Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
We're Past Due for a Photo Montage
Here is the project I did on the stairs a few days ago. I painted it alternate colors and stenciled the numbers with help from the Bunny. We painted the foyer stairs as well, and we plan to stencil words on them, but we've yet to complete that project.
Our baby, Dax, getting hair all over the new rug.
Last weekend's Starlight Symphony pre-wine and, therefore, pre-innapropriate volume on the church lawn.
Some tasty offerings from wifey and SB.
I don't really have an explanation for this mess. We had a "grill" out...
Oral Exam with the Professors
Tomorrow I have to give a 2-hour testimony of my nonretardedness to a panel of extremely intelligent people--three strong ass feminist women and one mildly-misogynistic man, who, still, is also quite smart and helpful--and they will tell me whether I am worthy of continuing on towards a doctoral degree or not. Let's just imagine that they say no. I guess it will be time to invest in that candy store..
I have such a crush on one of my female profs. Maybe crush isn't just the right word. Maybe, instead, I could call it a personality infatuation or something, but it doesn't help the fact that, alas, I am prone to crushing on random people. Yes, I love my husband, and he is my constant companion, friend, and lover, but it doesn't stop the fact that I am human and only separated from the animal kingdom by the fact that I can cognitively analyze my animalistic proclivities.
I'm off to Downtown to meet SB and hopefully play a rousing, therapeutic game of Scrabble before digging into my pre-oral exam anxiety.
I have such a crush on one of my female profs. Maybe crush isn't just the right word. Maybe, instead, I could call it a personality infatuation or something, but it doesn't help the fact that, alas, I am prone to crushing on random people. Yes, I love my husband, and he is my constant companion, friend, and lover, but it doesn't stop the fact that I am human and only separated from the animal kingdom by the fact that I can cognitively analyze my animalistic proclivities.
I'm off to Downtown to meet SB and hopefully play a rousing, therapeutic game of Scrabble before digging into my pre-oral exam anxiety.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
R.I.P. Del
A while back I blogged about Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin, a lesbian activist couple who has been together for 55 years. They were one of the first couples married under the recent San Francisco ruling that struck down the ban on gay marriage. Sadly, CNN reported today that Del has passed away after only a little over two months of being legally married to her partner of over half a century. Read their story here. For those who oppose gay marriage, I ask where is the harm in two people who are incredibly committed and in love having the rights to marriage that others, who can sometimes barely stand one another, hold?
Zucchini, My Love
Ever get a food crush?
Another yummy veg pasta-like favorite is spaghetti squash tossed with butter or olive oil, Parmesan, and fresh herbs. It tastes like those old school Lipton noodles but without the added calories. Try cutting the squash lengthwise, laying the cut sides down on a baking sheet, and baking in the oven at 350 for about 25-30 minutes. Then discard all of the pulp and seeds, leaving only the flesh. This rakes out with a fork to look like noodles. Toss it with the above ingredients while it is still hot. You can even add extra veggies--broccoli, mushrooms, greens--to make it more of a pasta primavera style dish. It is so succulent.
I feel as if I talk about food like it is porn. I was watching Ina Garten place sauteed and breaded circles of fresh goat cheese on top of spring greens yesterday, and I almost had an orgasm.
I'm having a relationship with figs right now. Next to crab, it is about the sexiest food I ever put in my mouth. There is this moment in Naomi Wallace's gay love story/Gulf War drama, In the Heart of America, where Kentucky soldier Craver delicately feeds his fellow soldier and lover, Remzi, who is Iraqi-American, a fig from his hand. It's pretty damn steamy. I tried to relive that hot literary moment with my husband. He just laughed, exclaiming, "That fig looks like poo."
Another yummy veg pasta-like favorite is spaghetti squash tossed with butter or olive oil, Parmesan, and fresh herbs. It tastes like those old school Lipton noodles but without the added calories. Try cutting the squash lengthwise, laying the cut sides down on a baking sheet, and baking in the oven at 350 for about 25-30 minutes. Then discard all of the pulp and seeds, leaving only the flesh. This rakes out with a fork to look like noodles. Toss it with the above ingredients while it is still hot. You can even add extra veggies--broccoli, mushrooms, greens--to make it more of a pasta primavera style dish. It is so succulent.
I feel as if I talk about food like it is porn. I was watching Ina Garten place sauteed and breaded circles of fresh goat cheese on top of spring greens yesterday, and I almost had an orgasm.
I'm having a relationship with figs right now. Next to crab, it is about the sexiest food I ever put in my mouth. There is this moment in Naomi Wallace's gay love story/Gulf War drama, In the Heart of America, where Kentucky soldier Craver delicately feeds his fellow soldier and lover, Remzi, who is Iraqi-American, a fig from his hand. It's pretty damn steamy. I tried to relive that hot literary moment with my husband. He just laughed, exclaiming, "That fig looks like poo."
Hillary Made Me Swoon
Hillary's speech last night made me love this country up and down every inch and back again. It made me proud to be here in this land, and even better, it made me proud to be an American woman, but not in a jingoist sense of the word, mind you. The Bunny and I sat mesmerized in front of our tube as Hillary kicked some ass, took names, and then called us all together into one giant group hug.
What is the beef with Hillary? Why do so many people despise her? She can be brash, but isn't that better than a talking fluff head without real gumption? A woman with a real set, that one, and I love her still. I never spoke much here about my presidential preference. Why bother? I don't get to make that decision. Between my Republican friends and my Democratic friends who supported Obama, or even Edwards, it just wasn't worth fighting about, hence my silence. At home, however, behind the walls of our little domestic sphere, the Bunny and I ached to see her in office. We were glued to her every speech. 'What Would Hillary Do?' my bracelet spoke.
When Hillary's campaign was suspended, it took some time for me to come around to supporting Obama because of all the things I see in her that he lacks--experience, yes, but also a clear message that isn't overshadowed by eloquence. Hillary just knows how to work a debate, and she sure as hell had to overcome lots of adversity. I wonder how she would be perceived differently if she were more traditionally physically attractive? Why discuss her hairstyle and shoes but nary the comment came about McCain's ties or Obama's suits. Instead, commentary about Hillary's fashion sense was juxtaposed with that of the presumptive first ladies. People show up en masse to her rallies with signs reading, "Iron My Shirt, Hillary." And they say there is no gender bias in this country...
Alas, I'm resigned to what is to come. Either way, I sure as hell wouldn't vote Republican. I don't care too much for tax breaks for the rich, ignorance of stem cell research and global warming and/or alternate fuel sources, nor do I want to keep living in a country that does not value its peoples' health. This proud Democrat says bring on the gay marriage and a woman's right to choose what stays implanted on her uterus.
What is the beef with Hillary? Why do so many people despise her? She can be brash, but isn't that better than a talking fluff head without real gumption? A woman with a real set, that one, and I love her still. I never spoke much here about my presidential preference. Why bother? I don't get to make that decision. Between my Republican friends and my Democratic friends who supported Obama, or even Edwards, it just wasn't worth fighting about, hence my silence. At home, however, behind the walls of our little domestic sphere, the Bunny and I ached to see her in office. We were glued to her every speech. 'What Would Hillary Do?' my bracelet spoke.
When Hillary's campaign was suspended, it took some time for me to come around to supporting Obama because of all the things I see in her that he lacks--experience, yes, but also a clear message that isn't overshadowed by eloquence. Hillary just knows how to work a debate, and she sure as hell had to overcome lots of adversity. I wonder how she would be perceived differently if she were more traditionally physically attractive? Why discuss her hairstyle and shoes but nary the comment came about McCain's ties or Obama's suits. Instead, commentary about Hillary's fashion sense was juxtaposed with that of the presumptive first ladies. People show up en masse to her rallies with signs reading, "Iron My Shirt, Hillary." And they say there is no gender bias in this country...
Alas, I'm resigned to what is to come. Either way, I sure as hell wouldn't vote Republican. I don't care too much for tax breaks for the rich, ignorance of stem cell research and global warming and/or alternate fuel sources, nor do I want to keep living in a country that does not value its peoples' health. This proud Democrat says bring on the gay marriage and a woman's right to choose what stays implanted on her uterus.
The Dread of Sleep
On the commute in this morning, I listened to a recent episode of This American Life from Chicago Public Radio. In this particular piece, the theme was "Fear of Sleep." Though I haven't yet finished it, the stories so far ranged from a guy who acted out everything that he dreamed--which came to a head when he launched himself through a closed window in his hotel room--to people struggling with critters--roaches, bed bugs--which prevent them from getting a restful night of sleep. Just before I turned the car off, the story of a man who couldn't sleep during the year he was 11 years of age for anxiety about many things, possible home invasions, his father's heart condition, his brother's schizophrenia, etc., struck me.
One thing that the Bunny and I discovered was that both of us, around age 8, though it came at different years for us since he is two years ahead of me, suffered through a time of insomnia. Raised in a family that didn't share secrets, I never told my parents until recently about all the nights I suffered alone in my second-floor bedroom.
It was 1990, and we had just built a house in the woods on the outskirts of my little, safe town. After growing up in a neighborhood full of playmates, just down from the football field, I felt the isolation strangling me daily. Coming home from school back to a house masked by tree lines, I would create activities to keep me from feeling so lonely. Most notably, I had my own "radio station" where I recorded hours on end of classic rock music--my parents' influence--with wacky radio sound effects interludes. I even took on DJ-speak, encouraging my audience, my "people," to rock out to whatever guitar gods I chose next.
My despondence only grew until the next Spring when we were returning back from a camping trip. Driving through the center of town, on down the bypass past the video store right on the border of the city limits, we saw crime scene tape wrapped around the little blue building. Later, we discovered that escaped convicts from Oklahoma had went on a multi-town killing spree, and in my previously safe place, a mother of two had been shot point blank in the head.
Reports swarmed national news, and even the classic show, Unsolved Mysteries did a segment on the killers. Eventually they were caught, but my rising fear and my already anxious 8-year-old self hung on to the memory of this fear. I begin sitting by the window every night, surveying the whole of our lot by the light of the moon, my heart pounding incessantly in my ears. I figured that since our driveway was so long, I would have time to see the car pulling in with the presumptive criminals and rush downstairs to my sleeping father, urging him to wield his gun. Night after night, I kept watch, until one night, a car did come up the driveway. It was around 2:00 am, and I rushed down the stairs. Taking one last peek, I saw them retreating, and then pulling back onto the road.
This false alarm did nothing to quel my fears. My sleep-deprived self would eventually see the sun rise, and hop back into bed in anticipation of my mother's soft knock on the door to awaken me.
I don't know how I ever got to sleep again, but, eventually, it happened. Lot's of other things happened during the year I couldn't sleep. My third grade English teacher at the time, Vera Jones, taunted me in front of the class for being slow to comprehend the subject/predicate lesson. My inability to memorize and recite a poem about a sweets shop also garnered her scathing critique. Whether it was my sleepless nights that caused my disfunction or her railing that caused my insomnia, I don't know, but I always link the move, the murder, and Mrs. Jones to my year-long sabbatical from the land of sighs.
One thing that the Bunny and I discovered was that both of us, around age 8, though it came at different years for us since he is two years ahead of me, suffered through a time of insomnia. Raised in a family that didn't share secrets, I never told my parents until recently about all the nights I suffered alone in my second-floor bedroom.
It was 1990, and we had just built a house in the woods on the outskirts of my little, safe town. After growing up in a neighborhood full of playmates, just down from the football field, I felt the isolation strangling me daily. Coming home from school back to a house masked by tree lines, I would create activities to keep me from feeling so lonely. Most notably, I had my own "radio station" where I recorded hours on end of classic rock music--my parents' influence--with wacky radio sound effects interludes. I even took on DJ-speak, encouraging my audience, my "people," to rock out to whatever guitar gods I chose next.
My despondence only grew until the next Spring when we were returning back from a camping trip. Driving through the center of town, on down the bypass past the video store right on the border of the city limits, we saw crime scene tape wrapped around the little blue building. Later, we discovered that escaped convicts from Oklahoma had went on a multi-town killing spree, and in my previously safe place, a mother of two had been shot point blank in the head.
Reports swarmed national news, and even the classic show, Unsolved Mysteries did a segment on the killers. Eventually they were caught, but my rising fear and my already anxious 8-year-old self hung on to the memory of this fear. I begin sitting by the window every night, surveying the whole of our lot by the light of the moon, my heart pounding incessantly in my ears. I figured that since our driveway was so long, I would have time to see the car pulling in with the presumptive criminals and rush downstairs to my sleeping father, urging him to wield his gun. Night after night, I kept watch, until one night, a car did come up the driveway. It was around 2:00 am, and I rushed down the stairs. Taking one last peek, I saw them retreating, and then pulling back onto the road.
This false alarm did nothing to quel my fears. My sleep-deprived self would eventually see the sun rise, and hop back into bed in anticipation of my mother's soft knock on the door to awaken me.
I don't know how I ever got to sleep again, but, eventually, it happened. Lot's of other things happened during the year I couldn't sleep. My third grade English teacher at the time, Vera Jones, taunted me in front of the class for being slow to comprehend the subject/predicate lesson. My inability to memorize and recite a poem about a sweets shop also garnered her scathing critique. Whether it was my sleepless nights that caused my disfunction or her railing that caused my insomnia, I don't know, but I always link the move, the murder, and Mrs. Jones to my year-long sabbatical from the land of sighs.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Must-Have Cookbook for Veg Lovers
I just made a lovely dish from my Moosewood Simple Suppers Cookbook. Everything in there is vegetarian and/or made with seafood, and each meal is not only tasty, simple, and reasonably priced for the ingredients, the contents are full of fiber rich veggies and hearty vitamins/minerals-laden foods. Check-out tonight's winning dish:
Wheat Pasta with Broccoli, Edamame & Walnuts
3/4 lb. chunky pasta (whole wheat preferred)
1/4 cup olive oil
4 garlic cloves, minced or pressed
3 cups bite-sized pieces of broccoli
1 cup frozen shelled edamame (peas work too)
3/4 tsp. salt
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil, oregano, thyme, or marjoram
1 cup chopped toasted walnuts
salt and pepper
grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano cheese (optional)
Bring a large covered pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook until al dente.
Meanwhile, warm 2 Tbsp. of the olive oil in a large skillet on low heat. Add the garlic and cook for a few seconds. Add the broccoli with about 1/2 cup of the hot pasta-cooking water, turn the heat to high, and cook for about 2 minutes. Add the edamame, salt, and herbs. Continue to cook until the water evaporates and the broccoli is crisp-tender and bright green, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat.
When the pasta is done, drain it. In a serving bowl, toss the pasta with the vegetable mixture, the remaining 2 Tbsp. of olive oil, and the toasted chopped walnuts. Season with salt and pepper. Serve topped with grated cheese if you wish.
I made this with a simple side Greek salad with a homemade vinaigrette. Past winners include Pasta with Ricotta and Greens, Spinach and Cheese Burritos, Vegetarian Reubens (with Sweet Potato Fries), and Banana Cupcakes with Coffee Cream Cheese Frosting. (Okay, so that last one isn't technically supper, but it did make a hearty breakfast/brunch/snack.)
I can't recommend this cookbook enough to anyone who likes healthy, mostly-vegetarian food that's easy to prepare but looks elegant on the plate. Here's the link to Moosewood Restaurant's Simple Suppers on Amazon. Not only are the meals easy for even beginner cooks, they offer meal pairings from within the book that help to suggest appropriate side dishes, which is an added bonus. I hate to sound like a commercial, but this book has really made healthy, yummy meals accessible for every night of the week. Damn, I did it again with the wifey commercial talk...
Wheat Pasta with Broccoli, Edamame & Walnuts
3/4 lb. chunky pasta (whole wheat preferred)
1/4 cup olive oil
4 garlic cloves, minced or pressed
3 cups bite-sized pieces of broccoli
1 cup frozen shelled edamame (peas work too)
3/4 tsp. salt
1/4 cup chopped fresh basil, oregano, thyme, or marjoram
1 cup chopped toasted walnuts
salt and pepper
grated Parmesan or Pecorino Romano cheese (optional)
Bring a large covered pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook until al dente.
Meanwhile, warm 2 Tbsp. of the olive oil in a large skillet on low heat. Add the garlic and cook for a few seconds. Add the broccoli with about 1/2 cup of the hot pasta-cooking water, turn the heat to high, and cook for about 2 minutes. Add the edamame, salt, and herbs. Continue to cook until the water evaporates and the broccoli is crisp-tender and bright green, about 5 minutes. Remove from the heat.
When the pasta is done, drain it. In a serving bowl, toss the pasta with the vegetable mixture, the remaining 2 Tbsp. of olive oil, and the toasted chopped walnuts. Season with salt and pepper. Serve topped with grated cheese if you wish.
I made this with a simple side Greek salad with a homemade vinaigrette. Past winners include Pasta with Ricotta and Greens, Spinach and Cheese Burritos, Vegetarian Reubens (with Sweet Potato Fries), and Banana Cupcakes with Coffee Cream Cheese Frosting. (Okay, so that last one isn't technically supper, but it did make a hearty breakfast/brunch/snack.)
I can't recommend this cookbook enough to anyone who likes healthy, mostly-vegetarian food that's easy to prepare but looks elegant on the plate. Here's the link to Moosewood Restaurant's Simple Suppers on Amazon. Not only are the meals easy for even beginner cooks, they offer meal pairings from within the book that help to suggest appropriate side dishes, which is an added bonus. I hate to sound like a commercial, but this book has really made healthy, yummy meals accessible for every night of the week. Damn, I did it again with the wifey commercial talk...
Monday, August 25, 2008
Get Your Nachos Ready
Anyone else watching the DNC as if it were a sporting event? I feel like I should be drinking some cold brew and shouting a lot. There are a lot of people in the audience wearing 90s Seuss hats and exaggerated sunglasses. It's somewhat reminiscent of the last night I spent on Bourbon St. Still, what I wouldn't give to be there right now..
My Girl Self
I should be prepping for my first class of the semester, which starts in about 40 minutes, but I'm dying to get my nearest memories down before I make new ones.
The Starlight Symphony was magnanimous. I was going to say amazing, spectacular, or ridiculously beautiful, but none capture the spirit of this annual event better than the chosen adjective. The Devoes, Brian and his son, Victor, Sarah Beth, her son, Nathan, and his friend Ramsey all gathered at our home with picnic baskets, blankets, and wine. We traveled up to the lovely grounds of the First Presbyterian Church of Jackson where we dined on cheese and cucumber sandwiches, sipped wine under the stars, and made general merriment with people we love. Later joined by practically the entire crew from the downtown Starbucks, our blankets overflowed with good conversation and revelry. The night ended in the typical weekend fare around a plank table at the tavern and, eventually, capped off with a late night/early morning dinner at the Waffle House. Mmmm.. Greasy spoon food..
I went to my parents' house Sunday for my father's birthday. I made a lovely red velvet cake, and we had a mock-Thanksgiving meal with Mom's yummy vegetarian dressing. After rummaging through the closet in my old bedroom, my father found an audio cassette tape that he recorded in 1985.
The first sounds were me as a distinctly Southern 3-year-old chatting with my Nanny--my dad's mother, my grandmother--and extending every syllable for miles. Between baby chatter about vacations--my first trip to the ocean where Mom discovered that she was pregnant with my sister--and manipulative pouting about how "my daddy won't let me have a Rainbow Brite bed cause he says it's junk," I felt as if we had discovered a treasure. The tape, an old training cassette from my father's time working at ITT, was comprised of taped over and intermittently cutting in and out of mundane discussion of machine operating merging with my Nanny singing softly a capella "In the Sweet By and By," and my father playing quietly on his acoustic guitar. At one point, my father, then 27, speaks into the recorder stating, "Hello my peanuts [my mom and I]... I am home alone for work, and I just wanted you to know that I love you." One final episode is me whining that I don't want to give my room away to the "new baby," who would become my sister, Sarah.
I've been transfixed by this discovery ever since I heard it yesterday afternoon. What is it about this emotionally tangible yet vague time capsule--due to the audio but not visual aspect--that so moves me to tears? My father, ever the reluctant sentimental, stopped still as a ghost and leaned into the brown Fisher Price tape deck around which we all kept silent, unmoving but moved nonetheless.
The Starlight Symphony was magnanimous. I was going to say amazing, spectacular, or ridiculously beautiful, but none capture the spirit of this annual event better than the chosen adjective. The Devoes, Brian and his son, Victor, Sarah Beth, her son, Nathan, and his friend Ramsey all gathered at our home with picnic baskets, blankets, and wine. We traveled up to the lovely grounds of the First Presbyterian Church of Jackson where we dined on cheese and cucumber sandwiches, sipped wine under the stars, and made general merriment with people we love. Later joined by practically the entire crew from the downtown Starbucks, our blankets overflowed with good conversation and revelry. The night ended in the typical weekend fare around a plank table at the tavern and, eventually, capped off with a late night/early morning dinner at the Waffle House. Mmmm.. Greasy spoon food..
I went to my parents' house Sunday for my father's birthday. I made a lovely red velvet cake, and we had a mock-Thanksgiving meal with Mom's yummy vegetarian dressing. After rummaging through the closet in my old bedroom, my father found an audio cassette tape that he recorded in 1985.
The first sounds were me as a distinctly Southern 3-year-old chatting with my Nanny--my dad's mother, my grandmother--and extending every syllable for miles. Between baby chatter about vacations--my first trip to the ocean where Mom discovered that she was pregnant with my sister--and manipulative pouting about how "my daddy won't let me have a Rainbow Brite bed cause he says it's junk," I felt as if we had discovered a treasure. The tape, an old training cassette from my father's time working at ITT, was comprised of taped over and intermittently cutting in and out of mundane discussion of machine operating merging with my Nanny singing softly a capella "In the Sweet By and By," and my father playing quietly on his acoustic guitar. At one point, my father, then 27, speaks into the recorder stating, "Hello my peanuts [my mom and I]... I am home alone for work, and I just wanted you to know that I love you." One final episode is me whining that I don't want to give my room away to the "new baby," who would become my sister, Sarah.
I've been transfixed by this discovery ever since I heard it yesterday afternoon. What is it about this emotionally tangible yet vague time capsule--due to the audio but not visual aspect--that so moves me to tears? My father, ever the reluctant sentimental, stopped still as a ghost and leaned into the brown Fisher Price tape deck around which we all kept silent, unmoving but moved nonetheless.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Hey Kids!
Mama Lizzy is packing a picnic basket and blanket for tonight's Starlight Symphony. I've been aching to go every year, and if it doesn't rain, dammit, we'll get our chance tonight! Many of you are already planning a sojourn to the Thompson-Clayton residence, but if you haven't heard, meet here at 6. Wine, cheese, and any other yummies are welcome, but you need not feel obligated. See you tonight!
Late at Night if the Mood is Right
I'm a drunk dialer. If you are in my contact list, it is likely that you've received a phone call and/or text from the less-inhibited and wholly more hilarious version of myself. From the first underage sips of homemade muscadine wine where I attempted to call my parents and invite them over to join us, to last night's midnight group call to the Devoe's for the purpose of singing Jack Black's Ghostbusters song, allow me to apologize. Imagine my delight when I discovered that there is an entire Wikipedia entry dedicated to this now-common practice. Here are some nuggets of wisdom from the website I never allow students to cite, but for which I still have a soft spot in my heart for fast, irreverent knowledge:
Drunk dialing is a pop-culture term denoting an instance in which an intoxicated individual places phone calls that he or she would not likely place if sober. The term often refers to a lonely individual calling former love interests. The term drunk dialing is a parody of drunk driving, and is intended to imply similar undesired consequences.[citation needed]
I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone. I get drunk, and I drive my wife away with breath like mustard gas and roses. And then, speaking gravely and elegantly into the telephone, I ask the telephone operators to connect me with this friend or that one, from whom I have not heard in years.
—Kurt Vonnegut[1]
Drunken Texting or SMSing is a related phenomenon, and potentially yet more embarrassing for the sender[citation needed] as, once the message is sent, it cannot be retrieved; the message will most likely be misspelled (due to being drunk), and it might be reviewed and shared among many.
Drunk dialing in the media
The New York Post,[2] the New York Times,[3] and the Washington Post,[4] have all reported on drunk dialing. Cell phone manufacturers and carriers are helping callers prevent drunk dialing. Virgin Mobile has launched an option to help its users stop drunk dialing by initiating multi-hour bans on calling specific numbers[5] and the LG Group introduced the LP4100 mobile phone, which includes a breathalyzer.[6] Although the breathalyzer function was incorporated to help the user assess fitness to drive, rather than fitness to phone, the owner can program the LP4100 to restrict calls to specific telephone numbers on certain days or after a certain hour, a feature that might help limit drunk dialing by eliminating calls when the user is more likely to be intoxicated. Some reports indicate that this phone, or a planned future version for U.S. release, would activate the call-blocking function in tandem with the blood alcohol content results from the breathalyzer.[7][8]
Pat O'Brien entered a drug rehabilitation center on March 20, 2006, as recordings surfaced throughout the media of his persistent intoxicated and sexually explicit drunken dialing voicemail messages to an undisclosed female.
See also
Pocket Dialing
I think the lesson here is that if even Pat O'Brien can get his ass in trouble for drunk dialing, I better learn to quell this habit.
Drunk dialing is a pop-culture term denoting an instance in which an intoxicated individual places phone calls that he or she would not likely place if sober. The term often refers to a lonely individual calling former love interests. The term drunk dialing is a parody of drunk driving, and is intended to imply similar undesired consequences.[citation needed]
I have this disease late at night sometimes, involving alcohol and the telephone. I get drunk, and I drive my wife away with breath like mustard gas and roses. And then, speaking gravely and elegantly into the telephone, I ask the telephone operators to connect me with this friend or that one, from whom I have not heard in years.
—Kurt Vonnegut[1]
Drunken Texting or SMSing is a related phenomenon, and potentially yet more embarrassing for the sender[citation needed] as, once the message is sent, it cannot be retrieved; the message will most likely be misspelled (due to being drunk), and it might be reviewed and shared among many.
Drunk dialing in the media
The New York Post,[2] the New York Times,[3] and the Washington Post,[4] have all reported on drunk dialing. Cell phone manufacturers and carriers are helping callers prevent drunk dialing. Virgin Mobile has launched an option to help its users stop drunk dialing by initiating multi-hour bans on calling specific numbers[5] and the LG Group introduced the LP4100 mobile phone, which includes a breathalyzer.[6] Although the breathalyzer function was incorporated to help the user assess fitness to drive, rather than fitness to phone, the owner can program the LP4100 to restrict calls to specific telephone numbers on certain days or after a certain hour, a feature that might help limit drunk dialing by eliminating calls when the user is more likely to be intoxicated. Some reports indicate that this phone, or a planned future version for U.S. release, would activate the call-blocking function in tandem with the blood alcohol content results from the breathalyzer.[7][8]
Pat O'Brien entered a drug rehabilitation center on March 20, 2006, as recordings surfaced throughout the media of his persistent intoxicated and sexually explicit drunken dialing voicemail messages to an undisclosed female.
See also
Pocket Dialing
I think the lesson here is that if even Pat O'Brien can get his ass in trouble for drunk dialing, I better learn to quell this habit.
Friday, August 22, 2008
NPR, How I Love Thee!
Let me count the ways.
NPR has been doing this summer series "Road Trips: Songs to Drive By." I'm wholly appreciative of the above-linked homage to classic hip hop, of which I happen to be a closet fan. Oops. I guess the cat's out of the bag.
NPR has been doing this summer series "Road Trips: Songs to Drive By." I'm wholly appreciative of the above-linked homage to classic hip hop, of which I happen to be a closet fan. Oops. I guess the cat's out of the bag.
Can Someone Tell Me Why My Profile Views Have Nearly Doubled in a Week?
I've been having a summer affair with Sarah B. Former enemies can sometimes become one's greatest friends--i.e. Amanda K. Yarbro, ex-roommate and now my twin personality. But back to my current fling..
Sarah B. and I were once on opposite teams. My alliance once lying with another--her certain enemy--made a friendship impossible. Alas, our love of Scrabble, sidewalk coffee consumption, and all things bibliophile have forged a bond between the two of us that should have started years ago when we were both commuting steadily out of this sad, small town into the great mecca of Memphrica.
After a casual lunch today with people I admire and/or enjoy and an abundance of lingering downtown in the sunlight, I'm a little sad to see the last official day of my "summer" slip away. School starts Monday, and it's back into the classroom for this teacher. Though I plan to continue my new relationship with S.B., my hot passion with summertime ends here.
I feel like I should give these sultry days a proper adieu and sing something by Phil Collins. Here's our break-up song,summer and mine, "Against All Odds":
How can I just let you walk away
just let you leave without a trace?
When I stand here taking every breath with you
Ooh
you're the only one who really knew me at all.
How can you just walk away from me when all I can do is watch you leave'
'cos we shared the laughter and the pain and even shared the tears.
You're the only one who really knew me at all.
So take a look at me now
well there's just an empty space
And there's nothing left here to remind me
Just the memory of your face.
Oh
take a look at me now
there's just an empty space
I hope I don't have to return summer's favorite t-shirt...
Sarah B. and I were once on opposite teams. My alliance once lying with another--her certain enemy--made a friendship impossible. Alas, our love of Scrabble, sidewalk coffee consumption, and all things bibliophile have forged a bond between the two of us that should have started years ago when we were both commuting steadily out of this sad, small town into the great mecca of Memphrica.
After a casual lunch today with people I admire and/or enjoy and an abundance of lingering downtown in the sunlight, I'm a little sad to see the last official day of my "summer" slip away. School starts Monday, and it's back into the classroom for this teacher. Though I plan to continue my new relationship with S.B., my hot passion with summertime ends here.
I feel like I should give these sultry days a proper adieu and sing something by Phil Collins. Here's our break-up song,summer and mine, "Against All Odds":
How can I just let you walk away
just let you leave without a trace?
When I stand here taking every breath with you
Ooh
you're the only one who really knew me at all.
How can you just walk away from me when all I can do is watch you leave'
'cos we shared the laughter and the pain and even shared the tears.
You're the only one who really knew me at all.
So take a look at me now
well there's just an empty space
And there's nothing left here to remind me
Just the memory of your face.
Oh
take a look at me now
there's just an empty space
I hope I don't have to return summer's favorite t-shirt...
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Any Given Evening
I can be found at the Y running to this song:
Any given moment of reflection, I just might be dancing to this one:
And when I'm driving down I40 with the sun setting at my back, I'll usually put this on for a listen, ignoring the truckers leering at my thighs and honking so I know it:
Still, there are days when I know I should have became a rock star and not a damn academon. In that moment, I need another Liz:
Any given moment of reflection, I just might be dancing to this one:
And when I'm driving down I40 with the sun setting at my back, I'll usually put this on for a listen, ignoring the truckers leering at my thighs and honking so I know it:
Still, there are days when I know I should have became a rock star and not a damn academon. In that moment, I need another Liz:
Why I Begin Blogs With "Why"
To explain away my absence the last few days, I can only say that the semester is nigh, and I'm trying desperately to determine questions of the utmost importance: to grade in percentages or points? I'm also getting a little antsy about the last component of my doctoral exams--the 2 hour oral exam--which is also during the first week of classes. Yes, laugh it up, I have to do well orally to finish these tests.
Tuesday was the in-service meeting for all TAs and PT/FT instructors. We were privy to a really bad racist joke from the new director over the program, who, in sotto voce, mentioned something about an Italian-named man whose family makes pizzas down around the corner. Jesus Christ. Are we not safe from bigotry even in a higher learning institution in a room full of reasonably intelligent people? I remember when I started working at age 18 at the Home Depot in Murfreesboro. The trainer made a comment about "Jewing" someone down on an item--presumably a cheap customer--and I cringed. Looking around the room, I wondered if anyone else had caught his pathetic commentary. Tuesday, however, the whole of the group made a collective "sucking of air through teeth" when the bad "joke" was made.
The standard theme of this semester's new composition courses is Illegal Immigration. After considering how one-sided--negative towards immigrants--the director made the courses sounds, the theme was changed to simply Immigration.
I know a lot of haters on the South who deplore the racist practices of this region, and on that point, I agree, but then these same people will turn around and make negative comments about the Hispanic community, our primary immigrants to this country. Many of my readers will recognize my ongoing passion for this group. Maybe it is because so many of them work closely with my husband at his company, but I see our task as being somewhat of a welcoming committee, opening our arms to whoever sees this country as the promise land. How can we be the gatekeepers of stolen land and still call ourselves the land of the free? After all, we are a country of immigrants who have steadily forgotten our roots as the new generation comes to claims its destiny.
The bunny stopped at a Subway in a rural part of town outside Jackson near a job site with the Mexican-American Miguel. (Mexican-American, or any ________________-American, denotes first generation Americans with immigrant parents.) Miguel was born in North Carolina. Though his face is dark brown and purely demarcated by Mexican ancestry, he talks better than any redneck. Dustbunny claims that everytime they go there the "I just took a hit of crystal meth" girls behind the counter give Miguel a hard time, claiming they can't understand his accent. After repeating "onions" four times, Dustbunny blew up at the women. My normally anti-aggression lover doesn't know what came over him.
I don't know what got me on about this whole business this morning. I was watching the CNN Obama Revealed special last night. I haven't always been Obama's biggest fan, but I do feel that he is the change we need. Here is why:
1. Born to two people but seemingly no race/group at the same time, who better understands the changing face of what it means to be "American" than this man?
2. Our country is ripped apart by violent crime and less than 50% of black men graduate from high school. Maybe, for the first time ever, putting someone in charge of this country who is not rich and white can inspire hope in the masses.
3. America has changed. With a rapidly disappearing middle class and a growing chasm between rich and poor, a dying patriarch isn't going to help us keep our chins up.
4. There is no rigid tight-lipped wifey standing in the shadows; Michelle is intelligent but never condescending. She is sometimes a livewire, which, though it has been turned into a negative, is maybe the most logical manifestation of rugged individualism. Or have we forgotten that in our people...?
5. The negatives about Obama--many of which are racially-fueled lies and/or media slander--still outweigh the possibility of McCain, who is the anythingbutObama vote for many conservatives, but who could never inspire a people during his entire term the way Obama has done in just a few months.
I know there are a lot of skeptics, and I, too, have had to come by this decision honestly, though I would never have voted Republican, but I am willing to sit and chat with all of you loves sometime about illegal immigration, Obama vs. McCain, and we just might venture into Israel/Palestine territory if it suits your fancy.
Tuesday was the in-service meeting for all TAs and PT/FT instructors. We were privy to a really bad racist joke from the new director over the program, who, in sotto voce, mentioned something about an Italian-named man whose family makes pizzas down around the corner. Jesus Christ. Are we not safe from bigotry even in a higher learning institution in a room full of reasonably intelligent people? I remember when I started working at age 18 at the Home Depot in Murfreesboro. The trainer made a comment about "Jewing" someone down on an item--presumably a cheap customer--and I cringed. Looking around the room, I wondered if anyone else had caught his pathetic commentary. Tuesday, however, the whole of the group made a collective "sucking of air through teeth" when the bad "joke" was made.
The standard theme of this semester's new composition courses is Illegal Immigration. After considering how one-sided--negative towards immigrants--the director made the courses sounds, the theme was changed to simply Immigration.
I know a lot of haters on the South who deplore the racist practices of this region, and on that point, I agree, but then these same people will turn around and make negative comments about the Hispanic community, our primary immigrants to this country. Many of my readers will recognize my ongoing passion for this group. Maybe it is because so many of them work closely with my husband at his company, but I see our task as being somewhat of a welcoming committee, opening our arms to whoever sees this country as the promise land. How can we be the gatekeepers of stolen land and still call ourselves the land of the free? After all, we are a country of immigrants who have steadily forgotten our roots as the new generation comes to claims its destiny.
The bunny stopped at a Subway in a rural part of town outside Jackson near a job site with the Mexican-American Miguel. (Mexican-American, or any ________________-American, denotes first generation Americans with immigrant parents.) Miguel was born in North Carolina. Though his face is dark brown and purely demarcated by Mexican ancestry, he talks better than any redneck. Dustbunny claims that everytime they go there the "I just took a hit of crystal meth" girls behind the counter give Miguel a hard time, claiming they can't understand his accent. After repeating "onions" four times, Dustbunny blew up at the women. My normally anti-aggression lover doesn't know what came over him.
I don't know what got me on about this whole business this morning. I was watching the CNN Obama Revealed special last night. I haven't always been Obama's biggest fan, but I do feel that he is the change we need. Here is why:
1. Born to two people but seemingly no race/group at the same time, who better understands the changing face of what it means to be "American" than this man?
2. Our country is ripped apart by violent crime and less than 50% of black men graduate from high school. Maybe, for the first time ever, putting someone in charge of this country who is not rich and white can inspire hope in the masses.
3. America has changed. With a rapidly disappearing middle class and a growing chasm between rich and poor, a dying patriarch isn't going to help us keep our chins up.
4. There is no rigid tight-lipped wifey standing in the shadows; Michelle is intelligent but never condescending. She is sometimes a livewire, which, though it has been turned into a negative, is maybe the most logical manifestation of rugged individualism. Or have we forgotten that in our people...?
5. The negatives about Obama--many of which are racially-fueled lies and/or media slander--still outweigh the possibility of McCain, who is the anythingbutObama vote for many conservatives, but who could never inspire a people during his entire term the way Obama has done in just a few months.
I know there are a lot of skeptics, and I, too, have had to come by this decision honestly, though I would never have voted Republican, but I am willing to sit and chat with all of you loves sometime about illegal immigration, Obama vs. McCain, and we just might venture into Israel/Palestine territory if it suits your fancy.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Those Shoes Ain't Gonna Cut It, Missy
A helluva a weekend it was for Bette and the Bunny. We started out in typical fare at the Tavern where our overnight guests, Tracey and Galen--staying at the hotel T&C to avoid the rising fumes from their recently-refinished hardwood floors--assisted in our certain inebriation. At one point, I found myself mesmerized by the glow from one of those naughty bargame kiosks, guiltily looking away as the paying patrons caught me mooching off of their erotic hijinks. The night ended in a half-hearted viewing of Mallrats on early morning Cinemax, and I wondered why I had such a crush on that Jeremy London when Jason Lee is the obvious hotass in this rodeo.
Saturday was a typical West Tennessee day, and the whole overnight crew drove our old cars--the Bunny in his lime green 69' Dart--up to the lake in Lexington for a classic car show. It was what one might expect: little dogs, big-bellied middle-aged men, and lots of doo-wap playing on speakers. A few brought their lowered trucks, and I even saw the scant Trans Am, but the real prizes outnumbered the shit, and it was actually a whole lot of fun. I acted like I knew what I was doing/seeing, and tried to keep the sweat from rolling too far off my shoulders.
That night, the Bunny and I ventured out alone, and swore we had a waitress who wanted to put the following addendum to our check: Call Me. It never happened, and I narrowly escaped certain bathroom hostility from a trashy waitress, but damn were my crab cakes delicious.
Back at the Tavern, I found myself surrounding by an inordinate amount of males, none of which were attempting a grope since the Bunny sat by my side. I had a chat with one of the most competitive females I know--who made the point to mention that she likes me but I'm the "only girl she likes." This from a 22-year-old. Sheesh. The shorty-short rose lady came by--everyone in Jackson feels me here--and offered up her goods/roses to all of the men at the table. I pulled petals and littered the floor, killing time with botany. We made it home undaunted.
Sunday seemed uneventful enough. We played Scrabble on the Starbucks sidewalk, and chatted with Sarah Beth about dark topics on a lovely day. Sunday dinner--comprised of salad with homemade Caesar dressing, rosemary bread, and whole wheat pasta with ricotta and greens--we were joined by Sarah Beth for more fun, but this time the party really got started with a rousing game of 90s Trivial Pursuit. Just when the Bunny was beating our asses at 90s trivia, I got a text from a semi-estranged aunt of Dusty's that Dax, our retired police dog, was needed for help with the search of a missing 10-year-old girl. Officer dumbass, heading up the clusterfuck that was the search party, remarked on my flip flops, which I wore not in preparation of searching in the woods for this girl, but simply as a sidelines observer who had my dog/baby Dax's best interest in mind. A borrowed pair of New Balances allowed my later participation in the search. Apparently the girl had run away on her own account, but this was the longest time she'd been missing. I had a sick feeling that we would never find her by the roaring lines of I-40, spanning NC to CA. We did, but the outcome wasn't good. I can't elaborate here now, but to my parents reading: don't ever let your child go.
Saturday was a typical West Tennessee day, and the whole overnight crew drove our old cars--the Bunny in his lime green 69' Dart--up to the lake in Lexington for a classic car show. It was what one might expect: little dogs, big-bellied middle-aged men, and lots of doo-wap playing on speakers. A few brought their lowered trucks, and I even saw the scant Trans Am, but the real prizes outnumbered the shit, and it was actually a whole lot of fun. I acted like I knew what I was doing/seeing, and tried to keep the sweat from rolling too far off my shoulders.
That night, the Bunny and I ventured out alone, and swore we had a waitress who wanted to put the following addendum to our check: Call Me. It never happened, and I narrowly escaped certain bathroom hostility from a trashy waitress, but damn were my crab cakes delicious.
Back at the Tavern, I found myself surrounding by an inordinate amount of males, none of which were attempting a grope since the Bunny sat by my side. I had a chat with one of the most competitive females I know--who made the point to mention that she likes me but I'm the "only girl she likes." This from a 22-year-old. Sheesh. The shorty-short rose lady came by--everyone in Jackson feels me here--and offered up her goods/roses to all of the men at the table. I pulled petals and littered the floor, killing time with botany. We made it home undaunted.
Sunday seemed uneventful enough. We played Scrabble on the Starbucks sidewalk, and chatted with Sarah Beth about dark topics on a lovely day. Sunday dinner--comprised of salad with homemade Caesar dressing, rosemary bread, and whole wheat pasta with ricotta and greens--we were joined by Sarah Beth for more fun, but this time the party really got started with a rousing game of 90s Trivial Pursuit. Just when the Bunny was beating our asses at 90s trivia, I got a text from a semi-estranged aunt of Dusty's that Dax, our retired police dog, was needed for help with the search of a missing 10-year-old girl. Officer dumbass, heading up the clusterfuck that was the search party, remarked on my flip flops, which I wore not in preparation of searching in the woods for this girl, but simply as a sidelines observer who had my dog/baby Dax's best interest in mind. A borrowed pair of New Balances allowed my later participation in the search. Apparently the girl had run away on her own account, but this was the longest time she'd been missing. I had a sick feeling that we would never find her by the roaring lines of I-40, spanning NC to CA. We did, but the outcome wasn't good. I can't elaborate here now, but to my parents reading: don't ever let your child go.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Common Knowledge
While playing sidewalk Scrabble yesterday with Sarah Beth, Jen, and various other revolving Starbucks characters, I relayed information from a recent "This American Life" episode. Host Ira Glass discussed things that we should know but somehow go a large majority of our lives not knowing. Some examples were a woman who thought unicorns were real, seriously, until she went to a college party and found out otherwise after mentioning their status on the endangered list. One guy went until his 30s believing that the "Nielsen Family," of media research fame, was a literal family all named Nielsen. My shouldvaknownthisshit moment came in my early-20s when my only formal history knowledge came from my high school's football coaches. I had no idea that Napolean's last name was Bonaparte. The funny thing about this story is not only my dumbassery, but my friends telling me that I should have known this information because it was in Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.
So the question is posed: What common knowledge somehow escaped you until later in life?
Dear Andrew, Starbucks lackey and overall good guy, poked his head abruptly outside, as if performing in a British stage comedy troupe, and admitted that he had always believed Russia was its own continent until about a year ago..
So the question is posed: What common knowledge somehow escaped you until later in life?
Dear Andrew, Starbucks lackey and overall good guy, poked his head abruptly outside, as if performing in a British stage comedy troupe, and admitted that he had always believed Russia was its own continent until about a year ago..
Give Me a Reason to be a Woman
Anyone else feel like sex when you listen to this song?
Also check out Suzi Parker's smart and witty book Sex in the South: Unbuckling the Bible Belt. She travels all over Dixie collecting people's real life tales of erotica and sexual deviance all played out against the backdrop of magnolia trees and wide front porches.
Also check out Suzi Parker's smart and witty book Sex in the South: Unbuckling the Bible Belt. She travels all over Dixie collecting people's real life tales of erotica and sexual deviance all played out against the backdrop of magnolia trees and wide front porches.
Dickey's Southern Discomfort
As this blog originally sought to tease out some of the still-lingering effects of historical turmoil on the Southern region, I found Christopher Dickey's--son of James Dickey of Deliverance fame--article on the changing South in the wake of what might be our first black president to be particularly pertinent. The article is available in the current Newsweek, or you can view it, along with extra video footage, here: Southern Discomfort
Dickey travels from the mountains of Tennessee, down into Georgia, and through the Carolinas trying to discover the effects the current presidential race has had on the region. He talks to white, Civil War enthusiasts, black activists, and Middle Eastern and Hispanic immigrants. Some of the expected coded bigotry--all too familiar to this West Tennessee girl--sounds just as ridiculous typed out in a reputable news source as it does spoken at my local Qmart. Dickey's own ties with the South, including his trip to the region his father wrote about in Deliverance make him a trusted source on the issue, as it wouldn't be apropo for a non-Southerner to attempt access into the private lives of the real South. One not-surprising discovery is Dickey's find that xenophobia is still thriving in this slow, old land.
In a rare attempt to see eye-to-eye, my old, Southern daddy told me he just might "vote for that Obama." He said it with a bit of pride, for I am a Democrat and he votes conservative on most issues. Though he doesn't normally claim Republican--he is an Independent in theory and a Republican in practice--my working-class father was raised by working-class folk who needed to keep someone else one rung down on the ladder; bigotry was the obvious choice, though certainly not acceptable, regardless of the circumstances. In the end, the Obama comments about "guns and religion" floored him, and he recanted his previous symbolic vote.
My Nanny, having recently lost her second husband, needed to find a new place to live. She said, "I won't live by blacks. I just won't do it." Hell, Newsweek could have called me, and I would have told them: The South isn't changed. It isn't changing.
Of particular interests to dear reader is the section in Dickey's article on immigration and how the South, no longer black and white but black and white and brown, will find new ways to subjugate its minority other. Again, this is sort of intuitive if your living it, breathing it, and walking around in it every day, but I recall how unusual it is to see Hispanic culture intermingling with black and white people. Once a group of Hispanic men came to the Tavern. Oh boy, I thought, could it be that we are making room for this new integration. From the moment they claimed a dark table off unto their own and sat quietly watching the scene, I figured they might as well be invisible for all that they were acknowledged by the crowd. Still, maybe invisibility is better than a staunch abhorrence (?)
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Last Day for Meals on Wheels
I had my last summer delivery with Meals on Wheels yesterday. It was as if God/gods/the Universe/Mrs. Maudie/Mr. Alvin Goff were trying to tell me something. Since most of my stops are pretty uneventful, I don't know why everything went awry yesterday.
Mrs. Hazel Wallace--97 years+ that one--was nowhere to be found. She generally sits on her porch and waits for my arrival. After shouting for her through the door, I began to worry that she might be inside hurt or dead. After a panicked check with the office, I later found out that she had taken up a good samaritan's offer for a grocery run and just missed my calling.
Sally Fortune's 63 year old son said he'd be glad to "tickle my fancy" if he were only 26 himself.
Alvin Goff decided he didn't need juice yesterday, which is usually a big part of our ritual. Generally, I put his meals in the fridge, grab his sippy cup, and ask him what Diane Sawyer had to say on GMA that morning, though I've usually already watched it myself. Instead, he wasn't in the mood for juice, had a male visitor--also in a hover chair--and The Jefferson's was on the tube. It was disconcerting to say the least.
Ms. Beverly's brother was there for a visit, and for the first time ever, accompanied me to the door and struck up a conversation in which I learned that they were a family with 14 kids. Wowzer.
Alas, Donna--who I previously wrote bonded with me over Steel Magnolias and John Edwards' affair--told me she would see me when I returned to drop off the boxes. She wasn't there, so I didn't get a goodbye.
This is so silly, and I do quiver-lip at the drop of an Oprah street kid scholarship, but I thought I might cry a bit when I walked out yesterday. Marty, the mentally-challenged helper who wears Dickie's jumpsuits and trucker hats religiously, told me a joke he'd made up and previously shared. When I shouted the punchline before he could tell me, he was astounded, stating that he and I must have known one another in a previous life.
Mrs. Hazel Wallace--97 years+ that one--was nowhere to be found. She generally sits on her porch and waits for my arrival. After shouting for her through the door, I began to worry that she might be inside hurt or dead. After a panicked check with the office, I later found out that she had taken up a good samaritan's offer for a grocery run and just missed my calling.
Sally Fortune's 63 year old son said he'd be glad to "tickle my fancy" if he were only 26 himself.
Alvin Goff decided he didn't need juice yesterday, which is usually a big part of our ritual. Generally, I put his meals in the fridge, grab his sippy cup, and ask him what Diane Sawyer had to say on GMA that morning, though I've usually already watched it myself. Instead, he wasn't in the mood for juice, had a male visitor--also in a hover chair--and The Jefferson's was on the tube. It was disconcerting to say the least.
Ms. Beverly's brother was there for a visit, and for the first time ever, accompanied me to the door and struck up a conversation in which I learned that they were a family with 14 kids. Wowzer.
Alas, Donna--who I previously wrote bonded with me over Steel Magnolias and John Edwards' affair--told me she would see me when I returned to drop off the boxes. She wasn't there, so I didn't get a goodbye.
This is so silly, and I do quiver-lip at the drop of an Oprah street kid scholarship, but I thought I might cry a bit when I walked out yesterday. Marty, the mentally-challenged helper who wears Dickie's jumpsuits and trucker hats religiously, told me a joke he'd made up and previously shared. When I shouted the punchline before he could tell me, he was astounded, stating that he and I must have known one another in a previous life.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Junking With Wifey
I just picked up a sweet antique rocking chair for $25 at the Carriage House Antique Mart. I would gladly take a photo, but my treasure is still sitting at the store until my man can claim it this evening with his truck. Stay tuned for project photos, as the seat is upholstered and will need to be recovered. Oh! What joy I get from other people's trash.
Since I've been in the process of reorganizing my things, I've decided to start weeding out all of the old new stuff to bring in the new old stuff I've acquired from various yard sales, antique malls, junk shops, second-hand stores, and road-side junk piles. Here are some photos of my various acquisitions:
I just had to include this photo of our first homegrown, proud tomato. It looked so lovely on top of the beautiful floral plates the dear Jen D. gave me for my birthday and my collection of red fiesta plates.
Here is the reworked mantle. I've included postcards from my collection, some favorite old dictionaries and children's books, a photo postcard of Flannery O'Connor and some clocks from the junk shop in Milan. My prize is the old metal stamp holder on the right hand side that serves to display my postcards. It was an unexpected play pretty from Yarbro's Antiques.
Since this is my blog, I guess I have the right to brag about my dogs every damn time I feel like it. Sebastian's new bed next to my old globe is about the loveliest site I've seen in a hot minute.
I found a clever use for my typewriter, which is now proudly on display in the middle of my coffee table. The old photo is of a couple in the 20s who obviously can't stand one another. The other item is a pack of vintage needles. It reads, "Sewing Susan," my mother's name.
I'm looking into some fabrics from Repro Depot for the antique rocker. Any color scheme ideas are welcome. Wifey is at a loss for ideas at this moment. We've been asked to show our home in the annual LANA Christmas Tour of Homes. It sounds like a fun idea, but I doubt the bunny and I have the time/resources to prepare the house to my perfectionist standards. I'll keep you posted on the outcome.
Since I've been in the process of reorganizing my things, I've decided to start weeding out all of the old new stuff to bring in the new old stuff I've acquired from various yard sales, antique malls, junk shops, second-hand stores, and road-side junk piles. Here are some photos of my various acquisitions:
I just had to include this photo of our first homegrown, proud tomato. It looked so lovely on top of the beautiful floral plates the dear Jen D. gave me for my birthday and my collection of red fiesta plates.
Here is the reworked mantle. I've included postcards from my collection, some favorite old dictionaries and children's books, a photo postcard of Flannery O'Connor and some clocks from the junk shop in Milan. My prize is the old metal stamp holder on the right hand side that serves to display my postcards. It was an unexpected play pretty from Yarbro's Antiques.
Since this is my blog, I guess I have the right to brag about my dogs every damn time I feel like it. Sebastian's new bed next to my old globe is about the loveliest site I've seen in a hot minute.
I found a clever use for my typewriter, which is now proudly on display in the middle of my coffee table. The old photo is of a couple in the 20s who obviously can't stand one another. The other item is a pack of vintage needles. It reads, "Sewing Susan," my mother's name.I'm looking into some fabrics from Repro Depot for the antique rocker. Any color scheme ideas are welcome. Wifey is at a loss for ideas at this moment. We've been asked to show our home in the annual LANA Christmas Tour of Homes. It sounds like a fun idea, but I doubt the bunny and I have the time/resources to prepare the house to my perfectionist standards. I'll keep you posted on the outcome.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Weekend Review
I was so busy this weekend that I rarely had a moment to think about blogging. Here is the weekend review that has no cultural relevance, nor will it save our planet from its certain demise.
Friday night found us at the old haunt--our Downtown Tavern. Somehow we did not get the memo, and the ol' middle-aged biker crew from Sadie Lou's was there running rampant. Biker guy Jimmy--life of the party, frosted and permed curly mullet, kept changing his story--urged my group onto the dance floor for various expected bar cover songs. Winnie and Tracy ended the night on stage with the band, but my alter-ego Janet, the uptight one, refused to be a go-go spectacle, and remained on the floor with all of the other drunk gawkers and voyeurs.
Saturday was mine and Dusty's four-year anniversary, and we made the sojourn to the picturesque vistas of Decaturville, TN. We spent the night at Amanda's mama's house along with our pals from MA, Rebecca and Michael, who were there on an art project assignment about which I am too uninformed to elaborate here. The unusually pleasant weather in the dregs of August made screen porch eating real nice. I kept having these completely unpractical thoughts about muddin' and shit since we were in the heart of the country, but I refrained for fear of looking like a redneck in front of yankee Mike, who, by the way, is about the nicest guy anyone could ever know.
Every weekend we spend time with our friends, and usually, nothing too damn important ever happens. I guess I'm just happy with a nice glass of wine and good conversation. I've been thinking about different stages in life and how Dustbunny and I are in our "pre-kids, but settled married folk" stage. I can't imagine how things will change when we try to raise another human, or how I will feel when that child grows up and repeats everything that I can't get back. I guess this is the ultimate pitiable thing about my life: I always look so far into the future that I lament things that have not yet occurred years before their possible induction.
I feel guilty for not spending more time with my parents, especially my Mom, who had a real hard time when I move out of the house at barely 18. As a young wife and mother, there wasn't much time in the interim for her to develop "interests" outside of my sister, my father, and I. I don't want to have that predicament when my time comes as post-child-raising parent. I want a life outside of mothering and such. It can't be the end-all, be-all because I've seen the tragedy it caused my own family. I think my mother went a little insane the moment I began to grow up and out. Hell, I think my father went a bit insane too, but he hides it so much nicer, this due, at least in part, to being raised by his own John Wayne daddy.
Spending time with all of my married but childless friends this weekend made me think about how we only have so much time before the next phase, and who the hell knows if we will even have time for one another then.
Friday night found us at the old haunt--our Downtown Tavern. Somehow we did not get the memo, and the ol' middle-aged biker crew from Sadie Lou's was there running rampant. Biker guy Jimmy--life of the party, frosted and permed curly mullet, kept changing his story--urged my group onto the dance floor for various expected bar cover songs. Winnie and Tracy ended the night on stage with the band, but my alter-ego Janet, the uptight one, refused to be a go-go spectacle, and remained on the floor with all of the other drunk gawkers and voyeurs.
Saturday was mine and Dusty's four-year anniversary, and we made the sojourn to the picturesque vistas of Decaturville, TN. We spent the night at Amanda's mama's house along with our pals from MA, Rebecca and Michael, who were there on an art project assignment about which I am too uninformed to elaborate here. The unusually pleasant weather in the dregs of August made screen porch eating real nice. I kept having these completely unpractical thoughts about muddin' and shit since we were in the heart of the country, but I refrained for fear of looking like a redneck in front of yankee Mike, who, by the way, is about the nicest guy anyone could ever know.
Every weekend we spend time with our friends, and usually, nothing too damn important ever happens. I guess I'm just happy with a nice glass of wine and good conversation. I've been thinking about different stages in life and how Dustbunny and I are in our "pre-kids, but settled married folk" stage. I can't imagine how things will change when we try to raise another human, or how I will feel when that child grows up and repeats everything that I can't get back. I guess this is the ultimate pitiable thing about my life: I always look so far into the future that I lament things that have not yet occurred years before their possible induction.
I feel guilty for not spending more time with my parents, especially my Mom, who had a real hard time when I move out of the house at barely 18. As a young wife and mother, there wasn't much time in the interim for her to develop "interests" outside of my sister, my father, and I. I don't want to have that predicament when my time comes as post-child-raising parent. I want a life outside of mothering and such. It can't be the end-all, be-all because I've seen the tragedy it caused my own family. I think my mother went a little insane the moment I began to grow up and out. Hell, I think my father went a bit insane too, but he hides it so much nicer, this due, at least in part, to being raised by his own John Wayne daddy.
Spending time with all of my married but childless friends this weekend made me think about how we only have so much time before the next phase, and who the hell knows if we will even have time for one another then.
Two Timing Man
The news buzz surrounding John Edwards recently made public affair has prompted many unusual conversations between various casual acquaintances and/or strangers and myself. This morning on Good Morning America--GMA for housewives in the know--they featured three previously scorned women who had to make the decision about whether or not to stand by their man after an affair. This panel discussed Elizabeth Edwards and her choice to still support John.
When I picked up my meals this morning for delivery, I had an unusual encounter with Donna, the lady who packs the meals into their carrying cartons. Though she is the reason I'm volunteering there now, she and I rarely speak. (I met her during an accident on I-40 that I witnessed and in which she was involved. I pulled over to give my statement to the cops about the drunk driver that hit her and her family, and ended up finding out from her that she was from Jackson and worked where there were volunteers needed.) Donna is a middle-aged African American woman with a quiet composure and glasses that disguise the twinkle in her eyes. She is reserved and slightly cynical, but she obviously cares a great deal for humans in general or she wouldn't volunteer five days a week at the Meals depot. As Donna loaded my meals into my vehicle while I signed my volunteer sheet inside, she found my current read, The Story of a Marriage, sitting on the front seat of my car. She picked it up and asked me about it, and somehow we started discussing this morning's GMA Edwards panel.
Donna: Did you see the panel of women discussing the Edwards affair on GMA?
Me: Yeah, that's a tough situation. I once thought affairs were black and white--if they cheat, leave--but now I feel differently.
Donna: This is the thing, lady. Remember that moment in Steel Magnolias where Sally Field's character can't be physical with her husband during Shelby's sickness, a time of trauma? Men deal with illness differently. It's just how they are made. If John needed a little comfort during Elizabeth's battle, who are we to judge him? Who is the weaker sex? I just really don't know...
Me: True. (I lingered for a moment with my chin on the driver side door and drove away.)
Wednesday is my last day for deliveries. It seems like it took all summer long for Donna and I to connect. It is funny to me that John Edwards' infidelity and a film about homogeneous white, Southern genteel culture was the impetus for our bonding.
When I picked up my meals this morning for delivery, I had an unusual encounter with Donna, the lady who packs the meals into their carrying cartons. Though she is the reason I'm volunteering there now, she and I rarely speak. (I met her during an accident on I-40 that I witnessed and in which she was involved. I pulled over to give my statement to the cops about the drunk driver that hit her and her family, and ended up finding out from her that she was from Jackson and worked where there were volunteers needed.) Donna is a middle-aged African American woman with a quiet composure and glasses that disguise the twinkle in her eyes. She is reserved and slightly cynical, but she obviously cares a great deal for humans in general or she wouldn't volunteer five days a week at the Meals depot. As Donna loaded my meals into my vehicle while I signed my volunteer sheet inside, she found my current read, The Story of a Marriage, sitting on the front seat of my car. She picked it up and asked me about it, and somehow we started discussing this morning's GMA Edwards panel.
Donna: Did you see the panel of women discussing the Edwards affair on GMA?
Me: Yeah, that's a tough situation. I once thought affairs were black and white--if they cheat, leave--but now I feel differently.
Donna: This is the thing, lady. Remember that moment in Steel Magnolias where Sally Field's character can't be physical with her husband during Shelby's sickness, a time of trauma? Men deal with illness differently. It's just how they are made. If John needed a little comfort during Elizabeth's battle, who are we to judge him? Who is the weaker sex? I just really don't know...
Me: True. (I lingered for a moment with my chin on the driver side door and drove away.)
Wednesday is my last day for deliveries. It seems like it took all summer long for Donna and I to connect. It is funny to me that John Edwards' infidelity and a film about homogeneous white, Southern genteel culture was the impetus for our bonding.
Friday, August 8, 2008
P.S. Why I am such a dumbass if you catch me at the right moment
The ticker on my CNN update on my iGoogle says, "Russia Invades Georgia," and I had a momentary panic attack--due in part to my childhood obsession with films like Red Dawn--until I realized that they were talking about Georgia the country. Jesus..
Midtown Marital Bliss
Tomorrow is our four year wedding anniversary. Yes, I got married very young--22 for me, 24 for him--and we preceded to grow up while trying to keep a happy home life. This is not an easy task. I met the bunny when I was barely 17, and we bonded over our mutual vegetarianism and our unjaded love for our parents, which was uncommon at the age for those who remember.
When I think about the years we've spent together now--nearly an entire decade--I can't believe all of the changes and experiences we've had together. The first time I ever hopped a plane was with him by my side. The first time leaving the country, smoking pot, eating palak paneer and garlic naan, getting a tattoo, walking through a cemetary at night, building/buying/renovating a house, riding in a classic car, meeting a musical idol, and a myriad of other virgin experiences have been shared hand-in-hand with my man.
Hell no our life is not perfect, nor will it ever be. I get so frustrated when he empties a container and places it back in the fridge. Sometimes he takes months to complete a 2-hour project. His underwear never goes in the basket, but instead lingers inevitably on the floor by his side of the bed. Still, it's the nights where we are perfectly content sitting outside under the stars and talking, or sitting in silence, for hours on end that I know I'm very lucky to have such a perfect companion. We hate all of the same policies and admire all of the same people. We even like the same food. Dusty's ear is attuned to double negatives and sentences ending in prepositions--my influence--while I can discern a Fender from a Gibson in nearly every song, and I know all about boutique amps just from living with him for so many years.
So my cynical readers might say this blog is a bit sentimental, and perhaps you are right. Still, I can't help but reflect on how many times I've taken for granted what I will celebrate tomorrow. Marriage is the most awful and wonderful institution in this world. Does that sum it up?
When I think about the years we've spent together now--nearly an entire decade--I can't believe all of the changes and experiences we've had together. The first time I ever hopped a plane was with him by my side. The first time leaving the country, smoking pot, eating palak paneer and garlic naan, getting a tattoo, walking through a cemetary at night, building/buying/renovating a house, riding in a classic car, meeting a musical idol, and a myriad of other virgin experiences have been shared hand-in-hand with my man.
Hell no our life is not perfect, nor will it ever be. I get so frustrated when he empties a container and places it back in the fridge. Sometimes he takes months to complete a 2-hour project. His underwear never goes in the basket, but instead lingers inevitably on the floor by his side of the bed. Still, it's the nights where we are perfectly content sitting outside under the stars and talking, or sitting in silence, for hours on end that I know I'm very lucky to have such a perfect companion. We hate all of the same policies and admire all of the same people. We even like the same food. Dusty's ear is attuned to double negatives and sentences ending in prepositions--my influence--while I can discern a Fender from a Gibson in nearly every song, and I know all about boutique amps just from living with him for so many years.
So my cynical readers might say this blog is a bit sentimental, and perhaps you are right. Still, I can't help but reflect on how many times I've taken for granted what I will celebrate tomorrow. Marriage is the most awful and wonderful institution in this world. Does that sum it up?
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Rainy Day Face
I can't stop listening to Kings of Leon's
Knocked Up. It is the most appropriate way to express my frame of mind today. I'm settling in with a nonacademic selection recommended by the always-on-the-cusp-of-brilliance Amanda Yarbro-Dill of Long Tall Animals fame. The book is entitled The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer. After that, I'm digging into Alicia Erian's Towelhead. I'm trying to pack in as many "fun" books before the semester begins again.
I found out yesterday that I will finally have the opportunity to teach an upper-division lit course this Fall. Along with my usual Literary Heritage survey course, I'm teaching Children's Lit. Granted, it doesn't sound like such a saucy selection, but I'm already gearing up to revisit the books that made me me. Any comments from the peanut gallery are welcome.
Okay, so my sly slipping of the photo of my husband in a Reebok tank into the public domain apparently didn't go unnoticed. Whether he is bluffing or not, the Dustbunny claims he's been reading along with the rest of you. Isn't there something sort of fun and silly about my real life husband reading my blogworld life, which, in actuality, he's already lived once.
In other blogosphere news--what a fucking ridiculous word--my pal at theogeo sent me a link for a site where a real writer talked of her experiences at the flea market buying old photographs. My own obsession with these photos started when I lived in Hell/Murfreesboro, TN back in 2000-2, and I started buying them at an old pawn shop in the downtown square. This was back when I was friendless, jobless, hating school/my body/myself and spent one lonely summer alone there. I created a zine--anyone remember those?--entitled b r e a t h e. I used these found photos as the impetus for my creative writing and the writing as an outlet for my own issues with being a child trying to act as an adult, missing my parents but being too stubborn to say so. Anyways, the point of this story is to say that my passion for old photos, regardless of the subjects, extends back into a time when I needed these pics just to get by.
A couple of years ago, after marriage, building a house with my husband that we came to despise, and starting grad school, I stopped at a booth along the annual Hwy 70 yard sale. It was run by a Mennonite family who was selling a large box of old photos. I dug through and found a series of pictures that depicted a little girl of about 2 or 3 wearing grown up women's clothing. She looked like a ghostly kewpie doll in a seemingly incongruous bonnet. One showed the girl in an attic, and her form was so white against the dark that she appeared as a ghost. After my purchase, the 50-something year old Mennonite woman said forlornly, "That was my sister. She died at age 4 of leukemia." She stopped and sort of held the photos for a moment, and then reluctantly turned them over to me. I had no idea what I was buying! I laid them down and refused to take them. She said, "No, it would be indulgent for me to keep these." Her husband's eyes urged her on, and she gave them back to me.
This unnamed woman's sister now hangs in my guest room with all of my other "evidence of human existence" collections. Here are some examples of my treasures, or what my Nanny would term "play pretties":
Here is the little sister mentioned above.
This is a composition book that belonged to a woman from this region. It was found in her attic after her death a few years ago.
This is an old school autograph book. It belonged to a very popular boy from Missouri named Jack. It predates the signing of annuals.
This is my Nanny--my father's mother. She looked a lot like Judy Garland with a little Patsy Cline.
These are some other family snapshots, including my Great uncle Seburn. Seburn was a gay crossdresser who carried a torch for his lover, pictured with him, who died from an "accidental" gunshot wound.
Some family photos in our dining room.
Here is my grandfather, my Nanny's first husband, who died when I was 5. He took these in a photo booth in the 60s.
More family photos in the dining room.
My newest play pretty; this is the typewriter that will be inked onto my back in a matter of days.
My antique Valentine and photo collage in the guest room. There are some nude photos mixed in. I used them in a scavenger hunt to entertain my guests.
Knocked Up. It is the most appropriate way to express my frame of mind today. I'm settling in with a nonacademic selection recommended by the always-on-the-cusp-of-brilliance Amanda Yarbro-Dill of Long Tall Animals fame. The book is entitled The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer. After that, I'm digging into Alicia Erian's Towelhead. I'm trying to pack in as many "fun" books before the semester begins again.
I found out yesterday that I will finally have the opportunity to teach an upper-division lit course this Fall. Along with my usual Literary Heritage survey course, I'm teaching Children's Lit. Granted, it doesn't sound like such a saucy selection, but I'm already gearing up to revisit the books that made me me. Any comments from the peanut gallery are welcome.
Okay, so my sly slipping of the photo of my husband in a Reebok tank into the public domain apparently didn't go unnoticed. Whether he is bluffing or not, the Dustbunny claims he's been reading along with the rest of you. Isn't there something sort of fun and silly about my real life husband reading my blogworld life, which, in actuality, he's already lived once.
In other blogosphere news--what a fucking ridiculous word--my pal at theogeo sent me a link for a site where a real writer talked of her experiences at the flea market buying old photographs. My own obsession with these photos started when I lived in Hell/Murfreesboro, TN back in 2000-2, and I started buying them at an old pawn shop in the downtown square. This was back when I was friendless, jobless, hating school/my body/myself and spent one lonely summer alone there. I created a zine--anyone remember those?--entitled b r e a t h e. I used these found photos as the impetus for my creative writing and the writing as an outlet for my own issues with being a child trying to act as an adult, missing my parents but being too stubborn to say so. Anyways, the point of this story is to say that my passion for old photos, regardless of the subjects, extends back into a time when I needed these pics just to get by.
A couple of years ago, after marriage, building a house with my husband that we came to despise, and starting grad school, I stopped at a booth along the annual Hwy 70 yard sale. It was run by a Mennonite family who was selling a large box of old photos. I dug through and found a series of pictures that depicted a little girl of about 2 or 3 wearing grown up women's clothing. She looked like a ghostly kewpie doll in a seemingly incongruous bonnet. One showed the girl in an attic, and her form was so white against the dark that she appeared as a ghost. After my purchase, the 50-something year old Mennonite woman said forlornly, "That was my sister. She died at age 4 of leukemia." She stopped and sort of held the photos for a moment, and then reluctantly turned them over to me. I had no idea what I was buying! I laid them down and refused to take them. She said, "No, it would be indulgent for me to keep these." Her husband's eyes urged her on, and she gave them back to me.
This unnamed woman's sister now hangs in my guest room with all of my other "evidence of human existence" collections. Here are some examples of my treasures, or what my Nanny would term "play pretties":
Here is the little sister mentioned above.
This is a composition book that belonged to a woman from this region. It was found in her attic after her death a few years ago.
This is an old school autograph book. It belonged to a very popular boy from Missouri named Jack. It predates the signing of annuals.
This is my Nanny--my father's mother. She looked a lot like Judy Garland with a little Patsy Cline.
These are some other family snapshots, including my Great uncle Seburn. Seburn was a gay crossdresser who carried a torch for his lover, pictured with him, who died from an "accidental" gunshot wound.
Some family photos in our dining room.
Here is my grandfather, my Nanny's first husband, who died when I was 5. He took these in a photo booth in the 60s.
More family photos in the dining room.
My newest play pretty; this is the typewriter that will be inked onto my back in a matter of days.
My antique Valentine and photo collage in the guest room. There are some nude photos mixed in. I used them in a scavenger hunt to entertain my guests.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Hairy Men in Tight Tank Tops
Don't tell Dustbunny that I posted these pictures of him modeling the Reebok tank we got at Goodwill for $0.50. It's his lawn mowing uniform.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Men at Gyms
I always feel a little self-conscious at the gym on days when it is overrun by bros and/or frat boys and/or meatheads. Not only do they leave the extremely large weights on the machines so that I can't use them without (gag) needing some assistance, but they take up as much space as possible and make a big fucking production about grunting and dropping the weights. I happen to be a fan of men who are more feminine than not; too much testosterone is a turn off for me.
Last night at the gym, I started running on the treadmill while watching Larry King's expose on the some sex cult, but I couldn't help notice that one of the male gym directors kept staring at me through the glass. Before I knew it, he started intermittently pacing up and down the aisle behind my treadmill. He was checking out my ass as I was running! This rage came over me, and I started to run a little faster and then faster, pounding my hatred for his blatant pigism into the poor treadmill belt.
Many of you might recall a post several months ago where some perv at the gym asked me to adjust the bar on his weight machine for him, which was conveniently located near his crotch. This is my point: We are human and therefore, we are all sexual creatures. It is biological. I look at other people all the time, and sometimes those looks are accompanied by lust. Regardless, for my male readers--who, if you do read me, I can only assume you are the type of male already in-tune with your feminine side and therefore, not needing this disclaimer--don't make it so damn obvious the next time you get the notion to give a sex look. We can see you.
Last night at the gym, I started running on the treadmill while watching Larry King's expose on the some sex cult, but I couldn't help notice that one of the male gym directors kept staring at me through the glass. Before I knew it, he started intermittently pacing up and down the aisle behind my treadmill. He was checking out my ass as I was running! This rage came over me, and I started to run a little faster and then faster, pounding my hatred for his blatant pigism into the poor treadmill belt.
Many of you might recall a post several months ago where some perv at the gym asked me to adjust the bar on his weight machine for him, which was conveniently located near his crotch. This is my point: We are human and therefore, we are all sexual creatures. It is biological. I look at other people all the time, and sometimes those looks are accompanied by lust. Regardless, for my male readers--who, if you do read me, I can only assume you are the type of male already in-tune with your feminine side and therefore, not needing this disclaimer--don't make it so damn obvious the next time you get the notion to give a sex look. We can see you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
