Luck and Prejudice

I am following the blog of an author who is re-writing "Pride and Prejudice" for teens.  During her travels last week, she started talking to a woman in the airport, who it turns out is a buyer for QVC.  The woman invites her on to the show and is going to sell her book.  That is lucky, way off the charts lucky.  Last week, I was sitting next to a woman.  She started telling me about the rash on her son's neck.  She talked on and on about the dead, black skin falling off his folds and creases - gross, gross, gross.  She then talked for about three minutes straight and I understood absolutely nothing!  The woman concludes with "that is why it is so dangerous out on the streets."  I have no clue how she got from the disgusting rash to the streets.  I have nothing marketable, but why could I not have been talking to the QVC lady?  Why do I get the crazies?  Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

I was in my sewing room thinking about prejudice. I was trying to figure out what mic and spic are short for.  It got me thinking about how I grew up in a very un-prejudiced household.  I don't think I ever heard my mom comment on race or ethnicity.  Not until later, at least from my perspective, did she get visibly weird about religion.  My grandmother had one prejudice, Monday through Friday we heard derogatory remarks on this subject.  The remarks are one of my earliest memories.  It wasn't until I went away to college that I realized other people didn't have deep-seated opinions on...........Bob Barker.  Every day, we watched the "Price Is Right" and she would exclaim, "THAT Bob Barker."  We would ask her why she didn't like him and she would say it was because he grew up on a reservation in South Dakota.  I don't think she ever knew it was because his parent's were missionaries.  This prejudice, quite truthfully, is a bit baffling.  She wasn't crazy about Indians, but she wasn't belligerent about them.  It was Bob Barker that riled her up.

The first summer after I came home from college, I got jokingly mad at Teri and called her the biggest insult in our house.  BOGGER!  You are such a bogger was the way to win any argument or make each other mad beyond belief.  My grandma overheard the exchange, and yelled out "stop talking about Bob Barker."  Neither Teri or I had known that bogger was morphed from Bob Barker.  Grandma told us we had started calling each other that when we were about three years old and she could not believe we were still doing it.  

I guess Bob Barker may indirectly explain why crazies will talk to me.  I must give something off, perhaps I have an aura of having been around benign but weird people.

The kids and I did a project last week and it turned out great.  Here is a picture of our masterpiece. I am quite proud of our endeavor!  This proves it is the small things in life, yes, we just glued numbers to a rock.

I saw these bug holes/nests/cocoons last week on the cement patios of a retirement home I was visiting.  I don't know what they are, but aren't they really cool (little terracotta papooses).  They were all empty and nothing was flying around, it is a nature mystery.  I am sure the maintenance guys could have solved the mystery if I had asked.