woman chugging down her first beer and wincing at the god-awful-taste-of-it. A girlfriend crying over a boyfriend betrayal, the first of many.

Over the past recent years, when I have met someone new, someone my own age, I would see a middle-aged woman.

But my childhood friends? The years drop away in an instant. Disappear. Gone. In each other's company, for just a weekend, we are ageless, timeless, forever young.

feels like saying goodbye to a good friend

Finished reading Lit last night. Feels like saying goodbye to a good friend.

Really good memoirs and novels feel like that. One reason why I like reading so much. I'm one of those people-who-need-people, people. Having a book in my lap, especially when written in the first person, feels like listening to a friend confide their deepest secrets.

As for Lit, it was another home run for Mary Karr. An an especially insightful read for those trying to understand alcohol abuse. Or trying to kick it.

Recovery, relapse, reconciling with an abusive parent, doing what it takes to stay sober. It's all there.

So I'm back to the novel I was reading when I got notice that Lit was ready at the library, The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. It's the story of an eccentric teacher at a girls school in Scotland, told through the eyes of the students.

Halfway through the book I was thinking it was not all that great. But then over the weekend, while planning my next read, I came across Brodie on one of TIME's 100 Best lists. Ok, so somebody thinks it's all that and a bag of chips. I'm determined to finish it since it's right there on my bedside table. Check off one more on their list.

Last night I read the passage where the students are attending sewing class. The girls see the sewing machine's needle go up-down-up-down, "which usually caused Sandy and Jenny to giggle, since at that time everything that could conceivably bear a sexual interpretation immediately did so to them."

I was immediately transported back to Catholic school. Sixth grade. Miss Napolitano's Geography class. Listening to a student drone aloud out of the textbook, about some South American country,their biggest export, rubber. My BFF and I caught a glance, laughed hysterically, trying not to, which only made us laugh more. Miss Napolitano saw us and rolled her eyes. Miss Napolitano was no Miss Jean Brodie.

And now I'm thinking of watching the movie, since it stars Maggie Smith. I fell in love with her when she played Miss Bartlett in A Room with a View, one of my all-time favorite movies. Smith must have played an equally excellent Miss Brodie, given her Oscar win as Best Actress for the role.

Has anyone seen the movie? Recommend it? And how about the book?

And readers, what are you reading now? Meeting any good friends lately?