Well, Isn't that Special?

I used to work with a woman named . . . let's call her Ashley, because that was her name and she worked my last nerve.

Anyway, we worked together at a "design firm," don't even get me started on that place. Our boss could have given The Devil Wears Prada's Miranda Priestly's thinly veiled Anna Wintour look sweet.

A (the boss) owned the firm so to some extent I figured, "It's her company . . . " and would often just brush off her "damn it, do it again" attitude. But, it did wear on me and after a while I got to feeling like I just couldn't get anything right.

Now though, I realize that A always knew exactly how she wanted the copy to read, and I never really had any sort of creative license. The big problem was that of all of my talents, mindreader was not one of them.

But this entry is not about A, it's about Ashley.

Anyway, Ashley was fresh out of college and in her first professional job as a designer. Except, designing for a business isn't quite the same as designing a class project. Most students in a university setting have at least a few weeks to develop a concept and execute it. In A's office we were often given a projects that had to be conceptualized and created, if we were lucky, in three days.

Ashley's first stumbling block was that she wasn't used to the pace. It is a shock, but most people would just deal with it. Work longer hours or take projects home (which we were allowed to do) to get the job done. But not our newest employee, Ashley preferred to complain.

I know I sucked at my job, but there were a few times when I did a damn good job on a writing project. So, I'd turn it over to Ashley to flow in the copy and she'd re-type it. Rather than just copy and paste what I had emailed her, she'd go through the trouble of typing it in, typing it in and not spell checking her work. Which, HELLO, made me look really bad because once copy was flowed in it would go directly to our boss.

I finally asked Ashley about it and she said, "Oh yeah, sometimes I do, do that." So, I asked her if that is what she wanted to do then could she at least spell check it. She said that it was no problem and that she'd start doing so. Except the next few projects that come through are again riddled with spelling errors. So, I get my hnds on one of them and ask her, "Did you spell check this?"

She replied, "Yes, absolutely."

To which I replied, "I find that hard to believe. I mean, I know spell check won't catch the difference between wear and where, but it would definitely catch that you mis-typed "the."

I was infuriated. Not because she'd made the mistake, but because she'd lied about it. Just flat out lied without having to because I wasn't her boss. It's not like telling me the truth would have gotten her into trouble. So, why lie about it.

After that, things swiftly went down hill.

She was miss Supa Christian, married to a youth pastor even, so she was completely a against using obscene language but, lying . . . totally okay apparently. Anyway, she didn't use words like ass, damn, shit or fuck, but was completely fine with calling our boss a whore when she'd piss her off.

Seriously? Fuck is off limits but calling someone a whore is okay?

Listen, I minored in Women's and Gender Studies and my feminist tendencies are always near the surface so I really didn't do well sitting by listening to her call another woman a whore. Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to someone saying, I'm such a make-up (insert your own noun to descrive your vise- mine is shoe) whore."

I understand that, that calling yourself a "----- whore" is in jest, and maybe that doesn't make any sense to you, but to turn around and call another woman a whore because you don't like her management style (or whatever) is just not acceptable to me.

So, I asked her one day, "Could you please not use the word whore?"

To which SHE responded, "Are you kidding me?"

Me, "No, I think it's really offensive."

She smirked and said, "Okay, fine. I find it really offensive when you say fuck. Can you stop saying that?"

Me, "Okay."

You should have seen her face!

She was so pissed because I didn't get into an argument with her about how I felt the two were fundamentally different in their intent. Fuck, to me, just isn't as loaded as whore is.

Christians and two-year olds, as soon as you engage them in an argument you have already lost.

The sad thing is, I think I could have been friends with her if she hadn't been such a contradictory christian. I believe in God so it's not like I'm sitting around in my atheist basket headed for hell. I know with every fiber of my being that there was a higher power pusing me through some of the tougher times in my life, and every day I am grateful for the many blessings in my life.

Now, why am I even taking the time to trash this girl if I haven't seen her in years?

I just found her blog.

I was checking out the blog of a colleague and . . . surprise, surprise her blog is linked to his.

What I don't believe in is playing the good youth pastor's wife on Sunday and then turn around on your blog and trash overweight people in bathing suits, nice old people in the Wal-Mart parking lot that compliment your baby or the teenage girl you saw inappropriately dressed at the pool (at least SHE was thin).

It's bitchy.

It's judgemental.

Maybe even downright . . . unchristian.

The Waiting Game

They made me an offer I couldn't refuse.

And then, of course, I countered it and they still wanted me.

I don't know if I've said this before, but this job is with a bank so they want to be absolutely sure I'm not going to go all Set It Off on their asses and are currently conducting a background check on me. I also had to go to one of their approved labs and take a drug test. Now I'm just waiting to hear back before I can quit my job.

I've never taken a drug test before, but I knew I was going to have to pee in a cup. In preparation, I drank my normal 64oz of water that day (32 oz by noon and another 32 oz by 5pm). My dad always comments that I must be in the bathroom all the time from all that water, but my bladder has adjusted so I just don't go that often: maybe twice in a four hour period.

Anyway, I finished my second 32 oz and topped it off with a caffeinated soft drink. My plan was to have the caffeine work as a diuretic to help me get that water moving. It totally did the job, but test anxiety is test anxiety.

I showed up without any cash or my checkbook and worried that I might have to pay. Fortunately, my friends VISA and Mastercard had their pictures posted in the office.

I walked in and there was a gentleman in their before me, but we were both called in at about the same time. I followed my lab tech into a refurbished walk-in closet with a sink and she instructed me to wash my hands. I did as I was told and then she handed me my cup and said, "The bathroom is right next door. Fill it to the line and when you're finished don't flush."

Me, "I'm sorry, did you say DON'T flush?"

Her, "Right, DON'T flush."

Me, completely thrown because not flushing just seems so wrong, "Okay . . . "

Then, just as I'm walking out of the room (sauntering really) she says, "You're being timed . . . "

That is when I became fully aware of the tick, tick, tick that must have been going the entire time I was in the room. Now, it was all I could hear: as if I was on some sort of urinary Beat the Clock.

I wasn't worried though, I was ready for this.

Except maybe a little too ready.

From the second I pulled my pants down it was like Niagra Falls. So I hurried up and stuck the cup down there with one hand. I waited a few seconds, cut it off and checked the cup to see if I'd filled it to the line. I was only halfway there and the clock was still ticking.

Finally, finally I hit the damn line, finished up, wiped . . . fuck, the toilet paper!

I'm standing there with an uncovered cup in my hand, my underpants around my ankles and a wad of soiled toilet paper in my hand. My eyes darted around the room and there were signs everywhere. Signs that I should have read when I walked in, but I was so eager to beat the clock that I just got down to business.

Finally, over the toilet I spot a sign that says, "Do not throw toilet paper into trashcan." Which, leads me to believe I CAN throw it in the toilet - which I do. I tell myself, actually have to tell myself, "DON'T flush the toilet." And, still with the unopened cup in my hand I single-handedly put my underpants and pants back on, fastened them and hustleed out to hand the tech my pee cup.

To which she replies, "Wash your hands."

Busted.

I always wash my hands after I pee, but people I was facing a deadline here!

I guess throwing the paper into the toilet was okay since I did not get called back in and it turns out I did not have to pay.

On my way out though, the gentleman that had walked in with me was also walking out and I heard his lab tech tell him, "Just wait a couple of minutes and maybe it will happen for you."

I felt bad for him you know, but . . .

I totally beat his pansy ass.

No News is Good News

So, yeah, I don't know anything.

I WAS called in for a second interview, but unfortunately I am still in limbo. I felt that the interviews went well and we will see.

I had a job interview in New Orleans two years ago. It was for a position similar to the one I hold now, but it wouldn't have meant any travel. I would have been running an education department and not have had to drive all over LA.

Clearly, I didn't get it as I am still in AL.

I truly believe everything happens for a reason though because if I had gotten that job Steve and I wouldn't own our own home (home prices are high, high, high in NO) and God knows where I would have been living if I had moved home. I might have lived in a place that got flooded.

And, I love my house!!!

I will have to post pictures on here one of these days, but it really is a sweet two-bedroom, one-bath with french doors leading into the dining room from the living room and an 18' long, 9'deep covered front porch. I've spent hours on our front porch swing with Steve.

We've also decided to have the wedding at home, and our 1920s sweetie is perfect for a home wedding. It will be really small . . . just family and close friends. Having the wedding in AL is also allowing us to keep it on a small budget AND afford an oyster bar. Steve and I adore raw oysters so we are really excited that we'll be able to fit that in our budget. In fact, I joke with him that I knew he loved me because without fail he always offered me the last oyster when we'd order a dozen.

Anyway, not much going on her other than the waiting game.

I Hope I Get It

For a few weeks now I've been scanning the local classifieds and online sites for a new job. People who have known me for any length of time won't find this odd. I have had a tendency to move on after a year or so at any one job. Part of it is that I get bored, but a larger part of it is that at a year you are familiar enough with a company's structure to know whether or not there is any possiblity of advancement within that organization.

Take my first job out of college: I worked as a copywriter for a national catalog company. I loved that job! I got to play with new products as they came in and then I got to tell our customers why this or that product was so fantastic. The writing was cheesy, but at least I was writing and for a lot of our products it was creative writing.

I learned one important lesson at that job though: don't pigeon hole yourself.

My copy editor had been at the catalog for 20 years, in fact it had been her first job out of college. She'd been there since the 80's, a time when catalog sales were through the roof. Her bloated salary was a result of those glory years, but then the 90's hit and a catalog scandal chopped them off at the knees. Here's a story my CE shared with me,

"Oh, I never thought the catalog was where I would be after all this time. But, the salary increases were so great I couldn't leave. Then, when I finally sent out my resume I got the feeling that employers in other industries felt that all I could do was write for catalogs, so here I am."

That story depressed me, but it made me realize that I couldn't let that happen to me. I also realized my only possibility for advancement with that company was for my CE to die of a sudden illness or for me to kill her as she wasn't leaving anytime soon.

Neither of which were realistic options for me.

So, after that conversation and an annual review that went like this, "We think you are doing a really great job, we just wish you were turning in perfect copy on your first draft. But, we really love you so here's $100 more a month for you! We wish we could do more, but it's been a hard year on the company. Thanks!"

Okay, first of all, a first "draft" is a draft right? Meaning, it's a preliminary version, and I swear to you, 99% of my copy was letter perfect, the most I would get as far as edits were "Change this word to this word, put this word here . . . "

Secondly, I realize that 4% is standard, but I knew I could be working for more.

So, I left and in an effort to diversify my experience, I went to work for a magazine. It was a quirky trade publication that was fun to work at. I was associate editor of the international version of the magazine so I wrote for the domestic issues and edited and handed out assignments for the international issue. I learned a lot of valuable skills at that job. I sharpened my writing and editing skills and I learned how to take and give criticism diplomatically. The only reason I didn't stay there longer than a year was because: a.) we didn't get bylines so or writing was never credited and b.) our publisher was batshit crazy c.) our editor-in-chief was great about taking credit when we'd done something well, but she'd throw us under the bus in an instant if it meant covering her own ass.

Off I went in search for another job and landed the best job of my professional career. I was a curriculum developer for a large non-profit focused on teaching school children the fundamental principles economics and the free-enterprise system. I had the best boss ever at a company that actively promoted from within. I can say without doubt that I would probably still be there if my ex hadn't been military and I had made the choice to leave with him.

We moved and I took a job that was the equivalent of being in an abusive relationship. Nothing I could do was ever good enough and when I did things the way I was told they needed to be, they still weren't right. It was the first job where I I was counseled on my performance. This is the equivalent of being called to the principals office and being given a warning. The last straw for me was when I broke my leg and had to take two weeks off because of the pain. My supervisor said to me, "You can't just take two weeks off and not leave things prepared for your colleagues," and then slid a written warning across her desk for me to sign. I was lucky enough that I'd already secured employment elsewhere so I told her, "I don't think it would be right for me to sign it since I'm only going to be here for two more weeks." To which she responded, "Well, this was just a huge waste of time then." I don't remember my response, something tells me it was just silence as I stood, adjusted my crutches and hobbled out the door.

My next job was in advertising. A job that I failed at miserably. I just wasn't very good at coming up with catchy headlines and the truth is I really didn't care. I was good at long-form copy and radio scripts though, so it's not like I totally sucked. I just think I'd been working for non-profits for so long that I needed to feel I was making a difference, and writing radio spots for the local mall just wasn't doing it for me. I sent out resumes and a friend of mine told me her organization was hiring. So, I interviewed with them and got the job that I am at currently.

I don't hate my current job, but recent events have lead me to realize that no one really cares what I do as long as I don't piss anyone off. It's not like I'm looking for a pat on the head, but I would like to be somewhere that my projects are worthy of notice. Somewhere that my work in our publication is actually, oh I don't know, read.

I've been at jobs that made my life a living hell, so I know that all I have to do is not make waves and things will be okay. That is what some people want I think: a job where they can fly under the radar and continue to get paid, but I want more.

My boss isn't even that bad. I had one manager that fucked me up so good I would spend at least 30 minutes of every morning before work crying. This wan't Holly Hunter in Broadcast News kind of crying either.

There are also nice perks to my current job: I travel a lot so I'm not in the office a whole lot, but I'm not at home a whole lot either. I haven't had a cell phone bill in two years since the company pays for that and this nifty laptop I'm working on is work-issued. But the truth of it is, I am tired of not using my brain.

My current job doesn't give me any chance to use critical thinking skills and it turns out planning corporate training just leaves me feeling like a well-paid caterer.

So, I'm searching again and here's what's happened so far.

I found an outdated job posting that I responded to anyway. I explained to them that since the posting was still online that maybe they hadn't found the right candidate for the position. I didn't get a reply and within two days they had updated their website.

I was a little bummed because I thought maybe that move made me seem genuinely interested and I was hoping the move was bold enough to peak their interest, but nothing.

Then while I was out of town without internet access (in one of Chicago's chi-chi hotels even) I'd received an email from a local bank. It turns out they found my resume on an internet job site. I had posted my resume on this board, but I only ever got contacted by sketchy companies that were looking for someone in "sales." My instructions were to apply through the bank's website to pursue this further.

Not only did I apply, but in less than 24 hours they called me back to set up an interview. It's definitely a position that would require me to use my brain again, so I'm really excited and really confident seeing as how they made the first move.

I've indicated I'm receptive to an offer. And I am, after all, me. (Hee, slightly edited, but bonus points if you can guess what movie that's from.)

I feel good about this, and I've always felt everything happens for a reason so I can only assume that first organization didn't contact me because this is how things are supposed to happen.

Keep your fingers crossed.

The Notebook

It's 2006 and nothing makes me more giddy than the promise of a new notebook from The Dollar Store. My friend Melissa once shared the following story with me:

"When I was in eight grade, we had Career Day and my favorite presenter was the guy from the local paper. Not because he was from the city and not because of the exciting stories he had to tell, but because when this guy finished his speach he gave away sets of pocket-sized notebooks and golf pencils. I was seated in the back of the room as he handed them out and I remember thinking, 'Please don't run out, please don't run out . . . ' It's really no surprise I grew up to be a writer."

That 5 minute story runs through my head whenever I pull a new notebook from its shelf. It never fails to make me smile because I remember it was the first time I truly identified with a fellow writing geek.

So, I spent Sunday afternoon filling up the first page of my new single-subject, wide-rule Top Flight thinking, "This time it'll be different. This time I'll fill up the entire notebook with my witty prose.

That's the plan anyway.

I could avoid writing on the back of each page, but that's cheating isn't it?

Still, it would be so easy to justify it: writing on the back will just leave an imprint on the back of the cover, or worse, on the back of the previous back.

So?

SO!

Then the back of every page will look sloppy.

Yeah, anything to try to fill up a whole damn notebook.

Only once in my life have I ever filled up an entire notebook: my junior year of high school.

It was my first proper diary - covered in flowery fabric on the exterior and in teenage angst in the interior. It's an incredibly embarrassing tome: as it should be.

It actually starts on my 16th birthday (Technically, March of my sophmore year of high school.). In print, I immortalized my birthday wish,

"Please God, let me have a boyfriend this year."

Seriously, it doesn't get more cringeworthy, 16 year-old than that.

Oh, but it gets better.

For the next three months I whine about the following (not in any particular order):

1. Why wasn't I born with blonde hair!
2. I wish I was popular!
3. I wish I had blue eyes!
4. My parents JUST DON'T GET ME!
5. Please God - let me have a boyfriend this year!
6. I wish I was THIN!
7. SERIOUSLY - MY PARENTS - OH MY GOD!!!!!

That is only the beginning.

And yes, I was incredibly fond of exclamation points and bold print.

Oops, I Need a Stylist

Her "look" was only the beginning of Britney's problems during the Dateline interview with Matt Lauer.

I finally got around to watching the Dateline interview with Matt Lauer and Britney Spears.

I’ve sat back, watching this girl self-destruct just like the rest of you: shaking my head at her thong displays, her barefoot romps through the 7-ll and the rest of her trailer trash behavior.

I’ve snickered at America’s Pop Princess’ fall from grace so this interview . . . this interview was like a hug from Jesus.

Here are some of my favorite excerpts, with a few editorial comments to fill you in on the gestures exhibited by Spears and Lauer

Spears: I think because I was pregnant with my son, I didn’t want to do interviews. I wanted it to be a little private. But I think 90 percent of the world would agree that the tabloids have kind of gone a little [inappropriate air quote] far[inappropriate air quote] with me lately. You try not to respond to trash . . .

Cut to a brilliant edit of Lauer not responding to Spears.

Spears: They like to have the person they [inappropriate air quote] pick on [inappropriate air quote]. I feel like I’m a target and I feel like other girls are. At a certain point in everybody’s career, they’ll get it.

The misuse of air quotes, which are annoying when used correctly, was AWESOME.

Spears: And I still have helicopters [hovering over my house] that come twice a day.

Lauer: Just trying to get a picture of you at the pool?

Spears: Just anything. And they put the captions on their magazines, “Baby in danger” and stuff like that—which is really silly. But I wouldn’t be in danger if I didn’t have like this impactful thing around me all the time.

Uhm, no you self-centered twit, “Baby in Danger” is in reference to YOUR CHILD.

Lauer: You said a couple of times to me already you believe in karma. And as someone who is now several months pregnant, do you ever stop and think, “You know, he left someone else when she was a couple of months pregnant.” Does that ever cross your mind?

[Rapid blinking by Spears and you can almost see the dim bulb above her lighting up, but it never quite makes it.]

Lauer: What do you see in him? What is it about Kevin that makes you love him?

Spears: He’s very simple. Women complicate everything. He’s so simple. His simplicity and just he’s like a boy. He just, you know, and he cares. He cares so much and his—his heart is awesome. He has a really big heart [so that’s what the kids are calling it now] and I love that.

Oh honey, we know he’s simple. What I find so sad about her response is that even she's trying to justify this relationship at this point.

Federline: I have been paying for everything out of my pocket.

From the allowance he’s given, I’m sure.

Spears: You know, he has children now that he wants to support and not just let it be all me. He’s a man.

Sorry Shar, apparently only Brit’s children are important [read: rich] enough to support.

Spears: They make you feel like you have to have your transformation.

Lauer: Well—

Spears: Madonna reinvents herself. Right?

Oh Brit, Madonna may have gone around with a gold tooth and a wifebeater, but never at the same time. Sure, I remember thinking Madonna was just an attention whore during certain points in her career, but I don’t think anyone ever thought, “That Madonna girl, she’s just poor white trash that came into a little money.”

Spears: I like to cook, try to cook, and I like to clean. I’m obsessive like that. If I watch TV, I like to watch the home-redoing-the-house shows.

This bit of dialogue was disturbing to me because it was accompanied by odd Jack Black Kung Fu waving hands and weaving.

Lauer: How far along are you?
Spears: I don’t know.

How many pregnant women do you know that don’t know how far along they are?

Spears: That driving incident, I did it with my dad. I’d sit on his lap and I drive. We’re country.

As if we ever had any doubt about how "country" she is.

And just days after that photo appeared, on a visit to New York City, Britney stumbled again—this time literally.

Lauer: You’re walking with Sean in one arm and you tripped on—what was it, your pants?

Spears: Actually, I didn’t trip on anything. It was a New York street, and just cobblestones. [Uhm, no. I’ve seen the pictures of her stumbling and there were no cobblestones on that street.] And I was walking and I don’t think we were prepared with one security, ‘cause I’ve never had that much paparazzi ever on me in New York. So we didn’t even know there was gonna be that many people. So I think it was a mixture of so many paparazzi and how the road was all messed up [again, I’ve seen the pictures of this incident and it looks like a pretty level street], me just trying to get in the car.

Lauer: And there was a picture taken shortly afterward, I think you were in a store. And you appeared to be crying.

Spears: Oh yeah.

Lauer: Very upset. Were you upset because you just had a close call with your son? Or were you upset because the—

Spears: Because—

Lauer: —lenses were still on?

Spears: Well, because I got in the car and I was hungry.

I just couldn’t decide what to edit out of that because, it’s just ridiculous. So yeah, forget that the baby almost fell and could have busted his head open: she was hungry. Also, if you watch the interview, you can tell that Lauer is trying his best to prompt her towards the better answer, but she keeps interrupting him and it really does her no favors.

But it doesn’t mean she isn’t keeping busy. She found time to do a guest appearance on NBC’s “Will and Grace”.

Lauer: Was it fun for you?

Spears: It was awesome.

Lauer: Why? What was so great about it?

Spears: I hadn’t been out there for so long. So it was really exciting for me. And I just love funny people. Funny people are great. You know? And so hilarious.

Ya’ll know she’s a member of Mensa right?

And now, for Brits’ crimes against grammar: seriously, Momma Spears should NOT have pulled her out of school for her career.

. . . I didn’t have like this impactful thing around me all the time.

Nouns and adjectives – she just makes them up as she goes along.

So in my young mind I’m like, “I’m gonna just get married to someone of my home friends.

Actually, I didn’t know [regarding Federline’s relationship with Shar Jackson]. I didn’t know until two months later. But I don’t blame him because him and his friends—I’ve talked to his friends about this. They weren’t technically together when he came to me anyways.

I’m a motional wreck right now.

I just feel like the editors they don’t realize that there’s not just one magazine—there’s other magazines and they’re all paying to get a story. And I think that's where the energy from the people is coming from.

And I wanted to touch on some things with my husband because of the tabloids, that I try to keep my baby out of this whole thing. That’s what you know what I mean?
I think that’s cruelty when you judge people and—I’m not a Bible Belt.

What? Seriously, is this an anagram?

I kind of feel sorry for her because you can tell she's lost. She was given too much, too soon and didn't have any guidance.

But Britney, it's time to take this runaway horse by the reins and get yourself a team.

Get a publicist, get an image consultant . . . you can afford it.

And, I know it makes you sad to hear this, but ditch Kevin.

He is deadweight. I know he has a big "heart," but there are a lot of men out there with big "hearts."

Champagne Supernova

Have you ever been in your car, or at work, listening to the radio, just minding your own business, when a song from a particular time in your past sneaks in and kicks you in the stomach.

Yeah: I'm sitting here at work and fucking Oasis comes on the radio with Champagne Supernova. It was getting heavy airplay during the summer of 1996. I was about to celebrate my first year of marriage, so I was still a giddy newlywed. I remember the song well because I spent a lot of that summer at the natatorium in LSU's pool, and that song played at least once a day on the loudspeaker.

But, I have this one distinct memory of it playing.

I was practicing the backstroke and J showed up at the pool with my friend Jen. I remember taking a break and seeing them at the other end of the pool (heads together in confidence).

I remember feeling really happy.

Happy because I was 21, young, pretty and my husband and best friend got along.

Now, 10 years later, I realize that J was probably telling Jen about the latest gaggly of guys he had fucked, and Jen was doing her best to encourage him to be honest with me.

So, now when I hear Champagne Supernova I feel incredibly sad.

Sad because I still mourn for that happy girl who thought nothing could go wrong.

Oasis - Champagne Supernova

How many special people change
How many lives are living strange
Where were you when we were getting high?
Slowly walking down the hall
Faster than a cannon ball
Where were you while we were getting high?

Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide
In a champagne supernova in the sky
Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide
In a champagne supernova
A champagne supernova in the sky

Wake up the dawn and ask her why
A dreamer dreams she never dies
Wipe that tear away now from your eye
Slowly walking down the hall
Faster than a cannon ball
Where were you when we were getting high?

Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide
In a champagne supernova in the sky
Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide
In a champagne supernova
A champagne supernova in the sky

Cos people believe that they're
Gonna get away for the summer
But you and I, we live and die
The world's still spinning round
We don't know why
Why, why, why, why

How many special people change
How many lives are living strange
Where were you when we were getting high?
Slowly walking down the hall
Faster than a cannon ball
Where were you while we were getting high?

Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide
In a champagne supernova in the sky
Some day you will find me
Caught beneath the landslide
In a champagne supernova
A champagne supernova in the sky

Cos people believe that they're
Gonna get away for the summer
But you and I, we live and die
The world's still spinning round
We don't know why
Why, why, why, why

How many special people change
How many lives are living strange
Where were you when we were getting high?
We were getting high
We were getting high
We were getting high
We were getting high

Three Guesses

What do YOU think Tom is up to in this picture?



Meanwhile, Katie stumbles forward in a drugged stupor.

I'd Rather Be Dancing

I don't usually talk about work because I don't want to get dooced, but I have a job that requires a significant amount of overnight travel. It's not glamorous and it's not fun. It takes me away from S, a set routine and my comfy bed.

But tonight, TONIGHT I discovered an exciting new perk to business travel: trying out new gyms.

This week I'm in a city I've been to a number of times and two trips ago I stayed at a hotel that partners with a club called the Riviera. Usually when I go to the gym I play it safe and do some freeweights and either job on the treadmill or hop on an elliptical. However, the last time I was here I went to the gym at the same time that one of the cardio classes was going on. I couldn't exactly see what they were doing from the machine that I was one, but I could hear the music: PDiddy, Nelly, Ludacris . . . I was intrigued. So I finished up my workout and peeked in - they were dancing! Dancing like they were at 'da club, ya'll.

I danced for 11 years and it's been a long time since I took my last class and at that I only took ballet, tap and jazz because the school I attended didn't offer hiphop. So, when I saw this class I made a mental note to call the gym the next time I was in town and I was in luck.

Tonight was my first night of "Cardio Jam" and it was AWESOME. I felt like JLo up in that joint. There were no mirrors in the class so I just kind of threw it out there and had a good time. In my head I looked awesome and kicked ass, on the outside I'm sure I looked like I belonged in a Rhythmless Nation, but I didn't care.

It's been a long time since I went to the gym and had this much fun and my only true sadness here is that my gym at home doesn't offer a class like this one. But, I'm here through Friday and they are offering another CJ class on Thursday night so you know I'll be shaking it.

I Touch Roses

When we moved into our home (built in the late 1920s) we were pleased with the existing flora on the premises: camellias, fig bushes, lantana, azaleas . . . and a large, gangly rose bush. I don't know much about plants, but I know enough to live in a home through at least one calendar year in order to see what pops up in the yard. I know even less about roses, so I turn to the internets to help me identify this beauty:


Also, it appears to close up at night. I didn't know roses did that.

And, just in case there are any gardeners looking for some porn:

You Make the Call

We are but a few months away from the wedding date and I need to turn to you the internets to help me make an important decision:

Goat
















Or, No Goat:
















You make the call.


Also, for those of you that I don't get to see on a daily basis, here is a picture of the ring:

Fat Bottomed Girls Were Not Born to Run

At the beginning of the year, I posted this.

Ya'll saw the pictures I've posted before. I did train with the local group and by our race course practice run I was walk/running a pretty good 5K. Then, I went on some business travel and came down with amoebic dysentery. According to Wikipedia, this is something common when travelers visit "developing nations." I was in Alabama people, which admittedly isn't all that far along, but COME ON!

The plan was to run the Heritage Race through downtown Montgomery, but on the morning of the race I was still experiencing some cramping and discomfort. Not to mention, two weeks of persistent diarrhea can do some pretty effective dehydrating.

So, the race was a no go for me. I was pretty upset because I have a history of not following through. I figured if I'd skipped this chance, then I might just blow it off and not ever run a 5k.

Then, I saw an add for the Joy to Life: Walk of Life 5K Walk/Run.

Six years ago now, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was a post-menopausal woman at the time and her chances of recovery were incredibly high (in the 90th percentile), so I never really worried for her life because I knew that statistically her chances of survival were great.

More importantly, my mom became my biggest hero because her chances of survival were greatly improved by early detection. See, her cancer was detected during her routine, annual mammogram. It was so small that even a monthly self-breast exam wouldn't have found anything. Here doctors actually described the "mass" as being no larger than a grain of sand. My mom was very fortunate to: 1)find it early, 2)be a post-menopausal woman and 3)have a medical plan that allows her to afford annual mammograms.

Which is why Joy to Life: Walk of Life 5K Walk/Run was a no-brainer for me. All proceeds from the annual Walk of Life benefit the Foundation, which supports screenings and early detection of breast cancer for women in the tri-county area who are younger than 50 years old and cannot afford mammograms.

So, I strapped on my running shoes and headed to the race bright and early on Saturday morning. I picked up my number and filled out my "I am walking in honor of: Edna Martinez" form for the back of my shirt and I stood around. I was nervous and excited, but mostly I was scared that I'd fall or do something equally uncoordinated during the race.

Within minutes of arriving, I was approached by a few members of my original running club and our coordinator. I was relieved to see Mary because I'd been needing that validation. That whole, "SEE, I did show up. I did follow-through."

I didn't finish in record time: 00:46:09, but there were still scores of people behind me when I crossed that finish line.

But, as I ran up to the finish line and heard the cheering voices of survivors, current breast cancer patients and other runners that had finished before me, I realized it wasn't about that.

It was about my $25 registration fee helping save someone's mother, daughter, sister, friend.

That, in the end, was my reward.

Talk To The Hand

I spent a large part of my weekend sacked out on the couch watching The Gilmore Girls Season 1 DVDs (Thanks Secret Squirrel).

I'm not ashamed to admit that I spent that much time loafing. Fuck it, I've earned it. I've been on the road for six weeks now so I think I've earned a little downtime.

What I am ashamed to admit is that I'm not so good with the remote control. I forget which button just rewinds vs taking me back to a previous scene. I also don't know when I can and can't hit certain buttons.

But, you can bet my bitchy DVD player doesn't let me get away with shit.

If, say, I'm trying to look at the menu that shows me the list of episodes before the DVD player is ready, she sassily replies with:



That's right: my DVD playes gives me THE HAND.

I try to fast forward through the FBI Warning to get my GG fix, but she's all:

"You want me to 'hurry up' so you can watch your show? Uh-uh, I don't think so."

Bitch.

Wish List

We are a little over a month away from my birthday, and since I'm fairly certain the only person reading me these days is my brother (Hi Boo!), I'm going to put up my wish list:

1. A subscription to Real Simple Magazine
2. Yoga pants from Old Navy (Size L)
3. Girlmore Girls on DVD (Season 2) (My friend The Secret Squirrel surprised me with this. Thanks B!)
4. this baby.
5. I totally couldn't wait on this so I splurged this weekend and bought this my own damn self.

Check back in for periodic updates :)

Lez Be Friends

Oooh, this is my 100th post. I'll wait while you roll out the big cake with all the candles and start my clip show.

Anyway, my brother has gotten me into watching The L Word. I've never watched this show before because I didn't used to have Showtime. I'm really cheap so I just didn't go for any of the movie channels, but then I moved and the cable company didn't catch on to the fact that they left me the "premium" channels (What?). So, now every Sunday evening finds me watching The L Word.

I love it.

Mostly because I am fascinated by the complexity of women's relationships. No matter how many hateful things they do to each other, they remain in the same web of friendship. Maybe it's that untangling themselves from it would be too complicated. I don't know, the truth is I've never had trouble cutting myself out of a relationship that is past it's prime, so these women fascinate me. Then again, I also have few people that would come to my side if I were diagnosed with breast cancer (as Dana was a few weeks ago).

Anyway, and I think this show has taken heat for this, I have never seen this many beautiful lesbians in one group.

While I may live in the South, where being out isn't exactly embraced, I have had lesbian friends . . . quite a few. I've also been to more than my share of lesbian bars packed with throngs of Sapphic sisters.

Now, it's not like all the lesbian gals down here are sporting mullets, driving beat up trucks and carrying a can of Skoal in their back pocket, but they don't look like that.

What I see a lot down here are fabulous gay men (many of whom I am blessed with their friendship).

Beautiful men that work out, are coifed within an inch of their lives and KNOW how to dress.

Where have all the pretty lesbians gone?

I Hear The Secrets That You Keep

Anyone that's had to spend the night with me is well aware of the fact that I talk in my sleep.

It's usually random stuff, nothing that really makes any sense.

So, imagine my surprise last Saturday morning when I hear S say:

"Well, do we qualify?"

I had only just woken up, so I asked, "Are you awake?"

S, with eyes closed, "Yes."

I figured why not find out what we qualify may or may not for. So, I cut my eyes at him and thought, "Why not?"

So, I replied, "What do you want to qualify for?"

S, "Food stamps . . . "

Of all the things we could qualify for (home loan, as adoptive parents, car loan . . . ), he comes up with FOOD STAMPS!

My reply, "Why would we want food stamps?"

S, "If someone else is willing to pay for our food . . . "

At which point I stared at the ceiling and realized: dear God, I am marrying my father.

Me, "S, are you sure you're awake?"

S, still with eyes closed, "Why?"

Me, "You were just talking to me about food stamps."

S, "Hmm, I guess I'm not awake."

And in nanoseconds he was softly snoring.

Born to Run

Except, not.

It is so clear in this picture that I am NOT feeling that endorphine rush.

You know what I love about that picture the most?

You can just tell that I'm thinking, "Dear God, why am I doing this to myself?" While the bitch in the background is all, "I love to run . . . weeeeeee!"

Also: my double chin is so massive I look like I have the goiter.

In my defense, I did not know they were taking my picture.

So, two weeks later, when I saw the camera aimed in my direction: I was ready. This, is what you call FIERCE.

I blame my father for cheeks that look like I'm storing nuts for the winter.

Book List

S' parents gave me a Barnes & Noble gift certificate for Christmas. I'm rather deliberate in my purchases so it's taken me a while to come up with a list of reading materials worthy of my spending the gc.

On the top of my list was a new calendar. I know this isn't impressive, but I needed one and by the end of January they are 75% off - you know it was prudent of me to wait until after the new year to make this purchase, but I really limited myself. I had a choice of Cute Cats 2006, More Cute Cats 2006 and Dali. I went with the Dali. I don't have any particular affinity for Dali, but his work reminds me of a moment I had during the first spring I lived in Colorado Springs.

Springtime in the Springs is gorgeous. The skies our cloudless and the blue is the most startling shade of indigo. The sky looks even more stunning against the mostly barren terrain. I really can't do it justice. Anyway, this particular spring morning I was on my way to work, anyone that knows me is well aware of the fact that I am not a morning person, so my morning commute was usually my 30 minutes to wake-up and face another day at work. On this particular day, I remember glancing into my rearview mirror to check my eyeliner (what, like I ever look in there to see if I can switch lanes) and I saw this.

"Fuck me," I thought.

Mind you, it was early, I was still groggy and I couldn't make out the basket so for a brief time, on my otherwise boring drive, I truly felt as if I was living inside of a Dali painting. Alas, it was just a hot air balloon.

Later That Same Day . . .

My other purchases at B&N were the latest issue of Real Simple and Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking.

Didion's book has been on my wish list for a while now and it has been worth the expenditure. It's not a cheery book as she recounts for us the death of her husband and the year thereafter, which includes the touch-and-go hospitalization of her daughter, Quintana Roo. Roo, died of acute pancreatitis (not the reason for hospitalization in the boo) after the book's publication.

What moved me was how much her mourning period reminds me of what I went through when my marriage ended.

She opens the novel with:

Joan Didion starts her book:

"Life changes fast
Life changes in an instant
You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends."

For me it was a phone call from my spouse and life as I knew it had ended. She goes on about how people always say, "It was just a normal day when . . . " My recollection of the day I found out about J starts out, "It was another beautiful spring day . . . " not unlike the one in which I unexpectedly found myself in a Dali painting.

I can't tell you what happened in the hours after I found out about J. I am only sure of the fact that I finished out my day at work as if it was any other day.

Didion is referred to as a "cool customer" by the paramedics at the hospital. Rather than falling to her knees in a mass of uncontrolled sobbing, Didion takes stock of the moment she is in and focuses on the mundane: I'll need my keys if we are going to the hospital. I don't think she's a "cool customer" as much as she's doing what she needs to deal with the situation.

I could do this with a lot of what Didion when through, but I won't. If you've read my blog, you know the story of J and I so I won't bore you with it here. It would also be awfully naive of me to compare the end of a relationship to the lose of a spouse.

But, the next time a friend, acquaintance or sibling, whatever, goes over their breakup/divorce for the 1000th time don't belittle his or her pain by saying, "Get over it already."

The loss of a spouse/partner is painful, no matter how it happens.

Suck My Wind

For those of you that have been reading this blog for a while, you might remember that last year I resolved to run a 5K in 2005. Like most resolutions, it didn't happen but I'm figuring this is a new year and a great time to make another go of it.

So, this year I have a plan. See, one of the local tv stations has started a running group and the goal is for all of us to run a 5K together. Last year proved that I can't do this alone, and it's my hope that doing this as part of a team will motivate me to stick with it. So far it's going well. I train on my own during the week (using the Galloway Method), and then every Saturday we meet for a practice run outdoors.

The last time I ran a 5K was in 1999. It was a "Race for the Cure" even and there were cancer patients, cancer patients just out of chemo, that spanked my ass. I was literally one of the last folks to finish. At the time it really wasn't a big deal to me, but looking back I realize that it was pretty embarrassing.

See, the thing is, I don't really think of myself as a competitive person. I'm fairly laid back, and being number one isn't really in my nature.

At least, this is what I used to think.

This past weekend I had my first outdoor practice run with the group. About 60 of us showed up so we had to run in different heats. I was part of group 5, there were maybe 9 of us in my heat.

I kept telling myself, "Don't worry about what the person next to you is doing. You are only competing with yourself." But, after lap 1, when I realized I was one of the last three my competitive spirit went all Whitney on me and, "Hell to the naw," I realized I'd have to pick it up.

I'm running about a 15 minute mile, so I'm not exactly Flo Jo out there, but it felt good and I'm working on redeeming my poor performance in '99.

But, most importantly: I came in first in my group.

Suck it, bitches.

The End is Near

It is clearly a sign of the apocalypse when:

1. Your mother, who has never touched a computer other than to dust it, sends you e-mail.

2. Your brother, finally, starts his own blog.

I'm going to grab S, the cats and go hunker down in our underground bunker for surely it is the end of days.

The Announcement

Here's how it went down:

First, S told his parents first thing on Christmas Eve. We waited until then because on the 23rd we were attending his sister's surprise party and we didn't want the engagement to take away any of the attention from her.

They were very pleased and his father told him that he had made a very wise choice. His mother grabbed my face and welcomed me into their family and gushed on about how much she liked me. I was extremely flattered.

Then, we went to my parents' house on the morning of Christmas Eve. My mom and dad's place is wreck right now. It flooded during Katrina so their are exposed studs up to chest high and it looks like the place was robbed. But, this is where they were because mom was cooking on her gas stove (one of the few appliances that survived) as she does not "trust" the electric stove at my brother's apartment (where they have been staying post-Katrina).

My mom brought a dining chair into the living room for S to sit on (I was on the arm of the moldy sofa and dad was on the recliner) and S asked to her take a seat. Mom, not knowing what is going on, says, "No, I can't sit I don't really have the time . . .

S, "Oh, you'll want to sit down for this."

By the way, the entire time, my dad is reading the Sports section of the Times Picayune and only now does he realize, "Hmm, I may want to pay attention, too," and sets it down.

S' speech: Mr. and Mrs. M, I wanted to tell you that I love your daughter . . .

Dad, "We love her, too . . . "

S, "And, that I plan to be around for a very long time."

Dad, "Good . . . "

S, "She is an amazing woman, you did a wonderful job raising her and I'd love to become a part of this family, if you'll have me."

Dad, "Wow, thanks . . . sure, sure."

S, "And, I'd like to ask your permission to marry her."

(At which point he presented the ring.)

Dad, "Yes, yes, of course . . . you can have her."

I was misty eyed and laughing at dad's reaction and S turned to me and said, "If you'll have me . . . will you marry me?"

I said yes, mom was teary eyed, I was teary eyed . . .

Dad, "You could not have given me a better Christmas present."

It was quite nice. Mom told S that, not because I'm her daughter or anything, "But, Melissa is a good woman and you are lucky to have her."

Then she turned to me and said, "You are a very lucky woman to have such love."

After my Aunt V found out, this is what she told S, "I am so happy for you. I knew that when you moved to AL for her, this was good. This was good, strong love."

We celebrated Christmas Eve all evening long: first with his family and then with mine. Many champagne toasts were made.

So many toasts, that at one point at S' family's house the conversation turned to misplaced rings and lost items and his mother's voice rang above everyone else's:

"One more glass of these, and I'll tell you about something else I lost once."

I know I make her sound like a booze hound there, but she's not. Mrs. B is a really cool lady and the B's in general are a warm, welcoming family. Not only did they raise an amazing man, but they welcomed me with open arms.

I'm a very lucky, lucky girl.

Check back later to see if I've posted the Flickr link to our Christmas photos. Guess who got themselves one of them new fangled digital cameras for Christmas?

Lost in Translation

"This is my daughter Melissa. She has just been compromised."

This, people, is how my father announced my engagement to his neighbor.

You see in Spanish, when the gentleman has made his intentions known, he has offered the family a "compromiso," a promise if you will, to marry.

These slips in translation are the kinds of things that made me cringe when I was 13. Now though, I just wish I'd had the camera to capture the look on his elderly neighbors face as she processed the information she had just received.

Crazy Pussy

The last time I talked about my c@t, I got a bunch of weird spam comments. So, I'm going to try not to use the word: c@t.

Anyway, I have three pussies and the oldest one is 10-years-old (now, that out to generate some interesting spam). Her name is Sasha and she is so mean that my roommate thinks she is some sort of reincarnation experiment: perhaps a bit Joan Crawford with a splash of Bette Davis.

When she was a young pussy, she would stalk moths. I used to live in Colorado Springs and we'd go through "Miller Moth Season." It's what it sounds like: a ton of annoying migrating moths fly around your bulbs on the front porch and balcony lights and zoom inside at the first chance.

Sasha used to squeeze herself into the space between the top of our kitchen cabinets and ceiling and wait. They'd flit around the ceiling lights and she'd never take her eyes off of them. I never actually saw her catch them, but inevitably I'd look up at her and she'd have a bit of wing poking out of her clenched jaw.

Whatever. It kept them off of me and my wool sweaters.

But, Sasha was just a tiny baby pussy (not like Anne Heche's) with all kinds of energy. These days, she spends most days moving herself from sunny spot to sunny spot: not unlike a retiree on a Florida beach.

Until a few weeks ago. See, she'd been spending an awful lot of time in our kitchen lately. I just assumed it was because we were baking for the holidays and it was one of the toastiest rooms in the house.

Oh, but no.

Little miss had spotted a mouse.

Yes, there was a mouse in my house!

I didn't know but you can bet my pussy knew.

How did we find out?

Turns out the old pussy caught the fucking mouse.

Imagine my surprise when I walked into the kitchen to find her sitting at attention, as proud as you please, with this little gift for me.

There was high praise for her as she dropped it and presented it to me.

She may be considered a "senior" as far as pussies go, but clearly Sasha still has a lot of fight in her.

Let's Get Ready to Ruuuuuumble!

A few months ago I got into a fight with a friend. Of course, it all started out via email.

Email is a dangerous thing when you are having an argument because there's no tone. It's all inferred. These here internets have been around for some time now and I'm sure other bloggers have covered the dangers of arguing via email much better than I could.

Anyway, my final email wrapped up something like this:

"I've HAD IT. I am THROUGH with you."

The particulars of our fight aren't really important except for one thing: Don't fuck with my family.

My loyalty to them, no matter how misguided sometimes, is unflagging.

Anyway, removing this person from my life was as easy as deleting their phone number from my cell phone. This isn't something that I'm proud of, but it's something that I've done only under extreme cases of betrayal.

And, I'm good at it.

It's not about hate. It's about realizing that clearly this person is not a positive influence in my life so it is better for me if we are no longer friends.

The funny thing is, since I've stopped talking to this person I've realized that I don't really miss him. The only times I am really aware that he is no longer in my life are when I think of something really funny and bitchy to say. He's the only person that will cackle along with me no matter how cutting my comment.

That's also when I realize, "DAMN! I'm bitchy."

It's been quite humbling to realize I am . . . mean.

That's also why I appreciate having S in my life.

Whenever I start to get really bitch, angry or impatient, he's the living angel on my shoulder that always helps me see the other side of a situation. He doesn't indulge my bitchy nature and that's just one of the many little ways in which I realize how good this man is for me.

I've since seen the guy that I had the huge fight with and it wasn't uncomfortable. He was familiar and it was easy falling back into our pattern, but the truth is . . . I don't miss him.

Pillow Talk

A few weeks ago S and I were in bed cuddling. My head was on his chest and his right hand was playing with my hair. This isn't particularly out of the ordinary as 5 nights our of 7 this is how I fall asleep. While it's fairly typical, it's wonderful because I've never been the kind of person that can fall asleep while being held. Maybe it's just that I'm finally in the arms of the right man.

Anyway, on one such particular night, I was in that blissful place where you're body feels light, your foot does the occasional twitch and you're just about to fall asleep, and S says to me, "You know how we're going home for Christmas and our families are going to meet?"

Me, sleepily, "Mmm,hmmm . . . "

S, "Why don't we make it an engagement party."

Me, still groggily, "Mmm, sounds nice."

And then, my inner bridezilla, the one that's been sitting aroundin her dress and veil, tapping her foot impatiently, stood up and shouted, "BITCH, WAKE THE FUCK UP! THIS IS IT!"

So, my brain started to catch up to everything that was going on and instantly I was awake.

I lifted my head up from S' chest and leaned back so I could look him in the eye.

He was smiling and I said, "Oh."

Bridezilla rolled her eyes and plunked herself back down.

S continued on, "I know how important family is to you and I know how much you want to get married in the church, so instead of getting married in New Orleans . . . what do you think of getting married in Honduras?"

At this point, Bridezilla was glaring at me to answer this man.

And it's true, it had never crossed my mind to have a destination wedding. Much less, having one in Honduras but once he'd suggested it, it all just fell into place. It would be modest and other than tickets and hotel rooms, it could be done inexpensively and beautifully.

Me, now all dewy-eyed, "That's so sweet."

Sweet because I know how important family is to S as well, and getting married out of the country would mean that his four siblings would more than likely be unable to attend. So I said, "But, what about your family?"

S, "Well, I think mom and dad would go. Mom has yet to see any of the churches in Honduras. And, JJT & J are welcome to fly down, but as long as Mom and Dad are there I'd be happy. But, you still haven't said yes."

Me, "Right."

See, this isn't the first time for me.

My first thought was, "I really don't want to screw this one up . . ." which makes no sense at all because I didn't screw the first one up. But, I did make a bad decision. When my ex asked me to marry him I remember a voice in my head screaming, "NOOOOOOooooo . . . " and sort of fading off like a dying super hero.

This time it was different.

This time is was like a cheesy 50's movie where fireworks go off and a marching band starts playing.

I knew that I wanted to, my first instinct was to look into his eyes and say, "Yes." But I was scared. I told S this and he said, "That's understandable, and if you don't want to say yes that's fine, too. I'm not going anywhere so take your time."

The next few weeks went by and nothing changed.

I've always felt part of a team with S. I've always felt that I was in a secure, committed relationship. I know that regardless of marriage, S and I will continue to take care of each other and do all of those little things that couples do for each other. We bought a house together, so clearly I'm committed.

I'm just scared.

Oooh, Oooh . . . Cat Fight!

I apologize for hitting you with two cat stories in a row.

Last Thursday and Friday I was in Hotlanta for work. When I got home I collapsed into one of the living room chairs and Jackson (my grey tabby) jumped into my lap.

Jackson is a fairly easy-going cat, and he's also extremely affectionate. We adopted him in February of 2000 and on the ride home he nestled into my pea coat with his paws around my neck: he purred the whole way home and it was love from that moment on. I know I'm not supposed to have a favorite, but Jackson is mine.

When it's time to go to bed he'll hop up and snuggle up next to me. If I move even an inch away he'll wiggle over to me until he is nestled against me. I realize that this is starting to sound like a 3rd grade essay assignment, but my love for Jackson is quite deep. (Okay, it's pathetic really.)

So, imagine my horror when I started petting him on Friday and I felt crusty bumps on his tail. And, when I got to the crusty bumps he let out the most pitiful wail. It made my heart leap and I was thisclose to running him straight to the vet. I didn't because the vet was closed and Jack was still eating and playing so overall he seemed okay.

My heart broke the following morning when I saw him trying to get comfy on the bed and he tried to fall asleep with the front half of his body on the bed and his back half hovering over the mattress.

That was it: my baby was in pain and I couldn't take it.

So, off to the vet we went and what oh what did they find?

Bite marks.

Jack, although he is my favorite, can be a bit of an asshole you see.

He is what my mom would call, an instigator. He likes to start shit with the female cats in the house. Often he will jump on a peacefully sleeping Sweet Pea simply because her spot on the bed looks good to him.

He's a bit of a bully.

I don't have proof of it or anything, but it seems awfully coincidental that Sweet had blood around her face and mouth just a few days before I felt his scabby tail. She's lived with him for two years now and I guess she'd had enough of it.

Jack really hasn't been the same since this whole ordeal. He's been sleeping more than usual and he's keeping his distance from Sweet Pea.

I can't say that I blame him.

Bitch is crazy.

Life with Cats

So, I've gotten into the habit of letting my cats go outside.

I realize there is some inherent risk to letting them go out (cars, dogs . . . ), but they look so happy and (so far) always come back when I call them.

Last night, let's call her, "Not-So-Sweet" Pea scared the shit out of me.

See, when she first came into my life she was an outside cat. Well, she was actually an indoor cat that was forced to become an outdoor cat. She was declawed and tossed out by former neighbors. By all appearances, it had been months since she'd seen a vet or been fed a good meal. Following many tears (on my part) and Not-So-Sweet Pea throwing herself at J's feet, he decided we could keep her.

She was an easy cat. Mostly, I think she was just happy to know where her next meal was coming from and thankful for the central air and heat that we provided her. So, we could leave the door wide open and she'd stick her head out, look left and right and just walk back in the house. She showed no interest in going outside.

But, since we've been letting Jack and Sasha out, Sweet realized that we weren't kicking her out, but letting her come back in when she was ready.

Lately, she's been asking to go out at sundown and will usually find her way back to our front porch by the time we go to bed.

Last night, S went outside to round them up and one by one they returned with Sweet bringing up the rear. I was in bed at the time and Sweet jumped up to the foot of the bed and just as I was reaching out to scratch her head I recoiled in horror.

Blood.

All over her face and her front left paw.

I leapt off the bed and went to see S on the front porch:

Me, "Why is Sweet covered in blood?"

S, "What?!?"

We both ran into the house to find her and as I scooped her up in my arms S did a quick assessment of her limbs and face. She let him touch her and did nothing other than purr in my arms.

We took her over to the sink and I held her while S lathered her paw with kittie soap and rinsed off her face.

Our only conclusion: she killed something.

This wasn't the first time, but it was the first time that I was witness to the gory aftermath. Some months ago, she took down a mockingbird. Our roommate walked out to check our mail only to find the grisly remains and a proud Sweet prancing and preening around her "contribution" to the house.

He praised her and once she was satisfied there was an air of "please see that it is taken care of" haughtiness in the lift of her tail as she walked in the house.

Which, is what is confusing about last night. Usually, cats bring their catch home. We didn't receive any such gift, so we are going with one of two options:

1. She brought it in the house and we have yet to find it.

or

2. She didn't quite finish it off last night.

Either way, it's not a pretty thought.

Why I Like to Go Shopping with My Mom

Yesterday I was at a large department store with my mom. In the aftermath of Katrina, my mother discovered that all of her shoes were ruined.

Ya'll, my mom is like the Honduran Imelda so this was no small loss. She even lost shoes that she had yet to wear.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not talking shit about her habit because I'm just as bad.

When we moved, S carried out three large Tupperware bins and was appalled to discover they were all filled with shoes.

So, we walked into said department store and they were having a shoe sale. All of their fancy brands were on sale for 50% off or greater. So, we dove in and started elbowing the Sunday crowd out of our way.

As we were walking away from the discount racks (each of us with six pairs of shoes under our arms) I asked mom, "Where do you think our obsession with shoes comes from?"

She got this pensive look, hitched up the boxes under her arms and said, "Well, everyone has to have a hobby."

I Send My Heart Down to New Orleans

I don't even know where to begin when it comes to Katrina and New Orleans.

I grew up in Metairie, just 10 minutes outside of New Orleans, and the city I loved so much is now under God only knows how many feet of filth and sludge. And, don't give me that shit about how New Orleans was always a cesspool.

New Orleans has character.

My family is fine. They all got out okay, but they have very little to go back to. My parent's house is still standing, although at some point it had 12 inches of water. They are there right now pulling carpets, dragging wet furniture, box springs, clothes and shoes to the curb. Fortunately, the windows were not blown out and no trees fell on the house.

They lost a lot of their posessions, but most things can be replaced. The heartbreaking losses are the family pictures, our christening gowns and all of those little things that seem to take up space and collect dust, but are physical reminders of where you've been in life. Those things cannot be replaced.

I have a lot of family pictures, so my first priority will be copying them and assembling them in an album for my mom and dad. I am also lucky enough to have a copy of their wedding invitation (from January of 1970) and wedding picture. I was already working on framing them for their anniversary.

I know it doesn't seem like much, but I'm hoping that having those family pictures will help in the healing process. My mom is a tough cookie and I needed no greater proof than a trip we took to the local Goodwill to know that she will be okay. In her search for "new" clothes she said to me, "I don't know what I was thinking when I left. I really thought we'd be back in a few days." She got teary eyed and I thought she was going to cry, when all of a sudden she took a deep breath, thrust her shoulders back and declared, "Enough of that . . . get to work on finding me a pair of black Capri pants."

It's going to take time, but she's on her way.

I saw pictures of my high school today: Mount Carmel Academy. The Mother House looks fine, but I think the first floor may have gotten water. I've never actually been in there though, so I don't know if that first floor was just storage or what. The high school though has water up to the second floor. The whole first floor was under water thanks to the breach at the 17th Street canal.

I was stunned.

I've never been much of a joiner. My so's sister-in-law went to my high school and she's immediate past president of the alumnae association: she is a joiner. Regardless of my apathetic approach to our alumnae association, Mount Carmel has always held a special place in my heart.

I formed my closest friendships there and without those girls I would be a completely different person today. Janine Espinal and Nicole Danos helped me laugh when a boy broke my heart, they helped me study for tests, but most of all they made high school fun.

We don't talk on the phone every day, every week or every month, but right now I can't stop thinking about them, their families, their homes and whether or not everyone is okay.

The school has a website set up with a bulletin board for teachers, students and alumnae and it just kills me that all these girls who were looking forward to starting a new year, some of whom were entering their final year at Mount Carmel, are now displaced. They sound so lost, they don't know if they should register at the high school where they are currently living. They haven't seen the pictures.

They are in Texas, Alabama, Tennessee, Indiana . . . but, wherever they are, in their hearts they will forever be sisters of Mount Carmel. I don't know when the school will reopen it's doors, but I plan on helping in any way I can.

That's what you do for family.

Monosyllabic Knuckle Dragging Mouthbreathers

I swiped the title for this entry from a friend's blog. I did it because this is exactly what I was thinking when I walked up to my gate at the Atlanta airport, littered with USAF jack offs.

You see, I was returning from a work trip and making a connection in Atlanta. A connection that would, finally, take me home. So, I walk up to the gate only to find that my flight has been delayed by 30 minutes. I figured, "No big deal. I can get lunch." Except that an hour later I was still waiting for my damn flight.

In the meantime, I was surrounded by "high and tights" as far as my tired little eyes could see. Their leader, the tallest and best looking one, was quite possibly the worst representation of the US Air Force I have ever met. He was a loud braggart that gave himself whiplash anytime a pretty lady with big boobs walked by . . . a true gentleman that one.

Finally, at 4 pm, an announcement is made that my flight has been cancelled due to maintenance. Whatever, I'd rather be grounded than fly on a plane held together by duct tape and bubble gum.

The thing is, no one is doing anything, so I pick up my bag and weave through the outstretched legs of about 50 Air Force folks and make my way to another gate and ask to fly standby on another Delta flight heading to Montgomery. The agent was helpful and found me a flight scheduled to leave at 4:35, but cautioned me that there was no guarantee that I would get on, although it looked good since there was only one other person on the standby list.

That 4:30 pm flight was delayed and not scheduled to take off until 5:30 pm. In the meantime, the knuckle draggers started showing up and it wasn't long before I was again surrounded my a bunch of folks who think "what happens on TDY, stays on TDY" is perfectly acceptable. Finally, the plane starts boarding at 5:45 pm and it starts dawning on me that there's no fucking way I'm going home on that place because active military gets priority.

That's right, these lazy asses that are sleepwalking there way through a 25 year career because they have no marketable skills (One of them had a degree in Logistics Management, in other words, dude totally rocks at finding the cheapest toilet paper and paper towels for the bathrooms. Good luck finding a job that pays what you've gotten used to with the USAF.) on the outside are going to board before I will.

These fucks that are flying on a discounted military rate will board way before my full-price ticket. These brave desk jockeys prepared to stab someone in the eye with their Number 2's will reach their destination before I will.

I hear the flight crew make the call that they are done boarding and there are three other sorry souls sitting around me realizing that their bags will arrive before they will. And, that's when it happened, I used the only thing I had left to find a flight home.

I started crying.

I didn't intend to use it to my advantage. I was discreetly tucked away in a corner quietly weeping. Once the gate agent was free I stumbled up and asked for a travel voucher and a rental car. The gentleman said to me, "Vee cannot give you zat. Vee can try to put you on standby for the 10 o'clock flight."

Me, "NO, you don't understand. I could have driven home by that time. I'm not going to sit here and wait to see if maybe you can send me home on another flight. That's what I did here and here I am and there they go. You can't guarantee me that I will be able to get on that flight."

Him, "Miss, vee cannot guarantee anyzing."

Me, now sobbing, "So, you see, I would rather not sit around and take my chances when I KNOW that I can drive home much sooner."

Him, "Let me zee vat I can do," and he starts typing furiously, "Okay, eef you leave now for gate C32 you may fly standby on zee 6:30." (It's 6:15 when we're having this conversation.)

Me, still sobbing, "But, you can't guaranteed that I will get on board."

Him, "You are not leestening to me. GO NOW! EET EEZ BOARDING! EEF YOU RUN YOU CAN CATCH EET! I have given you priority."

Ya'll, I don't do much running. I might do a cheek-clenched power walk on the way to the bathroom occasionally, but I do not run.

Ya'll I was like fuckin' Flo Jo down that concourse. IN FLIP FLOPS, PEOPLE!

And, Atlanta is not a small airport, there are trains that have to take you to another concourse and I hopped on that train just before the doors closed. Then, I ran up the escalator and down another concourse to hear the gate agent announce, "Final boarding call for standby passenger (my last name)."

Breathless and with my shins beginning to cramp I slapped my boarding pass on the counter and wheezed, "Zatsme."

Minutes later I was buckling up and headed home.

The flight was short and uneventful, and when I landed I knew my bags weren't going to be on my flight. I had watched them load my bag onto the flight with the military idiots so I didn't even wait for them at baggage claim.

After grinning like an idiot at S and jumping into his arms for kisses and hugs I told him that my bags probably weren't on my flight.

We went straight to the desk and asked if my bag had arrived on the earlier flight. The agent looked at me over her glasses and asked, "What earlier flight?"

Me, "There was a flight that left Atlanta 20 minutes before I did."

She starts typing and says, "Oh, that one pulled away from the gate, but got called back due to mechanical problems. Are you sure you're bag wasn't on your flight."

Hee, fuckers totally got grounded and then their flight was cancelled.

Me, grinning from ear to ear, "Oh no, I'm sure it was on that other flight, but I'll stick around and wait to see if it arrived anyway."

I didn't get my bag that night and I didn't care. I was finally in my own bed with S's arms wrapped around me.

I had gotten to fly into the wild blue yonder, afterall.

So, take your priority and SUCK IT, BITCHES!

That's my SONG!

I watch copious amounts of TV. I know that's not something to be proud of, but I'm going somewhere with this, I swear.

I grew up in a house with six people in it. I'm used to the rattle and hum of people moving around a house, having conversations, listening to the radio, watching tv . . . this is my white noise.

So, sometimes when I'm in my apartment alone I turn on the tv. It's usually on pretty low and I'll go about my business. Whether it's cooking, getting undressed or reading a book. Right, I read with the tv on. I know that I could turn on the radio, but something about the flickering light soothes me. It makes me feel like I have company.

But, that's not to say that I don't watch the damn thing. I get sucked in by MTV and VH1's reality programming.

Ya'll, for the last week I've been counting the days until the premier of Laguna Beach. What is wrong with me? I've been curious as to what happened with Stephen and LC in San Francisco, I want to know if Kristin cheated on Stephen and who in the hell is this new girl? Although I don't much like Kristin I too think that "from her hair to her personality, she's fake." It's all so high school, but I love it.

The Surreal Life - Janice Dickinson. Yeah, pretty much the only reason I'm watching this season. She's brash, she's rude, she's crazy . . . she's awesome.

The Real World - I started watching this when it first aired. Now the kids are in Austin and I'm wondering, are the participants getting less attractive as this show goes on or is my taste improving?

But, one of my favorite shows has been Motor Mouth. Essentially, Motor Mouth is based on the premise of a loved one tricking another loved one into test driving a vehicle that is set up with a camera. That loved one that is tricked is notorious for singing and dancing to whatever is playing on the radio. So, you have all this footage of someone singing badly to whatever songs are playing. I don't necessarily sit through an entire show because it gets kind of boring, but it cracks me up because I could so easily be the person in the driver's seat.

See, I travel the state a lot for work and that gives me enormous blocks of time in rental vehicles. I'm usually alone so I crank up the stereo and go to town. Yesterday, I was on my way home from a trip and Adina Howard's "Freak Like Me" came on. So, I holla, "Oooooh, that's my SONG!" So, there I am in my rental wearing my pinstripe skirt, button down blouse and pearls, raising the roof and singing:

I'm packing all the flavor you need
I got you shook up on your knees
'cause it's all about the dog in me

But, it doesn't just stop at the singing. I usually dance, too. Energetic finger pointing, neck crooking, pimp hands . . . if it can be done sitting down, I'm doing it.

I flip out when I catch a good 80's station because it's on! Every Rose Has It's Thorn, Never Say Good-Bye, anything by Journey. . . the cheesier the power ballad the better!

So, the next time you're traveling Alabama's highways pay no heed to the crazy woman in the rental car having her own little rave.

To Spank or Not To Spank

It's Friday and I'm bored at work.

So, I started reading other people's blogs. I was at www.hannahbeth.com and I started looking through her archives and came across an entry she did on spanking.

I don't have kids, so I don't know from practical experience if I would spank.

I like to think that I wouldn't since I was spanked and still have some bitterness regarding it. I wasn't spanked: I was whipped.

Dad had a two inch leather belt that he wore every day. If he had to spank me, he'd unbuckle it and remove it from his belt loops in one swift movement.

I'd then lay across the bed (in shorts, pants were not allowed) and he'd whip me.

He'd lash me across the backs of my legs with so much force that I wouldn't be able to sleep on my back that night, and sitting in class the next day would be painful.

I remember one whipping in particular.

I was in fourth grade, and I'd been caught talking in class. I was given my second behavior report of the year from the same teacher.

I begged her not to give it to me, I begged her so hysterically that she took me in the hall to talk to me.

I pleaded with her, "Please! I wasn't talking, it was Joey, I was just listening. Please! I can't take that home!"

She just shook her head and told me I should have considered that before I started talking.

That afternoon, I walked home shaking.

When I'd received my first behavior report dad warned me about what would happen if I got another one. I got home and just laid on my bed, crying and waiting for him to get home. I didn't even have the courage to give it to him. I just left it on his nightstand.

When he saw it he roared my name. and I heard the distinct snap his belt made when he folded it in half.

I don't think I'd ever been whipped that badly before. I didn't cry and after the first few strikes I didn't feel it anymore.

I think that made it worse.

I remember this particular whipping because I had dance class that night. I had to wear my leotard and tights over the welts on the backs of my legs. I begged my mom not to take me, I begged her to let me stay home and miss class.

Dad wouldn't hear of it.

He was paying good money for those classes, and he'd be damned if I was going to miss one.

So, there I was at the barre, trying my damndest to plie without crying. My dance teacher caught on, took pity on me and let me sit out the rest of the class.

I was humiliated.

Did spanking make me a better child, though?
No.

Did I fear my father?
Yes.

Did I respect him?
No.

I knew that there would be consequences to my actions, dire consequences, so I just got better at hiding things. It taught me how to be sneaky.

I was still "bad," I just got better at not getting caught.

So, would I spank my child? No

In part because I know it won't give me the long-term results that I want as a successful parent.

I also won't spank because I'm afraid I'll lose control like my father did.

Hannah made a really good point in her entry.

Also (not to make the dreaded pet to child comparison, but I have to because this burns me up the most), it's pretty well accepted among trainers and breeders that negative reinforcement doesn't work at all. All it will get you is an aggressive, or submissive-aggressive, ill-behaved animal. And I know how it feels to tell your dog "no" a thousand times and have her not listen, or turn around and growl at you, and all you want to do is whack her a little on the backside. But if I sat here and wrote how I just smacked Montego around, I bet a million-to-one that I'd get a thousand hate emails before my hand even stopped stinging. "A dog doesn't understand." "A dog can't be reasoned with." Well, you look your two-year-old in the face and you tell her you love her while you use all 200 of your pounds to spank her tiny bottom, leaving a red mark across her cheeks and then tell me that she understands your reasoning.

Whenever I tell people (especially people with children) that I don't want to spank my future children they say, "You just don't understand. You can't reason with a two-year-old."

I get that.

But like Hannah said, you can't reason with a dog either but you can still work with it to develop positive behavior and squelch negative behavior without physical force.

Here's what I think: I think that parents that spank are lazy.

Spanking produces a quick result. It takes time and effort to raise a child without raising your hand to him or her.

Will it drive me crazy that my child won't "get it" after the third time I've said no? Yes.

Will I spank him or her? No.

There has to be a better way.

Dad loves to re-tell the story about how one day I "pitched a fit" in the middle of a department store. He slid off his belt and gave me several lickings on the back of my three-year-old thighs.

"You never did that again." He'll say proudly.

Thanks dad.

Debbie Does Dallas

So, get this: a friend of mine has been approached by the porn industry to debut in a film. Sure, it's not a debut in the sense of a debutante ball but you know . . . there will be balls. (Yeah, I'm 12.)

I think she's going to go through with it. I'm completely behind (Hee.) the decision to do it (Hee.) because you're only young once, you know. Plus, this person is an adult and able to make these types of decisions.

So, when I'm told about this opportunity, I'm all, "Fuck yeah!" (Hee.)

Then, I took it to S and told him about it and he, very logically said, "While it sounds cool, there are some things to think about: 1. How would this impact your career? What if someone recognizes you in a restaurant while you're at a business lunch? 2. How will you handle if someone comes (Hee.) up to you while you're with a colleague? 3. What if a colleague sees the film?"

All very sound questions that I took back to my friend who said, "You know, we need S around?"

Me, "Hmm?"

Friend, "Well, you and I are like a pack of hyenas just cackling on about the whole thing."

Me, "No . . . it's more like Dumb and Dumber."

So, the time is coming (Hee.) and her time to see the producer is nearing. So, she sent me some pictures of herself. Pictures she wants to take with her to her audition.

None of them were raunchy, but they were very, "Come and get me, big boy."

So, I looked at them and while they were indeed smoking hot, they made me a bit uncomfortable. But, she looked gorgeous only I got sidetracked when I was looking at them and asked,

"Hey, were those taken in your kitchen?"

Her, "Yeah! What did you think?"

Me, "I love your cabinets!!!"

Her, "Mmm, hmm . . . "

Me, "No, seriously, I love glass front cabinetry."

Her, "What about MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!?!"

Me, "Oh, yeah . . . you looked nice. Are you in a bungalow?"

She hung up shortly afterward.

Baby Talk

So, not to long ago, S and I were in the middle of our weekly shopping trip when all of a sudden, in front of the frozen veggies he turns to me and asks,

"So, when do you think we'll want to start a family?"

Me, "Uhm, uh, uh . . . "

Him, "I don't mean today, but you know . . . someday."

Huh, you know, it's funny because I've said that I don't really think I NEED to get married ever. I don't need marriage to feel more committed, and while I still feel that way I don't think I want to have children and not be married. So, you see my dilemma.

First, I work in an extremely conservative environment where single motherhood would more than likely be frowned upon. So, the following day I was with a coworker(one slightly more superior than I in the chain of command) shredding files in the attic when I asked him whether or not our boss would take issue with me getting pregnant and not being married.

Him, "Why?"

Me, "Well, I just figured while we're up here in the attic alone . . . "

At which point he died laughing because it sounded like I was asking this very happily married man to be my baby daddy.

Which, is so not what I was getting at. Anyway, the hysterical laughter sort of cut my question short, but I assured him that I was not with child, but might one day like to be . . . by someone that is not him, clearly.

He simply said, "No, you would not get fired."

Secondly, what would my mother say? I know, I KNOW I'm a grownup and everything, but having to hear it from her would drive me up the wall. I asked S that on the night he brought this whole thing up.

Me, "What would your mother think?"

Him, affecting his mother's reaction (with pearl clutching and all, "'Oh, no. Not until you're married.' But you know what, it's my life so I don't really care what she thinks."

Finally, what would people say. And that, that is what disappoints me the most. That I care at all what other people would think.

The truth of it is, I'm incredibly disappointed in myself because as hippie dippy as I want to be I can't imagine being unmarried and with child.

As much as I don't need to get married I'm still a girly girl and I still think about my wedding. I used to want this big princessy deal, but I had a wedding once and the truth of it is I don't have the funds for a big wedding, it would be gauche to do so (it's not like it's my first wedding) and the thought of spending $25,000+ on a wedding is ridiculous.

So far, I've got myself getting married in a morning catholic ceremony in the church where I received all of my sacraments. It's a small church, very simple, but I feel at home there. I grew up there. I'd probably do it around Easter because that's when the altar is decked out with flowers. Then, I'd have a champagne brunch either at my mom's house or a local restaurant that my parents and I go to all the time when I am in town. I'm such a loon that I even have my "dream ring" picked out: You have to click on the ring to see all three views.


I'd go with a dress cut like this one:
My dress wouldn't be green, it would be champagne.

I'm thinking I'd have my hair pulled up with some flowers in it. Maybe a small bouquet like this one:

in my hand and the rosary I had during my first communion.

My groom would be in a nice suit, but definitely not tails or anything.

That's it. Simple and easy. I don't think I'd even do a registry since, like I said:

I'm full-grown!

Why? Why? Why?

The other night I was making dinner and I asked S to remind me in 15 minutes to check on the stove.

He said, "Why don't we just set the timer on the stove?"

I mumbled, "I don't think it works."

He said, "What?"

Me, "It says a minute has passed, but I don't think it goes a whole minute."

Him, "What?"

Me, "Look," I said rolling my eyes and putting my hands on my hips, "I've set the thing before, but the numbers go by a whole lot faster than 60 seconds. It's more like 15 or 30 seconds."

Him, "Mmm, Hmm . . . " and he turns around and starts setting the timer.

Me, "Okay . . . whatever."

Him, as the timer turns to 15, "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 . . ."

I looked at like he was crazy and then I realized he was going to count to 60 to SHOW ME that the timer does indeed work.

I realized, that when the day comes, he'll be able to take on our little one when he/she starts asking, "Why is the sky blue? Why is the sky green?"

(No ya'll, I'm not with child so don't go getting all hysterical.)