The Wormlips Scrapbook

As I’ve told you, my younger daughter is minoring in animal science at college. Today in the livestock and dairy judging class, they did a unit on breeding-cattle. I asked her what she learned.

Lulu: I didn’t really learn anything new. Just changing priorities for what we want in our cows.

Ginna: How can I change my priorities for my cows if I don’t have any priorities or cows?

L: You don’t need to, because I changed my own priorities. For you.

G: What HAD your priorities been?

L: Muscle and finish (fat). That’s for market steers — the ones you wanna EAT.

G: And now?

L: With the female cattle, you want decent balance and structure and depth.

G: Why do I want a deep cow? I guess I’d want a balanced cow because I hate when they fall over. And structure is good, else they’re all floppy. Do we eat cows and bulls, both?

L: Presumably. The market steers were all guy cows though.

G: You’re, uh, studying animal science, you say?

L: I’m not using technical terms because I don’t WANNA. I would say bull, except the edible cattle we’d been looking at were fixed, so they weren’t too manly anymore.

G: Wusses.

L: Yeah.

Bookmark this post to...

From a distance I thought the blob on the wall by the icebox was a spider. “Lulu! Come here QUICKLY!”

Lulu strolled in several minutes later. Investigating what I was pointing at, she saw only opportunity. She rolled up a newspaper and let out a squeal as she swatted at the spot. Which of course was only a chip in the paint and not a spider at all. As if she hadn’t done enough damage already, she vanished momentarily and returned with a pen, embellishing the area so it will continue to alarm me every time I walk by.

Well, two can play at that. I just wadded together some raisins, shoved eight twisty-ties through them and stuck my creation on her pillow. It gives a good effect, which low light will enhance. She hasn’t seen it yet.

I’d like to think revenge will be mine but I know better. I’d bet my own blog that something bigger and nastier will have appeared in my bed by daybreak.

Bookmark this post to...

I had a traumatic evening. When I went to enter this post, my blog locked me out, telling me it suspected me of inappropriate or possibly illegal activity. It’s ugly when even your own blog turns on you.

Three anxious hours later, during which I was unable to touch a single thing I’ve ever done here, all was well. For the one or two techie people among you, here’s what happened. Thank you, Michael Hampton, for correcting your Bad Behavior.

Yo-Nenny and I are starting a club. It’s about books. First we talk about books we want to read. That’s fun. Then we pick the book. That’s fun too. Then I buy us each a copy; not as much fun. Then we start reading them, which will be great, at least until the book gets too bendy from use. And then, several pages later, we decide if we want to continue our club, and if we do, does that mean we have to finish the book.

We’re starting with Swann’s Way, which I haven’t read for thirty years, and she, never. In tandem we’ll read Proust’s Way by Roger Shattuck.

My friend Larry is planning a new radio series about Proust, which will consist of a reading of the seven volumes of In Search of Lost Time in their entirety, in French and in English, which will take almost as long as it’ll take Eleni and me to get to the madeleine scene. Beyond that, he’ll have interviews with Proust scholars, an exploration of the history and culture of the era, and all kinds of other cool stuff. He’s done a brief audio promo, not yet for public release, that’s worth listening to. Bard College will sponsor the programs.

Larry retired from radio last year; that’s why he’s doing this little project.

Bookmark this post to...