What do I do?

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

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?

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

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...

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

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

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

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....

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

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.

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

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

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....

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

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....

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)

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

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

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

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.