Category Archives: Mrs. Charm

FDA to save us from evil soap companies

Aren’t you proud? I know I am. Worth every penny of my tax money, these myriad federal regulators and their multiplying rules.

By Gad, the soap companies shall not advertise their soap as anti-bacterial unless they can prove it is safe and works better than ordinary soap at killing bacteria. Eventually.

From the NYTimes usual government-is-good narrative: “The proposed rule does not require producers of the soaps to take them off the market immediately. The F.D.A. has given companies a year to produce data showing that the chemicals are both safe and effective.”

So they’re bad enough to have to prove their safety but not bad enough to take them off the market right away? Sounds like an invitation for bribes. And if you like your anti-bacterial soap—as Mrs. Charm apparently does since she buys so much of it—you can keep it for at least another year. Unless the evil soapers fail to make the FDA happy. In one way or another.

And all you people working on the anti-bacterial soap line? Well, you could go on welfare. Millions have. The Food Stamp President is waiting to enroll you. Just don’t try to do it on a computer.

Things we miss about Israel

(A Reprise of a post from last year. Only a year? Seems longer. Or shorter.)

As Mrs. Charm, Mr. Boy and I return to Texas today (July 1, 2012) from our 10-day visit to Israel, here are some of the things (a few cribbed from this insider’s list) we’ll miss, in addition to my longtime blog-friend and host Snoopy-the-Goon and his family:

Diced cucumbers and tomatoes for breakfast.

An entire country slowly shutting down and settling into Shabbat around 4 pm, every Friday.

Seeing well-dressed young children on urban streets after dark, not always accompanied by an adult but apparently unafraid.

The generally friendly people who seldom failed to nod and say “Shalom,” very much like hearing “Howdy” in Texas.

The supply of beautiful women, with generous decolletage, neither of which ever seemed to run out.

Chez Stephanie B&B ski resort on the slopes of Mount Hermon where we stayed one night. Wonderfully cool temperatures after much lowland heat and humidity. It was late June, after all.

The brave young soldiers of the IDF, men and women, black and white, their automatic rifles slung over their shoulders at the mall and on the street. Even hitch-hiking, which they are no longer supposed to do.

Pretty sunsets and puffy clouds which easily rival the Texas ones.

The smell of eucalyptus at Bet She’an in the lower Galilee.

The steep, ancient rock path at Gamla which Mr. Boy’s encouragement (“just a little more way, dad”) finally got me up to the top without a heart attack.

The informal (“individual,” Snoopy says) way most Israelis dress most of the time.

Camel Crossing signs in the mountainous Negev Desert.

The thousands of prayer notes seeking help from G-d rolled up tightly and stuffed into crevices in the Kotel.

Ice cream on a stick for five shekels (about a dollar).

The funny way some of the lower-domination coins are larger than the higher-denomination ones.

The way drivers sat patiently, without honking, in an almost two-hour traffic jam in Jerusalem caused by forest fires whose smoke blanketed the main highway—but honked repeatedly in the hour-long jam caused by Russian PM Putin’s visit to the city.

Riding the Swiss cable car at Masada.

The hugely-generous buffet supper and breakfast at the Lot Hotel on the Dead Sea, and the colorful flowers in the courtyard at Gil’s Guest Rooms where we actually spent the night—even if the Wi-Fi had a poor signal and kept cutting out.

Those curious buttons on the tank tops of Israeli toilets: I finally figured out the difference between the two of them shortly before we left.

The round-abouts which make a lot more sense and are easier to use than the four-way stops in Texas, where no one can remember who is supposed to go first.

The juicy cucumbers you can eat like Popsicles without cutting them, one bite at a time.

Red-clay tile roofs on many residences and more all the time.

Roof-top water heaters which make a lot of sense in a country with so much sun. And would be smart in Central and South Texas, too.

Sparklers on restaurant birthday cakes.

Ireland bound

Mrs. Charm departs this morning for the airport and a day mostly in the air (Austin to Newark to Shannon) for eight days in Ireland with friends from Kansas City. They’ll be staying out in the country towns of Kenmare, Doolin and Dingle.

Mr. B. and I will be roughing it, eating Kosher hot dogs and cold cuts and him his favorite TV dinners and EZ Mac. In short, we’ll be glad when she returns, full of tales about the rainy, chilly Irish weather, no doubt. In September!

Did you know that Ireland shares the same latitude (53rd parallel north) as Lake Winnepeg in Canada? Also parts of Alaska? Yup. It is that many miles north. Hundreds of them north of Texas. No wonder so many Irish have emigrated to the US. They came to get warm.

Mr. Boy’s first date

I didn’t see her myself. Mrs. Charm had the duty and drove him to the movie plex, way the hell out in Cedar Park. He told me she was someone he met at the J and I figured it was one of the two NJGs he was palling with at Camp Tiyul.

Turned out that was a lie. A 13-year-old-boy’s glib lie (rather like our current president who also lies glibly even if he only acts like he’s thirteen). Told his mother he’d met her through school friends. Not likely I said. School has been out for centuries, in relative adolescent time.

More likely he met her on the Internet, at one of the computer game forums he frequents and finagled her phone number and used the Face feature on his iPhone to check her out. And didn’t want to admit any of it.

Mrs. C. said she was pretty (which figures, 13-year-old boys rarely settle for plain), and somewhat demur if you discount the short-shorts that stopped at her crotch. She was not, however, exposing her midriff and/or her pubescent breasts and she has braces like he does.

But it took some wrangling of Mrs. C., who always puts the nicest face on everything, to come up with the detail that the girl’s father (who was there at the theater with her mother to meet Mr. B. and whoever accompanied him, all very responsible parental behavior, for sure) had an armful of fading ink tattoos in a neutral geometric pattern from shoulder to wrist.

Oh, well. That’s reality these days. He did drive a Suburban and they have two other children, which is unusual in itself, having three children, I mean. Suburbans are pretty common “large” family transport hereabouts, though they are more expensive to operate and maintain than a van.

What movie did they see, you might ask? Wolverine. Yup. I figure it was his idea and she acquiesced. The way women do at first, when they’re trying to please you, before you get hooked and they suddenly turn bossy.

So now, with the resumption of school only five days away and her living in Georgetown (miles north of the rancho) and so going to a different school entirely, I give their relationship a month more to run. At the outside. Even with the Internet and the iPhone.

My first date? A secret assignation in the woods not far from home which my parents never knew about. And which I would have casually (i.e. glibly) denied if they had asked. We got there on our bikes and sat and chatted. And held hands. No iPhones, of course, but I did meet her in school and she did live just across the privacy fence in the back yard and it was very easy to climb. Repeatedly.

The return of the skunks

No sooner than our wildlife removal expert admitted defeat, presented his bill and departed with his wire traps, we sighted two more skunks.

A week later, we see them nightly now, and have taken to carrying flashlights whenever we walk to and from the pool (no bees, this year, mercifully) in the back forty to avoid an unfortunate encounter. Except for the whitish stripe on their backs (actually grayish), they are black, after all, and fit in well with the darkness.

We do seem, of course, to be free of raccoons and armadillos, the expert having trapped seven of the former and three of the latter. No skunk smells yet, the original reason for calling the expert. But I have faith in fate. The odors will return and, then, so will the expert. Maybe if we keep him on salary…

Our phony justice system

Not because George Zimmerman was acquitted, which he certainly deserved to be, but because of the way the state of Florida tried, desperately, to convict him of something, anything, to keep the racists happy.

“…if Floridians are of a mind to let off a little steam, they might usefully burn down the Sanford courthouse and salt the earth. The justice system revealed by this squalid trial is worth rioting over.”

An all-woman jury for a male defendant? What was that about? Six jurors instead of twelve? What am I missing here?

Possibly that Florida was merely following the trend at the federal level, which wins more than 90 percent of its cases, principally because they hit the defendant with so many charges that the jury feels like it’s being reasonable to only convict on one or two of them.

It’s a record which, as Mark Steyn notes, certainly would impress the House of Saud. Only Kim Jon Un is likely to close in on 100 percent.

Our in-house editor, Mrs Charm, frequently reminds us that criminal justice these days is about plea bargaining and and not much else. Even Jimmy Carter knows our democracy is dying.

UPDATE:  Florida law says the acquitted Zimmerman gets his gun back. The feds, however, tell Florida not to obey its own law. Justice denied again.

MORE:  Meanwhile, our narcissist president (everything is about him) weighs in once more:  “If Trayvon was a white teen, he said, ‘both the outcome and the aftermath might have been different.’” The “show” must go on until the polls close in 2014.

Of skunks and snakes

Went out on the patio early Sunday (as in about 2 a.m.) to smoke a cigarette and got a glimpse of a big bushy white-n-black tail swishing around the corner of the house. Figured it was the skunk Mrs. Charm sniffed out the other day, or a member of the same family, anyhow. I left it alone. Never mess with skunks.

We also have big raccoons, opossums and armadillos now and again.

J.D., over at Mouth of the Brazos, however, gets the cold-blooded critters. For instance, what apparently was a “good-sized” Prairie Kingsnake advancing down his flagstone walk towards his flower bed and porch. Says he could tell by the shape of its head that it wasn’t harmful, but he stood up from his porch rocker and clapped his hands anyway which made the snake do a 180 and slither away.

All we ever see of the snake variety are pencil-thin, pale-green garden ones. Happily. If my only choice is skunks or snakes, I’ll take the skunks.