Let Us Go Then, You and I ......

I want to be Julia Sugarbaker, among other things

2012-01-28T14:00:00.000-05:00

I'm completely obsessed with Designing Women. It comes on four times a day on the TV Guide Network, and I DVR every episode. I delete the later ones with Jan Hooks, Julia Duffy, and whoever that drag queen that played PJ was, but oh how I love the first few seasons. when Dixie Carter sashays through their office and just starts blasting someone for being un-PC, sexist, racist, etc....I miss Dixie Carter. And Delta Burke was priceless. And who wouldn't want to work with their closest friends??

I heard this morning that 8 or so sea lions were found shot in Washington state. What is wrong with people? How could you be such a jackass that a sea lion would make you shoot it? I mean, obviously, the sea lions weren't doing anything, these people were probably on meth, but, seriously...shooting cute little frolicking sea lions for sport? I'm not a tree-hugging hippie or anything, but I think crimes against animals deserve their own special punishment. They can't defend themselves. It's like when people hurt babies or little kids. I don't even like hunting, but whatever, if you want to get up at 5 a.m. to sit in a tree, shoot an unarmed animal, and pretend it's a sport, whatever.

People in power positions need to learn how not to be poopheads. I don't care if you're the manager of Burger King or the CEO of Google, you need to not treat suboordinates or imagined suboordinates like they're you're indentured servants. You can lose your position in the blink of an eye, so acting like a despot isn't going to help your cause later on...plus, it's jerky. If I were a boss, I would be the coolest boss ever. We'd have happy hour and a ping pong table and a pool. We'd work, don't get me wrong, but I firmly believe in working hard and playing hard, and happy employees make the most productive employees.

I think I'm going through early menopause. I am hot all the freakin' time. It could also be that my body was waiting for winter and since it hasn't happened, some sort of weird, hormonal thing is taking place as protest, I don't know, but as I sit here, my face is bright red, and I could easily and happily bathe in ice water.

Julia Sugarbaker:
Julia: Yes, and I gather from your comments there are a couple of other things you don't know, Marjorie. For example, you probably didn't know that Suzanne was the only contestant in Georgia pageant history to sweep every category except congeniality, and that is not something the women in my family aspire to anyway. Or that when she walked down the runway in her swimsuit, five contestants quit on the spot. Or that when she emerged from the isolation booth to answer the question, "What would you do to prevent war?" she spoke so eloquently of patriotism, battlefields and diamond tiaras, grown men wept. And you probably didn't know, Marjorie, that Suzanne was not just any Miss Georgia, she was the Miss Georgia. She didn't twirl just a baton, that baton was on fire. And when she threw that baton into the air, it flew higher, further, faster than any baton has ever flown before, hitting a transformer and showering the darkened arena with sparks! And when it finally did come down, Marjorie, my sister caught that baton, and 12,000 people jumped to their feet for sixteen and one-half minutes of uninterrupted thunderous ovation, as flames illuminated her tear-stained face! And that, Marjorie - just so you will know - and your children will someday know - is the night the lights went out in Georgia

Breathe in, breathe out, ignore the sirens if you can

2012-01-25T02:07:00.000-05:00

I had a tornado panic attack. I'm not ashamed of this, as in retrospect, the whole tornado, death, destruction scenario is very, very real in Alabama, plus I don't think it's weak admitting when you're jarred from sleep at 3:30 a.m. by yourself, only to hear that a tornado is headed straight for you, is terrifying. In April, the "Day of 1,000 tornadoes," I had to get in the bathtub, cover my head with a comforter, and tearily tell Smitty as he went to the guest bathroom, "I love you," thinking I might never see him in this life again.

We were lucky, and I emphasize lucky. That destructive tornado passed literally less than half a mile a way from our house, completely destroying structures in its path. We had no power for 27 hours, no cell phone service, no gas for more than 20 miles away, and total neighborhoods in our area were destroyed. I didn't think I would have to deal with this again until at least the spring. Nope...now, Smitty's living and working in Albertville, and I perched myself on the edge of the bathtub while trying to think about bringing the dogs inside and where to charge the phone.

The power went out, which is terrifying enough, but when it's pitch black outside, it's more so, and it brought back memories of squatting in the bathroom while a tornado literally passed over our house in April. Luckily, the storm passed over us and hit another area of Birmingham quite hard, but I ended up being awake from 3:30 to 6:45, when I had to get up for work. I slept for about 45 minutes, which intensified my apparent post traumatic stress situation I didn't know existed. I got to work, completely drained, and realized I was on the edge of tears. This only seemed to gain traction as when each caller had an issue and was nasty about it, I had to put them on hold so I could cry and take deep breaths. I said "Monkeys are fun; Smitty loves me," and took deep breaths, but it didn't work.

I finally dissolved in total tears and realized that I didn't need to interact with the public, came home and took a nap. I'm fine today, but I am not kidding you when I say, I can no longer handle tornadoes. I don't care where I'm living, I want a shelter. I will dig a damn hole in the ground myself, worms be damned, I cannot deal with tornadoes showing up willy nilly whenever they want, to scare the bejesus out of me. It's still too freakin' hot this January, which means more of this weather is coming, and I can't take the idea of constantly dealing with this with Smitty living 75 miles away. I am putting my foot down. I need a shelter or I want to move to Alaska or somewhere with no tornadoes..whichever is easiest.

The point is: I am not crazy...well, depending on your crazy spectrum, I may be, but I think it is okay to have anxiety when tornadoes occur, considering the last one made me think I'd never see my husband again. I'm like a dog with panic attacks who need storm Valium...is there such a thing? Give me a damn break, I'm dealing with a lot of changes, and I thought I'd be trapped in the bathtub.

I just don't know where to begin

2012-01-22T01:03:00.000-05:00

It's the new year...fake winter. I predict, based on no information whatsoever, that the end of Feb/beginning of March will be a bitch of a winter. It was 62 today with freakin' thunderstorms that reminded me of the April tornadoes. Did I mention that since the April tornadoes, if there is even the remote threat of a severe storm, I kinda freak out? I'm sorry, yes, I'm dramatic, but crying with a comforter over me BY MYSELF in the tub when the power zapped out while a tornado literally passed over our house and I seriously sang "Amazing Grace" in my head, when I hear sirens, see lightning, I wig out.

I was on my way to work at 9ish a.m, and the lovely (douchebag INFINITY) gentleman in front of me chose to drive 15 mph, and I could never pass him. Awesome. Every day, I grow more and more accustomed to not so much believing in my fellow man. My fellow man is dumb. Having worked at newspapers, I know that newspapers print at a 3rd grade level. That is stupid enough, but if you have the sheer joy of working directly with the populace, it actually makes perfect sense.

I am at a point, where I don't know what to do. I need my job and the money it provides, but I need something else for which to aspire. I think I should teach, and I think I need to earn my degree to make that happen. We have a house in Fultondale and an apartment in Albertville. Would you like to buy our house? It's awesome, and it would help out greatly......Que sera, sera...I'm trying to see the big picture, but I did not get married to see my spouse 3 days a week. I would suck right out loud as a military wife, and I don't intend to be a long-term wife situation, but, damn.....we need to solve this dilemma....I will write my book. Situation: Over. HA.....

Don't vote for Newt Gingrich...out

Edward Norton Gaither Smith, you're not going anywhere yet

2012-01-10T23:39:00.001-05:00

So, for those of you that don't know me that well, I have a dog named Norton. His full name is in the blog title; he agreed to take Smitty's name after much sniffing and treats, and I have had him since March '00. I got him at Animal Control in Huntsville, he's a total mutt, part Beagle, German Shepherd and Chow, and he is quite simply the most awesome dog ever. I got him when I was living in a house full of other dogs and just decided, in the way that you do when you're 22 and don't consider responsibility thoroughly, "I totally need a dog."

When I picked him out, he was with three siblings who looked almost exactly like him, but I was drawn to him immediately. He looked scrappy and seemed to exhibit the friskiest personality. I took him into a little room where they let me hold him to decide, and I was hooked. I put his paw up to the fence to tell his siblings that he was leaving, that I promised to take good care of him, and he would be loved. I think one of them sneezed on me and walked away.

Norton was one of my first real forays into responsibility. We had dogs growing up, but my dad was really the sole caretaker, the one that made sure they were fed and had their shots. We just played with them and did the fun part. The next thing I'm about to say is really, really gross, but when I first got him, he had worms. I had no idea what this was and thought maybe he had eaten spaghetti or a power cord. My roommates advised me I was incorrect, and being that he was my dog, I had to clean up the offending poo. I picked it up, disposed of it, and then ran to the bathroom and threw up. I made sure he had all his shots, I had him neutered, for logical reasons and for fear the patchouli hippies from Animal Control would sic a wombat on me if I didn't, and I house-trained him.

He has lived in six places in 11 years, has ridden with me back and forth from Huntsville to Mississippi more times than I can count, held his bladder the night I broke my ankle because I couldn't take him outside until reinforcements arrived (he peed for 5 minutes straight when he finally could), slept on my bed, rightfully sussed out the good/the bad/and the ugly where boyfriends were concerned, and stolen food from plates, only to make a "hhhahh" noise realizing it was too hot and flung it on the floor, just to name a few things...he's my furry little heart.

This morning, when I went out to feed him and Zoe, our hyperactive German shepherd, he started walking how I can only describe as sideways, like part of his body was numb, and then he collapsed and couldn't get up. I completely freaked out, called Smitty, ready to commandeer a dog ambulance, if necessary and then realized (or maybe Smitty rationally told me) that I needed to calm down, he's had arthritis, and give him an aspirin. I did this, begrudgingly went to work and worried all day, and came home to a perfectly frisky tail-wagging dog.

I'll spare the story of how when I let him out of the fence to let him in the damn house to keep an eye on him, which we NEVER do, he briefly ran away. I had to pick him up in the car after driving with the windows down calling his name like an idiot, and then carry him in the house, where he paced like an expectant father for an hour because he clearly thought I was up to something. I love that freaking dog. I'm not a child, I realize that pets die, and I know he won't live forever, but I'm not quite ready to let go of him yet. I had to let go of my father, I don't want to lose my dog, too. So, there.

I just don't understand

2011-12-13T08:47:00.000-05:00

This morning I was listening to NPR, yep, I'm "that" girl, and they were talking about the '12 election. I have almost actively tried NOT to pay attention to politics recently, as there are other things to worry about, and I know what a nutcase I'll be when the election is actually at hand. However, it creeps in or more truthfully, I can't really not pay attention. It's in my blood.

Specifically, they were talking about the New Hampshire primary and the Iowa caucus, which are really two merely symbolic contests, more than anything. Example, four years ago, Mike Huckabee won the Iowa caucus..who? you ask..that guy who has a show on Fox that looks like your sweet grandpa. But, NH and Iowa aren't giving up their symbols anytime soon, so..what are you gonna do.

Naturally, all candidates and media are in New Hampshire and Iowa, y'know, relating to the common man, which is so condescending when you think about it. When else do they give a whit about shaking hands and talking to Sally the Teacher about her problems? Politics really is so gross. Anyway, the media is out talking to locals, straw polling, etc.., and they spoke to a stay-at-home mom who said she liked Michelle Bachman, but wouldn't vote for her because, "Well, I'm a woman, and I don't really know that we have what it takes to be President. I mean, women probably really shouldn't lead the country."

Wow. I hope this person doesn't have daughters. It will be 2012 when this election takes place. Hilary Clinton was an inch away from becoming our last President, and we're still having this debate about whether woman can be President? So, we should teach our daughters and nieces and granddaughters, "It's okay to be whatever you want...to a point." If I had ever wanted to be President, by God, you better believe I would've run for (still may, hahah) President. Frankly, if I have a daughter and she wants to be a quarterback, I will tell her she can do whatever she puts her mind to. I really can't believe a woman would even say this. I'm guessing her self-esteem is not the greatest.

Also, what is this business with Lowe's pulling its ads from "All-American Muslim" on TLC, a show that is actually trying to show that not all American Muslims are out to jihad us. How does that teach any semblance of tolerance or willingness to learn about a culture that we really don't understand? These are the things we do, like burning a Koran, etc..that serve to demonstrate how intolerant we are of anyone that's different, that we are too ignorant to even try to get along. Sometimes, I'm amazed the Civil Rights Act was ever passed. We seem to have devolved as a country, which I find immensely terrifying.

The holidays make me a little nutcracker

2011-11-29T19:24:00.057-05:00

And the stress/happy/family-filled season is off! Thanksgiving was almost a marathon event with having Thanksgiving dinner with one family on Thursday and with the other family on Friday. We drove in to Mississippi Thursday morning and left Mississippi Friday afternoon. I miss being in school, where you have an actual weekend. I never thought about it until I didn't live in the same vicinity as my family, and now I feel I spend holidays in the car. And Smitty has been balking lately about letting me sing on road trips, so I don't get to get all that anxiety out in musical form.

Heard at Thanksgiving by my 91-year-old grandmother:
"When people here die, they move to Oxford."
"I guess I'll see y'all at Christmas, I might be at the nursing home." (the same nursing home on whose waiting list she's been since 2002)
"I thought I was going deaf, but the volume on my phone is just turned down."

I also found a cookie that had been living on the floor of my mom's kitchen God knows how long, uncovered leftovers in the refrigerator, a block of cheddar cheese you could use as a doorstop, and ants in the dishwasher. Ah, familia.

On another note, I set off the damn security system at home yesterday when I selected "Stay" on the key fob instead of "Off." Apparently, we set a code I forgot about, and while a mean little timer ticked down 60 seconds, I punched in every combination of numbers I could recall, and then "WAH WAH WAH," so that I had to call Smitty while this was happening to have the phone immediately disconnect so he could give me at least 3 combinations before I found the right one. Emergency averted. Alarm, one. Emily, zero.

I love online shopping. Oh, dear God, how I love it. I can remember being in college and literally buying my last two presents on Christmas Eve. I don't know why, but it used to make my mom so mad when I'd come in to spend Christmas Eve with them and have to spread out all my wrapping paraphernalia because I also hadn't wrapped anything at all. Now, I'm also a huge fan of gift bags, which require no wrapping and therefore, no mockery at my crumply, 5-year-old-esque wrapping job. I always liked to think it was charming and homespun to look at my wrapping, but is decidedly less so as I'm approaching my mid-30s.

My only holiday issue now is decorating. Smitty is out of pocket working a lot this season, so decorating (or not) is left up to me. I'm thinking of only putting up a few things, like the Christmas "manuh manuh" Muppet, and the stuffed dog that barks "Jingle Bells," stockings, and the glass lighted tree that we call the Dr. Seuss tree. That way, I still feel festive, but not like I'm sitting amid a sea of the inflatable Nativity with dark thoughts surfacing due to that super-loud noise they make. Does anyone put inflatables inside their homes? I really don't like them at all, in any capacity; I think because they look cartoon-y and speak to my weird phobia of exaggerated features, but I just wondered that.

The thing is, I like the holidays, really I do, the actual fire-burning, cheer-filled, kids being excited, fudge, OH MY GOD, fudge, that warm, fuzzy feeling Christmas gives you, and the times you look at your family and remember why you didn't kill these people when you were young and are thankful that you married into a warm, embracing family...and fudge.

"A perpetual holiday is a good working definition of Hell."
George Bernard Shaw

I am a screaminger, and I love it!

2011-11-17T13:19:00.000-05:00

So, I saw this skit the other night on "Saturday Night Live," which nearly perfectly describes me. One of the characters had lost out on a promotion, and her co-workers were taking her out to cheer her up. She stayed behind a little while to blast Adele's "Someone Like You," and wallow in self-pity for a little while. One by one as they came to find her, they wanted in on the crying action to relieve their individual stresses.

I did that frequently in high school. I had some old stand-by's, Jane's Addiction, "I Would for You," Nine Inch Nails, "Something I Can Never Have," and Harry Chapin's "Cat's in the Cradle," to name a few. I would be very sad and deep and write horrendous poetry in my journal until I felt I had suffered enough. Dramatic? Me? Noooo

Now, I am addicted to songs that I can really "sing scream" to...like Concrete Blonde's "Joey," (which is probably Smitty's least favorite song because of this), Pat Benatar's "Hit Me with Your Best Shot," and now my new favorite, Adele's "Someone Like You." And I'm sad because she had surgery for a throat polyp, which threatens her luminous voice. I feel sure she'll pull through. We big girls are tough. That was Amy Winehouse's problem..she needed to eat a cheeseburger, oh, and not smoke crack.

You know what I don't like, though? Incessant Christmas music. I feel angry when it takes over a radio station the week before Halloween. That's like a full 60 days of Christmas music. I like Christmas music, like the classics, like Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole, even Elvis, but some of the tripe they're playing is making Christmas music sad...and baby Jesus is crying.

Also, where did they holidays come from? Has this not been the fastest year ever? It's crazy. I'm looking forward to just relaxing family time..or is that an oxymoron? We'll give it a try...optimism...glass half-full...we can do it. (the royal we---me) I still feel an ache for my dad during the holidays, and I know that won't go away, but he would be really mad if it cast a pall every year. So, I won't let it. There are new memories to be made, and I have in-laws that welcomed me with open arms, so I'm blessed with two familes.

No progress yet on the knitting; I think this may be a Christmas wish, as everything is crazy loco nuts right now. Smitty fractured his arm moving some stuff, so he is only partially functional. I like to think my clumsiness rubbed off, but if something had to rub off, I wish it could've been something else, like the singing for no reason. I'd enjoy that. But I'm being "nurse-y" as best I can; that's not so much an innate quality I have. I make him take his pain pill if it hurts, although I have also been calling him "gimp," which is probably not as helpful.

You know what makes me happy? Baby carrots and balsamic vinaigrette...my goodness, it's a little sliver of heaven in your mouth.

I (want to) knit, therefore I am (will be)

2011-11-12T10:17:00.000-05:00

So, I spent a good hour in a fabric store in Tuscaloosa yesterday. My nephew is an angel in an upcoming Christmas pageant, and my sister is having a little costume made for him. God bless her, I would've just cut a hole for his head in a sheet and been done with it. However, I realized while I was in there, 1. There are some bizarre people that frequent a fabric store, and 2. My new goal in life is to learn to knit.

I've been thinking about it for a while when I heard a story on NPR about how knitting was seeing a resurgence with the downturn of the economy because people were getting back to basics and doing activities on the cheap. I'm simultaneously fascinated and terrified by the giant needles involved, but I think after I poke myself a few times, it'll be okay. It just seems like a really neat thing to know how to do.

I'm trying to figure out the best way to dip my metaphorical toe into the yarn game. I feel like a class or lessons would be helpful, but I also have a feeling I'm not going to be good at this for a while. I don't want a repeat of my Step Aerobics class from college that I ended up having to drop because someone asked me if I had inner ear trouble that affected my balance. I'm thinking a beginner's book, a starter kit, and You Tube are gonna be my keys to top-notch scarves, socks, and hats. I like the idea of being able to knit for my children, well, child, as I only plan to have one and actually have put thought into things that I make for others. Smitty says he wants some underwear, I dunno about all that, I think he was mocking me. That seems like a potential for a doodle to pop out unexpectedly.

On a completely unrelated note, I find myself looking forward to the holidays this year. I wasn't really into them last year since my dad had just passed away, but I'm actually ready for all the family time and treats and decorations. Thanksgiving is really my favorite holiday, largely due to not having to buy gifts. I detest shopping, and I like the idea of being thankful and stuffing your face with dressing and cranberry sauce. I once ate an entire can of cranberry sauce by myself. I'm not proud of that, mind you, but it's something of note.

I wish we were more thankful all year, though. I think it's nice to let other people know that you appreciate them. That's my personal goal, to let those that are important to me know how much I value their presence in my life. I've already started, in fact, but be aware, there may be a thank you headed your way. This also goes for my dogs...but they can't read or understand me, so I guess that's just an unspoken thanks.

Needing a sensory break

2011-10-22T17:12:00.000-04:00

Some things make me really mad. Some things mildly irritate me, but there are those particular things that cause irrational, spitty-esque, Yosemite-Sam anger. These are in no particular order, just as they fly into my head, making me ponder anger management classes.

1. Discussing politics in a clearly biased fashion with no regard as to whether it's appropriate or without any regard to whom you're speaking. Yes, I worked for John Kerry. However, I can discuss politics in a rational manner. In fact, that experience taught me to do so. It's incredibly interesting to talk with intelligent people who have different views. If people weren't able to do that, very little would get done, in fact.

But when I start to talk, and someone says "Obama's a terrorist," or something similar, we really have nothing else to say. Furthermore, if you say things that indicate that a. Democrats cannot possibly be Christians, b. Obama is a Socialist who wasn't born in the United States, c. All Muslims hate us, and d. Not supporting the war means you don't support the troops...we don't actually need to talk about anything...except that I am super glad we don't agree.

2. Meddling in other people's business. It's the age of the 24-hour news cycle, Facebook, Twitter, myspace...we MUST know what is going on with our friend, our boss, our sister's friend we've never met...that's fine, but when you're using online networking sites to just spy or stalk people for your own personal judgment...you got some issues..It's generally my experience that when you're oh-so-very concerned about what other people are doing, you're either lacking something in your life or avoiding your own little area. So...STOP it...or I keeeel you!

3. Any sense of entitlement. I've come to the conclusion, working in a customer-service environment, that we are in the economic mess we're in because we're far too dumb to handle our own money. Thus begat the housing crisis, and so on and so on. We are a country who has an average of 3 vehicles per household, and SUVs, which may as well just take money as fuel, are still very, very popular.

People, including myself, have no concept of sacrifice. If you are broke, don't go on a vacation. That one, I do follow...I'm not sure what a vacation is...But I get soooo tired of hearing reasons why people can't pay their bills. We may not be rolling in money, but we're not behind on bills. We have no concept of cutting back or budgeting properly. That's why most of our credit scores are horrible, and it's not like we're teaching great values to youngsters and little people..(children, not midgets)

Yes, eating out is nice, but you spend a ridiculous amount of money doing it. I'm actually shocked by how often people eat out when they're not making a huge amount of money either. Trust me, if I can learn to cook, anyone can learn to cook, and you literally save hundreds of dollars a month. it's crazy. Plus, you're not waiting 3 hours at Outback on a Saturday night with all the Alabama fans..or what have you..

My point is, don't say you're "broke" if you own 3 BMWs or eat out 5 times a week or took 4 vacations last year. That means you're "spoiled," and will come up with money to do what you want. That is our whole problem as a country. "No, we can't raise taxes," umm, people, you made $22,000 last year and took on a $2,000/month mortgage..you kinda helped cause this mess. If we accepted our limits and placed ourselves within those limits, the government, too, we can get back to where we're supposed to be. Ask somebody who grew up in the Great Depression about sacrifice. They'll call the lot of us major wussies.

There, soapbox complete for now. Enjoy the beautiful weather...it's free.

A sickly gal can't catch a break...

2011-10-18T09:17:00.000-04:00

Oh, how I love fall...football (weird, right? Thanks, Smitty), sweaters/boots, Thanksgiving, the possibility of snow and lying on a bearskin rug in front of a toasty fire..okay, that last thing may never have happened, but it could. However, this fall has kicked my allergy-shot, no immune system-having butt. Since there has been even the whisper of falling leaves, my whole head has felt like a giant bowling ball..and not the good kind, like in "The Big Lebowski," the cheap kind.

I literally slept about 30 hours this past weekend, trying to drug up and get better. All that did was make me sleepier. I take shots, daily allergy meds, stick bottles of salt water up my nose, chant to the monkey gods, leave an offering for the Mafia, nothing works definitively. As much as I hate needles, I would let Michael J. Fox ply me with them in the hopes that acupuncture might alleviate this constant inability to breathe and function.

I snore like a lumberjack now, thanks to my devious septum..that crafty little bugger is shaped like a question mark, and up to no good. Surgery is a possibility, but they can't guarantee with the litany of things I'm allergic to, that it will do any good. Therefore, no sharp objects are going up my nose. It's against my religion.

On a completely unrelated note, are there seriously going to be like 50 GOP debates? It's like watching a high school debate team made up of the kids no one wants to hear. I think the pizza guy is going to school them all. What an odd world it is. On that subject, the Doomsday guy who said we were going to have Armaggedon in May has changed his mind to say it will be on Oct. 21. I wish people would stop trying to predict the end of the world. There is no way any earthly person will know that information; plus, it clutters up my Facebook.

How to save a life and shoes

2011-09-30T03:06:00.000-04:00

I was afraid of my closet. The floor of my closet of what I now know was: shoes, shoes, shoes, discarded Mylar balloons, weird discarded 7 pennies, random socks, which Smitty has blamed me for months, whatever. My closet was a benign symbol, much like the malignant " Bayou Shark," I recently witnessed with Kristy Swanson on SyFy Channel.

I cleaned the damn thing out, gimme a break. I found books I forgot I owned , shoes I dreamed I had, and clothes that I am now too damn voluptuous to wear. I hate my stupid closet. It's like a time capsule, designed to end in tears. No, I no longer wear a size 8 in those pants that were mocking my semi-deliverance denial into cleaning out my closet altogether. I hate my closet, but I love it too, like a Jewish, guilt-ridden goy at this point......Oh, Happy Roshashanah.

I threw you out, inane Old Navy, "tank shirts," if you think you can produce a tank shirt that covers actual human breasts, give me a call...mine are spectacular...maybe you need an ad...When did Old Navy become Pedophile United? There are no clothes now that fit beyond puberty, barring a special order? My blog grows angry. FYI: I cut and dyed red my own hair. I like my weird, brassy, partially uneven red hair. What??

Things I can discuss in therapy

2011-09-26T19:46:00.000-04:00

My mother signed up for match.com. There, I said it out loud (sort of). Let me preface this by saying, in theory, I adore the idea of my mom finding a nice, non-creepy man to date or plan canasta with or whatever the dating seniors do these days. In reality, since I found this out, I can't get the image of spending holidays with someone named Gil or Stan who has ear hair and wants me to call him 'Dad' if I'm comfortable. (I'm not and never will be)

I have friends on match.com..my God, I went out with exactly two people I met on there, both creepy and clingy and professing eternal love on the first date. I do not have a good association with these digital matchmakers. Plus, my mom's trying to date! Hello, freaking out! I still have dreams about my dad almost every night, and I really don't think he would like this. Maybe I'll ask him tonight while we're flying with the Beatles.

I know I'm being childish. I guess it's akin to your parents divorcing. Eventually they would date, but my dad's only been dead for a little over a year. Plus, if I had been married 40-something years, I dunno that I'd be jumping back into it for a while. Also, don't people freak out when their divorced parents date/marry other people? I'd say right now, yes, I acknowledge some childishness on my part, but on the flip side, this is the first notion I've heard of my mom out on the town with a "divorced male, 60 years old," so I'm allowing myself some illogical immaturity.

Enough of that, or I'll have nightmares. Speaking of sleeping, I literally slept 15 hours last night. I woke up so disoriented, I thought I was still asleep or that I had died and my heaven was my bed, which is how I like to imagine heaven...my bed on a cloud where everyone I ever wanted to see again or meet hangs out and occasionally, we have karaoke.

I also experienced a bout of unwarranted hives all morning. It's not cool to get to work and suddenly have the urge to scratch every part of your body. I would request to be moved away from someone who did that, so I had to maintain, take a Benadryl, and try not to nod off while helping customers. It was a long, fuzzy puff of a day, and somewhere in the muddle, there was Chef Boyardee ravioli, which I am partially ashamed to admit I still eat when I can't find anything else to take for lunch.

"Mommies are just big little girls." ~Author Unknown

I do think "The Help" helps

2011-08-30T13:35:00.000-04:00

I finished "The Help" a few days ago, but I've been sort of processing what I want to say about it. First off, let me preface this as such, I,
as perhaps the whitest girl alive, (I'm almost clear) have no idea, nor would I presume to know what it's like to be black in any era, much less
at the height of the civil rights movement. Also, I somewhat agree with the criticism that it's slightly egotistical for a white affluent female
author knows much more than I do about the subject. For that matter, she and I, as white women growing up in Mississippi, would probably struggle to find common ground.

That being said, I thought it was a good book. Certain parts made me cringe and wish I had been alive during that time, as I like to believe
I would've been "Skeeter" or someone similar, trying to spotlight the often ill treatment of the maids that kept the South running. I will say
that I think reviews like "If you only read one book let this be it," are vastly overblown. This is no "To Kill a Mockingbird." I'm sorry, but
other than the fact that they are both books set in the South, the similarities end there.

I know there's been controversy surrounding the book and the movie about perpetuating stereotypes and keeping black women in the outdated state of servitude and complacence. After hearing all of that, I guess I expected something different when I read the book. I couldn't disagree more with the notion that it portrays black people unfairly. If anything, white people come out looking like complete buffoons and frankly, uptight bitches. I would've much rather hung out with Minny and Aibileen than Hilly and Elizabeth, although Celia would've probably been a hoot, too, until she drank too much and threw up on me.

I think the thing that reviewers outside the South might not understand is that, as a Southerner, even in 2011, some of us recognize some of these characters and their behavior. If you visit Macon, MS where I grew up, you'll feel like you stepped into a time warp. People there still use "help," and I can confirm in some cases, they aren't treated much differently than they might've been in 1963. I'm not trying to malign
the modern South, but race relations in the South are still about 50 years behind race relations elsewhere, and that may be the sticking point to remember.

I found the book fairly poignant about how different people from different walks of life can come together and change things.
If no other message is taken away, take that one. If that weren't the case, where would our country be? Would Barack Hussein Obama be President? Hardly. And who was his closest competitor for the Democratic nominee? A woman. That, too, would've been unheard of, but that's a different cause for a different day.

I know we can never be colorblind, we can also never be class-blind, disability-blind, or gender-blind, to name a few. But I think that at
least the discussion of these issues is a good start towards maybe going from blind to just myopic or near-sighted. That's my hope anyway.

I can bring home the bacon and burn it up in a pan...

2011-08-24T12:15:00.000-04:00

I am not domestic...I'll hold for those of you who know me to pick your jaws up from the floor. In my post-college apartment, I ended up throwing away dishes that had been sitting unwashed in the sink for over a month. My car once doubled as a mobile trash mobile, and when I did once thoroughly clean my apartment in anticipation of a gentleman caller, I pulled a back muscle.

Then, I met a hilarious, sexy, sweet gargantuanly tall man who found me winsome and charming, and I moved in with him to start marital bliss. Our first fight was over how the dishwasher was loaded, although in my defense, I still don't know what I did wrong. He cooked, he cleaned, he tried to ignore the pairs of shoes that were scattered in various places throughout our tiny apartment. He looked away when faced with my bedside table, that no matter where I live, ends up looking like a rat's nest (eye drops, lip balm, ponytail holder, book, phone, Jimmy Hoffa).

I would also like to preface this by saying I had NO chores growing up. Sometimes, I had to fold laundry and once I can remember raking the yard while singing a slave spiritual, but I didn't even have to make up my bed until I was in high school, and I still didn't do it every day. I was not taught cleaning skills, knowing when to clean, what to use to clean, and where to clean, that you can't just wipe around stuff, that you have to pick everything up in order to clean well. Also, was not taught cooking, unless you count heating pop tarts and boiling water so I could have my precious spaghetti. All cooking is self-taught...which is fairly evident.

I have:
1. Broken a plate by setting it on a hot stove eye
2. Set a plastic Pyrex lid on fire in the oven because I thought it was oven-safe
3. Cooked chicken that was not fully thawed, resulting in disgusting, bloody chicken that still haunts my dreams.,
4. Burned at least one pot with corn that wouldn't wash out due to not realizing you have to keep liquid in the dish to avoid this.
5. Caused countless smoke plumes, resulting in the smoke alarm going off to the point that we had to just keep it unplugged.
6. Misread cake directions and cooked a cake for the 8 x 8 size, but in a 9 x 13 pan, meaning the outside of the cake was delicious, but the inside was raw.
7. Most recently, broke our pizza stone, although I maintain I used it as directed, and maybe it was just "its time."

All that being said, I am never one to shirk away from a challenge. I am, in fact, the dish Nazi now. If you leave a dish on the counter, even if you're not done, I'll rinse it. I don't like for the kitchen to look cluttered at all, and if you don't rinse your dish, God help you.

Cooking: I will tackle you yet. I can cook, no really I can. I am in constant search of easy, simple recipes, and most of what I cook Smitty really likes. The turkey meatloaf was a big fail, and something I made called sweet onion spoon bread was like onion pudding, but other than that, I do all right. It's just a big learning curve, and I secretly want to go on a home cook reality show like "Worst Cooks in America" so I can learn some stuff. I also secretly know that would end in disaster once I got yelled at and threw a pan at Anne Crazy Hair, so I practice in anonymity.

Today, I have a pork loin in a crock pot with cream of celery soup. It's supposed to be creamy and delicious and ready in 7 hours. However, I have the number for Domino's handy.

"I cook with wine, sometimes I even add it to the food."
--W.C. Fields.

After while, Crocodile

2011-08-07T21:02:00.000-04:00

Today is my dad's 74th birthday. I raise a glass upward and know that he's had a day of fishing and Clint Eastwood movies and maybe only a brief nod (hopefully) to the fact that he is missed down here today. This is the second birthday of his without him here. I always think the day is going to be terribly depressing, but ends up being a day where I talk about the best memories I have of him and as long as I don't linger on it, it ultimately makes me happy to remember the kind of relationship we had.

Speaking of fishing, he taught me how to fish. I had my own rod and reel, in fact. I don't know how many afternoons were spent with him at various "fishing holes" in Noxubee County, in mud with bugs and heat and stinky fish water, casting and re-casting my line. I mention the conditions, because I cannot imagine doing that now, although fishing would still be fun maybe in a boat, but those were some of the most enjoyable memories I have. There's a picture he had on his bedroom mirror until he died, of my sister and I, in matching visors (oh, yeah....), and she's holding up either a fish or string of fish while I pose with my hip stuck out and my hand on top, like "America's Top Model....and Fishing."

He also taught my sister and me how to shoot on some of those trips. I remember thinking how incredibly cool it was to shoot a gun, and frankly, my sister was like a secret government sniper. She loved it and was a really good shot, and I mention this because when I think about my sister, sharpshooter is not the exact image that leaps to mind. Smitty has a really hard time picturing this, as I freak out about the guns he has in our house, but that has more to do with being terrified that one's going to go off accidentally and shoot one of our feet off...sorry, I have my peccadilloes. They include, but are not limited to: guns, bugs, sharks, cows, and hearing fingernails scratch on anything.

When I reminded Smitty this morning that today would've been my dad's birthday, he let me ramble about different things growing up, and all this stuff came to mind...:

1. Almost every time he left to go anywhere, probably until I was in my 20's, we had this exchange. "See you later, Alligator," "After while, Crocodile," "See you soon, you big Baboon," which is one of those things that is so silly at the time, but as I write this, is making me cry and want to hear his voice, which perpetually smiled.

2. Even when he was sick, really sick, including before he died, he worried about me. I had a toothache around the time he died that I totally blew off and turned out to be nothing, but he asked me every day, "Did you go to the dentist?"

3. He taught me to appreciate all kinds of pasta, particularly spaghetti, and at age 10, I could describe and demonstrate "al dente" noodles, explain that it literally means "to the teeth," and tell you that the flag of Italy is red, white and green, for the tomato sauce, the noodles, and the bell peppers. FYI, we are not Italian, have no Italian roots of which I'm aware, but much like the fact that he could eat his weight in shrimp, he could do the same with noodles. I got that from him, still will pretty much eat only spaghetti if Smitty is out of town and be perfectly content, and I think of him every single time I drop a noodle into boiling water.

4. He literally told the dumbest jokes in the history of the world. In his defense, he picked these up from friends and colleagues, but, wow...example...

"If cloning scientists work with figure skaters Dorothy Hammil or Nancy Kerrigen, the result will be an ice queen clone."

"Dyslexics of the world, untie!"

When I heard this, my favorite joke, and I told him, I think he was actually proud...

"So this pirate walks into a bar with a steering wheel in his pants. Confused, the bartender asks "Hey bud, why do you have a steering wheel in your pants?"
"I don't know" the pirate says, "but it's driving me nuts!"

So I've had my cathartic cry for the day, I've laughed remembering when I told Smitty about the fishing trip he and I took where he had to shoo the cows away from the truck (only in the South) before I would even remotely get close..(see above irrational cow fear), smiled contentedly telling Smitty how I always felt he was proud of me no matter what I did, mainly because I so resembled him, but how that does a lot of good for a child's, or adult's, for that matter, self-esteem. Thank God for that. I can still feel like I'm on a completely random path and the faith and confidence he had in me sustains me. And I can end today, a bittersweet day, not feeling sad, but blessed to have these memories and many more that remind me of how important he will always be to me.

This was our favorite scene from a movie to quote, ever....:
"You know, it was kinda like old squares in the battle like you see in the calendar named "The Battle of Waterloo" and the idea was: shark comes to the nearest man, that man he starts poundin' and hollerin' and screamin' and sometimes the shark will go away... but sometimes he wouldn't go away. Sometimes that shark he looks right into ya. Right into your eyes. And, you know, the thing about a shark... he's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes. When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be living... until he bites ya, and those black eyes roll over white and then... ah then you hear that terrible high-pitched screamin'."

"Jaws," the scene with Robert Shaw, Roy Scheider, and Richard Dreyfuss, where they're in the boat, hunting the shark and sharing drinks and war stories.

Blue roses...google Tennessee Williams, for God's sake

2011-08-03T23:18:00.000-04:00

No one really likes to hear about people being sick. Other than, "Oh my God, you have cancer?" and "You broke your ankle by tripping over a handicapped ramp?" (I did, indeed...a good story and a worthy explanation of why I don't wear any manner of platform shoes or spiky heels) I love my mother, but when I was old enough to understand what "feeling bad" meant...a. she was going through menopause ( I was a change of life baby), hurt for no apparent reason, and cried at me, like projectile crying, for my being born.... and b. my dad took great pride in taking care of us when we were sick. He brought us juice, soup, took our temperatures, gave the OK for us to nap if we felt like crap, and I follow this principle today whether I feel like crap or not...naps cure a great deal of things. Also, Smitty doesn't understand why I equate fever with grave illness...I thought everyone had mercury thermometers that you checked thrice daily when you were sick...apparently, I was mistaken.

I want to explain this: I am allergic to 24 of the 25 things for which allergists test you. I cannot use soap, body wash, gel, etc...or anything with perfume. I use Dove Unscented soap, which almost makes me cry, because I used to be a HUGE fan of all manner of scented body wash. I was a Bath/Body Works junkie, which I now pour into shampoo/conditioner because thus far, there has been no link between allergies and my hair products. I currently own 6 shampoos and 5 conditioners, just in my shower...I have a back-up 2 shampoos and 3 conditioners as well. It's sick..I'm the same way with lip balm, because so far, I'm not allergic to any lip balm, so I have like 7 back-ups.

My point is, and I require no self-pity whatsoever, but if you don't have these bizarre anomalies, you couldn't possibly understand. I, personally, would've called myself the "snotty kid on the playground," except I wasn't...at ALL, until I moved to Birmingham and enveloped their extreme brand of pollution. So, I take Allegra every day, and I take Nasonex every day, and I take 2 allergy shots every 5 days, and even doing all that, because my septum, the bone that separates your nasal cavities, is shaped like a question mark, I can still get sick as a dog in the middle of spring, summer, fall, or winter, it doesn't matter.

And, oh my God, how I try to be positive about it. I do not want to be a sickly person, but here's what happened recently...I went outside...just walked outside to look at the dogs, just to look, because the last time I played with them, because I love them and want to pet them, an immediate hive patch formed on my chest, and then my face got hot, and when I say hot, I mean, I looked in the mirror and my face looked and felt like I had spent an entire day on the beach with no SPF, and it didn't go away until I went to the doctor and had two shots and 2 prescriptions written for possible allergy and for possible rosacea.

So, I miss work for a few days because my face is the color of a cherry tomato, plus swollen to about its size + 1/4, which looks vaguely like Eric Stolz from "Mask." And when you try to explain to normal people who have normal immune systems and don't understand this sort of thing, I feel like they think I'm just kinda making stuff up. Look, until 6 years or so ago, I was never, ever like this. My only suggestion is that I am far too delicate for pollution...that's what triggered it. It's been a complete nightmare since I moved here...I blame it on marriage (not really...I fully blame it on Alabama, specifically Birmingham and Alabama fans)

But, look. I am completely serious. I can walk outside and have a weird hive thing happen. I can come into contact with chemicals and have a weird hive thing happen. I can have a doctor who won't listen to me prescribe a medication which will not only cause a weird hive thing, but will also cause a full facial swollen thing. I am not lazy, I want to work, I want to do work that is even with my level of intelligence, in fact, I am a remarkably hard worker with little tolerance for stupidity, but it seems sometimes that I am an island...like John Donne or Jon Bon Jovi...take your pick.

I would just like to say that Smitty and I appreciate your prayers and good thoughts to fling us upon the universe wherever He may find us useful, and I feel for one or more of us, that ship has sailed. I just don't think life should be this hard. And I know, before you match your strife to mine, which I also find a bit distasteful, we all have hardships. We all have physical issues and emotional issues and et cetera, et cetera, but I find the best thing we can do when confronted with others' issues is convey empathy, rather than engage in a one-up-man-ship with one another.

I will be the first to admit how I am wildly self-involved, but when it comes to those I care about, I will listen to you all day long, and I will not once say, "Oh, you went through that? You don't even know..listen to this...," because that makes things only about you and it belittles the feelings of those you claim to care about. I grew up with this, and if I ever display this behavior, you have my personal permission to call me on it. Life is not about any one person, and if you go through it only caring about yourself and your experiences, you've pretty much succeeded at only moving your purposes forward in life.

As a sickly, snotty allergic, ridiculous person, I don't ask at all, even remotely, for special treatment. I just ask that you understand or try to understand that I'm not just making shit up, I get sick easily, and I work and function through 75% of that, but the other portion, is where I feel like Death is daring me to get up in the morning because I have a 101 fever or because, recently, my face looked like Elephant Tomato Girl..I'm thinking of having T-shirts made. I find it ridiculous no one can say definitively that you're allergic to something or you have a freaky(new) incessant skin condition. I don't feel that bad in admitting none of this concerned me terribly until it got to my face. As I sit here, I didn't wear make-up to work today, my face feels like it's on fire, and if you hold your hand an inch away, you'll get a contact sunburn.

I do not at all ask for self-pity. I'm not dying, there is nothing life-threatening wrong with me, but I frequently feel awful. I try to make plans in advance, and the day of, I feel horrible, and I don't want to be a complete drag, so I cancel plans. Under NO circumstances, do I want to talk about what's wrong with me, so I make stuff up, which means if you really like me, we haven't hung out in forever. But no more....my new little pledge to myself is to engage with more people and at least let them know that it's not them....it's genuinely me..but I will change that...

"Smitty is bullying me into bed; he took away my wine. That was unnecessary.
If you're my friend, you know that I come from a place of love. I can't possibly police from where your love comes. If you're feeling guilty, you're free to speak to me about this hole I know holds you captive. Don't threaten me. I've cut your co-dependence off before, and I won't hesitate to do it again. You hold nothing over me, mother, ex-mother, and whatever you are now....severing this tie does nothing for your current position. Never forget that."

me, 2011

We all need a clown to make us laugh

2011-07-22T19:10:00.001-04:00

I'm generally an entertainment snob. Sure, there are the occasional Adam Sandler movies (Billy Madison is freaking brilliant) and funny voices and midget wrestling that appeal to my basest need to giggle, but for the most part, I'm fairly discerning. Smitty refers to it somewhat like this: "Oh, it wasn't nominated for an Oscar? Then Emily won't watch it," which is not really fair, I'm not that snobby, but you get the idea. Brief sidebar: How excited am I about the new "Planet of the Apes" movie? James Franco AND monkeys bent on destroying the world, but only because the world deserves it...it's like Hollywood created a movie based on a focus group of me. Add in Yoda voices, Al Gore as the President and the utter annihilation of anyone named Kardashian, Lohan, and Rush Limbaugh, and it's heaven on earth.

Nonetheless, with all this taste of mine, lately I've been glued to TruTV's reality shows like "Hardcore Pawn," "South Beach Towing," and "Repo Games." I partially blame this on the utter lack of good summer TV and for God's sake, don't tell me to read or enrich my life. I read a lot, and I'm enriched adequately. Trust me. All of these shows are visual showcases of human misery, and I am somewhat ashamed for watching them, but I am unable to stop.

If you're not familiar, basically they all represent rock bottom in some form or another. I saw a guy trying to pawn/sell a penis ring (who would want that, I ask), a woman who sold jewelry to replace the money she was given for bills that she lost gambling, only to go gambling again, a woman who left her poor dog in an illegally parked vehicle inside a duffel bag for TWO hours and then was stunned she couldn't get him back, rival tow truck drivers engage in fisticuffs....do you get the idea? It's horrible; I wish these shows didn't exist, so I wouldn't be drawn to them, but they do...and I am..

I look at it like this:
A. I feel much, much better about my station in life when I see this behavior.
B. In the current economy, as outlandish as some of this behavior is, we can all somewhat relate (except to the dog woman, she should be locked in a car with a bag thrown over her for two hours in the Miami heat).
C. It's just plain entertaining to witness others engage publicly in ways we would never, ever imagine actually doing, but have perhaps envisioned in a Walter Mitty-esque kind of way.
and
D. Some people just act like complete ass clowns when money comes into play. I adore money, but I'm not going to yell expletives at someone because they don't want to buy the earrings I bought at Claire's Accessories for $100. It's just common sense.

My 34th birthday looms like the guy in "The Crow," which I watched part of last night, which is not a movie I would recommend watching before bedtime. I guess when it came out, I was in high school, and it was very cool to be deep and tortured, but that movie is seriously depressing..but has an excellent soundtrack. Thirty-four...my parents had two kids by the time they were 34, not realizing that the best was yet to come..(ME). I don't feel 34, I don't think I look 34, but damn...34..I feel the need to adopt some Malawian puppies or live in India for 6 months or maybe just clean my car out and dye my hair. All of those things currently sound exhausting.

I have arthritis in my finger? Yesterday, I cut off my Barbie's hair and colored it with a Magic Marker.
Nightly I think about losing my remaining parent or my love having a cardiac arrest in his sleep, and I drift away to dream of recess and tennis matches and the time I was the Queen of Hearts in a parade.

I won a spelling bee and now can barely remember you have to be desperate to 'pe(e)' to remember the difference between words, and speaking of 'pe(e), I have to interrupt what used to be a constant slumber to assault my eyes with pre-dawn fluorescent light and curse the existence of soda and tea.

But my skin is clear and elastic; when I pinch my hand, it snaps back like a rubber band, not like my grandfather's used to gather and take its time to return to its position atop the bones. I can't be old. I can still stand on my head for five minutes straight. I'll show you if you want to see.

-- me, 2011

Where the day takes you

2011-07-13T18:15:00.000-04:00

As I was driving through Birmingham today, or as I like to call it, the Seattle of the South, on the 14th day of afternoon torrential downpours, I started giggling. I think I have a rare form of ADD, not one that requires medication or anything, but the kind that causes random songs to come into my head and therefore, out loud, and produce the most random thoughts possible.

I used to work at a newspaper; I worked there in total about 5 years, actually, and sometimes I miss it a lot. If you've never worked in news, either at a paper or a radio/TV station, it's not something I can explain. You work constantly, as the news never stops, you develop a camaraderie with some people and an intense annoyance and dislike for others (they know who they are). You also get silly a lot.

We used to constantly make fun of another local paper that apparently had illiterate 5-year-olds writing stories and editing copy. You could get wasted playing a drinking game if you drank every time a word was misspelled or there was a grammatical error, and the stories were almost all cheesy human interest with a handful of actual news stories.

What made me laugh this afternoon was this: We were reading over that paper's latest gem, a story about an old house that had been restored, but the lede (for non-news folks, the beginning sentence of the story) was "If this house had a face, it would be smiling from ear to ear." Seriously, that was the lede. What ensued was the following:

"If houses had faces and mouths, they'd say 'why did you paint me this color'?"
"If houses had faces, the house eats you when you enter."
"If you see faces on houses, you've got issues."
"If houses had faces, this one looks like Picasso created it."

You get the idea. There were more, but they either weren't as funny, or I just plain can't remember, but it made me laugh because even parts of that job were cruel and unusual punishment, parts of it were awesome, and I laughed and had more "work friends" than any other job I've ever had.

There was the day I proofread a story about an escaped criminal and the headline read "Convict on the lamb" with no hint of irony until I returned it to the writer with a picture of a lamb taped to the bottom of the mug shot we had. I had to have an ethical conversation with an employee who didn't want her divorce printed as part of legal information about how we didn't get to omit our embarrassing information and print everyone else's, and somebody removed her divorce listing anyway, and I made sure it was included in the next week's paper...can't imagine why she and I were never close...good times.

On a final note, through recent experience, I've discovered that "sexy talk" and the art of seduction should probably not involve two things I may or may not have done recently:

1. Compared one's self to "the kid from 'Mask,'" to refresh your memory, the '80s movie with Eric Stoltz based on the kid who had lionitis, the disease that made his head enormous and the bones in his face all mixed about...
2. Laughing so hard that you either spit....or snort....I'm told this is not sexy.

"The world is full of willing people, some willing to work, the rest willing to let them."
Robert Frost

Is that all there is?

2011-07-07T18:18:00.001-04:00

As I write this, I'm looking at my feet and the fact that, a. I need to repaint my toenails, and b. I've worn my Croc sandals every day for a week because I'm too lazy to search for other footwear early in the morning. Funnily enough, those two details embody my whole mood lately...what's the freaking point?

I feel I've been gypped somehow (by the way, is 'gypped' a racist slur toward Gypsies?). I should be more exciting and fabulous than I am on a daily basis. Don't get me wrong, I'm still pretty fabulous, but I think when I envisioned my 30-something life, it involved fame, a butler, and a car not made out of recycled bottles. Also, I pictured a better wardrobe, although part of that is my laziness and apathy toward being in shape. I want to be in shape, I just don't want to actually do anything to meet that goal.

Someone told me recently that if I worked out a lot, I wouldn't be sick all the time. That may be, I don't know, I don't see how working out would cure my allergies, but that's also like saying if I ate only salad with oil and vinegar every day, I'd lose weight. Yes, that's true, but I would also be working out and only eating salad. When people say things like that to me, I hear my dad's voice, chiming in with my inner one, saying, "Why the hell would I want to do that?"

I don't know, I feel as though growing up, I was promised some sort of exciting life if I did the things one does to get to adulthood....like there's a secret maturity prize no one can tell you about, (I speculated it would be a monkey or a pirate vacation) everyone gets it once they settle down, get married, etc...Let me clarify, this has nothing to do with any level of unhappiness in my marriage, but just in general, real life is pretty boring...dishes, what's-for-dinner, did-you-get-gas, it just goes on and on until one of you dies..or kills the other one..or until you have kids and then it's a different set of monotonous, mundane issues...

Maybe I wasn't inherently promised anything; maybe I misread the signs. Possibly due to an overblown extroversion and sense of entitlement as the youngest child, I expected impossible things. I thought by now, I'd be a well-known author, or a beloved, bad-ass English professor, or in a lesser plausible scenario, the wildly red-haired lead singer of an upstart indie band, sweeping college towns with a wardrobe of gauzy peasant shirts and a following of well-read, intelligent fans.

Alas, I answer phones for a living, the last thing I had published beyond this blog was probably in 2005, I watch episodes of "Monk" every night to lull me to sleep, if there are 30 credits required for a master's in English, I lack 28 of them, and I not only own, but wear a Snuggie when I am cold. Fifteen-year-old me would beat 33-year-old me to a bloody pulp.

Can you miss a life you haven't lived? Is there a version of you, living another existence, wishing for the life you have? When it rains and that feeling to which you cannot put a name emerges, is that a life not lived, is it regret or a dream that disappeared before consciousness? Or is it something else?

I woke up, drenched, in the middle of the night, and I forgot where I was. The smells were familiar, but a fear gripped and paralyzed me until I heard your breathing ebb and flow and coax me back to sleep. I once was lulled back to sleep with mechanics and traffic and the sounds of street yelling bouncing off the tops of cars and settling into the night, along with me.

No one can raise a family in the city, but they do, I swear, I've seen the curt, assured visages of those who grew up in the city, but they're scared, too.

We all are.

You can't change anyone; change is inevitable; fear change, but don't fear fear for fear's sake.

What the hell are people talking about anymore? I don't know. I can't think with all this noise and uncertainty. Let's go to sleep.

-- me, 2011

I've got a brand new pair of roller skates

2011-06-22T19:03:00.000-04:00

I've been neglecting my poor little blog; it's not that I have nothing to say..it's never that, as Smitty will attest, I've just lacked motivation or a truly brilliant stream of consciousness...

Also, per Smitty, I'm apparently not allowed to impart information that's too personal (refer to last blog where I announced his diabetes and my aching womb). We compromised; I won't mention his health issues, but I don't think my aching womb will be silent. I kid...mostly...we're not ready for that quite yet, but the number of people that are currently pregnant grows..I think the economy preventing society from going out as much is causing rampant sexual behavior. Perhaps our generation really will replace the Baby Boomers by repopulating them and then some..I predict Social Security to be saved right around my retirement...sweet.

I'm still smoke-free. I've had a few setbacks here and there, but I have been on the electronic cigarettes for about two weeks now, and I've come to the conclusion that they're the most brilliant invention since birth control and electricity. Now, I think they should create e-cocktails, e-fried pickles, and e-brownies. I haven't completely thought through the logistics, but I say, if we enjoy it, create an electronic simulation for it. People will buy it.

Speaking of smoking, I just saw the new, graphic labels that will be printed on cigarettes, and I find them ridiculous. First of all, they are far too incendiary to be put on a product that is sold out in the open, and second of all, smokers are going to smoke if they want to. Period. Take it from a person who once literally stuck strands of a person's hair into my nose to inhale the smoky wonder...it's not a casual addiction. Picture of a tracheotomy..no problem, you can get a Sharpie and create butterflies around the throat opening. I feel there will be a huge increase in the purchase of cigarette holders and cases so that you can simply throw away the attempted enforcement of morality after the fact and enjoy the slow acquisition of lung cancer in peace.

I'm trying to start psyching myself up for the '12 Presidential election.I feel it will be rife with shenanigans, as I know Sarah Palin will throw her bear skin in the ring at the last minute, and I am so excited for this. This is why I subscribe to Time. Except for every 4 years, each issue comes in week after week and mocks me with its intelligence, while I read about the Kardashians and Team Jacob vs. Team Edward in People and Entertainment Weekly. However, this I vow....once the presidential race heats up, I will use Time magazine as more than just a drink coaster. I will be knowledgeable, and I will inwardly mock....and outwardly mock, when warranted. I used to be smart and informed; I can get there again, I think. Yes, we (I) can!

A cigarette, my kingdom for a cigarette

2011-06-04T23:40:00.000-04:00

Smoking....oh, what an immediate gratification for something that is worse than than eating at McDonald's every day..I think, I dunno, I would never eat at McDonald's every day, but I've been a regular smoker since I was 14. It was totally a peer pressure thing, I won't lie, I was an awkward teenager with giant boobs and a minimal sense of social appropriateness. I wanted to talk about movies and books I had read, but 14-year-olds don't really want to talk about that kind of stuff. I wanted to fit in. At the time, both my parents smoked, so I wasn't averse to the idea, except that our house did smell like smoke all the time. I did what everyone else did.

Oh, how I wish I could've bucked convention like I did with most everything else at that point, but I didn't...I started smoking...I didn't even inhale at first, but was eventually taught how...the downfall....flash forward almost 20 years later....I have tried to quit smoking about 5 times. I hate that I do it. It makes me feel crappy, it makes me smell, it makes me cough, and it lowers my already compromised immune system. Also, I would want to smack my dad for literally fighting me for cigarettes after he had been in the hospital for breathing issues, and he would turn nasty, calling me one of the damn ungrateful daughters from "King Lear," because I wouldn't give him a True 100 after he was just disconnected from oxygen.

I vowed that I would not be so irrationally stubborn about my health as he, that I could quit whenever I felt like quitting. For those of you that have never been truly addicted to cigarettes and those of you that have, that understand this completely...oh....my....God.....not only do I have this constant edgy feeling, like things that would not normally irritate me, make me absolutely livid, noise, lights, stupid behavior...it's all there, picking away at my sanity bit by bit.....I wore the patch the first night, but I had the most disturbing dreams, that I can't sleep in it again, even though it helps, and the gum helps with those monster cravings where I would slit someone's throat in front of me if they had a pack of cigarettes.

Since Tuesday, I've had 3 cigarettes, which I think is amazing, and today, was put in a bit more focus, when dealing with Smitty's health situation. Smitty may have diabetes. He took his sugar a few days ago when he was feeling sluggish, and it was 378, which is crazy high. Mine was 101, which is good, but we are making some lifestyle changes. Funnily enough, we had already decided to quit tobacco as of June 1, which is what we've stuck by, but this sugar thing is a new development. We knew he was prone to diabetes, but I think we expected it to be later in life. It's fine, we will and can adjust, and he even pointed out the Folic Acid for me to take pre-pregnancy, so this has not derailed any plans of ours, but it does scare me. My dad was diagnosed as diabetic, and less than 15 years later, he died.

Granted, this was largely because he gave no mind to watching his diet or alcohol intake or any remote health adjustments, but I hear "diabetes," and I freak out...which Smitty does not respond well to...also, my freaking out is somewhat irrational even when I'm not quitting smoking, so, there you go...We will deal with it, as we deal with everything else, with a modicum of drama, but a majority of humor and coping, together....The most important thing to me right now is that we don't make a huge deal of nothing and that we adjust our lifestyles in a way that doesn't seem like we're stifling ourselves. I think we'll do it just fine, and I hope that it ends up being a weird blood sugar spike that doesn't necessarily mean diabetes, but may just mean, "Hey, Fatass Pasta Married People, are you kidding me? Watch it!"

All I know is that I can't let myself think about Smitty having to be on diabetes-related dialysis or something similar, not because I can't handle it, which I can, but don't want to, but because I don't want him to be in any unnecessary pain. I understand now, that what love means, is that I would gladly trade places with him, and take this health bullet myself. We talked about baby names today, and that is the sort of thing that makes me fill with a quiet content that I can't imagine not experiencing in 50+ years. Lord, I ask you, bless our family, and allow us to grow it as you see fit.

Smile at each other, smile at your wife, smile at your husband, smile at your children, smile at each other - it doesn't matter who it is and that will help you to grow up in greater love for each other. -- Mother Teresa

The night the lights went out in Alabama

2011-05-16T19:20:00.000-04:00

My poor neglected blog...I've not paid much attention to the blog for a couple of reasons. One, we were without Internet for almost two weeks, and two, I had to process everything that's happened in the last few weeks before I could write about it.

The tornado: First of all, Smitty and I were/are extremely lucky, and I fully recognize that, and by perhaps making light of my experience during the tornado, I do NOT take away from the tragedy of what happened. But I have to get it out, because making light or no, it scared the ever-living hell out of me, and I am so grateful we are okay.

We watched the storms progress through early afternoon in north Alabama and west Alabama, thinking we would most likely be fine, until towards the end of the afternoon. We watched, horrified, as a tornado literally formed onscreen in Cullman, Ala., and laid waste to their downtown area. Shaken by that, we still thought we probably wouldn't be directly affected until we saw the tornado headed toward Tuscaloosa.

I have never, ever, in my life seen something so terrifying outside of a movie. My sister lives in Tuscaloosa, and as I a. have no sense of direction to know where the thing was hitting and b. was hyperventilating at that point partially due to a., I freaked out. We watched, paralyzed, as the angriest, darkest, widest cloud of destruction cut a swath through downtown Tuscaloosa, and more hyperventilating ensued once I heard "and this funnel is headed directly toward Birmingham." I was able to find out my sister and her family were okay (thank you, Lord) right before we had to deploy our tornado plan.

The plan consisted of my getting in the bathtub in the master bathroom, while crying, mind you, and putting a comforter over my head while listening to the scariest radio weather report I've ever heard. Smitty went to the bathtub in the guest bathroom, and when he left the bathroom and we said our teary "I love yous," I kid you not, I thought I might never see him again. I cried and prayed and sang "Amazing Grace" in my head while it sounded like every tree in the yard was falling. I heard nothing but the radio and the noise of limbs, pine cones, etc...falling on the roof and in our yard. This lasted maybe 3 minutes and then it got quiet. I did exactly what Smitty told me not to do and came out of the bathroom before he came to get me and saw that the abject darkness had passed. So, I went to get him.

I won't go through the power outage and how we learned we should never been on any type of Survivor-type show together, because it's smug for me to complain about losing power for 30 hours when some people were left with nothing. I can honestly say with no sarcasm at all, that the experience changed me; I can't speak directly for Smitty, but I think it changed him, too. It's hard to focus on the things that tend to consume us when literally faced with God's reminder that, as my father-in-law says, "We are not in charge; we only think we're in charge."

It's so easy to complain, believe me, I know, but it's so much easier just to be thankful for the things in your life that are important: your family, your friends, all the love that surrounds you at all times..and focus on appreciating and making those areas better. The other stuff is the gravy, the peripheral, the Grey Poupon..the stuff you may want, but doesn't really sustain you. My Lord, I love my husband. Thank you for finding me worthy of him.

On a different note, due to our storm-induced cable outage, we also missed all of the Osama bin Laden hoopla. If not for Facebook, I wouldn't have known he was dead until that Monday morning. Apparently, I ruffled some feathers on Facebook when I posted, "Obama caught Osama. Sweet." First of all, I am aware that the military, in fact caught bin Laden, I am not a moron. Just because I don't go around sporting a yellow magnetic ribbon affixed to my car or know all the words to that song about putting a boot in somebody's ass who doesn't like America, doesn't mean that I don't support our military. In fact, I don't think they ever should've gone to Iraq...how's that for support?

Second of all, I'm pretty sure Bush supporters attributed the capture of Saddam Hussein at least in some part to Bush, even though Bush's military experience consisted of running away from the National Guard like a cross-country runner with his little satin shorts on fire, to the best of my recollection. I didn't/don't/and will never like George W. Bush, but even I gave him some props for catching Hussein...and I get snark and sass for being proud of the President for whom I voted being able to orchestrate catching the #1 criminal on the FBI's Most Wanted List.

Also, I would like to point out, had the military not initially retreated from the Tora Bora region of Afghanistan under Mr. Bush's regime in '02, we might've caught the guy then. Or, if we had not focused our military efforts in Iraq, which had no connection to the 9/11 attacks, it could've been a bit sooner than 2011. I'm just saying, you want to tell me Obama had nothing to do with catching Osama, neither did Bush, and it certainly wasn't for lack of trying to mess it up in the most colossal ways possible.

Finally, when did it become impossible to have civil debates about politics with even close acquaintances? Yes, I'm a Democrat, yes, I worked for John Kerry, and I voted for Obama, and I cried with joy when he was elected. However, I am capable of having a political discussion if it doesn't involve personal attacks, straw man arguments, and you actually know about what you're talking. Otherwise, it feels like I'm talking to children who argue by calling someone a "poopyhead" and calling it a day.

Also, and about this I'm so serious I had a dream I got into an argument with a really old man...since when does any party or person have a corner on the religion market? As far as I'm aware, Obama has never indicated not being a Christian, nor have any Democrats that have run for office in the past, oh, I dunno, 50 years, yet somehow there are these little digs at Obama about how he doesn't want to say "under God" or mention God. Did I miss a crazy Falwell manifesto? I'm a bleeding heart, yellow dog Democrat, and I am a Christian. I pray, I feel I have a good relationship with God that doesn't involve judgment and finger-pointing at others but love and acceptance and witnessing by being a good person, and I'm getting a little sick of hearing that I must be a Buddhist or agnostic or cat-worshiping nut, just because I don't go around wearing a "WWJD" t-shirt with my baptismal dress. Enough is a-freaking-nough. Elephants and/or Tea Partiers, whatever the deuce that is, don't own the Trinity, last time I checked.

"Intolerance betrays want of faith in one's cause."
Mahatma Gandhi

The tow truck guy and I

2011-04-24T00:11:00.000-04:00

In the spring of 2005, I bought my first car. I had cars before, but they were paid for my parents or just hand-me-downs by my parents, but after moving back from Philly in '05 and literally destroying the '97 Toyota Camry my mom gave me...(in my defense, there was salt from Pennsylvania snow trucks, someone stole my rearview mirror, and in a separate instance, hit me while I was parked)....the car did its best...and then after only about 3 months in Mississippi, poof, died. I sold it for parts for about $400.

So, I set about buying a new car. Keep in mind, I had terrible credit due to college credit cards and a job that paid well worth below what it should've....thank you, Columbus-inherited wealth. I bought, in '05, a '04 Chevrolet Aveo, with 13,000 miles at about $13,500, so I could have car payments at around $240. My interest rate, because of my terrible credit, was like 25%, which I had no idea was a bad interest rate, until I told Smitty, and this little thing in his head popped out, and we re-financed.

The car gets excellent gas mileage, like 36 miles per gallon, and I haven't had a lot of issues out of it...until the last few months. You could probably refer to a recent blog, I don't do the hyperlink thing, you either read it or you don't, where the radiator had issues, and I endured a commute with smoke billowing out of the hood. We had all that stuff replaced, plus a timing belt, all is well in Aveo land....until today.

I'm leaving work at 4 p.m., and the car made this weird noise like I ran over something. I clearly did not, so I kept driving. It wouldn't accelerate, and when it did, it make a clicking noise. Okay, Smitty is out of town, I just want to get home, so I say a prayer to make that happen. No, no, that is not to happen. The car completely died at the beginning of the on-ramp for St. Vincent's, which if you live in Birmingham, you know, is the worst place to have an incapacitated car. Did I mention Smitty was out of town?

So, 45 minutes after calling tow truck, tow truck man shows up, and immediately tells me to leave the keys in the car and get in the tow truck, because of the precarious location of the car. He ended up throwing a glove at a passenger bus because they wouldn't move over...Hell, yeah! He also gave me a ride home, which they're not supposed to do, but I think I was sufficiently pitiful and called the recent radiator hose replacement, the "radiator tube-y thing."

He also asked me some vaguely inappropriate questions about my length of marriage, his disdain for his own wife, pride that he had 5 kids, and a hope to find someone to carry more, to which I replied, "I only want ONE child, period, I think that's all I can handle." He said something about kids making the world go around, and I'm sure they do, if you get paid $105 for every person you tow. I literally have no idea if this was a hitting on me thing, as I NEVER know this sort of thing, but whatever...thank you for the ride home, and at least you weren't visibly scary. I don't like to play the Blanche Dubois card, but, oh, how I will, if I need to. Funnily enough, the people at the servicing place, who will eventually be footing this entire bill, since they used a faulty timing belt, also offered me a ride home. Apparently, the gal's still got it.

Losing sight of the fun in dysfunctional

2011-04-22T20:58:00.000-04:00

I've been told a few times by different people that they can't believe that I write such personal things on my blog, and if they were me, "they wouldn't tell anybody 'that.'" Well, it's my blog, which to my understanding, means I can write about whatever the hell I please. Also, when I do write my fortune-making novels, they will be thinly-veiled stories of my life experiences, so I tend to think holding things back in writing makes for boring and way less cathartic writing. Also, I can do what I want.

I find it interesting that you have to take a test to get a driver's license or a gun safety certification or to become a U.S citizen, but any crazy fool can have children and screw them up to the best of their ability. I'm am not a self-pitying person, really, I'm not. It bugs me when people blame their parents for their lack of station in life, or their substance abuse, or whatever, unless they're the child that New Hampshire teacher had with her student or Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love's daughter. In those cases, I'd say they were a little down in the parent lottery from the beginning. However, I think people make their own lots in life, and even those who come from horrible beginnings can end up perfectly fine, or functional, despite what hands they were dealt.

I say I'm scared to have kids for the weird physical things people post online that kids can get or eat or do, or the fact that I'm scared I'm going to dent that cushion-y part in their head before it solidifies, and those things are completely true, but I'm also terrified that I'm going to inadvertently, or just outright, screw up my genetic material. I'm talking Lizzie Borden or a new chapter to the Manson Family, just because I'll be honest, I don't have a truly functional reference guide.

If you look up co-dependency and narcissistic personality disorder, those are just a few of the things to which I refer, and I won't even name names at this point.

Co-dependency: Codependency describes behaviors, thoughts and feelings that go beyond normal kinds of self-sacrifice or caretaking. For example, parenting is a role that requires a certain amount of self-sacrifice and giving a child's needs a high priority, although a parent could nevertheless still be codependent towards their own children if the caretaking or parental sacrifice reached unhealthy or destructive levels. ( Pay super close attention to that last sentence, just my personal recommendation)

I will say this: there are certain things I will never say to my child, including, but not limited to, the following:

1. "You should be more like your (sibling, cousin, neighbor, etc...). It is not productive to make comparisons between your child and anyone. I plan to be my offspring's biggest cheerleader..not literally of course, I would look ridiculous with those little skirts, but whatever my child chooses to be or do or look like, that is their choice.

2. "You can't ________." Phooey. They can do anything they want, and even if they can't, I won't tell them. They'll figure it out, because I won't have dumb kids..um, kid, unless two shoot out of there at the same time. Seriously, don't put limitations on your children; they'll face that enough from the rest of the world.

3. This is not a specific thing I won't say, but if my child is ever in the hospital, sick, hurt, or what have you, I will not project my misplaced selfish drama on them. I've been scolded by a family member in the last 5 years while an IV was in my arm, and I was about 1/2 an hour away from surgery. As I gain more perspective, I don't really know why I care about this person's feelings, as they clearly do not care about mine.

Before I devolve into a Joan Crawford movie, I think I'll stop. I needed to get some of this out, this is what I do to keep from having the white coats take me away, and if you judge me for it, fine. Knock yourself out...literally. I will not, even more so now, apologize for being myself and making myself happy. If you're not happy, what's the point, and why invest so much time in such toxic relationships? I console myself with the knowledge that no truly successful writer came from a functional family unit...they also mostly died of alcoholism, but we'll just focus on the first part for now.

"Friends are God's apology for relations."

Hugh Kingsmill

Tra la la

2011-04-18T19:26:00.000-04:00

I'm not a negative person; I'm a sarcastic person, and there is a huge difference, in my opinion. However, I think I do get bogged down in the ennui of day to day life and the fact that we don't have a mansion with a pool and monkey butlers, and I get surly. That shouldn't happen as often as it does. On that note, these are things that make me happy:

1. Laughing until it hurts. Think about it; how often are you overcome with that body-shaking kind of laughter that makes snorts and tears emit from your person? Not often enough. There's something cleansing and almost healthy about letting out a guffaw until your sides ache. This can be achieved for me through: animals wearing people clothes, funny voices, and "Bob's Burgers."

2. Singing at the top of my lungs. I do it every day. In fact, I didn't realize that I passed by a certain place every day until Smitty pointed it out because, frankly, during my commute, I'm too busy doing my Carrie Underwood impression to pay attention to silly things like landmarks..I love it when I'm really belting out something and am completely oblivious to the person in the car next to me, until I glance over, and they're laughing..I like to think perhaps I made their day a little better, too..

3. Cooking. I never, in 5 million years, thought I would say that, but there is genuinely something cathartic about putting together a meal for those you love. You get to become a little scientist with ingredients and measurements and even improvise (I'm getting better) and produce this tasty meal and say, "Yeah, I made that. I freaking rock." Plus, the stress of the day just rolls off while you have your mind focused on not burning stuff..or that could just be me.

4. My dogs. Norton, who is 11, and Zoe, who is about 1 1/2, are the funniest two animals I've ever seen. Norton barks at imaginary squirrels to make us think he's super protective, and Zoe will forgo a steak bone if you'll just let her lick you..which, I don't. I wish she'd stop that, in fact. It took them a little while to get along, but now, they're like a little crime duo...with fur.

5. Smitty. Duh...the boy makes me happy. We've been married now nearly 4 1/2 years, and the good times keep coming. We've been through a bit with the usual things that marrieds go through, but there is no one I'd rather have by my side. I can be in the worst mood, and he can give me a look or do a funny voice, and that's it, tension dissolved. I could not be luckier than if I had designed my own husband, "Weird Science"-style with a computer. I keep thinking my mom paid him to "get me off her hands." I hope everyone is lucky enough to find someone who makes them this happy. It's rare to find a best friend that you want to see naked...I think...

A full-blown phobia, it seems

2011-04-13T23:11:00.001-04:00

I thought I would write a sentimental or maudlin post yesterday on the 1-year anniversary of my dad's death. It turns out, I wasn't feeling maudlin, and I was enjoying shrimp and a re-make of an old movie in his honor, so I didn't feel like writing about him. That's how I roll. I can write about him at any given time I choose, or I can remember him and connect with him in the way we would have, were he alive. I can do whatever I want. Boo.

In the meantime, my fear of bugs has grown to an alarming level. At 4:15 a.m., I woke up with a start. As I am nowhere near a morning person or an early rising person, I thought, "What the hell? Why am I awake?" Approximately, 4 times in a 10-minute period, it felt like a needle had stabbed me, in the left ankle, the right ankle, the left and right elbows, until I thought, "While originally, I thought I may've established the first case of restless foot syndrome, this really hurts." I got up, went to the bathroom to confirm 5-6 bites that looked like I had just gotten shots and were very itchy. I then went into the bedroom, turned on my night table lamp, and threw back the covers.

There, staring at me with a defiant look was Monty the Ant. I have seriously never seen an ant this big. I don't do bugs, and the only ants I recall are fire ants and wood ants. This little hooligan was as big as my pinky fingernail with a little actual hair. He looked at me as if to challenge my authority, and I scooped him up in toilet paper, but left the sample on the counter so I could show Smitty, since he did NOT wake up, so he could I identify if I were going to die from some rare Alabama ant disease.

This morning before I got into the shower, I unfolded my little friend, and there he was, all squished up, presumably dead. After I got out of the shower, I checked the Kleenex so I could show Smitty, and he had vanished. I looked all over the bathroom, as this was an injured ant with what I presume to be very little pep and vigor...no where to be found. Great. Smitty informs me had I crushed his thorax, he would have died and never made a break for it. I called him a nerd and told him to shut up.

So, for the day, I've been feeling twitchy hairs escaping from my hair, which is way overdue for a haircut and twinges and twitches from nothing at all, although I imagined Monty having curled up in my hairbrush and waiting for his time to shine. Logically, I'm sure he went down the drain or something rational to find water, but I am literally afraid to go to bed, because I feel, even though insects have tiny little brains, if you try to kill them, or they have previously attacked you, they will come back....like the bad guys in a Steven Seagal movie. And Smitty is out of town, which is perfect, because the damn ant didn't bother him....and now they can feast on their real target...

If I set Lysol around the bed, like a shrine, will that do anything? Or do ants get confused when you touch their little path, what if I literally draw a finger line around the bed? Seriously, bugs are my worst fear, and due to my lovely allergies, I'm itchy anyway so it's hard to distinguish the pyscho-somatic itching and the real thing. Do ants carry any lethal diseases??

The thoughts that knock about...

2011-04-12T00:17:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow will be the 1-year anniversary of my father's death. Damn. One whole year. In some respects, it seems like yesterday, and in others, it seems like 10 years ago. It affected me; in more ways than I admit, other than Smitty dragging unpleasant feelings out of me, it still affects me. This is part 1 of my Adrian Perry Gaither III tribute blog...(and frankly, I can do as many as I want...it's my damn blog)

I want to call my dad every day to tell him things like they're showing Elizabeth Taylor movies on AMC and discuss her life and tell him that I'm reading Marilyn Monroe's biography, and wow, what a trollop she was....and that I broke into hives on my arm, did he ever do that, since we share odd physical traits?

Do you know that he taught me the joys of riding in an un-air-conditioned truck in the dead freaking heat of Mississippi in a pick-up truck, with the windows almost completely rolled down, listening to Paul Harvey? And the fun of that were those were the days he took me to work with him at EMCC to show me off and take me to Brigg's, who made the best homemade French fries I've ever had, to this day. I was like 8, and met his friend Larry Salter, who taught psychology, and I said, "Psychology, huh? The ego, the id, it reads like stereo instructions, don't you think? It's tiring." First of all, I was EIGHT; second of all, I made a new friend for life.

I never would've known about the Smothers Brothers and the Yo-Yo Man or the complete odyssey of Elvis Presley, and I had the joy of having him teach me speech and English Lit, although, damn, he was a hard-ass. He critiqued my speeches ruthlessly, saying I "played with my hair too much," and he actually counted the times I said "like" and "um," damn smartass. He still gave me As, but I assure you, I had to work for them.

My mom asked me tonight if I realized tomorrow was the anniversary...it's funny, I'm terrible with dates, honestly, I'm horrible. Outside family, if I remember your birthday, you are gold to me. Otherwise, I'm useless with dates. Honestly, I'd forget our anniversary before Smitty would, but luckily, 11/25 is an easily date for me to remember. But, my dad's death, I will remember. I will do something tomorrow to commemorate, just for myself, if nothing else. I want to pick up the phone and call his snarky ass, and this is why I find death unfair.

Maybe I'm a woman child, I dunno, I don't think that I will ever be "over" losing him. We had too many memories and commonalities. He loved the ocean when we were little. I loved the ocean when I was super little, although one fateful summer day when were at Gulf Shores, it was raining, and we watched TV inside...Jaws 3...I have literally set foot past my ankles three times in 20 years as a result of that movie.

Further, the next day, the sun came out, and he was all about the ocean again. I refused...and he wanted a picture with me and my sister on our rafts. I had recently been given a kidnapping lesson at school, so when he tried to literally force me on the raft, I screamed, "He is NOT my father! I want to go home!" and those damn tourists completely ignored me, and there is a picture of me, forced on a raft, crying, but where it could be interpreted as really awkward smile. I made him regret that later.

We had a dog, Clyde, a black cocker spaniel, that my brother "gave us" when I was about 7. He was the sweetest dog on the planet. He was the best possible dog for kids, all he wanted was to be petted and loved, and we actually had him the longest we had a dog (prior to Mr. Norton, of course), and he got flattened in front of me and my mom one summer day by a grain truck, that not only saw that he killed the dog, but saw us reacting to him killing our dog, and he kept right on driving.

I saw my dad cry one of the maybe 3 times in my whole life when he collected Clyde and buried him in our backyard under a Christmas tree-esque tree in our backyard. He loved dogs and detested cats as much as I do, and it's funny, I feel like a part of his spirit of his stays alive in Norton, because of how much he loved him. They went to the post office every day, they attempted fetch, but Norton doesn't do fetch, and he genuinely kept my dad company.

I will leave you with a funny story, as tomorrow might be a dark, suicidal post..(nah, not really) I was really good friends in high school with a black guy named Romero. He and my boyfriend John were going to drive to pick me up for a movie. Not that my dad was ever a racist, but he never made things easy for anyone ever picking me up. So, John and Romero arrived, and I leapt to the door, "We're ready, I'm leaving, see you later," but he had to meet everyone. He had met my boyfriend John before, but he met my friend Romero, shook his hand, and said to him, "If you're cool with Emily, you're cool with me..." I wanted to die, while Romero and John were hyperventilating from laughter, and then he yelled, "She turns into a pumpkin at midnight!!" If I had could've crawled under the seat, I would've.

"Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever."

Author Unknown

The 80s and me..

2011-04-04T21:55:00.000-04:00

I'm currently watching "Karate Kid Part II" and thinking about a. There is NO Karate Kid unless it's Ralph Macchio and b. They just don't make movies like they did in the 80s. There were so many movies with an underdog and "the mean people." It was usually a glaring class sort of a thing; the underdog was poor, be it Daniel LaRusso or any one of Molly Ringwald or Anthony Michael Hall's characters, and the mean guy, who was always William Zabka, was rich.

I guess growing up in the 80s, I was 13 when 1990 came about, the 80s are where most of my cultural upbringing originated. Yesterday, when driving back from my sister's, I listened to Casey Kasem's Top 40 replay from April 1986..wow. It was full of one-hit wonders, Loverboy, and a long-distance dedication featuring Lionel Ritchie. Awesome. I mean, honestly, the movies and music were so cheesy, but you can easily tell from 30 seconds of either, from which decade it came.

My sister and I used to tape the Top 40 every Sunday, well actually, we had to physically listen to the Top 40, have the cassette tape ready to go, and record our favorite songs, including, but not limited to: "Right Here Waiting" -- Richard Marx, "Hard to Say I'm Sorry" -- Chicago, "What Have You Done for Me Lately? -- Janet Jackson, "Hold On" -- Wilson Phillips, and "All I Need" -- Jack Wagner. I kept a large majority of those tapes in a bag in my car until I bought a car that wouldn't play cassette tapes. It was awesome, hearing the broadcast before the actual song, and we would either cut it short or let it run too long. I bet my 9-year-old niece doesn't even know what a cassette tape is...*sigh* I'm turning into my damn dad...even more so...

On a different note, I heard a story today about black members of the NAACP being upset that Hispanics have been appointed as presidents of local chapters. A black minister in Worcester, Mass., said that "the NAACP was set up for black people, that black people have specific issues, and that their agenda would likely be hijacked by non-colored members being appointed to positions of power." He then likened letting Hispanics into the NAACP to the National Organization for Women letting in men. I'm sorry, but that is not the same thing. The NAACP is the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and I think trying to keep Hispanics or Asians or anyone of color from being an integral part of it isn't much different than racist whites interpreting "all men are created equal" to mean all white, free men. It's 2011, and I think everyone's "agenda" should be the same, and discrimination in any form should not be tolerated.

"We all should know that diversity makes for a rich tapestry, and we must understand that all the threads of the tapestry are equal in value, no matter what their color."
-- Maya Angelou

Those who make us Yosemite Sam mad

2011-03-28T21:08:00.000-04:00

I'm worried about a friend of mine. We've been friends for 15 years, and he periodically disappears and reappears and goes to rehab and gets okay and then descends into madness again. I'm pretty pissed, actually. I'm tired of losing people I love. It's funny, the people who come in and out of your life, who maybe at the time don't seem that significant, but who do have a pretty big impact.

I think addiction is selfish. There, I said it. My father was an alcoholic, and while he never laid one single hand on me in anger, it stole a part of my relationship with him. As close as we were and as much as we shared, I can't imagine what our complete relationship might've been, had that not been a part of him. I have had other issues with family addiction, which are not currently my story to tell, but they steal parts of me. The addicted person has no concept of their effect on other people, and I know this is a part of addiction, but that weakness makes me so angry, that I have a hard time coming to grips with it.

I've grappled with my own issues; I'll be the first to admit that I am nowhere near perfect. Alcohol has caused problems for me in the past, and I recognized it enough to metaphorically kick my own ass and pull myself out of it. I would never want to cause pain or suffering to anyone I love, and that is the thing that keeps me most grounded. I think that I don't and will probably never understand true addiction because I can't fathom picturing those who I love most so worried about me that it makes them sick or truly alters their lives.

It's funny the things that seemed commonplace or "okay" 10 years ago are most assuredly not okay now, when you have families and spouses and mortgages and responsibilities to consider. I have and do love some people that have deep roots in addiction and self-destruction, and it's literally like being stuck between a rock and a hard place. You don't want to turn your back and think you could've done something differently, but in truth, there's nothing you, singularly, could do to change a course of events.

For over 10 years, I've harbored a guilt that an ex-boyfriend I had reconnected with killed himself because I didn't answer a call the weekend that he shot himself. I thought it was cool that we were friends, but we needed to understand distance and what that meant, and when I didn't answer his call and was told 2 days later that he killed himself, I lived with, and partially still live with, the nagging thought that it's my fault, that if I had picked up the phone, I could've changed something or said something. If guilt were a talent, I could rock it at Miss America..srsly, I have a gift generally bestowed to the Jewish.

My point is, no one can make anyone do anything or choose a path or decide their fate. I am so worried about you, J.C., and I want to literally kick you in your ass, but you have to decide, in the words of the immortal Morgan Freeman (well, Stephen King, really) "Get busy living or get busy dying." For real. People with the talent that you possess are bound for greatness, you just have to find that opportunity, and I swear if you come out of this, I will cry with joy and punch you in the throat. I feel the Yosemite Sam anger rising....

Not in a state of yo

2011-03-22T21:03:00.000-04:00

I'm anxious. I've been this way for about a month now. I can't pinpoint what's causing it. I have a few ideas, but until I mull them over, I think I'll keep them to myself for a bit. Smitty says I share too much information anyway. That may be true, but as a writer, I genuinely feel I don't need to hide anything about myself. Yes, I walk into doors and fall into holes and wore two bras to work one day...that's the beauty of me...

I just saw a commercial for a Senior Citizen dating website. In theory, that's nice, although creepy. In reality, it brings to mind that my grandmother mentioned to my sister recently that my mother should "find somebody." It's been less than a year since my father died. While I don't begrudge my mother having another relationship, I think maybe more than a year should pass since your husband of 48 years' death before you start dating. And also, I would like to say for the record, this is not something for which I'm ready. If this happens soon, I will actually need therapy and will have to stop joking about the fake need for it.

Disorganized people can have children, right? I've been thinking about the whole "little person" (baby, not midget) thing seriously lately, and I worry. On the one hand, we always have milk and canned goods, and we have guns to fight against zombies and baby kidnappers, but on the other hand, I have sand in my car, and I don't know from where, there is a pile of at least 15 pairs of shoes on the floor in front of my dresser, and I think Jimmy Hoffa is in my closet.

Children need structure and order, but they also need milk (which we have) and maybe they need beets and oysters in a tin, which we also have ... for some reason. And they need creativity and imagination, which I have, in droves, and acceptance and love and unconditional support, but also a kick in their asses, which Smitty and I can both provide. I think we'll be okay...I just worry...these random things are the things that keep my neck in knots and cause insomnia and weird dreams and thoughts.

I think that Smitty and I balance each other out well enough to have ONE (only one) well-adjusted child. If you had told me 10 years ago I would marry a gun nut with more than a touch of OCD who lives for football season, I would've called shenanigans. But, I imagine if you had told him that he would marry a Noxubee County yellow-dog Democrat with no coordination who frequently runs out of gas and sings a soundtrack that ranges from Frank Sinatra to Carrie Underwood to Concrete Blonde to Sheri Lewis, and sings 80% of the words wrong, he would've guffawed and called his own shenanigans...but it works...oh, how it works. I internally give thanks every day for him.

I'm very excited to be on a reading dervish again. When my ADHD kicks in, I don't want to read, but I think recently, I need inspiration and a bit of escape..and I refuse to play any weird, role-playing games. I feel good things are afoot for Team Smittily. We'll see how it unfolds.

With the lights off, it's less dangerous, here we are now, entertain us

2011-03-15T22:39:00.000-04:00

I'm having a day where I just want to scream and shoot a loud gun at some cans or a target with Sarah Palin's face. For over two weeks, I am seemingly incapable of unclenching. I lost a job I applied for within my company, and I'm okay with that on the face of it, but I'm reaching an odd point where I feel if I have to hear one more sob story or blatant lie in the course of a work day, I'm going to strip off my clothes and start acting like a monkey.

It is approaching the 1-year anniversary of my father's death, and it really hasn't gotten much easier to accept that he's not available for me to call and talk about the Oscars or what Norton is doing or what he thought about the super computer kicking ass at Jeopardy. This has not been a great year for me since last April. I keep going through stages where I think I'm okay and then I'm sooo not okay. I don't want to talk about my feelings all the time, though, I really don't, so Smitty has (thank GOD) identified and accepted my pattern of denial, denial, denial, then teary breakdown and catharsis...I couldn't be more grateful to have that tall drink of water as my husband than if I were Charlie Sheen and he was a big bag of cocaine.

On a completely different note, Smitty is gone until Saturday, and I'm concerned. What if a snake crawls in the house, or I start a fire, or hit my head on a cabinet and become concussed? See, this is not cool. I lived by myself for almost 10 years and was relatively self-sufficient, although I did have a family of rats living behind my stove in one apartment and had "Fight Club" in the garage of a house I rented in college, although I had roommates...I'm just saying, clearly, I can function by myself, but when I get used to having Smitty around to rub the head I bang on the freezer and use the scary Japanese knife that cuts the onions the best, I feel unsure.

Seriously, I just miss the hell out of him. He is my best friend...go vomit if you like, and I like having him around. However, we do, in fact, need time apart. He needs to do family stuff and outdoor man stuff like fishing and talking about bears and Nazis, and I need my time to play games and sing karaoke and perhaps attend an 80s movie showing. It's the glue, people....

I need a creative outlet other than this blog...desperately. I'm thinking of trolling for local writer's conferences and collecting money on the side of the road for the registration fee. I have got to feed this crazy brain with something other than fluff and piffle. How fun are those words? Let me know if you have any leads...

I leave you with this:

"You'll get mixed up, of course,
as you already know.
You'll get mixed up
with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step.
Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life's
a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left."

-- "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" Dr. Seuss

The Westboro Baptist Church and when God hated Emily

2011-03-11T21:20:00.000-05:00

Sorry I've been AWOL the last few weeks. For the 4 of you that keep up with my blog, I'm sure you've been devastated. Sometimes, as a writer and a human being, I don't feel I have anything interesting to say. If I got paid to blog, I'm sure I could scrape out some bon mots in a hurry, but as it were, life and stress and headaches like Sumo wrestlers resting on my head intervened, and I went silent.

I've been following with amused detachment the cuckoo-kachoo Westboro Baptist Church in the news recently. This is the group of people based in Kansas who have decided to picket dead soldiers' funerals, because the war and/or the soldiers have something to do with homosexuality or the general loss of godliness. I'm not clear on the details, because these people are certifiable. I have, in fact, tangled with them before.

Picture it: Columbus, Mississippi, early-2002. A young, winsome girl is a plucky copy editor at a local daily newspaper. Alright, I was a cranky copy editor at a newspaper that paid me just above the poverty line...oh, and the Dorothy Hamill haircut-having boss I had treated me like something that she scraped off her shoe. Among my many genuinely important duties, I had to periodically check the fax machine. Heaven forbid, an important Rotary meeting or mayoral appearance fell through the cracks. One particular day, I pulled a press release off the fax machine, and in the boldest, largest font, it read, " Matthew Shephard burning in hell since 1999," with a link listed "www.godhatesfags.org."

I was absolutely horrified, and I forget why we were even receiving the fax. It may have been the year they picketed the University of Southern Mississippi for something inane, but my liberal sensibilities were shaken. Who were these people? Who gave them the right to invoke God's name in the name of hate? So, I went to their horrid website, saw more of the same, and immediately fired off an e-mail to them, something to the effect of "I don't know to what God you're praying, but my God doesn't foster hate and judgment and would never lend his name to a group as horrible as yours. You should be ashamed of yourselves." And then, as I always did, signed Emily Gaither, Copy Editor, Commercial Dispatch. Not because I was speaking for the paper, but because I wanted them to know why I knew who they were, and a title lends a certain strength, I guess.

Maybe about 12 hours later, we got a fax that said "God hates Emily and the Commercial Dispatch," with a press release detailing how they were planning to visit our city, picket the newspaper and also several local churches...why, I have no idea. Let me explain another thing, the managing editor and two of our reporters were gay. However, Emily was taking up the indignant cause of the rainbow at this particular point. Turns out, the managing editor was in agreement with me until she related this latest development to the executive editor/OWNER of the newspaper.

In short: He e-mailed or contacted these people, and what I like to imagine is that he told them I was a renegade, a rebel, a liberal with no connections, and I did not speak for the newspaper. I have to believe he must've also told them that he supported their wacked-out views, or they would've come anyway, but, whatever...Also, I was suspended from work for a day because I had nearly brought the crazies to Main Street, and at the time I was A. Extremely grateful for not losing my job and B. Extremely grateful I wouldn't have to explain to several news stations how these people had come to be in Mississippi.

In retrospect, had I had the boss that hired me, he would've welcomed the controversy, and I might've ended up on the national news, who knows, but I find it ridiculously amusing that the conservative nation as a whole is outraged by these people, who began, as far as I can tell, out of hate for a dead, gay teenager who never harmed anyone, yet endured the most awful, brutal hate crime since segregation days. They wouldn't have identified with that, which is bad enough, but when it comes to the troops, that's when we start to care. Personally, I like to believe that everyone's death is tragic, and one doesn't weigh more than the other.

Also, Westboro Baptist Church is batshit crazy. They're all related, they're all attorneys, and they know everything imaginable about the First Amendment. Smart, insane people...like the Unabomber...gives me the chills.

Some things to get off my chest...and my chest is big, so stay with me...

2011-02-23T23:04:00.000-05:00

I do not like being stressed. I try to pride myself on using humor and my inner monkey DJ and the other various frenetic things that run about in my brain to keep the stress away....but I have my days. Today was one of those days. I attribute it to the fact that even though I'm on my 89th course of antibiotics, they are not really helping me completely. I was brought up to think that once you had the "good stuff," the Keflex, the Amoxicillin, what have you, you will be cured. With me, not so much. I have basically been sick since September with brief patches of wellness nuzzled in places.

Here's the thing. No, I don't have cancer or something horrible, but constantly being sick with sinuses, allergies, associated migraines with those maladies, it gets really old really fast. I'm not an old person, I'm freaking 33 years old, and I can't make plans that far in advance because I can't say if I'll be well or not. I'm to the point, and I am totally serious, of telling my ENT to remove my septum, my adenoids, my ovaries, and my prostate. Take whatever will fix it, and it can't possibly make it worse. This is a bunch of shit...

On a completely different note, I think it should be acceptable...and encouraged to tell everyone exactly what you think. I haven't so much had problems with this before, as you that know me well, know, but it seems that actually calling people or dumb policies or whatever out, is not acceptable. It also seems that the dumb are rewarded and promoted while the hardworking intelligent are left to flounder and hit a ceiling, because people in charge don't want intelligent people to work with, they want sycophants and yes-men to enforce their inane policies.

I always thought, and was raised to believe, that intelligence would be rewarded, and being the best at what you do made a difference, but sometimes it's political, and sometimes it's the degree behind your name, and a whole host of other ridiculous notions. I want to interject that this is not remotely specific to me at all, that my hard-working high blood pressure-having husband has worked himself to near-insanity and has little to show for it at this point. I want a better life for us. I want for both of us to feel fulfilled and rewarded and at the level at which we should be. I want to get my ass in gear and write, because I want us to have a cook and a maid and monkey butlers. I imagined great things for myself at this age, and I don't disparage myself for current expectations lacking, but, to be honest, I didn't picture a husband in the mix.

I feel that we are working toward good things, and we are doing better than most people our age at this point in the economy, but we are both frustrated, for different reasons. It's a part of life and a part of genuinely growing up, I know, but I've never been patient before, so this is tough. I mostly want Smitty to be rewarded for the time he puts in and the care he takes, and his genuine desire for the job to be done correctly. I never realized that I would care more about someone else's well-being than my own, but I do. I swear, I would create a scenario worthy of Lifetime Movie Network if it would help him. He is the most diligent, hard-working human being I've ever met, and he deserves like a $5 million bonus for all the stuff he's done. Plus, then I could get my maid and monkey butlers.

An unconventional Valentine's...am I capable of any other kind??

2011-02-14T21:31:00.000-05:00

As I have recently mentioned, Smitty and I are not big on Valentine's Day. We subscribe to being loving all year long and not just one commercially-induced day of the year. That being said, we "celebrated" last night, making dinner together and gazing lovingly into each others' eyes..Well, actually, we made dinner together, watched our favorite DVR's shows, and then did some other things I'm not at liberty to discuss...but pants were off..

I have had HORRIBLE previous Valentine's days. In fact, this blog started after the worst one I ever had, where I learned it's best A. not to discuss commitment on your 3rd date, and B. if during that conversation, the guy tells you he doesn't want a commitment, for God's sake, listen. We're friends now, but we both still refer to it as the "St. Valentine's Day Massacre," because we did, in fact, break up on that date, even though we did eventually get back together...only to break up again. Hence, point b. mentioned above.

I began today by driving to work, having my engine nearly catch on fire. Here's how this was a dually-faulted situation: (Once upon a time....)

On Saturday, Smitty sends me a text asking me to check underneath my car because I had left drops of green liquid on the carport. I ask, "What would that be?" He tells me it's radiator coolant, which, if leaking in excess, will burn up the engine. When I left work, I forgot to check it, but the temperature gauge was fine, and he had told me he would check the car on Sunday. Fault 1: I didn't check it. Fault 2: He didn't check it.

This morning, about 75% of the way to work, while sitting at a stoplight, the hood starts to smoke. I don't know what happened, I froze. My only goal was to make it to work. I wasn't at a place I could pull over, and I didn't want to be late for work or have to have him come retrieve me from the side of the road. Plus, I didn't want to be on the side of the road like a vagrant.

So, I drove an additional 8 miles with smoke coming out of the hood and the tailpipe, and eventually, the interior vent, while praying that the car didn't literally catch on fire. It didn't, but smoke did continue to come out of the hood after I turned the car off, and I had to tell our security guard at work, "If a white Aveo catches on fire, please page me on the intercom." Seriously...

So, now, we have the part, not installed yet, and we don't know if the engine is damaged. Apparently, the hose that connects the radiator and engine has a thermostat inside, and that exploded...The dealership told Smitty it was made of plastic. So, I am entirely correct when I say my car is made out of plastic. How incredibly unsafe.

So, all is well, considering, and this is a perfect example of how Smitty is a paragon of patience when it comes to dealing with me. He wanted to yell; oh, how he wanted to yell. But he restrained himself, only asking, "Why would you keep driving with smoke coming out of the hood?" I gave him my aforementioned reasons, and I'm sure there was sighing and eye-rolling when he read my e-mail response, but I didn't have to see it. God bless that tall, patient man. He even took me to dinner, so technically, we celebrated Valentine's Day..that's how we roll...

"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning

Slip slidin' away

2011-02-11T00:50:00.000-05:00

I am a strange person. Yes, it's like a Strange Person Anonymous meeting, "Hi, I'm Emily, and I'm strange." I have weird physical issues, like being allergic to everything they test you for, sinus infections can quickly turn into pneumonia, flu, or strep throat for me because it takes at least 2 rounds of antibiotics to cure anything I have, just tonight, my left hand and the side of my face broke out in hives for no apparent reason, and any prescription meds tend to do the opposite to me that they do to normal folks. This really only started to happen about 3 years ago, and let me say, it is not fun at all; yet, I have to laugh at it or I would be on Thorazine.

Which brings me to....I'm kind of an emotional basket case. I suspect I've always been this way, but being from a family of basket cases, notice to my special brand of nuts may've slipped through the cracks. Also, while I have had numerous serious relationships before marrying Smitty, I may've dated some emotional retards who don't know the difference. Only recently have I started to realize my cuckoo-cachoo-ness.

First off, for someone who truly likes to talk as much as I do, I don't really like to talk about things that are bothering me. I think this hearkens back to no one particularly listening before and also not wanting to whine about my "feelings." I don't blame my parents for my messed-up communication skills, and I have no interest in talking to a therapist who wants to make them the main focus. Not saying they don't factor in, just saying that it's a complete cop-out to blame your parents for your issues....unless of course your parents are the Gottis or the kind of people that kept children hidden in the basement. That's a whole other ball of wax...(bowl of wax? what does that phrase even mean?)

Smitty is the best possible human being I could've married. Not only is he funny and sexy and just the cat's pajamas in so many, many ways, he "gets" me. He knows I'm struggling with things when I don't even know, and he knows what they are, when I'm not ready to put a name to them. He has a knack for knowing when I am ready to talk and when I will not be forced to talk. It's a beautiful thing, marrying someone like that, an actual "man's man," who is emotionally in touch enough with me to know all of those things that make my little squirrel-on-crack brain work overtime.

I've had this weird anxiety for about 3 weeks. I'm not sleeping well, I'm grinding my jaw constantly, am very fidgety, and eating everything in sight. It's kind of an anxiety/compulsion combination, and I, after Smitty cornered me to talk tonight, finally think I've got a handle on it. That is to say, I know what it is, and now, I just have to go about fixing it or developing better coping mechanisms. I'll say this and nothing else on the matter: "Family, you can't live with them; you can't borrow Lizzie Borden's axe to slaughter them." It's so silly; in some respects, I'm like a guy. Information must literally be dragged out of me, I don't like emotional conversations or conversations about "what direction we're headed," but then I suppose the girl part of me feels like a weight has been lifted once I actually get things out of my crazy mind.

I think that's because in most ways, we all just want to feel like we're not alone, and I know that I'm not, but these little reminders help reinforce that..and are constantly letting me know how lucky I am to not only not be alone but to be not alone with someone who can descramble my addled psyche when it needs it.

"Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy, you must have somebody to divide it with."
- Mark Twain

So, does rock bottom involve licking a CD?

2011-02-08T20:29:00.000-05:00

I had a strong urge for Janis Joplin this morning. I was yelled at last night for having insomnia, and I wanted to sing out any remaining hostility before I got to work. My really, really old Janis Joplin CD was, however, stuck to another CD by an undetermined substance. I'm pretty sure it was coffee, I hope it was coffee, because when the CD kept skipping, I took it out, licked it, and then remembered the sticky substance. On a bright note, I got to hear all of "Bye, Bye Baby" and "Mercedes Benz," which was the goal. If I start to lose vision in either eye, I'll probably have to take a sample of whatever that was with me to the ER.

So, I'm married, and I still think Valentine's Day is stupid. I think possibly our first V-Day as a married couple, we may have done a faux elaborate thing, but we are both pretty cranky toward it since then. I'm speaking for Smitty here, and he's welcome to argue, but we love each other, and we genuinely like each other's company. So, Valentine's Day is no different than a Monday to us, except for judgment from others when asked what we did, and we say "dinner made together and the naked Lambada." Yes, those are things we do all the time, so Valentine's Day is not a particularly unique day. I guess my point is, if you love and enjoy each other, you don't need a commercial holiday set aside to exhibit that.

Apparently, we're bracing for a massive blizzard of up to 2 inches of snow tomorrow night...SIGH. I love cold weather, I do. Fall is my favorite season, when it just starts to turn into sweater weather, but this winter is starting to make me wish for Easter and Cadbury eggs to come next week. My hair is a mass of static electricity, and the wind is constantly causing it to smack me in the face, my hands are so dry, they look like those of a North Country miner, and I've almost given up trying to keep my legs shaved. I shave them, I get chill bumps, hair grows back, game over. I grow tired....

I realized once I got home to change clothes that one of my socks was on inside out. I frequently put my underwear on inside out and don't realize until later. Srsly, is this normal? There's no history of dementia (well, that may be debatable) or Alzheimer's in my family, but I swear some days, I forget names of things I know, actors' names (and if you know me well, that's really something), once I wore two bras to work, and Smitty says I forget conversations he swears we've had, and it's a little scary that I don't remember. I'm being half-way serious, although I think when I forget those conversations, I'm only pretending to listen. That's a normal marriage thing, right?

"It takes two to speak the truth — one to speak and another to hear."
Henry David Thoreau

I bet neither of those people had a monkey DJ in their head or the deep Harry Potter questions I've been pondering.

What do I do?

2011-02-05T21:15:00.000-05:00

After roughly two weeks of the sinus infection that will not die, I believe to be on the road to recovery. Or as on that road as I get, a pox on my immune system! I've been in a marvelous, albeit disconnected mood -- this is the Zen Emily to which I sometimes refer.

We had a pregnancy scare, no fooling. I was intermittently nauseous for about 3 weeks and because I'm on the crazy, yet lovely Pill where I only have a hormonal visitor every 3 months, it's often sort of a prayer ritual to make myself "not with child." I have taken two pregnancy tests in two weeks, and the thing is, I was actually disappointed when they were both negative. Well, Disappointment: 60%, Relief: 40%. I guess in my head, I just wanted to plan for a baby so we're prepared, but honestly, how many people actually plan? So, the new plan is "whatever happens, happens," but I would really like to not be 40 when we have a baby. Jus' saying.

To that end, previously I've mentioned things at which I excel and other things...not so much. I am AWESOME at getting along with children...and dogs. They both love me. Why wouldn't they? I let kids have popsicles for breakfast, I can be very silly, and I adore coloring. On the other hand, when I actually think about having a baby, I imagine that I will hover over their crib, making sure they are breathing and when anything weird happens, I'm calling the doctor, who will probably eventually discharge us as patients.

I mention this, because today, my 3-year-old nephew Matthew wanted me to take him to the bathroom at lunch. He only wants to go to the bathroom to frolic away from the table, but when it comes to a gamble between whether or not he has to go or not, you don't really want to hedge your bet the wrong way. Therefore, he asked for me to take him, and I froze....he's a boy....my first male nephew was Drew, who already was potty trained when I came into his life, and I said, "What do I do?"

My brother-in-law had a field day with this. Granted, he really enjoys making fun of me, but, still. Here's the thing: I'm a girl, I've had nieces until Matthew was born, I don't have any children, and frankly, I didn't know if he would need me to hold his winky or what. I didn't want to scar the child, nor did I want to refuse to take him to the bathroom. Turns out, all he wanted to do was have me escort him, tell me the bathroom smelled, brag about his Batman shirt, and wash his hands. Sigh...I actually prefer to have a boy, because Smitty wouldn't know what to do with a girl, and frankly, I'd lock her in her room until she went to college, but, still...their boy "stuff" at that age is a bit of a mystery.

Oh, but when I smell their hair, and they hug me....I'm done. Does it freak you out, reader, the thought of Smitty and I being parents?? It freaks the hell out of me, but I still think we'd be good at it. I'd like to think that because we have such a strong love and mutual friendship for each other, a little person would only strengthen our bond. Ahh...content...

"A child is a curly dimpled lunatic." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Needs a band-aid supply, a first-aid kit, and soon, pre-natal vitamins...oooohh

2011-01-28T00:36:00.000-05:00

So, here's the thing. Sometimes, I don't eat responsibly. This is not so much a revelation as a rhetorical statement. Obviously, I don't eat that well. I'm creeping closely toward 200 lbs, and I am not proud of this. When I graduated from high school 15 1/2 years ago, I weighed 98 lbs, which was no more responsible on the other end of the spectrum, but still.

When I'm in a hurry in the mornings, and there are no leftovers to take for lunch, I will, indeed grab a Chef Boyardee treat. My favorites are ABCs and Meatballs, any form of ravioli, and Spaghettios with meatballs. In light of what happened today, I think my psyche or the cholesterol Muses are trying to tell me that 33-year-old women shouldn't eat pasta out of a can.

I heated the mini-ravioli in one of our poor, misshapen Tupperware containers that we use for tomato-based products, as they stain ridiculously, and waited patiently. When I pulled it out, because we've heated this container to the point that the plastic has shrunk and piece on the side has chipped, I burned the middle finger on my left hand to the point that I clearly said the F-bomb conversationally loud so that anyone in earshot heard. Immediately, a blister formed, and within an hour, atmosphere-sensitive pain ensued to the point that had to beg for a band-aid and explain the ridicularity. Sigh...

On a completely unrelated note, for about two weeks, I've been having random bouts of nausea. One minute I feel great, and the next minute, suddenly...BLEGGGGHHHH. That reminds me of my ex-boyfriend who once proposed to me over the phone while he was vomiting...touching, yes, but I did not accept that offer. I took a pregnancy test yesterday, and it was negative. As I explained it to Smitty, I was 70% glad it was negative, but the other 30% has been working at my brain for a bit. We are not currently "planning" for kids, but I think my uterus is starting to yearn for a little occupant. I know that I do want to wait as much as possible until Smitty finishes his Master's, but as my mother put it earlier tonight, "You don't need to wait too long. Y'all might need to get the show on the road. How old are you anyway?" Yes, I did say "my mother."

My brief freak-out thoughts yesterday when I blackmailed Smitty into going to get pregnancy tests in exchange to my typing his paper were, as follows:

1. How can we be someone's parents? I have to quit taking Cymbalta, and allergy shots, to which he responded, "If you stop taking Cymbalta, I'll rent an apartment for one of us, but we don't need to interact."

2. I can't smoke or drink anymore. That's fine, but I wanted to plan. I wanted to be able to say that was my last drink/cigarette, and now I'm making a temple out of my body or vaginal lily pad or whatever you do for babies. My point being, that I set the goals, not some Winston Churchill-lookalike.

3. When I really started to think about it, before he left to get the test, I said, "Holy fuck." Then I said, "You see, you can't say things like 'Holy fuck' when you have kids around, or at least when they're old enough to talk; I have no business being anyone's mother."

My point of all this is that I honestly didn't know that I really wanted kids that badly until yesterday, so I'm hoping to get all of my bad habits in check with my Ides of March resolutions so that I can healthfully conceive in the fall-ish. And let me tell you, fellow readers, boy will I need help. I so want to be a good parent, but I'm not entirely sure what that means. I want to, and will, raise children that are well-behaved, but that are free to pursue whatever makes them the happiest. You hear that, antechrist Tiger Mom? What the hell is wrong with you?

" Listen to the mustn'ts, child. Listen to the don'ts. Listen to the shouldn'ts, the impossibles, the won'ts. Listen to the never haves, then listen close to me. Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.
-- Shel Silverstein

Two days in a row; how'd the Interwebs get so lucky?

2011-01-24T19:58:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to make a concerted effort to update the blog more often. How long this endeavor will last is another matter, but let's give it a go.

I've recently confirmed, against my will, Smitty's assertion that people often "mess with me," because I give a trigger reaction, either returning the favor with a barrage of expletives or just engaging in a pointless back and forth until the other person is satisfied they've made me angry. Smitty has helpfully explained to me that this is a "Gaither" trait, because my people have to have the last word. Interesting theory...and shamefully, true.

Any argument involving any member of my family is an exercise in futility. Sometimes I view it as a war, meaning I must train, prepare, and head into battle with a logical game plan that must not be changed, or the carnage is multiplied. Logically, this works. In reality, something unexpected is said, and the game plan is destroyed. Grrr..

I'm really trying to work on, not just with family, how I react to things. I feel like it would save blood pressure spikes, being accused of having "PMS" (I simply adore that label), and a lot of unnecessary agitation. I'm not quite sure how long this transformation will take. I am, in fact, exercising restraint right now. No, really. A snarky comment was made to me by someone who has literally no idea about what they're talking and rather than respond with my first instinct, "F#$k your mother," I'm choosing to rise above it and visit my cave, a la "Fight Club."

The thing is, I think with these knee-jerk reactions, not only am I self-generating a tizzy, I'm usually arguing with people who are just not that smart, like Sarah Palin supporters. It's like being the sane person in a mental hospital. Yes, you know you're sane, but when those around you are making imaginary muffins and eating their shoelaces, does proclaiming it really matter? Not so much.

So, Zen Emily, I call you forth. I dub you my new method of dealing with things that are trivial and silly and completely inconsequential. In my head, I'm running through a meadow..only in my head, though, because in real life, I would be one giant hive if I ran through a meadow. No hives in Zenville, no dysfunction or snarkiness coming from unhealthy people. There is only sitar music and sunshine and monkey butlers.

“We can't be as good as we'd want to, so the question then becomes, how do we cope with our own badness?”
-- Nick Hornby

So, I killed a cop and got a headache..it's the Mafia way

2011-01-23T18:46:00.001-05:00

I don't play video games that often. Yes, I will play "American Idol" all day long, but I don't really consider that to be a video game, more like karaoke with a goal. Smitty plays a lot of video games. In his defense, he only plays an hour here or there when he has free time, but he plays "more" games than I do. We get games from Gamefly, which is Netflix for games, and I think I may've played two in the year we've had the subscription.

I've been in Gamers Anonymous for about 10 years because I used to turn into a psycho when playing games. When the Playstation first came out, I can remember holing up in my dorm room when my roommate's boyfriend lent us Crash Bandicoot. I literally skipped an entire day of classes trying to beat the game, which I don't think I did, and she made me stop and go outside because it was "unhealthy" or something. I did the same thing with "Abe's Odyssey" or some game where you were this alien worker thing that had to set all your co-workers free before they got turned into Taco Bell meat or something.

I remember when we got Nintendo. I was about 11, because my sister was still living at home, and I set my alarm for 3 a.m., got my Barbie flashlight and sneaked downstairs to see what Santa brought. When I saw the Nintendo, I woke my sister up, scream-whispering "We got Nintendo; we got Nintendo!" And I really do miss Atari. I don't care what new, fancy games they come up with, nothing beats "Frogger," "Pitfall," and "Kaboom."

My point? Often I have no point, but today, I do. Smitty got a game from GameFly called "Mafia 2." Perhaps you've experienced my soliloquy on how awesome I find the Mafia. I had a brief, fleeting idea when I moved to Philly, that if the campaign job didn't work out, I would become a gumar (mobster's girlfriend), because there is actually quite the active Philly Mafia. Alas, I did not. For one thing, the campaign job did work out, and for another thing, when I actually saw alleged Mafioso, they were quite different from the Hollywood version. Imagine Tony Soprano with about 100 extra pounds and an excess of sweat and hair grease...so, I decided to get my Mafia fix only through "Casino" and all things Martin Scorcese.

I digress; I just spent 2 1/2 hours playing "Mafia 2," where you get to beat up and shoot cops, be a gun runner, fix up really sweet cars for your getaways, and whack people named Fat Freddy. Other than the fact that I can't drive on those games, and it's one of those where you have to move your point of view every time you walk, and I can't quite get that down either, it's great fun. I got to shoot an Irish gang with an Uzi in a distillery. However, Smitty can't understand why my hand-eye coordination is so bad, and kept yelling instructions at me, which only made it worse, as I kept forgetting which button did what, and finally I had played so long, the game and his instruction-barking gave me a headache.

But now I have a taste for blood lust and the underbelly of the law. That's right. Not only do we have new games to buy now (Mafia 2, and obviously the original Mafia...also, there is a Godfather game which I now must have), I sense a renewed interest in my old Italian pals. I have a book written by Donnie Brasco's children and one written by Henry Hill's children about growing up in the Witness Protection Program, we have a Sopranos cookbook and every Sopranos episode ever made on DVD, and I sense a ricotta pie or homemade meatballs coming while we watch "Goodfellas." Salute!

My underwear is being held hostage at a UPS facility...

2011-01-17T20:24:00.001-05:00

There are things in life that I highly anticipate: my birthday, our anniversary, 3-day weekends, that first glass of wine from a new bottle, and last, but not least, the Victoria's Secret semi-annual clearance sale. On a somewhat related note, if something is twice a year, it's "semi" annual, but "semi" is not really a finite measurement. I understand "bi-annual," but that means every two years, so why don't we have a better prefix to indicate twice a year?? Also, what's the deal with "lie" and "lay?" There are far too many conjugations of that verb set..Okay, I am done with my tangent.

How ever many times a damn year they do it, I love Victoria's Secret's clearance sale. This is largely because that is the only time of year I can afford their lingerie. I think that it is insane and part of a right-wing conspiracy that a good bra costs around $45. However, I don't actually order bras via mail due to the girls (my boobs' nickname) being so finnicky and particular. They have to be courted and wooed and measured before they'll agree to any satin or cotton companion. What I do enjoy ordering via mail is VS' 5/$25 or $7/$30 underwear. They make really good underwear and that way, I can force myself to throw out old underwear that I keep for some unknown reason. But after a nasty incident with the Salvation Army in Philly, I know not to donate underwear to charity. In my defense, it had not been worn and was a mistaken shipment involving thongs; apparently they still don't want you to donate it. Don't even get me started on thongs. If someone gives me the whole "you get used to them" speech again, I will counter it with, "Okay, then you wear glasses that aren't your prescription for a week. You'll get used to them."

I placed an order almost three weeks ago and didn't really think much about it until the snow and ice drama had ended, and I thought, "Hmm..I wonder where my order is." Turns out because Atlanta was nearly completely shut down for almost a week, and everything, be it airplane, package, or auto-tuned singer, must travel through Atlanta before it can get to anywhere else, my order is in limbo. I got an e-mail apologizing for the delay, a promise to refund my shipping costs, and a vague reassurance that my order will be here before next Christmas.

I understand; obviously, these things happen, but for some reason I got this image of my underwear surrounded by items in bigger packages threatening them. They have little knives and guns drawn, and dance fighting breaks out while they try to defend themselves and keep their quality intact before they can arrive. There's the striped pair in the corner rocking back and forth, obviously in shock, and singing "Let My People Go." But the red pair in charge of morale, is keeping spirits up and making sure hope stays alive. I'm confident they'll be here eventually. I pray for their safe arrival.

So, I cannot get the song "Islands in the Stream" out of my head. I heard it on "Saturday Night Live" the other night, and all I can hear in my head is "and we rely on each other...uh-huh..." The duet thing was huge in the 80s. For example, around Christmas, Smitty and I heard "To All the Girls I've Loved Before," with Willie Nelson and Julio Iglesias. Basically, this was a ballad about how many women the two of them had slept with...EW. I love Willie Nelson as much as the next person, but when I actually thought about the lyrics of the song and in my mind's eye pictured him and Julio Iglesias with a bunch of Aqua Net-ed women from the 80s doing the naked lambada, I felt a little sick. Try to get THAT image of your head. You're welcome.

Shatner......is.......tired.....of......the.......ice

2011-01-13T20:16:00.001-05:00

Smitty has taken to calling me William Shatner in the last couple of years due to a verbal tic where I pause for no apparent reason while talking. I thought he was making it up until recently when my cube mate pointed out that it sounds like I've forgotten my name every time I answer the phone. Apparently, it was "discussed." So, I've picked up the mantle and run with it, as I like to think it gives me character.

I love cold weather, really, I do, but when every time I leave the house, I feel as though I'm taking my life into my hands, I'm over it. Our back stairs have remained a solid sheet of ice since Sunday night. Have we met? I'm not graceful. I fell into a hole in the yard and tore a ligament, I trip over carpet, walk into doorjambs; I don't need extra obstacles in my path.

And even if I make it safely to the car, then I have to contend with the dreaded "black ice" and the knowledge that my fellow motorists are not that bright. Everyone drove really slowly and cautiously for two days, and despite the fact that there is still ice hiding on the roadways, they have now taken to slamming on brakes, edging into my lane, and not letting me merge off the part of the highway they couldn't sand. I put on my hat with ear flaps and gave my most pitiful look to one guy until he let me merge. I'm sure he thought I had missed the short bus, but the Aveo doesn't handle ice well.

Also, I determined the number of days that Smitty and I can spend in one place together is 4. After that, we resort to a certain level of primitive/Cops-like behavior where a fight could break out over the remote control or the last piece of cake. At one point Tuesday, I envisioned myself standing over him with a club in my hand wondering how we got to that point. We dearly love each other, don't get me wrong, but we need our outside-the-house time...like, a lot.

It's funny, when you're little, snow/ice days are so much fun, and now, after the initial "huh," it gets old pretty fast. Plus, we're trapped like the guy in "Misery" anytime it ices over due to our deathtrap-like driveway, so knowing that you can't go anywhere is also kind of a bummer. I remember a time when I was younger and it iced over, my dad made the brilliant calculation to back his '77 powder blue Chevette down our monster-hill driveway. It promptly drove off the side of the driveway, which is where it stayed for about 36 hours. I remember him being extremely pissed and us laughing, which caused further pissiness. I was not allowed to mimic this feat. Smitty wouldn't even let me attempt to walk down the driveway while he checked it...(see above mention of gracefulness)

On a completely unrelated note, I've been thinking a lot about this Arizona shooting for some reason. I think initially I was just irritated that Sarah Palin would put sights on a map of opposing politicians. I'm honestly not saying the shooting was her fault, but I think that very action is a perfect example of how completely "off" politics has become. No one really wants to become moderate, no one really wants to try to see the other's point of view. It's become "let's follow the loudest one or the one that's on TV the most because that must mean they're right."

The people who opposed Obama were never going to give any of his ideas a chance, and the same will be true if/when he gets re-elected, and the same will be true of the next President. I used to be so immersed in politics, that it's all I could think and breathe, and I genuinely am so disgusted with all of it, that I consciously try to block it out now. Even when I try to have conversations with friends, some of the things that are said make me lose respect for those friends, and we're never going to agree, so I've resolved, more or less, not to talk about it. I don't even have to respond to what's being said, and I get called names, or the negative rhetoric about Obama is the first thing out of the gate. I can be in church, of all places, and the message is basically, if you're a Democrat, you couldn't possibly be saved or religious or have a relationship with God. That one really infuriates me.

My take on it is this: A. I'm not interested in arguing; actual, constructive debate is what is needed by everyone, and B. I'm smarter than you, so just stop. (partially kidding on that last part) But I will say, that I purposely restrain what I could say to avoid sinking to their level because I don't see the merit in attacking another person, strictly based on their point of view.

Snowpallooza '11

2011-01-09T22:31:00.000-05:00

I love snow; I don't care if it causes my place of business to close, I just love snow and winter weather. This is one of the main aspects of Philadelphia I loved. There was actual winter. Yes, you would freeze your ass off, but you would know, by God, that winter had come and gone. I dug my car out in Philly about 7 times in the one winter I was there, that I think was actually a mild winter. My favorite memory of that winter was walking to the bars with my friend and eventual roommate Rachel, meeting up with some folks, and watching her snowboard down the main street of Conshohocken (I cannot remember the street name) looking like a badass. Then, we hot-tubbed in the snow, which is utterly awesome. It's freezing outside, but you're in this awesome hot tub that you don't want to leave. Ahhhh.

To me, snow brings out the child-like delight in all of us. Even if we have to go to work if it snows, we love to see an actual blanket of snow. Maybe this is South-restricted. I know the first time it snowed when I lived in Philly, they projected about 6 inches. If they projected 6 inches of snow in the South, everything would be closed for 3 days. In Philly, when that was projected, I said, "Ooh, a snow day, " and was laughed at and patted on the head like a little kid. They don't close anything unless it's a freaking blizzard...hence, digging my car out on numerous occasions to go to work...booo

All day, I've been having bizarre hot flashes due to probably being off Cymbalta and then back on it, plus I have fever from something. It's sad, but I generally assume on any given day that my nose is completely stopped up and that I have a little bit of fever..That's how I roll.

I've been walking around outside periodically in Uggs and shorts so I can cool off; I hope by the time I go through menopause, they can discover a way to curb hot flashes, because I cannot deal with them. I will have to sleep in the freezer. I digress....

I tried to envision a '10 blog. It didn't quite happen. 2010 is the year my father died, and I had to learn how to exist in a universe without him, I got to spend time with some of his dearest friends, which I enjoyed so much, I learned that you can't live in denial about some people, no matter how much you're pressured, and how my family, Team Smittily, me and Smitty, is the most important thing to me in the world.

I don't make New Year's resolutions because I find them to be trite and a little bullshit-ty, but in the following year, I would like to become more healthy (this does not include deleting wine from my diet), learn how to deal with toxic situations in a more productive manner, and write, write, write. I need to get published or be somewhere that people can see that I'm Tina Fey + David Sedaris. Can you imagine if they had a surrogate child?

As snow and ice accumulate everywhere around us, I sincerely hope that we don't lose power, because I kid you not, Smitty and I will either kill each other or resort to behavior that will end up on the news. Because as romantic as lost power and such would seem, as a married couple, you can occupy like an hour of a power outage with naked shenanigans, and then you're just freezing and bored, and when the other one starts to breathe on you, you want to punch them...and pray for power and cable..

I leave you with our song, "Chasing Cars" by Snow Patrol:

All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see

I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

And the new year starts with a bang, not a whimper

2011-01-07T00:43:00.000-05:00

I have been experiencing a case of blog block. I haven't seen a cure that wouldn't cause a 4-hour erection, and nobody wants that. The holidays brought so many emotions out of me, that I think I haven't been able to express myself without being wildly all over the place. How that's different from any other communique with me, I don't know, but I've felt unfocused.

Part of that has been due to the fact that I went about 4 days without Cymbalta. Through no fault of my own, in fact, it involved theft, I ran out of Cymbalta before my refill could be processed. Do you know what it costs without insurance? About $340. Not only is that utterly ridiculous, it made me think about unemployed people who suffer from depression that don't have insurance. Not all of those people have the luxury of sitting on their asses while someone supports them...I have to change topic slightly before I unleash some Jerry Springer on the world...I will say this and leave it at this; my dad used to say constantly that he and my mother could not have imagined creating three more different children. And in most ways, he wasn't necessarily proud of this fact.

My brother-in-law had surgery on Tuesday. They found a tumor in his throat, which they are 90% is benign, but we won't know for a few days. For a period in November, another doctor told him it was malignant, which made this surgery all the more nerve-wracking. Most of you that have known me for a while have heard me talk about Gib. It dawned on me the other day at the hospital, that essentially he's been my brother for 16 years, and I've probably known him for 21 years or so.

I remember one day when I was about 15, my friend Bebe and I and my sister and Gib were going to the Country Club or maybe we had already been, but Gib wanted to show off in front of us, so he picked my sister up over his head and squatted like he was doing that crappy exercise all coaches make you do like you're sitting in a chair with your back straight....anyway, he did this, and ripped the back of his swim trunks, like wide open...he turned red, ran away, and we all died laughing.

I'll fully admit, we did not always get along, I got on his nerves, he got on mine, but in the last 10 years or so, we've settled into a brother/sister relationship. I'm sorry to sound callous, but I consider him more of a brother than the brother I actually have. And so while at one time, I might have thought it weird that I teared up when they told us he came through the surgery fine and was being moved to a room, after the last year of loss and hurt and heartbreak and coming to terms with the fact that you can't will people to care about you and understand what you need, I'm not really surprised I was tearfully relieved. I have a strong support system that works for me, and he's a big part of it. Plus, my niece and nephew are like my siblings almost, and I don't want to see them suffer either. So, the horrible part is mostly over until we get the biopsy results, and I have faith in God that he has a plan that doesn't include my sister losing the heart of her family.

On another note, I think I understand why depression and suicide rates spike during the holidays. It's not the people who are alone, it's the rest of us, the ones with straight crazy running through the leaves of our family tree. When people say I'm a pessimist or that I'm negative, I eventually find that amusing, because if you knew what I know, that I genuinely root for things to have a positive outcome, and when they don't, I'm crushed like ice in a frozen margarita, that I am in remarkably good spirits for someone who's experienced some of the things I have. I will never understand why those who are supposed to love you the most are the ones with the greatest capability of destroying you.

I don't really make New Year's resolutions because I don't agree with setting myself up for failure and making stupid self-improvement goals that if I need to implement, I should've made in May or August or whenever, but I make these commitments to myself:
1. I will figure out how to better cope with stress and shut out the toxic personalities that stalk me
2. I will become healthier; I will NOT become a crazy exercise junkie weirdo, but I will eat better and exercise when I want to, doing what I want to, and I believe that feeling better and being healthier will naturally follow. It's not rocket science.

So, there, thank you for allowing my wildly erratic blog to start off 2011. Sometimes, I just need to write.
And from my deceased partial namesake:

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all. "
-- Emily Dickinson

She never mentions the word addiction....in certain company....

2010-12-30T22:54:00.001-05:00

The other day, Smitty said he was addicted to a brand of popcorn we get at Wal-Mart. I can't remember the name, it's in a red bag and in the chips aisle, but it is quite spectacular for a bagged treat. They have white cheddar (my personal favorite), movie theater butter, cinnamon (BLECH), and buffalo-flavored, which is so spicy, it makes my throat hurt. Nonetheless, I thought for a bit about the word "addiction."

It posed the question, "what am I addicted to?" Anyone have a spare Trapper Keeper? Seriously and honestly, I'm addicted to caffeine, nicotine, lip balm, Facebook, and having the last word. Yes, I drink alcohol, and I've had my share of unfavorable alcohol-fueled moments, but if someone said if I took another drink, I could die, I'd have no problem stopping that. As a child of co-dependency, what I have is a problem with self-control and overindulgence. Luckily, I've had a couple of wake-up calls and a monumentally supportive husband that keeps me from going cuckoo cachoo, and destructive addiction is not a problem for me anymore...unless you count a delicious food addiction and an aversion to exercise..but I don't, so shut up.

As the child of an alcoholic father, (I love and miss him dearly, but he was) I've had an up-close relationship with addiction and co-dependency, and unfortunately, that cycle continues. Sometimes, you don't notice these things until you have a little distance, or until you get some free, well-needed therapy, which I am unashamed to admit I've had.

Besides familiar experience with this, I have had friends I dearly love and have more in common and a more loving relationship with than members of my family struggle with addiction to the point of near death. And I've cut myself off from those people until they got help and demonstrated an actual change in their lives. Then, I let them back into my life. And thank God I made that decision to let them get help without my enabling, and thank God, they got the help they needed, and if they need a vital organ, now, J.C. or B.T.W., bail money, or a sympathetic ear, I am always available to them. Those people are among my best friends and people that I love unconditionally because they had inner strength to ask for and receive help.

However, there's always the flip side and when it comes to family, complication ensues. Bottom line, a family member has stolen from my parents, my sister, and myself most recently, and while I am perfectly capable of forgiveness, I also have the logical fortitude to recognize that, for myself and the health of my familial unit (Smitty + me = Team Smith), I cannot continue to entertain lies, denial, and multiple hurts at the hand of this person. They need help, a team of white-coated people, possibly, and until they agree to that, they don't exist to me. In theory, it makes me sound cold-hearted, maybe, but in the real world, where things are not lollipops and butterflies, it's how I choose to deal with this situation.

More than one person has told me recently that I "have issues" or "am a downer," and I'm really actually surprised by this characterization. Considering some things I've been through recently, I really do try to stay positive. My sense of humor is always intact. If you don't get it, maybe you're a moron, I dunno...but on the whole, I really do try to stay positive in the face of the black clouds that occasionally invade my monkey DJ's and my happy place. I've been sarcastic and outspoken since I was 9 years old. Don't confuse sass with negativity. Some thoughts? Do you think I'm negative?

Things you can tell just by looking at her

2010-12-28T21:51:00.000-05:00

Christmas has come and gone. It turns out I didn't need to be committed to an asylum for missing my dad or for other sins of the family that tend to descend during the holidays. Cymbalta, you are worth every penny. "Jingle bells, pills are swell, cheaper than a shrink..."...you get the idea.

I've decided the key to enjoyment in life is to set your expectations low. While this sounds pessimistic, it's actually an optimistic approach, or it's about as optimistic as I get. That way, I can always be delighted with the outcome. For instance, I chose to laugh my way through Christmas. As aforementioned, Cymbalta helps us (the royal me) find the humor in the dreaded, but I did really find things funny this Christmas.

Overheard at family gatherings:

1. "Ever since I had my fall, my equilibrium has been off....whatever that is." -- my grandmother, who fell about two months ago at McDonald's due to the fact their toilet seat wasn't properly fastened. She cracked her tailbone, the second time she's actually done this, and have I mentioned, she's 90. The woman is an institution.

2. "But, we can just open presents now. Dad won't care." -- my nephew Drew, dying from the fact he had to wait until his dad got off work before we could open presents. Children have a way of making everything sound perfectly logical.

3. "What size hat does Smitty wear?" -- my mom, who could not be convinced that baseball hats are pretty much one size fits all. I tried, in vain, to explain they're adjustable, they come in one size, and that she was making me question the validity of her master's degree. She bought Smitty a hat, which.......was one size fits all. This afforded an opportunity to do my "I was right, I was ri---iiight" chant while preparing Christmas dinner.

4. "You're going down, punk!" -- my nephew Matthew, who is a huge fan of superheroes and apparently has been watching "Die Hard" movies in his spare time.

5. "You've got my balls, I cannot see..." -- Smitty, singing to the first part of "Crash" by Dave Matthews Band in the car on the way to Mississippi. It's safe to say that diet Coke neared the point of shooting out my nose, but I resisted. That is one funny tall man.

6. "Do you just look for ways to look more retarded?" -- my brother-in-law Gib, because I got a wool hat with ear flaps that people might think such a dignified person as myself wouldn't wear in public. They would be wrong. It's too cold for me to care about how stupid I look. It was snowing on Christmas Day in Mississippi, a sure sign the end is near...I was cold. Slap my ass and call me Canadian, they know what they're doing when it comes to outerwear.

I heard the most beautiful song last week sung by Kate McGarrigle, mother of Rufus Wainwright, who passed away last year. It was called "I Eat Dinner," and while it is a fairly sad song, it is absolutely heartbreakingly beautiful. I'm getting that CD as soon as I can locate it. A sampling:

"Never thought that I'd end up like this
I who loved the light
Never thought I'd be without a kiss
No one to turn off the light
Turn off the light"

It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags.

2010-12-19T22:26:00.000-05:00

I will readily admit, I've been a bit of a jackass about Christmas this year. I didn't decorate anything, I bought all of my presents online so I wouldn't have to deal with any of the people in stores, and I've decided not to send Christmas cards. It's December 19, and I haven't wrapped anything. This is why I need people, like chefs and maids and personal valets.

Then I realized, this is the first Christmas without my dad, and I hate it. He's the one that first made me love the original "Grinch," and he actually sang the song. He used to put bells outside our windows to let us know Santa had been there. When we got a basketball goal, he wrote a letter from Santa, attached it to the basketball inside, with instructions of where to go to find the basketball goal. He put together trampolines, laid out Barbie bolls, and wrote letters from Santa next to eaten cookies.

When we opened gifts, he would sit on the hearth in a Mississippi State sweatshirt I bought him, drinking in the fact that all of his "chicks" were at home. All he wanted was to sit and enjoy family time, eating, and watching his favorite movies (George C. Scott's "A Christmas Carol"). I don't think I was prepared for how badly I would miss him this Christmas. For the past 4 years, I've bought him Mississippi State gear, and he was wearing the last hat I gave him when he died.

I really swear I'm not trying to depress anyone, I'm okay. I'm just having trouble dealing with change, and I'm typing through tears right now, but I spent the best day with Smitty today. I am so lucky to have someone like him to understand my crazy mood swings and know before I do that I miss my father and need to cry sometimes, and sometimes I need to have wine and sushi and talk about monkeys or the children's book I want to write about the farm where the animals wear pants..(oh, it's happening)

And as a result of my very pleasant day with my husband, I've begun to feel the vague sensation of what could be classified as Christmas spirit. I've felt very content today and at peace, and I have to think that my dad is probably pissed that I'm not feeling very elf-ish yet, and he sent me some heavenly pixie dust or whatever. I've had this sensation for weeks that he's with me, in the form of random Shakespeare quotes popping up, movies that he and I have specifically discussed being on TV, too many instances of coincidences that really aren't coincidences.

To the friends that I know that have lost parents in recent years, and the ones that I don't know, we're in this thing together. Thank God for our memories that sustain us during this time. And we are making new ones. They're just as good, they're just different.

“It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time” -- Barbara Kingsolver

Riding through the desert on a blog with no name

2010-12-11T00:40:00.001-05:00

Taylor on the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills has entirely too much top lip. I understand the theory of plastic surgery, but there has to be some point where maybe your friends tell you, "Hey, your lips overlap your chin when you're not using them," stop the implants. Also, Camille Grammar is/was/and will always be a trophy wife...that's it. She was a porn star, and she now looks like a porn star who married well. That's what you get for not building actual skills and having FOUR nannies.

I digress, or maybe not, this is not a structured post, but earlier today, I reminisced about my days on the pageant circuit. And by pageant circuit, I mean through the ages of 7 and 10, my mom insisted on cutting my hair short. It happened initially as a result of a girl in 1st grade cutting a big chunk of my hair to the point we had to cut it. But she KEPT cutting it. In addition, my grandmother gave me Ogilvie home perms that burned my eyes and scalp and gave me processed, blondish brown Michael Jackson hair. It was decided, because I would randomly break into song, (still do) that I should be in talent competitions. Oh, the shame. I was so incredibly awkward at that age, and while I could probably sing as well as any 7-year-old, my voice teacher explained, "There is a high Emily and a low Emily, I want to hear the high Emily." Well, the issue with that is that there is not, nor will there ever be, a high Emily.

I'm not kidding. Like 5 years ago, I went to my friend Jeff's birthday party and with my now dead-to-me Australian pal, I sang "Welcome to the Jungle," and his falsetto was way better than mine. I mean, he was a bit of a dandy, but seriously, mine sounded like when Ana Gasteyer and Will Ferrell used to do their version of the middle school choral teachers. It was very proper, like if an opera singer tried to sing Metallica.

I feel as though in youth, I did a lot of things I really didn't want to do. I think about these things as I think about raising kids and what I want them to participate in and how I don't want to force them into joining teams and clubs they don't want to. I was a Brownie for about 2 weeks (a pre-Girl Scout), but I didn't like the uniform, and I didn't care for people telling me what to do, so I quit. Then, I played basketball in middle school, which I wasn't crazy about, but I did it because all my friends were playing. I could shoot pretty well, but the running and blocking and stuff eluded me a bit. Plus, all of the middle school games were at like, 9 in the morning, 30 minutes away...no, thank you.

I also played softball, which, for a brief period, I was quite the little superstar. I could hit okay, at least to where I could get on base, I was an awesome catcher and fielder, and I ran really fast. Then, I started having this weird thing where I would be running and my left knee would just pop out of place, which would make me collapse in a little heap wherever I was. I had to be carried off the field at least twice, and in Macon, our softball games were pretty much the only game in town.

So, my coach became a psycho. I played tennis, which I loved, and he gave me an ultimatum that I would a. have to choose between tennis and softball and b. if I chose softball, I'd have to have surgery or he wouldn't play me. Yah, that was a real tough decision. I believe I went to the state tennis finals that year. Jackass...sports should be fun for children, period. If you are the Nick Saban of junior high softball, I'm sorry that you must've failed at many things, but don't take it out on teenage girls.

In conclusion, I love being married more than anything, honestly, I do. If Smitty and I were locked in a closet, we could make each other laugh, and I'm sorry, but if you can't make your significant other laugh, you are not going to make it. However, there are those days that I am in excellent spirits, and he is the complete opposite...not because of me, but those other folks are not around. I am not a fan of misplaced anger. I have dealt with it quite a bit, having been the product of a co-dependent household. The good news is, I know when it's displaced anger and when it's an actual thing, so rather than exercise my natural instinct to yell back "What do you want from me?:" I just kind of acquiesce and let the situation pass.

"Don't marry the person you think you can live with; marry only the individual you think you can't live without. Dr. James C. Dobson

Oh, the things I can't do

2010-12-08T21:40:00.001-05:00

I am not good at everything. That pained me a little to type. I kid; I'm fully aware that I have my many shortcomings, and I find it helpful to acknowledge those things every now and again. It keeps me in check and enables Smitty to live with me without killing me in my sleep. I wanted to try to use the word "agog" in this blog somehow, because "egg nog" popped into my head earlier, which, by the way, is disgusting. There is no amount of rum on earth that would make it palatable. It tastes like what I imagine fingernail polish remover to taste like, only with milk added. I worked at a really weird place one time where they were freaking psychos about egg nog. They thought I was the strange one for not drinking it, and they had flavors I didn't know existed. I mean, pickle-flavored egg nog is really just going too far.

I digress; Smitty just helpfully started the ball rolling by saying these are things at which I do not excel: standing up without falling over, walking without falling over, operating appliances, and knowing when to shut my mouth.

The first two are really basically the same thing, and I'm not sure when coordination left me. I took tap, ballet, and gymnastics for about 7 years when I was younger, I played tennis..very well, I might add, and was generally very good about not falling over or tripping. Yet now, I can fall into a hole in the yard and tear important parts of my leg, trip over the carpet, walk into the door jamb, trip over a handicapped ramp, breaking my shoe and my ankle, and the list goes on and on, and I have no good reason for it. But I do have a number of bruises, a sassy boot, and an ankle brace.

This charge of not being able to operate appliances. I can only assume he's referring to how once I put a plastic Pyrex lid in the oven, and it caught on fire. I swear I read "oven safe," but once it melted, I couldn't prove my point. Also, I have a tendency to hit random buttons on the remote controls that cause weird things to happen to the TV, like no sound, but the receiver is on, or changing to Russian closed captioning. It's a gift.

Not knowing when to shut my mouth -- hmmm. He suggested that the United States use me as a torture device on North Korea to force them into a surrender/treaty situation. I believe he was likening my constant chatter to what they did to Noriega by blasting him out of his hide-out with heavy metal music. I would imagine it would go something like this: "Hi, Mr. Jong-Il, do you know that you're causing a lot of panic, and I'm sure you don't mean any real harm. Where did you get those sunglasses? I like them. I don't buy expensive sunglasses because I lose them. Wal-Mart sells the ones I buy for $7, so I buy two pairs, except I keep one pair with me and one with Smitty, so I have spares. Smitty's my husband; he's really tall, but you shouldn't feel bad for being short. I'm short, and you can fit into little spaces no one else can. Have you experienced that? Do you like Barack Obama? I do; I worked for John Kerry, but I didn't really like him. Have you met him? He's the most boring man on the face of the earth, and he really does look like a horse..." Just a sampling...I could actually solve this thing in 2 days, tops. Give me coffee, pixie stix, and Adapex...I'll talk for 12 hours without stopping.

So, those are Smitty's contributions, and I have a few of my own:

1. Admitting I'm wrong -- I will do it, but it can take days, weeks, even months for me to actually utter, "I was wrong." I think I view it as a weakness, plus I am seriously so stubborn, it's ridiculous..(thanks, Daddy). I will acknowledge to myself that I'm wrong, but I will justify it all day long how, in fact, I was not wrong. It might devolve into, "No, stupid head, you're wrong," or "Your mama," but if you've ever gotten an "I was wrong" out of me...kudos.

2. Keeping cars clean -- I'm actually doing somewhat well with my little Chevrolet Aveo made from plastic bottles. Once I got 3 weeks of newspapers out of there, it was easy. Now, I just have a ton of books for which we have no room and my sad CDs because I keep leaving my iPod in Smitty's truck, and I suspect he's trying to teach me a lesson by not just giving it to me...stupid lesson

3. Anything requiring analysis or math -- See, here's my thing, I met some brilliant engineering and computer science students at UAH when I went there, but they couldn't string a sentence together or interact all that well with, y'know, people. So, while, yes, those people could probably buy and sell me 10 times over today, I don't care. I'm glad I'm good with people and words and adapting to new situations. You can have your lines of code and programming and designing bridges and stuff; I'll have sex, thank you very much.

4. Most things domestic -- I remember when Smitty and I had our wedding shower at his church, and we got mostly cooking accessories. With almost every gift, I was like "What is this?" until finally the ladies at the church suggested that Smitty do most of the cooking because they seemed genuinely afraid of the prospect of my operating kitchen appliances.

I'm sort of like a boy when it comes to cleaning. As long as stuff isn't blatantly dirty, and it doesn't smell, I don't really see the need to clean it. I don't like dust, and I try to push that into crevices that we can't see..therefore, it doesn't exist. Vacuuming makes me sweat, and every time I clean the bathroom, I get dizzy and high from the fumes. This is why I need "people." Do you know how nice I would be to a housekeeper? OMG, she would be like Alice from the "Brady Bunch," a part of the family. Once the book royalties start rolling in, we're getting a nice, friendly housekeeper.

That is but a mere dusting of my lesser qualities, but I already feel better, like when I helped buy a child for Christmas...or rent them or whatever with a shoebox...good times.

Wish I had a river I could skate away on....

2010-12-05T01:34:00.000-05:00

So, here's the thing, at least for me, about grief. It hangs out inside you, perhaps talking to your internal organs, maybe they're playing poker and shooting craps, and then, like a petulant, nap-deprived toddler, it gets cranky and explodes in the middle of a conversation, and until you realize it, you think you're a crazy person.

I miss my dad. This is not a new emotion, but I didn't fully comprehend the idea of his not being present at Christmas until about a week ago. And what's really funny, that I tried to bring to mind last night when I finally allowed myself to cry and release this unknown tension that had no name, is that my dad really didn't like Christmas that much. He liked all of us being home, and he was a big fan of Jesus, but the forced gift-giving was a particular burr in his side: yet, another reason, why he and I were on the same level in terms of holidays.

If I had my way, we'd give each other presents throughout the year. Meaning, if I see a present that reminds me of you, I would like to buy it and send it to you rather than waiting for a date where we all go retail-crazy. Plus, I would like to be able to buy groceries at Wal-Mart in the month of December without having to be armed. We went there today for a FEW items and both of us nearly got taken out by old ladies and their shopping carts, plus befuddled shoppers looking for decorations and such. I hate you, Wal-Mart, but you make things that we enjoy. Damn you, white devils.

That grocery thing really had nothing to do with my dad, but it's yet another reason that this Christmas is a bit harder than I expected. It's like I told Smitty yesterday, "It is incredibly unfair that I can't call my dad and tell him a. that the George C. Scott version of "A Christmas Carol" is everywhere, and it's your favorite and mine, too, except for "Scrooged," and b. even though we draw names for gifts in my family, for the last three years, I had bought him Mississippi State gear, which he loved, and in fact, I believe was wearing part of when he died. Those things, knowing what he wanted and talking to him about holiday movies and my mom turning into a crazy person right before Christmas, I don't have those things anymore. I have different things that are no less important, but are different, and it's weird that they don't include him. I will reiterate. I miss my dad.

On a completely different note, I'm trying to read more. I used to read a book a week, and now, I'm struggling with a paperback for 2 weeks, and I have no motivation to really finish. First of all, I blame the books. If they were more interesting, I would read them, although, it's possible I have undiagnosed ADHD. Who knows? But, I am determined to be back in the happy place where I'm always reading a really good book.

I finished a giant chunk of my shopping today online, no muss or fuss, praise Jebus. I hate shopping with such a white-hot passion as Republicans shopping for hearts and brains like Friends of Dorothy...oops, too far. Anyway, I'm almost done, thank heavens...shopping is stupid.

Steroids really do make you crazy

2010-11-30T20:27:00.000-05:00

So, the latest medical shenanigan I have fallen victim to is tonsillitis. How gross is tonsillitis? You get those disgusting white bumps on your throat surrounding the "punching bag," as I like to call it, and it feels like knives when you try to swallow anything. I discovered this while trying to enjoy a leisurely glass of orange juice. For the love of God, OW. I thought maybe I stabbed myself in the throat with a potato chip or a pointy piece of toast as I often do, but no, no, I have an -itis usually reserved for 5-year-olds. I told the doctor I would take them out myself if he would give me his little knife and some gas. Tonsillitis is not in my immediate life plan.

However, my new BFF, my ENT, gave me a steroid shot along with yet more antibiotics, and the steroid shot is my favorite thing ever. How do you just request to get those every month or so? That would rock. It made me feel better like, immediately, and gave me lots of kicky energy and interesting things to say...for hours and hours and hours, until Smitty told me to shut up with a look akin to a look you would give that annoying person in the doctor's office who won't shut up about their hemorrhoids or spastic colon until you want to lock yourself in the bathroom so they can't talk to you anymore. That was me last night. Oh, the shame.

I'm preparing for Christmas; I'm trying to figure out what to tell people to get me. I don't mean that to sound self-involved, I genuinely have issues telling people what to get me. In theory, I'm a really easy gift receiver. I just want gift cards. Well, actually, I want liposuction and hypnotherapy to make me exercise when I crave anything breaded, buttered, or carbohydrate in nature, but even Santa can't grant that wish. But when I tell my sister/mother/grandmother, "Just get me a gift card," they say that it's not enough to wrap up, that they want to get me something they can wrap...grrrr...The most useful things Smitty and I got, aside from our fabulous comforter, shower curtain, etc...when we got married, were our gift cards. That way, we would get whatever we wanted, and needed, and that was far better than getting a pig clock or something just because people "wanted to wrap something."

Now, just to pin other folks down about what they want. My family always wants to think about it..and they wonder why I end up shopping 5 days before Christmas. I do not enjoy this, much as I do generally enjoy procrastinating..no, no, this involves flourescent lighting with sweaty, fat people wearing Alabama shirts..not the good procrastinating. This is the kind of thing that makes me Exorcist-Yosemite Sam-crazy, which is why Smitty will only let me go with him to Wal-Mart during off-peak times, because he alleges that I will get him into a fight if I accompany him.

I told him a past story the other night that confirmed this: I went to an "after-party" during our karaoke days, and this guy walked past me wearing jeans and a sweater vest with nothing underneath. I had partaken of some cocktails, saw this abomination, and said, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, come here, what's going on here? Are you a Night Court fan? Did you like Mack? Why are you wearing a sweater vest with nothing underneath it? I can't handle this, really, why are you wearing this?" My, um...bookish guy friends were standing behind me going "Dammit, why did she do that? We're gonna get into some kind of rumble, etc..." And then I felt really bad, because the guy walked away in utter shame, and his friend came over to let me know that he had recently lost a ton of weight by working out and wanted to show off his new physique. I felt bad for calling him out, but you still do not wear a sweater vest, really anytime, much less with nothing underneath. That is very Jersey-esque.

I heard a story on NPR today (pretentiousness enters here) about Mark Twain, and it struck me on a couple of levels. One, he wrote nearly all of his best novels nowhere near the Mississippi, but in upstate New York. And he wrote from 8 to 5 with no break, and then read his daily pages to his wife and daughters after dinner. I love the image of that, his dedication combined with the love and inclusion of his family with the words that went on to inspire millions. He'd have had no way of knowing that. Could you imagine being his daughters and later in life remembering hearing the rough draft of "Tom Sawyer?" But then the sad part of it is, all of his daughters died before they were 30, and his wife was only 58 when she died. So, they were all buried at his haven in upstate New York, but after his last daughter died on Christmas Eve at 29, he said "I can't bear to see any more loved ones in the dirt," and he never went back. I guess things like that make me feel like a a completely entitled dilettante when I whine about the trivialities in my life. That's why I like NPR, not really the political aspect, but when I hear things like that, and I can acquire a little perspective and get goose bumps, I'll take all anyone wants to say about "liberal NPR." If by liberal, you mean thought-provoking, then call me Liberal Lisa, Mayor of Crazy Liberal Town.

Walking in my winter underwear....

2010-11-23T00:31:00.000-05:00

This is the first holiday season without my dad, and I am feeling vehklempt about it. All kidding aside, I really am feeling a void as the nonstop Christmas music and cheap marketing ploys start to flood everything. Thanksgiving was one of his favorite holidays, mainly because it centers around food, football, and lacks commercialism as much as any holiday can.

For a skinny man with no discernible ass or even the trace of a belly, he could eat pounds of dressing, (or stuffing, depending on your geography); he was the only other member of my family who enjoyed cranberry sauce as much as I do. I once ate an entire can. And if you ever try to feed me real cranberry sauce, I will scoff at you. If it doesn't make that "zoosh" sound coming out of the can and have the can ridges, I simply cannot eat it. I also identify with his take on Thanksgiving because you eat, watch football, and nap. Perfect holiday. No presents, no decoration really, and it's just a day to simply give thanks. What a concept.

How often do we really stop to think about our blessings? Whether you believe in God, Yahweh, Allah, or worship your plates and socks, someone provided everything we love. I personally am on Team God, and I, too, am guilty of taking things for granted and not really stepping back to admire and appreciate everything I have. To that end, I am thankful for, and there is literally no order to this:

1. Memories. I have a very happy life at present, but I also have some amazing memories that sustain me through darker times. I know, without a doubt, that I have loved and been loved. I have never stifled laughter or love, and even though it has not always ended well, I wouldn't trade any decision I've ever made toward either.

I have fallen down hills, out of shopping carts, sung my heart out at karaoke, kissed the wrong boys, been a bridesmaid and a bride, said stupid things, done stupid things, been carried to bed by my father singing Elvis songs to me, and made a perfect ass of myself being forced into singing show tunes in a talent competition.

I have yelled at a New Jersey gas station attendant, "I GOT IT," until I realized you can't pump your own gas in New Jersey, dug my car out of the snow three times in one day, said "No, thank you," to an offer of carrying a baby for a polygamist couple, and smelled my mother's Pond's cream to the point of thinking it a Pavlovian tool for inducing sleep and safety.

2. Family, blood, created, in-law, and any other kind that drives you SO crazy, you devise ingenious plots to kill them, bury them, and make it look like an accident, only after you've secured an air-tight alibi. This is not to be confused with family that you've been forced to deal with, like a certain psycho former in-law I was happy to bid adieu. No, these are the people you love.

The basic bottom line is, in a family, everyone will always have an opinion about what you need to do and how they know best. I'm no better. Looking from the outside into a situation is the easiest place to be. But, God bless Atticus Finch and my mangled remembrance, "do not judge a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes." It's the simplest thing to remember and the hardest thing to put into practice. 'Tis the season to be nonjudgmental....I will try my best, because I know.....that I have......

3. Stephen Durand Smith, a.k.a. "Smitty," a.k.a. "Woofa Johnson," a.k.a. "Turd Ferguson," and on and on..
I somewhat understand the term "hit the jackpot." I qualify it because clearly, I've never actually hit a lottery jackpot, but I'm still the luckiest person who ever set foot on the ground. Our 4-year anniversary is 11/25, Thanksgiving, ironically, and I'm still fairly gobsmacked by being Mrs. Emily Smith.

This is not a nauseating story, we have our moments, I can assure you. In the past year, in fact, which may have been the most challenging of our marriage other than the first, we have gone through a lot of stuff. My father died, his job has been ridiculously demanding, I've been sick for 2 months at a time, I had surgery and couldn't poop for 6 days and didn't even know that could happen, yes, it can, and you must be hospitalized.....but we never once lost sight of our love for each other, our mutual commitment to our marriage, and the fact that we would rather spend time with one another than anyone else.

Before you all vomit in your mouths and stop reading, I offer you this. Everyone deserves a partner, best friend, protector, and someone that not only makes you weak in the knees with their kiss, but their dizzying knowledge of bills and re-financed mortgages really blows your socks off. Everything is not fun and sexy and exciting all the time. But if you have that person that you know has your back in the event of a lay-off, family feud, or zombie apocalypse, you are golden.

Speaking of golden, in honor of my dad, I leave you with this:
Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay"

"Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay"

A pirate looks at 33 (I will totally do this every year and make it fit my needs)

2010-11-17T20:20:00.003-05:00

So, I expect this blog to be simultaneously cranky, pessimistic, hopeful, and inspirational. My five personalities will be helping. I'll try to keep them (and myself) on track.

I applied for a job, a promotion within my current company, and I didn't get it. I'm happy for the person that got it, and I do think she deserved. That, however, has not kept me from saying all day, to soothe my ego, "Stupid, quiet, smart people." In theory, I'm looking at the bright side..I still have my current job, so I'm not unemployed..huge plus. There's nothing keeping me from re-applying for that job, should it become open or any other job there...also an advantage.

So, here's where the dark side takes over...
1. I loathe...LOATHE coming in 2nd..even if there are 100 people in this metaphorical scenario, even if it's an engineering contest or a cleaning competition or a bake-off...I will justify and argue why my "rocket/shiny floors/apple pie are the best. I was a major smarty pants when I was little, and I find the saying,"What you are at 4, you are at 40," to be wildly appropriate...which is also why I will like monkeys or any animal wearing people clothes until I draw my last breath.

2. I am not professionally where I thought I would be at 33. I need to preface this by saying that I really do enjoy aspects of my job, and I would not trade anything for my co-workers (some of them anyway) and our management. We are treated extremely well, a Christmas bonus, for God's sake, among other perks, but if you had asked me when I was graduating high school, where do you see yourself in 15 years, I would not have said "customer service representative."

At 18, actually, I would've said attorney/lounge singer. I thought I wanted to be an attorney; I was certain I wanted to be a lounge singer, and with minimal pursuit of both, I became neither. I changed my political science major to a communication major, because I knew I wanted to write. I still know that I want to write. I pursued it the wrong way, though. I veered toward journalism, when I should've concentrated on English and creative writing. I can't say I regret that decision completely because some of my best friends are those I met while working in newspapers.

But I do feel I've gypped myself in a way. I can remember my family telling me to study where jobs would be, writing not particularly falling into that category. And even thinking about it now, what horrible advice to give your child. Of course, you don't want them to be financially unstable or worry about their well-being, but if/when we have our ONE child, I am going to tell them to do whatever makes them happy. If you want to dance, do it, and be the best at it. Love what you do, and if you put your heart into it, you could be the next Barishnikov, T.S. Eliot, Monet, etc...

I honestly do believe that writing and I have a big future ahead of us. I can't say it's the only thing at which I've ever excelled..c'mon...state capitals, spelling, karaoke, arguing, most recently, chili preparation...the list is endless, but it's the only thing that has ever given me true and complete happiness. I also get a very nice sense that both my father and grandfather are reading over my shoulder and chuckling for different reasons.

Have I mentioned recently that I miss my dad so much, it takes the breath out of me? In order for me not to cry while using Smitty's laptop and prompt some type of computer usage lecture, I want to share a happy story about my dad before I leave you:

I was about 6 years old and was eating dinner at the table with my parents and sister. I was finished, and my mom wanted to give me a bath. As I started to get up from the table, my dad told me I couldn't get up until I asked to be excused. (Never before and never since had we EVER had to ask that; he was not in good humor that night) I refused. Even as a 6-year-old, I was an incredibly stubborn pain in the ass, also leading my parents to attend a seminar called "Raising the Willful Child." I digress. We stared each other down for over an hour and by this point, I feel sure most kids might've just given in and asked to be excused. Not this rapscallion. Only when my mother finally insisted that she give me a bath so I could go to bed did he relent and let me get up from the table.

About 7:30 the next morning, I sneaked into my parents' bedroom, shook my snoring dad awake and asked him if I could be excused. I had no problem eventually obeying him, but I wanted to do it on my terms. And even though he was ticked at me for being such an insolent little shit, this story also demonstrates how much like him I am, and he enjoyed telling it for that very reason.

The fine line between relaxing and lazy

2010-11-07T22:11:00.000-05:00

I really, really enjoy my down time. I can no longer sleep late for some inexplicable reason, but man, do I love doing nothing but watching the DVR and trying to locate movies I want to to watch on Netflix through the Playstation 3. This generally ends with my searching for a movie for about an hour, then cursing at the PS3 and giving up, only to watch a Lifetime movie or something I've seen a billion times. And then a nap occurs...ahh, naps.

I feel that naps without judgment are probably the best parts of getting really old. Well, that and the Senior Citizens Discount. I can literally sleep anywhere. When I was a senior in high school, my French class went to Paris. We were on a flight for about 11 hours, and I curled up in a little ball and slept for about 7 of those hours. Everyone else was cranky and jet-lagged when we landed. It was one of the few times in life I've ever been more energetic than those around me.

I have all these weekend plans that I would like to do. I want to go to the art museum or a movie or to one of the many festivals that seem to occur in the Birmingham and surrounding areas. I want to clean my closet so I can actually locate my winter clothes; I want to vacuum, even though it makes me dizzy because my body seems to reject all manner of housework; I want to wash the dogs, even though I will probably need an Epi-pen to recover from that. And what do I do? I watch the DVR, movies like "Seed of Chucky" and "Superman III," and before I know it, it's Sunday night, which even more so than when I was in school, is the most depressing night of the week.

I have been in the weirdest mood this weekend. I have gone from cranky to singing to sleepy to anxious. I went to the eye doctor yesterday and found out I have to have really expensive contact lenses because of a stupid astigmatism, I have an optic nerve dreuism, which really sounds made up and doesn't mean much of anything, but when it comes to your eyes, you get a little concerned when doctors throw out a term that sounds like you're German or in some kind of cult.

I'm also concerned about some family stuff that I won't get into right now, because it's not my place to, but someone that I care about very much in my family, may have a malignancy. We won't know anything for at least a week, which means that my thoughts are left to create bad scenarios and try to picture five moves ahead, and there's no need to do anything right now except pray...which I am doing, and I do have faith that everything will turn out okay. If you're reading this, you don't have to pray if that's not your scene, but just send out general good thoughts to the universe. It can't hurt.

A lot of times when I am scared, I turn to quotes and the words of people to whom my dad introduced me, and when he was dying, those very same words gave me enlightenment and a sense of peace and acceptance. I leave you with the words of Emily Dickinson," “Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all.” Let us all cling to faith and hope.

On a lighter note, because I don't want you to leave my blog super bummed, I wish that if Smitty can't hear me in the kitchen, he would tell me, because otherwise, I'm talking for five minutes, assuming that he hears me perfectly, and when he tells me he didn't hear me at all, it is REALLY annoying. I assume this is some kind of backhanded punishment because according to him "I talk all the time," but seriously, irritating.

Rock the Vote! Or just gently swing the vote, if you'd like

2010-11-02T21:16:00.000-04:00

I just got back from voting, yay, voting. I am a giant dork in that I love to vote. Literally, the day that I turned 18, my grandfather took me to the Courthouse, and I was really, really excited. Most people are really excited to turn 18, but all I really wanted was my voter registration card. I guess it stands to reason that I eventually worked on a national campaign that was partially responsible for registering people to vote. I digress...

Here's what I observed while engaging in my constitutional responsibility:
1. You can't campaign within 30 feet of a polling place. Okay, fair enough. However, you can apparently, be a really, really loud campaign worker who will not shut the hell up while people are voting. I get it, my mother, grandmother, and grandfather used to work every election, and I know for the election workers, it is somewhat social, but when your abrasive Southern voice is so loud that I can't concentrate on the obscure amendment proposal I'm reading, shut UP...which brings me to...

2. Why must the wording on the amendments listed on the ballot be so confusing? I majored in political science, and it took me about 5 times to read through and omit the legalese so I could understand what in God's name the amendment was. I realize that's how the amendment would be worded if it were added to the state constitution, but I don't think it's a bad idea to put it in layman's terms on the ballot so I'm not voting to increase the elderly's taxes by 50% or allow people to marry farm animals.

3. I think they should make online voting available. I realize you have to verify people's information via ID, but it seems like with all the modern advances, there must be a cyber way to do that. If you could vote in your pajamas, I think voter turnout would be much higher. On a serious note, I sincerely hope everyone voted. Nothing is sadder than people complaining about things and doing less than nothing to change them.

I also realized today that I have even less of a sense of direction than I thought. I had to take a detour home from work because of mass chaos with firetrucks and police cars and total traffic stoppage, and I didn't quite get lost, but I went around the world to get where I needed to be. I understand north, south, east, and west, but that knowledge kind of eludes me when I'm driving. I need a GPS implanted in my skin, so that I will never end up in the ghetto with my gaslight on.

I restarted my allergy shots today, whoooo. I even had to give them to myself...in the stomach. The shots genuinely don't bother me, but watching a needle slide into my body makes everything go kind of yellow. That's why I never, ever watch when they take my blood, and when Smitty gives me shots, he injects them in the back of my arms, so I can't see what he's doing. I could seriously never work in the healthcare profession.

Also, along with my Real Housewives guilty pleasure, I have now become addicted to Swamp People and Billy the Exterminator, both of which are shows riddled with white trash. On Swamp People, they are speaking English, you know, the language of the country, but they have to put subtitles because the Cajun accent combined with missing teeth interferes with being able to understand some of them at all. They spend their days in wife beaters without any hint of a shower or shampoo, placing raw chicken on bait, reeling in alligators and shooting them in the head. It's simultaneously awesome and sad.

And Billy the Exterminator, oh, Billy. He is the lead exterminator in a family business owned by a highly questionable Louisiana family. He has what can only be described as a hair gel mullet, wears full-length leather, rarely uses gloves or any protection while spraying insects, catching snakes, etc...His brother Ricky has an old-school mullet with what looks like highlights, and he has broken up with and reunited with his super trashy wife about 6 times. I also think at one point, he was hooked on meth. If either of these two people came to my house to exterminate anything, I would probably burn my house after they left.

Their mom, Donnie, who answers the phone and sends them to jobs, has giant pageant hair and clearly shops the Jaclyn Smith collection at K-Mart. Also, she is an amateur matchmaker for Ricky, and placed ads in the paper to pick up a woman for him, part of one ad including "must be single," because apparently, that was an issue before. It's trashy and wonderful.

Before I leave you, remember, you can be experiencing the worst day ever, yet "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" can come on the radio, and all that changes...

It's not easy being me...or green, to quote Kermit

2010-10-27T21:47:00.001-04:00

I have been a huge slacker and haven't updated my blog in a long time. For the 4 of you that actually care, I do apologize. I've been sick off and on since Labor Day. I'm totally not kidding. I was beginning to think I was immune to antibiotics and really would have to live in a plastic bubble, when finally, this Round 5 of meds seems to be working. Praise the Lerd, Hallerlujah, as Madea would say.

I am so sore right now, it's not even funny. And before you give me credit for exercising, it's not from that. It's from decorating. Yes, you read that correctly. I had to decorate at work for a contest, and not only did I learn how out of shape I am, I learned that I should never, ever try to do anything artistically creative. I just don't have that gene. I can write you the most entertaining story on any obscure topic with only five minutes' notice, but if you ask me to draw or decorate, I'll have a mild panic attack. Smitty is a better decorator than I am. In fact, art contests in elementary really used to piss me off, because it was the one area of school (until math was introduced) in which I couldn't be the best. And I really felt the teachers were doing it on purpose because I occasionally corrected their grammar and was a know-it-all little shit.

My dad taught me how to draw Indians. They weren't particularly fancy Indians, but I could do them pretty well. As long as I have a template, I'm generally okay, like I could totally win that scholarship you get for tracing the turtle in the back of magazines. But, recently, my nephew demanded drawings of the animals in his animal book and when I tried to draw a giraffe, he said "that's not a giraffe," and I argued with a 3-year-old until I started laughing and then he started laughing, and I said, "Matthew, Aunt Emily can't draw. I'm sorry. Let's read." He was fairly disappointed. But he has to learn disappointment sometime.

So, I decided, because the theme for the contest was islands, we would do the Island of Misfit Toys, so I proceeded to bring our entire toy chest, reserved for nieces, nephews, children of friends, and me when I'm bored, to work, hang sock monkeys from cubicles, tape blocks to cubicles, I wrote a story about the island, and in the end, it was very, very sad. In my defense, no one helped me or offered a way to make it better, so, I actually deserve some props. People that don't contribute to things that can potentially benefit them bug me. I figure we spend at least half of our lives at work, so why not enjoy things, participate, and have fun? Oh, and do your job correctly..that's also a pet peeve.

On a completely unrelated note, this morning, I had the rare opportunity of getting breakfast for myself at McDonald's before I went to work. It was a reward for me going to my allergy doctor and also a celebration of not having to have sinus surgery for at least a year. So, as I pull into the drive-through, I notice a security guard...at 9 AM, mind you, wearing a plastic bag due to the rain, and he's motioning me to drive up to the drive-through ordering dealie. Um...yah, I live in America, so I'm pretty well acquainted with how the whole drive-through set up works. Then, when I pay at the first window, he directs me to the second window to get my food..Um, really? Dude, I can't go anywhere but forward. How exactly do you think you're helping me here? I finally asked the girl (in a realization I may be turning into my grandmother),"Why is this moron directing me where to go? I kind of understand the whole script for ordering through the drive-through." She said that he was driving them crazy and apparently just needed something to do. Although, I thought about it later and was mildly concerned that I went to a McDonald's that employs a day time security guard. Are people battling one another over Egg McMuffins?

So, I never really liked Halloween, unlike my bestie Amanda, who lives for it, seriously, I've never seen anyone over the age of 10, get that excited about Halloween. And even though I refuse to decorate for it (see above rant about decorating), I'm actually kind of excited about my costume, which would be the first costume I've worn in about 11 years. I'm going to be a cat burglar, as in I'm a burglar with a gun, handcuffs, and a money bag, but I will have cat ears...ergo, "cat burglar." Get it?? I figure as long as I amuse myself, it doesn't too much matter what others think. I wanted to be Betty White, but I couldn't find the right wig, and I chose not to be Slutty nurse/teacher/schoolgirl/proctologist, as some people use Halloween as an excuse to dress like complete hookers. I'm a married lady with dignity....and frankly, too much extra candy corn in the trunk to dress like slutty anything. So, I will carry a cap gun, wear a ski mask, if I can find one, and burgle as a feline hooligan.

If you walked a mile in my shoes, you'd have gigantic blisters

2010-10-13T20:53:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting here thinking about the feasibility of suing the company that made the shoes I wore today. I think I could get punitive damages at least. They're so cute, with heels and a sassy little thong between my toes, and now, 12 hours after putting them on, I curse whoever made them with a plague on all his houses, and I would give them to charity, except I don't want destitute people getting blisters either.

I think, after riding behind the fifth car in two week that either didn't have a muffler or the muffler was there strictly for show, it should be a national law that cars have to pass emissions tests. Now, before you start calling me Moon Queen and signing me up for Greenpeace, hear me out. Yes, it is truly awful for the environment to have your car just shooting out exhaust that smells like burning tires and prison, but you know what else? It's bad for me. My allergies and the Bubble Girl persona started when I lived in Philadelphia, PA, not because of trees and flowers and dust, but because the city, God bless it, emits more pollution than I believe any other U.S city, except for a few in California. In the actual hub of the city, you almost can't breathe for the cars, buses, weird grates that smell like people dump their septic tanks down there, the occasional person peeing on the sidewalk, etc...So, yeah, it's my personal opinion that maybe we don't worry about Mexicans who have been living here for 30 years and working their asses off. Maybe we worry about the fact that none of us can breathe properly.

I had a very strong memory of my dad today, and it was so weird how it happened. I was on my lunch break at work, and a very irritating person was discussing an alleged bill that Obama has proposed to add a 1% tax to some banking transactions. Where do I start???

A. Don't randomly bring up politics at work, for God's sake. Even I know that. If I went around espousing "I worked for John Kerry in '04, I voted for Obama in '08, and I do it again if he ran tomorrow," it would be akin to me going to an Alabama game, stripping down naked with the words "Bear Bryant was a homosexual," and running around the stadium. Generally not a good idea.

B. How exactly do people think we are ever going to get the country out of debt? I mean, really, I'm not kidding. If what this person was saying was true, and I'm not sure it was, a 1% tax would be added to paycheck deposits. Yeah, I said 1 percent. If that were true and it actually helped the economy, seriously?! That's why you want to bitch at Obama? Then, I really got nothing. Be sure to have some Earl Grey for me at the Tea Party. We should clearly just continue to overspend what we don't have, rely on credit, have unemployed people taking three vacations a year, and everything will work out fine. Do you know what the word sacrifice means? No, none of us do because this generation, and the one before us, I would venture to say, is spoiled rotten, expects to get everything they want now, now, now and knows nothing about what it means to cut back and save money. We're never going to progress without some modicum of sacrifice. Period.

Sometimes, okay, most of the time, I feel frustrated. It seems like I expect things to go one way, and they go another. I don't really do all that well with change, but I think I'm getting better. I had to kind of realize that no matter what I want to happen, and oh, the things I want (monkey butlers, a wine tap in my car, to have the financial freedom to write my best-selling novel, a baby without giving birth or adopting, minions), but what I want doesn't matter. God and the universe always have other plans. What I've gotten better about is how I cope with these things. You can't change other people's actions or behavior, but what you can change is your reaction and how you cope.

And that's what I've changed. I am 33 years old, I weigh more than I want, but my face is still really nice, I have excellent hair, a vocabulary, speech and spelling ability I'd match against anyone, my husband is the most amazing, sexy, protective man I have ever met, and he can reach whatever's up really high, and he fixes stuff...and cooks and kills bugs when I have a "Crying Game" moment and refuse to roll out of the fetal position until all bugs are dead, and I have a lot of people who truly love and care about me. What else is there? The rest is a ride to be enjoyed and used as a learning experience should things not go my way. I refuse to stress out about inconsequential things, and I want for people to think that knowing me enriches their lives. Hopefully, that's true, that I'm the kind of friend you'd want to have...

It is better to be thought a fool than to open your mouth and say, "Hi, I'm Emily."

2010-10-10T21:51:00.001-04:00

I've had my cranky pants off and on intermittently this week. To be clear, cranky pants are imaginary, and I haven't been randomly taking my pants on and off. In light of that tense, my shoulders-are-around-my-ears, feeling I've been rocking this week, I decided, after Smitty pointed out to me something stupid I said, to share with you the truly stupid actions and comments that have highlighted my 33 years....

1. When I was about 16, we had one of those stay-over parties no 16 year-old has any business having, and the next morning, we set about making breakfast. My gentleman caller at the time, Jon, who I am still friends with to this day (we're both happily married; don't judge me), asked me how many eggs I wanted in my omelet. I didn't care for eggs at the time and said, "Ew, just make mine without eggs," to which I was rewarded with mocking and ridicule that lasted about three years. Here's my justification: I had never had an omelet, my mother didn't make omelets, I knew that they existed as a food, but I thought they were made with butter and bread and maybe flour. I had never really thought about it before, and thus, was the butt of many, many jokes.

2. Again, when I was 16, actually, no, I was 15, I went to high school in New Hope, MS, which was about 45 minutes from Macon where we lived. My mother was the guidance counselor and made me change schools when she thought that the private school in Macon had "bad influences." In retrospect, that's pretty funny, because I came into contact at New Hope with some fairly shady characters, there were gang fights in our common area, and they had the highest rate of teen pregnancy in the state. I digress. So, all my actual friends lived 45 minutes away. I had a '87 Oldsmobile Firenza (which a. is NOT a Mexican car, and b. they don't make anymore), which I used to "go riding" in Macon every weekend at 6 p.m., and would drive to New Hope, hang out with my unbelievably trashy boyfriend (only dated 3 weeks), and then drive home by curfew. That particular night, my friend Jessica convinced me to drive back to New Hope at midnight to hang out with my trashy boyfriend and her and his older brother, who she was dating, although I used the term loosely.

I did, in fact, do that. I put Emily-size pillows in the bed in case my dad checked on me, climbed out the window and down the tree and set off for New Hope. I stayed there until about 3 a.m., drove back and assumed I could climb back in the window, no muss, no fuss. Well, I left the window cracked about 3 inches so I could get back in. It was about 20 degrees that night. So, when my dad checked on me, God bless him, he did that, he felt a brisk draft wafting in from the window. Then, he cracked my devious plan by pushing on the pillows and discovering I wasn't there. So, when I rolled in at 4 a.m., the window was closed. I didn't immediately panic, thinking, "well, maybe he just closed the window and didn't know I was gone. I'll just use my key, and they'll be none the wiser." HA. I opened the door, and he was lying in wait behind the refrigerator.

He asked me if I had a nice time, and I said "It was okay, I think I'm gonna break up with Shane," because I am THAT stupid, and then he gave me a 5-minute lecture about irresponsibility and what if something had happened to me, etc...then, he told me to go to bed...at 5. Then, I was awakened for church at 8 and threatened with what I'm sure they're not allowed to threaten you with anymore if I didn't get up and go to church. I was grounded for a month, which, in teenager time, is really, really long.

3. You'd think I used up all of my "stupid" in high school. You would be dead wrong. I actually hadn't even planned to tell this story, but it just occurred to me. When I lived in Huntsville, all of us went to Crossroads, which is still in the top 5 of coolest places ever...and I had too much to drink. A guy who worked at a restaurant in downtown Huntsville offered to drive me home, with my caveat that his friends that I knew would follow us. Apparently, there was a serious breakdown in communication, because they did not follow us. And when we got about a half mile from my apartment, Mr. Designated Driver got grabby. I told him to stop, and I told him to pull over and he wouldn't.

I made him pull over at a gas station under the guise I had to pee, and when I ran inside to call a friend of mine, author of http://amyblam.com/, he totally stole my car. I had the clerk call the police, who came and interviewed me as I described, "I dunno, he was a really gross guy who was sweaty, and I had no interest in him whatsoever." They found my car that night when he was arrested for DUI. A wonderful designated driver, eh? He also had thrown up several times in the car, and when I went to get it out of the impound lot, I had to have my dad, the registered owner, fax over a notarized statement to release the car to me. Then, I had at least 4 calls from a Huntsville detective who really wanted me to press charges for sexual assault. I declined, even though I would've been within my right, just because I handled it, he didn't really do anything, and they're not usually so nice to the female victims in court..

Wow, I haven't even scratched the surface of recently putting plastic lids on dishes and causing a fire in the oven or falling in a hole in the yard and tearing a ligament in my foot or burning my tongue every other effing day because I can't wait for stuff to cool, or when I lived in Philadelphia, I leapt into my bed, only to bounce off the bed and slam myself into the radiator, which caused bruises that looked like I was dating Ike Turner..I guess I'll save those for later.

I pick strange battles

2010-10-07T20:50:00.000-04:00

Can you be apathetically anal?? There are many, many things about which I'm very relaxed, some may say lazy (some may get punched)...I am a terrible housekeeper. I mean, our house doesn't look like Hoarders or anything, but I will leave my shoes anywhere...under the couch, in a pile by my dresser, in Smitty's side of the bed...the list could go on until Christmas. However, if you leave a dish in the sink without rinsing it, and those little chunks of food are glued on when I notice it hasn't been washed, it takes a great amount of restraint for me not to make you lick off the little chunks...(I'm looking at you, Smitty) The fact that Smitty doesn't do that is pretty funny because he is absolutely compulsive about everything else, that one little thing is the thing that irritates me most. Actually, maybe I just answered my own question.

In keeping with that, I am absolutely a psycho when it comes to being right and doing things correctly. This applies to every job I've ever had, even the ones I hated. I physically cannot go to a job and do a half-ass job or do something I know is wrong. It's just impossible. Soo, when I took a test last week for another job at my company and miserably failed the test, it was quite a little shock to the ego. I was furious with myself and am still not crazy about it. I gave myself a little talking-to last week, in fact. I've thought about it since then, and realize that I'm being stupid and actually realize that I need to stop taking personal setbacks like this so seriously and use them as a learning experience. Yes, I failed the test and felt like I should ride the short bus home that day. But, now I know what to expect from a test like that should I ever apply for a similar job. Also, and some of you may find this shocking, if it were God's will for me to have that job, I would have. He has something better in store for me, and really, I'm just along for the ride.

Speaking of God, I would like to first say, I am a Christian. I was raised in the Presbyterian Church, was confirmed at 12, and I do and am trying to lead a life that He approves. I think going to church is a fine idea, but I do not believe that going to church regularly makes you any more of an acceptable Christian than I am. We have found a church that we like, but our schedules/stress levels/dying parents have kept us from being in regular attendance. I do hope that we get back to attending soon, and I know that we will. However, I did not appreciate the letter I got from someone in our Sunday School class noting that we had been absent from class. That in and of itself was fine. The letter actually would've been very nice, except that it ended, "Christ is indeed worthy of our praise." Maybe had the word indeed not been added, it wouldn't tick me off so much, but you, whose handwriting I could barely decipher, and so actually don't know who you are, are the exact reason why a lot of people my age feel like church is judgmental.

I like to think that I am a Christian who will witness to others, not say to a gay person, "You're going to burn in hell, and we will never think otherwise. Please come to our church." Why would they subject themselves to that? Wouldn't it be far more effective to say, "Hey, we just want to see you worship with us. Please join us for fellowship." We are not here to judge; that is so not even remotely our job. When I think of an example to follow, I really do think about my father-in-law. I know he believes certain things, but he would never pass judgment to someone whose life might not fall in line with God's Word. He would witness to them, show them Christ's love, and demonstrate that's how a Christian acts. That is what might convert someone or make them think, "Hey, maybe these Christians aren't so bad. I'd like to see what that's about."

Further, I do not care for Facebook posts or statuses that are very similar to what I said above, i.e., quoting scripture that implies if you don't adhere to God's Word, that's it for you...that any deviation from the very letter of the Bible is a sin and you should be ashamed. Or, my other favorite, just preachy, holier-than-thou posts about why you should do this and why you should think this, etc...That's akin to me making frequent posts about why you should like Obama and why I am the smartest for supporting Obama. It's not the forum, and it's not your place to lecture using scripture, which anyone can cherry pick, to support your viewpoints.

Speaking of politics, that's another strange battle I've picked. Yes, I worked for John Kerry. I didn't particularly support him wholeheartedly, but I would've worked for Justin Bieber against another term of George Bush. I supported and do support Obama, and yes, I do get a little irritated when people seem to expect him to be some type of Iron Man/Superman combo when he was handed the worst economy since the 1920s, is actually keeping his campaign promise of reforming healthcare, and suffered an awful environmental disaster under his administration. And I still wonder, did people expect him to swim down there and plug the leak with his body? Remember that truly stellar response from the White House to Hurricane Katrina? Yeah, me, too. So, if I were a smug Republican, I might rethink faulting him for an oil spill for which he not only wasn't responsible, but some of the criticism was based on him not going there enough. Oh...silly amnesiac GOPs, how many times did Dubya go to the Mississippi Gulf Coast or New Orleans and how quickly? And by the way, as a delegate of Mississippi, yeah, Mississippi's coast was destroyed, too. Whole towns were destroyed, in fact. I'm guessing because Mississippi isn't as cool or happening or culturally rich as New Orleans, that disqualifies the coast for any attention? Yahhh...okay

Anyone know where I can find a giant, inflatable gorilla? I need to know.

More than a few of my least favorite things...an unloading, if you will

2010-10-02T19:06:00.000-04:00

Either I have PMS or my adrenal gland is functioning at twice its capacity. I am annoyed. The stupidity of my fellow humans has reached an Orange Alert, and I simply have to get it out or the little vein in the side of my temple is going to burst.

1. To the lady that called me a heifer and hung up on me, because I wouldn't tell her that her soon-to-be ex-husband has every right to make changes to his insurance policy, as does she, and I can't limit either of their abilities to do so. This was a concern to her, as her husband keeps calling her and telling her he took her and her car off the policy, which he hasn't, and I briefly felt bad about, but as far as I'm concerned, I hope she gets picked up by the police and made to sleep in a jail cell that smells like pee for having no insurance. Cranky bitch.

2. Alabama and Auburn fans everywhere, in my face, with their stickers and their stupid car flags and their invasive questions at the grocery store, gas station, doctor's office, "You like Auburn or Alabama?" "NEITHER! It is conceivably possible that a person can exist quite happily without choosing a damn football team in the state of Alabama to support. If you ask me again, I will pee in your shampoo. I've done it before, I'm not scared." And I really want to suggest to the genius entrepreneur by our house who sells $5 Alabama t-shirts every melon farming weekend this shirt idea, "If you can read this, you probably don't give a shit about football in the state of Alabama."

3. People who will not control the volume of their voices in a work environment. I am this close from pulling a Tonya Harding on a couple of folks at work simply because I cannot even string a thought together when their nasally, completely fake and loud, I'm-in-charge-of-this-even-though-80%-of-what-I-say-is-incorrect, collectively, voices pierce and invade the inside of my head day after day after day. I am extremely sensitive to noises, I don't know why, in fact most of the time, I'm kind of deaf, but this has become a special, fun test that I fear is designed for me to end up in a straitjacket screaming for the lambs to stop and talking to an invisible gorilla.

4. People who are just dumb. I adore Facebook, but what I do not adore is being in touch with various people, most of whom I went to middle school with, who are so impossibly stupid, that I realize nearly immediately I should not have accepted their friend requests. If you don't know how to use proper grammar and punctuation, and you think it's cute to spell crazy with a "K," or just don't look at how you spell, period, you and I probably don't need to be friends. There are some people who will be friends, not just on Facebook, with literally anyone. They're so nice and sweet that they make themselves endure people who never saw the inside of a high school just to be polite. I am not one of those people. I've had simple acquaintances in the past, and I remember trying to make small talk, and their turning it into "Aw, shoot, you use big words, I don't know what you're talking 'bout," and me thinking..."ah, I think I can end this weak relationship without guilt..wheww."

5. Smitty yelling at the damn TV and me about football. The TV can't hear him, and I don't care. Just watch the game and leave me out of it. I'm not complaining that you're watching it, I just don't want to be drawn into your madness and clapping and hooting. He needs some male playmates. I just want to read People magazine and be left alone. And this entry is his own fault because he told me to shut up and go back to my little computer...so there, Fart Blossom....you asked for it.

Hopefully, that will relieve this shoulders at my ears thing. If I offended you, I really don't care right now...I apologize for nothing.

Singing never got me anywhere except in a perm and an ankle boot

2010-09-29T21:13:00.002-04:00

I had very beautiful blond hair from the time I had hair until kindergarten when an extremely mean girl took those stupid safety scissors and literally hacked at my hair until half was long and half was short. So, from kindergarten to about 6th grade, I had what could be called a pixie cut if you were being nice, I call it "young lesbian."

So, after a period of this short hair torture, my mother decided "Hey, let's make it worse...Ogilvie home perms are nice." Thus began the afro days of Emily...short, unbelievably tightly curled hair with perms performed by my beloved Mamaw...Picture it, fumes, crying, yelling, with the final result resembling, oh, I dunno, Annie..which brings me to....

My mother decided I could sing. I can sing alright now, enough to pass, like if midgets had guns to my head and said, "Sing, monkey, or we'll take your arms," I could probably do it well enough not to lose my arms. However, at the age of 7, I really couldn't sing. Not only could I not sing, she wanted me to sing show tunes, namely "Tomorrow" from "Annie." Oh, and "My Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music," and "Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead," from "The Wizard of Oz." I have no idea why I don't see a therapist regularly. My music teacher kept telling me, "There is a high Emily, and a low Emily, and I want to hear the high Emily." If you've ever heard my voice, there is NO low Emily. My speaking voice is nearly monotonous, and whenever I try to do a falsetto, it's painful to do and to hear.

So, seriously and thank the LORD we didn't have a camcorder, I entered into a number of ill-fated talent shows and lost every single one, except the one where I was the only one in my category. Nice. I have like one trophy that resides at my parents' house that mocks me every time I see it. Not meant for Broadway, and at approximately age 12, I think I held my breath until I passed out until my mom agreed to stop cutting my hair. Which is also why I will never, ever have hair more than an inch above my shoulders.

Fast forward to 20 years later...I loved/love karaoke so much. It is one of my guilty pleasures, and I don't need much prodding to agree to do it. I was at the Sports Page in Columbus, MS, which is a double wide trailer on some kind of stilts, doing my weekly karaoke routine. I was feeling sassy and as I left, I turned around to say something decidedly very clever, and as I slammed the door with satisfaction, I tripped backwards over the handicapped ramp.

Forget thinking, "Oh, no, I've broken something," no, no, I was too worried about the fact that I did this in front of 10 people. I jumped up, realized I couldn't put any weight on that foot, shook it off, and went to an after-party, where I was carried everywhere, which I rather enjoyed, and then argued with my ride home, an Australian friend I used to have before he turned into a self-important arsehole, and fell asleep on my bed in my clothes. I woke up the next morning to go to the bathroom and fell on my face due to the pain. I crawled to the bathroom while my dog Norton jumped on me and then had to call the aforementioned Australian to come help me by taking the poor dog outside. He proceeded to pee for about 7 minutes. Poor Norton.

So, the moral of the story is that in a handful of cases, very humiliating things have happened to me while trying to entertain the masses. I need to learn how to use my charisma in a positive way that benefits mankind as well as myself. No casts or ankle boots included.

Little ditty about all kinds of stuff

2010-09-19T09:22:00.000-04:00

I am on Day 97 of disgusting throat infection with a side of coughing and fever. Apparently, I've taken so many antibiotics over the past 3 years, my body has decided, "Nah, not so much. Just give us sugar." I have also now infected Smitty, who hardly ever got sick before he met me, Typhoid Mary. So, we are a real laugh riot right now. We nearly came to blows last night over the remote control. He wanted to watch that sword fishing reality show, and I wanted to watch "The Soup," so rather than watch anything, we just bickered for 30 minutes. Being sick makes us both extremely cranky. Good times.

I think that there are two kinds of people, small-town people and city people. You could be born as either one and end up switching at some point, but inherently, you're one or the other. I am a city person. In fact, even growing up in rural Mississippi in Macon, population: 2,500, it's not like I was living on a farm or using an outhouse. We lived in town, both parents had master's degrees, etc...I was quite the disappointment when I moved to Pennsylvania because I spoke proper English and had no idea how to milk a cow.

Growing up in a small town is great, although I had occasional irritation at my dad for moving from Memphis before we were born, b/c growing up in Memphis would've been really cool. Nonetheless, it's a safe way to grow up, everyone knows you, not a lot of crime, etc...Ironically, except for the crime, those are the primary reasons that I do not ever want to live in a small town again. I don't actually want to know what my neighbors are doing. I rather enjoy just waving at them awkwardly when we're coming and going. I don't want them to know what we're doing either. If I want to perform a fire ritual in the back yard with an inflatable sheep and some Pygmies, that's my business.

I remember writing something shortly after I moved to Pennsylvania that began "I left home so I could disappear," and I meant it. With small-town values comes gossip, judgment, hypocrisy, and in Southern cases, racism, which is discussed openly as though nothing is wrong with it. I can't stand that. I can't be an educated 33-year-old with a college degree who hopes to have children and teach them by example and let it be okay hearing bigotry used as a punchline. When I moved to PA, friends of the family basically let it be known that since I was working for John Kerry, that "liberal," (real meaning: sympathetic to minorities), they really hoped I didn't do well, and how could my parents let me do that? Forget that I was 27 years old at the time, how could I forsake my roots and serve the liberals?

I'm sorry, I'll get off my soapbox now, but that has been bugging me for a couple of days. On to something lighter...I have been Emily, Mistress of Destruction, for the last couple of days. In my defense, some of the carnage wasn't my fault. Here is a sampling:

1. My car battery died, I mean died, dead, wouldn't even turn over. This is not my fault, but Smitty did have to come home from work to replace it so I could get to work. Yay, Smitty.

2. In connection with the car battery, when I realized it was dead, my first thought was to take Smitty's Passat, having forgotten that its battery was also dead. In my hurry to find the key, I apparently ripped a nail out of the wall that was holding up our "key holder," and now we can't re-hang it because of the way the nail ripped.

3. I poked myself in the eye with a pen yesterday while at work. My contact lens came out while I was on the phone, so I had to put it back in without a mirror and with dirty hands, so my eye was a plum-esque color for the latter part of yesterday.

4. Also at work, I had numerous coughing fits, the kind where you can't stop or talk or do anything. I was on the phone when most of these happened, so I would mute my phone while hacking up internal organs. Except that I was convulsing so hard from one attack, I unmuted and unleashed a truly disgusting mucus-filled cough into the poor customer's ear... Gross

This quote kept running through my head yesterday, and I have no idea why. "In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king."

That's me in the corner losing my voice

2010-09-16T08:32:00.000-04:00

I am now on Round 3 of antibiotics. I completely lost my voice overnight Sunday night, which made for a truly excellent day at work on the phone Monday, where people either couldn't understand my name or thought I was saying "this is Billy," because my "Ms" didn't work. I'm starting to think I could be a case on "House," where they figure out that all the diet Coke in my system has dissolved my ability to respond to antibiotics. Either that, or I'm going to find a shaman or holistic healer to chant the bad germs back to hell.

Because I'm still sick, I can't make my the mini-memorial all my dad's friends are planning this weekend. Even if I'm better, there's camping and woods involved, so that would be the thing that caused my two white blood cells Marv and Herb to just give up and drink hemlock. I really wanted to go, even if there was camping involved, (I actually sorta thought they were kidding when they told me to bring a sleeping bag and pillow) because these men, who I called "Uncle," were friends with my dad for over 50 years. They all kept in touch that long, three or four of them were pallbearers, and they are the ones that got the unvarnished, twinkly, mischievous version of Daddy to whom I had such a connection.

I was really looking forward to being in that place, that camp that meant so much to him for so many years, and feeling his presence and the fellowship of those who loved him so much. I talk to him all the time, though. Most of the time, it's not out loud, just so parents in the grocery store won't remove their children from my general area. If I see something that reminds me of him, I just sort of think, "Daddy, look at that shrimp. How many pounds of that do you think you could eat?" or "Daddy, they're showing the Making of Jaws on AMC. I'm totally recording it." or "I saw Cool Hand Luke all the way through last night, and I remember all your commentary when I saw it for the first time."

So, even though I can't be there to celebrate him with others, I celebrate him every day with little things and telling people how funny and what a smart ass he was. I got his best qualities..haha...and then some of his worst..my skinny, chicken legs and complete lack of an ass..Oh, well, in the immortal words of "The Facts of Life," "You take the good, you take the bad...." That Mrs. Garrett was a wise woman.

Yo ho ho, and a bottle of codeine cough syrup

2010-09-11T11:00:00.000-04:00

I seem to be relatively well from my bout with a sinus infection and pharyngitis. I have one antibiotic left, which I am not sorry to see the end of, due to having two days of face flushing, arm hives, and not being able to sleep until after 2 a.m. Oy.

Yesterday, I had a flashback to college days when I would stay up so late, staying up all night seemed the best idea. However, then, I could go back to my dorm after class and take a nap. Now, I obviously stay at work, despite the delirium and at one point in the afternoon, everything was kind of yellow, and I was convinced everyone could hear my thoughts. I was asleep no later than 10:30 last night and popped up this morning at 6:15. Smitty slept until after 8 and looked wildly confused when he walked into the living room and I was watching TV and drinking coffee. I like to pull little surprises like that on him every once in a while. Even if it really wasn't deliberate, it keeps the mystery alive, unlike when I get taziki sauce in my hair and trip over the carpet.

I've been on a Facebook friend-deleting kick for the past two days. It's really nothing personal to anyone, but I realized there are people on there whose friend requests I never should've accepted. We were never friends. Yes, we are aware of each others' existence, but that's pretty much where the common ground ends. I simply don't care what some people are doing, and I know they could care less about what I'm doing. So, I began yesterday, and as the mood hits, I will be whittling down the old friends list.

I think I have a caffeine addiction. I stopped drinking soda for so long and only drank coffee. So, to make up for the soda deficiency, I decided that 10 cups of coffee should do it. I spend most of the day bouncing my leg up and down, peeing, and twitching. I could stop...but I doubt that I will. I may start a Juan Valdez Coffee Drinker Anonymous Support group. The problem with that, though, is that support groups always have donuts, and how can you eat donuts without coffee?? So I say we have Bloody Marys..because we're not Alchoholics Anonymous.

Thank you, Alexander Fleming, a tip of my hat

2010-09-08T10:07:00.000-04:00

So, my two white blood cells, Herb and Marv, gave up on Sunday. I had been around someone with contagious germs attaching themselves to my every being, and I fought the good fight. Yesterday, however, I succumbed and went to the doctor. Diagnosis: Sinusitis and pharyngitis and the knowledge that some resistant strain of something with a really long name that in ends in "coccus," tee, hee..is going around Birmingham. Lucky me.

Babies are everywhere lately. I have friends with babies, I see babies on TV, babies, babies, babies. I also recently read a post by someone on Facebook that said "you don't start living until you have babies." I wholeheartedly disagree with that. Does that mean I didn't have a life-changing experience in Philadelphia and find out more about myself than I ever thought possible? My father died before I have babies; does that mean my time with him was pointless?

I love children, I really do, and we do want one...ONE, you hear me? If we have twins fine, but after one, we're closing up the Uterus Shoppe. You can have one child and make sure they're not weird. He/she will have five first cousins to play with, and will meet friends at school and such. I dunno why everyone is so surprised when I say we only want one. Watch me eat my words and have a basketball team, but I doubt it. I'm 33, and the 'ol eggs probably aren't what they used to be.

Nonetheless, I understand that when you have children, it's wonderful and you love them, and they may complete your life, but I find it mildly offensive to suggest that a married couple without them isn't really living. That's a very egotistical comment to make. Some people never want children, and they live completely full and happy lives. That's like me saying, "If you've never been to Paris or New York, you've never really been anywhere." However, I do think if you've never eaten a fried pickle, you've never had pure joy in your mouth.

Speaking of children, I need a Halloween costume idea. And I don't want to hear "slutty," "naughty" or "schoolgirl" suggested. I like funny costumes, and have yet to understand why Halloween is an excuse for girls to dress like extras in a pornographic movie. It's a kids holiday, not a late-night Cinemax costume showcase.

Cigarettes and chocolate milk (and coffee)

2010-08-30T21:18:00.000-04:00

You want to know the living example of a bad idea? Besides teasing monkeys and trusting the Bush family...me having 8-10 cups of coffee this morning. That was a supremely ill-advised idea. I woke up at 6:45 for no good reason. Those of you that know me well will be shocked to know, no matter what time I go to sleep, no matter my daily schedule, I am incapable of sleeping past 8 a.m. So, I woke up and thought, "Ooh, I can watch the Emmys I DVR'd last night," because I love any awards show that has to do with movies or television. I could literally care less about any music awards. So, I decided, I'll set the coffee pot for 8 cups, which is really more like 3 normal cups...and as I watched Jimmy Fallon sing some questionable musical numbers, I drank the whole pot, and then I made more....and then I refilled my cup at work...

Picture it, Sicily...no, really, picture it, this morning around 11:30, I'm halfway through Cup 11, and I start to feel odd. Like, everything went kind of yellow, I got hot, and I swear I heard someone saying my name. So, I put the coffee down, and for the next 3-4 hours thought, "hmmm..throwing up sounds pretty sweet right now," but I didn't. I waited for it to pass and learned a valuable lesson about my caffeine consumption and my willpower. Apparently, my motto is "If it feels good at the time, just do it; don't worry about later." This is a very good motto to have at age 4; at age 33, perhaps not.

Bikers, meaning cyclists, listen to me and listen closely: You and your little stretchy pants bother me. No one that currently doesn't reside in an '80s Bananarama video should wear spandex in public. Frankly, I don't think you should wear it in private, but what you wear, furry suit, gimp mask, etc...in your private time is your business. Explain the stretchy pants thing to me, please. I rode a bike incessantly from age 4ish to age 15, when I lost all motor coordination, and I never wore stretchy pants, and I could pop mad wheelies.

So, stop it, wear normal athletic gear that does not highlight your male equivalent of a camel toe and make me think of Richard Simmons. And here's a thought, if you're riding to the park to hug a tree and dance naked with the fairies, drive your damn bike there and then frolic cyclically. Do not, I repeat, not, ride on the actual thoroughfare during rush hour traffic on your way to the granola/free the hemp plant/Prius meeting. I'm one more encounter away from getting 30 points by nudging you off to the sidewalk with my mighty Aveo. And then you'll have to tell your patchouli for Men club buddies that a car made of plastic ran you off the road...and then no Tofurkey for you.

I'm taking Adapex now. It's supposed to boost your metabolism and kick-start the whole losing weight process. I started taking it Friday, and so far all it does is make me want to drink 9 gallons of coffee and talk to the point that Smitty actually went to bed to get away from whatever I was saying at 30 miles an hour. I dunno if it takes a while to start its pharmaceutical purpose, but am starting to think that this only reinforces the fact that whatever medicine is supposed to do, it does the opposite for me...or makes my ears and face swell.

I am very excited about the impending 3-day weekend. We are supposed to have visitors, and it promises to be a lot of fun. Mainly, I'm excited that I, nor Smitty, have to work, and this will probably be the last relaxed-esque weekend we have, as he starts back to grad school this week. Wives of graduate students are the unsung heroes of our generation. Meanwhile, I want him to hurry up and finish so I can finish my English master's. And I'm proud of him and stuff.

The polar opposite of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...

2010-08-26T21:11:00.000-04:00

Until recently, I thought the line from that song was "whispers on kittens," which obviously makes no sense, but that's how I heard it. I could start an entirely new blog called "Those are not the lyrics I heard," but it would get redundant after a while.

After seeing two full-sized vans today with the windows blacked out, I started thinking of things that give me the creeps. Some of them are fairly transparent, and some of them go a little further into the joy that is me:

1. See above. Any full-sized van that doesn't have a logo on the side is creepy. If it doesn't have windows, that's doubly so. I guess I will always bring to mind the scene in "Silence of the Lambs" where Buffalo Bill kidnaps the girl and slings her into a van. However, I guess it's more likely now they're using the back for a moveable meth lab. Still, ew.

2. My fingernails or hearing anyone else's fingernails scrape and scratch on denim. You can put 1,000 chalkboards in front of me, and it doesn't cause chills to go up my spine as much as fingernails scraping on denim. I don't know if I was a seamstress in a former life or what, but there you go.

3. Married couples who call each other any variation of Mama and Daddy. If you do it when talking to your kids, fine, but if you're the only people there, and you say "Daddy, bring me a soda," you're in banjo, Toddlers and Tiaras territory.

4. People with wildly outdated hairstyles. I used to work with a woman who had a Dorothy Hamill haircut, like forever. I've seen pictures. Why use that particular icon to hitch your wagon to? It was a bad haircut even in the 70s. I've seen some people lately with these huge, poufy Golden Girls hairstyles. Look, I thank you for being a friend and adore those ladies as much as anyone, but if you're under 80, you should not have that hairstyle.

5. Anything on TV that involves showing surgery, blood, cutting of organs where you hear that squishy noise, all of that grosses me out to no end. I will either turn completely away or look through my fingers, which doesn't really help. I did that when I watched "Hostel" at the theater, and my gentleman caller at the time kept trying to pry my hands away from my eyes until I punched him in the stomach. Everyone in front of us laughed. I hate it when "Grey's Anatomy" shows really graphic surgery, and "Nip/Tuck" was ridiculous about it. That's not necessary.

6. Kids acting or dressing inappropriately. First of all, the clothes for younger girls say things like "Juicy," "Naughty," "Bad Girl," really? For 10 year olds? Is Paris Hilton the shopper for your department store. If I were 16 and wearing a shirt that said any of that stuff, my dad would've made me change and probably burned the shirt. And low-rise jeans? Yah, 'cos that's what little girls should be doing, showing off their nonexistent asses. I don't know what people are thinking; I assume the target market is the Lohans or perhaps wardrobe selections post-Toddlers and Tiaras.

In connection with that, I saw a video last night of children, no older than 8, dirty dancing or grinding or whatever the cool term is these days...chubawubbin (I made that up), while adults laughed and recorded them. I honestly think there should be a mandatory IQ test before you're allowed to have or be around children.

7. Food with chunky or seedy consistencies. You will never see me eat a strawberry. When you chew them, those little seeds crunch in your teeth like you're eating bugs. Also, smoothies or milkshakes with chunks of fruit, be it peach, strawberry or raspberry. Again, there is the consistency of something that could be partially digested invading your ice cream or yogurt.

Garbanzo beans/chickpeas...again, not only do they look like little, shrunken heads, they have the consistency of something that was already eaten or needs to be given to a pet.

Sausage on pizza. When I was younger, I watched a "Nightmare on Elm Street" movie where the dream had Freddy in a malt shop. The doomed teenager watched him pull a pizza from behind the counter that had little sausages on it, but when they showed a close-up, the sausage turned into little heads of past victims screaming. He impaled one of them on his fingernail and ate it. I will never ingest a piece of sausage from a pizza again.

Black (or bluish) snake moan and other mishaps

2010-08-24T21:08:00.000-04:00

I do not like the outdoors or most of the creatures that reside in it. Partially, it's because I'm allergic to most everything outside, and if I am outside when things are blooming, I will soon look like an itchy tomato. Also, it's because there are bugs, spiders (which are technically bugs, but deserve their own category), weird birds that fly lowly at my head, and all manner of slithering reptiles. I know lizards are really helpful, but when there was one in our bedroom, I trapped it in there with handy plastic bags from the grocery store stuffed under the door and called Smitty saying "There is a lizard in the bedroom. I'm not coming home until it's gone, and I want photographic proof." He sent me a picture with the little bugger hanging out on the front porch.

So, the reason I preface the blog this way, is that last night, when I headed, skipping and singing show tunes to get into my car and leave work, there was a strange object near my front left tire. I thought it was a stick, but when I moved closer to the car, it moved. There was a bluish, black small, yes, but who cares!? snake hanging out by my front wheel. I was amazingly calm, I think I said, "Oh, crap, no, no, no, not getting in the car," and stepped back. I also made my alarm do the weird, chirpy bird noise it does when it re-locks, and that make Senor Snake-y Pants slither underneath the front of my car. That is where I got a bit panicky. As long as I could see it and it looked docile, it was sort of okay.

At this point, the girl parked next to me came outside and must've heard me muttering "snake, snake, snake" in the Rain Man-esque manner I was saying it at the point. We both decided we were not getting in our cars until we knew our little spineless pal was gone. Another co-worker came out to make sure our feet would not get attacked a la "Snakes on a Plane" style so we could get in our cars. I leapt into my car with half a cup of water that spilled all over me and the seat, but I got away safely.

However, I drove home batting at myself like a detoxing crackhead because I kept feeling stuff crawling on me. I thought I heard noises in the car, so I kept turning the interior light on, which is actually not at all a good idea driving down Hwy 280. Also, my car is so reprehensibly disgusting, he could've crawled in there and had a cocktail party. Then, I imagined a scenario that while we were debating about getting in the car, it crawled up into whatever metal thingie surrounds the tire, and he was making a little, tiny, snake-sized blueprint to figure out how to crawl into my vent or glove compartment. Smitty says I have a ridiculous imagination. And by ridiculous, I know he means whimsical and delightful to experience.

Now, I see snakes everywhere I go....not literally, of course, but in my mind's eye, there are creepy, little vipers waiting on me in our driveway, in the parking lot. I went to my car Ninja-style, or as Ninja as I am capable, eyes darting around, looking for predators, and deeming everything okay after almost getting on the ground, got into my car. Who's dramatic? I don't know what that means.

I leave you with a little story that pretty much encompasses everything I feel about snakes, snakes as pets, snakes as dinner companions, snakes as chess opponents, etc....:

The Little Boy and The Rattlesnake

The little boy was walking down a path and he came across a rattlesnake. The rattlesnake was getting old. He asked, "Please little boy, can you take me to the top of the mountain? I hope to see the sunset one last time before I die." The little boy answered "No Mr. Rattlesnake. If I pick you up, you'll bite me and I'll die." The rattlesnake said, "No, I promise. I won't bite you. Just please take me up to the mountain." The little boy thought about it and finally picked up that rattlesnake and took it close to his chest and carried it up to the top of the mountain.

They sat there and watched the sunset together. It was so beautiful. Then after sunset the rattlesnake turned to the little boy and asked, "Can I go home now? I am tired, and I am old." The little boy picked up the rattlesnake and again took it to his chest and held it tightly and safely. He came all the way down the mountain holding the snake carefully and took it to his home to give him some food and a place to sleep. The next day the rattlesnake turned to the boy and asked, "Please little boy, will you take me back to my home now? It is time for me to leave this world, and I would like to be at my home now." The little boy felt he had been safe all this time and the snake had kept his word, so he would take it home as asked.

He carefully picked up the snake, took it close to his chest, and carried him back to the woods, to his home to die. Just before he laid the rattlesnake down, the rattlesnake turned and bit him in the chest. The little boy cried out and threw the snake upon the ground. "Mr. Snake, why did you do that? Now I will surely die!" The rattlesnake looked up at him and grinned, "You knew what I was when you picked me up."

I'm not aware of too many things; I know what I know if you know what I mean...

2010-08-20T19:47:00.001-04:00

Here are some things I don't understand: (in no particular order)

1. Why friends and sometimes family use you under the guise of friendship and familial love, yet they really could care less about you. Like if they heard you were ground up by a wood chipper, they would feel some remorse, sure, but mostly they would bask in the attention surrounding them while they explained how they found you, how close you were, etc....that drives me nuts. Fair-weather user friends drive me nuts, and frankly anyone that cares more about the inconsequential things in life also drives me nuts. Capisce? (Imagine I am Tony Soprano; it's more menacing that way)

2. What the hell is wrong with the world today? I read the list of things that entering college freshman are contributing to the zeitgeist, and I'm scared. They can't write cursive, they don't own watches because they use their cell phones for a clock, they don't know Clint Eastwood played Dirty Harry, and, this is the one I'm adding, I know they don't know how to diagram a sentence.

I'm sorry, but if you talk to the average 18 year old, or, hell, even 20 year old, they are not that bright. They text while at work and school, they think Jersey Shore is the most amazing show ever, and they can't write an intelligible paragraph. I'm getting to the old and cranky stage in life. I cannot stress enough how much good grammar and serviceable writing ability helps you make a good impression on the people that matter. If you say "Lol" out loud in an interview, even just to be clever, you need to get a job carrying Sarah Palin's suitcase of shoes and promise never to procreate.

3. Triviality of any sort. If you go into almost any office or work environment, there is so much gossip, you'd think Bravo had cameras hidden. I myself have, on very rare occasions, enjoyed talking about someone's botched stomach stapling or baby Daddy drama, but doing everything you can to avoid doing your actual job while at WORK drives me insane. You're lucky to have a job, and your decision is to be as lazy as possible, do the bare minimum and spend most of your day bitching about why you're not getting promoted and so-and-so is. Gee, I have a slight clue as to why that might be.

Apathy and bad attitudes at work have always driven me crazy. I'm not saying I have loved every single job I've ever had; far from it, but I am the type of person who if I am sweeping the floor for a living (God forbid), I will show you how sweeping is done. I cannot stand to know I'm not reaching my potential. That's how you move ahead, and it's really convenient to blame it on your supervisor or your boyfriend trouble or whatever, but somewhere along the way, we (of my esteemed generation) developed some ill-advised sense of entitlement that we don't warrant. With the state of the world and people who would love to have a job you suck at and don't want anyway, you can't afford to coast. Removing soapbox...stepping down....

4. How the hell is 80s music gonna be on the Retro music channel on cable? Won't be long before it's under Classics. How did this happen? How did Rick Springfield and Tears for Fears go Retro? If you ask me, Rick Springfield could wring Justin Bieber's wormy, little neck. I think I'm having a pre-midlife crisis. I'm 33 years old, and I wore pigtails in my hair, and if I were 15 and I had seen a 30-something person wearing pigtails, I would've made a snarky comment. However, that 30-something would not have been as cool as me.

I just realized the History Channel is being flung upon me without my consent. Must remedy.

All work and something something make Homer something something

2010-08-17T23:57:00.000-04:00

I'm not keeping up with my internal promise to update the blog every two days, but it's funny how something as simple as sitting down and writing something that doesn't even seem to follow a stream of consciousness becomes cumbersome to do more than a few times a week. I'm sorry, loyal readers and peripheral well-wishers, I aspire to do better.

I found my iPod. I'm very excited. If you were to look at the last playlist I created and the one that I will wear out until it tires me, you would think I was musically schizophrenic. But if you are, in fact, a loyal reader, you know that there is a monkey DJ in my head who does suffer somewhat from a multiple personality disorder. The songs on my iPod range from "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash to nearly the entire soundtrack of "Rocky Horror Picture Show," to Blind Melon to Frank Sinatra, and I love them all; and find that starting my day on the ride to work listening to my Sybil-esque playlist seems to alleviate the stress of the day..ooh, and Madonna, how could I forget her? She is my fall back when nothing else works. Which reminds me that when I was in middle school, I once recorded myself on a Fisher Price tape recorder singing "Dress You Up" and called my current crush and played it. Well, I played part of it, but I think he hung up after the first verse. Ah, the good 'ol days before Caller ID.

Speaking of the Fisher Price tape recorder, I also recorded myself singing Annie's "Tomorrow," because my mother cut my hair off when I was about 6 and forced me to suffer through Ogilvie home perms administered by my grandmother, which caused an actual Afro. Then, she made me sing in talent competitions. If I hadn't been so awkward and markedly untalented, we might've had whatever Toddlers and Tiaras turn into at age 8, but thank God after losing for the 3rd time to someone not much more talented than I singing "Rocky Top," a song which still haunts my dreams, she finally heard me say, "No means no." This is part of the reason why A. I refuse to ever cut my hair above shoulder length (although that's also because I look like a super butchy lesbian with short hair, and B. Pageants and talent competitions kind of creep me out.

I'm getting the old thyroid checked tomorrow. Well, actually, I'm going to the dr and saying "Take all the blood you need, check my thyroid, my blood sugar, my hormones, my cholesterol, my gravy to blood percentage, my prostate, whatever you got..." I have had swollen ankles for nearly a month, have possibly lost one pound that I gain back every day, and I'm getting cranky. If all of those things come out normally, she's giving me a new diet that includes carbs. My body needs carbs. You can't live a decent life without pasta or potatoes. Ask Sophia Loren; she's 400 years old, and people still think she's sexy. That's spaghetti..she's said it herself.

The week of birthday suits and antibiotics

2010-08-14T20:25:00.001-04:00

So, I have been sick since pretty much last Sunday. I'm okay now, I think, although food and I are still having a relationship laced with animosity. I've suspended the South Beach diet for a few days, as carbs were the only things I could eat that didn't make me cringe. But, I'm hopped up on Bactram, and it seems to be helping. So far, I'm not having a random allergic reaction to it, so that's a score for me after the incident with my face blowing up like Rush Limbaugh after taking Avelox last year.

I think I would rather have the flu or strep throat than a stomach virus. It's like you literally want to trade in your body for another one because yours is rejecting any and all forms of sustenance. And the fever, oh, the fever. I'm wacked out enough without adding fever to the mix. I think I slept like 30 hours between Wednesday and Friday. Enough about that; I'm mostly back to myself.

Smitty's 36th birthday is today...whoooo. Men are kind of funny about birthdays. Women will declare a "birthday week," wear tiaras and feather boas, and make an enormous deal out of our birthdays, and men, at least straight men, are like, "Meh, just another year." I simply don't understand this. This is the one day that should be for YOU, to do whatever you want, people have to be nice to you (also, this happens for 2 weeks after the death of a parent, believe me, I enforced this principle), and you get stuff. How could you not want to capitalize on that? Makes no sense.

I have yet to receive my birthday present from my mom because she mailed my gift to the apartment we moved out of ..... TWO years ago. She's 70, so you might suggest "senior moment," but no, this is a woman who went into the video store many, many years ago and said, "Do you have Mr. Opus' Holiday?" She has had a cell phone for at least 5 years and doesn't know how to do anything but answer it and make calls; she still can't remember the order that the components of Taco Salad go, and she's been making it for about 20 years, and she will call me sometimes, and I answer to complete silence and then hear either, "Oh, I didn't mean to call you," or my favorite is when she doesn't realize that her phone dialed and I just hear discussion between her and my grandmother about what they're eating for dinner. I am also one of the few people who can make her giggle uncontrollably, which as an added bonus, irritates my grandmother to no end. I can only guess it's because, as she recently confessed to me, she has no sense of humor.

In the past few days, I have had the following songs stuck in my head: "Copacabana," "Lola," "Let it Snow" (wishful thinking, I guess) and "Don't Stop Believing." Can you have musical schizophrenia? I'm mildly concerned.

But I will leave you with these Neko Case lyrics, because I love them:
"How will you know if you found me at last
'Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired, I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight"

"I Wish I Was the Moon Tonight" -- Neko Case

A pirate looks at 33...

2010-08-10T00:14:00.001-04:00

When I was about 25, I wrote in my journal "Things I Will Accomplish By 30," and I tried to find the journal, which I know I still have, but I couldn't. I remember listed on it was "learn to play the guitar," "be an accomplished writer," and "be with someone who understands me." There were other things listed, probably something about skydiving or bungee jumping, but I really don't recall. Seriously, it was 8 years ago.

I attempted to learn to play the guitar from a really, really cranky guy who lived in an un-airconditoned apartment in Manayunk, PA...and he made learning the guitar miserable. I had cut my fingernails and painted them and when I didn't immediately pick up on what he was trying to get me to imitate, he said, "Well, I know you don't want to mess up your manicure, but try it again." I paid him for two lessons and quit because I think if you're trying to learn something you want to enjoy, you shouldn't learn it from a cranky, mean man who can't afford air conditioning.

Be an accomplished writer..hmm..haven't achieved that one in the strictest sense, but I wrote a poem in the poetry class I took towards my master's in English that my professor, who didn't like anything he didn't write, told me could easily be published if I pursued it. I have loyal blog readers, even if they won't COMMENT, ahem, and I'm working as hard as I can to make my writing more than something I do in my spare time. I love words so much that if someone would just let me write commercial jingles, I'd be happy. It makes me sad when I hear of creative writing, the literary magazine, or creative arts in general being cut from schools. You can't stifle creativity in children or teenagers. What if that person you're stunting is the next T.S. Eliot or Emily Dickinson or John Irving? Words, grammar, and the ability to write an awe-inspiring phrase must still be valued...stepping off soapbox...

Being with someone who understands me...wow, did I hit the proverbial jackpot on this one. And I'll submit, Smitty made me so mad earlier, I cried on my birthday (break out the tiny violins), but one of things I love about Smitty is that our fights, discussions, disagreements, what have you, they only last for a little while. Neither of us can stand to fight with the other, we will not go to bed mad, and I don't care how long we've been married, that's a rule we will always follow, and we listen to each other.

Smitty understands that I trip over the carpet, bump in the yard, smooth hardwood, etc...for no reason at all; he understands that I sing a song that has no relation to anything happening at the time (example, last night, Rod Stewart's "Fascination," which is actually "Infatuation," but doing "Fascination....whoooo, fascination...whooo...while looking in the refrigerator); I will probably always have a dirty car; I refuse to admit there's anything I don't know, when in actuality, there are many things I don't know, but I can admit that to myself, just not to others; I become a crazy diva when there is karaoke involved, I'll snatch a microphone from a child, I'm not kidding; I have to have a recipe when I'm cooking, or chaos and fire ensue; it drives me utterly insane for anyone to mispronounce a word or use one incorrectly; and as long as I have coffee and he tells me he loves me, I'm pretty much satisfied.

And I understand a plethora of things about him, including there are some days when I do not need to share every unconnected thought that comes in my head; there are some days when he is physically incapable of sitting still; he likes guns, despite my outright hate for them, and he could literally watch the History Channel from the time he gets up until the time he goes to bed, and meanwhile, I'm trying to find a pencil to stick in my brain and swirl it around; he will not walk anywhere, even in the house, barefoot; he has a relationship to his mother that I will never have with mine, and I envy it; and he will do anything to shield me from even the slightest amount of pain, sadness, and hurt, despite the sacrifice to him at the time.

So, even though I can't remember the complete list, those are the fine points that I can recall. And I will eventually learn to play the guitar, but especially with having fulfilled the last major point, the rest of my goals will fall into place. I have a tall, bald guy who makes me laugh and feel safe, and nearly 4 1/2 years ago, I wrote about 200 thank-you notes showing my appreciation for people who celebrated our marriage, so I'm not kidding, I'm never doing that again. We're in this for the long haul. Thirty-three feels pretty nice so far...

In the words of Jimmy Buffet's song, "A Pirate Looks at 40,
" But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again...Just a few friends, just a few friends."

Ben Harper makes me want to get naked and touch velvet

2010-08-06T23:00:00.000-04:00

Got your attention, didn't I? Sorry, I found a Ben Harper song on mix CD and his voice makes me happy. It's very soothing and kind of lulls you, which is maybe not the best driving selection, but filled me with joy nonetheless.

I have decided to blame my lack of weight loss on a thyroid problem. I'm only partially kidding. It occurred to me the other day since my mom has thyroid issues that it could be the reason I initially gained so much weight so fast, why I seem incapable of losing any weight despite a complete dietary renovation, and my ankles and feet will not stop swelling, along with a number of other symptoms involving lady problems that I won't delve into. I do have some shame.

So, whatever, I'll get that checked out, but speaking of shame, I realized something today. When you're very young and very old, you have no inner censor. Examples, when I was about 7 and we had the visiting preacher over to our house for lunch, and his wife asked my parents how they met, I replied, "In a bar," which was largely due to the fact that our maid let me watch "As the World Turns," and I assumed everyone met in a bar. My dad thought it was hilarious; my mom, not so much. I used to correct my nursery caregiver at church when she mispronounced a word while reading. That still drives me bonkers, but I try not to correct anyone I don't know that well, as not to make myself seem like a smart ass...they'll learn that soon enough.

On the flip side, my grandmother will say anything and everything that comes into her head. Example: We were at her house one day, DYING of heat exhaustion because even in the summer, her house is about 80 degrees, and she finally allowed us to turn on the window unit in the kitchen. I stood in front of it, crying because I finally didn't feel like I was about to keel over, and she walked past and said, "That thing's not working; it's just blowing out cool wind," and then I asked her what exactly functioning air conditioners did, and she realized what she had just said and wouldn't answer me. Also, she had a neighborhood cat that was sleeping on top of her car, which she didn't drive, and decided to call the local auto mechanic to ask "What is that stuff you can feed cats and it kills them?" I had to wrestle the phone away from her because in a town of 2000 people, if the preacher's cat, yes, I said preacher, turns up poisoned, and he lives two houses down, people might put two and two together.

The best thing that came out of that incident was that someone put a note on top of her windshield that read "I hear you need to get rid of a cat; I remember you had a similar problem with a tree. It seems like you should remedy it in the same manner." Back story briefly: Their neighbor had a tree which had a limb that partially hung over their property. Allegedly, (because my grandfather was awesome and I don't want to libel him) my grandfather sprinkled it with poison nightly for about a month until the entire tree died because the neighbor refused to cut the limb. I know that the note was her other neighbor having a laugh, but she put the note in a plastic bag, and you could only touch the bag, mind you, you couldn't even remove the note, with plastic gloves. She wanted to get a DNA sample from the police, but we dissuaded her against that, not to mention, I'm pretty sure in a town with like 4 cops, that wouldn't have been possible. And she was completely and totally serious, as she recently told me, "Emily, I have no sense of humor. Maybe that's why I didn't get along with your daddy." Fair enough, Mamaw, fair enough.

Long, hot, never ending summer

2010-08-04T20:59:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry, did I sign up to be an extra in "A Time to Kill" and not remember? I cannot stop sweating, which is gross. It is too hot; I can't even sit on the front porch at night, because the mugginess rises up and smacks me in the face..which is rude for an atmospheric status to do. I never thought I would say I was ready for football season, but I am, because football season signals cool weather, Thanksgiving, sweaters, etc...I saw a girl at work today wearing a cardigan outside. I literally wanted to punch her. It made me hotter just looking at her. Clearly, she's a transplant from Alaska; that's the only logical explanation I can glean. Otherwise, she's a moron.

South Beach Diet Week 3, pounds lost: 3. SRSLY...I am losing one pound a week, and the book mocks me with its "By Week 3, you should've lost anywhere from 8 to 14 pounds. Hey, Dr. South Beach, why don't you bite me? I'm following your stupid diet, I nearly made Smitty and I sick with questionable turkey meatloaf last night, I haven't eaten pasta in a month, and your printed words echo failure throughout my head. If I had known eating healthily wouldn't have caused me to lose weight, I would've been in mashed potato and spaghetti-eating contests. I'm not stopping the diet, b/c I feel perhaps my monthly hormonal intruder is causing interference with the diet. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. If I don't start to lose weight soon, however, I'm having a talk with my doctor who recommended this torture.

My nightly sleep aversion reared its ugly head earlier this week. I was so tired, and I lay down, and bam, wide awake. I flipped and flopped around until I heard this from Smitty, "SSSSIIIIIIGGH," (that's really the only way I know how to write a frustrated exhalation, and I knew I was getting on his nerves and "stealing his warm cocoon air," so I got up and went to the couch and watched bad TV, then "Dead Poets Society," (Oh Captain, my Captain indeed) until I fell asleep at 2:30. Thank God I had the next day off or there would have been some degree of taking phone calls the next day and saying, "What was that? I nodded off while you were talking. You wanted to add a '10 Mercedes with comp and collision? Oh, you wanted to add an '89 Toyota Corolla with liability only? That's what I thought you said."

I got an early birthday present from Smitty..birthday is Aug. 9 for those who have deep pockets and a generous nature. He gave me American Idol 2 for the Playstation 3. Oh, my Lord. We already christened it Saturday night with friends and an off-balance me, but this game, while fun for groups, is actually for me to do as loudly as I want when no one is home or when Smitty is on business trips. We have no neighbors to apologize to, and when I'm by myself, my renditions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Holiday" rival no other. I give myself chills and then get cranky when game Simon criticizes my performance. He's mean, even on video game. I have, however, beat the game and become video American Idol, but that was on the XBox. I'll have to see what I can do on this newfangled game system.

Love letter to carbs and some other things

2010-07-27T23:19:00.000-04:00

Dear Carbs,
I miss you; do you miss me? You probably don't. You've probably moved on to others, and I understand. I would've done the same thing.

We've had some really good times, no? Pasta, do you remember how every time Smitty would go out of town, we would have our special time together because I didn't feel like cooking anything else? We would have wine, watch some DVR and really let our hair down. Mmm...I miss the taste of you mingled with marinara sauce. I dream about it.

Potatoes, I can't forget you. You soothed me when I was sick and couldn't eat anything else. Your loving starch enveloped me like a comfortable blanket and filled up my my empty places with buttery goodness. You are sometimes like the lesser-known friend talked about in "Wind Beneath My Wings." You fit into any meal with no aforethought as to whether you may have had something else to do, and you do it with aplomb and grace.

Rice and bread, how do you manage your adaptability? You can make a sandwich, and you can go underneath anything, respectively, to complete all of us. How many times has a sandwich hit the spot after a long day? And rice, you were a main component of my favorite dish growing up, pepper steak, and you can't be substituted for brown rice. Brown rice, I've met white rice, and you are no white rice.

I will be seeing some of you soon, although in smaller portions, perhaps with whole grains thrown crudely over your perfect forms, but I wanted you to know, that if you want to text me or friend me on Facebook, we could do that, but I can't make any plans to see you just yet.

I love you all,
Emily

Ahhhh...that was cathartic. When we went grocery shopping Sunday, I actually said to an inanimate potato, "I miss you." Smitty pretended not to know me. That's fine, I just wanted them to be aware. I nearly clawed the throat out of a co-worker eating a chocolate cookie, but it was a fleeting primal thing, like when you're waiting for a bus or train and briefly think about pushing someone in front of the bus/train. I fight these things. Occasionally, my inner censor fails, and I see a guy at a party wearing baggy, acid-washed jeans and a wife-beater, and I can't take it any more and ask, "I'm sorry, but what exactly were you thinking when you left the house?" And all my guy friends shrink away because they assume he won't hit me, but will hit them...and it works out fine, because he knows he's lame and just says, "I've been working out."

My point is, for the most part, I don't say or do the things I really want to. None of us do. I probably do more than others, but it's not really shocking from me anymore. We should all take a well-inked lesson from the "Simpsons" episode where Bart did whatever he wanted and the town followed suit. I think it causes cancer, or at the very least, wrinkles, to tell even white lies. That's how heart disease happens, people. Fly the blunt flag...or just do what I do and phrase it sarcastically so people don't know if you're serious.

Welcome to Hotel Soda Detox

2010-07-24T00:23:00.000-04:00

So, as many of you may've read, after starting the South Beach Diet, I felt phenomenal until yesterday, when I started feeling dizzy and off-balance..even more so than usual..and today, I figured it out. I'm not drinking caffeine any more after coffee in the morning. I was so geeked up on caffeine, and honestly, before starting this diet, I had even cut down, that I'm literally having withdrawals. Also, am still retaining water in my feet and now, hands, to the point that I look like Princess Cankles and the Mayor of Sausage Finger Village. Ugh...At this point, I haven't lost any weight and am somewhat dismayed because everyone who has tried this diet has lauded losing 5-8 pounds in the first week...well, there are two days to go, I've eaten everything I'm supposed to, and even exercised...sigh...alas, I'm not giving up, I just think, if we can put people on the moon, we can make diets that work instantly.

We're watching "The Golden Child," which never ceases to crack me up. It's nice to see Eddie Murphy when he was still funny. What happened to him? I think his last movie was "Daddy Day Camp vs. Dr. Doolittle: Electric Boogaloo." Sad..which brings me to...what ever happened to Jodie Foster, Edward Norton, Denzel Washington, Naomi Watts, and Nicole Kidman, to name a few...why aren't they making movies?

I have this mental list of productive things to do this weekend with my newfound energy:
1. Clean out my car. Any of you that have known me for at least 10 years know that I have a long-standing history of disgusting cars. The '93 Ford Probe I got when I graduated from high school wasn't a bad car, but for some reason, I chose to throw anything and everything into the backseat and floorboards of that car. My best friend Amanda once rode with me somewhere to meet mutual friends and secretly asked another friend to give her a ride back when something in the car bit her..(allegedly).

When I sold that car privately, there were books, my tennis racket, food wrappers, and possibly a small Mexican family living in it, but I couldn't clean it out because my ankle was broken, so my mom let the buyer drive away with God knows what. The funny thing was, that car also had about 5 bumper stickers on it which included, "It'll be a better world when teachers and schools have all the money they need, but the military has to hold a bake sale to buy weapons," "I'm Pro-choice, and I vote," and "Diva." A man in his 50s bought the car, and my friend Ellen saw it parked at Belk about 6 months later, and he had taken all the stickers off except for "Diva."

2. Straighten our bookshelf. Since I was 7, I've collected books. My grandfather got shipments of books from publishers and let us choose what we wanted, and he reviewed the rest for newspapers and the publishing companies. If I had to go to a desert island and choose only three books, I would die. Smitty had no idea what he was getting into as far as acquiring books along with a winsome bride. When my father died, I got some of the most precious books in the world, including his master's thesis on J.R.R. Tolkien and all of his Norton anthologies he used for teaching his literature classes. And the best part is that they're underlined with his favorite parts, some of which he and I used to discuss. I miss my dad.

3. Washing our dirty, stinky dogs. Frankly, I don't know how I'm going to do it, but they are both long overdue for baths. Every time I get out of my car and they ebulliently greet me, a wave of general outside stench and stinky dog washes over me. I know how Norton deals with baths (shakes uncontrollably while giving me a dirty look and trying to escape), but I haven't given Zooey a bath yet. Should be interesting. In fact, I believe I shall enlist Smitty to take pictures. I don't take enough pictures..and I would like a photographic measure of how much weight I will lose...it'll be like before and after pics involving dogs..perhaps there's a fetish site where money can be made....hmmm

A farewell to ankles...and other lesser known classic tales...

2010-07-21T21:16:00.002-04:00

So, apparently, it's 1987 because I used mousse this morning. The reason was twofold, 1. I didn't have time to dry my hair, and 2. I thought it might be nice to try and have wavy, beachy hair...Apparently, my hair is incapable of that because all the mousse did was make my hair look greasy, and it has that weird, somewhat hard texture that is what led to me not using any product other than shampoo, conditioner, and frizz control in the first place. I wish I had an off-the-shoulder sweat shirt, some leg warmers, and parachute pants to really embrace the look.

I am a South Beach diet dynamo...seriously, I've finally channeled my OCD into something positive. The weird thing is, I feel awesome. Seriously, this is only Day 3, but I have consistently gotten up all week at 7 a.m. so I can have coffee, watch "West Wing," (how I love you Bradley Whitford), work out and make breakfast before I go to work. I have energy, I'm in a festive mood all day without the use of narcotics or alcohol (not that I was doing that during the day before, I'm just saying I used to question cheerful people as being on cocaine), and I look forward to the smallest things, like "Total Eclipse of the Heart" came on the radio when I got off work, and I nearly teared up. That is one of my Top Ten all-time favorite car-singing songs. I sing so well in my estimation that I give myself chills. It's really emotional.

However....this morning I happened to look down and what used to be my ankles and thought, "Hmm...did someone replace my ankles with a misshapen pillow; what's happening there?" For whatever reason, I am retaining the hell out of some fluid, and I appear to have gained two pounds since last week, to which the old dark and twisty Emily may have responded to by quitting my little regiment and eating a bag of Oreos, but the new Zen Emily says, "Eh, it'll work itself out," which has also been my universal response every time I've gotten a bad haircut..I'm not kidding, my hair grows really fast. There's no hair disaster that can't be undone, except for the time I attempted to highlight/dye my hair blonde about 5 years ago. If your hair is starting to go dark, you should not attempt to dye it yourself. It will turn out a color that frequents the pages of Playboy and many a strip club stage, but doesn't so much work for the average gal.

I didn't have to cook tonight, because we're having chicken with bones, which I refuse to touch. Well, it originally had bones. Smitty actually takes the bones and the meat out and cooks it so I don't have to touch it. Boneless, skinless breasts don't bother me so much as any bird with bones and bumpy skin...ugh...This is one of the many eccentricities that Smitty abides. God bless that tall drink of water.

If you like pina colada....and other mildly disturbing things..

2010-07-19T23:10:00.000-04:00

I have been in a supremely good mood today; it's odd because A. I had less than 7 hours of sleep, B. I started my diet today, and C. It's Monday. I woke up at 6:30 for no apparent reason, made coffee, worked out on the Wii, made breakfast and got gussied up (I'm from Macon, Mississippi, leave me alone), and actually wore a dress to work. In a very un-New Age-like way, I figured, "I'm turning over a new leaf, new diet, new outlook on life and my chi and feng shui and all that, by God, I'll wear a dress." And I honestly felt better..perhaps my grandmother is right, "If you just put on lipstick, it'll all be okay."

I heard the "Pina Colada Song" on the way home from work, and I know it has another name, but I can't remember it. However, I'm very torn about this song. On the one hand you get to hear lyrics like "I'm not much into yoga....I am into champagne," but on the other hand, the douche bag narrator of the song is skimming the Personal Ads, and he, by his own admission, lives with someone...at the beginning he says, "Me and my old lady had fallen into the same old tired routine." Oh, you're kinda bored? Well, that makes cheating perfectly acceptable. It's just like that Fleetwood Mac song, "Love the One You're With." I HATE that song. Waaay before being married, when I was a teenager and first heard that song, I thought...hmm..that doesn't seem right; why would you be with someone you don't love...and why does this song seem to encourage that?

Also, I didn't know the song "Lola" was about a she-male until I heard the entire song at karaoke about 7 years ago. I truly had never listened to all the lyrics because I liked the fact that incorporated, "lalalala," which I think is underused in songs. The closing lyrics are "because I'm a man and so is Lola...lalalala Lola." I remember sitting at the Sports Page in Columbus, Mississippi, a bar that is literally a double-wide trailer on cinder blocks, and thinking..."Wait, Lola was a man?!?!" And now that I've actually paid attention to the lyrics, I think I might be mildly retarded for not knowing that already.

So, on day 1 of the South Beach diet, it seems I have turned my neurotic, mildly OCD tendencies into a can-do attitude for weight loss. I am obsessed. Clearly, waking at 6:30 should be proof enough for those that know me well. I leave you with the wisdom I've absorbed on Day 1:

1. Pureed cauliflower is nothing like mashed potatoes. You can say "South Beach mashed potatoes" and try to pretend like we can still call Fox News a "news channel," but at the end of the day, it's mutton dressed as lamb.
2. You really do feel better after you do some physical activity. Oh my Lord, how I hate to exercise, but after I played Wii tennis for 40 minutes this morning, even though those little cartoon bastards beat me, I genuinely felt kind of invigorated..stupid endorphins.
3. I'm not going to eat fruit, but I still maintain, the Lord made the fruit. How can we deprive ourselves of the Lord's bounty? I'm not saying the diet creator is going to hell...but it's a fine line, Dr., I'm just saying.
4. Rosemary can make anything taste better. I'm not kidding, it's like the chocolate of spices...it's soothing, multi-purpose, and it smells so good, you could probably put it on spinach and it would taste good...which brings me to.....
5. Spinach -- You are my culinary white whale. You and any manner of green, collard, mustard, turnip...yard grass...Prior to now, I can eat spinach when it's drowned in sour cream and artichokes...it makes a heavenly dip. Other that that, no, thank you. So, this morning, I dipped my toe into the spinach wading pool. I made these breakfast quiche cups with eggs, spinach, onions, and skim mozzarella cheese...and I can honestly say, not bad..it made a nice melange that made me forget that the leafy predator was taking over everything in the quiche. It was like a Stepford quiche, but the other ingredients held their own. Sooo, tomorrow night, I'm actually making steamed spinach. I feel it will likely be drenched in hot sauce so I don't taste that sweat-sock spinach taste, but at least I will stare it down and say...."Bring it, you Jolly Green Giant wannabe."

Weighting on Godot and the other flashes of brilliance that run through my head

2010-07-17T20:25:00.000-04:00

So, the other night, I decided to turn up the '80s station on digital cable and jam out while I was making stir-fry. What initially caught my attention was Billy Ocean's "Get out of My Dreams," and I was set. However after that song and "Electric Avenue," this super slow song came on that I knew I recognized, but couldn't place until I heard the chorus, "How can I fall...how can I fall, when you just won't give me reason, when you just won't give me reason...at alllll," and I was instantly transported to riding around Macon, Mississippi, in my sister's '77 powder-blue Chevette (HAHAHAHAHA...I got a way newer car when I got my license, although it was an Oldsmobile Firenza that I think they recalled, but I know they don't make anymore.

I digress...actually, we had to have been in a car with a working tape player, so it may've been my mom's car, but my sister had met some guy who was somebody's cousin, his name was Thad, that's all I can remember, but she was quite the smitten kitten. But Thad didn't call...so she changed to words to Breathe's song "How Can I Fall," to "How could I fall, how could I fall when he just won't write or call me....when he just won't write or call me....at alll..." She is going to kill me for that, but I had to get it out, because it really disturbed me that I knew the words to that song.

I am a beached whale....I found out at my yearly check-up the other day that I have gained TWENTY-FIVE pounds in the span of a year and three months...That's like three newborn babies...although I'll tell you what it is...it's Emily refusing to exercise unless at gun point (now THAT would be boot camp), gall bladder surgery, which threw my eating habits and digestive system completely out of whack, and my father going from sick to sicker to death's door and beyond, and my eating to fill that hole I felt while he was getting worse and after he died. I'm not making excuses, God knows, it's pure sloth and Emily that led to this, but, by God, to quote my favorite President, "Yes, we can." (insert eye rolls here)

I am starting the South Beach Diet on Monday, and I am serious about this. I'm making a grocery list, although requiring that you keep salmon on hand is a bit short-sighted in this economy, and I am doing this. I don't want to be a size 4 again, it's been 13 years since that happened, but I want to be healthy and not get out of breath when I walk across a room, and I want to see one chin and one chin only when I happen to look down. I will fit into clothes I fit into when I lived in Pennsylvania when I lost weight, and I was a size 8. I am perfectly happy, and I don't even care about the weight. I care about the fact that my arms do that old-lady turkey-neck jiggle thing, I have gone up 3 sizes in 4 years, I abhor taking pictures because there is hard evidence that will last for infinity that I am a fatbody, and I want to have a baby in less than 2 years, and I do not want to start off at my present weight of 187..yah, that's right. I said it, because I want public accountability.

I am still super hot at this weight, but can you imagine the pure magnetism if I get back down to 130, which is my ideal goal weight? Kingdoms will fall...no, seriously, I don't feel bad about my appearance so much because I have the love of a person who genuinely doesn't care what weight I am, but I want him to know that I care how I look to him and to myself, and frankly, those are the only two people who matter.

So, possibly, as I cut out pasta, rice, bread, fruit (what kind of diet restricts fruit? It's from the Lord, I'm just saying...), and they said alcohol, but I'm omitting that one...oops, my book smudged that word, it looked like pine and beets, not wine and beer, so I'm going to interpret it my way....I may be writing about why I'm going to hunt down Mr. South Beach and force him to eat Twinkies...stay tuned.

Night Moves and Terrors and Screams

2010-07-15T13:11:00.000-04:00

So, it's no secret I have had some issues sleeping. Either I can't go to sleep, I can't stay asleep, or when I do go to sleep, I have terrifying dreams involving trying to keep my father from dying. It is what it is, I'm pledging allegiance to Cymbalta and I'm doing okay..really..but the going to sleep and staying asleep is still an issue...

Soo.....Smitty and I had a brilliant idea..herbal supplements, i.e., Valerian Root and St. John's Wort. Seemed like a viable and reasonable option. However, the directions on the bottle, not kidding, say to take 3 caplets of Valerian Root 30 minutes before sleep. I followed their instructions dutifully and lo and behold, about an hour later, got as drowsy as I would've if I'd taken a bunch of Benadryl..

Sometime later, I was shaken awake, both by Smitty and my own screaming. He asked me what I was dreaming about, and I thought I said "A demon," but he claims I said "A poltergeist." Either way, he had to wake me up six times that night, and when I wasn't screaming, I was kicking and flopping around and snoring loudly enough that I did wake myself up. When his alarm went off at 6:15 a.m., I said, "Did you have to wake me up?" And he unleashed in a sleep-deprived rant, "What is WRONG with you? I had to wake you up six times. You need a doctor because you have problems. You are not normal," and then left the room, which led to my not speaking to him all day until he sent me a text message asking me if I was okay.

In retrospect, I would've probably stabbed him in his sleep if he had done that to me, although I would've gone to the other room ..which he could've done and admitted he could've done later that day when he apologized to me for blaming me for having nightmares. If I could control that, I'd be making some money.

So, herbal meds are great, but I don't know who the heck could take the recommended dosage and not be a. in a coma or b. a raving lunatic. I have scaled back my intake and so far, so good, although I still don't understand why I can't sleep at night. I love sleep. I think we should adopt the Mexican and European tradition of a big lunch and a nice afternoon nap. We'd be far more productive..something to hope for, anyway.

See you in my dreams, although for your sakes, I hope they're the good ones and not the ones where I was involved in a gang war or where the demon/poltergeist was chasing me.

Pop culture runs my life...maybe we'll just focus on music and TV

2010-07-09T21:48:00.001-04:00

I am voracious when it comes to pop culture: TV, movies, books, music, not so much art, although I guess art isn't pop culture, unless it's pop art, and I frankly am not cool enough to know what constitutes actual art and pop art...smug artists can judge me now if they'd like.

I am presently watching the lost footage of the "Real Housewives of NYC," because this series makes me so happy. I don't watch the Atlanta version, and I'm not wild about the prospect of the DC version, but I'll give it a chance. It's seriously the guiltiest pleasure I have, except maybe my love of board games, but I dunno that loving board games is trashy and mindless like reality TV. If I liked Pictionary, maybe, but I'm addicted to Trivial Pursuit and Smitty will NOT play with me. I like to think it's because he's scared, but it's actually because he is irritated by all board games, except Risk, which I bought him recently and takes 9 hours to play. What a brilliant idea that was.

Music defines my life in a lot of ways. I say that I have a monkey DJ in my head, because, frankly, I do. Well, really Smitty says that because it comforts him to say that rather than to say "Emily is a schizophrenic; I've made an awful, awful mistake," because at any given time, I will just sing whatever pops into my mind. Recently, it's been Carrie Underwood's song about her scratching her name into her cheating boyfriend's truck...can't remember the name. That's the thing, often, I can't remember the names of songs or the correct lyrics, which is why Smitty and my song is "Here I Go Again" by Whitesnake or White Lion or Great White or whoever, because not long after we started dating, we were coming home from a party, and I was singing at the top of my lungs, "Cos I know what it means, to walk along when love is sweetly dreamed." (Actual lyrics: 'Cos I know what it means, to walk along the lonely street of dreams.') There was silence in the car and then "WHAT did you just say?" and it pretty much set the precedent for road trips with me singing at the top of my lungs and his looking sideways at me because I even know the lyrics I just sang aren't right, but I just don't care.

Besides random incorrect lyrics, bizarre songs just pop into my head. There was a song from a hotel commercial from when I was little, and it went "We're almost there, I want to go swimming....we're almost there, I want to watch TV." Also, any song from the "Three Amigos" or "The Princess Bride" or "Labyrinth" is burned into my brain. There is simply no way to undo it. If I ever get Alzheimer's and I so don't mean to joke about that, but it will end up with me quoting movies and singing the best of Wilson Phillips.

There was also this song from a completely ridiculous movie called "Summer Camp Nightmare" that my sister and I watched one Saturday while she was babysitting me while my mom was getting her Master's. Incidentally,during one of those babysitting adventures, my sister also broke my pinkie toe when she dropped a giant saucepan on it....because my sister in the kitchen is scary, then, now, and forever. Nonetheless, this movie had a song that the campers sang for a talent show or something that just went "Beef, beef, beef, beef baloney, beef, beef, beef, beef baloney," while grabbing his crotch and dancing around. It was horrible and horrified my sister, which is why I think I chose to hang onto that image and song, because I would torment her with it for a while after that. But, these are the things that creep into my head, unwarranted, that and Barenaked Ladies and Jane's Addiction and Frank Sinatra and Billy Joel, ad nauseum, I'm just giving you a glimpse into my psyche...it's scary and cold there, and the music is constant. This is why I need a Swedish team of people studying me. I could be on Oprah, I'm just saying.

I can't even escape to the East Coast to get away from the heat

2010-07-07T20:48:00.000-04:00

I am hot. It's virtually all I think about all day long. I drink coffee out of my snowman mug so I can pretend it's winter..or that I'm a snowman. It's like every summer I suffer amnesia over the heat produced in the Deep South. At some point in winter, I know I say, "I wish it was summer." I feel it's safe to say after this summer, I will never utter that phrase again. And while I used to daydream about moving back to Philly to escape the heat, nope, not gonna happen, it's hot as hell there, too. Only there, when it's hot, this fetid smell comes from the steam grates in the street. I never experienced the heat there like they are currently experiencing, so that weird gas smell combined with men peeing in front of me in the streets kind of robs the romanticism of that notion.

Also, if it's so hot, why are my allergies going nuts? Doesn't heat kill things that make you sneeze? I mean, I'm no ENT, but I thought that was how it worked. Cold = dead sneezy causers, and Hot = dead mucus-producing trees...that's pretty much the equation that used to allow me to go outside in extreme heat and cold. Now, I'm popping Benadryl, Claritin, Allegra, Mucinex and various unmarked medications I find in my purse, and I still cannot breathe, have itchy eyes and throat and am snoring due to stuffiness to the point that I wake myself up. Don't talk to me about snore strips. All those do is misshape my nose to the point that I look like a Jim Henson creation.

In light of the overtime I have worked in recent weeks, I would like to take this time to apologize to the customer service staff at AT & T that I yelled at when they told us we were signed up for DSL, charged us for it, and then told us it wasn't available in our area. I can't remember their names, I even wrote them down, as I was going to send a letter to someone reproaching their behavior, but I got bored with it and apparently lost the torn napkin I was going to use to get revenge. After working in customer service, it is amazing the level to which you will acquiesce to even the most incompetent customer service personnel. Recently, at a department store, there was this couple checking out in front of us, and it was like double coupon day, and additional 30% off if you're name was Maria or something, so they were taking FOREVER, and when we finally got up to check-out, the girl apologized like 5 times and we both said, "It's fine; it's totally not your fault," and she was so glad that we weren't jackasses, she gave us an additional 15% off. It pays to be nice to your customer service folks, I'm just saying.

Songs I'm currently unable to get out of my head (in no particular order):
1. Carrie Underwood (I think) -- that song about the guy cheating and she keys his "pretty little souped up ride"
2. Sugar Ray - Every Morning...and I LOATHE Sugar Ray
3. Wilson Phillips - Hold On
4. Ryan Adams - Cracks in a Photograph
5. Laura Branigan - Gloria
6. Frank Sinatra - My Way

The monkey DJ in my head has multiple personalities.

I would buy you a monkey; haven't you always wanted a monkey?

2010-07-03T00:32:00.000-04:00

I've been meaning to write all week, and I'm having one of those crazy Faulkner-thoughts weeks. I'm all over the place. This is partially due to the fact that I feel like I've been living at work what with required overtime for the past three days and getting ready to have my mom and brother come visit. I spent two hours tonight cleaning the kitchen with so much Clorox, it made me dizzy and a little nauseous...I guess that's how you know stuff is clean.

I've been thinking about my dad a lot this week. I always think about him, even if it's not at the forefront of my mind, but I guess with my mom visiting, I wish he was coming, too. It's so hard for me to realize and fully accept that I'm never going to see him again. I can be perfectly fine and then his face appears in my mind's eye, and I hear him calling me "little girly," and I have to use a great amount of social appropriateness not to start crying. I also think I'm more than a teensy bit neurotic about something happening to Smitty and other people I love. And this just manifests in my internally freaking out over every health thing Smitty mentions to me, so I don't tell him, or he'll stop telling me things...that's totally healthy, right?

On a related note, I can't stop reading Jodi Picoult books. They're sad, gut-wrenching, someone either dies or has some horrible disease, or both, yet, I'm strangely drawn. Don't get me wrong, she's a brilliant writer, which is one of the main reasons I think I keep reading them. Plus, I think I'm hoping that she'll write one where everyone is healthy, happy, and in love, and they go live in Never-Never Land. Fingers crossed. Maybe I'll just re-read the "Bell Jar" to cheer me up.

I am a disgrace to Netflix. I've had "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" for 2 weeks. I want to watch it, but I feel guilty kicking Smitty out of the living room, and for some reason, he refuses to watch it. This, after he made me watch "Avatar," "Death Race" (which I actually liked, but that's besides the point), all of those stupid "Underworld" movies, so I think he could at least try to watch it...but he's cute, so I'll forgive him.

I have this weird OCD thing with having to use straws for all drinks, and now, as a new development, I can only use straws that are in a complementary color to the cup...Before thinking about it, I asked Smitty if that seemed odd...you want to guess what he said? Yes, that Swedish psychiatry team should be calling anytime now. They could spend a week on the straws and refusing to use white washcloths or plates and having to have all of the froth from brushing my teeth wash down the drain before I can leave the bathroom...Have I mentioned I'm on medication?

It's finally happened...I've embraced shorts

2010-06-22T14:29:00.000-04:00

So, I've had this long-standing fear of wearing shorts. My legs are so pale, they're clear. It could be 400 degrees outside, and I would refuse to wear them...I would say, "No, I'm not hot, I'm fine," as sweat poured down my legs and dizziness from heat ensued.

I've finally decided that I don't care how pale I am, and my own mother in fact said to me on Saturday, "You need to get some tanning lotion," thanks, Mom. It's too effing hot for me to live in my denim prison any longer. I bought shorts and two dresses, and I will be wearing them as the Albino Poster Girl I am. And I also appreciate those asking me if I've heard of an invention called "the sun." As a matter of fact, I have, but I work such odd, freaking times, I don't have time to lay out, and I am scared of the tanning bed..it's a cancerous coffin.

Now, for something completely different, why can they not fix this stupid oil leak? Seriously...and I'm tired of everyone blaming Obama..what would you have him do? Swim down and plug the leak with his body? Enough. He hasn't done anything more detrimental to the environment involving oil that presidents haven't been doing for 100 years. I'm not saying I think his behavior since the leak has been great, but really, what is it that people expect him to do?

Got through Father's Day #1 without my dad. It wasn't great, but it wasn't horrible either. It helped that I got to spend it with family, having lunch with my mom and staying with my in-laws. It certainly helped that I have a wonderful father-in-law and in-laws in general who have always made me feel a part of their family. I really feel sorry for people who have in-law issues. I could see how that would be torturous, but yay for not having that problem. My only problem is that I think I gain 5 lbs every time we visit...Self-control, meet Emily. Emily, try to meet self-control.

The insomniac blog

2010-06-15T00:55:00.000-04:00

I cannot sleep...I can't go to sleep and then when I go to sleep, I have horrible dreams...so I'm trying a new plan. I'm going to stay up until I get sleepy, then go to bed and watch no TV and just go to sleep. I may be awake until 1 a.m., but I'm gonna see how it works....

Now for some randomness...I cannot get Vacation Bible School songs out of my head. All throughout the past week I keep hearing "Some of the people, they didn't make the trippy, trippy, they fell out of fellowshippy, shippy," and "Zachaeus was a wee little man, a wee little man was he." I can only attribute it to the fact that there are VBS signs everywhere on the way to work...but it's odd...it's like my monkey DJ has been replaced by a Christian rock DJ.

We have 8 cans of every vegetable you could ever want.. I just looked in the cabinet to make coffee and noticed the 10 cans of tomatoes...it's hilarious. Smitty always prepares like Armageddon is coming with the stockpiles of food. I used to think it was insane and now I find it comforting. At any given time, I can pretty much make any recipe with the contents in our house, and that's awesome. It's just funny; there are 3 unopened mayonnaise containers and like 8 bottles of salad dressings in our pantry. The first time Smitty and I went on a 2-day trip, staying in a hotel, he brought canned soups, canned fruit, a box of Wheat Thins, and a tin of oysters...I was like, "Um...how long are we staying?"

I really want to be on a cooking show, like Hell's Kitchen. Not Hell's Kitchen itself, but something similar. I'm not an awesome cook, but neither are some of the people on those shows. I would like to see how I would handle myself...I used to really want to be on American Idol, but I've changed my course...I want to use creme fraiche and rock it out...but more likely, I would probably burn stuff...

Off to continue my sleep project...

Turn around, bright eyes....

2010-06-09T23:15:00.000-04:00

I am a content little monkey for the time being. Team Cymbalta is cruising ahead. After one slightly terrifying panic attack, I am now energized, sleeping for the first time in months, and back to my winsome, witty self...at least in my head...and that's where the voices are who tell me what to do...(Joke)

I have discovered a number of things in the last couple of weeks:
1. People driving luxury SUVs piss me off...really? You have an extra $35,000 to spend on a car and you choose a wanky SUV with a Lexus "L" on the front? You, like the people who are not rappers or in an actual war that drive Hummers, are irritating...there...

2. I do not like Pink Floyd. I like maybe two songs, but I feel secure in admitting that I don't get it. All of their songs sound nearly the same and unless you've just dropped 3 hits of LSD and you're preparing for a laser light show at the planetarium, it's like Rachel Ray and Ann Coulter, completely unnecessary and repetitive.

3. Barack Obama did not cause the Gulf oil spill. Yes, he approved off-shore drilling, and I actually, against my politics of the last 15 years, agree with off-shore drilling, even with the oil spill, but he had nothing more to do with the oil spill than George W. Bush had to do with Katrina. And I loathe George W. Bush more than sugar-free anything and people telling me "exercise cures depression." If we were able to successfully execute off-shore drilling, perhaps we might lessen our dependence on foreign oil, which is what everything is pretty much about, anyway.

It's odd, because I get people I've been associated with through the Kerry campaign and other avenues are asking me to sign petitions to ban off-shore drilling, and I don't want to. I agree with it. I also agree with the companies that perform it being able to STOP THE DAMN OIL if it starts to leak. I think that's a general quality control issue we more or less expect of the company. Can you imagine any other industry where they have no contingency plan should a disaster occur? Oh, the plane blew up due to some kind of faulty equipment, but maybe if we shoot golf balls at the problem, that will fix it...WTF...fix it! You make billions of dollars a year, and you don't have a plan to fix a leaking well? Pay me a million dollars a year, I know literally nothing about oil drilling, but I feel I could come up with a serviceable plan to stop the damn oil.

4. Trying to be healthy is annoying. I drink a lot of caffeine. I have about 5 cups of coffee in the morning and then usually I have one or two diet Cokes throughout the day. I decided, or perhaps Smitty suggested, that maybe that wasn't super healthy. So now, I'm trying to only drink caffeine in the morning and then drinking green tea-flavored water the rest of the day. I lulled myself into a false sense of contentment by convincing myself the water tasted just as good as diet Coke...it does not. I'm drinking water with powdered sediment at the bottom that just makes me want to pee without the benefit of that elixir I love named caffeine. Stupid water. There are so many chemicals in our water already, can you not just add caffeine? How hard would that be? Those would be tax dollars at work I'd like to see.

5. Once again, stop having wildly personal cell phone conversations in public. In the past 2 weeks, I have heard snippets of conversations including:
"he got kicked out of his apartment; he living with his momma"
"if my power gets cut off, you gon' have a problem"
"if you don't go to the doctor, it's gon' fall off" (I'd love to know what's going to fall off...)
"you need to listen to me; I got money for what I did"

This wasn't a cell phone conversation, it was a 3-way phone call with a 43-year-old woman having her grandmother pay her bill, "You are so stupid, just read your damn check number to the lady." I had to keep from telling her what an ingrate she was...Why are people so dumb? I blame No Child Left Behind.

Peace Out

And join me in Cymbalta-ville...I'm the mayor

2010-05-25T23:26:00.001-04:00

So, I went to the doctor today regarding my general apathy toward everything....and she took me off Prozac and put me on Cymbalta. If anyone reading this has had symptoms or side effects from Cymbalta, such as anal leakage or spontaneous urination, please let me know so that I might be somewhat prepared....Otherwise, I'm tentatively hopeful that this might help my depression and possibly decrease the frequency of migraine headaches I seem to have had over the previous two months...Migraines are horrible. For anyone who has them mildly to severe, it's like you're having a panic attack or stroke...but not....Had them since I was 15...thanks, Daddy...as he is the only other person in my family besides my sister, who only has them like once every two years, and me.

It's a bizarre thing to tell your doctor, "Look, I'm not padded-room crazy, I just need something to balance out the nonsense in my brain," which is almost verbatim what I told her. See, this is why I buy contact lenses from Canada on-line. They don't require a doctor's write-off, which is fine...because I know what strength contact lenses I wear. If you explained anti-depressants in a way that didn't make me want to stick a pencil in my brain and swirl it around, I'd likely be able to diagnose what dosage I need...I'm sorry, that sounds silly, but I HATE doctors. More often that not, they are complete jackasses who don't listen to what you're telling them, and this trend of high-heeled pharmaceutical representatives heading to the back of the office before me makes me more livid than I can voice.

On a separate note, tomorrow I hope to be cleared from wearing this infernal ankle brace. A lesson learned: Watch where you walk....even if you think there is no way there could be a gaping hole where you normally walk, you should still mind where you walk and always wear sensible shoes unless you have a job interview or a date with someone that you love. However, the latter is not true for me, as Smitty would much rather I wear shoes and clothes that are comfortable to me than sexy and of the spiky nature. He knows that I have trouble with simple tasks, like walking across the floor in bare feet without tripping, or not running into door frames when I am completely alert. I've accepted it. Somewhere in my late 20s, I lost all the coordination I ever had. I'm fine with it; others are slow to get on board. C'est la vie. I cannot dance or run quickly or walk a straight line or wear heels....unless they're like Easy Spirit-Orthopedically approved heels...otherwise...can you not just let me wear flip flops? It's like a medical condition....

Define crazy...

2010-05-23T23:38:00.000-04:00

So, here's the thing. My dad died a little over a month ago, and at the time and in the following weeks, I thought, "I'm okay, I thought I would be in a padded room, but I'm fine...Ha, death....you can't beat me." Fast forward to the last few weeks....I am soooo not okay. I'm not like rocking back and forth and unable to form complete sentences, but here's what: I'm not sleeping well at all, and when I do, I have dreams that have gotten exponentially worse...I woke myself and Smitty up about a week ago yelling from a dream that consisted of being at my parents' house and if I was able to get to the kitchen, my dad wouldn't die...and I didn't make it. I'm telling you, I would like to be part of an experimental Swedish trial for some type of drug... because I can't freaking sleep. If I can actually go to sleep, I can't stay asleep...for above reasons...

How do you eradicate messed-up dreams? Even if I saw a psychiatrist, which we can't afford, it wouldn't help. I have an imagination that cannot be talked down. It's a good thing in some ways, but in other ways, I can't have my mind just wandering around on its own. It's bad enough that when I have some free time, I think, "I need to call my dad," and then I remember, and it's like a knife in my chest, but when I get still and try to sleep, I actually hear his voice and see his face...I swear, I'm not trying to be morbid, I need to get this stuff out, or I will be forever doomed to never sleep and be an anxious weirdo...that's the other thing, I'm wound tighter than Joan Rivers' face. I'm jumpy and agitated and my legs and feet won't stop moving...

Sooo, now here's me, admitting that I'm not really that okay, but I will be. I think finally acknowledging that I'm not okay helps a little, that instead of smiling and saying, "Well, I'm okay, it's just hard," and just taking out the "I'm okay" part is a step towards getting out all the stuff that's making me sad and antsy and unable to sleep. And the thing is, my dad would say, "What the hell are you sad about? I'm as happy as I could be; I'm fishing and I got to see my mother, and I'm just waiting on you all to get here. Snap out of it and eat some good food and watch some good movies and don't wallow. That's stupid." He always used to use the phrase "at play in the fields of the Lord" to describe anyone who had died or where he would be if he died early, and that phrase has made a rotation through my mind for 6 weeks as a comforting mechanism, because I have no doubt whatsoever he's in a better place and that he's at peace, I just wish I could still see him and talk to him.

I guess I just didn't fully grasp how hard the finality of not seeing him would be. I wanted him to be pain-free and in a better place, I just wanted to still be able to talk to him and tell him what Norton was doing. I realize that's a somewhat selfish outlook, but I can be somewhat selfish when it comes to people I love. One of the hardest parts of this is my imagining what will happen when I lose Smitty, and it makes me do weird stuff, like watch him sleep and poke him while he's sleeping if he's not breathing loudly enough. He does the WEIRDEST thing where he barely breathes...it freaks me out.

I swear, I will be okay, but I want you to know that when you say goodbye to anyone close to you, you need a strength that you don't think you have and may not have for a while. Just breathe in and out, live one day at a time, make sure no one in your life doubts your feelings for them, and make yourself happy, however that is possible. I'm still working out a lot of these things, especially the happy part...don't get me wrong, Smitty makes me happier than I ever thought I deserved to be, but I need something for me, that fulfills me and my interests and needs, that makes me a better wife and eventually (soon) a good mother.

This was such a sad post, I feel I need to add some levity: after falling in a hole nearly two weeks ago, I should no longer be required my brace this week, I no longer need my cane; I have developed a strange affection for Bret Michaels recently, he's been through so much; if I could be on any season of "The Real Housewives" except Atlanta, only as an extra, I would be super happy; flip flops should be the accepted "future footwear," much like those silver suits always depicted in movies/TV based in the future; I don't understand the "Lost" obsession, it seems like a cult; I have discovered a new-found love for cauliflower that sustains me a great deal; yet, asparagus still kinda grosses me out; I'm thinking more and more how we would be with a baby, and Smitty does not hyperventilate at this prospect; I want to be the aunt that gives the best presents EVER; karaoke should be more integrated into my life; I need more shoes; and we need to either separately or collectively, work into a scenario where we have a pool. There.

Murphy's Law is alive and well

2010-05-14T22:50:00.000-04:00

So, I have some bad luck. A week ago, my dentist fired me. I admit it, I've rescheduled my 6-month cleaning three times in the last two months. First of all, as my friend Amy Beth pointed out, how can your dentist expect you to commit to a time and appointment six months in advance? That's ridiculous. You could have any number of things going on in six months' time. In my case, my father was DYING. I'm not being melodramatic, he literally had 1-2 weeks to live, and I explained that to the overly-perky person who answered the phone at my dentist's office and thought that I pretty well hammered it home, that I couldn't commit to an appointment while my father was DYING. Nonetheless, when I had to reschedule my last appointment, I received a very polite, very nice letter informing me that due to a number of scheduling conflicts in the past year, I might need to find another dentist who could meet my scheduling needs...You know what, that's fine. Your stupid office is incredibly far from where we live now. I tried to keep you as my dentist to be nice, in the face of this economy, but you have lost your proxy into my dental process. Screw, may I add...YOU.

Secondly, on Tuesday morning, I was very happily going out to feed our lovely dogs, Norton and Zooey. I stepped in a hole that Smitty dug to plant a crepe myrtle, but yet the crepe myrtle had not yet found its cavernous home....and I twisted my foot against it, throwing dog food and water all over me, while I fell on my back, and Norton, who is my loyal dog for TEN YEARS, continued to eat, while Zooey, bless her puppy heart, tried to break down the fence to rescue me...long story short, I went to the doctor after realizing that even though I could put weight on it didn't mean that it was A-okay...I tore a ligament in my stupid foot...my same foot that I broke the ankle in about 6-7 years ago...I have to wear a brace, there's a cane involved...don't get me started....I am really fine. I have painkillers, that I only take half of a night, and I have a cane I only use part of the day...I am fine..I am a rock....

I lost a job within my company I applied for today. That is such a poorly worded sentence. I applied for the job like 3 weeks ago. I came down to the final two, and they went with the other person. I say...boo. that is your loss, and I will keep the ambition that is innate within me, and I will keep plugging. I know that I am meant for better things. I am so not critical of my current company, because I actually think this will be my salvation because I have proved myself...and continue to do so...I really do think, that sometimes, optimism and working toward what you want are good things...

I say, in the words of, I believe Ralph Waldo Emerson, " Beware of an enterprise that requires new clothes, other than a new wearer of clothes."

I am saying, despite the fact that I keep getting messages and texts that seem to indicate that I am always involved in problems, " I am happy and positive and dealing with life in a realistic manner." Join me....

Why you should remind yourself you're impressive

2010-05-05T00:09:00.000-04:00

I had a job interview today. I'm not telling tales out of school; it's with my current company, so I am relatively safe in not being fired for having the interview. Job interviews are weird. It's one of the few times when it's socially acceptable to tell someone else why you are awesome. I actually had to give myself a rank from 1 to 10. Apparently, my 8.5 was modest, but that's a daunting question. Think about if, if someone said, point blank, "Rank yourself as an employee/friend/wife/girlfriend," what the heck do you say? I guess I said 8.5 just because if you say 10, you sound like a jackass, and anything below 7 sounds like you think you're average. I guess I should've said 9.2, which would've more accurately demonstrated what a weirdo I am, because I actually could've quantified where the .2 entered in the picture.

Job interviews are kind of like dates, which, thank the LORD, I don't have to do anymore. I was wretched at first dates, but I am actually strangely at ease with job interviews. I think it's because I can chatter to no end about things, which seems to be frowned upon on dates, but eases the weird, awkward tension in interviews. And much like dates, you can tell when an interview has gone bad or there is no chemistry. That's death, because you have to finish (both the date and the interview), but you both know it's not going to happen, so it's like making conversation with a weirdo on an elevator. It's forced and uncomfortable, and all you want to do is run away.

But, I really think it's good to exercise your interviewing skills every so often. I don't suggest exercising your dating skills every so often...well, it's okay to do that if you're single, but I literally have zero desire to ever go through the torture that was dating again. I digress; I think reiterating to yourself and others that you are a smart person, you have useful skills, and so on and so forth, actually is quite helpful. If nothing else, when the interview concludes and the person tells you "You are really impressive," that's pretty awesome. It's actually sort of something you should tell yourself in the mirror every day, much like Stuart Smalley "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me." Only, it's the less lame version. Actually, speaking of lame and perhaps indicative of my neediness, I have a piece of paper in my wallet that came from a hippy-dippy motivational exercise that said, "Write down three words that describe you positively and carry it with you so that you don't forget." That was like 3 years ago, and I still have a piece of paper in my wallet that says "Funny, smart, and kind," and I don't use it so much as a reminder as things to which I was at one point and still aspire to be.

I guess since my dad died, I've been on this wild, introspective roller coaster, and I use him as a benchmark..would he be proud of me? Would he like that I did that? Would he agree with that assessment of me? It's not entirely unhealthy; I actually think it's the opposite. If you experience a tragedy or something that it seems the end of is not apparent, there can always be a positive twist. And I'm not even remotely an optimist. Optimists irritate me with their incessant smiling and game show host attitudes, but at heart, I think I do hope for better things, and the promise of that keeps me from hiding under the bed.

Example, before I turned 30, I said, and I wasn't kidding, that I would wear a black veil that day and weep for my lost youth. On my actual 30th birthday, I celebrated with my husband, who I still think is a delayed hallucination that I haven't quite deserved, and I didn't have a nervous breakdown. I mean, I didn't get up and put on a black veil. I got up, enjoyed my day, and in retrospect, wanted to enjoy the day. I think I have an optimist's personality wrapped up in a cynic's blanket.

These are a few of my favorite things....

2010-04-26T00:00:00.000-04:00

In the spirit of "The Sound of Music," and positivity as I move forward in a sad time, I am choosing to talk about things that are happy for me. It's a cop-out blog, in literary terms, but you know what, I have this day left to do whatever I want...so, BOO.

I love:
1. My husband...oh my Lord, how I love my husband. He is the best, most perfect (to me) person I could've ever gotten hooked up with, he lets me be crazy, he never asks me to change myself, as myself is what he fell in love with, he deals with my crazy, Prozac-soothed, monkey and midget-obsessed, bad dream-having, can't-watch-scary-movies-or-anything-with-blood-or-gore-or-I'll-have-nightmares personality. He, when bad weather happens, watches the meteorologists as much as possible, has a contingency plan, such as moving the shower curtain back to allow me to get in the bathtub more easily in the middle of the night, he has a weather radio, he buys staples like mayonnaise and mustard and toilet paper in such quantities as we will NEVER run out of these things, and he has cleaned my car, which as some of you may know, requires a biohazard suit at times. How I love this giant, bald man who has long eyelashes and the best legs on any man I've ever seen.

2. Watching my nieces and nephews interact. All of them...Claire and Jillian and Drew and Alyssa and Matthew. These children make me ache in my lady places for children, even when I think, "but if I have kids, I can't sleep late anymore." They seriously make me reconsider. Claire is my first niece ever, and she is 20!?! And she has that lovely, perky body I think I once had a looooong time ago, and she is dealing with those things you deal with at 20, and I find it nostalgic. But she'll be okay...Jillian and Drew and Alyssa and Matthew are another story. They delight me with their silliness and video game obsession and princess obsessions, and Jillian made me play "Let's Dance," on Wii and I made a complete jackhole of myself. My brother-in-law threatened to video me and put it on You Tube. Thank God, that didn't happen...or I would've killed my brother-in-law.

3. Singing. I love singing so much. I won like one talent show when I was about 7 or 8 because my mother made me sing "Tomorrow" from "Annie," which strangely, did not deter me from wanting to sing. She kept making me do that and take horrid singing lessons, but nonetheless. I always had this dream of singing in a band. In high school, college, and even after, I had so many friends that had bands and played instruments, and I was so jealous. I have a secret desire to be discovered at karaoke belting out "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," or the song I haven't worked up my nerve enough to sing my money-shot song "Joey," by Concrete Blonde. I ROCK that out in the car...I swear. Perhaps, one day, you will experience the beauty.

4. Sleep. "To sleep, perchance, to dream." Actually, I prefer not to dream. I have messed up dreams that require a team of people from Sweden or somewhere to interpret. However, I love to sleep. Give me a free afternoon, and there is a nap involved. Tell me I don't have to be at work until 11, and I will do calculations on how much I can sleep if I go to bed at 11 pm, 12 pm, etc....I seriously love sleep. I'm like the guy in "Green Eggs and Ham," I can sleep in a boat, on a moat, in a plane, on a train...seriously..I almost leveled a guy on a train from DC to Philadelphia because he was on his stupid phone and was being so loud, I kept being awakened. He was talking about the most mundane crap, it made me angry, and he kept waking me up, so by the time I mustered my courage, blessedly, his phone battery died. I believe I said, "Oh, that's too bad," when I wanted to do a little dance in his face, in his seat, on his head....I don't like hearing personal conversations.

5. TV....TV is so much dumber than it used to be...it really is...And me, as a consumer of stupid TV, I love Grey's Anatomy, American Idol, all Housewives of Bravo (except Atlanta, I'm sorry, I just can't get involved). I'm not even sure why I like the OC, NY, NY Housewives. Their lives are so disconnected from me, it's not funny, but it's like a train wreck. I am powerless to look away. I am on Team Bethanny in NY, because Jill is a super bitch, and as far as American Idol goes, if Crystal Bowersox doesn't win, there is no tomorrow.

I could go on...really....that's the beauty of my having a blog, I could go on and on and on, but try to limit myself to what the public might find interesting. Enjoy...thing about what your favorite things may be....write about them...if even to yourself...it makes you feel a bit better.

Only the good die young

2010-04-21T21:03:00.000-04:00

My dad used to say that...yes, it's a cheesy Billy Joel song (that I LOVE), but he used to tell me whenever I tested my limits, I think as a way of making things seem a little better, "Only the good die young," which he also used to demonstrate the fact that he would never die or would be very, very old when he did. I dunno if 72 is old, I think the older people are that you speak to would say no, but I suppose it's subjective. When I think that yes, he died at 72, it seems as young as 15 to me, but if he were 15, I wouldn't have been born, so let's just use that as a metaphor.

It's funny, I'm mostly okay, but then I think about calling him or I have a dream where he's perfectly fine, only to wake up and realize that's not the case...which incidentally is why I'm not sleeping well at all, and then I'm incredibly not okay. I realize that death is a part of life, but when you actually consider one day the person is there, and one day, they're not, it's pretty ridiculous, actually. Like sex, when you actually think about sex, who thought of that? But I digress...

I think a positive thing that has come out of my father's death is that I really have taken stock and realized what's important and what is not. Pettiness, grudges, and harboring resentment are not good...duh. I was logically aware of that before he died, but I've realized since that it is so futile to hang on to all that toxicity. What does it do for you? Nothing, but cause ulcers and probably infected my gall bladder..(I'm no doctor, I'm just saying, negativity can manifest itself in ways we don't realize). I have learned to let go, I am Zen Emily once again. I examined some things and said to myself, "Self, we've got it good. We have a husband who truly loves us for who we are, we have loved ones and friends who care about us more than we know, and we've got good hair." I use the royal "we" when talking to myself.

Are there still things about my life I'm not ecstatic about? Sure, but I'm not going to keep myself up at night thinking about those negative things. I VOW, here and now, to work on self-improvement. I'm carrying the edict I gave Smitty after my dad died "I can do what I want for 2 weeks," to a new level. I'm not being selfish, but I need to focus more on taking care of myself and making myself the best Emily I can be...can you imagine? I need to stop canceling doctor's appointments because they're too early in the morning, I need to lose weight, I need to repair some damaged relationships, and I need to accept when I cannot change a situation. I need to sing more, laugh more, WRITE more and use the talents I was given to make a difference, rather than letting things and life pass me by.

If I mentioned any of this to my dad, he would snicker and call me a liberal, left-wing hippy, but he would understand the subtext of what I mean. He would also appreciate the fact that he caused me to get off my ass and make some much-needed changes. That's why I miss him so much it physically hurts.

It's all been such a frightful dream

2010-04-08T18:54:00.000-04:00

I'm gonna warn you, this blog will be all over the place, but I have to get all of this stuff out before I pull a WASP-y, middle-class implosion, i.e., a nervous breakdown...although a mental institution or the Betty Ford Clinic doesn't seem like such a bad idea right now.

My father is dying. Not in the "existential, we all start to die when we're born way," but in the "he has double pneumonia and a stomach infection and will not see the beginning of May kind of way." I can't even describe accurately what I am feeling right now, and no one really wants to know anyway. I mean, people ask how you are, but I don't think anyone wants me saying back, "My father has days to live. Other than that, I'm a little hungry," although I may start to respond that way just to see what happens.

He's been suffering in one way or another for over a year now, and I really do know that he will be in a better place. He won't be encumbered with one leg, he'll be swimming and fishing and eating shrimp in Heaven. I fully expect him to let me in on the best places to go when I join him (hopefully, later rather than sooner), and I still find myself angry. I'm not angry at him, or maybe I am a little, but I'm angry at the situation. He's never been to Birmingham to see my house and never will, and he'll never meet my child, should I have one, and tell them dirty jokes. It pisses me off that at 32, I have to adjust to how not to have a father, when so much of him is wrapped up in who I am.

But in less than a week, I've been through the stages of grief. I mean, I suppose I started them when he had his leg amputated, knowing the survival rate for that and someone on thrice-weekly dialysis, and it is somewhat of a relief to think that he won't be in hospitals anymore, relying on strangers for treatment and cowering at the hands of lab technicians and nurses he refers to as "The Scourge of Satan."

On a bright note, because I refuse to wallow. I can't, or I will not come back...I am going to impart to you some things my father taught me...in no particular order:

1. He taught me how to whistle...I think a motivating factor for this is that my grandmother once said "Women who whistle are common," and he rarely has ever missed an opportunity to bother her, but it's one of those things that you once you learn it, you don't "unlearn," and that's pretty damn cool.

2. He taught me to love the written word. My grandfather had a hand in that as well, but Daddy taught me to truly appreciate a poem like "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and loves that I want to get my master's in English, as he did. We both give the literature categories on Jeopardy a sound thrashing, and that will always sustain me.

3. He taught me how to be a smart ass. Even at times like this, humor carries me through. I can be a serious person, but at heart, I live with sarcasm and snark. That came straight from him. I can remember vacations and conversations where my mother was utterly lost at what we were saying or laughing at, because she does not have the impudent gene. But, we do.

4. He taught me about Humphrey Bogart...and Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly and Jack Lemmon and Cool Hand Luke and Clark Gable and Dead Poets Society and how a movie can inhabit you and change your outlook on things. He was never happier when somehow he convinced East Mississippi Community College to let him teach a film class. I can't imagine any other junior/community college that teaches film, but he did, and more than a few people I knew that took his class said he made them look at movies differently. Granted, that was if he shut the hell up about the symbolism in the movie and which actor slept with which actress, but it was truly an unrivaled experience.

5. He taught me that daddies exist for the whims of daughters. When I was sick, he took my temperature 72 times a day, which is probably why I do that now, much to the chagrin of Smitty, and he gave me my meds and brought me juice and made me soup. I remember leaving toys everywhere in the den once, and Mama telling me to clean them up, to which I said, "Daddy will pick them up if I ask him nice." HA. And I don't think he ever liked anyone I dated, ever, until I met Smitty...which warms my heart presently, that he knows that I am happy and well loved.

My favorite story of all time involves his wanting me, at age 5 or so, to ask if I could be excused from the dinner table. I didn't want to. I was a stubborn kid (imagine), and I just thought if he were asking me, it seemed like something I didn't care to do. We literally stared each other down for 2 hours until my mom finally told him I had to take a bath and go to bed. I never ONCE asked, "May I be excused?"
The next morning, which was a Saturday, at about 7 a.m., I wandered in his room, tugged on the sheet, and said, "Daddy, may I be excused?" He grunted at me, but this is a story, like we all have, that has been repeated no less than 30 times since then, because it was a battle of stubborn wills. (Pssst...I won)

I'm starting to get a little weepy, so I don't think I can elaborate much more, except to say, he taught me how to fish, and I have a wicked casting arm, he introduced me to Paul Harvey, and frankly, when he died earlier this year, I thought very much about my dad, he told me to never go to bed mad, he thinks I'm the smartest person ever (he is rather insightful..), he called me "Lil' Monkey" growing up, which is why I have such an affinity for the simians, and we played the "After While, Crocodile, See You Later, Alligator, See You Soon, You Big Baboon-game, well into my early teens.

He made up words like "fermer kemp," which means an idiot, his closest friends are people he's known since he was in his teens, and I've spent time with one of them recently: it was like spending time with a more robust version of my dad, the same cheeky sense of humor and intelligence, and as Smitty pointed out, the same eyebrows. I had the pleasure of spending time with him and his friends when I was 17 and we went white-water canoeing on their old camp stomping grounds/water. That is an experience I will treasure for the rest of my life.

I had never canoed before, I was in the front (I know there's a water term for the front, but I can't remember) and he was in the back, which I do know is the stern, and we had gone all the way through the rapids without falling out until the end when he misjudged where to turn and we hit a tree. I went flying out into the water, and he ended up holding on the tree branch. I endeared myself to his friends when I said my ass hit one of the branches at Mach 3, and I remember thinking once I landed in the water and located the canoe, "Oh, no, where's Daddy?" and relief washing over me when I saw the determination on his face as he clung to a tree branch, the current, rushing around us...and he looked at me, grinning, and winked. I carry that with me a lot and suspect that will be a comforting memory in days to come.

and the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon...

2010-03-26T22:13:00.002-04:00

I put a goofy title to this blog, because if I don't keep my sense of 
humor, I'll be in a padded room, stat. I've reached the age, 
prematurely, I believe, that I'm dealing with the imminent process of 
putting my father in a nursing home. Do I want to do this? No. Is it the 
best thing for his care? Yes...but that doesn't make it any easier. Not 
even one little bit.

If I could, I would let him live with me and Smitty, but that might 
(WOULD) end badly. Besides the fact that he would be trying to smoke a 
pack of cigarettes in our house every day, I honestly don't know how to 
take care of him either. I've checked his blood sugar before, and while 
I can do it every once in a while, the sight of blood and I are not 
close chums. So, I recognize that he needs full-time, licensed care, but 
it doesn't make the thought of it any easier.

 I'm a Daddy's girl; I won't even pretend not to be. We have many good 
and many not so good traits in common. I'm the child who loves movies, 
TV, and anything to do with English and poetry. I'm also the child who 
won't listen to what you say, no matter how logical, I like to sleep, 
and I can lean a little toward the lazy side. Also, we have the same 
tiny veins, which I why I hope against hope I don't get diabetes with 
his degree of kidney failure because I will literally be in the same 
boat. I have to go through it every time I have blood taken. I'm like 
"Just use my left arm; trust me," and it's like they're determined to 
prove me wrong...but I'm always right. That's the only arm you can get 
blood, and it's only in one little place. Lots of fun..

 Since he had his leg amputated, I keep having these dreams about his 
using his prosthesis and us being at the beach, etc...and all this stuff 
we used to do when I was little. He used to carry me to bed when I fell 
asleep on the couch, and he'd throw me in the water at the swimming 
pool. I guess my subconscious wants to believe he'll get better and do 
the stuff he used to do...but the reality part of me knows if he 
couldn't walk me down the aisle before he even had his leg amputated, 
it's pretty likely he'll never do that kind of stuff again. And that's 
hard -- really, really hard to digest. It's a weird feeling when you 
start taking care of your parents. It upsets the natural order of 
things. Also, it makes me feel old. And that's not good for anyone...

 He and I were talking yesterday about my sister turning 40 next year, 
and I said I couldn't believe that, and he said, and you'll be right 
behind her...well, not really, not for another six years, but I guess I 
see his point, that time moves quickly. And I wondered if he'd be around 
when I turned 40, as he'd be 80 (!#?!), and I really hope so.

So, I'm really not trying to be depressing, I'm trying to be Zen Emily 
and just accept things as they are and cleave to good memories and when 
things seem too hard to handle, visit those memories for some comfort 
and peace of mind. I was very lucky in some aspects to have the family I 
have, and I'll leave to think what you want about the "some" in this 
sentence. However, in the immortal words of Popeye, "I am what I am" 
because of them.