Re-launched, but still slightly under construction. :-)

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Conversations about inappropriate things

Wednesday, March 30, 2011 By

My friend and I are discussing some emotional stuff, and she offers some words of wisdom.

M.S. (concluding a beautiful and insightful thought): "... sometimes it is the dream that we hold onto when the reality is steadily kicking the shit out of us."

Me: "Wait, are you quoting lyrics from 'Rent?'"

M.S.: "Um, no, but I can - LOL! I played Mimi in college."

Me: "Oh, no, that last line isn't a song lyric. Although, I'd love to see someone rhyme 'steadily kicking the shit out of us.'"

M.S.: "We can do a new musical!"

Me: "That would work perfectly in the zombie musical I'm writing in my head, with such hit songs as 'I am Zombie, Hear Me Roar,' and lyrics like, 'Steadily kicking the shit out of us, older zombies they got more pus.' Le Chat Noir would stage it."

M.S.: "Yeah, but the choreography would be a little stiff."

Monday, March 28, 2011

Learn from my fail, episode four million

Monday, March 28, 2011 By

When waking up in the night to go potty, try to remember that you laid your clothes out before bed. That is not a headless intruder by your armoire. You do not need to wake your child and neighbors with retarded screaming.

Just in case that ever happens to YOU. Not that it did to ME... heh heh.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Lesson learned

Friday, March 25, 2011 By

We took Emmie to the Turkish restaurant in Evans. It's grilled and roasted meats, we reasoned. She'll be fine. Plus, she adores olives.

They brought out the basket of pita bread.

"Mmmm, quesadillas!" she squealed.

That should have been our first warning.

The rice was "gross and slippery." The meats were "too spicy." There was "salad on everything."

After taking her requisite one-bite of everything, which is our rule (you don't have to like it, but you have to try it), she refused everything else.

"Emmie, you won't get anything else to eat before dinner," I tell her, sternly. She whines and flops onto the seat of the booth. We order her to sit up.

She sighs heavily: "Do you guys see any udder kids here?"

'We guys' look around: "No, honey, why?"

"Because! Dats means they don't like dis food!"

I tried to hide my laughter, but Scott burst into gales right in front of her.

"You have to admit she has a point," he guffawed.

She did. Some things just do not appeal to kids' developing taste buds. And they are much more sensitive to spices.

We got her the feta cheese appetizer. She loved it. One day, she'll love Doner Kebab, too. Just not today.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

F- in Literature

Wednesday, March 23, 2011 By

I'm out with friends, talking silly crap and walking back to the car after some "lounging," when A.W. says that she wants to write a screenplay based on a short story by Shirley Jackson.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"She wrote 'The Lottery.'" Alice says.

"What's that?"

"Really?" she asks.

"Really?" A.C. asks.

"What?" I say.

"You never had to read that in middle school?" A.C. asks.

"I dunno. What's it about?" I ask.

"It's about this town, where once a year they draw names and stone those people to death," A.W. answers.

"I think I vaguely remember something... Why did they stone people?"

"That's one of the things you have to figure out. It's a classic short story," A.W. says.

"I think it has something to do with the crops," A.C. says.

"Ugh. That sounds like a horrible place to live. Why don't they just move?" I ask.

They laugh.

"What? Did I just reduce great literature to, like, one stupid question?"

"Yeah, kind of."

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Little Girl Loved

Saturday, March 19, 2011 By

The blogosphere - including the atrocious comments section of our local daily paper - has been ablaze lately with opinions about the 11-year-old Texas girl who was gang-raped in an abandoned trailer by 18 men and boys.

It hurt me to hear this story. I know plenty of 11-year-olds, and I can't imagine the pain and humiliation - not to mention disease and pregnancy fears - she must be enduring. I was an 11-year-old girl, and sexuality was not a presence in my mind, or the minds of my other 5th grade classmates.

Most of the dialogue - if you can call it that - has focused on where we should lay the blame. Parents, perpetrators and the victim all trade places at the top of that hierarchy. Race has, hatefully, played a central role in the discussion.

But one man - one gentleman, I should say - has posted a thoughtful response on the blog My Brown Baby. Author Nick Chiles, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, does not focus on blame. Instead, he looks towards the future - because he allows the young victim to have one - and offers her a guideline to choosing her relationships in the future. Please read it here - and say a silent prayer of thanks that there are such men in the world.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Job Hunt Strategy

Friday, March 18, 2011 By

So, as many know, some friends of mine just lost their jobs. It's crazy. But some of them have already been very fortunate in their job hunt...

A.W.: I think I got the job!
Me: Yay!
A.W.: And it's full-time, not part-time, like I thought.
Me: That's great!
A.W.: If I get the job, will you have lunch with me in the student center? :-)
Me: Of course! And maybe the temporary job will turn permanent.
A.W.: Yeah, that's what I'm hoping. But in the meantime, it will give me a chance to hone my admin skills, to add to my being awesome skills.
Me: LOL! 'Being awesome skills'! I'm going to add that to my resume's skills section. Proficiencies: Adobe Creative Suite, AP Style and grammar, training techniques, media sales, and being awesome.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Baby blues

Wednesday, March 16, 2011 By

A.C. texts me: "I am trapped in a rocking chair with sleeping kids on me, in case you were wondering. I can't reach the remote, or my magazine."

"Need rescue? Call 911?" I send back.

"No. I am bored out of my skull, and burning up in a sweater. There is a heating pad behind me, it's on high, but I can't reach the control. And my dog just passed gas."

And just like that, my sink of dirty dishes seemed much less annoying.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Vegas, baby... Vegas

We're planning our group trip to Vegas.

"Depending on how many are going, I might just get us a suite at the Bellagio," A.C. says.

"Okay, fancy. I was going for a HoJo."

"What's a hojo?" she asks.

"That's the lady on the corner of 5th and Broad."

Friday, March 11, 2011

Kiddie kapers

Friday, March 11, 2011 By

Emmie made a series of mistakes today that earned her a red face at school. This is not acceptable, and it means she loses privileges. No TV, no computer, no Wii. She ate dinner, did her homework, bathed, got ready for bed, and then we read a story. She really wanted to watch "Harry Potter," and I wouldn't let her.

"Mama? I'm goeend ta get my priviledgeth back tomorrow?" She lisped, her two front teeth having come out over the weekend. She was flipping through a big storybook in the bed beside me.

"If you get a green face," I answered, turning the page of my book.

"What if I get a yellow fathe?" She asked.

"Then you'll lose some privileges, but not all," I answered.

"Leth keep thith thimple," she lisped, flipping her story book pages as though chatting about the weather. "If I get a green fathe, I looth no privilegeth. If I get a yellow fathe, I looth one privilege. If I get a red fathe, I looth all privilegeth."

I stared at her in amazement. She was asking to standardize our system of punishment for poor behavior - to codify it.

"That... that is simpler," I stammered. She nodded without looking up.

"Um, well, how about I bring your suggestion to Daddy, and we'll decide together, tomorrow."

"Okay," she agreed, decisively. Then she laid down her book, closed her eyes, and instantly fell asleep.

Wednesday, March 09, 2011

The Fabulous Ms. Emerson

Wednesday, March 09, 2011 By

We moved and it sucked. But told Emerson that part of it was her responsibility. She was to help, without whining. And she did. It must have been a Herculean effort for a 6-year-old. She did have to drag some of her little boxes up the front steps, but she didn't ask for help, and I let her work it out as much as she could on her very own.

We were almost done. While she was dragging the last set of boxes up the front steps, she sighed heavily. I could tell that she was tired, and ready for the move to be done with. I was sporting sore muscles in places I didn't even know I had muscles, so I understood and appreciated how much she had put into the process. I was so proud of her!

"Oh, sweetie-pie, you have been such a helper! Mommy really appreciates your hard work and your excellent behavior. You are just fantastic!"

She heaved her little box up the last step and hardly glanced back at me: "Yup. 'Funtassic' is my name!"

I had to put down my box until I stopped laughing.

Monday, March 07, 2011

The Ire of March

Monday, March 07, 2011 By

Scott and the band are playing at our house, when his laptop goes down. I fiddle with it, but can't figure out what's up. One of his band mates, B.J. Wood, gives it a shot. Emmie isn't having that.

"Dat's my dad's peeyooter," she tells him, scowling.

He grins and hops back behind the drum kit. But Emmie is not done with him. She approaches him and whispers threateningly in his ear: "I know karate."

This does not provoke the fear she had hoped. The band collapses in laughter, and she stalks out of the room, her indignation trailing behind her, dissipating into the air like smoke.

Poor Doodle. Such adult aspirations. Such tiny fists of fury.

Friday, March 04, 2011

IM-ing at work

Friday, March 04, 2011 By

May I have a high-resolution copy of the new logo, please?
Boss: NO.
Me: Alrighty, I'll just draw something by hand for this house ad. Are bunnies okay?
Boss: Okay, I'll send something to you.
Me: Thanks!

Wednesday, March 02, 2011

No ifs, ands or butts

In my eternal quest for frugality - generally speaking, I'd rather do things than have things - I keep a list of "stuff we need." Currently, it consists of end tables for the living room, a rug for the bedroom and a stackable or apartment-sized washer and dryer (or one of those adorable European combo units).

That sounds odd, keeping a list of stuff I need in order to keep from spending money. But that's because I buy almost everything second-hand. We have a $3,000 leather Basset couch that I got for $300. An antique china cabinet that I bought for $100. A wrought iron bed due to's series of crazy mistakes (that also led to them sending me a second identical frame, which now resides at my parents' home). And so on. It takes time, and it takes patience, but like our hunter-gatherer ancestors knew, the hunt and kill are so very satisfying.

One of my dream vacations, I swear, would be a tour of European flea markets. This is the extent of my geekitude. And I am okay with that.

A couple of weekends ago, I went Craigslisting through Atlanta with my dad. I got a lot of stuff we needed. There were heavy things to load in his giant Ford F-150, and a lot of bending and carrying. We ate at the Varsity, and then wound through IKEA before heading home so I could cook them dinner.

Ha. Guess what, guys? After spending all day bending and heaving all over Atlanta, I found a hole in the butt of my pants. A significantly-sized hole. In the BUTT. Of my pants.

Between all of our travels, my dad and I must have passed 5,000 people, and not one of them - including my father, thank you very much - mentioned this hole to me.

Oh, it gets better.

In my rush to get out of Augusta with Emerson the night before, I had forgotten to pack any underwear.

So here I am, inappropriately positioning my behind in front of dozens of people who had a close-up view in their own homes - and then the thousands of people at the Varsity, IKEA, Publix, Walgreen's... oh, god. Oh. My. God. And no one mentioned it.

You may not believe it, but Atlantans are very polite people when they aren't driving. I've had gang members hold open doors for me. Everyone says excuse me. If you are missing the extra 10 cents cash it takes to complete a purchase, you will never have to leave the check-out line, because someone will step in with a dime.

Apparently, their politeness extends to keeping their mouths shut when someone's butt is hanging out of their pants. I flashed so many people, y'all, that I'm surprised they weren't stuffing dollar bills in my g-string. Oh, that's right - I wasn't wearing one!

I immediately called my friend Amber (who likes to be Facebook poked, by the way, please do it now) for some sympathy. Instead, she laughed so hard that she woke her two sleeping babies and pissed off her 13-year-old - until she told said 13-year-old the story, and she laughed so hard she almost fell off her bed. I appreciated her sympathetic ear so much that I texted her a thoughtful thank-you: a photo of my behind, clad in the offending jeans.

I decided to experiment. So I wore the same jeans the next day. All day. And do you know what people said to me? Nothing. Not a single word. When I finally said something to my family, they were surprised. No one had even noticed.

I think we can extrapolate from that - due to the fact that my family will spend hours making fun of a single crumb on your shirt, plus work it into holiday carols at Christmas - that no one in Atlanta saw any part of my bare bottom those two days.


I'm not sure if I am comforted by that... or if I am disappointed that no one was looking.