Name the Pig

       Lisa, well known for her marvelous blog, suggested I name my magical pig.  Certainly this stout, handsome pig deserves a name but sadly, it had not entered my mind.

A pig with no name is a pig with the blues...
photo by Netream

       She offered the name "Ernest" after Hemingway.  It looks like it might be earnest as well as answer to Ernest.  However, I don't want to overlook other possibilities...

        Please check out the photos on my blog yesterday (12/21) and if a name comes to you, like in a dream, please send it my way.  After all, a pig with a much power as this porker has, deserves an appropriate name.

A Magical Pig

          A couple of weeks ago, Love a Golden Rescue worked an event at Purina Farms about an hour outside of St. Louis.  As I was working the booth---it was then late in the day---I spied someone carrying a large metal pig.

         Racing over to them, I discovered where they had purchased it.  Telling my boothmates that I would be back, I grabbed my purse and headed toward The Pigman. (Paul Zindel--where are you when I need you?)

         Did I need a pig?
         Do I collect pigs?
         Would this make a great gift for someone I knew?

         No, no and no.  But still my feet propelled me toward the booth with the pigs.

photo by Laughing Squid

         There was only one large pig left. Like the other one, it had wings attached. Blue body. Orange feet. Red ears. Yellow wings. And rusty scratches and weld-marks all over, adding to the "character" of the pig.

        I cannot explain it, but that pig spoke to me. And to make my desire even more inexplicable, our house is tiny.  We have two small bedrooms, one bathroom, (I would kill for a second bathroom!) a kitchen too small to eat in, and our "greatroom."  I laughingly call it that because it is definitely not huge, but serves as our livingroom/familyroom/diningroom (with TV trays)/recreation room (wrestling with the dogs for a spot on the couch)/entertainment room (that's where the TV is).

        And I told the welder-artist that: it doesn't "go" with any of our "decor," I don't really have room for it, but it spoke to me. And the artist--wisely--did not argue with my crazy impulse.

         The pig hid in my car for several days, until I could bring it into the house, cloaked in darkness, along with my coat thrown over it, so I could find a spot for it before my husband caught onto another piece of junk being in the house.  (He sees a thrift store and floors it, while I attempt to catch a glimpse of the goodies I'm missing as we fly by at 93 mph.)

         There are many things that will probably only happen when pigs fly.  Getting back down to 150 pounds.  Finding some technology that will hoist up my breasts so they hover above the two-feet-off-the-ground mark.  Being able to tear Viggo Mortensen/Johnny Depp/Mark Harmon/Benecio Del Toro away from any skanky girlfriend/wife they have settled for.   Another "when pigs fly" accomplishment: getting a book published...

         Three days after I bought the pig, I heard from Louella Turner of High Hill Press.  She says her publishing company might be interested in a picture book manuscript of mine.

          Is this possible success due to years of writing and revising and response groups?  Is this glimmer of hope the result of a modicum of writing talent?  Is this dream coming true due to hard work and persistence?

        Or is it the work of the Magic Pig? 

         My money is on the pig...

My Magic Pig

Mine!  All mine!  If you want to rent him,
please contact me for the details.

If you want to buy your own pig, I don't know if John Everett has the materials in stock to create another one, but you can contact him at irondecornmore@yahoo.com.  His website is http://www.irondecornmore.com/.  He's located in Grafton, Illinois, not too far outside of St. Louis, Missouri.  His cell phone is 314-607-0407.

Cruising for Pumpkin Cheesecake

        (This title came from The Husband. Since it is his dastardly dog that did the deed, and I'm giving him credit for claim to the canine, I am also giving him credit for the title.)

       Picture the scene:  two middle-aged women (middle-aged if they are going to live to be 100 or 120 years old).  Both redheads (from the same bottles).  Both a little a lot ditzy. Both responsible for wrapping gifts at a St. Louis Barnes and Noble for Love a Golden.  To round out the team is Foley.  He's embodies what I like in men--he's handsome, blonde, and not too bright. (Actually, my glances rarely stray to blonde men, but since I don't have a chocolate or black lab, I have to work with what I have...Just follow along.)

Foley...Photos of Cindy and Sioux are not available, due to
their wish to remain anonymous

      One is retired teacher. The other is still teaching, so they get excited about simple things.  Tape that comes off easily from the tape dispenser. Pens that write nicely.  Anything free.

      At some point The Husband comes with two tall chocolate-coffee drinks in his hands, along with two servings of pumpkin cheesecake.  Cindy and Sioux squeal.  Chocolate and sugar and caffeine and pumpkin (which is usually just relegated to Thanksgiving!).  And it's free (for them).  More shrieking and shivering with anticipation.

     A couple of bites, a couple of slurps, and then someone ambles over to the table with some books to wrap.  Sioux put her plate on her chair--since she had to stand to wrap--and Cindy put hers on a chair way off to the side as they busily worked.

     When the books were wrapped, Sioux began to sit down.  Since The Husband was still there, he shouted out, "Don't sit down," but it was too late.  Sioux's rear end had made contact with the cheesecake.  It was not completely flattened, but probably (since there were witnesses) past the point of being edible. 

     Off Sioux went to the bathroom to wipe the whipped cream off her butt.  (She also took a moment to contemplate:  Would it be so improper to eat the cheesecake?  After all, some of that rear end came from eating cheesecake...It would be like a brother meeting a long-lost sister.  And how dirty could her rear end be?  No one ever thought dirty thoughts when gazing at her flat, wide rear end...)

     Since falls and trips and drips and spills are such an integral part of Sioux's life, this was not life-shattering.  And thankfully, The Husband had fed Foley the "ruined" cheesecake during the clean-up in the toilet, so Sioux did not have to face the dilemma of the century...

     A few more book wrappings later, The Husband (still there, perhaps waiting for the encore performance, albeit sans cheesecake) noticed that Foley had whipped cream on  the top of this head.  And Cindy noticed that her dessert plate was completely empty.  And all three noticed that Foley looked quite...content.

photo by scrap sister
Could Foley have been cruising the internet, spied this photo, and developed an
overwhelming desire to taste whipped cream? 

     Now the Cheesecake Factory is screaming out their new endorser:  Foley.  He helped wrap gifts the next day as well but sadly, there was no more pumpkin cheesecake for him.

Appearances Are Deceptive...Or Are They?

         Yesterday, for most of the day, I was wrapping gifts at Barnes and Noble.  It is one of Love a Golden Rescue's top fundraisers each year; we are at several area bookstores during the holiday, and always have a great time talking to people.

       There was a couple I recognized; when I walked past the cafe to use the restroom, there they were.  For several years now, I have seen them when I wrap up books.

        I don't know what the attraction is. Do they come in to read the magazines for free?  Do they come in because it's a warm place in the winter? I didn't look too closely, but I assume the male half of the couple was drinking coffee or tea in the cafe.  All I saw the female doing was talk. Loudly.

photo by weirddollz

         To describe their clothing choices or their appearance would not do them justice.  They both  have the look, however. You can tell, just by a quick glance, that they are a bit "off."  (He has the oddest-looking, longish wig...at least I am praying it is a wig.)

        Mentally ill?  On the brink of homelessness?  Just a bit mentally retarded?  I wasn't sure.

         As they were heading out the door, they stopped at my table.  She wanted to go home.  "I'm feeling a bit peckish," she said.

        Geeze Louise!  I've never heard anyone use that term.  It's from another century; I've seen it in ancient books, but uttered from a mouth in 2010?  How weird!

       She then playfully grabbed the donation box--full of dollar bills---and said, "Thanks for the donation!"  Catching my eye, she put it down, and they walked out the door.

       Strange!