Doctor Who and the Afterlife

Last night's Doctor Who, “Dark Water,” featured the death of a prominent character. He then wound up in a sort of waiting room for the afterlife with a pleasantly efficient administrator, a soothing trope to anyone who's familiar with films like Here Comes Mister Jordan, or its remake, Heaven Can Wait.

But in our story, the dead still have contact with their bodies. So our hero is cold because his body is in the morgue. And as he's chatting with the bureaucrat — who is charming, but no Claude Rains — we hear a blood-curdling scream. The bureaucrat says, "Oh, sounds like someone donated his body to science."

Later, we hear the dead all saying, "Please don't cremate me."

Y'all, my mom died suddenly last summer. We donated her body to science, because she was always doing whatever she could to make the world a better place, and this was one more way she could contribute.

When your loved one's body is donated to science, the, um, leftovers, so to speak, are cremated. So we're two for two there.

It really freaked me out.

Mack Sennett Would Love My Sorry Ass

Today was the Greening of The Church, so I decided to carry out my undorking of the church sign.

Little did I know those old-school church sign letters just float on those rails.

And we were having a Clash of Fronts, in which the wind blows strong.

So I'm out there trying to fix our church sign...and it turns into some kind of slapstick comedy.

The minute I get one word sorta OK, the wind whips up, and letters go flying into the air. They make a lovely tinkling noise, but really.

People driving down the street are torn between sympathy, empathy and HaHa!

Let's not mention the rosebush I wound up squatting into.

I'm saving the bowl of characters that spell out our URL for later.

Sewing and Sowing Are Different Things

Sewing is the act of joining two pieces of fabric together with a needle and thread, whether by hand or machine.

Sowing is the act of spreading seed upon the ground in anticipation of its producing crops. One sows in order to reap.

To "sow dissent" is to spread disagreement across the land, perhaps to reap real political action.

To "sew dissent" makes no fucking sense.

This has been a public service of my inner copy editor.

The Tale Of the Truck

Last Sunday, I served as assistant minister. I couldn't do anything right.

I not only forgot how to serve Holy Communion, but I forgot how to sing, which I've been doing all my life.

Then on the way home from church, the engine in my truck just...stopped.

I put my hazard lights on, but I had to wait a couple of changes of the light to push it onto a side street. It was funny how people kept pulling up to the bumper, baby, then finding out Mr. Truck wasn't going anywhere.

Mr. Truck's oil was low, so I trekked the three blocks to the Mapco. Thank God I had worn my longjohns. It was bitter cold in Nashville terms.

I knew Mr. Truck's timing chain had broken.

I walked to the Germantown Café.

They were closed, but the staff there were so kind to me. Even though they were officially closed, they gave me a Bloody and a phone book to search for tow trucks. I finally found one, but it would be $75 cash.

Lucky for me, my bank still has a branch in Germantown.

The gentleman driving the tow truck told me of the brutal work he'd put in during the previous week's snowstorm.

Did you know that towing is divided up by area, and if a tow doesn't show up within 30 minutes, Metro can call another? Neither did I.

Anyway, he was kind enough to drop me at the Eastland Kroger, because he was going that way. So I was able to get my grocery shopping done and walk home.

But then the truck! It's old enough to have graduated from college, if it were a person.

A Thousand Dollars! Yikes!

I can't afford a car note; and a truck is a good thing to have. So I took the plunge.

I am so glad I did. It's a whole new vehicle. And no, I won't tell you which shop did the work, because they're backed up already.

DIAF?

I can't use this expression, because my baby sister really did DIAF, in August, 1967.

Tonight I said it in anger, and I hated the words coming out of my mouth.

I'm not offended by the meme; it's an abstract concept to those who use it.

The One True Crab Cake

This recipe is from former Maryland First Lady Mrs. Tawes's My Maryland Recipes. I consider it canonical, the only recipe you'll ever need.

I've had tarted-up, trendily seasoned, so-called crab cakes served to me by elitist chefs in the flyover states. But we East Coast lumpenproles know the blue crab's delicate flavor is easily overwhelmed by strong spices and funny sauces.

Crab cakes are poor people food! They are to be bound with mayonnaise and breaded with cracker crumbs the way God and Mrs. Tawes intended.

Mrs. Tawes’s Maryland Crab Cakes
(makes 8 to 10 cakes)

1 1-lb. can of back-fin lump crab meat, or 1 pound of claw crab meat, or a combination of 1/2 pound of claw meat and 1/2 pound of regular grade
2 eggs
2 Tbs. mayonnaise
1 Tb. Kraft horseradish mustard
1/4 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. pepper
5 drops Tabasco
1 Tb. chopped parsley
cracker crumbs
fat for frying

Combine all ingredients except crumbs and fat and mix together lightly. Form into desired-size cakes. Do not pack firmly. Prepare cracker crumbs by rolling out saltine crackers into fine crumbs, then pat or roll lightly on the crab cake.  

Fry in 1 1/2 inches of hot fat in iron frying pan on both sides until a golden brown. Remove and drain on absorbent paper and serve immediately.

You are permitted a dab of tartar or cocktail sauce, if you must. But don't tell me about it.

Update 4/20/2012: A certain someone who borrowed my post has an awesomely high page ranking. It's probably my own fault for neglecting this blog, but it still rankles. I'm the one who had to endure those giant pancake-like so-called-crab cakes.

Please treat your crabmeat gently, and our fragile waters thusly as well.

Advice To Young Men Who Would Be Pleased By The Company Of Young Women

I've neglected this blog, but what the hell: About a week ago, I was at Kroger. It was a Thursday night (party night for your suitcase college attendees), and I passed these two young men in the parking lot. It was a brisk fall night, so there was no reason for me to smell them as I passed ten feet away.

But I did. They must have bought the Axe Body Spray crap lock, stock, and barrel, because this oily cloud of douchiness engulfed me as I passed them. I wanted to tell them, "No! Stop! You reek!" But they would have blown me off as some old broad.

We ladyfolk learned that lesson back in the '70s and '80s. Remember Jean Naté? I still have a bottle of it because it allegedly freaks cats out, and if you spray it on your sofa, they won't claw it. I don't think that's true, but it's nice to think that our feline friends have more discerning tastes than people who would wear Jean Naté.

Any scent that's dispensed in aerosol form is inherently trashy.

Those boys in the Kroger parking lot were adorable, and their own soapy-fresh boy-musk would have been heady enough for any girl. But noooo! They had to spray themselves with cheap perfume and propellants!

Would that propellants become repellants.

Does anybody want to schtup these guys? If so, how do they stop the watering of their eyes?

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