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

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

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

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

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

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

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 People with wildly outdated hairstyles.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Black (or bluish) snake moan and other mishaps

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Little Boy and The Rattlesnake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All work and something something make Homer something something

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

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

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

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

The week of birthday suits and antibiotics

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

A pirate looks at 33...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ben Harper makes me want to get naked and touch velvet

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

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

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

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

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

Long, hot, never ending summer

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

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

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

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

Love letter to carbs and some other things

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

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

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

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

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

I love you all,
Emily

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

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

Welcome to Hotel Soda Detox

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Night Moves and Terrors and Screams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The monkey DJ in my head has multiple personalities.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The insomniac blog

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

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

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

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

Off to continue my sleep project...

Turn around, bright eyes....

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Peace Out

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

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

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

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

Define crazy...

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.