Just a little patience...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Randomness...what I do best

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just to give you an idea...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am the entertainer of Flat Jillian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Make-a My Dreams Come True

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All creatures great and small....

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

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

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

Vexed by food

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

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

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

My long-lost blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have yourself a neurotic little Christmas

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

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

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