Lizzy runs this bitch.

A long time ago, someone told me “Every day, you see a cow.” I wanted to deny it, but in fact, I’ve come to believe it’s true. You see them on commercials, in pastures, in magazine ads, in kids’ drawings, in online stories and ads, on other people’s blogs, on kitchen towels, in art stores, in toy stores, in museums, on milk cartons or containers of sour cream, ice cream, cottage cheese, or even glue–they are FREAKING EVERYWHERE. And that’s okay with me, because unlike Gary, I feel great affection for cows. I’ll admit that at times I’ve been edgy when walking around a group of them, because they stare at me with those bovine expressions of theirs and I start to wonder, What are you up to, pretending to so placidly chew your cud? Are you planning a revolt against your oppressors and murderers?

(Full disclosure: Yes, I do eat beef. I’m fully aware that makes me a cow killer, and I frequently apologize to the cows and find that I’m eating fewer and fewer of them. Also, I attempt to atone for it in this feeble way: Having fed baby calves from huge bottles when I was a young’un and seen their sweet eyes looking up at me, I have never and will never eat veal. Your grazing habits may vary on either side of this fence; I leave it to you to pontificate about the meat issue on your own blog or journal. This is the journal of a guilty cow killer.)


I’ve shown you the herd of cows who graze here at The Compound. Recently in a four-dollar STEAL of some items I won in an eBay auction, my shipment included a random plastic cow.


Random plastic cow.

Ironically, the same day I received her, Lindsey and I took my Nikon out shooting, and our wandering led us to a junk store, where I found some steak plates that were also a steal, so I bought them. Seven hundred and thirty-five years ago, when I was in college and married to a different man, my roommate Debbie, who’s a tolerant vegetarian, bought us two steak plates. I still have them, but since there were only two, Tom and I basically stopped using them when Timothy moved onto The Compound. It would make me twitch worse than Bossy’s tail if two people used steak plates and the other used a regular plate. The steak plates Lindsey and I found were slightly smaller, but there were four of them in barely used condition, which meant I could serve SIX people a steak dinner on steak plates and make my table, as I told Lindsey, “Just like the Western Sizzlin’!”

Rhonda is one of those naysayers who is dubious as to whether we all actually see a cow a day. Naturally I’ve decided to make sure that she does whenever I have anything to say about it. So when The Brides joined us for dinner last Friday, here was my lovely table, set for five:


My lovely table set for five.

Sadly, I was drying my hair when The Brides arrived, so I missed Rhonda’s exclamation of dismay, but it was recounted to me later. HA.

Last Saturday, after the gym, I joined Rhonda, Lindsey, and Tom for a spontaneous lunch date at the fabulous Baba Yega (where I did not eat beef). As our meal was winding down, Lindsey randomly said, “Let’s go to Galveston.” Without hesitation, I said, “Yes!” because I’ve been wanting to go to Galveston FORever, and haven’t been since last year’s Hurricane Ike devastated it. But that’s a conversation for another post I’ll probably do on the anniversary of Hurricane Ike.

I came home from Baba Yega and packed my camera, tripod, sunglasses, and instant hand sanitizer–What? You don’t take hand sanitizer with you everywhere?–plus I slipped a few other items into my bag because if there’s anything I believe it’s my lot in life to do, it’s beat a dead cow on behalf of The Rhonda. And that is how I got the shot that provided the title of this post and should, in fact, be the title of a book and a blog and a TV show and a poem and a song because WHAT THE HELL DOES IT MEAN, ANYWAY?


Lizzy runs this bitch.

And because I’m always thinking of Mark G. Harris, J.K. Cowling stepped away from the camera and allowed Rita and Tamala to pose for this shot to send to Figaro.


L to the M, baby, L to the M.

29 thoughts on “Lizzy runs this bitch.”

  2. Having just subdivided a luscious 3/4-inch thick boneless chuck steak into serving sized pieces and placed them into the deep skillet for smothered swiss steak to be for dinner, I’ll refrain from any cowpuns this afternoon.

    Lizzy Runs This Bitch will never play in Coventry, but the cows will. Great title though.

    Reply

    1. Thanks. I took that photo last year in September when Lindsey threw herself on the railroad tracks and injured her ankle in Hermann Park. Maybe she was having a photo-envy fit because of my mad Monet photo skillz.

      Reply

  4. I like the steak plates. You don’t see those very often anymore.
    I too have pared back from consuming so much meat. I still enjoy it, but in moderation.

    When I see graffitied Galveston do I get the feeling that I am in a DMZ. I love that island to bits, but sometimes it scares the crap out of me if I think about it too hard.

    Did you name the cow Thin Lizzy?

    Reply

    1. AH ha ha ha ha. I read this and thought it was kind of random. And then about two minutes later, I burst out laughing.

      I haven’t been awake long.

      Reply

  6. As I was reading your post I thought “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a steak plate before.” Then when I saw the picture of them I realized I had, I was just calling them the wrong name. Big-ass metal plates.

    PS – I miss Figaro.

    Reply

  7. Aww… yo, and much L back to the BDG. : )

    For real, what the hell does “Lizzy runs this bitch,” mean??? (I love whispering to you in small type, as if the entire World Wide Web can’t see this little aside.)

    Reply

          1. Thank goodness she asked and you answered. I’ve been sitting here thinking that it took me two minutes to get Chris’s joke, but an hour later I was still trying to figure out BDR.

            Now it all seems so clear.

            Reply

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