Define crazy...

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

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

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....

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

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

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...

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.

Didn't realize I supported the destruction of America by wanting health care.

So, explain to me how a President who does something for the greater good of society without 100% support is any different than a President who does something for personal interests with unbelievably wrong intelligence without 100% support? I would've argued tongue-in-cheek, and did, as a matter of fact, that if George Bush were allowed to make decisions without UN or public support, that it signaled the end of rational politics. What I did argue, which is true, is that he was dangerously close to imperialism..yeah, that's an -ism I'd like the Fox News junkies to take a look at..every hear of the Bush doctrine? Also, No Child Left 
Behind...what a rousing success that was, and the tax cut for the wealthiest 1% of the country.

I just find it laughable that the idea of providing health care has been likened to some kind of modern-day Armaggedon. In the words of Amy Poehler and Seth Myers...really!? RRReally!?! I do admit, I don't agree with fining people who choose not to buy into the plan, and I may not agree with everything in the bill, but I will hold my judgment to see what is really going to unfold in the next months and years. I would love it if everyone else might do the same. I know this won't happen, though, as there are people who I know very well in fact who never would've like anything Obama did. Period. 

Politics makes me so mad; this is largely why after working for John Kerry and being a part of the foolishness of it all, I stopped being interested. I was still interested, I guess, but from afar. I also learned while in Pennsylvania, to listen to and respect others' rational, NOTE THAT WORD, differing opinions. I dated a freakin' hardcore Republican and didn't kill him, for God's sake..(although I did think about it during some pro-choice debates). But what I cannot stomach are ridiculous, outlandish statements. Glenn Beck shouldn't be allowed on TV. He's a fearmonger, he's Ann Coulter's unholy brother. Al Pacino made them mate (see "The Devil's Advocate"). I don't care whose side you're on, and I know Democrats can be the same way, but just try to make sense. That's all I ask.

Don't tell me Obama is an illegal alien because he won't produce his birth certificate, but on the flip side, Hawaiian government, don't deem someone a terrorist because they want to see a copy of said birth certificate. Stop saying we're no longer a free country. Auto insurance is legally required in almost every state. Is that socialism? Do we complain about that when we are hit by someone whose insurance covers it because they are LEGALLY required to have it? Stop throwing the word socialism around. Stop saying I'm not an American because I support Obama, and I think everyone in our country should have health care. Stop questioning my faith in God for supporting Obama and being a Democrat. No political party has a monopoly on faith, and I resent the implication. And as for the argument that all of us who are rolling in money (I didn't get that memo) are paying for these lazy, etc....people who don't work...first of all, speaking of faith, Judge not, lest ye be. A lot of people are currently in dire financial situations that have nothing to do with them not wanting to work, and also, and I'm no theologian, but did Jesus not say to us something to the effect of "What you do to the least of me, you do also to me?" Are we supposed to let children go without insurance?

I realize politics is what it is, and some people will never agree, but just be rational. Don't talk to me about death panels..that's a Fox News buzzword, don't say the country is coming to an end without giving a sensible explanation as to why you think that, and maybe really, really examine why you have such an opposition to people that cannot otherwise afford insurance to have it. I really don't understand that.  

Doctor Feelgood

I'm kind of a sickly person. You people that know me, I know, you could be knocked over by a feather. I've kind of reconciled myself with this. I'm allergic to most everything a person could be allergic to, in fact, I find new things that I'm allergic to every year. It's fun. It's like a surprise that could kill you or cause hives. I make jokes because really, what else could I do? For the first year Smitty and I were married, and I was literally sick ALL the time, it wasn't funny. I thought I was actually allergic to him, and I had made a massive mistake, but as it turns out, Birmingham just makes my lungs want to stop functioning...whew, big relief.

So, in conjunction with my sickliness, I take cholesterol meds, depression meds, and I'm supposed to take allergy shots twice a week, but I kinda stopped doing that when I was having gall bladder issues like a year ago, soo...as spring blooms, so does my ridiculous aversion to anything that blooms. It could be triggered by anything, dust, mold, pet hair, etc...

When I say I should be in a bubble, I'm actually only partially kidding. Were it not for Benadryl and Claritin or the generic brand, my blessed Loratadine, I'd be dead. Not dead, like "Oh my God, she had a case of the closed-up throat and died," but I would've scratched all my skin off due to some freaky topical allergy, and therefore, would've exposed my inner organs like Freddy Krueger....and died...or gone insane from aforementioned itching plus nasal insubordination, and would've gone crazy, perhaps leaping out into night traffic....and died....

And the thing is, my mother is the biggest hypochondriac that ever lived, and I so do NOT want to morph into that person, but I genuinely am ill when I say I am. I don't say it to garner attention. I like to sleep, but I don't much enjoy sick person attention. People condescend to you, which, as you should know, I will kill you if you do to me, so I don't enjoy being the convalescing one. However, I do enjoy saying, "I have a headache; shut up, or I will take out your endocrine system." Because, seriously, migraines are no joke. I'd like to think there is a strong correlation between migraines and above-average intelligence...that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Fashionably Challenged

Some people dress really, really well. I see these people, and I think, 
"Wow, they look nice," and then I go to my closet and grab the first 
thing I see and jeans. I would wear jeans every single day of my life if 
I could. If I could wear jeans to church and not be looked at like "Oh, 
bless her heart, she just came from the trailer park," I would. If I 
could wear jeans to a job interview, I would. In fact, I should. It was 
either Emerson or Thoreau who said something to the effect of "Beware of an enterprise that requires a wearer of new clothes, rather than a new 
wearer of clothes."

Gaining weight doesn't really help this matter much. I refuse to go buy 
clothes b/c I AM going to lose weight and then I do have a lot more 
options, because I did care about clothes when I dropped down to a size 
8. Maybe this is the problem. I think everything makes me look like 
Orca's mom, so I choose to wear like the same 5 shirts..I wish it was 
the future, where everyone just wears that shiny, silver suit, and I 
could be done with it. That seems so much simpler.

Except for shoes, we can't wear the same shoes. Oh, how I love shoes. If 
you gave me $1,000 to spend on apparel, I would probably buy all shoes 
and jewelry. You can't gain weight and outgrow them. Well, I guess you could gain weight in your feet or neck, but that's just gross. I 
wouldn't do that. 

Also, I don't get hats. I think hats rock, but when I wear a baseball 
cap, I look like Bret Michaels, and when I wear any other kind of hat, I 
pretty much look like a drag queen. Also, I think I have a giant head 
and wearing a hat seems to create a beacon to say, "Hey, look at my 
giant head! You can worship it if you like." Seriously, I told Smitty 
the other night that I worried about when we have a child, if the baby 
will have my giant water baby head and break my vajayay or I'll have to 
have a C-section and then I'll have that weird reaction to anesthesia 
that I had with my gall bladder and I'll have a baby, and I won't be 
able to poop. And he said, "These are the things that go through your 
head, really, they are, aren't they?" And I pretty much said, "Yep, all 
the time, at any given time of the day or night. Wouldn't you be more 
surprised if they didn't go through my head, knowing me?" He just looked 
afraid, like it does most of the time when I peel away another layer to 
him. I'm like an Emily onion. Yah, I heard it, too.

Adventures in the Life of a Bubble Girl

I am allergic to everything. Before you roll your eyes, and say, "Oh, Emily, you and your hyperboles," no, really, I am. That test they give you where they stick you with stuff and test your reaction, I was allergic to EVERY thing on the test, including, but not limited to, pet hair, mold, dust, plantains, cockroaches. I didn't ask how they test for cockroaches, I don't want to know.

Being allergic to nearly everything is fun (not really). Here are some things that have happened: suddenly discovered allergy to penicillin about two years ago, took some and broke out in hives from head to toe. After gall bladder surgery, I was given another antibiotic, which not only broke me out in hives from head to toe, but also caused my eyes, ears, and face to swell. Have you seen "Hitch," where he has a food allergy? That was me, except add me running around, going "Oh my God, oh my God, Smitty, what do I do? What do I do?" Only he just looked at me and calmly said, "Settle down, drink some water, take a Benadryl, chill." Oh, if not for Benadryl, I'd be dead by now, probably. It's saved me from many a dog, cat, and dusty house.

If you bring a cat within a mile radius of me, I will immediately start to sneeze, my eyes water, and in some cases, swell. I discovered I was allergic to cashews about 3 1/2 years ago, and I will spare you the reaction that occurs after eating them. Seriously, you want to be spared. It's reminiscent of a scene from "Alien."

I tell you this because you should understand the joy it is to be me sometimes. We have to keep a little list of medications that cause varying reactions, and I'm always hesitant to take something new after the antibiotic incident this past summer. I generally avoid going outside, or it's Benadryl time. Also, I'm scared that if a wasp or something stings me, my throat will close up, as a new, fun allergy manifests.

There's a movie starring John Travolta that came out in the '70s called "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble." I'm seriously like one more allergen away from that. I'm sure I'll develop a dairy allergy combined with certain air, and bam, isolation chamber. I'll just make sure to have a bar in there..

Uncle Oscar

Ohhhh, the Oscars...how I LOVE the Oscars. I tell Smitty, to allay any crazy fears he has, that the Oscars are like the Super Bowl for women. That's really not true. A lot of women I know could give a flying fig about the Oscars. I LOVE THEM. I'm not sure why, except I love movies. I love movies and actors talking to other actors about those movies and showing clips from those movies and old Hollywood glamor, and red carpet chit chat, etc... I love it all so much...

My dad and I used to have a game (my dad loves movies as well, Freud or anyone else can SUCK it) where he would ask me to name five movies off the top of my head that Eddie Murphy/Tom Cruise/Al Pacino/Robert De Niro were in...I freakin' rocked at that game; also, don't even try the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon with me...you'll lose horribly. My mom hated it. She is not so much a movie aficianado. She has had an affair in her head with Robert Redford and Paul Newman (until he died) for the past 20 years, but other than that, if it's a movie, she doesn't know who's in it or who they are. 

My best friend Amanda used to tell me that if she ever was on some type of trivia show where she could call someone needing entertainment/movie knowledge, she'd call me. Smitty asks me "Who was in that movie we saw last week who was in the TV show with that other guy from that movie?" and I know exactly who he means, and he's just accepted it as one of those Rain Man-like qualities that I have, like who sings that song, although, really, I know the movies more. It's a completely useless, in fact, utterly useless, quality in my daily life. I know more about movies than most people, but unless, I am granted a movie column that makes me a lot of money, it really doesn't serve me that well..... Except that maybe along with my incredible sense of whimsy, this may be a thing I pass along to our kids. This is one of those idiosynchratic traits that honestly, I could only have picked up from my dad...really....

What does this teach us? Nothing. I'm telling you, I'm passing along my useless hobby......love movies! When they're good, they're awesome. I watched "Dead Poets Society" at the age of like 12, and I realized that this was something that moved me deeply. Stemming from that, I have a love of poetry, literature, and nonconformity. Living life as a nonconformist since '77. Try it; it's quite wonderful. You'll never settle, and you shouldn't anyway. Settling is for losers.....and Republicans.

I am a patriot, I have been working all of my life..

If you don't listen to Ani DiFranco, you'll think that title is really weird, but "Not a Pretty Girl," check that out. I used to detest her, and I loooove that song...

Anyway, in honor of the man who sang to me over the phone today, I thought I would reflect on some memorable occurrences at former jobs. Yep, I work in customer service. Today, I answered the phone, "Thank you for calling Customer Service, this is Emily," and the response was "Emily? Man, really? I keep encountering that name. See, I'm an actor and I also sing in a nightclub, and I met a little girl named Emily...but anyway, I digress. I sing this song about Emily and it goes, 'Emily ain't got married and she's 35, but she still survives...'" There were more lyrics, but those are all I can remember, and thank God, he finally stopped when I uncomfortably said "Um...nice."

Another interesting event happened when I worked at the Commercial Dispatch, for those who don't know, a mid-size daily paper in Mississippi where I was the copy editor for about 5 years. One day, we had a fax from this hate group that operates out of Kansas, I think, and basically it just said "God hates you" and went on to explain why. I was livid, not realizing that this group, from the Westboro Baptist Church, basically tours the country looking for inconsequential places to protest. So, I sent them a nasty little email to their website, "Godhatesfags.org (I am not kidding) telling them that my God didn't hate anyone and who did they think they were, etc....Only I signed my name, Emily Gaither, Copy Editor, The Commercial Dispatch. Big problem...here's why...

We received a fax the next day that was also posted to their website that said "God hates Emily and the Commercial Dispatch," and they had plans to come protest the newspaper and neighboring churches for no apparent reason. I got suspended from work for a day, the editor made a mea culpa to them that probably went like "I don't know what that crazy renegade's problem is, but she doesn't speak for the newspaper," and they didn't come..which was mildly disappointing, except if they had come, it would've been on the news, as would I have, and that's not really why I want to be known.

When I was working at TCBY, I used to eat cookie dough for dinner, since we had free reign over toppings and like a 20-minute lunch break. Also, when I decided to quit, I, erm, liquidated some toppings and quarts of yogurt to take back to the dorm. In my defense, that stupid shirt I had to wear was punishment enough.

When I worked for the alumni office at Mississippi University for Women, an 80-year old lady who had taken the wrong medication and was therefore stoned out of her gourd when she got to our office, did a Rockette kickline and when I drove her to her room on campus, she gave me $2 for carrying her luggage.

These are not all the stories, I assure you, and  maybe there will be a "Tumbled Outta Bed, Stumbled in the Kitchen" sequel to this blog, because wow, I've had a lot of jobs..

Oh, I do need to mention the Republican that SPIT on me while I was canvassing door-to-door for John Kerry in Pennsylvania. Well, she spit at me, she was old and bitter, so her spit aim was a bit off, but seriously, a grown woman SPIT at another human being for working for a different political candidate than that of her choice. That said a lot to me. What was funny about that was that the other neighbors felt so bad that she acted like an assclown, they gave me more money than they normally would. So, thank you, crazy lady, in Churchville, PA, you helped me reach my quota that day.

Just a little patience...

Reason #47 on why I am like a child. I have ZERO patience..none, zip, zilch, the big goose egg. Example, I just spent 30 minutes wrestling with our laptop, which has decided to die for no apparent reason, and I actually think my blood pressure is higher. Couple that with the morons I drove behind on the way home, the fact that I couldn't get the cork out of the wine bottle, therefore pushing the cork into the wine and having to strain it as not to drink cork, and feeling my shoulders at the same level as my ears whenever I have to wait for ...anything...these things are not good.

I think Smitty thought it was cute or "quirky" when we first met. I do not think he subscribes to that theory anymore. I am mostly not allowed to go grocery shopping with him at Wal-Mart, because when people clog the aisles with their 7 children or their giant asses, I become unglued and quite belligerent, and he is afraid he will have to defend my honor or pick me up off the floor after Miss Redneck USA punches me for saying in what I think is a whisper, "Why don't you have more kids?"

The other night, there was a bug on the wall. Keep in mind, if it had just been a ladybug, like Smitty LIED to me and said it was, it would've been fine. But it was a spider, #2 behind sharks and before cows on my list of things that terrify me, so I stared at him until he got up to kill it. I imagined that after I discovered its hiding place on the wall, it was annoyed and would crawl in my ear and have baby spiders in my brain if it weren't destroyed. Perfectly logical, I thought, but Smitty said this was "crazy talk," whatever that is.

I remember the night before I moved into my dorm my freshman year, I was lying in my bed at my parents', leisurely reading. I may've even been writing about this most auspicious occasion, the "last" night in my childhood bed before college, and a spider crawled next to me in the bed. I screamed, jumped up, combed every inch of my room and decided, screw nostalgia, I'm sleeping in my sister's room my last night before college because I've angered the spider and it will bring a tiny mafia to kill me in my sleep. This would obviously keep me from going to college and realizing my dream of becoming an entertainment lawyer (which was my dream at the time) ...so crazy talk, I think not!

I'm healthier....and crankier.....

So, I REALLY quit smoking, and I started exercising at the urging of my quivering stomach muscle that wants its time in the sun....and it's been weird. I haven't really wanted to smoke, and I've actually looked forward to exercising. Of course, I also had a dream where I got to eat unlimited cheeseburgers...which is weird because in real life, I eschew cheeseburgers. Unless it's a swiss mushroom burger, I don't understand cheeseburgers, but clearly my subconscious understands a disturbance in the force.

It hasn't helped all that much that work has been crazy since my newfound health/Lent/don't-want-to-die-young initiative, but pretty much, it's never a good time to do the things you don't want to do. Stupid logic. I detest logic. My creative mind knows that logic exists as a thing, but I can pretty much always find a way to talk my way out of it. Sometimes, it works; sometimes, it doesn't. Smitty is on to my plan, so this rarely works with him, but sometimes, I can show my boobs and get away with it.

It seems grossly unfair that our bodies deteriorate as we get older. We don't even appreciate our lives fully until we hit about 28-ish, so it seems like there should be some kind of warning, like at work, like you get a first warning "the situation is concerning; conditions need to improve," then a second warning, "you may want to start exercising and stop eating pizza after 10 p.m.," and then "LOOK, WE HAVE GIVEN YOU AMPLE WARNING; PREPARE FOR BACK FAT AND REDUCED METABOLISM."  I think that would get some attention. I know I would've prepared. This was more like a gradual downslide. When I've been content in relationships, I get lazy about exercise and such. Shouldn't we be rewarded for that kind of comfort level? We're happy; give us unrelenting metabolism. I'm just saying.

So, whatever, I'm gonna try to get up in the morning and work out. I hate working out. If I can write my book soon, perhaps I can afford whatever surgery lets you not have to work out to be an ideal size. That makes me healthy, right? As long as I'm a societally-acceptable size, I think it works..and I need a boob lift. There, I'm done.

The weight of water...and cheese...and fried stuff

I hate weight...and money. Those are two things I think you should just be able to say "poof, make it this..." and be done with it.

I was about 102 lbs and a size 4 when I graduated from high school; my weight did the typical college fluctation, but it didn't actually happen in earnest until my sophomore and junior years. I think my metabolism slowed down, along with the influx of pizza and lack of sleep. Stupid sleep...oh, and I didn't exercise at all..still don't. However, now at 32, I'm a size 14, and I believe at last weigh, I'm at 180. That's right, I revealed the number....at great personal risk..lol. Yikes! This is not acceptable.

It is a small comfort that I still have quite the irresistible, winsome face...(and modesty), but geez, what's up with this? I see where there should be a muscle in my stomach, hiding, waiting for the cessation of cheese and bread before it will come out to stay. I am starting a health regiment, this week. I decided not to make it a New Year's resolution, as I never keep those, but I am starting a 2010ish resolution, as not to commit to anything and give myself lashings should I fail. I WILL quit smoking for good, and I WILL start working out. I will be a size 8 by the end of this year.


I'm sure my size 4 days went the way of the 1990s, but I think a size 8 is an attainable goal. I lost a lot of weight when I lived in Pennsylvania and was at that size in 2005, I know it can be done. I want to be healthy when we have a child, I don't want to gain more processed cheese on top of processed cheese when I'm pregnant. It helps to have Smitty who says I'm beautiful no matter what (partial LIAR), but I also don't want him to ever think that once we got together, I said, "There, I've hooked you, I'm done...it's sweatpants 'til I die!" (Incidentally, I don't even own any actual sweatpants, it's a metaphor)

So, there. The gauntlet is thrown. I've put it out there, I must actually work toward these things, lest be thought a hypocrite (wouldn't be the first time), but this is actually important to me. No joke, diabetes is rampant in my family, and I have high cholesterol even when I'm not Shamu's twin sister, so the things I could let slide in my 20s, along with skincare, sleep deprivation, and my credit score, must actually be addressed now. Boo...and a backhanded yay.

A few thoughts on Valentine's Day .... and stuff

I have a love/hate relationship with Valentine's Day. I have memories of awesome Valentine's Days in high school where we had very grown-up dinner parties for my friends and their significant others, (Amanda made ziti) and I have a Valentine's Day memory from when I was living in Philadelphia where we had a perfectly pleasant evening until too much talking led to his saying he wasn't ready for a commitment, and I broke up with him...so it kinda runs the gamut.

Smitty and I don't really pay too much attention to it.  Last year, we really wanted to eat at Olive Garden and figured going at lunch would be safe, as not to have a wait. There was an hour wait at lunch...so we went to Buffalo Wild Wings and had a delectable Valentine's Day lunch of wings and fried pickles. We don't go all out. We, as we are tonight, stay in, spend time together, and make a really good meal for us to enjoy. It's so much easier when everything just works. After YEARS of questionable dating decisions, I just "knew" when I met this tall fellow, that this was different. We were like peas and carrots...or gin and tonic...

I used to be the Queen of the Nightlife. If there was something going on, I was there..usually until 4 a.m. when people began kicking me out of their house. And since I met Smitty, I know why. Something huge was missing from my life, and I didn't even know it. And how grateful am I that I met him at a time when I had mostly gotten everything I wanted to do out of my system. I was engaged when I was 20.  Glaring incompatibilities aside, if I had gotten married at 20, I would have missed out on so many things that I needed to discover about myself in order to actually be a good wife.

If I had gotten married then, I never would've worked at the Commercial Dispatch, and even though that job was pure nuts sometimes, I met awesome people I am still friends with, and I sometimes look back on it and actually miss working in newspapers, except it was chaos, and the hours are not conducive to a normal life. I got to live completely by myself...with Norton, who is still the best dog EVER. I got to pack up my entire life and move to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, for a job I had no clue about without knowing a single soul in the city...that was character-building, people. I had a cab driver yell at me because I cut him off, I had girls call me a very unpleasant name for asking directions to the freeway, and I had swingers offer to let me be a "secondary" to carry a child for them..srsly...and they were my landlords, which led to my finding a new apartment..stat!

But I'm so not done with my list of things to do...I still want to learn to play guitar (that crazy, psychotic "teacher" in Philly will NOT deter me), I will write a book and be ridiculously famous, I want to have ONE baby...a boy..Smitty says if we don't have a boy, we'll keep trying, but I feel he must be joking...I am actually fine with a girl or a boy, but am pretty set on the "one" child thing. I think that's all we can handle. We're very self-involved people with no patience...well, he has no patience, I am a paragon of patience...(it's true..mark it)

So, I'm just saying...thank you, love gods, for my not getting married at 20 and living a full, adventurous life and continuing to do so with a man who makes me laugh, oh how he makes me laugh. I never thought I would actually find someone who honed in on things like funny voices that only I delight at and would do them...JUST to make me laugh. He makes me mashed potatoes when I'm sick and that's all I want even though he tries to force-feed me more substantial food, he lets me put my icy cold feet on him at night, he listens to my weird, deviated septum noises when my  nose is being weird, and he always takes out the trash. I could go on and on for about 3 pages, but I won't. I'm lucky. Seriously lucky.

Randomness...what I do best

I don't really have a topic in mind for this blog, but I felt like writing..probably because it's been a looong couple of weeks, and I'm very excited to have tomorrow off...whoo!

I had a flash back to college when I hated going to class and someone told me "If you don't do what you're supposed to, you'll never appreciate time off. It will have no meaning." I understand that, I really do, although if I won the lottery, I think I'd probably be okay doing nothing..I'm just saying.

Smitty told me he saw a coyote in our yard, and now I am constantly on the lookout for feral woodland creatures waiting to eat me or the dogs every time I get out of the car. This is no way to live. I'm hoping his eyesight was just really, really bad that night, and it was just a mangy dog. That's what helps me sleep at night.

Don't drive a Hummer. Unless you're at war or a rapper, you are a douche bag if you're driving a Hummer through rural America. I'm sorry, but it's true. Also, I don't understand these weird, cowboy boot-looking shoes guys are wearing these days that have this long, weird toe part. It makes their feet look 10 feet long. What are those shoes about?

I finished Pat Conroy's book "South of Broad." It was so good, I can't describe it, but wow, it was depressing. I was going to start John Irving's new one, but I think I might have to read something light and trashy first, lest I commit literary suicide from the utter despair in these books. I'm thinking of re-reading "Catcher in the Rye" or "Franny and Zooey" as a tribute to J.D Salinger..what a bummer that was. I'm gonna be really upset when all the good writers start to die...like good actors..what do we do when Al Pacino, Clint Eastwood, Jack Nicholson, etc...start to die?? That will suck; who will replace them? Zac Ephron? I don't think so.

I'm off to finish my vodka tonic and drink in my impending day off..

Just to give you an idea...

I hate when people blame their parents for their behavior or lots in life. Unless your childhood resembles the movie "Precious," that pisses me off. If your chief complaint is that your parents like your sibling better or you didn't get to take guitar lessons, you don't get to use your childhood as a crutch. Excuses along those lines make me angry.

Conversely, I do blame my parents and immediate family for my some of my completely aberrant behavior. I make no bones about it. In the way that all women turn into a version of their mothers and all men turn into a version of their fathers, some things you can't fight. Your family leaks into your subconscious whether you want them to or not....and so begins my tale...I'm going to give a brief description of distinguishing characteristics of various family members and say...I'm lucky I turned out as the muted whackjob you all know and love:

1. My grandmother (also known as Mamaw) -- God bless her, where do I start? When I was about 7 years old, we were riding back right after getting our hair cut. It was just after sunset, and it was foggy. She turned to me and said, "What would happen if we just dropped off into nothing?" I was like, "WHAT? What do you mean?" She says, "Well, people disappear all the time, we could just disappear into thin air and nobody would know. Do you ever think about that?" Umm..NO, at 7 years old, I did not think about that, but she did introduce the idea into my head, so I didn't sleep for about 2 days until I asked my dad about it, to which he said, "Don't listen to your damn grandmother."

Also, to this day, I do not get into a car without looking in the backseat, because every single time my sister and I came to her house in the town of Macon, Mississippi, with 2,500 people and almost no crime rate, even now, she would yell, "Check the backseat! Someone could be waiting back there to kill you!" I always used to think if there really were someone back there, they'd be like, "Damn you, old lady, you ruined my plan!" and then they'd slink away to hide in someone else's car..

2. My grandfather - He passed away 8 years ago this month, and his birthday would've been Monday, so I've been thinking of him lately. He was a writer and highly interested in politics..hmm...think he influenced me? And he had the most offbeat sense of humor and adventure, I'm not sure I can do it justice. One time, he was angry a neighbor's tree was dripping sap on his car and into their yard, so he poisoned the tree in the middle of the night. When it "mysteriously" died, the neighbor was baffled, but my grandfather was delighted. He never specifically voiced that deed to us, but he told my grandmother, which was like telling us anyway.

He once told me that reading different things I had written, specifically my newspaper column from college, was like "watching a parade go by." I still think it's the best compliment I've ever gotten, even having received compliments from published authors, magazine editors, PhD's and renowned photographers. When I was little, and my grandmother and mom went shopping or whatever, and I begged, begged, begged not to go (I abhor shopping), he would babysit me, and we would go on "adventures." We would walk to our church and "perform" our own sermons, picking out our favorite hymns, reading our favorite Bible verses. I didn't think about it until he died and I read a eulogy including that memory, that nobody else knew we did that, because it was our time together, precious time that we kept between us like co-conspirators.

3. My sister -- If not for my sister, I would be in a padded room somewhere, but we did not always get along...oh, no...I can remember having a pulling hair, slapping, sitting on each other fight when she was in college, which would make me at least 12 or 13, which frankly reflects more embarrassingly on her than me, but, nonetheless.

There's also the infamous peeing in her shampoo incident....the quick breakdown for those who don't know this story -- when she got married, she was the ultimate Bridezilla. She was living at home, and she used ALL of the hot water every morning when she got up, before I could take a shower. I asked her in what I thought was a pleasant tone if she could leave me some hot water, and she said, and she denies it to this day, but I swear she said it, "Emily, I know you're jealous, but this time is about me. So you just need to deal with that." So, I peed in her shampoo. I also put glue in her mascara, little bits of Doritos in her blush, and rubbed her toothbrush in the toilet, but it was the shampoo that was really the piece de resistance. Did I mention we get along really, really well now?? Seriously, she and I have the kind of bond you can only get by being surrounded by nutcakes most of our lives..

I can't detail my parents just at the moment...that would take a loooong time and more introspection than I feel like summoning right now...

Pitter patter of.....nothing (yet)

So, I had a moment of abject terror/excitement/relief this past week when I was certain I was pregnant, but it turns out I'm not. Mother Nature was messing with me a bit, it seems, b/c my monthly visitor was WAY late, and I even took two pregnancy tests due to the fact that the first one was expired, and I was sure there was no way it could still be good. Apparently, it didn't matter..the funny thing is, I was actually kinda disappointed when the second test was negative, and Smitty seemed a bit down as well..which means, yay, we're finally ready to not freak the hell out when we talk about having kids...major step for Team Smith.

So, now everybody asks if we're trying, which, if you think about it, is basically just asking, "So, are you guys gonna have sweaty, unprotected monkey sex?" (at least, that's what I envision) And the short answer is no, we're not actively trying. I'm still taking my Pill, and we're not purposely trying to be fruitful, but the long answer is that we have discussed "actively" trying toward the end of this year, which is a pretty big deal.

Emily a mommy? It still doesn't quite jibe in my head, although I do enjoy talking about myself in third person..try it, it's fun..I'm good with other people's kids, but then I get to leave them with their parents after I've plied them with sugar and bad words..kidding, I don't do the bad words, but I did let my niece have popsicles for breakfast right before my nephew was born. I thought it would be nice for her to do something special since she was a little apprehensive about sharing her parents with a brother. I relate to kids, hell, I probably relate to toddlers better than I do with people my own age. I understand they want to eat, sleep, and poop. I hear ya, if that was my full day and someone rocked me to sleep, I'd be a  happy camper.

So, we may be Mom and Dad by next summer, and Smitty will be the best disciplinarian, and I will be the best storyteller. I think we can balance each other out, but Lord knows, I hope they get Smitty's coordination and math skills. I have other things to offer, like a love of monkeys and an uncanny ability to list state capitals..these are useful things, too..

Embarrassing things I did when I was little (Volume 1 of 50)

So, I was listening to my newly downloaded Madonna songs the other day, 
and "Dress You Up" came on, which is one of her lesser songs, but when 
you're talking about Madonna, that doesn't mean much. Anyway, I had a 
flashback to a humiliating thing I did when I was in the 5th or 6th 
grade. When certain friends and I would play at each others' houses, we 
got this idea. I actually may've gotten the idea, but I'm going to say 
it was a collective idea so I don't seem like a complete loser, but the 
idea was this: "Hey, let's record ourselves on my Fisher-Price tape 
recorder singing love songs, and then we'll call the boys we like and 
play them...and they will fall in love with us." Oy...
 
So, on more than one occasion, I recorded myself singing "Dress You Up," 
in which the lyrics are "You've got style, that's what all the girls 
say, satin sheets and luxury so fine...." I was like 10...had no idea 
why that was crucial to the song...and called boys whose names I will 
withhold to at least protect their dignity, and play my tape recorder. 
Oh, the shame. They usually either hung up, or sometimes, even more 
humiliatingly so, their moms would get on the phone and say "I don't 
know who this is, but y'all need to stop playing on the phone!" Ah, the 
days before Caller ID. The prank calls were unparalleled.
 
Aiding this little stunt was the fact that Tiger Beat had the lyrics of 
all the popular songs listed, so if we didn't know the words, or 
sometimes, didn't have the music, we would just sing that a cappela. 
Which, I'm sure was a huge treat for the listener. I also remembering 
singing Bryan Adams' "Summer of '69," which even though it includes 69 
in the title, is not really even a love song. It's more of a buddy song 
about a guy who started a band with some friends that year and is 
reminiscing about the good 'ol days. We, okay, I, was a complete moron. 
And at the time, I thought this was a really super awesome idea, no 
small wonder that I didn't kiss a boy until I was 14.  It will  never 
cease to amaze me that Smitty married me; I'm still pretty much a giant 
dork. But he knew what he was getting into.

I am the entertainer of Flat Jillian

My sister sent me a text saying she needed me to help my niece Jillian with a school project. I said, "Sure, call me with the details," and here's what ensued:

Apparently, there is a book called "Flat Stanley" that was written in the '60s. While the era in which the book was published might not seem important, it will be obvious once I explain the rest of the project. Flat Stanley went to sleep one night and woke up "flat." He was flattened by a bulletin board, which I feel is probably a common occurrence among children..(maybe among "Hoarders?"). And while he's naturally freaked out at first, he then decides maybe this is not such a bad thing, as his parents start mailing him around the country in an envelope, and he has a lot of nifty adventures.

So, my niece's teacher has taught this book and now they are creating Flat ____(insert name here) and mailing them to friends or family so that they (me...here's where I come in) can let the flat replica have adventures. Once I receive Flat Jillian, I am to make up stories about her adventures, take pictures, and then send the stories and pictures and follow the accompanying instructions about what to do to fulfill the projects. When my sister told me this, I laughed for about a full minute..and then I saw the possibility.

I get to make up stories and photo captions for a 2nd grade class. This is perhaps my actual calling in life. Flat Jillian will have the adventures of a lifetime, and these kids and their teacher have no idea what they're in for, oh no...no idea. I will post pictures and the life and times of Flat Jillian as I receive my instructions and start her on her merry way..and if she knew I were doing that, I would hear, "Emily, you're embarrassing me," but, hey, that's what family's for..at least I'm not showing up at her school in my nightgown..I could do that..but I won't.

I cannot be silenced!!! (or even turned down....)

I think it hit home what a giant dork I am and also why I don't listen to my iPod in public a short time ago. I'm typing some stuff for Smitty's final in his class (aren't I the best wife EVER), and I decided to make a nifty playlist with all the stuff I downloaded last night. Well, you  know when you're singing to music that's in headphones, you're singing much louder than you know because obviously you can't hear yourself. So, while I was happily belting out "American Pie" and typing away, Smitty stood silently in the doorway thinking "Oh, God, she's finally gone insane," until I saw him and screamed b/c obviously I wasn't expecting him.

However, this brings back memories of my dad confiscating my Walkman on more than one vacation because I was singing louder than anyone was talking in the car, also numerous times of him or my mom walking in my room YELLING at me because I had no idea they were even talking to me. It's all coming back. If I were to take my iPod to work, I would either get written up, or I would make a complete jackass out of myself.

I was also thinking, speaking of singing, that I now have a need, not a want, mind you, but an actual  need to sing Concrete Blonde's "Joey" at karaoke. It would be awesome, as the song is mostly yelling, which I very much enjoy in musical form. I think maybe it's because I never actually yell, I like to sing really, really loudly. It's my repressed loudmouth, yearning to be free. I mean, honestly, I don't even know the last time I actually yelled. My normal speaking voice isn't even remotely loud, but I do so enjoy some sing-yelling. I think the last time I went to karaoke, I was called "Rocker Chick," which is funny because that's almost like calling me "Rapper Chick." Both are equally inappropriate. I'm more like "Easy Listening Chick" with a dash of '90s alternative rock occasionally mixed in. Really, I'm not cool at all. Smitty will testify to this...although he also thinks I need a reality show or at least someone recording me.

I do not agree with this assessment...unless there is cash involved and I get a wardrobe...

You Make-a My Dreams Come True

I love music...I love listening to it, I love pretending to dance to it, and I especially love thinking I can sing super-awesome-ly to it. I have a good voice, it's not a great voice..it has its alcohol-induced moments of greatness. I love karaoke so much, I could marry it, but I'd be cheating on Smitty and...sleep, my other passion.

I just spent like 2 hours figuring out how to get new music onto my iPod. I finally figured it out, and I got all my old favorites...Billy Joel..that's right, that's how I roll, BITCHES...."bottle of red....bottle of white..." can you handle that funk...Tori Amos, and my new favorite Regina Spektor..Clearly, I am not super cool when it comes to music. I don't even know how the kids find out about music these days. I hear stuff that I like, and I find a way to listen to it, unbeknownst to me that I'm listening to "new" music that's like 5 years old..that's right, that's how I roll.

I just like music I can sing to...ask Smitty, he once asked if I had the all-Joey, Concrete Blonde channel in my car, because I love, love, love singing/screaming along to that song in my car. It's cathartic. I do that, I sing along to music in the car, as opposed to everyone else in their cars who are talking on their stupid cell phones and driving like crap as a result. Are people afraid to be alone with their thoughts these days? Is that a thing? No one want to sing and get caught at the light singing "Sister Christian?" (been there) I will never give up singing along to the radio or the iPod or whatever fancy stuff the Interwebs comes out with...sing on, even if you sound like you've been smoking for 40 years or even if you don't. I fully support bad car-singing. I'm Emily, and I'm a Bad Car Singer. Have been since about 1984.

What's a nice wine like you doing in a girl like me??

I have had a BAD day. It's not like a "my car broke down, my dog died, my husband left me" country song kind of day, it was just one of those days that makes you look and feel like you've been pulled out of a drain. Trust me, I look rough. I'm choosing to revive this day with a woodsy Chardonnay, my hilarious husband, and later on, I will shamefully admit, I will watch "Steven Seagal: Lawman," because it is easily the funniest (by accident) show I have seen in a while. I'm not kidding..before you judge me, you need to watch an episode.

I hate having days like this, b/c I swear, in spite of my Prozac prescription, I try to be a sunny person, dammit. I think I'm a glass half-full kinda gal, although I would probably make fun of the glass. That's just who I am...an optimist with a side of sass..it's worked for me so far, so I don't mess with the formula.

Wine helps, I'll be honest. I have pretty much cut out all drinking except for a few glasses of Chardonnay now and again. Before anyone I've been more than buzzed around recently says "Dear God, lightning will strike this computer," I'm not saying I ALWAYS limit it to a few glasses, but recently, I have tried to cut back to just a few glasses to dull the edge. And white wine is my new, and by new, I mean for the past year and a half, favorite. It's just nice and mellow and makes me feel fuzzy and not like bloaty and whale-like. That's why I generally eschew beer these days...I get it, I retain fluid, I don't need a beverage to be a reminder.

And a note, apropos of nothing, nicotine patches are crap. They don't work...I'm just saying..

All creatures great and small....

I really don't care for nature. I like looking at pictures of it, and I 
appreciate the planet. I don't litter, I drive a tiny car made of 
recycled cans that gets like 100 miles per gallon, but I don't care for 
dirt, bugs, the outdoors in general and now I can add to my list...LIZARDS.
 
This morning, as I am sleepily fumbling around to get out of the house 
and get to work in a timely manner, I see a long, spindly "thing" in my 
peripheral vision. I first think "snake" and that I'm either going to 
die or pee on myself, and then I see the rest of its body, and realize 
"ah, lizard," which was a very brief relief followed with "OMG, what do 
I do, what do I do," as Smitty was at work, and I have no survival skills.
 
It calmly looked at me, not moving, as if to say, "what is your problem? 
I'm just hanging out by the floor vent," while I stealthily crept into 
the living room/kitchen/pantry area to find a mechanism with which to 
scoop it. I thought I could scoop it into a plastic bag, but then 
assumed that would make too much noise, and it would scamper away and I 
would subsequently fall down and suffer a head injury, (which I almost 
did once when a spider jumped on me..I don't deal well with these things).
 
So, my solution was to plug our bedroom door with plastic bags as to 
trap it, leaving it to try on my underwear and jewelry, until Smitty 
came home at lunch to catch it...which he did...which means I don't have 
to divorce him so that I never have to set foot in our house again. 
Crisis averted. I am attaching a picture of Milton, as I've named him, 
to demonstrate the emergency effectively. If you think he looks small,  
you are quite wrong. He was a foot long if he was an inch, and while he 
appears docile in these photos, I am almost certain I saw a tiny 
switchblade before I left him in our bedroom. He was bad news, but we 
(and by we, I mean  Smitty) nonetheless set him free, unharmed back into 
nature. Ugh, nature.

I guess it's due to being part of the Chardonnay-sipping lefties

I don't have a rapport with service people. I don't look down at them, I 
swear, but they just don't seem to like me. I've worked more places than 
I care to admit, and I've always been secretly jealous (alright, curious) of co-workers who 
seem to have this great friendship with security guards, cleaning 
personnel, receptionists, etc...I don't get it. I'm friendly, I always say hello. I 
even try to do small talk with them, and it's like they don't even want 
to speak to me. I've heard before, until people get to know me, that I'm 
quiet, which I find highly amusing. I'm thinking that people mistake 
quiet for "snotty" or "rude." I don't mean to be.
 
It's weird, I think this is something genetic, because my sister and I 
have compared notes and had strangers say to us, "Smile. It's not that 
bad," when all we're doing is existing with our regular, y'know, 
non-smiley, non-game-show-host-faces. I always wanted to say, "My husband hits me. Do you still want me to smile?" which is 
highly inappropriate, but I feel would perhaps drive the point home that 
it's not really any of your business if I'm smiling or not. That 
statement drives me mad.
 
So, I feel as though I'm misunderstood just for not walking around 
smiling like a jackass all the time. I'm happy, I swear. It's kind of a 
smug, sarcastic happy, but it's happy, nonetheless. I guess I'm doomed 
to never be the one that knows all the gossip from the people who know 
all the gossip because they think I'm a snob. The funny thing is, if 
they were super friendly to me, I'd probably be like, "Why the heck is 
the cleaning lady talking to me?" Maybe I just answered my own conundrum.
 

Vexed by food

I feel like food plagues my life. I have to think of what to cook, then there are dishes, there's the endless daily cycle of unloading and loading the dishwasher, food makes me gain WEIGHT, because I can't smoke like I want to, and so on and so forth. I love to cook, I really do, but when you cook for two people, there's only so many leftover meatloaves, pasta dishes, and pizzas you can eat. So, there we go, I think Smitty and I should procreate if only to make mealtime easier. Three is a better number to cook for than two, no?

I also revile the dishes. When I was living in my first apartment by myself, I'm fairly ashamed to recall my dishwashing skills. In my defense, I didn't have a dishwasher, (I realize that's not really a defense) so dishes would pile up until I would have to get creative about what to use. I can use the actual frozen pizza box as a plate, for instance, or just buy plastic cups so I don't have to wash any glasses. In sharp contrast, I am relentless about that never happening again, so now I have cat-like reflexes when it comes to dirty dishes. Oh, how I love Smitty and his usual OCD-ness, but the man will not rinse a bowl or a plate. I don't mind doing it, but if I don't know it's in there, everything coagulates on the dish, and it's way harder to rinse. This is one of maybe 4 things he does that irritate me, so I'll give him a pass, but, seriously, the dishes torment me. Funny how I don't have similar issues with a dirty car or piled up clothes or leaving my shoes everywhere. It's not something I can explain logically, it just "is."

And I find it highly unfair that you gain so much weight when you quit smoking. I feel like God should reward you by making you want to exercise when you quit rather than seeing how many slices of single cheese you can eat before you lose your vision. (I think it's 20) I mean, really...and you gain the weight EVERY damn time you quit, so if you relapse, and if you're any kind of real smoker, you will relapse, it just means by the time you actually quit, you can join the circus as the fat lady or perhaps the Single Cheese Eating Attraction. I'm sure that would be a huge draw.

My long-lost blog

I was recently inspired (thanks, Amy's Blam -- www.amyblam.com) to restart this blog, we'll see how it goes, but, wow, have things changed since I last posted. It's funny, a lot of the posts were my laments about the possibility of, egads, turning 30. And here I am at 32, inching towards 33, and I am far less scared in the reality of it than I was at the thought of it.

Granted, my life has changed so much since then. I started this blog after I packed up everything I owned and moved to Pennsylvania to work for John Kerry's campaign. That was a disappointing, yet extremely rewarding experience, feel free to look back and read my musings regarding that, and I ended this blog shortly after moving back to Mississippi to start a new chapter in my life.

However, that chapter was initially to start with my going to grad school to get my master's in English and then go wherever the wind blew me when I was done, so I could teach while wearing glasses and saying, "What do you think that  means?" to eager college students.

Then, I met my husband, a tall, smart-alecky fellow who beat me at darts, and therefore, had to be stopped by my smacking his ass to distract him...it worked....fast forward 4 years, and here we are, in Birmingham, just celebrated our 3rd anniversary, and we couldn't be happier. Life is strange, which is why I think, in general, any kind of plan, is pretty pointless. If you stay determined to stick to a plan, you miss out on all the surprises that pop up along the way...y'know, actual life.

Married life has changed me a bit, but not too drastically. Examples:
1. I'm in bed by 10 o'clock most nights, but I still occasionally catch things on fire when I attempt to cook.
2. I don't go out on the town anymore, but once drank enough that I put my nightgown in the toilet so I could take a bath. (I thought the lid was closed, I think)
3. I am vigilant about keeping dirty dishes clean, but I think my car has ants.
4. I am not really up on the latest music, but can still be caught singing at the top of my lungs to Concrete Blonde.
5. I love, love, love babies and little children, but we're, erm, not quite there yet, and the thought of a child calling me "Mommy" and my actually being their mommy scares the holy hell out of me..

So, I promise to write more if you guys promise to visit here now and again.

Hello, darlin, nice to see you, it's been a long time..

Geez, I've kind of abandoned this poor little blog that I started over a year ago, and I feel badly for it. However, I've gotten addicted to MySpace, and it's to just blog a quick thing every couple of days on there.
You know, recently I was thinking about how men suck. Not individually, because I have some awesome male friends that I wouldn't trade for anything, but as a whole, the male population consists of a bunch of ass clowns, and are they really punished or criticized for it? Not really.
Point in case: I was watching a commercial the other day for this new show "Love Monkey" with that guy from "Ed" on it. The entire premise of the show is that he's a bit of a cad, the title of the show referring to the fact that he "hops" from branch to branch because he's scared of commitment. And we're supposed to watch this, and think, "Oh, how cute. The sexy little man uses women like Kleenex," and this is supposed to be entertaining?
I admit, I'm a tad bitter right now, having just had a break-up after a year-long, quite frankly puzzling relationship, and it's entirely possible that I'm jaded beyond rational thought right now.
You see, I meet A LOT of "Love Monkeys," so pardon me if I don't think it's particularly cute.
And in these shows and movies, etc..where the guy is deathly afraid of commitment, there's always an A-HA (exclamation, not the '80s band) where they meet that one amazing woman who changes them, allays their commitment fears and everyone lives happily ever after, more or less.
So, am I to believe that I'm incapable of being that amazing woman for these commitment phobes, that invariably they'll go about their lives without me, jumping from branch to branch until they find that goddess of perfection they've been looking for? It sounds whacked and paranoid, I know, but what the fuck?
I think I'm pretty amazing, actually, but damn if I don't keep getting kicked in the teeth by relationships and left questioning my worth and future afterwards.
I am trying beyond all rational thought not to become bitter, but so far, that has not been terribly successful.
I have men currently interested in me, and all I can think is "What's the point? It will all turn to black hell eventually." I mean, that can't be a healthy attitude.
I know for a certain fact that I don't want a commitment to anyone right now. I'm still quite raw from my last relationship, and I may still be smarting from the last 3 years, in fact.
But, the bottom line, is that I do want all that cheesy crap. I want a man who "gets" me, and I him, and I want children, and I don't want to make the mistakes in my own family that I've witnessed growing up.
Perhaps the truth is, that deep down, I'm not ready for all of that, and God is letting me know that by sending me people unworthy of my time and heart.
I don't know, really I don't, but I know that I have to do things that are best for myself and myself alone, and if being a serial dater for a while is what I need to do, that's what I'll do.
But I can't help missing that feeling of security I get when I snuggle up to sleep with someone that is familiar and safe and that I know would bring me soup if I were sick, whose shampoo or cologne clings to my sheets well after he's gone and makes me smile.
Okay, apparently, a Danielle Steel novel has taken over my body.
Enough of this sappy nonsense. Jesus, I have a reputation.

Me and Sam at my office Christmas party..how hot are we??

Have yourself a neurotic little Christmas

I haven't written in so long. I've become obsessed with MySpace, and I've been cheating on blogspot. I feel badly, but, oh, well. I'm back to write a more pensive entry about the state of affairs in my life, here, where I can ramble, and hardly anyone ever reads it.
I've been back in Mississippi for about two months now, and I am in a weird mindset about it. On some levels, it's comforting beyond belief, and on others, more terrifying than Pennsylvania was. At least there, I felt like I was accomplishing something. I mean, I know that I'm working toward something here, but I miss feeling like I had risen above my roots, so to speak.
There's nothing wrong with my roots, mind you, but I just know that I am meant for something more. The key is, figuring out what the hell that is.
And I miss people. I miss Simon, and I miss Mark, and Amanda, and I miss Rachel and Jason, and I have no clue when I'll see them again, and that makes me sad.
I never thought I was one of those people that Christmas affected adversely, but I think I am. I've been awfully depressed the last couple of weeks, like I'm doing something wrong or not doing enough to change my attitude. It's frustrating.
And that whole "I'm going to die alone" thing becomes more and more prominent when it's Christmas, and I'm 28, and I have no husband or children to celebrate with. I'm going to be the crazy, eccentric aunt that my sister takes pity on in the future and invites to holidays after my parents "pass on."
And I KNOW how ridiculous that sounds, but I can't help it. I'm not rational when I'm kinda depressed.
Anyway, I'm at work, so I should probably, you know, work.
I hope everyone has a great holiday and is in a better mood than I.

I mean, come on, sometimes it's too damn easy..

Now what is he thinking?? "Damn, I wonder who I have to invade to get one of those cool hats?"

That giant sucking sound

I'm pretty sure I have ADD or something. Maybe not ADD, but some kind of personality disorder that causes my moods and general well-being to violently fluctuate for no apparent reason. Sounds charming, eh?
I genuinely don't know what my problem is; one minute, I am perfectly content with the state of affairs in my life, and the next, I'm questioning everything all at once. Maybe I should major in philosophy in graduate school. That way, I could go ahead and self-sabotage myself into a life of true insanity..I jest.
I dunno, maybe it's just that with all of the choices a person of my age (22, of course) is confronted with, we have no option but to question, second-guess, and then fool ourselves into thinking that everything is fine for the time being until we start the questioning, second-guessing part all over again. It's maddening. No wonder pharmaceutical sales of anti-depressants have skyrocked in this country.
Sometimes, I truly envy people with simpler minds, who seem perfectly content to follow the prescribed path in life: Go to college, major in something that won't threaten a potential life partner, meet your husband, get married right out of college and then pretty much shelve your goals to raise a family..
Now, here's the thing. I could probably do that until the part where the kids go off to college, and then I would have an American Beauty-type breakdown where I would question what I had done with my life and probably start working out in the garage, listening to Frampton and smoking pot while fantasizing about my son's hot soccer teammate.
That seems to be more of a recipe for disaster than just trying to figure shit out right now, you know?
I do wish I could turn my brain off sometimes, though. It's exhausting just to listen to some of the thoughts I have on occasion..and dreams..good Lord, the dreams. I have had dreams that really ought to be studied by a team of doctors in Sweden.
And the result of this overactive brain thing seems to serve to sabotage stuff for me as well. I am a girl who just says, text messages or e-mails whatever pops into my brain and then, about 70% of the time, I feel a fair amount of regret, but it's too late. I've already changed my mind about whatever it was that I unleashed, and I can't pull it back.
I guess what I'm saying is that I have no personal self-discipline. I have always been too passionate a person, listening to my heart way more than my head and usually paying a price for it. And wondering how in the hell others can be so frustratingly logical while looking for an appropriate Shakespearean sonnet to sum up my feelings.
At times, I think, well, I would much rather be like me and actually feel stuff and experience love and the requisite hurt and pain that can accompany it, and then there are those times when I'm in the throes of that lovely hurt and pain, that I think, "Emily, your brain is there for a reason. Start listening to it rather than your stupid, wide-open heart."
I dunno which way is better. Without passion, there would be no great poetry, music, art or love, but do you ever notice how those artists, writers and musicians who felt all of that exquisite pain and passion die horrible, gut-wrenching deaths because no one could ever fulfill their expectations?
Something to consider..