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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Riding through the desert on a blog with no name

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, the things I can't do

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steroids really do make you crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walking in my winter underwear....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fine line between relaxing and lazy

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I pick strange battles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little ditty about all kinds of stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's me in the corner losing my voice

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

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

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

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

Yo ho ho, and a bottle of codeine cough syrup

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Alexander Fleming, a tip of my hat

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

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

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

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

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

Cigarettes and chocolate milk (and coffee)

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

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

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

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

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

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