Archive for June, 2013

The Persecution of Paula Deen

Paula Deen media corruption

SwampDaughter and I were discussing this over salads at Chick-fil-A Thursday. We haven’t been Paula Deen followers or denigrators. We’ve never seen her show. We’ve never been to her restaurant, though we’d love to go. We don’t own any of her cookbooks. We’re a bit surprised that so much hatred has been directed at her. We’ve seen it in vitriolic tv parodies and various newspaper and magazine articles before now.

We’d like to know why in the hell is the media so interested in persecuting Paula Deen? Is it because she’s white? Is it because she’s southern? Is it because she made it rich on her own, and we can’t have that in this country? Is it because she got rich without benefit of college and has been more successful, with more money, than the bitchy media?

SwampDaughter said “Dang. I’d sure hate to have something I said 27 years ago held against ME!” She was a preschooler at the time, so she’ll probably get a pass, lucky for her. We briefly pondered the things that could be held against us from things we may have done or said 27 years ago. I’m sure there is a lot of material there!

It seems to me like political correctness run amuck. It appears that Random House has sooooooo many best-selling books that they can afford to piss away Paula Deen’s latest. Fine. Her fans would probably rather buy it through Amazon or directly through her anyway. Screw Random House.

And for the Paula Deen supporters, here’s a list of companies that you can boycott:

Sears, J.C. Penney, Walgreen, Wal-Mart, Target, Home Depot, Novo Nordisk, Smithfield Foods, Caesars Entertainment and The Food Network.

She’s probably going to have more fans than ever after being bludgeoned by the media.

Update: No2liberals posted a GREAT link in the comments that I just had to add to the post:

paula deen treatment

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Bumblebee Memorial

SwampMan drew my attention to this little news item when I was cooking breakfast:

Fifty thousand bumblebees will be honored at a memorial Sunday in the same shopping center parking lot southwest of the Portland, Oregon, where most of the insects died earlier this month.

Rozzell Medina, of Portland, said on a Facebook page that the event will “memorialize these fallen lifeforms and talk about the plight of the bees and their importance to life on Earth,” The Oregonian reported.

Read more:

“Who counted ’em?”


“Who went around and counted all those dead bumblebees?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, how do we know that it was 50,000?”


“How do we know that it wasn’t 5,000? Or 500?”


“Do they have them lined up in tiny caskets in groups of 100?”


*sigh* Fifty thousand sounds like a wild-assed guess to me, and wild-assed guesses are HUGELY inflated for the ain’t-it-awful factor. I shall hereby meditate on the life of bumblebees and their plight, to wit: Their lifespans are from one to four weeks in length which they spend in toil to feed the bumblebee young, then they die. At the end of the summer, the queen and her last group of workers die, leaving a few queens to overwinter if they’ve gained enough weight and found a good hiding spot from the cold.

Well. That sucks.

Okay, I’m done meditating now.

So, are the folks attending the bee memorial service going to initiate memorial services for mealworms? My daughter feeds her leopard geckos a truly astounding number of mealworms and crickets per week. She causes the deaths of untold thousands of these insects per year and, so far as I know, hasn’t memorialized them or meditated on their life meaning even once. She’s also responsible for selling flea treatments for puppies and kitties. Yes, people. She is responsible for the deaths of unsung millions of fleas per year. Where, I ask you, is their memorial service?

Let’s move on to the higher forms of life. How about the mice, frogs, rats, rabbits, ducks, and chickens fed to snakes every year? Shouldn’t they get a memorial service, too?

What about the wind turbines that are killing an astounding amount of avian life? Can we just set up a memorial and meditation garden at each of those sites, with perhaps a statue as representative of each bird (or bat) species killed by the flying blades? Then we can do a ritual mourning once per year which would include rending our clothing, chanting about the sacredness of life, blowing up the towers, and suing the shit out of the windmill manufacturers and electric companies forced to buy the electricity produced “greenly”. Hmmmmm. That’s actually a memorial service that I would even pay to attend. I’d bring a cooler with iced-down beverages and some gluten-free snacks, too, and stay awhile to watch.

You might say “Swampie, why are you mocking these people? They obviously have sincere beliefs about the sanctity of all life.” Riiiiight. How many do you suppose are members of pro-life groups that protest ripping viable infants out of their mother’s wombs and stabbing them to death?

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I Made Zoe Cry Today…

Zoe at beach

  • I watched Dylan, Jacob and Zoe today while their mommy was in a meeting. When Mommy got home, she asked where I wanted to go for lunch. “I want to go to Chick-Fil-A!” said Jacob. “They have the BEST ice cream cones!”

    “Well, maybe MeeMaw doesn’t WANT to go to Chick-Fil-A!” said Mommy.

    “Just so long as where we go has ice cream!” said Jacob.

    “So, where do you want to go, Mom?” asked SwampDaughter.

    Aware of three sets of anxious eyes on me, I said “I want to go where they have broccoli for lunch.”

    Broccoli?” Dylan said in horror.

    “Yes, BROCCOLI. With maybe some nice chopped onions on top.”

    Zoe burst into tears and cried and cried. I had to relent on the broccoli thing and assure her that Chick-Fil-A would be just fine.

    Maybe that whole sobbing thing was also because I’d caused Zoe to cry previously by declaring that I was going to leave all THREE of those grandchildren at their home, and take their mommy home with me, and she could spend the night at our house.

    Yep, evil is my middle name.

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    It’s Time To Do Something Real Now

    My lil’ grandson Dylan joined me yesterday in moving chickens, feeding, and catching and relocating the chicks of free range hens with hidden nests to a hawk-free and fox-free environment.

    It was his turn at computer to play his favorite video games, Cool Math 4 Kids. I have to do timed turns, or his bigger brother will hog my computer. “What’s wrong, Dyllie? Did Jacob make you leave the computer again?” Big brothers are good at that. I feel obligated to enforce his rights until he’s big enough to do it on his own.

    “No, MeeMaw. I let Jacob play because it was time to go do something real!” he informed me.

    “Time to go do something real.” Isn’t it interesting that a little just-turned 6-year-old boy can determine the difference between fantasy and reality much better than his older brother who does better in school? There are a lot of much older folks that either can’t determine the difference or who prefer living in a fantasy world than the real world. I like unicorns, too, but at the end of the day, I know that they’re not real.

    We have too many people that are living in a fantasy-based world and seemingly can’t look ahead to the consequences of their actions. Perhaps it is because the state intervenes to protect them from any such consequences.

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    Grandparenting Fail!

    I was blearily making oatmeal this morning for the grandkids. The boys had fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning; Zoe had fallen asleep @ 9 p.m. and slept all night, so she was up bright and early. She told me that her Mommy Duck was hungry. She told me that her Baby Bear was hungry. She never told me that SHE was hungry, but she put her stuffed toys in the chairs at the kiddy table in the kitchen.

    I have two giant shakers of spices that I use frequently that are side by side in the pantry that shouldn’t be. They are cajun seasoning and cinnamon.

    Guess which seasoning was grabbed and dumped into the oatmeal?

    Yep. Lucky I have lots of oatmeal.

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    My Oldest Granddaughter is Getting All Big

    Arizona and her baby sister Amber

    My oldest granddaughter keeps growing up. I HATE that! I want to freeze time and keep her little forever but, alas, it looks like she’s going to defy me and eventually grow up.

    Here she is holding her baby sister, Amber, and showing how they both have their mother’s pretty blue eyes.

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    Mommy’s Little French Fry Eater

    Zoe wakes in early morning hours for fries!When Mommy gets home from work, whether it be 1:30 or 2:30 or 3:30 a.m., Zoe awakens. If Mommy had gotten off at 11 p.m., it would have been an 8-hour day, so Mommy is usually hungry. She does not want to go home, cook food, and wake up everybody, so she usually stops off at anyplace open, which is usually McDonald’s, for a dollar menu meal.

    Regardless of when she arrives, Zoe gets up and joins Mommy. She eats the fries.

    MeeMaw does not do fries at oh-dark-thirty a.m. MeeMaw asks if she’s lost her mind, gives her a drink, and tells her to go back to sleep.

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    Happy Sunday!

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    Funeral Friday

    My mother does not venture into Jacksonville. To her, Jacksonville is Sodom and Gomorrah and the border states and hell and Afghanistan all rolled into one where people shoot at you for no particular reason except that you’re in the wrong neighborhood. Plus, they drive all crazy-like. True, true, but the shootings are usually only at night, while I have to admit that the crazy driving thing is 24/7. So when she wistfully mentioned that she wished that she would be able to go to her sister-in-law’s funeral except that it was in Jacksonville, I was happy to assist her.

    Like everybody of the female persuasion, I suppose, I have my all purpose black funeral dress. It is sleeveless, so I can toss on a woolen jacket in the winter or a short-sleeved suit jacket in the summer. I have matching wraps for all seasons should somebody happen to leave this mortal coil in winter, spring, summer, or fall. It has been awhile since I used it, however. Unfortunately, I found that the black funeral dress doesn’t actually fit anymore. Well, it’s a stretchy knit, but it was kinda bursting at the seams. DANG. What HAVE I been eating? Oh, yeah. Ice cream floats with the grandkids and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and barbecue and orange soda and….gotta cut THAT shit out. I had no clothes suitable for a funeral! I decided on navy blue Dockers and a dressy shirt; after all, as K.C. reminded me, I was just the cab driver. Might as well dress the part.

    There has been a lot of road construction done since the last time I was in that part of Jacksonville. I used to do construction work over there and do my serious clothes and book shopping there at the mall as well. I can’t shop there at the mall anymore because, well, the police officers would probably be asking me things like “Ma’am, why were you beating this young gangbanger with a tire iron in the parking lot?” and I would blurt out something like “Well, I forgot about the handgun I was illegally carrying or I woulda shot his ass because he tried to steal my wrinkle cream from Sephora”, and it would be an awkward conversation that I think would be best avoided.

    SwampMan printed up a Google map to the location of the church. He programmed the GPS so that I wouldn’t get too lost. He put his cell phone next to his computer in his workshop in the barn. (My cell phone is broken, but I can still text in an emergency. I tell people that I can’t text which isn’t completely true. I just don’ wanna be stabbin’ those little letters and numbers.) I’m, uh, not sure that SwampMan has any faith in my ability to navigate from point A to point B without accidentally ending up in Miami or Atlanta or Houston. I’m not sure that any member of my family, except my Mom, does.

    When Mom arrived, I threw the GPS, the maps, and the phone in the back seat, and told her we were taking a way that probably would take a little bit longer but it was a way that I knew. Bless her heart, she believes in my navigational abilities although I don’t know why, since they are pretty much nonexistent. I avoided all the new construction and roads, and took old back roads to the location. Then I waited in the car while she was in the funeral services because I just could not bring myself to go into a place of worship dressed in Dockers, even though they were dark navy blue and looked black if the light wasn’t too bright.

    I walked around the gardens. I sat by a fountain. I surreptitiously scratched my back on an oak tree. I took the opportunity to enlighten myself by reading about the latest theories of dark matter. I read about dark matter for an hour and realized that I still didn’t understand too much about it, and switched to a fad diet book so that maybe I could get back into my dress. If you’re going to die, better schedule it for about two three months out, okay? And let me know so I can actually start the diet. (I love my Kindle!)

    After about two hours, Mom came out to the car just as I was contemplating my napping options. She told me how sad the funeral was. Her poor sister-in-law had survived a botched pacemaker insertion that had nearly killed her the year before, then she got a terrible nosocomial infection and then pneumonia for which she was on a ventilator in a coma for months in the hospital. During all that time in the hospital, after all those tests, x-rays, etc., they did not detect that she was suffering from an advanced cancer that was metastasizing. She went to her doctor for pain in her hip which she thought was from her replaced hip joint. It was metastasized cancer. She died a week after the diagnosis.

    “So, do you want to follow the hearse to the cemetary?” I asked. “No. Her husband is so grief-stricken that I can hardly bear it, and it looks like it’s going to pour down rain. No, I’ll buy you lunch for bringing me here, and then we better head back.”

    We lunched at Cracker Barrel, a grilled spicy catfish filet with limas and greens for me, and a fried catfish filet with hashbrown casserole and limas for her. The skies were even darker when we left.

    “Oh, look!” said Mom as we were crossing a bridge across the St. John’s river. “It’s raining so hard, we can’t even see the boats!” I almost replied “Oh, look! It’s raining so hard I can’t even see the ROAD!” but I bit my tongue in time. That isn’t exactly the sort of thing you should share with a nervous passenger who doesn’t like venturing out of Georgia! As soon as we got across the river, the rain lessened and then turned into spotty showers rather than torrential downpours. Apparently the coastal regions were the ones getting hammered by rain on Friday.

    “I do wish” said Mom on the way home “that I knew the way to visit (another sister-in-law and her husband).”

    “Where do they live?”

    “Well, it used to be a town that started with a ‘B’, but now their address is Jacksonville.”

    “Well, that would probably be either Baldwin or Bryceville! Those are both off 301! Do you know the name of the road? Do you have time to explore?”

    “Well, I have about an hour to kill before your brother gets off work…..” She told me the name of the road which was indeed off 301. I think. I hadn’t been on that road in YEARS.

    “Fantastic! Let’s go look.”

    I knew *about* where that road should be, but 301 is in the process of getting four laned. The traffic and delays can get a little extreme, so I usually completely avoid it. “Okay,” I announced. “After this road to the left, I *think* the next road is the one you want. Look for the street sign!” We went across a temporary bridge. The road that I *thought* was the road she was looking for did NOT have a street sign. All the other roads had street signs. Even stupid driveways now have street signs for 911 responders. I’m surprised that there isn’t a sign stuck on our driveway that says ‘SwampieLand’. But no. A major (well, paved, anyway) road does not have a street sign but driveways do. Go figure. We drove on a bit further until I could safely turn around (U-turn) without getting run over by a speeding logging truck with no brakes. I turned in front of a big motor home because I hate them and didn’t want to be stuck forever behind one. (Mom’s car has great acceleration which she has never actually used.) We went past the road again looking for a street sign laying on the ground or propped up in the brush. Nothin’. We looked down the road but as far as we could see, there wasn’t anything indicating what road it might be. If I had plugged the GPS in, it would have enlightened us, but it was out of reach in the back. Oh, well.

    We got back to my house, and I turned the wheel back over to Mom. I told her I was pretty sure that that was the road, and I would Google it later. Then I realize that she has no idea what “Google it” means, and I reinterpret my words to tell her I’ll look it up on a map later. (As it turns out, the road I thought was the road was actually the road that we were looking for. That hardly EVER is the case.)

    I walked to the house and called SwampMan out in his barn. I’d texted him “We B here” when we’d arrived at the funeral, but I hadn’t actually texted him “We B Crckr Brrl” and “We B gng hm”. “Glad you’re back!” said SwampMan. “I’m STARVING! I’ve been waiting for you to get back so we could go out and eat!” Uh, maybe I should have.

    “We stopped at Cracker Barrel on the way home, so I won’t be eating.”

    “Okay. I’ll get Chinese.”

    We got back with the Chinese food, and SwampMan yawned as he at it. “Are you sleepy too? I can hardly keep my eyes open!”

    “Yeah, I could use a nap!” SwampMan confessed.

    “Must we the weather. I think I’ll take one, too.”

    So we settled back in our chairs for a 15-minute nap. I turned on the whole house fan and put a fan on the floor aimed at our chairs so our feet would be cold. I woke up to roosters crowing and SwampMan had gone off to bed sometime during the night. I hadn’t done the nightly feedings of the dogs or cats or sheep or chickens or ducks, and now it was tomorrow at 8:30! I still felt groggy and disoriented. I leaped up, put my shoes on, and ran outside to feed the dog, then the cats. I was filling the buckets for feeding the chickens when I noticed that it was actually DARKER than when I had started. I went inside the house and checked the computer, and it was still the same date, but now nearly 9 P.M. Well. Still too late to feed chickens and ducks, but the sheep would get fed at least!

    I was inside checking the news on my computer @ 11 p.m. when SwampMan came staggering in out of the bedroom. “Dang!” he said. “I hadn’t meant to sleep that long!”

    “Tell me about it!” I sighed. I woke up @ 8:30, and I thought it was tomorrow morning!”

    He laughed, not with me, but at me.

    “You hungry?”


    So that’s how we ended up eating corned beef hash and scrambled eggs at midnight Friday night/Saturday morning and couldn’t get back to sleep until @ 3 a.m.

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    Lunch With K.C. and Pixie

    K.C of Pixie Place II and I met up for lunch again Thursday. We have such a good time when we get together!

    K.C.’s little granddaughter is such a beautiful and well-behaved child! She sat there patiently through TWO HOURS of us discussing the problems facing our country and the probable outcomes. My grandsons would have been engaged in a knock-down drag out fight with each other long before then.

    I used the opportunity to ask questions about her stealth camping where she and her husband go out wilderness camping with hammocks and tarps. Fascinating! I asked questions like “Aren’t you afraid of getting hit by lightning when you’re swinging there between trees like a big ol’ spider during a thunderstorm?” She said that she’d never heard of it happening, and there are hundreds of folks that do the hammock camping.

    We’ve had several trees killed and/or set ablaze, had a hog in a pond zapped, and had a big tree split and squash a sheep taking shelter from the storm underneath. I didn’t say any of that, of course. Until now (grin). I just wonder what would happen if you’re hanging there in your hammock, minding your own business, and your tree gets zapped? I don’t want to have the hammock melt into me. Maybe it’s like birds on the electric wires. As long as you don’t touch the ground, you’ll be okay.

    Her camping ability with minimalist equipment and outdoorsman (woman?) knowledge would be very useful in a SHTF situation, and they’re passing the knowledge on to their grandchild. They do kayaking trips and hike trails. I am impressed with their fitness, skill and knowledge and have the uneasy feeling that this is something that we should be doing for our grandchildren, too.

    I might try sleeping outside in a hammock overnight here at the house just to try it out. There are some big maple trees fairly close together, but there is concrete underneath the space between them. Hmmmm. Not a good place for a restless sleeper, probably. There are also occasional snakes in the trees, so I need to ask her how snakeproof one o’ those things are, because I do not want a six-foot rat snake joining me in the hammock in the dark. Nope, nope, nope.

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