.

A Sad Farewell to my Sweet Isabelle

2011-12-16T08:56:00.000-08:00

I’m so very sorry to tell you that, Isabelle, my sweet Furgirl, died yesterday at the age of eleven.

This will come as quite a shock to some of my Facebook friends who were , less than a week ago, told she was suffering from nothing more than a “hurt toe”. In the end, though, it would be this misdiagnosis that would lead us to a much better close to Isabelle’s precious life than we might have had otherwise.

For this at least, I will always be eternally grateful.

It became apparent by the next day, Tuesday, that Isabelle was suffering from something much more grave than a simple hurt toe. Her limpness quickly became lameness and that spiraled into a complete inability to bear any weight on her left leg at all. I was able to help her walk when I needed to with the old sling/towel trick, but by Wednesday morning there was absolutely no question that she needed medical attention quickly.

The day was rainy and Isabelle’s steep decline had left her weaker than I could have even imagined possible just a few days before. The thought of loading her in and out of the car was more than I could stand for either of us and so I called a new veterinarian in the Paducah area, one that we’d heard had a practice that was entirely mobile.

Bonnie Jones of Purchase Area Mobile Vet Service was at my door just an hour and a half later. Isabelle, amidst a barrage of treats that included, to her great delight, Cheez Whiz, in her own soft bed, was quickly diagnosed with a likely torn or damaged ACL (an injured ligament deep within her knee where the upper and lower bones of the leg meet). Having had some experience with people and this injury, I immediately knew this, in and of itself, was quite a serious injury. But, more than that, I also knew in my heart, had known since I wrote this, that something else, something more sinister, was likely afoot. A dog as hyper exuberant as Isabelle would not normally be brought so low by even a useless knee.

There was nothing else to be done but run the tests that would give us the complete picture of her condition.

Early yesterday morning, Dr. Jones, her assistant and I carefully loaded Isabelle’s bed and Isabelle into the way-back of my Subaru. Just one more short night on earth had noticeably robbed Isabelle of a staggering amount of the ridiculously good health she enjoyed for mostly all of her eleven years. The faraway look, the look that started as just an occasional flickering shadow (did I really see that?) in Isabelle’s soft brown eyes had deepened. Deepened and spread to a point that almost seemed like a trick of the imagination, deepened to an extent that I wouldn’t have thought possible the day before.

As I waited with her outside the clinic while Dr. Jones cleared the way so the dog in her weakened state would have no wait, but a straight shot to the testing rooms, I reflexively snapped the last photo I would ever take of Isabelle with my iPhone. The camera, as it sometimes will, captured not only the look in her eyes, but the pain that was behind it. My girl was hurting, I knew.

And not from a blown knee.

Isabelle walked with much difficulty as I helped with the sling, into the clinic. She did this for the sole reason, I believe, that she knew I wanted her to. What I had been led to believe would be some pretty extensive testing was cut short when the true nature of Isabelle’s condition was discovered. Her lungs were being overtaken with the disease that was choking the life from her with a speed and ferocity that could not possibly be fought. Soon, it would leave her gasping for air.

We could not-- would not-- let that happen.

My heart was heavy and broken with the truth, but my brain—ever slow to catch on—kept babbling.

She is running low on her anti-inflammatory meds, I told Dr. Jones.

Dr. Jones stared back at me.

Saturday, I said to myself. It must be done by Saturday.

We loaded Isabelle into the Subaru and I brought her home. I dipped her favorite treats in peanut butter and loaded them with what the doctor said was the maximum dosage of her pain meds. A dose so large that it made me weak in the knees to feed it to her. I covered her with my soft suede throw and then put my gently heated electric blanket over that. I grabbed the pillow off my bed and lifted her sweet furry head onto it. I could not persuade her to let me help her or lift her on to her bed. For whatever reason, she preferred the floor. And so that’s where she stayed. I lay down next to her, just as we did during the ice storm. I petted her head and stroked her fur and told her over and over what a good girl she is and that I love her.

It soon became obvious, even with the unimaginably large dose of pain meds I had given her, that Isabelle—a lifelong world class napper--could not rest. I could pet and soothe her into a fitful sleep, but it wouldn’t last more than a few minutes before she would wake with a start and reach blindly for me with her big paw, suddenly confused, and I would comfort her and soothe her into sleep again. I realized that pattern couldn’t go on until “before Saturday”, couldn’t go on until Friday, and that Isabelle should most certainly not suffer another night plagued as she was by the motherfucker that sought to engulf her.

My heart was broken and at the same time grateful, so grateful, that I could give Isabelle an end that would be dignified and devoid of more suffering and that I could rob her sickness of its last terrible victory. So grateful that Isabelle would be able to draw her last breath in her own living room, the very same room that she first came home to as a puppy eleven years before.

I called Dr. Jones and set a time.

Isabelle died late yesterday afternoon after she drifted off to sleep. She was surrounded by people who love her, friends both old and new. I held her great paw as her big heart stopped and whispered my last words to her, a phrase I’m happy to say she heard many times throughout her life,

“Mommie loves you.”

I stayed with her until the end and after. I loaded her precious limp body into the car and took her to the place that will turn her into ashes.

I’ve cried a thousand tears and I’m sure I will cry a thousand more, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. It could never possibly BE enough.

No one can ever live up to the heart of a retriever.

Gee-Baby, her Imaginary Nursery, and the Olioboard that Made it Happen.

2011-12-01T02:04:00.000-08:00

So, I'm sure all three of my readers remember that I had a grandbaby back at the end of October, right? I'm happy to report that said grand baby is thriving, gaining weight at nothing short of an alarming pace, (she weighed in at a slight 4 lbs 3 oz initially) and becoming more and more alert with each passing day.

In fact she dropped in for a visit:

See that face?

It's saying,

Yah, I'm cute and all and I'm fairly quiet at the moment. But my stomach hurts and I assure you, I can get medieval on your ass in point five seconds. So don't tempt me.

We didn't.

What we did do is briefly discuss (with her parents) her crib bedding set which is as yet unpurchased due to her unexpected early arrival. Instead of coming via a shower, the set will come in the form of a Christmas gift. It only took a brief conversation in which I suggested they check into the Dwell Studio Line at Target (which I love beyond all reason) to get me thinking in terms of a nursery and what it might look like. Of course, what I like about the Dwell line is the great colors and patterns that are nice jumping off points for design but aren't completely gimmicky and based on princesses and flowers and hearts and rainbows shooting out one's ass all the live-long day. Not that there's anything wrong with that if it's what you're into. But it doesn't take being a novice grandmother to a granddaughter (and the requisite shopping for same) for long for a person to realize the whole "princess/diva" theme has gone a Barbie-mobile toddler tiara too far. Holy CRAP, you wouldn't believe the tee-shirts, dresses, and tu-tu's that scream (essentially), "spoiled rotten brat and proud of it" endlessly. Not to mention the pink, The Pink, THE PIIIIIIINK! Dear Lord, it's just way, WAY too much.

But I digress.

What I'm actually working on design-wise presently, is my own kitchen redesign. I'm in the middle of painting my formerly bright shiny oak cabinets in a satisfying black, and doing some fairly exciting (to me anyway) re purposing in that room. It is my goal to document that process here and with pictures.

We'll see if that materializes.

Also, I'm beginning to consult with my very own mother on redecorating her bedroom, my cousin on her (almost) complete repainting project and, last but certainly not least, Nikki May's currently hopelessly stalled front porch project. And this last project is halted by weather, premature birth, the holidays, and what next...war, famine, pestilence, perhaps? Let's hope not. Lest we forget, STALLED does not mean stopped, however. We are planning some indoor work on that one soon (like cushion sewing).

Meanwhile, Mom's bedroom paint colors on the table are: taupe, chocolate, deep gray, medium gray, and, most recently, a Farrow & Ball color called Claydon Blue--Claydon Blue 87 to be exact and it looks something like this:

Recommended all over the innernets by House Beautiful and numerous other design blogs, it's one of those colors that the more I looked at it, the more it intrigued me. I logged on tonight with the intention of ordering a sample only to discover !GASP! it must be discontinued because it's nowhere to be found on the F & B site. Which, of course, has the effect of only making me want it more! Damn you, Claydon Blue No. 87! What a design prick tease you are! (And if YOU have any information/thoughts/insights about the color, pretty please post in the comments?)

It was at about this time that I decided I needed to to a mood board for Mom's room, not to mention actually figure out how one of those things are done and in pursuit of that goal, I dutifully headed on over to Olioboard.

And, Oh Em Gee, people. Oh Em Gee. As I remarked on Facebook, I did NOT need to know about this site, nor the thousands of design possibilities at one's fingertips.

I'm not sure how many hours I spent pulling this nursery together, but I am sure I enjoyed every single second of doing it. Obviously, this is not a traditional looking girl's nursery and that's one of the things I like best about it though I'm pretty sure Kamryn's parents are in the market for (and will end up with) something more traditional. Regardless, once I happened upon that deep yummy blue paint color from The Land of Nod, my imagination was, like it or not, off and running.

Kamryn actually already has a crib that happens to look much like the one pictured and a white chest of drawers. The child's rocker pictured is a representation of one I myself had as a kid and that I would gift to Kamryn for the nursery. The Dwell Studio crib bedding and curtains are extremely affordable. The two squares to the right of the dresser are Dr. Seuss fabric swatches which I think would be great to cover a lamp shade and make a tiny throw pillow for the rocker as well as some misc. pillows for the crib. One could substitute the Seusse fabric in place of the matching curtains, even, though I think the black and white swatch would work best for that. The mobile in the center is from CB2 and one that I've been in love with for a while. I just about flipped when I realized it blends perfectly with this color scheme. It, too, is affordable at like 19.95. The white wooden tree bookcase, which I love, is crazy expensive. But that's something I think could be easily made by hand either entirely with wood or through a combination of paint on the wall and wood. Ditto the "Share Your Toys -The Management" sign, a sentiment I really love, but I do think that graphic could easily be printed and similarly framed for a whole lot less than $86.

If you're interested, you can click through to this Olioboard right here and see a larger version of the items as well as details on where it can all be bought and for how much. If you're looking for a mood board site I highly recommend this one, though I admittedly have no experience with any other.

As for me and Olioboard, I can only imagine this nursery design will almost certainly be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Design Find: Combine (or tractor) Gear Candle Holders. Courtesy of The Tool Shed.

2011-11-26T14:03:00.001-08:00

I took a little trip to my Grandma's house back in September (it might possibly have been October) to meet my Dad there and to catch up on...farming. Not that I know much about it. The point is, it was perfectly beautiful fall weather. The kind that makes you want to weep and clutch your chest and lasts five minutes.

This is Grandma's house (a panoramic shot via Autostitch); it is located deep in the heart of southern Illinois between Benton and Mt. Vernon and not nearly far enough away from the maximum security prison where John Gotti died for comfort. The house is surrounded on all sides by cultivated fields. The building to the extreme right in the photograph is: The Tool Shed. The other stuff besides the house and The Tool Shed are much newer.

The Tool Shed has been there since perhaps the 1940's (? maybe longer). When I was a kid growing up (I'd like to say mostly in the eighties, but I'd be lying) and spending holidays and vacations at Grandma's house, the Tool Shed was (well, and still is) the most likely spot in which to find male persons of the farming persuasion. I spent many early summer/fall/winter/spring evenings perched in my three step booster chair watching as the creamy whipped potatoes and fluffy yeast rolls slowly cooled on the table while we waited for my Dad, his brother(s), and their Dad (or some configuration of this group) to deign to leave The Tool Shed, come in the back door, wash their hands with Lava soap, and sit down to dinner so they and the rest of us could eat.

There was no eating before they got there. And there was no discernable sign of impatience on the part of my Grandma, no matter how long the pause between placing dinner on the table and the time the eating began. Nobody had to be told what time dinner was served because it was on the table at the same time every day and that time was either five or six o'clock, I can't remember which. Occassionally, like kids do, I would become convinced I was in danger of collapse from hunger if I had to wait another minute and, on those days, I was sometimes sent out to The Tool Shed to remind those who already knew dinner was ready that dinner was ready.

Not that I went IN The Tool Shed. No, I'd climb off my booster chair, head outside, hop down the the front porch steps, walk down the sidewalk, and begin crunching my way across the gravel drive going around the old Studebaker and past the big gas tank (both gone now), until the massive door of The Tool Shed yawned in front of me, exhaling the scent of motor oil from its inky inscrutable depths. There were always guys milling around out front, sometimes just my family members (Dad, uncles, Grandpa), at other times other men as well. They were usually smoking. They paid me little mind, and knew why I was there.

"Dinner is ready" wasn't exactly a newsflash.

I'd learned the trek was futile by the time I was in double digits. As a teenager, I could be found at the dinner table chin in hand and resigned to cooling potatoes as inevitable fact of life. By then, however, I'd thought to wonder just what the hell was so fascinating out there and to include "Stag film playing secretly in back room" on my list of imaginary possible explanations. It would have to be good to distract one from Grandma's delicious horticulture beans and perfectly latticed fruit pies (as often as not topped with real Dairy Queen frozen soft serve), I reasoned.

Anyway, honestly, the stag film theory is unlikely (but I'm open to anyone's confession--leave it in the comments).

And on that day, the day just a few months ago, the perfect fall day in either September or October, fast forward thirty years or so and I actually got to poke through The Tool Shed my very own self. Which is where I found the items in question:

Don't these just scream VINTAGE CANDLE HOLDERS to you? They did to me. To my father and uncle who accompanied me they screamed:

Something is seriously wrong with the person who would think of these items as "home decor".

Of course, I'm not the type that would be deterred by such an attitude. And I think they're very nice, don't you? They are spare (extra? important?) parts off a tractor or combine originally. Stay tuned for another vintage find on that same expedition and subsequent re-mix.

Hamburger Helper Potatoes Stroganoff: The Home Made Recipe (And my usual TMI back story)

2011-11-13T10:31:00.000-08:00

I'm a little frustrated today because I've developed a home made version of a dish I used to regularly cook for my son, Chase, (now a father himself) when he was growing up that I wanted to post at All Recipes (my go-to cooking site). What I didn't realize until now that to be a posting cook you have to "join" and pay money. Hrrmph!

The recipe, in case you haven't guessed by now, is a home made version of the Hamburger Helper classic: Potatoes Stroganoff. A quick Google just now left me with the notion that this box dinner may no longer be available in stores and, yes, there is some weeping and wailing out there about the loss! Thus, this post may be more helpful to some out there than I first realized. You can thank me later.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not exactly proud to announce that I fed my growing son Hamburger Helper on a regular basis. Let's just say I wasn't the more evolved cook then that I am today. In fact, I was SO bad that my cherished son grew up with the notion that Sloppy Joe sandwiches are Food of the Gods. And at age 26, he still holds this opinion. Yes, yes, leave your indictments in the comments. In my defense (if in fact there is one) I was a) Young b) Poor c) Extremely taken up with the Drama of Being in My Twenties. And people, if you either don't recall or have not yet reached your twenties, let me assure you: there is no more dramatic condition in this life than being in one's twenties. The HORROR! The INDIGNITY! The DRAMATIC SITUATIONS that no one else on earth can POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND!

I'm exhausted just thinking about it.

Anyway, to make a (largely unnecessary) back story even (unnecessarily) longer, for the record, I didn't start out as a Sloppy Joe Hamburger Helper kinda mom. Much like Nathan, Junior, the pages of "Dr. Spock's Baby and Child Care" was the dog-eared bible of Chase's first year. Dr. Spock's suggested schedules and baby menus served as the skeleton that his baby diet was constructed around. I read baby food jars with the critically suspicious eye of a nutritionist. Sugar?! No, thank you! Farina, Cream of Wheat! These were the whole grain, hearty cereals that served as the foundation of a baby diet calculated to promote healthy growth and development. Oh, those halcyon days when I could control everything!

Throw in four more years, a full time job (mine), a burgeoning tee-ball career (his) and the aforementioned Drama and let's just call it a recipe for Hamburger Helper, shall we? In any case, this is a more delicious version of the original that, for the most part, consists of whole ingredients. I cooked it the first time a few weeks ago once it hit me that the whole thing was based on ranch flavoring. And, yes, I could construct the ranch flavor from my existing spice cabinet and do away wtih the the dip ingredient. But for now, baby steps.

Most importantly, there is something about this comfort food that's hard to beat this time of year. I've probably cooked it three times in the last month. As a bonus, it's one of those dishes that's as, if not more, delicious reheated. I'm not seeing a recipe like mine anywhere else on the internet--the ones I have seen call for noodles (??) and some for cream of mushroom soup (NO!). I assure you, noodles were not part of the original stroganoff package and cream of mushroom soup would be an abomination in this dish.

Without further adieu:

Potato Stroganoff (serves 4)

1 lb ground chuck
4oz can mushrooms drained or--better-- half cup fresh sliced baby portobellos (optional)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 medium onion, diced
olive oil
1 14-oz can beef broth
1 envelope ranch dip mix
4 small or 2-3 larger (more if you prefer) washed unpeeled red potatoes halved lengthwise and thinly sliced into half moons
couple of tablespoons of minced fresh parsley (preferably from your yard)
half cup sour cream
2 tablespoons cornstarch
Salt and pepper to taste.

Begin by mostly covering the bottom of a deep skillet with olive oil. Heat oil over medium heat until hot; add garlic, onions, ground chuck and mushrooms, season (but be stingy with the salt, the broth tends to be too salty, I try to by reducted sodium for this reason). Brown ingredients stirring occasionally over med to med-low heat until nearly all liquid has evaporated (15+ minutes). De glaze with the beef broth. Bring mixture to boil, add potatoes, dip mix, half the parsley. Reduce heat to a simmer and cook until potatoes are done, stirring occasionally, 15- 20 minutes. Whisk in cornstarch and simmer a few more minutes to thicken. Remove from heat, stir in sour cream and remaining parsley--do not boil. Return to heat if necessary to heat through (but don't boil!). Serve topped with a little Parmesan cheese and fresh parsley, if you like.

[I am committed to seeing that, at least at my house, this will be the only version of "Hamburger Helper" that my granddaughter ever know. Also, I'll try and update this post with a photo of the dish if I ever get around to it. But, be warned, the stuff's not pretty. Just comforting and yummy.]

Kamryn Elizabeth

2011-11-04T21:50:00.000-07:00

[Updated with 2 new photos 11/17/11 at 1:51 am]
[Updated with 6 new photos 11/13/11 at 3:45 pm]
[Updated with 3 new photos 11/4/11 at 11:46 pm]
[Updated with 3 new photos 11/1/11 at 12:00 am]
[Updated with 10 new photos 10/31/11 at 11:15 pm]

YES, I am Paducah's first Gangstah Grandma! And, damn, it feels good.

Kamryn Elizabeth was born after three exhaustive days in the hospital on October 29th at 6:30 a.m. weighing in at 4 lbs 3 oz (five weeks early) and measuring 17 inches long. She remains in the neonatal intensive care unit, but is doing well, is active, and sucking down 3 ml of formula every three hours.

[As an aside, I've been assured Kamryn will be an "only" just like her Grammy. So we'll have that in common.]

Guess who's iPet...

2011-11-01T17:10:00.000-07:00

SEE how much better my Isabelle post looks over at iList Paducah. Where everything's properly formatted! Right here.

Golden Girl

2011-11-01T09:59:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I participated in a 5K run/walk, a fundraiser for Project Hope, a worthy no-kill animal shelter that serves the southern Illinois and western Kentucky areas (send them your spare cash this instant!). I decided Isabelle would take the walk with me, her being a dog and all and that morning, as is her way, Isabelle caught on very quickly to the fact that she was having an Outing. She learned as a puppy to identify the word "walk". She will perk up her ears the minute the word is spoken, tilt her head to one side, stare intently into my face, every nerve and sinew aquiver, and begin the pant of excitement that translates loosely to,

Did you say WALK? Is it me? ME??? I'm going for a WALK? OHMYGOD REALLY? REALLY? SHIT! I gotta pee...

pant, twirl, sweat, slobber, tremble, release fur cloud--REPEAT.

The rattle of her leash (it doesn't come out often now that my yard is completely fenced for the dog's enjoyment) only confirmed her growing suspicion and amped up her already off-the-chart level of hysteria,

The LEASH! SWEET JESUS, it's the LEEEEEEEEEEASH! The LEEEEEEEEEEEASH

With difficulty (because of her extreme excitement level), I got her loaded into the back of the car. Once we set off, it was a constant stream of the sound her trying to pace in a space barely larger than a kennel, coupled with my ultimate pet pet peeve of the universe, the dreaded, the annoying, like fingernails on a chalkboard, the: mouth breathing.

And make no mistake? Isabelle knows exactly what mouth breathing is and that she isn't supposed to be doing it in the car (or anywhere near me). It goes something like this:

ISABELLE
PANT-PANT-PANT-PANT-PANT-PANT...

ME

(shouting over my shoulder into the din)

ISABELLE! STOP.MOUTH BREATHING.

ISABELLE

(suddenly dead silent)

7.5 seconds later...

ISABELLE

pant-pant-pant-pant-PANT-PANT-PANT...

ISABELLE?!

ISABELLE

(suddenly dead silent)

Repeat above 10+ times on the 7-minute ride to the park.

Once there, I unloaded the shaking, drooling, mouth-breathing mass of quivering fur that perhaps, say, a mere 30 minutes earlier had been a boneless unresponsive heap of jointless dog on the floor. I clamped her leash on and began the arduous task of both walking her in a strange place and reminding her of her training. This means not allowing her to pull me, but rather, when she does, stopping, pulling up on the leash, turning the dog in a circle, commanding her to sit and then setting out again, giving her the command to "Heel!".

Much like with mouth breathing, Isabelle, all appearances to the contrary, knows what she is supposed to be doing. She's just. Too. Damn. Excited. To concentrate. For more than a few. Seconds. At a time. At first.

We make our way to the sign-in station in this lurching fashion: pull up-stop -turn-sit-heel-walk a few steps...pull up-stop-turn-sit-heel-walk a few steps, over and over. By the time we get there, Isabelle is beginning to respond slightly better to commands and has regained a small fraction of her senses. I can stop and sit her, saying "wait", giving her the hand signal (basically my palm in front of her face) and she will do so for brief periods before becoming distracted and trying to lurch away. This trick will get her another pull up on the leash, a tap of her haunch with my foot, and the "wait!" again.

By the time the race/walk was about to begin, Isabelle was mostly under control. We positioned ourselves firmly at the back of the pack (no running for me! still hate it!). I thought nothing of taking Isabelle along for a brisk three-mile (no, I'm never converting to metric) walk. It was a beautiful crisp fall morning, the perfect weather--blue skies, puffy clouds floating by. It was warming up quickly, though, and most everyone had shed the light jackets they had arrived wearing. Once the runners sprang away, we set out, me chatting all the while. Isabelle fell into step mostly beside me, and, after a time, I had to pull her back from straining on the leash only occasionally and then, a while after that, not at all.

We had completed perhaps the first half of the walk before I noticed Isabelle falling a little short. I glanced down at her, a little incredulous. Her face, almost completely white now, was near the ground and she was breathing in slow, tired pants. I heard a scraping noise that took me a moment to realize was the sound of her dragging one foot slightly. For the first few seconds, I couldn't understand what I was seeing. Like looking at those purposely illusory drawings you have to stare at for few seconds before the picture comes into focus, I stared down at Isabelle. She looked exhausted. Suddenly, a hundred observed but not studied moments began falling into place in my mind: Isabelle not being the first out the door in the morning; Isabelle with a strange look on her face sometimes, as though she can't quite make sense of something; a certain still quality she has now when she's resting...too still; a pause sometimes for a few beats between the time I say her name, and the time she looks over and becomes responsive.

In that moment, a bell that had been ringing in the distance for months, maybe years, became an ominous clang.

Isabelle is...old.

She just had her eleventh birthday.

I suddenly remembered a conversation I'd had with a dog lover when I was first considering adopting a dog of my own, probably a few months before I got Isabelle:

What's it like having a dog, I'd asked.

And what he said was that a dog is a little like having a child but speeded up in fast motion. With a dog, he said, everything--puppyhood, adulthood, old age--is compressed and condensed into a much shorter timeline. Of course, I knew this. We all know this, right? But something about the way he'd put it that day made the words stick with me. And as I stood there seeing Isabelle, usually the most rambunctious and enthusiastic of dogs, now stooped and nearly worn out from a walk that she wouldn't have even noticed not that long ago, I knew I was seeing that short arc for myself.

We would slow our pace and finish the walk that day. And, afterward, Isabelle was tired, but still excited and happy to be there. But as I loaded her into the car, she had to have help getting in. For the first time ever, she was too tired to execute her usual easy one-motion precise leap into the way-back area in which she rides. And I came away that day with a new appreciation for what I've always known is true: my time with my big, furry oldest girl is limited.

Even so, most days, Isabelle is able to gallivant around as if she were a much younger dog. She is often spry given a full night's rest. The vet told me when she was younger that Isabelle had some of the best hip joints he'd ever felt (especially in a retrieverish sort of dog--no doubt the benefit of some creative breeding) and these still serve her very well, enabling her to sproing through the tall grass on occassion. She will still jump enthusiastically into any body of water she encounters, although she won't stay in as long as she used to and she struggles more when hefting herself back out again, when her thick coat is heavy with the weight of the water. Isabelle, more often than not, is a very happy and fairly active dog indeed. If we're lucky, we still have many more years left together.

But since the day of the walk and for weeks now, Isabelle's life, at different times and in different ways, has been replaying in my head off and on. Even when I'd rather it didn't. I'm remembering times and days and incidents I haven't thought about in years. I suppose this is the normal process. This is what happens when one comes to a realization like I have.

In the meantime, Isabelle has been enjoying additional privileges and freedoms since my ephiphany and I suspect these will continue to grow. Her tendency, since puppyhood, to swipe food off momentarily unsupervised plates and ingest it quick as lightening followed by the, "Who me?" face has resurfaced. Only these days, she's getting away with it. I suspect this will continue. Whatever happens, I will be here for Isabelle for as long as she needs me. Just as she has done the same for me every day and every night since that October day eleven years ago when I spotted her, a fat shy blonde little thing, hiding behind her kennel. I mean, hello? Clearly, she was a puppy destined for doggie greatness.

A few weeks ago I began the going through my digital files and editing my photos of Isabelle and consolidating them into a single file. I felt the need to get them all in one place. That process, which began as a casual project, quickly turned to steady occupation, then semi-urgent mission, and, finally, to full blown obsession. It was a massive undertaking given my sloppy tendencies where things like photo files are concerned. Not only did I have to slog though Pinky's only marginally organized archives, but also the external drive that holds approximately a zillion images from my old computer and even some film images before that. Isabelle has been much photographed to say the very least, first with old skool film, then on my crappy Fuji digital camera that came free with something or other, then with my "real" camera and now with my iPhone. Isabelle, along with the rest of us, has advanced fully into the digital age.

Once I amassed Isabelle's photos, I became equally obsessed with the idea of organizing them into a little slide show; it sounds simple enough, right? I used the only program on my computer for such a project: Microsoft movie maker (probably not the best choice). Regardless, it's been cathartic--if exhausting-- to put together the the thing together (I'll spare you the details of my technical problems and nineteen nervous breakdowns, and countless viewings of Movie Maker "fix" videos).

I've often been accused of favoring Tallulah over Isabelle by those that read me here. But I submit the following video as evidence to the contrary. Doubters? This one's for you...

The Perils of Onliness

2011-10-24T10:24:00.000-07:00

It’s always the same when someone first learns I am an only child. They nod knowingly, “Ohhh…the little princess!” they’ll comment, eyes narrowed, head bobbing in a slow knowing nod, readjusting their idea of who I am in an instant. Someone said those exact words, in fact, to me just yesterday.

Those with siblings (or the majority of everybody) have this idea about the vast rewards of only-childhood.

And, I won’t lie; only childhood had its privileges. Yes, all those gifts under the tree were pretty much JUST for me. No snot-nosed younger sibling ever read my diary; no older sister or brother enjoyed freedoms I was not yet allowed to taste. No one ratted me out that time I dropped and broke in two the lid of my Mom’s favorite cut-class candy jar and quick glued it back together with super glue. There was no other skater in the basement rink to disrupt my smooth gliding. The family cat, first "Fairy" and then "Brandi", was in disputably mine alone.

There was no retribution for Tommy Wilkerson from my older brother or sister after Tommy blacked my eye on the school bus.

Actually, I'm surprised that, in my late (sob!) forties, people are still adjusting their opinions of who I am based on my lack of birth order status. I mean, seriously, it's been a few years since the first emerging jiggly jello traces of my personality hardened into the unmalleable concrete you see before you today. I can also assure you that Life has seldom, if ever, afforded me any special consideration in light of my delicate only-child condition.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

Ladies and gentlemen I submit to you that there are advantages to putting up with a sibling suddenly and without warning...say...whacking you upside the head for no particular reason at all. There's a lesson there. An important life lesson. And that lesson is:

LIFE AIN'T FAIR. GET USED TO IT.

Those of us without the benefit of that sassy or annoying sibling, people like myself, had to take a much more circuitous and arguably more painful route to this simple truth. Spending the vast majority of my first five years in a suburban bubble with no one, for the most part, but my mother and father in my cast of characters does not exactly prepare one for the big, bad world.

Oh, sure, I had neighborhood friends, kids that would ride their trikes over and hang out in the driveway with me (because I couldn't leave my driveway--serial killers, you know) and cheerfully put up with me deciding what to play today and bossing them around.

Could I help it if I was the the only one with any ideas?

There was of course my imaginary friend. "Puddin'", as I inexplicably named him, was a boy of about, I'd guess, twelve years old in contrast to my own 2 to 4-year-old self. He had thick brown hair parted on the side and wore a light brown suit, white shirt and chocolate colored tie. I could see him most clearly in the mirror standing beside and a little behind me. I don't remember him ever talking to me; he was a supportive, if silent, presence. He watched me play and smiled a wistful smile as he sat nearby, his palms on his thighs as if in a pose of just pre-or post-movement, like maybe he enjoyed being there but wished he could be more of an active participant.

But, no, for the most part it was just me. Or me and my Mom. Dad was mostly off at work smoking Winstons and punching an adding machine. (I occasionally had to make an appearance at his office and recite the "Pledge of Allegiance" for the entertainment of his co-workers. This I did very quickly with one hand over my heart. I mean, everybody that watched Romper Room knows The Pledge. Jeez.)

Chief among the major injustices of my first five years of life: leotards. For some reason my mother was COMPLETELY OBSESSED that every dress should have a matching pair of leotards. Leotards that pinched, twisted, never completely conformed to my feet and eternally had a crotch floating somewhere between my actual crotch and my knees limiting my movement and annoying the holy living hell out of me each and every second I had to endure the getup.

A secondary but no less annoying insult: cottage cheese. I was eternally trapped at the dinner table until I finished my cottage cheese. An even worse side dish, Lima beans, was foisted on me similarly but, mercifully, less often. So, yes, on a REALLY BAD day, worst case scenario, I could be found wearing leotards and eating Lima beans.

Don't get me wrong. It wasn't all Lima beans and leotards.

There was danger, too. Mostly this came in the form of The Public Restroom.

No space in my young life posed more of a threat to my health and human safety than a public toilet. I still remember the look of fear that would come over my mother's face when I would have a call of nature in a public place. She would blanch, become suddenly solemn, bend over and whisper,

"Are you sure it can't wait?"

Well...no. I generally didn't bother to take time out to mention these things unless it was a full-on emergency. The worst of all situations was the GAS STATION Public Restroom. A visit to these hellish pits of doom would require an actual pep talk before we entered.

"Okay, Suzanne, now remember...don't touch anything, okay?"

I'd nod. (It was as if we were preparing for battle. If I'd been a real soldier the vibe would have been, "Okay, boys, smoke 'em of you got 'em!)

At this point my mother would go completely commando, scooping me up so the bottoms of my shoes would not actually make contact with the germ-covered floor. With me thus secured, she, herself, would tiptoe in (no small feat, now that I think about it). I'll leave the rest to your imagination except to say I was expected to perform very, very quickly in that situation (not always what comes naturally) in order that we might, by hurrying, somehow not awaken the invisible bio hazard ghoul--it always smelled like a zoo--that stalked us breathing the foul breath of death down our vulnerable Dove-scented necks every second we remained in Public Toilet Jeopardy.

So, yes, it was this crystalline bubble (listen to the soundtrack here) that the aforementioned furious balled up fist of Tommy Wilkerson would shatter that day on the school bus in 1968 leaving me with my very first black eye and a question that would would echo, in one form or fashion, on my lips for years afterward....

Why?

But....why would Tommy Wilkerson punch me in the face? But why isn't Tommy Wilkerson nice? Isn't everybody supposed to be nice? Isn't hitting against the rules? Why isn't Tommy Wilkerson following the rules?

It made no sense to me. I mean I really, truly didn't get it. The stuff just didn't happen in my world. In my world? If you were good at the doctor's office you got a coloring book. These things could be predicted, counted on. One could not venture beyond the edge of the driveway. And so ONE DIDN'T.

One did not randomly get punched in the face.

I still remember my mother trying to formulate an answer to the question,

"But WHY would Tommy Wilkerson punch me in the face?"

She'd say, "Because he's not nice."

I'd ask, "But WHY isn't he nice? Why does he want to be mean?"

She'd say, "Some people just aren't nice."

Which would lead me, once again, right back where I started,

"Not nice? But...WHY?"

Of course we all know the end of this story. The woods are full of Tommy Wilkersons. I can't help but believe that, somehow, the day-to-day give and take of dealing with a sibling would have left me better prepared to deal with this fundamental truth. Less...surprised with each and every new black eye dealt by the hand of fate. More able to quickly shake off the setbacks caused by the Tommys of the world and better able to refocus on the task at hand.

As it was, it took rather longer than I think it should have for me to get past the learning curve of the basic WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH EVERYBODY question. But, get past it I did. I've even taken on a few Tommys over the years. Tommys that, let's just say? Are a little worse for the wear.

Yep, I am practically shock-proof at this point.

But, still. If I'm honest? Even now, I have to admit to not always being able to shake the question. Can't always stop pondering where it all might have gone wrong and just what it is that prevents us all from getting along...

(Why?)

Me one happy leotard-free day in nineteen sixty-something. I am instead thrilled to be wearing what I then referred to as my, "Ellie May Clampett" shorts--not only are they cool denim cut-offs, but they also had a rope belt that is covered by my shirt. Come to think of it, this is STILL my outfit of choice.

Design Find: Skateboard Table

2011-10-19T18:40:00.001-07:00

I absolutely LOVE this idea for a either boy's room or for any skateboard enthusiast! A skateboard mounted on hairpin legs. Use a new or vintage board; legs are available here.

Beware the moon...

2011-10-18T10:36:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year when the nights get colder, the dark gets creepier, the wind begins to howl and, if you're anything like me, you long to have the crap scared out of you by a reeeeally good horror movie. The bad news? They are in short supply. The good news? Tonight, Maiden Alley Cinema brings you one of the best on the big screen: An American Werewolf in London in hi-def!

(insert wolf howl here)

Originally released in 1981, this John Landis (Blues Brothers, Animal House) both written and directed film is a modern (by 1980s standards) day re imagining of the tale of the werewolf that is one the most well done, ever, period. The story blends comedy and horror in almost equal measure and does it so well that neither element is ever compromised by the other. The story takes us, not surprisingly, to (guess where?) Europe where two wise-cracking college buddies, David and Jack, played by David Naughton ("Wouldn'cha like to be a Pepper too?") and Griffin Dunne (son of late, great, celebrity crime chronicler and novelist, Dominick Dunne, and bother to the late Dominique Dunne, the actor that played the hickey-covered hysterical teen-aged sister in another horror classic "Poltergeist" and was later brutally murdered by her boyfriend at the age of only 22 a year after the release of Werewolf) respectively, Landis quickly does one of the things he does best: establishes a believable, easy reporte between the two friends who are doing the ol' "backpack across Europe" routine. We all know David and Jack. For instance (as David and Jack are walking the moors on a chilly moon bright night):

JACK

Did you hear that?

DAVID

I heard that.

JACK

What was it?

DAVID

Could have been a lot of things.

JACK

Yah?

DAVID

A coyote.

JACK

There aren't any coyotes in England.

DAVID

Hound of the Baskervilles?

JACK

Pecos Bill?

DAVID

Heathcliffe?

JACK

Heathcliffe didn't howl!

DAVID

No, but he was on the moors.

Wacka-wacka. Funny stuff. They're just imagining things. Bad things don't happen to the happy-go-lucky David and Jacks of the world, right? Wrong. Werewolf goes on to tell an improbable, sometimes funny, sometimes, scary, but increasingly eerie story that will stick with you. Like, as in, FOREVER. (I haven't been saying "beware the moon" for 30 years for nuthin'.)

"Werewolf" was nominated for two Oscars and came away with one for Rick Baker's ground breaking special effects make-up. Believe me when I say Landis' transformation sequences fueled by Baker's effects STILL stand the test of time as some of the best ever. This was the first of many Oscars for Baker who would later go on to win for: Men in Black, Harry and the Hendersons, Ed Wood, the Nutty Professor, How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and, most recently, the Wolfman (2010). Baker also engineered the make-up for "Planet of the Apes" in 2001 (shout out!).

Also famously featured in "Werewolf" are pop moon classic songs "Bad Moon Risin'" by CCR and three versions of "Blue Moon" from Bobby Vinton, Sam Cooke, and The Marcels. Van Morrison's "Moondance" is featured in a lovemaking scene. Interestingly, Polygram studio execs in all their usual infinite wisdom wanted mega-stars of the time, John Belushi and Dan Ackroyd cast in the leading roles (as if!). Wisely and obviously, Landis refused. "Werewolf" has gone on to attain cult status enjoying its most recent re-release in 2009.

Tonight's special screening of "Werewolf" is also a fund raiser for the best little independent movie house in Kentucky. Tickets are $15 for members, $20 for non-members, and admission also includes two drink tickets (Schlafly Pale Ale!) and a themed food spread (any guesses?). Showtime is 7 pm. But get there at 6:00 for drinks, snacks and mingling with other smart people with good taste in movies like yourself.

In Which I Become a "Celebrity" (and we use that term loosely) Shopper over at iList Paducah

2011-10-11T20:27:00.000-07:00

Yes, friends, for the low, low, price of lunch and half a bloody mary, turns out I'll shop, write, and slap my own ass in public for you. I'm easy like Sunday mornin'. Enjoy the whole article right here and be in awe (as I am) of Nikki May's totes awesome Instagram and photography skillz. (Have I mentioned my obsession with Instagram?)

In addition, porch progress continues apace! Watch this space (as in tomorrow) for report on all the latest--we've made huge strides!

Nikki's Front Porch Re-Design, Chapter 1: Blogmailed. (And a backstory)

2011-09-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

Thought I wouldn't be back, didn't you? Thought I'd leave you shivering with antici...[SAY IT!]...PATION! Right?

Yah, me too.

My good friend, Nikki May, shy, retiring gal that she is, has decided that I, as the Official Paducah Designer to the (wanna-be) Paducah Stars [tm], should not only head up and assist in the effort to re-design her front porch (pictured above) from drab to fab, but that I MUST ALSO fervently blog this event in the hope that the act of doing so will blast through the thick brick wall of writer's block that encapsulates me. To this end, she's employed various strategies such as assigning me writing and list making tasks, brainstormed some quite good potential commercial writing assignments (thus far to no avail) as well as taken to regularly exacting promises of blog posting from me, especially relating to her front porch re-do. Nikki's knowledge that indoor/outdoor spaces is a particular passion of mine (as well as one that we share) has proven to be my Achilles heel.

In short, it is Blogmail. (Like if blackmail had a dust covered blog.)

Yes, I must blog this. (Repeat.)

My lack of enthusiasm for producing literary prose on the subject should NOT be mistaken for a lack of enthusiasm about the project in general, however. For my enthusiasm for porchy, decky patio-ish outdoorish spaces simply knows no bounds. Since a spring storm deposited my original deck tent on my roof, I have spent the majority of this summer's warmer weather setting up my NEW deck tent (now known as ze casbah) and stuffing it with plants, furniture, pillows, throws, rugs, candle holders of my own design (unifying theme: gravel--I love gravel), and anything else that strikes my fancy.

A further personal challenge is to do this sort of thing on a budget, and I rarely if ever buy anything for ze casbah that isn't on sale, specifically, this means I'm not really happy if a purchase doesn't clock in AT LEAST at 50% off retail. I'll settle for 40% if I REALLY like it but, frankly, that pisses me off. I hunt the garden department clearance racks at Lowes for half-price plants (and you should have seen me at the half off half off sale)--and this doesn't mean I get crappy plants, it means that I buy plants that aren't in bloom THIS SECOND but that will perform quite well given food, water, and proper re potting. I search places like Big Lots and flea markets, I scour the Internet for ideas.

Ze Casbah:

In short, it is an obsession. And one that pays off nicely in a comfortable indoor/outdoor space in which to entertain as well the place in which I've whiled away the majority of my summer evenings this year. At this point, ze casbah gets way more play than my actual indoor living room. It is the first place I go in the morning and the last place I sit at night. Because, honestly, there is just something about that enclosed/not enclosed indoor-outdoor space. There is something magical that happens on a porch or a covered outdoor space or a balcony when you're surrounded by blooming plants and perched on comfy furniture and sipping a cool drink and I think it's this: That place is just for being there and enjoying this day, this very minute. It's neither inside (where things need doing) or outside (where the rest of the world is happening). It's just right here, right now. The place where you whisper a secret or enjoy the rain or curl up with a book. Or watch the rest of the world pass by. Your safe little place. A place that is very intentionally not one thing or the other.

And all that is to say this: for indoor/outdoor space, it's hard to beat the classic southern porch. Like, oh, I don't know, one that you might find on, say...a bungalow? And, seriously, how much fun does living in a bungalow sound like? Say it with me,

"I live in a bungalow!" (Try not to smile.)

Is it just me or does the word "bungalow" immediately conjure up images of a Holly Golightly conga-line? Who gets depressed in a bungalow? Nobody, that's who. Who wants to go to a party in a bungalow? Everybody, that's who. Who wants to re-do the front porch of a bungalow?

HEY! That's ME!
(to be read in the SNL "clucky chicken" voice.)
And, now, finally....

THE PLAN:
In general, Nikki and I agree that the porch will be divided into two sections: one side for a dining/drank sippin' area and the other side for a lounging/living area. We'd like to incorporate the following concepts/ideas/elements (in no particular order):

The overall theme is sort of a romantic one, though we are vigilantly opposed to things that read too "sweet" or "twee". This means we have conversations in which we debate the merits of a particular fabric: does it look like grandma's bloomers (bad) or is it romantic? (good). Does it look like the drapes from "My Old Kentucky Home"? (bad) or is it romantic? (good).

For the most part, Nikki's existing (rather large, actually) assortment of outdoorish furniture will be used. Some will be repainted, some left authentically weathered. Because we like weathered.

Outdoor ceiling fans will be installed in the center of each end of the porch. A bit of an extravagance, but holy shit, ever been to Kentucky in July? The installation of fans will extend the life and use of the porch substantially. Said fans will not include light kits. Because ceiling fan light kits are generally heinous. Said fans may or may not include a rusty finish or distressed paint treatment. We would like them to look original or at least not shiny and new. More on that later.

The porch floor will be primed and painted in two neutral (but light) shades.

Sheer, diaphanous, romantic-ish curtains will be installed in some form or fashion, with the exact configuration/hanging method still TBD.

Fabric will be procured and used to make seating cushions for all furniture/chairs and a lounging couch (My new term ="lounging couch". More on that later). This will serve to visually unify the space. A recent field trip to Hancock Fabrics turned out to be rather more fruitful for ideas in this regard than we would have imagined. Though some in the search party were traumatized by various quilt fabric situations. In addition, vintage linens will be involved. And, yes, fabric=sewing, but not by me. We know people. Behold the cushion fabric:

Vintage windows will likely be an element. Likely hung. Exactly how TBD.

Porch rails will be added. Whether they will be added in this phase of the redesign (or later) is TBD.

Lighting: we favor twinkly. This will be accomplished at least in part with tiny (tiny!) mason jars and in other ways still TBD. This may involve wire and tree branches. Again, more on this later.

Organic material: Plants, of course. I favor a unified theme of galvanized bucket containers. I love me a galvanized bucket. Plus they come in various sizes and shapes and are fairly affordable as compared to ceramic (which is often too shiny for my taste) and terra cotta (which is a little snorifying). Already purchased: a twin set of...FIGS! (With figs on them.). Behold:

Outdoor rugs at each end is part of the plan. The hunt is on for these.

Everything is subject to change and mostly all the time. Though I do think at least half of these elements are going to gel.

More later...I SWEAR TO GOD!

Coming Soon: Nikki's Front Porch Re-Design

2011-09-02T01:02:00.000-07:00

WATCH THIS SPACE for photos, commentary, additional unrelated blathering, and repeated Tourette-like ironic overuse of today's most annoying pop culture terms loosely relating [but obvs not limited] to mine and Nikki May's efforts to make-over the front porch of her Paducah bungalow.

No, seriously. I'm going to post about it.

Really! (Stop looking at me like that!)

BREAKING NEWS (or: How I Found the Perfect Light Fixture in 2,000 Words or Less)

2011-05-31T09:43:00.000-07:00

We interrupt this camping trip to bring you the following Special Report:

From the Decorating Division at Bizzyville HQ...Flash!...Almost exactly a year ago, long-time readers will recall my bedroom redecorating project and my well-documented obsession with painting pretty much everything charcoal. At that time, I repainted my bedroom, hung new drapes, and switched out the comforter set for a richer, more tone-on-tone effect (get me and the design terms). I stopped short of switching out the ceiling light fixture, however. The dreaded "boob light" has been an eyesore ever since offending my delicate (har!) design sensibilities with it's boobish, K-Martina-esque, cut-glass, brass studded elements (gag!). I posted back then of a plan to switch out that fixture in favor of something else from IKEA (Eye Keeeeey Uuuuh! [You have to sing it in your head to the tune of "The Siiiiiimp Soooooons!" Like me.] or something at least similar to the fixture at IKEA that I thought would be appropriate.

And then, like most of my projects, after days of hyperactive, frantic progress...nothing. La-la-la! Oh, I was offended now and then by the boob light. Okay...all the time, truth be told. And even though I would go so far as the occasional stroll through the light fixtures at Lowe's, or other local and regional (mostly) chain stores, I never saw anything that would work. Certainly nothing that thrilled me. And that's what I wanted: to be thrilled by my (reasonably priced) bedroom light fixture.

Is it SO much to ask?

If you're one of those lucky people reading this nestled in the comfy bosom (it's all about the boobs!) of a large urban area with a plethora of shops and stores to choose from, you probably cannot comprehend just how limited and sad the light fixture choices are in the backwater territory that is Paducah, Kentucky. Or for that matter, just how limited ANY design choices are in these parts. Especially if you're on a budget (like, say, myself). Down here, your choices are: Lowes, Wal-Mart, Home Despot. For serious excitement, we drive 45 miles to Target.

But that's about it.

And, yes, I can shop online. But that often gets expensive and then you get into shipping, and then what if one doesn't LIKE it, having never SEEN it...blah blah. This went on. And on.

And then.

And then!

I went to Atlanta. And we all know what's in Atlanta, right? That's right...

IKEA!

[Eye Keeeeey Uuuuh!]

Ya'll! Seriously! I could have PARKED MY SUBARU on that "K"! The place was H U G E beyond my wildest expectations. We could have fit super Wal-Mart in one corner and it would have no doubt cried like a little bitch in the face of the wonder. (To review, I don't get out much--certainly not much to the Big City. And hardly ever with my car in tow. And, obviously, NEVER EVER to IKEA [Eye Keeeeey Uuuuh!]).

Once in the door, and strolling through the endless, modern affordableness of it all, I was kind of crestfallen. We had only allotted a few hours to the joys of IKEA [Eye Keeeeey Uuuuh!]. We had already been to lunch and an art gallery and shops. By now, we were already verging on the tired (and had a full evening in the offing to boot). What we SHOULD have been doing was making lists! Getting there when the doors open! Planning ahead! Munching on trail mix and staying hydrated! We should have been hunting that place like the cheap, affordable design starved wolverines that we could be! Instead of tired, shell shocked slightly punch drunk middle aged women. Which is what we are.

Nevertheless! We resolved to make the best of it.

And we happened upon it pretty quickly. The bedroom light fixture of my dreams! It's big. It's unusual. It's white (the perfect contrast to the dark walls). It's a little crazy. Wait a minute...big, white, unusual crazy...

HEY! THAT'S ME!

(Clucky Chicken!)

Trouble was, the "big" part. It was actually a big, funky white globe-like thing. The fixture was, in all honesty, HUGE measuring something like a yard across. Sure, I could hang it in my bedroom. Above my bed. And then it would rest approximately on my chest while I slept. Good times!

In the end, I had to concede: right fixture. Wrong size.

*sob*

We pressed on.

We wandered through dining rooms and living rooms and kitchens and sat on magically non-puffy furniture that matched startlingly simple accessories. We marveled at stuff that could work this way and that: upended and upside down. So simple! Crap that was plasticky and inexpensive, but still not revoltingly Early American. WHY IS THIS SO HARD FOR ALL THE CHEAP CHAIN STORES IN MY STUPID TOWN?

Finally, at a tiny tableau where the Eye Keeeeey Uuuuh design wizards had managed to perfectly stuff a completely equipped kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom into a mere 325 square feet, I realized I was home. Everything was tiny and within arm's reach. From my couch, I could spit on my bed and my dishwasher. I stretched out my legs and they were immediately met with a tiny foot stool a mere six inches away. On the TV (surprisingly large, but a flat screen mounted flush to the wall and thus not requiring any precious square inches), was only one channel: CNN of course, this being Atlanta. Perfect! News 24/7. I had Internet service and my iPhone. The walls were already painted a thoughtful charcoal. Yes, yes! Oh, yes. I was home.

(photo: Nikki May)

My friend Nikki, sensing quickly there was no use dissuading me, joined me in my new living room and offered me coffee from a thoughtfully placed mug. I accepted. In my new life, I was suddenly a coffee drinker. We sipped our coffee and greeted our fellow Eye Keeeeey Uuuuh shoppers. To their credit, they didn't seem surprised to see us and were even seemingly appreciative of our pointing out the finer points of our new living space,

"See that cabinet?" I said to a young Birkenstock shod woman with a baby in a stroller. The woman stopped, ran her hand over the top.

"You'd never know it, but that actually holds SHOES," I told her.

"REALLY?", she exclaimed, opening the false front cabinet and marveling at the shoes within.

"Huh-huh. We enjoy it," I added, nodding sagely and taking another sip of my coffee.

Two immaculately dressed young men wandered in and smiled at us sprawled out in my new living room,

"Coffee?" I offered holding my cup aloft.

"Uh, well..." the shorter blonde man began, laughing...

"...we'd love to, but we're kind of in a time crunch," the taller dark headed one finished for him.

I shrugged. "Next time, then!"

But, alas. The rest of the (exhausting) day bore down on us.

I bid my new home a sad and affectionate farewell. We pressed on. Through a bewilderingly large collection of rugs, faux plants. Miniature children's furniture. Mirrors! The kitchen accessories. THE KITCHEN ACESSORIES, OMG! Miles and miles and miles of them. I managed to somehow extract a set of glasses from the tumult. We wandered through the bowels of the place, no longer tiny room tableau's, but the stocking section. Where all the merchandise is kept. We eventually passed the lighting section. Wait! THE LIGHTING SECTION!

And there it was: my light fixture.

White, thrilling, unusual (weird, even), but this time, only HALF the size of the original fixture we'd admired upstairs!

Could I posssibly love Eye Keeeeey Uuuuh more? NOT REALLY!

And she lived happily ever after in her almost completely redecorated bedroom with her awesome and thrilling and affordable IKEA light fixture that came in approximately 500 unassembled pieces. But that's okay! I still love it!...

Camp Adventure Recap Park Two

2011-05-23T01:32:00.000-07:00

[Editor's note: This post is part two of the story of a tent camping trip (my first) that I took in April. If you haven't read the beginning start here with Part One.]

So, there we were. Four middle aged women, a little medicated, a little inebriated, and, let's face it, a little crazy, snoozing away in a tent in a nearly deserted campground engulfed in the biggest storm system the region had seen in years. This same massive system would go on to produce 162 tornadoes across fourteen states, including a couple in our region, and cause a total of 43 fatalities.

A satellite image of the weather bearing down. Imagine four crazy sleeping campers tucked into the extreme western end of Kentucky.

I am still amazed at our ability to sleep under these conditions, even considering the level of medication involved, both liquid and otherwise. (In hindsight, I am also amazed that the untried tent sheltered us so well). Though I am a famously deep sleeper (once asleep), I remember waking that night several times to the sound of some ungodly howling wind in the distance, and the sound of the rain slapping the tent was fierce and constant for hours. Despite it all, when the wind and storm would rouse me, I could muster only a faint thought of, "Wow, that really sounds awful..." or, 'Gosh, this could be it...I suppose..." before quickly lapsing back into a comatose state.

This would go on into the wee hours of Saturday morning when what would REALLY rouse us all from sleep would not be the wind or the rain or the weather at all. What would wake us would be one among our number peering out the door flap of the tent and screeching in a piercingly loud whisper,

"Something's out there!"

Trust me when I say, that's a statement that is right up there with the very last things you want to wake up hearing at 3:00 a.m. in a frigid, dark, but still drippy and now eerily quiet campground. My guess is that the three of us still ostensibly snoozing by this point were about half awakened by this unwelcome news.

Not one of us stirred.

After a few seconds of silence, our one alert, lonely camper made a final, ominous, and VERY LOUD announcement,

"THERE'S VARMINTS OUT THERE!,"

before charging out of the tent and commencing to engage in what sounded like possible combat with whatever was threatening the camp site.

This last declaration was enough to stir the rest of us to clumsy, if confused action (I'll confess in my case to looking for my iPhone for the camera--I did want to squeeze off a photo or two of whatever was about to kill us all*). After a great deal of flailing around, one of us would be alert enough to charge out after the first hefting the world's dullest hatchet, whilst Camper #4 and I, vacillating between terror at what might be happening outside, and uncontrollable giggling hysterics at the use of the word "varmint" (both of us agreeing the last person we knew to use the term being possibly Jed Clampett), crawled together toward the tent flap to peer into the darkness.

By the time we got our head torches (still on our heads) switched to "on", it was all over. According to Camp Defenders #1 and #2, Camp Smokey Hoe Pie (don't ask) had fallen victim to a couple of marauding raccoons. The pair, described as a young, agile raccoon who had likely cased the joint and, finding our unsecured coolers easy pickings, had signaled to "Grandpa", a brooding, obese raccoon comparable in size to a human four-year-old. The pair then gleefully worked their way through half of our provisions prior to discovery. And none too quietly, either. The trash, the chocolate, the Reese Cups, an entire package of Bratwurst, and eight of our dozen eggs (smashed!) were consumed by the time Camper #1 realized what was happening.

Keep in mind that accessing some of this food required the little bastards to open not only the coolers, but also the Tupperware containers within the coolers. Accessing the garbage meant they either shimmied up an eight foot pole, or climbed atop two stacked coolers and jumped for it (it was suspended in mid-air). That's right, kids, it was a veritable raccoon freaking flying circus up in there. And for God knows how long, too.

According to Camper #1, when she shouted at them, the smaller, more agile raccoon made an immediate break for it, but big, fat Grandpa merely snorted in her direction and continued to casually enjoy his plunder. It wasn't until she was fully out of the tent and actively engaged in shouting and throwing shit at him that he finally decided he'd go ahead and waddle back into the forest.

Shell shocked, groggy, and creeped out to say the least by the predator encounter, the four of us, by now all out of the tent, were slowly coming to a few realizations. First, we'd survived the storm. Secondly, it was really, really cold. And, thirdly, damn, these head torches are handy! The restrooms, which were quite clean, warm and well lit (thankfully) were located about 50 feet away. This would have been a very dark (but no less frequent) hike indeed without the aid and effortless hands-free light of our our bright, shiny headgear. Since we were the only women in the campground, the restrooms and showers would quickly and happily become our personal domain for the duration of our stay. Our blow dryers, flat irons, lotions and towels would stay tucked away there--almost just like home. If, you know, home was a freezing cold campsite that had to be constantly defended against a pair of wildly aggressive rogue raccoons.

I won't lie, the idea of giant furry vermin pawing through and feasting on our foodstuffs was enough to make me weak with germ nausea. I mean, disease, hello? Botulism? Rabies? Trichinosis? Misfolded prions, anyone? My semi-recent experience in Biology class had left me with just enough knowledge flying ineffectually around in my head to keep me terrified at times like these. I mean, dear God, I had to go ahead and assume that, at the very least, fat grandpa and junior aren't regular bathers.

But, again, not for nothing was the chuck stocked for months. I had Lysol (previously used to spray down the ENTIRE bathroom facility prompting one nervy camper to suggest chemically induced asthma could possibly be a danger equal in severity to the germs themselves--to which I responded, "Did you bring your shower shoes? Because you know you can't step a naked foot...EVER...onto this floor, right?) and some antibacterial wipes which were used to wipe (and it pains me to say this) the raccoon prints ((skeeve)) off of everything. That accomplished, the coolers were stacked and the lids fastened down securely--this time with bungee cords.

By now, it was 4 a.m., and all of us were teeth chattering cold. Again, I had my doubts about how we would sleep in the now quiet camp in light of the fallen temperature and recent excitement, but once again, against all odds, we would pile back into the tent and fall again almost immediately to sleep...

[To be continued. Again.]

*My photos were all uniformly black. Alas.

Camp Adventure Recap PART ONE

2011-05-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

[This is Part One of a post I started and have been meaning to complete since returning from this camping trip IN APRIL. I'm very busy.]

Well, here I am...post my very first tent camping experience...alive and well having survived a multitude of wilderness horrors.

Challenge #1, the weather, was evident long before we loaded up our 10,000 lbs of camping gear and headed to LBL. Both the regional and national weather service(s) were calling for a weather event of potentially Biblical proportions in the run up to and including Friday. Our local weather guru and go-to meteorologist on Facebook, Beau Dodson, had been warning of impending potential weather doom for days. Personal texts and Facebook comments ranged from (at best) "Good Luck" to (at worst) an unceasing chorus of, "YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE OUT THERE".

To be honest, we never really considered calling the thing off, having planned it for well over a month. We wouldn't be denied just because of a lil' old tornado, or golf ball sized hail, or high winds, or severe thunderstorms. Or, you know, ALL FOUR at the same time. Which is what was ultimately called for.

We hustled to the campsite just as soon as we could tear ourselves away from a solid two weeks of frenzied packing which, even in the 11th hour before we drove away, showed no sign of abating. In the end, we didn't so much finish packing as just force ourselves to stop. And this only because the vehicle, a roomy SUV with an additional carry-all in the hitch, threatened to become inadequate to hold our constantly evolving list of "bare necessities". We arrived at the camp site at 1:00 pm, under menacing skies and constant threat of WEATHER and set about the important business of beer drinking and erecting the Grizzly Den .

Perhaps not surprisingly, the former would prove much less complicated than the latter.

Because the tent was new, it meant neither of us had experience pitching it and so were forced to, on occasion, resort to the indignity of instruction reading. This was usually closely followed by increasingly inventive and inspired cursing. Complicating matters was the state of the soil which was wet, soft, and pliable and not at all inclined to grasp our tent stakes which, once "set", took to springing out of the ground with alarming regularity. In addition, the area at the site designated for tent pitching, while really roomy looking when not accommodating an 8-person tent, we soon discovered was actually smaller than the tent's intended footprint. So, stay with me here: weather, soft soil, inexperience, an area of inadequate size=annoying. Eventually, we hit on the idea of covering the tent spikes with heavy rocks we hunted and lugged over from a spot some yards away.

Despite the challenges, after a few tedious and exhausting hours, the tent was up. Not only up, but covered with the rain fly and sprayed with silicon for additional waterproofing in anticipation of the rain. It seemed very iffy at the time as to whether the rock covered spikes would hold. (They did. For three damn days. It was a miracle.)

Not too long after the successful tent pitching, Campers #3 and #4 arrived. And, in fairly short order, 4 out of 4 girl campers agreed: regardless of the weather, we'd be staying at camp for the duration, thankyouverymuch. That settled, we soon turned our attention to the important business of: dinner. For all of you picturing us huddled around a fire simmering a lone miserable can of pork and beans, think again. It's not for nothing we watch the Cooking Channel 24/7.

We fired up the gas burner and had soon boiled up a pot of lemony Old Bay seasoned goodness: shrimp, corn on the cob, potatoes, and kielbasa. For dessert, we lit our first campfire and enjoyed the obligatory 'smores--but with a choice of Hershey chocolate OR Reese cup. Exciting, no?

As if on cue, just as we polished off the last of the melted marshmallowy goodness, the rain began to fall. We had enough time to tuck away our foodstuffs in the coolers before ducking into the tent and hunkering down for what we hoped would be a not TOO eventful first night. When I say we hunkered down, I mean we continued the steady infusion of beer whilst perched on our inflatable mattresses wrapped in our sleeping bags; the four of us all dressed for winter complete with sock caps (it was freezing cold by my standards, temperature in the upper forties).

(View from the tent just before the rain hit.)

As the rain pelted the tent with increasing regularity, darkness fell, and the wind began to howl, we broke out what may have, arguably, been the MVP of the metric ton of camping equipment we'd brought along: flashlights for our heads. And by that I mean battery operated lights on an electric strap that we fitted around our sock-capped heads, and adjusted until the light rested just above our foreheads. I've just Googled and found the proper term for these things: head torches. And, no I do not have a photo of ANY of us wearing one. Because we looked positively ridiculous, a fact we noted pretty immediately as the four of us enthusiastically donned our new head gear. The lights had a constantly "on" setting or a "blink" setting. I'm sure the "blink" setting has a practical (perhaps emergency) purpose, but in our case, it was cause for a disproportionate amount of hilarity, having drank a little too much beer and finding ourselves in a tent in the woods in a near-deserted campground about to be engulfed in a monstrously large storm system.

As all four head torches blinked merrily away, giving a decidedly disco effect, we amused ourselves queuing up songs we deemed appropriate to the situation on our iPhones. Big winners: trance music: The Chemical Brothers, "Galvanize" and, less groovy but much more topically, REO, "Riding the Storm Out".

Despite the danger, the unceasing noise of the howling wind and rain, the beer, and the hilarity, we would all fall unexpectedly (and maybe inexplicably) into what we would later agree was an unusually deep sleep. I doubt it had anything to do with the sleeping pills we'd uniformly ingested earlier. This would last until the wee hours of the morning when we would unceremoniously awaken to a new challenge....

(To be continued.)

The Flood

2011-04-27T10:40:00.000-07:00

Picture of Paducah's floodwall with gates installed taken about about 10:00 a.m. this morning. I believe that gate is approx at the foot of Jefferson St. downtown.

Installing the Floodgates. Paducah, KY

2011-04-25T10:50:00.000-07:00

Gate at the foot of Broadway. Once installation starts, it's a 24-hr/day activity until they are finished. This marks the first time all gates have been installed since 1950. The last time any gates were put in place was in 1997.

Long view: Gate between Broadway & Jefferson

Gate going in between Broadway and Jefferson, downtown Paducah, Kentucky.

Good-bye Cabana

2011-04-23T10:59:00.000-07:00

This was formerly a semi-permanent structure, a 10x10 deck cabana, that stood on my back deck for three years. It survived the ice storm of '09, even. It did not survive today's 86 mph winds. I found it on the roof. The photo is blurry because there are raindrops on the lens of my iPhone. I was at Walgreen's (my favorite store) at the time of the incident.

Not to be outdone, I have purchased a new cabana. Because the weather will not beat me. Nor will anything else, thankyouverymuch. I do plan to wait until the weather is less Biblical to install it, however. I'm not THAT crazy.

Inside Job

2011-04-20T21:40:00.000-07:00

Nauseating.

When Accessorizing Gives Way to...Well, Sasquatch Hunting

2011-04-14T13:31:00.000-07:00

Well, here it is--as threatened--camping eve. As I reported earlier, though I myself am technically (to put it mildly) not a "camping" kind of person (unless said camping involves a large, luxurious climate controlled motor home), when the majority of a person's homies get up a camping trip and your options are: 1) Go camping or; 2) Stay home alone and watch DVR-ed episodes of "Say Yes to the Dress" snuggled up with a sack of caramel Cadbury Eggs and your cuddly spoiled lap dog, if you are ME you really, really kinda want to go Option #2.

But, of course, you can't. Because...PEER PRESSURE. It still burns like a bitch. Even when you're a 37-year-old.

With the question of whether I'm going settled (embarrassingly quickly, I might add), I turned my attention to focusing on the "positives" of camping. Outside. In a tent. In the dark. And, luckily, the positives of camping are pretty much the same as the positives of any life event: it's all about the accessories. And the food. Long-time readers know of my obsession with my hiking boots (they are, in fact, my FAVORITE footwear of all time), and so being already properly shod, I've since been able to spend many happy hours perusing the camping/outdoor aisles of a number of fine local establishments for other supplies. And, can I just say? The mystifying array of camping accessories available even in this backwater town is completely and utterly overwhelming, even for a veteran accessory shopper like myself.

The mind boggles. Truly.

For instance:

I ask you, what camper doesn't need THAT? An honest-to-God AUTHENTIC kerosene lantern-- and a bargain at a mere $5? I was all set to toss that baby in the cart and go all Laura Ingalls Wilder with myself around the campsite--but, ah, no. Alas! VETOED. Turns out? Kerosene is "messy". And perhaps not the best idea for campers likely to be--how to say--"less than sober".

My half-pint of disappointment was quickly forgotten, however, when I ran across this little number at Tar-ghay:

That's right, folks, a TINY [nine-cup] CAMP PERCOLATOR! How cute is that? Is that not what Jeremiah Johnson drinks coffee out of?? For real!

More importantly, do I drink coffee? Of course not. But that's really not the point, now is it? Yep, this little guy is now happily tucked into the chuck box. And, while we're on the subject...the chuck box. Or I should say, THE CHUCK BOX. For (the two of you) those of you not in the camping know, a quick Googling of "camping supplies" quickly leads even the dimmest, most inexperienced camping bulbs straight to...THE CHUCK BOX , which is, at its most simply defined, essentially, is your outdoor kitchen supplies. Now, technically, your chuck box could consist of a cast iron skillet, a Swiss army knife, a tin cup, and a can of baked beans, right? But, seriously? Do I look like Fess Parker? (Okay, don't answer that...)

Of course (surprise!), our chuck box is one that is, decidedly, not what you'd call "primitive". Because, fortunately or unfortunately, I've had upwards of two weeks to stock my chuck and, well, I've sort of stocked and re-stocked and maybe over-stocked my chuck a tiny little bit. Let's just say I've kinda been banned from accessing the chuck box right at this particular moment. And that happened right after we had to get...Chuck Box Junior, original Chuck Box's happy smaller sidekick that holds all those important overflow items that can no longer fit in bulging original Chuck. Take, for instance, my tiny, portable spice rack:

You gotta have spices, right? What, a person's gonna brave the Wilderness without a decent Jamaican Jerk rub on hand for God's sake? I think not.

I'm not gonna lie, by this time, in case you haven't guessed, I was actually enjoying, if not camping, then camp accessorizing. Folks, I even bought myself a sleeping bag...a purple sleeping bag (and matching bubble wand).

I mean, it was on. SO on. And then...THEN!

Well, then there was Sasquatch. Yes, you read that right: Sasquatch, Bigfoot, Yeti...you know, big, hairy, elusive and, above all, stinky. Around here, he's known as The Beast of Land Between the Lakes and--DOUBTER--he has his own Facebook page.

Here's what happened:

Someone I know very well knows someone else very well who actually, just last Saturday at dusk (and I'm so not kidding here), saw Sasquatch at the aforementioned Land Between the Lakes (otherwise known as "LBL") resort area. And LBL, it just so happens, is where my very campsite is located. And of all the 170,000 acres (and all the gin joints) of vast wilderness preserve that is LBL, it just so happens that Sasquatch was spotted not three miles from the spot at which I'll soon be lounging about choking down authentic percolator camp coffee and and grilling high-dollar Whole Foods steaks.

That's right people, we are in possession of the very GPS coordinates of the exact spot where, less than a week ago, Bigfoot actually stood.

Put THAT on your camping fork and roast it.

Now, before you ask me just exactly where this spot is located, let me just say I can't (or don't feel like I should) tell you. I will say that, like most LBL sightings, this one took place toward the north entrance a few miles from a campground on one of the trails. As I said before, it happened at dusk, and the sighter in question (a camper) was alone when it happened, having decided to get in a quick bike ride before dark. He pedaled out on a trail and had decided it was time to turn back. He parked his bike for a moment and was just taking in the scenery and watching night begin to fall when he heard something big...very big moving through the woods. The noise was so loud and so obviously something unnaturally huge that he experienced the noise quite a few beats before he saw anything. He had time to think...It has to be a bear because that's the only thing big enough to make that much commotion, right?; however, he was also aware that there had never been any bears to his knowledge at LBL. And it was then that it, or part of "it" emerged from the brush and stopped short. From his vantage point, he could only see it from what he estimated must have been its waist down as the top half was obscured by brush. There was perhaps sixty feet of distance between him and what looked to be a very hairy set of legs that had to belong to something by his reckoning somewhere in the neighborhood of 9 feet tall and standing upright. It seemed to him as though the thing had spotted him at about the same time it had become visible and he had the distinct impression that it was aware of and startled by his presence. In the split second that he and the beast became aware of the sight of each other, he took in the size, and hairy legs of the bottom half of the creature and realized he could make out distinct looking, albeit extra large, somewhat ape like knees and thighs despite the hairiness factor. But these were very VERY quick observations as his main, overriding reaction and gut instinct was to get the hell out of there. And this he did, quickly covering the distance to his bike, and riding as quickly as possible back to the campground. He had no camera or cell phone and, as he would later tell, would have been shaking far too badly to operate either well enough to get any kind of picture and, anyway, would not have taken the time to delay his hasty retreat a single second to do so.

While I've pulled your leg a few times in this here blog, I swear on the life of my sweet, spoiled (but nevertheless prized) little Westie bitch that the preceding account is the truth. And that the sighter in question is a grown man in a respectable profession that, to say the least, is not not given to the excitable. He is not speaking to the press about this, although as recently as 2007, the Paducah Sun ran a story ("Is Bigfoot in LBL?") on Bigfoot researchers who collected a plaster cast of a very large Sasquatch-esque footprint at LBL as well as spent a few days scouting the place for other evidence having heard enough accounts from that neck of the woods to warrant the trip. But, again, keep in mind, 170,000 largely uninhabited acres is a hell alot of ground to cover and would offer thousands of vast and varied remote options for a Sasquatch lair(s).

So, there you have it. I leave you now so that I may go forth and, like it or not, partake of the joys (?) of tent camping, the bounty of the chuck box, and the wonder of nature. And if you think me and my three com padres are gonna come this close to a bonafide Bigfoot sighting spot without hiking on over and and planting our silly tootsies on actual hallowed Sasquatch ground, you'd be sadly mistaken. Because, yes, oh HELL FREAKING YES we are nothing if not most definitely, positively, abso-freakin'-lutely crazy just like that. (And if you think the fact that this whole damn premise sounds just exactly like the opening 15 minutes of a horror movie plot has escaped me, think again.)

See you on the other side...

iList Link Love

2011-04-06T09:26:00.000-07:00

Mary Thorsby, you look maaaahhhhvelous! Have I mentioned?

I am thrilled to see my recent blog resurrection did not go unnoticed by my favorite Paducah events resource and Bizzyville BF, iList Paducah and, more specifically, the blog of Mary Thorsby. The cyber-affair between our sites has been previously well-documented and ongoing for years (almost since the beginning; I'd link if I wasn't lazy) as has my affection for the amazing (and award winning) partners behind the party: Mary Thorsby and Nikki May . These girls are forces of nature both together and individually. And if you know them in real life, you know I'm soooooo not kidding about that.

LauraK & friends

In addition, I too endorse Mary Thorsby's other two Paducah blog reads:

LauraK's new abbreviated Tumblr site featuring her quick-takes on style, photography, the moment, and what's up; again, long-time readers will recognize Laura as an early Bizzyville friend and supporter. (And person who is very TALL. As compared to some other people who are NOT TALL.)

And then there's DJ/Musician/Bloody Mary Enthusiast Tony Foo Yong's (Please don't say, "Tony Foo YOUNG", people, it's "YONG". Thanks.) blog: three chord monty.

Ah, Paducah. All we care about is LOVE! (And I'm semi not kidding about that.)

[All photographs by local photog Brad Rankin. Whose often edgy, editorial style I totally endorse and recommend and enjoy perusing. That's Brad between LauraK and Kenn Gray, 2nd photo. He is a chameleon, I tell you.]

How Do Ya Like It?

2011-04-05T12:28:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, I keep catching TLC's commercial for their new series "Extreme Couponing", a show (inexplicably) featuring a bunch of sweaty unemployed people using coupons to stockpile a bunch of crap they don't need. Give me crazy hoarder any day over that schlock is all I can say about that. My point is, the commercial's hook isn't the subject matter of the show, but rather the catchy tune that plays in the background. Those of us "of a certain age" will recall "More More More" as one of those disco tunes that was kind of pervasively everywhere back in 1976-77(ish).

When you think about it, the song has all the required elements of a great disco tune: a driving beat, smooth brass accents, and a rockin' (piano driven even) bridge. While I would have thought the groovy vocals might have been supplied by someone more well known, it turns out the voice belongs to someone named, "Andrea True Connection". I know--no bells for me either.

I'm in the habit of queueing up songs that are stuck in my head on my iPhone while I shower and make up in the morning. Sometimes I have to play them, like, 600 times before I can get them out of my system (Yah, time for Wapner). I was in for a big surprise, however, when I searched out the "More More More" video on YouTube. Because, friends, "Andrea True Connection" is not your average disco queen. Because Andrea, unbeknownst to myself at the time, took it to a whole 'nother level. I'm talking yellow, fringed granny-panty jumpsuit, some ultra-supportive Leggs hosiery, and what look to be actual cowboy boots. Seriously, it's such a conflagration of fashion WTF's that I had to watch the thing through a full two times to even get my mind around it.

And then, of course, I couldn't get here fast enough to share it with my closest blog buddies.

Trust me when I say, you won't regret this click.

(The hair? The "dance" moves?)

Camp of the Woods

2011-04-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

The threat of camping continues to hover like a dirigible of doom on the horizon of my not-too-distant future. The digital display on my mental airship is partial to scrolling out stuff like TICKS!...RAIN!...SNAKES! along with the ridiculous number of HORROR MOVIES! with a camping theme: Friday the 13, Sleepaway Camp, and Camp Slaughter to name a few. Of course, there's a part of me perverse enough to kind of want to embrace the fear factor and incorporate the whole "camp terror" element into the experience by eating 'smores and Jiffy Pop and queueing up one of these gems on the laptop at midnight at the campsite:

Of course, I have to say I find the amount of actual fabric trapped in that guy's clenched ass crack as disturbing as any anything else in that trailer.

But that's just me.

Regardless, I know at least one camper who will be along that is adverse to scary movies under the best of circumstances, much less huddled around a camp fire in the deep, dark woods. I'm guessing the whole idea will be vetoed. My point is this: it's kind of a life philosophy of mine that I not participate in activities that would very obviously and seamlessly fit into a "City Confidential" voice over read by Paul Winfield. And camping (like as in "in a tent") is definitely one of those things.

Not that anybody cares.

Despite my misgivings, we took advantage of the ridiculously beautiful weather Sunday to take a drive to the lakes and scout out the perfect spot. And a funny thing happened as I tromped through campgrounds with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face: I started to get sort of jazzed about that whole idea. I mean, sure we could all be murdered in our sleeping bags or, worse, I could find a tick affixed to my body somewhere but, still, damn, y'all, LBL is really, really beautiful. And I love...TREES! And also, the absolute necessity of wearing hiking boots for days at a time doesn't exactly turn me off, you know? In addition, honestly, how much fun is it going to be to pack a chuck box? It was decided that the optimal camp spot would be on or near the water and, while we didn't get our first choice, the second choice was available: While you can't tell from the picture, in addition to all the trees and the view of the water, I was charmed by the multi-level nature of the site. There's room for parking vehicles on the lowest level, up a few steps is the eating/fire pit area (the area I was sitting in while taking a photo) and then,up a few more steps is the tent area. I mean, really, we'll be going "upstairs to bed" at our camp site. Is it just me or is that strangely appealing?

Remind me of all this optimism when I find myself drenched in unexpected freezing rain in the middle of the night in the deep, dark woods clutching a flashlight with dead batteries in one hand and my lifeless, unresponsive cell phone in the other, will you?

Thanks.

I'm Baaaaaack!

2011-03-31T22:30:00.001-07:00

Greetings, earthlings!

I'll bet you've been sitting there thinking I'm neglecting you, this site, and various other important life issues. However, nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, while we've been apart, I've run thru a whole 'nother job, got drunk in New Orleans, became addicted to "Sister Wives", fell in the floor at a bar, assisted in the construction of an awesome privacy fence for my very own back yard, refinanced, threw a naughty party, converted to the True Religion jeans faith, was temporarily defeated by a five-pound brisket, considered and rejected at least six new configurations for my living room, redecorated my master bath, began participating in a secret (but noble) organization, developed (another) wicked case of insomnia, went on a diet, considered a non-fiction book project as well as a documentary film project, and may or may not be in the development phase of something SUPER crazy.

In addition, while it may LOOK like the above issues may have distracted me from the Important Work of this here blog, IN FACT my absence was all part of an overall master plan to leave that last seemingly beige blog post up until someone realized the genius nature of my... Sangria Recipe.

Didn't see that coming, did you?

I'm happy to report this eventuality--just last evening--has come to pass. Yes, friends, you will soon be able to enjoy Suzanne (peach) Sangria at our very own Shandies Restaurant in beautiful and historic downtown Paducah. Just another of my gifts to the world-- no need to thank! I'm a giver.

This also means that I should move along and continue to post once again at a reasonable pace. Look for these fun potential topics in the not too distant future:

-Possible copious whining about being forced to participate in a camping trip. That involves an actual TENT. And the OUT OF DOORS. And people who are ENTHUSIASTIC about same. (Long time readers know that I wilt easily and have little tolerance for either extreme heat or cold. See: Ice Storm '09. In addition, my 47 necessary daily beauty products/routines do not lend themselves to wilderness situations.).

-I'm going to a Godsmack concert. In the middle of Godforsaken Missouri. For God's sake.

- Vajazzling. That's right, dear readers, time marches on and so do the relentless demands of the modern crotch. Gone are the days of simple decisions relating to trimming or landing stripping, shaving or waxing. Now the thing has to be stark naked and glitter like a disco ball. But never fear! If you realize too late you've gone a pube too far with that hastily performed Brazilian, there's always the merkin. And, yes, for those of you keeping score: that would be a squirrel for your beaver. We must discuss.

- I'm Suzanne and I'm obsessed with eating at Cracker Barrel. ("Hi, Suzanne...")

- Shooties. I'm in the "yes" camp. You should be too.

So, there you go.

Am I really back? I hope so. Only time will tell.

Last, but sure as hell not least, if you're reading this outside the confines of the Bluegrass State and have a death wish, now is a really good time to wander across our state border and start talking smack about the UK Wildcats. For those of you who have been languishing in a deep coma or trapped in a remote cave under something very heavy lately, the next big game is Saturday--our half of the Final Four. Lest you wonder the import of such a game in these parts, both my mother AND GRANDMOTHER (90 years young), have inked this event onto their calendars. And, people. We are not sports fans. We are people who hear "Gonzaga" and wonder if that might be a really nice cheese? On a much more widespread note, trust me when I say: there isn't a man in the Big Blue Nation who isn't engaged, on some level, in a serious bro-mance with (say it with me): COACH CALIPARI. I know I'm right because they don't even DENY IT WHEN YOU ASK THEM. I know I speak for all of them when I say...

SSSSSSSSSSSSSCHWING! (I'm with you, dude. 1.5 million stiffies can't be wrong.)

GO CATS!

Peach Sangria: The drink no summer party should be without.

2010-08-18T06:27:00.000-07:00

Yes, friends, I'm giving you the recipe. You can thank me later. (I gave you the recipe for the Pad Thai a while ago. If I weren't so lazy I'd link to it.) I call this a "summer" drink, but I'll not pretend we won't be drinking the stuff year-round.

***

White Peach Sangria

2 Bottles dry white wine (you can use the cheap stuff)

1 Small(est) Bottle Absolut Peach Vodka (the smallest bottle costs $8-$9 Roof Bros, behind the counter)

12 Tablespoons frozen lemonade concentrate, thawed

1/2 Cup white sugar

1 lb peaches pitted and sliced

3/4 cup seedless white grapes, halved

3/4 cup seedless green grapes, halved

Directions:

1. In a large pitcher, combine dry white wine, peach vodka, lemonade concentrate and sugar. Stir until sugar is dissolved. Add sliced peaches, red and green grapes.

2. Refrigerate sangria until well chilled, at least 2 hrs or overnight to blend flavors. Serve over ice, and use a slotted spoon to include sliced peaches and grapes with each serving.

***
This recipe makes enough for a gaggle-of-girls dinner party with four rowdy participants drinking at a very brisk pace, but not quite enough for a pool party of eight (should have doubled it for that event!). Once the liquid is gone, the soaked fruit is delicious, but packs a powerful wallop. You've been warned.

Rocky Raccoon

2010-07-24T20:23:00.000-07:00

A raccoon I photographed this afternoon lollygagging in a tree on a branch about 25 feet above the ground. He was clearly enjoying flirting with us from his safe perch. [click for larger version]

A Letter to my 20-year-old Self

2010-07-07T08:03:00.000-07:00

Dear 20-year-old Suzanne:

No, you are not going to die any time soon.

If you were going to die any time soon, there wouldn’t be anything you could do about it but live each and every second being fully conscious, present, and attentive to that moment. But that's how you should always live. Remember: This is the lesson.

Stop being a drama queen. It’s not all about you.

Wear tighter jeans, lower cut tops, and bare more skin in general. It’s all nice and small and perky and firmly packed right now. This will not always be the case.

You are an artist.

Nice job on valuing your friendships. This is a skill that will save your life on more than one occasion.

Hard work and knowledge and education and experience and integrity are great, but these are not always the qualities that get people ahead in this world. Stop being surprised and learn to cultivate your connections and talk a big fat line of BS when necessary.

Everything's going to be okay.

All you need is love.

You’ll feel better when you’re 35.

Love,
Suzanne

PS You turn out to be a dog person! Who knew?

What WOULD you say to your 20-year-old self?

2010-07-07T07:18:00.000-07:00

I came across a link on my cousin Amy's Facebook page to this NPR story. Cassie Boorn (pictured above), a 22-year-old blogger, having found herself in need of advice, decided to pose the question, "What would you say to your 20-year-old self?" to bloggers on the internet in general.

Can you even imagine how much I love this concept?

Read the responses Cassie received right here. There's also a link on the page for you to submit to your own letter. I can't think of a single blogger I read whose letter I wouldn't find absolutely fascinating. You should totally do it. (And yes, my own letter is comin' right up.)

Color of the Year

2010-06-30T11:09:00.000-07:00

Still not many words. It does not escape me that I've stopped writing and started decorating. Slathering on rich, satisfying paint color and obsessing about shapes and scale and placement and lamps. Apparently, I need a creative outlet of one kind or another. There is something so hugely satisfying about putting my stamp on a space in a big way. It is, in some deeply fundamental way, a HUGE RELIEF (??). The charcoal paint color is something I've been dreaming about for years. The turquoise is a color that has called to me my entire life. Most recently in my travels. The waters of Key West are turquoise; to me it is the color of the Caribbean. Many of many of the pools and lakes of Yellowstone are turquoise. I've always been opposed to blue painted walls but...turquoise. Turquoise is something else entirely.

In fact, turquoise, it just so happens, is the Pantone Color of the Year. I ask you, who knows color like Pantone? (And well, obviously of course, me.) Nobody, that's who. Here's what Pantone has to say about this luscious hue:

Combining the serene qualities of blue and the invigorating aspects of green, Turquoise evokes thoughts of soothing, tropical waters and a languorous, effective escape from the everyday troubles of the world, while at the same time restoring our sense of wellbeing. “In many cultures, Turquoise occupies a very special position in the world of color,” explains Leatrice Eiseman, executive director of the Pantone Color Institute®. “It is believed to be a protective talisman, a color of deep compassion and healing, and a color of faith and truth, inspired by water and sky. Through years of color word-association studies, we also find that Turquoise represents an escape to many – taking them to a tropical paradise that is pleasant and inviting, even if only a fantasy.”

Whether envisioned as a tranquil ocean surrounding a tropical island or a protective stone warding off evil spirits, Turquoise is a color that most people respond to positively. It is universally flattering, has appeal for men and women, and translates easily to fashion and interiors. With both warm and cool undertones, Turquoise pairs nicely with any other color in the spectrum. Turquoise adds a splash of excitement to neutrals and browns, complements reds and pinks, creates a classic maritime look with deep blues, livens up all other greens, and is especially trend-setting with yellow-greens.

Hemingway's Pool

Also significant is that turquoise was the official color of my paternal Grandmother's 90th birthday not too long ago. This grandmother has come to be referred to by me as Micro Minnie the Pocket Grandma--she's small but she's mighty. Here's her cake:

And here's Micro-Minnie herself flanked at her party by several of my cousins and their dad and their kids. NOTE! Turquoise dress (of course):

Clearly, I come by the love of turquoise honestly. I've also lately become addicted to and inspired by checking out House of Turquoise every day. What about you? Is there a color that inspires you? One that you are repeatedly drawn to? One that you have A History with? What is it?

I assure you, you should surround yourself with it. At least a little bit.

Obsessed!

2010-06-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

Another grainy photo from the Blackberry. Today I switched out the black cabinet end tables in the living room, trading them for the white tables originally in the bedroom. Which do I like better? Should I leave it this way? Definitely, the 2-drawer end tables as a practical matter work better in the bedroom giving me an additional four deep drawers for my constantly overflowing wardrobe (married or single, rich or poor, the condition mysteriously persists). Though it's not pictured, the black end tables darken up the charcoal bedroom considerably. Of course, I begin to consider painting them....because I'm...CRAZY!

Have an opinion? Leave it in the comments. Or go ahead and leave me to my overthinking madness. I probably deserve it.

Turquoise: First Look

2010-06-24T18:47:00.000-07:00

It's grainy and taken with my Blackberry, but here's a first look at my turquoise accent wall in the living room. I'm seriously ready to make out with those lamps in back seat of my '60 Chevy. I had other (white) lamps all picked out, then saw the turquoise globes (Pier 1). It was...all over! Obviously, I plan to actually get around to hanging the Doisneau and the mirrors rather than leave them leaning on the back of the couch. I have more painting to do and, hopefully, I will get better photos at some point with the good camera. The paint color is actually more vivid than it appears here.

Birthday Girl

2010-06-11T19:34:00.000-07:00

Look who's two!

The Bedroom (Cont'd)

2010-05-31T19:33:00.000-07:00

Still no words to speak of, but plenty of design news today. I completed wall two of the bedroom. Here I pan to the right--you can see the right edge of the Palmer painting featured in my last post--as I photograph the first edge of the newly finished wall:

Yes, it's a little blurry and there's a glare, but I'm tired. This image does not do the lady in the drawing justice (formerly the lady in my hallway), a Christmas present from my mother. The lady simply HAD to relocate to the luscious new digs. Here's the entire wall:

Can you even? I know I can't. What can I say? LOVE. But it's been a bit of a bitch getting here what with me having to contend with a hefty set of plantation blinds pretty seriously interfering with me hanging those yummy watered silk pinstriped drapes. In the end, it would take screws, nails, and all the powers of the Bosch 10.8 volt Litheon i-Driver with Quick-Change Chuck along with the VERY LIBERAL application of four-letter words to get them exactly where I wanted them (they just graze the floor...BY. GOD.). The other piece of art many Paducahans may recall as a pulled print etching of the Texaco by former Lowertown artist Mark Barone. Near as I can figure, the only thing missing in this bedroom of artistic wonders is one of Nikki May's latest works of ladies sketched in her antique book.

Much has been made over at Facebook about the ceiling fixture in this room; a hideous thing that I've taken to calling the boob light:

Yes. MUST go. This newly sophisticated space simply cannot BEAR the now highly offensive stench of the boob light much longer. I found the perfect fixture at IKEA which, naturally, isn't available except in-store (the closest to me of which is in Chicago or Cincinatti). I may settle for this which is much like the IKEA fixture:

Obviously, the fixture is less about style than the need to better light the art in the room but even as utilitarian as it is, it is a huge step up from the boob light.

Also, today's special design find, a tiny (!) lamp from Pier One:

I had to have two, of course, to light my dresser.

Otherwise, Tallulah, for one, is very happy in the newly evolved space. You see her below in a photo I snapped from my blackberry this morning She is settled in to my favorite spot in the bed all ready for another long day of observing me going about my labors. It's exhausting for her, you know. Really.

And...MORE charcoal.

2010-05-29T20:31:00.000-07:00

The original plan was to paint only my bedroom charcoal. I bought the lamps, the bedding and curtains (to be photographed later) and chose the paint (Behr, Dark Granite) at least a year and a half ago (exactly at the time I became taken up with school) with the intention of bringing it all together in the bedroom. Meanwhile, the charcoal paint crept on to first one, and then another kitchen wall. I've had to take a couple of days off work and firmly commit myself to finally turning my attention to the bedroom to make this happen. I'm thrilled with the result. I had thought to use a large vintage metal Coca-Cola sign for a headboard (some readers my remember it from my erstwhile Lowertown barn), but once complete, the look was far too sophisticated for so folksy a touch. Nothing but the Mark Palmer painting would do!

Not that I'm finished or anything. I've got more painting to do and curtains to hang and I will likely replace the tired old ceiling fixture that looks like a boob. I will keep you posted.

Charcoal: The obsession continues

2010-05-23T08:40:00.000-07:00

So, I should have taken a before shot. But here's the after of my latest painted kitchen wall. Dark, velvety charcoal. Isn't it delicious?

For comparison, at the upper left-hand corner, you can see where the charcoal ends. As I was pondering the spot ("Where the Charcoal Ends") last night, I imagined the charcoal side is lively, vivid life and the weak yellow side but a pale imitation.

Swear to God, I'm working on a longer post. I have not abandoned or forgotten my little blog and, I promise, I will be back in my usual form sooner rather than later. Thanks for your patience.

You know I love ya more'n my luggage.

San Francisco: The Trip in Photos

2010-03-13T09:16:00.000-08:00

Oh my gosh, you guys. I am tired. And I have edited and uploaded these pictures I don't know HOW MANY TIMES...OY VEY! Anyway. If you are interested in seeing the captions that go with the photos, you can flip thru here.

[Note to my Dad: Hit "play" and then in the bottom corner of the photos hit the button that has four arrows. This should maximize the photos to the size of your screen.]

BART, Baby!

2010-03-02T06:03:00.000-08:00

Two geography tests, a mountain of work-work, a much-needed hair trim, and one hell of stressful packing situation all stand between me and my upcoming trip with my two BFs to the City by the Bay. But that all just got okay, because only moments ago, I pulled out of my very own mailbox, MY BART CARD! WOOOOOO! It is pictured above in blurry--but still discernible--glory.

That's right, people...

She's got a ticket to rye-hide! She's got a ticket to rye-high-hide! She's got a ticket to ride!

And she don't care!

[I'll be taking my laptop and camera and, by God, I plan to post! Don't quote me on this. Especially if tequila becomes involved.]

Tallulah Half Trimmed

2010-02-23T15:18:00.000-08:00

Cellophane

2010-02-21T07:27:00.000-08:00

I was sitting on a bar stool this weekend drinking the traditional Sunday Bloody Mary talking over the details of my friend Nikki's (pictured above with BF Ricky) new love affair (she calls it a "de-briefing", I call it a "post-mortem"; potato potahto). And if it were anyone but Nikki, in the interest of privacy, I wouldn't have even written the previous sentence. But anyone who knows Nikki knows that her life is Out There. She has carried on a long-distance romance for the last several months culminating in a real life first-time meeting a few days ago completely played out, in words and pictures, in front of 901 of her closest Facebook friends. Thankfully, the relationship is working. But if it wasn't? It wouldn't be working in front of her 901 closest Facebook friends as well.

That's just Nikki.

And, despite my proclivity for writing in this blog in public and for anyone in the whole wide world to see (many thanks to both my readers), I still consider myself a private person, much MUCH more so than Nikki. As she put it yesterday,

"I'm transparent. You're...opaque."

And although I share many details of my life here, it's true, I am opaque. In fact, I am a little crazy private with the exception of to a trusted inner circle of friends. But...still. As I've written before and in more than one blog post before that I am, for some reason, always haunted (maybe even obsessed) by the notion that I shouldn't be. That opaqueness is overrated. I can never quite shake the feeling that my reticence is holding me back from...something. Maybe because when I do overcome it? Stuff like this comes out. Stuff that I feel way better about that my usual blog fodder.

As it happens, at the same restaurant where Nikki and I were enjoying our Bloody Marys, some other friends of mine were hanging out in another section. I ran into them on the way out and in their party was a friend who writes for the Tribune. Of course I had to ask this friend if he knows Roger Ebert, my favorite movie critic and movie columnist, which lead to a conversation about Ebert's frail health and then a subsequent Googling.

Friends, if you haven't seen Roger Ebert in a while, prepare for a shock because this is what Roger Ebert looks like these days:

Talk about your transparent. The photograph above is from this excellent piece on Ebert by Chris Jones in Esquire. You can read Ebert's thoughts about his situation as well as the Esquire piece in his blog right here. Ebert has this to say about the photo:

I got a jolt from the full-page photograph of my jaw drooping. Not a lovely sight. But then I am not a lovely sight, and in a moment I thought, well, what the hell. It's just as well it's out there. That's how I look, after all.

Despite it all, Ebert continues to work, goes on, continues to watch and review films, and, as always he shares the details of his life pretty unflinchingly. Like Nikki. Totally unlike me. I continue to wrestle, for reasons I don't even begin understand, with the question of my opaqueness. I continue to resist transparency.

But I admire the hell out of those who don't.

[Photo Credits: Nikki #1, Ricky #2]

iLove it: The Oscars

2010-02-16T09:53:00.000-08:00

Get my take on this year's Oscar race right here at iList. Don't miss your chance to attend the gala Oscar event planned at Maiden Alley Cinema on March 7th. Cast your vote and get all the details here.

Precious

2010-02-06T07:58:00.000-08:00

Groundbreaking. Unforgettable. Shattering. Don't miss "Precious" at Maiden Alley Cinema

Reindeer Games on Truman Drive

2010-02-03T10:06:00.000-08:00

As always, I posted a link to my last entry on Facebook and it sparked a discussion about whether or not there exists any photographic evidence of me in my teacher garb. Sadly, I don't believe any pictures were ever taken; all that elaborate imaginary gaming was so the norm on Truman Drive as to go completely unnoticed. Just as me randomly engaging in five-minute handstands leaned against the hallway wall or studying my multiplication tables while sitting in the splits in order to prolong my stretch time was just another day in "Normal". Yes, the name of the town in which I lived.

It's occurring to me that I was a weird kid. Or, let's say, weirder than I ever before considered.

You see above Exhibit #2. Photographic evidence of my weirdness that DOES exist. That is me on the left and my cousin Diana on the right. I am still suffering from the Chocolate Hair virus. We are near to exactly the same age; a span of only three months separates our birth dates. We would have been 14-15 years old here (several years past my aforementioned teaching phase). This is our attempt at dressing terribly fashionably and then being insufferably cool posers while having our picture made by my mother with the 110 Kodak. We were far too haute to smile. It may be hard to tell by looking, but we have as much make-up on our faces as humanly possible; peer closely and you can tell our eyes are lined with what appears to be blue-gray crayon.

I have to, on some level, hand it to myself, I guarantee I staged that scene and masterminded both looks. As clothes go, it isn't too far off what was probably considered at least a little cool back then? I was an eager monthly student of all my Mom's Cosmos and Vogues and had my own subscription to Seventeen.

On the other hand....BWA HA HA! The flowers? No idea. Perhaps I thought them just the right additional touch. Baby's breath is, after all, so avante guarde. Kind of like those rich gold curtains and the plush, deep shag carpeting beneath our feet. It was the seventies, people. And we were rockin' it.

As it turned out, this was near the end of my time on Truman Drive. Six months after this picture was taken, my parents would split, and my connection to Diana interrupted in a way that, as life turned out, would not ever really recover. If you had told our younger selves that the day this picture was made, in June of 1978, we would not have believed you.

1801 Truman Drive

2010-02-01T11:48:00.001-08:00

As it happens, I visited the exact site where this post took place just now. You see above, in all its glory, 1801 Truman Drive. My apologies for how dark that photo is [edited to add: this photo should appear somewhat improved now]. For various reasons, I do not have access to photo editing software and the house was terribly back lit (and I had only my bberry at the ready). You can likely tell the place is your average 1970s generican house, but like any one's childhood home (I lived there ages 7-15) it holds more memories for me than this beige exterior suggests. In my youth, the house was painted a barn red, was wood rather than vinyl sided, and those are not the original windows.

Like many houses on the frozen central Illinois tundra, the place features a full basement which equated for me to an enormous skating rink. Or rather it was what I THOUGHT was enormous at the time. (It is still enormous in my mind.) An average Saturday morning back in those days here would find me bounding out of bed, hopping down the steps, lacing on my skates, queueing up the soundtrack to, say, "Oklahoma" on my pea green record player and skating in endless circles as I sang along. I knew every word and note; the same can be said of the "Wizard of Oz" soundtrack, the "Sound of Music" soundtrack and others. I was a very show-tuney kid.

One corner of the basement was devoted full-time to my "classroom". In those days, there wasn't a doubt in my mind that I would grow up and be a teacher, an ambition that I now find abhorrent. Regardless, the corner classroom was elaborate and perpetually in session in case the mood struck me do to a little lecturing. I had a stand-up chalkboard, a bulletin board that changed seasonally (themed--pumpkins in October, snowflakes in the winter, hearts in February, etc.), my teacher's desk, an authentic gradebook just like the teachers used, curriculum books, and desks filled with my dolls and stuffed animals as students. Each student had a profile, there was the "smart" student, my doll, Elizabeth, the middle-of-the-road student, my stuffed Rabbit, and the problem student, Charlie, my ventriloquist doll who never studied or made more than a "D" and was constantly disruptive in class. Despite my best efforts, Charlie never improved as a student.

Don't think I was teaching in my street clothes and my skates either. Oh, heavens no. The getting ready for a teaching session often lasted as long or longer than the session itself. I had a separate wardrobe for my teacher self which included hand-me-down dresses from my cousins that I found appropriate, or cast-offs from my Mother's extensive (and I do mean extensive) wardrobe. My teacher's garb included high-heels, always skirts. And make-up. Full-face make-up with lots and LOTS blush, robin's egg blue eye-shadow and Maybelline Great Lash. (The make-up also culled from my Mom's cast-offs). Once appropriately dressed, powdered and coiffed (think Aqua Net), there was much time devoted to the choosing of the proper Teaching Jewelry. For this aspect of The Look, I had access to my own as well as my mother's jewelry boxes. Often, The Look would require earrings, necklace, bracelet AND a pin in order to make the proper statement. As a final, but still not-to-be-taken-lightly step, the Proper Perfume was spritzed on liberally. Very. Liberally. Normally, I chose from my own collection for same: Babe, Charlie, Love's Baby Soft, Heaven Scent, or Cache. Usually Cache. Cache was Serious Perfume. For Serious Teachers.

Once transformed, I spent a considerable amount scrutinizing my teacher self in the mirror from every angle, verifying that, indeed, I had perfectly captured the The Look. After that, I decorously pranced down the basement steps to face the daunting task of pounding the three R's into the reluctant heads of my students.

It was a lot of work.

I don't know...

2010-01-30T19:42:00.000-08:00

Seriously. Am I ever going to start blogging again?

I don't know.

What happened last night?

I don't know.

But it was HILARIOUSLY funny. Like, so funny that I couldn't stop laughing. And thinking to myself,

HA HA HA, self! This is going to make one HILARIOUS blog post. No...NO...one AMAZING short story...HA HA HA! Boy, howdy, it's just WRITING ITS-OWN-SELF up in here! BWA HA! You can't make this shit up, self!

And then I woke up this morning. With my cell phone plugged into a charger that wasn't, in turn, plugged in to an outlet. And pretty much no recollection of what happened last night save for the thoughts outlined above.

It wasn't until tonight (24 hrs later) that I realized I have photographs taken last night stored on my blackberry. These are my friends. Wearing a cap that says, (because the photos make it too blurry to read), "Armed and Dangerous".

Folks? Let me tell you. Last night? This was THE FUNNIEST SHIT EVER. Armed and Dangerous...HA HA HA! Get it? "Armed and dangerous". Wow. It was pee-your-pants funny at the time, I assure you.

And then there was this. This was one very HILARIOUS and also very MEANINGFUL GESTURE last night:

Yah. No idea.

I think I had fun last night. I for sure need a notebook. And a crayon.

Grand Prismatic

2010-01-23T04:17:00.000-08:00

(Click for larger)

The Ghost of a Winter Past

2010-01-17T16:46:00.000-08:00

[First, a windy preface. Let me just go ahead an apologize for the lack of posting right now. This blog has been through dry spells before but never quite like this. While it's true that I'm taken up with work and school (but school again only very recently) and my social life, there's something else afoot. My last post of any substance was a bit of an oversharing departure, and often now when I sit down to write, something entirely different than my usual, chirpy blog fodder comes out. It is, in a word, The Past...my past. I'm not sure what to make of it--is it just therapy? Is it part of a larger story that needs telling? Is my blog voice gone? (Gotta say--doubt it.)

I've written here before about the creative process. It's a thing that is a little scary to me in that I'm not always consciously in control of what I write--oh I don't mean I fall into a trance-like state and channel the Almighty--but it's not entirely unlike that, either. Except in this case the Almighty is just me (and let me interject here that I think I just might be the Almighty and that you just might be too but that's a whole 'nother story). In any case, what I'm saying is that I can sit down to write about the weather or what happened at the drive-thru but then find myself for no particular reason at all back in 1974 sitting in my Dad's Gran Torino. Or smoking Marlboro Lights watching the Anita Hill testimony in 1992. I don't know why. I do know that when I write about the past, details that I would have thought were long forgotten come back to me. In technicolor. It's all still there. And writing is the miner's pick that unearths it.

To make a long story longer, the following is an example of one of my flights of fancy into my past. It's totally pedestrian, but it's a page-filler; a blog-safe example what comes out when I write these days.

To assuage my guilty conscience, and because I love you guys, I post it for those of you still pining for my blog fodder. Both of you.]

***

I was talking to a friend the other day about the changing definition of "Dad". This friend is my age, and we agreed that when we were kids, a "Dad" was something entirely different than it is today. Today? A Dad might quit his job to stay home with and attend Gymboree classes with his baby. Or, today's Dad might whip a delicious gourmet dinner for his family. He might even be a Room "Father". Okay, so I made that last one up. (Does anybody remember Room Mothers anymore? Do they still have those?).

Let me assure you, these are not the kind of "Dads" those of us of a certain age grew up with. Back in our day (the old lady reminisced, one liver spotted hand pressed thoughtfully to a withered cheek), Dads were forces to be reckoned with. They did not cook. They did not play (generally speaking). They were Serious about Stuff.

Dads were all about Work. Going to Work. Staying at Work. Working overtime. Getting Work done.

Weekends were a dangerous time with Dad. Because he might notice you lollygagging around sucking up all the oxygen and put YOU to Work. Your best bet was to slink off and be unobtrusive on the weekends. Just get the hell outta there, hop on your banana seat bike (with a playing card attached with a clothes pin so it made satisfying flapping sounds as it slapped the rolling spokes) and pedal your lazy little butt on over to a friend's house (no cell phones...HA!) until the Dad danger had passed.

Dads got up Early. They Made Good Time. They calculated gas mileage. They Grilled Meat (This is NOT to be confused with cooking. Proper grilling was a manly task.) They tended lush green weed-free lawns.

Dads ate red meat. And potatoes. And fried chicken. If they were feeling REALLY crazy? They ate spaghetti ("eye-talian food").

Above all, back then, Dads were the Keepers of the Car. This was extra Serious Business. The Oil must be Changed. The Tires must be Rotated. Only a certain brand of gasoline could be burned. If another brand of gasoline had to be burned it could cause the worse thing ever. It could cause...KNOCKING.

If the engine knocked? You could be rest assured it was going to be a very, very bad day. And if the dreaded knocking was going to happen? It was usually at start up in the driveway.

The setting here, then, is a brutally cold Central Illinois winter. I am eleven years old. My parents both worked at the same large company and thus rode to work together each day. They also deposited me at school on their way. Which is how the whole fam ended up in the car together M-F at an obscenely early hour. It went a little something like this:

DAD
(Turns the key.)

(The engine springs to life. Dad revs the motor.)

CAR
Rrrrrrraaaaaarrrrrrr. RRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAR.

DAD
Gaaaawd DAMN.

MOM
(startled)
What...WHAT IS IT?

ME
(Glancing up from my book in the back seat. I'm reading my latest "Little House on the Prairie" installment: "These Happy Golden Years." For the third time.)

DAD
Do you HEAR THAT?

CAR
(More revving...)
RRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR... RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRR

MOM
(Putting a palm to her throat and glancing frantically around the driveway outside the car.)
What?! No....WHAT?

DAD
(Now a little red-faced. He revs again. ONLY LOUDER.)

CAR
RRROA[ttt]RRRRRRRRR......RRRRRRRROOOOOO[ttt]OOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR...

DAD
(shouting over the engine revving)
You mean to tell me you don't HEAR THAT DAMN KNOCKING?!

MOM
(Calming down.)
Oh, uh, yes. Yes, I think I do hear it.

ME
(Eye roll. She doesn't hear it. Back to my book.)

DAD
(still revving)

CAR
ROOOOOOOOOOOAR.....ROOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRR...

DAD
Sheeeeit! DAMN MOBILE GASOLINE!

(Dad leaps from the car and pops the hood. Despite it being the dead of a frigid Midwest winter, the heat is not yet on. Because you have to let the car warm up first. Always. )

ME
I'm FREEZING.

MOM
Shhh.

(She draws a silver tube of lipstick from her purse along with a compact and begins expertly reapplying her bright pink lipstick.)

ME
Oh, GOSH, we're going to be here all day.

MOM
No, we won't. It won't be all day.
(She carefully slides a Kleenex between her lips, blotting them with a practiced motion, then purses them into a pout as she studies her reflection and re-checks her eyeliner.)

ME
Do you have any gum?

MOM
(She drops the compact and lipstick back in her purse and halves her last piece of Doublemint with me. We begin popping our gum in stereo. Dad returns to the car bringing with him a sub-zero blast of arctic winter air.)

ME
Can we turn on the heat yet?

DAD
(Slams the car door, cocks his head slightly left, and with squinted eyes begins listening intently.)

MOM AND I
(Simultaneously stop popping our gum.)

CAR
rrrrrrrrrarrrrrrrrr....RRRRRRRRRARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR....RRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR[ttt]ROOOOOOOOOAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR

DAD
(Exhales a defeated sigh, draws a Winston from the depths of his topcoat and lights up.)

MOM
Are we going?

DAD
(Peers at her incredulously through the smoke cloud he has just exhaled.)
We can't just drive around in a car that's knocking like this.

I have a test today.

(I liked school. I was a freak.)

MOM
Well, we should go back into the house. It's awfully cold out here.

Understand, my Dad is, at this point, facing a veritable "Sophie's Choice". Will he pick work or will he pick the car? How can a man pick between the two?

Nikki Shops

2009-12-15T15:35:00.000-08:00

Fresh out of fresh gift ideas? Check out Nikki May's recent shopping excursion in Paducah's Renaissance District where a girl (or guy) can find a sleighload of unique and affordable gifts. Keep yourself revved in the holiday spirit with an uber-motivational Caffeine Bomb. Read all about it right here.

Piercing 2009: The Piercening

2009-11-28T07:30:00.000-08:00

I don't know what to tell you other than, given enough booze, we are extremely impulsive and susceptible to suggestion. As soon as Kim started calling it getting pierced "in the crunchy part", meaning, I suppose, the crunchy part of our ears, it was On. (You know...the the medical term is Crunchvectus. We got pierced in our Crunchvecti.) Christa initially spent some time in the bathroom shouting, "I'M NOT DOING THAT!" and "NO WAY! I'M NOT COMING OUT!" but was quickly hustled to the car and made to see reason. [If you study the pictures closely, you'll note that somewhere between locking herself in the bathroom back at the house and getting to the piercing stand, she morphed into Sexy Girl Rocking a Piercing. Go figure.]

We were conveniently chauffeured to the Auntie Em (cash? what's that? we don't carry it) and then on to the Jolly Rancher were the Elite and misshapen are stabbed with needles and permanently marked with flesh graffiti.

Ryan, our over zealous piercer, subjected us to the longest, most drawn out piercing ritual ever in the whole wide world. It all went on so long that our buzzes were harshed and we spent a fair amount of time in the waiting room trading shoes and plotting and calculating where the nearest cold beer might be located and strategizing whether or not we had time to leave, pound down a few, and return unbeknownst to Ryan. We were also subjected to many piercing "rules". For instance, only one of us could get pierced at a time, and the rest of us weren't allowed to stare at the piercee during the procedure and heckle and breathe on them, etc. while it was happening. Which, if you ask me, is half the fun.

As you know, I don't like rules, and as a result I did a lot of questioning of the Ryan and the Ryan's Rules of Piercing. I was labeled "difficult" for my trouble--by my own posse, mind you--but felt I may have struck a blow for more Piercing Freedom and Flexibility in our time.

Falling

2009-11-12T17:34:00.000-08:00

It’s six o’clock on Thursday night. A work meeting ran late, and I’m just now getting home. The house is dark and smells faintly of lime and vanilla, the remnant scents of last night’s dinner of Pad Thai lit by candles and friends. The house is a little cold, chilled by fall and the time change, but still feels cozy.

My little place. With all of my things.

I begin turning on lamps and the Tallulah stirs a bit in her crate, but doesn’t make a sound. She is confident in the routine, knows she will soon be freed for a romp in the back yard along with her big sister.

This time of year is both the best and the worst for me.

Sweater weather. Boots…BOOTS! Cowboy and riding! Hunting and hiking! Leggings and thick soft cotton tights, and yes, even flannel. I will soon dust off one of the greatest inventions of this or any century: my electric blanket. It will warm my soft bed against the increasing chilliness and be topped with high thread count cotton sheets, a decadence introduced to me by the Yankee Clipper. (Being a heads-up girl, you can bet I thought to make off with several of the better sets).

But fall is also the dark time.

I flirted with my sanity one chilly fall when I was twenty-eight.

I am reminded of this every year, every single year, when the darkness descends, reminded of the shadow that fell over me then that, for a while, I thought might not lift. I remember how it began, first washing over me in waves that would, after a time, retreat. I thought I could withstand it; thought I would win the battle, outlast it. Thought I could have a good cry and be done with it.

Pretty soon I was having that good cry every day. Then twice a day.

And then I was engulfed. Utterly. I almost could not breathe for the heaviness in my chest, the constant lump in my throat. The sadness never ended. It was everywhere. It came from a well so deep and vast that I could not express it or cry it out, or deal with it. It paralyzed me, blocked out the sun. I could not work, could not take care of my boy. Could not. Stop. Crying.

“You are depressed, Suzanne,” my Mother told me.

This is not COULD NOT be depression. I am failing. I am simply failing to control myself, failing to go to work, failing my child, failing myself. I am a failure.

“You need a doctor,” she told me.

And although she sat near me, her voice came to me from a distance, passed through a channel, and then, finally, into the grieving chaos that had overtaken my brain.

Doctors can’t fix this. Doctors can’t fix failure. Why can’t I stop this??? What can a doctor possibly do to fix….this…NIGHTMARE? I need to fix it, me. Only I can fix this. I need to do something.

I could only cry. That and apologize.

“I am SO sorry,” I would choke out. Over and over.

Another arrow would shoot into the darkness,

“You are going to get through this. You are going to be okay. This happens to people all of the time.”

This…THIS happens to people all of the time? Jesus Christ, how do they stand it? And, no, I am not going to be okay This? This right here? IS SO NOT OKAY. I am not going to be okay. I AM NOT OKAY.

I would stare at my mother, hiccupping sobs, in total disbelief. She totally and completely, looked like she believed it. She seemed even confident about this. She looked, for all the world, like she thought I was going to be okay.

This made me cry harder and feel sad for her.

“I am sooo sorry.”

I stopped eating. Everything, every single thing I put in my mouth tasted exactly the same. Like I imagined cardboard or dust would taste. It was too much effort, anyway, the chewing of food. So I stopped doing it. What I could taste was metal. After a while, I could taste metal all the time. It was as if a penny had melted in my mouth. It was the taste of fear, I think. I lost twenty pounds in a few weeks. When I did fall into a short, fitful sleep, I would wake with wet cheeks. I was crying in my sleep.

“I’ve made you a doctor’s appointment. With an Indian psychiatrist,” my Mother told me, “When I worked at the college all the Indian professors were the smartest and most sensitive. This particular doctor specializes in something else, but I’ve convinced him he must see you. He didn’t want to.”

Even in the state I was in, I knew I did NOT want to imagine that conversation. Poor Mr. Indian doctor. Never had a chance.

(Sob, hiccup. Helpless unknown Indian doctor….sooooob).

I soon found my blubbering, emaciated self deposited by my supremely confident mother at the office of Dr. S. I will never forget walking into his office.

He stood . Offered me his hand.

“Hello, Miss Clinton.”

I put my hand in his, burst into fresh sobbing.

As if from nowhere, he produced a box of tissues (Kleenex brand, in a taupe and white box) and indicated I should sit. I sniffled exhaustedly.

“And why are you here, Miss Clinton?“ Dr. S. asked calmly.

“Be…be (hiccup) because you’re Indian,” I choked out between sobs.

He blinked a few times at this. Said nothing.

“My…my mother thinks Indians are the bes…best doc…doctors,” I explained.

He blinked more rapidly.

Eventually, after some questioning, he would determine, yes, I was indeed depressed. I needed some sleep. I needed an anti-depressant. These were the days when Prozac was new and it wasn’t prescribed in my case. Dr. S. wrote for something else and told me,

“Go to the candy section of the drug store and buy a sack of lemon drops. Do you know what lemon drops are? These pills will make your mouth dry.”

I nodded. Lemon drops? Okay. If he’d said stand on one foot in the parking lot and recite the Lord’s Prayer I would have done it.

(sooooob!)

How will this help? How will pills help failure? Pills are for physical pain or antibiotics or for taking when one has to stay up all night. There are no pills for…this. For failure.

“You need a break from your sadness so you can get well,” Dr. S explained.

I didn’t believe him. Didn’t believe pills could stop sadness. Didn’t believe there was any fixing me.

“Why am I so sad?” I asked.

He shrugged, “We’ll worry about that later. Right now you need rest. Need to be able to function.”

I filled the prescriptions. Bought the lemon drops. At least they helped with the metallic taste.

I began staying with my Mother. She saw that my son got off to school, folded our laundry, sat up with me and told stories. I don’t remember them now, I only remember that she told them and, for brief, very brief periods, they distracted me just a little from the brainstorm of sadness. I do remember the theme of the stories: triumph over adversity. Survival.

Dr. S. had said it would take a few weeks for the prescription to take hold, for the chemical to hit my synapses. I waited. Tried to believe I would get better. I didn’t believe it.

I spent a great deal of time sitting cross-legged in a chair before the TV lighting one Marlboro Lite after another watching poor Anita Hill tell the truth about Clarence Thomas. I began to equate Anita’s suffering with my own, only she was far braver than me. Anita was facing down the entire US Senate on national television. And I could no longer leave the house; bear the scrutiny of a single stranger on the street.

(sooooooob!)

“This will pass, Suzanne. I’m TELLING YOU. It. Will. Pass,”

My mother continued to believe this, continued to assure me. She would place a soft hand on my bony knee, look me straight in the face, in the eyes, and say it. Over and over. At least once a day. More, usually.

And then, one day, miraculously, the prescription did begin to take hold.

It wasn’t a perfect fix, and there were some hellacious side effects, but slowly, slowly, things began to change.

First, I began sleeping regularly. Somehow, through the magic of chemistry, this drug caused me to go to sleep at around 9PM. Mornings, I would wake, as if an invisible hand tapped me on the shoulder, at 6:00 a.m. I’d immediately reach for my cigarettes as the sadness would again settle over me like a shroud. Except now I’d had a full night’s sleep, hours and hours without crying or suffering. My mother, upon hearing me begin to stir, would often come in the room, sit with me in silence as the sun rose and the heaviness descended. She would face it with me, an arm around my shoulders.

Gradually, and only occasionally at first, I began being able to focus on other things. Things other than the sadness. Began to be able to ponder my life, how it had suddenly stopped, realize it needed to begin again. Now. That I needed to take control of it. ME in control. NOT the sadness. These periods of clarity and focus began exponentially to increase in time and intensity. And in fairly short order.

I got off my ass.

I was a shadow of myself; a thin, colorless mechanical version of me. But I was functioning.

I began to think of and refer to this new state as “being a good little soldier”. Early to bed and early to rise, Benjamin Franklin (very, very unlike the regular me). Able to focus on only the task at hand (I’ve since decided this is what it must be like to be a man. Very simple.) and nothing more, nothing less. No mental gymnastics, no hamster in my brain spinning frantically round and round. Without the usual ten thousand other thoughts, impressions, conversations, memories, inspirations, worries, floating in and out in there along with the grocery list and the awareness of when the car payment is due and snatches of song lyrics and bits of sentences, etc. etc.

Just plain old what am I doing RIGHT NOW.

I resumed the care and supervision of my son, went back to work. For the most part, I took the reins of my life, the ones that my Mother had held for me when I could not, back into my own hands. I saw Dr. S. once a week. My meetings with him were no more than perfunctory check-ins--nor had they ever been, really--with him assessing that I was functioning, taking my meds properly and continuing to recover.

One day, Dr. S. asked me if I remembered my first meeting with him and I told him that I’d never forget it. He said, “I remember you sat in that chair,” he gestured toward a chair on the opposite side of the room, “and now you only sit in this chair,” he indicated the chair in which I now habitually sat.

“Obviously, that’s the sick chair,” I concluded his observation for him.

He smiled, nodded.

I smiled my shadow smile, a quick conscious stretching of my mouth.

I looked like me, I sounded like me, I was eating so I had hips again, but the medicine, miracle that it had been in the beginning, made functioning possible but in equal parts, it robbed my ability to be in touch with my feelings, my real self. I began to miss my spinning hamster. Realized that was who I am, after all. It was as if a thick protective glass wall had sprung up around me. I could see and hear everything, but it was dulled, muted, distant. Just as the shadow me was dulled and muted. I was in my life, but not part of it. Not fully.

Suddenly, I wanted it back. Knew, without a doubt, I had to take it back.

“I’m ready to stop the meds,” I told Dr. S. one winter day.

“Absolutely not,” Dr. S., startled, responded uncharacteristically quickly, “You must not stop taking the medicine. Do you understand? Do not stop,” he stared at me, for the first time ever, sternly.

“I understand I must wean off. I’m telling you I’m ready to do that,” I shot back, stealing a furtive glance at the sick chair.

“You’re not ready,” he stated emphatically, “You will relapse. All my experience tells me you will relapse if you stop now.”

“I won’t relapse,” I answered.

We stared at each other.

I took a breath,

“I am going to begin weaning myself off. Today. Now. With or without your help.”

He sighed,

“Do you understand this action is against my counsel and advice as your physician?”
“I do understand,” I answered.

And so we began the process: me with a sense of urgency, he with unconcealed skepticism. Within a few months, I was back to myself again. I was a little scared, shaken, somewhat uncertain, but I was a mother, a friend, a daughter. My hamster had climbed back on the wheel. I was me again.

Once I was drug free, Dr. S wanted to begin the process of psychoanalysis. Therapy.

“We need to get to the bottom of this now, “ he told me, “You are ready.”

He had a point. I knew he was recommending what he thought best for me. But I was back to myself and something had shifted within me. Something important. My inner voice told me I was done with the sadness, at least to that extreme degree. Told me I was done with the sick chair, whispered the truth to me:

This experience is over for you. Distance yourself from it. Live your life. Move on. Be strong.

I shook Dr. S’s hand. Thanked him. Walked out the door and into the rest of my life.

I was twenty-eight years old. I was pretty darn sure I knew what I was doing, but it was still a little scary to face down the doctor that medicated me out of the madness and assert my instinct over his much greater training and experience.

In the end the entire incident, start to finish, was six months long. The period when I was completely incapacitated was probably around three weeks or a month, and the rest of that time was spent recovering on the meds. My break was short, very short in the scheme of things, but intense, enough so that I’ve since separated my life in terms of “before” and “after” the experience.

The first fall after all that, my twenty-ninth fall, would hit with a vengeance. The darkness, the chill, it all screamed a bleak reminder of the events of the previous year; re-awakened the fear in the pit of my stomach. I steeled myself against it. Stared it down. Walked through it. Remembered how lucky I’d been to have someone there that other dark fall exactly when and how I needed them. Someone in the gap, that time when things could have gone either way, doing exactly the right thing when I absolutely could not.

A mother smart enough to recognize my depression for what it was, manage my life and my child when I could not, get me to the right doctor (Indian, of course), believe with every fiber of her being that I would be okay and tell me so, in no uncertain terms, Every. Single. Day. Did she, on some level, believe me into recovery? I didn’t know. But I was grateful, so grateful that first fall that I was still whole, still okay, still in the light and not lost down some dark rabbit hole never to emerge again. I knew for certain, and with frightening clarity then, how very close I’d come. And I knew there was only one reason I hadn’t been lost: my mother.

I was overwhelmed with gratitude my twenty-ninth fall.

Eighteen falls have passed since then. And during each and every one of them, when the leaves change and the air turns crisp, without fail, I still at some point always, always pause and remember. I send out a little prayer of gratitude to the universe for what my mother did for me in the dark fall of my twenty-eighth year. It is what I am doing right now, tonight, this Thursday night, in my cozy little place. With all of my things.

I sat down tonight to write a short blog post about fall and contentment. And then my typing fingers finally realized I’ve never thanked my mother, out loud, like I’ve thanked her in silence every single fall for the last eighteen years.

Until now.

Thank you, Mama. You saved my life.

By Way of Explanation

2009-11-08T18:00:00.000-08:00

I’m not writing.

I’ve been through dry spells before. But, yes, this is a full-on drought that is about to turn into a dust bowl and I don’t even really know what to do about it. I’m receiving messages and emails from people I never hear from saying…are you okay?

The good news is that I am okay. I think. As an official over-thinker and charter generational member of the Paducah Chapter of Over-Thinkers Anonymous (originally founded worriedly by my mother and her mother and her mother and her mother and her mother whom we have traced back to Boston on the 18th of April in ’75 calling out after Paul Revere…”Have you had your supper??”) I am at least 50.62923% certain that I’m okay. Especially when the sun is shining. Unless I think about it too much in which case, under any circumstances, I can usually always eventually convince myself: THE END IS NEAR.

Stuff is going on in my life that is for now, I think, completely unsuitable for blogging.

Thing is, I would like to blog it. No, I would LOVE to blog it. Need to. Want to. Desperately wish I could. Daily…DAILY I experience situations that would make FASCINATING blog posts. It sickens sickens me to walk away. I can’t stop repeat repeating everything I say, I’m so unnerved by this. I have had people (smart people) turn to me and say,

“How are you not blogging this??? How?” or, “So! You this you have to blog, right?”

Trouble is, I feel like either the time is not right, the material is not suitable, the stuff would be a serious invasion of another’s privacy or, most importantly, that my mother would KILL MY ASS DEAD if I blogged it.

It’s the same old question: where is the line?

Only it is a much tougher question to answer as a single person. As a married person it was simple: Satan was my husband. I made fun of him. It was my job. Now? Satan is the Yankee Clipper. I am on my own. It is an upside down world.

The problem is the longer I do not write about my life, the more the momentum slows and I begin to lose the thread of the/my/a story completely. Do I write in another venue? Turn my sociological research into a Thesis? Plunge into NaNoWriMo (note: I’m too lazy and preoccupied for this)? Not writing isn’t really an option. I may not be writing in my blog, but I have a small circle of (writerly) friends to whom I find myself occasionally typing ridiculously long, detailed emails. I realize these communications are less about informing them and more about me sneaking in a fix so I don’t completely blow from lack of self expression. I get to a point where I’ve got to, literarily speaking, barf it up…somewhere. Apparently, I’ve reached a place in my life where writing is an essential part of keeping me sane. (Remember when Sybil had to draw “the people”?) Writing is going to happen one way or another, it seems. Ideally, it would happen here as a means to keep all three of my readers happy. Hopefully, it won’t happen on the floor of the booby hatch with a purple crayon. But wherever it happens, I can not do it at the expense of anyone else, share details about the lives of people who didn’t sign up for this little hobby of mine, or share too much about myself.

Or can I? This last item, the sharing too much of myself, is actually in question, because I, if I'm honest, in my heart of hearts, think there’s no such thing as too much. What I’m feeling may feel special to me, but it is universal. And therein is what lies at the heart of all good (or even halfway decent) writing: expressing the the commonly felt through one’s own unique experience. Telling the truth. The truth is the thing that reaches right out off the page (or screen). The thing that makes you “get” it. Even on the small scale of blogging, the truth is essential and more of me (or any blogger) is what you voyeurs want. It's why you're here right now. It’s what I, as a voyeuristic blog reader myself, want from the blogs I read.

It’s like this: tell me about you; no, really [whisper], tell me about you.

Can I tell you about me?

And the answer continues to be...right now...I don’t know.

JK8: The Vanity Fair Piece

2009-10-20T14:23:00.000-07:00

In an article entitled, "The Unreal Rise of Jon and Kate Gosselin", Vanity Fair weighs in. Not really much new here, but the piece does a good job of encapsulating the whole sad trajectory in VF style. Read it here.

Mary Pecan Comes Home

2009-10-18T13:22:00.000-07:00

Alert readers may remember back in May, this post, that I wrote about both the events following the ice storm and the ex-man's loss of his mother. Back then, I (in an unintentionally dramatic way it turned out) had a real, live tree shipped to him as a memorial that I thought would be special.

Now known to us as Mary Pecan, that tree recently reached sufficient size as to need a more permanent home. Of course, I asked for a photo of Mary in her new outdoor habitat. And every time I look at the picture, I cannot stop thinking of the opening line from "The Giving Tree":

Once there was a tree...and she loved a little boy...

Southern Festival of Books, 2009

2009-10-12T06:39:00.000-07:00

We walked many miles, we got lost, but eventually we made our way to the Southern Festival of Books (a celebration of the written word) and we had a great time. But we are resolved that next year? Next year we will spend the night like sane people. We will get a hotel and we will map out a strategy and we will attend more sessions, see more writers, take more time. Because, people? There is a lot to see and a lot of ground to cover at the Southern Festival of Books.

We left Paducah at 9:00 (or thereabouts) Saturday morning and, of course, the first order of business upon arriving in NashVegas was, most importantly, lunch. Which for me usually means Noshville and Saturday was no exception. I had the mushroom and barley soup and the toasted walnut and orange and salad. My Mom (right) and aunt Patsy posed for a photo:

And, no, they didn't call each other the night before and agree on striped turtle necks and jackets, that shit just happens all on its own. After lunch, we were in for a VERY long walk to the festival (owing to I forgot to check about were perzactly the plaza is located beyond just "downtown"). Held in War Memorial Plaza and the Tennessee state capitol in NashVegas, the SFOB occupies a fairly sprawling venue better than a city block long that encompasses the capitol legislative chambers at one end, and the library at the other. The event features three days of rotating (for the most part hour-long) sessions with reads from the authors attending, a signing section, books for sale, and book-related vendor tents, among other things. You see Mom and Patsy here mounting the steps to the plaza, the capitol in the background.:

To their left where the columns are, one climbs another set of large steps to another elevated outdoor plaza where the books are sold and signings take place, behind them the venue is bisected by another street and bordered opposite the capitol by the library. Ahead of them you see some of the vendor and food tents. There are other stages that feature musicians and various demonstrations including, this year, cooking. The bulk of the rotating sessions are held in the legislative chambers of the capitol which are woody, cavernous, echoey and historic.

After a lot of dithering, we realized where we needed to be was in the library in order to see a screening of "That Evening Sun" a film starring Hal Holbrook based on a short story by William Gay, a writer with the potential to join the great southern writers, in my opinion (read an excerpt from Gay's novel "Twilight" [obviously not THAT Twilight] here). According to the schedule, not only would the Director of "That Evening Sun", Scott Teems, be present for a talk and questions, but that William himself would too. This, then, was my pick for the coveted 1:00PM activity. For whatever reason, SFOB planners tend to stage all the biggest names at 1:00PM, in other words, at the same time, so girl has to choose. (Please stop this practice, SFOB.) Choosing William and the film meant we had to forgo Elizabeth Berg (owie).

I was expecting, hoping actually, for a good movie and was surprised with a great one. "That Evening Sun" tells the story of a Tennessee farmer, Abner Meecham, (played by Hal Holbrook) who decides to check out of living death in the nursing home and return to his remote Tenneee farm to live out his few remaining years on his own terms. Instead of the quiet homecoming Meecham expects, he returns to find his son has rented his home place to a family of ne'er-do-wells, headed by one Alonzo Choate. The film then tells the story of the face-off between Choate and Meecham. Meecham sets up camp in the tenant's quarters and, as they say, it's "on". See the trailer here.

I've never had the experience of seeing a really good movie and then having the director and, in this case, screenplay writer, present to talk about his (or her) process and thoughts afterward. It was a real treat. I got a huge charge out of Teems sort of pounding the table and describing his passion for authenticity during casting saying he declared, "All southern accents in the film must be AUTHENTIC--or we're sunk!" (the accents were authentic, actually.) Here's a really badly lit photo of Scott Teems (left) and his interviewer.

Sadly, for whatever reason, William Gay himself was not present (wah!! What gives, William?). Still, the talk and q and a was fascinating. That whole experience alone was worth the trip for me.

Afterward, while visiting the main tent for tee-shirt and poster swag, I glanced up to see none other than Silas House shopping for his own tee-shirt right next to me. "You're Silas House!" I sort of squealed, sticking out my hand which he shook saying, "Why, yes. Yes I am."

Of couse, photo!

Silas was one of those rare people who sort of oozes goodness. Alas, I don't believe writers often get treated like rock stars (unless you're JK Rowling).

But they should, don't you think?

2009 Southern Festival of Books...THIS weekend.

2009-10-06T09:06:00.001-07:00

Shut the front door: William Gay, Silas House, Elizabeth Berg, Rick Bragg. Many, many more. And they're all going to read to you. Plus! Nashvegas in October. The Tennessee state capitol. See the full schedule here. I've been to this event before and these people? That can write really well? Are nearly indistinguishable from the rest of us. You'll sometimes see them just...standing around. See you there.

Lost (But fairly happy about it.)

2009-10-06T05:33:00.000-07:00

You should know I have been in a fairly crazy good mood for a while now. It sort of comes and goes, but still, it for the most part stays these days. Case in point: I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. this morning.

I am not a morning person. Not at all. I am one to throw alarm clocks, sleep through Very Important Stuff in the early morning hours and hit “snooze” forty-seven times. I am one not to speak, if at all possible, until 10:00 a.m. If you are speaking to me in a very loud voice and are especially chirpy at dawn, I am liable to reach over with lightening speed, twist your head around on your annoying chirpy little neck until it pops and you drop like a stone, and then blithely step over your lifeless body still squinty-eyed and half asleep on the way to the fridge for a Diet Coke.

This morning, however, though I was not happy to be rising at 5:00 a.m., I also was not overly pissed off either. And by 6:00 a.m.? I almost, practically smiled. Is this what it’s like to crack up? Very pleasant? Do you, without warning, start to enjoy life? Just before you go all Juliette Lewis in the “Come to my Window” video? (P.S. Have you seen Juliette Lewis lately? Will someone please tell me when, in a very, very literal way, she started channeling Janis Joplin and why everyone acts as though this is perfectly normal and like she’s NOT doing a full-on Janis Joplin imitation when she sings?)

Oh, and apropos of nothing: Carrie Fisher. I love Carrie Fisher. But I really, really am going to need her to stop aging. Because, unbeknownst to Carrie, we are twins separated at birth, and every time I see her getting older I know that I am too. This would be very upsetting if I weren't in such a damn good mood these days. (Disclaimer: Carrie is older than me. Technically.)

Speaking of aging. I jumped on my treadmill on Sunday armed with Violet, my new iPod. And, by the way, I just want to interject here that since being recently introduced to the iPod and then getting Violet for my birthday, I am a Changed Woman. I mean, seriously, these iPods are handy! You can totally go on a trip, miss your connection, fly around the country for 16 hours and, long as you've got your iPod, completely tune the rest of the world out. So handy! Also, as I discovered on the treadmill Sunday, Violet is an absolute MUST HAVE for exercising. Thirty minutes of torture just zipped on by with the help of Carlos Santana. Apparently, I hadn't been on the treadmill for a while. If my still-sore ass two days later is any indication. But my point is: iPods. Get one. And, remember, you heard it here first.

In a still more disturbing story that may or may not be related to aging: Friday night. Olive Garden. Soup, salad, chardonnay. Not that much chardonnay. Hilarity. I have to potty. I go to the bathroom. Come back out. Suddenly, I'm in the Disneyland parking lot. All the tables look the same...endless. Where was I sitting? This side or that side? Down this hallway of booths or that one? I have a faint flicker of a memory and set off in a direction. The wrong direction. I double-back, tour the restaurant for a while. No sign of my party. I walk to the other side. The wait staff begins to look at me strangely. Especially since I'm giggling. At myself. I go back to the lobby. Consider sending an SOS text. This thought leads to more giggling. More concerned looks from the wait staff. But no...NO! I will not be conquered by Olive Garden! I can do this! It's only one glass of chardonnay and a few snorts of a second! Focus...focus.

The story has a happy ending. This time.

Should I be worried?

In Which Jon Gosselin Moves on the Money Phase of soon-to-be-ex Jackassery

2009-10-05T06:40:00.000-07:00

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Jon Gosselin: Assholery at Warp Speed

2009-10-03T08:55:00.000-07:00

Thanks to an alert Facebook friend, (thanks MET), I learned the whiny douchebag otherwise known as Jon Gosselin recently appeared on Larry King Live and is now denouncing the production of the reality show based on the life of his family. In fact, he is taking legal steps to halt entirely the production of the show that made him (fairly) rich and (in)famous. A show he repeatedly for years defended as an absolute positive in the lives of his kids, an enterprise he claimed provided learning opportunities and life experiences for them they would never have enjoyed otherwise.

Again, all this (it just so happens) in the wake of the announcement that his role in said reality show will be diminished likely due to the fact that he is a whoring jackass with little or no sensitivity the impact his sudden and very public extra-marital actions might be having on the psyches of his minor children.

That's right, folks. Jon Gosselin, the guy that, not two weeks ago, announced on national television that he "despised" the woman who bore him eight children, preferring instead the charms of his twenty-one-year-old girlfriend, Hailey Glassman (that should be a Very Special Google search for his children in a few years) has suddenly, and without warning, grown a conscience. A conscience as big as Olde Texas. A conscience SO BIG that it simply does not allow for the continued production of the show he enthusiastically participated in and defended for the last eight years (and as few as six days prior). A show that makes his Ed-Hardy-tee-shirt buying skull-ring-gifting, Manhattan-based lifestyle possible.

Poor, sensitive Jon, ya'll. He's HAD AN EPIPHANY. And a very suspiciously timed epiphany, at that.

Not that Jon is alone in his recently oh-so-recently acquired conviction that the show is detrimental to the welfare of his children. As I've written before, Jon & Kate Plus 8 is a show that was no stranger to controversy long before the specter of the Gosselin divorce reared its ugly head. There has been, since the beginning, a large group of detractors opposed to the production of a show dependent on its pint-sized stars for content. This particular controversy has been brewing almost since the beginning. The movement just never before had one Jon Gosselin in its camp until a minute ago, when Jon realized he was OUDT (Heidi Klum).

Then? For the fickle Jon Gosselin, the show was suddenly a Bad Idea all around. Wow. Who knew?

I've written extensively, probably too extensively, about how certain of my own life experiences make me perhaps overly (and unexpectedly) sensitized to the fate of the Gosselins. Jon's most recent and almost unbelievable antics only serve to strengthen my conviction that maybe, just maybe, Jon Gosselin is actually The poster boy for the bad behavior of divorced (or about-to-be-divorced) fathers everywhere.

This seems to me to be the sort of behavior we see every day in real life, but that is seldom so publicly presented as it is in the Gosselin case. Behavior that, clearly, is way more about this father's own personal well-being than that of his children. Behavior that would indicate that, not only is he not acting in a way that would show respect and care for his children and the union that produced them, but behavior that would actually indicate he doesn't have many qualms about using his children's fate and future as a weapon against his former wife. A former wife already disproportionately shouldering the lion's share of responsibility for their children. Their eight children. While Jon, in the meantime, despises her at his leisure. On TV.

I think, in the early years of JK8, Jon Gosselin garnered a lot of sympathy from the viewing public for having been "man-handled" by a wife that often seemed controlling and overbearing. In hindsight, and with the added benefit of recently having observed a now-rudderless Jon Gosselin in action, it's pretty easy to see how she got that way.

Somebody with a clue had to be in charge of the Gosselin ten. And it sure as hell wasn't going to be Jon Gosselin.

O give me a home...

2009-10-02T23:32:00.001-07:00

Bookworm Books

2009-10-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

Bookworm Books in West Yellowstone, Montana was by far the best retail discovery of the trip. A reader’s paradise, the place is literally crammed floor-to-ceiling with books of every description, many of them used, some not, most always in no particular order. The aisles are narrow and crooked, and often end in sudden claustrophobic book cul de sacs. One crammed-to-bursting wall sported a hand-lettered sign that promised, “In order by Author!”, as in: Can you believe it? (And anyway, it wasn't entirely true.)

This would all be annoying, I suppose, if one were searching for something in particular, but of course, “vacation” means that is not the case. So it’s not a big deal when you find “A Movable Feast” snuggled up to a Nancy Drew mystery. There were antique books and crappy books and classics and random first editions shrink wrapped in clear packaging perched atop coffee table books, and all of this stacked beneath a box of vintage western postcards: "Wish you were here!", scrawled in careful, shaky handwriting in the blue ink of a long-ago fountain pen on the back of a card featuring a solemn family of sad Native Americans.

I prefer a used book, of course, a book that has pages soft with use and the smell of another place entirely. And even with the amazing vistas of Yellowstone and the Tetons calling from just outside the door, it still felt worthwhile to take the time to run a hand over the spines, struggle through a few paragraphs of “Ulysses”, take photographs, breathe in the musty smell of pressed printed paper.

Ah…a good bookstore. There is no substitute.

3rd Annual Hunger Banquet

2009-10-01T09:28:00.000-07:00

Great cause, great event. Don't miss it: THIS SUNDAY, OCTOBER 4TH, 6:00 PM.

Inside Old Faithful Inn

2009-09-30T22:41:00.000-07:00

(Click to enlarge)

Jon Gosselin Wants to Postpone the Divorce Immediately Following the Announcement that he's Off the Show. (OH. HELL. EFF'N. NO.)

2009-09-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

In an exclusive report by InTouch, Jon Gosselin has admitted that he made choices that negatively impacted his family, and he realizes the consequences of his behavior. This news rides on the heels of the TLC announcement that Jon has essentially been written out of the reality show Jon and Eight Plus Eight. The show will now portray Kate as a single mother raising her famous brood of children without Jon, and is to be named Kate Plus Eight.

Read the full story here.

Lake Yellowstone

2009-09-29T21:42:00.000-07:00

The Tetons are in the distance. (Click for Larger)

A Yellowstone Moment for Monday

2009-09-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

Grand Prismatic Springs

Idaho Falls

2009-09-24T16:14:00.001-07:00

This is the view just steps from where my work meeting was held. It's a nice metaphor for the whole state, I think: beautiful country; crazy religion (that's a Mormon Temple in the background).

If you're not familiar with the origin of the Mormons, let me just condense it down for you: in 1893, a white salamander told a dude named Joseph Smith where he could find a set of golden plates (or tablets) which were buried in a hill in Manchester, New York. These plates had previously been guarded by an angel named "Moroni". Yes, Moroni. Our friend Mr. Smith then spent the next few years dictating his translation of what was supposedly written on the plates in a language called "reformed Egyptian" to his wife. Smith also channeled the "voice of God" during this time, producing a whole new set of commandments. THEN, Smith returned the plates to Moroni, who was still apparently hanging around on that same hill in New York all this time (five plus years).

All of these writings form the basis for the Book of Mormon. Conveniently for Joseph Smith and all his apostles (yes he had apostles just like somebody else we know and...oh! Several of them saw the tablets before they got dropped back off with Moroni), the Mormon Deity was completely down with these guys having more than one wife. This all changed after they settled Utah, and the US government absolutely refused to admit them as a state unless they cut that shit out. Then, well, they reconsulted God and God was all like, yah, you should totally cut that out. And...presto! Statehood!

I know there are factions of Mormons who still practice polygamy and after questioning people in the city here about it (inquiring minds and all that) I'm told the pluralist Mormons live more in the southwest, like, in Arizona. The Mormons that rule Idaho and Nevada and Utah are just your regular garden variety salamander-believing one-wife, no-caffeine Mormons. Or at least that's what I was told today during my scientific investigation that consisted of me talking to the retired teacher at the antique store. So, obviously, as with all my research, you can totally take that shit to the bank.

Why they call it Idaho Falls: this here very long waterfall that runs through the center of town. You can still see the same Church of of the Latter Day Salamander in the far background. I snapped this from the walking trail portion of the bridge that crosses the falls. [Note to my now traumatized Mother: Yes, I was on a walking trail in broad daylight where the serial killers obviously lurk. Luckily, I've learned to recognize and deter serial killers primarily by singing "At Last" in my worst, most nasally and obnoxious Chicago Girl voice. Not even the sickest of serial killers wants to knock me over the head and drag me off to their windowless panel van after that. Trust me.]

And, really, though beautiful, that's obviously not a natural waterfall. It's a diversion dam built to generate hydroelectric power. The original dam was built in the early 1900's and the dam as it is today was updated in the early 1980's. This dam, along with three others like it, produce 50% of all the electricity required to keep Idaho Falls up and running. Without all this diversion and some fancy irrigating, Idaho Falls would be one dry-assed city, situated as it is, in the high Idaho dessert. Sort of like Las Vegas only not as hot and with fewer casinos. (Also, more Mormons I'm guessing.)

Wisely, Idaho Falls constructed a beautiful walking trail that circles the picturesque dam so out-of-towners like myself can risk life and limb snapping photos and enjoying the beautiful scenery during a stroll from the hotel to the downtown. I'm not going to lie to you, shopping Idaho Falls is not exactly like shopping Jackson Hole. Not by a long shot. But still. No complaints here. It was a lovely, lovely day. Even if it was pretty much all kitch (sp?).

My lunch at the Snake Bite Cafe: a Snake Bite Burger and house salad. If you look closely, you can sorta see the hot sauce leaking out the bottom. Like most of the western food I've eaten, it was perfectly fine. I have not, however, had any delicious food on this trip that would challenge my basic theory that the closer one is to New Orleans, the better food tastes. And that the southern United States produces, on average, the best tasting food in the whole country. This excludes the metropolitan areas which obviously attract top chefs at upscale restaurants who cook disproportionately delicious dishes. I'm talking here about just your regular food and the luck you might have at a highway diner. You're much better off in the south in that situation, in my opinion. And in New Orleans? There is no bad food. At least I've never had any.

So! That's it then. I know you'd love to listen to all my half-baked theories all night but, people, I have to pack! And return to the homeland bright and early tomorrow morning. I have yet to edit my photos from the remainder of Yellowstone, the Tetons, and Jackson Hole. I'd say I'll do that real soon, but you know how that's been going lately. It's a wonder I've posted anything.

See you on the other side.

Yellowstone

2009-09-20T15:46:00.000-07:00

Grand Prismatic Springs, Yellowstone (click for larger)

I'm taking a minute to post a few of my favorite shots from yesterday. Flickr is giving me a fit and for some reason selectively uploading only certain of the photographs I tell it to. ARGH! Otherwise, I have very little time between frantically seeing jaw-dropping, amazing sites constantly (and I'm not kidding this place is paradise) and driving from one place to another--Yellowstone is massive, and it takes forever to get from one place to another. Especially when you are stopping to photograph constantly.

Turquoise Pool, Yellowstone

My flight in Friday was a nightmare beginning at 6:30 AM at the Paducah airport when, apparently the plane wouldn't start. The explanation? It "needed some alone time". This from the pilot. I think he thought that might cheer his passengers up, but I assure you, it had quite the opposite effect. We were delayed, herded off and then back on to the plane. The result of all this was that I missed my Memphis connection (I ran into the terminal just in time to see the flight flicker off the screen). I dashed over to the Delta counter where an apologetic Delta agent immediately booked me on a flight to MINNEAPOLIS, handed me a boarding pass, herded me across the the way to the next gate and, in less than 15 minutes from touch-down to take-off, I was on my way to Yellowstone by way of Minnesota. I would board no less than four flights that day (Paducah-Memphis-Minneapolis-Salt Lake City) before I would arrive at my destination city, Idaho Falls, a full ten hours later than expected. It was a lot of text and Facebook whining, I assure you. (Thanks for your support.)

Sapphire Pool, Yellowstone

Only scenery of the caliber that I have experienced here since my arrival could shake me out of the exhausted state in which I began this little adventure. I am constantly moving from one amazing vista to another, camera pressed to my face. I squeezed off nearly 400 shots yesterday, only twenty or so of which I feel are the least bit worthy. Photography is an unforgiving little little bitch of a sport. I'll post a Flickr show if I EVER get a spare minute.

Who could resist a "Snake River Pale Ale" at Old Faithful Inn, Yellowstone. Very chewy, actually.

Traveling

2009-09-17T12:01:00.001-07:00

I'm going on a little trip. And whilst away on this trip I hereby declare I shall be shod in one pair of boots or another each and every day. The photo above should provide a (giant, screaming) clue as to my destination. I will be armed with my camera and the shooting capacity for at least a thousand photos. If I don't obliviously wander off a cliff with the camera affixed to my face, I hope I will find the time to upload a few of the more bearable shots here in the very near future. What? Shut-up. I'm thinking positive about this. I've never been to the pacific Northwest (<----CLUE), but I can assure you I will, as with each and every trip I take, return an insufferable expert on the region including where/what to eat, most picturesque locations, local customs, fun facts, and general history of the area. Just ask me.

Like watching paint dry...

2009-09-14T10:41:00.001-07:00

Yes, I continue to be riddled with guilt about my lack of postage. I was talking with a friend the other day and reeling off my litany of excuses for not posting: too busy with work, too busy with school, too busy drinking wine and debating the merits of Ryan's Steakhouse (which, for the record, I think is completely gagifying even if you can top your potato with another potato or make your own heinously large BMI-busting sundae if you're brave enough to grasp the snot-covered ice-cream dispenser handle), too busy eating at Jasmine, too busy being inappropriately touched. On the shoulder. (Hi Sandy. That was for you.)

This friend suggested I post my latest school paper which I declared, in my very, very, most annoying and whiniest voice, was the only damn thing I've written lately. And so I'm taking his advice. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my paper on the Kennedy-Nixon Debate of 1960, an event that happened MANY YEARS (many, many) before my own birth. Which, of course, doesn't stop me from having all kinds of opinions about it.

Nixon-Kennedy Debate
The Nixon-Kennedy debate held September 26, 1960, featured presidential candidates Richard M. Nixon, at that time vice president under Dwight Eisenhower, as the nominee of the Republican Party, and John F. Kennedy, a Senator from Massachusetts, as the nominee of the Democratic Party. The debate, lasting an hour in total, allowed each candidate an opportunity to respond to questions from a panel of media correspondents. By prior arrangement, both candidates agreed the subject of the debate would be limited to domestic affairs and that each would be allowed an 8-minute opening statement. This debate, one of the first of its kind, introduced the visual element of television into the equation. (Woolley)

The opening statements by Kennedy and Nixon are nothing if not remarkably similar in content and issue identification. Both debaters include the economy, the threat of communism, power production, civil rights, education, social security, elder care, and Medicare as major issues. As the debate begins, Kennedy, the candidate to give the first opening statement, identifies these issues and Nixon, speaking second, in many cases, agrees with Kennedy’s assessments and goes so far as to point out the many areas in which the candidate’s views are similar. While this may be true enough, this may mark the first misstep by Nixon in making the republican come across as weaker by agreeing with rather than taking the chance stand in contrast to his opponent. On balance, Nixon makes an excellent case during his eight minutes, specifically, that the Eisenhower administration, of which he is a part, has implemented programs that have boosted the economy and made the Americans of 1960, in general, more prosperous than they had been in the past. (Kennedy-Nixon Debate ¼)

As the debate unfolds, upon watching the video, one cannot mistake the difference in looks and demeanor of the candidates. Both Nixon and Kennedy do, at times, seem tense when watching the video, it is nearly always Nixon who comes across as more tense and even, at times, looks haggard. By minute twenty, the viewer can clearly see beads of sweat standing out on Nixon’s face. Kennedy, in contrast, looks (and is) younger, more confident, relaxed, and never breaks a sweat. Kennedy’s chin is held higher, his manner, arguably, more presidential. Kennedy seldom smiles while Nixon smiles somewhat more frequently and nervously. (Kennedy-Nixon Debate 2/4)

While one cannot help but be struck by the difference in looks and manner when watching the video, the opposite is true upon reading the transcript. Nixon’s question responses are dense with facts and figures. Nixon’s remarks are, on average, longer, more specific, and more complex than Kennedy’s more general responses. (Woolley) This fact, however, is easily lost when viewing the debate on video.

As significant as the Nixon’s sweating that begins at around the twenty minute mark is a question posed to a somewhat already seemingly (visually, at least) shaken Nixon at approximately minute twenty-five. The question, posed by a Mr. Vanocur reads in part, “…Now, in his news conference on August twenty-fourth, President Eisenhower was asked to give one example of a major idea of yours that he adopted. His reply was, and I'm quoting; "If you give me a week I might think of one. I don't remember." Now that was a month ago, sir, and the President hasn't brought it up since, and I'm wondering, sir, if you can clarify which version is correct” (Woolley) The beginning of the question referred to Vice President Nixon’s campaign claim that he is a proven, effective leader. One cannot help but be struck by the somewhat negative tone of this question both in reading the transcript and watching the video delivery of query. On balance, no question of quite this sort is posed to Kennedy. Again, Nixon’s sweating betrays him, although he offers an excellent response, explaining that specific credit is almost never given to cabinet members and team advisers of the President. (Kennedy-Nixon Debate 2/4)

As significant as the “If you give me a week and I might think of one” question is to Nixon, perhaps the most significant exchange for Kennedy occurs afterward when Mr. Novins poses the question that reads, in part,

“…And I'm wondering how you, if you're president in January, would go about paying the bill for all this. Does this mean that you?
MR. KENNEDY: I didn't indicate. I did not advocate reducing the federal debt because I don't believe that you're going to be able to reduce the federal debt very much in nineteen sixty-one, two, or three. I think you have heavy obligations which affect our security, which we're going to have to meet. And therefore I've never suggested we should uh - be able to retire the debt substantially, or even at all in nineteen sixty-one or two.
MR. NOVINS: Senator, I believe in - in one of your speeches
MR. KENNEDY: No, never.
MR. NOVINS: - you suggested that reducing the interest rate would help toward -
MR. KENNEDY: No. No. Not reducing the interest -
MR. NOVINS: - a reduction of the Federal debt.
MR. KENNEDY: - reducing the interest rate…” (Woolley)

While a strict reading of the transcript would indicate that Kennedy reversed himself in the heat of a difficult question, in watching the video, this exchange actually comes off as a victory for Kennedy. Timed as it is, immediately after Nixon’s difficult question, Kennedy, seeing the shoe about to drop, takes the offensive. By calmly and insistently challenging the questioner and refusing to accept that he may have advocated for the reduction of the Federal debt (and the smart money says he did), Kennedy comes off as the calm, in charge victor whereas a smiling, sweaty Nixon reads as defeated, at least in the visual sense.

Incredibly, in the wake of this difficult question for Kennedy, Nixon, who may have pressed his advantage here, again as in the opening, having another chance to draw apart and contrast himself with his opponent essentially actually defends Kennedy saying, “I think what Mr. Novins was referring to was not one of Senator Kennedy's speeches, but the Democratic platform, which did mention cutting the national debt. I think, too, that it should be pointed out that of course it is not possible, particularly under the proposals that Senator Kennedy has advocated, either to cut the national debt or to reduce taxes. As a matter of fact it will be necessary to raise taxes.” While Nixon might get “good sport” points on some level, this marks yet another failure of Nixon to take advantage of a situation handed to him by circumstances, a talent Kennedy seems to possess in spades. Ultimately, Nixon’s defense of his opponent does nothing so much as make an already presidential looking Kennedy look (if possible) more presidential while leaving a smiling, sweaty, too-thin Nixon looking distinctly second best. (Kennedy-Nixon Debate 2/4)

Also significant is the fact that Kennedy, either by luck or design, was given the opportunity to give the first opening statement as well as the last closing statement. If indeed, the beginning and end of a presentation are the most significant and lasting things an audience takes away, Kennedy’s advantage in this opening and closing placement is almost incalculable. By the time Kennedy makes his closing statement, the very last thing television viewers see of the debate, he is calm, noticeably calmer than he was to begin with, and certainly more calm and presidential than the, by this time, visually bested Nixon has been throughout the exchange. Kennedy’s closing statement is concise, persuasive and smacks of victory. (Kennedy-Nixon Debate ¼, 4/4)

The Nixon-Kennedy debate presents a fascinating dichotomy between content and impression, perhaps the first of its kind in US history. A strict read of the transcript would suggest that, while both candidates are well prepared and intelligent, Nixon has the edge having easily more facts and figures at his disposal, as well as more well thought out responses, and a better track record of experience to stand on. In this case, however, the element of television essentially hands Kennedy the victory, allowing him to take advantage of his superior looks, commanding demeanor, and ability to seize the moment. Nixon, in contrast, lacks Kennedy’s talent for thinking on his feet, continually failing to take advantage of the opportunities handed to him by the situation. In the end, Nixon comes across as more tentative, less commanding, and perhaps most surprisingly, almost a fan of the Massachusetts Senator himself. Kennedy, meanwhile, comes across as presidential, self-assured, and superior. Judged on content, Nixon is the victor in this historic debate. Judged on impression, Kennedy scores a run-away victory. The Nixon-Kennedy debate may well mark the first time in US politics that the phrase “perception is reality” comes into its own.

Pencils, Potatoes, and LauraK

2009-09-03T07:06:00.000-07:00

I know...I KNOW! I'm a blog slacker. Totally.

Rest assured I haven't forgotten this here site and I continue to think of this lack of posting as a temporary condition. Also note that I regularly feel guilty (read: all the time) since I consider myself completely responsible for wasting 1.25 minutes of your day on at least a semi-regular basis.

I'm popping in today to award a long overdue Bizzyville super-snap to LauraK who, as if being Paducah PR maven, fashionista, Chamber events promoter/orchestrater, graphic designer, founding Get Together Gals partner, and now a movie star in her spare time isn't enough, actually managed to find the time to design the super-cool graphic you see above. I. Love. It.

Otherwise, work and school continue to combine to kick my ass. And, well, a girl's gotta have a social life, right? I keep having to take history classes and constantly find myself, like it or not, fighting the War of 1812. Let's just say I look forward to the day that that particular war can, once again, exist in the time-space continuum without me.

A far more interesting factoid in that vein: my history professor tells me that there were no potatoes in the eastern hemisphere before Columbus discovered (or invaded depending on your vantage point) America.

Think about it.

Russians? Potatoes? Vodka? Didn't happen until AFTER Columbus. Ireland? Potatoes? Not happening until Columbus.

I don't know about you, but this one shook me. If I'm honest, I'd have to say my preconceived notion would be that a recently evolved cavemen one day randomly wandered out of his cave and plucked a potato from the Siberian earth and let it ferment. Then maybe his mate having snatched a few moments from her "Quest for Fire" duties offered up a handful of fish roe and...ba-da-boom, ba-da-bing...Absolut, caviar and Russia. Sort of all in that order. And then, inspired by the vodka, they all broke into that Russian dance, you know, where they cross their arms over their chests and squat down and stand up and kick their legs out? Yah. Russia! Hey!

WRONG.

And Ireland without potatoes? Don't get me started.

And then there's...Algebra. Wa, wa, waaaaaa.

I got an email from a friend the other day kindly asking me how I was progressing with Algebra. My response: I bought a pencil. Yes, friends, I HAVE A PENCIL. So, at any moment, any old moment at all, I could start actually doing Algebra. With my pencil. And stuff. Could start. Doing. Algebra. With my pencil.

Recently, I learned that my Grandma on my Dad's side, otherwise known as Micro-Minnie the Pocket Grandma (she's tiny but mighty and could kick your ass, I assure you) will be celebrating her 90th birthday at a family get-together in southern Illinois. And at this get-together will be several ALGEBRA TEACHERS to whom I am related. Like, in one case, blood related. To a person with mad, serious algebra skillz.

So, maybe I'll bring my pencil and they can pray over me? Something.

Hey. It's a mechanical pencil. I'm not a complete loser.

NashVegas

2009-08-30T18:30:00.000-07:00

A picture of the lobby at Union Station Hotel taken hastily Saturday with my Blackberry just before a wedding reception was to begin which is the reason for the candlelit tables with the hydrangea arrangements. I spent much of the weekend in this lovely setting at a work-related event.

Unfortunately, still no impulse to write. I'm beginning to wonder.

Casey's First Visit

2009-08-23T16:47:00.000-07:00

thirtysomething at last.

2009-08-23T10:38:00.000-07:00

I was obsessed with the show thirtysomething when I was twentysomething; still even rapturously watching the re-runs painstakingly recorded on actual VHS tape in my own early thirtysomethings. I loved to hate Hope and Susannah, sympathized with poor Nancy and never quite got over Timothy Busfield's incredible acting in the episodes dealing with Nancy's cancer (I had previously wondered how the hell he landed the job). And who can ever forget the whole GARY'S DEAD episode?

While I've finally given up on the much-rumored notion of a thirtysomething made-for-tv reunion movie, I am looking forward to owning the first season on DVD. We'll all finally have that opportunity next week. Meanwhile, check out this NYT op-ed piece, "Finally 'Thirtysomething'" by writer and fellow thirtysomething obsessee, Porochista Khakpour, a girl bitten by the bug before she was even twentysomething.

Tallulah

2009-08-23T10:26:00.000-07:00

George-Wilson Literary Mafia Meeting

2009-08-15T17:58:00.000-07:00

Livin' Large in Louisville

2009-08-09T17:45:00.000-07:00

BubbleShare: Share photos - Find great Clip Art Images.

What can I say? We kicked Louisville's ass until it cried like a girl, of course.

We drank wine. We purchased fresh french baguettes still warm from the oven from the Bosnian baker. Shopped at the Asian grocery (we like to stay in touch with our heritage), ate GOOD Pad Thai at Yang Kee Noodle, I got that Big Purse I've been hankering for at NY&Co. We all got new clothes. We were accosted in the Mall and given Big Prom Hair all of a sudden. We visited Whole Foods where we FINALLY found Kaffir Lime Leaves and got olives at the olive bar and ate cookes while we people-watched the check-out (Go Lane 4 Checker!). We were visited by the Chef at Proof on Main who was so overwhelmed by our charms that he sent us dessert. There was other stuff.

All in all, the perfect weekend. Click the photos for larger versions and complete captions at Bubbleshare.

TGIF

2009-08-07T06:44:00.001-07:00

[From Left: Kara McCombs, David Szemeredy, and Katelyn Swift at the GTG's event last night at Pasta House. The crowd was HUGE and I held my blackberry aloft with the intention of getting a crowd shot. Instead, I got this blurry photo of only my buddies standing immediately to my left. I'm blaming the big pours.]

I'm off for some big city fun with the goils this weekend. As of right this minute (and this may change) I'm not taking Pinky.

Okay, just writing that sentence made me a little queasy.

I AM taking the camera. I hope to be back soon. And, okay, I'm taking Pinky. No...no, I'm leaving Pinky...

Y Pubed

2009-08-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

Yep, took some time off here. This may become the exception rather than the rule for the next little bit. I'm not sure why. My payback is this super rambling, partially innappropriate post. Don't say I didn't warn you (or blame it on Wanda).

I'm supposed to be writing a blog post entitled, "The down-low on down there" all about pubic hair maintenance in the new millenium. I was all pumped up about it there for a while. And, I assure you, my research made for a VERY lively conversation with a group of people at a local bar recently. My penchant for sociological research of the generally naughty kind has been known to embarass a former associate or two but I've yet to run across very many people who weren't earger to share given the right mix of booze and and a racy topic.

My pubic hair survey was no exception. It yielded some fairly predictable results. The younger a girl is, the more naked her business is likely to be. Like, as in the under-thirty crowd is likely to be totally shorn. Woman over thirty? Likely to maintain some pubic hair, often a "landing strip" (an inch or so wide and a few inches top to bottom) since they may have child birth related, er, marks that are better off veiled.

What do men prefer? They prefer YOU more shorn than not, of course, though they themselves are not the least bit likely to shear themselves. One survey participant told me she regularly shears her (male) lover her damn self. And another survey participant told me she'd been sheared by a lover and the resulting trust/danger sharp-object-near-vulnerable-flesh situation was quite a turn-on.

I was, at one point, assured that pubic hair is "back" for the gay man. Which implies, of course, that it was "out" in the recent past. So take note: gay male pube styles trending toward bearded.

Absolutely positively out of style of the full-on bush ala 1975 (otherwise known as the full Farrah--sorry, Farrah). So, yah, unless you're naturally sparse down there, you need to be performing at least some maintenance. Though I know there are waxers ready to wax your lady-parts here in Paducah, no one I surveyed was putting themselves through it. I remain traumatized by a waxer who told me (while waxing my brows) that once when waxing an (extreme upper) inner-thigh (if you know what I'm saying), she yanked off the wax, and then watched as the girl's pores immediately filled up with blood. Talk about your wincing. I'm all about keeping up with the times, but yeeeouch. Then there's the lasering option. Again, good for you if you are committed enough to a shapely (or bald) pubic area that you're okay with a stranger electronically shocking your nether regions with a laser beam. Everyone involved in my particular conversation paled at the mention.

In other, less crotchety news, I've run into a bit of a snag with school. It seems that the hangover plaguing my 16-year-old self, lo, those twenty-five years ago on that far away summer Saturday when I took the ACT, has finally come home to roost. (DAMN YOU BICARDI RUM/VANTAGE ULTRA-LITES/OTHER!) Back then, I scored very well in all areas. Except. Math. This means in order to take Chemistry and something called "Contemporary College Math" ("math lite"), I must prove my compentency in effing ALGEBRA. And, thus, a phrase that I had thought permanently behind me has once again reared it's ugly head:

Solve for all x

People. If there's one thing I don't want to do these days? It's solve for all x. Whip me, beat me, but, please for God's sake, leave me alone about mother-effing "x". I have procrastinated (whined) about dealing with this particular scholastic hurdle for as long as possible, studiously skipping through English 101, 102, giggling through Psychology and Introduction to Business, even slogging through Astronomy, lollygagging through Kentucky history, whistling through Sociology, gliding through Management, and tiptoeing through more leadership classes than you can shake a stick at. I am a Leadershipping Bitch, by now, I assure you. And, lest we forget, I can, with an impressive degree of accuracy, name damn near every country IN THE WORLD (probably for another week or so).

All for naught unless I can Solve for all x. Damn it to hell.

What has to happen is that I must pass something called a "Compass" test. It is this test that I've been avoiding since my returning-to-school odessy began. I must pass the Compass to gain entry to Math Lite and Chemistry. My advisor (who as been advising me to address this issue for a full year now) finally nearly physically kicked my ass into the assessment room recently with a, "YOU HAVE TO TAKE THIS TEST AND THAT'S FINAL, NOW DON'T COME OUT 'TIL YOU'VE DONE IT."

I was abandoned with a Number 2 pencil in a pool of my own exponents and mothereffing Solve for all x.

In the end, I did fairly well as bad math students go. I easily demonstrated competetency in "pre" Algebra and was a tantalizing 10 points away from the magic number of 35 I needed in Algebra proper.

But ten points is ten points, people (that's ten more than zero, if you're counting and, God help me, I am).

It was decided I should visit the Tutoring Center. I just needed a little refreshing, you see. On presenting myself at the Tutoring Center, I was immediately subjected to TWO MORE HOURS of assessment testing--Number 2 Pencil, etc. They had to determine where I was going wrong, you see.

The verdict? I scored too high to qualify for tutoring. I was in that tragic gray area: Too smart for tutoring; too stupid to pass the Compass.

Still, they had mercy on me, if you can call it that, sending me home with a thick stack of sample Algebra problems to practice, meanwhile scheduling a in-person session with a math teacher a few days hence. My homework, enticingly labeled, EXPONENTS, ROOTS, AND POLYNOMIALS, then rode around in the passenger seat of the Subaru until it was time to drive it back to the tutoring session where I then presented it to my tutor, Michelle.

MICHELLE

SO! Which ones did you have a question on?

Um...the "solve for x" ones?

MICHELLE

(Opening the papers)

So you did...

ME
I can write a hell of a sentence. Wanna see?

MICHELLE

(Pointing to a random sheet)Okay, which of these problems can't you solve?

(I point to a problem that looks like this: 8x3-50x=2x(4x2-25)=2x(2x+5)(2x-5)
Anything that looks like that. Even a little bit.

---

And so poor Michelle (who has to have the WORST job on earth...seriously, "Math Tutor"??...just shoot me) set about refreshing my memory. Order of operations. Factoring. The Distributive Property.

Gag.

To my credit, I guess, it all sounded a teesy bit familiar. In a nauseating sort of way. I took Algebra 1 and 2 and Geometry in high school, after all. Michelle seemed impressed with even my rudimentary and very sketchy recollections (I immediately felt sorry for her if I seemed a promising pupil in comparison to the norm). Michelle was so impressed, in fact, that after thirty minutes or so she decided I should take the test again. RIGHT THEN.

I was, again, suddenly and without warning, dragged to the Assessment Center, deprived of my Diet Coke, given a Number 2 pencil and a calculator and left to prove my mathematical competence. I could feel Michelle and the now sympathetic proctor staring hopefully from a safe distance at my sad, geriatric, math-challenged self. I sighed. Took up my pencil. Began the test.

In the end? My result was six points worse than my original score. Apparently? Tutoring makes me stupider.
---

This means instead of wrapping up as planned in the Spring, I will have to take an extra class next Summer before I can move on to Real College, damnit. And that is IF I can manage to pass the Compass at some point this coming fall semester.

I have ordered the "Algebra for Dummies" workbook. I am resigned to my fate.

I am very, VERY annoyed.

A Little Blog Nap

2009-07-27T19:20:00.000-07:00

I'm in one of those loops where I write blog posts and then, for one reason or another, can't hit "publish". It's a phase I go through. I'm sure you're all desperate for more from me (riiiiight). Maybe soon. I posted the photo above to my Facebook profile. I took it ouside Petsmart this weekend with my Blackberry--probably the best photo my Blackberry has ever taken. Good light. It's all about the light. Well, and that and the ultra-cuddly subject matter doesn't hurt anything either.

The Sara Astruc Interview

2009-07-21T00:01:00.000-07:00

First, a ridiculously long preface.

I'm beyond excited to post this interview with writer Sara Astruc (pictured above), an on and off-line writer whose print work entitled "Jailbait: A Love Story" will finally be available in a couple of months at Amazon.

If you're not familiar, Sara was one of the Original online journalers. Back in the time not too many years after Al Gore sponged the remnant afterbirth of the internet off his inner thighs (no control, sorry). Back then, there were no such things as web logs or blogs or widgets or sites like Blogger that made it possible for everyone and their dog to write online. There was only coding and uploading. (Or something.)

It was the "Information Super Highway" and it was a whole new frontier.

I merged on to the Highway in 1998 and was immediately turned on by a friend of mine to what were then called "online journals" even sometimes "online diaries". I was soon hooked on a few: "Ceej's Battered Black Book", "The Book of Rob", "Daily Dose of Deb, "Dear Jackie Robinson" aka "Bad Hair Days". It was a new sort of addiction that fed into my love of reading and my documentary bent. Suddenly, I was strangely connected, but then not connected, to a whole circle of people and their everyday lives. Or at least the part of their lives they shared (often a suprisingly large amount).

I knew I would one day join their ranks. I loved reading them all.

But none so much as Sara Astruc.

Sara's journal, "Perfect Way" was, and still is, the most compelling blog (online journal) I've ever read. Her vast archives kept me glued to my computer screen for one whole entire Saturday night, as I devoured her writing in one juicy satisfying gulp, in those now faraway days of the 1990's. I became a slavishly devoted fan of her all-to-infrequent posts. What did she write about? Herself. Her past loves--one past love in particular. I think Sara was unusual in this way: that she opened up and shared herself so completely when she told a story. To me, Sara is the Joni Mitchell of blogging. And, of course, that means she is an amazing writer.

Eventually, Sara would stop writing much, at least online. I followed her through a few website incarnations through the years, always hoping she'd write more or get published as I knew she should. She still has a blog and it's still called Perfect Way. It has been near the top of my link list, sort of a little prayer, since I wrote my first post nearly five years ago. The Perfect Way of today, however, does not hint at Sara's prolific online past (though you can get whet your whistle here). Through the years, Sara and I crossed paths online a few times and this connection would eventually lead to a bolt of lightening in my in-box...would I like to interview Sara in my blog?

*GULP*

Um...yes?

And then I plotzed from excitement. Completely. And then I ran around like a headless chicken in my brain for a while (not that that's a particularly unusual occurance). And then I finally narrowed down the ridulous number of questions my brain began screaming at me to ten questions.

And then? Holy crap, she answered them.

Which is a really long way of saying: Here's my Sara Astruc interview. It's one of the awesomer things that ever happened to my blog. Enjoy.

ME: Why the long internet silences? Blog, already—I’m dyin’ ovah heeyuh!

SARA: Oh, lots of reasons. I started the page to tell some old stories. I didn't really want to write about the present. I am a private person. I do understand that it's hard to reconcile a private person with the sort of explicit and deeply personal writing I enjoyed putting out into the world, but I could hide behind my anonymity back then. Not so much, anymore.

A lot has happened since I slowed down... September 11th, Nan (my mother) being diagnosed with Stage IV Ovarian-Peritoneal Cancer, some health scares of my own; job stress; my graduate research surfacing on Metafilter, of all places; a complicated relationship; some frightening and unpleasant truths about David (my father) finally coming to light.

The real story is unpleasant and not sparkly and not a fun read. My motto when I started this thing was "do no harm." I never wanted to use my web page as a weapon, never wanted to hurt people that are already wounded. So I started keeping my mouth shut.

And in Seattle, where everyone is so terribly wired, I had a harder time maintaining what was left of my privacy. My worlds finally collided when a guy I worked with and liked very much walked up to my desk and stuck a yellow Post-It to my monitor. It said "Damn Hell Ass Kings," and I thought Oh, shit.

I was going to tell him about the online stuff, of course, but Seattle turned out to be a scary small town and he'd found out all sorts of things about me over that weekend. And these people, who have information about me, well, they mostly got it over the Internet and don't really know me at all. So I had some explaining to do.

He thought it was hilarious, that I lead a double life, except it isn't. It's just all different parts of the same life. My life. And I am uncomfortable having to explain myself.

ME: How do you feel now about the fact that you chronicled, online during the stone age of the internet a) what at least seemed to me to be a very personal account of your first love, with high school BF Robin Artemus (a pseudonym, right?) and b) a list of your lovers otherwise known as "The List". These online writings caused a stir back in the day, did they not?

SARA: I started my web page on GeoCities in 1996 called, simply, The List. It consisted of a recitation of 35 or so names, men that I had all been involved with or dated or even kissed once in an elevator over the years. If you clicked on a name, it lead you to my diary entries from that time in my life. A couple of months after my site went up, it received Cool Site of the Day from Gannett Newspapers, and my traffic skyrocketed.

Having a list of men you've messed around with up on the Internet was a pretty revolutionary concept at the time, and it brought me a certain amount of coverage from the mainstream media. I was first interviewed by Condé Nast's Swoon, and then a reporter from the Philadelphia Inquirer emailed me. It was his ensuing front page article that brought me to Justin Hall, and my first understanding of online journals.

In an effort to have changing content to my site, I began writing little essays — about my high school reunion, about Bill Clinton, whatever struck my fancy. I called this section of my website "Random Sample", and it wasn't until months later that I finally conceded that I was keeping an online journal, in spite of my best efforts to claim otherwise.

I'm not entirely sure what I expected. The Internet seemed a lot smaller back then. I imagined most of my readers as sort of sweet and dorky IT guys and research scientists. And for a while, this is what it was. The readership was almost universally men. The email they sent was smart and friendly and polite. Sometimes the guys would ask me for advice about their love lives, cry on my shoulder about their broken hearts, and ask if I knew why I was still single.

There were some flirty emails, but nothing scary. So I got more confident, and more open. And then America Online was taking off, and I agreed to appear in a televised interview that showed up in 13 countries, and suddenly my inbox was full of come-ons and intense speculation about where I lived and worked.

The response was amazing and a tiny bit frightening for someone like me.

ME: Does the real Robin know you shared the story—has he read it?

SARA: I told Robin about all of this in 1999. I was long overdue to tell him about the site. How could I not? I'd written about him for years, and then I was going on the television to talk about what I'd written. I had to tell him. He took it pretty well, he knew this day of reckoning would some day come from the little girl who'd loved him so much.

"I have something to tell you," I began, twisting my linen napkin around my fingers. Watching his face was awful. He didn't know what was coming, and it was a terribly tense moment.

I explained that I had written about him, about us, in a public forum, and he cringed. "It isn't bad," I interjected hurriedly. "Well, I mean, we both look equally bad. But it's a love story," I finished lamely.

"What did you name me?"

"What?" Of all the questions I thought he might ask, I never considered this one. Shit. "Robin Altemus.

"He blanched. "Robin? You named me Robin?"

"Robin is my middle name."

I reminded him quietly.

His eyes shot up to mine. "I had forgotten that," he admitted. He picked up his empty glass. Signaled the waiter. "You've been trying to tell me this for a long time, haven't you? You tried to tell me in Florida." The waiter takes his empty glass away. "It's okay, Sara." He throws some bills into the little leather folder. "It doesn't matter."

In the end, that was pretty much all that was said.

ME: Why the move to Seattle? You seem such the NYC girl (sojourns to FL notwithstanding).

SARA: Oh lord, I so do not fit in in Seattle. I used to entertain myself wearing my mother's mink swing coat to the Safeway at the top of Queen Anne Hill. People would actually hiss at me. They do not approve of women cutting up odious little animals for the sake of vanity.

There are some lovely things about Seattle, but none of them seem to be enough to keep me here permanently. I want to go back to my people, even though that life really fucked me up. But maybe now I get that, and why I let it happen, and maybe it won't happen again.

Or maybe it will happen again, maybe I will make all the same mistakes and all I am now is all I will ever be.

Last night I did laundry and sat a long time in front of the Bosch front-loader washer, watching my sheets spin around and around. The washing machine and dryer came with the house and are the fanciest appliances I have ever owned. I wish I could take them with me when I go. Am I going? I doubt it. I don't know where to go.

I want the next time I move to be last time I move, so I am not making any decisions today.

ME: Are you now (or have you ever been) married?

SARA: I have never married. I was legitimately engaged once, very young, and there have been a couple of half-assed offers over the years. I believed I was supposed to get married, that if a man didn't want to marry me then he really didn't love me. I understand it better now. For someone who thought she wanted to get married, though, I managed to duck and run every time it really came up.

Turning 40 was kind of freeing in that regard. It was like some invisible line in my head was crossed, a deadline or something, and I didn't have to pretend I wanted it anymore. I'm relieved now I never married. I like being unfettered in that respect.I am a loner by nature, and suspect I am just not the marrying kind. The men I tend to be interested in are married to their careers. It would have been nice to find a compromise somewhere along the way, but in the end I pick the men over the marriage.

There's always that tiny part of me that resists convention.

ME: Your writing is AMAZING. I think this is partly because you so effectively convey the fact that you feel –how to say—an otherness, sort of separate from or different than everyone else. On the other hand, you seem a totally hip, everything-going-for-you kind of girl. What gives?

SARA: I think the former is more true than the latter. I grew up a little out of step with my peers, being Jewish in a very old school NY social sort of town. I'm still sort of surprised by any social success I had back then.

ME: If memory serves, you began “journaling on-line” (this was waaaay before blogs, kiddies) while convalescing from open-heart surgery at an uncommonly young age (right?). Heck, you’re still young. Are you okay now?

SARA: I am okay. I had a stroke and then open heart surgery to correct an atrial septal defect that caused blood to shunt in the wrong direction in my heart. I was sick for about six years before I had the stroke-- heart palpitations, dizziness, vertigo, fainting. I went to doctor after doctor looking for help. They all diagnosed me with anxiety.

My then-fiance was a doctor and was no help either. My constant illness caused problems at work, with my family, and screwed up a couple of relationships. It's hard to date when you're sick all the time.

When I had the stroke it was a huge relief to find out I had never been crazy, and finally had a diagnosis. I floated along on this little polly-annaish cloud for awhile, and then about five years ago I got really fucking angry. I am only just recently getting over that rage.> >

ME: Do you have a huge legion of internet fans clamoring to read more of your work (much like, for instance, oh I don’t know, ME)?

SARA: I feel fortunate to hear from folks who'd like to read a bit more from me, but I can only hope that they'll feel compelled to buy my book once it's out. I am not taking anything for granted.

ME: A BOOK!!! I’m so excited to hear you’re writing a book!!!! Tell me all about it?

SARA: I'm going to be releasing my diary archives in a self-published book on Amazon in a couple of months. It's primarily the Robin Altemus story from The List. Holding it up all these years have been issues of privacy and money. I'd found an agent in 2001, but after September 11, I crawled into a bottle of scotch and my agent ran away to Vermont. Now, looking at the numbers, I think the story would best be served by me self-publishing.

I am willing and able to do my own promotion, and the Internet has always been kind to me. So I'm not even looking for a publisher at this point. I'm just going to get it out there and hope for the best.

ME: WHY NOT ROBIN 4-EVER? [Can’t help myself.]

God bless Robin, I still love him so. But we are not fated to be together. I would be a terrible wife to him, easily distractible and lost in my own head. He is safely married and has a beautiful daughter and I wish him nothing but a lifetime of peace and happiness after the hurricane that was me blowing in and out of his life.

ME: Bonus Q: Still drive Camilla?

SARA: Camilla went to Jaguar heaven. But in her place is a lovely X-Type, that has served me well. I bought her with the money I was saving in case Skye and I moved in together, or got married, or ran off to to Africa. I've driven her back and forth from Seattle to Florida, and she is a most perfect replacement for my old XJ-6.

It's funny, it's just a dumb hunk of metal, but I felt more like myself again.

***

Keep up with Sara at Perfect Way as well as at The Simplest, a discussion community she runs. Look for "Jailbait: A Love Story" at Amazon as well as on my own personal Night Stand in a few months.

Isn't that...SPECIAL?

2009-07-20T09:08:00.000-07:00

[Further edited to add: See video here of an annoyed Jon Gosselin denying the engagement rumor.
Edited to add: I don't really think a jeweler's statement can be considered "confirmation" of an engagement, however, the photo confirms yet another embarassing tee-shirt choice.]
--

In Touch is reporting Jon Gosselin proposed to his 22-year-old girlfriend, Hailey Glassman, during a recent holiday weekend in France. Gosselin reportedly presented Glassman with a $180,000 engagement ring featuring a skull surrounded by four black diamonds.

Because, you know, nothing says love like a skull.

The report of this engagement is being met with skepticism all over the interwebs. However, if Jon's recent arrested development fashion choices (above) are any indication, I suspect skull love isn't too far off the mark.

Read the whole story here.

(Interesting aside: I think Glassman resembles Kate Gosselin in the looks department. Just sayin'.)

A Wolf at the Table

2009-07-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you? But when I read "Running With Scissors", I couldn't help but wonder what family situation lead up to poor Augusten getting abandoned at his crazy mother's crazy psychiatrist's house to be reared. What, I had to ask myself, in the world, had the poor boy been used to up to that point? Was it all Ozzie and Harriet?

"A Wolf at the Table" is the book that answers that question. Answers it thoroughly. Answers it emphatically. Answers it without pity. Answers it without blinking. (And I really, really wished he would have blinked a couple of times).

Poor Augusten Burroughs, ya'll. Unless you were actually sired by a rabid dog? You undoubtedly enjoyed a better childhood than Augusten. I am sorry to inform you that the years preceding his parental abandonment (chronicled in RWS) were absolutely no better than the ones that followed. And I don't give away any plot points by telling you this. "A Wolf at the Table" is not about plot. It's about survival and cruelty. Period.

The marriage of Augusten Burrough's mother and father was, to put it mildly, troubled. John Burroughs, Augusten's father, was a philosophy professor at Amherst cursed with unusually rotten teeth, a twisted mind, and the world's worse case of psoriasis. Oh, and did I mention the arthritis? He possessed, according to Augusten, the psychological make-up of a serial killer and may or may not have acted on those impulses. Augusten was a child either terrorized or completely ignored by his, at best distant, and at worst, mentally and physically abusive father. He grew up a neglected little boy in a small moldering house in the woods scrounging for everything from food to love to veterinary care for the family pets (he seldom succeeded on any of these counts). Eventually, Augusten would come perilously close to murdering the man he, ironically, called "Dead" (according to Augusten this pronounciation was the result of his New England accent mixing with the word "Dad". Creepy.)

---

With "A Wolf at the Table" Burroughs officially finishes chronicling his entire (exhausting) childhood; with "Dry" his struggle with alcoholism (Burrough's father was also alcoholic...surprise!). If you are wondering why anyone would bother to immerse themselves in such grim works, you need only to read the first couple of pages of any of these books to be sucked in to Augusten's spare, muscular writing style not to mention addicted to sticking around to see what fresh hell awaits the man. There's plenty to go around.

In "A Wolf at the Table" Augusten recalls the effects of his childhood after he has broken away, trading on his talents to get a job in advertising:

I was an associate creative director at an ad agency in Manhattan. At the office, I was funny and people seemed to like me. I'd worked with the same art director for many years and we traveled together from agency to agency as a creative team, so she assumed she knew me well. A few times a day I would go into the men's room, close myself inside a stall, sit on the toilet, and block my ears with my hands. I would stay that way for a few minutes, trying to calm myself. I had the feeling that my home life, my real life, my dirty life, was leaking out, showing through. I had the feeling that people at the office could see something rotten and disturbing and insane poking through me.

It's no wonder. What is a wonder is that Augusten survived it at all. With (seemingly at least) so many of his gifts intact.

***

Keep up with Augusten Burroughs here at his website. Read his blog otherwise known as a "blob" here.

The Great Gatsby Pre-Review

2009-07-19T00:01:00.000-07:00

I stumbled across a reference on an internet back road today about a Martin Scorsese version of The Great Gatsby and my head almost fell off from shock. Turns out, what I read actually referred to this season's HBO show Entourage in which the Gatsby/Scorsese project is a fictitious production written into the plot of the show. Entourage, with its savvy finger-on-the-pulse of Tinseltown sensibility may or may not have contributed to the development of projects before. For instance, a movie about notorious Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar that may or may not be directed by Joe Carnahan (Smokin' Aces) when his current film, White Jazz wraps. Read more about the Entourage phenom here.

But I digress.

My point is that this set me Googling Gatsby, one of my favorite novels ever. I have read this work countless times. It's one of those books I turn to like an old, impossibly soft pair of jeans or a warm blanket straight out of the dryer on a cold night. For me, when I'm down, there's no literary comfort like Gatsby:

"And as I sat there, brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out Daisy's light at the end of his dock. He had come such a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close he could hardly fail to grasp it. But what he did not know was that it was already behind him, somewhere in the vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night."

Wonderful. There's an undercurrent (overcurrent?) that runs through Fitzgerald's writing that is hopeless and haunting. Doomed. I love it. "Gatsby" is the grandaddy of them all. It is filled with hopeless nostalgic longing. Gatsby never fails to comfort me in that, if nothing else, it assures me this is the human condition.

It is the nostalgic quality, I think, that makes the Gatsby story so hard to pin down in a film. If it were music, it would be a heartbreaking single violin solo. The 1970s version of "The Great Gatsby" starring Mia Farrow as Daisy, Robert Redford as Gatsby, Sam Waterston as Nick Carraway, Bruce Dern as Tom Buchanan, and Karen Black as Myrtle Wilson, in my opinion, could not possibly have been more perfectly cast. (Not to mention scored: "What'll I do?") I see these actors in my mind in those roles when I read the book to this day. Still, the movie somehow didn't quite work (though I still watch it now and then) and I can never put my finger on precisely why. It is technically remarkably faithful to the book. Each scene is played as written. Unlike the book, however, the sum of the movie's parts do not add up to anything greater.

What I learned today is that Australian director Baz Luhrmann is taking a crack at it. The movie is in the impossibly early stages, is not yet even cast. This MTV blog post speculates that Luhrman might collaborate again with Leonardo Di Caprio who, in my opinion, would make an excellent Gatsby. He's the right age (maybe even plus a few years) with the right acting chops to do the job. (Let's hope!) The buzz, however, indicates Luhrmann may be favoring Di Caprio for the role of Nick Carraway (so wrong!)

Okay, I'll just go ahead and say it, what they may be very likely thinking is Brad Pitt as Gatsby and Di Caprio as Carraway. A choice so monumentally wrong, so utterly stupid, that it makes my stomach roll. Brad Pitt is a cute guy. He provides plentiful excellent sperm for skank-ho turned international goodwill ambassador, Angelina Jolie. He did an okay job in a few movies. He has never, ever done anything outstanding. He is absolutely one-hundred percent NOT. JAY. GATSBY. DO YOU HEAR ME BAZ LUHRMANN?

We must also note, Luhrmann's most recent work, "Australia"? Floptastic. On still other hands, Moulin Rouge and Romeo + Juliet. Both innovative and successful. If "Gatsby" is going to work, it's going to take someone with some nerve. I'm going to go ahead and hope for the best.

But I suspect it's doomed. Utterly, impossibly, hopelessly.

Doomed.

Design Star Season 4 (And a Hint of Things to Come)

2009-07-18T13:06:00.001-07:00

You won't want to miss the premiere of Design Star Season 4 on HGTV (tomorrow) Sunday, July 19 at 9 p.m. (CST). Sunday's show will feature 13 designers 3 of which are "semi-finalists". Two semi-finalists will be eliminated on tomorrow's episode. Check out all the contestants here. Not sure I'll have time for episode recap as I did during the Summer of Fun, but I'll definitely be along for the ride. I love this competition show; it's second only to Project Runway in my book.

The action takes place this year in Hollywood where the competing designers will share this fabulous Hollywood house:

Not many words these days, but I will tell you to watch out for a Very Special Post coming up right here next Tuesday.

Dinner at Jasmine

2009-07-12T00:01:00.000-07:00

Circumstances conspired to prevent me from attending opening night at Jasmine (Thursday), but I managed a visit tonight and, boy, was it worth the wait. I cannot, CANNOT recommend it highly enough. Especially if you can get Nikki May to go with you and stay until passed closing time like we did tonight. Here you see Nikki w/her "Saki-tini" staying in touch with The World through her iPhone. It was quite a relief to dine with someone you don't have to apologize to for obsessively checking your e-mail, updating your Facebook status, and grabbing your phone like Pavlov's dog every time it twitches. We are obsessed...OBSESSED I tell you!

Round 1: In the foreground, my "Tom Kah" soup, a mixture of tomatoes, mushrooms and shrimp in creamy coconut milk, lime juice, red curry paste and Galangal root, garnished with cilantro (I'm a little misty now just thinking about it). In the background is Nikki's very pretty appetizer: chopped avocado, tomato, and spicy ahi tuna. It was delicious too.

Main course: Basil stir-fry: chicken, red pepper, green pepper, cucumber, onion in a hot spicy sweet basil-garlic sauce. Heavenly.

Jasmine in general, looking very un-Paducah-like toward the end of the night. Snapped from my seat at our table. Nikki and I noted how also un-Paducah-like the crowd looked. Oddly, the majority of those dining were wearing black and white strangely matching the Lowertown artwork hanging on the walls. It was all very reassuring.

The George-Wilson 20 Year Anniversary

2009-07-11T21:15:00.000-07:00

The George-Wilson Literary Club is a family group that has been meeting, more or less, once a month for the past 20 years. The club is named for my Grandfather ("Wilson"), now deceased, and Grandmother (maiden name "George"). Members share original writings, photos, music, read from work they find interesting, or recently, even original video. Of course, there is also delicious food involved at every get together. The meetings rotate from member house to member house and are usually held on Saturdays. It was far from a full crew today, but we nevertheless still celebrated the milestone with our usual enthusiasm.

BubbleShare: Share photos - Play some Online Games.

(Lord knows, we hate to have our picture made.)

Click the photos for larger versions and captions at Bubbleshare.

Impressions of The Michael Jackson Funeral

2009-07-08T06:45:00.000-07:00

[Updated to add: Also notably absent from the funeral: Lisa Marie Presley, wife #1, who, as I've belatedly learned, not enough of you realize wrote a blog post on her My Space (barf) page that is reproduced, in part, here by US magazine. Debbie Rowe, wife #2, and surrogate and/or biological mother to two of MJ's children.]

You've seen the clips and coverage by now.

The Jackson brothers all in matching black suits, white shirts, yellow ties, yellow boutonnières, and sunglasses seated front row in a dimmed Staples Center before a crowd of twenty thousand. Countless millions more in the viewing audience worldwide across most all major networks. The spotlit gold casket presumably holding the remains, sans brain (as relentlessly reported), of MJ. Magic Johnson talking about Kentucky Fried chicken. Kobe Bryant. Usher laying a hand on, and singing to, the casket. The Reverend Al Sharpton to Michael’s children, “Wuddn’t nuttin’ wrong with yo Daddy.” The children of Martin Luther King, Jr. (or the junior juniors as I’ve come to think of them). Jennifer Hudson, Brooke Shields, Lionel Richie, Queen Latifah, Stevie Wonder, John Mayer, Mariah Carey. Texas Congresswoman Barbara Lee reminding the audience (lest they’d forgotten) one is “innocent until proven guilty”. Smokey Robinson as emcee, who looked freshly nip-tucked for the occasion.

Yet all this pales in comparison to the finale when the Jackson brothers and Janet and La Toya (both sisters clad entirely in black, sunglasses and black hats) took the stage en masse, along with Michael’s children: Prince Michael, Paris, and Blanket. Various Jackson brothers took the microphone and briefly dissolved into cringe-inducing, random remembrances. And then endless uncomfortable moments of silence and fumbling as the Jacksons struggle to lower the microphone to little Paris Jackson’s level so she could choke out a heartbroken,

"I just wanted to say ... ever since I was born, daddy has been the best father ... you could ever imagine. And I just wanted to say I love him…so much.”

(Scripted or spontaneous?)

While Paris’s remarks were a convenient and undeniably heart rending punctuation mark finale to the funeral fiasco, who can forget the lengths to which Michael Jackson went to shield these same children from the press? To protect them from the notoriety, from the freakish fame he himself could never escape? The veils, the masks.

If anyone. Was ever. Going to spin in their casket? This would have been the time. And Michael Jackson would have been the guy.

Notably absent: Liz Taylor who tweeted, “I said I wouldn't go to the Staples Center and I certainly don't want to become a part of it. I love him too much.” Also not in attendance, Diana Ross, who Michael named as a secondary guardian of his children should Kathryn Jackson be unable to fulfill the role. Legendary record producer Quincy Jones. Liza Minelli, presumably a close friend; MJ (along with buddy Liz Taylor) was famously part of the wedding party at what I consider to be (thus far) biggest freak show of the century: Minelli’s ill-fated and ridiculously extravagant NYC wedding to David Guest in 2002.

I am, in exactly equal parts, drawn to and repelled by this story/spectacle and others like it and fear this extravaganza has ushered in a new phenomenon:

The Variety Show Funeral!!!

[Cue up-tempo version of “Taps”]

Starring….

The Body!….

The Mourners!...

And special guest star…Unexpected Latest Performance Competition Show Winner!!!!

(We’re so doomed.)

Change your pulls...change your life.

2009-07-05T18:30:00.000-07:00

I've spent the better part of the long weekend finishing up the majority of my Geography course work. I've procrastinated on taking my region tests unmercifully; Friday I had eight tests to go. As of now, I'm down to three. And these I'm determined to finish tonight. Even if it takes all night. Sociology begins Tuesday and, though I technically have until the end of the month, I do not want this work hanging over my head along with whatever homework torture Sociology will soon rain down upon me.

Otherwise, I also managed to address another task in the unending home improvement list. This one, however, was a major pleasure. You see above the old cabinet pull (left) juxtaposed with the new. I've always hated those old pulls, I mean hated them with a passion. For years. I'm not sure what color they are supposed to be...bronze? Brown metal? Gold? And the style...oxidized early American nightmare? The new Dark Granite paint color only served to reemphasize their already startling inadequacy and so, when, on an excursion to Tar-jhay, I happened upon some brushed nickel pulls (value packs!!) of the exact right size to fit the existing screw holes (no use reinventing the wheel here), I jumped at the chance to rid myself of the crappy pull plague once and for all.

As a bonus, it was but another happy opportunity to employ the smooth, brute power of the Bosch 10.8 Volt Litheon I-Driver. For approximately the cost of a can of good paint and 45 minutes (if that) of my time, I corrected a style wrong in my kitchen that's been driving me crazy for years. So good!

[An aside...I have the old pulls and screws bagged in a freezer bag. What does one do with these things? Have a use for them? E-mail me and they're yours.]