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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doctor Feelgood

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

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

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

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

Fashionably Challenged

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

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

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

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

Adventures in the Life of a Bubble Girl

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

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

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

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

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

Uncle Oscar

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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