Google is after me.
After writing my third post Saturday, I received a warning that my blog has run afoul of the algorithm robots. (I shall henceforth view Fox's Sarah Conner Chronicles with deeper respect and fear.) I have been flagged as a possible spammer. I don't know what I've done to warrant this charge.
Hell, I don't even like Spam.
My sainted mother was a fine cook--mashed potatoes, corn pudding, pimiento cheese, chicken salad, stewed tomatoes (when she splurged on Ritz crackers and sugar instead of saltines). But when it came to some meat dishes, well there was some abuse involved. I never knew why people raved about steak until my sophomore year in high school. Our basketball banquet featured Swiss steak. A new world opened up for me--one which did not include fried steak ... or Spam. I have to hand it to Mother. She did try to dress the potted innards up with brown sugar.
Well, it seems I have not escaped these many years later: the Spam-intolerant now a "spammer." There is some poetic justice in this, I suppose. Thomas Wolfe has been over-quoted that "you can't go back home." It seems I've never left.
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