Bonnie’s Blog

Pickled Pig Lips

As I strolled through the aisles of our new Sam’s Club (we had recently moved to Louisiana) with my jumbo-sized cart, I made some observations. First and foremost, I wasn’t aware that pig lips were a marketed product for human consumption. It boggled my mind further to know that someone would prefer this as a bulk item. Does pickled anything go bad if not eaten in a timely manner?

A few rows over, I came upon a 50-pound sack of rice and a 25-pound sack of red beans. Being a transplanted Cajunite, I can appreciate the importance of these staple items, but unless you’re a restauranteur or a doomsday prepper, I’m not sure what you would do with this amount of red beans and rice. If you throw in some pickled pig lips, I guess you could have a nice block party.

In the middle of the store, I found a huge block of cheddar cheese, sculpted into the LSU mascot. We have some pretty loyal fans here who would consider it their duty to consume every last chunk of this cheddar. Of course, I’m sure that even the most diehard fan could find a bulk buy of laxatives worthy of the challenge. While I’m on the subject of gastronomical distress, let me note that Sam’s has enough Preparation H in a single buy to soothe the hemorrhoids of a herd of elephants.

Lastly, for all of you MacGyver wannabes out there, you can buy 2000 paper clips, 240 yards of duct tape, and 5,400 pieces of gum for all your disaster-averting needs.

The Original “Born This Way”

People often ask me how I come up with ideas for my stories. I say there are people inside my head who are screaming to get out. They are good, bad, and everything in between. They live, love, and laugh like anyone else. I’m haunted by them until I let them out to play. When I say “out to play”, I mean I rarely have control over how my characters progress through a story. They have a mind of their own and do what they want until I write The End. Sometimes not even The End is really the final chapter because there could always be more.

I would never claim to be an Ernest Hemingway, but we do have at least two things in common. He was a storyteller and a terrible speller. We were born this way.

Happy Anniversary!

32 years ago today, my husband and I were married. It doesn’t seem that long ago…I remember it well.

My 11 p.m. curfew was still in effect the night before the wedding; I was young and still living at home with my parents. We had out-of-town relatives staying with us, so my maid-of-honor and I slept on the floor–a backache ensued. Morning came and it seemed I had plenty of time to pick up the cake and get my fabulous do, but how time flew! The wedding was to begin at 3:00. Everyone was at the church by 2:30 except me and my maid-of-honor. She did our makeup at home and had to have one last spritz of hair spray because of windy conditions. Being the klutz that I am, I smeared her makeup and almost blinded her with the hairspray. Before the mascara redo, we were already late. Because the wedding would not start without the bride, everyone patiently waited as I shimmied into my dress in record time and took my place in the back of the line behind my wedding party.

Did you ever wonder why a bride wears a veil? There are many explanations such as hiding the bride from evil spirits or hiding her face from the groom–in an arranged marriage, the groom gets pot luck when he lifts that veil. In my case, the answer to the veil question was answered at the first sniffle from my dad as we waited to make our entrance. My inner raccoon came out to play as my mascara slid down my face. If my dad hadn’t started the mascara smudging marathon, hearing my groom serenade me during the ceremony would have surely started the bawl rolling.

It seemed the rest of the afternoon would go smoothly until I remembered I had forgotten my camera. I wanted to take pictures on our honeymoon. This was the time before cellphones or disposable cameras. My aunt saved the day by meeting us at a designated location to make the camera hand-off, but not before my husband almost ran a red light in his tricked-out Chevy Nova. I was hurled into the rice-littered floorboard–I said his car was tricked-out, I didn’t say it had seatbelts.

We made it to Myrtle Beach in one piece and all was well until my honey bun had the great idea of going deep-sea fishing. I couldn’t swim and I never considered stepping foot on a boat. Not wanting to start married life on the wrong foot by being a party pooper, I gave it a shot. Thank God it was a half-day trip! I knew it was a bad sign when the boat crew placed buckets at the end of every seat in the cabin. The milk and donuts I had for breakfast pitched and rolled right along with the boat as bad weather approached. If I hadn’t been so green when we finally made it back to shore, I would have kissed the ground. Vows were said again that week. I vowed to never again step foot on a boat or eat donuts and milk for breakfast!

Yes, I remember it well. Happy Anniversary to my husband of 32 years. Thanks for not being appalled by the raccoon under the veil and for sticking around through the ups and downs. I Love You the Mostest!!!

Bonnie Lynne

French in a Southern Drawl

My favorite bedtime story, The Happy Lion, is about a lion living in a French zoo. For me, The Happy Lion was an introduction to French culture and the moral: the grass is always greener on the other side of the zoo fence. This 1954 children’s book, written by Louise Fatio and illustrated by her husband, Roger Duvoisin, was followed by nine sequels. It was the winner of the first Deutscher Jugendliteraturpreis, a German youth literary award. At age five, I didn’t care about the award or the sequels, all I knew was I wanted to hear it night after night before I went to sleep. From The Happy Lion, I gained my love of the written word and learned to say bonjour and au revoir in a slow, southern drawl.