The View from the Goldfish Bowl

I Kinda Wish I Were in a Chicken Suit

2011-04-15T10:34:00.001-05:00

Today is a momentous occasion; I am hosting my very first solo yard sale. I'm a little nervous since I've never had a yard sale on my own, but if I remember everything I've been taught about the art of the yard sale, I should do just fine. After all, I learned from the best.

My grandmother was the Yard Sale Queen, the Garage Sale Guru, the Ultimate Authority on tag sales, rummage sales, whatever you choose to call them. She had the biggest and best yard sales, and practically made her living selling things on her front lawn. The woman was a born salesman...er woman. She knew how to advertise, promote, display, price, and haggle. Her advertisements and promotions usually involved me dressing in some kind of costume, yelling at passing cars. She once dressed me in a bunny costume and instructed me to yell, "Hop on down to a yard sale!" at everyone going by. Another time I was dressed as a clown and my cry was something along the lines of, "Stop clowning around and come to a yard sale!" As humiliating as that was, I was always paid for my trouble. Maybe I should have used my wages to pay for some therapy.

My grandmother could sell anything. She just had a knack for making people believe that they really couldn't live without a set of mismatched spoons, or a non-working toaster, or a pair of pants that were way too small. She once sold a sweater of mine that had an A (for Amy) embroidered on it by telling a lady the A stood for Alabama. Never mind that the sweater was pink.

The best part of her sales strategy had to be her stories. She came up with wild tales to accompany her assortment of items to make them irresistible to customers. She would say things like, "This little china cup was my great-great-grandmother's. It was her only possession when she came to America from the Old Country." Of course, the reality was something more like she paid 50 cents for the cup at a Goodwill store and brought it home and stuck a $5 price tag on it. People consistently fell for it and bought her stuff, and she would laugh all the way to her little cash bag!

Of course, she met her share of tough customers. She usually proved tougher, though. If someone thought an item was marked too high and tried to get her to come down on the price, she would look them in the eye and say, "It don't eat a thing at my house." In other words, I'm not that attached to it, and I don't care what you think, that's my price.

She also had plenty of superstitions and rituals for her yard sales. The biggest and most important one was that you did not count your money until the yard sale was over. If you did, you would not make another dime. My mother said she did it once, and didn't have another customer the entire day. It became a firm rule, no matter how tempting it was to count that stack of cash, it must NOT be done until the end of the sale day.

My grandmother passed away several years ago, and I miss her terribly, especially today. I wish she were here to great customers with her usual, "Come on up, I've got a little bit of everything." She would probably have me dressed up as a monkey or a chicken, but I suppose that would be okay. We could sit on the steps and play cards and drink Diet Pepsi, and if we didn't have a single customer, it would still be a great day.

*RIP Sara Kathleen (Yancy) Theys*

The Bennett Family Edu-cation

2011-03-18T13:55:00.000-05:00

What does a family of nerds do during Spring Break? They go on an edu-cation. That's right. This week Don and I took the kiddos on a nerdly adventure through Atlanta. We started at The Varsity, feeding trough for all the Georgia Tech geeks. After feasting on chili dogs and onion rings, we went to Fernbank Museum of Natural History where we got our geek on in an exhibit of mythical creatures. Later that evening we checked out the Book Nook, a nerd paradise of used books, comic books, and sci-fi collectibles.

Wednesday we got our hair cut, let the nerdlings go crazy in Toys R' Us, and did some shopping. We went to R. Thomas for dinner where I discovered the sinus cleansing powers of wasabi. Ahhhhh...!

Thursday was gorgeous, so we went to the zoo. I tried to give the boys back to them, but they didn't seem that interested. Hmmmm...
I geeked out over the pandas. The new baby panda, Po (his name is Po!) was out on display and I oohed and ahhed and snapped lots of pictures. I even bought another stuffed panda to add to my collection. Timothy and I checked out the reptile house. Super cool. Paul was more interested in riding the train, which happened to be in repairs. We all rode the carousel instead.

After the zoo, we indulged our inner food nerds at Harry's in Marietta. I bought cheese and scones and a huge bottle of olive oil. I couldn't help buying a big tub of delicious (if not over-priced) mozzarella pasta salad too. Yum!

We were all thoroughly tired when we finally got home, but we had a great time. We ate lots of great food, learned a bit, bought some cool stuff, and relished every nerdy second of our time together. Like the old saying goes, the family who nerds together...well, you get the idea.

The Big Bad F-Word

2011-02-22T10:00:00.000-06:00

No, not that one. Failure. My greatest fear. I've never had many phobias. Heights don't bother me. Crowds don't ruffle me. I don't mind tiny spaces, or bridges, or snakes. And unlike my husband, I'm pretty comfortable around clowns. (Don't judge, it's a common fear.) But failure? Yikes. I'm terrified of it.

I suppose it comes from being a bit of a perfectionist. I like things done right, and done right the first time. To fail means that I've done something wrong, and I hate to do something wrong. It gnaws at me. It makes me uncomfortable. I hate that feeling. So whenever I find myself standing on the threshold of some potentially life-changing decision, there's always that nagging doubt in the back of my mind.

"What if you mess this up completely?"

Many times I've found myself backing away from the edge of opportunity for fear of mistakes I might make. A couple of times, I've turned around and completely walked away. Why? I've been asking myself that for years. I know in my heart that every failure is a learning opportunity. Messing up is not the end of the world. You get up, dust yourself off, and try again. Some of my best successes have come from just letting go and jumping in over my head. But the fear still lingers.

I told myself at the beginning of last month that this would be the Year of No Fear. I would do all the things that I've always wanted to do without worrying about making mistakes. I'm not talking about climbing Mt. Everest or anything, but just doing the unexplored things that I know I have a knack for. I anticipate rejection letters, and I've told myself it's okay. Everybody gets them, but the successful people don't let them get them down or make them quit.

I have a choice. I can live my life in security and look back with regret, or I can embrace the unknown, take some risks, and possibly find even greater happiness. Am I going to let my life be ruled by fear? Or am I going to live?

I choose to LIVE.

*A special thanks to Hilary for the awesome quote this morning. Rock on, creative chick!*

Dear Stupid People

2010-12-02T10:14:00.000-06:00

To the Mother-of-the-Year in Walmart:
If you are bundled up in a heavy coat, your baby probably should be wearing more than a short-sleeved onesie.

To the Joe-Bob who thinks it's perfectly acceptable to display parts of the male anatomy on his truck's trailer hitch:
Insecure, are we?

To the lady reading a stack of legal documents while driving:
Pull over please. If you die in a horrific car crash before those divorce papers are signed, that lousy, cheating scumbag and his floozy will get ALL of your stuff.

To the Lead-Foot behind me on the road:
Tail-gating me will not make me go faster. In fact, I'm likely to slow down.

To Sarah Palin:
Stop. Just stop. Please.

Most Sincerely,
Amy

My Thorn

2010-10-11T10:49:00.001-05:00

(2 Corinthians 12:7-10)

Paul wrote in the passage above that he suffered from "a thorn in the flesh." He never said what it was, but there are plenty of theories. Some say it was a physical ailment. Others believe it was discouragement. Some even say that it was a certain person that was a hinderance to Paul's ministry. Whatever it was, it bothered Paul enough to pray three times for God to remove it. In verse 9, God tells Paul that he will have to continue dealing with the problem, but that His grace was sufficient to help him bear it.

Now, it's easy to read those scriptures and say, "What?! God wouldn't heal him? But it was Paul! You know, the preacher, missionary, martyr, etc!" Why wouldn't God heal someone who was so obviously devoted to doing His work? I can't pretend to know what God's reasons are, but I believe He always has a reason. God didn't remove Paul's affliction, but He gave him the strength to carry on despite it.

We all deal with stuff. Sometimes it's physical. We deal with personal sickness, or the sickness of a loved one. Other times we deal with financial troubles, or problems with family or work or even church. We go through hard times and think, 'God, where are you?' I say "we" because I'm right there too. For me, my biggest difficulty comes in an emotional form. I struggle with Depression.

It's not just the occassional blahs that everyone gets sometimes. I have dealt with Clinical Depression for most of my life. I'm not writing this to gain anyone's pity. This is just my personal struggle. I have undergone therapy and counseling which have been truly helpful, but I still have times when the dark clouds roll in and I find myself struggling to do everyday tasks. It's something that never fully goes away. It's my thorn.

Paul referred to his problem as "the messenger of Satan to buffet me," and I think it's an apt description. I believe in my case that Satan does use it against me. He finds those moments of weakness, and then puts in a little seed of self-doubt and discouragement. "You are worthless," he whispers. "No one really likes you. They all think you're a loser." Sometimes he gets really bold and tells me, "If God really cared about you, He wouldn't have made you this way. You wouldn't have to deal with this."

As ridiculous as those things sound, sometimes I begin to believe them. Sometimes I allow myself to get so down that I just start wallowing in Satan's lies. There are times when it just seems easier to give in and let myself sink into self-pity. I start to question God and His wisdom. Why would He make someone he supposedly loves go through something like that? Why do we have to suffer? Why do bad things happen to good people?

I have found over the years that as low as I sink, it's never too low for God to reach me. I have reached points where I was ready to give up and end it all. However, in those darkest moments He held on to me and didn't let me go. He would speak to me gently and say, "Shhh, it's all right. I'm still here and I do see you. I understand how you feel, and I care. Just keep trusting me to take care of you. You know I always will." In those times I have to admit that I do know. I look back at other times in my life when He was all I had, but all I needed. He has worked miracles in my life. He has brought me through some dark days, and He continues to lead me through the rough patches in my life.

I know that I will always deal with Depression, but God constantly reminds me that His grace is sufficient to get me through the battles. He's not going to let me sink. He's not going to let me go. As Paul writes in verse 10, I can have joy in my infirmities and distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then I am strong.

His grace is sufficient for me.

Saturday Night (or Afternoon) Fever

2010-09-25T21:38:00.001-05:00

Something happens to me on Saturday. On other days I am a mild-mannered wife and mother. I'm a bookish type who listens to NPR and watches History Channel. I teach Voice and sing opera. But not on Saturday. On Saturday I become a screaming, snarling, crazed fanatic. Football.

So what's a sci-fi-loving, Italian-art-song-singing, trivia-spouting nerd like me doing watching football? I blame my dad. He took me to my first game, a high school game, when I was a kid and I fell in love with football. I started watching televised games with my dad, and over time learned the ins and outs of the game. Unfortunately, my dad and I are no longer allowed to watch football together at my parents' house. My mom seems to think we get too rowdy.

Now, when I say that I love football I don't mean that I watch with mild interest. I mean that I watch on the edge of my seat while screaming orders to players, coaches, and refs as if they can hear me. I don't know what happens to me. It's like I have some kind of Jekyll and Hyde transformation. I go from non-confrontational choir girl to rabid, blood-thirsty super fan. While I normally don't have the heart to smush a spider, on Saturdays I find myself screaming things like, "Crush his skull!" at my teams players. I cackle with glee when an opposing team's player goes down. I delight in the tears of grown men after a heartbreaking loss.

What is it about this game that makes me turn into such a ruthless maniac? Perhaps it's just the raw violence involved. I mean, huge grown men are out on the field plowing each other down in order to get a little ball to the opposite end of the field. They are smashing and crushing and knocking and dragging and pulling and pushing and beating each other senseless. That's not something I would normally be into. I do not advocate violence. I don't like vicious maulings.

Except on Saturday. On Saturday vicious maulings are awesome.

*RTR!*

Thanks for the Memories...and the Asbestos

2010-09-18T11:11:00.002-05:00

My old dorm, Pfeiffer Hall, was torn down earlier this week, and it's made me a bit nostalgic. I have a lot of good memories connected with that building. It was the first place I ever lived completely on my own. The first space that was ever truly just mine.

That space was a tiny room on the second floor of Pfeiffer. My window looked out over the sprawling front lawn that was covered with magnolias and large pine trees. The building itself was old and musty. The stairs creaked and groaned, and it was dark and a bit drafty. Pfeiffer Hall was the only dorm on the tiny campus, so it housed both the guys and the girls. It was divided into two sections with the girls' hall to the left and the boys' hall to the right.. A large sitting area with chairs, couches, and a television was in the middle.

I remember my first night in Pfeiffer Hall. My parents helped me lug my belongings up the rickety staircase, and then I went back out to the parking lot to tell them goodbye. After hugs and well-wishes, I returned to my room to discover I had locked myself out. The Dorm Mother unlocked my door for me, but the next morning as I was leaving for my first day of classes my doorknob fell off in my hand. There was no way for me to open the door and I was locked in my room. To further complicate matters, I had no way of letting anyone know I needed help. I had no room phone, or pager, or cell phone. So I started yelling. One of the other girls on the hall heard my panicked cries for help and came and let me out. I got a new doorknob later that day. That evening I called my parents to let them know how I was doing and tell them about my adventures so far. Now, let me explain the phone situation. Since I had no personal phone I used the dorm phone which was a pay phone in a closet on the main hall. I finished my call to my parents and tried to open the door to leave the phone "booth" but it wouldn't budge. The door was stuck. Again I started yelling, and again the girl from down the hall came to my rescue. I was more careful after that, but I had already become known as "the girl who gets locked in places."

My two years in Pfeiffer Hall were filled with plenty of other adventures. I was appointed Dorm Monitor my second year and was given the job of locking and unlocking all the doors. Ironic, isn't it? I had to yell, "Girl on the hall!" whenever I went to to the boys' side to lock the doors. It never failed that some genius guy would try to shock me by walking out into the hall in his undies.

As Dorm Monitor I had keys to everything but the Dorm Mother's apartment and the attic. There was a small hole in the attic door that allowed me to peek at what was inside, and I could see that the attic was filled with all sorts of cool old stuff. My friend Sheri and I tried several times to break in, but we never had any luck.

I have so many other great memories of life at Pfeiffer Hall. There were the nights when everyone chipped in and rented a movie (usually Twister) to watch in the main TV room. We would all bring out whatever snacks we had, and then we'd camp out in from of the television and nosh on stale Doritos and melted globs of gummy bears.

We had water battles in the hall and snowball fights on the front lawn. We (even the guys!) watched soap operas together, and we were all there the day Stephano and Kristen's evil plan was uncovered on Days of Our Lives.

I think the one thing about Pfeiffer Hall that sticks out the most in my mind is the Flushing Ritual. The pipes and plumbing in that old building had seen better days, and that caused some awkward moments in the communal bathrooms. There were instructions taped to the doors of all the bathroom stalls that read something like If someone is in the shower, please yell FLUSHING before you flush! This was done to ensure that you didn't scald the scalp off whoever was in the shower. When you needed to flush you yelled, "Flushing!" When the person in the shower stepped back and yelled "Okay," you were clear to flush the toilet. Occasionally someone forgot, and if you didn't jump back quickly enough you were showered with water heated by the fires of Mount Doom.

I miss Pfeiffer Hall, my first home away from home. I miss afternoons studying Music Theory under the pines. I miss singing French art songs in front of my window. I even miss the communal microwave that always smelled like burnt popcorn.

Farewell, Pfeiffer Hall. You were the starting point of my journey to adulthood, and the birthplace of my independence. You will be missed.

*Thank you to Johnny Brewer for posting the above photo.

I'm Coming Out

2010-08-25T09:12:00.000-05:00

Before anyone gets too excited, let me assure you all that I'm as hetero as ever. I am however choosing at this point in time to acknowledge a long closeted part of myself, and there is something rather "rainbowy" about that.

For the largest part of my life I have believed myself to be a singer. Just a singer. What did I want to be when I grew up? A singer. Oh, there was that flirtation with the idea of becoming a missionary to Australia. I think perhaps that was a subconscious desire to be near a certain opera house in a certain harbor.

In my teens I discovered Broadway, and I became convinced that was my destiny. I would be an actress/singer on stage! The only problem with that was the fact that I knew nothing about music and even less about acting. So, off I went to college to study music.

All the while, from the time I was old enough to hold a pencil and scribble letters with it, I had been writing. Stories and songs and poetry... I told myself that it was just a hobby. I was a singer. My teachers had other thoughts. I remember my 10th grade English teacher taking me aside at the end of the year and telling me, "I hope you keep writing. You're born to be a writer." I laughed her off. Sure, I enjoyed writing. But it was just something I did to blow off steam or work through emotions. I never considered it, in the words of Little Bill, "my thiiiiiing."

That has changed. Singing and music take a back seat to what has always been a passion of mine. I truly love to sing. I thank God that He chose to bless me with some musical ability. However, there is a special kind of satisfaction in writing. When I sing I'm just performing. I'm singing someone else's words. In writing, the voice and the words are my own. There's something so beautiful and fulfilling in that. I love to look at a sheet of paper or a computer screen and see it filled with my words. I appreciate the applause of the stage, but it can't really compare to a favorable review of something I've created.

I am finally choosing now to acknowledge myself as a writer. I think I was afraid before. Maybe a little intimidated. I mean, anyone who knows me knows that I'm hopelessly devoted and obsessed with a long-dead genius poet and the mark he left on the world. How could I ever compete with that? I think initially, instead of inspiring me, he scared me to death! I've come to terms with dear Eddy now, and I'm ready to embrace my own style and my own voice and my own ideas.

I'm letting go of the past and all the garbage I came up with as an angsty teenager. I'm letting go of all the times I was told to stop "wasting paper." I'm letting go of the fear of failure that ironically serves as a security blanket at times. If I fail, and I already have, I will try again. I have and will continue to learn from my mistakes. I will scribble furiously, type until I'm satisfied, delete, delete, delete, delete.

I am a writer.

After the Ball

2010-08-09T09:05:00.000-05:00

Paulie starts school today, and most of my friends are aware that I'm having a hard time with that. I'm sure most moms think I'm completely crazy.

"You'll have the whole house to yourself!"
"You can do whatever you want!"
"You can have some Me time!"

I've tried to tell myself the same things, but for some reason, the thought of my last little bird leaving the nest fills me with dread. I couldn't really figure out why until today.

For the past 10 years or so, Motherhood has been my life. It's my job, my identity. With an empty house and time on my hands, I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I feel like Eliza Doolittle after her triumph at the Embassy Ball. She found herself facing an uncertain future. She knew she couldn't go back to the life she'd had before, yet she couldn't begin to imagine a place for herself anywhere else.

That's where I am right now. I look into the empty hours ahead of me and think, like Eliza, 'What's to become of me?'

I tell myself that there are lots of things I can do. I can volunteer with something or other. I can work on some projects that I've been longing to get busy on. And I can actually sit down and write. That's good, right?

The truth is, I want to be useful. I'm useful as a stay-at-home-mom. Now that both boys will be in school, I still want to do things of value. I don't want to sit and watch television (even though I'll finally be able to watch something other than "Yo Gabba Gabba!) I want to be busy. Industrious.

I know things will come along to fill my days. There's always plenty of laundry. Even beyond housework there is plenty to do. Besides, as long as I have full pens and empty pages, these hands will never be idle.

Conversations from the Back Seat

2010-07-08T09:16:00.001-05:00

Timothy: When I grow up I want to be a soldier. Or a race car driver. Or maybe an Olympic fencer. What do you want to be when you grow up, Paul?

Paul: Hmmmm... a waterfall.
*********************************************************************************

Paul: Knock knock.

Timothy: Who's there?

Paul: Banana.

Timothy: Banana who?

Paul: Banana joke! Hahahahahah!
*********************************************************************************

Paul: Hey Timothy...

Timothy: What?

Paul: Everything is mine!

Timothy: Arggggg!
**********************************************************************************

Me: Oh my gosh! What is that horrible smell?

Timothy and Paul: *snicker*

**********************************************************************************

To Be Continued...

Alejandro (or Sunday Afternoon at the Mexican Restaurant)

2010-06-27T17:46:00.000-05:00

*No offense intended toward anyone of Mexican descent, or Lady Gaga for that matter.

I put my name down
With the host now
But he won't call it yet
Won't call it yet

I've got my heart set
On some fajitas
That tomorrow I'll regret
I will regret

You know that I'm hungry, chico
Clear that table, make it quick-o
Seat me anywhere you want
In the restaurant

Just call my name, just call my name
Alejandro
Don't want to wait, don't want to wait,
Fernando
Don't want to stand, I want to sit
Bring me tortilla chips and dip
Just call my name, just call my name
Roberto
Alejandro, Alejandro, Ale-ale-jandro, Ale-ale-jandro

Why is there pizza
On the menu
I don't think pizza is from Mexico

Can I still order
From the lunch list
'Cause it's like three bucks cheaper
I'm saving dough

You know that I'm hungry, boy
Ooh! Here comes my food. Rejoice!
More Coke Zero, por favor
Comamos ahora!

Just call my name, just call my name
Alejandro
Bring me my plate, bring me my plate
Fernando
I'll have fried ice cream for dessert
I'll tip you; you don't have to flirt
Just call my name, just call my name
Roberto
Alejandro, Alejandro, Ale-ale-jandro, Ale-ale-jandro

Repeat chorus a ga-zillion times

I'm Not Old, I'm Just-- Hey! You Kids Get Off My Lawn!

2010-06-09T15:36:00.001-05:00

I suppose it's time to face facts. I am officially an old fart. This isn't really a new realization; I've been wrestling with this for some time. I have embraced my impending "elderly-ness," mainly because I'm just too darn tired to fight it anymore, but also for many other reasons that have lately come to light.

For instance, I have vivid memories of my parents when they were my age, and they seemed really old. I suppose that's how my children see me now. I'm that old bore who's always saying things like, "Back in my day..." I always thought I would be the mom who seemed eternally young and hip. Then I realized that young, cool moms don't use words like "hip." Which reminds me, I need to go take my Calcium supplement.

I remember a time when I stayed out all night on crazy road trips and doughnut runs. I would get back in time to go to class, take a quick nap on a couch at the BCM, and then I was off again on another adventure. The other night I fell asleep in the chair in front of the television. Watching Cooking Channel. At nine o'clock. So many things about that just scream "OLD!"

The funny thing is that, while I complain a bit, I don't really mind growing older. It sure beats the alternative. And aging has it's advantages. It's the perfect excuse to take naps.

I hope that when I'm really old I can be what folks describe as "spry." I want to be the slightly crazy old lady who zips around town in a red sports car and has a purse full of butterscotch candy to give to any children I meet. I'll travel, and take salsa lessons, and create weird art.

Right now, I guess I'm just resting up for retirement.

Mommy Bird Tries Again

2010-05-24T10:55:00.000-05:00

I went outside today to check Paulie's little wading pool, and I received a wonderful surprise. Mommy Bird was back. I heard her distinct chirp from the top of the pear tree, so I looked up and there she was. She flitted out of sight for a few moments, but I followed her chirp to the top of the Japanese maple and saw not only her, but a nest! She's nesting again! I am thrilled! After such a heartbreaking first go, I am pleased to see that she's come back for another try. I can still see the nest from the front porch, but it's high enough this time to be out of the reach of reptilian predators. There is also a male cardinal that seems to be helping out this time, so I have a feeling this little family will be successful.

I'm so happy to have my little neighbors back. It just goes to show that God really does care about His creation. Great or small, we are all under His watchful care. When we fall, when the unthinkable happens, when we're not sure we can get up and try again, He's there to lift us up and restore us. We can all have great hope and joy in knowing that if God cares for the little birds, how much more must He care for His children! (Matthew 10:29-31)

2010-04-25T15:54:00.000-05:00

I am heartbroken.

After last night's bad weather, I went out this morning to check on our little bird family. *See Our New Neighbors* Mommy Bird's nest was somewhat askew, but she and her little eggs had survived the storms. Later, however, I heard her chirping loudly and looked out the window to see what was going on. Mommy Bird was hopping around on the bushes a few feet from her nest. I went out onto the porch to get a closer look, and to my horror saw a large black snake curled up in her nest.

The snake had already swallowed one little egg while Mommy Bird looked on helplessly. Don and I tried to intervene. He grabbed a broom handle, and I grabbed an umbrella, and together we attempted to get the snake out of the nest before he ate the rest of the eggs. It was no use. We couldn't uncoil the snake without upsetting the whole nest, so we were forced to just turn away.

We left for church, and when we returned, Mommy Bird and her eggs were all gone. I think Mommy Bird is still around. I thought I heard her a few times, but I'm still very sad. I had adopted them all in a way. I checked on the eggs when Mommy Bird was away. I left birdseed around the bushes so she wouldn't have to go very far to find food. Most of all though, I looked forward to seeing the tiny little baby cardinals when they hatched. I wanted to see them break out of their little speckled shells. I wanted to witness Mommy Bird feeding and caring for them.

Now instead of chirping little open-mouthed hatchlings, there's only an empty nest. I can see it from the front door, and it breaks my heart over and over again. Perhaps I'm silly for mourning three little unhatched birds, but I felt as if they were neighbors. I sympathized with and related to that new little mother. I don't know if birds have any concept of love or loss, but I hope Mother Bird is all right. I hope she knows that I cared for her and her babies. I hope she knows that I tried to save them. I hope she forgives me for being unsuccessful. I'm sure she'll lay eggs again. She'll be more experienced and a bit wiser. I hope though, that she'll still see fit to make our home her home too.

2010-04-19T11:49:00.000-05:00

We have some new neighbors.

This little family of cardinals moved in not long ago. Initially, I think Mother cardinal built her nest on our front porch in an old helmet Timothy had left out. When she realized that it was in a less-than-ideal location, (little boys going in and out all day) she abandoned that nest and built a new one in the shrubs just below our front porch. She seems to be a bit inexperienced, so I've come to the conclusion that she must be a new mother. Been there, done that. Wrote a whole blog entry about it. *See Let's Hear it for the Mommies

I've become fascinated by our new little feathered friends. The mother cardinal, who we have lovingly dubbed "Mommy Bird," sits patiently on her three little speckled eggs even as we come and go. Occasionally, she's startled enough to flit away, but she doesn't stay gone for long. She quickly returns and resumes her vigil.

I know from experience that waiting is the easy part. Once the little blessings arrive, Mommy Bird's days will become a non-stop feeding cycle. It was difficult enough for me to feed one mouth at a time. I can only imagine how exhausting it must be to feed three hungry mouths, especially when it involves going out and hunting for food.

I hope all goes well for our new little family. I know God looks after His creatures great and small. I plan to keep up with the progress of our little birds and post updates here. Stay tuned!

They Say You Never Forget...

2010-04-11T15:58:00.001-05:00

Today I did something I haven't done in at least 15 years. I rode a bike. Not the kind that's in the gym where you just sit and pedal your heart out and never go anywhere. I mean the real wind-in-your-hair kind of bike. It was hard, but fantastic.

I live in the country, so I have a nice little stretch where there isn't too much traffic. There are, however, an abundance of little hills that are just steep enough to make your legs ache when you try to climb them. I need those hills though. Those hills are what's going to take my legs from jello jiggle to va-va-voom!

I''ve decided that I am going to try to ride at least a couple of times a week. I really enjoy it. The bike in the gym seems counterproductive in comparison. There's no wind in my hair besides the big fan. The only scenery is a wall with a bank of televisions broadcasting CMT and stress-inducing news stories on CNN. On an actual bike, I ride past the cotton fields, greet the neighbors working out in their gardens, watch the cute little furry creatures scampering through the woods... It's all very serene and relaxing despite the complaints from my jello legs.

I have a feeling my legs won't be jello for long. Hopefully by summer I'll be a red-headed, fun-sized Heidi Klum. What? A girl can dream, can't she? ;)

2010-03-01T19:07:00.003-06:00

As the mother of a pre-schooler, I am getting quite familiar with kiddie television. In my house the tv stays on Nick Jr. most of the day. I like the programming on Nick because it's not only entertaining, it's also educational. Paul and I watch a number of cute shows like The Backyardigans and the Wonder Pets and Little Bill.

A couple of years ago a new show joined the daily line-up called Yo Gabba Gabba! I was totally prepared to hate the show. It looked like some kind of Sesame Street for stoners. The characters were big monster-like creatures and the host was a creepy black guy in a fuzzy orange hat. Weird, right? Except it's awesome.

I have to admit that I have been sucked into Gabba Land and all its trippy glory. I love the quirky musical guests. I love the little video game-like interludes and the spazzy dancing children. It's unique and weird and all the things I like. And next week it gets even better.

Next week Anthony Bourdain visits Gabba Land.

I knew it was coming. I had a gut feeling. According to his show as well as his blogs, he and his young daughter are fans of the show. Next week Bourdain makes his Yo Gabba Gabba! debut as Dr. Tony, coming to the aid of Tooti who is suffering from a bad cold.

The juxtaposition of the snarky bad boy rock star chef with the warm and fuzzy Gabba friends is genius. Can Tony behave? Can he be *gulp* sweet? Of course he can. Since becoming a dad, Tony has made no secret of what he calls his "transformation into Bill Cosby." He's quit smoking, lost the earring, and taken on a somewhat gentler tone. He's taken a lot of flack for it too. But that's what happens when you become a parent. I don't just mean when you have kids. Plenty of people have kids, yet are not parents. When you really take on that role, you change. You have to. You tell yourself that you will stay the same, but it's just not possible. Kids change you, but in a good way. A great way.

Sure, I adore the snarky, smoking, sour Tony of the earlier shows. But I really love this newer version. He's still Tony, but with less of a need to shock or repulse. It's more about the exploration and the story. That's another great thing about becoming a parent. You get to rediscover the world through the eyes of your children.

So, on March 10th, Anthony Bourdain will reach a new level of awesome in my book. To those who have been critical of Tony's journey into fatherhood, I would tell you exactly what I think, but according to the Gabba friends, that kind of thing just isn't nice.

As If I Needed Another Reason to Hate Walmart

2010-02-25T17:09:00.002-06:00

Walmart doesn't have Hobbits.

There is a guy at my local grocery store who bags groceries and pushes buggies (that's shopping carts for all you Yankees) and he looks just like Elijah Wood. Okay, maybe not just like, but there is a definite similarity. Every time I see him I want to holler, "Wait up, Mr. Frodo!"

He's a very nice young man. (Ugh, I sound like somebody's Granny) He always offers to take my groceries out to the car. A few times I have let him. I like to watch him push the carts around the parking lot and wonder if he's thinking about the Shire. Is that mean?

The same local store that employs the Hobbit now carries Paulie's favorite juice as well as my green tea, which means I have no reason to ever shop at Walmart again. Win!

If they get a cashier that looks like Aragorn I will be there every day.

My Preciousssss...

I Hate Mieces to Pieces

2010-01-16T16:04:00.000-06:00

I live in the country. Way out in the country. When you live out in the country you tend to see a lot of wildlife. We have rabbits, chipmunks, raccoons, opossums, deer, etc. You know, cute fuzzy animals. We also have the non-cute fuzzy animals. The wildlife that doesn't want to stay in the wilderness. I'm talking about mice.

Oh sure, some folks have the nasty little things as pets. Personally, I would rather see them get fed to pet pythons. Ewww! I have don't have much love for the disgusting little rodents.

We've been waging our war on mice for some time now. They come and go. They tend to show up in the winter when the weather gets cold. This winter has been particularly cold, so we've had a real problem with the little critters. I found some stuff a few years ago that seemed to work for quite some time. It was a powder that supposedly smelled like mouse predators. It kept the mice away for a long time. I don't know if the little buggers have gotten used to it, or if they're just too cold to care, but recently the powder doesn't seem as effective.

The other day I walked into the pantry and noticed that there were broom bristles all over the floor. I moved the broom, and there it was. A mouse. It was caught on one of the little glue pads we've been putting out to catch them. The mouse was trying to pull itself off the glue pad with the broom bristles! I got a plastic bag and swept the mouse, still stuck to the glue pad, into the bag and closed it up tight. I hope it died a slow, torturous death. Sue me, PETA.

We tried poison a while back, but it didn't kill the mice. It just made the next generation of mice slightly retarded. Don called them "Tom and Jerry's Kids." That's terrible, I know. I didn't say it, my husband did. Anyway, the retarded mice would just walk out in the middle of the room and look at us. Then they would scamper off sideways like they were totally wasted. They would run into the walls and the furniture. They were fairly entertaining, albeit nasty.

Today I pulled a t-shirt out of my dresser drawer and a handful of almonds fell out of it. The little buggers have been storing nuts in my dresser! And they were my nuts! I was very upset. I emptied my entire dresser and threw everything into the washing machine.

So now this is war. I am thinking seriously of getting a cat. We had a cat a few years ago. His name was Simon, and he was quite old so he couldn't really chase mice anymore. He passed away at the ripe old age of 17. I think it's time for another cat. I'm not really crazy about having animals indoors, but I think I would rather have a cat than mice. So, if any of you know where I can find a good mouser, please let me know. I've had it with the rodents eating my food, and leaving their little droppings, and chewing up my stuff. They MUST go.

*Please don't tell my grandmother about my little problem or she'll never come to my house again! Those of you who know my grandmother, know what I'm talking about.

Let's Hear it for the Mommies!

2010-01-14T10:56:00.004-06:00

A beautiful young mother-to-be smiles at the sunny, sparkling nursery. She places her hand on her smooth, perfect, round belly...

Pregnancy. It's a magical time. Well, at least according to commercials and movies where it's romanticized into nine months of glowing bliss. Where morning sickness, if there is morning sickness, only happens in the morning. Where a woman gets the slightest baby bump and gains weight no where else on her body. Where maternity clothes are actually stylish.

Anyone who has had a baby knows that this scenario is, to put it nicely, bull hockey. Morning sickness can happen any time of the day, and it can last all day. Everything swells, belly, boobs, fingers, toes... No one tells you that your feet get bigger, but they do get bigger. And they stay bigger. As for maternity clothes, they have gotten better. However, after five or six months of wearing jeans with tummy panels and little poofy floral tops, you start feeling like a style- challenged Weeble.

Another thing no one tells you before you get pregnant is the fact that your IQ will suddenly drop to about 17. Apparently, your brain is so busy with the task of putting together a tiny human that you become a drooling moron who can't walk without falling down or running into stuff. It doesn't matter that you were a rocket-scientist before you got pregnant. As soon as the little stick says "positive" you earn a seat on the short bus.

The Hollywood version of pregnancy cravings is the oh-so-humorous pickles and ice cream. Ha ha, that's hilarious. *Sarcasm* In truth, you can crave anything from Big Macs to laundry detergent when you're expecting. No joke. For the last month or so of my second pregnancy, I had a Big Mac every day for lunch. Needless to say, my butt and thighs still bear the evidence, but it was what I wanted, so I ate it. Pregnancy cravings are irrational. You can't make them go away until you satisfy them. It's different from regular cravings where you see a pizza commercial and think, 'I'd like to have some pizza.' This kind of craving is a deep, desperate need. You must have a banana split with extra chocolate sauce and a side of bacon or you feel like you will DIE!

We've all seen those movies where a couple is about to have a baby. There's a comical mad dash to the hospital, and then the woman pants and pushes a few times, and Voila! A clean, pink, bright-eyed baby is born. Uh-uh.
The truth is, for most births, there is a lot of waiting involved. First off, there isn't that one big moment where you're hit with a contraction and you know "it's time." No, there's usually a grueling build-up where the contractions begin, but just slightly enough to make you go, "What the crap was that?" For the next 12, 16, 18, 32, 48+ hours, the pain continues to build until you begin to feel like Mel Gibson at the end of Braveheart. I thought I would be tough and go without drugs with my first child. By about halfway through, my contractions started overlapping, and the anesthesiologist became my best friend.
With my second child, my labor progressed so quickly that there wasn't time to administer an epidural. That actually ended up not being so bad. Delivery isn't nearly as horrific as some folks would have you believe. Sure, it hurts. You're pushing a tiny person out of your body. It's actually pretty amazing. Once the pushing is over, you are presented with this tiny little purplish alien blob. For those of you who think you could never fall in love with a purplish alien blob, you've obviously never given birth.

The alien blob is cleaned up, and after a short stay at the hospital you take a sweet pink baby home where it suddenly hits you; this baby is totally dependent on you and you have no idea what you're doing. How do you know what it wants or needs? What if you forget something or do it wrong? How did you mother manage to do this twice? Suddenly you're doubtful and afraid, and it doesn't help that everything seems to make you cry. According to modern media it's not supposed to be this way! You should be skinny and smiling serenely as you calmly nurse your baby in your beautiful, sunny nursery. Instead, you're bloated and tired and still in your pajamas from two days ago while you're desperately trying to get your ravenous little milk leech to latch on properly.

Fortunately, it all passes. After a few weeks, you can nurse while doing dishes and talking on the phone. At the same time. The little darlings do eventually sleep through the night. The time between crying fits gets longer and longer. The baby stops crying so much too. And then there's all the cute stuff that happens in between: the first smile, the first giggle, the first tooth. A day comes when he looks up at you and smiles and says, "I love you, Mommy" and you forget about the hours crouched in front of the toilet. You forget about the heartburn and the midnight mushroom cravings. You even forget about the labor pains.

It's all worth it, right?

In a few more years I'll be dealing with a teenager. I'll let you know then.

*This post is dedicated to my little sister who is currently expecting baby #2. I wish I could say that I hate that you're going through this, but as Aunt Mimi for a second time, I can't. I do hope you feel better soon!

Dear Walmart

2009-12-07T10:05:00.005-06:00

Dear Walmart,

I hate you. Not just hate like "I hate traffic" or "I hate Snuggie commercials." No, I loathe you.
I am not the kind of person who hates arbitrarily. It takes a lot to earn my loathing, but earn it you have.

I've known for several years now that you are an evil empire, but I have continued to give you my money. I mean, at least you aren't Kmart, right? They've allied themselves with the Antichrist herself, Martha Stewart. Recently though, I have come to believe that you, Walmart, are the spawn of Satan. Your doors are a portal to the Underworld. You are the corporate equivalent of the Taliban.

I tried to ignore the fact that most of your merchandise was made in foreign countries by underpaid (possibly underage) workers. I tried to overlook the despicable way you treat your American employees. This time, Walmart, you have gone too far.

It has become increasingly difficult for me to find the things I like to buy at your store. It seems as if every time I find a product I really like, you stop carrying it. First it was my body wash. I really loved that body wash. But it suddenly disappeared from your shelves and has never returned. Same thing with my ice cream, coffee, green tea, and a number of other products.

Why? Is there some kind of conspiracy to make me crazy? I bought that stuff all the time, so I know there was a demand for it. I was perfectly willing to give you my money in exchange for my favorite products, but no. You want more. One of my children perhaps.

Fortunately for me, there is my little hometown grocery store. They have all the things I need and so much more that you, Walmart, do not. It's not like I'm looking for something exotic or unusual (although my local grocery store carries tahini and prosciutto and Walmart carries neither.) I just want the basics: decent meat and produce at a reasonable price, good milk that costs less than and arm and a leg, and a little friendly service. My local grocery store has all of that. The produce is excellent, and most of it is locally grown. The meats are great as well, and very reasonably priced. I can get really good milk for less than 3 bucks. And to top it all off, the employees are helpful and friendly. The cashiers actually talk to you while they check you out. The baggers not only bag your groceries, they offer to take them to your car for you. At Walmart, I can't even get a cashier to put my stuff in my cart. They just pile it all up on the counter and expect me to juggle that, my money, and a three-year-old on my own.

Walmart, you have failed. You and your wilted produce and over-priced, poor-quality meats have fallen short. It doesn't help either that you've given rack space to the shrieking Harpy, Miley Cyrus. You call yourself a superstore, but you're really nothing but a bargain basement for all things unholy.

I thoroughly and completely detest and abhor you, Walmart. You've had the last of my hard-earned (or not-so-hard-earned) money. Farewell, you merchant of misery. I will see you at Armageddon.

Most Sincerely,
Amy

2009-12-01T08:40:00.002-06:00

Now that it's officially December I feel it's more appropriate to discuss holiday matters. Before December 1st it just feels silly. Since I changed the calendar and had my first eggnog latte of the season this morning, I'm feeling festive. So, here we go.

Radio stations have been playing Christmas music for a while now, and I have been preparing my Top Ten List of Favorite Christmas Songs. Most of the songs on my list have a special meaning to me. Some are just musically appealing, while others have special memories associated with them.

Number 10: Adeste Fideles sung by Pavarotti- Even before I was old enough to really understand who Pavarotti was, I adored this song. To me it represents the grandeur and awe that surrounds this season. Beautifully orchestrated, it always makes me think of the music of Heaven on that first Christmas night. And with the Maestro singing, it's heaven indeed.

Number 9: Let it Snow sung by Michael Buble- I love this jazzed up version of the classic holiday song. It makes me want to bundle up and build a snowman. Unfortunately, snow is a rare thing in these parts, and if it did snow I wouldn't get to build a snowman. I would have to join the throng at the grocery store to buy bread and milk. *Sigh*

Number 8: The Christmas Song sung by Nat King Cole- How can you not love the velvety voice of Nat King Cole singing about folks dressed up like Eskimos? Classic.

Number 7: Santa Baby- Madonna does a version of this song that, I must admit, makes me smile. It's such a cute song anyway, and when you sing it like Betty Boop it just gets better!

Number 6: The Twelve Days of Christmas sung by Jim Henson's muppets- Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a sucker for muppets. This song always makes me laugh. Especially Miss Piggy singing "Five Gold Rings...ba dum bum bum!"

Number 5: White Christmas sung by Bing Crosby- This song plays twenty-zillion times a day on the Christmas station, but twenty-zillion times a day I listen and sigh. Ahhhh...Bing.

Number 4: Jingle Bell Rock- A fond memory comes to mind whenever I hear this song. When my older son, Timothy, was very small, he loved this song. Any time it came on we had to stop and dance together. Any time. At home, in the grocery store, or in the middle of the mall, we had to dance together.

Number 3: Christmas in Dixie- Okay, so even though I live in this state, I'm not a huge fan of the group Alabama. I do like this song though. It reminds me of the years that I lived up North. During the holidays I would listen to this song and miss my grandparents so much. When I hear it now I have to smile because I get to spend Christmas in Dixie!

Number 2: Feliz Navidad- This is another song that plays twenty-zillion times a day on the Christmas station, but I love it! Every time it comes on I turn up the volume and "canto" my little heart out!

Number 1: O Holy Night- Whether it's Josh Groban, Michael Crawford, Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, or the Celtic Women singing, I love this song! It's beautiful in every way. The music is sublime, and the words are so powerful and moving. "A thrill of Hope; the weary world rejoices for yonder breaks a new a glorious morn." Wow. You can't get much better than that. Well, unless you get Josh or Michael or Celine or Mariah or the Celtic Women to sing it.

There you have it, my Top Ten List of Favorite Christmas Songs. What are yours?

*Soon to come: the Top Ten List of Least Favorite Christmas Songs: a compilation of songs that make Sam the Snowman want to sit in a toaster oven.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Perspective

2009-11-12T08:03:00.004-06:00

I am ashamed to say that I spent most of yesterday in whine mode. I woke up yesterday with some sinus and nasal trouble, I had a list of things to do, I was a teensy bit stressed about the upcoming show, and I really felt sorry for my poor little self. I mean, what a horrible thing it is to have a head cold! There was also the fact that my older son was out of school and he and his brother had to get in some "torture time."

I went in to town and left the boys with my mom so I could do some shopping. I had five Operation Christmas Child boxes to fill before Sunday, and time was running out. For those of you who don't know what Operation Christmas Child is, I'll explain. Every year in November, churches and organizations all over the country fill up shoe boxes with toys and trinkets for children around the world who wouldn't otherwise receive anything for Christmas. It's become a tradition in my family to take part, and we all really enjoy it. This year, however, I was a little stressed about it. I had been so busy with the show that I had not had the time to spend on the project that I would have liked. The show itself was another source of stress, but I'll get to that in a minute. Anyway, I headed out to find stuff for the shoe boxes, but I wasn't in a very "Christmasy" mood. I felt sick and stressed and really just wanted to sit down and cry.

Something occurred to me though. I really have little to whine about. I have a cold. Boo hoo. I could be so much sicker. My kids could be ill, but they're not. They're healthy enough to run wild and drive me crazy. And they need absolutely nothing. They're some of the fortunate ones who'll (hopefully) never have to make do with a shoe box full of odds and ends. I should be thankful that I'm the one filling the shoe boxes and not the one waiting and praying for a Christmas miracle.

This always seems to happen to me around this time of year. I get to the point where I'm so focused inward that I can't see all the blessings that have been laid at my feet. Sure, there's tons to do, but at least I'm strong and well enough to do it. Things could be so much worse! My schedule is currently jam-packed with holiday activities, and instead of worrying myself into a tizzy over the upcoming Christmas Tea, I should just chill and be glad I'm surrounded by loving friends and family.

As for the show, I'm feeling better about that too. We had a good final rehearsal last night, and I think everything will come together. If not, well... it's been a blast anyway. I should take a cue from the characters in the show. They're all simple folks, but they do extraordinary things when the people and places they love are threatened. Family and community is a huge part of their lives, and they are all willing to fight for them.

I really live a charmed life. I don't have much to legitimately worry about. I'm not rich, but my family never goes without food. My house is warm and peaceful. My country has problems, but it's still the greatest country in the world. My family will all be together for the holidays.

I'll probably end up stressed and whiny a few more times before the New Year, but I'm only human. I hope I'll take another minute to think about how blessed I really am.

***A special note of thanks to some folks who helped me put things back into perspective yesterday:

*The man in the store who stopped me and told me how good God is. Yes sir, He sure is.

*My husband who has taken over as Mom and Dad so I could do the show. You rock, Baby!

*My little Paulie who requested prayer for me at church last night.

*My cast mates who made me laugh even when I didn't feel like it.

*God for reminding me of all the blessings that I don't deserve but He has given me anyway.

I Saw the Light

2009-11-04T07:40:00.004-06:00

Most people who know me know that I am horribly night-blind. What is dim light to other people is near total darkness to me. I don't know why. It just seems to be a family trait. Yippee. I have had some really horrific experiences as a result of this little genetic defect. Most of them have happened on or near a stage. For those of you not familiar with the stage, it gets dark. When those bright stage lights go down, it is DARK. There is a reason it's called blackout. Most normal people's eyes have the ability to quickly adjust to this sudden change, but alas, I am abnormal. My eyes don't adjust. It's just dark. For like, forever.

I remember going to the planetarium when I was in elementary school, and sitting on the floor as the lights went out. All my friends starting oohing and aahing over the stars and I was thoroughly confused. I didn't see diddly.

Anyway, back to the stage. When the lights go down on stage, I usually have to enlist a fellow cast member to lead me off-stage. This is for my own safety, since I have a tendency to walk into set pieces or even off the stage platform. My local theater recently performed The Miracle Worker, and I must admit, I briefly considered auditioning for the role of Helen Keller. I can play blind.

Right now, I'm in a show called Southern Hospitality. I haven't had too many stage light issues yet, but I did run into a problem last night on my way to rehearsal. I am currently having some sinus and allergy issues, and they've worked their nasty little way into my eyes. I was instructed by my doctor not to wear my contacts for a few days. No problem, except that leaves me wearing my sadly understrength glasses. I've had my glasses for several years, and I usually only wear them right before and after bed. I recently ordered a totally cute new pair, but they won't be ready for another week or so. So, last night I had to wear the weak glasses. To drive. About 30-45 miles. Along a really dark and winding country road.

Needless to say, I was a little scared. Thanks to the time change, it was nearly dark when I left my house at 5:00pm. I didn't know how the heck I was going to make it. I was straining my eyes so hard I just knew I was going to get a migraine. Then, out of nowhere, this truck pulled out in front of me. It was a huge truck with red flashing tail-lights and a line of yellow blinking lights along the top of the cab. I rode behind that truck for several minutes before I realized what was happening. As I watched those blinking lights, I thought, 'It's leading me!' Suddenly, I felt completely at peace. I knew I was going to be okay. God was up there watching out for his little blind lamb, and He had provided a guide to lead me through the dark. The truck stayed in front of me the whole way, and I arrived safely at my destination.

It still amazes me how He steps in even when we don't ask. Sometimes, we don't even notice. I can't help but feel completely loved knowing that in the midst of all His busy doings: fighting the Forces of Evil, keeping the Universe perfectly together, He will take the time to send me just what I need before I even ask.

Now, I shared all that to say this. If you are struggling, stumbling around in the darkness, unsure of where to turn, put your trust in Him. He'll reach out His hand and lead you to safety. He'll send you a light to guide you along your path. He won't leave you in the dark. He is the Light, after all.

In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not. John 1:4-5

Life Without the Magic Box

2009-10-27T08:16:00.002-05:00

Last week was one of the longest weeks of my life. Not only was I sick and medicated within an inch of my life, my computer was gone. There was an empty space in the little cubby-hole where the thing usually sits and a sad little jumble of wires and cords beneath the computer desk.

I didn't realize how much of my life was on that machine until it was gone. Everything, I mean EVERYTHING is on my computer: my calendar, my phone book, my address book, news, weather, personal communications, work... Suddenly, I was cut off from the entire world. I didn't know how to get in touch with anyone. Sure, I have a phone, but what good is it when all my phone numbers are stored on my computer? I didn't have a clue about what was going on in the world. I couldn't even check the weather without turning on the television and waiting for a weather report. How archaic!

By Saturday, I had an irresistable urge to draw charcoal pictures of mastodons on my living- room walls. Luckily, there was football to satisfy my new itch for primitive violence. But even with Bama giving Tennessee what-for, I was disappointed that I couldn't post snide remarks about the game on Facebook.

Yesterday, my little friend returned. I was overjoyed when that big blue button lit up and it whirred to life once more. I spent the next hour or so dealing with a back-log of email and Facebook updates. I read the news. I checked the weather. I updated my Yahoo! avatar. It felt goooooood.

Welcome home, oh prodigal PC. Don't ever leave me again and force me to buy actual newspapers and watch the Weather Channel. You and coffee and a kiss from my husband begin my day. Stay and keep me informed and connected. I will keep you dusted and protected from surges. I promise.

To the Glory That Was...Goth?

2009-10-06T11:53:00.004-05:00

Tomorrow is the 160th anniversary of the death of Edgar Allan Poe. In honor of this event I decided to decorate another web page with pictures and other graphics featuring Poe. While searching through numerous picture hosting sites for said pictures and graphics, I found myself growing increasingly agitated by the number of idiots in black that have laid claim to dear Eddy. How the he... heck did he become an icon to goths and emos? Sure, he was a bit dark, but I doubt that if he lived today he would be shopping at Hot Topic.

Why do these Depeche Mode-listening, black lipstick-wearing, combat boot-sporting, posers think they have a right to assume that he belongs to them? They tattoo "Nevermore" on various parts of their pale bodies and spout "The Raven" every chance they get (mainly because it's the only poem of his that they know.) They know nothing about the man, but somehow he is the poster boy for their movement.

FYI, freaks. Poe was not a goth. He would probably look at you guys and think, 'Wow, that's weird.' Yes, I know he wrote strange, twisted stuff, but that hardly qualifies him to start wearing eye-liner. He also wrote lovely, sweet, even humorous things.

And don't let the pictures fool you, emo kids. If you had to sit perfectly still for up to five minutes just to have your photograph taken, you would look a bit unhappy and droopy too.

The point of this rant is not to slam goths or emos. If that's what you guys want to do with your lives, that's your business. Just learn something about the people you take as idols. You may find out that they have nothing whatsoever in common with who you are or pretend to be. And when someone asks you who your favorite poet is, don't say Poe. Throw them for a loop and say Emily Dickinson.

Dear God...

2009-08-27T17:15:00.002-05:00

Remember when I prayed for patience? Yeah, well I take that back. What I want now is a maid service. Or a carpet shampooer. Or maybe just a bathtub full of Calgon.

Paulie is an adorable child. He's got a head full of sweet curls, and big brown eyes that will just make you melt. He looks like a cross between an angel and the world's cutest puppy. The only problem is the angel is Lucifer and the puppy is Cerberus.

Okay, maybe that's a tad dramatic. After all, he's not a really a hellian. He just seems to find/attract mischief. So far, we've had to tie the fridge closed to keep him from trying to make another omelet in the living room. We've had to put doorknob covers on the door to the pantry to keep him from helping himself to oatmeal and uncooked macaroni. We've had to tie up the kitchen cabinets, lock the screen door, and move any furniture that can be used to climb to the tops of the counters.

Today, while I was doing laundry, Paulie discovered my container of coffee mate. It ended up being dumped in the sink and in the floor in his bedroom. It looked like Lindsay Lohan sneezed in there. I put him in the Time-Out chair and he was so pitiful. He said, "But Mommy, I don't wanna be in trouble. I'll be nice!" I didn't break though. I made him sit there, and then we had a little chat about making messes and getting into stuff without asking. He came to me later with those big brown eyes and said, "Mommy, I'm sorry I made a mess. Are we still friends?"

What do I do with that? I gave him a big hug and told him that I would always be his friend. He slipped away happily to watch Yo Gabba Gabba, and was left wondering what I can do with my little angel/demon. Sometimes I swear, he's going to make me lose my marbles. He'll drive me to my absolute breaking point, and just before I check myself into the loony-bin, he comes to me and turns on the charm.

He's a handful, but I honestly wouldn't trade him. He's full of mischief, but he's also full of music and humor and sweetness. He's a funny little guy and I never cease to be amazed by him.

Amazed and exhausted.

Tee hee! I Said Duty!

2009-08-18T14:43:00.002-05:00

Yesterday I had my first experience with the American court system. I was called for jury duty. At five-thirty (also known as the butt-crack of dawn) yesterday morning, I got in my car and drove for about an hour to a federal building a few cities over. I had no idea what to expect, but my husband had prepared me a bit for the experience.

"Take a book," he told me. I did. I took my brand-spanking new Poe biography (number 15 in the Poe book collection.) It's about as thick as a family Bible, so I figured it would last me for a while. Funny, how authors can stretch 40 years over 700+ pages.

"You should probably take a sweater," advised my husband. I wasn't so sure about that one. After all, this is August in the south where the average low is about 96 degrees. I ended up taking my little white zip-up sweater, and I was glad I did. Apparently, the Federal Court system is run by polar bears who must maintain arctic temperatures at all times. Don't listen to Noah Wyle. The polar bears aren't dying out; they're just becoming judges. Of course, the thermostat may have been lowered in order to keep the reptilian lawyers from becoming too warm and lethargic.

"They may not even choose you," my husband told me. Again, he was correct. After sitting for about two-and-a-half hours, answering a boat-load of personal questions, and reading about three chapters of my book, I was excused. Yippee.

I was really pretty happy about not being chosen, though the whole process bore a painful resemblance to team picking in fifth grade PE. Still, I didn't have to get up before the chickens this morning and endure a long day on an extremely uncomfortable wooden chair listening to an extremely boring civil suit. And I still get paid for yesterday, 55 cents for every round-trip mile, and an attendance fee on top of that.

When I get my check, maybe I'll buy book number 16.

School Daze

2009-08-04T13:37:00.002-05:00

Rant Warning!

I spent the better part of this morning getting my son registered for fourth grade. He's transferring this year, so I had to drive 30+ miles to his old school to pick up his shot records, report card, test scores, etc. That wasn't a problem though.

No, the problem was the manila folder I was given at the school to which he'll be transferring. I counted on paperwork. I knew I would have to fill out address forms and emergency contact forms and allergy notification forms. I didn't count on having to fill out a dozen forms explaining that my children and I do not live in a tent or camper, we are not migrant workers, and English is the official language in our home.

Okay, I know there are cases when such things are needful, but come on! What the heck? I was so tempted to fill out the forms stating that I am a traveling gypsy, that I speak only Swahili, and I live in a van down by the river.

I just want to put my kid in fourth grade, not apply for a government bailout. Maybe all those forms are just to help the folks who really have had it rough in this sucky economy, but do I really need to fill them all out? Maybe I should just ignore it and be thankful that I can look at those forms and be mildly annoyed. I am pretty blessed, after all.

No, Mr. Board of Education man, I don't need you to give my child free lunches. No, we live in a nice, cozy house down by the lake. No, we all speak fluent English (Paulie knows some Spanish and Chinese.) No, we have reliable transportation. Yes, my children are in a safe home environment. Sure, I can donate some crayons and scissors. You're welcome.

End Rant.

Men Are From Mars, Little Boys Are From Planet Spaz

2009-07-14T10:19:00.005-05:00

Little boys are funny. Like funny ha-ha, and funny weird. My boys are especially...er, unique. The older one is quite the dramatist. I don't know where he gets that. He can't bear to make a mistake, or do something wrong. If he does break a rule, it eats at him until he must confess, even if no one knows about it but him. The confessions themselves are elaborate productions involving many tears and sighs. It's hard to be angry when the child drapes his arm dramatically across his forehead and proclaims, "I admit it! I did it!"

The younger one could hardly care less about rules and regulations. He just wants to have a good time. We've recently had to purchase those white plastic things that go over the doorknobs to keep him out of the pantry. He likes to help himself to oatmeal and uncooked macaroni.

He got a big-boy bed for his birthday, and that has posed its own challenges. I decided to put one of those door-knob thingies on the knob inside his room to keep him from getting out and roaming around the house and possibly the neighborhood. He can't get out now, but the other day he decided to channel his inner rock star and trashed his room. And by trashed, I mean TRASHED. He pulled the mattress up out of his bed and tore off the sheets. He overturned all of his shoe and toy boxes. He found a container of baby powder and made it snow all over every surface in his room.

I put him in his Time-Out chair until I could get the mess cleaned up. He sputtered and sobbed and told me how sorry he was and that he would never make a big mess again. I let him get up, and he ran into the livingroom where he proceeded to tear all the tissues out of the tissue box.

For the most part, my boys are very well-behaved. They are polite and well-mannered. The little one is at that stage where he wants to challenge authority, but he's usually a very sweet little guy. The other day he informed me that I am his "girl." He loves to play a game that my oldest and I made up when he was little, called "I Love You More Than..." We take turns telling each other what we love each other more than. For example, I'll say, "I love you more than chocolate sauce." And he'll say, "I love you more than baby monkeys." It's very sweet.

Boys can be challenging. They don't sit and play quietly with dolls or tea sets like a lot of little girls do. Boys like to run around and take things apart and see how stuff works. Boys like to make mud and get really, REALLY dirty. Boys are noisy, and wild, and completely...well they're wonderful.

*At least the little guy's room now has that new baby smell.*

Tony and Rachael: Don't Make Me Choose!

2009-07-02T15:54:00.002-05:00

I am a woman torn in two. Pulled in two opposite directions like a Thanksgiving turkey bone. Two of my favorite television personalities are at war, and have been for some time. I am of course referring to the war of words going on between Rachael Ray and Anthony Bourdain. What, you say? There's something on TV besides Michael Jackson documentaries? *Sigh*

Truth-be-told, I love them both. Tony is an arrogant, foul-mouthed, rebel rockstar chef, and I love him for it. Rachael is perky (annoyingly so at times) obsessed with extra-virgin olive oil, and a media darling, but I love her for that too.

As much as I hate to see her dissed, Tony has a valid argument against Rachael. She's no Julia Child. But then, she never said she was or tried to be. And even more, why doesn't Tony put down the crispy roasted pork skin and go on television and show me how to make some frou-frou fancy french food, if that's so important?

I feel like a child caught in the middle of a nasty divorce.
Daddy says, "Mommy thinks she's Julia Child, but she's really just a Ho-Jo waitress."
Mommy says, "Maybe if I send Daddy a fruit basket, he'll love me again."

Why can't you guys get along? You have so much in common! You love food and travel, you're both New Yorkers...
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's not a divorce, but a simple high school romance. Yes, that's it. Tony is the rebel ne'er-do-well who secretly has a crush on the cute, perky head cheerleader. Of course, he picks on her in order to hide his true feelings! Eureka!

I can see it all; the Food Network/Travel Channel cafeteria. Rachael sits with Bridget and Dhani at the popular kids' table. Tony (who is about to be suspended again for writing "for a good time call RR" on the bathroom wall) sits in a far corner with Andrew Zimmern.
"What do you have for lunch?" Andrew asks Tony.
"Goat testicles," Tony replies.
"Cool. I have fried monkey brains. Wanna trade?"

Meanwhile, Samantha Brown buzzes around from table to table asking if anyone wants to see her pictures from Brazil. Everyone says no.

Giving a New Meaning to Finger Sandwiches

2009-05-29T16:32:00.005-05:00

I've been watching this show on the Discovery Channel about a group of people who have been dropped in the Alaskan wilderness and are trying to find their way out. It's a bit like Survivor, but without the million dollars, the back-stabbing, the secret alliances, etc. Okay, so it's not like Survivor at all.

Anyway, nine people were given survival training and then left in the middle of Alaska to put that training to the test. The people involved are not survivalists, just regular folks with a wide range of backgrounds and vocations.

So far, the show has been very interesting. There are only five people left now after just over three weeks. The other four opted to leave after finding themselves unable to cope with being in the wild. The rest have banded together as a team and put their training to use. Last week, the young female bus driver went on a killing spree, shooting a duck and another bird, and taking a shovel to a squirrel. All those creatures went into the stew pot in an attempt to combat the team's constant hunger.

As I've watched the show, I've wondered: Would I make it in the Alaskan wilderness? I'm not sure. I would like to think that I could hack it out. Let's consider the conditions:

1. The cold.
Normally, I could do without freezing temperatures and snow. I do not like to be cold. However, with the recent onset of some truly heinous hot-flashes, those sub-zero temperatures are looking mighty comfortable.

2. The shelter.
The team has been staying in shelters ranging from crashed planes to hunting cabins. They've slept in beds, on the floor, and on the ground. I can sleep just about anywhere. Just give me a sleeping bag to burrow into and I'm good to go.

3. The hunting and fishing.
I love to fish. I'm not a big hunter. I've never held a gun, much less fired one. However, I think if I got hungry enough I could take down Bambi or any of his little forest friends. And that brings me to the last point and my Achilles Heel.

4. The lack of food.
The team is constantly searching for food, but they can never find enough and are on a mainly subsistence diet. That would not work for me. I need food. I am hypoglycemic (severely, I believe.) I don't just get weak or faint. I get ill and really grumpy when I'm hungry. It would not do for me to be cooped up with a bunch of people in a little cabin when I have a rumbly in my tumbly. Giving me a gun in those conditions would be a disastrous idea. I can just see the helicopter landing to pick everybody up and there I am sitting by the campfire with my belly bulging.

"Where did the rest of the team go?" the pilot asks.

"They went on a hunt," I answer.

"Burp."

If Inner Beauty is What Counts, Why Do I Own So Much Lip-Gloss?

2009-04-09T07:51:00.006-05:00

The world is obsessed with beauty. I suppose that's natural. We've been this way from the beginning. Beauty equals health equals good stock equals descendants equals immortality. It's in our genetic makeup to seek out the beautiful people.

Perhaps that's why I see them everywhere I go: on television, in magazines, on billboards, in movies. I'm like Haley-Joel Osmet in The Sixth Sense.

"I see pretty people..."

I've tried my best to avoid becoming overly occupied with my appearance. It's hard though, when I feel compared to modern moms like Halle Berry and Angelina Jolie. Ok, so maybe no one outwardly compares me to Angelina Jolie, but I still feel it. I suppose if I had a gazillion dollars I could hire the trainers and food experts and make-up artists and stylists that Angelina has access to. But I don't, and I don't mind.

I'm a real woman and I have a real life to think about that doesn't include adding to a Children of the World Collection. I have laundry to do and floors to sweep and dinners to cook. Besides, I don't look that bad. I consider myself moderately attractive. I have some really good days where I look at myself in the mirror and think, "Heck yeah!"

Of course, there are days when I look at the mirror and think, "Oh crap."

I feel pretty good about myself most days. Especially when I compare how I look now to how I looked in Junior High. In those days I went through a rather unfortunate and unbearably lengthy "awkward phase." I had weird hair, bad skin, and absolutely no curves. I know what you're thinking. "What's changed?"

Anyhoo, I was very skinny, but very short. It would have been fine if I had been tall and skinny, but no. I looked like an anorexic munchkin. Not cute. My classmates took great pains to constantly remind me that I was an ugly duckling. That does bad stuff to your psyche. I have since had problems with low self-esteem, but I'm overcoming that. I'm almost there.

I've come to realize over time that even without outward beauty, I'm a worthwhile human being. I'm pretty smart, I have some talent, and I'm kind. (I'm also very humble as you can see from my shameless listing of attributes.) And now, I even think I'm kind of cute. I'm still short, but now I have some curves ( some good curves, some not.) My hair is still a bit weird, but people tell me all the time that my hair color is beautiful. You can't get this shade of red from a box, girls.

Outward beauty will fade. And while it's really no consolation that some day Angelina will look like a Sunsweet prune, it helps to know that I have things to fall back on. So, I'm not a super-model. Big deal. I'm a super mom. I have people in my life who love me even when I have no make-up on and my hair is pulled up into a frizzy ponytail. That makes me happier than having big pouty lips or flat abs.

Life is beautiful.

Si. Mi chiamano Mimi

2009-03-11T10:31:00.004-05:00

As much as I adore my children and the wonderful position of Mother, there is something unique and special about being an aunt. I suppose it's a bit like being a grandparent. Nieces and nephews are children you can spoil without guilt. They're the little people who will call you and want to move in with you when Mom and Dad are being "totally mean." They're the ones you can tell all the funny and embarrassing stories about your brother and/or sister. Ex. One time, I had a friend over, and your mom came in and said, "Look! I have on Little Mermaid panties!"

My one and only nephew is only a year old at the moment, but I already have plans to spoil him rotten. After all, I probably won't get to see him that much. My brother-in-law is in the Army and they're getting ready to move off again. They've been away since Christmas, but Carson still remembers his Aunt Amy. Before they left, he was calling me May-mee. Now, that has transformed into Mimi, and I have to admit, I love it. I am Aunt Mimi. No one else calls me that. I think I may have a license plate made with that on it, or maybe a t-shirt. Aunt Mimi.

I am reminded of the episode of Friends when Ben was born, and new aunt Monica promised, "I will always have gum." That kind of sums it up for me. I want to be that kind of aunt. The one Carson can look to for advice, or support, or defense, or just candy. I will always be ready with any of those.

I'de Like to Thank the Academy...

2009-02-23T08:15:00.007-06:00

I would like to thank the Academy for the wonder that is Hugh Jackman. What's not to love? He sings, he dances, he acts, he's friggin' Wolverine! Not to mention he's Australian, and I have an obession for all things Aussie. I thought the opening number was awesome, especially the cheesy "homemade" props. And speaking of props, cheers to Anne Hathaway for her Nixon. She really doesn't have a terrible voice. Call me, Anne, and we'll set up some voice lessons. I'll learn ya real good.

I normally don't bother to watch award shows other than the Tonys. They just get a bit tedious with all the speeches and montages and extraneous awards (Yay, Jerry Lewis!) I do appreciate the fact that the shows have been whittled down a bit by setting aside all the little awards like Best Camera Lens Changer Person, Best Makeup Brush Holder Lady, and Best Coke Bringer to Diva's Trailer Dude. They all get their own ceremony prior to the real show, I believe. Isn't that special.

Okay, so back to Oscar and Hugh. I don't care what the morons at Yahoo! say, I liked the showtunes medley with Hugh and Beyonce and company. For one thing, I love showtunes and will randomly burst into one at any time without warning. For another thing, I love medleys. What's better than a showtune? A whole medley of showtunes! Throw in Beyonce and Hugh and yeah, even Zac and Vanessa, and I'm a happy girl.

The main reason I watched 29+ hours of awards show (besides seeing Hugh Jackman) was to see whether or not Kate Winslet won Best Actress. She did, and I did my patented Woo-hoo Dance in my living room. I love Kate. I have since 1997 when she was in that movie with the boat and the iceberg. She looked gorgeous, as always, and I was so happy that she won and Angelina didn't.

Other memorables* Tim Gunn on the red carpet. Ben Stiller's Joaquin Phoenix. Miley Cyrus's I-think-I'm-a-Christmas-Tree dress. The Ledger family. A singing, dancing, Hugh Jackman.

Oh, what a night.

Friday's Faves

2009-02-19T10:25:00.009-06:00

Like Oprah and Maria von Trapp, I have my favorite things. Unfortunately, I don't have a

ba-jillion dollars like Oprah that would allow me to give my favorite things away to everyone I know. Unlike Maria, I can't fit them all into a snappy song that people will mistakenly sing at Christmas time. However, I can blog about them. So on that note, here we go.

BCX Sateen Belted Trench Coat:

The piece pictured above is one of my better wardrobe purchases. I own it in orange. I bought it back at the end of summer in Atlanta, and since then I have worn the heck out of it. It happens to be perfect for Spring because it's light enough for those not-so-cold days, yet it keeps off the rain and chill. Not to mention the fact that it looks AMAZING.

Caress Exotic Oil Infusions Moroccan Body Wash:

I love this body wash! It smells incredible and leaves my skin silky smooth. Unfortunately, Wal-Mart has stopped carrying this particular scent. (Like I need another excuse to hate Wal-Mart.) It is still available, and cheaper, at Fred's.

Jello Sugar-Free Dark Chocolate Pudding:

This pudding is perfect for those who, like me, have a serious chocolate addiction but still want to eat smart. Unlike some sugar-free stuff, this doesn't have that funky aftertaste. It just tastes great! One container is only 60 calories. However, it adds up if you can't stop at one, which is a distinct possiblilty. It's that yummy.

*If you happen to be bored over the weekend or just need to fill some time, I have a suggestion. Go to YouTube and type in Misheard Lyrics. Some of the vids that pop up may give you at least a chuckle. Some are incredibly lame, but some are truly awesomely funny.

There they are. This Friday's Faves. Check 'em out for yourself and let me know what you think!

Stop Honking Your Horn, I'm Trying to Text!

2009-02-16T08:54:00.002-06:00

I consider myself to be somewhat technologically knowledgable. However, when it comes to communications gadgetry, I just don't get it. I mean, I know what all the stuff is for. I just don't know why. Take those ridiculous bluetooth headsets for instance. What the heck? I always have to do a double-take when I see those crazed people walking around talking to themselves. At least it looks that way. Does anyone really need one of those things? Maybe doctors, or stock brokers, or secret service agents. I don't think most average human beings need a phone attached to their ears. Probably at some point this will evolve into a device that's implanted directly into a person's head. It'll be a rite of passage to get it, like having your ears pierced. When you turn 2, your mom will take you to the mall to get your first bluetooth implant. Mazel tov!

I don't really understand the whole texting craze either. If you have a phone and can talk directly to a person, why don't you stick with that? Didn't we have something like texting 100+ years ago? What was that called? Oh yeah, the TELEGRAPH. Texting just seems like a step backwards to me. Is the next step a phone that transmits Morse Code? Or better yet, a phone that sends out smoke signals. "Here's my number if you want to smoke me..."

My current phone is very basic. It makes calls. That's it. It doesn't take pictures. It doesn't play games or music or take x-rays or tell the future. It just makes calls. How quaint, right? Yep, at the ripe old age of 31, I just don't get these young folks and their newfangled doodads. When I was a teenager, we just had pagers. They were like caller ID without the phone. You got a buzz or a beep on your hip and then a little blinking number to let you know to call someone. Ah, those were the days.

Spring Fling

2009-02-10T13:15:00.002-06:00

Don't tease me, Spring. Don't lead me on. You've shown up a tad early even though that stupid groundhog said you'de be away for at least six more weeks. So, what's the deal? Are you going to stick around long enough for me to dig out my floral prints and then ditch, leaving me scrambling for my thermals? Don't do that. Again.

If you're going to show up, at least consider staying for a while. I can't take it when you lure me into a false sense of security and then run off. You leave me sad and cold and wondering what went wrong. We can make this work, Spring. Make yourself comfortable. There's no pressure for a long term commitment. You're welcome to leave in a few months. But for now, stay. Cozy up with me and make me feel alive again. You won't be sorry.

Good Morning, Wisteria Lane! Let's Cook Up Some Ectoplasm Because the Angels Have the Phonebox!

2009-01-30T08:05:00.008-06:00

I'm no longer an avid TV watcher. I can't just sit in front of the tube and flip aimlessly until I find something mildly entertaining. I do, however, have a few shows I watch regularly.
On Sunday evenings I watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, mainly because Paulie likes it so much. He's so darn cute when he stands in front of the TV and yells "Good morning *whatever* family!" He has to scream "Move that bus!" as well.
Ty grates on my nerves, and it's all a bit cheesy at times, but it's sweet too and gives me warm fuzzy feelings. After I watch I usually decide to start some kind of charity that by Monday morning I've forgotten completely about.
After the home makeovers, comes my current favorite guilty pleasure, Desperate Housewives. I love this show. I have to wonder though how a nice street like Wisteria Lane came to house so many psychos and jail birds. Every guy on the show has been to jail. Weird. This seasons' resident psycho is Edie's new husband, Dave. He's a total creep who may or may not be after Mike and Susan or Mike and Katherine or just Mike. I dunno.
Last week's episode (or rather the week before's episode) revolved around the previously unknown handyman Eli Scruggs and the various ways he left his mark on Wisteria Lane. I have to give the writers cred for making me cry over a character I had not seen before. Yay, 100th episode writers.

On Wednesday nights, Don and I watch Top Chef. Normally, I don't do reality shows, but this one is not bad, so I watch it. It's full of lovable and hateable characters, and then there are the contestants. This seasons' lovable/hateable duo comes courtesy of Europe. Fabio is the Italian Stallion who oozes charm and attitude and some cooking talent. He is lovable to me because he takes no guff from the judges, once offering to cook "monkey a** with fried banana" if that's what it took to please them.
Stefan, on the other hand is a complete jerk. He is an awesome chef, but he knows it. He's won a lot of challenges and loves to remind the other chefs of exactly how many. I had to laugh my butt off last Wednesday during the Super Bowl challenge when he picked what he thought would be an easy target, but lost big time. To a girl. Take that, Germany or Austria, or wherever the heck he's from.
Next on Wednesday's lineup for me is Ghost Hunters International because I like to have the crap scared out of me right before I go to bed. A band of "scientific" ghost busters travel around the globe investigating supposed haunted houses, castles, museums, etc. It's mostly filmed with night vision cameras which gives everybody that kind of creepy pale-eyed look. The crew spends part of an evening in a haunted location using infrared sensors, voice recorders, and other sciencey stuff, and then they look over all the film, video, and recordings for evidence of ghosts. The creepiest things to me are the EVPs. A voice shows up on a recording that doesn't belong to anyone that was present. Spooky.

My favoritiest favorite show is currently on hiatus. Well, for us here in the States anyway. The Brits already got their Christmas special, which thanks to the miracle of YouTube, I was able to watch too. Neener neener, Brits.
I'm speaking of Doctor Who. The greatest show. Ever. It's all about a time and space traveling guy named the Doctor. Just the Doctor. The Doctor is currently played by the impossibly hot David Tennant. Alas, dear Dave will be leaving when the show officially returns in 2010. *tear* Young whippersnapper Matt Smith will be taking over the role, and I have to say, I think he'll do fine. Please don't kill me, fan girls! Anyway, I can't wait for season 5 and more wibbly-wobbly-timey-whimey adventures with the Doc. I need some more fanfic material.

That's about it for my TV viewing, besides the brief snatches of Dora the Explorer and Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends I see as I pass through the living room during the day. Occasionally, I'll watch some kind of documentary on the Discovery or History channel because I'm a documentary nerd. I watched a cool one about Air Force One the other night. If the Mythbusters are blowing up something interesting, I'll watch that too. I don't think they'll ever top the cement truck though. That was like Blink in terms of awesomeness. That's a Doctor Who reference by the way.

"Don't blink."

I'm Just a Loaf

2009-01-27T10:16:00.004-06:00

Lately I've been reading about God doing a lot with a little. My Bible study passage for today dealt with Jesus feeding the multitude with a few fish and a couple of loaves of bread. He took this small, seemingly insignificant lunch and turned it into a feast for thousands of people. Timothy read a similar story last night from his reading book. This one was about the widow with the handful of meal and cruse of oil. When she was obedient to God, her meal and oil didn't run out.
I find it interesting that God didn't necessarily make more loaves and fish or meal and oil. He didn't poof more bread and fish in front of the crowd. He didn't miraculously fill the widow's pantry with food either. He used the little that was there and got a lot from it.
I can relate this to myself. I am not very much. I don't have very much in talent, ability, or wealth. However, I know God can take what I am and what I have and do a lot with it if I will only let Him. He won't necessarily give me more, but He'll stretch what He's already given me to do great things.

Out of Africa

2009-01-26T14:16:00.003-06:00

There used to be a zebra in a field close to where I grew up. I don't know why, but the people who owned the land had somehow purchased a zebra and they kept it out in their pasture. They didn't have any other animals in the pasture. Just the zebra.
I used to pass by that field everyday on the school bus, and while everyone else thought seeing a zebra in a pasture in Alabama was funny, it made me a bit sad. It was all alone, and it was out of place. I guess I kind of related to that poor zebra. I was lonely in my youth, and I often felt as if I were completely out of place. As if I were born to be somewhere else, something else.
I still find myself struggling to define, well, myself. What is it that I do? What is my purpose? I'm no longer alone, but I still feel a bit out of place at times. I am very happy with my life, but I still feel as if I'm not living up to my full potential. I've always been terrified of failure, and I sometimes wonder if that fear has dictated some of my choices. In college I chose to study music because music was my "thing." It was easy for me. I know I would never really be brain surgeon material, but what could I do if I stepped away from what was easy and took a chance? What if I dared to risk failing? I've done it before.
I took a huge chance when it came to finding love. I risked heartbreak and rejection in my pursuit of the man who is now my wonderful husband. He could have said no. He didn't, and the feeling of triumph was unbelievable. My risk paid off. I think a risk like that is almost always worth it. Even if you fail, at least you've learned something.

2009-01-23T11:35:00.002-06:00

I have been a bit slack in keeping up this blog. However, I intend to change that. I plan on posting at least a couple of times a week with commentary on local happenings, television and entertainment, as well as just my everyday goings-on. So, keep checking back here for my latest ramblings!

2009-01-23T10:35:00.000-06:00

2007-02-06T10:18:00.000-06:00

I wondered all weekend about what I would do. What could I say? How would I say it? When? Where? I was confused, but determined to do something. I knew I was taking a huge risk. There was a definite possibility that he was not interested, and that I would get rejected. I decided however, that rejection was better than spending the rest of my life wishing I had done something and wondering "what if?" Monday came around, but was completely uneventful. Tuesday was a different story. In order to prepare for final exams, the college gives a day off. Students call it "Dead Day." On dead day I had an exam to make up for my history class. I went in with a plan. I took the test and headed to his office. Since it was dead day, there was no one around. This was my chance. I was going to talk to him avout how I felt. I started to get really nervous as I walked down the hall, so I stopped off the the break area to calm my nerves. I was trembling all over. I told myself to calm down, but I just could not stop quivering. Was I doing the right thing? What if he thought I was crazy? Could I really do this? I wasn't sure. I finally just prayed. "God, if this is what I'm supposed to do, calm my nerves and give me the words to say." At that moment I stopped shaking, I took a deep breath, and I walked out of the break room and down the hall to his door.

2006-11-14T10:25:00.000-06:00

The Love Story Continues...

The next fall I began planning my voice recital. It would be a kind of final exam for my private voice classes. I knew I wanted him to be there. I had to sing for him. I had to sing to him. I made a point to give him an invitation, and I hoped that he would show up. The night of my recital I was very nervous. I wasn't as nervous about the performance as I was about him being there. I kept peeking out into the auditorium to see if he was there. Finally, it was time for me to come out. I remember that I walked out and saw him sitting in the back. My heart did a little flip-flop, but I tried to keep my composure.
That night I sang my heart out. I put everything I had into singing. Every song was for him. One in particular was dedicated completely to him. The song was a German piece, and its translation reads something like this:

You my soul, you my heart
You my joy, oh you my pain
You my world in which I live
My Heaven you, in which I float
O you my grave in which into I eternally my grief give
You are the rest, you are the peace
You are from Heaven to me granted
That you love me makes me worthy to myself
Your glance has me transfigured before myself
You raise me lovingly above myself
My good spirit, my better self

When the recital was over, I made my way to where he was. I spoke to only one other person before him. He gave me a hug, and told me that he enjoyed the performance. I was just happy that he had been there. When he turned to leave, I began to walk away as well, but then turned back to look at him. He turned back to look at me too. In that little "moment" I decided that it was time to make a move. I didn't know what I would say or do. I just knew that it was time to do something. I had to let him know how I felt.

A Long Way from Barbieland

2006-11-13T11:58:00.003-06:00

I thought I would take a break from the telling of my love story to write about my little sister. I was an only child for quite a few years before my sister came along. I was very lonely, and decided that I would pray to God to send me a sister to play with. I didn't know that my parents had been trying for some time to have another baby. I believe God hears the innocent prayers of children. He heard mine, and before too long I had my little sister. She was a little bitty thing. She still is. When she started school, my parents had to lift her up onto the school bus steps. Despite some initial jealousy, I loved my little sis and she and I became great playmates.
Our favorite pastime was playing with Barbie dolls. We didn't just play the usual "Barbie's getting dressed to go on a date with Ken" scenerio. We had intricate plot lines and complex characters. Barbie had many adventures, and was a victim of numerous disasters. She survived a flash flood, an earthquake, a couple of tornadoes, as well as a few wars. Barbie got married and divorced more times than I can count, and had more kids than the old lady who lived in the shoe. Our cast of characters included Barbie as a suburban housewife, as well as Barbie the undercover spy supermodel.
All of our dolls had names. No one was just called Barbie. We had Lynne, and Teresa, Christy and Misty (twins,) Lori, and more that I can't remember. Kens had diferent names as well. We had a young Ken named Kevin. We had a Ken doll that looked a bit like Bruce Boxlietner, so we named him Lee Stetson. Then there was the doll named Bruce. He was one of the oldest Kens we had, and he had a bit of a flatulence problem. Not an imaginary one either. He always really smelled like farts. He was a commitmentphobe as well. Whenever he would attempt to kiss his Barbie love of the moment, his head would pop off.
Our story lines got crazier as we got older. In one plot we had a Barbie that went nuts and started killing all her Barbie friends. Ken once played a phantomesque role as the weird guy who lived in the basement of the Barbie mansion. My favorite story involved Ken as a maniacal kidnapper with an obsession for dinner breads.
At one point in our childhood, my family moved into a house that had enough room for us to have a playroom. This room quickly became Barbieland, fully equipped with a grocery store, hotdog stand, school, and even a game show. We spent most of our free time there making up wild adventures for Barbie.
For the most part, my sister and I took care of all of our Barbie dolls. After so many hours of play however, they did begin to wear out. We played with them until they fell apart. My doll, Lynne, was one of these dolls. She had been my favorite, so she was quite battered. Upon realizing her impending demise, my sister and I made up one last story for her to play out. Lynne survived the earlier homicidal rampage of her fellow doll only to slip on a stick of Barbie butter, fall down the stairs of her townhouse, and break her neck. She had a lovely funeral, and went to the garbage dump in a comfy little shoebox casket.
Some of our other dolls were not so lucky. They became victims of our attempts at Barbie makeovers. Though I successfully gave one doll the "Rachael" haircut, my attempt at the Meg Ryan bob went horribly wrong. Instead of Meg Ryan, the doll looked like Sinead O'Connor. Barbie met with worse fates than bad haircuts in Barbieland. The playroom was a bit drafty, which led to one poor doll's unfortunate run-in with the space heater. Several dolls lost their heads in one way or another. I think there was even a time when Barbie's mustang was responsible for severing a leg during a hit-and-run.
I was in highschool before I stopped playing with Barbie dolls. I tried to tell myself that I was just entertaining my little sister. However, I know I enjoyed it just as much as she did, if not more. We had a blast. I miss it. I'm now a wife and a mother of two boys. There isn't a Barbie in sight at my house. It's kind of sad. I have hope, though. I've recently found out that I am going to be an aunt. I'm praying now that my sister will give birth to a little girl. If she does, I'm digging out my Barbies. Hopefully, I will be with her when she takes her first journey to Barbieland.

2006-10-27T12:41:00.000-05:00

I drove myself crazy trying to convince myself that I felt nothing for this man. I told myself I was a fool and a juvenile for having a crush on a teacher. However, my arguments were put to rest in April of that year. I had been working really hard that semester. So hard in fact, that I wasn't eating properly. Or much at all. One day I started feeling really bad and I knew I needed to eat something. At that point I knew I was too light-headed to drive, so I tried to call a friend. She didn't answer, so I made my way down the first floor hall of one of the campus buildings. It just happened to be his building. I didn't make it to the end of the hall. The neat thing I knew, I was lying on a bench in the hallway with some strange guy looking down on me. At some point someone called an ambulance, and as I was being prepared to go to the hospital, I saw HIM. He looked very concerned.

At the hospital, I was told that I was hypoglycemic. That's why I fell out. I didn't really care about that though. I just thought about the way he looked when I left. I wondered if maybe he would call to check on me, but decided he probably wouldn't. I was right. He didn't call to check on me. He came to the hospital to check on me.
I had gone out into the hallway to try to call someone to come get me. No one answered at home, and I started to get really worried. Then I heard a familiar voice around the corner. I looked up in time to see HIM come around the corner. At that moment I knew I could no longer ignore what I felt for him. He came for me. He was like a knight charging to my rescue. Except his white steed was a big grey Chevy truck.
I knew I had deep, true feelings for him. Maybe he felt the same. I couldn't be sure. But he had come for me. At that point it was enough.

2006-10-12T12:39:00.000-05:00

More of My Love Story...

The first couple of weeks of class passed by without much excitement. I liked the class and found it very interesting and tried my best to be a good student. Then, one day as I was taking a test, I decided to make a little joke about some of the material. When he passed the graded tests back to us I noticed that he had made his own little joke. I laughed out loud and looked up and noticed him looking at me. I think that's where it all began. At least my part.
After that, I found myself thinking about him a lot. I made a point to get to class early and I tried to prepare myself well so I could be brilliant in class. I guess it might have worked better if I had actually spoken in class. I always felt so timid. I would see him in the hall and he would say hello and I would just smile. I knew if I tried to speak it would just come out as "duhhhh..."
The next semester I tried to stay around the building where he taught. I couldn't take him for any more classes because I had taken everything he taught. Instead, I scheduled classes near the ones he taught. My French class was across the hall from him and we would wave at each other every day. My theater class was down the hall from him and I would make special trips to the bathroom so I could see him. For someone who didn't normally go crazy over any particular guy, I had it pretty bad.
One day I made up my mind that I would go by his office and talk to him. I wasn't sure what I would say, but he provided me with the perfect opportunity. I was passing by when I heard classical guitar music coming from his office. I stuck my head in the door and made some comment about the music. He knew I was a music major, so it was a perfect topic to discuss. After that initial conversation, I made a point to stop by and speak to him at least once a week. I was finding out so much about him. I realized that he and I had a lot in common. I really liked being around him and before I knew it, I found myself falling. Hard.

2006-10-07T14:26:00.000-05:00

My husband is amazing. He is truly my soul-mate. I met him a few years ago at the local university. I had gone back to school after having my first child with the intent of earning a degree in music. I ended up getting my MRS degree instead. It was all meant to be that way though. I don't believe in luck or coincidence. I heard someone say once that coincidence is just when God chooses to remain anonymous. I believe it. Only God could have made such a perfect match. People had been telling me for a long time that I was just too picky. However, I feel that in the choice of a life-long mate,one had better be picky. I don't believe in divorce. At least not the way that some people do. In the age of the "disposable marriage," I was determined to find my soul-mate or remain single if I could not. I was blessed to finally find him in the fall of 2002.
I remember that day as clear as anything. It was my first day back at school after taking a break to have my first child. I was very determined to be a serious student this time. My second class on that first day was where I met him. I remember he came in a little late. At the time, I didn't really think anything about him. I was there to learn. And anyway, I was too old to have crushes on teachers. Right? Sure.
Yes, he was my teacher. The strange thing was that neither of us were really supposed to be in that class. I didn't realize it at the time, but I had already taken that class in Junior College under a different number. The class I was in was supposed to be taught by someone else. But there we were...

2006-10-05T13:14:00.000-05:00

The Indestuctible Wasp

There was a wasp in my house this morning. I was afraid it would sting my baby, so I decided I must kill it. So I took a section of newspaper and rolled it up to swat the little pest. It flew over to the kitchen window, and I thought, "Ha! I've got you now!" Wrong. I swatted the wasp. It fell down, but then hopped right back up on the window screen. I hit it again. Same thing. This happened over and over. Swat the wasp, jump back. Swat the wasp, jump back. I was definitely doing some damage, because the wasp started buzzing around bumping into stuff. However, I couldn't kill the little sucker. I just kept right on hitting it. Five minutes later, the wasp had one leg and no wings, but he was still going. I decided I had to end it once and for all. I started in with some rapid succession swatting. Wham wham wham wham! At last, the little bugger curled up and gave up the ghost. The battle was over. In the words of my father, (the official bug-killer of the household,) "You die!"

2006-10-04T13:38:00.000-05:00

The Case of the Soggy Socks
This morning I woke up and looked in on my sweet baby in the bassinet. He was awake and smiling. I noticed however, that his socks were sopping wet. I picked him up and felt his PJs. They were dry. His sheets were dry. I wondered how his socks had gotten so wet. I figured it out after I returned to the room to give him his bottle. There he was, with both feet in his mouth, happily munching on his toes. Mystery solved. "Don't put your feet in your mouth Baby," I told him. "There will be plenty of time for that when you are older."
In other news, I read in a fashion magazine the other day that butts are the new boobs. I don't know why. If that's true, then I'm like the Dolly Parton of the butt world. Maybe I should open up a theme park and name it Bootyville. Another magazine said that 30 is the new 20. So now according to the fashion world, I am 18 and a 44DD. Yay me!
I am also gald that the metrosexual fad is over. Metrosexual, for those of you that don;t know, was a movement in society where men started carrying little handbags and getting pedicures. Yuck! If I wanted to marry a gay guy...well, there's just no way to finish that sentance. The new movement is the ubermale. This is where men go back to being the big, burly, burping, scratching, guys we all love. I want to feel like my man will protect me. Not like he'll be afraid to break one of his perfectly manicured nails. Sure, I think guys should look nice. They should be able to dress up when necessary. But that's what wives are for. Keep your pansy man. I'll keep my Brawny man!

2006-10-02T20:00:00.000-05:00

I am soooo excited! I finally joined the 21st century and got an iPod. I love it! It is actually my birthday present from my husband, but I got it a little early. It is so small, but so cool! I feel very modern walking around with my little earbuds in. I have spent most of the evening importing songs from CDs to it. It feels very cool to say that. "What are you doing?" "I'm importing." Now that my favs are on my iPod, anyone want to buy some CDs?
My son was out of school today, so we went to the park. We all had a good time. My older son took pictures of the baby on some of the play equipment. It was such a pretty day. When we got home several packages were waiting for us. My iPod came, the charger, and my baby's halloween costume. He is going as a monkey. (Very fitting!) My older son is going as a pirate. Ever since we went to Disney World and rode "Pirates of the Caribbean" he's had this pirate thing. He has declared his name to be Captain Red Bass. I don't know... He has quite an imagination.
Today was a really nice day. I had both of my boys at home, I've become Judy Jetson, and it's all very cool.

2006-09-30T11:52:00.000-05:00

Last night my husband and I took our baby to the theater. Not the movies. Live theater. Of course, it wasn't his first time at the theater. He's only four-and-a-half months old and he's already been to see two shows. We took him to see a musical back during the summer, and last night we saw a Neil Simon comedy. Our child is so cultured! He did very well, despite the problems with the sound they were having. He just sat up in my lap and looked around as if he really enjoyed the action on stage. There was another baby there who didn't do so well. And she was older! After the show, I wanted to tell everyone, "My baby wasn't the one crying. He was the one writing a review for the local newspaper."
My older son went to his dad's house last night. They have a routine for every weekend they spend together. They visit their favorite restaurant and get hamburgers, then it's off to Wal-Mart to look around. They like video games and stuff like that. I'm not into gaming. I'm just too uncoordinated. My guys take a few steps, and then they die. Poor Mario never made it past the mushrooms.
I believe today is going to be a lazy day at my house. It's beautiful outside. Warm, but not too warm. I have to go to the store to buy the neccessities of life: milk, bread, and toilet paper. But after that, I'm crashing in front of the TV to watch my team get massacred. I love weekends in the fall!

2006-09-28T13:43:00.001-05:00

Project Runway was such a bust last night. I can't believe I skipped the Barbara Walters interview with Terri Irwin to watch it! It was so obvious the judges had planned on booting out Uli. They had to send eveyone through because she won! Laura's dress was very pretty, but very safe. Michael's dress was nice...on paper. It didn't work on that little Jennifer Love Hewitt look-alike. Uli's dress was okay compared to that "German house dress" she originally made. The beading with that print was a nice combination.
When Heidi said that Jeffery's dress belonged on a milk maid I laughed so hard I thought milk was going to come out my nose. And I wasn't even drinking milk. You could tell he and Michael were nervous when they were in the bottom two. They were both sweating like Michael Jackson trying to figure out which Survivor team to be on. I think there will be some sort of surprise challenge that will narrow it down to a final three.
In home news, my baby had a breakthrough today. He has recently started eating rice cereal, and has had some problems with it. For one thing, Mommy just doesn't shovel it in fast enough for his liking. Up to this point he's been on a bottle and can suck down its contents in a matter of seconds.
I've contemplated changing his name to Hoover. Today he had a breakthrough. He realized that if he opens his mouth wide, mommy will shovel in a big spoonful of grub. This he likes.
He also got a new toy. He's been playing on a little mat that has toys hanging over it. He's become very bored with that, so I ordered him this little bouncy thing. It's called an exersaucer. It has little do-dads all over it that squeak and spin. He seems to like it a lot. Maybe he won't get bored with it for a while. I hope at least a week. He and I have been taking daily walks. We walk all over the neighborhood and I show him all kinds of things. Yesterday I introduced him to the joys of mushroom kicking. There was a mushroom on the side of the road that was so big it could have housed at least a dozen Smurfs. I ran up and kicked it, and it exploded with a big POOF! It was so cool. Ahhh, the simple pleasures of life. Mushrooms to kick, spinning toys, and a mouthful of grub. Who could ask for more?

2006-09-27T12:28:00.000-05:00

My boys are adorable. My oldest son is six and a half, and he is the light of my life. He is very creative, imaginative, and sooo dramatic! He reminds me of someone...hmmm. We are very close. We have always liked to play tricks on each other. One of our favorite things to do is try to scare the devil out of each other. He likes to sneak up behind me when I'm out on the back porch reading. The other night as he was getting ready for bed I sneaked into his room and hid behind his bed. When he came back into the room to get into his bed, I jumped up and barked at him. I think he jumped about ten feet. Poor kid. He'll probably need therapy before he hits puberty. He'll get me back though. I'm just waiting for it.
My sons have always been my favorite toys. Kids are fun. They are a great excuse to go see all those animated films you wanted to see but were too embarrassed to go by yourself. I love having kids. I get to go trick-or-treating again. I can watch Spongebob without feeling totally lame.
My other son is four and a half months old. He is really beginning to show his personality. He likes to give kisses. His kisses are really more like slobber deposits, but it's still sweet. He coos and giggles and thinks it's very funny that he can make raspberries with his tongue. He has recently discovered his feet, and is constantly studying them. I think he's trying to figure out how to get them in his mouth.
My husband and I still haven't figured out his hair or eye color. He may end up as a redhead like his mommy. Right now though his hair color is best described as "bald." He has a little bit of fuzz. His head is very round, but not quite as round as his big brother's was. His head looked like Charlie Brown's. Or maybe the Great Pumpkin.
I love my boys. They fill my every day with wonder and delight. Their futures are wide open to possibilities. My oldest wants to be an astronaut, or a race car driver, or a police officer, or a fire fighter. My baby hasn't made any future wishes known yet, but it looks as though he may be a food critic. Or maybe a podiatrist. Who knows?

2006-09-26T12:53:00.000-05:00

It's funny how different my life is from the way I imagined it to be when I was younger. When I was a teenager and knew everything I decided that I was going to be an actress. My plan was to graduate from highschool and then head straight to NYC to find my big break on Broadway. I was not going to get married, and I was certainly never going to have children. My life was my own, and it was going to stay that way. To me, my hometown was a hopelessly uncultured place that was just unworthy of me and my talent. What an ignorant little brat I was! Luckily, I never headed off to the big city. I went to college instead and began studying music and I discovered how little I knew about anything!
Today I'm married with two beautiful children and a house in the country. And a cat. Sometimes I am still amazed that I have all this. Occasionally I ask myself, "What if?" Do I have any regrets? Do I wish I were a Broadway star instead of a PTF mom? Heck no! I love this life. I love packing lunches. I love going on school field trips. I love it when my husband comes home from work and I greet him at the door. I love getting up in the morning and feeding my baby while watching the Tyra Banks Show. Oh, I still have the acting bug. But I satisfy it through my work with the local theater group. That's much more fun anyway. I can perform for familiar faces. Hometown people. Their applause means more to me than sold out shows in New York. These people know me and appreciate me. I love that I can be a star one night and then go home and be just a normal person.
Well...maybe not normal.
It's still funny though. The other day I found myself separating meats to go in the freezer and I had to stop and smile. Who needs fame and fortune? I have family. I am very blessed. I am rich beyond my wildest dreams.

2006-09-25T11:52:00.000-05:00

My dad is a preacher. When I tell people that, most of them say "Oh! You're one of those!" Yes. I am a PK. A preacher's kid. A lot of people are under the assumption that since I am a preacher's daughter I am a hell-raiser. To be honest, I have done plenty of things I am not proud of. However, I don't think I could be put in that category. My sister and I were raised with some strict rules. We were not allowed to listen to rock music. We didn't watch movies that had anything but a G rating. My dad didn't make us wear dresses all the time, but our pants could not be too tight or our shorts too short. (Above the knees was too short.) My dad has always been great though. He's a very straight-laced, right-wing conservative. However, he has great compassion for people. He would be the first to speak out against drinking and gambling, and homosexuality. But he would be the first to reach out to and embrace the people brought down by such things. He's probably the hardest working person I know. A lot of people think a preacher just works on Sunday and spends the rest of his time sitting around eating fried chicken. Not my dad. I've seen him go out at 3:00am because somebody needed to talk to him. He is always on the go. He visits people in the community. He visits people in the hospital. He volunteers at the local mission center. He just got back from a mission trip to Africa. He's been to Russia several times as well. I am proud to be a PK. Sure, my childhood was a little sheltered. Looking back I'm grateful. I see kids who were not raised by a good Christian father, or no father at all. A lot of them are now in serious trouble. I was blessed. So what if I couldn't wear a two-piece bathing suit at the beach? I wouldn't trade that for the life I have now. When I looked for a husband, I looked for someone with the same qualities as my dad. I was blessed to find him. I'm happy to know that my sons have great male role models to look up to in my husband, my dad, and my brother-in-law. If they are anything like them, they will be just fine.

2006-09-23T18:57:00.000-05:00

It is the first day of fall and it still feels like mid-summer! It was like 90 something degrees outside today! To further add to the disappointment, my team lost today. They could have won if their kicker was not a total moron. Okay, I know. I couldn't kick that little ball through the uprights, but come on! That's what these guys do! (Breathe!) I'm better now. I'm telling you, I get into my football.
Yesterday I took an online psychic ability test. It told me I definitely had some psychic powers. ( I knew it.) Funny though, I could guess what was behind the cards and yet I never win the football pool...hmmmm. I wish I had known I was going to catch a cold. My head is full of mucous, and I am aching all over. My husband had it first. That's the beauty of marriage; you share everything. Oh well, here's to "in sickness and in health." I'm going to go crash on my couch. Happy Fall Ya'll.

2006-09-22T11:06:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon my husband and I attended the University English dept get-together. I prefer to call it the "Nerd Picnic." It is always fun to see nerds outside their natural environment so we packed up our little four-month old nerdling and a Death By Chocolate dessert and headed to the Alumni House. Of course, our baby was the star attraction. He is afterall the cutest baby in the world. I would post pictures, but there are just too many pychos on the Internet.
When I refer to people as nerds, I am not being derogatory. I am myself a nerd, and I enjoy the company of other nerds. Nerds are quite fun to socialize with. We are very witty. However, most non-nerds don't understand our humor. We love puns and wordplay that would make a lot of other people groan. Nerds aren't totally abnormal though. They still put on their suspenders one arm at a time just like everyone else.

*J.J. gives a good mad scientist laugh: Mooha ha ha ha ha!

2006-09-20T16:15:00.000-05:00

My husband and I are totally hooked on Project Runway. Actually, he turned me on to it. Weird, huh? FYI, he's totally straight. It's a funny thing to hear the man who drives a big honkin' Chevy truck comment on the fashions. "The design is nice, but the print is just so busy..." He actually has very good taste. Especially in women. (ha ha!)
P.R. is a very entertaining show. There's nothing like a room full of gay guys trying to "beat each other up." The cast this time has been quite interesting. The first to go was scary Malan. My husband does a great impression of him. (with a pseudo-British accent) "Mummy, please don't lock me in the closet again! I won't design anymore! Mummy!!!"
One of my favs this season was Kaine. He reminded me of my good friend Tony. If Tony were a gay pageant dress designer. He got canned last week mainly because he thinks eveyone should dress like Elvis. Laura is another I like. She's a Mom with five, no make that six kids and a mouth like a sailor. My pick to win is Michael. He's friggin' awesome! I would buy everything he designs.
Of course the show has no shortage of *itches and jack asses. Angela would do good to get hired by the Ringling Bros. costume department. Creepy Vincent will probably end up at the funny farm after leaving his job, cashing in his 401k and still getting kicked off...twice.
As for Jeffery, aka Jack Ass, he would be more successful if he stopped designing for the 80's Madonna (think cone-shaped bra) and designed stuff you could actually wear out in public.
This week decides the final three and I just can't wait! Check it out. You'll be hooked!

2006-09-15T07:50:00.000-05:00

Yeah! It's Friday! Here in the South TGIF takes on an entirely different meaning. Thank Goodness It's Football! You've seen Friday Night Lights? Well, it's pretty accurate. In the South football is life. Football season is like a holiday that lasts from the end of summer well into the winter. There are parties, we have football "outfits", and even songs (fight songs.) We send each other greeting cards that say things like "Have a Blessed Orange Bowl" or "Tuberville is the Reason for the Season."
Tonight my family is planing to attend a game between to local rival highschools. It should be quite an event. Aside from the action on the field, there's nothing like sitting in the stands with a bag of warm roasted peanuts in one hand and a cup of hot chocolate in the other. Sigh...is it 7:30 yet?

2006-09-14T21:43:00.000-05:00

I have been telling myself for some time now that I need to start a blog. So here it is. tick tick tick...
It's funny , for months my head has been full of things to write and now I find myself searching for what to say. I suppose I could begin by telling about myself.
I am weird. Let's just get that out in the open. Not creepy weird like that guy that hangs around outside the BP. I'm...unique. I realize that by saying that I become totally un-unique because everybody says that. But really, I am a square peg. Well, maybe not square, just kind of oblong. My husband and I have declared ourselves nerds. In our eyes being a nerd is a good thing. I hope my children become nerds. Now, there is a big difference between a nerd and a dork/geek. Dorks/geeks are those guys in the chess club. Nerds are the people who sit aroung talking about Arthurian legends and debating whether or not Shakespeare really wrote all that stuff. My husband is a college English instructor (also known as nerd). His friends are all nerds. They all use proper grammer when speaking to each other. ex: "How are you today, Dr. So-and-so?" "I am well!"
My husband and I are not quite that bad, but we are fairly nerdy. Most nights we sit together in the livingroom doing our puzzles. He's hooked on sudoku, and I love anagrams and cryptograms. See? Nerds.
There is another side to me, but I'll get into that later. I don't have a light over my keyboard and my eyes are getting all fuzzy. G'nite all.